Harrin cleaned his sword off, rinsing the blade underneath the cold water of the stream. He wasn’t worried about wearing it down - it was dwarven in make, after all, and it would break before it rusted.

A short distance away, Senna was washing her hands. Her fingers were red and rough from exertion, but she looked oddly happy about it.

The impromptu training session had gone about as well as he’d expected. She had little to no experience with swords, and every time he fixed her posture, it devolved into wild swinging. By the end of it, an hour after they’d started, she could at least hold it properly. Her footing was still bad, but had improved overall. Harrin estimated she would get to a competent level with the blade in a year or two at the current rate.

Unfortunately, they were getting closer and closer to the murderers by the hour, and Harrin had a feeling they would arrive sometime in the night, assuming that Senna and he didn’t stop for rest.

Drying her hands on her pants, Senna walked over to him. Staring up at him, she quietly said, “I’m not very good, am I?”

Harrin shook his head immediately, and she wilted somewhat. He wasn’t willing to inflate her self-esteem in that regard when it would just as easily impede her progress.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he indicated himself, hoping she would understand. Her face was knotted in confusion for a moment, and then it cleared. “I’m never going to be a swordsman like you…”

Harrin nodded, gesturing for her to continue. Senna thought out loud, speaking slowly. “...But I can do things you can’t. Like necromancy?”

If his face wasn’t stuck in a permanent grin, he would have given her the biggest smile of his unlife. As is, he settled for a thumbs up, and her face lit up. “So, how do we take advantage of that?”

It didn’t take him long to think of an answer. They needed dead bodies, and if at all possible, not human ones.

Harrin knew very little about necromancy. As far as he could remember, it was a forbidden art, and information about it was kept tightly secret, only for the few royally approved necromancers bound by oaths. However, he knew that it took a lot of experience and power to fully bend an undead sapient to the necromancer’s will. It was much easier to control weak-minded creatures such as skydes or weasels.

He was reasonably confident he could find a few of those for Senna, but the issue was how effective they would actually be. Of course, they could simply be of use in the sense of a few more bodies to throw around, but they were hardly ideal for combat against people. Besides, they didn’t exactly have time to hunt around for vermin.

His thoughts were interrupted as his pace faltered, and he paused. Looking at his own legs, clad in rags, he realized that he was trembling. His hands hung low, and it took effort even to place them on his knees.

Did he - was he tired? It didn’t seem possible. As far as he knew it wasn’t possible.

Senna rushed to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. Strands of purple pulsed from her fingers, wrapping around his bones and sinking into their stark surface. The strange weakness receded, and he straightened.

She stared up at him, clearly worried. “I don’t think you can - I don’t think you’ll last unless I keep you alive.”

Harrin ground his jaw, oddly furious. It was yet another glaring mistake, another downside to his cursed resurrection. At least he now knew why the sapient undead obeyed their masters - they couldn’t live for even a day without a recharge from the necromancer that raised them.

Somehow, he was going to find a way to live in death without Senna. It was only a matter of time, and now he had plenty of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Evening had come and gone, and night replaced it soon enough. As with when he had been raised, Harrin quietly noted that the lower amount of light made little difference to his eyes. It wasn’t as though everything looked brighter - it was simply that he saw everything. It wasn’t something he could easily describe had someone asked him to.

Regardless of how, it meant he could still see the ground perfectly well, and more importantly, the confusing jumble of shallow bootprints. It hadn’t rained since his resurrection, which meant that he was getting closer. Wet bootprints would’ve been both deeper and messier, and would’ve meant they were still far behind.

Senna didn’t have his nighttime vision, squinting through the darkness, tightly holding onto her stick. He didn’t quite understand why she’d held onto it, but if it gave her some semblance of comfort he was hardly going to take it away from her.

Turning towards her, he indicated the path ahead with a thumb. She nodded after a moment, trying to follow his movement in the dark.

They continued onward, Harrin keeping an eye on the ground as they walked. Senna stayed close behind him, still squinting in the relative darkness as she tried to keep up.Neither of them quite knew how long it would be until they made it to their enemies, but it would be soon. Harrin could feel it in his bones.

It wasn’t much longer before he saw a flickering glow staining the trees orange, and he heard Senna draw a sharp breath. Harrin looked down and put a hand on her shoulder, and she stared up into his green-filled sockets. She looked… afraid, almost, but more determined than anything.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Harrin drew his sword and moved forward.

As they came closer, he made out more details. The camp was clearly a temporary one, with canvas strung along poles in makeshift tents. Campfires were placed at seemingly random points between the tents, with a massive pyre at the center. The two largest emplacements were a massive canopy with appeared to be cooking equipment underneath it, and a larger tent just across from the great fire.

The camp was slow at the moment, with only a few people sleepily walking around in their nightclothes. Perhaps half a dozen guards were awake, standing about in partial armor with spears at the ready.

Harrin’s grip tightened on his blade as he creeped forward. Senna followed him after a moment, staying right behind him.

He stayed in a low crouch as he nearly slithered between the tents, his tread making no noise as he moved. Keeping his knees bent, he stayed on high alert for any movement, his sword swaying gently with his gait.

Senna was… less quiet, to put it politely. She was hardly an orc, but every crunch of a leaf under her feet and every snapped twig put Harrin just a little bit more on edge.

They came around the edge of a tent to be met by a man. He lacked most of an arm and had scruffy black hair hanging over a knobby face. He looked down at Harrin, his eyes widened as he took in the undead and the necromancer behind it, and he sucked in a breath.

He never released it. Harrin lunged upward, wrapping his hand around the bandit’s throat. Before, he would have had to strangle the man, which would have caused noise and likely would have gotten both of them killed. Now, he simply squeezed, and he felt the man’s windpipe collapse. Before the bandit could even lift his sword, Harrin clenched even tighter and felt his neck snap.

The light went out of his eyes as he slumped, and Harrin pulled him closer to set him on the ground. Senna looked shocked and more than a little nauseous, and Harrin patted her shoulder. She snapped out of it, staring at him for a moment. Tightening her lip, she gave him a determined nod, and they continued on.

They stayed in that cramped crouch as they headed through the camp, but they didn’t run into anyone else. Approaching the side of the great tent, Harrin pulled the underside up, checking inside. He couldn’t see anyone and gave Senna a thumbs up, and she crawled into the tent. Harrin was quick to follow, rising to a silent standing position.

The tent was sparse, with only a few candles set upon a wooden desk. Harrin’s feet noiselessly crushed the lush grass as he readied his sword, both of their attention drawn to the man seated at the makeshift desk before them.

He hadn’t noticed them yet. With short black hair and a tired face, it was hard to compare him to the actions Harrin had seen at Craikdam. He wore a green overshirt and gray pants, but the only weapon visible was leaning up against the side of the desk, a shortsword in its scabbard. Two heavy-looking barrels were set in front of him with several wide boards across their top, forming the gist of the impromptu furniture. A decent-sized chest sat nearby, a hefty padlock keeping it securely closed, and a large metal shield sat to one side near to Harrin.

Harrin leveled his sword, and Senna swallowed. It was a quiet sound, but the leader glanced up at them.

There was a moment where he froze, analyzing the situation for a split second before his expression settled. Almost ignoring Harrin, he leveled his gaze at Senna, folding his hands. “May I help you?”

Senna was thrown by the blunt tone, Harrin could tell. Before he could react, Senna growled, "Are you the leader?”

He didn’t even blink. “I’ve been elected the leader by the group. My name is Kelden Cerv. And you?”

Standing from the desk, he extended one hand out for a shake. Needless to say, it was not accepted, and he retook his seat with a shrug.

Senna’s hands were clenched into fists, ignoring his question. “Did you burn Craikdam down?”

Kelden raised an eyebrow. “Craikdam? The - oh. You’re the girl that ran.”

To Harrin’s worry, a hint of sympathy entered Kelden’s eyes. “For however little it’s worth, I’m genuinely sorry. We were paid to level Craikdam, however, and we can’t turn down a job.”

Senna’s shoulders slumped as she stared at him, shock sliding into wrath. “You’re sorry?!”

Kelden nodded. “Indeed. I’m-”

Senna swung her stick at him, and he blocked it with his hand. It left a welt, but Senna wasn’t looking. “You can’t be sorry! You - you wrecked my whole life, you--”

“I am sorry,” Kelden firmly repeated. “As I said, we couldn’t refuse.”

“You can always refuse.” Senna’s tone was like steel, an almost physical judgement in the room.

Kelden’s forehead creased, and Harrin’s grip tightened. It was getting dangerous. He should have decaptitated the man the moment they were noticed, but his hand wasn’t obeying. Some part of him needed to know what he meant.

“No,” Kelden said. “We can’t. Every man in this camp is running from something, and the world isn’t kind to outlaws. It isn’t kind at all.” He stood, and Harrin raised his sword. Kelden remained unfazed. “We are mercenaries because the only option aside from the filth we turned into is to become prisoners to mages, experiments for gods know what, or surrendered ourselves to the gutter and died. I know that what we do is vile, but I have no choice. And I’m the leader because I’m the only carking person willing to shoulder the blame. They can sleep at all because I give the orders, because I accept the jobs, because they’re only doing what I tell them to do. Do you get it?!”

He slammed a hand on the makeshift table, collapsing into his chair. “We don’t have a choice,” he finished dully. “That’s why I can be sorry.” His voice was almost pleading, silently demanding that Senna accept his apology.

Harrin felt a chill crawl up his spine. Instead of moving, he glanced at Senna.

Her expression showed nothing but naked disgust. “Then you should have died.” She told him coldly. “Because you’re going to die here. All of you.”

Kelden sighed, igniting a cigar on the table and raising it to his lips, taking a hard pull. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Only three people are going to die tonight, necromancer. A captain may go down with his ship, but a leader goes down before his people.”

Flipping the cigar over, he rammed the simmering end onto the top of one of the barrels. Harrin’s eyes followed it, and he saw the black powder on top of it. The powder sparked from the flame, erupting backward and into the barrel.

Harrin moved faster than he ever had in life. Seizing the shield, he slung it over his back, grabbed Senna, put himself between her and Kelden, and braced himself.

The world turned into orange flames.