“May I, Father?” asked the deep, monotone voice. The way the figure held the cloak closed, it looked as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry when Brin had knocked on the door. Pants, boots, and a shirt that would fit someone seven feet tall sat near Ademir’s work table, and there were all sorts of tools and things out, as if he were in the middle of a project. Or a repair.

Ademir stared hard into Brin’s eyes, as if weighing him. He nodded. “Go ahead.”

The robe fell to the ground.

The first two words that popped into Brin’s head were “handsome squidward.” Ademir’s familiar was carved to look like the perfect exemplar of male beauty. A square jaw, prominent chin, full lips, intelligent eyes underneath a slightly narrowed brow–the only imperfect part of his face was the nose. It was a bit too long and bumped as if it had been broken a few times–a match for Ademir’s.

The artificial man was carved to look like a prime specimen of the male physique, although thankfully the careful attention to detail didn’t make it to his waist. The puppet was carved mostly from wood, but reinforced in several places with steel, tin, and even gemstones.

Brin knew right away he was looking at a masterpiece, and not just because of the handsome face. Even as a statue this was the type of thing that belonged in a museum, but the way he moved elevated it to another level. The wooden pieces fit together so seamlessly that Brin could barely tell they weren’t all one piece. The way the puppet leaned forward in interest, the slight squint to his eyes, the crooked eyebrow, if Brin squinted he could believe this was a real, living being.

“What’s your name?”

“I do not have one yet. Father requested that I choose my own name.” He had a full, resonant voice, though a bit monotone. Not necessarily in a robotic way, more like he was simply a very calm person.

Brin turned to Ademir. “What do you call him?”

Ademir blinked twice, his expression inscrutable. Brin figured he wasn’t going to get an answer until Ademir eventually said, “Son.”

Brin nodded as if that were perfectly natural. He might be the first person who’d seen Ademir’s familiar. He was definitely the first non-[Witch]. He wouldn’t punish the [Crafter] for trusting him with this.

Brin looked back at the big familiar and grinned. “Well, I have to say. You are so awesome! Even without a weapon, what you did to that undead! You stomped him flat! What other kinds of things can you do? And your eyes! That’s my glass, isn’t it? With gemstones in them? Emerald, it looks like. You know, Ademir could’ve just asked me to mold them into shape, it must’ve taken forever to carve them so perfectly like that. Oh, but we should figure out a name first.”

He’d started pacing back and forth in his excitement, but he stopped. “How about Pinnochio? It’s from a story where I'm from where a man builds a puppet who comes alive. The puppet dreams of becoming a real boy someday, and eventually he does.”

“No,” said the familiar. “I am already real. I am already complete.”

“Deathbot 2000,” said Brin, half-joking.

He tilted his head to the side, actually considering it. “What does the 2000 signify?”

“It makes you sound futuristic. Like, you’re so advanced that it must be the future.”

“I like that,” said the familiar, not seeing Ademir’s wince. “But Deathbot is not acceptable. Father insists that I am more than a killing machine.”

“I said you should pick your own name,” said Ademir.

“Correct. But if you dislike it then it is not acceptable.”

Brin snapped his fingers when he came up with the perfect name. “Ademsi.”

“Ah. Ha ha. As in, little Ademir. Ha ha ha!” The familiar’s laugh was just him saying the words “ha ha ha”. He probably didn’t have lungs. If Brin had to guess, there was an enchantment projecting the words, and the familiar was making his lips move out of politeness.

“Ha ha ha,” he laughed again. “Approved. I will be Ademsi 2000.”

Ademir’s eyes widened. “What? Just like that? We’ve spent ages trying to pick a name!”

Ademsi 2000 turned around with jarring swiftness. “You don’t like it? Am I overstepping myself by naming myself after you?” His voice pitched up, breaking the monotone. His eyes must not have been emeralds after all, because they changed from green to blue.

Ademir waved his arms in denial. “No, no, no! I love it! I’m honored. Pleased to meet you, Ademsi.”

“Ademsi 2000,” the puppet corrected.

Ademir flicked a quick look of irritation towards Brin, before opening his arms wide. “Ademsi 2000. Of course. Come here.”

Ademsi’s eyes switched to purple, and he wrapped Ademir in a hug. The [Crafter] looked kind of small in the golem’s huge, muscular arms.

“Nice to meet you, Ademsi 2000,” said Brin, holding out his hand.

Ademsi looked down at it. “What is the significance of this?”

“It’s a handshake,” answered Ademir. “You clasp his hand, but not hard enough to break it.”

“I understand. Acceptable.” Ademsi’s hand shot out like lightning, but despite the speed, his grip was gentle. Gentle, but completely unyielding. Brin let go, and Ademsi followed suit. “A handshake. A gesture of trust and restraint. For acquaintances?”

“Or even friends!” said Brin. “Hey, I make glass and I heal from cuts really fast. What kind of cool stuff can you do?”

“Behold,” said Ademsi. His eyes moved from purple to yellow. He held out the same arm that he’d used to shake Brin’s hand, and it split in half. Brin hadn’t even been able to see the seam before, but they angled on perfect little gears and swung to the side. Ademsi’s hand flipped around, and was replaced by a hand-sized saw blade. The arm snapped back to place, and the blade buzzed as it began to spin.

Ademsi casually lifted up a piece of scrap wood and tossed it in the air. He swiped straight through it with his buzzsaw, cutting it in half in the air.

“Whoa,” Brin said.

Ademsi switched his hand back, and then his chest opened up, revealing a wall with several tubes. He heard a soft whisper, and Ademsi closed his body again. It shut perfectly with a click, so smoothly that Brin couldn’t see where it opened up anymore.

“Look behind you,” said Ademsi.

A crossbow bolt was stuck several inches deep in the wall of Ademir’s workshop.

Brin clapped. “That was amazing!”

He [Inspected] Ademsi.

“Huh. I wonder why my [Inspect] didn’t give me anything before. You’re wide open now,” said Brin.

Ademir answered, “There are some rituals that make [Inspecting] familiars more difficult. It all falls apart if you figure it out, though.”

Brin nodded. Thinking about it, this was the first time he’d sat down and had a private conversation with a [Witch]. There’d been too much going on since the ritual, so he hadn’t gotten a chance yet, but considering who their enemy was, it was past time he asked some of his questions.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering. I met an undead who could think and talk. Once I freed him with a potion of Turn Undead, he remembered everything about his old life and… honestly, he acted like a normal person. Since then, I’ve been wondering… worrying, really. Is that what they’re all like? Are they all trapped souls? If so, that means that when you die, your soul sticks to your body forever, just waiting around in case someone decides to resurrect you?”

Ademsi turned to his father, his eyes going from yellow to green. He sat down on a stool and held his chin in his hand, his posture brimming with curiosity. Ademir’s eyes went from Ademsi to Brin, and then sighed. He sat as well, and gestured for Brin to take a seat on the workbench.

“Have you heard of the days of Nhamanshal? Have the [Bards] told you of how things were back then?”

Brin shook his head.

Ademir must’ve had a little bit of bard in him, because he spoke with a soft and poetic cadence. “Great and glorious were the days of Nhamanshal. Their roads stretched across continents and all could travel safely. One could journey from Steamshield to Favora in an afternoon, though neither of those cities existed in those days. The cities they had are forgotten to time, but we know that they must have been glorious.

“In those days, they didn’t fear the dead the way we do now. [Necromancers] were favored for doing a necessary business, not feared and despised like today. They moved from city to city, town to town, and hunted ghosts and the restless dead, and brought them peace. A natural undead is overcome with hunger for human flesh, but [Necromancers] and [Witches] can quiet that appetite and bring them sanity. There is nothing in the [Necromancer] Class that says you must only raise the dead. In fact, it can be used in the opposite way, to put them down. [Necromancers] helped the spirits of the dead move on, so that none could chain them and use them for evil. All of the dead in their catacombs that we call the Burrow Cities were attended to by a [Necromancer] and made safe.”

“But that didn’t work,” Brin objected. “Every time a [Witch] finds a Burrow City, it’s a worldwide threat. They can still raise the dead.”

“They found a method of breathing undeath into those corpses, but it’s an inferior creation. They do not have their original souls so they cannot remember their lives, and they cannot be made to think or speak. They must be controlled by a greater power.”

“Is that a weakness we can exploit?”

“I suppose,” Ademir scratched his chin idly. “If you kill the officers, it will cause confusion and chaos in the ranks. But that’s true in any army.”

“How long after someone dies until their soul departs?” asked Brin.

Ademir shrugged. “It varies. Usually a priest completes the rites and then burns the corpse. If someone dies to treachery or violence where no-one can find them, their soul may stay bound for quite a while. They may even rise again as natural undead.”

"Why is it that undead die from blood-loss, by the way? I saw Luiza slit an undead's throat, and it bled and died."

Ademir rubbed his chin. "I don't know. I've never tinkered with the undead, you know. But seems like that shouldn't be the case. The undead are energized by the Wyrd, not from the regular functions of their body. Maybe it would be better to think of these Burrow Kingdom corpses as necromantic constructs rather than the regular restless dead. Biological machines, that cease to function when broken. Or maybe I'm misinformed about how all undead are. Like I said, I've never tinkered with this."

“Hm. Next question. What’s going on with Chamylla? She got caught up in the curse. How is that going to affect the ritual you put on me?”

“Her ability to defend you has been nullified, but other than that it shouldn’t matter. The ritual will split any curse aimed at you between all of us, but it won’t make you bear our afflictions.”

“How does that work with her being in the temple? I thought [Witches] weren’t allowed,” Brin asked.

“Maybe she repented in Ellion’s eyes when she switched Classes? Chamylla is barely a [Witch]. Otherwise, she should’ve been able to shrug the curse off completely. I’m honestly surprised she still wasn’t able to. [Enchantress] should’ve lent her some ability to do so. It’s possible that our spy tampered with whatever protections Chamylla put on herself.”

“Hm. Next question. The giant undead. What are they?”

Ademir glanced around his shop nervously. "Sorry, it's still a strange feeling to speak of these things so openly. You aren't frightened of my Class?"

"I had a Class that people called evil, but it didn't make me bad, it just made me angry. I still remembered the difference between right and wrong. You're a good guy, Ademir. You've always done right by me."

Ademsi 2000 nodded firmly, and Ademir chuckled weakly. "Thanks. To your question, I'm not sure. There are ways to modify undead. One can make them larger, or shape their bones into weapons, or do all kinds of things. It could be that some [Witch] has deliberately grown them from regular undead, or it could be that they were taken from a race of giants. It's said that the men of Olland are giants, and I've heard of a race of giants in Pollisia or west past the corrupted lands."

Brin knew for a fact that all of the men of Olland were not all giants, since that's where Galan was from. But who knew what kinds of things might exist here? He couldn't wait until this siege was over. He still wanted to get out there and see the world.

It had felt fine to wait, back when things were peaceful and he had all the time in the world. But now that they were cut off, it felt more urgent. It was possible that they’d all die here, and he’d die without ever seeing more of this world than one crappy little town. For some reason, that bothered him more than the thought of dying did.

Brin sighed and put his head in his hands. “It’s bad out there, Ademir. Every time we have to push the undead back and repair the gates, we lose more people we can’t afford to lose. If the Prefit were still here, that would be one thing. He could charge into the undead and hold the ground practically by himself. Now that he’s not here, we need casters to do that. But these are common Classes and nobody has the mana to keep that up. Zilly’s dad won’t have his mana back by the time the undead break the gates again tomorrow. We’ll have to take that ground with steel and blood.”

Ademir didn’t answer, and Ademsi’s eyes darkened a bit.

“We need incredible, explosive power. Someone who can break the undead line and push them back. Our casters need to save their magic for emergencies; we can’t have them waste it all on the first push.”

“Why haven’t you talked to Bruna or Clementine then? Poco and Ferir would be perfect for that.”

“I’ll talk to them next. But we need a person to lead the charge,” said Brin.

Ademsi stood abruptly. “I will go.”

Ademir held up a hand as if to try to stop him, then let it fall.

“Talk to my brother familiars. I would welcome their aid. But regardless of their answer, I will fight. This is the town my father loves. I will protect it.”

“You’re a great man, Ademsi 2000. Better than we deserve,” Brin said.

“I know,” the war puppet said solemnly.

“Bring him home safe,” said Ademir.

“I will,” said Brin.

He made three more stops that night. Bruna agreed to send Poco. Clementine agreed to send Ferir, and even talked about getting Odilon to lend some of his dogs to the war. To his surprise, Balbi agreed to send her familiar, whose name was Comofome. Comofome was a sentient suit of clothes, but he was extremely flexible and could resize himself to fit Ademsi’s prodigious frame. When the battle puppet went to war tomorrow, he’d be wearing another familiar.

The next time the undead broke through the gates, they’d have some real power to contend with.