The donjon's massive gates lay on the ground nearby, a file of Cat captives trickling out of the dark gateway. Their expressions varied—some dumbfounded, other puzzled, angry or smug. Some of them spat threats, others begged while yet more preserved a grim silence.
Tavor and I noticed each other simultaneously. He struggled in the hands of two burly special-ops guys, his face a mask of hatred. He knew only too well who'd brought the Vets to his lair.
"You're dead, sucker! We got you once, we can get you again! Your family are dead, too! You're a fucking corpse, man!"
Apparently curious about the subject matter, the General motioned the guards to approach. In all honesty, his words had cut me to the quick. I already knew he was one vindictive son of a bitch. I also realized he was too half-baked not to make good his threats. I wouldn't put it past him to use some of his remaining real-life contacts to punish the imaginary culprit of his misfortunes. I had to decide what to do about him.
The Princess stepped forward, studying him. "Give him to me," she turned to the General. "We're tied by blood. He was the one who slaughtered the Drow prisoners. One of them never came back from the halls of the Fallen One.
Frag frowned. "What would you need him for?"
She gave him a blood-curdling smile. "We keep learning from you, the Immortal ones. Now it's our time to adopt a new skill. For this we need some unperishable meat."
The General scowled, his squint promising nothing good. "Do you know why we're here razing this cat's house?" He waited for her regal nod and went on, "I'd hate to see all the immortal clans unite against the House of Night. Our self-preservation instincts are extremely strong. What you're suggesting might alienate you to thousands of this world's dwellers."
She shrugged the idea off at first, then nodded her surrender. "As you say, General. All I wanted was to pay the blood debt and also help this young man," she pointed at me, her voice filling with steel. "Can you protect him? Or are you only capable of weird feats to protect your enemies against your allies? Lenience is never a good thing, General."
He chuckled, refusing to rise to the challenge. "We're not lenient. We're supple. Whereas an overwrought blade breaks, a supple one will only bend, ready to rebound and strike again."
She was about to object when a pop from three stationary portals assaulted our ears. Three air-thin arches rose on the granite platform, disgorging a wave of armor and clattering steel that descended on our special-ops men. The attackers weren't many, twenty at most, but their levels and their gear left nothing to be desired. Our guys would have made a quick job of them, but more kept coming out of the iridescent portals: various support classes followed by a close-knit caster group. Things were getting heavy. Our two forces were roughly the same strength. We were about fifty, plus the cutthroats. The attackers were fewer but their levels were slightly higher.
Dan was already reporting the results of a preliminary analysis. "Mercs. I can see some Steel Helmets, Bullhorns and Weasels. All top pros, the choicest in lowlife. They'll fight anyone at all provided the money is right. Someone has invested heavily in them. At least a hundred fifty gold."
The General burst into a string of commands. "Code B! I need two reserve platoons. Cutthroats: one third stays on the walls, the others go down and take care of the casters. Dan, I need the merc groups of Rabid Dog and Robinson Crusoe. Forward them their twenty-four hour contracts now!"
At that moment, Tavor—still face down on the ground and in the hands of his guards—disappeared in a teleport's popping void. WTF? As one of his guards glanced this way and that, three more prisoners—those piled up by the wall—disappeared one by one, followed by two of the attacking casters. This wasn't an attack! They were stealing our prisoners!
"General! They're pulling Cats out! Some are already gone! The attack is a decoy!"
Dan had already found his bearings. "The mercs are sending them invitations to join their group, then pull them out through the portal. Take all the prisoners down to the dungeon! Don't let them be selected as targets! Do it!"
Doing it proved a bit tricky, though, as prisoners kept disappearing physically right out of our hands. Very soon there was no one left to salvage.
An unknown guy next to me—some HQ caster lieutenant—exploded in a cascade of blood. An unstealthed enemy group of five rogues showered us with killing combos: about fifty hits in under two seconds. The unlucky Lieut's body was still melting in the air when the rogues stealthed back and pulled out. The guards lunged at them, furious. They did manage to select one of them and break his stealth, their dozen blades leveling up the score of the fallen.
Surprisingly, it was Dan who apprehended the second rogue. Intercepting the mercs' supposed trajectory, he lunged to one side to where a blurred shadow stole past, his two swords shimmering dangerously as he unstealthed the enemy. The rest was easy. Thieves aren't meant for full combat. One to two was already a good score, considering that the unlucky Lieut was already resurrected and cussing like the trooper he was. Our only losses were the wizard's raid buffs and a momentary dip in battle control.
But once I surveyed the whole picture I saw that not everyone was as lucky as we'd been. Here and there, enemy rogues kept coming up in groups of five, razing our reserves and whoever dared to get close to them.
The cutthroats saved the day. Themselves high-level rogues, they came down the walls, highlighting the enemies and unstealthing together with them in a splatter of crimson. It reminded me of a dogfight: opponents rolling on the ground amid screams and fur flying, the black granite of tombstones replacing their dead bodies. A few dozen pets added a surreal touch to the scene, from simple skeletons and elementals to monstrous creatures of hell and higher planes. Many of the players chose to fight in their secondary shapes: druids preferring the wolf form that positively affected speed and regeneration and also added night vision. Shamans chose to transform into bears for their added strength and hits bonuses. A troll towered in the donjon gateway, blocking it—the one I'd met before who'd complained he had to smoke several cigarettes at a time.
The game developers had spared no cost on visual effects, and now their work was paying off. The fight looked like an action blockbuster meeting a horror movie. Hollywood, eat your heart out. Control spells added groups of temporarily blinded, mute or paralyzed players. Poisons and acids removed sheets of skin, a whole bunch of fire spells filling the air with the sickly sweet smell of roast and the stomach-churning sight of charred flesh. The sword fighters gave as good as they got, their paralyzing combos leaving behind broken limbs gradually regenerating back to health. Blood combos were equally spectacular.
It's not easy to touch the hearts of our contemporaries. What was X-rated twenty years ago—what forty years ago had been only possible in some sleazy underground clubs—today is daytime TV staple. It gets harder to scare anyone with special effects or a documentary footage. It gets harder to get anyone to sympathize.
When there were barely half the mercs left, they attempted one last charge, apparently intending to get deeper and try to pull out whoever they still could. Their steel wedge headed toward the donjon entrance, promptly met by twenty of our reserves. Finally, a teleport popped open, letting out our merc reinforcements Frag had organized earlier. That gave the final edge to the skirmish. Having said that, the enemy forces disappeared with smiles on their lips. They had completed their mission, looking at what had to be quite substantial bonuses.