Pisces to Ceria: Are we hiding or securing Yvlon and fleeing?

Pisces to Ceria: Hello? Do you need a distraction?

Pisces to Ceria: I can’t tell what’s going on. I presume you’ve all vanished; I can hear them searching around me.

Pisces to Ceria: Reducing spellcasting in case they’re using [Detect Magic].

Pisces to Ceria: I think they’re gone. Where are you?

Ceria to Pisces: Hey, you’re a genius, idiot. They got all of us. How the heck did you escape? Will be out of range soon—head back to Tyrant’s Rest.

Pisces to Ceria: Clarification?

He never received a response. Which made him think their personal, secret communication spell from Wistram was out of range. Pisces eventually did emerge from his hiding place. He sat up with a gasp, and the sand covering him fell away.

Quite a lot of it, actually. He’d buried himself in the sand to avoid them spotting him. He had it in his hair, in his robes.

“What do you mean they got you all?”

He’d assumed they were hiding in case it wasn’t Yisame’s people after all. Or just because they didn’t want to obey—Pisces looked around and saw the Mad Ones’ camp in the distance. No chariots.

No magical Wistram carriage.

Nothing.

“…Tree rot.”

It sounded awkward when he said it. He got up, shaking sand out of his robes, and stood.

How did he escape the charioteers when Colth and Ceria failed to? Well, he knew how he’d done it, but he’d assumed Colth with his nigh-infinite Skills and Ceria’s magic…Pisces felt his stomach sink.

Now he had to go back by himself? He’d been so sure—

He rubbed at his face. Once again, it seemed to him that his team was out-of-sync with each other. He’d just assumed…

Here was the trick. As Pisces gloomily began walking back to the Mad Ones’ camp, he did congratulate himself on his new levels of artifice. He, Ceria, and Colth all had access to some form of [Invisibility], clearly. But the charioteers had been ready for them, and Pisces had known the instant that mask appeared they’d see him.

He was hardly a strong illusionist, so he couldn’t disguise himself with magic that way. Which left another trick: burying oneself in the sand. Classic to Chandrar, he’d read.

However, any fool could intuit that. The [Charioteers] weren’t stupid. They’d begun casting [Detect Life] spells—even [Detect Death] once they’d realized he was hiding. Pisces, covered in the sand as they rolled around him, had panicked, then come up with an interesting idea.

He was a [Necromancer]. He’d show up on a [Detect Life] spell, but what if he projected death magic such that he looked a bit more dead than usual? Not enough to register as undead, but just enough to ‘cloak’ his signature.

It had been a fun challenge to balance his magical essence, and he’d assumed Ceria’s circlet would do that for her, and Colth would use his helm. Then they’d link up, get Yvlon once she woke up, and…

…And it turned out he’d been way too clever. Pisces scuffed at the dirt.

“Do I rent a Wistram carriage? Maybe the Heromakers of Hraace can help me. What is ailing Yvlon?”

She’d just keeled over in battle. And she’d been yawning all day…

Ever since that kiss in the parade. Colth had said that. But he’d also ruled out poison at that instant, so what…?

A lot of questions, and not a lot of answers. However, Pisces did at least make it to the Mad Ones’ camp, and they didn’t murder him.

Indeed, some of the Mad Ones were trying to invent new shovels or ways to repair the wall. When they saw him, a few jumped.

“Dead gods, where were you? We were searching with the charioteers, and no one found you, Adventurer!”

That did cheer Pisces up a bit. He sniffed, sneezed because he had sand in his nose, and coughed.

“I appear to have done my job, ah, too well. They’ve all left, haven’t they?”

“A good thirty minutes ago. Hold on, let me get Yerelia—”

——

The Mad One was hugely amused to see Pisces. When he told her how he’d evaded them, she laughed.

“How inventive! That makes me want to look into spells that could deal with this unique case. You’re on par with a Level 30 [Rogue]; fools upon the Silks for thinking they could bring a few artifacts to catch you. Well—unless you want to buy anything, we’ll call it even. You paid us enough for the food and dropped enough gold to make up for the wall. I’m glad I didn’t kill you all with that round. Did you like how it spread out?”

“It was utterly terrifying, Inventor Yerelia. May I apologize for my, ah, team?”

She eyed him as she stopped laughing.

“Now I know you’re no Chandrarian adventurer. That sort of thing is part and parcel around here. Adventurers brawl and kill each other; now I’m glad I didn’t fire a second shot. Be on your way, then.”

No ill will nor questions. Pisces hesitated. He cast around.

“Er…thank you.”

Did he just go back to the city or something? He awkwardly walked off as the sand blew around him. This was so uncomfortable.

He hadn’t been by himself for a while. This was the first time he’d been alone since coming to Chandrar, really. Certainly in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

It felt odd. And guiltily, Pisces realized—a bit freeing.

——

Too freeing, Pisces knew, when he got to the mansion where he and the Horns had been staying. When he entered, he nearly scared a team of Cotton-folk [Cleaners] to death. They stammered that his entourage had left twenty minutes ago. He realized the Heromakers of Hraace were gone too.

Delitandra and the others had heard the Horns were going back to the capital and done the obvious thing. He groaned.

Alone.

It wasn’t like he was unused to the feeling. He had been alone for years after Wistram, and before that as well. But of late…Pisces had to think back to the Horns’ last few adventures.

Ever since Chandrar, they’d been together. Even if he’d gone out by himself, the team had been, well, a team. From going south to the Meeting of Tribes to the Crossroads, they’d stuck by each others’ sides. Colth had joined them and until the battle at sea…

Even after, he’d been in Colth’s company. Or if they’d been split up like at Jecrass, he’d been talking with Jecaina. The closest to alone he’d gotten was, what, being in Hraace and sitting in a pool with Nawalishifra?

Or the five minutes he’d followed the coliseum master while Yvlon was fighting? Truly, Pisces hadn’t been by himself for ages. He wished he didn’t feel like it was a relief.

“But why is it a relief, per se?”

The [Necromancer] went for a walk in the city, which was named Halqued, apparently. Funny, he hadn’t even known where the Mad Ones lived by name. That was how fast his team had zoomed across Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

True, they were busy. But would it kill them to at least stop and appreciate the local cuisine or customs? Pisces Jealnet was the sort of fellow who would make it a point to stop at every museum in a city he came across. Of course, his team was not that sort; Yvlon did it out of obligation, but only Ksmvr really appreciated history. Ceria and Colth were more the types to hit up the local market or go out and see the nightlife…he had no idea what Vofea was like.

Which was fine. Pisces could enjoy himself plenty at a restaurant, and he imagined Ceria would be a hoot, perhaps even a holler, in any museum. She could appreciate such things.

Funny. He just couldn’t imagine it all working out right now. Because, as he had observed, his team was fractured. Their teamwork was shot, and it was…

“It’s not all because of Ksmvr, is it?”

The young man stood in the local museum of Halqued, inspecting, well, pottery and old relics as the Stitch-folk eyed him. He knew he stood out because of his dusty robes, his fair skin, and probably the rapier on his side. He couldn’t help it; he had no place to change clothes, and Elena wasn’t around to put on makeup.

Pisces half-concentrated on the displays, which were fascinating. But he was just thinking to himself.

Maybe they were laying too much of the blame on Ksmvr not being here. Maybe…even if the Antinium were here, they’d still be like this. In which case, better that Ksmvr weren’t here because he’d be worrying himself sick.

Nor was it all Ceria’s fault. True, she was one of the issues with the circlet, but Colth was being sort of, well, an adventurer. The kind that existed at The Adventurer’s Haven, not The Wandering Inn. Yvlon was Yvlon—Pisces felt like he and she were on the same page.

He hoped she was okay. What had happened to her? He bent over a faded bit of pottery where little figures made of different pieces of cloth were joining hands. Not the most…intricate of designs. An amateur potter’s work, but fascinating.

At least, he thought so. The museum was fairly empty, and it wasn’t a rich place; no enchantments on the cases or cooling runes in the air. But authentic pottery from ages past! Museums weren’t big in Izril; you tended to get less memorabilia because Drakes would use anything worthwhile or hoarded the rest. But Chandrar was known as one of the ‘oldest’ continents because of all the buried kingdoms. Arid climates preserved things wonderfully, you see.

However, some people had no taste. Pisces heard a loud, and slightly exasperated, voice down the hallway.

“Look, I love pottery—no, I’m lying. I don’t love pottery. I’d rather use a chamberpot than look at this stuff for another hour. Can we go?”

Pisces closed his eyes. He could just imagine Ceria saying that or trying to use one of these pots for said purpose. Was it her new [Trickster] class? Was she that much less like the Ceria he had met after so long?

Yes and no. She’d gotten crazier. Had fame done that? Their travels? Was he different? He gazed at his reflection in the glass and thought he looked the same. But he had a brand on his chest. He had been a [Slave]…he carried a rapier again. He was an adventurer, not a lost [Necromancer].

Yes, I am different. In mostly better ways, I hope. Pisces thought of Erin. He wondered if she would be proud of his latest adventurers. He hoped she was alright. Wherever she was. The imposter in Baleros…

His hand was gripping his rapier’s hilt. Pisces let go as a wide-eyed Stitch-girl hurried past him, staring at her. He smiled; she began to run.

I am an armed stranger in these lands with a reputation for being a murderer. I should be more discreet. Can I buy some skin-paint and…no, that’s a terrible idea without Elena. But maybe some different clothing? 

He could dye his hair? Pisces had an image of Lyonette going around with black hair and snorted, then sighed. He doubted it would work on Stitch-folk given how adept they were at changing appearances. Then he heard the second voice.

“I vote to leave. My feet hurt, and I have [Lightfoot].”

A third, impatient voice argued with the two male ones.

“We agreed to do my thing today!”

“It’s been two hours, Lare.”

“But it’s so fascinating—how can you not see it?”

“It’s pottery.”

“Broken pottery. Listen, what if Kusal and I just met up with you later? Lare, c’mon—”

“Shit, she’s getting mad, Leo.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just upset you’re changing the rules we agreed to.”

“C’mon, Lare—”

A trio of Humans were coming down the corridor. Pisces, by now, had identified them by their names. He was unlikely to forget them so soon. He debated leaving—but he didn’t need to fight the trio of adventurers, did he?

Wildcard, the Gold-ranked team of Earthers, halted when they saw the young man standing there. Instantly, Leonardo reached for his tennis racket, and Kusal pivoted.

“Pukka, it’s them—”

“Hold on, hold on, we’re not fighting!”

Leonardo put out an arm, and the third member of their team, Lareceina the [Mage], put a hand to her belt. Where she kept the glowing orbs…Pisces held up a hand.

“I’m by myself, and we’re not adventuring. Truce?”

He maybe shouldn’t have said he was alone, but it worked. Wildcard relaxed, and Leo nodded.

“Truce. Hey—did your team go fighting the Mad Ones or something north of here? Everyone was talking about it.”

News spread fast. Pisces grimaced.

“It was Itkisa, though the Mad Ones did participate.”

“Torreb’s daughter? Wow, your team fights nonstop.”

The slightly accented common came from Kusal, their [Rogue]. He glanced at Lareceina, who was glowering and looking around. Likely for Ceria. The Horns had not left a good impression. Pisces exhaled.

“We would prefer not to. I, ah, apologize for my teammate’s actions earlier today, Adventurer Lareceina.”

“You didn’t harass me. I accept on behalf of your team, not Ceria Springwalker.”

Lareceina folded her arms and instantly got a nudge from Kusal and Leonardo. She glared at them harder.

“What? I accepted his apology.”

Her captain sighed at her.

“C’mon, Lare, play nice—sorry, Pisces. She’s, uh, stubborn. No harm, no foul. Sorry about the Tomb—it was a quest for both sides.”

He shifted from sandaled foot to foot warily, but Pisces waved this off too.

“We didn’t realize there was a group with an actual claim on the Tomb. If we had known, I doubt my team would have taken the contract. I would have objected to robbing the Hemp of their ancestral spirits. I assume they did receive the summons?”

Again, Wildcard seemed surprised by his response, and Lareceina raised her brows as Kusal nodded.

“We got them to the Hemp. Did you get in trouble for not doing your job?”

“Not to any great degree. We’ll see. I simply appreciate that no one was hurt badly. The same with Itkisa. She is a rather…fearsome woman.”

“Is she strong? Everyone says she’s strong.”

Pisces found himself standing with the Gold-rankers in the now-empty corridor. He indicated his sorry state of apparel.

“She was strong enough to break a wall with a single swing, and her method of attack was swinging her club—or just kicking the ground hard enough to make it explode.”

The Earthers had a fine appreciation of how strong that was. Kusal began nudging Leonardo.

“Told you. She’s one of your, uh, what’s it called? Dragonball people.”

“Saiyans. Shut up, Kusal.”

“All we have to do is find a magical girl too, like the transforming Gnoll. For Justine.”

A grin from the [Rogue], then it faltered, and all three of them glanced down, and Pisces was reminded. He coughed.

“Ah. That would be the teammate of yours who passed away?”

“We fought an Adult Creler, yeah. Just last month.”

“My condolences. I’m…very sorry to hear that. I also lost friends fighting an Adult Creler.”

They blinked at him, and it was like a strange connection. Lareceina stopped fiddling with her belt and focused on him. Leonardo’s head rose.

“That’s right, you’re also Hell’s Wardens. You—was it one Adult Creler, or more?”

“Just one. Though one is…too much. And thousands of small ones.”

“Thousands? How did you survive? We barely had sixty, and they—it—the entire village was nearly wiped out.”

Kusal stared at Pisces, so the [Necromancer] had to clarify.

“There were over a dozen Silver-ranking teams present. My team was one of many, and we all nearly died. It was luck we managed to defeat it—we even had [Mages] from Wistram, and we barely won. Barely. How did you…?”

A pause, but the words spilled out of Lareceina as she fiddled with her belt. She had those compressed marbles of mana, Pisces realized, and she was rotating them around in her fingers. Playing with them like, well, marbles. He glanced at them as she spoke.

“It was immune to my magic. Leonardo and Justine engaged it while I killed the smaller Crelers. She—cracked the armor, and Kusal delivered the final blow. But it got her. Even with her Skills, it bit her almost in half, and there was no healing her. If I’d known more magic…”

Tears in her eyes. She blinked them away, and Kusal squeezed her shoulder. Leonardo stared at his feet, and Pisces’ own eyes stung a bit.

“I’m sorry. I saw many good adventurers die. Captain Stan, friends—it was a close run thing with my team as well. My magic was useless. Even a fine [Mage] couldn’t even harm it with his best spells.”

It was easier to say that after Isceil was dead. Leonardo smiled, then held out a hand.

“Well, one less Adult Creler in the world is a good thing. Can we be friends? Or at least, not enemies?”

“Of course.”

Pisces shook his hand and got a firm grip. He then shook Kusal’s and got a cautious one; Lare’s was like a wet noodle, and she let go fast. Each member of Wildcard was different.

Leonardo had the palest skin, and Kusal was—Drathian would have been Pisces’ guess, or Balerosian. Darker skinned, but different from Chandrarian natives, he felt. His accent was like none that Pisces had ever heard, and Lareceina was black-skinned and shortest. Leonardo was taller than Pisces and Kusal shorter and slimmest of the lot.

[Warrior], [Mage], [Rogue]. But an odd variant on the archetype if that made sense.

For instance, Leonardo had that tennis racket on his hip, and his armor—sporty cloth—was far too light compared to Yvlon’s. Kusal was armored heavier with metal incorporated into leather and lots of pockets built into his armor, containing gadgets like the strange weapon he’d used on Yvlon.

Lareceina wore a long-sleeved tunic and skirt with a twist; Pisces glanced down and realized there was metal underneath her skirt. An armored skirt? He’d never seen the like.

Their gear was substantially worse than his team’s, at least by the quality of Stalker’s armor. Nevertheless, he knew their levels were at least competitive with his team’s, and he could tell they were eying him too; Lareceina pointed.

“That rapier. It’s magic, but it’s not enchanted. May I see it?”

“Of course. Er—”

Pisces looked around, but the [Curator] of the museum had fled. No one else was near, so he showed them his bone-metal rapier. Leonardo exclaimed over it.

“That’s so cool.”

“Heavy metal.”

Kusal agreed. Lareceina just frowned.

“It’s the ivory that was fused to the steel. There’s trace magic in it probably because it’s bone you used, but it’s not enchanted. An ordinary rapier would be just as good, or better.”

“Lare, be nice!”

Another nudge. This time, she jabbed Leonardo in the side with two fingers so hard he yelped. Pisces wasn’t offended though.

“That’s entirely true, Miss Lareceina. It was improvised after I broke it in battle—I could very well upgrade it. I just haven’t found a good replacement.”

Rapiers were not exactly big in Chandrar, so the market for enchanted rapiers wasn’t high. Plus, he liked this weapon. Lareceina nodded, unsmiling.

“Don’t call me Miss, please. Lareceina is fine.”

“I’m sorry about her.”

Leonardo whispered and got another poke. Pisces smiled.

“I’m not offended, Captain. Did I hear you talking about—what was that word? Saiyans? Dragon’s…balls?”

This time, the man flushed so red it went up to his ears, and Kusal and Lareceina cackled at his expense.

“That’s, uh, a story. Just a story—Justine loved transforming heroes. Magical girls. Which is, um—it’s when someone has a weapon and transforms. There’s this Named-ranker who does it!”

“You mean Lehra Ruinstrider? I have met her, and she does do that.”

“She does?”

Instantly the other two Wildcards stopped laughing, and Pisces described the iconic Lehra.

“So she has to say that each time? That’s hilariously stupid.”

Kusal laughed, and Leonardo’s eyes lit up.

“Just like home.”

Here was the moment Pisces had waited for. He glanced at the three members of Wildcard and coughed.

“Ah, which nation would that be? I presume you are all from different countries. Spain, perhaps? Er, Poland? Canada?”

He threw out the names he’d heard mentioned a few times, and he was rewarded with stunned looks. Kusal instantly backed up a step, face wary, but Lareceina interrupted.

“He knows about Earth. I told you his team knew. It was that [Innkeeper] who contacted us. Erin Solstice. They stay at her inn. It was obvious.”

She appeared so smug that Leonardo and Kusal lost their stunned expressions and rolled their eyes. Pisces? He smiled wider.

——

“I’m from Portugal, Kusal’s from Sri Lanka, and Lareceina’s from Trinidad. So was Justine. We all found each other in the first month we were in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

“So you all, independently, became adventurers?”

Pisces had never heard other Earthers talk about their first days in this world. Leonardo smiled ruefully.

“Hardly. Lareceina found work in the Mage’s Guild. Kusal was scavenging for a living, and I got everyone’s attention by teaching people tennis and doing tricks. It’s a game from home, and it’s the only thing I can do. Justine was the adventurer who got us together.”

“He’s not just good at tennis, he was a champion back home.”

Lareceina interrupted, and Leo grew more embarrassed and waved a hand.

“I’m just a challengers champion. I won once by luck—”

“He’s one of the best in the world. Just not the top player. No one in this world can beat him.”

Pisces believed that, having met Erin who also ‘wasn’t the best’ and was able to play with Niers Astoragon himself regularly. He was telling them about his team, though they’d all apparently seen Ksmvr’s famous Chandrarian documentary. And they knew of the Horns from the Village of the Dead Raid. It was all very embarrassing, but this was convivial. Fun, even.

“I observed that in many Earthers, they tend to have a talent in one field or another. Does that hold true with you?”

Wildcard eyed each other, and Kusal raised a hand.

“I won an award for robotics. I made, eh, how do you say it?”

He whispered to the others and came up with the closest analogy for Pisces.

“Like making Golems that run on electricity. They fight to the death in this little arena, and mine was the best. I also made this.”

He pulled out the long tube-like device he’d hit Yvlon with and hit a button. The zap of electricity made Pisces recoil, and Leo swore.

“That’s a stun gun. Don’t touch the ends!”

“What does it do?”

“Zap people. Kusal had one on him, and he altered it.”

Kusal let Pisces examine it; it was a weird casing of some substance he called ‘plastic’ that had been taken apart then melted back together. The [Rogue of Tricks] had even added a telescoping handle of wood painted black.

“I had two. This is my Double Stun Gun. It has all the safeties taken off, and it can stop even a Manticore. I don’t know how the Silver Killer didn’t fall over when I hit her with it. I even have [Electronics: Triple Charge] and more Skills!”

His class had apparently advanced to let him perform all kinds of weird attacks. Ksmvr would have loved Kusal; the young man was able to carry two bags of holding, and one was filled with stuff to toss at an enemy.

Including just…a twelve hundred-pound piece of stone. A true boulder that only Kushal’s Skills let his bag of holding carry. He solemnly patted it.

“That’s how we killed the Adult Creler. I had to get Lareceina to boost me, and I just hit it with this.”

Dead gods, they might have been lucky not to fight him in the open. Leo’s weapon of choice made more sense to Pisces; the tennis racket was upgraded as well, but his entire ability revolved around the sport he played.

“I can block arrows with this and reflect almost anything as long as I’m strong enough. It’s pretty silly in combat, but we have that combination Skill.”

“The one where you hurl those orbs at us? It was very potent.”

The captain was pleased and ducked his head.

“Well, we had to work on a really good team attack together or we’d have been dead when we took on our first dungeon way back when. Justine used to be part of it…what’s your team attack?”

He changed subjects hurriedly as their fallen teammate kept popping up, but Pisces hesitated.

“Us? We don’t, ah, have one. We tend to just attack.”

It had never occurred to him to practice some kind of combination attack, but that was twice now a foe had needed one; first Bograms, then the Coliseum of Monarchs. Leo hesitated, but Lareceina broke in.

“I’m a [Magus of Compression]. You’re a [Mage] who studied at Wistram, correct? Will you discuss magic with me? I haven’t had a proper education; I’m self-taught. I’d like to, if we’re being friendly. I still dislike your Captain, Ceria, and I think breaking into the Coliseum of Monarchs was dangerous and against Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s laws.”

She was quite insistent on that point. Leo winced, but Pisces had really wanted to ask about her magic. She offered him one of the marbles she’d used to such deadly effect. He gingerly, gingerly took it.

“This is…just compressed mana after all?”

It was an insane technique. Lareceina built up mana, then gave it an element and put it in the orbs she carried on her belt and in a small sack. He could imagine doing it, and there was some genius to it; she could store mana instead of having only what was in her mana well in a fight.

It was also highly potent as he’d learned, and she could use it in all kinds of tricks like traps or letting Leonardo hit the marbles at a foe. Except Pisces had to point out two things.

“If the compression spell failed in any way, it would explode, and if all the ones on your belt detonated—”

The museum would be gone. His skin itched just being near her. And he wondered how good those compression spells were.

From the way Leonardo and Kusal shifted, they were aware of this fact and uneasy themselves, but Lareceina simply frowned.

“I’m aware of that. I’ve altered the compression spells so they just vent magic if they’re damaged. The possibility of explosion remains, but my class gave me Skills to mitigate the risk and compress more mana.”

“There’s still a risk that someone like Ceria could remotely dispel the bindings.”

“Maybe. That’s why I want consultation on how to prevent that.”

“Of course, I think I know some of that—it’s akin to tying a knot on a spell. But, ah, may I ask how you’re doing it?”

It was still crazy magic to Pisces. Because…none of this was a spell. It was literally just mana-shaping, and it reminded him of the Mad Ones’ camp. Lareceina’s answer was to sigh.

“I had to teach myself magic. I had no spellbooks, and the Mage’s Guild only taught me basic spells to help out, so I experimented with mana flows. I was told it was stupid and that spells were the only acceptable way to cast magic. Do you agree with that?”

“I would be a fool to ascribe to that philosophy. Many [Mages] are hidebound—this would never have been accepted at Wistram, but it clearly works. I just…”

Pisces could imagine making a mana orb of death magic. He gave it a try now and condensed the mana around a finger. He could easily do that, and Kusal shivered and moved back from the odd, clammy feeling around Pisces. Death magic wasn’t cold—it just felt that way because your body started to stop working around it. But Pisces only managed a vague orb of death.

Nothing compressed. Let alone binding it…he began to sweat as Lareceina nodded.

“That’s how you do it. My first orbs were Tier 0 in force. You simply lock it into place after that. You can hold it, but it’s a strain…you have to create a containment sphere around it in your head.”

“I…understand. But it’s so damned finicky!”

Magic did not want to compress. It wanted to go to natural sources of itself. Like how death mana concentrated around dead bodies. It was not happy about just existing in a cheerful orb. Lareceina nodded.

“My orbs deplete. I have a Skill—[Mana: Reduced Drain], but I still need to upkeep them. Actually, until recently I spent a lot of mana upkeeping them, but it’s worth the effort. There. Now, just close the circuit. See?”

She demonstrated and compressed fire magic in on itself, and Pisces saw her locking it down, creating a perfect sphere by which it could not escape. The problem was—you had to mentally hold a sphere in your head and cut off each point it wanted to escape from. You had to also account for the variance in elemental types! Fire magic didn’t behave like, say, water magic. Ice magic would freeze over and become inert…

“Whoa, so this is really tough magic? Lare, how do you do all that?”

Leo and Kusal realized their companion was a bit more magically adept than they’d known as Pisces struggled to figure out her technique. She smiled.

“It’s my special power. Autism.”

Kusal spat out some water all over a display and laughed at her until she went to poke him again. Pisces just gave up on his death orb; it was going to take a lot of practice if he wanted to master this trick, and he was considering it.

“I’m not familiar with the word. What is this…?”

“It means my mental processes are wired a bit differently than normal. I sometimes overfocus on things. I don’t like being touched.”

“And she’s not a fan of breaking rules, which is why she hates your Captain. And because she rubbed Lare’s hair.”

Leo put in. Pisces scratched at his head.

“Intriguing. I’ve met a number of [Mages] who fit that descriptor.”

He wondered if Master Hedault qualified under that. Or Watch Captain Zevara given how much she was a stickler for rules…

“I take it this gives you some advantage in magic?”

Lareceina hesitated, then shook her head.

“Um, not really. It’s just a joke.”

Pisces decided not to press her because she looked a bit embarrassed, now. He nodded.

“I see. Then may I just ask how you came to this style of magic? It’s so novel, compressing mana.”

“Well, I just…experimented. When I saw a [Fireball], I wondered how it was cast since I didn’t know the spell. I learned, later, it was ‘woven flames’, but I thought I could make a version just based on compressing heat.”

“Ah, that’s actually an older style of [Fireball] that fell out of fashion. The modern spell is more explosive and harder to dispel or prematurely detonate.”

Lareceina’s eyes lit up.

“That’s what I was told! But I still thought it was worth a shot. If you could compress even just water into a thin jet, you’d create something that cuts through steel. I knew that, and the Siren of Savere does it. So when I started experimenting…”

They got to talking more as Leo and Kusal tried to keep up with the magical discourse. Pisces wondered if it was Lareceina’s background from Earth, but it was so refreshing. Lareceina didn’t understand any rules of magic–so she had tried anything she wanted and found what worked. She spoke like someone who might have written the Djinni’s spellbook. Magic without needing a spell for everything.

She really was self-taught, and Pisces knew he had been considered something of a genius for his magical acumen, but he really was astonished by her lack of grounding in any formal training. They were discussing magic and realized that a lot of advanced topics were a mystery to both of them.

“Linked magic is really hard. I keep trying since I can store different mana types in orbs, but I can’t make them work aside from elemental reactions.”

“I doubt any modern [Mage] except maybe Valeterisa or Eldavin could do the same. Ceria can, but it’s her circlet which enables the feat. It’s quite powerful—we do have a combined spell, actually. Frostmarrow Behemoth.”

“We saw that! It was awesome!”

Kusal loved the giant undead Frostmarrow Behemoth which he termed ‘heavy metal’, and Pisces was reminded that not all Earthers feared necromancy. Lareceina was insistent, though.

“I want to learn combination magic. Is that the term for it? Mixing elements and spells together. That’s how my spellcasting improves to the next level. There are many ways, clearly. That one is mine. Compression magic will only go so far. But if I create combined spells…”

“I am also trying to break through the ceiling of my magical studies. I have a spellbook, actually, which has some fascinating magical shaping tips…”

He was all set to even break out his Djinni spellbook, but to his perplexment, Lareceina turned.

“If you have time, I’d like to read it. However, I have thirty minutes left at the museum, and I’m not done looking around.”

“Oh come on.”

Leo and Kusal had already been dying to leave, and Lareceina’s insistence on finishing her museum tour instead of chatting with another Gold-ranker who knew other Earthers nearly made them drag her off. Unfortunately, she had an ally in none other than Pisces.

“I was fascinated by this museum myself. For such antiquities, it’s rather underfunded.”

“This is interesting to you?”

Kusal had a variety of electronics he’d altered, and he was opening one up to tune it; he had even made some primitive batteries with Lareceina’s help. He had zero interest in pottery, as did Leonardo. However, Pisces was only too happy to explain as an amateur historian.

“Yes, actually. This isn’t just pottery, but pottery that dates back to the Immortal Empire of Nerrhavia. Highly controversial in many places, but it does reflect a period of Stitch-folk power that even Nerrhavia’s Fallen couldn’t equal. And a different society. See how all the Stitch-folk here are represented equally? They aren’t based on the same Hemp, Cotton, Silk caste system. I was just reading a book on that, actually.”

One of the enduring ironies from the time of the Immortal Tyrant was that Stitch-folk had won freedom from her, but created a system where the most numerous cloth type was distinctly subservient to the rest. Not that Pisces was going to vouchsafe that anywhere Stitch-folk could hear…

Leonardo and Kusal grew more interested as Pisces pointed this out. The two Humans saw Pisces point out a map that even showed that this particular city had endured since the Immortal Tyrant’s era; many modern buildings were built on the foundations of old ones worn away.

“The reason such mundane pottery exists when magic itself wore out in the intervening periods is twofold. Firstly, magic would have been used until the items broke. Secondly, when magic fades, it does tend to damage what the enchantment was bound to. So you get some mundane, simple pieces of pottery that are the only relics of truly ancient eras.”

“Huh, that’s actually pretty interesting. Lare, why didn’t you say anything about that?”

Her expression was so utterly outraged when she turned that Leo and Kusal decided to beat a hasty retreat and find lunch. That left her and Pisces standing together in dead silence. A bit awkwardly now…Pisces wondered if Lareceina was potentially bad at conversation. She did break the silence abruptly.

“I maintain my position that we were in the right both morally and legally, despite the crown’s actions at the Tomb of Yad’thuv, Adventurer Pisces.”

“Er, Pisces will do, Lareceina. And I quite understand.”

She nodded, abruptly.

“I also don’t like the actions of Yvlon Byres or Ceria Springwalker. There are customs and rules in Nerrhavia’s Fallen your team ignores to their peril. You will provoke hostile responses, such as Yvlon has already encountered.”

That made Pisces turn.

“You know what happened to her?”

She hesitated.

“I…suspect she was poisoned or something was done to her when she was kissed in that parade. You didn’t see it, nor did anyone else, but the girl who kissed Yvlon went away, and some people helped her lie down. She appeared to fall asleep or pass out moments afterwards, and they spirited her away.”

Pisces really didn’t like that. He hoped Yisame’s people could help—and he coughed.

“I understand, Lareceina. Yvlon is a bit of a rulebreaker, but her friends had been improperly accused and were in mortal peril.”

She frowned at him.

“I wasn’t referring to that. I am going to be more precise: I objected to the killing of the Champion of Monarchs in cold blood after he surrendered. There is a cultural precedent for Yvlon Byres’ actions, especially if her friends were accused and she had been challenged as well. The murder was where your captain crossed the line.”

That was harder for Pisces to argue with. He closed his mouth hard. Ceria had murdered Lenxiol, and it was true he might have come back for vengeance…but they hadn’t discussed it. He wasn’t sure he could let Ceria just be besmirched by Lareceina without some pushback, so he replied after a moment, gently.

“This is fair. But my team also attacked [Slavers] of Roshal, unprovoked. And I am the famous Scourge of Roshal. Do you hold a grudge against me?”

The [Mage] went very still as she peered at an old illustration of the Immortal Tyrant’s city in her time, and then she turned. She spoke as she met Pisces’ eyes.

“My understanding is that you were illegally taken as a [Slave]. By that logic, all your actions were that of an innocent person held under false pretenses. There is no legal system in Chandrar that can hold Roshal to account; nothing you did was wrong.”

He felt relieved at that, but she took a hurried breath before he could reply and held up a finger urgently.

“Furthermore—there are some laws and cultural norms in Chandrar that go against universal rights and basic morality. Which I do not respect.”

She peered around, and he felt a curious emanation from her. A pulse—her way of scanning for detection spells? She leaned forwards and whispered to him in the empty corridor.

“But I am also aware of how dangerous and how far such an institution’s authority spreads. For the sake of my team, I do not interfere with such rules because we will not survive being made targets. You might. But I would be very careful how much you do and leave quickly if you go further.”

Lareceina whispered in his ear then stepped back abruptly. She went back to studying the illustration, and after a moment, Pisces saw the [Curator] peek at them then hurry off. He stood there and took her warning seriously. There it was again, that shadow he could sometimes ignore, but never forget was in this nation, in this continent.

Roshal.

“Have you ever thought about leaving Chandrar?”

She half-turned.

“Perhaps. But Justine died here. Our reputations are built here. We will see the world, but we have just reached Gold-rank. We are not ready. Your team proved that. Someday, I will go to Wistram, to the Walled Cities, to Rhir, and see it all. But not before I make sure I won’t lose my teammates. They’re all I have.”

She glanced back down at the displays. Pisces nodded to her.

“I understand that quite well.”

“Then we understand each other. Good. You do know I don’t hold you in contempt.”

“I believed that was the case, but thank you for clarifying.”

“Good.”

After a moment Lareceina looked up and added.

“I can never tell what people understand. Language is so imprecise; even when it seems like I’m speaking clearly, mistakes seem to occur. I wish you’d met Justine. She was our captain before she died. She should have survived.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. After a moment, Pisces fished around in his bag of holding and handed her a handkerchief so she could wipe her tears. It transpired that Lareceina didn’t trust anyone else’s handkerchiefs, which was very fair. And he did have to mention an unfortunate fact he’d learned about [Cleanse]…

But it was a good meeting to have, truly.

——

Pisces felt like it was worth being left behind just for that one meeting. Mending the bridge with Wildcard felt right. Moreover, the team was a highly interesting one who might be valuable allies.

Certainly, they seemed trustworthy and knew Nerrhavia’s Fallen a lot better than Pisces himself did. When Leo and Kusal came back with some skewers of meat, they even had news Pisces had wanted to find out.

“Oh, you’re a famous name on the borders. Not a month goes by without ‘the Scourge of Roshal’ striking a [Slaver] caravan. They don’t normally report strikes this far inland, but it happens. It’s sort of common knowledge that Roshal will call any attack an attack by you, but people say they’ve seen you.”

Pisces stopped chewing on the meat skewer outside the museum. He looked up sharply.

“Truly? I had wanted to, ah, investigate that.”

Lareceina’s face was utterly smooth and gave nothing away, but Kusal raised his brows.

“Well, if you go further east…there’s [Rebels] who free [Slaves]. But Roshal and Nerrhavia’s Fallen send hunting parties after them. Or even Djinni.”

“Against people?”

“They don’t do it against normal people, but [Bandits] and the like are free game. You, uh—we saw you taking down that caravan on the scrying orb. That was pretty m—”

Lareceina stomped on Kusal’s foot, and his eyes watered up as she turned to Pisces.

“Utterly lawless, which my team is against, Scourge. I trust you will behave yourself under the laws, unlike your team.”

He would have taken some offense to that—Leonardo frowned at Lareceina—but for the conversation they’d just had. Pisces smiled blandly at Lareceina.

“I would hate to make an enemy of Wildcard twice! Perhaps I’ll just collect locations…”

It wasn’t like he could set out that far even with a magical carriage. He’d have to get information on a few places, go to the capital, persuade the others to come all the way back…well, it would only be a day or two of that dratted carriage. Pisces sighed.

“Well, uh, we’re going to the Mad Ones’ camp to see if they have anything Kusal wants to buy. Do you want to come with us…?”

Pisces rather suspected he’d worn out his welcome there and said so, and Wildcard waved as they departed. He would have liked to talk more, but Pisces realized it was already midday—he’d need to charter a magical carriage.

——

If the Mage’s Guild even had one around here. Another issue that Pisces realized might be more of a problem, especially when he entered and was told there was none in fifty miles of the city.

“I’m terribly sorry, Adventurer, but between the one chartered for Adventurer Itkisa by order of the Crown and others in use—there is one reserved for the team of Wildcard, but we have no more.”

“May I request one from further abroad, then?”

“Absolutely, sir! Please inform the crown we are working to accommodate you at full speed, but it is a matter for the academy, not—”

The very nervous [Receptionist] quoted him as having to wait three hours and twelve minutes, which was reasonable, all things considered. Just…

Pisces wished he’d asked for the carriage before the museum because he’d just passed all the time he cared to, and now he was bored. He had even had lunch.

“Drat.”

He was only mildly put out by the situation. Pisces reflected that now would be a splendid time to read his book and do some studying in peace. He had to think on the last two engagements as well.

Even if I wasn’t fighting to kill, I did let down the others. Lareceina’s magic is quite useful. I doubt I could store death mana so easily, but perhaps…?

He was hunting around for a nice place to sit and read. Such places seemed to be attached to cafes though, and he didn’t see a lovely park, the kind of which he’d expect in Izrilian cities.

Oh, there was a fountain, a plaza—all too full of people who started to stare at the odd Izrilian Human or, worse, recognize him. Probably from Yvlon’s actions—or the Tomb of Yad’thuv—or his father being on television.

Even now, the man made Pisces’ life worse. But who should appear on the streets as Pisces was wandering than another familiar face!

“Adventurer Pisces?”

He blinked at the trio of Stitch-folk setting up their wagon and smiled.

“Trader…Hexata! Good to see you again. I trust you weren’t, ah, hurt by the fighting?”

She gave him a wide-eyed look.

“We saw you fighting Itkisa, then the Mad Ones firing at you. Truly, the actions of real Gold-rankers! I would not wish to take up your time—weren’t you carried back to Tyrant’s Rest?”

He had to explain his situation, and outmaneuvering the charioteers impressed Hexata more. Pisces felt bad about how Colth had rushed him off, but Hexata waved it all away.

“If you’d like to rest, Adventurer, may I offer my wagon for shade?”

She and her brothers had a little table and chair that Pisces thought would be splendid—and secluded—and he accepted, buying a snack of some sweet jerky to eat while he read.

…He was not a fan of sweet jerky. But he left it on the table as he went back to reading. He could skip lessons in the spellbook if he wanted to. He was still on Lighted Arrow, believe it or not, because there was so much supplemental material.

How to upscale the magic. How to make it spin or track. Weight, density—he felt like the book was trying to politely ground him in all the magic theory he didn’t have, but Pisces did sort of need to advance. So he tried to look up a more advanced spell. The book flickered as it did the same trick as when he’d first opened it.

A spell flashed across his mind; burning motes of fire hanging in the air, not flames as he knew them but…swirls in the air? Purple? He saw a woman with nine tails waving behind her, a fox’s features. Beastkin? Something else? She pointed, and the strange flames flashed past her.

Do you understand this?

He did not. Not the nature of the fire, nor how it was held—so the book’s pages flipped. Another one appeared.

A struggling figure in the deeps of the sea. Drowning, dying. Lungs bursting. Pisces could feel the terrifying pain, and he knew it from when he and Colth had—but magic glowed, and the lungs inflated with air. A spell for breathing water.

Do you understand this?

He did—but he didn’t need the spell. He needed…what did he need? An attack? Something like necromancy, perhaps?

The pages flickered again.

The green land was dying. A stain was spreading from the clawed hand pressed to the earth. The Drake had put his palm down, and now the wave of death was killing it all. Plants, soil, animals—

No. Pisces recoiled from the magic. Not that. Too indiscriminate. The pages flickered—

——

Was he being picky? After nine spells, Pisces had to take a break. He’d gone from spell to spell and hadn’t found one—yet—he could devote time to. The book had showed him spells he’d been trying to classify as if they were traditional magic. He’d cribbed some notes and his thoughts.

[Fox Fire]?

[Breathe Water]. No—[Create Breathable Air]—no, [Create Oxygen], yes, that was what it was!

[Ritual: Death Wave].

[Animate Bone Ogre]. He could do [Skeletal Champion], and he needed something more immediate for combat.

[Summon Animated Bone Axe]? A floating, hacking axe was appealing, but it seemed to require concentration.

[Death Orb]. A higher-grade version of [Deathbolt]? Again, not quite like the spell and fairly powerful—the example had it animating a corpse pile and attacking an oncoming Troll, but it looked slow.

[Flash Phoenix]? Okay, he didn’t know what this was. A more powerful version of Ceria’s [Firefly] spell that looked very fast, but he wasn’t sure about the pyromancy…

[River of Bone Water]. Again, he didn’t know what you’d call it, but it looked like a wave of putrid water filled with bones and death magic. Highly effective against crowds, but what if his opponents jumped?

[Flock of the Carrion Crow]. Blood magic where you slit your veins and red ravens flew up and killed everything, very fast, very efficiently—Pisces sort of suspected the book had been getting annoyed with him at this point.

The problem was…Pisces glanced down at the Djinni’s spellbook as he massaged his aching temples and came to a reluctant conclusion.

“I don’t believe this book is replete with death magic.”

A common problem. Sort of ironic given it had belonged to the Putrid One, but if this really was a book that Djinni had written, as Azam had claimed…he’d never heard of a Djinni whose entire thing was death magic.

It wasn’t like he had to know death magic, but he was specialized in it! Plus, Pisces appreciated a big spell, but he kept thinking of all the fast foes he’d fought. He needed a quick, heavy-hitting spell useful against Level 40+ foes…

“I might as well wish for [Flight] while I’m at it.”

He grumbled. In truth, [Deathbolt] might do…but was he going to be like Ceria? Just throwing out her signature spell nonstop? What about his rapier? He did want to be able to fight in melee range. Maybe binding that [Light Spear] spell to his rapier tip was the way to go after all.

Then again, Lareceina’s method of throwing magic arguably beat even Ceria. She could flick those marbles as fast as her thumbs, and she had a slingshot and her teammates. It was almost like Saliss’ attacks.

So powerful. Pisces paged through the book, thinking idly about how it was a tad bit unfair Lareceina’s spells were so useful. Was compression magic the route to success? True, she perceived a hard limit on her powers without training, which was why she was into combining magic…

The book’s pages flickered. Pisces jumped—then stared at the page. And this time, the spell wasn’t—

A [Druid] was sitting under a tree, next to a Unicorn, who was resting with one eye open. Apprentice? Master? The [Druid] was in his fifties, hair unshorn, covered in moss, and his clothing made of bark and natural elements. He was the apprentice, then. 

He sat cross-legged, holding his hands together over something he was working on. It came from every leaf and bit of dew around him. From himself, condensing. Magic, forming the foundation of a spell he might cast or just store. More and more until it exceeded the mana he could store in his person, until it became visible. He was concentrating, not sweating because this was not a sprint, but a slow work. Refining it—you had to refine it and make it deeper, until it was like a jewel—

Pisces blinked, and there it was. The book’s pages flipped before him as he seized on the same technique Lareceina had taught herself. Compression magic?

No, refining mana. Gathering it. Storing it. Yes, that was worth something. He had never wondered about the quality of his mana. Did he have good mana? Suddenly he had questions, and the book obliged him. The pages moved and moved and—

Pisces saw the book’s pages stop flickering. Trader Hexata and her brothers, who had been peeking at him from around their caravan, saw him stop on a page glowing with mystical spell knowledge. He stared at it. Then flipped the cover of the book up, and the little mirror-thing blinded one of the brothers as it caught the sun peeking through the shade of the wagon. Pisces stared at his page. Checked the book again.

He was on…Page 2. He put his palms together and pressed them against his lips. After a few moments, Pisces began reading with a sigh.

——

Okay, maybe he should have just read the book from the start, but he’d assumed it had known what it was doing when it assigned him magic. It…had…started him at Lighted Arrow. Worse, this introduction to magic was, uh—

Sort of easy to get. Pisces quickly realized you could intensify mana, and the book even gave him a primer on how to condense it, Lareceina-style. Only, instead of holding it in your hand and having to manually contain it…

After six minutes of scribbling on the table with a bit of sand, Pisces swore. He stared at the book. He stared at the containment circle and death mana inside. It wasn’t forming a sphere, but it was condensing without any real strain. The spell circle had a hard limit based on the materials, and if the sand shifted, it’d instantly unleash the magic, but…

He put his head down on the table so hard the sand shifted, and the death magic released with the sound of a Grand Elephant farting. He colored as people walking down the street turned; Hexata was hawking to people entering the city of Halqued.

“Perhaps I need to find Wildcard.”

If he showed Lareceina this, the team might let him hitch a ride back to Tyrant’s Rest if they were headed that way. He thought she was pretty advanced, but she could scribe a container and make a super-orb with this technique. Plus, he felt like it was time for his own carriage to arrive…though, what was this about refining mana?

“You can make a crucible and there’s higher tiers of mana? If I were to make some…put it into a [Fireball]? Ah, wait, you can literally overload a poorly made matrix. So the very spell you cast can be a poor container. Is—what grade of container do I use for spells?”

Reading was fun, especially reading and studying magic. Pisces had never asked these questions of himself before! He was drawn back to the book like a fly to honey. He’d go find Wildcards in…five minutes. One more page.

By that logic, Pisces might have spent the next five days in his seat but for a sound which eventually broke through his concentration. At first, he didn’t register it, despite the high-pitched shouting, until there was a cry desperate enough that he heard it.

“—turer! Scourge! Adventurer Pisces!”

He looked up. And there, standing behind a camel hitched to a post, was someone calling his name. He blinked and saw a familiar sight he hadn’t seen often in this faraway land.

Scales. A Drake girl was standing in a line of dusty figures. Her hands were tied together with a bit of rope, but her feet were not; she was too small, and presumably, it was too easy to catch her even if she got free of the simple tie to the slave-line. Besides—a metal collar was around her neck, and the line of men, women, and children were already marked.

[Slaves].

Pisces dropped the book. He stared as the Drake girl shouted again.

“Adventurer! Over here!”

She was dancing in line, and it was she who’d been shouting. At him. The other [Slaves] were staring at him or at the ground. Some were looking anywhere but him, but all were watching him, even out of the corner of their eyes.

“What—”

But he knew as he arose from his seat. He knew in a moment what this was—it was just that it had not hit him in the face so directly. No, he’d seen this.

As the Horns had moved across Chandrar, he’d seen [Slavers]. When they’d gone north to Hraace, and he’d seen them in Tyrant’s Rest. But he’d been with Gazi and the soldiers of Reim, or there had been no time.

The last time had been with Yvlon, and she’d distracted him. Everyone had. Or tried to keep him away from this reminder. Yisame had done so well, but she was not here.

[Slaves]. It was a caravan headed to market, and they had stopped by Hexata’s stall as the owners went to do something. If there were [Guards], they’d relaxed or were at the gates; they were inside the city. Who’d rob them here? None of them had seen the [Necromancer] sitting there; who would think to look for him when the Horns of Hammerad were known to be headed back to Tyrant’s Rest?

But the girl had. Now, she danced from foot to foot as he stood, color drained from his skin.

“Adventurer, Adventurer Pisces! Over here!”

He didn’t hear anything. Pisces saw the girl, and she was a Drake.

Kidnapped? Or did someone sell her? [Slavers] were banned across most of Izril, but—

He was in the city’s limits. Try to free her and the local Watch and Nerrhavia’s Fallen itself would be on him. Yisame might be [Queen], but this was a bad idea.

Roshal’s hand was everywhere, and they had [Assassins]. The girl was probably, what, nine? Mrsha’s age. She’d never get anywhere in a foreign land. Were the collars death-spelled?

…They looked like location and durability enchantments. But he had no idea how to cut them. If he—

“Scourge, Scourge, stop!”

Someone tackled him. He was halfway across the street when Trader Hexata and one of her older brothers slammed into Pisces. He went sprawling and nearly stabbed them.

“What are you—”

“Stop! Stop, Scourge—you are within the city, and the Golden Hordes will be on you in moments. There is already a garrison of soldiers who were here to tamp down on Hemps—a thousand will be on you in no time. You cannot attack. Even the Queen cannot shield you from this!”

The [Trader] was babbling in his ears. Pisces saw her brother let go of him, fast. Both were pale as well, sweating—

“I wasn’t going to—I was just—”

He sat up. Hexata scrambled up.

“Scourge—”

“I know.”

He knew that. But they flinched back from him, and the girl…Pisces saw her dancing in place. Someone had put a hand over her mouth. A Gnoll? He was watching Pisces.

“I—hello.”

What did you say to someone like that? Pisces stopped, and the Gnoll let go as the girl cried out.

“Adventurer Pisces, here I am! Help, help! No one’s here!”

She gazed up at him, eyes huge and earnest, and he stared at her. At the Gnoll, who whispered.

“Lleta, be silent. If they see you—”

“He’s going to let us go! Everyone knows! He’ll kill the [Slavers], right, Verg?”

The Gnoll man said nothing. He had—slashes on his fur. Black stripes that seemed not like normal fur, but some kind of dye? His fur was brown like Krshia’s, but he was thinner. Pisces’ ears…he rubbed them.

“What are a Drake girl and Gnoll doing in here? Izril doesn’t allow [Slavers].”

He said that, but remembered that caravan he and Colth had found. There was a derisive laugh at Pisces words. Just one, down the line. Pisces saw another Drake standing there. He turned his head away when Pisces peered at him, but it was the Gnoll who replied.

“Not in most Drake cities, no. But they sail the coasts. We came by harbor, from Zeres.”

“From Zeres? But—”

“The City of Waves allows [Slavers]. Just not business. That’s changing.”

So much was contained in these words that Hexata and the other Stitch-folk now watching couldn’t pick up on. Pisces and Verg traded looks, and the Drake girl interrupted.

“Adventurer Pisces, you’re the Gold-ranker who went to Albez, right? Here.”

She tried to twist and hold out her wrists. Verg closed his eyes.

“Lleta, he can’t do anything.”

“But he’s the Scourge. The television said. They beat up everyone for watching it.”

The girl informed Pisces as he stood there. And now there was something wrong with Pisces. Perhaps he was the one poisoned, not Yvlon, because he was in pain.

Not nausea, but a kind of agony that was eating him out from the inside. It made him want to scream, and it was clawing at him as he whispered.

“How did you get here? You two?”

Her face twisted up, and the Drake girl fell still. Then spoke.

“They said my parents owed a lot of money, and—and there was a mistake because Mom said it’d all be fixed, but then someone came and took me. And I told them all it was a mistake, including the Watch, and the [Guardsman] said he’d fix it, but then they took us and—”

She started gulping, then went silent. She didn’t cry. She just stared up at him, and he had to turn to Verg. The Gnoll’s reply was easier. He nodded at his stripes.

“I was bought from Drake prison cells. Not that they would have dared sell me if I had been in my tribe. I was Weatherfur.”

“Outcast?”

“For murder, yes. I was with the main tribe when we heard what had happened in the Great Plains. I disagreed with Torishi’s choice during the Meeting of Tribes and fought against my kin. It went to blood. I was exiled, then got into trouble in a Drake city for petty crimes. Funny. It all seems petty, now. Pointless.”

He stared up, at the sky, and the entire story of the man’s life to here was spelled out to Pisces. A single, crimson trail that snaked into Izril’s cities. Where it could, and then it brought them across the sea to this vast kingdom.

Roshal.

Now there was a crowd. Some of the [Guards] standing at the gates were glancing over, and Stitch-folk were lined up—but far away. Watching Pisces. Fear in their eyes, or perhaps an expectation, but most were just afraid.

They knew him. Hexata and her brothers were the only ones who dared stand close.

“Scourge…mark me, for I hold no chains, and I respect your team and wish you no ill will. Should you free them, you are a dead man within ten minutes. Even if you gained the gates, where would you go? If you had horses? They would ride you down within the hour. If you escaped them, their blades would be in your back by night.”

She was, of course, right. He had no idea where they were on a map, and crossing this vast nation—even if you got to sea, you’d need a crew who could outrun Roshal’s ships, and they were everywhere. You couldn’t hide. You’d have to take their collars off and know where…

Verg nodded.

“She’s right. Leave us, Adventurer.”

“But, Verg—”

“Tell the girl to shut up or we’ll all be whipped for it, again. Not her since she’s too young, but I’d prefer not to be lashed bloody before we get to the auctions.”

A caustic voice in line. A Drake who met Pisces’ gaze. He jerked his head.

“Interested in life stories? I’m a failed [Merchant]. There. Now, kindly, begone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Pisces felt like he was dreaming. That moment of surreality where he walked and almost saw himself from above. Yet he was also aware of each passing second. The thrumming of his heart. He stood there, and Hexata’s reasoning matched his mind perfectly.

Yet the girl was waiting. Mrsha’s age. She whispered.

“Please?”

“Necromancer—”

Verg was motioning him back; someone was hurrying through the crowd, shouting for them to make way. Pisces saw [Guards] coming from the gates. Some had bows, and they were aiming them down. Not quite at him. He looked up, and one flinched back and made a sign on her chest.

What were they afraid of? He wasn’t sure, and glanced around. Then he felt an arm on his shoulders.

“Hey, Pisces, c’mon! I think we owe you a drink.”

Someone strong finally shifted him; Hexata and her two brothers lurched as Leo pulled Pisces back. The [Tennis Champion] was grinning with all his teeth.

Wildcard? They’d returned, and Pisces saw Lareceina, Kusal—the [Rogue] grabbed his other arm.

“Let’s get him out of here. Hey, move it!”

“Adventurer! Wait! Wait!”

Lleta was shouting, trying to twist free of the ropes. Verg was holding her, but she was kicking him, screaming. Pisces saw Lareceina between him and—Leonardo was swearing.

“Fuck, Kusal, pull—”

“He’s strong—”

He was just standing there. Then came a sweating figure, who pushed through the crowd, wearing a turban, travelling clothes with that symbol burned onto them. And Pisces stared.

A Drake.

The [Slave Merchant] cast around, and when he saw Pisces, he recoiled. [Slave Guards] rushed forwards, studying him, and there was shouting.

“Back, back! Protect us by the authority of Nerrhavia’s Fallen!”

“No one is to draw blades! There is no affront! None!”

The Watch Captain was shouting, waving his hands as he looked around. Eyes flicking to Pisces. But he just heard Lleta shouting.

“Adventurer! Wait! You’re a Gold-rank adventurer! Come back! Please?”

He wanted to say something. Then Lareceina blocked his view, and they finally pulled him off his feet and then—

He woke up. But like his memory of Igheriz, of those days—

The nightmare was simply reality.

——

Pisces Jealnet didn’t kill anyone. There was no incident that need involve the Watch or the garrison, and even Roshal’s merchants agreed it was best put behind all present.

The [Watch Captain], [Garrison Commander], and the [Mayor] all appeared to say that. Though it was Hexata and Leo that did the talking. Pisces only sat there.

For a moment. He didn’t talk. He just…

Re-articulated everything they were telling him. Of course there was no way to rescue them. Suicide. His team would be in jeopardy. It was one thing to join the fighting out in the straits—another to participate here.

Lareceina pointed it out at increasing volume to Kusal.

“This city is Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Not the wilds. His team are independent adventurers, and he can claim justifiably he was falsely imprisoned. Here is where the crown’s authority lies. If he draws blade unprovoked in this city, it is a blade drawn against Queen Yisame and her kingdom. If it were outside the city—”

“God damnit, Lare!”

They split up, both of them red-faced, and Pisces went over the conversation again, as if Ceria were talking with him. It was, of course, correct. Colth would say the same thing. We cannot save them all.

Eventually, he did get up. It was evening, and Wildcard were arguing whether they should leave via magical carriage to get to Tyrant’s Rest now or later.

“I’m going for a walk.”

They all turned to him, and he clarified.

“Just around the city. I’m not going to the…I’m quite aware, thank you, of the situation. There’s no further trouble?”

Leo, Kusal, and Lareceina glanced at each other and shook their heads.

“None.”

Pisces walked out of the rooms they’d rented. He didn’t know where Hexata and her brothers had gone, but it was late. The sun was setting on the city, and it was orange, casting long, lurid shadows.

Like sins. His shadow stretched behind him as the [Necromancer] saw people in the inn turn and stop talking. His name felt like it had been whispered throughout until they saw him. Then the voices died, and there was only silence.

In the street, people stopped and turned to him. Eyes filled with fear, incomprehension, or worse, a painful expectation.

He could meet no eyes. He couldn’t stand the gazes.

So he vanished.

——

Lareceina de Verteuil was correct. She had studied Nerrhavia’s Fallen and grown to know it for the year plus that she and her team had been here. They knew it too.

But despite her pointing out that fact, Kusal and Leo didn’t want to hear it. In the end, Leo told her to ‘drop it because you’re not helping, even if you are right’. Which made her so angry she stormed out of the inn.

Someone had to believe in rules. Being Gold-ranked didn’t mean you had an excuse to break laws. She, at least, was a respected Gold-ranker now.

Even if the Ice Squirrel was more popular despite being chaotic, a murderer, and rude. That annoyed Lareceina. But today had also been upsetting on multiple fronts.

In times such as these…she glanced around the streets filled with gossip, the Horns of Hammerad’s name being everywhere.

Their fight with Itkisa and their visit to the Mad Ones, their deeds, had utterly eclipsed Wildcard’s. True, the events at the Tomb of Yad’thuv had been covered up as part of their agreement, but that was fame.

She stared around as she projected mana from her body, like a pulse-wave, then condensed more in her hand. Like she stored feelings, bottling them up and compressing them.

She made the ‘mana marbles’ constantly, replenishing her stocks, concentrating the ones she had, and it gave her clarity. In such moments, Lareceina would prefer to be left alone.

—Which is why she found it intolerable for Leo and Kusal to follow her.

“I want to be left alone right now.”

“C’mon, Lare. Don’t—”

Her glare made Leo throw up his hands, but he did follow her as she walked to her destination. Which made them all the more upset.

“I’m going to hit her. What the—”

That was followed by some Sinhala swearing, but Lareceina was smiling.

“Hello, I am a Gold-rank adventurer and [Mage] inquiring about your services. May I ask if this is the only ‘stock’ you have in today?”

The person in charge of the Slaver’s Guild in the city was a Stitch-woman, Cotton, skin done up beautifully. She appeared a bit—shaken.

Everyone did. Word from the encounter on the streets had the more resplendent members in the Guild muttering and keeping to the backrooms, while prospective buyers were thin. Even so, there was traffic.

People coming to sell and buy. Though this place was not where you sold—they had a less luxurious lounge than this for that transaction.

The word ‘adventurer’ made the woman tense and everyone glance around, but Lareceina clarified.

“I am part of Wildcard, who battled the Horns of Hammerad, an adventurer in good repute with all Guilds.”

Leo gave the woman an unconvincing smile; Kusal hadn’t entered. But the woman brightened up and checked something via a magical ledger.

“Adventurer Lareceina, of course! I see you’re not a member here, but you do have a very good record with other Guilds—hello! Are you here to buy or sell?”

She was suddenly very friendly, and Lareceina got plenty of smiles and nods around the room, which made her predisposed to think she was welcomed here. She smiled back.

“Just to browse. Do you have anyone capable of acting as a Slave Adventurer?”

“Oh, no one like that—it’s a highly qualified role, but we could have a catalogue written up for you? There would be a delivery fee—our current roster is being written up.”

Lareceina nodded.

“That’s very reasonable. Hm. In that case, I’d just like to look around.”

“Absolutely, Miss! Let me issue you with a little token if you’d like to sit and have refreshments; a sign of goodwill. And if you’d choose to register with us, we would upgrade your membership—”

At this point, Leonardo’s foot was pressing down on Lareceina’s toes so painfully she shifted. But she accepted the little badges and promised to give them back once she left. Lareceina began to walk towards the VIP guest area when she had a thought and walked back to the counter.

“Excuse me, I have another question if I may? I don’t know if we can buy now, because we’re moving. But I am curious—we might be in the area. Do you have any more caravans coming to the city?”

The [Receptionist] had to check, humming as Lareceina waited patiently.

“A number—this is a decent stop along the Leashed Trails—it goes all the way to Lailight Scintillation itself, you know. East to west, across all of Chandrar.”

“Could I ask you to give me a copy of them? In case I wanted to wait for one or two. I’m trying to convince my team—do you have any attractive female [Slaves]? Garudas?”

Another smile, and the [Receptionist] laughed as she whispered to Lareceina.

“For you or your team?”

“My [Captain].”

“Well, I suppose since you are a prospective Gold-card member—we use ranks like your Adventurer’s Guild, but we go above Gold-ranks. Give me five minutes?”

It took less time than that for the [Receptionist] to get a list printed for Lareceina. Well, a [Slave] actually did the scribing onto a copy of a map, and there was no fee. So Lareceina left a gold-coin as a tip. At this point, Leo almost dragged her out of the Guild, and she protested they hadn’t looked around, to which he told her they had to go to get on the magical carriage.

When they left the Guild, Kusal appeared and spoke.

“I can’t find Pisces, but he’s not here. What did she do in there?”

“She was asking about buying—c’mon.”

They almost dragged her off. Lareceina shifted.

“Don’t grab me. Look at this.”

She flourished the little piece of paper at them. It was amazing work and spoke to Roshal’s wealth.

Not only did they have a map of the ‘Leashed Trails’, which highlighted their caravans’ travel routes across cities of this region of the kingdom, but they could make copies and they’d annotated them with each caravan. Which meant they regularly checked in and monitored their people.

It was highly impressive, and the Merchant’s Guild might not have such impressive data. Kusal stared at Lareceina.

“Leo, I’m going to punch her.”

“Cool it, Kusal. Lare, we’re not happy right now. So let’s all go back to the inn or get in the carriage and find Pisces—”

“Let’s rent two carriages, and she can ride in the other or walk back.”

They bickered in the street. Lareceina glowered at Kusal and offered him the catalogue. He tried to rip it up—she flicked a miniature gravity marble into his chest and knocked him down. Leo put Kusal in a headlock and then grabbed the map.

He crumpled it up and tossed it aside. Lareceina turned around, crossed her arms, and spoke as she stared down the street.

“Leo, I am very unhappy with you at this moment. I would like to go now.”

“Fine by me.”

They stormed off and found the magical carriage waiting for them at the inn. Adventurer Pisces still hadn’t appeared, and since he had his own magical carriage, they got in theirs. Lareceina insisted they take a specific route through the city on their way out.

“Okay, Lare. Explain exactly what that was before one of us starts shouting—”

“Shush.”

Leo made a sound, but Lareceina stared out the one-way glass of the Wistram Carriage. They were in the street right outside the Slaver’s Guild, and she stared, and Kusal nearly shouted—then saw the finger she’d put to her lips.

They had put a cloth over the scrying orb in the center of the carriage, but it was reasonable to assume that Wistram could still hear through it, potentially. Lareceina had asked, and the ability to cast a spell that let them see through cloth via the scrying orb was remote; she’d gotten some and sewn a lead lining into it anyways just in case.

Leo and Kusal stared into the street. They were right where they’d had the fight. Lareceina peered down, and there was nothing there.

Of course, the ball of paper might have moved with the wind or been swept up. But if you followed a magical signature you’d attached to it…

She saw nothing. So the carriage rolled on after a moment, and then her team sat back. And they were no longer angry.

Language was so imprecise. Lareceina hated it. So she sat back and began to flex her fingers. Her fingertips glowed in the gathering darkness, leaving little trails.

Just light magic. Words, if you squinted at the aftertrails. Wildcard sat in silence as they drove off, and that was that. They were respectable adventurers. Unlike the Horns of Hammerad.

That was, for the moment, how you had to be.

——

The magical carriage rolled away, and Pisces wondered if Wildcard had been inside of it. He suspected they had been, but he didn’t drop his [Invisibility] spell.

Perhaps they knew he was there, the Slaver’s Guild. They had magic too, but he didn’t approach. In the end, he walked off, tucking a piece of paper into his bag of holding.

He was late for his magical carriage back to Tyrant’s Rest, but the [Mage] on duty told him there would be no fee. Pisces thanked him, then got in it.

“Welcome, guest. Please state your destination and enjoy Wistram’s Carriage Services! Please note our updated policy about use in situations of conflict—”

Pisces ignored the familiar voice of Mage Rievan speaking and spoke.

“Tyrant’s Rest, palace.”

“Please enjoy our complimentary—”

He ignored the scrying orb, then opened a window. The city moved past him as the magical carriage navigated the now-dark streets at slow speed, heading towards the nearest gate.

——

The [Guards] at the gates didn’t exactly like the annoying Wistram Carriages, which would loudly request entry and priority passage at increasing volumes, or the fact that they weren’t allowed to always search them.

Wistram was negotiating with each nation for this kind of access, but in this case, they were glad to see the carriage go. For everyone knew it held the Bane, and the sooner he was out of the city…

Disagree, agree with him—his name was famous, and his team, perhaps rightfully so, the talk of Chandrar and the world. But an honest or dishonest Stitch-person did not long to see the legend of the [Necromancer], Pisces, told in their city.

By the Threadmakers, no. So each tensed spine straightened as the carriage left, pausing only before the gates to be waved past all those in line, and even the Watch Captain on duty was said to have gone to the nearest [Stitchmistress] to have her spine and shoulders replaced, so knotted were they.

The carriage sped out into the darkness, glowing faintly blue, made of magic and light and carrying a legend off, and leaving only this city to smaller stories, like the Mad Ones. Funny to now think of them as the lesser of great tales, but theirs was a contained thing, unlike the match which might blaze brightly, then fade away just as quick.

Who were they to say? Let it only be a story, then, for all to brag about or speak of when drinks were spilled. They had seen a legend, but not any more than that. Lucky, then! Ah, yes…

——

Trader Hexata was shaken herself from the events of the day. She thought it was worth something in coin; spinning the tale of her brief encounter with the Horns would attract some customers, surely, and the Mad Ones always had curios.

Still, had it not twisted at the heartstrings to see that girl begging to be freed? For a second, she had thought…well, her brothers had remonstrated with her on her madness, but she had truly liked Necromancer Pisces. At first, she had thought him so much more mild than his reputation.

But at the end, there…

Well, all things were mended with thread and time. She was packing up her caravan; they’d leave at dawn for new cities and profits. She was wondering if she could sell the table and chairs where Pisces had sat—a shame they were not marked, but if she got it certified on truth spell?

As the magical carriage rolled towards the gates, perhaps only Trader Hexata, cleaning her caravan, saw the dust swirl oddly in the street next to the open window. For a second, the carriage slowed, then a bright voice spoke from within.

“Window closing. Please note, Wistram is not responsible for passengers l—”

The [Trader] straightened. Perhaps that had only been her mishearing or a trick of the wind. Likely, likely…but the [Guards] waved the carriage through, and who could see through the glass that did not reveal the occupants?

Of course, it would be silly of her to think otherwise. A fool’s madness, perhaps.

“Brothers? Mind the wagon. I’m just going for a walk…”

“At this hour? Sister, is your head stuffed with wool? Here, wait a second—you’ll have a [Brigand] or [Footpad] on you—”

Her eldest brother peered up from the wagon and leapt down, but Hexata was walking towards the gates. The [Guards] let her out but warned her the gates would close within the hour, and she walked further.

Further, as the dust swirled across the ground. Then her eyes narrowed. They passed beyond the sight of the gates as the terrain changed slightly, leading them over a slope. And then the wind blew a storm of dust across her, and she shielded her face.

“Sister! Have you taken leave of your—”

Grulive followed her at a run, cursing, with Xomet behind. They halted in their tracks as the wind died down, and the [Trader] sighed.

There he was.

Pisces Jealnet was walking across the ground. He had found a hood and bought it, and the cloak hid his iconic white robes. Even if the wind had revealed him in sight of the walls, what of it?

It was dark, and at a distance, he looked like any other traveller or vagrant. Only one who had been standing right there…

He turned as she called out.

“Adventurer. I meant every warning. You are a famous Gold-rank adventurer, and if I do not mistake your level, it is over 40. But Nerrhavia’s Fallen eats such individuals up. Our greatest [Mage] is one that not even Archmage Amerys challenges. Our coliseums made the likes of Mars. You are one man, and the nation of Roshal is vast.”

He turned back, and his face was calm. So oddly calm, not like he was reading his spellbook. She had stolen glances at him, wondering if he might look up and their eyes meet. Though he had charmed the Arbiter Queen, it was said, and she was a humble [Trader]—

But he had been so engrossed in reading, smiling, musing, eyes glowing with a passion that she had just watched him for hours. Nor was it the calmness of the man who had come to meet the Mad Ones, peaceable, in good humor with his team for all he might grimace or quibble at times.

This was a different man, unlike the one she’d wrestled on the street. Just…

Confident. Yes, that was the word. A confidence she had known a few times when she had the perfect deal, when she knew herself to be poised and all things seemed to be balanced. Not luck, but surety. Nor was he utterly happy, but he was sure. Now, he bowed, a [Duelist]’s graceful motion.

“Trader Hexata. Thank you for your help in all the ways you have aided me today. I hope you will aid me in one last way by keeping our encounter private.”

She didn’t say anything; her throat was tight, so it was her eldest brother, Grulive, who croaked.

“That—you have our word on it, by coin and honest means, Adventurer. May we never take a copper if we lie. But you have no team.”

They pointed this reasonable thing out, and he nodded like it was meaningful. But then Pisces just brushed at his hair and looked around. His shoulders seemed to lighten at their very words.

“Yes. That’s true. I would prefer their company, but some things…I have always aspired to be a good teammate, you see. I have been a poor friend and led my first team astray by my presence. I would hate to bring them more trouble, even if I hope they’d support me.”

He stopped a moment and smiled at something only he could see.

“Surely, they would. This, though, is something I can do. In my spare time. I’ll find my team in a moment. I’m just…restless.”

Then he turned, as if that said it all rather than left a thousand thousand words unspoken, and walked away. Darkness claimed him in moments, or perhaps he became invisible again. It left Hexata and her brothers to stand there until they knew the gates would close and had to turn. But it lingered in their ears, each and every one. And they said nothing as they returned to their wagon or over their late repast, but it was in their eyes. An echo unsaid.

In my spare time. Restless.

They were not grand words, but Hexata approached the sleepy [Barmaid] at night and paid for a week’s worth of rooms on instinct. Then she went to her rooms and tossed and turned for so many hours that a weary guest below her had to bang on the door and demand she be quiet. But she could not sleep.

Hexata waited—not knowing when or where. But knowing nonetheless. Like a team of Gold-rank adventurers headed back to Tyrant’s Rest. As a girl cried herself to sleep in cells—

Six people in this world could not sleep.

They waited.

——

Pisces Jealnet awoke after a satisfactory five hours of sleep. He needed his rest, and he rolled out of his bedroll. He’d created a little bone bivouac, but failed to account for the winds. They’d blown sand all over him until he’d had to enclose himself entirely in the improvised tent. For air, he’d built a breathing tube.

He’d still been buried and realized this location had to border the Great Desert. The Glass Straits too; it was a famous natural road across Chandrar and part of these Leashed Trails. Exactly the place you’d put the Mad Ones in case something blew up too big.

Sparse cover meant it was harder for [Bandits] to lie in wait, he supposed. Plus, his knowledge of history and the town’s museum had said that the roads that the Immortal Tyrant had built intersected with the ones the King of Destruction had laid down the eastern coast. Ideal for caravans.

Getting out of bed was Pisces’ first challenge and surprisingly hard. He nearly buried himself trying to get out of the sand. Then he slapped his forehead.

“I am such a fool. Out of practice. Arise.”

Bones flew up out of his breathing tube, then formed Skeleton Champions who began to dig with their bare hands. Then bone shovels. Pisces finally excavated himself and shook his head.

In a way, he felt like a sleepwalker, much like the King of Destruction had been said to be. He felt more focused today. Hraace, even the coliseum, felt like another man’s memories.

Pisces was no smarter today, but he was aware when he was being a fool. And he could not be—so he regarded the Skeleton Champions, who were currently naked.

He’d have to armor them up with Colth’s gear. Several had ‘perished’ at sea, and Pisces had not thoroughly replaced their armor and weapons.

“I should have done that the moment we reached land.”

Bones too. He had Nekhret’s bones, but if he had more space in his bag of holding, he could double his supply, and it was a finite resource. Gargoyle bones…Ama was right.

Pisces got moving as he ate the sweet jerky that Hexata had sold him. And again, he caught himself.

He had been moving with [Flash Step], trying to time each footfall so he was able to run with the spell. It was making good progress, but Pisces felt too noticeable; he couldn’t keep up [Invisibility] and [Flash Step]. Plus, each cast burned magic, however efficient the spell was.

So he stopped and thought. He needed transport…this was a vast region. But he had no handy camel like Ksmvr had claimed he’d had, his arch nemesis Spitty. But…

“Is it here? Please let me have taken it, not Colth. Aha.”

Pisces smiled when he pulled an object out of his bag of holding. He truly didn’t make use of his gifts, but this, at least…

The curious saddle lay on the ground as Pisces animated a horse, and he had to adjust the bones, but the saddle made for undead horses from the King of Duels himself had been created for just this purpose.

Then he was riding. And the undead horse…he poured death mana into it until the blue eyes were glowing bright.

Pisces cast an illusion on himself and the horse. At a distance, they seemed like an ordinary horse and rider. It’d fall apart the moment someone got close since he was no great caster, but he didn’t take the main roads. He was reading the map that Lareceina’s team had tossed aside, doing calculations.

The nearest caravan would be…it was a lot of guesswork, but Pisces had other advantages. He galloped over to a section of the road after a few minutes, tossed something down, and moved off the road again. He then found another stretch of road about twenty miles north and did the same. If he saw anyone on the path, he’d either get off his horse and jog over, pretending to be a traveller, or wait until they were gone. Or just toss down the object and let it make its way over.

He lost three of his undead mice to casualties; two were snatched up by birds who mistook them for actual mice. The last ran into something from underground; a scorpion or snake he bet. But the rest surveyed the road.

The more he tossed down, the more he had to concentrate, of course. Pisces had always felt Ivery and Bearbones, the Skeleton Lord and Skeleton Warbear duo, as distant foci he had to ‘upkeep’ with mana, but they had been largely self-sufficient.

Now, each mouse plus the skeleton horse was a little amount of death magic he had to expend—and he was counting how much he had. He did have a [Ashen Mana Well], but he wished he was stocked up on mana potions; he only had six.

Ceria’s circlet or Lareceina’s stored magic would be invaluable. But he had been lax. Lazy. So Pisces did what he could.

He went to the bathroom in the sand, and his second crisis was a lack of toilet paper. That one was highly distressing. In the end, Pisces, cursing, had to cut up some spare clothing and use the strips…

“Colth and Ksmvr always had the supply.”

Highly embarrassing. He’d need his own. At least he’d had a sleeping bag. But one had to do one’s business. Ahem. Pisces buried the waste, then finished his work.

The Skeleton Champions stared accusingly at Pisces as he assembled them. He’d forgotten to make them turn around. They felt weirdly judgemental, and he hoped this wasn’t a Toren scenario. Or maybe it was just how he’d react.

He had them put on the rest of his gear; they seemed to fight for gear such that instead of three or four fully-geared ones, he ended up with all of them having a piece of armor, but none of them being fully kitted out.

A bit…well, less impressive. Some didn’t even have weapons, so he made weapons out of bone for them.

Pisces recalled Colth’s comments in the Meeting of Tribes and made sure that each Skeleton Champion had a weapon that Pisces had at least basic competency with. All rapiers seemed like a bad idea; they needed to mix weaponry.

He also had a choice to make at this moment when he reviewed his remaining bones and remembered—there had been two Manticores in the Coliseum of Monarchs. He briefly toyed with animating a full Manticore…but ruled it out for two reasons.

Firstly—he didn’t know how they were assembled. He’d have to puzzle together their anatomy, and that took time he didn’t have. He could get one working in a day or two, but he’d have to make sure they moved right—you could swift-animate the bones, and they’d more or less work, but you ‘strengthened’ undead so they swung harder and were more durable at the joints.

The difference between a Skeleton Knight and a mere skeleton. Instead, he re-purposed the bones and added three Skeleton Champions, spreading out the Manticore’s bones across the rest.

That gave him eleven who looked markedly more sturdy, if a bit lopsided due to having to fit Manticore bones in their frames. Hulking. They stared ahead, eyes glowing…then shuffled around as Pisces went to pee again.

He couldn’t help it. He was nervous. But then Pisces led the Skeleton Champions over to a patch of ground and let them work. He sat on the flattest section of the ground; on an ancient block of stone cracked in a few places, but forty paces by forty paces across.

And here was history. The Immortal Tyrant’s roads. Many places had been covered by dirt or broken at the edges, but these roads had endured long past her laws. He stared up at the sky, and it was blue. The air was dry, hot, even, but his white robes held the heat off, and he drank water sparingly. Cast a little cooling spell.

Pisces took this moment to reflect. He appreciated what Hexata had done for him, and Wildcard. He wished them well, and he knew he was selfish. He made trouble for his team, even if he’d tried often to be…

“A better person. But I suppose I am selfish. I wonder if I would recognize myself. The Pisces who came from Ailendamus.”

Would he be impressed? Uncomprehending of how his road had taken him so far? Proud? Pisces wondered what Ceria would say. He tried to predict the future. There were plenty of dire outcomes. Outcomes that stemmed from his actions. If they came and his team suffered…

“Taking responsibility isn’t enough. I never took responsibility for Wistram. How could I? I can only hope it doesn’t come to that. Utterly selfish.”

But he kept sitting there and thought of her. He didn’t think of her every day. But that refrain was always in his mind at moments like this.

Because you’re better than they are. Was he? It was the doubt that kept him guessing. Trying. But—he was putting their chances of getting to Ksmvr and her in jeopardy, he knew. Yet he still couldn’t get up and leave.

He had no profound insights as he sat there in silence, with only the undead for company, and they didn’t talk much in Pisces’ experience. Just that odd sense of calm.

At last, he saw movement and half-stood. But then he sat back with a sigh.

“Silly me.”

The figure that came pounding the road was the most common sight in the wilds. Reassuring, somehow. A Runner.

Down the road he came, feet pounding the pavement. Bare feet, Pisces noted; the swearing Stitch-man did a double-take when he saw Pisces.

“Here, are you hurt? Lost?”

He looked around for an ambush before hurrying over. Perhaps the fellow was snake-bit or delirious? But Pisces just waved at him.

“Just resting.”

“Well, get up if you’re in the path of a cart or they’re like to run you over! Got any deliveries? I’m bound for Halqued, then beyond!”

Something about the young man sitting there was vaguely familiar, but the City Runner was hopping from foot to foot, and Pisces saw.

“Are you alright? Your feet—”

“I’m trying to run like the Wind Runner! Argh! But however she does it, it is not on the sunbaked sands of Chandrar, or may my stitching rot and fall out! If I gain the class, may it all be worth it! I’m sorry, I cannot stay.”

“No, no, best of luck!”

Pisces shouted after the City Runner, who went pounding off across the road, cursing. Pisces shook his head, smiling. Ryoka Griffin, truly an inspiration.

That actually cheered him up, so he was lying on his back, gazing at the sky empty of clouds, when he felt the faint rumble and sat up. Ah.

There they were. He stretched and was glad he’d used the bathroom. As it so happened, something reached Pisces at that moment. Fate? Funny coincidence? Then again, it was about, what, ten in the morning? Right when a half-Elf might rise after a long day.

A [Message] spell.

Ceria, Exalted Captain: Hey, are you almost back yet? Yisame mentioned some kind of fracas, but we’ll sort it out later. Yvlon’s sick. Magical sleeping sickness. Pretty nasty. What’s your estimated time of arrival-thing on the carriage? (It’s a display on the scrying orb.)

He blinked at the sky. Then raised a finger to his temples.

Pisces: With apologies, Ceria, I might be a bit late.

Then he waited.

——

The caravan was known as the Blessed Chains of Hotq. Their owner wasn’t Hotq; he’d retired two decades back, and his best apprentice, Slave Merchant Throsa, had succeeded him. They were known for throwing open their covered wagons to pour thick, black tea in cups for any visitors.

Fine hospitality, and finer flesh. But only when they had visitors. Right now, Throsa was pushing everyone to more speed. Horses strained as they moved at a fast clip, and the [Guards] were thinking of making the merchandise get out and run to reduce weight.

That would soil them a bit for the markets, and they were a day out from their next stop, but they were also cautious of going too fast. The reason Throsa was so upset was because of her Skill.

[Forewarned Attack]. A useful Skill for a woman in her business. She did not know where or exactly when, only that one was coming in the next few days. Sometimes, the attack never came; the Skill was imprecise, but let you know if the possibility arose.

If they got to the city and unloaded some of their merchandise, she’d be happier. She could add more [Guards] for the next leg of the journey, even hire adventurers or mercenaries. That let her cut losses and sacrifice wagons if it was a monster attack…

Her nightmare, which was unspoken, was that it was the [Rebels], but they were far east of here according to the Guild’s networks, and she paid her dues for knowledge, damnit! But perhaps it was that name that had come down the road with oncoming traffic.

It was a forbidden name in her caravan; she insisted the scrying orb be turned off and had petitioned every notable in the cities she had visited to see it her way. Such actions, such deeds against Roshal, who was so rich and an ally of Nerrhavia’s Fallen—!

But she had it on good authority that he’d gone to the capital, so it was [Bandits] she feared. Throsa had a spyglass out as she rode on one of her wagons and kept peering at the sky. She had it in her head that the attack would be from the sky. A Garuda flight of raiders. The damned pests might try to carry off a prize slave if they knew it was her wagon, despite the weight…

But her caravan was no small one, for all it prized quality over quantity. She had no less than six holding wagons and three-score [Slave Guards]. A score was twenty. It was a good rule of thumb to carry one [Guard] per every eight [Slaves]. You could go up to twenty, but only a fool exceeded that.

Sixty [Guards], some of whom were above Level 30, and herself. More than enough for the short transit between cities in this section of the Leashed Trails. If she were to go across the Glass Straits, she’d double or triple the guard…

They were barely ten miles from the city. With all her scanning around, she actually missed the figure sitting on the road until he stood. Even then…Throsa didn’t register him until there was a call from the lead [Slave Guards] riding.

“Exalted Merchant, ahead of us…”

Something about the woman’s tone was caught between amusement and uncertainty. Like someone assuming a prank was being played on her, if only her mind. Because…it was a joke, right?

Throsa’s spyglass fixed on the Human who was standing in front of the caravan. She heard a few voices shouting.

“You on the road! You’re finally awake, eh? Out of the way before we run you over!”

“We’re of Roshal! We’ll ride you down for impeding us or take you as merchandise!”

That came from another [Guard]—it was mostly just a threat. Throsa nearly snapped at him to mind his tongue; it was frowned upon to remind people how many tricks Roshal had. Then again, there was the prestige of—

Her gaze slowly swung back to the young man. He was just standing there as the wind blew his white robes and hair. Just…a Human.

His skin was not as fair as all that; he had a slight sunburn, actually. And he was shaking his head. The images she had seen on bounty posters had him on horseback, in motion. Surrounded by others. Even with breasts—his was a face that every man or woman on these trails knew.

But this one…there was something about him that fit more than the others. As if…

It was him. Her tongue locked in her mouth before she could stutter.

“S-stop! [Caravan, Halt]!”

The horses screamed, and the riders of each wagon cried out as the animals and the riders were forced to slow. Glowing chains of authority whipped between Throsa and even her guards. Her will. Her burgeoning aura, a sign of her promise.

“Exalted Merchant, what—”

“That—”

She pointed, and her [Head of Chattel Guarding] turned. He stared across the road, and then his eyes widened. He turned his head right and left.

“Ambush? But there are no dunes—they ride over dunes or out of cover—or the sandstorms from the [Bandit Lady]—”

“It’s him. Get—get the—”

She was drawing a wand with shaky hands. It could kill even a Gold-ranker in a single shot, or so the [Mage] in Lailight Scintillation had claimed. [Scaied Venombolt]—it had never failed in killing anyone she’d struck. With her other hand, she drew a magical dagger that could extend and stab through a foe in a moment, like a lance.

The [Guards] had gone silent. Half were pointing, glancing at their fellows to grin and say, ‘look at this mistake I have made’. The others, like their leader, were protesting.

“We had word he was going to—”

“Get the wagons in a circle!”

She shouted. Her Skills. She was frozen up, but she knew her trade. But there was no [Rebel] wave riding at them. No sandstorm. Just…

Pisces Jealnet. He moved at last. He was walking forwards. Now, she saw him reach for something at his side. Part of her had wondered if this was a dream, hoped it would be.

But when she saw that curious rapier, Throsa knew. It was metal and bone, two gleaming colors. And a little bell hung from it; her spyglass picked it out. He was striding, now. Long-legged, moving faster. She shouted.

“[All To Arms: Protect the Merchandise]! [Caravan: Pricklethorn Flesh]—”

Her defensive Skills. The [Head of Chattel Guarding] was still denying it. Throsa didn’t see anyone else. He was one man. One versus sixty—

A Gold-rank adventurer. Scourge. Bane of—

Then the sand moved next to the road. Ahead of Pisces, Throsa heard a cry.

“Ambush! Ambush—”

Someone’s Skill went off belatedly. Giving them, what, ten seconds? A low-level fool’s Skill, which was sometimes all that you needed—

Bows sang as the [Guards] fired, some reflexively, others with Skills like [Opening Shot]. But even the ones that landed just…

A Skeleton Champion dug itself out of the earth where it had been waiting and caught an arrow. It shook dirt and sand off its body as it lifted a greatsword. Eleven undead figures rose, like a ghastly honor-guard. Then they were running. Bones clattering as they charged the caravan—and now a cry was going up from the [Slavers]. Horror, fear.

“Necromancer! Undead! It’s him!”

They took aim at the [Necromancer], but he was running. Running…and he vanished as the first arrows loosed. One of his steps took him a dozen paces forwards.

[Flash Step]. And his second step just as far—

He was running, vanishing and reappearing across the ground so fast Throsa could barely track him. Curving, dodging arrows and spells. But coming at the caravan—

Then she pulled her head behind her enchanted wagon’s fabric. For she had seen his finger rise. There was light filtering through the thin canopy of her wagon. Shouting voices. Throsa shivered—then saw the light flicker out as something passed by her wagon’s walls.

Silence, for a moment. Then a figure fell from their saddle. They landed with a dull thump on the ground. A quiet voice. Someone calling out for a friend, a comrade.

Then—the scream of horses. A cry of agony as a Skeleton Champion shot a mortal woman in the stomach. The clash of metal on metal—

Chaos and battle. Throsa waited by the driver’s seat, hands shaking and sweating. She closed her eyes. Battle she knew; she had faced this before. But this time—

This time, she could hear them. Curse them. She’d brand them all for this. She’d make them scream. But it didn’t stop them.

The [Slaves] in the wagons.

They were laughing.

——

His first [Deathbolt] took a [Slave Guard] out of the saddle. Then he was amidst them. No time to circle; there were too many. His Skeleton Champions hit the caravan a moment later, and he was fighting up.

They were all mounted. It wasn’t an advantage; they were trying to form a circle with the wagons, and if they’d split up and rode, he’d have been attacked from all angles.

Instead, they were at the mercy of their horses. Pisces spoke.

“[Flashbang].”

The explosion of sound and light sent horses rearing. The [Guards] clung to their saddles or fell off. One tumbled to the ground, crying out as she broke an arm. She looked up, and Pisces stared down into terrified, blue eyes. A Human’s face. She opened her mouth.

“P—”

He drove the rapier through her mouth. Turned and pointed. [Flame Swathe]. It coated a Stitch-man, but the flames didn’t take on his skin at first. Pisces kept his finger pointing for six seconds. Eight…

Too slow. The screaming figure was writhing as their horses galloped away, and the others were getting up. One was already on his feet. A Skill—he hadn’t attacked. Fear? He raised a shield.

Pisces’s [Shatterbolt] hit the shield. The unenchanted metal exploded, and the [Guard]’s flesh-and-blood arm cracked. Blood ran out of the broken skin, and he screamed, clutching at the bone.

Pisces beheaded him, then saw another [Guard] riding. He stabbed through a chest, wrenched the blade out, and heard a scream. Still alive—

A Skeleton Champion brought down a shortsword into the [Guard]’s guts. It turned, caught a blow from one of the mounted [Guards] on a shield—Pisces spoke again.

“[Flashbang].”

If it worked once—the horses went stampeding away this time. And the others were taking cover behind the wagons. Trying to stop the Skeleton Champions—

But the eleven had come in swinging so hard that the one with the greatsword had nearly cut a [Guard] in half, chainmail or not. Their blows were as heavy as Yvlon’s—for two or three swings. Then they grew weaker.

[Bonerattler Charge]. It was enough—there weren’t that many. The guards on horseback were racing around, trying to aim. Where was he…?

Gone. The [Necromancer] had vanished. The Skeleton Champions were pressing against the wagons, fighting individually. But where…?

The circle of wagons had [Guards] on the inside, screaming for enchanted munitions, for help against the champions—but some were fighting near the wagons holding the [Slaves].

“Get out! Get out and fight or die! Merchant, the kill-collars! Stop laughing! Stop—”

Six of them were trying to yank out the [Slaves] of one wagon and arm them. One of the [Guards] glanced around and saw the dust rising in the air swirl. She turned.

“Behind—”

Pisces stabbed her through the eye. Five [Guards] were in front of him. Two on the ground, one climbing into the wagon, two inside. He stepped back.

[Quick Reset]. Then lunged forwards in a fencer’s attack. Just like his father had shown him.

But the impact of his rapier punching through cheek and bone…Padurn had never described that. He didn’t know it. The second [Slaver] went down. Pisces saw the third moving, swinging a shield up—

His rapier sprayed blood, gore, and brain across the face as he withdrew it and slashed across the throat. So fast that the Stitch-man reached up and choked on his own blood as he tried to inhale. And Pisces’ rapier was already hamstringing the fourth [Slaver], who fell, screaming. Then Pisces ran him through.

All of this in the span of three seconds. He moved faster than they could dream, a blur.

[Manacharged Reflexes]. The two [Guards] in the wagon cried out, and one shouted.

“[Quick Stab]!”

A fast blow to Pisces as he was turning from the fourth [Slaver]. His blade came up.

[Flash Parry]. The other [Guard] lifted a bow, fired. Pisces stepped left, and the arrow punched into the dirt. His [Flash Step] carried him back, and the [Slaver] with a bow fumbled for an arrow.

He dropped it, and it clattered to the floor. He reached for another as his companion with the sword backed up.

“Jotec, help! Draw your blade and h—”

The terrified archer saw Pisces’ blade rise. It seemed to glow as he swept the blade up in a stab. The swordsman shouted.

“[Deft G—]”

He did block the blow, but his sword wasn’t strong enough. Pisces’ Skill punched upwards. His rapier extended and ran the Stitch-man through the chest.

[Rising Spearthrust]. The [Slaver Archer] was fumbling for a dropped arrow on the ground as the body of his comrade rose, then fell back, blood coating the wagon’s floor. Then he looked down. Five dead guards—the [Necromancer] was standing there.

“Help—”

The other wagons where his comrades were fighting hadn’t even seen. One of them turned their head and saw Pisces at last. They stared. The [Archer] backed up—the [Necromancer] was pointing at him.

He ran into something. Bodies. The [Slaves] were all bunched up inside. There was an impact on his back. Then he was stumbling forwards.

They’d kicked him. Kicked—he went over the wagon’s edge, screaming. Pisces stabbed up as the final [Guard] came down. Then he heaved the body off his rapier.

“Behind us! He is inside the—”

The [Necromancer] rose, blood coating his white robes and sword. But he shook the blood off his enchanted robes, and his blade gleamed as he stepped backwards. He strode away, [Flash Stepping] out of the circle of wagons before the [Guards] could surround him. He had only said one word to the six dead men and women. A whisper.

“Arise.”

The dead man he had impaled opened his eyes. They glowed. Slowly, he got up as the other [Guards] rushed past him. They thought he’d made it. One turned—and the zombie grabbed a shoulder. Opened his mouth wide, unhinging his jaw, and bit—

——

He felt like he was too slow. Pisces emerged from the brief skirmish in the wagons and was aware that every second, the [Guards] would overwhelm his Skeleton Champions. Six were damaged. Two down.

How many of the [Guards] were left…? He spotted the ones on horses circling and firing arrows. Pisces’ instinct was to attack them, but then he realized they were switching weapons.

Arrows were useless on Skeleton Champions without Skills or magic. He was panting. Did he have magic for [Invisibility]…?

Not in quick succession. He leaned against a wagon, then saw the riders charge the Skeleton Champions from behind. One was clubbing down at the Skeleton Champion who had a rapier—Pisces charged.

[Flash Step] three times, then—he stabbed up into a stomach, wrenched the blade around, and heaved it out. Not dead, but the Skeleton Champion dragged the screaming figure down. The other [Riders]—Pisces didn’t want to kill the horses, but he slashed their legs. They kicked, screaming, and one bucked a [Rider]. He saw a Skeleton Champion seize the [Rider] and grapple on the ground.

“[Deathbolt]. [Deathbolt].”

Mana running lower. Skills—he had used a lot of them. Pisces spoke.

“Keep them boxed in. Archer, don’t let the ones with bows shoot me.”

The Skeleton Champion with a bow began loosing arrows rapidly, forcing the [Slavers] to keep their heads down. Pisces saw the remaining riders turning to scatter. Eight.

They fled, and he ran them down. No spells save for [Flash Step]. Just his sword. If they turned, they left an opening while they were presenting their sides to him to stab, when the horse was at its slowest. If they gave him no opening, he cut the horse on the legs, and the animal would try to kick or buck its rider and give him that opening.

Three went down, and he took his first wound. An arrow punching through his guard and striking him on the chest.

His underarmor meant he barely felt it.

I might be dead without armor. If it hit me in the face—foolish. He turned, and the remaining five…

Were running. Pisces chased them down. He could beat the horses, and they’d all tried to go for the road to the city. By the time they thought to split up…

Half his Skeleton Champions were down. Pisces was panting as he drank a mana potion. He was running, now. And he saw…

Most of the [Slavers] were dead. Barely a dozen were left, clinging to a carriage they were trying to get moving. One was running, trying to jump on it, when a spear ran him through. Pisces glanced around. Were there any…?

The six Skeleton Champions charged, but the wagon was picking up speed; the wheels were enchanted. One of the [Guards] took an arrow to the chest and fell off the roof. Another was thrown off the roof at a Skeleton Champion, sacrificed to slow it down. Pisces saw the pair of stallions running and whispered.

“Sorry.”

He exploded a [Flashbang] in their faces; they reared, cut the leads as they halted, trying to tear free of their tethers. Then he swung himself up—

The dagger nearly shot through his face. Pisces recoiled as a woman slashed at him, screaming. The [Slavers] were fighting as their leader came out. Pisces [Flash Stepped] back. There was a moment when both pointed at each other.

[Deathbolt].

“Die!”

His [Deathbolt] hit the wall of the wagon, and she recoiled; her spell would have gone through his chest but for his [Flash Step]. Pisces took aim again—she fired wildly from inside the carriage, and he, panting, missed his second shot; it must have gone over her head.

He was standing on the balls of his feet, tensed, prepared to lunge forwards and leap into the wagon. But that dagger. [Invisibility]? Could she see him? She’d feel him on the floorboards of the wagon or see him moving if he got too close. [Acid Orb] the entire thing? What spell was—

He was locked on the wagon when it jostled, and he leapt sideways. But no spell came from inside—there was a scream, a flash of muddy brown light. Then…silence.

Pisces wavered. Then a Skeleton Champion pushed the wagon’s curtains aside. It had two daggers in its hands. Bloodied. It pushed the [Merchant]’s corpse out and onto the ground, then its head swivelled. Searching for foes. It leapt down and strode towards the other wagons. And then—and then—

He realized all the [Slavers] were dead.

——

In the aftermath, as the adrenaline left Pisces’ body and he felt shaky and emptier, he did come to his senses and count his mistakes.

A number of them. The first was not properly ambushing the caravan. He’d just thought…

If the skeletons had emerged around the caravan, they’d have been in a better position. Even with the anti-ambush Skill—no, he should have known they’d had that.

Second, he should have never attacked the [Merchant] at the end. He’d nearly gotten himself killed when his Skeleton Champions had been able to deal with her. Whatever that spell was, it looked highly poisonous and had scarred the ground black.

Third was not taking her out at the start. She had been the leader, and her Skills had empowered the caravan. In fact, she had killed two Skeleton Champions herself; holes in their skulls showed where that dagger of hers had punched through their bones, and another had a fully-melted ribcage. If she’d had a wand suited for killing undead instead of people, she might have torn through the lot.

Fourth, his aim…he was sure there were more mistakes, but Pisces realized he was distracted. He drank more water. Poured some over his face. Then got to work.

“Grab the dead Skeleton Champions. Get all the bodies you can. No—load them up into the wagons. Grab the horses if they’re around. Get them moving off the road, now!”

Dispose of the evidence. It was lucky no one had come down the road. Perhaps they had…perhaps the [Slavers] had sent a distress call. He had to move fast.

Pisces didn’t know this part. He went to the dead Stitch-woman and searched her corpse. What he was looking for he didn’t know. Keys? He knew some [Slavers] could kill their [Slaves] with a spell. If it was keyed to her survival…

His heart began to pound in horror. But then he heard faint laughter from the wagons. He didn’t find keys on the woman. So where…?

At his instruction, the Skeleton Champions collecting bodies searched, and one finally jangled something. One of the [Guards] had a keyring. Actually, several did.

Pisces snatched one and swung into the wagons. They were already moving as terrified horses trotted away from the skeletons herding them and making vague shooing motions. For a moment, when he pulled the coverings back, there was silence. He stared into the darkness and saw faces squinting at him. Blinded by the light…uncertain. Afraid—

Until they saw him. Then he heard a sigh and saw a mix of Humans, Stitch-folk, a pair of Garudas blinking up at him. Some recoiled. Flinching back from the man covered in blood and gore. Others just smiled politely.

“Ah, there he is. Don’t wake me from my dream another moment, please, friends.”

A Stitch-man spoke up, leaning back against the tiny bench where he was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with the others. They were chained to the benches. Unable to move more than a foot from the berths. Pisces wavered.

He didn’t know what to say. It was the nearest [Slave] who spoke next. A Garuda with brown feathers that turned slowly to orange lifted his head. He gazed up and rasped with a throat parched for moisture.

“Bane of Roshal. Are we free?”

As if he knew Pisces. As if this moment hadn’t been luck, improvisation, an arrow’s trajectory from Pisces’ death. He spoke the words with such trust. Pisces stared at him, and for a moment, he was sitting there.

In chains, staring up at a falling rainbow. Hearing a booming voice in his ears as the Death of Chains turned the dark night into magic and freedom.

He was not Czautha’qshe. He had no grand words. He had failed so many on his journey here. But…Pisces fumbled for the keyring, then handed the Garuda it. The man almost dropped the keyring and saw Pisces fish out another copy.

“Yes. Hurry. Free yourselves and then the others. Never let yourselves be chained again.”

It was such a damned silly thing to say. They were not even out of chains, but he said it, because the words were hot in his chest. Hotter than the brand on his skin.

Someone had to say them.

The Garuda tried to sort the keys, but his wing-talons were shaky. Pisces found the right key first. He slotted it into the lock, and it clicked. He yanked the manacles off and realized there was another set for the Garuda’s wrists.

The same key fit both locks. The heavy iron fell, and the Garuda stood. He spread his wings—then glanced at the keys. Fumbled to find the same one Pisces did as the [Necromancer] turned to the next person in line. A Stitch-woman who was crying. Silently—

The wagon had gone so quiet. Like people trying not to wake up. Waiting…Pisces realized that the wagon was so full.

How many bodies were crammed in here? He’d counted at least five other wagons—he began to call for the Skeleton Champions, but realized they might not know how this worked.

“I’ll free someone in the other wagons. Just keep unlocking—I’m sorry, I’ll be back.”

The Garuda half-turned as he strode for the wagon’s lip. He blinked at Pisces, then spoke.

“You returned to Chandrar and freed us. Some claim yours is just a face that [Rebels] wear. But you’re him. The first one called the Bane of Roshal. The actual [Necromancer].”

“Yes. I am.”

Pisces spoke to the Garuda, and it did feel like the two men were in a dream. One reliving his, the other…but the Garuda felt at his wrists, at the bruised flesh under his feathers, then peered up at the sky.

“Are you sure?”

What a question to ask. But they all regarded the filthy adventurer covered in blood. It had splashed his skin, but slid off his robes enchanted for cleanliness. He was covered in sweat and grime, but his robes were pristine. Just like the rapier. The Bell of Challenges didn’t ring as it swung from the rapier’s hilt. Pisces turned and nodded.

“My friend…the [Slave] who was chained up next to me was a Garuda. Cawe. It’s not just because you’re a Garuda. I wish I had been able to free her. You’re all free. I just can’t kill them all, so you’ll have to run. I’m sorry. I’ll try my best.”

Then he leapt out of the wagon. The [Slaves] regarded each other. The promise hung in the air.

I’ll try my best.

Then…the freed [Slave] turned the key and listened to it click. He waited until he’d unlatched every single chain—and they were leaving the wagon. Crying out. Weeping. Asking what happened next. Afraid or relieved or…the Garuda just walked to the edge of the wagon and looked up.

Then he spread his wings and flew into the blue sky.

——

The first caravan was hard. Hard in how it was fought, but hardest in saying goodbye. Pisces was a flurry of motion the moment he realized they were on a time limit.

“Roshal checks its caravans. This one was nearly at the city. Grab the horses. Grab every weapon you can, and—I don’t know which way to go.”

Then he felt like a murderer, for he had no escape route planned. He’d been so focused on this—but the Garuda whom he’d freed first had a thought.

“The Ekhot Straits. No one lives there. Or perhaps the Devilt Foothills. Even a city, should we get far enough.”

“They’ll ask if we are escaped [Slaves] at the gates—”

“Only on entry. And if you were taken before they reached a full Guild, you won’t be on the registers, perhaps. If we leave Nerrhavia’s Fallen, only Roshal will have us on lists.”

“Those are too far. We’ll never make it—”

That despairing comment came from a Stitch-man. But a chorus of voices silenced him.

“We must try. At worst, we split up after this. If we pose as travellers, with clothing, coin—”

There was a chance. But for the moment, the irony was that the [Slaves] had to get in the same wagons they had been freed from.

No longer chained, but they had no other conveyance. Pisces ordered his skeletons to strip the [Slavers]. The work was simple; he scavenged armor and weapons off the dead for the Skeleton Champions to re-arm.

Not the best gear. He took several enchanted swords off the Skeleton Champions and handed them to the freed [Slaves]. They needed them more.

“Divide it amongst yourselves. Coin—the [Merchant] had some, surely.”

“Her chest. It’s trapped. But I saw how she used the key.”

One of the other [Slaves] volunteered. Pisces saw the Garuda standing on the wagon.

“If you fly, you can keep away from pursuers. Split up if you must; I don’t know if they’ll scry you…”

“Perhaps, but there are Skills and scrolls against it. You’re warded from scrying?”

Pisces had a ring that Ceria had insisted the team get, but the thought of each [Slave] being hunted down—

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything else prepared.”

It was the tenth time he said it, and the Garuda smiled down at him.

“You freed us.”

“Won’t you come with us, Scourge? If you did and brought us to the straits or to your people—”

One of the former [Slaves] began, but Pisces was glancing over his shoulder. He hesitated, and his face twisted up, but he shook his head.

“I can’t. I am so sorry, but—I have to go.”

He was staring at something only he could see. One of his mice…the [Slaves] saw him point.

“Another caravan is headed towards the city.”

It took them a moment to realize what he meant. Then they all sat forwards.

“You mean to strike Roshal again?”

Pisces turned and realized they had no notion of his plans. He gestured, aimlessly, as the Skeleton Champions finished repairing themselves. More bodies were arising, now. Naked, mostly. Eyes glowing. Zombies. A few Ghouls.

“I cannot free the [Slaves] in the city.”

Again, the massed people glanced at each other to try and divine what he meant. One spoke.

“…Halqued?”

“Yes.”

Lareceina was right. Hexata was correct. In that city, Yisame’s people kept law and order. An attack on the city was an attack on her. Outside the city…

There were no witnesses. And if there were, so what? The Scourge of Roshal wore Pisces’ face. Everyone knew that, but Pisces was also sure it was a face that Bearig had adopted. A way to disguise the [Rebels].

The ‘Scourge’ has simply hit another caravan. That was the flimsiest pretext he had, but…it was a madman’s plan. Pisces half-turned.

“I have to go to intercept it. If you need other places to go, north…east would be good. Though help would be at least a hundred miles away, likely more. Tiqr is even further, and I do not know this region. Again, I’m…”

A skeleton horse was rising as the undead began to move. First shuffling steps—then he pointed, and the zombies began to jog. Then run, arms pumping, organs glistening. The [Slaves] saw him turning, and then there was a feeling.

Not just them. Not just one act and desperation. If he meant more—

“They’d send out riders after us instantly. Scry us and post bounties on each one. But hundreds? Thousands?”

“He’s mad. Mad as they say. Was it just one of him versus every [Guard] and Throsa herself?”

Whispers. The Garuda saw Pisces getting on the horse with the curious saddle. He called out.

“Scourge!”

Pisces turned, and the Garuda lifted a wing-arm.

“Luck. If I return to Qualvekkaras, I will speak your name and Cawe’s to the winds themselves. Or any Garuda I meet.”

The [Necromancer] called back.

“Your name. What is it?”

“Josiever.”

The connected gaze lingered as Pisces began to ride. Then it broke. When he turned and rode ahead, he didn’t look back, at least, not until he was a distant speck. As if he were ashamed, perhaps. Embarrassed.

Free, in a moment. The [Slaves] gazed down at the blood in the wagons. Their captors ran, a shambling horde, dead—and there might have been that anger. Hot and bright for the way it was too easy.

Like a Djinni coming down a minute too late to break chains so easily. After so long, for some of them. Too easy. Why had no one done it?

Then they turned and saw him riding now, a speck. Just one man. No Djinni of Demons, no legend.

“I’ll try my best.”

Gooseflesh rose on Josiever’s arms, under his feathers. He spread his wings and leapt into the air, hesitating until he realized those chains were gone.

Never again. Then he was flying up—up—every cell in his body screaming in relief. But craning his head to see that figure moving. And if he had a regret…

It was that Pisces hadn’t asked Josiever to join him. But then, the Garuda wondered…who could keep up with the Bane of Roshal? The original had come back to Chandrar, and now he was free of his team, of his obligations. He had been a fine figure on the scrying orb, in the palace; they had all seen broadcasts of him despite their master’s dislike of him.

Now, though…

He appeared truly passionate.

——

His plan was insane. It was only working right now because they didn’t know what he was doing. The element of surprise was going to run out by the second caravan—let alone the third.

But they were on the roads. Unless they turned around—and even if they did—it was hard to hide that many people. Going off-road was nigh-impossible unless the [Slavers] had enchanted wheels. They’d run into monsters or just get lost.

And he had a map detailing where each one was. He just needed to kill them all. Hundreds of [Slave Guards]…

Yes, a madman’s plan. But Pisces had to do it. If he did, no one could buy or sell that girl. There was no…ending to this that went well. He knew that too. It didn’t matter.

He rode, and the horde of undead he’d summoned was the first, the largest—when he looked back and saw them running after him, he had an image in his head.

Feren. Gewilena. Ama. His first coven of [Necromancers], cheering a group of zombies led by a Ghoul. He saw in the undead the same horde attacking Liscor and Erin’s inn.

All the evils of my class. Then he blinked and saw the dead [Slavers]. He didn’t know what Erin would say. But he knew what he needed.

He had never summoned a horde of undead and controlled them himself. It was…unsettlingly easy. And alarming. Pisces didn’t have individual control over the undead. That was the worrying part. They might well revert back to their natural instincts and attack anything living. Twice, when he stopped to orient himself, he saw a zombie try to dig up a snake or something in the ground. But Pisces could easily correct one undead.

It was like a herd of sheep. He could move them around in a mass. And then just send them at, well, a target. Terrifyingly dangerous.

He kept a firm grip on the Skeleton Champions. They were now fully armored and armed, albeit with unenchanted gear. Pisces wished he’d kept some enchanted weapons—but the [Slaves] needed them.

Do without. Now that he had sixty-odd undead, he had a fighting force, albeit a naked one to back up the Skeleton Champions. But Pisces had a problem. He considered it as he rode; the undead horse didn’t need to slow, and it rode flawlessly for him.

I need to hit the other caravan fast. If I can ambush them the same way, I will, but word may have spread. I’ll see. I wish I could intercept spells like Az’kerash did for me. 

Either way, he’d flood forwards with the zombies and Ghouls—let the Skeleton Champions pick out targets. Go for the leadership and high-level [Guards]. He’d also play it safer; one blow to the head and he was dead.

He should have gotten a damn helmet. Personal barrier spells like Yvlon’s ring! He’d keep invisible and minimize risk.

That was the benefit of the undead horde as well; Pisces realized they were generating death-mana. He was recharging rapidly.

[Drain Death Mana]. He tried it on a zombie, and it collapsed and actually turned to ash as he yanked out enough mana for a half-dozen [Deathbolts]. From one zombie?

The rest seemed to run faster in response. Not from fear; the death magic was invigorating them. So Pisces might be able to cast even more spells, despite having used a mana potion in the previous battle. And his Skills would have recharged…

His problem was singular. He could adjust his strategy. Plan on the fly when he saw the second caravan’s numbers and disposition, though he was no Colth—but he had a crippling weakness.

“Aim.”

During the last battle, Pisces had missed several spells. Especially at the final moment when he’d been duelling the [Caravan Leader]. Deathbolt was a Tier 4 spell; it wasn’t as costly as some, but he couldn’t afford to miss with it.

The problem was that Pisces was no Ceria Springwalker, who’d been trained for the better part of a year by a known sharpshooter spellcaster, Illphres. He remembered laughing at her having to get up daily to practice shooting targets by the surf.

Now Pisces would have given anything for that practice. He was a decent shot when stationary, but when moving? Ceria was an actual deadeye given how little she missed.

Pisces flexed his left hand’s finger. Could he correct that aim somehow? He tried. He reduced the mana in his finger and conjured a spell he’d deemed useless for the first battle.

Lighted Arrow. Not [Light Arrow], but the freeform casting version of it. Functionally the same spell, but customizable. In this case, he reduced the amount of light magic in it to almost nothing. He kept it bright, fast—and fired it from his finger.

It shot into the dirt and didn’t even shift the sand. Pisces wondered if it could kill a fly. Well, perfect. He fired five and guessed it was five per one [Light Arrow], already a Tier 1 spell.

Perfect; he could breathe and almost regenerate mana faster. He rode and began shooting the arrow nonstop at everything he could see.

Rocks, cacti, a bounding rabbit, more rocks—his Skeleton Champions—

Pisces started shooting one of his Skeleton Champions in the skull nonstop, or trying to. It kept pace with his horse, so it was actually the best target. He ignored its reproachful stare and cursed after about ten minutes of practice.

“This isn’t ideal.”

He was missing about 60% of the time! The skeleton horse wasn’t that smooth, but at even twenty paces, Pisces had terrible aim. True, they were both moving targets…but Pisces quickly realized the issue wasn’t just his aim. It was more technical still.

There were a lot of good reasons for Pisces to free-cast with his bare hands. It was adaptive, surprised foes, he was used to it—but the reason Ceria favored a wand was because it was a non-flexible rod. Even if not all wands were straight, she knew exactly how long it was and the trajectory it formed.

Pisces had a finger. He liked his forefinger, he thought he knew it well, but it was a finger.

Each section of bone moved with his muscles. If he pointed it straight, it would vary slightly in position each time he did it, despite his best efforts. If he were some kind of supreme…[Monk] he might be able to control it so finely, but that variance meant that he was inevitably going to miss.

Especially when a slight wavering would lead to a lot of error over distance. Pisces hunted around.

“Where is it? Delitandra just had me practicing with…aha!”

He finally yanked out the wand that was a replacement for Mrsha’s favorite chew toy and tried some spellcasting with it. His aim improved…but Pisces felt weird holding it. And he still missed three in ten shots. Nor was it calibrated to amplify death magic, just a cheaper wand some [Mage] in the Coliseum of Monarchs had owned.

He didn’t have time for this. By his calculations, he was already halfway towards intercepting the second caravan. Pisces cursed. But for the Heromakers of Hraace—! If ever he needed Delitandra to come running over with a suggestion, it was now.

Defeat spurs one towards training. She was right about that, only his motivation was failing to do what he had to. Pisces’ mind raced.

How do I correct my aim? If I miss, I could hit a [Slave]. I don’t know how to curve my magic, even if I thought I could correct a [Deathbolt] mid-flight. Colth could do it if he were here…

Think, fool! He closed his eyes and tried to remember the other [Mages] he’d seen. Eldavin came back to him. He’d told Pisces to concentrate his magic, and he’d been right. But he’d had superb casting.

Montressa hadn’t been that accurate, nor Palt, to his memory. The [Illusionist] had preferred to just fill the air with [Light Arrows]. Courier Salamani did the same thing. It was hard to make sure a spell landed on target; that was why other kinds of magic like [Fireball] were so appealing. Pisces’ aim with his rapier was a million times better at range, but he couldn’t rely on it.

…Or could he? Pisces remembered he could bind spells to the tip of the rapier. He imagined him shooting spells with the rapier as an extended wand. It almost sounded viable to him until he remembered the point of his free hand was to do the casting.

“It has to be free-handed. So how…?”

He thought of another [Mage] and hesitated. Wait a second. Viceria had great aim from practicing with Wailant, allegedly naked. Larracel used homing spells, but you know who didn’t have great aim?

Archmage Valeterisa. And she was a seasoned Wistram duelist. In fact, in fact, he recalled Montressa talking about her famous trip to Fissival with Valeterisa. Dead gods, he’d seen her casting magic. Not her fighting, but there was that recording of that Mage Lord Ascoden…using a spell Valeterisa had invented.

[Valeterisa’s Overly Complicated Seekers]. Pisces had heard it maligned as difficult, but the Drake had used it to fire off a lot of spells at targets even hiding behind walls. The problem was…it was very hard to cast. It had a windup time, which meant you couldn’t use it in a fight.

Also, he didn’t know the spell, and he wasn’t going to learn it in less than an hour on horseback without a spellbook teaching it. However, the concept stuck with him.

Valeterisa’s spell isn’t an attack spell. You can’t hurt anyone with it. It’s light magic that bounces around until it finds what you want. Like a guide. Now, he didn’t know it, but a thought occurred to him as he eyed the Skeleton Champion he’d used as target practice.

It was the faintest bit sooty on its forehead where he’d hit it with the weak Lighted Arrow spell. But Pisces didn’t even feel the strain of hitting it, what, three hundred times? He could alter the Lighted Arrow spell as much as he wanted.

It was not a useful spell in a life-or-death fight. Unless he could fire about fifty in one go, [Deathbolt] was far, far stronger. Even at ‘max strength’, Pisces’ Lighted Arrow was pretty much like Ceria putting a wooden box on her hand and punching you as hard as she could in the face with it. Surprisingly painful, but compared to, say, [Deathbolt]…no.

But he could alter the spell. What if…Pisces aimed his finger back at the Skeleton Champion. It sighed. He shot it in the head with a glowing arrow of light.

Yeah, yeah. Doesn’t h—

“[Deathbolt].”

Pisces shot the Skeleton Champion through the head, and its green eyes blazed. It actually sped up like it was under a [Speed] spell for a second, then slowed down. It gave him a second look as the other Skeleton Champions’ jaws dropped.

Do me, do me! They saw Pisces eye his finger, then smile.

——

Five more [Deathbolts] later, three Skeleton Champions were happy. Pisces…not.

“It’s still not working.”

His idea was simple—fire a guiding arrow to see where his [Deathbolt] was going to land, then follow it up when he saw the ‘guide’ arrow land.

It was a good idea, right?

Wrong. In the time it took for him to fire the guide-arrow, his target could still move or he could shift. The [Necromancer] was almost about to give up on the concept—he had to prepare for battle. Then he had one more thought.

Hm. Here was a question for you: his spell. Lighted Arrow. Why did it have to be…an arrow? A projectile?

For the purposes of being an arrow, sure, it was essential to compress the mana and fire it out. A ray spell was far more mana-intensive and required shaping of magic he wasn’t up to in his book. But if he just projected light-mana constantly, narrowed the focal point from his finger…

He’d seen Ryoka Griffin cast a variant of this spell herself. She had made the [Flashlight] and [Flashbang] spells with her own rudimentary knowledge of magic that he still used in combat. Lareceina had been self-taught, and she was more deadly than most Wistram [Mages] he could name.

There was no spell for what Pisces wanted. It was a Tier 0 magic…he concentrated, frowning. Just enough to see by. Reduce the force to zero. Yes, otherwise he’d burn out all the mana trying to make the projection solid…

Something flashed from the tip of his finger. He blinked at it—then pointed. The Skeleton Champions eyed their master’s new magic.

They didn’t get it. They might have Pisces’ [Duelist Instincts], but all they saw was…a thin ray of light. The width of a piece of chalk, really. Then even thinner. It shot from Pisces’ finger, straight as, well, a beam.

He pointed it at the ground. Shone it on a Skeleton Champion’s forehead.

For reasons they didn’t get, he started laughing. Laughing like a madman. Then he combed his hair, and his face still had some dried blood on it. His eyes focused, and they felt it too.

A kind of…sharpness. Like the blades they carried. He hadn’t felt this sharp except when he’d called them to kill those other [Slavers]. Except at sea.

They liked it. Because Pisces took this spell, which Lareceina might have invented if she’d needed to—something Earthers would come up with because their world had done it all, seen it all, invented every damn thing—

And then he improved it again because he needed to.

——

The second caravan was known as ‘The Speedy Servant’. It was less…trendy than the Blessed Chains. Not as high-class. Nor did it have fancy, painted wagons to carry its slaves.

Their master had them march along in lines. Why bother pampering them when they needed to get toughened up? It increased their [Slave] class. To that end, Master Khormez actually gave them ropes and connected them only by the manacled hands. They had to run, and if one tripped, it was a damned problem.

Naturally, that meant more risk. But he chained them up at night, and to prevent problems, he ran with a far heavier guard than the Blessed Chains’ caravan had.

About a hundred [Guards] to watch what could be up to a thousand [Slaves] when times were flush.

Times were not that flush, and he had only six hundred, despite having gone all the way to the coast and back. Khormez was highly annoyed, but one of the kingdoms he liked to frequent, Alka dez Vrent, a former Terandrian colony gone to ruin and corruption, wasn’t open for business.

It was a poor nation with a lax monarchy and governance, ideal for him to pick up deals and mass-cargo. However, word was that Alka dez Vrent was no longer safe. It had a new ruler no one dared speak of, who murdered everyone who crossed him.

Even [Slavers], potentially. The Guild had marked it as a no-go zone while they investigated and saw what the new rules were. So Khormez had lost profits.

First that, then the sightings of the Scourge on the eastern edge of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, so he’d avoided that—then the actual Horns of Hammerad flying in on a damn carpet! He’d almost spit blood when he heard they were ahead of him, but other adventurers had chased them off.

He’d light incense for Wildcard and Torreb’s daughter at the Guild, see if he didn’t! Even if he was a notorious [Skinflint Slavemaster]—what was good for business mattered. What had Khormez’s teeth on edge was a [Message] he’d received from the Guild.

At cost. They had burnt up one of his [Message] scrolls, and they never apologized, even when it was just an update about weather or traffic. But he tolerated it because this had been an update.

The Blessed Chains hadn’t appeared at their destination, the same city he was bound for. He forgot the name; it was a Hemp-forsaken place, this run. Were the Mad Ones around here? Bah, he would just unload whatever was profitable, take whatever wasn’t broken, and head on.

That was how he made a living. But the Guild monitored every caravan and their business. Often, they pried too much, but if the Blessed Chains hadn’t made it…?

Perhaps they’d thrown an axle. Perhaps they’d found someone and were doing business. But perhaps it was trouble. The Guild had sent someone to check it out. So Khormez was wary.

He didn’t have a Skill to detect attacks. But his [Guards] were used to fights. Khormez himself was a big man whose whip was coated with venom that could put any man down. He liked to let new [Slaves] think they had an advantage, unchain them, then hit them with the whip. Once he had them pliable, he chose his favorites among the lot. In time, he’d upgrade his caravan. He didn’t see the need to stop making the [Slaves] run, but if he had a Djinni—the Guild sold them at extortionate rates, but they’d go cheaper if you were high-ranking or had a patron.

Then he’d be a true Master of Roshal.

Khormez rode his tired camel, head on a swivel. Foot traffic was clearing out as they passed a crossroads. He took note of such things…this was a trade road. But suddenly, even single riders weren’t appearing on the road ahead of him.

That often meant trouble. Khormez spat and snapped at a guard.

“Look sharp. Someone ride ahead and figure out why no one’s about!”

They rode ahead and, after a few tense minutes, came galloping back.

“Master Khormez—I caught a man on horseback. Here, here!”

He was tugging a fellow over. The reluctant rider protested.

“I have to be going—”

“Just tell him what you told me!”

The Stitch-man pointed over his shoulder.

“There’s a damned horde of undead coming this way! Dozens of zombies! Everyone ahead is moving away from it! You’ll want to ride fast; I got around it, but you won’t! There’s Ghouls amongst them!”

Khormez’s skin tingled, and he shuddered.

“Damned undead! First the Oresects, now this! What good is Nerrhavia’s Fallen if it can’t even upkeep the trade roads?”

The man was a native of the kingdom and frowned mightily, so Khormez adopted an insincere smile.

“That is…I am sure the Golden Hordes will deal with it. In time.”

Perhaps that was the reason for the Blessed Chain’s delay. Khormez halted the caravan as the rider nodded at him and rode on fast.

A few dozen undead versus his guards weren’t that dangerous…though Ghouls would be threats. But each hurt guard was money from his pocket, let alone the helpless merchandise.

“We’ll head down the road. Find some other fools and travel together; if we need to, they’ll bear the brunt of the fighting. The local garrison should sally out to deal with them. We’re close enough.”

The [Guards] were all in agreement. They were turning the [Slaves] when Khormez was struck by two thoughts.

One—the Guild hadn’t harassed him about undead on the road. They always did for the slightest monster attacks, even Sand Slimes. Perhaps the horde had just appeared.

Perhaps, but wasn’t a certain [Necromancer] said to have been around here? He had left, though…the Guild had sent him a message to that effect. 

But that was two oddities. Khormez didn’t fear the so-called Scourge of Roshal. He’d had it on good authority from other [Slavers] who’d run into the legend that it was just a face the [Rebels] sewed onto their leaders to instill fear. Though the real man…

Khormez felt his shoulders prickle, hard. He hunched his body up, glancing around, and saw, suddenly, how empty this road was.

Utterly.

It made sense from one direction…but someone should have outridden Khormez’s slower caravan from behind. Yet that [Rider] was first to come down the road from the other direction.

Why, then, was his caravan alone? It was almost as if…something was scaring traffic away from behind Khormez. Like, say, the sighting of more undead.

Ping! Khormez jumped and slapped a hand to his side. Another disposable [Message] scroll. He’d save a fortune if he invested in a permanent one, not bled for each expendable—

He read the note slowly.

Guild Update: Monster sightings. Skeletons sighted on the road behind The Speedy Servant. Numbers reported as less than a dozen. Potentially armed. Updates forthcoming; the local garrison has been alerted.

Behind. Skeletons. Khormez’s head snapped up. He wheeled his horse around, stood up in the stirrups, and began to bellow.

“All hear me and obey! Prepare to ride north at speed! We are cutting through the undead and reaching the city! Lash the slaves; they will run or suffer! [Run, Worthless Slaves]!”

His guards began to protest. Khormez pointed down the road, trying to explain his sudden intuition.

“It’s an ambush! I th—”

He swore he saw something flash at him in the fading light. Khormez blinked, twist—

The [Deathbolt] hit him in the chest. He went white. Swayed in his saddle, and his vision greyed out. The [Guards] stared at him. They half-turned.

“Spell—that was a sp—”

He felt like throwing up. Khormez was falling. He felt his heart stopping. And then…he saw it. He looked down at his chest as he began to topple over.

Oh.

There was a beam of light on his chest. A beautiful, pale one of a color he had no words for. Why had he not—

The second [Deathbolt] hit him, and the [Slave Master] struck the ground. Then, when he rose, already a Ghoul, he could see it clearly.

——

The final aspect to Pisces’ laser-trick was this: death magic. A beam of light was noticeable. Anyone who saw it on them would guess what Pisces was doing. So…why let them see it? He’d practically heard Colth muttering that.

Pisces couldn’t make a light he couldn’t see; Ksmvr might have been able to. But he’d given it some thought and realized there was a way to create a light most people couldn’t see if they weren’t [Mages].

Magic. And if you were going to go that far, why not death magic, which was a unique element few non-[Necromancers] were familiar with?

He’d still had to wait for the man he assumed was the leader to stop moving. The [Deathbolt] wasn’t as fast as he wanted it to be; it was actually slower than Ceria’s [Ice Lance], even. But it was now…very accurate.

Though the [Deathbolt]’s speed was an issue. Which meant the [Slavers] still could avoid the projectile. He’d work on making it invisible and faster—later.

“Charge. Skeleton Champions—wait for the zombies to hit them before entering the fray.”

Pisces whispered. He was lying on his stomach on a dune, and he watched the battle begin without exposing himself instantly. This time…he used strategy.

The [Slavers] were already panicking with the death of their leader. No sooner had they hacked down the newly-animated Ghoul than the zombies and Ghouls appeared. And they were outnumbered by the hundred-some [Guards], who had Skills and weapons.

The zombies were naked. But here was a factor the [Slavers] hadn’t been prepared for:

The zombies were running.

Most people didn’t know zombies ran. It took more death mana—or the presence of a Crypt Lord—to make them sprint. Pisces didn’t work with flesh-based undead normally.

He made an exception. The zombies ran at the [Slavers], who again tried to form a defensive formation around the [Slaves]. Pisces directed the onslaught from above as he watched the Skeleton Champions running towards the rear.

“Ghouls—the riders. Don’t kill the horses, spook them.”

He made the zombies split; instead of coming in a rough wedge towards the center of the living, which they wanted to do, they began to encircle the [Slavers]. They were just there to get in the way. A [Rider] trying to break around the horde was watching the running zombies and never saw the tensed figure until the Ghoul jumped and took them off the saddle. Then the Skeleton Champions moved into the fighting.

That’s when the [Slavers] started dying.

Pisces’ Skeleton Champions had never been made to fight multiple foes at once. His Skill was [Undead: Duelist Instincts]. They were specialized at one-on-one combat where even a Level 30 [Warrior] might sweat to see one coming at them.

The average Level 30 [Warrior] might triumph in a duel, but how many of the [Slavers] below were Level 30? Nor were the Skeleton Champions fighting fair. The one with a greatsword was trading cuts with a huge [Slaver], who was matching him with a lead club taking chips across the weapon. They were swinging on each other, going blow for blow, when the club-wielding [Slaver] gasped and half-turned.

One of the Skeleton Champions with daggers had buried its blades in his back. Then the greatsword fell.

No honor. No etiquette. Not for these foes. The Skeleton Champions went hunting for stronger foes. One raised a shield as a [Fireball] blew every zombie around it to pieces. It staggered as a [Mage] pointed at the skeleton still on its feet—

Pisces landed behind the [Mage] and beheaded the caster. His [Invisibility] spell failed as he lost concentration, and there was a cry.

“The—the—”

He was in the center of the [Slavers]’ defensive lines. The [Necromancer] went running at a wall of [Guards] who panicked. Half turned themselves up, and one went down as a Ghoul took them from behind and dragged them into the clutches of the hungry zombies. But the rest were aiming Skills at him—the [Necromancer] ran, and then something rose upwards.

A…slope? He ran up the ramp of bones, which carried him over the heads of the fighting [Slavers] and undead. The [Slaves] saw the [Necromancer] leap—that was how he’d bypassed their lines the first time.

He’d never performed this move on a chaotic battlefield. But Pisces had learned to animate structures in the Trials of Shields. He was a [Necromancer of Reclaimed Grandeur]—and he had needed to get that [Mage].

Necessity. Pisces turned in the air. He saw a cluster of [Archers] aiming at him and pointed at them.

“[Fireball].”

His aim was spot on. Two saw the roiling ball of fire shooting at them and dove away in time to survive the blast. They lay on the ground, stunned, as the undead pressed forwards without their support. And then the [Necromancer] was gone again.

“Yield! We surrender!”

A cry went up as the undead pressed the narrowing lines of [Slavers] back against the [Slaves]. The [Slaves] were clumped together—they were afraid of the undead, even if some of them were smiling. But the zombies did fall back. A pair of snarling Ghouls loped back a step—and the [Slavers] hesitated. A few tossed down their weapons and raised their hands, but then a figure shouldered aside the shorter zombies.

A Skeleton Champion, bones reinforced with Manticore ivory, stepped into place. Thirteen formed a circle around the [Slavers]. The two Ghouls joined their ranks, and the guards realized the zombies were falling back only because the [Necromancer] couldn’t control them if they got past them.

The Skeleton Champions waited. Then a [Deathbolt] flashed out of the fading light and hit one of the [Guards] in the chest. The [Necromancer] reappeared, and the Skeleton Champions advanced.

——

Easier the second time. All but eighteen zombies had been hacked down, but not a single Skeleton Champion had fallen. This caravan felt weaker than the other one—or maybe it was the lower-level undead.

The [Slaves] were still hard. Freeing them? He just cut the ropes free. But they asked him the same question.

“I…freed a caravan northwest of you. They were headed—”

Pisces hesitated. He didn’t know if he should say.

“I cannot escort you. I’m sorry.”

“But—we’re on foot. This is a trade road. We’ll be caught.”

This group wasn’t nearly as fit as the other. They hadn’t been in great condition, but neither had they been malnourished or visibly injured. Khormez hadn’t bought valuable [Slaves], though. Pisces saw open wounds or odd scars on the Stitch-folk.

It took him a moment to realize it was frayed skin that had been knotted off, leaving warped, puckered scar-tissue. A way to close damaged cloth-flesh if you had no fabric. Worse were the missing limbs, usually arms, or digits. He knew they could sew their limbs back on, but these people…

It did not make him angrier. He didn’t feel…angry. Rather, as he looked over a hundred dead men and women, some of whom he had killed, he felt—

Ah. He wiped at the dried blood on his cheeks, shook some off his robes and rapier, then got to work. He’d think of that later, later.

Just another connection between him and the man he’d used to think was a goal. Az’kerash.

So be it. If he was falling, then today he was diving. So this is what it was like, then…he pushed the thought away. He had dealt with the [Slavers].

But the [Slaves]—

“Sir, we will never make it. Is there no one else? No…route?”

“No.”

He stood there, and the hundreds of men and women moaned.

“You’ve doomed us. They’ll have us killed for betraying our masters.”

One shook his chains at Pisces, and the [Necromancer] looked at a Stitch-man. The figure shrank back behind the others. He looked noticeably better than the others, and he hadn’t been attached to the main slave-lines. Pisces remembered the [Slaves] who had taken Igheriz’s and Hrome’s sides…

His rapier was heavy as he addressed the group.

“You are free, now. I cannot escort you to safety. There are horses, and if you split up, disguise yourselves, you have a chance. Loot the dead for clothing. If you are Stitch-folk, you could change your face. I am sorry. But I can only halt the caravans. There may be help northeast of here or if you go to Tiqr, Pomle.”

Too far. They stood there until he pointed at random. A woman jumped.

“You. Gather what you need. If there’s anyone you trust, form a group. If—”

He almost didn’t say it, but he had let these people out.

“If you wish to remain [Slaves], the city is not far. Go there, but this is your chance. Your only chance, perhaps.”

Uncertainty. The woman Pisces had pointed at was glancing around—but then someone bent down and grabbed the [Slavemaster]’s whip. A young man who bore lash marks on his back. He began to check the man’s bag of holding, and that provoked a flurry of motion.

People began grabbing magical items like bags of holding, fighting over coins. Pisces stopped them from brawling and divided items up, but he was turning. Watching the road.

The undead were keeping travellers away, but after twenty minutes, he thought he could see a cloud of dust headed towards them from the city. He stood on the hilltop and told them to run.

Not all of them did. The [Slaves] scattered, most headed away from the city. Some stood there, waiting to be re-captured.

Well, they’d slow the garrison. Pisces saw more than one figure gazing up at him. Gold-rank adventurer with undead. He wasn’t helping them.

If it were me…

Most have no levels for combat or survival.

It’s a chance.

That was all he told himself. He could not…the [Necromancer] was busy. As the stripped [Slavers] lay there, he spoke one word that made all who heard it shiver.

“Arise.”

——

Ceria, Ice Squirrel: Heeeey, Pisces. Haven’t heard from you, assuming you’re just enjoying the endless dust. Don’t eat too much. Update on Yv. Etrikah is pretty good—she says Yvlon’s balances are off. Looks like a cure’s not known. Pretty interesting actually; to create it, they take some poor kid and load ‘em up with curatives but keep getting them sick. So whatever magical disease they’ve got is nasty. Bright side? Less Yvlon. Downside? Less Yvlon. She’s under maximum security rest.

Ceria, Ruler of Medain NOT MARRIED: Itkisa’s gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Keep mum about the fights and Tomb. Bit tricky over here. We want to do strategy and planning given circumstances. Thinking we should hit Tiqr…might be a possibility to tie up my stuff and do politics while we’re there. And Zenol. Lots to do.

Ceria, Archmage of Frost: Funny story, Pisces. Your carriage just pulled up. It’s empty. You okay? Obviously, if you’re kidnapped and someone’s reading this [Message] now we’re into hostage negotiations, and I’ve got a Relic-class circlet that makes me smart. Just let me know.

Ceria: Did you hit a caravan outside of that city we were in? I need you to get out of there right now if that is the case, and we can cover it. Answer, Pisces.

Colth: This isn’t a good idea, Pisces. Answer Ceria and meet us at Tyrant’s Rest, pronto.

He got all of that when he woke up. He assumed she’d been messaging him throughout the night. [Messages] didn’t have timestamps…at least not the ones he could cast.

He’d forgotten to answer them. Pisces sat up, and he’d been sleeping in another buried bivouac. This time, the sand hadn’t really gotten him, but he’d been safe.

…Mostly because of the undead around him. He was sore, his mana reserves were high, and he felt that mental strain from casting repeatedly—but despite it all, he got up almost trembling with energy.

Nerves, too.

He sent Ceria nothing at first. Pisces was thinking. He hadn’t been clever enough…but it was before dawn, and he was fresher after last night. He’d seen the [Slaves] off in the evening, used some of the zombies to slow down the garrison, and then taken the rest of the undead as far away from the roads as he could.

He’d gotten maybe eight hours of sleep since he’d actually gone to bed early—now he estimated it might be 3 AM. A good time. He got to work fast.

The Skeleton Champions stripped his meager camp as he chewed on some food he’d taken from the dead [Slaver] caravans. Pisces wrote fast on a scroll, then adjusted the spell and handed it to a Ghoul. He concentrated and took firm mental control of it. Then sent it sprinting westwards.

He took quick stock of the rest of the undead as he consulted a map. Pisces had trouble orienting himself in the darkness, but that was what the [Compass] cantrip was for; it pointed you at Wistram, at least, the version he’d learned. Wistram wasn’t north, but with the map that Lareceina had been given, he could orient. So he was going north…he wished he’d tossed down more mice on the roads in prep for today.

Or that he could animate flying creatures. How the hell did you make flying undead? If Pisces killed a bird, he doubted he’d get one flying properly, even if it was left in pristine condition. He had done Face-Eater Moths, but birds were totally different. Skeletons and muscle. He had no practice was the point.

“Another flaw in my studies.”

He was on the skeleton horse’s back and riding fast with the undead running after him within eight minutes of waking. Travel took a long damn time even with the skeleton horse. He had none to waste.

——

Pisces winged a myna bird after six misses and reanimated it, trying to figure out how to get it to fly. It actually managed a few flaps before it crashed and he had to get another.

He felt bad about that. Flying was very hard. But the nature of zombies meant that birds could fly just like zombies could run; you had the body’s natural muscle memory to draw on. It was then only a matter of giving the bird enough mana and direct control to keep it ‘active’.

Otherwise, it’d just crash. Pisces sent it flying up and lost track of it almost at once.

Keeping a mana-link in the skies was also a lot harder than on the ground. Pisces had once commanded a single bug at range, but that had been with his full focus, and it hadn’t gone nearly as quickly.

The fast-moving bird needed something…he didn’t know what until he read some of the books that Az’kerash had given him.

The answer turned out to be a simple rune you drew in the flesh that acted as a marker for your magic. A dagger would do, and he could trace it under the feathers, then send the bird up.

Scout acquired. Pisces killed two more birds, mainly by having the undead bird chase other flocks of birds up for him to shoot [Deathbolts] at. Other birds reacted to the undead ones like most animals: they either fought or ran, spooked. Mind you, they couldn’t tell another bird was a zombie until they got close…

That left three birds to work on. Two of which Pisces managed to animate to the level of Ghouls. This trick wasn’t even new.

“[Invigorate Corpse].”

That was a spell from when he’d been back in Ailendamus. Pisces hadn’t used it then since Feren had been making Ghouls. Back then, he’d had to cast it with six others to reliably get one. Today?

His first Ghoul-bird couldn’t withstand the death mana he pumped into it and exploded. After he’d wiped the bits off him, he did it more carefully.

A Ghoul myna bird was not a deadly creature, but it flew fast. Very fast. He used one to scout ahead of him. The other one he sent west, after the Ghoul.

This allowed Pisces to expedite the Ghoul-trick. He had it hand off the scroll to the Myna bird, then pulled the death mana from it, killing the regular Ghoul. It was a waste of undead, but it would have gone rogue or attracted attention otherwise.

Pisces had less undead to work with than he wanted. He’d lost almost all the original zombies, but replenished their ranks with about seventy-some zombies and a few Ghouls. No more skeletons; he hadn’t had time to process the bones.

He’d lost nearly a third of the corpses due to a phenomenon he was starting to realize was unique to Chandrar: Stitch-folk didn’t become corpses in the same way.

Oh, they turned into regular dead bodies when they died. They’d rise, dead flesh and stitching rotting—assuming you hadn’t hacked a limb off, in which case it would be cloth.

But there was the problem. If they lost a limb, it was cloth when you animated them. And when a zombie Stitch-person died, something odd happened.

They turned to cloth entirely. So unlike, say, a Human corpse, which you could animate, let ‘die’, then recycle by adding more death magic to it—unless it was completely destroyed—Stitch-folk would turn into shredded and tattered cloth.

…And bits of faintly glowing string.

Lifethread. Pisces had seen the other Stitch-folk [Slaves] blanching when he’d observed the phenomenon, and he didn’t have any idea what to do with the dust or Lifethread. But it meant that his undead force was far less renewable. Smaller, too.

Again, he had no solution here. Just observations. The undead bird was a win enough for the morning.

After three hours of riding, dawn was already breaking, but Pisces felt it was time. He had the distant Ghoul myna bird land, then, with great effort, pull the string he’d attached to the scroll. It finally got the damn thing open, and the [Message] scroll activated.

He did have a few of them, from before he’d known how to cast the spell. Even after, he’d hung onto them in case he was in a situation where he didn’t have the mana to waste. Always be prepared.

“Thank you for buying these, Ksmvr.”

It sent the [Message] spell far, far west from where Pisces actually was, and he saw it enter his conversation on the scroll.

Ceria: Just assuming you’re kidnapped still.

Pisces, Lost: What caravan? I’m in Sha-shoba, the City of Spiced Delicacies? The carriage dropped me off somewhere entirely different. I fear it may have been someone else’s. A Merchant Hoben’s? I have been trying to secure transport to Tyrant’s Rest, but my money pouch was pickpocketed, and I was chasing down the perpetrator to regrettable results. And I believe I was taken to be an imposter at the Merchant’s Guild? Highly unfortunate, and securing these dratted carriages is proving to be a conundrum.

A pause, and Pisces waited. He didn’t know quite how [Message] spells worked, but he had a good understanding that you could backtrace most of them if you were good at magic.

He wasn’t, but he had anti-scrying and anti-location wards on him. So the only way to tell where he was would be via backtracking where a [Message] spell was sent from.

His thought was that if he had calculated correctly, it would look like he was around that very city. Or at least, in the general region.

Flimsy as cover-stories went, but…after a second, Pisces received another [Message] spell.

Ceria: Hah, classic Pisces. Get your butt over here, pronto. I’ll tell Yisame. And bring some spices!

She probably didn’t believe him. But that would do.

He rode.

——

What Pisces didn’t know was that by the end of the first day, the other caravans were well aware…something was going on.

He had guessed, of course. The Slaver’s Guild of Chandrar was directly funded and organized through Lailight Scintillation. Roshal.

It was one of, if not the, most effective organizations in the world. Emir Yazdil’s talent could be said to be reflected here; he had ensured the caravans ran smoothly and reformed them from more lax standards in generations past. The other Slave Lords had made numerous changes to Roshal; in this, they had ceded to him.

For instance, the Slaver’s Guild had a number of departments devoted to various crises. Such as the Kidnapping and Ransoms department. Small, but nearly twenty members of the Guild were on-call to just…answer kidnappings of their membership.

Often, a lot of it was inter-Guild politics, but there were always thugs, bandits, and so on. They didn’t guarantee a member was freed unless they were in good standing. Business was business. But if someone actually answered the ransom note, did some negotiating, or even said, ‘we can’t pay that’, the odds of survival went up by at least 30%.

In the same vein, a substantially larger wing of the Guild was Caravan Crisis—a catchall term for obstacles or attacks on caravans. It monitored the Leashed Trails across all of Chandrar and issued alerts for weather, monster attacks, war, and so on.

It was so vast and important that it had regional headquarters, which in turn coordinated with nations, petitioning them to send out their law enforcement or hire adventurers—if needed, the Slaver’s Guild would do it themselves, but they preferred not to waste coin.

‘Never do what someone else can do for you’ was one of the quotes written in a faded gold plaque above the main headquarters’ doors. Naturally, the operators had [Slaves] for menial tasks, but this was a rare job that required freefolk workers exclusively.

Freeman Chilt was a [Remote Operator], Level 23, in charge of the day-crew for his sub-region in the South Eastern Leashed Trails division of the Caravan Crisis headquarters. One of over a thousand such employees.

It was not a prestigious job, though it paid decently. He had dreams of promotion to Lailight Scintillation, not having to live in the small headquarters in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. He enjoyed the two office [Slaves], but resented not having his own. He was a man with plenty of complaints about life, who would consider himself a normal man, like a Drake or Gnoll or anyone else around the world.

Until yesterday, he had never had a crisis too large for his job. Yes, the caravans had trouble all the time. [Slave Masters] were arrogant, touchy, and loved to send [Messages] to complain about things the Guild didn’t have to help them with.

Other [Slave Masters] stealing their earmarked [Slaves]—a matter for another department. Getting in trouble for collaring someone with the Watch? Another department.

The cheap speaking stones and [Message] spells from Wistram just made it worse. Now he was deluged with trivial complaints, and they had an entire person whose job it was to just respond nicely to the pampered idiots. However, Chilt’s job was to monitor the roads, and it had not been hugely stressful.

Sometimes, there were monsters. Sometimes, there were bandits. He’d had entire caravans wiped out from monster attacks. One time, Sand Worms had eaten a caravan of over two thousand.

Tragic, and he’d had to scramble alerts across the entire region. A Named-rank team had been called to hunt them down, but this did not distress Chilt. It was onerous at times, yes, but…he was still sitting in a padded chair as a [Slave] handed him drinks. At worst, he was reporting to a supervisor and sweating before he took out his frustrations on one of the [Slaves]. If the idiots on the Leashed Trails died, well, it looked bad if he hadn’t done his job, but that was their life. All risk, all reward, eh?

Today was different. Today, Chilt hadn’t slept. Grime from greasy food had left a patina across his unshaven face. His eyes were sleep-deprived and wanted to close, but the stamina potion mixed into his tea had given him the runs and nervous energy.

“Hello? Hello to Honored Slave Master Kitre? This is Operator Chilt of the Guild. Caravan Crisis—checking in.”

He was rasping into a speaking stone as an upset woman snapped back.

“Blessed sands, I have been on hold for twenty minutes! You incompetents, what is going on? And it is Slave Mistress, fool!”

He bit back a short reply; he’d done this for the last four hours.

“Standby, Slave Mistress. We pray your indulgence in this most-stressful of times. Please report your caravan’s condition and any notable incidents on the road—”

“Standby? You have had us standing by all night and into the dawn! If there is a monster, say so! But I have had to halt while—”

He didn’t have time for this. There were four other caravans in the area near the city marked in red on a map, and more would be headed along the road. That was caravans, mind you. There were other interests of Roshal that weren’t even part of this list, and Chilt snapped.

“Slave Mistress, we have declared an all-halt to caravans until we know the fate of two that have vanished, all presumed dead! The Blessed Chains and The Speedy Servant have both vanished close to the city of Halqued! We presume monster attacks or—or a creation of the Mad Ones or something else!”

One caravan was bad enough, but both had been decently large, and neither one had sent out a distress call. There had been no survivors. This was not in itself odd.

The scary part was that there had been no bodies. Halqued was not exactly filled with ultra-efficient members of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. When the Guild had finally cajoled the local garrison to check, they’d found the wagons only after hours of searching. The first caravan not reaching the city had been enough for Chilt to issue one of these warnings to others in the area.

He hadn’t thought much of it other than being annoyed at the delay of The Blessed Chains and expecting the Slave Mistress in charge to give him an explanation in an hour and having to do paperwork.

Then the second caravan, The Speedy Servant, had gone missing. Undead had been spotted near them, but not enough to…

The Guild’s internal systems had ways to deal with unexpected events like these. In this situation, Chilt had to call an all-halt to every caravan on the road headed into a dangerous region and find out what was going on.

The problem was…the local garrison had found nothing. No bodies, again. No wagons. They had been delayed hacking up some zombies, and when they’d gotten there, they’d discovered nothing.

Well, there had been [Slaves], but those didn’t count. The useless things had all given mixed accounts of what had happened, so Chilt had tossed those out as contradictory—unreliable. Given how many had run off, they were probably lying to protect any runaway [Slaves], but it meant that until one was interrogated properly, he wasn’t allowed to use their testimony.

And Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s stupid [Soldiers] had just claimed them as their property! The Guild was having an advocate deal with that, but it might be days of negotiating for them. What it meant was that there were two caravans, both wiped out in short periods of time with no reliable witnesses.

Nor had Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s garrison thought to bring [Trackers]; it had been lazy Hemp [Soldiers] searching for a fight and nothing else. The flaw in relying on local governance. So the Slaver’s Guild had Chilt arranging for adventurers to cover the shortfall…

Hence him being up; it was his head on the line if he didn’t figure out what was going on. Chilt snarled as the [Slave Mistress] gave him a lashing with her tongue. He thrust out a cup at a frightened [Slave], who took it and rushed off. The lazy idiots got rotated through his headquarters, and they were never high-level or attractive…

“Slave Mistress, Slave Mistress, I have other caravans to check on! Please report your status.”

He took some satisfaction in cutting her off. Chilt stared at the board as a weary co-worker tacked something onto it. It was scrawled notes in messy ink as the team put down conclusions.

Caravans missing. Undead attack?

No confirmed hordes. Horde spotted? Possibility of rogue [Necromancer].

Bane? Confirmed to be heading for Tyrant’s Rest. Idiot.

Theories: Sandworms, [Rebels], [Bandits]—Merr the Storm in region? Mad Ones?

Slave Mistress Kitre was a Fox Beastwoman, a rarity in Chandrar. Chilt was lowly compared to her, but he took his revenge as he pleased. Mostly by finding a glamorous headshot of her and unlacing his trousers to touch himself while he worked.

A female co-worker at another desk gave him a disgusted look he ignored. Certain standards in the Guild were made lax because of who they were.

The woman’s voice was waspish as Chilt closed his eyes, imagining putting a collar on her.

“As requested by the Guild, I have halted my caravan. We are dug in along the road; I have selected a small hill and formed a barricade here. We have sentries watching for miles. No hazards detected save for road traffic.”

He had a list of things she was supposed to do and sighed.

“Fortifications? The Guild recommends—”

“Do not talk to me about my job, little man. I have, with my [Slave Mages], deployed [Sand Wall] spells. My wagons are ready to roll if an attack comes. I have posted expendable [Guards] on watch duty, and I am armed with no less than fifty snap-fire crossbows. My wagons have enchanted hulls with Tier 3 [Incendiary Burst] spells.”

That was better than most caravans her size. Chilt had to admit, most caravans wouldn’t have fortified nearly that well. Much less had enchanted wagons.

“If you encounter trouble, Slave Mistress—”

“If I encounter trouble, I will hit them with magic and leave. I can outrun most threats, but I demand to know what is out there! Give me your name, you lazy scut!”

She was really making it hard for him to attain climax. Chilt glared as he bit off a reply.

“Potentially undead, Slave Mistress. I am Operator Chilt, and I am dutifully serving as best I may. If you have complaints—”

“What kind of undead? How many?”

“Standby, Slave Mistress. I shall contact you in a few minutes—”

“You little—”

He hung up on her and knew he might pay for that. But Chilt was angry and stressed. Something was out there, and no one had answers. He peered around to find a [Slave] to finish the job his hand wasn’t doing, but the one with his tea had vanished.

So he dialed another [Slave Master] up and had a variant of the same conversation. This time, the nervous man had a theory.

“Is it…the Bane? Have there been attacks? I’d know if there were, but I heard he was in the city.”

Chilt glanced at the map again and tried to be soothing, though his erection was really bothering him since this fellow was not doing it for him.

“Sir, the Bane has already left! And such things are usually loud and noticeable, are they not? Standby, and I will contact you—”

He was noting this all down on a piece of paper that was going to his superiors. The regional office had noted the two caravans likely missing, and so Manager Labrito was demanding results. He was not a fun man to report to, and Chilt was worried about that.

He was almost done with the report and hoping he could clock out to let someone, anyone, deal with this until he realized he hadn’t gotten a vital piece of information from Slave Mistress Kitre. It was an empty box noting ‘outstanding grudges’ you had to get information on.

They cast [Detect Truth] on every report he filed, so if he left it blank, Labrito would kill him. Chilt fondled himself as he waited for her to pick up and lambast him again. At least he could…

“Slave Mistress Kitre? Hello? This is—hello?”

He tried three times, growing more and more frustrated each time. It had barely been eleven minutes and the damned woman was ignoring him? He hesitated, then hit a specific command spell that force-activated her speaking stone from the Guild.

He wasn’t supposed to do it except in emergencies, but he loved the power over the [Slave Masters] who in turn did not like having a window into their private affairs. Chilt spoke briskly.

“Apologies, Slave Mistress, but I—”

Then he heard something that made his annoyance, his sleep-deprived state all vanish from his mind. It was…a wet sound.

A gurgling gasp. Scuffling. A cry—and then the thump of something. Wet. That was the only word for it. Chilt spoke.

“Hello? Slave M—”

Gasping. Quiet, terrified gasping. Someone breathing in and out, then—

“Quiet.”

Her voice. He hesitated. His co-worker looked up from her desk, and Chilt realized something was off.

“Slave Mistress, wh—”

“They’re invisible. They’re—”

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. Then there were other sounds. Someone choking. A scream filled the air, and Chilt dropped the speaking stone. It clattered on his desk, and he heard, then, another voice.

“Help me! Help me! H—”

“No! Not—”

The sounds cut off, but not before an agonized scream filled the air, and then there was a ripping sound. The crack of—

Chilt had once seen a man break bones when a piece of masonry on a house landed on him. That horrific sound was echoed here. Then—more gouging sounds. The snap of a crossbow firing. Then silence.

He didn’t say a word as he finally picked up the speaking stone. Chilt heard heavy breathing. Then there was the sound of ripping fabric. A strange sound—a spell firing? A scream.

“You! Y—”

Then nothing. Chilt whispered.

“Slave Mistress…?”

His penis was a limp thing. He sat there, shivering, and heard…footsteps. Then, perhaps, breathing. Chilt whispered.

“Is someone there?”

Abruptly, the speaking stone went dead. He recoiled at the blip of sound that marked the spell being cut. Chilt’s back bounced into his chair, and he was shivering. Gooseflesh rising across his body.

The office had gone dead quiet. Eventually, Chilt’s co-worker spoke.

“That was Kitre’s Kinfolk. The location…where was the location, Chilt?”

He was fumbling with cold fingers. Trying to find where she had reported. Now, that information was vital. Chilt had to warn the other caravans. Protocol was to keep them stationary. But if an attack was coming at them—

He forgot what the manual said. Suddenly, he needed it. He had to tell his manager. He—

Chilt began to fumble for all these things at once as the spell broke and the office lurched into motion. Operators picked up speaking stones and began to speak urgently. Chilt himself had a glowing scrying orb thrust at him by the [Slave].

“Manager Labrito. Lace up your pants, fool.”

One of his co-workers hissed at him. Chilt stumbled into a side-room to explain. Then he almost ran back to his desk. But he didn’t have answers. Just…

That was the third caravan. When the fourth one went dead, they knew. Then, Chilt was being told to re-direct all calls to the regional office. That Manager Labrito and a team of specialists were headed in to see their work via flying carpet.

And when the fifth one vanished—

Then, Chilt was shivering like a man with a cold.

——

The third caravan was waiting for him. So Pisces once again changed tactics. It seemed too alert, but it was the smallest yet, so he did the most expeditious thing he could: he cast [Invisibility] on the Skeleton Champions and sent them in.

[Invisibility] was a tough spell. It had always been known as a tough spell, even for Tier 4. Plenty of [Mages] never learned it because it had so much nuance to it.

For instance, you had to concentrate a bit to keep it up. Getting hit almost always knocked it out of you. Dust or clouds revealed you, and plenty of [Mages] could only keep invisible until they touched something.

Pisces could do four Skeleton Champions plus himself, and the four would lose it the moment they attacked. Not exactly ideal. If he’d had [Darkness Cloud] or the ability to raise a sandstorm he could have used that.

But what he did have was a unique trick. [Drain Death Mana] and a horde of undead. So, Pisces did this.

He and the Skeleton Champions moved past the [Slavers]’ defenses. They got close as they could to a group of the [Guards], then Pisces cast two spells.

[Muffle] and [Lesser Illusion]. He fixed an image of the camp in place and attacked with the Skeleton Champions. Then, once the fighting was done, recast the spell and advanced.

The trick was he was draining zombies of their mana to fuel this much spellcasting. It was hard. His head hurt, and he got a nosebleed the fourth time he did it. But it worked.

By the time they advanced past the walls, the [Guards] knew they were under attack. This is where it got—harder.

Unlike the other two caravans, this one knew something had been out there. They’d lacked for anti-invisibility spells, but they came out of their defenses and fought—hard.

The first Skeleton Champion went down as a [Power Strike] smashed a skull in. Another exploded, silently, as a Potion of Blast detonated. It overloaded the [Muffle] spell, but the only sound was a brief ‘clap’ as loud as someone smacking their hands together.

Then—silence. By the time other [Guards] were turning, two more Skeleton Champions were moving up, and the onslaught continued.

Pisces had to fight with the Skeleton Champions. He was higher-level, a Silver-bell [Duelist] with his Ring of Shatterbolt versus low-level [Guards] during a surprise attack. They still tagged him.

A blade slashing across his chest. An arrow striking him in the back—twice, the [Necromancer] staggered, then, to the horror of the [Slavers], turned and ran his attacker through. Stalker’s armor. That broke what nerve they had left. They had already been speaking his title like a curse, trying to run.

Three minutes of fighting did not go unnoticed, despite the muffling spells. The magic-users detected the foreign magic, but by that point…

It was too late; Skeleton Champions were marching between the wagons along with the rest of the undead who’d walked past the undefended walls. Then the caravan was trapped.

The [Slavers] had the horses hitched up, ready to go, but the Skeleton Champions had been smashing the wagon tongues, setting them free, and any time a [Slaver] appeared, they had died in seconds.

The [Slavers] had been trying to hide, thinking it was ‘just’ invisible monsters.

Hoping, perhaps, they’d be ignored or the undead would kill the [Slaves] and they could get away. Pisces had gone after the [Slave Master] when he’d heard the speaking stone, worried she’d report…

Well, he didn’t know. He stood in the wagons and told the [Slaves] the same thing. Left before they could argue long because he still had nothing for them. At least this group could take the wagons after re-tying the leads and just…drive.

He’d taken a few items from the Fox Beastkin’s carriage. Pisces stared down at the dead woman and remembered Zirre, Yvlon’s friend, and Etrikah. Strange to see a Fox Beastkin wearing Roshal’s seal on her clothing.

It corrupted everything. He ignored her gold and artifacts and picked up two things from her personal, neat wagon. A healing potion. She’d had two of the now-precious vials; he left the other for them.

The second was a map.

——

[Slavers] kept tabs on each other as well as on business. The map that Lareceina had gotten for Pisces was rapidly growing out of date as the caravans moved. Only them stopping had kept them even in roughly the same location. Without the myna bird’s eyes from above, Pisces wouldn’t have even found them.

The map helped a lot. This [Slave Mistress] had been very punctilious and clearly had spent a lot on her caravan. The map was another sign of her attitude; it was magical, and the ink reflected, in real-time, weather like rain or sandstorms. Some was blowing across the western cities, but the real value of this map was that it seemed to be synced up to the Slaver’s Guild.

As in, when Pisces stared down at it, he saw, very clearly, another caravan that was a bit south from where Lareceina’s map indicated they might be. And, in fact, the woman’s own caravan was marked here; only, someone had drawn a huge red haze across this entire region and marked it as ‘Potential Danger’.

So the Guild was aware her caravan had been hit and was letting the other caravans know. They, in turn, were reporting their positions to the Guild. The flaw being that the Guild was handily updating the other [Slavers] on where everyone was.

Very useful. Pisces suspected no one had used this potential loophole in the Slaver’s Guild’s systems for a while. He started riding.

——

The fourth caravan had lots of camels. It seemed to have come from the north. It had war prisoners from Reim, no less. The King of Destruction’s fighting…the [Slavers] were the best fighters yet.

They were dicing up the zombies and calling alarms as they watched the Ghouls and Skeleton Champions closing in. Their nerves were frayed already, though; they knew they were in jeopardy, but they were—prepared.

One of them beheaded a Ghoul trying to sneak up on the back lines. Anti-invisibility spells. And they had [Slaves] being forced to fight in front of their masters…the undead had to hold still as they were run through. All the while, the shouting caravan kept trying to break free, ride on through the undead.

They’d known he was coming. Pisces was chasing down riders who broke away from the fighting, fleeing into the distance. He had to let them go and focus on the [Slaves]. The entire caravan was pushing at the zombies, and he saw they were almost out—

Then the Bone Horror ran into their camp on eight horse legs, the three-headed monstrosity braying as it reached down and began to slash with bone claws at everything it saw. It trampled three of them, refused to die when they blasted it with magic and enchanted arrows, and bit an [Archer]’s head off.

The camels had been willing to kick and bite the undead, but the sight of the Bone Horror made them fall into a terrified retreat, trying to flee rather than run forwards. The [Slavers] turned with cries of horror, attacking the huge monstrosity galloping through their lines. They were so focused on that they didn’t see Pisces amidst them until he’d killed eleven of them.

Then their nerve broke. Not just because Pisces attacked them with the new Bone Horror he’d made; he’d found a bunch of bones belonging to a pack of Needlehounds and used them for this.

No, this was the first time the [Slaves] fought too. Several [Soldiers] had grabbed one of the [Slavers] who’d run into them and killed the guard, then unshackled themselves. He’d nearly killed them when he’d seen them—

“We will take these folks back to Reim, Necromancer. The way is long, but we’ll strip this lot for armor. Rest assured, the King of Destruction will remember this.”

This was the easiest of meetings. A scarred [Lieutenant] had saluted Pisces, one-eyed, a grinning Dullahan. The [Necromancer] hadn’t asked how she’d joined Flos Reimarch’s war, only nodded.

“If you’d keep it secret, I would be obliged. As for your passage, I regret I cannot help. I owe His Majesty a debt.”

The Reim [Soldiers] were arming themselves rapidly, organizing the other [Slaves]. Some, Pisces realized, weren’t even from Reim. Half were Nerrhavia Fallen’s own [Soldiers], but they were…Hemp. The [Lieutenant] glanced back at them.

“Is that so? Then you’ve paid some of it. Here I thought your team was all at odds with ours. Rest assured if we make it, we’ll tell the story of it to the King of Destruction. And the Rustängmarder.”

They knew of how the Horns had left the King of Destruction’s camp. Pisces just nodded. This caravan hadn’t reported their attack yet. But—

“Slave Master Clomb checking in. Are you here?”

The speaking stone rattled on a dead man’s corpse, and Pisces cursed. But the [Lieutenant] nodded sideways, and one of Reim’s soldiers swept it up.

“This is Head Guard Jecks. The Slave Master, he is resting, yes? I shall report—”

He spoke as Pisces breathed out. That was good. The [Lieutenant] grinned.

“That may serve. We’ll lead them astray as long as we might, though we’ll toss that when they’re onto us. We ride, then. And I shall speak less harshly of Trey Atwood, eh? Perhaps I’ll join his camp if I survive.”

She offered a scarred forearm to clasp, and Pisces hesitated.

“The soldiers of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. What will you do with them?”

He was worried that when he turned his back, there would be a bloodbath, but the woman just glanced over her shoulder.

“We’ll offer them a chance to join us in Reim. It’s been done many a time the last war we fought with Nerrhavia’s Fallen. They know their kingdom’s left them. Some might risk returning home or hiding. No blood while we’re all fugitives, I swear that on Drevish’s honor.”

She clasped a fist to her chest, and Pisces believed her, because he’d cast [Detect Truth]. So he nodded.

Rode.

——

He hit three more caravans on the second day before they realized he was using the map against them. They’d been oh, so clever.

Each one had been moving erratically, going off-road; he’d have never found them without the map. Even the Myna bird had missed one under a [Mass Camouflage] spell of some kind.

They had to know it was him. They’d been checking for [Invisibility] spells, pushing their animals to the brink to get to the city or just away…then he hit them with everything he had.

It didn’t get—easier. Despite the growing horde of undead, he kept running into problems.

——

Adventuring team. Bronze-ranks? Silver? He wasn’t sure, but they’d engaged the Skeleton Champions and been fighting equally until he hit two of them with [Deathbolts]. The team of six had fled, and he wasn’t sure if he’d killed…

——

Had there been an [Assassin] in the next caravan? He wasn’t sure. Something had shot the young man wearing white robes in the neck with a dart. Right before the hail of arrows hit Pisces, fifty-six shots. The young man had fallen over, and they’d cheered…

Right up until they realized the white robes were just that; white robes, unenchanted. And the ‘young man’ was a dead zombie staring skywards.

Then he’d fought. Pisces had never run into the figure who’d shot the dart. He was drinking a second healing potion, ordering the undead to search for more. His underarmor covered his vital parts, chest to waist, but it wasn’t complete. Little scratches bled him. A glancing blow, shrapnel from one of the wagons which had exploded as the undead came near…

Traps.

He didn’t know if there were [Slaves] amidst the dead. He raised all he could and moved on as the ones he’d freed fled.

——

Someone must have figured out Pisces’ map-trick after the third caravan, because all the icons of the other caravans vanished.

That was okay; Pisces had two more birds in the air, and he’d marked the positions of the other caravans on his maps already and had tagged one from the air. There weren’t that many…around. At least of size.

Which was good. He needed a break.

He was failing the [Slaves]. Not that he’d helped them but this time he saw one wagon escape him. Screaming people inside as a pair of [Slavers] fired frantically from the rear. They tore a Ghoul clinging to the side off and it got away. He would have stopped them but he’d been getting sloppy. He needed to rest a second.

Pisces sat there, staring down at the spear in his leg. It hurt quite a lot, but he was drinking from the healing potion. Forcing the tip out of his bones as he pulled at it. Skeleton Champions were hacking up the [Javelineer] who’d tossed it at him.

“It’s the Scourge! The Sc—”

A screaming man was holding a speaking stone up. The [Caravan Master]? Pisces flicked his wrist. Missed the [Shatterbolt].

The screaming man ran three steps, and a Ghoul tackled him. Good enough. Pisces took a sip of healing potion.

Heaved on the spear and told the Skeleton Champions to get it out of h—

Woke up when one of the [Slaves] poured the rest of the healing potion on him. Pisces stared at the bloody piece of metal. Tried to get up.

“We have to go. They’re coming. Run…”

——

—Woke up on a sled. The skeleton horse was trotting and kicking sand in his face, but it was pulling an improvised sled. Had he made it? The [Slaves]?

Not sure where…he saw a Skeleton Champion staring down at him. For a second, Pisces wondered if he’d lost control of his mana. Then he saw something gleaming along its face. A patch of ivory unlike the rest.

It gleamed under the moonlight. Beautiful, pale.

Stellar Ivory. He gazed up at it and then slept.

[Necromancer of Reclaimed Grandeur Level 45!]

[Skill – Advanced Undead Shaping Obtained!]

[Spell – Mend Undead Obtained!]

——

Pisces dreamed oddly in his sleep.

He dreamed of…

Ivery.

He was the Skeleton Champion. For a second, he was Bearbones, the two-headed warbear, ‘sleeping’ next to a bunch of oddly-sanguine animals, camels and horses, even a zorse. And Ivery, sitting cross-legged in a tent as people spoke around him.

Both. And a bunch of undead marching around a sleeping [Necromancer] glowing with undeath. Pisces was split between all these perspectives…

He was even in a bar with wiggling slime-breasts, serving drinks to—

…

His mind fuzzed, and the Skeleton Lord’s viewpoint snapped him into Ivery’s eyes. Then he was Ivery.

Bones scarred from combat. A bit stronger than before? Yes. It was his animating spell. He was quicker, more adept, but most importantly, his bones were stronger.

Different bones than the poor [Slavers]. Better bones. See here, this had been one of the [Slavetaker Champions]. And this was a bone from a dead [Slave Master] who’d nearly killed Bearig with a sword—

One bone per corpse. Lessons learned. Ivery knew this, of course. It was Pisces’ mind which absorbed it all.

Stronger, faster, better with a blade—but not as good as some. Frustration. The Skeleton Lord was frustrated. Too many Djinni. Too weak. It had eaten a [Lightning Bolt] the other day, and true, no one had died but…

“Good job, Ivery.”

The words echoed in its skull. The Skeleton Lord stopped picking at the sandy ground in the tent. Smiled. It glanced up, with Pisces, as someone spoke.

“—has to be him. No one else could do it, eh?”

“Why now? He’s too far inland to get there. We’ll never make it.”

“Someone must try. If it is him, he’s fighting alone. So are we cowards?”

The voices were familiar. To Pisces. Ivery knew them all, of course. There was Nathpe, the [Rebel] that the Horns of Hammerad had helped when she led a raid on a caravan along the Ekhot Straits. She was fiercely arguing with the other leaders, who’d ridden through the night to be here.

Risky, risky. But everyone was aflutter with the news. They’d heard it through their own sources and Roshal’s Guild. She was remonstrating with a huge Human man, a solid bloke named Amprel, over six and a half feet tall. He didn’t run fast, but he didn’t get into trouble like she did.

“Not cowards but, I think, practical. Merr’s closer. If we go this far into Nerrhavia’s Fallen, we may never come out.”

“If it’s him—”

“Let’s ask Bearig.”

That came from Qshom, of course. The [Tailor of Freed Thread] was working on an arm; he always was. So every head turned, and a man heaved himself up. Pisces, dreaming, felt a shock.

Of course, he hadn’t seen how much weight the [Cook] had lost. Or how he’d rebuilt his arms for more muscle. They were still thick, but he had a warrior’s trim in more than just body. It was a confidence, both in tone and how he held himself.

“We ride. Ivery’s gazed that way nonstop.”

“Even in battle, eh? Maybe we’ll get him upgraded, at least. Then we’re with you, Bearig.”

Nathpe leapt up, but Bearig held up a hand.

“Not every group. We have to be fast. Qshom, you stay with Nathpe. Amprel, if you run interference…”

She began arguing as the other man nodded, relieved.

“This I can do.”

“I’m going with you. We’re all going. If only Eloque were here…”

Qshom stood, and Bearig began to argue, then nodded. They were all talking, then, and Ivery’s head was turning. He got up to pace around the camp. Guard duty in case a Djinni attacked—not that he could do much. He’d ‘died’ sixty-eight times, but they kept putting him together.

Weaker than he should be for a Skeleton Lord. If a certain [Necromancer] were doing upgrades, Ivery could use something better than a crummy piece of glass, eh?

At this point, Pisces realized the Skeleton Lord was talking to him. In a way. He was stirring and trying to ask.

Eloque? Merr was elsewhere, but what had happened to Eloque? He saw Ivery pass by a temporary tent, and his reflection caught in the light from a glass lantern. A skeleton with glowing blue flames for eyes.

A camp of [Rebels].

Bearig, stepping out to call for Ivery.

“Ivery, we need to know where—”

A little figure was by his side. Ivery strode over, and Rophir pointed up. The half-Elf boy looked broadly the same, but his skin was sun-tanned now, and he seemed different. His eyes more focused. He had a turban on his head and he spoke.

“He’s in his eyes.”

Bearig jerked and stared at Pisces, and the [Necromancer]—

—woke—

—up.

——

He was feverish when he woke up. Head spinning, clouded. Pisces lay there until a Skeleton Champion unhooked a water flask and gave it to him. He drank thirstily.

“Bearig? Where’s Eloque. Ivery…”

He’d known the Skeleton Lord was still around, but—Pisces had no idea you could do that. He was learning a lot.

He hoped he wasn’t infected by the spear wound. He lay there until he was well enough to rise and pass water. Then he sat and thought.

——

It had been a Skill from the [Javelineer] which had gotten Pisces on the fifth caravan attack. The Stitch-woman had played dead.

Foolish of himself to go in like that, but the undead had needed backup. Pisces needed more bones. But the Stitch-folk attrition rate meant he was barely growing the horde.

…Well. It’d do. The Bone Horror and Skeleton Champions were the first beneficiaries of Pisces’ [Mend Undead] spell. He could fuse bones and fix them, but this was like a [Repair] spell. Far more convenient.

Pisces wished he’d gotten a new undead or attack spell, but life was not so convenient. If he’d been able to animate that Bone Behemoth…

No. Too big. Same with Crypt Lords if he could make them; too slow, and they thought.

He had a mix of zombies, over two hundred; Skeleton Champions, thirteen; a Bone Horror; and about twenty Ghouls. More than enough to wipe out an average caravan alone. And Pisces’ scouts told him the other caravans were going evasive. The one he’d tagged was deep offroad and trying to bury themselves under tarps in the sand.

Very clever, actually. They’d decided to hide rather than go for the city. There were, what, two more in the area he could hit? That he knew of. This one would have been all-but-invisible to Pisces.

Since he knew it was there, Pisces had a thought. He was immobilized while he healed. It was dark, and he was exhausted.

He glanced up, and a Skeleton Champion winked a yellow eyeflame at him.

We do overtime, boss.

Pisces was probably still a bit sick because he imagined the Skeleton Champion talking like Colth. Either way, it was a good idea. The Skeleton Champions took point and led the Ghouls and Zombies into the night, followed by the galloping Bone Horror. Pisces drifted off and dreamed of undead falling upon screaming [Slavers].

No, wait, that wasn’t a dream.

——

Attrition was decently high for the undead during the night battle, but they actually animated the rest of the corpses as zombies and came back. More importantly, Pisces had realized two things as he slept.

One: the Skeleton Champions were generating Stellar Ivory, that resource he still lacked much of. He had not yet made anything permanent out of it…

Two: a period of two full moons was approaching. The [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] could be cast, and at last, Pisces was close enough to bind something to Ivery again.

He’d slept on both things, especially Ivery. But the thought of the Skeleton Lord made Pisces resolve to do the ritual.

Anything’s better than a glass rock. He seems far more powerful, but I could potentially just remake him entirely. That…made Pisces feel guilty, but Ivery was like a hodgepodge of bones. If Pisces used the Manticore bones, he could make a Manticore Skeleton Lord.

Imagine one of those coming at you. With a bound [Fireball] in the mouth? Az’kerash had said that the ritual allowed for any spell Pisces knew—though the Skeleton Lord would need to use its personal mana reserves if Pisces didn’t help.

Bound [Fireball] at will?

No, no, bound [Invisibility] at will. Invisible Manticore Skeleton Lord.

He put that one in as ‘acceptable’. Pisces was more worried in the interim about the Stellar Ivory thing.

He was aware the Skeleton Champions were developing a bit of a personality. A bit of autonomy. Any undead of sufficient power could think; even Ghouls were a bit tactical. The Skeleton Champions might not be full leadership types, but he had to watch them. Make sure they didn’t think he would be better as a Skeleton Lich or go rogue.

The Stellar Ivory was a powerful piece of necromantic material. Would they want to hang onto it? He still didn’t fully know what it did aside from knowing it could partially-animate an undead even without a complete frame and was stronger and could generate mana…

As it turned out, the issue was a moot one. When the Skeleton Champions came tromping back, blades freshly blooded, they had a surprise for Pisces. He stared at the roughly femur-sized pile of bone scraps, each one pale and starlight bright.

The Stellar Ivory. They’d pulled it out of their bodies! Pisces saw a replacement finger on the Skeleton Champion with the bow, a missing piece from one’s head, a chunk carved out of another’s forearms—

“For me? Why?”

He croaked at them. For answer, the Skeleton Champions knelt while the one holding the bones presented it to Pisces like a [Knight] offering a great item to a [King]. It had that same feel.

Perhaps it was their growing autonomy. Or his lesson in seeing through Ivery’s eyes. But Pisces felt it, this time. A sense from the undead.

They weren’t able to think, let alone in concrete terms like Ivery. They were dimmer in intelligence. But there was a…feeling from them. Even the Ghouls and zombies. They gazed at the Stellar Ivory, at Pisces, and recognized him.

Necromancer.

The glowing ivory was valuable. Each undead wanted it, like a flower craved good soil or sunlight. But they recognized Pisces was the creator of it. That he could make greater undead.

They had…

Great expectations of him.

He shivered and realized they had always been waiting for him to level.

——

Pisces never found the 7th caravan. He suspected, like the 6th, it had gone to ground because he had multiple undead birds in the sky, and they saw nothing like it.

That was okay. He spent all of the third day resting. He was a bit feverish, but he thought he hadn’t been infected or he’d have been dead with that healing potion; he was good enough to rise on the 4th day and do what had to be done.

——

The city of Halqued wasn’t noticeably different after a few days since the Horns of Hammerad had fought Itkisa at the Mad Ones’ encampment. Life was back to normal.

Oh, it had been crazy for a moment there. There had been scrying spells, people had been going to see and then being told they might be inside a Gold-rank adventurer fight—it had been exciting!

Everyone had hoped for a bunch of cameras to come through so they could be on Nerrhavia’s Wonders—alas, only the Mad Ones got interviewed. And, reminded of that, people had visited their encampment and bragged to relatives and friends they’d been close to this news story, but it really hadn’t been A Thing.

There had been that incident with the Bane afterwards, but it hadn’t been much to hear tales of it. The Bane of Roshal hates slavery, shocking, more at eleven.

Even in the days after the Horns had left, things were fine.

Oh, sure, there had been that weird undead attack on the road, but they’d been killed. And maybe some [Soldiers] kept heading out on patrol; well, good, they might as well do something around here!

On the third day, perhaps you could see some agitation around the local Slaver’s Guild. It was oddly quiet without a regular shipment of [Slaves]. Everyone there seemed grumpy, but you could walk the city and never come across the Guild or its members.

So the city truly was placid, with its usual corruption or scandals unique to it. Was [Mayor] Heresha truly still sleeping with eleven different suitors? Yes. Had Master Dromet really bought some object from the Mad Ones which was allowing him to out-carpenter every other competitor, and had he been murdered by his son for said object? Investigations were still ongoing.

People entered and exited the city, local towns feeding the ore markets always hungry for more. In fact, a band of fifty were on the roads transporting a rather huge haul of ore from one of said local towns.

Copper, the good stuff. Every metal was useful, and fifty huge loads of copper in massive baskets as big as the carriers were headed towards the gates.

Ore was hard to transport because Bags and even Chests of Holding had hard limits to volume and weight. Even if it was only 40%, filling a Chest of Holding with copper ore was a good way to get an object impossible to move that would smash through any vehicle.

There were ways around the issue. Spells for lightening the weight, Djinni, or, and here was a Chandrarian method: [Slaves].

Fifty Hemp [Slaves] with [Laborer] classes was cheaper than other solutions. True, it wore down their bodies fast, but Hemp was cheap. It was just one of those things where Roshal had become part of the economy of Chandrar; they often sold [Slaves] cheap for first-time buyers because when you had one, you tended to get more.

They were in sight of the walls as a somewhat-harried Cotton Stitch-man with a whip chivvied the Hemps forwards. If he was impatient, well, it was damned hot, and the flies were biting. The Hemps ignored the whips on their backs as they plodded along, and pedestrians kept wide of the ore train.

One man even told the [Labormaster] off for flicking the whip a bit too close to his son; he might hurt someone! The [Labormaster] was hurling an expletive, telling the man to deal with Hemp for an hour and then he’d see, when someone walked out of the stream of people headed for the gates.

It was a figure to draw the eyes. Not because of his attire; he was wearing a wanderer’s clothing, dusky, sun-bleached fabric, mostly grey or brown, wrapped around his arms and legs. Cheap protection against sun, insect, and sand. If he smelled at all in this heat, it was of sweat and unwashed linen. His feet made no sound on the dry ground.

Nor did he speak as the babble of voices, the crack of that whip, filled the morning air. But what marked him and had faces turning, people stepping side and pointing covertly, was the mask.

It was a bone white mask that only had room for his eyes, which were between grey and green, perhaps with a hint of orange. They were wide, unblinking, and people took him at once to be an [Assassin].

Or an odd adventurer, a bounty hunter? Perhaps just someone hiding his face, a criminal, but not one you wished to be drawn into the proximity of. The [Guards] at the gates bestirred themselves as one marked the figure. More work. They hoped he was not some trouble…they began to argue who had to interrogate the fellow.

The [Labormaster] saw the stranger with the mask last. He was raising his whip for another blow when his head turned and he saw the figure. Instead of lifting the lash further, he lowered it, politely giving the person a wary nod.

“Watch the Hemp, stranger. They’ll hurt you if one should fall with all that weight.”

A conscientious man’s concern for a fellow traveller on the roads. The stranger with the mask said nothing, but he stopped on the road. Accordingly, the [Labormaster] did too. Then he saw the stranger had a sword. A long rapier, a thin blade with a strange coating to the sword’s edge halfway up. Or was it some odd…

He drew it. Every eye had already been focused on him, but now the people halted. The [Labormaster]’s mouth opened, and he half-glanced behind him, as if thinking…he raised the whip uncertainly, but it was no weapon to block a strike with.

“Sir, what is—”

The masked stranger’s blade went across the Stitch-man’s neck, and the head landed on the ground. It kept speaking, in that way only Stitch-folk could do, as his body crumpled.

“—going on? I’m just bringing…I’m…ah.”

He gazed up as blood spurted up from his corpse. It did not turn to cloth; too much of it had been connected to the Stitch-man’s body. It fell, and there was a scream. Someone covered her mouth. The father with his son backed away, fumbling for—

The masked stranger turned, and the Hemp-folk had frozen. They gazed at him, and he looked to them. To the walls. Then down at the head.

“You’re him.”

The [Labormaster] was dying. His eyes glazing over without blood or oxygen, but he gazed up, almost dreamily at the figure who shook blood off his blade. There was no response.

Then a call from the wall. A shout. The people didn’t panic or run—they were frozen for a man with a blade was among them. But he didn’t cut into the Hemp [Slave]. He just turned…and walked.

Down the road, away from the city of Halqued. A slow walk that stopped only once. At first, it was nonsensical to the travellers who flinched away from him, hoping to hear the Watch coming to their rescues. Then they saw the second figure he had stopped next to.

It was an older man. Human, the other common species wherever you went. He was far richer, dressed well, and less…well, one might never associate with his kind. Because he was taking a [Slave] for a walk.

Some beautiful Stitch-girl who had to crawl like an animal. Not far from the city since who could move like that? A [Master] taking a [Slave] for a walk, the kind of which…

Then it was like a little click ran through all’s minds, and they took in the mask. White as bone. And that rapier was the bigger clue. The old man trembled then.

“I—”

The second swing didn’t take his head off but halted against his spine. Even so, when the old man fell, he did not get up nor gasp for air. Dead.

The [Slave] on her hands and knees stared up at the figure as he halted. She whispered.

“My collar’s deathmarked if I run. If I—”

He didn’t pick up the fallen leash. The masked figure just bent down, and she flinched; blood was on his clothing and mask. Did he whisper something to her?

If so, no one heard it. Her eyes were round as he walked down the road. Then…the horns were sounding from the gates. There was shouting, and someone began running for Halqued. A scream—and people began to flood towards the gates, but they looked back.

That masked figure was on the roads. Walking away from the city mobilizing—slowly—too slowly—and there was suddenly that calm dread. Even excitement, however perverse.

He was walking down the road. Then the people asked the horrifying question—how many on this road might have one of them with them? Servant, company, labor?

[Slaves].

——

By morning, the babble of what had happened at the northern gates was the rage of the city. People were talking, speculating.

It had to be. But he had left! All had seen it! He had—

Someone should tell Wistram, surely. There had been horn calls all morning. A [Guard] had gone off-duty and was gossiping loudly with everyone else at the wells.

“We never found him. Not that it is a ‘he’ we know for certain, and the Watch Captain bid us all quiet—but we rode down the road, and there were but six dead for the span of three miles.”

“Six!”

“Less than you might think? Then the [Soldiers] took over, but you know the Hemp; slow to move, slow to march. Each deathblow was a single cut, but for one fellow who seemed to have tried to dodge; he was stabbed ere he lay.”

She was peering around, perhaps thinking to report this to a newspaper or the Mage’s Guild. The folk of Halqued were mostly excited, those who hadn’t seen the killings.

“Do you think I might get an autograph? It’s worth good gold, and I had not the chance earlier…”

An enterprising man spoke up, excited. Another licked his lips.

“You’d be a fool to ask. Hush a madman’s wishes or a Djinni will answer you with laughter. If it is so—”

“Bah, I’ve nothing to fear. I’m not rich enough to be a target!”

The autograph-wisher laughed, and there was agreement, an excitement in the air until there was, abruptly, a horncall again. Everyone turned, expecting it to be from the north, but it was not. It came…from the east.

Silence fell, and all turned to Guard Lortina, who fell silent, gulping water from a waterflask. She spilled her drink slightly, then smiled.

“Probably a monster or some other—”

Then the horn blew again. And again, urgently. And they did not know, of course. They stood in sudden silence until they heard shouting—and then the silence was broken by a City Runner.

Her name was Loqe the Lethargic for she often overslept. She was quick, though, and ran…

She was running now, pale-faced, and blood was on her tunic. She came to a halt in the square around the well and gasped.

“It—it—they’re all dead.”

“Who is?”

Someone peered north, but Loqe pointed back with a trembling finger.

“The—the road east. A masked figure’s appeared and is killing everyone on the road! There was a [Slave Trader] and eleven—he’s hacked them up. A [Swordsman]—”

She was stuttering, in shock. Then the smiles left everyone, and they turned.

A masked man? Surely one would not be so mad unless…

“It’s him after all.”

The fellow who coveted an autograph was smiling now. Hesitantly, forcing it a bit. Because he was safe. He was—

Loqe the Lethargic needed soothing, and they asked her what she had seen. She was mid-recounting the tale of violence where one man had taken out eleven so fast…someone was running to see what the Watch and garrison were doing for they had seen [Riders] streaming eastwards.

Then they heard more horncalls to the south. And west. Then there was a twisting in the stomach.

“One man cannot be in three places at once. It’s like the other times, I’ve heard, on the borders. Anyone can wear a face—”

The comment hung in the air, like the suspended bucket of water shedding droplets into the well. Right up until there was a scream.

“Undead on the road! Skeletons are slaughtering people! Help!”

Now a ringing. Summoning the Watch to arms. A [Rider] galloped into the square.

“It’s some kind of Skeleton Knight—six of them! They ignored me, but they’re butchering—”

Guard Lortina paled and backed up as every eye turned towards her. She protested she was off-duty, tired, sick—before the same thought hit her as everyone else.

Loqe the Lethargic swallowed and looked up.

“Undead, you said?”

“Yes! I’ve never seen one fight like that. Each had weapons and armor—are you mad?”

The terrified [Rider] was afraid until they saw how everyone eyed each other and marked this fact. Then it was like a fell wind blowing across the city.

“I hold no chains.”

The autograph-seeker said it slowly, as if to declare himself innocent of something. A few people in the crowd stared at him, and someone called out.

“We’re all citizens of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, man!”

“Yes. But in case anyone were listening, I wish to say that I hold no chains nor have held any. Nor would I be leaving the city if…”

The voice trailed off. Then Loqe muttered.

“How far up the road north did you say he went? Three miles?”

Silence. The city listened as horns blew and blew, and now [Soldiers] were marching left, right, shouting for citizens to clear the way, but they appeared—disconcerted. They started running, but never seemed to fight or find anything.

Then the bodies started coming into the city. Stained red. And the citizens of Halqued—yes, they woke up from that amusing dream they’d had. Adventurers doing adventurer things. Some had wished for more interest, more drama, more excitement worthy of the legend.

Djinnis laugh at you. Fool, for what you wish.

The first day of it had the city in uproar. The [Mayor] and three of her lovers standing behind her giving a speech assuring everyone the gates were solid, the garrison full of thousands of Nerrhavia Fallen’s finest. The Slaver’s Guild loudly calling for adventurers, for protection!

—After three days, someone said that a [Slave Trader] had been found dead on the road, fifty miles north of the city. Entrails spilt after being taken off his horse. Half his [Slaves] had fled into the city, the other half vanished.

By then, it was one of a hundred tales from the road. An unease that gripped much of the city. Anyone who had even so much as held a collar, or who had a friend, family who owned [Slaves] felt a great trepidation upon them. Of course, they knew they were safe behind the walls, but they demanded reassurances that were given. This would end, this would be the last time. And then another report came in, and another.

The Scourge had come to Halqued.

Now, they knew what it meant.

——

He knew time was passing. That he had to get back to his team, but he just thought of that girl, and he didn’t stop.

He was out of caravans, obviously. So he just…took to the roads. Walked up and down them and found them.

There were so many. At times, it was one in a thousand. Other times, there were so many he wondered what percentage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, of Chandrar, held chains.

The disguise might not have done much. He still carried his rapier since he needed the weapon he knew. But it was deniability. Just a shred.

Pisces had had the vague thought, when he was feverish, to come up with an alibi for not reaching Tyrant’s Rest. He’d worked on a long ruse and been organizing a second bird with a [Message] scroll when he’d checked and realized he and Ceria shared the same single brain cell.

Pisces: Ahem, to my esteemed Captain Ceria (and team), I regret to inform you that my sojourn abroad has hit something of a snag. I was accosted on the road by a rather objectionable fellow who insisted I duel him. When I naturally refused, he claimed it was over an illicit relationship I had with his bride-to-be?

Whom I did not know. Whereupon I did clarify the issue, and it turned out I was the object of admiration—suffice it to say I have been at a wedding of some length.

They go on for days, allegedly, and I have been trying to excuse myself, but I may be delayed.

Ceria: You idiot, what? Are they eating cake?

Pisces: As a matter of fact, yes. And I have been propositioned, in rather scandalous terms, by several ladies—

Colth: You’d better take them up on their offer.

Pisces: I shall not respond to that. Rest assured I will be headed back as soon as I find out—

Pisces: I believe I am in the wrong city. Excuse me while I clarify.

Ceria: Hilarious. Yisame’s laughing her butt off. Get over here, dumbass.

To be clear, Pisces hadn’t written any of that. It was clearly a conversation she’d written up in his voice. If he logicked out what she was doing, she was probably arranging the same trick he had, albeit with perhaps one of Yisame’s people casting the other [Message].

It was all obfuscation, deniability. He felt guilty but…well.

He continued. He knew it was dangerous and that each day ran the risk higher, that Roshal had to know. But he could not enter the city; he’d seen how many [Soldiers] were there, and the gates were now watched by a small army.

But there was a madness in him, a kind of thought in his head.

If no one enters or exits the city from Roshal, they can’t sell her or anyone else.

All he had to do was…kill any of them he found. Birds flying the skies. Undead mice on the ground.

It was just madness. The darkness of his class. He’d always known, deep down, he was probably like this.

He was glad no one from home could see him.

For he didn’t stop.

——

He was not freeing [Slaves]. He was killing [Slavers].

There was a distinction. Most of the time, Pisces just walked past the [Slaves]. Many had magicked collars. They were on the road, with witnesses. They could not run.

They recognized him, of course, but most said not a word. Not one. They would stare at the ground, wide-eyed, or shrink away from him. Some even covered their masters with their bodies, weeping.

Was it real? He couldn’t tell, though at times he would see one glance up at him or smile, give the slightest nod. They were tiny signs, and the most common, from the [Slaves] who looked oldest, was this.

They would put forefingers or pinkies together, linking like two fishhooks in a simple gesture, then pull them apart. A quick motion while feigning fear or pretending to be mute or silent.

A gesture without equivocation. He wanted to free them the most, but he could not. Even when they begged, he just told them he couldn’t do anything. Walked on as guilt ate at him.

Some ran for it. Others offered to join him, and again, it was hard.

Once, a Stitch-boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen had bent down to pick up a cane that had been lashing his back. He’d put it on one shoulder and asked Pisces who he was killing next. Pisces had almost let him tag along—but the Stitch-boy couldn’t cast spells. He was too young, too low-level.

Garuda were easiest because they could fly off, and he could believe that was that. One time, he ambushed a bunch of Slave-Adventurers, three Garuda and a Stitch-girl with a painted face who called herself a [Clown].

She wanted to join him; the Garuda all flew off, each in a different direction. They’d all been adventurers who’d been in debt and enslaved. The Stitch-girl had nowhere to go, and he’d hesitated—turned her down as she cried out they’d capture her on the road. She’d tried to follow him, but when she saw the horde of undead he used to screen his retreat as they fled backwards into the wilderness, she’d given up.

It ate at him, but he didn’t even know where safety was.

So he walked or ran, vanishing with [Invisibility] when the garrison rode out to get him. Pisces’ trick that had foiled the charioteers worked again and again.

They could defeat invisibility.

They could detect life. They could detect death, and sometimes, his undead got sighted.

They could not find someone who was invisible to death or life, a man who just lay down in the sand and waited for them to pass by. Perhaps there were [Trackers] or [Hunters] who could find him.

Pisces assumed they did not want to find him or he was getting lucky. He lost track of how many days it was; he would wake up at random, multiple times in the night, sleep in the day.

Not long, he assumed.

Not long. Just a while of waking up and walking down the roads, [Flash Stepping] along from town to village to the city’s gates. He kept finding people, and so he told himself after a day when he found no one, no one—he’d stop. Then he’d have done his best, right? Then…

Then he ran into the family.

——

There were five of them. Father, mother, young. Early thirties? Children, ten and nine? [Slave], mid-twenties, a Garuda.

They’d hidden her collar with a hood. Been hurrying towards Halqued, within three miles, when he’d reached them. By now, it was easy for Pisces to tell the signature of Roshal’s magic.

He appeared and drew his sword, and they screamed.

All of them—the father tried to make the horse pulling the little cart go faster. Pisces walked around it, cut the leads, and it galloped away. He saw the two Stitch-children frozen as their mother grabbed at them, and the man drew a belt-knife.

Pisces took slow aim and hesitated. The two children were staring at him, at the faded blood on the mask he hadn’t bothered to clean, and then the man lunged.

“[Quick St—]”

He missed. Pisces had seen Skills go off, and it was obvious. He leaned away, slashed the arm down to the bone, and the man screamed and fell onto the ground. Pisces raised the rapier to stab as they yelled at him, and someone threw herself on top of him.

The Garuda [Slave].

“Tirth! Master Tirth! Help! Help—”

She was shielding him. Then the mother leapt forwards, another shield, and Pisces stared down.

“Move.”

He was speaking to the Garuda, but she turned up huge eyes at him and shrieked back.

“Leave! Please! I don’t want to be free! He’s done nothing to you!”

Pisces had been—not calm. Not tranquil, but a steady thrum of intensity that had passed hours by without the strain of more than concentration. This shattered his focus. He blinked. Peered down at her.

“Bane, spare us! Chire, Doit, run!”

The two children were scrambling off the wagon, and Pisces just gazed down at the man, who was groaning, holding his arm.

“We’ve done nothing to you. You—you butcher. Spare my family! Take Yive. Yive, just go and—”

“Don’t hurt him!”

That was directed at Pisces. He was circling around. Then the mother rose.

“You’re trying to kill an innocent man!”

Pisces stared at the Garuda and the collar exposed from her hood. The young Garuda was named Yive? She rasped.

“They took me in when I was young. I’m family—if you want to stab him, you’ll have to stab me!”

“And me! Get back!”

The mother was swinging the fallen knife at Pisces. He was thinking as he held still.

His goal had been to kill the father. The children were innocent. Killing both parents…

No. He couldn’t do that.

He glanced down at Yive, and she paled.

“Shie, run! Run! He’s going to kill all of you—”

She threw herself up, arms spread, and the mother turned white. She tried for a slash—Pisces cut the dagger out of her hands, and red blood showered the ground.

“Mummy!”

Her daughter screamed in horror. The boy—Doit—ran at Pisces and tried to punch his leg. His previously-wounded one, which twinged. He punched Pisces in the stomach, hitting the Stalker underarmor, screaming.

“Stop it! Stop it, I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

Pisces almost kicked him, then the man, Tirth, tore his son back. He backed away, one armed, and the four Stitch-folk hid behind the Garuda. Pisces eyed Yive, and she was shaking.

“Bane or Scourge—it is you, isn’t it? We were just going home. We had been on holiday when you—if you have any reason, let us go. I don’t wish to be freed.”

They had done a lot of talking. Pisces felt like his own throat was filled with sand. He croaked.

“Why?”

The Garuda gave him a blank look, then earnestly turned her head towards the family. They were backing up towards the city, leaving her, but they were calling for her to run, to fly.

“They’re my family.”

“You’re in chains.”

“So? Not all of us are treated poorly! Where would I go without them? You—do you think everyone you killed is a monster? Let us go.”

Pisces stared past Yive, at the Stitch-folk. Tirth shouted at Pisces.

“You’re no Gold-rank hero worthy of Hraace! You cold-blooded killer—touch Yive and I’ll have every bounty hunter and assassin in Chandrar on you!”

He sounded so self-righteously passionate. He flinched, and Yive blocked Pisces. Perhaps thinking to stop a spell.

Like [Deathbolt]. She was panting, and Pisces spoke directly to her.

“If they loved you, they’d free you.”

Another blank gaze, then an incredulous laugh. She shook her head.

“And do what, employ me? I like my class. I’m a [Happy Slave]. You’ve only known poor slavemasters. They’re not all like that.”

His hand—twitched. She flinched and backed away, tensing to leap into the air. Pisces inhaled and exhaled slowly.

The Watch would be coming. He addressed Yive shortly.

“Not everyone is treated like you.”

“And? Are you going to free me against my wishes? Are you going to butcher everyone who has a [Slave] for the sins of a few?”

She flapped upwards and grew more confident, calling down at him as she circled. Pisces’ head turned, and he was cold.

“Yes.”

She faltered, and Pisces glanced at the family now running for the gates. He could hit the father with a [Deathbolt]…maybe. But it might go through him and hit a child. He lowered his finger as Yive swooped at him. She had talons outstretched.

“[Defend the Master]!”

He dodged her. She hit the ground hard and cried out. Then flapped around awkwardly. She stared down at him, and he imagined Cawe in her place.

He didn’t stab her. Pisces just felt at his hair.

“I didn’t think about killing parents in front of children.”

It was more of a statement to himself. He turned and began to stride away; he could sense figures racing out the gates. Yive called after him, a shrieking, angry note in her voice; she might have broken her own foot in trying to attack.

“Do you understand what you nearly did? What you’ve done, Bane? Are you regretting any of it?”

He turned back. Glanced at her. Then it came out of him.

Laughter.

Bitter laughter he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. The same kind of laughter he’d felt bubbling inside of him when Relc and Klbkch had nearly executed him. When he’d been taken captive by Montressa’s team. A dark, mirthless laughter bordering on hysteria. She flinched, and he walked off.

Laughing his head off until he cast [Invisibility]. He supposed, later, he should have reflected on that. Had a moment of conscience or doubt.

Instead, he just thought that it would have left a bad taste in his mouth, either way.

Cast [Sleep] first. He’d be more careful the second time.

He supposed he was going mad, then. Sinking deeper, but he didn’t hear the red class, if he had one. Just…

Silence.

That silence was an answer of its own. He murmured to himself as he continued his walk.

“Ah. So this is what it was like. When Perril Chandler became the Necromancer who destroyed Silvaria, the Kingdom of Paintings.”

He gazed down at his hands, flexing them.

“It doesn’t hurt at all. It’s too easy. I cannot feel myself falling. Just climbing a mountain I must carve out of their blood and flesh.”

Longing to breathe the air at the top, as if he could end the nightmare. He felt like a man in a dark sea, underwater, climbing the dark mountain of corpses he was building. Ever higher, that he might one day breach the surface and find a better world where he could be normal and happy, again.

Pisces turned back and stared at the city blaring alarms. His eyes shone in the darkness, and he feared they shone black and white. But all he said as he vanished was—

“I’m sorry, Erin. It appears you were wrong about me.”

——

Pisces didn’t sleep well that night. The sight of that Garuda chased him around, and he kept sitting up with things to tell her or say.

‘Did it ever occur to you that you should have been born in a world without being a slave?’

‘When they take off their mask, then you’ll see.’

‘You haven’t looked around at the others, you hypocritical—’

Stuff like that. Then he’d done some calculations. If you weren’t willing to kill the parents, you could put a hole through both knees. Though that might mean the children were without caregivers. How about one eye per person? And they were Stitch-folk, so any damage was healable…

How could she look him in the eye with that self-righteous fury? [Happy Slave]. Happy—was it a redline class? Delusion, like that [Guard] who’d thought all the [Slaves] were smiling at him?

Toss, turn. Toss—he was glad when he realized the 7th caravan had appeared.

They were making a break for it. Away from the city. They must have been hiding however long it had been. How much food did they have? Days? Not for weeks unless they’d overbought for whatever reason.

Time or desperation had forced their hands. Pisces sat bolt upright; he sensed eight open wagons racing northwards. He leapt up. Jumped in the saddle as the undead stirred.

Rode.

——

The undead were out of position, and the wagons were moving fast. He had to slow them down, so Pisces cast the one spell he could.

“[Stone Stalagmite]!”

The Tier 2 version of [Earthen Spire] wasn’t powerful. Nor was Pisces a good [Geomancer]; the piece of stone rose fast enough to hit you hard in the groin, and it was pointy-ish. But the resultant piece of stone was hard.

Hard enough to hit a wagon wheel and shatter the axle. Two of the eight wagons slammed into the ones already skidding out of line, and the frantic [Guards] leapt down to try to replace the wheel.

Sadly, even without the locking nut that made Izrilian wagons more secure—most other continents didn’t have screws—changing a wagon wheel was hard enough in the dark.

Harder still with a [Necromancer] firing [Deathbolts] at you and Ghouls leaping down from a ridge. Twenty Ghouls versus maybe twice that number? A bit more?

He might win with the Ghouls alone. But Pisces didn’t like the ambush; he felt like there was some powerful magic around him, but he couldn’t locate it. So he [Flash Stepped] away, went invisible and silent, and waited.

The [Caravan Master] soon proved his instincts to be accurate. The man emerged, waving a Wand of [Fireballs], and Pisces saw a [Lightning Bolt] from another [Guard].

Wand spells. He grunted as the Ghouls went down. Now the wagons were being frantically repaired, but here came…

“U-undead! More of them! Dead gods! Lailight Scintillation, protect us!”

The [Slave Guards] were waving at the air, screaming, perhaps under [Scrying] spells? Pisces hoped his personal protections shorted it out. He sat up, taking aim with his death-mana laser as the leader fired [Fireballs] frantically at the incoming horde. The Skeleton Champions dodged, but zombies were going down. Pisces murmured.

“[Death—]”

Then he felt the mana around him surge and looked up. He saw lightning and dove.

The Djinni came to earth riding a real lightning bolt. He had the head of a cat, the body Human, bronzed skin crackling with magic, and his lower half was that of a cloud that turned into a glowing nimbus of blue particles sparkling with magic.

He was bare-chested, naked, in his way, save for a pair of golden spectacles on his face with a link of metal looped around one ear. He had more magic in him than any being Pisces had met save for the most dangerous of monsters or people like Larracel.

More magic than Azam’du.

The impact knocked Pisces sprawling. Seemutor cursed as he arose, and he drew six scimitars with six arms.

“Scourge of Roshal, your hour comes for you are marked. I am Seemutor, who has battled the King of Destruction and Orjin of Pomle! As my previous master, the Greatly Foolish Merchant Almon bids, who was sold into servitude and now is in chains alongside me—all enemies of Roshal shall die.”

His address was long, carrying, and he stretched his body upwards, growing until he was eight feet tall. Then he stretched his back out like a cat, yawned—

“Djinni, kill the undead!”

The [Slave Master] was howling at him. Seemutor glanced down at the embattled caravan, which was outnumbered by the undead.

“My task is to kill the assailant, not protect you. As so—”

He pointed, and Pisces realized the Djinni could see him. The [Invisibility] spell did noth—

The lightning bolt was fast, and Pisces had no idea how to handle it. He had never learned barrier spells like Ceria and Montressa had. He could have used Ksmvr’s Forceshield…

Pisces ducked down behind the dune he’d been crouching behind, and the impact kicked him backwards and onto his feet, but aside from the ringing in his ears and feeling that the air had punched him all over, the lightning didn’t do much. He scuttled away as Seemutor laughed.

“A fine trick. And now, mine. This is real lightning, not your [Mage]’s kind!”

He began arcing lightning bolts, firing them from his scimitars over the hill. They would have blown Pisces to bits—if he were anywhere near there.

He’d already [Flash Stepped] away, and Seemutor tried to follow him, frowning. A bolt of lightning passed in front of Pisces, and the [Necromancer] halted.

Seemutor’s aim was as good as Pisces’. Which was to say, he had trouble aiming at range too. Thinking of that, Pisces pointed.

He shot a ray of death-magic at Seemutor, straight at the Djinni’s chest.

[Deathbolt]—!

Before he even cast it, he saw Seemutor twist around nimbly at the waist, dodging the—Pisces never fired the spell. The Djinni recovered, fired four lightning bolts at Pisces—the [Necromancer] was running again.

Into the center of the fighting with the [Slavers] and undead. He leapt towards the wagons, the only place where Seemutor couldn’t hit him.

Because of the [Slavers]. Seemutor laughed and rose upwards.

“Ah, adventurers. The cunning of rats, and the pride of Crelers! Bravi, bravi, avventurieri! It saves you naught.”

Then he swept down with scimitars raised, firing lightning at the undead before beheading the first Skeleton Champion with a sweep of four of his blades.

——

Monster.

Pisces had encountered many foes. Horrifying ones he wasn’t sure he could hurt like Tolveilouka, the horde of Crelers who might kill in moments, the overwhelming might of Gazi when he’d been low-level, Bograms who was invisible, lurking—

Djinni were the most adaptive foe he’d ever met. For one thing?

Seemutor flew. There was no getting around that single dreadful aspect. He was fast, hard to hit in the air, and able to attack in more dimensions than Pisces was familiar with. It reminded him of Valeterisa. Or worse, Amerys.

The Djinni lounged on the air, pretending to rest on a cloud he conjured as he hurled down lightning bolts that blew apart undead. He was only pretending to be so relaxed; when a Skeleton Champion rolled out of the undead to aim a bow up at him, he came down and slashed the champion to bits.

“Djinni, stop playing around and save us! The Guild commands it!”

The [Slave Master] with the Wand of [Fireballs] was screaming, firing at the undead and even hitting his own [Guards]. The Slaver’s Guild must have given him the artifact; he was blowing through charges.

And Pisces’ horde. The [Necromancer] was mixing with his undead, sweating as he tried to think. Ambush! Fool, fool—

His saving grace was that there weren’t many [Slavers], and but for the two artifacts, they would have been slaughtered by his undead. However, the two armed with magical wands had to die if Pisces wanted backup against the Djinni. He knew the Djinni was waiting for him, though; Seemutor flew back upwards and, again, stretched like a cat. He had cat’s paws, now, and a feline coat of black fur he licked with a long tongue. Slitted pupils roaming…

He kept watching the [Caravan Master] with the Wand of [Fireballs]. He knew Pisces had to go for the man. As luck had it, though—the problem solved itself. The screaming [Slave Master] was firing [Fireballs] at the zombies.

“Die, die, all of you! [Fireball], [Fireball], [Fireb—]”

His wand had been glowing red-hot, actually smoking as the ruby tip cast the powerful spell over and over. It had been made for that one purpose, charged up with magic, but Pisces saw the wand glow brighter, brighter—

Then the [Fireball] detonated inside the wand. Seemutor winced and clapped a hand to his forehead.

“Fools.”

That…took out a chunk of the defenders. But the one with the [Lightning Bolt] wand was still firing and targeting the Skeleton Champions. Pisces cursed, aimed—fired.

He took the woman out with a single spell; she turned grey, waxy, toppled over. She wasn’t dead, but one of the zombies grabbed her, and that was that. Seemutor saw, though.

“There you are.”

He came down, and the undead vanished around the Djinni as he threw a lightning bolt, landed in the impact, and swept around.

Six arms, whirling blades, each one slashing with grace and form—nothing.

The Djinni had diced the zombies, but when he swung around, his eyes narrowed.

Where is that [Necromancer]—?

The [Shatterbolt] hit one of Seemutor’s scimitars as he blocked it, and he cried out in mortal pain as it exploded. He turned, leapt, and slashed—

The Skeleton Champion grinned at Seemutor as the Djinni cut it to ribbons. The Djinni’s eyes widened, and he spun—but no attack came from his back.

Gone, again. He flew upwards, cursing. He did not remake the shattered blade but just pointed a finger crackling with lightning.

“I sense you, little mage. Where are you?”

He stared down, then grinned. Below, Pisces cursed. He’d been sneaking through the undead, but now—

——

Impact. He bounced off a wagon, gasped, and grabbed the lip of the roof. Heaved himself backwards and over on top of it with strength and dexterity he didn’t know he had.

[Manacharged Reflexes].

Seemutor blew apart the wagon’s walls. He aimed up—the [Barrier of Light] absorbed a lightning bolt and blew up. Pisces was already flying downwards.

He could not engage this Djinni in a spellcasting duel! Nor hide! How was he seeing Pisces, even amongst the undead?

Djinni were made of magic, Azam had said. If anyone could see Pisces’ magical signature…

The battle with the [Slavers] was going Pisces’ way. The [Slavers] were trying to drive the wagons northwards, and annoyed, Seemutor boomed.

“Stand and fight, worthless wretches!”

He scythed the zombies down from the waist, targeting Skeleton Champions. A few could block one lightning bolt or survive a single shot—but they were glowing ash in seconds. The Bone Horror charged Seemutor next. He grabbed it, four hands grappling with it as it clawed, bit, gouged at his body…

It didn’t do any damage. The Bone Horror was scraping at—at—a cloud. Seemutor’s flesh just vanished under it, and the dismayed undead realized the laughing Djinni was ripping it apart.

Pisces took the opening and emerged out of cover.

“[Fireball]!”

He fired one of the two spells he’d prepped at Seemutor. The Djinni spun and began to twirl away from the Bone Horror, letting the fireball flash past him—

It blew up in midair, and the Djinni staggered.

“Hm.”

That…had been Pisces’ hope, that if he burst it in midair the shockwave would at least hurt—the Djinni raised his fingers, pointed.

Five lightning bolts hit a [Bone Wall] and exploded. Seemutor hesitated. Took aim again.

The second volley blew up on impact too, and Pisces was running up a dome. Seemutor hummed.

Then he fired two lightning bolts from his left hands, three from the other. The last one was scratching at his side.

The first volley blew apart the [Bone Wall] that Pisces had conjured a third time. The other three hit the second [Bone Wall], which was thin, paper-thick—but caused the magic to detonate.

“Nice trick, [Mage]. But you’ve run out of undead.”

So saying, Seemutor swept around and began slashing the last undead to pieces. He dispatched the final Skeleton Champions with flourishes of his blades, but only used two of them—his other four hands were making finger guns.

Waiting.

Seemutor was disappointed that the [Necromancer] didn’t rise to the bait. Still, he’d sacrificed all of his minions for that, and that was a [Necromancer]’s strength. The last of the powerful undead fell, and he dismissed the zombies as threatless; he floated past them, swinging his swords carelessly.

They couldn’t harm his body, not with their clawing hands. Now, Seemutor rose once more and saw the wagons of Roshal fleeing towards the city.

Their little distraction was done; the Slaver’s Guild had sprung its trap, and Seemutor, the agent of their rage, had his foe. He had marked the ways in which the one called ‘Scourge of Roshal’ could hurt him and was disappointed.

Orjin of Pomle had been more martially powerful, if limited. The King of Destruction and his vassals far more fearsome. This was just a middling adventurer, a nemesis to other small, low-level foes. Not to a Djinni of Seemutor’s caliber, and he was far from Drenirkessun.

Ah, Seemutor wearied of this battle already, for all it might be that of fame. What did he care for fame? If anything, he was slightly bitter to rid Roshal of another of its foes, even one undeserving of his reputation.

He peered around, his cat eyes focusing, hunting down the magic cast through the battle. The [Necromancer] used [Invisibility], as he had been told.

“That does not work on me.”

He’d dive and take the Human out in close-quarters combat. Seemutor’s ability to manipulate magic was actually fairly limited; there were others of his kin who could do far more than throwing parts of their body out like lightning. But in hand-to-hand combat, he was very experienced. The man could not outrun him. So…

…Where was he?

At first, Seemutor thought he’d just missed the [Necromancer] from his altitude, but then he realized he couldn’t spot…

But that was impossible. He could see [Invisibility] spells, which were just another form of magic, like a cloud. Yet the [Necromancer] was well and truly—

Dead? No, his corpse would be—

Seemutor began to fly closer to the ground. He swept left and right, staring around. But how? He searched for life magic, the energy of all beings. Then death magic, and saw plenty in the remaining zombies, the broken bones. But no vast signature like he’d identified in Pisces.

Then he remembered an old trick he’d heard [Necromancers] had used. One of the Djinni he’d served with in the Great Desert had once said—

He twisted around when he felt the death magic too late. Pisces nailed the Djinni in the chest with two [Deathbolts] and emerged out of the sand, rapier drawn. And Seemutor paused—

Then he laughed.

——

Pisces had hoped to hide, but he’d seen Seemutor start glancing his way. So he’d done it. He’d fired both [Deathbolts] dead on, without the deathmagic laser. He’d noticed Seemutor had been able to see even that.

Which meant that he’d probably used the same trick as everyone else. Seeing magic. Pisces’ ability to equalize magic had let him hide and land the first major spell of the battle. Two, straight through the Djinni’s chest.

The fur on Seemutor’s chest rippled and went dead white, as if scarred by the spells. His cloud-like lower half also paled, like someone had injected pale white in the whirling cloud. The Djinni did not stagger. He didn’t appear pained, just surprised.

Then he laughed.

“Ah, [Necromancer]. It would work on the living, empower the dead. I am more of a mystery than both. Now die.”

He swept at Pisces, swords drawn, and Pisces backstepped. The swords cleaved through the air, and Pisces saw them cross where he had been standing.

No way to parry that. Seemutor’s five arms were—Pisces saw the sixth hand pointing.

[Barrier of Light]. The explosion of lightning was blinding. He rocked backwards—

Three blades coming at him through the explosion! Pisces jumped.

[High Jump]. The blow carried him over the Djinni’s head. He slashed as he landed—his blade cut across Seemutor’s face and did…nothing.

Even the contact felt like cutting a hard sponge. The Djinni twisted, rueful.

“Sloppy, I’ve become. Now, [Mage]—”

He lunged, four blades spearing forwards, the last sweeping around. Pisces shouted.

“[Flash Parry]! [Joveln’s Parry]!”

He parried both the lunge and other blade, flicking his rapier up as his hand rang. The Djinni was grinning as he pointed that sixth finger at Pisces, charging up—and Pisces activated the [Bound Spell] in his rapier.

The Djinni’s eyes widened, and the [Light Spear] slashed outwards, into his chest. He howled, then. A cat’s howl which became roaring, echoing, and he sprang away, clutching at—

Steam? His chest was radiating crazy magic, and Pisces saw a hole had appeared there. Seemutor hissed.

“You—”

Pisces fired [Flame Swathe] from one hand, then [Ice Dart] from the tip of his rapier. Seemutor dodged both with ease. He closed on Pisces, four handed; two were holding his chest, swinging. Pisces ducked a slash, blocked another—the blow tossed him across the ground. Seemutor dropped a rapier, grabbed—

Pisces fired a [Deathbolt] three times into Seemutor’s chest and grabbed the glowing essence as Seemutor’s hand closed around his arm with crushing strength. A scimitar froze, glittering, above Pisces’ head as the [Necromancer] held his rapier up.

Both men froze. Seemutor was panting, steam still rising, and Pisces was gasping for air. He saw the white stain coating Seemutor’s fur, shifting particles, and Seemutor breathed.

“I have you, [Necromancer]. Submit and be bound by Roshal and I will not destroy you.”

“I have you, Djinni. Strike me and I’ll unleash all the mana I have left.”

A laugh. Seemutor’s eyes flicked around, but the zombies had collapsed; Pisces had pulled the death mana from them. He was filled with magic.

“You could hit me a thousand times with [Deathbolt] and nary trouble me.”

Pisces bared his teeth.

“Then I’ll cast [Light Nova].”

Then Seemutor’s smile vanished, and Pisces confirmed the theory he’d been working on in the fight. They stood there, gripping each other, and Pisces stared at the glittering scimitar. It was beautifully ornate, steel etched with decorative inlays. Impractical, perhaps, too gaudy. It looked to have golden hilts; a show-weapon.

…If it were even real. He nodded at it.

“My [Shatterbolt] destroyed that blade. But that’s just part of your body. Djinni fight with what they are in most cases. You couldn’t resist that.”

“You dropped your ring. Want it back?”

Seemutor had it in one of his hands. He dangled it casually, but Pisces didn’t glance away from the Djinni’s smiling face. The Djinni was all projected confidence, but he’d halted.

Why? Well, Pisces nodded at it.

“If it had more magic, perhaps I could hurt you that way. It’s a Tier 5 spell.”

“Tier 4. It’s simply…made well. By a better [Mage] from a better era. You have no magic even close to it.”

Pisces smiled.

“But I hurt you.”

“Not with [Deathbolt], and you lack for another spell as strong.”

“I did hurt you, Seemutor the Djinni. Not from [Deathbolt] alone, it’s true. But when I used [Light Spear], you took damage. Your fur’s gone white.”

Seemutor’s face was blank as he casually shifted, and he was imposingly huge. No smell of sweat, though, no sense of a body radiating heat. If anything, cool air seemed to come from him along with the faint feel of static electricity. A being of magic. Pisces glanced at the white stain in his body.

Was it shrinking? Ever so slightly, perhaps. He pushed more death magic into his hands, and Seemutor’s grip tightened on his shoulder, but Pisces glanced up. Now he was certain.

“Djinni are beings of magic. You live off of it. Generate it. Your bodies become what you desire—within limits. Each Djinni has an element, or so I read. Multiple ones, it’s true, but there must be limits to what you can absorb. You cannot absorb two conflicting types. If I hit you with light magic now, you’ll die.”

For answer, the Djinni exhaled with a huge sigh and relaxed his grip a bit.

“Wrong. I’ll be wounded, perhaps sorely, but I won’t die. And you will be dead.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me?”

“Perhaps I don’t wish to ruin my health for my master’s benefit.”

“Then we’re stalemated.”

Pisces concluded. They were locked together, and if he cast magic, Seemutor would take a lot of damage. Potentially die if he was bluffing how tough he was—but Pisces wouldn’t survive Seemutor’s counterattack.

The Djinni grinned, baring his teeth.

“Well then, shall we agree to a draw? I swear upon my honor and name, Seemutor the Bespectacled, the Wisdom of Sage’s Clouds, that I shall allow you safe passage if you do the same.”

Pisces blinked up at him, then frowned.

“What good is your word? You told me you have orders from Roshal. You’re a [Slave]; you’ve been ordered to kill me.”

The Djinni puffed up his chest, and Pisces dug his fingers warningly into his flesh. Seemutor relaxed, but he gave Pisces an arch look.

“Am I not a Djinni? My word is my bond.”

“That is, I believe, a common myth. You are not bound by any magic unless it comes from your container, and most were not given such safeguards. Anyone would be wise to trust your word only after enforcement magic is activated.”

This time, the cat-Djinni lost his proud expression and eyed Pisces sourly.

“Fancied yourself a Djinni, did you, [Necromancer]?”

Pisces shifted, glancing around for something, anything. But the ruined stretch of road was deserted. It was night.

He was in trouble, but he kept talking.

“No, I did my research for a friend who wanted to know about Djinni and her preconceptions of them. Then out of my own curiosity. I have met your kind before.”

“Everyone born on Chandrar has met my kind.”

Seemutor rolled his eyes, and Pisces saw two of his hands fold behind his head. One kept hold of Pisces, another holding the scimitar casually. Pisces spoke warningly.

“Hands where I can see them. I met one of your kind when I was a [Slave]. Azam’du. And Czautha’qshe, the Death of Chains.”

For the first time, Seemutor seemed to actually perk up and pay attention to Pisces. He lost the bored expression he’d been wearing and slowly, slowly lifted his hands. Each paw was holding an orb of a different color. Magic. It vanished as he opened his paws, then his four additional arms vanished.

“…Now that’s interesting. You aren’t lying, are you, little [Necromancer]? For I’d owe you a truly unpleasant death if you were. No…mine eyes see magic, and yours doesn’t waver. Did I hear…? Let’s speak then, in earnestness, for a moment.”

They stood in the cold desert as Pisces shivered. After a pause, he felt Seemutor’s fur under him warm, and the chill ended. He blinked as Seemutor’s fur turned orange from within his body, like there was a light inside him, and the Djinni grinned like a mischievous cat.

Pisces almost smiled, but never let go of the Djinni. They had nothing else to do. So they stood and talked a while.

——

“I do not follow the lives of adventurers. Nor do most of my kindred. Scourge, they called you, and I laughed for I thought it a joke. They were so serious. You are no Scourge, Adventurer Pisces.”

After some clarification, Seemutor was pleasant, if not actually friendly. But for the standoff, Pisces suspected they’d kill each other in a heartbeat. He kept putting death magic into Seemutor, preventing the Djinni from absorbing the already present mana. Seemutor didn’t mention that, but his eyes twinkled.

Dangerous indeed. He was everything Pisces had imagined when he’d read of Djinni. Clever, elegant liars by omission, and magically powerful. But the Djinni was also, well, convivial.

Especially when he heard Pisces had not only met another Djinni but been saved by Czautha.

“Truly? Truly, you saw her? Our sister who broke all chains? Prove it. How did she come?”

“By…rainbow?”

“Ach, anyone would know that. How else?”

“With Silvenia, the Death of Magic? She was a falling comet, and she claimed she only had a moment before she could leave. She freed as many Djinni as she could before attacking Lailight Scintillation.”

Seemutor rotated his neck around in amazing displays that would have broken even a cat’s neck. He screwed up his face.

“Ah, but anyone could claim that. You have it right, but if you had done any research…nor do I know Azam’du. He sounds young. Weaker than I.”

“He was, apparently. Still frighteningly powerful.”

“How many centuries?”

“I don’t know.  He was born in captivity. A few?”

Seemutor’s face fell, and his whiskers drooped.

“Hm. Being born in captivity means nothing; we have been captive for ages. But mere centuries old? So young. A rarity. This is not proof, nor did you meet them recently enough that I can sense their magic on you. Did they say any word that would make me know it was her? Likely not.”

Pisces wasn’t sure how to vouchsafe his bona fides to Seemutor, but he felt like this was his only chance, even if the Djinni had orders to kill. He thought, then spoke.

“My bag of holding, on my right side, had something Czautha thought to take back with her. But she didn’t, because she said I might need it. It’s a spellbook written by a Djinni. Can you see it?”

The Djinni blinked, then laughed.

“Hah! A good one. There are no such things written by my kin that—buried kingdoms, it is a spellbook!”

He stared at Pisces’ bag of holding and did a double-take. Then he seemed to believe, and his eyes rose slowly.

“Your chest. Is that the brand of your master?”

“Former master. He’s dead, and I’m no longer a [Slave].”

Pisces felt Igheriz’s brand on his skin, and the Djinni nodded. Then he smiled, once.

“Congratulations on your freedom, Adventurer. You have won what Czautha’qshe fights for and what all we Djinni dream of.”

The [Necromancer] began to smile back, and then Seemutor lost his smile, leaned in, and whispered.

“You should have never come back to Chandrar and stayed free. What possessed you?”

For answer, Pisces sighed.

“I left my friends here.”

He thought it needed explanation, the long story of the Horns and all the coincidences along the way, but Seemutor gazed at him, and his cat-ears dropped. He closed his eyes, and his touch became light as a feather.

“Oh. The trap of all Djinni. I am guilty of this, truly. The King of Destruction was easier than this. Orjin of Pomle was amusing. I wish I had not met you, [Necromancer] who knows my chains. You are a dead man, now.”

Infinite regrets were in his eyes when they opened, but he did not let go of Pisces. And now the [Necromancer] was staring across the horizon. Towards the city. He knew…

He was running out of time.

——

Seemutor did not desire this man’s death anymore. He never had, insofar as he had any choice. But he had orders.

The orders were not to risk his life, so he had taken this stalemate to spite his masters as he always did, but also out of pragmatism. The damage this man might cause to him in close-quarters was immense.

Plus, [Necromancers] always came back from the dead when slain, and grappling with a Skeleton Mage or worse was not appealing.

Now that he knew Czautha’qshe had freed this boy, it made it all the harder. But Seemutor was a slave, and so he just stood there.

All he had to do was hold Pisces Jealnet. Because the Guild did not bet its victory on just the Djinni. Seemutor was only the quick-response force assigned to odd jobs the Guild needed. There were other killers.

This was a dead man, but Seemutor still humored him. He owed one freed this little courtesy. All the while, though, he knew a force was coming to slay the [Necromancer], and when they arrived, Seemutor would join them.

Kinder to kill him than collar him, though. The Djinni would do that. Thus, he spoke, wishing the conversation were not so…amusing.

“So, you came by a Djinni’s spellbook, rarest of the rare, when raiding the tomb of one of the greatest [Necromancers] in existence to save a friend who came back from the dead.”

“Yes. Erin Solstice. Surely you’ve heard of her?”

Again, Seemutor threw his head back and laughed. He emoted grandly, but the [Necromancer] never lost his grip or stopped paying attention. Too clever. This was a dance, so Seemutor began to insult him, to see if the mortal had a temper to play on. He threw his head back and spoke honestly his contempt for this woman…whose name stuck in his mind.

“Pisces, adventurer. I have said it again and again: we do not pay attention! Some of my kin did not even know this King of Destruction except as a random king they had served until they heard of Drenirkessun being freed by him. Masters come and go, and we are old—wait, Erin Solstice? HER?”

His attempt at arrogant disregard fell to pieces in a moment when that name hit him in a heartbeat. It could not be. But of all the mortals Seemutor knew, and he knew so few—

Her? Seemutor remembered her, belatedly! He had met the woman who claimed to have met one of the great Djinni in death itself!

“You met her?”

It was Pisces’ turn to be shocked, and in that moment when he wavered, there might have been the scorpion’s chance to strike. But it was a risk, and Seemutor himself was so caught by this that he held still. Remembering his superior nature, he feigned indifference.

“I…yes. Some mortals do stick in the memory, and I had cause to meet her, in person. But it is a coincidence, my point remains. To ask a Djinni any mortal’s name, even one who was legend in their time, is pointless. Like as to ask what Nerrhavia’s true name was.”

That was another lie, actually. Some Djinni knew the true name of the Immortal Tyrant, but they feared to say it, even now. Seemutor omitted the part where he had told every Djinni he’d met about his encounter with the mysterious young woman who’d encountered a ghost of his people. It was a weakness, and he did not want to give the man he was about to kill any opening.

Pisces ducked his head slowly.

“I apologize. It must be a banal question. I am glad that you have met Erin, though. Of all mortals, hers is a name to remember, if I may offer that opinion.”

He was courtly enough, so Seemutor grew embarrassed, and his body developed a slight chill as his mana changed. He was the being of age, for all he was young and not like his greater cousins. So he shrugged.

“Eh. Que sera, sera. It is not your fault you have the same question as so many before you. The mountain should not rage at the chipmunk which digs the same holes again and again, just smile at the forests it plants.”

He quoted a Giant’s saying, and the [Necromancer]’s eyes brightened.

“That’s…a quote from Atvecius, the last of the Giant Kings. That other phrase. What does ‘que sera, sera’ mean? I think I’ve heard it.”

Two surprises. But Seemutor grinned with his cat’s sharp teeth. He liked cats, which is why he took this form.

“You have some knowledge, but you have never heard such language as that. It is more dead than the Mage’s Language. The kind of thing only Djinni carry. And Giants, I suppose.”

“You shouted something at me. ‘Bravi?’ It sounded like ‘adventurer’—”

“You noticed that? Yes, I learned it from a Djinni over twenty thousand years old, who had it from another—these are phrases. Quotes. So, you see, unless Czautha’qshe said that to you, you do not know ‘que sera, sera’. And even she would have been taught it, just as I was.”

He was quite tickled by the thought she used the same phrase he had learned, but Pisces tilted his head. Closed his eyes in an unguarded moment.

“No…I think I’ve heard her saying it. ‘What will be, will be.’ Is it a song?”

Seemutor nearly lost his grip on Pisces. The shock—

“How do you know that?”

For answer, Pisces just smirked up at Seemutor and then sneezed as he got some of the Djinni’s essence in his body.

“That’s from—achoo—a being of great mystery whom I was acquainted with. Erin Solstice.”

Twice, now, Seemutor was struck silent in conversation. A rarity. She knew one of the lost languages from before the First Goblin King’s rampage? He saw the [Necromancer]’s eyes brighten and feared this conversation was giving him strength.

Time to end this. Yet his biding of time was to a point, so the Djinni weighed his options. Which gave Pisces the chance to hit the Djinni with his final attack.

“I did not, in fact, hear Czautha say ‘que sera, sera’ either time I met her.”

“…You met her twice?”

“In a location I cannot disclose, a grand Skill where we encountered each other—very briefly. My team fled, but I saw her, the Death of Magic, and the Death of Wings.”

Pisces shivered, and Seemutor stared at him, wishing he could read the [Mage]’s aura perfectly because this had to be madness. But he was an adventurer, and the Death of Magic could go anywhere if she were truly healed…the words came out of him too fast, a rush.

“How did she look? Was she healthy? Happy? Have her wounds healed?”

He had to know. Pisces blinked and didn’t know—Seemutor pressed, asking about the color of Czautha’s magic, the elements in her body.

“I don’t…she was under a kind of illusion that let her appear like a different species. She appeared decent? Better than the Death of Magic.”

Seemutor let out a huge breath, and then he had something else to blab about to every Djinni, young or old.

“You do me a service, then, Necromancer. I shall remember it, even if I am bound to your death like an arrow. I regret it, now. But know that even this gives all her kin hope. She is our dream, young though she is. Barely older than I.”

“Young?”

That surprised Pisces, and Seemutor tossed his head, nodding prouder still.

“She was born after the Creler Wars. It is rare for a Djinni of her caliber to ever be created, let alone in these eras as Djinni die. That she freed herself, and has not stopped her war, makes her the greatest of our people, to me. I am younger than she by a thousand years, give or take.”

“So you are five thousand years old?”

Seemutor grew embarrassed at how astonished Pisces sounded.

“But five thousand and some, yes. I am young.”

Very young by some Djinni’s standards. It impressed Pisces to no end, though.

“I knew Djinni were old. But how can one live so long…?”

“Because we are bred, when they can. Because we are so valuable we are not wasted. And because we used to dot all of Chandrar, and the last of us are a dying breed.”

Seemutor rumbled with a sigh. Pisces licked his lips.

“Then you remember the end of the Creler Wars. All these ancient nations—”

Then Seemutor grew grumpy again. He shifted, mustering more power to his hands. He was a proud Djinni; he refused to be humiliated, either in combat or wordplay. He fancied himself a scholar, more intelligent than any short-lived being, but even a scholar grew tired of hearing the same question a million times. He’d once counted and it was over a million by now.

“Aye, perhaps. What of it? Would you want me to furnish you with stories? Even when I was young, I learned not to care who held my lamp. Kingdoms rose, and kingdoms fell. Have you a Djinni, you would do well to ask them another question than that.”

Pisces blinked at Seemutor, then nodded.

“Tell me how you met, Erin, then. I care more about that.”

This was…fair. So, Seemutor had to relate the encounter that had seen him fighting Orjin of Pomle. Erin Solstice had tried to save the [Martial Artist] and failed, but the conversation had made him speak of her to other Djinni.

But he hadn’t put that together with other modern events; Djinni didn’t watch the scrying orbs much. Maybe they should, because Pisces pointed out that there was only one woman who’d come back from the dead of late. Seemutor scoffed.

“Bah, that is a common thing amongst you mortals. You die, get to come back—I would have put good money on there being at least two at any given time. Had I money. Well, well. So you came to Chandrar for her. There are worse beings to put your life behind. But again: you have erred. Roshal is not a foe that the Death of Chains can stand against in open battle. What made you think you could do this?”

Pisces was staring across the desert.

“Madness. I know it was a fool’s errand, but I had to try.”

Ah, Seemutor wished those words could inspire his soul. If he were thousands years younger, he might have conceived of a great affection for this man of principle. Instead, he just felt a vague sadness, even a hint of contempt for the foolishness.

“Because you know two beings I hold in some esteem, a rarity in any age, I shall speak to you with a Djinni’s kindness. It is thought to be a joke, but now listen, Pisces Jealnet.”

The [Necromancer] glanced at him suspiciously, but in this, Seemutor was honest. He spoke quickly.

“If, by some unimaginable miracle, you should survive the next hour, flee this continent. For I am but one weapon, and Roshal shall hurl them until the continent cracks. That is how their authority is maintained. They cannot let a single challenge exist. And next time shall not be a falling Djinni, but a blade in the dark. I am mighty, but far from the most dangerous of my kind. Enough to hunt rebels—they shall send a true Face of the Assassin’s Guild after you.”

Pisces exhaled.

“So noted. But I have heard others claiming my name. I know my friends are alive. So it doesn’t follow that rebellion is instant death—”

“They are [Rebels] with Skills designed to be free. You are known. Roshal can tolerate the nibbling of flies, but not you, who stand openly against them. You will die.”

Now, the Djinni was angry. His voice was flat.

“You cannot best me. Nor, from your story, could you triumph against Azam’du. You have no right to call yourself Scourge of Roshal if you cannot even slay us.”

Pisces head bowed.

“I know that. I know it, and I never wanted that title. But I had…to try. This continent is strange to me, and we are fumbling around in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I have a friend who knows this place, but I can’t fully trust him. I want to, but—”

His teeth ground together, and Seemutor spoke.

“Ah, if you are the guests of the [Queen], then you would be better served leaving twice quick. Nerrhavia’s Fallen is not so strong as it appears. Unwise wars. The Oresect plague. And the Hemp are gathering. As they do. They are usually torn to pieces, but perhaps this time, it will be different. Or are you blind to all that?”

Pisces eyed Seemutor.

“I—had noticed some hints. By organizing, do you mean rebelling?”

“What are [Slaves] by a different name to do? Not that they think of themselves wholly as such. Roshal has sold [Slaves] to them; in this way, no matter which cloth reigns, they win. But I am the Djinni sent to spy, deliver, and go about many tasks. I care nothing for great events, but I do observe empires falling with amusement.”

It was a hobby for him to guess which year they’d implode. Pisces nodded slowly and glanced over Seemutor’s shoulder.

The sun was rising. And the Djinni felt [Message] spells buzzing in his essence. The Guild was coming. The [Necromancer] seemed to know it too, for their truce was ending. Both were regarding the other, waiting for a chink in their poise.

If I simply get clear, I will not be caught by that magic again. If he sneezes—

Seemutor had a cunning idea. So he gave Pisces a sultry smile and shapechanged. The [Necromancer] had hold of Seemutor’s chest and blinked. He was suddenly holding an ample bosom as Seemutor took on the appearance of a female cat-lady. Pisces turned so red he might have been a Djinni—

He didn’t let go. But Seemutor was grinning. She leaned forwards.

“You are a funny one. Enough to make my kindred laugh. Some would weep and cheer you just for what you represent, doomed as you are. Not I. You are a dead man, blushing [Necromancer]. Your one hope was your undead. But those Skeleton Champions, that Bone Horror, could not slay me, only delay. You do not know how to fight Djinni.”

Her body was absorbing the death mana faster and faster now. She had finally configured her essence to absorb it easily. The stain of white on her chest-fur was fading, and the [Necromancer] saw it.

He tried to pour more death-mana into Seemutor’s body, but it was now a futile gesture. The Djinni tensed. She was ready to strike until she heard him rasp.

“That’s true. I don’t know how to fight Djinni. I have never wanted to, before.”

The Djinni’s scimitar lifted, and her magical arm tensed.

Then Seemutor gazed into Pisces’ eyes and saw fear. A mortal man’s fear of death. Uncertainty. All the flaws of his nature.

But not despair. 

The hands gripping the Djinni suddenly felt…

Cold.

A kind of cold that Seemutor didn’t know. Startled, she changed back to her regular form. A thicker coat of fur growing over his chest. As if he were…

Cold? But he was a being of magic. He didn’t feel cold except from the most chilling of spells, and even that was a kind of magic. Not this.

It felt like growing numb. A shivering of the being. Loneliness made sensation. A dreadful pull.

It felt like…

Death.

Then the Djinni glanced down and saw the death magic the [Necromancer] had been infusing his body with pooling. It was…leaving Seemutor?

Concentrating in his hands. At first, it was just the intensity of two [Deathbolts]. Then it gathered. And it felt like a Tier 4 spell.

Then a Tier 5 spell.

All the power of a [Mage] of his level. Drawing together. Seemutor’s eyes rolled around. The zombies. The undead he had destroyed. All their mana—

It was right here. And now…the magic was becoming visible to even the naked eye. Still, Pisces held Seemutor, and the Djinni hesitated.

Swallowed. He had faced [Mages] across his thousands of years, casting all manner of spells. Their boxed magic they were so proud of.

Few…had ever cast magic that did not have a name, a meaning outlined in their classes. But this—

Who is this? 

——

The Djinni did not attack. Pisces had thought Seemutor might. But the ruse worked.

Djinni were beings of magic and susceptible to its fluctuations. When the stalemate had seemed to end, and he’d realized Seemutor had become immune to his death mana, Pisces had done the only thing he could think of: copy Lareceina.

He was concentrating all the death mana he could into his hands. He didn’t have a spell to channel it; he didn’t have a spell that could contain this mana. But it probably appeared dangerous.

A bluff.

He was blinking sweat out of his eyes as he gazed up at Seemutor.

“I do not want to kill you, Seemutor. Can you not pretend you are in danger and flee to your masters?”

“A good joke, [Necromancer].”

Seemutor had gone alarmingly still. Pisces thought he saw lights crossing the road in the distance. The Guild? He smiled up at the Djinni. He was afraid, but…

“You’re not my foe. Please…”

The Djinni was shifting, and now, Pisces saw bobbing torches. There were [Riders]. The sun had risen, he realized, and it played off Seemutor’s fur. The Djinni’s head turned, and he murmured.

“You cannot stand against both them and I.”

“Move and die.”

The Djinni appeared to hesitate, but he held his ground. Pisces was counting.

At least a hundred, all mounted. Roshal’s own guards? There was nothing he could do; the moment he moved, the Djinni and he would fight, and he could not outrun Seemutor. So Pisces did the only thing he could think of.

“Once more. One last time. You have never been my salvation, as many times as I begged for it. But just once—I need your help. So, please…arise.”

He poured some of the magic in his hands outwards, and Seemutor’s fur rose. Pisces felt the ground around him stir as he poured magic into it.

[Death’s Ground]. He let it flow to each broken corpse, charred bone, dead [Guards]—and then he saw it.

Rising as bones swirled around it, armor cut to ribbons by Seemutor’s blades, but grinning, that being he loved and hated.

A Skeleton Champion saluted Pisces as it arose, then another. Zombies rising upwards, save for the String-folk corpses. And if only he could animate cloth.

Maybe…

But all Pisces did was stand there, and Seemutor’s head turned. The undead gathered around Pisces, and walls of bone arose. Shields from arrows. Protection. A maze…

“Who taught you this magic, [Necromancer]? This is no spell of labyrinths.”

“I like architecture. I walked this place. My best friend is an ice mage. These are her walls. Do I need a spell for everything?”

They were such simple answers, but the Djinni blinked down his bespectacled face at Pisces. They stood together, waiting, as the [Slavers] shouted, and the Skeleton Champions’ jaws clattered. Pisces stood there.

Waiting.

——

Undead fought the living.

Outnumbered, defending a maze of bones as the ground itself turned dead. When they were slain, the magic animated them in seconds—but the undead did fall, and their bodies were hacked down, bones ground to dust.

The [Slavers] were coming. Pushing for the two figures who stood together. Waiting for someone to break their stalemate. They cursed Seemutor. Ordering him to battle, but his eyes were on the [Necromancer].

Waiting…waiting for the young man to look away. Pisces Jealnet refused to, even as arrows cracked on the wall between him and the attackers. He saw the Skeleton Champions falling back, fighting frantically to defend him. Dying…

The moment was coming. He was smiling, feeling his strength running out. He was holding the last of his magic tighter and tighter, compressing it down like Lareceina had shown him. He knew, now, Seemutor was a bit kind, as Djinni could be.

He was playing up the danger to give Pisces a few last moments. He acted well; he even appeared a bit afraid. But then the [Slavers] were staring at Pisces, separated by that wall of bone.

“Scourge, we have you. Come out and be shackled or die.”

One called, and Pisces whispered.

“You do have me. Give me one moment. I’ll see you shortly. But you will never put chains on me again. Not even my corpse.”

They shuddered as his head turned, and those pupils were glowing. Glowing a color no one here had ever seen but the Djinni, who held still.

The eyes of a [Necromancer]. It was then that Seemutor’s hands grasped a blade in each palm, and they would have been sweaty if they had any to give. For this was the kind of story Djinni told Djinni. They did tell stories, if the mortal was worthy enough.

This man who came so much by chance, connected to other beings that Seemutor had met…

Perhaps something favored him after all. For his hands glowed with a magic that made Seemutor’s essence shrink against it. And a fell wind was blowing, as if conjured by his words.

It blew hard across the [Slavers], who shielded their faces against the blasting sand. Crouched against their horses as the ones who had taken the maze of bone walls backed up. Backed out of the ivory-white walls, despite their leader’s cursing and their numbers.

The Scourge was coming out, and they waited for the Djinni to do its job. But it stood silent, and the wind blew harder until it was a howl. The sand was odd and clinging. Softer than one thought…one of the [Veteran Slave Takers] spat and cursed.

“Djinni, do your job! The [Necromancer] is at his weakest—finish this by blade or chain!”

He coughed as more sand got into his mouth, but it didn’t taste like the usual grit. He hacked, coughed, and swiped at the damn powdery…white stuff?

The [Slave Taker] blinked at the odd material on one glove. Finer than even sand grains. He rubbed his fingers and a few other [Slavers] turned. That wasn’t sand. It looked like…

“Flour?”

Then he heard a ringing—his [Dangersense]. But it had rung the moment they’d approached the [Necromancer]. This was a second bell, though. Loud and urgent. The [Slave Taker] whirled.

“Flour? It’s a storm. Take c—”

He threw himself down as he saw the storm whirling around them—and it should have been a clear day—blowing harder. As if someone had called it. Powder in the air, so fine it was choking everyone. A storm of particles. And then—blooming in the storm, ignited, spreading as the dust itself caught—

Fire.

——

The explosion blew up the flour dust and didn’t kill as much as you thought. Dust explosions were a known phenomenon around grain silos, and flour was a good combustible.

Against [Warriors], in the open, it couldn’t kill them. Deafen? Absolutely. Knock flat, disorient, burn, and concuss?

Not kill—which was why the shrieking [Bandits] came down on the [Slavers] mere seconds later, riding through the smoke with practice. They stabbed down with long spears, leapt off their saddles to impale the [Slavers].

The band was only eighty-strong. But they rode and fought like their namesake, who led the charge in with an enchanted sword raised high.

Merr the Storm, one of the [Bandit Ladies] of Chandrar. She was howling.

“Don’t let a single one leave alive! Pisces! Pisces, m’boy, you’d better be alive or I’ll kill you twice!”

She was racing around, swearing, heart pounding. Was she too late? They’d ridden hell-for-leather the moment they’d heard about the attacks and realized it wasn’t…

The madness of it. She saw bones scattered everywhere. The glowing flames in a skeleton’s head going out. Then—she heard a boom. Laughter.

Bones exploded as a Djinni burst upwards, shattering a dome made out of ivory. Merr swore, and there were screams.

“Oh shit, Djinni, Djinni—we have to run!”

“Belay that, hold! We have to get—”

They were all damned dead if that thing was powerful. Merr had an enchanted blade, but Djinni were not something anyone fought—she was looking around. If he was dead, then…

Her storm was dying down, but her eyes could pierce past the dust and wind as if it were calm. So that was how she saw him.

Pisces Jealnet stood in the shattered dome of bones, staring upwards as Seemutor the Djinni rode a cloud higher. He was laughing, lightning booming around him, but he didn’t fire down at the [Necromancer]. He was fleeing—westwards. Fast as he could fly.

Away from the young man who stood there with a rapier in hand. As the storm subsided, light shone down around him. He was brushing flour from his hair. Blinking.

Were his eyes glowing? Merr rubbed her own eyes and got some of the flour dust in it and cursed. When she blinked, it was just him.

Pisces lifted a hand as he stumbled towards her. He had blood on his skin, and he was covered in dirt. His face was fuller from the privation she remembered, and he seemed…steadier. An air of magic hung about him that she didn’t remember.

But he was the same. She halted, then swung herself off her saddle.

“You crazy [Necromancer]. What are you doing, taking on all of Roshal by yourself? Where’s that damn team you kept whining about, eh?”

“Merr? I thought I was dead. How did you find me?”

“Your face, fool.”

She strode over. As her [Bandits] turned, she threw her arms around him in a hug and picked him up. He hadn’t gained much weight, and he blinked. Almost protested. Then, as she put him down, he smiled at her.

“Merr.”

“That’s my name.”

She’d forgotten what she was going to say to him. The [Bandit Lady] was just smiling, at the figure she’d escaped her chains with. An adventurer come a continent away, just like he’d promised.

Silly man. They’d troubled him with his false reputation. But when she glanced around, remembered the glow, and saw the Djinni, still laughing as he fled—she wondered if they had exaggerated it, truly.

All of it could wait. Pisces rasped as he became, for a moment, that awkwardly gallant figure she remembered. He stumbled, nearly tripped on his robes, and gazed at her.

“I’m glad you found me, Merr. I missed you all.”

A smile broke across his weary, bloodstained face, and his eyes shone a second under the rising sun.

[Necromancer of Reclaimed Grandeur Level 46!]

Author’s Note:

Hey, it’s me. I did it. I finished another chapter just in time and am writing the Author’s Note less than an hour before posting.

I know it’s often said that I write ‘am tired’ in these post-chapter notes, but I do think it has been a lot better this year. With that said, this is a chapter I’m genuinely gratified I finished, because it’s been rough.

My Grandfather passed away, and the book launch is done; I wrote a blog post about it where I share more thoughts, but it’s made this week a very, very difficult one to write in, for personal reasons.

Yet I finished the chapter because writing does give me something back, and because writing about dead [Slavers] can’t be a bad thing. There was catharsis? I dunno, I hope this chapter encapsulates the part of the Pisces-arc of the Horns arc I wanted. I don’t have a Rickel or other chapter in me right now; I’m sure you understand.

And I am still pushing a bit because ideally, I finish the next chapter which should be the last in this arc and then I take my break. An extended break, perhaps. I just want to leave things on a narratively good part and give you a heads up; I’ll write a blog post with any plan next week.

A bit more and then I’ll rest. But I do want to take a break after this part because it matters to me. Even so, if I need more time I’ll delay the chapter or just start my break. Things are in flux and I’ll do what I need to. Just flagging for you all. Thank you all for the kind comments and support, and see you whenever the next chapter lands. I do like Pisces.

—pirateaba

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