Kevin J. Anderson - Gamearth 02 - Game Play

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GamePlay

by Kevin J. Anderson

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Fictionwise

www.Fictionwise.com

Science Fiction

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original

purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk,

network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international

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To Ginger LaJeunesse

(Charles Dickens said it best ... )

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people have offered encouragement and comments during the writing

of this book. I would like to thank especially the members of my writers

workshop for critiquing above and beyond the call of duty: Dan'l Danehy-Oakes,

Michael C. Berch, Clare Bell, M. Coleman Easton, Lori Ann White, Gary

Shockley, and Avis Minger. I also express my appreciation to Chuck Beason,

Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Doug Beason ... for a whole bunch of things.

"Always remember this: every character on Gamearth was created by the

Outsiders. We exist solely for the amusement of those who Play our world. Our

ambitions, our concerns mean nothing -- everything is determined by the roll

of the dice."

-- _The Book of Rules_

--------

*PROLOGUE*

Melanie blew warm breath against the map of Gamearth, trying to make

the paint dry faster. She didn't want the other players to see what she had

changed. David would probably call it cheating -- but their game would keep

playing itself, no matter what they did.

Melanie wanted to win.

A shoebox of acrylic paints lay on the card table in the study. Some of

the colors had dried up, with lids cemented by hardened paint. But the bottle

of deep forest green had some sluggish drops left at the bottom.

The map's hexagons of terrain were bright and vivid colors, like some

lost Arabian mosaic. They represented mountains, forests, seas, deserts.

Melanie pulled a strand of long brown hair behind her left ear and blew again

on the wet paint. She looked at where the mysterious "Rulewoman" supposedly

lived on the map, in one of the forest-terrain hexes deep in the south. The

complexity, the patterns of the map were dizzying.

Gamearth -- they had created it as a fantasy world setting for a

role-playing game, she and Tyrone, Scott, and David. The four of them played

there, embarking on imaginary adventures into imaginary lands every Sunday

night for the past two years.

Melanie had painted the map herself, acrylics on a smooth sheet of

wood, using rulers and protractors to lay down the precise grid of hex-lines

between sections of terrain. No store-bought map kit would do for _their_

world -- it had to be something personal, something she created herself.

Gamearth needed to be different from all the other worlds available in simple

boxed adventures.

Melanie and the others put a great deal of themselves into Gamearth.

Perhaps too much.

But times changed, and the Game went on and on. One entire race of

characters, the Sorcerers, departed from the world in a magical Transition

that turned all of them into six powerful Spirits: three white Earthspirits

and three black Deathspirits.

David wanted to end the Game there. He said it wasn't fun anymore. But

Melanie and the others outvoted David, and so they kept playing. David could

not leave them. The Game had too much of a hold on all of them. Instead, he

made an attempt to destroy the world, but he had been thwarted.

Now, though, David had finally made up his mind -- if the others would

not let him quit, then he would create a new monster, Scartaris, to devastate

the entire map and suck every spark of life dry.

That would end the Game once and for all.

But Melanie planned on stopping him. They both had to play by the rules

-- but rules could be advantageous, especially if you bent them a little....

Melanie carried the altered map out of her father's study. She could

hardly tell where she had repainted the one hexagon. They would not notice,

since she had not changed the terrain type, in which case she could argue --

as Scott would -- that she hadn't changed anything relevant anyway. But she

had _placed something there_, under the paint, into the world of Gamearth.

She didn't know if it would work, if her world could ever have any true

connection with the characters _inside_ Gamearth. But this had to be the way,

if anything. It had to be.

Somehow during their last gaming session she managed to communicate to

her characters about the growing threat of Scartaris in David's designated

section of the map. Her three characters, Delrael the fighter, his scholarly

cousin Vailret, and the half-Sorcerer Bryl, had tried to protect their land

from Scartaris by creating a giant barrier river that severed the eastern half

of the map from the rest.

But now she knew, as did her characters, that the Barrier River would

not stop David's creature. It would only trap half the inhabitants of Gamearth

on the wrong side -- with the growing threat of Scartaris.

She stared at the blue line of hexagons that indicated the river

slicing down the map. It still gave her shivers to think about it. Gamearth

showed its own power the previous week, during their last gaming session.

This had become much more than a game to all of them.

In their imaginary adventure, the new river came surging through a

channel from the Northern Sea to pour across the plains -- and as the four

players watched, Melanie's painted map reflected the change all by itself.

Hexagons of forest, grassland, and swamp terrain turned _blue_, right in front

of their eyes. Scott, the "rational" one, had been amazed and terrified,

unable to hint at an explanation.

But Melanie knew the explanation. It was so simple. After being steeped

in the gaming fantasy as dictated by the rules, Gamearth had developed its own

magic.

And Gamearth was not going to accept its destruction without a fight.

If she could do anything to help, even if it meant stretching the rules

a bit behind the other players' backs, then Melanie felt obligated to do so.

After all, not many people ever had the opportunity to save a world, not even

an imaginary one.

Satisfied that the new paint had dried, Melanie carried the map board

out to the kitchen and started to prepare herself for the Game. The future of

her world would be in the roll of the dice.

--------

Chapter 1:

ENROD'S CROSSING

"Something is terribly wrong here. My own city of Taire has succumbed.

People I have known for years act strangely. At times even I do not know what

I have done or where I have been.

"And the untainted lands to the west have cut themselves off from us

with a great river. We are trapped and alone. We have been sacrificed. They

didn't even give us a chance."

-- Enrod, _Annals of Taire_, final entry

The Sentinel Enrod stood on the eastern shore of the Barrier River. The

black hex-line that separated the water from overhanging willows and reeds

extended razor sharp as far as he could see, north and south.

Off in the distance, across the impassable expanse of water, he could

see the green rolling line of forest terrain, lush and healthy. Farther north

Enrod could see the broad expanse of a hexagon of grassland. All green, all

growing, safe and protected from the evil to the east.

Enrod gritted his teeth. His hand squeezed the eight-sided ruby, the

Fire Stone, he had carried all the way from Taire. The corners of the gem dug

into the skin of his palm. Enrod paid no attention to the pain. He was the

last remaining full-blooded Sorcerer male on Gamearth, now that Sardun was

gone. Enrod had used his reserves of magic to keep himself healthy and

relatively young-looking. But now the haunted weight of too many years shone

out from his eyes.

He looked at the green forest terrain across the River. His eyes

widened and turned bright. The terrain would not stay green for long. Alien

tendrils crept up within him, sliding along his spine, inside his skull, like

some invading leech. Visions of fire and sorcerous destruction marched across

his imagination.

Enrod's dark hair had been tangled in the long journey across the map,

but he paid no attention to it. Whenever he thought of something else, any

other distraction, he felt sharp pain in his head. It would all be better once

he brought destruction to the other side of the River, once he showed _them_

what it was like in his city of Taire.

Threads of Sorcerer blood whipped through his veins like snakes,

whispering to him constantly: _Use the power! Show the Stronghold that they

cannot cut themselves off and leave the rest of Gamearth doomed._

They thought they were so safe, so protected. A human fighter character

named Delrael had created the River to keep Enrod out. To keep all the Tairans

out. To keep every living thing in the East away from the sanctuary of the

untouched forests, the protected lands.

Enrod felt trapped and compelled. It was appalling what they had done.

The memory made his thoughts become dark, uncontrolled. He had to destroy the

Stronghold. Destroy them. Wash the land in flames. Explosions. Devastation.

He shook his head. The buzzing returned, making it hard for him to

concentrate. His feet were blistered and bloodied from the long journey. But

he couldn't quite remember traveling to get there. Days and days seemed like a

blur of hex-lines, changing terrain, vast distances.

He kept losing track of time. It used to bother him, but it happened so

often now. He would blink and find himself someplace, or realize he had been

doing something, that he just didn't recall. A warm, pulsing blackness filled

the empty spots in his memory.

Something was wrong in his city of Taire, too. He thought of his home,

the streets, the buildings, the other people, all they had worked for.

_Something was wrong!_

Something ... from the east. Dark and full of power, growing,

devouring. Something deadly from Outside. Ages ago the same thing had

happened, a growing force planted by one of the Outsiders just after the

Transition -- Gamearth would have ended then, except for the miraculous

appearance of the Stranger Unlooked-For who had saved them all.

Now they needed another miracle.

The buzzing in Enrod's head convinced him that everything could be

fixed if he would just devastate the land around the Stronghold. The human

characters Delrael and Vailret, and the traitorous half-Sorcerer Bryl, had

caused all the problems on Gamearth by creating the Barrier River.

Enrod could not question that thought or the pain and confusion would

start again.

Taire had suffered enough in its history. They build the city in

terrain that had endured the worst battles of the Sorcerer wars. The land

itself was desolated, hexagon after hexagon turned into wasteland, desert.

The Wars had ended long ago. The two warring factions of Sorcerers made

their peace and then embarked on the Transition, turning themselves into six

ethereal Spirits who then ignored all the wreckage they had caused.

But young Enrod had not joined the rest of his race in the Transition.

An idealist then, he stayed behind because the Sorcerers had done too much

damage to Gamearth. They could not simply go away without making amends,

without trying to help the other characters survive the aftermath. _Enrod_

vowed to make amends. _He_ lived in Taire, in the middle of the worst

devastation. _He_ wanted to heal the land, to bring it back to what it had

been.

The six Spirits held the power to make everything right again with

little more than a gesture, if they cared ... but they too disappointed him.

After the Transition, the Spirits vanished completely, gone on to whatever

interested them without a thought for everything they left behind. They had

not shown themselves in the two centuries since.

Enrod despised them for it. The Spirits had abandoned Gamearth, when

they could have been so much help. Perhaps they could even stand against the

whims of the Outsiders.

Enrod spent his life in Taire helping the human characters to build

their city, to heal the land. First came small garden plots, nurturing the

soil, growing outward, expanding to cover the hills with grass again. Plants

sprouted on their own. Stands of trees grew on some of the hills. Living

things took another foothold in the desolation. Enrod saw his life's work

coming to fruition.

Though he had the Fire Stone -- one of the four most powerful magical

items in the Game -- Enrod needed it little. He used the power of his own

sweat and effort. Characters working together made their own kind of magic....

Then it all changed. The plants withered and died. Enrod began to have

nightmares, sensing something terrible growing in the mountains near the

eastern edge of the map.

The new-planted forests became skeletal black sticks on the hills. The

ground cracked, and the windswept dust scoured the nearby hexagons clean. The

characters in Taire became listless. Their life seemed to drain away from them

along with their free will, their hopes. The city fell silent in the midst of

its desolation.

Desolation.

As the land across the River would be.

Enrod stepped back away from the edge of the water into the forest.

Despite his sense of urgency and the need to unleash his anger, he forced

himself to work with care. He selected appropriate trees, all about the same

size and thickness.

Holding onto the thin, straight trunk of an oak, he looked at the Fire

Stone. Each facet of the ruby showed a number from one through eight. Enrod

concentrated, then tossed the Fire Stone on the scattered dead leaves at his

feet.

The ruby came to rest against a moss-covered rock. The number "7" faced

up. If Enrod had rolled a "1", his spell would have failed -- but instead, he

summoned nearly as much magic as the eight-sided Stone could command. He hated

to waste so much power on such an insignificant task.

Glowing red spangles filled his hand. The power awakened in him, eager,

dancing at his fingertips.

He gestured and sent the sorcerous fire into the earth, incinerating

the roots of a tree and severing it neatly from the ground. Smoke and powdered

dirt spurted into the air. The smell of burning sap and green wood stung his

nostrils.

Enrod contained the fire in his fist and braced himself, pressing the

bark against his shoulder. He let the trunk slide down against a larger tree

until it thumped against other bushes and came to rest.

Enrod directed the burning spell at the fallen trunk, stripping the

side branches away. The curls of flame peeled off the bark, leaving a steaming

naked log on the forest floor, blanketed on each side by damp leaves. The

spicy scent of charred wood reminded him of more peaceful days in Taire, as

characters gathered around bonfires in the harvested fields....

The birds in the forest fell silent. He could hear the motion of the

Barrier River as it poured along its course, bounded by the sharp hex-line.

For a moment Enrod hesitated. What was he doing here? He couldn't

remember. He blinked his eyes and turned to look behind him into the forest

terrain.

But then the throbbing power of the Fire Stone in his hand distracted

him, and the black buzzing came roaring back into his head, like a storm

through his thoughts. The buzzing left only one idea untouched. Destruction.

Devastation. Get across the River and make things _right_. Burn them clean.

Start everything new and fresh, after a white-hot cleansing fire...

He wrapped his fingers around the corners of the Fire Stone and

directed the hot power at another tree, and another, until he had a line of

neat logs scattered in the forest, seared clean of bark and branches. Steam

and gray smoke made his eyes water. His vision grew blurry.

Night fell.

Dawn came.

Enrod swam up out of a dream sea of hypnotic blackness and chaotic

thoughts to see that he was standing barefoot in the rough mud of the

riverbank. His hands were raw and bleeding, studded with splinters from the

logs, from the vines he had used to lash the logs together to form a raft. He

had woven thin green tendrils into strong ropes, then coated them with oozing

sap to seal them. After lashing the logs together, he had coated the ropes,

the knots, with a thicker layer of pitch and baked it into a glassy varnish

with the Fire Stone.

Enrod didn't remember doing any of it.

He wondered if it had really been only a day. Smears of mud and ash

stood out on his tattered white robe. Far from the powerful Sentinel of Taire,

he looked like a man who had been crumpled, badly used, and poked back to life

again.

His back cried out with pain as he hauled the heavy raft to the water.

Enrod stepped over the black hex-line and sank up to his knees in the cold

river. The mud soothed his torn and blistered feet. The hem of his robe soaked

up the water.

He rocked the logs of the raft, pulling, dragging. It slid partway over

the hex-line and became easier to move. Enrod climbed back onto the shore and

used a thin pole to lever the raft over the edge. He hopped onto the smooth

logs, picked up the pole again and gave a push that strained his ribs, shoving

the raft over the hex-line and into the grip of the river.

Enrod sat down on the raft, smelling the water and letting it carry him

downstream. Before long, he stood up again and pushed the pole into the

riverbed, gaining leverage and inching the raft across the current.

He had an appointment to keep. He had to destroy the other half of the

world.

Fallen trees thrust up from the surface like the fingers of drowning

men. The water itself roiled brown and muddy, still cutting its channel and

bearing debris from its journey. Beneath the current, Enrod imagined forests,

houses, the skeletons of travelers, wandering monsters, all who had been

caught in the flood. According to the map of Gamearth, the new course of the

Barrier River had swallowed up an entire village.

The current brushing against the sides of his raft seemed to whisper to

him, all the dead voices gurgling up from the river bottom begging Enrod for

revenge. How could any character dare to do this? What right did they have?

He would lay waste to the land, turn hexagon after hexagon to flames

and ash. He would destroy it all, level it.

The raft lurched, as if it struck an unseen bump in the River. Enrod

swayed and regained his balance. The brown silty water flattened out like

glass in front of him. A streak of light, yellow and searing, shot back and

forth beneath the surface. The smell of ozone, like the air after a

thunderstorm, drifted up to him.

Everything grew quiet, deathly quiet, but the air seemed charged with

crackling power. Enrod tensed, confused.

Deep beneath the water foam bubbled up, disturbing the smooth surface.

The churning increased until spray gushed to the sky. Mist appeared from

nowhere, swathing the horizon and leaving him isolated in the middle of the

River.

Enrod pulled up his wooden staff, holding it in his hands like a

weapon. He let the raft drift, but it remained in place, anchored invisibly

from below.

The bubbles gushed higher, then opened up like a gigantic mouth, a trap

door letting something _emerge_.

A triple shadow lifted itself from the depths of the water, rising ...

and kept rising, filling Enrod with awe. Three forms, hooded and spectral,

clad in black tattered cloaks, pouring upward into the sky. His bones vibrated

with thunder beyond the range of his hearing.

The three figures surged with dark power until they towered over the

Sentinel, impossibly high. Their attention focused down on him like sharpened

spears.

Enrod could not move.

He had seen them once before, two centuries ago, on the field of the

Transition. They had not spoken then, but hung in the air surrounded by fallen

empty bodies of the Sorcerers and grass and mountains in the distance. In

silence, they had departed with their three white counterparts, the

Earthspirits. Enrod thought they would never come back. All the characters on

Gamearth had given up on them.

The Deathspirits.

The buzzing dark presence suddenly left Enrod's head, deserting him

entirely. Without the driving force, he was disoriented, like a marionette

with severed strings. He couldn't remember anything for a moment. He looked at

the Fire Stone in his hand and realized what he had been about to do. He

couldn't understand what had been possessing him.

The ruby Stone leaped out of his hand, wrenched away with such force

that its sharp corners sliced his fingers. He felt blood running down his

palm, but he could not take his eyes away from the immense Spirits. The Fire

Stone rose in the air, spinning and glittering far out of reach.

All three Deathspirits spoke in unison. The words echoed on the wind

with such power that Enrod felt his bones humming, his eardrums straining.

"We created the Fire Stone to _protect_ Gamearth and our half-breed

children. We cannot allow the Stone to be turned to such destruction."

Enrod collapsed to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his

ears. He felt on fire, under the intensity of a magnifying lens focused on the

sun.

"You would have abused your great power, Enrod. Unforgiveable.

"You will _never_ cross this River.

"You will _never_ go back to your home until the end of the Game.

"You must take this raft back and forth forever, at the mercy of any

other character who intends to help the world. Not once to rest, not once to

reach shore."

Enrod could not move. He wanted to hide, he wanted to beg forgiveness,

he wanted to jump off the raft and drown himself in the River. But his muscles

locked him in place.

"Gamearth faces a threat from Outside that could destroy everything.

And so we have returned. Our world may not yet be doomed.

"But you have doomed yourself."

With a howl of cold wind, the cloaked figures sank beneath the River.

The water gurgled, then became glassy smooth. The Fire Stone vanished with a

_pop_ into thin air.

Milky mist rose up in front of Enrod, blocking the far shore of the

River. He turned, and the opposite shore had also vanished. He stared,

wide-eyed in shock and dismay.

_I didn't mean it! I don't know what happened!_

But the Deathspirits were gone. He could not argue with them. He would

never be able to argue again.

Enrod's muscles locked up. His blood turned to ice as the horror struck

him, growing from the pit of his stomach until he wanted to crumble and die.

All the work he had done for Taire, for Gamearth -- he couldn't understand

what had come over him, what possessed him. Even now he was appalled by what

he had thought of doing.

Enrod felt himself drawing deeper and deeper into his own mind, filling

the emptiness where the black buzzing had once been. From now on, it would be

his only refuge.

His body took control of itself. His arms lifted the pole and thrust it

into the water, pushing down and seeking the bottom of the River.

Enrod looked straight ahead. His jaws ground together. His eyes

widened. He could not move. He could only push his raft along, moving nowhere.

With aching arms, Enrod began his endless journey.

--------

Chapter 2:

SPIRITS IN THE NIGHT

"The six Spirits have gone from Gamearth and they will never return.

Why have they abandoned us? Are our lives so trivial to them? How soon they

forget everything they once were."

-- Sardun's memoirs

Delrael plodded to his bedchambers in the main building of the

Stronghold. His head ached, his body felt stiff, and he wanted to explode from

inactivity.

Once again he and the other characters had resolved nothing -- another

day wasted, and they still had thought of no way to fight Scartaris, the

Outsiders' evil creature growing in the east.

He hated all this talking and planning. He wanted to _go_ somewhere.

Delrael had returned to the Stronghold two weeks before with Vailret

and Bryl, successful in their quest to create a Barrier River and to rescue

the Sentinel Sardun's daughter, Tareah. But then they had learned from blind

Paenar that the Barrier River would not stop Scartaris after all....

Every day, Vailret insisted that they meet with other characters to

discuss the problem, to brainstorm. There had to be a way, Vailret said, there

always had to be a way. He usually knew about things like that. To be fair,

the Outsiders had to play by their own Rules, they needed to provide some

solution to every problem they posed.

"Or maybe not, in this case," Delrael said.

No one could suggest a plan of action, not even Tareah. They knew too

little about their enemy.

Delrael found it impossible to sit around and wait. He was a fighter

trained to action, not discussion. He needed to meet a problem head on, to

fight, to explore, go adventuring and, as the primary Rule of Gamearth

dictated, _have fun_. When all else fails, go on a quest.

Finally, he and Vailret came to the conclusion that they should just

head east. Maybe they could do something there if they tried. Perhaps Enrod,

the full-blooded Sentinel in Taire, could help them....

Delrael stood in the doorway of his room. It had once been his parents'

master chambers, but that had been many turns before. Fielle, his mother, was

dead of a fever, and his father Drodanis had gone away, searching for the

mysterious Rulewoman far away in the south.

It was warm for the late summer night, but Vailret's mother Siya had

built a roaring fire in the hearth. Light glittered from chests of gems

stacked against his wall, plunder from some of Delrael's earlier quests. The

room smelled clean and resinous from the burning wood. Siya had tossed herbs

into the hearth again.

His bed beckoned to him. His body yearned for a good night's sleep.

Worked up and anxious, not knowing what to do, Delrael hadn't been resting

well, frustrated by a problem he could not grasp.

Even his younger cousin Vailret, the thinker and scholar, found himself

just as much at a loss.

With a sigh, Delrael loosened his oiled leather jerkin and removed it,

stretching his arms. The muscles popped into place. It felt good to relax.

While sitting around, he had mended his armor. He needed to work on his

archery skills a little more tomorrow.

Someone knocked on the door before he could lie down. Delrael sighed

and went to the door.

Siya stood there, small and rigid. "I've drawn another hot bath for

Tareah. I don't know how she stands it -- I can barely put my hand in the

water. But she says it helps her aches. I wonder how much longer this will

last."

Delrael nodded. "Depends how long she keeps on growing."

The Sentinel Sardun had held his daughter in the body of a child for

three decades, not wanting her to grow up before another full-blooded Sorcerer

could be born at random by the Rules of Probability. But when Sardun died, his

spell was broken. In only weeks Tareah grew at a remarkable rate, catching up

with lost time. In the balloon ride back from the island of Rokanun, she

looked like ten-year-old girl: now she appeared fully grown.

But her bones and muscles ached from the strain. Hot, hot baths helped,

she said. Siya and Delrael tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

Tareah had blossomed into a beautiful woman, though she still felt

uncomfortable around groups of characters after the isolation in her father's

Ice Palace. She was making the effort to learn social skills that Delrael took

for granted.

"Why don't you make her some herb tea so she can rest better?" Delrael

said. "And if there's anything I can do for her, tell her to be sure and ask."

He wrapped his hand around the edge of the door.

"But I need to get to sleep now, Aunt Siya. Sooner or later we're going

to leave on a quest again."

She scowled, but Delrael raised his hand to stop her from saying

anything. "We're not doing it just for fun this time. You know that. We're

trying to save our world."

But after he closed the door, removed his clothes, and pulled on an

airy nightshirt, Delrael closed his eyes in concern. His head kept ringing

from too much discussion.

Working together, they had defeated Tryos the dragon and driven away

Gairoth the ogre. But if Scartaris was powerful enough to obliterate the map

of Gamearth and _literally_ destroy every hexagon of terrain, they would need

something more potent than magic Stones and hand-held weapons.

Bending down, Delrael picked up the jewelled silver belt his father had

given him. The belt was an ancient relic, crafted by the old Sorcerers before

they embarked on the Transition. Delrael had earned it for doing well in his

battle training. If only the vanished Sorcerers knew what was becoming of

their world now....

At the moment, though, he wanted sleep more than anything. Maybe an

idea would come in the night. Still staring at the belt in his hands, Delrael

dropped backward onto the bed --

_A lightning bolt like ice shot through his body. His heart stopped.

His vision turned into the blinding white of a snowstorm._

He landed on his back in the dew-spangled grass of a starlit meadow.

The cool air around him was like the shock of falling into a mountain stream.

He paused a second to blink in astonishment before his fighter reflexes

took over. Delrael leaped to his feet, crouching in a battle stance -- but he

was barefoot, clad only in his nightshirt, holding only a silver belt in his

hand. He felt helpless and naked as he glanced around, trying to find a branch

or something to fight with.

Overhead the greenish aurora, Lady Maire's Veil, lit the clearing.

Through a break in the trees, Delrael could see Steep Hill, on top of which

stood the walled-in Stronghold. He had been somehow transported into one of

the neighboring forest-terrain hexes. He hadn't the slightest idea why.

"Who's there?" Delrael said quietly. Then, squaring his shoulders, he

spoke in his loudest battle-commander voice. "I said who's there!"

After a moment he wondered if he should have said anything at all.

The forest sounds vanished. It made Delrael wonder if all the creatures

had some sort of rapport with ... with whatever had brought him here. The

trees stood completely still, then began to sway on the edges of the meadow.

The wind picked up. Spangles of light wove in and out of the air, drawing

rough shapes that towered impossibly high and yet might not have been there at

all.

Delrael blinked his eyes again and again. The outlines grew sharper,

taking form as the breeze turned to a roar. The tree branches clattered and

scratched against each other. Delrael's brown hair blew back away from his

face.

He squinted into the stinging wind, but the white light grew brighter

and _brighter_ until it coalesced into three discrete forms, giant hooded

shapes. They stood taller than the trees, stretching up toward the glowing

aurora.

"We are the Earthspirits. We have come back to save Gamearth. And you

must help us."

Delrael didn't know what to say. His jaw dropped. Vailret had told

enough stories about the Transition -- he knew how powerful the Spirits were.

The wind rang in his ears. He thought he was shouting, but his voice felt

pitifully small. His words sounded limp and inane even to him. "How can I

help? Can you destroy Scartaris?"

The Earthspirits paused at that, then spoke again in unison. "We have

been gone too long. We are not aware of what has taken place since we

departed.

"We sought a way to escape from the Game, to leave the map behind and

seek our own _reality_. We found ways to avoid the Rules, but we cannot break

them entirely. We are bound to Gamearth -- its Rules are fundamental to our

existence.

"The Deathspirits learned this, too, but they wish to embrace chaos.

They would form their own Rules, make their own maps, Play their own new

games.

"They were our enemies in the Wars. We have not communicated with them

since the Transition."

Silence hung in the wind for a moment.

"But the Wars are over." Delrael felt giddy at his own brashness for

interrupting. "Scartaris is our enemy now, but we don't stand any chance

against him. Unless you can help."

Delrael shrugged off his doubts. No character ever won a gamble without

first placing a wager.

"Scartaris is ... unknown to us. We do not know if we will win against

him." The Earthspirits paused a beat. "But if we are to fight, _you_ must take

us there."

Delrael stood straight, brushing the damp folds of his nightshirt.

"Take you there? What do you mean? Can't you just ... go?"

"We are bound by Rules of travel as are all characters on Gamearth. But

it is much more difficult for us to cross hex-lines. We are not substantial

enough.

"Also, Scartaris has the power to destroy the map and end the Game any

time he wishes. If he knows we are coming for him, he will not wait."

Delrael felt disappointed and helpless. "Why doesn't he get it over

with, then?"

"The Outsider David is a vindictive one. He wants to make all

characters watch the destruction of Gamearth first.

"You must deliver us in secret. The Outsiders are not aware of our

return to the world. They can know nothing of this quest. We are beyond them

now -- Gamearth has its own magic they do not realize."

Listening to the Earthspirits speak, Delrael began to feel confident

again. As the giant forms loomed over him, he sensed their power, their

invincibility.

"We will disguise ourselves. A dim part of us remembers the silver belt

you carry, remembers creating it as an ornament so long ago."

Delrael clenched the glittering belt self-consciously, wondering what

they would do. Then he cursed his own selfishness.

"Lay it on the ground," the Earthspirits said. "We will meld ourselves

to it, take substance in the metal. We can do little to assist you, though we

can shield you from the manipulations of Scartaris once you get closer to him.

"Carry this belt across the map. When you reach Scartaris, we will

emerge. We will take him by surprise."

Silence settled down on the meadow. The white Spirits waited for

Delrael.

With trembling hands, he laid the shining belt down on the grass. The

light from the Earthspirits glinted off the gems and the polished hexagonal

sections of silver. He backed away, stumbling into a fallen tree. But he could

not tear his gaze from the Spirits.

The Earthspirits changed. They moved. Their light glittered and swirled

in a funnel, pouring down into the metal of the belt. Dazzles of color floated

in front of Delrael's eyes. He shielded them, blinking, as the wind continued

to howl, focusing downward. Leaves broke away from branches and swirled around

his head.

The Spirits streamed down into the silver links. Delrael tried to

imagine how so much power could fit within the belt.

Then the silver swallowed the last glints of white with an audible

_pop_. The wind ceased. Torn leaves and broken twigs settled to the ground,

and everything fell silent again.

His ears ringing, Delrael crept forward. His feet were wet, along with

the hem of his nightshirt. His eyes were wide and childlike when he touched

the belt. For a moment it was blistering hot, then the silver grew bitterly

cold before adjusting itself again. Tracings of frost etched across the gems

before evaporating into the cool night.

Delrael picked the belt up in his hands. The silver throbbed against

his fingers, vibrating with a rhythm that faded toward stillness.

He would have to be careful about what he said to anyone if the

Outsiders truly were not aware of this quest. Not even the Rulewoman Melanie

could know.

Then Delrael smiled. At last they had their weapon. At last they had a

way to win against Scartaris.

He fastened the belt around his damp nightshirt. He didn't feel tired

anymore. He wanted to talk to Vailret and Bryl and Tareah immediately. They

needed to set off as soon as possible. No more sitting around and talking.

He looked up through the trees to see the silhouette of Steep Hill and

the Stronghold. Delrael realized it would be a long walk barefoot back home.

* * * *

Tareah sat back in the deep wooden tub, drawing her gangly legs up and

tucking her knees close to her chin. The legs seemed so long to her, so

awkward, as if they belonged to someone else. The rough surface of the wet

wood rubbed against the bumps of her spine.

Through half-closed eyes she saw wisps of steam rising from the bath.

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Kevin J. Anderson - Gamearth 02 - Game Play

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