Chapter LXII

  Walking at a brisk pace, they head toward the camp where Fedor's companions now hold the princess captive. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to call them his former companions, as Fedor prepares to betray them.

  This thought makes him gnce back at Nero, the necromancer. Seeing the poorly dressed young man shouldn’t terrify him the way it does. But knowing what he knows, only a fool wouldn't fear the necromancer.

  The undead mule still follows behind him. And while Fedor doesn't know much about magic, let alone necromancy, the creature shouldn’t be able to exist for this long. That means either everything he's heard about necromancy is nonsense, or this bastard is far more capable than an ordinary necromancer.

  The necromancer notices Fedor watching him and responds with a small smile—one that almost seems friendly. But it reminds Fedor of something from the beginning of this journey. Back when arguments arose over whether Fedor should be untied, Nero had simply said:

  "Yes, it really would be a shame if he tried to run..." He had paused before turning to Fedor and continuing, "... it would be such a waste of a potion."

  The necromancer had finished his thought by turning to the princess’s servants and pcing a hand on his mule. "Aside from that, we wouldn’t be losing a lot."

  That memory sends a shiver down Fedor’s spine, and he immediately turns his gaze forward.

  "Can I ask a question?" a voice behind him asks. Fedor thinks it belongs to one of the necromancer’s companions—probably the blond-haired young man.

  "No, Blondie, you can't!" snaps the necromancer.

  "Of course, you can, Seres," responds the pleasant, almost melodic voice of Lady GrassStone, contradicting Nero with some amusement.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Fedor gnces back, trying to see what’s going on. The blond youth—Seres, as the dy called him—looks between her and the necromancer, clearly trying to decide what to do. His dark-haired companion, meanwhile, is silently urging him to stay quiet.

  "Well..." Seres begins hesitantly. "...it's just that I don’t know who this Irina is, the one we’re supposed to be saving."

  "We?!" the necromancer bursts out. His reaction is understandable. After all, their group consists of only about ten of the princess's men. Not bad, considering the beating their forces had just taken, but far from enough to face forty armed soldiers in a fortified position—especially when the defenders are likely expecting retaliation at any moment.

  Even with Fedor’s help allowing them to arrive sooner than expected, the only real advantage they have in the upcoming battle is the necromancer himself.

  "Oh! Yes, I see—I never expined the situation to you all, did I?" says the dy, apparently ignoring Nero.

  "Yeah, all I remember from our time together is that you were being chased by people from the south. But no one ever expined why," Seres replies, voicing his confusion.

  "Right, I see. Well, then..." she starts.

  "No need. The story is always the same," the necromancer interrupts, sounding bored. "Royal families fighting for power."

  "Ahh!... Wrong," Lady GrassStone decres with strange satisfaction, seemingly pleased to correct someone she had been desperate to hire not long ago.

  The necromancer sighs in frustration. "So, you're telling me this princess isn’t part of a royal family?"

  "The story is this, Seres..." the dy begins again, ignoring Nero’s remark.

  "Both Irina and I—actually, all of us—are from Figor. Have you heard of it?" she asks, likely referring to her group of soldiers.

  "Yes. Not much, but I think it’s an important city in the south. Right, Adar?" Seres replies.

  "You already know more than some," the dy says with an amused tone. Though Fedor isn't sure what she means. After all, who hasn’t heard of Figor? It’s one of the continent’s major trade cities. Even if, technically, the boy is mistaken—Figor isn’t part of the southern territories. Beyond Figor lies the Mir region, making it the southernmost point before entering Mir and the south itself.

  "Irina is the youngest daughter of Figor’s former ruler. Well, the ruler before, the one before the current one, to be exact. That makes her a princess, just like he said."

  "Like the big guy said," the necromancer corrects pointing to Grint, while sounding disinterested.

  "Grint. One of Figor’s most honorable and skilled warriors," she corrects him in turn.

  "Alright," the necromancer responds, sounding even more disinterested.

  This leaves Fedor unsure of what to think or feel. Even though they are technically enemies, Nero’s btant disrespect toward Grint bothers him. The old veteran had fought in countless battles for Figor, and every story Fedor had heard about him had been told with respect.

  Now, it’s the dy’s turn to sigh in frustration before continuing. "Well, the important thing is that Irina’s uncle's death was suspicious. Just like the rapid rise of the current Lord of Figor."

  "So, this isn’t about who gets the big chair?" The necromancer’s sarcasm is obvious, and while Fedor doesn’t recognize the expression, the meaning is clear.

  "Irina—and we—aren't concerned with who rules Figor. We care about the crime we suspect happened. That’s what we’ve been investigating—and why we've been pursued." Lady GrassStone’s voice is firm and explosive as she decres this for all to hear. But Fedor—and likely the necromancer—doesn’t fully believe her. After all, if they expose the crime, it will inevitably lead to a shift in power. Even someone like Fedor can see that.

  "That’s probably why they captured her—to find out what she knows and who has been helping her against the usurper," Grint's rough voice adds.

  Fedor finds himself agreeing. Not that he cares much about noble squabbles. What annoys him is that this is leading to a civil war—one these lunatics seem willing to ignite. Not that his opinion matters.

  To the nobles, this is about honor and justice. But in the end, it’s people like him—poor commoners—who will die for it.

  Fedor is a professional soldier. Fighting when those with power and wealth command it is his job. The best he can hope for is a simple and comfortable life or a good death. Deciding who is right or wrong isn’t what is convenient for him. He has no problem admitting that. This wouldn’t be the first time he served someone with less-than-noble motives.

  "So, who would be the rightful heir?" asks a new voice.

  "If what we suspect is true..." The dy hesitates before concluding, "Prince Eric."

  Fedor isn’t surprised, by the answer.

  "Are we supposed to pretend we know who that is, Sorana? Answer Grumpy properly," the necromancer chimes in, sounding exasperated.

  "Irina’s brother," the dy states abruptly.

  "Yep, I was definitely wrong. Like I have never heard that one" the necromancer mutters sarcastically.

  From the silence behind him, Fedor assumes he isn’t the only one wondering what Nero means by that. That is until Seres speaks again.

  "Nero, what do you mean by that?"

  "It’s one of the most common narratives..." the necromancer starts but then pauses, letting a strange silence settle over the group.

  "It happens often. It’s quite common," he finally says.

  But something about his voice is off. Gone is the usual arrogance and certainty that Fedor has come to associate with him.

  This leads Fedor to an unsettling realization—this is something the necromancer doesn’t want people to know he knows.

  And that, more than anything, is what’s truly strange. How could someone as young as Nero have firsthand experience with something like this?

  Well, necromancers are mages, and mages are known for reading a lot. Maybe he read about it in some book. But in that case, why wouldn’t he be upfront about it?

  “Lady Sorana, Lord Grint, I think we’re arriving,” decred the voice of one of the soldiers walking ahead of him. As he spoke, he pointed into the distance at some smoke rising, likely from the camp.

  “Then we’re not far now. You and you, come with me. We have things to discuss,” the necromancer decred imperiously. Fedor turned just in time to see him gesturing toward the dy and the warrior.

  “And what about me?” asked Fedor, feeling awkward and gncing around at all the unfriendly faces surrounding him.

  “What do you think? You stay here and wait a bit,” the necromancer replied, shaking his head with a tone of disbelief. “You didn’t actually think you’d be hearing our pn, did you?”

  So, the three of them, along with the necromancer’s two companions, walked away.

  Fedor knew trying to escape would be useless, but the thought still crossed his mind. Shoving one of the guards beside him and making a run for it—it wasn’t entirely impossible that he could reach the camp. After all, he wasn’t weighed down by weapons or extra equipment, only his armor, which was no heavier than his adversaries. And he had always been a good runner.

  But looking at something that had stayed behind to watch him completely erased those ideas. The mule hadn’t followed its master. Instead, it had remained, keeping an eye on him.

  This left Fedor looking around, only able to study the trees and bushes lining the path. Staring too much at the soldiers around him might be taken the wrong way.

  The wait was long, slow, and boring. But, the advantage of being an experienced soldier was that he was used to such conditions. How many times in his career had he waited to attack while the powerful debated whether the battle was even necessary? Fortunately, in many cases, the mere threat of conflict had been enough. Fedor had always found it amusing when soldiers compined afterward about the ck of battle. True, it meant they lost the opportunity to loot as they pleased. But whenever possible, Fedor preferred to earn little for doing nothing rather than risk his life for a few extra coins.

  Finally, the leaders reappeared from wherever they had been.

  As the necromancer stopped beside his undead servant, apparently giving it instructions, Grint turned to his men. “Alright, boys. Rest for a bit while the mage does what he needs to do.”

  Fedor couldn’t help but notice that, despite everyone knowing Nero was a necromancer, Grint referred to him as a mage—a much more peaceful term than the truth.

  “So, are you just going to stand there looking dumb?” Fedor heard the necromancer’s voice say. Turning, he saw him staring at him with an expression of boredom, as if he had better things to do than be here.

  “What?” Fedor asked, confused about what the young man meant.

  “Are you going to just stand there staring into space? Or start walking to your camp?” the necromancer responded, increasingly impatient. Fedor concluded that this was the moment to move forward.

  “Yes, yes. I just…” Fedor began, trying to find an expnation to avoid irritating the necromancer further.

  “What, were you expecting an armed escort from your enemies all the way to your camp entrance? I’d love to see how you’d expin that one,” the necromancer interrupted, a jab that made some of the surrounding soldiers chuckle. Since they couldn’t beat Fedor with their fists, seeing the necromancer do it with words must have been quite satisfying.

  Seeing no way out, Fedor chose the smartest response: “Yes. Sorry.” Then he turned to leave.

  He rounded a bend a little ahead and continued walking. Meanwhile, he thought about how the necromancer was right—he couldn’t just stroll into camp as if nothing had happened. But that meant he was entering alone and unsupervised, which could mean his path wasn’t as set in stone as it seemed.

  Then he heard footsteps behind him, making him turn his head to see the necromancer. That reminded him of what Grint had said: “Let the mage do what he needs to do.” This pn of them was about the necromancer, not Fedor.

  “You look surprised,” the necromancer remarked with amusement. “Did you think you were going alone and without any guidance?”

  With the strange young man leading the way, Fedor had to admit that sounded foolish. So he followed behind the necromancer.

  “I’ll be keeping you company for a little longer,” the necromancer expined, unconcerned. But Fedor began thinking about something. They were alone here—just a mage and a soldier. Normally, that meant the mage was at a disadvantage.

  This could be Fedor’s opportunity to turn the situation around. As he began pnning his next move, the necromancer turned to him. “Hey, are you listening?”

  The calm and casual question filled Fedor with uncertainty. After all, everyone should know that if he attacked the necromancer, he would win. So why were they here alone?

  “Well?” the necromancer asked again. Fedor responded with a nod.

  The necromancer resumed walking and speaking. “Well, so far, you’ve seemed at least somewhat competent. It would be annoying if I were wasting my time with you, only for you to fail at what you promised.”

  The clear and confident tone made Fedor even more worried and hesitant about his pn. “No, no. I assure you I can get into the camp,” he tried to reassure the young man who looked more like a beggar.

  “Getting into the camp isn’t important. All that matters is whether you can find this, Irina, or not,” the necromancer said without even looking at Fedor. This was important information, even if Fedor didn’t yet know what to do with it.

  “No, no. I can find her. Once I’m inside, I just have to ask. There’s no reason they wouldn’t tell me,” Fedor expined as honestly as possible.

  “Yes, that makes sense. That’s why we’re going with this pn instead of another option,” the necromancer decred, once again demonstrating that he had alternatives—like killing Fedor and turning him into an undead to attack the camp. Mentioning it again sent chills down Fedor’s spine, especially since moments ago, he had considered attacking the necromancer.

  “So, let’s crify your task,” the necromancer decred, prompting Fedor to nod. It was important to know what was expected of him before pnning his own moves.

  “All you have to do is find the target, the princess, and go to her,” the necromancer said with total indifference, showing once more that he didn’t seem particurly interested in Princess Irina. “Preferably, be in her presence. You don’t need to do anything else.”

  For a moment, Fedor almost didn’t understand what the other was saying, leading him to ask, “But then how do you pn to communicate that to the others?”

  “Why the hell would I expin that to you?” the necromancer responded almost aggressively, stopping in his tracks. It was a reasonable reaction—after all, Fedor wasn’t participating willingly and could not be trusted.

  Fedor lowered his head in submission, and the necromancer spoke again, now calmly. “Go on. I have a feeling you wouldn’t want to expin my presence.”

  Fedor looked at the young man now ahead of him, at a loss for words. He had expected to help the necromancer infiltrate the camp, perhaps by ciming this seemingly harmless young man had helped him escape from the princess’s companions. Given the necromancer’s miserable appearance, Fedor had thought it was a convincing lie. But now…

  “Alone?” was all Fedor could say.

  “Of course. Even if you convinced them to let me in, we’d be watched. Nah, this is much simpler. Now go,” the necromancer said, nodding toward the path.

  Fedor obeyed, not wanting to miss this opportunity.

  But the voice behind him reminded him: “Just remember, you have to find the girl. Or I’ll have to find her myself. And no one will like that.”

  Fedor nodded hastily and hurried forward, not wanting to risk the young man changing his mind.

  But he can't stop wondering what the pn is. Nothing about Nero suggests he's a fool—he wouldn't simply let Fedor walk away like that. He must have some way of keeping watch.

  Some distance away, Fedor turns back, but the young necromancer is nowhere to be seen. Yet, he still feels eyes on him, making him even more certain that he is indeed being watched.

  Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched.

  But how? He wonders until he remembers the mule. It seemed like a perfectly normal mule—until someone realized it was undead. What’s stopping the necromancer from having more undead animals? Birds, squirrels, rats...

  It would expin why the necromancer had been alone with Fedor if he had a series of unseen undead prepared to jump in his defense. The only one at risk had been Fedor.

  Only the gods know what could be watching him and sneaking into the camp alongside him. This thought makes him scan his surroundings, searching for any animals nearby. A new wave of terror grips his heart. He feels more frightened now, alone, than he did in the presence of the necromancer.

  Lost in this confusion and growing dread, Fedor spots something at the end of the road—a slight incline leading to a barricade, with two guards standing watch. He is almost at the camp. Now, he must decide: fulfill his agreement with Nero or reveal everything.