When Jerry exited the tower, he found himself staring not at a fence, but a veritable wall.

Or at least a small part of a wall.

The necromancer had intended for sparse wooden stakes on the ground, maybe with a loose array of planks connecting them. It would just be a fence with little practicality, built for the sole reason of marking one’s territory.

However, Jerry had not given detailed instructions, and Boney had apparently taken the task to heart. For the small part of the wall that had been constructed—barely ten feet in length—thick wooden stakes had been lodged in the ground in three-foot intervals. Tightly connected planks extended between them, blocking access and view from the outside while stretching to a height of only a meter and a half, for now.

When Jerry saw them, Boney was busy painting the wall black—thank Desistos for Derek’s cart of tools—while Headless was chopping wood into rough planks and stakes. Boboar burst out of the forest, carrying a bunch of thick branches between his tusks, while Foxy was nowhere to be seen—probably on guard duty.

“Master!” shouted Boney as soon as he spotted the necromancer, putting his paintbrush down and sticking his chest out. “Your fence is in construction, master!”

“Yahhh!” shouted Headless, saluting against his head which hung at chest height. Somehow, the mindless zombie had managed to grow excited. Boboar, too, let out a squeal and rushed to Jerry’s side to be petted, dropping the wood he was carrying.

“Guys, that’s…” Jerry was lost for words, absent-mindedly rubbing Boboar’s skull.

“You probably had something simpler in mind, master,” said Boney with pride, “but our master deserves only the best! We refuse to give anything less!”

“Yahh!” Headless cheered again, all three workers looking at their master with pride.

Jerry looked at all the work they’d put in for him. Even if they were undead, hence tireless, it was still touching.

“Good job, everyone!” he shouted back and pumped a fist, eliciting another round of cheers. “This will take more time to be completed, but it doesn’t matter. Good work takes precedence. Just make sure to keep it at the present height, please. We don’t want to come off as too intimidating.”

“As you command, master.” Boney bowed. Jerry smiled. He liked being a necromancer.

The night that followed was cold and windy, and Jerry did not feel like going to sleep immediately. The tower had a stove that doubled as a heater, and they had plenty of wood to burn.

He called his undead friends to the last floor, where the stove was located, and created a warm, homely atmosphere for them all. He grabbed a cup of alcohol—Derek had stashed a bottle in his cart of tools—and some leftover fox meat from yesterday, creating a feast. Only Jerry himself could partake in it, unfortunately, but the undead didn’t mind.

He then grabbed a blanket from a random guard room and laid it over his legs, sitting on a sturdy wooden chair. Boboar lay next to him, the skeleton’s head at petting level, while Foxy lay on Jerry’s legs. When he moved her a bit, the bones weren’t painful. She was pretty light.

Boney, Shorty, and Headless all took up their own chairs by the fire, looking pleased. Jerry suspected they could not feel the comfortable heat, but their master’s pleasure and attention made them happy all the same. Plus, they could feel emotions, so they were bound to be having a good time.

They spent a few hours just sitting there, relaxing by the fire and enjoying each other’s company. Jerry spoke of stories and legends he knew, such as the time a giant moth swallowed part of the sun and became the moon, or the time his father had been forced to run around the village naked on his birthday because the neighbors had stolen his clothes.

Jerry realized that he missed home a bit, but not any more than that. In all honesty, there was nothing much to miss there, and the nightmare of a life he’d led had extinguished any good feelings he might have otherwise harbored. Even his family was faint in his mind. He would probably visit them at some point, but for now, he was walking his own path, as all people should eventually do.

This was his home now.

Tom Boney joined in on the fun, speaking stories of his past life as a bandit, along with all the fun stuff that happened to bandits. They’d captured a traveling bard once, and had him compete in a jokes competition with another bard, who was a bandit. The traveling bard won and was set free—without his valuables, of course.

Another time, a bandit had drunk so much that he’d tried to make out with a wooden log on which somebody had painted a woman.

Tom and Jerry laughed at the stories, while the rest of the undead shared in the mirth, even if they had trouble comprehending what was said. Headless even tried to play some music, rhythmically banging his chest with his head like a gong. It was a cute failure.

For the first time in sixteen years, in an abandoned guard tower, in front of a warm fire and surrounded by undead friends... Jerry truly felt at home.

***

The next day, Jerry decided it was time to visit the village again. Most of the housekeeping jobs were done so he had to return Derek’s tools, plus he could buy the shoemaking equipment he needed. There used to be a shoemaker in the village a few years prior, as Derek had informed him, and the mayor had stored the guy’s equipment away after he’d died. Jerry could buy them now and repay them with his services, hopefully.

Of his undead, Boney and Headless would be left behind to guard the place. They were hard at work fixing the wall, in any case.

Shorty, Boboar, and Foxy would follow Jerry. He didn’t intend for them to actually enter the village or meet the villagers, but they would be hidden close by just in case. After the last time his life had been threatened by Murdock, even Jerry had grown a bit wary.

The village of Pilpen was a short hour’s walk away, and that time passed in a blink. Jerry was so used to walking for days and days on end that this short timespan didn’t even register.

Hiding the skeletons in a thick patch of bushes just outside the village, Jerry casually walked inside the settlement, pushing Derek’s cart. The villagers gawked at his arrival; whether they’d forgotten about him or expected him to run away after the incident with Murdock, he didn’t know, but nobody spoke to him. Jerry didn’t speak to anybody either, besides a few awkward ‘morning’s.

He didn’t mind.

Whistling, he reached Derek’s home and knocked on the door, expecting the large hunter to appear. Instead, his daughter did, Holly, the girl that Jerry had saved from the bandits. She wore a pink dress this time, reaching all the way to her ankles.

“Hi,” Jerry said jovially. “How have you been, Holly?”

“Hi…” she replied. Her eyes darted from sight to sight, not finding any undead, and only then did she relax a bit. “I, uh… I’m good. Shocked, still. But good.”

“That’s great. If I saved you only to have you collapse later, that would be tragic.” He laughed, and Holly did not. Jerry realized his joke was mistimed. She was clearly shaken, and her wide-eyed stare made him uncomfortable.

“So,” he asked, “is your father home?”

“He’s out hunting.”

“I see.”

A short silence ensued. “Well, I just came by to drop this cart and say hi. I’ll come by again before I leave the village, but if Derek still isn’t back, tell him he’s invited to my tower for drinks whenever he wants. He can bring whoever he wants to as well.”

“Alright…” she responded hesitantly, and Jerry’s invitation seemed to find her torn.

“Well, have a nice morning,” the necromancer called out as he turned to leave. It saddened him a bit that Holly was so cold, but what could he do? It would pass.

“Jerry?” she asked, making him turn around. She clenched her little fists. “I’m… Thank you for saving me. I really appreciate it, I’m just a bit scared right now, okay? That’s all. I… I really do think you’re a nice person.”

Jerry blinked, then smiled. “You’re welcome,” he said. “It’s fine to take your time—everybody deserves to feel weak occasionally. Just be you, be honest to yourself, and everything will be fine.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you…” she said after a moment.

“No problem. I got to go now. See you around, Holly!”

With a final smile, Jerry turned around and left, letting her puzzled stare linger on his back. He then walked through the tiny village, enduring the villagers’ hard stares all the while. He whistled in return. If they wanted to look at him, he didn’t particularly mind.

Arriving at the largest house, he knocked on the door twice. A short tower rose from the back of the house, which also doubled as a church to Manna, the Goddess of Life. The door creaked open.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice, and her eyes darkened as she took in Jerry’s form. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, quite not invitingly.

He remembered her; this was Melissa, the mayor’s wife, who had sided with Murdock at the impromptu trial. A beautiful, raven-haired woman with a glare that could pierce wood. She wore a long green shift made of linen, over which she donned a sleeveless woolen tunic secured at the shoulder with brooches. Two chains hung from the brooches, each with a key attached to its end. It was a convenient way to carry things, given that most people didn’t have pockets.

“Hi,” said Jerry. “I’m here for the mayor.”

“What for?” she asked sharply, not inviting him in. He frowned. Where had this hostility come from? Not that he cared overmuch, but while Jerry was an easygoing person, he did not particularly enjoy being treated rudely.

“To buy the shoemaker’s equipment he has,” he replied. “Can I come in, Melissa?”

“I guess you can,” she responded after a moment of hesitation. “And refer to me as Mayoress, please.”

“Ah yes, a title that speaks of your abilities. It means you were chosen as the people’s leader, right?” It certainly didn’t. She just happened to be the wife of that person. “I actually know a skeleton with an equally meaningful title.”

The woman stared daggers, and Jerry smiled pleasantly. Before she could respond, a rotund man walked into the room, wearing the tunic and leggings common to the people around here. His round eyes sparkled with spirit.

“Jerry!” he said with an enthusiasm that was abandoned in short order when he caught his wife’s murderous gaze. “May Mother Manna’s light shine upon you. What can I help you with?” he continued, noticeably more flatly.

“Hi there, mayor. I’m interested in buying the shoemaking equipment that Derek told me you have.”

“Ah yes, old Jerome’s. He had no children, so the village got it when he passed. I think it’s in the basement, somewhere… Would you enjoy some milk while I look for it?”

“Sure,” the necromancer replied jovially.

“I have to weave, unfortunately, so I cannot keep you company,” said Melissa. She then quickly took off, leaving the two men alone in the room.

“She is a busy woman.” The mayor, Ashman, coughed into his hand, clearly embarrassed. “And a bit twitchy as of late. Come, let me fetch you a cup, and then I will have to trouble you to wait.”

“That is no problem. I enjoy letting time pass.”

“Oh yes, most certainly.” The mayor nodded and led Jerry to a woolen chair which felt like heaven. It reminded him that he had to create one of these for himself. Ashman then poured Jerry a cup of milk and took off for a flight of stairs, heading downwards.

Jerry waited.

The mayor lived in quite an opulent house; besides the shiny yellow sphere placed prominently above the fireplace—Manna’s symbol, though this one wasn’t actual gold—animal hides covered parts of the wooden walls, while random ornaments decorated the tables. Jerry immediately assumed this extravagance was Melissa’s addition. Ashman seemed like a simple man, and Jerry knew that Melissa was the one who wanted them to be called mayor and mayoress.

That’s who Ashman was; a simple, spirited man, but one that was weak of will. He was soft, agreeable, and friendly, or so it seemed. Jerry sighed.

The milk, however, was quite pleasant.

“There you go.” Ashman rose from the stairs. He carried a basket of tools in one hand and a long green apron, traditionally called a napron, in the other.

“The whetstone and buffet are missing,” he continued, referring to the three-legged stool that shoemakers used as a workbench, “but I trust you can craft your own. Old Jerome had them, of course, but somebody’s got to be resting their feet on that buffet right about now. The knives and stitching tools should all be here.”

“At this time of the day, I doubt anybody’s resting. But that’s excellent, Mayor,” Jerry exclaimed with joy, examining the basket, “you have the complete St Hugh’s Bones!”

This was not a joke. St Hugh’s Bones was the actual name for a shoemaker’s toolkit.

“It was not upturned, so I reckon that everything is still inside.” The mayor smiled.

“Now, as for payment—”

“You can simply repay us with your services,” Ashman cut him off. “These are useless to me anyway. A new shoemaker for the village is worth far more than these things.”

Jerry looked at the mayor’s feet, finding them clad in wooden shoes called clogs. Not the most comfortable coverings, but the best an untrained man could make himself.

“I’ll craft you a nice pair of goatskin sandals, Mayor,” said Jerry. “And one for your wife too. Maybe that will honey her up.”

“Manna knows she needs it.” Ashman laughed. “Thank you, Jerry. Know that the village appreciates your presence, even if we don’t always show it.”

“Yeah…” Jerry thought to the people outside and their glares. “In any case, I have to get going; there are still some things I need to acquire. Thank you for the milk, it was delightful. Feel free to visit me whenever; I have several extra beds. Maybe you can talk to Derek and come together?”

“When I find the time, I will certainly do so.” The mayor smiled again. “Here, have this goatskin as well; Melissa had bought some to make a new tunic, but she hasn’t gotten around to it in months. Herbalism is just too intriguing, it seems.”

“Herbalism is very useful,” agreed Jerry. He’d once tripped and fallen on a patch of nettle, and only the village’s herbalist could save him from the incessant itching.

“It is, though I wish it left her more time for our home,” Ashman spoke in a low volume, looking around to make sure Melissa wasn’t standing behind him. “Between you and me, she’s not very good at it. Thank Manna for Murdock.”

“Murdock?” Jerry raised a brow. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He is our village’s herbalist. Melissa only grew interested last year, out of boredom. She goes to Murdock’s house weekly for lessons, in fact, though our resident wizard is perhaps not as good a teacher as she would have liked.”

“She goes to his house?” Jerry asked, wondering where exactly that was. Ashman laughed.

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not improper. Murdock fancies men.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jerry, who did not at all care about the wizard’s sexual preferences. “In any case, thank you, Mayor. I really should get going. Take care.”

“You too, my friend. May the Wall hold forever.” Ashman walked him to the door. Then he jokingly said, “And no skeletons in town, you hear me?”

Thus, armed with St Hugh’s Bones, a folded green apron, and a batch of goatskin, Jerry walked to his next destination, the brewer’s house. He’d promised Derek some drinks, and he wouldn’t want to burden the man with bringing his own again.

Unfortunately, the brewer, an older man with an oily ponytail, refused to sell Jerry any. He did not consider shoemaking appropriate payment, and Jerry supposed that the man didn’t like necromancers, to begin with. Helplessly, he departed, heading for Derek’s house. The hunter would be back, with any luck, and he would be able to buy some booze in Jerry’s stead.

But as he approached Derek’s house, Jerry caught a man staring from the nearby treeline. He did not recall seeing this person before.

He was dressed in a green tunic and a leather vest, with an aggressive face and a sword at his hip. In fact, noticed Jerry, this man was dressed quite similarly to the bandits who—

Oh.

At the same moment, the man opened his mouth and roared, “Attack!”