6.51 A (1/2)

“Well, I’m off! I’ll be back tonight or tomorrow! Send help if you hear explosions or something.”

Erin waved as she left her inn with Teliv. Lyonette let Mrsha wave her off, and then the door closed. The [Princess] looked around.

Suddenly, the inn was quiet. Almost deserted. Some Gnolls and Drakes were having breakfast, quietly, but the population of the inn was now less than two dozen, counting the staff. The [Princess] sighed; Erin was the heart and excitement of the inn. But sometimes her absence could be a good thing.

Ishkr and the two Gnolls on staff looked up as Lyonette clapped her hands. The other guests glanced up, expecting something interesting. But all Lyonette did was point towards a broom.

“Alright, everyone! Erin’s gone! You know what that means! We can finally get some cleaning and other work done. Let’s sweep and polish the floors. Everyone having breakfast—you have thirty minutes to finish!”

There were a few good natured groans, but no one bemoaned the time limit. Ishkr began moving unused chairs to one side of the very big, moderately dirty room. Well, it wasn’t filthy, but there were specks. Scuffs. The kind of thing a proper inn didn’t need. Lyonette was counting brooms.

“Sweep first. Then we’ll do a wash and scrubbing. I have a soap-mix that Octavia made up for me. It’s apparently pretty strong! Mrsha, don’t bother Ishkr. He’s working!”

Mrsha looked up, betrayed, as she tried to push a table that Ishkr was dragging towards the wall. She was helping! But Lyonette put her hands on her hips.

“I’m sure Ishkr appreciates the help, but you’ll get your paw run over. Why don’t you get your ball? We can play with it when the second shift comes in. Or, I can see if Selys has time…”

Mrsha shook her head. Sulkily, she crept off. Lyonette sighed, but she started moving furniture too. The little Gnoll needed a proper diversion each day, she reflected. Work, or a tutor. She had had a [Tutor]. Could she arrange one for Mrsha?

“If Erin doesn’t get taxed again, maybe. Or maybe Selys will sponsor Mrsha. Does Liscor have tutors?”

“Mostly apprenticeships.”

Ishkr shrugged as Lyonette looked at him. The [Princess] pursed her lips. She kept thinking as she rounded tables, filling last breakfast orders and collecting money. Numbtongue had vanished, maybe into the mountains to do some mining.

And in the inn, Mrsha crept around, looking for something interesting. She’d found rats, once. And usually there were fun people to play with. Like Moore. Or Ceria. Or Yvlon, or Bevussa, or…but they were all gone. Liscor’s new Council had made everyone happily busy—elsewhere. And as a result Mrsha was bored.

But there was one person who remained. And while he wasn’t Mrsha’s first target, he and she had an enduring relationship of sorts. Now, Mrsha slunk along, using her [Natural Concealment] Skill. She could see his white robes as he sat at the table, reading. And she could smell his plate. There were some eggs left. So Mrsha waited, biding her time, and then, with a herculean leap, jumped on the table, swiped—

And missed. Pisces flicked his finger at the plate and it soared over Mrsha’s head. The [Necromancer] glanced up and smirked. Mrsha narrowed her eyes and leapt again. The plate soared slowly over her head. She missed the table and went splat on the floor.

“Mrsha, stop bothering Pisces!”

Lyonette had seen it all. The Gnoll cub ran over to her, holding one of her wrists and making a faint whining sound. The [Princess] stroked her head mostly unsympathetically.

“You know better than to try that. And look what it got you! No, you don’t need a healing potion. You didn’t land hard. Don’t be dramatic, young miss. If you want to help, you can help me move chairs.”

Mrsha tearfully looked up at Lyonette. She signed with her paws, overplaying her injury in the right one. Mean! Mean and hard work! Lyonette frowned.

“Mrsha…”

The little squabble was ignored by the [Necromancer] as his plate slowly levitated downwards. Pisces lifted a hand and a fork flew into it. He chewed the mostly cold eggs as his eyes flicked across the pages. He was engrossed in his task, so much so that he only looked up when he heard a cough.

“Pisces. We’re cleaning the inn.”

“Hmm? Ah.”

Pisces glanced up. At some point, the inn had emptied. All the tables and chairs were moved against the wall. Mrsha was playing with her ball as Ishkr and the Gnolls swept the inn. Pisces’ table and chair were the last to be moved. He looked down at his empty plate and rose with a sigh.

“I see. I do apologize, Miss Lyonette. I will remove myself to my room, then.”

“Thank you.”

Lyonette watched him step up the stairs, still absent-mindedly reading. She looked down at his plate and sighed. He wasn’t really annoying. Or rather, she’d heard how much worse he could be from Erin. In fact, there were a lot harder people to manage. Erin included. She took the plate, bussed it to the kitchen, and got to work.

The inn’s remaining occupants kept cleaning. Pisces went upstairs. And no one, not Lyonette, or Mrsha, thought to ask what he did as he entered his room and shut the door. Because they understood Pisces, or at least, they thought they did. But what they understood was the exterior. And the [Necromancer], for all his foibles, made a fairly easy picture to grasp at a distance.

But perhaps if someone were to ask Ceria, or Ksmvr, or Yvlon, they might stop. And upon reflection, they would realize a truth. They didn’t know Pisces as completely as they thought. He had secrets. No one even knew his last name. No one knew which nation he had hailed from, or his past before Wistram. How many people could truly say they knew Pisces (Lastname)?

Perhaps no one. So, as Pisces closed the door to his room he murmured a spell.

“[Muffle]. [Sealed Space].”

On the walls, six ash-drawn runes started glowing. The spell made Pisces’ ears feel full for a moment as silence enveloped the room. It was now safe, at least, in a crude way, from magical spying. The [Necromancer] looked around. Erin would probably have been unhappy to see the magical sigils he’d drawn on the walls, but she’d probably be more aghast at the room itself.

It was actually clean. Disconcertingly organized, compared to how unkempt Pisces himself usually was. Pisces’ belongings were lined up on the dresser, the floor swept so neatly that even Lyonette wouldn’t have found flaw with it; only the bed was a mess of tangled sheets. But that was to a reason.

An undead rat’s skeleton lay unmoving on Pisces’ dresser, the only thing anyone would have found untoward. Pieces stared at it for a moment as he came in, but he ignored it after another moment. The [Necromancer] regarded his room, and then sighed. He put his spellbook down on a table, a bit annoyed, and massaged his forehead.

“Magical theory. Why are necromantic texts so, so…childish? Each one is written as if it is the cardinal basis of all magic. Yes, by all means, pontificate on why your knit-bone structure is superior to all other designs over the last ten thousand years, sir. Would it be so difficult to include a diagram?”

Grumpily, he waved a hand. A second spellbook rose up from the table. It looked identical to the first; a ragged blue cover worn by age and dirt. And that was an effect that Pisces had had to work on for two days straight. Otherwise it would be very difficult to explain why he now had a new spellbook in addition to his personal one and the basic spellbook Ryoka had brought back.

Even if it wasn’t immediately obvious, Ceria and Yvlon could count. And Ksmvr would knowing the Antinium.

Pisces studied the two spellbooks in front of him with identical covers. One was personal, his collection of spells and notes that dated back from his residency at Wistram. Pisces caressed this one, the one he was holding, lovingly. He sighed as he looked into it.

“I must acquire a new book as soon as that door reaches Invrisil. Pallass’ markets are not catered to spellcraft. On the other hand, if Erin were to somehow forge a route to Fissival—how likely is it?”

He paused, and stared up at the ceiling.

“A thirty percent chance she somehow engineers her door to tap into Fissival’s network. Either way, generalist spells would be appropriate. As for this…”

He flicked his gaze back to the book he’d been reading. Pisces sat down at his desk and began to scribble in his personal spellbook, translating his lesson from the previous book. Normally he’d annotate in the other book, but it was on loan, and Pisces didn’t want to make a poor impression.

“Then again, it is an astounding obstinate text. I would rather take lessons from Rievan again than decipher the actual important information from this one.”

Pisces grumbled. He began to sketch a new design into his spellbook, frowning as he glanced at the necromancy tome. If he was reading this right…

“A Bone Behemoth.”

He frowned, and scribbled, working on the basic image. It would be twice, no, three times as large as his Warbear Bone Horror. And imposing, to say the least! A true monster that would render any group of low-level opponents meaningless. The kind of creation that could slaughter even Raskghar without fear of being brought down easily.

The young [Necromancer] frowned as he eyed his new design. It still looked like his old one, just scaled up. Unoriginal, and frankly, less than imposing, at least to his eyes. Oh, he admitted that if you were face to face with the gaping maw and the crushing limbs, it would pose a physical threat, but good design should convey aesthetic horror. Almost artistically so.

“Well, construction is first.”

The [Necromancer] sighed. He flicked his hand. And from his belt, the bag of holding, bones began to fly out, assembling behind him in neat rows.

Femur, humerus, tibia—metatarsals and teeth, bone powder and tiny fragments. Yellowed bone, and white ivory, bleached from time or Pisces’ own efforts. It was like a set of children’s building blocks, only made of death and horror. But the piles were neat and tidy, and when Pisces turned, it only took a wave of his hand to begin moving them on the clean floor into place.

“According to this, the ah, foundation is…to form the spell lattice capable of that much weight and animation, I need to shape the spell like so…? No.”

Pisces frowned. The bones were soaring into place, slowly moving, rotating, forming longer segments, creating the very image he’d drawn in his sketchbook.

But slowly. Not only did Pisces have to stop and make sure a tooth fit with another tooth here, or grind down a section of bone to create a perfect fit here, he was working on another level. For the physical form was only half of the creation he was trying to make. The Bone Behemoth wouldn’t even fit in his room when completed, obviously, but even if Pisces assembled the shell, animating it was…

“Tricky. Complex.”

The [Necromancer] had to admit that after a few minutes. He stared at a huge foot he’d assembled, akin to a dinosaur’s bones, if he had known what a dinosaur was. He thought of it as a Dragon’s leg, or perhaps a Cyclops’ sturdy bones, only crouched, angled for something that would walk on all fours. Bipeds were trickier than quadrupeds. Forget tripeds.

It was already done; assembling was easy. But making it move? Pisces frowned, and tried to form a lattice of magic. In concept it was simple. The leg moved so. Necromancy could give bone a range of movement, like sinew. In fact, Pisces’ magic would replace muscle, tendon, and ligament, giving skeletons the invisible framework by which to move. But giving the spell the strength to move the massive leg was—

Tricky. Pisces frowned as the leg moved a bit, haltingly. The bone wasn’t even that heavy! Not compared to a full flesh-and-blood body. But—it wasn’t easy. Pisces was used to animating regular skeletons with smaller bones. The largest bone in the Human body, the femur, was, what, sixteen times smaller than the bone of this behemoth? At least!

If Pisces compared it to sewing, it was like trying to weave with anchor chains when you were used to thread and needle.

It was difficult. Aggravating. Pisces began to sweat, and then to curse. He tried reconfiguring the bone leg, assembling more parts of the Behemoth in his room. He went back to the necromancy tome and read for a bit, massaging his temples.

“Anchor the lattice…well, obviously around the center of gravity! How do you provide enough power to move bone that heavy? No, not another lesson mixed in with anecdotes of your ‘accomplishments’ every five sentences!”

He hurled the spellbook across the room and dragged his fingers through his hair. Pisces stared at the spellbook, and then flicked a hand. It flew back towards him and he settled back on the desk, reading vexed. He wasn’t like Ceria, who had only recently begun her training again. But sometimes, Pisces envied her.

Ceria was talented. She was a half-Elf, naturally attuned to magic. She had a spellbook with a number of spells he would have loved to study if he could have spared the time from his necromancy studies. And she had learned from a master.

“Illphres.”

Pisces said the word bitterly. And he remembered. A broken body rising, lifeless eyes burning with undead light. Of his regrets, and he had many, that one still stung. He wondered sometimes if Ceria had forgiven him for that. Better still though. She had seen her master’s corpse in undeath.

But she had not seen how Illphres had died. Her or the other [Mages] who had gone to challenge Zelkyr’s last test. Pisces was still haunted by that memory, too. He paused and shook his head.

But she had had a master, however briefly. Someone who could perfect her fundamentals, show her a path. A path to true magic, even if it was only as far as Illphres had gotten. She had probably been on par with a Named Adventurer. The highest of Gold-ranks at least!

By contrast, Pisces was alone. All of his accomplishments were from feeling his way blindly forwards, extrapolation using spellbooks. But theory was far from experience. And not just that; [Necromancers] were reviled almost the world over. Pisces couldn’t even find good examples of living practitioners, hear legends of what had been done, except as tales of woe. He envied Ceria her certainty.

“And yet.”

The [Necromancer] paused. He looked up, his hair disheveled, at the Bone Behemoth. With one hand, he collapsed the beginnings of the skull, reassembled the bones. He studied a skeleton.

Just…a skeleton, built in the Human frame. But modified. There was something wrong with its chest. A spiral-like design leading to a black opening. Over-long arms and legs. It made the creation uneasy to look at, but Pisces smiled. He began animating it, watching the arms and legs flex, perfecting another design he was working on.

He enjoyed this. This was elegant. Sophisticated! Not like the brute power of the Bone Behemoth. But—he sighed—that was the point. Sometimes one needed a hammer, and his team was fundamentally weak in that area. Grimalkin had pointed it out and in lieu of better spells—Pisces glanced around.

“Where are those scrolls he gave me? I should commit to learning [Acid Orb] tonight. Fourteen more hours of study should do it. Memorizing the formulation of acid is…”

He shook his head. Magic was not for people who couldn’t handle memorization or slow progress. Then again. He snorted.

“The [Sorcerer] can cast any spell he or she wishes. All they must do is design it—inefficiently. One envies the simplicity of their existence. Whereas I on the other hand have limited time to study! Especially if I must work around the Bloodfields. Well, perhaps six hours of study today. Around lunch. Ceria and the others may be back by dinner. Hm. Lyonette mentioned Erin had come up with a new food.”

He smacked his lips absently. Life wasn’t so bad now, was it? No, it was not. Hot, good food, a comfortable bed, and all the privacy he could wish for, if not always the respect. Erin Solstice had given him that. And he felt…well, indebted.

“A fascinating young woman. Truly fascinating. I only wish…”

But then Pisces paused. Carefully. And he looked around his room. It was a reflex now. And ordinarily, it only reassured him, reminded him what not to say.

Except for this time. Pisces’ gaze wandered the room. His messy bed, the unfinished Behemoth parts, bone fragments, ready to be assembled, his dresser, the undead rat sitting atop it with glowing green eyes, his money pouch, the very mild scent potion Octavia had sold him, three cookies he’d smuggled from the kitchen—

Pisces jerked and stared at the rat. It regarded him, the sunken sockets of its skeletal corpse glowing a lurid green. It was standing on its haunches, an unnatural posture. And it was looking right at Pisces.

He stared at it. The rat stared back. And something lurked behind the green glow. Another intelligence, flickering past the oblivion in the magical light in those undead eyes. Pisces’ pulse sped up. He wavered, waited. And then he swept into a courtly bow. There was no mockery in it.

Because the undead rat was not his creation. And as Pisces’ head rose, the tiny mouth opened. And a deeper voice, a…Human voice, echoed from it.

“Young Necromancer. It has been some time since we have last spoken.”

Pisces looked up. He smiled, or tried to. But he stared at the rat, with awe, trepidation—and a hint of incongruity. It was still a rat. But the presence that lay beyond it?

He had no master. No one who had shaped his beginnings. And he still had not. Not in truth. But this was as close as he could get. Perhaps closer than he wanted. Pisces lowered his head and adopted a respectful tone that Erin, Ceria—few people in this world knew he was even capable of.

“I am overjoyed to speak with you, Archmage. And I humbly thank you for the tome. It has been most instructive.”

The rat’s head turned, moving independently of the rest of the body to look around the room.

“So it would seem. Let us converse a moment, young Necromancer. Have you mastered the designs I have taught you…two months prior?”

Pisces bowed his head again.

“I have, Archmage. And I respectfully wish to speak with you about what I have learned. Ah—Archmage…”

He searched for another title. One of the speaker’s many appellations of the past, perhaps. But they escaped Pisces’ nimble mind, for once. There was no help for it. He looked at the rat. At the speaker beyond.

“Archmage Chandler?”

It was the wrong thing to say. The rat’s eyes flashed. Pisces felt the ire and his skin crawled. The voice spoke slowly.

“That name is old. Archmage Chandler was a man from a different era. Over a century dead. Address me as you will. But do so by the name they have given me.”

Pisces licked his lips.

“As you wish. Archmage Az’kerash.”

It would be an understatement to say that he had a few secrets no one knew about.

—-

They called him Az’kerash. It was a Gnoll name, a title given out of hatred. Az’kerash. Slayer of Kerash. So that they might never forget what he had done. But most people in the world who knew the name lost the context. Az’kerash was just…Az’kerash. A monster needed a name as grand as it was. So the name stuck.

Once, he had been called Perril Chandler. And that fact was important too, even if few remembered it. Do not forget that he was once Human. Once a man. Even if he sometimes forgot.

He had other names, too. Titles. Archmage Chandler. Lord Chandler, Duke Chandler, Sir Chandler—all born out of estates awarded to him. And he had kept the name, Chandler, that marked him as common-born, despite the attempts to change it, to guard his own reputation, perhaps. That was a fact of a different time, completely at odds with the image of Az’kerash the world held now.

Who still remembered the Gravewarden of Therras? The Undying Shield of Calanfer? Those titles were ash, and the current rulers—if those kingdoms yet existed—would deny any recollection of such names. But they had existed. Once, a lifetime ago and a flicker of time in the scheme of the world, he had been known as an honorary Knight of the Autumn. A friend of the Order of Seasons, a paragon of the now-defunct Order of Felgeist.

No, too few. Perhaps a Dragon, a few [Historians]. Some of the nobility or monarchs well-versed in Terandrian history, or just his. An Archmage. Little more. Even a lot of the [Necromancers] who styled themselves as his second coming, a successor to his name didn’t recall who he had been.

And some days he forgot. He was only known by one name, now. A name cried for over a century in hatred. Az’kerash. The Necromancer. His legacy was most strongly felt in Terandria and Izril, where he had brought death and horror.

Terandria most of all; Az’kerash was still a household name. Not to terrify children to sleep; few slept with the thought of him stalking their dreams. Or if they did, bedwetting inevitably followed. No, he was just a legend. A tale of why necromancy was evil. Of a monster that forgot how generations earlier had loved the man.

But enough. Say enough of the past. He spoke of it not at all these days. Az’kerash was thought dead to the world. That he lived was a matter that concerned so precious few. And it wasn’t even…life. Not in the way most understood it.

He did not sleep anymore. He had no need of it. And he sometimes did not move. He stood in his workroom, in a castle built of black stone where light was unwelcome, to the west of the Bloodfields, hidden in a deep forest nestled against the High Passes.

There was no map of this place in detail. It was an uncolonized area. The one Gnoll tribe that had lived here had been slain a year ago. Few would wish to anyways, so close to the perilous mountains. It had only been a place of note for a few days that same last year, when two Drake armies had clashed after a long retreat by one. And then a Goblin Lord had sprung from this area, leading an army north. But after that, the forest had lain silent.

If you wished to find him, the journey was long. Difficult. The nearest village was nearly a hundred miles distant. The wilderness bleak, monsters sometimes roaming. And the forest enchanted. It was a maze of illusions, that you might cross through, or never know you had been walking by the castle as you passed through it.

If, somehow, you were to navigate it, you would emerge in a cleared space. In a bubble of silence, a place where even on the brightest spring day, the sky seemed greyer. The soil depleted. And the expanse in front of the castle was hardly empty.

There they slept. An army of the undead. Giants made of bone, undead, fresh and fallow with age. Waiting. Inside, they stood in silent rows against the walls, hung from the ceilings, crowded the dungeons. Skeletons, wearing armor. Decaying bodies.

Inwards and inwards. Towards the study. Past old libraries filled with books preserved by magic. Unused areas for dining or leisure, now dusty and empty. Into the few rooms that shone.

But the light was black. It ate at sunlight, provided an uneasy luminescence. There were three rooms that Az’kerash occupied.

The first was his work room. A vast space, given over to a few bookshelves of powerful tomes. An elaborate magical circle in the center. Preserved designs, flasks of liquid or potions stored in glass cabinets. A vast ceiling, to hold whatever might be created in the air.

The second were his personal chambers. No bed was present, but more tools. Books, of the nonmagical kind. Art, hung with a connoisseur’s eye against the walls. A few mementos. And more than a few trophies.

The last room was simplest. A war room. Complete with maps, a circle meant for teleportation. Scrying devices, orbs, mirrors, and a collection of the most immediate magical items the Necromancer might use. Those were the three places he frequented. He might never leave any of the three rooms in a year. He could spend months in any one room.

Working. Az’kerash did not sleep, as mentioned. Nor did he take breaks. Here he stood, manipulating flesh and bone above him. A whale’s form slowly expanded, the gargantuan creature slowly disassembling into its parts above his head.

It was what Pisces had done—on a far grander scale. Fat separated from tissue, tendon moved, wriggling. And then it came together, reforming into a different shape. Organs shifting from their intended function. Magic moving biology. A hundred, a thousand different aspects were changing at once, too many for a normal mind to keep track of.

It taxed even Az’kerash at times. But he could and did work like this for uninterrupted stretches. Sometimes, he would talk, giving orders to the undead, or speaking into a scrying orb, or controlling something from afar. He would be working on a new creation, experimenting with a spell, while at the same time holding a conversation and moving his undead all at the same time.

It was a state that made the Necromancer absent, his attention sometimes distracted from reality. When he stretched himself, he sometimes forgot the basics, like the oddity of a young woman bursting into his chambers out of nowhere. He would be fully able to deal with her as a threat, and even be able to hold a conversation, but basic ideas like ‘how had she gotten here?’ or ‘maybe it was a bad idea to let her run off’ or even ‘perhaps a tip was in order’ escaped him.

That was, until he refocused. Sometimes, Az’kerash stopped. He would cease working on a dozen projects at once and concentrate on one issue, like, say, City Runners who had somehow infiltrated his sanctum. And then he was suddenly, intensely focused. For a while. But Az’kerash could be absentminded. Neglectful, even, of things that didn’t interest him in the moment.

If his many former apprentices had lived, they could have attested to that fact. As it was, a few could still remember who Az’kerash had been in life. Some had known him. Some had learned. All were old.

Archmage Feor could have told many stories. Az’kerash, or Peril Chandler, or Archmage Chandler could have told even more about an uppity half-Elf student. But neither were inclined to reminisce about that particular time.

So here he was. Az’kerash stared up at the whale’s form as it reformed. He ignored the fatty tissue, focused only on bone and sinew. He had more bones he was wedging into the new creation, reinforcing the structure. Sinew moved around it, simplifying the process of animating the creature; all-bone creations required more magic than flesh undead. And Az’kerash was a master. He frowned.

This new monstrosity would have sunk in the water. It would also have died; it lacked necessary organs like, oh, lungs, and a heart. After a moment, Az’kerash gave it both. Sometimes those organs helped. Even so, this whale-monstrosity would have encountered problems in life. It would have been an unparalleled killer; the teeth certainly helped with that. But digestion? Excretion? Basic mating? Problematic.

And it still didn’t satisfy him. Az’kerash paused. He moved his leg for the first time in two months. Shifted his weight. He didn’t pace around the creation; he just rotated it in the air. Frowned at its undercarriage.

“Hm.”

It was a dissatisfied sound. Az’kerash stared at the undead creation and wove a quick spell of animation. It sunk into the tendons, the entire body, custom-made, instantly replicable. That wasn’t hard for him. In the air, the whale-horror came to life. It snapped its mouth, lunged, moving the sinew and muscle in one arc. Az’kerash stared at it, doing a simulation of the creature fighting, perhaps in sea or on land. Then he shook his head.

“No.”

He waved his hand and the whale fell to pieces. The pieces of its body flew apart, landing in circles inscribed with [Preservation] spells. Az’kerash sighed slowly.

Two months. Two months of reconfiguring his latest design. It wasn’t easy. Recreating an entire muscular system could be taxing. And he still wasn’t happy with his new design. So Az’kerash, the Necromancer, stopped his work on the whale project. He raised one hand, flicked a finger.

[Lesser Teleport]. One moment he was standing in the work room, the next, in his study. An undead woman jumped and looked around before trying to shuffle towards the door. Az’kerash paid no attention. The Necromancer walked over to a chair, his muscles moving stiffly in his body. He tapped his chest absently; the flesh revitalized, his gait quickened.

Sitting, then. Not because he needed to, but because he wasn’t a savage. Az’kerash leaned back and his mind, spread, running in parallel, refocused. [Parallel Thoughts] deactivated. He looked straight ahead, focused on the world. And like that, realized he’d overlooked something.

“Bea. What are you doing?”

He turned his head. Bea, one of Az’kerash’s Chosen, an undead made uniquely to serve his will, froze, and guiltily tried to hide what she was holding behind her back. As he turned his head, she guiltily gave up. Her putrefied lips moved. She was a creature of rot and plague. A female corpse, her features not decomposing, but terribly, terribly…ill. To touch her was poison. She spoke in a beautiful voice, a woman’s haunting tones. And like a child.

“Reading, master.”

“Why are you in my study?”

Az’kerash looked at her. He wasn’t angry. Just patient. His fingers moved, and a scrying mirror floated over towards him. Bea hesitated.

“Because I had nothing to do? And Oom is gone. I am sorry, master.”

“Ah.”

Az’kerash paused. He looked at Bea. It was the first time he had thought of Oom, one of his creations, an Acid Slime that had perished in battle with Zel Shivertail. He looked at Bea. The Necromancer read her body posture, the tone of her voice. But it wasn’t the right moment. Part of him was still focused on work. So his voice was flat. Without emotion.

“I see. Read, then. Until I have instructions for you. Replace the books later.”

“Yes, master. Thank you.”

Bea smiled, relieved. Az’kerash’ expression never changed, but Bea was used to his ways. She retreated. The Necromancer was still processing. His mind was playing catch-up to all the events that had occurred, all the things he might need to focus on now.

“Bea.”

The plague zombie halted.

“Master?”

“Where are the others? Reading?”

“No, master. Venitra is…training. Smashing undead. Kerash was reading, but I think he went to sleep. In the ground. I haven’t seen Ijvani for…a while?”

“Hm. And Oom?”

Az’kerash’s thoughts made his eyes flicker. Bea’s face twisted.

“Ah. Of course. That is all.”

She hesitated, and then left. The Necromancer turned his head back ahead of him. He frowned, and his mind began reorganizing. Remember that Oom was dead. It wasn’t a priority fact for him. Now…

“Mister Veldamnt! Dead gods, we haven’t seen you in months, sir! Come in, step forwards—please allow us a small check of your items. [Detect Magic], as usual. ”

“Sir Salin. Always a pleasure. Please step this way. Would you care for refreshments?”

“Hexilt? Allow me to check my list of names, sir. One moment…aha. Will you be wishing to visit the slave auctions today or view our latest line of artifacts?”

A scrying mirror hovered in front of Az’kerash along with another mirror and an orb. He’d selected them at whim; he could have done three orbs, or three mirrors, or any number of the artifacts he needed.

In each, the figures, a Human man, overweight, wearing a smile as he clapped hands with a fellow [Merchant], a Drake dressed in the latest fashion, and a Naga slithering down a white marble floor, trailing a bit of sand from outside were all moving. Conversing. Az’kerash watched the Human drinking an offered shot of liquid, choose a proper response based on the feedback the man’s taste buds gave him.

“Blight me, but what a taste! Plum and alcohol—not my style!”

He began coughing, and the other [Merchant] swatted him on the back. Sir Salin, the Drake, stepped into a booth and rattled off a list of drinks and appetizers as he put a monocle on one eye. The Naga—

And here Az’kerash stopped. He focused on the Naga’s perspective via the orb, saw through the Naga’s eyes as he passed by a row of people on auction. The route he was being taken through the auction house—no, wait, she—the Naga was female—had passed by the auctions, despite her declining the offer to see the auctions.

In that moment, Az’kerash processed on a few levels. He was moving the other two, the Human and Drake he was possessing, keeping them breathing, affecting normal mannerisms and holding a conversation, as well as moving the Naga. He was noting the way the [Auctioneer] had taken him by the display to tempt him—the Naga—on purpose. And the final thought he had was—

“Disgusting.”

The Naga said nothing, merely slithered by the slaves with such blatant disinterest that the [Auctioneer] kept moving straight to the artifacts and producing a small catalogue for the Naga to browse. In his chambers, however, Az’kerash spared an emotion and an expression for what he saw.

Perhaps it seemed hypocritical, or it would have if anyone was in a position to judge the Necromancer. But Az’kerash himself only lingered on the thought for a moment. But he was sinking back into the world, and his posture was changing. He ceased to become a statue of a man. He leaned forwards, his posture still straight.

He wore robes blacker than midnight, and his skin was paler than the whitest of paper, bare of color for lack of sunlight. His hair was white, his features precise. But his eyes were black. And white pupils stared out at the world of the living. For all that, he was now flicking his eyes to each orb while ‘seeing’ on multiple levels.

“Artifacts. Three months. What have I missed?”

The Necromancer put the inquiry through in three different voices. He listened.

“…oh, the finest of vintages, snapped up I’m afraid. I think it was someone from Kaliv. Had that accent—a gift for their [Queen]. A damn shame—”

“Of note, Sir Saliss? I can only think of a fine set of gemstones, all perfectly cut, palm-sized. As well, perhaps, a very contested Potion of Youthfulness. We were unable to test the full nature of the enchantment, but it was certified by none other than Xif of Pallass as being authentic, and it sold for about eighteen point four—”

Thousand, obviously. Az’kerash made the Naga sit up. She leaned forwards, and the Human [Auctioneer] shivered as he tried not to regard her serpentine beauty.

“Naq-Alrama steel, yes, Honored Hexilt. An entire ingot of it, sold at fierce bidding. But, I think, the cost was lowered due to the fact that it was unshaped.”

The Necromancer stared as the Naga inquired as to its whereabouts. The [Auctioneer] was hesitant, but this was a Chandrarian Bazaar, and she was wealthy. And beautiful. And it was only a name.

“Roshal, Honored Hexilt. I cannot say who, but the buyer was represented by one of theirs.”

“Ah.”

Az’kerash sighed. The Naga kept speaking, and he piloted her onwards, devoting some thoughts to her ongoing gossip, but he sat back.

“Roshal. Too difficult.”

Anyone but them, and he would have…the Necromancer frowned, and he had another emotion: regret. Bitterness.

“Naq-Alrama steel. How useful. Unforged? It must mean the smith of the Tannousin tribe is dead. If the art passes from this world, only the Dwarves…no. Perhaps they’ve forgotten too. Fascinating.”

His eyes flicked to the left. Now he was investigating the artifacts on sale with all three puppets. Weapons flashed before his eyes, potions, fine wines, artwork—from three perspectives at once, all accompanied by the blather of each seller. It would have overwhelmed, but Az’kerash was used to it. He filtered out what was unimportant, began casting spells.

“[Detect Magic]. [Eagle Eyes]. [Detect Magic]. Hm—forgery. Weaker enchantment. Poor wine? [Detect Lies]. No? [Beguiling Aroma]. [Mindhaze].”

The [Merchant] reached out and clasped another [Trader]’s hand. The female [Trader], who had been sharp as she’d presented her wares, suddenly relaxed, smiling. Then caught herself, suspected a Skill. Az’kerash smiled.

“I couldn’t spare, oh, eight hundred gold pieces for it. But seven-twenty?”

“Sir—under nine hundred gold pieces, for a vintage this fine? I remind you, this comes from Chandrarian vineyards, a perfect blend from—”

Haggling took a bit more attention, so Az’kerash lingered on that deal while the Drake took a refreshing drink of wine, much to the delight of those who expected him to become intoxicated, and the Naga ate a rodent. Alive. He settled the deal for the vintage, made a mental note to turn it around for about double the profits.

This was what the Necromancer did for fun, more or less. After all, it was hard to beat a palate that had sampled some of the world’s finest wines and beverages, even if he, Az’kerash, seldom drank. Which reminded him. Az’kerash raised his voice in his quarters.

“Bea. Do you wish anything?”

He heard a sound like a squeak. A shuffle, guilty—Az’kerash sighed.

“Venitra. Kerash. All three of you may observe. Quietly. Stop moving.”

The three Chosen did. They stood as silently as, well, the undead. Venitra, a woman carved of bone, an imposing figure that would have daunted even a Minotaur. Her body was ivory, her features sublime. Her eyes green and glowing.

Kerash stood behind her, an undead Gnoll. Closer to a Draug, but perfectly preserved, statuesque as Gnolls went, wearing ancient armor. He who might have been king. Bea next to him. The Chosen watched, and Az’kerash spared another thought, this time tinged with amusement. Bea must have ran to find them to announce he had left his work room. They were forbidden from interfering with him except in times of emergency when he was laboring over a new creation, but his private study? He had allowed them to watch. It amused him.

Where was Ij—

And then Az’kerash saw a magnificent scroll. Unopened, the latest bit of treasure from…he sighed, spoke aloud for the benefit of his audience.

“Tyfilt Dungeon. Hardly worth the effort. That era of spellcasters were largely inferior. However—”

The Drake began auctioning for the scroll, snatched from a Lizardfolk dungeon in Baleros that had made its way to Zeres’ markets by chance. Az’kerash watched as other Drakes began raising their claws, or bits of wood in the auction house.

“Tiresome. Kerash, take note.”

“Yes master?”

The voice was eager, a growl that mimicked that of Kerash the Gnoll Chieftain in life. But it was a different personality who wore his body. Az’kerash waved a hand to the mirror reflecting the Drake auction.

“Note the way the auction house is run compared to the individual goods on display in Terandria’s gathering, or the bazaar in Chandrar. Terandrian [Merchants] conduct their trading and exchange of goods in private; they prefer to sell to their clients on their own terms, establishing relationships. On the other hand, Chandrar does allow for auctions, but employs a more private relationship, where an item has a set amount of time to be outbid without knowing who you may be bidding against, if any. And a client may discreetly buy the item outright if they so desire. Privacy is emphasized in Chandrar, relationships in Terandria. But Izril?”

He shook his head.

“Spectacle. Drakes wish to be seen to outbid their competition. The display of wealth is as valuable as the acquisition, and the auction house will reap the largest monetary gain through the public bidding system. Spectacle and greed.”

Az’kerash’s tone was crisp, informative. Lecturing, even, with a dry, somewhat cynical tone. But mostly, sharply academic. And he paused, waiting for a response. Kerash was the center of jealousy from Venitra and Bea, as he solemnly delivered his reply.

“It is so, master.”

The Necromancer paused. Kerash smiled superiorly at Bea and Venitra and settled back. He was oblivious to Az’kerash’ true emotions. And indeed, Az’kerash himself didn’t linger on them much, except for a…almost subconscious desire for the reply to have been something other than blind obsequious. Perhaps, a challenge to that statement, or an in-depth reply that hinted at the listener’s own understanding of the cultural-economic realities that shaped commerce among different species.

But he didn’t expect it from his Chosen. They were his children. And like children…Az’kerash sighed. He’d won the bidding, and his Drake was smiling smugly as he accepted the scroll. His Chosen were smiling as well, luxuriating in the victory. Az’kerash’s face didn’t move. He was rich enough to win almost any auction he’d cared to, and no one had decided to outbid what he had judged the scroll to be worth.

Time passed by. It wasn’t a simple process, extricating the puppets he was controlling. They had to socialize, make goodbyes, even make mistakes, like his Human [Merchant] ogling another woman, or the Drake getting into a minor tiff over the carriages that would speed him back to his estate.

The Naga had no trouble, but it just took a while. They all had to go to their estates, homes carefully guarded by people who seemed fairly real. Bowing servants—some of them who were actually employed and actually alive—and maneuver his puppets into a place where they could safely put their acquisitions in a bag of holding. Then they would need transport, sometimes by Courier, other times by covert action. An undead skeleton could run forever, even if they were slower than a Courier, but they needed to take the right path…

“The mental upkeep on Hexilt is tiresome. She may need to incur an accident in the near future. Or find a pressing reason to voyage to Izril or Terandria. Chandrar is simply too far to maintain the spell and her mannerisms constantly. Baleros and Rhir likewise.”

Az’kerash sighed as he put the three puppets on mental autopilot. It was a testament to his abilities that he could actually keep his undead puppets behaving like, well, people while he did everything else. But it did occupy a portion of his thoughts and he had limits.

Still…Az’kerash now had more mental faculties available and he spared a thought for the Hexilt issue. He tapped his fingers together, came to a decision in a split second.

“No, an accident, I think. A…jealous lover. Who will ruin her face. Seclusion—noticeable deterioration over time. Suicide in six years.”

Done! Another little annoyance crossed off the list. Az’kerash made a mental note in his head to see it done next time he actively dealt with Hexilt.

“The sooner the better. Replicating all of her biology is difficult. As is beauty. Especially when she is naturally propositioned often. I do not care for the complexities of the task.”

He heard a shift from behind him. Az’kerash turned his head and saw Bea making a disgusted face along with Kerash. Venitra just looked confused and was bending her head to whisper. Az’kerash stared at Bea and Kerash. How had they learned what sex was? Books, perhaps. Or when he sent them out. It would be Bea who had learned of it; she had been designed for curiosity.

“Bea.”

“Yes, master?”

“Where did you learn of intercourse?”

The plague zombie hesitated. She shuffled her feet.

“Um…I saw some Drakes doing it. When I was in a village.”

“I see. It is a natural behavior. You do not need to emulate it of course, but it does not disgust the living. In fact, it is a natural reaction to beauty. If you are propositioned for it while undercover, do not immediately refuse.”

“Yes, master. But it looks pointless.”

It probably would, to the undead. They were consummate actors, able to play their role among the living when he sent them out. But they were children. Az’kerash only sighed.

Puppets. He had a number of them. Not, as one might suspect, legions. Because each one had to be managed. And Az’kerash was one person. The Necromancer, yes. But controlling hundreds, or even a hundred was far beyond him. It would be simpler if the puppets were themselves thinking beings with limited will. But that either meant creating a Revenant, not an ideal solution, or doing the impossible.

Still. Az’kerash eyed his Chosen.

“Perhaps it is time to send one of you out to fulfill a role in a society once more.”

The Chosen straightened. This was a familiar assignment. Each one of them waited. The Necromancer stood. Now more memories flickered through his mind. He frowned.

“Venitra. You will not be sent. Your ability to deceive and control yourself is lacking. You are still in disgrace.”

The bone woman shrank, the glow in her eyes dimming. Bea and Kerash smiled. Az’kerash looked at them.

“Kerash, perhaps. I may send you out to play the part of a Gnoll wanderer. The Meeting of Tribes will occur this year; I may have to sway their conclusion. Bea…”

He paused. She looked up hopefully.

“…No. You kill too easily at a touch.”

She looked visibly upset.

“I am sorry, master!”

This time her reaction provoked a response. Az’kerash looked at her. And he smiled. The smile wiped away Bea’s grief in a moment.

“You were made to do so, Bea. Your flaw is an asset.”

“Yes, master! I will remember it!”

Joy from her, envy from the other two. They were so simple. Az’kerash was fond for a moment, and then the emotion flickered away. His children. He looked around. Oom was dead, he knew that now. A pity. Bitterly, Az’kerash reflected on Zel Shivertail’s demise. It had exposed errors in his Chosen. But he had not had the…inclination to replace their numbers. And Ijvani?”

A memory surfaced. Ah, yes. Not enough Scrolls of Great Teleport. Az’kerash sighed. He had bought all of his scrolls at great cost, even given his wealth. And Ijvani was now heading back on foot. That was what his memory told him and the preoccupied Necromancer didn’t see fit to question it.

He glanced back into the scrying orb. His Drake puppet was opening the scroll. Az’kerash idly watched it open. He read the magical runes as the Drake looked at them. The Necromancer frowned.

“Hm. This scroll is one of [Searing Light]? No, perhaps—ah—”

The Chosen watched him turn. The Drake puppet dropped the scroll, dove. Too late. The scroll exploded. And the scrying orb went dark. Breathless, Kerash, Bea, and Venitra stared at Az’kerash. The Necromancer sighed.

“A trap scroll.”

“Master?”

Venitra dared to call out, afraid, perhaps of Az’kerash’s wrath, or his failure. The Necromancer paused.

“A minor setback. The Drake assured me the scroll had been tested. Well, it will require work to set up another [Merchant], but the prices of unknown scrolls will plummet in the interim. A simple error to correct. And perhaps the spell eradicated Salin’s neighbors. That would be quite acceptable.”

He waved the scrying mirrors away. The Chosen relaxed, seeing the amusement that flickered across Az’kerash’s face. But like the other emotions, he didn’t linger on them. They watched as their master dismissed the issue. Their world stabilized, and they smiled, gleeful in the accident that still worked to their master’s benefit.

Az’kerash settled back down in his chair. What else? Well, besides sending another puppet to replace Salin and arranging the scandalous and disastrous affair with Hexilt, he had a few other events to take care of. He consulted another puppet.

Information this time.

—-

Fierre the Vampire looked up at the code-knock on her door. She paused, and then got up warily to answer it. The door took twice as long to open; she wasn’t used to the new locks or the new office she was in, for that matter. Her old workplace was gone; being attacked by a hail of enchanted needles tended to put people off working with you.

But her new place was pretty good. Pretty good. The door was twice as thick, and it was enchanted. Not only that; Fierre was fairly rich, and she owned this room now. All thanks to her payout from the Order of Seasons. All Fierre needed now was for Ryoka to finally return and she’d be golden. Literally.

But work was work. When the door slid open, the nondescript man walked in and nodded to her. She recognized him and relaxed.

“Information?”

“Latest updates. World events. Three months. Give me what you have. Oh, also—best Runners in the region?”

Fierre hurried over to the desk. The man had a no-nonsense tone and he was straight to the point. She liked that. He paid for information every few months; she suspected he worked for one of the local nobility or a [Merchant] or someone with similar amounts of wealth. He probably rotated [Brokers], but it was free money for information she kept to date on.

“Let me get my files in order. All major events, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Need a copy?”

“No. Just give me a list. Oh—and tell me about any changes with the Runners.”

“Oh—”

Fierre bit one lip, then quickly hid her sharp tooth. She began shuffling information, organizing her report. The man paid well, after all, and she was delivering a quality service. More information than the other [Brokers] or [Informants] in Reizmelt, that was what Fierre wanted people to say! And as for Runners—she coughed.

“Well, I’ll get to world news. But in terms of Runners, there was a new Courier last month, and Rieve the Brisk suffered an injury while running. Leg wound; bad fracture. He may be out commission for three weeks still. However, in Reizmelt, the, ah, Wind Runner is doing quite well. Are you aware of…?”

The man nodded impatiently. Fierre hurried on.

“Well, she achieved a Courier-speed run to Walta at the behest of Lady Bethel Walchaís, and just recently was hired by the alleged [Emperor]…”

The man’s eyebrows rose as Fierre recounted Ryoka’s exploits from greatest to least, embellishing her a bit. It was the least she could do to repay Ryoka, and talking up her reputation to everyone she met could only help her friend.

—-

“Alright, enough about this Wind Runner. Who else?”

The man’s voice was impatient as Az’kerash listened to the female Vampire. The Necromancer listened with one ear, doing the same with four other [Informants]. This was easier; once this puppet was done, he’d find a secluded spot, dig into the ground, and wait until Az’kerash needed him again. Part of Az’kerash was satisfied to know Ryoka Griffin was alive.

But mildly. The Necromancer didn’t do anything as…mortal…as tapping his finger against the table, but the information dump of voices and his mental processing of it was tedious. War in Rhir. Scandal in this kingdom. The Titan’s game in Daquin gave him pause, but the Necromancer dwelled on nothing. It was all information and he processed it.

And then he was done. Az’kerash let his puppets excuse themselves. And but for a mugging of one of them, they were all heading back to their hiding places and he could relinquish control of them. He spoke out loud as his thoughts migrated back together.

“Few new artifacts in the world worthy of consideration.”

He meant to him, of course. The market was full of items any Gold-rank adventurer might want, let alone Silver, but Az’kerash had a limited list of things he needed. He mused as his thoughts went to his armory.

“The Heartflame Breastplate is tempting. Bea, you will monitor the [Messages] relating to the Thieves’ Guild. If it appears on auction, alert me at once. It is not worth straying near Liscor with…the Dragon. However, if it is stolen, I will retrieve the item from the [Thief].Yes. Rather than risk a bidding war with a Walled City or one of the Five Families.”

“Yes, master.”

Bea nodded eagerly. Az’kerash frowned, thinking of Teriarch. But again, only for a moment. He spared a thought for Magnolia Reinhart. Now there was a trove of treasures he would pay any sum for access to. A shame about the Reinhart’s ancestral vault, which he was naturally aware of.

If Magnolia Reinhart had been foolish enough to take anything worth stealing from her vaults, he would have expended every effort to take it from her. As would any [Thief], really. But the difference was that Az’kerash might consider starting a war with Izril once more to take the Crown of Flowers from her.

Ah, well. So much for that notion. The Necromancer ran down his shrinking list of concerns. Ijvani’s location was at the bottom of that list. After that, he would probably begin work on his undead creation again. But before that—

“The young [Necromancer].”

Az’kerash paused. And that was significant. In his unchanging castle, his routine, here was something unique. Something unpredictable. Az’kerash turned his head. And he whispered a word.

“Arise.”

Hundreds of miles away, a skeleton of a rat flickered to life. Green flames burned in the sockets and they beheld a room filled with bones. Az’kerash saw a young man, frustrated, stalking around a crude bone leg. The Necromancer paused. The scene surprised him. Perhaps it was seeing someone else perform necromancy, or the casual way Pisces was doing it.

He hadn’t even barred or locked the door. Someone could walk in and see him. And the window was unshuttered. Az’kerash focused on the vision through the rat’s eyes. His Chosen watched. Bea was speaking.

“Master, there is a contract for the Heartflame Armor if you are interested. An offer has already been put up by…”

She paused as Az’kerash held up one hand. Slowly, the Necromancer’s thoughts focused more heavily, abandoning other pursuits. And something like personality reemerged.

“Is he a fool? Or—no. This inn? [Absorb Recollections].”

He cast the spell on the undead rat. Instantly, Az’kerash’s mind was assailed by sights, sound. No smell, but everything the undead rat had seen or heard in the last three months. It would have overwhelmed Az’kerash if he hadn’t taken steps to enhance his mind. But his mind was already capable of filtering it, experiencing memories and processing them in a heartbeat.

And what he saw was—

“Pisces! Are you playing with your bone again?”

The door slammed open and Pisces nearly leapt out of his robes. He whirled as Erin laughed at him.

“Erin! Please refrain from your humorless jokes!”

The [Innkeeper] laughed. Az’kerash recognized her. And he felt—ire? She’d defeated him at chess. Curiosity—vanishing. Focus on the scene.

“Sorry, sorry! Your bones. And I just wanted to tell you that there’s food below! Hot dogs! Okay, sausage. Say, what’re you making?”

She looked at the undead Bone Horror that the young man was working on, and Az’kerash saw the uneasy expression. But nothing more. Pisces sniffed.

“If you must know, I am redefining the whip-variant of my Bone Horror, improving its capabilities and the length of the arms—”

“Gotcha! Bone stuff! Come down for sausages soon!”

Erin shook her head. Pisces stared as she walked off. He stalked over and slammed the door.

“That vacuous, inconsiderate—”

Memory. This time of a half-Elf, wandering in while munching on a bit of cheese.

“Pisces. Yvlon wants to know if you’ve got her handkerchief.”

Pisces glanced up as he scribbled on a bit of parchment.

“Why would I have her handkerchief?”

“She says you borrowed it. Remember, the nosebleed?”

“I washed it and gave it back.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Hey, Yvlon, Pisces says he gave it back!”

“Then where is it?”

An irate woman wearing armor walked into the room. Az’kerash saw her scowl at Pisces as he sighed and pushed his chair back.

“Perhaps Ksmvr has it?”

“Why would he—”

“Wait, didn’t you lend it to him at breakfast.”

“Oh. Sorry, Pisces.”

The young man rolled his eyes. He pushed himself back from the desk.

“Gratifying as it is to be the first suspect—”

“Oh shut up. You stole my quill for three weeks!”

“—would you tell me how this looks? Aesthetically?”

Yvlon and Ceria stared at the parchment. Az’kerash pieced together another bit of memory from the future. Saw a face-mask made of bone. Both half-Elf and Human recoiled.

“Dead gods, Pisces, that’s horrifying!”

He looked quite pleased.

“It’s intended to be. A psychological effect. I intend to mount it on the Bone Horrors when we use them in combat. If I can adjust their faces—”

“Oh no you don’t. I’m not partying with one of those.”

“But the effect—”

“It’s bad enough we have undead attached to our team! Pisces! Can you imagine if someone sees us with that? Besides, who are you scaring? Mossbears?”

“I should imagine [Bandits]—”