The best thing about a conjured horse is that it's disposable. Beat it, burn it, turn it into glue—who really cares? The thing wasn't sentient, after all. At least, that's how Tommy justified his brilliant new strategy. Ride a horse until it falls over from exhaustion, then summon a new one. Rinse and repeat and you'll reach your destination in no time.
For Tommy and Isaac, no time meant around two hours—two hours of riding down well-trodden shipping paths like jockeys on fire. When they finally reached the great mountain ranges east of Newhorn, Isaac was half-dead on his horse, gasping for air as though a landed fish. They parked their mounts in a grove just a few hundred yards from a busy iron mine, taking a quick break before going to talk with the owner.
Tommy stared at his reflection in a nearby stream. The greater false image spell really worked wonders. He took the appearance of an older man with grey hair and a thick mustache, garbed in a flashy suit and a black top hat. Still, it didn't do much for his height. He shrunk a few inches, but a nine-foot-tall human was still something to gawk at.
"Do you think I'll stand out?" asked Tommy.
Isaac sat against an oak tree, panting, still winded from the long ride. "Yes, my lord, I'm afraid you will. Half-giants are rather rare."
So, his body was half giant, half something else. Interesting. How was that even possible, though? Could such a big sausage really fit into a—
He shook the graphic thought from his head. "I see. Do you believe it will cause us any trouble?"
"The doctrine of the Holy Church condemns relationships between monsters and humans. If any Luxites were to find out you possessed the blood of a giant, they would attempt to execute you."
Wow. What a tolerant and understanding group of people. Also, what was a Luxite?
Isaac continued: "I think it is more likely that you'd be discovered as an undead, though. Your illusion magic is powerful, but some mages of the Blue Hand could dispel it if they had cause to. I highly doubt we will find any near an iron mine, though, so there is no cause for concern."
"Let's hope you're right," Tommy said, walking to his horse. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes, Lord Bones."
The dynamic duo rode to the front of the mines, where dozens of grimy men were loading raw iron into carriages. The wretched scent of iron and sweat floated through the air, entering their nostrils as an unwelcome guest.
"Greetings, friends! Where might I find your master?" Tommy shouted.
The men looked at him strangely, bemused by his odd appearance, no doubt.
A burly man with a long beard stepped up to bat, hands on his hips and a nasty look on his face. "That'd be me. What d'ya want?" he growled.
Tommy dismounted and met the man's gaze. "The name's Bones. Mister Bones."
"Elijah," the man returned, staring up at the undercover undead. "Like I said—what d'ya want?"
Well, this guy was rude. Maybe a quick pop in the chops would straighten him out—a good ol' wham-bam to fix his crooked attitude.
"You seem like a down-to-earth, straight-shooting, tell-me-true sort of guy, Elijah, so I'll cut to the chase. I have around a hundred men who are interested in working in your mines."
Elijah's eyes widened. "A hundred men?"
Tommy nodded. "One hundred men ready to work long, hard days for a fair wage."
"Why here? What's the catch?"
"We are going to build a camp in this area. And since this lovely place will be close by, there's no point in going elsewhere for work." Isaac explained. "But there is a catch—you are correct."
Elijah's frown deepened. "What is it?"
"These one hundred men are members of my flock. We practice an odd religion, you see. Since they're mere novitiates, they aren't permitted to speak. Ever."
"You mean you're handing me hard-working men who won't talk back?" Elijah asked. He broke out into hardy laughter. "That's the catch?"
"That's the catch," Tommy confirmed.
"They'll arrive here by dawn and leave by dusk, and they'll be paid two talons a day for their work. Fair to you?"
"Fair indeed. They'll be here within the week."
Elijah offered him a stupid grin. "You just made my day—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "You made my month, friend! You have no idea how short-handed we are thanks to the plague."
"I'm glad. My companion and I will see you again soon," Tommy said, hopping back onto his horse. "Good day, Elijah."
Tommy and Isaac began their ride back to the campsite, moving slowly to allow them time to talk.
"That was easy. A little too easy," Tommy remarked. "So, what can two hundred talons per day buy us?"
"Lavish foods, fancy clothes, or perhaps even dark spellbooks, my lord. It's quite the sum. I admit, I was confused as to why you wished to obtain money, but I believe I see the appeal now."
Tommy chuckled. "We're just getting started. In time, we will be richer than kings. For now, though, let's pick up the pace. I'll summon us new horses whenever these two give out."
"Yes, my lord."
They rode hard down the main road, then cut down the backwood paths to reach their campsite. When they finally arrived, the disciples launched a million questions at poor old Isaac, begging to know how the trip went.
Tommy readied his bone knights to march. Equipping them with horses was an option, but they would be traveling on high-traffic roads. If anyone spotted a hundred men on horseback, they might mistake them for a war party and report it to the militia. It was best to exercise caution and travel on foot like pilgrims.
"Lord Bones, we are ready to depart," reported Isaac.
The day was still new, some eight hours away from blackness, sun at its zenith in the bright blue sky.
They walked for hours, taking only two fifteen-minute breaks. By the night's birth, they had trekked just over twenty miles. If they continued at this pace, the journey would only take another two days.
Tommy stopped them at a meadow near the main road. "We're camping here tonight," he hollered.
The cultists unfurled their furs and went to sleep under the sky, too exhausted to set up their tents.
He made his way out into the meadow's depths with a bright idea. "Wish," he whispered, bony fingers crossed behind his back.
Nothing happened. What a shame.
The idea was to go through all of the spells that he could remember from Dungeons and Dragons. Problem was—he always played as a fighter, never as a sorcerer or wizard or any class that could use magic. And he never multi-classed because Jamie always got grumpy about it.
"Teleport."
Nothing.
"Conjure elemental."
Also nothing.
"Summon lesser demon."
A swirling circle of fire appeared before him, slinging sparks onto the meadow's flowery bosom. It haunted the air with the sickening scent of smoke and brimstone and the noise of tormented souls—elements of the underworld. It was a gateway to all things horrible, all things grotesque and wrong.
He dreaded to know what evil he had just dragged into this world.
As fast as a striking cobra, a hotdog-red, teddy-sized demon flew from the circle and slammed into him. It fell to the ground with a yelp, clutching its swollen beer belly. "What's the big idea, you oaf?" it screeched, struggling to stand on its hooves. "When you summon something, you should stand away from the portal, got it?"
Tommy stared at the imp, unable to conjure a response.
"Great. I got a dumb summoner. Why don't you—" It cut its words short, sniffing the air a few times and shooting him a curious look. "You're undead, aren't you?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Not just any undead, no. Your scent is familiar." It paused for a second, then laughed like a maniac. "You're stuck in the old lich's body, aren't you?"
How in the name of rock and roll did this sunburnt pipsqueak figure that out? It was meant to be a lesser demon, not a bloodhound.
"That's right," Tommy said. "How'd you figure it out?"
"You kidding me? Everyone in the underworld knows the old lich. He's the Sultan's favorite pet."
"The Sultan?"
"Jeez, you just get here, pal? The Sultan is the leader of the underworld. The big guy with the big eye, the smoke sucker, the brimstone belcher, the—"
"I get it. And yes, I just got here yesterday."
"You're the first soulwalker I've ever seen. Your kind is pretty rare."
"What the flock is a soulwalker?"
"It means your soul walked over to another realm. Others have come here before, but none got as lucky as you, I don't think. I mean, you really scored big time, didn't you?"
"I did," Tommy agreed.
"Right, let's swap topics. Why'd you summon me? Are we gonna rough some fools up?" It began swinging its tiny fists in the air.
"I was just testing the spell. You can go back now if you'd like."
"Now hold the crone, pal. You summoned me for a full hour, so I intend to stay that long. Besides, I'm not exactly itching to return to the land of fire and brimstone, you get me?"
"Then I've got some questions for you," Tommy declared.
"Sure thing, buddy," it said, flashing a toothy grin.
"Are all demons as"—he stopped for a moment, wondering how best to word the question—"flamboyant as you?"
"No, I'm one of a kind. Other demons have rocks for brains. But me? I was born with quite the noggin as you can see."
"Does the old lich know I'm in his body?"
"Not a chance. That guy is locked up tight by the Sultan, roasting above one of our many lakes of fire. He dodged death for a little too long, and now he's paying the price for it." The imp did a little spin then pointed a finger at Tommy. "What do you think about signing a contract with me, my new bony friend?"
"Last time I signed a contract, I got stuck selling boxes. No thanks."
"At least hear me out," it pleaded.
Tommy heaved a sigh. "Fine, go ahead. Make your sales pitch."
It snapped its little fingers and soared into the air, hovering two feet from his face. "Here's the deal—you take me on as your familiar, and I'll get you all the information you need on the old lich. His secret hideouts, his magic toys, his ex-wives, you name it. What do you say?"
"What do you get out of this deal?"
"I get to leave the underworld whenever I want if I become your familiar. It's pretty hot and stuffy down there, y'know?"
It seemed like a good idea. Plus, the little guy was adorable. He could make a good mascot for the cult.
"Fine, let's do it. One more condition though—you can't tell anyone I'm not the old lich. The cultists that summoned me here think they dragged his soul from the underworld."
The imp chuckled. "The old lich killed off anyone with that sort of power centuries ago. What a bunch of buffoons. It's a deal, though, pal; just give me a name and I'll become your familiar."
Oh, this was fun. What to name him, though?
"What about Impy?" Tommy suggested.
"Really? That's the best you could come up with? That's just the name of my species with a y at the end of it."
"Well, I thought it was cute. What name did you have in mind?"
"You already chose one, genius. The bond is formed; I'm your familiar now," growled Impy. He lifted his hands in faux surrender and let out a long breath. "It's fine. I'll just have to live with a stupid name now."
Well, that was relatable. Still hurtful though.
"So, what's next, big guy? What's on the agenda?"
"What do you know about supply and demand?"