Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He raised his head to look at all of them. “We’ll only be able to use this challenge once, though. It wouldn’t be fair if you kept rolling until you beat me one time.”

  “Fair enough.” Vailret held his hand out and raised his eyebrows. “Del, why don’t you roll for us?”

  The fighter took the dice and looked at them. “My luck seems to have turned sour lately.”

  “Then it’s time to change it. Go ahead and roll.”

  Delrael rubbed the two twenty-sided dice between his palms and, without interest, let them fall to the ground. A “10” and a “14.”

  “Not bad,” Vailret said.

  “Not good,” Delrael countered.

  Arken brushed the dice into his palm, using one flat stone hand because the blocky fingers were not dexterous enough to grasp the small objects. He tossed them into the air. One die landed flat on the quest-path; the other struck a rock and bounced sideways, coming to rest a few feet away. A “12” and an “18.”

  “I’m sorry,” Arken said. “I told you I had too much luck.”

  With a scowl on his pinched face, Bryl took out the Air Stone and Fire Stone. They glinted in the bright mountain sunlight. “I have these. They’re powerful enough. Can I command you with them? Will they work?”

  The stone creature straightened and took a step backward in shock. He reached a crudely formed hand toward the diamond and the ruby, but Bryl snatched them away. The gargoyle rocked back on his clublike stone feet. “Are those what I think they are?”

  Vailret nodded. “If you’re really Arken, you must remember them.”

  The gargoyle drew a deep breath. “You make me feel strange about my past. When I saw that so few Sorcerers would refuse the Transition and remain to help their own half-breed children, I begged them to create the Stones. Do you know where the other two are? It’s been so long. As I recall, one was lost in the Scouring. . . .”

  Vailret glanced at Delrael, then decided to answer anyway. “Yes, we know where they are, though the Earth Stone is not readily accessible.”

  Bryl had sensed the twenty-sided emerald Stone somewhere in the treasure grotto of Tryos the dragon, but they had no time to search before rescuing Tareah. Vailret wondered how Tareah was faring back at the Stronghold. . . .

  “Never bring all four Stones together unless you are prepared for what will happen,” Arken said, pointing a stone finger at them. “It’s like magical synergy. More power resides in the combined Stones than even the six Spirits possess. A character gathering all four Stones could unleash a new Transition for himself. One character should not have such power.”

  Arken cocked his grotesque head toward the open sky between the peaks, and his voice took on a wistful tone. The wind whistled around the bars of the gate. “The Transition was an awesome enough thing to do once in the Game.”

  Vailret cleared his throat, hoarse with awe at a conversation with one of the greatest Sentinels of legend. “I read your description of the Transition. I found it in Sardun’s Ice Palace.” His voice trembled.

  The blocky stone gargoyle turned his head. A long sigh rumbled out of his stone chest. “I remember writing that, but I was too amazed to describe it well. Imagine the Sorcerer race gathered in a shallow valley, waiting. All the characters who were going on the Transition, and some who only wanted to watch.”

  “We’ve been to that valley, too.” Vailret watched the crude face and tried to picture what Arken must have looked like as a great Sorcerer spokesman. “It seemed haunted.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Arken answered. “Five of our leaders were inside a counsel tent. Even Stilvess Peacemaker was there, the one who had ended the wars. He was so old he could barely move.

  “It was about this time of year, the autumn equinox. The air was cold, and the wind kept flapping the white tent. The other characters waited outside on the plain, ready, in case something should happen. None of them knew what was going on inside. But I did. I was there, their official observer.”

  “Well?” Vailret asked. His eyes sparkled and his breath quickened. “How did you manage to break the Rules and succeed in the Transition?”

  Arken held up one stone hand. “We broke no Rules! It was difficult what we did, yes—but we broke no Rules. Actions on Gamearth are determined by the roll of the dice. Nothing is impossible if you wait long enough and try enough times.”

  “So what were they doing inside the tent?” Vailret repeated. Delrael shuffled his feet; Vailret wondered if he was curious or just impatient.

  “The five of them were rolling dice. Twenty-sided dice, made from pure crystal, perfectly balanced, the finest dice ever seen on Gamearth.

  “The five Sorcerers rolled their dice, over and over and over. They did not stop, day or night. They were weary. I watched their eyes turn red. All of them looked haggard. Old Stilvess seemed as if he was about to collapse.”

  “But what were they trying to do?” Vailret asked.

  Arken seemed to ignore Vailret’s question. He spread his stone wings with a grinding sound. “At last, all five of them rolled a twenty on the same roll. A nearly impossible roll—nearly impossible. A perfect, perfect dice roll, unheard of on Gamearth.

  “And when they rolled five twenties, five of the greatest living Sorcerers on Gamearth, they unleashed enough power to initiate the Transition.” The stone gargoyle hung his head. “That was when I ran out of the tent.”

  Delrael sighed and sounded angry. He rattled the gate again with his hand. “That doesn’t concern us.” He leaned against one of the cold walls of rock. “We have to get past here.”

  Arken hunched his shoulders and swiveled the crudely formed blockish head to look at the fighter.

  “Can we fight you?” Delrael unsheathed his sword, but it looked ineffective against the blocky stone body of the gargoyle.

  Arken shook his head from side to side. “I wouldn’t advise it. Your sword wouldn’t harm me, but I could cause plenty of damage to you.”

  “What if you had a better opponent?” Journeyman said. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going! A gargoyle and a golem—we should have an equivalent strength class.”

  Journeyman turned to the other travelers. “He can’t really damage me, any more than I can damage him. We could wrestle. If I win, the gate opens and we pass.”

  Arken clapped his stone hands with a sharp crack. “It sounds acceptable to me. I must warn you, though, that I am bound to try my utmost to defeat you. I can’t just let you win. It has to be fair.”

  Journeyman drew himself up, flexing his soft arms. “Go for all the gusto while you can.”

  Arken worked his jaw, as if finding words difficult. “If the golem does win, I wish you the best of luck on your quest. I want to see Scartaris stopped too.”

  He faced Journeyman. “Don’t worry about causing damage to me. My spirit isn’t bound to this stone body. As long as Scartaris holds me here, he controls me. But if you. . . break me, then I will be free. For a time, at least.”

  Journeyman made the features of his face run flat as he flowed more clay into his shoulders and arms, concentrating his strength. “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

  Delrael, Vailret, and Bryl stood by the locked gate and watched Arken. The massive stone creature stepped to the narrow part of the path and faced Journeyman.

  “Luck, Journeyman,” Vailret said.

  “Luck,” Bryl and Delrael echoed.

  Arken planted his stone feet squarely on the quest-path and opened his arms, ready to grapple with the golem. He surprised them all by wishing Journeyman luck as well.

  “You can surrender any time,” Journeyman said.

  The grotesque gargoyle straightened his back. “I’ll remember that. Ready?”

  “Yes, ready.”

  With a slap of clay on stone, Journeyman and Arken grabbed each other around the shoulders. Journeyman’s hands flattened as he pushed against the stone gargoyle’s arms. Arken spread his feet, which seemed to fuse to t
he rock of the trail.

  Neither of the combatants made a sound. They kept their faces neutral. Since they were not human, they did not grunt with the strain, or pant, or show any sign of the exertion they made. The breeze died down, and the cold air retained its claustrophobic silence.

  “Irresistible force and immovable object,” Journeyman said. “Did you ever hear about that one, Arken? It’s a riddle from Outside.”

  Arken strained and pushed, but his voice sounded curiously neutral. “What is the solution?”

  Journeyman’s body seemed distorted and stretched with the effort to maintain himself against the gargoyle. “I don’t believe it has a solution. The Outsiders can be very strange at times.”

  The gargoyle lifted one of his blocky stone feet and pivoted, forcing Journeyman to bend and turn his back to the sheer precipice.

  “Come on, Journeyman!” Bryl shouted.

  Arken’s hunched back bent as he took a small step forward, forcing Journeyman closer to the edge. But the clay golem did not move his feet, stretching his legs instead. He slid his arms to get a better grip on Arken’s smooth shoulders.

  “More powerful than a locomotive,” Journeyman said again, but his voice was fainter this time.

  Vailret found himself wincing and pressing his fingers into his fists, straining his arm muscles as if that could assist the golem.

  Arken’s blocky hands left deep indentations in Journeyman’s body. The stone gargoyle pushed harder and harder.

  “Able to leap tall buildings in a single—”

  Finally something snapped.

  “—bound!” Journeyman let out a strange cry like the release of a too-tight bowstring, and his clay flowed like liquid. He flung himself backward, bending over upon himself in an impossible angle, out of the way.

  Arken, thrusting forward with all his might, suddenly had no purchase and nothing to push against.

  He went plummeting over Journeyman, off into space.

  Vailret and Delrael ran forward as Journeyman straightened himself up, pulled his body back together and rearranged his clay. He stood tall. They all heard a distant thock! as Arken’s stone body crashed into the rocks far below.

  Vailret didn’t want to go to the path edge and look.

  Journeyman did not appear flustered. His clay mouth twisted in a beaming expression. “That was the big difference between us, you know, a golem and a gargoyle,” he said. “Clay bends, stone doesn’t.”

  The black iron bars of Arken’s gate tinkled into nothingness on the rock. A chill wind whistled along the quest-path, motioning the travelers ahead to where the trail was wide and easy.

  The shadows of sunset followed them as they passed through the vanished gateway. Just on the other side of the cut waited the black hex-line where they had to stop for the day. The next hexagon of mountain terrain descended gradually, sloping down out of the Spectres, as if saying that any character who passed Arken’s gate deserved easy traveling.

  Ahead, the land of Scartaris waited for them.

  12. Downfall of the Stronghold

  “We must keep the legends alive, the stories of brave quests, the memories of past characters who have become heroes. Though the Outsiders wish only to amuse themselves turn after turn, this is still our history.”

  —The Sentinel Sardun, part of the “Lost Records”

  buried under the Ice Palace ruins

  The villagers gathered in the Stronghold courtyard at sunset to hold a formal ceremony in memory of Tarne. Jagged shadows from the pointed wall crept across the courtyard. The veteran’s ashes had been gathered up and buried in a special area near the Stronghold wall, an honored place where Vailret’s father Cayon was interred, as well as Delrael’s mother Fielle.

  Young Tareah rubbed her elbows and knees in the chill air. Her joints still ached, but she listened with rapt attention as the villagers did quest-tellings of Tarne’s greatest adventures.

  Jorte, the keeper of the gaming hall, spoke of when Tarne had been one of the companions of Drodanis and Cayon, a great fighter and quester. Others told how Tarne was one of the fighters led by Drodanis against the ogres in revenge for the murder of Cayon. . .how Tarne was wounded in that fight and had since seen visions of future turns of the Game. The young farmer Romm described Tarne’s warning to the other villagers that Gairoth would take over the Stronghold, and how he led a brave defense against the attack; when that failed, Tarne had led them into exile in the deep forest terrain until Delrael returned and vanquished Gairoth.

  Tareah herself picked up the hexagonal tile bearing the veteran’s name and placed it on the grave. She remembered the quiet, bald man who seemed to hold so much inside him. A weaver, who wanted no further part in fighting and battles. She stared at the wall, not at the gathered villagers, as she described Tarne’s brave fight, alone in the middle of the night to defend them all against the Slave of the Serpent.

  Darkness fell, and young Romm lit several torches in the courtyard. The villagers stood around, not certain what to do after the ceremony. They seemed leaderless and disoriented without the bald veteran. Tareah did not blame them—she was new, she had no experience with quests or adventuring. Why should they trust her to lead them?

  She had spent her entire life isolated in the Ice Palace with her father, and when the dragon had kidnaped her, she merely waited for some adventurer to come rescue her. Regardless of her Water Stone or how much magic she could use, Tareah still had much to learn.

  Vailret’s mother Siya stood beside her, looking tired and withdrawn. She wore clean but drab clothes highlighted by a flashing emerald brooch. Siya told Tareah that Cayon had given it to her, stolen from a Slac treasure pit he once raided. Now Siya’s face seemed old, and she tied her hair back in a severe bun. Since her son and Delrael had gone on their quest to Scartaris, Siya acted angry and lonely, with nothing more to hold onto.

  The stars came out. Night birds made sounds in the forest. Tareah looked up to see the green smear of Lady Maire’s Veil across the sky. That made her think of how Tarne must have seen his own death there—yet, even knowing that, he still went to face the Slave of the Serpent.

  The outbuildings stood shadowy and empty now, with Delrael, Vailret, and Bryl gone, and Tarne dead. The main hall of the Stronghold echoed with silence. They had no students at the Stronghold for battle exercises or role-playing games. The place was deserted, big and frightening. It reminded Tareah of the Ice Palace and the empty vaults full of relics, now buried under crumbled ice and snow.

  She took her eyes away from the sky and saw Mostem the baker coming toward her. Tareah still had difficulty identifying all the villagers in her mind, but she remembered that Mostem had three daughters. According to Siya, Mostem hoped that either Vailret or Delrael would be interested in pairing with one of them. Tareah had never met the daughters, nor had she tried. She was not sure if she should feel jealous—she had trouble pinpointing her feelings, either about Vailret or Delrael.

  Mostem’s eyes moved from Tareah to Siya, then to the ground. From the way the other villagers watched him, Tareah realized that they had all discussed this beforehand. She let a slight frown cross her face.

  Mostem looked as if he didn’t know how to begin, and finally he said, “You’re all alone up here now. Are you sure the Stronghold is safe? Do you think you should stay here?”

  He didn’t wait long enough for her to say anything. “We were talking, uh, I mean I was thinking that maybe you could come stay with us? Or one of the other villagers. We’re not sure that staying at the Stronghold is a good idea anymore.”

  Tareah was surprised at the suggestion and tried to decide how to react to it, what Delrael would want her to do. But Siya drew herself up, indignant. “What, and just abandon the Stronghold? It’s been here intact for generations, and this is my home! I don’t take that lightly.” She crossed her thin arms over her chest. “I will stay here.”

  Mostem took a step backward and continued to speak to the ground. “We just thoug
ht it might be best if—”

  Tareah cut him off. “I promised that I would remain here and do my best to defend the Stronghold.” She stood beside Vailret’s mother. “You know the Rules. I made a vow—I can’t break that. I’m not one of those characters who takes such things lightly.”

  She and Delrael had gotten into arguments on that point before. But this time she didn’t think he would object.

  “Besides, look around you.” She indicated the double walls topped by sharp points, the weapons storehouse, the heavy gates and the trench around the Stronghold, the Steep Hill path. “This is the most defensible place, the safest spot for hexagons around! And don’t forget I have the Water Stone, too. If we’re not safe here, we certainly won’t be safe anywhere in the village.”

  She raised her voice so the others would hear her clearly. “If you’re concerned for our safety, any of you is welcome to stay here and help guard us against attack.”

  Mostem cleared his throat and looked to the others to see their reaction. The death of Tarne and the threat of Scartaris was too close on their minds.

  But Romm the farmer straightened. His blond hair was mussed, and his skin looked dry from spending too many hours outside in all weather. “That’s a good idea. We should arrange our schedules so some of us can be up here. We were willing to fight against Gairoth, with Tarne—we shouldn’t do any less than that now.”

  His words heartened Tareah. She nodded to them all. “We do need a stronger defense, now that Tarne isn’t here to assist me.”

  “We can discuss this tomorrow,” Siya said. Her stiff movements showed how much Mostem’s suggestion had upset her. “We’ll roll dice to see who stays up here with us. You all could brush up on your training a little.”

  Apparently relieved, the villagers left, going down the hill into the night and back to their homes. Tareah could hear muffled voices as the villagers went along the path.

  Siya and Tareah worked together to swing the heavy gate shut. They fastened the solid wooden crossbolts in place. The shadowy empty buildings inside the walls looked spooky enough that Tareah decided to leave the torches burning in the courtyard.