Njiru's laboratory was a foul cocktail of antiseptic fluids, and the sweet, cloying scent of decay.
The only sounds were the steady drip... drip... drip of viscous fluids into collection pans and the soft, malevolent crackle of arcane energy from a dozen enchanted instruments.
Jars lined the cold stone walls, a grotesque library of his failures and experiments, their contents suspended in murky preservation liquid—half-formed faces with pleading eyes, limbs stitched together in impossible configurations, creatures of nightmare contorted in silent, eternal screams.
In the center of the room, bathed in the cold, blue-white glow of a magically sustained light-orb, Njiru sat hunched over a marble workbench, his focus absolute as he meticulously worked on his newest, most promising acquisition.
This cadaver, unlike the battlefield refuse he was usually forced to work with, was pristine.
Freshly thawed from its icy prison, its dark skin was unblemished, its form whole and strong. He had already dealt with the trivial matter of the poison in its system, coaxing the black, viscous toxin out with a silver, needle-thin siphon that hummed with quiet magic.
Now, he gently brushed back a coil of the woman's long, black hair, his touch almost a caress.
She had been a powerful one, he could feel it. Her magic staff, a beautiful piece of carved ebony topped with an animal skull, leaned against the table beside him. His servants had wisely brought it back as well.
Njiru ran a gloved finger along its length, feeling the deep thrum of latent energy still bound within the wood, an echo of its former wielder.
A powerful body, and a powerful focus. The potential made his mouth water.
"Such a waste to have simply died," he whispered to the beautiful dead woman, a fond, proprietary smile touching his thin lips. "But your service is not yet over. Not by a long shot."
Suddenly, a high-pitched whine, sharp as a striking nerve, pierced the air from a darkened corner of the lab.
It was followed by a sharp crack and a soft fwoosh of igniting dust.
One of the many porcelain dolls scattered around the lab—each one a fragile conduit, a soul-anchor for his control over his lesser undead—had shattered. Its delicate form erupted in a brief, brilliant burst of orange flames before collapsing into a pile of blackened shards.
Njiru sighed, a thin, raspy sound of pure annoyance.
He didn't even bother to look up from his work.
"Looks like someone has destroyed another of my little flock," he muttered, his voice devoid of any real emotion, only the irritation of a craftsman whose tool has broken.
He shrugged, the movement barely disturbing the stained leather of his apron.
"The one designated 'Zombie One.' Crude, but useful for its task."
He made a mental note to send a wraith to investigate the village of Oja-Ibo later.
"Oh well. It was one of the old models. Easily replaced."
He paused his work, a genuine, unsettling smile stretching across his gaunt face as his gaze drifted to a shadowed alcove.
There, standing perfectly still, was his latest creation.
No patchwork of stitched-together parts. No mismatched limbs scavenged from different bodies. No crude animal components to make the extremities work.
This one was seamless, crafted from the whole, powerful body of a fallen royal guardsman.
Its flesh was pale but intact, its eyes glowing with a deep, eerie purple light that spoke of a far more complex enchantment.
It was faster, stronger, and capable of following more intricate commands.
The smile on Njiru's face widened into a predatory grin.
He was annoyed, yes, that the fool King Rega had relegated most of his older, cruder undead to the humiliating role of simple laborers.
An army of tireless dead, a force to subjugate nations, reduced to digging in mines and chopping down trees.
The insult still stung.
But Rega's shortsightedness had yielded an unexpected, glorious benefit.
The constant, brutal war in the north provided a steady stream of fresh, high-quality material. Strong soldiers. Powerful magic-users.
Rega, in his ignorance, thought he was merely supplying his Master Necromancer with more 'workers.'
The fool.
He was supplying Njiru with the components to build a true masterpiece of undeath.
Njiru was going to prove that his creations, his children, were more than just unskilled mining labor or mindless dungeon guards.
He turned his attention back to the pristine woman on the slab, his eyes alight with a perverse, creative pride.
She, with her innate power and perfect form, would be the pinnacle of his new generation.
She would be a general.
No, a queen.
"And you," he whispered, his voice filled with a chilling reverence as he picked up his silver scalpel once more, "you, my dear, will show the 'King' what true power, true artistry, truly is."
On Njiru's table near where he was operating was a cluster of mushrooms with a sickly purple glow.