18 The Bonecave

It was a cavern that humbled most others, carved from the rocks some few dozen yards beneath a church in the meadows. No imperfection, neither crack nor chip, could be spotted upon its high walls and boundless floor—a measure achievable only by the finest of stoneworkers. One might claim it an upside-down castle, and not many issues could be taken with the idea.

Oliver held the elevator's railing with a tight grip, expecting its pulley ropes to snap under the weight of his meager frame. "How much longer do you suppose we'll be on this infernal machine?" he asked, no small amount of frustration in his tone.

Mister Bones offered him a smile. "If you'd like, I can order the men to lower us faster."

"Please, don't do that," Oliver pleaded with a shake of his head. "I'm merely eager to see the laboratory you've had built, is all."

"Yes, I imagine you are," he returned with a chuckle. "I would like you to begin assisting me with the farm before we move to the laboratory, though."

Oliver looked down.

The farm could be seen some fifty feet below them, set alight by hundreds of mana crystals hanging from the four dozen, ten-story columns supporting the cavern's roof.

"You imbued the crystals with magelight," Oliver noted.

"Yes," he confirmed. "The crystals were surprisingly cheap, and filling them proved no challenge for me."

Oliver's head snapped toward him. "You're a magic caster?"

Mister Bones nodded but carried the subject no further. He spoke again once they reached the cavern's floor: "Those"—he gestured to the hundreds of robed men standing ahead of them—"are your subordinates."

So many men. When he was promised charge over them, it sounded more fiction than fact, but looking at them now proved the man's words true.

"Good morning, everyone," Oliver greeted them, voice traveling across the cavern's great length.

No response. How embarrassing.

"They are novices of the Black Cloth, forbidden from speaking until they achieve priesthood," Mister Bones explained.

Oh. That was a relief, he supposed.

"Well, it's a pleasure to be working with all of you. I'm sure that we will achieve great things together."

Another round of awkward silence ensued, broken by a dry cough from Mister Bones. "I take it you brought the seeds with you?" he asked, rubbing the length of his mustache.

Oliver took his knapsack off and displayed its lacking innards. "Were I to purchase anymore, I fear my fellow apothecaries might have grown curious. We can sow a small plot with these, and if we allow them to flower, we can gather more without—"

"Not an option, I'm afraid," he interjected, shaking his head. "I'm an impatient man, you see. I'll find another way to get the seeds."

"I understand. My apologies."

"There's no need to apologize; it was a wise decision you made. Were you to be hanged under suspicion of brewing illegal potions, I would have lost a fine investment." He motioned toward the ground. "I purchased plenty of fertilized soil from local farms. Do you believe it will suffice?"

"There's certainly enough space for the plants' roots to grow," Oliver said. "We'll have to worry about soil exhaustion later down the road, but this will be fine for now."

Mister Bones seemed pleased by the news. "Good. As for water, my men are channeling a nearby brook down into the cavern as we speak; I suspect it will be another day or two before they finish. For now, allow your men"—he pointed to three of the workers in the front row and motioned for them to approach—"to aid you in planting the seeds."

Oliver took three pouches from his knapsack and gave one to each of them. "Those are all sprinch seeds," he said. "We'll make an even row right here, planting pinches six inches apart from each other." At their lack of response, he heaved a sigh. "Just copy how I do it." He knelt on the ground and began planting, pushing the seeds a half-inch into the loamy soil.

The workers hopped to action, planting with all the speed and precision of professionals, stealing Oliver's attention. He looked to Mister Bones, thoroughly perplexed. "I thought you said they weren't versed in planting."

"They're quick on the uptake, especially when given good instructions."

It was a mere five minutes before the workers finished and approached him, seeking further instruction.

Oliver stole another three pouches from his knapsack and handed them over. "These are crabtooth flowers. Make a row above the sprinches and plant pinches three inches apart from each other in quarter-inch holes."

The workers obeyed without a moment's hesitation, kneeling to the ground and distributing seeds to the hungry patches of soil. In another five minutes, they stood and returned to Oliver, finished with their work.

They carried on to plant pouches of red ringlets and mire whiskers, all in a neat and timely fashion—quick enough that Mister Bones couldn't have grown bored though he was standing idle.

"Well done, Oliver," came his voice, soothing like the trickle of a stream in the hot summer.

"A simple thing, but thank you nonetheless."

"Let us go and see your new laboratory. Perhaps you can tell me if it was worth the money I paid for it."

The duo moved down a wide and perfectly cut tunnel that ended in an archway leading into a room. No—'room' was the wrong word; it was a slice of the heavens, sent down by God to atone for his wicked sins. All manner of familiar equipment and tools were trapped in its rectangular confines—enough to make any alchemist worth their pepper slack-jawed with amazement.

A dozen human-sized hotpots equipped with thick chunks of manasteel—the crème de la crème of mana crystals—sat in an orderly row in the room's front. Oliver wagered each could hold up to four hundred gallons of water. Next to them were three mixers of equal size, equipped with large cranks used for stirring fluid mixtures, perfect for concocting large batches of potions. Around the rest of the room were lesser tools: hourglasses, alterant powders, measuring cups, pails, leather gloves and aprons—everything he put on the list.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked, walking around the room as though a child in a sweets shop.

Mister Bones laughed. "I should hope not. It took quite some effort to arrange all of this." He broke a few moments of silence with further words: "Do you believe it will suffice for now?"

Oliver looked at him and chortled. "It's the greatest laboratory I've ever seen in my life. I can't even begin to imagine how much this equipment cost, let alone this entire facility. And it being beneath a church is"—he tripped over his words—"pure genius!"

Everything was so utterly professional, so neat and tidy that it begged the question—what sort of mastermind was Mister Bones, exactly? Having lab equipment worth several thousand talons was, perhaps, believable, though only achievable by the wealthiest of merchants who owned sizeable estates. But to have an underground farm and hundreds of loyal workers all in the shadow of a handcrafted denomination's church was a new level of brilliant.

"You flatter me," replied Mister Bones, a great smile on his face. "I'm glad you like your new lab, though." He allowed Oliver another few minutes to marvel at the equipment before speaking again: "I believe we've done all the work we can for now, so allow me to show you to your quarters. You can relax there for a few days before I secure seeds for the farm."

"Yes, Mister—" He shook his head. "Yes, Lord Bones."

::::::------::::::

What a day.

Or, rather, what a week.

Success was intoxicating. Having your plans unfold perfectly, without a hitch, no obstacle in their path—nothing could beat the feeling. And playing the villain was certainly more fun than Tommy thought it would be. Who knew that threatening to burn someone's home down would net you a generous discount on practically every good and service they had to offer?

Executing the plan hadn't been easy, though. It took a week longer than he thought it would to dig the giant hole beneath their church—two weeks of using the mold earth spell in conjunction with his undead workforce's tireless efforts. Seriously—the thing was a pain to excavate. The only reason it didn't collapse was due to the columns a worker from Elijah's iron mine planned out. Buying his service cost a good fifty talons—money well spent.

The farm had been easier to set up, though still difficult. Dozens of trips back and forth to nearby farmsteads, hauling fertilized soil in wagons then dumping it down a pit. It was tedious, but now they had a stretch of fertile land as large as a football field. If the magelight crystals ended up working, they'd have enough ingredients to produce an absurd number of potions.

Then there was the church. They were gaining followers by the day, raking in tithe money like autumn leaves. Lord Flint's weekly tithe was just over one hundred talons—money put toward the brick parsonage behind the church house. His disciples each had their own rooms now—a thing they were most excited about. Still, they deserved better than some stones and a roof. He'd find a way to repay them in due time.

For now, though, his network of merchants needed some expansion. And on top of that, it was nearly time to enter the next stage of his plan.

The name of the game was world domination. What better place to start than a city like Newhorn?