This story is being rewritten! The new version, A Price in Memory, can be found here. 

 I highly suggest you read the new version as this one won't be completed. Also, there has been a lot of changes so you won't be able to continue with the other where this one left off.

The sky had begun to darken by the time Y’rid stood up from beside the crate. The few hours he spent trying to sort through his memories had left him unsatisfied and mentally drained.

But the time had not been entirely wasted. He had combed through the boy’s memories, whose name he now carried. After a while, they had completely lost the intruding feeling they had at the beginning. If he didn’t know any better he might have mistaken them for his own, thinking the feeling of wrongness stemmed from his resurrection.

But he did.

A series of scenes were retrieved from the depths of his mind. Scenes of a life completely unlike that of the boy, yet he instinctively knew that they belonged to him and him alone.

At first they appeared to be utterly random. An image of him sparring against a young man was followed by one of him running through tall grass chasing a slightly older boy, laughing as he did so. He barely had a handful of these memories, yet he held them close, comforted by the sense of familiarity they brought him.

After a few hours, he finally had enough to form a crude and broken outline of a life. His life. A few childhood memories, only enough to be counted on one hand, showed him images of a family. Images of a father, a mother and a brother. Even now a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he held those pieces in his mind.

He remembered standing on top of a wooden wall looking out over the road leading into a village as his fingers hit the hilt of the sword at his side, tapping out a rhythm that he could not place. He was a soldier or guard of some kind, of that he was sure, but this only seemed to spark more questions in his mind. Questions he had no answers for.

Then there was the scene of a small girl with raven black hair, playing in the sunlight. As soon as the image came to mind he felt his throat constricting and a longing in his heart. Yet he could not force himself to loosen his grip on the memory. Like a man offered water after almost dying of thirst, he clutched at the memory, watching those precious few seconds unfold before the scene faded to nothing.

He desperately tried to push his mind to see more but was once again assaulted by a splitting headache. Not willing to give up the pushed his mind further. The pain increased and his vision began to darken before he finally relented, finding himself lying on the ground gasping for air.

He knew she was important and knew why, but he could not bring himself to say the words. So he had sat up silently as he calmed his mind, carefully filling away the half-remembered scene.

There was one memory though, that stood out even more, yet for entirely different reasons.

***

He watched as the wave of flesh, bone and steel approached. He could hear shouts and cries of fear and rage echoing beside him as he stood in line.

To his left stood a man clutching a pitchfork, the callouses on his hands earned by long days on a farm, not by swinging a sword. The laugh lines covering his face spoke of an amiable personality, yet currently his face was twisted in fright.

To his right stood a soldier in rough iron and leather armour holding a spear. At first glance he might have seemed more prepared than the militia, his teeth barred in an expression of rage. But the wide eyes and pale face betrayed him. No amount of training could prepare a man for death.

He didn’t know those standing at his side and they didn’t know him. In the chaos of the first clash, he had been separated from the two of his own men that came with him. He could only hope that they weren’t among the corpses strewing the field in front of him. In the melee, there was no time to protect those at your side, not when you had to fend off multiple weapons while swinging your own.

He could just make out the expressions those that charged at them, a mixture of bloodlust and fear that mirrored those on his side.

Why?

More land? Riches plundered from the dead? What use were such things if you weren’t alive to enjoy them?

His melancholic train of thought was interrupted as the sides met. The incomprehensible shouts and curses mixing together in a deafening cacophony of noise as he added his own.

A sword flashed downward, without form or technique, as the wielder sought only to inflict as much harm as possible. Years of experience took over as he stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade while driving his own through the cracked leather armour of the enemy.

The shout of rage from the assailant turned to a screech of pain as he ripped out the short sword from the man’s chest in a spray of blood. He stepped past the falling man leaving the killing blow to those behind him as he slashed, aiming for the neck of the next man.

By some stroke of luck, the man slipped on the blood-soaked ground, causing the blade to flash past his eyes. But the man’s luck didn’t last long as his follow up kick took him square in the face, knocking him unto his back before a pitchfork nailed him to the ground as he wailed.

He spared the man no more attention as he raised his short sword in a two-handed grip to deflect the incoming swing of an axe aimed at his face.

The shock of the blow ran through his arms and he almost dropped his sword, barely managing to alter the axe’s path enough to miss him.

He stepped forward once more, regaining his stance as he swung the sword across the axe wielders legs, dropping him to his knees. His raised his sword and was just about to strike at the man’s neck when a sharp pain tore through his side. Reflexively he turned his head to see the shaft of a spear sticking out from between his ribs.

The axe-wielder didn’t let the chance go by as he slammed the axe against his knee, the rough blow struck with the flat of the blade but the weight behind it was enough as his leg gave way with a sickening crack.

He dropped his sword as he fell to one knee. He reached out to steady himself against the ground before he felt the spear being ripped from his side forcing a shout of agony from between his clenched teeth. Nearly blinded in pain he looked up to just in time to see the spear thrusting towards his head…

***

With a heart trying to break out of his chest he had reached down to side, half expecting to feel the warmth of blood soaking through his fingers.

His breath had come in gasps as he pulled his hand away and stared at it. The memory had simply been too vivid, he could almost smell the stench of blood mixed with the shit and piss from the field of corpses, their bladders loosened in the embrace of death.

He had to spend the next few minutes focused on his breathing, slowly calming his racing heart before he thought of the implications the memory had.

It didn’t really surprise him to see his own death, on some level he had known he had died after he woke up in his current body. Yet suspecting something had happened and seeing it, even reliving it, was entirely different.

It didn’t help that it was the most detailed memory he had of his old life. He supposed it made sense, given the impression a death such as that would make on a soul. Yet the parts of his memory that were missing seemed to be entirely random.

Was it truly just chance that he had been robbed of knowledge he desperately wanted, but at the same was left with that… monstrosity… that had his hands shaking when he thought about it?

He spent a few more minutes after that trying to pull out more of his life from whatever depts they were hiding at, but nothing came to mind. He knew there were more pieces, but he simply could not find them.

Finally deciding that it would not come to him by sitting here and thinking about it, Y’rid had stood up to the darkening sky.

He looked down at the crate and the few blankets stuffed inside it. The boy might have lost his pride along the way, but he’d be damned if he was going to live like a rat.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Turning around he left the crate behind and made his way towards the centre of the city. Using the memories of the boy as a guide he made his way towards one of the cheaper inns in the city.

He was exhausted after the day’s events, more so mentally than physically. Tomorrow he would have to decide on a course of action, but for now, he’d settle for a hot meal and a proper bed.

The streets were beginning to empty as the night descended, leaving the atmosphere much more subdued than what he first saw. He few people that were on the streets hurried along to reach their lodgings before the cold really began to set in.

He didn’t see many guards patrolling the city which he found odd at first, until he realised most of them who were on duty would be up on the walls. Violent crimes seemed to decline in priority when you were under constant threat from things that wanted to eat you.

He arrived at the door of the inn about half an hour later. The faded paint on the wooden sign above the door depicted a crude mug next to what might have been a bowl of soup or a baked potato. He couldn’t tell, but the warm light spilling out from the underneath the door and the mirthful voices inside was all the convincing he needed. Pushing open the door he stepped inside.

The interior of the tavern was simple yet inviting. A few wooden tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly while a large fire burned on the hearth to his right. A few girls were swerving between the tables bringing food and ale to those sitting at the table chatting with one another.

At the far side of the room was a large counter behind which stood an even larger man, his shirt stretched tightly over his protruding gut. His double chin wobbled as he spoke animatedly to one of the girls.

A few glances were cast at Y’rid as he entered, but they quickly turned back, not finding anything worthy of their interest.

He made his way over to the counter at the far side and stood in front of the big man, who finished whatever he was saying before turning towards him.

“You want something?” The man questioned in a bored tone.

“How much for a room?”

The man frowned before slowly looking over Y’rid, his gaze lingering on the torn shirt.

“Don’t worry, I’m good for the coin,” Y’rid said, a bit taken aback before realising he looked like a beggar.

“Hmm. Two silver pieces for a room, three if you want a plate and a mug. Anything else is extra.”

“I’ll take the room and food.”

He fished out one of the gold pieces he got from the mage’s assistant and slid it over the counter. The man raised an eyebrow when he saw the glint of gold before he snatched it up and bit into the side. He raised the coin to eye level to examine the marks before he grunted, a small smile on his lips.

The coin quickly disappeared into his clothing and he produced two much smaller gold coins and seven thin silver ones that he pushed towards Y’rid. He then reached below the counter and pulled out a black iron key that he added to the coins.

“Up the stairs, third door to the right. Just take a seat at one of the tables when you want and one of the girls will bring you your food.”

Y’rid nodded at the man’s words while picking up the key and coins before putting them in his pocket. He walked straight to an empty table near the left wall. All the ones by the hearth were already crowded with people and he had no interest at the moment to speak with others.

He had the suspicion that the innkeeper had taken a bit more than the three pieces worth he had charged, but had no way of knowing. The boy didn’t come into contact with coins very much and certainly not with gold.

He did know that there was no standard of coins in the city and that most were judged based on weight. This was made even worse when the purity differed from coin to coin. But honestly, he was too tired to spare more than an idle thought to such things.

Y’rid spent the next few minutes observing the other patrons while he waited for his food to arrive. There was a group of what he assumed to be hunters, with weapons strapped to their sides. They were arguing loudly about some sort of beast one of them saw in the forest. All of them seemed to have different opinions as to what it was yet all of the names were entirely unfamiliar to him.

There was another group of armed men and women in the inn, but they were more focused on eating than talking. The way they carried themselves gave him the impression of a group of guards, perhaps hired by one of the wandering merchants that make a living travelling from city to city selling wares, though he could not be sure.

A few more people were sitting drinking and laughing as they simply relaxed after the long day.

The sound of footsteps approaching the table drew his attention away from the others. A brown haired girl with angular cheekbones and a slightly oversized nose stepped up next to him and placed down the plate and mug she carried.

He thanked her as she turned away before examining the food in front of him. A lump of mashed potato covered with gravy made up the lion’s share of the meal, with a piece of meat that looked like it came from some type of bird making up the rest. The mug was filled with an opaque yellow liquid he recognised as mead.

A low rumble came from his stomach as he started to dig in. The mead was warm and tasted a bit watered down and the food was bland, but he was too hungry. He quickly devoured the meal before letting out a satisfied sigh and sitting back, slowly drinking the remaining mead.

The unimpressive meal had tasted heavenly to him. The boy had eaten whatever he could get his hands on which meant that most meals consisted of a fruit or a piece of bread and water. Occasionally he might have gotten his hands on a few copper pieces or maybe even a silver or two. But those were few and far in between, and he usually saved those for when he couldn’t find any food.

Once in a while when he wanted to treat himself he would buy a skewer of some kind of meat that looked suspiciously close to rat. It was one of the best meals he had back then, even if it pained him to hand over the few coppers it cost.

Though he knew they weren’t actually his memories, the way they sprang to mind made it almost seem as if it were.

Y’rid finished the mead and stood up from the table making his way over to the stairs, leaving the lively atmosphere behind him. It was still early but he just wanted to sleep, perhaps the new day would bring him new insight.

The second floor consisted of a long plain hallway with a number of rooms to either side and a few candles burning in depressions in the wall to provide light. His room was at the far end. Opening the door he stepped inside before locking it behind him.

A small window in the wall to his left showed that night had already fallen, the full moon just visible from where he stood, barely giving him enough light to see his surroundings. He stood for a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness as he inspected the interior of the room.

The room itself was simple, a bed stood against one wall with a chest in front of it to store personal possessions, not that he had any. Anything of value the boy had, had already been traded for his survival.

Y’rid didn’t bother to take off his clothes as he threw himself unto the bed. It didn’t take long for sleep to start dragging his mind into the darkness.

His last thoughts were of the few childhood memories he had, the familiar faces flashing before his eyes. Somewhere out there were people who remembered him for who he was even if he himself didn’t. The thought left him in an odd mixture of comfort and loneliness as his consciousness sunk away.

***

Outside of the city, on the fourth and highest level of the tower stood a man in a white robe hunched over a desk covered in notes. Crumpled pieces of paper littered the floor and several old tomes were opened and being used as references.

Larann’s ink-stained hands danced over several notes at once as he drew and revised the Old Tongue runes that crowded the pages. His sharp green eyes pierced through them, seeing an array of runes so complex that it would leave most mediocre mages dumbfounded. Only those that specialised in resurrection would be able to comprehend them, but even then, few would be able to recreate them.

He had always thought of magic as being similar to music. The runes were the instruments, the mage the musician and the energy that composed reality was the medium through which the notes travelled.

In the hands of a novice, even the best of instruments would sound painful, while a master could create wonderful pieces using inferior instruments. But put the right instrument in the hands of a master and he could make you weep tears of wonder and heartbreak.

Even though he had spent most of his life researching runes he only knew enough to make him aware of his lack of knowledge. The sheer depth and understanding the ancient mages had had of the world around them never ceased to amaze and awe him.

Just the thought of capturing an idea or concept and binding its very essence in a collection of lines and curves that could bend reality boggled the mind.

And so much was lost.

He stopped his movements for a moment as he pulled back his wandering thoughts.

The experiment had been a success. Even if it had cost him most of his remaining resources, he couldn’t help a grin splitting his face as he thought of the day’s events. Sure the memory loss was unexpected, even if it was only temporary. But the core of the spell had succeeded.

It had taken more than half of his life researching resurrection and then months of editing and rebuilding to circumvent the sacrificial requirement, but it had been worth it. If one requirement could be changed then the others could as well.

He fingers curled into a fist as he thought of the so-called nobles’ use of the magic. Of the herds of brainwashed slaves, their only purpose in life to willingly give their lives so that those wretched ‘nobles’ could regain their own after they lost them to the indulgent and gluttonous lifestyles they clung to.

His head turned towards a wall on the side his study, his gaze piercing through the wall to land on the stone coffin lying undisturbed in the dark room beyond. The runes of preservation etched onto the lid faintly pulsating with energy. The hard edge in his gaze faded as it was replaced by a much gentler look, tinged with sadness.

If only he could…

No. Some mistakes couldn’t be undone. The best he could do now was to use his efforts to make up for them.

He would break through the requirements that allowed resurrection to hoarded by the few. He would ensure that it was available to all. In doing so he would free the people from the fear of the monsters that threatened their very survival. He would usher in a new golden age. One that rivalled that of the ancient times.

This magic would be the key, the stepping stone towards something that would change the world.

But it would require a lot of time and work. The experiment only signified the beginning.

He turned back to the notes, his gaze sharpened once more, dipping the pen into the inkwell before he resumed his life’s work.

Perhaps… after it is complete…

Despite his efforts, he couldn’t entirely stop the small ray of hope that took root in his heart.

***

The tolling of the bell awoke Y’rid from his slumber. His eyes snapped open in the darkness of the room. For a moment he forgot where he was as he stumbled off of the bed, his eyes wide as they tried to adjust.

The tolling sounded again, reverberating through the air. He could hear shouts coming from outside and the frantic scurrying of footsteps from the room beside his.

He forced his breathing to even out as the memory of the previous day returned to him.

The shouts were increasing in volume as more people were awoken throughout the city. Even alone in the room he could feel the tense emotion that swept through the inn. He quickly swept through the memories he inherited from the boy as he listened to the sounds of people rushing in the street underneath the window.

Then it came to him. A memory from a long time ago along with the accompanying feeling of dread and abandonment.

There was only one reason for the ringing of the city’s Watch Bell.

A monster wave was approaching.