The Lag (The Game Master: Book #1) Page 16

  Wayfarer offered him the stick. Attila grabbed at it too, digging his heels in.

  Once Beast was back on firm ground, he dropped the bag and went for Wayfarer, raising his enormous fist up to his face. Wayfarer moved his arm aside and stepped back. Cussing, Beast began brushing the mud off his clothes.

  Wait a sec. Where was his Eye? Attila desperately looked around him. It was gone!

  He pulled the Book out and began twisting the knob. Big sigh of relief. The Eye came back and hovered over their heads, waiting.

  Wayfarer peered in the direction of Healer's hut. Attila could hear the mobs' distant growling and howling.

  "The harpies?" Wayfarer half-stated.

  "They're coming," Attila took a better look. "You can see them from here now."

  Concealed by clouds, the Shaard resembled a large pale spot studded with a multitude of dots. Not dots anymore even, but lots of small shapes that looked like a swarm of tiny Vs. But why had the Eye moved? It wasn't hovering over Attila's head anymore but had moved off to one side. Something was wrong with the settings.

  Attila twisted the knob some more until the Eye folded in its steel arms and dove. Missing his hands, it landed in a thicket. At least it hadn't come down in a dirty puddle.

  Attila hurried to retrieve it, then returned it to his bag. The settings needed sorting out once everything was back to normal.

  "What are we waiting for, then?" Beast demanded. "The harpies will make a quick job of us. Let's go!"

  Wayfarer looked around them. "The forest is too far," he decided. "Take cover in the bulrushes!"

  They ran. The tiny V-shapes in the sky kept growing, bringing hoarse cries and the rustling of wings. Attila ducked into the bulrushes. Crouching and trying to make as little noise as possible, all three delved deep into the undergrowth.

  They had barely managed to take cover when wings flapped across the sky. The harpies circled overhead exchanging primitive phrases in their barbaric language as they searched for them.

  "They'll see your staff," Beast whispered but Wayfarer had already covered the glowing top of his staff with his cloak, wrapping it tight around it. He whispered something. A gray magic aura enveloped them, just like it had done back at the Sanctuary. Now at night, you could barely see it — nor the harpies who'd been reduced to blurred spots shooting across the sky.

  "You should keep quiet," Wayfarer whispered. "The aura can conceal you from the enemy's eyes but not ears."

  "Why didn't you use your staff back in the cellar?" Beast demanded. "It has Kromik's soul inside, doesn't it? You could have struck them with it. We would have saved Healer then."

  "I couldn't," Wayfarer said. "Every time I use the staff, it interferes with the game location's settings. That сould have disrupted the main portal's parameters irreversibly. Using a Shaman's Soul is the ultimate resort, a bit like an N-bomb. It's a one-off weapon."

  Attila made a mental note. He might give it some thought later — but not now, they had far more pressing issues on their plate. Besides, Wayfarer went on,

  "The harpies have their own magic. They might still see you through the aura, so don't move."

  Oh, great. They froze crouching amid the bulrushes. Shadows flashed overhead, rustling their wings and shouting hoarsely.

  "What do we do next?" Attila mouthed.

  The Book in his hands dinged. Attila froze, then hurried to switch off new message notifications. Beast gave him the evil eye. Wayfarer made a disapproving nod. With an apologetic gesture, Attila glanced at the screen. He had a new Skype message.

  Yanna: I'm here. Where are u?

  He added her to his contacts and began typing,

  Hi. All OK. Receiving.

  Just as he typed the last word, Yanna's icon turned yellow. Dammit! He sent off the message, anyway. It was bound to reach her.

  His head exploded in agony. Crushing the bulrushes around him, Attila pressed his forehead to the ground. Beast's groans echoed through his mind, reverberating. The world faded, reduced to throbbing pain.

  He wasn't sure whether he'd fainted, only that he had come to after a short while, kneeling and staring in front of him. Beast whined softly, tossing about.

  Wayfarer didn't seem to have been affected at all.

  "Don't you have a headache?" Attila whispered.

  "I haven't even got a head," Wayfarer turned away.

  Rubbing his temples, Beast glanced up. "What's all this about?" he demanded. "What's with all the headache? Why both of us? Yanna used to have them too, I think."

  Wings thundered overhead. Attila startled and looked up. The harpies were leaving, as if on command. A few seconds later, the marshes were quiet.

  "They might come back," Beast mumbled. "Do you hear all the noise near the hut? They seem to be coming here."

  Wayfarer stood up. "We should go on."

  They scrambled out of the bulrushes and continued across the marsh. Now that they'd left the gloomy swamped area behind, even Beast cheered up, realizing that the harpies weren't coming back. Ungrudging by nature, he'd already forgotten the earlier incident and was showering them with questions,

  "So are we going straight to the Citadel now? How can we get to it, just hike all the way over there? They're gonna smoke us en route with a little help from your one-off staff."

  "First we need to pop into Deadville," Wayfarer said.

  "Why? I know Healer said we had to go there first. But he didn't tell us why."

  "I'm almost sure he meant weapons," Wayfarer replied. "Somewhere in the vicinity of Deadville there are secret Dwarven workshops. They're long abandoned now. But I know they used them to test some new secret weapons. I'm more than sure Healer believed we had to have them in order to storm the Citadel. He's not a scriptwriter of course, but still he had to know these things."

  As they spoke, the marshes ended. A large expanse of firm ground lay before them. A wooded hill rose beyond, framed by a thicket of shrubs. A gnarly oak at the glade's edge spread its canopy over the grass. The growling and howling of mobs reached them from afar.

  "So let's presume we penetrate this Citadel, with the Dwarven weapons or without," Beast argued. "Don't you understand it's pointless? The Citadel is the heart of the Dead Canyon. I've known people call up thousand-strong raids and they still couldn't do it."

  "It might not be easy," Attila agreed. "This Alpha has a big army. He has mobs, zombies and the Silent Brothers..."

  "You seem to forget the chat," Wayfarer said.

  Beast and Attila exchanged glances. Wayfarer went on,

  "The old chat is working now. I've checked it. We need to contact the Pioneers."

  "Sure!" Beast clapped his hands, then ouched, spreading them wide as sparks crackled between his palms, emitting little flames. "Oops. I very nearly launched a fireball. Yes, the chat! Of course! We must do it straight awa-"

  Attila poked his shoulder. "Wait up a sec. Why is it so quiet all of a sudden? Didn't we hear the mobs coming after us? And now I can't hear them anymore. It's as if someone's muted the sound."

  They froze, listening intently to the sounds of the marshes left behind. Or rather, to the absence of any sound. The location was deadly quiet. All they could hear was the wind rustling in the bulrushes.

  "Climb that tree!" Wayfarer mouthed.

  The marshes rustled. Water splashed under invisible feet. The edge of the water swarmed with shadows.

  Attila and the others were running toward the tree when the first silhouettes emerged from stealth. The ogre marched first, followed by basilisks and zombie soldiers. Over a dozen ghouls kept their own ranks. Harpies flapped their wings, banking into steep turns like some otherworldly fighter planes, diving to the ground, then reemerging. The Silent Brothers were nowhere to be seen — but still the mobs moved in well-organized ranks as if following orders.

  "They're heading for the Citadel," Wayfarer whispered, straddling a sturdy branch several feet above the ground.

  Beast did the same. Attila climbed a neighbo
ring branch. Wayfarer cast another invisibility aura, turning the world gray again. Grass rustled as the mobs marched below, scraping their claws on the rocks. Harpies soared overhead.

  Finally, the mobs' army passed the tree and disappeared behind the hill.

  "They're too many," Attila said. "We can't handle them. And they must be only the tip of the iceberg. Alpha must have many more of them."

  Once again Wayfarer's eyes glazed over. "They're concentrating at the Citadel," he finally said, unfreezing.

  "That means we'll need a whole lot of weapons," Attila said. "Really cool weapons, too."

  "And a lot of good fighters," Beast added. "I can't use this old chat with my Book so it's up to you to spread the word. Contact everyone you can. What can we use as an RV point?"

  "River Castle," Wayfarer reached for his Book. "It's quite close to Deadville with a good view of the Citadel. What should I say?"

  "What should you say..." Attila furrowed his forehead, trying to word the call-up message. Strange Wayfarer didn't want to do it himself. It was as if he was worried he couldn't write convincingly... as if he wasn't sure how the human mind worked.

  "I still don't understand what this Alpha wants," Beast said. "Why does he need all this?"

  Without answering, Wayfarer headed toward the hill. Attila exchanged a meaningful glance with Beast and followed, dictating the message as he walked. He looked over Wayfarer's shoulder at his Book's black and crimson screen glowing with the following message,

  Attention everyone! If you can't quit the game, there's a way to do it. The way to log out lies through the Citadel. We must attack it now! RV point: River Castle. I repeat. To all who read this, drop whatever you're doing and head for River Castle. The only way to log out is by storming the Citadel!

  The next moment, the message disappeared, forwarded to the many players still in the game.

  Chapter Twelve

  The train rattled its wheels, speeding along the tracks. Yanna's heart pounded in synch. Her fingers clenched the overnight bag in her lap. What if the men in gray had boarded the train? What if they had split into two teams and were now combing through it, moving toward each other checking each car, studying the passengers' faces? Soon they'd be here, and then what? Should she go and hide in the restroom? Surely they would check that too.

  A young guy walked past her, cradling a beer bottle. Should she hide in the bar, maybe? Here she was in full view while there she might try to shrink away in a dark corner hoping they'd miss her... She should have packed a baseball cap!

  She slung her bag over one shoulder and set off in search of the bar. Before crossing into the next car, she studied it through the glass partition for anything suspicious.

  It didn't take her long to get to the bar. Its walls were lined with shelves stacked with bottles, glasses and colorful boxes of various snacks.

  Yanna climbed on a bar stool in a niche and ordered a coffee, studying the faces all around. The bar was almost empty. What a shame. The bored barman stared into the window. An elderly couple lounged nearby, followed by a lean swarthy man with an aquiline nose and bushy black eyebrows — definitely a Georgian[i] — nursing his brandy. A few more people were perched on their stools on the other side. That was it.

  She took her time over her coffee, freaking out every time the door opened letting someone through. Relax, she kept telling herself. There's nothing you can do at the moment — or anybody else, for that matter. Pointless getting so worked up. No one's going to kill you on the train. If push comes to shove, you can always call the police.

  The door slid open again, letting in Baboon Face. Yanna wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. What should she do? He must have seen her through the window and jumped on board just as the train had been about to leave.

  The man looked directly at her. Yanna choked on her coffee. She gulped. Was he here alone or did he have his henchmen in gray with him too?

  Baboon Face looked around himself and headed down the carpeted aisle toward her.

  Running was pointless. She rose in her seat, staring at him in terror.

  The man stopped. His stare changed from smug to leaden. What was it?

  "'xcuse me, Miss," a heavily accented Georgian voice said next to her. "Woudja fancy a drink?"

  Yanna startled and turned round. The Georgian took a place on the stool next to hers.

  He was a true-to-life cartoon image of a Caucasian highlander with a huge aquiline nose, bushy knitted eyebrows and a hefty chin good for breaking walnuts or hammering in nails. A swarthy hulk of a ladies' man, a perfect complement to a blonde girl's agenda.

  He beamed. "I'm Avtandil. But you can call me Avtik."

  It took all of her meager self-control to return his smile. Yanna glanced at Baboon Face. "I'm Yanna."

  Avtik dissolved in a radiant smile. He snapped his fingers, calling up the barman. "What's the best brandy you have, buddy? Two of those. The best one, eh? And another coffee. Would you fancy another coffee, Yanna?"

  Squirming with embarrassment — had she just allowed herself to be picked up? — Yanna forced a nod.

  Awaiting his order, Avtik leaned with his elbows on the bar, looking closely into her face — or maybe checking out something lower, she couldn't really tell because she was staring in front of her. Her cheeks were on fire.

  In the meantime, Avtik was doing the traditional Georgian courting bit.

  "I can't believe my luck, meeting a real cover girl! By God! You must be working as a model, shooting for magazines, touring the world! Where are you going now? Are you staying in Moscow or are you traveling further?

  "I'm staying in Moscow," she glanced at Baboon Face who had taken a seat at a table by the bar. "With a friend."

  "Is your friend as pretty as you are? No, she can't be! There can't be another one just like you in the whole world. I have a good friend in Moscow too. He owns a Georgian restaurant. What if we all meet up there, the four of us? We could have a bit of a party, drink some good Georgian wine. You've never tasted the kind of wine I'm bringing with me, oh!"

  The blatant admiration in his stare, was it supposed to be flattering? Or not? The guy didn't look sleazy — just overly outspoken. But the way he undressed her with his stare... She really couldn't work him out, but one thing she knew: he made her feel utterly mortified.

  The barman placed two fat long-stemmed glasses onto the counter. Avtik picked up both and offered her one, flashing his white teeth. "This is to our meeting!"

  They clinked glasses. Yanna just wet her lips and stood her glass back onto the bar. The Georgian downed his in one hit, jerking his purple Adam's apple.

  She'd only tasted brandy once before, when she and a friend had downed a double each celebrating the end of the term exams. For whatever good it had done them. The friend hadn't even noticed it but Yanna had been well and truly sick.

  Baboon Face moved onto a stool at the opposite end of the bar and ordered coffee, casting glances at Yanna over the Georgian's shoulder. Avtik kept blabbing on about his Moscow business and his friends, showering Yanna with compliments and suggesting she needed a "necklace of pure gold" and a "decent ride". She barely listened, fiddling with her phone and feverishly wondering what to do next.

  "Ah," Avtik said, "Why are you all so sad like this? D'you need to make a phone call? Take mine," he offered her his phone with a wink. "I'll step aside to give you some privacy."

  He gestured his hand with a flourish, climbed off his stool, casting an unfriendly glance at Baboon Face — so he'd noticed him, then — and walked out into the corridor. Yanna could see him through the glass door lighting a cigarette.

  Baboon Face squinted. He pursed his lips and turned to the barman, nodding at the door, "Why won't you intervene? This isn't a smoking car! I would ask you to call the conductor."

  Indifferently, the barman leaned across the counter and waved to Avtik, attracting his attention, then crossed his arms in front of him, signaling for him to stop smoking. Baboon Face cast unhappy glances
at both.

  In the meantime, Yanna had unblocked the phone. This Avtik had the same model as hers. How could she contact Attila without leaving a trace in another person's phone?

  Then she sussed it.

  When the Georgian disappeared behind the restroom door, she removed the battery from his phone, slid it into hers and tapped off a message,

  Riding Sapsan to Moscow.

  She replaced the battery. Big sigh of relief. But not really. Her main problem was riding Sapsan with her: Baboon Face glared at her like a python at a rabbit. Unlike his Georgian counterpart, Baboon Face wasn't interested in Yanna as a woman. What was he going to do once they arrived in Moscow? Was he going to kidnap her or simply wring her neck? No problem with those huge arms of his. He'd snap her spine and wouldn't even bat an eyelid. Then again, he probably had a gun. With a silencer.

  Mechanically Yanna flashed a smile to the returning Avtik. With a mental blush, she moved her shoulders to reveal her cleavage. Jesus, she wished the earth could swallow her whole! Online, she was as tough as they come but in real life she just didn't know how to flirt with men — she had no idea how to either lead them on or discourage them. She was worse than a little girl, really.

  "Another one?" Avtik boomed enthusiastically. He ordered himself another brandy, then nodded at her glass. "Why don’t you drink, eh?"

  She took the glass, took a tiny sip and gasped, choking on the alcohol, her eyes running. This was awful! Her cheeks were hot. A pleasant warmth enveloped her stomach.

  Avtik gently tapped her on the back. She nodded, grateful. She already felt drunk. So quickly!

  But with intoxication came courage. Suddenly she realized: of course, she'd booked her train ticket online and that's how they'd tracked her down. They must have had her IP the moment she'd used the portal. And then she'd booked her ticket from the same IP. So much for her undercover skills.

  She was sure Baboon Face didn't work for the police or special services, otherwise he'd have already arrested her. He might even be some paid hood who didn't know who Yanna was. A mercenary. It sounded like an action thriller! Or he could be a RussoVirt security agent. In which case the question was, who controlled him? The RussoVirt administration — or Alpha himself?