Free Nightlord: Shadows by Garon Whited Page B

almost unreadable, but I detected a trace of concern.
    “Just how old are you?” he asked, almost casually.
    “Older than I ever expected to be, that’s for certain.” I thought about it for a moment. If I consumed half a million souls in Zirafel, and I kept, say, just one percent of their accumulated knowledge and experience, that would be five thousand lives. If the average age was—let’s low-ball it—about twenty years old, then that would be a hundred thousand years of experience. Let’s say that ninety percent of that is stuff common to everyone, leaving only ten percent that actually counts as unique experience. So, only about ten thousand years.
    I really don’t feel that competent. I suspect I don’t even keep one percent; it’s probably much lower. See how easy it is to make the numbers sound intimidating?
    “At a guess,” I told him, “it’s definitely no more than ten thousand years, probably somewhat less. How long ago was Zirafel cursed?”
    Hagus said nothing, but looked less than happy. That was fine with me. I wasn’t here to make him happy.
    “Your move,” he said, finally.

    As our game wore on, I learned a lot about the strategy involved, usually at the price of having a sharp lance of pain go through my head and stay there. I learned why Hagus had that unpleasant expression on his face; he wasn’t planning to have a major headache so early on. I’m glad he did; I didn’t need him to be at his sharpest.
    When going first, it was important to have something with strong general defenses; the countermove generally came out swinging. That limited the options for the winner, as well as giving the loser a chance to fine-tune his counterstrike. Worse, each conjuration could only manifest once for each participant; it was a good idea to keep a few really impressive things in reserve, because, once used, it couldn’t be called again.
    The problem faced by both Hagus and myself was the unfamiliarity of some of the moves. He had never seen a main battle tank; I had never even heard of some of his monsters. One of them looked like a mouth full of teeth with a hundred long, whippy tentacles—nothing else. Another reminded me vaguely of a scorpion, but with spear-like appendages instead of pincers, and a tail that had three barbed lashes instead of a stinger. I wondered if they were from other worlds, seen through scrying portals, or creatures created in magicians’ laboratories. Of course, Rethven is one small kingdom in a very large world…
    Also, when going first, one could alter the terrain. After a loss, I found Hagus gave his monster—something like an eight-legged panther with a sharp, scything tail—a jungle to play in. I countered with a Harrier and a load of napalm. I could have used a dragon, I suppose, but keeping the opposition worried and off-balance is important, too.
    While we played, I discovered that I could direct my summoned creations myself, or leave them to their own devices. Either course was possible, depending on the situation; the Harrier didn’t need much help to lay napalm on a jungle, for example. Hagus directed his creations himself, at first, but started letting them fend for themselves as we continued. The smarter the thing conjured, the less it required tactical help from the player.
    Moreover, as time went on, we both developed rather severe headaches. Every loss was another lancet of pain. I don’t know how Hagus felt, but I was wondering when my brain would start bleeding. The most I could hope for was to hurt him enough that he finally gave in and stood up to end the spell. For me, that would be victory: surviving.
    I lost count, but I think we were at eighteen to sixteen, my favor, when the sunset started. Even in this quasi-real dream realm, I felt it.
    “Oh, you sneaky, underhanded, backstabbing bastard,” I said. He smiled knowingly.
    “Is there a problem?” he asked, almost sweetly.
    “You know what the problem is!”
    “I should hope so. Why