The Lag (The Game Master: Book #1) Read online

  Yanna cast a cautious glance at the guard standing next to her. She fidgeted in her chair, clenching the collar of her lab coat, and tensed up, ready to leap to her feet. If she bolted for the exit now, she could probably make it past the turnstile. But she couldn't go anywhere without the laptop. Pointless.

  "Sit still," a voice came from the turnstile.

  The guard cast Yanna a stern glance. None of these people really cared about what could have happened in a game. In a moment, the virtual police would come and fetch her, and then... then what? What if they locked her up until next morning?

  A squad of riot police barged into the station, cussing and stomping their heavy boots. They were hung with weapons and clad in helmets and bulletproof vests. The squad was escorting a few leather-clad young men trussed up like chickens.

  "Wait!" the duty sergeant yelled from his booth. "Where d'you think you're going?"

  A tall hulk of a man with a weathered face — apparently, the leader — spoke, "These ones are from the Red Square rally. We were told to bring them here. They're yours."

  "Where d'you want me to put them? All the cells are stuffed!"

  "You think I care? Lock them up in the guards' room!"

  "You don't want much, do you?"

  "I have my orders."

  "I don't give a damn about your orders! Look what we have here!"

  The riot police leader took in the seated people, Yanna, the bandaged man and the old man who froze in his stride. "You've got seven empty seats here. We have nine detainees. Two can sit on the floor. Call your agents and let's get this show on the road."

  He waved to his men. They escorted the detained young men into the corridor and began seating them. Yanna rose and stepped aside. The guards immediately shoved some leather-clad guy with a black eye into her vacated seat and began cuffing him to the nearby radiator.

  All of a sudden the corridor was packed. Two of the riot cops in camo overalls stayed by the turnstile, clutching their submachine guns. Seeing their fit bodies, the police guard too thrust out his chest. The riot cop leader kept up a heated exchange with the duty officer behind the glass. Captain Bukhraeva was busy making yet another phone call. The other riot cops had already cuffed the detainees and now stood blocking the corridor, talking.

  It was now or never. Yanna squeezed herself past the riot cops. She turned the corner and headed toward the open door into the booth. Sensing a stare, she turned round.

  The old man still stood stock still in the middle of the corridor, glaring at her. Her heart missed a beat. He was about to raise the alarm.

  Something heavy thumped on the floor. Forgotten by everyone, the bandaged man had collapsed on the tiles like a sack of coal. Two cops began lifting him, trying to reseat him in his chair. A riot cop stepped aside, unwittingly pushing the old man and squashing his foot under his heavy boot. The old man screamed.

  Yanna caught her breath and inched toward the booth. The duty officer was busy talking to the riot cops' leader who stood half-turned toward him, both watching the corridor. Bukhraeva rose in her seat, clutching the phone.

  Bathed in cold sweat, Yanna stepped inside and reached for the laptop still sitting on the cabinet behind Bukhraeva's back. She grabbed it, slid it under her lab coat and stepped back.

  Now the difficult bit. She had to get out of there somehow.

  The old man was still shrieking his indignation at the riot cop who pretended he didn't hear him. The wounded man kept rocking and mumbling in his chair.

  The duty sergeant shouted to the officer guarding the turnstile, "What's he doing, still sitting here? They should have questioned him an hour ago! Get him upstairs, quick!"

  Yanna shrank back into the wall, letting the guard pass. Paying no attention to her, he took the wounded man by his elbow, dragged him to his feet and led him toward the stairs.

  Yanna smoothed out her lab coat and headed past the booth toward the turnstile. In a practiced motion, the two riot cops blocked her way.

  Yanna stopped, not knowing what to do. "Why are you..." she began, feeling lost.

  "Leave it, man," one of them boomed, shouldering his partner aside. "Let the girl go."

  He stepped out of her way. His partner didn't budge, though. "Can I have your number?" he grinned. " When we finish duty in twenty-four hours, I'll give you a ring."

  "Let her go, man," the former repeated, grinning. "Can't you see she's a doctor? She's in a hurry to save someone's life."

  She gave them a smile. With awkward gallantry, the second cop flung the door open for her.

  One more step, and she was out of there with her back to the station. Yanna squinted at a street sign on the house next door. Richelieu St. 13. Attila's block of flats was number 6. It had to be here somewhere. All she had to do was cross the street and walk a couple of blocks.

  * * *

  Attila lowered the mythogun and propped himself up on his elbows, peeking out above the tall grass. Beast grunted next to him, trying to get comfortable. A huge club was slung on his back: Beast had received it in River Castle to replace the mace he'd lost. A short sword hung from Attila's belt.

  They were on the fallow ground hiding in the thick grass, a long way away from River Castle. Once this place had witnessed a dire skirmish between gnolls and goblins. Until this very day, it was littered with rusty steel and bones. The black outline of the Citadel loomed up ahead. The giant eye on top of the round tower rotated slowly.

  To the right of the Citadel, the road turned forming a large gray and yellow curve. It circled the forest which was chock full of aberrations before heading toward the river and River Castle. Leandra had promised to suppress the aberrations for a while. The top level Elves had this special skill available in their Suppression branch.

  Lurking behind some trees to their left stood the crypt of Fair Baby Magdalene. Along the road, Alpha's army was marching away from the Citadel.

  The God's Eye hovered overhead, sending images to Attila's Book. Attila had been forced to give up the goggles as looking through them made his head swim. But he didn’t need to watch the Book's screen now. He could see their enemies perfectly well with the naked eye. Gnolls were running, interspersed with ghouls' shimmering outlines. Goblins in loincloths raced astride wild boars, armed with gnarly clubs and crooked spears. Several ogres towered over the crowd. The ground shuddered under their steps.

  "So much for the army of the Dark," Attila muttered. "There aren't that many of them, after all."

  Before they'd left, they'd been issued a few impressive buffs but they hadn't made him feel any better. Virtual illusions didn't help anymore, failing to deceive his exhausted, dehydrated body choking on its own toxins. No amount of wizardry could save him: Attila switched between bouts of sickness and consciousness, but the latter grew shorter with every hour.

  "What did you say? Oh yeah!" Beast by his side nodded energetically. "No, there're loads more in fact. Apparently, Alpha had failed to gather all the Canyon mobs. Which is good news because we aren't that numerous, either."

  With the exception of the gnolls who tried to march in some sort of formation, other mobs barged along in no order whatsoever — disorganized cannon fodder rather than a regular army. They didn't seem sentient at all. It was as if they were following a very basic command, something like "go from A to B and kill everyone there". Did that mean that Alpha had more important things to do? To the point that he hadn't even bothered to provide his army with adequate support?

  Attila glanced at the Book and began turning the knobs, adjusting the picture. The Skype icon glowed in the corner of the screen. No new messages. Yanna, what could have happened to her?

  He suppressed the desire to use the Eye to survey the battlefield. It would only lead to a new bout of nausea. Instead, he craned his neck to take another look.

  A heavy Boom! came from the direction of River Castle. This had to be Little Blacksmith's men engaging. He'd said he'd be able to boost the mithrinol cannon — and it looked as if he'd d
one so already. All Attila could see from his place was the very top of the donjon.

  With a flash and a crackle, a big fat bolt of lightning slammed into the road. Things got rolling!

  "The heat is on," Beast mumbled a confirmation.

  The purple-tinted blast sent the wild boars flying through the air. The ogre nearest to the impact listed, then crashed to the ground like a felled oak tree. The mobs screamed and howled, breaking their miserable excuse for a formation. Still, they kept going.

  Another bolt of lightning. Another flash. Thick clouds of brown dust enveloped the road.

  "Take that, you bastards!" Beast whispered, clenching a large glass jar glittering with gold. It had been entrusted to him by Zoran the Stargazer himself: the fact that made Beast puff out his chest with pride. According to Zoran — the best alchemist in the whole of the Canyon — the jar contained Rattling Death: the deadliest substance that had ever been conceived by the marriage of science and magic. According to Flammel the Hermit, this was "an alchemic analog of a mixture of nitroglycerine with plastic explosive and some trinitrotoluene".

  "You'd better be careful with that," Attila said anxiously. "Didn't they give you a bag to keep it in? You'd better put it back in it for now."

  Two bolts of lightning struck simultaneously: one from River Castle's donjon, the other from the woods across the road. Had they put someone there clad in the exosuit? Attila couldn't see anything. Then again, Elves were recognized experts of disguise. This was one of their racial bonuses. They must have camouflaged the suit with tree branches and cast some magic over it to boot.

  The double purple flash hit the crowd of mobs. In a colorful display of animation, blood and flesh splattered everywhere, showering the nearest monsters with red. Some of them ducked into the woods, scattering amid the trees. The mauled bodies of ghouls became visible, filling with color. An enormous boar staggered and dropped to the ground, burying a goblin under its bulk. Another rocketed along the road like an uncontrollable fireball, howling. Gnolls and ogres kept marching, stomping the dead bodies into the ground.

  "Strange we can't see any harpies," Beast said. "I wonder why? Did Alpha send them all somewhere else?"

  Once the dust had settled down a bit, they saw that not all the mobs were heading for the forest. Some of them had turned off toward the wasteland, gradually moving further away from the road.

  "Time to leg it," cautiously Beast began crawling toward nearby trees. "You hear me? They're gonna see us."

  Wayfarer's staff blinked red amid the rustling branches. Accompanied by Crayfish, he stole from behind the trees toward them.

  They had arrived here all together. Attila and Beast had been left to keep an eye on the terrain while the other two had gone to take a look at the crypt. Now Crayfish, this famed Elven hunter, wasn't ginger anymore but gray with dirt. His clothes were glossy green with mud spots, his face streaked with oily marsh water that looked like war paint. Wayfarer next to him looked almost clean.

  "Let's go-" he glanced at the road and quickly stepped back to the safety of the trees, pulling Crayfish after him.

  The Elf dropped to his knees, gasping and choking. He was shuddering, his head rolling from side to side. Only now did Attila notice a weak sickly-colored glow around his body. This must have been one hell of a debuff! Crayfish was losing hit points rapidly, his life dwindling with every passing second.

  Wayfarer swung round and stepped into the thick undergrowth. Now he stood with his back to the wasteland and the road, the Citadel rising to his right. The sinister eye on its peak hovered overhead, as if about to crash down on them, even though it was simply a powerful magical illusion.

  Attila and Beast exchanged glances. Crayfish needed their help. Leaving him here, next to the road raided by the enemy, was inhuman.

  "Quick," Wayfarer called.

  "But-" Beast began.

  "Crayfish is staying here. He's showed me what I needed to know. His job is done."

  Attila leaned over the Elf. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," he wheezed. His freckled ears twitched. "He gave me an antidote and some of Leandra's elixirs. Make sure you don't step in the green goo. It's the worst thing..."

  "What green goo?"

  "You'll know when you see it. Go."

  They hurried after Wayfarer. The undergrowth parted, revealing another clearing overgrown with grass. This one wasn't littered with bones or rusted weapons. But it was bare — not a tree or a bush to hide behind. If the monsters headed here...

  Wayfarer dropped to his stomach and crawled forward. He moved with remarkable ease, considering he had this heavy unyielding staff in his hands. Attila had to follow suit. Despite his malaise, he moved quickly — but Beast began to lag behind. His half-orcish body was badly suited to crawling; he was panting and puffing like an asthmatic python.

  They were already halfway through the clearing when reality shattered around them. A ringing sound bored into their ears. The outlines of objects blurred and began to fade.

  Then it stopped. Everything went back to normal. Attila looked behind him at Beast, bug-eyed and feeling his ears.

  "What the hell was that?" Beast demanded.

  "Dunno. But it's something serious."

  Whatever it was, it didn't come back. Attila's Eye glistened in the air overhead. The sky glowed crimson above the Conclave's Tower topped with its own eye, sinister and all-seeing. The Canyon's lands stretched to the horizon. Attila felt so small amid them: a tiny bug in Alpha's hand.

  He shivered and crawled on, working hard with his elbows. The gigantic eye on top of the Tower seemed to be peering into his very heart.

  Wayfarer rose to his feet and ran to the left, ducking. Then he waved his hand, signaling to them. Attila and Beast jumped up too.

  The crypt lurked behind a small grassy hill.

  The squat marble structure was covered in luxurious carvings. Its door was decorated with entwined vines framing the face of Fair Baby Magdalene. A cute she-dwarf she used to be, all pimples and eyes and the loveliest little nose. Still, next to the likes of Leandra she wouldn't have stood half a chance.

  The crypt was surrounded by a low square fence about ten by fifteen feet. The earth behind it was footworn. Dry bunches of long wilted flowers poked out of marble vases. A path of light-colored rocks led diagonally from the fence gate to the crypt door.

  It seemed to be okay — and still, Attila had a bad feeling about the place. It made him feel uncomfortable, a bit like a morgue.

  He summoned the God's Eye back into his bag and put away the Book. They had no time to waste in front of the gate. Wayfarer produced a long bone key and unlocked it.

  "Take the pills," he said. "Whatever you do, don't step off the path. Crayfish did and look what happened to him."

  "What did happen to him?" Beast demanded but Wayfarer didn't reply. He raised his cloak collar and strode along the path.

  They only needed to take a few steps, Attila thought. Very well. Not stepping off the path didn't sound that difficult.

  Attila and Beast swallowed a handful of colored pills each, then downed the elixirs they'd received from Leandra. Attila slung his mythogun onto his chest just in case and stepped onto the path.

  Everything changed around him. The fence turned into a wall built of gigantic bones. Gray wind swirled around him, its gusts lashing him, pushing him off the path which was reduced to a thin glowing stripe hovering in the dark. The vases had turned into large skulls with gaping holes on top which released unsteady beams of crimson light.

  Attila staggered in the magic wind, struggling to stay on the path. He regained his footing and followed the familiar figure in the leather cloak that waded through the gray storm, the top of his staff glowing red.

  The distance to the crypt had grown what — ten, a hundred times? There it was, barely visible far ahead, and it wasn't a crypt anymore but something else. Two lights glowed like eyes to both sides of the door.

  Oily green spots gleamed on the path like dro
plets of splattered necro magic. Further down the path they grew more and more numerous, so that Attila had to step over them. Just as he tried to leap over one, a powerful blast of wind nearly blew him off the path. His foot landed on the path's edge; he waved his hands-

  A powerful arm grabbed him from behind and returned him to the track. Attila made another step and looked back, nodding his gratitude to Beast.

  Wayfarer stopped in front of the entrance to the crypt. It wasn't a cute little house any more. The building was shaped like an enormous head of a Wraith — a dead spirit. This was Fair Baby Magdalene's face but disfigured and ugly, her eyes bulging, her huge teeth clenched. The glowing path ended in front of her.

  The Ugly Baby Magdalene was shivering, trying to unclench her teeth and say something but couldn't. Her eyes that were seven feet apart focused on the unwanted guests.

  Wayfarer waited for Attila and Beast to approach.

  "Hold on tight," he said as he stuck the bone key between Magdalene's teeth and turned.

  Her mouth opened. The upper jaw snapped up. The giant dead head screamed in agony. Her shriek swept across the path like a hurricane; Attila was so weak he lost his footing and stumbled back, right into Beast's arms who stood with his feet wide apart, leaning forward against the tornado.

  The dead head's shriek was a mixture of anger, fear, bitterness and unbearable pain. A jet of hot air kicked the wind out of Attila; his head spun, his legs gave under him. Gasping, Attila slackened in Beast's arms. His vision darkened. The whirling mass of gray and green mud closed over him.

  Then it subsided.

  Daylight poured in his eyes. The marble path glowed underfoot. He stood a few paces away from the crypt fence. The pretty carved marble house was in front of him, surrounded by a patch of footworn earth. Dry bunches of twigs poked out of the vases along the fence.