He falls from the chair, dead.

  The dagger protrude from his throat.

  ``Sir, what the fuck?'' says the barkeep. He does not dare to move. ``Very well, I invited you to drink. I invite everyone to drink, for my ale is not free. However, I gave no permission, I am sure, regarding the cutting down of the other patrons. I am sure they have families, even if they are filthy drunkards and swine. Even among your kind, and with all due respect, Sir, I believe murder is considered enormously impolite. Is it not?''

  It is a long narrow hut, the kind most often found in poor frontier towns. There is no door, only a blue cloth hanging down at the entrance.

  The cloths remains raised and splayed, for the man who has come forth is neither completely inside nor outside. You see, he does not fit inside.

  He is much too tall. He has to remain stooped inside the hut. And it is a strange kind of tallness. His arms are longer than even his height. If he lets them down, they can drag on the ground.

  These are the arms of walking and talking and smiling death. The other warriors inside the hut freeze, like the barkeep. They stare. Of course they do. This creature does not appear among mankind very often, and when it does, woe.

  Egill in particular holds his axe ready; but he waits like the others. He knows this evil from poetry, but he knows he lacks the experience.

  They are seven and the stranger is one. All the same, they suspect that they have no real chance. Fate has chosen the day and the hour of their deaths, if this be it.

  ``Worry not,'' the Necromancer says, ``I am merely collecting possibly subservient souls.''

  His face is that of a man, but vaguely bestial, and with metal plates nailed into his cheekbones. His nose had been cut off at the tip.

  ``Collecting what, Sir?''

  ``Yes, that and bones.''

  ``Bones, Sir?'' the barkeep repeats. What else can he do?

  ``Souls are more useful if the bones that they had originally animated are also in the possession of the... Drunkards, did you know, have excellent bones. From a mystical perspective, you understand.''

  ``I don't understand, actually, Sir.''

  ``Well, don't let that worry you. Ignorance does no harm, so long as it is proper to the station.''

  The giant extends his hand and retrieves his dagger; then silver claws extend from his fingers, and he takes the body apart, like a butcher. Too quickly, he has collected specific bones and not others. Somehow there is no blood, only the smell of something burning.

  He inspects the other warriors, then the barkeep himself. Silence. He sighs.

  ``Nothing more here of value. Shame. I see your futures, however vaguely. Were you lot better men, you could have even become my special servants. Then you would live forever. Too bad, the opportunity has passed.''

  He smoothly steps back outside and rises to his full height.

  Many of the bone collectors were giants. Nobody knew exactly how or why. It was known long ago, but now, like too many things, it was lost to time.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  All anybody outside the Guild knew, they were walking natural disasters, for even cannon was not a sure bet against them.

  They were really too quick, that was the trouble. It wasn't merely the size.

  Back inside, Egill closes his eyes.

  Death had come and gone. It had taken another. That too was luck.

  The gems he had stolen must have given him extra luck. He is sure.

  Though he is a poet and scholar, he is also an Old Believer. He does not denounce the knowledge in the Old Ways.

  The other warriors make glances at each other. They are trying to hear heavy footsteps outside, whether Death has gone away.

  But the wind is too loud. In the distance, thunder. Soon it there will be freezing rain. In a week, they are sure, there will be snow.

  Egill is the first to rise.

  He makes his way on unsteady legs to the body, which has already shrunken and shriveled.

  Better men, eh? Is that so?

  In what sort of world is it the better man who is a failure? Who is marked for disaster?

  In this world, in the world of gods and luck.

  Egill decides he will quit drinking entirely. He will train more. To some degree, you can make your own luck.

  ``Norbert Flout, you are a strange boy!'' his maid declares. ``Nothing surprises you.''

  They pass an enormously tall figure on its way out, surrounded by a party of servants. The gilt robe suggests some kind of noble lord of the second rank. The noble's face is covered. The faces of the servants are also covered.

  Although it is only crudely paved, the road is sufficiently wide; they are far enough that they do not have to step aside and make way.

  He does wonder who it is, but takes no second look. Rebecca doesn't know that he himself has gotten ahold of something much more interesting. But she mustn't know. She is honor bound to tell Father. She mustn't find out; and that's too bad. Becky is great fun; she can handle any secret, so long as it does risk her job.

  ``Have you ever seen anything like that?'' she whispers. ``Well, I haven't. In all my years.''

  Which is not that many years. She is nineteen.

  Norbert is fifteen, which is, after all, why he lets a mere servant talk to him thus. Then again, why not? He's just a grain merchant's second son. The one who will not inherit even the horseshit, let alone the horses. First Son Nathan will get all that.

  Norbert would be the clerk.

  But there are some positives. First of all, he represents the firm outside the village. He is the most likely to travel. Nathan and Father prefer to stay at home and do the work.

  It is his second time representing his family's firm outside West Loute.

  Obviously, Rebecca will handle all the business. His role is only to be there, to make himself known, and to learn.

  In any case, leaving the village is a blessing.

  He checks inside his bag, confirming the presence of the Soul Book. Yes, it is still there.

  He smiles. Only outside the village can he try the spells that Magus Vincent's Specter had taught him.