Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He turned his dark gaze to the gathered characters listening around the fire. “But they will come. Oh yes, they will come. But will you be ready?”

  The listeners gaped at Jathen and his story, at the threat of Siryyk’s horde, now brought closer to home.

  Delrael stood up and clenched his fist. He turned to stare down the trainees. He kept his voice low, but powerful. “Yes, we will be ready!”

  #

  Vailret kept trying to blink the gummy sleep from his eyes as he shuffled along in the cool dampness before dawn. Delrael had asked him, along with Tareah and Bryl, to meet in the training grounds at daybreak. They needed to discuss things among themselves before all the trainees began to work out. Everyone would be looking toward Delrael for a solution, for a grand quest they could embark upon.

  Vailret appreciated the fact that his cousin wanted input from the others. Delrael was a better fighter than any other character; he had more experience with questing, with combat. He knew exactly how to deal with battles and strategy. But for planning and discussion, to look into the consequences of his actions, he needed to talk to someone else.

  Vailret and Tareah had enough background in the history of the Game, in the Rules, that they could find more subtle things than Delrael would ever imagine. And Bryl, of course, kept them from doing anything too rash.

  Vailret plodded on the wet dirt path up Steep Hill, kicking dew off the toes of his boots. The stripped trees in the surrounding forest looked skeletal and frightening in the strawberry-colored light of daybreak. On the training field, he saw silhouettes of the others huddled down, barely distinguishable from the scarecrow shapes of practice dummies and sword posts. He heard their low voices, but otherwise Gamearth was silent and holding its breath.

  Delrael crossed his arms and stood up, looking as if he didn’t know what to do on the training field without trainees there.

  Bryl saw Vailret coming and raised his voice. “Delrael, you stirred up the trainees last night, and now they’re all anxious for battle. You’ve got the charisma to lead them anywhere—but what are we really going to do? You can’t just go bumbling in and swinging swords! You saw the size of the army against us.”

  Delrael shrugged. “We know that the monster horde has marched to the city of Tairé. They’re going to come here sooner or later. So, we have two options: We can either stay here and keep training and waiting, or we can go get them first.”

  Vailret blinked in surprise. Bryl cried out. “Go get them? Are you crazy?”

  Delrael frowned. “That way we can fight on our terms, not theirs. The monster army knows we’re here. They’ll be ready for us when they get here, they’ll mass at the edge of the Barrier River and figure out how to cross it. They’ll take us by storm. Once they do, there isn’t much left for us.”

  Then his eyes began to sparkle. “But think of this—if we launch our army, we can send scouts ahead, find out where the monsters are and what they’re doing. We can find a place to ambush them. We can set a trap. Even if we’re outnumbered, we can win—if we pick the terrain and our attack carefully.

  “Picture a trap in the Spectre Mountains where the horde needs to file through a narrow gorge or along a cliff face. It’ll be easy—if we get there first. They won’t know what hit them.” He grinned at Tareah.

  “Siryyk thinks we’re just sitting here, dreading the day when he comes. We can turn the tables on him. You saw the trainees after Jathen told his story—our army is ready to fight now. That’ll work to our advantage. We can ambush the manticore, surprise him.”

  He shrugged. “And if our first assault doesn’t work, we can do it again and again, hounding him as we fall back. We can use the Barrier River as our last defense, not our first.”

  Vailret pursed his lips. “That does make sense, Del.” Bryl looked terrified.

  Tareah scowled, thinking about something else entirely. Delrael noticed her expression. “Speak up, Tareah. What is it?”

  She fumbled for words, then finally decided what she wanted to say. “What you’re planning is fine, Delrael. But, doesn’t it avoid the main question? You created the Barrier River, but that wasn’t enough. You destroyed Scartaris, but that wasn’t enough. Now the monster army is coming, and even if you defeat them, you know that still won’t be enough. The Outsiders will come up with another way to attack us.” She met Vailret’s eyes. “Won’t they?

  “We have to look beyond one battle to the entire war. Siryyk seems to be our main enemy, but in truth it’s the Outsiders. We need to find some way to fight them directly. They want to obliterate Gamearth. We have to escape them, to make Gamearth real on its own, so we no longer need to worry.”

  Delrael looked disturbed. He let his hand grasp the end of his sword, and Vailret knew the reason for his uncertainty. Delrael needed to fight a tangible enemy, an opponent he could see and strike at. He needed to understand the combat—and the thought of any direct conflict with the Outsiders was alien to him.

  Delrael had once stood mystified in an abandoned Slac fortress while Vailret argued with manifestations of the Outsiders David and Tyrone in their ruined half-imaginary, half-real ship. With assistance from blind Paenar, Bryl had struck out at the Outsiders, driven them back to their own world.

  “I concede your point about the Outsiders, Tareah,” he said, “But I don’t understand what we can do about it. How can we make Gamearth real? What kind of weapons do we have that can fight against the Outside? It’s a question with no answer.”

  Tareah smiled at him. “But what if I do have an answer?”

  Vailret himself was interested. Bryl looked as if he knew he wasn’t going to like it; he seemed too old for all this. Delrael watched her. “I’m listening.”

  Tareah cleared her throat in uncharacteristic shyness. “We’ve got the Air Stone, the Water Stone, and the Fire Stone. The Earth Stone is the most powerful of the four, and we know where it is—still buried in the dragon’s treasure hoard on the island of Rokanun. We found it when you and Bryl came to rescue me. Now,” She took a deep breath. “If we bring all four Stones together—well, you remember what happens then.”

  Delrael frowned and turned his back to them. “Refresh my memory.”

  Tareah sighed at him. Vailret jumped in. “The old Sorcerers created the four Stones just before they turned themselves into the Earthspirits and Deathspirits. They knew the Transition wouldn’t require all their magic—so they used the rest of it to make the Stones.”

  Tareah nodded vigorously. Vailret liked the way her pale hair moved in the early morning air. “Yes, and the power in the four gems exceeds the total power of the Spirits. If all four Stones are brought together, the one bearer will hold the entire magic of the Sorcerer race. Enough magic to make a full Transition. This character could become the Allspirit—more powerful than even the six Spirits together. We know it’ll work.”

  Vailret whistled. “That should be enough.”

  “I propose this,” Tareah said. “While you launch your army eastward to the mountain terrain, dispatch a second party south to Rokanun, to the dragon’s treasure pile. Get the Earth Stone and bring it back to the main army. Then one of us will put all four Stones together and create the Allspirit. It’s the only way.”

  Vailret grinned with excitement. “The monsters will be a trivial problem then! The Allspirit should have enough power to break us away from the Outside and hold Gamearth together.”

  “But who’s going to do such a thing?” Delrael asked.

  “Our choices are rather limited,” she said. “It has to be someone with Sorcerer blood to activate the Stones.”

  Vailret was afraid to think that Tareah might be suggesting that she do it herself. It would transform her into a supernatural being, but she would cease to be Tareah forever.

  A small voice surprised them all. “It might as well be me,” Bryl said. Vailret looked at him in surprise, and Bryl sounded defensive. The wrinkles around his eyes made complicated patterns. “I used the Water Sto
ne to call the dayid and stop the forest fire. I used the Air Stone to summon the illusion army for your battle against Scartaris. I have proven that I can handle that kind of power.”

  Bryl shrugged and huddled down into his blue cloak. “Besides, I’m old. I’ve done enough in the Game. What have I got to lose? You people will just keep dragging me on quests for the rest of my life anyway.”

  4. Sitnalta Without Verne

  “I don’t know why it is so beneficial to us, but Jules and I will continued to work together. From this day forward, we instruct the Council to issue all of our patents jointly, under both names Verne and Frankenstein. We trust this will be satisfactory.”

  —Professor Frankenstein, message to the Sitnaltan

  Council of Patent Givers

  Professor Frankenstein squinted down at the city of Sitnalta. Cool morning mist from the ocean clung to the cobblestoned streets, giving the buildings a muzzy appearance. Off in one hexagon, he could see the lamplighters still at work, clambering up ladders to extinguish the gas mantles for the morning.

  Frankenstein stood atop the central ziggurat, the highest point in Sitnalta. They had once placed their powerful defense here—the Sitnaltan dragon siren, which the city used to fight against Tryos the dragon as he went to and from his island domain across the hexagons of water.

  Vailret and blind Paenar had stolen the dragon siren, though, and used the Nautilus designed by Frankenstein and Verne to battle the dragon directly. Luckily they had won, otherwise Sitnalta would have been left defenseless.

  Frankenstein curved his lips upward in the closest thing to a smile he ever made. No, Sitnalta was never defenseless—not with powerful inventors like himself and Verne among its inhabitants.

  Where the hexagons of ocean met the black line that delineated the shore, Frankenstein watched three pile-driving cranes, operated with weights, counterweights, and electric generators. In the still air he heard the sharp cracks as they worked. He also watched tiny figures of characters in suits with giant cast-metal helmets. The experimental underwater breathing apparatus would have accompanied the Nautilus sub-marine boat. . .but the Nautilus was wrecked now, and he would not want to build another one, not without Verne.

  On the streets below he heard a puttering and chugging sound. Leaning over the edge of the ziggurat, he saw someone driving a steam-engine car along a main thoroughfare. Other hissing sounds pointed to where Dirac’s street-cleaning engines swirled along, scrubbing the gutters and polishing clean the cracks in the flagstones. Otherwise, Sitnalta seemed quiet and at peace.

  A few weeks before, Frankenstein would have been astonished at his own lassitude. He had too many ideas, too many things to invent, too many principles to investigate. Both he and Verne had notebooks filled with sketchy ideas for inventions. He would never have enough time to patent all of them. Working in collaboration, the two professors had become legends in Sitnalta. They had used up an entire series of patent numbers, and begun another set just for themselves.

  But now, by himself, it didn’t seem the same. With Verne gone and sending no word back, Frankenstein no longer had sufficient eagerness for the work. Looking at their stacks of ideas, he felt overwhelmed with the impossibility of it all. After completing the great and terrible weapon, he had no such drive anymore.

  The Sitnaltans had led a research expedition to the crashed Outsiders’ ship, to the technological fringe where science grew uncertain. They had dissected the ship, looking at its controls, its molding, the contours, the engines. They had learned enough for a lifetime of analysis.

  But at the excavation site, he and Verne had shared the same dream one night, a vision inspired by the Outsider Scott himself. They learned how to remove the ship’s power source, part real from the Outside, and part imaginary from within Gamearth—Frankenstein could not even hypothesize the consequences of such a thing. Their weapon could be used to destroy the evil force of Scartaris. Verne and Frankenstein kept their weapon a secret and rolled dice to determine who would go on the mission to deliver and detonate it. Verne had been the one chosen.

  Back in Sitnalta, Frankenstein checked his detectors and found that the force of Scartaris had vanished. But the detectors failed to record any form of detonation, and Frankenstein was sure he would have seen that. They had been afraid the weapon might destroy all of Gamearth.

  Then why hadn’t Verne returned?

  Frankenstein squatted on top of the ziggurat, looked out over the city, and sulked. Another few days, and he would propose mounting an expedition to search for his partner.

  Steam rose from the stacks of the manufactories and metal-processing centers. The city began to come alive for another day of activity.

  The characters below moved about in random patterns, going about their individual business and their predetermined tasks. Frankenstein thought of making a random-motion study, sitting up here all day and plotting the paths of characters. It might give him some insights into the societal structures of insect colonies, since from this height the Sitnaltans appeared similar to a nest of ants.

  But as he stared, clicking his fingernails together, the randomness changed. Characters shifted in their courses and moved toward one of the large manufactory buildings by the ocean hexagons, as if drawn by a magnet.

  He squinted into the bright sunlight and saw other characters coming from different parts of the city. Many Sitnaltans looked confused and watched them, but others moved with a jerky walk. Frankenstein shaded his eyes, frowning.

  Below him, one man moved in an exaggerated lock-step. He flailed his arms wildly. Finally, one foot crossed in front of the other—apparently intentionally—and he sprawled to the flagstoned street. “Help me!” he cried out loud.

  “What the devil is going on?” Frankenstein said to himself.

  But before the man below could shout again, his hand reached out and clapped across his own mouth with a sound loud enough for Frankenstein to hear from the top of the ziggurat. With awkward movements, still holding his own mouth shut, the man rolled onto his knees and jerkily made his way to his feet again; he followed the other Sitnaltans moving toward the big buildings.

  “This is insane,” Frankenstein said, scrambling down the ziggurat steps. His hard leather shoes slapped on the stones as he ran down. “This is beyond reason!”

  Before he reached the hex-cobbled street, one of the secondary manufactories exploded in an orange fireball. The concussion made Frankenstein’s ears ring. He lost his balance, falling backward to the ziggurat steps. The tall Sitnaltan buildings obscured his view, but he watched flames and black greasy smoke tumble into the air. From his vantage point he could see the explosion had been in the building where metals were stamped and cast into forms designed by the great inventors.

  Several streets away, a loud alarm bell began to ring. He heard shouts as he stumbled to his feet and ran down the street, turning sideways into an alley, a shortcut to the shore. The alarm bell abruptly fell silent, as did the other shouts.

  A group of Sitnaltans moved down the street in a strange arthritic shuffle. He called out to them. “What is happening? What’s going on?”

  The Sitnaltans continued their march. One woman in the back—he saw it was Mayer, daughter of Dirac—swivelled around and stared at him; her expression filled with relief and hope upon recognizing him. But when she saw only confusion on Frankenstein’s face, she showed despair again.

  “What is—” Suddenly, Frankenstein’s right foot lurched out from under him, as if yanked from below the knee by an invisible hand. “What?”

  He squirmed, but his leg hung at half-step in the air. His foot wavered left and right, as if testing muscles, and then the leg reached forward to step down on the pavement. His left leg yanked up, moved forward, and stepped down.

  “Stop!” Frankenstein shouted to the air. He waved his arms.

  An invisible grip slammed his posture straight, jerked his hips forward, and made him take four more stumbling steps. He felt absolutely helples
s. “This cannot be happening! I refuse to believe—there is no explanation for this.” But his words felt absurd in the situation.

  His own right hand reached out in front of his face. He watched his thumb and forefinger close together several times, like snapping pincers. Then he bent forward and gave his own nose a vicious tweak.

  His legs made him run to catch up with the other puppet Sitnaltans.

  They strode through the streets toward the central manufactory building. Some of the characters had surrendered and moved along willingly, but others continued to make choking, gurgling sounds as they fought to resist, like good Sitnaltans. Frankenstein felt sweat breaking out all over his body, but he could do nothing.

  Beside him, Mayer made her face into a stony expression of outrage, but when she tried to ask him a question, her lips clamped themselves together. He could see from her moving jaws that she was still trying to speak.

  Beside the manufactory he could see the smoking rubble from the exploded building. He heard the roar of flames, saw the bodies of several Sitnaltans among the wreckage, burned and moaning, but he could not move to help them. His head twisted around, making him stare ahead.

  At the great brick arches of the building, the doors stood wide open, knocked loose from their brass hinges. On the cornerstone of the building, engraved words seemed totally ineffectual:

  BY ESTABLISHING THIS MANUFACTORY,

  THE CITY OF SITNALTA DECLARES

  ITS SUPERIORITY AND FREEDOM

  FROM MAGIC AND THE WAYS OF THE GAME

  As his body lurched, pulling him inside the manufactory, harsh chemical smells made Frankenstein’s nose and eyes burn. A cacophony of banging and hissing sounds beat upon his ears.

  Skylights let bright morning light into the open bay. Steam and multi-colored smoke swirled in the air, making it difficult to see. Giant copper and brass vats stood in rows, studded with polished rivets; these were the processing tanks where Sitnaltans pumped and treated seawater, extracting metals and other elements. Other chambers processed or reduced raw ore they took from outlying hexagons. Pipes and valves led into a circulation system, monitored by gauges and pressure-release vents.