With her mind she searched for the dayid, plunging deep beneath the soil of Ledaygen, following the network of kennok roots toward the heart of Gamearth itself. She saw the structure, the patterns . . . she learned with awe how the dayid slipped between the cracks, bent under and around the Rules that confined the rest of the world. Still shutting her eyes tight, she could see through the eyes of the forest.
Her hand drifted down the polished kennok wood until she reached the point where the carving ended and the bark began. Thilane extended her index finger and applied gentle pressure horizontally, slicing the artificial leg from the kennok tree.
Eyes closed, she lifted the heavy false limb and carried it on her fingertips until she rested it on the ground beside Delrael’s injured leg. She aligned the two limbs, then climbed back to her feet again. On four feline paws, she padded to one of the towering black pines, then ran the palms of her hands up the trunk, brushing the bark, the rough lumps of pitch, until she encountered a branch thinner than her finger. She plucked it from the trunk, leaving no scar.
Noldir watched in awed silence. He saw that dark red sap had begun to ooze from the severed trunk of the kennok tree.
The Healer’s humming grew louder. Then she sang a song with no words, notes that sounded like running water, chattering birds, blooming flowers. Thilane laid the thin pine branch across Delrael’s thigh, just above his injury.
Her breath hissed through her teeth as she pushed down. She did not hear Noldir gasp as the branch sank into Delrael’s flesh, melting through the heavy bone and severing the leg.
Moving rapidly now, Thilane opened her eyes. The green irises glowed with an unseeing power. She discarded Delrael’s dead limb and switched it for the living kennok leg, pressing it against his stump before the blood could start. The Healer wrapped her fingers along the seam, and her voice broke into a different, more powerful song that resonated in the air. The trees seemed to be singing along with her.
“Melding of flesh and tree. Merging of bone and wood. Joining of sap and blood. Bring the two together as one. Life of tree and man blend together. Meld. Merge. Join. One!”
A flood of energy from the dayid seared through her nerves, leaping across the barrier into the kennok wood.
The Healer gave a sharp cry and stepped back, blinking her eyes and seeing the forest again. Her hands trembled with exhaustion. Noldir Woodcarver stood beside her as she fought to bring her mind back through the murk of the trance. Noldir reached out a hand to steady her, but she pushed him away and bent over Delrael’s motionless form.
She had attached the kennok limb. A sharp line marked the boundary of skin and wood, but that would fade as the man’s body accepted his new leg. She smiled to herself.
Only a small amount of the man’s blood spattered the grass. She ran her fingers along one of the grass blades, straightening it and wiping off the red smear.
Thilane gave the crushed, dead leg to Noldir. “Take this . . . and bury it.”
Delrael fled from bizarre dreams, unable to force himself awake. Something held him imprisoned with his nightmares, but locked him away from his pain. He saw a giant, one-eyed monster hurling boulders. He remembered running. Hybrid man-panthers. The huge rock flying at him. And pain. A great deal of pain.
“Roll the dice again!” He moaned and turned his head. He had better luck than this. “It’s not fair.” His leg felt very strange.
He lifted his eyelids, expecting to see something or someone he recognized. He didn’t. He was in a thick forest somewhere. He could smell it. He could hear the sounds of wind and night birds. Everything seemed to be dark, but he was not cold. In a disorienting moment, he wondered if he had somehow landed in the Rulewoman Melanie’s forest, by her Pool of Peace. He expected to see his own father there, waiting for him.
Then Thilane Healer stood over him. Her garland of yellow flowers swayed, and her face looked lined and weary. Her breasts were tanned and dusty-colored, like her pale fur. He remembered her from somewhere.
Questions ricocheted back and forth in his mind until he remembered everything. The Cyclops, the canyon, the khelebar, the boulder—his leg. He winced with a pain that was not there, but should have been.
“I am Thilane Healer of the khelebar.” She spoke in a quiet yet harsh voice. “Your leg would not heal, so I replaced it.”
Delrael looked down at his left leg—and saw rich yellow wood laced with feathery ripples of copper-colored grains. The Healer held onto his shoulders, squeezing hard enough that her fingernails made impressions in the skin. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, leaning his head back. “It’s not fair.” Overhead, the leaves rustled in the night. “Look at it,” Thilane said.
Delrael felt the words choke in his throat. His real leg was gone, discarded and replaced with something of wood. He was a fighter. He needed his dexterity. He needed to move, to attack, to quest, to explore. If he could do nothing interesting, the Outsiders would erase him from the Game.
“Look at it!” Thilane said again.
He turned his eyes downward, looking at the serpentine wood-grain patterns that seemed to move by themselves. He did not want to think of it as part of him.
The Healer shook her head. She took his kennok leg in her hands, massaging it. “Time. Give it time. I can feel the warmth in the wood.” With one fingernail she tapped against the wooden knee. He heard a light ticking noise. “Can you feel this?”
“No.” He drew in a deep breath. He wanted to go back to his nightmares again. “Of course not.”
“There’s magic in Gamearth. You just need to know how to use it.”
“That spell isn’t in any book. Ask Bryl.” Delrael wasn’t sure, but it seemed right to him.
Thilane crossed her arms, accidentally bruising the yellow flowers around her neck. He smelled the burst of perfume they released. “Gamearth has magic the Outsiders don’t even know about.”
She kneaded his left foot, massaging the wood, working with the toes and bending them slowly at the joints. Delrael watched in wonder as he saw the kennok wood become flexible.
“Trust me,” she said.
Delrael closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing for several minutes. Thilane offered no conversation of her own. “Where is Vailret?” he finally asked.
The Healer stopped her work as she scowled up at him. He was frightened of the stare behind her oval green eyes. “Your friends are gathering a council of the khelebar. Your Vailret is upset because you were attacked by the Cyclops.”
Delrael saw the monster towering on top of the gorge, his brick-red skin gleaming in the sunlight, his one yellow eye like a great torch as he found his target. And hurled the crushing boulder down—
“Why did he attack us?”
Thilane shrugged. “Because that is what he does. The Outsiders put him there as a challenge to us. We refuse to accept it. The dayid gives us other tasks than to amuse childish Players.”
Thilane moved Delrael’s ankle, working patiently until the foot became limber and soft. Her strong hands continued to massage, pushing on the false calf muscles and finally, with a tremendous effort, bending his knee.
Delrael reached forward, tentative. Thilane guided his hand, touching it to the kennok wood. To him, the polished skin seemed hard as oak, yet warm somehow.
“Where are my clothes? My silver belt?”
“Nearby. Enough talk. Now move your toes.”
“I can’t. It’s only wood.”
“It is kennok wood! Now move your toes.”
Delrael stared at his toes, and they seemed to stare back. He closed his eyes and concentrated. But he couldn’t think how to move muscles that were not his.
“The kennok trees have been in this forest since the beginning of the Game. Some say the Outsiders do not know they exist—they are the wellspring of the true magic of our world. But they are rare. And only once before, in all our chanted history, has this ritual been successfully performed—for Jorig Falselimb, a great leader of the
khelebar.”
Thilane looked around in the shadowy darkness. “Jorig saved Ledaygen from a blood-mad wolf pack that haunted the Spectre Mountains. A saliva-fever had driven all the wolves into a frenzy—and Jorig stood alone with the dayid to face them.
“The dayid took away Jorig’s individual scent, making him smell like the pines, the oaks, the grass, the woodland flowers. The wolves were confused, but the great black leader of the pack found a part of the scent that was the khelebar, and he attacked that part of Jorig. The wolf bit off Jorig’s arm. The black wolf died in a spasm of his own blood-fever, and the rest of the wolves fled.
“But the dayid was grateful to Jorig, and it showed the khelebar Healers how to make a false limb from the living kennok wood. After he became accustomed to it, Jorig used his wooden fingers to play a flute and to shoot his bow.” She looked up into the night with a dreamy, distant expression on her face.
Then she whirled to shout at him, “Now move your toes!”
Startled, Delrael saw that in reflex his toes had moved. He felt a surge of surprise and relief.
Later, he did not want to sleep. The night went on and on. After an hour of intensive practice, Delrael used his leg clumsily. He could rotate his foot, he could bend his knee and move it. He still could not feel any sensation, but Thilane assured him that even that would come back, in time. Already, the seam where the kennok wood joined his leg had grown less distinct as the elements of tree and man mingled together.
Thilane pulled forth an aged wooden knife with a blade polished and hard as iron. “We shall see if the acceptance is complete.” Delrael watched the edge of the blade and envied its craftsmanship; the sharpness had been honed with infinite patience and devotion. Thilane reversed the knife and tapped the man’s leg with the wooden hilt. A hollow sound rang in the still forest air. “Can you feel this?” Delrael concentrated. “I don’t think so.”
“And this?” Thilane flipped the knife in her hand and chopped the blade down hard into the kennok wood.
“Ow!” Delrael sat up as a slice of pain echoed through his leg.
“Good.” Thilane hid her smile.
Vailret stood in the clearing and watched the night shroud the surrounding hexes of mountain terrain. Thessar, the tall and ancient Father Pine, loomed silent on the verge of the cliff-discontinuity. Over the sound of the wind in the trees, Vailret listened to the forest settle down.
The khelebar began to arrive in the clearing, surrounding a large bare circle where all the plants had been removed. A heap of wood—the dead branches of Ledaygen—lay within the patch of dirt. Flames from a new fire worked their way deeper into the pile.
Ydaim had told him that some of the khelebar were Treescavengers, whose purpose was to find and remove the dead and diseased branches. They used no tools, but somehow they scrambled to the tallest branches and removed the wood. “The dayid guides them,” Ydaim had said.
Vailret had looked with awe around the forest. The aura of Ledaygen seemed to penetrate even to him, and he could sense the magic but he could not touch it.
He just hoped the dayid could help Delrael.
Bryl sat by the fire, shivering and trying to warm himself and his damp clothes. The old half-Sorcerer rubbed the Water Stone, looking distant. Vailret watched him, trying to imagine being able to use the magic himself.
He drew in a deep breath, smelling the cool tang in the air, an aftertaste of smoke from the fire, the spice of pines and the plentiful dried leaves on the forest floor. Delrael might be dying . . . the Outsiders had effectively stopped their quest in its tracks. The khelebar had lived with the threat of the Cyclops for years, and had done nothing about it.
Vailret rehearsed his line of attack as the panther people arrived.
The gathered khelebar looked at Vailret and Bryl, curious. Vailret wasn’t sure what he wanted from them. He knew he was playing into the hands of the Outsiders by fighting back against the Cyclops. This was just an incidental adventure—they should ignore the monster and push on as soon as Delrael had healed.
One of the khelebar, an older male with close-cropped hair streaked with gray, stepped into the pool of firelight and paced back and forth.
Ydaim Trailwalker sat beside the two humans, like a sponsor. He tossed his black braid behind his back and leaned over to whisper in Vailret’s ear, “That is Fiolin Tribeleader. He will hear your arguments.”
The other panther-people tightened their circle like a slipknot around the bonfire. Over the roar of the flames Vailret heard insect sounds in the forest. The bonfire spilled orange light over the cliff.
Fiolin Tribeleader turned to face the rest of the circle, silhouetting himself against the blaze. “Ydaim Trailwalker, you have called us together in council. For what purpose?”
With an excited gleam in his eye, Ydaim raised himself to his feet, broadening his shoulders. He brushed the pine cone pendant before he spoke. “The man Vailret Traveler has not asked for just a council, Tribeleader, but a war council.”
Ydaim held his ground when the other khelebar muttered in astonishment. Fiolin maintained his cool expression, keeping his thoughts hidden. “Against whom will the khelebar go to war, after so many years of peace? And for what cause?”
Ydaim Trailwalker gestured to the two men. Vailret made ready to speak, but Ydaim continued. “The travelers speak against the Cyclops—Pain-Giver, Life-Taker. The black smoke of burning, living trees coats the walls of his cave like dark bloodstains. I have seen it in my wanderings. And he preys upon helpless questers such as the man Delrael, now called Kennoklimb, and these two here.”
Vailret stood up. His elegant speeches melted away, leaving him weaponless to convey his anger to the mellow expressions of the khelebar. They stared back at him from the firelit shadows. Their unblinking emerald eyes made him feel as if he had stumbled into a jungle and was now surrounded by patient wild animals.
He swallowed and spoke. “Obviously, you must do something about the Cyclops.” Bryl watched him. “He is destructive and dangerous. Why have you let him go unpunished for so long? He will keep hurting other characters if you don’t do something.”
“He maims trees,” Ydaim added.
The khelebar remained silent, waiting for their Tribeleader to speak. Fiolin mused for a moment. “The Cyclops has long been our enemy. Do others agree that we should try to drive him away now that he has harmed the man Delrael Kennoklimb?”
Vailret fidgeted. He had hoped they would consider destroying the monster, not just chase him away.
One of the khelebar stood up. She had dark brown hair and a mottled panther pelt. Fiolin nodded to her. “Speak, Stynod Treescavenger.”
She faced the Tribeleader, not looking at Vailret. “The Cyclops is a challenge for the khelebar to face. The Outsiders placed him here. His only purpose is to attack and destroy and eat—we must endure him as best we can.” Her voice grew hoarse and angry. “If we remove him, the Outsiders will only send something worse.”
“And what if the Outsiders lose interest in that?” Bryl asked. Vailret gave the half-Sorcerer an appreciative nod.
“We happen to know the Outsiders are bored with Gamearth. They have already begun the destruction of the world. The Rulewoman Melanie has given us a quest to prevent it if we can.”
One of the other khelebar, Noldir Woodcarver, nodded. “Ah, then that is why the dayid demanded that Thilane Healer save your companion.”
Fiolin brooded a long moment, distracted and troubled. The firelight and the night sounds of the forest insects seemed to speak to him.
“The dayid is uneasy tonight—I can feel it. Perhaps it sees the evil things that may come of this council.”
A gibbous moon hovered over the eastern outline of the Spectre Mountains; Lady Maire’s Veil draped glowing over the north. But Fiolin stared at a hazy orange glow nearby, rising from the treetops at the far fringe of Ledaygen. As he gazed without speaking, the other khelebar also turned to look.
The Tribeleader motioned
to a blond-haired khelebar standing near him. The young panther-man was deeply tanned with tigerlike whorls on his fur. Each of his arms bore an armband on the bicep, and a necklace of stones hung at his throat.
“Tayron, my son, go find the cause of that orange glow. It may be a sign from the dayid. Maybe it will help us make our decision.”
“Yes, Father.” The young panther-man turned to bound into the dark mass of surrounding trees, vanishing from sight.
Fiolin Tribeleader stilled the soft mutters around the bonfire. He turned to stare at Vailret. “The khelebar have not harmed a living being since the Scouring of Gamearth.”
“The Cyclops is a killer,” Vailret said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “By your inaction you caused Delrael to come to harm. You won’t accomplish anything by slapping the monster’s hands and telling him to stay in his cave.”
Vailret stopped, letting the silence hang like a poised sword over the council. The other khelebar waited, watching their Tribeleader. Fiolin avoided looking at Vailret and sat back down in the firelight. “Perhaps we should wait for Tayron Next-Leader to return.”
Vailret pursed his lips in impatience.
A long time later, they heard a khelebar plunging through the forest, reckless and crashing branches and undergrowth. Tayron Next-Leader burst into the cliff clearing, scratched and wild-eyed, gasping for breath.
Vailret had never seen a khelebar out of breath before, nor had he seen such an expression of horror and despair. Tayron gasped, scattering tears instead of words.
Fiolin pounced to his feet. “What is it? What have you seen?”
Tayron sobbed but managed to speak. “The forest! It is on fire! Ledaygen is burning!”
7. A Fire In Ledaygen
“RULE #8: Magic users—i.e., those with Sorcerer blood—may attempt to use only a specific number of spells per day. Table A-3 lists spell allowances, calculated according to the character’s percentage of Sorcerer blood, also taking experience into account.”
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