The War (Play to Live: Book #6) (6 page)

I adjusted their course on the tactical map, redirecting them to help the basilisks get away from enemy formations. To trap the enemy between the hammer and the anvil was as ancient of a method as female cunningess. And just as effective.

Boom!
The clatter and splatter of crushed flesh drowned out other noises for an instant. A frontal attack by a dwarf formation is a fearsome weapon. Well over a million pounds of steel and flesh hit our foe like one gigantic fist.

All of the more valuable yet helpless classes of fighters in the enemy’s front line got trampled into the ground: archers, clerics, and fragile casters.

The dwarves kept their positions, synchronously swinging their pole axes, then stepping forward and lifting up their shields. It was a cycle; a thousand axes would glimmer in the sun, and…
Hit! Shields up, step forward, hit!

Their beards were tucked into their belts. Their eyes shone with joy. Ancient family hymns erupted from their armored throats. Their lives have not been in vain; now they will all have something to tell their children as they sit at their fireplaces with a mug of dark beer.

Behind them, healers ran to and fro and cussed; these unlucky guys happened to be two heads taller than their wards and caught all the arrows as they drew the attention of enemy archers.

The basilisks also picked up their pace as they took heart after sighting unexpected reinforcements. Our blood boiled as we watched hundreds of ceramic statues cover the dune. Some enemies were a bit luckier; they fell under the breath of the King himself. Instead of the trivial red clay, their bodies turned into royal marble.

But the lizards didn’t get carried away this time. They were less aggressive, limiting their attacks to brief lunges. One Wild Basilisk stayed behind the others; his HP had dropped into the orange sector once again, and the ancient monster did what had to be done; he was watching his own ass as well as covering the King’s.

We could get comfortable for about a minute. After that, the thousands of enemies that had been left behind would recover, get new orders, and hit the dwarves from the rear, turning the highly maneuverable formations into a messy sandwich of clashing forces. Tactics would no longer matter; numerical superiority would decide the winner.

Aw, screw it!
I decided.
We’ll be the top bun on this hotdog!
We’d throw on layer after layer of mustard, trapping the enemy between two fires.

I turned the demons around. They’d strike the enemy infantry whose steel was reaching for the defenseless backs of my dwarves. Unfortunately, I could not make the dwarves look both ways at once. They could move only in one direction; forward. Such was the way of this shaft-sinking and tunnelling force…

I looked at the battlefield. The geometry of our formations was ruined; the enemy finally saw the real threat. The seven-thousand-strong horde charged at us with loud cries, intent on overwhelming and crushing us. They could already see themselves happily splitting up the artifacts from the basilisk’s guts and finally raiding the First Temple.

The demons were already fighting, sealing off the multi-layered hamburger of warrior ranks. The 300-level creatures of hell took many lives. I remembered that we usually needed fifty warriors per every Inferno fighter. Therefore, sending two hundred demons to deal with a thousand Lightsies was in no way an act of despair, but a good decision.

The two armies were successfully slaughtering each other. The enemy lost XP, leaving graves on foreign territory and losing about five warriors per every one of ours they killed. We could count on a pyrrhic victory.

But how could we deflect the second wave?
I thought. The portals were supplying the enemy with fresh batches of cannon fodder non-stop…

I said into the staff chat: "Get three thousand warriors off Tianlong’s walls and send them over to me!"

I had to wait for an answer way too long, but it finally came: "Sir! The Lightsiders are preparing an attack on Tianlong! At least 30-40k! Please confirm your order. If we send you warriors, we’ll likely lose the castle."

That sucked…It was exactly as I feared; we now had more than one sector to defend. But we didn’t have the resources to fight on two fronts at once.

"As you were! Hang in there, boys. We’ll try to handle this without outside help. The Fallen One’s with us!"

What a disaster
…Now we needed to win more time until the messenger I had sent to get the rest of the basilisk eggs came back. If my NPCs get slaughtered, how would I look Asmodeus or the dwarf elders in the eye ever again? To lose a whole army in the first battle was not an option.

I twirled the summoning ring in my fingers, wondering if this was indeed X-Hour. I felt so nervous I got hiccups. I was wary of inviting Asmodeus into our reality.

We can do this without demonic help!
I was raised by greedy pigs and I had fifty secrets. I decided to scrape the bottom of the barrel and turned to plan “Micro-disaster.” It involved a twofold reduction of the number of guards, the observation post staff, and external watchmen. I called back the diversion groups and told the second rank warriors (levels 100 and up) to get ready.

In ten minutes I would have a detachment of a so-so fighting efficiency, two thousand sentient beings total. Citizen soldiers, to put things bluntly. Little more than greasing for enemy blades. Clearly this wasn’t enough…

I sighed and opened another secret moneybox. I had to pay for this one. I pulled up the First Temple hire interface through my amulet, then chose the Dark Paladin profile created long ago.

It was an explosive mixture of a warrior and a healer. It had no mana though. All of its pseudo magic acts were tied to abilities. Most of its healing came from damage dealt to enemies. The paladin could also take on someone else’s damage, or, what was even more hardcore, he could give his HP to cure an ally. Or even his life, thus resurrecting his comrade and taking his place in the Great Nothingess. The darksiders are a diverse people…

Four hundred warriors, level 210. That’s all the First Temple could allot us. That and a double price for leaving the walls.

My greedy pig was in tears, Durin was loading wheelbarrows with gold, and I was grinding my teeth.

The fifteen-minute summoning timer started ticking. I switched to the Super Nova interface. Things there were pretty bad there; too many hire points were allotted for staff, ear-choppers, artillery, and outpost defense trolls.

Most of the girls from the House of Pleasures, the charismatic janitor goblins, and the inconspicuous servants were probably perma. Most of my clan mates had already learned the basic behavioral rules that led to NPC digitizing. Nobody was squeamish about drinking with a simpleton loader-ogre, shaking hands with a gardener and asking him about his day, or giving a quiet guardsman a throwing knife as a present.

But I did not risk cancelling the contracts. Per the general agreement, we could terminate contracts only once a year, on May 6th, on St. George’s Day.

So I couldn’t get much from the Super Nova; two hundred she-elves only. The boys would like that, if the newly hired Drow beauties survived the upcoming battle, that is…

In fifteen minutes, the group of paladins and wizard slayers would appear on the battlefield, to become yet another bloody dressing on the salad of gore. But we had to survive till then on our own…

By the way, the e-guide
How to Train the Ideal Girl
was already circulating in the clan. Oddly enough, its technique worked. The goal was to change the childishly naïve NPC by making it go through routine situations until it reacted the way you wanted it to. Home meant comfort. Hubsand meant leader. Yelling was not allowed. Sex was not to be refused.

It was easy to guess what most men had in mind. The guide quickly grew into something more than a down-to-earth collection of rules and recommendations. The complex questionnaire tried to make the user reveal the ideal reactions of his future bride;
What do you want? An obedient housewife that turns into a sex machine in bed? We have taken your order, please wait while the analyzer works on it.

Based on the answers provided, the guide returned a long list of movies, music, books, and places, all of which could shape an NPC.

I wrinkled my nose, but stayed away from the educational work process for now. On one hand, programming a character felt kinda rotten. Something just wasn’t right about it…

On the other hand, to reform the character of a Drow by making her watch a hundred movies? Hm…Didn’t seem feasible. It seemed to me like the girls were just toying around with their boyfriends like some re-recruited spies. Hell knows whose side they were
really
on…

The girls would get into groups to have a laugh about something as they polished their nails with their blades. Then the proud husband would show up, showing off his freebie biceps and broad shoulders, saying: "Honey, time to go home! I got new bedsheets trimmed with lace from the best seamstress. FYI, the thread is made from Passion Flowers, and the Indefatigability and Heightened Sensitivity spells have been applied to it."

His ear-chopper girlfriend would give him an admiring glance, drop her eyes modestly, and, with a secret wink to her girlfriends, would follow her hero.

"Air!" came the hysterical yet happy cry, distracting me from irrelevant thoughts.

My reflexes failed me; instead of diving into the nearest trench for cover, I blinked and looked around. I was lucky that time; three dragons went into a power dive from the East side, aiming for the approaching enemy lines. It was Vertebra along with Draky and Craky, who had grown to be the size of trucks.

I missed the moment when the dragons opened the containers they were carrying. But the steel rain of heavy faceted arrows was impossible to miss. For the first time since World War One, flechettes were back on the battlefield.

Unfortunately, they were amateurish, randomly built crossbow bolts. They did not deal a lot of damage. On the contrary, because they were too heavy, their stats were low, which surely made their creators pull faces. We hoped their numbers would make up for the low stats and that the sudden attack from the sky would shock the enemy.

We hit good, but not without some losses. Five to seven percent of damage turned out to be friendly fire. Some of ours just happened to be in the way.

Sadly, the dragons were not part of the raid, so everyone got their share; both the innocent and the guilty. The bolts lashed against the staff officers’ armor, then hammered on the dwarves with a ringing sound, then poured over the approaching enemy hordes.

Very few got killed, but at least a third got injured. In theory, a flechette would pierce a rider along with a horse. But in our reality, the survivability of the top warriors rivaled that of the famous cat from Tom & Jerry. You had to hit them hard, repeatedly, and be remarkably creative with your attacks too.

Before my very eyes a sharp bolt pierced an enemy werebear, entering the back of its head, coming out of its lower jaw and sinking into its sharp-clawed paw.

You’d expect it to drop dead. But no way! Minus 6 percent HP, a slight limp and nothing more…

I wondered what the survivability of such a player might be in the real world? A gun wouldn’t work; it would probably just pump the bear’s fat full of lead at best. A machine gun? Hm…In kilojoules, a flechette dealt more damage than a bullet. That meant that it would take a whole magazine to bring down a bear like this. And it was crucial to hit vulnerable areas.
Wow…

We had long ago discovered the Grumbler’s – Lazar’s – secondary interest. He was digging up information on anomalies and portals that could lift the veil between the worlds, tenacious like a hound tracking its prey.

The world’s most democratic country had already seen some success in this matter, while we still hadn’t gotten anywhere, sadly. And not just in AlterWorld, but on Eva 4 as well…

The enemy no longer kept in step, raised a racket in confusion, then scattered in fear at the sight of the dragons repeating their maneuver.

Damn!
Blank fire!…Wait, not really.
Vertebra breathed out a Cloud of Ashes, drawing hysterical cries from the Lightsiders. Enemy weapons and ammo rusted and got covered with rotten holes before their very eyes.
What a hit!
I recalled the basilisks having a similar ability.

What if the invasion army came home in nothing but dirty undies? They’d sit on the steps of the Sun God’s temples with handwritten signs: "Help buy gear!" That would have been nice.

A wave of terror passed over the horde, making one of the enemy werewolves turn gray right before my eyes. Then, our dragons plucked a dozen unlucky warriors from the panicking ranks and flew off, having sustained quite a few holes because of the enemy archers and wizards.

There would be no third run, it seemed. The loner mega-monsters never fought against hordes of several thousands.

The enemies’ spirits rose again. Their incessantly arriving reinforcements pushed the warriors forward, and the Lightsiders charged again. The approaching army sent a thousand warriors off to the side to create a formation that would sweep my staff officers off the hill.

My trolls and she-elves formed a thin line. Snowie spat on his palms, scooped up some sand and whipped out his mithril club.