by Deck Davis
“What did Lizzy say they’ve added?” asked Tripp.
“She told me she'd heard other players talking about it. One guy in the inn was bragging about how his sister works on the dev team as a junior, and she told him they’ve changed things for the wave. Made it harder.”
“There’s a surprise,” said Jon.
There was no sign of any change yet, but then the Blood Wave hadn’t started, and…
…a scream rose from outside of Mountmend. One so loud, so high-pitched that it was like it came from the land itself.
The Second Blood Wave has begun.
Tripp pulled up his map. Again, Mountmend was divided into sections, but there was something different this time; there was an equal amount of players in each of the sections facing the plains.
“They’re better organized this time,” said Tripp, showing his map to Jon. “See? Before it looked like every man for himself. Now they’re defending the segments that face the plains.”
Warren pointed across the plaza. “She’s over there. Lizzy!”
Lizzy charged over to them, her elephant trunk flapping, her boots making a thud that echoed in the empty plaza. She flashed a warm smile.
“You boys took your time,” she said. “Did you do it?”
“Yep,” said Warren.
“Any loot?”
“Nope. A crappy bronze chest, and no enemies to kill.”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go help with the wave. I heard that some orb weavers dropped rare loot last night.”
Tripp was ready this time. It wasn’t that he’d gotten tougher, and he hadn’t even created any better weapons since the last wave. The only thing he’d done was make the orb weaver-resistant brooches.
It was more a state of mind. If there was one thing having a chicken icon affixed above your head did, it was to make you want to fight to prove yourself.
“Let’s head just east of the gate,” he said. “Plenty of people there, so plenty of action. Ready?”
Warren gave him the thumbs up, and Jon nodded. They crossed the plaza and then took an alleyway to the right, following it toward the edge of Mountmend.
It was when Tripp opened his map to check they were going the right way, that he saw something.
“Have any of you seen this before?” he said.
They looked at his map. Jon shook his head. “It wasn’t there last night.”
“This isn’t good,” said Warren. “If I had to guess, then it means…”
Tripp looked at the new addition to his map.
Players left in Godden’s Reach: 87
It was a total player count. That in itself was no biggie; it was standard to list how many people were in one particular area of the game.
But one word stuck out to him.
“I think we have a problem,” he said. “Lamp and Gilla told me that people can’t get into Godden’s Reach now. Only people who were here before the waves started can be part of it.”
“Lucky us,” said Lizzy.
“Check your map. See where the player count is listed?”
Jon screwed up his forehead in thought. “87? That’s not many.”
“True, but that’s not what I’m getting at. Notice anything different?”
Warren read from his map. “Players left in Godden’s Reach, 87. What am I missing?”
“They added the word left to that. Players left in Godden’s Reach. It might just be one word, but one word can have a hell of an implication. Swimming with dolphins? Great! Swimming with sharks…not so good. One word changed, but a hell of a different meaning.”
Lizzy nodded. “We use a punctuation example in our classroom. Let’s eat grandma! Versus let’s eat, grandma. Very different outcomes.”
Jon nodded. “Tripp is right. Everything the devs do has a reason behind it. I read that they even ran a/b/c split tests on what font to use on their character tabs – that’s how obsessive they are. If they suddenly added the word left, there’s a reason.”
Warren’s forehead was so screwed up now he looked like a wrinkled tortoise. “I’m not following.”
“Simple,” said Tripp. “If I’m right, then anyone who dies in Godden’s Reach isn’t coming back from now on.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like I should have worked my way up to level 100?” said Warren.
Tripp gave them each a brooch of orb weaver resistance, watching Warren clip his to his cleric robes, Jon put his in his pocket, and Lizzy attached hers to a string that was wrapped around her warhammer to improve its grip.
“This will help, but it won’t make us superheroes,” said Tripp. “None of us have even hit level 30 yet.”
“We’ll stay on the sidelines. Let the others get killed,” said Lizzy.
“I expected more from you, Lizzy,” said Bee, glaring at the elephant woman.
“Huh?”
“I’ve been listening to you all, and I try not to get involved unless Tripp asks me because it isn’t my place. But come now…really? Stay on the sidelines and watch everyone else fight? That’s how Tripp ended up with a chicken floating above his head.”
Tripp nodded. “She’s right. I tried to be clever and Boxe felt I needed slapping down. So, here’s what we should do. We’ll go to where the action is in one of the plains-facing segments. We’ll target orb weavers who have a bunch of decent-level players fighting them. Jon can use his bow from the sidelines, and Lizzy and I will attack from the front. Warren, you keep an eye on our HP and heal us. That, together with the other players and the brooches, should be enough. We might not be as strong as other players, but at least we can contribute.”
The scene near the Mountmend gates was wildly different from the previous night. Where the first wave sent a ripple of panic through the players, tonight was an improvement.
There were signs of organization in the way the players were defending the town, and it pleased Tripp. While the weavers scurried from the darkness of the plains and climbed into Mountmend, melee fighters met them head-on.
These guys and girls weren’t all as bulky as you’d expect melee fighters to be, but that made sense. After all, Tripp was a barrel-chested orc, yet his weak fighting skills made his muscles useless. Whereas he watched skinny rogues deal as much damage as the paladins and barbarians fighting beside them. It wasn’t about how you looked; it was about how much you trained your fighting skills.
Staying back from the front line were the archers, spellcasters, and healers. Jon and Warren fell in line with them, and in a blink Jon had a green-tipped arrow nocked, and Warren let a yellow light gather in his palms.
He cast it to his left, to where six players were surrounding one orb weaver. The creature lifted its sharpened legs in warning, lashing out at anyone who got nearby. Having multiple eyes meant it had no blind-spots, and its agility gave it a sickening reaction time.
Despite surrounding it, the players suffered damage, and lots of it. Warren cast a healing spell at them, but rather than just healing a single person this acted as a chain, zapping from player to player, the light getting weaker the further it went.
Lizzy slapped Tripp on the shoulder, and her strength was enough to make it sting. But one thing a guy with a chicken label didn’t do, was show that a slap had hurt his shoulder.
He slapped her back in return as hard as he could, so hard she stepped forward and had to balance.
She glared at him, but Tripp just smiled. “Ready?”
Lizzy nodded. She raised her warhammer, and the weapon was quite honestly awe-inspiring. It made Tripp want to create one.
He equipped his own morning star, deciding that his flagellation flail was only to be used in the most extreme of circumstances since it was only effective if he sacrificed his own hitpoints.
“Let’s do this.”
They joined the players surrounding the orb weaver, and Tripp bustled his way into the group and then started clubbing the arachnid.
He’d expected the weaver to work on a priority system when i
t chose carefully who to attack, either going for the strongest or weakest of the group. Instead, it seemed to rotate, lashing at each of the players in turn.
It was most dangerous after taking a hit, because not only did its screech hurt Tripp’s eardrums, but he watched it flick its razor-sharp legs in a counter blow, and he felt a stirring in his guts as he saw the tips impale some of the surrounding players.
Despite the ferocity of its fight, slowly but surely its HP drained under lashings of spells, arrows, swords, and axes.
It was only when its health-bar was barely visible that something came to Tripp’s mind. He watched the bar intently. Then, hoping he’d timed it right, he raised his morning star.
He smashed it down on the orb weaver’s head, driving the pointed barbs into its eyes. Liquid spat from it and Tripp felt something ooze down his face.
The weaver’s legs splayed out, and it collapsed to the ground and shuddered for a second, before laying still. A notification from Boxe informed him that he’d levelled to 18.
They spent the next twenty minutes this way; going from group to group and joining the fights, taking down orb weavers and then soaking up the experience. Tripp took a few painful stabs in his leg and shoulder, but Warren’s healing light eased some of the tenderness, and it felt like every wound he took helped heal some of his pride.
As the night wore on, not only did more of the creatures scuttle from the plains, but some players died, and the player total numbers listed on Tripp’s map dropped to 80.
As the fight wore on, one thing became clear to Tripp; this wave was tougher than the last. More orb weavers, less time between spawns. There seemed to be an endless scuttling sound coming from the plains, and no sooner did one orb weaver die than another set of pincer legs would appear over Mountmend’s metal fence.
It was a couple of hours into the fight when he heard movement from his right, and then saw Gilla and Lamp and the rest of the Forgestrider guild march into the fray.
Lamp’s hair looked redder than the fire-orb on the end of his mage staff. He carried a notepad with him, and while the rest of the Forgestriders marched into action, Lamp hurriedly looked around him and took down notes. Tripp caught a glance at his notepad and saw a crude drawing of Mountmend’s fences, with X’s drawn to represent the parts the orb weavers were targeting.
Gilla was at the head of the pack, head-to-toe in leathers, a sword gleaming from a sheath strapped on her back, and her curly hair falling to her waist. She exuded self-confidence and leadership, and that one moment made it clear why she was head of the Forgestriders.
She pointed at the fences. “Archers, set up shop. Hit them on the plains before they reach the fences. Satan’s hairy nutsack, am I really the first one to suggest we start blasting the frigging things before they get to town?”
Her archers scurried off to the fence, setting their bows and crossbows in the gaps and then firing arrows out into the plains.
“Lamp,” said Gilla. “Lamp! Take your face out of your book and listen to me.”
Lamp feverishly finished writing something and then looked up.
“Lead your mages east to the divider between sections one and two. We’re way too concentrated here. You can do this, okay? This is why you’re my co-GM.”
Lamp gave her a mock salute and then grabbed a mage near him by his robe and spoke to him. Together, he and five Forgestrider magic-users headed east.
That left Gilla and four of her guild. From the looks of them, they were the melee fighters; wearing armor that would have made a spartan drool, holding swords and halberds and spears that looked like they belonged to demi-gods.
“Ready?” said Gilla.
Her guildmates answered in a chorus of yeses, and then Gilla led them out of the Mountmend gates and into the plains.
Tripp grabbed Lizzy. “C’mon. I want to see what they’re up to.”
A few hundred yards from the gates, Gilla and her mates took wooden poles from their inventories. Flames lit up at the tip of each, making them look like beacons. The guildmates spread out in an arc, leaving a gap between them, and drove the poles into the ground.
“Clever,” said Tripp, once he understood what they were doing.
He appreciated a well-executed plan, and it pleased him to see how the beacon light glowed on the plains, casting colors where there was once darkness.
The approaching wave of orb weavers saw the light and then scuttled right, taking a deliberate path away from the glow.
“They hate the light,” said Tripp. “Just like the sleels. It makes sense since the waves only start when it gets dark.”
“Maybe Gilla isn’t so bad after all if she wants to help Mountmend,” said Lizzy.
“I told you about the ultimatum she gave me. Don’t let this fool you; she’s colder than a sasquatch’s ass. This isn’t to help Mountmend, it’s to help her. She wants to survive the waves and see what happens, and she’s realized that we all need to have a place we can be secure in for that to happen.”
The Forgestriders’ arc of beacons diverted the orb weavers away from Mountmend. Next, the guildmates lit more beacons, and this time placed them inter-spaced with two on each side, turning them into a kind of pathway.
Given the weaver’s fear of light, the only way they could avoid beacons on either side was to scurry through the middle. In effect, going the exact way Gilla wanted.
Gilla and her mates stood at the end of their beacon archway with their swords drawn. The weavers were moving straight into a trap. They couldn’t escape because of the weavers behind them blocking their retreat, and because burning beacons were to their left and right.
Limbs were hacked, swords popped eyeballs, axes cleaved off chunks of flesh as one by one, the weavers fell.
“Come on,” said Tripp. “A long way to go before I lose the chicken status.”
“You want to go into the plains?”
Tripp eyed the surrounding chaos. “Nope, we still have weavers in the town. Let’s take care of things here.”
They followed the same process as before, joining groups of players and battling lone weavers, taking hits and having Warren patch them up with healing light.
By the time the town was almost clear, Tripp was exhausted. He had sweated every molecule of liquid from his body, and his morning star had lost so much durability that it was ready to shatter.
He needed to repair it. He needed food. He needed a long nap. He needed the damn wave to end.
As he pushed the tiredness back and looked around for his next target, he heard shouts. They were coming from the plains, where the Forgestriders’ beacons were flickering and starting to get dimmer, running out of fuel.
He and Lizzy ran toward the gates and when he got there, he saw Warren and Jon fall in step with him.
“What’s going on?” said Jon.
Tripp shrugged. “We better find out.”
He saw Gilly ahead, standing near a beacon. She was looking at him. “Tripp, get your arse over here!” she shouted.
“They must need help,” said Jon.
“Screw them,” said Warren. “Let them die.”
Tripp would have liked to have done that, but logic prevailed. “We need them if we’re going to survive the wave. The mice put their squabbles to one side when the cat comes.”
The four of them ran out into the plains and toward the Forgestriders, Tripp fueled by his need to prove himself, Warren no doubt fixated on the loot he’d earn. The more creatures they killed, the more loot.
As they left the relative safety of Mountmend, he saw the Forgestriders charge toward him.
He froze. The plains were PVP zones, and that thought sent a shock through him. Surely the striders weren’t going to attack them in the middle of a wave?
But no, the striders ran beyond Tripp and the others and fled into Mountmend.
“What the hell?”
The striders had taken their beacons with them, and Tripp’s orc vision showed him the dull forms of orb weaver
s crawling along the plains and heading toward them.
Warren drew his sword, his face set hard in concentration. He looked ready to charge, but Tripp grabbed his arm.
“Remember what we said? When you die in the wave, it’s a trip you can’t book a return flight from. Come on.”
Tripp turned around and headed toward the Mountmend gates again, only to find the Forgestriders standing in a line at the gates, blocking them from entering.
He realized what they’d done now, and it sent a wave of panic through him.
“They drew us out and then blocked us off. Damn it!”
It was clear now; the Forgestriders had waited until Tripp and the others headed out of Mountmend, and now they weren’t going to let them back in. He looked at the metal fences surrounding the town. The orb weavers had climbed over them, but the fences were too high for Tripp and the others to do the same.
The only way back into the safety of Mountmend was through the gates, and the Forgestriders were blocking it.
He ran toward the gates until he was standing in front of Gilla. She crossed her arms.
“Give us access to the mines, or you die on the plains,” she said.
A notification popped up.
Friend request: Gilla.
CHAPTER 48
Lucas
Lucas paced outside the room, wishing he could hear something.
The problem was that Dr. Osbeck spoke as if every word was a precious secret. He couldn’t hear any sounds at all coming from the room; Boxe’s hardware was pretty damn quiet considering his intellect. The marvel of technological advancement, he guessed. An almost-true AI’s hardware was quieter than Lucas’s old college dorm PC.
He just needed to be patient, but whenever Lucas thought about the word patience, his own mental spellchecker flashed up with the warning 'unknown word, add to your custom dictionary?’
Whatever happened today, whatever Dr. Osbeck said, Lucas just needed good news. He needed something to cling to.
