“That was a dangerous game,” Gameknight commented.
“War is dangerous,” Mason replied, “besides, I knew that if I was in any real trouble, the User-that-is-not-a-user would be there to help me . . . right?”
“Yeah . . . sure,” Gameknight answered as he looked away, guilt showing on his face.
Warriors started flowing into the massive crater, slapping both Gameknight999 and Mason on the backs.
“That was glorious,” someone shouted.
“The greatest battle ever,” said another.
More soldiers cheered as they kicked at piles of skeleton bones and piles of gunpowder.
But then the celebration was silenced by a sad wail. It started out as just a whimper, but then grew in volume until it cut across the landscape like a hammer through crystal, smashing the jubilant celebration. Moving quickly to its source, Gameknight found an old woman kneeling on the ground, a pile of items floating in front of her . . . someone’s inventory.
“My son . . . he’s gone,” she wailed.
He didn’t know her name. She was just one of the many NPCs drawn into this conflict.
“He was my only child . . . and now he’s . . . he’s gone.”
She wailed a mournful sad wail that brought a tear to those nearby.
Gameknight ran out of the crater and moved next to the mourning woman. Kneeling down next to her, he put his arm around her shaking shoulders, holding her tight. And he wept with her. He didn’t know her son . . . didn’t know her . . . but he knew her pain, and so he held on to her with all his strength until her tears subsided.
Standing, he helped the old woman up, then turned to face the army. Many of them were still patting each other on the back, smiles painted on the survivors . . . and something within Gameknight999 snapped.
“There is nothing good here . . . only sadness,” Gameknight shouted.
He turned to look at the old woman. She was bending down and collecting her son’s inventory, then stood and faced the User-that-is-not-a-user, tears still running down her cheeks. Wails of grief continued as she turned and headed away from the battlefield.
“Battle is not glorious . . . its terrible,” Gameknight continued. “Wars do not make one great . . . they just hurt people. Violence is never a good solution, it only brings pain and loss. This is not something we should celebrate, it is something we should mourn, for we lost friends and family today.”
“But we won,” someone shouted.
“NO!” Gameknight pointed at the old woman. “We lost.”
And then he put his hand up into the air, fingers spread wide.
We shouldn’t feel good about destroying others, even if they are our enemy, he thought as he watched more hands rise into the air.
It reminded him of the bullies in his school . . . how they felt good about abusing him and others like him, and how he used to behave in Minecraft. He’d been a bully himself, taking out his feelings of frustration on those weaker than him . . . and he’d felt good about it. That was wrong.
Why couldn’t I have helped the younger and weaker players, and felt good about that? Why did I need to hurt others back then? Helping would have made me feel just as good as hurting.
Slowly, he clenched his hand into a fist and squeezed it tight. All of his frustration was compacted into that fist, all of the anger focused at the monsters, the sadness for those lost, and maybe the guilt for how he used to be . . . a griefer, the King of the Griefers.
Helping others could have made me feel just as good as griefing.
Slowly, he lowered his hand and looked across the battlefield. All eyes were focused on the User-that-is-not-a-user.
“Gather everything you can find,” Gameknight said in a calm voice. Wiping away the tears on his flat cheeks, he turned to those in the crater. “Pick up all the skeleton bones and give them to Herder. Collect any arrows you can find. We have to leave here before the next attack comes.”
“Next attack?” Crafter asked. He was now standing next to his friend.
“Yes, the next attack. This was but the smallest slice of the army that faces us. Their forces are massive and still outnumber us. This attack was nothing but Erebus’s frustration lashing out at us . . . at me. We will have to face fifty times more than this before this war is over.” He looked down into the bottom of the crater at Mason. The big NPC was still surrounded by warriors, his diamond blade in his hand. “We have to get the keys as fast as we can before Malacoda and Erebus can catch us. We have to use speed and put ourselves in a position of strength.”
“Those skilled in war bring the enemy to the field of battle and are not brought there by him,” Mason quoted.
That’s another saying that I know, Gameknight thought, looking at the big NPC with curiosity. There is something about him that just doesn’t add up.
But before he could ask, Mason was barking orders to the army, sending scouts out to watch their flanks and deploying the troops. And as the army moved back along its path toward the Iron Rose, Gameknight thought he could see a dark figure standing atop a small hill. It looked like an NPC, short and squat, but its hair was jet black, which was unusual. And the eyes . . . the eyes . . . they seemed to glow with pure white hate, causing him to shiver as fear slithered its way down his spine.
CHAPTER 13
SHADOW-CRAFTERS
Malacoda’s army of monsters approached the craggy, jagged mountain with trepidation. Their cold dark eyes all glanced up at the distorted peak that loomed over them as they approached. Every monster felt the danger of this place and had an urge to flee, but they knew that it would mean their deaths if they turned and fled, so onward they marched with their leaders, Malacoda and Erebus, out front.
“I don’t like this,” Malacoda said, his voice unusually quiet.
Erebus just grunted an affirming response. The enderman was ready to teleport away if something unexpected happened.
“Send our blazes forward,” Erebus said in his screechy, high-pitched voice, “then send the wither skeletons out to the flanks.”
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” Malacoda said.
Turning, the King of the Nether glared down at his wither-skeleton general.
“Make it so,” the ghast said.
The wither skeleton, still riding on the back of the giant spider, scurried away, dispensing the orders.
Erebus looked to his own withers, the three headed skeleton torsos floating nearby. These vile creatures had no legs, just the stubby protrusion of a spine that hovered close to the ground. Dark, curved rib bones wrapped around their shadowy bodies and connected to the spine at the back. Their three ash-colored heads swiveled about on their broad bony shoulders, looking in all directions at once. If they saw a threat, they would fire a stream of poisonous flaming skulls at their target and the resulting explosion would splash the deadly venom on those nearby as well. They were powerful fighters and served as Erebus’s own generals.
Flicking silent signals with his dark fingers, he ordered the withers to spread out and watch for anything unusual. The dark nightmares floated silently off, their blackened half-bodies disappearing between trees.
As they neared the foot of the mountain, Erebus began to notice that lack of leaves on the trees. It was as if something had stripped the branches bare, making the tree look lifeless and diseased, casting a gloomy pall on the whole area.
Erebus cringed . . . what could have done this?
Soon, the enderman was able to see the base of the mountain. The area around the mountain had been cleared of plant life, the soil barren and dead. Erebus could see his endermen standing about forming a ring near the base of the mountain, their purple eyes glowing bright. When they saw their king, they all stood up straight and tall, a mist of purple particles orbiting each. Teleporting to them, Erebus appeared within their protective ring. Turning, he surveyed the clearing, then spun and looked up at the mountain that now stood before him. He could see a massive dark opening was carved into the foot
of the mountain, a jagged outcropping sticking out over the entrance.
“All is safe, my king,” said one of the endermen.
Erebus turned to him and nodded.
“You did well,” the King of the Endermen replied. “Where are they?”
“They went into that tunnel. We were given a message for you and Malacoda.”
“What is it?”
“We were told to tell both of you.”
Erebus turned and looked at that idiot, Malacoda, floating high up over the treetops, approaching the clearing.
“Tell me now,” Erebus commanded.
“But we were . . .”
“NOW!”
The enderman bowed and spoke the message. “You and Malacoda are to go into the entrance and meet them deep within the tunnels. He said that you are to keep going until you reach lava, then he will meet you there.”
Erebus nodded, then teleported back to Malacoda’s side. When he materialized near the giant floating ghast, he noticed a stream of water flowing from a crack in the side of the mountain. The column of water fell from a height of at least twenty blocks until it landed in a wide pool on the ground. He’d have to remember that this was there so that he could avoid it; water was lethal to endermen.
Cautiously, they approached the massive tunnel entrance and stopped in front of the huge opening. Even though the endermen had the place secure, it still felt dangerous. Looking at the opening, it reminded Erebus of the yawning maw of some kind of gigantic beast waiting to devour its next foolish victim. Malacoda deployed his forces in a protective ring, making sure they would not be surprised by an attack from that annoying User-that-is-not-a-user. Gathering his forces, Malacoda posted zombie-skeletons out on the perimeter and then put a ring of blazes around the massive tunnel opening. He then deployed his own ghasts high up in the air, allowing them to see any approaching forces in the distance. Once he felt their position was secure, he turned and faced Erebus.
“The shadow-crafter instructed us to go into the tunnel,” Erebus explained.
Malacoda slowly moved closer to the ground, suspicious.
“Station your Overworld monsters here,” Malacoda commanded. “We’ll go into the cave accompanied by my withers and a squad of blazes.”
“What of the captive?” Erebus said, motioning to Hunter.
“We’ll keep her here. My ghasts will keep her company.” He then turned to the ghast that still had its clammy tentacles wrapped around her body. “Keep her safe until my return.”
“As you command,” replied the ghast as he floated up higher into the air, Hunter firmly in his grasp.
“Now, we enter the cave of our friends,” Malacoda said, apprehension in his voice. “Enderman, I think you will go first.”
The ghast chuckled a cat-like laugh.
Erebus grunted as he walked into the wide opening, ready to teleport away at a moment’s notice. He could hear Malacoda following, his long tentacles dragging on the ground like limp snakes. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the King of the Nether’s face; he looked nervous. Ghasts are always nervous in enclosed spaces; their primary defense of flight completely nullified in this cramped tunnel.
Erebus chucked a wry laugh.
“What’s so funny, enderman?” Malacoda snapped.
“Ahhh . . . nothing . . . sire,” he responded.
The tunnel sloped down quickly, plunging into the rocky depths. At first, Erebus could feel the temperature drop, but as they moved deeper and deeper into the passage, the temperature started to rise; they were getting near lava. It felt like home to the King of the Endermen. The smoky, lava-filled underground chambers of the Overworld were his domain and he knew them better than any other creature. But just as the tunnel leveled off, it opened into a massive chamber bigger than anything Erebus had ever seen, torches lighting the entrance.
They were shocked by what they saw. Villagers—or at least they looked like villagers—were everywhere, on ledges, in crevasses, in lava pools, hanging from the ceiling . . . everywhere. They looked like they were each crafting something different, but they had no crafting benches.
Erebus stared at the curious villagers as he stepped further into the chamber. He didn’t feel the normal hatred or desire to kill as he usually felt around NPCs. These creatures were different somehow . . . they were not the enemy, they were friends, and that didn’t make any sense. Just as he was about to ask Malacoda, one of the dark villagers approached their party.
“You finally arrived,” the dark haired NPC said.
Erebus looked carefully at the newcomer. He had the normal bulbous nose of a villager, a dark unibrow stretching across his forehead, but there was something about this creature that made him different from every villager Erebus had ever destroyed. It was the eyes . . . they glowed ever so slightly as if lit from within.
“You are the one that spoke to me in the Land of Dreams?” Malacoda asked.
The villager nodded and stepped forward into the torchlight. His face was a pale, sickly green as were his arms. As he stepped further into the light, Erebus thought that this creature almost had the look of a zombie about him, minus the decaying body parts and outstretched arms. It was then that Erebus noticed his smock, black with a grey strip running down from neck to hem. This was a crafter! He then looked around and noticed that all of the NPCs were garbed the same way . . . they were all crafters; no, not just crafters . . . something else . . .
“Yes, I was sent to find you in the Land of Dreams,” the NPC replied, his voice filled with a sorrowful moaning quality. “My name is Zombiebrine. I work the zombies.”
“What?” Malacoda asked.
“We are the shadow-crafters of Minecraft,” Zombiebrine explained. “We make upgrades and improvements on the items that live in the shadows. My specialty is zombies. Over there,” he gestured to a shadow-crafter working on a creeper, “is Creeperbrine.” The shadow crafter had a similar mottled look to his skin, a faint green tint on his face and arms. “Above us is Batbrine. Below is Lavabrine. All of us work to make the creatures of the shadows stronger and faster and more lethal. We strive to tip the balance of Minecraft in our favor.”
“Why?” Erebus asked.
“Ahhh . . . what?” Zombiebrine moaned.
“Why do you tip the balance in favor of the creatures of the night?”
Zombiebrine looked confused, then turned and looked at a shadow-crafter that was watching them from a balcony carved high up into the cavern wall. Erebus, whose eyes were used to the darkness of underground caverns, spotted the shadow-crafter instantly. It wasn’t hard; his eyes glowed bright white like evil little beacons, brighter than anything else in the chamber . . . even the lava and torches. Erebus could see that this creature had the look of command; this was the one that was in charge here. Zombiebrine looked nervously up at the watcher then turned back and glared at Erebus.
“It is our task and we do it because we are programmed to do it,” Zombiebrine answered, beads of sweat forming on his face.
“And now,” Zombiebrine continued, “we are programmed to help you with your venture. We will help you to destroy the Source.”
“That’s what we want to hear,” Malacoda said as he slowly floated closer to Zombiebrine.
Glancing back up to the dark balcony, Erebus noticed that the bright-eyed shadow-crafter had disappeared.
That one with the blazing eyes was dangerous, very dangerous, he thought.
Looking back down at Zombiebrine, Erebus saw the shadow-crafter stop moving as if listening to something in the distance, then moved further into the circle of torchlight.
“I will show you how to find the Source,” the shadow-crafter said, “but before we can do that, we must find the first key.”
“The first key?” Malacoda ask, his blood red eyes still glancing about, looking into the shadows.
“Yes,” Zombiebrine replied, his moaning voice echoing throughout the chamber, “the first key to the Source . . . the Iron Rose. That is where you
r path starts. After that, you will need the second key, and then you can go to the Source.”
“Where is the second key?” Erebus asked.
“No one knows,” Zombiebrine replied. “The first key will lead you to the second key, and then to the Source. But there is no time to waste. Come, follow me.”
Zombiebrine walked past Malacoda and his wither guards, heading into the tunnel and back to the surface. Erebus looked up at Malacoda and shrugged, then turned and followed the shadow-crafter through the passageway, not waiting for the King of the Nether.
In a few minutes, Zombiebrine reached the huge entrance and emerged from the bowels of the mountain, a collection of wither-skeletons and the King of the Nether following close behind.
“The Iron Rose is in that direction,” Zombiebrine said, pointing toward the north. “Come.”
Erebus took two steps out of the tunnel, then it started to rain. The drops landed on Erebus’ face and instantly made his flesh sizzle, causing small tendrils of smoke to rise from the fresh wound.
Water . . . I hate water, Erebus thought as the droplets burned his skin.
Gathering a mist of purple teleportation particles around him, he disappeared and reappeared inside the rocky tunnel, his skin still smoldering from the moisture. Malacoda slowly moved out of the tunnel and hovered in the air, allowing the rain to bounce harmlessly off his blotchy bone-white skin. Turning to face the enderman, the King of the Nether grinned an eerie smile, then gave off a cat-like laugh that echoed through the forest.
“What’s wrong, enderman, don’t like the rain?” Malacoda mocked.
Erebus said nothing, just glared back at the ghast.
Confronting the Dragon Page 10
