He looked ahead, at least the brutes were smart enough to have a fire going for him. Would’ve been hell to raise if there hadn’t, he chuckled at his own pun, before sighing. That was the problem these days. He just didn’t have good help, didn’t get the respect he deserved, like back in the war. Those were the good old days. He would bring them back, and blast what anyone said about him. It was a war, who were they to call him up on his tactics. It was a war damnit, which they won. The damn pen-pushers should stay out of his business, and curse what they had to say about necromancy. A soldier was a soldier was a soldier, you would’ve thought they’d be happy not to waste more lives.
Malkeem was getting angry, as he often did when recalling the past. He tried to breathe, and thought of his plans for the future to calm himself down as he strolled into camp. It was empty, and it looked like it had been looted. His breathing was no longer calm. He span towards Rogir, one of the few competent people left from his army days.
“Find who did this. Find them now. Bring them to me, alive, so that I can skin them. I’m going back to the manor, I’m counting on you to get this damn mess sorted”
He moved through the camp to where his insignia was inscribed on the ground, muttered a few words and disappeared.
Two sets of eyes watched from inside a nearby tent, also trying to control their breathing, lest any noise betray their position.
The one called Rogir was beginning to split his ‘men’, who had begun to fan out, searching for tracks, and would soon arrive at their position. The duo tensed, hands straying automatically to their weapons, as one they recognised as a guard from the caravan started towards their position.