Deadtired

Serpen stared. "I know thisss," he hissed. Everyone knew this. Sometimes he wondered if Captain Seventeen also felt this kind of uncanny despair when dealing with his own subordinates. "Let me go sssee for mysself," he said.

The army moving towards Yu Xiang was impressive, at least in number. They moved in a column wide enough to cover the entirety of the road, a road that could hold two carriages abreast.

The size of the army was impressive, yes, but his reports painted a different picture.

Serpen snuck out from beneath his rock and slowly trudged over to a rope ladder leading up the steep cliffside, parts of it hidden in the underbrush. At the top of the ladder was a dug-out. This was recently the home of a prairie fox of the flamming steppes, but now it was one of the many hidey-holes of the Serpens Scouts.

The den had been dug out a little, to make just enough room for a dexterous undead to climb in and crawl across it. A zombie, one of the few in his scout group, hid at the far end of the den next to a thin slit of an opening in the dirt.

There was some tough prairie grass shoved into the hole to mask it better, and some loose stonework around it to keep it in place. From the outside it was all but invisible.

Serpen moved up next to the zombie and was handed a long spyglass which he carefully extended.

There were some hundred or so hidey holes like this along the main road, and more along the side roads and in places where they had a clear view of the landscape. Further out, near the edge of the province, was a well-maintained picket of little stations just like this one.

He was still growing the Serpens Scouts into a proper division, and trying to figure out what worked and what didn't. So far they'd settled on a system where every such lookout had one undead like a zombie or ghoul and a pair of ghosts or wraiths.

The apparitions could communicate and carry messages. The ghouls and zombies could keep an eye out day and night. Their stench actually warded away small animals as well, which kept them hidden from even those.

The Empress, soon may she die to join their immortal army, was likely not yet aware that her territory was watched over so carefully.

Serpen finally focused on what was in the spyglass.

The army was laid out like a long train. When they'd entered the Steppes they had been walking in perfect, orderly lines with a pep in their step. Now the lines were raggedy and somewhat crooked, some of the men were trudging along lazily, and it was clear that order only held as long as an officer was nearby to hold it.

Serpen turned his attention to the middle of the line, where the cultivators were moving along. Most of them were within horse-drawn carriages of massive proportions, some were riding in palanquins, and still others, rare though they may be, were walking on foot.

Behind them were the elite troops. Men in matching armour whose firm steps hadn't wavered yet. They were a column of perfectly level glaives poking out into the sky with a panoply of tassels catching the wind.

And then the support troops and engineers, some carrying entire siege engines with them. And finally, the juiciest target of them all. The supply wagons.

There were a few of these between each division in the army. They weren't so foolish as to have all of their supplies in one space. But a lot of them were all gathered by the rear. There was even a train of civilians and merchants following the army.

"Hmm, good," he said. The troop disposition hadn't changed from his last report. Turning, he gestured to the ghost. "Plan Alpha," he said.

The ghost bobbed a bow, then faded away.

Serpen retrieved the spyglass and continued to watch. From up here, the army seemed like ants. Very predictable ants.

At the rate they were advancing, they'd reach their new empire's capital in two days. That was, simply put, unacceptable.

And so it was the task of his scouts to slow the army down.

Plan Alpha took a few minutes to begin, but when it did, Serpen could see its consequences rushing across the army. The front stalled, the unruly mob of conscripts slowing down to a full stop while officers on horseback rode around and tried to discover what had happened.

What had happened was simple. They'd discovered a corpse. A brave volunteer (that he had picked out and who was too brain-dead to refuse) was laying on the road.

The living were rather squeamish, after all. They wouldn't just trample a body, especially not one dressed exactly like one of their men, with the same emblems and gear.

The equipment had been stolen days prior, to examine and study.

A small group moved ahead to inspect the body, then more were called up. The news reached the cultivators, who delegated it to inner disciples, who delegated it down to the outer, and finally some poor fool was sent running up the entire length of the army to inspect a corpse.

The soldiers backed away as the cultivator arrived.

Serpen squinted through the spyglass.

The cultivator knelt over the body...

The body leapt up, claws ripping into the young fool with surprising speed and ferocity.

The soldiers panicked, some running back, others fumbling their weapons. A few were smart enough to run towards the undead, but Serpen's scout was smart. As soon as the cultivator was dead, the undead took off running. After a hundred paces, he started to zig-zag, just in time for the first arrows to miss him.

And then the undead was around a bend in the road where it dipped hard enough that it couldn't be seen any longer. Soon it would be in another tunnel like the one Serpen was in.

A ghost materialised in the room. "Plan Alpha worked," it said.

"Start Alpha Two," Serpen replied.

Plan Alpha stage two through four hundred and twelve were going to make the lives of those soldiers very interesting for the next day or so.

* * *

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Officer Corpse — Fret Ful

Officer Corpse — Fret Ful

Officer Cadet Fret Ful was not made for this.

In fact, she had no idea why Captain Seventeen had chosen her to become an officer and take on that mantle of responsibility.

This was not a role for her. This was a role for someone brave and confident, someone smart, someone who took a hit and got up and kept going.

She sighed wistfully. Someone like Empress Fenfang.

At least this job had one big advantage. She was the one in charge of Yu Xiang's undead spy network, and that meant that she had to keep close-very close-to the centre of power in the city, because that was where all the intrigue and such was centred.

At the moment, that meant that her office was in a quiet, forgotten attic, right above the Empress's bedchamber and office.

It was a nice enough space. A little dusty, and there hadn't been any light in this room for what must have been decades, but that was acceptable. A ghost did not need light to see.

Speaking of which, a ghastly form pressed its way through one of the walls and hovered closer and Fret Ful quickly shifted her veils and made herself ready for a report. She was getting used to these, now.

At first, when she knew that she was waiting for a report, it would make her so anxious that she'd disapperate into nothingness for a while. Later, she'd just fret and be fitful until the report was delivered. What if she said something stupid? No, no, she wouldn't ever say anything stupid, because she imagined every possible scenario, one after the other, a multitude of times before the ghost who was going to report ever appeared.

Now, after a few days, she could sit still and process everything her subordinates said. It was only after that she'd have a minor freak out, especially whenever she made some gaff. What if that ghost remembered? What if they spoke to each other?

They'd call her a failure. They'd question her. They'd report right to Captain Seventeen, and then she'd be fired! They'd hang her... again!

She shook herself and took the ghost's report. It was verbal, of course. That was the best they had at the moment, but it was okay.

Fret Ful might have been bad at people and such when she was in person, but when it came to writing them? Oh, she was very very good at that!

It was one of the leading factors to her inevitable demise!

Being able to carry one of her living passions into undeath was quite nice, actually. She took notes as the ghost spoke, then nodded and gave it instructions to return to its quarry and continue to listen to everything that was said and remember all that was done.

Once the ghost was off, she eyed the page she held with its carefully written text.

Most of the time her reports were moderate and uninteresting. On rare occasions she'd discover that someone important was sleeping with someone, embezzling funds, or generally being a nuisance.

Their spy system was still quite new, so for now all she did was take notes on people's activities. Sometimes she'd open a person's drawer, read all of their activity logs, then compile a summary, just in case Captain Seventeen needed to know something.

So far, her business remained in the realm of spycraft, which suited her just fine.

It meant more time for her hobby.

Fret Ful giggled ghostlily and shifted over to her second desk, this one hidden behind several cabinets and drawers where no one would ever, ever see it. It was where she did her writing. Not reports... well, not real reports. These were fiction. Interesting fiction, about the people her network of ghosts spied on.

It wasn't necessarily the kind of fiction that was... appropriate for public consumption.

Fret Ful giggled to herself as she hopped back into a slightly exaggerated but far more colourful recounting of a meeting between a recently-hired maid and the Empress, an encounter that started with surreptitious eye contact and quickly evolved into something more... physical, and carnal.

Her giggles continued for a very long while, and had she any blood in her ghostly body, it would certainly all have relocated itself to her face by now. Oh, this was one of her spiciest stories yet!

Fret Ful had died because of her art.

Well, no, technically she'd died because she was caught following a noble lady one time too many. So what if some of that lady's clothes were found in her home? And so what if-when the constable had read the fanciful stories she wrote about their would-be trists he had had a fatal heart attack?

Her work was just too... avant-garde for such a plebian mind, that was all!

She set down her quill and sighed contentedly, the thrill of her writing still buzzing through her. The soft murmurs of the ghosts in the attic had become a familiar and comforting background noise. But her peace was shattered when a ghost she recognized as one of her more urgent messengers burst through the wall, its form flickering with distress.

"Officer Fret Ful!" it hissed, its voice carrying a desperate edge. "The Empress is in danger!"

The words hit her like a physical blow, her ectoplasmic form shimmering with shock. "What? How?" she stammered, her mind racing. This was not one of the scenarios she had meticulously prepared for. This was real, and it was happening now.

Fret Ful's first instinct was to disappear into the shadows, to let someone else handle the crisis. But she remembered Captain Seventeen's trust in her, however misplaced she believed it to be. And she thought of the Empress, brave and steadfast and pretty.

She couldn't let her down! Not now!

Although... would the Empress become a ghost if she... No! That was wrong! "Report," she said instead. "Everything you know!"

The report came, and she found herself calming a little. The assassins were disguised as two serving men visiting the compound for repairs to one of the mantis' rooms. They carried carpenter's tools, but beneath that knives and the tools of assassins. It would be some time before they found their way closer to the Empress.

Taking a deep, steadying breath that hissed out of her, she nodded at the ghost. "Stay close and report any changes immediately." The ghost vanished, and Fret Ful gathered her courage. She floated down through the floors of the palace, her form passing through walls and ceilings until she reached the Empress's chambers.

Fret Ful slipped through the walls of the Empress's chambers, her form shimmering as she hovered at the edge of the room. The Limpet, as the Empress was affectionately known among her close circle, was practising her Eldritch Blast against a dummy. Each blast was precise and powerful, leaving scorch marks on the target.

Fret Ful watched in awe for a moment, the sight of the Empress in action both inspiring and intimidating. Finally, she mustered the courage to speak. "E-Empress Fenfang," she called, her voice trembling slightly.

The Empress paused mid-blast, turning to face Fret Ful with a calm, steady gaze. Oh, what pretty eyes! Fret Ful would have to revise so many of her stories! "A ghost?" she asked. "Did Seventeen send you?"

Oh no! Fret Ful's imagination hadn't accounted for this scenario. She fluttered this way and wavered that way. "I... I am officer Fret Ful, the city spy master," she said.

"Oh," the Empress said. "Well, I suppose as a spy it would only make sense that you be discreet. Can I help you with something? I've got twenty-two and a half minutes left to practice time."

Fret Ful floated closer, her form flickering with nervous energy. "Empress, there are intruders in the palace. They're disguised as carpenters, but they carry the tools of assassins. They mean to harm you."

The Empress's eyes narrowed, but she remained composed. "Thank you for informing me, Officer Fret Ful," she said.

Oh, that coldness to her voice, it sent shivers down Fret Ful's back.

"Did you have a way to capture these assassins?" the Empress asked.

"Ah, no? I mean... I could ask some of my spies?"

"No, no, it's fine. Rem! Rem! Where are you now?" the Empress called.

There was a clatter, furniture being thumped, then a mantis stomped into the room. "What do you want, stupid?"

"There are assassins around, could you capture them for me, please?" the Empress asked.

"I don't want to," Rem said.

"Please?"

The mantis squinted, tilting her head to the side. "There's more than one?" The Empress nodded. "Rem will eat half."

"Fine. But only if you mean half of the total number of assassins, don't eat half of each one, that'd just kill them all. And leave the more important, stronger one alive."

"But those are the tastiest!"

The Empress turned back to Fret Ful a small, reassuring smile on her lips. "Thanks, Officer, I appreciate the help."