Arken seemed to smile with his craggy stone face. “And of course we did. But this time he has given me no freedom to decide for myself. I must stop you. I can’t bargain.”
Journeyman stepped forward. “We’ll see about that.”
Vailret remembered how long and difficult their previous duel had been. He knew he couldn’t defend himself for that long as the howling battle swirled around him.
Then he felt the seed of an idea in his mind and grabbed at it. He stood between Journeyman and Arken. “Wait, Arken! Scartaris gave you explicit, clear orders, correct?”
“Yes.”
“All right then. We’ll make it easy for you. Journeyman—stand still.” Vailret stood beside him, motionless. “There, you’ve stopped us. You have fulfilled your obligation to Scartaris.”
Arken stood up straight, nodding his horned head in delight. “Why didn’t I think of that? He told me to follow his orders exactly. Oh, this is delightful! Scartaris will be even more upset!”
“Now do what you can to help,” Vailret said. “We have to get to Scartaris.”
Journeyman squared his shoulders. “The Rulewoman Melanie is counting on me.”
With another great bound, the huge manticore stormed toward them, striking with his explosive scorpion tail. He used his claws to tear apart illusion human soldiers four and five at a time, stomping over them without a pause. The manticore let out a howling roar, human and bestial at the same time from his distorted manlike face.
Arken turned and flashed his cavernous stone eyes at Vailret. “Here’s a good opportunity. You move on, get to Scartaris. Luck!”
Turning, the gargoyle waded through the other fighting and approached the manticore from the side. Arken slammed a jagged stone fist into the wide ribs of the leonine body before the manticore had even noticed him.
With a roar and an outraged “Ooof!” of pain, the manticore turned on him, favoring cracked ribs. The great monster reared up and scored its claws against the gargoyle, leaving clean white gouges across the granite chest and raking up sparks.
The stone-winged gargoyle scrambled to his feet again and leaped up to grab the hooked bulb at the end of the scorpion tail, trying to break off the stinger. But the manticore whirled and brought the tail up. He lifted Arken off the ground and flung him forward. With another lash, the scorpion tail sparked blue lighting. It struck down with an explosive electric roar that shattered the gargoyle into lifeless stone pieces.
With a long backward glance, Vailret followed Journeyman, who pushed toward the lair of Scartaris with single-minded intent.
#
Delrael closed his mind to anything but moving forward. He could not find the others, but if he failed to reach Scartaris that wouldn’t matter anyway. He had the Earthspirits. He could end the Outsiders’ threat.
Delrael looked ahead, paying only enough attention to keep moving. His sword arm was exhausted; he found breathing difficult—but he had reached a fever pitch of fighting, and nothing else seemed real to him.
Until one loud bellow broke through the din of the battle.
“Delroth!”
He froze and turned with stunned amazement as the one-eyed ogre plowed through the other soldiers. With a slash of his spiked club, Gairoth bowled over a mob of goblins and plodded toward Delrael.
“Haw! Now I kill you!”
Delrael couldn’t believe the ogre had followed them from where they had rescued Tallin, through the Spectre Mountains where he had been swept off the ledge by the avalanche, all the way across the map to here. Somehow the ogre knew which one was the true Delrael, and which ones were just Bryl’s illusions.
Delrael held his sword ready. “You’re starting to bother me, Gairoth.” But despite his show of false bravery, he saw how the huge ogre knocked aside other formidable demon fighters to reach him.
“Come on, then,” Delrael said. He swallowed and felt his throat tighten. He got ready.
Gairoth growled and strode forward, holding his club like a baseball bat.
Then another explosive roar distracted both of them. Goblins and demons were tossed aside like dead leaves in the wind.
The Slave of the Serpent burst into view. His hairy paws dripped with blood of different colors. He grabbed two goblins, smashed their heads together into a pulpy mass. Then he tossed them aside as he strode toward Delrael.
“Sadic will protect you.”
Delrael stepped back, feeling relieved. The Slave stepped beside him like a gigantic bodyguard. “You freed Sadic from Serpent.”
Gairoth bellowed in annoyance as the towering Slave stepped between him and Delrael. Sadic stood a full two feet taller than the ogre and much broader across the shoulders. Globs of blood matted the Slave’s fur from the monsters he had slain. The deep wound in his thigh had reopened and oozed thick yellow blood, making him limp and move stiffly.
But he stood against Gairoth. “You go,” Sadic said to Delrael. “Kill Scartaris.”
A V-formation of hawks swooped down and skimmed past him. They slashed out the eyes of a spine-covered monster, then struck in to tear out its throat with their long claws. Together, they flew off again.
Gairoth snorted and lunged toward Delrael, trying to duck to the side of the Slave. Sadic reached out a giant paw and caught the ogre across the tattered furs on his chest, deflecting Gairoth’s charge and knocking him to the dirt.
Gairoth landed on his backside and howled. He used the club to pry himself to his feet then turned his anger toward Sadic. He swung the club with all his might, and the wicked spikes raked across where the Slave had been. Sadic leaped back but stumbled on his wounded leg, wincing in pain.
Gairoth jumped at the Slave of the Serpent; Sadic met him, grabbing the ogre around the chest. The two grappled with each other, pounding with massive fists, trying to squeeze and crack ribs. Sadic raked his long claws up the peeling skin of Gairoth’s back. The ogre shifted his grip higher on the spiked club to bash at the demon’s fur-covered shoulder until yellow blood oozed out. With loud bestial sounds, both opponents flung themselves away and stood panting and bleeding.
Once more Gairoth tried to scramble around the Slave. Sadic blocked him again, but this time the ogre leered a strange grin as if he had gotten an idea. He lashed out with one of his wide bare feet and kicked as hard as he could, smacking into the deep open wound on the Slave’s leg.
In agony, Sadic buckled over, grabbing his thigh. He staggered.
Gairoth swung the spiked club up and then down, leaping into the air to put all of his weight into the swing. The club crashed down onto the demon’s head, smashing through it like a soft-boiled egg.
Sadic grunted once, then collapsed to the ground.
The shock struck Delrael like a cold knife in his stomach. He had wounded the Slave with his sword, giving Gairoth his chance to play dirty. He felt responsible. Then Delrael realized how foolish he had been for not running when Sadic gave him the chance.
Now Gairoth, panting but angrier than ever, picked up his dripping club and stepped over the Slave’s prone body. He advanced toward Delrael.
Sadic grabbed the ogre’s ankle, driving claws deep into the thick leg and tripping him. Gairoth sprawled out on his face. With a fury greater than a sudden thunderstorm, the ogre jumped back to his feet and pounded the fallen Slave over and over with the club, sending a thick rain of yellow blood into the air.
Bleeding from his ankle now, Gairoth returned all his attention to Delrael. “Haw! Now you die, Delroth!”
Delrael held his sword in front of him. “You’ve said that before, Gairoth. But you keep botching it!” He felt no force behind his words. Hope drained out of him with sick dismay at seeing the death of Sadic.
Gairoth ran forward. Delrael held his ground.
Neither of them saw the shadowy, batlike forms as the reptilian flying creatures swooped down to the battlefield.
Gairoth swung.
Delrael held up his sword to block the blow, though he knew it would do no
thing against the ogre’s momentum.
He felt sharp pain in both of his shoulders as if two handfuls of knives had stabbed into him. His neck jerked as something snapped his body into the air. The battlefield dropped away under him, and he heard sounds like great sails rippling over his head.
The bat-creature shrieked from a pointed, fanged mouth and flew up into the sky.
Gairoth spun around when his club struck only air, and dropped to his knees, dizzy. He stared at where Delrael had been, but saw nothing. Only footprints that vanished. A single drop of scarlet blood marked the ground.
“Which way did he go? Awwww!”
Up in the sky, he saw the shadow of a flying creature carrying a man, winging toward the grotto of Scartaris.
#
Professor Verne stoked the steam-engine car and checked its water level. It would function for barely another hour. He took a last drink of water and poured the rest of his flask into the boiler. Every little bit would help. Verne ran the back of his hand across his lips and sighed. Then he sealed the chamber to let the steam pressure build.
The Sitnaltan weapon lay cradled in the car’s seat. It was primed and waiting. Monitor lights blinked on and off.
He had pondered all day about how to get around the monster army. Though the weapon would cause immense havoc when it detonated, he still wanted to get it as close to Scartaris as possible. No sense taking chances, especially far from Sitnalta where the world worked so differently.
Verne jotted down his last thoughts in his journal and tucked the book inside his woollen jacket. He didn’t know if he would ever return to Sitnalta, or if his memoirs would ever be published, but he felt an obligation to to record his thoughts and observations.
He tugged at his full beard and straightened it. He wished he had brought his pipe along—he could use a relaxing smoke right now. He blew through his lips instead. He felt queasy inside. “Great Maxwell, what have I gotten myself into?”
Steam-pressure gauges on the car’s boiler rose. The vehicle was almost ready to move. Darkness had fallen.
When a great roar went up from the monster horde, Verne jumped, startled, and looked to see an army of human characters advancing down the slope a partial hexagon away. Verne blinked his eyes in amazement. He had seen no indications of an approaching army. How could all those fighters appear with no warning at all? No doubt they were that type of Gamearth character who thrived on military campaigns, went on quests. He hoped they wouldn’t be too near the blast when his weapon went off.
He climbed aboard the steam-engine car and sat back in his seat. He could investigate the identity of the army later. For now he would take advantage of the diversion. He made sure the doomsday weapon was firmly strapped in the back seat, safe from any jostling; the timer was ready to be set.
Professor Verne took a deep breath. He straightened his jacket one last time, out of habit, then released the locks on the gears. He held onto the steering levers.
The steam-engine car rattled down the slope toward the mountains of Scartaris.
#
Mindar slashed the air with her rippled sword. Dark blood dripped off its serrated edges. Her hair was tangled. She swept it back away from her eyes, then shouted her outrage at the monster army. “Why won’t you fight me!”
She turned back and forth, but Scartaris’s monsters ignored her. They would not meet her eyes. Mindar charged into a mass of goblins, but they swirled around her and moved on. They did not strike back.
“Fight me!”
Scartaris was doing this to taunt her, to have fun. He knew that the greatest damage he could do to Mindar was to ignore her, to refuse to acknowledge her efforts against him.
She ran at one of the towering Slac fighters and swung her sword, but the Slac lifted a Tairan-made shield and deflected her blow. Then the monster punched her with a balled scaly fist, knocking her out of the way.
She wheezed, felt the pain from her bruised ribs, and stood up. Bryl’s illusion soldiers fought all around her.
Mindar stood up and glared at the jagged lair of Scartaris on the far edge of the battlefield. That was where she could strike her blow. She had lost Delrael and the others, but they were fighting, moving toward Scartaris. She belonged there too.
Mindar strode through the battle, wading into blood and fallen bodies. The other fighters did not turn to face her.
#
The flying creature beat its taut wings with a sound like a man gasping for breath. Delrael felt as though its claws were ripping his shoulders off.
The bat-creature rose higher. Delrael grabbed the sword in his hand, though his fingers grew cold and numb. He still ached from his battle with the Slave of the Serpent two days before, exhausted now from fighting through Scartaris’s army.
Veins laced the wings of the bat-creature, visible through skin as thin as fine fabric, pulsing and rippling in the breeze. The flying thing had deep pits for eyes, blank and pupilless, and a long jagged snout in an arrow-shaped head. Its cry was so high-pitched that Delrael’s ears felt ready to burst.
His feet dangled below him. He felt nothing, only air beneath his boots. The battlefield lay fifty feet below. Distinct sounds drifted up. He saw the swirling fighters, the movements of the ranks, flashes of exploding pots of firepowder. The giant manticore dominated the battle scene.
Delrael squirmed in the grip of the bat-creature. His own blood poured from gashes in his leather armor where the claws sank into him. The pain sent fire through his chest.
Scartaris’s grotto lay closer than ever now. The hex-line broke the last section of desolation from the rocky, mountain terrain.
He didn’t know what was happening, where the creature was taking him. But when it drifted over the sharp air currents when the terrain changed from flatland to mountains, he saw the rocks below like spears pointed up at him.
He felt the bat-creature tighten its knobby claws just for a moment—and then Delrael knew what it intended. The creature had taken him high aloft. . .now it was going to drop him.
Delrael ignored the daggers of pain in his shoulder. He winced, but knew what he had to do. He lunged upward with his free hand, grabbing onto the bat-creature’s leg just as it released its claws. He gripped hard, digging his fingernails into the rough hide. The sharp rocks seemed a long, long drop below.
The bat-creature flapped its wings in surprise and screamed a high-pitched noise. Its claws extended and retracted as it tried to grab onto something to fight back. Delrael would not let go. The bat-creature hissed and bobbed its sharp head down, but the fighter was out of its reach.
Feeling as if he were lifting a gigantic weight, Delrael heaved his sword up with one hand and thrust it through the thin membrane of a wing, ripping a gash. He had to get down. Air whistled through the cut, and the bat-creature flailed but it could not get away.
The flying creature dropped lower. Delrael poked with the sword again. As the creature beat its immense wings, the wind and the air ripped the gash wider.
The ground rushed up at them. He had caused too much damage. They would crash and both be killed.
But then the bat-creature pumped its wings with renewed strength. It spun in a tight circle as one wing drove harder than the other, but still ascended.
Delrael grew dizzy. The ground below him spun with the crazy spiral flight. Hot tears of pain streamed down Delrael’s cheeks. The strain of holding on with one hand, holding his entire weight against the long drop drove nails into the wounds in his shoulders.
He had to get down. He wanted to scream.
Delrael reached up with the sword one more time and chopped at the other wing. The creature dropped again, hissing, but Delrael would not let go. The ground rushed up.
He tried to swing the bat-creature’s body around, to direct it toward a clear spot in the foothills of the mountain terrain, but he didn’t know how. The creature’s fangs glistened in the starlight, and it bore a vicious expression behind the pupilless eyes. Once they struck the g
round, it would attack him.
The rocks came closer—Delrael could survive now, though the fall might hurt him. He swung the sword up awkwardly. He hit the main strut of the creature’s wing, chopping at its shoulder.
The rocks came up. He stabbed the creature in the abdomen and then let go, dropping the last ten feet to the ground.
The bat-creature crashed next to him. Delrael heard the dry-wood snap of the bones in its wings as it fell. The creature lay on the rocks, flapping and hissing, trying to get at him. It elbowed forward on the jagged splinters of its wings, but Delrael slipped in past the hissing mouth. He struck the arrow-shaped head with his sword. The creature’s wings flopped and twitched, then lay still.
Blood streamed down Delrael’s shoulders—his own blood—and he took ten steps away from the dead creature, up the path toward the grotto of Scartaris.
Delrael slumped down to rest on a boulder. Everything grew fuzzy. His pain, exhaustion, and hopelessness welled up. He could not find the strength to stand.
The bat-creature had carried him over most of the army. The monster hordes lay below him, fighting against Bryl’s illusion soldiers. Ahead and to the right, a curved spike of rock swept up from the main mountainous mass, one of the horns bracketing Scartaris’s grotto.
Delrael breathed the cool night air and saw mist rising inside the giant mouthlike opening in the mountain. Strange lights flashed, many different colors. It seemed close to him, but now he felt all alone. He didn’t know where Mindar was, or Vailret or Journeyman. He had come this far.
But he couldn’t make the last effort.
“You must move on,” the voice of the Earthspirits said from his belt. He felt a throb of energy creep up his spine, a warmth filling his veins like molten sunshine. The pain in his shoulders lessened.
Delrael stood up, feeling vibrant. He could function now. Then an ominous thought crossed his mind. “I hope you’ll still have enough energy now to defeat Scartaris.”
The long pause made him feel uncomfortable even before the Earthspirits answered. “We have never had enough energy to defeat Scartaris.”
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