Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) Page 13

  The clan leader managed to lay his hands on the as yet-unheard-of mount: the Fiery Pegasus. The list of its potential development options left the Korean chief speechless: on reaching level 40, Pegasus grew a pair of phantom wings, upgrading itself to a flying mount. The first in the world!

  The successful mini dungeon missions left the clan dangerously overconfident. Greed replaced their initial caution, their appetites spurring them into ever riskier pulls. The clan had lost all sense of moderation.

  The raid entered the lands of the Arch Demon Asmodeus near the watchtower. Its unheard-of demon guards were only going through the motions of guarding. Their rich gear was begging to be looted. After a brief council, the clan pulled itself together and attacked. And what an attack it was! They put all their heart in it as well as triple precautions.

  It took them less time to reset the tower's hits to zero than it did to finish killing the guards. With a groan, the ancient structure collapsed onto itself, turning into a heap of rocks enveloped in a cloud of dust. The guards, however, proved tougher opponents. The battle chat was flooded with messages, so no one paid any heed to the initial reports of the crits received, of the double damage to the players' vulnerable spots, or of the enemy's especially successful combos and spells.

  The ten-minute restore and respawn break was more than welcome. It allowed the clan's analysts to work through the bulk of information received, adding new pics and recommendations to the clan's bestiary.

  The loot was distributed between the mule and the treasurer. The latter received, apart from the usual gold, also the Demonic Soul Crystals found on the killed Infernal guards. Finally the clan members understood the true meaning of the entry fee demanded at the gates of the Seventh Heaven. What an incredible stroke of luck! The quality of their success was transforming into quantity!

  After that, they encountered a small demonic village. The raid made a quick job of it, looting some impressive unique crafting ingredients half of which they'd never heard of before. The clan's analysts got busy leafing through the dusty ancient manuscripts in search of forgotten recipes that had previously been considered the figments of the chroniclers' and demon fighters' imaginations.

  Soon the tall spires of Asmodeus' Small Citadel loomed on the horizon. Under a different set of circumstances, the clan leader would never have dared to besiege it. But it looked as if no one had expected them: only a handful of guards stood watch on the walls, the gate itself open in a silent welcome. Unbeknown to themselves, the Koreans had chosen a highly opportune moment. Asmodeus and his personal guards were busy defending his borders against some cheeky neighbor or other.

  As the clan leader watched the castle guards in their gleaming armor, glimpsing their wizards generously hung with precious artifacts, he could clearly see his own army equipped in this legendary gear, gradually bringing the entire cluster — or beyond, even — under their rule.

  So he took the risk.

  On his signal, an avalanche of sentients flooded through the open gate. Now the clan had to fight dozens of demons at once. The thirty or forty warriors per mob that the clan could afford just wasn't enough. The battle dragged on, their loss counter spinning faster. Had it been happening in real life, the Koreans would have already been defeated. But the cheat's trick — the humans' ability to resurrect — had wrestled victory from the demons' clawed hands. Their numbers kept dwindling while the raiders' ranks remained virtually the same.

  The crimson sun had set on the Koreans who first finished off the guards, then the town volunteers and finally, the crippled gray-haired veterans of Infernal wars. The clan's healers puked cinnamon. Hung with death debuffs, the Korean warriors had already discarded their ruined gear and armor and changed into their spare kits. Repairing it took the time and place that they didn't have. Which was why the clan leader breathed a sigh of relief when he sighted the figures of baby demons and fat demonic females in the defenders' thinning ranks. The clan had made it.

  They had already looted a couple of shops and an alchemist lab and were now busy monotonously ramming the arsenal door when a crimson portal spluttered open in the castle square, letting out a furious Asmodeus.

  His border campaign wasn't going that well. Verenus' legions were shoving his elite troops back, but the fallen seraphim was obliged to leave them and hurry back to his citadel in order to personally punish the cheeky rats striking him in the back.

  The already-exhausted clan was spread too thinly around the densely built area to offer any resistance. And once this King of all demons engaged his Soul Trap ability, the clan reeled back and fled, hurriedly activating emergency portals and caring little about the safety of the tanks and the few others who had preserved some semblance of clear thinking while fighting the rearguard action.

  They most likely didn't even hear the wailing of souls ripped out of bodies in the chaos of close combat, the players' limp waxen shapes sinking to the ground.

  * * *

  I floated over the sea of people, swaying to the golem's heavy stride. He plowed through the crowd like an ice-breaker, followed by the clan's main forces lined up in arrowhead formation. The faithful Snowie covered our rear. Draky and Craky — still jerky and nervous after their maiden battle — protected our flanks. The remaining fighters mixed ranks with the few surviving NPCs.

  My Ear Cutters were few. Then again, this was their lifestyle of choice: a loner's war deep behind the enemy lines, free from strategic restraints, slaughtering the cloth-clad casters to their hearts' content until they took five lives for one of their own in a glorious "do-or-die" spirit. A commander's eternal predicament. How did other war leaders live with it? Glory be to the Gods for our immortality — and for the fact that I didn't need to send anyone on missions of no return.

  No one cussed at us, no one threatened to meet us in dark alleyways. On the contrary: I noticed a thoughtful expression on the faces of quite a few alliance members as they watched us go past. I just hoped I'd managed to sow the seed of doubt in a few minds. They needed to think about their future, not only of the immediate benefits — and of the wellbeing of those who were building this future for them right now. Those who were doing their bit to stop slavery and undermine the monopoly of the Gods of Light, laying the grounds for succession laws and spreading our cluster's fame and glory. A bit of thinking might do them some good.

  Aha, and there came the first signs of change. Lone figures fell away from the enemy ranks, joining our wake. My inbox began beeping, reporting incoming messages. I opened a couple. I was right: they contained more or less tentative requests to join the clan. I forwarded them all to Cryl. This was one part of his job he was great at.

  At the same time I sent the Vets a heartfelt thank-you letter, inviting them to the Parents Day, expecting their officers' families and all couples with children. They all had a great surprise in store for them. I was pretty sure our guys hadn't spilled the beans yet: after all, they had all sworn an oath of silence in front of the Fallen One. Besides, the capabilities of our canine lie detectors had admittedly reduced some of them to hiccupping.

  Personal teleports popped open everywhere while group portals slurped up entire squads. Exhausted by the three-day siege, the alliance warriors hurried to return to their families and whatever business awaited them in real life, while some couldn't wait to install their butts on bar stools to relax with a bottle of Dwarven Extra Dry.

  We approached the mutilated castle. The mercs crowded by its walls. The alliance had cynically used them as cannon fodder, too unwilling to face the zombies themselves and suffer the agonizing loss of xp for death at the hands of an NPC.

  Now these swords-for-hire were restless with indignation as the exhausted, nervous raid coordinator strained his voice at them,

  "The contract cancellation is legitimate as it took place within the one-hour trial period. All of you will be paid the usual five-percent compensation. That's all I have to say. Any complaints should be filed with the guild."

  T
he crowd buzzed with righteous anger. Many of the mercs weren't so much worried about their pay as they were about the dubious nature of the contract itself. The coordinator sliced the air with his hand in anger and broke the seal off a teleport scroll. Gone. No one to argue with anymore. The conflict died away, the crowd's attention switching naturally to us.

  Surprisingly, they didn't seem too alienated. We were greeted with smiles and cheers, and even a few brotherly hugs. But of course. At least half my men were ex-mercs, weren't they? So today, those who hadn't responded to our first invitation got a dose of food for thought: were they really supporting the right side?

  Here we were, the glorious life-redeemers wearing white, up to our ears in people's love, rose petals and gold. And there they were, saved by the bell from shedding a child's blood. And we'd been the ones ringing the proverbial bell.

  My inbox began beeping twice as hard. Dammit! I added the new automated message to its primary filter,

  Please contact Cryl for any hire requests. In the meantime, here's the link to the Clan's Wiki page.

  That was it! Let them go through the lower ranks with their applications. Rookies shouldn't expect a general to tell them how to hold their rifles.

  And still the beeping sound didn't stop, soon turning into a happy squeak. I looked up — just in time! The rainbow baby dragon, Orcus' familiar, dropped onto my shoulder. Aha, so he remembered his Mother Hen!

  The little dragon rubbed happily against my cheek, simultaneously brushing off Craky's huge curious head. Our Phantom Dragon seemed to be interested in this tiny colorful creature that looked just like a real dragon. Apparently unimpressed by its puny malnourished appearance, Craky reached into some secret stash under his wing and produced a ragged piece of mithril armor complete with a gaping hole from some high-explosive impact.

  Craky offered it to the Familiar who showed an immediate interest in the treat. I stepped in just in time, stopping the act of culinary abuse. "No, no, no, no! Out! Put it away! I don't want you to spoil him too! Better give it to me!"

  Craky shrank back and hastily munched on the "cookie" himself, afraid of me taking it from him.

  "Now, little Rainbow, where could your master be?"

  The Familiar turned his cheerful little face to the left with compass precision, whistling happily.

  Orcus stood modestly aside, grinning with all his forty-two teeth. His men waited nearby: five silent green-skinned berserkers.

  "Whoa, boy!" I tapped my hand on the back of the golem's steel head and scrambled to the ground. "Hi there, you big bastard!" I attempted to hug the orc's enormous shoulders. "Thanks for the message! Not a minute too soon!"

  He faltered, "They signed us up for a dirty game. But it all looked correct on paper. We couldn't very easily jump it. So I just did my bit."

  "You did right! I spoke to your brass, they're a right bunch of dickheads. If it goes like this, in another fifty years you'll be suppressing peasants uprisings and mounting gallows along country roads to terrorize the population into submission."

  His face darkened. "That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Max. We want to work for you. Even if we don't earn as much, we don't care. Our reputation is more important. My men believe you. They know you won't play any dirty tricks."

  I looked over the five warriors who tensed up while awaiting my verdict. They were excellent fighters. The Rainbow Familiar too was a hefty argument in any scuffle. Orcus had risked a lot forwarding me a confidential contract. If, of course, it wasn't the Guild's game to plant their own man in my ranks. But even then I had my trusty lie detector to fall back on.

  "Did you say 'we'?" I clarified.

  Orcus nodded, showing me his scarred claw-like paw. "Each of my boys is like a finger — a useful tool you can do a lot with, even pick your own nose. But together," he clenched a calloused-knuckled fist, "together we're a force capable of punching through a tank!"

  To illustrate his point, Orcus grunted, throwing his arm forward, and jabbed a lopsided garden column which crumbled into a cascade of marble fragments.

  "Impressive," I said. "Consider the initial interview passed. The rest is standard procedure. You'll have to fill in a detailed questionnaire which will be double-checked via our own channels. Plus a couple of our own personal tricks."

  He smiled skeptically. "Sorry, Max, no offence. I could tell you my official cover story and your channels would confirm it hook, line and sinker, including the official rebukes I received and my own amateur attempts at concealing a few petty crimes. But in doing so, you and your channels would touch off a dozen clever little tripwires that would bring you to the attention of certain confidential but very thorough parties. The problem being, the truth in my cover story stops at the end of my third year in Suvorov Military School when one very serious governmental office set its sights on me."

  I cast him a long look. "I appreciate your honesty. This isn't the best place for this kind of conversation, but we'll get back to it one day. I might offer you a more interesting position. I'll be equally honest with you. We lack professionals really badly. We're all amateurs playing it by ear. So far we've been winning thanks to our cheek and a few divine connections."

  He grinned. "Cheek brings success."

  "You could say that."

  The cheering of the crowd around us interrupted our conversation. Everyone was greeting Fuckyall and Dana who'd come out for the first time after the three-day siege.

  Fuckyall was on his last legs. I don't think he'd managed to grab any sleep at all. A serious-looking boy of about five years of age clutched at the Princess' hand. Or rather, it was her who held him tight as he kept trying to step in front of her, shielding her with his body. A thin stiletto glistened greedily in his hand.

  The Royal couple was guarded by three dangerous-looking zombies. Level 180 — not at all bad for what technically still was a newb location.

  I walked to meet them. The crowd parted respectfully at the sight of the Chinese raid commander, the clan leader, the First Priest — anyone but the mid-level kid that I was. That was flattering and burdensome at the same time. People had more faith in me than I did myself.

  "Hi, Max. Good job you came. We were about to have our clogs popped for us."

  I returned his strong handshake. "Sorry about the delay. Organizational problems. Followed by a few repercussions."

  The crowd grinned, many of them realizing how hard it was to call up three hundred sentients at the drop of a hat.

  Dana regally offered me a dainty hand. I faltered. Was I supposed to shake it or kiss it? Still, I chose not to injure the First Priest's reputation. Princesses were many while he was unique. I gingerly squeezed her warm fingers strewn with plain silver rings. Fuckyall wasn't wearing his usual gorgeous gear, either. This siege had cost them a lot.

  Still serious, the little boy proffered me his hand. But once we exchanged our greetings, the tension in his eyes seemed to ease off a bit.

  "How old is he?" I asked Fuckyall in a quiet voice. "Five?"

  He lovingly tousled his son's hair. "A hundred and nine days! He can't wait to grow up to protect his Mom and be like his Dad. So he keeps growing. This is AlterWorld, after all."

  The mind boggles. As I tried to fathom this new information, Dana turned to me,

  "Prince — or should I call you First Priest? I'm sorry, I don't really know which title I should use to address you.'

  I smiled. "Call me Max."

  "Very well, Max. My husband did tell me a thing or two about you. But I had no idea your clan was so diverse! We've been watching it from the North Tower. All those dragons, hell hounds, goblins, dwarves and Drow assassins — they're all local, aren't they?"

  Craky's curious head parted the surrounding crowd, staring at us with eyes the size of serving platters. I nodded and lovingly shoved his prickly cheek, nudging his spiky towering head aside. Then we went on with our conversation.

  "You're right. We have all sorts. I just hope that you would like t
o join our motley crew."

  Fuckyall nodded at the door, inviting us to enter his ravaged but undefeated castle. "Dinner is ready. We could all use a proper meal. We can discuss everything as we eat. Orcus, don't stand there like we don't know you. Don't you remember how we went through this castle together two years ago, you and I, slaughtering zombi- oh, sorry, babe."

  The Princess burst into laughter waving his apology away. "Get away with you! We've spoken about it so many times. The zombies you mean were less conscious than a door handle. Zero point zero identity. You wouldn't be offended if I told you I used to hunt trilobites? If humans evolved from them, doesn't it make them your cousins of sorts? That's if Darwin's theory is correct of course, of which I have my doubts."

  We dined heartily, as men should after a good scuffle. The zombies we'd invited to the table tasted the offered dishes out of curiosity while hungrily sniffing the odors emitting from the open windows. Outside in the yard, a dozen lambs was being roasted specially as a treat for the Cursed House's warriors. Well, not exactly roasted — rather being just shown the fire, making sure they were rare not raw.

  Dana alone partook of her plate elegantly like an Elven Royal should, especially if the said Royal had somehow managed to preserve her ancestral set of fancy table silver for three and a half covers. With all that, the Princess was gradually thawing out, the Drow's haughty airs falling away from her like foam in a shower, revealing a cheerful girl next door. As it turned out, her AI had been grown in a large Slavic family. She'd read the same books and watched the same movies as we had, so now she was plastering us with familiar catch phrases, laughing contagiously at our jokes. The diners were all taken by her, secretly envying Fuckyall for unearthing this treasure.

  In the corner of the dining hall, the Singing Shell was crooning some upbeat tune. The fancy whiffs from the multicolored candles diffused the perfumed aroma of a flower shop. Women certainly knew how to make a house a home. For a brief moment, the thought made me sad. Taali, Olga...