Munch, munch, munch.

  "- and that's when I told him, I said, 'Marten, if you think I'm hauling your turnips all the way to Harrathen for two copper pieces, you've got another thing coming!' Can you believe that? Two copper! For a full day's work!"

  The carriage driver, Willem, a human in his fifties, carried on with relentless enthusiasm, probably pleased to have a captive audience for once. Nyssa sat beside him on the driver's bench, nodding at appropriate intervals while working her way through another of Baker Hanvaro's cherry-cocoa cookies.

  "Mm-hmm," she murmured, offering what she hoped was an encouraging smile, dusting crumbs off her dress. "That does seem quite unreasonable."

  A good turnip, though, was worth its weight in silver. One of her favorite dishes was Grayface’s own Turnip-Milkdip: a turnip braised well in goat’s milk, served with that same seasoned thick milk sauce.

  A delectable meal, one she wished she could have more often. She couldn’t exactly have fresh vegetables delivered to the tower in the middle of her territory filled with undead monsters and ghouls, though.

  "Exactly! I knew you had a good head on your shoulders the moment I saw you, youngin," Willem beamed at her before launching into another tale about the trials and tribulations of merchant life. So many words just pouring out his mouth like a torrent of air. She wished something could just block his throat for a minute, just a half-minute even, get her some peace and quiet.

  Nyssa let his words wash over her like background noise while her mind focused on more pressing matters.

  She had a very specific agenda for Harrathen, and she needed to execute it flawlessly if she was going to maintain both her covers; Nyssa the innocent village maiden, and Amithaera the feared Necromancer.

  First, she would need to locate the guild hall. That shouldn't be difficult.

  Such establishments were typically among the most prominent buildings in any town, designed to attract attention from potential adventurers and clients alike. Shops and taverns were designed and planned around a guildhall’s location. Once there, she would deliver Mrs. Halsan's cookies to this Gerrard fellow, playing up the sweet village girl act while subtly gathering information.

  The nephew would be her perfect cover for asking innocent questions.

  "Oh my, Gerrard, is it true there's a bounty on that terrible necromancer in the Darklands? How much is it worth? Has anyone been brave enough to try? You adventurers are all so courageous!"

  She could practically script the conversation in her head. If this fool was as needy for companionship as his aunt portrayed him as, he would be flesh in her necromantic hands before night fell.

  Perhaps Amithaera would take the young man as a thrall, just to stick it to that damnable Mrs. Halsan.

  She could see it now, the terror on an adventurer’s eyes when she brought up the Sulfur Lord’s favorite monster: Amithaera the Necromancer, with an army of the dead that grew with every kill, encroaching on their borders a little more each day! The bounty was surely a sum fit for lords, the kingdom desperate to rid themselves of the greatest threat to their safety.

  That must’ve been the issue. With such a high bounty, too many adventurers feared discovering why exactly the reward towered over the rest. Only the strongest, or the most foolhardy, would attempt to take on the Necromancer.

  Nyssa smiled at her own thoughts, crossing her arms.

  "What a terrible shame about the Mulldahar farm, don't you think?"

  The girl blinked out of her daydream, realizing Willem was looking at her expectantly, "What?"

  "The Mulldahar farm." Willem repeated, his face souring and downcast as he explained, “Word is that bandits hit ‘em last week, burned down the barn and killed half the creatures on their grazes… Mulldahar’s got daughters, I can’t imagine what else could’ve happened if he didn’t pay ‘em off.”

  "Oh yes," Nyssa said quickly, nodding at the inane news, "Very tragic."

  Though privately, she wondered if these bandits might be useful for inspiration. Nothing motivated adventurers quite like local threats that needed addressing. Perhaps she could have Crayma lead a band of ghouls to kill some livestock on a farm. She would send Hilfrey, but the titanic fool had a soft spot for animals.

  Willem let out a drastic sigh and spoke, "Makes a man nervous, traveling these roads. Never know when you might run into trouble."

  Nyssa took another bite of cookie and let her mind return to planning. If her bounty had lost its luster, she would need to stage something dramatic. Nothing too destructive, of course. She wasn't interested in actual conquest this decade, just re-maintaining her reputation. Petyr could drain some fool of his blood and draw the Sulfur cast with what remained, or she could send several zombies to a few settlements to scare maidens and children.

  Her toes curled at the thoughts. It was always so fun to imagine fun ways of bringing her legend to the forefront. Regrettably, business had slowed down a bit this decade. Just a lull. After all, Amithaera had to let other dark lords have their time in the sun, or the dark, whatever expression fit better. Too much attention could draw the wrong god’s ire, like with her old foolish despicable Master one time.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "-hen my cousin's wife’s sister’s boy tried to join up with one of those adventuring companies. Can you imagine? Sweet lad, wouldn't hurt a fly, but he was convinced he was going to make his fortune hunting monsters,” Willem interrupted her important pondering.

  "What happened to him?" Nyssa asked, partly because Willem seemed to expect a response and partly because she was genuinely curious. With any luck, death.

  "Oh, he came to his senses quick enough when they sent him out for a goblin hunt. Turns out slaying evil isn't quite as romantic as the songs make it sound," the carriage driver chuckled, his throat’s apple bouncing up and down with every huff, "He's apprenticed to a blacksmith now by Limfyord. Much safer line of work."

  Nyssa wanted to pout at that, but put on a smile instead. What good were guts if they weren’t strewn across her floor?

  Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Iron Talons and their final moments in her throne room. Had any of them started out like Willem's cousin’s wife’s sister’s boy? Young and idealistic, drawn by tales of glory and righteousness? Had they once been innocent boys and girls who thought they could change the world?

  The Warrior had been, at least. She was a singer, or so the letter recounted, and picked up a sword just to die at Amithaera’s hand. A fine death as any.

  If Ghraza the Spider was hungry that day the Talons walked into her village, she’d be sucked dry, coated in that preserving liquid, and puppeteered around until time immemorial. She should count herself lucky it was Amithaera that sundered life from her existence!

  … Damn her.

  The half-eaten cookie she was munching on lost all taste.

  “I see our children, your gentle eyes below my wild red hair…”

  She shook her head sharply, trying to dislodge the unwelcome memory. No more of that nonsense.

  No more.

  No more hopes and shattered dreams, no more of this tired dead woman, no more pitiful husband… baking alone every morning, a smile on his face with his customers, laying in bed and wondering, hoping, that the love of his life was in good health.

  Once again, another shake of her head. Amithaera turned her mind to things that actually mattered.

  There was the matter of her lease on the tower.

  Lord Autheran only gave her two months. It was a doable timeframe, but she needed to act soon. He was not the sort of demon that accepted excuses, and she certainly couldn’t pay him in terrible unfinished poetry.

  With the repairs on the tower and the materials Amithaera would need to maintain her various magical defenses and illusory spells, they’d be set back a bit. That wasn’t even accounting for the wages to her minions.

  Perhaps that was a lie.

  There were no wages for her minions. Veratreez, maybe, but she was the only one besides Amithaera with access to the bank account, needing it to pay for the repairs and the materials, naturally. If she took a coin here or there for a meal while in town, it would simply be an acceptable loss.

  "Not but an hour out now," Willem announced, pointing ahead to where a tall stone watchtower rose above the treeline. "See that? That's one of Harrathen's early warning posts. Built them after the last goblin uprising, oh, fifteen years back now."

  Nyssa squinted at the tower, noting its solid construction and strategic placement in this empty forest, "It looks quite formidable."

  "That it is, and well-manned too. Usually the Serjant or one of his boys comes out to wave when they see my cart. Strange that no one's come out…" Willem frowned, studying the silent tower as the cart passed by, "Well, I'm sure they're just busy, or maybe having their afternoon meal."

  Nyssa nodded absently, her mind still occupied with her upcoming performance at the guild hall. She reached for her waterskin, suddenly aware of how parched her throat had become from Willem's endless chatter and the delicious cookies.

  Her fingers found only empty air.

  "Oh, bother," she muttered, looking down at the floorboards of the cart. "My waterskin must have rolled off somewhere."

  Willem immediately began to rein in the horse, "No trouble at all, miss. Let's stop and find it for you. Can't have you arriving in Harrathen dying of thirst."

  The cart came to a gentle stop, and Willem set the brake before climbing down to help her, "Probably rolled under the seat or got caught in the cargo. These road ruts can shake everything loose."

  Nyssa gathered her skirts and climbed down from the cart as daintily as she could manage, playing up the helpless village maiden act even though no one but Willem was watching. She walked around to the back of the cart, scanning the ground for any sign of her waterskin. Damned thing had probably gotten loose with her head shaking.

  She found it.

  It was completely flattened under the heavy wooden wheel, the leather split and useless. All that remained was a sad crushed remnant that had once held her water.

  "... Bastard," she said with genuine disappointment. She was exceptionally thirstier now, knowing that there was no more water and they still had an hour to go. Of course, she could just conjure water with a spell from her Cleric days, though the woman was sure that Willem would have something to say about the little villager being magically-inclined.

  She looked up toward the cart just in time to see Willem jerk backward, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

  Two arrows protruded from his body; one buried deep in his stomach, and the other piercing his neck just above the collar. His hand instinctively reached for the shaft in his throat, fingers wrapping around the wooden arrow as blood began to flow down his shirt.

  For a moment, he stood there swaying, looking at Nyssa with an expression of confusion and terror. Then his knees buckled, and he toppled forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  Nyssa closed her eyes and bowed her head, letting out a slow and measured breath that lifted her bangs slightly in the still air.

  Of course this would happen now.

  The sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches announced the arrival of their attackers before she even looked up. Six men emerged from the forest, moving with a coordination that befitted their occupations. Nyssa put her hands up, chest-high, turning slowly to look upon the fools that had ruined her schedule.

  Each of them was armed heavily. Swords, maces, cudgels and daggers over old ill-fitting leather armor she could only guess had been pilfered off a corpse. All except one, the big one behind the group: bandit number six.

  “We've been blessed with a good haul and a good treat this day,” number six announced, his men not even bothering to train their weapons on the girl. “My lady, forgive me my forwardness but my friends here are eager to make your acquaintance.”

  What a coincidence. So was she.