The Wandering Inn_Volume 1, page 351
Someone, anyone! Toren cried out. He needed help! He needed assistance! Anyone, the adventurer, the Humans with clubs, the monster girl, the Goblins—
The ghoul was reaching for his head, twisting it. It would all be over. Toren fought it, trying to hold the arms back. So weak. Someone. Please help.
Erin—
A hand dragged the Ghoul off of Toren. The skeleton saw the Ghoul jerk, turn—another hand smashed into the back of its head.
Erin?
For a second the skeleton thought—but when he stood up, he saw only zombies.
Zombies?
Yes, the undead corpses were surrounding the Ghoul! In disbelief, Toren saw the Ghoul fighting them, tearing at their faces, trying to bear them to the ground—but six zombies were all striking it, tearing it apart, eating its flesh—
The zombies had helped Toren. That was what the skeleton realized after the shock had worn off. He sat in the filth of the sewer as the zombies finished destroying the Ghoul, leaving the chewed limbs floating in the water.
How? And why? All Toren knew was that he’d cried out for help. He’d reached out—
And the zombies had answered. These, the lowliest of the undead had come to his aid. Why? Because he was a skeleton and they were like him? Because they hated ghouls?
No, that was silly. It was because—
Toren touched the flames in his skull. His eyes? Skinner had commanded the dead. Was it that? Something else? Some secret to his creation?
The skeleton didn’t know. But the zombies stopped, swaying in front of him. They were waiting for his command.
The skeleton stared at them in shock. And then he heard the voice, echoing in his head. He hadn’t heard it for a while, but now it came into his mind, sharp and clear, and oh so welcome.
[Leader Class Obtained!]
[Leader Level 1!]
[Skill – Command Lesser Undead obtained!]
For a few moment, Toren’s head was filled with clouds. He stood in the sewer, poleaxed by the revelation. But when he came back to himself, he just stared at the zombies.
Six zombies. Waiting for his command. And now Toren felt certain he could command them. In fact, if he wanted to…
Well now. Wasn’t this interesting?
—-
This is the story of a skeleton. He stood in the dark sewers of a city full of death, where a Human with silver armor tried to save the living and a monster followed a band of Goblin warriors. The skeleton had travelled far, had thrown off his shackles and come here.
He had been humbled. He had nearly died. But he had survived. He had survived and he would still survive, growing stronger. That was what he pledged to himself. He would survive.
And he was no longer alone.
3.19 T
Esthelm. City of the damned and dead. That was how it felt sometimes. Of course, there were thousands of people still living inside of it, but for many, their miserable, desperate existence was just a prelude to death and worse. Their home was in ruins, and their city was slowly filling with the undead. It was undeniable, now.
They came out of the sewers. They sat up in the cold snow. They dug themselves out of the frozen ground and from beneath the rubble.
They rose.
Not just one, not just two—hundreds. Hundreds. Zombies, yes, but ghouls as well. They came for the living, and without trained warriors, the refugees of Esthelm could not hope to defend themselves from such a horde.
If they could, they would have fled. Even the cold, merciless winter night was better than death and undeath. But they could not.
An army of Goblins camped outside the city. Already, a score of people had died as they’d tried to leave the city and been set on. The Goblins maintained a perimeter, laughing, shooting arrows at any Human they saw. And more were coming. Already the people could see Goblin warriors wearing black armor gathering into teams, preparing to sweep into the city.
Goblins outside, undead within. And disunity and chaos among them. The Humans despaired and some simply waited for death while others took what small satisfaction they could, giving into cruelty and lust before the end. After all, who would save them?
The answer came during the darkest hours of the night, when some huddled behind the flimsy walls they’d built and others went searching for victims. They heard a voice, and saw silver.
A man in plate armor. An adventurer with a sword and shield. No, no ordinary adventurer—a Gold-rank one! A [Knight].
He strode into one camp and raised his voice.
“Citizens of Esthelm! Hear my words!”
No one had called them that, or thought of them like that since the city had fallen. People, disbelieving, crept out to watch him and saw the men at his back. Men and women. And children. Hundreds, already close to a thousand.
“Esthelm has fallen. But you still remain! The undead rise and must be stopped. A Goblin army has come to kill whomever remains in this city. If you keep fighting among yourselves, you will die! But together we may yet live.”
That was all he said. But the people saw him bring his hundreds into the camp, and begin building. He had more rubble removed, had people with Skills—people who’d almost forgotten their Classes—begin to build.
He had them build a wall. Not around a small plot of land to hide in, as the others had done, but massive barricades, linking half-fallen buildings and sealing off entire streets. He was building fortifications, sealing off nearly a quarter of the city and setting guards, men and women with weapons and hope in their eyes to fend off the undead.
He was retaking their home. And so people came forwards, at first the desperate, but then everyone, abandoning the places they’d carved out, coming, some fearful, others ashamed, but coming nevertheless.
Coming home. And so the Humans built desperately, and gathered arms, and the Gold-rank adventurer walked among them, tirelessly coordinating them, giving them courage.
Ylawes Byres. He stared towards the edge of the city, where the Goblins were waiting. He’d chosen a spot as far away from them as possible. It would be war soon, he knew. A last war, a final war for this city. Whether it would mean death and ruin for a place already rotten and torn apart or a new spark of life for this place he did not know. He only knew he would make the Goblins pay in blood for every step they took.
However, this was not his story. Instead, the city’s fate belonged in no small part to another being. A skeleton, a creature of death, common and worthless among the endless undead. Yet this one was unlike any other skeleton in the world. He danced in the dying city, as the snow began to fall.
—-
A shadow shivered and twisted amidst the center of the city. A shadow with eyes that burned purple and bright even in the darkest night. Shapes moved and walked among the empty buildings, crawling, creeping, seeking out the light to snuff it out.
But the shadow danced on. Death and corruptions swirled through the streets, standing up, taking awful forms and biting, chewing. But the shadow danced, and it had a name.
Toren.
He whirled about in the street, arms spread wide. His was not some demonic summoning, nor the wild and sinister movements of ritual and sin. Instead, the skeleton ran about, twirling and doing handstands and waving his arms about, full of innocent mirth. He danced like a child, delighted, simple. He had a new toy! Not just one in fact. He had a world full of them!
He could control the undead! How wonderful was that?
Toren stopped whirling about and turned to look at some of the shadows around him. Six swaying corpses stared at him, barely noticeable as they stood in the shadows. They had been men and women, but now rot and decay had turned them into something else.
Zombies. Pathetic fodder any warrior could kill individually, only fearsome in vast numbers, and even then, only to the unprepared. But they were his. His.
He could control them. Toren knew it. He felt the certainty in his mind and saw it when he ordered the zombies to follow him. He walked down the street as they followed in his wake.
This changed everything. Toren had been about to die, and they had saved him. And now—
What should he do now? Toren glanced at one of the zombies and it stopped. He slowly made it walk in front of him, and inspected the zombie carefully.
Yup. Dead. And a worm was crawling around in its exposed brain. Toren pulled it out and patted the zombie on its squishy head. His zombie.
Of course, he could always get a new one. But for now, Toren was curious. What could it do? He made the zombie walk back and forth in front of him, hit the zombie standing next to it, lie down…
Interesting. He couldn’t tell the zombie to do very specific things. For instance, Torren had tried to get the zombie to hop on one leg and it hadn’t moved. Because he was too low level? All he could get it to do was move and attack what he wanted.
That was too bad. But then again, it was still an excellent start. Toren rubbed his hands together, grinning.
Zombies. Just imagine what he could do with them! He’d no longer be alone in a fight—he wouldn’t even have to fight if he didn’t want to.
True, this didn’t mean he could suddenly challenge Griffon Hunt or even the Gold-rank adventurer who’d beaten him once. Toren knew that. Right now he could control six undead. And only zombies to boot. But if he leveled? What then?
The possibilities sent shivers down the skeleton’s spine. Where could he begin? How would he level up?
By leading his minions, obviously. Toren cast around, and then had another idea. He was still a bit low on mana. He could probably pull himself back together once if he was broken, but he didn’t want to risk anything.
So why not stop fighting himself and instead have some fun? His zombies might be mindless, but they could certainly help out Toren in their limited way. To start with for example…
A sword. Toren wanted one. His zombies lurched towards a camp of Humans he’d seen earlier that day. They were a group of men who’d hunkered down in an alleyway, putting up flimsy barricades and trash barriers to keep other people away.
The zombies came to the alleyway and paused. They turned into it, walking, stumbling forwards. Perched on a crumbling rooftop, Toren watched as one of the men on guard duty shouted out in alarm as he saw the zombies.
Within moments, the other men—who’d been sleeping in clumsy sleeping bags made of whatever fabric they could get their hands on around the smoldering fire—were on their feet. They grasped weapons in their hands, clubs, slings, and, Toren was pleased to note, an iron short sword held by a big man that looked like their leader.
The gang of men was clearly arguing as the zombies slowly broke down the wooden planks that had been nailed together to form an obstacle and then slowly came down the alley towards them. Half of them wanted to leave, but their leader pointed out the obvious. There were six zombies, and they were eight strong! Plus, the zombies were slow, clumsy—their slinger whirled a stone that took the eye out of one. The other men began throwing things, and the zombies stumbled and one fell, struggling to get up.
Stupid, foolish undead. They’d never get close enough at their meandering pace. The men laughed and shouted triumphantly as they began to batter the zombies with missiles. From his seat above, Toren laughed and gave his zombies one order.
The foremost zombie had been stumbling backwards, flesh torn and bones fractured from the stones that kept smashing into his skull. Bits of brain were already leaking from his open skull. The man throwing stones stood confidently ahead of the others, picking up rocks from a pile at his feet as he confidently loosed stones at the zombies. He was close to them, but so what? It wasn’t as if they could move—
The zombie took a step, and then charged down the alleyway. The man with the sling screamed in horror and turned to run. But too late—the zombie tackled him, and then he was tearing at the man as he tried to fight the creature off with his hands, biting at his throat—ripping away red flesh—
The gang of men had frozen in horror. Half of them ran forwards to help their friend, but then they decided he was dead and tried to run. Again, too late.
The other zombies ran at them, not sluggishly lurching as they’d done before, but sprinting, moving with inhuman speed that cared nothing for torn muscle or the broken ground. The men raised their weapons, but found they were of little use. Clubs that could break bones and spiked bats that could tear flesh did not scare those already dead.
The leader of the gang backed up. His sword at least could chop, but he was no [Swordsman], or even a [Warrior]. He hacked at the zombies killing the screaming men in his gang, hitting his comrades as often as the zombies. And when the zombies dropped the dead men to the ground, the man with the short sword found himself alone.
He turned to run. But the zombies were quick.
Sitting on the rooftop, Toren grinned as the zombies finished killing the leader. Only three were left; the man with the sword had gotten one, and two more had been killed in the fight. But so what? He knew there were countless zombies in the city.
And he’d come up with another excellent discovery for his trouble. The zombies had taken out the men so easily, and with just one order from him. A simple one, really. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it instantly.
Run. That was all he’d told them to do. Just…run. And so they’d ran.
Why didn’t zombies do it all the time? Toren realized that maybe some did—he hadn’t exactly even seen that many zombies before today. Just when Skinner had attacked Erin’s inn, really. And in the crypt.
Zombies were weak. True. They were slow and they rotted easily and they had no concept of dodging, blocking, or even retreating. But what if you could make them run? Then you had an entirely different kind of monster on your hands. Because yes, zombies were simple fighters, but they were still strong. And they didn’t fear injury.
Toren clattered his jaw excitedly. He could already sense that this little skirmish had helped him get closer to a level up. In a moment he’d go down and get his new sword. And then—
Well, he had zombies, didn’t he? And there were many more groups of thugs, just waiting for the day so they could begin marauding again. Perfect prey, in short. Could Toren wipe out an even bigger gang with six zombies? Could he do it without losing even one?
This was a challenge. A fun challenge. Toren leapt from his rooftop and landed in the snow, where his undead servants were waiting for him. He looked into their lifeless eyes, their empty sockets, and grinned. He smiled, and in his eyes, Esthelm burned.
—-
This is the story of a monster. This is the story of a girl. At least, she’d been a girl, a Human once.
Now she didn’t know what she was.
She had no name. Or rather, she’d forgotten it. It, like all her words, was gone. Only hunger remained. Hunger, and despair.
And fear. That was the real irony of it all, wasn’t it? That even now, even when she’d lost everything, her family, home, levels—even humanity—even now, she was afraid of dying.
She’d nearly died. The skeleton she’d encountered had tried to kill her. He’d pounded at her, trying to kill her. And she’d wept, because she would finally die and be free of the nightmare.
But she hadn’t wanted to die. She’d still wanted to live, even then. She’d nearly given up hope, though, resigned herself to death.
That’s when they’d saved her. The Goblins. They’d come and killed the skeleton. She’d thought they just wanted to kill and eat her themselves, or do worse, but they hadn’t. They’d looked at her and left.
So why had she followed them? The monster paused as she loped on all fours after them. The snow and stone were cold on her skin, but her new body could withstand far more than her old one. Even now, the beating the skeleton had given her was healing.
But the Goblins? Why pursue them? She didn’t know. But they were monsters. So maybe she deserved their company. And she had nothing else, so why not? Death would be a welcome thing if it came to that.
At any rate, the Goblins weren’t chasing her off. The girl in the monster saw the warriors glancing back at her as they marched through the empty streets now and then, but none of them tried to chase her off. Rather, it looked like they were chattering amongst themselves as they looked at her.
Could Goblins talk? Maybe in their own language. The monster didn’t know. But she was surprised by the idea. And when she saw the place the Goblins had chosen to camp for the night—
Her jaw dropped in surprise. The Goblins had set up in the center of a building that had been hollowed out by fire. But instead of squatting in the ashes and ruins like beasts, they’d cleared away the soot and snow, revealing bare stone. They’d taken bits of wood and covered the windows and doors, and even built a fire pit in the center of the building!
Now two of the Goblins sat around the fire pit, one piling kindling together and shaving bits of wood as the other struck sparks. A small fragment of wood caught, and the Goblins put their hands around the small flame, shielding it as it ate the kindling and grew.
Within a few minutes they had a fire. The monster sat on her haunches on the edge of the building, afraid to go in. But the warriors took no notice of her, and so she dared enter the camp. She stared around with wide eyes, drinking in…
Civilization. It was such an odd word, but that was what she saw. The warriors were making a fire. And what were they doing now? The Goblins were…putting their beds together! They had beds?
Yes, some of the Goblins had blankets in their possessions. Others had only the clothing they wore—one had a small stuffed pillow of all things, just large enough to cushion his head! They spread out their gear—weapons, bows and arrows—around them, forming small nests close to but not too near the fire. Places to sleep, places of their own.
They were so normal. The monster couldn’t believe her eyes. Were these really Goblins, the raiding, murderous monsters that adventurers hunted for bronze coins? Then she heard a voice grunting by her ear.
