8. Alistair #2
Perhaps my reconnaissance here will be even more useful than I realized.
The thought sent a flicker of guilt coiling through him.
He didn’t like the idea that he was exploiting the necromancer’s generosity for his own personal gain.
It seemed too befitting of the poor impression Iggie already held of the Order.
Then again, Iggie had volunteered the information freely, so he must not consider it that important of a secret.
Or maybe he just doesn’t realize how easily it could be used against him.
“You said distance was one of the factors that affects your orders,” Alistair said, forcing his thoughts away from such dangerous territory. “What are the others?”
Iggie hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip. Perhaps he’s more prudent than I assumed.
“It’s all right,” Alistair said. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s not that. I don’t mind. It’s just…
” He gave Alistair an uncertain look, the sudden vulnerability in his eyes stirring some deep-seated protective instinct within Alistair that made him want to cradle the necromancer in his arms and keep him safe.
“As a paladin, you must find the whole notion of unearthing corpses and reanimating them abhorrent. You said as much a few minutes ago—that you can barely stand being among my undead.”
As much as Alistair wanted to deny it for the sake of comforting Iggie, it would have been an obvious lie. There was something deeply unsettling about the notion of someone abusing deceased souls via duskflame when they should be at rest in the Great Beyond.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t possess a certain morbid curiosity. And…” He swallowed. “Maybe hearing more about the process will help dispel some of my preconceived notions.”
It certainly can’t make them worse.
As if sensing the unspoken thought, Iggie cracked a half-smile. Once again, Alistair found himself admiring the way the expression opened up the necromancer’s narrow face, softening his stern features. His bright blue eyes radiated quick intelligence along with a quiet strength.
“Very well,” Iggie said, visibly gathering himself. He sank into a chair across from Alistair, setting aside his picked-over plate. “To be frank, the main other limiting factor in issuing orders is the specific undead’s, um, togetherness, for lack of a better word.”
“Togetherness?”
Iggie nodded. “Togetherness has two main components. The first is how recently the person died. The more recent the death, the stronger a hold my magic has on them.”
Alistair frowned. “I’d have thought older bones would be easier to work with since there’d be less viscera involved.”
Iggie shuddered, his face growing even paler than usual. “Thankfully, my duskflame cleans the bones and dissolves the flesh as part of the ritual of raising. No manual bleaching required. I doubt I could handle it otherwise.”
Alistair’s brows shot up. “A squeamish necromancer?”
Though Iggie managed another half-smile, his countenance remained queasy. “I hate the sight of blood. Even a minor wound is enough to make me faint. When I was a kid, there was this time I…” He trailed off, his good humor dimming as sorrow flashed across his face.
Alistair’s heart twinged on his behalf. Whatever had happened to Iggie’s parents, the memory still haunted him. Alistair could relate.
“So, the fresher the body, the stronger the undead,” he said, hoping to pull Iggie’s mind off the past and distract him from his pain. “Any idea why that is?”
Iggie blinked, seeming to come back to himself. “I have a theory about that, and it has to do with the second factor that affect’s togetherness—my personal connection to them.”
Alistair couldn’t hold back an incredulous laugh. “Seriously? You have to, what, befriend them before you can recruit them as your eternal servants?”
Iggie flushed. “Is it that absurd of a concept that we might actually care about the undead we raise? We sacrifice a piece of our own magic to restore them to a semblance of life, after all. Why wouldn’t we want to know more about who it is we’re raising?”
Alistair sobered before Iggie’s anger. “Sorry. I suppose it makes sense…though it seems difficult to form a connection with someone who is already deceased.”
“Personal connection can take many forms. Knowing more about what they were like while alive helps, but so does belonging to the same town or possessing similar skills and interests. Of course, their relative willingness to serve is equally important.”
He fixed Alistair with a defiant look. It took Alistair a moment to catch on. When he did, he sucked in a breath. “Are you suggesting necromancers can’t raise undead against their will?”
Iggie shook his head. “It’s far more nuanced than that. But whatever undead they do raise in that manner will almost certainly be weaker for it.” His tone took on a hint of wryness. “After all, murdering someone usually doesn’t enamor them to you.”
The missing villagers. That’s what Iggie was getting at—why would he kidnap people to kill and raise when doing so would severely weaken their potential?
Of course, he could be lying about all of this to lull Alistair into lowering his guard.
Somehow, however, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that was the case.
“Weaker in what way?” he asked.
Iggie ticked each answer off on his slender hand. “The distance at which I can communicate effectively with them. How well they obey orders. How long they last before breaking apart. Even their own inherent strength and intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” Alistair glanced at the nearest skeleton. It hadn’t budged since their conversation began. “You’re saying your undead aren’t mindless brutes?”
“Some of the older or weaker ones are close, but most of mine have retained something of themselves. Take my cook Pierre, for instance. I know you’ve been refusing to eat his meals, but I assure you, they taste as good as they smell.
He was a lord’s private chef before he died, and he leaped at the opportunity to continue putting his skills to good use in death.
I have another skeleton capable of giving an excellent haircut.
” He frowned. “Or at least, I did. You incinerated him during the raid on Singer’s Rest.”
“But…that’s…” Alistair struggled to wrap his head around what Iggie was telling him. Undead barbers and chefs? It defied everything he’d ever been taught. “What about warriors?”
Iggie shrugged, his gaze flicking to his two undead guards before flicking away.
Alistair had long since noted the swords they wore sheathed at their waists.
“I have some of those, too—a couple soldiers from a forgotten war, a mercenary who died defending a caravan. But most of my skeletons’ weapons are only for show.
They can barely even wield them since they never learned how in their former lives.
” He blinked, a hint of alarm flitting over his face.
“N-not that they couldn’t still defend me in a pinch from anyone who tried to harm me! ”
Alistair muffled an amused snort at Iggie’s obvious posturing. “How does that even work?” he asked, ignoring the challenging look on Iggie’s face. A shiver raced down his spine. “Does your ritual of raising trap their spirits within their rotten flesh?”
“Of course not!” Iggie tensed in his seat, his eyes hard as flecks of ice.
“I told you before, their souls remain at rest in the Great Beyond. But that doesn’t mean they don’t leave a sliver of themselves behind—an echo, if you will, of the person they once were.
Sometimes, you catch it only in glimpses, while other times, it’s more pronounced.
Like a half-forgotten memory that their bones can’t help but act out to the best of their ability. ”