Disgardium-5: Holy War
by Dan Sugralinov
Release - September 4, 2020
Pre-order on Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BJ8Q283
Prologue: Hairo
Forty-year-old
Hairo Morales has been working in the Excommunicado security service for the
past three years. A former peacekeeper and veteran of the Third World War and
local conflicts in the Middle East, Northern China and Africa, he struggled to
find activities that suited him in retirement. He’d been a special operative in
the army and tried to find something similar in civilian life. Sure, you got
gray hairs faster, but he was too late to change now.
Rain had
been falling since dawn. Clouds of flint hung over the city. They seemed as if
endless, divulging an eternal downpour. The thought bothered Morales. His body
didn’t get along too well with inclement weather. The rain brought phantom
pains and he gritted his teeth. It was on a gloomy day like this that he lost a
leg, burnt off by a plasma mine explosion in one of the Central American Zones.
Only the life-support system built into every peacekeeper exoskeleton saved
him.
The army
provided him with new bionic limbs. Better than before! the doc said,
with exaggerated enthusiasm. At least they won’t smell, Hairo! Haha!
Morales had laughed, but he was far from happy. He’d been pushed out of the
army in spite of his service. The least they could have done was waive his
treatment bill.
Who
would have thought that he’d find himself in the company of Caesar, younger
brother of drug baron Ishmael Calderone. Hairo had once been in a raid to
capture him. They’d failed, and maybe that was for the best. In any case,
Caesar, when he accepted Hairo into the Excommunicado security services, had no
issue with him.
Caesar
Calderone himself, better known as Colonel, had also once been in the military.
He personally interviewed every applicant to the company, needing only a short
time to make a clear-cut decision. Often it was ‘no.’ Nobody knew what
influenced him, but Hairo was lucky; Colonel approved his hiring.
In their
meeting, after describing the company’s requirements to the new hire, Caesar
said on parting:
“Make a
character in Disgardium, Hairo.”
“Is that
mandatory? I thought my work didn’t involve video games.”
“I’m
afraid it does!” Caesar’s voice rasped like a bunch of nails in an iron bucket.
“Everything that happens in the company in real life is merely to support the
Excommunicado clan in the game. Our businesses are no more than investments. Do
you know who the investor is?”
“The
clan?”
“Right.
Most of your duties will be in real life, but first and foremost, you are a
member of Excommunicado. You just get your paycheck from the company.”
At
first, Hairo got an old veteran as a partner, but he soon retired. A new Exco
noob replaced him — Willy Brizuela. Then a routine began: alongside Willy,
Hairo patrolled the clan’s residential district where its key personnel lived,
protected Colonel’s mansion, escorted the clan leader or the offices on trains…
It was boring. Boring and humiliating: players in the clan’s main personnel
treated him and the other service workers with contempt. This was not expressed
in words or deeds. After all, according to corporate policy, everyone was
formally equal. But it came through in faces, tones, whispers behind backs.
As it
emerged, the function of the security service was not just security, but also
reconnaissance and counter-reconnaissance, and what Colonel jokingly referred
to as pro-active defense, by which he meant his brother’s protection racket.
The members of Excommunicado were always at war with someone, be it hot or
cold: with competitor clans, the government, the Triad… And that meant that
when two serious Threats appeared, Colonel gathered his security officers in
secret and told them to start digging. He didn’t just want to find the Threats
in real life, but also prevent his sworn friends from the Alliance from
suspecting anything.
After
studying the analysts’ reports, Hairo decided that one of the Threats must be a
non-citizen. Hairo himself was one, and from a place known as Hell on Earth, in
the Guyana Cesspit. He got citizenship through ten years of service in the
peacekeepers, then changed his address, but never forgot his old non-citizen
friends. It was them — in the Guyana Cesspit and neighboring Cali Bottom — who
he went to for information.
When one
of his agents told him of some strange events in Cali Bottom, Hairo’s ears
pricked up like a hunting dog on a scent. He started to dig, and in the end his
efforts were rewarded: one of the students he and Willy intercepted in the sky
over Cali was the Threat! But he hadn’t decided what to do with the information
yet. First he needed to meet the Threat, understand what he wanted. Maybe get
some more intel out of him…
He
downed a painkiller, drank up his coffee and got ready for work. His wife Maria
kissed him, adjusted his collar and sighed anxiously.
“Hairo…”
“What,
dear?”
“Have
you spoken to Caesar? About that promotion?”
“Yeah.
He told me where to stick it. When Joao learned that I’d gone over his head, he
shouted loud enough to break the windows.”
“Oh, no…”
she groaned. “We could lose our home, Hairo! If you don’t confirm your status,
they’ll raise our mortgage rates… What about Isolda? How will we pay her..?”
“I’ll
fix it. Don’t worry…” Hairo pulled his wife close and hugged her.
He
hadn’t yet told her of the money from the Threat in Dis. He’d split the money
fifty-fifty with Willy, and it was all still in the game. He had to think about
how to get it out. Back then, when he’d met those teenagers in Cali Bottom,
he’d improvised. But now that all his hunches were paying off, to his own
limitless surprise, and he’d gotten the money for the copper bar, he was
panicking, afraid of losing it. Nothing prevented him from withdrawing it all
to his account. Nothing except the unavoidable questions from the financial
services. They had unlimited access to player transactions in Dis, and the
metal bar he’d sold for a million wasn’t worth even a single gold coin. There
would be questions that he could not answer. And then… Hairo didn’t want to
think about what might happen next.
“Gotta
go, darlin’,” he gently released his wife and left the house.
Once at
the base, he met his partner, detailed the plans for the day. They agreed a
work front and Hairo and Willy set off on their patrol groups.
“Brought
it?” Hairo asked soundlessly by moving his lips.
Willy
nodded.
Flying
above one of the Zones, their Shark stopped above a small village of the Wild
Ones. That was the name for the inwinova that left for districts declared by
the authorities as unfit for life. Inwinova! Hairo spat mentally. Individuals
of no value to society — that’s
what citizens called non-citizens in contempt. But Hairo had childhood friends from among the
people who lived in those places. Willy knew people there too. Good people with
big hearts…
The partners
regularly dropped crates of UNB rations — universal nutrient
blend — along with clothing and medicine. But today, the cargo contained
something else.
“I gotta
take a leak,” Hairo said loudly for anyone who might be listening to in the
future.
The Shark
stopped a couple of yards above the surface. Willy silently passed the crates
of machine-guns and ammo to the people that met us. They were old guns, long
since removed from production. An echo of war, as a character from an old-timer
movie once said.
Once the
‘packages’ had been taken, Hairo launched the Shark rapidly and continued on
their previous route. The colorful men below, with their worn clothes and
rugged faces, raised their fists as one and shouted something. Hairo nodded,
but it was unlikely that they saw him. In the Zones, you can usually see the
air you’re breathing.
Willy
and Hairo didn’t discuss what had happened; they’d talked it all over
yesterday. ‘Hunters’ sometimes went to the Zones; successful citizens thirsting
for adrenaline. They set up so-called ‘safaris,’ shooting the Wild Ones. There
isn’t a single animal left in the world that isn’t protected by law, Hairo
thought bitterly. But you can shoot a whole village full of Wild Ones
unpunished and get nothing but silent approval. It cannot be said that the
Wild Ones were defenseless. Unlike the ‘hunters,’ they had nothing to lose;
they fought tooth and nail. But knives and whips are no match for plasma rifles
and machine-guns.
Hairo
had learned yesterday of another ‘safari’ preparing to invade the Zone in which
his friends lived. He couldn’t protect them; he risked being turned into an
inwinova himself, if not worse. But he could support them with weapons…
For the
next few hours, he and Willy patrolled a large area that included Cali Bottom
and the Guyana Cesspit. The airwaves were quiet. The whole clan was responding
to Nergal’s Summons — the event began that morning.
Willy
was reading the latest news of Dis. Suddenly, he did a double-take.
“Something’s
happened! Mary Mother of God… Hairo, look at this!”
Morales
looked at his partner’s comm screen. The video showed the blessing ceremony at
the temple square in Vermillion. The High Priest spread his arms, recited
prayers. Bright waves emanated from him, covering the whole square. The crowd surged
forward from the masses striving to get closer to the blessing.
“Here,
watch now!” Willy said excitedly.
For a
couple of instants, the screen was filled with white. The cameraman fell and
the colorful picture turned monochrome, but Hairo had enough time to notice
bodies burning away to ash.
He
turned back to controlling the flyer, immersed in thoughts about the Threat. He
was still waiting for an answer after agreeing to meet them. Willy continued to
watch the videos flooding the net from the explosions in Bridger, Vermillion
and Fort Smith, listened to eyewitness testimony. Then the speakers whined, and
the partners heard the familiar voice of Joao, the security chief.
“Attention
all patrols! Number One has declared a general assembly! Everyone get off your
asses and get to the base now! That’s an order! Confirm receipt, over.”
Hairo
grabbed the radio.
“Morales-Brizuela
squad here, confirming, over.”
The
voice of Vladimir, one of their colleagues, stood out from the series of
answers from the other patrol groups.
“Boss,
this is Krasnov-Kalinich. We’re far away. What happened? Over.”
“Vlad,
keep the channel clear! I repeat! Everyone back to base!”
“Don’t
be an asshole, Joao!” Vladimir exploded. “We’re over Siberia! We’re checking
out some Russian inwinovas! We got half the globe to fly across! What the hell
is up?”
Joao
sighed over the airwaves.
“Men… I
don’t know the details, but it seems the Threat has cooked the whole Alliance…”
Then the
comm crackled. Hairo checked the message’s sender, looked at Willy. He
understood without words. They’d both been waiting for the Threat’s response.
“Let me
take the wheel.”
“3
PM/ET. Will wait 5 minutes today and tomorrow. Private room. Invite cipher
attached.” That was
it. No signature, no return address, burn-after-reading flag.
Morales
deleted the message, checked his watch. Only ten minutes until the set time —
three in the afternoon, Eastern time.
“Descending,
need a piss,” Hairo said.
When the
flyer landed, he went outside, taking a VR helmet and manipulator gloves with
him. He synchronized with the comm and pulled it toward him. A way to talk in a
private room without a capsule.
He had
to wait for the appointed time to arrive and the link to activate. The program
activated. Hairo chose a default avatar and entered the room. The cryptoworld
loaded instantly: an empty room with black walls. At the center was a small
wooden table with a lamp on it and two chairs next to it.
Using
the gloves to control the avatar, Hairo walked to the table and ‘sat.’ A couple
of seconds later, a figure separated from the far wall; a young blond man,
something from the base set of standard avatars.
“Hairo,”
the boy nodded, sitting at the table. The voice sounded sweet, appropriate for
the avatar, but the security officer didn’t let the soft voice fool him. “Thank
you for agreeing to meet.
“Thank
you for the mil,” Morales chuckled. “All our units just got called in. They say
someone blew up all the Alliance bosses. Your handiwork?”
“I won’t
deny the obvious. Neither of us have much time, so let’s talk business. I’m
sending a contract for a million phoenixes per year. My friends and I need
security. We have funds.”
Hairo
wanted to show off what he knew, point out what had the kid shook up: Sheppard
was clearly the Threat. He was the only one that talked like this out of those
five students — Hairo had carefully studied the dossier for each. Rodriguez and
Lee had a different style of speech. Abdulalim wouldn’t have risked the
meeting. As for Melissa Schafer, she was still in the sandbox. He wanted to,
but… decided against it.
“What’s
stopping me from just going on earning a million a week, instead of a year?”
“The
fact that I won’t pay you any more. Your intel’s going out of date. I’m not
planning on hiding much longer. I’m sick of it. But I don’t need extra
attention either.”
“I get
it… Why me?”
“I’ve
studied your biography, the public part of it. Born and raised in Guyana, you
lived through the war. A veteran many times honored. You lost your legs. Not
only do you have friends in Cali Bottom, but I’ve heard tell of Hairo Morales.
They say the Lobo can be trusted.
Hairo’s
breath caught. It was a good thing it didn’t show on his avatar. El Lobo, the
Wolf, was his childhood nickname. Few remembered that now.
“So can
you be trusted?”
“Are you
sure you have a year? If I agree, then I’ll want payment in advance.”
“Even if
I don’t have a year, the clan does. I’m offering you a contact with the clan.
The money is legal. And we’ll pay you that amount after taxes, in cash.
“I want
a million and two hundred. Six hundred each for me and my partner.”
“Hmm… We
can do that…”
“Do you
know why?” Hairo interrupted. “Life has taught me not to back people into a
corner. In desperation, a man will promise a great deal, but I don’t have any
use for empty promises. If I come over to you, then I want stability. Willy and
I will work for your clan a year, and if all is well, we’ll discuss a
promotion.”
“Agreed,
Mr. Morales.” The boy stood and offered a hand.
Hairo
shook it, held on.
“Just to
be clear… Is contract control enabled?”
“Yes.”
“Good.
Speak your offer.”
“I, Alex
Kieran Sheppard, representing the Awoken clan, offer a yearly contract to Hairo
Morales and his partner…”
“William
Brizuela.”
“…
William Brizuela for a total of one million and two hundred thousand phoenixes
after taxes for working in the clan’s security service. Payment for the first
year of service will be transferred within three days of this moment.”
“I,
Hairo Morales Garcia, representing myself and the interests of William
Brizuela, accept the Awoken clan’s offer. I give my word not to reveal the
information I have received during negotiations.”
That was
it. No way back. A verbal contract had judicial force, although a few
formalities yet remained. Hairo gathered his thoughts.
“Now I
need to fly to the base right away. I’ll find out what Colonel wants, and
tomorrow morning I’ll resign. This is an irreversible step, kid, and I have a
family: a wife and daughter… Tell me, how are you guys doing out there? Who are
you most afraid of?”
“Nobody
is a threat to us in Dis. In the real world… The Alliance of Preventers, the
Triad… Maybe Snowstorm. To grow, we need a place where we’ll be safe.”
“You can
add the Cartel, since Exco is involved. Colonel will definitely bring his
brother in. Never mind, we’ll deal with it. How many of you are there?”
“Over a
hundred, counting the non-citizens. They have an option for a base…”
“We’ll
discuss it once I’ve left Exco. For your own security. I suggest we meet at
your friends’ place tomorrow in Cali Bottom.”
“The
roof of block thirty-six, Hairo.”
Morales
nodded and finally released the Threat’s hand. The boy kept his gaze fixed on
him.
“You
know, Alex…” Hairo said. “A million is enough for Willy and me.”
“Why?”
“Because
this is the first time I’ve seen a citizen talk about non-citizens without
using the word ‘inwinova.’ And we’re going to need a lot of money. Defense
droids and turrets ain’t cheap. And you can forget about community flyers,
Alex. We need a Shark.”
“Why?”
“Because
after what you did this morning, you can say good-bye to a quiet life.”
Chapter 1. First Battle
I soared
high above the desert atop Storm and watched. The sun leaned down to the
horizon, but I was sure the battle would start before nightfall.
The
Alliance of Preventers had recovered after their fight with me and were
gathering their forces into a single thrust. They were rushing to Tiamat’s
temple so fast that by the time I’d come to an agreement with Hairo and
returned to Dis, they were already approaching the Stronghold of the Destroying
Plague.
And I
didn’t know what to do. If my plague abilities were ineffective, then getting
into a fight with a few thousand of the best players wasn’t just stupid, it was
suicidal. It would be easier to eliminate myself as a Threat. If only that were
possible, that would have been funny.
All the
new Plague Fury explosions in the frontier forts were no more dangerous
than a firecracker to those that responded to Nergal’s Summons. But those who
caused the explosions died: the Yoruba members, who hadn’t taken the blessing.
The Radiant God kept his promise and gave his followers protection. News of
this traveled at the speed of light. I hadn’t had time to read the news
properly, but the headlines made it clear enough: End of the Class-A Threat,
Ace Up the Alliance’s Sleeve, It’s All Turned Around, Pyrrhic
Victory… That last one was probably referring to me crushing the Alliance’s
camp.
All that
remained was to figure out whether the blessing protected them from all
abilities related to plague energy or only from Plague Fury.
I
counted twelve columns, matching the number of clans. The Alliance forces were
moving on foot, without mounts. Maybe Nergal’s blessing didn’t extend to them.
Each column consisted of three raid groups with a hundred men each — a total of
three thousand and six hundred players and almost the same again in pets and
minions. There was a broad trail of loosened sand clearly marked with wheel
grooves from the Great Portable Altar as it carved its way through the
desert in the rear. The real one this time. Unlikely that they’d dragged a
second fake deep into the desert.
The army
kept catching aggro from mobs, but even with their massive superiority in
level, few of them reached the tanks. I couldn’t figure out how the preventers
had managed to overcome the penalties; they shouldn’t have been able to hit a
mob sixty levels above them at all…
Around
six miles from the army of preventers, another army approached to meet it in
uneven rows — the undead. Shazz had apparently leveled up his strategic skills,
because he sent some scouts out in advance: Banshee Lieutenants and
Bone Gargoyles, which reported on the alliance troops’ movement.
Now the
walking dead and the other nightmarish creatures were moving in apparent
disorder behind and to the sides of a walking skyscraper. Deznafar, Battle
Avatar of the Departed, was covered in rotting flesh and chitinous plates like
the kind I’d seen on the Ravager. All eight of its massive undead legs sank
almost halfway into the sand, and the monster left behind two deep ditches. Our
entire fort could have fit in either one.
I was
unable to stop the battle. And in any case, I’d lose. If the preventers won,
their path to Tiamat’s temple would be clear. If Shazz won, then the Destroying
Plague would never stop; the lich would turn the top players into legates, and
those like Big Po would retain control of their characters, becoming the
pioneers of the officially launched new faction. Immediately after that, the
undead race would probably become playable for everyone else. That’s how it had
gone down when the dark ones were unlocked. It was a good thing Kiran
considered our agreement complete — all I had to do now was delete my
character… But we’d see about that. I was planning to defend the temple and
fort to the bitter end, no matter what happened.
Cloak
Essence hid my
Blackberry disguise, which I’d decided to keep for now. Not long before,
Pecheneg had written that when I warned them that she’d been discovered, the
elf girl logged out of Dis and managed to escape the Modus clan building in the
chaos I’d caused. As for Hinterleaf’s astral mark on the girl, they’d deal with
that when Victoria (her real name) came back to Dis.
The
Alliance leaders saw Deznafar’s towering frame from a couple of miles away. Of
course, they already knew of both Shazz’s undead and the Battle Avatar of the
Departed from their scouts. Only the flying mounts of that class were protected
from the heat, not counting mounts obtained in the Lakharian Desert itself,
like my Storm.
When I
met him, the lich reported indifferently that “all whose shadows fell on us
have been eliminated,” but the scouts would have made their reports all the
same. However, this was the first time the preventers saw the mega-undead with
their own eyes. They stopped.
The
raids took up defensive formations. The preventers chose their defensive spot
on the crest of a dune, in a semi-circle before the smaller undead army. The
flanks stayed in the same row with the rest for now, but I knew they’d move out
and surround the undead when Shazz came close.
Mere
minutes remained until the collision.
I saw a
gleam of glass in the constant flashes of buffing spells. Looking closer, I
made out the familiar face of one of the Children of Kratos. It was Taranis,
that scout from Vermillion whom I’d told a week ago that I was a Legate of the
Destroying Plague, and his news release had stunned the world. My super-high Perception
allowed me to make out every face. Taranis was looking through something
like binoculars. He opened his mouth and jabbered into his comm amulet, keeping
his eyes on me.
Another
few dozen heads jerked upward. I tried to keep myself beneath the sun to remain
unnoticed, but now that they knew where to look and what to look for, it wasn’t
hard to make out big Storm in the sky with a rider on her back. Glancing at the
Alliance leaders, I saw that Yary was already giving commands. Mogwai frowned
nearby. Crag was hanging around nearby in the form of an elf. After our meeting
in the headquarters of the preventers, my friend had found a way to get out of
his capsule and told me in CrapChat that Nergal had punished him for helping
the enemy: his divine ability had been halved in strength.
Several
top players summoned mounts at once, but only one ascended. I got it. They’d
decided to figure out whether I could break through Nergal’s protection.
Without
moving, I waited for the guinea pig on a white hippogryph to reach me. I wanted
to know if my plague energy could damage him or not too, and so as soon
as he got within range, I loosed an arrow, adding half a million plague
energy.
You
dealt damage to the player Zomba, level 379 Drunken Monk: 91.
Health
points: 1,856,239 / 1,856,330.
The fat
stocky monk grinned when he saw the damage numbers. I swore — the plague
energy hadn’t gotten through, and rank zero Archery dealt pathetic
damage. If it weren’t for my accuracy, which was now over two thousand percent,
I’m sure I would have missed at my level three hundred and nine. But this was
no time for pessimism.
Zomba
stood up on his hippogryph’s back, balanced, prepared to attack. A whirlwind of
air surrounded his body, and when the distance between us closed to thirty
yards, he jumped and stretched out his arm like damn Superman, flying straight
at me. My Sharkon’s Mane shield flew from my hand to meet him and got
caught in the monk’s whirlwind defense. They both flew toward me. It all
happened in a split second, but I had enough time to greet the monk with Hammerfist.
I broke through his defense — the whirlwind seemed to harden, then shatter —
but then everything went wrong.
The top
player’s swift charge knocked me from Storm’s saddle like a leaf in the wind.
My eyes managed to catch the Reflection damage numbers — almost three
hundred thousand, and from one hit! — and then everything started to flicker.
The earth and sky span, swapping places, and the monk and I fell toward the
earth, locked together.
Riderless
Storm roared, discharged bolts of lightning. The monk’s fists were a blur in
the air, wrapped in some kind of legendary cloth, smashing through my ribcage
with such ferocity that I didn’t even have to hit him again. Reflection
did my work for me. I managed to grab my falling shield, but now I faced death:
I couldn’t survive a fall from a great height, even with three million health.
Such were the game mechanics. And Immortality wouldn’t work with another
Legate nearby!
In a
panic, I tried to activate Depths Teleportation, but the cast was
interrupted — the preventers had started shooting at my falling body. I heard
shouts, commands, spells, the whistling of arrows, crossbow bolts and darts all
around. A motley mass of battle pets clustered where I would land.
Smack! I
fell in a bad position, head down. My bones crunched, my neck twisted
unnaturally. As I hurried to hit the respawn button, I realized I’d survived.
I’d gotten so used to Immortality that I’d forgotten all about Diamond
Skin of Justice. Nine seconds of full invulnerability!
I heard
a few explosions; dwarven tanks firing their cannons at me. The cannonballs
bounced off into the sand with a dull metal thud and span there, red-hot and
deadly. Diamond Skin of Justice absorbed the shock. I survived and ran
away, recalling Storm and activating teleportation.
Three
seconds later I stood in complete silence outside the Stronghold of the
Destroying Plague. Sticky anthracite soil covered in sand and crisscrossed with
green veins led to the fort. Only the glimmering veil of the portal was gone —
it seemed my sectarian friends from the cult of Morena had smashed all the
ziggurats on the other side.
Digging
through my inventory, I took out the Bottomless Healing Potion with a
half-hour cooldown and drank it. Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time
I’d used it — there had been no need. Now it came in handy.
I turned
my head around, made sure my neck was right again, summoned my dragoness and
rose into the air. The carelessness of a few minutes ago had put things into
perspective for me. I couldn’t get into another scrape like that, or
eliminating me would be a piece of cake. Shazz was nearby, which meant that any
death — and under such furious fire from so many top players, I’d die in within
ten seconds of Diamond Skin ending — would be final for the character
Scyth.
The sky
darkened a few miles away from the battlefield and three bright dots appeared
in it, leaving a fiery trail behind them. I recognized the overwhelming sound
of meteors rushing to earth at once — Armageddon! And not just one, but
three at once! It seemed the top players had decided not to spare their scrolls
worth a million and a half gold — although it wasn’t even about the cost so
much as the extreme rarity of the ingredients. There were very few Armageddon
scrolls in all Dis.
I’d
arrived just in time. The three massive meteorites ripped into the undead army
with a second between them. The first one pulverized the left flank, the second
— the right. The third, central meteorite crashed through Deznafar’s ribcage.
The explosive shockwave swept aside the dead minions that weren’t hit directly.
Shazz himself, through some miracle escaping the danger, was pushed five
hundred yards away. Nothing was visible in the smoke and rising dust where the
meteorites fell.
Almost
all the undead creatures were down. Some surviving banshees scurried around at
one edge, howling; the frame of a Sickening Rotter crawling through the sand
with its bottom half torn clean off; a Bone Hound pinned down by a shard
of meteorite, whining pathetically. My brain mechanically remarked on the
individual scenes, each showing the undead army dying helplessly.
I
couldn’t believe my eyes — was it really all of them? — and I even felt respect
for the preventers. Or at least for the Armageddon scrolls.
In real
life, I wouldn’t have made out any details so far away; this time I kept my
distance and didn’t descend too far. But in the game, thanks to my heightened
Perception and the game conditions, I saw gleeful excitement reigning in the
preventer ranks; they were jumping around, hugging each other and shouting.
What if
I descended rapidly down to the cart with the altar, left at the foot of the
dune with a guard of a single raid group and the giant haulers? I could try to
destroy it while the soldiers were distracted with loot. Deep in thought, I
didn’t notice at first what was happening where the meteorites had fallen. And
something interesting was happening there.
The
raised dust settled, and three huge black craters with slopes of glass
appeared. Something moved at in the central crater.
Deznafar!
The monster had survived, although Armageddon had cut him in half, and
thrown his bones across the area. I didn’t see how much health the Battle
Avatar of the Departed had left, so I’d assumed he wouldn’t get up. But with Plague
Boost, Deznafar had absorbed experience from his disincarnated allies and
now arose as a level nine hundred and thirty super-mob! Bones began to twitch
here and there around the crater. Shazz had returned to the battlefield and
streams of plague energy stretched out from his hands, raising the
fallen.
The
preventers celebrated too soon. Instead of a thousand minions, Shazz had around
a hundred left, but all had leveled up and gotten stronger. Looked like the
Alliance was fresh out of Armageddons…
I was
wrong. Below, I could make out the Modus raid group by its flag colors and clan
crests. A figure of a familiar gray-haired gnome emerged it, hand raised. Then
I decided to take a risk.
Taking
advantage while the raid’s attention was locked on Shazz, I focused on
Hinterleaf and made Storm drop through the air like a stone. As soon as the Subjugate
Mind skill turned active, I cast it.
The
world doubled up. Through the eyes of the Modus leader, I saw an Armageddon
scroll clenched in his hand and a red circle overlaid on the terrain ahead,
showing where the spell would hit and where the explosion would cover. The cast
bar was half full.
Turning
sharply, I redirected the meteorite to another area and waited for the spell to
finish casting. The scroll crumbled to dust, the sky darkened. Not even the
rising rumble of the falling meteorite drowned out the exultant cry from
Hinterleaf’s lips:
“For
Cthulhu!”
I
examined the stunned faces of the Modus soldiers, shouted an order:
“Everyone
attack the lich!” I ran first to show them that the clan leader wasn’t joking.
Hinterleaf
surely had something to protect him from mind control. The raid surely had
someone who could remove the spell’s effect, and maybe they were trying, but as
I’d already learned, the abilities of the Destroying Plague broke through
resists. I recalled how Koshch the Cursed Lich had twice gained controlled of
the succubus Nega in spite of her in-built resistance to mind control magic.
As
Hinterleaf got within attack range of Deznafar, I had him fire some spell at
the monster and then gave up control. The cast required an enormous amount of plague
energy to sustain, and there was no chance to top up my reservoir — I
wasn’t about to put myself under fire.
My
vision went back to normal. I came back to myself quite literally, and pointed
Storm sharply upwards to get out of the Armageddon’s blast radius.
The
preventers split into chaotic disorderly ranks. Some rushed ahead after
Hinterleaf, some away. Other shouted loudly, pointing at the sky — the
meteorite wasn’t falling where it should. It was aimed at the Great Portable
Altar!
Deznafar
had recovered from the strike that hit him and now he made his presence known
on the battlefield. The monster roared, drawn out and screeching, drumming like
a baton raked across metal bars. The roar pierced the eardrums, filling the air
to the brim. The top players directly in front of Deznafar, with Hinterleaf at
their head, froze in place…
I
thought it must have been something like the Montosaurus’s paralyzing roar, but
a moment later I realized I was wrong. The space in front of the mega-undead dematerialized
into vibrating pixels and the air blurred as if spreading across shards of
mirror. The bodies of the players within the area of effect of Deznafar’s
ability shook, vibrated, then burst all at once, exploding in showers of blood.
Then
came the blast on the other side of the dune!
The
fiery meteorite crushed the cart along with its altar and unlucky giant
haulers. The defensive raid legion survived thanks to its last-chance
artifacts, but couldn’t withstand the hellish heat that followed. Few climbed
out of the crater.
Deznafar,
suddenly incredibly mobile, tore into the ranks of the preventers; paying no
heed to the mosquito bites from the top players, he trampled the ground with
all eight limbs at once and released his terrible roar, blowing up humans,
orcs, elves and minotaurs, gnomes and dwarfs, lophers, fairies and hobbits,
vampires and werewolves, ogres and titans, centaurs, trolls…
The
raiders’ formations devolved into separate groups that immediately fell into
skirmishes with the advancing undead. A few rotters and queases killed by Armageddon
had been combined into one enormous rotter that towered over the preventers
like Gulliver over the Lilliputians. The beast leaked acid slime and feasted,
grabbing players with its ten limbs and swallowing them alive.
The
raiders had gone from slapping each other on the back a few minutes before,
united and confident, to fleeing to the four winds. It seemed the whole
Alliance was in shock. The wipe was unavoidable, and a new threat had descended
on the preventers. Before they had time to appreciate their immunity to Plague
Fury, something even scarier had hit them. Deznafar tore space itself in a
thirty-yard cone in front of himself. I couldn’t see any way to defend against
it. I felt sure that even the Montosaurus itself would be reduced to blood and
guts if it stood before the attack of the Battle Avatar of the Departed. If the
Departed had such pets, then how strong were they themselves?
The
chief puppeteer made himself known too. My fellow Legate, the lich Shazz,
joined in with the fun. He flew above the crest of the dune and span in a
deadly dance. Bubbling Devouring Plague like the one I saw during the
battle at Behemoth’s temple covered almost the entire dune, finishing off the
despairing survivors that continued to fire off spells at Deznafar. I dropped
lower to see his health stats — Armageddon and all the following attacks
from the preventers had taken just a third of his health.
Shazz
busied himself with precisely finishing off survivors, throwing handfuls of Grave
Worms at their backs as they ran. The sickening dead magic hit hobbit rogue
Romaroma, one of the Azure Dragons as he went into Stealth. The unlucky
rogue was knocked out of invis, and the segmented bloody worms started diving
into his skin. The massive combined damage killed the preventer in seconds. A Sphere
of Serendipity appeared above the corpse, shook and disappeared, absorbed
by my Magnetism.
The lich
flew ten yards into the air, raised an arm and began to spin in place. His
clothes in the shape of an inside-out tulip sparked. Petal-like scraps began to
peel away from him. They filled with mist and flew all across the battlefield. Grave
Storm! My breath caught as I remembered the spell’s events.
They
flew through the air in a deadly rain of black flakes, and when it hit the
preventers’ armor, it melted away like wax. Shazz had gotten a little stronger
since the battle on Kharinza: there were three times as many flakes in that Grave
Storm, and they flew so far that all I could see was black land wherever my
eyes fell.
I
decided to use the distraction to make sure the altar was destroyed. Grave
Storm had no effect on me, but it ruined visibility. I had to fly around to
find the crater of the last Armageddon. From all around I heard screams
of pain from players, the wailing of banshees, the crack and shatter of bones,
Deznafar’s roar and the lich’s triumphant whisper. I tried to make out at least
one player that had been raised as undead, but saw none. Maybe raising players
was only my job, and Shazz had his own assignments.
The
altar had survived. Dropping down almost all the way to the surface, I looked
at the range of glimmering dome shields covering not only it, but also the
reviving players. They weren’t hurrying back into the battle. Mages were
casting shield after shield. From above, it looked like bubble wrap. So
satisfying to pop. The undead hadn’t gotten here yet, and it seemed the
preventers were taking advantage of the breather to discuss strategy. There was
nothing for me to catch here.
I pulled
up on the rains to ascend, and then…
The
world roared and I went deaf. In the ringing silence, I watched as if in
slow-mo while the neighboring dune exploded, throwing megatons of sand into the
atmosphere, smashing the bubbles above the preventers. The colossal body of
Deznafar toppled from the dune’s peak and swept away the remains of the undead.
“WHO
DARES DISTURB MY MEDITATION?”
The
thunderous voice boomed across the desert, bounced off the sky and returned in
a thrice-amplified echo. From where the dune had stood a moment ago, a tiny dot
hovered immobile for a few seconds, then sped toward us.
It was a
man. Naked save for a worn loincloth, all skin and bones, with a beard down to
his feet. Hair just as long covered his face.
Oyama,
Human, level ??? Supreme Grand Master of Unarmed Combat
The very
same Oyama who once taught my teacher Sagda! He was supposed to be traveling
the astral plane. He looked far from meditative now.
From a
range of a couple of hundred yards, still floating above the earth, Oyama
performed a few strikes. The air thickened where he’d struck, creating an
impression of his attacks. The next second, the dune with the reviving
preventers at its foot exploded. I couldn’t escape the shockwave — Storm span
and roared in terror, fell to the earth. Her wings broke as she landed, pinning
me as she died. Diamond Skin activated to save me. I jumped to my feet,
rushed to Oyama — this must have been Fortune’s influence. I really needed to
talk to the master.
In the
spot that had been a mighty dune a moment before, nothing was left. Deznafar’s
bones were strewn across half a mile, and the lesser undead had been crushed to
atoms. I couldn’t see Shazz anywhere. The preventers hadn’t survived either,
but the Great Portable Altar still stood.
I found
Supreme Grand Master of Unarmed Combat Oyama lying on the sand, unconscious. I
carefully touched his shoulder.
“Master…”
What? I
couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the master’s health bar. It was in the red.
He was near death! No way… But the logs confirmed it: it was my fault. My Reflection
nearly killed him. I survived thanks to Diamond Skin, but Oyama took
three times as much damage as I absorbed.
I took
out my Bottomless Healing Potion, uncorked it, poured it into the
master’s half-open toothless mouth. Oyama’s health bar crawled up. He opened
his eyes, coughed and stood up sharply. I didn’t see him rise, because I flew
into the air, carried away by his uppercut. Fortunately, it was a normal strike
and not a special move, so I didn’t fly far and Oyama didn’t kill himself. I
stood up and took a couple of paces toward the old man — now I could clearly
see an ancient and hunchbacked old man before me, barely staying upright on his
rickety legs.
“Supreme
Grand Master Oyama, please allow me to speak!” I shouted hastily, afraid to get
much closer. “My name is Scyth. I am a student of your student Sagda, and I
wish to learn more of your knowledge…”
“What?
That idiot is still wasting air?”
“Forgive
me, mentor Oyama, but Master Sagda is alive and well…”
“Who are
you calling mentor?” Oyama interrupted. I started to understand where Sagda had
gotten his oppositional character. From his teacher. “You are nobody to me and
you have no right to call me that. And the same for that Sagda of yours. Get
away, before I send you to your ancestors.”
He
snapped his fingers and a portal opened nearby. The master raised a foot to
walk through it, but stopped.
“What is
your name, undead?”
“I’m a human.
My name is Scyth.”
“I see
what kind of human you are,” Oyama snorted, obviously seeing my true form
beneath Cloak Essence. “A rotting dead man in a sharp-eared babe
costume. What can you do?”
“I know Hammerfist,
Stunn…”
“Enough
talk. Show me.”
Glancing
around and making sure we were alone, I charged a full Combo with twenty
or so strikes.
“Heh…
Cute. Did you only learn two moves, dead man?”
“I’m a
human. And yeah, I only learned two moves, but… I got ‘em down!”
“I don’t
know, I don’t know…” Oyama shook his head. “You’re pretty quick for a corpse,
but I don’t teach the undead.”
I knew
how that went. Another master had told me a month before that he wouldn’t take
archers until I offered five hundred gold.
“Master,
if it is a matter of money, then I am willing to pay any sum for your
teachings.”
“I don’t
care about money. But you do have potential…” Oyama yawned. “I’m very tired. I
intend to rest. There is a small village in southern Latteria, Jiri. The people
there are simple. When they see a dead man, they bring out their pitchforks.
And disguises don’t fool them. But if you can… Come say hi.”
Yawning
widely, the old man strolled through the portal, which clapped shut.
I spent
the next hour up on a mechostrich and careering around the scorched and soot-covered
desert, collecting Spheres of Serendipity. They probably only existed
for a while, and would disappear if I didn’t collect them in time. They’d go to
the demons of the Inferno, Marduk or someone else. In any case, my supply of
Serendipity was now over eight hundred thousand. Fortune would be pleased.
There
were bones and undead guts everywhere, four crates gleaming with black glass…
The player bodies had disappeared, strewing equipment items all over. My
inventory was full to bursting — distracted by the epic battle, I hadn’t
noticed Magnetism pulling in loot.
Guys,
there’s mountains of loot here, I wrote to the clan chat. I can’t take it all. Head to the fort,
we’ll meet there.
We’re
waiting for Infect and then moving out. Just got back from school, Crawler
answered.
I had to
do something before the preventers revived. I’d been waiting for Diamond
Skin to cool down all this time so that I could withstand the altar’s Shining.
The real Great Portable Altar had three times as much life as the fake one.
Armageddon removed the protection of the magical blessing and the dome
shield. Oyama’s ranged attacks did some damage too. Frowning, I stepped into
the hit zone. Six reflected ticks of Shining were enough.
The sky
flashed, drawing in the energy of the broken altar. In the tremble of the
explosion and the furious roar from Nergal, I missed some words aimed at me:
“…Legate!”
Looking
up, I saw Shazz floating above me. He looked in a bad way even for an undead,
but he’d survived. Mystery-level Oyama, if he’d stayed longer, would have
finished the lich off with a snap of his fingers, but the master of martial
arts was gone, and I couldn’t damage my ally.
I
guessed what I had to answer:
“But
there is no death in service to the Destroying Plague!”
“Is that
it?” The lich pointed a crooked finger at the wreckage of the altar.
“Yes. I
don’t know how long for, but all the undying ones we killed will revive far
away from here now.”
“That is
well,” Shazz hissed. “I need time to restore my legion.”
“What
about Deznafar?”
“He will
be restored. It will take time and much energy, but I managed to preserve him.
I must retreat to the stronghold, Legate. What will you do?”
“I have
a mission from the Nucleus to complete…” I answered mysteriously. “Tell me,
Legate, why did you not raise any of the undying?”
“The
Nucleus did not order me to. In any case, the undying that we encountered today
are weak. Weaker than the weakest of the local fauna. I will take into
consideration my mistakes. I will erect a Plague Ziggurat and create a legion
of the desert monsters. The flesh of sentients is too fragile. But that is not
news.”
Done
talking, Shazz floated away toward the stronghold without a word.” He was
lurching a little, but I saw the thousands of fine streams of energy he was
pulling from the corpses.
The
preventers would recover and they too would consider the lessons of the first
battle. Another hundred thousand players were on their way here too.
The Holy War had officially started.
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