The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (12 page)

Too little too late, as far as I was concerned. Almost immediately the tiny open space turned into a local version of hell bathed in a sea of fire, dripping acid and billowing toxic smoke. Add to that a shower of meteorites and ice blocks riddled with a crackling riot of lightning.

Retreat in 10... 9...
the assault group commander ordered in the chat. Indeed his team, having prized another couple of planks out of the gates, had reemerged from the killing ground, pulling out some of the completely disorientated soldiers. There were considerably fewer of them than a minute before and considerably worse for wear—their armor no more shining like a penny but deformed and dented, pockmarked by arrows, sooty and corroded by torrents of acid. The gaming convention used the mercs' appearance to describe their state as well as the crits received and the types of magic damage sustained.

Once their health had dropped below 30%, the attackers had attempted to disengage the enemy as regs prescribed—but the density of fire was such that they'd lost a couple more fighters while retreating. The rest survived mainly thanks to the relief team that rushed out to replace them at the gatecrashing party. Our enemy switched his attention to the new target while the battered assault group disappeared to the rear, surrendering themselves into the healers and buffers' able hands.

The analyst prattled on without opening his eyes, repeating the information sent through the staff channel,

"Minus seven. Expected back on duty in eight minutes. The evacuation group has been granted the rights to grave relocation. As soon as the blanket fire subsides, they'll deliver the tombstones to the reserve line at the rear. Gates at 79%. I suggest we step on it in order to stay on schedule. The density of enemy fighters on the walls is on the increase."

Great. How did he expect us to step on it? A hundred thousand hits wasn't much if you spoke of living beings made of flesh and blood. But the steel-reinforced iron oak of the gates didn't seem to budge under our weapons. Which was understandable: it's one thing to poke a slice of steak with a knife, but trying to do the same to a wooden tabletop is quite another!

Apparently, it was time to engage the wizards even though their spells weren't so very effective against bricks and mortar. Shame because we'd planned to preserve their mana in order to create some powerful blanket strikes. That way they could mop up the walls and the inner court of the bulk of our enemies so we could concentrate on the clan's elite.

My glance chanced upon Snowie who'd apparently elected to be my aide and bodyguard. His white-knuckled fingers clenched the mithril club, his eyes begging, his powerful chest heaving in anticipation of the coming battle. His impatient feet had already stomped a decent-sized rut in the ground. Now that's a thought. Natural trolls were highly immune to magic; their thick hide was only marginally vulnerable to stabbing weapons and could also resist slashing and crushing ones quite well. With his mithril armor, his tank cupola and his divine artifact, Snowie was tougher than tough and champing at the bit, impatient to prove his worth to his lady.

I nodded. "You go, bro. Come back at once if your health drops below 30%."

Snowie roared his triumph. Those around us shrank back. He took a better grip of his tank barrel, raised both hands in a powerful swing and lunged for the gates, causing micro earthquakes with his every leap.

Widowmaker shook his head. "I never thought I'd ever hear the sound of tank tracks again."

Indeed, the polished tracks glistened and rang on his chest. The enemy crossbow bolts flattened against the manhole cover protecting his belly and sparked as they hit the commander's cupola. This was psychological warfare at its best, and it did work as the enemy switched their unreserved attention to the troll running amok, granting the assault group a few precious seconds of relative peace. Studded with arrows like some enraged porcupine, Snowie had lost all his passive shields in those few moments—but by then, he had already reached a blind spot that the archers couldn't hit. With a strained groan, he landed his club on the gates.

Wham!
Splinters and steel bolts went flying, as did the debris and swearing members of the assault group.

"Minus twelve percent," the analyst commented impassively.

Wham!
The gates sat askew in their frame.

Wham!
The gate tower shook, its scared defenders chattering all at once. The mercs roared like a football crowd.

Wham!

"The gate is at seventeen. Perfect for closing in. I suggest signaling a combined attack in five seconds."

I caught Widowmaker's glance and nodded my agreement as I slung Jangur's Shield from my back onto my arm. Summoning Hummungus, I hurried to switch to the spellbook's secondary layout and began casting buffs on him. I still had time. No one was going to send me in with the first wave. Which was only fair, really.

"Charge!" Widowmaker raised his sword. I experienced a momentary pang of jealousy as it should have been me standing there like a portrait, pointing my sword at the enemy.

Screenshot.

I had to agree it looked beautiful. It might be a good idea to frame it and give it to Widowmaker. He deserved it. I had nowhere to hurry to. I had an eternity in front of me—and I knew for sure I was going to lead more armies into battle. I just hoped it didn't happen earlier than I thought.

"Barrraah!"

My aides and I were nearly swept over by a wave of warriors clad in steel, some transforming into their respective totem animals just for the battle. Combat clerics followed close behind, each with his own group and protected by it. They were loved and respected by all: who else would heal you in battle, remove a debuff or promptly nullify a crit effect?

The rogues' ghostly shadows stole past. I moved aside, holding my breath: most of their twin swords were poisoned. Venom dripped from the blades, hissing and bubbling in the sand, leaving barely discernible trails of colored smoke in the assassins' wake.

The second wave: warriors of various class and race armed with distance weapons. Elves who could keep three arrows in the air, the slow crossbow archers whose bolts could pierce even a troll's body, goblin berserkers with their twin axes excellent against heavy infantry, and even a couple of exotic ogres who could hurl heavy rocks at their target—a very peculiar class. It took a very special kind of person to choose one of those as their character.

The third wave: miscellaneous cloth-clad casters and a menagerie of pets and battle mounts. According to their wall-purging plan, the wizards were going to freeze for a moment as they chose targets, then flood everything with boiling plasma and blinding fire. Necros would then mirror their efforts with acid rain and clouds of toxic mists while enchanters shared their mana with the fighters and maintained their passive shields.

All those were followed by the support services: healers, buffers, and a couple of transporter wizards who secured an uninterrupted flow of respawning soldiers from the camp. Now it was our turn. We wedged ourselves in between the last two waves and hurried toward the gate tower, surrounded by bodyguards and the remaining reserve group.

By this point, the walls had been cleared of all the petty classes. About twenty high-level archers were still busy peppering the attackers with arrows, collecting their human toll. Normally, it's not so easy for an archer to nullify the five to seven thousand hits a raid soldier has, but our enemy seemed to be anything but simple. On average, they were about fifty levels above us, combining special attacks and class skills, all of them using freezing, poisoned and fire arrows. They forced us to pay attention and change our plans as we went. Half of our group of stealthers about to start genociding the enemy's mages was further broken into two and sent to mop up the walls instead.

This was a good idea—shame we weren't the only ones who'd thought about it. The right flank of our third line exploded in jets of crimson as we discovered a team of enemy assassins behind out backs. They must have exited the castle via some secret tunnel or other; alternatively, they might have been on their way back to the castle when they'd discovered so many yummy targets next to it. The unlucky rogue left to cover the casters and highlight the stealthed enemies proved powerless against them and was one of the first to snuff it. The Chinese gangsters, fat with their slaves' XP, were two heads above him.

The battle chat ran with panicky messages as I decided to employ the HQ reserves. "Bagheera, attack!"

Doomsday incarnate! A curtain of crimson and minced flesh descended, concealing the unfolding scene from our eyes. I switched my attention to internal interfaces, watching the panther's life bar with concern. But Bagheera must have already met stealthers in that dungeon of his. His claws ripped them apart as the creature teleported, pulling his unseen assailants out of stealth with one scoop of a very practiced paw.

Bam!
A message popped up, reporting an enemy's death, the change of my faction relationship and my PK counter status. I waved it away, annoyed, but it kept reopening. I closed it; it popped up again. I minimized it—but there it was back! My heart missed a beat. God forbid that all these gaming menus in my head begin to glitch! I really didn't want to spend an eternity staring at a system message obscuring my view. Anything but that!

Slowly and gently, holding my breath, I pressed the mental cross in the right upper corner.

Gone. Big sigh of relief.

A happy Bagheera bounded toward me, all mucky and spattered with blood like some otherworldly Hound of the Baskervilles. Now I knew what had caused my heart to jump: all five enemy rogues had been eliminated, causing a quick succession of kill messages I'd mistaken for a glitch.

I cast a greedy glance in the direction of the enemy's graves, about twenty in total. The rogues were sure to have dropped something worth the trouble: I had virtually nothing on my PK counter while theirs had to be going through the roof. But losing control of an army in order to go and pick up some loot would be absolutely unthinkable—amateurish. I put my inner greedy pig on a short leash, ignoring his grunts of indignation as he foamed at the mouth, struggling to break free. I know, Mr. Piggy, I know. It's just not a good moment, sorry.

We dived into the breached gateway, crumbling and flame-licked. The gates lay nearby, reduced to splinters by Snowie. Thousands of spent arrows had already been swallowed by the gaming mechanics: AlterWorld was a zero-waste territory, an environmentalists' dream come true.

We pressed our backs to the wall, allowing a column of prisoners to amble past, hands bound above their heads. Remembering my previous storming experience, I'd decided to have them stacked up in the shade of the outer wall out of harm's way, then sort through them to pick out the slaves from the slave drivers.

But where did they think they were taking them now? Couldn't they see I wasn't there anymore? "Halt!"

The mercs stopped in their tracks, either recognizing my voice or just obeying my commandeering tone, apparently remembering they had to deliver the prisoners to me first. I studied the PoWs, immediately singling out one or two with particularly brazen stares. Were they so cock sure of their own immunity? But what if they had good reason to?

I ran the virtual cursor along the line of prisoners, time after time activating the Excommunication skill. It stripped them of the ability to perform a voluntary dedication to Macaria. From now on, they'd need something much stronger than a sincere prayer: they might have to find a priest first, then try to appease him with some substantial baksheesh as he was undoubtedly going to sense the mark of the First Priest on them and might be very unwilling to cross me.

The skill was accompanied by a flash of burgundy light. My hand kept moving in a smooth motion while I mouthed each time, "Anathema!" Why did the game makers have to make life so difficult!

Finally I reached the first of the brazen-eyed warriors and activated the spell. His eyes opened wide, the faith in his own immunity slipping from him like shower foam. Now he couldn't use his Blissful Death ability to slip out and escape to his bind point in one smooth push of a virtual button. Struggling in the arms of our warriors, he emitted a desperate howl, knowing full well what an eternity of slavery felt like.

The second one wasn't as easy. He must have sensed something as he spat out an unintelligible curse, activating some kind of escape ability. A marble tombstone thudded onto the flagstones. Shit. He had to be one of the bigwigs. Shame we'd lost him.

We kept advancing through the gaping mouth of the gate tower, its walls reflecting the flashes of combat magic, the howling of spells blocking our ears. Finally we fought our way out into the open. The mercs had already cleared a considerable area, lining the inner court in semi-circular ranks that bristled with steel. They had stopped fighting—a strategic pause, I realized as I watched hundreds of enemy soldiers pour out of every crack in the wall, crowding together as they prepared to retaliate. So many! I just hoped we hadn't bitten off more than we could chew. Time was against us, too: every wasted second gave the enemy extra time to control their troops, cast some buffs, receive reinforcements and secrete some of the tastier goodies. No, procrastination was out of the question.

I looked around, my eyes searching for Widowmaker. "Commence."

He nodded and barked a command into the staff channel, then repeated it out loud, "Code Hailstones!"