The Lag (The Game Master: Book #1) (26 page)

The crowd hummed. A freckled ginger-haired Elf pushed his way through the crowd and stood by the table. His unnaturally long arms and narrow hands seemed to have a life of their own: they kept twitching, tugging at his sleeves and fingering his scabbard, his fingers locking and unlocking, then diving into his pockets. His ears too were unusually long and pointy, ending in fine fluffy tufts.

"I have," he mumbled.

"Oh, Crayfish," Wayfarer said. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hi."

"Right. Now," Wayfarer turned to the others, "this is a private conversation."

The crowd hummed their indignation. "Why?" Ilvas demanded.

"Probably because there might be other Alpha agents among you. He's still struggling to control human players but... Sorry, but we — I mean us at the table — have to speak in private. The only people who can stay here are the leader of the Hunters, the mercs' chief, Crayfish and these two who were with me. We need ten to fifteen minutes to discuss everything so that we can march out within an hour tops."

"Rawlin should stay too," Leandra said.

"And what if Alpha's people are there at the table?" a voice called out of the crowd. "What if you're a traitor yourself?"

Wayfarer shrugged. "Then you'd better accept the fact you'll all be cogs in an AI's mind."

"My Highlander brothers!" Garreth the Goldfinch leapt onto the table. The protests subsided. "Brothers! This isn't an order — I'm
asking
you to leave the room. Ilvas?"

Reluctantly Ilvas rose. "Fellow Anarchists! You know I'll rip out any bastard's throat for you. Have no doubt I'll be acting in the clan's interests. So please vacate the room now. Please."

It took a few minutes for everyone to leave. When finally only a dozen players remained on the donjon's lower floor, Wayfarer turned back to Crayfish. "Have you seen a crypt near the Citadel?"

Crayfish ruffled his fiery mop and wrinkled his forehead. "I think so," he finally said.

"Bard told me it was near the West Gate. Is that so?"

Crayfish ran a restless hand through his hair, then shoved it into his pocket. His left ear twitched, flicking its tuft. "Probably. It's a nasty place."

"Why so?"

"There's some sort of tiny graveyard there. Only one grave. I mean, one crypt. It's a fence... and the earth beyond it is steaming with magic."

"Dangerous?"

"I wasn't the one to check. It must be. The crypt is absolutely swarming with magic. It'll burn you alive."

"Are you sure you can find the place? Think you can take us there?"

"Well," Crayfish frowned, staring at the ceiling as if searching for the answer written there. His ear twitched again. "Yeah, sure. I remember where it is. There's a road leading to the gate with a forest to the right. The river and River Castle are further on. To the left there's fallow ground. The crypt is just past it."

"Will you show it to us?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Why do we need to get to the Wizards?" Ilvas asked.

"Because the broadband in their room is our only means of communication," Wayfarer gestured around the room, "with the real world. Alpha has installed a firewall. A Guard, as he calls it. If we manage to hack and deactivate it from inside, our real-life helper can then upload a virus that will kill Alpha. Then finally everybody will be able to quit the game."

Silence hung in the air. Leandra adjusted her tiara. "Very well, but what's the crypt got to do with it?"

"I remember," Attila said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. "We found this underground room in the Dwarves' tunnels... it was some kind of training ground. There was a model of part of the Citadel there, including the crypt. I think the Engineers under the Mountain knew about it. They were training to attack the Citadel. It was probably an event that had never transpired."

"That's where Bard found the key to the Crypt," Wayfarer said. "The crypt is the grave of a servant girl that used to work in the Citadel before the times of Peril. Her name was Fair Baby Magdalene. She was Ashileth's lover."

"Ashileth?" Leandra raised an inquiring eyebrow. "The High Elf and one of the Seven Wizards? But I thought he was married to Nea, another Conclave member? Ashileth and Nea, the two great wizards of the Elven race. Does that mean he cheated on her?"

"Exactly. When the cunning Drow Eschalot told her about her husband's infidelity, she poisoned the girl. Legend says it was some dreadful Elven poison that made Fair Magdalene's skin peel off. Revenge wasn't enough for Nea: she wanted her husband to see the true essence of the girl he loved."

"Jesus," Beast said. "These Conclave wizards were some pieces of work. Why did they call her a 'baby'? And how did it all end, then?"

"Ashileth ordered to have a crypt built by the Citadel walls and buried the girl there with full royal honors. He intended to humiliate his wife by showing her that he valued a lowborn servant just as much as he did her."

"I know," Attila said. All eyes turned to him. "There must be a secret tunnel connecting the crypt to the Citadel. Am I right? This Ashileth, did he ever visit his lover's grave?"

"Yeah, like, to shed a lonely tear!" Beast's face brightened. "So it looks like the Dwarven Engineers knew about it?"

"Fair Baby Magdalene was in fact a Dwarf from the clan of the Engineers Under the Mountain," Wayfarer explained.

"An Elf falling for a Dwarf!" Leandra cringed.

"In any case, Dwarves knew about both the crypt and the tunnel. They even had a key to it. This was the key that Bard found recently in the Steam Tunnels while completing the long quest chain that ended with penetrating the Citadel. This is why he came here when Alpha began his attack. Now we can use the same route. This is my plan: both the Highlanders and the Anarchists are experienced warriors. Your job will be to meet Alpha's army by the Citadel's walls. You will ambush them in the woods by the West Gate road, then attack them."

Ilvas cast a doubtful glance at the Highlanders' leader and shook his head.

"This isn't the right time for clan feuds!" Wayfarer snapped. "Your job is to distract Alpha's main forces and lure them away from the Citadel."

He turned to the two alchemists and was about to speak when Ilvas interrupted him, "These so-called 'main forces', where are they now?"

"They're gathering by the Citadel's gates, about to head here. That's why I was so late. I've been gathering all the intel I could. Now, the esteemed alchemists and Sir Moneybag, you will provide enough artifacts, elixirs and weapons for everyone. Moneybag, I'm talking to you! Your job is to help them. Free of charge."

The dwarf scratched the bridge of his nose. "Is it that serious?"

"Very. We must work as a team. The only alternatives are death or slavery. Your body won't belong to you anymore but to some sick inhuman AI. Is this what you want? Now you, Blacksmith. I want you and your men to plant mines on part of the road and the woods around it. When Alpha's army begins to overpower the clan, you must blow up-"

"... the entire location," Little Blacksmith chuckled, finishing his sentence.

"No. The area in front of the Citadel. Think you can do it?"

Blacksmith nodded, suppressing a smile. "We'll plant some magic mines. I just might scrape together enough ingredients, provided Moneybag steps in."

"The hunters and the mercs will cover Blacksmith's group's retreat," Wayfarer added.

"And we can penetrate the Citadel!" Beast shouted, attracting the table's attention to Attila and himself. "We've seen what the vault looks like, haven't we? And we know how to fire a mythogun!"

"A mythogun?" Leandra repeated. Little Blacksmith turned to Beast, curious.

"He means mithrinol-powered weapons," Wayfarer explained. "The car I left outside is also equipped with a mithrinol gun. You also have an exosuit with another one of those, and a rifle. They will be a great help in battle."

Attila kept staring at this strange man in a leather cloak. Things seemed to have taken a serious turn. Who was he, really? Even the biggest clan leaders seemed to be obeying his orders. Even that old fox Moneybag.

Attila stepped aside and leaned against a column. He wasn't so weak any more but he was wary of a new bout of nausea. He was also thirsty as hell but the water from his flask didn't do anything for him anymore.

"And you, what are
you
going to do? Garreth asked.

"I'm going with them into the Citadel," Wayfarer nodded at Beast and Attila. "We're already a team, if you know what I mean."

"But how are we going to know if you've succeeded?" Ilvas demanded. "What if all three of you die in the Citadel?"

Wayfarer shrugged. "If you can quit the game in the end, it will mean we've succeeded. If you can't... then Alpha has won."

T
he police station corridor was crowded with people. Some sat on chairs that lined the walls while others paced the narrow space. A gaunt man was rocking from side to side, pressing his hand to his bandaged forehead; next to him, an indignant old man kept scurrying to and fro. A plain-clothes cop was escorting a burly skinhead, his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Excuse me," Yanna rose and addressed the duty officers through the glass. "You need to understand. They've made a mistake, honest. I'm only a-"

"I'm busy," Captain Bukhraeva cut her short, lifting the phone receiver.

A young police sergeant trotted to the booth to ask for something. His back shielded Yanna from the officers' view. She could hear the duty sergeant yell at the young cop, shouting, "Go see the agents upstairs in Room 13. They're the ones with all the papers."

Yanna cast a cautious glance at the guard standing next to her. She fidgeted in her chair, clenching the collar of her lab coat, and tensed up, ready to leap to her feet. If she bolted for the exit now, she could probably make it past the turnstile. But she couldn't go anywhere without the laptop. Pointless.

"Sit still," a voice came from the turnstile.

The guard cast Yanna a stern glance. None of these people really cared about what could have happened in a
game
. In a moment, the virtual police would come and fetch her, and then... then what? What if they locked her up until next morning?

A squad of riot police barged into the station, cussing and stomping their heavy boots. They were hung with weapons and clad in helmets and bulletproof vests. The squad was escorting a few leather-clad young men trussed up like chickens.

"Wait!" the duty sergeant yelled from his booth. "Where d'you think you're going?"

A tall hulk of a man with a weathered face — apparently, the leader — spoke, "These ones are from the Red Square rally. We were told to bring them here. They're yours."

"Where d'you want me to put them? All the cells are stuffed!"

"You think I care? Lock them up in the guards' room!"

"You don't want much, do you?"

"I have my orders."

"I don't give a damn about your orders! Look what we have here!"

The riot police leader took in the seated people, Yanna, the bandaged man and the old man who froze in his stride. "You've got seven empty seats here. We have nine detainees. Two can sit on the floor. Call your agents and let's get this show on the road."

He waved to his men. They escorted the detained young men into the corridor and began seating them. Yanna rose and stepped aside. The guards immediately shoved some leather-clad guy with a black eye into her vacated seat and began cuffing him to the nearby radiator.

All of a sudden the corridor was packed. Two of the riot cops in camo overalls stayed by the turnstile, clutching their submachine guns. Seeing their fit bodies, the police guard too thrust out his chest. The riot cop leader kept up a heated exchange with the duty officer behind the glass. Captain Bukhraeva was busy making yet another phone call. The other riot cops had already cuffed the detainees and now stood blocking the corridor, talking.

It was now or never. Yanna squeezed herself past the riot cops. She turned the corner and headed toward the open door into the booth. Sensing a stare, she turned round.

The old man still stood stock still in the middle of the corridor, glaring at her. Her heart missed a beat. He was about to raise the alarm.

Something heavy thumped on the floor. Forgotten by everyone, the bandaged man had collapsed on the tiles like a sack of coal. Two cops began lifting him, trying to reseat him in his chair. A riot cop stepped aside, unwittingly pushing the old man and squashing his foot under his heavy boot. The old man screamed.

Yanna caught her breath and inched toward the booth. The duty officer was busy talking to the riot cops' leader who stood half-turned toward him, both watching the corridor. Bukhraeva rose in her seat, clutching the phone.

Bathed in cold sweat, Yanna stepped inside and reached for the laptop still sitting on the cabinet behind Bukhraeva's back. She grabbed it, slid it under her lab coat and stepped back.

Now the difficult bit. She had to get out of there somehow.

The old man was still shrieking his indignation at the riot cop who pretended he didn't hear him. The wounded man kept rocking and mumbling in his chair.

The duty sergeant shouted to the officer guarding the turnstile, "What's he doing, still sitting here? They should have questioned him an hour ago! Get him upstairs, quick!"

Yanna shrank back into the wall, letting the guard pass. Paying no attention to her, he took the wounded man by his elbow, dragged him to his feet and led him toward the stairs.

Yanna smoothed out her lab coat and headed past the booth toward the turnstile. In a practiced motion, the two riot cops blocked her way.

Yanna stopped, not knowing what to do. "Why are you..." she began, feeling lost.

"Leave it, man," one of them boomed, shouldering his partner aside. "Let the girl go."

He stepped out of her way. His partner didn't budge, though. "Can I have your number?" he grinned. " When we finish duty in twenty-four hours, I'll give you a ring."

"Let her go, man," the former repeated, grinning. "Can't you see she's a doctor? She's in a hurry to save someone's life."

She gave them a smile. With awkward gallantry, the second cop flung the door open for her.

One more step, and she was out of there with her back to the station. Yanna squinted at a street sign on the house next door.
Richelieu St. 13
. Attila's block of flats was number 6. It had to be here somewhere. All she had to do was cross the street and walk a couple of blocks.

Attila lowered the mythogun and propped himself up on his elbows, peeking out above the tall grass. Beast grunted next to him, trying to get comfortable. A huge club was slung on his back: Beast had received it in River Castle to replace the mace he'd lost. A short sword hung from Attila's belt.

They were on the fallow ground hiding in the thick grass, a long way away from River Castle. Once this place had witnessed a dire skirmish between gnolls and goblins. Until this very day, it was littered with rusty steel and bones. The black outline of the Citadel loomed up ahead. The giant eye on top of the round tower rotated slowly.

To the right of the Citadel, the road turned forming a large gray and yellow curve. It circled the forest which was chock full of aberrations before heading toward the river and River Castle. Leandra had promised to suppress the aberrations for a while. The top level Elves had this special skill available in their Suppression branch.

Lurking behind some trees to their left stood the crypt of Fair Baby Magdalene. Along the road, Alpha's army was marching away from the Citadel.

The God's Eye hovered overhead, sending images to Attila's Book. Attila had been forced to give up the goggles as looking through them made his head swim. But he didn’t need to watch the Book's screen now. He could see their enemies perfectly well with the naked eye. Gnolls were running, interspersed with ghouls' shimmering outlines. Goblins in loincloths raced astride wild boars, armed with gnarly clubs and crooked spears. Several ogres towered over the crowd. The ground shuddered under their steps.

"So much for the army of the Dark," Attila muttered. "There aren't that many of them, after all."

Before they'd left, they'd been issued a few impressive buffs but they hadn't made him feel any better. Virtual illusions didn't help anymore, failing to deceive his exhausted, dehydrated body choking on its own toxins. No amount of wizardry could save him: Attila switched between bouts of sickness and consciousness, but the latter grew shorter with every hour.

"What did you say? Oh yeah!" Beast by his side nodded energetically. "No, there're loads more in fact. Apparently, Alpha had failed to gather all the Canyon mobs. Which is good news because we aren't that numerous, either."

With the exception of the gnolls who tried to march in some sort of formation, other mobs barged along in no order whatsoever — disorganized cannon fodder rather than a regular army. They didn't seem sentient at all. It was as if they were following a very basic command, something like "go from A to B and kill everyone there". Did that mean that Alpha had more important things to do? To the point that he hadn't even bothered to provide his army with adequate support?

Attila glanced at the Book and began turning the knobs, adjusting the picture. The Skype icon glowed in the corner of the screen. No new messages. Yanna, what could have happened to her?

He suppressed the desire to use the Eye to survey the battlefield. It would only lead to a new bout of nausea. Instead, he craned his neck to take another look.

A heavy
Boom!
came from the direction of River Castle. This had to be Little Blacksmith's men engaging. He'd said he'd be able to boost the mithrinol cannon — and it looked as if he'd done so already. All Attila could see from his place was the very top of the donjon.

With a flash and a crackle, a big fat bolt of lightning slammed into the road. Things got rolling!

"The heat is on," Beast mumbled a confirmation.

The purple-tinted blast sent the wild boars flying through the air. The ogre nearest to the impact listed, then crashed to the ground like a felled oak tree. The mobs screamed and howled, breaking their miserable excuse for a formation. Still, they kept going.

Another bolt of lightning. Another flash. Thick clouds of brown dust enveloped the road.

"Take that, you bastards!" Beast whispered, clenching a large glass jar glittering with gold. It had been entrusted to him by Zoran the Stargazer himself: the fact that made Beast puff out his chest with pride. According to Zoran — the best alchemist in the whole of the Canyon — the jar contained Rattling Death: the deadliest substance that had ever been conceived by the marriage of science and magic. According to Flammel the Hermit, this was "an alchemic analog of a mixture of nitroglycerine with plastic explosive and some
trinitrotoluene".

"You'd better be careful with that," Attila said anxiously. "Didn't they give you a bag to keep it in? You'd better put it back in it for now."

Two bolts of lightning struck simultaneously: one from River Castle's donjon, the other from the woods across the road. Had they put someone there clad in the exosuit? Attila couldn't see anything. Then again, Elves were recognized experts of disguise. This was one of their racial bonuses. They must have camouflaged the suit with tree branches and cast some magic over it to boot.

The double purple flash hit the crowd of mobs. In a colorful display of animation, blood and flesh splattered everywhere, showering the nearest monsters with red. Some of them ducked into the woods, scattering amid the trees. The mauled bodies of ghouls became visible, filling with color. An enormous boar staggered and dropped to the ground, burying a goblin under its bulk. Another rocketed along the road like an uncontrollable fireball, howling. Gnolls and ogres kept marching, stomping the dead bodies into the ground.

"Strange we can't see any harpies," Beast said. "I wonder why? Did Alpha send them all somewhere else?"

Once the dust had settled down a bit, they saw that not all the mobs were heading for the forest. Some of them had turned off toward the wasteland, gradually moving further away from the road.

"Time to leg it," cautiously Beast began crawling toward nearby trees. "You hear me? They're gonna see us."

Wayfarer's staff blinked red amid the rustling branches. Accompanied by Crayfish, he stole from behind the trees toward them.

They had arrived here all together. Attila and Beast had been left to keep an eye on the terrain while the other two had gone to take a look at the crypt. Now Crayfish, this famed Elven hunter, wasn't ginger anymore but gray with dirt. His clothes were glossy green with mud spots, his face streaked with oily marsh water that looked like war paint. Wayfarer next to him looked almost clean.

"Let's go-" he glanced at the road and quickly stepped back to the safety of the trees, pulling Crayfish after him.

The Elf dropped to his knees, gasping and choking. He was shuddering, his head rolling from side to side. Only now did Attila notice a weak sickly-colored glow around his body. This must have been one hell of a debuff! Crayfish was losing hit points rapidly, his life dwindling with every passing second.

Wayfarer swung round and stepped into the thick undergrowth. Now he stood with his back to the wasteland and the road, the Citadel rising to his right. The sinister eye on its peak hovered overhead, as if about to crash down on them, even though it was simply a powerful magical illusion.

Attila and Beast exchanged glances. Crayfish needed their help. Leaving him here, next to the road raided by the enemy, was inhuman.

"Quick," Wayfarer called.

"But-" Beast began.

"Crayfish is staying here. He's showed me what I needed to know. His job is done."