Chapter 4: Them High Elves Again

Ambrose worked to assemble his new skeletal model in quiet concentration. The male refugee watched in frozen horror as human bones took shape beneath the lich’s hands into forms that made his skin crawl. Dizzy and nauseated, he forced himself to stay put, too afraid of becoming the lich’s next set of spare parts if he were to run.

Ambrose steadily aligned bone to joint as he lectured in that cool, calm voice of his.

“All skeletal control, including locomotion, is localized in the soul,” he said. “Two hundred and six bones, hundreds of joints—it’s a massive burden, yet one that has remained standard since the dawn of the art. No necromancer has bothered to measure the strength of a soul precisely. Our only notion of their performance is in terms of three broad and vague designations: low-grade, mid-grade, and high-grade.

“In alchemy, potion formulas are measured to the milligram. Yet necromancy can’t even measure the single most important variable of the art: spiritual strength. To me, that’s intolerably lazy.

“Admittedly, spiritual strength fluctuates, so measuring it is difficult. But that’s no excuse. Since I have the ability to fabricate artificial souls with no emotional residue, I was able to establish my own standard after a series of experiments. I’ve termed the unit of spiritual measurement a ‘thaum,’ and will describe the detailed procedure I used for measuring spiritual strength in a manuscript.

“As long as the editor-in-chief of Legendary Spellcraft doesn’t reject my submission, that is…

“Back on topic, for today’s experiment, we’ll use a low-grade soul as an example. A low-grade soul capable of supporting a full skeletal frame measures roughly 80–130 thaums, with a peak rarely exceeding 150. Spread across two hundred and six bones, you end up with a clumsy, slow, and brittle undead.

“And just as tools like pliers and differential gears optimize structure for power or speed, so too can structural optimization transform an undead’s performance.

“Reduce the bone count to twenty and you achieve a smaller frame that is far stronger, faster, and tougher. By my calculations, the combat effectiveness of such undead will increase by at least fivefold.”

As Ambrose snapped the skeleton’s skull into place, it sat upright on the workbench.

Its base consisted of three insectile jointed legs. Its torso was only a third of a spine. A skull with its jaw removed formed its head, and two stout femurs had been repurposed into arms.

Ambrose fitted two metal blades into those arm sockets.

A little, mantis-like skeleton sat before him.

He set it on the floor. The creature darted with astonishing speed, faster than even that of a cat.

“I name this form Zha’kix Type I,” Ambrose announced. “Now for field testing.”

He waved at the pale, trembling man. “What’s your name?”

The man stuttered, terror making him tremble. “R-Raul.”

“Alright, Raul. You’ll set out with this Zha’kix Type I. Bring me back ten of the fleeing refugees, and I’ll ensure that your sister survives.”

“W-What?” Raul hadn’t expected this. Just what did the lich want with refugees?

He glanced around the lab, at the piles of bones stacked all over, and came to a belated understanding. His voice was hoarse.

“I… I will carry out your order, Master Lich.”

Ambrose nodded with approval and pressed a jewel-inlaid bone into Raul’s hand. “Direct voice commands will do. Zha’kix Type I is simple to control: use red to attack, green to have it follow you, and black to halt. The rest, you’ll have to improvise.”

Staring at the three gems set into the bone, Raul couldn’t help but be struck by a tempting notion. If he were to press the red jewel now and give an attack command…

The thought flickered in Raul’s head for merely a heartbeat before it vanished. Ambrose wasn’t an idiot. There was no way the lich would hand over a weapon capable of killing him.

Though Raul hadn’t understood most of the lich’s technical rambling, his casual tone was obvious. To Ambrose, that strange monstrosity was probably just a toy.

He looked at his still half-unconscious sister and bit his lip. He pressed the green gem. The mantis-like skeleton that had been skittering around instantly obediently fell into step behind him.

Just as Raul left the castle, the girl’s eyes fluttered open.

She mouthed a scream as soon as she saw Ambrose’s skull, only to clap a hand over her mouth before any sound could come out.

Ambrose glanced at her and said offhand, “Your brother Raul is doing me a favor. I told him to fetch me ten people if he wants me to release you. By the way, if you’re just ordinary folk, what’s your trade?”

Freefolk were generally tradespeople; most of the land belonged to lords, and only slaves or tenant farmers worked the lord’s fields. Everyone else had to earn a living some other way.

The girl took a long moment to steady herself. She refused to believe her brother would serve a lich willingly—he had to have been forced. She even suspected Ambrose had killed him and was already using him as research material.

But she could hardly mount any resistance at the moment. All she could do was try not to provoke him and hope for a chance to escape.

“I’m an apprentice alchemist,” she said cautiously.

“An apprentice alchemist?” Ambrose sounded mildly surprised. That was an uncommon profession indeed.

Even though this castle fell within Alkhemia’s territory, alchemists were rare and held in high regard. Alchemy demanded both talent for spellcasting and a clever mind able to memorize and understand complex potion formulas.

Different ingredients contained different magical elements; even specimens of the same species could vary in magical content depending on how and where they were grown. Alchemists had to learn to tell all those differences apart.

Ambrose wasn’t a professional alchemist. Many high-tier potions he could only buy—he wasn’t able to brew them himself reliably. Even when he knew a formula, his own attempts usually produced low yield and wasted far too much material.

He hadn’t expected the girl to be an apprentice. What a find.

“No, that can’t be. If you’re an apprentice, how could your lord attempt to sell you off as a slave? Who is your master?” Ambrose demanded.

In Alchemia, alchemists enjoyed high social status. Even as an apprentice, the girl would have been able to get her master to intervene and sort out her petty lord’s extra taxes.

The girl fell silent for a moment. “My master went to the Court of the Silver Moon two months ago to buy ingredients and never came back. People who returned from the Court say she may have had an accident.”

Without her master’s protection, a mere apprentice couldn’t stand up to a greedy lord. Indeed, he may have set his sights on her for precisely that reason: an apprentice alchemist would fetch a handsome price as a slave.

Ambrose spat out a curse. “Those beansprouts again? Why are they everywhere?”

He was growing more and more displeased with the high elves by the moment.

Turning to the nervous girl, Ambrose asked, “Can you brew a calming draught?”

A calming draught was a low-level potion that could be drunk or spritzed like perfume. It could soothe the mind and blunt incipient rage. It had consistent widespread demand because many tasks required a steady temperament.

The girl didn’t know why Ambrose was suddenly asking about calming draughts, but she nodded. “I’ve learned how to brew it.”

Ambrose pointed to a cabinet on the right-hand wall. “Good. Get to it, then. You’ll find all the ingredients inside. I need at least a dozen bottles.”

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