When Jerry exited the tower, he found himself staring not at a fence but a veritable wall.

Or, at least, a small part of a wall.

When he said ‘fence,’ he’d meant sparse wooden stakes on the ground, maybe with a loose array of planks connecting them. It would be a barrier with little practicality, built for the sole reason of marking one’s territory.

However, Jerry had not given detailed instructions, and Boney had taken the task to heart. For the small part of the wall that had been constructed—barely nine feet in length—thick wooden stakes had been lodged in the ground in three-foot intervals. Tightly connected planks extended between them, blocking access and view from the outside while stretching to a height of only four feet, for now.

When Jerry saw them, Boney was busy painting the wall black—thank Desistos for Derek’s cart of tools—while Headless was chopping wood into rough planks and stakes. Boboar burst out of the forest, carrying a bunch of thick branches between his tusks, while Foxy was nowhere to be seen.

“Master!” Boney exclaimed as soon as he spotted the necromancer, putting his paintbrush down and sticking his chest out. “Your fence is under construction, Master!”

“Yahhh!” Headless made a wordless cry, saluting against his head which hung at chest height.

“Don’t lose your head…” Jerry muttered back.

Boboar, too, squealed and rushed to Jerry’s side to be petted, dropping the wood he was carrying.

“Guys, that’s…” Jerry was lost for words, absent-mindedly rubbing Boboar’s skull.

“You probably had something simpler in mind, Master,” Boney said with pride, “but you deserve only the best! We refuse to give anything less!”

“Yahh!” Headless cheered again, all three workers looking at their master proudly.

Jerry looked at all the work they’d put in for him. Even though they were undead, hence tireless, it was still touching.

“Good job, everyone!” he shouted back, eliciting another round of cheers. “This will take more time to be completed, but it doesn’t matter. Good work takes precedence. Just make sure to keep it at the present height, please. We don’t want to come off as too intimidating.”

“As you command, Master.” Boney bowed. Jerry smiled. He liked being a necromancer.

The night that followed was cold and windy, and Jerry did not feel tired anymore. The tower had a stove that doubled as a heater, and they had plenty of wood to burn.

He called his undead friends to the last floor, where the stove was located, and created a warm, homely atmosphere for them all. He grabbed a cup of alcohol—Derek had stashed a bottle in his cart of tools, bless that man—and some leftover fox meat, creating a feast. Only Jerry himself could partake in it, unfortunately, but the undead didn’t mind.

He then grabbed a thoroughly cleaned blanket from a random guard room and laid it over his legs, sitting on a sturdy wooden chair. Boboar lay next to him, the skeleton’s head at petting level, while Foxy lay on Jerry’s legs. When he moved her a bit, the bones weren’t painful. She was pretty light.

Boney, Shorty, and Headless all took up their own chairs by the fire, looking pleased. Jerry suspected they could not feel the comfortable heat, but their master’s pleasure and attention made them happy regardless.

They spent a few hours just sitting there, relaxing by the fire and enjoying each other’s company. Jerry spoke of stories and legends he knew, such as the time a giant moth swallowed part of the sun and became the moon, or the time he had been forced to run around the village naked on his birthday because the neighbors had stolen his clothes.

Jerry realized he missed home a bit, but not much. In all honesty, there was nothing much to miss there, and the nightmare of a life he’d led had extinguished any good feelings he might have otherwise harbored. Even his family was faint in his mind. He would probably visit them at some point, but for now, he was walking his own path, as all people should eventually do.

This was his home now.

Tom Boney joined in on the fun, speaking stories of his past life as a bandit, along with all the fun stuff that happened to bandits. They’d captured a traveling bard once and had him compete in a jokes competition with one of their gang, who was also a bard. The traveling bard won and was set free—without his valuables, of course.

Another time, a bandit had drunk so much that he’d tried to make out with a wooden log on which somebody had painted a woman.

Tom and Jerry laughed at the stories, while the rest of the undead shared in the mirth, even though they had trouble comprehending what was said. Headless even tried to play some music, rhythmically banging his chest with his head like a gong. It was a cute failure.

For the first time in sixteen years, in an abandoned guard tower, in front of a warm fire and surrounded by undead friends…Jerry truly felt at home.

***

The next day, Jerry decided it was time to visit the village again. Most of the housekeeping jobs were done so he had to return Derek’s tools, plus he could buy the shoemaking equipment he needed. There used to be a shoemaker in the village a few years ago, as Derek had informed him, and the mayor had stored his equipment away after he’d died. Jerry could buy it now and repay the village with his services.

Of his undead, Boney and Headless would be left behind to guard the place. They were hard at work making the wall, anyway.

Shorty, Boboar, and Foxy would follow Jerry. He didn’t intend for them to enter the village or meet any villagers, but they would be hidden nearby, just in case. After the last time his life had been threatened by Murdock, Jerry had grown a bit wary.

The village of Pilpen was a short hour’s walk away, and that time passed in a blink. Jerry was so used to walking for days on end that this short timespan didn’t even register.

Hiding the skeletons in a thick patch of bushes just outside the village, Jerry casually walked inside the settlement, pushing Derek’s cart. The villagers gawked at his arrival; whether they’d forgotten about him or expected him to run away after the incident with Murdock, he didn’t know, but nobody spoke to him. Jerry didn’t speak to anybody either, besides a few awkward good mornings.

He didn’t mind.

Whistling, he reached Derek’s home and knocked on the door, expecting the large hunter to appear. Instead, his daughter did; Holly, the girl that Jerry had saved from the bandits. She wore a pink dress this time, reaching all the way to her ankles.

“Hi,” Jerry said jovially. “How have you been, Holly?”

“Hi…” she replied. Her eyes darted from left to right, not finding any undead, and only then did she relax a bit. “I, uh… I’m good. Shocked, still. But good.”

“That’s great. If I saved you only to have you collapse later, that would be tragic.” He laughed, while Holly did not. Jerry realized his joke was mistimed. She was clearly shaken, and her wide-eyed stare made him uncomfortable.

“So,” he asked, “is your father home?”

“He’s out hunting.”

“I see.”

A short silence ensued. “Well, I just came by to drop this cart and say hi. I’ll come by again before I leave the village, but if Derek still isn’t back, tell him he’s invited to my tower for drinks whenever he wants. He can bring whoever he wants to, as well.”

“All right…” she responded hesitantly, and Jerry’s invitation seemed to find her hesitant.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Well, have a nice morning,” the necromancer called out as he turned to leave. Seeing Holly afraid of him was sad, but what could he do? It would pass.

“Jerry?” she asked, making him turn around. She clenched her fists. “I’m… Thank you for saving me. I really appreciate it, I’m just a bit scared right now, okay? That’s all. I- I really do think you’re a nice person.”

Jerry blinked, then smiled. “You’re welcome,” he said. “It’s okay to take your time. Everybody feels weak occasionally. Just be you, be honest to yourself, and everything will be fine.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you…” she said after a moment.

“No problem. I got to go now. See you around, Holly!”

With a final smile, Jerry turned around and left, letting her puzzled eyes linger on his back. He then walked through the tiny village, enduring the villagers’ hard stares. He whistled in return. If they wanted to look at him, he didn’t particularly mind.

Arriving at the largest house, he knocked on the door twice. A short tower rose from the back of the building, which also doubled as a church to Manna, the Goddess of Life. The door creaked open.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice, and her eyes darkened as she took in Jerry’s form. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, quite not invitingly.

He remembered her; this was Melissa, the mayor’s wife, who had sided with Murdock at the village council. She was a beautiful, raven-haired woman with a glare that could pierce wood. A long green shift made of linen covered her, over which she donned a sleeveless woolen tunic secured at the shoulder with brooches. Two chains hung from these brooches, each with a key attached to its end. It was a convenient way to carry things, given that most people didn’t have pockets.

“Hi,” Jerry said. “I’m here for the mayor.”

“What for?” she asked sharply. He frowned. While Jerry was an easygoing person, he did not particularly enjoy being treated rudely.

“To buy the shoemaker’s equipment he has,” he replied. “Can I come in?”

“I guess you can,” she responded after a moment of hesitation. “But refer to me as mayoress, please.”

“Ah yes, a title that speaks of your abilities. It means you were chosen as the people’s leader, right?” It didn’t. She just happened to be the wife of that person. “I actually know a skeleton with an equally meaningful title.”

The woman stared daggers, and Jerry smiled pleasantly. Before she could respond, a rotund man walked into the room, wearing the tunic and leggings common to the people around here. His round eyes sparkled with spirit.

“Jerry!” he said, with an enthusiasm that was abandoned in short order when he noticed his wife’s murderous gaze. “May Mother Manna’s light shine upon you. How can I help you today?” he continued, noticeably more flatly.

“Hi there, Mayor. I’m interested in buying the shoemaking equipment that Derek told me you have.”

“Ah, yes, old Jerome’s. He had no children, so the village got it when he passed. I think it’s in the basement, somewhere… Would you enjoy some milk while I look for it?”

“Sure.”

“I was in the middle of weaving, unfortunately, so I cannot keep you company,” Melissa said. She then quickly took off, leaving the two men alone in the room.

“She’s a busy woman,” the mayor, Ashman, said. He coughed into his hand, clearly embarrassed. “And a bit twitchy as of late. Come, let me fetch you a cup, and then I will have to trouble you to wait.”

“That is no problem. I enjoy letting time pass.”

The mayor led Jerry to a woolen chair which felt like heaven . It reminded him that he had to create one of these for himself. Ashman then poured Jerry a cup of milk and took off for a flight of stairs, heading downwards.

Jerry waited.

The mayor lived in quite the opulent house; besides the shiny yellow sphere placed prominently above the fireplace—Manna’s symbol, though this one wasn’t actual gold—animal hides covered parts of the wooden walls, while random ornaments decorated the tables. Jerry immediately assumed this extravagance was Melissa’s addition. Ashman seemed like a simple man, and Derek had told Jerry that Melissa was the one who wanted them to be called mayor and mayoress.

This was Ashman—a simple, spirited man, but one weak of will. He was soft, agreeable, and friendly, or so it seemed. Jerry sighed.

The milk, however, was quite pleasant.

“There you go.” Ashman rose from the stairs. He carried a basket of tools in one hand and a long green apron, traditionally called a napron, in the other.

“The whetstone and buffet are missing,” he continued, referring to the three-legged stool that shoemakers used as a workbench, “but I trust you can craft your own. Old Jerome had them, of course, but somebody’s got to be resting their feet on that buffet right about now. The knives and stitching tools should all be here.”

“At this time of the day, I doubt anybody’s resting. But that’s excellent, Mayor,” Jerry exclaimed with joy, examining the basket, “you have the complete Saint Hugh’s Bones!”

“Uh… Excuse me?”

“That’s the actual name for a shoemaker’s toolkit. It wasn’t a pun, I promise.”

“Okay. Then, yes, it should be quite complete. It was not upturned, so I reckon that everything is still inside.”

“Thanks, Mayor. Now, as for payment—”

“You can simply repay us with your services,” Ashman cut him off. “These are useless to me anyway. A new shoemaker for the village is worth far more than these things.”

Jerry looked at the mayor’s feet, finding them clad in wooden shoes called clogs. Not the most comfortable coverings, but the best an untrained man could make himself.

“I’ll craft you a nice pair of goatskin sandals, mayor,” Jerry said. “And one for your wife, too. Maybe that will honey her up.”

“Manna knows she needs it,” Ashman whispered, then laughed. “Thank you, Jerry. Know that the village appreciates your presence, even if we don’t always show it.”

“Yeah…” Jerry thought to the people outside and their glares. “In any case, I have to get going; there are still some things I need to acquire. Thank you for the milk. Feel free to visit me whenever; I have several extra beds. Maybe you can talk to Derek and come together?”

“When I find the time, I will certainly do so.” The mayor smiled again. “Here, have this goatskin as well. Melissa had bought some to make a new tunic, but she hasn’t gotten around to it in months. Herbalism is just too intriguing, it seems.”

“Herbalism is very useful,” Jerry agreed. He’d once tripped and fallen on a patch of nettle, and only the village’s herbalist could save him from the incessant itching.

“It is, though I wish it left her more time for our home,” Ashman spoke in a low volume, looking around to make sure Melissa wasn’t standing behind him. “Between you and me, she’s not very good at it. Thank Manna for Murdock.”

“Murdock?” Jerry raised a brow. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s our village herbalist. Melissa only grew interested last year. She goes to Murdock’s house weekly for lessons, though our resident wizard is perhaps not as good a teacher as she would have liked.”

“She goes to his house?” Jerry asked, wondering where exactly that was. Ashman’s was the largest house in the village. Would the haughty wizard live in anything smaller?

Ashman laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not improper. Murdock fancies men.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jerry, who did not at all care about the wizard’s sexual preferences. “In any case, thank you, Mayor. I really should get going. Take care.”

“You, too, my friend. May the Wall hold forever.” Ashman walked him to the door. He jokingly added, “And no skeletons in town, you hear me?”

Thus, armed with Saint Hugh’s Bones, a folded green apron, and a batch of goatskin, Jerry walked to his next destination, the brewer’s house. He’d promised Derek some drinks, and he wouldn’t want to burden the man with bringing his own again.

Unfortunately, the brewer, an older man with an oily ponytail, refused to sell anything to Jerry. He did not consider shoemaking appropriate payment, and Jerry supposed that the man didn’t like necromancers to begin with. Helplessly, he departed, heading for Derek’s house. The hunter would be back, with any luck, and he would be able to buy some booze in Jerry’s stead.

However, as he approached Derek’s house, Jerry caught a man staring from the nearby tree line. He did not recall seeing this person before.

He was dressed in a green tunic and a leather vest, with an aggressive face and a sword on his hip. In fact, noticed Jerry, this man was dressed quite similarly to the bandits who—

Oh.

The man opened his mouth and roared, “Attack!”