George Ivanoff
Gamers' Quest
PART ONE: THE QUEST
1: Tark
Tark perched in a tree and waited. He kept his eyes on the path that wound its way through the Forest. He knew it was just a matter of time. All he had to do was wait … and commit highway thievery. He wondered, as he sat on this branch, whether or not the term highway thievery still applied if the perpetration occurred on a path. Pathway thievery? Would that make him a pathwayman instead of a highwayman?
Tark's violet eyes lit up as he saw movement through the trees. He drew his shabby cloak around himself. It may have been old and worn, and had certainly seen better days, but it still had many of its original magik properties. And right now, it was helping him blend in with his surroundings. It also assisted in keeping the morning chill at bay. Tark was a touch on the scrawny side and tended to feel the cold.
The retinue approached, and Tark smiled. It was all so predictable. Stupid princelings seemed to forever be traversing the mid-level paths of the Forest. They obviously believed these paths to be less dangerous than the large highways or the smaller tracks. And they were probably right. Notorious, well-armed highwaymen worked the larger, well-travelled routes. Travellers who looked like they were worth robbing were likely to have at least one attempt made on them during the course of an average journey. And as for the dark, obscure tracks that wound their way through the unforgiving heart of the Forest … well, there were things far worse than highway thievers in the World.
So, in point of fact, there was some sense in the princelings using the mid-level paths. No dark-forest magik, and few thievers. Tark, however, was one of these few thievers, who had carved out for himself his own little thieving niche. It was not a particularly well-paying niche — as princelings with large quantities of gold could afford to hire the protection necessary to travel the highways — but it was regular and, best of all, predictable.
And Tark liked predictable. Predictable princelings meant that he was not at all worried by the size of the retinue that now approached.
‘Nice touch,’ whispered Tark, watching the two flag-bearers at the head of the convoy as they passed beneath his tree. ‘But none of this ’ere flashy stuff's gonna ’elp ya.’
A group of soldiers were next to march below him, two-by-two. Tark counted ten of them and wondered why there were so few. Most illusions had 20 to 30, at the very least.
Then came the princeling's enormous palanquin, carried by four burly men in loincloths. And a second, smaller palanquin followed it — this one floating along of its own accord.
Now that's just stupid, thought Tark. A floating palanquin practically screamed out that the whole thing was an illusion.
Tark ran a hand over the black stubble that covered his head, lined himself up and jumped. His booted feet tore through the canvas canopy, and he landed on the plush, cushioned seat opposite Princeling Galbrath.
The boy looked up at him in bleary-eyed astonishment, having been woken from a light doze. He was young for a princeling — at least a year or two younger than Tark, who at sixteen was quite young himself for such an accomplished thiever. The princeling's round, podgy face, surrounded by an almost angelic halo of golden locks, and wide-eyed stare made him appear vulnerable and a little scared.
‘Ullo.’ Tark smiled. ‘Gives us all yar gold.’
The princeling's youthful features hardened.
‘I do not possess what you seek,’ he said, straightening up his elaborately embroidered clothes. ‘And even if I did, I would not hand it over to the likes of you.’
Tark wiped the smirk off the lad's face with a short, sharp punch to the jaw.
‘It's always gots to be the ’ard way, don't it?’ said Tark, frisking the princeling. Finding nothing, he glared at him and snarled, ‘Last chance!’
‘Ruffian!’ The princeling folded his arms in defiance and spat. A glob of bloody phlegm landed on Tark's boot.
Tark's boots were his pride and joy. Appropriated, only a few days earlier, from a duke taking a short cut along this very same pathway; they were black and polished and relatively newish and a perfect fit. They contrasted to the drab, ill-fitting brown tunic and leggings that Tark lived (and slept) in, and his shabby but useful cloak.
‘Ya snivellin’ little rodent,’ said Tark, grabbing him by the collar of his fur-lined coat. ‘I is gonna makes ya sorry for that.’
The princeling managed a pathetic yelp as Tark flung him out of the palanquin, into the undergrowth that lined the pathway. Tark then proceeded to ransack the interior of the palanquin, throwing blankets and cushions out the door as he went.
‘Where's the gold?’ muttered Tark, as the palanquin came to a sudden halt. ‘Mayhaps it's in the floatin’ one?’
Tark jumped through the door, to come face to face with a group of murderous-looking soldiers.
‘Morning boys,’ he said with a curt nod. He then turned his back on them and walked over to the second palanquin.
The soldiers looked at one another, puzzled at the thiever's lack of fear and cavalier attitude. Then the captain signalled his men and they followed Tark.
Tark yanked a curtain from the second palanquin's doorway. He expected to see a small chest of gold, or at least a sack or two of silver. Instead, there was a wizened old man in flowing purple robes.
‘Who in hell are ya?’ asked Tark.
The old man turned his head slowly to face Tark. His lips parted as he drew in a rattling breath. ‘Windamore the Mighty,’ said the old man, a dry rasp catching his words.
‘Ya don't looks all that mighty ta me,’ quipped Tark.
Windamore climbed out of the palanquin and straightened up to his full height, which was a good thirty centimetres taller than Tark.
Tark noticed the jewelled sword hilt protruding from a scabbard, belted around the man's waist.
‘I am Court Mage to the Principality of Galbrath,’ he announced, his voice seeming to take on a stranger, deeper, more sinister tone. ‘I am guardian to Princeling Galbrath. I am undefeated champion of the Death Tournaments. I am rated with a level thirteen in magik. And I am unaccustomed to being challenged. Now who, in the name of the Designers, are you?’
‘Um …’ began Tark. ‘Someone who's mades a bit of a mistake.’ Tark smiled, bowed to the mage, and turned — only to be faced by the point of a sword, held by the captain of the soldiers.
‘I don't suppose ya is an illusion, are ya?’ asked Tark. He reached up a finger to touch the end of the sword. It was sharp. Very sharp. He pulled his hand away quickly. ‘Didn't think so.’
Tark silently cursed his bad luck. Princelings travelling the mid-level paths always had illusions, and maybe one or two real guards at most. They weren't supposed to have ten soldiers and a mage. This was not regular. Tark's face lit up as his mind made the connections. This princeling must have more money than most — that or something worth protecting.
Behind the soldiers, Tark saw Princeling Galbrath staggering out from the bushes. His coat was torn, his hair bedraggled and his lower lip was dribbling blood. He did not look at all happy.
‘What are you waiting for, you moron,’ yelled the princeling to his captain. ‘Kill him!’
Without hesitation, the captain lunged with his sword.
In his line of work, Tark was often at the wrong end of a sword. He was used to dodging sharpened steel and his reflexes were honed to do so. So Tark did not hesitate either. He lithely dodged the blade.
The level thirteen mage Windamore was indeed unaccustomed to being challenged. It had been a very long time since he had been anywhere near a fight, skirmish or even petty dispute that he had not spent days in
