Death After Death

That was how Simon spent the better part of the week, more or less. They didn’t linger in the dressmaker’s shop long because it wasn’t very defensible and because it didn’t have much in the way of food. The fact that the room with the blood-covered dolls freaked him out was also a part of it, though.

That was the same reason they didn’t return to the inn, even though there was food in there. Somewhere in that place was Freya’s corpse, and quite frankly, he had no desire to know if it was moldering on the floor or wandering around hungering for flesh. That wasn’t true completely. If he saw her wandering around, he would definitely put her out of her misery as painlessly as he could, even if this version had no idea who he was, but he just couldn’t go back to that place.

Instead, he helped his growing tribe of survivors navigate the dangerous city as they took circuitous rooftop routes in search of other survivors and supplies. Eventually, they succeeded in building a bridge of planks and timbers from the third story of the tax assessor’s office to the north gate and started to build a little refuge camp there on the bridge for which Schwarzenbruck was named. It wasn’t much, but it was safe.

Helva and her husband Gotrick vouched for him, of course. How could they not after Helva became the first cured zombie victim in all of Simon’s many lives. They tried to explain to the other locals that, ‘yes, even though he’s a wicked sorcerer, he’s here to help,’ but mostly, they just heard the word wicked.

‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’ Those were the most frequent questions he was asked, followed closely by asking if he was the warlock that was responsible for the zombies.

Simon mostly ignored them now. Instead, his most frequent answer was to tell them that they were going to be okay as he searched for any signs that the person he was saving was infected.

There had been some close calls on that front. It turned out that his magic worked, but only within a few minutes. Greater cure worked longer - at least until they turned, but it was chancy. He’d thrown away three years of his life trying to save a young boy, and it had been in vain. Each time, the magic had driven the child into remission, but each time, the palid skin and flop sweat had returned with a vengeance.

Simon would have gladly tried a fourth or a fifth time, but as it turned out, using greater anything three times in one day was enough to make him cough up blood and pass out himself. He’d slept for a day, and when he’d awoken, he was completely surprised that no one had taken the opportunity to drive a stake through his heart.

That didn’t mean they trusted him, but they needed him, and sometimes that was more important than trust.