Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4)

by D. Rus

  The ogre stopped a few paces away and reached his powerful paw behind his back into his inventory, producing a standard-looking parchment used to exchange hard copies of gaming messages.

  "A personal message for the clan's leader Laith!" his voice rumbled deep within his rocky barrel-shaped chest.

  "He's not here."

  "I can wait."

  The guards exchanged glances. Finally, the senior one decreed, "Send the message through the mill. Let them sort it out."

  For the next ten minutes, the ogre stood motionless, leaning against his club fashioned from an enormous slab of red granite.

  The portal circle, roughly marked out with a string of red and yellow stones, rumbled, swelling up into an iridescent arch. That was Laith arriving with his ubiquitous bodyguard: an albino troll armored to the teeth and sporting a small gold medal on his chest, shaped like a collapsing gate tower: "The first warrior to enter the enemy's castle".

  Snowie enjoyed his fellow clan members' unreserved respect. Many of them had fought next to him shoulder to shoulder — and the story of his courting of the sad wise Bomba had left no one cold.

  On seeing their commander, the guards slumped to attention and saluted. Slowly but surely Laith was introducing the military discipline which he copied shamelessly from the Vets.

  The senior guard nodded meaningfully at the stony messenger. The clan leader strode toward him and reached out a demanding hand. The watchful Snowie took up his position next to him, making a show of shoving the Torch of True Flame into the sand, then looked around himself warily.

  A few days previous, he'd received a gift from Dan: a digitized media package entitled Bodyguard's Crash Course. Snowie had taken it very seriously. Already he was pestering Max for resources in order to start forming an inner circle defense group.

  He'd have loved to also introduce the other two — the middle and the outer defense circles: all those blocked points of access, crossbowmen lurking on the roofs above the leader's route, flank patrols and recce teams. With his fat unyielding fingers Snowie would draw block schemes of enemy attacks and shield configurations while trying to mentally breach the steel box of trolls bristling with mithril, their broad backs shielding the customer while he was being ported to safety.

  The ogre raised his hand level with his shoulder and twitched it with a somewhat elegant flourish, allowing the scroll to unfold to its full length. Thank God for gaming technologies! This was quite a functional document — a screenshot of a page from some online news site complete with an active link and an iridescent seal in the shape of the Israeli Tavor assault rifle.

  After the recent Three-Day War its unique bullpup profile was instantly recognizable. The picture of General Aaron with a Tavor slung across his chest peering through binoculars at the mushroom cloud rising over the Golan Heights had long dominated the front pages of all media. Admittedly, this time the Israeli had really pushed their luck.

  Both the military and secret services, too busy with their internal games and scheming, had missed the menacing signs of the looming crisis, so the well-coordinated attack from their Arab neighbors had come as a complete surprise to them. How much do you really need to invade a country thirty-five miles wide? An hour's drive in a tank, and all its millions of inhabitants would find themselves pushed back into the Mediterranean.

  It was the Israeli frontier guards who had managed to prevent the initial catastrophe. They'd done their duty by dying for their country but at least they'd bought the army some time for at least a partial call-up. They hadn't lasted the twenty-four hours they were supposed to, though: the god of war favors large forces, and the Israeli guards, despite all their spirit, had been outnumbered forty to one.

  After that, the invading forces kept slowly but surely squeezing the Israelis toward the coast, looking forward to the best bit, the entertainment of choice since the time of German submarines: the gunning down of defenseless people trying to take cover in the water. The Israelis kept throwing fresh new troops into battle, hastily compiling tank crews that entered the fight in brand new vehicles still gleaming with factory wax. The soldiers worked miracles of courage even before they had the chance to piss out the tea they'd just drunk back home. When the roofs of your home city still rise behind your back, when your own children are screaming in the cellars at the sounds of approaching explosions — you will fight. You can't sit it out in trenches then.

  In any case, being taken prisoner in that particular war was not a good idea. The overreacting Israelis simply shot at anyone they saw raising their hands. They already had too much on their plate with the simultaneously uprising Gaza Strip and an Arab fifth column at their rear. As for the Arabs themselves, they exercised a much better imagination with their Israeli POWs.

  The advancing forces ground their way through the army and new conscripts, paying their way with truly Arab generosity: one to sixteen according to the most conservative estimations. The situation was hanging by a thread and the Israeli government was already digging under its skirts in search for balls when still more weapon-brandishing came from the least expected quarter, namely one of the old-school generals who probably remembered Moshe Dayan himself. Although he didn't have the proverbial nuclear briefcase, he did have the power to activate the defensive landmines stuffed with weapon-grade uranium. The earth shuddered, letting the genie out of the bottle and scorching in its nuclear flame all the enemy support troops, reserves and HQs conveniently accumulated in the rear, in all those mountain passes and little valleys.

  The advancing enemy forces found themselves cut off from their command and ammunition supplies. And how much ammunition does an infantryman carry around, for God's sake? Barely enough for fifteen minutes' worth of engagement.

  The Arabs attempted to respond with some chemical warheads which were intercepted over Syria, completely fouling the place up. At this point, European politicians suddenly remembered their mission, demanding both sides make peace. Still, stopping an already-speeding steamroller can't be that easy. While the Israeli negotiators were playing for time, blue-star forces hurried to empty their arsenals, hammering their aggressive neighbors into the nineteenth century, their smart weapons taking out everything they could reach: factories, bridges, dams and power plants. Every airplane sortie bought them one day of future peace.

  So that's basically what it was, this legendary Tavor TAR-21 and everything it stood for. Still, it didn't look as if Laith appreciated its Middle East background. He was too busy studying the document, his eyes scanning the lines telling him about a funny and unfortunate accident with a certain cryogenic company worker who'd become her own shop's reluctant client.

  All color had drawn from Laith's face. He looked up at the ogre. "Just tell me where I can find this piece of shit," he croaked.

  "Have you finished reading?" the ogre asked calmly.

  "Yes! Yes! Where is he?"

  "Message part two, delivered verbally."

  The ogre attempted to stretch his mouth into a smirk, then activated the simplest illusion artifact. The air thickened into the figure of the deranged Tavor. Laith recoiled. Wrestling a heavy two-handed sword from a guard, he began slashing at the immaterial image.

  Ignoring his outrage, Tavor kept pontificating in a sickly sweet voice,

  "I hope you liked my gifts to you. Both bitches are pushing up the daisies. Shame Mommy wasn't as lucky. Never mind. She didn't get too far — in fact, she's wonderfully within reach now. I'll get her! I'll get you too, you slimeball! Hey, Rocky! Trigger code one three five! Kill Laith!"

  "Code confirmed," the giant rumbled as his enormous club swept the speechless Laith aside, stripping him of half life and all passive shields.

  The second blow would have been deadly, had Snowie not stepped in the ogre's way. The guards joined in from the flanks like a pack of hunting dogs baiting a bear. The ogre circled on the spot, fending them off. Security protocol demanded the clan leader escape via an emergency portal. Instead, the furious Laith we
nt for the stone giant.

  What happened next was the stuff legends are made of. Or would be, in a thousand years. Taking a swing with his heavy sword, Laith activated the deadliest thing he had: the Wings of an Angel, the level-300 combo he'd gleaned from the Chinese assassin being sacrificed to Lloth.

  Only now he didn't have the slim stiletto of a thief in his hands but a fifty-pound sword. AlterWorld wailed its indignation, ripping off seals and engaging compensatory mechanisms that allowed a priest direct access to his or her god's power. This was the easiest and most logical way to do the impossible.

  The Fallen One's black energy enveloped the blurred outline of the falling sword as it sliced through the crunching stone ribs, turning them inside out.

  The ogre groaned, convulsing, and froze, turning into a blood-curdling winged statue, the way it would be discovered later, three thousand years after the Battle of the Temple, grossing out the impressionable future visitors of the Fallen One National Arts Museum.

  * * *

  Yet another rush construction project that had started immediately after the arrival of Aulë was impressive in its scope. Unwilling to leave their Father's temple unsupervised — and also worried about all the work and resources invested in it — the dwarves expressed their desire to settle down in the Valley of Fear. Putting it plainly, in the territories controlled by my clan and myself. The guards, the priests, an impressive lineup of masters — they were about five hundred in total. I didn't object. The colonization of the abandoned territories was perfectly in keeping with my own interests. Soon, the squat Dwarven raiders began crawling all over the valley, scaling the ancient mountain range that surrounded it.

  The very next day the Dwarven camp swarmed with an activity that lasted all evening and part of the night. In the early hours of the next morning, my guards on the walls jumped from the deafening clap of a cargo portal. Its shimmering arch began disgorging a long column of prospectors: dozens and dozens of grim treasure-hunting dwarves, followed by drill rigs gleaming with copper like some steampunk nightmare, and magical beasts trained to detect ore veins in claustrophobic underground tunnels.

  They looked suspiciously like my inner greedy pig scaled up to five foot tall. It was probably the sight of these cute little beasties that had left my piggy with a lifelong stutter.

  The dwarves got busy digging test pits and boring monitor wells, fearlessly climbing down every fissure on their way. They took their time combing through the mountains from eagles' nests atop the snowy summits right down to their red-hot base floating in the swampy sea of magma.

  Three days later their delegation demanded to see me. Comprised of the dwarves' top brass, it looked perfectly uninterested: seven patriarchs, several priests, as well as representatives of all the banks, jewelers' guilds and trade houses. Don't forget that initially my Aulë-summoning stunt had only been supported by two of the weakest clans who'd lost their survival game against more prosperous competition. My successful summoning of their Great Father had brought the amount of allied clans to a whopping four. But apparently something had just happened, causing even the wealthiest and most cautious of the Dwarven conservatives to come to me cap in hand.

  It had been a while since the walls of the castle had seen this amount of gold and artifact jewelry per square foot on its floor. I thought I'd sensed what must have been Lurch thinking greedily: what if he activated one of the traps by lowering a corridor ceiling, squashing them into a jewelry-stuffed mince pie.

  "Belay that," I whispered to the immediately embarrassed castle spirit.

  His love for self-decoration had completely consumed him by then, stripping him of half of his pocket allowance which he spent on various landscaping and interior-design magazines. He splurged the remaining pennies on various baubles and knickknacks like carved ledges or this season's latest fad: the stone gargoyles.

  The dwarves lined up according to rank and asked me very nonchalantly how much I'd like to receive for a tiny mountain range about sixty miles wide — give or take a furlong. I wouldn't have bought into that circus of theirs anyway, but my Hell Hound who just happened to be sitting nearby promptly helped me to divine their ulterior motives. She swiftly scanned their emotions and superficial thoughts, tuning into the glitter of gold, the green glow of emeralds, fat veins of ore and a grain of adamant in a calloused spade-like hand. Also, lots of long dark tunnels and deserted caves. The Dwarven idea of heaven, if you like.

  I gave them a broad smile and rubbed my hands, making myself comfortable in the easy chair. The delegation's faces were quickly turning sour as they realized: they were about to be milked.

  I couldn't overdo it, either. I desperately needed some trustworthy allies and their steel-clad battle hirds. The dwarves must have realized it too, fighting like roaring lions for every clause of their vassal agreement. The moment we'd signed the first of these documents sealing our joint defense of the valley, I'd given them my preliminary agreement to build their underground city. As for the rest, we were still debating over every point. Actually, tonight I was facing another round of the same, negotiating their right to duty-free trade within the clan-controlled territories. I was going to agree, what do you expect? Especially as I still had no taxation mechanisms in place bar some foraging military detachments.

  Actually... should I even make a reciprocal trading rights demand? Okay, it wasn't viable yet maybe, but very soon I could see cartwheels rolling toward the mountains as long caravans of wheat and barley headed deep into the Dwarven caves.

  Aulë's powerful figure appeared often amid the toiling dwarves, inspiring them to new exploits of labor and faith. He spent the remaining time in the back yard of his temple where he'd erected some workshops of truly colossal proportions. The sky was black from the smoke of their furnaces; the stained-glass windows of the First Temple chattered with the thunderous blows of the divine hammer — in the morning, the afternoon, the evening and at night, twenty freakin' four seven! May you live long, Aulë, you wretched workaholic!

  Most of all it reminded me of the soundtrack of Kournikova's early tennis games. Bang! — Aaah! — Bang! — Oooh! Aulë groaned with delight as he worked, restoring his creative spirit which had very nearly been destroyed by the thousands of years of idleness and oblivion.

  This father of nations

  [i]... er, pardon, of dwarves, had fully appreciated the Valley's potential. He dug into his subjects' treasuries with truly godlike nonchalance, not forgetting to grumble about the new world's scarcity of ingredients while liberally spending the mithril stocks. The dwarves chose to suffer in silence. I, however, did grumble reminding them to shell out our twenty-five percent.

  Impatient to appease their god and earn the Faith points that he so generously handed out, hundreds of dwarves were bending over backwards sifting the radioactive sand for any precious fragments. While I, as the owner of all the local natural resources (shush! Let's hope Aulë can't hear me!) had every right to claim my 25% cut.

  Strangely enough, the Chief Blacksmith had gotten on with Snowie like a house on fire once he'd discovered the troll's ability to wield the two-hundred pound hammer from dawn to dusk. It happens quite often between men that a good punchup becomes the start of a hearty friendship.

  Once the summoning ceremony had been performed and Aulë had confirmed his commitment to the Pantheon, he headed toward Snowie who was sitting apart from everybody else polishing his powerful mithril barrel with a specially designated cloth. The troll, ever as observant as he was smart, cast a sideways glance at the formidable deity and stood up unhurriedly, taking a better grip of his club.

  Stopping one pace away from the troll, Aulë looked him over, then slapped his shoulder, "You're good!"

  A shoulder joint crunched. Snowie gave slightly to one side. One of the armored tank tracks he wore snapped and disintegrated, its metal too fatigued and dented by all the projectiles and swords. Repeatedly frozen and heated by enemy magic, it had become so frail that a mundane AT mine would hav
e been enough to finish it off, let alone the heavy hand of a god.

  "Your weapons are worthy of a hero, but your armor is only good for one of those underground ogres that are said to inhabit the mithril caves. Never mind. We can fix that. In the meantime, accept this as my gift to you!"

  With a dignified jerk of his chin and a regal wave of his hand, Aulë bestowed upon him the generous amount of whatever meager energy he'd already received from the passionately praying dwarves.

  Scraps from the royal table, I mentally commented.

  A surge of power enveloped the mithril club and solidified, forming the angular symbols of the Dwarven alphabet which added chaotically to the fancy black script of the Fallen One's magic and Macaria's green runes.

  I remembered casting a sideways glance at the Fallen One: was it all right to let Aulë tamper with the artifact weapon? Combining the forces so divergent in one item called for super accurate calculations, not brute power. Try to braid fire, water and crude oil in one neat flow. But the Fallen One stared at the club in cautious surprise. Apparently, this was now one hell of a killer item.

  Now Aulë was busy forging new epic armor in his workshops, the kind you wouldn't be ashamed to wear when greeting your loved one after millennia of forced separation. Snowie got to keep all the failed versions, hurriedly altered to fit his size. Failed they may have been — ruined by an accidental astral redirection of the magic currents or a fly that had found its death under the hammer — but I mentally agreed with the dwarves who were slowly turning green with envy watching my troll piecing together a full set of divine armor. A unique set of mithril gear, the only one in AlterWorld, fresh from Aulë's own anvil! Imagine the ego trip?