This time the merchant was awake, owing most likely to the fact that Rye did not sleep after returning from death. Physical exhaustion was a trivial concern, a single sip of the water from the checkpoint bowl made sure of that, and in hindsight it did seem silly for an undead to require any sleep at all.
Or maybe it wasn’t that unusual, given how mental fatigue could build up even without heavy exertion. However, Rye never once saw the sky grow dim and they had been out for more than a day before reaching the temple too. Their inner sundials possibly gave a rhythm to those undead who did sleep.
Rye walked up to the scattered merchant’s stall, feigning disinterest. Oh, she would buy something for sure, but the undead merchant didn’t need to know. Every trick in the book was valid when confronting his ilk; merchants had no souls, as was commonly known.
She channeled her best haughty princess, then toned it down to merely snobbish merchant nobility. She wouldn’t want to kill the man with her performance. He might have a heart attack. It happened before. It was not her fault, Da’ said, but better to be safe and tone down her charm a notch.
“Sir? Are you in the business of trading shards of boons?”
The scraggly man looked up. He had a round hat neatly fitted to a skull unusually replete with hair.
“That I am. A trader in souls and goods. I am the man formerly known as Harris.”
Rye pretended to look over his wares. “Formerly known?”
He nodded, solemnly. “Best you don’t pry further. Unless it’s to inquire about my wares. I can only hope you find something among my modest selection.”
Modest! His stall was anything but. He himself sat comfortably amidst a pile of old pillows and upholstery, some holding wares while others supported his own atrophied body. They looked comfy and above all, expensive, one even embroidered in red and purple while the rest were done up in the more common shades of gold. The mishmash of styles and faded garish colors reminded her of a bazaar, even if it was confined to a single corner. He was the only person around who seemed willing to buy or sell anything at all, though with all the madmen around she wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.
“May I touch them?”
The merchant nodded. Elia went right to work.
Boop!
Red tunic
A short red tunic commonly worn by one of modest means.
She leaned down to inspect a small sign of carved wood and recoiled. “Two hundred souls for a tunic!”
Beep!
Longsword
A straight and widely used sword with a straight double-edged blade. Favored for its flexibility by those who know to wield it properly.
FIVE THOUSAND for a longsword! Rye, this man is a thief and a vile one at that. Look at all the souls he is holding hostage. I bet they’re all children. We must secure them. Stab him in the face!
“Shhh, quiet! I, maybe we can get something cheap. Or cut a deal.” Her eyes fell on a pair of wonderful boots, made of hard leather and with a slim fit. She would look great in them and they would protect her feet, no doubt.
Boots
Boots made from hardened animal hides. Comfortable to wear and insulated against the cold and rain. Exactly your size.
Two. Thousand. Souls.
“They’re exactly my size.” Rye whined. “And they look so comfyyy!”
Mug him. Do iiit.
“No! I, I would never,” She hissed. “Shut up.”
“Excuse me?” The merchant asked, slightly offended.
“Not you. It’s… argh. I need… I need that longsword and the kite shield. The boots. Two sets of underwraps, two red tunics–“
Rye. I hate to be annoying, but we need some armor. Anything that’ll stop a dagger or speartip from instantly goring us.
“Right.” Her eyes caught six sets of armor leaned against the wall on display, from chainmail hauberks to scale and halfplate with matching helmets and all. One look at the prices and she considered searching for the nearest authority and reporting him for racketeering. After some perusing and as the realization of the scale of this soul-sucking economy dawned on her, she happened upon one of the cheaper armors.
“This armor right here.”
She pointed to a discolored, yet fine chainmail hauberk padded with pelts that someone almost certainly had died in. It protected her torso, upper legs and arms as well as her neck. At five thousand souls, she could probably haggle the total down by a bit.
Are those dried fruits? FOOD! GET HIS FRUITS NOW!
“–and a bag of fruits.”
Rye had to admit, she was in a breakfasting mood as well, feeling somewhat peckish after dining on nothing but flavored water. She was feeling many things, foremost that this man didn’t care about what she needed, just that he got paid. Cruel and heartless, like any person that made a living by extorting souls. He had a look of greed about him, an overly defined jaw mixed with the long and pale limbs of the strange folk living to the far, far east. And he smelled of ick, of snails and dye, caustic soap and dead leather.
“Are you from Morifurt?” she asked.
The man did not appear surprised. “What’s it matter to you?”
“What it matters? Well, I thought… you looked a bit like… is it still the year 576 of our holy empire?”
The man looked up at her from where he was adjusting a dagger and chuckled. “Time’s gone down the drain, much like any empire you or I may have lived in. It died, as did many things, and unlike us undead ideas don’t listen when brought to heel. Though I suppose you may assume and do as you well please now. None left to watch over language, nor passage of the years nor the origin of pilfered goods.”
He was a THIEF! A thief of the dead. Did nobody in this place besides her care about the decency of those who passed? What if their belongings held sentimental value? What if they woke back up without a tunic or that new fashion from over the ferrish sea, pants?
He couldn’t be trusted. He was from Morifurt, and the people there were the most vile, deceitful and foul-smelling kind. Because of the swamp and the dyes and their tendency to lie and not at all because of some rivalry with Arvale about a stolen goat that went back twenty-five generations. It was an important goat! It laid golden eggs and foretold the weather. At least, that was how Da’ had told it in between teaching her how to haggle on the local markets.
“Armor, sword, shield, tunic, boots, underwear, fruits.” The merchant counted. “That makes a total of fourteen thousand souls.”
“FOURTEEN!?”
“Ten plus four. Times a thousand. They do educate common folk on addition and multiplication outside of Morifurt, do they?”
“YES! YES I–“ Rye cut herself off, biting her tongue before she said something she couldn’t take back. It was twice her remaining souls and though she thought herself a good haggler, it would require a miracle to reduce the price by half. “Are these soul– I mean, bone shards worth any souls?”
She pointed at a small bowl adorning the top of a pillow, a dozen shards lying in a heap of grey and green.
Bone shard [Uncommon]
The shard of a divine soul, undefined and undeveloped.
The strength of a shard is directly correlated to its rarity, for only the rarest moments crystallize to mark a person’s soul indelibly. Combine ten for a bone die of appropriate rarity.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Ooh, rarer shards require less shards for a boon. Sure hope that trend continues.
“Trade only for other bone shards. Three common to an uncommon, four uncommon to a rare. Souls for everything else. Your budget?”
Soul count: 7176
“W-we have seven thousand,” she said and immediately bit her lip.
She screwed up. Rule number one of barter, never reveal your cards. She blamed it on her headache and the lingering fever. Without a frame of reference, she didn’t even know by how many levels of magnitude he was overpricing his equipment.
The merchant looked pensive, scratching that pointed chin of his. “I’ll cut you a deal. Instead of the sword, take this hatchet here, plus this soldier’s armor.”
He offered her another one of the cheaper armors. The cheapest armor, to be precise.
“I can comfortably sell you those two for six thousand together. The fruits are another thousand, as is the other pair of used boots and if you want a shield, it’s two thousand for this here buckler instead of four for the kite shield.”
Rye didn’t trust this man and she searched for the price tags in the hopes of catching his treacherous designs in motion.
Conscript set
A set of cheaply made armor from a faraway land that may protect a life, but not much else. The lamellar plates are brittle, and the mail roughly joined, yet the people of the east often marched to war with even less.
3800 for the armor…
Hatchet
Commonly used to chop wood, a hatchet can become a deadly tool in the right hands. Due to its top-heavy nature, care must be taken not to overextend after swings.
2200 for the hatchet…
All was in order, except for her purse. Spending all her money – her souls – at once was not a smart choice, but it was one she had to make. Now that she knew just how dangerous the undead out back was, she wasn’t justified in ignoring the issue and no one else seemed to bother with anything beyond their own petty desires. For that, the armor was serviceable and a weapon mandatory. The hatchet… would do. Maybe.
She was still hoping that Elia would somehow solve that problem. But that was a worry for future Rye. Present Rye had to make the most of over seven thousand people’s worth of souls.
BUY THE FROOOT! I HAVEN’T EATEN FOOD IN SO LONG! HAVE MERCY! MERCYYYY!
One thousand for half a meal, barely a snack. She sighed. The things she did in the name of friendship.
“Seven thousand for armor, hatchet, two tunics, underwraps and fruit.”
The man nodded and a quick shake of hands settled the deal.
“If you don’t turn dreg, come back anytime. Got a feeling you’ll be comin’ back soon enough.”
The glint in his eyes betrayed quite the opposite. He sold poor quality items at overly high prices. Then, when the person died, he took the gear off their corpses and sold them to another. It all made sense now.
–and then she saw his legs and realized they were charred up to the knee, blackened stumps without feet.
Harris the merchant was crippled. He would have had no other choice than to sit here and barter for his dear life even if he wanted to fulfil his duty as an undead. Not a thief, but a redistributor of scavenged goods sat in front of her, one whose life was held up entirely by the willingness of others to trade with him.
And Rye had thought he was selfish. She was a horrible person. The worst. The embarrassment, the guilt and shame filled her thoughts with an uncomfortable buzz, though that was an order of magnitude less than what she was setting out to do. Everything would be fine. The undead outside – companion of the sad white-haired lady – was a threat not just to herself, but to others. Someone had to do something about it.
Looking at the positives, if she succeeded, she would gain the souls he was preventing from moving on and put them to good use. They would help her in exchange, either as currency or as part of her strength.
Hey, is that an actual toga? Are you roman? Semper Victoria, am I right?
“It’s not a toga, togas are for important meetings and ritual holidays. This is a tunic, made in the empire and a glorious sign of our wonderful civilization.” Rye said before noticing that somehow everything was perfectly her size. That never happened outside of custom–tailored clothing. The man must have had a boon. “I still feel a tad too small for my shoes. Soles.”
Cool, cool, now. Food. I am going to implode if I don’t get something in my mouth in the next few seconds.
Speaking for the both of them there. “Take control of my mouth and I’ll feed you. If that’s alright with you, Elia.”
Elia did, ravenous for sustenance with substance. Having to feed her own face while it belonged to someone else a… revelatory and most awkward. It turned from awkward to downright mortifying the moment she heard herself moan loud enough that even some of the mindless undead sitting about turned their heads.
Honestly, hearing Elia eat made her think she was enjoying an entirely different kind of activity. A vague shape played upon her mind, the hint of a curve, of eyes, but every attempt to give it color or a defined edge only led to a minor headache. Remembering things was hard as an undead. Maybe that too could be fixed with souls.
Thoughts for later. At the moment, she had to try and mime to Elia that she wanted to try one too. Elia understood eventually, but she was a thorough chewer. It took her a minute to finish with the disappointingly small fruit and Rye found out why the moment she regained control and tried on for herself.
“Oh. This tastes pretty good.”
This, this is the stuff. This shit tastes better than sex, on which I am a qualified expert. You could sell these for a kidney and a half in a backalley and still get your door run in by ravenous customers. Wonder what’s inside. Oh wait, I don’t have to guess, I have a thing.
Sugared apricots
Apricots from the plantations around Loften, sweetened with red seasnail sugar. The sugar is used in many transmutations and combined with the sour fruit offers minor rejuvenatory benefits. Slightly heals wounds over time.
“Oh. Red sugar’s a luxury. Explains the price, even if I still think we got overcharged.” Rye swallowed, but found her arm paralyzed as she reached for a second helping. “Ummm?”
We… we can’t eat these like popcorn. Elia said, her voice shaky. This… this is good. Too important to waste. We might need it, later. Like the beetles. Don’t… don’t want to get stuck like in the maze.
A fair point. At the moment, the all-healing water was within walking distance. It wouldn’t always be that way.
“Alright. I’m going to take a bath first.”
And then I’ll teach you the art of re-deadening the undead.
“Yeah… that…”
Do not fret, my dear little procurer of fruit and ambrosia. I shall impart upon you wisdom hardened over a thousand lifetimes. By the end of our training, you shall be forged into the likeness of a great warrior, a master of puns and pre-emptive self-defense. Look forward to it!
The twisting knots in her stomach cried to object. But she knew she had to do it. She’d have to live with murdering a murderer, and maybe more after. Dirty work always made its way into her hands. Someone had to do it and she wasn’t quite willing to let Elia take full control just yet.
Besides, he was holding souls hostage. Freeing them couldn’t be so bad, right?
----------------------------------------
The temple was quiet but for the clamor of the three soldiers above. Rye sat on a stair, listening intently to her hand which Elia had possessed, miming a talking sock puppet. Rye gave her best to settle into the mindset of a good student, which meant to trust the teacher, listen to everything said and make notes.
Lacking paper, she just hoped the lesson wouldn’t drag on for longer than she could memorize.
Ok. First lesson of the day: Initiative is king.
“Initiative is king?”
Yes. Assume this: You find a soldier walking down a corridor. You step into a shadow, wait for them to pass, and take a stab at their neck. Best case, your enemy dies. Next best case, they are wounded– crippled even and you’re right in range for a follow-up strike. Hit ‘em with the ol’ one two.
“Hit ‘em with the ol’ one two…” Rye muttered, tracing imaginary notes in the palm of her hand. “…and the worst case?”
Worst case, they stab you back but when has that stopped anyone?
Rye chose not to interject that many dead people would disagree if they could.
“We– I’m going to fight the undead – the dreg – who killed me. The murderer, with the spear. The lost friend of our three-armed lady. Any advice for him specifically?”
Who? Oh, the sidequest. Yeah, without an ambush you’ll need to get past his reach. Second lesson: Reach is queen. Superior reach means you can safely poke without fear of being poked in return, as long as you don’t screw up your position horribly. Thereby, positioning in relation to your own and your enemy’s reach is a prince. And let us not forget, speed is a princess, strength is a jack and… I think I lost my metaphor. You get the gist.
“Ok. So, fighting involves a bunch of royalty– no, wait, that’s just a hierarchy, like in a card game… ok, I think I can remember that.” Idly, she scratched at her cheek. She’d probably have to take a bath afterwards again. But no, she shouldn’t think like that. She was about to take a life. It deserved more attention than a wandering acknowledgement. “So, what happens if I don’t strike first?”
Then you better not get hit.
“But what if I get hit? Like, right here?” She pointed to the side of her belly, a phantom ache pulsing once where she was stabbed a lifetime ago.
That’s why you have armor. Sheesh, don’t make me spell it out for you.
“Yes, oh wise teacher. Would the wise master kindly tell me what to do if I get wounded? Getting cut hurts. Getting stabbed more.”
I KNOW! Startled, Rye waited for Elia to recollect her mind. I know. If you get stabbed, leave it at that and act. Getting shanked hurts, even through chainmail but you know what? You can either succumb to your owie, lie down and die, or you can retake the initiative, or run to fight another day. Now, let’s dunk this dweeb.
“O-ok.” A big clump got half stuck in her throat. “I can do this. I can do this.”
She waited behind a statue that marked her last point of death, waiting for the rasping breath of her enemy to come closer. The statue depicted Ruthe, god of peace and she was well aware of the irony. She knew that his peace needed to be kept somehow, in spite of the machinations of evil people, beasts and worse things. She just never expected to play the keeper.
This three-armed dreg, he had to be evil. Cold, plodding steps ascended the stairway ‘round the corner. A moan, then a sound like wind whistling through a crack in the wall.
Wait for it. Wait for it.
The face of the undead came into view. The same spherical stone mask crowned his head and beneath his yellowed clothing the jingle of mail rang clear in the crispy air. One of his two right arms clutched a well-used spear, two winged spurs threatening to tear the calves from anyone foolish enough to think they could dodge a simple thrust. In the left he held nothing and that was her only saving grace in this horrible situation.
NOW!
With a cry that would have made every warrior avert their eyes in shame, Rye jumped out of her hiding spot and flailed her axe towards the undead.
It chipped the mask, more a helmet as it covered every part but the nape. It was quite a poor strike.
The undead turned and Rye had moments to notice that with the twisting motion, the spear was already well on its way. Closing her eyes was a very poor choice of defense and the kind of reflex that got her killed the previous two times.
This time, she stared bravely as the incoming spear punched through her face.
WHY DIDN’T YOU DOOODGE!?
You have died
You have lost: Soul x176
You have lost: Bone shard [Common] x9
You have lost: Bone shard [Uncommon] x6