The Mask of the Necromancer

☠ CHAPTER 08 ☠

I feign sleep for two reasons: to maintain a semblance of normalcy and humanity, and to be prepared in case of a lurking enemy. The general populace's lack of understanding about sorcery, exacerbated by the magical ban in the kingdom, has led to widespread ignorance and fear. Our advantage lies in exploiting their misconceptions, such as assuming a reanimated woman must sleep.

With closed eyes, I hone my senses on the sounds of the night, distinguishing the wind, insects, and a nearby stream. The initial hours pass tediously, but the false body offers advantages—no discomfort or sleepiness. The inability to feel pain boosts my mental strength and alleviates fears.

Avoiding pointless thoughts, I focus on the sounds around us until I detect a threat. A subtle creak indicates movement several feet away—a heavy body, likely an enemy in this deserted forest. My duty is clear: protect the necromancer at all costs.

Keeping my eyes closed, I stealthily grip the dagger that rests in my new leather belt, though it is an impractical weapon for my expertise in ranged combat. Footsteps approach in complete darkness. Then, the attacker's sudden stop suggests familiarity with night ambushes.

A rough puff confirms my suspicions as the enemy extinguishes their light source. Unsure of their strategy, I ponder how they will attack. My territorial advantage lays in hearing the enemy, but silence envelops us.

I wait until I hear the next sound and swiftly turn toward the approaching stranger. Their surprise meets my flying dagger, resulting in a cry of pain but leaving them conscious.

"Master!" I call to the necromancer, instructing him to take cover.

He swiftly stans up. "How many?"

"Only one, I'm almost sure of it," I reply, approaching the wounded man and hastily extracting the knife from his body.

A raspy male voice mutter, "Monster." Although I can't see his face, I recognize the guard who led us into the cave. Placing the blade against his neck, I press enough to cause discomfort. "Are you alone? Did Grefo send you?" I question.

"Y-you're going to kill me anyway; it's not worth answering," he stammers.

"You're right," I say. "But how much you suffer before losing your life will depend on your words."

True to my warning, I had fulfilled such threats numerous times in my years of royal service. The guard has two options: cooperate and face a swift death, or resist and endure a slow, painful demise. Swallowing in fear, he chooses the former.

After extracting information about his motives, the necromancer asks if the guard has damaged my body. I assure him, and he sighs in relief.

"Monsters!" the guard exclaims again, questioning if we will turn him into a puppet.

The necromancer chuckles before dismissing the notion, deeming it impractical to revive someone like the guard.

"Who sent you?" I insist.

"I followed you," the guard admits. "I heard the conversation with Grefo. The dead should not be desecrated by monsters like you."

"No one sent you?"

"No," he replies.

Facing my master, I await his order. Given the guard's knowledge of our conversation, the necromancer makes the decision. "Kill him. Let him suffer as little as possible. He's just ignorant, but he heard the conversation and knows part of my secret. I cannot allow him to live."

"At your service," I respond before turning to the guard, asking for his last words.

"I hope they both rot in hell," he spats.

With that, I swiftly end his life, thrusting the dagger into his neck and severing it from one end to the other. Unfazed, I feel neither remorse nor a trembling pulse. This act wasn't the first, and it won't be the last. I've grown indifferent to the suffering of strangers, understanding that my duty is to obey the necromancer's orders—I am merely a tool he uses.

"Let's go," Dhael says, dismissing the need to bury the body.

"You haven't rested enough," I point out.

"There could be other men on our trail," he insists. "The priority is to get to Therro. Then, I'll make sure to get whatever sleep I need."

"Are you sure you can continue?"

"Yeah," he replies, turning in the opposite direction. "Hurry up, Eirin. And don't question my decisions."

"I'm sorry, master," I concede, following him. I wish I could bury the corpse, but the sorcerer's unyielding determination prevails.

"How much left?" I question a while later.

No response.

"If you need to rest—"

"Eirin, shut up and walk. That's an order. I don't want your worry or your pity. We will be fine."

I let out a sarcastic snort he doesn't seem to hear and shake my head at his stubbornness. He is clearly young and inexperienced; I hope we'd reach our destination without incident.