Battle for the Nether Page 7

  Slowly, a buzzing cloud of purple started to form at the center of the circle, growing in size as they concentrated harder and harder. It looked to the new crafter like the purple particles that always seemed to accompany endermen when they teleported from one location to another. The cloud started to grow, shooting shafts of purple haze up to the ceiling as if they were trying to kiss the sky. As the particles expanded, they also thickened, coalescing into a definite form on the ground. Then suddenly there was a pop, and something came through the plum-colored portal. The sound shocked the crafters and made a few of them step back, breaking the circle and severing the link. As the particles cleared, they could see something sitting on the ground; it was now substantial and solid—a pickaxe.

  “We did it!” someone exclaimed.

  “Shhh,” the leader said, casting a furtive glance to the cell door.

  Quickly moving forward, one of the other crafters grabbed the pickaxe and put it in his inventory, hiding it from view.

  “Excellent, friends,” the leader said in a whisper. “We have accomplished something that has never been done before. We teleported something to us from somewhere else in Minecraft.”

  “You mean we didn’t craft it?” asked the newest crafter.

  “No,” the leader said “We cannot create something from nothing, but we were able to bring something to us from somewhere else. This is a great thing, and possibly a powerful weapon to use against our enemies.”

  “Maybe if we can bring something to us, we can also send something away, out of the Nether.”

  “Hmmm,” the leader considered. “Possibly, but I don’t think it works that way.”

  “This has never been done before,” the newest said. “So you don’t know. Maybe it can be done, you know, send one of us back to the Overworld.”

  “Hmmm . . .”

  “Forget about that right now,” one of the other crafters interjected. “We need to get one of us out of this cell and figure out what the ghast king is doing.”

  “That’s right,” the leader agreed. “Only one can go. More than one would be easily detected. Who shall it be?”

  All of the crafters looked at one another, trying to decide who would go. The newest crafter noticed that all the others looked a bit haggard and worn, like bits of cloth wrung out a few too many times, their strength seeming to be at their limits, threadbare and ready to break.

  “I should go,” he said, a ripple of fear flowing across him. “Who knows when the last time was that any of you have eaten? You’re all weak and tired; I can see it. Your health is nearly consumed. I’m the newest here, and have been exposed to this insufferable heat for the least amount of time. I should go.”

  Silence filled the room as all eyes settled on him. Fear rippled through his soul.

  “I know how this will likely end,” he said to the leader. “But we have to know what’s going on.”

  “No, I won’t ask you to risk your life for this,” the leader said. “I’ll go.”

  The newest crafter looked at the leader with a critical eye. He could see he was wavering on his feet, his body shaking slightly while his life force was on the verge of evaporating into oblivion. The leader was already near death.

  “I’m the only one who has any hope of success,” the newest crafter stated. “I’m going, and that’s the end of it. As soon as I know what Malacoda is doing, I’ll get back here, and we’ll figure out what we need to do.” He paused, jaw clenched and back rigid with determination, waiting to hear the others’ objections; there were none. “Then it’s decided. Give me the pick.”

  One of the other crafters tossed him the pick, then stepped back. The newest crafter took the tool and moved to the wall. Another crafter moved to the iron door and peered out of the small window, looking for guards.

  “It’s clear. Go now.”

  The crafter swung the pickaxe, breaking two blocks of nether brick with only a few swings. Putting the tool into his inventory, he stepped out of the cell, replacing the blocks so as to leave no trace of his escape. Then he sprinted for the shadows, adrenaline pushing him blindly forward in spite of his fear.

  CHAPTER 6

  ESCAPE

  T

  he gigantic room was cloaked in darkness, the ever-present haze of smoke and ash that drifted through the air burning the crafter’s throat when he breathed. Moving silently with his back against the outer wall of the prison cell, he slid his way to the edge of the structure and peered around the corner. No monsters were near. Malacoda was so confident in the crafters’ hopelessness that he hadn’t even bothered to post any guards. Looking upward, his eyes followed the tall, looming walls. He could see the glow of blazes floating on balconies higher up, but they were too far away to see him in the darkness. Moving as quietly as possible, the crafter sprinted across the chamber to the nearest passageway and looked around the corner; it too was empty. Turning, he looked back at the prison cell. He could see the other crafters standing right up against the windows, their terrified faces peeking through the bars, but now their eyes were filled with hope.

  Taking the passageway, he hurried through the dark nether-brick corridor, pausing at intersections to listen for pursuit. No alarm had been sounded . . . yet. Peering around corners, he streaked down the tunnel, looking for a way to get outside. Torches dotted the passageway walls, but they were spaced far apart, their circles of illumination not touching. Taking a sinewy path, the crafter was able to weave his way around the patches of light and stay in the shadows, hoping all the while that this would help him avoid any watchful eyes.

  Suddenly, sorrowful moans filled the air; zombie-pigmen were coming! Moving quickly to the edge of an intersecting corridor, the crafter peered quickly around the corner. A group of monsters were coming: three zombies and one blaze. Pulling his head back abruptly, he looked for a place to hide. This passageway had no doors and no alcoves; just long straight tunnels of nether brick. He could now hear the mechanical breathing of the blaze, its strained wheezing adding a harsh dissonance to the melody of moaning wails.

  What do I do, what do I do? he thought. I can’t just stand here. I have to hide.

  Casting more glances about the corridor, he still couldn’t see a place to hide. Panic flooded his mind as he imagined the monsters rounding the corners and finding him just standing there. But then he noticed a large shadowy space between two torches. Moving quickly, he scurried into the darkness. The sound of his feet echoed off the hard stone walls and hammered away at his courage.

  I hope they didn’t hear that.

  Diving to the ground, he laid down flat, his body stretched out and pressed against the wall on one side. Just as his head reached the ground, the zombies and blaze moved into the intersection.

  If they come toward me, I’ll be seen. Then I’ll be dead.

  The crafter held his breath and waited. The zombie-pigmen stopped in the middle of the intersection. Moving forward, the blaze looked down the corridors, deciding which way to go. Floating on its rotating blaze rods, the creature of flame started to move toward the crafter, the corridor growing slightly brighter—but then a zombie said something in its guttural, moaning voice. The blaze stopped and turned, glaring at the half-rotting monster.

  “What did you say?” the blaze wheezed.

  “This way. I think we go this way,” the zombie grumbled, his shining sword pointing down a different corridor.

  The other zombies nodded.

  The blaze took a long, strained, mechanical breath and glared at the zombie, then floated away from the crafter.

  “You should have said so earlier,” it spat as it flicked the decaying creature with a small needle of flame.

  The blaze moved past the monster and headed down the new corridor. Slowly, the zombie-pigmen followed, the glow of light from the blaze receding into the darkness.

  The crafter’s lungs started to burn. He hadn’t realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. When he breathed in again, the air taste
d sweet, despite the smoke and ash; his body was starved for oxygen. Standing up slowly, he crept back to the intersection and looked around the corner. No monsters were in sight. Sighing, he let the overwhelming sense of panic flow from his body as he relaxed just a little.

  That was close, he thought to himself.

  Continuing his trek, he kept going in the same direction he had previously decided upon, looking for some kind of exit or window.

  Fear ravaged his mind as he sprinted, making it difficult to think. He was not afraid of being killed—that was a fact that he’d come to accept since being brought down here to this terrible place. No, the burden that made coherent thought nearly impossible was the responsibility now heaped upon his shoulders. He had to find out what was going on down here, what the ghast king was doing. This task was critical, and the crafter could feel that all of Minecraft depended on him. His failure might mean the destruction of everything he loved and held dear.

  He sprinted down the corridor for maybe another two hundred blocks, then slowed. He could see a glow suddenly start to light the passage ahead, a mechanical breathing sound filling the air. With the strained wheezing came the crackling sound of something burning, the smell of smoke getting stronger and stronger. In an instant, the crafter knew what it was . . . blazes, lots of them.

  They were coming straight toward him.

  Looking around, he saw nowhere to hide, just a long corridor stretching out before him and behind, an intersection ahead in the distance. And then the smell of something rotten and putrid wafted to him from behind, the sorrowful moans of creatures with no love for living things adding to the crackling sounds ahead; zombie-pigmen were surely behind him.

  He was trapped.

  His only hope of hiding lay in the intersection ahead. Sprinting with all his strength, he streaked forward. Disregarding the circles of torchlight, he shot through the patches of illumination. Their flickering glare stabbed at his eyes, which by now had become accustomed to the darkness. Ignoring his surroundings, the sounds of zombies getting louder behind him, and the glow of the blazes ahead, he simply charged forward with all his might, his focus on the intersection ahead.

  Can I get there before the blazes do?

  He thought about his fellow crafters back in the cell, the look of hope on their faces. Then the faces of his villagers floated into his mind: old Planter, and Farmer, and Digger, and Runner . . . poor Runner. The faces of friends and children looked down on him from his memory, all of them relying on him to find out what Malacoda was doing down here.

  I must make it to that intersection. I can’t fail my village again!

  Pushing aside the sense of panic and fear, he sprinted. As he ran, he could feel a wave of heat surging down the passage, heralding the oncoming blazes. The smell of smoke and ash was getting stronger, making it difficult to breathe. Using the last bits of his strength, he shot forward and turned the corner just as the glow of the blazes filled the corridor. Looking down this new passage for a place to hide, he saw a set of steps that led up to a balcony. Running up the steps, he leaped up onto the balcony and hid around the corner, his feet shuffling on the ash-covered ledge that overlooked the Nether. Pressing his back against the wall, he moved as far out onto the ledge as possible, hoping to disappear in the shadows. Bright yellow light lit the corridor as one of the blazes moved into the passage he had just left, its mechanical breathing filling his ears. It sounded as if it were right next to him, the smell of smoke making him want to cough, though doing so would mean his death. Swallowing the urge to clear his throat, he stayed completely still and waited.

  He could hear the blaze get closer, its wheezing, mechanical breathing getting louder, but it did not ascend the steps to the balcony. Satisfied that all was as it should be, it moved back to the main corridor, then drifted away quickly to catch up with its kind. Letting out a soft cough, the crafter sighed and relaxed a bit. He was safe—for now.

  Turning to look out over the Nether, he could see monsters everywhere; there were zombie-pigmen, blazes, magma cubes, skeletons, and of course, the ever-terrifying ghasts. A gigantic lava sea stretched out before him, its far shore not even visible. The lava bubbled and oozed, casting orange light all throughout the massive subterranean chamber. He was shocked by the immensity of the boiling sea. It seemed to stretch out, forever; the opposite shore lost in the ever-present haze.

  And then, through the haze of smoke and ash that seemed to permeate everything in the Nether, he noticed an island of stone sitting in the middle of the huge sea of fire. A narrow bridge of rock stretched from the shore to the island; the grayish stones almost glowing with heat. He could see the rocky bridge stretch across the rusty netherrack to a massive opening in the fortress. A gigantic set of stairs spilled down from the dark opening of the citadel, reaching to the stone causeway below.

  Numerous monsters were traversing the bridge and moving onto the massive island. Peering through the haze, he could see that the island was ringed with glowing blue cubes, maybe ten of them, with two places that still seemed incomplete, each standing out in stark contrast to the gray stone and nearby molten orange rock. The blue cubes sat atop blocks of obsidian, the dark blocks with their purple flecks of teleportation magic easily visible against the gray of the stone island. They looked almost translucent, as if they were made of glacial ice, even though the crafter knew that this couldn’t be true. Ice could never exist in this fiery domain. They had to be made of something else, something strong enough to resist the intense heat. But what, and why did they need these blocks?

  Just then, a group of zombie-pigmen emerged from an opening beneath him with a collection of prisoners: a crafter and six villagers. They drove the group of doomed souls toward the bridge, then pushed them single file across the pathway until they were all on the massive island. The NPCs walked with their heads down, shoulders slumped. They had the look of defeat about them, coupled with a sense of unbridled panic and fear. One of them walked with a limp, his left leg dragging on the ground ever so slightly. He had short dark hair that looked even darker in the orange light of the Nether. He was clothed in the black smock of a crafter.

  It was the one from the prison cell!

  As the NPCs walked, their eyes darted about at the collection of monsters nearby: the many blazes floating overhead, the armored skeletons (called wither skeletons) ringing the group, and of course, the ever-present ghasts floating high above the ground. There was no chance of escape for these poor villagers.

  Slowly, Malacoda slid into view, drifting in on unfelt winds, his tentacles writhing like a nest of snakes. His disturbingly childlike countenance looked down on the villagers with a malicious, knowing smile that brought a chill to all—a strange feeling in this land of heat and flame. The crafter was separated from the group and pushed to an empty spot in the ring of blue blocks, a zombie-pigman’s golden sword poking the man in the back without remorse, trying to hurry him, though the limp kept him at his pace. Once he was finally in place atop one of the obsidian blocks, a crafting bench and diamond blocks were tossed in front of the NPC.

  “Now, crafter, it is time for you to craft,” Malacoda said in a booming voice that seemed to fill the Nether, the sounds reaching the fortress.

  “I won’t craft anything for you, ghast,” the crafter spat back.

  The King of the Nether flicked a tentacle toward one of the villagers. In an instant, balls of fire streaked from the many blazes floating above the island and struck the villager, destroying him in an instant, the body of the NPC disappearing with a pop and leaving the few remnants of his inventory on the ground.

  Malacoda floated down so that he was nearly face to face with the crafter.

  “Now, let me ask you again,” the ghast king continued. “You know what I want you to craft. Now do it, or more will die because of your disobedience.”

  “You’re just going to kill us anyway!”

  Another tentacle flicked. Zombie-pigmen advanced on one of the prisoners, pushi
ng her backward with razor-sharp swords, driving her closer and closer to the edge of the island. Suddenly, one of the decaying beasts stepped forward and swung his mighty sword at the villager, pushing her back into the lava. She thrashed for a few seconds, then sank quickly, mercilessly, popping into non-existence as her health, her HP, was quickly extinguished.

  Another villager had been killed.

  “Must I ask you again, NPC?” Malacoda inquired, his eyes now starting to burn red with rage, his pupils looking as if lit with fire from within. “I have more of your pitiful villagers to kill, not just this rabble here.” The ghast pointed up to his massive fortress, at the hundreds of NPCs that were slaving away. They were building extensions to his already gigantic castle of dark nether brick, expanding it to house his growing army. “I will kill a hundred of your precious NPCs to convince you of my resolve. You will, in the end, do as I command. NOW DO IT!!!”

  The crafter looked up at the doomed souls working on the fortress, then down at his own villagers. The remaining four looked terrified beyond reason, and their eyes all sought him for hope . . . for mercy. All they wanted to do was live. They didn’t care what the ghast wanted. The crafter looked into the eyes of each and could see the overwhelming sense of panic, their faces silently begging for life. Sighing, he acquiesced.