Delrael’s arm went numb from fingertips to shoulder. He couldn’t even tell if he still held his sword or not.
Delrael shook his head, stunned. He tripped backward on some of the branches underfoot, rolling as he fell. The sword dropped beside him and he picked it up with his left hand. He didn’t know how to fight with his left hand.
“Haw! Haw!” Gairoth said.
“Are you guys going to help me or what!” Delrael shouted.
Bryl took out the Air Stone and the Fire Stone and shuffled them from one hand to the other. “Do something!” Vailret said.
Bryl said, “Which one should I use?”
“I don’t care!”
Bryl picked up the Fire Stone, looked at it, then closed his eyes. He tossed it on the forest floor, hoping for a high number. He rolled a “1.” His spell failed.
“Wouldn’t you know it?”
“Gairoth, you big dummy!” Vailret cried out as he ran downhill into the hollow. It was an impulsive act, something Delrael might have done. He pulled out his short sword, though he had no idea what good it would do against the ogre. He slipped in the mud but grabbed branches to keep his balance and plunged on.
The ogre looked up, giving Delrael a moment to roll farther away. The rusty spikes on the club looked sharp, and thicker than Delrael’s fingers.
From the sack, the point of an arrow emerged again, opening a gash. Little hands poked through and tore the material, sawing with the arrow tip, until the young ylvan poked his head through. He squirmed with his shoulders until he finally got the sack down about his waist. He didn’t try to climb out, but instead grabbed his crossbow, nocked an arrow, and shot it.
The arrow struck the back of Gairoth’s wide left leg. The ogre released the club with one hand and slapped at the arrow. In doing so, he let the heavy club fall to his side, banging his own knee.
Delrael climbed to his feet, propped on his sword. With his left hand he bent the other arm to raise the blade and block another blow. His shoulders were trembling, and he knew he wouldn’t be strong enough.
But behind Gairoth, the flattened bulk of Journeyman squirmed. The golem rose back up, reforming himself from the soft clay. Without a sound, he pushed his head and shoulders into shape out of the central mass of mud and drew more moisture from the soft forest floor.
His chest and legs rippled, redistributing the clay, flowing most of it into one forearm and fist that became as massive as the golem’s body core itself, one giant hand the size of a heavy boulder.
“Just what the doctor ordered, Gairoth. Have a taste of your own medicine.”
Before the ogre could turn in response, Journeyman slammed his huge fist down on Gairoth’s head. “BAM! See how you like it.”
The ogre’s eye rolled up. His jaw dropped slack, and he tumbled like a falling tree, face first into the mud and leaves. His club fell beside him.
Journeyman slapped his palms together in finality. “How do you spell relief?”
#
They left Gairoth stone cold in the hollow as they hurried down the quest-path in the forest terrain.
“Glory hallelujah!” Journeyman babbled about his adventure. He tucked and nudged pieces of clay back into place. “Oh, what a feeling!”
“Yes, it was a good one, wasn’t it?” Delrael said. He shook his tingling and sore right arm.
The ylvan man brushed off his camouflaged leather suit and took out a sewn cap that sported a red feather. “I’m not much for formalities, but my name is Tallin. Thanks for rescuing me—you did a good job against the big clod! It’s nice not having to fight all by myself for a change.”
“Rule number one, always have fun,” Delrael said, shrugging his shoulders. They introduced themselves according to gaming protocol and each told his areas of expertise.
“Why were you the only one fighting against Gairoth?” Vailret asked. “Was something wrong with the others?”
Tallin strode ahead as if he knew where they were going. Delrael had trouble keeping pace with him.
“They were trying to fight. You saw them, and how sad it was. I didn’t do anything but yell at Gairoth from the trees until he started wrecking things. The old man he pulled out of the nest was Tranor. He tells good stories and he knows more dice games than any character I’ve ever seen.”
Tallin watched the forest floor, and his face bore a bemused expression. He rubbed his fingers together on the tip of his pointed beard.
“Tranor used to tell me stories about the old Sorcerer wars, how the ylvan once were the terrors of the forest, ambushing any enemy that entered our forest terrain. Hah!” Tallin sounded excited. “We could be invisible in the trees, and run up among the branches, shooting down with our arrows. We survived the Scouring, when some of you high-minded human characters decided to wipe out the other races on Gamearth.”
Delrael looked for some resentment in the ylvan’s eyes, but he saw none. After the Sorcerer race departed on their Transition, the remaining character races were left to fight over the map. Human characters rallied with some of the half-breed Sorcerers to defend against the reptilian Slac. Other human fighters, thinking themselves brave, went to extremes and tried to exterminate all other character races. In their fear and fanaticism they struck at even the benign ones, like the ylvan or the panther people, the khelebar.
That was many turns ago, though, and Tallin did not seem to carry a grudge.
“I stayed with my people. Somebody has to take care of them, since they all seem to have knocked their heads against a tree too many times,” Tallin said. “Even though they turned into a bunch of sore Losers even before they went into their daze. They stopped playing games for enjoyment. Kellos, our village leader, turned them sour, made them afraid and suspicious, for all the good it did them. They still succumbed to whatever put them in a daze anyway. They could have been having fun instead of worrying all that time. I’ve been getting food for them, since they don’t seem to have any interest in doing it themselves.”
Vailret repeated his original question. “But what’s wrong with them? Why are they acting like that?”
Tallin knitted his eyebrows and looked at Vailret. “Do I look like someone who sits around and explains things all day? Normally they would have fought like hornets, especially with Kellos stirring them up. Now, though, they’re just sleepwalking—well, you saw. What’s gotten into them? Is it some kind of spell? You tell me. I don’t understand these things.”
Vailret stared ahead, eyes fixed but unfocused on the little man’s green cap. Delrael couldn’t imagine any reason, but then Journeyman spoke up.
“Scartaris has the power to manipulate other characters with his mind, as if he is a Player in his own right. He can control actions, even from this great a distance.”
Tallin looked at them, puzzled. “What’s a Scartaris?” Nobody answered his question.
“Wonderful. . .” Bryl said. “What’s going to stop it from happening to us?”
Delrael thought the Earthspirits in his belt might protect them, if the Spirits were even still alive.
“As a matter of fact,” Bryl continued, “What protected Tallin? He should have been controlled just like the others.”
Journeyman raised his lumpy eyebrows, like two hairless caterpillars arching themselves for battle. “Enquiring minds want to know.”
“Maybe he’s a spy, planted here to join our group and sabotage our quest,” Bryl said. He glared at the little man.
“Bryl, you said that about Journeyman, too.” Delrael frowned at the half-Sorcerer with open skepticism.
“Look, I didn’t ask you to come rescue me.” Tallin flared his nostrils, angry and insulted, but he managed to hold his temper. Delrael admired that. “Are you suggesting I pretended to get captured by Gairoth? You’ve got mud for brains.”
But Vailret’s face carried a doubtful expression. “If your entire village was corrupted by Scartaris, how did you alone stay untouched?”
“Brilliant question. I probab
ly never would have thought of that one myself!” Tallin looked at the rest of them with a haughty expression, and then turned to Delrael for support. “How should I know? I’ve told you the truth.”
Delrael pursed his lips. “If he was working with Scartaris and the Outsiders, he’d make sure he had a good cover story.”
“Good point,” Journeyman said.
“Wait a minute.” Vailret motioned with his hands for them to calm down. “We all know about some of the rulebreakers. Characters like Lellyn, and like Tarne. Maybe certain characters have a natural immunity, something Scartaris can’t touch. It would fit with the Rules of Probability.”
“Maybe this is Gamearth fighting back with flukes of its own, twists in the Game,” Delrael said.
Vailret’s eyes sparkled with the possibility. Delrael could see how intrigued he was by the idea. “And what if the Outsiders don’t know anything about it?”
Delrael clapped the ylvan on the back to get them all moving again. “Can you give me a hint about where we’re going? I don’t waste much time sitting around and planning things, but I wouldn’t mind having the end goal in sight.”
“My feelings exactly!” Delrael said, smiling.
“I take it that means you’re joining our quest?” Vailret asked.
Tallin blinked. “You don’t expect me to go watch the other ylvan stare at trees all day, do you? After they just watched Gairoth carry me off, I don’t feel much attachment to home anymore.”
#
The sun was low in the west, shooting its last rays between the tree trunks, when they neared the edge of the last hexagon they could travel in a day. A cool breeze sprang up from the east, rippling the forest leaves.
Just ahead they could see the sprawling vista of the next hexagon, at last a break from the forest terrain. Flat, unpleasant-looking desolation spread out into the dusk. Delrael took a deep breath of the forest smells, and knew that would all change the next morning when they crossed the black line into the rocky desert.
On their long walk, Delrael had warmed up to Tallin, a companion with whom he could discuss strategy, adventuring, and tactics. He explained about the Outsider David trying to end the Game, and of their quest to find a way to stop Scartaris. He said nothing about the Earthspirits hidden in his belt.
At camp Tallin gathered wood, explaining how to stack it for a better fire. He refused to let Bryl use a spell and started the fire himself with a rough stone and the metal from his belt buckle. Annoyed, Bryl let him have his way.
Upon seeing the pack food his companions intended to eat, the ylvan snorted in disgust. Tallin secured the crossbow on his shoulder and scrambled up the trunk of a tree, finding fingerholds where none appeared visible. He called down from the branches. “This shouldn’t take long.” His mottled green clothes blended into the forest shadows and he vanished in the leaves.
Delrael lost three more games of tic-tac-toe to Journeyman, tied one, and won one. Vailret played idly with his own set of dice. Tallin dropped down into the clearing, holding two quail. “Quite an improvement over standard pack food, especially stuff that’s been replenished by a spell too many times.”
Bryl looked miffed, but the prospect of fresh meat seemed to brighten him. He changed his mind, though, when he was assigned the task of plucking feathers. Tallin spitted the meat and left it to cook above the flames of the campfire, bowed over the heat on thin green branches. The smell was deliciously inviting as the quail sizzled in the smoke. They could hear the meat hissing against the burning wood.
“Is it finger-lickin’ good?” Journeyman asked, watching them eat. They cleaned every bone on the two carcasses. “I can’t believe you ate the whole thing!”
After the meal, Tallin piled wood on the campfire so it would burn all night. Journeyman remained on watch as the others brought out blankets, settling down on the leaves and forest grass to sleep. Bryl brushed branches away and moved three times before he found a comfortable spot. Tallin lay by himself in a light sleep.
Delrael propped his head against the smooth bark of a maple tree. He bent his knees, rubbing the pliable kennok wood of his left leg, and kept his feet warm by the fire as the autumn air cooled down for the night. The taste of the meal remained in his mouth, and he could smell the smoke from the low campfire. He looked at the young ylvan beside them and felt safe and content as he drifted off into sleep.
#
Gairoth listened to the pounding of drums inside his head. Pain made the bones in his skull vibrate. Leaves and dead grass stuck to his face. He pawed them away, smearing his cheeks and skin with muddy markings.
The ogre looked around the hollow. Delroth was gone. The torn, discarded sack showed him that the little ylvan had also fled—and Gairoth’s sack was ruined. He had killed an old traveler for it, though he found little treasure inside. Now he would never find another sack.
Dark, speechless anger bubbled up in him, increasing the pain in his head. He sat up, holding hands against his temples to squeeze the pain back inside.
Rognoth, his pet dragon, was gone, chased far to the north by another dragon brought by Delroth. Bryl the magic user had taken away Gairoth’s shiny diamond Air Stone. All the rest of his treasure was gone, too, after his Maw had chased him away from the Stronghold.
And when he had tried to go home, Gairoth found a giant river right where his cesspools had been. Right where his home had been.
The ogre felt outraged, betrayed, saddened. The ylvan called him a Loser—maybe that was true. But it was all Delroth’s fault. Gairoth pounded both fists into the soft ground, then clenched them in a stranglehold around the end of his club.
The ogre climbed to his feet. He had nothing else to do now.
His teeth hurt. His skin hurt. The inside of his head hurt. All of him hurt. Everything had been so nice before. Before Delroth had come.
Gairoth’s mind fixed on the idea. He would take a quest of his own. It sounded right to him, a straightforward solution, something he could concentrate on and never forget. He would follow Delroth, and find him, and smash him with the club. BAM!
He stood up and, his stomach growling with hunger, he tossed aside the torn and empty sack. It had been a good sack. Gairoth found the footprints of the group along one of the clear quest-paths.
The ogre followed them.
#
Tallin woke the others more than an hour before sunrise. He rubbed his little hands together in the crisp air and blew steam from his mouth. “Come on, let’s get going.” He nudged Bryl on the ground. “We’ve got a hex or two of desolation to cover. I’ve never been out of the forest before.”
Bryl rubbed his eyes. “Whose quest is this, anyway?”
Vailret held his hands over the still-warm embers of the fire. He flexed fingers that were red with cold.
“He’s right.” Delrael got up, stretched, then folded his blanket. “The terrain should be easy to follow.”
Together, the five of them crossed the abrupt line that severed the hexagon of forest terrain from the desolation ahead. The lush health of the forest disappeared entirely, leaving the ground stricken with blight, dying away into a wasteland. The soil became barren and rocky. Stalks of prairie grass stood in brown patches, dotting the ground.
The coming dawn left a curtain of deep shadow on the flat terrain. The dark Spectre Mountains were visible in the distance as a black jagged silhouette blocking the rising sun. A few stars still prickled the deep blue dome of sky.
As they walked deeper into the hexagon, the dead earth became cluttered with oddly identical boulders, as if something had cut them out of the dirt and scattered them across the plain. The flat ground had a strange, patterned look ahead of them.
In the dim light, and with his poor eyesight, Vailret stumbled upon a series of deep hexagonal wells rimmed by a low mound six feet across. He caught himself, called out to the others, and stared down. The sharply defined hole plunged into the blackness of catacombs beneath the terrain.
“I can�
�t tell what it is,” he said.
Delrael picked up a rock and tossed it down. They heard it strike the bottom a moment later. “Not very deep,” Delrael said. He tossed another stone at an angle. It pinged against the walls, but gave no real hint about the depth of the tunnels.
“Could be just a labyrinth left over from the early days of the Game,” Vailret said. “Back when characters did nothing but wander around in dungeons and catacombs, looking for monsters to fight and treasure to steal.”
Tallin pointed across the desolation as the daylight grew brighter. “Do you see those other openings? I can make out at least a dozen more holes scattered around.”
They moved ahead, and the wells became more and more frequent until they seemed like pores on the surface of the land, connected by an underground network of tunnels. “We’ve got a whole hexagon of this to cover?” Bryl said.
“Now I don’t see why any character would want to leave the forest terrain,” Tallin said.
“All this is starting to make me remember something,” Vailret said. He slowed his pace, taking time to look around.
“Come on, I want to get out of this place,” Bryl said. “Something unpleasant could crawl out of those holes.”
“Don’t worry. Be happy,” Journeyman said.
“We’re stuck anyway,” Delrael said. “According to the map, there’s another hex of desolation after this one, and we can’t go any farther than that today.”
Vailret nodded. “It’s in Rule #5.”
Bryl bit his lip and said nothing. He pulled the folds of his blue cloak tight around him. The orange dawn behind the Spectre Mountains looked like fire across the desolation.
Then, between a cluster of the hexagonal wells, they came across a place where the dusty ground was churned and broken. A glossy dark shape lay half buried in the earth.
Journeyman scooped dirt off the polished black form. “Holy ant farms, Batman!” The golem stood back, showing the uncovered carcass to the others.
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