The training hall was one of the six burrows. It was identical to the office of Commandment Van Graif, but with a few key differences. First, the training hall was relatively empty, lacking the furniture of the command burrow. Several low benches encircled the yawning main room. The walls were plastered with wooden racks that held any kind of weapon Peter had ever seen and many he couldn’t identify.

Peter turned to greet his trainer at the sound of firm footsteps on the stone floor. He blinked in stupefaction. He had anticipated a drill sergeant or perhaps a herculean coach. He had to drop his chin a few inches to look her in the eyes. For a moment, he mistakenly thought he was looking at a child, but her posture was rigid and poised, which spoke of maturity. He blinked. The very short woman had a prosthetic hand with a fixed thumb and three articulating claws that she somehow curled in and out as she studied him through small, close-set eyes. Firm shoulders exposed through her training vest indicated that she spent much of her time in the gymnasium.

Peter instinctively stood a bit straighter. Even at the edge of his leech radius, she had to crane her neck to look up at him appraisingly.

“I’m Norah Braam,” she said in a loud and high voice. “I was briefed for your specific training regiment, Mr. Van Seur. That means I have the clearance to know what you really are. I am privy to your status as, shall we say, a man of unusual abilities. Therefore, no secrets.”

Peter nodded intently and tried to ignore the fact that she had called him Mister.

“Well, it looks like you already know my name,” Peter said.

“How much field experience do you have?” she asked professionally.

“Umm … not much. Let’s just say zero,” Peter confessed nervously.

Norah scratched her head with one of the steel claws and sighed. “Well, I’ve been instructed to cram you with as much training and knowledge as possible.”

“So … I’m going to learn to fight?” Peter asked eagerly, glancing over at an impressive rack of nasty-looking sharp things and hand cannons.

“We don’t have time for that,” Norah said. “And from what I hear, you don’t need it anyway.”

“Oh,” Peter said, disappointed.

“What you need to learn is when to fight.”

“Okay!” Peter nodded, once again enthused.

“Are you familiar with the Aart’s undead classification method?” Norah asked as she pulled out a small pamphlet and tossed it towards him, careful not to step into his leech radius.

Peter fumbled with the catch. The pamphlet fell to the floor. He picked it up, reddening. “No,” Peter confessed.

“It was written by our head of research, Doctor Fabian Aarts. He has traveled and studied undead since they first appeared upon the arrival of the courts.”

“Okay.” Peter flipped through the pages. The pamphlet was full of illustrations and bullet points. It appeared to have been illustrated and written by hand, but looking closer, Peter realized it was printed. That surprised him, as printing illustrations required expensive plates and dyes.

“Before you ever fight or engage an undead in any way, you must know what it is. There are countless varieties of the undead, and from what we can tell, new ones are popping up everywhere. We use the Aarts Undead Classification Method to determine what each one might be.”

“That makes sense,” Peter said, eagerly, drinking it in. This approach to training surprised him. He had expected to run laps or fitness circuits immediately. At seventeen, he hadn’t been particularly athletic, and obviously he was in horrible shape now, so he had been dreading the training. This, on the other hand, felt like research. He loved research, and courts were an entirely new field of study.

“The first thing to determine is their state. We can group any undead into one of three states: feral, cognitive, or stagnant.”

“So, an undead can be animalistic, or smart, or … What’s stagnant?

She nodded. “Right. Stagnant means they’re more like tools than problem solvers or animals. They don’t act until commanded.”

“Like the sentinels in Stalpia, ” Peter said. “They just stand around until called to action.”

“Exactly,” Norah said. However, I’ve never heard anyone call them sentinels. We call any animated corpses ghouls, which seems to be what courts and their retainers call them.”

“It’s just what I’ve been calling them,” Peter said. “Ghouls, huh? What about crops? They’re stagnant.”

Norah shook her head. "Van Seur, crops are people, not ghouls. You should know that. ghouls are dead, crops live if not in a repressive state. The only reason crops exist is to fuel Rahashel's ghoul armies."

Peter blushed. "It's just I've heard enforcers call us half-lives. Does the program account for us?"

Norah pinched the bridge of her nose with her prosthetic. "It might just be a colloquialism or something we don't understand yet. Crops are people and, therefore, can be saved. ghouls are as alive as a train. Capable of performing motor functions, but without fuel; just an object."

Peter's mind flashed back to the ghouls, black-eyed and emotionless, hacking at him with swords, bent on dismembering him. His chest tightened as he ripped himself from the memory.

“That’s not all,” Norah continued. “The longer your encounter with an undead run, the lower your chance of survival becomes. So, you must use your time to gather information on the undead you’re facing. The first thing is to determine its state.”

“Feral, cognitive, and stagnant,” Peter repeated.

“Precisely,” Norah said. Her eyes twinkled with reflective glass light, and she smiled, cocking her head to the side as if redeciding what she should expect of him.

Great, had she expected an idiot? Peter grimaced.

“After you find its state, you must decide its class. That’s how you gauge how the ghoul is built.”

“What are the classes?”

“The first class is corroded, meaning the undead has rotted and is falling apart. Whoever controls it isn’t maintaining it. If left unattended, it will decompose and become nonfunctional.”

“When Rahashel first attacked, the undead who surrounded the city were mostly bones,” Peter said.

“That’s right!” Norah said. “Corroded usually come right out of the grave.”

Peter grew excited, which was a first for him. Since being freed, he’d felt deeply unsettled by the thought of fighting the undead. These monsters were the enemy, but understanding them made them seem more tangible and less nightmarish.

“What’s next?”

“After that, we have fresh undead. These are usually your fallen friends after a lich raises them again.”

“Great,” Peter muttered. He didn’t think there was anything great about it.

“Next, there are sustained undead. Sustained undead have been dressed or otherwise preserved.”

“Like the sentinels?” Peter asked.

“Yeah; sentinels, as you call them, are Sus-Stag ghouls.”

“So you just mush the words stagnant and sustained together?” Peter asked, flipping through the pamphlet and skimming through the given examples.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Basically. Everyone has all the variations memorized. Eventually, you're expected to do the same, but it will take time. Don't worry too much for now. When in doubt, kill it.”

“Three states, three classes. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Norah snorted.

“There are also enforced, gargoyle, and ogre class undead.”

Peter paled.

“Enforced ghouls are inhumanly strong and fast. They might be shielded or have reserve hearts. Gargoyles are ghouls with stone or metal skin. Ogre-class ghouls are big and nasty.”

“Great,” Peter muttered. “No problems at all. Bloated, supercharged, stone, undead monsters. Do we have a chance?”

“It’s not going to be easy.” Norah agreed.

“State, then class. I think I have it.”

“One more,” Norah said. “You’ll need to decide their type, and that’s important.”

“They have types as well?” Peter asked, growing overwhelmed. “Okay, It might take a while to memorize all this.”

“You deserve to be taught the correct definitions,” Norah said a bit more gently, “but keep in mind that this is an ever-changing system. Very few people actually know the minutiae of undead classification. Usually, the best way to pick up correct usage is through combat and experience. We all started like you.”

“What are the types?”

“As far as we can tell, there are two types of undead: ghouls and liches.”

“Everyone has been calling me a lich,” Peter said, except for the ones who know I’m court. He didn't say that part out loud. By Commandant Van Graif's orders, his identity as a court was to remain secret.

“That’s right,” Norah said. “We think that a lich is a living person who has been altered to have an undead body or abilities. Sometimes, they look more undead than living. Those animal-headed freaks that came with Court Rahashel are liches. We’ve also discovered that many of his human overseers are gifted with power, so they would be liches, too.”

“I can think of a few who probably are,” Peter said, recalling the strange purple fire Mayor Espen Hummel had thrown at the bridge.

“liches are less common. Your most frequent enemy will be ghouls, programs designed to inhabit a corpse. They don’t have souls. They just respond the way they were designed.”

“Like the sentinels — uh, that is, the ghouls that the enforcers control,” Peter said.

“Exactly,” Norah said with an approving nod. “You catch on quick.”

"There are theories that there might need to be a Type where a living body and undead element vie for control of a host. We're not sure how to classify vampires, and crops might qualify," Norah waved a dismissive hand, "but don't worry about that."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s it. Are you ready to see how fast you can classify?”

“Um — ”

Before Peter could ask for clarification, Norah shot off, “The sentinels that guard Rahashalian territory, what are they and why? Go!”

“Okay, you just said this,” Peter said as he tried to navigate the flow chart he had drawn in his head. “Their state is stagnant because they just stand there until called to action.”

“Yes. And?

“They're not corroded or fresh, so they’re Sustained?”

“What about their Type?”

“Um … ghouls? That’s it. They’re stagnant, sustained ghouls, or sus-stag ghouls.”

“Very good,” a newcomer's voice said. ”Only, it's way too slow. Your team is dead.”

“Doctor Aarts!” Norah said.

A portly, heavily mustached man in a white coat hanging open over a suit and vest with a gold pocket watch chain approached, careful to stop far enough away from Peter. The doctor wore a bowler cap, and his forehead folded into a glare as he scrutinized Peter.

“Van Seur. This is Doctor Fabian Aarts, the very creator of the classification system,” Norah said formally.

“Yes, yes, Van Seur is it?” Doctor Aarts said sharply. “Please smile and wait for the flash.”

Without further warning, the doctor drew a pistol from his lab coat and shot Peter in the head.

The effect was so jarring that Peter couldn’t cry out before he hit the ground. Once he oriented himself, he was sitting on the floor, propped up by his palms behind him.

“What?” he said, the shock reverberating through his body, but otherwise unharmed.

“Interesting.” Doctor Aarts had a pencil and a paper pad and wrote observations down.

“My floor!” Norah shrieked. “Doctor Aarts, this tomb is my training ground. Do you not have enough room for research in your tomb?”

“My apologies, Norah,” the doctor said, not bothering to look up. “I just don’t think this little worm would be very compliant if I didn’t catch him by surprise.”

Little worm? What?

The doctor flipped out the canister casing in his pistol and loaded in another.

He shot Peter in the leg this time, and Peter cried out as the shell tore through his calf. Less than three seconds later, the pain was gone, and Peter jumped to his feet. ”What was that for?” he demanded.

“Research,” the doctor said casually before filling out more notes.

“You called me a little worm! Do I know you?” Peter demanded, resentfully.

“No, but I know you. You’re the kind of worm who will get in the way of progress for a little power,” Fabian snapped. “Captain Tobias told me you refused to give him the armband. If you know what is good for you — no, for humanity — you would give it to more capable hands!” the doctor loaded in another thick slug.

“Doctor!” Norah cried. “Don’t —”

“Yeah, your floor. I’ll have an assistant clean it up.”

“Not my floor, you retchgasket,” she hissed, her tiny frame quivering with rage. “Them! Over there! Who let them in?”

the doctor turned to see where the coach was pointing. Three men in dark clothes and plumed hats lounged at the entrance of the training tomb.

“Rot,” the doctor cursed. “How much did they see?”

“I don't know,” Norah spat, glowering at the three figures. “But maybe you should exercise your experiment in a more controlled environment.”

“Who are they?” Peter asked, frowning at the fresh tears in his new trousers.

“They were the King’s Cell,” Norah said. “Now they’re mercenaries contracted to Nine Fingers. We are seriously lacking manpower, and they’re extraordinarily competent.”

“Thieves and bandits,” the doctor injected, bitterly.

It was clear that neither the trainer nor the doctor liked the three men who observed them from the doorway.

Being discovered was suboptimal, sure, but on the whole Peter was significantly more bothered about being shot repeatedly, point blank. It was clear that Doctor Aarts thought of Peter in much the same light the captain did. Peter tried to push down his growing resentment.

“Doctor,” Peter said, finally, “I will cooperate with whatever testing you need me to do. I’ll even let you shoot me if that’s what it takes.” He shivered as he said those words out loud, remembering the sensation of his own splintering bone, but forced himself to continue. “However, your timing and entry are openly disrespectful to my coach.” Peter winced. “No offense.”

Doctor Aarts looked at Peter sharply, with fresh curiosity. His lips curled ever so slightly in approval. Norah looked quickly down at her hands, but Peter saw the faintest hint of triumph in her posture. “Well, err … He’s right, Norah. Maybe my entry was a little uncalled for,” the doctor looked at her apologetically. “I’ll wait my turn and have an assistant clean the blood off your floor.”

“Don’t bother,” Peter said. “I’ll take care of it.”

The doctor’s expression softened a little bit, as if he felt that he owed Peter a reevaluation.

Peter smiled apologetically and shrugged. His mother taught him to always be polite and kind, and as a kid, Peter did well. It had largely made up for his scarce list of close friends, but adults usually liked him. A well-behaved boy was a good boy in their eyes. He carried that distant fondness from his elders into his youth, and now he hoped it would help him in his old age.

“You will cooperate?” the doctor asked. “What if I need to skin you?”

Peter shivered. “Do you?”

“There is an easier way. Give me the band. Then skinning may not be necessary.”

Peter stepped back defensively. “Commandant Van Graif gave me orders never to take it off,” he apologized. “If you can get him to approve, then I’ll do it.”

Doctor Aarts growled. “Van Graif is wrong.”

Norah frowned.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that unless I get orders to do so.”

A vein overshadowed by the doctor's bowler had bulged dangerously.

“Doctor, I don’t want any ill feelings between us. I respect men of study, and I think what you do is fascinating. But I received an order.”

“Where was this fierce obedience when Tobias asked you to hand it in?” Doctor A’arts asked, folding his arms. “It seems you only obey when it suits you.”

“That was different.” Peter tried. “I had to —”

“Save your friend? Like I said, only obedient when it suits you,” the doctor turned and stomped off, and Peter instantly began to dread his upcoming research session.

“It was supposed to be him,” Norah said. Her voice was flat and cold.

Peter looked at her. She said it so chillingly.

“He was going to get the court weapon. He has been preparing for it. No doubt he sees you as a thief.”

Peter nodded. That made a lot more sense. He couldn’t exactly say he blamed the doctor. He was sure he would have acted the same if he had planned and prepared for something this big, only to have a stranger step in and take it in his place.

“Hey! Peep show is over!” Norah barked at the three men standing by the entrance. Her hooks gleamed in the gaslight of the lanterns on the wall. “Get out of my burrow.”

The men stood for a second, then, one by one, turned to leave deliberately. The message was clear. They acted on their own time and only went because they wanted to.

“Norah,” Peter asked. “How do you kill a ghoul?”

“Easy. You just get close to them and touch them. With your Bedorven, it should be easy. It’s the rest of us who have to strategize.”

“But how do you kill them?”

“Why?” Norah asked. “You are a weapon.”

“I just want to understand how they work. What they really are.”

“Okay …” Norah began, ticking off on her fingers. “The best way to kill a ghoul is with a cannon.”

Peter didn’t expect that. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. Bombs work, too. You want to kill them from as far away as possible and destroy the body if you can. They don’t die. Unless you hit their heart.”

“Their heart?” Peter asked. “But why?”

Norah shrugged. “I don’t know. Even if you cut off their head or damage any other organs, they keep coming.”

“Why don’t they die?” Peter asked. “If your body is damaged badly enough, it should die. How do they survive?”

“I’m sorry,” Norah said. “I have no idea. I don’t think anybody does, but you might want to ask the doctor when you meet him. He’ll have theories.”

“I don’t think he’ll be in a sharing mood,” Peter said, wryly.

“Yeah …” Norah agreed. “Probably not.”

Peter started thinking, as he always did. “Is there somewhere I could find out more about them? Another manual, perhaps?”

“If only there was. The courts haven't been around for long enough for us to know much of anything about them.”

“Seriously?” Peter grew doubtful. “How is it that we don’t know anything about them after all these years?”

“All these years?” Norah looked confused. “Van Seur, how long do you think the courts have been here?”

Peter shrugged. “I feel like I’m two hundred, so I don’t know, fifty or so years at least.”

Norah tried a friendly smile, but it slid toward pity. “Van Seur, the courts came six months ago.”