Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4)

by D. Rus

  Luckily, the developers seemed to understand that castle guards had to be affordable. But I'd raised the bar way too high as far as their levels and characteristics were concerned. Secondly, I had to pay double for the right to take them outside the castle walls. Never mind. Easy come, easy go. I still had another nine million left in the kitty after the successful Chinese raid. Heh, I was a proper millionaire with my own castle and my loyal circle of knights. The mind boggles.

  I set all services to work and used the priest portal to jump downstairs to the Altar, then walked out of the Temple's wide gate into the main square.

  Anarchy and kerfuffle! I could clearly see now that the best way to check your troops' readiness and discipline was by issuing Code Red and sending them on a twenty-four-hour march there and back again. Then everything that your shrewd personnel had so far managed to conceal from the top brass' eyes would become glaringly obvious.

  The place was in complete disarray. Some rushed to the supply depot to get a set of anti-PK gear; others tried to fall in, their ranks still incomplete; buffers yelled at the crowd seeing the already-blessed players mixing with those still waiting their turn. Supply officers fussed about, distributing the vials according to Protocol #6, indignant at the specified 150% consumption rate. The departing warriors scooped the vials up by the handful, the way troopers scoop up cartridges before being sent to the front. I could already see repercussions coming once the party was over.

  Snowie growled under his breath, trying to push a heavy assault golem out of its hangar. Some idiot had restricted access to its interface with a password! A small lieutenant major scurried about, searching the ranks for those capable of driving golems as half of the drivers were out on missions.

  The first couple of golems finally scrambled out of the hangar, struggling to move their massive feet, then came to a halt in the square. As it turned out, no one had thought to replace their accumulating crystals. Now our main storming weapons had become useless heaps of sprawled metal limbs. More messengers hurried to the supply depots to hassle the already-indignant Durin.

  Technicians rattled their hammers nearby, replacing the golems' digging buckets with weapon mountings. Dammit. At the time, I had personally commended the guy who'd suggested this clever idea of using golems as debris clearers. Didn't they understand that once they were finished, they had to put it all back the way it was?

  Oh no! Some smartass had decided to use a sledgehammer to drive a crystal into an apparently too small slot. The gold plates of the mana drive were smashed irreparably, Gimmick yelling at the hapless operator. I knew of course that damages like this weren't even in the script, but who said it was still a game?

  I stood on the top step of the First Temple with my arms crossed, squinting at the chaos as I committed everything to absolute memory, thus further unnerving my officers. Even ants have better discipline when their anthill is flooded! The timer in the corner of my interface helpfully kept me posted: we'd been at it for more than thirty minutes already.

  My hundred custom-made Ear Cutters — so called to spite Ruata's Cutthroats — were waiting nearby, watching the scene with a certain dose of bewilderment. Meeting the chief buffer's stare, I nodded at them, making it clear that these fine fellows needed to be buffed up to the eyeballs. The lieutenant heaved a sigh and raised his head to the heavens, mouthing something definitely unflattering, then sent yet another messenger to the ingredients depot. The raid blessings devoured industrial amounts of lazuli, agate and malachite.

  Green with the importance of the task he'd been entrusted with, the lame goblin — the one I'd nicknamed Tamerlane — dragged the Big Raid Altar out of storage. Time to test it too. A 25% bonus to all Dark spells and the same resistance to the magic of Light — we could use them, that's for sure.

  The baby dragons nose-dived to the ground, dispersing the flimsy ranks. Meeting the chief buffer's stare again, I gave him a reconciliatory smile, pointing at the mithril chicks and the hell hounds who ran amok around the ranks in circles like infernal sheep dogs, trying to drive everyone close together.

  Fifty minutes. Fuckyall didn't call back, apparently too proud to repeat his request for help or try to find out why we hadn't yet arrived.

  Gradually our ranks lined up, our motley troops taking a rather dangerous and impressive shape. I wanted to nod my approval but instead cast a meaningful glance at my wrist as if checking the time on a non-existent watch, then shook my head. I reached into my inventory for a Spark of Dark Flame and activated the Blessing buff, upping our resistance to all types of magic and physical damage.

  "Jump off in one minute!"

  The analyst ground his teeth. This definitely wasn't his kind of mission. No planning or amassing vast amounts of data — just a valorous cavalry derring-do.

  The golems shifted their feet, striking sparks off the flagstones. The hell hounds shivered in anticipation, sending shimmering waves across their armor. The sentients clung to their weapons, their artifacts and magic staffs. All kinds of pet controllers had filled the courtyard with their scary array of creatures. The earth, the skies and the astral planes had mended, concealing all trace of the recent summonings. Shapeshifters were switching to their combat shapes. Here and there, a warrior's body would arch in a terrifying transformation, arising as a powerful grizzly bear or, on the contrary, dropping to all fours assuming the muscular shape a giant wolf.

  "Commence countdown. Jump off in ten... nine... eight..."

  I sprang into Hummungus' saddle. A freshly-summoned zombie chomped at the bit next to me. Not much of a hero but every little bit helps. My personal bodyguards kept a sharp watch. Tamerlane acted as a color-bearer, holding the massive Altar in those short outstretched little paws of his.

  I made a mental note to have silk banners made: each of the Clan, the Alliance and the Fallen One. I took the insignia — all those badges, titles and medals — very seriously. Even something as simple as a "thank you" may years later turn out in your favor. Likewise, skimp on gratitude and you just might regret it one day.

  The wide arch of the cargo portal opened its throat wide, inviting everyone into its filmy distance-defying depths.

  The assault group was the first to bail out, followed by half of my bodyguards and staff members complete with yours truly. The rest of the bodyguards followed. Then the portal was packed solid with a monolith of action-hungry warriors, their entire column squeezing themselves through in a matter of seconds.

  The portal's rumbling echo clapped all over the Cursed Castle. At the enemy's rear, they were shaking their heads not knowing what had hit them.

  Without further ado, our fighters cut into the ranks of cloth-clad casters, meditating healers and respawned players busy putting their gear back on. Excellent. Apparently, not everyone had yet realized the main rule of waging these new portal wars: there is no rear.

  The Castle still held, even though the defense methods were not exactly in keeping with gameplay.

  All the zombies had been drawn up under the safety of the castle walls. That's where they respawned too, by the looks of it. The main doorway was blocked with pieces of furniture and bits of the outer walls, packed solid throughout the depth of the entrance hall. The attackers would have to take it apart under the defenders' furious pressure.

  The scorched windows must have been similarly blocked once, but now they gaped open. Here and there, OMON fighters were attempting to scale them, angrily fending off the bristling lances and spears. The attackers played it by ear: in some places, enormous ogres were trying to hack through the walls to increase the number of potential entryways and disperse the defenders' meager forces.

  Finally one of the dainty towers succumbed to their efforts. A large chunk of stone at its base collapsed, revealing the citadel's vulnerable belly. With a triumphant roar, the Sullen Angels charged in. After a brief pause, the defenders answered equally un-gamely, sacrificing part of the castle for the sake of the integrity of the perimeter. Stonework groaned as the t
ower collapsed, folding in on itself, throwing clouds of pink dust into the sky and burying the fifty-strong squad under its ruins.

  We slapped them the way an open hand slaps a ball of dough, digging deep into the enemy's tight ranks as they tried to force entry into the Cursed Castle as if it were their own property. Our heroes led the way, fronting our attacking arrowhead formations.

  Snowie's club cut a wide swathe through the enemy ranks with its hundred-and-fifty-caliber arc. Zena's team covered his back while his friends the "watchdog" goblins scurried underfoot, wielding quite aptly their poisoned swords. Those tiny bastards would get themselves killed! I could almost see their slaughtered gray-and-green little bodies in the dust. Twenty-four hour respawn time, who did they think was going to keep an eye on all the construction works in the meantime? Having said that, the kids needed combat experience. They wanted to grow and have a few available points to open their skill branches. So there they were, ready for the meat grinder.

  The baby dragons tread their paths, sowing fear and dismay in their wake as they applied mental pressure that made the enemy's brains leak with the most horrid subconscious nightmares they'd ever had. Still, the initial bewilderment soon passed, replaced by the full appreciation of the mithril chicks' level and size. Magic shields flashed open, protecting the fighters' minds with their invisible screens. Resistance kept growing, slowing our advance. All the rechargeable skills had already been used up and were now sadly ticking their timers.

  Then Craky got stuck, facing a steel wall of three paladins. Immediately a couple of exorcists studied his phantom flesh in True Light. The enemy's blessed weapons got bogged down in his protective darkness, but the chick was getting tired too, now and again exposing his mithril scales to blows coming through the gaps in the shield of the dark. Craky wasn't charging forward any more — he just stumbled on the spot, parrying dozens of swords, occasionally shrieking with some nasty hits, gradually losing his mithril armor like a fish in the hands of an experienced cook. Finally he drew in one leg and wailed, backing off from the torrents of light pouring down from the sky.

  An arrowhead formation of hell hounds had played enough with the two chicks to be able to tell their battle cries from the screams of panic. The entire pack swerved, changing direction, and hurried to help the cut-off Craky who was gradually clubbed down by the crowd. I'd be damned if I hadn't seen a couple of tiny riders with matching spears on the dogs' backs. They were children, by Lloth!

  I hurriedly ordered Widowmaker to send Craky some reinforcements and intercept the kids before they got into trouble or were taken prisoner. They were too young for this kind of experience.

  His sister Draky was less prone to acting on impulse. She was heading her support team, ramming it through the crowd. But they, too, had bitten off more than they could chew, wedging too deep into the enemy ranks. Forty of them just couldn't hold the resulting corridor. They got stuck in the mass of people like a bullet in ballistic gel, losing energy, momentum and killing power.

  Golems were in their element, rollicking in the crowd like some armored bulls in a china shop. Their shoulder-launched glaive throwers belched smoke, overheated. Some of the giants had already discarded them to reduce weight and receive a few extra bonuses to agility and mobility. No one seemed to care about the clan's purse. No matter how high their resistance to physical damage was, considering their value every time someone bashed their steel trunks, it cost me a petty penny. That's the main reason why you don't see a battle golem in action very often. We had got ours for free by sword law — complete with the skillful Gimmick — and still, just repairs and maintenance really hit the clan's pocket.

  In the meantime, the enemy had come to their senses, regrouping and mounting their resistance. Our loss counter span at the frightening speed. The first respawned fighters impatient to rejoin the battle began trickling out of the still-open portal guarded by a team of five Ear Cutters.

  We had hit the enemy nice and good, but we'd failed to deliver the knock-out punch. It was more like a knock-down: a strong and hard, head-ringing and rubbery-legged one. Still, six hundred against two — it was still three against one. Your every blow is met with three shields and three throats going for your body. Not easy. Actually, there were just too many of them.

  The Analyst confirmed my suspicions. He must have been busy for quite a while handling the complex trigonometry of battle, applying various geometric figures to the enemy squads to calculate their numbers. Guess, he could have just counted the numbers of enemy's arms and legs and divided them by four.

  "Chief, they're at least nine hundred here! They've contracted Fuckyall's freed-up mercs! They probably thought he was full of surprises so they wanted to secure their victory. They can't very easily afford to keep two clans in action for seventy-two hours. Besides, the players won't be too happy: they have their own lives and things to do IRL."

  Oh. That's another lesson for you, Max boy. Never stick your neck out without doing your homework. You wanted to ensure a 100% surprise effect? Guess who's surprised now...

  "Attention, raid! Thicken the ranks and form an arrowhead. We're going to battle through to the Cursed Castle to join with Fuckyall's forces. Shut the portal down! Widowmaker, I want you to ask the Vets to join in the fun so they don't take offense like last time when they didn't get to screw the Chinese."

  The Analyst's eye chanced on an important line within the flickering of the reports. "Sir, the enemy's respawn point is six hundred feet away from our positions!"

  What a sweet target! If we could only get rid of the few guards around it, we could start stockpiling the freshly-respawned OMON members, helpless in their undies. A respawn point is very much like an enemy's missile battery: it's a priority target for any group that has located it, and it should be attacked regardless of the outcome, for it allows you to wipe out the population of several cities in a matter of seconds.

  Yes, but... I shook my head. "We won't be able to hold it. They'll squash us. We're retreating to the breached North Tower."

  Simultaneously I contacted the rebellious paladin. "Fuckyall!"

  "Call me Andrei. I'm sorry, I had no idea that the mercs would turn coat. It's a good job they've been chivalrous enough to have left my grounds first, otherwise they could have struck from behind. The problem is, they know our strength and have cracked our defenses. We'll have to ad lib, I'm afraid."

  As if confirming his words, one of the decorative battlements wobbled, collapsing on top of the growing enemy group preparing to storm through a broken window opening."

  "I see. We're battling to meet up with you."

  "Thanks. I'm afraid it's a bit pointless. There're just too many of them. If you can replace my men at the barricades for a half-hour at least, I'd really appreciate it. That would allow us to port to the Frontier, I don't know where exactly yet. It's not a good idea to evacuate a dirt-poor clan into an aggressive desert, but I can't see any other options."

  His voice was drowned out by the enemy alliance's triumphant roar followed by a tangible earth tremor as one of the golems outlived its worth and collapsed onto the scorched ground. The poor operator didn't stand a chance: they literally mopped up his seat with him before he could unbuckle.

  "Keep your hair on, man. You have plenty of time to relocate. I think I even know where you could go. In the meantime, we still have plenty of aces up our sleeves. All this has been a warm up, a bit of showing off really. We've already reset two or three hundred back to zero. Getting them back in action will take time plus all the rebuffs, wear and tear and all the lost kill strikes. Actually, they seem to be a bit too freaky, don't you think? It's as if we'd whacked them in the balls, not on the jaw!"

  Fuckyall guffawed happily. "You got it, man! My zombies are formally NPCs, just like part of your own men. And what happens if you're killed by an NPC? That's right, you lose your xp. That's why they're freaking out."

  Oh. I had to think about that. One thing was clear: we happened to have a very hef
ty argument in the eventuality of any potential confrontation. The penalty to experience was a very nasty thing. One death at level 200 could wipe out endless hours of diligent leveling.

  Yes, there were always clerics with their resurrections, but they didn't restore all of your xp back. I was pretty sure the enemy alliance had already regretted going for Fuckyall so hastily and amateurishly. They'd lost their leveling momentum, authority, the money spent on the siege and whatever precious xp they'd had. Watching your fighters' average levels drop while your enemies had raised another level had to be both worrying and dangerous.

  Our formation had already drawn its octopus-like tentacles back in and rolled into a steel ball, battling through the enemy ranks. We were fewer now that the influx of resurrected warriors had stopped, but the enemy alliance too was much the worse for wear. Besides, the numbers of volunteers among them wishing to experience the touch of Snowie's club, hell hounds' fangs or the dragons' claws were gradually dwindling.

  We'd forced our way through the attackers' main forces. All we had to do now was break through the inner circle which was busy halfheartedly storming the castle while casting cautious glances behind their backs.

  Then things got rolling.

  Our old portal thundered, opening, disgorging hird after Dwarven hird, their armor gleaming purple. A steel wall of two hundred warriors deployed in the alliance's rear.

  Having recognized our reinforcements as NPCs, the enemy army wailed its indignation. Getting involved in a bit of clan scuffle was one thing: it promised a healthy dose of fun, new achievements and the potential to lay your hands on an expensive piece of gear — all that without any risk to your xp. But a lootless meat grinder that promised nothing but lost xp and ruined gear was something quite different.

  Both sides paused in order to rethink their strategies in the light of these new developments. The dwarves strutted into action, squeezing the enemy ranks who had found themselves between the hammer and the anvil.