by M B Reid
Before she could make her way to the church, she had one more stop to make. She was assuming that the cost of a resurrection deal would be financial. Which meant she’d need to liberate some of the mayors funds. The old fool had made the mistake of letting her know where he kept his on-premise cash, and Voria was certain she’d be able to claim it.
She padded quietly through the hallways. They were empty at this early hour. Even the servants were still in bed. In a few minutes she was standing outside the mayors study. The door was unlocked, as always. She stepped through, carefully closing it behind her. A thick key stuck out of the ornate locks, but she didn’t make to turn it. For all she knew trying to lock the door would trigger some sort of trap. She had never seen the mayor reach for it, and that made her nervous. Hell, in her current state everything made her nervous.
The safe was set into the floor behind the mayor's desk, right beneath where his chair sat. She dragged the ornate throne aside, then lifted the floorboards. The safe was a simple affair - a single tumbler lock. She extracted her lockpicks from her hair, where they were disguised as hairpins, and went to work. It took her far longer than it should have. The main security feature of this particular safe was that it was well hidden. The lock itself was a simple device, which normally would only slow her down for a few seconds.
With the fever racking her body, and the shivers forcing her hands to shake, it took her several minutes.
Voria opened the safe, revealing tall stacks of gold coins. The games inventory subsystem kicked in when she reached into the vault, and she extracted exactly half the coins. They came away in a large coin-purse which she slipped it into her backpack. She eased the vault closed, listening for the soft click as the lock armed itself automatically. Voria carefully replaced the floorboards and the throne, then hauled the knapsack onto her back and made for the door.
She was in and out of the office in no more than ten minutes. Only ten times longer than it needed to take, she mentally chided herself. The halls were still empty as she made her way to the side exit. She didn’t want the guards to see her slinking out, not this early in the morning. Not looking as terrible as she did.
Especially not with a backpack that clinked as she walked.
The door to the church was shut.
Voria approached it slowly, the fog of fever made her thoughts flow like treacle. She couldn’t wrap her head around the concept that the church was closed. The church was never closed. She rapped one hand on the solid wood. Her weak fist barely making a sound.
This couldn’t be happening. Of course it would be closed the only time she needed it. She knocked again, pounding with both hands this time. Desperation clutched at her chest.
If she couldn’t get inside she was going to die.
Voria glanced around the deserted streets, confirming they were empty. A renewed bout of coughing beset her, driving her to her knees. Dark blood burst from her lips and splattered the steps. Her stomach, once it had finished churning violently, sank. The blood was a new symptom, and a terrible sign of things to come.
From her knees she pummelled her arms against the door. She threw all of her anger into her attacks, making each strike a little louder than the last. This wasn’t fair. This stupid game trapping her wasn’t fair. Her rage, Darius’ death, this god-forsaken sickness, and now the church being locked. Somewhere out there the devil was smiling.
She threw all her strength into one last knock. It made a solid boom against the thick door, and then she collapsed into a ball of defeat. Tears streaked her face as she fought against another bout of coughs.
It was over.
Voria didn’t have the strength to get back up. She couldn’t return to the mayors manor. There was no way the guards would let her back in looking as she did. She would lie here until she finally succumbed to the sickness. With any luck she would wake up back in the real world, and sue the everloving fuck out of this stupid company. Given how things had gone for her so far she didn’t expect any luck.
She would simply die.
The door creaked open but Voria was too weak to look up. She could barely conjure the energy to enjoy her rescue.
“Animasto be with you” A woman said. She sounded impossibly tired, but that could have just been Voria projecting. Voria glanced up at her saviour and pasted a weak smile on her face.
The priestess wore a blood red robe that was cinched at the waist with a dark blue rope. The trim of her robes was a matching blue. Voria gathered enough breath to greet the priestess, then fell into a coughing fit again. Her throat felt as dry as a desert and she could do nothing to wet it.
“You’re ill” The priestess accused. Voria half expected the woman to turn her away, but instead the priestess helped her to her feet.
“Thank you” Voria wheezed, allowing the priestess to guide her into the church. They followed a hallway to a small kitchen. The priestess poured a glass of water from a clay pitcher and offered it to Voria.
Voria downed it in a single gulp.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to make a reanimation deal.” Voria croaked.
“Ah, yes. You fear the illness will take you?”
“I think so” Voria whimpered. This stupid priestess really needed to hurry up. The anger surprised Voria. She hadn’t thought she’d had the energy for it.
“I can arrange such a deal, yes. Though they do not come cheap.” The priestess warned. Voria poured herself a glass of water and downed it before replying.
“I can pay.” Voria jangled her backpack, making the coins jingle.
“That is only one part of the price. The other will be paid when you return.” The priestess picked up the pitcher, offering to fill the glass once more. Voria cupped her hand over the top, if she drank any more she just might drown.
“How much does it cost?”
“Ten thousand gold. And twenty hours of service to Animasto.” The priestess intoned, setting the pitcher down. Voria gulped. She had just enough gold, almost as if it were fate.
“I can pay.”
“We can arrange the deal then. Just know that there will be consequences if you fail to perform your service.” With that vague threat the priestess led Voria back to the main chamber by her elbow. They approached the raised dais, and finally stood next to the altar.
“The gold, if you please.” The priestess extended her hand.
Voria paid the price, spending every coin she’d taken from the mayor's safe. The priestess slipped the coins into an invisible pocket in her robes, then took something from a small storage box behind the altar. Voria realised it was a thin biscuit.
“Eat this, and give me your hand.” Voria placed the biscuit in her mouth as instructed, then held the priestesses gloved hand. Her fingers were incredibly bony. The priestess lay her other hand on Voria’s forehead and whispered something in a language Voria couldn’t comprehend. The words seemed to somehow change their order after they were spoken, as if the sounds were living things.
Voria felt a tendril of warmth extending out from her forehead. It spiralled down her body, wrapping tighter until it felt like she was cocooned in warmth. Her mind felt still and clear for the first time since the fever had begun.
< I accept >
The voice spoke in her head without bothering to pass through her ears. It simultaneously boomed with grandeur and whispered like a lover. It felt both intimate and invasive. Voria realised her eyes were closed so she opened them. The priestess was standing a few feet away now, her hands clasped in front of her chest in prayer. The womans head was bowed, as if deep in concentration. Voria opened her mouth and then closed it again. The priestess would surely address her when she was ready.
After several long seconds the priestess straightened up and dropped her hands to her sides.
“The deal is made. If you die Animasto will resurrect you. He also asked that I make you comfortable. I understand your arm was scratched?”
Voria’s breath caught in her throat. There was
no way the priestess could have known that. This stupid game was breaking the rules of reality again.
“I - yes. I was attacked.” She pulled back the sleeve of her dress, revealing the red scratch. It was definitely infected.
Voria wavered at the sight of it. Had it been oozing that much when she’d got out of bed?
“Please, come with me. There’s a bed you can rest in until you recover, or…” The priestess trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid. She wrapped an arm around Voria to support her weight and led her back down the hallway.
Within minutes the priestess had stripped Voria and bundled her into a bed.
A few moments later, Voria fell into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Ten
Logan strayed no further than two paces from Azoth as his friend led him through Whiteridge. Trent was further ahead, marching with single minded determination toward the gates. Logan’s head was on a swivel, taking in all the sights and sounds of the city. The road they walked on was made of cobblestones, and in surprisingly good condition. Stores dotted the street and thin alleys snaked between them. Beyond the stores were countless houses. He paused for a half second to look over his shoulder at the church. Its stone walls revealed its age. Ivy climbed toward stained glass windows in places, and moss clung to the tops of the walls, out of reach of those that maintained the old building.
To his surprise there weren’t many people around. He saw an old lady step out of a store, spot the three hooded figures marching through town, and disappear back inside. A few burly men carried a wooden crate through a narrow alleyway, huffing and puffing as they did so. Somewhere in the distance Logan could hear a small child crying. More important than any of that was that he didn’t see any mobs. There weren’t groups of people lighting torches and gathering pitchforks.
Logan caught himself wondering whether Azoth had been right all along. Maybe he had been wrong to try and hide away in the dungeon until someone figured out how to win the game. They might be able to live amongst the townsfolk without problem.
“Where do you live?” Logan asked, catching up to Azoth. They walked along the road side by side, Trent was several meters ahead of them now. Logan realised that Azoth had been meandering along, giving Logan a chance to take in the city without being left behind or overwhelmed. He appreciated the gesture.
“See that alley over there? About a block back from there.” Azoth replied, pointing at a small gap between a grocer and what looked like a warehouse. The layout of the city suddenly reminded Logan he was in a video game. The buildings seemed to have been slapped together at random by a bored developer, rather than organically developed by a growing society. The realisation hit him with a pang of homesickness. He couldn’t wait to get back to the real world, to hold his daughter again.
“Maybe you were right” Logan admitted. To his credit Azoth didn’t rub it in his face.
“There’s room for you if you decide you want to move in. I can promise it’s more comfortable than the dungeon” Azoth laughed. He seemed genuinely excited by the thought of Logan moving in. Logan took that as a good sign. He trusted Azoth’s judgement, and it seemed his own reservations about Whiteridge had been unfounded. As long as he could put together a quick escape from town in the case of an angry mob, this might be a better place than the dungeon. It had to be more secure, right? There was a town guard patrolling, which would surely do a better job than his minions.
Especially now most of his minions had been destroyed.
“Yeah, I’d like to check that out.” Logan said.
Up ahead Trent had passed through a solid gate. A portcullis loomed above them, and Logan counted four guards hanging around. His hand tightened reflexively on his wand, and he looked to Azoth for reassurance. Azoth was oblivious to his discomfort, but also seemed completely at ease. He waved to an older guard as they passed through the gate, then nodded to the guards standing on the bridge. All of the guards smiled in response. A few even waved. It seemed that they all liked Azoth. Logan would have to ask about that later, Azoth had said that most of them had turned against him when he’d quit the guard.
They approached a collection of tents that had been erected on the far side of the river. Trent was already talking to an exceedingly tall fellow. Several cloaked figures moved about the camp, carrying firewood to stack next to the cookfires or filling buckets with water. General camp business, Logan decided. He focused his attention on the tall man. Trent was clearly his subordinate. It seemed like the tall figure was in charge of the camp, presumably in charge of all of the hunters. Logan found himself wondering how many hunters in this camp were actually animated minions. Maybe he could ask Trent afterwards.
For now, Trent looked deadly serious as he spoke to the tall man. Because of the leaders cloak Logan couldn’t judge his reaction. He could, however, observe Azoth. He noted that his friend was hanging back, almost as if he was scared to approach. That was rather out of character, which meant something bad had happened between them. Perhaps Azoth had argued with this man already? It wouldn’t exactly be surprising, though it might put them in an awkward position now. Logan wanted to stay on the good side of the hunters. More than being impressive fighters, Logan was sure they would be able to teach him some powerful new abilities. If he could make minions as useful as theirs, he’d be set for life.
Well, for as long as he was stuck in this damnable game.
“Oi, you two” Trent yelled, beckoning them over. Logan stepped past his reluctant friend and approached the stranger.
“This here’s the ol’ man.” Trent said, by way of introduction.
“This is Logan, and -”
“We’ve met.” The old man said with a barbed tongue. Out of the corner of his eye Logan saw Azoth take half a step backwards.
“Right. Well, they’re the ones that found the amulet. Only it’s been stolen, and a priestess was murdered.”
“The crime was one and the same?”
“Probably. We dunno where the killers gone, but I say if we catch them we find the amulet” Trent punched one hand into the other.
“Do you have any leads?”
“That’s where the local talent comes in, right lads?” Trent focused his question on Azoth. Logan breathed a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, I uh. I can talk to the guards, see if they found anything when they -”
“The guards know about the amulet?” The old man asked.
“No, but they know about the murder. Right?” Trent asked on their behalf.
“That’s right. They might have found something” Azoth said.
“So you’ll find out what they know, then catch the murderer before they can?”
“That’s the plan” Azoth agreed.
Logan couldn’t help but think that sounded like a weak plan. The guard would have more men working the case, surely they would solve the murder first. He kept his mouth shut though. For one thing, the old man didn’t seem like the kind of guy he wanted to cross. For another, he didn’t have a better suggestion.
“And you want my men to help?” The old man asked.
“A couple would be good, right.” Trent said. Logan felt a pang of guilt at killing the mans minions, though he quickly pushed it aside. Trent had killed a lot more of his minions than he’d killed of Trent’s.
“Two men, to replace the two you lost. You owe me.” The old man intoned. Trent nodded with a somber expression. Logan wondered if that meant he had to find new corpses. He hoped Trent wasn’t considering Azoth or him.
“Trent says you’re a necromancer?” The old man asked, turning his hidden face toward Logan.
“I - yes, sir” Logan stammered
“While your friend here goes to talk to the guards, how about we have a chat. I think we could help each other out.” The tall man gestured toward a seat by the fire, clearly dismissing Azoth. Logan wondered what his friend could have done to earn such ire, but his own greed soon took over. He made his way toward the fire, giving Azoth a nod as he passed
. This might be his chance to learn some new abilities, and that was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
The old man sat next to him and they both watched as Azoth stalked off toward the city.
“Trent tells me you were summoning minions” The old man stated, not unlike a disapproving father. Logan studied his wrinkled face. The eye patch was hiding something more than a missing eye, he was certain of it. It was almost as though Logan could feel something on the other side of the fabric peering at him. Understanding him.
“Uh, yes. I was reanimating the ratkin that were down in that ritual room.” There was no point in lying when the old man already knew the truth.
“How many did you summon? A Troupe?”
“A bit more than that. I discovered that minions would replace those in the Troupe that were killed.” Logan said with a touch of pride.
“And did you figure out how to create a Troupe leader?”
Logan paused. The old man was looking at him expectantly.
“I have to give them a piece of equipment with a skill, and wait until they learn to use it.”
“Very good. And did you?”
“I didn’t have any items to share” Logan admitted, glancing at his wand.
“Ah. You considered giving them that?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t worth leaving me without it. I don’t think I have enough equipment. I don’t have anything else to move my Null Blast too.” Logan idly fingered the charm dangling from the handle of the wand.
“Well, let me clue you in on a little something. You don’t have to give them something with an active skill. In fact, you’ll get a Troupe leader more quickly if you give them something with a passive buff.” As he spoke, the old man reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew an ornate pocket watch. It was backed in gold, and inscribed with an intricate rune that Logan couldn’t decipher.
“For example, this watch has a passive buff that reduces how long the wearer needs to sleep to feel refreshed. If I were to give this to a minion, he’d become a Troupe leader in a few hours. If you’d given him your wand with the charm, it’d have taken a few days. During which you’d have had to keep an eye out for misfired spells!” The old man chuckled heartily to himself, only stopping when he realised Logan wasn’t going to join in.