Scrub, scrub, scrub.

  Amithaera was making quick work of the grime that had melted onto the floor by her throne, the dais, the steps up to the symbolic seat of her power. She glanced over to it, smiling softly at the glorified chair and recalling just how fun it’d been to sit down with Veratreez and come up with ideas for making it horrifying to behold.

  They’d settled on carved obsidian, smoothed out to perfection by the least expensive sculptor they could afford at the time. All the gold had gone to renting out the tower that century so the two of them were making due with what they had. The Necromancer still felt like the young man had done a good job, and she had tried to hire him for a second throne when Yecky the Fist, that damnable half-orc adventurer, punched the original one in half.

  It was unfortunate that the sculptor had long since passed away by then. Veratreez had a better idea right after, and that’s how the throne became decorated by the bones of the damned and the melted swords and maces, shields and armor, of all her kills. The big ribcage of an overzealous dragon rested on the back of the seat, giving it the appearance of a dark butterfly.

  She looked down. The grime was gone, her reflection on the black marble showing her elven features. Amithaera had changed into something more practical; a linen white tunic and her softest pair of overalls to protect her knees as she cleaned.

  All around her, the minions worked to bring the throne room back to its glory, working with a quiet efficiency that she could appreciate. Veratreez directed all the efforts with the authority befitting her station as second-in-command, and never had Amithaera appreciated the goblin more. She could see her speaking to a pair of zombies at the moment, and though she couldn’t hear her, it was clear from the gestures that the goblin girl was telling them to direct the headless wandering Cleric elsewhere.

  The Necromancer stood from her spot, reaching for her bucket and mop, bare feet padding against the floor as she moved to the next pool of grime. Swishing the mop in the solution, she began to assault the mess, shooing away a skeleton that got too close before it could slip.

  The physical labor felt good. It kept her hands busy and her mind focused on immediate and practical concerns. As much as she liked the place to look frightening, looking ruined was just not doing it for her. The Iron Talons nearly collapsed the tower, from what Crayma had told her after examining the supports downstairs. Amithaera shook her head when she thought of how much it would cost to have that examined properly.

  Her eyes looked at it, that parchment still lying atop the corpse’s hand.

  That seemed too personal to disturb.

  There was a sudden urgency to go outside.

  The Necromancer fitted her boots onto her feet and walked down the stairs past her entrance hall. Even this place was a mess, filled with bones and blood and guts from her minions fighting the good fight. Veratreez glanced at her mistress as she left, her dark eyes noting everything, directing a few wraiths to accompany her.

  Outside in the meadow proved more challenging.

  Veratreez had not been exaggerating when she recounted that Hilfrey had been… obliterated. The spot where it happened was a crater, and above that crater was the circle-shape of a heavenly smite that cut through branches and foliage. Amithaera had only one thing to say about that, “... Bastards.”

  Hilfrey's remains were scattered across nearly an entire field of the surrounding meadow, his massive bone structure having been quite thoroughly dispersed by the smite that had destroyed him. Amithaera spent hours combing through the grass and undergrowth, gathering fragments of her favorite undead minion.

  The bone behemoth had been with her for nearly three decades. He was a loyal companion, and his hands were pilfered from the most talented Bard that the Necromancer had ever killed: Terretera the Silver-Tongue. It enabled the minion to play wonderful music.

  The least she could do for Hilfrey was ensure his resurrection was complete. No point letting those hands go to waste.

  "Pelvis ooover heeere," one of the wraiths called out, effortlessly carrying the giant structure between two tree trunks, passing through the bone when it got stuck between the fork, “Daaamn…”

  "Found his arm!" Crayma yelled as he hoisted his discovery from somewhere behind a copse of trees that served as a pup nest. Amithaera could hear the goblin's screams as he was set upon by wild wolves.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She looked upon Hilfrey’s primary skull, one of three, the most important one with the fake eye melted into the cranium. Her little cast of unlife animated the behemoth, jaw opening to speak as he returned to the material realm, “Miss Tress. Miss you.”

  “Missed you, too, Hilfrey,” the Necromancer replied, carrying him to the pile in the courtyard where most of his body was at. Crayma and the wraiths had done a good job finding most of him, and she gave the scratched up goblin a nod as he finished making sure the femurs were on the legs this time.

  She set the skull down at the top and stepped back to begin the ritual. While she was technically fluent in the Deep Speak, she didn’t get too many chances in her day-to-day to practice it. The recitation came out slow and awkward, “Peri Manna Vei Tah Skoo Rah.”

  That was just the primer. Amithaera continued the incantations, a considerable amount of magical energy flowing through her voice. Dark purple flames began to burn at the bones, summoning muscle and sinew to connect the joints into the massive creature that Hilfrey was, slowly returning him to his usual size.

  “Hell Oh, Cray Mah,” the behemoth greeted the goblin as neck tissue formed.

  Crayma waved at the big bonehead, “Ello, Hilfrey.”

  The behemoth stood to its massive height and roared out into the night sky, testing his fearful abilities. Several of the minions were affected, skeletons and wraiths rushing to hide while others were emboldened by his revival and roared along with the behemoth.

  His arms looked stiff and his back cracked with every movement, but otherwise, Hilfrey was good to go.

  "Welcome back, old friend," Amithaera said, patting his enormous ribcage. "How do you feel?"

  "Empty," he replied, which was his standard response. Hilfrey always felt empty immediately after resurrection. He was near about eleven creatures in total, so she could only imagine the hunger.

  As Hilfrey shambled away to reacquaint himself with his body, Amithaera returned to the throne room. The cleanup was nearly complete, and she was relieved to see that all traces of the battle had been efficiently removed. The marble floors gleamed marvelously, the pillars had been scrubbed clean, and fresh herbs had been scattered to absorb the odors… yet all that Amithaera really looked for was the one thing missing.

  There was no sign of the letter.

  "The bodies?" She asked Veratreez, who was carrying a bushel of dirty mops towards the equipment closet, formerly an exercise room…

  "Buried in the mass grave, as always, m’lady," the goblin replied, not looking back. "Oh, Gargamee gave a very moving eulogy when we finished. You would have liked it, mistress.”

  Amithaera nodded, surprised by the depth of her relief. The letter was gone, buried with its owner, and she could finally put the entire unpleasant incident behind her.

  All that she had to worry about now was making enough gold in the next two months to cover her rent.

  “Veratreez?”

  The goblin popped her head out from behind the closet door, “Yes, mistress?”

  Amithaera thought on something for a moment. She wondered, “When was the last time before the Iron Talons that we had any visitors?”

  She saw the goblin's eyes look up, squinting, trying to recollect, “Months, m'lady. The last party to come through was months ago, and they were prospectors… not adventurers.”

  The Necromancer’s expression fell slightly, still thinking. It was clear that something was amiss in her traffic. Perhaps it was a slow recruitment year for the guild. It used to be that parties would try their luck within weeks at a time, and now months?

  Walking to her throne once more, Amithaera took the small box behind the seat and opened it, looking upon a dried and discolored heart. She pursed her lips.

  “My Harrathen anchor is destroyed…” She muttered to herself. Harrathen was far from here, but the distance was halved if she rode from Skyfallow Village. The profane creation had been erected in a cave decades ago. They were supposed to last longer. This could only be the work of an outside party… though, she had built the damned thing in a cave. The likelihood that a curious animal simply made a nest out of her work was high.

  “No matter… I’ll travel there myself and make another.”

  “Mistress?” Veratreez asked, confused as to who she was addressing.

  Amithaera turned to her minion, smirking, “Tomorrow, little Veratreez, I wi-”

  “Return to Skyfallow.”

  Narrowing her eyes at the correct interruption, the Necromancer pouted at the goblin for the insolence, “Yes, but… I will travel from that damnable village to Harrathen. I will personally discover why there’s such a lull in between visitors, and I will make another anchor while I’m there.”

  Veratreez nodded quietly, “Y-Yes, mistress… Um, but tomorrow is Crayma’s birthday bash. Should I inform him that you won’t be attending?”

  A deep and incredulous chuckle left the monstrous Necromancer’s throat.

  “Veratreez. My sweet little goblin… The day I don’t attend Crayma’s birthday bash is the day I’ve truly died.”

  “Yes, mistress…”