Chapter 30 - Incite a Riot
Scourge-touched.
My problems had followed me here, or, more accurately, beat me here.
From the moment I was dropped onto Ralqir, these things had been dogging my footsteps. Now, it seems they’d gotten out ahead of me.
Okay. What does this guy being scourge-touched tell me?
One: The church called this a plague. Bishop Kolash had specifically said that it was a ‘most vexing’ one that they can’t cure. He’d also said that only the Returned were carriers so far. So is being scourge-touched a plague? Does it spread like one?
I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot, so that I could speak with Trix with some privacy.
“When did you first start seeing this again?” I asked in a whisper.
“Three months or so, give or take,” the little fox whispered. “I can’t say for certain, because none of us can. No one was looking out for sickness among the Returned, because of what they are.”
“Dead.”
Trix’s ears flattened out on his head, and he glanced around as if making sure no one overheard me. “Technically, yes, but it’s not said in polite company, Brother. Just call them Returned.”
“Okay. My mistake,” I apologized. The Returned seemed to be treated as both a potential danger and a vulnerable class at the same time. I would need to tread carefully. “What are your observations here? Give me everything.”
“Really?” Trix asked, standing up straight and nervously rubbing his front paws together. “You want me to help with that?”
I nodded. “Yes. You’re my resident expert, right? Give me the facts.”
“Uh. The facts. Right,” the Volpa said, nodding to himself before another full body shiver took him. I’d need to ask Bishop Kolash exactly what that meant when I saw him again. This was becoming all too frequent, and I needed to know if I was upsetting him or exciting him or… other things.
“Let me see,” he mumbled, getting down on all fours again and circling around the corpse, leaning in to examine the odd mark or piece of fabric, lifting up the tarp, even going so far as to sniff under the fingernails. “Well, he is wearing male clothing. That’s generally how we gauge their preferences in that arena. They have no opinions either way on the matter, most of the time. He appears to have been built from multiple sources of… ah…”
“You mean more than one body,” I guessed. That would explain the stitch marks. The use of the word ‘built’ caught my attention though. It implied that the Returned weren’t a natural occurrence, that they were made instead of propagated on their own.
Two: Hunty had mentioned that the black ones weren’t entirely a natural occurrence either. He’d said something about them debasing themselves making deals with demons, whatever that meant after hundreds of years of oral history, and it took away their ability to reproduce, which is something all life is supposed to be able to do. A tenuous connection, but I’d do well to keep it in mind.
“Yes, that’s right,” Trix replied without looking at me, instead spreading the creature’s long fingers wide and running his claws over the joints. “Of course, the Dark Lord didn’t have much care for these creatures’ lives outside of serving him, so it’s very common for them to be from multiple sources, even different species. It causes great difficulty for them and for those that care for them. This one was relatively lucky… until the plague took him, of course.”
He hesitated, glancing at me nervously to gauge my reaction. “Please remember, I’m not trying to insult you, Brother Ryan. I’m just trying to give you everything like you asked.”
I waved away his concern as convincingly as I could and tried to pretend I wasn’t snatching up bits of Ralqir’s history like a starving man snatched at breadcrumbs.
I gave him my best encouraging nod. “No. You’re doing great. Go on.”
Again, Trix was racked with shivers from tail to nose. Then he went on like it never happened. Did he know he was doing it? He had to know.
“He was killed by a blow to the head. There’s no other place on his body that looks like a wound, and the plague doesn’t actually kill its victims.” He paused to stand up and point to the corpse’s eyes and the oily discharge that ran down its skin. “Black blood from the eyes, nose, and ears. That’s consistent with what we’ve been seeing in advanced infections too. When they get to this point they’re either unable or unwilling to communicate, and they become quite combative.”
Three: The black ones and the infected Returned don’t speak, and they’re both irrationally violent. Trix and I were just talking to a Returned a few minutes ago, so they aren’t naturally like that.
“What color is Returned blood normally?” I asked without thinking, regretting it immediately based on Trix’s reaction.
He tilted his head to peer at me incredulously. “Is this a test?”
I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. “Again, I want everything.”
He paused for two slow blinks, whiskers twitching, but then was back to being helpful. “Right, then. Uh, Returned have no conventional blood. They just have to keep enough fluid inside of them, or the magic that animates them cannot flow properly. They could replace all the water in their bodies with ale, and they wouldn’t feel the difference.”
I contemplated that. “But um- ‘blood’ from the plagued Returned is uniformly black?”
“That’s what I hear.”
I frowned as I thought, staring into the corpse's blank eyes.
The ‘scourge-touched’ status was certainly acting like a plague, one that only affected you if… what? If you don’t fit into the natural order? That didn’t make sense. How did the first black one get infected then? They were supposed to be regular goblins at one time, corrupted and made into monsters. I would have asked the Stone Hearts for more details if I’d thought the ‘how’ of things was going to be so relevant.
Nali said something similar to me a while back at the tutorial facility. What was it? She only reverted to her previous save state in the case of some kind of corruption? Tampering?
There was something there. I could feel it, as if the disparate ideas were part of a circuit that I hadn’t closed yet.
“Message from up top. You’re not going to like it,” the shorter blue-scaled guard said. She was holding a tiny notebook up to the light and frowning at something on its pages.
The other guardswoman groaned, running a gauntleted hand down her face. “Probably not. Give it to us anyway.”
“The Captain is sending down another group.”
“Damnit. Really? He knows the gate’s sealed up. Why’s he sending more of them down here? Is he thick? Because I’m starting to think so. We’re down a man, and we’re not due for relief for hours.” She paced back and forth nervously, her hand gripping the leather of her sword scabbard.
“Another thing, Sissa,” the shorter guard said as she pocketed her notebook. “They’re sending Bole.”
Sissa stopped mid stride, frozen on the knife edge between panic and outrage, eyes wide, her mouth twisting up into a snarl, her muscles tensed like she was contemplating an attack or the safest direction to bolt. She stood so still, I couldn’t even see her breathe.
After several heartbeats, the spell broke, and she was right back in charge.
Sissa was all business, issuing commands and adjusting her kit. “Alright, we have an incoming group of infected, and we’re gonna need to do this smooth-like. Geddon put your ear up to that door and tell me if you can hear anything. Samila, get the lights.”
She turned to us as she ratcheted the straps on her forearm. “Brothers, I know this isn’t why you came down here, but we’re down a man. We could use your help. Nothing hard or-” she hesitated when she looked at me, her mouth scrunched up like she was trying and failing to hide a scowl. “Nothing violent. We just need to get these people into the ward swiftly and without incident.”
I nodded and stood up, stopping momentarily to put the tarp back over the corpse’s face. If my theory held true, these infected undead would be in the process of being converted or ‘touched,’ an intermediate state between “normal” and “bloodthirsty horde.” This might be the only time I’d be able to see one up close without it having a good shot at killing me.
Trix was all for it. “We’re ready to assist you in whatever you need, Sergeant. Duty and mercy.”
“Duty and mercy,” Sissa answered.
“Not hearing anything in there. They might still be hanging around though, waiting for us to open the door,” Geddon rumbled, his voice low as if he didn’t want the sound to carry.
Sissa nodded to Geddon. “Alright. Good enough for now. With any luck, all the ones that are too far gone will be banging on the south gate anyway. It’s always the south.”
The shorter guardswoman, Samila, waddled over to the rest of us lugging two of the tripod light stands in either hand, setting them down dead center then angling the heads to direct the light at the big plague ward doors.
“Alright,” Sissa said, bending down to pick up a round shield. She swung the shield up and over her shoulder, looping an attached strap diagonally over her torso to affix it to her back. “Full protective gear. That means collars too, Geddon.”
Geddon growled, rubbing the side of his neck. “They issued me a Miur collar, I swear.”
Sissa scoffed. “It’s the right size, Geddon. You’re just a baby. As soon as we see our new arrivals you get the door, and we’ll shuffle them on in. I don’t want that door open for more than thirty seconds, got it?”
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“Got it,” the big lion man grumbled as he buckled a leather collar across his throat. Then he rolled his neck and shoulders like a powerlifter about to do a set.
Sissa turned to us then. “Brothers, you stand there and try to look impressive. If any of the Returned get confused, just direct them over to the door. If any fighting breaks out, well… any other day I’d say let us handle it, but that’s how Fran earned a trip to the healer. Just do what you can and try not to hurt anyone.” She looked pointedly at me at the end.
All I could do was shrug and try to look more confident than I felt.
I put on my best stoic frown and took up position in the center of the room by the spotlights. Trix skittered over next to me and stood up on his hind legs, bobbing up and down excitedly, so fast he was generating a static charge against my trousers.
“Calm down,” I muttered to him.
“Yes, Brother. Of course. Sorry. Duty and mercy. Warriors of Light.” Trix said it like a mantra, shuddering, then seemed to force himself to relax, taking deep breaths.
It didn’t take long for the promised excitement to arrive.
The acoustics in the undercity were such that we heard them coming long before we saw them. The jangling clank of chains, short exchanges of indistinct speech, and the occasional bark of laughter echoed down to us from the far archway, the next one over from where Trix and I had entered.
I peered into the black. There was a glint of something out there, a floating pair of orbs in the dark, followed by another, and another, a gaggle of reflective eyes just coming into range of our lights. Then two dark silhouettes resolved into a pair of armored guardsmen that stepped into the chamber holding the leads of long chains in their hands. Their black breastplates marked them as a different unit than the ones guarding the door down here, and their kit was subtly different as well.
While the church guards were armored up with plate and chain and carried swords with wide cross guards along with shields on their backs. These guys had thin shortswords on their hips and a wooden truncheon dangling from a loop on their belts while their armor was thin leather on the legs and banded mail on the top. If I remembered correctly, the gate guards had a similar getup.
Attached to the length of chain at regular intervals was a line of filthy, ragged creatures of all different shapes and sizes ranging from a tall and reedy figure with mismatched arms to a stocky, pear shaped… man?... that waddled stiffly, toddler-like, on legs with too few joints. Their clothes were universally ripped and soiled.
All of them had pale, sallow skin that made the dark stitch marks on their faces and exposed limbs stick out like ink on paper. Their hair was uniformly long and thin, sometimes draping down in front of their faces, and their milky eyes stared blankly straight ahead, unblinking.
The lead guard, a shorter man with five o’clock stubble and watery blue eyes that shone through the shadows of his helm, yanked on the chain, forcing his prisoners to stumble and then come up short so as not to collide with his back. Smiling, the guard halted stiffly and raised his arm up and away from his body until it formed a 90 degree angle, like he was trying to get his hand as far from his sword as possible. A ceremonial gesture maybe.
“Hail to the watch. Also, lovely to see you again, Sissa,” he called with a smile that bordered on sneer territory.
Sissa strode forward haltingly, looking like she just swallowed something disgusting. “Hail, Corporal Bole. I wish I could say the same,” the scaled church guard said, not returning the raised hand gesture. She looked like she wanted to spit out something foul.
The chains rattled as Corporal Bole spread his arms wide and tilted his head, the leering smile never leaving his face. “Sissa, darling, my fire goddess. Still haven’t moved on have you? A shame.” he crooned before turning to his right. “Oh, yes. This is my man, Private Beedy. Say hello, Beedy.”
The lanky guard that had been carrying the chain leads with Bole hung his head and shifted uncomfortably, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
Corporal Bole didn’t seem to mind his sullen silence, enjoying the spotlight for himself. He grinned, flashing bright white teeth before looking back over his shoulder at the Returned he had in chains. None of them paid any of us mind, content to just stare at the stonework or rock back and forth mumbling or chewing on their fingernails.
“So, The Captain is down to using men like you, is he? Thief.” Sissa literally hissed the last word in another language. I was starting to get good at spotting when the System was doing the translation thing. I mouthed the word to myself, testing out the sounds and feeling for the meaning. It felt vile, venomous like it was a grave insult reserved for the loathed, but that was all I got.
“Oh. I love it when your tongue gets going like that, Sissa darling. Reminds me of old times,” Bole sneered, licking his lips and raising a thin eyebrow. If he knew what the term actually meant, he didn’t show it.
Samila stepped in front of Sissa, a protective hand raised subtly to shield the other woman. “I see they’re down to the dregs if they’ve got you running around unsupervised, Bole,” she stated flatly.
Bole laughed at that, then, slowly, purposefully ran his eyes down Samila’s body in a way that made me feel uncomfortable, and I was way over on the other side of the room.
“That’s the funny thing about hard times, yeah? One day you’re all high and mighty, then, before you even know it, you’re down to using your best man again, when you finally remember the ends are what really matter.” Bole jangled the chains in his hand and handed them to his silent partner, Beedy. “Anyway. Here you go, Sissa darling. Eight guests, now officially in your care. Hand them over to the nice church people, will you, Beedy?”
Beedy turned to look back at his eight charges. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear that got them moving. He didn’t have to pull on the chains, the Returned all seemed to take the suggestion in stride and just followed him over, dreamilly drifting in his wake. The private led them across the room and handed them over to Samila. Without saying a word, she took the lead and kept the train rolling toward the doors. As she passed us, she rolled her eyes and stuck out a long, forked tongue, subtly gesturing backward with her head.
“Thank you, Beedy. Now, I wish you all a good evening, prayers and all that. Maybe I’ll see you later, Sissa,” Bole said, turning on his heel and making for the archway.
The procession of Returned followed Samila past me, none of them bothering to look my way. Each one’s arms were bound in heavy metal bands attached to their necks by a secondary chain and collar, not really allowing them to relax their arms.
Then, without warning, one of the Returned stopped as if she’d hit a wall, causing a pile up behind.
It was a woman, or it was in life at least, with a long face and greasy raven hair that hung down to her lower back. Her lips were cracked and too small to cover her mouth fully, and her nose didn’t appear to match the rest of her, darker and longer than would have matched the rest of her face. She sniffed the air, nodding her head to sniff her chest then turned, inhaling heavily until the gesture drew her eye to eye with me. She blinked several times, staring into me with seemingly blind eyes, working her mouth and running her tongue over jagged teeth.
As she stood there, swaying, I could almost make out words, but she wasn’t using her vocal cords. It was just air playing over her tongue. The rest of the Returned grouped up behind her, and the chain at her hands went taught as the rest of the line tried to pull her on. She didn’t allow herself to be pulled, however.
“The keys, Corporal Bole,” Sissa ordered. “You brought them in here manacled and chained. They can’t live like that in there.”
Bole, almost back out of the archway now, snapped his fingers exaggeratedly and turned around to leer back at Sissa. “Oh, yes, I’d nearly forgotten. We’re still pretending they’re alive. Sorry, love.” He gestured with his hand, showman like, to reveal the ring of gray iron keys already looped around his middle finger. “Here you go,” he said as he jangled them next to his face.
“Give them to me,” Sissa ordered, a scowl on her face and her hands tightening into fists. She took a tiny step forward but stopped herself.
“They’re right here, love. Come hither,” the corporal replied. Meanwhile, Beedy was already almost all the way down the hall, doing the smart thing and getting out of this situation.
“I-” the undead woman in front of me whispered, her breath a wheeze in her throat. Her head twitched on her shoulders, jerking to the side like she’d just been struck. It happened once, twice. “I know you,” she breathed. The smell of her reminded me of moldering old clothes.
Still playing the part of the tough monk, I shook my head and tried to look stern.
Trix spoke up for me, of course, the helpful fox person he was. “Miss, I think you are mistaken,” he said, placing a hand on my leg for emphasis. “Brother Ryan just arrived in our city, and he doesn’t know anyone yet.”
On the other side of the room, grunting, hulking Geddon lifted the heavy crossbeam onto his shoulders. The wooden slab scraped against the iron fittings as it slid up and out, and the big doors groaned as they shifted into a new, less encumbered position. Dust trickled down from old hinges. Geddon puffed as he took short steps, slowly walking the beam over to the wall and letting one side carefully slide to the floor with a *bang.*
Volcanic rage shone in Sissa’s eyes, her blue scales darkening slightly around their edges, and her lips curling into a snarl. “I will not come hither. These are your chains, and we have no need of them. There are no prisoners here, just sick people. Unlock them and be gone, Corporal.” She emphasized the last word, as if this were a private barb I didn’t have context for.
“I know you,” the Returned woman said, louder now. Samila had doubled back to check on the hold up, and she stood next to the confused undead woman. The petite blue guard gave me a questioning look, but all I could do was shrug.
“I know you.” The Returned’s eyes widened. Her hollow breaths came in shaky gasps. Her top lip crawled up higher and higher like they were being stretched by invisible strings on the ceiling until they exposed her blackened gums.
“That one giving you trouble, mate?” Bole asked, his question a light, mocking thing. I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to look… not like me while the Returned panted in my face.
Whistling casually, Bole brushed past Sissa, close enough to rub shoulders, wearing a smile that felt oily and cruel. “Don’t let ‘em get in your face,” he chided. “Just cuff em on the back of the head and they straighten right up. Don’t feel a thing.”
Bole was next to us now, but he wasn’t the only one. The rest of the Returned had somehow gathered close around us, too close, looking on. I felt like they were all staring directly at me. The woman in my face, the ones around me… their bodies spasmed, muscles tensing and going slack seemingly at random, marionettes to a palsied puppeteer.
“What’s this now?” Bole shouted derisively in the Returned woman’s ear. “Leave the nice monk alone and get back in line!”
The blow was fast, a practiced thing, a cruel backhand swung from down low, out of the dead woman’s line of sight, meant to catch its target unaware and inflict pain and humiliation.
In my previous life, I might not have even seen it coming, might not have even had the opportunity to intervene.
I wasn’t that person anymore, though. I was one of the Exotics, the System’s Chosen.
It wasn’t a conscious thing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the strike. I saw the satisfaction in Bole’s eyes, the way the corner of his mouth quirked up to reveal his perfect, gleaming teeth.
Reflex guided my hand, the metal one. With a *CLANG* Bole’s knuckleguard met my prosthetic forearm, intercepted before it could strike home, while my other fist caught him in the jaw. With a *crack* my knuckles met his face, and his eyes widened in disbelief as he staggered backward.
To his credit, Bole didn’t give much ground, only a couple steps. He shook his head, spat, and reached up to feel his jaw. The smile crawled its way back onto his face quickly, but I saw what it replaced. Fear. Uncertainty.
“Now you’ve done it, monk,” he declared as he straightened to his full height, a promise of violence in every movement.
“I- I know you! D-D-Dph-!” The Returned woman stuttered. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care about what had just happened. She was shouting now. She reached up with her manacled hands to clutch at her head, and her fingers dug furrows in her skin. The other Returned gathered closer around, twitching that way they did, reaching up to grasp at their own scalps.
“Defiled!” The Returned woman ripped at her head, dirty black hair coming off in her hand.
“Defiler! Defiler!” The Returned were starting to join in like a chorus of dead cheerleaders.
“Defiler! Defiled! Defiler! DefilAAAAAAAA!” The woman’s shouts crescendoed, breaking, morphing, warping into an inhuman scream, one that opened her jaw impossibly wide and let loose a primal cry of desperate hatred I could feel in my soul.
The rest of the Returned echoed her, lost themselves to whatever force they’d been fighting for control of their own minds.
It may have come from different voices in a different place, echoed off of different stones, but I recognized that sound.
The wordless, burning, tormented hatred. The terrible, thoughtless call to violence.
I’d heard it under the mountain. In my cell.
Muffled, muted but irrefutably audible, more voices took up the call from behind the heavy plague ward door with such fervor their screams transcended the physical, chilling my bones. I might have just imagined it, but I felt like the walls themselves shook as if they, too, had taken notice of me, and they, too, bayed for my blood.
Then, as one, the scourge-touched creatures surged forward to rip me apart.