Gameplay (20 page)

17. Fighters

“We must learn how to use the Rules to our advantage in any situation. That means we need to train ourselves with every weapon listed in The Book of Rules. We must study role-playing games to enhance our experience and decision-making capabilities. Gaming doesn’t come easy—it is a lot of work to have fun!”

—Drodanis, speech to trainees at the Stronghold

Tareah held the sapphire Water Stone so that it glinted in the noon light. Her eyes were tired; her body felt exhausted. But the anger and shock had given way to a clarity of thought that made her absolutely sure of what she had to do. She felt brave now.

On top of Steep Hill, in the burned and splintered ruins of the Stronghold, she turned the six-sided gem to show each of its facets to the gathered villagers. The smell of smoke still hung in the air, and the ground at her feet was muddy from the rain she had summoned to quench the flames.

“My father Sardun gave me this Stone.” To her own ears, her voice sounded gruff and old. The villagers listened to her now. “He used it to build and maintain his vast Ice Palace. He used it to control the weather, and to fight against the dragon Tryos.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked at the other characters, making sure she held their attention. Tareah had studied the rhetorical techniques used when the ancient Sentinel Arken tried to convince other Sorcerers to renounce the Transition.

“I am the last full-blooded Sorcerer woman on Gamearth. That’s why Tryos found me so valuable and kidnapped me. You all know that story. Maybe I haven’t been trained enough in fighting—” She drew herself tall, widening her eyes. “But I have powers, too. Great powers. I will have to train myself how to use them.”

She sensed a
difference
within her as she stood before the villagers. Tareah could imagine herself as an old Sorcerer queen, maybe even Lady Maire herself. Her joints no longer ached, and she didn’t feel out of place with the other characters. The destruction of the Stronghold had shaken her, hammered home the new turn the Game had taken.

Tareah was responsible for her actions. Her powers and her abilities would not permit her to remain passive in the coming battles.

She paced around the fallen wall where dirt trickled between toppled logs that had been sharpened on top. The Stronghold buildings were all collapsed, the sword posts knocked over, the gate and the bridge across the trench both crumbled. A crude walkway allowed the other characters to look at the result of Scartaris’s attack.

Tareah ran both hands through her light brown hair. Her eyes had a distant look as she began to speak. The villagers still did not interrupt her—the destruction of the Stronghold awed them too much.

“Many turns ago, at the beginning of the Scouring, the great human general Doril founded this Stronghold. He had just lost all of his fighters as well as the Sentinel Oldahn, his friend, in a Slac fortress. Doril wanted to escape the battles of the Scouring, to live in peace away from the Game.

“He found the characters here innocent and completely unprepared to defend themselves. When he arrived, Doril strode out of the forest terrain to the fields where farmers were working. He told them of the marauding Slac armies in the nearby hexagons, and of the bloodshed in the Scouring. ‘Do you comfort yourselves by thinking the Outsiders would never bring the battles here?’ he asked. ‘Or do you fancy you could defeat a brutal Slac regiment with your rakes and sticks?’”

As she told the story, Tareah put her hands on her hips, imitating the stance she imagined Doril had taken. “So Doril build this Stronghold. It has withstood many attacks and protected the characters in this village for all that time.

“But Scartaris sent the Slave of the Serpent here to slay Tarne. He brought the rat-creatures to destroy the Stronghold itself. Scartaris has brought the battle
here
. Like those first farmers confronted by Doril, we can no longer live our lives and ignore the rest of the Game. We must be prepared to defend ourselves in any way we know how.”

She stood there watching. The forest terrain around Steep Hill seemed tranquil, filled with quiet sounds of rustling leaves, birdsong and insects. The stream gushing along the hex-line rattled over rocks. The deceptive peacefulness bothered her.

The villagers fidgeted, uneasy. “When is Delrael coming back?” Derow the blacksmith asked, mumbling the words into his full dark beard.

“Yes,” Mostem the baker said, grinning. “Once Delrael destroys Scartaris, we won’t have to worry anymore.”

Tareah felt anger rising within her. “Delrael left
me
here! He trusted me to watch over the village and the Stronghold. Even if Delrael does destroy Scartaris, how is he going to stop a gigantic army that’s waiting to charge across the map? Think about it! Scartaris has gathered ten times as many fighting monsters as ever engaged in the old Sorcerer wars. Are they just going to sit still even if Scartaris is destroyed? We have to be prepared.”

Siya stood by Tareah. She appeared frightened and confused, with red-rimmed eyes that showed how tired she was. But most of all she looked angry. “The Outsiders won’t leave us alone to live our lives. If they want us to fight, then we should fight them.”

Tareah went forward to the villagers. She walked among them, looking each in the eye as she talked. “None of us is trained. But we’ll have to learn how. We must train ourselves.”

The sun shown down on them, and Tareah felt exposed on top of Steep Hill, as if giant Outside eyes were staring down at her. She pushed the thought out of her head and turned her mind to the job before her.

She directed the villagers to sift through the wreckage of the storehouse, to pick out all the old weapons that could be used or repaired. Tareah helped them, though she grew gloomier as she waded through the splinters and broken walls. Marks from tiny teeth and claws scored every scrap of wood.

Drodanis had conducted all his private role-playing training in the darkness here, surrounded by old weapons. Vailret told her of his imaginary adventure, how real the training had been for him. Now the storehouse lay collapsed. The Stronghold was ruined. It had been her responsibility.

They separated the swords, bows, maces, spears, shields, armor all into separate piles. Tareah found herself wasting too much time staring at the inlaid designs of relics that had been gathered from various treasure hoards. Apparently, Drodanis had been as avid a collector as her father.

Tareah held one of the simple blades, a short sword, up for the blacksmith to see. “From now on, Derow, concentrate on making swords. We’ll need a greater supply if we’re going to gather an army. We’ll send out couriers to gather all the other characters from settlements far and wide.”

Derow shuffled his feet and looked at the sample blade she held up. “My craftsmanship can never match anything like this.” His face turned red with shame. “The old Sorcerer swordsmiths were masters. Look at the skill in even their simplest pieces! I can’t begin to—”

“You’ll do fine, Derow.” Tareah held up her hand. “A sword needs to
cut
. It doesn’t need to be beautiful.”

The blacksmith still looked at her skeptically, but he set to work gathering and studying the remaining swords.

Tareah clapped her hands and walked among the other villagers, directing some to mount the archery targets, others to erect the sword posts, using logs from the fallen wall if necessary. Others went out into the forest to find straight twigs for arrows, saplings for bows. The children made bird traps to furnish feathers for fletching the arrows.

Siya wandered around, acting busy. Tareah kept too occupied to notice what Siya was doing until the old woman picked up a sword for herself and went over to the section of the wall where they had recently buried Tarne. Siya’s husband Cayon also lay there.

She stood with the sword propped in front of her, its tip stuck in the soft ground. The sun glinted off gems in the hilt. Tareah noticed a strange gleam in her eyes.

“We will train. We will be ready,” Siya said. She took a step forward to stand by Tareah. The other villagers paused to look up at her.

“We will be
fighters!
”

***

18. Delrael’s Second Chance

“RULE #10. Combat on Gamearth follows rigid guidelines. The accompanying tables give details on how fighting is commenced according to experience, armor, available weapons, and many other factors. Combat can come in different forms, such as surprise attack, team attack, or single combat.”

—
The Book of Rules

Mindar’s blank white eyes stared at them. She did not blink. Her skin was pale and cold.

Delrael couldn’t see her breathing, but he knew she remained alive Scartaris had healed her—he wasn’t finished playing with her yet.

Delrael shook her by the shoulders. “Mindar!”

Her head swayed from side to side, then righted itself and stared straight ahead. Delrael gritted his teeth and turned to glare toward the mountains in the east.

“Del—” He jumped when Vailret touched him on the arm. “With the horses gone now, we’ll already be slowed down. Will we take her with us?”

“What if Scartaris is watching us through her eyes?” Bryl asked.

Delrael let go of Mindar. He hunkered down and stared into the embers of the bonfire, trying to decide. Conflicting thoughts churned through his head. He could find no clear-cut solution, and he didn’t like it.

The fire burned low and crackled. The tainted wood smelled bitter and unpleasant, but the predawn air seemed clear, empty of the Cailee. They had watched the creature vanish.

He drew a deep breath. “We won’t leave her behind, no matter what Scartaris wants us to do. She has as much at stake as we do. Maybe more. Look what he’s done to her.”

“Maybe she’ll snap out of it,” Vailret said, but his voice sounded weak. Delrael made no other comment.

He stood up and sheathed his sword. He picked up Mindar’s tattered whip lying in the dust and dropped it into the fire where it curled and turned black. Mindar stood stiff and unresponsive when he fastened the rippled sword at her waist.

“There, now you’re ready. Whenever you want to fight, we need your help.” Delrael’s voice was soothing and quiet. “Journeyman can you carry her?”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!”

He frowned. “Does that mean yes?”

“Yes.”

The golem scooped up Mindar in his broad arms. Her limbs to flopped and hung down. She didn’t rearrange herself into a more comfortable position.

Delrael stared at her milky blank eyes and felt sick to his stomach. “Let’s get moving.”

* * *

By noon they had crossed an entire hexagon. The air was cool and parched, but heated up when the sun rose overhead. They spoke little as they moved. The mountains of Scartaris lay only a few hexagons distant.

But when they reached the hex-line, they stopped short. The black line separated one section of desolate terrain from the next, but instead of the narrow black boundary where hexagons butted against each other, the black line yawned five man-lengths wide. It looked to Delrael as if the Outsiders had snapped the map apart, dividing the sections with a canyon that stretched down through the thickness of the map and out the bottom of the universe itself.

Delrael stared into the deep crevasse. Warm air drifted upward, bringing odd, alien smells. In the blackness below were strange swirling images, maddening shadows of things he did not want to see. He turned away immediately, afraid he might see a deadly glimpse of
reality
.

“We can’t get across.” Delrael put his hands on his hips, frowning. He felt anger building. He didn’t like to be delayed from his quest.

He held the silver belt at his waist, and the metal seemed to ripple beneath his fingers. He
knew
the Earthspirits were there, but they couldn’t destroy Scartaris unless he took them there.

“There’ll be a way, Del,” Vailret said, analyzing. “If this is part of the Game, the Outsiders have to give us some way through. They can’t violate their own Rules.”

But as far as they could see in both directions, the chasm seemed unbroken. The wide black line extended for hexagon after hexagon, a broad crack in the map.

“We’ll have to follow it until we find someplace where Scartaris
wants
us to cross.”

Delrael looked up. Wheeling batlike creatures flew high above. They seemed to be staring down at the travelers, but did not come closer.

“Scartaris is watching us,” Bryl said.

“Let him watch.” Journeyman pushed his clay lips in a snarl. “A little bottomless chasm isn’t going to stop us.”

They moved along the edge, hot and exhausted. Because of the flat terrain, Delrael could see the white line of the main quest-path long before they neared it. The road to Scartaris’s lair approached the zigzagging chasm, and when Delrael shaded his eyes he could see a bridge, some kind of tunnel spanning the crack in the map.

This would be the perfect spot for Scartaris to ambush travelers, a place for a malevolent guardian to stop any enemies. He pondered and looked at Mindar’s limp, blank-eyed form cradled in Journeyman’s arms.

Mindar had said something about a demon guardian, the Slave of the Serpent.

Delrael took a deep breath of the dry air and blinked his eyes. His skin felt warm and sunburned, flushed. Mindar lay motionless. He had a score to settle with Scartaris. Now more than ever. He set off at a faster pace. His boots left deep, sharp prints in the dusty ground.

When they reached the wide quest-path, Delrael looked at the bridge across the chasm. A dry, unpleasant smell hung at the back of his mouth, like the taste of rusty metal.

The bridge was not just a tunnel, but the gigantic spinal column of some long-dead beast, hanging by itself. Dried strips of sinew held the vertebrae together, leaving wide gaps for the air to blow through with an eerie whistling hum. Tree-sized bones from the creature’s limbs lay sprawled across the dust, a claw here, a bowed rib that had long since been cracked by smaller things that chewed away the marrow and left a hollow shell. A dust-covered mound lay off to the side of the quest-path, near where the ancient monster’s skull should have been. The rest of the bones were not in sight—they had probably fallen down into the chasm.

They would have to walk through the bowed, cavelike bridge of vertebrae draped across the hex-line gap. Smells drifted out of the bridge opening, and a jungle of black shadows flickered as light flitted in and out of the gaps.

Two giant boulders stood propped against the opening. Other bones and dead things lay piled outside, though they could easily have been discarded in the black gulf.

Mindar stared up at the sky. The red
S
-scar on her forehead throbbed with the beat of her heart. She could not offer any help to them now, couldn’t give them any warning about the Slave of the Serpent.

The golem set her down, straightened her legs, and made sure she had gained her balance before letting go. Mindar stood by herself, but did nothing else.

“Now what do we do?” Vailret asked. “Do we just walk through?”

An ear-splitting roar burst out of the shadows of the sagging tunnel, accompanied by a sandy, grating hiss. The sound echoed in the hollow vertebrae. Something moved in the dim light of the tunnel.

“And now for a really
big
show!” Journeyman said.

A silhouette appeared, and then the Slave of the Serpent stepped into view. The monster drew in a deep breath and stood reeling, unaccustomed to the bright sunlight.

Delrael flinched. The demon was huge, more massive even than Gairoth the ogre. It was hairy and apelike, but had reptilian features, a chest plate and a flat angular head set low upon its shoulders. The deep-set eyes looked pitiful and filled with immense sorrow shining out from slitted pupils.

Coiled around its body was a huge, oily green snake that raised its head high above the Slave’s shoulders. The Serpent hissed at the travelers with a sound like rain pelting a fire.

The Slave took two lumbering steps forward then stopped, planting its feet to guard the opening of the tunnel bridge. The Serpent spoke.

“So
you
are Delrael! We went to the Stronghold. We killed a human character who claimed to be Delrael. But he was old and weak. We left him smoking on the ground.”

Delrael felt his heart freeze, wondering if it could be a trick. Did they mean Tarne? If the Serpent claimed to be looking for Delrael, Tarne would have tried to trick them.

The Serpent cocked its head at him. “We came to get the Fire Stone and give it back to Scartaris. Now you have brought the Stone to us—” The Serpent hissed at Bryl. The half-Sorcerer cringed.

Delrael looked back at the others. Vailret appeared weak and frightened with only his short sword; Bryl had the Fire Stone; the golem looked ready to fight.

The Slave stepped forward, and the Serpent spoke again with a note of glee in its voice. “I bind you to the protocol of single combat in Rule #10! Delrael—I challenge
you
. You must fight me alone.”

Bryl let out a cry of dismay. Journeyman said, “Aww, shucks!”

Delrael stood up in shock, feeling cheated. Though the Serpent had used a loophole, the Rules still constrained all characters. The Slave of the Serpent greatly outclassed Delrael alone, but now the others could not help him. They could not break the Rules. It was unfair. Vailret,

Bryl, and Journeyman appeared helpless.

Mindar stood without moving, unaware.

Delrael curled his lip and snarled at the demon. “Don’t underestimate me.”

The Slave made a grumbling bestial noise and tried to turn his head to glare at the Serpent. But the pupilless red eyes of the snake ignored him. The coils squeezed the Slave’s chest, and he lumbered forward to meet his opponent.

“May the Force be with you,” Journeyman called.

Delrael breathed in and out. He felt his heart pumping, the adrenaline flowing. He had fought a thousand mock battles, and some real ones. He had been through his father’s training. He was ready. He had no choice.

Without giving any warning, he surged forward as fast as he could. He held the sword in front of him, howling at the top of his lungs, and swung.

The Slave stumbled back in surprise, leaving deep footprints on the ground. Delrael drove in, pushing his advantage of surprise for a few more moments. He swung, and missed, and struck again with the blade.

The Slave grunted and roared, batting at him with a bearlike paw. Delrael turned his sword sideways and slashed the Slave’s arm. The edge bit into the monster’s fur, but made only a minor wound.

The Serpent’s fangs flashed like glistening swords. Delrael saw the snake strike an instant before it was too late. He dove for the ground, tucking the sword against him to protect it, and rolled.

The Slave bent over to give the Serpent more reach, but the fangs dug into the sand. The Serpent pulled up, hissing and spitting dust out of its mouth. Black pools of smoking slag marked where venom had squirted into the dirt.

Delrael worked his feet under him and stumbled back to a standing position. The Slave could have attacked, but it hesitated, giving Delrael time to compose himself. He wondered what was going on.

He heard Vailret and Journeyman shouting at him, urging him on. Delrael blanked that out for the moment. He needed to concentrate on the fight.

The Slave’s sad eyes struck his heart. This monster didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to do what he did. The Serpent forced the Slave to do its will. He wanted no part of this. Delrael stared at the eyes. It was a trick. It had to be.

But the Slave’s eyes were
not
pupilless.

Then the Serpent struck again.

This time, inexplicably, the Slave stepped sideways, deliberately throwing off the snake’s aim.

In anger, the Serpent viciously nipped the bare patch at the back of the Slave’s neck. The monster roared in pain and swatted with its great paws, but the snake bobbed back and forth, weaving away from the clumsy grasp. It ducked in and nipped the Slave again.

“Kill Delrael!” it said.

Wet mucus dripped from the Slave’s eyes, either in pain or sorrow. With a roar, the Slave reached out his huge paws.

Delrael held his ground and lunged, trying to duck under the grasping arms. But the Slave cuffed him on the side of the head. Delrael sprawled on the ground. His vision fuzzed, and his ears rang. He heard Vailret and Journeyman shouting again. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t want to listen to them, but he knew he couldn’t lay there.

He felt vibrations in the sand as the Slave stomped forward. Delrael half-closed his eyes, pretending to be unconscious. When he saw the Slave near him, he snapped open his eyes and grabbed the sword with both hands. He scrambled to his knees and put his chest, his shoulders, all of the muscles in his arms and back into one swing. He aimed for the Slave’s thigh and felt the blade sink in, cutting into the meat of the monster’s leg all the way to the bone.

Viscous yellow blood oozed out, gushing in heavy globs. The monster howled in agony.

Delrael rolled out of the way, but the monster kept staggering forward, propelled by its own momentum and forgetting its pain. Blood spattered to the ground with every step the Slave took. Delrael held the sword against him, smearing the yellow blood across his leather armor. He tried to climb to his feet, but was not fast enough.

The Slave of the Serpent knocked him back to the ground, then wrapped both huge paws around Delrael’s chest and jerked him into the air. The monster shook him and squeezed.

Delrael felt the roar in his head grow louder. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Loud sounds and darkness echoed at the corner of his eyes. His arm went numb. He couldn’t control his fingers—they went limp, and the sword fell, embedding its point in the sand. The weight of the pommel tipped it over, spraying dirt in the air.

For a moment he thought the Slave would cast him into the yawning black chasm where he might fall through the map and be incinerated by his first glimpse of
reality
. Then he saw the Serpent rear back. Its blank red eyes blazed fire as if Scartaris himself were looking through the reptilian skull.

The Serpent opened its mouth. The fangs oozed venom like miniature diamonds.

* * *