By Evelyn Johnson

Forgonath finds me in the Staggering Tavern, hanging over the table like a limp sack and polishing off my fourth flagon of ale. The others arrive shortly later—Borduain pats me on the back and calls for his own tankard while Lorovan slides into the chair across from me and requests wine.

When their drinks arrive, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, staring into the depths of my mug.

Empty, like the tavern around us.

Like me.

“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter. “I’m going to find the Tunestone and use it to kill Lord Kavalor.” I drag my eyes up to rest on my companions. “My brother’s spirit cries for vengeance. I must answer.”

Borduain sighs. “That was a year ago, Rovan.”

“A year ago today.”

“Your brother isn’t the only one slaughtered by Kavalor’s raids,” Lorovan begins.

I cut him off with a snarl. “I know that. Why do you think I want to stop him? More people are losing their brothers, fathers, families, and for what? A greedy lord looking to expand his borders! It’s madness, I tell you, and I’m going to stop it.”

Lorovan and Forgonath exchange looks. Borduain sets his tankard down and meets my gaze. “Look. We’re not about to go gallivanting after some legend just because you’re mad at Lord Kavalor. Fury is no reason to charge into battle—” His tone sharpens as I start to interrupt. “I’m not finished yet.”

I snap my teeth together and glower.

“However,” he continues, “I agree that Lord Kavalor must be stopped. Someone has to bring justice on his head, and it might as well be us.” Borduain leans back in his chair, eyeing me. “Anger—righteous anger—can be a powerful ally, and you seem absolutely full of it.” He lifts his tankard in a salute. “Keep that, and you shall have my blade as well.”

Lorovan rests his wine glass on the table. “And my longbow,” he says.

Forgonath taps his wizard’s staff against the floor. “And your brother.”

“Thank you. I—”

I blink hard as Forgonath’s words sink in. “Wait. Did you say brother?”

The wizard closes his eyes and begins to mutter an incantation. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is an ale-laced belch.

Borduain frowns. “Pardon you.”

Forgonath’s chanting grows louder, and his staff begins to glow. A flash of light blasts from it, and the tavern shudders from the magic’s force. The words Tunestone, Lord Kavalor, and Forgonath emerge in the midst of the chant. Runes swirl in the air next to me, forming a rabid cyclone of purple and green.

Then my brother materializes.

Well… what’s left of him.

Vorden’s tunic is molded to his grayish body, and his beard looks like a dead rat tangled in ancient seaweed. The runes vanish, and Forgonath slumps unconscious against the table, clearly drained. My brother’s single bloodshot eye roves the room, coming to rest on me. A cockroach peers out of his empty eye socket and hisses.

The decaying stench of Vorden’s everything hits me like a wave of dragon fart, and I stagger out of my chair, gagging. Good glory. I didn’t have this many ales, did I?

Vorden’s lip rises in a grin, revealing dark, stained teeth. “Hello,” he rasps.

Lorovan raises an eyebrow as slender as his bowstring, looking from my brother’s reanimated corpse to the unconscious wizard. “I had no idea Forgonath was capable of necromancy.” He frowns. “That’s… unnerving.”

“In more ways than one,” Borduain chokes, waving away the haze of my brother’s stench.

“This can’t be!” I stammer, staring at Vorden.

“But it is,” he replies, waggling his disgusting eyebrows.

“But… you’re dead! I was about to go avenge you!”

Vorden nods. “And Forgonath has summoned me so I can avenge myself with you. I’m quite handy with a battle axe, you know. Or, I was. I’m not sure how much this”—he pokes at a maggot wriggling through his rancid bicep—“is capable of.”

I barely manage to keep my ale down. “You… you can’t come! That’s beyond madness. Who ever heard of a man avenging his own death?”

Vorden grins again, yellowed teeth somehow complementing his mottled complexion. “Come now. That’s what makes it fun! Besides,” he says, growing serious, “you could use my emotional support. Avenging one’s brother can be a difficult process.” He reaches out to pat my shoulder, and I trip over my chair in my haste to back away.

“You don’t need to come!” I yelp. “I’ve got a party already! Besides, you reek!”

“I could bathe.”

Before I can stop myself, I imagine the scent of Vorden using shampoo.

Borduain grimaces, apparently having made the same mistake. “Um, Rovan… I hate to say it, but perhaps my blade is needed elsewhere?”

“No,” I growl. “Vorden is not coming. Our quest will be just like any other!”

“Umm, actually…” My brother’s grin turns sheepish. “Forgonath sort of bound me to the quest. I’ll only go back to being dead if I help retrieve the Tunestone and use it to defeat Lord Kavalor with you.” He rubs the back of his festering neck. “So… if you don’t let me come, I’ll kinda wander the earth like this forever.” He gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

I glare daggers at Forgonath’s unconscious frame. A thousand curses on his head. May he wither and die like morngrass. I hope Vorden gives him the most malodorous embrace of all time when he wakes.

“Fine,” I spit. “You can come. But only so you rest in peace.”

Vorden heaves a putrid sigh of relief, then picks the maggot out of his decaying muscle and crunches it between his teeth. Borduain lurches into a gagging fit.

Swallowing the larva, Vorden says, “Isn’t that what this was about in the first place?”

“Yeah,” I say, returning to my seat and laying my head in my hands. “I guess so.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Evelyn Johnson loves making people laugh. She’s also a snark master, the weirdest homeschooler in Wisconsin, and (not-so-secretly) an elf. She enjoys a good cup of black tea and, as a certified nerd, will talk your ear off about her favorite fandoms. When she’s not arranging epic music on the piano or drawing fantasy maps, she’s studying entrepreneurship and the art of writing at the Author Conservatory. 

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