4. Slave of the Serpent
“All character races were created by the Sorcerers to fight in their wars: humans, Slac, khelebar, werem, ogres, ylvans. Do not forget, however, that the Sorcerers also created individual monsters according to their imaginations. Many of these monsters still wander the map with no other purpose than to cause havoc. Questing characters should beware of such monsters, as their methods of fighting will be unfamiliar, and their weaknesses will not be known.”
—Preface, The Book of Rules
The veteran Tarne woke in the middle of the night with ice in his stomach and a crawly feeling on his skin. He stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, and he knew the aurora in the sky would speak to him again.
With the silent step of a practiced fighter, he slipped out of his borrowed quarters in the Stronghold’s main building. He stood on the wide open grounds enclosed by the hexagonal stockade walls.
The greenish light of Lady Maire’s Veil swirled and shone down upon him with visions of the future.
Tarne stared upward, heedless of the bunched muscles in his neck. He was able to see things in the aurora ever since his head injury. It had been his last real fight, part of Drodanis’s vengeful ogre hunt after Cayon was killed.…
Tarne had been delirious for a while, slow to heal. His scalp felt as if it had been pierced with white-hot needles, visions, ideas of what would come in future turns of the Game. He shaved his head, exposing the network of scars, thin and thick, from the knocks he had taken during other quests. With smooth skin on his head, with nothing to stop the flow of thoughts, everything seemed clearer to him. When he watched the shimmering aurora, sometimes everything fell perfectly into place.
His last vision had shown Gairoth invading the Stronghold with his army of ogres. Tarne foolishly tried to fight against the prediction and led a group of desperate defenders, to no avail. He could never force the visions to come to him—and he could do nothing about what he saw.
Vailret insisted that this kind of magic was fascinating in its own right. Tarne had no Sorcerer blood, and as a pure human character he should have no magical abilities at all.
But anomalies happened. Gamearth operated on the Rules of Probability, where even unlikely things were statistically possible. Tarne had visions of the future. Bryl’s former apprentice Lellyn, also human, could work any imaginable form of sorcery. Even the mighty Earthspirits and Deathspirits, by their very existence, tied the Rules in knots. It seemed that some things were more powerful even than the Outsiders.
Tarne suspected Gamearth had its own kind of magic the Outsiders knew nothing about. And that magic was awakening in these last days of the Game.
The throbbing aurora above confirmed his guess. Then sent him a message.
The green folds of Lady Maire’s Veil made him see images in his head. They made no sense to him, but a part of him understood: Clenching, coiling, preparing to strike. An enemy approaching, evil, death.
The bright white streak of a meteor stitched across the aurora, startling Tarne. Then the shooting star faded and was gone.
Tears ran down the veteran’s face. The chill night breeze made him feel cold tracks on his cheeks. He was very afraid.
He had learned one thing from his visions—fighting against them was useless. The visions showed him only things over which he had no control. But at least he knew what he had to do, what role he must play.
The night was silent and cold. The next day would be the autumn equinox, when Sardun’s daughter Tareah planned to lead the villagers in a celebration of Transition Day. When he thought of that, the veteran felt a pang inside. He went to the gates of the Stronghold and opened them up.
He would tell no one about this. It was better that way.
He walked across the bridge covering the trench and worked his way down Steep Hill in the dark. Tarne thought of too many things, and he tried to empty his mind of thoughts. His entire body was in turmoil. He had no time for any of this. No time at all.
He walked into the silent and darkened village until he reached his own home. He lit a candle. The inside smelled musty, closed-in. He had covered all the windows now that he spent most of his time guarding the Stronghold.
The light from the candle jumped around the walls. He went to a corner of the room and dug his fingernails into the wood of one of the hexagonal floor tiles. He lifted it, then popped up the adjacent tile to uncover a shallow storage area he had dug out beneath the floor.
Tarne paused, sighed, then forced all the memories away. He reached in to pull out a long bundle wrapped in rags. Peeling away the cloth, he stared down at the notched but well-cared-for blade of an ancient sword. The sword had been used centuries before in the old Sorcerer wars; it had been used in previous years when Tarne himself was a fighter. The orange candlelight made it glow with the blood and fire of past victories.
He reached under the floor once more and pulled out his old suit of leather armor. He had oiled it well before wrapping it up for storage. Everything was still intact, mended of scuffs and cuts, studded with chain links for extra protection. He brushed off dust and powdered dirt. He never thought he would need either the sword or the armor again.
Of all the fighters of his generation, Tarne was left here alone. After his injury, he gave up fighting and questing to become the village shearer and weaver. Some of the designs of fate he saw in the aurora he wove into his personal tapestries; no one but himself could understand them.
Tarne slipped on the leather armor and patted it against him. He listened to the chains jingle in the dimness. The armor seemed to grow on him again, become part of his body.
He held onto the sword, gripping the handle. Yes, it felt right. His reflexes and all the old training awakened. On impulse he whirled and slashed at the candle on the table. The flame went out.
* * *
On her unfamiliar bed, Tareah lay back but couldn’t sleep. The lonely darkness did not comfort her. Her bones and joints ached again; she wondered if it would ever get better.
Back in the Ice Palace, when she couldn’t sleep she got up and wandered the cold rainbow halls, or pick through Sardun’s collection of ancient artifacts, or stand on the balcony of the high tower and look out at the checkerboard of mountains and wasteland terrain.
Tareah climbed out of bed, feeling the cold air on her legs. Many thoughts kept her awake. She missed Delrael and Vailret. It upset her that they hadn’t taken her along, but she was also frightened, overwhelmed that they had left her with the duty of watching over the Stronghold.
Tareah dressed, pulling one of Siya’s warm shawls over her shoulders and tugged her boots on, a pair of Vailret’s old comfortable castoffs. She had plenty of things to do, especially in preparation for tomorrow, the anniversary of Transition Day.
Her father had pounded into her a respect and a wonder at the Game and the accomplishments of her race. The villagers seemed to know nothing about their own heritage—yet human characters had undertaken many of the greatest quests, the most difficult journeys. She was in awe of them for what they had done.
According to what she had seen, though, the characters were drifting away from that way of life. Instead of treasure hunting and fighting monsters, they had become farmers, villagers, peaceful people. Siya said that they were sick to death of the shallow, adventurous life.
Tareah crept into the courtyard. The door moved silently as she opened it. The night air was cold and fresh, warm compared to the nights far in the frozen north.
Transition Day. She grinned with excitement. She would tell the story to all the villagers. They could rejoice and be happy in their heritage, how Gamearth had come to be. And then they would let off the fireworks.
Tareah smiled as she strode across the courtyard to the weapons storehouse against one wall segment. The storehouse held several small clay containers filled with firepowder. Bryl, Vailret, and Derow the blacksmith concocted a powder that would flash and explode in brilliant colors. She wondered what kind of magic the sealed clay containers held—some fire spell rolled up inside a little package? A hand-length of fuse dangled out from the containers. During the celebration they would use an old catapult to fling the containers into the air for the show.
She looked forward to that most of all. Vailret talked about the spectacle, his eyes gleaming. It would be like the meteor shower that came every autumn.
Vailret fascinated her. He knew so many of the same things she did, they could talk for hours. But Delrael kept her in awe. He was so much like the legendary fighter characters she had read about. She adored listening to his adventures and his questing. He was exactly what she expected a fighter character to be.
Bryl, though, she did not know—he was a magic user, yet his attitude was strange to her. She couldn’t understand his bitterness or his reluctance to learn.
Leaving the firepowder where it was, Tareah turned away from the door of the storehouse, then stopped. Under the light of the aurora she could see the training equipment in the yard. The wooden sword posts were monuments by themselves in the shadows, the hanging sacks, the archery targets. They looked like scarecrows in the darkness.
The Stronghold gate stood wide open. Tareah stared at it, wondering how that could be. She heard someone coming up the hill path. She didn’t know if she should sound the alarm or just watch.
A bulky well-muscled man walked through the gate. He stood in shadow for a moment, then closed and secured the gate. It took her a moment to recognize the veteran Tarne—only now he carried a long sword she had never seen him bear before. And he was clothed in leather armor. Metal chains jingled and glinted in the faint light.
But Tarne would never fight unless he had to. What was going on here? The gate was opened, Tarne was armed—treachery? Something none of them knew about?
Tarne had always seemed completely on their side in the Game. But all characters were like puppets on a string if the Outsiders decided to manipulate them.…
On the verge of saying something, Tareah paused and looked at the fighter from the shadows of her hiding place. He did not know she was there. She would watch and see.
The veteran walked slowly in his armor, as if under a burden. He seemed … afraid, very tense. But he moved with dignity. He walked to the training area and stood still. He rested the sword tip on the ground in front of him, squared his shoulders, and waited for something.
Tracks of sparkling tears ran down his cheeks. Sardun’s daughter felt a shiver dance along her spine. Was he betraying them?
The fighter stood motionless in the darkness. Dawn would come soon. But Tareah felt, as she watched, that something else would come sooner.…
The night filled with tension, a buzzing—and then in front of Tarne the air rippled and seemed to tear. The veteran cringed, only for an instant, but he held his ground.
An ear-splitting roar burst from beyond hearing, channeled closer. Tarne remained standing, braced and ready for whatever was coming. He raised his blade, either in salute or defense.
Tareah hid deeper in the shadows by the storehouse.
A hole in space appeared in front of the fighter. The air snapped, and a huge, vague form appeared as a solid shadow, then burst into sharp clarity. A monstrous figure stepped out, hulking forward in long strides.
It was an enormous hairy beast bearing a gigantic snake—Tareah had never seen anything like it, not in all her studies of the fighting monsters from the ancient wars. She wondered why it had come, how Tarne knew it would arrive.
The demon stood fully ten feet tall and three wide, though it walked hunched over, carrying a great burden. A pelt of thick, blackish-brown hair covered its body, but its head and chest plate were reptilian. The head seemed large for its body, almost square, with a gaping mouth out of which lolled a forked tongue.
The monster bore a tremendous serpent entwined around its body, a sickening green with oily, rainbow scales and fiery red pupilless eyes. The scarlet glow shone like embers.
From her hiding place, Tareah felt the hairy demon’s deep-set eyes strike her with an overwhelming feeling of sadness and pity. She blinked to shake away the emotion. She wanted to shout for help, but the other villagers lived too far away. She didn’t have the Water Stone with her, and only Tarne could actually fight the monster.
The serpent reared up upon seeing the armored fighter standing before it. The hairy monster did not move until the serpent coiled and squeezed the demon’s massive ribs, urging it forward. The tree-trunk legs stumbled toward Tarne.
“You are called the Slave of the Serpent,” Tarne said. His voice sounded strong, empty, different. “I have been waiting for you.”
The Serpent hissed, and the scarlet light blazed brighter. “Who are you?”
“Go back to Scartaris. There’s nothing for you here.” Tarne said the words as if he had memorized them, as if they were expected of him.
“Scartaris must have the Fire Stone back. Must destroy fighter named Delrael and any other character who would quest against Scartaris.”
Tarne swallowed. “Then I am Delrael.” He held his sword before him, wavering the tip back and forth. “I’ll take any quests I want if I can save Gamearth.”
Tareah wanted to cheer for him—she could write down the legend of his brave fight to defend the Stronghold.
“Give back the Fire Stone!” the Serpent said, bobbing its head up and down.
“Sorry, we need it right now.”
By the storehouse, Tareah watched with wide eyes, saying nothing. They were about to battle, just like in the old stories. Tarne was a talented fighter, a veteran of many quests and campaigns. He remained silent as he faced the demon and glared at the Serpent.
She didn’t know if she was expected to help fight. But Delrael had called her inexperienced. She would only get in the way, maybe even hurt Tarne’s chances.
The Serpent urged the lumbering Slave forward, nipping it. The fangs dripped foul-smelling venom. The monster heaved itself forward, reluctant to move closer to the fighter.
The Slave halted a moment as its pitiful eyes met the bald veteran’s. But the moment was shattered as the Serpent savagely sank fangs into the Slave’s neck, making it howl in pain and rage.
Tarne leaped in, moving with a smooth grace that belied his age. The chains on his armor reflected starlight and the greenish aurora. He surprised the demon with his attack, feinting, shifting the Slave’s guard, and slashing at its belly. The notched edge of the old blade sliced through the monster’s tough chest plate, but the Slave looked more angry than injured.
It swung a clawed fist at Tarne, but the fighter hacked into the massive paw. The beast roared and swung backward with his other arm, catching the fighter with a glancing blow. Tarne spun, but recovered his balance as the Slave struck again.
The sword from the old Sorcerers flashed up as the Slave tried to maul him but instead impaled its own forearm on the tip of the blade. The monster howled, jerking its injured arm away from the sword, then swatted at the blade with its other paw.
Tarne saw his chance and thrust in at the chest plate, but the Slave’s thick hide protected it from serious harm. It lashed again with a wounded arm, but the monster moved slowly. Tarne dodged and came back in, hacking with two-handed strokes.
He looked up and his eyes met the Serpent’s.
The huge snake began weaving back and forth, swaying and hissing like a rhythmic fire with green wood. The Serpent kept the fighter’s eyes locked to its own. From her hiding place, Tareah could see the veteran becoming entranced by the hypnotic movement, dropping his guard.
Tareah stood up. They didn’t see her. She had to do something, use one of her spells.…She couldn’t run and get the Water Stone, and she felt small and defenseless. She could attack with a minor fireball, perhaps, or a bolt of energy—but her aim might not be good enough, since the two opponents stood so close. The bald fighter stared at the swaying Serpent, dazed.
“Tarne!” she finally shouted.
The Slave swung with its deadly claws, using all of its massive muscle power to rake across Tarne’s chest. The fighter sprawled on the ground with part of his armor hanging in tatters and broken chains. The snapped links gleamed bright in contrast to the tarnished older metal.
The armor had protected Tarne, though. He climbed to his feet, gasping and trying to suck air back into his lungs. He blinked, but he looked stunned. He turned to stare in amazement at Tareah. The Slave came at him again.
The fighter met the charge head on, whirling the old sword in a random pattern of cuts and slashes. Tufts of fur and drops of thick yellow blood flew from the demon. With a burst of energy, Tarne drove in so forcefully that the weakened Slave stepped back.
Blood oozed from slashes in its thick skin, running to the ground and leaving viscous, yellow pools. The monster wheezed and panted, making weak attempts to defend itself.
Tarne stopped and took a step back, holding the dripping sword in front of him. The Slave appeared dazed and began to topple backward. The veteran watched with an astonished grin on his face. He flashed a glance back at Tareah.
Abruptly, unexpectedly, the huge Serpent flashed downward, stretching its body longer than seemed possible. Fangs glistened with drops of diamond-like venom. The fighter looked up, and the snake struck. The hollow fangs punctured his armor and sank into his chest, gushing a mouthful of venom into his bloodstream.
Tarne fell.
By the weapons storehouse, Tareah gasped and watched the veteran collapse writhing on the ground. Ready to scream, she stood seething and helpless. She was untrained in using her magic for combat. If her spells failed.…
The hairy Servant howled something like anguish into the growing light. But the Serpent was blood-maddened, pushing the massive beast back toward the stricken fighter.
That aroused Tareah’s anger enough that she screamed back at it. “Get away from here!”
The demon turned to face her. The Serpent opened its mouth to hiss. More venom dripped smoking onto the ground. The Slave took a step toward her.
Then Tareah remembered the firepowder.
She ducked inside the storehouse and snatched one of the clay casks. The back of her mind nagged at her, that she shouldn’t be using human weapons, that her simple fire-starting spell was far too trivial to be used in any battle that anyone would remember.
The Serpent coiled around the Slave’s neck. The hairy beast spread out its giant arms, splaying its claws and dripping glob of yellow blood down its fur. It roared into the approaching dawn, then strode toward Tareah.
She decided not to worry about fighting tactics. She closed her eyes and summoned up the fire-starting spell. It was a trivial spell, something anyone with a trace of Sorcerer blood could do easily—and Tareah succeeded the first time.
The fuse hissed and sizzled as the spark ate its way down.
The Slave charged at her.
She tossed the cask at the demon. “Catch!”
The firepowder exploded in a brilliant flash of fire and light, spraying the Slave of the Serpent with burning streamers and chunks of clay.
Tareah fell backward against the wall of the storehouse, rubbing her blinded eyes and gasping. Stinging chips of pottery fragments slashed her face.
She saw the smoking demon charge howling around the training yard. It charged into the upright logs of the double wall, sending a shower of the packed dirt trickling down. The monster beat at flames burning on its shoulder, its chest.
On the ground, Tarne still cried out in spasms. Spittle ran down his cheek back to his ear.
The Serpent reared back and glared at her. “Delrael is dead. No more quests! Scartaris will come back for Fire Stone!”
The rip in the air opened up again with a snap, and the howling beast plunged back into it. The Slave of the Serpent was swallowed up by nothing, disappearing.
Panting, Tareah ran to where the veteran lay trembling on the ground. Two blue flames burned from the puncture wounds on his chest, blackening the leather of his armor as the venom coursed through his bloodstream. He grimaced and shuddered, gripping the ancient sword.
He crawled forward, but Tareah stopped him. His eyes were glassy and unseeing. She stroked his cheek, muttering nonsense to him. Her magic could do nothing to stop the burning poison, to bring him back from death’s stranglehold.
Tarne said nothing intelligible, which also confused her: all the legends had led her to expect dying characters to make a final dramatic speech before death.
The veteran stared at the glow of sunlight in the eastern sky rising up toward dawn, as the aurora overhead dimmed. His gray eyes did not close. The fires inside him burned out in a burst of dark energy, and he crumpled to ashes within his ancient and damaged vest of armor.
“Let the Game go on forever, and may your score always increase,” Tareah whispered for him, the accepted farewell for a trusted companion.
Tareah stood up, blinking her eyes. Old Siya hung by the doorway of the main building, then moved mechanically toward the fallen fighter. An expression of complete horror hung on her face. Tareah wondered how long she had been standing there, attracted by the noise of the fight.
Tareah remembered the tears on the fighter’s face, the fear in his eyes; she remembered how he had arrived in armor, waiting. Tarne had known ahead of time. He had deceived the demon into thinking it had slain Delrael. He had known this battle would kill him! And yet he had come anyway.
Tareah realized that she was now completely alone. She had no one to help her fight against whatever else Scartaris would send against them.
The dead fighter’s ashes left a black stain on the ground.
***