The Battle Page 9

  Hestia was the keeper of the hearth. Most real estate owners – even mayors – worshipped her as either their first or second divinity. Her freebies were too good to pass up; higher comfort and home safety levels, more luck for crafters beneath their blessed roofs and fine bonuses for those who defended their homes.

  Hestia, the virgin goddess who'd turned down Apollo and Poseidon. The elder sister of the first-generation Olympians. Yet too weak for the AlterWorld. The Sun God had taken advantage of her weakness, unwilling to restrain his lust. I take what can be taken. The logic of the master of life.

  My recollections of the Sun God's Patriarch were full of rape and violence accompanied by odd rituals. The Sun God trusted no one from his circle, avidly seeking a way to get all the mana flow for himself and brutally crushing any and all dissenting views. His sickly sweet claims of democracy were a smoke screen for total tyranny. Man, was I familiar with this tactic.

  Hestia wasn’t the only pretty lady of the Light Pantheon. Nike was next on the list. The winged goddess of victory, the sister of Strength, Might, and Jealousy which, according to the Ancient Greeks, always accompanied the winner.

  Nike held weapons and trophies in her hands, symbolizing fine rewards for her worshippers: higher XP and loot, more rare items dropped, cumulative bonuses for victories and goodies. It was no surprise that most all of the Sun God's worshippers offered her expensive gifts.

  And, lastly, Hermes. I could only applaud the Sun God for finding such a helpful and completely safe candidate. On one hand, Hermes was the master of commerce, theft, intelligence, alchemy and magic. On the other hand, he was a merry rogue in winged sandals, always eager to please: he went wherever he was sent.

  All this I considered as I pondered the fate of the sleeping god.

  Was I to finish him, to acquire an ingot of precious adamant yet lose this unique location? No. To kill the sleeping is sheer impropriety. And I was not eager to part with the ability to pause time.

  But to waken him? Fuck that! Lloth was already plenty enough for me. The very thought made me want to surround the sarcophagus with aerial bombs just in case.

  I could’ve built a mithril cage or a steel chest around him. But that was a bad decision. He’d probably bear a serious grudge against me for that later. I didn’t need that, so I decided to set up something simple instead, like a presidential bedroom suite.

  For real, I’d let Lurch have complete freedom with the interior design, funds provided! A golden altar, rare fragrances, and a magic singing sink with a five-octave vocal spectrum. No, better: gorgeous priestesses to pray and polish the glass for years. I’d give it my very best... and I’d throw in one of those tiny doors with a fancy lock on the sarcophagus. So that visitors could slip in some flowers, or reach in for a little blood.

  The rest of the crypt’s décor quickly formed in my mind’s eye; a wine cellar for aging alcohol, loot storage, small equipment repair shop, warrior housing for leveling up, officers’ quarters and my very own office along with a recreation area to relax in.

  Giving my imagination a break, I looked up and estimated the crypt’s dimensions. Pity; it looked like I’d have to cut back on my wishes.

  Plank beds replaced the comfy couches as my imaginary resort shrank to just a nice set of barracks. But it mattered little. The key here was the opportunity to put my warriors through a time anomaly and level them up at the droids’ expense. I wished I’d known how deep the dungeon went, what the last station number was and where did the giant gold mana circuit lead.

  The First Temple had less than six days of immunity left. About a hundred fifty years local time. Hell yeah! Of course, there were a few problems: the spiral passage would have to be widened to let the larger trolls, ogres, and golems pass through. I needed Snowie and my personal guard. Plus, the clan already had about thirty fatasses of different races.

  No more than five warriors would fit into one station at a time, even if huddled together. Not that that was needed. Each station had four monsters with fifteen-minute respawn timers. It was an ideal environment for lazily leveling up a small group. The monsters were rather high level though, even on Station 1. Nothing, however, that proper rotation and support couldn’t help handle.

  I grew cold at my next thought. Within the next six days, my warriors would need to be paid for a hundred and fifty years! Plus repairs, ammunition, and other expenses. Every second, a whole crowd of warriors would jump out of the portal after a week-long training session in the dungeon. They’d flood the pubs, their own beds (poor wives!), and the House of Pleasures.

  All of the dungeon loot was either scrap metal or high-tech gadgets: good for amusement, not payment. True, the armor plates from Station 5 were made from some composite including almost two percent mithril. But that was pitiful.

  The holed octagons that dropped instead of real money, I planned to keep as the clan tax. Couldn’t give the Droids away, either. The modules’d go to the armory, but the rest of the scrap iron would have to be bought for gold. I couldn’t keep all the loot. The boys’d turn against me. That could result in a quiet protest or even a full-blown mutiny.

  Whether a working Droid could be built was a tough question. I guessed that it couldn’t. Otherwise, Tavor’s guards would’ve been walking tank prototypes with an EMRG and reactive armor, not a coupla golems.

  Anyway, I had to monetize my right to this miracle. But I decided against auctions because of their commissions, virtual police, and blocking of finances.

  I resorted to a regular announcement board. But I paid for all the extra stuff to make an impression: the nice font, the anonymous postman, the topmost position and the wide distribution. They needed to see that I was serious. I also paid for a rare expert rating service testifying to my seller trustworthiness: a guaranteed high trust score and my ticket to the "Top 100 AlterWorld’s Most Influential Persons" list. So yeah, it had its pluses.

  Thus, I prepared two packets:

  Attention! AlterWorld first-timers! Those gone perma, you have a unique opportunity!

  Don’t like your digitized body? Sick of green skin? Scared of your own reflection? Ogre’s natural retardation kicking in? Don't sweat it!

  I can help you! I can put your mind into a new body! Unique, high-level avatars available! Male and female. High levels, top skills, rich histories and high NPC-society ranks.

  The ritual is complicated. There are risks involved. An adaptation period will follow.

  SERIOUSLY expensive! PM with serious inquiries only.

  Also, I’d digitized the mercenary against his will. I could perform this trick again with full cooperation. So:

  Attention! Let me perform a miracle and bring back hope! For those whose minds are preventing them from going perma!

  I have express-digitization technologies capable of busting any barriers of a consciousness anchored in reality. Fast, safe, outrageously expensive. PM me. Supplies extremely limited.

  Thus I dropped another bomb into the merry gaming AlterWorld. Something to chat about, to pull your ass-hair over, to forget the quests of Light for. For every kilojoule of the creator’s spark I’d spend, I would demand several favors, both small and large, including an oath of allegiance to the Fallen One. An eternity in exchange for loyalty and gold.

  I pondered for a moment. Then sent a dozen orders to the clan and prepared to send out messages for the Analyst, Widowmaker and Orcus. I copied the shreds of Tavor’s information that had remained accessible. I carefully examined his personal file dump, the virtual screenshot album, the template and log settings. I bumped into password requests over and over again, leaving me staring at an empty space. This was a master’s touch indeed, a triumph of personal security.

  At least all this gave me a good idea. I resolved to hire specialists to develop a similar security system for my clanmates. Installation would be mandatory. While you’re in another player’s body, the chances of someone stealing your avatar were quite high.

  The info packets were
lined up to be delivered and awaited their transfer to the outer world. I didn’t want to delay; my mission was only half complete. The castle had not yet been fully seized.

  I got up and brushed off my clothes, then looked at the far wall appraisingly. The main entrance arch was sealed with a dull, semi-transparent magic field. This was the passage that had once been guarded by two huge golems, through which Tavor’s rescuers had burst into the crypt. It had to lead to the heart of the castle, I just knew it.

  Broken bones crunching underfoot, I approached the arch. A motionless golem stood beside it. The precious mithril resisted moss and mold but was covered in dust. The stooping, sullen-looking figure had clearly broken down due to its magic battery running low.

  And there was another problem.

  In order to get this type of machinery going, the dungeon had to have an incessant supply of charged crystals. And even then... in the event of an intense battle, the battery would be drained within an hour. Recharging it would take a high-level wizard a whole day of tedious work.

  Still, the golem was a fine trophy. Its controlling artifact would have to be replaced, as those things were usually password-protected or hopelessly tied to their operators. Other than that, my master of crossbow artillery had just got himself yet another cool piece.

  I approached the magic field of the arch. The iridescent magic film reddened and bulged out, reaching for me like a predator.

  Fuck! I started back, scratched my chin pensively, then slapped myself on the wrist. Damn Tavor’s habits!

  Clearly this barrier was not part of the lower area of the castle’s Dome Shield which was closed and spherical. Didn’t look like Small Travel Altar either, which was a new mod for the Dome. This tiny energy hog of a mod had just recently hit the market. Its popularity soared, noticeably choking the profits of the armored door and stained-glass window businesses.

  A week ago, Lurch had sent me a request to obtain forty-three sets of force field doors of various elite-level capacities and dimensions. Oddly enough, Orcus and Durin backed up my amateur designer on this one, so I knew I’d have to cough up the money for it soon.

  Yet this arch was more complex than a magic barrier. It reached for me anxiously as if yearning to taste warm blood. Wait, I thought, was that last thought my own guess, or the body’s memory? Well, here you go, insatiable bitch!

  I held out my hand, barely forcing myself to stay still as the magic field threw itself at me with lightning speed. The crimson film wrapped around my wrist, bit down lightly and licked off a drop of blood. In an instant it determined whether I had the right to enter, or if it should bite my arm off.

  Exhaling disappointedly, the magic guard turned a friendly green and pulled back. On the second try, my hand went through the field without encountering resistance. Holding my breath for some reason, I unhesitantly stepped in.

  It worked! The outgoing mail was sent, the PM inbox flooded with incoming messages. I sent the automatic log forwarding script to Widowmaker, then looked around carefully.

  Three stationary portals lighted a small platform with their glow. Livin’ rich: that was quite a bit of energy to splurge on comfortable and speedy transportation. The dusty ladder, which led somewhere far up and was poorly lit by widely-spaced torches, reassured me in my conviction.

  I got the logic; considering the crypt’s time flow, to waste precious minutes going up the ladder would’ve been nuts. But I dared not enter the portals. Hell knows what torture chamber, guard housing, or complicated trap Tavor’s perverted imagination might’ve led me into.

  It was better to go on foot. It wasn't as if I had a crown that could tumble from my head while climbing stairs. Plus, I had to place the last Portal Beacon somewhere along the way. Otherwise why had I paid crazy money for it at the auction and crushed the other desperate bidders so unfairly? I highly doubted I could lead my clanmates through that paranoid magic field arch.

  During my five-minute rush up the stairs, I quickly paused to slip the beacon into a crack in the wall that my eye had happened upon. The massive door creaked as I entered the inner castle passageways.

  The relaxed guards sprang to their feet nervously. I made a stern face and sharply nodded in response to their salutes. The sound of the portal snapping shut made me wince. I listened to the approaching sound of heavy footsteps.

  A shortish fat man entered the hall. He had the flat ears of a wrestler. Instantly he began bowing and chattering subserviently,

  "Oh, wonderful! The Master has returned! You’ve been gone for thirty-seven hours! May I inquire how much would that be in your time?"

  "Twenty-nine years," I was quick to answer, remembering the mercenary’s count.

  "Oh dear!" an enthusiastic look came over his face. He bowed respectfully.

  Then his gaze settled on my bandaged arm. His eyes betrayed an almost sincere alarm. "Master’s wounded?! Shall I summon a healer?!"

  I waved him away. "Not necessary. I’ve received all the treatment I needed. The wounds inflicted by divine beings don’t heal so easily. I’m more worried about my memory lapses. Remind me, who are you?"

  The fat man opened his mouth in astonishment, wringing his chubby hands in a funny way, and wailed, "How do you mean, Master?! Oh, what a tragedy!"

  Tavor’s body reacted to disobedience as usual. A heavy slap of the steel gauntlet crushed one of the fat man’s ears, splashing the left side of his face with scarlet drops.

  I swallowed nervously and clenched my fists, regaining control of Tavor's body. With a slight quiver in my voice, I ordered, "Answer me!"

  Fearfully looking at the spiked steel fist, he assumed an impossibly contorted pose, staining the marble floor with blood. Then he murmured, "Forgive me, Master! I’m your manager, Pooh!"

  "As in Winnie the Pooh?" I allowed myself a triteness.

  The little man chuckled obsequiously. "If you like! May I provide a summary of the events that have taken place in your absence?"

  "You may! But on the way to the Control Room. Lead on!"

  There was a hint of surprise in his eyes. My requesting him to lead the way must have been weird. But he obeyed. The manager even minced along backwards, multitasking. One eye was on me, the other was looking about as he blabbered the news and waved the servants out of the way with his stubby hands.

  "The gatherer teams acquired a hundred and nine rare resources. Those incapable of acquisition have been transferred to farm teams as per your orders. They have gone up sixty one standard levels. Twenty percent went to the venerable Ivan the Terrible, and the rest awaits you..."

  I ground my teeth. "And where is the venerable Ivan now?"

  The manager skimmed through some papers and replied immediately, "The grand master of the torture affairs has just returned from the AU with a new batch of slaves. By the way, there are some marvelous specimens for your menagerie! A pirated copy of the Flow soloist’s avatar, and the forcefully digitized Ms. Madagascar just as she appears!"

  A hoarse and infinitely hopeless female cry echoed across the halls as if to affirm his words.

  The fat man smiled. "They’re working on them now. Soon, the tender, obedient chics will join the rest. May I remind you, there are some vacancies among the Living Bed and the Throne Mat slave girls..."

  "Ivan and the three girls from the last batch are to report to the Control Room immediately," I ordered. "He needs to be personally present for an important sacrifice..."

  "Yes, Master!"

  The manager mumbled away into his communications artifact. The same instant, the castle shook. The corridor walls began to move. New crossings opened, the humpbacked ladders bulged out. Twisting like a Rubik’s Cube, the castle once again turned into an unassailable monolith. Instead of a straight path, before us lay a T intersection guarded by instantly alerted warriors.

  I froze, dumbfounded. The fat man nervously glanced at his inner interface clock.

  "A routine castle configuration change," he said. "Happens every twelve hours due t
o our code yellow state of alarm. Let’s see... it’s the Delta layout, so we turn right here. Better not go left. The ninth assault resistance sector’s there now; three rows of traps and creatures from the bestiary."

  As I looked around, puzzled, and watched my stupid GPS draw a new map over the old one, the manager kept consulting his papers. "Your worthless parent has had a lucid moment and requested the torture routine to be reduced from Severe to Moderate. Shall I refuse?"

  I swallowed hard and could barely refrain from my impulsive wish to rip out my own avatar’s heart with my bare hands. "Cancel the torture... in the entire castle!"

  The fat man raised his brow in surprise but didn’t dare disobey. I added just in case,

  "Temporary cancellation, until further orders. Pain emanations may betray our location to divine beings."

  The little man nodded with respect and held the communications artifact to his face again. Within a minute, it became easier to breathe inside the castle. The astral pressure grew noticeably lighter.

  The further we went, the more high-level sentries I saw. Here, the groups guarding the intersections each included a pair of assault golems. There were scores of high-tech barriers: bars, three-foot-thick pressurized doors studded with gun slots, pillboxes as well as barrels of flammable alchemic substances and poisons.

  The holes in the ceiling, the dark cracks in the walls, and the slightly shifting floor tiles all promised many surprises.

  Whoever’d dare attack this place was in for a blood bath... And for a level loss, considering the huge amounts of hired NPCs.

  Finally, the zigzagging corridor led us to an octagonal hall. There was a mithril door in one of its walls, considerately covered by a protective force field. The shapes of massive assault golems stood motionless in the corners, their spinal contacts pressed against the gold mana circuits.