The barkeep set a mug of thick, black liquid before Ned. “I’d advise you not to drink this, little guy. Likely to put you right in your grave.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Ned.

He gulped some of the doom stout. He had to chew to get it down, and swallowing was a feat of will. His gut burned. His tongue sizzled. His throat constricted so tightly that it cut off his oxygen for about a minute. His eye watered. After all that, a cool pleasantness filled his head. In an hour it’d be replaced by a crushing headache and a bloody nose, but an hour was a long way away.

“Never knew a human that could stomach doom stout.” The barkeep smiled. “That one is on the house.”

It was a good thing, because Ned didn’t have any money. But he was commander here, and he’d just risen from the dead. That should’ve been worth a free drink at the very least.

Ace lit his pipe. A fly caught in the toxic yellow cloud retched audibly and fell to the floor dead. “Guess they call you Never Dead Ned for a reason, eh, sir?”

“Guess so.” Ned bit off another gulp of ale.

“Hey, Ward, Ralph!” shouted Ace. “Look who’s back! Guess you didn’t bury him deep enough!”

Ned swiveled and scanned the pub. His gaze fell across the only two ogres who couldn’t look him in the eye. Both held a mug in one hand, a shovel in the other. Ned rose and stomped across the room on wobbly legs. Ace, grinning, followed. The pub fell quiet.

“Did you bury me?”

Ward nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re not supposed to bury me.” The muscles of Ned’s bad arm tightened. His hand balled into a fist.

The gravediggers gulped. Even sitting, they were taller than Ned, and there wasn’t a human alive who could take an ogre in a bare-knuckle brawl. But any man who could return from the grave and drink doom stout was worthy of some respect. Since ogres weren’t used to either respecting or fearing humans, they weren’t sure precisely how to feel. They ultimately decided on awkward unease.