The Survivors Part 1: The Masacre

by Brian McGoldrick

  Wihtred looks at me, with a malicious glint in his eyes.

  “Don't even start. I'm not in the mood.”

  Fizban reaches the battlements and looks over. His face changes from annoyed to gleefully vicious.

  “That face reminds of a tattooed idiot that can't sing for shit.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Reaching into a bag of holding attached to his belt, Fizban pulls out a dozen miniature kegs ranging from pint size to gallon size and sets them on the walkway at his feet. Raising the huge staff into the air, he begins drawing a spell pattern ten or twelve feet in diameter. The lines of the pattern glow with mix of red and gold. As its complexity grows, the lids pop off the kegs, and the contents float into air, becoming a ball of liquid floating over the spell pattern. When all the kegs are empty, streamers of red-gold Power rise from the pattern into the ball, and it still keeps growing in size. After several minutes, the ball of liquid is easily thirty feet in diameter, and Fizban is pale as a ghost.

  “Ignis!” As the liquid bursts into flame, Fizban sweeps his staff left and right.

  The flaming liquid sprays outward in a sheet, covering the orcs' wards. Instead of being blocked, it flows along the wards. Finding the edges of each ward and the gaps between them, the flaming liquid streams down onto the orcs below.

  “AAARRRRR! RAAAAAARRRRRRRR! AAAAIIIIIII!”

  Bellows and roars of agony rise up from the orcs below. Engulfed in flames, orcs run around helter-skelter. As they slam into other orcs, the viscous flames set more of them alight.

  “Magic napalm. Nasty.” Ahlred sounds impressed. Him being impressed is even rarer than a government bureaucrat caring about doing his job.

  The initial burst of the magic napalm covered about a quarter of the length of our wall, but the damage is spreading as the orcs run out of control. The other orcs are mercilessly killing any of the already flame engulfed orcs that get near them. The fires have still spread across half of the front ranks of orcs, before the last of the flaming orcs lies dead.

  Leaning heavily on his staff, Fizban is pale and shaking, as the sweat rolls down his face. Connor claps him on the shoulder.

  “It's over. Good job.”

  Walking unsteadily, Fizban retreats to the staging area and slumps down onto the stone. With his back bent like a U, he sits cross-legged on the wet stone. None of the other players gets too close to him, and a number of them look at him askance, fear visible in their eyes.

  *He just bought them some time, at a cost that could have resulted in permanent damage to himself, but these chicken shit bitches are terrified of him. Why are we fighting for these gutless faggots?*

  None of us responds to Ahlred's comment or question. I don't know about the others, but I don't have any answer. As much as I want to save the other player and send them all safely back to Earth, I can't keep from being disgusted by them. Once poisoned by Earth's warped society and complete lack of resembling a coherent system of values, most people are beyond redemption. Even so, it doesn't mean that they deserved to be used by The Nameless God in this Great Fuck Over.

  The orcs pull back while rebuilding their ranks. The common orc and a number of the sub-leaders seem scared, but the Black Orc just scans the top of the wall, its face a mask of fury.

  Compared to the orcs, our losses are minor. No one was killed, and only thirty-seven were injured. Unless there is significant damage to a joint, organ, or bone, our healers will have most any injury healed within a day or so.

  Looking at its coterie of sub-leaders, the Black Orc snarls instructions at them for a good fifteen minutes. Nearly trembling with fear, the sub-leaders scatter when the Black Orc finishes with them.

  Thousands more orcs gather together. This time, they are not in semi-regimented ranks, but rather, in a huge mass. Half of them are in heavy armor, like the ones that assaulted our wall with their mauls. The rest are dressed in lighter armor but are bristling with weapons.

  Following the delivery of the Black Orc's orders, the shamans gather together and change the spells they are casting.

  *They're going to send those lighter armored orcs up the wall.*

  Connor stares at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

  *How?*

  I faintly shrug my shoulders. *Not sure. The heavy armored ones with the tower shields should advance in front. The lighter armored one will have some means to scale the wall. It's not an atypical orc tactic. They might use ropes. They might have some ability or device to walk up it like a spider. They might have some way to jump this high. It could be some other way entirely. I don't know anything about this horde, though, so I can't really guess which.*

  *Damn.* Connor turns to a couple of guild leaders next to him and starts issuing orders.

  The players on top of the wall are shuffled around and the Casters with most of the close combat armed players all move back onto the staging platforms. Behind the mostly missile weapon using players at the battlements, polearm and spear wielding players take the place of the close combatants.

  With the sacrifice of a hundred or so slaves, the orc shamans complete their ritual. After working together, they cast a single wind based ward that spans the length of our wall. There won't be any gaps for something like Fizban's napalm to slip through. After seeing what happened that Black Orc understood the weakness against a spell like that in the way orcs, especially their shamans, normally work. Ordinary orcs may be borderline idiots, but the Black Orc is smart and dangerous.

  With that huge wind ward covering them, the orcs begin to advance. Our archers and Casters fire spells and missile at it in vain. No matter what they use, at best, it's dissipated or deflected by the ward, but some of the spells and missiles are turned about and come flying back at us. After our wards get hammered by a dozen of our own spells, Connor orders our Casters and archers to stand down.

  *Get all our Casters with decent electrical spells to target the same location.* By using a whisper charm, I keep most others from knowing that I'm giving Connor advice.

  Connor glances toward me. *Why?*

  *All spells have their strengths and weaknesses. Air is a strong insulator, but a wind ward like that lacks the ability to reflect or deflect it. The few lighting bolts our side used, cut into that wall of wind but weren't enough to penetrate with the way they were scattered.*

  Connor looks around, before giving orders to the guild leaders near him. With the whisper charms and guild bracelets, it's as quick to pass orders as having radios. Even so, we don't have our Casters coordinated before the orcs reach the foot of the wall. Our command structure is inefficient. There is no uniformity to the sizes of our units because they are all based around the guilds. I have to hand it to Connor to be as effective as he is in controlling battles like this.

  “RAAAAAARRRRRRRR”

  A roaring orc lands in one of the crenels not far from where we Dvergar are standing. A heavy spiked mace in its left hand crushes a players head, while the axe in its right is deflected by a player next to the battlement.

  “What the fuck?” Wihtred is blankly staring at the orc a second, until a second orc lands in the crenel in front of him.

  “Not interested. Take your shit fucking vacuum and go home!” After blocking a dozen or more attacks while he talks, Wihtred's shield bash sends the orc flying out of the crenel, spinning head over heels.

  All along the wall, orcs are landing in the crenels and on the merlons between them.

  Stepping up in the crenel, Wihtred nearly splits an orc in two with his axe and looks down.

  “There are pairs of orcs with tower shields to sling these bitches like FedEx packages.

  Wihtred blocks a rising orcs sword slash and kicks it in the groin. As the orc flies through the air turning greenish, he laughs like a madman. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Now, I know why fucking Talon loved to fucking kick people in the fucking balls so much! Come on, faggots! Batter up! Pitch some more of your ass-fucking fags!”

  The orcs may not know English, b
ut they can tell when they're being mocked. As dozens of javelins and arrows bounce off the battlements and his shield, Wihtred jumps back down from the crenel.

  An orc lands in the crenel vacated by Wihtred, followed by two more landing on the merlons next to it. As Wihtred engages the one in the crenel, the orc on the merlon to his left drops one of the players with a blow to the head. When it jumps down, I spring forward crushing the one on his left between my shield and the stone of the merlon. Momentarily dazed by the impact, the orc can't defend itself, and its body falls to the parapet walkway minus its head.

  With the wall of wind blocking spells and missile, we can't do much to impede the orcs on the ground. More and more of them keep landing on top of the battlements. They're dying by the dozens, but there are still places where they are forcing breeches. Not all the players are equal as combatants, and we already have dozens who are injured, some probably dead.

  After a few minutes, I feel the vibrations from the orcs' massive mauls beating on the base of the wall again. Even with the geomancers' reinforcing it, those orcs can probably bring the whole thing down in the three of four days at most. With their current assault method, there isn't much we can do to stop them either.

  Looking to the east, there are thousands more orcs streaming toward our wall. Even though this phase of the battle has been going on for less than an hour, only three areas on the wall are holding firm: the section controlled by us Dvergar, the section controlled by Connor's King of Taereun, and surprisingly, the section controlled Kamehameha's Dragonball Warriors and a couple other mini-guilds.

  *He's been different since we left the Labyrinth.* Danleib's words are sent via whisper charm, even though we're in a common party channel.

  *What do you mean?*

  *While you were beating yourself up over Talon's death and preparing his grave on the side, Kamehameha kept watching you the entire time.*

  *I wasn't beating myself up.*

  Danleib looks at me derisively out of the corner of his eye, while emasculating an orc with a rising strike of his axe. *No matter how you cut it, you're Thorrin, formerly Harold T. Sawyer of Earth. You were beating yourself up over something you had no control over.*

  *Whatever. What's the point about Kamehameha?*

  *I don't understand exactly what Kamehameha's fixation with Talon was, but his hostility toward him was not driven by dislike. There is some other reason behind it. I was watching at Talon's funeral. He seemed to have come to terms with something or made some kind of choice. Talon's death had to be the catalyst for it, and I think his outburst about heroes last night has something to do with it.*

  Kamehameha always seemed like a smart-ass punk to me. Because of his almost gang-banger level bad attitude, I never gave him the time of day. The rest of his guild seemed the same. They always hung together like a pack of inner city street thugs outside a convenience store.

  Whatever caused Kamehameha to change, I don't have the time to think about it right now. We have dozens of orcs on top of the wall trying to expand their beachhead, and the only thing keeping them back is the constant deadly rain of missiles and spells. Without the wall of wind to block their spells, our Casters and archers are showing off their expertise in sniping.

  From the first time I played head to head in a first person shooter till now, gamers have always been addicted to sniping. It gets them the most reward with the least risk. Even in this world of Taereun, many of the players with strong ranged spells and ranged weapon skills have thought like PvP gamers and honed their ability at sniping attack.

  *Connor, if you and your Kings can reinforce the players between you and Kamehameha, we Dvergar will reclaim the southern half of the wall. Get some guilds with strong combatants up here to reinforce the space between the five of us.* Dacbold and Farnulf are working on preparing the spit of land for our final stand, but with some decent fighters to back us up, the rest of us are more than enough to control the top of this wall. At least, we are for now.

  In just a couple minute, a group of more than fifty players starts climbing up the ramp nearest us. They are all people who were part of the front line clearing forces for all of the eleven plus years of the Great Fuck Over.

  “We Dvergar are going to spread out across the southern half of the wall. You cover the spaces between us. If the orcs put too much pressure on your groups, we'll back you up where their pressing their attacks.”

  “You sure talk big for a little guy.” I don't need to look to know the speaker is Li Xi. He's about seven feet tall, with skin the color of polished ebony and the facial features of a Caucasian. It's a typical combination in certain parts of the Battleground of the Damned. In a lot of places in the Battleground and the Lands of Despair, the typical mixes of facial features, body types, and skin colors are all mixed up based on Earth perspectives.

  Leaving my spot to Li Xi and some of his people, I move toward Connor. The other Dvergar spread out as well, and more front line fighters fill in the gaps between them. In less than fifteen minutes, the situation on the wall stabilizes. Now, the orcs are lucky to last ten seconds after hitting the top of our wall.

  There is still nothing we can do about the orc attacking the wall itself, but I'm sure Connor doesn't plan on holding this wall indefinitely There are too many orcs, and by tomorrow or the next day at the latest we'll be fighting a battle on two fronts, when the orcs circle around us and hit us on the west side too. The spit of land is where we will make our final stand. It's the only place we'll have a chance of surviving.

  * * * * *

  As the sun sets, still hidden behind the storm clouds, the orcs stop assaulting the wall. As I watch them retreat, still guarded against spells and missiles by their wall of wind, I'm not sure I keep the surprise off my face.

  *What the fuck? Are those shit-fuckers actually retreating?* Confusion is plain as day in Wihtred's voice.

  *That fucking Black Orc is way too smart for our good.* Ahlred's angry voice holds a touch of grudging respect.

  *An orc leader actually resting his troops, instead of mindlessly attacking until they win or get routed. I think I've seen everything possible under the sun.* Cwichelm is staring blankly at the retreating orc lines.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  *Looks like it's time for another fucking orc party!* Wihtred spits over the wall.

  Connor joins us and accepts my invitation to our party channel. *We're in trouble.*

  I snort to keep from laughing. *We've been in trouble since those bastards showed up, but yeah, we might be in really deep shit now. The wind wall. Assaulting the top of the wall to screen his troops attacking its base. Resting his troops. This orc actually knows how to plan a battle.*

  *So what's the difference between these orcs and the ones we've been fighting?*

  *Think of the ones inside the Labyrinth as the retards on the short bus, and that will be close enough.*

  Connor stares at me for a minute, before walking off without asking anything else. When he reaches the guild leaders acting as officers, he gives them orders to rotate out the fighters on the wall and get a fresh watch up here.

  After glancing at one another, we Dvergar leave the wall as well. Even though my body could keep going for another few days without any real need for rest, I'm tired. The cruelty and brutality of the orcs have already taken its toll on me. Their lust for dominance and destruction is even uglier than the bullshit repressive society that has dominated America.

  *This is a world where the strong eat the weak.* Danleib has a sad smile and uses a whisper charm so that I am the only one hearing his words.

  *Is that really any different from Earth?*

  Danleib appraises me with a strange look on his face. *Even though we never talked about it, I always thought you understood. America, Europe, and East Asia are all tyrannies of the weak. On Earth, through the manipulation of democratic political systems, the weak have crushed the strong into submission. Our moral codes and values are all shaped by those sy
stems. Here, what passes for morality is dictated by the strong.*

  I sigh. *It's wrong. The wanton cruelty of the orcs disgusts me.*

  *The destruction of the exceptional on Earth is no better. Look at you. You fear letting the other players see that you're superior. It doesn't matter what we are on Earth. Here, we are Dvergar, and we are superior to any mere humans. If you don't stop hiding and holding back, you and maybe the rest of us along with you will die here, in this battle. You've may have been broken by our warped society, but you can't let it kill you for real.*

  My glare doesn't phase Danleib. *If I'm broken, what are you?*

  For a few moments, Danleib seems to not see they world around him. *Destroyed.*

  With a self-mocking smile, Danleib's turns and leaves me to my own thoughts. As I watch him walk away, his manner sends a chill down my spine. I have the eerie feeling that I'm watching a man who is already dead.

  Trying to shake off the dark mood, I continue through the rain to where my Hammers are camped. Under a canopy to keep off the rain, the rest of the Hammers are gathered around plank tables. I stand in the darkness where they can't see me and just watch them for a time. They are eating a meal with little to no conversation. Periodically, one or another of them looks toward the wall with a bleak expression.

  Even though they have bodies with the ability to use Mana, they are still all human. They aren't in freakishly overpowered bodies. I wonder what their reactions would be if they ever saw me really use this body to its fullest potential? Would they ever be able to look at me without a hint of fear somewhere deep inside?

  “Thorrin!” As I approach the camp, Tomas is the first one to notice me.

  “Tomas.”

  Tomas stares at me as I exchange greetings with the rest of the Hammers. He's known me longer than any of them. Taereun was not the first game we played together. It's probably not obvious to the rest, but I can tell that he's worried about me.

  Sitting down on a chair built to withstand the mass of my more than five hundred pound body plus the weight of my heavy plate armor, I eat with my guild. Surreptitiously looking at their faces as they eat, I realize that rather than friends, I see them more as my children. While I was married three times, I never had any children. Of the player inhabiting these bodies, even Tomas, the oldest at fifty-something, could still be my grandchild.