Gamearth

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The veteran shrugged and remained standing by the table. He seemed uninterested in Vailret's scrolls and scraps of writing, though he was careful not to touch any of them.

  Delrael closed his eyes for a moment, as if making a wish, then he tossed the message stick into the fire.

  Vailret held his breath ¯ Drodanis had put his seal on the stick. He had sent a message. Had he reached the end of his quest? Had he found the Rulewoman? Did Drodanis regret taking young Lellyn instead of him?

  The flames attacked the wood, peeling away the outer spell and shelling the spoken words, sending them into the fire. The crackle of consumed wood rose to a hiss, then to whispered words. The flames climbed higher, dancing together, forming a memory-image of Drodanis.

  Vailret's eyes glistened as he stared at the flickering silhouette of his uncle. Drodanis appeared older, but he wore the same clothes Vailret remembered him in. Drodanis's eyes were dim and downturned. He seemed content, not haunted as he had been ¯ but he also seemed dead inside, with nothing left now that his sorrow was gone.

  The spectre spoke from the glowing hearth.

  "Delrael, Vailret ¯ the Rulewoman Melanie is risking everything to let me send you this warning. She is bending her own Rules, hoping she does not get caught by the other Players.

  "Gamearth is doomed ¯ the Outsiders have grown tired of us. One of the Players has set events in motion to destroy our world.

  "None of us is real. We exist only for the amusement of the Outsiders. You know that. But now the Outsider named David has planted a monstrous, growing thing far to the east. He wants to end the Game. As his creature sucks up life, it grows ever stronger and it will soon spread across the entire map. That will be the end of everything for us.

  "The Outsider David is playing by the Rules. And the Rulewoman Melanie will try to fight him in the same way. But we must help as well. You must find some way to stop the enemy. We are the characters on this world, and we have a stake in it."

  The fire popped and crackled, drowning some of Drodanis's words.

  Vailret watched, feeling numb from his uncle's warning. The image wavered, and Drodanis's tone changed.

  "...Stronghold is in danger from an entirely different source. You must ignore that. Do not waste your time and effort trying to regain the Stronghold, should it fall. This is my warning ¯ you must listen. The Outsiders have set up the second threat as a distraction, an adventure to amuse themselves. You know what is more important. The Stronghold will have no significance if Gamearth is destroyed."

  The message stick crackled again. Layers of ash slid off, leaving little of the stick unconsumed. Drodanis's words became garbled, overwritten with a sound like frying fat.

  "The other Outsiders do not know you are aware of their plans. The Rulewoman has slipped this message past them. But be prepared ¯ if they find out, they will do everything to stop you.

  "I am begging you to find a way to protect the world. Do not be sidetracked. This is the grandest quest in our history ¯ not for entertainment, but survival."

  The hissing grew louder, and chunks of words drifted up into the chimney. "I am well. Lellyn is ... gone. Preserve Gamearth."

  The message stick crumbled in a final burst of light. The image of Drodanis scattered and vanished with the flames up the chimney, leaving only the logs and the low fire.

  The morning air had a fuzziness to it, erasing sharp details of the forest and the countryside. Tarne kept watch at the Stronghold walls, looking down upon the few villagers who still tried to do field work in the rising midmorning heat. Other defenders moved within the empty Stronghold courtyard, waiting. Waiting.

  Tarne could not be specific about the time of attack, nor could he even tell them what enemy they would face. He had gone out again later that night and stared at the aurora for hours. He rubbed his temples, trying to concentrate, willing the clues to come, but the Veil remained closed to him, nothing more than silent green-gray curtains suspended above the world.

  After burning the message stick, the four of them had discussed possible solutions. Delrael had seemed upset at his father's instructions to ignore the threat to the Stronghold.

  Tarne stood tall and stared at Delrael. "I will stay here and fight.

  This is my home. The Veil has given us a brief warning, and I will not waste it."

  Delrael turned to watch the fire. He pounded a fist into his palm. "I hate to leave you, especially if you might have a battle ¯ but you heard the Rulewoman's message. We have to go and confront the greater enemy, whatever it is."

  "How?" Vailret had said. "We need to cut this thing off somehow, protect ourselves. But we know nothing about our enemy. It's hard to make a plan when you're blind-folded and have both hands tied behind your back."

  Bryl hung his head and looked dejected. "If only we had the Air Stone."

  "What about the other Stones?" Tarne asked. "Weren't there four of them?"

  "Yes." Vailret furrowed his forehead. "The only one we could get to in a few days is the Water Stone. Sardun keeps it in his Ice Palace, north of us.

  That one controls the weather and water, and Sardun's a powerful Sorcerer himself."

  Bryl scratched at his ears. "Maybe we should go and ask him for help."

  Delrael looked at Vailret, who shrugged. "It's a start."

  Tarne had rapped his knuckles on the table, feeling the charisma grow in him again. He remembered fighting with Drodanis, he remembered giving orders on the battlefield. "I will gather up all the fighters from the village. We'll be ready at dawn."

  He had stared beyond the walls, pondering. "The others may have to leave the village for a time and hide in the forest. But don't worry ¯ I will take care of them."

  Before dawn Delrael, Bryl, and Vailret set off northward, bearing their standard packs and the weapons they had chosen at random. Vailret's precious old manuscripts lay in a large buried chest sealed with wax to prevent dampness from getting in. Tarne had no idea when they would return. His world, his adventure focused on protecting the Stronghold.

  Now, at dawn, other villagers furtively glanced up at the top of the Hill. The Stronghold had protected their homes for centuries. Tarne realized that most of them hoped his vision would prove false, but he knew better. He had never been so sure.

  Each of his picked defenders had been armed, some with relics from the old Sorcerer wars, others with less ornate creations by Derow the blacksmith.

  Derow had little experience in making weapons and felt ashamed to see his swords next to the elaborate weapons used by the former warlords. But Tarne had seen how well Derow's blades cut ¯ and little else mattered.

  A hush fell over the abandoned Stronghold. Occasionally, the air rang with the distant clink of a hoe striking a rock, or a dissolving snatch of nervous laughter from the villagers far below.

  "I thought I heard something," said the young farmer named Romm.

  And suddenly Gairoth, wearing the dazzling Air Stone set in an iron crown on his head, appeared on the Hill, stepping out of thin air and leading Rognoth the dragon ¯ and an army of other ogres. Their combined howl of attack sounded like an avalanche.

  In the instant of surprise, one thought shuttled through Tarne's brain:

  Ogres don't work together Flashbacks of his campaign against the ogres came flooding back, hunting down the monsters one by one with Drodanis and the other fighters. Tarne could not imagine that so many of them had survived the Scouring, or that they would band together. But Vailret had already warned him that Gairoth was part Sorcerer himself, and no ordinary ogre.

  The ogres roared and lurched up the hill path, gaining momentum in defiance of the steep slope.

  "Sever the walkway!" Tarne cried. Romm was already there, picking up one of the dangling mallets and striking out the wooden pins that held the walkway across the stone-filled trench.

  The ages-old bridge settled a little, but jammed in its supports. "It won't drop!"

  The ogres had almost reached the top of the pa
th, swinging their clubs in anticipation of wreaking havoc.

  "It'll drop when they come across it! Secure the gates! Quick! Jorte, help him!"

  The two men swung the heavy doors shut while others slammed the crossbars into place. A few defenders shot arrows at the oncoming giants. One arrow struck Gairoth's tree-trunk arm, but he plucked it out without a wince of pain. The monsters kept coming. Tarne had never believed there were so many ogres in the entire world, not even at the beginning of the Scouring.

  Gairoth surged like a battering ram across the walkway, and still it did not fall. Rognoth crouched behind his master as the ogre took his club and pummeled the heavy doors. They splintered.

  "Ready the trap inside the door. This one better work!"

  With one massive final blow, Gairoth blasted the thick doors inward, sending spear-length splinters of wood flying into the courtyard. Arrows struck at him like lightning bolts, but bounced away like raindrops.

  "What the hell?" Tarne looked at his bow as if it had betrayed him.

  "Arrows always worked before."

  With the other attacking ogres behind him and Rognoth at his side, Gairoth strode into the courtyard wearing a smug and triumphant grin.

  "Now!" Tarne bellowed, and Derow the blacksmith pulled the lever that would plunge the ogres into the pit inside the gate. With incredible agility for bodies so large, Gairoth and Rognoth simultaneously leaped to the side as the trap fell inward, exposing the deep pit. The other ogres roared, working their way around the trap and into the Stronghold courtyard.

  "How can this be happening?" one of the men wailed in shock. Though the defenders launched volley after volley of arrows, not a single ogre appeared to be injured.

  "Where is Delroth!" Gairoth bellowed. He leaped into the air and brought his club down on the ground for emphasis.

  "We knew it would happen," Tarne said to the defenders. "And we were foolish enough to think we could prevent it. To the ladders! Everyone out!"

  Ogres flooded into the courtyard as the defenders set up rickety wooden ladders against the northeastern wall of the Stronghold. The men scrambled over, dropping to the ground. They made their way through the thick forest toward the caves in the hills, hoping the ogres would not follow.

  * 3 *

  Sardun's Ice Palace

  "RULE #5: The speed at which a character may travel on foot is strictly limited. Characters may traverse no more than three hexagons of grassland, forest, or grassy hill terrain per day; two hexes of forested-hill, swamp, or wasteland; and one hexagon of mountain terrain. Once a party has covered the allowable distance, they must stop at the intervening hex-line.

  "Naturally, if characters have access to other modes of travel, such as horses or boats, the allowable distances are modified, as given in Table A-1..."

  "Good thing we weren't there," Bryl said. "Try not to sulk so much."

  "That was our home, and now Gairoth has it," Vailret answered. Delrael said nothing.

  They had watched from the top of a hill shortly after sunrise. Delrael squinted into the long shadows of dawn, describing details that Vailret could not see. None of them could believe the ogre had won so easily.

  Delrael finally shook his head. His eyes, Vailret saw, were heavy and red. "There's no excuse for how we've failed. We brought it on ourselves by being lazy. I wanted my father to be proud of me. What would he say now?"

  They talked as they continued northward at a brisk pace. The Rules allowed them to travel three hexes per day in forest terrain and three in grassland. At one point a panoramic view of grassland terrain bordered an abrupt line of forest. The black barrier was sharp and hard as a razor stretching off into the fuzzy distance; lush forest lay on one side of the line, vast grasslands on the other.

  "Your father told us not to fight for the Stronghold, Del. He wouldn't consider you a failure. We're doing exactly what he wants by focusing on the main threat."

  Delrael shook his head. "It's not that." He shifted his hunting bow, rubbing the red spot where the quiver strap had chafed his neck. "I mean we failed in a larger sense ¯ the Outsiders got bored with us. We didn't perform like we were supposed to. That's why we were created in the first place ¯ and they found Gamearth so tedious that they want to destroy it."

  He shook his head, avoiding Vailret's gaze. "We should have gone questing more often, started some wars among ourselves." He made a distasteful noise. "Farming and training ¯ even I found it boring. No wonder the Outsiders gave up on us."

  Delrael kept moving along the trail. Vailret caught up and put a hand on his shoulder. Delrael seemed uncomfortable at being touched, but Vailret held him there anyway. "The Rulewoman Melanie is fighting on our side, too.

  Gamearth isn't a complete failure ¯ she must be enjoying it."

  Delrael didn't answer and pushed ahead.

  For the rest of the day Delrael kept to himself, brooding. Vailret remained busy planning how they might fight the Outsiders' threat. Bryl complained most of the time, but Vailret found him easy to ignore.

  He doubted they could do any serious fighting. Delrael had only a bow and his leather armor; Vailret had only a dagger, and not much battle skill or training to go with it; Bryl never practiced his magic and knew few spells.

  The half-Sorcerer could work some useful everyday magic such as starting a camp fire and replenishing their packs with food and water, but his only unusual spells were that he could make flowers bloom on demand (a useless talent, Vailret thought) and that he could blunt or sharpen a blade, which might prove valuable in a battle. Bryl had no one to show him new, more powerful spells, and he did not have the ambition to learn them himself.

  Vailret had always wanted to be a fighter, like his father Cayon ¯ but he did not have the physical build or the skill in weaponry, and his weak eyesight spoiled him for anything but close combat. Or reading.

  He remembered the days of training at the Stronghold. At daybreak, the other villager trainees would leave their homes and trudge up Steep Hill.

  Visiting trainees from other villages lived within the Stronghold walls and helped with some of the preparations for the day's instruction. Drodanis and Cayon would send everyone back down Steep Hill to come running up again, to strengthen their leg muscles. They made the trainees carry water up from the stream, whether the Stronghold needed it or not.

  But after the deaths of Cayon and Fielle, Drodanis had done little training. Delrael, who was then fifteen, and the old veteran Tarne conducted the necessary exercises. Young Vailret had thought quests were old-fashioned and juvenile, and he spent much time with Drodanis, learning to think and read.

  On Vailret's eleventh birthday ¯ two years after the death of Fielle ¯ Drodanis had led him outside, across the enclosed yard to the small, windowless weapons storehouse in a corner by the double wall. The sky was gray, and Vailret could hear wind whipping in the trees of the hill, but the tall walls of the Stronghold sheltered them. Bryl waited for them at the storehouse door, looking bored.

  "Has he agreed?" Bryl asked. "Do you think he's prepared enough?"

  Drodanis shrugged and looked at young Vailret, who felt a touch of fear at the back of his curiosity. "I haven't even told him what we're going to do."

  Without looking at Vailret, Drodanis opened the door of the weapons storehouse and stepped inside. Bryl looked at the boy, keeping a grave expression on his face.

  Just inside the storehouse, Bryl snapped his fingers to light a single candle. Vailret looked around in the dim orange light. The dark interior of the storehouse seemed to be a haven for shadows and hidden fears. Spears, swords, arrows, and bows ¯ mostly ancient Sorcerer artifacts sold by the Scavengers ¯ lay stockpiled against the walls. Bryl's face wore a nasty grimace as he gestured the boy inside, then closed the door behind them.

  Vailret held his head up, trying to keep his composure. He knew Drodanis wouldn't hurt him.

  "This is a role-playing game, Vailret. It is to be a test of your imagination," Drodanis said. "And also to
see how quickly you can think, how adequate your solutions are, how well you react under pressure."

  Bryl blew the candle out. Darkness swallowed all of them. The man's low voice resonated in the shadows.

  "You are imprisoned in a Slac fortress. You have watched as the Slac cut your companions to pieces, one by one, for amusement ¯ you heard the screams from your friends, the laughter from the Slac. You are the only one still alive. Two guards come and drag you out of your dank little cell. What do you do?"

  Vailret didn't answer for a moment. "I don't understand. What am I supposed to do?"

  "Pretend you're in the situation I just described. What would you do?

  The guards are taking you. Are you going to struggle, or come along peacefully?" "I'll struggle!" Vailret said. "And then what?" "And then run."

  "Where? Back to your cell, or blindly through the tunnels?"

  "Pick a number from one to ten," Bryl said.

  "What?"

  "Pick a number. If you guess the right one, I'll let you break free. If you guess wrong, the Slac keep their grip on you. It's like rolling dice."

  "Three."

  "Wrong." Drodanis picked up the story again. "A guard raps you on the side of the head, causing one damage point and knocking you nearly senseless.

  They laugh. You are being taken to an arena where you will be thrown in with the Akkar, an invisible spine-covered creature that feeds on Slac victims.

  They want to watch your death convulsions. Any questions?"

  Vailret paused only a second. He had begun to feel the game now. He closed his eyes and imagined, seeing himself in the Slac tunnels. "Will I have any weapons to fight with?"

  "You are given a small club. That's all."

  "Do I have the club now?"

  "No. When they get to the arena entrance ¯ and you are almost there now ¯ they will throw it into the arena and force you out there."

  "How are the Slac guards armed?"

  Drodanis paused. Bryl answered, "With spears."

  "You see the end of the tunnel ahead. It opens into a wide area covered with sand and gravel. All around the pit are jeering Slac, out of reach of the invisible Akkar. One Slac guard tosses your club out into the pit."