Chapter 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!"

 

Chapter 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 clearcut 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 zig-zagging 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.

Mindar blinked. Her vision snapped back into focus. She stumbled, suddenly regaining her body.

In the back of her mind she heard a mocking voice, Scartaris laughing at her, telling her to watch. Watch him die. You will lose. You will always lose.

She didn't know where she was, how she had gotten there or what was going on. She remembered nothing beyond the Cailee and the circle of firelight. And the pain, memories sparkling with pain.

Then she saw Delrael in the grip of the Slave of the Serpent. Watch him die. Scartaris had toyed with her, showed his power. Now he would have fun by letting her witness Delrael's death.

The Serpent drew back to strike, and Delrael closed his eyes.

The snake's head flashed downward as Delrael heard racing footsteps, a swish. It all happened too fast. He opened his eyes and saw the Serpent still descending toward him with its mouth open and fangs bared, but somehow the head had become severed from the body. Squirting blood, the snake's head continued its arc, struck Delrael in the shoulder and bounced off. It fell on the sand, staring up with dead red eyes.

Mindar regained her balance and swung the rippled sword back through empty air, flinging droplets of the Serpent's dark blood into the air.

Apparently stunned, the Slave released his grip and let Delrael fall to the ground. His right arm was still numb, but he managed to snatch up his sword as he scrambled out of the way. He heaved in great gasps of air. His ribs ached. Sand crusted the globs of yellow blood sticking to his leather armor.

Mindar stood poised and ready to fight the Slave, wearing a snarl on her lips. Her red S-scar glowed. She had returned. Delrael wanted to go to her.

The Slave pivoted around. Yellow blood drooled down the matted fur of his leg. He seemed to ignore the pain of the wound. He stared at Delrael with his liquid, anguished eyes. Then he gawked in awe at the ragged dripping stump of the Serpent. His face wore an impossible, stupefied expression. When he lifted up the dead Serpent, dark blood ran down his fingers, but the poison did not harm him.

Then he raised his huge paws into the air in a gesture of triumph.

"Sadic is free!" The monster's words were clumsy, as if the flat, plated mouth was not suited for speech. The Slave unwrapped the entwined body of the Serpent as if he were casting off a heavy chain.

Delrael continued to breathe hard. He didn't know what to think. He saw Mindar raise her eyebrows.

Moving with obvious disgust, the Slave held the snake's body away from him. Black blood drizzled from the decapitated end, leaving foul pools smoking on the ground. The Slave's fur had been worn off in pink, raw-looking patches by the Serpent's scales rubbing against his hide.

"Ring around the collar," Journeyman mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

The Slave of the Serpent stalked to the edge of the deep crevasse. He raised the Serpent's body over his head and, with a roar of exhilaration, cast it down into the void. Then he turned back to Delrael and Mindar, dragging his wounded leg behind him along a trail of thick yellow blood.

Delrael grabbed his sword, ready to fight again, though his aching ribs and numb arm protested. Mindar stood glaring at the demon. Journeyman, Vailret, and Bryl all joined them.

The Slave of the Serpent stopped and stared at them, pleading. He spread out his massive flat paws. "Sadic will not hurt you. You freed Sadic.

You killed Serpent."

"Just stay away, big fella," Journeyman said.

The Slave kept his distance, trying to look harmless. He made no sudden moves. "Sadic will do no more harm."

Then Mindar turned pale and sick-looking. Her rippled sword fell to the ground. She staggered and dropped to her knees, making strange noises. She covered her face. Delrael heard her sobbing.

He put a hand on her shoulder, hesitant. She didn't flinch. Then he put both arms around her in a hug. He felt her trembling, the spasms as she tried to control herself.

Mindar choked out words. "I don't know what happened. All I remember is fighting the Cailee, and then the pain, and blackness..."

"The Cailee almost killed you," Delrael said quietly, soothing. "But Scartaris didn't let you die. He ... he controlled you. You were like the other Tairans. Your eyes..." He let the words trail off.

"Scartaris released me only so I could watch you die. For fun." She looked up, and her dark eyes were filled with a complex mix of emotions.

"I saw my daughter, I think. She was like a dream in the darkness, and it's fading. The more I try to hold onto the memory, the faster it slips away." Mindar drew a hitching breath and pulled herself to her feet, brushing her singed green tunic. Feeling awkward, Delrael took a step away.

"The first thing I saw was you fighting. And the others were just standing there, not helping you. I knew what I had to do."

Delrael saw Vailret flinch and shifted his short sword from one hand to the other. "The Serpent bound us with single combat protocol. We couldn't help."

Mindar let that sink in for a moment, and then a slow smile crossed her face. "Scartaris wanted to bind you with a strict interpretation of the Rules ― and we turned the tables on him, hah! We can find loopholes, too. Since Scartaris kept me unaware of anything that was going on, I didn't hear the challenge." Her grin broadened. "I beat Scartaris with his own trick!"

Then her expression fell again and she became serious. "I learned one other thing, though ― we're already too late.

"Scartaris has informed his army that they will march tomorrow night.

They will charge across the map, pillaging and laying waste to every hexagon.

Even if you destroy Scartaris, there's no way you can stop the whole army."

Delrael felt betrayed. He wondered if the Earthspirits knew what Mindar had said, if they knew anything beyond Scartaris. In his belt, the Earthspirits gave no sign, no communication. If Mindar was right, then the quest, Tallin's death, the first plea in the message stick from Drodanis ―everything they had done was for nothing!

"One problem at a time," Delrael said. At least they were questing and trying to do something. No one had thought of a better way to confront Scartaris.

The Slave made a grunting noise to attract their attention, but remained standing where he was. "Sadic will help."

Delrael scowled at the hairy, reptilian monster, feeling his aching ribs. The Slave plastered his paw against the deep sword cut in his thigh to slow the bleeding.

"Serpent made Sadic do bad things. Scartaris controlled Serpent. You freed Sadic. Sadic will help. Sadic knows you want to destroy Scartaris."

Bryl muttered, "Seems just about everyone knows that by now."

"Remember Rule #3, about taking new companions," Vailret said. "We could use all the help we can get, especially powerful help like that."

"The plot thickens," Journeyman said.

Delrael turned, still feeling weak from the combat. The wide white quest-path stretched across the desolation.

He saw the towering black cloud charging toward them, little more than a hexagon away. He heard an eerie buzzing sound, a cacophony of many noises, like a storm of voices, tormented souls. The cloud itself looked fuzzy and indistinct, rolling along the ground in thousands of frenzied pieces, large and small, looking for something to attack. Huge clouds of dust from its passage bubbled into the air.

"I want to see Scartaris destroyed," Mindar said.

"Cross tunnel," the Slave said. "Do not trust Sadic. He will cross by himself."

Mindar nodded at Delrael. "Three of us should cross, then Sadic, then the last two. Otherwise he might push the tunnel bridge over the edge when we're all inside it."

"He looks strong enough to do it," Delrael agreed.

Sadic hunched his hairy shoulders. "Yes. Go."

They cast dice in the dust to see who would go first. Delrael, Vailret and Bryl won the rolls and stood at the edge of the foul-smelling opening.

They entered the rotting and ancient bridge of vertebrae.

Wind whistled around and through the cracks. The dried sinews stretched taut, and the giant vertebrae swayed and rattled over the gulf. Delrael took the lead and put his boot on the rough, curved surface of the inner bone wall, checking his footing.

The passage was wide and tall. Delrael strode forward. He didn't want to think about traps, didn't want to worry. Gaps and holes between the segments of vertebrae showed too plainly the depths of swirling blackness far below, the shadows of things he didn't want to see.

The sinews were dry and leathery, holding the vertebrae together.

Delrael kept telling himself that armies had funnelled through this, that heavy cartloads of supplies and pounding Slac regiments had gone through. The bridge would hold.

They pushed ahead and saw the other side not far away. He listened to Bryl whimper behind him. Then they hurried out of the last segment, anxious to be on solid ground again. Gasping and trembling, they emerged, each trying to cover the look of fear he wore.

Sadic came next. Delrael kept his sword drawn, uneasy. He could see the vertebrae in the tunnel sway as the massive Slave lumbered through and then emerged beside them.

"Sadic will not hurt you," he said in a low voice, trying to be reassuring.

Mindar and Journeyman rapidly followed. The shadows grew longer around them with late afternoon.

"We should hurry," Mindar said. "Within another day we'll be near Scartaris. We have to be ready."

Delrael swallowed in a dry throat. "We will be."

They set off across the packed white quest-path.

The Serpent's head lay on the sand. Its eyes remained dead and pupilless, storm-colored jelly. Then the eyes lit up, glowing red again.

Scartaris looked through them at the questers as they set off toward his mountain lair.

 

Chapter 19:

PROFESSOR VERNE'S EXTRAORDINARY JOURNEY

 

"I never realized the map was so huge. I never fully conceived of the parameters of Gamearth from one edge to the other. If the Outsiders can create such a world as a Game, then they must be powerful indeed."

― Professor Verne, Les Voyages Extraordinaires

(unpublished journal).

 

The steam engine car chugged along, hissing and sputtering. Professor Verne's ears ring with the racket. The steel-shod wheels rattled along over the uneven and rocky terrain. Harsh sunlight made him sweat and scratch at his gray beard. His forehead and nose stung with sunburn ― he didn't usually sit unprotected in the open air for so long. His legs ached, and his buttocks felt sore from the bouncing ride hour upon hour, day upon day.

Grit and dust puffed into the air behind him, stirred up by the rolling car. Verne's warm woollen coat lay wadded in the seat beside him, but he would not put it on until the sun fell toward the horizon and the air grew cool again.

The Sitnaltan weapon was secured in the seat behind him. One monitoring gauge stuck out on an elbow of pipe. Polished bronze rivets reflected against the old metal around the chamber that contained the deadly Outside power source. The controls of the weapon consisted only of a timer knob and a detonation button. Angled red fins protruded from the sides for no reason other than that Verne had dreamed it that way.

The vehicle rolled along. The desert sprawled out gray-brown and lifeless in front of him. For a while the sweeping emptiness of hexagon upon hexagon filled Verne with an awe at the sheer size of the Gamearth map. Then it all grew boring until he spent his time daydreaming and working out difficult ideas in his head.

In the pockets of his overcoat Verne had tucked neatly folded sheets of paper on which he scribbled concepts and designs for other inventions. Verne's handwriting was difficult to read, and the diagrams were shaky ― the vehicle jostled him too much as it bounced along. But neatness didn't count. The ideas did.

The professor also kept track of his progress so he could mathematically deduce the variation in travel allotments while journeying long distances with the steam-engine vehicle. Rule #5 specifically listed walking rates, but the supplementary tables in The Book of Rules made no mention of the Sitnaltan car. Verne came to the conclusion that with the vehicle he could proceed at about three times the pace he could go on foot.

But even as he made the calculation in his head, something made an odd clunking noise inside the boiler of the steam engine. The clean white exhaust belching up from the stack hiccoughed, curled black for a moment, then dissipated entirely. The machine hissed. The vehicle clattered, then slowed, coming to a stop all alone on the dusty rocks. The boiler groaned again, and the pistons locked.

Verne pursed his lips. "Hmmmm," he said, tugging at his beard. He climbed out and went around to the engine. He removed a toolkit from the sidebox and began to tinker, making sure nothing mechanical had gone wrong.

But he had expected this to happen at any time....

At dawn, three days before, Professor Frankenstein had helped him carry the Sitnaltan weapon to the back of the vehicle. Before the Sitnaltan technicians were awake, shivering but ready for another day's work excavating the Outsider's ship, Verne and Frankenstein had filled the car's main boiler and the reserve water tank from the stagnant cistern in the Slac citadel.

The boilers heated the water, raising the temperature and building up steam. Verne and Frankenstein waited, chatting, killing time and making plans.

A few of the others stirred and came out into the frost-covered courtyard before the pressure-release valve in the boiler hissed, spitting out its announcement that the car was ready to travel.

Verne climbed aboard and made sure the weapon was safely secured. He waved to all of their puzzled expressions as the vehicle chugged forward, gaining momentum and traveling away from the citadel, out of the mountains.

All that day Verne rolled on without stopping, despite difficult times on the harrowing switchbacks of the forested-hill terrain, and then going through the easier forests or, better still, the hexagons of flat grassland.

Black lines marking the sections of terrain passed beneath his wheels.

Verne consulted his own map of Gamearth to make sure he was indeed taking the shortest and most efficient route. He calculated the speeds and estimated travel allowances for the best types of terrain.

He made sure to keep well away from the city of Sitnalta, just in case the weapon detonated prematurely.

The first evening he had pulled up the vehicle and let the boiler fires run low. He found a stream and, handful by handful, he refilled the water tanks for the boiler. "Victor, why didn't you remind me to bring along a simple bucket?" He sighed. "I hate poor planning."

Verne lay down in the grass to sleep, but woke up in the middle of the night, cold. He curled up next to the metal of the still-warm boiler and slept again.

The second day he headed due east around sloping grassy hills, around a spur of the Spectre Mountains. When the mountains ended, he turned straight north across grassy hexes. At the end of the day, he entered the first section of desolation. Verne stared at the growing boundary where Scartaris's influence had drained all life dry. The long-range detectors in Sitnalta had suggested this would occur.

Verne had spent the entire day moving across barren terrain, chewing up dust and sand and rocks. He felt thirsty, but he kept most of the water in reserve for the engine. His lips were cracked, and he felt grit between his teeth. He had covered five hexagons in one day.

But now, far from the Sitnaltan technological fringe, the steam engine had died. He couldn't complain ― the Rules of Probability stated that technological devices would have a smaller and smaller chance of functioning as they moved farther from the city of Sitnalta.

Verne tapped at one of the gleaming bronze piston shafts with a wrench, but it was no use. Unless he got the steam engine moving again, he could not destroy Scartaris, and Verne would be stranded out in the middle of the wasteland with a doomsday weapon powerful enough to blow a hole right through the bottom of the map.

Verne checked and rechecked the steam-engine. He didn't know what else to do. He could never carry the heavy Sitnaltan weapon by himself. Nothing mechanical was wrong ― that much was obvious. Nor was it any surprise. He muttered to himself about the vagaries of Gamearth, and the rigid Rules that dictated everything. He hoped the Outsiders enjoyed making things difficult for him.

After the long day, he decided to reward himself with a precious cup of tea while waiting for the car to function again. He poured a little of the water out of his canteen into a tin cup from the car's supply case, then used his fingertips to hold the cup over the flames by the boiler. He shifted his grip from one hand to the other as the handle grew hot, but the water began to boil at last. He sprinkled tea leaves into it. They swirled with the heat currents in the water, and sank to the bottom as they let brown coloring seep into the cup. Steam rose from the hot tea.

Then Verne stood up so quickly he sloshed some of the tea onto his pants. "Incredible!" he cried as the idea struck him. This was one of his own ideas, something clearly his own, not inspired by the Outsider Scott at all.

Here, far beyond the Sitnaltan technological fringe, water still boiled, did it not? Steam still rose, did it not?

He set his cup in a depression on the ground and went to the engine of the car. With both hands, he grabbed the pistons and pulled them out, pushed them back in. Yes, the pistons still moved, one cylinder inside the other.

The steam engine was a simple machine. He knew how it worked. Not a thing could go wrong.

It made no sense. Nothing got Verne more frustrated than things that made no sense. He knitted his eyebrows and pursed his lips, pacing around and around the steam-engine car. He grew angry. There was no reason for it!

His face grew red with emotion, and he pounded his fist against the side of the boiler.

The Rules he had made a part of his life were completely arbitrary!

Yes, he had always accepted that Sitnaltan technology would not function beyond the fringe ― but when inspected closely, all technology was based upon fundamental laws of nature. Simple principles.

"It's not fair!" he shouted up, as if the Outsiders were listening. He hoped they were. He would throw their own arbitrariness back into their faces.

"I am beyond the technological fringe, yes ― but what is the reason for this vehicle not working? Water still boils. Steam still rises. A piston will still move up and down. Wheels still turn.

"Everything in this vehicle must work, even on the other side of the fringe! I have used nothing out of the ordinary here. Just boiling water, rising steam, and turning wheels."

The sky remained silent and empty.

"You had better rethink your rules and restrictions."

Verne coughed because his throat was dry and caked with dust. In annoyance he kicked the iron-shod wheel of the car with his heel.

The steam engine sputtered and gasped, surging back to life. Startled by the noise, Verne jumped out of the way. The vehicle lurched ahead, rumbling along the quest-path by itself.

Verne blinked and smiled. His tea sat ready on the ground, but he had no time to go get it. The vehicle moved farther away, picking up speed. He ran to catch up with it.

By noon the next day the steam-engine car labored up a slope. The rock outcroppings had gotten larger and more jagged. Verne had to devote more attention to steering around sharp boulders and other debris that could cause serious damage to the vehicle.

He began to grow concerned. The water level was going down in the main boiler, and he had already used the auxiliary tank. But according to his calculations, based on data he'd taken from the Sitnaltan detectors, he should be nearing Scartaris. And the doomsday weapon was still intact.

When the steam-engine car came to the crest of the hill, Verne looked down over a vast basin. A hooked line of jagged mountains bordered hexagon upon hexagon of desolation. Ah, he thought, those cliffs would be where Scartaris dwelled.

But in front of him, spread out in encampments, was the greatest horde of monsters he had ever imagined. They seemed unreal to him, all those creatures the Sitnaltans had ignored for turn after turn.

Verne pulled the car to a stop and then coaxed it into the shelter of a broken rock outcropping. The professor dismounted from the car, removed an optick tube from the sidebox, and peered down at the armies.

He saw marching angular-faced Slac covered with scales. He turned the field of view to observe monsters of all kinds, stone gargoyles, hairy brutes, a few ogres, worm-men sloughing through the broken sand in churned paths, green-skinned and pointy-eared goblins in their breeder groups.

On his scraps of paper, Verne noted the main features of each monster he saw, documenting them for future reference. With his interest in biological matters, Victor Frankenstein would probably delight in such first-hand observations.

Then Verne realized that each of these monster soldiers would stand in his way, block his passage to Scartaris. They would want to attack him, capture him, perhaps kill him. He suddenly considered what might happen if these unpleasant creatures managed to possess the powerful Sitnaltan weapon.

He and Victor had not thought of that.

"This could cause a problem," he muttered to himself.

A direct road led to the mountains. He saw a wide but steep path heading directly to a great opening in the flat cliff like a lipless mouth of rock. Strange and oily colors flashed from inside the broad cavern.

As he expected, the Outsiders would make the lair of Scartaris wonderfully obvious. Reaching it, though, would be the primary problem.

He shut off the boilers in the steam engine, remembering that he had to remain hidden. The car would make plenty of noise when he restarted it. When he decided to move, he would have to make all possible speed to his goal and hope he could cover enough terrain, to get to a place where he could detonate the weapon ... before the monsters got him.

Verne sat with his back against the shaded rock and took out his last clean piece of paper. He jotted down notes to himself, waiting for dark.