Gameplay (4 page)

3. Across the Barrier River

“When embarking on a quest, characters travel primarily on foot, according to the guidelines set forth in Rule #5 and the accompanying tables. However, characters shall be free to use any other available transportation to speed them on their way.”

—
The Book of Rules

Though important quests usually started at dawn, Vailret, Delrael, and Bryl set out from the gates of the Stronghold in the dark hours before morning. The near-autumn air carried a cold snap, and the stars shone bright and sharp.

On the crest of Steep Hill, the Stronghold overlooked the terrain all around, the hexagonal fields, the rapid stream that rushed along the hex-line. A double-walled stockade surrounded the main buildings, defenses that had withstood many attacks and fell only once, to Gairoth the ogre.

Vailret stretched his arms back, felt the warmth of his jerkin and the woolen sweater wrapped around it. He had not gotten much sleep, and his muscles ached—but it felt good. Vailret ran his fingers through straw-colored hair, tangled from tossing and turning all night.

Delrael moved about with energy and excitement, obviously eager to be off again. He was a character of action who hated to ponder things until all spontaneity was gone. Of course, he often got himself into trouble because he never thought about what he was doing. He bore a sturdy sword from the weapons storehouse and left the bow and arrows behind this time.

Tareah waited with Vailret’s mother Siya at the main gates to see them off. Beside them stood the old bald veteran Tarne, awake and alert with bright eyes.

When Sardun’s daughter waved good-bye, Vailret felt amazed at how she changed in the month he had known her. They spent a lot of time together, exchanging legends and stories they unearthed, clarifying historical details that Tareah had learned from her father.

But Vailret could see the stars in Delrael’s eyes when he looked at her, and he cared for his cousin too much to risk a potentially difficult situation. And fighter characters spent much more time impressing women than nearsighted scholars did anyway.

Tareah still looked disappointed that she would not be accompanying them, but she drew herself up, proud to have the responsibility of guarding the Stronghold.

Beside her, the big veteran Tarne appeared grim and ready. He had kept the villagers protected in the forests during the months when they needed to hide from Gairoth and his ogres. Now Tarne crossed his arms over his chest and nodded farewell to them.

Siya, though, looked devastated and afraid for them. Her husband Cayon had been killed in a senseless quest. He had been the typical Gamearth fighter character: cocky, talented, living for the moment and adventuring for the fun of it. But Cayon was slain by an ogre on one of his “fun” adventures. It had destroyed Siya.

She was a new type of character on Gamearth. She wanted an end to all of the tedious questing. It was time to settle down and establish their lives, support themselves, grow their crops, take care of the villagers and the other characters. But while she ran the domestic affairs of the Stronghold, she still felt left out, not treated with respect. She was overprotective of Vailret. She tried to do the same to Delrael, but he ignored her.

Vailret knew everything she was thinking—he could see the emotions ripple like changing waves on her face. But Siya held her tongue because she realized how much was at stake this time. Vailret greatly respected her for that.

As they departed, Siya said only, “Luck.” Vailret smiled. The three of them started down the path into the darkness.

The lights in the village below had been doused for the night. Only a dull glow came from the blacksmith’s workshop, where Derow always kept the fires banked. Before dawn seeped into the eastern sky, the questers left the village behind and crossed the first line of hexagonal fields bounding the forest terrain.

Bryl mumbled, “If characters have stopped questing so much, why do I always find myself walking back and forth across the map?”

Vailret’s hands were numb from the chill; he crossed his arms and kept his fingertips under them. He turned to look at Delrael. His cousin’s face was grim, concentrating on the journey.

Delrael’s lost father Drodanis had sent them a spectral message from the Rulewoman Melanie, describing the threat of Scartaris and commanding them to find some way to stop the end of the Game. The three of them had created the Barrier River to protect them for a time.

But Drodanis had sent no other message, provided them with no further suggestions. Together, they were aware of the Earthspirits trapped in Delrael’s silver belt, but they couldn’t speak a word of that out loud. Characters could never know when the Outsiders might be listening.

The quiet between them seemed uncomfortable, strained. Vailret cleared his throat and spoke in a bemused tone. “I wonder if we really grasp what we’re doing. Think about the implications beyond our adventuring to defeat Scartaris.”

He raised his eyebrows. Delrael shook his head, as if tired of thinking.

“Do we really want to save Gamearth if it means rekindling the Wars all over again?”

Bryl wiped his hands on his sky-blue cloak, trying to get rid of some pitch on his palm.

“What are you talking about?” He scowled at the pines around him.

“Well, isn’t that what we’re trying to do, get the Outsiders interested again by stirring up as much trouble as we can? Our normal, peaceful existence is so boring to them they want to quit the Game. Maybe the only way we can keep their interest is to start all those endless battles and constant slaughter again.”

Vailret sighed. His half-formed thoughts began to frighten him. “Starting the old Sorcerer Wars was a pretty trivial thing in the first place. We shouldn’t have too much trouble if we want to do it again.”

Delrael adjusted the sword at his side. The silver belt around his waist looked gaudy in contrast with his scuffed and mended leather armor. “I thought nobody knew how the Wars started. It was so many turns ago.”

Vailret shook his head. “Tareah knew the story. It’s sad in one way and stupid in another. Would you believe a wedding party, an athletic contest?”

He shrugged. “Of course, legends make things too simplistic. They ignore all the sociological factors of the characters, how the Sorcerers divided into two camps just waiting for a spark to set them at each others’ throats.

“Our two athletes, one from each faction, were Sesteb and Turik. The Sorcerer Lord Armund had married his Lady Maire. The couple hosted a gala wedding feast at Armund’s lakeside palace, then they began an afternoon of games. Games—” Vailret shook his head. “Fun and games—think of all the trouble they’ve caused us.”

“Think of all the fun we had,” Delrael countered.

“Games were simpler then. The main sport was to see who could throw a stone farthest out onto Lord Armund’s lake, Sesteb or Turik. Turik was muscular, but Sesteb was clever and wiry.

“Lord Armund arranged to have a line of boats strung out on the hexagonal lake, so characters could float a marker where each stone landed. Turik flung his stone first and reached the ring of boats. Nobody believed Sesteb could ever match it.

“But Sesteb picked a small flat stone. He stepped up to the edge of the water and cast it at an angle, skipping it across the surface of the lake. On its last bounce, the stone jumped past the ring of boats.”

Delrael laughed. “Good strategy.”

“Well you can imagine what happened. The other characters had placed high wagers on the game, so of course Turik’s supporters said that Sesteb had cheated, while the others argued that Sesteb’s stone went the farthest and nothing else mattered. Both sides refused to pay their wagers, which led to open hostility before long. It didn’t help that everybody had too much wine at the wedding feast, either.

“Lord Armund demanded that the two groups make peace so they didn’t ruin his wedding celebration. He went to Sesteb’s supporters and asked them to begin the competition all over again—but they killed Armund in their drunken anger and tossed him out of their tent.”

Bryl made a rude noise. “I thought old Sorcerer lords were a little more dignified than that.”

Vailret agreed. “So you might think. When the Lady Maire witnessed the murder of her new husband, she used her sorcery to spawn an ugly, vengeful monster—the first ogre, which then slaughtered the characters that had killed Lord Armund. Turik’s supporters created their own monsters to continue the fight, then Sesteb’s friends made even more powerful ones to defend themselves.”

Delrael and Bryl looked at him as they continued to walk. The path ahead of them zigzagged clearly through the trees.

Vailret continued. “Sure, some characters called for peace, but the others enjoyed the war games even more.”

“I’ll bet the Outsiders had a hand in that,” Delrael said.

“The saddest part is that Turik and Sesteb were themselves the best of friends and refused to take part in the fighting. But the other characters forced them to engage in a duel to the death. More games. Being a lot stronger, Turik killed Sesteb and then carried his friend’s broken body with him to the lakeshore. Turik walked out until the waves closed over his head.”

“How dramatic,” Bryl said.

Delrael shook his head. “Shows what happens when you play a game without having the rules set down beforehand.”

* * *

The trees ahead of them parted, and Vailret caught his first close glimpse of the Barrier River. Grayish brown, the River roiled in its pondering progress from the top of the map to the bottom. The water hauled buried debris from what had once been normal terrain.

The bank was a sharp black line where the forest ended and the water began. A transition zone of sticky mud bordered the hex-line, glistening wet. Vailret could hear the water moving, pushing against hidden obstacles. The river carried with it a smell of decay from the rotting remains of woodlands and quiet meadows drowned in the flood. A few birds flew out over the water, hunting for insects.

“And
that
isn’t going to stop Scartaris?” Delrael shook his head. “I don’t understand what we’re up against.”

Vailret stared across the water. “The River might buy us time if Scartaris sends an attacking army—but we need to prepare for a different type of enemy. Scartaris might have been what turned Enrod against us.”

“Sure looks like an effective barrier to me,” Bryl said. “It’s a full hex wide—how are
we
going to get across?”

“You’re going to swim, of course. Bring a rope with you,” Delrael answered with a straight face. He probably had not even considered the problem before now.

The half-Sorcerer glared back, but Delrael’s expression showed no humor. Bryl looked away, scowling. He took out the Fire and Air Stones, but the gems could not help them.

Vailret spoke, but he knew they weren’t going to like it. “Tareah said Enrod could carry us. On his raft.”

Delrael and Bryl did a double take. Vailret kept himself from smiling, though he enjoyed the astonishment on their faces.

“She told me that when the Deathspirits cursed Enrod to take his raft back and forth, they said he had to assist anyone trying to save the world. Or something like that. We of course have spotlessly pure intentions—” The corner of his mouth turned upward.

Delrael frowned. “Since Enrod tried to destroy us all, maybe Bryl shouldn’t flaunt the Fire Stone too much.”

Bryl stuffed the ruby gem up the sleeve of his blue cloak. “I sure don’t want him angry with me. He’s a full-blooded Sorcerer.”

“We have to figure out how to summon him first.” Vailret squinted at the distance. His eyesight was never terribly good, but he thought he saw a smudge across the water.

“We might not have to worry about that,” Delrael said. “There’s a bank of mist coming—straight toward us.”

The air felt cold and clammy around them as the fog rolled in. They could hear waves lapping against an object in the water, then the silhouette became clear. A raft.

A tormented-looking man used a long pole to haul the raft close to shore, but he remained carefully away from the hex-line. Enrod the Sentinel looked disheveled, once massively built, but now wiry. His black hair and beard showed streaks of gray spreading out around his cheeks and temples. A wild glaze covered his eyes, directing his sight deep inside, where he was trapped with his own thoughts. The Deathspirits had cursed him only a short while ago.

Enrod did not look at the travelers, did not speak a word. He merely worked his pole, turning the raft toward the opposite shore. He paused a moment, then dug the pole into the river mud and pushed. Slow to gain momentum, the raft moved a few more feet away from the shore.

“Wait!” Vailret hurried to jump onto the raft. The lashed logs swayed as he gained his balance. Delrael leaped over to join him. Bryl hesitated at the edge of the River, then jumped across.

Enrod’s raft moved with greater speed, rocking as the Sentinel worked his pole. They drew away from the shore, then mist closed around them in a damp cocoon.

The mist muffled even the noise from the River, and all other sounds fell away. The line of trees on the shore faded into murky skeletal shapes, then vanished altogether.

The hush around them made Vailret afraid to talk, but Bryl finally whispered, “I can’t see where we’re going. How do we know we’re making any progress at all?”

Enrod gave no sign that he even realized the passengers had joined him on the raft. The dirty sleeves of his robe flopped around his wrists as he raised the pole, dripping water and river mud, then pushed down again.

“What if he wants to keep us here?” Bryl whispered again. The half-Sorcerer’s eyes were wide, and he hunched down into his cloak, as if trying to hide. “We’re the ones who created the River. We’re the ones he was coming to blast with the Fire Stone. I don’t see the Deathspirits here to protect us—what if their curse isn’t strong enough?”

Vailret had no answers for him, but Bryl’s fear struck home. After another moment in silence, Delrael said, “Shut up, Bryl. Thanks for pointing that out to him.”