There were two reasons that helped me decide to sit atop the highly stacked boxes away from the ground. From the top of the boxes, I got a better view of the vast expanse of nothing but water: seeing more water and increasing the chance of seeing land. The second reason was the people. Namely, two priests that still wouldn’t leave me alone. Their shouts were muffled from the top of the boxes.

So far, the voyage wasn’t going smoothly for Azog and Rose either, although I knew I had it the worst. It wasn’t a competition… being miserable that is… But if it was a competition, they’d lose. Sure, Rose kept spewing her guts out the side of the ship. But a little bit of sea sickness was normal, and nothing to write home about.

I shook my head, as I watched Arpior, the Priest of the God of Truth walk over to Rose. I knew this was going to end poorly.

“I see that the demons of the sea have cursed your very being, young lady. Do you need some assistance? Perhaps, turning to one of the three will solve your ailment.”

“Fuck off, you wretch. Go pray in the corner of the ship and leave me alone.” Rose managed to say before vomiting on the priest’s boots.”

“I can’t. My calling was not that of prayer but to help those who don’t pray to start praying. It’s more beneficial to get more people devoted to the Church than waste time making platitudes to the gods. That would be your job.”

“My job? I’m a princess. Princesses don’t pray to gods. Gods pray to princesses.”

“Well, um, I don’t think…”

“Shut Up, already! Go, pester Arthur. He’s the guy you want anyway.”

The priest looked up at me. I shook my head and crossed my arms. The priest turned back to Rose.

“I think he'll kick me off the boxes when I try to climb up again,” surmised Arpior.

“I’m sure he won’t. Arthur is reasonable.”

“Well, he’s done it the first two times I attempted to climb the boxes. I scraped my elbow on the fall.”

“Go bug the captain again.”

“No, the Captain said I’d be thrown out to go live with the Merfolk, if I talked to her about the faith while she’s steering the boat.”

“Stop bothering the Lady, Arpior. I know you're desperate but this constant nagging and pleading looks poorly on us. We’ve got to make them desperate for us, not the other way around.” said Duncor, the priest of the god of Fortune.

“Like you’ve ever had to work hard to get anyone to join you. You wouldn’t know how to sell, if you didn’t have a metaphorical gold chest to give people. In some cases, an actual chest filled with gold.”

The disciple of the god of fortune yawned, as he lazily sat back on a cushion: a lucky find leftover from a previous passenger. It was not in his interest to give out advice to his adversaries, but when the competition was so one-sided he did it just to stave off the boredom.

Thud. Something moved within the cabin.

“Did you hear that?” Arpior asked.

“Yes, probably just some of the cargo moving with the swells. Nothing to worry about.” I shouted.

A scream came from the lower decks. It sounded like Quetzal. My heart began to beat, as I knew what he’d found. It wasn’t any cargo. It was a passenger. I hopped from my box, and scrambled to the ladder that led below the ship.

Arpior was already down from the ladder as I slid down the ladder. More concerning than the scream was the distinct amount of silence that came after. I thought of the many possibilities of what could happen to Quetzal. Many of which ended with Quetzal headless. Squeezing through the boxes, I eventually got to where George had been told to stand.

Quetzal sat next to George as they talked in a hushed tone. Arpior stood from a distance, puzzled.

“George, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Talking.”

“Oh, so this person down here isn’t a stowaway?” Quetzal said more than asked.

“Well, yes. This is George. He likes the dark.”

“I do like the dark,” George agreed.

“I don’t think he’s alive.” said Arpior, matter of factly.

“No, he’s alive.” I countered.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“No, no. The stitched together head makes him look like a zombie. It’s a textbook sign.”

“You’re wrong Arpior. I asked this fellow, George, if he wasn’t a zombie and he agreed with me. Not to brag, but he even agreed to join the Church, I’ve already had him sign a contract!” said Quetzal, who was excited.

“But the scars.”

“Probably from a valiant battle, fighting against Necromancers and their kiln.”

“But what about the misshapen face that looks like too many different heads stitched together.”

“Poorly done cosmetic surgery.”

Arpior sighed. There was only so much moving goal posts and twisting reality someone could do before the truth resembled complete fantasy. Like Arpior, Quetzal was a desperate man. The difference between Arpior and Quetzal was the fact that Quetzal was about three times more desperate, especially after Arpior and lucked out and signed that beggar five weeks ago. One small bribe and the beggar signed the papers on the spot. It was an absolute steal for the god of truth, truly a man of strength.

“I don’t think the Church will take him, my friend.” Arpior told Quetzal. Arpior put his hands on Quetzal’s shoulder.

“Why is that? They take anyone with a pulse. He’s already signed the papers. You should see his grip strength.”

“That’s not the problem. It’s not how strong he is, but it is who he is. I do, however, know of a way to get the commission you’re after. It’s just a little unorthodox is all.”

“And how is that? I’ve already secured my commission.”

“Bounties are just a commission without the training and other hoopla. Turn in this undead, and we’ll split it.”

“Woah, I’m not just going to let you turn in my friend, so that the Church can turn him into ashes.”

“First of all, that’s not what the Church does for undead bounties. They send them to the undead foster home, which cremates them, sending their souls to the afterlife. They’re victims more than anything. Also, you’ll get the founders' cut of the bounty.”

“You don’t understand. George isn’t going to be taken by the Church.”

“How much is the bounty, Arpior.” asked Quetzal, who was feeling a little guilty. But priests had to put food on their altars.

“Thrice the amount of a commission.” Arpior said.

Quetzal raised his brows. That was a lot of money for a priest related to the god of prime numbers.

“Well, I could be convinced. As you say, they, uh, treat these undead folk like they would treat my mother in retirement.”

“Absolutely, like that. They’d cremate the undead and free their soul. Nothing immoral about that. Same process, as they’d treat your old mother. You can even think of the bounty like an inheritance.”

“What if this, uh, undead refuses to seek aid. It would feel wrong to force an individual to have themselves turned in… Even if it was for the greater good.” Quetzal said, as he was coming around to the idea.

“Well, you can always ask. It never hurts to ask.” responded Arpior.

“Wait, I’m not over the fact that you’re going to turn in my friend. I’m not going to let you do that.” I said.

“Well, it's not up to you, is it? This is a completely autonomous undead. It’s up to him to decide.” Arpior reasoned.

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, zombie, what say you? Are you willing to come and turn yourself into the Church?”

“Absolutely. What a great idea.” George agreed.

“See that’s the problem. George will agree to just about anything. That doesn’t mean he actually feels that way.” I retorted.

“Nonsense. He agreed and we’ll be taking him with us, the moment we step over onto land. Say, you’re awfully casual about being companions with a zombie. You should come with us as well. Just to make sure you’re not one of those nasty dark magic users.” said Arpior.

“No.”

“No? It comes across as more suspicious when you disagree. All it is, is a simple check. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’ve already expended the patience of my companions, with your never ending talking. If you don’t step down, then I’m afraid I’ll have to stab you.”

I unsheathed my blade. It was one of Alric’s left behind in his study. A sharp blade that twisted into a sharp pointed end. The greenish black metal was hard to see within the ship’s hull. The hilt of the blade was small and ornate. The grip fit my hand perfectly.

Training with a blade wasn’t something I had done much of while in Nosturdam, but with Alric’s death came time: time to mourn his death, time to plan, time to perfect the stab. I didn’t want to fight, but I would if it meant saving George.

Arpior took a step back.

“A threat against a priest is a threat against the Church. I’ll warn you that even weak priests like us are imbued with power that an everyday folk like you couldn’t fathom.”

“Uh, Arpior. You know, while you’ve been talking to that man, I’ve been thinking. I don’t know if I recall the undead wandering around on their own. You know, I skipped some of my priestly studies trying to go get a head start on commissions but wasn’t there like a magic guy who created undead. Like, I’m pretty sure they don’t usually come to be, the same way you or I come to be, or how plants come to be.”

“A necromancer, Quetzal. You’re right, we’re dealing with a Necromancer.”

“Could it be, Arthur? He’s currently pointing a dagger at us.”

“I think it's unlikely. Necromancers use magic, not daggers.”

“A henchmen.Yes, you’re the Necromancer's henchman aren’t you, Arthur? Only someone aiding those of true evil would point a dagger at some priests. Well, those who are truly evil and bandits.” Arpior said.

“Bandits aren’t evil?”

“Not necessarily, but there are evil ones.”

“I’m right here. I can hear you.” I said. I kept my dagger up. I tightened the grip of my blade as Arpior pulled out a cross. Arpior opened his mouth and began to chant. I lunged.

“Stop!” yelled Captain Avory.

My knife was inches from the priest's neck. My hands shook. The faint glow of off-gold magic began to dissipate as the priest shut his mouth.

“There will be no fighting on my vessel. You can settle your differences on land. The Isles of Alcar are within the horizon.”