The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (13 page)

Now it was time to cover our ears! A hundred and fifty players with magic skills had activated them all at once in order to deal maximum damage within the shortest time. The power of their mind hurled magic, twisting it into spells, making it roar in a thousand voices. No one played truant: even the buffers and healers shook the dust off their respective spellbooks, searching their last pages for the rare and relatively weak combat spells. Archers shooting their arrows; tanks, rogues and hand-to-hand players hurling precious vialfuls of whatever they'd stashed away in their bags, showering the enemy with liquid fire, poisons and freezing potions.

A wall of unnatural brown, black and green flames arose over the castle walls, consuming the square packed with the enemy. It forced us to shrink back, disrupting our concentration and stopping us from pouring crude oil on the flames. The earth groaned, the marble tiles exploding like shrapnel, the lumpy stonework melting and dripping like hot wax.

That was it. The mages were out of steam. The vials had all been used, and zero visibility prevented us from selecting any targets so we couldn't use our distance weapons. The fighters backed off, their hair crackling with the scorching heat, their sword handles burning their hands even through gauntlets as their bodies slowly cooked inside their coats of armor. Finally the multi-elemental plasma flames consumed all the oxygen and subsided. Our magical reserves were exhausted.

Congratulations! You've received achievement: Hannibal I!

The raid under your leadership has exterminated a thousand enemy personnel.

Reward: +200 to Fame!

Raid leader bonus: Commander's Aura. +5% to all physical and magic damage dealt by your soldiers.

Screenshot.

I gulped. Hundreds of graves covered the court's vitrified floor. For a brief moment I had the impression that we'd just won by focusing the raid's entire force on a spot the size of a basketball pitch. Then tombstones stirred as figures began scrambling to their feet, black with smoke and fire, readying their weapons and serrying their ranks. There they were, the Shui Fong clan's combat elite. I pointed the cursor at each of them, feeling my jaws twitch in anticipation of a good scuffle.

Not so many of them had actually suffered any real damage in the bowels of the virtual furnace. Almost every class had a few useful abilities, like temporary immunity, hit recovery, or damage transfer to your pet and other life-saving tricks. Judging by the warriors' levels and the extent of their character development, they surely owed their lives to some such trump cards they'd been forced to part with in order to survive.

They were not too numerous—about thirty in total. But I'd be damned if I'd ever seen such a bunch of top chars in one place. We all worshipped Fuckyall with his level 250 but if anyone ever dared to rate our enemies by their level, our famed Paladin would have had to take a more than modest position closer to the bottom of the list.

It was going to be a good battle. I glimpsed a movement out of the corner of my eye—the reporter was busy scaling the tower, apparently in a hurry to take a place in the Royal box. Never thought I'd be so happy to see the old SOB alive.

Widowmaker strained his voice, "Steady guys!"

The clanging of steel swept along the ranks as the raiders took a better grip of their weapons and adjusted their armor. The wizards at the back were all choking on cinnamon; I think someone
was
puking, after all.

Widowmaker bared his sword but I beat him to it, raising a clenched fist to the sky. "For the right cause! For the Fallen One!"

Widowmaker joined in, his gaze dreamy, "For the beautiful Macaria!"

The raiders perked up, their good mood upped a couple degrees. Cheering came from everywhere, "For the Sullen squad! For Sebastopol!"

The mercs stepped forward, faster and faster, accelerating into a run, until Snowie's hollering drowned out the clangor of hundreds of feet, "For Bomba!"

"BARRRAAH!"

Chapter Eight

F
rom the NSA analytics department report delivered at a private meeting at the White House. List of attendees: not released.

Agenda: America's new political stance and our response to the Chinese threat.

At present, the center of US foreign interests moves unwaveringly toward the virtual worlds. And as we witness the thousands of tons of gold delivered from AlterWorld, we can safely say, "Game over!" We are facing fully functional portals to other worlds whose value cannot be overestimated. The exploration of Mars pales into insignificance next to the possibilities offered to us by the virtual world Eve 4.

In AlterWorld alone we already have over sixty thousand employees working in seven classified installations and field labs. Mithril deliveries on their own offer us a plethora of mind-boggling opportunities, not to even mention gold itself.

By our most conservative estimates, the deliveries of virtual precious metals will soon be enough to bridge the budget deficit. That's apart from the damage our potential opponents might suffer from the consequences of injecting Gold 19 into their respective economies. The current scheme allows us, figuratively speaking, to plant the virtual metal into their right pocket gram by gram while at the same time extracting real gold from their left pocket in order to stash it in our long-empty vaults.

Oh, yes: Fort Knox is gradually filling up again, slowly reaching the same figures as a hundred years ago. Like the Spanish conquistadors, we're sailing shipfuls of gold back to the Old World. Once again, the United States has become a colonial empire!

In addition, we urgently increase our presence in a number of other virtual worlds. Both scientists and industrialists are highly interested in acquiring the entire Eve 4 range of minerals. We are desperate to lay our hands on the Padishah's Youth Elixir and the Arcane's nanobot colony to name but a few.

Having said that, all these potential riches call for good security and careful supervision. Recently, we've taken certain steps with the aim of improving our control of the situation. Under the pretext of protecting the American digital population, we've already succeeded in relocating the servers of the four biggest virtual worlds from their previous locations in Asia and Western Europe to Silicon Valley. Our next step would be to nationalize them. We have already secured the necessary changes in our legal system.

* * *

The wall of mercs was rolling onto the ferocious ranks of the Shui Fong elite warriors. The battle wouldn't last long—apparently, the mercs realized it too, activating whatever skills they still had. A burly Orc shaman bellowed, shapeshifting as he advanced, transforming into a totem grizzly bear complete with its primeval rage. A Druid dropped on all fours, arcing his back as he metamorphosed into an enormous wolf. Baring his fangs, he zigzagged toward the enemy lines.

The miscellany of pets—all slightly worse for wear—had outrun their masters becoming the first victims, their blood spilling on Chinese swords. Still, they'd bought us a few extra seconds by taking the first volley of the enemy's distance weapons.

Wham!
Steel met steel in the clanking of hundreds of swords. Crimson mist hung over the front lines, preventing anyone from seeing much at all. The loss counter span like crazy. Immediately our numerical advantage began to show as our flanks curved, sweeping through the enemy lines, increasing the contact area and threatening to surround the slave traders, attacking them from all four directions. But still we just weren't quite strong enough to close the circle, the rear guard's pressure dwindling as the slain first-line fighters needed constant replacement.

Blood, hate and lots of f-words! We'd basically lost control of all the tanks as none of them bothered to monitor the chat—in the heat of the battle they wouldn't react to anything other than a bugle. The wizards seemed to have had their act together slightly better: in their haste, they choked on mana elixirs but still failed to promptly heal the fighters' constantly depleting life bars.

I chose five of the more capable healers and channeled them 1% of the Altar's mana flow each. Bug-eyed with surprise, they knew better than to ask questions and just kept reading the spells, cursing the slow casting times.

The gangsters' numbers kept dwindling, but not fast enough. Way not fast enough. Their high-level warriors cost us dearly, each going for seven or even eight of my raiders. By now I wasn't really sure who was mopping up whom. I had a funny feeling that we in our eternal wisdom (and haste) might have underestimated our adversary.

Standing at the back, I kept adding my two cents spoiling the enemy's choreographed routine by selecting their fighters one by one and excommunicating them. So much for Macaria, guys!

The gangsters' ranks thinned out—but our lines, too, had lost their original density, the flanking circle losing its amplitude as it shrank into a thin curved line.

Our rogues rushed about, undecided, their numbers shrinking. They had no business in a frontal attack, and all their attempts to penetrate the enemy's rear were thwarted by a team of five Chinese stealthers who eliminated groups of any size with practiced ease.

I decided to join in the fun. Having selected a few targets, I beckoned Bagheera,

"Attack!"

The panther wasn't known for his imagination. Like a black bowling ball he shot through the lines of fighters busy shredding each other, his powerful paws sending everyone flying out of his way. Leaving a wide empty strip in his wake, he reached—or should I say descended on—the selected targets and set about decreasing the assassins' population.

With this the battle lost its last vestiges of order, breaking into separate scuffles and individual skirmishes. I glimpsed Snowie's battered shape. The tidal wave of battle had washed him ashore against two opponents: a scarred gray-mustachioed ogre and a small goblin whose numerous blows bothered Snowie much more than the ogre's mithril-studded club. At the time, I'd hogged well over eight hundred characteristics in order to generate Snowie's unique build, trying to create a character as strong as he was smart and agile, capable of carrying unexploded ordnance.

Those eight hundred points had given Snowie his level 200 but even that wasn't quite enough now. His armor and his celestial club allowed him to hold his ground well but he'd already taken more than his fair share and was now facing some very stubborn enemies. Besides, I hadn't really planned on him doing any heavy fighting so he had virtually no clubbing weapon skills: it would take him some time to learn how to hit anything with his tank barrel instead of just swinging it in the air, missing or just glancing over targets much to his disgust.

Bomba made a heroic attempt to fight her way through to her albino boyfriend but her group got bogged down by the first opponent they met, unable to outflank a fierce and remarkably agile orc armed with two scimitars.

I had to help them. Bagheera was still busy zigzagging behind the main battle line as he took out one stealther after another.

I mentally slapped my pockets, sifting through the skills in search of something suitable, and ended up sending part of my mana flow to a very desperate Zena who'd just grabbed her mace, about to enter the fight. She faltered, then emitted a shriek of delight and slung the mace behind her back, in a hurry to heal her teammates.

And now I'd found something for Snowie! I highlighted him, activating the Help of the Fallen One. The poor bastard was cornered, his ribs broken, his left arm withered by his opponent's lucky crit. He stood up, spreading his shoulders; his bones snapped into place, his muscles filling with strength. His enemies shrank as he yelled something victorious, then glanced up into the skies, mouthing a quick thank-you to the Fallen One.

"Looks like we've won," Widowmaker began in a confident whisper but faltered and knocked a superstitious knuckle on a nearby analyst's forehead.

The latter opened one eye and looked around in surprise but reported just in case,

"Top enemy fighters, 19. Our raiders at 110. Margin of error, 5%. About 30% personnel to return to the ranks within the next 7 minutes."

We'd had quite a few factors working for us.

First, the breaching of the enemy ranks reduced their fighters to individual skirmishes. Now instead of just one opponent, the enemy faced five coming from different directions.

Secondly, it was the enemy's poor support by healers and auxiliary classes who, as far as I could see, were considered second best. Apparently, their elite only viewed themselves as warriors robbing slaves of their XP. Which was why the precious few low-level clerics they possessed had already expired, burned to a crisp in the magic fire, leaving the greedy warriors to face the enemy alone.

One other thing. Free XP doesn't turn a player into a professional elite fighter. They won't have the reflexes needed, miserably lacking all the benefit of daily practice and standard techniques. When it takes you a week of hard work to do each level, flirting with death dozens of times and learning to use your skill in thousands of different situations—that's how you make a top warrior. Sure you can slap a colonel's epaulettes on a rookie lieutenant's shoulders, but would it make him a half-decent Chief of Staff? Somehow I have my doubts.

Another example. Who would I bet on in a battle, a brand-new Abrams M1A4 tank with an equally brand-new crew fresh out of school or an old T72 driven by a team of tried and tested tankers? And what would you say to five of them? You see my point, don't you?

Plus Bagheera, a hefty weight on Lady Luck's scales, who was now dashing around in the heat of the battle like the black death he was, growling warningly at my mercs as he stole their prey away from them.

When the number of our opponents had dropped to a dozen, I pulled the reluctant panther aside. "Take 'em alive!" I strained my voice over the racket.

The mercs heard me and so did the gangsters. They became all jittery and suicidal, falling on our swords and baring their chests to our blows.

Widowmaker pointed at the arena, the portal pad and the graveyard in the castle's far-off corner. Holy Jesus. There they were, all three installations together, as large as life and twice as ugly.

The gangsters had done, in their own way, the right thing by combining the three areas into one in order to facilitate the process of the slaves' constant dying and respawning. And now the bloodbath caused by my mercs had resulted in a raging sea of about five or six hundred restless players unable to get to their stuff or leave the castle. The slaves shouted all at once, huddling together, hope and fear in their eyes as they cast glances in the direction of their captors. I'd bet this wasn't the first time they had had to change their masters.

Still, not everyone in the half-naked crowd was a slave. I made out a few fights seething among the sea of heads as some used the opportunity to settle a few personal scores with slave drivers and their snitches as well as resolve personal grudges. A group of a few dozen sat perfectly still, meditating, as they hurried to build up a bit of mana in order to teleport away from the killing field.

I saw one of the captured wizards grin as he jumped back to his feet, waving to the others. His actions caused a minor stampede akin to a Christmas sale at Tiffany's. After a pause, the wizard activated the portal, disappearing with four of his clan mates. Dammit! If it went like this, we could lose our choicest prisoners. At least the naked captives couldn't get to the ingredients necessary to create a stationary portal which forced them to use standard personal and group ones.

I spoke too soon, didn't I? The teleport pad swelled, forming the archway of a stationary portal. My heart missed a beat. Had our enemy received reinforcements? So soon? It had only been seven minutes or so—no way they could have gotten their act together. A castle siege is a long and lazy job: even the simplest dome takes hours to remove. Hours, not minutes. No, somehow I didn't think that these were reinforcements. More like a quick check to find out what all the hullabaloo in the clan chat was about.

The portal disgorged a level 270 bigwig in full gold-inlaid armor, his headgear tall with feathers, five bodyguards surrounding him.

Both of us swung our heads around simultaneously as he took in the picture and I tried to assess this new danger.

"Bagheera, take him! Widowmaker, send fifty to the portal pad ASAP! Lay the prisoners on the ground face down, quickly or they'll all escape!"

Indeed this new arrival—some sort of crisis manager—had already weighed up their chances and barked something to the rest. A thin line of potential escapees hurried to the pad, struggling their way out of the crowd and pushing aside dozens of supplicant hands. The bodyguards set to work too, elbowing their way deep through this sea of humanity in search of some particularly valuable slaves who merited immediate evacuation.

Naturally, Bagheera made it first. With his size and enthusiasm, he could cover forty paces in a few well-directed leaps—barely enough time for a victim to blink and shriek. Still, the manager must have sensed something. He turned around, receiving the leaping beast with his twin swords. Which was brave but utterly useless, a bit akin to a samurai attacking a line of Gatling guns. Temporarily paralyzed, his steel-clad figure was sent rolling over the flagstones right under his bodyguards' feet as they rushed to his help. Three of them stood in Bagheera's way while the other two grabbed their motionless boss under his arms, sweeping him toward the portal arch.