go back to bed. And Daed will be pleased with me. That’s something, isn’t it?
He looks listlessly at the line of disabled traps stretching back the way he came. Beyond them there’s a spindle-trap, still active, that he remembers vaulting over, a lifetime ago. That’ll do.
But he can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He tries to recall the rush of triumph he felt a moment ago, but it’s faded, drying to nothing, like sweat. He’s never worked this hard, not for anything. He raises his eyes to his inventory — Athene’s inventory — and wonders what she’d do if he didn’t kill her, if she logged in tomorrow and found all this stuff in her account. Would she ever find out what he’d done? She might work it out: that armour might be custom-made . . . a map of the Roots . . . But she won’t be able to log in, tomorrow, if he kills her. She’ll have to open a new account.
He says, ‘Open map of the Roots.’ It unfolds into place, over the map that Daed gave him, and he waves it sideways so that he can compare them. Yep — a pretty good copy, less detailed, but —
What the hell is that?
Herkules’ map doesn’t show a dead end. It shows a hidden portal.
Rick turns slowly. He looks at the blank wall.
A hidden portal. Oh, gods.
He really, really hates portals. You need more guts, more nerve for a portal than for a boss fight or a brawl or — well, almost anything else. You have to run at them. Fast . If you’re wrong or not fast enough, it’s just a wall. And the tank will sculpt a wall: if you hit one at speed, it hurts just as much as it would in real life. Fifty per cent of Crater’s personal injury litigation is something to do with portals, and it’s not surprising. There are people who can do everything else, but they never get the hang of portals.
That’s why Herkules met his corpse here, Rick thinks. Because it’s the end of the quest. Just beyond that wall . . . Daed didn’t trust me. He made the map lie, just in case. He thought if I got this far . . . He thought that if I got this far, I wouldn’t be able to resist finishing the quest.
And he was probably right. After all, Daed’s always right; that’s one of the things Rick hates about him. Yes, it would have been hard to turn away from that portal, knowing Daed trusted him, steeling himself to walk into that spindle-trap. If the portal had been on the map, it would have been a temptation: possibly too big a temptation. OK, Rick thinks. I don’t blame you, Daed. I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.
And it makes it easier, in the end. So you expect me to be untrustworthy? Rick thinks. OK. Suits me. Serves you right if I am untrustworthy.
And I’ve earned this quest. I’ve got here. No one else could have done it. That portal is mine .
He licks his lips, tasting sweat and the acid tang of exhaustion. Then, slowly, he moves to the blank wall and runs his hands down it. It’s only the tank, sculpting the shape of old bricks and crumbling mortar, he knows that; but right now he could swear it’s real. He’s come to the end of the Maze. It’s the end of the known world. He thinks: I’m the first person, the only person, ever . . .
He feels the excitement rising, a sly edge of it breaking the surface like a dorsal fin. The wake of it ripples through his head, nudging him off-balance. He’s scared; but not of failing.
He takes five steps back, and an extra one — not for luck, but something else. A mark of respect, maybe, a gesture of appeasement . . . He thinks: Sorry, Daed. If you’d trusted me . . .
Then he shields his head with his arms, takes a deep breath, and runs at the wall as fast as he can.
Four steps, five, six, and —
He keeps running, stumbling, hunched against the impact, but it doesn’t come, still doesn’t come, still doesn’t —
And when he opens his eyes he’s bathed in golden light and there’s nothing, only infinite space and light, empty and beautiful.
He hears a laugh — a
He looks listlessly at the line of disabled traps stretching back the way he came. Beyond them there’s a spindle-trap, still active, that he remembers vaulting over, a lifetime ago. That’ll do.
But he can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He tries to recall the rush of triumph he felt a moment ago, but it’s faded, drying to nothing, like sweat. He’s never worked this hard, not for anything. He raises his eyes to his inventory — Athene’s inventory — and wonders what she’d do if he didn’t kill her, if she logged in tomorrow and found all this stuff in her account. Would she ever find out what he’d done? She might work it out: that armour might be custom-made . . . a map of the Roots . . . But she won’t be able to log in, tomorrow, if he kills her. She’ll have to open a new account.
He says, ‘Open map of the Roots.’ It unfolds into place, over the map that Daed gave him, and he waves it sideways so that he can compare them. Yep — a pretty good copy, less detailed, but —
What the hell is that?
Herkules’ map doesn’t show a dead end. It shows a hidden portal.
Rick turns slowly. He looks at the blank wall.
A hidden portal. Oh, gods.
He really, really hates portals. You need more guts, more nerve for a portal than for a boss fight or a brawl or — well, almost anything else. You have to run at them. Fast . If you’re wrong or not fast enough, it’s just a wall. And the tank will sculpt a wall: if you hit one at speed, it hurts just as much as it would in real life. Fifty per cent of Crater’s personal injury litigation is something to do with portals, and it’s not surprising. There are people who can do everything else, but they never get the hang of portals.
That’s why Herkules met his corpse here, Rick thinks. Because it’s the end of the quest. Just beyond that wall . . . Daed didn’t trust me. He made the map lie, just in case. He thought if I got this far . . . He thought that if I got this far, I wouldn’t be able to resist finishing the quest.
And he was probably right. After all, Daed’s always right; that’s one of the things Rick hates about him. Yes, it would have been hard to turn away from that portal, knowing Daed trusted him, steeling himself to walk into that spindle-trap. If the portal had been on the map, it would have been a temptation: possibly too big a temptation. OK, Rick thinks. I don’t blame you, Daed. I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.
And it makes it easier, in the end. So you expect me to be untrustworthy? Rick thinks. OK. Suits me. Serves you right if I am untrustworthy.
And I’ve earned this quest. I’ve got here. No one else could have done it. That portal is mine .
He licks his lips, tasting sweat and the acid tang of exhaustion. Then, slowly, he moves to the blank wall and runs his hands down it. It’s only the tank, sculpting the shape of old bricks and crumbling mortar, he knows that; but right now he could swear it’s real. He’s come to the end of the Maze. It’s the end of the known world. He thinks: I’m the first person, the only person, ever . . .
He feels the excitement rising, a sly edge of it breaking the surface like a dorsal fin. The wake of it ripples through his head, nudging him off-balance. He’s scared; but not of failing.
He takes five steps back, and an extra one — not for luck, but something else. A mark of respect, maybe, a gesture of appeasement . . . He thinks: Sorry, Daed. If you’d trusted me . . .
Then he shields his head with his arms, takes a deep breath, and runs at the wall as fast as he can.
Four steps, five, six, and —
He keeps running, stumbling, hunched against the impact, but it doesn’t come, still doesn’t come, still doesn’t —
And when he opens his eyes he’s bathed in golden light and there’s nothing, only infinite space and light, empty and beautiful.
He hears a laugh — a
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