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

  One problem, though. How was I supposed to get to the City of Light? Recently, I'd been exercising triple paranoia mode and everyone who even hinted that I change my bind point was going to get a pre-emptive shot in the head. I had set up the bind point in my apartment, in the very heart of my domain. My priest skills didn't offer much choice, either: the only place they could teleport me to was the Altar of the First Temple. Apart from that, I was pretty much incommunicado. I could, of course, use the wizards' teleporting services... having said that, how about using scrolls instead? Naturally, being a mage I realized full well they were but crutches for someone devoid of magic skills—but if the truth were known, it was all BS: scrolls were an excellent and very convenient tool provided you could pay. And, glory be to the Fallen One, I could still afford to spend a few gold.

  With a suppressed growl, I restarted the auction console. I just couldn't look at it any more. A quick search offered a plethora of results. Regular scrolls taking you to the main square of a capital city cost about fifty gold—a common choice for various warriors, rogues and other magic-challenged individuals. Prices rose depending on a scroll's level, rarity and distance to the target location, my Portal to Inferno predictably topping the sales.

  I gave it a knowing smile and, whispering come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, began to buy up basic portals, filling my shopping basket with a fat stack of about two hundred sheets. I clicked Pay Now, feeling my bag waver under my order's combined weight.

  Gotcha! I produced a hefty heap of parchments the size of an encyclopedic dictionary and began leafing through them until I found the one I needed. A portal to the City of Light, cast time 8 sec, longer than usual, but what did you want from a scroll? At least it didn't take any mana and, most importantly, anyone could use it.

  I was just about to break the seal and activate the spell when I realized my error. The City of Light was the capital of High Elves whose faction relationship with me had been reduced to pure and simple hatred. Meeting me would be a gift of Fortune for any of their guards or players: their treasury paid good money for an enemy's personal badge.

  At the end of the day, that wasn't a problem, really: the Shadow of the Fallen One that I'd got among other freebie skills with my priestly title could conceal me for an hour from any prying eyes. It wasn't invisibility but rather like a merc's nameless status in his or her contract: the absolute absence of any data regarding my name, clan or any faction affiliation. Certain artifacts could provide a similar effect—I could remember at least one particular high-level rogue skill branch that did exactly that.

  No, that wasn't the problem. The thing was, every game had plenty of curious, idle or stupid players hoping for a jackpot by assaulting these kinds of anonymous chars. As in, he sure must have something to hide! It's similar to taking a stroll on the sidewalk after the rain in a pure white suit. You could bet a hundred gold against a bent nickel that in less than five minutes, some asshole driver would step on the gas aquaplaning into the puddles: just because he could.

  And I really, really didn't feel like dying at the moment. I shuddered remembering Lloth, her citadel and my Respectful Position of Ultimate Humiliation. Mechanically I massaged my shoulders. Sorry, guys. No way was I going to visit my Elven brethren without an escort of bodyguards.

  Now who could I take with me on a serious op like that? Should I just hire a platoon of the available Temple or Castle guards? They did have the free movement option even though it doubled the costs. Also, I'd personally activated free movement for a couple of chosen individuals, namely Snowie and Harlequin. And if money was no object, I could summon a level 400+ Cerberus and just teleport to the main square: like, fancy taking on my mutt? Then again, I was sure there'd be those who'd want to try him out for size and Cerberus wasn't superpooch, especially not on his own. A couple of hundred city guards could do him. The whole op would cost me six grand plus knowing that I'd stripped the Temple of security for at least twenty-four hours. No, the Lands of Light weren't the place to take my Knights Templar to: they'd be aggroed before I knew it.

  Actually, what if I took a couple hundred orcs or Drow archers? I made a quick calculation: a status report showed a warrior's average level as 170, hire costs: five hundred gold a day. A Temple guard of the same characteristics would have cost me 340 gold which was cheaper but so were his skills. It wasn't even the fact that they lacked initiative, intellect or cunning—no, the truth was they didn't respawn and died a natural and very vulgar real death. If your objective is defending castle walls, then you do need devoted soldiers three times cheaper than regular mercs. But on a complex raid, this kind of folk just didn't pay for themselves. You needed different tools there.

  Should I turn to the Vets, maybe? Hire Lt. Brown and his men? Doable, but wasn't I already tired of constantly pestering them for this or that? What respect, what independence could I talk about then? I didn't want to forever remain their little brother in constant need of care and supervision. So I dismissed this option, too.

  My inbox pinged, distracting me from my calculations. Judging by the message tone, it was somebody from my friends list: the bulk of the messages dropped in silently, patiently waiting their turn.

  I opened it. Zena, impatient and twice as ugly!

  "Chief, we're ready! My ladies are choking on their alcocreams as they wait. One cowardly troll girl is all shaking waiting for the Prince Charming you've promised her. And whenever she's nervous, she eats for three of us! I'm afraid, in less than an hour she'll be stuffed senseless. Wonder if you could step up on the promised siring date?"

  Talk of the devil! "Zena, my beautiful green beast, you're just the person I need! Please drop your alcosweets and jump to the main square of the City of Light. I've got a job for you, escorting my bones to the local woods. Just please don't get offended: insulting your sensibilities isn't on the cards..."

  "What if it is? Provided your stamina is up to it. We're weak virtual maidens starved without a strong male hand..."

  "Zena!"

  "All right, all right. Bring your troll round!"

  "Later. He can't show his face in the Lands of Light. Very well, get going. I'll be there in 5 mins."

  I closed the chat, rose from the divine seat and activated the castle artifact. "Lurch, what's Snowie doing? Think you can find him? He's a great guy, shame he can't read. I only found out because he doesn't read my messages."

  Actually, Snowie the troll was anything but stupid. On the contrary: he was a smart and curious individual with a virtually absolute memory. Our Lena in her eternal kindness had once tried to teach him some math, drawing digits with a stick in the sand. Much to everyone's surprise, the troll learned the lesson brilliantly and since then used every opportunity to poke his fat fingers at whatever numbers he came across, announcing their value with pride in his thunderous voice. The magic of knowledge!

  "I know everything that takes place within these walls," Lurch announced, then decided to downplay his bragging, "Or almost everything. As for the club-footed albino, he's trudging toward the Temple's main entrance even as we speak. You'll probably see him in a minute."

  I didn't have time to pose the question about to spill from my lips when I heard a screeching sound approach. The white troll's massive bulk loomed into our field of vision. I'm saying "our" as even the Fallen One and Macaria who had the whole time been sitting on their Temple steps cooing about whatever personal matters they had going, raised their heads to stare at the spectacle.

  Snowie was gingerly pushing a large cart the way you'd push a baby pram. He was surrounded by a flock of tiny goblins tirelessly scurrying this way and that which rather hindered than helped him. Snowie's stare was filled with admiration and silent worship as he focused on his load: the statue of the petrified troll with the mithril tank barrel still clenched in its hands. Admiring it, he repeatedly let the unbearably heavy cart slide off the road, sinking deep into the soft earth. That's apparently where the goblins' job started. They raised su
ch a racket that the albino woke up, taking his admiring eyes off the statue of his personal hero. Straining his powerful bulging biceps, he then jerked the cart back onto the flagstones.

  "Snowie," I called him softly.

  No reaction.

  "Snowie!" I barked. "Stop, now!"

  "Eh? What is it?" he swung his head around absent-mindedly.

  "Where do you think you're taking it?"

  Finally seeing who it was talking to him, Snowie sprang to attention. "Actually, Sir, that's the order! The Chief Treasurer Durin the Smart, Master of the Mithril Smithy, Sergeant of the 4th Hird of Steel Heads, Senior Attorn-"

  "Belay that! From now on, he shall be called Master Durin, period!"

  The troll paused as he assessed which of the two orders took priority within the castle hierarchy. Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, Sir! Master Durin told us to hand all the scrap mithril over to him. And you," Snowie's stare filled with gratitude, then switched back in awe to the Temple's ancient defender, "you did forbid us to break up the statues. So that's how it is now, then..."

  The Fallen One alighted next to us and walked around the petrified soldier. "That's a hero!" he tut-tutted.

  "He is..." Snowie whispered.

  A sudden thought struck me. I turned to the Fallen One, "Do you think you could raise them from the dead? They are heroes any way you look at it. They had fallen defending a sacred cause—the First Temple. You know what Cryl told me? Last time he was in the City of Light, he came across that black-market vendor who offered him a bootleg picture of this sculpture—probably a copy of the painting the Vets had ordered. Apparently, the priests of Light had banned the sacrilegious image but the black market picked up on the demand: too many people felt inspired and motivated by the heroes' feat of courage."

  The Fallen One chuckled, skeptical. Then he stepped close to the figure and lay his hand onto its chest where its stone heart was supposed to be. He listened in, then shook his head in disappointment.

  "I can't. His soul has already suffered a long chain of reincarnations and has lost all connection to this body. I could make you a golem, I suppose, a real good one, level 200 or so, and if I managed to find a few specific ingredients and threw in a good dose of my blood, I could make him as high as 300. Alternatively, I could raise a zombie provided we trap a suitable soul, but I can't guarantee you the result you want. It could be anything: from a drooling idiot to a hateful monster."

  I thought about it. "Shame. No, we don't want a zombie. But a golem... Snowie, what do you think? Would it be too disrespectful to the dead heroes to bring their bodies back into service? They could become the Temple's guards of honor. This way, they'll still serve the right cause."

  Snowie's broad forehead frowned. He tilted his head to one shoulder, reminding me of the Fallen One's earlier gesture. Then he gave a confident nod, "They don't mind."

  I cast a quizzical look at the Fallen One: had they really answered Snowie's silent question? He only shrugged: like, you're asking the wrong person. He then went on to examine the statue again, more thoroughly this time.

  Finally he pronounced his decision, "So be it! I will need some preparation but I could do some of it now, I suppose. Snowie, will you come over, please? Take hold of the barrel—I mean, the club he's holding."

  Startled, he troll shrank. "May I?"

  "You may and you must," the Fallen One said with a deadpan face.

  Snowie stepped toward the statue and reached out, his powerful fingers closing gingerly over the rough barrel all scratched and dented.

  The Fallen One stooped to the statue's ear and whispered something persuasive—pleading and commanding at the same time.

  "Holy shit," I managed, watching the petrified fingers open slowly and jerkily, releasing the ancient artifact.

  Snowie gasped. He picked up the club and held it in his outstretched hands, staring at it.

  "It's rightfully yours!" the Fallen One proclaimed. "The heroes' weapon has chosen its new owner!"

  Confirming his words, a fine runic inscription ran along the tank barrel, sparking, casting invisible buffs.

  The skies thundered their indignation. A sonic boom assaulted our eardrums. The Fallen One scowled, throwing his head back. "Rightfully his! This gift pleases the Gods!"

  The skies thundered again, the second clap weaker and, if I may say so, rather insipid. With a smile, the Fallen One winked at me: we're a force to be reckoned with!

  Macaria, too, added her two cents' worth. She lay her delicate hand onto the rough barrel. A wave of green poured from her fingers, adding detail to the runic writings. Some of her magic didn't find a place to stick to and thudded down onto the flagstones, immediately absorbed by what seemed to be an impenetrable granite. The stone swelled; a net of gossamer cracks ran across it, green tendrils of some clingy plants forcing their way through. Divine magic was nothing to sniff at!

  Again the skies trembled warningly. The Fallen One raised his hand, stopping his overenthusiastic girlfriend. "Enough. We shouldn't try the patience of the universal equilibrium."

  Snowie was choking on his emotions. He held the divine artifact in his strong but gentle hands the way a young mother holds her baby for the first time. The sight was so striking that I couldn't help it: I took a screenshot of the scene, naming it Only death will us part. I wanted to keep it for the clan's archives. I just knew that one day, Snowie would show us all what he was made of; then the historical snapshot of his appropriation of the wonder weapon would take pride of place in our Hall of Fame.

  "One... two... zero," Snowie uttered slowly, reading the markings on the barrel. "What does that mean, Sir?"

  I very nearly blurted, Caliber, but stopped myself just in time. "That's the number of the enemies slain. A hundred and twenty enemies died by his hand in the last battle."

  The troll gasped his admiration. The Fallen One chuckled, then snapped his fingers. The digits glowed crimson as the font changed. Did it mean they were from now on going to keep count of the broken skulls?

  Right. It was all good and well, my warrior acquiring an artifact weapon co-created by ancient technologies and modern divine force. Still, making my green ladies wait wasn't the right thing, especially in view of their razor-sharp goblin tongues. I hurried to pull off some of the more eye-catching gear, stuffing it into my bag as I instructed Snowie,

  "The day of surprises isn't over yet, for you at least. I've got two more bits of news for you: one good and the other good as well. Which one do you want to hear first? The good one? Good choice. The first good news is, you'll be going with me on a long-distance raid. Don't jump like that, please, you'll break all the stonework! Lurch is already chewing my ears! Secondly, I know of a lady who would like to make your acquaintance. She is quite portly but rather shy. Yes, yes, your size, level-176 warrior, half a head shorter than you but even plumper in certain areas. Belly? It's perfect, twice as big as yours. Cool?—you could say that! Now: get yourself smartened up, here's your armory and storeroom access, just make sure you look like... Oh, I've no idea who your crowd prefer to model yourselves after! Make sure you impress the socks off her. I'm off then, be ready in half an hour!"

  I wrapped a silk scarf around my face: I now looked like some lame caricature of a freeman. Then I activated the Shadow of the Fallen One and broke the seal on the parchment. Off we go!

  Once in the city square, I immediately saw them. You'd be hard pressed not to notice Bomba's enormous bulk. She shifted her feet, her nervous fingers fumbling with a massive club of meteorite iron. As I headed for the girls, my uneasy mind registered lots of curious glances. Anonymity was indeed a mixed blessing.

  I approached the group and let go of the scarf's end, revealing my face. "Greetings, ladies!" I said with a wink and a toothy grin. "Any place for me here?"

  In contempt of all secrecy, Zena opened her eyes wide. "Here's our mysterious Laith coming! Oh, don't I just love enigmatic men!"

  I hissed at her, then turned to Bomba. "My
warrior is out on a mission at the moment, but he'll be back in an hour. Then I'll introduce you, don't you worry."

  I shouldn't have said anything. Bomba's face darkened further, her fidgety hands leaving dents in the club. Women! I shrugged, then summoned Hummungus. "Saddle up! Off we go, ladies."

  Once we were stretched in a single file along a narrow city street, I nudged Teddy forward, catching up with Zena's fleabag. "Listen," I asked softly, leaning closer, "what's all this now? Why is she all shaky like a schoolgirl on a first date? Tell me: is Bomba underage?"

  She cringed briefly, then gave me a long studying look. "Quite the opposite. I think she's forgotten what it feels like. Last time she was on a date was in the days of the USSR. There used to be a country of that name once, if you remember."

  I froze open-mouthed. How old was she then? Eighty? Ninety? Did that mean that all the other Sullen squad members were just a bunch of geriatric belles? Could that be the reason behind their weird race choice? Considering they couldn't have been interested in male attention for the last thirty years at least.

  I looked at my amazon escort with different eyes, searching for some telltale signs betraying their real age. Zena caught my eye. She bit her lip and swung her green bangs, turning away.

  "Zena, don't! What difference does it make, really? We're all immortal here, aren't we? Another thousand years, and I'll catch up with you: what's my thousand thirty against your thousand eighty?"

  "Thousand ninety-six," she corrected me.

  I grunted, shaking my head in surprise. "Wow. And still it doesn't matter. Real life's got nothing to do with it! A handful of giggly goblin chicks and a shy troll lady—you're more alive than lots of people I know!"

  She looked up at me, hope in her moist glistening eyes. Reaching out her tiny goblin hand, she clutched at my arm and hurried on,

  "You need to understand. We were ancient all right, but we weren't demented! A creative career encourages longevity and clear thinking. Take Freckles—she was a university lecturer right until she went perma. Me, I had my paper on mathematics to complete so I spent every day up to my eyeballs in research. Our kids and grandkids, they took after us, too. They were all into science. So one day my boy brought me this magazine with one of the first articles on the recently declassified perma trip. Those were his words exactly, 'Mom, this is a chance for all of you!'