Chapter LXI

  Fedor falls to the ground, his ears ringing and the taste of blood in his mouth. The shout of "Speak, damn you!" from the man who just punched him barely elicits a reaction. It doesn't matter much now.

  "You miserable coward!" the attacker yells again, this does irritate Fedor slightly. After all, it isn't him who is punching a wounded man with his arms tied behind his back.

  For a moment, Fedor even considers arguing with the man. Perhaps he could provoke him enough to lose control and kill him outright. After all, there’s no doubt his death won’t be pleasant. Unfortunately, he doesn’t want to die—not yet. He might have accepted that his end is near, but he prefers it to come ter rather than sooner.

  As he looks at the angry, blood-covered face of the other man, Fedor decides against provoking him. Perhaps they’ll repce this fool with someone who knows how to do a proper interrogation—which would be far worse.

  The frustrated soldier grabs him by the colr and yanks him off the ground, forcing him to his knees. "Speak, damn you, or I’ll kill you right here and now!" he screams again.

  Fedor feels a smile forming on his lips as he reflects on how foolish this man is. Fedor is already dead—his life ended because of that idiot Gregor.

  When Gregor, that overeager fool, charged ahead without orders, Fedor could swear he heard his first sergeant's voice whispering: "Kid, watch out for idiots. In battle, they'll get themselves killed, but not without taking others with them."

  Wise words, like almost everything that tyrannical old man used to say. When Gregor charged, Fedor knew it would end badly. But he'd seen too many comrades die foolishly to just stand by. So, he went to help, taking an arrow to the leg that brought him down and led to his capture. Gregor, for his part, only sted a little longer before someone caught him alone and finished him off, in a two-to-one fight.

  The reward for Fedor's effort? Being beaten senseless by this furious man. Though, in fairness, the man probably lost comrades too. Such is the life of soldiers like them. Of course, this other soldier doesn’t share Fedor’s philosophical resignation.

  When the soldier reaches for his sword, a rough, gravelly voice echoes: "Enough. Dead men don’t talk."

  Turning toward the source of the voice, Fedor sees another man approaching—or rather, a monster of a man. Cd in leather armor, he must weigh as much as two grown adults. Massive and imposing, his beard streaked with white betrays his age. But even so, he is clearly someone no sane person would ever dream of crossing.

  There’s no doubt in Fedor’s mind: this is Grint, captain of the princess’s guard and one of the primary threats in this battle. He’s the man Fedor’s unit had most hoped to distract with their attack.

  "We don’t have time. We need to go after her, and for that, he needs to talk," the attacker protests, almost shouting.

  It reveals him as either an idiot or someone completely out of control. After all, while trying to interrogate Fedor, he just confirmed that they’d succeeded in capturing the princess and that they needed Fedor's information. Killing him now would mean losing that valuable information.

  Grint shakes his head, clearly unimpressed by the foolishness of his subordinate. A veteran like him would never make such a mistake. But what’s done is done, and Fedor allows himself a small sense of satisfaction—they won’t kill him yet.

  Grint steps closer, and as his eyes meet Fedor’s, it feels like the grizzled captain can read his thoughts. "You shouldn’t be happy about that," Grint says. "Because getting what we need out of you won’t be pretty."

  Fedor swallows hard, knowing torture is now a certainty.

  The old soldier’s heavy, intimidating gaze is interrupted by the arrival of a woman on horseback. She’s beautiful, with long bck hair, dressed in a luxurious gown that seems out of pce on a battlefield—until Fedor notices the sword in her hand, a bde that looks recently used.

  "Irina! Where is Irina?" the woman cries, nearly hysterical.

  "They took her, girl. They took her," Grint replies, his gravelly voice tinged with pain. Losing the one he was sworn to protect must weigh heavily on the old warrior.

  "No, no!" the woman screams, and Grint steps toward her, likely to try to console her. But her beautiful face turns to him with a strange certainty as she asks, "Alive?"

  Grint hesitates momentarily before responding, "Yes!" though his voice holds no comfort.

  "Then we’ll get her back." The conviction in her voice almost moves Fedor, but he, more than anyone else present, knows the folly of her words.

  "Yes, exactly," the enthusiastic soldier agrees.

  "Sorana..." Grint begins as gently as he can, confirming what Fedor had already suspected. This woman is Lady Sorana GrassStone, a childhood companion of the princess and one of her most loyal followers.

  "Grint, I found him. We have a chance," the dy says to the old man with a strange conviction that makes Fedor wonder who she’s talking about.

  "Yes. The dy is right. We can rescue the princess—we just need this scum to tell us where they took her," the soldier decres, pointing directly at Fedor. Drawing his weapon and aiming it at Fedor, he adds, "And after I cut off one of his hands, he’ll talk."

  Fedor can only marvel at how quickly this situation has escated. But despite the soldier’s conviction, Fedor doesn’t take the threat seriously. The risk of such a blow killing him is likely too great for them to allow it—or so he hopes.

  "You know, they say torture rarely yields good results," a new voice remarks in a rexed tone.

  Turning to this newcomer, who thankfully seems to be advocating for calm, Fedor is puzzled. The voice belongs to a young, poorly dressed servant.

  Fedor had noticed the three young servants and a mule approaching behind Lady Sorana but had paid them little attention. The dy's conversation was far more important.

  Now, however, the most miserable-looking of the three has interjected himself into the conversation. His audacity draws everyone’s attention. Before anyone can reprimand him, a thought occurs to Fedor: Why does the princess have a servant who looks more like a beggar? His clothes even seem to have holes in them. At least the other two wear well-maintained cloaks. This reflects poorly on her.

  "Nero!" Lady Sorana excims, surprised to see the servant. Her familiar tone leads Fedor to conclude that the servant belongs to her. She lets the sword she was holding fall and quickly dismounts her horse. Turning to the servant, she continues, "We’re going to need your help."

  Interestingly, Grint seems to tense up as he watches the servant closely, even pcing a hand on the hilt of his weapon.

  The servant, for his part, looks around, his demeanor almost aggressively rexed in contrast to the tension surrounding him.

  "Help?" he asks. Seeming confused by the dy’s plead.

  Hearing this, Lady Sorana freezes, her body going rigid as she focuses entirely on the young man. "Nero..." she begins.

  But the servant dares to interrupt her. "Should I assume the buyer is no longer avaible? So, I’ve been wasting my time," he says, his tone and words revealing that Fedor’s initial assumption—that this was a mere servant—was wrong.

  "Well then, goodbye, Sorana," the young man suddenly decres, turning and starting to walk away. Fedor is almost shocked by his familiarity with a noblewoman, and the soldier, for his part, seems ready to attack him.

  "A gold coin for each egg!" the dy nearly shouts after him, and whatever she means by that causes the strange young man to stop in his tracks.

  "Nero, please," she pleads. "Help me save her, and I’ll give you a gold coin for each one. You’ll never get a better price." Her words sound like a negotiation, but the desperation in her voice reveals the truth.

  For a moment, it seems like he will continue walking away. But then he hesitates. Once again, the woman’s voice rings out—calm but empty. "Please."

  "Ahh!" the young man sighs before turning back to the dy, raising a finger at her. "A coin for each of them. All nineteen."

  She nods her agreement without hesitation, prompting him to continue. "And if I decide to leave, I leave. I don’t want to hear anything about it."

  A strange condition, since if he truly wanted to leave, it would be difficult to stop him. All he’d have to do is slip away when no one is watching—they’re hardly able to pursue him, while they need to go after the princess.

  "And Sorana..." he begins, his voice strangely cold and devoid of his earlier irritation. "...this is it. Don’t ask me for anything else."

  The dy hesitates at his words.

  "Lord Nero, I give you my word: if you save our princess, we won’t trouble you again," Grint says in his rough, hardened voice, offering the guarantee the young man seems to desire. Or perhaps it would be better to say the lord desires.

  Upon hearing these words, the strange young man raises an eyebrow and says, "Lord? What lord? What stories have you been telling, Sorana?"

  "Only the truth," GrassStone decres almost serenely. Her body no longer revealed the tension it once held, as if her worries were melting away.

  "The truth?" Nero questions, his tone strange, as though the single word carries more weight than its mere meaning.

  "Everything I've seen and heard while we were together," she concludes. And her response seems to crify something for the young man.

  "Alright," he says, shrugging his shoulders. Then, turning directly to Fedor and gesturing at him with his hand, he asks, "And him? What do you want from him?"

  "We need him to tell us where they took the princess," Grint replies, observing this strange Lord intensely.

  "Wouldn't it suffice to just follow your attackers?" one of the other young men asks, only to be shoved and silently scolded by his companion.

  "Following them is risky. They could always set up an ambush for us. We'll do it if we have no other choice, but it’s dangerous," says the soldier who had been beating Fedor, showing a rare hint of intelligence.

  "That's not the only thing, Seres. They might split up, and if that happens, we won’t know which group has Irina," Lady GrassStone adds.

  "They’ve already attacked us in three different groups," Grint expins. Raising his free hand, the one not resting on the hilt of his weapon, he gestures toward Fedor. "That one belonged to the first group—a distraction to throw us off position."

  "The second group was their main attack force. They pinned us down while the third mostly slipped by, unnoticed to capture the princess." Grint finishes his expnation and turns toward the so-called lord. Who had been listening to everything expressionlessly while scrutinizing Fedor intently.

  Fedor, for his part, takes some satisfaction in knowing the pn had gone so well. It would have been even better if not for Gregor.

  "And are you certain she’s still alive? I don’t want to waste my time." the young man asks, sounding somewhat disinterested. His words cause Lady GrassStone to wear a nearly horrified expression.

  But Grint responds calmly, "If they wanted her dead, she’d already be. At the very least, they must want information that only she has." His deep voice brings some comfort to his companions.

  "But they’d rather kill her than let her be rescued," Grint warns wisely. And Fedor can confirm this, as their orders had been clear: if they couldn't capture the princess alive, she wasn’t to leave this pce alive. The young man, however, simply nods calmly, indicating he understood.

  Finally, Nero approaches Fedor unhurriedly, as if taking a casual stroll through a field, and lowers his head to be closer to Fedor’s face.

  "So, why don’t you do me a favor and tell me what they want to know?" the so-called Lord asks him with a friendly smile. For a moment, Fedor has to stop himself from ughing at the ridiculous scene. This young lord, who looks more like a beggar, simply shows up here and politely asks for information that will undoubtedly lead to Fedor's death.

  It’s truly hard for him not to ugh and hurl insults at the young man before him. But Fedor also feels a strange, difficult-to-expin sensation, especially as he notices the seriousness with which the others are reacting. That almost makes the situation funnier—until the realization that even someone like Grint is taking this beggar seriously sends a chill down his spine.

  "No, nothing," Nero continues when he realizes Fedor isn’t going to answer.

  He lets out a resigned sigh before proceeding. "Are you sure? I’m really trying to help you here." And the funny thing is, Fedor can believe he’s being sincere. But there’s nothing to be done.

  "Alright, cool, cool," Nero says, using a strange expression that confuses Fedor, who wonders what exactly it means. It isn't that cold.

  But Fedor doesn’t have time to dwell on it because Nero straightens up continuing to speak calmly, even amiably. "I get it. Torture’s tough, right?" Something Fedor has no trouble agreeing with, though he doesn’t understand where the young man is going with this.

  "It must be even worse here. After all, with potions to keep someone alive, what they can do to you must be terrifying." Nero keeps talking, not looking at him. But Fedor thinks he understands where this is headed. And it might even work—highlighting what can be done to 'help' someone talk. Unfortunately, Fedor has seen too much to be swayed.

  "Although using magic to recover someone would probably be more effective," Nero continues, finally looking back at Fedor with a bnk expression. "Luckily, in this case, I don’t know such magic."

  With this decration and the general ck of reaction from the others, Fedor begins to connect the dots. A strange, arrogant, and self-assured young lord speaking of magic. The bastard is a mage, and they all know it.

  The likely mage crouches down and looks directly at Fedor. "Not that I would use it. After all, the problem with torture is that it’s good for making someone talk but not necessarily for making them tell the truth. Right?"

  This change in tone unsettles Fedor. As someone who has dealt with false information extracted through such means, he knows the young man speaks the truth. The problem is, that this leaves Fedor even less able to discern where this conversation is heading.

  "Especially considering what your side might do to you ter if you survive. Or perhaps to your family," Nero says, almost casually, though his words are anything but. Yet Fedor can’t help but notice that the young man understands part of his dilemma. Not that Fedor has a family—whatever happens, he is already dead. Considering the mercy, he can count from the royals of Figor, if he betrays them. The only question is who is going to do the deed.

  "Unfortunately for both of us, I have a way to get the truthful answers I need..." There’s a hint of regret in Nero’s voice as he speaks.

  "Come here," he suddenly commands. Fedor, gncing behind the young man, doesn’t see anyone responding. That is until he notices the mule slowly walking toward him.

  When the mule approaches, Nero stands and gestures for the animal to stop, right in front of Fedor. All of this confuses Fedor—what could this possibly mean? He gnces around for answers.

  The soldier looks just as bewildered as he does, but the others seem to know something. Their bodies betray a strange tension and expectation. Nero’s companions stand side by side, exchanging tense gnces. Lady GrassStone and the veteran whisper something to each other, visibly uneasy.

  "You probably don’t understand this, but my mule is... unusual. Want to guess why?" the young man asks.

  Looking at the strangely obedient and passive mule, Fedor agrees with Nero—there’s definitely something odd about it. Beyond that, these lunatics overloaded the poor animal, which had made Fedor think they were trying to kill it with the weight when it first approached.

  But now, face to face, Fedor can’t detect anything wrong with the animal. Showing no strain from its load. Yet as he stares at it, his heart races and his mouth goes dry. Unfortunately, he can’t figure out why he’s having this reaction.

  "Nothing!?" Nero says jovially. "Need a hint?"

  Fedor looks at Nero, who watches him closely until another voice interrupts. "It's an undead mule ."

  Nero turns toward the speaker—one of his companions. In a slightly defensive tone, the man adds, "Come on, if you want him to guess, we’ll be here all day. And they seem to be in a hurry." He gestures toward Lady GrassStone as he speaks.

  No one contradicts what the man just said. When Fedor focuses on the creature in front of him, he almost can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it earlier. At this distance, he should feel the mule’s warm breath—but it’s clearly not breathing.

  Beside him, someone voices his thoughts aloud. "Necromancer!!" It’s the soldier who had beaten him, now raising his sword.

  "Stand down!" Grint’s harsh command rings out.

  "But..." the soldier protests.

  The veteran stares him down and says, "It doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you try anything, that mule will kill you before I can help."

  The creature they’re all talking about simply stares at Fedor. And Fedor doesn’t doubt for a second that Grint is telling the truth.

  "So you didn’t tell everyone, did you, Sorana?" Fedor hears the young necromancer say.

  But he quickly returns his attention to the previous young man. "See what you’ve done, Grumpy?"

  Fedor doesn’t care much about their exchange—his focus is entirely on the undead mule before him. Another voice cuts through the tension. "But Nero, Adar’s right. No one ever guesses the mule is undead."

  "Another one," mutters the necromancer before turning back to Fedor. "Well, I don’t know if you know this, but undead creatures will obey their creator to the best of their abilities."

  Fedor gnces at the necromancer while keeping some of his attention on the mule. But he doesn’t respond—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he has no idea what to say.

  "So, you won’t be able to really respond. You know, with words..." the necromancer begins to expin, much to Fedor’s growing horror.

  "But if I tell it to go to your camp. We just have to follow you," Nero says, the calmness in his voice starkly contrasting with Fedor’s racing heart.

  "Shame you have to die for nothing. But... you know..." Nero says, still in a friendly tone, as the mule takes a single step forward.

  Fedor throws himself backward, trying to escape the mule, and nds on his back, his bound hands catching his fall. On the ground, he looks around, seeing the blood and still-uncollected bodies scattered across the battlefield.

  He begins to crawl away, knowing his injured leg won’t support him. Not that it matters—at this moment, he really doesn’t want to die.

  He had accepted death before, but becoming undead? As he crawls, everything he’s ever heard about necromancers and the undead rushes through his mind. Soldiers talk, after all, and everyone knows some use necromancers in their armies. But what echoes most in his mind now is the rumor that the souls of those who become undead are condemned to wander the world as ghosts for eternity. Something Fedor desperately doesn’t want to confirm or disprove.

  The mule takes another step forward, and Fedor begins to think. Looking at the bodies around him, he spots Gregor—the bastard who caused all of this— wondering if he can convince the necromancer to use him instead.

  But if that were the case, why would Nero need Fedor? Fedor must find a reason for the necromancer to keep him alive.

  "South... south... Near the road to Farmers’ Harbour, there’s a stream. We set up camp next to it," Fedor reveals, hoping to at least buy some time.

  The mule seems to stop, while its master is considering what he’s hearing.

  "Interesting. Probably even true," the necromancer says casually, giving Fedor a sliver of hope. That is, until Nero shrugs and concludes, "But why risk it being a lie or a trap? Sorry, but you need to offer something of greater value."

  Fedor stops crawling and looks at the bastard. And the worst part is, he can’t even argue with him.

  Then Fedor remembers something else. "I can help you get into the camp. I know the patrol patterns."

  The necromancer blinks, seemingly surprised. "Hey, how’d you guess my pn?"

  The question leaves Fedor speechless, especially as Nero begins expining. "I’ll send you to the entrance. While your guy's defenses are distracted with the undead. We’ll slip in through another side."

  Once again, Fedor has to admit that the necromancer’s pn is solid. The problem is, it means Fedor is more useful dead than alive.

  The necromancer calmly pces a hand on his mule and begins, "So if that’s all..."

  And then Fedor tries what must be his st chance. "There are forty men-at-arms. You’ll never reach the princess in time if you don’t know where she is. I can infiltrate the camp and find out."

  This would make Fedor a traitor, hunted for the rest of his life. But right now, that seems like the better alternative.

  "Really?" the necromancer asks—not Fedor, but Grint, who fortunately agrees.

  The necromancer then turns his attention back to Fedor and, with a broad smile, says, "Great, we have a pn."

  "What? We’re just going to trust him?" someone, whom Fedor doesn’t recognize, says, much to his dismay.

  "Oh, of course, we trust him. Our new friend wouldn’t be foolish enough to deceive us... And if he is, we always have Pn A," decres the necromancer, making it abundantly clear that there’s an alternative—a grim one Fedor wouldn’t like.