This magic blow must have cost them kilotons of mana. How else do you want me to describe the sheer power of the spell they’d cast just before the riders’ arrival?
The river froze solid from one bank to the other. A bitter cold descended onto our positions. A white layer of frost enshrouded the log stakes.
The icy air singed my lungs. A mass debuff made a hole in our magic auras, halving our stamina and planting the icons of Deadly Fatigue in the warriors’ stats.
Our clerics reacted promptly, casting Cleansing and Endurance on the warriors albeit without much success. Our men staggered under the combined weight of their weapons and ice-bound armor. I also noticed a small repeated damage caused by the frozen cargonite of their breastplates. Our gear’s durability had dropped dramatically.
The battle chat filled with alarming reports.
The wizards’ intellect had dropped; their mana stocks had shrunk 30%.
Our warriors didn’t know what to do. The clerics’ efforts were little less than useless.
The mysterious spell had neutralized the stakes’ magic coating, rendering them very fragile.
The thudding of hooves crescendoed to a rumble.
“Three hundred feet!” Stephen wheezed.
A piercing wind hit us, bringing a wave of freezing cold and blowing the life out of us.
Some of the players wavered and ran, trying to escape the effects of the uncategorized spell.
A surge of paralyzing fear rolled in front of the riders. For each of us, these were the worst moments of our lives. This was the end of it. We had nothing to counter the Reapers with. Any resistance would only prolong our agony.
I gathered whatever was left of my strength and activated the snow obsidian crystals. While they shared their energy with me, I cast Exorcism.
A warm wave of shimmering golden light washed over our bank, sweeping away all the debuffs. Our physical, vital and mental energy counters soared back up.
Within a few seconds, the tables had turned.
The spell’s psychological effect turned out to be even stronger. Our warriors stood tall and proud as the ice binding their armor melted away in rivulets of water.
The wind died down. Snowflakes floated on the air. I could hear the neighing of horses and the clanging of steel.
Enea’s lips parted, breathing out a short spell. The rejuvenating aura of Natural Vigor enveloped our warriors.
Yes, we were using up our unique abilities but we’d absolutely had to do it. The Reapers had proven much stronger and craftier than we’d originally thought. This wasn’t a bunch of loonies: the main body of their army was anything but a brainless mob.
Finally, the several-hundred-foot long line of riders in their frosted armor emerged from the haze: an avalanche of steel bristling with spears, about to descend on our positions.
Our archers were the first to meet them. The poisoned cargonite tips of their arrows thudded against the Reapers’ armor, piercing it and knocking the enemy out of their saddles. Their lathering horses ran amok on the ice, dragging their riders behind them.
A wall of fire knitted from hundreds of spells rose across the frozen river, followed by the crackling of lightning. With a low droning noise, fireballs streaked towards the opposite bank, leaving smoky trails in the air. Vials of Disintegration Potion followed in their wakes, hitting the ice under the horses’ hooves and melting it into pools of acid-green liquid.
The avalanche of riders didn’t stop. The Reapers didn’t give a damn about casualties. They employed their elite wizards who cast Meteorite Showers on our bank, followed by another uncategorized spell which dissolved the remaining ice, clumps of frozen clay and broken logs in powerful fire flares.
By now, the several lines of sharpened stakes that had made our first line of defense were well and truly destroyed. Still, they’d served their purpose: the enemy cavalry had been bogged down and lost its momentum. Most of the riders had been unhorsed and had had to fight us on foot.
“More riders,” Stephen reported. “A second wave.”
Engulfed in flames, the river was boiling. With a thunderous noise, the ice began to crack. Both our archers and wizards continued to fire non-stop, sparing neither arrows nor vials. The Reapers took cover under the rows of stakes, waiting for more reinforcements to come before climbing the steep bank.
The second cavalry wave appeared on the opposite side, advancing in an orderly line.
Level 150. This was basically our limit.
“Archers and wizards, retreat!” I shouted.
The Elves hurried back to their predetermined positions: the banks of earth fortified with wicker shields. These offered the archers good cover while providing an excellent field of fire.
The wizards needed a mana break. Now everything depended on White, Allan, Archie and their groups.
Our warriors locked their shields and stepped in the enemy’s path: a thin line trailing along the steep drop of the river bank.
The Reapers’ numbers were three times those of ours. Still, they had to climb the bank first. They couldn’t attack us en masse here so their numerical advantage didn’t amount to much yet.
The numerous ravines were the weak spot in our defenses. Even though we’d barricaded them with stakes treated against fire damage, the enemy casters had made them their prime target. Currently, the gorges were consumed by fire. Very soon the cavalry would be able to cross there, especially if Dietrich’s wizards cast Mortal Cold again.
And so they did.
The enemy riders split into groups. The whirling spirals of Mortal Cold rose over the flames, extinguishing them and turning the charred stakes into a crumbling mess of ice.
“Platinus, get ready!”
The riders headed for the breached ravines, about to sweep the remaining defenses away. Soon they would have free reign over the area, allowing them to turn round and descend upon us from the rear, crumbling our flanks.
We had nothing to lose. I didn’t give a damn if the admins downleveled us for using illegal tactics. We needed to stop them.
Their cavalry squads headed for the ravines and entered them, сrumpling our defenses.
Our bank replied by hurling Platinus’ “bombs” under the horses’ hooves.
Roaring columns of fire rose to the sky.
Their horses bolted. Blinded by the flames, they rushed around the shore, impaling themselves on the sharp stakes. Half of their riders were already dead; those who’d survived were desperately scrambling up the slippery slopes trying to escape the flames.
More enemy groups appeared on the opposite side.
The Reapers tried to overrun the whole length of the river bank. New fresh forces kept joining them, crossing the frozen river which was still engulfed in flames. Foot soldiers carried siege ladders; the enemy archers and artillery doubled their efforts, showering our ranks with arrows and rocks.
White bared his sword. “Rion!”
A shiver ran down my spine.
“Rion!” Christa wheezed.
Enea’s lips moved as she cast a short spell: the Headbutt of a Hydra which doubled our attack strength.
The blade of my own sword glinted, reflecting the flames that consumed our bank.
Enea touched her Bracelet of a Metamorph.
“Rion!” Yorm growled, jumping from the tall bank onto the enemy.
* * *
Our daring and unexpected counter attack — plus the experience of all the solo players who’d joined our colors — came as a total surprise to the enemy still busy drawing their forces to our side. If they’d planned on defeating us by storming the steep bank, they now found themselves in a very precarious position.
The flames of Inferno split the still-frozen river in two, cutting off their reinforcements. With a thunderous noise, the ice began to break. Blocks of ice crashed against each other, rearing up and barring the enemy’s way.
We came down on them in full force: seven hundred players backed up by Elven archers. It took us le
ss than sixty seconds to crush their defenses, after which the battle broke into hundreds of small skirmishes.
We fought with ruthlessness born of desperation. There was no stopping us. The moral tension of the last several hours had finally found a vent.
The enemy wavered and stepped back.
The earth underfoot was slippery with blood. Yorm had fought his way far ahead. Brandishing his club, he lay his course through the enemy crowds, simultaneously using his stone shield to stave off a few Harvesters who were trying to stop him.
Our combat sections battled doggedly through, leaving the scattered avatars of dead Reapers in their wake. They’d made it to the middle of the river when the ice began to crack underfoot.
I had to think quickly. “Back off! Retreat! Don’t stick your necks out!”
Few heard me in the heat of the fight. All of us could already feel the victory. Still, storming the enemy bank enveloped in debuff auras was sheer madness. The moment we stepped on it, the testing grounds’ defense mechanisms would strip us of every point of protection we had.
“Retreat!” I repeated the order, ignoring the warriors’ grumpy reaction.
The heavy clouds parted under the enemy’s new volley of meteorite shower. Still, this time it worked to our advantage: the fiery white-hot chunks of rock crashing through the ice had sobered many a hot head.
“Allan, White, Arch, take your men back, quick!”
Thousands more Reapers found their death in the seething waters. It looked like we’d broken the spine of Dietrich’s army.
Brief melees still erupted everywhere I looked, but most of our warriors had obeyed my orders, retreating singly and in groups.
Christa struck like lightning, killing two Harvesters and forcing Yorm to retreat too. Patches of water had already formed all around him. The deafening cracking of the breaking ice hung over the river.
Once again the opposite bank began to breath cold. Dietrich could be desperate but he wasn’t going to give up so easily.
“Stephen, report!”
Yorm had already caught up with me. Enea had ported back to our bank. White was busy coordinating our retreat, mercilessly pulling everyone — his own clanmates as well as lone players — into a controlled formation.
“We’ve lost two hundred and three respawned,” Stephen replied, “plus eighteen more dead. This is only an estimate, eh? The Reapers have lost twenty-five hundred. Dietrich will never recover from this defeat!”
“Get some scouts, buff them to their teeth and send them over to the other bank!”
“I already have. They’re stealthed up and on their way.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. The river had begun to freeze over again, barricaded by the rampant ice plates.
I doubted Dietrich had enough wind to launch another mass attack.
* * *
My cheek twitched nervously. More Reapers appeared on the opposite bank: a group of about three hundred warriors, one in ten of them a Harvester.
“Where do they all come from?” Enea exclaimed.
This was the Reapers’ fifth attack already. Indeed, where had Dietrich amassed so many well-trained warriors?
The long and eventful day was on the decline. We hadn’t surrendered one inch of our turf to the enemy. Still, we too were at breaking point.
The enemy seemed to ignore their losses, throwing more and more fresh forces into battle.
“What’s with the scouts? Do we have anything from them?”
“We do. They’ve just sent us some footage. I’m forwarding it to you.”
Why had Stephen’s voice quivered? He’d demonstrated a remarkable sangfroid throughout the day.
A small screen formed in front of us, showing the scene filmed by our scouts.
The Reapers were forcing crowds of peasants into a nearby wood. Literally mountains of heaped-up weapons and gear rose over the frozen treetops.
What was their plan? Peasants don’t make good warriors.
Still, the Reapers were worse than a plague. The few surviving Harvesters walked over to a group of timid villagers, then disembodied themselves in front of them, dissolving into clouds of the familiar bluish haze.
The released neurograms immediately dispersed within the crowd, entering their new hosts.
This was a terrible sight, I tell you. The peaceful villagers changed right in front of our eyes. Their name tags turned gray. Their bodies convulsed as they absorbed human thoughts, memories and experiences.
Some of the NPCs hadn’t survived the strain and slumped onto the snow, slowly freezing to death. Most of them, however, hurried to equip themselves, picking up weapons and rummaging through the mountains of armor to find something their size.
Their levels began to grow as the game engine recalculated the XP received. This was a well-rehearsed routine. A humble peasant would enter the wood — and two minutes later, he was already a level-92 swordsman whose body language betrayed an experienced warrior.
The neurograms of stressful memories were especially stable. The newly-baked Reapers experienced the traumatic moments of human lives which had been forced upon them. Desperate to avenge the painful wrongs, they were impatient to go into battle without realizing that those damaging memories didn’t even belong to them.
Nothing could help them now. This spiteful, vindictive soil would choke any attempt to plant a peaceful experience in it. All these poor souls now possessed was one dark moment of hatred born of a vicious circle of respawns.
They were the cannon fodder for the cleverer ones — who, like Dietrich, cowered behind their backs.
This latter kind was smart. They took their time rummaging through the harvested neurograms, looking for gems to add to their new hybrid identities and choosing the feelings and experiences they’d prefer to absorb.
They weren’t living creatures. Not even sentient. They were the fruit of alien technologies which had broken free of the Corporation’s control.
My mind blanked.
They launched a new attack. The swordsmen poured out onto the ice, climbing over the ice ridges. A new duel of wizards ensued. Our two surviving trebuchets launched heavy bails of burning hay soaked in oil which flew overhead and descended onto the enemy ranks, splashing liquid fire around.
A dry thunderstorm raged over the river. Numerous bolts of lightning forked and hit each other, flaring up, then expiring, echoed by the constant booming of thunder.
Acrid clouds of acid mist spread over the ice, melting it. The frozen river spewed out geysers of fire. The enemy’s magic spears and arrows showered us, leaving deep dents in our armor, then dissolving into a quivering haze.
Our archers were doing their best to smoke the Harvesters. Still, you had to give the Reapers their due: their wizards kept a watchful eye on the Harvesters, making sure they had plenty of additional protection and promptly porting them back to the shore in the case of any emergency.
We had to stop this. Each Harvester was taking back more neurograms which would turn even more peasants into blood-drunk swordsmen!
“Stephen, I want you to calculate the enemy casters’ positions.”
Once again the battle was gaining momentum. The Reapers’ avant-garde had already cleared the ice ridges and were now running toward our bank, followed by more fresh forces. It looked like Dietrich had finally lost his cool and had thrown all of his reserves into the battle.
Crowds of peasants poured out onto the ice carrying long siege ladders and crude wooden gang planks. Unexpectedly for us, catapults fired out of the frosty haze, showering us with boulders which flattened our defenses and collapsed whatever was left of our stockade, crumbling parts of the clay bank.
My map exploded in a maze of red markers. It was Stephen who’d detected the positions of the enemy wizards responsible for porting Harvesters out.
Now they had problems.
We still had two reserve trebuchet batteries left. We hadn’t engaged them yet. The enemy didn’t know about them. A
nd they were much more powerful than the enemy catapults!
We showered the enemy casters with rocks, bales of burning hay and barrels of oil, turning their positions into a blazing trap.
Finally, their swordsmen had reached our side. They filled the ravines, leaned their ladders against the clay banks and began scaling them. The place turned into a melee of hand-to-hand as we too had thrown all of our reserves into battle.
Waves of icy cold washed over the shore. The frosty air stripped us of our strength, constricting our chests. Still, we had the forces of Nature on our side.
Enveloped in a golden whirl of autumnal leaves, Enea kept casting buffs. She stood like an island of quiet amid the raging battle. Our best warriors led by White, her father, defended her against the waves of Reapers who were desperate to get to her. Christa and Yorm stood by her side, defending her flanks.
The symbols of Mass Regeneration kept flashing through the hazy wintry air as the magic of Nature revitalized our warriors. The icons of Endurance and Tenacity flowed over our formations, re-energizing our fighters and allowing them to ignore the bitter cold.
The opposite bank was consumed by flames. Our trebuchets kept firing. Oil barrels rocketed over the river and smashed onto the opposite bank, spilling burning oil everywhere.
We’d bogged the Reapers down. The entire river bank was consumed by desperate fighting.
Despite the freezing cold, the ice underfoot had turned into bloody slush.
The bluish haze of neurograms trailed along the shore, condensing.
Now.
“Arwan, tell your men to aim for the Harvesters! Use the arrows with Khmor poison!”
The Elven snipers entered the battle.
Having lost their casters’ support, the Harvesters had put up a good fight. Their levels were higher than ours but the Elven arrows treated with Platinus’ poison didn’t leave them a chance.
All along the extended river bank, high-level Reapers began dropping. The Elves knew no mercy, aiming for their heads, one arrow per target.
At first, the Harvesters didn’t know what hit them. The stronger ones even continued to fight despite the spinning frenzy of their repeated damage counters. No one was immune to Platinus’ poison made from Spectral Dust and the sap of the Khmor tree.
The Reapers (The Neuro 3) Page 22