Little to nothing is known about the Great Enigma. What happened six hundred years ago? Where are the Primordials, are they alive or dead, and why are those world-shaking events missing from each and every historical record?

Many connect this enigma to Dorman, the mysterious person that lived during the same period. For unknown reasons, Dorman traveled the entire world and left cryptic inscriptions in various ancient sites, said to point towards his treasure. Nothing else is known about this person. Was he a random traveler leaving his mark, or a devoted historian fighting against forces we cannot fathom? Did he have a treasure worthy of his legend, or are his cryptic inscriptions the products of madness?

We do not know. All we can hope is that, at the end of the string he left for us, lies the answer to the Great Enigma. As historians, that is our greatest wish; because, unlike with the Great Enigma itself, Dorman gave us something to work with.

- From the second chapter of The Great Enigma by Arabon the Mindful.

In the gentle darkness of the night, the circus tent stood tall amidst the town square. Torches from the surrounding buildings illuminated its sides, each a different color, while the town’s sounds penetrated the cloth walls, giving the interior a lively, earthen ambiance.

The tent’s entrance flap had been pulled closed, and the torches had been lit. A table had been moved to the stage’s center and four chairs had been set beside it, one noticeably softer and woolier than the others. Jerry, Marcus, Boney, and Axehand sat around, beer mugs in hand and words—or grunts—in mouth.

“Have you ever considered,” asked Marcus, frowning to the sound of two peddlers arguing, “not placing your tent in the center of the town square?”

Jerry nodded and said, “It did cross my mind, but this was the best place to perform. What do you think, Boney? Should we move it for the night?”

“Of course, Master. I would gladly work overnight to take down the entire circus tent, then re-set it outside the town only to take it down again tomorrow.”

“Hmm, you have a point.”

Axehand grunted in amusement. Marcus raised a brow. “But having two tents never occurred to you, Boney?”

“Buying extra tents is hard when someone exploits you financially. Perhaps an extra hundredth would do the trick?”

“Ahem.” Marcus coughed in his hand. “I can live with some noise.”

“Speaking of living,” Jerry cut in, suddenly serious, “there is something I need to tell you.”

Everyone looked over in surprise. Boney’s jaw clacked in consideration.

Jerry continued. “You both heard the sounds of battle from the Wall earlier… Well, I borrowed the senses of Birb to watch the horde. It was… unexpected.”

“Oh?” Marcus asked curiously, leaning in and sipping from his mug. “How so?”

“Well, it was odd. So visceral, bloody, and hard-fought… When I’d heard about the Wall’s defense, I’d imagined a few wild undead attacking by themselves—not an organized war horde.”

“Organized? What exactly did you see, Jerry?”

Boney leaned in, while Axehand only kept drinking; this was his third mug so far, as, apparently, he heavily enjoyed wine. Unfortunately, even though he was a particularly compact skeleton, it slowly dripped back out of his ribcage.

“There were thousands of them,” replied the necromancer, “mostly zombies and skeletons. And there was a large flock of undead birds that attacked the soldiers on the Wall, and every single undead was so… mindless and bloodthirsty that it honestly disgusted me. I mean, how did that happen? My undead are pretty good guys, but the ones beyond the Wall are insane!”

“That’s just how undead are supposed to be,” replied Marcus. “Besides yours, all the undead I’ve ever seen were lusting for blood… And then there’s Boney, who attacks with bad humor.”

The skeleton shook his head. “I don’t understand that. We never become violent without reason. To protect Master or ourselves, sure, but not any more than living humans do.”

“That’s what confused me as well.” Jerry nodded. “Boney and Axehand are how undead are supposed to be. Those insane ones… I honestly have no idea why they’re like that, but it makes me very sad. Now, I can finally understand why people are so afraid of me. I can’t blame them.”

Marcus’s eyes deepened. “Before meeting you, I thought all undead were simply insane. I… Honestly, I don’t know much on the subject, but this is the first time I hear about docile, rational undead—it’s partly why I approached you. Perhaps your necromantic powers are special? Every wizard has their own flavor of magic, so maybe this is just yours.”

“Maybe,” replied Jerry, snuggling deeper into his heavenly soft chair for comfort, “but I don’t like this, not at all. Undead are supposed to be happy, joyful creatures like curious newborns… not that!”

“It could be the Curse, Master,” replied Boney. “Perhaps it’s twisting the undead, maddening them… or maybe it’s because they were wild undead.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

A few moments of silence went by. The dark beer glistened in Jerry’s mug, reflecting the torchlight, and the town’s din had begun to die down as night truly fell. He could feel his other undead resting in the tent, feel the torrent of human souls outside. In his senses, there were obvious differences between those two types of souls, but… how important were they?

Were humans and undead—humans and necromancers—truly irreconcilable?

Marcus spoke up. “You mentioned that the horde was organized...”

“Oh, yes.” Jerry nodded, returning to the present. “They all seemed to move to the same tune. There was also a strong undead that commanded the rest.”

Marcus and Boney let out a collective gasp. “A death knight…”

Axehand paused his drinking. An interested grunt escaped his throat, and with crimson sparks in his eyes, he looked over.

“Right, that’s the name!” exclaimed Jerry. “What is that?”

“Well, my friend, it seems you witnessed a very special horde,” replied Marcus. “Wild undead are mindless and have the tendency to follow groups of undead. That’s how a horde is formed; a few undead walk together, and every undead that sees them follows by instinct. When they accidentally approach the Wall, they sense the life behind it and ram against it until they break. That’s how it generally goes.

“But,” he continued, “sometimes, things are different. There are necromancers in the Dead Lands, that’s a known fact, and they are enemies of the Wall. They will occasionally instigate a horde and let their own high-ranking undead command it—wild undead are naturally subservient to stronger undead.

“Many weird kinds can appear, then, but the most dangerous ones are death knights, a necromancer’s magnum opus. Unlike most, they have skills and intelligence; their bodies are beyond sturdy, they are well-equipped, and they are also capable of some forms of magic, like augmenting their fellow undead. Defending the Wall is usually safe, but when death knights show up with a horde… the battle is always hard-fought. That’s when soldiers fall.”

Silence followed his words. Boney was thoughtful, while Axehand’s entire body was shivering with excitement—he was a warrior, and hearing of a death knight had lit up his fire. He thirsted for a fight to prove himself.

Meanwhile, Jerry leaned back in his heavenly soft chair, digesting the information.

So necromancers really are evil… And they don’t hesitate to throw those poor undead in the meat grinder…

The thought was nauseating.

“This sucks,” he said. “Undead should not be treated like that… Now, more than ever, I want to lift Ozborne’s Curse and save them all.”

Marcus’s eyes flickered. “That is a noble purpose… but undead matters aside, we need to get past the Wall first, and somehow protect ourselves from those undead. I hope you can handle it, Jerry.”

“I can,” he replied, a sad glint in his eyes.

“Good. Then, the plan remains as is. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the people in charge and ensure everything goes smoothly. We’ll perform for the Count at night, and the day after tomorrow, we’ll be past the Wall and diving head-first into the Dead Lands, leaving that Sakalai in the dust. That’s when our journey will truly begin…”

All nodding, they took deep gulps off their mugs, emptying them and slamming them on the table.

***

The next morning, George was relaxing by the town gate when a groan escaped his lips.

“Oh, not again…”

“What is it?” asked Williams, his partner. He brought a hand to his eyes, shielding his eyes to gaze ahead.

Three people approached from afar, the rising sun framing their backs; one was a hooded person, and he was surrounded by two figures taller than any human had the right to be. Nature spirits… George frowned, anxiety building up inside him.

First, a necromancer, and now these things… What a bad time to be a guard.

However, around these parts, even nature spirits had to obey some rules.

“Halt,” he said when they approached. “Can I have the purpose of your visit, please?”

One of the nature spirits, a fat, one-eyed ogre with a metal club taller than George, growled. George flinched and gulped; Williams peed himself. The ogre gave a deep chuckle.

“Easy,” said the other spirit, a barefooted, black-eyed man with long, oily hair and hands as wide as shovel heads. “We are here for business.”

“And”—George gulped—“if I may—”

“You may not.”

This man spoke properly, yet, for some reason, the sense of danger he exuded was even thicker than the ogre’s—if the ogre was a leashed wild wolf, then this man was a wolf without any leash whatsoever. For all his seeming calmness, violence felt just a wrong word away.

And that’s not even including the silent middle person, who oversaw everything with calm authority. Against his better judgment, George dared to glance in his direction. He was stunned.

A thin, horizontal scar ran across the man’s forehead, making him disturbing to behold—and below that scar, cold blue eyes gazed as if at an ant. The disdain there was palpable, and the strict lines around those eyes told George that he shouldn’t even consider challenging his apparently ant-y nature.

For the first time in his life—and that says a lot—George felt like a piece of garbage by the side of the road. The inferiority was staggering. He stumbled backward, then caught himself.

“Of course, sirs,” he replied, bowing deeply despite his shivering, for he was not a complete idiot. He stepped aside. “Please.”

Williams was momentarily frozen, but George pulled him aside as well—perhaps more violently than he intended, as the man tumbled to the floor. Nobody paid him any heed.

The two nature spirits instantly seemed to erase the guards from their perceptions, turning their gazes up and ignoring them completely. The scarred man took a step forward, then paused. On cue, the barefoot spirit said, “Let Decaron know that Sakalai Maccain is here.”

Then, the scarred man, who had not spoken a single word, passed through the gate, followed by the nature spirits—the ogre almost had to duck. Chaos once again erupted on the other side, but again, it was not George’s job to solve. He was sweating profusely.

On days like these, merely surviving was a success.

At least, tonight, he only had to guard the Count’s manor. Finally, an easy task… No gates, no necromancers, no nature spirits… Only peace, he thought, and forced himself to smile.