It felt odd to Laronius to feel the particles of dust that had so recently been his vampiric body slowly coalesce back onto his frame and form a new arm and leg out of what was essentially necromantic concrete. The dust was being held together by an odd concoction of putty formed from frayed bits of soul, plus a small amount of blood and tears from the left eye and arm that had been turned human again. That is, until the his new deal with Gravine had started to go into effect. 

His left eye was now completely black, and no longer required something as limiting and useless as light to be able to see. Before losing his perception of color, Laronius had seen the remaining human flesh of his left arm turn to a deep shade of violet, as it pulsed with power and glowing runes etched themselves across his skin. He knew the same transformation was taking place on the left side of his face as well. 

He may not be as handsome as he once was, now that a portion of his body was purple demonic flesh on the left while much of the rest looked like a roughly carved statue of gray moving sandstone. No not as handsome perhaps, but far more powerful than ever before. The left side of his face curled up in a grin, and the right side of his face slowly caught up. Laronius had managed to hang on another day, and that’s all that mattered. 

Laronius knew that the true power of necromancy came from the fact that most people just didn’t know how to let go. He also knew that very few people understood this fact. Most seemed to believe that necromancy derived its power from darkness, corruption, lust for power, or a desire to desecrate that which should be hallowed. Laronius certainly recognized that all of those were often the result of necromancy, but they were no more the source of it than a burn was the source of fire, or rustling leaves the source of the wind. 

Even Gravine, adept as he was as a necromancer, seemed to deny the truth of what fueled the magic he spent a lifetime pursuing. Perhaps Gravine wanted to keep the truth of it from Laronius to hold him back as a pupil, or perhaps Gravine had just been telling the same lie over and over for so many years that he had actually started to believe it himself. 

Of every being, mortal or undead, that had passed through the walls of the fortress, Laronius was the only one who embraced the truth of necromancy and its true nature. It was fueled by the power, the ardent desperation, of those who cannot bear to let go when that is all they can do. There is power in that desperation, and Laronius reveled in it. Because that desperation was always the key to making the best deals. 

A soul desperate to be remembered could be coerced into a deal to have their memories preserved indefinitely as a ghost, even if that ghost was forever cursed to form no new memories for the rest of its existence.

A soul unwilling to forgive a grudge that’s ingrained in its very identity may be persuaded to offer their animosity as the fuel for a hellhound. Knowing their spite will continue to torment their rival should that rival outlive them, will be worth the cost, even if that cost is an existence that feels as if literally on fire every moment of every day until extinguished.

The collective soul of an army that cannot accept defeat can be bargained with to rise again as skeleton warriors, animated by the rusted swords and shields they carried into their final battle. To cling with white knuckles to the idea that they might still find victory in the end, that army is willing to sacrifice any honor or shared identity they may have fought so hard to build for generations.

Even when a soul has managed to move on from mortal life and accept its death, there still may be deals to be struck with the very bacteria and other microbes that are unwilling to give up the body that they’ve made their home. Laronius knew that’s what made zombies so stupid. They weren’t so much animated corpses as much as they were walking, biting cities of undead germs. Disgusting, but obedient. At least as long as he always remembered to indulge the voracious appetites of the gut biome that ruled the host.

What all of this meant to Laronius was that if he could figure out what someone was unwilling to let go of, he could always get the better end of the better end of any deal he made with them. And Laronius was very good at figuring this out.

For example, it had been obvious from the beginning that what the dolt minotaur Vdekshi couldn’t bear to let go of was the notion that deep down he was good and justified and ultimately a selfless individual. No matter how many dark necromantic rituals he performed, the monk in him simply couldn’t bear to grapple with the idea that he was just as selfish as everyone else.

With Gravine, Laronius could tell that the ancient necromancer was desperate to be relevant. While Gravine claimed to loathe his magical imprisonment, Laronius had long suspected that his master feared being forgotten far more than he feared the crystal that held him prisoner. He just couldn’t let go of his glory days of being feared and important.

For Laronius, reading what people couldn’t let go of was as easy as opening a book. Indeed, the only thing that left him truly unnerved were those who had seemingly no difficulty letting anything go. Though individuals like these were exceedingly rare, they were utterly infuriating to Laronius. Like that infernal orc, Krall.

What most mortals didn’t realize is that when most people die, it takes time for their soul to truly leave. Actual departure of the soul is not nearly so sudden as the death of the body might be. Even the ones who seem the most ready to move on, like those who die peacefully in their sleep after a long life and plenty of nauseatingly heartfelt goodbyes, even they will linger for at least a day or two as they accept that they really have died, and have a few more looks around for old time’s sake.

Laronius often counted on this when he went about recruiting souls and making deals on behalf of his two masters. He never felt in too great of a hurry because he knew the souls he set out to find weren’t likely in much of a hurry either. And many would figuratively scratch and claw just to hang on a bit longer before letting go.

And yet Krall had nearly gone for good within mere hours of his death. Indeed, when Laronius had activated the magic of his ruby ring to open negotiations with Krall’s soul, the orc was already so far gone that he could tell right away there was nothing Laronius could offer him to entice him back.

Or at least, almost nothing. Fortunately the orc’s companions had died experiencing far more anguish and rage, and they would not be able to move on so easily. Laronius had no trouble snaring them up by making deals that would erase the memories of their excruciating deaths, in exchange for their obedience. It was a pretty dull and unoriginal bargain, to be honest. But Laronius had used it as leverage to make a much more interesting deal.

He had called out to the soul of Krall before it had gone completely beyond the reach of his magic. He told the orc what plans he had for his old companions. How he would enjoy turning the elf into a cold, ravenous phantom. Or how much fun he would have taking the dwarf and his disgusting boar and grafting them together into a hilariously horrific flesh golem. And how he intended to use them to hunt down and torment whoever was still alive that had buried the three of them.

That had finally gotten to the orc. Mere moments away from being beyond the reach of necromancy forever, Laronius had still managed to get Krall to the bargaining table. But even then, the orc proved a shrewd negotiator. Even in death, Krall had the wits to know that trying to ask Laronius to release the souls of his companions was out of the question, so he didn’t even bother asking. This had irritated Laronius, as it was always after his first refusal of a deal that Laronius really started having fun.

Krall had never given him the chance. The orc had only one offer for Laronius. An offer that was both impossible to pass up, while also maddeningly fair.

Krall would allow Laronius to preserve his body to prevent further decay before Vdekshi could thoroughly inspect him. He would allow his body to be brought back to Vdekshi’s stronghold, and his soul would accompany it, though he would not answer any questions or provide any information, other than what clues they could discover from his body. Krall agreed that after Vdekshi had finished examining his body, he would allow Laronius to assign a single task to him, and he would use his full wits, talents, skills, and physical strength to complete that one task. After completing the task, all preservation enchantments would cease, and his body would immediately turn to the dirt he would have become if his grave had gone undisturbed.

In exchange, Laronius would have to agree to preserve the bodies of his companions in the same way, so they could also be inspected by Vdekshi. As soon as they were presented for inspection, Laronius would have to give full control and claim over their bodies and souls to Vdekshi, and Laronius could not give them any command or take any action against them unless Vdekshi specifically ordered it.

It had reminded Laronius of how much he had hated Krall in the first place. The orc had clearly known that when Laronius returned from any mission, he would be compelled to give a full account of any deals he had made, as well as any offers he had rejected. Everything that Krall offered would be exactly what Vdekshi would want. From the stupid minotaur’s point of view, the deal simply couldn’t be any better for him. At the same time, there was absolutely nothing in Krall’s demands that Vdekshi would have any hesitation agreeing to. In fact, he would probably be grateful for the clause that put the claim in the sole possession of Vdekshi, and would limit was Laronius could do with them outside of Vdekshi’s permission.

If Krall had asked Laronius to release the souls of his companions, he could have rejected the entire offer outright and countered with his own. After all, Vdekshi didn’t give Laronius the authority to release souls once bound in any way. But because Krall hadn’t even brought up anyone’s release, there was no way Laronius could find a way to justify rejecting the offer, no matter how much it robbed him of his fun and undermined his plans.

Still, he took some degree of satisfaction from knowing that he was still holding on to that one task to send Krall on, and now it was finally time to make sure he got his bargain’s worth.

***

Treshigan wailed against the night. Far below, her heightened sense of hearing gave her a sharp view of the scene on the ground. Two of the intruders were making their way towards the fortress, but very slowly. One was the large warrior she had met while hunting the dragon, but his wizard companion wasn’t with him. No doubt he was now coming on a futile mission to rescue his friend. Treshigan doubted whether the wizard was still alive at all, though honestly she didn’t even care one way or the other.

The other was the sandy haired stranger that had resisted her illusion the night before in the town. The one that reminded her of the young farmer that had gifted her with the simple ring that now glowed with necromantic power on her finger. The ring that had been stolen from a grave and left the farmer permanently branded with the pathetic epitaph “The Thief.” The ring she had kept when she slipped away that night so long ago when she abandoned the home and life she and the farmer had built together.

It had been a lifetime ago, and she was sure the foolish farmer had long since died. Yet she could never truly escape the image in her mind of the look of betrayal the farmer must have had when he awoke the next day and realized he would have to raise their infant son on his own. That screeching, mewling child whose incessant crying throughout every night had finally driven her to leave them both and seek the life she always knew should have been her destiny.

As the sounds of the night bounced off the face of the sandy haired stranger and hummed through her hairs and skin, she saw him more clearly than ever before. Laronius hadn’t told her the stranger’s name, which caused her to rely on a combination of her magic and some impressive improvisation the night before to make the illusion work. But now she could hear that dolt Tarun shouting his companion’s name over and over as they struggled below. “Seth.” The young warrior was saying the name so many times it nearly left her nauseous.

Just like her old husband, that foolish farmer, Seth the Thief. Or the pathetic father-in-law, Seth the Traitor, who had died less than a year after they had married. Or their son, who her husband had arrogantly named Seth the Third. As if a name that had been dragged through so much humiliation could possibly be worth passing on.

It seemed impossible to Treshigan that the young man below could be her son. After all, her son would be far older by now, probably twice the age of the stranger. This Seth now fending off zombies was so young that her Seth could be his father. Then she finally noticed the shillelagh that Seth was holding up to defend himself, and for just a moment her unearthly screaming stopped and in the silence that followed, she was blind to the entire world around her.

It wasn’t that her Seth “could be” this Seth’s father. It was clear that her Seth must be this Seth’s father. There was no mistaking that his shillelagh was the exact same ugly stick that her old husband had insisted on keeping as a priceless family relic. There could be no doubt that the fool in the battle below was her grandson.

Treshigan was about to resume her screaming to restore her clear view of the scene below her, but the moment before she did, her heightened hearing picked up a single word spoken by her grandson.

“Shurrah.”

The word had not been directed at her, but still it left her mind reeling and her body tumbling towards the ground. Just before she collided into the field of wheat below, she managed to regain her senses and her voice. She screamed and careened again into the sky. When she turned her attention again to the two intruders, the scene around them had changed dramatically.

Where before they had been surrounded by a large horde of zombies with only a small circle of distance that the undead couldn’t seem to cross, now the mass of zombies surrounding them seemed only a tenth of the size it had been, while the circle around the two was ten times larger. A cloud of dust hung in the air around them.

Was her own grandson really so powerful that with just one word he could banish so many undead in an instant? Where could he have acquired power like that? Was there really more to that shillelagh like her old husband had claimed? Was it that lantern that Laronius had insisted she get from him the night before? Treshigan remembered that Seth had used the same word against her the night before, but it somehow seemed far more potent now.

But if Seth enjoyed such a display of magical might, he certainly didn’t show it. If anything, his face looked pained. His next words were a whisper so quiet that surely not even his companion could hear him, but Treshigan could. “This isn’t right,” he said. “It’s not what I’m meant to do here.” At these words, he began to weep.

Treshigan could no longer bear it. She had always imagined in her mind the face of her husband the morning after she left. She imagined him looking stern, disappointed, angry, betrayed. But always she pictured him with dry eyes and quiet resolve. She now realized that image in her mind had been just another lie she told herself to hide from the truth.

The sounds of her screams bounced off every surface and returned again to her. They bounced off his tears like tiny ripples off of a pond the size of a crumb. She perceived every muscle in his expression of sorrow. The sound of his grief cut through the air and seized her. She realized that in his cries, she was hearing the sobs of her husband who had lost his wife. She was hearing the cries of her son who was abandoned by a mother he would never know.

It tore her to pieces, and she had to make it stop. But it wouldn’t stop simply by sound of Seth’s voice, or even by ending his life. The fatal blow to her soul had already been dealt. She needed to end all of it. Her enslavement. The lies she told herself every day. The pain of stretching her existence so far beyond the length of her natural life. All it had to end that night, as quickly as possible. And it seemed that her grandson had the power to make that all possible.

She would attack him. No subtlety, no hanging back and waiting for him to tire or make a mistake she could exploit. She would just lash out at him head on with a desperate charge. She would give him no choice but to defend himself with that word of power that had turned an entire host of zombies to ash.

Just one more “shurrah,” and it would all be over.

Treshigan dove. She screamed and made her face as hideous and horrific as possible. Her teeth became fangs, her fingernails became claws, and the tattered edges of her dress became as sharp as a hail of broken glass.

Seth turned to look at her, but face showed no fear, hatred, or even resolve. There was merely a look of sadness and pity. And then suddenly there was a light in Seth that even her sightless eyes could see, and his expression turned to one of surprise and joy.

Treshigan was about to violently collide with her grandson, but instead of raising his shillelagh to banish her, he opened his arms wide and in a warm, welcoming voice he spoke a new word of power.

“Hareth.”

Suddenly the world went white, and while Treshigan couldn’t see anything but light, she knew she was no longer moving. She hadn’t stopped. She was simply… still.

Treshigan felt stalks of wheat brush against her hands, and felt the warm breeze that moved the wheat. She looked down and saw her hand and the wheat against her skin. Her smooth, healthy, human skin. She brought her hands to her face and felt that she was no longer a cursed banshee, nor was she the form of the pierced and tattooed witch.

She stood in the field and felt the sun warm her body. She breathed in fresh, fragrant air and let it flow in and out of her over and over. Then she was aware of someone standing next to her. She turned and saw Seth, her Seth, standing with a hand outstretched for her to take.

Treshigan hesitated. “This is a trick,” she said with tears building in her eyes. “You’re dead. I became a monster. None of this can be real.”

“It’s real,” said her husband, reaching out again for her hand. “You left. I was hurt. You’ve been hurt too. But this is a place where we get to heal.”

This time, Treshigan took his extended hand. “Where are we?” she asked.

“The Homestead,” replied her husband. “Our homestead. It’s the place where we belong. Our whole clan, weak or strong, right or wrong, this is where we’re supposed to be. It’s an inheritance I didn’t even know about in life, and I’ve been unable to find it until now. But our grandson, Seth the Guide, he brought us home.”

They turned, and Treshigan could see a large fortress up on a hill. It looked like the one where she had served under Vdekshi for so long, but it looked new and solid, rather than dark and crumbling. “Who lives there?” she asked.

“That’s the stronghold,” replied her husband. “That’s where we all gather and lend each other our strength and share our wisdom, especially in times of great need. The gates are locked right now, and it’s been holding many of our kin prisoner for a long time now, but our grandson is here to break that lock. Want to come and watch?”

Treshigan fell to her knees, shaking with sobs. For a long time, if time existed here, she couldn’t speak. Finally she said, “I don’t deserve to be here,” she cried. “I forfeited my right to be in our family. I’m not worthy to be in a clan that gathers in a stronghold like that. Why am I here?”

Her husband lifted her up and held her close. “It’s not about being worthy,” he said. “It’s about being family. And now that our grandson has claimed his inheritance, he gets to decide who he invites into that family. My father was the last patriarch of our clan, and as his last living descendant, our grandson is the patriarch now that he’s taken up his birthright. He gets the final say. And something tells me he’s not going to be stingy with it.” He smiled and gave Treshigan a wink.

Treshigan blinked away her tears and looked around as she absorbed the words her husband had said. She turned to him again. “The last thing I remember before standing in this field was Seth saying a new word of power,” said Treshigan. “I’d never heard it before. ‘Hareth.’ What does it mean?”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever heard it either,” replied her husband with a shrug, “but considering that you’re here and whole, what do you think it means?”

***

Tarun stood, unable to explain what he had just witnessed. A monster that looked like a terrible woman had nearly pounced on Seth. Tarun had tried to find a weapon to fight her off, and he was sure that Tarun would die if he couldn’t stop her. But then Seth had said something, there had been a flash of light, and the monster turned into a woman. Then in the same time that it took Tarun to blink, that woman was gone.

The only thing that remained was a small ring, glowing white on the ground where the woman’s feet had just been.

Seth smiled, picked up the ring, kissed it, and then put it on one of the fingers of his right hand. Despite the fact that they were still standing in a field of wheat in the middle of the night, in the middle of a fight with an army of numberless undead, Seth looked more peaceful than Tarun had ever seen him.

“What was that word you just said?” Tarun asked. “And what does it mean?”

“Hareth,” answered Seth. “As for what it means, that’s harder to answer. I’m still learning it’s full meaning myself. But I think it means to join or gather, or to be adopted.” Seth’s expression flickered to surprise and he looked down at the runes on his shillelagh. “Yes, that’s what it is. It’s an invitation to become part of a family. My family.”

Suddenly, Seth wrapped his arms around Tarun in a hug. It surprised Tarun, but the warmth and sincerity of the gesture prompted Tarun to hug his friend back. When they both let go a moment later, Seth had tears rolling down his cheeks, but the smile was still on his face.

“I finally know what I’m supposed to do,” said Seth. “Now let’s go rescue Shon and all the rest of our brothers and sisters.”