My nipples were flaring points of fiery agony as I was wrenched suddenly from a dream of grape-peeling gauzily-clad houris and hauled upward from the depths of unconsciousness like a fish on a hook.  My eyes shot open, and my startled gaze was filled with the hairy breech-clout wearing tree-priest crouched over me, glaring redfaced with bloodshot eyes into mine.  I must have screamed, for his fierce pinch-knuckled grip on my abused bits of tender flesh ceased, the tormenting ferocity of his grasp leaving me bruised, perhaps maimed and disfigured for all I knew.  My nipples would never be the same.

“He’s awake now,” the druid said as he dismounted my bedside.  The Viking dragged his mail corslet over his head and grabbed his axe.  My chest throbbed as I hugged myself. “Someone has drugged us, and our retainers are gone.”  I looked around wildly, not seeing Gunter and Snowdog.  Their bedding was rumpled and strewn about, their belongings still on floor.  

“Maybe they are at the jakes?” I queried. 

The Viking motioned to the door.  It was locked, and from the inside. “Explain that. Get your skinny arse moving Lord of Darkness, I have a bad feeling about this,” he said.  I shook the cobwebs from my mind as I gathered myself. From the window, the distant throbbing of drums could be heard from over the dunes. - Bytorr the Necromancer, Xambaala

Candles dripping rivulets of wax were at the four points about me on the floor as I sat in our room at the inn, the ebon staff across my knees. My eyes were shut and breath even as I sent my spirit winging into the realm of shadow.  While I attempted to part the tenebrous curtains of ignorance drawn across my vision, the others were downstairs celebrating their new freedom with excessive drink and jocular shouting.  Even my taciturn slave sat on a bench, befuddled with drink and thumping his jack in time to some obscene sea chanty.  No doubt they even caroused with the slatterns that infested the place like lice on a dog.  Most likely they would ascend the stairs in the small hours of the night,  freshly diseased and staggering and stupefied with liquor, the purses betwixt their legs as empty of seed as those at their belts were of the coin I had provided them.  Did I receive thanks?  No, but I neither sought nor expected gratitude anyways from such rough characters.  Myself, I was contented with a cup of mare's milk sprinkled with spices, a rare treat indeed, and retired early to our chamber, hoping to use my time to my advantage.  Mother approved my prudent behavior and spun lazily in her jar.

The open window brought in a scent of spice from the desert sands to the east, freshening the air of the stifling room and clearing my senses.  The more my mind explored the staff, the greater the vistas shown to me and the defter my control over its functions.  Words of knowledge and power were whispered in my ear by ancient voices dry with dusty centuries.  Wielding the staff, I could cast globes of darkness, sense the presence of unlife, and cast a beam of consuming weakness that would steal the heart of a man and drain his strength like water from a leaky bucket.  I could feel echoes of other even more puissant abilities deeper within its gnarled shaft, but they were unclear.  I was afforded tantalizing glimpses that set the heart racing but were almost in

The corpse lurched and shambled into the outskirts of Xambaala, its bloody sacerdotal robes dragging in the sand.  The dead priest's jaw was clenched under his flayed cheeks and weeping empty eye sockets.  Skin hung in tatters from its wrecked form.  Passersby who got a glimpse of its dread countenance ran screaming into alleys and doorways. In its lipless mouth, between its remaining teeth, was gripped like a incongruously jaunty cigar a small parchment tube. 

At a discrete distance but still under my malign command, we followed its appalling peregrination towards the center of town.  It was stumbling and reeling along now, its toes worn and stripped of flesh as it walked across the rough stony ground.  Perhaps we should have left its sandals on.  Rumor of its coming swept through the bazaar ahead of us, and from behind carts and stalls peered eyes wide with fright as it passed.  Toward the great temple of Helios it turned, raising its face and arms in ghastly salute as it crossed the square and trod the steps up to the great door.  Every eye in this pestilential excuse for a city was drawn to its mutilated fist as it clenched, swung back, and pounded on the brazen portal like the knell of the sun's final breath.

Meanwhile, we had entered the arena gaol and found and paid our agent, and after gently urging him to greater speed in his counting, our friends were released to my custody, but not without a jocular comment or two at their expense.  Questions were raised and demands made as we exited into the deserted bazaar, but I counseled silence as we made our way back to the caravanserai.  The viking looked back towards the temple and noted the crowd gathered at a respectful distance.  The great doors were open and a huddle of priests was attending to a toppled form at the top of the steps.

"What goes on there? " he asked. "Damn priests, always causing a commotion."

"Indeed," I replied.

 - [b]Bytorr th

The thing was a dim glistening man-shape in the gloom, its arms outstretched towards us. At my command, Trotter (who miraculously reappeared just in time!) lurched his smokey porcine carcass at the apparition as a distraction for Snowdog to impale the abomination. Trotter blundered along and ran against the thing, but a mere wave of it’s hand rendered it into rapidly dissolving putrescent yet still hammy ooze. Snowdog hurled a spear at it which pierced it deeply, but the weapon dissolved just the same. He tried his remaining spear, aiming a mighty blow at its head. It landed true, but the return blow rotted the armor off his body. It came on with a lurching slithering gait. I had never seen an undead of this kind, and we appeared powerless to stop it.

With a quick sprint around, we reached the door and headed out towards the dunes.With labored breath, I consulted with Snowdog, who suggested fire might be the way to kill it. I concurred, and we returned to the Xambaala for re-supply. In the bazaar, we purchased extra torches and a large cask of lamp oil, with which to lay a trap. Returning across the desert, we warily approached the tomb. It was empty. Of Trotter, there was no sign.We prepared our killing zone, pouring out the oil in a pool in the center of the room. Our plan was to lure the thing across the oil, light it, and then pelt it with missiles. Very quickly was our stratagem put to the test.

The thing arose from the floor again near the door and lurched toward us. When it reached the oil, I threw in the torch. An inferno consumed it and thick oily smoke hid it’s demise from our view. However, our self-congratulatory smirks of victory were short-lived, for a silver silhouette formed in the flames, and it strode out unharmed! Again in frustrated humiliation we fell back into the main hallway, whereupon we were pursued by our shambling but relentless adversary.

With sling-stones and spears, daggers and curses we pelted it as we backpedaled towards the t

Snowdog dragged him along, prodding our prisoner with a shrewdly placed kick as required. Thankfully it was but a short distance to her ramshackle hovel. The priest made mewling noises around his gag as Snowdog hauled him to his feet and presented him to her.

“Madam, is this the miscreant?” Her glare and swift nod saved us from an interminable sequence of hunting down enrobed pederasts for her identification, but it seemed we got it in one. I cared not either way, as long as we were paid.  My extended palm was soon filled with our paltry bounty. It was not two-hundred and fifty gold, but is a grave dug with one spadeful?

“Come Snowdog, bring the vermin along.” I had a place in mind where we would enjoy perfect privacy, for I had questions that needed answering.  This disgraced excuse of a priest might be the key to winning my loutish companions' freedom.

Well, two hundred and fifty gold weren’t going to earn themselves. Retrieving Snowdog, I reluctantly went back to the old woman’s hut on the edge of town less to hear her tale of woe again but more to review her paltry reward for exacting her revenge. It was as small as I remembered. It might have been easier to give Atanaq the command and it would be ours, but as I considered having him just slay the pair and take the gem, I looked up and his beady eyes met mine. He knew what I was thinking, and was judging me. For some reason I felt diminished. Did he expect the order to come? I could tell he would do it without qualm, for they were prey, and weak. But the words could not pass my lips. Looking at my toes, I mumbled my agreement to her terms.

Helios was rolling like a drunk towards his fetid bed, his sickly garnet rays bathing the city in the crimson hue of fresh blood, and casting shadows as black as pitch as we filed out into the street. The woman said the priest prowled the neighborhood in the evening, so we picked a ruined hovel of broken mud brick with windows and door gaping like a skull for our hiding place. Inside, the sands were piled against the walls, and the beams of the ceiling bellied down low. The place was cluttered with broken pottery and glass, and was rank with the smell of urine. Snowdog took no notice however, and squatted stoic and immobile in the shade of the doorway like some profane idol.

The shame burned in my belly. I had been faced down by a slave, a lesser man than I. He would pay someday for that. But still my hands shook and my lip quivered. If I could strike him down now I would, but even that he allowed me, presenting his back to me in silent affront. He knew I could not move against him and he was right. Fear had no part in it. He had to live to keep alive the chance of freeing my idiot companions. Otherwise, I should just collect Mother’s jar and board the ship back to Khromarium and return to the stares, the knowing looks

At the door to the arena, the nerve of the boy broke and he ran. He wanted no business here. At the portal, sealed with two brazen doors carved in heroic style, I gave a silver to the guard, who gave an obsequious nod of his head and pulled the door open. I entered into bedlam. 

Whips cracked, men shouted and sobbed, animals roared and grunted, and all was enveloped in an unholy fug of torch smoke, ripe sweat, damp, rust and blood. Weapons clashed and rang and dull thuds boomed as shields were struck. In the dimness, a man behind a tall desk bade me come near. He was chewing a horrible stub of brown leaves in his cheek, and brown dribble coated his chin. He made inquiry into my business there and I replied I was looking for a slave. At this he laughed. He said slaves were for the taking in this town, but here there were fighters, and fighters were expensive. A fighter was what I needed, I told him, one that wouldn’t run and would be loyal. We haggled for a bit, and with a wily chuckle, he finally sent a runner to fetch a likely one from the pen below. What returned was the most evil aspected individual I had ever seen. His eyes were shining black beads under a squinting swarthy brow and they peered out from behind skeins of lank hair reeking of rancid fat. His lips and cheeks were cut and slashed, and primitive tattoos of some tentacular creature were writ on his skin. He was short of stature, and wrapped in skin-tight hides, but he moved quickly and with power. On his belt was a knotted whip, which he caressed as if a lover’s thigh. He gave me the most insolent look I had ever received from a human and gave me a smile filled with filed teeth. The overseer grinned, and sold him to me for ten gold, which while seemingly a bargain, somehow I felt cheated as I left with him trailing behind me. 

“What is your name, slave?” I asked. 

“Atanaq” he repied in the sibilant accent of Esquimeaux. “It is Snowdog in your tongue. Heh, you are now my master. Le

"A scullery maid begged my pardon and informed me the swine had been prepared as directed, and was hanging in the smoke room. With eagerness I repaired thither and directed the servants to carry the pig to my room. Alone, I spoke the dread syllables and once again thrust my intellect against the shimmering curtains of reality. My mind’s eye burned with visions of necrotic landscapes inhabited by wailing spirits writhing in torment. Selecting a likely candidate from the least of them, I wrested it from its doleful matrix and embedded it's unholy essence in the savory sweet carcass of the pig, now toughened with the kitchen’s culinary preparations. With a surge of pride I surveyed my handiwork as the beast clambered to its feet to do my bidding.

I had animated some 10 stone of preserved and salted pork. It would not go bad, as many such preserved victuals do. It could not be lost or easily stolen. It would not have to be carried, as it would carry itself. Its baleful gaze would discourage the curious. Items that we wished to conceal could be stuffed into the body cavity. As a last resort, it could be loaded with fire oil and sent into an enemy formation to be set ablaze, causing consternation to our foes. The benefits were too numerous to count. I’m sure that some of the more squeamish of my compatriots would balk at a strip of salted pork writhing on their palate, but they were more than welcome to eat their own provisions.Thus I spent the rest of the morning. I considered how best to fit the beast with saddlebags, and measured it with a knotted string. I made a note to consult with a leather worker of strong constitution to fit it with a harness. I read my book, lamenting its lack of pertinent information. I gazed lustfully at my staff. I polished Mother’s jar. I had the unPig trot across the floor at my command. I peeled off a small strip of flesh from its hollowed out rib cage, and popped it in my mouth. Salty, sweet and smoky all at once, accompanied by

"I have heard it stated that Skeletons and Zombies are the least of all undead perils. This may be true, but this person has obviously never faced the dubious prospect of their entrails being torn from their abdomen and consumed in front of them by these paragons of mindless hunger. Others observe that zombies kill people. To them I make the rejoinder: zombies are simply tools: a necromancer kills people. I must say thoughts like these focused our minds to a needle point as we were confronted by a dusty shambling horde. Quickly we strung our rope between a two sarcophagi as a makeshift barrier, and spread a pool of oil on the floor before it. When the dead came upon the rope, they piled into one another, and then we ignited the oil. Silent screams shewed on the ruined faces before us as the flames purified their flesh. Judicious arrows and stones did for the rest. I for one desired more time to observe and take notes on their construction, but the zombies alas were not as durable as one could have wished. These zombies seemed to be a product of some ad-hoc animation of little sophistication. I considered if I were to create a zombie, I should for one first armor it, and then ensure it was soaked in water to prevent flammability and keep it limber.

At any rate, this first foray was enough to quicken the blood and ignite captious avarice in my companions eyes as we found scattered simple treasures about the room. Enough to pay for our outrageous lodgings at any rate. In the last coffin, we found a twisted black staff, one which gave off chill crepuscular emanations and froze the bones to gaze upon to closely. The others backed away from it as if were some lodestone of evil. When I casually made an offhand reference to the item perhaps providing the least interest in my studies, there was no objection made, indeed they seemed eager for me to have it. Ha! It was mine! My half-witted companions had given up a relic of undoubted tenebrous puissance as if it were a mere t

"Eventually, with much aimless meandering, we finally arrive at the caravansary, where after negotiations remarkable for a lack of subtlety on our part, we hire a room for a sum much too dear, only exacerbated by the weeks stay in advance abandoned at our previous lodgings, not an inconsiderable sum. Our new host, one Aramis, seemed pleasant enough, but his look as he gathered our gold in his palm was pure avarice. However, our chamber is indeed better than our last, with a door and beds seemingly free of vermin, and all the rest, but I was not learning dread secrets with my head lying on a pillow no matter how fine, despite Mother's evident approval of the linen’s thread-count and the embroidered curtains on the windows.

Some conversation regarding rations commenced, considering we had just spent the majority of our remaining funds. Assuming a mood of frugality, I suggested purchasing a pig and contracting with the kitchen to dress, salt and smoke it, whereupon I would reluctantly animate its now toughened corpse as an undead minion. Given a sufficiently large animal, maybe a week or more of preserved meat would be available. What bounty! Perhaps we could even lash saddlebags to it, if it were of a size! My mooncalf companions waxed enthusiastic about the rashers of bacon that would soon be theirs to consume at their leisure. In jest I suggested one of them could ride it into battle, ha ha! but their sense of the absurd seemed not to extend to riding their food. The joke would indeed be on them, for I wonder if my companions had considered what eating undead flesh would be like as it squirmed between their teeth, writhed in their uneasy stomachs, and quivered in their bowels. Would it convey nutriment? Would it even be digestible? We would find out together!

Procuring the animal did not prove difficult, as livestock were in a pen adjacent to the inn, but as usual with us, our plans quickly went awry. It was suggested that before it’s ultimate transformation,