Of all the fields of study, I am most interested yet least knowledgeable on souls. Even the little I do know, however, is enough to stand head and shoulders above most of my peers—including the bearded fools of Erland.

  Through my studies, I have discovered that souls are immaterial, unfettered to the realm we mortals occupy. We should not even be able to detect their existence, yet we can, for there is one thing which calls souls to our realm and binds them to it: bodies.

  For reasons I have yet to comprehend, souls seek to occupy unborn bodies. I theorize that soul-inhabited bodies inherit special traits to their children, perpetuating the chain, but I lack the instruments to perform further experiments.

  Souls occupy bodies, slowly bonding over the course of one year regardless of pregnancy length. Then, magically, they are bound forever. Even when the body dies, the soul’s innermost tethers remain, and it is only through that ephemeral connection that we necromancers can harvest their power, twist them to our image, and force them to reattach to a corpse.

  However, once the body is damaged enough, the link shatters, letting the soul float back into the dark, hidden void from which it came.

  - From the personal notes of Ozborne the Cursed

  Jerry failed.

  And then he failed again. He felt despair creep in. He was heartbroken.

  Jerry was left staring mutedly at the hyper-aggressive skeleton’s remains, snapped in two by the earth spirit calling itself Jericho the Green. Jerry could still feel Shorty’s soul in there; it was weak and spasming, flickering like a dying firefly.

  The poor thing was slowly slipping into a dark unknown away from Jerry’s perception. He stared at the bone remains for a few moments in silence. His undead, feeling his growing sadness, gathered around, taking in the remains of their companion. There would be no more undeath for Shorty, despite how much he enjoyed it.

  Jerry slowly realized that Shorty was gone forever, and the loss cut through his soul like a burning nail. The shock and regret left him mute for a while. His world turned dark. He fell to his knees and cried. His undead did, too, and for a time, the tower echoed with mournful grief.

  They buried him in the backyard, Axehand and Headless teaming up to dig a grave worthy of Shorty’s stature. They made it small, not forsaking in death what made him special in undeath. His name while living was unknown; Tom Boney probably knew it, as his previous self had been traveling with the man who later became Shorty, but he never gave it, and Jerry never asked. It was unimportant. This was their friend, Shorty.

  They lowered him into the grave tenderly, then stood around in silence. Thunder boomed from above. For the first time in a while, it would rain. The droplets fell on them before it quickly turned into a cascade, but Jerry didn’t mind; he thought it fit the mood.

  After he’d had enough, he said his final words. He was Shorty’s creator, the equivalent of a living creature’s father, so the duty fell on him.

  “Goodbye, Shorty. You were small, but you never let that stop you from protecting our home. You did well. We will remember you. Forever.”

  That was it. Jerry was a simple man and being sad did not change that. Under the pouring rain, they shoveled dirt into the grave, then placed a carved rock over it.

  ‘Here lies Shorty, who was as big as he was small. He died the way he wanted: fighting.’

  Then, they headed back inside. Even if none of them could get sick, the rain had stopped being pleasant after a while.

  Jerry felt sad. Confused, even. He had not known his undead could truly die. He’d thought they would remain forever, keeping him company until he left the realms of life first—perhaps even longer if he could find a way to make himself into an undead, though he wasn’t sure he wanted that. Somehow, he felt that the beauty of life lay in living it properly, embracing its ups and downs, including the end.

  As he had that thought, Jerry remembered his father’s long-forgotten, similar words of wisdom; ‘Life is the art of letting go’, he used to say. Jerry never understood what that meant. Now, he did.

  Disliking someone was no reason to ignore their wisdom.

  Jerry felt sad, but that was okay. He exhaled deeply once, then twice, and his mind calmed again. The sadness turned into beauty, not disappearing, but accentuating the joy of what had passed and what would come. Shorty had died, as would everyone. After all, death was nothing to fear, only something to avoid when possible.

  He surveyed his undead; as always, their psyche took after his. Boney’s gaze was deep, pained, yet serene; he had seen the same truth as Jerry. Out of all his undead, this was the one most like him. Perhaps, he realized in a moment of epiphany, that’s why Boney never lost his memories. An interesting idea to explore later.

  Boboar and Axehand had also been injured in their battle against Jericho. Boboar sported a large crack down the middle of his head, while Axehand had minor cracks all over his body. Unfortunately, Jerry could not fix cracks—that would be the domain of biomancers—only completely replace bones, which he wasn’t willing to do.

  Replacing Boboar’s skull would require de-animating him first, which would wipe clean all these months of living together. It would essentially kill Boboar, and Jerry would not do that. The boar himself hated the idea, too.

  As for Axehand, replacing one bone at a time could be done, though requiring some finesse on Jerry’s part. However, Axehand’s competitive spirit flared again, and he mentally asked Jerry not to replace anything. He would bear these scars as proof of his weakness, and next time, he would be ready. He would take revenge.

  Jerry smiled and nodded. Jericho had killed Shorty. He, too, wanted revenge, burned with the desire. He swore to make it happen.

  When these conversations were done, Axehand grunted and triumphantly raised an axe in the air. Then, after thanking Jerry with an oink and a grunt respectively, the two took off toward the outside. The undead did not mind rain.

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  Watching their departure, Jerry turned his gaze sideways, at the buffet placed by the entrance. He’d brought it in to avoid the rain. Looking at the shoemaking stool reminded Jerry of life’s simplicity, the joy of getting lost in one’s craft. He wanted that right now, but he did not move toward the buffet, nor did he take out his tools.

  Jerry enjoyed making shoes, but the world did not. Jericho would return, and Jerry would have to focus on his other craft until then. Even though he’d been here a while, not a single villager of Pilpen had come to request shoes, not even when they walked on hard clogs or barefoot.

  They did not see him as a friend or shoemaker, but for what was most readily visible; a necromancer. And, while Jerry was sure they would eventually understand, the sight of his lonely, pristine, yet almost unused buffet pierced through his joviality. He wanted to help. He wanted to belong. He did not want to be alone.

  A bony hand touched his shoulder, shaking the desolate thoughts away.

  “Master,” Boney said, his jaw clacking, “can I get a hat, please?”

  Jerry blinked, then looked over the skeleton. He was naked, as they all were—they had nothing to hide in the first place—but Boney was Boney.

  He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “What color?”

  “What colors do we have?”

  “Gray.”

  “Then gray.”

  “All right.”

  Jerry set to work. It was simple. He first grabbed the ball of goatskin, using his scissors to cut out a round piece. He took two thin wooden strips, nailed them in a cross, and nailed the leather on the cross to form a simple gray cap. He then nailed the whole thing on a simple wooden ring to serve as base and passed it to Boney, smiling.

  While working, he considered his previous thoughts more calmly. While the desolation remained, it was no longer gloomy. Instead, hope blossomed in the darkness, bringing a serene smile to Jerry’s face. Boney had helped Jerry in his time of need, as would all his lovely undead. The villagers would eventually understand, too, probably, but until then…

  He was not alone. He had his friends.

  “Thank you, Master,” Boney said, voice filled with gratitude as he put on the hat. It fit perfectly.

  “No, thank you, Boney… You know, I sometimes feel that I’m alone in this vast world,” Jerry externalized his thoughts. “That everyone is alone. Our paths in life bring us close to others, but in the end, our path is only ours, and everybody else will eventually branch off. Everything we have, we will lose…

  “We are doomed to solitude, in a way—and yet, as desolate as that sounds, I see no sadness in it, Boney, for though it is painful, that pain makes us real. The world is a lonely place, but if we can see through the gloom, what’s left of life is a colorful tapestry so beautiful in its brutality that no mortal artist could ever hope to replicate it. All humans are artists, and life is our combined masterpiece.”

  He looked at the ceiling and listened to the rain falling outside. “Though my life is doomed to be lonelier than most, I am blessed by all the gods to have the greatest companions I could ever ask for—all of you. What do you think, my skeleton?”

  “Your words make sense, Master.” Boney nodded sagely. “You say we have nobody, and indeed, I have no body.”

  Jerry blinked, the joke taking some time to settle. Then he laughed, long and loud and rough, expelling the final dregs of sadness.

  “Ah, it seems I finally hit your funny bone, Master,” Boney continued hammering, and Jerry folded on his belly, laughing.

  “You keep getting worse and worse, Boney. If this is the consequence of keeping your memories, it might have been a bad trade.”

  “Maybe, Master, maybe.” The skeleton attempted, and naturally failed, to smirk. “I must go now. The rain does not affect us undead, and the fence still needs building. I trust you can take care of your thoughts, Master?”

  “I can, my good friend.” Jerry smiled warmly. “You do you. I have a plan to draft.”

  He really did. Jericho’s arrival had placed a time limit on Jerry’s continued existence here. He was beginning to enjoy this place, but now…

  Well, something needed to be done. He pondered as he descended the stairs to the basement.

  Running away was out of the question, except as a last reserve. It was winter, and things would only get worse as the days and months went by. Jerry did not fancy becoming an icicle somewhere deep in the mountains.

  Fighting was exceptionally out of the question. As much as Jerry desired revenge, Jericho had thrown Axehand’s massive body as if it weighed nothing and endured Boboar’s charge head-on. The legends that Jerry had heard about nature spirits, that they were invincible to mortals, came to mind; perhaps they were true.

  Then again, perhaps they weren’t. Even though Jerry and his undead couldn’t defeat Jericho, there was someone who could. Someone much stronger than Jerry, and also someone who happened to be a bandit’s natural enemy.

  The Royal Guard of Milaris.

  This area fell under their jurisdiction, as confirmed by the arrival of the Billies. They were an army; they could certainly take care of some bandits, especially if Jerry helped out.

  Nodding to himself, he decided he liked that idea, even though it would probably end up with his lovely tower confiscated—but that was okay. If spring came, then heck, he could build his own tower!

  Jerry slapped his forehead; why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  But then, there was another issue. How would he contact the soldiers? His mind ran back to the Billy squad and their captain, Reymond, who’d promised to return soon. Suddenly, he really hoped they did.

  Until then, Jerry had to start working, and he already knew the first order of business. Whether the soldiers, the bandits, or the villagers came, he would like to know beforehand. Knowledge was power, as Jerry’s dad used to say, and the wisdom of Jerry’s dad was on a roll today.

  Reaching his basement, Jerry surveyed the bodies he had available—thirteen of them, including the slain bandits from the battle earlier. Jericho had left them behind as a sign of rotten goodwill.

  Speaking of rot, the older ones had started to smell, so he had to do something about them. He mentally assigned that as the second order of business. As for the first, he had to create a scout. He briefly looked over the bodies and found zero suitable candidates. They were all humans, as normal and uncharacteristic in death as they could be, and that seemed like a boring idea.

  His undead had to have a spark about them! They couldn’t just be Skelly One and Two and Three. No, that was an old idea, and it had gone out of fashion. But he still needed a scout…

  Jerry’s eyes shone. He’d just had the best idea!