The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) Read online

  I swung my head round, assessing the scene. I could see they hadn't expected us judging by the astonishment on the faces of the five external guards still lolling about in the scant shade offered by the gate tower.

  Despite their relaxed poses, the guards did manage to jump up and draw their weapons in time. After all, the ten seconds it had taken the assault group to cover the remaining distance is a hell of a lot of time. About twenty raiders rammed the guards' meager uneven ranks, trampling out one of the flanks and hacking at the oak gates as they demonstrated their resolve to absorb a hundred thousand hits and pave the way for the army unfolding behind their backs.

  Had all this happened in real life, we'd have had every chance to storm the castle hot on the heels of the retreating enemy, especially because the service entry remained invitingly open. But gaming rules dictated their own strategies: the only locations that allowed free entry for all were shops, taverns and brothels. None of us happened to be on the castle's green list; we didn't have a single personal invitation between us; neither did we know the password or their portal pad's access codes. Which might explain why, despite the door being open in silent welcome but a few feet away from us, we still blunted our swords on the closed gates like a bunch of idiots.

  Gaming convention number two—in order to activate a castle's security systems, a mental command needs to be issued by a character in possession of sufficient clearance. And as luck had it, the only guard still alive—a hand-to-hand monk—seemed to have it. His level was unexpectedly high—at least 240, according to Widowmaker's alarmed voice—so he just laughed in the faces of the assaulting soldiers and activated Code Red, listening to the clarion of trumpets behind his back. Then he gave himself to the fight. And boy, was he good. Agile as a mongoose, he dodged, blocked and parried nine blows out of ten—and in doing so, he wasn't particularly finicky, blocking the sharp heavy steel with his bare hands and arms, the remarkable force of his parries making the soldiers grunt with the strain as they tried to keep hold of their weapons that seemed to have a mind of their own. Simultaneously he managed to deal a series of fast sharp blows that made armor sing like church bells, leaving behind angry little fists-shaped dents.

  That was an interesting class. There were virtually none of his kind in our cluster: it took a truly Asian frame of mind to play it. Most of Monk's skills were leveled through meditative trances and monotonous katas totally unsuitable for the Russian temperament. No Russian guy would willingly spend hours navel-gazing or caressing the wind with a stork's imaginary wings. Tanking was his style of choice, with ever-thicker armor and heavier clubs. Hit 'em hard and hurl 'em high.

  Besides, as far as I knew, the most important part of becoming a monk was a quest pilgrimage to the place of one's own enlightenment which was where, according to the sources I'd read, most of the Russian hand-to-hand fighters broke down, giving the philosophical moods the finger and re-roling to assassins.

  Hearing the hum of a dome shield filling with energy, one of our soldiers lost it and threw in his trump card, transforming himself into a bear. His strength and mass tripling, he lunged forward and squashed the nimble monk, ignoring a quick succession of rib-breaking crits. Cold steel flashed in the air, pinning the motionless player down with slurping sounds as jets of crimson splattered everything around. Bang! The critical amount of steel in his body finally sent him to the High Plains of Heaven as the bear's bulk collapsed onto the road compensating for the resulting void.

  Not a moment too soon. The dome shield finally popped open, sending the battered soldiers flying a good twenty paces, right under the feet of the first line of mercs bristling with steel. The combat service support stepped in, helping the soldiers to their feet, healing them and resetting passive shields.

  My turn. I made a show of producing some halfpenny scroll from my pocket, breaking the seal and activating the High Spell. A ravenous twister whirled overhead, soon obscured by the haze of a Minor Dome cast by the group of staff wizards. The clock began ticking.

  Hunching and shrinking under the cooldown, I held the spell. I didn't give a damn about mana—after I'd redirected my priestly 5% of the altar mana flow to myself, I couldn't possibly drain my own reserves, almost like Tianlong who was virtually puking mana. Actually, talking about it, I really should review my contract with the old dragon, reclaiming my other half. Not that I could ever be able to go through it, but that was my indignant inner greedy pig demanding his rights.

  Just as Oksana—whom we'd left behind in the camp—had said, the castle couldn't afford to hire NPC guards. This didn't mean of course that they couldn't be summoned when needed but to do so, you had to be accustomed to their interface, have money available and survive the fifteen minutes of their respawn times. So apparently, the castle's admins had enough common sense not to call for instant reinforcements.

  Still, the castle walls were filling with real players—an indecent amount of them, in fact. Jostling and getting in each other's way, hundreds upon hundreds took their places between the massive crenels. Apparently, the gangsters had some sort of combat emergency training in place ordering everyone carrying a weapon to "report to man the walls!" At least that was what I thought as I ran the virtual cursor over the line of heads in badly assorted cheap helmets. These were all sorts of human miscellany, crowds of low-level whatnots, most likely staff, crafters and higher slaves with an occasional super-dangerous warrior thrown in for good measure, usually way above the 200+. The hand-to-hand monk must have already respawned somewhere else in the castle and had changed into some spare gear. I multiplied his power by the estimated number of the garrison's elite warriors and didn't like the result. I just hoped we weren't going to botch the whole thing.

  Having said that, I'd already let the Vets know about the mission. The plan we'd worked out the night before offered them a share of the loot in exchange for the opportunity of a roll with the Asian gangsters, giving their men an extra bit of free training. They could be available at thirty minutes' notice. Also, we could always call for the mercs' reserves, which was expensive and not too efficient if we had to send them into battle straight off. But at least we knew we had that option.

  Arrows showered our ranks—more for a psychological effect and to bring down the auxiliary classes' mana than to deal any real damage. The defenders looked like a crowd of low-level movie extras with a smattering of half-decent archers thrown in. The mercs' pets lunged for the wall—about forty elementals and summoned creatures in various degrees of undeadness, distracting the enemies and forcing them to expose themselves and their positions. I glimpsed a ranger's blurred outline shoot past along the wall as he scanned the enemy fighters' numbers and levels, sending the information directly to a trance-like analyst busy merging streams from ten status monitors while missing out on all the action. Any independent raid needed an expert like this even though hiring one sent rental expenses through the roof. But in my case, he was a free gift with my VIP order of three hundred men.

  Sixty seconds. A gong sounded, announcing the end of the High Spell. The dome shield collapsed in an avalanche of broken crystal. Too early, wasn't it? The gangsters were apparently too thrifty to afford a decent high-class artifact and accumulating crystals. Shame. I'd already compiled a mental list of all the possible loot behind the castle walls.

  Act two. The assault group had recovered and made for the gateway. Now they had a job on their hands: not just to harry the enemy into activating the shield but to literally nullify the hundred thousand on the durability counter. There were only about twenty of them, but even those was a few too many as the tiny bit of free space by the gate tower couldn't accommodate any more fighters, restricting their movements and guaranteeing damage from friendly fire. Arrows and crossbow bolts sprayed the gate over their heads—rather uselessly though, as iron oak is virtually impervious to piercing damage. Obeying Widowmaker's annoyed command, the archers turned their attention to the immediately anxious defenders while the assault group disappeared in
to a thick mist.

  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 le
ft 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.