The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless

looked at me calmly and simply said, “You are unharmed.”

      I could only nod as I checked my head with my hands, they came back filled with muck but no blood.

      “Can I let go of you?” he asked.

      I nodded again, though it took a lot of willpower and pride not to collapse once Galinak released his grip.

      “I’m fine,” I brushed away the dirt from my shoulders and lower back, thankfully I was wearing black, “but what in Bukra’s balls was that?”

      Galinak strolled to the left. I followed him and saw the large and still-twitching body of the huge Troll who had aggressively invited me to employ him.

      “I heard him a while ago,” he said, kneeling down to check the Troll’s pupils. “He was making so much noise trying to shadow us, I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.”

      “Is he dead?”

      “No. I used a shock dart, and an expensive one at that.” He plucked the dart from the Troll’s shoulder and looked at me as if this was entirely my fault.

      “Now what? Are you going to kill him?”

      Galinak shook his head. “You’re quite bloodthirsty, even for a newcomer.”

      “Well … he did try to kill us.”

      “No. He tried to kill me. You he just wanted to rob and maybe throw around a bit for good sport. But his brain is so full of rusting metal he used his cannon, which would have fried us both with nothing for him to pick up afterwards, unless he was planning some odd kind of a barbecue.”

      “And you saw him coming?” I was hoping Galinak didn’t spot the shudder which coursed through my body, but I suspected he did.

      “Of course I saw him coming,” he said calmly.

      “And you let him pull the trigger?” I was suddenly very angry. “Is this a kind of a game for you?”

      “No,” he said patiently. “I simply knew exactly when to move. Once he powers up the cannon there’s a brief delay during which the weapon locks up and is immovable. If you know what you’re doing, you just need to move away when you hear the sound. It’s very distinct.”

      He gestured toward the cannon. “I remember finding a stack of these little honeys on our fourth deep run into the City within the Mountain. We were a happy bunch coming back. Originally, I think they were meant to be some kind of mining equipment, self-mounting and probably automated, without the need to use a Gnome or a cheap body-fixer like this.” He gestured at the bracers holding the GY blaster 2015-d special edition. “But some Trolls fell in love with the idea of having one of these babies as a personal weapon, and who wouldn’t, I ask you? We sold them like fresh bread and made a fortune, then we celebrated in style.”

      He shook his head. “If there was a time I could have walked away from it all and lived a quiet life, that was the time. I had the coin to do it, but those were good times. We had a strong crew, good people, we were even hoping to get enough between us to buy a Puzzler, you know, go solo—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head slowly, as if pulling himself away from the memories. “No need to stay here,” he said, and even I spotted the approaching silhouettes.

      “What about him?” I pointed down.

      “He’ll come around soon enough, and anyone trying to detach his augs will find that the knockout effect wears off really fast, so let’s move.”

      He began walking away and I trailed after him, still shaking. “Won’t he come after us when he wakes up?”

      “I doubt he’ll remember a thing. Anyway, he’s tried to kill me before.”

      “Really? How many times?”

      Galinak’s expression indicated mental calculation. “I think six, perhaps seven if you count trying to kill me during a Skint rage, although it wasn’t personal that time.”

      “And you don’t mind?”

      He shrugged and tweaked his short white beard. “Not really. Every man needs a hobby.”

       5

      For many years, Margat’s Den was nothing more than a locale for the toughest inhabitants of the Pit, who only wanted a quiet, nonwatered drink after a long hard day. It was one of those places where you were polite to the people around you and avoided eye contact. You drank inside and brawled outside, like civilised men.

      It all changed a decade ago, when a tower-head walked in on a dare and started a fight. Miraculously, the boy lived to tell the tale, with only a few broken bones and several missing teeth. This minor incident inspired other brash youth living in the upper regions, and very soon it became a rite of passage for the privileged and foolhardy. They descended on the establishment in droves, looking for fights. The owner of the Den, in a moment of epiphany, saw the potential for profit; the tower-heads brought plenty of the Council’s steel coin with them and spent to impress. The Den was now the largest, most profitable legal establishment in the Pit. There were fighting tournaments and duels, along with good, old-fashioned bar brawls, some planned, some authentically spontaneous. Margat’s Den was not the sort of place you went into for a quiet drink anymore, although if you kept to yourself and had good protection, you could probably get in and out without a major confrontation. Basically, you had to pay your coin and take your chances, which was what I was going to do.

      The clearing in front of the Den was lit by more than a dozen sources of flame, and there were people lying about, most of them nursing wounds. A few bodies I was only guessing were unconscious were sprawled on the ground, prize possessions taken either by the victors of whatever confrontations they’d had or by one of the many local opportunists prowling the area.

      Four guards stood at the main entrance to the place, armed to the hilt with every weapon known to Trolls and looking alert and ready. I made a point of not looking around with too much interest, but sensed a few more guards lurking in the shadows.

      Considering its reputation, it was surprisingly calm outside; the Den’s proprietor wanted to keep any fighting inside his establishment. Still, I felt my stomach clench with fear as we approached.

      A young man, who looked no more than sixteen years of age, was being searched as his escorts stood waiting. The kid had two fighters, a massive Troll and a street rat, a sure sign that looking for trouble in the Den with minimal protection was still a trend. He was clad in full body armour, which was inscribed with Salvationist crew symbols. I recognised the markings of at least four rival crews on his back alone. Heaven knew where he got it from, but when he closed his visor he looked like a colourful drawing of a medieval knight. As we waited our turn, three concealed weapons were confiscated from him. Blasters and guns of any kind were forbidden, along with all Tarakan weapons. Official escorts were exempt, as a sign of respect, but even they were warned not to use a forbidden arsenal on pain of … well … severe pain.

      When it was my turn I stepped in front of the goggle-eyed Troll guard, who stared for a moment at my tattoos, then nodded in camaraderie. Nevertheless, he took his sweet time searching me thoroughly with his enhanced vision. Watching him work, I admit I felt a hint of envy. The goggles were ugly, and whoever stitched them on was no artist, but the device enhanced the gift we both shared tenfold. I could see in the dark and, when pressed or panicked, through thin materials such as skin or cloth; but he could know what I ate for dinner from three streets away.

      As I was searched, a second guard asked whether I was aware of the rules of the place and made sure I knew the penalty for killing someone the wrong way inside the Den. The goggled guard didn’t find any weapons on me, which was so unusual, it made everyone a bit tense, but after a few more questions I was let through. When it was Galinak’s turn to be inspected, we ran into a problem that I hadn’t anticipated.

      The Troll