by M B Reid
He groaned again.
“Silence!” A voice sneered from behind him. An unmistakable voice.
Azoth’s dazed brain finally unravelled the puzzle of his low health. He wasn’t in combat anymore, he’d clearly lost that, but his health hadn’t restored because he’d been arrested. Either the guards could break the game rules, or he couldn’t recover any health while in the vicinity of a very real threat from his captors. His only hope was for his health to regenerate once he was thrown in a cell.
“Someone send for a medic” The sneering voice commanded, and another guard shuffled away at a fast walk.
Azoth was torn between relief and terror. On one hand they wouldn’t have sent for a medic if they were about to execute him. On the other, they were about to unmask him for who he really was. Azoth activated the Flesh Meld ability that his belt granted him. In his mind's eye he pictured the human figure he’d employed last time he’d used the ability - pale skin riddled with scars. Deformed enough that people would be uncomfortable looking at him, but not so much that they would stop to stare.
Azoth felt a slight itch ripple from his head to his toes as the ability activated. As long as they didn’t strip him naked, and he didn’t run out of mana, his identity would remain a secret. Azoth glanced at his mana bar, and saw it was close to fifty percent. He could only hope the medic didn’t want to look at him for long.
Another panicked thought spun a tornado in Azoth’s skull. What if their solution was to force-feed him a health potion? Being an undead character in Liorel had a myriad of disadvantages. A major one being that healing abilities inflicted harm instead of healing. Azoth had to find some way of dissuading a medic.
“No medic” He rasped. It sounded like he hadn’t spoken in weeks. One of the guards carrying him chuckled.
“Tough guy huh?”
“No medic” Azoth repeated.
“You hear that boss?” The guard asked. Behind them Duncan laughed.
“Everyone did. You want to decline medical aid?” Duncan asked. The way he said it sounded like a dare somehow.
“Yes. No medic.” Azoth wheezed.
“Fine by me” Duncan laughed. One of the guards carrying Azoth shook his head.
“You’re an idiot, lad. A right idiot.”
Azoth couldn’t help but disagree. That had been far too easy.
“Strip him and chain him to the gate.” Duncan ordered as they stepped into the small courtyard outside the guard barracks. This was the very place that the previous captain of the guard had united the men, Azoth included, and prepared them for battle against the ratkin. Azoth had taken his first steps to being the hero of Whiteridge in this very courtyard. And now he was going to become the town's greatest villain.
The guards set him down against the outer gate. Another guard was already approaching with shackles taken from inside the barracks. The rest of the procession was mingling outside the courtyard walls, loitering in the streets. Duncan hadn’t given them explicit orders, and no one seemed sure as to what the procedure was when it came to chaining a prisoner in the street. If Azoth was going to make a move, it would have to be now.
But his health was too low. Even a glancing blow from any one of them would be enough to kill him. Permanently.
Azoth decided his only option was to go along with their demands. He lifted his gloved hands in front of him, exposing his wrists for the shackles. The guard carrying them stepped forward, then froze as Duncan’s voice shrieked across the courtyard.
“I said strip him, not just chain him. The city should see this murderer for who he really is.”
The guard gave Azoth an apologetic shrug. He could have sworn the man had even whispered an apology. Regardless, the guard started to strip off Azoth’s clothes, starting with his gloves.
“Let me keep the pants, please.” Azoth pleaded as another guard pulled back his hood to reveal his scarred bald head.
They dragged his tunic off him next, revealing a pale chest with scars that could have come from the claws of a dragon. To the right of his spine his back was a mess of knotted flesh, melted like a candle. A zealous young guardsman pulled his boots from his feet, revealing yellowed toenails and blistered soles.
“Sorry lad” One guard mumbled as he reached for Azoth’s belt buckle.
Azoth squirmed away, resisting for the first time. This surprised the guards. One drew his sword and brandished it menacingly. Another jolted upright so he could use his spear as a weapon rather than a resting post.
“Please, don’t strip me naked. Not here.” Azoth pleaded, squirming away again as another guard grabbed for him. The man that had carried the shackles into the courtyard stopped, obvious pain clouding his eyes. He didn’t want this to happen any more than Azoth did.
“Sir -” he began
“Is there a problem?” Duncan sneered from nearby. Azoth didn’t dare take his eyes off the men grabbing for him, but knew Duncan was standing over his shoulder somewhere.
“It’s not right, sir. He’s a hero”
“He’s a murderer!” Duncan hissed
The guard, Azoth's saviour, fell silent. He glared at his feet and shuffled away from Azoth. It was clear he wouldn’t participate, but he wouldn’t do any more to stop it either.
“Please” Azoth pleaded, finally taking his eyes away from the guards and fixing them on Duncan. He was at the mans mercy and he hated it.
“Finish your jobs” Duncan ordered the men. One of them grabbed Azoth by a foot.
Rage crashed down over Azoth like a wave breaking. This situation was completely unfair. To be at the mercy of a prick like Duncan was god awful. He wanted to grab the man by the throat and squeeze until Duncan’s eyes bulged right out of his head. Azoth settled for spitting at Duncan’s face and kicking the man holding his foot. His vision formed a red tunnel as he lashed out at anything that moved. His fists pummelled shins and boots. His feet kicked wildly. A guttural growl seemed to emanate from his chest as he fought like a wild animal.
Eventually the two big men that had carried him from the river gate tackled him to the ground, pinning his limbs to the dirt. Duncan stepped forward so that he was towering over Azoth’s restrained figure. He made a great show of working snorting up phlegm, then spat at Azoth. The prisoner flailed wildly, but couldn’t move under the weight of the men restraining him. It was over.
“Scum” Duncan growled. He knelt and punched Azoth once in the stomach. As Azoth doubled over in pain Duncan reached for the belt buckle. He unlatched it, grabbed the buckle, and pulled the belt aside. Azoth felt a tickle rush from his toes to his scalp as the Flesh Meld ability faded away.
Someone started screaming.
Azoth blinked. He wasn’t dead.
He had been convinced that his death would come in the seconds after his true identity was revealed. He hadn’t bothered to form a plan for what he might do now that they’d let him live. That was the first of two surprises. The second was that even his most steadfast supporters couldn’t see him as anything more than a zombie. Not now.
Azoth lay on his back, staring up at the sky. His rotting grey flesh drew the eyes of every single guard in the courtyard. Some had recoiled in horror, others had shuffled closer to get a better look at the freak-show in their midst. None of them looked on with compassion. He was no longer the hero of Whiteridge, he was it’s shame.
“Get the mayor” Duncan hissed at the man nearest him. The young guard couldn’t have been any older than sixteen, and he looked like he’d soiled his pants at the sound of Duncan’s voice. He nodded, stammered something, and took off at a shuffling run in the direction of the mayors manor.
Azoth realised in that moment that none of the guards were close enough to grab him. A second later he realised that, even invisible, he wouldn’t make it out of the courtyard without bumping into someone. His health was hovering just above the level where a stiff breeze would cut him down. He couldn’t risk getting into a fight.
One of the burly guards seeme
d to be reading Azoth’s mind. The man stepped forward and picked up the shackles. He wordlessly held them out.
“I want you to know -” Azoth said, taking the shackles and fixing them around his own wrists.
“Silence, fiend!” Duncan roared, brandishing his sword. The man holding the chain jingled it, making it clear to Azoth that he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. That was much more worrying that Duncan’s superfluous acting. Azoth held his hands up in surrender, keeping his lips pressed tight together. He tried to signal his cooperation to the guard holding the chain, but saw nothing but revulsion in the man's eyes. Azoth had no idea if his message had been received.
“Sir, should we establish a perimeter?” The older guard very carefully pronounced perimeter, as if he were particularly proud of his vocabulary.
“You should have done that already” Duncan sneered, It was clear to Azoth that Duncan hadn’t even considered it. That was the only advantage he had right now. He was physically outmatched, but in a battle of wits Duncan had come unarmed. More than that, Azoth had friends in the city now. Even if the townsfolk had turned against him, Logan was here to help him escape from this disaster. All he had to do was bide his time until his friend could rescue him.
Azoth risked glancing around. They were standing at the edge of the courtyard, practically bordering on the main street. The street was empty. Azoth resisted a sigh. It had been foolish to hope that Logan might be striding to his rescue already. He figured the mayor would take some time to pamper his wig and gather his followers. That meant Azoth had at least half an hour before being executed.
He crossed his fingers and waited.
Chapter Fourteen
Reality slowly dawned on the Bearer. It trickled into his mind like a melting glacier. First, he was awake. Then he was there, present in the room with the undying things. Finally, he could see. A pulse of something rushed out away from him, printing a picture in his mind of the long tunnels that spread out from this room. The pulse illuminated the landscape in his mind's eye for a fraction of a second as it moved away from him.
The pulse came again, pushing out from his body, mapping the tunnels in his mind. For the briefest moment he could see every detail of the dead things that stood around him. Then the wave moved beyond them, detailing the tunnels that stretched in each direction. Another pulse came, three seconds after the last. As the pulse met its maximum range, the Bearer realised that something was missing.
The whispers were gone.
He sat up, looking around the room with new eyes. Sitting up had been harder than he’d expected. Looking down, he saw that he now wore plated armour. It covered his torso, shoulders, and thighs. Black chitinous plates trimmed in gold.
Beautiful. The voice that spoke in his mind now was a combination of every other whisper. The voices had spoken in unison, and the word had pushed through his mind with the strength of a tsunami. Whatever he had been thinking was washed away. Only the word remained, the imprint filling his mind with beauty.
He waited for the pulse to go again, and studied the undying things. Their skeletal faces leered as the magic reflected off them. He didn’t need the light from the fire anymore, the pulses made his eyes redundant. He could see much better with his mind.
He felt at his waist for the weapons he knew would now be there. His clawed fingers wrapped around the handles of his daggers, and he drew the weapons. The blades were curved, like two small sickles. The tools of his trade. He had used them just once in the last few days, and they begged to bathe in blood again.
The Bearer looked at the disgusting wretches that surrounded him. The dead things that no longer had a mind of their own. They were to be put down. Immediately.
He approached the nearest, and with one powerful slash he removed its head. Its body collapsed to the dirt, as dead as it should be.
The Bearer made quick work of the remaining abominations. The undead scourge had no reaction as he killed their brothers. They didn’t respond as he approached them. These undead skulls were devoid of thought.
Well done. The combined whispers congratulated him as he completed his bloody task.
It is my time now. They said, the words louder in his head.
The Bearer whimpered. He knew what was coming. In the same way he’d known everything, he knew what was about to happen. He didn’t like it.
“Please” He whispered, knowing it would be of no use.
No. The whispers stated. Then they began to laugh. The noise rose to a fever pitch, filling The Bearer’s brain with white noise. The fuzziness grew ever louder, until he started to see the noise in his head.
His last sight was of his arms moving against his will, flicking the blades this way and that. His body was no longer his own.
Moments later, the white noise consumed him.
Azoth saw the three figures approaching before any of the guards. He was careful not to look in their direction for too long, not wanting to give them away. At the same time he mentally cursed them. Whatever their plan was, waltzing up to the guards in the middle of the street didn’t seem like a good way to go about a rescue.
“Where’d you come from?” One guard asked. He was a younger guy, with flaming red hair and a scar running down one cheek. He juggled a knife from hand to hand, though Azoth couldn’t tell if it were out of habit or an attempt at looking threatening.
“Shut up Johnny” Someone else growled. It surprised Azoth that it wasn’t Duncan. The leader of the guard seemed to have abandoned his men, leaving them to encircle their unnatural prey. Azoth heaved a sigh.
“I’m a traveller, just like any other.” He said.
“Na, you’re a dead man. Ain’t seen one of them in years.” Johnny replied, stepping closer. He loomed over Azoth now, his shadow blocking out the sun.
“Whatever you think I am, whatever you think I’ve done. You’re wrong. I still saved you from the Ratkin” Azoth announced. He saw that his three friends were closer now, almost bordering onto the group of guards. Azoth decided he should draw everyone's attention.
“I am Azoth. I was cursed with this, “ he gestured at his rotting flesh “ I didn’t choose it. I hid it because I knew you wouldn’t understand, and you don’t. But I’m still the same guy you’ve been buying drinks for, the guy you fought with against the ratkin. The guy who used to wear that -”
“Shut up!” Johnny yelled, he lunged forward until the point of his dagger was hovering an inch above Azoth’s right eye. “Why I oughta -”
Another guard grabbed Johnny from behind and pulled him backwards.
“That’s enough. He’s a prisoner, you ain’t gonna execute him.” Someone yelled.
“He ain’t no prisoner, he’s a stinkin’ undead” Somebody else retorted.
Azoth had the sinking feeling that the congregation of guards was on the verge of becoming a mob. If they worked themselves into a fury he wouldn’t survive long enough to see what Logan and the hunters were planning.
It was in that moment that he heard Trent’s voice.
“Excuse me gentlemen.” Trent projected his words above the hubbub of argument that had started to brew.
“Wadda you want?” Johnny growled, becoming the de facto voice of the guards.
“We would very much like to talk to you about the prisoner you have here.” Trent announced with a wolfish smile. On his tattooed face it was incredibly intimidating. Johnny stopped juggling his knife.
By now the guards had parted, giving Azoth line of sight to the two hunters. Logan wasn’t standing with them. In fact, he seemed to have vanished altogether. When had that happened?
“Well too bad. This is official guard business, so run along.” Johnny sneered. To Azoth he seemed like he might well be Duncan’s understudy. Stupid and mean, a terrible combination.
“Ah, but we’re here on official Hunter business. And we need to talk to that man.” Trent stepped forward, until he was face to face with the only guard standing directly between him and Azoth. It wasn’t Jo
hnny.
“As you will all be aware, the business of the Hunters is not to be impeded.” The old man warned, standing a few meters behind Trent. Azoth couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Here were two men, neither holding weapons nor armour, arguing their way through a small mob of fully armed guards.
And it was working.
“But -” Johnny began.
“Are you trying to obstruct a Hunter in the execution of his duties?” Trent asked, with venom dripping from his words. The guard in front of him took a step backwards. Johnny suddenly broke away from the group, running toward the barracks. It was clear he was going for Duncan. Azoth wasn’t sure how much truth there was to the Old Man’s words, but the guards were acting as though a Hunter's word was law. He hoped they were right.
Trent sidestepped the guard and strode toward Azoth. His glare diverted any other guards before they had the bright idea of stepping into his path. He stopped, towering over Azoth in much the same way that Johnny had. Azoth gulped.
“You are being conscripted into the service of the Hunters. By right of the old laws, and -”
“What in the blazes is going on?” Duncan roared, barrelling out of the barracks. Johnny followed just a few feet behind.
“Make way” Someone else announced, and a moment later the mayor stepped into full view, panting and sweating.
Azoth cursed under his breath.
“I say, what is the meaning of this?” The mayor panted. He dabbed at his pomegranate forehead with a handkerchief.
“Oh, sir, I uh -” Duncan stammered.
“The Hunters are -” Trent began.
“I -” Azoth interjected.
“Fuck.” The old man shouted the word like a command. Silence settled over the battalion of guards. A noble lady, one of the many rich folk that had followed the mayor into the town, held a hand to her mouth in horror. Azoth couldn’t help but think that this was the most ridiculous situation he had ever been in. Even with his life hanging in the balance he struggled to suppress a laugh.