The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3)

by D. Rus

  Sensing the Fallen One's call, the girl rose and snapped her fingers, changing the room's décor to a cozy medieval banquet hall. Wincing her disapproval—the God's consorting with his First Priest had done his culinary tastes no good—she took the path of least resistance, materializing a crystal bowlful of the Russian salad that she'd unceremoniously pilfered from one of AlterWorld's kitchens. How could they eat that, for crissakes?

  Stealing a furtive look around, the goddess dug a delicate finger into the salad and scooped out a hefty blob. Mmm. Actually, not that bad at all. Thoughtfully she licked her finger, then shook her heavy mane of hair and created another bowl, a carbon copy of the first one.

  "Okay, so I'm sorry," she apologized to the unknown cook, sending her a generous handful of Sparks of Divine Presence. "May everything you cook turn out awesome. We promise you to sample it every time..."

  Boom! The space around her reared up like an ocean cruiser colliding with an iceberg, knocking Macaria off her feet. The Fallen One sat up in alarm. The bowlfuls of salad crashed onto the floor in slow motion, their tasty contents turning into ugly gooey heaps studded with shards of crystal.

  "What happened?" Macaria clambered to her feet, trying hard to keep her balance on the seemingly possessed floor.

  The Fallen One didn't answer, busy listening to something. With rapid sleight of hand he wiped the astral plane clean of the castle's energy imprint, removing the interference. He raised his hand again, and a gigantic hologram of two planets appeared over his and Macaria's heads. The blue Earth and the AlterWorld, yellow with spots, were floating apart, tugging the umbilical cord so taut it sang.

  Dong! yet another thread snapped, causing space around them to quiver.

  Twang, a few more busted, unable to sustain the celestial spheres' countermovement.

  "What the f-" the Fallen One growled and threw up his hands, reaching into the astral planes and scooping up generous amounts of mana, disregarding the side effects of this emergency siphoning technique which immediately began freezing out space around him.

  Obeying the god's will, the ocean of mana thickened, gaining some structure. Its soft sheets shifted to block the two receding realities' paths, slowing them down.

  "More mana!" the Fallen One croaked. All of his power wasn't enough to prevent his hands from spreading wider apart.

  Macaria gave a silent nod and closed her eyes, turning into a fuel pump, siphoning off mana from wherever she could find it and sending it on to her partner. She frantically emptied everything she could think of: her own stocks, the Altar, any uncategorized location bosses, all stationary accumulating crystals within her reach, draining them all dangerously flat. Her mind barely registered the stir in the camp of the Gods of Light as they turned their anxious stares to the scene.

  "More!" the Fallen One wheezed, his face crimson with the strain as blue veins bulged on his forehead.

  Petrified, Macaria stared at her man in awe as he shifted realities, changing the worlds' coordinates and the balance of the divine forces.

  She nodded and reached deep, scooping out generous handfuls. She felt no pity as thousands of accumulators crumbled into dust leaving castles unprotected, while magical creatures dropped dead and various energy life forms dissolved without a trace. For the first time in her life, Macaria was giving it her all, pumping enormous amounts of energy through her own being and forcing her own channels to expand—deforming them but growing much stronger in the process.

  She couldn't tell how long it had lasted until a voice forced its way into her mind, bringing her back to reality.

  "Enough! I said enough! We've done it! We've stopped them."

  "Oh," she gasped, collapsing to her knees. "What was that?"

  With a warm smile, the Fallen One sniffed his bloodied nose. "That was a perma in labor. That was this world's first baby coming into being. Which makes us his godparents, I suppose..."

  Deep below, a new mother lovingly swaddled her baby in the silk of the Cursed House's banner and, overtaken by her awakened instincts, hurried to unbutton the blouse on her suddenly heavy and warm breasts.

  A couple of hundred miles further to the north, a very thoughtful First Priest was meditating on the message in front of him,

  Congratulations! The First Temple's Altar has reached level 4!

  Current Faith Points: 12,415. Faith Points left till next level: 4,181,069.

  Mana flow: 9,000 per sec. Already accumulated: 21,551. Maximum capacity: 90,000,000

  * * *

  It had been a good ten hours that the united Chinese clan forces had been chasing us around the Frontier. No matter what we did, they kept tightening the noose. We'd closed our ranks as we moved in an intentionally wrong direction, never letting our guard down, while six ranger groups led by wizards stole toward our destination, setting up beacons as they went. Then with a quick portal jump we'd find ourselves a few miles closer to our objective.

  Still, the Chinese too had their fair share of smart guys. They must have worked out our general direction as rangers started walking into traps and ambushes. Our men reported sightings of the enemy forces, portal activity and an indecent amount of observers. Our jumps were becoming shorter and more frequent, and in the last half-hour even I could easily eyeball constant activity in the nearby hills. They had to be shepherding us somewhere, definitely into a trap, while their forces were busy preparing a warm welcome to the cheeky Russians, consolidating enough power to teach us a good lesson.

  Several times Widowmaker had cast an expectant glance at me, waiting for my order to abort the raid. We'd set up plenty of beacons to try again in a week or two once the Asians had turned their attention to other things. But time was an issue here. I didn't have a week, as simple as that. Besides, adding a strategic retreat to our respective CVs would have been a lousy finale for an initially successful campaign.

  Our last jump had taken us to a spacious oasis. We stood in the shade cast by the ruins of an ancient wall on top of a low hill. No idea what it had been before: a castle or even the Great Fence of China forging its way through the desert. The only fortification still standing was that one wall, battered and lonely, that arose from behind one dune only to cross the oasis and disappear into the dunes opposite.

  Oh well. An elevated terrain, some fortifications, a small valley. Actually, a perfect place for one final slam of the door! As Riddick eloquently put it, we can't leave without saying goodnight. Pointless to drag our gangster friends all the way back to the Lost City: they were bound to stab us in the back at the least opportune moment. It was much better to stop while we were still strong enough and face our adversary, meeting him with a stiff uppercut instead of waiting for them to catch up with us and kick our asses.

  "Widowmaker? Tell the rangers to return to base. Enough retreating."

  His tired face lit up. "Are we gonna fight?"

  "We are, we are. And we're gonna make it tough. I want them to pee their pants next time they hear our names."

  An excited hum ran through the ranks. Talk about confidentiality. What one merc hears, another posts in the chat, and ten seconds later your secrets are known to half the cluster.

  With the tinny sound of two pots colliding, I slapped Widowmaker's carved mithril shoulder pad with my steel gauntlet, jolting him back to reality. He blinked, closing the interfaces. "The rangers will be here soon. Do we have a plan or do we play it by ear?"

  "We don't. Lady Luck is too fickle to rely on. What I'd like you to do is create a detailed map of this valley here. Make a grid of, say, a hundred by a hundred feet. Set up a portal beacon at the center of each grid point. If we don't have enough wizards, hire some in from the Ferrymen. I need the map and the spotter at HQ at all times. I need to be able to open any portal any time at any particular grid point. We'll cast a portal directly from the Guild Hall so that's where we'll need to concentrate the bulk of our forces."

  Noiselessly he repeated my orders into the chat where they triggered a bustle of activity a
mong the senior officers. Hearing my last command, he raised his eyebrows. "There're not enough of us to split, Sir. Now the gangsters, there's way too many of them."

  "I know. Which is why you're now going to the Guild and hire as many men as you can get. Don't even think about the money, just spend as much as it takes. Gold is only a means to one's end. I'm going to drop a couple of lines to my friends, too. I might bring in a few Vets here."

  He nodded, thoughtful. I turned to the Belorussian who was busy studying the wall's foundations. "Master Gimmick, time to deploy your cavalry. I have a technical question, though. We need to hold this hill against superior enemy forces. What do you suggest? Should we erect some quick fortifications or add your golems to the ranks?

  Thoughtfully he buried his hand in his unruly hair. "Let me think. The gangsters only had one Assaulter and you did a nice job of it when I was trying to... to escape. It may have already regenerated 30% or so, plus we can always attempt a quick field repair but that'll cost about 500 gold. There're also seven universal mid-range ones with plenty of complementary parts allowing us to adapt them to a wide variety of tasks. But riding them involves Golem Driver skill. Any drivers in your party?"

  I glanced at Widowmaker. He nodded. "I'm sure I can find a few. There's no shortage of those wanting to drive a golem. Shame it's so costly."

  Gimmick kept chewing the cud. "Regarding the fortifications, I've no idea what to suggest. I have a few ideas about creating various siege engines and mobile shields but that's gonna be a lot of work."

  "What I suggest, Sir," Widowmaker interrupted, "is that there's no need to reinvent the wheel. All of your campaigns have always been purely offensive which explains why you've overlooked an entire recruitment institution: tailor-purpose teams. They come in all shapes and sizes: engineering, mapping, mining groups, even targeted elimination services. I'll tell you more, they even have harem teams. Seriously, you want to become a Padishah for the night? All you need to do is hire an expert team of elite concubines for some guaranteed ecstatic pleasure."

  "Yeah, right. Distracting the gangsters with some belly dancing in the middle of the desert? I'm afraid, our swords can do a much better job. So which of these experts would you recommend? For a start, they'll need to form a defensive circle and be able to hold it for an hour."

  "One sec," Widowmaker sat down on the sand and flexed his fingers, then began fidgeting his hands in the air using the old-fashioned touch interface. How's that for an age test? He had to be in his thirties: the younger generation preferred mental control via optic nerves.

  He scrolled the pages only he could see, occasionally slowing down to comment. "So... Twenty top Amazon archers—hired out. Shame. The girls are elite to end all elite. It takes them one shot to bring a mammoth to its knees. The Berserks and their leader Rabid Dog—they are only good for a storming action. Trash 'em. Now here're The Sage: siege vehicle operators. They're right for us. Hiring options: trebuchets, ballistas, catapults—no, too bulky, we've got nowhere to put them. And what's this?—twelve mounted glaive throwers, that's good. Almost twenty grand plus the ammo."

  He looked up at me. I nodded my agreement to part with the money.

  "Excellent. I'm moving them to the Shopping Cart. Now that's interesting. The Sturdies, a dwarf building team. They've got patents, a wide offer of designs, a good portfolio... no, they won't do. Not enough time. The only thing we can build is a Secure Field Camp and it's only ten thousand hits—only good against some second-rate monsters. And this... this looks interesting. 'Mobile Dome Shields for rent. All options. 5,000 to 100,000 absorbed damage. Recharging accumulators not included.' How about it?"

  I nodded again. After the temple's unexpected level jump, my share of the mana flow had increased to 900 per second. That was serious enough to begin considering a potential chain of Laith Oil filling stations, bringing the task of leveling the Altar to the forefront of my attention.

  Now that he had a free hand in spending, Widowmaker was prattling away, hiring a miscellany of lower-class teams,

  "A stealth assassin group. Into the Shopping Cart. LYNX Whirlwind, a wizard team with top mass damage branches. Totally handicapped in terms of gameplay but lethal when it comes to group fighting. Into the Shopping Cart you go. The Hospitaliers, 'a buff, heal and resurrect all-in-one raid offer, complexity no objection'. Might be useful. Aha, there they are! Mechanical Drivers. Shit, that's expensive. A grand per head plus liability for any damage to the golems. Virtually no heavy ones, mainly mid-range and light rangers. Oh well—in for a penny, in for a pound."

  His voice faded in anticipation of my outrage at his spending spree. But I didn't really mind. Easy come, easy go. I'd wanted this campaign to improve my image and reputation and it had to be worth the million gold I'd set aside for it. Not good to backpedal now. I needed to contact the Vets ASAP seeing as I finally had the priority access codes.

  Okay, what have we got here? Private audio conference: initiate. Add new users: Frag and Dan. Enter optional password. Dial. Howdy officers! Looking for bad guys to fight?

  It took the gangsters two hours to finally trust in their luck. Apparently, they'd managed to corner the Russian bear in the best possible place. They didn't know the reasons behind our lingering there but they could always come up with an explanation of two if they really wanted to. We could be searching for an ancient artifact or a new resource—like a mine or a cluster of precious crystals,—or we could have stopped for some complex quest or ritual, whatever. The main point was that the nasty Russian intruders had finally slowed down and set up camp bristling with steel within a circle of iridescent power shields and renewable mist screens. Cracking the enemy's defense with superior forces was something our adversaries were quite good at.

  Our staff sat straddling the wall like a flight of swallows perched on power lines. We had to risk it for a good field of view: below you couldn't see jack shit.

  Oh well; if before I had hoped to keep our forces ratio at one to three—which was why I'd asked Widowmaker for reinforcements twice and invited the Vets to join our defense—now I was biting my lip, praying that the current one-to-eight disparity wouldn't get any bigger.

  Seven hundred foot soldiers against almost six thousand Chinese gangsters that ever kept coming, their vulturine flocks gathering for this man-made event. Granted, our ranks grew too—there were plenty of clans around wanting to give their warriors a free rush through the meatgrinder with no potential political repercussions. Rumors of the upcoming scuffle were spreading fast, my inbox blinking incessantly with join requests from some very serious institutions.

  By then, the situation had long been out of both my competence and my comfort zone as the approaching clash was quickly swelling to the size of a full-blown battle—possibly, outcome-changing. Still, I bit the bullet and switched on my poker face as I continued to follow the plan—I simply scaled it up as I kindly accepted more offers of help, carving out more areas of responsibility to fresh ambush regiments.

  Eric had arrived with the Vets and was now standing next to me. Sensing my pent-up anxiety, he poked me in the shoulder by way of reassurance. Indeed, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Pointing at the sea of enemy soldiers studded with dozens of colorful flags, he tried to relax the atmosphere with a joke,

  "Look at all this attention to us humble rangers! Now that reminds me. This medieval Russian warrior goes to Siberia, stands on the Chinese border and shouts, "Hey! Do you have a hundred thousand warriors among you? Come over to that hill and we'll have a good scrap!" So they throw an army together, a hundred thousand warriors, and off they go for this scrap and they never come back. Two hours later the Russian warrior appears from behind the hill again and shouts, "Hey! A hundred thousand Chinese warriors, come and have a good scrap!" Same thing happens. The third time the Russian comes out from behind the hill, "Hey! A hundred thousand Chinese warriors, come and have a good scrap!" They were just about to go when a wounded Chinese warrior crawled out from behind t
he hill and groaned, "Don't listen to him, it's a trap! We were ambushed! There were at least two of the bastards there!"

  The raiders guffawed with relief, turning round to look at their comrades: there were definitely more than just two of them there, meaning they could do it!

  The growing rumble of magic hung in the air like the roar of a hundred airplanes gunning their engines. The sky lit up with the echoes of far-off aurorae. Both were signs of the nearing battle as the gangsters began casting mass buffs on their dense ranks. The leaders of clans, alliances and independent groups rode past the ranks of kneeling warriors astride a plethora of wondrous mounts, lifting their men's religious and moral spirits.

  The final show of saber-rattling and the shouting of cadences ended in an echoing victorious uproar,

  "Wansui!"

  Their ranks stirred, falling into separate layers like a lasagna. A thousand archers stepped forward, followed by pet controllers ready to turn loose their bestiary of hundreds of amazing creatures. Next came cloth-armor casters flexing their fingers and gulping down their elixirs. The remaining ranks blended into a uniform mass glistening with steel: these were all kinds of warriors.

  Dozens of officers voiced an inaudible command in unison. Drums rolled. Hundreds upon hundreds of bow strings slapped against the archers' leather bracers as thousands of arrows filled the sky, eclipsing the sun and granting a momentary relief of sudden shade.

  A moment of cooling bliss amid the scorching desert, then the sky pelted us with torrents of piercing death.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Moscow Region. The Home Sweet Home high-security residential estate.

  The squat dark-haired man, his nondescript appearance a masterpiece of plastic surgery, lay his binoculars aside and emitted an envious sigh. Some people had excellent stomachs. Regular as clockwork.