Code of the Necromancer

by Deck Davis

  “Hello, young ‘un.”

  “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “Two months since our last visitor…and we get this?”

  The Three were gaseous forms; human-sized but with no bodies, and differentiated by their colors – red, black, and green.

  Red seemed to hang in the air like fog, still and thick. Black was like a cloud in a thunderstorm; energy crackling inside him. Green was always said to look mischievous, and Jakub could see why; she swirled one direction, then another, then up, then down, almost as if she couldn’t stop.

  It had seemed ludicrous to Jakub when he heard Irvine and Kortho talk about these misty forms with gender pronouns; two he’s and a she. He saw why now, though.

  Through Red’s stillness, Black’s crackle, Green’s swirls, sometimes glimmers of their old faces appeared inside the light. Only for a second, but enough that he glimpsed the humans they had once been.

  Green rushed at him, and Jakub stepped back. She stopped centimeters from his face, so close he thought he might inhale her with a breath.

  “A student,” she said. Her voice seemed to come from inches away yet removed at the same time, as if her words came from the walls and the ceiling. “This one looks fun.”

  Red made a growling sound. “Just a journeyman.”

  A flash of yellow sparked in black, and a faint rumbling sound came from him. “Speak our names, so you may learn your shade.”

  “No,” said Jakub. “You’re the one who tells lies, aren’t you? I know who you all are.”

  Green floated in front of his face gain. “He presumes to know us.”

  Were they serious? Every necromancer knew who they were. “Nelania, Crotalus, and Mancerno. The original three necromancers. They took the word necromancy from your names.”

  “So they’re teaching the academy kids how to read these days. How impressive,” said Black.

  “Nelania, you’re the one who lies. The thundercloud over here, Crotalus, insults everyone.” Then Jakub eyed the red mist. “Mancerno, you beguile them.”

  “There’s a difference between lying and beguiling?” asked Nelania, her ethereal voice coming from behind him, around him, above him in a sing-song way.

  Jakub nodded. “Lying involves tell a falsehood convincingly enough that the other person believes it. Beguiling removes the option of belief or disbelief and changes a person’s mind so there’s no choice but to accept a lie as the truth.”

  “Our graduates can quote from the dictionary. So impressive,” said Crotalus, as sparks flashed over his black form.

  “If it’s a choice between lies, trickery, and insults, I’d rather deal with you, Crotalus.”

  “Then you are choosing my shade?”

  “No…I just trust you more to get this started.”

  Jakub knew what he had to do then; Kortho had explained it all to them in a class about advancement.

  The key with the Three was to forget all notions of respect.

  “It might sound strange to hear me say that,” Kortho had said. “I know I always drum into you, respect, respect, respect. But the Three, though they are the original necromancers, are not like us. They perverted the art that they created. When you advance in rank, you will meet them. I urge you to show your spine when you see them.”

  So now, seeing lightening zap around Crotalus, hearing the tones of Nelania’s gentle humming spread around the room, seeing Mancerno hang there, blood red and quiet, Jakub knew what to do.

  He walked through them, feeling their vapors pass over his skin.

  “Such insolence!”

  “He walked right through me!”

  “It burns, it burns!”

  “Shut up; it doesn’t burn,” said Jakub.

  He ignored them and he walked through the hall. He knew that he had to reach the end, a journey that was said to take seven hours to complete.

  He wondered about Witas, about everything going on in the sewers and Dispolis. It was selfish, but he felt better leaving it behind for a while.

  Despite a faint pain in his stomach, maybe from the dirty water he’d choked down, despite his skin stinging from the quick drenching and drying, he walked.

  Above everything he’d been through, this was a moment, one of many, that he’d dreamed about when he was studying. It was something every necromancer dreamed about.

  “When you reach journeyman rank,” Kortho had told them, “it will be time to choose your shade. This is a key moment in a necromancer’s life, and I advise you to learn about them now. Consider this question for at least part of every day from now until you start to work in the field and advance.”

  And so Jakub had. Every day, at some point, he’d remembered Kortho’s words.

  After Jakub had hiked across the hall for four hours, Crotalus floated by him, leaving a black trail. “So…what’s it gonna be?”

  “Didn’t the original scriptures say you were supposed to be unbiased?” asked Jakub.

  “Is it biased for me to say that objectively that the Death Draw shade offers more practicality for a necromancer?”

  Nelania laughed, and the sound floated around the room. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Will you guys just leave me alone? I need to think.”

  That wasn’t true; he’d make up his mind long ago. He was going to choose the Tapper shade, the same as Kortho.

  If he told them that now, though, Nelania would be happy, but the others would bug him for the next few hours.

  “What use is thinking without the facts? Allow me to explain the shade of the Tapper. Now, you might think that-”

  “I know all about the shades. The more you guys pester me, the less I can think. Leave me alone to make my decision.”

  “A decision? The novice thinks he can decide for himself, without the aid of centuries-old masters? The ones who created his very craft? Pathetic.”

  The Three squabbled between each other now, floating straight at one another and becoming a swirl of gas, in what he supposed was their way of fighting.

  This was a problem every necromancer faced; the Three, when they had been alive, had corrupted themselves. They had each died and then been resurrected not once, or even twice, but three times.

  Even a master could only bring someone back once, so to do more was an utter corruption, and it upset the balance of death.

  Somehow, the Three had avoided the Greylands and even the seven afterlives, and instead lived here, in their hall of necromancy. The only way they could keep their forms was for each of them to persuade a newly-ranked journeyman to choose their shade of necromancy,

  When they did, whatever spells the necromancer cast in future would fuel the member of the Three they had aligned with, and would help them exist for longer in the halls.

  Some people dithered over their decision. Others made it on the spot. Jakub had thought about his over and over, and he’d been sure of what to choose.

  Six hours later into his hike along the halls, he was tired, his calves burned, his stomach knot had tightened more. And he was growing unsure about his choice.

  Maybe it was the fatigue talking, maybe it was all the trouble outside, but he didn’t feel as certain. He kept turning everything that had happened in Dispolis over in his head, and he felt something nagging at him.

  The end of the hall, with its giant arched windows, was just an hours’ walk away now.

  He faced the Three. “I need each of you to state your cases. Tell me why I should choose your shade,” he said.

  “Oh, hark at him – we need to state our cases do we?”

  “I suppose he has a right to ask…”

  “I suppose you should remember who we are, who we were…”

  They each started talking at once until Jakub couldn’t hear anything but a rush of noise.

  “Let each other talk. I don’t just want to hear what powers you offer me; I want to know about you. Tell me why I should support you. No insults, no lies, no attempts to trick me. Tell me something
decent about you.”

  Crotalus seethed now, flashes of yellow, snaps of blue all around his black form. “Have you ever heard a novice talk with such insolence?”

  “A journeyman, actually,” said Jakub.

  “Until you choose your shade, sweet thing,” said Nelania, “You are still a novice. Of course, I can offer not just the spells of my shade, but I can promise swifter advancement after that. You will be master in just-”

  “I said no bullshit, remember?” said Jakub.

  You can’t trust either of the others¸ said a voice. Only, this was in his mind. It was a male voice, deep and booming.

  “Are you kidding me, Mancerno? You’re really going to try and beguile me?” he said.

  Mancerno sunk to the ground, his red form hovering an inch above the ceramic floor.

  “You wicked, wicked man,” said Nelania.

  “You tried to beguile the boy?” said Crotalus.

  Jakub was getting sick of their voices. Kortho had prepared him for how they’d act, but it was maddening.

  “Enough. I’m trying to treat you with the respect you deserve as masters, but you need to show the same to me. You can hardly expect me to choose a shade through insults, lies, or trickery. I have about an hour to walk before I can choose, and you need to help me by being honest.”

  It still felt strange to speak to them like this; they were the creators of necromancy, they were centuries, maybe even millennia, old.

  He had to stay firm. Kortho had explained it to them; they had created necromancy through their search for immortality, but the immortality they found wasn’t the one they sought. Time had a way of wearing down the mind like a carpenter sanding a piece of timber.

  “Unless you want to spend a month listening to the witter on, be firm with them,” Kortho had said.

  So now, Jakub faced the three mists of ancient power and crossed his arms.

  “Nelania, you can go first,” he told her.

  44

  Nelania changed shape now so that her green mist formed a grin, spreading out and seeming to mock the others.

  “The Tapper shade, lovely one, is a kind of necromancy you will be somewhat used to. It is a beautiful shade, I promise; what could be more pleasant than tapping the energies of death and pain, and converting them to ones that can heal? You want to do good; I can see it in you. This is your shade, lovely one.”

  Crotalus gave a rumbling sound, almost like a growl. “And when the lad is attacked? What, he should heal his enemies to death?”

  “If the Tapper chooses the right pain, the right death, he can inscribe its effects on his weapons, too.”

  “Like artificery?” asked Jakub.

  “In a manner.”

  Jakub liked the Tapper shade; from what he’d read, it offered a range of offensive and healing spells, but with the balance heavily on the healing.

  “Crotalus? Your shade is the Death Draw, right?”

  “Indeed. All well and good drawing from pain and death to heal cuts,” said Crotalus. “If you want to be a nursemaid, then that’s the shade for you. But surely a necromancer, such a powerful form of mage, should aim higher? Why not use the power of death to make your enemies cower?”

  “Death Draw lets me drain from death and pain like Tapper, but I can use it in aggressive spells, right?” said Jakub. “I can cause necrosis, rot, turn organs black, that kind of thing?”

  Mancerno, who had settled in a red mist near the floor, spoke up. “Not to mention that drawing on death to use it offensively makes you ill. I’m no fan of Nelania, but I’ll give her this; at least using death for the good doesn’t make you sick. Go down Crotalus’ path, and you’ll feel every death you drain from. Imagine what kind of pain and sickness you’ll be putting yourself through?”

  It was a good point; Jakub had read about some of the famous Death Draw necromancers, and how they experienced the pain of each death they drew from. It gave them destructive power, but over the years it wreaked havoc on their minds and bodies.

  Most of those who chose the Death Draw shade looked like they were a hundred years old by the time they were in their fifties.

  Jakub planned to settle down someday, maybe even get married, so he wasn’t ready to give up his somewhat middling looks.

  “What about yours, Mancerno?” he said.

  “Mine is simple,” said the red fog. “It is real necromancy.”

  “Pah,” said Crotalus.

  “I listened patiently to your speeches, let me have mine,” said Mancerno.

  “Not if you’re disparaging ours,” answered Nelania.

  The Three broke into their quarrels again, and Jakub waited for it to end. When it didn’t, he lost his patience.

  “Enough! Mancerno, tell me about your shade.”

  “Tappers and Death Drawers might use death, like a writer might use ink. But the Raiser walks alongside death as all true necromancers should.”

  “Your shade is all about raising things from the dead, right? It’s centered around the resurrection glyphline.”

  “The glyphline I created, yes. Nelania created Soul Harvest, and Crotalus created the Death Draw shade, and you can see how it has affected his mind. I believe your academy no longer teaches it, do they? Instead, they use another of my creations; Summon Bound.”

  “A travesty,” said Crotalus.

  “So Raiser will help me raise the dead better.”

  “It means you will not be limited to raising things in their resurrection window; you can draw on the long-deceased souls.”

  “Yes,” said Nelania, “But since they have already gone to the afterlives, they will be utterly mindless. What use are a bunch of moronic skeletons pulled from the earth?”

  Jakub sensed another descent into fighting and name-calling, so he turned away from them and started to walk down the halls again, toward the end where the altar waited, and he’d be able to choose his shade.

  “Leave me now,” he said. “I need to think about it alone, and I’ll make my decision.”

  45 – Lloyd Blackrum

  Lloyd Blackrum had been captain of the Dispolis guardship for fifteen years. He’d spent his first years weeding the corruption from it; getting rid of the guards who took illicit coin from nobles, criminals, and smugglers. Gutting the guardship of its low-life guards who accepted gold to give insider information or turn a blind eye to crime.

  After that he put his own men in place; ones with loyalty only to him, ones who’d walk through the Blacktyde for him if he asked them to.

  “Welcome to the guardship,” he’d tell each recruit. “The Queen pays your wages, and she pays well. If I ever see coins passing your palm, you’re out.”

  He’d studied the latest research in detection, in the psychology of the criminal, and in the alchemical sciences too; the sciences that hypothesized that with every crime, a criminal would leave something of himself behind such as hair, blood, spit, and some of the more debase fluids in the human body.

  Under his captaincy the resolution rate for murders in Dispolis went from 10 percent to 70; a remarkable feat.

  Did they give him credit for it? Did they hell.

  He knew what people said; ‘It’s the necros and the Black Cleric; they use their magic to do it. Captain Blackrum doesn’t lift a finger.’

  Doesn’t lift a finger? If only they knew. If only they could see his house. Where once it had been a family home, now it was almost a tomb. In the bedroom where his son had once slept, the walls were covered in witness statements, wanted posters, clues, ideas.

  Now, when he went home, he didn’t snuggle in front of a roaring hearth with his wife; he read about the latest grisly murder, and he tried to get inside the mind of the man who had done it.

  Part of him loved the Black Cleric, and part of him hated the man. He was the source of Lloyd’s success, and he was a corruption, at the same time.

  Lloyd had wanted to dispense with his services for so long, but he couldn’t.

  “You can’t sto
p using him,” Sergeant Kelp, one of his most trusted men, had said.

  “He’s a drunk and he’s dangerous. That’s enough of a justification.”

  “There’s a problem, Lloyd. Your reputations are intertwined. Stop using him all of a sudden, and people will wonder why. If you can’t give them a reason, they’ll assume the worst.”

  “And what’s the worst?”

  “For a man like you? It’s assuming that you’ve started taking open-palm handouts. That you’re letting murders go unsolved by giving the cleric the shove,” said Kelp.

  “And then all this would be for nothing. My career, everything.”

  He needed something cast iron; evidence he could use to dispense with the cleric without tarnishing his own name and losing everything he had accomplished.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  A guard entered. He was seventeen years old, a boy who had been dismissed from the Queen’s army because of his poor eyesight. Lloyd had given him a job straight away; you could never underestimate the loyalty you got from a man you gave a chance to.

  Besides; he quite liked the boy. He reminded him of himself at his age – young, eager to serve, desperate to prove himself.

  “Captain,” said Heath, and then gave a salute.

  “How many times, Heath? Saluting is for the Queen’s grunts, not the guardship.”

  “Sir.”

  “What is it? News from the cleric? Has he taken one look at the pickpocket – both halves of him – and uttered a sacred spellword and solved our case in one swoop?”

  “Well no…but it is about the cleric, sir. We had a visitor. A man who used to work for the inquisitors.”

  Lloyd sat up rigid. “The Queen sent one of her rats?”

  “No, he used to work for the inquisitors. He came in and gave a statement about the pickpocket; he says he saw something.”

  Lloyd couldn’t get the word inquisitor out of his mind. As part of his endless research, he’d managed to get permission to spend a week with an inquisitor to witness their interrogation techniques.

  He’d never forget it. Even the flicker of the memory made his stomach churn.