Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) by D. Rus

defended by nine thousand people). The purpose of the Remote Post was simply to meet any newcomers, sort through them, explain a few things to them and, if bad came to worst, raise an alarm.
    The earth shuddered slightly with the rock ogre's footsteps: a ten-foot two-ton bulk of seasoned level-250 warrior, covered in numerous dents and fractures. Oh yes, this one could cross the Dead Lands on his own easily.
    The guards exchanged anxious glances. They didn't have a hope in hell against him if it came to close-range combat. The three of them could only last a minute at the most.
    Quite a few of the clan members had already had the chance to face the two matured Phantom Dragons in the Arena — in teams of five, mind you. Although not quite yet reaching the uncategorized status, the baby dragons had grown impressively, allowing the clan Analyst to assess their level as "two hundred freakin' plus".
    What I want to say is that there weren't many teams that had emerged victorious from those friendlies. That's considering the Dragons' combat abilities were common knowledge among our warriors who indulged in lengthy discussions on the best tactics, gear and the team's composition. And still Draky and Craky were in the lead with an impressive 42:5 score.
    The ogre stopped a few paces away and reached his powerful paw behind his back into his inventory, producing a standard-looking parchment used to exchange hard copies of gaming messages.
    "A personal message for the clan's leader Laith!" his voice rumbled deep within his rocky barrel-shaped chest.
    "He's not here."
    "I can wait."
    The guards exchanged glances. Finally, the senior one decreed, "Send the message through the mill. Let them sort it out."
    For the next ten minutes, the ogre stood motionless, leaning against his club fashioned from an enormous slab of red granite.
    The portal circle, roughly marked out with a string of red and yellow stones, rumbled, swelling up into an iridescent arch. That was Laith arriving with his ubiquitous bodyguard: an albino troll armored to the teeth and sporting a small gold medal on his chest, shaped like a collapsing gate tower: "The first warrior to enter the enemy's castle".
    Snowie enjoyed his fellow clan members' unreserved respect. Many of them had fought next to him shoulder to shoulder — and the story of his courting of the sad wise Bomba had left no one cold.
    On seeing their commander, the guards slumped to attention and saluted. Slowly but surely Laith was introducing the military discipline which he copied shamelessly from the Vets.
    The senior guard nodded meaningfully at the stony messenger. The clan leader strode toward him and reached out a demanding hand. The watchful Snowie took up his position next to him, making a show of shoving the Torch of True Flame into the sand, then looked around himself warily.
    A few days previous, he'd received a gift from Dan: a digitized media package entitled Bodyguard's Crash Course. Snowie had taken it very seriously. Already he was pestering Max for resources in order to start forming an inner circle defense group.
    He'd have loved to also introduce the other two — the middle and the outer defense circles: all those blocked points of access, crossbowmen lurking on the roofs above the leader's route, flank patrols and recce teams. With his fat unyielding fingers Snowie would draw block schemes of enemy attacks and shield configurations while trying to mentally breach the steel box of trolls bristling with mithril, their broad backs shielding the customer while he was being ported to safety.
    The ogre raised his hand level with his shoulder and twitched it with a somewhat elegant flourish, allowing the scroll to unfold to its full length. Thank God for gaming technologies! This was quite a functional document — a screenshot of a page from some online news site complete with an active link and an iridescent seal in the shape of the Israeli Tavor assault rifle.
    After the recent Three-Day