by M B Reid
Unified Dead
M B Reid
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Thank You
Chapter One
The Bearer sat in darkness. He had been there for a long time. In fact, he could not remember the light. Down here, deep beneath the ground, there was only darkness. It was an oppressive blackness, populated only by what you believed existed. He could wave a hand in front of his face, close enough to feel the breeze it made, and not see it. His brain told him something moved but it made no difference if his eyes were open or shut.
Anything he thought he saw was imagined.
Anything he imagined could be real.
He’d found his place in the dark. He had mushrooms and moss, and other things that had no right to be alive so far from the light. He also had water - deep, cold, still pools of it. Enough to drown an entire planet, as far as the Bearer could tell.
He did not swim in the water.
Beyond his food and water, the Bearer had a bed. He’d made it himself, digging at the hard earth with invisible fingers. The water had helped then - softened the earth so he could till it. He’d crafted a nest for himself, with raised walls to keep the bad thoughts at bay. It was just large enough for him to curl up and sleep in. The Bearer didn’t need anything larger. He didn’t get visitors.
Drink the water.
The whispers came in the night, the Bearer was sure of that. One might wonder how he could differentiate the night from the day down in the dark, but he could. He always knew the time, that was one of the Bearer’s gifts.
He had resisted at first, ignoring both his thirst and the whispers. It only lasted for a day. When he’d become so thirsty that he could not think of anything else he had drank. Not because the whispers told him to, but because he was thirsty.
It was his decision.
The whispers had grown louder in the last week. They suggested other things. Crazy things. The Bearer was happy with his place. He was at home in the dark.
The food is running out.
The whispers didn’t eat. Everything was for the Bearer. He could eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Drink the water. The food is running out. Return to the light.
The water was cool. Refreshing. The moss was also cold. It tasted more strongly of dirt. There was enough to eat forever. For all the Bearers life and more.
Return to the light. The food is running out. Drink the water.
The whispers were insistent tonight. Making their demands over and over.
Return to the light. Return to the light. Drink the water. Return to the light.
The days passed. The Bearer ate and drank. He ignored the whispers. He whispered to himself. Eventually he came to a decision.
The Bearer wanted to leave the darkness behind. Not because of the whispers. Never because of the whispers - the Bearer made up his own damn mind. His thoughts were his own. His choices were his own.
He was choosing to leave the darkness.
He was choosing to go into the light.
He drank the water.
Azoth woke to the first rays of sun painting the bedroom ceiling. The curtains covering the only window stained the room with a pink glow, making it seem much warmer than it felt. The cold didn’t bother Azoth though, a perk of being undead that he’d discovered within the first few days of the game.
It took him a full five minutes before he could convince himself it was worth getting out of bed. It wasn’t even a particularly comfortable bed, just a mattress stuffed with hay perched on top of a wooden crate. The crate raised it just high enough to deter rats and roaches from scuttling into his sheets. No, what kept him in bed was the sheer pointlessness of being awake so early.
In the real world he needed his eight hours of sleep, anything short of six was apt to make him irritable. Here in the game world of Liorel, Azoth could get by on just an hour or two. His character, his embodiment in this virtual world, was undead. That meant the game didn’t impose exhaustion on him, so his character didn’t need any sleep at all. His mind was still human though, and he wanted to sleep regularly. Even if it were just for an hour or two each night.
Azoth checked his HUD and saw that he’d managed about two hours of sleep tonight. The numbers weren’t exact, all he had to go by was a little circle with a pointer that sat somewhere between an icon of the sun and one of the moon. It was still early - too early for most of the townsfolk to be waking.
All of this was to say that Azoth was awake, but had no interest in starting the day. He didn’t even have the normal morning call to nature to lure him from his scratchy sheets. Another perk of being undead. He tried snuggling back under the blankets even though he knew it wouldn’t work. Once his mind had its few hours of rest there was no luring it back to the dreamworld.
“Fine” He grumbled out loud. There was nobody to hear him, he had the entire house to himself - a fact that continued to annoy him. His best friend, Logan, had chosen to stay out in the wilds when Azoth had moved here. Sure, he was only a half hour walk or so away, but Logan had never made the trip. Indeed, Logan had never set foot in the city of Whiteridge. From every conversation they’d ever had about it, Azoth didn’t think he ever would.
Knowing there was no point staying in bed, Azoth got up and dressed himself. There was no mirror in his little room, though he saw that as a blessing. He’d only seen his face a few times since logging into the game and he didn’t look forward to seeing it again. A partially decomposed face staring back at him would never stop being unsettling.
Liorel had been the most popular FIVR - Full Immersion Virtual Reality - for a few years when he and Logan had joined. Their decision to start playing had coincided with the release of a new expansion pack, which included a few perks for new characters, along with a few more nefarious tricks that hadn’t been unveiled until later. When they’d first logged in, he and Logan had been offered the opportunity to play as the Undead race, a race that hadn’t even been officially announced.
What a mistake that had been.
By Azoth’s count it had been a fortnight since they’d first logged in. According to the in-game helper, a small pixie-like creature named Jira, the only way to get out of the game and back to reality was by ‘uniting the stones of Animasto’.
Whatever that meant.
All Azoth had to go on was his understanding that Animasto was the head of a pantheon of gods, and that he was the primary deity for worship.
Worse, until the stones were united anyone who died in the game would die in real life.
Azoth was not happy with that deal, pissed off would be a much better description.
But the misery didn’t stop there. Human characters could buy resurrection deals that could bring them back to life if they died here. Undead characters couldn’t. Azoth and Logan had just one life each, and no way of getting more. Consequently they’d come to the only sensible conclusion: they were bunkering down and waiting for this all to blow over. It was a pretty safe bet that there was an uber-gamer somewhere in Liorel hard at work reuniting the stones of Animasto to free everyone.
In his short time here, Azoth had helped the city of Whiteridge deal with an invasion of rat-people from underground. That was more than eno
ugh heroism to risk his only life on. Granted, the spoils of that particular conquest had paid to lease this house for the next month, so it hadn’t all been a waste of time. He’d also both made - and lost - some powerful friends. Come to think of it, he’d gathered a handful of powerful enemies as well.
Abandoning thoughts of all his problems, Azoth dressed in his only set of clothes - a plain black robe and some worn and scratched leather armour. His gloves were made from thick cloth, reinforced with patches of leather. His boots, plain black slippers, were made to match his robes. He pulled on a cloak over it all, and raised the hood to cover his face. Something about the wonky videogame physics in Liorel meant that light couldn’t penetrate the shadows of the hood. As long as it was up, nobody would be able to see that his face was rotting. Azoth was truly thankful to whatever gods existed that he didn’t smell of decay. In fact, he smelled no worse than the average citizen of Whiteridge. Though that wasn’t saying much.
His only possessions actually worth anything were his scimitar and kite shield. Azoth fastened his belt around himself and adjusted where the scimitar hung. The rest of his ensemble was junk that he’d been able to scrounge from the townsfolk with what little coin he’d had after leasing the house.
He glanced down at his patchwork clothing and sighed to himself.
It was good to have goals he supposed. And his first goal, after finding some work, was to get some real shoes.
The kitchen was empty when Azoth got downstairs. Given that he lived alone this wasn’t a surprise but it did set the mood for his morning. He found some bread in a cupboard, and gathered cured meat and cheese to go with it. As an undead he only needed food half as often as the human characters, but he had nothing better to do with his morning. Not until the town began to wake for the day.
Azoth brooded over his lack of excitement as he ate. He wasn’t on good terms with the town guard. The new captain was a complete ass. Due to their historical disagreements the guard wouldn’t offer Azoth any bounties, which meant he had no way of getting paid. The only other person that might have offered contracts was Geralt, the old bartender down at Dora’s bar. He normally posted jobs on behalf of the townsfolk, though with everyone still reeling from the attack on the town last week Azoth doubted there would be anything available.
That left Azoth with scavenging. There were still a few ratkin survivors living in the wilds, and none of them had established any kind of home base yet. They were fairly easy pickings, though they rarely had more than a few gold pieces each. Enough to buy some more food but not even enough to save towards a new pair of boots.
Azoth found a wizened apple as he finished up his sandwich. Another perk of being undead was his severely damaged sense of taste. The floury texture didn’t bother him, in fact Azoth had to actively focus as he chewed to notice it. He could afford to be less picky about what he ate, which was fortunate given the average culinary skill in Liorel.
Finishing the apple Azoth stashed the rest of the food away in the cupboards. He found his backpack, empty of all but the last of his coins, and made his way to the front door.
Out on the street he looked back at his humble abode. It was a two bedroom house, where his room was actually the attic. A one bedroom house, if he was being honest. A couple of small windows dotted the exterior. The single door was left unlocked as he walked into town. There was nothing of value for anyone to steal, and the people of the neighbourhood knew that he had leased the house. Azoth wouldn’t describe himself as famous, but he was certainly recognisable - to the NPCs of the city anyway. Apparently the NPCs didn’t care how he dressed, they must be able to identify him through the system somehow.
Azoth had been the one to kill the rat king and had been among just a handful of guards that had returned alive. That had given him a measure of respect amongst the townsfolk. But he’d immediately spent most of his loot buying out his contract with the guard. That was a large part of why the city watch disliked him now. In a very real way he had betrayed them, choosing his own self interests over the good of Whiteridge. Outside of the guard though, most townsfolk respected Azoth for his role in the defence of the city. Enough that he’d been given a cheap lease on the house, and could feel confident in leaving his door unlocked.
Besides, there was no lock on the door.
Azoth made his way through the streets towards the church. The basement was still off-limits, since it held the tunnel the ratkin had attacked through, but the church doors stood wide open. This was the only building in the city that was open twenty four hours a day. Azoth wasn’t a pious man by any stretch of the imagination, but he did have business with the church. And knowing the priestess as well as he did, he was certain she would be awake at this hour.
He walked through the wide doors into the main room. Pews stretched out in front of him like gravestones and they were no more inviting. An altar stood at the far end of the room, raised on a small dais. Azoth couldn’t look at it without remembering the woman he’d seen murdered there. He wondered how many in the congregation had the same problem and shuddered, averting his gaze. He’d killed the ratkin that had murdered her, but vengeance brought no peace.
Instead of approaching the altar or taking a seat Azoth made his way around the edge of the room. A hallway led through the right-hand wall, and off that were the doors to the priestesses study rooms. Azoth approached the furthest one and rapped his knuckles sharply against the solid wood. Once. Twice. Three times.
The sounds of movement rustled beyond the door, followed by a loud clunk, and then the door swung open on well oiled hinges.
A feminine figure stood in the doorway dressed in a red robe, the hood pulled up to hide her features. Every inch of her skin was covered in soft red cloth. A golden sash was tied around her waist, accentuating the shape of her hips.
“About time you came back. Come in.” She said, and stepped aside so that he could enter.
As soon as he was inside she pushed the door shut and locked it. There were two chairs set by a table at the far end of the room. A candle burned on the table, the only source of light. One wall was dominated by a bookcase, though Azoth couldn’t read any of the book titles in the gloom. He turned back to face the priestess.
“Any luck?” He asked.
“None. Come and see what I’ve read so far, ``she replied. She made her way to the bookcase, but instead of pulling a book from a shelf she twisted something. The bookcase sprung backwards on hidden hinges to reveal a secret room in the wall beyond. The priestess led the way through.
Once they were safely in the hidden room the priestess lowered her hood to reveal ivory bone. She leered at him with empty eye sockets, the faintest purple glow illuminating the inside of her skull. Azoth lowered his hood, revealing his dead flesh to her. It was a ritual of sorts, revealing their true selves to one another. Important conversations had to happen face to undead face.
Azoth glanced over at the table, where the amulet was on display. It was a treasure he’d taken from the corpse of the Rat King. Azoth crossed the room to examine it, studying the intricate details. The size of a small dinner plate, the amulet was etched with an image of several rats, all facing out from the middle of the disk. Their snakelike tails drifted into the centre of the amulet, tangling with each other to form an exquisitely detailed knot.
“Look” The priestess said, directing Azoth’s attention to a pile of thick books stacked on the ground next to a small single bed. The stack stood higher than the pillows.
“At?”
“That’s what I’ve read so far. A chore indeed, but I finally found something.” She took Azoth by his hand and led him to the bed. Lying open on the sheets was a tiny old book. It was no more than six inches tall, and half that wide - like the size of a penguin paperback from the real world. The two pages that were open were illustrations, surrounded in runes Azoth didn’t recognise. On the left was the unmistakable drawing of the amulet. On the right was a drawing of a gemstone, or maybe a small egg.
“Did you see a stone like that?” The priestess asked. Azoth could feel the excitement emanating off her in waves. Despite the lack of flesh, her skull was incredibly expressive.
“No, I didn’t see anything like that at all. Just the amulet, and countless ratkin.” He replied, feeling a pang of disappointment.
“Oh. I see. According to these runes it’s meant to glow orange, hard to miss I imagine.” The priestess stepped away from him, visibly deflated.
“It’s possible it was there somewhere. Or could it have been used in the ritual, you know, to make the amulet?”
“From what I can tell, the amulet and the stone are drawn to one another. Look here - these are the runes for power, life, and - “ She paused, her brow-line furrowing “ - energy or vitality? Something like that. I think the two are meant to be combined. But this is all I can find.” She reached out and turned the page. The next few were stained dark with ink. The next dozen pages after that had been torn out of the book.
“I don’t suppose -”
“No. As far as I know this is the only copy. If you’d stop being so damn secretive I could ask Sister Sharron, she might know of another copy somewhere. She’s travelled a lot further than I have.”
“Look, I know you trust her, but I’ve still never even seen her.” Azoth replied.
“Well, come on then. I’ll introduce you.”
Azoth gave the priestess an apprehensive look. He didn’t want to expose the amulet to any more people than was absolutely necessary. He had no idea what it was, and that was what terrified him the most. And now she was here, telling him that there was another component to it, and that the two might be drawn to one another. No, he was better keeping this secret between the two of them for now.