Battle for the Nether Page 5

  “Please, tell us what happened here,” Crafter said.

  The woman turned her head and looked to a gray-haired NPC behind her. “Planter, you tell,” she said with a trembling voice. “I cannot bear the memory, could not speak the words. The horror of the event is still too fresh. You must tell them.”

  “Very well, Farmer, I will tell them,” the gray-haired Planter said with a scratchy but calm voice that was filled with wisdom and age. “Everyone come close and listen, as I will not repeat this gruesome account twice.”

  Planter shuddered as Gameknight and Crafter drew near, the rest of the NPCs doing the same, the tight cluster of bodies pressing against each other. Then Planter began his terrible, horrific tale.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE ATTACK

  “T

  hey came out of the east, just at sunset,” Planter said, his scratchy, gravelly voice filling the chamber. “We don’t know how they made a portal to get out of the Nether. Maybe it was from some users on the server, who knows? We haven’t seen any users for a while, and were glad to have all the griefers gone, but sad that there weren’t any friendly users about.

  “Anyway, the first wave came at sunset—a collection of monsters from the Overworld. The creepers and zombies entered the village directed by a couple of blazes, the fiery monsters giving silent orders to the other creatures to get into every building. They began on one side of the village and just started blowing things up. Zombies smashed in doors while the creepers detonated themselves, destroying walls, giving the mobs access to those inside.”

  “Were the occupants of these homes killed?” Crafter asked, his attention focused with laser precision on Planter’s tale.

  “That’s the strange thing . . . they didn’t kill anyone. They just pushed everyone out of their homes and herded them toward the center of the village.”

  “You mean that they—” Gameknight began to ask, but was interrupted.

  “Let me finish the tale,” Planter said with a sorrowful voice, his eyes moist with grief. “This is painful to recount. You can ask your questions after.”

  Gameknight and Crafter nodded and allowed the old NPC to finish.

  “So the mobs crashed into the village, creepers blowing open homes and zombies crashing through doorways. At first I thought it was thunder, the explosions echoing across the land. I had just come back from planting the fields to the north, and was at the well at the village center when the explosions started. I looked up at the sky, but it was clear—no clouds. How could there be thunder without clouds? And then the zombies started hammering on doors. We all know that sound . . . right?”

  Planter looked around the cavern at the sea of nodding faces, eyes filled with despair at the memory of those lost to the mobs, then continued.

  “They started breaking into homes. Those vill­agers too close to a wall where a creeper exploded were . . .” The old NPC paused for a moment as a small, blocky tear trickled down his pale cheek. Wiping it away, he went on with the terrible tale, his voice sounding a bit more gravelly as emotions crashed over him. “They didn’t attack anyone if they came out of their homes right away. But those that stayed inside were attacked by the zombies and infected so that they became one of them . . . villager-zombies. Most of the children . . . the children . . .”

  “What about the children?” Crafter asked, but Planter was too overcome with emotion to speak.

  “Most of the children were too afraid to come out,” said Farmer, her voice choked with sadness, but also having a cold, violent edge. “The zombies fell on them and either killed them or infected them.” She paused for a moment as she become overcome with sadness, but then her face took on an angry look as her unibrow became creased with rage. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to see your own child become one of . . . one of them, a zombie?”

  Crafter remained silent. No answer was needed, because his sorrowful eyes said it all.

  Coughing and clearing his throat, Planter continued.

  “Thank you, Farmer. Yes, our children were taken from us . . . made into them.” He paused again to compose himself. “They drove us like cattle to the center of town; anyone complaining or hesitating was killed instantly. Then the blazes and zombie-pigmen arrived, their golden swords flashing out to silence any remarks with sudden and fatal certainty. The blazes went to the other side of town with some zombies and a few hostages. They put the hostages in front of the windows and then banged on the doors. When the villagers opened the door, the blazes streaked in like bolts of lightning and drove the people out of their homes with balls of fire. If they were too slow, they were . . . they . . .”

  Planter stopped again as uncontrollable sobs washed over him. Moving off to a corner, he sat down on a stone, lowered his head and wept, unable to continue. One of the NPCs raised a hand slowly into the air, fingers held wide, then clenched them into a fist, the knuckles turning white as he squeezed his hand with sorrow and rage. Finally, he lowered his hand. Gameknight and Crafter looked at the old NPC and wanted to comfort him, but knew there was nothing they could do. Instead, they gave the old man sympathetic looks and turned back to Farmer.

  She stepped forward, her bright green eyes boring straight into Gameknight and Crafter as she stood before them, her sadness reflected within those pupils. She brushed her brown hair out of her face so that she could see Crafter and Gameknight clearly, then spoke.

  “The monsters drove us all to the center of town and just kept us there, near the tower. And then the ghasts came. They surrounded us, hovering maybe six blocks in the air. Their childlike faces were filled with anger and hatred, and their dangling tentacles twitched about as if they wanted to reach out and grab anything within reach. A few villagers decided to make a break for it, running off toward the forest to the north . . . They never even made it out of the village. The ghasts just followed them lazily, waiting until they were out of sight from the rest of us, then blasted them with balls of fire. We could hear their screams as they were consumed, and then there was silence.”

  She had to stop to take a breath. Her breathing had become strained during the telling, as if she had also been running with the villagers to escape the nightmare. Pausing, she took a minute to catch her breath, looking at the sea of faces around her, hoping someone else would step up and continue the tale from where she had left off. But everyone she looked at moved their gaze to the ground rather than look back at her. Sighing, she kept going, her green eyes cold, as if they were in a battle to purge all emotion from her soul; they were losing.

  “Once they were convinced that they had us all under control, they separated us, moving maybe twenty of us off to the side. One of the wither-­skeletons said that they would have the honor of working for the King of the Nether. A group of blazes then surrounded that group and led them off, probably back to their portal. Once they were gone, the creepers blew up the tower entrance and opened the tunnel. It was like they knew it was there, somehow. After they tore up the floor, the blazes shot fireballs at the hole, carving steps into the walls so that the mobs could go into the tunnel. A group of zombies went in first, then they forced us into the tunnel, one at a time. A few refused. The ghasts blasted them with fireballs and—”

  “Builder, my beloved husband,” one of the villagers moaned—a young, blond-haired woman, who had tears streaming down her face and her arm raising in salute, fist clenched tight.

  “Yes, Builder was killed,” Farmer said, moving to the NPC and leaning against her—the only way an NPC could console another. Others came forward and also leaned against the woman, though they knew nothing would help.

  “And Picker . . .”

  “And Carver . . .”

  “And Tailor . . .”

  The litany of the dead flowed from the crowd in a cathartic torrent of emotion, the names of those lost forever chiseled into the memory of the village.

  Planter stood and moved back to Gameknight and Crafter. He turned to look at everyone in the cavern, getting the
ir attention, then raised his hand into the air, fingers spread wide. A few followed his lead, also raising their hands into the air, but most of the NPCs were too overcome with grief to notice. The cavern filled with sobs of despair. Looking around the room, Gameknight could see that the villagers’ eyes were filled not only with sorrow, but also with an overwhelming rage toward the mobs that had committed this atrocity.

  Slowly, Planter lowered his hand and turned back to Crafter and Gameknight.

  “The monsters drove us down here into the crafting chamber like we were cattle,” he spat. “Many of us thought they were going to bury us in and let us starve, but instead they came and took him.”

  Planter paused, again overcome by emotion.

  “Who?” Gameknight asked in a soft, shaking voice. “Who did they take?”

  “After they drove us all down here, they herded us into the corner of the chamber,” another NPC explained. Gameknight could tell by the color of his smock that he was the blacksmith. “Then they demanded that we turn him over to them.”

  “Turn who over?” he asked again, this time a little louder.

  Smithy stepped forward so that he could see Crafter and Gameknight directly, without having to look around other blocky heads. “They demanded that we turn over our village crafter,” he said.

  “Your crafter?” Crafter asked. “Why would they want him?”

  “Runner asked that same question,” Smithy replied as he brushed a lock of his salt-and-pepper gray hair out of his face. “The blazes killed him, blasted him with balls of fire. Oh . . . his screams . . . I can still hear them. He was in such agony, but the worst part was listening to the sadness in his voice. He cried out to his wife and children, telling them goodbye. I had to hold his son back so that he wouldn’t embrace his father and catch fire as well.”

  Smithy raised a hand in the air and then clenched his fist, squeezing so tightly that Gameknight could hear his fingers crack, the knuckles turning white. His arm started to shake as he squeezed his hand tighter and tighter before he lowered it and continued.

  “Thankfully, Runner didn’t suffer very long; his torment only lasted a minute or so. Then the biggest ghast I’ve ever seen . . . I don’t remember his name . . .”

  “Malacoda,” Planter said, his voice filled with rage. “He said his name was Malacoda. He referred to himself as the King of the Nether.”

  “Right,” Smithy said, “Malacoda. He was pale white, like parched bone left too long out in the sun, with a large cube-like body and all of his tentacles hanging down waiting to grab something . . . or someone. Malacoda demanded that we turn over our crafter or more villagers would be killed. None of us moved. We just stood there, silent, afraid to refuse, knowing it would mean certain death, but we couldn’t give up our crafter.”

  A square tear rolled down Smithy’s blocky face. Turning away, he cast his eyes to the ground.

  “So he gave himself up,” Planter said, his voice now filled with pride. “Crafter just walked right up and gave himself up to this ghast king. He probably saved all our lives. They would have . . .”

  He stopped speaking as teary rivulets continued their journey down his cheeks, but he fought for control over his emotions. He then looked around at the others in the chamber. Most of his fellow villagers also had wet cheeks. After another moment of silence, Planter looked back to Gameknight and Crafter.

  “Our Crafter saved all of our lives by sacrificing himself. He was a great NPC, and the greatest crafter a village could ever ask for.” He looked about the room again, making eye contact with every survivor, then continued. “We will remember him for the rest of our lives.”

  He raised his hand high above his head again with fingers spread wide, and held it there for a minute, his hand shaking slightly. This time Gameknight saw that others were also raising their hands, fingers stretched. Then they all formed a fist, held high as the salute to the dead, the movement spreading contagiously through the chamber until a sea of fists were growing above the field of blocky heads, each being squeezed with all its might. It was an awesome display of respect and love, coupled with an overwhelming anger and rage toward their attackers. Gameknight felt a tear start to trickle from his eye, the emotion infecting him as well. Quickly wiping his eye with his sleeve, he also raised his hand in salute, clenching his fist and squeezing it tight until his knuckles hurt.

  Finally, the villagers lowered their arms and brought their attention back to Gameknight and his companion. An awkward silence filled the room with no one wanting to be the first to speak, but then the User-that-is-not-a-user stepped forward.

  “I don’t understand why this ghast king, Malacoda, would want to take your crafter. In our last server, the mobs wanted to kill everyone and take their XP, but they left all of you alive . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do we,” Planter replied. “We expected that they would kill us all, but once they had our crafter, they led him away and just went back up the tunnel to the surface. We’ve been here since, afraid to go back up in case they were still here.”

  “Well, they’re not here anymore,” Crafter explained. “They’ve left, but something strange is definitely going on here.”

  “Have you and the User-that-is-not-a-user come to save us?” a young voice asked from the crowd. It was a small girl, maybe the same height and age as Crafter—one of the few children in the chamber. “Has the Last Battle finally found us?”

  “I’m not sure, little one,” Crafter answered. “It did come to my server, and the User-that-is-not-a-user and I were able to defeat the mobs and save our world, but I fear that the battle still rages here, and we are very near to the Source. These monsters must be stopped on this server plane, or I fear the Source may be in grave danger.”

  “If the Source is destroyed, then all of us will die. Isn’t that so?” the young NPC asked.

  “That is correct, child,” Crafter answered. “In my last world, I was a crafter like the brave NPC you just described, but when I respawned here, I came in this form.” Crafter gestured to his small body. “But we know that the battle for Minecraft has not ended. The User-that-is-not-a-user and I are here to continue the fight, until we stop all these monsters.”

  “A crafter . . . a crafter . . . a crafter . . .”

  The words rippled throughout the chamber, the people looking at each other excitedly; their need for a new crafter was great. Only a living, breathing crafter can transfer his powers to a new NPC, passing on the responsibility from one generation to the next. But a village without a crafter could not survive in Minecraft; they would become the Lost—NPCs without a community. Each village must have a crafter to keep the machinery of the digital world functioning. Without one, the Lost would have to abandon their homes and strike out in random directions, hoping to survive the journey and find a new village; most would do neither. Stepping forward, Planter leaned up against Crafter’s shoulder and looked the young NPC in the eyes. Farmer then stood and leaned against Planter’s shoulder. In an almost instantaneous ripple, all of the villagers leaned toward Crafter, with those nearest actually leaning against him, the others leaning on those in front of them, until a complicated pattern of bodies had formed a giant starburst, all of them leaning directly toward Crafter.

  “We ask that you, companion of the User-that-is-not-a-user, be our crafter,” Planter recited from memory, his words drawn out slowly, reverently. “We humbly ask that you look after our village, our people, and Minecraft, and in return, we will serve you so that we may serve Minecraft.” His words reverberated throughout the chamber like hopeful thunder.

  All eyes were focused on Crafter, anticipation in every pair, furled unibrows creased with concern and excitement. Gameknight saw Crafter swallow, a worried look on his face. He knew Crafter was considering the consequences of his decision. If he accepted, then he would have the heavy responsibility of helping this village rebuild, but if he refused, then these people would be doomed to leave this village and search the land for
another. Those without a crafter were referred to as the Lost. If these people became Lost, then few of them would survive long enough to find a new home; there were just too many monsters spread out across the surface of Minecraft.

  Turning, Crafter glanced up at his friend, looking for a sign from the User-that-is-not-a-user. Gameknight just gave his friend a warm smile and a subtle nod. Crafter then turned back to the crowd.

  “Though I will never be able to fill the shoes of your last crafter . . . I agree.”

  A great cheer resonated within the crafting chamber, followed by a burst of light that seemed to come from Crafter himself. Gameknight had to raise his hand to his eyes to shield them from the glare. The brilliant illumination receded almost instantly, leaving behind the same young boy, but instead of a green smock, he was now clothed in the apparel of his station: a black smock, with a wide gray stripe running down the middle from neck to hem; he was a village crafter again.

  The villagers in the chamber all jumped up and down in jubilation, though the pain of their loss was still vivid in their minds. Their village had been saved. They were a community again; their families, or what was left of them, could continue here in their homeland.

  “What are your instructions?” Planter asked Crafter, the question hushing the crowd.

  Crafter put away his sword, which he just realized he’d had out all this time, and paced back and forth, gazing past the arms and legs of the full-grown villagers, each wanting to lightly touch or brush the new crafter as he passed, the physical contact strengthening their newly established connection. Gameknight stood back and just watched, grateful that the attention had shifted away from him. His eyes followed his old friend’s young frame as he marched back and forth, mind deep in thought.