Verne pushed himself toward it. The car could not go over the shelf. They would have to leave their vehicle behind. They would be on foot, just as he was. But the giant creatures could catch him in no time.
He chose not to think of that and fell to his knees when he reached the uplifted hex-line. It felt hard and glossy, thrust up from the surface of the desolation terrain. He scrambled over it and rolled.
The desolation lay canted at an angle, as if the entire hexagon was ready to collapse. He ran, tripping faster as the slope increased. Ahead he saw the gray maw of static, mist, and black stars from the other side of the map, a void—the Outside. Verne knew it would be certain death to fall there.
The giant monsters scrambled over the line and plunged after him, shouting. They would capture him, or he would die.
A calmness poured up from the core of Verne’s body. What better way for a great inventor to die than this? What more perfect end for one of the most profound thinkers of Sitnalta than to perish while plunging head-first into the greatest mystery of all?
A swirling stormcloud of dust rushed by as the wind picked up. His cheeks and eyes stung from the sand flying at him. Verne lurched forward, his mind firmly made up.
He heard a loud whuffing from behind, and a ten-foot-tall shaggy creature grabbed him by the coat, clutching his shoulders.
Verne cried out and strained ahead. He popped out of his greatcoat, letting the inside-out sleeves dangle behind him. He fell to the ground. The monster ripped the coat to shreds, yanking the sleeves off, and bounded forward again to grab Verne.
Then the ground started to shake and lurch beneath the map. The surface of the desolation terrain bucked and tilted one way, then the other. The entire hexagon wobbled loose, creaking. A rumbling roar seemed to split from the sky itself.
As the angle of the terrain steepened, the giant beast holding Verne threw itself back toward the hex-line, scrambling and grunting. It tucked the professor under his arm like a heavy log. Verne struggled. The monster smelled rank, like all the bile of all the sickness in the world boiled down to a thick jelly.
Ahead on the other side of the black line, Korux waited beside the Sitnaltan car. The second hairy creature bounded down to take Verne from its companion. The first giant took a large step just as the hexagon rumbled and bucked again.
The second monster sprawled flat, facing uphill. The other creature tripped face-first into the sand. It rolled, kicking dust and rocks, picking up speed as it plunged downward. Its roars became shrill with fear; ahead, it could see the great void.
Verne scrambled out of the second giant’s grip and crawled toward the stable black hex-line. At the front of his mind, he tried to convince himself to stop. Intellectually, he kept insisting that he wanted to die, that he wanted to fall down there, that he didn’t dare be recaptured. But his traitorous body moved with its own survival instinct.
He reached the line just as he felt the ground sink like a rug snatched out from under his feet. He grabbed out with elbows and hands, snatching the edge as he heard a tremendous tearing snap. Then wind and a gush of strange-smelling air poured up. The hexagon fell away.
He turned for just a glance as the section of terrain—flat brown, with two specks showing the hairy giants—fell away, growing smaller. All around it swirled a cosmic nothingness.
He gritted his teeth, jamming his elbows and hands into the rough surface of the desolation. His feet dangled below him, touching nothing. He wanted to let go, to drop, to see—if only for the tiniest instant—what awaited down there.
But instead, he worked his shoulder muscles to get up. He heard a grating hiss and tilted his head, grinding his beard among the rocks and dirt on the edge of the world.
Verne saw the silhouetted form of General Korux bending over. He thought that the Slac would kick him over the side—and he hoped for that in the back of his mind, but he knew it would never happen. Korux would forfeit his own life if he lost the captive.
“I hope you’ve learned not to play games with us.” The Slac reached down, grabbed his arm, and hurled Verne up over the edge, sprawling him onto the stable terrain.
Far below, off in the void, Verne heard a long rumble like distant thunder.
Korux tossed him into the still-chugging car and released the braking lock after he climbed in beside his captive.
“Siryyk has ordered all the monster armies to march. We’re on the attack now,” Korux said. “We have no time for this.”
15. Allies
“We played our games. We had our fun. But the Rules have changed, and now we face a different game—one of survival.”
—Tayron Tribeleader of the khelebar
Delrael’s army had found its stride. Over the days of marching they learned how to work with each other, how to function as one vast unit.
After travelling this far, they had passed through the stages Delrael expected to see—initial excitement at approaching unknown adventures, which gave way to sore weariness from walking across hexagon after hexagon, then the misery of camping under poor conditions and eating bland food for too many days. Finally, as they retreated northward along the spine of the Spectre Mountains, they had hardened to the routine.
Delrael sent scouts ahead and to the side to seek possible obstacles and likely places for ambushing Siryyk’s horde; rear scouts reported regularly on the progress of the monsters.
The manticore’s troops had spread out on the rugged mountain terrain, with a long vanguard of footsoldiers in front, marching ahead of the main group. Siryyk still didn’t know an entire human army remained only one step ahead in the mountain terrain.
Delrael gave permission for teams to dig traps and to set obstacles. These proved a nuisance to Siryyk but caused no real damage, nor did it suggest to the manticore that anything more than a few isolated characters were harassing them. But Delrael knew it would keep the horde angry and marching.
Delrael sent his fighters marching well before dawn. In the darkness they tramped along the quest-path, bearing torches when the terrain proved too treacherous in the dark.
By the time sunrise lit their way, the young man Romm came back from ahead to report. “The next hexagon is forested hills, as we knew from the map. I went with two other scouts.” He seemed uneasy. “We sensed other characters around us. You know how it gets when you’re alone in a dense forest. You can feel when someone’s watching you.”
Delrael nodded, but let a smile creep across his face. He knew exactly where they were. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with the khelebar. Don’t worry.”
Romm looked at him as if to ask a question, but he decided not to. He went back through the lines to get some food from the supply packs.
Delrael withdrew one of the small maps Vailret had copied back in the Stronghold village. It would be interesting to see how Ledaygen had fared after the forest fire.
#
Upon approaching the forested-hill terrain, the surviving ylvans seemed elated. Delrael knew from his memories of Tallin how much they hated to be away from the trees. The ylvans grew up in the protection of the forest, camouflaged, learning their woodcraft so they could become deadly fighters.
But when the army crossed the hex-line to leave the bleak mountain terrain behind, the ylvans became uneasy again.
Delrael himself stood astonished among the close-packed trees, sure that he had misjudged their position. Ledaygen, an entire hexagon of trees, had burned to the ground. He had expected, even with the meticulous work of all the panther-people, to find no more than barren hillsides cleared of dead tree hulks, fertile ash sifted across the soil, and possibly rows of dusty-green seedlings of oaks and pines. It had been only a few turns.
But Ledaygen stood tall and bristling with thick branches. Delrael wondered if this could be the result of some backwash of magic from the dayid, the congregation of spirits that had lived in the forest. Bryl had worked with the dayid to quench the forest fire—but Ledaygen had died, leaving little to salv
age.
Now the forest stood lush . . . but wrong somehow.
Kellos, the ylvan leader, came up to him. Kellos squeezed his mouth into a tight shape. Dark circles under his flinty eyes made him look exhausted from the burden of bearing so much anger inside himself. The purple bruise from the noose looked like a bandanna at his throat; when he spoke, his voice remained scratchy and harsh. In the days since their rescue from the Black Falcons, Kellos had never once called Delrael by name.
“Something’s wrong with this forest.” Kellos jerked his head up at the trees. “It’s like a blow to the stomach. Can’t you feel it? They’re all screaming. This forest is in pain.”
Delrael continued to lead his fighters ahead anyway. “I can see that.”
Scowling, Kellos dropped back.
The trees themselves were thin and unbalanced. Their branches reached like claws. Each joint swelled with large knobs, like the fingers of a starving man. The force of the trees stretching upward, trying to grow as fast as they could, made the air taut with energy.
It reminded Delrael of the blackened tree plantations on the hills outside of Tairé. He wondered if Jathen would have made that comparison. Enrod stumbled along, looking disturbed. He had acted even more disoriented since Jathen’s death.
The human army continued through the trees. The forest seemed close and oppressive. Delrael knew they should stop for a meal and a rest, but none of the fighters seemed anxious for that.
Kellos came up to him again. “Characters are watching us from out there in the trees. They’re very good woodsmen. Even I can barely detect them. But they’re here, now, very close to us.” He looked around, ready to pull his crossbow and arm it.
Delrael signalled his fighters to stop. A few moments later, when all the characters had ground to a halt, he stepped in front, alone and vulnerable. He looked out into the trees.
“I know you’re there, khelebar. I am Delrael, called kennoklimb. Your Healer Thilane gave me a new leg. Noldir Woodcarver made it for me.”
He peeled up his trouser leg to expose the grain of the golden wood and the choppy white gash from where Annik had struck him. “Call Tayron Tribeleader. He knows who I am.”
The silence bothered Delrael; suspicion and uneasiness did not fit with his memories of the khelebar at all. But he had been injured that first time, followed by only two companions. Now, he brought an entire army.
Delrael waited and blinked his eyes. In that moment a khelebar man emerged from the trees directly in front of him.
His hair was dark and cropped close to his head. His broad shoulders remained bare. His chest showed no ornament. The bottom half of his body was that of a panther, with four powerful clawed legs, dusty fur, and rippling muscles. His panther tail twitched as he stepped forward.
“We remember you, kennoklimb. I see that much has changed.” The khelebar man looked around the thick forest. “Much has changed here as well. Do you remember me?”
Delrael looked at him, but he recalled a man with long hair hanging in black braids down his back and an ornate pine-cone pendant at his throat.
“Of course I remember you, Ydaim Trailwalker.”
The khelebar man smiled at him. “Since you remember me, I have no choice but to welcome you.”
#
Tayron Tribeleader padded about on the council clearing where the khelebar made bonfires and told tales. Delrael remembered the war councils the panther-people had held during the forest fire and in planning their assault against the Cyclops.
Delrael sat cross-legged on the ash-covered clearing, waiting for Tayron to continue. He looked across at the hex-discontinuity, where the forested-hill terrain met the adjacent hexagon of mountains; but the terrains did not match up correctly and left a sheer cliff. Many khelebar had thrown themselves over the edge in the last moments of the fire.
Near the center of the clearing stood a pine seedling, about as tall as Delrael’s knee. This, he remembered, was the one pine tree that survived from the old Ledaygen, protected from the flames by the fall of the towering Father Pine in the clearing. The seedling looked normal and alive, the only truly healthy tree Delrael had seen in the entire hexagon. Somewhere deep in the hex should be a similarly healthy oak tree, one brought back to life through the sacrifice of Thilane Healer.
Beside the pine seedling stood a complex symbolic monument for the forest. Noldir Woodcarver had fashioned it from the scorched hulk of the Father Pine.
Tayron’s dusty blond hair had also been cut short, as had all of the khelebar Delrael had seen. Ydaim explained it to him. “We will not allow our hair to grow until Ledaygen has grown to its former glory.”
Tayron stopped is pacing, and the sunlight played across his dappled back. He finally spoke again. “Few khelebar remain here. Most could not stand the enormous task of resurrecting the forest. They could not bear the scars they saw, and they have gone to lesser forests to form their own groups. Only I and Ydaim and a few dozen others do all this work.
“But the blood of Ledaygen has made the soil magic. You see how fast the trees have returned. Our work has paid off. We will never leave our home.”
Delrael turned his gaze away and pursed his lips. Until now, Tayron had not asked about the human army or its purpose; but Delrael could no longer avoid the issue.
“Tayron, I have to tell you why we’re here. A gigantic monster horde follows us, only a day or two behind. Their purpose is to destroy the map. They will flood through here like a storm, and they’ll cause as much destruction as the fire did. I know of no way you can avoid them. They are coming.”
Ydaim melted out of the forest to stand by the clearing. His face bore a shocked expression. Delrael thought he saw shadows of other khelebar between the trees. Tayron stared at him with wide, devastated eyes.
“You are bringing the evil creatures here! To destroy our work? How could you do this?” His voice cracked as it grew shrill. “You know what Ledaygen has already suffered—why couldn’t you choose another route and protect us?”
This time frustration began to bubble up within Delrael. He thought of Vailret and Bryl taking their risk as they went alone to get the Earth Stone. He thought of how Jathen had been murdered by the manticore, and all the Tairan characters slaughtered in Siryyk’s attack. He drew himself to his feet and felt his hands trembling.
“The end of the Game is near, Tayron, and this could be the final battle. All characters are in play. We can’t afford to shelter one place or one group. Everything counts now.” He scowled. “I’m sorry for your forest, but we are fighting for all of Gamearth. If we win this one struggle, then we determine our fate for the Outsiders. We will always have peace.”
“A war to end all wars?” Ydaim said, interrupting from where he stood. His face wore a cynical expression. “I’m not sure I believe in the idea.”
Delrael turned to him, but then three human figures appeared among the trees. “Delrael!” Romm shouted, and all three marched into the clearing.
Between Romm and another scout stood a tall human fighter, heavily muscled and wearing old but well-tended armor. He moved with a slow grace that disregarded the presence of his two escorts. Each step was careful and precise. His hair hung long, streaked with gray, and thinning on top. A full beard made his massive face look larger. His eyes were narrow and dark.
Despite his apparent determination, he seemed to have an underlying aura of calmness about him. He carried an unsheathed broadsword in his right hand. When he stepped forward, the fighter looked as if he would make no compromises.
“He came right through the army,” Romm said. “He won’t tell anyone who he is. Just wanted to see you.”
Tayron and Ydaim fell silent in the clearing, as if sensing the import of the moment.
Delrael felt amazement stab through him like blue-cold steel. Part of him grew surprised that Romm hadn’t recognized the fighter, but it had been many years.
“Father!” Delrael’s voice came out in a whisper.
; Drodanis took two steps forward and rested the flat of his sword on his shoulder. “I’ve come to help. Could you use another fighter?”
Delrael stood stricken for a moment, and then ran forward as both of them burst into huge grins.
#
The campfire crackled, shedding warmth into the night. Above, stars showed through patchy clouds and the tangled ceiling of branches.
Delrael and Drodanis sat near each other. The rest of the army rested by their own fires with strict instructions not to harm any trees or to wander from the well-marked paths. They left Delrael and his father to catch up on years of conversation left behind.
“I was very angry when you left,” Delrael said. “I wasn’t ready for the responsibility you gave me. I had my training, but you suddenly placed me in command of the Stronghold while you ran off. You gave up! A great fighter like you shouldn’t surrender!”
Drodanis stared into the flames and made no comment.
“I had companions die too—” Their faces welled up in Delrael’s memory, but he blinked them away. “But I continued the Game. I didn’t let my grief poison me. You ran away and left me.”
Delrael took a deep breath. “And then you sent that message stick from the Rulewoman, giving me the responsibility of saving Gamearth. You told me to find a way to stop Scartaris—while you sat and wallowed in self-pity for turn after turn!”
Drodanis accepted all the comments Delrael flung at him, and he turned tired eyes at his son. Delrael saw the firelight reflected in them. “Everything you say is true. I did give up. I was wrong—that’s the loser’s way out. We weren’t created for that kind of response. That’s why I came back to rejoin the Game, to make amends.”
“I wish you’d come back sooner,” Delrael said. The campfire snapped and popped over his words.
“Yes,” Drodanis said. “We forgot our purpose here on Gamearth. We allowed ourselves to get too wrapped up in dull activities and day-to-day life. Our whole purpose on Gamearth is to amuse the Outsiders. We are here to have adventures, and the Outsiders are not at all interested in our chores, in our bland home lives.
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