After a day’s work for the undead and half a day’s for the living, the abandoned guard tower was no longer abandoned, nor did it house any guards. Instead, it now belonged to a very satisfied necromancer, named Jerry, who had never in his life felt prouder at owning something.

Shoes were nice, sure, but a tower was a tower, and what was a necromancer without his tower?

Of course, there was still plenty of work to be done, but the building was at least habitable.

Sometime around noon, Jerry and Derek had stopped working and started lazing about. Being a necromancer had its perks, and besides, Jerry didn’t want to take advantage of Derek’s goodwill. They’d simply done the jobs that required a human mind. The more menial tasks, like wiping the endless dust off the floors, had been left to the tireless undead.

There were three floors to the tower, each simpler than the last. The ground floor housed rooms for the guards, with five two-person bedrooms and one for only one person, presumably the commander. Decorated army-style, of course, which meant not at all.

A flight of thin stone stairs later came the storage room. Probably. It was empty now, as everything of value had been ransacked by the villagers or bandits, and only a few broken arrows remained in a corner.

On the third and final floor was a living room, or what resembled it. Wooden chairs sat around three tables while a stove rested in a corner, all too heavy and bulky to be carried away by the looters. Some cupboards still contained stuff, and it was so rotten and dirty and smelly that the cupboards were summarily removed and thrown down a nearby cliff.

A few cooking utensils were spared, though; they could be useful.

Above the third floor was the roof with its battlements, which would be useless to Jerry until he could procure bows and arrows.

However, the most important part of the building was below ground, because there was a basement! Jerry was ecstatic! What self-respecting necromancer did not have a basement?

It was only occupied by two half-filled water barrels and a ton of multi-legged insects, but it would soon serve as Jerry’s laboratory. No sense in frightening guests with all the messy details.

Of course, the house was filled with bugs, mostly cockroaches. Foxy took charge here, mopping the floor with the critters, and Derek procured two more fox bodies from the forest.

Two skeletons were extracted from the corpses and set to bug hunting, while Derek strung the remaining flesh up to extract the blood and prepared a bonfire for later. It wouldn’t be the best meal, but it would do.

Night came, and Derek left after they ate, leaving behind his cart of tools. Jerry promised to return it soon and thanked him profusely for all his help.

He then surveyed his little army of undead. There was Skeleton One, Shorty, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and two extra foxes who did not get a name as they would be de-animated soon. Keeping up too many undead was tiring for Jerry, though he didn’t know why.

It wasn’t some grand undead army, but he was getting there.

Of them all, Jerry eventually decided to keep Headless as a zombie, even though they were a bit messier than skeletons. It would be handy to have a zombie close by for experiments, plus his intimidation factor was higher like this.

As for the bandit corpses themselves, Jerry had rifled through their clothes and found nothing. Only a couple worn-out taels lined their pockets, which wouldn’t be too useful in the villages here—they mostly traded through barter, not currency—as well as their shortswords and the clothes they wore.

None of this was immediately useful, so Jerry threw them in the storage room.

Night came and passed, the necromancer sleeping in the guard commander’s room, where the foxes had taken extra care to remove all bugs.

The undead kept working through the night, tireless and with adequate eyesight. From last night’s foxes, Jerry had crafted Headless a pair of leather strips that he used to keep his head at chest height, wrapping them around the base of his neck.

Come next morning, the tower was mostly clean, so the undead were sent to gather water, food, and firewood. Then, they began cleaning again. Jerry spent the day putting his woodworking skills to the test; Headless used an axe to chop the wood into usable shapes, then Jerry used the nails and hammer provided in Derek’s cart to fashion the wood into crude but serviceable furniture.

He made a long bench. That’s all. At least, he had tons of wood to spare for later, which was nice, and Headless was still chopping away at the poor forest.

Tables and chairs were aplenty, as were beds, utensils, and the stove. Honestly, the tower was pretty set, especially after the bench he installed in the basement. It hadn’t been abandoned long enough for the old furniture to rot.

Now, only one thing was left to do. Grabbing a rough wooden pike, an equally rough wooden tablet, and a paintbrush from Derek’s cart, he took off toward the entrance. A few moments later, a wooden sign was placed in front of the tower for all to see.

‘Jerry Shoeson. Shoemaker.’

Jerry looked at it and nodded in satisfaction. Finally, with the housework mostly done, it was time for something much more fun.

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“Oh, Shortyyy! Boneyyy!” Jerry called out, and the comically short zombie approached. The poor guy only reached the base of a normal person’s chest as it lacked a torso. Jerry waited until Boney—the strangely cognizant skeleton who had outgrown the name Skeleton One—arrived, too.

“Come with me, boys.” The necromancer gave them an evil grin. “I suppose we’re done with work, so it’s experiments time!”

“Certainly, Master,” Boney replied.

Jerry froze. “Come again?”

***

The central basin of the Axel ridge was occupied by thick, towering giants made of bark and wood. They were dark brown, though the light in the area was plenty.

On the branches of some of these large trees were houses built entirely of wood, with hanging bridges connecting the different trunks. There were a few dozens of these houses, all exuding a natural air of tranquility.

However, despite the place’s serene atmosphere, there was no calmness to be found. The wooden treehouses, for all their beauty, were occupied by cutthroats, bandits, highwaymen, murderers, and all other kinds of ugly folk. This was the hideout of the Greenskin bandits, a bandit crew as feared as it was infamous, the terror of all nearby settlements.

On the higher branches of the largest tree stood a hut sturdier than the others. Its walls were plain and not at all decorated, but its sole occupant’s importance could not be overstated.

A young bandit by the name of Brad arrived before this hut. He was blond, with piercing blue eyes and a square jaw, while his muscular chest was outlined by a white vest that seemed untouched by the forest’s dirt.

It hadn’t been a year since he joined, but his cunning and ruthlessness had quickly earned him a rank close to the top. The unfortunate accidents that his superiors tended to suffer helped, too.

“Boss,” he said, hesitantly knocking on the door.

He waited. A few moments later, a man’s rough voice resounded.

“Enter.”

Brad respectfully pushed the door open, revealing a clean, tidy interior filled with books and bookshelves, everything centered around one large, mahogany desk—how that had been carried all the way up here was a mystery.

Atop the desk lay an open book, a goose-feathered quill, and a small ink box, while on the nearby chair sat a person that should, by sheer context, be calm and scholarly.

Jericho looked anything but.

He was a bronze-skinned titan of a man, large and full of tense muscle, barely fitting in the wide chair. His hair was long, dark, and straight, while his eyes were a deeply vivid green. Despite the sharp, plain clothes he wore, despite his serene expression and scholarly environment he placed himself in, Jericho still managed to strike the impression of a tiger ready to pounce; a loose, violent beast about to tear you limb from limb with its bare hands.

Even standing in his presence was enough to make most men buckle.

Just as Brad entered the hut, Jericho looked up from the open book as if engrossed in its contents. It was only a façade, of course—this was Jericho’s deepest, most sacred secret, a taboo so great no one would mention it.

Though he enjoyed looking cultured, Jericho couldn’t read.

This was a secret every bandit knew already, but who dared tell him? Their leader was infamous for abrupt bursts of violence.

“Speak, Brad,” said Jericho, his voice deep and commanding.

“We lost three men near the village of Pilpen, sir,” the younger bandit said. “They either ran away or were killed.”

“What is the village of Pilpen?”

“It is to the west, sir. A tiny village two days away, that three men had been sent to scout out a week ago. They did not return.”

“I see,” Jericho said. Brad held his breath. “You have a strong mind, Brad. What do you think? Did they desert us?”

“I… Thank you, sir. I believe they ran away. Dying at such a tiny village would be unlikely.”

Brad’s voice carried reserved confidence, the kind he knew superiors liked. It saved them the trouble of thinking themselves.

“Good,” Jericho said.

“Then—”

“Send twelve men to the village,” Jericho ordered. “Whether they deserted or died, it matters little. They disappeared near that village, and so the village must burn. Let them pay, and let all others know the fate that awaits them should they cross us—this is how we, the Greenskin bandits, act.”

“Very well, sir.”

Brad bowed and walked backward, ready to leave.

“And, Brad?” called out the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Most of the men call me boss or chief… Only you call me sir. You are a cultured man, Brad; I like that about you, so do try to keep your head on your shoulders—unlike everyone else’s, it seems to work. I expect great things from you.”

“You honor me, sir.” Brad bowed deeper. “I’ll do my best.”

Jericho nodded, turned back to the book he pretended to read, and Brad closed the door behind him. He smiled. Oh, what a bright future I have.