Chapter LXIII

  Fedor continues on his path, unable to summon the courage to stray from it. The terror of possibly being watched by the undead lingers heavily in his mind, compelling him to stick to the pn he had made with the necromancer. His new habit of scanning his surroundings for any animals that might be undead was becoming second nature.

  But the surrounding vegetation reveals nothing. Fedor understands why; it's rare to find much wildlife around a rge concentration of humans. This is especially true here considering that the soldiers at the camp have likely been hunting for fresh meat by now.

  "Fedor!!" A shout of surprise and admiration rings out from ahead, The cry forces him to focus on what's in front of him.

  The barricade ahead is just a log supported by two posts, preventing easy passage. But it's not the log that deters people—it's the two guards stationed there. One of them steps forward from the barricade, his face revealing his shock.

  Fedor feels a mix of joy and pain upon seeing the face framed by a thick blond beard, revealing white teeth as the man lets out a hearty ugh. "Bastard, I knew you wouldn't go down that easily."

  The sincerity in Anteres's voice stings Fedor, knowing he is betraying him. The only relief he finds is that, if the necromancer had followed his first pn, Anteres and the other guard would now be facing an undead Fedor, possibly fighting for their lives—and losing.

  Anteres approaches Fedor and extends his unarmed hand in greeting. Fedor responds genuinely, "Anteres, it's good to see you. Really, good to see you."

  "Yeah, it is," Anteres agrees, his broad smile unwavering. "How did you manage to get out of that one?"

  The question brings Fedor back to his dire situation. Telling the truth out here could doom him and others to a quick, brutal death at the hands of the necromancer. Unfortunately, he hadn't really thought about how to answer that question. He was counting on saying, that he had been helped by an apparently harmless Nero—but the necromancer's pns had been different.

  Fortunately, standing face to face with Anteres, Fedor recalls some old stories from an old friend. "Well... remember, how Melfor said he survived the Battle of the Three Peaks?"

  "No way... you didn't actually do that, did you? And it worked!?" Anteres says, his smile growing wider.

  "Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Fedor lies shamelessly. But what other choice does he have?

  "But didn't they check the bodies?" Anteres asks, shaking his head in disbelief. Fedor understands; when he'd first heard Melfor's story, he had the same doubts. The trick wasn't new, and by then, Fedor had often been tasked with 'cleaning' the battlefield.

  "They did a sloppy job. Lucky for me. Or do you have a problem with that?" Fedor replies with a grin, thinking that, yes, Anteres should have a problem with it—but that's just his conscience speaking.

  "So, you survived the offensive?" comes the gruff voice of Lieutenant Gravust. Fedor and Anteres turn to the approaching man, accompanied by the other guard. Fedor realizes, that the other guard must've gone to call the officer.

  The hefty lieutenant, with his rge belly and condescending tone, when addressing his men, approaches, studying Fedor carefully as he strokes his long mustache.

  "And how did you do it?" Gravust asks. Most would assume the lieutenant is just another small noble who secured an officer's rank—a pompous fool treating his men worse than dogs. And while he doesn't treat them particurly well, the man is anything but a fool and isn't easily deceived.

  Besides, Fedor respects the lieutenant, having once seen him refuse to follow orders that would have led to the senseless deaths of his men. Fedor remembers that Gravust was punished for this, but most of the men he commanded back then are still alive. In fact, many are now in this very camp.

  "He pyed dead. Waited for a chance to escape," Anteres answers, struggling to suppress his smile in front of the lieutenant.

  "Didn't Grint's men sweep the battlefield thoroughly?" Gravust asks, clearly skeptical.

  "From what I could tell, they had just started when they seemed to receive news of the princess's capture," Fedor responds, forcing a casual tone. He feels sweat trickling down his neck, hoping Gravust doesn't pick up on the hesitation in his voice. After all, it's close enough to the truth—such news, really had come. But it hadn't stopped them from searching the field.

  "After that, all I heard was them talking about going to rescue her. They said they had to move quickly, even if it was dangerous," Fedor adds, carefully omitting that he had overheard this while tied up and being interrogated. And he certainly won’t reveal that the situation had only been resolved with the appearance of the strange necromancer. Who might be watching this very conversation.

  This thought makes Fedor gnce behind him, attempting to see something that confirms his suspicions. But there's only dirt and bushes. That doesn't stop the chills running down his spine.

  "If that's true, they must be on their way," Gravust decres, stroking his mustache as he reflects on Fedor's story.

  Fedor nods, hoping the relief he feels doesn't show on his face. Happily, it seems the lieutenant is buying his story. "Yes, I think so. But I didn't wait around to see them leave. I got out of there as soon as I could."

  "We never expected them to just leave things like that," Gravust muses, as Fedor's story aligns with what they anticipated from the princess's men.

  "Not that it's a big issue for now. We've got more men and a good defensive position. But we'll see..." the lieutenant trails off, airing his thoughts aloud.

  As Fedor finally releases the breath he had been holding, he hears Gravust's voice again, now eyeing Fedor's leg. "And what happened to your leg?"

  Looking down, Fedor sees the bloodstain from the wound that had brought him down. He almost wants to scream—he hadn't thought about how to expin the missing injury.

  "Potion..." he blurts out—the only pusible answer. "When I went to support that idiot Gregor, I got an arrow in the leg, which left me almost defenseless on the ground..."

  He recounts this, knowing the three in front of him likely aren't aware of it, and it might earn him some sympathy while he figures out what to say next. "While I was on the ground... pretending to be dead," sticking to his story, "a body fell next to me. Eventually, I noticed he had a potion... and well..."

  Fedor improvises, hoping his hesitation comes across as embarrassment. Judging by Anteres's amused smile, it seems to be working.

  "You just drank some random potion? What if it was a cure for constipation?" jokes his friend, giving Fedor the perfect opportunity.

  "Well, what choice did I have? It was that or risk dying right there." Fedor makes sure to sound genuinely annoyed by the comment.

  "Alright, enough messing with him," the lieutenant orders, surprisingly siding with Fedor in this small exchange. "Go get something to eat and clean yourself up. I'll report what you said to the commander—he'll probably want to talk to you. We'll need all the information you have about them."

  Relieved but with a lingering sense of guilt, Fedor continues up the small pteau where the camp is set up. But not before casting another gnce behind, trying to spot the necromancer or any undead lurking nearby.

  In the camp, Fedor can hardly take a step without someone congratuting him on surviving. It's a story every soldier loves to hear. Welcoming back a comrade they thought dead is always good news, though it rarely happens.

  The most difficult moment was when he almost ran away when he saw a mule. Fortunately, no one really noticed his reaction. If he survives this, he will never again look at a pack animal, in the same way.

  All the attention of his fellow soldiers only deepens Fedor's misery. He finds himself in a position where he'll have to betray all these people, that are so happy about his survival.

  To add to his problems, it's not like he can just waltz up to the princess as the necromancer wants.

  This makes him consider telling the commander the whole truth when they speak. Revealing that the enemy is already in position and has a necromancer might be enough to earn him forgiveness. With some luck, he might even get a reward when it's all over. After all, he always thought highly of Commander Sampast.

  His biggest hesitation is the feeling of being watched. In this camp full of soldiers, it must be his imagination. Or maybe it's the lieutenant who still doesn't fully trust him. But he can't shake the feeling that it's the necromancer.

  That is when he notices a new tent in the middle of the camp. Even though he hadn’t spent much time here before heading into battle, he should’ve noticed a tent that rge. Seeing a guard in front of it, Fedor's suspicion deepens.

  He asks about the tent getting confirmation of his suspicions—it’s where the princess is being held. Apparently, the commander didn't like treating royalty like a common criminal.

  The necromancer’s target being so close leaves Fedor incredulous, unsure of what to do. Then, to his surprise, Alcar, who’s on guard, steps away from the entrance. Fedor shakes his head in frustration. Alcar is a good, loyal man, but sometimes...

  And so, Fedor finds himself approaching the tent where the young woman he’s never seen before is held—the very reason he’s in this mess. In a way, it's his own curiosity that drives him forward.

  Inside the tent, modestly furnished with two canvas chairs, a simple table, and even a mattress with bnkets—not luxurious by a princess’s standards, but practically a pace to a soldier like Fedor—the involuntary guest sits in one of the chairs. Her simple yet high-quality blue dress is torn at the sleeve and skirt.

  She looks at him with beautiful, deep sapphire eyes. Her golden hair, reaching halfway down her back, is disheveled and dirty, some of the grime coming from the blood of a wound on her cheek, now covered with a bandage.

  "What do you want?" she asks, her voice tired but defiant. The fire in her eyes, and the fact that she clearly didn't come quietly but resisted until she couldn't anymore, earns his respect.

  Seeing no response from him, she stands, drawing attention to the chain attached to her leg, tethered to a stake in the middle of the tent. She has enough space to move around inside, but no more.

  "What do you want? Are you here just to amuse yourself... A princess captured and about to die, does that entertain you?" she bursts out, but it doesn’t st long. She colpses back into the chair, seemingly struggling to hold back tears.

  And it's only now that Fedor realizes how young she is. At most twenty, maybe. For a peasant, she'd already be on her second child. But for a noble, she's almost a child in many ways.

  His heart softens at the sight of the poor girl. Moments ago, he was considering bming her for the mess he was in. But in a way, they're both prisoners of misery. This pity leads him to say:

  "They're coming for you," he decres emotionlessly. It might be good news for her, but not for him.

  She snaps her head up, her intense sapphire eyes locked on him. "'They' who? What are you talking about?"

  "Grint and Lady GrassStone," he crifies, remembering them when he had been leaving with the necromancer.

  "What are you talking about? Sorana isn’t even nearby. What are you scheming?" the seemingly enraged princess demands, regaining enough spirit to stand tall.

  He feels strangely amused recalling that Lady GrassStone hadn’t been at the princess's camp at the battle's start, only arriving at the end. That was because she'd gone to meet someone the girl in front of him had never met in person.

  And that truly amuses him. She doesn’t know the person who makes Fedor feel more trapped than she is in this tent. Someone, who makes him feel watched even now.

  "She found him... and she convinced him to come get you," he nearly shouts. The princess stares, wide-eyed. Whether it’s from the shock of his outburst, which even surprises Fedor, or from realizing who he’s talking about, Fedor doesn’t know.

  "Fedor, what's going on here?" he hears Alcar’s voice ask.

  Turning toward the tent entrance, he sees the other soldier standing there. "Alcar!!" is all he can manage, caught off guard.

  Alcar's expression shows his growing suspicion. "How did you get in here? I only stepped away for a moment to relieve myself."

  "Yeah, there was no one here, so I came in..." Fedor begins trying to expin.

  "But why were you talking so friendly with her? She’s done nothing but scream and refuse to talk to anyone else," Alcar presses. On something Fedor doesn’t know how to expin.

  "And who’s the 'he' you were talking about?" That question is the real problem. To answer it, he has to reveal everything. And right now cornered they will never believe him. He has no way out.

  Alcar’s expression darkens, realizing something is seriously wrong. Fedor reaches for his weapon, only to remember he hasn’t had one since being brought down in battle. His old sergeant’s words echo in his mind, "Never lose your weapon. It’s your life."

  Alcar notices Fedor’s reaction and draws his sword while, advancing into the tent toward Fedor.

  Fedor can only retreat, looking around for anything to defend himself with. Unfortunately, it seems they’ve been careful not to leave anything like that inside the tent.

  "Interesting," says a new voice—a voice Fedor has only recently heard but suspects will haunt him for the rest of his days.

  Looking past Alcar, Fedor sees a young, poorly dressed figure appear out of nowhere.

  "I didn’t expect you to keep our agreement," the necromancer calmly states, as if nothing unusual is happening.

  Fedor can only respond with one word: "Nero!"