Gamers' Quest
Authors: George Ivanoff
George Ivanoff
First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of
Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204
Melbourne Victoria Australia
© George Ivanoff
2009 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This publication is copyright. Apart from any use
as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part
may be reproduced by any process without prior written
permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries
concerning reproduction should be addressed to
Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd
2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.
Ford Street website:
www.fordstreetpublishing.com
First published 2009
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Author: Ivanoff, George 1968-
Title: Gamers’ Quest / George Ivanoff
ISBN: 9781876462864 (pbk.)
Dewey Number: A823.3
Cover art: Les Petersen
Cover design: © Grant Gittus Graphics
In-house editor: Saralinda Turner
Printed in China by Tingleman Pty Ltd
For Kerri, Nykita and Alexandra –
my wonderful family
(Life, Death and Detention
and
Real Sci-Fi)
have been on the booklist for the Victorian Premier's Reading Challenge since its inception in 2005. His five-book series,
Cory Jansen: Teen Spy
has recently been published in New Zealand. George has also had stories published in numerous magazines and anthologies, most recently in
GROW: Under the Southern Cross, Trust Me!
and
Doctor Who, Short Trips: Defining Patterns.
His website is:
Blue skies and sunny days. Going to the movies, hanging out at the mall and going out on a date. School, homework and library study groups. Family and friends. And ice-cream. Nothing could compare to that cold, melty goodness.
Ordinary, everyday things. That is what they missed. That is what they craved. But those ordinary lives were just vague memories – insubstantial images floating in a grey nothingness. And getting back to them would be no easy task. Danger awaited them at every turn – danger and maybe even death.
Tark perched in a tree and waited. He kept his eyes on the path that wound its way through the Forest. He knew it was just a matter of time. All he had to do was wait … and commit highway thievery. He wondered, as he sat on this branch, whether or not the term highway thievery still applied if the perpetration occurred on a path. Pathway thievery? Would that make him a pathwayman instead of a highwayman?
Tark's violet eyes lit up as he saw movement through the trees. He drew his shabby cloak around himself. It may have been old and worn, and had certainly seen better days, but it still had many of its original magik properties. And right now, it was helping him blend in with his surroundings. It also assisted in keeping the morning chill at bay. Tark was a touch on the scrawny side and tended to feel the cold.
The retinue approached, and Tark smiled. It was all so predictable. Stupid princelings seemed to forever be traversing the mid-level paths of the Forest. They obviously believed these paths to be less dangerous than the large highways or the smaller tracks. And they were probably right. Notorious, well-armed highwaymen worked the larger, well-travelled routes. Travellers who looked like they were worth robbing were likely to have at least one attempt made on them during the course of an average journey. And as for the dark, obscure tracks that wound their way through the unforgiving heart of the Forest … well, there were things far worse than highway thievers in the World.
So, in point of fact, there was some sense in the princelings using the mid-level paths. No dark-forest magik, and few thievers. Tark, however, was one of these few thievers, who had carved out for himself his own little thieving niche. It was not a particularly well-paying niche – as princelings with large quantities of gold could afford to hire the protection necessary to travel the highways – but it was regular and, best of all, predictable.
And Tark liked predictable. Predictable princelings meant that he was not at all worried by the size of the retinue that now approached.
‘Nice touch,’ whispered Tark, watching the two flag-bearers at the head of the convoy as they passed beneath his tree. ‘But none of this ’ere flashy stuff's gonna ’elp ya.’
A group of soldiers were next to march below him, two-by-two. Tark counted ten of them and wondered why there were so few. Most illusions had 20 to 30, at the very least.
Then came the princeling's enormous palanquin, carried by four burly men in loincloths. And a second, smaller palanquin followed it – this one floating along of its own accord.
Now that's just stupid, thought Tark. A floating palanquin practically screamed out that the whole thing was an illusion.
Tark ran a hand over the black stubble that covered his head, lined himself up and jumped. His booted feet tore through the canvas canopy, and he landed on the plush, cushioned seat opposite Princeling Galbrath.
The boy looked up at him in bleary-eyed astonishment, having been woken from a light doze. He was young for a princeling – at least a year or two younger than Tark, who at sixteen was quite young himself for such an accomplished thiever. The princeling's round, podgy face, surrounded by an almost angelic halo of golden locks, and wide-eyed stare made him appear vulnerable and a little scared.
‘Ullo.’ Tark smiled. ‘Gives us all yar gold.’
The princeling's youthful features hardened.
‘I do not possess what you seek,’ he said, straightening up his elaborately embroidered clothes. ‘And even if I did, I would not hand it over to the likes of you.’
Tark wiped the smirk off the lad's face with a short, sharp punch to the jaw.
‘It's always gots to be the ’ard way, don't it?’ said Tark, frisking the princeling. Finding nothing, he glared at him and snarled, ‘Last chance!’
‘Ruffian!’ The princeling folded his arms in defiance and spat. A glob of bloody phlegm landed on Tark's boot.
Tark's boots were his pride and joy. Appropriated, only a few days earlier, from a duke taking a short cut along this very same pathway; they were black and polished and relatively newish and a perfect fit. They contrasted to the drab, ill-fitting brown tunic and leggings that Tark lived (and slept) in, and his shabby but useful cloak.
‘Ya snivellin’ little rodent,’ said Tark, grabbing him by the collar of his fur-lined coat. ‘I is gonna makes ya sorry for that.’
The princeling managed a pathetic yelp as Tark flung him out of the palanquin, into the undergrowth that lined the pathway. Tark then proceeded to ransack the interior of the palanquin, throwing blankets and cushions out the door as he went.
‘Where's the gold?’ muttered Tark, as the palanquin came to a sudden halt. ‘Mayhaps it's in the floatin’ one?’
Tark jumped through the door, to come face to face with a group of murderous-looking soldiers.
‘Morning boys,’ he said with a curt nod. He then turned his back on them and walked over to the second palanquin.
The soldiers looked at one another, puzzled at the thiever's lack of fear and cavalier attitude. Then the captain signalled his men and they followed Tark.
Tark yanked a curtain from the second palanquin's doorway. He expected to see a small chest of gold, or at least a sack or two of silver. Instead, there was a wizened old man in flowing purple robes.
‘Who in hell are ya?’ asked Tark.
The old man turned his head slowly to face Tark. His lips parted as he drew in a rattling breath. ‘Windamore the Mighty,’ said the old man, a dry rasp catching his words.
‘Ya don't looks all that mighty ta me,’ quipped Tark.
Windamore climbed out of the palanquin and straightened up to his full height, which was a good thirty centimetres taller than Tark.
Tark noticed the jewelled sword hilt protruding from a scabbard, belted around the man's waist.
‘I am Court Mage to the Principality of Galbrath,’ he announced, his voice seeming to take on a stranger, deeper, more sinister tone. ‘I am guardian to Princeling Galbrath. I am undefeated champion of the Death Tournaments. I am rated with a level thirteen in magik. And I am unaccustomed to being challenged. Now who, in the name of the Designers, are you?’
‘Um …’ began Tark. ‘Someone who's mades a bit of a mistake.’ Tark smiled, bowed to the mage, and turned – only to be faced by the point of a sword, held by the captain of the soldiers.
‘I don't suppose ya is an illusion, are ya?’ asked Tark. He reached up a finger to touch the end of the sword. It was sharp. Very sharp. He pulled his hand away quickly. ‘Didn't think so.’
Tark silently cursed his bad luck. Princelings travelling the mid-level paths always had illusions, and maybe one or two real guards at most. They weren't supposed to have ten soldiers and a mage. This was not regular. Tark's face lit up as his mind made the connections. This princeling must have more money than most – that or something worth protecting.
Behind the soldiers, Tark saw Princeling Galbrath staggering out from the bushes. His coat was torn, his hair bedraggled and his lower lip was dribbling blood. He did not look at all happy.
‘What are you waiting for, you moron,’ yelled the princeling to his captain. ‘Kill him!’
Without hesitation, the captain lunged with his sword.
In his line of work, Tark was often at the wrong end of a sword. He was used to dodging sharpened steel and his reflexes were honed to do so. So Tark did not hesitate either. He lithely dodged the blade.
The level thirteen mage Windamore was indeed unaccustomed to being challenged. It had been a very long time since he had been anywhere near a fight, skirmish or even petty dispute that he had not spent days in preparation for. As a result, his reflexes were not what they had once been.
Windamore was skewered by the captain's sword.
‘Oh!’ croaked the mage, staring blankly at the captain's astonished eyes.
The captain hurriedly withdrew his sword.
Never one to dally, Tark grabbed the only opportunity he saw – the mage's sword. He pulled it from its scabbard as the mage fell dead to the ground and almost dropped it in surprise.
Blinding light burst from the sword's blade. It was a sword o’ light!
Tark shielded his eyes with one hand as he tried to hold on with the other. It felt as if the sword was alive – alive and trying to escape. It moved about in his grip, first pulling one way and then another, as if unsure as to its intended direction.
The captain fell to his knees. His soldiers dropped their swords and did likewise. The palanquin bearers lowered their vehicle and hid behind it.
The sword made a definite movement, over the heads of the soldiers, to where Princeling Galbrath stood. The princeling's face went white.
‘Oh crap!’ gasped the princeling, realisation dawning on him. Without Windamore to keep it in check, the sword o’ light would follow its own instincts. And the princeling wasn't the sword's favourite person at the moment, for the blade knew where he had been heading and to whom he had intended to sell it. The princeling turned and fled into the undergrowth.
The sword tried to follow. Tark closed his eyes and used both hands, and still he could only barely keep hold of it. But hold onto it he did, for he knew the rarity and worth of a sword o’ light.
After much struggling, the sword appeared to give up, relinquishing control to its holder. Tark pointed it towards the mage. The sword started moving towards the scabbard. Tark let it. Once it was sheathed, he removed the belt from the dead mage, and put it around his own waist.
The soldiers still cowered on the ground. Well, thought Tark, no sense in wasting an opportunity.
‘Rights!’ he called, pulling a small burlap pouch from under his cloak. ‘All of ya are gonna puts yar valuables in this ’ere bag.’
