by D. Rus
Ten more heartbeats of fighting, filled with heavy breathing, the sound of flesh being cleaved, and the muffled clanging of weapons. The quick skirmish ended with the predictable victory of youth and numerical superiority.
One of the assassins wiped the blood from his brow and, squinting his injured eye, downed a Medium Healing potion. "Tough old geezer!" he said.
The second rogue knelt by the vendor’s body, then rose in disappointment. "A handful of silver, a piece of string - a quest item, a miserable bit of XP and an impressive relationship drop with the Free City of Stanislau."
The first shrugged. "What did ya expect? No one's gonna reward slaughtering vendors and quest NPCs."
The she-elf interrupted them. "Time, boys! Set the bomb and off to the even-numbered shops. The building will survive, but consider the merchandise fucked. The vendor will have only the default stuff when he respawns – nothing bought from players or generated by the daily randomizer. I feel sorry for the old fart."
One of the assassins snatched the Flame Goblet from his belt and flung it at the ingredient display. Hiding his true feelings, he said gloomily,
"Those who come to us by the sword shall perish by the sword! Let’s go! Carlov HWY-42, the Fair Archer shop. Move! We have dozens more to get to, then after breakfast we have a courtesy visit to the Principality of Galicia–Volhynia, which is larger than some Moscow suburbs."
"Those who hurt us won’t live three days!" the second assassin agreed, turning his back to the fire which was beginning to flare up.
The guards’ footsteps thundered across the bridge. But the stealthed characters had already disappeared. Dozens of cloaked figures were crossing the street, and the welcoming bells sounded again.
That morning, the micro-cluster lost most of its vendors, quest NPCs, port point guards and peddlers.
Should the city’s proud inhabitants fail to take the hint, in three days they would be taught a second lesson after the NPCs respawned.
You were allowed to abuse power only within the limits of your rank, and you had to choose your victims carefully. Our alliance alone could have completely paralyzed the further growth of the tiny independent cluster.
* * *
I regained consciousness almost instantly. Struggling to move my legs, I hung on to the slender yet steel-hard shoulders of my ear-chopper guards. The girls pushed forward like bulldozers, heading toward the safety of the portal arch.
"Wait," I groaned, my bitten tongue bubbling with blood.
I had definitely overdone it this time. Why did I always need to be the center of attention? I had a whole regiment at my command, and an entire division to fall back on! And, according to the rules, our leaders were always stationed about fifteen miles from the line of battle! So how the fuck do I always get carried away like this?!
My legs were out of control, and I guess my heroic status allowed me to take it easy on myself at least once. So I held on to the velvety elven shoulders clad in leather. I drew the girls closer, supporting myself on them as I turned around to study the battlefield.
One of our security watchdogs squinted his eye. He'd taken a screenshot, the bastard. The secret service cared about the leader’s image, so of course they couldn’t pass up a stunning picture.
The Marble Ryazan held their ground, having activated the nested Dome Shields and running the long-range missile machinery at full capacity. Thousands of lopsided gravestones hinted at an insane massacre. They also served as anti-tank pillars. A few heavy golems sluggishly walked about beneath the walls, accompanied by their smaller siege brethren. They’d managed to break through!
The Silver Legion Demons hacked away at the fearless Chinese, retreating slowly as the violent masses pressed on. The enemy paid dearly – fifty warriors per every defeated Inferno character. But I didn’t need that!
The enemy would respawn, complain of their lost XP and return to the battlefield. While my legionnaires would take an entire day, maybe two to get resurrected. Hm, I wonder if this was Asmodeus’ primary intention when he so generously gave me these precious warriors? Did he wish to use the power of our Divine Spark to get his demons to go perma in order to finally acquire an eternal army?!
I shook my head at the thought. Who knows what goes on in that several-thousand-year-old head? Creatures like him plan for centuries into the future. Their decisions have more than just one useful purpose.
"Retreat!" I repeated aloud the order passed via chat. "To the portal!"
Finally letting go of the firm elven shoulders, I limped over to the massive portal arch. I leaned against it with relief, intending to be the last to leave this sinking ship.
The archers didn’t bother me much, thanks to the Sun God’s blood – the long-range weapon immunity drastically reduced the damage. Had I been sentenced to be shot, a few soldiers wouldn’t have sufficed; they’d have had to call up an entire machine gun squad.
But my subordinates would have none of that. The surviving ear-choppers pressed themselves against me, shielding me from the crossbow bolts with their behinds. Snowie resorted to the most drastic measures: he charged at our thin formation, knocking us all into the portal.
Transition!
"Attention!" came Widowmaker’s voice, followed by the jingling of armor.
"Thanks, buddy!" I thanked Snowie sarcastically.
I put on a stone face and saluted as I stood up on the dusty tiles of the castle yard.
"At ease!"
I looked around. It wasn’t bad – like the chaos of 1941 or Wrangel’s retreating army during the Russian civil war of 1920. We got our asses kicked bad but hey, no falls, no balls.
A few portals gleamed in the square. Folks moved to and fro all businesslike. Rebuffs and respawns were happening everywhere. Crates of ammo and buckets of clattering vials were being generously carried out of storage. Rustling could be heard as scrolls were issued.
Tempting aromas came from the kitchen. A free all-you-can-eat buffet. You could gorge all you liked, thank the Fallen One: getting stuffed would never result in sleepiness, and stomach wounds did not end in peritonitis.
My heart broke when I saw that the heavy machinery boxes were empty. When the Analyst rushed up to me, I asked, "What are our losses?"
"As follows: firstly, humans – no losses. You’ve destroyed that shady ark just in time. And, um... thanks, Sir! I thought we were fucked..."
"Don’t mention it. May you grow up big and strong! Just one thing: from now on, you’re in the rear. Keep the headquarters organized. No reason to allot warriors to guard you and tempt the enemy. I’ll get you an office. Come up with monitoring and control artifacts, train field assistants. Well, you get the idea."
"Yessir! Now, the machines..." he grew cheerless, but continued, "The recon golems all survived as they didn’t fight. The assault golems – half of them survived, so six are left, mostly thanks to their high skedaddle rate. The heavy golems, much worse... only four out of eighteen made it back. We’ve lost seven million gold's worth of them."
I made a face as I quickly guessed their current disposition. "Yeah, we got schooled... Even if we raise enough money, we’ll need at least a month to fix our machines. More importantly, the Chinese set a bad example. The lightsters will start doing the same thing with hidden armies. Our valiant cavalry attacks are a thing of the past now. Within minutes, painfully huge enemy divisions will be dumped upon us."
"I warned you..." commented the Grumbler who had silently approached us.
I turned to face him as he rubbed salt in our wounds.
"Hey, buddy...whatever they call you?"
"Lazar," he humbly introduced himself.
"Which one - Kaganovich
[ii]?" I could not refrain from the caustic remark.
He raised an eyebrow, surprised that modern youth would know about someone like that. To give the effect a perfect polish, I took a tattered book with several bookmarks out of my inventory. It was the CPSU(b) Lessons by Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. Ha,
take that!
"Now, dear Lazar. When you criticize, advise, as Uncle Joe used to say. What would you have done?"
He replied instantly, clearly digging the situation. "Probably the same things you have. The size of the hidden army, the buff schematics, and the assault formation were not the deciding factors. We were beaten from the start because we were led right into a trap. With the forces we had, we could not have won."
I gave a sigh of relief. His take on things made me feel somewhat better. I mean, they couldn’t have sent just some random brownnose. "Good. Means I haven’t messed up that bad. Anyway, for us in particular, the time of big battalions is up as of today."
Lazar shook his head. "Can’t let the enemy take the initiative."
"You’re right. The Alliance is not about to cease its efforts. We’ll split our forces into small groups and hit hundreds of vulnerable spots at once."
The Analyst frowned. "But we won’t be able to help our allies defend their castles now. The enemy can outnumber us ten to one in any given point at any given time."
I pursed my lips. He was right, but I couldn't think of a solution. "Tell everyone in the Alliance that they should evacuate all non-fighters to the First Temple and the Super Nova. Same thing with money and all transportable assets. For now, we can save their people and possessions. With the Fallen One’s help, we might recapture their castles later."
I switched to the castle control channel for a moment. "Lurch, prepare all empty wings for guests. Draft some free rent agreements. Quit whining! Yes, free rent! No one will mess up your stones! This is an order! And second, have Durin bring out crate number nineteen from the Lower Armory. Over!"
Having finished with him, I turned to the Analyst again. "What’s the Tianlong situation?"
"More or less alright. It surely enjoys absorbing magic judging by how its tail is quivering. Although if the magic flow gets denser, it will choke. But that’s not a concern for now. It quickly heals machine damage. The Chinese managed to roll a battering ram up to the skull and knock out one of the latch fangs. The fang was regenerated within ten minutes. But we have no idea what happened to the group that had burst in."
I shook my head sympathetically. Being inside that skull was no picnic. It was lit up like some kind of a uranium mine and your brains tended to leak out through your ears. I tried not to think about what had happened to the brave siege force.
The Analyst suggested, "The guys from the Reenactors city were a big help. We gave them portal scrolls to the Remote Post about a week ago, and reached a preliminary agreement regarding the First Temple’s defense. Seeing that the Valley siege had begun, they grabbed their swords and went into battle. They hit the Chinese from behind. Not that the Chinese weren’t expecting it. And, frankly, seven hundred against five thousand in the field is quite hopeless. But I gotta say, they made half the Chinese see their Yuan Di a coupla times before finally getting defeated."
I slammed my fist into my palm. Good show, boys! They were completely nuts, refraining from magic, but as warriors – they were priceless!
"Both sides respawned, obviously, but some equipment got stolen. You can tell if you compare losses – our guys looted more. Plus, the Chinese lost speed, buffs, and morale. The Reenactors got chased up to the walls. Tianlong even opened its jaws for them, X-raying their brains. It rejected two dozen for some reason, and allowed the rest to climb the walls. You shoulda seen their archers! They shit on algorithms! They know that their bows have a 600-foot range, and they don't give a fuck about the 30-pace program limit! I heard that this ain’t even half their miracles: that even magic is weak in their cities! They’re breeding their own anomalies, would you believe?!"
"Sure is an interesting experiment. And what are the Chinese up to?"
"Organizing a siege machinery yard while sustaining small yet galling damage from the archers. They’re also setting up camp for about 50,000 people. That’s why the lightsters are unhappy. The Chinese got the stage all to themselves, leaving the latecomers with only minor roles. Of course the latter are pissed off!"
I scratched my brow pensively. "Hm, what if we take advantage of it and get them fighting each other? Send word to Flint: he’ll get the Light Bearers attacking the Fallen One’s evil followers, thus provoking a conflict between the Chinese and the Lights. That will be the end of their friendship!"
Lazar nodded in agreement. "That’s right, cleave and conquer. I have a few ideas myself. After chatting with the Maoist ambassador, I got a better understanding of what the clans could do, and the big picture is quite amusing. But clearly this is no place to talk secrets. Shall we go inside?"
"Fine. When my senior officers get here, we’ll jump in and freeze time. There isn’t much of it anyway."
His eyes flashed for a moment.
So, he’s heard of the Crypt? I presumed. As they say, what’s done by night appears by day.
Durin came first with a green crate in his hands, carefully stepping on the marble tiles. Eyeing us suspiciously, he put his load on the ground.
"Here... As you ordered..."
"Thanks," I said as I bent down, unlatched the lid and opened the crate.
Inside, on top of a cushion of fine black sand, sat thirty grenades of different shapes and colors.
I picked out a heavier ribbed one and handed it to the Analyst. "Here! Pin it to your boxers and never take it off even when you have sex! In case of trouble like today, you know what to do – pull the ring, let go of the tab and drop the thing on the floor. Minus 8,000 HP given medium-grade armor. Enough to take you out."
Durin shuddered. He was the one we had tested it out on. The grenades all had different markings – which grenade did what and how much each one hurt could not have been determined without experimenting first.
Orcus’s greedy mitt appeared from behind my back as he silently approached us, "I’ll take that one, the orange one!"
Greeting him, I handed him the fancy toy, "Why orange? You gonna give us colored smoke signals in case of an attack? This grenade’s a smoke pot – fun but useless. Take one with red or yellow-red markings. As far as I can tell, these are identical to defensive and frag grenades. The rest are useless fireworks given our situation: flashbang, EM, tear gas and signal. Durin knows."
The dwarf backed up, while Lazar stepped forward with a serious look, "Max, in the name of the Company, I ask that you give us one each to study."
I shrugged: something you don't want is dear at any price. I picked out all the colorful tinsel and handed it to the GRU agent.
He stuffed the goodies into his bottomless bag, then pointed to the crate again, "And these too, the red ones."
Durin and Orcus growled in unison. Exchanging glances, they instantly formed a temporary alliance and stepped forward, shielding the clan’s riches from the insolent freeloader.
I laughed. "Orcus! I don’t remember biting you. Where did you catch the greedy pig?"
He smiled. "In smart books. If you wanna succeed, find someone successful in your field of interest and do what he did. Your pig is legendary, and I want one too!"
"All right, men, quit nursing your greed. We’re on the same team. Take one, Sir Eloquent..."
Orcus attached a gizmo to his belt and whirled around, enjoying the forgotten weight of hand-held artillery. "A gun wouldn’t hurt..." he threw me a pleading, doleful look.
I couldn’t help with that. A dozen worn out guns stood in the clan’s armory. A few more had been stolen by thrifty clanmates who naively assumed that the leader wouldn’t find out. Durin himself could be found every night licking clean a stolen machine gun, polishing it and oiling the rough mechanism.
And although the interface persistently dubbed the weapons as "mithril ore" chunks, I felt that there was some chance of restoring them to an operable condition. Plus, there was a second problem – over the centuries, the gunpowder had turned into gray dust, incapable of igniting.
The alchemists had a secret race to create quick-burning solutions
. Gimmick was playing stupid and swore that he couldn’t recall the explosive potion recipe. Even Durin’s mossy jacket had a few distinctive scorched spots. But still, no progress.
After picking out the grenades, we all jumped into the Crypt. It was still overcrowded, with its own unique atmosphere of a unisex barracks.
I wouldn’t mind hanging out there for a month myself. A soldier with a carefree life. Feast, drink, make out and joke around.
The on-duty officer reported that another Station had been taken. I was glad to hear it. Station 7 was filled with platinum coins and fighter droids – useless at the moment, but still.
Once we closed the heavy curtains of the officer space behind us, Lazar once again made his point,
"Max! I understand I am being intrusive, but I ask that you let five of our specialists into the Crypt. The Company desperately needs its own warriors."
I tensed up. To give up one station meant slowing the clan’s leveling up by twenty percent. That was a lot.
"The Crypt won’t help level up noobs," I tested the waters. "You need a well-coordinated group of level 150-plus, with top gear."
"We have that!" Lazar nodded with confidence.
Widowmaker grew indignant. "When you need someone to fight, there’s no one. But once free leveling up is in question, a whole crowd of volunteers suddenly pops up!"
Ignoring him, Lazar met my gaze and continued his persuasion, "Max, you said it yourself: we’re on the same team! It’s not for me or the Company. Tell me, does the word motherland still mean anything to you? Or did it atrophy completely under all the liberal propaganda?"
The Analyst frowned displeasedly while Orcus froze and stared into my face. My answer was important to the former colonel. Very important.
I closed my eyes for a moment and said to myself, Motherland...
I rolled the word around on my tongue like some aged expensive cognac, felt the sensation. It did not evoke discomfort or shame. I did not long to awkwardly avert my gaze, and I was not at all embarrassed.