Now, Alric’s knife was longer than the knife that I carried. The stance he took and the way he wielded the blade, made me think that he knew how to use it. I knew how to stab, and that was about it.

“If you won’t give me that Blood then, I’ll have to force you to give it to me. This is for your own good.”

Alric lunged at me, I stepped to the side narrowly avoiding the blade. I grabbed at his outstretched arm, but his loose tattered robe tore when my hands clasped around it. If only Alric had known about an incredibly cheap no-named shopkeep that specialized in value robes. Then I would’ve had a chance at grabbing onto his clothes without them falling apart.

Again, Alric’s knife came at me with vengeance. I pivoted to the left, but the blade found my shoulder. Shink, it sunk into me. I stumbled backwards, falling to the floor. I tried to pick myself up but Alric pinned me to the ground with his leg. He stuck out his hand.

“That is how you use a knife. Now, I’ll be taking that blood. You’ll be reprimanded and spend a good bit of time scrubbing the catacombs, with your stupidity and a toothbrush. ” Chastised Alric.

He cut beneath my robe and pried the vial from my clothes. As it turned out, a week of neglecting your stab-work was not enough time to learn how to stab.

“You’re making a mistake!” I hollered, as Alric marched towards a makeshift altar his undead were beginning to construct.

Pain shot through my shoulder, as I attempted to roll over and lift myself from the ground. My cloak was ruined, as my blood stained the fabric around the wound. I foolishly tried to hobble after Alric, but stopped when I realized that I wasn’t making any significant progress.

“That is my mistake to make,” Alric responded, not bothering to turn his head to look at me.

“Azog, Rose! Go for the vial!” I shouted, as I concentrated towards the makeshift altar that was being formed.

What started as three skeletons, carrying fragments of wood, were now two skeletons and the beginning of a shoddy altar made from their friends' bones, gnarly wood, and some twine. The altar looked like the slightest wind would send it into pieces, but it didn’t take a fancy marble stone altar to complete one ritual. Two rituals probably would’ve required something sturdier.

I thought about the mana shaping to solve the puzzle, forcing shaped mana to move where it didn’t want to go. I had learned that you shouldn’t go against the grain entirely, but that mana could be redirected somewhat. My will pulled at the mana in the skeletons building the altar, causing them to throw themselves around like ragdolls: constantly overstepping and over lifting the altar’s supplies. Exhaustion began to overtake me; I knew that I couldn’t hold out forever. The altar was going to be built, bone by bone.

Azog pulled out his great sword. He heaved it at a guard, nearly slashing a guard's arm off. The heavy metal blade sunk deep within the soil. Instead of prying the blade from the ground, he clenched his fists and swung at the soldier. A barbaric roar escaped his mouth. Red was the only color he saw as his anger boiled, red was the only color he felt as he tore soldiers limb from limb.

His fist greeted the helmet of a guard, denting the metal. The guard flew backward, tumbling endlessly. Some say the unfortunate guard still tumbles to this very day, tumbling from the force of the blow. Azog had the strength of a barbarian.

Grunting, which translated to: Fine. I’ll stop bashing these skulls to go bash some Necromancer's skull on top of an altar, Azog pivoted, and marched towards Alric.

“Stop. That. Barbarian.” Alric commanded his undead.

Banshees attacked from the sky, apparitioning through Azog doing absolutely nothing. The undead foxes and shrews were more of an annoyance to Azog as they bit at his ankles, breaking their own teeth in the process. The annoyance fueled Asog's anger, increasing his strength. Only the skeletons slowed Azog down, who forced Azog to occasionally stop, to turn them into a fine white powder. Nothing could, truly, stop the superhuman warrior.

Alric panicked.

“Somebody stop him!” Screamed the Necromancer, who desperately scrambled to mix a concoction on his knees.

By now, my control over the undead had been forcibly ejected, as the skeleton’s resistance from outside influence grew. The altar was nearly built. Azog was going to smash the altar. That was, until something clicked as it whizzed around his neck.

A guard had pulled a device from his satchel and thrown it like a medieval throwing disc commonly called a Fizzle Bee, invented by Fizzle the Wizard himself. This device was an artifact collected from the Nosturdam’s gates. The guard knew the device as the Collar of Mountain Fresh Air, using it to remove the dirty smell of city folk.

The collar, however, was really called, The Chain of Partial Asthma. It was hard to smell the city folk, when you weren’t getting enough air to breathe. So Azog wheezed, as he dragged himself towards the altar. The lack of breathable air made his mind fuzzy and without a sharp mind his anger started to dissipate. One step, after another slower step, Azog was running out of steam. Without anger to fuel his rampage, his strength began to leave him.

Alric grinned. It was as if this ritual was rigged from the start to the finish. It probably was.

“Is that rosemary?” Rose asked, perplexed, as she held one of the guards in a headlock, looking towards the altar.

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“Thyme.” corrected Alric as he poured the ingredients from one of his satchels onto the altar. Salt, Ogress Rot, the tears of a Banshee, these were just some of the miscellaneous ingredients that made up the ritual. The reasoning for certain ingredients’ use alluded me, and were seemingly as random as rolling a dice in a gambler’s den. I knew for certain, whatever was being made, wasn’t going to be very palatable.

Undead from the forest came marching with the remnants of a body, arms and legs stitched together, somewhat matching in size and shape. They were fresh body parts, and didn’t stink enough to outpower the smell of the pungent Thyme. This benefited everyone, except the skeletons who didn’t have noses. For them, it was merely a wash.

As the body hit the altar, Alric uncorked the vial, pouring the blood over the body. He began to chant. Ulthmorp Bilgrap Bing Bong Blop, he spoke, speaking what sounded to me like gibberish, albeit fancy sounding gibberish.

The chanting went on longer than I personally cared for, it was enough time for me to get somewhat close to the altar. Not close enough to physically touch Alric, as he said his final words, or what were probably words. I had no idea what he was saying.

The body on the Altar trembled and shook. The blood was seeped up by the body, the altar sat dry. Alric pulled the lid off a corked bottle and the body sat upright.

“Where am I?” asked the body.

“George! You’re alive!” Shouted Alric, thrilled.

“Yes, I am.” George responded, rather agreeably.

My eyes narrowed. It had been a whole week since I left, to go on this journey so my memory was somewhat hazy. But I remembered George to be more grumpy, less nice if you will. Must’ve been the nice new body, I concluded.

“Did it work? Are you truly unalive, free from the shackles of rot and succumbing to loss of the mind?”

“Absolutely!” George agreed.

“Well, that’s wonderful, George. We’ve done something that hasn’t been done for thousands of years. Brought back magic and wonder, shown to the world that Necromancy isn’t just an evil art for evil men. It’s enlightenment. It's perfection.”

Tears streamed down Alric’s eyes, gone were the dark circles from sleepless nights. Gone were the bitterness and the stress. He’d done it. Alric turned to face me.

“Arthur, see what we did here. We did it. I’ll be famous, we’ll be the most renowned Necromancers in the world, and we’ll do it without lopping off heads and raising armies to go and lop off more heads. We’ll change the world tastefully with only some minor head lopping.” gushed Alric.

“You were right. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” I said, back to my master. I looked over at George feeling a bit weird. This was a joyous occasion. I felt guilty for feeling weird about George.

“I’m sorry, George. I’m sorry for unaliving you and doubting that Blood of Armure was necessary.” I said.

“I hold no grudges towards you, Arthur. Not when you’re so right about everything that you just said.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re right.” agreed George.

“About what?”

“About everything.” George insisted.

I was stunned. He had a point.

On the tall Nosturdam walls, a man scrambled to its edges with a large funnel held within his hands, held up to his mouth. He wore clothes of someone attempting to blend in as a guard, but the color was all wrong, the insignia too warped. He spoke, his voice traveling farther than it should have.

“Kill him!” shouted the man from the wall.

In a split second, with more strength than an ordinary human, George lunged at Alric, tearing his neck. Alric’s head fell to the floor, cleanly detached from his body.

“No!“ I screamed as I crawled towards Alric.

“Finish the second ritual!” hollered the man from the wall.

“No!” I screamed again, causing George to pause.

“Don’t listen to him, listen to me!” shouted the man from the wall.

George, once again, began preparing the ritual.

“Stop, George. Look at what you did to Alric; look at the death and destruction you’re about to probably create! That ritual isn’t worth doing, George.”

George did not listen to me, as he continued to work on performing his ritual.

I was stumped. George’s agreeableness was something new to me.

George finished the ritual. The rot grew from the altar, spreading outward. The dark magic ate any non-sentient entity. The grass shriveled and died, the trees of the surrounding forest grew thin and malnourished, where there were fields of wheat, only dirt remained.

“Now kill the boy,” shouted the man on the wall.”

“Stop listening to him about not listening to me, George. Listen to me, and stop this instance.”

George stopped, instantly.

“Stop listening to the boy about stop listening to me telling you to stop listening to the boy. Kill him.”

George marched forward, ready to lunge at me. His sharp claws moved with the precision of a terror cat with the power of a terror bunny. He was inches away as I got off the last word.

“Stop listening to the man about not listening to me about me telling you to stop listening to the man who said to kill me. Also, plug your ears and walk to Rose.” I scrambled to say.

“Drat!” shouted the man on the wall, who George could not hear. He threw down a stone and vanished into thin air. The guards, only moments later, rushed the wall, confused as to where the flagrant trespasser went.

I let out a sigh of relief. Then I let out a sigh of sadness as I inspected Alric’s death. It was clear that he was dead. His head had rolled down the small hill the altar sat on top of. The cut was clean for someone who died by hand. In his side pocket was a letter, written by someone who claimed to be me. I pocketed the letter.

I began to crawl away from the altar, towards Azog. By now, all the guards had either been incapacitated or had fled into the city where they nursed their wounds. Azog didn’t look much like Azog, as he lay on the floor. There were only so many guards with artifacts and skeletons you could fend off before they managed to grind you into a tired mess. His brown robe had been stabbed, torn, and bloodied. His new greatsword was broken again. He heaved for air, as the Chain of Partial Asthma surrounded his neck.

“Azog, let me help you.” I said, as I reached out to support his hunched over body. There wasn't anything I could do about the heavy breathing, but I supported his shoulder, as we hobbled towards the forest.

Rose and George had journeyed to the edge of the woods, waiting for us.