by M B Reid
He was back.
A mirthless chuckle burst from him as he started along the tunnel. Each footstep deliberate. After all this time, he was back.
The mind that had inhabited this body, the pathetic wretch of a thing that his disciples had twisted and tormented, was gibbering with fear. It had no control over him now. Nothing did.
As he ascended through the earth, guided by the magical sonar that pulsed ahead of him, he began to hear chanting. The chanting only a group of heretics could manage. Prayer to that damnable god, Animasto. The Bearer caressed the handles of his daggers. They would soon be sated with the blood of the unholy. Those fools out there, praying to their god, didn’t realise what they were really calling for. His lips curled back in a sneer.
He would show them.
Orange light shifted, darkening. The orb was a dark red colour now. It felt his anger and his blood-lust. It approved.
He quickened his pace, rushing toward the surface. If there were prayers there would be a priestess. An undead stain to be cleansed.
He burst through the cellar door, stepping into the stench of that other god. That terrible god that had bound him for so long.
Animasto.
The Bearer’s orb had returned to its rightful orange. His colour. It illuminated a small room filled with wine barrels. He could smell the stink of the undead. There was one here somewhere, close. A priestess.
With one hand he slapped the orb against his plated chest. The manifestation of power clinked against the black armour, glowed brighter, and melded to it. It set in the centre of his chest plate, as if there were no other place for it in all of the world.
Both hands now free he drew his blades.
The staircase at the far end of the room was short. The stench of death came stronger from there, and The Bearer was drawn towards it.
He burst into the church, emerging behind the altar. The priestess stood before him, dressed in the blasphemous robes of her terrible god. The Bearer stabbed both blades into her, the curved steel entering by her shoulders and plunging into her chest. He pulled the right one back, towards him, and carved through bone. The priestess shrieked in pain and surprise, her treacherous prayers brought to an abrupt halt. The crowd was screaming now, the horror playing music to his ears.
“Scum!” He cried, pulling the other blade through her back. There was no flesh for his blades to tear, but there didn’t need to be. His gifted weapons sliced through the very essence that kept the priestesses moving. Wisps of magic that only he could see drifted away from the dying woman, slowly ascending like smoke from a match. The orb in his chest pulsed. As the magic spread through the room The Bearer could see every face in the crowd. Every single one of them was contorted in fear, as the terrified fools rushed for the door. None of them mattered to him. They were misguided, but they could come around to the correct way of thinking.
What concerned him was the stench of the undead. There were more of Animasto’s playthings in town, he could smell their presence. They’d been in the church recently.
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
The Bearer leapt across the room, landing amongst the fleeing crowd. One man was crushed beneath his boots, a necessary sacrifice.
“Everybody stop!” He roared. His voice was ragged. It had been all but unused for years.
A woman next to him started screaming in pure terror. His dagger flashed out, the sickle-blade opening her throat in one smooth movement. Her scream fell silent.
“I want to know where the undead are. Where are they?” He relished in using his voice. He had the attention of the crowd, and yet none of them could speak.
“Where. Are. They?” He punctuated each word with a slash of his blades. A woman died here, a young man there. The third was not so lucky as to have a clean death. He lost a hand.
“Someone, speak up!” The Bearer roared.
By the door, well beyond his reach, one brave man spoke in a wavering voice.
“They’ve been exiled.”
The Bearer made a show of breathing through his nose.
“When?”
“H-Hours ago” The man stammered. He looked ready to turn and flee into the city streets. As if he could outrun The Bearer. To demonstrate that it was impossible, The Bearer leapt again, soaring through the room to land next to his informant. The man fell to the ground, his knees giving out in fright. He wore a blue tunic. The whimpering voice in The Bearer’s mind whispered “The Guard”. This pathetic specimen was what passed for the guardians of the people.
“You exiled them?” The Bearer asked, kneeling to bring his face closer to the terrified guardsman.
“Y-Yes” The guard whimpered.
“Very good. Very good indeed!” The Bearer straightened, sniffing in the cool night air. The undead were still close, he could tell.
“You’ve done very well. But it was all in vain. They will return to me, I know this.” The Bearer stepped away from the cowering guard as the man lost control of his bladder.
The Bearer studied his surroundings. The stench of the undying permeated everything. Only one thing could cleanse this mess.
Fire.
Voria woke in a fit of coughing. Her dry throat rasped as she struggled for air. She dry-heaved on the last cough, her stomach too empty to evacuate anything. The trip back to the mayors manor was an unsteady blur in her memory. She groaned and tried rolling over, shifting her weight off her aching left side and onto her back. Her dagger glistened on the bedside table and she could have sworn it was talking to her.
Put yourself out of your misery she imagined it saying. She had a resurrection deal after all, there was no point suffering like this.
Voria forcibly shook her head, as if she could shake the thoughts away. No matter what happened to her here, that was not an option. She couldn’t risk it - what if the resurrection deal didn’t take? A voice in the back of her mind reminded her of her theory; that dying in the game was the only way to return to the real world. If she ended this misery now she might just wake up in her FIVR rig back home, as if none of this had ever happened.
Or she could die. Forever.
Voria scratched at the sores on her arm as she held back another bout of coughing. With immense difficulty she forced herself up to a sitting position, where she could grab the glass of water on her bedside table. It barely wet her throat as she skulled it down, and the impact of liquid on her stomach made her gag. She needed more to drink, but couldn’t raise the energy to climb out of bed.
As she lay there in her personal hell, Voria noticed the sounds of a commotion happening in the courtyard outside her bedroom window. That was enough to give her the energy she needed to drag herself across the room. She leaned against the heavy curtains and listened.
“I want every guard on alert all the time. Triple the patrols. Didn’t you see it?” Voria recognised the mayor's voice. It was pitched half an octave higher than usual, a telling sign that he was stressed. Voria had heard him like this only a few times in the past, and it always indicated a real problem on the horizon. Normally one that she had to worry about.
“Uh, yes sir. But the guards need to rest -”
“No, they need to be ready at a moments notice. Undead I tell you, a living corpse! It was horrific”
Voria clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the next barrage of coughs. Had the undead launched an attack on the town? Had she managed to kick off a war by sending those half-wit brothers after them? She glanced across the room at her daggers, then dismissed the thought. She could barely cross the room, it wouldn’t matter if she had the daggers in hand or not, if those undead players were coming for her she didn’t stand a chance.
Not like this.
“Sir, about their warning -”
“Lies! Why would you believe the word of a corpse? He was trying to scare you into letting him go”
“With respect sir, Azoth -”
“Is an undead freak. And if you see him you’ll kill him.
Gods, you don’t think he’s a person do you? Now get out of my sight, you’ve got your orders.” Footsteps stomped off.
Voria scratched at her arm. The sores were becoming impossible to ignore, and even though she knew scratching them was only making them worse she couldn’t stop. Azoth, hero of Whiteridge, had fallen. She felt no satisfaction at that, her history with him notwithstanding. He’d done a genuinely good thing to protect the city from the Ratkin menace. And he hadn’t come after her for trying to reveal him as undead when he’d first come to the city.
Voria bit her tongue and scratched herself again. She shouldn’t have sent those idiotic brothers to the dungeon. She should have asked Azoth for help. If he was the kind of guy to risk his life saving a city of NPCs he could probably have forgiven her. But she’d certainly blown that chance now.
She weighed her options. She could flee the city, hope to distance herself from the undead players until their rage subsided. She could stay and fight, the mayors manor was the best guarded place in the city. Though if Azoth had defeated the Ratkin by himself, Voria didn’t think the city guard would stand against him. Especially when he had that friend of his. She could beg for mercy, for forgiveness, and hope that they spared her. If they were revealing themselves as undead and attacking the town though… it seemed unlikely that they’d be in the mood for forgiveness.
And what had the guard said about a warning? Could it be that there was a larger threat here, and that the undead players had tried to defeat it? That certainly seemed in character for them.
A bout of coughing overcame Voria, forcing her to her knees. The water in her stomach came back up, carrying just enough bile to burn her throat. It didn’t matter what plans she might have, until this illness passed she wouldn’t be doing anything. She just had to hope that the game made diseases pass after a set number of hours. Failing that, she’d have to pray that the resurrection deal worked.
Voria dragged herself across the floor on her hands and knees, and crawled back into bed.
In moments she drifted into a fitful sleep.
Voria stomped through a shadowy dream-scape. Pillars of light rose to meet her feet with each haughty step. Ahead of her, the only thing she could make out amongst the fog was an enormous humanoid statue. It glowed from within, emerald hues that occasionally shifted to sparkles of sapphire. Voria’s anger seethed as she marched towards it, never seeming to get any closer.
In the beginning she’d been swearing.
Then she’d screamed until her throat was raw.
Now she stomped in silence, waiting for this eternity to end.
This was purgatory. And, if she were being honest, it was probably better than she deserved. She’d killed Darius, murdered him in a fit of rage. Nothing could bring him back or redeem her for what she’d done. She was only grateful she was here, in this murky void, rather than suffering in hell.
As that thought struck her the statue flared a deep ruby red. In an instant it was upon her, so close she could reach out and touch it. One of her hands flew to where her dagger should be strapped to her wrist, finding nothing. The other clamped over her own mouth, silencing a scream.
It was him.
Darius leered at her. His skin was now stone grey, given an anaemic glow by his inner light. He had lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. Or a shark. There was no anger in his expression though, no hint that he was a threat. Only that he was there, as if to remind her of exactly what she’d done. Voria slowly lowered her hands, holding them by her side. The statue was still and relaxed. He had no weapons that she could see, though his heavy stone fists would easily pummel her into a pulp. She was sure of that.
“I’m sorry” Voria whispered, her voice coming out as a ragged sigh.
The statues expression changed at that. Its thick brows came together in confusion. It tilted its head to one side, inspecting her in the same way a puppy would. Those cold dead eyes peered into her soul.
“Darius, I’m so sorry.” Voria tried again. She realised the anger that had propelled her this far had deserted her now. She felt naked without it, cold without the furnace of fury. Her knees gave out beneath her. Pillars of light rose up to catch as she fell to the invisible floor. Tears slithered down her face and she struggled to hold her silence. Every fibre of her being wanted to weep, to scream at the gods, to unburden herself of the weight she’d been carrying ever since he’d died.
Ever since she’d killed him.
“I - I don’t know what you want. What do you want from me?” Though she shouted those last words, the anger had deserted her. She felt empty inside, hollow.
“You will serve.” The statue spoke without moving its mouth. It wasn’t Darius’ voice that whispered its way into her mind, this was something else. Something old.
“What does that -”
Voria’s words were cut off as a wall of violet light rushed towards her from the depths. It blotted out everything as it thundered upwards. In the moment before the violet cascade overwhelmed her, Voria managed to mutter just two words.
“I’m sorry.”
There was no dramatic gasp of breath like in the movies.
Voria woke much like any other person would - her eyes fluttered open, her brain started to process sounds. She slowly became aware of the silk sheets against her skin and the reassuring weight of the feather duvet. As more waking thoughts filtered their way through her brain she realised something had changed. The fog that had filled her head since falling ill had abated, letting the gears of her mind turn unimpeded.
Her muscles no longer ached. The ever-present urge to cough was gone.
She was cured.
Voria sat bolt upright, looking around the dark room. There was no light fighting to pass through her curtains now, she must have been asleep for hours. She raised her right arm, intending to inspect the sores that had plagued her for days. Vomit raced her scream out of her throat, splattering the bedsheets at what she saw. Where once she’d had flawless ivory skin, her arms had now taken on the grey hue of the dead. The black sores that had dotted her flesh were sunken craters now, as if she had rotted away beneath them. She cradled her arm in her left hand, feeling dry leathery skin. Her other arm was no better.
Voria rushed to the curtains, throwing them open to let the moonlight flood the room. A moment later she stood in front of the full length mirror. She fought back the urge to scream as her eyes fell upon her face. Her skin had tightened against the bone, grey and lifeless. A small tear in her right cheek exposed her upper teeth. Her eyes yellow globes sunk into her skull.
She was a monster.
Voria spun away from the mirror, unable to face herself any longer. The mental fog of the disease had given way to the screeching metallic maelstrom of terror. She stopped, hunched over herself, and took several deep breaths. She had to come up with a plan. The mayors men were acting on orders to kill any undead they encountered. She needed to get out of this death-trap of a manor and into… Where exactly? Voria had devoted her time to ingraining herself in the life of the mayor. She had no one to turn to outside of this household.
As she grappled with her dilemma another thought began to worm itself through her mind. A simple statement that took some examining before the implications were fully understood: I’m not angry.
Ever since she’d been stuck in the game, the rage trait she’d depended on so much in combat had been embedded in the back of her mind. Almost everything had inspired an angry response from her. Every single day in the game had been a struggle against that deep-seated rage. It’s what had driven her to attack Darius in that clearing. It’s what had motivated her to send the twins after the undead players in their little dungeon. It had driven almost every action since this godforsaken game had trapped her, and now it was gone.
Voria felt empty.
A knock at the door drew her out of the spiral of depression. A single loud thud, followed by two quick raps of the knuckles. Voria realised she’d frozen in place, holding her
breath. Before she could react a hand turned the door knob. The door stayed stuck within it’s frame. Of course it would, she always kept it locked. What kind of maniac would leave their bedroom door unlocked in a world where dying meant death?
Voria almost laughed aloud at that thought. This was the only world existed where dying didn’t mean death. It meant becoming a monster. A monster that needed to escape. She returned to the bed, grabbing her daggers from the bedside table. The enchanted blades granted her a few abilities that she couldn’t do without.
Voria took a moment to slip into the leather armour she’d had from the beginning of the game. A few charms dangled from the belt around her waist, glinting in the moonlight. That completed her arsenal of abilities, everything she’d need to survive until she escaped from this horrible game.
She pulled a long cloak over top of her gear, cinching it at the front so that it would completely cover her. The hood was a dreadful fur-lined thing that would only draw attention to how much the cloak was worth, but it would have to do for now. She pulled it over her head to hide her face in shadows. She could hear the person outside rattling keys as they tried to find the right one for her door. Only the mayor and his right hand man had complete sets of keys. Voria wasn’t going to wait around and see which one it was.
She grabbed her empty backpack and unlatched the wide window on the far side of the room. Voria swung the pack onto her back, adjusted the straps, then hopped into the open space. Even though her body was now dead, she was no less dexterous. A small drop like this wouldn’t pose a problem at all.
The man on the other side of the door twisted the correct key. The mayor stepped into the empty room to see a fluttering of fabric disappear out the window.
Voria landed in the infamous superhero pose - crouched with one hand laid on the ground in front of her to help with balance. Her free hand hovered in the air beside the knife at her belt. She took a deep breath and studied her surroundings. Nobody else was in the garden. The perfume scent of roses filled her nostrils. The grounds were bathed in light from the full moon high above, painting everything into a grey-scale picture.
