Draven hopped off the back of a wagon and thanked the coachman. The man took him south to Malafane’s Mane. The regal mountain range that spanned throughout the lower half of the country still inspired Draven with a grand sense of wonder. It was a twelve hour carriage ride that ran mostly peaceful. They encountered one set of brigands along the way. After brief hand to hand combat, and one cushioned stab with the spear, the men surrendered. He didn’t even have to pull the sheath off. Draven left them tied up on the side of the road. The rest of the trip was straightforward. They saw no more than a handful of wandering zombies. Draven determined that either their Necromancer master had abandoned them or they veered too far away from food. Draven easily handled them. He had much experience with undead, from thirsty vampires to mindless zombies. Outside of that, the journey was filled with friendly conversation and stunning views of the valley.

  That night, just after a magnificent sunset, they parted ways at a small town. The coachman was going further to the south. Draven’s mission was west to Oma and he was still days, if not a week, away. Before leaving, the coachman asked if Draven was sure he wanted to be dropped off at this location. Draven assured the coachman that he’d be okay. The coachman doubled down with a “You’re sure?” Draven wouldn’t budge. He needed to go west from here. The coachman told Draven to watch himself and wished him luck. He snapped at his horse and quickly took the road south and then east, followed by his small caravan. Draven ran his fingers through his greasy black hair. He tied his black robe and stepped forward.

  “Timbergrave,” he rasped. “What the wider world has to offer,” he chuckled to himself. Taking his spear, he entered the dying town. It was large, but quiet, as if it was forgotten. He walked down muddy roads, passing by straw roofed homes and worn-down store fronts. “Good thing I’m just passing through.” The town was in a grim state, coupled with a soiled aroma, not unlike decayed meat.

  Further down the road he found a tavern. He couldn’t quite read the sign. The first word was worn out by time and violent weather. The second word looked like ‘Hollow.’ He entered the tavern. Looking around, there were three customers, each at their own table. There was an old woman behind the bar counter. She was washing dishes. Everyone looked too skinny. Gaunt eyes, ribs showing through their shirts, and weak movements.

  Are they even alive? He wondered. He walked up to the bar counter and asked for a glass of water. The woman turned slowly, as if drunk, grabbed a glass and filled it. She gave it to Draven and walked away. Draven smelt something off. He looked at the water in the glass. Bringing the glass closer to his nose, he could smell something rotten in the water. It was slightly brown in color, and dirtied with nasty little floaties. He set it on the counter and eyed the three patrons.

  Of course, he thought. “You all undead?”

  They all slowly nodded.

  Necromancy. No wonder the coachman was giving me a hard time. Draven looked over the counter and found an unmarked bottle. He stole it and yanked the cork out with his teeth. It smelled like whiskey. He figured it’d be safer than the water. He took a swig. After downing the firewater he walked over to one of the zombies and lifted its sleeve. The zombie was filthy, as if it had been digging holes.

  “One of you mind pointing me to your master?” he asked. The three patrons and woman aimed their fingers west.

  In haunted, dry-throated unison they said, “Grave… yard…”

  “Naturally,” said Draven. “I’ll just take this bottle. Many thanks.”

  Most of the time, zombies were easy to dispatch, especially so if they weren’t being commanded by an experienced puppet of the undead. In this situation, the zombies were just used for work. He imagined their master was up to more amateur shenanigans versus something nefarious.

  Bottle in one hand, spear in the other, he walked out of the tavern, rounding the north corner and looking towards the horizon. His eyes moved down the twilight sky to a hilltop cemetery. After a short hike, Draven passed through a rusted gate. He saw a cemetery with very few graves left undisturbed. He heard noises to his left, where he watched dirt fly out of a hole in the ground. Grave-digging was afoot.

  He walked up and took a peek into the grave. There was a tiny white goblin with a small shovel, plunging it into the soil and tossing it over his shoulder. He was croaking some goblin song.

  “Hello, there,” said Draven. The goblin shrieked, skipping back against the grave wall. His pointed ears leaned back as he clasped his chest.

  “What the hells are you are doing? Trying to make me join this guy or what?”

  “You aren’t the necromancer, are you?”

  “Do I look like a dark wizard that draws up the dead?”

  Draven wasn’t sure if this was a joke, but said, “No. Where will I find your master?”

  “Probably asleep in the parsonage up the path.”

  A necromancer in a temple parsonage. If the church only knew. He saluted the goblin who proceeded to flip him off. Draven didn’t blame the little guy. He wouldn’t be happy digging graves either, especially when other abled bodies were lounging in the local tavern. He walked further into the cemetery. The moon was out at this point, casting a blue glow across the hills. He walked up to the vicarage and knocked on the door.

  “Oh, uh, what, who is it?”

  Draven knocked again, waiting for the necromancer to open. He heard stomping on the other side of the door before it swung open. Standing before him was a hunched back man with a low hanging belly. He was dressed in black wrappings, carrying a crooked walking stick.

  “What?” he asked sternly. “Oh, you’re alive?”

  The necromancer shouted an incantation. Skeleton hands smashed through the earth and grabbed Draven’s boots. More reached up, snagging his robe and yanking back. Draven fell backwards as the hands grabbed his legs and arms, holding him place. He was trapped. The other hands yanked the spear from his grip while another set stole the bottle of whiskey. One of the skeleton hands held the bottle up for the necromancer to take.

  “I’m pleased to see there’s some left!” he said. He popped the cork and put one back. He joyfully exhaled and leaned over Draven, smiling with rotten teeth and dripping snot. “I’m Nero,” he said, rolling his r. “You are?”

  “Draven,” he said calmly. “I’m here to solicit your help.”

  Nero stood up, supporting himself with his walking stick. One of the skeleton claws walked up Draven’s arm, to his shoulder and then to his face. It lifted its pointer finger, ready to stab his eyeball.

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  “You need my help? That’s very odd, if you don’t mind me saying? Not many folks look for our aid. Is this a ploy of some sort? Speak honestly now, or my friend here, Gerald, no. Sorry, this is Freya. Freya will poke out your eyes and slit your throat and we’ll be feasting on your flesh this very evening.”

  “I’m not plotting against you,” said Draven. Nero looked down at Freya’s skeleton hand, hovering over his eyeball. The hand twisted and gave Nero a thumbs up. He had to admit, this stranger on his newly acquired doorstep didn’t seem insincere.

  “Okay then, the ol’ bat says you aren’t lying so lucky you!” Nero clapped his hands, and the skeletons released Draven. He quickly stood up, dusting himself off.

  “Rats!” said the goblin, who was watching the show. “Was hoping we’d get some fresh meat tonight.”

  “Get back to it you slimy beast!” shouted Nero. The goblin flipped him off too. Nero faked a smile and led Draven into the house. After retrieving his spear, Draven plugged his nose, and entered. He was assaulted with horrible body odor and whatever meat was rotting on a tray next to a sink. There was something else too. Feces, maybe? He found a chair by the table. The back was broken and the cushion was punctured, but who was he to complain in this situation? He sat down. The necromancer moved over to the fireplace where a kettle was starting to scream.

  “I’ve just woken up, so you’ll have to excuse the smell. I’ve yet to take out the chamber pot.”

  For once, can’t I meet a necromancer who isn’t a dirty old man? A nice, friendly lady would be fine with me. Just once.

  Draven leaned forward, “So why are you digging up the town? How were you able to avoid the authorities?”

  “It’s wonderful is it not? Oh. You must forgive my delight! Not so many are comfortable with necromancers!”

  “I’m the type who’s met worse.”

  “I can tell! Well, to your question: Timbergrave has been long forgotten. I believe a plague had come through here once and the place was abandoned. Most of the local cities avoid it altogether and the capital never comes this way, so voila! As for the bodies, that’s a bit of a story.”

  Draven knew that Nero had more to say, so being polite he said, “I’ve got a little time.”

  “Lovely! I’m sure you’re more than aware that necromancers pull souls from the Wightshade.”

  “Yeah, it’s a well of souls ripe for the picking.”

  “Usually, you’d be right. Tea?”

  Draven waved. “I’ll pass.”

  Nero smirked and poured some for himself. He sat opposite of Draven, crossed his legs and dipped the bag in and out of the cup. “The well is drying up.”

  Draven leaned in, “How’s that?”

  “Don’t know,” said Nero. “It’s given the necromantic community quite the stir. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found more of us digging up abandoned graveyards in forgotten towns all over the country, maybe the world.”

  “I don’t get it. The Wightshade is where we all go when we die, unless one of you bastards get yours claws on us.”

  “Surprisingly,” said Nero, “I’m not offended.”

  “Where are the souls going?”

  Nero sipped his tea. “That’s the thing. They shouldn’t be going anywhere, not yet anyway. The Heaven Beyond has yet to call all souls forward, so the Wightshade should be filled to the brim. Alas, here I am with that little freak of a goblin digging up bodies, hoping to find the remnants of some soul therein. To think of those poor mindless corpses running around the country…” his voice trailed off.

  “Poor zombies, huh?”

  “We’re just trying to return to people what was once their’s.”

  “More like amassing an army. I’m familiar with the Doom Clavis.”

  Nero’s eyes widened. “I’m impressed! But let’s not get lost in the weeds.”

  Draven leaned back. “Sure.” While intriguing, the Wightshade is a mystery for another day. Still, I should mention this to my employer. He looked at Nero, “I know you have your ways, getting around and all. Tunnels, right?”

  “Hmm, you do hang out with sordid types, don’t you?”

  “I wasn’t joking. Are there any I can access from here to Oma?”

  Nero took another sip of his tea. “That is a beautiful town. Still very much alive, I hate to say.”

  “So?”

  “There is a tunnel, in fact, just west of here. I’ll have one of my minions guide you there, since only an undead can sense another undead, unless you have the nose for it. It’s in a spooky little spot. Very well hidden. There’s a charming zombie in charge of the tunnel freeway. Her name is Esmerelda. Tell her Nero sent you and that the ride is free.”

  “Free? That is… unorthodox.” He hated to use that word.

  “Since we’re becoming such great friends, and you’ve surprised me with your knowledge and demeanor. Who knows, we may run into each other down the way. Oh, and don’t stare too long at her. She’s missing her lower jaw.”

  Draven wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s so that she doesn’t take a bite out of you.”

  After begrudgingly thanking Nero, Draven followed one of his minions out of town. The skeleton was lopsided as it walked. Draven figured that one of his legs was not originally his own. It was a very basic creature for a necromancer to assemble. Nero must not be very skilled, which is probably for the best. Draven didn’t hate necromancers outright, but he often found them detestable. It wasn’t the summoning the dead back for an ill-fated life part. It was that they reveled in the gross stench and waste of it all. They liked playing in the guts and bones and brains of their victims. They never seemed to bathe, either. Truthfully, Nero was the least revolting one he’s ever met.

  The skeleton led Draven into the wood and up a hill. Pushing through overgrown brush, they arrived at a large well. It was covered in blackberry bushes, strewn about and wrapping around the base. Draven found his robe snagging more than once, and a few thistles pricked at his hands. He’d be a bloody mess once he was through this.

  The skeleton pushed just past the well then stopped. Draven watched it look around. It appeared confused. Was it lost? The skeletal minion dropped on his hands and knees and crawled around, tapping its skull against the ground.

  Okay? Draven folded his arms and sat on the well, watching the show. The minion banged it’s head, crawled, and banged it’s head again. Then it reached into the overgrown grass and started clawing away at the dirt.

  “You find some treasure there, pal?” asked Draven. The skeleton kept digging. It finally stopped, reaching down. It twisted, and something underneath Draven’s feet began to shake. He stood up, looking around, trying to determine the source. The ground moved side to side, the trees in his immediate area shook, dropping loose twigs and leaves. Before him, the base of a tree opened up, the door dipping into the ground. From inside the tree came a faint glow.

  “No shit,” said Draven. He walked forward. The minion was still laying on the ground, it’s arm hidden in the dirt. It’s head rotated around, eyeless sockets focused on Draven as he walked over its bones. Draven took a peak through the secret door. He saw torches dressed with cob webs and a dusty stairwell spiraling down.

  “Esmerelda is down here?” he asked the minion. The skeleton rattled it’s head back and forth. Draven went for it. He started down the stairs. When he was a few feet in, the door made of petrified wood rose from the ground, locking him in. The only way out was down. He took his time, carefully walking down the steep staircase. He smelled the earth, tree roots and something else. It was almost sweet.

  He eventually reached a platform. There was a chair on it, covered in dust. It had an open book, laying face up. The edges of the pages were yellow and crispy. Just passed it, more stairs. He continued on. He started counting the torches as he traveled further subterranean. He counted nearly sixty before reaching the bottom of the staircase. Before him was a long hall, also lit by fire. He walked on, listening to his surroundings. He exited the hall which attached to a large tunnel. There he met Esmerelda.

  She was sitting in the drivers seat of a manually operated railroad car stationed on a metal track that led deeper into the dark tunnel. Draven squinted, thinking he might have seen light in the tunnel, but he wasn’t sure. He walked over to Esmerelda. She wore a tight, constricting orange blouse and tattered brown skirt. Her hair was mostly red with gray streaks throughout. If it wasn’t for the green, putrid skin, missing jaw and rotten tongue hanging from her split throat, she’d be attractive for a zombie. Draven regretted thinking that.

  “I’m Draven. Nero sent me. Said the ride is free.”

  Esmerelda coughed a few noises, gurgling juices and wiggling her tongue. She pointed to the chair on the cart. Draven lifted his hand, “Thanks, you don’t have to speak. I get it.”

  He sat down, leaning back, resting his spear on the floor beside the chair. The seat was surprising comfortable. He noted the lamp hanging off a small metal post to his right. Must be for lighting the way. He turned in his seat and held out his hands. “Will the journey to Oma take this long,” he widened the gap between his palms, “Or this long?” He shortened the gap. Esmerelda held up her hands. Somewhere in the middle. Please to see it, Draven back around in his seat.

  “Carry on, my lady.”

  Esmerelda took hold of the lever and began to work. Each push and pull propelled the cart forward. The metal screeched underneath. Draven plugged his ears with his robe, lamenting the fact that the metal scream would follow them all the way to Oma.