Chapter 17

SIRYYK'S GAME

 

 

"Single combat against a talented opponent requires skill and speed. However, a large-scale battle is choreography of vast groups of characters, requiring much effort, planning, and strategy. It is perhaps the most difficult game any of us will ever attempt."

― Drodanis, to trainees at the Stronghold

 

 

Delrael's army moved at a rapid pace northward, charged with elation from their victory in Ledaygen. Rear scouts estimated that a third of the horde had been killed in the fire. Siryyk's remaining army had drawn together, not spread so thinly along the terrain. But the monsters still outnumbered them four to one.

When Romm and the other scouts returned that afternoon to report, Delrael sat back and listened. They knew from the maps that mountain terrain lay along their path. But they did not know the characteristics of each hexagon, or how they could use it to their advantage.

"The mountains are particularly rugged in the next hex," Romm said. He sat down on a lichen-spattered boulder and brushed a few sweat-clumped strands of hair away from his forehead. His long face had been sunburned from the altitude, and his lips were chapped. Delrael gave him a flask of water, and Romm dutifully took a sip, but he seemed more preoccupied with making his report.

"We found a few places where we might set up an effective attack. In particular there's one path along a cliff in a narrow canyon. Our numbers could really work to our advantage there."

"One other thing," the second scout said. She was a wiry woman with short brown hair; she came from one of the mining villages northwest of the Stronghold. Delrael could not remember her name. "We saw Black Falcon riders in the mountains, but they didn't notice us."

Delrael frowned. "Corim said they might shadow us. We can only hope he chooses a better enemy than Annik did."

He saw his father sitting by himself and sharpening his sword. Drodanis had watched and complimented his son's work on the ambush in Ledaygen. Most of the other characters shied away from the old war leader, in awe of all they had heard about his legendary quests and adventures.

"Father!" Delrael called. Drodanis looked up and tossed his flat stone to the ground. "Come here. I'd like you to help plan strategy for our next attack."

Delrael felt warm as he saw his father's face light up with sudden interest. "I would be honored to offer my thoughts."

 

Tayron Tribeleader went alone off the quest-path into the steep rocks. The rest of the army didn't see him leave. A few of the khelebar watched; they made solemn nods.

Using his agile panther body, Tayron climbed into a sheltered place, a kind of ampitheater he had found. Shallow soil and some grasses stood in the middle of a ring of rocks, a place where water trickled down, where the winds did not blast too fiercely ― where the new Father Pine could have a home.

He placed the wooden pot beside him on a flat rock and bent down to scoop a depression in the soil.

"It will be a hard life for you here," he said to the tree, "But a hard life makes us strong. You are the last survivor of Ledaygen. I know you have the power within you."

He planted the tree and patted the damp soil back into place. The tree would live.

"No one knows you are here," he said. "That may protect you."

Tayron climbed out of the ampitheater of rocks and stood looking down at the tiny pine. "Perhaps one day we shall return and find that this entire hex has become a great forest."

 

Drodanis waited until Siya and some of the older characters from the village had finished serving the midday meal before he came up to her to get his own rations.

He remembered some characters from his days at the Stronghold ― Sitael the thin, grumpy tanner; Mostem, the overweight baker. It pained him to see how much they had changed, and it made Drodanis wonder if he had changed as much in their eyes.

Siya seemed worst of all. She had always been somewhat stern and humorless. Drodanis couldn't understand what Cayon found so endearing about her, but Cayon probably considered it a challenge to win the heart of someone so totally unlike himself. Siya had always disliked Drodanis, or so he thought, and she had not spoken to him since he returned to Delrael's army.

"Are you avoiding me, Siya?" he asked as she gave him a plateful of potatoes and stewed dried meat. She plopped a hard biscuit on top.

Siya took a deep breath and faced him squarely. Her gaze looked very sharp. "Drodanis, you remind me of things I'd rather not think about. When Cayon and Fielle both died, you ran away from it all. Some of us chose to remain with our lives and move ahead as best we could." She put her hands on her narrow hips.

"When I see Vailret march out on quests and adventures, I can't help but remember how Cayon died on that foolish errand with you. Why couldn't you have gone ogre hunting by yourself?"

Drodanis could understand her attitude. He had thought similar things himself. "Siya, I've found it's better to remember the good times and hold them close to your heart, rather than relive the pain over and over. It took me a long time to understand that."

Siya served herself from the remaining food but did not taste any of it. She kept watching Drodanis. The other characters had backed away, leaving them to their discussion.

"Thinking of the good times only intensifies the pain of what I lost."

But Drodanis couldn't help himself from smiling. "Oh, Siya! Don't you remember that archery tournament we held when Cayon was courting you? He and I had equal scores, and in the last round he lost by a single point because he was too busy showing off for you rather than paying attention to his aim? Or how about the time when we explored the abandoned mine shafts in the western hills? And that Slac treasure pit Cayon found, and that special emerald brooch he gave you ― it might have been from an old Sorcerer queen, Lady Maire perhaps."

Drodanis laughed at his memories. "Remember that cursed opal he found! It turned his skin bright blue, and didn't go away for more than a month! Just think of all the treasure we brought back, all the monsters we slew, all the adventures we had."

He drew a deep breath and felt his eyes sparkling. He seemed so alive just remembering these things. "Ah, those were the good days."

She took her plate and went off by herself. "No," she said over her shoulder, "they were not."

 

Before the army could break camp and march ahead, hoofbeats rang out on the mountain path. A Black Falcon rider came around the overhang of rocks and approached Delrael.

He stood up, waiting to see what the rider wanted. The nearby fighters tensed. Some put their hands on weapons, but Delrael waved them down.

As the rider came near, Delrael recognized Corim. The large blond man looked weary, scraped and bruised. Nicks and tatters scored his armor. His scabbard was gone, leaving only frayed leather thongs on the saddle of his black horse. The sword's blade was notched and stained with dried blood, as if Corim had made no effort to clean it. The horse itself bore many wounds; foam flecked back from its lips.

"Delrael, I must speak with you," he said.

Before Delrael could say anything, he heard a click and then a whistle of something flying through the air.

A crossbow bolt suddenly sprouted in the base of Corim's throat, just below the larynx. The rider's eyes widened. He kept one hand on the reins of his horse as he reached up to claw at his neck. Blood gushed from his skin, dribbling down into the black armor.

With his fingers still clenched around the reins, Corim opened his mouth wide and tried to suck in a breath. His horse snorted and bucked backward.

Corim tilted sideways and slid off the saddle like melting wax. He coughed as he struck the rocks on the ground. His horse backed away.

Delrael ran toward him, as did several other fighters.

Three men grabbed Kellos and yanked him into the air, yanking his crossbow away. The ylvan flailed. "Who denies me the right? Who denies me!" Kellos shouted. His voice remained hoarse and high pitched.

Corim coughed, and blood came out of his mouth. His eyes stared upward without seeing, but apparently he knew Delrael stood beside him.

"Was coming to offer help," the Black Falcon man whispered without using his voice. "Join forces."

The fighters brought the struggling Kellos over to Delrael. The black horse backed away farther until it stood against the rock wall. Delrael snarled at the ylvan leader, "I should throw you over a cliff!"

Kellos broke free of the fighters' grip. "He killed fifty of my people!"

"And Siryyk's army just might kill the rest of them," Delrael snapped back. "We could have used help from the Black Falcons."

Corim's hand snatched out to grab the ylvan's thin arm in a death spasm. The Black Falcon clenched his hand. Kellos tried to squirm away, but he could not break the man's grasp. Corim shuddered. The blood pouring from his throat slowed and glistened in the sun.

Kellos struggled and finally drew a dagger from his belt and used the blade to pry up Corim's dead fingers.

Delrael turned to see that other Black Falcon riders had arrived and stared in anger at their dead leader. They muttered and drew their weapons. One man pointed at the ylvan. "We claim vengeance!"

Delrael balled his fists, feeling as if he had lost control of everything. His own army tensed, drawing their weapons but not certain which side to take. The other Black Falcon riders looked as battered and injured as Corim had: one woman carried her arm bound in a sling; a man had blood-soaked rags tied over one eye.

"No," he said, "I've had enough of this. Kellos claimed his own vengeance. This feud is now over. We have a real enemy to worry about."

He glared at the Black Falcon riders, daring them to question him. "Corim's last words to me were about joining forces, not gaining revenge. Will you listen to him or not?"

The Black Falcon Troops sat rigid on their mounts, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, the woman with the injured arm said, "Only twenty of us remain. You were right when you described the threat of this demon army. The Black Falcon troops attacked them." She hung her head, then fell silent.

The man with the bloody eyepatch continued for her. "They defeated us. We had to flee. We took a great toll on them, but they were too many. An enemy like this demands different tactics than the Black Falcons generally use. We argued among ourselves, but Corim insisted that we join forces with you. That your army is large enough to have a significant impact on the horde."

Kellos bristled. "How do we know they won't just cut the throats of my people at night? And the khelebar, too?"

Delrael looked at the ylvan man. "How do we know you won't do the same to them? I said enough of this! We have a battle to worry about."

"We have no leader," said the woman with the sling.

"Delrael," Drodanis spoke softly, but the words carried without raising his voice. When he stood, the massive fighter looked the match of any of the Black Falcon riders. "I command no troops of my own. If these brave fighters will have me, I swear I'll lead them to a victory greater than any of my other quests."

The Black Falcon riders looked at Drodanis with unreadable expressions. Drodanis snatched the mane of Corim's black horse. Delrael knew his father would make good on the promise.

 

In the deep night, the horses of the Black Falcon troops grew restless after waiting in the same spot. They snorted and stamped their feet in the cold mountain air.

"Keep them quiet!" Drodanis hissed.

Other Black Falcon riders tried to shush their animals. Drodanis sat back against the rough granite and stared up at the stars, waiting. He always hated this part of battle. The waiting, the ambush.

The narrow quest-path wound along a treacherous ledge. The sheer cliff dropped into a jagged canyon where, during the day, they had watched a frothy mountain stream churning over boulders and rock falls. Now, in the darkness, they could only hear the whisper of distant water echoing up in the canyon.

At the mouth of the gorge, on a wide plateau, Drodanis could see fires burning in Siryyk's encampment. Many of the monsters who had survived the trap in Ledaygen probably never wanted to see fire again. They would shiver in the cold instead, demoralized from their defeat in the forest.

Drodanis stood up to flex his legs and fingers. He felt cold to the bone, but he had endured much worse in other campaigns. "Everybody get ready," he said.

The Black Falcon riders snapped to their positions. These fighters impressed Drodanis. They would be a good team for his quick, vicious assault.

"We'll charge in, light our arrows from their own fires, and ride through, setting the tents and their food ablaze. Kill whoever stands in your way ― but remember, our object is to destroy their supplies, not to engage the monsters." He paused.

"In case you don't think that's a worthy target, remember they have a large army, but no magic users to replenish their supplies, as we do. They can't find enough other food in mountain terrain. This will be a very severe blow to them. Finally ― " He smiled, but in the starlight he realized that few of them could see anything other than his silhouette. "The point is to lure them out where the rest of our army can take care of them."

He mounted up on Corim's horse. He made sure he had securely fastened his rag-wrapped spears to the side of his saddle. He withdrew his long sword and held it in his right hand. Steadying himself on the horse, he looked back and saw that all twenty of the Black Falcon riders waited for him to signal them.

"Remember Rule #1!" he said, then urged his horse into motion. "Go!"

The twenty-one horses thundered along in single file on the quest-path. They split up at their designated branches on the trail, then rode hard along the sides of the plateau, appearing over the lip just as the monsters heard them approach.

Drodanis and the three riders behind him galloped past the first line of scrambling monsters, directly toward a small campfire. Drodanis kept the horse on track with pressure from his knees as he swung with the sword in one hand and pulled out the two spears in his other.

The creatures shouted among themselves, not certain what was happening.

Drodanis jammed the ends of his two cloth-wrapped spears into the fire and circled the blaze, keeping the tips buried in the embers until the spears flared up like torches. He jerked both shafts high. In a reflex action, he slashed with his sword at a Slac who staggered toward him with reptilian claws extended. The tip of Drodanis's blade caught the hollow under its scaled chin and ripped the bottom of the monster's jaw off.

Without slowing, Drodanis turned his horse toward the supply tents. He heard shouts and saw other Black Falcon riders appearing on different parts of the plateau. They charged up, yelling their own cries of challenge and victory.

Flaming arrows thunked into some of the piled sacks. Drodanis threw his own spears into a patched oil-stained tent. Flames crackled and ate up the side of the enclosure; the stains on the cloth flared brighter than the rest.

He saw five Slac converge on one Black Falcon rider, the woman with her arm in a sling. She bore a flaming spear and jabbed it at them. Without both arms, she could not use a bow. She flailed the torch in the creatures' faces.

Drodanis urged his horse to come to her aid, but before he could close half the distance, the Slac had grabbed her. They hacked the legs of her horse, causing it to tumble. She fell on the ground, and they surrounded her. All Drodanis could see was a blur of Slac weapons, blood, and nothing of the fallen rider.

The tents blazed brighter. He saw in the center of the camp a gigantic form, the manticore stirring. Drodanis felt fear crawl down his spine. The monster stood immense, ten times the size of the ogre that had killed his brother Cayon. To destroy such an opponent, Drodanis thought, would be the greatest challenge any fighter could have.

But he had no hope of doing that now. Battling Siryyk himself would have to wait for another time.

"Riders, turn about!" Drodanis cried. "Back!" He charged toward the edge of the plateau, to the quest-paths marking their route back. He looked at the sky and saw a tinge of dawn light just breaking there. He had timed it perfectly.

One of the smaller pavilions burned and then exploded with an enormous concussion. Flames belched out, knocking the nearby monsters flat. Others ran about, beating at fire on their garments. The Black Falcons had destroyed part of the supply of firepowder as well. Drodanis grinned ― an unexpected plus.

"Ride!" he shouted again.

His horse, deafened by the explosions, obliged easily and charged toward the rocky path. Drodanis let the horse lead itself because the flames had dazzled his own eyes.

The other riders jumped back out, striking and slashing as the monster horde scurried into motion. The creatures gathered their weapons and ran after the attackers.

Drodanis didn't look back. He saw four Black Falcons ahead of him galloping down the quest-path. He heard other riders behind, mixed with the snarls and shouts of pursuing monsters. They rode long and hard, knowing their horses could easily outdistance most of Siryyk's fighters.

The dawn grew brighter, but the narrow trail forced them to pick their path with care. Below, still in deep shadow, gurgled the rushing stream; the sheer cliffs forced them to continue in single file. The monsters might be able to catch up, but the riders could battle well on this narrow path.

Drodanis didn't gain distance too rapidly. He wanted Siryyk to see exactly where they had come from. Seeing only a few riders, the manticore would suspect vengeance-seeking survivors from their earlier skirmish with the Black Falcons ― and would follow straight into the waiting arms of Delrael's army hidden on top of the bluffs.

 

 

Drodanis looked ahead and behind as they moved along. He counted eighteen. "We lost two, then," he said.

The rider ahead turned back and nodded. "Acceptable losses."

Drodanis watched the still-burning fires in Siryyk's encampment. Not many of the monsters seemed to be following them. They were probably getting together for a massive march. Just as Drodanis had hoped.

He felt exuberant. He wondered how he could have stayed away from the Game for so long. He felt more important now than he had since before Fielle and Cayon had died. He'd forgotten why he was a character on Gamearth. Now he remembered what it was all about.

Blood spattered his face, and his arms ached from the effort of the fight, but Drodanis grinned. He would not have traded this night for anything.

 

Siryyk the manticore stood with his lips peeled back. Anger made a deep gurgle in his throat as he tried, but failed, to find words that expressed his outrage. Whoever kept attacking them seemed to have only a few fighters ― but still Siryyk's army continued to fail.

A third of his fighters burned to death in a forest fire, then seventy three monsters killed by a group of black-clad human riders. After the human riders had fled, Siryyk himself had counted the fallen enemy. Ten humans! They had killed seventy three monsters and lost only ten of their own!

Now all of Siryyk's supplies were burning after another attack.

His scorpion tail blazed blue. He padded forward to a blazing tent and clawed away the fabric that sheltered their meat and grain. The fire burned his fingers, but he didn't feel it. He winced as he attempted to hurl smoking sacks away from the blaze.

His head ached and burned, and the vision in one eye seemed milky. Siryyk knew that his entire face swelled and festered from the venomous smoke Enrod had blasted into his eyes. Another twenty of Siryyk's fighters had died then.

Scartaris had controlled all their minds when he assembled the tremendous horde ― but Scartaris had apparently not deemed it necessary to create an army of fighters with minimal skill or intelligence.

General Korux came up to him. "Siryyk, we have located the ones who attacked us. We can see them on a quest-path going across the cliff. Do you wish us to follow them?"

The manticore whirled. Other monsters leaped out of the way of his swinging electric tail. "Of course!" But then he stopped. "No, show me."

Korux led him to the edge of the plateau, where he looked into the growing dawn to see tiny figures working their way along the sheer rock wall. "Bring me Professor Verne instead. Have a Slac team bring the cannon around to the edge. Do we have any firepowder left?"

"We lost half of it, but I made sure it was not all stored together. Just in case of such an incident." He rubbed his rough hands together as if congratulating himself. "We still have enough to fire the cannon several times."

"Do it, then."

Siryyk paced and watched as the huge black cylinder trimmed with frilly bronze "stabilizing struts" rolled forward on its tall wheels. The Slac steered it and tilted its barrel toward the black figures fleeing along the cliff wall.

Korux came up with his scaled hand warpped into the folds of Professor Verne's torn shirt. The professor shivered and struggled. His hands were bound behind him and bled at the wrists. Since his escape attempt, they had kept Verne bound and hidden most of the time. Siryyk flared his nostrils. How ironic it would have been if the human fighters had burned the tent and killed the professor.

"I thought you might like to watch," the manticore said. "We're going to test your cannon on a real target."

Verne saw the escaping riders and stammered, but he apparently could think of nothing to say.

"Why are they moving so slowly?" Siryyk asked. He felt suspicion growing in him.

"Gives us time to load the cannon," Korux said. He gestured at the Slac who were already pouring firepowder into the breech and hoisting up one of the huge cannonballs.

"Aim high," Siryyk said. "It's a long distance. And we must strike the right place to cause the most damage."

The Slac team took turns sighting along the barrel, adjusting and readjusting. Korux finally stood behind the cannon, nodded, and went back to one of the scattered campfires. He returned carrying a burning brand in his hand.

"It's ready, Siryyk."

"Any advice, Professor?" the manticore asked.

Verne mumbled, and then shrugged. "Fire the cannon if you like, but it will fail. Your powder is damp and cold. You could damage the cannon by using it now."

Siryyk laughed. "A nice try, Professor. But ridiculous. Korux ― you may fire!"

The Slac general brought the end of his brand to the touch-hole, then dropped it and leaped backward, covering his ears. A huge explosion knocked the cannon backward a full ten feet, rolling over one of the Slac and crushing his legs.

Siryyk decided he would have to remember to chock the wheels with stones next time.

He stared across the gorge with his one good eye. It would take a second or two for the ball to find its target. The time stretched out, longer and longer. He saw the distant explosion well before he heard the crack and rumble of impact.

Directly above the line of human fighters, the cannonball struck the overhanging rock. The rock splintered and, with a slow rumble, an entire side of the cliff came down in an avalanche.

Some of the monsters cheered. Korux clapped his hands. The smoke and rock continued to slide downward into the gorge below. The entire ledge broke away, sloughing down as it gathered momentum. The grinding avalanche knocked away every single character on the path, crushing them, sweeping them toward the foaming river far below. Dust clouds swirled and sank downward.

The manticore turned, grinning a twisted smile at Professor Verne. Verne stood with his jaw hanging open, eyes wide, and his face completely ashen.

"Your cannon is not very sporting, Professor," Siryyk said. "But it's quite fun nevertheless."

――――

INTERLUDE: OUTSIDE

 

 

Tyrone rattled the knob on the front door, then fiddled with the lock and tried again. "Your door's stuck, David."

David remained sitting on the floor with his back against the easy chair. He drew his knees up against his chest. Even with his sweater back on, he felt cold, and the fire did nothing to warm him. He didn't look at Tyrone.

Tyrone yanked and tugged at the door, banging it with his fist. "I just wanted to get some cookies out of the car. What did you do, David?"

"I didn't do anything." His voice remained low enough to vanish in the noise from the fire.

Scott looked at him strangely, then stood up from the carpet. He walked through the kitchen to the door that led into the garage. Yes, David thought, Scott knows. He's figured it out.

Melanie remained hunched protectively by the map, making sure David stayed away from it. He sat off to the side like a pariah. His cheek still stung, though the bandage had stopped all the bleeding.

Scott rattled the door to the garage, but it too was locked. He hurried to the patio door, but couldn't open the latch.

"The Game won't let you out of here until it's finished," David said. But Scott went through all the motions anyway. David felt tired and defeated, still angry at the Game and at his companions.

"We're locked in!" Scott finally said.

Tyrone appeared astonished, but not quite afraid. "How did the doors get locked? We were all sitting right here."

Scott went to pick up the phone. He hesitated with it in his hand, as if afraid to lift it to his ear.

"The line's dead," David said.

Scott listened into the phone, shook the receiver and put it to his ear a second time. He refused to hang it up. His eyes grew wider.

"Tyrone," he suggested, "why don't you turn on the TV?"

"What for? Shouldn't we get back to the game?"

"Just turn on the television!"

Tyrone shrugged and walked across the family room. He found the remote control and stepped back, looking to find the power switch. He pushed it. With a buzz, the television came on, but they heard no sound. In a moment, a colorful picture appeared, a test pattern made up of bright hexagons.

"This is really getting wild!" Tyrone whispered.

Melanie glanced at the television, then looked back at the map.

"What did you expect?" David asked.

"Shut it off, Tyrone."

Instead, Tyrone flicked through the channels, but the same pattern showed on each one.

On the last channel, though, the pattern dissolved into static. As they watched, a vague figure of a young man snapped in and out of focus, as if from a signal very far away. Through the roaring distortion, David heard faint words. "Where am I? Let me go back! Is all this real?"

Melanie crept forward on her knees, but seemed afraid to touch the picture. "Oh no," she whispered.

"Are you the Rulewoman?" the image said, then it vanished, leaving only a featureless image of multicolored electrical snow.

Scott put the phone to his ear again, listened, and his eyes fairly bugged out of their sockets. "My god, it's Lellyn!" Scott slammed the phone back down and unclipped the cord from the wall.

Then he grabbed the TV remote out of Tyrone's hands and punched the power button off.

David let his eyes fall closed and tried to picture other times when he had been away from the Game, when he went to stay with his mother in the summer and the group had to postpone their weekly adventures. The times he had spent with his father along the beach or going into the city, or tagging along at some of his dad's business picnics.

His mom always wanted to play cards or cribbage with him. His dad, trying to make him into the stereotypical version of the all-American boy, insisted that he play baseball or football or just plain catch. His father disliked David's obsession with role-playing games, as if that wasn't an "acceptable" thing to play.

But this game had gone far beyond any of that.

Tyrone held up his half-empty plate of dip, extending it toward Scott. "You want some more dip while we figure this out?"

"No, dammit!" Scott smacked the plate out of Tyrone's hands, and it toppled onto the carpet. "Can't you get it through your thick head what's going on here? This is serious, man!"

Tyrone looked shocked and upset. His big brown eyes swam with a turmoil of emotions, fighting back tears.

David got to his knees and crawled toward the map. Melanie stiffened into a defensive position. She splayed her hands out like protective claws, but David ignored her.

Tyrone got some paper towels from the kitchen and cleaned up the mess on the carpet, glaring at Scott. "Just leave it," David said. "We've got more important things to do."

Scott and Tyrone both stared at him. David brought his voice back to a normal level. "We have to play this through to the end."

He picked up the dice from the carpet and extended them toward Scott. "Now it's clear exactly what the stakes are."

――――