After a day’s work for the undead and half a day’s for the living, the abandoned guard tower was no longer abandoned, nor did it house any guards. Instead, the tower now belonged to a very satisfied necromancer named Jerry, who had never in his life felt prouder at owning something.

Shoes were nice, sure, but a tower was a tower, and what was a necromancer without his tower?

Of course, there was still plenty of work to be done, but the building was at least habitable.

Midway through the day, Jerry and Derek had stopped working and begun lazing about. Being a necromancer has its perks, and besides, Jerry didn’t want to take advantage of Derek’s goodwill. They’d simply done the jobs that required a human mind. The more menial tasks, like wiping the endless dust off the floors, had been left to the tireless undead.

There were three floors to the tower, each simpler than the last. The first, or ground floor, housed rooms for the guards, with five two-person bedrooms and one for only one person, presumably the commander. Decorated army-style, of course, which meant not at all.

A flight of thin stone stairs later, came a storage room. Probably. It was empty now, as everything of value had been ransacked by the villagers or the bandits, and only a few broken arrows remained in a corner.

On the third and final floor was a living room, or what resembled it. Chairs sat around three tables while a stove rested in a corner, all of these too heavy and bulky to be carried away by the looters. Some cupboards still contained stuff, and it was so rotten and dirty and smelly that the cupboards were summarily removed and thrown down a nearby cliff.

A few cooking utensils and a pile of logs were left though; those could be useful.

Above the third floor was the roof with its battlements, which would be useless to Jerry until he could procure bows and arrows.

But the most important part of the building was below the ground, because there actually was a basement! Jerry was ecstatic! Which self-respecting necromancer does not have a basement?

It was only occupied by two half-filled water barrels and a ton of multi-legged insects, and it would soon serve as Jerry’s laboratory. No sense in frightening guests with all the messy details.

Of course, the house was filled with bugs, mostly cockroaches. Foxy took charge here, mopping the floor with the critters, and Derek procured two more fox bodies from the forest.

Two skeletons were extracted from the corpses and set to bug hunting, while Derek strung the bodies up to extract the blood and prepared a bonfire for later. It wouldn’t be the best meal, but it would do.

Night came, and after they ate, Derek left, leaving behind his cart of tools. Jerry promised to return it soon and thanked him profusely for all his help.

He then surveyed his little army of undead. There was Skeleton 1, Shorty, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and two extra foxes who did not get a name as they would be deanimated soon. Keeping up too many undead was tiring for Jerry, though he didn’t know why.

The assortment wasn’t some grand undead army, but it was getting there.

Of them all, Jerry eventually decided to keep Headless as a zombie, even though they were a bit messier than skeletons. It would be handy to have a zombie close by for experiments, plus his intimidation factor was much higher like this.

As for the bandit corpses themselves, Jerry had riffled through them and found nothing. Only a couple worn-out taels lined their pockets, which wouldn’t be too useful in the villages here—they mostly traded through barter, not currency—as well as their shortswords and the clothes they wore.

None of this was immediately useful, so Jerry threw them in the storage room.

Night came and passed, the necromancer sleeping in the guard commander’s room, where the foxes had taken extra care to remove all bugs. Jerry did not like bugs.

The undead kept working through the night, tireless and with adequate sight. From last night’s foxes, Derek had crafted Headless a pair of leather strips that he used to keep his head at chest height, wrapping them around the base of his neck.

Come next morning, the tower was mostly clean, so the undead were sent to gather water, food, and wood. Then, they began cleaning again. Jerry spent the day putting his woodworking skills to the test; Headless used an axe to chop the wood into nice pieces, then Jerry used the nails and hammer provided in Derek’s cart to fashion the wood into crude, but serviceable, furniture.

He made a long bench. That’s all. At least he had tons of wood to spare for later, which was nice, and Headless was still chopping away at the poor forest.

Tables and chairs were aplenty—all the bedrooms had some—as were beds, utensils, and the stove. Honestly, the tower was pretty set, especially after the bench he installed in the basement.

Now, only one thing was left to do; grabbing a rough wooden pike, an equally rough wooden tablet, and a paintbrush, he took off towards the entrance. A few moments later, a wooden sign was placed in front of the tower for all to see.

‘Jerry Goodguy. Shoemaker.’

Jerry looked at it and nodded in satisfaction. He did have an actual last name, Shoeson, but he was at the age where people can choose their own name, and Goodguy had a nice ring to it.

And now, with the housework finally done, it was time for something much more fun.

“Oh, Shortyyyy! Boneyyyyy!” Jerry called out, and the comically short zombie approached. The poor guy only reached the base of a normal person’s chest, lacking a torso. Jerry waited until Boney—the strangely cognizant skeleton who had outgrown the name Skeleton 1—arrived too.

“Come with me, boys.” The necromancer gave them an evil grin. “I suppose we’re done with work, so it’s experiments time!”

Boney replied, “Certainly, master.”

Jerry froze. “Come again?”

***

The central area of Elden ridge was occupied by thick, towering giants made of bark and wood. They were a dark color, though the light in the area was plenty.

On the branches of these large trees were houses, built entirely of wood, with hanging bridges connecting the different trunks. There were a few dozens of these houses, and all of them exuded a natural air of tranquility.

However, despite the place’s serene atmosphere, there was no calmness to be found. The wooden treehouses, for all their beauty, were occupied by cutthroats, bandits, highwaymen, murderers, and all other kinds of ugly folk. This was the hideout of the Greenskin bandits, a bandit crew as feared as it was infamous, the terror of all nearby settlements.

On the higher branches of the largest tree stood a hut sturdier than the others. Its walls were plain and not at all decorated, but its sole occupant’s importance could not be overstated.

A young bandit by the name of Brad walked in front of the hut. He was blond, with piercing blue eyes and a square jaw, while his muscular chest was outlined by a white vest that seemed untouched by the forest’s dirt.

It hadn’t been a year since he joined, but his cunning and ruthlessness had quickly earned him a rank close to the top. The unfortunate accidents that his superiors tended to suffer helped too.

“Boss,” he said, knocking on the door.

He waited. A few moments later, a man’s rough voice resounded.

“Enter.”

Brad respectfully pushed the door open, revealing a clean, tidy interior filled with books and bookshelves, everything centered around one large, mahogany desk—how that had been carried all the way up here was a mystery.

Atop the desk lay an open book, a goose-feathered quill, and a small ink box, while on the nearby chair sat a person that should, by sheer context, look calm and scholarly.

Jericho looked anything but.

He was a bronze-skinned titan of a man, large and full of tense muscle, barely fitting in the chair. His hair was long, dark, and straight, while his eyes were a deeply vivid green. Despite the sharp, plain clothes he wore, despite his serene expression and the scholarly environment he placed himself in, Jericho still managed to strike the impression of a tiger ready to pounce, of a loose, violent beast about to tear you limb from limb with its bare hands.

Even standing in his presence was enough to make most men buckle.

Just as Brad entered the hut, Jericho looked up from the open book as if engrossed in its contents. It was only a facade, of course—this was Jericho’s deepest, most sacred secret, a taboo so great that Brad barely even dared think about it.

Though he enjoyed looking cultured, Jericho couldn’t read.

This was a secret every bandit knew already, but… who dared tell him? Their leader’s abrupt, violent reactions were infamous.

“Speak, Brad,” said Jericho, his voice deep and commanding.

“We lost three men near the village of Pilpen, sir,” responded the younger bandit. “They either ran away or were killed.”

“What is the village of Pilpen?”

“It is to the west, sir. A tiny village two days away, that three men had been sent to scout out a week ago. They did not return.”

“I see,” hummed Jericho. Brad held his breath. “Your mind is good, Brad. What do you think happened? Did they desert us?”

“I… Thank you, sir. I believe they ran away. Dying at such a tiny village would be unlikely.”

Brad’s voice carried reserved confidence, the kind he knew superiors liked. It saved them the trouble of thinking themselves.

“Good,” said Jericho.

“Then—”

“Send twelve men to the village,” he ordered, a hard grin blossoming on his face. “Whether they deserted or not, it matters little. They disappeared near that village, and so the village must burn. Let them pay, and let all others know the fate that awaits them should they cross us—this is how we, the Greenskin bandits, act.”

“Very well, sir.”

Brad bowed and walked back, ready to leave.

“And, Brad?” called out the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Most of my men call me boss, or chief… Only you call me sir. You are a cultured man, Brad, I like that about you, so do try to keep your head on your shoulders—unlike everyone else’s, it seems to work. I expect great things.”

“You honor me, sir.” Brad bowed harder. “I’ll do my best.”

Jericho nodded, turned back to the book he pretended to read, and Brad closed the door behind him. He smiled. Oh, what a bright future I have.