“What… what just happened?” Bancroft demanded of the empty room that was his personal study. “What in the sacred darkness is going on?!”

Prompt after prompt flashed through his vision, the dull red warning borders that normally marked combat notifications. Only… as far as he knew, Bancroft wasn’t in combat. Nobody should be. Apart from a few provincial towns well beyond visiting distance, they were all alone out here. Dry Run had been the last village foolish enough to build where the Talengi Wilds met the Searing Dessert, nobody came this far west on purpose!

Bancroft tried to console himself with that knowledge, but it helped little. The prompts kept coming. They blurred across his vision, appearing and vanishing too quickly for him to count.

Your minion: ‘Skeletal Warrior’ has been destroyed, ongoing mana consumption has ceased.

Your minion: ‘Skeletal Archer’ has been destroyed, ongoing mana consumption has ceased.

Your minion--

“What in the six accursed hells is happening?!” Bancroft shouted, standing up so abruptly he sent jars of magical ingredients and papers flying from his desk. Glass shattered and stone began to melt as parchment burned, but Bancroft barely noticed.

The prompts weren’t stopping. If anything, they were speeding up. In the span of mere seconds, he had already lost dozens of undead to… to whatever this was. Whoever this was.

How could they be carving through my army so quickly? Bancroft’s mind sped down the very short list of possibilities he could imagine for such a scenario. Have the paladins found us already?

Just the thought was enough to make the necromancer’s pulse quicken and send beads of sweat running down his neck towards his spine.

It hasn’t been that long since Dry Run fell. Even if one of those miserable peasants managed to escape, they couldn’t possibly have notified Gold Spire…

Bancroft shook his head, trying to clear it of ridiculous notions. The nearest Gold Spire detachment was months away by carriage, and longer by foot. It was one of the reasons he had chosen to come this far out into this provincial, frontier nightmare the locals had once called home. This far out, there had been nobody to save them.

Not from him.

“No…” Bancroft breathed in relief, letting the reassuring logic of travel distance and peasant wilderness survival ratios work their way through his mind. “They can’t know. They can’t possibly know. I’m still safe, and the work is still safe. By the time they show up, I’ll either be long gone or those meddling miscreants won’t matter.”

“Yes…” Bancroft said, continuing to speak to naught but the empty air around him as he stroked his dark beard. “Everything should be fine.”

Grateful that Sabin hadn’t been around to witness his little temporary indignity, Bancroft decided to be thorough. He strode away from his desk and held both of his arms out in opposing directions, palms up, thumbs extended. Reaching out with his magical senses, the necromancer felt nothing but the comforting, familiar aura of death mana permeating the surrounding area.

After several tense moments of searching, he was finally certain.

If Gold Spire or any of its disgusting paladins knew of his presence, or if any of their agents were currently fighting his minions, then the night would be absolutely awash with that filthy, ‘holier than thou’ presence of theirs. Life mana would be surging through his new territory like pockmarks on an otherwise beautiful face. The sort of disruptions those miscreants were known for would make their appearance in this region unmistakable. If they were here, he should be able to sense them even from within this very room.

No… this little interruption was something else. Or… perhaps, someone else.

Whoever it was, they had to be dealt with. Even if they weren’t tearing through his weaker minions at an alarming rate, his pride would not let this disrespect stand. Nobody could be allowed to attack a necromancer in the heart of his own power and live to tell the tale. His reputation would be shattered.

Thankfully, even without his army around, a man of his talents was never without options.

Rolling up his sleeves, Bancroft crossed over to the most recent cadaver that had been brought up to him. He had cut the young man open from chin to crotch, then from left to right across the chest to expose his subject’s vital organs for inspection. That effort would be wasted now, and the thought infuriated him. He would have to find another cadaver to continue his experimentation later, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He had learned that there were always more corpses if you went looking for them.

I should thank these fools for coming to me. Bancroft thought, his anger rising as his minion death-toll continued to flash ever higher in a corner of his vision. By carving out their hearts.

Using one of the more powerful summoning abilities at his disposal, Bancroft summoned a shroud using the hacked-open corpse as the material focus. Black tendrils of mana shot forth from his hands into the dead man’s body, causing it to convulse as if it had been struck by lightning. The corpse’s broken mouth opened wide as if to scream in pain, only instead of sound a dark, swirling mist rose into the air above it.

As more and more of the mist was siphoned out, the skin and muscle tissue of the corpse was desiccated and fell in on itself. Ten seconds later, it crumbled to dust as the shroud above it coalesced first into a spinning ball, then melted into a hauntingly humanoid shape whose lower half trailed off into nothing. Pale blue eyes like icy ponds opened for the first time, and the newly-risen spectral creature turned to face its master.

Though he had summoned this particular ghost variant many times, each time he summoned a shroud Bancroft had to fight down the urge to shiver. Their pale gaze promised a prolonged death to whomever they were sent after, and the necromancer had never forgotten the time one had been sent after him. Shrouds were capable of flying through walls as readily as the air itself, and as such hiding from them was nearly impossible. They were fast, silent, intelligent, and – most importantly – deadly opponents.

It had been a long time since then, but Bancroft knew luck had been the primary ingredient to his surviving that encounter as a boy. Those days were far behind him, however. This shroud was under his command, and he had nothing to fear from it.

These intruders, however, would not be so lucky. With its ability to fly through solid objects, they would be lucky to even lay eyes on the shroud before it tore them apart.

“Find the source of the disturbance in my lands and slay it.” Bancroft commanded, gesturing towards where his army was still being destroyed. “Leave none alive, and return to me when you are done.”

Pale-blue eyes gleamed their assent, and his minion sank into the floor in the direction Bancroft had indicated. Shrouds were not like the mass of mindless undead he was currently losing. They were smart enough to investigate and make deductions of their own will. All he had left to do now was wait. Folding his arms, Bancroft stared down at the lightly-dusted table his former experiment had left behind.

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“Whoever is behind this will replace you.” The necromancer promised the remnant dust from his latest test subject.

Turning around, Bancroft added to himself. And their families will follow.

Returning to his desk, Bancroft felt much calmer than he had a moment prior. His shroud had been let loose, and already his minions’ deaths were slowing. Not long after, the prompts ceased talling up any further losses. Satisfied that the problem had likely been resolved, Bancroft settled back into his chair.

He turned his attention back towards perusing the tomes he had been studying earlier, leaving the dust-mess of the table for one of his servants to deal with later. Seeing as none of them had come to inform him about the disturbance by now, whatever the problem had been, it couldn’t have been that bad. When they were done cleaning it up, he would get a report. Then he could dole out punishment as necessary.

Sighing with the contentment of a man who was once again utterly in control, Bancroft refocused his mind on more important matters.

…

At least, that had been his plan.

Not half an hour later, Bancroft's evening was disturbed once more. This time by a steady rush of harsh knocks at his door.

"M’lord, the stable is on fire!" Came Sabin's worried shout through the wood. "An’ someone's let all yer cavalry out!"

That got Bancroft’s attention. He had put considerable resources into transforming those horses into tireless beasts of burden. One of them in particular had required the use of reagents he could not easily replace. At least, not this far from a major city.

"What of the nightmare?" Bancroft demanded, rising to his feet and striding over to the tower window that overlooked the courtyard to see if he could catch sight of the beast. Its flaming blue head should be recognizable at any distance.

When Sabin didn’t immediately respond, Bancroft snapped at the door. “Where is it, Sabin!?”

"I–it be gone, m’lord! Run off inta the woods.” Sabin’s tone made it clear he expected punishment for delivering that particular piece of news, though both of them also knew an apology wouldn’t forestall it so the old man simply continued speaking. “One of the lads said they saw it headin’ west after it tore through the gate."

Cursing, Bancroft attempted to bring his prized steed back with a mental command. Unfortunately, as he had expected, the nightmare was too far out of his range to communicate with. From this distance, he also couldn’t fully assert his will over the creature. All he could manage was to slow its pace down, but that was it. The strong-willed former warhorse was simply too powerful now, and the bond between them too fresh, for Bancroft to easily bring it to heel. After its transformation, the creature’s will had yet to fully break to his and the necromancer had been forced to simply keep it locked away until it gave in.

The fact that a mere horse, even one that had evolved so highly, could resist him still grated on Bancroft’s nerves like a cast-iron blade. Gritting his teeth, Bancroft focused his will on maintaining what control he still held over the creature and turned to face his attendant now standing at the open door. The fierceness of his glare caused Sabin to flinch a half-step back.

"Ready my old mount, then." Bancroft demanded, retrieving a whip from one of the racks on a nearby wall. "I will retrieve the nightmare myself, since I can’t trust you fools with its maintenance."

"Yes, m’lord." Sabin replied, the hunchback nearly tripping over himself in his haste to descend the stairs first now that Bancroft held a whip in his hands. “That one is in its proper place, I jes’ made sure of it! I’ll jes, uh–”

“I said now, you old fool!” Bancroft snapped, just as his whip cracked the stones above Sabin’s head. “If that horse leaves my lands, I will flay the flesh from your bones to craft another!”

That wasn’t how one made a nightmare, and both of them knew it. But his threat had the intended effect anyway. Sabin scrambled down the stairs, rushing to unlock the cage that held Bancroft’s monstrous iron scorpion. The creature was always saddled, just in case, so there would be no preparation time.

A few minutes later, Bancroft rode his old mount over the western wall. The monstrous iron scorpion barely even noticed the stones below as they moved past. Bancroft spared an irritated glance for the burning flames that had once been his stable, spying several servants rushing towards it.

Fools. The frame is on fire, that building is already lost. Bancroft thought dismissively, before making a mental note to have Sabin build him a new pen for the nightmare later.

It took several hours to retrieve the nightmare. Even then, Bancroft counted himself lucky to have done it so quickly. The vicious undead beast had been distracted by the scent of living flesh, and so had not strayed terribly far. By the time he had caught up to it, the nightmare and its pack had torn a hill troll to great, bloody pieces and were merely grazing upon its charred corpse.

With its tendencies and thirst for fresh blood sated, Bancroft had no problem reasserting his command over his prized beast. The nightmare didn’t even fight him, and now that their mental link was back within range, it responded readily to his commands. Which was good, because by then the necromancer’s patience had just about breached its limits.

The few servants who had been able to follow on their own mounts quickly attended to the rest of the skeletal horses, and within minutes Bancroft was leading the entire imposing procession back towards the manor. More skeletal horses, giant frogs, even an enlarged wasp fell in line as his servants led his recaptured animals back by rope. Bancroft’s own mount led the way, digging great tracks of dirt through the land as they passed. Not because the giant metal scorpion was too dumb to manuever its enormous frame, no, the creature simply understood that they had triumphed – and that, at least for now, it remained the necromancer’s favorite.

Being able to obliterate small patches of land as they passed with its iron frame was simply the scorpion’s way of amusing itself. Bancroft had never understood why such acts amused the creature, but such things were beneath his notice. If some of his servants tripped because of it, none of them would dare bring such complaints to his attention.

Which was convenient, but it was also part of the problem. They had been out here for hours, and Bancroft had used no small amount of that time to think. If his servants had brought him news of the stable’s burning more swiftly, he may have been able to stop the nightmare before it left the property.

I will have to make my displeasure known when we return. Bancroft thought, promising himself that he would save the worst of his punishments for whatever saboteur had started the fire in the first place. You would think a beheading or three would keep the servants in line, and yet… it never does.

Not for the first time, the necromancer heard his mother’s smooth, cultured voice complaining in his head.

“It’s just so hard to find good help amongst the living, they never last long enough to be of any use.”

The pair of them had argued about nearly everything. But after tonight, Bancroft couldn’t help but agree with her wisdom.

At least on this subject.

The necromancer was just starting to consider whether it would be worth his time to obliterate another village and refresh his count of servants when Bancroft got his third surprise of the evening. Unlike the first two, this one brought no hint of alarm to the necromancer’s pale features. He did not cry out in anger, nor did he stumble at the announcement – though that was mainly due to him riding rather than walking when the prompt came.

Reading through the rainbow-hued text made Bancroft’s brows furrow, and he had to read it several times before comprehension of what had just happened fully sank in.

One of his minions had evolved.

That, in and of itself, wasn’t terribly surprising. Most of his minions were low level undead, so an evolution here and there was to be expected amongst those who were on patrol. More than a few had even managed to do so when he had first taken Dry Run, despite the relatively low experience gained by slaying the unarmed families of the frontiersmen who had settled here.

No, what was so tantalizing about this particular prompt was the text describing what exactly his minion had evolved into.

Bancroft reached an arm out to grasp the floating prompt only he could see, as if pulling it closer would allow him to study its content in greater depth. He breathed out a single word, hoping on some level that just asking the question aloud would grant him hidden knowledge.

“How?”