Unified Dead

by M B Reid

  “Do you understand the tiers of minions?” He asked, peering intently into Logan’s hood. Logan was certain the old man could see him, really see him, but he hadn’t recoiled in horror.

  “No?”

  “Ah, perhaps that is a lesson for another time. Just know that thirteen is the magical number of summons like ours.”

  Logan’s heart skipped a beat at that last word, and he looked around the campsite once more. Every hooded figure was standing stock still, staring at him.

  “I uh” Logan began, his mind reeling. Azoth was gone, and he was surrounded. There was no way he could fight his way out of this. As if reading his mind, the old man's face split into a wide smile.

  “Relax boy. I bear you no ill will.” As he spoke the strangers snapped back into motion, returning to their chores.

  “It’s not often I meet someone who can summon. Especially someone as young to this world as yourself.”

  Logan released his grip on his wand. He hadn’t even realised he’d snatched for it.

  “Now,” The old man clapped his hands together and stood “lets see what we can do about your lack of equipment.”

  He led Logan to one of the wagons and rustled around inside for a time. When he withdrew he was holding a pair of gloves, a similar set of boots, and a long wooden staff.

  “One of these could be of use to you, right lad? If I were to judge you and that friend of yours, I’d pick you as a ranged damage dealer more than support. Correct?”

  Logan thought of the time he and Azoth had wiped out a kobold tribe. His skeletons had supported, but he’d certainly only been trying to deal damage.

  “Well, excluding the summoning, yeah.”

  The old man tossed the staff back into the wagon without a second glance.

  “I thought as much. Would you like help with single targets or groups?”

  Logan struggled with that question. There was no right answer. When he was by himself, he wanted to be able to put things down quickly - like when those stupid humans had attacked. That necessitated single-target spells. But when he was with Azoth, he felt his role was better served by weakening and distracting everything, leaving Azoth to finish things off. He glanced toward the city, where his friend had already disappeared, and came to a decision.

  “Groups. It serves us better that way.” He said, unsure whether he was making the right decision. The boots disappeared back into the wagon.

  “Well now, it’s time you learnt a new skill then.” The old man grinned at him, and led them away from the wagon once more.

  Once they were in the grasslands behind the camp the old man handed Logan the gloves. Logan took them, and then paused. He couldn’t change into them here, in front of the old man, without revealing his true nature. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped as he failed to think of the words.

  “Relax lad. You don’t think I can see you for what you really are? I’m not going to be offended if you show a little bone.” He chuckled, and Logan froze. Logan glanced around. There was no one nearby except a single hooded stranger that had followed them from the camp. No witnesses.

  “How?” Logan managed.

  “There’s a lot more to this world than what you’ve seen.” The old man said. He raised the eye patch, revealing a jet black eye underneath. It was as if his pupil had yawned wide and consumed his eyeball. That eye saw everything in Logan’s history, his real life, and it judged him for it. Logan took a step back. Were he not holding the gloves he would have reached for his wand. The old man wasn’t threatening him, Logan was suddenly certain of that, but it didn’t take away his unease.

  “I - I thought I felt…”

  “Yes, my skills are not as subtle as they could be. But we’re getting distracted. Put the gloves on.” He spoke calmly, but with firm authority.

  Logan looked down at the gloves, finally inspecting them for the first time.

  Gloves of Blood

  Level 5 Item

  Grants access to Blood Rain ability.

  Blood Rain? That was intriguing enough to push Logan’s worries from his mind. He pulled off his plain gloves and slipped on the new ones. The old man paid no attention to the exposed bone fingers as Logan changed.

  “Right, now lets see if you can hit the minion there.” The old man pointed. The minion was standing alone, away from any source of collateral damage.

  “What if I kill it?”

  The old man roared with laughter before replying. “Then you’ll owe me a third minion. But I don’t think you’ll kill it that easily.” He pointed at the minion, encouraging an attack.

  Logan glanced at his gloves for a moment, then pointed them at the minion and activated Blood Rain. A dark cloud appeared in the sky above the minion, hovering a few meters in the air. It started to spew red rain down in a circle, centred on the minion. As the droplets of red hit the hooded minion, Logan saw the clothing soak through twice as fast as it should. As if each droplet of blood falling from the cloud pulled a matching drop out of the minion. After a few seconds the cloud dissipated, and the rain stopped.

  “Very good, very good indeed. Now, let's return to our lessons.” The old man smiled, and began walking back to camp.

  Logan’s day was starting to get interesting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Azoth stopped just inside the city gates, as soon as he was sure he was out of sight of the hunters camp. He didn’t want to stray too far from the river. The sound of the rushing water was the only thing helping to calm him right now. It was as if the water was washing away his frustrations, keeping his anger at bay. Azoth felt like Logan had betrayed him by sitting down with the old man after the bastard had dismissed him. His initial hunch that the hunters might have been here to help the ratkin had been thoroughly disproved. He still couldn’t understand why the old man had been so furiously opposed to him bringing pelts into the camp though.

  Was he missing something? Maybe the hunters weren’t being entirely up front about their plans. Or was he being overly paranoid? They’d done nothing to hurt him, and he’d been all for the attack on the undead ratkin they encountered. He also felt guilty about that, Azoth knew Logan was pissed at him. Azoth found himself craving the boredom he’d been complaining about just days ago. At least it was simple. Maybe passing away his days in mediocrity would be okay after all. Surely some players were getting close to finding the stones of Animasto and getting everyone out of the game.

  “What are they up to?”

  “Hmm?” Azoth replied. He looked up to see the oldest guard looking at him expectantly. He was a santa claus looking guy, with a red nose and thick grey beard. Beyond his face the comparison fell apart. Though old, this guard still had broad shoulders. He was stockily built, and muscled rather than overweight. He leaned on his spear with the air of a man who knew how to use it.

  “What are they up to?” He repeated.

  “Would you believe they’re here to trade?”

  “About as far as I could throw you.” That gave Azoth pause. The old guard looked like he could probably throw Azoth quite a long way.

  “Have you been investigating the murder?” Azoth asked.

  “Oh no, that poor lass won’t ever find justice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Duncan’s taken it on himself, hasn’t he? The man couldn’t find his ass with a map”

  “What, you mean he’s leading the investigation?”

  “No, I mean he’s the only one. Gave everyone else bitch-work while he hums and hah’s over his notebook.” The old guard grumbled.

  “There were a bunch of guards at the church earlier” Azoth began.

  “Aye, but you’ll find they’re cleaning the latrine or standing at the gate now. Nobody who knows anything is allowed to be doing their job. Duncan’s a prick like that. Wants all the glory hisself”

  “You don’t think he’s involved?”

  “Him? Na, he’s thicker than two short planks but he’s not the murdering sort.” />
  “No, I suppose not. So that gate you reckon? None of the guys here?”

  “The river gates a pretty good post really. Those poor buggers are over the other side, ain’t nobody comes that way no more. Probably bored out of their minds.” The guard grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth.

  “You’ll be catching the crook soon enough” He added, clearly understanding Azoth’s plan.

  “With any luck. Thank you” Azoth said. He shook the old guards hand, then crossed through town.

  It was emptier than usual. Azoth remembered hearing whisperings about a plague, but there weren’t any corpse carts or town criers shouting warnings. Besides, he’d only heard about it a night or two ago. That wasn’t enough time for a plague to spread, was it?

  He was no doctor, there was probably nothing he could do for anyone who was sick, but he could do something to find the amulet. That had to be his priority. Azoth kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and marched through the streets. The few people out and about waved to him as he passed. He returned the waves, thinking it was silly that these characters he’d never talked to before could treat him as the hero of Whiteridge.

  He didn’t feel like much of a hero today.

  When he finally reached the gate he found two guards sitting on the ground beneath the portcullis. They were playing a game of dice, and their spears were flat on the ground beside them. It flashed through his mind that Azoth would be able to kill the two of them before they realised what was happening. That didn’t say much for the men supposed to be guarding the gate.

  “Gentlemen” Azoth began. One of the guards looked up from the dice, recognised Azoth, and sprang to his feet. The other almost had a heart attack at the flurry of motion. When he regathered his breath he peered up at Azoth.

  “The hero of Whiteridge, here to talk to us?” He stammered. Azoth helped him to his feet.

  “I understand you two investigated the murder” Azoth said, adopting a more slouched pose. He didn’t want this to seem like a formal questioning.

  “Aye, we did. Poor old bugger, murdered in his own cellar. My cellar ain’t got nothing but cheese, well, I’ve been a bit too nervous to look since I saw what happened to him. Them ratkin, they like cheese you reckon?”

  “Him? I meant the priestess”

  “Oh, I was there for that. Terrible thing, being killed in a place of God” The other guard replied.

  “Wait, how many murders have there been?” Azoth asked.

  “Just the two. Three if you count Donnie’s wife, though she ain’t quite dead, not what I heard anyway” The cheese-fearing guard announced. Azoth appreciated that he was trying to be helpful but he didn’t seem to be the sort that would have noticed, well, anything. He wasn’t likely to shed much light on Azoth’s investigation. The other man, however…

  “Are murders common around here?” Azoth asked him.

  “No. Last one was about a year back, lovers quarrel I heard. Well, there was another man involved, and it was him what got killed”

  “But there have been two in the last, how long?”

  “Ol’ Donnie was a few days back, and the priestess was last night.”

  Azoth had a funny feeling the two were connected. Maybe the cheese fearing guard could be of use.

  “Where was Donnie killed?”

  “In his own cellar, would you believe. His wife was down there with ‘im, she was all gagged and tied up. I reckon it was a sex thing.”

  “A sex thing? The man was sixty three”

  “Ain’t much more to life at that age. Maybe they were trying to spice things up?”

  Azoth tried not to laugh as the two guards argued.

  “You think him getting stabbed to death was a sex thing?”

  “Well no, but that’s what they mean when people say ‘it went wrong’ init?”

  “The woman was sicker than a dead dog, what with that plague going around.”

  “So the plagues real?” Azoth asked

  “Where have you been? People have been getting sick for days. Not showing up for work, coughing and spluttering. We checked in on Sam when he didn’t show up for duty. The poor guy had shit himself in bed. Couldn’t do nothing but groan and cough.” The guard looked at his feet sheepishly, realising he’d just revealed a friends secret.

  “What’s being done about it?”

  “Self-imposed whatsit I suppose”

  “Quarantine” The other guard supplied.

  “Yeah, that’s it. A self imposed quarantine. People are just staying home, waiting ‘til they get over it. It’s just like a cold, plague is”

  Azoth shook his head at that. By all accounts a plague was absolutely nothing like a cold.

  “Donnie’s wife, she was sick?”

  “Yeah, real bad.” The smarter guard said, “That’s why it couldn’t be a sex thing could it? Ain’t no one that sick wanting sex. She had them sores as well”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A little black pimple like, you know” The guard made a circle the size of a penny with his thumb and forefinger. Azoth had read about the bubonic plague years ago, and he remembered one of the symptoms being small black pustules. Could this virtual world be suffering from the plague?

  “Where is she now?”

  “Woulda taken her to the church I imagine. What with her husband dead and her house an ‘active’ crime scene. No where else for her.”

  Things were starting to click together in Azoths mind. Could the plague drive someone into a murderous rage? These two deaths might be connected.

  “You said she was gagged?”

  “Right. Hands tied behind her back too. And she was just wearing a night gown” The dumb guard said, as if it proved his point about something.

  “And Donnie was stabbed to death?”

  “Right. Jim said they was real funny wounds, not like a normal knife.” The guard frowned, as if recalling all of this was a great struggle.

  “He didn’t do it to himself. Signs of a struggle, Jim said” The guard finished with a look that was a mixture of relief and pride.

  “So someone killed Donnie in his basement, and tied his wife up down there. How’d you find out they were down there?”

  “She escaped, didn’t she. Made a runner, stumbled right into town in broad daylight. Wearing just her night gown, all tied up for sex. It was a right scene.” Azoth realised nothing anyone said would convince the guard that she had not, in fact, been tied up for sex. He shuddered to think what the guards private life might be like. He saw the wedding band on the mans finger and shuddered again.

  Azoth was starting to piece together a theory of what had happened. A man and a woman trapped in their cellar. The man murdered. The woman escaped, and was taken to the church. Then the priestess was killed. Had the mans killer come back to finish off the wife? The priestess might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, might have stumbled in on what was happening. Maybe she hadn’t been killed for the amulet, could it have been stolen on a whim afterwards?

  “Is she still at the church?”

  “I’d think so. Sick as a dog, she wouldn’t be going nowhere fast.”

  “Was the priestess stabbed?” Azoth directed his question to the smarter guard.

  “Couldn’t say. The other priestess wouldn’t let us examine the body. Animasto’s laws and all that.” Azoth wasn’t surprised to learn that civilians weren’t allowed anywhere near the body of a priestess. Every priestess of Animasto was undead, and no-one outside of the church was supposed to know that. Azoth supposed the church would fight tooth and nail to keep that secret hidden.

  “What are you thinking?” The dumb guard asked. Azoth considered for a long moment before deciding not to share his thoughts. One of the guards might have been able to help guide him further. But Azoth was certain the other one would make the distinct mistake of telling everyone who would listen about this meeting with the fabled hero of Whiteridge.

  “Duncan stopped you investigating?”


  “Aye. The captain thought it would be better if he handled it himself. Called it a ‘delicate matter’, and gave us all shite postings. He just wants to get a blessing or something when he figures it out”

  “You guys have been extremely helpful. Thank you.” Azoth said, meaning it. He had a hunch to work off now, and the next stop in his investigative tour of the city.

  “You’ll thank us proper like when you catch him, won’t you?”

  “I’ll even put your names forward for a medal” Azoth agreed.

  He walked away before they could share their names.

  Returning to the church was strange. The big old building stood with its doors open. Candles flickered inside. To anyone on the outside it looked just as it always had. A heavy weight seemed to settle on Azoth’s chest as he walked up the street towards it. It unnerved him that everything looked the same, because it could never be the same again. The priestess, the woman who had been helping him since he first came to Whiteridge, was dead. Azoth couldn’t help but feel all his good will with the church had died with her.

  He climbed the steps slowly, almost as if by walking slow enough he could avoid the depression that he was walking into. There were a few devout people clustered at the far end of the main hall, praying by the altar. Priestess Sharron was among them, no doubt leading the prayers. Azoth stopped in the doorway to watch for a while. There was something calming about seeing people come together in their time of grief. A large part of him wanted to join them.

  Azoth had a mission though, and he intended to see it through. For the priestess, for his own guilt, for innumerable reasons he couldn’t comprehend. He had to find that amulet, and he had to get revenge on the priestesses murderer. As quiet as a mouse he padded down the long hallway toward the priestesses private room. The guards had searched it and found nothing. The priestess had let him check for the amulet, but had kicked him out moments later. This was his chance to search the room, a chance to put the hours spent watching CSI to good use.