“You did a great job; a great job indeed,” Mason said loud enough for all around to hear.
The NPC beamed with pride.
“What are we waiting for?” Gameknight said. “Let’s get to the village.”
“In a minute,” Mason said to Gameknight then turned a group of NPCs. “Deploy scouts all around us. I want the army in a circular configuration, the cavalry to the outside, then a ring of swordsmen, then the archers. At the inside I want the old, the children, and the wounded.” And then he spoke as if reciting something from memory. “Be prepared and you will never be defeated.”
That’s another one I’ve heard! Gameknight thought. What is going on here!?
“That’s a good idea,” Crafter said as he watched Mason’s orders carried out as soon as they were uttered.
The army started to move out, the massive body of those on horseback moving slowly so that those on foot could keep up. Gameknight looked suspiciously at Mason’s back as his horse walked slowly to the north toward the distant village.
CHAPTER 7
THE VILLAGE
The army clustered at the edge of the spruce forest on a tall hill, looking down on the village. It sat on a strip of sandy desert that lined a wide river, the watery flow cutting through the dry land as if some giant had dragged a heavy axe across the landscape. The cool blue river, from the vantage point of the hill on which they stood, looked to Gameknight as if it were forming the forbidden shape within Minecraft; the curve. Everything in Minecraft was boxy and square, but from far away and up high as they were now, the river formed beautiful gentle blue curves that snaked their way through the desert biome until the waterway disappeared in the distance.
On the bank of the river sat the village that had been spotted by the scouts. It looked like any other village in Minecraft; a group of wooden and stone buildings around the village’s well, a tall cobblestone watchtower standing at the center. But in this village, Gameknight could see that there was no NPC at the top of the stone tower.
“You see,” Gameknight said, “no watchman in the tower.”
“Strange,” Crafter said.
Every village in Minecraft had a watchman in that tower. It was always the villager with the best eyesight, named Watcher for their task. Watcher would scan the countryside, looking for monsters. If seen, they would sound the alarm and warn the NPCs to run to their homes, for a villager caught outside during a monster raid had no chance of survival. Here, for some reason, there was no Watcher.
“Let’s see what’s going on down there,” Gameknight said, but Mason put a hand on his shoulder.
“Not quite yet,” the big NPC said.
Turning, he spoke to one of his generals. “I want squads of cavalry sent out looking for monsters. They are not to engage the enemy, they are to return and report. I also want archers placed throughout this forest. If they see anything, they are to shoot arrows high up into the air so that they land down there next to the village. The enemy will not surprise us with our backs against that river. Understood?”
The warrior nodded and moved off, relaying Mason’s orders.
“Are we ready now?” Gameknight asked, his voice sounding a bit agitated.
He turned to see Mason and Crafter both nodding their heads. Just then Stitcher came running up with Herder at her side.
“We’re going with you, Gameknight,” Stitcher said.
Some of the warriors saw Herder approaching and muttered Pig-boy just loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough that it was difficult to tell who was talking. Stitcher spun and glared at the warriors nearby, causing chuckles to leak from downcast faces. Turning, Stitcher looked up at Gameknight, an angry scowl on her face. She wanted Gameknight to stand up for Herder and stop the abuse, but the User-that-is-not-a-user stayed quiet, silently glad that the abuse was not directed at him.
Why are there bullies everywhere? I hate them.
Just as Gameknight was about to say something, a howl echoed through the forest.
“Wolves,” someone said, and a ripple of fear spread through the occupied forest.
A pack of wolves will usually leave the lone NPC alone, but if one of its members was attacked or struck by accident, then the entire pack will fall upon the attacker in defense. A lone individual stood little chance against an attacking wolf pack; that is why villagers fear them and avoid them, all except Herder. Hearing the howls, the lanky youth turned and looked into the dark forest, his eyes searching for the furry creatures.
“Wolves. There are wolves . . . wolves nearby.”
“As it sounds . . . yes,” Crafter said.
Herder stood for an instant and waited for the howl to sound again. It came from off to the left, a sorrowful howl from somewhere deep in the forest. Pulling out a skeleton bone from his inventory (he’d stocked up after the last battle), Herder sprinted off into the woods pursuing the howling sound. This brought more laughter from the warriors, but Herder ignored them, his mind completely focused on the wolves. Bumping into others as he ran through the army, he was completely focused on the sounds of the forest. He did not hear the hurtful comments that were levied at his back.
Stitcher sighed and gave Gameknight another angry scowl, then reached up and jumped up onto his horse, settling down in front of him, bow in her hand, arrow notched.
“OK, I’m ready now,” the young girl said angrily. “Let’s go.”
Gameknight nodded, then led his horse forward, the rest of the army following behind. He could hear comments from the soldiers.
“The User-that-is-not-a-user leads us to the strange village . . .”
“He isn’t afraid of a village on the Source server . . .”
“Gameknight999 has no fear . . .”
He hated this adulation. It was like they thought he was some kind of mythological hero going off to slay the giant or kill the dragon. He wasn’t a hero, he was just a kid . . . a scared kid that couldn’t run away when he had Stitcher right here. She was relying on him to save her sister, and he couldn’t let her down. Then something Crafter had said to him echoed in his mind, “Deeds do not make the hero . . . it’s the fear they overcome that does.” He knew he had to stand up to his fear, but he still struggled. Then he looked at Stitcher’s flowing hair; she reminded him so much of his own sister . . . his own li’l sis’. He would not let anything hurt them, either of them. And when Stitcher turned and gave him a confident smile, he knew that he could not fail, so onward he rode.
The army approached the village cautiously. Gameknight rode out front, being the point of the spear. If something were to happen, some group of monsters emerging from one of the homes, Gameknight and Stitcher would know it first. This knowledge made him shake ever so slightly. As they rode forward, Gameknight saw movement on his left and right. Large groups of soldiers had peeled off and were now clustered on their flanks. Mason had broken up their forces into three groups, and they were now approaching the mysterious village from all sides.
As they rode down the grassy hill, Gameknight could feel the temperature slowly rise. When they passed from the bright green grass of the cool Taiga biome to the sandy plane of the desert biome, he felt the temperature rise sharply, causing tiny little cubes of sweat to form on his forehead and flow down his cheeks.
Before him the desert stretched out down to the village and continued on the other side of the cool blue river, the sandy hills extending to the horizon. Tall pillars of cactus jutted up out of the sand, their sharp spines looking all to real from within Minecraft. Gameknight carefully navigated around these prickly columns, knowing that touching them would bring pain and loss of HP. As he closed the distance, he could see villagers moving about, but instead of carrying out tasks that would be expected, he saw then kneeling on the ground, or standing next to a building, or gently caressing a cactus . . . strange behavior for villagers.
Heading toward the closest villager, Gameknight steered his horse to an NPC that was standing near a house, his body facing the wooden wa
ll as if he were talking to it. As he dismounted, Stitcher leapt down and drew back an arrow, scanning the narrow streets of the village for threats. Gameknight too felt uneasy and drew his shimmering sword, the iridescent light painting the villager and wooden wall he was facing with a purplish hue.
Crafter and Mason dismounted their horses and approached. Moving up to the villager cautiously, Mason reached out and pulled on the NPC’s smock. Startled, the villager spun around and faced the big NPC and young boy, five hundred warriors all in armor, with weapons bristling in the sunlight staring down at him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Mason said as he looked into the calm face.
The NPC was average in height, not very tall, not very short, with tan skin and light hair. It looked to Gameknight like this NPC spent a lot of time in the sun, his skin almost leathery because of exposure to what used to be bright rays. His light blond hair almost glowed in the sunlight, but the most remarkable feature was his smock; it was black with a wide gray stripe running down the middle.
“A crafter,” someone said.
“They all are,” another murmured.
Gameknight turned to look at the other villagers that were moving about and noticed that they were all garbed in the traditional clothing of the village crafter, black smock with grey stripe. Stepping forward to peer down the street, he saw more movement, NPCs going about their duties, but these were also clothed as crafters. This was curious.
“What’s going on here,” Mason asked, his confident voice filling the air. “Where is your watchman in the tower? Where are your farmers and builders?”
The NPC looked at Mason, then scanned the faces of the warriors, then glanced down at Crafter. He instantly recognized his clothing.
“Ahhh, you are one of us,” he said excitedly. “A new one? What is your object?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Crafter said. “My name, of course, is Crafter. We are here to fight against the monsters that threaten Minecraft. What is your name and what is this place?”
“My name is Woodbrin. Of course I work the wood,” Woodbrin said, the words chopped short as if being spat from a machine gun, fast and staccato. “Over there is Cactusbrin, and Sandbrin.” The NPC pointed to two villagers, both with light hair and garbed in black. One of them was kneeling on the sand, moving his hands in a blur as if crafting something, the other was standing before a tall cactus, his hands doing the same. “We work the desert biome. And of course we work the villages too.”
Crafter looked at Mason, confused. The big NPC was about to speak, and by the look of frustration on his face, Gameknight could tell that his question wasn’t going to be very nice. Stepping forward, he put a calming hand on Mason’s shoulder. Instantly, Woodbrin saw the letters floating above the User-that-is-not-a-user’s head.
“A user,” the villager stammered. “There can be no users here . . . it is forbidden.”
“Look at his server thread,” Crafter suggested.
Woodbrin looked upward and searched the sky, confused, and then the realization of who this was standing before him sank in. Lowering his eyes, he stared at Gameknight999, his mouth agape. He then looked at Crafter who smiled and nodded his small head.
“That’s right . . . the Prophecy . . . the User-that-is-not-a-user has come, as has the time for the Last Battle,” Crafter said in a reverent voice. “The Last Battle for Minecraft is here, and all existence hangs in the balance.”
Woodbrin glanced up at the sun. Its stained red face looked wounded as it moved toward its apex. Taking a deep breath, he looked back to Gameknight999.
“Then the war has finally come and the end draws near,” Woodbrin said in a sad voice. “I hope you can be what we all need to you be, or all is lost.”
And then it was Gameknight999 who started to shake.
CHAPTER 8
LIGHT-CRAFTERS
“We’re here to stop the monsters from getting to the Source,” the User-that-is-not-a-user said, trying to make his voice sound confident and strong, like Mason . . . he didn’t do a very good job.
“Monsters are here?” Woodbrin asked, his eyes glancing about, looking for threats. “Monsters from the Overworld?”
“And the Nether,” Crafter answered.
“The Nether too?”
Crafter nodded.
“We followed them through a portal made of diamond crafting benches to this server, and now we are going to stop them from destroying the Source.” Crafter paused as he stepped up next to Gameknight999. Reaching up, he put a small hand on his shoulder. “The User-that-is-not-a-user is going to stop the monster horde and save Minecraft.”
A cheer rang out from the warriors that had moved closer to listen. Many cried out Gameknight’s name, saying that he was the savior of Minecraft . . . the warrior that could not be defeated . . . the one that would save their homes and their families. He hated all this attention and praise.
I’m just a kid . . . a nobody.
Crafter raised his hands to silence the crowd, then continued.
“We need help finding the Source so that we can prepare for the Last Battle,” Crafter said to Woodbrin. “But we need information and we need help. We do not understand this server. Can you tell us anything?”
“Well,” Woodbrin began, using short clipped sentences, “this server is different. It is not the same as all the other server planes. Here there are no villagers. Just code crafters like me.”
“Code crafters?” Mason asked, his green eyes focused straight down onto Woodbrin, the flecks of red in those eyes shining bright in the pale ruby light of the stained sun overhead.
“Yes . . . code crafters. As you can see from our clothing, we are all crafters,” Woodbrin explained, the words spat out quickly as if trying to conserve words. “But we are not crafters like your friend here,” gesturing to Crafter. “We do not craft items. We craft modifications to the code that runs Minecraft.” He paused to let the information sink in for a moment, then continued with his hurried explanation. “My job is to work on the code that rules wooden blocks and planks. I work to improve the mechanics of the wood. The texture, look, feel, sound . . . everything. This way it will be more realistic for the users. That is my job. As with all NPCs, I am named for my job; Woodbrin.”
“But what does brin mean?” Crafter asked.
“Brin is from the ancient language of our ancestors. It’s from the original testificates in pre-alpha. Brin means light. I am a light-crafter. All of my comrades in this village are light-crafters.”
Gameknight saw movement from the corner of his eye and spun, his sword ready. He found Stitcher was already pointing her bow in that direction, but lowered it as they saw more of the code crafters approaching. They all had light colored hair and wore the traditional black smock, but each looked a little different, as with all villagers from within Minecraft. Their eyes were all brightly colored: blue, green, tan, hazel . . . a look of optimism on their tan faces.
“I’m Sandbrin,” one of them with sandy blond hair said.
“And I’m Cowbrin,” said another with flecks of black in his white hair.
“And I’m Stonebrin . . .”
“And I’m Waterbrin . . .”
“And I’m . . .” The names flowed forth as the code crafters stepped forward, each one named for the block they worked, each name ending in brin.
“We are code crafters for Minecraft,” Woodbrin said proudly with a scratchy grainy voice. “But you must beware. We have dark counterparts that strive to undo what we do.”
“What do you mean?” Mason asked, eyeing Woodbrin with suspicion.
“We are the light-crafters of the desert biome. There are also shadow-crafters as well,” Woodbrin said, then lowered his voice. “These are also code crafters for the things that live in the shadows.”
“You mean like . . .” Gameknight didn’t want to complete his question, for he already knew the answer.
Woodbrin nodded.
�
�Yes . . . monsters. There are code crafters for the monsters as well.”
“Code crafters for the monsters,” Crafter said. “I don’t understand.”
“We have a Cowbrin and a Sheepbrin and a Horsebrin. But they have a Creeperbrine and a Zombiebrine and a Blazebrine,” Woodbrin said in a quiet, tense voice. A hushed silence settled itself uneasily over the army as all the NPCs strained to hear what Woodbrin was saying, through none of them wanted to really hear it. “The shadow-crafter’s job is to improve on the things that live in the shadows.”
“The monsters of Minecraft,” Gameknight said, his voice cracking with fear as imaginary visions of these terrible crafters floated through his mind.
“That’s correct,” Woodbrin said as he looked into Gameknight’s scared eyes. “The shadow-crafters work for Minecraft as we do. They improve the monsters of Minecraft to help enhance the experience of the users.”
“But those monsters kill,” Gameknight snapped. “How is that good for Minecraft!”
“If we have NPCs born and none of them die, then eventually they will overpopulate everything and crash the servers,” Woodbrin explained. “Things must be kept in balance.”
“But they aren’t in balance,” Stitcher said, then pointed up at the sun that was high overhead. “That proves that it isn’t in balance. These shadow-crafters are pushing things out of balance by making the monsters more vicious . . . stronger and angrier.” She then paused as she wiped a tear from her eye. “They took my . . . sister!”
Gameknight moved next to Stitcher and put an arm around her narrow shoulders.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get her back,” Gameknight said in a reassuring voice.
She looked up into Gameknight’s face, her curly red hair spilling down her shoulders; she looked just like her sister. For an instant, Gameknight thought he was looking at Hunter.
“Do you promise?”
“What?” Gameknight asked.
Confronting the Dragon Page 6
