And with all the grace he possessed in life, which added up to precisely none, Denor’s body flopped into the snow. This, naturally, caught the attention of everyone in a mile radius, including the villagers and a few returning cemetery-dwellers who thought everything had wrapped up rather nicely up to this point. With Denor’s apparent death, a number of the group still considered things to have improved, but knew better than to say it out loud.

“Don’t shoot!” Harg bellowed, using the full extent of his lung power, “We are not evil spirits! We are alive!”

“Could’ve fooled me!” came a voice from the crowd, clearly belonging to someone who had dealt with one too many strange occurrences this week. “Only six months ago, I dug your grave myself, boy! What’s next, are you going to complain about the décor of your hole in the ground? What do you want from us? We don’t care for the undead in these parts!”

“We want one thing,” Simon declared, stepping forward like a hero in a particularly confusing epic now that Denor was forming a permanent snow fairy on the ground and couldn’t claim the role, “to return to our homes and pass with dignity, surrounded by our friends and family! They buried me too, you know. But thanks to this corpse… this lad here, I’m on a brief holiday from the grave. Believe me! Let us come closer, and you’ll see!”

“No matter what you say!” the voice shot back, undeterred. “Take one more step, and you’ll have more bolts in you than a Temrit invader that never learnt to dodge!”

Gella, who was trying to convince herself she wasn’t about to burst into uncontrollable laughter, shouted, “But the dead can’t be killed twice! What kind of warriors are you, that you don’t know this? Do I look dead to you? No one buried me! If we were really dead, we’d march on unafraid of your shiny little bolts! But we ask you not to shoot, because we are, inconveniently, alive!”

With a dramatic flourish, Gella stepped out from the mass of decidedly not-dead people, of which she was definitely the most living. Unconcerned with the potential for being turned into target practice for the bolt throwers, she strolled forward until she stood between the half-clad figures and the villagers, as if daring anyone to question her mortality. The lack of grave dust on her despite her general dishevelled appearance helped matters.

“Gella!” came a scream from the window of a nearby hut, undoubtedly her mother, demonstrating exactly where Gella got her flair for dramatics. “Why are you with them, daughter? Come home! They’ll take you to the land of the dead! They’ll drink your blood! They’ll make you do strange dances with their arms bent at the wrists!”

“They’re alive!” Gella shouted back, no stranger to shouting things at her mother’s histrionics. “You can touch them! Litarn brought them back, and Denor set them free! Don’t be afraid! After all, you didn’t bury me! You just dropped me into the arms of an evil sorcerer! You owe me!”

It was Hevath, moving with the dignity of someone who has seen things go bump in the night on many occasion, who stepped forward. He dragged Ledo along with him, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else and hadn’t enjoyed watching his son die a second time. The villagers began to observe the drama with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for theater performances, as the not-quite-dead parted to let the brave duo through. With a steady hand, Hevath placed his palm on Denor’s shoulder. Denor, who had apparently decided snow was edible, spat out a mouthful and flashed a grin. Just as he was about to say something, Ledo cut him off by wrapping him in a hug that was both unexpected and far too tight.

“I thought you were dead! Again!” he said, feeling the warmth of his son’s body, which clearly had decided it wasn’t deceased.

Denor shrugged. “I got better, Ledo.”

Seeing this, one by one, the braver villagers followed suit, exchanging words and embraces with their once-lost friends and relatives. As the reality set in, their eyes brightened, as if the world had just become a little less strange and a lot more wonderful. They turned to the hesitant crowd, shouting, “Come quickly! They really are back! They’re not lying!”

Denor, now thoroughly uncomfortable with his father’s intense gaze and surprising display of affection, decided that the snow was still the most interesting thing in the vicinity and turned away.

***

The village was alive with the kind of exuberant noise that made one suspect the very air was having a good time. Friends embraced with the sort of vigor that left bruises, women sobbed with the enthusiasm of people who were too happy to care, and children laughed in that slightly manic way children do when they’re swept up in a collective sense of joy but aren’t entirely sure what’s going on. Amidst it all, old Hevath stood to one side, wearing the kind of smile that suggested he’d seen this sort of thing before and it didn’t always end so conveniently. He was pleased enough to see the return of those he’d mourned, even if only for a bit, but his mind wandered to the deeper mysteries of Litarn’s trick. After all, necromancy wasn’t just about resurrecting the dead; it was also about resurrecting a whole heap of uncomfortable questions. But this wasn’t the moment for gloomy thoughts. He was a warrior, after all, and warriors knew when to drink, dance, and slap people on the back as if they were trying to cure a persistent cough. Straightening his shoulders, he joined the revelry.

A bonfire roared like it had a point to prove about bonfires of the past not being better than it, filling the night with the tang of burning resin and the promise of charred meat. Women, who knew their way around a gutting knife, were making short work of rams, deer, and boars, preparing for a feast so grand that the previous festivities would have to downgrade themselves to mere “warm-ups.” The air was thick with laughter, song, and the sort of chaotic joy that only happens when everyone agrees, however temporarily, to forget their troubles. Then, as if the universe couldn’t leave well enough alone, a tremendous roar split the night, originating from the cemetery no less. The ground shuddered in that alarming way that makes you wonder if the world is considering a major design overhaul, and the trees swayed like they were auditioning for the role of backup dancers, envious of the dead’s fancy footwork.

“Earthquake! The spirits below are at it again!” someone shouted, which set off a wave of anxious murmuring. Everyone knew, with the kind of certainty that comes from hard experience, that their houses weren’t built to survive a particularly stern storm, let alone a full-blown geological tantrum. Mothers dashed back to their homes to check on their little ones, hearts pounding louder than the drums at the feast. The men were far too intoxicated or full of good meat to break into a sprint. The ground, after one particularly ominous shake, decided that was enough for one night, and all the houses remained standing save Ledo’s—which collapsed out of sheer defiance.

The antics weren’t over though, from the direction of the cemetery, the earth erupted, and a massive metal craft emerged, tearing free from the ground and dislodging the surprised treeline. A speaker descended from the vessel, and a voice, dripping with malice and more than a little self-satisfaction, echoed through the night.

“I’ll get you for this! Especially you, Denor Kara! I’ll rouse every Temrit and Trunian alive and send them to your doorstep! You’ll never sleep soundly again!”

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

The voice cackled—a proper, mad villain cackle, the kind that comes with free thunderclaps and a money-back guarantee—and the ship shot off into the night, leaving behind a silence so profound it almost seemed deliberate.

“Well, that’s one way to start a party,” Denor muttered, before turning to his friend. “Charan! Fancy a stroll to the cemetery? I bet that ship’s left it looking a real mess!”

“Are you sure he’s not lurking around to capture us again?” Charan asked, his voice tinged with reasonable skepticism, he had only just been returned to the village safe and sound, best not to tempt fate.

Denor made a noise that, while technically a response, could have meant anything from “No, I don’t think so,” to “Why do you always ask sensible questions?” Then he was off, jogging towards the site of recent upheaval.

Charan sighed, but followed anyway, soon joined by Gella, who had attached herself to her newly resurrected fiancé like a particularly determined limpet.

“She’s sticking to me like glue!” Charan said with a laugh, though he held her hand as if he never intended to let go.

“Yes, she’s like that,” Denor agreed. “She wouldn’t leave me alone in that blasted dungeon either! You’re going to have your hands full, Charan. Better reconsider while you still can.”

They reached the cemetery, which was now less of a restful place for the departed and more of a construction site after a bad day. The large rock that had once marked the entrance to Litarn’s underground lair was gone, replaced by a chaotic heap of stones, as if the earth itself had decided to throw up its hands and give up after witnessing the whole sordid affair.

The first light of dawn cast a golden glow over the wreckage, making it all look just a little bit too picturesque for Denor’s liking. Picking his way through the debris, he stumbled upon a sight that could only be described as unexpected by those who hadn’t figured it out yet.

There, perched atop the rubble, was a man—or something that looked man-adjacent—sitting in quiet contemplation.

“Er, excuse me,” Denor said, offering a hand with the air of someone who’s not entirely sure if this is the done thing. “Are you alright?”

The figure glanced up, revealing a pair of eyes that couldn't agree on the same color and a beard that looked like it might start a rebellion at any moment. "Ah, assistance! Much obliged, young chap!" With the sort of spryness that suggested he didn’t need the help at all, the stranger extricated himself from the rubble and gave his tattered robes a half-hearted dusting. "Foggle’s the name. Tinker, thinker, and a purveyor of premium twaddle on occasion."

Denor raised an eyebrow—an impressive feat considering the day he'd had. "Foggle? We’ve met before. Remember? The terminal that used to be here?"

Foggle’s eyes lit up, sparkling with that peculiar blend of mischief and wisdom that suggested he could either solve the universe’s most pressing problems or cause them. "Oh, yes, Denor Kara, the brightest lad this side of the cosmos! But let’s not dwell on the past, shall we? We’ve got rather more pressing matters at hand—or so the whispers tell me."

Denor didn’t ask what those whispers were, and was spared an agonisingly long back story.

Gella, whose curiosity was likely to get her killed one day, decided to butt in. "Aside from the giant spaceship that just clawed its way out of the cemetery, piloted by a deranged sorcerer intent on our demise?"

Foggle’s face grew serious, a look that suggested he was about to say something important—or ridiculous. Possibly both. "Well, yes, there’s that. But I was more concerned about the returning villagers. They’re not exactly in top shape, you see."

Gella's eyes widened. "You know what's wrong with them?"

Foggle nodded sagely, displaying the kind of calm confidence that could convince you the sky was green if he felt like it. "Indeed. They’re missing their sparks. A common side effect of being dead for a while, only to be rudely yanked back to the living by sorcerous meddling. But worry not, our bright young friend here has the cure!"

Charan blinked in disbelief. “Denor can cure me?”

Denor followed suit, staring back. “I can cure you?”

Foggle smirked and waggled his eyebrows, like he was about to perform a mildly amusing party trick. “He enacted a cranial transferral with the sorcerer—pure genius, really. Now, the living dead need only touch his forehead and they’ll be right as rain!”

Relief washed over Gella's face like a warm summer breeze. "Thank the stars! But... what about Denor?"

Foggle’s expression turned grave, which was fitting given their location. "Ah, well, Denor's curiosity and Litarn's trickery have led him to contract a rather unique condition. No cure, I’m afraid. You’ll live to a ripe old age, but here’s the twist—you can’t be killed."

Denor blinked. "What does that mean for me?"

Foggle sighed, the kind of sigh that many others had sighed before them when met with the prospect of having to explain something to Denor. "It means, dear boy, that while you can cure others with a simple touch, your own affliction will require something a bit more... adventurous to resolve. A journey, if you will. Think about it, Denor—you're free to do whatever you please!"

Denor attempted to think about it, but thinking had never been his strong suit. “You mean I’m invincible?”

The tinkerer chuckled. “Quite the opposite, really. A stiff breeze could...”

But Denor wasn’t listening. “...invincible. Wow!”

Gella placed a comforting hand on Denor's shoulder. "We’re with you, Denor. Always. But could you please let my fiancé touch your forehead? He's starting to look a bit see-through."

Foggle nodded, his mismatched eyes twinkling with mischief once more. "Indeed. And who knows? You might even stumble upon the answer to a question you didn't know you had. Trickery’s like that, full of surprises."

“Thanks, Foggle, I guess I’ll do that!” Denor declared with the unsteady enthusiasm of someone who was most definitely suffering from a severe concussion at this point. But by the time he turned to thank the old man, Foggle had vanished in an enigmatic puff of smoke.

Denor sighed, he had been left with more questions than answers. A situation he was no stranger to, admittedly. “Come on then, Charan! Let’s get your hand on my head!”

Charan placed his hand on Denor’s forehead… and nothing happened.

“I don’t feel any different,” Charan said, his voice tinged with disappointment.

“Tamet wills it!” Denor screamed, and plunged his forehead into Charan’s.

Charan staggered back, “Denor! That really hurt!” His hands raised to send a second bolt through Denor’s mid section, but Gella’s hand stopped him.

“You look... alive,” Gella whispered, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Denor, do you mind if we leave you here?”

Denor was already unconscious, nestled comfortably atop a pile of rubble.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Charan said, pulling Gella close. “Let’s go home.”

And with that, they linked hands and began their slow, steady walk back to the village, leaving Denor to dream, perhaps, of invincibility—or at least have a nice nap undisturbed by evil sorcerers, Gurruks, Temrit, and Trunians.

***

On a particularly uneventful day, a creature ambled along the outskirts of the village, his journey was abruptly interrupted by an unusual sight. There, amidst the remains of what appeared to have once been a rather serviceable rabbit warren, lay the unconscious body of a boy named Denor.

It stopped and surveyed the scene with a thoughtful expression. It was a scene that seemed to require some kind of action. However, this creature had seen the boy before. It was a goat, and goats are not typically known for their emergency response skills. Instead, he did what he did best: he pondered.

He pondered how someone like Denor had come to be there, amidst the wreckage of a warren that now resembled more of an explosion than a habitat for bunnies. The possibilities were endless and, to the goat, endlessly fascinating.

As he chewed on a particularly interesting patch of grass, he considered the nature of causality and the role of unintended consequences in the grand tapestry of life. After all, one could hardly blame the boy for the structural integrity failing under the influence of his boundless curiosity. Nor could one entirely absolve Denor, whose enthusiasm often exceeded his common sense.

Around this time, a small man in a padded jacket noticed the scene, followed by an older gent. Shouts of alarm and a few cries of “What has he done now?” filled the air as they rushed to Denor's aid. The goat watched them, his ruminations undisturbed by the sudden human activity. In their frenzy to revive Denor and reconstruct their understanding of recent events, they paid no heed to the goat, who took a single bound and was off across the hills.

Then, of course, came the transformation.

Foggle shook off his hircine form and continued on two legs instead. He concluded that the mysteries of how Denor accomplished what he did would likely remain unsolved by the villagers. He'd get back to that later, as he had a date with a particularly juicy patch of dandelions. As the villagers bustled around Denor, fussing and fretting, he couldn’t help but feel a little satisfied. In a world where trickery reigned supreme, there was something oddly comforting about the predictability of both community, and a good patch of grass.

Tamet would have to keep tabs on this Denor Kara, things were about to get very interesting indeed.