One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Four sets of teary, bloodshot stares crossed the severed heads before me. They'd belonged to adventurers, too foolish to not know who and what they were hunting; I was quick with them. Per my own peculiar proclivities, the row of macabre trophies needed to be positioned in a parallel line. Wordlessly, the slightest incongruency was rectified. These slight rituals, no matter how depraved, were the only things that kept my psyche intact. Such was the curse of undeath, of servitude, yet it all felt so very natural; I resumed my work with haunting poise. Such dexterity for a goliath of blackened mithril, ambling beneath the pale kiss of the moon and fixated upon his dark butcheries. So fixated in fact, that I'd failed to notice a straggler.
Five. It needed to join the others.
"Servant, do you continue to dally?" There was a certain playfulness to Hecate's call, saturated with her typical cruelty; the sorceress postured, crosslegged, upon the limp remnants of my bloody work. She'd already all the company a witch could want—a flock of crows that ominously followed in her wake. Some still pecked at the still steaming cadavers, but most simply cooed and cawed from the trees, mocking me along with Hecate. Their dark, downy feathers paled in comparison to the sable sheen of my mistress's flowing tresses, or the flickering glow of her opal orbs. A gown of diaphanous silk clung to the witch's every ridge and curve, teasing a pallid suppleness that taunted in its perfection. Hecate danced along the tips of her unsullied toes, descending the fleshly throne and humming all the way.
We were hunting something. No, someone. It was hard to tell; thinking hurt, so I seldom did. With a grunt, I heeding my mistress's call; there had been another miscount.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine; had I truly missed so many? I gurgled at the prospect of adding to my grim collection.
"I've indulged your little compulsion," said Hecate, her tone dripping with apathy, "but it is time for you to return to your duties." The sorceress looked up at me, eyes as cold and hard as polished ice, yet she seemed uncharacteristically distracted.
"Of...Course...Mistress." Every word strained and stretched, slipping past the ruby teeth of my deathless jaw. "As you wish. Mistress." These days, I found it increasingly draining to speak, exerting the necromantic magics that bound me in the process. While her necromancy was strong, my mistress preferred to keep me on a tight leash; every syllable required great effort.
Together, Hecate and I silently treaded along the misty forest floor, twin flames danced along her palms as to light the way. My mistress was indeed searching for something. She had never been this out of sorts; aimless. We passed by the mangled remains of our last prey, a hapless lycanthrope who had foolishly ventured too close to our camp. His entrails hung from a tree branch, limbs twisted and torn, his head smashed into unrecognizable pulp. I counted every broken claw, the number of knots in his crumpled appendages. He would have made a fine addition to my collection.
"This one was a nuisance," Hecate grumbled, kicking the lifeless corpse aside. "It seems they are becoming more frequent these days."
"Yes. Too many." I paused, gurgling up a wad of ancient soil and collecting my strength, "Tell me, Mistress, why have we stalked...These lands...For so...Long?" My words were punctuated with a faint crackle of ethereal bones.
Hecate shot me a quizzical look, the corners of her mouth rising into something of a smirk. "When did you become so chatty, servant?" There was no joviality in her grin, only malice. "If it will cease your rotten tongue, I will tell you. We're searching for a girl. An important one. 'The Child of Destiny'. I've been tracking her aura but it is weak. She is but a child, but an ancient power has begun to stir within her. A power that could be the key to unlocking the world's fate. Better that I have her to myself and add another 'tool' to my collection. Perhaps she won't be as chatty of an instrument as you are." Hecate spun to face me, "Now, be a good thrall and seal your decrepit maw."
My mistress was a curious creature. Though I was her thrall, she was not entirely without compassion. When I had first come to her, she had seen me as nothing more than a pawn in her grand scheme. Perhaps she still did, but Hecate's temper had dulled somewhat. A certain stiffness had left her. From the sway of her hips to the pitch of her laugh—even if mocking—there was a glint of humanity about her, even if Hecate had long ascended beyond it. Nonetheless, I obeyed.
"As you wish, Mistress." I turned away from the dead wolf and began walking towards the forest edge.
***
"There," Hecate paused, pointing to a small village that dwelled on the edge of the horizon, "I can feel her energy; the child is there." Dawn welcomed us, or rather sought to chase us away; the light of day was no friend to such dark souls as we.
I coughed, ancient dirt and phlegm clogging my windpipe, "Am I called upon, Mistress...For...Slaughter?" Along my sword arm, joints popped and flexed, the weight of my cursed blade ever apparent. Hecate had given me 'life', yes, but it was a false life. My thoughts were disjointed—fragmented—and clarity could only be found in battle and butchery. The life of the living was fleeting, but their deaths...they lingered upon my blade.
Hecate smiled, a cruel twist of her lips. "Soon, servant, soon. I shall surely put on a show, should you be patient." With that, Hecate and I made for the rustic little town in search of her quarry: a child of destiny. No matter the wicked nature of our arrival, of the heraldic carnage we would dole, my decrepit bones ached for the sweet release of fresh blood. My mistress was correct; there was an odd sense of anticipation, of destiny, that had been building inside me. A strange sensation, akin to hunger. A thirst for death. For blood.
"What will we do with them once we find her?" I asked as we made way, “Will we...take her captive? Kill...the rest?" In every aspect I was Hecate's 'sword'. A tool to be used as she saw fit. Such questions were not asked out of curiosity or concern but efficiency.
"The child is our primary concern. Do not harm a hair on her head; she is mine." Hecate replied, "As for the others..." She trailed off, lost in thought. The air chilled as Hecate's twin flames flashed with arcane brilliance. Silently, the witch readied a violent orb of eldritch energy; it crackled with dark bolts of terror. Little did the unsuspecting peasants know what awaited them. "Have fun."
The first shriek was always the loudest when Hecate and I struck with blade and spell,