Raising Dead

by Aaron Dennis

Raising Dead

  New edition November of 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I heard a story, once…it was about a powerful magician of sorts. He had obtained the power of creation, and as such, decided to craft creatures in his likeness, but because his was a power born of Earth, those creatures, which looked human enough, were impervious to fires.

  Truth, it was an odd story, but there is more, you see…. Those creatures often found themselves in the midst of flames for one reason or another. This led to them to the discovery that they were unnatural. Inevitably, they returned to their master asking why it was that such an oddity was prevalent.

  “Because I have created you. You are not human.” Such were his responses, and more often than not, those creatures went mad from learning the truth…hmph, truth.

  It is has always been about truth, and perhaps it is why I like this story so. Now, here’s my favorite part. One day, that powerful magician found himself chased from his home, due to awful practices no doubt, and so he set up a camp. While sitting at the campfire, a creature, we’ll say it was a wolf. I am partial to wolves…but that is another story for another time.

  Anyhow, this wolf attacked, and the magician fell into the fire. To his dismay, it did not burn. You see…he, too, had been created, but by whom? He had no way to learn such.

  Why do I like this story? I like truth. It never plays out the way we expect. It is not a pure light. It is not epiphany. No, my, no.

  Often, truth is a dark and murky thing; a veil of sorts, which we must learn to wield in ways proper to the culmination of our very own and personal life experiences.

  What is my truth? Well, let’s say…death is not the end, and leave it at that.

  He calls himself a necromancer

  Gaulder ran across the valley of ash enroute to Cormaire’s lair. T’was valley was rife with death. Ancient bones, or cinders thereof, remained strewn about the gnarled and blackened trees. Puffs of ash kicked up behind the man’s wake.

  Cormaire, the necromancer—as he called himself due to his practices involving unlife—hid away deep in the valley of ash. His lair, a cave beneath the putrid land, was denoted by a wicked entrance. The cave mouth was carved from a lone stone, which stood near the center of the valley; a stone chiseled to resemble a disfigured and pear-shaped head. Rows of teeth lined the maws of the head—the actual entry.

  Ducking his head to enter, Gaulder clutched a bundle of gray cloths; an item master Cormaire required to create a revenant was ensconced within. Being an apprentice meant being a liaison of sorts, and because Cormaire was unable to travel into town—it was an unworthy risk to his life—Gaulder ran errands in exchange for knowledge.

  The young man in tattered, dark clothing worked his way through the labyrinth of stone corridors. Each hallway was alighted by torches perched in sconces. Eternally, they burned. Finally spilling into the sepulcher, the apprentice spotted the bent, aging necromancer pulling entrails from a recently deceased.

  “Master,” Gaulder called.

  “Mm?” Cormaire mumbled without giving his attention.

  Instead he dumped the viscera into a bronze bucket.

  “It was no mean feat, but…I have it,” Gaulder announced with a smile.

  “Yes. Bring it into the light.”

  Gaulder swallowed hard. The master was neither pleasant to work with, nor look upon. Mostly, the man was covered in dark robes. Even with the hood pulled low over his face, the wizard exuded power, and a foul odor. Gaulder approached the stone worktable where the dead subject lay with chest cavity open.

  “Here,” Gaulder whispered, placing the bundle adjacent the body.

  Cormaire waved his apprentice off before unwrapping the bundle. Amidst the gray cloths was a polished piece of amber the size of a child’s fist. Encased within was a dried, angel trumpet flower.

  “It was not easy to obtain.”

  “Powerful items seldom are.”

  “How, how does it work?”

  The old man walked around the worktable. A plethora of ancient tomes sat on rotting shelves behind him. Candlelight flickered. Cormaire drew back his hood revealing deep wrinkles. He smiled like a Cheshire cat; his teeth surprisingly clean. The apprentice shuddered.

  “Revenants, my boy, are particularly difficult to raise,” Cormaire explained. “Firstly, the body must have perished from unnatural causes, and the bloodier the better. Next, as you just saw, the entrails, gallbladder, and bladder must be removed. Then, the cavity is stuffed with chaff bound in burlap…this is to keep the body dry.

  “Now, we prefer as little trauma to the brain as possible, lest our raised be a simpleton. Furthermore, I prefer to add multiple adrenal glands. These can be obtained from any dead person, so long as they are not overly decayed. Splicing the glands into the body is a rather simple task, and it provides our revenant with boundless strength and endurance.

  “Finally, the dried flower encased in amber is used to tie the deceased’s spiritual nature to the aether; the…between, if you will. If this is not done, a revenant will be unable to follow the orders of the necromancer–”

  Gaulder made the mistake of interrupting by saying, “But, master, the others didn’t require–”

  The master’s eyes turned fierce. A furrow creased his brow, and his jowls sank at the corners. The dread immediately filled Gaulder’s heart. He looked away.

  “Are you finished trying to tell your master what you think is correct?” Cormaire hissed.

  Gaulder nodded emphatically. The necromancer’s demeanor relaxed, and he continued his lesson.

  “Revenants are refined creatures. They are unlike the boorish zombies, or ghouls, which any inexperienced Necromancer can raise. Revenants need a connecting link between the world of the living, and the world of the dead.”

  “What purpose do they serve?”

  “Ah,” Cormaire nodded, approvingly. “A most intelligent question. Revenants nearly pass for the living. With the proper series of incantations, this…young thief, here, can certainly be mistaken for a drunken ne’er-do-well.”

  “And what will you have him do for you?”

  Cormaire grinned again.

  Stealing immortality

  The necromancer worked tirelessly over the corpse. Having recently implanted new adrenal glands, and stuffed the body with chaff, the only remaining aspect of the physical changes was the addition of the angel trumpet. Gaulder kept his eyes on the entirety of the proceedings. For the most part, Cormaire gave few, verbal instructions.

  “Man’s connecting link is an unseen force,” the wizard started. “It protrudes from the abdomen; four fingers’ length down from the navel to be exact. This force is what we all use to read the world around us, and as such, the angel trumpet is placed there.”

  Gaulder maintained a focused gaze on the master. “What do you mean by read the world?”

  “The universe is magic…all of it. The physical body, too. Magic is a delicate force, not in that it can be destroyed. No, my, no. It can yet be disrupted. Altering natural flows leads to unnatural consequences.”

  “Like bringing the dead to life?”

  “Aye.”

  Cormaire gingerly slid the amber containing the flower amidst the burlap sacks
containing chaff. Then, he removed the chest retractors from the corpse. After that, he went about reconstituting the ribs and sternum. To reform the bones, he created bone meal in a mixing bowl. The whole formula consisted of powdered, bovine femurs, pinesap, and human blood.

  The necromancer placed the bone meal at every severed juncture by way of a round tipped horsehair brush. Then, he meticulously wrapped thin, copper wire around every area to hold the bones in place. Suddenly, he left the sepulcher through a back door behind the rotting bookshelves. Gaulder remained in thought while looking over the corpse.

  I hope this is worth it. Certainly, this place is a wealth of knowledge, but what good is all this knowledge if it does not yield power? Furthermore, what good is power if it leaves one in such a state as Cormaire? He is alone, feared, hunted, and quite obviously, in fear of the world around him.

  His were the mental ponderings of a man with little to lose. Gaulder was only twenty-four, but had little use for a normal life. His parents died while he was a boy, and he had no other family. What was I supposed to do, become a thief? It didn’t serve this man well. He hanged for stealing a belt. Soon, he will serve master Cormaire as a creature of the night. I can’t help but think of that story…the man who turned out to be nothing more than a creation….

  His thoughts trailed away, yet he kept his gaze on the corpse. Candlelight cast dancing shadows from