The sun crested the horizon, showering the world with life.

  A lone, dark figure stood in front of a necromancer’s tower, bow in hand. The tower was already bustling with activity, with the undead arrayed in front of it cutting a stark contrast against the man’s still figure. He opened his mouth.

  “Jerry!” he shouted, washing his voice over the tower. On the top floor, another man was dozing off on a very soft chair, and his eyes snapped open.

  Derek?

  “Derek!” he shouted, leaning out the window. Immediately, his eyes widened. Derek was shivering, his hands hidden deep into his furs while ice glinted in his dense beard. His eyes were tired yet filled with a gaze murderous enough to upset even Jerry’s heart. “What happened?!”

  Despite his shivering, Derek’s voice was calm. “I need your help.”

  ***

  Derek was hunched over a chair, multiple blankets draped over him. The hearth burned nearby, warming his cold body. He’d spent the entire night in the forest, searching for Brad, but had not found him; as soon as Holly had left his shack, the bandit immediately ran away.

  However, Derek was not willing to drop the issue. Brad had tricked his daughter, betrayed her, and almost scarred her irreparably. Derek was determined to hunt him down and kill him.

  Next to the hunter, Jerry sat in his heavenly soft chair, watching the flames dance. Derek had just finished recounting last night’s events, and the two men had lapsed into silence.

  “Are you sure?” Jerry asked.

  “Absolutely.” Derek’s voice was determined. “I must kill him no matter what. I will go stalk their base until I find him. What do you think, my friend? Two birds with one stone?”

  Jerry sighed. He had been about to leave this place forever when Derek arrived. The two had already said their goodbyes last time.

  “I know I’m asking for too much,” Derek continued, his voice full of shame, “but I know you considered fighting. If I am enough to tip the scales, let’s fight together…and, if not, I’ll go anyway.”

  “It’s useless,” Jerry replied. “I met their leader, Jericho the Green. He is an earth spirit of incredible strength. From what I understand, he’s practically invincible.”

  Derek shook his head. “Nobody is invincible. Everyone has a weakness, even earth spirits.”

  “Maybe so, but are we strong enough to discover it? Even Axehand, who is by far my strongest undead, was helpless in front of Jericho. He was manhandled like a child.”

  “I refuse to believe he can survive an arrow through the eye.” Derek snorted, then sneezed. Wiping his nose, he said, “I’m going regardless. Even by myself, I have a chance. I don’t need to kill Jericho, only that son of a bitch called Brad. I will hide in the area around their base for however long is needed, taking them out one by one.”

  “You will be discovered eventually. There are dozens of them.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Derek’s eyes turned sad. “A bandit… He’s a grown man, Jerry, and he played my daughter like a toy. If I let him get away with it, what point will there be in living on?”

  “That your daughter will have a father,” Jerry replied pointedly, but the hunter slowly shook his head.

  “Some things are worth dying for. I cannot swallow this. I have already made my decision, Jerry, and I will kill that man or die trying. All I want to know is whether you will help me out or not. I know it’s shameful to ask you this after I refused you the exact same thing a few days ago, but my revenge is more important. I would rather bow my head to a friend than to an enemy.”

  The fire cracked, sending sparks over their feet. Jerry leaned back, gazing at a ray of light falling through the open window. He met his friend’s steely gaze. Helping Derek out… Should he fight, or should he run?

  On the one hand, he could fight. He and his undead would probably all perish, along with Derek. Of course, if they somehow made it, everything would be perfect.

  On the other hand, he could run. Derek would die valiantly—or maybe succeed—the bandits would keep infesting the region, and Jerry would abandon his current home and run away like a wet cat. He and his undead would wander the lands, hoping to eventually find a place that would accept them, and maybe in the future, when they got strong enough, they would return.

  Jerry’s heart was clear. He wanted to fight. He wanted to bet on himself and his friends. He wanted to help Derek, avenge Shorty, defend his home, and rid the world of this Jericho-shaped blight. He wanted to gamble that, with enough preparation, the many of them could come up with a way to defeat the earth spirit. He believed they could succeed and would love to take the risk. At worst, he would die, and that wasn’t too bad.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Above everything else, Jerry wanted to protect his undead. He cared about them, viewed them as his children and closest friends. As their master, he had to keep them safe. That was the responsibility he bore, and he’d be damned if he led them all to their true deaths. As the decision solidified in his mind, he gazed back at Derek, meeting his friend’s pained eyes.

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  Jerry opened his mouth and—

  “Master!” a voice came from the door. Boney stood there, crimson flames burning in his eye sockets. Jerry and Derek both looked over in surprise.

  “Boney?” He was supposed to be downstairs. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have come to stop you from doing something stupid, Master,” the skeleton replied, his voice carrying an edge that had rarely been there before.

  “Stop me? Stupid?” Jerry tilted his head. “I’m not following.”

  From the side, Derek smiled sadly.

  “Our souls are linked with yours, Master,” Boney said. “We know what you feel. Right now, your soul burns with the desire to battle, but you suppress yourself because you want to protect us. Am I wrong?”

  Jerry blinked in surprise. “No, but—”

  “That is a grave mistake!” the skeleton continued with fervor. He paced into the room, coming to stand between the two men. His bone fists were clenched as his eyes burned with passion. “Master, you are a man with a wild, free heart! Whatever you want, that is what you do. You are a necromancer; you do not fear death. Why, then, do you fear our death? No— How even dare you!”

  Jerry, still seated, could only watch speechlessly. Boney had always been the calm, collected type, occasionally coming out with sarcasm but little more than that. Such an outburst was unheard of.

  Boney continued, “Why are you mutilating yourself to protect us? We should be protecting you and sacrificing ourselves for you. We are your servants. This is our entire purpose in unlife!”

  “You are more than that.” Jerry frowned. “You’re my friends.”

  “Even more so! You don’t fear death, and neither do we. Hell, we’ve already died once! If you want what’s best for us, why do you force us onto a path you wouldn’t choose for yourself? Would you want to be protected like this, Master? Having others choose your life for you?”

  No, I would not, Jerry thought but did not speak the words.

  “Of course, you wouldn’t. So why are you doing the same to us?” Boney seethed. Jerry’s eyes widened. Was Boney angry at him? That should be impossible. He’d always had a vague sense of how his magic was supposed to act, and he thought the undead were under his complete control. He gave them as much freedom as he could but didn’t think they could actually disagree with him, let alone be mad!

  Ignoring his master’s surprise, Boney pressed on.

  “I do not speak only for myself, Master. I speak for everyone! Boboar, Foxy, Headless, Axehand, Birb… Retreating in the face of danger is fine, but now that your soul is burning with the will to fight, how can we possibly accept it? We do not want to live a sheltered life. We want to follow you, to fight and die by your side. You do not fear death—well, neither do we! All we want is to experience a happy, fulfilling unlife! Please, do not suppress yourself, Master. We are extensions of you. Wherever you desire to go, whatever you desire to do, we will follow you, and we will be happy. So what if we die? We don’t give a damn!”

  Jerry stood silent. Then, as if noticing something, he quickly stood up and walked to the window.

  His undead were arrayed on the ground underneath. Each of their eyes burned with crimson balls of flames, even Birb’s, as they stared up at him. They awaited his orders like soldiers to a general, and their fervor could not be hidden. Their souls pulsed with Boney’s words—they wanted to follow Jerry to infinity and beyond, walk that path until it killed them.

  “Do you understand, Master?” Boney stepped beside him. “We are your friends, your servants, and the instruments of your will. If you want to care for us, give us the life you would give yourself, and let us be happy alongside you for as long as it lasts.”

  Jerry looked over his undead army. They weren’t much of an army; six of them in all, mismatched and sloppy. Yet, it didn’t matter. They might not be a real army, but they were his army.

  And his friends.

  A warm, tingly feeling sprouted inside him, swiftly moving to fill him completely.

  “I understand now,” he said, laughing aloud. “I finally understand! Thank you, Boney. Thank you, everyone.”

  Boney’s crimson flames winked out. “Wasn’t I great, Master? I’ve practiced that speech a lot.”

  “You were absolutely delightful.”

  Jerry looked over the army of undead. They were gazing up at him, their eyes filled with pride, anger, determination, eagerness; truly, everything but flesh was there.

  “My friends,” Jerry said, giving them his very first speech, “I almost betrayed you just now. I am not perfect. However, if you wish to follow me, if you wish for our souls to be interlinked in eternity so we live and die together, then so be it. I will not hold back anymore. Let us live a life worth living and let us die when the time comes.”

  Axehand roared first, a primal, animalistic sound which shook the trees, and the rest of them followed.

  “Today,” Jerry shouted, his voice cutting through their war cries, “we march to battle! Today, we shall avenge our fallen friend and protect our home. Who cares about death? Who cares about odds and chances? We will give it our all, and with Desistos and Samudil as my witnesses, we will triumph! For our friends, we fight! For what we believe in, we fight! For ourselves…”

  Jerry’s eyes flared crimson, his voice booming deep and resounding with the soul. His undead roared, Jerry roared, and even Derek stood up and roared himself, swayed by Jerry’s words.

  “WE FIGHT!”