Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4), Page 2

  The girl gave a solemn nod and cringed, rubbing her neck. "He's there, where else! He's made an agreement with the tree. It promised to hide him from us if he buried the Fertile Soil artifact under its roots. He thought we didn't see it! We wanted to dig it out but the stupid tree lashed its branches at us! Uncle Max, tell it to stop!"

  I wrinkled my forehead, trying to grasp what she'd just said. An agreement. With a freakin' tree. I knew of course that it was emo sensitive, being an old Elven relic and all that. Emo, yes, but sentient? Had I just missed something?

  In the meantime Masha began to inch away. "May I go now? Big Tooth — oops, sorry, I meant Master Broken Fang, our Orc teacher — he hates it when we're late for practice. And today we'll be using double sais. He's invited Whizz from Zena's squad to show us how to use them! And I'd hate to miss the sparring practice. Last time Nikita cut my arm right off, I'm not leaving it like that! Auntie Bomba showed me the awesomest trick — Bang! Your teeth fly out and you have to keep mum for two minutes."

  Kids. It wasn't even their full contact fighting practice that worried me, even though the sight of preschoolers slaughtering each other with abandon made me quite uneasy. No — there was something else to that, too. Something much more important.

  The sword master — an NPC, believe it or not, who'd cost me a king's ransom — cast a derogatory glance over the excited ranks of his new recruits.

  "To arms!" he commanded without further ado.

  Cheering, the starry-eyed kids rushed toward a heap of Old-World taboos: razor-sharp knives, predatory scimitars, life-threatening hammers, flails and shurikens.

  As the children rummaged for their weapons of choice, Cryl and I stood numbly nearby, silently mouthing the air like grounded fish, watching wizards pick up two-handed swords and rogues choose combat staffs. I knew of course that these children had no idea of class restrictions. They were a hundred percent sure they could pick up whatever took their fancy. No wonder the skies immediately protested, cursing us to hell and back and decorating the cloudless blue with flourishes of lightning. Aha — there was the Fallen One himself coming to protect his beloved astral planes! No points for him for having guessed who'd been this world's new pain in the butt.

  He didn't interfere though. With a rather amused chuckle, he gave us a nod of approval, then disappeared in the flash of a portal.

  In the meantime, the Arena seethed with the most chaotic of battles: everyone against anyone. A kid struggled to wield an halberd, brushing whoever happened too close, then screaming indignantly at a return blow from an eroded pole axe. Somebody else used their sharp epée to poke an old enemy's buttock in full seriousness. Children are like that: perfectly straightforward in their impulses and not yet burdened by society's conventions.

  Masha the Levitating Girl interpreted my silence as a permission to leave. She chirped something by way of goodbye and darted toward the sound of steel clanging against steel. Another latecomer had caught up with her and was quickly gaining the lead: a sinewy youngster from Lena's animal farm. He shot past me astride a young hell hound clutching to the beast's armored neck, his fingers fearlessly wedged between its armor plates.

  Their blurred outline whizzed past in a series of long leaps, both the rider's and his impromptu mount's eyes shining with ecstasy. They looked rather like those Orc riders from the old Lord of the Rings movie. Oh well. This was one hell of a cavalry we seemed to be raising here. I wouldn't envy the unsuspecting enemy whose flanks were assaulted by a line of these guys. They could guarantee you a few embarrassing pants-soiling moments.

  I jumped off the steps and headed for the Fallen One's throne lurking under the mallorn tree's canopy. Far beyond the castle walls, I could hear the rattling of hammers and the cracking of stone being split: there, Thror's dwarves were busy restoring the ancient fortifications.

  A stray beam of light cut through the hundreds of tree branches from the garden's far end and hit the fancy gold roof of Taali's tomb, bringing unwanted tears to my eyes. I looked away, grinding my teeth. This wasn't the right time to start whining. In order to mourn our dead at leisure, we had to think about those alive first.

  Halfway to the throne, the mallorn leaves stirred. I froze. With a powerful kick, the branches sent a disheveled protesting Gimmick flying onto the path. Rubbing his long-suffering backside, the Golem Master looked about himself helplessly. Noticing me, he sprung back to his feet and, ouching, demanded justice be done,

  "This is getting out of hand, Sir! Those brats won't leave the throne alone! And I've got work to do! Your order, mind you: fifty custom-made heavy golems with a DOT configuration. And now this freakin' tree has an attitude!"

  I suppressed a smile, shaking the Belorussian's hand. "I'll look into it."

  I walked over to the mallorn and raised an inquiring eyebrow, staring at its shapely leaves. The tree got the message and parted its canopy, forming a shady green passage. Admittedly, it was beautiful.

  I stepped in and headed firmly for the throne finally revealing itself amid the foliage. Gimmick trailed behind, stumbling over my feet, hissing and cursing at the tree as it gave him a hearty slap on the back, punishing the potential freerider.

  Dimka Khaman turned out to be a skinny individual about eight years old, with a serious face and the sensitive fingers of a piano player. He rocked in the semblance of a trance, his eyes half shut, mouthing something as he wound the handle of a practice sword with fine silver wire. Where on earth had he got that from? The sword's crossguard was already decorated with a few unseemly-looking stones glued to it with some wood resin.

  I glanced at the sword's stats. So!

  Increases the chances of delivering a crippling hit 90%

  Aura of Fear: the target's agility drops 33%

  Cripple: a lifetime debuff. Every hit has a nonzero probability to drop the opponent's agility 1 pt.

  Fortune's Backside: a debuff. Lady Luck has turned her back on your opponent, doubling his chances of losing concentration and failing combos.

  He's done a nice job of this rather ordinary sword. It hurt to see these unique artifact-class stats being wasted on a stupid practice piece of soft metal. The lifetime debuff looked especially scary. I was no walking Wiki of course, but I'd never heard anything definitive about something like that: only some vague rumors about some mysterious mega boss in a blood-curdling dungeon who crippled players by breaking their never-healing limbs with these abilities of his.

  I focused on the words he was mouthing,

  "I weave and I tie, this spell is no lie. A fool you were born but a cripple you'll die. A klutz, you said? Let's see which of us two is a klutz now!"

  I chuckled. A dark avenger in the making. Apparently, the young genius was forging a comeuppance for an impudent enemy. You really had to be careful with quiet ones like him. Their pent-in animosity may well end with a dose of rat poison in your tea.

  Time to put the guy straight and find him something to do before he strayed too far along the road of crime.

  I lay a calm hand on his bony little shoulder. "It's not worth it, you know."

  Dimka sat up with a startle and was about to leg it, but I forced him back down. "Wait. You've made a great sword. Excellent work, congratulations. But it's too dangerous. A few careless words or an unfair blow — do they really justify a lifetime punishment? Actually, sometimes they do call for a sword job, but you've got a lot of growing up to do before you reach these levels of conflicts and responsibility."

  He looked up at me, his stare interested and just a tad ironic. I halted for a moment, confused, trying to determine the fine line between a childish grudge and the kind of adult stupidity that in the good old days was worth repaying in blood.

  How many times had I regretted the duel ban in the real world! So many bastards and bullies were walking around unpunished, leaving pain and tears in their wake! All the young would be rattling their swords in gyms instead of gulping beer on street corners or staring, red-eyed, at computer screens. I was
pretty sure that introducing a new duel code would have given our communication standards an unprecedented boost, making a quick job of all the scum while keeping tongues in check. When your sword is dangling within your reach, any street corner could turn into a combat arena, making good manners the order of the day.

  "Actually, Dimka, what I want to say, what if you take this sword to Durin in the armory? I'll be honest with you: I have a bad feeling about its properties. It's not a combat weapon but rather a torture tool to reset prisoners back to zero. As for you, my friend, I can see I can trust you. I think we could give you a proper job to do."

  The young master's stare betrayed some interest.

  "I'm going to give you access to our craft ingredient stocks. You'll work with Gimmick building battle golems!"

  The kid's nostrils flared. Gimmick next to him stood up straight with his hands on his hips, wheezing importantly. But me, I stopped mid-word. What was I doing? What was I thinking? What an idiot I was, by the lacy gusset of Macaria! Dimka was a self-taught prodigy who followed his talent and his instincts alone. Gimmick was going to sterilize his gift, telling him what the kid could and couldn't do, forcing his skills to comply with the laws of gameplay.

  "Wait!" I blurted. "We'll do it another way!"

  I waved a reassuring hand to the indignant Dimka and frowned, returning to my musings.

  At the moment, this young genius created his masterpieces solely on the strength of his willpower and his ignorance of the world's laws. The indignant universe had to grit its teeth and play along, ushering the kid into the path of least resistance, suggesting the right ingredients and nudging him toward the place of power where his work on creating a new artifact would cause the least conflict with the world's logic.

  And that was the direction he had to continue in. No cookie-cutter crafting! And what if...

  "Listen," I whispered confidentially, digging gingerly into my bag for the polished adamant mirror I'd received from the Chinese Mao clan in exchange for our Shui Fong prisoners. "You think you could take this useless thingy and forge it into something useful? Like a sword or a dagger?"

  I crossed my fingers mentally. Yes, yes, of course it said "Indestructible"! And yes, I knew that only gods could handle adamant. Still, a hapless mortal unlucky enough to become a player on the gods' field could use a trump card like that up his sleeve... a trump card or even better, a pink-bladed dagger.

  I handed him the mirror, then turned, making threatening faces at a very indignant Gimmick about to expose the extent of our ignorance. Shut up, you fool! As if I don't know!

  The young shaman shook his head. "I can't forge yet. But I can shape it into whatever you want. Fancy a cube?"

  Oh. I could probably turn a cube into a small hammer. Too light, wasn't it? Just over half a pound: just good enough to dish out a few bruises among the gods, not more. I ran a mental list of the various types of steel weapons: slashing, cutting, crushing... no, that wasn't it. Yes! A stabbing one!

  "Dimka, I know what you can do! How about a sharp three-edged bayonet? I have a short staff about a meter long. If we carve the end of it into a socket and fit it with a catch, we could use it as a javelin or an icepick. A killer weapon!"

  The kid nodded his agreement as he warmed the mirror in his hands, breathing on it and incanting something. We watched as the item began to melt, losing its shape, like a gallium teaspoon in the hands of a street magician.

  Gimmick gasped. I rummaged through my inventory for my latest trophy. Our frontier raid had added quite a few top elite gear items to our armory. One day as I'd surveyed all these heaps of dangerous steel, I'd noticed this gnarly staff made from some weird wood and topped with a murky crystal emitting a weak light. Shadows had danced within the stone, reminding one of a watchful evil eye, while the staff itself had desperately tried to enshroud itself in the cover of darkness, avoiding my greedy hands.

  Ouch! There is was! Touching it in my bag felt like being whacked by an electric shock. The Staff of Hatred held an imprisoned soul of a demon and was meant to bring fear and discomfort to everyone around. On top of all the usual class restrictions and hefty summoning and intellect bonuses, this Necromancer toy had one nasty double-edged ability: when equipped, the demon syphoned life out of all warm-blooded creatures within fifty paces, friend and foe alike. The former suffered less, both in terms of pain and damage, while the latter were literally crippled in agony.

  The imprisoned monster kept some of the energy and forwarded the rest to his master, according to the agreement. You couldn't do much hunting or leveling with this kind of aura as you'd aggro every local monster onto yourself. But when it came to a large scramble — and that was all I'd seemed to be doing just lately — the artifact's owner could be looking at a quality energy fix.

  While I was busy taming the malicious staff by lashing it with my mental willpower, Dimka had finished his modeling-clay class. "There!" he produced the bayonet.

  Actually, it wasn't that bad. Not exactly straight and just a bit lopsided but very, very dangerous. I still remembered the Fallen One's face when he'd seen the adamant claws of Lloth's spider avatar. I, too, could use a weighty argument like this in case of any major incidents.

  "Thanks a bunch, Dimka. Mind getting off that seat for a bit? Gimmick, your turn. Are you comfortable? Now take this."

  I handed him the quivering staff. Gimmick hid his hands behind his back, shrinking into the safety of the throne. "I don't want it! It scares me!"

  "Just take it, I say! I want you to make a hole in it with a catch next to it. Are you a crafter or just a pretty face? Or do you want me to ask this little boy to do it?"

  Gimmick shook his head and said with a pained expression, "Max, you don't understand. This is a self-contained game item. It can't be modified. You could, I suppose, submit a patent request to the Admins and create a new recipe, and then..."

  "What game are you talking about? Look at this kid! He lives here, and he does what he wants to do! He makes whatever takes his fancy! You're a perma too — it's your world, not the Admins'! Just forget their restrictions!"

  Gimmick cast a helpless look around. "I need my tools, too..."

  "That's your problem! Take this and drill a hole in it!"

  I forced both items — the adamant blade and the malicious staff — into his hands. His shoulders stooped under my insistent glare. Then Gimmick pulled himself together and took in a couple of lungfuls of air, calming himself down and concentrating. He closed his eyelids and began mouthing something, copying the boy shaman.

  The sharp tip of the bayonet dug into the side of the staff. It struggled in rage but Gimmick's calloused hands held the wood tight, pressing the bayonet harder, turning it slightly. A thin shaving of black wood dropped into his lap.

  Ding. High in the sky yet another thread snapped, weakening the bond between our two worlds.

  Chapter Two

  The City of Light. The Temple of the Sun God.

  The Sun God's personal quarters.

  The girl's heart contracted one last time. The wet rattling noises in her throat finally stopped.

  Normally, paralyzation immobilized a sacrificial creature but it didn't lower his or her pain threshold. For two reasons: firstly, because it greatly increased the victim's energy output and secondly, it was more fun this way.

  With a benign smile, the Sun God shook off the scarlet drops that covered him to the elbows. Today had brought him one step closer to perfection. He'd managed to take the altar-bound junior priestess apart into nineteen separate fragments, stretching out her organs while still connected to her body by the veins pulsating with the life-giving blood flow.

  He gave the ritual a name: Crimson Sunset. In his last reincarnation, the Sun God had lost his battle against the forces of Chaos, unable to withstand a direct attack from Blood Magic backed up by their enormous sacrificial ziggurats. Shame. That particular world had shown lots of promise.

  The Sun God never failed to learn from his mistakes.
He eagerly welcomed any opportunity for potential growth in power. On that day he'd taken a peek over at the Dark side — and perceived the true Force lurking in the torrents of Chaos. And very soon Chaos had noticed him too...

  The Sun God nodded to the Patriarch waiting patiently next to him. The withered old man with an unpleasant squint in his pale eyes immediately set about removing the ravaged body, cleaning the altar and fetching the incense bowl and a pitcher of warm water to wash his master's divine hands.

  In the meantime, the High God listened to the celestial spheres. Excellent. The young priestess had failed to resurrect, forever losing her identity. What an unexpectedly good side effect! He absolutely had to try this ritual on the Immortal Ones. What an annoying race! How unbelievable was that — the mortals getting access to divine power, stripping him of his main instrument of fear: their dread of death and his choice of their afterlife. It had been so much easier in other worlds!

  Never mind. If push came to shove, he could always summon Hades, God of the Underworld. Zeus' brother would surely bring law and order unto the world. He could use the occasion to lure some of the Fallen One's dwarves away. Hades had plenty of underground treasures to tempt them with. One word to those mine-diggers and they'd come running, losing their picks on the way!

  The Fallen One. Furious at the sheer memory, the Sun God gasped, breathing fire. The Patriarch's exposed skin turned red and blistered as he poured water onto his divine master's hands. The sun glistened through the pink droplets. Taken by the sight, the Sun God immediately desired to immortalize it. He snapped his fingers, turning blood into rubies. The Patriarch staggered, wheezing, as the spell grazed him, immediately dwarfing his sunburns into insignificance. Any human surgeon would have fainted at the sight of an autopsied body whose arteries were clogged with rubies; any jeweler would have been more than happy to lay his hands on them.