Game's End

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Verne spent several days in confusion and despair. His captors forced him to eat the bubbling black porridge they slopped in front of him. It tasted of sulfur and ashes; the water they gave him to drink was warm and brackish. His hands were bound, his legs were shackled.

  The professor's mind remained free, though ― a powerful advantage to him. But he had no resources, no way he could invent a means for himself to escape.

  Finally, after the monster army reached the city of Taire, Siryyk the manticore took time in the evening to summon Verne, his prisoner of war.

  Without explanation, two hulking creatures with leathery shrivelled skin and pinched faces hauled Verne from where he had been trying to sleep against a broken wall. They dragged him forward, pushing, elbowing, jabbing, forcing him to stumble as fast as his legs would move. He had given up asking questions of his captors ― he just watched and waited, cooperating as little as possible, as much as necessary.

  His escorts led him into what appeared to be a great banquet hall supported by stone pillars. The walls were painted full of colorful frescoes showing humans at work building a city. All of the pictures had been defaced, by white skittering claw marks or splatters of black tar, smears of ash or excrement.

  The hall looked empty and damaged. The vaulted ceiling left skylights open to a cold, star-studded night. Along the rafters hung glazed clay pots, some broken, some holding scraggly dead plants.

  Firepits had been built deep in the floor, burning oil-soaked support beams from demolished buildings. Dancing orange flames reflected on the painted wall, making sharp shadows. Verne blinked in the thick, smoky air, trying to clear his vision.

  Siryyk the manticore growled down at him, leaning forward and showing his sharp teeth in the firelight. Verne kept his mouth shut. He knew how delicate a line he walked as a prisoner ― any time Siryyk liked, he could order Verne's head sliced off and leave his body for the other monsters to feed on. The other characters in Taire had not been so fortunate.

  Beside the manticore, the Slac general Korux stepped out. He was clothed in a black, oily garment; tassels marked the sleeves, and glints shone from blood-red gems stitched on one breast. Verne got the impression that Korux had risen in rank because of the professor's successful capture.

  Korux spoke from beside the manticore. "We know who you are, Professor Jules Verne of Sitnalta." The Slac voice sounded thin and rasping after the manticore. "We know why you came here."

  Verne straightened in surprise, trying to keep his expression neutral. Was Korux bluffing? Verne had never spoken about his past ― in fact, the monsters had never asked him, or interrogated him in any way. He thrust out his chin, making his gray beard bristle.

  Korux raised his left hand and clicked the claws together. Two other Slac appeared from outside the scarred banquet hall, grunting and carrying between them the small but extraordinarily heavy weapon that he and Frankenstein had built. Verne's eyes widened as he saw the polished cylinder of whitish metal taken from the ruined Outsiders' ship, a set of red fins, a bullet-shaped brass top with lights and dials and gauges that might tell Verne what had gone wrong with the detonation. And also how many seconds remained on the bomb's timer.

  Scrawled on the side in black grease-pencil stood the number 17/2, the patent number that Professors Verne and Frankenstein would have obtained for their awesome weapon. But they had sworn never to build another one. They had intended for the device to be used only once, only to destroy Scartaris.

  The manticore spoke up. "We have found your personal journals, Professor Verne. They are very interesting. Les Voyages Extraordinaires. Is that some kind of code? Everything else is in plain language."

  Korux reached into his slick black garment and removed a battered volume. The cover looked bent; some of the pages were loose and shoved back into the binding ― Verne's own account of his extraordinary journey and the thoughts he had had while traveling across the map to reach Scartaris. It told everything about his mission and about the Sitnaltan weapon.

  Verne stared at the journal in astonishment. It had been pounded into him throughout all his years of education that, for the posterity of other characters, he must keep records of all his ponderings, all his ideas, all the inventions that he might envision. The ideas concocted by any Sitnaltan inventor were for the benefit of Gamearth.

  It had never occurred to Verne that those ideas might fall into the hands of an evil creature such as Siryyk. He had not imagined the possibility that, even if that happened, the manticore could actually read and comprehend the information!

  "I am a fool!" he muttered to himself.

  Siryyk was the chosen commander of all the monster troops. He had to be intelligent. Scartaris had selected him to lead the most gigantic army ever to appear on Gamearth. He was not a slavering, brainless beast.

  The manticore scratched his claws on the flagstones. "I understand the magnitude of power that this weapon contains. The map of Gamearth holds many things of such power. I want them all, and I will do whatever is necessary to get them." His distorted face took on a reflective expression.

  "You see, when the six Spirits destroyed Scartaris and nearly obliterated themselves as well, all of Gamearth convulsed and broke. Something happened to the Rules. They may not hold as absolutely as they have in the past.

  "And if the Outsiders do indeed plan to ruin Gamearth so that it troubles them no more ― I intend to have all the protection I can. I do not know what effect your weapon or any of these other things, magical things, might have on the Outside. But if the end of the Game is coming, I will be the one with the best chance to survive."

  Siryyk lowered his head and hunched forward, widening amber eyes that looked the color of honey mixed with acid. Verne winced from the stench of the beast's breath.

  "Listen to me, Professor Verne," the manticore continued. "The Outsider Scott may come to you in dreams and offer ideas ― but I have dreams too. In my dreams, I can see the Outsider David. I know what he intends to do. And I can feel the anger, the desperation he feels toward us. I also know how it is breaking him. I am no longer certain how this is happening, whether he appears in my dreams, or if I appear in his!"

  Verne said nothing in his surprise. The other monsters seemed to be listening, but made no move.

  "I am doing what I can to thwart the Outsider David's own plans, though he thinks that I am his ally."

  Verne cleared his throat. "Um, that is very ... interesting, but I can't help you. That's all there is to it. Yes, I did construct the weapon, as you have learned from my own journals ― but as you also know, it didn't work! It malfunctioned, and I don't know why. Obviously, my idea was wrong. The Sitnaltan weapon is no weapon at all."

  Siryyk stood up, and Verne could see the ripple of muscles running down his sandy leonine back. His huge shadow cast by opposing clusters of firelight rose in tandem against the bright frescoes on the wall, dominating them and swallowing them up.

  "General Korux, would you please remove the prisoner's left shoe."

  Making a husky sound deep in his throat, the Slac general moved forward, flexing his clawed fingers. Verne shrank back, but his two shrivel-skinned monster guards grabbed him by his bruised arms. Korux bent over and held Verne's black shoe in both reptilian hands. After fumbling unsuccessfully with the laces, the Slac general snorted and used one claw to rip them out of the leather. Tossing the broken laces aside, he peeled off the shoe.

  Verne's foot was cramped and sweaty. He had not been able to change clothes, not even his socks, in days. But he felt no relief to be able to flex his toes now.

  The manticore went to one of the firepits and, reaching into the coals with his massive hands, he pulled out a stubby, smoke-blackened dagger. Its blade glowed bright orange from the heat.

  The twisted lips on Siryyk's human face bent upward, exposing overlapping fangs in his mouth. "I am going to play a game with you, Professor Verne. I think you can repair whatever went wrong with this weapon. And if that is not the
case, I think you can make another weapon. Something different, a giant destructive toy for me to play with. Judging by your journals, your mind is filled with useful ideas such as that."

  He looked down at the blade and placed his own thickly padded finger against the yellow-hot point. Verne winced as he heard the loud sizzle and smelled the wisp of smoke as the glowing metal ate its way into the manticore's finger pad. Siryyk withdrew his hand, looked at the wound, and frowned but showed no other sign of discomfort.

  "Now then, our game." Siryyk looked around to the other monsters gathered at the entrance and standing along the walls. The manticore raised his voice.

  "Shall we take bets on how many of the Professor's toes we will have to burn off before he agrees to cooperate with us?"

  Verne swooned even as the monsters shouted out their bets.

  INTERLUDE: OUTSIDE

  The other three players arrived together, keeping oddly silent, as if they could all feel the tension, too. David stared at Melanie, Scott, and Tyrone as they entered in one group; the back of his mind kept imagining ways that they had banded together against him. Gamearth had forced them into it. He narrowed his eyes, but Tyrone stepped into the front hallway, grinning as he shucked his damp jacket and laid it on the bench.

  "I got it! I passed."

  David looked back at him, completely confused. "What are you talking about?"

  "My driver's license! I passed, just on Friday. I borrowed my dad's car and picked up Scott and Mel."

  Melanie stood beside Scott. In her hands she held the large wooden map of Gamearth, wrapped in plastic to protect it from the drizzle. Her knuckles were white from her tight grip, as if she thought the map might be in danger.

  "Good for you," David said to him.

  "Tyrone kept babbling about it all the way over here," Scott said. He used the corner of his shirt to wipe the raindrops from his glasses. Melanie mumbled something and went straight into the family room, where she laid the map on the carpet. Her eyes were bright as she unwrapped the wet plastic and stared at the colorful patterns of Gamearth.

  It looked as if a truck had run over it. Black stains showed the explosions of the great battle from the previous week, when Melanie's golem-weapon named Journeyman, as well as Gamearth's own Earthspirits and Deathspirits, had destroyed David's greatest creation, Scartaris. Gamearth's destructive power was plain for anyone to see, its ability to strike back at the outside world.

  But the map also showed cracks and splits, jagged splinters at the edges. A few of the hexagonal segments of terrain split loose, like tiles in a mosaic ― which was impossible, since they were merely a pattern painted on a smooth surface of wood.

  David stood over the map, and Melanie pointedly refused to look at him. He felt sullen, afraid to wait and afraid to move on. As if mechanically, he went into the kitchen and brought out the bags of chips he had opened. Standing beside the stove island, he poured glasses of soda without asking what anyone wanted.

  All their conversation felt forced. Everybody seemed as uneasy as he was, except for Tyrone.

  Tyrone went back outside to his car, leaving the front door open. David felt a cold gust of wind and stared, annoyed. But Tyrone reappeared, holding a foil-wrapped platter.

  "Wait until you guys taste this one! My masterpiece, I think. It's got that imitation crab stuff, hot mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and sour cream. Goes great on those wheat crackers."

  "You sound like a commercial, Tyrone," Scott muttered.

  Tyrone didn't seem to know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, so he changed the subject. "Okay, here's the joke for this week. What goes 'Ha! Ha! Ha ... Thump!'?"

  David set down another bowl of chips.

  "Oh, brother, Tyrone ― "

  He grinned. "A man laughing his head off!"

  Melanie sat crosslegged on the carpet beside her map, holding her soda in one hand. The firelight danced across the room. David left the lights on in the kitchen, but the fire was the only illumination in the family room. It seemed appropriate to play in the firelight.

  Melanie tucked her long brown hair behind her ears and drew a deep breath. She looked at David with a petulant expression. "We all dreamed again this week, David. We talked about it in the car. You must have, too."

  "Every night," Tyrone said. "Better than watching movies."

  "Tyrone, you're such a dweeb," Scott said, scowling. "This is real! Start taking it seriously. Even I remembered the dreams this time, and I never have dreams."

  David bristled. He spoke in a low and serious voice. "No, Scott, this is not real. All of you, can't you understand? It's just a game ― we made it up! It's not supposed to be real! And when a game goes beyond that, it gets dangerous. It's time to stop." He stifled an exasperated laugh. "You should look at yourselves. You guys are like puppets, pawns!"

  Tyrone squatted on the floor and dumped their dice out of the suede pouch. Glittering different colors, they fell to the carpet, showing various numbers. Two of them fell next to the wooden game map.

  "Well, I'm anxious to see how it all turns out," Tyrone said. "This has been the absolute most intense game I ever imagined! My parents sure yelled at me for what happened to the kitchen table last week, though. They still can't figure out what we did."

  David scowled; he could have guessed how Tyrone would react. In fact, after their years of playing together, the four of them had grown so close that they all knew how each other would react. They all knew the world of Gamearth and its characters and the rules of the Game inside and out. That was how they could continue playing with their own unorthodox methods, enjoying their adventures without any godlike game-master arbitrating their moves. Each of them watched over certain sections of the map. It was a strange system, developed for their own group ... for a very unusual fantasy world.

  A fantasy world that was coming alive.

  David decided to remain silent, instead of voicing the same old arguments, the same objections. Gamearth had too great a hold on the others, and David would never convince them. Not by arguing.

  He would have to use the same tricks Melanie used. He could come up with his own twists in the rules. It was time to play dirty.

  He would win the Game in his own way.

  Chapter 2

  COMBINED FORCES

  "Combat is very important in the Game. A character's chances for victory are improved by thorough training; an army at large may increase its probability of success simply by being prepared."

  ― The Book of Rules

  Tareah opened her eyes and uncurled her fingers. The nails had dug into her palms from the strain, and black spots of exhaustion still fluttered in front of her vision.

  When she saw the piles of new supplies that had magically appeared from her spell, Tareah let out a sigh of relief. She slumped back against the ruined wooden wall, the only part of the Stronghold still standing.

  According to Rule #8, a magic-user character on Gamearth was allowed only three spells a day. But Tareah held three important magical artifacts, which increased the daily allotment of whatever spells she cared to cast. She had been using all those extra spells just to replenish the stockpiles in the Stronghold and the storage sheds in the village. Delrael's growing army would need all the supplies before they could march out against the enemy; and she felt glad to be doing something to help, rather than just an observer.

  Tareah possessed the sapphire Water Stone, whose powers controlled water and the weather; she also had the Fire Stone, an eight-sided ruby that could control fire. The Sentinel Enrod, his mind twisted by Scartaris, had come to the Barrier River to destroy the western land with the Fire Stone's power; but the Deathspirits had stopped him, cursing him to push his raft back and forth across the river for the rest of the Game. The Spirits stripped him of his gem and gave it to Tareah, the only other full-blooded Sorcerer on all of Gamearth. These two Stones increased her spell allotment from three to five per day.

  Finally, she also kept the four-sid
ed Air Stone, the diamond that had been lost many turns before but then found by Gairoth the ogre and his runt dragon Rognoth. Gairoth had used its powers to take over the Stronghold, but Delrael defeated him in battle. Later, with the Air Stone's powers of illusion, Bryl had created an imaginary army to engage the monster horde of Scartaris.

  "My turn," Bryl said beside her, holding out his hand. Dressed in his blue cloak, the half-Sorcerer looked old and fragile. As soon as Tareah handed him the Stones, Bryl's spell allotment also would increase to six per day. She enjoyed manipulating the Rules like that; it would have made her father proud.

  By the time Delrael had returned to the Stronghold from his quest, telling of the vast army of monsters that would soon march across the map, Tareah had already begun training the villagers. They had seen the threat of Scartaris in their own homes.

  Taking charge again, Delrael ordered the manufacture of new weapons. Derow the blacksmith worked himself to exhaustion, hammering out blade after blade; others made spears and arrowheads, bows, shields. The forests around Steep Hill were picked clear of suitable wood.

  Couriers went out to the known surrounding villages, spreading the warning and calling all able characters to meet at the Stronghold site for training. Delrael meant to put together an army, a last defense for Gamearth, the greatest rallying of human characters since the epic battles of the Scouring.

  War supplies came in from mining villages, smelted iron ore in long rods, ingots of bronze and copper. Many characters rejoiced to see the Game mounting toward a tremendous showdown. Some of them wanted to have fun.

  Delrael drilled all the incoming trainees. The top of the Hill ― where the Stronghold had once stood tall and undefeated ― was cleared of debris from the outbuildings. In its place stood a training field: sword posts and archery targets, single-combat practice grounds, straw dummies for spear thrusts. After the first few days, the noise and constant shouting, the clang of weapons, the outcries of exertion or victory, seemed an unrelenting drone on Tareah's ears.