Chapter Forty-Three: The House Dog and the Heart of the Undead

“Sir Wade, did you take the necromantic heart from the stitched beast?” Lucas asked.

Necromantic heart—what was that? It sounded like something akin to a heart, supplying energy to the stitched beast.

Wade shook his head; he hadn’t searched through the corpse of the creature.

“We should find it,” Lucas said. “If we hand the necromantic heart over to the Twilight Church, they’ll immediately understand how serious the situation is.”

He paused. “And we might get a reward from the church as well.”

Wade nodded—then let’s look for it.

Lucas tied a wet cloth strip over his face, fashioning a makeshift mask. Enduring the stench, he picked up his spear and lifted aside the rotting flesh. Wade used his iron sword, giving a casual poke here and there. He had no idea what the necromantic heart looked like, so he simply went through the motions, watching for anything out of the ordinary.

It didn’t take long for Lucas to dig out a gray crystal from the creature’s torso. The rounded crystal was about the size of a chicken egg, its cloudy interior swirling as if filled with flowing mud.

“This is it!” Lucas exclaimed.

He used his spear to roll the necromantic heart into the snow, crouched down, found a clean cloth, wiped it off with white snow, then picked it up and handed it to Wade.

“Sir Wade, this is your trophy. You should keep it.”

As soon as Wade took the crystal, he felt a ripple of magic within it. It seemed he could draw upon the magic stored inside. If the “necromantic heart” was a magic crystal specifically designed to feed the undead, then in theory, as a skeleton himself, Wade should be able to use it too.

He’d have to test it later, someplace private.

He tucked the gray crystal safely into a cloth pouch at his waist.

Dusk was falling. They had covered most of Bronte Village, and there was little left to investigate. Lucas felt it was time to regroup with the other villagers. He considered that, after such a fierce battle, Sir Wade must be exhausted even if he wasn’t wounded, and so he suggested they return.

With the necromantic heart as proof, their story would be believed. Once they described the horrors and corruption they had witnessed in Bronte Village, no one would harbor any illusions.

There was indeed nothing else to be found in the village. Wade stopped gesturing for further exploration and turned to walk back with Lucas. On the way in, they had moved cautiously, stumbling and wary; now, on the way back, the two quickened their pace.

Soon, they returned to the alley where they had first encountered the undead hound.

Wade paused, pointed between his legs, and indicated he needed to relieve himself.

Lucas waited outside the alley, tactfully turning away and moving to a spot where Wade couldn’t see him. The wandering knight was a private man, always shrouded head to toe, and surely wouldn’t appreciate anyone nearby while attending to such matters. Lucas was adept at reading the room; middle age had taught him that skill well.

Wade found Lucas pleasant company. He had seen Lucas stand up during the Viking raids, and again when the winter wolves attacked, Lucas placed himself in front of the ox-cart. This Tania man might lack exceptional strength or talent, but he was someone you could trust to watch your back, someone you’d want as a friend. If Wade were still alive, and they had met in a peaceful town, he imagined they’d have shared a drink at the tavern—perhaps drunk themselves senseless.

But such a chance no longer existed.

Wade had to invent a lie to send Lucas away. There was a small matter yet unfinished.

He approached the “corpse” of the undead hound, picked up its severed head, and set it back on the fallen body. During the fight, he had been careful not to damage the little dog’s head.

The bodies of these undead hounds were structured much like skeletons—their soul flames resided in the skull. When their flesh finally rotted away, one could see the soul fire burning in their eye sockets. As long as the skull remained intact, they could not truly be considered dead. Its body was whole; when Wade had raised his sword, he had only stabbed the snow beside it, leaving a small pit next to the little dog.

Looking closely, one would see the collar still around the dog’s neck. Unlike the packs of feral undead hounds they had encountered later, this little dog was no stray. It was a house pet. Its soul wasn’t bound by a necromancer’s magic or curses—this was a rare, naturally born undead.

Wade could feel the difference clearly. The other hounds, gnawing at corpses, were filled with nothing but pain, like the stitched beast, and so he had released them with his sword. But this little dog was different. When it arched its back at Lucas, it was out of fear. When they first saw it, it was only snapping at the ravens, not feeding on the dead.

Wade understood why the dog lingered here. Beside it, he brushed away the snow and uncovered a frozen corpse. An old woman, her face deeply lined.

A deep sword wound marked her belly—she had been struck down and died here in this lonely alley. The little dog bore a sword wound as well; both it and its mistress had been killed by the blade.

In the old woman’s arms was a wooden basket. She looked as though she had gone out shopping—perhaps to buy a piece of meat, to celebrate the New Year with her dog.

But someone had killed her and her pet, abandoned their bodies here, slaughtered and plundered the entire village. As the corpses decayed, the dead dog became undead.

The little undead dog never left its mistress. It didn’t understand why it had changed, nor why its owner lay cold in the snow, no longer stroking its head or playing with it. Its mistress did not move, so it simply stayed at her side. When the ravens descended to peck at her body, it would leap out and drive them away.

It stayed beside the dead woman, never leaving, even as its own flesh rotted, even as the one it loved no longer called its name, even as its soul faded to a mere fragment, still it tirelessly chased off the ravens.

Wade hadn’t wanted to harm this little dog, who once had a home. That was why he staged the scene before Lucas, pretending to kill it.

Now, he placed the dog’s head back, fusing it with soul fire, and it rose again. Wade stroked the little dog’s head. It showed no aggression—at least, not toward Wade.

Upon awakening, the first thing it did was return to its mistress, nudging her stiff, icy hand. With a low whine, it sat down, faithful and foolish as ever, keeping watch.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Wade said in his heart. He gave the little dog’s ear a final pat and rose to leave.

No one would likely come here again. Let the dog keep company with its mistress. That was its wish. When Wade touched it, he saw a vision of bright sunlight: a stray puppy, hiding in the shade of a tree, lifted gently by an old woman.

“No one to spend Harvest Festival with you either?”

“Would you like to come home with me?”

The voice was aged, but gentle—like lilies blooming in spring.