Out-of-Season Undead
The bandit who could not possibly still be alive had risen again.
And he was slowly walking toward the procession.
It was a situation where fear would have been perfectly reasonable, yet Karem only tilted his head.
"Didn't they say the naturally occurring undead of Iceland only appear in certain seasons?"
By the blessing of Goddess Skadi, the naturally occurring undead of Iceland arose only in spring and summer. Their activity dwindled in autumn, and by winter they vanished entirely. It was one of those pieces of common Iceland knowledge that even Karem had heard more than once.
"...Calling them natural undead feels a little weird, though."
"Well, they do occur in nature, so 'natural' is accurate enough. What, could it be that this is still late summer instead of early autumn—"
"No. This is clearly abnormal."
Catherine rested her chin on her hand and narrowed her eyes. Her gaze locked onto the shambling cluster of former bandits now steadily closing on the column from ahead.
"They're slow, but there are a lot of them. We can't simply ride past."
"You should've finished them more thoroughly."
"How was I supposed to know they'd get back up? Summer's long gone—what corner of Iceland produces zombies that rise this late?"
"I'm joking. Let it go. You don't need to lift a finger."
Catherine waved the matter aside with a flick of her hand, then snapped her fingers to summon the commander who was still trying to quiet the murmuring servants and soldiers.
"Acus. No trouble handling them, I trust?"
"Of course not, Advisor Atanitas. The men are a little unsettled, but half-corpses missing limbs are well within their reach."
"Good. Then—no. Since they're uneasy, better safe than sorry. We'll need a Courage spell. Gather the escorts in one place."
"Pardon? Ah—understood."
The blinking commander rounded up every soldier who had been scattered along the column. Once Catherine confirmed none were missing, she raised her hand toward them.
Ice mana that lay thick in the air surged after the formula condensed at her fingertips, whirling inward from every direction. Head, arms, torso, legs, feet, hands—the defensive magic began coating the soldiers in irregular sheets, then hardened into a translucent film and vanished from sight.
Every soldier, veteran or green, let out a murmur of awe. They could not see it, yet the single layered "shield" wrapping their bodies over the armor was unmistakably real.
"Protective magic: Winter's Armor. Even though winter has not quite arrived."
Whatever residual unease the men had carried melted away at once. After that they quite literally trampled the zombie bandits into the snow.
The undead were already slow. In the near-winter cold of northern Iceland their limbs stiffened further, so the soldiers did not even need to form squads; they simply smashed, crushed, and pulverized. Still, Gordon had dropped a sizable number of bandits earlier, and it took the relatively ordinary escorts a long while to finish the work.
Watching the soldiers harvest the undead more than hunt them, Karem turned to Catherine.
"So you called it a Courage spell?"
"Of course it's a Courage spell."
"You just said protective magic."
"That is protective magic strong enough that a head-on blow from a bugbear would leave you completely unharmed—once."
At her bold claim Gordon stroked his beard with genuine interest.
"Ho. That potent, is it?"
A bugbear—an undead born when an evil spirit possessed the corpse of a grudge-bearing bear—was as tenacious as a troll and far more cunning. The barrier Catherine had casually flicked into existence could stop, once, an attack capable of shattering boulders.
"Simple, yet brutishly effective."
"Only an archmage can deconstruct the formula and cast it silently. Anyone less has to clutch a staff and chant for quite a while."
"I've only ever seen Lady Atanitas go whoosh with her fingers or poke with her staff, so I can't really picture it."
While they chatted, Catherine sank into thought. They had strayed from the point, yet undead appearing in autumn—essentially winter in northern Iceland—was no trivial matter. It was anything but natural.
Three possibilities sprang to mind at once.
A large-scale territorial war that left a battlefield unattended. Had such a war erupted, she would have known; she had been at the ducal castle.
The influence of some powerful magic tool or relic. But if things like Naglfar's Scale or Nastrond's Fang were common enough to litter the countryside, Iceland would not still be standing.
That left a large-scale ritual by an evil necromancer. Yet the Fungusby incident was barely over. Already? Too convenient for coincidence.
Still...
"Personally, I'd rather it be a relic—"
"A relic?"
"Nothing. My mouth's getting bored, though."
"Jerky?"
"Sure... Oh. This is jerky, and it's actually...?"
"Packed it with spices and coated it in seasoning."
Time drifted on without end. The rattled servants and maids gradually calmed; Karem's emergency pouch of jerky grew emptier and emptier. At last the final rolling zombie head was smashed under a boot.
The soldiers' real work, however, had only begun. They scrambled over the fallen corpses to harvest byproducts. The commander in particular rooted through shattered fragments with startling zeal. The undead had been human only minutes earlier—and precisely because they had been human, there was plenty worth taking. Stripped of everything but the clothes on their backs, the former bandits were piled, empty-handed, against one side of the snow-covered road together with dry kindling and firewood.
On a deserted trail it might not have mattered. Here they had to burn the remains before starving beasts and monsters came sniffing.
Karem, having run out of small talk, was staring blankly at the labor when he noticed the commander approaching.
"Uh, Lady Atanitas? The commander's coming. Acus, was it?"
"Situation report and loot distribution, most likely."
"You don't need any of the loot, right?"
"Obviously not. Can't speak for this side, though. Mercenary?"
Gordon shook his head vigorously. Once upon a time, maybe. But even if his barony had been reduced to ash and he was penniless, a baron had no business rummaging through the pockets of low-rank undead that used to be bandits. It would be like extracting a flea's liver.
"Advisor Atanitas."
"Yes. The cleanup is nearly finished, yet it doesn't look finished. What is it? Trouble with the shares?"
"Handled by custom, no disputes. I have something else to report."
"Hm?"
The commander opened his fist above the table. Clatter, clink—a clear cascade of sound drew every eye. Karem frowned. Stone chips? No—jewel fragments? Opaque dark-blue crystal shards, smaller than a pinky nail yet larger than eye-gunk, tumbled across the tablecloth.
"Small, but they look like jewels."
"They look like jewels. They are most certainly not."
"Then what?"
"If my eyes aren't failing me, these are—"
The commander hesitated, uncertain. What on earth could they be? Then slender fingers reached from outside Karem's field of view and plucked up a fragment. Catherine examined it from every angle, brows drawn tight.
"Magic stones."
"Is that so? Yes—wait. Magic stones?"
"Yes. Turbid because they came from undead, poor quality, and this pathetic size—but magic stones nonetheless."
Karem knew what magic stones were: crystallizations of mana formed inside powerful monsters or present from birth. The first case was still mysterious to him. The second he knew all too well from countless stories in his previous life. The most famous of all was the legendary Dragon Heart—source of a dragon's power, life force, and magic, found in the heart itself, its size and purity varying wildly with the dragon's strength and age.
He looked again at the little pile on the tablecloth. Expectation died almost at once. Comparing these chips to a Dragon Heart was laughable.
But then where had the scraps come from—
He turned toward the now-blazing mound of zombies. Gordon's gaze followed a beat later.
"Looks like they came from over there..."
"What? From zombies even you could farm if you had the right gear?"
"There's nothing else, is there? And saying it like that is a little rude."
"Admit what deserves admitting. Lowest-rank undead—zombies that are basically walking corpses—producing magic stones? If they were ghouls I might buy it."
Catherine tapped the table with a fingernail-sized dark-blue stone, then set it down with a soft clack.
"First, a report that could easily have been overlooked deserves reward. When we return I will make certain the lord hears of it."
She drew a small pouch from her robes and flicked her hand. The pouch proved heavier than expected, and promotion was all but guaranteed. The commander bowed again and again in gratitude, then hurried back to the roaring pyre to finish the cleanup.
"An interesting development, but we've delayed far too long. Mary."
"I shall have the luggage ready in advance."
"Good. Tell the dazed servants and maids as well. The moment the soldiers return, we move."
Mary answered with a neat curtsy, skirts pinched, and left to carry out the order.
Sensing the departure, Karem quietly began scooping the abandoned magic stones into his now-empty jerky pouch.
"The way you're talking, you already have a guess?"
"I examined the mana while I was holding them."
"Ah—so that's why you kept them so long."
"Yes. They look cheap, yet something is off."
Quality mattered most with magic stones, but size and capacity still scaled with the mana contained.
"They're far too large for the mana inside. At this density it shouldn't even have formed a stone..."
It was a deadly serious observation, yet Karem could only blink and glance sideways. His eyes met Gordon's; the mercenary had been staring blankly at Catherine as well.
"So... empty husks?"
"Dunno. Empty husks at least have something edible. And fried ones are savory."
"Then a green apple that only looks pretty on the outside?"
That works—bears won't even touch those. The two men nodded in agreement. Catherine regarded them both with open pity.
"Enough nonsense. In the end it means someone—or something—that practices necromancy did this. Same as Fungusby."
"Oh, right. Another chance for you to scoop up some byproduct, then?"
"Exactly—wait."
"Yes? Something wrong again—"
"No. Your reaction is suspiciously lukewarm."
"...Uh, that?"
As if to ask whether she was seriously asking him, Karem pointed at her with his eyes, then rolled them sideways to Gordon, who was casually yawning with his mouth wide open.
The state of the procession's absolute top combat power?
Catherine caught the meaning at once. An archmage, a Sword Master, and the duke's own elite troops were riding escort. A little complacency was, frankly, inevitable.
"Shall I pack the table and chairs, then?"
"Hm? Ah—yes. Do that. Tsk."
This wasn't how it was supposed to go... Whether Catherine remained lost in thought or not, the moment she stood Karem folded the collapsible table, cloth, and chairs and stowed them in the carriage.
By the time the soldiers returned, everything was ready. The column left the burning undead pyre behind and once more set its face toward the north.