Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) (21 page)

Suddenly the sky grew dark, and everything around us changed. Just a moment ago we were driving in the shade of the ravine wall, enjoying the fresh river breeze, but now both the river and the ravine were gone. To our left sprawled an endless steppe with tall grass that swayed gently, massaged by the wind, all the way to the ice-capped mountains on the horizon line. Some five hundred feet to the right loomed an ancient woods, vast and glum. Eternal dusk reigned beneath the crowns of its mighty trees, their trunks concealed by impenetrable fog. The setting sun above had been replaced by a massive lunar crescent, its sharp edges skewering the night sky.

"What the hell..." I couldn't help blurting out as I looked around incredulously until my eyes fell on Harn's darkened face.

"Put on your armor and helms! Get in defensive formation!" the commander's shout wrested everyone from their stupor. "Keep moving ahead. There's a large structure by the roadside. We'll stop there."

"No one's going to believe me," Rioh mumbled in astonishment. "That's the misty rift, blast it! I didn't believe it existed. Pop, isn't this the crossroads where the Ancients' treasure was buried? They say there are untold riches..."

"Did you hear Master Lirrak? Forget treasure and focus on your helm and armor instead!" Harn barked at him. "If you want to survive this, that is."

"On the double!" one of the legionnaires that had been riding behind us hopped into our wagon. "We've got a little over two miles to go," he added, tying his horse to the side. Two of his comrades were now riding on either side of the wagon, covering both flanks.

The zone's level, in the meantime, had jumped all the way to 180. God, I was such a cretin! Why didn't I rebind somewhere along the way? If I died here, in addition to the usual penalty like losing my level, I would respawn back at the graveyard outside of Lamorna. Lending me hope was the fact that the caravaners were all well above level 180.

"Where are we?" I turned to the legionnaire as he was settling in.

"Nobody knows," he was peering grimly in the direction of the woods. "The old-timers say these things happen sometimes. You ride and ride, and suddenly the environment changes. Your options are either to wait it out or keep moving forward. Those who have passed through the rift tell all kinds of stories. For some, the journey was uneventful. Others barely escaped with their lives. It's all about your luck," he shrugged. "And another thing—no rift is never the same, each is one of a kind."

"The stories about treasure are true as well," interjected the legionnaire riding on our left. "One hundred years ago, the rebel Prince Vallan acquired his Khaveng in such a rift. It's a sword, a poisonous one," he clarified in response to my quizzical gaze, then stroked his horse's withers and continued. "If not for that sword, he wouldn't have remained a prince. Nor would he have conquered his neighbors' lands."

"Jaw off the floor," Harn snarled at his son who was hanging on the legionnaires' every word.

"Nobody knows how many people perished in these rifts."

"Careful here," Lirrak rode up to us. At six and a half feet tall and clad in plate, I would have mistaken the demon for an orc if I didn't know where I was, even with the closed visor hiding the ferocity of his features and the small fangs sticking out from his lower lip. He was the only one riding a lizard—the same kind as from Altus' memories. The chainmail covering the reptile's body was the same that covered the horses of regular legionnaires, except of course for the cut.

The beast of a mount looked in my direction with unlinking eyes, drool dripping from its maw, filled with rows of yellowed four-inch teeth. It made for an impressive sight.

"We're moving toward that structure," the demon indicated the destination looming ahead. "Assuming it's safe, we'll hole up and wait for this blasted thing to pass. Rumor says it shouldn't be more than a day, and we've got enough supplies to last... Get ready for battle!" he roared suddenly, and began transforming literally before our eyes, his already massive body blowing up to almost twice the size, with the metal armor growing in parallel with its owner. His knees and elbows sprouted brown eight-inch spikes; his eyes flared bright yellow behind the slits of his visor.

I followed his eyes. Alas, there was no way to avoid the welcoming committee.

Emerging from the woods and advancing toward us with short quick leaps were around thirty humanoid creatures with wolf's faces.
Worgen,
I recalled the name from the bestiary. Their lean, wiry bodies were covered in leather armor; their yellow eyes shone menacingly in the dusk. The half-wolves were moving on all fours and in total silence. In the front was the pack leader—a huge-ass level 240 wolf with blood-red slits for eyes that glowed in the darkness. Rather an eerie sight, let me tell you.

In my time I'd read many fantasy books—why else would I develop the hobby of drawing fantastic landscapes? The fantasy authors tend to gripe that when their protagonist encounters yet another monster in their invented parallel universe, the readers, having grown up with graphic horror movies, are too desensitized to be impressed. But from where I was standing, I would readily switch places with any of those authors. Or with all of them at once—let them be brave all they want. It's one thing to lounge in a cozy armchair, staring at a screen while munching on popcorn; it's quite another to be sitting in a wooden trough while a pack of yellow-eyed freaks headed by an eight-foot-tall wolf was leading a totally silent assault against your caravan. Thankfully, the game hadn't yet introduced the concept of relieving bodily needs, because I honestly wouldn't trust myself at that moment.

My brain was telling me that our squad was fully equipped to deal with two and half dozen half-wolves. Ten legionnaires, a commander, a mage, six coachmen-turned-hunters, and myself. On second thought, I shouldn't even be counted for want of any use to this group. Still, eighteen level 200+ NPCs, and Lirrak whose level was only ten below the pack leader's. But my brain was my brain, whereas my eyes were screaming bloody murder at the sight of the cute doggie bearing down on us.

But as the saying goes, courage is not the absence of fear but the ability to overcome it. This took me several seconds. It's not that I was a particularly brave individual; rather, I really didn't give a damn. Losing twenty percent of my levels and taking a trip back to the graveyard at Lamorna wasn't the worst thing that could happen. In fact, I'd personally been through worse just in the past several days. Of course, it would suck to lose time and my gear. It was unlikely that I'd find this place again, so retrieving it could be a problem.

Anyway, like another wise man once said, when your back is against the wall, strike while it's hot! Wait... no, that wasn't right. Do what you can, and let the cards fall where they may. Yep, that was it. And in my case, the best thing I could do was not get in the way—back in Lamorna the karriga had clearly demonstrated my lacking defensive capabilities, and I didn't want a repeat of the same. What I
could
do was assist on the target that was already being attacked. There was no way I could steal aggro from level 200+ NPCs.

The combat mechanics of RPG games, which featured groups and raids completing dungeons and various quests, hardly changed in the past thirty-forty years.

Every raid comprised three roles:

Tanks—players whose role it was to keep the attention of bosses or mobs, drawing more aggro than the other players and thus protecting the rest of the group or raid from sustaining damage.

Healers—characters who restored and maintained the health of the group or raid during combat.

And finally,
dps (damage per second)—characters whose main function was to deal damage to enemy players, NPCs(mobs) and bosses.

Any NPC, whether a boss or a regular mob, attacked whichever player was at the top of their aggro list, i.e. the one they found most annoying. Tanks were well equipped to draw the mob's hatred with special attacks, though other actions, like dealing damage or healing allies, drew aggro as well. Every NPC or boss was programmed with a particular pattern of behavior in battle, usually broken down by phases, and guided by several AIs that operated within their own sets of rules. Lamorna's karriga, for instance, had basically just wanted to split, and had attacked me automatically as the weakest link, completely ignoring the mage that was unleashing a lightning bolt at its side. There were also more cunning NPCs. But at the end of the day, any battle essentially came down to the tank being able to keep the boss' attention with special tricks while the dps wreaked havoc and the healers kept the raid alive.

If for whatever reason the tank lost aggro, allowing the boss to break loose and start beating on the squishy healers and dps, in most cases the result was a wipe,
that is the entire raid dying.

As the players respawned at a nearby graveyard, the arguing and finger-pointing commenced: the tank cursing the dps that had stolen aggro from him, the dps blaming the hapless tank, and the healers slamming both the tank and the dps for good measure. Eventually everyone would rebuff and start the process all over again.

With my laughably low level, however, it was virtually impossible to steal aggro from the legionnaires or the coachmen, as their damage output was incomparable to mine.

"Everybody, dismount and get in the middle! I've got the leader, so heals on me, Ylsan!" Spurring his lizard, Lirrak slipped past our yaks as they drew right next to the wagon in front, obeying Harn's shouts and whip. The demon hopped off, ripped the shield off his back and bared his sword. The remaining nine legionnaires were pulling up on all sides, assuming combat form on the go.

Bow-strings snapped, unleashing feathery death at the attackers. Two worgen dropped to the ground, and then the entire pack howled. It was a revolting, plangent howl that seemed to penetrate every cell of my brain; I also noticed the grimace on Rioh's face as he kept firing arrows at the worgen. Harn swore loudly, followed by the clanging of iron and the swooshing of steel slicing through the air as the legionnaires, having assumed a kind of wedge formation and put forward their shields, bore the brunt of the pack's attack. The roars, battle cries and squeals of wounded beasts all blended into a terrible medley. The coachmen—still in their regular form—had managed to release no more than four-five arrows at the half-wolves before the attackers had closed in, and were now firing at them at point-blank range.

Four worgen broke through the ranks and to our wagon. One collapsed on the ground with a sob and two arrows in his nape; the remaining three tried to hop onto the wagon; and one of the three succeeded. Unsheathing their swords, Harn and Rioh engaged the beast before it even landed. Alas, hunters were terrible at close range, and the worgen's health bar was about two thirds full. With a howl, the monster landed a mighty blow that threw Harn off the wagon and into the paws of its kin. And at that point, I joined the battle at last.

My Tongue of Flame struck the worgen with fiery and icy flourishes, knocking a little over fifteen hundred HP out of his fifty thousand. Not bad! I wrinkled my nose at the stench coming from him, while continuing to land blows that ripped his leather armor to shreds. I heard Harn shouting down below, fighting two enemies at once, his health bar already dipping into yellow. Rioh wasn't faring much better. Finally, I lucked out when my icy blade procced a freeze, turning the worgen into an ice statue, from his ears to the tip of his tail, for five whole seconds.

Hopping off the wagon, Rioh rushed to his father's aid. Pulling out his bow quick as lightning, he fired point-blank at the Harn's opponents, while I finally managed to finish off the would-be snowman. The killing blow broke the armor, tore through the brown fur and split open the ribcage. And yes, it was as graphic and unpleasant a sight as it sounds.

I drew away from the puddle of blood spreading along the wagon's bottom and looked around. In front of the caravan, the red-eyed pack leader was frantically attacking Lirrak, who was blocking the attacks with his shield while goading the beast. Several legionnaires and the commander's reptilian mount were attacking him from the sides. Still standing in his own wagon, Ylsan threw up his hands periodically, a greenish glow emanating from them, while the rest were finishing off the few surviving worgen. A horse was convulsing in agony before our wagon, its throat ripped open. A little to the side, Rioh was working over his father sitting on the ground, bandaging his wounds.

My blood pumped with adrenaline, demanding the "show to go on." I teleported to the pack leader and began helping the legionnaires hack away at the howling beast. Eight million HP—goddamn! And that was just the remaining third of his health bar! My feet nearly slipped on some glaucous scraps; the scents of dog's flesh and blood were overwhelming. A few times when I didn't jump back in time the wolf knocked me to the ground with his torso, and once I was nearly trampled by Lirrak's own lizard.

I was out of control. Having lost my grip on reality, I kept hacking away, getting up and hacking some more. When my energy inevitably ran out, I gulped down a green potion and resumed my rotation: Tongue of Flame, Ice Blade...  

When the monster's health bar reached ten percent, he threw up his head and howled. It was the kind of howl that made all his previous wailing seem like nursery rhymes as compared to death metal.

"Everybody, get back!" I heard the caravan's commander's shout from afar. "Archers, finish him off."