Why are there no evil necromancers?
In a war, dead bodies from both sides can quickly pile up, leading to risk of plague being spread. A guild of necromancers took on the job of raising the dead, preserved and send them back...
This posts’s fantasy short story is based off a prompt from Reddit:
In a war, dead bodies from both sides can quickly pile up, leading to risk of plague being spread. A guild of necromancers took on the job of raising the dead, preserved and send them back to their hometown to be buried.
Prompt credits: u/Other-Research-3970
Here is a snippet of the larger world of this short story:
The city of Loach has long held a lenient view to the crimes of men, clinging to the ideal that all people deserve chances to find their way back into the redemption. Although they were known as a beacon of hope for the wrongfully accused and the repenting, the city also served as a safe haven for thugs and fugitives. Salem has managed to build a new life in the streets of Loach, its illusion of peace hiding both him and the city’s dark underbelly from the world outside. But as he begins to build new ties to the society around him, he finds that he still has things to lose, both from his past and present. Faced with a plot that threatens overturn not just Loach but the entire Welsion empire, Salem needs to reconcile with a past filled with guilt to save a world he is no longer a part of.
I hope you enjoy the short story.
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The setting sun lit the horizon in orange as crows circled overhead the crowd of humans who shuffled forward, followed by a figure clothed in a black robe. At its side, a smaller figure, swaddled in an oversized piece of cloth, skipped along humming a bittersweet tune, one that was equal parts melancholic yet hopeful. It served as a prayer of safe travels to the Sunset who ruled over nightly succor and was the guardian of the process of change.
Soon the opportunistic crows would rest for the night, the human crowd’s movements denying them, for the tenth day, the feast which they had been anticipating since the figures began their journey.
The procession of twelve soldiers and their guides would walk through the night, trying to cover more ground before eventually having to find shelter at dawn to wait for dusk again. This way they could travel while avoiding the cruel heat of the afternoon sun.
Dead bodies rot faster in the heat and humidity and the faster they rot, the worse the long journey will be for the man and his only living companion.
-
The pale middle-aged man retrieved his beaked mask and robe which had been laid out in the merciless midday sun to rid itself of any clinging miasma as the group rested. Now that the sun had begun to set, he waved his young apprentice over to perform their evening ritual as they had since the beginning of their journey, and as he had done together with his teacher during his own apprenticeship.
The man began by soaking his mask-rags in distilled alcohol and watched carefully as his protege mimicked his movement, casting a keen eye to ensure that both their rags had been fully submerged in the detoxifying liquid for roughly a candle’s worth of time.
“The alcohol dispelled the dead’s miasma like fire dispelled magic energy. This prevents the miasma’s curses from getting into your body as long as you properly pack the rags in, so do it correctly if you don’t want to have to be ferried back by me.” The nagging warning his predecessor gave him played in his head as they both quietly packed the mask-rags into the beaks of their masks. They then latched the masks onto their hoods and walked over to the first of the unmoving bodies.
He pulled his rubber glove off as he approached the unmoving masses who had collapsed unceremoniously over each other when the magic he had imbued faded that morning. One by one, he touched the bodies, calling them awake to begin their night’s journey, his ungloved skin warm against their forehead. His apprentice stared wide-eyed behind him as after a moment of silence, the bodies would rattle and shake, shambling into a standing position, still dressed in their garments of war.
After each body, the man would take but a quick moment to take a deep breath before moving onto the next resting corpse on the floor, his face expressionless. It had taken him years of practice to master his craft to this degree and it showed in his smooth motions from body to body. In his greener days, after each reanimation, his face would be screwed up in pain or he would be retching up what little food he was able to consume in the day. His teacher would shake his head and finish up what remained of his work.
Now, the younger boy watched in wonder at a professional hurrying through his noble duty, making it look like working his magic was as easy as waving their hand or saying hello.
As the man squatted next to the last body and closed his eyes for the twelfth time that evening, the young apprentice snuck glances at the silver crest adorned on his teacher’s robes even as he watched his teacher work.
The crest of the necromancer’s guild were seven large silver strokes on black cloth, merging together to form a giant arcane character. It was a symbol that represented the holders of a noble duty, to prevent illness and disease with their magic, and it was respected across multiple kingdoms.
It was also the only school of deep magic which had never produced a murderer, war lord, or any criminal associated with killing. It was a point of pride for him and the other young mages who were training in the guild. “Necromancers never turned evil,” they would say as they puffed out their chest if they ever met the schools.
As his thoughts started to drift towards a time he would eventually be able to wear a robe adorned with the crest he began to fidget, ready to embark on the night’s journey. This was his last night of being an inexperienced acolyte, an Unseen.
“Salem, it is time to go.”
Awoken from his daydreams, his ears perked up as the middle-aged man brushed off the dust on his cloak and stood up. The last corpse had already shambled off in the same direction as the first eleven.
Salem was almost skipping as he chased after the first of the twelve while his teacher plodded along, rounding up the rear of the travelling party, keeping watch to be sure none of the bodies strayed away from their predicted path.
-
Midday came and left uneventfully as the corpses lay in the cave, squirrelled away from the searing heat. The man sat hunched near the entrance, poring over a large map scrawled over a piece of leathery parchment. His alabaster skin traced the black lines as he measured the distance between their haven and their destination.
He nodded to himself, sure that they had only a single night’s travel left before reaching the town which their dead-and-alive troupe was headed for. He turned and saw Salem was sleeping soundly in the deepest reaches of the cave. He let a wave of sadness wash over him as he knew that this was likely to be the last of his comfortable dreams for the foreseeable future.
With a small sigh, he turned back to watch the sun high in the sky, past its crest but yet to begin sinking into the horizon. He knew what he had to do but having to stand by as someone experienced their first time being Seen is never something he was prepared for.
After all, to suffer by yourself is easy compared to having to guide others onto a path you know is filled only with pain.
He sighed again as he cast a glance back into the cave, at the single silhouette, the only one whose chest kept rising and falling rhythmically, buried amongst the twelve other shadows resting completely still and unmoving.
A shepherd, his unfortunate son, and his herd of dead sheep.
He turned back and continued watching the unbothered sun continue to shine across the plains, it’s bright light uncaring of the concerns of the person resting in the shadows.
-
As the sun began its descent below the horizon, the man beckoned for his apprentice after they were adorned in their beaked masks. He inhaled sharply as the child, barely a teen, skipped over eagerly, clearly filled with nervous energy and anticipation for his first duty. The mask-rags smelled like alcohol and the sun but his thoughts and tongue were filled with only the bitter taste of guilt.
“Remember what you have to do, don’t get overwhelmed. Having to overwrite instructions is troublesome at best and nearly impossible at worst.” He nagged before giving Salem’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
Salem nodded enthusiastically before walking over to the first unmoving body. He gazed warily upon the first soldier’s face.
He looked a few years older than he was. His eyes were staring unblinkingly at the barren cave ceiling. His face was unmarked by wrinkles, his lips a cold hard line, pale and grey, unblooded. He looked peaceful but that was just a trick of time; no soldier that the necromancers had to move ever passed peacefully.
He closed his eyes and mentally ran through the checklist which the guild taught every young soul.
My name is Salem. I am fourteen seasons this year. I am a necromancer-in-training. My favourite color is green.
He proceeded to check off eight more facts about himself before squatting down next to the unmoving teen soldier. His ungloved fingers brushed the corpse’s forehead and he let the magic flow out of his body and into the dead body. It soaked in without any resistance, the thirsty body a sponge desperate for any breath of life.
He felt himself tumble forward out of his own body and into the soldier’s.
-
There are only three things a dead person remembers.
A Person, a Place, and a Pain.
The school of necromancy taught every new recruit this fact on the first day of their training. These were the only things that remained engraved on their body after their souls had left for the great beyond. However, three words passed down academically would never be able to encompass the power of the memories each person had experienced. After all, even in death, people only retained things that were truly important to them.
That meant in the span of a minute, Salem would fly through the dead man’s three core memories.
As he focused on retaining his sense of self, he knew from his studies that this was the moment he had to act. He fed the soldier’s longing for home with his magic and hoped the amount was just enough to keep the body moving through the night before fading at dawn.
Once that was done, he relaxed slightly, his work complete. He floated along the young man’s memories and allowed himself the small luxury of enjoying the feeling of having a loving family and the feeling of belonging.
He felt the warmth of a mother’s hug, a childhood surrounded by familial love, a hometown he could return to. He felt something in his untethered soul ache to return to that town as well.
Then came his Pain.
The rush of conscription, a feeling of absolute powerlessness. Despair at a king that did not care and commanders that did not listen. Fear as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow recruits not much older than him, their own fears and regrets a mirror of his. An overpowering wish to return home safely and see his family again. The shock of a stray arrow and the cold of metal piercing his skin as he stared up at an unbothered blue sky. Lastly, the soft whimper of begging and pleading at an uncaring world to save him and all his unlived years.
As the world faded from his eyes, it was as if someone poured cold water over Salem’s soul. He felt his disembodied self shivering even as he was thrown out of the teenage soldier’s Pain. He shuddered and braced himself for what came next.
The darkness flooded in like it had during his training in the guild. Each time enveloping him when they practized with dead ducks and rabbits. However, this time, darkness swallowing him felt alien. It was deeper, more profound. A pang of fear shot through him as the silence crept into his soul. Instinctively he knew there was a difference. This was a darkness that had consumed a human soul like his.
He was also not alone.
He felt a surge of panic as the feeling of being watched in the darkness began to overwhelm him. He wanted to run or thrash about but he had no limbs.
Suddenly, he felt something tighten, yanking him backwards. Colors began to inflate his soul with warmth and he saw the darkness recede in a blur. As the darkness disappeared, he swore he heard something hiss in disappointment.
The world and its sounds came back in a rush as Salem was thrown unceremoniously out of the necromancer’s trance. He gasped for air as he clutched himself, grateful for the heaviness of his body. His heart raced madly as he collapsed on the ground, undergoing the sudden whiplash from having lived as a child in their mother’s arms, died in the war, and felt the coldness of death in the last quarter candle’s worth of time.
As he lay there hugging himself, he heard the grating sounds of metal-on-metal and from the corner of his eye, he could see the corpse on the ground shakily stumble up onto its two legs. He tilted his head upwards to get a better look at his handiwork.
The soldier no longer looked like a stranger. He looked like a young boy filled with his family’s love. He wore his parent’s clothes and his chainmail was ill-fitting and loose in all the wrong places. Even the light leather plates strapped on his pants were too big for the parts they were defending. He knew intimately that they were a gift from a family that could not afford it, a desperate plea for his safe return.
Salem saw himself in the teenager’s face. He remembered the view from the teen’s empty glassy eyes and he felt the teen’s ineffective armor slide over the young boy’s body as if it was his own.
Salem turned away from the teenaged soldier, it felt too much like looking at his own death. As he tilted his head the other way, he felt a warm hand touch his back. His teacher looked down at him silently but with eyes full of concern. Salem gave his teacher a weak nod, a signal that he had made it through his first spell with his mind intact.
His teacher smiled at him proudly before standing up. He nodded to himself, certain that his apprentice had made it through his first spell and retained his original sense of self without any major side effects.
The man glanced at the other eleven bodies and then back at Salem slumped over the floor. Next, he peeled the glove off his hand as he watched the first teenage soldier stumble towards the entrance of the cave. After all, he could not let the gap between people in the procession be too large otherwise he would not be able to watch for stragglers in the group.
There was still work to be done.
He proceeded to squat over the next teenaged soldier and brush a warm hand over his cold skin.
-
The crows continued to circle ahead as the caravan of fourteen people moved forward at a slow stumbling pace. The first twelve human figures shuffled forwards, their path unnecessarily lit by the moonlight, their longing for home guiding them instead. Behind them trailed two figures, the first marching wearily followed solemnly by a smaller silhouette, distracted by the evening’s experience.
That night as Salem trekked silently behind his teacher, he reflected. He had finally gotten the answers to the two mysteries that plagued the trainees.
The first was about the pride of the guild among the trainees. Necromancers never turned evil as their fates were too intertwined with the dead they reanimated. There was no room for the feeling of power or control in necromancy, each experience with the magic only left practitioners with the feeling of melancholy and absolute powerlessness to save the dead.
The second mystery was whispered among trainees. The acolytes were never told the reason why the trainers and teachers referred to the inexperienced as the Unseen. Tonight, he knew to his core why they were called Unseen and why from that evening he could never go back to being Unseen.
From that first spell, he had seen death and death had seen him.
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Author’s commentary
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I must say I really did enjoy the flight of fantasy creative writing has provided after over a decade of only writing non-fiction and “persuasive” corporate documents. But, I am still very rusty. Hopefully, creative writing begins to come more naturally to me like how it was ten years ago, after some practice.
Regarding the premise of this story and this newsletter, I’ve always enjoyed the feeling of being parachuted into a rich and lively world and getting a glimpse of what it has to offer. It lets my mind wander into all sorts of amazing nooks and crannies, filling it with possibilities.
I was hoping to try and capture some of that feeling with this short story by (hopefully) alluding to a much wider world that I, personally, would want to explore more of.
At the same time, as I started writing, it gave me all sorts of ideas about the world and story that Salem, our protagonist, wanted to tell through me.
This short story would be one part of the slow recollection of the backstory of Salem spread throughout the book, on the circumstances that eventually lead to him being the empire’s first criminal necromancer, and while showing how Salem was a foil to his teacher, both traveling on different journeys in the lifecycle of a necromancer - as his teacher regained his emotions through teaching, Salem becomes more apathetic because of his duties.
This would then be set among the wider adventure where Salem has find it in himself to save an empire who has demonised him.
There would have to also be a cast of misfits as the environment has been set up to introduce our motley crew of both residents born and indoctrinated into a very forgiving culture and hardened criminals looking to clamber their way to the top of the food chain.
Do let me know if you want to see Salem again, the option is definitely still open for him (or his world) to make an appearance again in future short stories!
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