The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (31 page)

Eric lay a reserved hand on my shoulder, attracting my attention. "Max, you sure you know what you're doing? This is not fun and games any more. You're escalating the conflict bringing it to a new level. Instead of a toy war with a dozen resurrections you're in for a full-blown occupation campaign. I still can't believe that independent clan leaders have gone along with your plan."

In all honesty, I was equally surprised. No one seemed to consider me a green newb any more: they listened to me in all seriousness, nodding their agreement with the objectives assigned to them without so much as questioning my decisions. It was such a weird feeling when somebody had more trust in you than yourself. I'd no idea what had caused such a sudden surge in my authority: whether it had been my suddenly outed First Priest status, my schmoozing with gods, the previously successful raids or the liberation of the Russian slaves. Personally, I think that success has many sides to it. They must have looked at this on a pros and cons basis. Currently, the resulting balance seemed to be in my favor but had I botched it, I would be in for a long and painful fall.

I continued my mass excommunication on auto pilot as I spoke, "We need to show them we can do what it takes. Now is the time to act from a position of strength. These are no toddlers quarreling in the sandbox exchanging slaps with their toy shovels. This is real serious. I don't think our enemy is in it just for the kicks. Judging by the sheer amount of slaves we came across in the very first castle along on our way, they've long been milking us regularly for free human resources. We need to break this pattern. If in the process we manage to pull a couple dozen more slaves out, I'll be only too happy."

Yes, so I could add them to my clan and gain a few more brownie points
, I added mentally, unwilling to upset this straightforward and rather naïve warrior with my mercenary side.

Click!
Another crystal snapped free, urging me to hurry up. And rightly so: this wasn't a good moment for a cozy afterdinner heart-to-heart. A battlefield is no place to engage in self-reflection.

Aha, and the group over there on that hill had to be a Chinese observer corps. Excommunication. Engage!

And this was a thirty-strong team of dangerous-looking rogues being briefed by a high-ranking enemy officer. Coordinates: forwarded. Eliminate!

Next, a well-defined square of two hundred top warriors clad in steel and mithril. Very dangerous dudes. Excommunicate. Aha, they didn't like it! I ordered a portal set up right in the thick of them, siphoning all our available forces, our five-hundred strong assault group. The enemy's brief moment of hesitation cost them a good fifty men, then their warriors turned to face ours, descending on the Russians who were still busy exiting the portal.

The situation was hanging by a thread, reminding me of an attempt to blow a steel balloon by piercing it with a syringe needle. We really didn't need this stationary pressure! On my command, three more portals opened all around the scuffling entangled bodies, disgorging our reserves and specialized units: rogues, snipers, casters. It was risky—too risky as one of the groups was wiped out mere seconds later as more gangsters hurried to the rescue—but luckily the overall balance was in our favor. The steel hedgehog of the Chinese army had been pulled apart as our rear assault had messed up their impregnable ranks and added a note of chaos to their well-rehearsed fighting techniques.

Casualties approx. fifty-fifty. Our dead had already departed to their resurrection points while we'd managed to take quite a few prisoners. Actually, I was surprised by the modest numbers of the enemy's top combat fighters dedicated to Macaria. It could be misplaced bravado, but they must have considered the Macaria cult a slaves' religion targeting the lower classes with the sole purpose of syphoning XP to the clan elite. Whatever. In any case, I fully intended to profit from it.

"Three minutes till dome breach," I heard the analyst's impassive voice.

Dammit! Just when I had hoped to wipe out piecemeal at least 25% of the gangsters' army! "Target: the archers. Create portals all along the formation line."

The spotter repeated on the staff channel, "Grids A3, A6, A9, B4, B8, B11! A hundred and fifty archers per grid."

I could imagine Widowmaker's eyes and the expressions of the allied clans' observers. The order to attack almost a thousand enemy archers clearly signified a battle of epic proportions.

Six more portals virtually drained my ambush regiments—and still I couldn't discern enough figures marked as "friendly" amid the enemy archers' colorful garments. In any case, killing archers was apparently more fun than trying to ram the solid steel ranks. A crimson mist hung over the seething crowd as rogues and assassins collected their blood toll, stabbing their opponents in the back, critting and maiming them. That was a pack of wolves turned loose in a sheep pen—drunk on blood and jumping on the animals' fluffy white backs in a slaughtering binge.

True, the bulk of the prisoners were regular players who could always request an emergency logout and sit it out away from the heat of the action. At the very least, they could always write to technical support requesting an emergency relocation which was also doable albeit pricey. VIP players were charged ten times the regular fee but at least it gave them priority access to support and lots of extra services.

A thousand-strong indignant uproar shattered the air as the Chinese players couldn't watch the unfolding genocide any longer. Throwing discipline to the wind, they lunged at the impertinent Russians.

"Wansui!"
the earth trembled, making the hair on my neck stand on end.

"If you say so," scowled a warrior next to me with an old-fashioned
Ivanych
moniker more suitable for an old man. He bore a clumsy inscription fresh on his shield,
For my Dad!
The guy had to be one of those Far East conflict kids. Despite its transient nature, the conflict had orphaned tens of thousands of children in Russia alone—and God only knows how many in China, especially considering the civilian casualties from the air strike carried out by the SU 39 air squadron on the power station at the Heilongjiang, known on our side of the border as the Amur river.

It was guys like him that made this kind of battle personal.

The battered archers darted toward the tidal wave of Chinese while the Russian raiders, being turned away from the already closing portals, retreated to their own lines. Those who could, ported out using their own personal gates while the remaining ones joined the ranks, wiped the enemy's snot off their faces and grinned back to my soldiers' welcome. The defense area had expanded to over a thousand warriors. Its size worried me: not to mention the fact that the dome had already given up the ghost with a curious sobbing sound, it also increased the probability of the enemy's obtaining our portal coordinates which could allow them to jump our defense lines. So far it hadn't yet happened, glory be to the Fallen One.

The first wave of attackers had reached us, turning the scorching afternoon into a horror film set. A miscellany of pets, familiars, ghosts and other such creatures rammed human bodies crumpling them by their sheer weight and total lack of concern for their own damage and life. A thousand enemy wizards melted the earth under our feet. That was the first time we regretted consolidating our forces all in one place instead of spreading them thinly over the desert, so high was the concentration of spells per square foot. Personal and mass shields died within seconds, the umbrellas of Minor Domes lighting up and expiring almost at once. Our hundred and fifty clerics were giving it their all. I'd hooked ten of them up to the Altar mana flow and now they were casting non-stop, their eyes manic.

We continued to inch back, grinding our way through the enemy menagerie, when the first Chinese warriors squeezed past their pet's hides and skeletons to join in the slaughter.

Blessed be a circle for its perfect round shape! Thanks to the circle, we had no flanks of rear stripping the enemy of their chance to create a numerical advantage. At any given moment, a hundred soldiers of the outer circle engaged with an equal number of Chinese. Although their average levels were slightly higher, their progress was impeded by their fellow soldiers who tried to push their way through, impatient to get to our fragile frames. Another reason for their stalling was the absence of auxiliary classes—all those clerics, buffers and such, who had by then been shoved aside. The enemy rogues, too, had been left with nothing to do while ours kept horsing around, jumping portals and leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. I had a funny feeling that all those ingredients that were used would be my ruin: jumps between clusters cost a fortune.

Behind my back, I heard the continuous whoosh of the glaive throwers; squat dwarves, disbelieving their luck, lovingly reloaded them with the massive missiles whose heads gleamed purple. Yes, yes, so I had splurged on the most expensive ammo there was. Money is there to spend. But now each gun was firing like an AGS 30 grenade launcher, generously peppering the area in front with a blaze of explosions.

A bit further away, the Engineer Squad held the fort well with its mechanoids. Although they didn't deal much damage themselves, they considerably reduced any incoming damage by compensating it with some crazy regen times. In any case, judging from their report, the animated steel monsters would only be active for a few more minutes, followed by a lengthy self-repair in the tech's warehouse. Gold was slipping through my fingers. A full-blown war was a very expensive business. I didn't think I could last that much longer.

Further on, the uniform ranks parted, making space for a kill machine a.k.a. Snowie. His doubly-blessed mithril tank barrel spread panic among the enemy. It might look like a defenses breach but there didn't seem to be many volunteers to try it on for size: not many could negotiate the forest of tombstones in front of him, so the enemy preferred to shower him with arrows and try their kill magic on him. Snowie was dying to lunge forward—which would have been suicide—but Bomba was doing her best to calm him down. Standing behind his back, she repeated something soothing in an admiring whisper, occasionally protecting his flanks.

Three different-color portals hummed peacefully in the center of our circle, connecting us to the Guild Hall and to a couple of clans that had refused to change their soldiers' bind points. The portals pulsated with a never-ending trickle of resurrected fighters, restored casters, messengers and ammo deliveries. At a certain point, Dan appeared next to me, apparently wishing to come and see for himself. He stood there in silence, taking in the situation. Then the familiar sound of his voice made me turn round.

"So you've let the genie out of the bottle. Happy now? Do you understand that your corrective portal placing idea is a stroke of genius? That it radically changes all modern battle tactics? Now in order to take a castle one will need a force twice as big as before—that's provided the besiegers made sure they'd premarked the area in order to be able to repel the enemy's forays targeting their weakest spots. This ability to create a considerable numerical advantage within seconds is worth its weight in gold. I just hope you have a solution to this problem up your sleeve, too."

I smiled mysteriously, then shook his offered hand. I meant it. I'd been missing our "cloak and dagger"—admittedly crafty but friendly and reliable.

And still we were being overrun. At the current five to one ratio, I couldn't see how we could do them in on enthusiasm alone. And I wasn't prepared to lay down all my trump cards quite yet.

What eventually saved us was my good choice of tactics. My battle plan was based simply on containing the enemy's main forces, ignoring regular soldiers and concentrating on seizing their elite units as well as the more vulnerable groups: casters, siege vehicles, staff officers and support services. Wherever we sighted a squad that sported an unusual amount of gold-engraved armor and feather headgear, the spotter immediately gave us their coordinates, allowing the grab party to land right on top of them. It was funny, really: the moment I excommunicated a soldier or two in a selected group, the remainder scurried in all directions like roaches when you turn the lights on, trying to blend with the crowd and fade into the woodwork.

At a certain point, quantity turned into quality. The gangsters seemed to be losing their enthusiasm by the minute, their dwindling caster ranks unable to heal and rebuff their fighters promptly any more. Their staff officers were dispersed and demoralized, the bulk of them being captured while others had chosen to make themselves scarce. The standoff began to stall; twice tidal waves of new attacks arose half-heartedly and were deterred without much effort. After that, the enemy presence would subside, leaving in their wake our battered circle barely visible over the tops of tombstones.

I peered at our opponents' confused faces. It was now or never. I had to use their moment of weakness, pressurize them and wrench a sudden victory from their hands. Even if it meant a drawn game.

"Cease fire," I commanded over the staff channel. "Send universal signal for negotiation."

Not waiting for the Ice Comet to be launched into the sky—the gaming tradition analogous of the white flag—I parted the wall of panting soldiers and began my walk across the ravaged land toward the enemy. Bagheera sashayed to my right; to my left, the vitrified earth crunched under Snowie's heavy gait. Three silhouettes, walking imperturbably into no-man's land.

Incredibly, the sight of the famed panther—or alternatively, of the fearsome troll—caused the enemy ranks to flinch as they instinctively tried to keep their distance. I physically sensed my authority meter spin in both our clusters.