by M B Reid
On one side were the large houses of the rich. They got progressively larger, prettier, and better guarded as they approached the mayors manor at the far end. On the other side were the small houses, crammed close together. Each possessing only a single bedroom, maybe two for those with enormous families. The houses didn’t look terrible - the game developers obviously hadn’t wanted to lean too heavily on poverty and all its depressing connotations. They weren’t welcoming though.
Voria cut through an alleyway between two houses, a trail she’d found a long time ago. It cut through an entire neighbourhood, making it like a highway to get downtown to that stupidly named tavern, Dora’s. She was passing a cellar door when she heard a muffled sob. She took another few steps and the sound came again, a sob verging on a cry for help. Voria came to a halt, one hand reaching for the knife strapped to her bicep. The sound came a third time. It was definitely coming from the cellar. She suddenly regretted leaving the main road. A quick glance around confirmed that the alleyway was empty.
Something banged on the cellar door, like a wild animal trying to burst out.
Voria’s breath caught in her throat. That’s what it must be, right? A wild animal trapped in the cellar. Anything sentient would have turned the handle before trying to push the door open.
The handle started to turn.
Voria’s heart pounded as adrenaline rushed through her system. She drew her dagger and sank into a crouch. The fabric of the dress clung too tightly to her thighs, keeping her from settling as low as she would like. A voice in the back of her head screamed at her to run, but she held her ground. Curiosity had the better of her. She wanted - she needed - to see what had caused the commotion. She tried to calm herself. Worst case scenario, she could activate her Walk In Shadows ability and turn invisible. She’d be able to sneak back to the main road, and the crowds that were there.
The handle fell still and another muffled cry escaped from beneath. Then the door began to inch open.
What came next was a flurry of motion. The door burst open as if a tornado had erupted inside. Voria activated her Walk in Shadows ability, and shimmered out of sight. An older woman, somewhere in her sixties, escaped into the empty alley. Torn cotton was tied around her mouth in a crude gag, and her eyes bulged with terror. Her face was riddled with boils and sores. Her arms were raw and bleeding. Voria had seen what drugs could do to people, back in the real world, but she’d never seen a junkie this bad.
It turned her stomach.
Voria kept the knife up, held between them. Even though she was invisible, she didn’t want to risk the woman bumping into her. Junkies could be terrifyingly strong, and invisibility didn’t prevent someone from grabbing her. Voria backed up against one wall, and tried to make herself smaller. The junkie seemed shocked to have reached freedom. She staggered a few steps in one direction, then turned and ran the other way. She was screaming through the gag, making the muffled noise Voria had heard. As she turned away Voria saw that her hands were bound behind her back.
A loud curse rang out from the cellar. Someone was still in there!
There were stomping footsteps and more cursing as whoever was within seemed to realise the door was open. A humanoid creature stepped out into the light. Shadows from the cellar rolled up and draped themselves around the figure, obscuring his features. The thing scratched its right arm as it looked both directions up the alley, then started shaking its head.
“No. It's fine. No!” It growled, and scratched at its arm furiously. Then it fell still. The shadows fell away from its face for a moment, revealing scraggly silver stubble that was on the verge of becoming a beard. The man - or what used to be a man - had red eyes, the eyes of a rodent.
Eyes that were staring right at her.
Voria’s breath caught in her throat. She waited for the creature to look away, to give any indication that it couldn’t see through her invisibility. Voria was as still as a statue, frozen in terror. The shadow creature took two swaggering steps toward her. A smile played over its face for a fraction of a second, and then the shadows settled over it like a mask once more.
It lunged.
Voria, faster than should have been possible, twisted aside and slashed with her knife. The creature was still watching the place she’d been. One gnarled finger scraped along Voria’s arm, drawing blood. She plunged her knife into the shadowy figures shoulder, grinning as a critical hit icon flashed above its head. Her invisibility still granted her a crit on her first hit, even though it seemed to have seen her. She shimmered back into existence, standing between the shadow creature and the cellar door.
The thing was cradling its right arm, nursing its wounds. It whimpered something under its breath, then took a hesitant step towards her. The shadows were flowing off it now, dripping like ink onto the ground. Its figure was more distinct, and unmistakably human. A man. Voria considered her options for half a second, then turned and started sprinting toward the nearest end of the alley - the same way the old woman had run. She activated Walk in Shadows again as she ran. It might not work on the shadow thing, but that old woman had likely drawn a crowd by now. Voria didn’t want to be seen chasing a junkie out of an alley. Especially not one that was gagged.
She risked a glance back over her shoulder, just in time to see the cellar door bang shut. Had it returned to its lair? Or was that a feint, a trick to lure her back? Her curiosity wasn’t making her suicidal enough to return. She kept running until she burst out onto the street. The old woman had collapsed in front of a nondescript house. A man standing in the doorway was calling into the house for his wife. He stooped to lift the old lady up and Voria blew past them. Her legs carried her down the street faster than she’d ever run in her life.
When she’d put a few minutes of breakneck sprinting between them, Voria came to a halt. Her invisibility was about to wear off, and she didn’t want to reappear mid sprint. That was bound to draw the wrong sort of attention. She slipped into a doorway, out of sight of random passersby, and let herself shimmer back into view. For a moment longer she stood still, trying to catch her breath, before stepping back onto the street.
Just another woman out for a stroll. Nothing to see here folks.
Voria inspected her arm as she walked. It stung a little, but was far from the worst injury she’d received here. The scrape ran the length of her left forearm, and it had already stopped bleeding. Some soap to prevent an infection, one little bandage, and she’d be fine. It wasn’t even deep enough for a scar. Still, she should tend to it sooner rather than later. Medicine in this world wasn’t exactly up to par. Leeching was probably considered a recommended practice. Voria decided the twins would show up eventually, one way or the other. She glanced around the street, then changed her direction. She wanted to go home, tend to her wounds, and have a bath.
The poor district stank.
Chapter Seven
Back in the real world, Azoth was a mid-level software developer. Based on his actions so far today, he was starting to think he should have been a cop. His surveillance game was excellent. He’d been keeping watch over the strangers in the camp since dusk. In that time he’d seen groups of three or four come and go, as if they were out ranging and coming back to report. Their leader, the tall old man, never left camp. A few brawnier strangers were always close to him so Azoth decided that they must be his personal bodyguards.
Unfortunately, because of the identical black robes they wore, Azoth was finding it impossible to tell them apart. He wasn’t sure if it was the same groups of people going out exploring and reporting back, or if each group was composed of different people altogether. So far, he hadn’t shadowed any of them to see what they did when they left the camp. He was trying to get a feel for numbers, and with the groups coming and going all the time, Azoth still wasn’t sure. He’d seen at least a dozen gathered together at one point, but Azoth felt like there were more. Perhaps twenty in total.
This part of his newfound job was growing boring though. He
decided that he was going to follow the next group to leave camp. With his plan set, Azoth settled down to wait. In that moment he found himself silently thanking the gods of the game for his undead condition. He could lay in place for hours on end without his muscles cramping or complaining. He also didn’t need the bathroom, or food, or drink. He’d have been the perfect stake-out cop.
After thirty minutes or so, just before Azoth went mad from boredom, three hooded figures finally left the camp. They ignored the angry glares of the guards as they marched into the town. The town guard didn’t seem to serve much of a purpose. Sure, there were more of them standing by the river gate, and it made for good posturing, but they didn’t actually try to stop any of the strangers. Maybe they were on orders to allow small groups into the city, but Azoth had no clue. Odds were good that they’d been given illogical and nonsensical instructions. He expected no better of Duncan.
The group led Azoth through town to the blacksmith, where they stepped into the shop without so much as slowing. Azoth made the snap decision to follow, activating his Chameleon Cloak ability to shimmer out of sight. He had enough mana that he could hold it for a few minutes. As long as he didn’t stray too far from the door he’d be fine.
Azoth had spent a lot of time with Waylan, the old blacksmith, since logging in to Liorel. He counted the man as a friend. Consequently, it came as a surprise when Waylan greeted one of the strangers with a hug.
As Azoth stepped through the open door the old blacksmith pulled away from the stranger. The stranger’s hood had fallen during their embrace. Azoth stared at a mess of dark hair, and his breath caught in his throat as the man turned. It was the tattoo-faced stranger from the bar the night before. For one terrifying moment he looked directly at Azoth, those dark tattoos casting his face in a menacing light. Finally, he looked away, and Azoth let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
“Is tha’ leader o’ yours not gonna visit?” Waylan asked, feigning offence. These men definitely knew each other well, they seemed comfortable together. As though they’d spent years by each others side.
“Sorry bruv, appearances and all that. The guards are all a-posturing and stuff, not a welcoming place this town’a yours.” The tattooed stranger said.
“Ah, bunch of limpdicks the lot of ‘em. Mayhaps I’ll come out tonight, if you’ve got the beers.”
“The ol’ man will appreciate it. Hey, so we’ve been hearing that you had something to do with them rats”
“Those days are behind me lads. Ye know tha’. Helped a young’un though. He might be a good fit for ye”
“Fella that always wears a hood? I think the ol’ man scared him off” The tattooed stranger laughed.
“Asked for the boy to bring a captive, and he showed up with a bunch of pelts. Dunno why, but the ol’ man made a scene. Ran him out of camp”
“An’ what would ‘e do that for?”
“You know the ol’ man. Always a step ahead. Maybe he didn’t like the guy”
“Nay, he’s good people. You’d do well ta talk to him.” As Waylan was saying that one of the strangers strode back toward the door.
Azoth had half a second to decide between staying inside or ducking out. He opted to stay, slinking further away from the door and closer to the curtain separating the shop from the forge. He had about a minutes worth of mana left. Once that began to falter he’d have to ease through the curtain and hide near the forge. Fortunately it wasn’t burning this late at night, so the heat in there would be bearable.
“Two feet on your left” The tattooed man shouted. Azoth barely had time to register surprise before the man who’d gone for the door tackled him. Azoth’s invisibility faltered at once.
“Oi!” Waylan managed, before the tattooed man cut him off.
“Sneaky spying spider, eh bruv?”
“Now hold on a sec” Waylan said, but his voice was drowned out immediately
“Take his weapon” The tattooed man instructed. The second hooded figure closed in on Azoth and stole the scimitar from his scabbard. They tossed it outside then slammed the door shut, sliding the bolt into place. With the strength buff from the scimitar gone, Azoth had no chance to struggle free of the vice-like grip of the man holding him. The tattooed stranger approached.
“Azoth?” Waylan asked, recognition finally covering his face.
“Ergh” Azoth wheezed.
“Let ‘im up boy, he ain’t no threat”
“Alright bruv” The tattooed man confirmed. The pressure on Azoth suddenly eased as his assailant climbed off him.
“This is the guy you were talking about?” The leader asked Waylan.
“Aye, good lad. Strong but perhaps not so smart aye? What were ye doin’ lad?”
Azoth thought long and hard about how to answer.
“I was following those guys?” He finished, looking at his feet. This had not gone according to plan at all, perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t a cop.
“An’ what were ye doin’ that for?”
“Because they’re not traders” Azoth accused, drawing himself up to his full height. This was ridiculous. With Waylan here there was no risk that he’d get hurt, and he desperately wanted to know what was going on. Worse than all of that, Waylan seemed to be involved with them somehow. Both Waylan and the tattooed man burst into laughter. The other two strangers remained emotionless, towering nearby.
“Na bruv, we most certainly ain’t.”
“Azoth me boy, ye’ve got no clue do ye?”
“I -”
“We’re hunters, ain’t we?” The tattooed man announced, as if that explained everything.
Azoth hesitated. He didn’t know any of the back-story in Liorel. Maybe the hunters were famous enough that he should have heard of them.
“What do you hunt?” He asked, feeling sheepish. The tattooed man grinned at that. It was a horrifying sight.
“Fairytale monsters. Things that go bump in the night. This week, ratkin trying to make a king”
“’Ave you not ‘eard of the hunters?” Waylan asked with genuine surprise.
“Na, I’m not from around these parts remember?”
“Aye, true enough. The hunters are our wardens against the dark. Protectors of the realms o’ men, and all that. Trent here, and his old man, they’re the good sorts.” Waylan explained.
“We’ve already killed the ratkin though” Azoth said, feeling like he was missing a big part of the picture.
“That’s what brought us here, right? We weren’t sure how far the ritual had gone, we were worried they’d have formed an amulet.” The tattooed man - Trent - explained, as if that made all the sense in the world. Azoth looked between him and Waylan, unsure of whether to respond. He trusted the old blacksmith with his life, and Waylan seemed to trust this stranger. Perhaps it would be a good idea to come clean about it all. On the other hand, nothing these strangers had told him so far was true. If the hunters were asking about an amulet they must know something about it. Perhaps he could use this situation to his advantage.
“What would an amulet do?” Azoth asked, taking care to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“The old man’s the one that knows about the ratkin. I just do what I’m told, don’t I?” Trent replied, but his face twitched. He was peering intently at Azoth, as though he might be able to read Azoth’s expression beneath his hood. Azoth had the sudden worrying thought that Trent could see him, his real face, in the same way his invisibility had been seen through.
“And you were told to find an amulet?”
“Yeah bruv. If there is one, if not we’re in the clear.”
“In the clear?” Azoth asked, perhaps too fast.
Trent took a moment, and a breath, before replying.
“You’re a sharp one, ain’t you. But I dunno what we’d be clear of. Just that if there’s an amulet, there’s work to be done.”
Azoth smiled in spite of himself. That had been a very diplomatic answer. Before he could reply
Waylan interjected.
“What are ye talking about. Amulets and rats? Tell me lad, you killed the rats didn’t ye?”
“Yeah, almost every one of them.”
“And there was no amulet?”
“Not that I saw”
“That’s it then.” Waylan crossed his arms and nodded at Trent. Just like that the matter was closed. Azoth glanced between the two men, trying to figure out what their history was. Trent seemed to follow the old blacksmiths lead, that much was for certain.
“Tell you what, I can take you to the room where the ritual was. You can search to your hearts content.” Azoth finally said. Trent nodded.
“Alright, lead the way” He turned to Waylan before adding. “You’ll come for drinks tonight?”
The big blacksmith gave him a broad smile.
“Aye, and ye can tell me all about your adventures with Azoth”
Azoth led the three hunters through empty streets to the church. Trent hadn’t bothered to introduce his two hooded companions, and Azoth hadn’t been brave enough to talk to them. Their utter stillness unnerved him. Though they had the right shape, Azoth was now certain they weren’t human. They seemed more like mindless automatons. He hadn’t heard either of them utter a single word, and come to think of it he’d not heard them talking amongst themselves in the camp either.
When the group finally arrived they found a throng of people gathered outside the door. For the first time ever the church was closed for business. Azoth led the strangers through the gathered mob toward the entrance. A couple of guards were stationed there, leaning on their spears. The townsfolk were hanging back a respectful distance. Azoth marched straight up to the guards.
“What’s happened?” Azoth asked.
“There’s been a murder.” A friendly guard replied. His companion glared at him, and then at Azoth. Clearly not one of the men who still liked the ‘Hero’ of Whiteridge.
“Who?”