Paul’s POV

  The night was quiet as Paul’s small party marched back toward Gravewell. With Fellward taken care of and brine production soon to follow, he could finally dedicate space to proper meat storage. Nobody spoke. The necromancer was lost in calculations and timelines. He still had an entire season before winter, and that should be enough—if nothing went wrong.

  Whatever could not be produced domestically would be taken from the outlier villages along the Anglian border. Slaves. Food. Metals. Coin. And most importantly, seed.

  The dead would clear the land around Gravewell, and by spring Paul would have the labor necessary to plow and plant at scale. The desperation gripping his territory at present was unacceptable. Uncertainty was chaos. Chaos was unacceptable. The Deepwood would be brought to order.

  From the brush, a goblin came running toward them.

  Selun shifted forward instinctively. “Halt,” she ordered. “Who goes there?”

  The goblin skidded to a stop, breathing hard. He froze, glanced around in confusion, then focused on Selun. “Uh… Ruuk. A scout.” He shifted his weight and looked down.

  “Well?” Paul asked, watching him closely. “Do you know who we are, Scout Ruuk?” His voice was smooth, even.

  Ruuk looked up sharply, then dropped his gaze again. “Yes, Master.”

  Paul resumed walking. Useless.

  “Master!” Ruuk blurted, voice cracking as he hurried after them. “Chief Grag sent me to find you.”

  Paul stopped.

  “Slavers are at the village,” Ruuk said quickly.

  “The entire army is at Gravewell,” Paul replied flatly.

  If Grag could not manage Gravewell with nearly all available forces present, then the threat was either exceptional—or Grag was incompetent. Paul ran a hand through his beard, eyes lifting toward the treeline.

  “They’re there to trade,” Ruuk added.

  Paul’s gaze snapped back. “Trade?”

  “Yes, Master. Chief Grag had the undead hidden when they approached. The ogres are guarding them.”

  Paul turned toward Gravewell. That was unexpected.

  “Selun,” he said, already moving, “bring the rest back to Gravewell as quickly as possible.”

  He didn’t wait for confirmation. Paul broke into a run.

  At full speed, he could reach Gravewell within the hour. With an entourage, it would take the entire night. The decision was obvious.

  The slavers would be useful.

  One way or another.

  Paul crested the last rise before Gravewell and slowed.

  At a distance, the settlement looked unchanged. Smoke curled from cook fires. Goblins moved between huts carrying baskets, bundles, and tools. No banners. No formations. No sign of mustered force. It was… normal. Crude, dirty, inefficient—but normal. Nothing could be seen inside the walls.

  Which meant Grag had understood.

  Paul slipped into the village from the eastern path, keeping to the shadows until he was close enough to smell the tannery pits and hear the clatter of labor. Only then did he allow himself to be seen.

  Grag was already waiting.

  The goblin stood near the central fire pit, posture casual, weapon absent. He bowed quickly and crudely, goblin like.

  Grag walked away from the central fire pit toward Paul. “Master,” he said, a little too quickly.

  “Report,” Paul said.

  Grag turned and led him away from the open space, toward a storage shed near the perimeter. Two goblins hauling sacks paused when they saw Paul, then returned to their work without comment. Good. No panic. No reverence.

  “They came in from the northwest,” Grag said quietly. “Six wagons, twelves guards and a human leader… He called himself Rick.”

  Paul noted the detail. Numbers first. Always numbers.

  “They did not see the dead?” Paul asked.

  “No,” Grag replied. “All undead are inside the village walls, stored, or working beyond the tree line. Patrols recalled. Nothing armed visible except the ogres.”

  “And the ogres?”

  “Idle. Eating. Guarding ‘food stock.’”

  Paul glanced toward the pens. From the slavers’ angle, it would look like exactly that—livestock waiting for slaughter.

  “What did you tell them?” Paul asked.

  “That my master is a wizard. That you pay well. That you use broken goblins to feed your ogres.” He hesitated. “That you would be angry if I let them leave without speaking to you.”

  Paul stopped walking.

  Grag kept his eyes forward.

  “And the undead?” Paul prompted.

  “I said nothing,” Grag replied. “They did not ask.”

  Correct.

  Paul resumed walking. “What do they believe?”

  “That you convinced ogres to work for you,” Grag said. “That you don’t care about goblins except as tools. That you are too far from Anglia to matter.”

  Crude. Sloppy. Effective. Grag was unaware of why he did was right. That could be corrected.

  “What do they want?” Paul asked.

  “To sell,” Grag said. “They have surplus. Sick. Injured. Weak.” He paused. “They call them dead weight.”

  Paul almost smiled.

  Almost.

  “And what do you think they see when they look at Gravewell?” Paul asked.

  Grag considered. “Master?” He looked at the walls. ““I don’t know.” He glanced at the walls. “A human wizard with goblin slaves. Someone small, trying to be big… because he was nothing where he came from?”

  Paul nodded once.

  That assessment matched his own.

  They reached the gate. “They are outside waiting for you.”

  “Let’s go.” Paul said.

  Grag spoke again, lower now. “I told them you buy runts cheap. That you feed some to ogres. That the rest work until they die.”

  Paul turned to face him fully.

  “You did not embellish?” Paul asked.

  “No,” Grag said. “I let them imagine the rest.”

  Good.

  Slavers did not need lies. They needed confirmation of their own assumptions.

  Paul ran through the scenario in his mind. No undead exposure. No unnatural silence. No overt discipline that might hint at compulsion or necromancy. Goblins working poorly, inefficiently, visibly exhausted. Ogres idle and stupid-looking. Exactly what slavers expected from the fringe.

  The lie held because it was ugly.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Paul met Grag’s gaze. “You understood the risk.”

  “Yes,” Grag said. “If they saw the dead, they would leave. Or return with soldiers.”

  “And if they saw order?” Paul pressed.

  “They would remember it,” Grag replied. “And talk.”

  Paul turned away. That answer earned nothing. No praise. No acknowledgment. But Grag remained standing when Paul walked past, which meant he understood something else as well: silence was approval.

  Grag had not asked for instructions.

  He had protected the system.

  That was sufficient.

  Paul stepped through the gate without ceremony.

  The slavers had been made to wait just beyond the palisade, their wagons pulled into a loose crescent as if the habit of forming a camp clung to them even when unnecessary. Canvas tops were stained and patched. Iron-rimmed wheels bore fresh mud from the forest roads. Chains hung from the wagon sides, some empty, some very much not.

  Paul noted all of it in passing.

  They were watching him.

  Not openly—slavers learned early not to stare—but with the quiet assessment of men accustomed to judging value quickly. Height. Bearing. Clothing. Paul wore his fine leathers, clean but worn, a cloak cut for weather rather than display. He had not gotten new cloths since his time with Alaric, but where would he have gotten them? No sigils. No staff. No obvious focus. Just a ring at his finger and a calm that did not fit the surroundings.

  Good.

  The man who stepped forward was human, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with the look of someone who had learned to smile without warmth. He removed his hat and did not bow.

  “Wizard,” the man said. Not a greeting. A test.

  Paul stopped a few paces away and met his gaze. “You’re blocking my road.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed the man’s face, quickly hidden.

  “Rick,” he said instead. “I was told you’d want to speak with me.”

  Paul let his eyes drift past him, to the wagons, the guards, the ogres standing off to one side with heavy clubs and dull expressions. The goblins chained near the rear wagons did not look up.

  “I don’t want anything,” Paul said. “I decide whether something is useful.”

  Rick exhaled through his nose, then chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  He gestured vaguely behind him. “We were moving through. Chief here”—he nodded toward Grag, not unkindly—“said you might buy.”

  Paul’s gaze sharpened slightly at the phrasing. Might. Rick was leaving himself room to walk away.

  Paul turned his attention to Grag instead. “Why are they outside the walls?”

  Grag stiffened. “So, they would not see more than they need to,” he said carefully.

  Paul inclined his head once and looked back to Rick. “You don’t enter without invitation.”

  Rick shrugged. “Didn’t expect one.”

  The guards relaxed a fraction. This was the rhythm they understood—small power, cautious hospitality, nothing sacred.

  Paul stepped closer, close enough that Rick would have to tilt his head to keep eye contact.

  “You’re far from Anglia,” Paul said. “And even further from oversight.”

  Rick’s smile widened. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Then you already understand the rules,” Paul replied. “I don’t ask where your stock comes from. You don’t ask what happens after it’s mine.”

  Rick studied him for a long moment. “You don’t sound like a priest.”

  “I’m not.”

  Rick gestured again, this time more deliberately. “We’ve got excess. Bad legs. Sick lungs. Too slow for the road. Normally we cut them loose.”

  “Wasteful,” Paul said.

  Rick snorted. “You should see the margins.”

  Paul turned and walked toward the nearest wagon without waiting for permission. Rick hesitated only a heartbeat before following.

  The canvas flap was pulled back. Inside, a goblin lay curled on the planks, chest rattling with each breath. Another sat with a bandaged leg, eyes glassy with fever. Neither reacted to Paul’s presence.

  “They’ll die before Anglia,” Rick said. “Or worse, slow us down.”

  Paul crouched briefly, close enough to see the sickness in their skin, the tremor in their hands.

  He stood and dusted his hands on his cloak.

  “How many like this?” Paul asked.

  Rick blinked. “You want those?”

  “They don’t scream,” Paul said. “They don’t run. And they don’t complain when worked until they break.”

  Rick stared at him for a moment, then barked a laugh. “You really don’t like goblins.”

  “They’re labor,” Paul replied flatly. “Like horses. Or mules.”

  Rick nodded, reassessing. This was the confirmation he’d been looking for.

  “And payment?” Rick asked.

  “We have some coin.” Paul said, looking up and down the line, “but looks like you could use food for your men.”

  Rick opened his mouth, then stopped. Calculated. Recalculated.

  “For stock that won’t make the season?” Rick said slowly. “And we don’t have to carry them?”

  Paul met his eyes. “You get paid for what would otherwise rot in the woods.”

  Rick spat to the side. “You’re cold.”

  “What does it matter?”

  Rick grinned. “That’ll do.”

  He extended a hand.

  Paul did not take it.

  “Unload the dead weight,” Paul said. “Leave the chains.”

  Rick hesitated again, then snapped his fingers at his men. “You heard him.”

  As the guards moved, Rick leaned closer. “You do business like a man who expects to still be here next year.”

  Paul finally looked at him fully.

  “I don’t expect,” he said. “I will be here. Remember where we are.”

  Rick laughed softly, shaking his head. “Fringe wizard or not,” he said, “you’re going to do just fine out here.”

  Paul watched the goblins being dragged from the wagons, already calculating where they would be put, how long they would last, and what they would become.

  Rick had no idea how right he was.

  Rick eventually filled it. “You’re buying more than most would,” he said. “For a place this small.”

  Paul did not answer immediately. He watched a guard shove a coughing goblin toward the gate, where Grag silently directed them onward. No hesitation. No flinching.

  “Tell me something,” Paul said at last, tone idle. “What do you usually do when stock dies on the road?”

  Rick blinked, thrown off by the casual shift. Then he shrugged. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Distance, mostly,” Rick said. “If they drop near a settlement, we sell cheap. If not…” He tilted his head. “Ditch them. Burn them if they’re sick. No sense spreading rot.”

  Paul nodded slowly, as if filing away a minor detail. “And how often does that happen?”

  Rick snorted. “More than I’d like. Roads are long. Goblins are weak.”

  Paul turned his gaze back toward the wagons. “Next season,” he said, as if continuing the same thought, “you’ll be coming back this way.”

  Rick stiffened slightly. Not suspicion—interest.

  “Maybe,” Rick said. “Depends on how Anglia treats us.”

  “When you do,” Paul continued, “bring them.”

  Rick frowned. “Bring who?”

  “The dead,” Paul said simply. “All of them.”

  The silence that followed was sharper this time.

  Rick studied Paul carefully now, weighing him in a different way. “Dead stock?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean—” Rick gestured vaguely behind him, to the road, to the forest, to the unmarked places between. “Bodies.”

  Paul met his eyes. “Yes.”

  Rick barked a short laugh. “What for?”

  Paul shrugged. “Alchemy. Reagents. Experiments.”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like an alchemist.”

  “I don’t advertise,” Paul replied.

  Rick rocked back on his heels, thinking. The guards nearby pretended not to listen. The ogres did not pretend at all.

  “You’re asking us to haul corpses,” Rick said. “That’s weight. Space. Smell.”

  Paul inclined his head. “Which is why I’ll pay for them.”

  Rick’s brow creased. “How?”

  “By weight,” Paul said. “Or headcount. Whichever you prefer.”

  Rick’s mouth twitched. “No inspection?”

  “No inspection.”

  Rick stared at him for a long moment. “You don’t care what condition they’re in?”

  Paul’s expression didn’t change. “If they died on your road, they’re already what I want.”

  That landed. Rick turned away, pacing a few steps as he ran the numbers. Dead goblins cost nothing. They were a liability. A problem. Something to be rid of. Paul was offering to make them profit.

  Rick turned back. “And you don’t ask where they came from.”

  “No.”

  “And no questions about how many.”

  “No.”

  “And no trouble if Anglia hears about it.”

  Paul smiled thinly. “If Anglia hears about it, you’ll have larger problems than me.”

  Rick laughed despite himself. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  Rick glanced at his wagons, then at the road stretching east. He imagined guards not having to stop. Wagons not slowed by bodies dumped in ditches. Coin added where loss usually sat.

  “What do you want them delivered as?” Rick asked. “Whole? Burned? Bound?”

  “Whole,” Paul said. “As you find them.”

  Rick nodded slowly. “And you’ll be here.”

  Paul did not answer that question directly. “You know where Gravewell is.”

  Rick exhaled, then stuck out his hand again—this time not as a courtesy, but as a seal.

  Paul did not take it.

  Rick froze, then laughed, withdrawing it. “Right. Wizard.”

  Paul stepped closer. “This arrangement benefits you,” he said quietly. “It costs you nothing. And it creates a habit.”

  Rick’s smile sharpened. “You planning to be a regular stop?”

  Paul’s gaze was cold. “I plan for reliability.”

  Rick considered that, then nodded once. “All right,” he said. “Next season. Whatever dies on the road comes to you.”

  Paul turned away, the negotiation already concluded. “See that it does.”

  Rick watched him go, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re a strange one,” he called after him. “Most men don’t want reminders of the road.”

  Paul did not look back.

  The slavers would leave thinking they had found a profitable eccentric on the edge of nowhere. A wizard with ogres. A goblin pit. A buyer for waste. They would not realize they had just become a supply line. And by the time they did, the habit would already be formed.

  The slavers did not linger.

  By dawn the wagons were lighter, the road south already chewed into ruts by iron wheels and indifferent boots. Rick rode near the front, laughing with one of his guards as they passed beyond the treeline. Paul did not need to hear the words to know the tone.

  They mocked the goblins—weak stock, barely worth chaining. They joked about the “wizard” who bought trash and paid in food like a hedge-priest feeding beggars. They congratulated themselves on finding a fool on the edge of nowhere.

  Rick filed Paul away as strange. Useful. Harmless.

  Grag watched them go from the palisade, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

  “They think they took advantage,” Grag said quietly.

  “They did,” Paul replied. “In the way that matters to them.”

  Grag frowned, unsure if that was a correction or confirmation.

  Paul waited until the last wagon disappeared before turning back toward the village. He did not invite Grag to follow. Grag came anyway.

  They stopped beside the tannery sheds, out of earshot of the other goblins.

  “You said you buy runts cheap,” Paul began.

  Grag straightened. “Yes, Master.”

  “You should not say cheap,” Paul continued. “Say practical.”

  Grag blinked. “Master?”

  “Cheap implies weakness,” Paul said. “Practical implies choice. Slavers respect choice.”

  Grag nodded slowly, filing it away.

  “And you told them I would be angry if they left without speaking to me,” Paul added.

  “Yes.”

  “Do not use my anger again,” Paul said. “Use my indifference. People fear that more.”

  Grag hesitated. “They might not believe—”

  “They will,” Paul said. “Because you believed it.”

  Grag swallowed and nodded.

  Paul turned slightly, indicating the pens where the newly purchased goblins were being sorted. “You hid the dead. You left the labor visible. That was correct.”

  Grag waited. No praise came.

  “When traders arrive again,” Paul continued, “you will do the same. No order. No discipline. Let them see inefficiency. Let them assume it is decay.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And if they ask questions?”

  “I answer only what they already believe,” Grag said carefully.

  Paul inclined his head once. That was the only acknowledgment Grag would receive.

  When Grag finally left, Paul remained where he was. He reviewed the outcome without emotion.

  Seasonal corpse acquisition established.

  External trade cover, in place.

  Plausible deniability, intact.

  The slavers would travel routes Paul could not yet reach. They would gather bodies from villages he had not touched, from roads he did not patrol, from deaths that were not his doing.

  They would bring him the results. It reduced risk. It reduced exposure. It reduced the need for open conquest.

  Paul looked toward the road one last time before turning back to Gravewell. This was not an alliance. It was infrastructure.