Page 59 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

Alistair managed a weak grin. “I’m notquiteat that point yet. I’ve enough strength yet to see this through.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Alistair watched a group of villagers rush past, clothing and blankets piled high in their arms, and narrowed his eyes. “We’re already behind schedule enough as it is. Most people here aren’t used to this kind of manual labor, and neither the cold nor their fear helps. I’ve already had to break up a few fights, and at the rate we’re moving, there’s no way we’ll make it out of here before dark, which will only make the journey more perilous.” A deep sigh shuddered out of him as he shook his head. “Merciful Light, I wish I knew what to do.”

Iggie shifted awkwardly on the crate. He had an inkling Alistair wouldn’t like his emerging plan, and he considered letting it go. But studying the paladin’s slumped back, his resolve hardened. After everything Alistair had dedicated to protecting this town, Iggie owed it to him and the townspeople whose lives were on the line to at least bring up his suggestion.

“I have an idea,” Iggie said. Alistair glanced up sharply, his golden gaze sparkling with hope, and Iggie added, “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like it, though.”

Alistair chuckled. “Tell me anyway. At this point, I’ll do anything if it gets us out of here faster.”

So, taking a deep breath, Iggie told him.

A half hour later, Iggie watched the procession of figures marching single file toward Singer’s Rest. In the glare of the afternoon light reflecting off the snow, they could have been any other townsfolk returning to the village. But Iggie knew otherwise.

“I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea,” Alistair muttered.

The paladin stood beside Iggie, hand cupped over his eyes to help block out the sun as he studied the approaching undead. Only the two of them remained near the main supply warehouse—the very one Iggie had once dispatched his skeletons to rob.

“There’s no faster way to deal with the supplies,” Iggie replied, frustration coloring his tone. This wasn’t their first argument since he’d proposed his scheme. “Plus, it frees up everyone else to attend to other tasks. My undead will have all the supplies we need packed and ready to go in a quarter the time.”

Alistair’s jaw tightened. “I know. But—”

“But what?” Iggie snapped, hurt flickering through him. “I thought you trusted me?”

Alistair spun toward him, raising his hands in surrender. “I do! And I’m sure your undead will prove a boon for the evacuation efforts. It’s the villagers I’m worried about. The last thing we need is to do anything that might stoke their fear or put themmoreon edge.”

Iggie bit back the retort hovering on his tongue. Alistair wasn’t suggesting the townsfolkactuallyhad anything to fear from him or his undead, merely pointing out what others might think. Even still, it rankled, as if the paladin were prioritizing their feelings and needs over his.

He turned back to his approaching skeletons. “I have things well in hand here. You should return to your own duties.”

Alistair hesitated, glancing between Iggie and the undead. “Are you sure? Perhaps it would be best if I stayed here to help keep an eye on things.”

Iggie’s chest tightened, his breath hissing out as he forced a nod. “I said we’ll be fine. Go. You’re needed elsewhere. Best leave the necromancer and his abominations be.” More bitterness leaked into his voice than he’d intended, and he met Alistair’s frown with a strained smile. “I’m all right. Really. After last night, I just really want to be alone right now.”

Alistair’s face softened, the sympathy in his expression almost more than Iggie could take. “Of course. I’ll be directing efforts near the town hall if you need me. Take care, Iggie.”

“You too, Alistair.”

He watched the paladin depart, his stomach tying itself in knots.Focus,he chided himself as he turned back to the piles of waiting crates.You’ll have plenty of time to mope once Matrim’s golem is defeated and the village is safe.

Over the next few hours, he poured himself into his work. His skeletons did all the heavy lifting, of course, carrying boxes out of the warehouse, sorting through them to consolidate their various contents, and then tying the loaded crates together onto makeshift sleds ready to travel with the departing caravan to the harmonite caves.

Still, he had to keep a close eye on his undead to ensure the process continued without a hitch, micromanaging their orders as needed. When they ran out of existing sleds on hand, he split off several undead to fashion new ones. The shoddy contraptions wouldn’t be much better than dragging the jumbled boxes through the snow, but it still beat carrying them by hand.

He was taking a quick breather, sitting propped against the stone side of the warehouse with his eyes closed, when a sudden jolt of awareness raced through him. Before he could process what it meant, a shrill scream shattered the evening air.

Iggie leaped to his feet and dashed toward the sound. Following a path along the warehouse’s side, he stumbled around the corner and froze, struggling to process the scene before him.

A woman lay in blood-splattered snow, her eyes wide with panic as she scuttled backward from a cloaked figure looming menacingly over her. Iggie shook himself free from his paralysis and rushed to close the gap, shouting and waving his hands.

He expected the threatening figure to bolt now that they had a witness to whatever heinous act they’d been attempting. Instead, the figure hesitated as if confused. As Iggie drew closer, his heart sank when he realized why. There was no mistaking the figure’s skeletal limbs beneath its tattered cloak, nor the pulse of its spirit link in his mind. He hadn’t been able to discern its presence before with so many of his undead nearby, but it was obvious now.

One of his skeletons had attacked this woman—the recently resurrected Julian if he wasn’t mistaken. The blood seemed proof enough of that. Yet, that shouldn’t have been possible without direct orders from him. His only skeletons with anything remotely approaching such commands were Marlon and Cynthia trailing at his back, and those extended only to protect him. They’d never attack someone in cold blood.

At that moment, the woman’s panicked eyes locked onto his. She started to reach for him, her expression pleading. “Please! You have to—”

She cut off, her eyes widening with horror. She must have gotten a good enough look at him to realize who he was. Either that, or the pair of undead flanking him had given it away.