by M B Reid
“Yes?”
“Well, those last couple of rings. When we cut through them something happened. Magical backlash maybe? We cut through and they all just froze like statues.” Azoth realised he’d forgotten to mention the screaming. The horrible ear-splitting shrieks of agony. He decided he could leave that part out.
“The thing in the middle, whatever it was, it seemed kind of unfinished when we got to it. Like cutting through the ritual had deformed it.” He continued.
“Were their bodies fused together?” The stranger asked.
“Yeah, how did you?”
“I’ve heard of ratkin trying to make a rat king before. Multiple bodies fused together to create a terrifying monstrosity.”
The thing Azoth fought had definitely been terrifying and monstrous, but he was certain the stranger was talking about something else. He spoke with a sort of awe in his voice, as if the thing the ratkin had been trying to create was incredible. That was not a word that Azoth would have used to describe the thing. What he fought had been an abomination, plain and simple.
“The thing we fought was wrong. It was like a blob of, well just a blob. A big blob made of corpses, that tried to absorb everything it could. It could sort of stretch, reshape itself like, to hit at us. It killed a lot of good fighters.” Azoth took a break from speaking to shovel more stew into his mouth. This was a rather cathartic discussion. He could almost understand why people might go to confession.
“I heard it killed a lot of people. I’m sorry.” The old man said, and Azoth was surprised to realise he believed the man. There was genuine sorrow in his voice. Almost like he was somehow responsible.
“Yeah well, we killed it.” Azoth was careful to use the word we, rather than I. He couldn’t have done it alone, that was for sure. But he also didn’t want to put himself in the spotlight. Not with this man.
“You’re too modest. I’ve spoken with a number of people, and they all say you killed it. That you’re the hero of Whiteridge.” The old man put down his bowl of stew, and Azoth realised it was empty. He hadn’t noticed the man eating that much of it. His own bowl was still more than half full.
“I couldn’t have done it without them” Azoth assured the stranger, suddenly feeling ill at ease. The man wasn’t threatening. In fact he was a shining example of hospitality. It was just that he seemed to know too much. It put Azoth on edge. How could anyone, other than the ratkin, know so much about the ritual?
“That’s the mark of a good man, giving credit where it's due. How did you kill it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Azoth hurried a large spoonful of stew into his mouth, using it as an excuse to delay his answer. How much should he tell the stranger? He seemed to know everything already, but he must have been getting his information from the guards. None of the guards had known about the poison Azoth had carried, which meant that the stranger shouldn’t know about it either. Azoth wondered whether he should keep that to himself. He decided to change the topic.
“We just kept hacking at it. How do you know all about the ratkin, anyway?” He ate another spoonful, trying his best to make it look like he was just getting the stranger to talk for a while so he could eat. The stranger didn’t seem bothered.
“I’ve studied them a bit. There was a rat king a few years back, over Greendale way. The townsfolk killed it long before I got there, but they kept its skeleton as a trophy. I found it fascinating.” The old man spoke with such a matter-of-fact tone that Azoth couldn’t help but to trust him. He seemed genuinely curious, it wasn’t like he was trying to squeeze secrets out of Azoth.
“So you’re like a ratkin scholar?” He asked.
The tall man seemed to ponder that for a while before responding.
“I have an interest in all things arcane, the supernatural you might say. Though yes, in recent years the ratkin have been my topic of choice. They’ve got a fascinating history.”
“Oh, hey. You might like these then.” Azoth set his now empty bowl on the ground next to the stump, and fished the ratkin pelts out of his pack.
“These were -”
“What the hell are you doing?” The tall man demanded, leaping to his feet and backing away from Azoth. This drew the attention of most of the strangers in the camp. Azoth could feel them glaring at him.
“I thought you might -”
“You heard my instructions, right? I wanted a captive. Not a corpse. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Azoth opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He was suddenly glad of his hood for its ability to hide his dumbfounded expression. He’d completely misread the strangers interests.
“Those should be burned. In fact, leave them where they are and get out of my camp.” The tall man was bearing down on Azoth now, using his considerable height for sheer intimidation.
“I, yeah, sorry.” Azoth mumbled, dropping the pelts on the ground. He slung his pack back over his shoulders and made his way through the camp. Each hooded stranger stopped to glare at him as he passed. The bridge guards glared at him as he crossed. He couldn’t seem to catch a break. What the hell had all of that been about? Everything had gone from pleasant and friendly to ‘you’ve murdered my friends’ in an instant.
Wait, was that it?
Could the strangers be friends of the ratkin, here to avenge their fallen brethren? Surely not, the tall stranger had seemed so friendly. Surely anyone who was here for revenge would have been murderous toward Azoth. Whatever was going on, these strangers definitely weren’t here as traders. There was something more afoot, and Azoth had to find out what.
He could only hope his curiosity wouldn’t be the death of him.
Chapter Six
Night had settled over Whiteridge like a blanket. The Bearer, with his perfect inbuilt clock, knew this without opening the cellar door. He had spent the day pacing around the cramped cellar, arguing with the whisperers. He’d done exactly what they asked, and they weren’t making any sense. He’d shared the water with the woman, he’d seen what had happened. He knew it was what the whispers wanted.
The Bearer kicked the corpse trapped in the room with him. The old man was of no use at all. He hadn’t had any answers for the Bearer. No sir-ee.
Find it. You must find it.
The whispers were insistent on that point. The problem was, the Bearer had no idea what it was. He’d begged and pleaded for more, but all they said, over and over, was that he had to find it. The Bearer knew, in the same instinctive way that he knew anything, that he’d had to wait until dark before he went out there. He could move without notice in the dark. He didn’t want anyone interrupting him, not until he figured out what it was.
“I’m going, I’m going.” He finally grumbled, scratching his arm. It was time.
The Bearer carefully opened the cellar door and stepped out into the street. There were no lanterns in this part of town, and the shadows settled around him like a cloak. He eased the cellar door shut again. There was no need to let anyone find his evidence.
He made his way toward the heart of the town. He would watch the nightlife as they milled around. With any luck he would see whatever it was that the whisperers wanted him to find.
And then he would take it.
His journey carried him to a bar. The windows were missing glass, and the saloon style doors hung askew in their frame. A lantern burned outside, indicating it was open to patrons. From upstairs he could hear the sounds of whores hard at work. Through the cloth-covered empty windows he could hear men laughing as they drank. Everything about this place disgusted the Bearer, and that was what drew him to it. He settled into the shadows across the street, and waited.
Find it. Find it. Find it. The whispers chanted in his mind. Growing ever faster. They worked themselves into a fury, rattling about in his skull.
Find it! They screamed.
The Bearer glanced away from the den of revelries and surveyed the dark skyline. Something was niggling at him. Almost as if there was another whisperi
ng voice in his mind, so quiet he couldn’t hear it over the rest of them. The Bearer struggled to ignore the others, to focus on this new whisper. It fell silent.
Find it. Find it. Find it.
He wasn’t sure what the new voice had been saying but he was certain it was directing him elsewhere. The tavern wasn’t where he would find the thing, whatever it was. He coughed up a great globule of black goo and spat it across the road. It sailed halfway to the tavern before splashing onto the cobblestones.
The thing, whatever it was, was somewhere else. He would find it.
The bearer soon found himself standing before the church. Great wide doors were spread wide to welcome him. It was near midnight now, the moon hovering high in the sky above him. The faint glow of candles came from inside, beckoning. The church was open to all, at all hours.
It was even open to him.
The Bearer scratched his arm and coughed another gobbet of spit onto the street. He’d left a trail of them all over town as he’d searched for the thing the whispers craved. There was no one around to see him, to chastise him or chase him off. He took a hesitant step toward the church. The whispers had been silent for the last few hours. Perhaps they had gone to sleep. They used to desert him for days at a time, but they’d been a constant companion since he’d left the tunnel. It was strange for them to be silent now. His head felt unnaturally hollow.
He continued forward. As he crossed the threshold into the ancient building the shadows began to boil away. With every step they melted off him, dripping to the ground like wax. It should have worried him, but the Bearer had no time for worry. The new voice, the quiet whisper, had returned.
Here. It is here!
It was hissing in his mind. As if the speaker had the tongue of a snake. The Bearer still had no idea what he was looking for, but it was clear he was in the right place. He closed his eyes, letting instinct guide him. His feet carried him to the right, rather than down the aisle to the dais. When he opened his eyes again he was in a narrow hallway, leading away from the main chamber of the church.
Close. Closer now.
The voice hissed in his mind. He had the impression of a rattlesnake shaking its tail. It was gone in an instant, leaving a chill to run down the Bearers spine. This new whisper was more intense than the others. It was frightening.
He came to a halt in front of a solid wooden door. There was nothing remarkable about it, it looked the same as all the others. The Bearer knew this was the right one, he knew in the same way that he’d known to share the water. When he reached out he saw that the shadows had abandoned him. His arm was red and raw, with open sores. The sight of it made the Bearer want to scratch it, more desperately than he’d wanted to do anything ever before. Somehow he resisted the urge.
He knocked on the door, three quick raps.
“Just a moment” A woman's voice announced from within. There was a scraping sound of wood on wood. A moment later footsteps approached. There was a loud clunk as a lock was disengaged. The door swung inward, revealing a female figure clad in blood red robes. A belt of gold thread was tied around her waist. The woman's face was obscured by shadow in a deep hood.
Kill her!
The whispers screamed in unison.
“It’s you -” The woman managed, before the Bearer tackled her. He clamped one filthy hand over her mouth, finding it through the shadows in the hood like a guided missile. Her bones cracked loudly against the hardwood floor as they tumbled, as if she had no flesh to break the fall. With his free hand, the Bearer began to punch the woman.
His fist cracked ribs and broke a collarbone. She bucked under his assault, trying with all her might to throw him off. She screamed into his hand, but the effort was in vain. No one could hear her, not here. The Bearer raised her head with both hands, and slammed it back down against the floor. He repeated this several times, until she ceased struggling, then did it once more for good measure. She lay still.
The Bearer got to his feet and scratched his right arm vigorously before shutting the door. The key was still in the lock so he gave it a twist, listening for the reassuring click as the bolt found its place. He would not be interrupted. The whisperers were silent now, and his head felt as empty as a bowl. He allowed himself time to survey the room. It was tiny and cramped, with a small table at one end, and a bookcase dominating one wall. The Bearer gave his victim a cursory glance, as if she might explain what the scraping sound had been. She didn’t move.
Find it. The regular voices chanted.
It’s close. The new voice hissed.
The Bearer began to search the room. He started with the desk, which had no drawers. There were books spread open across it, but in the weak light of the candles he couldn’t read the words. He pushed them aside, shuffled some papers, then turned his attention to the chairs. They were roughly carved wood. No cushions. Nowhere to hide anything. The Bearer abandoned the desk and returned to his victim.
He found nothing in her pockets, nor her matching red slippers.
Find it. It’s close. Find it. It's here.
The voices were filling his mind again, stuffing it with cotton wool. The Bearer started to feel disconnected from his limbs as they searched. It was almost like he was watching his body from afar, observing as he searched the rest of the room. He started pulling books off the bookshelf. Throwing them on top of the desk, on the chairs, under the desk. He opened them, flipped through the pages. He still didn’t know what he was looking for, but he was certain it wasn’t a loose page. It was too big to hide between pages in a book. There must be a cut out, a hidden hole in the middle of a book.
One book wouldn’t come off the shelf. He tugged harder, and it slid just far enough to click a mechanism into place. The bookshelf swung open, scraping along the floor.
There. There it is. The new voice hissed, suddenly alone in the Bearers mind.
He crossed the hidden room to a table on the far side. The bed didn’t interest him, nor did the new bookcase. All he could see was a wide disk-shaped amulet on the table. Emblazoned on its surface was an emblem of several rats standing in a circle, facing outward. Their tails were entwined in an intricate knot.
Take it! The whispers shrieked in unison.
The Bearer took the amulet.
Something had gone wrong.
Voria had spent the night lurking in the hallways, keeping close to the front door. She’d expected a commotion when those idiotic brothers tried to get through the guards, but none came. At one point she’d even gone outside to check that there were guards on duty. Of course she hadn’t told them about the brothers, she had no interest in letting the brothers get anywhere near this place. But if they’d succeeded in their job they definitely would have shown up. They had been very transparent in their intentions.
Morning light was burning the nights dew from the rooftops and those stupid, good-for-nothing, idiotic brothers hadn’t shown up.
That meant one of two things - either the guards had turned them away without a commotion, or the twins hadn’t returned. Unfortunately for her, that meant she’d have to head into town and try to find them. It’s not that she was above going into the poorer part of town or anything. She’d spent weeks there in the early part of the game, it was just that she vastly preferred the lavish furnishings here. She had earned her place in the mayors manor, damnit. Besides, the poorer areas stank.
Voria dressed down for the occasion. Her flaming red hair was hard to miss, but she could hide her figure with a loose fitting dress. Truthfully it made her look pregnant, which she absolutely despised. Unfortunately there weren’t that many clothing options in a medieval fantasy world. She strapped one dagger to her inner thigh, and another to her bicep. The long sleeves of the dress would hide it, but it would still be easy to grab if needed.
She was fortunate not to have had to use them since Darius’ death.
Pushing that thought aside she slipped out through a side entrance, bypassing the questions from the guards at the ma
in door. The mayor wanted to know everything about her comings and goings, and she simply couldn’t be bothered dealing with it today. It was bad enough that her plan had failed. She didn’t need mindless questions directed at her as well.
Today was not a good day.
Her mind circled back around to Darius as she walked down the long streets that separated the rich from the poor. She hadn’t meant to kill him. She felt terrible about it. It was that godforsaken rage buff. It’d seemed like such a blessing in the beginning of the game, but as the weeks had drawn on it had seeped into her day-to-day life. She felt like she were teetering on the edge of fury all the time. It hadn’t been quite so bad when Liorel had just been a game - it seemed to take a few hours to worm its way back into her persona when she logged in, so she’d just played in shorter sessions. But ever since those stupid developers had trapped her in this crappy place it had been growing. Every time she lost control it seemed to chip away at her resolve a little more. She’d fly into a rage just a little easier next time.
It terrified her.
Voria made a mental note to buy some candles while she was in town, as she was running low. She lit a candle for Darius each night, it was her personal penance. She could only hope that the note had been a lie - that death in the game really made people wake up. Thinking that she might have freed him from this horrible game gave her a little consolation. The alternative was unbearable.
Her attention came back to the present as she crossed through the divide. It was like the line between rich and poor had literally been drawn in Whiteridge. There was a strip of stalls, filled with salespeople that she’d much rather avoid. Matthew’s words about a sickness echoed in her head.