The new residents of Babylon began to go about their business, still unaware that a Dark Elf had been following their every move. He spied on them from his new home up a tree. The hillfort afforded his quarry the best protection they had enjoyed since he first found them in the city of Avolo. But maybe it provided him with an opportunity, too. He gave himself time to develop a plan, convinced that the adventurers of Mer Khazer would not be leaving their refuge in a hurry.

Once his decision was made, the henchman got to work. It was a variation on his attack on the barn at the farm. He began collecting any undead who passed his way, lashing them to the lower branches of his tree. This time, he covered their faces with cloth, muffling the moans and groans they emitted.

Once he had harvested sufficient undead, he had to carry out the hard part of his plan. Getting them up to the top of the hillfort.

He waited, a whole day, then another, for the right moment. Finally, he took his chance. This was risky: climbing the earthworks of the settlement, trusting that the darkness would shield him from any lookouts at the top of the fort.

The henchman scarpered up the steep slopes, agile and powerful, fast-moving but silent. The defences were good enough to keep out the dead, but not an athlete such as he. The last, most dangerous part was leaping up to the palisade of wooden stakes that surrounded the flat top of the hill. He gripped it with both hands, then pulled himself up and over the palisade.

He allowed himself a few moments to catch his breath and wait to see if he had been spotted. It remained quiet. The people of the fort slept. Then he crept to where the rope ladder was stashed, threw it over the edge and climbed down.

Next, he returned to his tree and retrieved his collection of silenced dead. He roped the first two to the lower rungs of the ladder—two would be heavy enough, even though their decaying bodies were lighter than living ones—climbed past them and back up to the top of the fort. Then came the physically demanding task of hauling the ladder back up with the two creatures attached. Once he had got them up, he released them. At first, of course, their instinct was to eat him. But by once more throwing down the ladder and beginning his descent, they turned instead to the many bodies tucked away inside the wooden homes of the fort.

Again, and again, and again, the Dark Elf did this, not stopping to rest his tired muscles, stretch out his back or soothe his raw hands. He pushed himself to exhaustion. But each time he did it, another pair of undead warriors shuffled their way slowly towards the sleeping residents of Babylon. Eventually, bloodcurdling screams began to issue from the settlement as the Babylonians awoke to find the risen dead had entered their homes; were scratching and biting and chewing them. None had the presence of mind, at first, to come and check the rope ladder. The henchman completed his work. Once he heard the sounds of fighting and of organised resistance to his invasion, he retreated. Plan implemented, he retired to his tree and let his scheme play out.

The Babylonians defended themselves from the Dark Elf’s surprise night time undead attack better than he’d expected them to. A significant number of corpses were buried at the bottom of the hill the next morning. But only one that really mattered to the henchman. The wizard was finally dead.

He crept towards the gathering where the enemy performed their rites. When it was the wizard’s turn to get buried, the three-headed ogre spoke to the assembly.

‘I feel that we are partly responsible for the death of Sandon,’ said the head called Dog.

The Dark Elf could see the ogre’s fellow adventurers raise an eyebrow or roll their eyes at this statement. How amusing. Somehow, they blamed the ogre for the wizard’s death. Then, first one, then all three ogre heads began to leak water out of their eyes. They sniffled, as if they had suddenly caught a sickness.

‘Sandon was a very good friend to us,’ said the head called Og, in a strange, husky voice. It then appeared that the ogre had completely lost the power of speech. In the end, the Light Elf walked over, gave the ogre a gentle pat, and took over the rest of the speech for him.

At first, the Dark Elf thought that the ogre might be coming down with the undead sickness. But then, he realised that his afflictions were caused by sadness. He was most surprised to see such emotion on the face of a former henchman of The Dark Lord. Not least one who had done such terrible things as Og-Grim-Dog.

The henchman reflected on this. He had seen sadness before. Not even once in the harsh realm of Cly’ath Denori’Kilith Tu’an. But many times, since leaving his homeland. After killing his victims’ family members; or indeed their pets; he had seen humans—and other races—express sadness. He couldn’t recall seeing it after killing their colleagues, or allies. Though the ogre hadn’t called this wizard Sandon an ally. He had called him a ‘friend’.

The Dark Elf began to speculate what that word might mean. An ally who you would be sad to see die, he supposed. That led him on to ask himself the question, would anyone be sad if he were to die? Would The Dark Lord mourn him, as the ogre had mourned the wizard? He didn’t think so. She would wish he wasn’t dead, because he was her most valuable henchman. But he supposed, in the end, she would just shrug her shoulders and find a replacement.

Once the Babylonians had completed their rites, and returned to their fort, the Dark Elf found it hard to shake off this new line of thought.

The henchman had to admit that he was beginning to change his mind on a number of things. Not least, he had decided that despite his initial pride at being asked to complete his task alone, he did, after all, need some allies. Allies were not easy to find in a post-apocalyptic world such as this. The goblins who dwelled in Strong Club would have to do.

Their leader, who went by the—frankly ridiculous—name of Grarviaksrurm, was easily persuaded to intervene in the settlement of Babylon.

‘You have many more soldiers than they do,’ The Dark Elf assured him, aware that goblins were a weak and cowardly race at the best of times.

Grarviaksrurm smiled at this. The henchman found the goblin a little bit disturbing. Hard to read. Altogether too clever for a goblin.

‘I’m inclined to make Babylon the first conquest of my new empire,’ the goblin leader said.

‘Well, do what you wish, as long as those individuals I have specified are killed. Do not underestimate that ogre, either.’

Grarviaksrurm waved away his concerns. ‘I happen to have an ogre of my own. We can deal with Og-Grim-Dog.’

A goblin with an ogre. This was most unusual. But these were certainly unusual times. ‘Succeed in this and my masters will reward you most handsomely. Your empire might spread wider than you can imagine.’

The goblin beamed at the thought of his shitty little empire. Who really knew what Lilith and Samael intended to do with this part of Gal’azu? Indeed, all of Gal’azu? The Dark Elf suspected that a post-apocalyptic world such as this might be remembered as the good old days once they were done with it.

He turned and left Strong Club; left Grarviaksrurm to his plans and dreams. This mission had lasted long enough. It was time to return to his masters. Time to serve them in some other way.

The Recorder scratched the final words of the chapter onto his parchment, then rubbed his aching wrist.

‘So, that was it?’ he dared to ask. ‘You returned to The Dark Lord with the job half done? Did you tell her the truth?’

The Dark Elf shrugged with indifference. ‘I’d had enough of that mission. I left the rest of it to the goblins. But of course, I told The Dark Lord the truth. Only a fool would do otherwise.’

The Recorder allowed that answer to sink in for a while, before more questions surfaced. ‘Did Grarviaksrurm attempt to complete your mission? What did The Dark Lord say when you returned? What did she have you do next?’

But the Dark Elf appeared to have gone elsewhere. His eyes had a distant look to them, as if he were reliving some moment from his past. The Recorder shuffled his stack of parchment aggressively, but his interviewee didn’t notice. Just as he was thinking about standing up and leaving the private room of Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa—indeed, as he was thinking that leaving alive should be classed as a victory in itself—the drow’s attention snapped back to him.

‘All questions that can be answered another day. Suffice to say, it wasn’t the last time I saw the infamous ogre, Og-Grim-Dog.’