Who stared back in shocked silence.
Then went wild.
The sun was clear of the horizon by the time Bauchelain returned to the wagon and the camp on the hill outside the smoke-wreathed city.
Emancipor watched him from a low to the ground, sideways perspective, lying as he was on his back with his bared feet propped high against the side of a wagon wheel.
The necromancer was carrying a head under one arm, and he strode up to the manservant. “Dear Mister Reese, may I ask, what are you doing?”
“It’s the toxins, Master. I’m draining my feet. No need for bleeding, no, no need at all.”
“I can see by the murky cast of your eyes,” Bauchelain said, “that such medical intervention would be pointless in any case.”
“True enough,” Emancipor replied.
Bauchelain strode to the back of the wagon, and Emancipor heard him rummaging about for a time. After a moment, he reappeared with a glass case that Emancipor had never seen before. “Now, Mister Reese, assuming your feet are now cleansed, as best as they can be, might I suggest you prepare to break our fast?”
Emancipor lowered his legs and struggled upright. “Gods below,” he swore, “my legs have gone numb.” Even so, he managed to hobble over towards the hearth, which was still smouldering. “I have mulled wine, Master. Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Hmm? Yes, excellent idea. And for yourself as well.”
“Thank you, Master.” Emancipor paused to light his pipe. “Ah, much better,” he said, blowing smoke. Cut short by a hacking cough, forcing him to launch a slimy ball of stuff into the fire, where it flared into strangely hued flames for a moment before sizzling in the more expected manner. Emancipor stuck the pipe back between his teeth and puffed merrily as he poured the wine.
A flutter of wings nearby announced the arrival of Korbal Broach. The crow hopped over to watch as Bauchelain set King Necrotus’s head inside the glass case, then placed the container on the buckboard. The king looked to be talking, but no sound issued forth, for which Emancipor was thankful.
The manservant rose and handed Bauchelain a cup. “A toast, Master?”
“A toast? Well, why not? Please, proceed, Mister Reese.”
Emancipor raised his cup. “The Healthy Dead!”
Bauchelain almost smiled. Almost, but not quite, which was about as much as Emancipor had expected. “Indeed,” the necromancer said, raising his own cup, “the Healthy Dead.”
In the glass case, King Necrotus smiled broadly, as the dead are wont to do.