Rise of a Necromancer

by Rosie Scott

  My parents loved cooking small meals and bringing them up here to eat while viewing the water. Sometimes we came as a family to eat together, but oftentimes they would come here alone. As much as I loved my parents, I'd always understood their need to be alone. While many kids feigned disgust at the love between their parents, I found the bond between them fascinating and did my best to encourage it. Despite their diverse personalities, viewpoints, and backgrounds, they'd been passionately in love. And I wanted them to be.

  The yellowed grasses were much shorter at the top of the hill. Just where my mother would place a picnic blanket, a human-sized segment of grass struggled to grow as long as the blades surrounding it. Between this area and the ocean was a small and poorly made headstone, barely more than a simple polished stone cube.

  Lucius Heliot

  369-409 M.E.

  How was it possible that my parents had been dead for so long without me knowing? Logically, it made sense. They'd last written in 408 to tell me they'd paid my tuition for the Seran University in full through 410, so the school had no obligation to inform me since they likely hadn't known yet, either. No one in Thornwell could afford to spend gold on a messenger. The only indication I'd ever had that something was wrong was their lack of letters during my last year in Sera.

  Yet, I felt crushed with guilt simply for not knowing. For not feeling the death of someone close even when I was so far away. Intuition, I decided then, was just as big of an asshole as fate. It only works when convenient, and it holds monumental grudges against unfortunate people.

  Red's words about my father's late-life alcoholism floated around unwelcome in my mind. Underneath overwhelming grief and despair, I simmered in muted resentment. My father had only gotten drunk once as far as I could remember, and it made him cocky and mean-spirited. He'd said some hurtful things to my mother before she locked him out of the house for the night. After waking up in the mud the next morning, he'd apologized to her profusely, promised never to drink to excess again, and cooked her a feast. After dinner, they'd asked me to leave the house to fish so they could be alone. Even before I left I knew my mother had forgiven him, for the twinkle in her eye indicated that it wasn't conversation that would fill their time.

  My father was true to his word and never got drunk again, nor did he so much as sip alcohol without my mother around. This was one of the greatest reasons I looked up to him. He wasn't as talented nor as smart as my mother, but his devotion to her and the sacrifices he made to make her happy made up for his shortcomings. Knowing that he'd slipped in his resolve and it'd cost him his life made me lose a modicum of the respect I'd had for him, and that crashed with my grief and sense of self-loathing to leave only confusion in its wake.

  What was it about alcohol that could so easily change and ruin people? In just a few short years, I'd seen two people I loved turn to it in their time of need just to be betrayed. It shattered Kai's confidence and will to live even though she'd otherwise had unmatched fortitude, and it turned my fun-loving father into a jerk.

  It's the ability to overcome that makes a man a man.

  My father hadn't taken his own advice, but as I stood over his grave and the foreboding breeze stole my long black hair out of the embrace of my dark hood, I decided to take it in his place. My family's dangerous link with tragedy would end with me. I made myself two promises that I swore to uphold forever.

  I will never fall victim to the clutches of alcohol. Its sickly influence on those I loved could never affect me if I refused to partake in it.

  Unlike my father, I will take my own advice: as awful as life can get, there are always ways forward. I would not bow down to the cruel vagaries of the universe and give up. I would mourn my losses, but I would grow from my misfortunes rather than flounder. If the Icilic wanted to hunt me down for my racial impurity, I'd become stronger to be ready to face them. If Sirius's ridiculous laws against necromancy forced me to be an outcast from civilized society, I would put up enough of a fight to get their attention and inconvenience the bastard every chance I got. It wasn't likely that I would ever see Sirius in person again, but I had demented hope that I'd run across Kenady Urien one day. Since he was a dual caster, he'd be an excellent choice for any mercenary parties or armies sent my way. If I ever saw Kenady again, I swore my revenge for his part in my exile would be savage. I would forever be a criminal; the least I could do was make a name for myself. Some necromancers never became strong enough to be noteworthy in history books, but I would rise to become a necromancer in the vein of Valerius the Undying.

  Though I made these commitments in the back of my mind as anguish preoccupied the rest, they already influenced my train of thought. As a foreboding rumbling of thunder galloped through the clouds like a rude chuckle, my eyes searched over the surrounding landscape.

  I can't always rely on magic. I need a weapon. I need armor.

  My eyes caught on the northern border of the Seran Forest. I could loot supplies and weapons from the Twelve corpses, but I couldn't expect their armor to fit me, nor did the idea of brandishing a bow or a spear appeal to me. Taking their supplies would be a temporary measure. I needed to set my sights on somewhere else to go. In the far distance over the forest I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Cel Mountains. I wasn't an expert on the locations of Chairel's smaller settlements, but I knew that the dwarven town of Brognel sat in the mountain range and that it was accessible via the Cel Pass. The Cel Pass was the only direct route from central Chairel to the eastern border through the mountains, and its western end was said to be deep in the Seran Forest.

  Given the Twelve had only now made it to Thornwell, I assumed they hadn't yet warned Brognel of my criminal history. I had no gold, but the dwarves were known to be overwhelmed with it since they often mined the precious metal. It was possible that by looting what I could from the Twelve and anything else, I could trade for supplies that suited me. The Seran Forest would hide half my trek before I reached the perilous winding mountain paths.

  I let my eyes fall upon my father's grave one last time. “I love and miss you both,” I murmured. Speaking to them finally prompted the brimming tears in my eyes to fall, leaving glistening streaks of saltwater down my cheeks. “I may not have removed us from poverty, but I will break this cycle of tragedy. I'll persevere and make you proud.”

  I took out the letters I'd written to my parents in Sera. After half a year of hitching a ride in my trouser pocket, they were frayed, bent, and faded. Other than the ring my parents gave me and Kai's note, they were the only things of importance I had left. I opened my hand, allowing the breezes to steal the letters from my grasp and carry them off into the air in swirling dances. I didn't believe in an afterlife, so I doubted my parents saw the gesture. But I thought it best if I left the letters in Thornwell. They belonged here.

  I turned from the grave and my finicky intuition promised me it would be the last time I would ever visit it. I headed toward the Seran Forest. After a loud clap of thunder, the plains lit up with a flash of neon lavender light and tears spilled from the heavens.

  Nine

  Rains fell over the plains like the display of bodies I'd left close to the Seran Forest disgusted the gods until they tried to cleanse it from their view. As my clothes grew heavier with precipitation, I crouched over the Twelve spearman's corpse, searching his pockets and belongings for anything interesting or valuable.

  The soldier carried a weapon's belt with a sheath for his short sword, so I removed it from him and fastened it on myself. It hung loosely from my thinner frame and lack of armor. I took the short sword from the grasses near his open hand and sheathed it on the belt. Until I found my own weapon, this would do. I didn't care for either the bow or the spear because they required two hands. I wanted something that I could wield with one while using magic with the other; due to my ability to take energy from foes and ease my fatigue, switching between magic and melee seemed like a fruitful prospect.

  I left the spearman in the pla
ins and moved closer to the Seran Forest, stopping by a griffon corpse to loot through its saddlebags, where I found an abundance of dried meat and fish. From the horn at the front of its saddle hung a dark military satchel I swiftly removed and hung from one shoulder. It would carry a good deal of supplies. I didn't yet go through its contents, though I stowed away the food I'd gotten in its wide main compartment.

  The Twelve soldier who wielded the longsword was the one who'd compared my appearance to a piece of parchment, so I headed to his corpse next. The small leather pouch attached to his belt darkened with recent rainfall, so I leaned over it as I pulled out its contents, hoping to keep the rain from ruining parchment and ink.

  Multiple documents were inside. I unfolded the one on the top of the pile and suddenly stared at a startlingly accurate depiction of my face as it was half a year ago before I'd lost weight. Even though the sketch held no color outside of strokes of black ink over creamy parchment, my appearance was unique. The human ears passed to me by my father were visible between locks of flowing black hair, but my sharp angular features were proof of my mother's elven blood. Using shading, perfectly placed lines, and skill, the artist called attention to my high cheekbones, full lips, longer face, and prominent Adam's apple. The drawing depicted me looking unfazed and unimpressed, and I didn't know if it was due to my stoicism or if the artist simply wanted a neutral expression.

  Just under the sketch were my details:

  WANTED! Cerin Heliot

  Charges: Necromancy, 16 counts of murder of Seran armed forces, evading the law, practice of magic without a proper license

  Known connections: Lucius Heliot (father, trades listed as a fisher and merchant), Celena I'lluminah (mother, trades listed as a fisher and ship builder). No peer acquaintances have stepped forward.

  Race: Human

  Age: 15. Birth date on university application is the 73rd of Red Moon, 395. Birth location is Thornwell.

  Special characteristics: Cerin is abnormally pale and may suffer from nutritional deficiencies. Reports state that his skin has a slight glow in direct light. He overdresses to hide this feature. Cerin is thin but stands taller than most his age at six feet. He speaks little, but his voice is said to be rough and guttural in nature.

  Notes: Permission granted to attack on sight. No arrest necessary, but if convenient his execution may be held here in Sera upon your return to serve as an example. Cerin's only known connections outside of Sera are in Thornwell. The public shall not know of his charges; do not induce panic. While Cerin's methods of obtaining death spells are unknown, it is unlikely this knowledge came from Thornwell, so interrogations are unnecessary. For now, maintaining control over the situation is paramount. Beware, for Cerin is a dual caster of life and death. Reports state he used life magic to protect and heal himself during his escape from Sera. Cerin's abrupt departure from this university cut his studies short; he did not yet learn all life spells, and he had only just started his first surgical course. While his knowledge of healing may lack, we should consider Cerin potentially more dangerous than most necromancers for his ability to protect himself from attack alone. Cerin was well-known at the university for being a loner; it is thus unlikely he will seek out any settlement other than Thornwell. If no signs of him are in Thornwell, use your best judgment. You may seek him out in the solitude of the Seran Forest, but it may be best to bring the griffons back here rather than risk them in ground battle. I have the resources necessary to send mercenary parties if need be. May you be victorious and make Sera proud.

  Stamped red ink boasting the name of Sirius Sera concluded the note. I folded it back up, my mind reeling from everything I'd read. I put the stack of documents in my new satchel, keeping them safe and close to me. As the storm worsened overhead, releasing sharp rain droplets like tiny knives, I headed into the embrace of the Seran Forest.

  The elaborate bow of the last Twelve soldier shone in a pile of brush near her body, and I grabbed it and secured it in the scabbard that once hung by her saddle. I only paused long enough at the hanging corpse to remove the silver rings from her fingers and check her pockets before moving on.

  At some point soon, someone would discover the remnants of these soldiers and their battle against me. I didn't feel the need to hide any of it. Sirius's warrant clarified that despite my young age and newness to battle, just the prospect of my talent intimidated them. Sirius and his men knew of my rare dual casting abilities, and that I'd won battles when outnumbered proved I quickly taught myself how to use them to my advantage. Leaving the corpses of the prestigious Twelve soldiers and their mounts littered along the edge of the Seran Forest would only intimidate my pursuers more. The soldier hanging on the spear would likely bewilder whoever found her. It would force Sirius to question my true power. I wasn't normally strong enough to wield such a weapon; the powers of leeching had enabled me. However, due to the general ignorance of necromancy in Sera born out of its prohibition, it was more than possible Sirius wouldn't know that. Just the mystery of how I could kill in such a way would cause distress and bafflement.

  The shadows of the Seran Forest consumed me as I made my way east. The severe storm combined with the onset of evening until it was nearly pitch-black, but I kept walking for hours, wishing to put as much distance as I could between myself and the prior battle. The leeching high faded over time and exertion until it left entirely, depleted of its fuel. Finally, I stopped to rest on a bed of pine needles beneath the lowest wide-reaching branches of a large tree. I crawled under its flimsy shelter and pulled my loot with me.

  The pitter-patter of rainfall hummed through the forest, but the dense foliage kept the ground quite dry here. I wasn't comfortable, not in the slightest. Yet, as I laid there alone, overwhelmed, and with nothing but time to think, sobs rolled forth freely.

  I cried for my parents. Not only for their deaths and my deep longing to confide in them, but also for their awful misfortune. All they'd wanted was a life of peace and to be left alone. My mother's explanations of the cruel realities of the Icilic bloodline came back to me then. Years ago, the idea that someone could want to murder another simply due to their racial impurity was so ridiculous that I'd barely considered such hatred could one day affect me. Glacia had always seemed so far away due to both its distance from Chairel and the fact that few of its inhabitants ever ventured out. Even once I knew they wanted me dead, I'd thought that they would find it too inconvenient to come and kill me. There were no Icilic elves in Sera. To this day, I'd been near none other than my mother. The Icilic disdain for other races was a possible benefit to me, for it meant they were less likely to venture inland themselves.

  Of course, they could always rely on the Alderi to track me down. The Alderi were also a race rarely seen in Chairel, for the dark elves were born and bred in the underground. Little was known about how an entire nation could exist out of sight and far below the surface of Arrayis, but knowledge wasn't required of the Alderi for them to be a threat. I'd heard the word Alderi here and there in Thornwell, but it was during my time in Sera that I learned more. Anytime someone controversial or well-known was killed by a dagger blade in the night with no trace of the culprit, they blamed the Alderi. In Chairel, Alderi were so closely associated with assassinations that the race was synonymous with the word assassin. Rumors stated that anyone with knowledge of how to reach the underground could hire them to remove a threat for the right price. Some gossipers claimed the Alderi were a female-only race, for all assassins ever caught were women or juveniles. Other gossipers argued that the Alderi culture was one of misandry where the women enslaved the men. I'd heard one tourist in Sera swear up and down that she'd seen a male dark elf piloting a mercenary ship while on the seas west of Nahara.

  Regardless of fact or fiction, I'd never seen an Alderi, but I could expect the Icilic to rely on assassins to do their dirty work while they remained safe and comfortable in Glacia. Perhaps one day I would find a way to travel to my mother's homeland and enact vengeance
for the Icilic wrongdoings against us, but the idea seemed so unrealistic and distant that I didn't allow myself to entertain it.

  With my mind on my parents, I thought about the subjects I would bring up if I'd been with them now. There were so many things about the last half year that I hadn't allowed myself to think too deeply into for fear of what I would find. I knew I'd had the support of my parents no matter what, so perhaps waiting was my way of softening the blow of extreme life changes and onslaughts of uncomfortable introspection. Now, with two loved ones dead and the third on her deathbed and forever lost to me, the only opinion I could rely on was my own.

  My involvement in necromancy had led to all my misfortunes other than the deaths of my parents, yet I couldn't blame myself for harmless curiosity. I hadn't delved into necromancy thinking I would never use it. I'd been all too eager to test my abilities in private, and the more I did so, the higher the risk of being caught as I was. When threatened, I'd defended myself with the only weapon I had. I couldn't fight with life magic, and I knew little about steel weapons. So I'd used necromancy to kill and stay alive, and the resulting battle forced me to confront that not only did I face danger and brutality for my interests, but I had to become dangerous and brutal to survive the consequences.

  With some solace, I understood I wasn't alone in this regard. The Seran University's curriculum made it clear the elements were as brutal as they were deadly; if they weren't, they would keep their use in warfare to a minimum, and thousands wouldn't clamor to learn elemental magic hoping to rise in the ranks of the Chairel Army. They feared death magic for its savagery, but wasn't that hypocritical? Kai had told me bits and pieces of what she'd learned in her various elemental classes. They taught her how to spot the differences between degrees of burns on victims of fire magic. They taught strategies for when to use metal versus stone earth magic to cause cuts, mutilations, or blunt force trauma. Water magic could be used to drown, suffocate, or destroy. Air magic could cause mass casualties in seconds by virtue of electricity's tendency to spread and seek out the exposed moisture of bodies. In comparison, leeching someone's life until they died after minutes of fatigue sounded like a mercy.