by Alex Bobl
"You are stupid, aren't you?" Beast spoke again. "If even the Anarchists have arrived at River Castle, it means they received our message. There must be someone from other clans there too, and also some mercs and loners if you know what I mean. You think I'm not right? But we were going to the Castle too! So what was the point in trussing us up like chickens?"
The archer Elf gave him a long look. Without saying a word, he began scrambling back into the exosuit. Then they continued walking in the same order, leaving the Anarchist sentries standing by their hut.
The road turned, revealing a dried-out river bed further on behind the trees. Small rivulets ran past large islands of dry land. On the river bank stood a castle that once used to be the "water gate of Central Warp". Now it lay in ruins. Next to it several ships lay beached on the sand. The rivulets bubbled; toads croaked in the shallows; tall birds with long spindly legs waded through the water.
Attila cast inconspicuous glances at the sky where the Eye soared overhead. It was a good job he'd switched it to float mode before those idiots had taken the Book from him.
He was feeling better, not so nauseous any more. His vision had also cleared. Still, he could feel he wouldn't last much longer.
"So this is what we’ll do," Beast announced. "Either you untie us and take us to Wayfarer now, or..."
"Or what?" a voice said in the nearby bushes.
"Wait!" the archer Elf repeated.
The branches rustled. A big fair-haired guy stepped out onto the road, dressed in a light but very expensive suit of armor and a pale cloak. He stood almost a head above Beast and was broader in the shoulders.
"What was it you said about Wayfarer?" he asked.
"Hey, I know you!" Attila stepped forward. "You're Rawlin, aren't you? The Highlanders' second in command. Didn't I sell you a-"
"It's all right," Rawlin boomed, casting a wary glance at the others.
Attila had indeed sold him a clever sabotage cheat which had allowed the Highlanders to snatch quite a bit of the Anarchists' territory. These two Canyon clans had been competing within an inch of their lives and only now had the common danger united them.
"Tell Wayfarer," Attila said, "that I've fixed the Eye but there's no contact with Yanna yet."
Rawlin gave him a long look, then turned to the archer Elf. "Where did you apprehend them?"
'In Deadville," he answered. "Climbing down a roof. It was pure chance we noticed. They were watching River Castle and the Citadel too. This one is Beast," he pointed, "and the other one is Attila."
"What did they tell you?"
"They just kept blabbing on about Wayfarer. This Beast can talk the back legs off a donkey. They said they were the ones who sent that message. Meaning, they were with Wayfarer when he sent it."
Rawlin gave them another look. "Take them to headquarters. I'll come with you."
They kept going until they finally reached River Castle. They bypassed the gate and entered it through an overgrown breach in the wall. The hole opened out into a long shed. The wizard was the first to enter it, rustling through the dark. His staff shone brighter.
Rawlin shoved Beast in the back, "In single file, slowly!"
Beast climbed through first. Attila followed. Rubble crunched underfoot. He squinted, making out piles of various junk in the dark, broken rocks and pieces of bones, bits of wooden planks and scraps of fabric. They walked toward a torch-lit door on the opposite side of the shed, guarded by two orcs. These weren't some crossbreeds like Beast: as tall as Rawlin, they had large bald heads sat on fat necks; the rough thick hide that stretched over their muscular torsos would have done credit to a young Schwarzenegger. Both were armed with axes and large square shields. Attila wouldn't have been able to even lift one of those.
One of the orcs stepped toward them. Rawlin in front whispered in his ear. The orc looked the prisoners over with his purple eyes and stepped out of the way. Attila could hear a multitude of voices outside humming like a disturbed swarm of bees.
"In you go," the orc pushed the door open. "Viscount, you keep watch here with the guys, okay? These are dangerous times. We've got to be prepared."
This must be the donjon, Attila realized when they followed the orc into the next room. Or rather, the Lower Hall of the River Castle donjon.
He slowed down, taking in the scene. He was greeted with a wall of players' backs. The room swarmed with people: humans, Elves, orcs, Drow, dwarves... They all faced the other way: some sat on long benches by the walls or near the squat columns that supported the high vaulted ceiling; most stood.
"Give way," Rawlin boomed, shouldering through the crowd. "Move over, people!"
Soon Attila could see what they were all staring at. In the center of the hall stood a long table set in the free space between the columns. Behind it sat some of the most known — or even legendary — of the Canyon's personalities, headed by the small sharp-nosed Garreth the Goldfinch, a half-Elf. He was the one speaking.
"There's one thing we should all understand," he pontificated in his thin but very authoritarian voice. "And you'd better understand it well! The fact is, Alpha might send his mobs here at any given moment."
Next spoke a tall purebred Sun Elfa that sat next to him. With a sparkling tiara in her heavy black hair, she looked remarkably beautiful even for her race.
"We have over a hundred swords here. Same for the Anarchists. Plus the mercs, the loners and the hunters," she cast a look around the room, her deep dark gaze taking in everyone, "call it another hundred. The important thing is, we need to get our act together fast. Plus we need ammo, arrows, combustibles, elixirs and vials. And stock up on magic ingredients for combat spells."
The Elfa's name was Leandra and in Garreth the Goldfinch's command she was second only to Rawlin. From what Attila had heard, she was Garreth's real-life wife or girlfriend.
"Moneybag, that's your domain," Garreth turned to the other end of the table to look at the famous pawnbroker and one of Gryad's richest players, a bald-headed dwarf with a ginger goatee.
Moneybag chuckled. "So it's mine now, is it?"
"Well, our clan's treasury has recently moved to our new castle in Pearl City. And you must have stashes all around the Canyon. Surely you have a few in the vicinity of Deadville. You can crack a few open for a good cause."
Rawlin glanced back. Seeing that Attila and Beast stopped dead in their tracks, he retraced his steps and collared both like guilty children, pushing them further. Attila stepped on the foot of a sitting Pioneer; the man was about to cuss when he noticed Rawlin and hurried to shrink aside.
"Watch out," the orc growled. "Let us through! Hey you, did you hear me?"
Those sitting on the floor raised their heads and either moved aside or stood up and let them pass, studying the prisoners with curiosity. Those at the table were still too busy talking to notice them. Only Leandra raised a fine black eyebrow, trying to work out who the newcomers were. Then she nodded to Rawlin and motioned him to wait. The orc stopped some distance from the table, forcing Attila and Beast to do the same.
Moneybag wrinkled his enormous nose and said with a heavy Jewish accent — which he most likely put on deliberately, playing the role of a seasoned wheeler and dealer,
"Now what interest would you have in my stashes, I ask? Does it help us storm the Citadel? Do you really think you can do it? P-lease."
"What's this for a screwed-up face?" Ilvas the Anarchists leader slapped his slim Drow hand on the table. "You need to be thinking about how to save your ass, not your wallet! Or do you hope to bargain your wealth for your life? Well, Alpha doesn't give a damn about either! It's not the right moment to haggle."
"Is that what you say?" Moneybag suppressed a smile. You could clearly read in his cunning face that now was probably the best moment of all to haggle. "Well, my suit is equipped with enough life support to last me two weeks. It has to, because I spend more time online than in real life. As for Alpha... who told you that he's not interested in wealth? Wealth, mo
ney, influence, power... all these things take money to buy! And if he follows the rules of the game, it means he obeys the gaming economy too."
A dwarf sitting next to him, known as Little Blacksmith, shook his head. He specialized in weapon modification, and this profession tree boasted a whole multitude of elaborate branches allowing one to create all sorts of the most incredible items. Blacksmith had reached impressive heights in his craft, to the point when even the Admins consulted him or even occasionally hired him to develop a new weapon branch. Rumor had it that Blacksmith was the head of the mysterious Black Tulip clan but no one knew for sure.
"It's not my fault someone's suit will only last them twenty-four hours," Moneybag went on good-naturedly. "But me, I indeed can-"
"You skunk!" Ilvas jumped to his feet, clenching his fists.
Little Blacksmith was studying Moneybag like some new species of flea. The room rumbled with indignation. Some Pioneers jumped to their feet, others reached for their weapons. Rawlin and the prisoners stood only a few paces away from the table, listening.
Beast leaned toward Attila. "Cool," he whispered. "Watch them pluck this Moneybag now."
People surrounded the table, their backs shielding the scene from Attila. He could hear Garreth's thin voice slice through the hum but he couldn't make out the words. Leandra spoke. Then Little Blacksmith bellowed, drowning out the rest,
"Everyone back to their seats! You too, Ilvas! Sit and calm down!"
Reluctantly the fighters obeyed him. The room again droned like a disturbed hive. Blacksmith jumped onto the table and lay his spade-like hand on Ilvas' shoulder. The eyes of the Anarchists' leader glistened with fury. Mouthing something, he ultimately sat down.
Once the noise had subsided somewhat, Blacksmith turned to the pawnbroker. "Listen, Moneybag, if we don't quit the game, sooner or later we'll all start to die. Okay, you might last a little longer. And then what? It's only a question of time, you know."
"I'll wait for Wayfarer," Moneybag answered calmly. "Naturally, I don't want anyone to die. But I have some unfinished business with him that is no one's concern. Wayfarer, he... he's a problem solver, if you know what I mean. If he gathered us all here it means he has a plan. And all these meetings of yours are just a lot of bull, excuse my French. You freak out instead of focusing."
"He's right," said the gray-haired alchemist Zoran the Stargazer who sat at the other end of the table opposite Garreth the Goldfinch. "We should wait. The Canyon is changing. My colleague and I," he nodded at his tablemate, a younger but equally respected alchemist Flammel the Hermit, "we can't yet explain the nature of these changes. All these stories of Alpha-controlled Pioneers, of a machine taking over our minds — excuse me, but this sounds like fiction. As long as we don't have solid proof, we have nothing to discuss."
Standing on his chair, Little Blacksmith leaned his fists on the table. "Quiet, everyone!" he barked. "Silence!"
He paused, then asked, "What do the hunters think?"
"I should wait for Wayfarer," said a chunky Drow called Guidor who leaned against a distant column. "What do you think, Bard?"
All heads turned to two figures lurking in a dark corner. A Pioneer hiding his face under the hood of his short cloak sat astride a stool, fists on thighs. The other bent over and whispered in his ear.
On Leandra's sign, Rawlin nudged the prisoners toward the table, booming, "Watch out! Let us through!"
They stopped behind Ilvas' back. The Drow Anarchists leader turned in his seat and stared at them.
"These two have been apprehended in Deadville," Rawlin announced. "They claim they were the ones who told us to come here. Apparently, they've visited Healer and accompanied Wayfarer on his way here but then went astray in the Dwarven caves. No idea if any of this is true. Probably not."
At that moment, the famous Pioneer nicknamed Bard sprang from his stool and stepped forward, shaking the hood off his head. A scar ran from his cheek to his chin. Attila stared at him. He'd heard so much about the legendary player — the only one who'd ever managed to penetrate the Citadel.
Bard walked around the table and stopped in front of them, peering at their faces. "Where exactly did you get lost?" he asked in a soft voice.
"Just as we reached the caves underneath Deadville," Beast grinned. "And you're Bard, no joke? Cool, man. So we basically muscled in, got ourselves some mythoguns and a power cart with a cannon, an exosuit too. We were in a hurry to get here, see. I dropped off the cart and Wayfarer who was driving didn't even notice me. Attila jumped off to save me. That's basically it. These bastards took the mythogun from us and the suit too. Where is Wayfarer, actually? Why isn't he here? He should have been here before us."
"I don't understand anything," Bard turned to his companion. "It doesn't seem to add up. Hey, what's your name... Bystander, come over here. Tell everyone what you know."
"They're lying!" a familiar voice shouted.
Who said that? Attila squinted, searching the crowd for someone he knew.
"It's them!" the same voice said. The shadows parted, letting through Battlemaster — the Drow who'd died at the entrance to the mine that led to the Steam Tunnels. "They killed my friends and Wayfarer!"
"You're alive, man!" Beast beamed. "How is it possible? I saw them pepper you with their crossbows! How did you make it, bro?"
Battlemaster glared back at them. The smile left Beast's face.
But of course. Alpha must have taken control of Battlemaster's mind there and then. Battlemaster must have followed them along the tunnels; then, while they were busy studying the firing range and the mythoguns, he'd probably outrun them and been the first to reach River Castle. Alpha could see the Pioneers with his eyes; could hear all their conversations with Battlemaster's ears. Alpha knew how many they were, he could hear the discussion at the table. Wayfarer must have died on his way here. The mobs were probably surrounding the castle even as they spoke.
Chapter Nineteen
"I'm telling you!" Yanna fumed on the back seat of the patrol car. The cops were still busy outside, collecting evidence in the parking lot. "Millions of players are locked in Gryad! If you don't let me go, they'll all die!"
She sat back, wincing at the cigarette smoke. She had a terrible headache.
The cop in the passenger seat wasn't listening. He was too busy poking a clumsy finger at his computer, entering the scooter's number into his database.
His partner, a major, stood outside talking to Baboon Face and Ginger. Their security workers' IDs had helped them to avoid arrest but by the same token they'd failed to get hold of her. Their greedy glares had followed Yanna as patrol cops took her to the car.
The main thing was, the precious laptop was still here, safe on the driver's seat.
Their radio rumbled. "Twenty-five double zero, copy?"
"Twenty-five double zero, go ahead," the cop replied.
Yanna leaned forward, listening.
"Take the detainee to the station and leave her with the desk sergeant, copy?"
"Copy that," the cop paused, looking at the major outside. "That's against procedure."
"The virtual police want her. They'll collect her themselves."
The virtual police! Habitually Yanna chewed her still-bleeding lip and winced with pain.
The cop lowered his window and called to the major. "Let's go. Control room wants us to drop the girl at the station. Let the local cops deal with it."
The major waved curtly to Baboon Face and headed for the car. "Why's that?" he asked, climbing into the driver's seat.
"Dunno," his partner reached for the laptop and placed it in his lap. "The virtuals want her. She must have form on their turf."
"Good," the major cast her a studying look and started the car. "Better safe than sorry. Those idiots offered me a thousand bucks just to let her go. I didn't like it so I said no. Now I think it's for the better."
"It probably is," the other one nodded. "I don't need no problems with the virtuals."
"Yo
u can say that."
They pulled away. Baboon Face and Ginger watched the car leave.
Soon the cops parked up at a modest two-story building with barred windows. A street sign on its corner said,
Richelieu St. 13
This was next door to Attila's house!
She was taken out of the car and handed over to the door watch. He nudged her inside.
The station was a mess. Workers were rushing around; cops were escorting suspects along the corridors. A mustachioed desk sergeant looked harassed, issuing snappy remarks to his subordinates. A plain-looking female captain was helping him to check detainees in.
Yanna was pushed toward them. "You gonna check her in, Pete?" the major asked. "Caused an RTC. But that's only part of her problem. The virtuals will be here to pick her up in a minu-"
Yanna realized his hands were empty. "The laptop!"
"Laptop?" the female officer raised her head from the papers and adjusted her glasses.
"I had a laptop with me," Yanna hurried to explain. "Where is it? They left it in the car on purpose!"
The woman cast a stern look at the major. He made a helpless gesture. "I forgot."
"And now you remembered?" the duty officer smirked into his mustache. "Bring it here, then."
The major motioned his partner to fetch it.
"Right," the desk sergeant cast Yanna a studying look. "What's with the lab coat?" he turned to the woman. "No need to check her in if the virtuals are on their way."
The station filled with a new noise as a few cops were dragging a shaggy hobo down the hall. The man struggled, yelling hoarsely. The base of the corridor near the stairwell was packed with people talking and shuffling their feet.
The cop brought in the laptop. The woman turned it around in her hands, then laid it onto a filing cabinet next to the entrance to the guards' room. She reached for the phone and dialed a number. The two patrol cops left.
"Station seventeen, Captain Bukhraeva speaking," the woman said into the phone. "I've just spoken to someone at this number. Delivered, yes. You're on your way? — Excellent. We won't check her in, then."