The start of a short story. Going to be about 4000 words long. Here's the first 1000.
Soothsayer
Peter limped breathless from
the fight and slumped behind the burning remains of a blacksmith’s workshop. The
blood of Pikemen covered his broadsword and the deep wound to his side meant
that he would be dead within the hour if Linus didn’t come. He would not have
time to savour the victory. He would not have time to fulfil the prophecy. Cattle
and corpses lay dying and dead around him as the remnants of an army staggered
to the beat of a full retreat. His chest armour battered, he dislodged the
broken metal from around him and examined his injury against the flickering
light of a dying village. The fading cries of vanquished horsemen were lost to
the echoes of the victorious. Iron cannon creaked upon oak frames as the spoils
of war were dragged uphill through mud and blood to be prepared for the final
battle. Propped against a water barrel Peter realised that without the
immediate attention of Linus then he would be no more. Coughing to clear the
smoke and dust from his lungs he saw a shadow appear from behind the workshop.
He wasn’t sure. Was it Linus? Was it a Pikeman? Was it Death? The figure slowly
moved towards Peter holding something in its right hand. Peter steeled himself
for one last battle as the smoke revealed the identity of his destiny.
‘Drink this, dickhead, I haven’t got all night. I’ve been
upgrading my laptop with a new graphics card. Sorry, mate, should’ve texted ya
but the iPhone is playing up, Jesus, your character’s beat up bad.’
Peter’s avatar drank the
potion and its injury disappeared, though the scarring that was left impressed
even Peter in his agitated state. He adjusted his headset and sat staring at
his computer.
‘Eight months of planning, Linus. Eight months! Where
were you? If you’re not taking this seriously, well, goodnight Linus. I’ll see
you tomorrow, maybe.’
The screen in Peter’s
bedroom went blank. The screen in Linus’s bedroom went blank. They sat there
both staring at their monitors, Peter seething, Linus confused.
‘That’s the trouble with great leaders,’ Linus said to
himself as the crumbs from a microwaved pasty fell across his keyboard, ‘prima
bloody donnas the lot of them.’
The Newt and Cucumber was
filled to the gills with Canary Wharf’s finest. Traders, brokers and financial analysts
flooded to this waterfront bar every weekday lunchtime to catch their
reflections in its chrome and be seen to order the most expensive basket of fish
and chips in the City of London. Linus hated working there. From the tiny beer
mats advertising supercars that he’d never even afford to rent to the professionally
‘distressed’ pub sign that creaked electronically in the breeze. Everything in
the bar was unreal to Linus. The pub didn’t even open past seven in the evenings
and was closed at weekends as the suits were hung up in the ‘shires as the
clientele attended swimming galas, water-skied or yachted or whatever is was
that Linus thought City folk did to wash the money from their hair. Linus had just
one friend amongst the regulars of the Newt and Cucumber, though he couldn’t talk
to him at work. Peter would arrive at just after midday and sit in an unlit
corner of the pub. It afforded little view of the Dockland development and he
would write. He would scribble on Post-It notes, torn beer mats and scraps of
paper. Peter’s unlit position, off-the-peg suit and self-isolation meant that he
was little troubled by regulars. Linus would collect Peter’s single bottle of
beer at 12.55 which was the signal for Peter to return to his glass castle in
the sky. Linus knew that Peter was a Financial Statistician but he had no idea
what that was. He knew he had a nice office somewhere in the clouds but he
would bet a month’s tips that it didn’t have a view of the Docklands.
Linus had travelled to London from an obscure art school
in an obscure northern town about six years ago to make his fortune. He had
calculated that it would take him 87 years and 14 days to make this fortune
working at the Newt and Cucumber, including tips, or rather Peter had told him
this devastating fact the first time they had met. Linus had told Peter that of
all the arseholes in the pub he was the most interesting, if the most
depressing. Peter had agreed. And that’s how friendships start. Not with the
growing admiration and respect between two people seeking self-fulfilment
through shared experience but with the instant realisation that each hated
their surroundings and their modern world as much as the other.
Soothsayer cemented their uneasy alliance. It was billed
as the ‘Largest Online Gaming Experience of All Time’. Linus had an interest in
graphic novels and fantasy works that had drawn him into this quasi-medieval world
and Peter just did not like and would not sanction losing to anyone, and he had
the calculations made from Post-It notes and scraps of beer mats stuck to his
bedroom wall to prove it. Soothsayer was a never-ending experience, played by
millions across the globe. Peter had risen rapidly through the ranks and had
pulled Linus up alongside him. They made a formidable team, controlling vast
swathes of a fantasy world that apparently existed in a bank of computer
servers somewhere south of Croydon. It wasn’t enough for Peter. Winning the
wars was easy for him after years of gameplay. Holding onto the peace was where
his interest lay. He wanted control through co-operation not coercion. Linus
was happy to tag along for the ride and do Peter’s bidding. In Soothsayer some
people did work behind the bars in taverns but Linus knew that as long as he
was with Peter then he would enjoy all the trappings of success that real life
hadn’t afforded him and he would be ordering the victory ale and not serving
it.
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