Chapter 7: Bad Guy Bandit

After a day’s work for the undead and half a day’s for the living, the abandoned guard tower was no longer abandoned, nor did it house any guards. Instead, the tower now belonged to a very satisfied necromancer named Jerry, who had never in his life felt prouder at owning something.

Shoes were nice, sure, but a tower was a tower, and what was a necromancer without his tower?

Of course, there was still plenty of work to be done, but the building was at least habitable.

Midway through the day, Jerry and Derek had stopped working and begun lazing about. Being a necromancer has its perks, and besides, Jerry didn’t want to take advantage of Derek’s goodwill. They’d simply done the jobs that required a human mind. The more menial tasks, like wiping the endless dust off the floors, had been left to the tireless undead.

There were three floors to the tower, each simpler than the last. The first, or ground floor, housed rooms for the guards, with five two-person bedrooms and one for only one person, presumably the commander. Decorated army-style, of course, which meant not at all.

A flight of thin stone stairs later, came a storage room. Probably. It was empty now, as everything of value had been ransacked by the villagers or the bandits, and only a few broken arrows remained in a corner.

On the third and final floor was a living room, or what resembled it. Chairs sat around three tables while a stove rested in a corner, all of these too heavy and bulky to be carried away by the looters. Some cupboards still contained stuff, and it was so rotten and dirty and smelly that the cupboards were summarily removed and thrown down a nearby cliff.

A few cooking utensils and a pile of logs were left though; those could be useful.

Above the third floor was the roof with its battlements, which would be useless to Jerry until he could procure bows and arrows.

But the most important part of the building was below the ground, because there actually was a basement! Jerry was ecstatic! Which self-respecting necromancer does not have a basement?

It was only occupied by two half-filled water barrels and a ton of multi-legged insects, and it would soon serve as Jerry’s laboratory. No sense in frightening guests with all the messy details.

Of course, the house was filled with bugs, mostly cockroaches. Foxy took charge here, mopping the floor with the critters, and Derek procured two more fox bodies from the forest.

Two skeletons were extracted from the corpses and set to bug hunting, while Derek strung the bodies up to extract the blood and prepared a bonfire for later. It wouldn’t be the best meal, but it would do.

Night came, and after they ate, Derek left, leaving behind his cart of tools. Jerry promised to return it soon and thanked him profusely for all his help.

He then surveyed his little army of undead. There was Skeleton 1, Shorty, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and two extra foxes who did not get a name as they would be deanimated soon. Keeping up too many undead was tiring for Jerry, though he didn’t know why.

The assortment wasn’t some grand undead army, but it was getting there.

Of them all, Jerry eventually decided to keep Headless as a zombie, even though they were a bit messier than skeletons. It would be handy to have a zombie close by for experiments, plus his intimidation factor was much higher like this.

As for the bandit corpses themselves, Jerry had riffled through them and found nothing. Only a couple worn-out taels lined their pockets, which wouldn’t be too useful in the villages here—they mostly traded through exchanges, not currency—as well as their shortswords and the clothes they wore.

None of this was immediately useful, so Jerry threw them in the storage room.

Night came and passed, the necromancer sleeping in the guard commander’s room, where the foxes had taken extra care to remove all bugs. Jerry did not like bugs.

The undead kept working through the night, tireless and with adequate sight. From last night’s foxes, Derek had crafted Headless a pair of leather strips that he used to keep his head at chest height, wrapping them around the base of his neck.

Come next morning, the tower was mostly clean, so the undead were sent to gather water, food, and wood. Then, they began cleaning again. Jerry spent the day putting his woodworking skills to the test; Headless used an axe to chop the wood into nice pieces, then Jerry used the nails and hammer provided in Derek’s cart to fashion the wood into crude, but serviceable, furniture.

He made a long bench. That’s all. At least he had tons of wood to spare for later, which was nice, and Headless was still chopping away at the poor forest.

Tables and chairs were aplenty—all the bedrooms had some—as were beds, utensils, and the stove. Honestly, the tower was pretty set, especially after the bench he installed in the basement.

Now, only one thing was left to do; grabbing a rough wooden pike, an equally rough wooden tablet, and a paintbrush, he took off towards the entrance. A few moments later, a wooden sign was placed in front of the tower for all to see.

‘Jerry Goodguy. Shoemaker.’

Jerry looked at it and nodded in satisfaction. He did have an actual last name, Shoeson, but he was at the age where people can choose their own name, and Goodguy had a nice ring to it.

And now, with the housework finally done, it was time for something much more fun.

“Oh, Shortyyyy! Boneyyyyy!” Jerry called out, and the comically short zombie approached. The poor guy only reached the base of a normal person’s chest, lacking a torso. Jerry waited until Boney—the strangely cognizant skeleton who had outgrown the name Skeleton 1—arrived too.

“Come with me, boys.” The necromancer gave them an evil grin. “I suppose we’re done with work, so it’s experiments time!”

Boney replied, “Certainly, master.”

Jerry froze. “Come again?”

***

The central area of Elden ridge was occupied by thick, towering giants made of bark and wood. They were a dark color, though the light in the area was plenty.

On the branches of these large trees were houses, built entirely of wood, with hanging bridges connecting the different trunks. There were a few dozens of these houses, and all of them exuded a natural air of tranquility.

However, despite the place’s serene atmosphere, there was no calmness to be found. The wooden treehouses, for all their beauty, were occupied by cutthroats, bandits, highwaymen, murderers, and all other kinds of ugly folk. This was the hideout of the Greenskin bandits, a bandit crew as feared as it was infamous, the terror of all nearby settlements.

On the higher branches of the largest tree stood a hut sturdier than the others. Its walls were decorated with gold, speaking volumes of the owner’s taste and power.

A young bandit by the name of Brad walked in front of the hut. He was blond, with piercing blue eyes and a square jaw, while his muscular chest was outlined by a white vest that seemed untouched by the forest’s dirt.

It hadn’t been a year since he joined, but his cunning and ruthlessness had quickly earned him a rank close to the top. The unfortunate accidents that his superiors tended to suffer helped too.

“Boss,” he said, knocking on the door.

He waited. A moment later, a man’s rough voice resounded.

“Enter.”

Brad respectfully pushed the door open, revealing an opulent interior centered around a luxurious bed. How that had been carried all the way up here was a mystery. On top of that bed lay a bronze-skinned titan of a man, large and full of muscle. His hair was long, dark, and oily, while his eyes were a deeply vivid green. He wore absolutely no clothes, and neither did the two women huddled by his side, the absence of bed covers revealing all three naked bodies.

Brad kept his eyes on the man. This was Jericho, the gang leader, and to look at his women was a risk the young man did not want to take.

“Speak, Brad,” said Jericho with a slight pant, his voice deep and commanding.

“We lost three men near the village of Pilpen, sir,” responded the younger bandit. “They either ran away or were killed.”

“What is the village of Pilpen?” asked the chief.

“It is to the west, sir. A tiny village two days away that three men had been sent to scout out a week ago. They did not return.”

“I see,” hummed Jericho. Brad held his breath. “Your mind is good, Brad. What do you think happened? Did they desert us?”

“I… Thank you, sir. I believe they ran away. Dying at such a tiny village would be unlikely.”

Brad’s voice carried reserved confidence, the kind he knew superiors liked. It saved them the trouble of thinking themselves.

“Good,” said Jericho.

“Then—”

“Send twelve men to the village,” ordered Jericho, a hard grin blossoming on his face. “Whether they deserted or not, I do not care. They disappeared near that village, and so the village will burn. Let them pay, and let all others know the fate that awaits them should they cross us. This is how we, the Greenskin bandits, act.”

Brad bowed and walked back, ready to leave. “Very well, sir.”

“And Brad?” called out the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Cut the sirs. Next time you pretend to be a city man in front of me, I will have your head hung on my doorframe.” Jericho’s eyes glowed with mystical green light. “You are a bandit. Speak like it.”

“I—Okay, boss. Got it.”

“Good boy. Now, off you go, and try to keep your head on your shoulders. Unlike most of my men, you can think. I expect things from you, Brad.”

“Thanks, boss.” Brad laughed raucously, adapting to Jericho’s order on the fly. “I’ll do my best.”

Jericho nodded, and Brad closed the door behind him. Oh, what a bright future he had.