Chapter 16 - Bolstering the Defenses

Commander Peshka stepped up onto a raised wooden platform in front of the men. This wasn’t where their formations were normally held, but Peshka chose this spot next to the infirmary so that those who couldn’t come out and stand could still be in earshot. This area was also far enough away from the front gate that they couldn’t see what the necromancer was up to, even though Peshka knew that word was already starting to spread. The appetizing aroma of sizzling bacon wafted over from the mess-hall, smelling as pleasant as it was out of place amongst the gloomy crowd.

Is this really all that’s left? Peshka thought, as he looked out at the men standing before him. Those that were wounded and still able to stand came out from the infirmary, some aided by crutches, some assisted by other soldiers. There were roughly sixty men standing before him. Perhaps half again as many in the infirmary too injured to stand out here in formation… or to stand and fight. He knew many of the soldiers in the infirmary would be dead from their injuries before the gnolls even made it back. Even the ones left standing in front of him almost all had signs of fresh wounds. Peshka shook his head. More than a score killed last night alone. The worst single attack they’d had. And now with a bloody giant, no less.

He looked at each haggard face that stared back up at him. Most of them were so damn young. He still knew every man in his regiment by name, who was good at what, who was a lazy shite, who he’d want next to him in a fight. Knew them all by name, knew each loss, knew each death. All of them looked distraught and crestfallen. Haunted. Peshka remembered that same look from the faces of his soldiers at the siege of DeGaullis, back at the start of his military career. Even those odds had been better than what he faced now. Even though the men looked scared and tired, they still had a faint glimmer in their eyes as they looked up at him expectantly. Hoping that he somehow had the answers to their plight. His stomach started gurgling, and he felt his mouth oil-slick with spit and ready to hurl.

Peshka cleared his throat, swallowing, and holding back the tide of sick for now. He tried to remember some of the fire, some of the words he gave his men before the siege of DeGaullis, but nothing came. He wished he could at least take one more drink of wine before he had to say what he was about to say.

“Men… We’ve endured many long months of struggle, suffering, and hardship. Watching a dark and savage foe kill our comrades, our friends, our brothers. Taking them away from us one-by-one.”

“Last night was by and far the worst of it. And now, with the gates destroyed, it is with a certainty that they will come tonight to finish the job. It is no small truth, we still have before us an ordeal of a most grievous kind, one that we will not survive on our own.”

Peshka began pacing back and forth on the platform, twisting at his mustache as he thought of how he wanted to continue.

“I’ve done everything in my power to try to change our plight. I have written correspondence to the Duke of Austerland for reinforcements more than a dozen times. I have told him the direness of our situation. I have told him how ill-equipped we are to protect his own borders. I have sent men out with messages requesting aid until I could no longer spare anymore. And I’ve heard nothing. Nothing. I have done everything I could with the power that was given to me. Could you imagine what I’d do, if I could do more? If I was given a chance to do more for you men?”

Peshka paused to look over the crowd of soldiers. They were all still at least looking at him with their undivided attention. A good sign.

“Now, through a twist of fate, arranged by the gods, no… arranged by Vesenia herself, I’ve been given a chance to change that. What would you have me do? Ignore it? Pull my hand away from her aid? When no one else has lifted a bloody finger to help us?”

Peshka paused again. He looked over the crowd meeting a few of their eyes as if he were waiting for a response.

“I have stood up here in front of you many a night before, empty-handed, with nothing to offer you but my blood, tears, sweat, and occasionally a few fine words. But now I have something else to offer you… Victory.”

The men’s expression changed from apathetic resignation to bewilderment as they looked up in hushed silence, waiting for him to continue.

“I promise victory, even though the road will be long and hard. Understand, that without absolute victory, there will be no survival. Not for any of us. This victory comes at a price, but there can be no flinching, no thought of giving in. Will you pay any price to win?”

The men murmured amongst one another, but no one spoke up.

“Damnation is our only road to salvation…” Peshka muttered, only loud enough for himself to hear.

“A necromancer has been delivered to our very doorstep the night before this attack.”

The murmurs of the men grew louder, into a hushed roar of worried whispers as the implications of that set in. Peshka didn’t give any of them a chance to speak up, or himself a chance to lose his momentum.

“We have honored the memory of each of our fallen brothers. And now they will honor us, fighting with us again so that we may live. Our fallen comrades are willing to bear the burden of combat a second time. Let not our honored dead have given their lives in vain. Let them give some of us a chance to make it home. Home to see our families again. I know that I’d give my life to protect you men. And… well… if it comes to that, then I’ll also give my unlife to protect you as well.”

“We’ve been left out here. Forgotten. Left to fend for ourselves against a dark and savage foe that has given us no quarter. That knows only murder and butchery. That has no respect for life and understands only death… Let us answer back in kind!”

“Dogged and grim though our task will still be, tonight is time for the tide to turn! With our fallen comrades fighting again at our side! We! Can! Win!”

Peshka paused, holding his breath after he finished. Unsure of what sort of response he’d be met with. Unsure whether it would be standing ovation or a lynch mob. It was neither. The men were silent as the grave. No one spoke for several excruciating seconds.

“It’s not right!” A dissenter yelled from the crowd.

“Would you rather go fight out on the frontlines instead?” Another voice snapped back.

“What would the gods think?” Another yelled.

“That’s enough!” Peshka yelled over them. “The gods have left us out here on our own long ago. I’ve already made my decision.”

“And it will be my guilt to live with.” He muttered to himself as he stepped down from the platform. He turned to First Sergeant Goren. “Make sure everyone gets their share of bacon.” Then began striding off.

“Yes sir.” First Sergeant Goren replied. “Where are you going?” He called after him.

“To go talk to that bloody necromancer.”

********

The point of a stick scratched in the dirt, drawing a thin line in the ground. Malfus counted out twenty paces from the rubble of the ruined gate and then stopped.

“You there!” Malfus pointed his stick at a nearby zombie carrying a skull-sized stone. “Come here.” The zombie began ambling towards him, carrying the stone in both hands. “Yes, yes… as quickly as you please…” Malfus tapped his foot as he waited for the lumbering zombie.

“Right here will do.” Malfus pointed with the stick to the end of the line. The zombie took a few more steps, then dropped the stone. It landed on the ground with a dull thud. “There, that’ll do.” Malfus said, then rolled it over a few inches with his foot. “That will be all.”

The zombie made a raspy groan as air was pushed from its lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows as it turned around. Then it started walking back to where the other zombies were still excavating stones for the makeshift barricade in the gap where the gate used to be.

“Wait.” Malfus called, after the zombie took the first few steps. Malfus grabbed it by the wrist turning its hand over.

“Well, this won’t do. Not at all.” Tips of bone were sticking out from bloody fingers where the flesh was worn down from digging barehanded. Without the mind’s living safeguards in place to protect the body from injuring itself, they would work themselves to the bone, literally. Malfus heard footsteps approaching from behind him and let go of the bloody fingers. “Go on, shoo. Get back to work.” Malfus slapped it on the buttocks, then the zombie ambled back toward the others.

“You there! Maldus was it?” A gruff voice called out from behind him.

“It’s Malfus.” Malfus turned around to see Commander Peshka approaching. He was wearing a polished breastplate adorned with a dazzling array of medals on it, sounding like a dull wind chime with every step he took. His freshly polished black boots squelched as he sank into the bloody mud. The boldness and certainty of his gait faltered the last few steps as he looked uneasily at the undead perched around the ruined gates.

“Well, that was quite the speech you gave earlier. Bravo.” Malfus put the rod and stick in the crook of his arm to make a dramatic gesture of clapping his hands. “And I see neither torch nor pitchfork, so it must have had the desired effect.”

“Yes, well, I see that you’ve kept your end of the bargain as well.” Peshka looked around, still in disbelief at the walking dead.

“Of course I did.” Malfus feigned a look of hurt as he touched his fingers to his chest. “What? Just because I’m a necromancer, you didn’t expect me to keep my word?”

“No, not exactly. I just figured that you would have turned and ran at the first opportunity once the chains were off.” Peshka paused. “I would have.”

“Oh, trust me. It had crossed my mind more than once.” And hasn’t entirely uncrossed it either.

“Still, I’m glad you are doing the honorable thing and throwing your lot in with the rest of us who have no choice. The undead may not turn the tide of what’s to come, but every little bit helps.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Commander, there’s no honor keeping me here. If I could have run, I would have. I’m just not much of a rider, you see.” Malfus looked over at the dozen horses tethered to the side of the building next to the burnt stables. “Where would I even run to with the fort surrounded by gnolls?” Malfus continued without waiting for a response. “And as for risking my neck… as a necromancer, I’m a firm believer in safety in numbers, as you can see.” Malfus motioned to the undead behind him. “The only logical decision is for me to try to help hold the ground here.” Sounds convincing enough. Don’t want you suspecting I might still run off in the middle of this.

“Yes, well, I guess you’ve got a point… Anyway, I came here to see if there was anything that you needed.”

“Yes. Now that you mention it. I’m glad you’re here.” Malfus cleared his throat. “I need tools for them. Some shovels and a few pickaxes should do.”

Peshka scoffed as he looked over at the undead. “Yes, but why do they need them? They seem to be doing just fine without them.”

Malfus sighed. “Can you not see they are busy doing the work necessary to shape up the fort’s defenses? Tools will make it go much faster and besides, I can’t have them digging through the dirt and scraping their fingers to the bone or else none of them will be able to hold a weapon when the time comes.”

Peshka nodded. “Alright. That can be arranged. I’ll have Goren see to it.”

Malfus continued. “And another thing that metal bucket can do for me… Earlier, I saw some of your men throwing rocks at some of my zombies.”

Peshka coughed and raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“This is no laughing matter. I don’t want to see all my hard work and efforts get wasted for the amusement of some soldiers. Those were their previous comrades. They need to show some respect for the dead, dammit.” And some for me too.

Right at that moment, a zombie carrying a stone walked by them and let out a rude noise, followed by a foul smell as it relieved itself a few paces away from them.

“Ugh… is that normal?” Peshka said, pinching his nose and taking a few steps back.

“Yes, unfortunately. Most men shit themselves once they die. Sometimes… it just happens… a bit later.”

Peshka sighed. “Alright, well. I’ll see to it that the soldiers don’t harass the undead anymore. Now… was that all?” Peshka said, starting to turn away.

“Yes. There is one more thing.” Malfus said, looking him in the eyes. “I need assurances, Commander. Assurances that once all of this is over, you let me go free for what I am doing here for you tonight. I need assurances that you don’t turn me right back over to the Inquisitor once I’ve served my purpose.” Malfus paused. “Or at the very least, give me a few days head start… He’ll be too busy chasing after me that he won’t have time to report what you’ve done to the nearest Inquisitorial office and bring their wrath down on you and anyone else left alive here.” Malfus paused again, watching Peshka squirm as he considered the implications, then put his hand conspiratorially on Peshka’s shoulder, “Or… you could always just kill him. Accidents happen in the heat of battle, and besides… dead men tell no tales.” Malfus smiled as he looked at the zombie walking next to them.

Peshka squirmed away from Malfus and looked uneasy. “Yes, well… I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Then Peshka turned and walked off.

Malfus called after him. “Oh, there is one more thing. Some of that bacon I’ve been smelling would be lovely!”

Peshka grumbled to himself and stormed off. Malfus smiled as he watched Peshka walk off, then grabbed his stick and went back to drawing his line in the sand.

********

Inquisitor Deza held up the glass vial to the light of his glowing holy symbol. The teardrop-shaped glass vial was housed in a metal cage similar to the Inquisition’s gibbet cages for holding prisoners, protecting the glass inside. The top of the cage, where all the metal strands met, was a grinning gargoyle’s head stopper. He held the vial up closer to the light, peering into the cage and leaning the glass sideways until a viscous yellow liquid could be seen near the top.

Satisfied with his inspection, the Inquisitor placed the vial back in his belt pouch. Then he held his holy symbol aloft, illuminating the room with amber light, casting long, scattered shadows against the walls from the debris filled room. Rats, roaches, and other smaller creatures scurried away from the light.

He paced the perimeter of the room slowly, pausing to inspect the assorted debris as the light passed over them, looking for anything useful. Cracked wine barrels and a few other pieces of broken furniture, eleven empty glass bottles in one corner, surrounded by shards of glass, and a pile of flat wineskins. The Inquisitor paused as he looked down at the leather wineskins. He counted twenty-seven of them. He knelt down and picked one of them up, taking the stopper off, holding it upside down. Empty. He looked closer at the leather and saw that it was still in good condition. He reached down into his boot and pulled out a small knife, then began cutting the wineskins into strips of leather and laying them out next to each other in neatly organized rows.

Once he had finished, there were one-hundred and twenty-eight strips of leather arranged in eight rows of sixteen pieces each. He then picked each one up, measuring them against one another. He threw out several pieces that were too short, and cut down a few that were too long, until he was satisfied with their uniformity.

He tied one around his holy symbol and hung it from his neck, freeing his other hand to work. Then he began picking the strips up, wrapping pairs together, then tying them end-to-end. Meticulous and fastidious in his movements, like a dwarven-built machine or a magical automaton.

********

Dirt crunched as a shovel bit into the earth, while Malfus leaned lazily against the stone wall, chewing a piece of crunchy, salty bacon. There were a dozen zombies working on digging, using the shovels Goren had brought over. They probably only had the bare minimum amount of coordination to get the job done. They flung each scoop of dirt wildly over their shoulders, with only most of it making it out of the hole. But after a few hours, they had made a respectable amount of progress, excavating enough to make the entire ten by twenty-foot section knee-deep.

Another pair of zombies walked together, carrying a piece of burnt timber twice the size of a man. They ambled together, carrying it on their shoulders and walking with the coordination and balance of a drunk tottering out of a bar. They dropped the long piece of wood in a pile next to several others, then they walked off back toward the camp.

Another zombie stood on top of a giant boulder by the gate with the uneasy balance of a toddler. It raised its arms above its head. The tip of its pickaxe gleamed in the sunlight briefly before it brought it down on top of the boulder with a piercing metal chirp that sent chips of rock flying. Other zombies worked away at it from the bottom with pickaxes as well. While still others grabbed the pieces of the rock, hauling them off and stacking them on the barricade.

Malfus jumped as one of the zombie gnolls walked up behind him, still reeking of pungent lantern oil. He still wasn’t used to seeing them yet and his instincts still told him to run every time he did. Up so close, he was reminded again of how much bigger and stronger each one was compared to a human. Cords of muscles bulged under its mangy fur as it carried a large rock that Malfus probably couldn’t have rolled on the ground by himself if he’d tried.

The pile of gnolls behind Malfus was still stacked as high as his shoulders. He’d raised a dozen of them already to help with work on the defenses, but he was saving the rest for later.

A group of soldiers had gathered around to watch. Coming as close as they dared, no more than thirty feet, most of them further back than that. Interested, amused, abhorred, in equal measure, and perhaps mostly just grateful it wasn’t them doing the backbreaking labor to break the rocks apart.

Malfus put the last few bits of bacon in his mouth, then licked the salty grease from his fingertips. It certainly was nice being the one watching the labor happen, rather than being the one doing it. Malfus had learned that one of the least mentioned, underappreciated advantages of necromancy was the seemingly endless supply of unskilled manual labor it provided.

Once this madness was all over, if he survived, he would take more advantage of that. Perhaps he’d start a farm somewhere, somewhere far away from here, far from his home in Akkadia, far away from the Ossory Empire, far away where the Inquisition would never find him. All he needed was some fertile soil and fresh corpses. That would be the life. Then I’d have all the time in the world to study necromancy away from the ignorant and uneducated, from the judgement of the church, and the prying eyes of the Inquisition. Then, given enough time, and this rod, I knew I’ll be able to find a way to bring her back.

He could even raise a few undead oxen and other beasts of burden. They could work through the night plowing fields. He could work them to the bone, literally, and not get a single complaint from any farmhand or even have a hungry mouth to feed. No wonder necromancy is illegal. If nothing else, it would completely overthrow the economic balance of power.

If he learned a bit more about farming and construction, there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish with an adequate supply of bodies. Nothing he couldn’t build. Especially now that he could raise so many. First, he’d build a farm and then, eventually, an entire village. Why not? Why shouldn’t I? Then I’d find a way to bring her back and she could rule over the village with me. She would like that. Malfus smiled at the thought of this undead paradise as he looked at the pulsing ruby on the rod.

There was a loud crack that abruptly interrupted Malfus’s undead daydream. Malfus looked over just in time to see a giant chunk of rock come crashing down from the boulder the zombie was standing on with the pickaxe. It landed on top of the zombie below it with a crunch and a dull thud that Malfus felt reverberate through the earth.

Uh-oh, workplace injury… Better go see how bad it is. Malfus waved his hand and then all the zombies near the rock immediately stopped working. Malfus stepped down into the hole and walked over to the accident.

The zombie’s bottom half was pinned underneath the rock, only the top of its body was visible. Malfus looked down at it, watching as it clawed at the dirt in front of it, struggling and squirming to get free. It made no sign of any pain, no sign of any anger or loss at its crushed legs, it just clawed furiously at the dirt trying to get out. Trying to get back to work. Malfus wondered if the zombie knew he was going to kill it, cast it aside like a broken toy, now that it had outlived its usefulness. Was it trying so hard to escape from the rock because it desired being unalive, desired being useful and having a purpose again? Or did it feel robbed of the cold, quiet peace of death? Did it even care?

Malfus shook his head and laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought. They are just an extension of my will, nothing more… Until the connection is severed and they become “mindless” undead, wandering around on their own accord.

He wasn’t sure how mindless they actually were. All the tomes he had found on necromancy weren’t exactly very clear on that point, either. They had said things like “an echo from the soul is summoned from the plane of death, to grant unlife, to serve the necromancer’s bidding,” but that didn’t exactly explain how the mechanics behind any of this actually worked. It ignored the role consciousness played in it, ignored the role of the soul. If you believe in that sort of thing. Not to mention how they can still see with rotting eyes. How the awareness of skeletons functioned was another matter completely that his mind wasn’t prepared to tackle at the moment.

Malfus raised his hand to sever the connection between the corpse and the plane of death, to make room for more functional corpses. Malfus paused as he watched it keep clawing the in dirt to free itself, seemingly oblivious to its fate.

A part of Malfus empathized with this broken thing, still trying to find its purpose. He sighed as he lowered his hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a use for you yet. If nothing else, we’ll just put you on guard duty.” Malfus snapped his fingers, then beckoned at the zombies nearest to him. “You two, what are you waiting for? Pull him out.”

With the labor of the defenses back underway, Malfus closed his eyes and transferred his awareness back to the crow. The sudden transition of height and speed was becoming less disconcerting each time his consciousness swapped. Now it was exhilarating. The height made everything seem insignificant, while the speed made him feel alive. The irony of feeling alive whilst inhabiting a corpse wasn’t entirely lost on Malfus.

Malfus circled over the front gate then flew as close to the trees as he could, feeling the connection to the crow growing weaker and gradually fading just as he reached the tree line, just a few hundred feet away from the fort. I guess this close will have to do then.

Even if the distance was limited, the freedom of flight was intoxicating after being a prisoner for the last month. He wished he could keep going further. Wished he could just fly away. Fly right on out of here without turning back. Life as an undead bird wouldn’t be so bad. If only it worked like that.

Malfus willed the crow as close as he could to the trees and then peered through them, looking for any sign of the gnolls, but after a pass over the perimeter, he didn’t see any sign of life below. No sign of the gnolls at all. I guess that’s something. Best we make good use of this time. Malfus did one more pass just to be sure before flying back to the front gate.

Below him, he could see a group of soldiers approaching, carrying long objects with shiny metal tips. Uh-oh, looks like the welcoming committee has arrived. Malfus released his mental grasp on the crow, returning to his own body, right as a jeering voice called out from behind him.

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t my old friend, Lieutenant graverobber again.”

Malfus turned around to see the sneering face of the soldier from earlier. His two friends were still with him and several more besides, perhaps a dozen in all, but it was hard for Malfus to count them this close and towering over him. He held a shovel, and the others behind him had other shovels, axes, hammers, or other tools to use as makeshift weapons.

Malfus swallowed, the salty, oily taste of bacon still coating his mouth. He mentally reached out to a few of the undead nearest to him and brought them closer. Malfus clenched his fist to stop his hand from shaking before he spoke. “I see you brought some more friends with you. It’s a good thing I have some of my own as well. I’ll warn you though, if you’re here to cause trouble, they won’t hesitate to protect me at any cost.” Then he raised the glowing rod in front of him in a manner that he thought was befitting of a dangerous sorcerer.

The soldier slapped his belly as he let out a hearty peal of laughter. “No, no, nothing like that. Think we got off on the wrong foot at first.” The soldier extended his hand chummily. “Names’ Kaye.”

“Malfus.” Malfus said, cautiously extending his own hand. Kaye shook it in a bone-crunching grip, smiling broadly before releasing his hand. Malfus flexed his sore fingers and popped his knuckles after his hand was relinquished.

“Listen, not all the soldiers feel the same way about seeing their dead mates again.” Kaye gestured behind him. “Me and the lads here wanted to lend a hand.”

Malfus did his best to hide his look of surprise. “Are you sure? That won’t be necessary. There are more than enough of-“

“Nonsense. We’re here to fight, too. Can’t just sit around waiting for the damn gnolls to show back up. Drivin’ us mad. Idle hands and all that…”

“Well, I certainly won’t protest. Go on right ahead.” Malfus stepped out of the way.

The soldiers started walking past him, looking at him warily, but also nodding their heads to him as they passed. As they jumped down into the hole, they looked at the undead uneasily, still getting no closer than arm’s length.

“Oh, don’t worry. They won’t bite.” Malfus called out.

Morten was the last soldier to walk past. Malfus hadn’t seen him until now. Morten didn’t say anything, just looked at Malfus with a big, beaming smile, fit for a dragon about to count its hoard.

“What are you smiling about? Was this your doing?”

“I might’ve put a few words in with some of the guys.”

Malfus was taken aback. “Well… Knowing that not everyone will be looking to stab me in the back at the first opportunity makes me feel a little bit better… Thank you Morten.” Nice knowing I have at least one friend out here.

“Ah, don’t mention it.” Morten said. “Besides, they were curious. Wanted to have a closer look at the undead. There were already a few bets going around about them.”

Malfus was about to ask what that meant, but Morten jumped down into the hole with the others and started digging alongside the undead before he could.

******

The Inquisitor dabbed some sweat from his forehead, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. It took a few hours to finish, but now a cord of braided leather rope, four times the length of a man, lay on the ground before him. The Inquisitor wrapped the cord around each of his hands and snapped it taut several times. Satisfied with its strength, he coiled it up and put his arm through it, resting it on his shoulder.

He took off his hat and then held his symbol in the other hand, putting it inside the hat to muffle and focus the radiating light. He carefully and quietly climbed the stairs, taking them one at a time and listening after each step. Once he stood at the top of the stairs, he pressed his ear to the thick wooden door. After hearing nothing, he slowly raised his hat up to the side of the door, letting the light trickle out.

Three steel pin-hinges, all fastened on the inside of the door. This wouldn’t measure up to the Inquisition’s standards for a holding cell, but luckily for the Inquisitor, this wine cellar was not built with that in mind. On the left side of the door, there was a metal panel protecting the locking mechanism, with a small metal loop for a door handle above it. He looked closer at the keyhole. It was narrow, but should be just wide enough to work.

He cut off a narrow strip of cloth from his cloak and wrapped it around the metal loop so that it was completely covered in cloth. He lifted it up and dropped it. It thudded mutely against the metal behind it. Then the Inquisitor tied the leather cord in a knot around the handle and slowly unwound it as he walked backwards down the stairs, counting sixteen steps as he went.

Once he was at the bottom of the steps, he wrapped the leather cord around his arms and behind his back. He gave the cord a sharp jerk. The rope stretched taut, the knot tied to the handle held fast. He released his grip, then jerked it taut once more, testing the knot.

Satisfied, the Inquisitor coiled up the rope, putting the remaining excess on top of the last step. Everything was in place, and now, like a coiled viper, he only had to wait for the right moment to strike.

******

Less than an hour had passed, but the progress had doubled with the help of the living. Malfus walked through the hole, watching everyone work. The stones from the ruined gate had been broken down and stacked into a barricade. It was half as high as the other walls, but completely filled the gap. And there was now a pile of twenty sharpened wooden stakes lying on the ground, each one twice the as tall as Malfus. The hole was nearly waist-high now, all the way out to where Malfus had the markers placed. Halfway there, just a little more to go.

Malfus stopped as he passed by one of the soldiers, staring intently at a zombie while it continued to toil away with its shovel.

“What’s wrong? Worried he’s going to hurt you? I assure you he will not.” Malfus said, coming up behind the soldier.

The soldier jumped slightly, then turned to face Malfus. “Oh no, nothing like that necromagicer. It’s just, just that Jerond has been staring at me the whole time he’s been working.”

Malfus looked over at the zombie, who was indeed staring back at the two of them with a craned neck as it continued to work.

“Yes, well. I don’t see how that’s a problem. He’s not going to-“

“Do you think… do you think he remembers that I still owe him money?”

Malfus laughed, then looked over at the zombie he had called Jerond. Malfus stepped in front of the zombie and looked at it face-to-face, which was still bent forward, looking through Malfus at the other soldier.

“Oh, I highly doubt that. Only a few fragments of memories remain. They don’t even remember their names anymore.” Malfus placed the rod in his belt, then grabbed the zombie by the skull with both hands. “He’s just got a broken neck.” There was a crack as Malfus twisted the skull and its head snapped back into place.

“There, that’s better.” Malfus said. The head of the zombie now flopped over in the other direction. Malfus turned back to the other soldier, but he had his hands up to his mouth, stifling a gag, then turned around and hurried to run away.

The soldiers around him let out a chorus of laughter as he ran off. Malfus smiled as he heard the other soldiers laugh. It had been quite some time since he had heard laughter of any kind.

Malfus kept smiling as he walked off, letting the men and undead to continue their work. He had some work to do of his own. He walked to the far side of the pile of gnoll corpses, then held out the rod.

Malfus closed his eyes and felt his connection to the plane of death. Never had it been this strong before, and it felt like it was growing in power. He’d never dreamt of raising so many undead and maintaining control over them at once before. Thirty-one now, two dozen humans and half a dozen gnolls, and one crow. He could feel an invisible strand of negative energy connecting him to each one.

Malfus looked down at the rod and wondered if his connection to the plane of death would still be so powerful if he lost it, or if he’d need a constant supply of blood to maintain this connection. Problems to be solved another time. He clutched it closer, not wanting to let it out of his sight or put it down. He could feel it tugging at him, pulling at him.

There were swirling motes of light flickering inside the star ruby now, coalescing together, then breaking apart. He stared into it as the patterns shifted hypnotically. “Just a little bit longer. Just a little bit more.” Malfus shook his head. Had he just said that? He wasn’t entirely sure. He pressed his fingers to his temple. Just tired. Just need a bit more blood to get me going again. Malfus turned back to the pile of gnoll corpses and held out the rod.