Battle for the Nether Page 6

  And then suddenly, Crafter stopped and looked up at the crowd.

  “The first thing we do is release all of your hands.”

  “What?” came from many of the villagers.

  “We can’t release our hands,” Planter complained. “Only crafters have their arms separated, and a village can have only one crafter. I don’t understand.”

  “The User-that-is-not-a-user can do this. He did it on my server—released the hands of all my people, and put a sword in each.”

  A shocked silence spread through the chamber.

  “A sword . . . ?”

  “Yes, a sword,” Crafter replied. “We fought the mobs, all of us, and we turned back the tide. We’re going to do the same thing here.”

  Murmurs of surprise rippled through the crowd. Villagers fighting the monsters of Minecraft . . . it was unheard of.

  “I know what you’re thinking . . . how can this be true? Well, we did it. We fought off the monster horde and saved our server, and we’re going to do it here as well. We won’t—no, we can’t let the monsters reach the Source. If they do, all will be lost. It’s our job to stop them, and as my friend, Gameknight999, said to the last Enderman king: ‘The line is drawn here. THEY CAN GO NO FURTHER!’”

  A cheer burst forth from the NPCs, filling the chamber with the thunder of hope. Crafter moved to Gameknight and stood next to his friend, drawing his sword and holding it up high. The User-that-is-not-a-user did the same.

  “The Prophecy says that when the User-that-is-not-a-user appears, the time of the Last Battle is near. Make no mistake about it. The Last Battle is upon us, and we must resist these monsters with every ounce of strength we have, with our very lives if necessary.” Crafter motioned for Gameknight to pull out his crafting bench, then motioned for Planter to come forward.

  “Planter, craft me a stone sword.”

  Planter looked back at Crafter, confused, but then acquiesced, his arms suddenly separating as he started to craft the stone sword, blocky hands a blur. Crafter looked at Gameknight and nodded. With a sudden swiftness, the User-that-is-not-a-user pulled out his pickaxe and shattered the crafting bench with three quick blows, a shower of splinters flying into the air and leaving the crafting bench as a small, floating cube, hovering just over the ground. Planter gasped when he looked down at his own hands, now permanently separated, a stone sword held tightly in his right. Slowly raising the sword high over his head, Planter drew a gasp from the rest of the NPCs in the chamber.

  “Planter is no longer just a planter,” Crafter said in slow, drawn-out words, his voice shouting loud to fill the chamber. “He is now a fighter, a warrior for Minecraft, as you all will be. Today, at this moment, in this chamber, we start the war to save the Source. Today, we push back against the mobs and say NO MORE. Today, we save Minecraft!” He reached out and slowly pulled down Planter’s arm, getting him to put away his sword, then continued.

  “Now let me tell you what we’re going to do,” the young NPC started to explain, his old blue eyes sparkling with hope. “First, we’re going to call all NPCs to us. You will spread across the land and bring every NPC you find to me. We will deny Malacoda any more lives to destroy, then we will . . .”

  All the NPCs leaned forward as they listened to the plans from their new crafter. But as Gameknight listened, he could feel waves of uncertainty and fear fill his soul. This was dangerous . . . very dangerous.

  What if it doesn’t work, Gameknight thought. What if I’m not strong enough . . . or brave enough . . . or . . .

  All the what-ifs played through his mind as he listened to Crafter’s plan, giving strength to the serpent of fear that coiled about his soul.

  CHAPTER 5

  MALACODA

  M

  alacoda floated over the sea of lava, the heat from the molten stone bringing a sense of security and safety and home. He was a ghast, one of the many creatures that prowled the underworld. He was different, however, because he claimed to be king, the ruler of the Nether on this Minecraft server—and soon on all servers.

  Moving lazily above the molten sea, he looked down at his tentacles, which were dragging through the thick magma. He could see that they almost glowed as his pale limbs reflected the light from the boiling sea. He had a large, cube-like body that was gigantic—larger than any other creature in Minecraft, with the exception of the Ender Dragon. His face had a baby-like appearance to it; almost peaceful and calm . . . except for the eyes, however. They glowed blood red, always seeming to be filled with rage and hatred at those of the Overworld. Blotchy stains on his skin stood out in the orange illumination, looking dark and menacing. His entire body was covered with these gray blotches. They could be likened to the spots on a cheetah, but these patches somehow lacked any sort of natural beauty. Instead, they looked like ugly scars, put there to accentuate this creature’s hateful and evil nature. The most prominent of these scars were located beneath the ghast’s eyes, giving him the misleading look of having a constant flow of sad tears. Malacoda hated these tear-like scars, but they were something that all ghasts wore, a sign of shame that few dared to point out lest they be consumed by fire.

  Looking about his kingdom, Malacoda admired his surroundings. The burning sands, lava waterfalls, rivers of molten stone, soul sand, and netherrack all seemed beautiful to him. Off to the right stood his fortress, a dark citadel that covered most of the Nether in that direction. Its looming towers and tall, raised walkways stretched across the landscape like some kind of giant, prehistoric beast. This was the home of his massive army; his Nether fortress. It had gigantic rooms, covered with spawners that produced monster after monster to grow his massive horde. With high balconies and tall walkways, the monstrous citadel looked as if it were watching the terrain, guarding Malacoda’s dominion.

  This was his land, his realm to rule, and his word was law. Soon that would be the case across all servers, and then eventually the Source itself, the digital spring from which all computer code flowed to keep the server planes functioning. He would destroy this Source, and at that time, as the Prophecy predicted, he would rule all of Minecraft. Then, and only then, would he be able to take his army of monsters across the Gateway of Light and into the physical world, extending his rule to encompass all living things. Shuddering with excitement, Malacoda imagined the destruction he would bring to the fools in the physical world. Those arrogant users thought they ruled Minecraft. Well, he’d educate them soon enough, but first, he had to get to the Source and rid these digital worlds of all the NPCs—the living segments of code that infested the server planes. They would be purified soon enough, though. His plan was proceeding just as he had foreseen.

  In the distance, he saw a group of zombie-pigmen approaching. These creatures were related to their cousins in the Overworld, despite the fact that their coloring was not the putrid, decaying green of normal zombies. The zombie-pigmen were like a combination of a zombie and a pig, with splashes of pink across their mottled bodies and exposed bones jutting out here and there. It was some kind of sick joke by the Creator, Notch, to make these creatures half-alive and half-dead. It made them hate those of the Overworld, the NPCs and users, even more.

  Today, he could see that his zombie-pigmen were escorting their latest captive, a crafter from the Overworld. Malacoda had personally led the attack on that village, destroying any that stood in his way until he had this crafter, the key to his plans. Gliding effortlessly across the lava sea, he approached the shore, which was composed of rust-colored netherrack blocks—the most common material in the Nether. Smoke and ash clouded the air, making the approaching party difficult to see at times. As the haze momentarily cleared, Malacoda watched them slowly drawing nearer, the party having crossed onto a patch of soul sand, which was slowing their progress. The gray soul sand had this effect on anyone who crossed its grainy surface, effectively reducing any progress to a mere crawl.

  Malacoda became impatient while waiting for the stupid monsters to approach.

&n
bsp; What idiots, crossing soul sand instead of going around it, he thought.

  He approached the party just as they cleared the soul sand, his tentacles twitching with agitation.

  “So we meet again,” Malacoda boomed, his voice resonating within his huge cube-like body. When he spoke, his eyes became wide and angry, taking in all that was before him.

  “What is it you want of me, ghast?” the crafter spat.

  “Why, nothing, other than your Minecraft-given skills,” Malacoda said with his most sincere voice, an eerie, toothy smile on his face.

  Seeing this terrible smile, the crafter took a step back and bumped into one of his guards. A grunt came from the zombie-pigman, the sharp point of its golden sword pushing the NPC forward again.

  “I want you to craft something for me. That is all. After you and your little friends are done, I will release you.”

  “Why should I believe a ghast? You killed my people and destroyed part of my village. None of us will craft for you,” the crafter said, the tone of his voice resonating as if imparting some kind of universal truth. He paused, then continued, glaring up at the beast. “You and your kind down here are abominations to life, a stain on everything that is creative and good and alive in Minecraft. You are a programming mistake!” He then took a step closer to the floating monster. “You really expect me to do anything for you? I saw you attack NPCs—innocent people—SOME OF THEM CHILDREN! What makes you think I will do anything for you?”

  The crafter realized he had been screaming, a fact that brought the zombie-pigmen a step closer, their stinking flesh assaulting his senses.

  Malacoda floated closer as well, so that the crafter had to look straight up into his childlike eyes, which were now blazing as if aflame, blood red with rage.

  “You will do as I say, when I say, because you are a fool and have no choice,” the ghast king said with complete confidence, dangling tentacles twitching aggressively. The childlike face then softened as he looked at the zombies. “Take him to the others.”

  One of the foul creatures grunted, then placed a rotting, clawed hand on the crafter’s shoulder, pulling him backward and shoving him off in another direction. Another zombie-pigman moved in front of the NPC, leading the way toward the massive Nether fortress that dominated the area, the great lava sea fading away to the right. The lead zombie turned to make sure that his captive was coming. Then it motioned to the other monsters. The remaining creatures surrounded their charge, moving in close and effectively closing off any possibility of escape or suicide.

  They moved quickly across the netherrack, heading directly for the menacing Nether fortress that loomed in the distance. Shining cubes of glowstone illuminated the land here and there, many of them stuck high overhead, embedded in the rocky ceiling. The glowing cubes added splashes of light as they glowed a bright yellow from within crevasses and off walls.

  Glancing up at the ceiling that covered the entire land, the crafter saw bats flitting about in the distance while others hung from upside down perches. Many of the bats darted about in all directions at once, their beady little eyes watching, always watching.

  He was ushered across the smoky landscape, the prodding needle-sharp tip of a sword poking him in the back to keep him moving. The zombie-pigmen were driving him toward the massive fortress that loomed before him. It was the biggest structure he’d ever seen, and made him tremble and shake with trepidation. After about fifteen minutes, the forced march ended up at the gigantic entrance to the massive citadel. It was built out of dark nether brick, the blocks a dark red just barely a shade above black. Torches dotted the exterior of the massive structure, their purpose not to illuminate, but to decorate and make the building look more threatening.

  The crafter was grateful to enter the massive building. As he walked up the long, steep staircase, the oppressive heat from the nearby sea of lava diminished a bit. But now, instead of feeling like he was standing in the center of a flame, with blaring heat and brilliant light trying to burn away the last layers of his hope, he felt like he was trapped in the sooty remains of a blast furnace, the darkness chasing away his last bit of courage. Resignation washed over him as he realized that this was his fate. A feeling of overwhelming failure and despair settled down on the crafter like a leaden funeral shroud. He could still hear the creeper explosions in his memory, the sounds of his village being destroyed. He hadn’t been able to protect them, his villagers; he’d failed.

  Moving forward in a numb, dreamlike state, he walked behind his captors. Every now and then, the sharp point of a golden sword poked him in the back to keep him walking. The monsters led him down the main passageway, where the wall-mounted torches cast warm circles of light that tried to push away the darkness; they didn’t do a very good job. Blazes stood guard at points of intersection with other passages. These fiery creatures, composed of flame and ash, cast more light on the dark corridor, making the torches seem dim by comparison. The zombie-pigmen pushed him this way and that as they took him through many different passages, plunging deeper and deeper into the Nether fortress. As they followed the featureless corridors, the crafter’s sense of hopelessness grew until he felt like an empty husk of himself, a shell that once held life and now only held shadows and a desire for death.

  Eventually, they reached their goal; a large room built in the center of the fortress. The crafter was shocked at its size. It must have been at least a hundred blocks across, and easily that many high. Many balconies had been placed on the inner walls, overlooking the interior of the gigantic chamber. Yellow circles of light illuminated each balcony, and together they looked like evil eyes dotting the towering walls, all looking down on the new captive. The crafter could see blazes and zombie-pigmen standing in the lower balconies while the occasi­onal ghast floated above, moving across the opening. He could feel all of their violent eyes burning down on him, seeking his destruction.

  Shaking with fear, he pulled his eyes from the balconies and peered through the smoky air at what was just emerging through the haze. At the center of the massive chamber stood a large structure that had numerous small windows on its sides, each covered with iron bars. It was a prison. Faint illumination filled the inside of the cell, and he could see shadowy figures moving about within. The creatures stayed near the back of the cell, away from the windows, making them difficult to identify, so that they seemed all the more terrifying. An iron door stood open on one side, a couple of blazes standing nearby with balls of flaming death ready to rain down upon anyone trying to escape. The new crafter was brought forward and shoved into the cell by one of the zombie-pigmen, the sharp point of its sword digging into his back. He took a few uncertain steps forward, and the door clanged shut behind him, reverberating like thunder as he glanced around the dimly lit cell. The room slowly darkened a little as the blazes moved on about their business.

  Only one glowstone lit the room; it was recessed into the center of the floor, and cast strange shadows in the corners.

  Is there something in here with me? he wondered. A wave a panic crashed over him. What type of monster have they put me in with?

  Squinting his eyes, he peered into the darkness, trying not to move and attract the attention of whatever foul beast was there. And then he heard it—a shuffling of something across the ground, and the scraping of bodies, many of them, brushing against each other. He could see movement in the shadows, and realized that something was coming toward him, stepping out of the darkness. Looking about the room, he sought a place to hide. There was nothing, just bare walls.

  “Oh well,” he said aloud. “I welcome death. Come forward, beast, and do your business. Kill me and make it quick.”

  “Kill you?” said a voice from the darkness.

  Another crafter stepped out of the shadows, then another, and another, all of them garbed the same. They each wore black smocks that reached from neck to ankle, with a wide gray stripe running down the center.

  “What’s this?” the new crafter asked those al
ready here. “What’s going on here?”

  “We don’t know,” answered one of them. “But rest assured, friend, you are not alone here.”

  “I can see that.”

  In total, there were seven crafters already in the prison. The haggard NPCs came forward and patted the newcomer on the shoulders, hoping to bring a little comfort to their fellow prisoner, and maybe push away some of the uncertainty, some of the fear. He sighed, comforted by the support of his peers. Looking around the room again, he smiled and stood up a little taller, his despair fading away just a bit.

  “We are now eight,” one of the crafters said, the sense of command in his voice marking him as their leader. He was a tall NPC, with short brown hair and an ugly, fresh scar across one cheek. He stepped forward into the light, and a limp could be seen, his left leg dragging ever so slightly. Glancing at everyone in the room, the tall crafter smiled. “This is enough for us to now try our plan.”

  “Your plan?” asked the newest crafter. “What plan?”

  The leader turned and faced him, his steel-gray eyes filled with confidence.

  “We need to find out what’s going on . . . what Malacoda is planning,” the leader said in a soft voice. “One of us needs to escape and look around.”

  “Escape . . . how?” asked the latest prisoner.

  “There are now eight of us. We can create a tool just by using our innate crafting abilities. Something only crafters can do.”

  “I never knew this,” the newest crafter said.

  “It is something few know,” the leader explained as he took a step closer to the glowstone that illuminated the room. “A bug in the Minecraft code. It has gone unnoticed for many CPU cycles, and now it is time to take advantage of it. Everyone, move close together and link arms. Good. Now close your eyes and focus on crafting a pickaxe. Imagine yourselves placing the three blocks of stone and the two wooden sticks together, forming the tool.”

  The newest crafter scrunched his eyes and focused on the image of his crafting bench, the empty slots slowly getting filled with materials: stone across the three top slots and sticks down the center. Forcing all of his crafting knowledge into the image, he tried to project it before him, using every fiber of his being to will the shape into existence. It felt ridiculous at first, like he was pretending to craft, just wishing it into existence, but then something strange happened; he could feel the other crafters, though “feel” was not the right word. Somehow, their crafting powers had linked, their proximity to each other adding to the connection. Opening his eyes, he looked about the room and found seven pair of eyes also looking around in surprise. All of the crafters could sense the connection, and were shocked at how it felt; their crafting power had magnified and was growing. The tall leader wore a satisfied smile.