Kevin J Anderson (19 page)

He looked to Vailret, who felt a sudden keen interest. The stone gargoyle Arken had told his own memories of the grand event, but Frankenstein, with his strange technical perspective, would have a different assessment.

"The probability of the exact dice roll the old Sorcerers needed ― even though it took them day after day of constantly rolling the dice in the attempt ― defies common sense. To get five '20s' in the same roll should happen only once in three million two hundred thousand times! Some sort of magic must have had its hand in that.

"Therefore, if Sitnalta is depending on me to combat a magic-driven enemy, I need to understand how best to strike back." He turned to Bryl. "Spend a few hours here with me, explaining spells and magic. Tell me what are the limitations, tell me how a spell works. What is it that you say to invoke the magic? It's very important."

"We have a favor to ask as well, Professor," Vailret said, but Frankenstein waved his hand in dismissal, as if that were a trivial problem.

Bryl finally found a half-eaten piece of cake. He brushed off part of it, flicked crumbs from his fingertips, then pushed the piece into his mouth. He spoke as he chewed.

"At least here it's safe."

――――

ROLE PLAYING

"The merit of any sacrifice, small or large, can be judged by no one but the character who makes it. Small sacrifices gravely made may outweigh great deeds that are done without forethought."

―
The Book of Rules

By the time General Korux and the marauding creatures had scoured the ruins of Taire for the escaped professor, Verne had already crossed his second hexagon of desolation terrain at a dead run.

The night was cool and clear. He wheezed in the dry air, but continued to forge eastward. Wherever possible, he stepped on rocks to hide his trail. It would likely be mid-morning or so before Korux began to investigate beyond the city walls.

Before dawn, though, Verne wanted to be on the other side of the forested-hill terrain. The hills stood tall and covered with grasping skeletal trees. The thin branches were so long dead that they looked fossilized in the baking dry climate.

While languishing in his miserable cell, Verne had calculated that eastward would be the least-expected direction for his escape. He could have gone south, back toward Sitnalta. He could have gone west, where the mountains and the forest terrain would make it easier for him to hide. But Verne had no hunting or forest skills, and any of Siryyk's creatures would no doubt succeed in tracking him down. If they looked in the right place.

His best chance lay in avoiding pursuit for as long as possible. He aimed for the awful forbidden zone of terrain where the climactic battle with Scartaris had broken the map.

Everything would be strange there ― or so he had heard. The monsters were terrified of that place. No character would go there intentionally ― which was why Verne considered it a safe bet. And, though he didn't want to admit it, the sheer anomaly of the bizarre area had piqued his natural curiosity.

Verne felt weak. He had nothing to drink, and had eaten little for weeks. But after Siryyk forced him to create the cannon, Verne knew he could not remain a captive any longer. Knowing the manticore also possessed the Sitnaltan weapon made things even worse.

The weapon contained the power source from the Outsiders' ship ― a hybrid of
reality
and the imagination. If it was deadly to Gamearth, it might be just as deadly to the Players. The Outsider Scott had created a bigger stick than he bargained for. And the manticore wanted to use it.

Verne cursed himself for not being able to dismantle the weapon or sabotage it in some way before his flight. But Siryyk kept the weapon under very close guard.

He had verified that the device itself remained undamaged, and he hoped that the manticore would not discover how to reset its timing mechanism. But Verne held little hope of that; Siryyk had already shown himself to be highly intelligent.

He wondered what Frankenstein would have done. He wondered what Frankenstein was doing now. Detectors would have shown that the weapon never detonated. Did Frankenstein think him dead? What did Victor think of him and his failure?

Verne had no way to send a message. He had no way to fight. Simply by taking all his undeveloped inventions away from Siryyk's army, he would strike a severe blow.

Verne limped across a hex-line where the desolation butted against an adjoining section of forested-hill. Verne chose to continue along the desolation, heading northward to steer away from the sharp eyes of any pursuers.

Though he stood low on the desolation, by late afternoon he saw the first distorted hexagons of broken terrain. The hexes had been pried up from the map and tilted at the wrong angles. In the center he discerned a misty void, shapeless and colorless, like a death wound for Gamearth, growing larger.

Scouring dusts gusted up from the desolation, staining the sky. Verne's throat felt as if he had swallowed hot dry rags rolled in sand. His legs shook. His woolen greatcoat felt hot and sticky, but he could not leave it as a flag for any following creatures.

He plowed ahead. He didn't know what he would do in the destroyed zone, but his mind had focused on that one goal, and he continued in that direction.

Behind him, Verne heard a faint puttering sound that grew louder. He turned and saw a tiny black form. The sun lowered toward the distant mountain terrain and shone in his eyes. Verne squinted, wishing he had brought an optick tube. But even without enhancements, he could make out a Sitnaltan steam-engine car coming for him.

He thought he had become delirious. Professor Frankenstein had come to rescue him, somehow knowing where Verne would be. His heart lifted with elation. Finally, signs of civilization! Yes, Frankenstein's detectors must have seen the terrible anomaly with this portion of the map, and he had come to investigate.

Two large figures accompanied the steam-engine car, much taller than any human character could be. They loped along with great strides that allowed them to match speed with the vehicle.

Verne waved his arms, trying to draw their attention. His voice came out hoarse and raspy. "I'm over here, Victor!"

The vehicle veered and came toward him. Gouts of steam showed that the driver had jammed the acceleration lever all the way forward. Verne dropped his arms down to his side. He blinked his red and sore eyes. "Oh, dear," he said.

He recognized the hulking monsters bounding beside the car. The reptilian form of Korux sat behind the steering levers. "Oh, dear!" he said again.

Somehow pulling new energy from the marrow of his bones, Verne ran blindly toward the broken hexagons. He didn't know what he would find there, but he did know what would happen if Korux captured him. Siryyk wanted Verne alive, but the Slac general could cause a great deal of pain and maiming before he endangered the professor's life.

Verne stumbled on the rocky soil and kept running. The sound of the steam-engine car grew louder, chugging and puttering. Up ahead he saw the first broken hex-line, a small lip half a man high where the terrain had shifted.

Verne pushed himself toward it. The car could not go over the shelf. They would have to leave their vehicle behind. They would be on foot, just as he was. But the giant creatures could catch him in no time.

He chose not to think of that and fell to his knees when he reached the uplifted hex-line. It felt hard and glossy, thrust up from the surface of the desolation terrain. He scrambled over it and rolled.

The desolation lay canted at an angle, as if the entire hexagon was ready to collapse. He ran, tripping faster as the slope increased. Ahead he saw the gray maw of static, mist, and black stars from the other side of the map, a void ― the Outside. Verne knew it would be certain death to fall there.

The giant monsters scrambled over the line and plunged after him, shouting. They would capture him, or he would die.

A calmness poured up from the core of Verne's body. What better way for a great inventor to die than this? What more perfect end for one of the most profound thinkers of Sitnalta than to perish while plunging head-first into the greatest mystery of all?

A swirling stormcloud of dust rushed by as the wind picked up. His cheeks and eyes stung from the sand flying at him. Verne lurched forward, his mind firmly made up.

He heard a loud whuffing from behind, and a ten-foot-tall shaggy creature grabbed him by the coat, clutching his shoulders.

Verne cried out and strained ahead. He popped out of his greatcoat, letting the inside-out sleeves dangle behind him. He fell to the ground. The monster ripped the coat to shreds, yanking the sleeves off, and bounded forward again to grab Verne.

Then the ground started to shake and lurch beneath the map. The surface of the desolation terrain bucked and tilted one way, then the other. The entire hexagon wobbled loose, creaking. A rumbling roar seemed to split from the sky itself.

As the angle of the terrain steepened, the giant beast holding Verne threw itself back toward the hex-line, scrambling and grunting. It tucked the professor under his arm like a heavy log. Verne struggled. The monster smelled rank, like all the bile of all the sickness in the world boiled down to a thick jelly.

Ahead on the other side of the black line, Korux waited beside the Sitnaltan car. The second hairy creature bounded down to take Verne from its companion. The first giant took a large step just as the hexagon rumbled and bucked again.

The second monster sprawled flat, facing uphill. The other creature tripped face-first into the sand. It rolled, kicking dust and rocks, picking up speed as it plunged downward. Its roars became shrill with fear; ahead, it could see the great void.

Verne scrambled out of the second giant's grip and crawled toward the stable black hex-line. At the front of his mind, he tried to convince himself to stop. Intellectually, he kept insisting that he wanted to die, that he wanted to fall down there, that he didn't dare be recaptured. But his traitorous body moved with its own survival instinct.

He reached the line just as he felt the ground sink like a rug snatched out from under his feet. He grabbed out with elbows and hands, snatching the edge as he heard a tremendous tearing
snap
. Then wind and a gush of strange-smelling air poured up. The hexagon fell away.

He turned for just a glance as the section of terrain ― flat brown, with two specks showing the hairy giants ― fell away, growing smaller. All around it swirled a cosmic nothingness.

He gritted his teeth, jamming his elbows and hands into the rough surface of the desolation. His feet dangled below him, touching nothing. He wanted to let go, to drop, to see ― if only for the tiniest instant ― what awaited down there.

But instead, he worked his shoulder muscles to get up. He heard a grating hiss and tilted his head, grinding his beard among the rocks and dirt on the edge of the world.

Verne saw the silhouetted form of General Korux bending over. He thought that the Slac would kick him over the side ― and he hoped for that in the back of his mind, but he knew it would never happen. Korux would forfeit his own life if he lost the captive.

"I hope you've learned not to play games with us." The Slac reached down, grabbed his arm, and hurled Verne up over the edge, sprawling him onto the stable terrain.

Far below, off in the void, Verne heard a long rumble like distant thunder.

Korux tossed him into the still-chugging car and released the braking lock after he climbed in beside his captive.

"Siryyk has ordered all the monster armies to march. We're on the attack now," Korux said. "We have no time for this."

――――

ALLIES

"We played our games. We had our fun. But the Rules have changed, and now we face a different game ― one of survival."

― Tayron Tribeleader of the khelebar

Delrael's army had found its stride. Over the days of marching they learned how to work with each other, how to function as one vast unit.

After travelling this far, they had passed through the stages Delrael expected to see ― initial excitement at approaching unknown adventures, which gave way to sore weariness from walking across hexagon after hexagon, then the misery of camping under poor conditions and eating bland food for too many days. Finally, as they retreated northward along the spine of the Spectre Mountains, they had hardened to the routine.

Delrael sent scouts ahead and to the side to seek possible obstacles and likely places for ambushing Siryyk's horde; rear scouts reported regularly on the progress of the monsters.

The manticore's troops had spread out on the rugged mountain terrain, with a long vanguard of footsoldiers in front, marching ahead of the main group. Siryyk still didn't know an entire human army remained only one step ahead in the mountain terrain.

Delrael gave permission for teams to dig traps and to set obstacles. These proved a nuisance to Siryyk but caused no real damage, nor did it suggest to the manticore that anything more than a few isolated characters were harassing them. But Delrael knew it would keep the horde angry and marching.

Delrael sent his fighters marching well before dawn. In the darkness they tramped along the quest-path, bearing torches when the terrain proved too treacherous in the dark.

By the time sunrise lit their way, the young man Romm came back from ahead to report. "The next hexagon is forested hills, as we knew from the map. I went with two other scouts." He seemed uneasy. "We sensed other characters around us. You know how it gets when you're alone in a dense forest. You can feel when someone's watching you."

Delrael nodded, but let a smile creep across his face. He knew exactly where they were. "I don't think we'll have any trouble with the khelebar. Don't worry."

Romm looked at him as if to ask a question, but he decided not to. He went back through the lines to get some food from the supply packs.