The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (23 page)

I pointed at the petrified nest. "I have a hunch about this pile of scrambled eggs. It just might surprise us."

Widowmaker gave me a doubtful look but didn't say anything. Customer was king so if he fancied playing soldiers, he was in his right to do so. No one was going to stand on parade in front of him, but an occasional alert practice could only do the mercs good.

He nodded and switched to the staff chat, exploding into a chain of commands as he lined his men up into a well-rehearsed formation.

After the brief commotion that followed, the raid analyst reappeared out of nowhere, commenting in a diffident voice, "Formation completed. Fifty seconds behind performance objective. Ninety-one percent of enlisted personnel present."

Widowmaker gritted his teeth. I had a funny feeling heads would roll. The raiders, already relaxed in anticipation of a well-deserved break, grumbled under their breath, moving slowly like flies in a honey pot. In this digital universe riddled with chats and private channels, it took any piece of information no time at all to reach any corner of the world. I was sure that mere seconds after my command, the squad leaders had received an answer to their anxious questions,
Relax guys, just a practice alert. The client's being funny.

But what was that, for crissakes, all this lack of discipline? Nine percent, just under thirty raiders, and they all had decided to do a quick beer run? Was it that real-life players had allowed themselves a break for a cigarette while some of the permas simply pulled the blanket over their heads deciding to ignore the pain-in-the-ass customer? This was the army, dammit. If you tried to control it with carrots alone, they'd soon give you the run around. Very well, guys. You asked for it. About time I adjusted your cheekiness meter.

I walked down the ranks bristling with steel. Ignoring the raiders' expressly grave glares focused on the dunes, I mentally knocked on wood and activated the Broody Hen.

"Rrroarrrr!"

Our hearts fluttered with the furious roar of the resurrected creature that blew the surrounding hills practically clean of their scraggy undergrowth.

"An unidentified mass debuff detected. Marker assigned: Ability 1. Approximate impact: a slowing effect. Minus 50 to all basic characteristics," the analyst's impassive voice brought me back to reality forcing my gaze away from the behemoth Ancient Basilisk.

It slowly rose to its feet, cracking and crunching its joints, rustling the scales of its armor. The creature resembled a gecko the size of a twenty-ton truck with a powerful chubby tail and what miserably passed for wings. It didn't at all resemble the classic mythical monster with its toad's body and cockerel's head. Having said that, we had all witnessed its birth—which hadn't called for the proverbial cockerel's egg hatched by a toad on a bed of manure. All it had taken was a petrified boulder and an instant incubator in the face of yours truly.

My five personal bodyguards grew restless, changing their positions as they tried to screen me with their bodies.

"Back off, Sir!" with a nod to his men, their leader shoved me past a line of shield-bearing soldiers with police efficiency.

A wave of metallic clangor swept along the ranks as the mercs—who had by now fully appreciated the uncategorized mob—were busy slapping on extra armor, shutting their visors and serrying their ranks.

At the rear, the sky was ablaze with visual effects. All you could hear was a constant din of buffers casting spells, hurrying to deliver all they could in the dying seconds before battle.

The analyst had already forwarded them a priority list of the characteristics to be boosted: strength, hits, resistance to mental attacks and to earth and fire magic. HQ was putting together a quick battle plan based on the principles of a standard Basilisk hunt expanded to fit the size of the raid.

It looked as if the initial mass debuff hadn't been the creature's conscious attack but rather the aura of fear that enveloped him. But now, attracted by all the noise and light—or even more likely, by the rare surge of mana unusual in these dead lands—Basilisk turned its head in our direction, peering at us. Then, wasting no time on any foreplay, it attacked.

Its heavy stare slid along the raiders' ranks like a laser beam, devouring all color and movement and leaving behind a gray wall of petrified bodies.

"An unidentified ability detected. Marker assigned: Ability 2. Approximate impact: paralysis. Minus random points to durability for all items of clothing and gear."

Indeed, some of the affected warriors seemed to be shedding dust and rust as their gear fell apart like some ancient dishcloth. The sky would probably turn blue with their cussing once the battle was over.

"Nine... eleven... fourteen full resists to Ability 2 detected."

I butted in, feeling uneasy about disrupting the expert's train of thought. Still, the name just didn't sound right. "Replace marker Ability 2 with Basilisk's Stare. Change marker Ability 1 to Basilisk's Aura."

"Accepted. Players' testing commenced. All the aforementioned raiders demonstrate the highest resistance to mental magic. Updating the list of buffs recommended for Basilisk raiding."

The analyst was too cool for words, tapping away at his messages with the tenacity of a metronome. It would have taken my poor brain at least ten seconds to have come up with a forecast while this guy was rattling them off non-stop, swallowing and digesting enormous amounts of information. I really, really needed someone like him at my side. I had to pull him over to work for me, whatever the cost. As Comrade Stalin used to say,
cadres are key
.

"First up!" Widowmaker bellowed.

"First volunteer!" one of the lower-rank officers repeated.

From behind the lines, a lone kamikaze darted toward the monster. He brandished his penny sword, his mouth wide open in a silent battle cry, as he approached the basilisk in a series of leaps. For a brief moment, the creature was taken aback by his audacity; but as soon as the raider overstepped some imaginary line, the monster's mouth opened, shooting out his long sticky tongue toward the impudent player.

Wham!
The raider stuck to its tongue like a steel fly.
Slurp!
His struggling body disappeared in the basilisk's wide mouth.

"Second up!"

"Ability 3 detected. Long range. Disabling a single opponent within a radius of sixty feet."

"Rename as Devouring."

The second raider had made it to the monster and was now faltering at its feet axe in hand, trying to pluck up enough courage to swing at its scaly leg.

In the meantime the battle chat was shattered by the screams of the first volunteer being digested alive. Its demoralizing effect didn't last: one of the senior officers used his moderator rights to kick the panic monger out of the chat. What had the guy been trying to achieve, really? He was immortal after all, with only 10% of regular pain threshold remaining, so he should have had enough dignity to die like a man.

Having said that, in real life too you sometimes had to swallow your fear and die in silence. Imagine a second-world war squad stuck behind Nazi lines with marshland on one side and the enemy on the other. Once you lose your footing and slip into the swamp—that's it, you'd better die without a sound. If you scream, you'll attract the enemy to the whole group. Immediately a mortar launcher would zero in on you and pepper the trail with fire; submachine guns would dance in grinning Nazis' hands, filling the air full of lead. Lady Luck was a fickle dame of course; you never knew who she might smile on—but few of her smiles ever targeted a weakling or a coward.

"Ability 4 detected. Close range."

"Er... call it the Breaking Wheel."

"Accepted. Ability 5, a mass-"

"Earth Tremor."

The mercs behaved like a cautious boxer when he meets an unknown but distinguished opponent too big for his own boots. They circled around the creature, probing its defenses with an occasional feint as they analyzed its skills and signature tricks.

The ranks staggered under the weight of group effects. It seemed as if the mass of warriors was breathing: now expanding as they let in the already-respawned raiders, then closing in over the fallen comrades' bodies.

Finally, the monster began repeating itself for a consecutive third time and seemed to have run out of surprises.

Widowmaker glanced at the analyst. "Give me a general run-down."

"A mythic monster, uncategorized. Approx. level 700. Definitely in AlterWorld's Top 100. Current suggestions: retreat, double the close-range warriors, rebuff using the new scheme."

Widowmaker looked at me. As their employer, I had the final say.

"Did you count Bagheera in?" I asked.

The analyst shook his head. "Can't classify him. Not enough information."

"I see. Well, we'll have to attack then!"

With a nod, Widowmaker switched over to the staff channel. Which meant he agreed with me. Mercenaries could very easily ignore an employer's particularly delirious order. That's what comes with too much democracy and not enough motivation when you know that no one's going to execute you for cowardice or force you to risk some very real damage to your own skin or gear.

The raid's five best tanks lunged toward the basilisk. These players specialized in two things alone: survival—thus the incredible strength and armor—and their ability to draw all aggro to themselves, keeping it off the ragdoll casters, leather-clad rogues and chainmail rangers. To do that, they had to use all sorts of clever class skills—the equivalent of real-life combat stunts: a nasty flick to the nose, a battle hammer to the fingernails or a shield in the balls. The gaming convention offered their alternative of the above as special hits, auras, battle cries and tricky combos.

Each of the warriors hacking into the monster had his own support team of several healers and buffers who promptly restored him and renewed his passive shields. At the very first attempts to slash at it, the monster had gone berserk. Its furious roar rolled over the staggering ranks, knocking off hits, ruining gear and causing basic characteristics to sag. The beast was enormously strong, and its main strength was in its mass effects. It didn't matter whether you had a hundred or a thousand-strong raid: everyone was going to get his share of the basilisk's fury.

Twenty seconds of direct action. Enough aggro accumulated. Time to bring on the main guns.

"Let's do it!"

Now we attacked it in full force—like a line of street fighters who take a good swing grunting with the effort, their fists treacherously loaded. And if that wasn't enough to crop a few feathers off it, then we'd better start thinking about Plan B and leg it!

It had been a while since these dead lands had witnessed such surges of energy. Hundreds of spells pressurized mana in all sorts of fancy mental images; dozens of vials popped open every second; personal accumulating crystals urgently emptied as three hundred sentients stood up against the mythical beast, the last in this world.

After I'd witnessed the divine combat in Lloth's halls involving off-the-scale mana readings, I got the impression I was now able to see mana flow with the naked eye, at least when the flow was powerful enough. Now, too, I could see the green mist exuded by our clerics and druids. Hanging in the air, it spread causing sickly twigs to revive and awaken underfoot. I could see the skeletons quiver, filling up on the gray fog of necro energies. I watched the astral world cave in under the pressure of powerful beings wishing to drink from its fountains of fire magic.

I shook my head free from these unwanted images, concentrating on the battle. The basilisk had withheld the first blow. Now it was hitting back with agonizing precision.

The mercs thrusted forward as if trying to compress an invisible spring with their chests. Resistance grew with every millimeter they gained: now we were simply not strong enough to keep going. Our feet began to slide; soon this growing pressure would force the raiders back.

Our mana resources were dwindling, all of our battle skills used up, one-third of our soldiers constantly halfway between graveyard and battle.

"Time to leg it, Sir," Widowmaker sounded anxious. He cast a meaningful glance at Bagheera.

"Confirm," the analyst agreed. "The monster gets stronger. We blew off 32% of its hits while according to the sustained damage record, its hits have grown 31%. This is a linear progression, so I predict its counterattack hits to double in the final stage of the battle. Actually, I doubt very much we'll have a chance to see it."

Okay. Time to introduce the General Headquarters' reserves. It had been pointless to do so earlier: I had to give the mercs a well-deserved chance to show themselves against the monster without pulling any trump cards from my sleeve. And now if the panther could indeed get us out of this mess that we'd walked into so eagerly—it would allow the mercs to think twice about which side to take when the day of reckoning came.

"Bagheera—attack!"

Long shaking with impatience, kitty darted like a crossbow bolt, sweeping absent-minded mercs out of his way. As the saying goes, "Rhinos have bad eyesight, but given their weight it's not their problem". This was similar. You really don't expect the panther to suppress his battle spirit and slow down just to manoeuver through the ranks, do you?