Текст книги "The Clan"

Автор книги: D. Rus

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Eight

F rom the online newspaper The Daily AlterWorld:

 

This is weird. The sixth empty dungeon in the past week. The interesting thing is that they all belong to various newb locations situated near large settlements. The last one was the Gnoll Hill, a mere mile away from the City of Light. This low-level dungeon now lies empty, deserted by all the mobs that used to populate it. The throne in the throne room appears to have been removed, the walls of the room itself are covered in obscenities written in blood-color paint.

See screenshot 14: We'll be back you hairless coyotes!

The AlterWorld administration offers no explanation on this phenomenon. All requests to add new low-level locations are met with vague promises without mentioning any particular deadlines.

* * *

The guild building was overpowering. A fortress within the city: its thick walls gaping with gunslits, its fat towers bristling with the steel needles of the ballistas. Two enormous golems guarded the entrance—projecting more the guild's wealth and influence to the world rather than really guarding anything. Each level 230, how awesome was that? I even took the trouble of looking golem-building up in Wiki. Oh well, it doesn't hurt to dream. My naïve hope of getting one of those as a pet one day and building my own zombie platoon was shattered before it even got off the ground, unable to survive the clash with harsh reality. Only a large clan could afford to keep one of those. To get access to golem building, you had to level up alchemy, goldsmithy and forging skills to Grand Master levels. And the prices! To build one could cost you a small fortune: to get some idea of the costs, place your creation onto the scale and keep balancing it with ingots of silver until you weep. And that was only the beginning of a long and winding road.

I stood there gawking at them, estimating their weight, then using my fingers and toes to convert it into silver and gold losing a few zeroes on my way. It was a lot. I patted a golem's warm mithril thigh and stepped into the dark gateway.

A short tunnel led into a gateway tower. Portcullises bared their steel teeth over both entrance and exit. The many arrowslits and suspicious openings overhead promised a bloodbath to whoever dared fight their way through there. Good job I went there personally instead of hiring staff at the mercs' marketplace. My potentially eternal lifespan meant I might have to build, defend and storm this sort of fortification one day.

The inner court was small but welcoming. It was surprisingly crowded—mainly by what seemed to be mercs waiting to be hired. The narrow space between the keep and the inner wall housed a couple of cafés, a pub, two permanently busy combat arenas and a number of shop signs offering supplies and gear repair among other things. The mercs must have let their guard down, I decided as I eyed the close space. During the first siege, all this razzamatazz was going to burn happily, getting in the way of the already-miserable defenders.

The keep's gates stood invitingly open. I walked through. The ground floor housed the actual gaming content: guild masters, traders, coaches and other miscellaneous NPCs. The first floor and above were rented out to the players who apparently had a good manager and an equally good interior designer. The decor was rather businesslike going on medieval, replete with information desk, soft couches in the waiting area, consultants' cubicles and management offices. All of it busy, all in full play. The money flow—which I enviously estimated at two pounds of gold per minute—ran through the marketplace, leaving in its wake a slight residue of guild taxes that aimed to maintain the local grandeur.

I voiced my rather modest request and was escorted to a cubicle: soft inviting chairs and a wall of fragrant plants that shielded us from the rest of the room. The babble of an artificial brook helped one relax and part with his money. I didn't even notice the consultant at first. He was perched on a couch amidst the greenery next to a side table loaded with all sorts of tasty morsels. This had to be a real-world paid employee with a primitive 3D connection—what perma player would agree to act out the miserable part of an office rat? It still didn't explain his choice of a goblin as character, of all things. Despite his hilarious appearance, the green creature listened to me with dignity, nodding in all the right places like a seasoned reporter.

Finally, he summed it up, "So you need a cover of five, capable of handling two or three mobs up to level 150. Objective: accompany you to the Dead Lands. The setup is clear. Now the fees. A team of five level-140 and above will cost you seven thousand. The minimum contract term is twenty-four hours. As for the schedule: the portal city nearest to those parts is Aquinus, a hundred and forty miles from your destination. Beyond it lie the Frontier Lands. A savage area, virtually unpopulated. Lots of feral monsters, one-off lairs and dungeons, high chances of running into trouble. Even though you've overestimated potential mobs' levels, I agree that in this case you cannot be too careful. If I could suggest anything at all logistics-wise, I'd recommend the Ferrymen clan. We have a good working relationship with their representative. You probably know that one top-level wizard can store up to fifty teleport points in his memory so between them, they've got our cluster all covered—apart from the Frontier, but at least their clan guarantees the minimum of one teleport point per thousand square miles. This should at least halve your travel times-"

"Why would I need it?" I interrupted the flow of his pitch. "Why would I want to pay for any extras if the minimum contract term is the double of what I need? I had actually hoped to hire a group for twelve hours, not more. Having said that, I've got an idea. You think you could ask the Ferrymen about the location of the nearest teleport point?"

The goblin cheered up, enthusiastically nodding his agreement, then started dictating something into an open communications channel. He had to be getting his cut from the Wizards. Having said that, I had better remember the details of the offer. I could use them at a later date.

The goblin surfaced. "You're in luck! Apparently, the only track to the Dead Lands is blocked by the Bone Castle. And as it's quite a landmark, they couldn't overlook it and marked the nearest port point on the transport map. You only need to cover twenty miles: an hour and a half at your mount's speed. Treble it to include any emergencies, it's still only five hours. A group portal costs three hundred gold. What do you think?"

He leaned forward, his ear tufts quivering, his moist nose probing the air. A funny race, really. "Why not? On one condition: seeing as I'm obliged to pay for twenty-four hours, they'll have to work for their money. We'll start with eighteen hours of power leveling—power leveling myself, I mean—a full cover, top performance and a five-strong support group. That leaves us six hours to travel. How about that?"

"I'm afraid, it doesn't quite work like that. The twenty-four hour contract provides for seven hours of sleep and two one-hour meal breaks. That leaves you with fifteen hours to use as you see fit. In case of any eventualities preventing you from complying, an hour of overtime is paid at 10%."

I winced. All nice and logical but nitpicking any way you looked at it. "Agreed. Food and sleep is every soldier's sacred right."

The goblin rubbed his little paws and started typing away. "Considering the change in the assignment's profile, I'd recommend the following lineup: a cleric for buffs and healing, an enchanter for more buffs and mana transfusion, a rogue and a wizard as cover and a tank to take aggro. This would allow you to save on meditation and healing times and squeeze as much intense farming as you can in the contractual period."

I held my breath in anticipation. "How far can they level me up? Have they done it before?"

The goblin sat up, the pride ringing in his voice. "I'd recommend Zena's team from the Sullen squad. She's got a bit of an attitude, that one, but her team know what they're doing. They'll pull 'em good, for sure. They won't idle around. Your DpS is your only problem: that's the amount of damage per second you can generate. The rest they'll all take care of: mana, mob pulling, healing, and finishing them off after reaching 50%. You could do one level per hour, I suppose. More if you have some top gear and a decent pet. I'd suggest you check out our gear rental. I'm sure you'll find something there you can use. They want a deposit of 100% though, or level 150-plus guarantors. The rental costs 1% per twenty-four hours of the item's average price in the cluster."

Jesus. That was an eye-opener. I was still a total noob with no hope of ever redeeming myself. I'd only been talking with that guy for half an hour and already I'd learned some useful things like the existence of the Ferrymen and equipment rental. The only thing that could possibly excuse me was my desperately tight deadline. I'd only had eight days between my initial decision to go perma and my pressing of the login button, including the time spent on looking it all up and laying my hands on a jailbreak chip. I hadn't done so badly, after all. Shame I'd had to waste my early days on sorting out some local problems, but even that pointed to one undeniable fact: here I was still alive—as opposed to the real world where my sorry ass was actively involved in the process of buying the farm. I found it symbolic that Mom had employed the most energetic language refusing to unplug the capsule. I understood her feelings, of course, even if personally I entertained no nostalgia for my wasted thirty-year-old body. The village-boy euphoria of absolute health was still new for me. It forced me from my bed every morning filling me with a desire to laugh and move, flaring my nostrils in the wake of every provocatively-undressed Elven girl.

I shook my head clear of my reminiscing. "Okay. Zena it is. I don't think I'll be needing your rentals. My gear is good enough. I couldn't take another database-browsing today."

"Excellent. The portal reservation is in your name. The wizard on duty will wait for your signal to arrive at the portal hall. The group is currently on standby status three and will be at your disposal in an hour unless you're willing to pay the optional express rate previewed in the contract."

"I don't," I dismissed his offer. "I can wait no problem—what's half an hour between friends. I think I'll have a little tour around your place in the meantime. I love it here."

The goblin nodded proudly. "Custom made by Shining, the AI interior design studio," he paused, waiting for my reaction. Apparently, this Shining place had to be It. I pursed my lips and tut-tutted, faking an aficionado.

The goblin beamed and tapped the Send button. "Here's your bill. Seven thousand three hundred. Excluding tip," he added in a low voice, looking down.

I nodded, opening my Inbox, and paid the bill in one click adding one percent for his expert advice.

He beamed again. "Thank you," he rose and offered me his tiny paw, making it apparent the session was over. "I'll be happy to help you on any future occasions. You've got my email so feel free to contact me any time even if I'm offline. I've got a real-world forwarding service active twenty-four-seven."

I gingerly shook his tiny sensitive fingers and blurted, "If you don't mind my asking... why a goblin?"

I could see he knew what I meant. His face browned. Was it how he blushed—red color mixed with the original green? How sure was I that goblins' blood was indeed red?

Finally, he spoke, "This is our company policy. To diminish distraction factors and office dating."

As if on cue, a head-turning Elfa from the Information desk hip-swayed past us, escorting a client to a consultant's cubicle. The aroma of violets, a tiny scrap of lace and silk, a handful of diamonds and a whole lot of exposed velvety golden skin. We followed the dreamlike creature with hungry eyes. The goblin gulped and heaved a sigh.

"I think I know what you mean," I put all my sympathy into my words and gave his tiny paw another shake—this time wholeheartedly.

I spent the next hour in a cozy little café perched up next to a training arena. This was the best way to spend what little available time I had: basking in the warm sun sipping coffee and munching on eclairs, filling my immortal memory with combat strategies by class, including the mercs' names and a few of their personal boxes of combat tricks. Very useful. I got so engrossed in it I hadn't even noticed the Inbox flashing at me. Oops. Three unread messages—for the last twelve minutes, I'd been enjoying myself at the rate of four hundred sixty gold an hour. Shit. I jumped up and trotted off to the Departure Hall to meet the impatiently awaiting Zena and Co.

The large oval room was lined with comfortable little couches seating a couple dozen diverse people, from trolls and orcs to halflings and goblins. So that's where all the races came to mingle, apparently. It wasn't all elves as I imagined in my newb location.

I scanned the crowd trying to make out my team. I didn't need to look long. Ramming through the room like an aircraft carrier group through the sea, a female pod of four goblins and a troll was already heading straight for me. Oh well. If a girl wanted to play a troll, there had to be somebody responsible for it. What kind of social protest was that, for chrissakes? A female merc team at its most absurd and ungainly. Was it AlterWorld's emo trying to be funny?

The female Troll came closer. My eyes were at one level with her powerful chest protected by half-inch thick armor.

I stepped back and looked up. "Zena?"

"You blind or what, blondie?" I heard a squeak from below. A female goblin's steel boot gave my knee cap a rather sensitive kick.

She—Zena, apparently—stepped forward, shaking her head. "All you men are alike, really. Stupid as old boots. All you can think of is a pair of boobs. No one's interested in a girl's psyche. What are you staring at? Come on, General, the team's awaiting your orders," she glared at me with sarcastic interest, as if expecting this old boot to speak.

All that time, I was mentally swearing, wishing every ill on the goblin consultant's green head. Sullen squad, he said? Very well, then.

"Right!" wincing from their sarcastic grins, I cleared my throat and said in my most imposing voice, "Enough of your feminist trash! What are your names, girls?"

The rosy smiles waned on the warrior goblins' mugs. They exchanged puzzled glances. So they didn't like me breaking the mold, then?

The leader was the first to regain her composure. "Zena's team, all-female Sullen squad, number 18 in the independent mercs' ratings. Levels 140 plus, gear unique plus. On twenty-four hour hire until o-fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Today's agenda: rushing the customer from level 52. I recommend the Oasis location, it's teeming with amphibians levels 60 to 100. Freckle Face will port us there, she's our wizard, Freckles for short as it's quite a mouthful in the heat of battle. First we need the Ferryman to jump us to the Frontier, then Freckles will set up a navigational beacon so that tomorrow she can jump us from there herself. Now what next? I can see you've already met our warrior? Yes, Bomba is very likeable, her boobs certainly are," she grinned.

She pointed to a small goblin maiden all kitted out in complex leather armor, her two swords hanging recklessly from two steel rings on her hips. The naked blades emitted a burgundy sheen, sparkling occasionally. At the time, the maiden was ignoring us, engrossed in a heated discussion with some merc over the pros and cons of the latest trend in power leveling, Savage-style. Whoever Savage was and whatever advantages his modus operandi could offer, I didn't have the slightest idea.

"This is Whizz, our rogue. A mage killer. Note the swords. I don't think you've recognized them. Those are Vampire's Fangs, both of them, mind you. There're only seven full sets of them in the whole cluster."

The last one was a quiet enchanter chick going by the moniker of Charmsy. God only knew how she'd ended up in that bunch. She stayed behind the others' backs, blushing every time somebody paid attention to her.

I clapped my hands, asking for silence. "Attention, ladies! Let's get this show on the road. Once we jump to the Frontier, the ferryman's job's done. Then it's Zena's turn to give orders until further notice. I warn you all, I've never had to hire anyone to level me before, so I apologize for any blunders. Ready, everyone? Off we go."

With a long spell and an almighty pop, we teleported to the location.

The bright blue sky spread overhead, the white-hot ball of the sun blazing against the back of my head. Good job we had to start out the next morning. As our wizard got busy setting up a navigational beacon, I had a good look around. The scenery reminded me of the African savannah with its vast open spaces interspersed with rocky outcrops and formidable canopied trees.

A massive mountain ridge loomed on the horizon. I checked the map: that's right, that was exactly where I had to go. The savannah was anything but empty, dotted with single figures beelining in every direction. About half a mile from us, a pride of aggro lions lounged in the shade of a tree. With any luck, we should make it past them.

"All done!" Freckles reported.

Zena glanced at me. I nodded: it was her turn to give orders. She gave me a faint smile. You never knew, we could make a good team.

The portal to Oasis will open in 5... 4... 3...

Bang!

Oh. The location was different but the white-hot plasma ball was still blazing overhead.

"Report!" Zena ordered, studying the area.

The rogue answered first. Apparently, she was the one responsible for reconnaissance and counter PK measures.

"There're two hundred seventy players in the location. Roughly one PK group—the Pratz, low level, no threat for us, plus three singles we're not sure of, all three on the unofficial black list, each already implicated in a few unmotivated attacks. Chat activity: standard. Everything OK," she added in a calmer voice.

"Buffs for all! For the team, type four, anti PK. For the client, type six: DpS, plus you can add whatever you have as magic resists, all kinds. Make sure we don't lose him, that would be a shame to end all shame."

Then she saw Hummungus who'd just appeared next to me, followed by the summoned pet. "And throw in some buffs for his critters too, for hits and damage."

She made a few steps toward the hissing teeth-baring demon and studied the infernal monster. "Who are you, dude?" she shook her head, uncomprehending. "You wouldn't believe it if they told you, a level 52 Death Knight with a level 65 pet. Either you're worth more than a Bentley or I just don't get it."

I gave her a wink, trying to look as cool as a cucumber. Which wasn't easy. Level sixty goddamn five! I was my own train! In his new gear, Hummungus looked truly brutal and as dangerous as a busload of AK-47s. This was going to be a ride!

Buffed up like a power house, I felt impregnable.

"Mana at sixty," Zena reported for the team's sake.

"Seventy," Charmsy echoed.

"Whizz? Make a quick area check, nose to the ground, security evaluation. Give us a couple minutes, then you can pull the first croc."

Zena turned to me. "That's it, then. We're at the Oasis. Sort of miniature Nile delta. The further down the river, the tougher the mobs. Reptiles and other water beasties, mainly: crocs, hippos, a few gators."

"Excellent! See you later, alligator," I waved my hand at the Oasis.

"In a while, crocodile. One last thing: you'd better keep an eye on the Roc."

I looked around, searching for any Gibraltar-shaped cliff.

"The bird," she corrected me. "Level 100-plus. It comes hunting a couple times a day. She can take you out without you even noticing it."

I nodded.

"Now for the pull," she went on. "Whizz will keep increasing the pull speed until she feels your limit. Try to aim for about 50% hits, the rest we'll take care of, you get the XP. The ideal time/XP ratio is when the pulled mobs are 10% above you—15% even, given your critters. In our case, it's level 60 give or take. That's it, quit yapping, here she comes with a gator."

Indeed, the little goblin chick was already scampering toward us pursued by a huge croc. Rotting weeds and fountains of sand burst from under its massive clawed feet. Gosh, I hated those yellow-eyed monsters. Good job I wasn't a warrior. At least I didn't have to step in the creature's way blocking its access to the group's soft underbelly: the casters.

Whizz rushed past us. The croc was only a few paces away when Freckles stood up and cast a spell. Powerful roots burst out of the sand, entangling the creature's feet.

"Don't sleep," Zena poked me in the shoulder. "He's all yours. Whizz is off to get a new one."

I shook myself free from my stupor. Okay, so this was a croc, big and stinking of fish, so what? Teddy, demon, attack! The still-restrained croc growled happily at seeing a proper opponent. He sunk his teeth into the demon's hip. The creature showered it with blows, Teddy's mithril claws tearing through the croc's hide. The stench of fish was overpowering. The waves of uprooted sand lashed us like a tropical storm: three bulldozers locked in combat on a dune top. In silent agreement we stepped back, spitting out the sand.

Zena cringed, sniffing her glove stinking of fish guts. "Gosh! I'd already forgotten how shitty it is out here!"

I nodded. "My kingdom for a pair of ballistic goggles! Freckles, do us all a favor and control them a bit further away, at fifteen paces or so, would you?"

While we recovered, the croc's life had sunk into the yellow zone. The restive silent Bomba reached into her backpack and produced an impressive club of meteorite iron studded with diamond shards molten into its impact surface.

Bang! Crit! Corpse!

Wow. Having said that, the croc was all of a hundred levels below her. You would hardly expect a drawn-out combat at these odds. She had just swatted him, end of story. My pets were full of life, having barely lost 10% hits. Which was also quite predictable, really: the demoness' level was higher than the croc's with Teddy not too far below.

Aha, there was Whizz bringing a new customer. I immobilized the arriving anaconda and set off both pets, casting a couple of Life Absorptions. The rogue chick ran past us and turned round, skidding in the deep sand, then headed back to the water edge for more clients to stuff.

"Bah, it stinks," she dropped sarcastically as she ran past, "has something just died here?"

Followed by some hearty f-words, she laughed happily and hopped over the dunes, reaching for her throwing knife. Things got rocking!

Four hours later, we took a break. By then, we'd already advanced more than half a mile down river. I'd surprised them by my XP building: one level every forty minutes. The pet had long since been raised again so now we were sitting next to an enormous hippo, his bulk frightening the pants off occasional players who tried to approach us. That's right, I'd allowed the girls to do their own little bit on the side so they made a small announcement location-wide, offering their buffing and resurrecting services. They charged a good rate for those but in the absence of competition, they could ask for whatever they wanted. The way it was going, they would make at least a grand by evening—a nice little bonus for them. It didn't really affect my leveling, we had plenty of mana, we'd had no emergencies even though by now Whizz alone couldn't always deliver and had to occasionally turn to Bomba for a successful pull. Zena made sure no one dropped below 40% in case we had to deal with an unexpected pull or a PK. The loot wasn't much to write home about. Lots of meat and pelts, a few gems and various bits of gear—probably, whatever was left of the less lucky players who'd tried to swim across in full armor with a double-handed sword on their backs. I could, in theory, get about four hundred gold out of it toward my operational costs.

My girls turned out to be foresighted and domesticated. In their bottomless backpacks they even had a few sitting rugs, a spotless white tablecloth and a good dozen pots filled with various edibles. We had a hearty lunch and a bit of a siesta as the girls talked between themselves, discussing very ungirly things like the pros and cons of spears as a close-combat weapon. We all seemed to be getting along. They didn't drag their break out until the last, so in less than forty minutes the well-oiled wheels of our conveyor belt were rolling again.

Half an hour before midnight, I dinged for the last time that day. 65!

"Congrats," the tired girls managed.

I nodded. "Thanks, ladies. Great job. I'll be seeing crocs for a week now."

Whizz grinned. "They will, too, after the genocide you committed."

"Not without your help. Freckles, you can port the team back now. Having said that, know of a decent hotel to spend the night?"

"Everything's been taken care of," Zena answered. "There're some nice apartments in the mercs guild. Third floor. They're not cheap, but that's not your problem. Consider it our gift to you. We can appreciate generosity."

I didn't say no. No need to disappoint good girls like those. "I can, too. Okay, tomorrow eight a.m., meet you all in the guild hall. We'll buff ourselves up and off to the Frontier we go. The Dead Lands are waiting. I've got unfinished business there, ladies, that's the whole thing..."