Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Enrod didn’t remember doing any of it.

  He wondered if it had really been only a day. Smears of mud and ash stood out on his tattered white robe. Far from the powerful Sentinel of Tairé, he looked like a man who had been crumpled, badly used, and poked back to life again.

  His back cried out with pain as he hauled the heavy raft to the water. Enrod stepped over the black hex-line and sank up to his knees in the cold river. The mud soothed his torn and blistered feet. The hem of his robe soaked up the water.

  He rocked the logs of the raft, pulling, dragging. It slid partway over the hex-line and became easier to move. Enrod climbed back onto the shore and used a thin pole to lever the raft over the edge. He hopped onto the smooth logs, picked up the pole again and gave a push that strained his ribs, shoving the raft over the hex-line and into the grip of the river.

  Enrod sat down on the raft, smelling the water and letting it carry him downstream. Before long, he stood up again and pushed the pole into the riverbed, gaining leverage and inching the raft across the current.

  He had an appointment to keep. He had to destroy the other half of the world.

  Fallen trees thrust up from the surface like the fingers of drowning men. The water itself roiled brown and muddy, still cutting its channel and bearing debris from its journey. Beneath the current, Enrod imagined forests, houses, the skeletons of travelers, wandering monsters, all who had been caught in the flood. According to the map of Gamearth, the new course of the Barrier River had swallowed up an entire village.

  The current brushing against the sides of his raft seemed to whisper to him, all the dead voices gurgling up from the river bottom begging Enrod for revenge. How could any character dare to do this? What right did they have?

  He would lay waste to the land, turn hexagon after hexagon to flames and ash. He would destroy it all, level it.

  The raft lurched, as if it struck an unseen bump in the River. Enrod swayed and regained his balance. The brown silty water flattened out like glass in front of him. A streak of light, yellow and searing, shot back and forth beneath the surface. The smell of ozone, like the air after a thunderstorm, drifted up to him.

  Everything grew quiet, deathly quiet, but the air seemed charged with crackling power. Enrod tensed, confused.

  Deep beneath the water foam bubbled up, disturbing the smooth surface. The churning increased until spray gushed to the sky. Mist appeared from nowhere, swathing the horizon and leaving him isolated in the middle of the River.

  Enrod pulled up his wooden staff, holding it in his hands like a weapon. He let the raft drift, but it remained in place, anchored invisibly from below.

  The bubbles gushed higher, then opened up like a gigantic mouth, a trap door letting something emerge.

  A triple shadow lifted itself from the depths of the water, rising. . .and kept rising, filling Enrod with awe. Three forms, hooded and spectral, clad in black tattered cloaks, pouring upward into the sky. His bones vibrated with thunder beyond the range of his hearing.

  The three figures surged with dark power until they towered over the Sentinel, impossibly high. Their attention focused down on him like sharpened spears.

  Enrod could not move.

  He had seen them once before, two centuries ago, on the field of the Transition. They had not spoken then, but hung in the air surrounded by fallen empty bodies of the Sorcerers and grass and mountains in the distance. In silence, they had departed with their three white counterparts, the Earthspirits. Enrod thought they would never come back. All the characters on Gamearth had given up on them.

  The Deathspirits.

  The buzzing dark presence suddenly left Enrod’s head, deserting him entirely. Without the driving force, he was disoriented, like a marionette with severed strings. He couldn’t remember anything for a moment. He looked at the Fire Stone in his hand and realized what he had been about to do. He couldn’t understand what had been possessing him.

  The ruby Stone leaped out of his hand, wrenched away with such force that its sharp corners sliced his fingers. He felt blood running down his palm, but he could not take his eyes away from the immense Spirits. The Fire Stone rose in the air, spinning and glittering far out of reach.

  All three Deathspirits spoke in unison. The words echoed on the wind with such power that Enrod felt his bones humming, his eardrums straining.

  “We created the Fire Stone to protect Gamearth and our half-breed children. We cannot allow the Stone to be turned to such destruction.”

  Enrod collapsed to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears. He felt on fire, under the intensity of a magnifying lens focused on the sun.

  “You would have abused your great power, Enrod. Unforgiveable.

  “You will never cross this River.

  “You will never go back to your home until the end of the Game.

  “You must take this raft back and forth forever, at the mercy of any other character who intends to help the world. Not once to rest, not once to reach shore.”

  Enrod could not move. He wanted to hide, he wanted to beg forgiveness, he wanted to jump off the raft and drown himself in the River. But his muscles locked him in place.

  “Gamearth faces a threat from Outside that could destroy everything. And so we have returned. Our world may not yet be doomed.

  “But you have doomed yourself.”

  With a howl of cold wind, the cloaked figures sank beneath the River. The water gurgled, then became glassy smooth. The Fire Stone vanished with a pop into thin air.

  Milky mist rose up in front of Enrod, blocking the far shore of the River. He turned, and the opposite shore had also vanished. He stared, wide-eyed in shock and dismay.

  I didn’t mean it! I don’t know what happened!

  But the Deathspirits were gone. He could not argue with them. He would never be able to argue again.

  Enrod’s muscles locked up. His blood turned to ice as the horror struck him, growing from the pit of his stomach until he wanted to crumble and die. All the work he had done for Tairé, for Gamearth—he couldn’t understand what had come over him, what possessed him. Even now he was appalled by what he had thought of doing.

  Enrod felt himself drawing deeper and deeper into his own mind, filling the emptiness where the black buzzing had once been. From now on, it would be his only refuge.

  His body took control of itself. His arms lifted the pole and thrust it into the water, pushing down and seeking the bottom of the River.

  Enrod looked straight ahead. His jaws ground together. His eyes widened. He could not move. He could only push his raft along, moving nowhere.

  With aching arms, Enrod began his endless journey.

  2. Spirits in the Night

  “The six Spirits have gone from Gamearth and they will never return. Why have they abandoned us? Are our lives so trivial to them? How soon they forget everything they once were.”

  —Sardun’s memoirs

  Delrael plodded to his bedchambers in the main building of the Stronghold. His head ached, his body felt stiff, and he wanted to explode from inactivity.

  Once again he and the other characters had resolved nothing—another day wasted, and they still had thought of no way to fight Scartaris, the Outsiders’ evil creature growing in the east.

  He hated all this talking and planning. He wanted to go somewhere.

  Delrael had returned to the Stronghold two weeks before with Vailret and Bryl, successful in their quest to create a Barrier River and to rescue the Sentinel Sardun’s daughter, Tareah. But then they had learned from blind Paenar that the Barrier River would not stop Scartaris after all. . . .

  Every day, Vailret insisted that they meet with other characters to discuss the problem, to brainstorm. There had to be a way, Vailret said, there always had to be a way. He usually knew about things like that. To be fair, the Outsiders had to play by their own Rules, they needed to provide some solution to every problem they posed.

  “Or maybe not, in this cas
e,” Delrael said.

  No one could suggest a plan of action, not even Tareah. They knew too little about their enemy.

  Delrael found it impossible to sit around and wait. He was a fighter trained to action, not discussion. He needed to meet a problem head on, to fight, to explore, go adventuring and, as the primary Rule of Gamearth dictated, have fun. When all else fails, go on a quest.

  Finally, he and Vailret came to the conclusion that they should just head east. Maybe they could do something there if they tried. Perhaps Enrod, the full-blooded Sentinel in Tairé, could help them. . . .

  Delrael stood in the doorway of his room. It had once been his parents’ master chambers, but that had been many turns before. Fielle, his mother, was dead of a fever, and his father Drodanis had gone away, searching for the mysterious Rulewoman far away in the south.

  It was warm for the late summer night, but Vailret’s mother Siya had built a roaring fire in the hearth. Light glittered from chests of gems stacked against his wall, plunder from some of Delrael’s earlier quests. The room smelled clean and resinous from the burning wood. Siya had tossed herbs into the hearth again.

  His bed beckoned to him. His body yearned for a good night’s sleep. Worked up and anxious, not knowing what to do, Delrael hadn’t been resting well, frustrated by a problem he could not grasp.

  Even his younger cousin Vailret, the thinker and scholar, found himself just as much at a loss.

  With a sigh, Delrael loosened his oiled leather jerkin and removed it, stretching his arms. The muscles popped into place. It felt good to relax. While sitting around, he had mended his armor. He needed to work on his archery skills a little more tomorrow.

  Someone knocked on the door before he could lie down. Delrael sighed and went to the door.

  Siya stood there, small and rigid. “I’ve drawn another hot bath for Tareah. I don’t know how she stands it—I can barely put my hand in the water. But she says it helps her aches. I wonder how much longer this will last.”

  Delrael nodded. “Depends how long she keeps on growing.”

  The Sentinel Sardun had held his daughter in the body of a child for three decades, not wanting her to grow up before another full-blooded Sorcerer could be born at random by the Rules of Probability. But when Sardun died, his spell was broken. In only weeks Tareah grew at a remarkable rate, catching up with lost time. In the balloon ride back from the island of Rokanun, she looked like ten-year-old girl: now she appeared fully grown.

  But her bones and muscles ached from the strain. Hot, hot baths helped, she said. Siya and Delrael tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

  Tareah had blossomed into a beautiful woman, though she still felt uncomfortable around groups of characters after the isolation in her father’s Ice Palace. She was making the effort to learn social skills that Delrael took for granted.

  “Why don’t you make her some herb tea so she can rest better?” Delrael said. “And if there’s anything I can do for her, tell her to be sure and ask.” He wrapped his hand around the edge of the door.

  “But I need to get to sleep now, Aunt Siya. Sooner or later we’re going to leave on a quest again.”

  She scowled, but Delrael raised his hand to stop her from saying anything. “We’re not doing it just for fun this time. You know that. We’re trying to save our world.”

  But after he closed the door, removed his clothes, and pulled on an airy nightshirt, Delrael closed his eyes in concern. His head kept ringing from too much discussion.

  Working together, they had defeated Tryos the dragon and driven away Gairoth the ogre. But if Scartaris was powerful enough to obliterate the map of Gamearth and literally destroy every hexagon of terrain, they would need something more potent than magic Stones and hand-held weapons.

  Bending down, Delrael picked up the jewelled silver belt his father had given him. The belt was an ancient relic, crafted by the old Sorcerers before they embarked on the Transition. Delrael had earned it for doing well in his battle training. If only the vanished Sorcerers knew what was becoming of their world now. . . .

  At the moment, though, he wanted sleep more than anything. Maybe an idea would come in the night. Still staring at the belt in his hands, Delrael dropped backward onto the bed—

  A lightning bolt like ice shot through his body. His heart stopped. His vision turned into the blinding white of a snowstorm.

  He landed on his back in the dew-spangled grass of a starlit meadow. The cool air around him was like the shock of falling into a mountain stream.

  He paused a second to blink in astonishment before his fighter reflexes took over. Delrael leaped to his feet, crouching in a battle stance—but he was barefoot, clad only in his nightshirt, holding only a silver belt in his hand. He felt helpless and naked as he glanced around, trying to find a branch or something to fight with.

  Overhead the greenish aurora, Lady Maire’s Veil, lit the clearing. Through a break in the trees, Delrael could see Steep Hill, on top of which stood the walled-in Stronghold. He had been somehow transported into one of the neighboring forest-terrain hexes. He hadn’t the slightest idea why.

  “Who’s there?” Delrael said quietly. Then, squaring his shoulders, he spoke in his loudest battle-commander voice. “I said who’s there!”

  After a moment he wondered if he should have said anything at all.

  The forest sounds vanished. It made Delrael wonder if all the creatures had some sort of rapport with. . .with whatever had brought him here. The trees stood completely still, then began to sway on the edges of the meadow. The wind picked up. Spangles of light wove in and out of the air, drawing rough shapes that towered impossibly high and yet might not have been there at all.

  Delrael blinked his eyes again and again. The outlines grew sharper, taking form as the breeze turned to a roar. The tree branches clattered and scratched against each other. Delrael’s brown hair blew back away from his face.

  He squinted into the stinging wind, but the white light grew brighter and brighter until it coalesced into three discrete forms, giant hooded shapes. They stood taller than the trees, stretching up toward the glowing aurora.

  “We are the Earthspirits. We have come back to save Gamearth. And you must help us.”

  Delrael didn’t know what to say. His jaw dropped. Vailret had told enough stories about the Transition—he knew how powerful the Spirits were. The wind rang in his ears. He thought he was shouting, but his voice felt pitifully small. His words sounded limp and inane even to him. “How can I help? Can you destroy Scartaris?”

  The Earthspirits paused at that, then spoke again in unison. “We have been gone too long. We are not aware of what has taken place since we departed.

  “We sought a way to escape from the Game, to leave the map behind and seek our own reality. We found ways to avoid the Rules, but we cannot break them entirely. We are bound to Gamearth—its Rules are fundamental to our existence.

  “The Deathspirits learned this, too, but they wish to embrace chaos. They would form their own Rules, make their own maps, Play their own new games.

  “They were our enemies in the Wars. We have not communicated with them since the Transition.”

  Silence hung in the wind for a moment.

  “But the Wars are over.” Delrael felt giddy at his own brashness for interrupting. “Scartaris is our enemy now, but we don’t stand any chance against him. Unless you can help.”

  Delrael shrugged off his doubts. No character ever won a gamble without first placing a wager.

  “Scartaris is. . .unknown to us. We do not know if we will win against him.” The Earthspirits paused a beat. “But if we are to fight, you must take us there.”

  Delrael stood straight, brushing the damp folds of his nightshirt. “Take you there? What do you mean? Can’t you just. . .go?”

  “We are bound by Rules of travel as are all characters on Gamearth. But it is much more difficult for us to cross hex-lines. We are not substantial enough.

  “Also,
Scartaris has the power to destroy the map and end the Game any time he wishes. If he knows we are coming for him, he will not wait.”

  Delrael felt disappointed and helpless. “Why doesn’t he get it over with, then?”

  “The Outsider David is a vindictive one. He wants to make all characters watch the destruction of Gamearth first.

  “You must deliver us in secret. The Outsiders are not aware of our return to the world. They can know nothing of this quest. We are beyond them now—Gamearth has its own magic they do not realize.”

  Listening to the Earthspirits speak, Delrael began to feel confident again. As the giant forms loomed over him, he sensed their power, their invincibility.

  “We will disguise ourselves. A dim part of us remembers the silver belt you carry, remembers creating it as an ornament so long ago.”

  Delrael clenched the glittering belt self-consciously, wondering what they would do. Then he cursed his own selfishness.

  “Lay it on the ground,” the Earthspirits said. “We will meld ourselves to it, take substance in the metal. We can do little to assist you, though we can shield you from the manipulations of Scartaris once you get closer to him.

  “Carry this belt across the map. When you reach Scartaris, we will emerge. We will take him by surprise.”

  Silence settled down on the meadow. The white Spirits waited for Delrael.

  With trembling hands, he laid the shining belt down on the grass. The light from the Earthspirits glinted off the gems and the polished hexagonal sections of silver. He backed away, stumbling into a fallen tree. But he could not tear his gaze from the Spirits.

  The Earthspirits changed. They moved. Their light glittered and swirled in a funnel, pouring down into the metal of the belt. Dazzles of color floated in front of Delrael’s eyes. He shielded them, blinking, as the wind continued to howl, focusing downward. Leaves broke away from branches and swirled around his head.