The Sigian Bracelet

by George Tome

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t found the best time to play. Maybe when the madness ended—assuming the absurd hypothesis that he would be alive that day—he would explore the cloud islands. But then he remembered the ‘kaura’. The vision of his prematurely aged body, emaciated and pierced by feeding tubes, made him feel revulsion against the perverted world of mirages, revulsion for the lure of its fake beauty. He had no need to know it better. He had already seen too much of it!

  It seemed that this would be his only game, his last game in the virtual world. He had to play it well, despite that he didn’t know its rules. It would have been useful to inspect his troops to see what forces he had and order them to fortify their positions, but Sandara had asked him to stand still. He regretfully decided to obey her order and stay with the chameleons.

  The breeze of the vortex whirled again in the meadow. Soon, a sphere popped out of the hole, and the grah female jumped out of it—this time alone, but much more worried.

  “You came back!” he exclaimed, relieved. Then he pointed at the opposite hill. “I saw—”

  “They didn’t let me in. Bad tidings are happening,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I left Forbat a message; I hope he gets it quickly.”

  His mood instantly sank. He was stuck in Ugo’s trap… Should he tell her he had a way to escape from the jure’s physical prison? The female would become curious as to how he was going to do that… a most dangerous path…

  “Can you talk to the other player and explain the accident that got me here?” he insisted.

  “No.”

  “We have to fight, then! If I disconnect him, I go to Rabinda, right? And I get my portal.”

  Sandara didn’t reply to his idea, yet her desperate look seemed to suggest a slight doubt in his plan.

  “I thought the grahs aren’t scared that easily.” He couldn’t miss the opportunity to taunt her, but he still didn’t get anything from her, save for a few tears on her temples. A grah female losing moisture—that couldn’t be true! So many years lived among Antyrans weakened their seed, he concluded, intrigued. But then, he understood the reason.

  “Sandara, who’s the other player? Ugo, maybe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ugo is here! I have to disconnect right now!”

  “Don’t do that, Gillabrian. If Forbat—”

  “What could prevent him from entering my spikes right now?”

  “He can’t. The jure has the keys of the algorithms only for Firalia 9. And some for Tormalin, where we interrogate the prisoners. The genetic functions are locked up in the games—otherwise, he could cheat the championships.”

  “If Ugo can’t jump in my head, what does he want from me?”

  “To disconnect you, what else?”

  “Disconnect me! Well, what prevents him from pulling off my interface in Ropolis? Or sending a soldier to do it?” he exclaimed, afraid that the bracelet was in danger.

  “You don’t know Ugo,” she said, smiling briefly. “He’s very… limited in the real world. There’s no soldier left in Firalia 9, and until tomorrow’s mobilization, he can’t possess them. He wants you in Uralia, but on an island under his control. Here, he risks that you reach the council.”

  “Ha! He has no one to order? Somehow I find that hard to believe!”

  “Some kaura openly help him, but as you might imagine, they can’t disconnect you. As for the others… I doubt he’ll reveal them your presence here.”

  Gill never felt more exposed than now. He would have loved to believe Sandara, but how could he hope that her logic was better than Ugo’s?

  “Sandara, I can’t explain the reason, but Ugo shouldn’t touch my body. I don’t want him to find me in a trance. Do you understand? I’d rather disconnect now than—”

  “If you pull off your cups, he wins.” Smelling the distrust on his face, she continued, “Ugo is the city’s hero. Without him, Baila would have sacked Ropolis.”

  “See?”

  “But many fear his strangeness. As long as he doesn’t have a majority in the council, he’ll be cautious, very cautious. If they learn that he hid you from parhontes, all his plans crumble…”

  “I’d like to believe you. However, he told Urdun about me, so why wouldn’t he do it with others?”

  “I’ve no idea who this Urdun is, if the name is real. I suppose he might be a kaura about to expire. He can trust only them.”

  “True! I heard him say he has only a few days to live.”

  “Believe me, without the trance soldiers, he won’t try anything with your body. His plan is simple: he will disconnect you from here so that you can’t meet the council, and tomorrow, he’ll drag you to Tormalin—by force if necessary.”

  And if you’re mistaken, the bracelet falls in Ugo’s hands, he thought. Still, what alternative did he have? The escape through the skyline would betray his secret anyway…

  “I count on you, then,” he said, deciding to follow his smell.

  “It’s about time! I’ve seldom met Antyrans more stubborn than you,” she chided him.

  “Ugo has lost anyway, right? I mean, since you already know I’m here, you can tell Forbat about Ugo’s betrayal…”

  “It’s not that simple. See, Gillabrian, Forbat is my father. He and many more oppose… Ugo’s nature. Before the Shindam’s fall, Ugo was an insignificant voice. But Baila’s attack changed everything. We allied with Arghail to live another day.”

  “Ugo is Arghail?” he asked incredulously.

  “Not yet… But I’m afraid that many will not believe me. It will be my word against his, and since everyone knows my opinion, they’ll—”

  “I got it. You want me to go in spikes and tail in front of the council.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Then tell me your plan.”

  “Everything depends on Forbat now. This year’s championships are over, so the games can be played by more than one player. In order to participate, I have to officially join the game from Rabinda, the island of the game caves. I will lead your battle while you hide in the forest and wait for Forbat to stop the game. Simple, no?”

  “That means… I’m not going to fight?” he exclaimed with a hint of regret in his voice.

  “No, licant-head! I thought that even an Antyran male could understand that!” she barked angrily at him.

  He had no confidence that the female could fend off Ugo alone. If he could fight alongside, he could help her much better than if hiding like a coward.

  “Have you ever played against Ugo?” he questioned her.

  “A long time ago, but I don’t see—”

  “How many times have you won?”

  “Never, but it doesn’t matter,” she blurted, annoyed by his question. “I don’t play to win but to keep him from disconnecting you. Now stop fooling around, Gillabrian, and go take the Brocat of the orzacs.”

  Not friendly at all, the little grah. She still calls me by my whole name, he thought. Of course, the semantics gave him an understanding of the wall between them. For the time being, she was his ally, but at some point in the future, he would have the “pleasure” of discovering her own goals regarding his tail. His only value came from Baila’s enormous interest in his spikes. Surely this little detail didn’t elude her, just as it wasn’t lost on any Antyran of the three inhabited worlds. Sooner or later, she’d have to betray him… and the wall would make it simple.

  “Where are the orzacs? At the forest’s edge?”

  “Yes. I’ll be the baitar of the grahs, on the left wing. We will meet in the meadow,” she said, pointing at the place. “You’ll bring the Brocats and hide in the forest.” Seeing him hesitate, she said, “Move on, we don’t have much time!”

  She turned to enter the sphere.

  “What’s the name?” he shouted after her.

  “What name?” she asked, puzzled by his question.

  “The name of the game.”

  “Acanthia.” She then hurried to her portal.

  A
canthia, one of the classic legends of antiquity! Right away, the countless versions of the twisted story whirled in his memory. It was said that at the beginning of the old world, before Zhan’s coming, Colhan proceeded to expand his opulent sky-palace to host all the gods and monsters conceived by Antyra’s fertile womb. Unwilling to mingle with the mortals until the building was ready, the gods took shelter in the inaccessible caves of the glaciers stretched on the Roch-Alixxors’ first plateau, which were extended for this occasion by the claws and fangs of Pixihe’s monsters. Even though they were transformed into underground cities worthy to be the abode of the gods, no one liked to live in caverns, hidden from starlight—except Pixihe. That’s why the others avoided her, and she often felt alone. And when she felt alone, everyone suffered—gods and Antyrans. Her glaciers slowly suffocated the world in their cruel grip. With every passing year, they took more and more until the goddess released Antyra from the frost cage.

  Her only consolation, if one could call it that, was to gaze at the ice statue of the most beautiful female dreams could ever conceive, known by her short name as Dedris. It was uncertain who made the statue. Some versions of the legend suggested that it wasn’t a statue at all—it was the body of poor Oleia, the lover of the god Alixxor turned into ice by Colhan’s anger. Other legends alleged that she was carved by Pixihe, Antyra, or even by a mortal—the mythical aromary Azaric, from whose bloodline hailed the famous Laixan. The fact was that, fed up with the cold and darkness, the great Colhan himself ordered the vardannes to impregnate the head spikes of the statue with the scent of life. From Colhan, the new goddess received the gift of hidden aromas. From Pixihe, not surprisingly, she received her hearts of ice.

  It was a happy time for Pixihe. Dedris overdelighted the goddess with her skillfully combined aromas, used to play all sorts of cruel jokes on the mortals or on the other gods.

  Terrible wars raged in Gondarra’s swamps, the poor baitars being deceived by the hidden scents that clouded their kyis, and the goddesses laughed. Truly, Dedris’s cruelty couldn’t be matched by anyone, except perhaps by her mother, Pixihe.

  Once, only once, Dedris allowed herself to be seduced—and by a mere mortal. Voran the Reckless, son of Mogran, had ignored the counsel of the wise and took off on the wings of Nilanog (his father’s legendary utril) to the plateau of the gods. He intended to collect the moisture of resurrection from Antyra’s temple and awaken his father to another life—because Mogran the baitar had fallen in battle. For that, he was ready to confront the wrath of the gods for defiling their nest.

  On the shoreline of a glacial lake, Voran saw Dedris resting on a slab of stone, thinking of new pranks to play on the mortals. He approached slowly, without a word, enthralled by her beauty and the hidden aromas released by her head spikes. In a blink of an eye, he forgot why he had gone all the way up there—he even forgot his father’s death, so great was the female’s charm! He fearlessly caught her in his strong arms and, against tradition, he tilted her head and awoke her frozen spikes to life with his burning breath. Surprised by his boldness, the goddess didn’t fight but abandoned herself altogether to the handsome adventurer. The two coiled their tails, and Dedris didn’t return to Pixihe. To hide their tracks, the two ran to a secret continent named Acanthia-under-Star, camouflaged in a cloud, created by Dedris just for the two of them.

  The cruel winter that suddenly fell in the middle of the summer left no doubts about Pixihe’s fury. She threatened to wipe out the seed of mortals if her child didn’t come back.

  The last hope of the world remained Huxile—Voran’s brother—who became the new baitar after Mogran’s death. Gondarra’s heroes gathered under his sarpan and traveled to the realm of the gods, to find salvation or death.

  Legend has it that Antyra made the licants and ordered them to fly to the four corners and find Dedris. Since the licants had no idea what she looked like, they were told to search for the most beautiful female. When they saw her, they were to rub their legs on her gills or spikes and bring back the scent so that the gods could be sure they had tracked the traitor. For eight months the desperate search continued, with the licants bringing the wrong flavors every time. They were about to give up the quest when a frozen licant found its way back from the camouflage cloud with the right scent. It had discovered the fugitives! Helped by Pixihe, Huxile’s soldiers built ice stairs to Acanthia’s cloud continent to bring back her wandering daughter.

  Using her hidden aromas, Dedris lured countless monsters to defend their profane love. The fight for Acanthia-under-Star and Antyra-under-Ice was about to begin!

  Gill realized that the glacier between the mountains, whose greatness he admired, was Ricopa, Dedris’s castle! It seemed, though, that the battle wasn’t supposed to happen on ice but here in the narrow valley between the hills. According to the legend, Voran had on his side nightmarish creatures whose name was enough to instill terror in any Antyran’s kyi. But the grahs and orzacs under Huxile’s brocat knew very well what they were fighting for: the return of the summer…

  If Gill had entered under Huxile’s spikes, it meant that Sandara would join the game as his ally Nibala, the baitar of the grahs. The legends told that although they were of different species, the two became lovers, like Dedris and Voran. Acanthia-under-Star was in fact the destiny of two pairs, one fighting for the lives of the Antyrans, and the other fighting for theirs… However, Gill was pretty convinced that the “pair” thing would remain a legend. Although on a normal day he wouldn’t be indifferent to Sandara’s charm, in his current situation, the only thing he could expect of her would be to use him against the jure and then betray him… And he hadn’t forgotten that she was a grah—namely, the kind of female you couldn’t really be sure wasn’t dreaming to cut your throat while you slept, in Zagrada’s memory…

  He walked hurriedly toward the place Sandara showed him, and indeed it wasn’t hard to find the soldiers. As soon as he passed a large clump of tekals, he found the army tents scattered along the outskirts of the forest, in the shadow of the majestic trees.

  Near the hilltop, he saw several pairs of huge skin wings whipping the air, above the bushes. His hearts beating madly, he realized he was about to see utrils for the first time in his life—the very creatures incised by the grahs in the flesh of their shoulders! The fliers were just tying the hakles,76 under the general protest of the beasts, which were annoyed by the straps.

  As soon as he was noticed, the camp woke to life. A swarm of orzacs—some fitted in silvery armor, others still in their everyday clothes—rushed toward him. They all looked tall and supple, just as they were described in the legends.

  Most of the riders had already screwed the metal sheaths on the tail spikes of their moulans, but a few hapless orzacs were trying in vain to do so, amid the merry laughter of their companions.77 The moulan’s tail was controlled by the attack rein—a leash of metal balls tightened between the sixth and seventh vertebra, used to press a nerve and trigger the hitting reflex in the desired direction. The skillfully targeted hit could transform the placid animal into a terrible weapon, capable of knocking out even the most formidable enemy in a single blow.

  In front of the army stood a tall orzac, his crest wrinkled by the merciless passage of the years, dressed in shining platinum armor and holding a richly decorated helmet under his right arm. With ritual gestures, he presented the orzacs’ Brocat of Loyalty.

  “Great Huxile! My name is Kizac, the ratrap of the orzacs,” he shouted as soon as Gill accepted the claws. Gill noticed the spark in his eyes. Finally, a smarter AI than the rest of his troops…

  “Your sarpan and armor, master,” said Kizac and pointed at two Antyrans carrying them with reverence while the third was bringing forth a moulan.

  Hmm, riding the moulan—he had totally forgotten about that… He knew all too well that a baitar was often judged by his ability to ride, and he had never straddled a moulan before. Due to a silly superstition, the Antyrans had the tendency to demoralize if t
he baitar tripped or moved clumsily in the saddle. Gill knew of at least four armies running from the battlefield at the fall of their baitar, even when the battle was almost won.

  He tried to remember everything he once knew about the moulans, which wasn’t really much to begin with… They were lazy, fussy animals; they wouldn’t let him ride if they sensed him to be weak or hesitant or if they didn’t like his smell at the first encounter.

  Of course, the tarjis didn’t have this problem because they raised their moulans from hatchlings.

  In his situation, he expected a dangerous game of will, where he had to show the beast who the master was if he ever dreamed of riding it.

  “The spies tell that the enemy is ready to fight,” Kizac said, pressing him to hurry.

  “Dress me!” he ordered his troops.

  Immediately, the Antyrans jumped to dress him in his silvery breastplate encrusted with iridium and gold, worthy of a baitar. The model on the chest represented Akhron, the monster with six arms and platinum claws. The other pieces of equipment included a skillfully crafted golden helmet and a superb purple sarpan. The game didn’t seem quite realistic in this regard because the sarpan and armor felt lighter than they would in reality. Only mine or the others too? A just question, as the answer would determine if he had any advantage in fighting the AIs…

  Then came, of course, the moment he was so afraid of: mounting the moulan. Trying to look confident, he pulled himself onto its back while two orzacs rushed to lift his soles. The moulan’s flesh shivered under his palms, and the beast perked up its ears, which couldn’t be a good sign.

  Anyway, it makes no sense to pull back now, he thought, dragging his left foot across the rump. For a brief moment, he hoped that everything was going to be all right, but the nasty beast, feeling his fear and hesitating moves, had a different opinion: it started to gallop insanely fast.