Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus

by Kevin J. Anderson

  9. Black Falcon

  “Few characters have a mission as clear as ours. Few characters have a responsiblity as great as ours. If humans are to win this Game, then we must be pure in our motivations and we must be decisive in our actions. We answer to no one but ourselves and to the Outsiders.”

  —Annik, chief of the Black Falcon troops

  When Delrael’s army arrived at the ylvan settlement, the Black Falcon troops had already slaughtered most of the forest people.

  The trees stood too dense for Delrael to see the smoke rising up until he could smell it. He heard distant sounds of shouting, some kind of struggle, screams. Delrael sent three characters to run ahead and investigate as he swung the rest of the army toward the disturbance.

  He broke into a trot off the quest-path directly through the forest, urging his fighters to greater speed. He wrestled with his own impatience to strike against a tangible enemy rather than continuing a long, tedious journey.

  “Prepare for a fight,” he said to Jathen behind him. The other characters passed the message along so that Delrael did not have to raise his voice and alert an enemy. Delrael elbowed branches out of the way, kicking at brambles by his ankles. He drew his own sword. He heard shouts, the crackling of flames, scattered painful screams.

  The three scout characters hurried back to Delrael. They looked shaken and gray, their eyes wide with terror. “They’re being slaughtered!” said young Romm, a farmer from the village.

  “I can hear what’s happening,” Delrael said, then he broke into a run. When he burst into the clearing, the appalling violence of the scene stunned him enough that he stopped for a moment and had to concentrate to keep from dropping his sword.

  Three of the camouflaged ylvan nest dwellings crackled with orange flames that licked up the matted brush. The air smelled of oily smoke and blood. The towering trees all around were stained with soot and white gashes from axes and swords. Ruins of a campfire lay on the ground, stomped and scattered.

  One of the blazing dwellings burned through its anchoring rope with a groan and split open at the bottom, dumping smoldering debris. Sticks and ylvan possessions tumbled onto the ground as the nest dwelling toppled after.

  Around the clearing rode a dozen burly Black Falcon fighters on their own dark horses, outfitted as Corim had been. One towering woman rested a bloodstained two-handed sword on her shoulder as she pointed and shouted orders. The others charged around in circles, shooting arrows at a few surviving ylvans who tried to flee in the trees above.

  In a snapshot second, Delrael saw the splashed blood and the broken bodies of little forest people dressed in greens and browns to camouflage them in the trees. A handful of others lay tied up in a net, struggling to break free.

  Several more dangled from trees with their necks in poorly made nooses. Three still squirmed and kicked on the ends of their ropes, though their faces had turned blackish from lack of air. Their tongues stuck out and their eyes rolled up. The ylvans clawed at their throats, trying to tear the nooses apart with bleeding fingernails.

  One Black Falcon rider lay motionless with several arrows in his throat, chest, and back. He had been propped against a tree trunk, but he was obviously dead. A riderless horse, apparently belonging to the dead fighter, wandered about.

  Delrael made a wordless cry as he crashed into the clearing. His other fighters, still running to keep up with him, paused to gawk at what they saw. Delrael finally managed to form words, shouting “Stop! Stop!”

  The Black Falcon troops whirled around at the new characters. After a moment of surprise, they appeared relieved to see humans coming out of the forest and not some other character race.

  “Archers! Find your mark!” Delrael shouted. “All of you Black Falcon troops, stop!” Delrael’s other fighters nocked arrows at the black riders, who appeared dumbfounded.

  Jathen ran ahead of Delrael, got to the central tree in the settlement and severed the ropes hanging the squirming ylvans. They dropped to the ground. He ripped at the ropes and tried to open the ylvans’ air passages. The skin on their necks was gnarled and puckered from the bite of the rope.

  One of the ylvans had already died. Another, unconscious, broke her ankle upon falling to the ground; the pain woke her up, and she gasped in air as Jathen pulled off the noose. The third, a powerful-looking ylvan with a drawn face, dark hair, and pinched mouth, was still alive and aware. As Jathen cut the first woman free, the ylvan man pulled his own noose off. He rolled over to his knees and vomited, trying to wheeze in lungfuls of air and retch at the same time.

  The Black Falcon woman on horseback turned her mount and glared at Delrael with a half-bemused expression. “What are you doing? Only enemies of Gamearth would interfere with us.” She turned to her troops. “Ignore them. Go ahead and execute the rest of the parasites.”

  Delrael snapped at his own fighters, “If another ylvan dies, kill all the Black Falcon troops. All of them. I’m sick of this.”

  One of the Black Falcon riders cried out, and they all whirled to look at him. A small arrow protruded from his shoulder. Several barely seen ylvans scurried through the branches above, concealed by the smoke and fire.

  The Black Falcon woman bellowed at the top of her lungs. “Get them! We’re not winners until they’re all killed.”

  “I said no!” Delrael stormed forward with his sword in front of him. He stood blocking the woman on her tall horse.

  She stared down at him with an icy, amused smile. “Oh, I’m tired of your whining.” She looked behind her. “Corim!”

  Out of the forest terrain on the other side of the village emerged a full dozen more Black Falcon riders, each holding a long bow in hand with the string drawn fully back. They aimed their long arrows directly at Delrael. Corim led the group. His face remained dispassionate, with no sign of pity or recognition.

  “Your army might outnumber us,” the woman said, “but I guarantee that each Black Falcon will take out ten of your fighters before they fall.”

  Jathen stood up beside the still-choking ylvans, red with anger. As Delrael’s army continued to emerge into the clearing, old Siya, and Enrod, and Tareah appeared. “Enrod, do something!” Jathen said.

  As the Sentinel from Tairé cocked his head without understanding, Delrael felt all twelve arrows pointing at his heart. The Game paused for a moment. He sensed his heart beating, and he wanted it to continue beating. Tareah took out her Water Stone, but looked uneasy about whether to take the risk or not.

  “No,” Delrael said. His voice sounded small to him. “You can’t do anything in time.”

  The hanged ylvan man crawled to his feet and screamed in a voice hoarse from a damaged throat. “How dare you! What have we ever done to humans?”

  He gaped at the bloodshed, the slaughtered ylvans. Though arely able to stand, the little man carried murder in his eyes. He started to lunge forward with his hands extended, claws ready to tear the Black Falcon woman’s eyes out. Jathen grabbed him by the elbows and held him back.

  Delrael stared into the Black Falcon woman’s face. He wished Vailret had stayed with them—Vailret was the talker. He could smooth things over between hostile characters. Delrael swallowed and tried his best, keeping his eyes on the riders. Occasionally he caught the gaze of Corim on the edge of the clearing.

  “We’re wasting time here, and wasting effort,” Delrael said to the woman. “Didn’t Corim bring you my message? We wanted you to join us. There’s an enemy worth fighting. You’re just throwing away your talent here. We can’t afford to waste characters at this point in the Game, when everything may depend on the actions of one individual.”

  The Black Falcon woman lowered the two-handed sword to her side and climbed off her horse. Even standing in front of Delrael, she towered a head taller than him. Her hair hung in ponytails, long and pale and shot with gray. She had tied each clump of hair with leather thongs and iron ball-bearings that turned brownish-red from exposure to the damp and rain. Her face looked rough, not
beautiful, with a haughty expression of distaste. Her arms were bare behind a leather vest that protruded to contain enormous breasts—she did not look at all clumsy, but like a juggernaut.

  “I brought your message, Delrael,” Corim said from his position, without relaxing the bowstring, without wavering the pointed tip of his arrow. “But Annik had thoughts of her own.”

  The woman, Annik, looked at Corim, scowling for just a moment as if angry at having another character answer for her. She glared at Delrael again, now that she knew who he was. “Corim told us your preposterous suggestions.”

  Delrael bristled at that, but Annik launched into her speech, raising her voice among the other sounds of the burning trees, stamping horses, and the moaning of injured ylvans. “Why would we ever want to listen to you? An amateur? We’ve been fighting this battle for generations! Since the Scouring, the Black Falcon troops have been making Gamearth suitable for human characters.

  “So, after all this time, you get an idea to go marching and decide that every one of us should drop our own missions and listen to you? We should ignore a lifetime of training, a lifetime of struggle against parasites, wandering monsters, anything that’s made Gamearth unsafe! All of a sudden you want us to become friends with them? You are a child.”

  Delrael drew himself up as tall as he could. His hands trembled on the hilt of his sword, but not from fear. “And you, Annik,” he said, “are so stupid I can’t believe you survived in the Game this long.”

  The other Black Falcon riders stiffened, rattling their weapons, but Annik looked angry for only a moment. Then she began to laugh, and continued laughing, which made Delrael even angrier.

  He continued, “We need your assistance. All of us have to fight together. These ylvans were enough to bring down one of your own fighters—” He indicated the dead man propped against the tree. “They could just as easily bring down one of the monster fighters. But instead you’d rather fight simple, defenseless opponents. Are they worthy adversaries for you?”

  He looked at each of the bowmen still aiming at him. “If you kill me, then my fighters will wipe you out. No matter what it takes. Yes, I’m sure your Black Falcon troops will be great in battle, and I’m sure they’ll succeed in murdering some of my fighters before they fall. But they will fall. You’ll all die—for what? What do we gain if all of your troops are slain? What do you gain if my characters are injured or killed against you?”

  He rested the tip of his own sword on the ground. “The only one who wins is Siryyk and his army. They suffer no losses if you and I fight. We’ll all be losers—you, my army, and the ylvans. Let them go and join forces with us.” Delrael kept his tone even, though the thought of joining the Black Falcons galled him now.

  Annik shook her head with a disturbed smile on her face. The ponytails and ball-bearings swung from side to side like weapons. “You don’t understand much about how the Game is played. Once we get to this situation, we cannot let it just end like that. It’s in the nature of who we are.”

  The ylvan man coughed again and struggled to break from Jathen’s grip. He spoke in his harsh voice, snapping at Delrael. “Don’t bargain for us, human. This is our battle—and if we lose, we’ll lose because of our own failings. Not because one human was stronger than another.”

  Delrael pursed his lips. “I propose this.” His voice sounded much more reasonable than he felt. He drew a deep breath. “Rule #10 encourages single combat to solve disputes. Annik, have the Black Falcon troops pick their champion, then the ylvans will choose theirs.” He raised his eyebrows at Annik. “Now that method of settling problems is most certainly in our nature.”

  Annik looked around at the tiny ylvan, shot a glance at the survivors still hiding somewhere in the trees, and smiled again at Delrael, showing the tips of her teeth.

  “Maybe you’re not a fool after all, Delrael. That does sound much more reasonable than wasting our lives. What would be the terms of victory and surrender?”

  Delrael frowned, pretending to be thinking, though he had decided already. “Well, if the Black Falcon champion wins, then my army departs and you go do as you like, without any interference from me. If the ylvan champion wins, you cease harassing them and join my army against the real enemy.”

  Annik stroked the side of her great horse as she flashed her eyes at the struggling ylvan man again. Some of the other ylvans bound beside the trees moaned in fear at Delrael’s terms.

  “That sounds interesting.” She rested the massive sword blade on the ground where its tip dug into the ashes of a scattered ylvan firepit. She held the horn of her saddle. “I’m the champion of the Black Falcon troops. That’s how I gained my position here. But who would the ylvans pick?” She stared at the little dark-haired man, who finally shook off Jathen’s grip and stood tall.

  “I am Kellos. This is—this was my village. I will choose my champion.”

  The Black Falcon riders chuckled to themselves. Delrael’s army seemed uneasy and confused, not knowing what they should do.

  Annik smiled deprecatingly at Kellos. “Take your time, little parasite. We’re not in any hurry, and the battle certainly won’t take long.”

  Kellos stared at the wreckage of his settlement. One of the hanging nests continued to burn, and clusters of mud and branches split off and fell to the ground. He looked at the blood of the others, at the ylvan woman groaning beside him from the pain of her broken ankle. The strangled ylvan man sprawled on the ground with a black and swollen face and bulging eyes. A flush came to Kellos’s face, and he glared at the Black Falcons then at Delrael’s army. His expression became pinched with a sudden idea.

  He pointed his finger at Delrael himself. “You are the champion I choose, human. You will fight for the lives of the ylvans, and for your own life.”

  The fighters in Delrael’s army cried foul, and the Black Falcon troops reacted in surprise. But Delrael remained motionless. He felt relieved inside. He had hoped Kellos would think of this.

  He drew himself up, lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. He looked first from Annik and then back to Kellos. He remembered little Tallin, the ylvan man who had followed them away from his village, who had befriended Delrael. . .who had died in front of Delrael’s eyes as the Anteds attacked them. Delrael hadn’t been able to help the little ylvan then.

  “I am honored to be your champion,” he said.

  When Annik looked at him she seemed even more pleased. She shifted the giant two-handed sword with her massive arms. Delrael wondered if the single-combat challenge had been such a good idea after all. He did not feel a much better match for her than one of the ylvans would have been.

  But Delrael had undergone all the training his father could give him; he had gone on numerous quests; he had fought Gairoth the ogre, the colony of Anteds, Tryos the dragon, the shadow-creature Cailee, and the entire horde of Scartaris’s creatures.

  “Well, Delrael.” She let out a small chuckle. “Make your first move.” She raised the sword and held it close to her shoulder.

  Delrael turned to Kellos. “I’ll do my best for you.”

  The moment he was distracted, Annik lunged forward, sweeping her great sword with both hands. Delrael saw the sudden change of expression on Kellos’s face. At the same moment Jathen spat out a warning.

  But he was already diving to the ground. The edge of Annik’s blade made a moaning sound as it scythed across the air. Delrael rolled up and sprang to his feet, watching her recover from the stroke. She twisted her face with concentrated effort to wield the heavy weapon. She had intended to lop his head off before he could even strike back.

  Delrael leaped to his feet. The Black Falcon troops snickered among themselves. Corim sat stony-faced on his horse.

  Delrael charged in with his sword up to guard himself. His fighting fury seethed through his veins, worse now than just outrage at what the Black Falcons had done to the ylvan village.

  He swung and ducked, trying to get close to Annik where she could not use her
two-handed sword. But she swept with the point of the blade, low this time. It would have disembowelled him if he had not skipped back.

  Delrael’s ears roared with the cheers and cries of ylvans, his own army, the Black Falcons. He thought he heard Tareah wishing him luck. He knew old Siya would be watching in horror, remembering another battle that had slain her husband.

  Delrael felt his muscles sing with the energy. This was fighting, this was doing something, this was the way the Game should be played. But it should be fought against a worthy enemy, not a misguided fool.

  Delrael forced himself to pause for one heartbeat as he recentered his thoughts. He looked at Annik, trying to drive back the emotion, focusing on how to defeat her rather than on how to get revenge. Revenge would only distort his thoughts.

  Delrael gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and reached up to block Annik’s swing. When the blades struck, the clang of metal rang out in the forest air. Delrael felt his arms shake in their sockets—it reminded him of trying to battle against Gairoth’s spiked club. But Gairoth had been stupid; Annik and the Black Falcon troops were not stupid.

  He kept his eyes on her blade locked against his, but a movement of her arm distracted him. Annik took one hand from her sword and moved it to her waist, where she slid out a long dagger. The massive sword in her right hand dipped toward the ground as she concentrated on the dagger, thrusting it forward and up.

  Delrael squirmed away, but the edge sliced along his leather armor, gashing it open in a stinging line along his ribcage.

  He struck up with his sword, trying to knock Annik’s knife hand away. Then he noticed, too late for him to act, that even with only one hand Annik brought her great sword around, low to the ground because she couldn’t lift it high enough for a lethal blow. Her face grimaced with the effort.

  The wide blade smashed into Delrael’s unprotected left leg below the knee. He heard a loud thwock.