Game's End

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "Within a game."

  Another mirror shattered, and another. Flying glass filled the air. The explosions grew louder as the mirrors crumbled. Images of Mayer disappeared.

  She turned, covering her ears, trying to duck her head to keep the glass away from her eyes. The door behind her had vanished. She saw nothing, only the mirrors as they smashed again and again. Mayer tried to run, but she had no place to go.

  "Within a game."

  A mirror beside her broke, and a long dagger of glass bounced next to her feet, but somehow she didn't cut herself. One reflection of Mayer ― with long hair braided in green ribbons ― shrank back with a shocked expression on her face, and then she too shattered.

  In the black void behind the mirror stood a young man, his form wavering as if he could barely remember himself. His clothes appeared wet. His eyes were wide and shining, as if they knew too much from within. "Only you and I understand," he said to her.

  Mayer froze in utter terror, completely without understanding ― or perhaps understanding too much. She opened her mouth to scream.

  "Let me show you the way out," Lellyn said and extended a hand to her. "Out of the Game."

  And then Mayer felt the razor of pain bursting through her entire body, as she herself shattered.

  ――――

  Chapter 19

  ICE FORTRESS

  "I won't care about the Game after I am gone, so long as I have fun while I'm here. I want to die a hero."

  ― Cayon, in a quest-telling at the village gaming hall

  The Game held no interest for Delrael anymore. He sat listlessly polishing and sharpening his sword. The rest of his army bustled about, preparing for their surprise attack on Siryyk's approaching horde.

  Now that the avalanche had destroyed the quest-path along the side of the cliff, the monster army would have to ascend the steep bluffs overlooking the canyon. Delrael's army waited out of sight. Siryyk would walk right into the trap.

  Normally, Delrael would have been excited at the prospect of such an easy surprise blow. But all he could think of was the distant cannon explosion; all he could see was the sliding rock, the scrambling Black Falcon figures helpless on the narrow ledge, and the avalanche crushing them all away.

  Now he had lost his father twice.

  Romm came up to him. "The monster army is moving. They're already climbing the slope. I'm sure they don't know we're here." He paused, as if waiting for Delrael to say something else, but Delrael only looked at him.

  Romm continued. "We've got the first line of defenses set up. All the archers are ready. The other fighters are anxious ― this is the first battle for most of them, you know."

  "Good," Delrael made himself say.

  "It shouldn't be too long now," Romm said again. "The monsters are halfway up the slope."

  Delrael realized that the scout wanted him to get up and inspect the fighters, to encourage them, to lead them in the attack. "They know what to do," he said instead. "Wish them luck."

  Romm looked crestfallen and turned to go. He stopped and said over his shoulder, "I'm sorry about your father, Delrael. I'm also sorry I didn't recognize him at first."

  "Thank you, Romm."

  The scout left to join the others. Delrael stared at his own clean sword. As a commander, he had no right to act this way. He had destroyed far more of Siryyk's soldiers in the fire in Ledaygen; Drodanis and the Black Falcon riders alone had probably killed at least an enemy apiece in their little skirmish. Delrael's losses had been minimal.

  Losses were never minimal.

  The wind whipped cold around the rocks, and he stood up. Gray clouds dotted the sky, growing thicker. He seemed to have lost all sense of time.

  He realized Siya stood beside him, frowning with a pinched expression. She had looked mortally stunned as Drodanis fell, as if reliving her nightmares, reminded of Cayon's death all over again. But that had hardened her, tempered her somehow.

  "It was Drodanis's way of life," she said, displeased with Delrael. "It's how he wanted to die. A hero. He wanted to do something that characters would tell legends about." Delrael kept gazing at his soldiers in line near the edge of the bluff.

  "Delrael," she continued, "heroes only count if they're from the winning side."

  "I know," he said.

  He watched his fighters pause and tense. He thought he could hear the movements of the horde below, climbing closer. Suddenly all his human fighters lunged to their feet, shouting and banging their weapons.

  They pushed against the line of large boulders they had positioned at the edge of the slope. Some characters shoved with their hands, others pried with sticks. Dozens of rocks crashed down like battering rams into the approaching army.

  He heard the echoing uproar as the monsters discovered the surprise. The boulders rolled down, bouncing and smashing and kicking up stones.

  Siryyk's horde gathered itself for an angry surge up the slope now that they had an enemy they could see. Delrael knew that the boulders would have crushed scores of the monsters. With this one blow, he had avenged the death of Drodanis.

  But not enough.

  The front line of fighters dropped their sticks and ran behind the second line of Delrael's fighters. They pushed to the edge of the slope, each armed with bows. They shot arrow after arrow into the helpless horde. Kellos and the surviving ylvans fired with their small crossbows.

  The monsters shouted and screamed, scrambling to lift their shields. Many of them turned and tried to run back down the slope. They tripped and fell, taking others with them along the incline.

  Delrael's archers kept firing. The thrum of their bowstrings sounded like an enraged hive of bees.

  But then some of the other human fighters, overanxious, drew their own weapons and charged howling down to meet the monsters. Delrael muttered to himself, upset that they placed themselves in danger before the archers had caused all the damage they could. If he had been in better control of his army...

  "Don't give up like your father did, Delrael," Siya interrupted him. "For all those years. And look how he paid for it."

  Tayron Tribeleader, holding his polished wooden sword in hand and leading Ydaim Trailwalker and the other khelebar, pelted over the edge and down the rocky slope. Kellos and his ylvans surged after them. The rest of the archers stopped firing, secured their bows, and joined the attack with their blades.

  Delrael took his own sword, looked at its new sharpened edge, and strode toward the fighting. His characters were falling now, his fighters were being torn apart by Siryyk's monsters.

  He saw the manticore seething and bounding around on the slope, striking with the blue lightning of his scorpion tail. Many of Delrael's fighters already lay scattered and dead. The monster army rallied itself and pushed upward. Ranks of Slac had lined up, using their shields as an impenetrable wall and pushing up the hill.

  Delrael's fighters lost their advantage in only a few moments. They had used their surprise and sprung their traps. But now that they fought face to face, the monster army greatly outnumbered the humans. Delrael had already struck his blow; they would gain nothing by remaining.

  Delrael stood to the front of the fighting and shouted orders to retreat. He stopped the rest of his eager fighters from marching over the side. Romm and several of the other fighters had held already them back, keeping them in their strategic position on top where they could strike at the monsters coming up.

  "We've done our job for now!" Delrael shouted. "Retreat!"

  Lightning bolts blasted into some of the monster soldiers. He looked up to see Tareah standing on a rock, holding the sapphire Water Stone in her hand.

  Delrael turned to the fighters still standing on the top of the bluff. "Move! March ― head northward along the quest-path. We must separate ourselves. We have to find time to set up another attack."

  He grabbed Romm by the arm. "Go to Tareah. Tell her that we need to stall the monster advance. Have her use the Water Stone to delay them. She can th
ink of something."

  Romm ran off across the rocky ground. Delrael stood on the edge and urged his fighters to get to the top and to run. Many had already fallen and lay wounded. Some characters helped the injured back to the top of the slope; others lay there as little goblins swarmed over the terrain, slashing their throats.

  The monsters cried out in surprise again as water gushed from cracks in the rocks and burst out to pour down the slope, drenching them all.

  Tareah stood above with her hair flying in the air. She twisted the Stone, and the pouring water crackled and froze into a slick, silvery sheet of ice. Delrael allowed himself a smile. The monsters would find it impossible to make progress up the steep bluff.

  Most of the human army had made it to the top and marched away. "We have to run! Move."

  Below, the horde continued to shout curses at them and clawed their way at the treacherous slope. Delrael turned and followed as his army moved. It would take them some time to tally their own losses.

  Now, finally, Siryyk knew about the entire human army waiting to fight him.

  While the monsters killed off the severely wounded left on the battlefield ― their own wounded and the humans ― Siryyk paced and thought. Much of the ice had melted. He glowered at Professor Verne, then swished his scorpion tail back and forth; the air seemed charged with the energy spraying from it. Verne appeared terrified, but tried to stand tall.

  The manticore raised his right paw to swat Verne on the chest. The professor flew backward to the rocky ground with a torn shirt and long red gashes across his skin. "That was just a scratch," he said.

  Verne lay sprawled next to the bloody corpse of a young human fighter who had been stabbed and then decapitated. The fighter's open-eyed head sat near his shoulder, mouth gaping dark and empty toward the sky. Verne stammered but could say nothing.

  "We have only enough powder to fire the cannon a few more times, Professor."

  Among the rocks and bodies on the twisted slope, General Korux and his other Slac grunted and strained as they hauled the cannon up to the top of the bluff. The tall wheels were set too wide for any path, and Korux had to push it up the smoothest part of the cliff face. Siryyk wondered if Verne had done that deliberately when he designed the cannon.

  "I want you to fix the Sitnaltan weapon."

  Professor Verne propped himself up with his bleeding elbows and tried to back away. "You can't use it, Siryyk! Don't you understand that it's a doomsday device. If the Sitnaltan weapon is triggered, then all of Gamearth and maybe even all of the Outside will be destroyed."

  With a snarl, Siryyk brought his scorpion tail down to strike the headless corpse beside the professor. Blood and smoking flesh blasted out, spattering Verne.

  "I will hear none of that! The weapon is mine. I want it to work. Whether I use it or not will be my decision. Now tell me what is mechanically wrong with it?"

  Verne began to say something complicated and nonsensical, but Siryyk drew himself up to glare at him. The professor stopped. "The timer switch is broken. That's all. The weapon itself is undamaged. It will be trivial to fix."

  "Then do it," the manticore said and swiped at him again with his paw, keeping his claws sheathed. The blow knocked Verne sideways to his knees. The professor scrambled to his feet, and two Slac grabbed his elbows, escorting him over to where the weapon waited, strapped into the battered steam-engine car.

  The monsters had taken some prisoners, and Siryyk stalked about before finally gesturing at one of the Slac. The Slac snatched up a tiny struggling man whose face looked battered; blood caked his mouth from broken teeth. The little man wore forest greens and browns that provided no camouflage at all in the stark mountain terrain. The little man's jaw dropped as he stared at the immense manticore.

  "Now, captive," Siryyk said, "I want to know about this army that just attacked my troops. Where did it come from? Who is its leader? Who are you?"

  "I have nothing to say to you," the little man snapped.

  Siryyk glared at the Slac holding the captive. The monster grabbed the little man's hand and shoved it into his jagged reptilian mouth. The Slac bit down, twisted his chin, and snapped back. He spat out two of the captive's twitching fingers.

  The little man screamed as blood poured from his hand.

  "Who are you?" Siryyk said again. "Who leads the army?"

  "I am Kellos!" the little man said, shaking either with anger or with terror; Siryyk could not tell which.

  The Slac grabbed Kellos's arm again. Blood glistened from his pointed teeth. The little man snarled and struggled.

  "Delrael leads the army! He commands them all. We struck at you in the forest. We ambushed you along the quest-path. We've been carving away at your army, and we will defeat you yet!"

  The Slac released him, and Kellos stood, holding the bleeding stumps of his fingers against his chest to cut off the flow of blood.

  Siryyk paced and turned around. "Delrael!" he muttered. His black lips twisted upward in a smile. It all became clear ― the storms and the lightning and the forest fire and the unseen ambushes. Delrael had been using his powerful Stones all along. "So, the prisoner Jathen lied to me. This is the human army, closer than we thought."

  The Slac hissed, and suddenly Kellos broke into a run, trying to dodge between his captors and Siryyk's great bulk. He ran toward an opening on the slope, as if he actually had a chance to escape.

  Moving faster than his enormous size would seem to allow, the manticore whirled and lashed with his coiled scorpion tail.

  Kellos screamed for only a moment before the flash of blue lightning incinerated him. His blackened and sizzling body flew ten feet in the air before striking the jumbled rocks and leaving a wet black stain as it slid sideways and stopped next to a clean patch of ice.

  Siryyk turned to watch Korux and the others straining to get the cannon over the lip of the slope. Most of the other monsters had managed to negotiate the ice and the treacherous rocks.

  Delrael's army waited up there for him. Their surprise was over. "The Stones are in my grasp now."

  Tareah pointed at the map Vailret had drawn. Delrael held it against a flat rock surface with the sun shining on it; the corners kept flapping in the cold breeze.

  Delrael squinted, trying to see what she meant. "It's only a couple of hexagons away," Tareah said. "We can return to the site of my father's Ice Palace."

  She turned and looked at him. "Listen to me, Delrael! There's mountain terrain blocking us off in one direction, the northern sea, frozen wasteland, and the Barrier River down the other side. It'll be hard on the monsters, especially after Drodanis destroyed most of their supplies."

  Delrael pondered. The rebuilt Palace would provide a defensible fortress to hold his army. All his fighters needed a rest after their first taste of battle, not to mention the injured characters among his troops. It seemed reasonable, but he felt uneasy ― he would be trapping his own army in a place like that. He wanted room to move, to strike and run. But they had been doing that all along.

  Tareah stood up. "If I go now, and hurry, and your army follows behind, I can have the Ice Palace rebuilt by the time the fighters get there."

  Enrod stood beside her, intense but silent until he said, "I can use the Water Stone. I can help." Tareah stiffened, looking defensive, but then she shrugged.

  Old Siya waited nearby again, listening in. She had gathered swords from several of the fallen soldiers; while the army rested, she polished them for any character who might need a new weapon.

  "That's what Drodanis would suggest," she said.

  Delrael had no answer for that.

  Though only a distortion remained on the smooth field of ice and snow, the site of the Ice Palace shone clear in Tareah's mind. She had spent three decades there.

  Her life had changed a great deal since the last time the Palace stood tall. She had been bound in the body of a small child, while Sardun waited for some other full-blooded Sorcerer to manifest himself. Enrod was the only oth
er Sentinel still alive on Gamearth, but Sardun did not approve of Enrod's philosophy.

  Then Tryos the dragon had blasted his way into the Ice Palace to steal Tareah. In the dragon's treasure grotto she had waited for some heroic character to rescue her, because that's what she thought she was supposed to do. All those years with Sardun had taught her the old ways of the Game. She had never questioned what he said.

  And Delrael did rescue her, taking her back only to find the Ice Palace melted and collapsed. Her father had succumbed to the half-Transition, adding his spirit to the dayid beneath the Palace.

  Now Tareah that spent time with Vailret and Delrael and other human characters, the Game had taken on a new perspective for her. No longer did she merely read and chronicle the legends about other characters. She participated in the adventures herself ― whenever Delrael allowed her.

  She and Enrod trudged across the flat snow in the sunrise. They had walked the rest of the afternoon over the mountains, pushing ahead of Delrael's army. They traveled through the night, resting for only a few hours in the coldest and darkest time before dawn.

  Tareah didn't feel tired at all, but eager. She would rebuild her old home.

  She stepped into the boundary of the site, noting where the great ice pillars had collapsed, where the towers had melted and fallen to crumbling blocks. When she had returned here with Delrael and the others in the Sitnaltan balloon, Sardun had left a farewell message for her.

  He would be greatly surprised if he could see her now. She had grown to her full height, and her joints had stopped aching. Tareah had become her own character.

  The world hung silent around them. The cold made Tareah's fingers numb, but the breeze had died away. The jagged hexagons of mountain terrain stood behind them, bounded by the black hex-line. The blue expanse of the northern sea channelled down into the rushing hex-wide Barrier River. The air smelled clean, with other scents dampened by the snow.