The land was empty and hot, and as they crept along the kilometre-wide ridges of jagged stone, it only became emptier and hotter. Marché was used to the temperate and verdant ranges of the midlands, finding himself more affected than he would have liked by the sudden change in climate. The constant death march of his journey alongside the group’s strict rationing of water didn’t help in that regard.

It would be at least another two days before they reached the cluster of hilltops and spires within which the Dwarven people had staked their claim on the land. All he could hope for was that a simple recommendation - from an Elf, of all things - would grant them safe passage into the mountains’ boiling recesses.

“Oi!” Roland yelled over his shoulder, “You’ve been drinking from that waterskin for far too long! Have your fill then pass it on to the next person!”

The young Deathguard was disciplined and unforgiving, but with the best interests of the Order nestled in his heart. Though their relationship was amicable at the best of times, Marché had a secret respect for the man’s devotion to his comrades. He often found himself wishing that he could have the courage to speak to his own followers in such a dismissive fashion.

“Honestly…” Roland crept up behind Marché, “You give these people an inch, and they take a mile. We were stranded in the Deadlands from the moment of our births, and they act like it’s anything new to be marching across a wasteland.”

“I’m just thankful that Baccharum came through for us.” Marché replied, his voice marred by fits of constrained panting, “You’d think the Dwarves would be more aware of the fact that they’d allowed a criminal to enter the country, but from how that guard acted, you’d think he was a saint.”

“Well… he is a businessman. And the Dwarves do love their business.”

“The business of crime, you mean?”

“You make fun, but there are some differences between our cultures, Marché.” Roland replied, “We wouldn’t have been warring with them for hundreds of years if that wasn’t the case.”

“Suddenly it’s ‘we’ when you’re talking about war, is it?”

“Lay off. I’m tired.” He replied, “-But I won’t be once we reach those damnable mountains. If Baccharum knows we’re coming, there’s no doubt he’ll have a cushy hovel arranged for us to rest our weary heads.”

“-Assuming he hasn’t already arranged for the guards to arrest us as soon as we get there.”

“Not much of an optimist, are you?” Roland smirked, “Well - that’s not a bad thing. It pays to be careful when you’re as lambasted as we necromancers are.”

“If only Lieze could take a page out of that book…”

Their conversation came to an abrupt end when it became apparent that talking would only deepen their fatigue. Nothing could distract from the path ahead - even if there was no path to speak of. Marché was left to his thoughts for another hour as the cloud-caged needles of distant peaks crept closer with every step.

Then, the ground exploded.

He was thrown off his feet with such speed that his mind didn’t even comprehend the fall until he was on his back. Flecks of dust erupted into the air, concealing wicked spines attached to the body of some dreaded crag-beast. The creature’s weight bore down on him in an instant, dripping mandibles pouncing towards his throat for a quick kill.

Marché raised an arm on pure instinct, finding it pierced by two saw-like clampers which razed his skin clean off as they contracted. He felt the mandibles tighten, threatening to snap straight through the bone. Marché was too gripped by pain and confusion to think of reaching for his dagger, but thankfully, someone else had the right idea in his stead.

Roland rushed forward to stab the gangly, centipede-like beast in its exposed underbelly, blade dragging through the pulpy flesh and inviting a shower of blackened blood to coat Marché’s robes. With a terrible screech, the creature relinquished its death-grip on Marché’s arm and slithered away, leaving a trail of insectoid blood as it retreated.

“Don’t let it burrow into the ground!” Roland rallied the scattered members of the Order, “Use your [Blood Magic]! Keep clear of those mandibles!”

For the sake of maintaining their forged identities as members of the peasantry, each cultist had only brought along a small vial of blood. Their [Blood Spikes] were pitiful compared to the likes of Lieze’s, but fired in such a large number as to be completely unavoidable. As the centipede beast attempted to burrow itself to safety, its flank was peppered by crimson javelins, causing sheets of its iridescent carapace to fly off in a great, reflective light show.

Half-buried in the cracked soil, it went motionless with a quiet screech.

“You and you!” Roland pointed to two Deathguards in rapid succession, “Make sure it’s dead!”

He then turned his attention to Marché, who was clutching the bloodied grooves in his forearm with his free hand.

Stolen novel; please report.

“You!” He yelled to yet another Deathguard, “Get the medical supplies from the wagon! Bring some spirits, too!”

Marché wasn’t bothered so much by the pain as he was by the burning sensation which was spreading across the entire length of his left arm. It felt as if his blood was being turned to acid. He had experimented with enough alembics and distillers as a young member of the Church to understand at the very least that he’d been injected with some kind of foul venom.

“Marché?” Roland kneeled down next to him, “Are you well?”

“That monster was venomous…” He replied through clenched teeth, “You need to go get the alchemy supplies from the rear wagon… there should be a few pouches with assorted herbs - grab those as well.”

“Woah there, hang on a minute.” Roland held his hands up, “I’ve always been more proficient in raising corpses than mixing herbs. I imagine you’d be better off asking anyone else.”

“Get anyone to do it. It’s not difficult to make a universal antidote.” He said, “But tell me the reagents you’re using beforehand! You’ll end up killing me if you’re not careful!”

Marché’s so-called ‘alchemy kit’ was really nothing more than a mortar and pestle and some pouches of dried herbs. The circumstances of their journey would have quickly destroyed any alembics or sensitive instruments, and so he was forced to bring only the bare essentials.

Roland rifled through the cluster of pungent roots and flowers once the tools had been assembled. Some of them he recognised as powerful emetics and coagulants, but most seemed as mundane as any other herb. As the pain in his arm worsened, Marché attempted to keep his groans in check as he walked Roland through the correct procedure.

“There should be some desiccated Heartsbane in there…” He said, “It’s a red leaf with bristled edges… it should look wilted.”

“...Found it.” Roland plucked the crimson leaf out, “What else?”

“Tinworth. It looks like a sheet of metal, almost.” Marché answered, “The leaf is split into two peaks. But be careful - it looks an awful lot like-”

“This one?” Roland pulled out a herb that had three peaks but was otherwise identical.

“No. Absolutely not.” He insisted, “That’s Brewer’s Folly. You only take that if you need to shit yourself for whatever reason, and I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.”

“Why do you even have it?”

“It’s a powerful sedative when mixed with other herbs.” Marché explained, “-But please, ask me more questions. It’s not as if I’m struggling to keep my eyes open or anything like that.”

Roland clammed up and went back to rummaging through the satchel, “...Found it.”

“Good.” Marché breathed in to distract from the pain, “Make sure they’re crushed into a fine powder. It will stink to the high heavens, but that’s a sign that you’re on the right track. If it starts to smell floral, then you’ve overdone it. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Another Deathguard tended to the deep gashes on Marché’s forearm while he waited for Roland to clumsily crush the herbs up with the mortar and pestle. Some had gone off to ensure that the monster was dead, and - more importantly - to ascertain if it was at all edible.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Roland asked.

“I was once a monk, if you can believe that.” Marché answered, “The Church kept us in a monastery when we were taken from our village. Between copying lines of scripture and praying, alchemy classes were just about the only thing that kept me sane.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“A friend of mine. And his sister.” He replied, “They’re dead now.”

“You don’t mourn them?”

“Does a necromancer mourn?” He wondered, “That doesn’t seem like the type of thing Lieze would approve of.”

“You would be surprised how mournful the Order could be when Sokalar wasn’t around.” Roland mused, “To push the value of life to the back of one’s mind… that was a lesson we were forced to learn, but Kazor Nict believed that a necromancer had no right to take a life if they weren’t capable of understanding the intrinsic evil of their actions.”

“What are you saying? That what we’re doing is evil?” Marché’s nose curled, “The antidote is finished. I can smell it.”

“What do you want me to do now? Just pour it down your throat?”

“It tastes better than you would think. Not good, but better.” He replied, “It pairs well with wine, but we aren’t exactly spoiled for luxury at the moment. So yes - just pour it in.”

The concoction was dry and unpalatable. Marché had to resist the urge to spit it out, but doing so would have casted his chances of survival out onto the barren winds. With a frown, he swallowed as much of the powder as he could manage before coughing up the remains. The pain didn’t improve, but he knew better than to expect instant results.

“Ugh…” He groaned, “Better me than anyone else, I suppose.”

“...You don’t think necromancy is evil?” Roland asked.

“Is it?”

“‘Is it’, he asks…” He crossed his legs, “Anyone foolish enough to wander into the Deadlands thinking they’d be the first to strike a deal with necromancers, we gutted and added to our ranks and stole from them everything they owned. A passing caravan was like a birthday for everyone at once - presents all around.”

“Isn’t death the entire point of the Order?”

“Perhaps, but we don’t kill for pleasure.” Roland replied, “-Or, at least, that’s what I would like to say. As you can imagine, it’s difficult to desensitise someone to murder without giving them a taste for it. Sokalar rewarded that kind of behaviour.”

“What good are ‘morals’ when your goal is extinction?” Marché wondered.

“The body may die, but the spirit remains.” He answered, “-And if the body was wicked, then so too shall the spirit be wicked. If we do not preserve ‘morality’, then the world we wish to create will be cursed with just as much conflict as before.”

“How can you know that spirits feel anything?”

“From the testimonials of the recently departed.” Roland continued, “Those who have been resurrected described the existence of their ego even in death. While their incorporeal forms were truly immortal, that did not prevent conflict from existing within their hearts.”

Marché paused, “...Then what are we doing? It sounds to me as if we’re replacing one problem with another, and causing plenty of suffering along the way.”

“Don’t you think immortality is preferable to the fear of death?”

“...It depends.” He settled on that unsatisfying answer.

Roland smirked, “We’ll set up camp here tonight and see if that horrid creature is worth eating. You’ll be ready to keep on going by tomorrow morning, I trust?”