Gameplay (14 page)

Tareah saw the creatures piled on top of each other in the roof structure, throwing pieces of wood in the air and over the edge in glee, digging and searching. Others tunneled in the courtyard, uprooting sword posts. The weapons storehouse crashed and toppled to the ground. Other walls in the outbuildings split and collapsed.

Tareah felt outraged, but didn’t know how she could fight against the infestation.

Siya burst out the front door, frantic. She had a broom in her hands, and she flicked it right and left to knock away the creatures in front of her. “Get away!” She whacked them off the walls. “Leave that alone! Stop!”

Her gray hair hung down below her shoulders in broad tresses. Several of the creatures grabbed on and yanked, climbing the strands like ropes. Siya tossed her head and flung them off, then chased after them with a vengeance.

“Get away from the door, Siya!”

Siya ran into the courtyard. Chittering, some of the rat-creatures followed her, but most swarmed over the door jamb, peeling away the wood. Two of the shutters cracked and fell off their hinges. New rat-creatures burst up from the fresh wood, flexing their forearms and bouncing down to the ground.

With scrabbling hands in a blur of motion, they fell upon the wooden walls and kept tearing it apart in chunks. Dust and smoke filled the air from collapsed mantels and the burning fires in the hearths. The main building was on fire.

Tareah took out the Water Stone. “I’ve got to do something.” She rolled it on the ground. The six-sided sapphire landed with a “4” up. She grabbed it again and cast her spell at the main building.

The wind whipped up. The already-cool air dropped below freezing. Biting snow blasted down and, with a snap of cold, ice encrusted the Stronghold, freezing the wood solid. The cold itself shattered some of the shutters; the support beams groaned inside from the weight of snow. She heard a loud pop from somewhere inside.

When the wave of cold struck the rat-creatures, they withered and disappeared. Siya chased others with her broom and left blots of fur and blood on the ground.

The assault seemed to have stopped for a moment, leaving a stillness like a held breath. “Did it work?” Tareah asked.

With squeals of angry chittering and a shower of pale splinters, more creatures burst out of the logs in the double wall surrounding the Stronghold. They dropped to the ground, bristling with patches of brown and gray fur, sharp fangs and fiery blank eyes.

The creatures ignored Tareah and Siya, but scurried toward the ice-encrusted Stronghold to chip their way in. They set upon the main building once more.

Between the upright pointed logs of the stockade wall, more creatures surged out. The dirt insulation between the double walls crumbled and sifted out of the holes. Several logs toppled and fell over to leave gaps in the perimeter.

The brittle casing of ice over the main building split open. The rat-creatures surged inside again, tearing holes out of the walls.

Tareah grabbed the sapphire, angry and ready to roll it. But the rat-creatures swarmed over the ground at her feet, waiting with arms outstretched. They
knew
what the Stone was now; they wanted her to roll it so they could snatch it away the instant it struck the ground.

Tareah clamped her teeth down on a frustrated scream. She couldn’t even roll the Stone, and none of her minor spells would do anything. She couldn’t fight, and that infuriated her even more.

Tears streaked down Siya’s cheeks. Her face reddened and she panted from her effort. A strange noise came from Siya’s throat as she continued to strike out at the creatures. “What do they want?”

Tareah felt the corners of the Water Stone bite into her palms as she pushed her fists together. “They’re looking for the Fire Stone. Scartaris wants it back, now that he knows how powerful it is.”

Siya blinked and stood with her broom upright. Her face wore an astonished expression. “But the Fire Stone isn’t even here! By now Delrael and the others should be—” She waved her hand at the crumbling walls. “By the mountains or something.”

All of the rat-creatures stopped with their ears cocked. In unison the horde turned to glare at them.

Tareah wanted to scream at Siya in anger and frustration. “You idiot! Scartaris thought Delrael was dead!”

The rat-creatures chittered among themselves—and then they all vanished into the ground, leaving no trace other than the bloodied bodies Siya had killed.

Tareah kept her voice level and cold. “You just increased the danger to Delrael and Vailret. Now Scartaris knows they’re coming, and he can concentrate everything he has on stopping them.”

Siya’s eyes widened as big as plates when the realization sank in. She hung her head. Her shoulder blades jerked as she tried to hold the sobs in.

Tareah looked around at the ravaged Stronghold—Delrael had left
her
behind to defend it. He had counted on her abilities and her judgment. Grim anger filled her mind—but the collapsing buildings, the ruined wall brought stinging tears in front of her vision.

The fire from the broken hearths had spread into the main building, and smoke poured into the air.

***

Interlude: Outside

David put his hands behind his head and leaned back against them. His eyes still looked red, but he smiled with satisfaction. Melanie was so angry she wanted to punch his face, or at least dump her cold soda in his lap.

“You destroyed my Stronghold!” she said. Her voice sounded strangled, carrying more emotion than she wanted to display.

The rat-creatures, the dozens of attack rolls, the walls falling, the fire starting.…She felt Tareah’s helplessness, felt Siya’s loss. If only the characters could have fought back more, helped
her
more.

David kept his eyes closed. “Now I think we can
officially
say that Scartaris knows Delrael isn’t dead. And he also knows that the group is coming to get him.”

“And this time her characters don’t
know
that Scartaris knows. Ha!” Tyrone added. “That’s a switch.”

“Thanks, Tyrone.” Scott scowled at him.

David grinned. “That means Scartaris can now try to stop them.” He shrugged. “Unless I decide to just have him blow up the map, and we can be finished with all this nonsense.” He truly looked as if he was enjoying this. Melanie stood up in anger. Her chair tipped back but did not fall over.

“That wouldn’t be very sporting, now would it?” Scott asked.

“Let’s not let this get personal, guys,” Tyrone said, waving Melanie back into her chair. “It’s just for fun, remember.”

Melanie and David both glared at him. Tyrone went to get another bag of chips from the top of the refrigerator, shaking his head.

“When Delrael and company get through the mountain terrain, that’s when the real fun starts. The city of Tairé is my first serious line of defense.” David rubbed his hands together. “We can probably end this tonight.”

“What’s your hurry, David?” Tyrone asked. “There’s nothing on TV Sunday nights anyway.”

David slapped both hands on the tabletop, startling them all with his outburst. “Because I don’t want to have any more nightmares about Gamearth! I want it done and finished and
out of my head!”

He swallowed and blinked, as if amazed at himself. Melanie felt a moment of sympathy for him. The power of Gamearth was frightening to her, too, but the characters, the landscapes, the legends all gave her wondrous dreams, not nightmares. She had to save them, and the characters had to help in their own way.

“Melanie, when your characters get into Tairé they’re playing right into my hands.” He avoided her gaze and looked down at the painted map. She saw that his hands were shaking.

Melanie kept her voice low. “That’s exactly where I want them to be. Shut up and play.”

***

13. People of a Dead City

“By building this beautiful city in the midst of desolation, we will prove that Gamearth characters can overcome any difficulty so long as we pool our talents and work toward a common goal. We have our magic, and we have the Rules on our side. Nothing can stop us now.”

—Enrod, ceremony at the founding of Tairé

They descended out of the mountains. The hard, cold ground crunched under Delrael’s boots. He felt stronger now, as if he was finally opening his eyes again. Tallin was dead, but the Game went on, turn after turn—unless the Outsider David had his way.

Delrael made his facial muscles stop frowning. He remembered Rule #1. He focused on quests, treasure, action, on
getting things done
. He did not sit around and ponder everything to death. Death.

Maybe that changed too many things.

His father had sent a message stick with the aid of the Rulewoman Melanie, charging Delrael and Vailret to find some way to stop Scartaris, to keep Gamearth alive and intact. In the cold mountain air, Delrael absently clenched his fist.

The next days passed in a blur. Delrael kept his eyes fixed on the distant horizon toward the crumbled mountain terrain that marked the lair of Scartaris. After another hexagon they crossed over grassy hills and then entered the rocky desolation, scars left from the old Sorcerer wars.

The landscape became flat and barren, like gray ash in a bleak ocean. The ground was strewn with shattered rocks and jutting boulders like broken teeth. The sun seemed hotter here, making everything look blasted and devastated. The desolation rang with silence, leaving only the crunch of their footsteps. The wind had nothing but bare rock to rustle against. No birds or insects made any noise at all.

Journeyman stumped along beside them, but the dry heat made him move more stiffly.

“Did Scartaris cause all this?” Bryl asked.

Vailret looked around, and his eyes were red. “No, that was just reopening an old wound. It’s easy to destroy something that was already knocked to its knees. The final battles laid waste to a huge section of the map, right here.”

He drew a deep breath. “But the Wars ended here, too. The two factions of Sorcerers finally made their peace. Did I ever tell you about Stilvess Peacemaker?”

Delrael forced himself to appear interested, to be part of the group again. “Arken mentioned that name, didn’t he?”

Vailret looked pleased. “By the time the Wars ended, the Sorcerers were almost worn out. Most of them had forgotten why they were fighting in the first place. How could they still be angry about the game of throwing stones at Lady Maire’s wedding celebration, so many turns before?

“Then a self-appointed mediator appeared among the camps. Stilvess. He wandered from one army to the other, refusing to reveal which side he came from—but he made it clear that he wanted no more war. He was an outstanding orator.”

Vailret sighed. “He brought the two sides together like a crashing wave, making them one again. He forced the factions to see they were fighting themselves into extinction.

“Finally, the son of one of the great generals was killed in a skirmish. Instead of allowing that to inflame emotions again, Stilvess used that to show the Sorcerers how much pain their battles were causing. He made the two leaders meet at the funeral pyre of the general’s dead son, and he urged them to cast their ceremonial swords into the hot flames.”

Vailret looked lost in his own memories. “Sardun had one of those burned swords in the museum under his Ice Palace.”

“I think I remember it,” Bryl said.

Delrael looked around the wasteland and imagined the furious battles—Slac regiments, human armies, characters slaughtered, old Sorcerer leaders wielding spells.…

The hexagon of desolation fell away behind the black dividing line into another section of terrain that should have been lush prairie. But all the grass was brown and dry, scratching together in the breeze like a vast tinderbox. A line of brown grassy-hill terrain blocked their view of further desolation ahead.

“Enrod founded a city out here somewhere. Tairé,” Vailret said. “The characters spent many turns trying to bring life back to the land, where they could be reminded of the scars left by the battles. That’s why I was so shocked to hear Enrod coming to destroy us with the Fire Stone—he was always a rebuilder, not a destroyer.”

Vailret bent over to snap a brittle grass blade. “Looks like the Tairans managed to reclaim these hexes, for a while. Until Scartaris sucked it all dry again. Maybe we’ll find some cropland closer to the city walls.”

Delrael kicked the ground, scuffing up a chunk of dead grass.

They followed the quest-path to the hills and camped at the hex-line that night. When they moved on the next day, Delrael stood at the top of a ridge looking down. The hot wind whipped his hair, but they had gone far enough away from the desolation’s flying dust and grit.

Among the stiff crags of the Spectre Mountains behind them, he saw a misshapen blob of black fog crawling out of the distant mountain terrain, touching the ground and wending its way down the final slope. He recognized it as the dark, shimmering cloud they had seen from the other side of the mountains. As the nebulous mass drove headlong into the grassy hills, dust churned up from its passage. He wondered if the mass was some great force summoned by Scartaris to join his armies. Or perhaps it was following
them
.

He turned and led the way down the slope, away from the cloud. They had enough problems already.

The city of Tairé lay ahead of them, large enough to cover five hexagons. It seemed gloomy, blanketed in shadows, but it was a sign of life like a bulkhead in the desolation. He wondered why anyone would remain there after Scartaris drained all life away, killed all their work.

Outside the city rose great mounds of broken rock. Apparently, the builders of Tairé had intended to make terraced gardens, but they contented themselves with arranging the shattered boulders in ornate circles. Delrael was impressed that simple characters had done all that work, picked up all those stones and stacked them there, cleared the dead hexes to make them fertile again. In vain.

By noon they reached the black dividing line that marked the beginning of the city. The wall surrounding Tairé was made of gray stone, interlocked blocks without mortar, and marked at precise intervals by tall parapets to provide a better view of the desolation beyond.

Carved into the wall were intricate, stylized friezes depicting scenes from the Game. Vailret squinted his eyes and scanned them with apparent astonishment. His mouth opened and closed, just as it had when he confronted Arken.

Delrael did not recognize many of the scenes, but he could make out Sesteb’s disputed stone throw that started the Wars, the creation of the character races as fighters, the funeral pyre in which Stilvess had the Sorcerer generals cast their swords, the surviving Sorcerers creating the four die-shaped Stones, and finally the six Spirits rising up from the Transition.

Delrael rubbed the silent silver in his belt and thought of the Earthspirits, wishing they would somehow communicate with him. Let him know they were still alive.

The Tairan friezes were crumbling and weathered, caked with blown dust and never cleaned. The city seemed strangely silent, restless and waiting. Delrael saw windows in the towers, but they remained empty, revealing no curious faces to greet the travelers.

“And now for something completely different,” Journeyman mumbled.

Tairé should have contained thousands of characters. Delrael heard no activity, none of the clanking and bustle that had marked Sitnalta from a distance. Instead, Tairé cowered in a hush, comatose from being too close to Scartaris.

The city’s main gate stood tall and open, an ornate framework of wrought iron showing leaves and flowers growing up out of the ground. But the gate sagged on rusted hinges. Wind blew through the spidery ironwork, making it hum. No one greeted—or challenged—them as they entered Tairé.

“Either the Tairans aren’t taking care of anything,” Bryl said, “Or this place is as dead as the land around it.”

“Yoo hoo! Anybody home?” Journeyman called.

The Tairans had made full use of the limited resources of the desolation. The houses were constructed of broken stone blasted up in the upheavals of battle, decorated with frescoes painted into plaster made from crushed limestone. The artists had used natural pigments, ochres and reds found in the rocks, black from soot. Pieces of glistening obsidian were inlaid in game-board patterns.

Some of the flat sides of buildings showed scenes of daily life—not epic battles, but pictures of bountiful harvests, lush forest terrain, large gatherings for group games. History was depicted on the walls
outside
of Tairé; inside, they looked to the future instead.

The architecture was open, with plenty of space for meetings. Wind whispered through the buildings, weaving through open windows. Delicate metal chimes hung on corners, tinkling at random.

As they travelled deeper into the city, the neglect became more apparent. Many of the spectacular frescoes were chipped and faded, smeared with an oily soot floating in the air. Delrael saw empty troughs under the windows of some buildings, apparently intended to hold flowers.

On several larger buildings, crude doors, bars, and gates had recently been added, looking clumsy and out of place.

The noise of a dripping fountain sounded loud in the Tairan silence. Delrael put out his hand to catch the warm, rust-tinted water, but he did not drink. The sculpture above the fountain was a wrought-iron bell, ornate but silent. The fountain stood at an intersection of two streets with wide stone buildings on either side. He realized that in the middle of the desolation someone must have used magic to summon up water, but now even the fountain had ceased.

Journeyman scooped up some of the puddled water and spread it on his dry clay skin to moisten himself. He smiled in relief.

Vailret and Bryl sat down, but Delrael paced around the fountain, shading his eyes and searching for signs of life. The afternoon sunlight was bright and harsh. “I’m getting tired of this,” he said.

In the shadows of one of the open buildings, he saw a figure standing between two stone columns. Delrael strode toward the building. “Come here!” He didn’t know if the Tairan would hide or come to him.

To his surprise a thin, haggard woman stepped forward. At first she appeared ancient, but he saw that she was not old at all, despite her sunken and shadowed eyes. Dirt stained her tattered gray clothes—but she seemed unaware of all that. She took several jerky steps toward him, as if something else moved her arms and legs.

“Where is everybody?” Delrael asked her. “What’s going on here? This is Tairé—what happened?”

She turned to face Delrael. Her eyes were milky white; the pupils and irises had vanished, leaving a soulless blank expression that sent a shiver up his spine. She never blinked.

Her voice sounded garbled, awkward. Her lower jaw moved up and down, clacking her teeth together, but not in time with the words she tried to form. Her tongue writhed around in her mouth, making sounds by brute force.

“Delrael. You are Delrael.”

The fighter blinked, taken aback. Delrael looked behind him at the others, questioning, before turning back to the woman. “How do you know my name?”

The Tairan woman jerked backward as if her nerves had snapped like broken bowstrings. “Delrael!” She hissed and gurgled in her throat, but she stood with her arms straight at her sides. Spasming muscle tics rippled across her face.

“What’s happening to you?” Delrael shook the Tairan woman by the shoulders, but he might as well have been grabbing an empty sack.

“Something is moving.” Journeyman jerked his head to indicate the empty dwellings.

Delrael released the woman, and she staggered one step backward, then remained where she stood. He saw other forms inside the buildings, lining up at the entrances. A rustle crept into the air, like thousands of furtive footsteps on the cobblestones. He smelled a sharp tang that might have been his own fear-sweat. He narrowed his eyes and felt his heart pumping.

Other Tairans stepped onto the street in a strange lockstep. They moved in unison, stiff, like movable pieces in a complicated war game. All their eyes were blank.

They behaved like the ylvans in Tallin’s village. Delrael winced at the cold memory.

The Tairans stepped forward from the buildings, coming through intersecting streets together. They stood close. Their hands looked torn and infected from hard work. Their faces showed no expression at all.

“They’re completely mindless,” Vailret said.

Journeyman spoke in a gruff voice. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

Delrael pulled out his sword. The silence of the city remained, doubly eerie now. The Tairans marched forward, closing in. He felt their synchronous breathing, their hearts beating together as they took one step, then another.

“We can’t fight all these characters,” Vailret said, but he pulled out his short sword anyway.

The golem bent his knees and banged his fists together with a smacking noise. “They’ve blocked off every exit. Bummer.”

The blank faces of the Tairans made Delrael’s skin crawl. They were unarmed. This would not be a battle, it would be a slaughter.…but the Tairans would win. They outnumbered the travelers by thousands. He didn’t know what to do.

Bryl took out the Fire Stone. “I can blast our way through. It’ll kill a lot of them.”

Delrael blinked back stinging water in his eyes. The sword felt heavy and poisonous in his hand. He thought of how all these characters had been warped by Scartaris. He saw Tallin lying dead in the catacombs of the Anteds. None of this
felt
like a simple game anymore. He couldn’t just slaughter with impunity. He didn’t want to. It had to be a fair fight.

“Only as a last resort,” he told Bryl. “We have to think of a better way.”

Delrael felt sweat dribble between his shoulder blades. He could smell the Tairans, feel them breathing, sense their body heat. The afternoon sun slanted through the streets. Ripples of warmth rose from the heated stone walls.