Gamers' Quest Read online

  GAMERS’ QUEST

  George Ivanoff

  First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of

  Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

  Melbourne Victoria Australia

  © George Ivanoff

  2009 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This publication is copyright. Apart from any use

  as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part

  may be reproduced by any process without prior written

  permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries

  concerning reproduction should be addressed to

  Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd

  2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.

  Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

  First published 2009

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Author: Ivanoff, George 1968-

  Title: Gamers’ Quest / George Ivanoff

  ISBN: 9781876462864 (pbk.)

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  Cover art: Les Petersen

  Cover design: © Grant Gittus Graphics

  In-house editor: Saralinda Turner

  Printed in China by Tingleman Pty Ltd

  Contents

  Prologue

  1: Tark

  2: Princeling Galbrath

  3: Zyra

  4: The Cracker

  5: The Plan

  6: Dragon Slaying

  7: Safecracking

  8: The Fat Man

  9: Inheritance

  10: Where to Go

  11: Underground

  12: Confrontations

  13: Into Paradise

  14: An Ideal Life?

  15: New Players

  16: Trapped

  17: On the Run

  18: An Unlikely Ally

  19: The Library

  20: Invasion

  21: The Designers’ Legacy

  22: Back to the Beginning

  Acknowledgments

  For Kerri, Nykita and Alexandra –

  my wonderful family

  Gamers’ Quest

  George Ivanoff has written over 30 books for children and teenagers. Two of his books (Life, Death and Detention and Real Sci-Fi) have been on the booklist for the Victorian Premier's Reading Challenge since its inception in 2005. His five-book series, Cory Jansen: Teen Spy has recently been published in New Zealand. George has also had stories published in numerous magazines and anthologies, most recently in GROW: Under the Southern Cross, Trust Me! and Doctor Who, Short Trips: Defining Patterns. His website is:

  www.georgeivanoff.com.au

  Prologue

  Blue skies and sunny days. Going to the movies, hanging out at the mall and going out on a date. School, homework and library study groups. Family and friends. And ice-cream. Nothing could compare to that cold, melty goodness.

  Ordinary, everyday things. That is what they missed. That is what they craved. But those ordinary lives were just vague memories – insubstantial images floating in a grey nothingness. And getting back to them would be no easy task. Danger awaited them at every turn – danger and maybe even death.

  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.

&nbs
p; ‘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 preparation for. As a result, his reflexes were not what they had once been.

  Windamore was skewered by the captain's sword.

  ‘Oh!’ croaked the mage, staring blankly at the captain's astonished eyes.

  The captain hurriedly withdrew his sword.

  Never one to dally, Tark grabbed the only opportunity he saw – the mage's sword. He pulled it from its scabbard as the mage fell dead to the ground and almost dropped it in surprise.

  Blinding light burst from the sword's blade. It was a sword o’ light!

  Tark shielded his eyes with one hand as he tried to hold on with the other. It felt as if the sword was alive – alive and trying to escape. It moved about in his grip, first pulling one way and then another, as if unsure as to its intended direction.

  The captain fell to his knees. His soldiers dropped their swords and did likewise. The palanquin bearers lowered their vehicle and hid behind it.

  The sword made a definite movement, over the heads of the soldiers, to where Princeling Galbrath stood. The princeling's face went white.

  ‘Oh crap!’ gasped the princeling, realisation dawning on him. Without Windamore to keep it in check, the sword o’ light would follow its own instincts. And the princeling wasn't the sword's favourite person at the moment, for the blade knew where he had been heading and to whom he had intended to sell it. The princeling turned and fled into the undergrowth.

  The sword tried to follow. Tark closed his eyes and used both hands, and still he could only barely keep hold of it. But hold onto it he did, for he knew the rarity and worth of a sword o’ light.

  After much struggling, the sword appeared to give up, relinquishing control to its holder. Tark pointed it towards the mage. The sword started moving towards the scabbard. Tark let it. Once it was sheathed, he removed the belt from the dead mage, and put it around his own waist.

  The soldiers still cowered on the ground. Well, thought Tark, no sense in wasting an opportunity.

  ‘Rights!’ he called, pulling a small burlap pouch from under his cloak. ‘All of ya are gonna puts yar valuables in this ’ere bag.’

  2: Princeling Galbrath

  Princeling Galbrath ran through the undergrowth of the Forest. He ran and ran and ran, until he could run no further. He fell to his knees, panting like a dog, sweating like a pig and groaning like the unfit person he was.

  ‘Blast!’ he yelled. Startled by the noise, a flock of birds took to the air from one of the trees. A small furry creature with round, watery eyes hopped out from a nearby bush, its curiosity getting the better of it. Galbrath backhanded it, sending it flying into the trunk of a large tree.

  ‘Ow!’ whined the princeling, rubbing at his hand, tears threatening his eyes. He felt like hitting something again. He looked around, but if there were any more small furry animals around, they were staying hidden. He shouted instead. ‘Ahhh!’

  He was furious! More furious than he had ever been in his short but eventful life. His grandfather's sword o’ light was lost, before he could sell it. And after all the trouble he had gone through to get it. He had poisoned three siblings and a parent in order to inherit that damn sword, and had been set to sell it for a king's ransom in gold – enough gold to buy him years in Designers Paradise. He slammed his fist onto the grassy earth.

  ‘Damn the Designers,’ he screamed, as tears finally welled up in his eyes. Then in a quieter voice, as the tears cascaded down, he sobbed, ‘Why is my life always so difficult?’ He raised his face skywards. ‘Designers have pity on me. Give me some sign that you have not forsaken me.’

  And then he remembered! He remembered something important. He had not lost everything, after all. Yes, his mage was dead, his sword o’ light stolen, his soldiers and retinue gone. But he still had something. He still had the item that he had used the sword o’ light to obtain.

  He carefully put a hand into his pocket and pulled out the key. Images of a better life floated through his mind, broken up by sizzling grey emptiness. The key shone with an inner light. The princeling raised it skywards and called out at the top of his voice:

  ‘Praise be to the Designers!’

  3: Zyra

  Zyra watched from the bushes as a perimeter drone whizzed by, microwaves scorching the ground below it. A low-swooping swallow burst into flame as it passed below the grey, flying, metal box.

  ‘Stupid bird!’ whispered Zyra, as she noted that it had been exactly three minutes and four seconds since the drone last passed.

  Zyra wore gloves, boots and a neck-to-ankle, plasti-alloy, microfibre jumpsuit. A balaclava with mirrored lenses completed the ensemble. It wouldn't do much to stop a bullet, but it was perfect protection from the razor-sharp leaves that surrounded her. These fancy houses on the Hill had all manner of weird security, but razor bushes were easy enough to get through if wearing the right clothing. And Zyra prided herself on always wearing the right outfit for the occasion.

  She peered up at the perimeter wall
through the leaves. It was a metre in from the surrounding bushes and looked like traditional bluestone. The sort of wall you'd find surrounding a prison or an orphanage. But in her line of work, Zyra knew never to simply accept the obvious. That's why she was taking the time to reconnoitre the property before planning the break-in. For all she knew, the wall could be encased in an electro-static barrier, or criss-crossed with invisible laser beams, or even –

  Not a real bluestone wall at all!

  As Zyra watched, a portion of the wall shimmered.

  Damn! she thought. Some beggar's workin’ me turf.

  The stones seemed to bulge and distend, then they dispersed in a burst of static as someone walked through. As that someone stepped out onto the scorched gravel between the wall and the razor-bush surround, the stones reformed behind him.

  The Cracker chuckled to himself as his shifty eyes looked from right to left. Dressed in a drab grey suit and overcoat, he looked very much like he was on the way to some boring office job. But, of course, he wasn't. In one hand he held a pencil-shaped device. He adjusted the settings on the device and then waved it at the section of razor-bush directly in front of him. The leaves and branches went limp.

  ‘Toys,’ spat Zyra under her breath. ‘That filthy toe-rag always gots ’em toys.’

  Zyra reached into her boot and pulled out a throwing star. It was the last one that she had with her and she didn't want to waste it. Carefully, she used the sharp star to cut three leaves from the bush she was hiding in, then returned it to her boot. She sprang, flicking one of the leaves as she emerged from the bushes.

  The Cracker hardly had time to gasp before the sonic override device he was holding was sliced in two by the spinning leaf. He turned angrily to see Zyra poised before him, a leaf held gracefully between the index and middle finger of each outstretched hand. She knew she had struck a perfect pose. Any old sewer-rat could commit acts of violence. But wherever possible, she attempted to do so with style and flair.