Twenty skeletons. That was the following that Tyron had managed to create after his desperate struggles to master his Necromancer class. He was proud of what he’d achieved. He didn’t want to be boastful, but he felt certain that under his circumstances, most would struggle to do what he had done, or learn what he had learned.

Each of the minions stood armed with simple weaponry, swords and axes, though only eight had shields. As the skeletons gathered in the bottom floor of the farmhouse, he could feel the drain on his magick rise precipitously. A full twenty might be more than he could support after all.

He rushed over to his back and fumbled around until he found a few arcane crystals and jammed them into his pocket. He’d likely need them before the fight was done.

“Kid, take me with you.”

Tyron screeched to a halt. He turned to stare at the skull sitting motionless on the table, his two eyes aglow with magick.

“You want to come out there with me?” he asked, confused.

“Heck yes. Do you really think I want to sit here on the table and sleep while there’s a fight to the death going on? Besides the fear of missing out on the fun, I do actually have a valid reason for this request.”

“Which is?” Tyron prompted uneasily.

“I refuse to be stuck in this skull for the rest of my afterlife, kid. You agreed to set me free, remember? If it looks like you might lose, I want you to smash my skull and break the ritual. I will not be used as a desk ornament for a horny, murderous farmhand for the next dozen years, alright? So take me with you.”

“Dove…” Tyron muttered, his hands hanging by his side.

He didn’t have time to process how he felt about his friend's request, so he snatched the skull from the table in his left hand as he rushed to complete his preparations.

“I need to figure out a way to attach you to my belt or something,” he huffed, “I want both hands free for this.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t especially feel the need to get closer to any ‘bones’, if you take my meaning.”

“I get it.”

“I’m talking about your -”

“I said I get it!”

Once he was ready, he ordered his twenty skeletons to step into the courtyard and followed quickly after them. He’d rather not parade his undead in the open where the children could see them, but they had bigger things to worry about right now.

When he stepped onto the sandy gravel of the courtyard he found Annette outside, along with a few other widows, each of them armed with the short hunting bows that were common in the frontier farming communities.

As he drew closer he could see the fear in their eyes — several were physically trembling — but also their determination. These women were prepared to fight.

“How are the others?” he asked.

Annette shook her head.

“Not good. I’ve left Donna and Bridget to watch them and take care of the little ones. They’re too frightened to help.”

“Can’t really blame them,” Dove said, “these bastards need a right kicking in the balls.”

When the skull spoke out of the blue, the widows jumped, shocked to hear a voice emanating from human remains.

“Oh. Uh. This is my friend, Dove. I… uh… attached his spirit to his skull… after he died.”

At his explanation four sets of horrified eyes turned themselves from the skull, to him.

“Yeah. I don’t think the explanation really helps you out in this case, kid. Should have just told them you found me or something.”

“Is he… safe?” Annette asked hesitantly.

“Who, Dove?” Tyron looked down at the skull clasped in his left hand. “Completely. He can’t even move. He can see, and talk, that’s about it.”

“Instead of reminding me how shitty my current circumstances are, maybe we should be getting ready to fight off these arseholes? Don’t you think?” Dove broke in.

“Right! Annette, you and the other ladies should head to the second floor. That’s the safest place to shoot from, even if the view isn’t the best.”

“What about the roof?” she asked.

“Too open,” he shook his head. “Do as much as you can, but try to keep yourselves safe. I’ve got more minions with me this time, we’ll be able to hold them off on the ground.”

He tried to sound more confident than he was. In truth, he had no idea how well his minions would fare against prepared, human opponents. If the once-farmers were able to shake off their fear, they might overpower his comparatively clumsy skeletons in minutes. He’d have to make good use of his other spells to ensure that didn’t happen.

The ladies ran to reach their posts and Tyron rushed to do the same. The bandits had been seen coming up the south road, but again he couldn’t bring every minion to that side in case they circled around. Reluctantly, he left five behind and took the others through the walkway between buildings to stand on the exterior of the courtyard.

A group of men were walking along the dirt road, unhurried and making no attempt to conceal themselves. As he counted their numbers, the young Necromancer’s heart began to sink.

“How many, kid?”

“Looks like… almost forty.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“On the bright side, they have minimal combat skills, probably bugger all levels in anything other than farming, and no feats that aren’t related to vegetables and cows.”

“That’s true.”

“On the down side, there’s forty of them and only one of you. Twenty one if you include the skeletons. Twenty five if we include the widows. Also, your skeletons are completely rubbish when they’re outnumbered.”

“That… is also true. Thanks, Dove.”

“Any time you need me kid. I’m here for you.”

As idiotic as it was, the former Summoner had a point. His skeletons were fine, good even, but he knew perfectly well that they were far better off when they outnumbered their opponents as opposed to the other way around. In a three or four to one fight, their clumsy movements and wide openings were hard to exploit, but like this, they would be hard pressed to hold their ground.

“The odds are what they are,” Tyron said, his expression grim. “We may be able to frighten them off. They’re not professional soldiers, just thugs.”

“Don’t underestimate them, kid,” Dove warned. “If those farmwives are alive when the slayers come through, then they’re dead meat, and they know it. They might just be thugs, but they are desperate thugs. If you weren’t even more illegal than they are, they’d want you dead just as bad.”

The idea that he was more wanted than a gang of murderers and rapists was enough to get a wry smile from Tyron, despite the circumstances. If only a person's crimes showed on their status sheet. That would simplify a few things. Sadly, that wasn’t the world they lived in.

As the bandits approached, he overrode Dove’s objections and tucked him into the loose belt that held his scabbard. The skull rode on his right hip, nowhere near his groin, but that didn’t stop the man from complaining.

“We’re going to have words about this, later,” he grumbled.

“You want to be close enough that I can crush you, so I have to do this. It’s not like I can wear you like a hat.”

“... I’d be a fantastic hat.”

“That’s not the point. Now shut up, I need to focus.”

The Necromancer stepped forward and looked up to his right and left. In the windows overlooking the road to the farm, the widows, including Annette, had taken up position, bows clutched in white knuckled grips. He tried to signal something encouraging to them, but ended up waving lamely.

Not for the first time he wished he had just a dash of his father’s easy charm.

When the bandits were a hundred metres away, they slowed and stopped as Monty stepped from the crowd and approached another few metres. The man looked much as he had before, except now he carried a crude shield that they’d nailed together using loose wood. Against untrained archers without skills and feats, it would probably do… just.

“Hoy there, lad!” The bandit called, a smile on his face as he waved lazily. “I hope yer don’t mind, I brung a few of me mates back with me.”

“You could state the obvious, or you could say what you want,” Tyron growled back.

He flicked his vision to the minions in the courtyard for a moment. Nothing yet. The crook may be trying to stall him out, so he’d need to keep his eyes open.

His reply only broadened the grin on Monty’s face as he held his hands wide.

“Same as before, lad. You can piss off, an’ we’ll be having these here farms back.”

“The women and children?”

The group behind Monty laughed and the man himself chuckled openly.

“Aye, we’ll be havin’ them too.”

“These guys fucking suck,” Dove muttered. “I’ve seen some real top-grade pricks in my time, but holy shit.”

“Like I told you before, if you want them, come up here and pay the price. All I want is your bones!” Tyron reached out and grasped one of his new skeletons by the wrist, lifting the limb and making the skeleton wave back and forth at the bandits. “Your friends seem happy with the arrangement.”

The laughter switched to ugly muttering as he mocked their dead friends. The expression on Monty’s face hardened.

“Do you know what it’s like, lad, ta be given Farmer as yer Class?”

“You want sympathy from me?” Tyron called, incredulous. “Might be a little late for that, you piece of filth.”

“Oh aye. We done terrible things. But that’s what it takes to change yer fate. See, most o' the lads were raised out here, workin’ odd jobs until we get our class. Farmer, or Labourer, or Tradesman. Then we supposed to go make a life fer ourselves, but it’s a little hard to be a farmer when yer family can’t feed ya, let alone buy a farm.”

The men all nodded, their faces hard as they stared up at the farm houses.

“So what are we supposed ta do? We sign on as farmhands for richer men an slave away makin’ money for someone else. Not much of a life if ya ask me. Then the monsters came, an' we got ourselves a little chance. We can finally make somethin’ of ourselves.”

“You wanted the land, so you killed the men who owned it? You really think you could just take their place and nobody would notice?”

“Well now, who’s to say it weren’t the kin that did it? Ain't nobody around who can say otherwise. Well, there won’t be.”

“And their wives and children? Did they have to suffer like they did?”

Monty held his hands up, palms out, and shrugged.

“That’s just a side benefit, as it were,” he laughed.

The blood boiled in Tyron’s veins.

“Come up and die, Monty,” he called back. “I’ve nothing else to say to you while you’re living.”

“You might be some fancy mage, lad, but you can’t beat this many of us. Give it up and walk away.”

Tyron turned his back on the man and stepped back into the protective ring of skeletons. The bandit leader could shout all the nonsense he wanted, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He quickly ran through the spells he could utilise in this situation, and tried to decide which he should prepare first. He was so deep in thought, he didn’t even realise that Monty had started calling to the widows.

Whatever had been said was lost to him, but the reply certainly wasn’t.

“Die you fucking bastards!” Annette screamed as she leaned out the window, her face twisted with rage as she let fly an arrow from her bow.

The shot sailed through the air in a graceful arc and sank deep into the leg of a bandit who stumbled to the side with a cry of pain, clutching at his wound. This signalled the other widows, who also fired their first arrows out of the upstairs windows. Under fire, the former farmhands rushed to protect themselves, their crude shields coming to the fore. After a few moments of arranging themselves, they charged toward the farmhouses, giving a ragged cry.

“If I die today, instead of these shitmongers, I’m going to be very upset with you, Tyron,” Dove remarked.

The young Necromancer gripped the hilt of his sword tight.

“Me too.”