Gamers' Challenge (2 page)

2:
Tark
 

Tark leaned up against a tree and waited. Once upon a time he would have been wrapped in his magik cloak, perched upon a high branch, out of view. But now there was no need. He stood at the edge of the path, waiting for a travelling princeling, knowing that he would not be noticed and hoping to steal something of use.

He was dressed, as always, in ill-fitting, drab, brown leggings and a tunic, with high black boots that were still in reasonable condition. At least some things hadn’t changed. He ran a hand through his black hair. Now that was something different. His hair had never grown before. It had always been little more than stubble. He closed his hand into a fist, catching the hair between his fingers. If it kept growing, he would have to start cutting it.

Tark’s hand dropped and his head snapped to the right as he heard the rustling of leaves. His violet eyes stared into the undergrowth, looking for movement. Dense foliage grew right up to the edge of the path concealing what lay within the depths of the Forest. The perfect hiding place, thought Tark. Not that he needed a hiding place anymore. The sound of hooves along the path made him turn his attention to the other direction.

Rounding the bend, he could see a man on ahorse. The rider was richly dressed and the stallion pranced.

‘Show-off!’ muttered Tark.

Following close behind was a mule, pulling a wagon. A pageboy rode on the mule’s back, as it strained to haul its load. As they neared, Tark could see that the man’s clothes, though rich, were quite old and slightly shabby. The pageboy’s attire was also very worn and grubby. The cart contained only a few wooden chests (no doubt filled with what remained of the man’s fortune), some clothing and a meagre selection of fruits and vegetables.

‘Oh, great,’ whispered Tark. Justs a no-longer rich dude, wot somethin’ rough happened ta.’ Still, it would have to do. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Tark waited and watched as the small entourage approached and passed. Falling in line behind the cart, Tark swiftly relieved it of several apples. Pocketing them, he reached for the nearest trunk, but found he couldn’t grasp it. His hand was simply unable to make contact.

‘Blast!’ Tark hated the way that happened. The fact that no one seemed able to see him had certainly aided in the acquisition of supplies, but the fact that he was also unable to interact with so many things was a real hindrance. As far as he and Zyra could work out, it seemed that anything important to the game, was out of bounds to them.

Tark’s mind was drawn back to the kiss that hadchanged everything for him. He absently brought a hand up to his chin and started picking at the pimple that had sprung up there. Had they done the right thing in defying the Designers? He wasn’t sure. Life was certainly more difficult now. But he also felt as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free now. He could do what he wanted. He didn’t have to continually steal money. He was no longer reliant on getting to. Designers Paradise to be happy. He didn’t have to worry about the Designers’ ridiculous rules. He was allowed to kiss Zyra whenever he wanted ... if only she would let him.

His pimple oozed a little pus and began to bleed.

***

A man peered out through the leaves and watched

Tark intently. He wore a dark hooded cloak and crouched in the undergrowth by the side of the path.

’At long last,’ he murmured.

He scratched at his beard and continued to watch as Tark ate one of the stolen apples. Realising that the boy would soon be on his way, the hooded man decided that now was as good a time as any. Rising slowly to his feet, he adjusted his cloak and stepped out through the bushes onto the path.

Tark stared in his direction, eyes widening.

Dropping his apple core, he produced two throwing stars from the pouch on his belt.

‘Damn!’ This was not the reaction the man hadbeen hoping for.

***

‘Behind you!’ Tark shouted, even though he knewthat there was no way that the hooded man could hear him. He was as unheard as he was unseen in the World since the kiss.

To Tark’s amazement the man turned to look back, then threw himself to the ground, giving Tark a clear shot at the ball of static that had emerged from the trees. Tark threw the stars and quickly fished another two from his pouch.

The undulating sphere of static froze in the air as it picked apart and consumed the shaped metal. With the stars gone, it pulsed and roiled again, but did not advance, seemingly undecided as to who to attack first. Taking advantage of this hesitation, the hooded man sprang to his feet, unhooking the small crossbow that hung from his belt. The ball of static moved towards him.

‘Distract it!’ he yelled at Tark.

If there had been time to think, Tark would have been amazed that this mysterious stranger had not only seen him, but was now yelling at him. Given the circumstances, however, Tark’s thoughts were otherwise occupied. He threw another two stars.

The static froze as the stars were deconstructed once again. Then it shifted its attention from the hooded man to Tark. As it bubbled and pulsated, Tark imagined that he could see images forming within its depths, before being swallowed by the sizzling nothingness. He couldn’t make out what they were, but he had a sense of malice and hunger.

From the corner of his eye, Tark saw the hoodedman load his crossbow, take aim, and fire. As the bolt shot through the air, the man was already reloading.

The first bolt stuck home. The ball of static sparked and crackled, its edges flaring and dissolving as its movement toward Tark ceased. The diminishing mass turned its attention away from Tark and back towards the hooded man. His crossbow was reloaded, aimed and ready to fire.

Tark saw that the bolt was tipped with static. It flew through the air and struck their attacker. The sphere burst apart, its insubstantial greyness flaring and dissipating in all directions, until there was nothing left.

Tark watched warily as the man returned the smallbut effective crossbow to his belt and approached him. His hood was still in place, concealing much of his face, but Tark glimpsed a grey beard.

‘Thank you.’ The man’s voice was deep and alittle gravely, but also vaguely familiar to Tark.

‘Ya can sees me?’ The enormity of the situation finally hit Tark.

‘Obviously,’ the man replied. ‘I can see you. I can hear you. I can interact with you.’ He offered his gloved hand to Tark.

‘How?’ snapped Tark, immediately suspicious,ignoring the outstretched hand.

‘I’m not playing the Designers’ game either,’ he said simply. He held up his hand to stop Tark from asking further questions. ‘We are still in danger. If one VI has been able to find us, then there’s the distinct possibility of more.’

‘VI?’

‘The ball of static. It’s a Viral Interface,’ explained the man. ‘Or, at least, that is what we call them. Now we should get out of here. Ideally, we need to get to Zyra before any more VIs show up. I assume you know where she is and can take me there?’

‘How does ya know about Zyra?’ Tark’s voice rose.

‘Wot is these viral things?’ His hand slipped down to the pouch with the stars. ‘And who the hell is ya?’

‘We don’t have time for this now. I’m a friend and

I’m here to help you. But we need to get to Zyra.’ Tark did not move. His muscles were tense andrigid. He eyed the stranger, ready to fight if necessary.

‘Please!’ said the man. His hood shifted a little and Tark saw violet eyes staring out at him, pleadingly. ‘I promise that I will explain everything once I am sure that Zyra is safe.’

3: Explanations
 

The monks’ chanting voices filled the Temple of Paths as they knelt on the flagstone floor. Every now and then, one of the monks would prostrate himself, heavy brown robes pooling on the floor around him, before returning to his knees and his chanting. The head monk, robed in red, knelt on a raised area at the end of the Temple, his cowled head just visible behind the altar. Brocaded drapes of bronze and purple hung on the wall behind him.

A row of television screens on sconces, each displaying the image of flickering candles, lined the two longer walls. More screens hung from the ceiling joists, displaying nothing but static. Between the joists of the vaulted ceiling and the sconced screens, four booths protruded from the wall like opera boxes, each with a Designers Paradise logo - the letters DP intertwined in a silver and gold swirl.

Eyes closed, breathing rhythmically, Zyra stood in one of the booths. She inhaled deeply and slowly placed her hands on the wooden railing. As her eyes snapped open, she jumped over the edge, somersaulted and landed in a crouch just in front of the raised area where the altar stood, the monks oblivious to her presence.

‘I still gats it,’ she said.

She glanced up nervously at the screens displaying the static, and then took off down the aisle of chanting monks, picking up speed and heading for the huge double doors at the front of the Temple. Her footfalls resonated on the heavy timber and iron door as she propelled herself into a back-flip, landing in another crouch. She jumped to her feet and headed back down the aisle to the altar, this time cartwheeling and somersaulting between the monks. A final jump, and she landed on the altar in front of the chanting red robed monk, producing two throwing stars. With a double-handed throw, she flung both of them across the room. They thudded into the wood of the door, just as it began to open.

‘Oi!’ called Tark, poking his head through the gapand glaring at the stars. ‘Watch it, will ya?’

The monks rarely did anything other than chant; their eyes were either closed or fixed firmly on the altar. The doors were not in their line of sight, so Tark could usually come and go as he pleased.

Zyra jumped off the altar and sauntered down the centre of the Temple, chanting monks on either side of her. She pulled her arms behind her back to stretch her aching muscles.

‘Gots ta keep in practice,’ said Zyra, as Tark stepped into the Temple.

‘Yes, once you’re no longer part of the game, youneed to keep up your skills so they don’t fade away.’ Zyra’s knives were in her hands by the time thehooded man stepped into the Temple.

‘It’s okays,’ said Tark, as he closed the Temple door, ‘he’s with me.’

Zyra didn’t lower the knives. Her eyes were fixed on the stranger.

‘Yeah,’ said Tark. ‘He can sees us.’

‘Greetings, Zyra,’ said the hooded man, bowing slightly. ‘It is so very, very good to see you.’

As he took a step forward, Zyra moved to blockhis path, knives pointed threateningly at his throat. The man stopped. He slowly lifted his hands, palms out to show the absence of weapons, and drew back his hood.

He had long white hair, pulled back into a ponytail, a neatly trimmed beard and wild violet eyes. He smiled and the creases around his eyes deepened.

‘I am here as a friend,’ he said, studying Zyra. Zyra squirmed a little under his intense gaze.

There was a distinct air of familiarity about him. Zyra was certain they had never met, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that she almost knew him. But that was not a reason to drop her guard.

‘Who is ya?’ She didn’t lower her knives. ‘How comes ya can sees us?’

‘These days I call myself Tee,’ he answered. ‘I am like you. I no longer play the Designers’ game. Like you, I cannot interact with anyone who is part of the game. And I have much to tell you.’

‘Why shoulds we listen to ya, old man?’ demanded

Zyra.

Tee winced. ‘Not so much with the
old,
please. I’m not even fifty.’

‘Yeah?’ Zyra smirked. ‘Old!’

Tee sighed. ‘I have information that you need and equipment that can help you.’

‘He’s right.’ Tark took a step to stand next to Zyra.

‘He’s gots weapons that works on ‘em static things.’ Zyra’s eyes lit up and she lowered the knives alittle.

Tee looked around the Temple at all the chanting monks. ‘A strange place you’ve decided to make your home.’

‘This ‘ere’s the only place the static leaves us alone,’ explained Tark.

‘Interesting.’ Tee raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it just the main area or the entire building?’

‘The whole place,’ answered Zyra.

‘In that case,’ said Tee. ‘I don’t suppose there is a quieter room in which we can talk?’

Tark and Zyra nodded. Tark led the way through the monks, to the left side of the altar. He pulled aside a drape to reveal the door leading into the vestry. Sheathing her knives, Zyra followed, watching Tee warily as she went.

Tee assessed the room quickly. ‘You live back here?’

‘Yeah.’ Tark planked himself down onto one of the mattresses. ‘None of ‘em monks eva comes back

‘ere.’

‘And it’s quieter.’ Zyra leaned up against the table, keeping her eyes glued to the stranger. ‘Them monks neva shuts up. All days. All nights. Chant, chant, chant.’

Tark produced the three remaining apples he had stolen. He tossed one to Zyra, one to Tee and bit into the third.

‘Is that alls ya got?’ Zyra glanced at Tark.

Tark shrugged and then stuck his thumb out towards Tee. ‘Gats interrupted.’