The Wall of the Damned—or Damn Wall, as it was commonly called—had been constructed with the terrain in mind. It mostly followed the plains of Escarbot’s northern border until their very center, where there lay a ravine which funneled large quantities of undead into a small part of the Wall.

  Escarbot’s largest military force was right there, fighting undead hordes day in and day out.

  However, these troops needed a place to stay, and the Wall’s battlements could not hold them. The soldiers brought their families along and built houses for themselves; before long, a town had formed right behind the Wall.

  This town was called Edge, signifying both its position at the very end of the kingdom and the sharpness it carried.

  As one might expect, Edge’s economy was built around the kingdom’s support. Soldiers barely had the time to herd or farm, but Escarbot had generously pledged part of its coffers to the Wall, and, by extension, Edge.

  However, as more and more people arrived to populate Edge Town, and as more and more families were left without soldiers and a steady stipend, a large mass of people turned to agriculture. This part of the Wall was built on plains, after all, and the ground was smooth and soft.

  Fifty years after the Curse, the Red Week, and the construction of the Wall, Edge had become a hub of war-oriented economy. Soldiers, blacksmiths, merchants, and farmers made up the bulk of its people, while the fifty-foot-tall, gray Wall towered behind the town, extending to the horizon on either side and blocking the eye like a second sky.

  However, despite its seeming importance, Edge remained a largely insignificant place in the grand scheme of things.

  In the same scheme, George was even more insignificant. Town guards came a dime a dozen in Edge, and only the least talented or brave of soldiers were delegated to this easy, boring task.

  George was a man of little ambition, happy to do his part and spend the rest of his life in the service of the kingdom. He enjoyed his wife’s company, the cherry pies she made, as well as the few friends he had, with whom he often shared a pleasant drink at nights.

  However, on a normal day like any other, George suddenly became far less insignificant.

  Leaning on his spear as he was, George’s joyful whistle came to a stop. His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging his partner.

  “What?”

  “Do you see that?”

  “See what?”

  The other guard, a lanky man called Williams, looked at the horizon, where an odd shape bobbed violently to the paved path’s whims.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “It’s a wagon more loaded than the count’s pockets. So?”

  “Not that !” George hissed, gripping his spear tightly. “There’s a fucking skeleton!”

  “Holy shit!” Williams parroted. “There’s a fucking skeleton!”

  There was a fucking skeleton indeed, and not just that, but it also started playing music. A trumpet’s cry came first, followed by a drum’s beating, followed by the jingling of bells and an odd spit-whistling which sounded like a ‘prrt.’ Soon, the group of undead resembled an amateur’s orchestra, and though the sounds were faint, they steadily grew louder as the wagon approached.

  George rubbed his eyes.

  “What the hell?” he asked. “Should we report this?”

  “Definitely. I’ll handle it, you keep them busy.”

  Williams scampered off, leaving his partner alone with the particularly cheery undead. George, in turn, took a seat. He was going to need the rest.

  Time passed, and the music wagon finally approached. With a sigh, George stood back up and went to meet them.

  Oh, Manna, the skeleton has a party hat.

  “Halt,” he ordered. “Stop that music, please.”

  The music stopped, and a man jumped off the cart. He looked almost young—maybe thirty years of age—with a short dark beard and large, spirited, honest eyes that could never lie. A wide smile hung on his lips, while his body was wrapped in a wildly colorful tunic. The undead, of which George counted nine— oh, gods, have mercy on me —parted to let him pass.

  The man was also carrying a large sack filled with misshapen objects, small protrusions jutting out all over.

  “Greetings, necromancer,” George said, wearing his most professional face despite the fear he felt. Necromancers were rare, but there was a protocol to dealing with them, a protocol George had memorized. The very first line said not to antagonize the necromancer. So did the second.

  “Hello,” the man said. “I’m Jerry, this is Marcus”—he pointed at another man, slightly older but still energetic—“and these are my undead: Boboar, Foxy, Boney, Headless, Axehand, and the Billies. There’s Birb, too, but it’s flying overhead.”

  “Of course.” George nodded. “Necromancers are welcome in the town of Edge, as is everyone. Could I have the purpose of your visit?”

  “We want to get past the Wall.”

  “Mhm.”

  George felt it was reasonable. Most people would be fools to wade into the Dead Lands, but not necromancers—maybe. The count would probably agree.

  “Very well,” he said. “However, you might have to wait a few days. The authorization process can be slow.”

  “Slow?” The necromancer frowned, raising his sack. “But we’ve prepared bribes!”

  “You’ve what?” George’s eyes bulged out. Oh Manna, I am not paid enough for this.

  “Ahem, Jerry.” The second man coughed. “You should be more discreet with these things. Bribes are illegal.”

  “I mean, everyone’s doing it so I don’t see the point, but I can be discreet if you want,” the necromancer replied, turning back to George. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My tongue slipped. I meant bribe-shaped wooden horses, and a bunch of coins, too.”

  The second man—Marcus—facepalmed. George’s mouth opened without sound. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to report a necromancer for anything!

  Could that sack be filled with wooden horses? No, that’s stupid. It’s probably some slang I don’t get.

  “That, uh—I know nothing about horses, sir,” he stammered through. “But uh—maybe some officials enjoy riding? Still, sir, I think that even under the best circumstances, authorization takes a few days. If you’d excuse my wording, sir, our higher-ups have stuck their wooden horses so far up their arses they struggle to walk, sir.”

  “Oh.” The necromancer seemed…disappointed? “So, they already have wooden horses?”

  George did not understand the question, which meant he didn’t even have to feign ignorance.

  “I don’t know, sirs. If you can wait a few moments, my partner will be back with the appropriate information.”

  At that point, the second man stepped in, the notably non-necromantic one. A skeleton tried to trip him, but that made no sense; George assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination.

  “What my friend here means to say,” the man said, “is that we’re in a hurry. I refuse to believe this process needs days.”

  George gulped.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I don’t know, sir…” That’s all he intended to say, but under the man’s stare, he kept speaking. “It’s an official procedure, sir, so it must be done officially. Papers need to be signed, approvals given. Those take some time.”

  “I don’t see the reason. Signing a paper and saying yes takes three blinks of an eye.”

  George tensed up further. “Sir, I’m just a town guard.”

  “That won’t do. We need to accelerate things.”

  Just as George was contemplating lying to escape their ire, Williams ran back out of the guard quarters.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a slight pant, “are you the Funny Bone circus?”

  Both men seemed taken aback. “We are!” the necromancer said. “How did you know?”

  “I reported your arrival, sir, and I received instructions from the count’s assistant herself. They request your performance in the count’s manor.”

  “We’re being asked to perform?” The necromancer’s eyes went wide. He turned around. “We made it, guys, we made it! We’re a real circus now! We don’t even need to bribe people!”

  The undead cheered, looking significantly less deadly and violent than anyone would have imagined. George was flabbergasted.

  “Of course we’ll perform!” the necromancer said. “By any chance, could this count accelerate the procedure and get us past the Wall by tomorrow?”

  The two guards exchanged a glance. It seemed they weren’t going to die.

  “You will have to ask someone higher-ranked than us, sir. The count requested your performance for tomorrow night…”

  “Hmm. Two days, then.” The necromancer looked at his living companion. “What do you think, Marcus? Are two days acceptable?”

  “A night, a day, and a night,” the other man mused. He scanned the town wall with his eyes, then the Damn Wall, then George and William. “I hope so…” he finally said, and the necromancer’s smile widened.

  “Excellent! We’ll perform for your count tomorrow night, then.”

  The second man added, “Could we schedule an earlier appointment, too, to ensure we’ll be allowed past the Wall the day after tomorrow?”

  “You could visit the Scribery, sir. With the count’s approval and your, uh, wooden horses, I believe they can arrange for that,” George said, ignoring William’s puzzled look.

  “Great, great. In that case, we are allowed in, right?”

  “Of course!” Both guards exchanged a grateful look. They’d survived!

  With laughter and their music restarting, the undead—the Funny Bone circus, apparently—waltzed past the gate and into the town, causing utter chaos that was decidedly not George’s job to solve.

  ***

  On the inside, Edge Town was exactly as imagined.

  An air of sharpness permeated the air. The buildings were all in shades of gray, angular, and built with utility in mind. There was clearly a town plan in place as the streets were straight and intersected in regular intervals. They were also kept mostly clean—not due to spectacular cleaning services, but because the people had enough ingrained discipline to not litter much.

  Most people wore some piece of armor or another, and they walked with momentum, having places to be and things to do.

  However, despite Edge’s apparent efficiency, the people did not seem well-off. Many wore rusted armor or patched-up clothes, broken clogs—wooden shoes—on their feet, and were skinnier than one might expect. Beggars were aplenty, most of them children, and anyone slightly more well-off walked with sharp eyes as if expecting to be mugged twice on every street.

  When Jerry entered the town, this image of tidy poverty struck him as odd. He’d heard that Edge received generous stipends from the kingdom, and the farms around the town seemed bountiful, so where did all the money go?

  Thankfully, Jerry was a genius at gathering information.

  “Excuse me,” he asked a random pedestrian, “why are you poor?”

  The young man, frozen in fear as a bunch of undead had suddenly appeared from the town gate beside him, pissed his pants and ran away screaming.

  “That wasn’t very polite.” Jerry shook his head, turning to Marcus. “Why are these people poor?” he asked again, but the treasure hunter only narrowed his eyes.

  “Defending the Wall takes a lot of supplies, probably. You know, arrows and stuff.”

  It was already afternoon, and the Funny Bone—and Marcus—had a plan: go to the town square and perform. After all, their performance for the count would be tomorrow, so they had time.

  That plan had to be immediately put on hold. The very moment Jerry’s undead stepped through the gates, a wave of ogling eyes spread through their surroundings, followed by waves of screams, whispers, fleeing, and general mayhem. Most people only looked appalled, but a few were downright terrified and ran away.

  Before long, chaos had ensued in this entire part of the town, as screams led to more screams and a flood of people struggled to escape, clogging the streets and leading to a small stampede.

  Another group of people, smaller but imposing, stood their ground and glared at the undead with hands on the hilts of their weapons. Some had fire in their eyes, others suspicion. All of them, without exception, were hardened soldiers, and the weight of their gazes pressured even Jerry.

  “Easy, easy!” Marcus shouted, raising his hands in the air. “We won’t harm you!”

  “That’s right!” Jerry added. “We’re good guys!”

  That did not help the screaming. Fortunately, most denizens were only visibly suspicious of the undead and did not start running. The soldiers still glared.

  “Forget about it, Jerry,” Marcus said. “Let’s just wait.”

  Jerry nodded. The undeads’ circus music turned into a lounge variant as they waited for things to calm down.

  People whispered at each other all around, some explaining about necromancers, and after a few minutes, those who wanted to run had run, and the chaos had come full circle. Silence finally fell again—the dangerous, pregnant with violence kind.

  “What do you want?” one of the soldiers asked, a young man with a sharp face and burning eyes.

  “Ah, finally. Listen up, everyone,” Jerry spoke aloud. “I’m a necromancer but also a good guy! Me and my undead will not harm you. We are the Funny Bone circus, and we’re only here to make you smile!”

  This time, the silence was the shocked kind.

  “Good luck with that,” said the same soldier as before. “You brought undead into a Wall town.”

  “Yes, that’s a bit unfortunate. I can make shoes too if you prefer.”

  Marcus stepped forth. “We plan to perform at the city square, then find lodging for the night. We truly mean no harm.”

  “You better not,” another soldier said, an older one, approaching and taking his hand off the sword’s hilt. “Everyone here has lost loved ones to the undead. We fight them day in and day out; we hate them, and we know what kind of people necromancers are. Most would rather attack you than enjoy some perverted show.”

  “Do you really think so?” Jerry was sad. “Would a wooden horse change your mind? Or a bribe, maybe?”

  The soldier’s gaze turned confused for a moment. “If you have money to spend, necromancer, I’d suggest finding an inn and holing up in there till morning, then getting the hell away for everyone’s sake.”

  “We can’t do that,” Marcus replied. “We plan to get past the Wall, and we’ve been invited by the count to perform at his manor tomorrow.”

  Mentioning the count was an attempt to smooth over things. However, the moment Marcus brought up the name, the atmosphere turned oddly chilly. The situation became rougher instead of smoother. Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

  “Suit yourselves,” the soldier said coldly, turning around. Without another word, he walked away. Everyone else similarly turned away from the group.

  “That was odd.” Jerry cupped his chin. “What happened there?”

  “What happened, Master,” Boney replied, “is that now we know why these people are poor.”

  “The count doesn’t seem well-liked,” Marcus said, “but let’s not rush to conclusions—we have the entire day tomorrow. For now, let’s just go have that show and make some money.”

  “But that soldier said people hate us here. He said nobody would pay to see our show.”

  “He may not understand people as well as he thinks.” Marcus smirked. “Let me handle things. Can I have the expedition funds, Boney?”

  Marcus and Jerry—or rather, Boney—had each contributed fifty taels into a pouch they called ‘expedition funds.’ All expedition-related expenses, like lodging and food, would be paid from there. It was the result of Boney’s fierce insistence that Marcus had very begrudgingly accepted—and, of course, the skeleton was the one carrying the pouch.

  “Why?” Boney asked. “Don’t you have your own money?”

  “This is a common expense, bonehead. You’ll see.”

  Boney reflexively tried to raise a brow, failed, and passed the pouch to Marcus, who retrieved ten taels from inside.

  “Now watch,” he said, moving toward a gathering of child beggars. Before long, ten children rushed through the town, announcing the presence of the Funny Bone and how they meant no harm.

  “Get the music started, boys,” Marcus said. “There’s money to be made.”