Vailret and Bryl hurried through the streets, feeling a strange oppression on them. Vailret squinted up at the tall buildings, but didn’t understand what he had seen happen. “It’s like Tairé and Scartaris all over again,” Bryl said. “Mindless characters being manipulated.”
Vailret stared at one of the chugging street-cleaning gadgets that scoured along the gutters; he remembered Mayer telling him that Dirac had first patented the invention. He shook his head. “No, not like Scartaris. These characters know what they’re doing—they just can’t control their own bodies. It seems more limited than Scartaris.”
Bryl blinked his eyes. “Like a spell of some kind.”
Vailret stopped at the thought. “A spell in Sitnalta? But we’re inside the technological fringe.”
“Do you think the Rules have weakened that much?”
Sounds from around the corner led them into a broad square. Characters gathered in front of a tall building with all the windows smashed and columns yanked out. Yet the Sitnaltans had rigged up scaffolding, ropes, and pulleys. New construction materials lay around: pallets of bricks and mortar, wood hauled from forest terrain, stone blocks, newly poured foundations.
The characters swarmed over the front of the building. From the bright newness of one entire wall, Vailret could see how much they had rebuilt already—and it all appeared to have been done in a single day.
Some of the characters looked down at him, but they moved too quickly, wrapped in their own business. They seemed afraid to stop for even a moment.
A rope creaked, and a new pane of glass swung up, slewing sideways, then hung down straight as four characters cranked a winch, hauling it up to the second story where a large window had been smashed out.
“Excuse us!” Vailret called. “This is very important.”
Every single one of the characters working on the reconstruction stopped, like Sitnaltan automatons that had been switched off. Vailret couldn’t imagine how he had commanded such instant response, but then the Sitnaltans groaned in unison, crying out in anger. Some muttered, “Stop! Not again!”
Two women cranking the winch that raised the pane of glass stepped back. One kicked the release, and the rope hummed as the winch twirled. The glass hurtled down to the cobblestones in an explosion of sharp fragments.
All the while cursing and growling in disbelief, the Sitnaltans yanked at the scaffolding, at the support struts. Metal crowbars came out and smashed into the new brick and the still-soft mortar. Characters threw wooden boards through glass panes, watching themselves with horrified expressions.
One man sawed the rope of a scaffold, sending himself and four others tumbling head first down to the street. The heavy scaffold and its load of bricks and stone toppled after them.
Nine Sitnaltans used levers and pulleys to rig up a complex system with heavy grappling hooks; using it, they ripped free half of the entire facade. In a group, they moaned in dismay as the front of the building crumbled to the ground.
Vailret now realized where they stood. In the center of the square stood a stagnant fountain. In the greenish water, slime-covered mechanical fish puttered around in slow circles; several had sunk to the bottom, where algae grew on them.
Across the plaza stood the rebuilt shrine building, the museum that contained original writings of the great inventor Maxwell, whom Sitnaltans revered as the founder of their city. The first time Vailret had stayed in Sitnalta, the shrine building started on fire. He had charged in to rescue their precious documents when none of the Sitnaltans proved willing to take the risk.
Now the struggling characters scrambled over the wreckage of the other building they had just demolished. Lining up in straight lines, they marched across the square, curling around the dead fountain where Bryl and Vailret stared at them. The Sitnaltans aimed straight at the rebuilt shrine building.
The Sitnaltans themselves saw what the controlling force was driving them to do, and they fought back with redoubled urgency. One stout woman managed to trip herself and tumble in front of two columns of the other Sitnaltans.
The first three tripped over her, and then the others kept walking, stepping on her body. She cried out, but she could not roll away.
Vailret ran forward, using his shoulders to knock characters aside. He pulled the woman away; Bryl grabbed her other arm and helped drag her across the cobblestones. She gasped but seemed unconcerned with her own pain.
“Not me—if you can move, stop them! They’ll destroy the Charter of Sitnalta.”
More than a score of Sitnaltans went toward their target. Vailret looked at Bryl—the two of them couldn’t possibly fight against so many. Even if the Sitnaltans themselves didn’t wish them any harm, the controlling force would have no such qualms.
“Bryl, use the Air Stone!” Vailret said. “Confuse them.”
Bryl pulled out the four-sided diamond and stared at it. “But this is Sitnalta. Magic won’t work here.”
“Try it anyway,” Vailret said. “There’s a chance.”
Bryl closed his eyes and tossed the pointed diamond to the ground. A “3” showed up. Vailret smacked his fist into his palm.
“How did that happen?” Bryl gaped. “I’m not supposed to roll anything but a 1 here.” But after a moment he snatched up the diamond and concentrated on his illusion.
Around the scrolled and columned building, a thick maze of pedestal-wide brambles sprang up. They twirled and tangled with needle-sharp thorns as long as daggers.
Bryl held the Air Stone with both hands, closing his eyes. The Sitnaltans stopped, gawking in amazement. A few moved around the edges of the brambles, but could see no way in. They stopped, as if gathering strength. Vailret feared what they would do.
Then one column plunged forward face-first into the brambles.
Vailret did not know if they simply disregarded the illusion and pushed ahead, denying what their eyes told them. Or if the controlling force had accepted the sacrifice of a few characters and urged them forward anyway.
The illusion could not maintain solidity. The Sitnaltan column marched through the brambles unscathed. As they succeeded, the other Sitnaltans mobilized and pushed forward.
“It isn’t working,” Bryl mumbled. He let go of the diamond, and the illusion dissolved.
“Time to be more decisive then,” Vailret said. “You’ve got the Fire Stone. See what that does.”
Bryl took out the ruby. “If the Air Stone was just a fluke, there’s no chance this one will work. The odds are—”
“Just try it!”
Bryl rolled the eight-sided ruby, and it landed with the “5” showing up. Another success.
This time a tall ring of fire surrounded the building, feeding off nothing but the cobblestones. The Sitnaltans gathered around, pushing close enough to the fire that the hair singed away from their foreheads and eyebrows. Smoke smudged their faces. If they tried to plunge through the fire, they would die.
“You’d better watch, Bryl. I don’t want to slaughter them. I’d rather let them rip up their damned documents.”
But then the Sitnaltans wavered in their step, paused, and collapsed, as if suddenly dropped from a great height, set free from an invisible grip.
The moment the characters struck the ground, most scrambled back to their feet, tense and ready to pounce on any enemy they could see. Some remained cross-legged on the ground, sobbing and shaking.
“It is like a spell,” Vailret said. “You were right.”
The Sitnaltans appeared baffled as they turned. Some stared in relief at the intact, though smoke-stained, museum. Others gawked at the building they had just torn down.
“Maybe we should just swim across the water terrain,” Bryl said. “I’ll even give up a hot meal and a good bed to get out of here. Professor Morse was right.” He shivered, tucking his hands into the folds of his blue cloak. He looked very old. “If that controller gets hold of us, we might never be able to get away.”
“If that controller makes you use
the Fire Stone against your will, you could bring down this entire city in a single day.” Vailret looked around. He didn’t particularly want to speak with the stunned Sitnaltans. “Let’s go find Professor Frankenstein before anything else happens.”
Bryl had never been to the workroom of Professors Verne and Frankenstein; but Vailret remembered asking the professors to invent a new pair of mechanical eyes for Paenar, since his magical eye-staff refused to function in Sitnalta.
Oriented by the fountain and Maxwell’s museum, Vailret recalled the other places Mayer had shown him in his tour of the city, the thinking lounges, the great room where characters rolled dice and kept track of the scores to discern some pattern to the Rules of Probability.
“Frankenstein is just down this street,” he said, trudging ahead. With each step, he feared that the invisible manipulation would sink claws into his mind and drive his body to do terrible things—especially now that they had called attention to themselves by using the Stones. If the force indeed used magic to control characters, maybe it would want the Stones for itself.
The doorways and facades marked the Sitnaltan homes and research establishments in a confused jumble of designs. Mayer had pointed out details as they walked, and now Vailret tried to remember the important parts. Mayer had been upset when he and Paenar asked to see the professors, rather than continuing their tour with her. She stopped at the appropriate doorway, then stalked off, leaving them to fend for themselves.
Vailret stopped. “This one.”
An engraved plaque on the door announced:
Profs. Frankenstein and Verne
Inventors At Large
PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB
It looked as if a piece of tape had obscured Verne’s name, but someone had peeled it away again.
“We’re going inside,” Vailret said. He pounded on the door, then winced as he struck the ornate carving with the side of his hand.
Loud curses and a clatter of toppling books and equipment came from inside. Footsteps moved toward the door, accompanied by continued mutterings. Vailret took a half step backward and put himself behind Bryl. “You can stand in front.”
Someone yanked the door open from inside, and a gaunt man thrust his head out. His dark hair had been mussed, grease stains twirled across his cheeks, and his eyes looked glazed. His voice carried a thick overtone of anger.
“I’m doing important work here! If you want—” He stopped, blinking at Vailret and then turned down at Bryl. After a moment of confusion, Frankenstein recognized them and, surprising them both, his face lit up with delight.
“Ah, magic!” He grabbed Bryl’s arm and yanked him inside. “I need you to tell me some things!”
Vailret had to hurry through the door before Frankenstein slammed it, then threw the bolt from inside.
11. Verne’s Cannon
“RULE #9. Weapons on Gamearth can range from simple improvised sticks and rocks to complicated seige machines. Clever characters will find weapons anywhere. The character with the best weapons and the most weapons has the greatest chance of winning the Game.”
—The Book of Rules
Two hairy, misshapen creatures grunted and strained at the giant handles, turning an enormous crucible to pour whitish-orange iron into its mold. Droplets of fire gushed into the air.
Jules Verne shielded his eyes, blinking tears and sweat away from his raw face. He wiped soot across his cheek. His lips were chapped, his mouth dry. His body felt weak.
“Enough, enough!” the Slac general Korux cried as the hairy creatures kept pouring even after the mold brimmed. Splatters of molten metal flew into the air, scorching one of the creatures. Its matted hair smoldered, sending greasy smoke into the stifling air. The creature shrieked, released its end of the handle, and beat at its smoldering back.
Tilted, the crucible sloshed sideways, letting liquid metal drool over the rim. The second creature planted both feet and grimaced as it tried to keep the crucible from overturning.
Verne, feeling dizzy, stumbled back on his painful bandaged foot. He leaned against the smoke-smeared wall. One burly Slac continued to pump the bellows, keeping the fire hot enough to maintain the iron at its melting temperature.
“Don’t stop now!” Korux bellowed into the rumbling background noises. “We need to fill the other half of the mold!”
Several of Siryyk’s monster fighters slinked toward the door. Korux pointed a clawed hand at one. “You! Take the place of that idiot! And get him out of here. Tend to his injury, ease the pain, and then kill him.”
The burned creature snarled and scrambled to his feet, hunching into a defensive posture as several armed beasts came toward him. Korux paid little attention. Out of the corner of his brittle mouth, Korux said, “Or just kill him first if he doesn’t want the medical attention.”
Three squat gray-skinned monsters lifted and slid the first mold out of the way, scooping ashes around it to even out the cooling. They pushed second mold under the crucible.
“If this new weapon of yours doesn’t work, human—” Korux jerked his angled head at the glowing crucible. “We’ll give you a bath in that.”
Verne looked, but felt no increase in his constant state of terror. “No you won’t,” he muttered under his breath, but made sure the Slac general couldn’t hear him over the hissing of the forges. “Siryyk needs me to make more weapons.”
The most difficult part had been fabricating anything at all complicated under the primitive conditions of Tairé. The old city had raw materials and some facilities, a few tools, but none of the technology Verne used in Sitnalta. Tairé depended on manual labor and hand-held tools.
To stall for time, he had redesigned parts of the existing Tairan forges and casting furnaces. He delayed as long as he could, but he knew Siryyk had to see some results, or Verne would lose more toes.
The professor had drawn up a sketch of his new cannon, with several parts deliberately designed wrong so the weapon would fail, requiring that Verne take more time to fix it. But the manticore, whose paw was as massive as the sheet of plans, stared down with his slitted eyes. He curled his lips back and extended one claw to poke a hole through the paper.
“This part will not work.” The manticore looked up with his squarish, distorted face. The curved horns protruding from the forehead looked deadly. His bestial eyes met Verne’s. “You seem to have made a mistake, Professor. See that it does not happen again.”
So Verne had redesigned the cannon, fixing his deliberate errors and beginning production of a prototype model. In his own mind, he knew it would work. He could no longer depend on defects he introduced himself. Of course, he never had any guarantee that his inventions would work anyway—other faults occurred through legitimate misunderstandings of the Rules of physics or flaws in construction or engineering that he could never anticipate.
But a sick feeling in his stomach told him this invention would work just as intended.
But at least the cannon would be far less devastating than the Sitnaltan weapon. By giving Siryyk a new toy, perhaps Verne could hold off other catastrophes. He wondered what Frankenstein would think of his decision.
A gurgling howl broke through the background noises. Verne turned to see the burned hairy creature suddenly stabbed from three sides with barbed spears.
Beside Verne, General Korux smiled as best he could with hard reptilian lips.
#
Siryyk the manticore rumbled in his sleep, churned by nightmares of the Outside.
An explosion of power and falling rocks brought him away from his dreams. He raised his massive shaggy head, clearing his throat with a liquid cough. His scorpion tail still throbbed from the detonation.
In his nightmare he must have tossed and lashed out, striking one of the rock columns in the open ampitheater. Blocks of stone collapsed on his lion’s body—each of the blocks was large enough to squash a human character into a smear of blood and meat, but they only bruised him.
It reminded Siryyk of
the blow the treacherous stone gargoyle Arken had struck against him during the battle on the threshold of Scartaris.
Smoldering blazes in the firepits lit everything with an orange glow. Siryyk blinked his eyes as he sat up. Slac guards stood around shivering, fearing what the manticore had seen in his nightmares.
Siryyk heaved himself to his four feet and shook his head. He looked again at the broken column and the swath of stars overhead he had exposed by collapsing part of the criss-crossed ceiling.
He had dreamed of the Players again. Outside, sitting in their cozy dwelling, they looked down at the map and manipulated Gamearth. Siryyk felt himself moving within the Outsider David’s mind—David was young and weak, with trivial thoughts and concerns overlapping with images of giant hands and puppet strings. Whimsical decisions—and growing fear.
Siryyk knew he was just a creation of these weaklings. But the Outsider David had begun to suspect how powerful an opponent he had created. The manticore was supposed to be David’s ally, but Siryyk had thoughts of his own.
Siryyk had fun with the battles on Gamearth, as the Outsiders expected all monsters to do, to gather forces and strike across the map. Scartaris had intended that. The Outsider David meant to devastate Gamearth, leaving nothing for the others to Play.
And when Siryyk marched with his armies, David would think the manticore warlord cooperated with him. But Sirryk had Verne’s Sitnaltan weapon now, and the professor would create other gadgets for him. The army would strike at the human Stronghold and get back the great Fire Stone lost by Enrod when he went to attack the other side of the map. Siryyk had learned of other Stones—a total of four, three of which were already held by the human character Delrael.
Siryyk would strike against Delrael’s forces. But not because the Rules of Gamearth demanded it. Not because the Outsider David wanted that to happen. But because Sirryk desired the Stones. With the Stones, and with the Sitnaltan weapon, he would have enough power to strike back against the Outsiders. He would make them notice.
Gamearth Trilogy Omnibus Page 68