I was there during the Red Week.

  We set hundreds of miles of forest on fire to keep the Curse away from our land. We shot the animals and refugees with crossbows from afar, not daring to approach in fear of contracting the Curse ourselves, forcing them to either fall to our bolts or get burned to death. Most chose the former.

  There was no Wall then, but we were many, and we were armed, and they were nothing but helpless civilians. We dyed the earth red with their blood and the sky red with fire. Everything in sight was burning, everything was red, and I was forced to keep killing innocent people for a week until they all died out or stopped coming.

  It was hell on earth. Even now, fifty years later, I see them when I close my eyes. All those desperate, innocent people… But what could we do? If we let them pass, we would have been the next to fall. It was the right choice, I believe that, but I am so ashamed I cry at night. The Red Week was the darkest time of our history, ancient or recent.

  We constructed the Wall, the Wall of the Damned, the Damn Wall. We cut the continent in half to keep the curse at bay, condemning all the northern people, those formerly grand and glorious Kingdoms, to a slow death and consequent undeath. All because of a single wayward necromancer.

  With my final breath, I wish for no such disaster to ever befall us again. Do not let history repeat itself. Kill all necromancers on sight. I implore you.

  And may the Wall hold forever.

  - The final words of a retired soldier, polished and saved in ink by a traveling scribe.

  “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT!” Reymond raved. “RELEASE THEM! RELEASE THEM THIS INSTANT!”

  “No, see, they’re happy with this, right guys?”

  The Billies nodded, causing bits of flesh to fall off their grievous wounds.

  “NO!” Reymond yelled. “You monster, I’ll slaughter you, I’ll…”

  He kept spouting threats, moving his arms ineffectively as Axehand held him back. Furious, Reymond turned to Axehand and roared, “Let me go, you sharp bone crap!”

  “Take a deep breath.” A hand landed on Reymond’s shoulder; Derek’s. “You’re in shock.”

  “I can be in whatever—” Grabbing Axehand’s collarbones but failing to shake him, the guard captain suddenly closed his eyes, then took a deep, trembling breath. Jerry and Derek exchanged a glance.

  “If he keeps on losing his head,” Boney suggested, “we can have Headless here teach him to—”

  “Enough.” Reymond opened his eyes; the rage hadn’t abated, but at least reason had returned. “Let go of me, hellspawn.”

  Axehand glanced at Jerry, who nodded. He carefully let go.

  “Are you feeling better?” Jerry asked.

  “Release my men,” Reymond ordered sternly. “I have already failed them in life. I will not fail them in death, too.”

  “Hmm.” Jerry sighed. “If that is what you wish, Reymond—”

  “Captain,” Reymond interrupted. “Captain Reymond.”

  “—Captain Reymond, then that is what I’ll do. But can you listen to me first?”

  “Release them and I’ll listen.” The captain crossed his arms.

  Jerry deliberated for a second. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand, and the Billies tumbled lifelessly to the ground. “If you agree, I can just reanimate them.”

  The soldier’s eyes widened in puzzlement. He clearly hadn’t expected Jerry to agree.

  “You see, Captain,” Jerry began, “I’m a necromancer. I can commune with a body’s soul. These men, the Billies—”

  “I don’t know why you call them that, but they have—had—names. They’re Rudolf, Dasher, Prancer—”

  “The Billies, then,” Jerry discarded the silly notion, while the captain kept mumbling names under his breath.

  “…Comet, Vixen, Blitzen…”

  “As I was saying,” Jerry continued, “these men died to the bandits. When I reached out to them just now, their souls shuddered at the prospect of revenge, of accomplishing their mission, of living anew. You see, Captain, when I reanimate someone, all I do is reconnect the soul to its shell—the body.”

  Reymond narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Jerry continued.

  “In essence, I’m giving them a second life, one that should be just as good, or even better, than the previous one. As long as they aren’t repulsed by the idea of becoming undead—which most people aren’t after they die—why not give them that?”

  Reymond crossed his arms in front of his chest, tapping a foot on the ground as he thought. Having been to the Damn Wall, he knew a few things about necromancers, and he clearly didn’t trust Jerry.

  “Are you trying to say that necromancers can revive people?” he asked.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “In a way. The links I create between body and soul are incredibly cruder than what they had while alive, which is why they are, well, undead. I suspect that an inconceivably powerful necromancer should be capable of fully reviving a person, but I’m way, way too far from that level.”

  The eye-narrowing intensified.

  “And you’re telling me,” Reymond asked with suspicion, motioning toward the curiously watching undead, “that my men want to be like…that?”

  “Yes.” Jerry nodded. “But please be polite toward my undead friends.”

  “Hmph!”

  The captain snorted once, then fell silent. His chin moved from side to side as he thought, making his mustache wiggle.

  “Can you prove it?” he finally asked.

  Jerry shook his head. “Not easily. After death, only the deeper, most instinctive parts of themselves remain—everything else is lost forever. I cannot prove anything unless we’re incredibly lucky and get someone like Boney.”

  The skeleton waved. “Tom Boney, to be exact. I used to be Tom. Now, I’m Boney.”

  “And you’re happy to be serving this monst… monstrous gentleman?”

  “Happier than I’ve ever been, Captain.” Boney’s voice deepened. “My life was a gray desert before I met Master. Now, though my flesh is gone, and most of my emotions, and several bodily functions, too, I am pleased to spend my unlife serving him.”

  Jerry coughed awkwardly.

  “That goes for all of us,” Boney continued, waving toward the other undead, who all nodded excitedly. “Master could have subjugated our souls and forced us to obey him—which is how it began, admittedly—but we no longer have any desire to oppose him. We choose to follow him wholeheartedly and devote our unlives to him simply because he is who he is. To him, we are not puppets, but friends. And to us, he is more than a master; he is our father and closest friend.”

  Reymond blinked a few times, then his gaze hardened. He had decided.

  “As if I’d believe that,” he growled. “Good necromancers and flying whales… I’ve served on the Wall, heathen. I know your kind. Necromancers are treacherous. You just made the skeleton say those things.”

  “Look at their feet, Captain.” Derek pointed down. “Would an evil necromancer make them shoes?”

  Reymond’s eyes turned downwards, then widened to their very physical limits. He shuddered.

  “My God…” he mumbled. “You—They—Even the animals have shoes!”

  His gaze turned to Jerry, ghostly and struggling to comprehend. “You…”

  “I’m a good necromancer, Captain.” Jerry smiled. “Boney exaggerated a bit, but your men will be safe with me. They will be happier than ever before.”

  “It’s true.” Derek nodded. “I was also skeptical at first, but all those things are true. Jerry has saved our village multiple times and is friendly and approachable. Hell, he and his undead once entered a snowman-building competition. I think he even lost.”

  “It was a tie,” Boney replied calmly, shooting Derek a cold glare before turning to Reymond. “I don’t know about other necromancers, Captain, but Master truly is a wonderful person. You should put your prejudice aside.”

  The rest of the undead also voiced their agreement with a series of oinks, yelps, grunts, and other unintelligible yet clearly joyful noises.

  Faced with all these sources of confirmation, Reymond could only shake his head in desperation.

  “He made them shoes…” he muttered, then immediately erupted into a fit of roaring, booming, belly-shaking laughter.

  “We lost him,” Boney said. “Oh well, to the back-up cart it is.”

  “It’s gone, it’s all gone!” Reymond cried out, scaring some nearby birds. “Fine, fine! Go ahead! Do it! If you people are crazy, then I, Reymond, will also go crazy! What do I have to lose?!”

  “That’s the spirit, Captain!” Jerry laughed. “A bit less crazy would be nice, but this works, too.”

  He hadn’t expected to succeed, but the captain’s delicate mental state had its upsides.

  With a wave of Jerry’s hand, the eight Billies once again stood up, experimentally moving their limbs around. One removed a sword embedded in his chest, looked at it in puzzlement, then tossed it away. All of them turned to Jerry.

  “I don’t suppose any of you can talk?” asked the necromancer. “Yeah, you barely could before dying, anyway. Okay, everyone”—he turned to his undead—“I’m Jerry, and allow me to make the official introductions. Our new friends are Billies one through eight. Billies, these are your new friends: Boboar, Foxy, Boney, Headless, Axehand, and up there in the sky is Birb. The living ones are Derek and Reymond. Get along well, okay?”

  Jerry smiled, as did all his undead, and the two sides quickly exchanged handshakes, nods, and on one occasion, heads. Reymond simply looked on, his inner turmoil clear enough for Jerry to notice.

  “Billies,” Jerry said, drawing attention back to himself. “Your captain, Reymond, was the one who gave me permission to raise you. What do you have to say to that?”

  Reymond tensed up. The eight zombies looked at Jerry, then turned to face their captain. As one, they all brought their right fists to their hearts and bowed. A smile was on their faces, and as grotesque as a zombie’s smile was, Captain Reymond had no mind for that.

  His lips were trembling, and his eyes got wet as the middle-aged man straightened up. In a shaky voice, he said, “Thank you, boys. You can be at ease now.”

  “The Billies will be yours to command as you see fit, Captain,” Jerry said with a smile. “I will not intervene.”

  “They will be mi—”

  His voice cracked, salty tears escaping his eyes. He hurriedly blinked a few times, trying to shake them away, but new ones appeared in their place. Mustering his resolve, he finally managed to finish his words. “Thank you, Jerry necromancer… If your words are true, this is the greatest gift you could have given me…”

  He hiccupped, then turned to the Billies. Even as his mustache was getting wet, he cried out in joy, “Come on, boys! Our adventures are not over yet!”

  The zombies roared in happiness, as did Reymond, no longer minding the tears that flowed on his old, hard cheeks. They all embraced each other in a big, tight hug.

  Derek snuck to Jerry’s side. “Did you make them do that?” he whispered.

  “In part.” The necromancer smiled. “But the joy they feel comes from their souls. Reymond might blame himself, but the Billies never did.”

  “Yeah…” Derek’s voice faded as he chuckled. “Heh, look at how happy they are. I never thought necromancy could achieve something like this.”

  “It’s a wide world, Derek.” Jerry’s gaze softened as he took in all the joy. “It’s a wide world…”