Anyway, if I deleted Scyth, then how many people would I be letting down? How many sentients in Dis, not counting the gods? Hundreds of noncitizens, Yoruba, the troggs and kobolds—those were for definite.
Just one name in the list would have been enough to make my decision.
“Lunch!” Maria called.
“Give me five minutes,” I answered, tearing away from the table to my capsule.
As soon as I appeared in Dis, I jumped through the depths to the Widowmakers’ former castle. I soared up high, cast an eye over the charred buildings, the ruins of NergaTs temple, black from the ash in the air, the NPC corpses still lying on the ground… And the flag of the Green League fluttering atop the tallest tower of the castle, property of the preventers until only a couple of hours ago.
After configuring the recording mode so the viewers could see not only me, shrouded in Cloak Essence, but also the ruins behind me, I spoke calmly and somewhat tiredly: “We never planned to fight anyone. Never! But at the same time, we can’t allow people to think they can attack us unpunished. Nobody can doubt our strength and decisiveness. Yesterday, the Widowmakers treacherously violated the rules of the Goblin League’s Auction for Special Sales, and kidnapped me. See for yourselves what remains of their former castle. Former, because now it belongs to the Green League. And if they had refused to buy it, then it would have been destroyed. So it will be with any clan seen at the temple of the Sleeping Gods in the Lakharian Desert. Anyone who comes to us with sword in hand will die by the sword and lose all their castles. This isn’t a threat. It’s a warning.”
* * *
Before sitting down to lunch, I sent my recording to Ian Mitchell, asking him to show it to as many people as he could. He answered briefly: “Will do,” and five minutes later my movie, starring me, was showing on all the channels.
They also showed journalists dogging Eileen. She refused to comment. One of the reporters questioning the preventers learned that they were heading for the temple, but a lack of unity slowed them down, along with Crash and the guardians.
“Each monster guarding the temple of the Sleeping Gods is like an extreme-difficulty raid boss. You don’t get them the first time,” Colonel, the leader of Excommunicado, said. “The Alliance is gathering its forces and will soon strike so hard that not a foundation stone will remain of that damn temple!”
To a question about my warning, Colonel answered that the Threat’s threats (he even chuckled while saying that) didn’t bother him, that the Widowmakers had paid for their carelessness and overconfidence and would be struck from the Alliance.
I’d seen enough. I had no appetite, although the smell of the lunch Maria made—something Middle Eastern—made my mouth water. I still mechanically shoveled it into my mouth and got ready for the next marathon play session.
Done watching the news and with my plate empty,1 thanked Maria, went back to my room and logged into Dis. Roj followed me and took his post by the capsule.
My heart filled with coldblooded calm. Uncle Nick called that mood “Do what you have to do, and what will be will be.” I knew what I had to do—squeeze as much as I could out of Immortality and the Destroying Plague, then tell the Nucleus and his (or Snowstorm’s) to go to the Nether with their rotten and stinking plots.
The usually lively fort just about housed all the newcomers, except the troggs, who found refuge in the caves by the mines. The fort was unusually quiet wiien I got there, and its sole street was deserted.
When Bomber saw I was online, he wTote that the guardians had repelled two attacks today. The second had just ended, and was a full-fledged second-tier preventer raid from outside the Alliance. Sharkon nearly died. Nega saved him when she took control of their top damager and sowed some chaos in the attackers’ ranks.
Some of the fort buildings were only part built, and the fence had moved back… It seemed the builders had begun the upgrade, which meant they’d gotten their materials, including the Corrupted Adamantite from Pecheneg. They’d begun it, but I didn’t know if they’d finish it—we’d lost everyone except Gyula. The map showed him at the tavern. I set off there.
The place was packed, but nobody was making much noise. When I appeared, everyone fell silent. All eyes turned to Gyula’s table. The builder foreman sat alone in a corner, his face in his hands. A bottle of the strongest dwarven brandy stood before him.
“Gyula…” I sat down opposite him. “Please accept my condolences. We will help the families of the deceased.”
The builder raised his head. His gaze was cloudy, as if he saw me, but didn’t know where he was.
“Alex…” Gyula’s lips shook. He swallowed. “It was me who killed them.”
“No. Snowstorm killed them.”
“Damn dro… Damn that game!” Gyula shouted and threw his bottle at the wall.
The workers, Aunt Stephanie and two of her waitresses jumped up from their tables. The room-wide ruckus included kobolds barking, troggs growling, minotaur cultists roaring. They surrounded our table, but no one came closer than a few feet.
I got up, walked to Gyula and put an arm around his shoulder.
“Listen. Those bastards will pay! We’ll avenge our fallen and our wounded! The families of the dead will want for nothing, I promise you…” I spoke fast, not thinking about my words, relying more on emotion to grip the builder and pull him from the abyss he’d driven himself into.
When I finished, I looked around anxiously, realizing that my voice had sounded out in total silence. The miners, stonemasons, builders, Trixie, Manny, Stephanie, Gyula’s daughter Eniko, the members of
