Chapter One
Sikras
SURE, EVERYONEclaimedthey would do anything to bring back a deceased loved one, but that was only because they failed to imagine the ramifications. Unless one had no sense of smell, or an unusual penchant for the stench of decay, undead rarely made satisfying company in the long term. “But, oh,”the people would say,“I never meant for them to return asundead. I meant for them to be alive exactly as they were before.”
Too bad.
No matter how hard anyone wished for, hoped for, prayed for a loved one to come back alive—trulyalive—the best a corpse could ever get was a little less dead than they were before.
And that’s where Sikras ‘Catseye’ Nikabod came in.
Necromancy certainly wasn’t the noblest of professions in the kingdom of Nyllmas, nor anywhere in the whole of Siaphara. If Sikras was brutally honest, necromancy didn’t technically qualify as a ‘profession’ so much as an illicit opportunity for magic wielders with questionable moral compasses to make a living by ripping souls from Enos and stuffing them inside corpses much in the way one shoved cubed bread into a hollowed-out game hen.
But it paid the bills. Illegally. People could balk and wail and organize all the protests they wanted, but for every townsperson who cried about ‘dead men’s rights,’ two or three people would be at Sikras’s doorstep, begging him to resurrect grandpa or whoever happened to keel over that weekend.
For that reason, when Sikras smelled the familiar odor of dried blood and rotting flesh outside his mansion’s ornate door, he wasn’t surprised. That meant one of two things: either a strangely independent undead minion waited on his stoop, or he had a new client.
Sikras made no move for the door even when a knock sounded from the other side, instead he studied the gameboard before him, the only pristine object in a cavernous room full of clutter and dust. It wasn’t until he moved an onyx-carved component into the threshold of a gold-lined circle painted on the board that he stood. “I’ve made my move, Benjamin. Your turn.”
“Finally,” called a voice from a distant room. “I almost died of old age.”
“Count yourself lucky, then. Natural causes are a fine way to go.” After dusting his shoulders and tugging at his sleeves to smooth any wrinkles, Sikras approached the door and pulled it open.
A man holding a lifeless body awaited him on the other side. No surprise there. Sikras tilted his head and gave the corpse a cursory analysis.
Adult. Human. Female. Visible, gruesome injuries. Puncture wounds, exposed intestines, the whole kit and caboodle. Dead maybe seven, eight hours tops. Rigor mortis had set in, and it apparently made her rather unwieldy, as the traumatized looking gentleman holding her grunted each time he readjusted the dead weight.
Awkward silence made seconds feel like hours, and if the stranger’s slack-jawed stutters were any indication, it didn’t look as if he would form a proper sentence any time soon. “Allow me to hazard a guess,” Sikras said to break the ice, giving one of the puncture wounds a gentle poke. “A horde of crowned gremlins? They’ve been getting closer to the city lines lately. Devilish things, those.”
The man appeared to settle at the soothing timbre Sikras injected into his voice. “Apologies. I—I’m still in shock from everything that happened. This mansion’s never one I thought I’d visit.”
“It’s not the top tourist destination in Vinepool, I can tell you that much.” Sikras stepped aside. “Bring her in. Benjamin will show you where you can set her.”
“Benjamin? Th—there must be a mistake.” The man’s arm’s quaked as he struggled to hold the body. “I’m here to see the fabled necromancer, the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness. Who’s Benjamin?”
In the doorway, a human skeleton appeared. “Hi.”
“Adalin’s mercy!” The man stumbled backward and fell, trapped under the dead woman’s weight.
“Benjamin.” Sikras regarded him with open arms. “Perfect timing. Did you make your move?”
“Took me two seconds,” Benjamin replied. “You could learn a thing or two from me regarding efficiency.”
Sikras dipped into a humble bow, then glimpsed the horrified stranger splayed on his steps. “It’s true. Benjamin here is a champion at Rack and Ruin. Do you play?”
“A walking skeleton?” A gasping wheeze tightened the man’s words as he shoved the corpse off his torso and scooted backward.
“Walking. Talking.” Sikras raised a finger. “Just don’t ask him to dance. He’ll do it, and it’s not a pretty sight. He’s a damn fine musician though. You’ve never met a man who can work the lute quite like this one, let me tell you.”
The sound of clacking bones rang out when Benjamin placed his hand on his hip. “I can dance. Sort of. We don’t all practice choreography with undead minions likesomepeople.”
“Oh, yes. Undead.” A cloud of dust jostled off Sikras’s sleeves when he clapped his hands together. “On that very subject, gather your corpse and bring her inside. Who do we have here? Wife? Lover? Sister? A corrupt landlord who you wish to resurrect for the sheer joy of watching her die twice?”
“W—wife, sir.” A layer of doubt reflected in the man’s eyes as he stooped to gather the dead. “Am I to believeyou’rethe necromancer I seek?”
“Judging by your tone, I assume that’s difficult to believe?”
“With respect, sir, you don’t exactly ... That is to say, you don’t look the part of the necromantic prodigy sung of by the kingdom’s bards.”
