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

The attacking masses roared, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to deal the first blow in the back of the unsuspecting foe. Thousands of enemies gave panicked cries of horror as they were villainously impaled on sharp steel.

Just imagine an overcrowded bus; half the passangers secretly reach into their sleeves, pull out blades and attack the sleepy civilians in a well-coordinated fashion. Which side would you put your money on?

At the same time, dozens of cargo portals opened up within the tight square perimeter of the artillery. These gates had cost an entire chest of gold, but the Guards of the First Temple needed them to pounce on the enemy.

"Keeyah!"

The enemy was expecting us. That’s why there were fifteen thousand warriors defending the siege machinery, perfectly capable of crushing any breakthrough operation. However, the enemy was not expecting to suddenly lose five thousand guards, all of whom would switch to our side. No one knew that they’d get stabbed in the liver by their supposed comrades.

My warriors emerged amdist the defensive formations of the Lightsiders like a mad wolf which had managed to jump over the backs of sheep forming a defensive circle.

The ground shook. The sky wept piteously as the astral world filled with bloodthirsty beings. Swift was the carnage of twenty thousand sentient beings.

Our allies hit the enemy fast, pushing themselves to the limit. They used up all of their battle and divine abilities during the three-minute assault. The enemy, on the other hand, needed time to wake up, to realize the gravity of the situation, and to stop trying to save their last chance abilities as they usually did.

This was the peak of our effort. We bet on victory in the first round, on knocking out our opponents. We did not want any duels or protracted face-to-face battles. We wanted to fight right under our enemy’s nose to make them struggle as they tried to turn around their hundred thousand army.

In sixty seconds, the enemy guards’ first resistance attempt was successfully thwarted. Warriors sloshed through blood. Guts dangled everywhere. Both the assailants and the guards turned a grayish-red color.

There were a few enemy survivors here and there; the ogres still spun their clubs like a helicopter its blades; the mighty trolls still danced their awkward dance of death.

There were dozens of spots where the enemy warriors had huddled up together and now stood back to back, heroically repelling the attacks of the Guards of the First Temple’s minor forces.

But they didn’t matter. Our goal was neither scoring another thousand frags nor getting more barrels filled with European valuables. Our goal was to reach the delicate machinery capable of bringing down the venerable Tianlong.

Ninety seconds; half of the assailants raced forward, taking out the covering forces and evading the centers of resistance. From a bird’s eye view, they looked like circles on the water, expanding outward. They chased away the stunned enemy fighters, pushing them off the siege machinery perimeter. When they reached the artillery positions, the Guards of the First Temple, bristled with sharp steel and shields, cordoned off the area.

The enemy army was already sending the first fast response units our way. With a furious roar, the warriors turned around, splitting up into giant formations to win back the machinery which had been stolen right from under their nose.

The horsemen of Rain the Wise were overly cautious. The life of a guardsman was priceless, so the NPCs avoided direct combat. Instead, they rode in circles around the camp, cutting down the valuable catapult operating staff and swiftly drinking the players’ hot blood. Purple flashes appeared as the riders reached new levels. They could be seen even through the thick smoke and the raging napalm flames of the Molotovs.

Everyone on our side fought like a relentless lunatic. The glow of the expanding portal arches made it bright as day outside. The warriors of the rear forces hung like ants from the heavy machinery. Cussing, they pulled it over to their territory. The crushed foot and broken finger count soared.

A hundred and twenty seconds; our external guard formation encircling the yard was already facing serious attacks. They retreated slowly, allowing themselves to be slaughtered in order to buy the other units more time. Each barrel of blood spilled gave the darkside looters an extra second.

Whether it was worth it or not depended on how one looked at the situation. The ancient magical technology for launching heavy objects to kill one’s fellow human beings cost anywhere from 10,000 to a 100,000 per unit. So around 50,000 on average. Plus supplies, ammo, spells, and the trained operating team with no other skills.

This was a substantial sum, but not a critical one. But when that number got multiplied by 300, the final sum of 1.5 million dollars was suddenly a good enough reason to risk both suicide and getting caught, even if that meant seeing the sky only from behind bars for some time.

Two hundred seconds; our external guards got trampled into the ground. The crowd of a 100,000 furious warriors smashed into the scanty covering force like a tsunami into a sand castle. A few of our epic warriors still miraculously fought back in this fierce river of bodies. The divine buff “Our Cause is Right” must have been a real shot in the arm for them.

Faith worked miracles for us. Each blow we dealt was deadly. The enemies dropped to our feet like ears of rye to the feet of the reaper. But you can’t plug up a ruptured dam with your butt. The enemy pushed forward with all their might, ignoring the bubbling waves of blood and the scanty obstacles in their way.

The siege machinery yard flared up with the flame of the alchemic termite. It burned away the oxygen and made the wind blow in different directions, pulling the black smoke to and fro.

The sooty figures of our allies, their smouldering equipment glistening, tossed the last of the third round loot into the portals: spear bundles for arrow launchers, barrels of oil, coils of rope and ammo.

The cavalry horses gave frightened cries as their manes caught fire. They struggled to enter Freetown’s portal arch, fighting against the force of the portal wind.

The boisterous Italian boys laughed as they burned. They found it funny to be fighting amidst so much fire. Somewhere in the outskirts of the astral world, the ancient ifrits squinted in bewilderment as they took these warriors for some unfamiliar kinsmen.

The dwarves in their burning armor were cursing all at once as they took apart the Big Bertha. They shoved the gigantic trebuchet into the portal piece by piece. Surely such means of transportation were a compliment to the mad gigantomaniac engineer commissioned to build the trebuchet.

I watched all this from the top of the bone wall. A wave of apprehension swept over me. The operation was a success, no doubt. But I had not expected the enemy to get this furious over the financial damage we had just caused.

The distance separating us began to shrink. A hundred thousand strong army of Lightsiders raced toward Tianlong…

Chapter Two

O
ur operating forces counter displayed a pitiful three-digit number. Most of the warriors with a “ready to fight” status were already on the walls.

The siege machinery park diversion had been our peak effort, a nearly impossible feat. We had accomplished it thanks to our great excitement, our crunching, torn muscles, the help of all our temporary allies, the activation of “last hope” buffs, and the mass discharge of abilities.

After such strain, relapsing into a more relaxed state was inevitable. At least 30,000 graves dotted the lands beneath the castle walls, making them nearly impassable. A fifth of all the lopsided gravestones out there was ours.

The game designers played along with the environment; stuffed ravens cawed in a sad voice, clouds covered the sky, and stray dogs which seemed to come out of thin air fought over suspicious-looking bones…

One could reconstruct the entire battle scene by simply strolling through the man-made cemetery. Every granite headstone with Slavic characters was surrounded by ten headstones bearing writings in different languages. The latter were mostly the widely known Latin alphabet characters intermingled with some exotica: ornate Georgian lettering, mixed Russian-Ukrainian Galich dialect, san-serif Baltic Gothic writing…

In one spot, there were these two lopsided gravestones with their back sides leaning against each other like they were one. The warriors stood back to back even in death. One was a Russian sailor from the Kronstadt clan “Navy,” the other a sworn Ukranian brother from Odessa’s “Black Coats.”

These two were surrounded by enemies, but they fought knowing that they had each other’s back. And even when one of them fell, his headstone still shielded his comrade from behind, protecting him like a sturdy coat of mail.

The outer guardsmen were splattered on the ground. Their headstones had endured just as much damage as the warriors themselves. The graves were studded with arrows, covered with knife marks, and dented where the battle axes had hit. You couldn’t destroy the grave, but defiling it was easy as long as you lacked decent moral qualities.

Nearby, there was a 300-foot-tall heap of fallen Lightsters’ headstones. It towered over everything else like a solemn memorial.

Our guys had fought till the very end. They intended to surprise the enemies and deal them a terrible blow. This would hopefully discourage the Lightsiders from attempting a second assault any time soon. We assumed that the loss of twenty-thirty thousand warriors at once would be a serious knockdown for the enemy and would cool off some of the more hotheaded leaders.

But that’s not what we got...

The enemy’s rear divisions simply could not see how the ones in the front got massacred. Thus they did not witness the bloody fight and were now bravely trampling over the gravestones and the bodies of their fallen comrades.

But my army had no reserves. The resurrected warriors put on some second-grade spare suits, wrinkling their noses at the sight of the government goodies behind the open doors of the clan storehouses. Some merely sat in their underwear, lost in thought, dragging on a cigarette as they waited for the evacuation team to act.

They were ordinary guys, but the demands I had placed on them were extraordinary. Heroes are always scarce and are often revealed by a certain situation. Like when you run into a drunk gang in a dark alley with your girl behind your back. Or find a burning car with kids trapped inside, beating their fists against the glass…

The usual retrieval line bringing back equipment from the battlefield finally broke down. My stealthers simly couldn’t break through the advancing wave of enemy fighters. Besides, fifty people get exhausted pretty fast when they have to carry thousands of gravestones.

The ground shook as the enemy army ran straight at us. The crowd effect turned the individual warriors into one single organism. The sense of fear and individuality was gone. All sins were forgiven beforehand. Permissiveness intoxicates like a drug.

Usually I saw mostly the backs of my warriors. But now, I gazed into hundreds of pale faces in the early morning gloom as they turned back to look at their leader in alarm.

I strained my absolute memory as I retrieved from it the latest version of portal beacon directions. There was a digital version of it, with passwords upon passwords and terrifying seals thrown in as well. But thoughts are always faster.

"Demons, get on the walls!" I ordered my precious single-mission NPC reserve to assume positions, then commanded the tracking wizards: "Portal at point 19A!"

After that I turned to the weary defenders of Tianlong and said, "Get down, boys! We’re in for a big Boom!"

Forcing my way through the head wind current, I finally made it through the portal arch. I fell out at about 600 feet from the entrance point, where our siege machines were.

There was a great deal of bustle. The broad-shouldered dwarves tried to quickly master the stolen artillery. They were writing out all the manuals and ballista charts that they downloaded from the VirtNet. We were short on spare parts and technicians with appropriate skills.

Chaos swallowed up the munitions supply storehouse. The balls of a Russian trebuchet could not be loaded into the French mangonel, and ballista ammunition jammed the British scorpio.

By contrast, the yard of nonconventional weapons was pleasantly quiet. The medium-size palisade and the biting looks of the Timurites helped to ensure that its territory remained orderly.

The shooter squad was smoking nervously, standing far away from the aerial bombs covered by a sackcloth. The potential kamikazes meditated in the shadows, preparing for the mission’s finale and praying for success.

When they saw me, the warriors jumped up. The senior officer proceeded to report: “Greetings, Sir! The artillery battalion manning the heavy siege machines is ready for battle. The sectors are established, the spotters are in position on the walls, and we are compiling an independent chart of advancing enemy ranks within our firing range. We’ll be ready to fire in forty seconds.”

"Go for it!" I ordered briefly. "Use the 500K GP bombs. Operators must have Holy Unmercenary status."

"Only four of those here, Sir!"

My jaw twitched. That wasn’t enough! We needed to switch to plan B.

"Snowie!" I called. "No, wait! We can’t launch you that far…Lizzie! Put the harness on! I want you to hold on to that bomb like you hold on to your dagger you got for your coming of age birthday party."

The topographer tuned in to the spotter and raised his voice: "Dense crowds of enemy fighters in the probable damage zone. If their direction and speed stay the same, they’ll reach the certain damage zone in fifteen seconds and the guaranteed damage zone in thirty."

I turned to the leader of the battalion. "Open fire once you’re ready. Your objective is to take out as many of the Lightsters’ manpower as you can."

"Yessir!" said the senior lieutenant as he saluted me, then sat down on the sand in a free and easy manner. Closing his eyes, he entered the nirvana-like state of going through the service interfaces, ranging charts and subdivision control channels.

"Firecracker 1, pointing at sector A4. Operator, get ready!"

"Ready to fire!"

"Ready for flight!"

"Countdown. Three…Two…One…Fire!"

Dang!
The counterweight smashed into the stopper girder. The sling whistled through the air. The aerial bomb became a black dot in the distance as it flew toward the enemy.

Kaboom!!!
The ground literally jumped, crashing painfully into the warriors’ heels and knocking minor damage numbers out of them. For the first time in hundreds of years, Tianlong’s skeleton finally moved, leaping up in place and giving a distinctive"ooh."

The log-analyst jabbered breathlessly:

"Direct hit! The operator gets credit for 2612 frags…2640...2670. Widespread bloodloss and injuries keep upping his counter. Initial loot: 3720 objects. 3766..."

"Firecracker 2, a hundred to the left, thirty inward. Fire!"

Dang!

"Bombs away! Calculating the operator’s scored damage and deaths…The harness caught on the locating block! Success! I see multiple targets hit."

Fucking shit!
I thought as I ground my teeth. My greedy pig downed some Validol. Missing 4,000 loot items could have led to a heart attack even in milder skinflints.

"Firecracker 3, two hundred to your left, fifty inward. Fire! Everyone else, double-check the operators’ strapping!"

"We have a hit! 3300 frags. The enemy’s losses keep growing due to the large amounts of warriors wounded in the previous explosions. Loot: 4600. There’s a game achievements packet coming in. I am registering a significant increase of clan and alliance ratings."

"Fire!" the gunner cried again, aiming higher in order to hit the very heart of enemy formations.

Dang!
Then silence…

"Bomb went straight into a portal arch. Explosion on the other side. 242 frags, all from the same clan. Loot: 311 items."

Fuck me!

"Fire!"

Dang!
Bada-bada-boom!

The explosion was much stronger than normal. It also seemed to be closer.

"An attempt to seize the bomb in midair. Or we might’ve accidentally hit a flying seraphim…" commented the invisible analyst, digressing a bit. "Explosion at sixty feet off the ground. Frags: 4400. Loot: 5100. The numbers are growing. Midair explosions seem to be highly efficient: repeat them!"

"Mona-Lisa, get ready. Firecracker 5, fire!"

Dang! Boom!

"Direct hit! The ear-chopper is awaiting respawn. I am registering a 32 level increase."

I nodded.
Not bad!

Within minutes we had relieved the Lightsiders of millions of dollars worth of gear and hundreds of thousands of human farming hours.

"The enemy’s advancing more slowly now. Personal gates spotted; some warriors are leaving the battlefield."

I looked around, searching for an operator for Firecracker 6. My loyal NKVD Timurites were bustling nearby as usual.

"Tamerlane! Limp over here. Come in, hurry up, bro! Put that harness on. Know what you gotta do?"

He nodded, and I stepped back.

The gunner took his time to pick out the best target.

"A hundred to the left, go as high as you can. That place is teeming with casters. Fire!"

"Explosion! Golbin awaits respawn, a good hit: level increased by 43."

I froze, awaiting more news.

"The enemy is not slowing down. Blowing up their rear ranks is not as efficient!"

I glanced at Firecraker 7, the last one…
It won’t change much, might as well leave it for the future generations. It can easily make an impression. Simply having it in stock might make some hotheaded foes back off.

I ordered: "Put the 500K GP back in the armory. Switch to droid rapid fire. Move it!"

The loader ogres pulled the canvas off the pyramid of wooden crates. We had learned our lesson and now packed the robots in containers of medium strength to minimize the chances of droids opening friendly fire in midair.

The cart wheels creaked nastily. The giant trebuchet jerked as the outrageously heavy crate with the droid was loaded into it. The officers stuck their thin arms into the openings that had been made in the crate on purpose. They inserted power supply units into the tight receptacles on the robots.

"Ready!" a squeaky voice said.

"Firecracker 1, fire!"

The counterweight flew toward the stopper. The goblin quickly pushed the power button on the droid and tried to slide his hand out of the crate.

Too late…

Dang!
The crate flew into the sky, the stump of the golbin’s wrist dangling from one of its openings.

Crack!
The steel trimming on the crate broke. The crate itself flew into a thousand pieces.

Having destroyed its packing in flight, the droid stuck out its sensors in all directions, scanning its surroundings and classifying tens of thousands of targets.

Its parachute flew open, and the droid landed softly amidst the enemy hordes. The enemies saw the scarlet marker on their maps. Without taking much time to think, the droid instantly initiated its primary self-protection program.

Zoom!
The robot fired overheated plasma into the tight enemy ranks.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
The heavy railgun released a whole series of tungsten shells which flew at the speed of no less than 15 Mach. The hard alloy slugs knew no barriers. They pierced dozens of bodies before finally sinking into the dunes.

Slap! Slap! Slap!
More mithril robots fell from the sky.
Let the fun begin!

The droids dealt a lot of damage. Their shots often got misclassified by the game environment which couldn’t resist foreign elements. How would a medieval world classify a lazer beam, an electrical discharge or a beam of severe radiation? However, every droid’s HP count was quite mediocre, just like one might expect from a level 300+ monster.