Necromancer: Kingdom Building with My Legion of Undead Knights

The last time Darion had really talked to the knights was when they had gone to war with Valdenmoor.

That felt like ages ago now. The planning sessions, the march, the fire arrows lighting up the night sky, the chaos of battle. He had given them orders then.

They had followed without hesitation. After the war, things had changed. Darion had shifted his focus to other matters: the farmland, the debts, the negotiations with King Michul, the graveyard, the endless administrative work of rebuilding a dying barony.

Darion replied to their greetings with a loud, clear voice that carried across the entire yard:

”Morning, knights of Percvale.”

The words echoed off the stone walls. A few of the younger knights straightened their backs even more. Some of the older ones nodded, their faces unreadable.

Then Darion did something unexpected.

He didn’t stand in the middle of the yard and deliver orders. He didn’t turn around and leave. Instead, he started walking. Toward the training section. Toward the men who had been sparring with wooden swords just moments ago.

The knights stared at him, surprised. Confused, even. They had expected that he had come to give an order or something like that, a command, an announcement, a new directive.

That was what Barons did. They showed up, they spoke, they left. But Darion was walking closer to the training section. Normally, when giving orders, he should be standing in the middle of the yard or near the gate, somewhere central and authoritative. Not walking into the middle of the action.

The people playing cards had frozen in the middle of their game, cards still in their hands. The men around the fire had paused, skewers of meat suspended in the air, grease dripping onto the flames.

The sparring partners had stepped apart, wooden swords lowered, sweat still dripping from their faces. Even the knights who had been sitting on crates, resting after their morning run, had gotten to their feet.

Everyone was watching.

The guards who had been positioned at the edges of the yard, their usual duty to watch for threats, had completely abandoned their posts. They were staring too. The men who had been tasked with watching the meat cook had paused, letting the meat sizzle unattended over the fire.

They were all thinking the same thing. You could see it on their faces, in the way their eyes tracked Darion’s every movement, in the way their bodies leaned forward slightly as if trying to read his mind.

What the fuck is the Baron up to?

It created suspense and all that.

The knights weren’t afraid, Darion had never given them reason to be afraid of him. But they were confused and curious. A little on edge. Because Barons didn’t just walk into training yards and wander around for no reason. There was always a reason.

But Darion kept walking.

Finally, he stopped. He positioned himself at the edge of the training area, far enough from the sparring men that he wouldn’t get accidentally hit by a wild swing, but close enough that he could see everything clearly.

His stance was relaxed. His hands were in his pockets — well, not pockets, because medieval clothes didn’t have pockets, but his hands rested casually at his sides. He looked like a spectator at a tournament, not a Baron inspecting his troops.

The knights waited and the silence stretched.

Darion looked around at all of them: the card players, the meat roasters, the sparring partners, the resting runners, the guards who had abandoned their posts. He noticed their confusion. Their surprise and their complete inability to predict what he was about to say.

He let the silence hang for just a moment longer. Then he spoke.

”Oh, I’m just here to watch you guys train. I’m bored.”

Upon hearing that, the guards were like:

”What the.”

It wasn’t every day you saw your Baron walk into the knight barracks and say, ”I’m bored, so I’m going to watch you all train” or something like that.

It caught them completely off guard.

Darion smiled at the ones who were roasting meat and playing cards. ”Continue with what you were doing before,” he said. ”Don’t mind me.”

”Okay, m’lord.”

They said it, but they truly couldn’t be that comfortable with the Baron there. How could they? The man who signed their pay, who led them into battle, who had burned a kingdom to the ground, he was standing a few feet away, watching them. Even if he said ”don’t mind me,” they minded.

So some of the card-playing guards decided to join the training instead. Better to look busy than to sit around playing games while the Baron watched. Even a few of the meat-roasting men abandoned the fire and walked over to the training section, leaving their skewers behind. The meat would cool. They didn’t care.

Darion watched them come. He smiled. He didn’t say anything, but he noticed.

”Go on,” Darion urged the men who had stopped fighting before. ”Continue.”

The men resumed.

They faced each other, wooden swords raised. One was taller, with longer reach. The other was shorter but stockier, planted firmly on the ground like a tree. They circled slowly, boots scraping against the dirt, eyes locked.

The taller one struck first, a quick swing aimed at the shoulder. The shorter man blocked, the crack of wood against wood echoing through the yard. He countered immediately, stepping forward and swinging low at the legs. The taller man jumped back just in time, the sword whistling past his shins.

They circled again. Breathing hard now. Sweat on their brows.

The shorter man pressed forward, aggressive, swinging left then right then left again. The taller man gave ground, blocking each strike, waiting for an opening. Then he saw the shorter man overextended on a swing, his body leaning too far forward, his side exposed.

The taller man struck.

His wooden sword darted forward and stopped an inch from the shorter man’s ribs. Right where a real blade would have slid between the gaps in his armor. Right where a real sword would have punctured his lung.

The shorter man froze. He looked down at the sword tip near his side. Then he looked up.

”You’re dead,” the taller man said.

The shorter man exhaled. Lowered his sword. ”Yes,” he admitted. ”I’m dead.”

That was how it worked in training. You didn’t fight to the death. You fought until someone made a mistake that would have gotten them killed in a real battle. A sword at the throat. A blade in the ribs. A strike to the head that would have split a skull. That was the moment you stopped. That was the moment you learned.

And in real battle, that was where you put these things into practice. The training yard was where you learned the moves, drilled the reactions, and built the muscle memory.

But the battlefield was where it all came together, or fell apart. You might be a big loser in training, making mistakes, getting caught with a wooden sword at your ribs, dying a hundred times in practice. That was fine. That was the point. Because every time you died in training, you learned something. You saw the opening you left. You felt the moment you overextended. You understood, in your bones, what not to do when the swords were real and the stakes were life and death.

But some men were the opposite. Excellent in training: fast, precise, unbeatable with wooden swords, but the moment real steel came out and blood was on the line, they froze. Their hands shook. Their timing crumbled. Everything they had practiced evaporated under the pressure. That was the difference between a training yard hero and a real soldier. The training yard didn’t kill you. The battlefield did. And the only way to know which one you were was to stand in front of an enemy who actually wanted you dead.

Darion had seen both kinds. Men who were clumsy in practice but unshakeable in battle. Men who were flawless with wooden swords but fell apart when the arrows started flying. The training yard was where you prepared. The battlefield was where you proved it.

Darion watched from the edge of the yard, arms folded. He nodded slightly.

Not bad.

”Nice one,” he said to the guy who won.

The words came out casual, almost offhand, but the knight’s reaction told a different story. His chest puffed up slightly. A grin spread across his face, not a smug grin, but the kind of grin that came from genuine pride.

The man must have been very proud, being commended by the Baron directly. It felt like a dream come through in a way.

”Thank you, m’lord,” the knight said, bowing his head quickly before stepping back.

The two fighters collected their wooden swords and moved aside. Another pair stepped forward, younger knights, eager to prove themselves now that the Baron was watching. They raised their swords, circled each other, and began.