Necromancer: Kingdom Building with My Legion of Undead Knights

Seren had gone up to her room after they returned from the farmland, the leather pack over one shoulder, the bundle of tools under her arm. She moved quietly.

Darion stood in the courtyard after she went inside and thought about what her days looked like now.

Months in a holding pen in Gonnb. Before that, whatever life she’d had before they took her, he didn’t know the details, hadn’t asked and hadn’t found the right moment.

Now she was in a castle room in a barony she had known only as a dying place, working soil. She was free, he meant that, but free in a way that offered a specific set of options rather than an open one.

He hoped the room was at least better than the box.

He turned and went to find Garren.

He decided to give Gregor a goat. The goat had been his idea, and he’d committed to it before fully examining why.

Gregor had stayed. That was the heart of it. When the barony was failing and people with skills were leaving because Percvale wasn’t a promising place to use them, Gregor had stayed.

He had done work that wasn’t his specialty ( the skull) and done it well and fast without asking for payment.

A person who did that in a declining place wasn’t ignorant or out of options. They deserved something concrete in return.

One goat from Gonnb’s herd. Not as a formal payment. Just a goat, taken from the pen where the seven knights were watching the animals, led out by a rope.

When he told Garren what he was about to do, the man agreed.

Now Garren walked beside Darion on the way to the smithy.

The smithy was on the western side of the settlement, set slightly apart from the surrounding buildings.

Forges tended to be that way, heat and noise and the occasional risk of something going wrong made neighbors reluctant.

It was a low building, functional with no concession to appearance, the walls dark from years of smoke, the roof patched from repairs made as needed rather than replacements.

The forge itself was visible through the open front, coals glowing, the air around the doorway several degrees warmer than the street outside.

The sound of hammer on metal came from inside.

Darion knocked on the doorframe.

The hammering continued for two more strikes, then stopped.

”Come back later,” said a voice from inside. ”I’m in the middle of something.”

Garren’s eyebrow moved slightly. Darion found it mildly entertaining.

He knocked again.

A pause. Then footsteps, and a man appeared in the doorway.

Gregor was somewhere in his forties, broad through the shoulders from decades of smithing rather than from any particular effort toward it.

His hands were large and marked with old burns that had healed into pale lines across darker skin.

He was holding a piece of partially worked metal in one hand and a cloth in the other, and he was looking at Darion. He looked like he’d been about to say something short and dismissive, then stopped himself.

”M’lord,” he said. The word came out slightly stiff, not unfriendly, instead adjustment, he was recalibrating quickly. ”Come in.”

He stepped back and they entered.

Inside was the organized density of a working forge.

Tools hung on every available surface, some in clear categories, some in arrangements that only made sense to the person who’d put them there.

Partially finished pieces lined a long workbench along the left wall: a sword blade at an early stage, two sections of armor plating partially repaired and what looked like a hinge assembly for something architectural.

The coals in the forge were high and the heat in the room was significant. Darion noted a rack of completed blades on the far wall, finished work waiting for whoever had ordered it.

Gregor set the metal piece down carefully and looked at Darion calmly, paying attention.

”I came to thank you,” Darion said. ”The skull work. You did it well and fast, and you didn’t ask for payment.”

”It wasn’t difficult,” Gregor said.

”It was done at short notice on a request that wasn’t standard smithing,” Darion said. ”That counts for something regardless of difficulty.” He looked at the knight holding the rope behind him and nodded.

The knight stepped forward, bringing the goat with him.

Gregor looked at the goat. Then at Darion. The goat looked at Gregor. It had this indifference, an animal that had changed hands several times in one night and had made its peace with uncertainty.

”That’s too much,” Gregor said.

”No,” Darion said. ”It’s not.”

A slight smile crossed the man’s face.

”Thank you m’lord, I’ll find somewhere to put it,” he said.

”Good.” Darion looked around the forge properly, taking in the work on the bench. ”Can you repair armor?”

”Yes.” Gregor replied.

”How much of it?”

”Depends on the damage. What are you working with?”

Darion looked at Garren, who had the numbers. Garren stepped forward slightly. ”Fifty-seven sets with moderate to significant damage. Twenty-six that are close to unusable, structural issues, not just surface work.”

Gregor took that in without visible reaction. He was doing the calculation smiths do when given a scope of work, y’know time, materials, sequence, what could be prioritized and what had to wait.

”The twenty-six first,” he said. ”Usable beats good-looking. I can work through the fifty-seven after, a few sets at a time. Materials are the limiting factor more than time, I’ll need metal stock that I don’t have enough of.”

”What do you need?”

”Iron, primarily. Some bronze for the fittings if you want them done properly. I can make do with less, but it’ll show in the work.”

Darion nodded. ”I’ll look into what we can get. Send me a list of what you need and the quantities.” He looked at the bench, at the partially repaired plates sitting there. ”In the meantime, I’ll send knights with the damaged sets. Start with whichever ones you can work on with what you have.”

”I can start today,” Gregor said.

”Good.” Darion looked at him for a moment. ”Garren tells me you’ve been here the whole time. Through all of it. For someone this good you could have left for greener pastures.”

Gregor picked up the cloth and wiped his hands, focused. ”This is my home,” he said.

After a while he added. ”You seem to be doing a good job since your arrival. I have more hope of things getting better than ever.”