Prologue

Long, long ago in the Northern Continents there was Phanatos, the Great Necromancer—an evil and wicked man who had at one point in his life been Warlock King of Igdanha. At that time, there was widespread anti-necroman sentiment among the warlock people. When it was discovered their king was a practitioner of that forbidden art, he was exiled from Igdanha forever. Swearing vengeance, Phanatos dedicated himself to the complete annihilation of the Warlock people.

Taking to Melegor, far west in the Mountains of Mist, Phanatos befriended the first dwarvern guardian Oleric Goldcraft and convinced Oleric to make for him a set of gold and obsidian armaments: a ring, a sword, a breastplate, a helmet, a pair of boots, a cloak and a pair of gauntlets. Into these seven items Phanatos put his very soul into these seven items, then then put another fraction into an eighth object in his necromantic temple, the object being an altar of black marble. Separating his soul into eight pieces made him immortal, and without fear of death he started his genocide against the warlocks.

Town after town fell before Phanatos and his armies of the undead, liches and necromancers. Where he went the ground tore asunder from his might, and everything which had ever once been made by a warlock's hand burst into flame.

Phanatos thought he was victorious, but he was mistaken. There arose a hero from Igdanha, a boy who held the power to destroy Phanatos eternally. This boy, this “Chosen One,” confronted Phanatos in his temple.

Their battle was terrible, a conflict of the likes which would not be seen in the North again for millenniums. When their weapons clashed, a shock wave depressed them into a crater nearly destroying the temple.

They fought up to the black marble altar containing the shard of Phanatos' soul. The Chosen One was the only hope for the warlocks, but he failed. Phanatos slew him upon the altar, but the very moment the Chosen One's blood touched it, something happened which would change the course of history for nearly six thousand years.

Phanatos' body vanished. He was sealed within his altar, and being immortal he could never die, and having no body he could never move. The only thing Phanatos could do was wait.

I, Morphose, took the items from the temple and scattered them across the Northern and Southern Continents to an extent where not even I could find them ever again. The sword I broke into six pieces, to further ensure Phanatos could never return for if every item of the Great Necromancer were brought together, and were rested upon the black altar he would return to life. I entrusted those sword shards to those I thought I could trust the most.

It is inevitable that there will arise those who are sympathetic with Phanatos' cause, people who will seek out the items for their own personal gain or favor from the Great Necromancer. This I cannot tolerate, but not even knowing where the items are now I can do nothing to prevent it.

The Land has a way of balancing things out. I'm certain, if there are people who will try to bring Phanatos back, then when they arrive a new Chosen One will arise and stop them, and others too will rise up sympathetic to the plight of those without power. It is the only hope of the warlock people's survival.

Chapter 1
Icon of Sin

Igdanha
1187 AD II

Necropherus thumbed his nose lazily, muttering a curse to himself as he looked around before pressing his thumb against one nostril and then blew out the chunk of sand growing in his nasal passage. In every direction stretched the mighty Yarna Desert, the largest in the Northern Continents. The sky was unmarred without any clouds—no clouds; no rain. The Yarna desert had less than an inch of rain each year. During the spring, when it did rain, wildflowers and the bouquet of segora grass popped up to cover the desert in a thick blanket of life, but it was mid-summer, and all Necro saw were the dunes shifting in the hot arid desert breeze. He had came into the desert on his own, but now he had to finally concede to himself that he was lost. His frail, old body just wasn't meant to do so extreme traveling anymore, being over a hundred and twenty nine years old. It was just an ever present feeling of weakness and shame.

Not for the first or last time, Necropherus cursed being old. He cursed having bad posture, he cursed having wrinkles and crow's feet, and he cursed his wispy white hair.

“I should have listened to Barrow Lady.” He said aloud. “I should have just willed myself back to my Necropherus body.”

Necropherus (Necro, as he preferred to be called) could make his body look any age he wanted to. He was no ordinary necromancer, but he bitterly accepted being daemon, a person with a second-born body and a first-born soul. It was a very rare occurrence for people to be born daemons, but the greatest advantage was the limit-break, a phenomena which expedited one's will but at the same time was limited to it.

He never cared to use his break very often, feeling that it simply made things too easy for himself. A lot of people would think him quite daffy for feeling that way, but being immortal could get boring after a few centuries of omnipotence, so he preferred the occasional struggle.

He quickly debated with himself if looking for his friend's mother, a mysterious and powerful shaman, should be abandoned. Jobs like this could be left to the rebellion movement of the Wise Men.

It was Morphose and Carlawna's idea for him to go that far out to the desert, since he was the one most likely of coming back alive, and when he suggested to them to send a Wise Man or two instead, Morphose was very adamant and Carlawna very squeamish.

The Wise Men organization was established by Suliman the Second, the guardian and former emperor of the Imperial Goblin Monarchy and its people. Suliman was nearly killed by assassins hired by Magnus to eliminate the guardians. It wasn't public knowledge, though, so Magnus never lost any of his seemingly endless appeal to all people. Suliman wanted to oppose Magnus and his Harrowed Empire, thus the Wise Men's establishment. A couple friends of Necro's were in it as high ranking members, even.

Necro rubbed his stinging eyes. The bright sun and rolling sand dunes had done a number on him, convincing him that he had sand in places he'd discover even years afterward. He moaned a little, and called for pity from Carlawna's tricky mother.

“Vatawna, you stubborn, miserable old bat!” Necro said. “Can I just not find you, or do you not want to be found?” He savagely thought, but then froze in mid-thought. He turned quickly around having felt a presence he hadn't felt in a long time. He looked back and forth quickly, seeing nothing, but then he heard a voice behind him, the position he just vacated but hadn't seen anything..

“So somebody's finally come looking for Tawny, then?” That familiar voice asked. Necro turned, and gasped to see a gruff looking mountain man. His jacket looked too out of place for the hot desert, and his beard trailed down his chin at least a foot.

“Nicholas?” He asked. Nicholas “Old Nick” Blair was a supposedly evil spirit which had saved his life a decade earlier. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, not particularly fond of consorting with Nick too much. It was meetings like this that he kept hidden from Morphose, and if he hid it from Morphose meeting Nick was a terrible thing indeed. He was hiding a second life from his best friend, and it just wasn't the meetings with Nick.

Nick laughed softly. “I took a bit of interest in Tawny a long time ago. I always keep tabs on her, the same way I keep tabs on you, Slayer.”

Necro winced, not having been called Slayer for a while. Slayer of a Thousand Innocents was once his notorious title when he was consumed by the second spirit in him. It was still such a painful shame he had to bear every day of his life, having to regret being so evil before.

“I'm flattered that the devil likes to keep tabs on his favorite people. How does Vatawna interest you, Nick?”

“She's always been a bit of a strange one. I don't know what she really is. She's kind of a seer, but so much more. She can control time, just like Magnus can. And what's strangest to me is that there's not a bit of second-born in her. She's first-born all ways.”

“And not a guardian?” Necro asked. “Does she have a limit-break?”

“What she has is not a limit-break. She's some kind of freak of nature, a voodoo woman,” Nick said while slowly stroking his beard.

“Can you tell me where she is?”

“Nope. She's only found when she wants to be. Kinda like me.”

“How very convenient.” Necro remarked sarcastically, before tossing himself hopelessly on the ground. “I can't just go back empty handed, you know?” He whined.

“Everything is going as it should.” Nick said, and then abruptly changed the subject. “I trust Kenneth is alright?”

Kenneth was Morphose's son. For his wife, Amelia, it was her third child. Amelia's first son, James Hornsby, was dead. Her second son she was forced to leave in a ditch.

“Kenneth?” Necro asked. “He's fine, I guess. Why do you want to know?”

“He is the next Chosen One, after all.” Nick shrugged, looking down at Necro. “I have a bit of a vested interest in him.”

“Then is he doomed to die like the last two? Amelia still can't get over James,” Necro said crossly. He had scarcely known James, but their brief crossing in 1182 led to him killing the Chosen One to prevent the return of the Great Necromancer.

“That family seems to breed Chosen Ones quite handily. Two in less than a century?”

“I'm just going to give up my search for Vatawna, then. Is that alright?” Necro sat up, looking at Nick with curiosity.

“Yeah.” Nick said, dismissively waving his hand. “You weren't supposed to find her yet, anyway.”

Necro stood up entirely, brushing sand off his pants, and prepared to open a teleportation portal. With a slight gesture, he made a vertical seam of light stretch down to the ground which opened wide. In its shimmering, watery surface he saw the place he had come to call home for ten years—Troll Forest. There lived Barrow Lady and Morphose and Amelia with their three year old son Kenneth.

“Tell Kenneth I said hi,” Nick added, just as Necro was about to step through the portal. He looked over his shoulder back at Nicholas, and spoke.

“You know very well I can't let Morphose know I've associated with you more than once.”

“What's a passing here or there between you and me?”

“Every six months, though?” Necro asked. “Nick, I never should have met you before because of the way you operate. I don't need a limit-break, so why are you following me?”

Nick frowned, and turned away from him.

“Wait, Nick!” Necro shouted. “Answer my question.”

Nick didn't answer. A sudden sandstorm broke loose, kicking sand into the air and obscuring his retreating form. When his silhouette disappeared, the storm died and left Necro standing before the portal alone.

He felt a little guilty for the way he spoke to Nick, but he reaffirmed his belief that it didn't make any difference on Nick. No, the devil's feelings couldn't be hurt, could they? Not if they didn't exist.

Necro turned his back to Yarna Desert, and stepped back into the portal and into Troll Forest.

When Necro lumbered through a teleportation portal which suddenly opened in the hut they stayed in, Barrow Lady couldn't control herself. He left three weeks before to look for Vatawna, and finally her lover had returned to this shabby little straw, stick and mud hut built on stilts over a stagnant pond Morphose and Amelia shared with them.

First moving into the hut the year before, it was tidy and clean. It still was, but according to Amelia when she first stepped inside it was filled with cobwebs, the floor was littered with loose pages of paper, and nearly every space was occupied by a teetering pile of books and scrolls. Even though it had been completely reorganized, the only remaining little detail which hadn't changed were the cured meats hanging from the ceiling and the sweet and pungent smell of segora tea. By then, Kenneth had been born and a nursery was built. When she and Necro moved in, two more rooms were added on—a master bedroom Amelia and Morphose and a guest room which she and Necro occupied. The house was sparsely decorated with few ornaments besides a barrel containing Morphose's canes, several dusty grey rugs stuck onto the floor and a place on the wall where Morphose hung Solotos, his relic sword.

“Barrow Lady,” Necro smiled seeing her shriveled, hag-like frame, and took her into his arms and squeezed her tightly. “Have you been good?” Her tight lips were curled into a smile, and her skeletal looking face made her somewhat frightening to look at. It was the form she chose when she, Laeus and Pyros went into hiding. She could have chose any other form, but she selected that one for unknown reasons.

“Good enough,” She cackled. Being a prill, she was much more prone to causing trouble than second-borns. Looking into Necro's smiling face she felt protected and useful, making a difference in Necropherus' life.

“Where is Morphose?” Necro then asked, looking around grimly.

“Never mind that!” She hissed. She looked around nervously, before whispering to him under his breath. “You didn't need as much of the time as you requested. You were with Valdez again, weren't you?”

Necro released her with a serious look.

“I wasn't with Valdez. I'm done with him.”

“No you're not! He's still teaching you how to be a daemon, isn't he? Don't lie to me, Necro!”

“I need that training, Fae,” Necro said, using her real name for emphasis.

“I'm worried when you go off to spar with and learn from daemons. It's scary!”

“I am a daemon! Further than that, I'm Necropherus! There are dozens of Courts in Valdez's ranks, but only Pyros and Valdez are close enough to being my equals.”

She was quiet, and she shook her head angrily. “You said more than enough times that Valdez is using you.”

“And I'm using him,” Necro countered. “The only difference is when the time comes for me to repay him for his help, I won't join his pantheon.”

“You're not a god, Necro. What if every daemon came on you at once. Would you survive that?”

Necro frowned, and looked at the floor with a hint of regret. “I'll cross that bridge when the time comes.”

The door of the hut opened, and a figure came lumbering in singing a folk song. Necro glanced at the person who was carrying an armload of wood in his muscular and furry arms. It was a chimera, and Necro watched as the man dumped wood by the stove.

“Good to see you're home, Necro,” The person said, his ear twitching. He turned to full view, grinning at his old friend.

“Morphose,” Necro said with a smile. “How have things been going here?”

“Well...” Morphose's grin broke. He seemed to almost point with his scarred muzzle towards the doorway the way a dog would. Necro went to the door and opened it wide to look out at the swamp. What he saw surprised him, but emoted it with no more than the raising of both his eyebrows.

Nearly everywhere he could see there was a canvas tent pitched in Morphose's yard. He saw two warlock men struggling with one large one sinking into a more marshy area, while other warlocks were starting fires or hanging clothes on ropes strung from on gnarled tree to another. Warlock children were chasing each other playing games and laughing, while an old lady chased a chicken across a yard. The old men were playing fiddle music and clapping in rhythm, and Necro could only think of one thing.

“What in the Nexus is going on here?!” He demanded.

“Warlock refugees from the Harrowed Empire of King Magnus,” Morphose explained sounding not the least enthused. “The brainchild idea from none other than Suliman himself, assuming I wouldn't mind hosting them. He was quite wrong, but my duties as a guardian—thusly a great host—prohibits me from ejecting them since it would be impolite.”

“Refugees?” Necro asked in a hushed voice. “Is it starting already? Is the Great Necromancer coming back?”

“I don't know, but it does pertain to necroman interference. Just two weeks ago, shortly after you left, the Continental Council ratified the army of the state, the State Necromancers.”

“Why does the Council need an army?”

“Because it's just as I feared. Magnus being chairman has given him an unprecedented amount of control over the North, and he saw a lot of opportunity in exploiting the failing Warlock Kingdom.”

“What are you saying, Morphose?”

“I'll tell you what he's saying,” a warlock lady approached the two, looking up at the raised porch. She sounded bitter, and looked like she was utterly defeated. “He's saying the Warlock Kingdom is gone. It's fallen, gone for good! Eight thousand years of providence and tradition burned away for the Harrowed Empire.”

“Impossible!” Necro blurted out at her, completely blown away. “It's impossible,”

Morphose shook his head sadly as the lady walked away. “A week and a half ago, Koldor the Third surrendered the throne after pressure from the Continental Council. They presented very sound and founded charts and papers concerning the future of the Warlock Kingdom. Their projections were that the kingdom would collapse from complete economic devastation.”

“What were all the factors that contributed to their downfall?”

“We can start at over five thousand years ago when one particular necromancer created an international stir in the North.”

“Phanatos, the Great Necromancer,” Necro said quite unnecessarily.

“None other. As you know, he was once the warlock king, but he was exiled after discovering necromancy. He swore ultimate revenge in genocide of the warlock people, but never saw that through when the first Chosen One sealed him away. After his exile, though, before he was sealed, necromancy became a very powerful issue in the kingdom and there were those who wanted to practice it openly and those who wanted to repress necromancy altogether. That split has always stretched the kingdom to a breaking point, eventually leading to the group of Gatherers, those who sought to revive the Great Necromancer for either anti-warlock sentiment or gaining power.

“Thousands of years of this stress has really strained the warlock people and their kingdom, and it is undeniable that sometime in the near future they would be met with oblivion if they couldn't get past the necromancy issue. Considering Koldor's actions in surrendering the throne, he didn't seem to think it was possible to get past that hump and now Magnus is in the land of the people Phanatos promised to murder. You already know my theory on a possible connection between Magnus and the Great Necromancer.”

Necro narrowed his eyes. He never told Morphose how close he was to the truth. He hadn't told his best friend that Magnus was the man who—four years before—used such vassals like Adelard Cairo to control their fates. Thusly, Magnus would one day be the father of Phanatos' incarnation. You're just barely there in your guess, Morphose, Necro thought. But I can't tell you the truth. I can't endanger you or Kenneth. These problems, in the end, are daemon problems. Problems which must be dealt with by me and my kin.

“So self-imposed exile is the best option these refugees can look to,” Necro looked at the retreating lady, sympathetic to their plight.

“Yes,” Morphose answered, “except they don't know about Magnus' true intentions. It's enough to know there are necromancers working for the state to make them flee, and very soon Igdanha will no longer be known as the land of the undying people.”

“Where will they go?”

“Some are going to the Iron Mountains in the east of the country, others to Crickbend in the southern cape. There are some who will cross the Immortal Mountains in the north and either settle on the Melegorian Land Bridge or take it straight to Melegor and join the local tribes there.”

Necro shook his head, grinding his teeth as he felt his hands clench tightly. “This isn't right. How can Magnus do this?”

“We cannot know,” Morphose muttered. “But that is why the Wise Men exist. Every day Wise Men members take groups of these refugees into my swamp and take others out to the next hiding place closer to their destination.”

Necro nodded in agreement. Morphose wasn't with the Wise Men, and so he wasn't either. Suliman constantly begged them to reconsider, but Morphose always said no. He trusted Morphose, but as time went on he was surprised to hear how many of his friends joined the group, including general William Pinafore of the Imperial Goblin Monarchy and Sigurd Albane, a regional manager of a shipping company in Jhad, the chimeran homeland.

“You came back alone, I noticed.” Morphose then said. “No luck finding Vatawna?”

Necro regrettably at his friend, and shook his head. Morphose sighed.

“I didn't expect you to. I thought that you'd be the best choice to go to the desert, rather than a bunch of second-borns who wouldn't make it out alive of that unforgiving terrain,” Morphose admitted. “At least the Wise Men can't say you didn't try.”

“Why do this one thing for them?” Necro asked. “Why can't they send their own people?”

“I agreed to it to help Carlawna,” Morphose said.

Carlawna had specifically said she didn't join the Wise Men. They had a vested interested in Vatawna's power. Nexus, Magnus would probably want to use Vatawna for his own means if he knew about her.

“Today is the day, you remember?” Morphose suddenly asked. He caught Necro off guard a little bit, but he suddenly realized what day it was.

“Right. I'll never forget...”

1184 AD II

"Morphose!" A very frantic voice cried. It was a familiar voice that they hadn't heard in a year, which genuinely surprised them. "Morphose! Necropherus! For the love of all the gods somebody open up! It's me, Suliman!" Morphose rushed to the door, sighing in relief somewhat but tensing up realizing that Suliman the Second was knocking on his door when Necro was pretty sure Suliman never had before.

Morphose opened the door wide, and Suliman flung himself at the chimera, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him until the breath was forced from Morphose's lungs and he coughed violently.

"Thank heavens you're alive. I was... I just..." Suliman was flustered and breathing heavily. He released Morphose who had to gasp violently to fill his lungs.

"What in the Nexus?!" Morphose managed, completely shocked by the goblin's sudden and unexpected appearance. "Suliman?"

"Morphose, you're alive!" Suliman was obviously thrilled, but the sudden commotion evoked crying from Kenneth. Amelia went to the crib to placate the bawling infant. With a series of hushes and rocking motions, Kenneth went back to sleep.

"You're alive, and you have a child?" Suliman asked, distracted by the baby.

"No," Barrow Lady glided forward and spoke sarcastically. "It's mine and Necro's."

"Really?" Suliman seemed so completely shook up he believed her.

"No." Necro said. "It is Morphose's and Amelia's. We're the godparents!" Necro puffed out his chest proudly as he had his first few days as godfather, but Barrow Lady thrust her forearm against Necro's gut which winded him and doubled him over.

"Get over it, already!"

"Please!" Morphose interjected them loudly, casting a silencing look at the prill and him. Morphose then turned to Suliman.

"Be calm now, and tell me why you are so surprised to see me alive." Morphose asked. After a deep breath, Suliman explained how he was attacked in his bedroom and that Fandur had been assassinated. He even went on about how even Ock the Ork was killed too. All the while, everybody's eyes widened and their jaws slowly fell. Hearing how Fandur was killed, Necro had jumped up with clenched fists and snarled. Barrow Lady was just as shocked. Morphose remained calm through the entire telling. Amelia, having no dealings with any of the guardians, was only shocked so much to the point where she as a second-born mortal knew that guardians were dying. She didn't know Fandur like how Morphose, Necro and Barrow Lady had.

Suliman got to the point about Ock.

"When I arrived in Calozar, the orks weren't happy to see me. They still see me as the wicked hegemon that oppressed them-- though I still deny I treated them any different than I would any foreigner. From what ork speech I could understand, a 'crimson arrow split the forest asunder and struck the mighty Ork to his grave.' Of course, orks do tend to over-glorify things, but Ock is certainly dead. One thing I found interesting about where Ock was killed and where I was attacked, I found a pendant with a noble's initials stacked upon each other they were 'M...' "

"...'W', and 'I." Necro finished slowly. All heads turned to him. Suliman mouthed "how do you know," but Necro went to a different partition of the hut where he and Barrow Lady lived. He came back carrying the pendant he found on the assassin that tried to kill him in Melegor.

"When I was in Melegor, before I was unsealed, I was ambushed by an assassin who carried this." Necro showed the pendant to Suliman and Morphose. Morphose scrutinized it, and Suliman affirmed it was the same kind he had found.

Suliman continued. "I thought it was just treason at first, from Amos or from within my empire, but I developed a better hypothesis. Morphose, who in this land just ascended to a position of potentially unparalleled power and whose only possible rivals are guardians who influence their people more than any sovereign?"

"You mean the king of Harrowdale? The one we appointed to lead the Continental Council?" Morphose asked, cocking his head in curiosity.

"Yes. I have good reason to believe that Magnus Werren Illichus has been dispatching assassins to destroy any opposition which could threaten his power. See? He tried to kill Necropherus, the most powerful being in the land!"

It was then that Necro should have told what he knew about Magnus, but he didn't. How many lives it could have saved or destroyed by not telling them, he didn't know. He probably never would.

“It's been three years since Fandur was killed.” Necro sullenly looked at Morphose. He had told him everything as far as what he could without revealing anything about Nick or Valdez, and the guardian seemed to buy it.

“And Ock, don't forget,” Morphose added.

“I should have brought him back,” Necro then said. “It never occurred to me to go to Melegor and do for him what K'vad Achnob did for Suliman, to call his spirit and mind back into another body.”

“Frankly, I'm still very uncertain if bringing guardians back from the dead is a good idea,” Morphose said. “It is what it is, after all.”

“That's bullocks, and you know it.” Necro softly hissed. “I bring people back from the dead because I can.”

“It's an attitude like that that has brought necromancy down over so many years,” Morphose commented. Necro looked indignant.

“Are you a necromancer?”

“You know I'm not.”

“Then before you speak for us, and dictate what we should use our power for then you should actually be one first.”

“Point taken,” Morphose said, obviously wanting to avoid confrontation.

Around the time dinner was set on the table by Morphose, they weren't surprised when several knocks on the door disturbed their meal.

“Come in, Suliman,” Morphose called. The door opened and in stepped the goblin guardian, the emperor of the Imperial Goblin Monarchy.

Suliman had a regal air about him, his skin a rich and lush green and his ears topped with sharp points. He wore his ceremonial robes trailing a long maroon cape tuffed with white fur. He walked with his chin slightly elevated, just to look down on people and each step he took was a practiced one to prove to everybody a goblin's rigorous dedication to perfection and noble grace.

“Thanks for not teleporting in here uninvited like last time,” Amelia said gruffly. Her blond hair was cut short over her shoulders, and her seemingly flawless skin was tight and strong. Her sharp face was nowhere near as sharp as her tongue, and her startling green eyes were almost as sharp.

Necro tried not to grin, remembering how upset she had gotten when Suliman teleported inside the hut with important news while she was changing her clothes.

“First Monday each month at six,” Suliman said. He looked at the table, and indeed they had anticipated him with a plate set at an empty spot at the table. His nose almost wrinkled.

“What? Not good enough unless made by your royal cook?” Amelia snapped.

“There's a polite answer to give and there's the truth,” Suliman said. “I'll be polite, and eat whatever it is you've prepared.”

Dinner was venison. Morphose had hunted it himself, and Suliman didn't seem like the only person at the table uncomfortable with the food. Necro looked a bit like a goblin himself, his face tinged green, but the necromancer held his tongue obviously not wanting to incur Amelia's sharp tongue.

“Everybody have some?” Morphose asked. “Is Kenneth in the nursery? Right, okay then. Suliman, what have you to tell us this month?”

“First, I'd like to hear from Necropherus and his journey into the Yarna Desert.”

“Waste of time,” Necro said immediately “Nothing there but sand. I looked for Vatawana for weeks, and I couldn't find her.”

“There's a bit of shame.” Suliman sniffed. “Well, Morphose, I'm sure you know by now about the State Necromancers and the collapse of the Warlock Kingdom, since you've been hosting these warlocks for a few weeks.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm afraid that daily drop-offs and relocation will have to become bi-weekly, since we've been compromised. We don't want to risk any unnecessary moves that might make the Empire privy to us. The Harrowed Empire has appealed to the Continental Council to expunge the resistance, thus the creation of the State Necromancers.”

“They can't pass any laws on prohibiting the warlocks from leaving the Empire, though, can they?” Amelia asked. “Do the warlocks even need you rebels helping them?”

“They asked for our help,” Suliman said. “And if the SN's have reason to believe warlocks are receiving aide from enemies of the state, they will be counted as traitors to the Empire and be transferred to a prison camp. It's the reason why we have to make our trips through Troll Forest more and more scarce, since we can't deny the warlocks' cry for help but can't afford to risk their lives more than what they should need to.”

Morphose inclined his head, and shut his eyes in thought. “It is a shame to see such days, but I guess you're telling me the group I have here in my swamp currently...”

“You have to get used to hosting for a little while.” Suliman said. “The next scheduled relocation is two weeks from now, and by then they will be picked up by our mutual friend Sigurd Albane.”

“Really?” Barrow Lady smirked, being keen to torment the chimera whenever he was around.

“How nice.” Necro said. “It's been a while since I've seen him.”

“Excuse me, Suliman,” Amelia began. “I don't want to go off topic, but what does this resistance mean to you as the Emperor of the Goblin Empire?”

“It's really hard to try to keep my identity secret to the Harrowed Empire and my own Empire as the leader of the Wise Men,” Suliman said. “I have trouble justifying my constant disappearances, especially after that one compromising visit to the Sandsobar Cays with Amos during our war. That greatly damaged my reputation once I aired it at the Second Guardian Council, and I regret doing that now for as much damage as it did to that man... which, as you know, did little.”

“Are most of your people sympathetic to the Wise Men's cause?”

“To them, it's a foreign war that has little to do with goblins, so we remain neutral. We don't even participate in the Continental Council. But neutrality... it's a shame, since I know I could really help the resistance if I could use my own armies. Only one person in my kingdom knows who I am, and it's my steward Jeremiah Guilford.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Let me tell you this,” Suliman started. “Four years ago when Amos and I were fighting, I only had the aide of my steward and William Pinafore to help me. They both fought loyally, and I have no reason to doubt that lord Jeremiah would never betray me. Neither would general Pinafore.”

Morphose and Suliman spoke for a few minutes longer about Wise Men operations before Necro got bored and spoke up.

“How is everybody in the resistance doing?” Necro asked.

“Excuse me?” Suliman asked.

“Just all my friends... William, Sigurd... what do they actually do for you?”

“As my general in the Imperial Guard, I use Pinafore to the best of his abilities in organizing the combative aspects of the Wise Men, and Sigurd really just does odd jobs for us... he's not the most competent of our people.”

“I know he can be rather clumsy―” Necro started, but Suliman interrupted him.

“Clumsy is one thing, but we're dealing with people's lives, here. And he doesn't want to leave his job in the South and fully dedicate his services to the cause.”

“That's because Sigurd is a normal man, Suliman,” Morphose commented, having known Sigurd the longest. “His aspirations are limited to all that a second-born mortal wants from life. First-born guardians like you and me, and a man like Necropherus here... we aren't normal.” Upon hearing that, Barrow Lady repressed a snort of laughter, and Necro jabbed her in the ribs.

“What about general Pinafore, then? He's a second-born.” Suliman said.

“William answers to you. He can contribute as much time as he wants to the Wise Men because it will never interfere with his real duties as a general in the Empire―you assign him his duties, after all, and whenever slack needs picked up that's why you have lord Jeremiah.”

“Ah, Jeremiah is a nobleman.” Suliman gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He doesn't know what it's like to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make a made man out of yourself the way Pinafore did. Pinafore had his scruples, going as far as interfering with general Tosen's conquest of an island. It cost him his citizenship and military commission, but Pinafore kept in there until the day when he himself became a general. No, Jeremiah was born into the aristocracy.”

“You need to start commissioning new generals, Suliman,” Amelia said. “When serving with Tarn's military, I had more responsibility on my shoulders than I could hardly handle. It was because the King had so few generals commanding his armies thus the army was spread out too thickly.”

“I'm in the process of selecting the finest officers in the military that are disposed to such lofty positions,” said Suliman. “They not only have to be reliable to command troops, but to also make up my private division for special operations.”

Their conversation eventually piddled down into small talk about the weather and less than interesting topics to speak about but they feigned curiosity as all people did in such times of conversation. Suliman didn't stay long after eating, and opened a portal back to Alderock, the goblin capitol in Sednan.

The day was over, Morphose thought later in the nursery. He looked at his son, mystified by the boy's destiny as Chosen One. That was still such a long way away, but it was unavoidable. His thoughts just kept bounding back to one hope he could desperately clutch at for his only son. “I just hope you succeed where the last two failed, my son, and rid the world of the Great Necromancer forever.”

Kenneth was asleep, such a big boy. Morphose looked around the hand-built nursery, seeing the walls were oaken and brown without much to leave the imagination. He shook his head, realizing how small he still thought Kenneth was. It wasn't accurate. The boy was three years old, and he was already sleeping in a normal bunk than the crib he made for him when he was born. Yes, Kenneth was old enough to walk on his own, and speak broken sentences.

Morphose ran his hand through his son's soft blond but slowly darkening hair, softly scratching him behind the furred ears on top of his head―the only part of his anatomy Kenneth inherited to validate his half-chimeran lineage.

For now, Kenneth was just a child. For now, Necro was home. For now, they had sixty warlocks squatting on their property. For now, though. Just for now.