The Rules of the Game

by Christopher Kempke

Copyright (c)1989

Silence enveloped Lirian, darkness pressed against her like a physical blanket that soothed her muscles and clearing her mind. Relief flooded across her. She had not been sure that she could even get here.

The darkness was not complete. Occasionally, sharp lines of blood-red brilliance pierced it, sometimes straight and stretching forever from side to side, more often spiraling away toward some goal that could be seen only as a terminal dot of star-like white. Such apparitions appeared momentarily, and then were gone. Hours passed as Lirian floated among them and slept.

She awoke later feeling better, ready for the journey to end. She called out with her mind, and one of the spiraling red passages appeared before her. Unlike the others, she concentrated on this one, and it grew until it encompassed her. As she passed down it she wondered, as she always did, if she was spinning. The spiral made it appear so, but without reference points there was no certain way to tell.

The white star at the terminus of the spiral grew, faster and faster until it became her entire universe, and she passed through into the light. The magical gateway closed tightly behind her.

A brilliant sun shone warmly on her face. At last, she stood on the parched desert of Game. Memories of this place flooded back to her from her days at the School. She remembered the battles fought here for the great trophies, and the other, illicit ones that were played out after hours. The School must have known that its students came here at night, but at the time it had seemed a great adventure. Especially, she remembered the time when she had come to Game, and found that not apprentices, but full-fledged masters were her opponents.

She had almost won that time, surprising herself, and was even more surprised when the single wizard who had beaten her showed up at the School to talk to her.

``You show a great deal of talent,'' he had said. ``No apprentice has ever done so well before in Game with masters.''

She had been proud; even more so when the wizard made her his apprentice. It was an honor that she should have been years from achieving, but the School acknowledged her feat and gave its blessing. She stayed with Rosomar for many years, and learned the perfection of her art from him. The training had been hard, but after the first few months he was no longer so much a teacher to her as a friend. Her magical ability expanded faster than it ever had before. In the end, perhaps, she was a greater wizard than he was, but he was experienced where she was not, and at the end of her apprenticeship she had listened closely to his words.

``For all mages of great power there comes a time when their power fades. Once simple spells become complex and difficult; even when you are sure that the motions are right, the magic will inexplicably fail. This is a dangerous time, for most mages who reach it forever lose their power. But when it happens to you, as it did to me, remember this: retreat to places and situations familiar to you. Do not give up, and always remain confident that your abilities will return. If they do not, you are unsuited for any other occupations-- it has taken you too long to learn magic. But if they do, you will be more powerful than you have been before, a master among masters.''

For seven years in the wars, she remembered the words, and planned, even as she became one of the most feared combat mages of her day. When at last her spells had begun to fail her, Lirian sought the place most comfortable to her, the place of childhood memories. She returned to Game.

Game was a tiny world, watched closely by whatever gods there were that still dealt in men's affairs. Game overlapped upon itself, for a mage could walk in a straight line and return to his starting point in about four hours. Spaced in a circle, about four miles apart, were seven stone towers, each three stories high. The uppermost floor of each held food and water for the participants. Traditionally called citadels, the first seven mages to arrive in Game appeared in them, one mage to each tower.

Between the towers were small tufts of various terrains, including hills, forests, and deserts. The eighth mage arrived in the middle of the circle, in a small desert. The eighth and final player was in the worst position of them all, for he had neither the food nor protection of the towers. Usually, this mage had to make the first move, as the others waited calmly in their citadels.

The rules were simple. The last mage on Game won. Injury was impossible, but the gods watched closely. Any action that would have resulted in death to a player caused that mage to vanish from Game, otherwise unharmed. It was thus a perfect place for apprentices to try out potentially lethal spells in attack situations, without fearing for their own lives.

It was also, Lirian hoped, the perfect place for her to regain her spells. She looked around and saw only desert and the surrounding hills. I am the eighth, she thought. It depressed her for a moment, until she remembered that she was not here to win, only to play. In fact, the challenge would probably help.

She set out across the desert, which quickly gave way to hills hiding the citadels from view. Lirian knew the way, however, and within an hour she lay flat on her stomach at the top of a small hill, looking down on a stone tower.

The structure was not impressive, about fifteen feet in diameter and maybe thirty high. Most of its interior space was taken up by the spiral staircase that ran steeply up the inside. However, it was a place of both concealment and protection for a mage inside, and its magically supplied food and water made it invaluable if a game took a long time. Sometimes, a game took weeks, but more often only a few hours determined a winner-- in these cases, the food was of minimal importance.

She waited, and within a few minutes a man appeared at the top of the tower, scanning the horizon in all directions. She had not entered an apprentice's game; his robes were the deep blue of a full wizard.

Sliding down to insure that she was not in his view, she pulled a fallen branch toward her and began to work. Quickly, she stripped the bark from in with a small knife, and pulled off some splinters for use later. Then she quietly spoke a few words, made the requisite gestures, and passed her hands rapidly over the limb.

Nothing happened, and she cursed silently to herself. Her power was ebbing even here. A few days ago, she had practiced this spell, and it had worked perfectly. Forcing patience, she began again. This time, the spell triggered, and the limb stretched and bent, curving into the familiar shape of a longbow. Not letting the spell die, she reformed the splinters she had saved earlier until she had a small pile of arrows. A bowstring from the same pouch that had produced the knife finished the weapon, and she lifted it to her shoulder and pulled herself over the hilltop again.

Hidden by a bush, she nocked an arrow and waited. Most people in her profession avoided the use of physical weapons, but Lirian had practiced the bow for years, knowing that her spells would one day fail her. The training would now pay off.

Eventually, the man reappeared. Lifting herself slightly, she took careful aim. She trusted her archery skills more than she trusted her magical ones, but she wasn't going to give the unfamiliar mage warning by missing. When he stopped to survey his surroundings, she drew back the bowstring and fired.

The arrow struck her opponent full in the throat, and he clutched fiercely at it for a few seconds before toppling from the citadel to the ground. Lirian, a lifelong veteran of combat, did not feel any pity for him, only relief that she had overcome this first obstacle. It was only when she had to step over the body of the mage that it struck her that he was really dead. Frowning, she dragged the body with her into the citadel, then checked him over carefully. This was no illusion-- the mage was real, and he was dead. The blood still trickling from his neck was red, warm, and human.

Lirian pulled the knife from her pouch, and ran it across her palm. She felt pain, and a thin red line of blood confirmed the injury. She was no more protected than the other mage had been. Death should have been impossible on Game. The rules had changed, and a man had died because he didn't know. Lirian suddenly felt very afraid; only chance had taken him instead of her. Slowly, carefully, she attempted to cast the spell that would pull her from Game to another world, but it failed pitifully, and she knew that she didn't have the strength to keep trying the difficult incantation.

Leaving the body, she climbed to the top of the tower and looked out. She saw no one, but she knew that was meaningless. Still, her anxiety subsided slightly. She looked around, and saw the expected casks of water and chests of preserved meats and breads. Putting aside her fears for a few minutes, she ate and drank; she might have to stay here a long time.

When she had finished, she slung the bow over her shoulders, took some water and jerky, and left the tower at a slow walk, constantly looking from side to side. Her combat reflexes were back, and she was very aware that her life was in danger. Unconsciously, her feet began to step more carefully, and the sound of her movement died to a whisper. It took her almost three hours to cover the four miles to the next tower, but when she reached it she was sure that no one was following or watching her.

The citadel was apparently deserted, but she approached carefully. She considered cloaking herself in an invisibility spell, but the power drain if the spell failed might alert others to her presence like a beacon. So she crept forward silent and unseen by human means, and came to the base of the tower unharmed. Slipping inside, she immediately saw why.

A sorceress lay at the bottom of the stairs, so badly burned that her sex was distinguishable only by the bent four-pointed emblem that she wore. The rest of the room was scorched as well, but the damage ended in a sharp line on the stairs as they approached the next level. If she had had any doubts previously, the line dispelled them; the fire had not been natural.

Lirian instantly became cautious again. There was no sign that the wizard who had caused this was still around, but the fire would have destroyed most of the easily read traces. Chancing a spell, she tried to cast out with her mind, seeking another living being. The power would not flow; she gave up the effort with an inaudible sigh. Her spells were less reliable now than they had been even a few days ago.

She took the stairs to the top floor of the tower, and cautiously peered over. About a mile away, she saw a man walking in the direction of a tower she had not yet visited. His pace was slow, and he seemed old or crippled, though he had proven himself to be a threat. Descending the staircase again, Lirian set off in quiet pursuit.

Lirian had been on Game dozens of times, for hundreds of hours. In all that time, it had always been hot and sunny. Now, however, dark clouds were gathering and building into thunderheads. In a few minutes, the sun was blocked and Game was cool. The occasional sound of thunder grew gradually, and helped hide the sound of her passage.

Within forty minutes she had the man in sight. Carefully keeping her self out of view, she approached. His robes were bedraggled, and he walked with a stoop as if he were ill. Once though, he turned his head to look into the forest, and Lirian got a good look at his face-- a face she recognized.

``Rosomar!'' she shouted, and the old man turned back to look at her. Recognition stirred in his face, the stoop disappeared. ``Lirian!''

The two mages closed the distance between each other, and Rosomar gave her a gentle hug. His face became years younger, but whether it was an illusion that he now wore, or one which he had dropped, Lirian did not know. The younger face became serious.

``You know that people can die now on Game?'' He looked at her, his eyes showing the same confusion hers had held.

``Yes,'' she said softly. ``I killed a man earlier.''

``I have killed as well. For real. It is the first time.'' Lirian remembered her first kill. It had not been easy for her, either. Rosomar had never been a combat mage-- his skills had always been used in teaching and tricks. The wars held no glory for him; he saw every slain man or woman as a potential apprentice wasted.

``So what do we do?'' she said, not really changing the subject.

``We leave Game as soon as possible. It's too dangerous to be here, especially if not everyone knows they can be killed. Some might enjoy the challenge anyway.''

Most of them would, Lirian thought, but she did not say it. Instead: ``Take me with you. My magic isn't good enough right now to remove a toad from Game, much less myself.'' Rosomar looked her over carefully. ``So it has happened to you at last. Don't despair. It might come back.''

They were not exactly the words she wanted to hear, but Rosomar managed to make them sound comforting. He lifted his arms to the sky, brought them down, and began a soft chant. The words were melodious, and full of power. Even Lirian's diminished powersense could feel the energy flowing from his spell. The soft enfolding darkness fell about them-- and shattered.

The look of surprise on Rosomar's face made the slight jolt worthwhile, but Lirian didn't understand, and told him so.

``We can't leave,'' he said unsteadilly. ``They won't let us.''

``They?'' she asked.

``I don't know. The gods, probably. Maybe just a powerful mage. Something is keeping us here.''

``Then we're trapped?'' There was an edge of fear to her voice. Her absolute faith in Rosomar's power had been shattered with his spell, and with it went her confidence.

``Quite probably. At least for the time being.'' He paused, considering. ``We should find the others and warn them of their danger.'' He spoke uncertainly, as if he wanted her to disagree.

She didn't. There was nowhere else for her to go. They might as well attempt some good while they were here. Together, they set off for the next tower.

A few heavy drops of rain fell, then stopped, then the storm was upon them. Lirian succeeded in putting up a simple spell to keep the rain off them, but even so, their footing was unsure. Within minutes, vision had dropped to a few feet, and the two mages crawled along at a snail's pace. After three hours, Rosomar stopped.

``We may have missed the citadel in the rain. Maybe we should stay here until it lets up.''

Rosomar dried out a small area, and Lirian extended her spell over it. The two of them lay down and waited for the storm to end.

The heavy rain was a featureless grey, and although the water would not run through their protected zone, it washed and splashed against the non-physical wall they had erected, leaving drops and rivulets in the air, muddy streams carrying sand and leaves on the ground. The sound drowned out all attempts at conversation between the two mages. Once, a tree fell and they had to move their haven a few feet further away. From time to time lightning filled the sky, and they could see the forest around them, and the thousands of raindrops, frozen in the air for a moment by the sudden light.

It took almost four hours for the rain to let up enough to allow travel. Rosomar and Lirian slept lightly for a time, then rose and started moving again. Soon it was dry enough that Lirian could recognize their position, and a few minutes travel brought them in sight of the next tower.

A blast of flame from the top of the citadel told them that it was still occupied. Rosomar shouted loudly ``Stop that! We need to talk! You are not protected!''

The flame did not return, and the two mages approached. A woman appeared on the top of the tower, hands at her side, waiting. Not until they had covered half the distance to the citadel did she move. Both mages saw the motion begin, and began protective spells, but Rosomar's went up a split second too late. He spun in wild pain for a few seconds before the flames consumed him completely.

Lirian screamed a curse that would have gotten her expelled from the School, but it was not as strong as the anger she felt. ``He came to talk, and you killed him!'' She was angry and grief-stricken, but not stupid enough to let her own defense down. When the second blast struck her, she felt the protective spell weaken, and knew it couldn't survive another. Quickly, while the flames still gave her cover, she fitted an arrow to her bow and let it fly.

The wet bowstring caused the arrow to stray from its mark, but not by enough to save the sorceress in the tower. She took the arrow in her left arm, destroying the spell she had just begun, and Lirian's second struck true. The woman crumpled.

Lirian turned to examine Rosomar; only charred ashes remained. The rain was washing these away as well. Choking, she said a brief eulogy for him, then climbed the tower.

The sorceress was still alive, though barely so. Certainly she was no longer capable of casting spells, and carried no visible weapons. Lirian knelt at her side when she began to speak.

``I had to do it, you know. He won't let us leave until only one is left. I tried to kill you, and failed. But I saved you the pain of killing your companion yourself.''

``He?'' Lirian asked, ignoring the rest of the woman's statement. ``Who won't let us leave?''

``You don't know, then? I'll tell you. Maybe you can escape. I didn't have the power. Gruenfeld is here. He is one of the participants.''

Lirian's half-forgotten fear returned. ``Gruenfeld? The god? He's here on Game?''

The sorceress looked directly at her. ``Gruenfeld is here. There are no gods, though, just a man who has learned the limits of his power. But he is greater than either of us. He cannot be killed, and absolutely controls the weather of Game. He forbids us from leaving, and watches us kill one another for his own amusement. He can be the only winner of this game.''

Lirian's anger had abated considerably. ``Then I won't play by his rules, will I?'' The question was more to herself than the sorceress, but the wounded woman smiled anyhow. Lirian pulled the arrow from her arm and began a healing spell. It failed twice, but she kept trying, and eventually the blood flow stopped. The sorceress's other wound presented less difficulty.

``It will take a while before you can cast spells again,'' Lirian commented. ``There's food and water here. When you can, heal yourself, but don't come after me.'' She didn't add what she was thinking. I'll be dead by then anyway.

Lirian descended the tower without looking back. She was not at all sure that the sorceress would live, and even less sure that she cared. Placing her bow over her shoulder, she set off toward the next citadel, already knowing what she would find there.

She was not disappointed. As she came over a small hill, she saw the tower lying in ruins, the bodies of two men lying in the rubble. That makes seven, she thought. And Gruenfeld is eight. All the players have made their moves. A few seconds later, the god himself strode around the tower.

``Come on down!'' he shouted. ``No point in prolonging this game any longer than we have to, is there?'' His voice was firm and sure, and he looked directly at her as he spoke. The voice carried power, and she took a step toward him before breaking the spell. Then she dropped and rolled.

The blast she had expected did not come. Gruenfeld laughed loudly, with a touch of malice. Lirian knocked an arrow and fired, and had the next one on the bow before the first had traveled half the distance to the god.

Gruenfeld brought his arm up in a single gesture of defiance, and both arrows vanished, followed by the bow. ``No,'' he said. ``I do not choose to die today.'' His next gesture almost caught Lirian by surprise, but at the last second she brought up a protective spell and leapt to the side. The spell failed, but she was far enough away when the flames struck that she received only minor burns.

The god was undaunted. ``Very impressive spell you cast,'' he mocked. ``Could you show me how to do it some time?'' Suddenly, he took Lirian's blast full in the chest. She relaxed slightly, then screamed in pain as a hail of small sharp spikes went through her left leg.

``Silly apprentice,'' the god said calmly. ``Do you think such as me would even notice your small effort? You do not know much of gods. I shall endeavor to teach you.'' He brought his hands up, again and again, and Lirian found herself unable to do anything but dodge and try to defend. Her spells failed her altogether, and she could not walk on her leg. Eventually, she fell and could not get up. The god vanished, and appeared behind her.

``This game has gone on long enough. I declare myself the winner.'' He moved his hands like lightning; Lirian could hardly have moved in time if she had been uninjured. Fire and pain became her world. Darkness descended, but it was broken by thoughts and tiny spots of light.

A god is nothing but a man who knows the limits of his power. Lirian knew her own limits. They had been set by the rules of the sorcery she practiced, reinforced by the instruction of her teacher. Knows the limits of his own power. The rules of magic could not change. Gruenfeld's power could not exist; all the laws of power forbade it. Then why have I lost my spells?

She knew. With a sudden absolute certainty, she knew where her power had gone. She had learned magic until she thought she had reached its limits. Any more would be impossible, too powerful, forbidden by the rules of the game. But the rules were wrong. Since Gruenfeld existed, the power must exist. Rosomar had given her a hint of it, once: If your magic comes back, you will be a more powerful mage than ever before. But Rosomar hadn't known. He had merely allowed a slight increase in ability by altering his rules.

Lirian eliminated hers.

In the half of a second that it had taken for realization to come, Gruenfeld's magic had destroyed most of her body. She had no arms, no legs, nothing with which to cast spells. It didn't matter. The magic flowed free, power coursing through her mind like water through a broken dam. Her body repaired itself, and she gathered and magnified Gruenfeld's fire, turning it back upon the unsuspecting god. In a moment he was just a man, if he had ever been anything else. His power was enormous, but his mind could not conceive of another living being matching it. Unready for a response, Gruenfeld did not even try to defend against her. In another moment, he ceased to exist.

Game shook with Lirian's magic as she brought it back under control, and she finally realized her full power. Everything lay bare to her, every tree and citadel on Game, as well as the other worlds which lay outside. Reaching out with her mind, she located the sorceress on the tower, and healed her completely. There was no reason for hostility any longer-- Rosomar was dead beyond even Lirian's ability to bring him back; the sorceress still had a chance at life. ``Go home,'' Lirian whispered kindly, and knew that the sorceress heard her across the distance. ``Gruenfeld is dead.''

Then she turned her mind to Game. At her whim, a soft white snow began to fall, covering the carnage of the last few hours. It would take a lot of work to restore Game to what it had been.

Lirian knew that she could do it. Restoring worlds was, after all, the work of a goddess.

Christopher Kempke is a Computer Science graduate student at Oregon State University. His interests include writing, computers, magic, juggling, bridge, and other games, not necessarily in that order. His major goal in life is to become a professional student, a goal which he is rapidly attaining.

He can be reached at kempkec@ure.cs.orst.edu