Vailret patted Journeyman on the shoulder, trying to reassure him. The clay felt soft and sticky. “Doesn’t matter how it gets done—I just don’t want Scartaris to wipe the map clean. I won’t even ask about your weapon.”
“You better not, because I’m not going to tell.”
Vailret rolled his eyes and let the golem go ahead of him.
They continued as the Spectre Mountains in the distance became backlit in orange, then sharply silhouetted with dawn. By morning they crossed into an identical hexagon of grassland.
Delrael remained withdrawn, saying little. In the early afternoon, when they crossed into a lush hex of forest terrain, he appeared even more gloomy. The dense trees seemed to remind him of Tallin. . . .
It took them until early afternoon of the following day to get through the next hexagon of rugged forested-hill terrain. The trees, valleys, and green undergrowth made Vailret think of the khelebar forest of Ledaygen before the fire. They climbed the hills, looking down the steep slopes covered with trees and rock outcroppings. The quest-path guided them back and forth to the top of a ridge.
They trudged on at a steady pace, then stopped early to rest. Vailret and Journeyman played tic-tac-toe on the ground. Delrael watched for a few games, but when they asked him to join in, he declined and went off by himself to sleep.
The quest-path wound ahead of them across the next hex-line into the steep Spectre Mountains. Though the air was cool, Vailret found himself sweating and itching under his jerkin. His legs were tired, but he had settled into a pace that allowed him to keep going. Delrael gained ground ahead of them, then waited, fidgeting, for the others to catch up.
Vailret thought the sheer mountains ahead were like a wall to cut Delrael off from memories of the Anteds. Perhaps by replacing the anger and sorrow with a quest, Delrael would be able to heal his wound. Maybe climbing the rocky slopes would somehow purge him.
Around them stones protruded along the path. Tufts of grass and sturdy scrub brush grew in sheltered crannies. Rock walls lurched upward like battlements, wind-carved and rain-washed into stark peaks and deep gullies. The quest-path was smooth and chalky, like hardened plaster washed down from the cliffs.
The sun spilled over the peaks in late morning. They came to a flat promontory jutting westward from the mountainside. Vailret stumbled to the edge for a rest. His lungs burned as he tried to catch his breath in the chilly air. The wind blew around them, ruffling Vailret’s hair. Bryl joined him, pulling his blue hood over his face like a cowl.
Delrael squatted down to look back across the vast panorama of the Game board. Perfect hexagons of terrain lay immediately below, forested-hill, forest, grassland; in the distance they could see the desolation dotted with tiny pock marks of Anted holes. Other sections of terrain swept in a beautiful mosaic to flat dimness at the far edge of the map.
Vailret squinted, trying to determine what he was seeing. Bryl pointed and stretched his gnarled hand out of the billowing sleeve. “Look at that!”
At the first hex of desolation terrain moved a dense gathering of black static the size of a thunderhead. It moved and slithered forward, scattered and fluttering in a formless clump. Vailret’s eyesight was not sharp enough to catch any details, but he could tell that the others had no idea what they saw either. Where the dark gathering touched the desert, clouds of dust swirled behind it as if a great army, indistinct and enshrouded in black mist, marched across the hexagon.
“What is it?” Vailret asked.
“Something sent by Scartaris maybe?” Bryl said.
“Still too far away.” Delrael stood up, hurling a stone over the edge, and strode off without watching it fall. “We’ll get rid of Scartaris before we need to worry about that thing.”
#
For someone with no coordination whatsoever, Gairoth had incredible luck climbing the narrow quest-path into the Spectre Mountains. His big feet found purchase on the tiny outcrops, and he hauled himself up the steep and crumbling trail. His only thought was to catch Delroth.
He saw a ledge, a shortcut to eliminate one of the tedious switchbacks, and climbed up, sprawling on the rough stone. After a second’s rest, he reached up to grab another handhold and heaved himself to the next ledge. He lay panting. Sweat ran through his ropy hair, leaving a dirty track on his face. He wanted something to eat.
Then he noticed fresh footprints on the quest-path. Delroth’s boots. The ogre pressed his potato-sized nose down to the ground, inhaling deeply in the dirt to see if he could pick up any scent. He grinned. “Haw!”
Huffing and grumbling, Gairoth lurched up the steep path, swinging his club back and forth.
#
By midday the four travelers reached the snow line. Sharp cliffs towered overhead, blocking the sunlight and leaving patches of ice on the ground. The quest-path remained clear, but clumps of snow hung over outcrops of rock.
The main wall leaned over them, sloping backward and pregnant with a heavy load of snow on the cliff edge. A glistening sheet of clean snow stretched toward the tops of the mountains, dotted with stark rock outcroppings.
Delrael led them through a series of tight switchbacks as the quest-path threaded its way eastward. On the other side of the path and the rock outcroppings, the mountain slope was steep and broken with terraced ledges.
He walked along, stomping his boots in the snow. The others followed. Only the ruffle of wind brushing snow along the rocks disturbed the silence.
#
Gairoth pulled himself up another ledge to reach a flat area that intersected the quest-path. He took the straight way up the slope again, but his arms ached from the effort. His nose was red and cold. His ears hurt from the whistling wind. He ate some snow, bit down on a rock, and spat it out.
The ogre stomped up the steep path around disorienting outcrops of stone. Snow turned brown as it melted on his dirty furs. Then he reached a patch where snow had slid down the cliff and drifted across the path. He saw a line of trampled slush, fresh tracks on the quest-path. Very fresh.
“Delroth!” His bellow echoed among the cliffs, causing a tiny patter of dislodged snow from above. Brandishing his club, Gairoth bounded forward.
#
Delrael heard the ogre’s yell and stopped in mid-stride with a disgusted expression on his face. Bryl made a strangled sound of shock. Vailret blinked his eyes to cover his surprise.
“Not tonight, I’ve got a headache,” Journeyman groaned.
Gairoth hurtled around the corner, overbalanced and stumbling on an ice patch. He caught his footing before he could plummet over the edge of the slope. Raising the spiked club, he turned to the fighter.
Delrael pulled his sword free and stood firm on the path, returning the ogre’s glare. “I’m getting sick and tired of you, Gairoth.”
Gairoth lumbered forward, a grin of triumph on his thick lips. “Haw!”
He leaped ahead and swung his club at Delrael’s head, but the fighter skittered backward, slashing sideways with the edge of his sword. Delrael stumbled on the slippery path in mid-swing, and his stroke went wide.
The ogre’s spiked club smashed like a cannonball against the rock wall. The whole mountain seemed to shake. The cramped area on the narrow path did not allow the others room to help. Journeyman flexed his arms, waiting for an opportunity.
Gairoth saw his victim still standing and brought up the club for another blow. Delrael stood motionless, his head cocked and listening to a deep rumble above him. The ogre looked up to see pebbles and white mist pouring down like the whitecap on a tidal wave of roaring snow dislodged from the mountainside.
A firm clay arm encircled Delrael’s waist and jerked him backward. “Heads up!” Journeyman said, bounding away from the avalanche. With elongated hands, Journeyman held Delrael, Bryl, and Vailret under the overhang of rock.
Gairoth gaped at the white wall of snow coming at him like a stampede. He swung his club to knock the avalanche away.
The wave of ice and snow slammed int
o the trail, blasting upward and knocking the ogre off the ledge like so much flotsam. The white cascade swept him bouncing and jostling down the jagged slope.
“Have a nice day!” Journeyman called after him.
Chunks of snow sprayed the four companions, and an aftermath of cold mist hovered in the air. The rumble faded into the patter of settling snow. The only sound breaking the new silence was a far off roar as the remnants of the snow made its way to the bottom of the canyon. An impassable white barrier of slumped ice and snow blocked quest-path behind them.
“Good thing we wanted to go forward anyway,” Vailret said.
#
The tip of a spiked club broke the surface of the settling snow. A thick arm thrust forward, thrashing around. When Gairoth’s shaggy, ice-encrusted head emerged, he sputtered and flung snow from his eye. He squirmed back and forth in the piled drift and caught his footing.
The ogre knocked the snow away from himself, freeing his arms. He grumbled and stamped his cold feet, looking at the steep slope. It would be a long climb back up. But Delroth was up there.
11. Arken’s Gate
“I stand by my decision not to accompany you on the Transition. I will not abandon our descendants. If other characters need me on Gamearth, then I must remain and help determine the course of the Game.”
—Arken, final address to the Sorcerer council
The quest-path wound along the side of a tall unfurrowed granite face, with sheer rock to their left and a frightening drop on their right. Wind whistled around the rocks, polishing away any snow that clung to tiny cracks.
The companions came around a curve to where the rock wall jutted sideways, as if a great hand had split the cliff and pushed it over to the right, channelling the quest-path through a narrow cut in the mountain.
But a locked gate blocked their way.
Vailret stopped and blinked. The black gate seemed so incongruous in the rocky wilderness. It towered three times their height, protected on the sides by the smooth rock walls. The bars were wrought iron, gilded with curlicues and sharp spikes, forbidding and unscalable. No other signs of life or civilization showed on the barren terrain.
“Verrry interesting,” Journeyman said, curling his voice in a strange accent.
Vailret considered the problem, trying to think of who would place such an obstruction and why. He wondered if it might be a relic left over from the old Sorcerer days, but then some notation should have been made on the master maps at the Stronghold. The locked gate had not been there long.
Delrael made an angry noise and went forward. He looked for a latch, then grabbed the bars, rattling the gate on its hinges. It didn’t budge. Without saying anything, he let the look on his face express his anger and impatience.
“Let me try.” Journeyman wrapped his arms around the bars, looping into the gate. He pulled with enough force that the iron shivered and hummed with the strain. A few bits of rock flaked off the side of the mountain. But the gate held firm.
The golem surrendered and withdrew his arms. He smoothed the indentations on his limbs and stood looking ruffled. “I could reshape myself and squeeze through.”
“That won’t help us,” Bryl said.
Journeyman shrugged. “I’ll go myself if we can’t find any other way. My own quest takes priority, you know.”
“We’re not ready for that yet.” Delrael struck his fist ineffectually against the cliff face. He looked around with narrowed eyes. Vailret could see the emotions struggling in him—until now, Delrael had been using the forced march to cover up his other feelings. Now he had to face them and do something. But he didn’t know what to do.
One of the lumps of rock shifted on the cliff face above. Delrael jumped back out of the way, ready to defend himself against a trap. Vailret looked up, and his neck hurt in the cold air.
The boulder sprouted arms as they watched. A portion of the rock raised itself to form a head. The flat gray stone flowed like hot wax. Joints stretched out as a blocky creature uncurled from its camouflage. Jagged stone wings lifted upward, revealing an ugly sculpted figure, human in shape but molded with a lumpy gray texture. Small ridges ran down its back, and demonic horns sprouted from the center of its forehead.
Delrael looked at it with contempt, ready to fight. But Vailret put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and squinted up at the cliff face to make sure of what he saw. “A gargoyle?” He took a step forward and addressed the stone figure. “Is that what you are?”
“You are very perceptive,” the creature said.
Vailret had heard references to these creatures in his studies of Gamearth legends. Many of the old Sentinels had destroyed themselves in a final unleashing of sorcerous power, a half-Transition that liberated their spirits into independent wandering entities. Some of these spirits gathered together to form a collective presence, called a dayid. But others, the stronger individual spirits, wandered by themselves and formed crude and temporary bodies of stone.
The gargoyle straightened up and directed his hollow gaze at them. He sighed. “You cannot pass this gate. It’s not my choice, but I have to stop you.”
Journeyman mashed his face into a scowl. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
“We need to get to Tairé,” Delrael said. He placed his hands on his hips and tried a deliberate lie. “My brother is dying. You can’t stop me from seeing him one last time.”
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t care for Tairé anymore. Much has changed since Scartaris.” The gargoyle turned his grotesque stone face up to the sky. “I remember when Enrod wanted to rebuild the lands around the city. Such a shame—all that work, wasted now.”
“Who are you, gargoyle?” Vailret asked.
“That’s a long story. I’ve lived for many turns of the Game, first as a Sorcerer lord and then as one of the Sentinels trying to help human characters. By now the memories are dim. A stone head isn’t made to hold too many thoughts, you know.” He rapped on his forehead with a granite fist. “My name was, is Arken. I wasn’t always so weak—now I’m required to guard this gate so that no characters may pass.”
“Arken?” Vailret said. He blinked his eyes and took two steps forward, lowering his voice. “Arken? That’s incredible! Do you know how much I—”
“Who is controlling you, gargoyle?” Delrael interrupted, silencing his cousin. He stared at the gate as if he could will it to vanish.
Vailret frowned at Delrael, still in shock. In all his readings, Arken had been one of the greatest Sorcerers. Only Arken had spoken out against the Transition, arguing that the surviving Sorcerers should help rebuild Gamearth after their endless wars had laid waste to so much of it. Most of them refused to listen, but some had remained behind as Sentinels to help human characters against the other monsters.
The stone gargoyle turned his head toward Delrael. “Scartaris controls me. He grows more powerful every day. The Outsiders want him to win, I think.”
Vailret mumbled another question. “But you’re Arken—we remember you as the first Sentinel, the greatest defender of Gamearth. How can you possibly be in league with Scartaris?” Vailret let his hands fall to his sides. “Don’t you know what he’s doing? He’s going to end the Game for all of us!”
The gargoyle leaned over the mountain face and walked down, perpendicular to the cliff at an impossible angle. He righted himself on the path and came to stare at them.
The gargoyle shook his demonic stone head. “I am bound by the Rules. Scartaris defeated me, and I have to defend this gate to the best of my ability. It doesn’t matter if I despise what he is trying to do.”
Suddenly Arken’s manner seemed filled with new excitement. He focused his attention at them. “You travelers know who Scartaris is? And you’re on a quest eastward?” He held up a blocky stone hand. “No, don’t tell me anything—Scartaris will hear! I can guess for myself. Let me keep my hopes up. But I still can’t help you.”
“You’re talking to us, though,” Vailret said. “You’r
e answering our questions.”
“Certainly. And I’ll do everything I can to get around my restrictions.”
“Why can’t you just let us pass and not tell Scartaris?” Bryl asked.
The gargoyle looked at him, annoyed. “I can’t disregard my task for the sake of a whim. The Rules are the Rules, regardless of my feelings.” He hunkered down and put his chin in his blocky stone fist. “Perhaps we can think of a different way I might help you.”
Delrael kicked at a stone on the path. His lips were pressed together into a thin, white line. “Is there another pass we could go through?” he said. “We need to get moving.”
“I doubt it,” Arken said. “Scartaris will have guardians on all the quest-paths over the Spectre Mountains anyway. The other gatekeepers might not be so understanding.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth, not trying to trick us?” Bryl put his hands on his hips, haughty.
Vailret thought he looked silly. “That’s Arken, Bryl—don’t be ridiculous.”
The gargoyle seemed puzzled by Vailret’s comment. “Well, you don’t know whether I’m telling the truth or not—although I can promise that if I were trying to trick you, I would attempt to be. . .a little more devious.”
“All right, then, here’s a straightforward question.” Delrael stepped forward. “How can we pass? How can we defeat you?”
The stone gargoyle shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we can figure out something.”
“Could we play a game of dice, Arken? It’s simple but effective. High roll wins?” Vailret withdrew his own set of dice. “If we win, you let us pass?”
The gargoyle placed his stone chin on his fist. “Remember that I have more than my share of luck.” Arken knelt down to the ground. The cold path and the bleak mountains seemed to have no effect on him. “But if this doesn’t work, we can still try something else.”
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