Gameplay (13 page)

Delrael sighed and sounded angry. He rattled the gate again with his hand. “That doesn’t concern us.” He leaned against one of the cold walls of rock. “We have to get past here.”

Arken hunched his shoulders and swiveled the crudely formed blockish head to look at the fighter.

“Can we fight you?” Delrael unsheathed his sword, but it looked ineffective against the blocky stone body of the gargoyle.

Arken shook his head from side to side. “I wouldn’t advise it. Your sword wouldn’t harm me, but I could cause plenty of damage to you.”

“What if you had a better opponent?” Journeyman said. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going! A gargoyle and a golem—we should have an equivalent strength class.”

Journeyman turned to the other travelers. “He can’t really damage me, any more than I can damage him. We could wrestle. If I win, the gate opens and we pass.”

Arken clapped his stone hands with a sharp crack. “It sounds acceptable to me. I must warn you, though, that I am bound to
try
my utmost to defeat you. I can’t just let you win. It has to be fair.”

Journeyman drew himself up, flexing his soft arms. “Go for all the gusto while you can.”

Arken worked his jaw, as if finding words difficult. “If the golem does win, I wish you the best of luck on your quest. I want to see Scartaris stopped too.”

He faced Journeyman. “Don’t worry about causing damage to me. My spirit isn’t bound to this stone body. As long as Scartaris holds me here, he controls me. But if you … break me, then I will be free. For a time, at least.”

Journeyman made the features of his face run flat as he flowed more clay into his shoulders and arms, concentrating his strength. “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

Delrael, Vailret, and Bryl stood by the locked gate and watched Arken. The massive stone creature stepped to the narrow part of the path and faced Journeyman.

“Luck, Journeyman,” Vailret said.

“Luck,” Bryl and Delrael echoed.

Arken planted his stone feet squarely on the quest-path and opened his arms, ready to grapple with the golem. He surprised them all by wishing Journeyman luck as well.

“You can surrender any time,” Journeyman said.

The grotesque gargoyle straightened his back. “I’ll remember that. Ready?”

“Yes, ready.”

With a slap of clay on stone, Journeyman and Arken grabbed each other around the shoulders. Journeyman’s hands flattened as he pushed against the stone gargoyle’s arms. Arken spread his feet, which seemed to fuse to the rock of the trail.

Neither of the combatants made a sound. They kept their faces neutral. Since they were not human, they did not grunt with the strain, or pant, or show any sign of the exertion they made. The breeze died down, and the cold air retained its claustrophobic silence.

“Irresistible force and immovable object,” Journeyman said. “Did you ever hear about that one, Arken? It’s a riddle from Outside.”

Arken strained and pushed, but his voice sounded curiously neutral. “What is the solution?”

Journeyman’s body seemed distorted and stretched with the effort to maintain himself against the gargoyle. “I don’t believe it has a solution. The Outsiders can be very strange at times.”

The gargoyle lifted one of his blocky stone feet and pivoted, forcing Journeyman to bend and turn his back to the sheer precipice.

“Come on, Journeyman!” Bryl shouted.

Arken’s hunched back bent as he took a small step forward, forcing Journeyman closer to the edge. But the clay golem did not move his feet, stretching his legs instead. He slid his arms to get a better grip on Arken’s smooth shoulders.

“More powerful than a locomotive,” Journeyman said again, but his voice was fainter this time.

Vailret found himself wincing and pressing his fingers into his fists, straining his arm muscles as if that could assist the golem.

Arken’s blocky hands left deep indentations in Journeyman’s body. The stone gargoyle pushed harder and harder.

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single—”

Finally something snapped.

“—bound!” Journeyman let out a strange cry like the release of a too-tight bowstring, and his clay flowed like liquid. He flung himself backward, bending over upon himself in an impossible angle, out of the way.

Arken, thrusting forward with all his might, suddenly had no purchase and nothing to push against.

He went plummeting over Journeyman, off into space.

Vailret and Delrael ran forward as Journeyman straightened himself up, pulled his body back together and rearranged his clay. He stood tall. They all heard a distant
thock!
as Arken’s stone body crashed into the rocks far below.

Vailret didn’t want to go to the path edge and look.

Journeyman did not appear flustered. His clay mouth twisted in a beaming expression. “That was the big difference between us, you know, a golem and a gargoyle,” he said. “Clay bends, stone doesn’t.”

The black iron bars of Arken’s gate tinkled into nothingness on the rock. A chill wind whistled along the quest-path, motioning the travelers ahead to where the trail was wide and easy.

The shadows of sunset followed them as they passed through the vanished gateway. Just on the other side of the cut waited the black hex-line where they had to stop for the day. The next hexagon of mountain terrain descended gradually, sloping down out of the Spectres, as if saying that any character who passed Arken’s gate deserved easy traveling.

Ahead, the land of Scartaris waited for them.

***

12. Downfall of the Stronghold

“We must keep the legends alive, the stories of brave quests, the memories of past characters who have become heroes. Though the Outsiders wish only to amuse themselves turn after turn, this is still our history.”

—The Sentinel Sardun, part of the “Lost Records” buried under the Ice Palace ruins

The villagers gathered in the Stronghold courtyard at sunset to hold a formal ceremony in memory of Tarne. Jagged shadows from the pointed wall crept across the courtyard. The veteran’s ashes had been gathered up and buried in a special area near the Stronghold wall, an honored place where Vailret’s father Cayon was interred, as well as Delrael’s mother Fielle.

Young Tareah rubbed her elbows and knees in the chill air. Her joints still ached, but she listened with rapt attention as the villagers did quest-tellings of Tarne’s greatest adventures.

Jorte, the keeper of the gaming hall, spoke of when Tarne had been one of the companions of Drodanis and Cayon, a great fighter and quester. Others told how Tarne was one of the fighters led by Drodanis against the ogres in revenge for the murder of Cayon.… how Tarne was wounded in that fight and had since seen visions of future turns of the Game. The young farmer Romm described Tarne’s warning to the other villagers that Gairoth would take over the Stronghold, and how he led a brave defense against the attack; when that failed, Tarne had led them into exile in the deep forest terrain until Delrael returned and vanquished Gairoth.

Tareah herself picked up the hexagonal tile bearing the veteran’s name and placed it on the grave. She remembered the quiet, bald man who seemed to hold so much inside him. A weaver, who wanted no further part in fighting and battles. She stared at the wall, not at the gathered villagers, as she described Tarne’s brave fight, alone in the middle of the night to defend them all against the Slave of the Serpent.

Darkness fell, and young Romm lit several torches in the courtyard. The villagers stood around, not certain what to do after the ceremony. They seemed leaderless and disoriented without the bald veteran. Tareah did not blame them—she was new, she had no experience with quests or adventuring. Why should they trust her to lead them?

She had spent her entire life isolated in the Ice Palace with her father, and when the dragon had kidnapped her, she merely waited for some adventurer to come rescue her. Regardless of her Water Stone or how much magic she could use, Tareah still had much to learn.

Vailret’s mother Siya stood beside her, looking tired and withdrawn. She wore clean but drab clothes highlighted by a flashing emerald brooch. Siya told Tareah that Cayon had given it to her, stolen from a Slac treasure pit he once raided. Now Siya’s face seemed old, and she tied her hair back in a severe bun. Since her son and Delrael had gone on their quest to Scartaris, Siya acted angry and lonely, with nothing more to hold onto.

The stars came out. Night birds made sounds in the forest. Tareah looked up to see the green smear of Lady Maire’s Veil across the sky. That made her think of how Tarne must have seen his own death there—yet, even knowing that, he still went to face the Slave of the Serpent.

The outbuildings stood shadowy and empty now, with Delrael, Vailret, and Bryl gone, and Tarne dead. The main hall of the Stronghold echoed with silence. They had no students at the Stronghold for battle exercises or role-playing games. The place was deserted, big and frightening. It reminded Tareah of the Ice Palace and the empty vaults full of relics, now buried under crumbled ice and snow.

She took her eyes away from the sky and saw Mostem the baker coming toward her. Tareah still had difficulty identifying all the villagers in her mind, but she remembered that Mostem had three daughters. According to Siya, Mostem hoped that either Vailret or Delrael would be interested in pairing with one of them. Tareah had never met the daughters, nor had she tried. She was not sure if she should feel jealous—she had trouble pinpointing her feelings, either about Vailret or Delrael.

Mostem’s eyes moved from Tareah to Siya, then to the ground. From the way the other villagers watched him, Tareah realized that they had all discussed this beforehand. She let a slight frown cross her face.

Mostem looked as if he didn’t know how to begin, and finally he said, “You’re all alone up here now. Are you sure the Stronghold is safe? Do you think you should stay here?”

He didn’t wait long enough for her to say anything. “We were talking, uh, I mean I was thinking that maybe you could come stay with us? Or one of the other villagers. We’re not sure that staying at the Stronghold is a good idea anymore.”

Tareah was surprised at the suggestion and tried to decide how to react to it, what Delrael would want her to do. But Siya drew herself up, indignant. “What, and just abandon the Stronghold? It’s been here intact for generations, and this is
my home!
I don’t take that lightly.” She crossed her thin arms over her chest. “I will stay here.”

Mostem took a step backward and continued to speak to the ground. “We just thought it might be best if—”

Tareah cut him off. “I promised that I would remain here and do my best to defend the Stronghold.” She stood beside Vailret’s mother. “You know the Rules. I made a vow—I can’t break that. I’m not one of those characters who takes such things lightly.”

She and Delrael had gotten into arguments on that point before. But this time she didn’t think he would object.

“Besides, look around you.” She indicated the double walls topped by sharp points, the weapons storehouse, the heavy gates and the trench around the Stronghold, the Steep Hill path. “This is the most defensible place, the safest spot for hexagons around! And don’t forget I have the Water Stone, too. If we’re not safe here, we certainly won’t be safe anywhere in the village.”

She raised her voice so the others would hear her clearly. “If you’re concerned for our safety, any of you is welcome to stay here and help guard us against attack.”

Mostem cleared his throat and looked to the others to see their reaction. The death of Tarne and the threat of Scartaris was too close on their minds.

But Romm the farmer straightened. His blond hair was mussed, and his skin looked dry from spending too many hours outside in all weather. “That’s a good idea. We should arrange our schedules so some of us can be up here. We were willing to fight against Gairoth, with Tarne—we shouldn’t do any less than that now.”

His words heartened Tareah. She nodded to them all. “We do need a stronger defense, now that Tarne isn’t here to assist me.”

“We can discuss this tomorrow,” Siya said. Her stiff movements showed how much Mostem’s suggestion had upset her. “We’ll roll dice to see who stays up here with us. You
all
could brush up on your training a little.”

Apparently relieved, the villagers left, going down the hill into the night and back to their homes. Tareah could hear muffled voices as the villagers went along the path.

Siya and Tareah worked together to swing the heavy gate shut. They fastened the solid wooden crossbolts in place. The shadowy empty buildings inside the walls looked spooky enough that Tareah decided to leave the torches burning in the courtyard.

Before going to bed, Siya and Tareah began the ritual of closing up the Stronghold for the night. With the others to help, they always finish quickly before, but it took them longer and longer each night as the evenings grew colder, now that they were the only two to do everything.

They made sure all the windows were shuttered, the cracks stuffed with rags to keep the cold out. They stoked the main fireplaces with enough wood to keep burning all night long, since it was such a tedious task to rebuild the fires the next day. Tareah saw no point in keeping the entire main building heated and tended, but she didn’t countermand Siya’s wishes. Siya seemed to attach a far greater importance on maintaining her routine than on actually thinking about it.

Tareah was exhausted by the time she reached her own quarters and heaped wood on the fire. Her joints would ache if she did not keep her room warm, which seemed odd to her since she had spent so many years in the bright coldness of the Ice Palace. Over the weeks she felt as if the pain had faded somewhat, but her body would take a long time to adjust to the dramatic stretchings and twistings her accelerated growth put it through.

She stripped off the formal dress she had worn for Tarne’s ceremony and pulled on a comfortable shift, then climbed under the blankets. She lay back in the bed and thought of Delrael and Vailret on their quest, all the stories they were adding to the history of the Game. She wished her father Sardun could be here to discuss them.

Tareah kept the Water Stone with her even in bed. She ran her fingers over the cool blue facets. They reminded her of the ice in the rainbow halls and crystal towers. She dozed with that thought.

And woke up some time later. The fire still burned bright, so she couldn’t have been asleep too long. It was just past midnight, she guessed. She blinked her eyes in the dancing firelight. Her nose was cold, but she could smell the aromatic wood.

Tareah heard scratching, scrabbling sounds. The wood in the fireplace settled with a slump and a small shower of sparks. The noises stopped for a moment and began again with renewed intensity. The scrabblings sounded like rats in the walls, clawing their way out.

Tareah rubbed her eyes on the blanket and tried to see in the wavering orange light. Sharp shadows lay in the corners. Then her eyes came to focus on the dark and churning wall beside her bed.

The wood was crawling with small figures, each about the size of her hand. Emerging from cracks in the wood, pushing themselves out between splinters and scrabbling over each other, along the walls, along the floor.

Tareah sat up, flinging tangled hair out of her eyes, and bit back an outcry. Her blankets were covered with the little creatures as well, tiny ratlike animals, but vaguely human in form. They had ear tufts and pointed faces with sharp fangs. On two hind legs they walked upright, and they bore two sets of humanlike arms, one sprouting from their shoulders and another set along their abdomen, giving each creature four hands full of sharp claws.

She snapped her blanket, spraying the creatures off her bed and onto the floor. She grabbed for the Water Stone under her pillow, but some instinct warned her not to show it, not to use it just yet.

The ratlike creatures swarmed over the room as they searched for something. They scurried down the mantle of the fireplace, disassembling the wood splinter by splinter with their sharp claws. Now that Tareah had awakened, they chittered among themselves, making no effort to keep quiet.

She kicked her blankets away and rolled to the edge of her bed. Her voice hitched as she tried to call out—but there was no one to help her. She would have to fight by herself. One of the bedposts groaned and broke free from its joint, torn apart by the creatures. The bedframe cracked and dropped to the floor with a
thump
.

More rat-creatures scurried to the storage chests and peeled the locks and hinges from the base wood, splintered the sides, and spilled the treasure from Delrael’s past adventurings onto the floor. They searched through the plunder, using four hands to paw and toss away diamonds and gold and silver links as if they were worthless.

“Stop!” Tareah shouted. They hesitated, glaring at her with pupilless red sparks for eyes—empty, as if something had erased the minds behind them. She felt very afraid to look at the hundreds and hundreds of tiny, pointed teeth and sharp claws. Then the creatures fell to ransacking again.

The shelves on the wall crumbled, and Tareah’s possessions crashed to the ground, breaking and clinking on the floor. Every splinter of wood spawned another of the small creatures as they pushed out and added to the army. Above the chittering, rustling din, she heard noises from the other rooms.

Tareah jumped out of bed, stepping on squirming furry bodies and trying to kick them away from her. “What do you want?” she shouted. She drew herself up to look menacing.

The rat-creatures fixed their blank gazes on her. Many of them cleared an empty spot on the floor, and others moved into formation with some kind of intent. Dozens of them aligned themselves to form letters with their own bodies.

On the floor, they spelled out “FIRE STONE.”

Scartaris knew the Deathspirits had stripped the ruby Stone from Enrod and delivered it to the Stronghold. He had sent the rat-creatures to tear everything apart until they found it.

Scartaris knew nothing about Delrael’s quest to bring the Earthspirits across the map—because of Tarne’s ruse, Scartaris thought the Slave of the Serpent had killed Delrael. Perhaps Scartaris knew nothing of her Water Stone either. She clutched the six-sided sapphire in her hand.

“No!” Tareah stamped her foot on the ground, squashing one of the rat-creatures and making the others scurry out of the way. “You can’t have it.” She waited to feel sharp claws and teeth on her bare legs.

One section of the wall slumped down in a shower of broken wood. Flames from the fireplace caught on the kindling. The creatures ran around, dismantling the room.

A few of the rat-creatures on the floor of the room spelled out “WE WILL FIND IT,” forming and dissolving one word after another.

From her own room, Siya screamed—but it was a scream of anger and disgust, not pain. The ceiling groaned above Tareah, and she looked up to see the planks buckling.

In her bare feet, trying not to look where she stepped, Tareah ran to the door and struck it with her shoulder to push it open. She ran down the main hall.

Everywhere she looked, the scrambling creatures emerged from the splintered wall and set about ransacking everything in sight. The structure of the main building groaned and creaked above the insane chittering.

Tareah ran out the broken doorway into the cold night. Two of the courtyard torches had burned out, but the other three flickered in the sharp wind. Small, furious sounds came from all buildings within the Stronghold walls.

“Siya!” she called.