The journey north took two days of hard travel through increasingly hostile terrain. The forest thinned as Grix approached the battlefield, trees becoming twisted and skeletal, their leaves long dead. The ground turned gray and lifeless, as if the very earth had been poisoned by violence.
Grix felt it before he saw it—a massive concentration of death energy that made his skin tingle and his mana pulse in response. It was intoxicating and nauseating at the same time.
His bone amalgam, which he'd named "Shred" for lack of creativity, stalked beside him with enhanced alertness. The construct could sense the death energy too, responding to it with predatory eagerness.
On the afternoon of the second day, Grix crested a hill and saw it.
The bone field stretched before him like a vision of hell. What had once been a valley was now a graveyard of epic proportions. Broken weapons jutted from the earth like metal weeds. Rusted armor lay scattered everywhere. And bones—thousands upon thousands of bones—covered the ground in a carpet of death.
But worse than the stillness was the movement.
Skeletons wandered the field aimlessly, their empty eye sockets glowing with mindless hunger. Some were mostly intact, wearing scraps of ancient armor. Others were partial assemblies of mismatched bones, crawling or dragging themselves across the ground. A few were fused together naturally, creating nightmarish amalgams that defied description.
Grix counted at least fifty visible undead, and he suspected many more lurked in the numerous craters and trenches.
This is suicide. I should turn back.
But Zara's words echoed in his mind: If you're not willing to risk death, you'll never rise above mediociety.
Besides, he needed this. Needed the materials, the experience, the proof that he could survive truly dangerous situations.
Think strategically. Don't just charge in like an idiot.
Grix studied the field from his vantage point, analyzing patterns. The feral undead seemed to congregate in certain areas, probably where death energy was most concentrated. Other areas were relatively clear, offering potential paths through.
He also noticed something interesting—the undead didn't attack each other. They coexisted, unified by their feral nature.
What if I could blend in? Make myself seem like one of them?
It was a crazy idea. But necromancy was all about commanding death. If he could suppress his life energy somehow, mask it with death magic...
Grix sat down and meditated, focusing on his internal mana. The undeath tonic Zara had given him months ago had already pushed him toward the boundary between life and death. Maybe he could push further, temporarily.
He drew death energy from the environment—there was plenty saturated in the very air—and circulated it through his body. His skin grew colder. His heartbeat slowed. His breathing became shallow.
It felt wrong. Felt like dying.
But when he opened his eyes and looked at his hands, they'd taken on a corpse-like pallor. His natural green-gray goblin skin now looked like dead flesh.
Will it work?
Only one way to find out.
Grix descended the hill slowly, Shred following close behind. As they entered the bone field proper, several feral skeletons turned toward them. Grix froze, ready to run.
The skeletons stared for a long moment, their empty sockets boring into him. Then they turned away, dismissing him as just another undead.
It worked. They can't tell I'm alive.
Relief flooded through him, but Grix maintained the death energy circulation carefully. If his concentration slipped, if his life energy became detectable, he'd be swarmed instantly.
Moving through the bone field was like walking through a nightmare. Bones crunched under his feet. The stench of ancient decay was overwhelming. Feral undead wandered past him, sometimes close enough to touch, but none attacked.
Grix began collecting materials, choosing carefully. He wanted bones that had absorbed significant death energy—he could feel them, radiating power like beacons in his necromantic senses.
A human skull with runes etched into the bone. A ribcage that glowed faintly with green light. A femur that felt unusually heavy, dense with compressed death magic. An entire skeletal hand that flexed on its own, as if still remembering life.
These were treasures. Components that would make his undead servants vastly more powerful.
He stuffed them into the leather sack he'd brought, moving deeper into the field. The concentration of death energy increased as he went, becoming almost physically oppressive.
That's when he found it.
In the center of a large crater, partially buried, was a skeleton unlike any other. Human-shaped but enormous—at least seven feet tall. Its bones were black as night and covered in silver runes that pulsed with power. It wore the remnants of ornate armor, and a massive sword lay beside it.
A knight. A powerful one. Maybe even a paladin or champion.
The death energy radiating from this skeleton was intense enough to make Grix's head throb. This was no ordinary corpse. This was someone who'd been important in life, powerful in death.
If I could raise this...
But the skeleton was different from the feral undead around it. It wasn't wandering mindlessly. It sat perfectly still, as if waiting. And Grix could sense intelligence there—dormant, but present.
This one still has its soul bound to its bones. A revenant, maybe? Or something close to it.
This was exactly what Zara had talked about—a corpse so powerful that raising it would be dangerous. If Grix lost control, this thing could kill him easily.
But if I succeed...
Grix approached the crater carefully. As he got closer, the black skeleton's skull turned toward him. Its eye sockets ignited with blue flame—not the mindless green of feral undead, but bright, intelligent blue.
"Living..." a voice rasped from the skeleton, deep and resonant. "A living necromancer walks the bone field. How interesting."
Grix froze. The skeleton could speak. Could distinguish him from the feral undead. His death energy disguise had failed.
"I mean no disrespect," Grix said carefully. "I'm just gathering materials."
"Materials." The skeleton laughed, a sound like grinding bones. "You think to steal from the dead? Bold. Foolish. But bold." It stood slowly, joints creaking. "I am Sir Aldric, once Knight-Commander of the Silver Legion. I fell in battle here, defending a cause I can no longer remember. My rage was so great at death that my soul refused to depart. For twenty years I've sat here, watching lesser corpses wander, waiting for... something."
"Waiting for what?"
"Purpose. Meaning. A reason to move again." The blue flames in Aldric's eye sockets flickered. "Tell me, little necromancer. Why should I not kill you and add your bones to this field?"
Grix's mind raced. He couldn't fight this thing. Couldn't run from it. His only weapon was words.
"Because I can offer you something better than sitting in this crater for another twenty years. Purpose. Service. A chance to be more than a forgotten corpse in a forgotten battlefield."
"Service?" Aldric's tone was dangerous. "You would bind me? Make me your slave?"
"No. I would offer you partnership. Your knowledge and power in exchange for direction and purpose. You were a knight. You served something once. Serve again, but this time with your eyes open."
The skeleton was silent for a long moment. Then it laughed again. "You have audacity, I'll grant you that. Most necromancers would simply try to dominate me with binding spells. You offer negotiation instead."
"Binding only works when the necromancer is stronger than what they're binding. I'm not stupid enough to think I could dominate you."
"Honest too. Rare qualities." Aldric looked around the bone field. "This place is my prison. I am bound here by my own rage and regret. If you could free me from this curse, I would consider your proposal."
"How do I free you?"
"My sword." Aldric gestured toward the massive weapon. "It's cursed, binding me to this location. If you can lift it and carry it beyond the battlefield's edge, the curse will break. I'll be free to follow."
Grix approached the sword cautiously. It was enormous, easily five feet long and clearly designed for someone of Aldric's size. The blade was dark metal inscribed with runes similar to those on the skeleton's bones.
He grabbed the hilt with both hands and pulled.
The sword didn't budge.
He pulled harder, using all his small goblin strength. Nothing.
"It's not about physical strength," Aldric said. "The curse requires someone living to carry it. Someone willing to bear the weight of my sins along with the blade itself. Can you do that, little necromancer? Can you carry the burden of a fallen knight?"
Grix looked at the sword, then at Aldric, then at the bone field around them. This was a test. Not of strength, but of commitment.
He placed both hands on the hilt and focused not on lifting, but on accepting. Accepting Aldric's past, his failures, his rage, all the death he'd caused and experienced.
The death energy flowed through him, into him, becoming part of him.
The sword lifted smoothly, light as a feather despite its size.
"Impressive," Aldric said quietly. "You truly are willing to bear the weight of death."
Grix slung the sword over his back—it was too large to wield properly, but he could carry it. "Let's get out of here."
They began walking toward the edge of the bone field. Aldric followed a few paces behind, his massive skeletal form easily keeping pace with Grix's smaller strides.
As they walked, feral undead began to notice Aldric's movement. They turned, following with vacant eye sockets.
"They sense the curse breaking," Aldric said. "They'll try to stop us."
Indeed, the feral undead began converging on their position. Dozens of skeletons, zombies, and bone amalgams shambling toward them from all directions.
"Shred, defend!" Grix commanded his bone amalgam.
The construct launched itself at the nearest skeleton, tearing it apart with claws and teeth. But more kept coming.
"Fight or run?" Aldric asked, almost amused.
"Run. Definitely run."
They broke into a sprint, or as close to a sprint as Grix's short legs could manage. Aldric moved with surprising speed despite his size, and Shred covered their rear, slashing at any undead that got too close.
The edge of the bone field was visible ahead—a clear demarcation where dead ground gave way to living forest. But the feral undead were fast, driven by the instinct to stop Aldric's escape.
A skeleton lunged at Grix from the side. He dodged, nearly dropping the cursed sword. Another grabbed his leg. He kicked free, stumbling.
I'm not going to make it.
Aldric suddenly wheeled around, drawing a rusted dagger from his ancient belt. "Keep running, necromancer. I'll buy you time."
"But—"
"GO!"
Aldric plunged into the horde of feral undead, his skeletal hands crushing skulls and snapping spines. He fought with the skill of someone who'd been a master warrior in life, every movement efficient and deadly.
Grix ran, Shred at his heels. Behind him, he heard the sounds of Aldric's battle—bone breaking, metal clanging, the whoosh of strikes that would have been death blows if Aldric weren't already dead.
The edge of the bone field was ten yards away. Five yards. One yard.
Grix crossed the boundary, stumbling onto living grass. The moment he did, a shockwave of energy rippled outward from Aldric's position.
The cursed sword in Grix's hands shattered into dust.
In the bone field, Aldric stopped fighting. The blue flames in his eye sockets burned brighter than before. "I'm free," he said in wonder. Then he turned and walked toward Grix, the feral undead parting before him like a tide.
When Aldric crossed the boundary, the feral undead stopped following. They stood at the edge of the bone field, unable or unwilling to leave.
"You did it," Aldric said, looking at his skeletal hands. "The curse is broken. After twenty years, I'm finally free."
Grix collapsed onto the grass, gasping. "So... does that mean... you'll serve?"
"I gave my word. A knight's oath, even in death, is binding." Aldric knelt before Grix—an impressive gesture for someone so large. "I, Sir Aldric of the Silver Legion, pledge my service to you, Grix the Necromancer. Until I am released or destroyed, I am yours to command."
A connection formed between them—similar to his other undead but stronger, more complex. Grix could feel Aldric's presence like a second mind linked to his own. But unlike the simple puppets he usually controlled, Aldric retained full autonomy. He could act, think, decide on his own.
This was partnership, not domination.
"Welcome to the team," Grix said, managing a tired smile.
Aldric stood and looked back at the bone field. "There are many worthy materials still in there. And now that the feral undead recognize me as separate from them, we could gather more safely."
"Later. After I rest." Grix closed his eyes, utterly exhausted. "Right now, I just want to not die for a few hours."
"Reasonable. I'll stand watch."
As Grix drifted toward sleep, Shred curled up beside him and Aldric stood sentinel, he reflected on what he'd accomplished.
He'd walked into one of the most dangerous places in the region. He'd disguised himself as undead to survive. He'd negotiated with a revenant and freed it from a curse.
And now he had a knight—a true warrior—as his servant.
Zara would be impressed.
Or horrified.
Probably both.
Good, Grix thought as sleep claimed him. Let her be both. I'm tired of being underestimated.
Tomorrow he'd gather more materials. Tomorrow he'd head back to Zara's dwelling. Tomorrow he'd continue his training.
But tonight, for the first time since his reincarnation, Grix felt like he'd truly earned the title she'd given him.
Necromancer.