Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus

by Kevin J. Anderson

  As it flew through the air across the hex-line, the silver links began to dissolve in white light. The three Earthspirits emerged just as their Deathspirit comrades swooped down upon Scartaris.

  22. Stranger

  “Let the Game go on forever, and may your score always increase!”

  —Gamearth drinking toast

  Three dazzling white figures rose into the air, hooded and powerful, billowing in the wind rising from the broken hex-line. They alternated with their dark counterparts.

  Vailret stared at the Spirits, all that remained of the ancient race of Sorcerers. He had read so much about them, and now he saw them towering in front of his eyes. Both factions had fought each other for turn after turn in the early days of the Game. Now, the six Spirits had reunited for the first time since the Transition, on the site of their worst battles.

  Without a word, they fell upon Scartaris before he could complete his metamorphosis.

  The titanic battle was difficult to watch. Vailret squinted, but the intangible fighters became an inferno of power and blazing lights, black and white and colors. The sounds of a storm rang on the air. Chunks of rock and dust blasted into the air in backlashes of power.

  Scartaris grew dimmer and smaller in the fray. The starbursts in his body twinkled and faded.

  Tension built up like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. The six Spirits combined their power into one final assault.

  And Scartaris fell.

  A great flare of light blasted into the air, a geyser of luminous power that sprayed outward and then faded on the winds, swirling, as if trying to find some dark corner where it could hide. One high-pitched shriek echoed around the rubble of the mountains; the astonished horror in it sliced through Vailret’s bones.

  The silence on the battlefield held back for a moment as the dawn itself seemed to gasp. A sudden cold wind blew by and then died away to nothing.

  #

  Professor Verne stood on the hillside, perplexed and angry. He rubbed his eyes. The flash from the battle of the Spirits and Scartaris left dancing colors on his vision, but he frowned with disappointment. The outcome of the battle didn’t really matter, though the Spirits seemed to be fighting with magic rather than something more sophisticated.

  The Sitnaltan weapon had not worked. Something had gone wrong.

  “But it should have been foolproof!” He placed his hands behind his back and paced in front of a boulder. “It had to work. Did I miscalculate something? What did I forget to take into account?”

  He muttered to himself, parading ideas in front of his mind. He could imagine nothing that would lead to such a failure. A burning curiosity began to grow. He stared at the crumbled mountain and squinted his eyes, wondering how difficult it would be to locate the steam-engine car in the rubble. He wanted to find the weapon and study it.

  As dawn came up and lit the battlefield, Verne saw the monsters milling around, trying to organize themselves. The prime mover seemed to be the awesome manticore marching about, rallying the army of Scartaris.

  Verne blew through his lips as he looked at the manticore. “What a hodgepodge,” he thought. “Man’s head, lion’s body, scorpion tail—probably has the brain of a cactus or something.” To him, it showed clearly how little the Outsiders themselves understood the basic precepts of biological sciences.

  Scartaris was destroyed. Part of the map was disrupted, and he had no idea what effect such titanic forces would have on Gamearth and the Rules themselves. Perhaps it would allow technology a bit more freedom to operate. Perhaps he could fix the weapon, or dismantle it. He couldn’t just leave it there.

  But the growing light reminded him how exposed he was on the barren terrain, with nothing but the monsters to see him. He wondered how he could possibly hide from Scartaris’s entire army.

  #

  Delrael crawled back toward Vailret, trying to keep his balance on the tilted terrain. Both of them stood panting with exhaustion and the aftereffects of terror.

  Around them the stunned monsters wandered about, no longer in the grip of Scartaris. Only the manticore had a purpose, growling orders and trying to terrify the other demons into ranks again.

  Delrael wondered how long the relative calm would last. The sky itself was a whirlwind of chaos, overloaded with power dissipating up and out of the map’s boundaries.

  Delrael could see no sign of the six Spirits, or of Scartaris.

  The illusion army of human fighters shimmered and melted away as Bryl released the Air Stone. Some of the monster soldiers made angry noises, but most didn’t notice in their own confusion.

  Hundreds of slaughtered demon fighters lay on the ground, killed by their own weapons and the firepowder bombs. Thousands of dead animals, birds, insects covered the sand, as if a part of the black cloud had settled to the earth. Pools of red mud dried slowly in the dim sunlight.

  The surviving animals and birds gathered in a thinner, less-organized black cloud that floated up and drifted off. They struck out across the desolation back to the forest and grassland terrain.

  “Scartaris is dead,” Vailret whispered. He grinned and clapped a hand on Delrael’s shoulder. “Scartaris is dead! We finished our quest.”

  Delrael looked uneasily at the gathering of monsters that stood angry and leaderless. “I still don’t like this. We’d better find Bryl.”

  Vailret nodded, and they hurried back along the edge of the battlefield, trying to escape the notice of Scartaris’s surviving fighters.

  Then the air in front of them rippled. Delrael thought that heat shimmers rose up from the warming sands, but white mist swirled above them, condensing until it resolved into the transparent outlines of the three Earthspirits, flickering like a vision on the breeze.

  The Spirits looked tenuous and fragile, much less substantial than when they had first appeared to Delrael in the forest. That night seemed so long ago now. That was before he had known Tallin. Before he met Mindar.

  The Earthspirits spoke. “Scartaris is destroyed, and we still live. With the aid of the Deathspirits and the Stranger Unlooked-For, we did not need to sacrifice ourselves.

  “But we are weak now. We must go dormant for many turns to recover our strength.”

  The Spirits wavered, faded for a moment, and then rose up again. The tilted hexagon of terrain settled under Delrael’s feet and he stumbled. The other monsters stood uncertain and afraid of the giant hooded forms.

  “By destroying Scartaris and unleashing power of such magnitude, the map has suffered severe damage. As have the Rules themselves. They are twisted and loosened.

  “We have proved to the Outsiders that Gamearth is as strong as their own powers. That is a profound victory. Even now, the Deathspirits are using this to their advantage. Perhaps they will mold their own reality.”

  Delrael looked across the battlefield to see Bryl running toward them, drawn by the towering forms of the Earthspirits. Delrael waved his hands to show that he had seen him. Vailret squinted up at the Spirits with an expression of awe on his face.

  “To show our gratitude, we will twist the Rules even now. The Outsider David is stunned by his defeat. We can do things the other Players will not notice, for now.

  “Your quest is over. You have gained experience and won the battle. We will return you to your home. If only we were not so weak, we could do more. . .”

  The Slac regiments had pulled themselves together again and rallied around the manticore. Several other monsters rebelled or moved too slowly, but the Slac cut them down with their own weapons.

  “Gamearth is ours!” the manticore bellowed.

  Then the Earthspirits swept their billowing sleeves through the air. Delrael felt a harsh wind pour into his body, his bones. The air dissolved around him. He felt dislocated and cold—

  #

  —and the terrain became the path leading up Steep Hill to the Stronghold. The morning around him was deathly quiet. He heard only the sounds from the forest.

  The vi
llage seemed deserted and silent. All the people were hiding. Something had happened.

  Bryl and Vailret appeared beside him. Both stumbled, suddenly finding themselves disoriented on the sloping path. “We’re back home!” Bryl said. He fell to his knees. He looked exhausted

  “I wonder where Tareah is.” Vailret looked around him, getting his bearings. He started up the hill.

  “Something’s wrong,” Delrael said. He strode up the hill. His body was exhausted, but he felt revitalized just by being back home.

  They neared the top of Steep Hill. The forest pressed around them, thick and ready to conceal many things. They still heard no sounds. Delrael felt like a stranger outside his own home.

  When he saw what remained of the Stronghold—the burned buildings, the shattered walls—he stopped and felt sick inside. “We shouldn’t have left them,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t have left them all alone. They were defenseless!”

  Suddenly, seven other characters, men and women heavily armed, leaped out of the forest terrain, pointing arrows, spears, and swords at them.

  Delrael whirled and straightened, yanking free his own notched sword. Then he stared as he recognized, behind the armor and the weapons and the battle-hardened stares, Mostem the baker, young Romm the farmer, and others from the village.

  “It’s Delrael!” Tareah cried. “And Vailret! They’re back.”

  Other villagers cheered as they emerged from the forest where they had been practicing and lying in ambush. They seemed terrified of an actual fight but ready to defend their homes.

  Delrael stared at the wreckage of the Stronghold, at the fighting force Tareah had managed to put together. She walked up to stand next to Vailret. “I missed you.” She glanced at Delrael and answered quickly, “Both of you.”

  Bryl shuffled his feet, scowling and looking out of place.

  “I’m sorry about the Stronghold. Scartaris destroyed it. Tarne is dead.” She sighed and lifted her chin, showing her new strength. “But we’ve sent messengers to all the other villages. We’re gathering an army. We’re getting ready to fight.”

  Delrael saw a proud determined look in her eyes that reminded him of something he had seen in Mindar.

  “The Outsiders won’t ever catch us unprepared again,” Tareah said.

  Delrael smiled and looked up at the sky, wishing the Outsiders were watching. “If they want to fight against us, I hope they know what they’re getting into.”

  Epilogue

  Scott grabbed David’s arm and pulled him over to the sink while the others stared in shock. He flipped on the cold water tap and pushed David’s raw hands under the running faucet. David made no sound, but his hands were burned, red and blistered, from when the map had. . .exploded on them.

  Scott tended David stiffly, astonished. He went through the motions of first aid as though it could keep him distracted from thinking—from thinking about what had happened at the end of the Game.

  Tyrone stuck his head under the table and came back up, eyes wide. “The burn goes all the way through the wood!” he said. “Wow!” Then he paused and swallowed. “What’ll I tell my mom? You’re going to all have to back me up.”

  “And say what?” Scott asked. “That we were just playing a game but it fought back at us? They’ll say I made some explosive with my chemistry set or something.” He snorted. Water from the tap splashed on the left lens of his glasses. “I haven’t played with my chemistry set since eighth grade.”

  Melanie stared at the map. A great section of the terrain was burned black and broken. A dark, charcoaled blot had burned through the map, through Tyrone’s table. He groaned and got a damp cloth to try and wipe away the dark stain. When Tyrone slid the map board sideways, a couple of hexagons fell loose from the edge like tiles in a mosaic.

  But that was impossible too, because Melanie had painted on a smooth piece of wood. She had drawn the hex-lines with a drafting pencil. The map couldn’t fall apart exactly along the lines. . . .

  But Melanie found herself feeling elated, smug. “Well, David? Are you ready to give up now? Scartaris is destroyed. You lost. That means we keep on playing.”

  Over by the sink David stared at his burned hands and kept them under the water. “I still have my army of monsters. There’s still Verne’s weapon, on my territory now.” He yanked his hands away from Scott and stood dripping on the kitchen floor. “Now your characters are going to have to fight against me.”

  David twisted his head to look at her, and Melanie jumped back. For a moment, she swore his eyes were blazing yellow and pupilless. He turned back to dry his hands.

  Melanie swallowed, blinking her eyes until she felt confident again. “After this—” she indicated the devastated portion of the map. “I don’t think we need to be afraid of you anymore.

  “Gamearth is learning how to fight back.”

  The End

  To Ginger LaJeunesse

  (Charles Dickens said it best . . . )

  Acknowledgments

  Many people have offered encouragement and comments during the writing of this book. I would like to thank especially the members of my writers workshop for critiquing above and beyond the call of duty: Dan’l Danehy-Oakes, Michael C. Berch, Clare Bell, M. Coleman Easton, Lori Ann White, Gary Shockley, and Avis Minger. I also express my appreciation to Chuck Beason, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Doug Beason . . . for a whole bunch of things.

  GAME’S END

  Book 3 of the GAMEARTH Trilogy

  Kevin J. Anderson

  Prologue

  David kept watching the clock. As Sunday afternoon ticked toward evening, fear grew inside him, echoes of nightmares and impossible things. Tonight they would play the Game again—or it would play them.

  The empty house buzzed with silence. David opened the curtains, showing the gray afternoon and the cold drizzle outside. Every once in a while, a gust of wind rattled the windows. The house felt fragile, as if at any moment some powerful outside being might crush the walls and sweep him away.

  As he had done to characters on Gamearth.

  David thought of the flat, colorful game-board that Melanie had painted. For the past two years, he and Melanie and Scott and Tyrone had acted out their adventures on Gamearth, following rules they had created and adapted from other game systems. They enjoyed their quests for treasure, their battles, their magic. They had fun. That was the primary rule they all agreed on—to have fun.

  But as the four of them poured their imaginations into the world, built generation after generation of characters, backstitched history and made the entire place whole and real in their minds. The players created a synergy with their imagination, a force that had pushed their made-up world into a life of its own.

  And Gamearth began to strike back at them.

  David saw this sooner than any of the others. He suggested they all stop playing before it went further, before it got out of control. But the other players out-voted him. Scott, with his technical “Mister Science” mind, simply could not believe that anything supernatural would happen. Tyrone, with his delight in the game, noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Melanie, though, recognized the same thing David did—but she ignored what could happen if Gamearth continued to grow in power, continued to gain its own identity. No, Melanie wanted to nurture it, watch in amazement as the Game took over their lives, breaking free from the restrictions the players placed on it. David had seen her eyes glaze over as Gamearth exerted its survival instinct on her.

  David tried to create ways to squelch their creation, and Melanie fought against him with her characters. She placed them in conflict with everything he tried to do to save himself, to save them all. She refused to listen when he tried to explain it to her. David felt a shudder of desperation run through him.

  The house felt gloomy from the cold and wet outside. David went to the fireplace and busied himself starting a fire, using some of the fragrant wood they kept in a cardboard box beside the hearth. He thought about
turning the stereo on, but decided he would rather think in silence.

  He lived with his dad, except for a few weeks in July when he went upstate to stay with his mother in her house trailer. Somehow he had escaped the game last summer, but perhaps Gamearth had not grown strong enough then.

  David’s parents had been separated for three years, talking coldly on the phone every few months; but they had never gone through the actual process of getting divorced. Both of his parents kept their feelings so well shuttered from him that David felt isolated even from the conflict. At times he thought he might actually enjoy it if they tried to make him take sides.

  But instead, all his mother did was engage him in pleasant, empty conversations about girlfriends and movies; and his father just voiced stern reproofs about David’s falling grades in the last semester—when the Game had started to take over. But David’s father seemed to be saying those things out of an obligation he felt, not from any deep concern.

  David sighed and crumpled a few sheets of old newspaper. He piled kindling and other debris from the bottom of the box on top of the paper.

  His dad had gone away for the weekend on a business trip, asking David if it was all right to be left alone. His tone left unvoiced the comment that even if David did express an objection, his father wasn’t really willing to change his plans anyway.

  But David certainly didn’t mind being alone this night, when they would play the Game. He felt terrified of what might happen, but he didn’t want anyone else there to watch. No other. . . outsiders.

  He reached for the long fireplace matches, then he turned on the gas lighter below the logs. Hissing blue flames swirled up to lick against the bark. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  Over the past two weeks, Gamearth had gotten more vicious in its retaliation, going beyond subtle hints and turning instead to blatant displays of its growing power over the real world. Showing how it could defeat them.