Gamerunner Read Online Free PDF Page A

through them, swiftly, without pausing to wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t kindled his light in time. He runs carefully round the curve in the passage, then slows to a walk, assessing the traps ahead. Only blades; easy. He takes another few steps. The rhythm of the blades speeds up. After another step they’re whizzing impossibly fast — too quick to get past . . . He takes a step back. They slow down. He walks back to where the passage curves: the blades are almost languid. OK, Daed, you smart-arse, he thinks. It’s clever, but it’s not unbeatable. It’s just a question of getting the timing right. Look, you do it like this —
    He runs, front-flips for speed, lands and rolls forward, on to his feet, still running. He sees the next trap ahead and keeps going, flips, runs, on and on, three blades, four, his heart pounding and his head full of nothing but yes, I can do this, easy —
    Until he glances up, stumbles, staggers and stops dead, reeling and flailing for balance, his feet right on the edge of disaster. Automatically, gasping, he jumps for the bar in front of him, grabs, swings himself over the pit, drops, rolls. He says, ‘Ow, hey, ow, ow ,’ laughing, because finally the fear’s gone, completely. Daed may have made the Maze, but only I — Rick thinks — only I can run it. Ha. This is my place; this is where I’m meant to be.
    He runs up the vertical stone in front of him, grabs at the ledge at the top, scrambles up and feels — hey, Daed, the effects are good — actually feels it crumbling under his feet. He half drags himself, half vaults through the opening, twists and spots the ground as he drops. It’s just as well: he has enough time — a split second, a flash — to throw himself backwards, one hand reaching for his weapon-belt, gasping with shock and concentration. At the bottom of the wall there’s a nest: huge, nightmarish, a mesh of shadows that shudders and slides as his torch moves. If he’d landed in it, he’d be dead by now. He almost stands and stares; then his instinct takes over and he’s running away, glancing up at the map above his head. Thanks, Daed, you could have marked that on the map . . . although now he can see that it is on the map; he just hadn’t looked properly. Come on, concentrate . . . Something’s coming after him: he hears the whisper and rattle of pursuit. The back of his neck prickles and flares. The map flashes information at him: beware! wyrmlings’ nest! He mouths, ‘No, really, I want to be digested alive,’ and keeps running, ignoring the stats sliding over the ceiling. 3 wyrmlings in range, strength 1,200, speed 0.75 m/s . . . He can see fire-traps ahead; if he can get through them he should be safe, for a while. Wyrms don’t like fire. 4 wyrmlings in range. 5 wyrmlings in range. 6 —
    Yes, thanks, I get the idea, Rick thinks. He takes one last long in-breath and holds it, puts on a final spurt of speed, his lungs stinging as if they’re already full of smoke. Come on, come on . . . He runs towards the dancing lines of fire, taking a final second to absorb the pattern, then throws himself left. Something grazes his ankle and the whole world goes gold-red, flaming into his face as if he’s running into the heart of an explosion. Damn . What the —?
    He breathes out, emptying his body of air in one harsh huff. There’s no time to turn so he keeps going, finds himself on the other side, in sudden darkness, and his health bar is blinking at him pathetically like a dying animal. Your health is critical. Find a doctor as soon as you can. Your health is . . .
    He gasps, sucking at the air as if he’s been underwater. If he’d inhaled the flames, he’d be dead. He leans forward, dizzy and trembling. He says, ‘Time, please,’ and he’s only been in the Roots for three minutes. Oh, gods, gods . . . He says, ‘Sorry, Daed, I’m sorry, I can’t . . .’ and then shuts up, because there’s no answer but the echo, and the sibilance