The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (6 page)

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 such 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!'

"So we got our nonagenarian tea party together and there we made up our minds. The rest was paperwork. We couldn't have cared less about all those bodylicious Elfas. Practicality was our primary choice.
A smaller surface area is harder to hit with a stabbing weapon!
" she mimicked someone, apparently repeating one of their arguments. "Old fools! You should have seen us right after we went perma: a bunch of old goblin hags, hunched and shuffling their feet. But soon the virtual world gave us the works. We stood up straight, our minds rejuvenated, our bodies filling with hormones. We could have lived happily ever after, but now we're stuck inside these wretched clowns!" Zena thumped her own chest in disgust.

I listened to the ex-granny's story in silence. I didn't know what to say that could make her feel better. Actually, she probably didn't want my sympathy. She just needed to get it off her chest.

By then, Zena had already gotten a grip. "I think that we should be about thirty or forty now, each of us, in terms of hormones and physiology. And the process isn't finished yet—quite simply because we don't want it to. When you've one foot in the grave and been offered a cup of immortality potion and another of eternal youth—it's not easy to stop drinking it, you know."

She fell silent. I cautiously squeezed her tiny paw. "Zena. I'm pretty sure we'll work something out. Some kind of magic or a race-changing artifact."

She chuckled, then sniffed her slightly reddened nose. "See if I care," she waved my suggestion away. "Life is good as it is. Goblins aren't that awful, after all. I've got this Mountain King army captain making advances to me now. The other day he brought me a bowlful of Purple Slugs—horribly expensive, mind you, ten gold apiece. You should have seen them all squeaky and squirmy, belching defensive slime, while he was pushing that delicacy on me—he literally grabbed them with his fingers and tried to shove them down my mouth, poor slob."

Those last words sounded affectionate rather than rude. It looked like in another couple of years there would be no xenophobes left in AlterWorld. Personally, I had already stopped reacting to any amounts of green or blue-skinned creatures, pointy Elven ears, disproportionally huge eyes or waggly tails.