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Moon
- Joined
- Mar 27, 2025
The history of this is the old Dungeons and Dragons argument: Can I play a necromancer? The Dungeon Master says no. Why not? Because they are evil. This would be a playable necromancer's background, staying true to the argument; be evil and compelling.
The Good Necromancer
Bren proudly looked over the top of heavy wheat stalks growing weary with their burden, bending as grandparents. Yellow and green gourds filled his wagon, sacks of orange peppers and red tomatoes on top. The sky was growing dim, the horizon turning orange and pink like his ripe vegetables. A few more plump tomatoes in the middle of the patch, then he'd quit for the day.
***
In the deepening shadows, a hand thrust into the silky den. Intruders cannot be tolerated in the domain of the Syleth. Punish it, fill it with corrosive venom! Our kisses are the most feared in the wood.
***
Bren felt a prick on his hand, but he was so close to the tomato, almost got it. He held up the fruit for inspection, but on his hand between the thumb and first finger, two puncture wounds weeping a swirling mixture of red blood and yellow poison. Bren waved his hand wildly as if trying to shake off the liquid.
"Oh no," Bren said softly in disbelief.
Bren stripped off his belt and cinched it around his arm above the elbow, then pressed on the puncture wounds as if trying to pop a pimple. Another pricking sensation, slight, subtle, on his left ankle. He kicked the eight-legged horror into the air and screamed. The tomato bushes glinted like a cut diamond with arachnid eyes. The farmer ran.
Home was a stone house. Each rock dragged from the fields by his great grandfather, chiseled to size they became the walls. The sand was harvested from the river and mixed with limestone quarried in the nearby hills. Rooms were added by his father for his children. Three generations ate under the same roof for a few years.
"Rive, Rive!" Bren called for his wife, trying not to sound panicked.
Braided brunette hair, apron, dish rag in hand, Bren's wife opened the oak door.
"What has happened? Did you cut your hand? Let me see." Rive said.
"Syleth in the garden. They got me." Bren said, shock beginning to infest his mind.
"Bren, no. Bren…" Rive shook her head.
"Get Plaire, send her to bring the old witch in the grove," Bren commanded, knowing his wife would object.
"She's not just a witch, Bren." Rive retorted.
"She knows herbs and medicine too." Bren pleaded.
"That's not what I mean. She killed your brother." Rive countered.
"We don't know that for sure. There's no one else. It's a Syleth, I saw it. A second one got me on the ankle." Bren said.
"What's got you fussing mama?" a female voice asked.
Plaire was growing fast. Bren had to scratch new marks on the door frame every month since the beginning of spring. With an old nail flat on her head, he'd wiggle it side to side and say 'you're growing like a weed' as she measured the distance between the old hash mark with her finger.
"Don't get scared, I need to you listen. Your daddy's been bit. Go fetch the old witch Mawdy." Rive ordered.
"Bit by what?" Plaire asked hesitantly, fearing she already guessed.
"Syleth" Rive replied in a whisper.
Plaire almost shook her head, wanting to disbelieve, but stopped herself. Accept reality and do what must be done. Thinking with clarity, she picked up her cloak, the oil lantern, and a box of matches. It would be dark before reaching the cabin in the grove. Her mother waited at the door, a cloth pouch in her hand, tightening up the drawstring.
"Take this silver as payment." Rive put the pouch in her hand.
"And take the spear in case of wolves," Bren said. Rive looked about to cry but held back.
Plaire went to her father and looked into his face, trying to imagine how much time he had left. His complexion paled, sweat beginning to coat his skin with a sheen. She hugged him tightly but dared not linger and sprinted out the door, spear and lantern in hand.
Her boots slapped the hard-packed dirt road. The flat, easy-going path led east but crossing the forest would be quicker. She slipped in the soft dirt going up the embankment, bracing on the spear shaft, she pushed herself over the top. Inside the tree line, daylight was all but gone. She paused, deep controlled breathing. Steady the fingers so not to drop the match or break it on the striker. Another calming breath, stop shaking. Touch the flame to the wick, extinguish it, and drop it in the dirt away from dry leaves. Step on it, pushing the burnt-out match into the moist soil. No time for mistakes.
Steady feet, quiet, don't trip and sprain an ankle or attract predators. Your brother took you here many times to spy on the witch and dared each other to peek in her window. You've never done this in the dark, but you know the way. The shadows are not moving.
The moonlight lay like a blanket on the green, moss-covered shingles. Clunk, clunk sounds hidden in the dark, tree limbs in the breeze? The scarecrow in the garden turned its head to stare. Plaire froze, ready to flee. Candlelight floated behind the glass window of the sagging cottage. She continued marching stiffly towards the door, legs not in full agreement.
The door hinged open, a candle in her left hand, a face wrinkled as an old leather boot peaked out. Her sunken eyes narrowed, measuring the intruder, then scanning the trees for threats.
"You're Bren's girl?" the old woman asked, voice creaky like bending trees.
"Yes ma'am, we need your help. My daddy got bit by a Syleth. I have silver coins to pay you with." Plaire said, holding forth the pouch.
Mawdy sighed, considering the chances this was a trap. She sucked on her toothless gums. No sense in asking any questions; the girl would just lie anyway if she was under duress. None of the sentries were hooting or chattering teeth. If I go along, maybe the battle will be far enough away from the cottage that I won't have to rebuild it. There was currently a shortage of carpenters on the farm.
"Alright, let me get my medicine bag. Come in and help," she said, waving a hand like gnarled twigs.
Plaire pushed open the door, following the old witch. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, like bookcases, but instead of books, all skulls. Plaire thought about screaming but didn't want to be rude.
"My, what a… nice home you have here," she stammered mechanically.
Mawdy cackled a deep, meaty laugh. She stopped her browsing, turned with a twinkle in her eye, smiling like split bark, and shook a crooked finger at her guest.
"You've got quite a set of manners on you, child," Mawdy said with mirth.
Several jars and a spoon made from an unfamiliar white wood were placed in a canvas satchel.
"Let us be quick now. Syleth are no trivial matter," she said and gestured in the air with her finger.
What Plaire took for chairs stood up; the soft quilts cushioning them fell to the side. Bones rattling, teeth clicking with excitement, and old splitting axes in their fleshless fingers assembled like soldiers three abreast. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and bulging. She was seeing things beyond comprehension or imagination.
Mawdy had seen this look before. Broken mind terror, the nightmares your worst nightmares dream. It's best if I just wait and be still; they usually come around in a minute. "Oh, except that one skinny fellow, he just tilted over. Life went instantly like a stopped clock," she remembered with amusement. Fortunately, Mawdy knew how to restart clocks.
"What are those?" Plaire shouted.
"Old friends, they will protect us. There are wolves in the forest, you know." Mawdy grinned.
Plaire and the witch walked side by side, and the three skeletons followed, marching in unison, feet lifting in time with mechanical precision. At the end of the forest, Mawdy pointed her finger at the skeletons in a sweeping gesture, then down, giving silent commands.
The trio straightened their backs, standing at attention, but only two stared directionless at nothing. From atop the embankment, the stone house was visible across the field, bright with lamp and candle light pouring from every window. The first skeleton turned his skull to watch his master walk away, then ahead to the stone building. His featureless face somehow betrayed a sense of familiarity.
Plaire rushed ahead, throwing open the door. Mama was crying openly, and her younger brother Tanze was sitting in a chair beside his father, holding his hand. Their collective eyes begging for hope.
The old witch stood in the doorway; her clothes had become baggy on her thin, frail form. Long white hair, uncombed for weeks, gathered in clumps. A wool shawl pinned with a broach covered her boney shoulders
"I'm here to help if you'll allow me, Rive," she requested. Rive scowled but relented.
"Please, save my Bren." She pleaded.
"Clear the table. I must assemble the spell." Mawdy ordered.
The old witch placed her satchel on the table and sat on the bench. Reaching up to an invisible shelf, her fingertips vanished as they passed into the pocket dimension. A large leather-bound book, pages of vellum, was pulled into view and set on the table. The book animated with life opened itself and flipped pages as Mawdy shook her head. Then, nodding as if the book could see the command, the slips of vellum stopped, settled in place, and went to sleep.
***
Mawdy was initiated; transformed in body and mind, becoming a wizard one hundred and eighty-one years ago. Her magic was descended from Yexam. Necromancy was the detestable art because the knowledge was stolen and turned on the father of all sorcery. Woglow was crafting a spell to make his brothers and sisters forget the frightening forms of magic he created. He feared no matter what he did, they would steal his secrets and turn them into weapons. The only way to protect the universe was to erase the memory such things were possible.
Yexam stole a part of this spell to use on Woglow and make him forget. The incomplete spell fractured his mind. Mostly he slept, catatonic, but other times pieces of his personality surfaced. His fragments took turns; sometimes he emerged mid-battle ready to destroy, on other occasions he was the genius spell crafter or stuck in a loop repeating the same gibberish and actions.
This detestable magic could destroy a mind but selectively leave pieces. A victim could be made worse than a slave, something more similar to a machine. A man with a shovel could be forced to dig, not stopping for rest, water or injury. In the zombie's mind, there is only digging. The worst side effect occurred when the victim expired. The zombie knows one other desire: killing and consuming the flesh of the living.
Yexam discovered this magic could be used on the dead as well as the living. The soul of a creature is linked to the physical remains, it can be called back to the body and animated magically. The master will break apart the mind, keeping only what she wants the reanimated to know and discarding the remainder. If she wants a soldier, she chisels away everything but violence and rage. If she wants a cook, she removes the unwanted self-awareness, identity, and memories of loved ones but leaves the appropriate memory and a few others so they are obedient. Unless constantly restrained, they will seek the living and maul it to death.
***
Part of her spell book is written in the material and partially in the ethereal plane. Like the many sides of an icosahedron, they are the same object. Mawdy focused her mind, using the sight of her astral body to select components for the spell. Her material and astral hands moved together, assembling the parts of her machine. Beneath the ethereal plane is yet another side of the multifaceted universe. Energy from the void is channeled into the spell matrix, which transforms it into the wizard's design.
From Mawdy's fingertips, silver particles flowed into the air, coming together like a school of fish. She directed the conjuration into her patient. The energy merged with Bren, seeking out the venom circulating in his veins. The cure should be swift; the spell was quite strong, but in a light only she could see, the jumping and diving magic fish were starving.
She returned to her spell book and double-checked the recipe. Assembled another matrix, bigger and reinforced. The old witch pulled quadruple the void energy into her machine and spun ten times the aquatic venom seekers. Landing on Bren was like rain in the desert. They dried and turned to dust immediately. Two more versions of toxin eradication spells and a third she invented on the spot failed to remedy his condition.
Dawn light claws at the eastern horizon, and Bren looks pallid. His eyes are oozing yellow tears, and when he exhales, his breath smells like old milk. Everywhere is painful to the touch. He stopped sweating some hours ago. Rive tried to give him water but he vomited it back quickly.
"Maw…dy" Bren croaked. The old witch sat in the chair listening.
"There's nothing else I can do. This sickness in you is destiny."
"I have to finish the harvest."
"You won't be able to, I'm sorry."
"Yes, I can if you make me like my brother, just until the work is done. There won't be anything for them to eat this winter. Please, Mawdy."
***
The old necromancer had churned corpses by the thousands in her youth, her undead army turned the southern coast into abattoirs. She had ambitions of empire until the Vulture King put her in her place. Creating undead with their memories and personalities intact was a violation of her minuscule conscience.
Dismembering the souls of the dead was an impermanent delay. The broken pieces become black water and return to the rivers. If the person carried guilt, it could even be a blessing to have their memories destroyed. They will be whole eventually.
The crimes they would commit if she left them whole would stay with them as they approached the white tower. No god would accept them tainted with the detestable art. They would be left unclaimed and fall into the eternal war, but there might be a compromise.
If she lay a curse on the family. The delayed magic would turn them into zombies when they died, and as such, the undead would tolerate them as kin. This would keep them hidden from the innate hatred the undead have for the living. Then, break off all of Bren's memories except what he'd known as a farmer, and the family would be safe as he completed his work.
***
Bren's murky eyes begged while she sucked on her gums, thinking but deciding nothing. No conclusion, no weighing of the consequences, no morals, no plan, no intent malicious or helpful. She loathed indecision, so if only to end her pitiful state, she would act. Without action, there is always the possibility to act, which felt the same as indecision.
"Ok, you fool." Mawdy hissed.
The necromancer returned her items to the satchel, tightened down the cover flap, and placed the book over her head onto her shoulder. The book was returned to its hidden place, she wouldn't need it. These spells were always at the ready. Entering the astral sight, she programmed the conditions and began marking Bren's soul like a surgeon drawing lines on the areas she intended to cut.
When she entered the front room Rive and the children were still awake, too shaken with worry to relax. They looked at her with bloodshot eyes, raw from crying. She began casting the spell on the family while they waited, dumbfounded. There was no reason to explain what their new fate would be.
"There's nothing I can do. This toxin was no normal Syleth. I do not know who would use such means to hurt a simple farmer. I'm sor…" Mawdy paused, stunned by her remorse. "…Sorry. I tried everything I know. There's more. I… I… I've done something horrible."
The old necromancer appeared to age even more in seconds, the creases in her face darkening, eyes yellowing, teeth blackening, hair thinning. The failing candlelight returned to normal, and the effect vanished as she burst into a swarm of black swollen corpse flies buzzing obnoxiously and flying up the chimney.
Bren's cold body sat up mechanically. The children's faces are shock and hope. Is father ok? He's staring ahead at nothing, eyes drying and turning milky. They call to him but he doesn't acknowledge any familiarity, instead shambling out the door to begin the day's work. In the scorching heat of the day, without rest or pause, he reaps the wheat. Scything into the evening, in darkness he keeps going, seeing without light, without eyes because maggots ate them and spilled out. Some fell into his breast pocket, wriggling until they died of dehydration.
Then he gathered the harvest into the barn and threshed the stalks. When the cord broke, he went to his workshop and repaired it. Plaire watched, unwilling to give up hoping it was all a dream. Her voice had given out this morning from unceasing involuntary screaming. Daddy!
She tried to hold his arm, but he pulled away, not even looking at her. She wrapped her arms around his waist as he worked unaware. She beat her fists on his back and sobbed until Rive pulled her away back into the house. They held her down until she fell unconscious from exhaustion.
It was dark when she woke next. Her throat burned, so she drank water. Outside in the barn was the sound, rhythmic, steady, and slow. Whump… Whump… Whump. There he was, empty eye sockets, lips drying, splitting, and shriveling like dead worms. She watched, trying to understand. She started to speak, but all she could manage was a whisper.
Plaire had already begged and pleaded but nothing changed. Now, she confessed all the regrets she kept secret, wishing she was a better daughter. All the things she hoped for in life, the handsome husband she imagined someday sweeping her off her feet to live on his estate. Then she was angry he would never see his grandchildren. He had to come back to be with mom and her brother but he was ignoring her. Daddy, please come back.
With the threshing done, he picked corn. His nose, blackened and slimy like a rotten mushroom, was soon picked off by the crows landing on his shoulder. Then his ears and cheeks were bare. The greedy blackbirds stripped the little meat there was from his scalp. Bren was unconcerned.
When finally, the last bundle is tied and stored away, the monster turned to look at his house with vacant eyes and crumbles to dust.
Plaire awoke every night screaming, the sight of her dead father sitting up, fresh in her dreams. Her screams were not loud or howling but choking, gasping as if the panic was robbing her of the ability to make sound at all. Her arms were not shaking, but rather like she was trying to swim, or maybe reaching out to hug someone no longer able to be touched.
Mother woke a minute later in the next room. She held her daughter from behind and rocked her back to sleep. It was almost dawn, anyway. After Plaire was soothed, tears already drying into trails of salt, she went outside to the woodpile. Mawdy was there, the old crone necromancer, black tattered cloak with a damp ring of green moss growing around the bottom.
Rive hissed at her, "what do you want hag?" she wanted to grab a log and bash her skull but was afraid of the old witch's magic.
"I feel her nightmares, and I am sorry. I have been watching over your house since that night. I have kept you safe, but it is not in my power to ease anyone's pain," the old woman answered.
Mother sighed as she remembered it was only at her husband's urging, no begging, that she did this for him, for us, so that we have food at least for one more year. Her anger was momentarily defeated, and she felt her eyes beginning to swell.
The crone continued, "Someday the daughter will come to me seeking…" her words trailed off as if lost in a memory. "Seeking to face her tormentor. She hates what I did but will demand answers, she has a strong spirit. Worry not mother, I will not harm her, let her come and her mind may be healed or maybe she is destined for greater things."
The tears came now; mother dabbed at her eyes with her apron, and when she looked again, the old witch was gone. Rive goes back inside and then remembers the wood. Everything is so hard now, thinking clearly is an immense challenge. She stands in the morning light, confused, looking at the wood pile in silence.
Tanze has her by the hand, pulling her back inside towards the table. Instinctively, she sits. Her son returns with a bundle of wood. He trims tinder and kindling then stacks the wood inside their iron stove. The fire is healthy and orange. Water starts to boil, he adds oats, salt, and a spoonful of butter and stirs it gently.
***
It was his job to milk the cows, he milked them yesterday as that thing brought fresh hay just as his father did. He jumped off his stool careful not to spill the milk pale. Ready to fight or run, unsure of what to do. The monster dropped the bundle in the feeder and shambled off like it didn't even see me. Tanze followed, insane curiosity overriding fear and revulsion. It almost looked like father, but clearly, it was not; his father died in bed two nights ago. He watched for some time until he was bored. The sooner he milked the cows, the sooner his chores would be done.
Father was dead, Tanze told himself, but don't let yourself think about it. At least, not yet. Mom and Plaire are so sad right now, they need me to take care of them. He could almost hear Pa's voice saying, 'You're the man of the house now' like he did every time he went into town. Keeping busy with chores prevented too much remembering.
***
Rive looked at the bowl of mush her thoughtful son made, he's so sweet. I can't let it go to waste. She forced herself to put the oats in her mouth, so dry she couldn't swallow. After rolling the food around her tongue and tasting the salt and butter, her saliva started working. Before, her stomach felt like a brick, but the tiniest morsel of food reactivated her. She took a breath, feeling as if it were the first breath she'd taken in days. Her brain was awaking along with all the grief, then she had the strength to cry again.
When she stopped crying, she took another bite from the bowl. Sob, wait, breathe, calm. The cycle shortened each time. There was nothing else to do but go back to life the way it was.
The Good Necromancer
Bren proudly looked over the top of heavy wheat stalks growing weary with their burden, bending as grandparents. Yellow and green gourds filled his wagon, sacks of orange peppers and red tomatoes on top. The sky was growing dim, the horizon turning orange and pink like his ripe vegetables. A few more plump tomatoes in the middle of the patch, then he'd quit for the day.
***
In the deepening shadows, a hand thrust into the silky den. Intruders cannot be tolerated in the domain of the Syleth. Punish it, fill it with corrosive venom! Our kisses are the most feared in the wood.
***
Bren felt a prick on his hand, but he was so close to the tomato, almost got it. He held up the fruit for inspection, but on his hand between the thumb and first finger, two puncture wounds weeping a swirling mixture of red blood and yellow poison. Bren waved his hand wildly as if trying to shake off the liquid.
"Oh no," Bren said softly in disbelief.
Bren stripped off his belt and cinched it around his arm above the elbow, then pressed on the puncture wounds as if trying to pop a pimple. Another pricking sensation, slight, subtle, on his left ankle. He kicked the eight-legged horror into the air and screamed. The tomato bushes glinted like a cut diamond with arachnid eyes. The farmer ran.
Home was a stone house. Each rock dragged from the fields by his great grandfather, chiseled to size they became the walls. The sand was harvested from the river and mixed with limestone quarried in the nearby hills. Rooms were added by his father for his children. Three generations ate under the same roof for a few years.
"Rive, Rive!" Bren called for his wife, trying not to sound panicked.
Braided brunette hair, apron, dish rag in hand, Bren's wife opened the oak door.
"What has happened? Did you cut your hand? Let me see." Rive said.
"Syleth in the garden. They got me." Bren said, shock beginning to infest his mind.
"Bren, no. Bren…" Rive shook her head.
"Get Plaire, send her to bring the old witch in the grove," Bren commanded, knowing his wife would object.
"She's not just a witch, Bren." Rive retorted.
"She knows herbs and medicine too." Bren pleaded.
"That's not what I mean. She killed your brother." Rive countered.
"We don't know that for sure. There's no one else. It's a Syleth, I saw it. A second one got me on the ankle." Bren said.
"What's got you fussing mama?" a female voice asked.
Plaire was growing fast. Bren had to scratch new marks on the door frame every month since the beginning of spring. With an old nail flat on her head, he'd wiggle it side to side and say 'you're growing like a weed' as she measured the distance between the old hash mark with her finger.
"Don't get scared, I need to you listen. Your daddy's been bit. Go fetch the old witch Mawdy." Rive ordered.
"Bit by what?" Plaire asked hesitantly, fearing she already guessed.
"Syleth" Rive replied in a whisper.
Plaire almost shook her head, wanting to disbelieve, but stopped herself. Accept reality and do what must be done. Thinking with clarity, she picked up her cloak, the oil lantern, and a box of matches. It would be dark before reaching the cabin in the grove. Her mother waited at the door, a cloth pouch in her hand, tightening up the drawstring.
"Take this silver as payment." Rive put the pouch in her hand.
"And take the spear in case of wolves," Bren said. Rive looked about to cry but held back.
Plaire went to her father and looked into his face, trying to imagine how much time he had left. His complexion paled, sweat beginning to coat his skin with a sheen. She hugged him tightly but dared not linger and sprinted out the door, spear and lantern in hand.
Her boots slapped the hard-packed dirt road. The flat, easy-going path led east but crossing the forest would be quicker. She slipped in the soft dirt going up the embankment, bracing on the spear shaft, she pushed herself over the top. Inside the tree line, daylight was all but gone. She paused, deep controlled breathing. Steady the fingers so not to drop the match or break it on the striker. Another calming breath, stop shaking. Touch the flame to the wick, extinguish it, and drop it in the dirt away from dry leaves. Step on it, pushing the burnt-out match into the moist soil. No time for mistakes.
Steady feet, quiet, don't trip and sprain an ankle or attract predators. Your brother took you here many times to spy on the witch and dared each other to peek in her window. You've never done this in the dark, but you know the way. The shadows are not moving.
The moonlight lay like a blanket on the green, moss-covered shingles. Clunk, clunk sounds hidden in the dark, tree limbs in the breeze? The scarecrow in the garden turned its head to stare. Plaire froze, ready to flee. Candlelight floated behind the glass window of the sagging cottage. She continued marching stiffly towards the door, legs not in full agreement.
The door hinged open, a candle in her left hand, a face wrinkled as an old leather boot peaked out. Her sunken eyes narrowed, measuring the intruder, then scanning the trees for threats.
"You're Bren's girl?" the old woman asked, voice creaky like bending trees.
"Yes ma'am, we need your help. My daddy got bit by a Syleth. I have silver coins to pay you with." Plaire said, holding forth the pouch.
Mawdy sighed, considering the chances this was a trap. She sucked on her toothless gums. No sense in asking any questions; the girl would just lie anyway if she was under duress. None of the sentries were hooting or chattering teeth. If I go along, maybe the battle will be far enough away from the cottage that I won't have to rebuild it. There was currently a shortage of carpenters on the farm.
"Alright, let me get my medicine bag. Come in and help," she said, waving a hand like gnarled twigs.
Plaire pushed open the door, following the old witch. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, like bookcases, but instead of books, all skulls. Plaire thought about screaming but didn't want to be rude.
"My, what a… nice home you have here," she stammered mechanically.
Mawdy cackled a deep, meaty laugh. She stopped her browsing, turned with a twinkle in her eye, smiling like split bark, and shook a crooked finger at her guest.
"You've got quite a set of manners on you, child," Mawdy said with mirth.
Several jars and a spoon made from an unfamiliar white wood were placed in a canvas satchel.
"Let us be quick now. Syleth are no trivial matter," she said and gestured in the air with her finger.
What Plaire took for chairs stood up; the soft quilts cushioning them fell to the side. Bones rattling, teeth clicking with excitement, and old splitting axes in their fleshless fingers assembled like soldiers three abreast. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and bulging. She was seeing things beyond comprehension or imagination.
Mawdy had seen this look before. Broken mind terror, the nightmares your worst nightmares dream. It's best if I just wait and be still; they usually come around in a minute. "Oh, except that one skinny fellow, he just tilted over. Life went instantly like a stopped clock," she remembered with amusement. Fortunately, Mawdy knew how to restart clocks.
"What are those?" Plaire shouted.
"Old friends, they will protect us. There are wolves in the forest, you know." Mawdy grinned.
Plaire and the witch walked side by side, and the three skeletons followed, marching in unison, feet lifting in time with mechanical precision. At the end of the forest, Mawdy pointed her finger at the skeletons in a sweeping gesture, then down, giving silent commands.
The trio straightened their backs, standing at attention, but only two stared directionless at nothing. From atop the embankment, the stone house was visible across the field, bright with lamp and candle light pouring from every window. The first skeleton turned his skull to watch his master walk away, then ahead to the stone building. His featureless face somehow betrayed a sense of familiarity.
Plaire rushed ahead, throwing open the door. Mama was crying openly, and her younger brother Tanze was sitting in a chair beside his father, holding his hand. Their collective eyes begging for hope.
The old witch stood in the doorway; her clothes had become baggy on her thin, frail form. Long white hair, uncombed for weeks, gathered in clumps. A wool shawl pinned with a broach covered her boney shoulders
"I'm here to help if you'll allow me, Rive," she requested. Rive scowled but relented.
"Please, save my Bren." She pleaded.
"Clear the table. I must assemble the spell." Mawdy ordered.
The old witch placed her satchel on the table and sat on the bench. Reaching up to an invisible shelf, her fingertips vanished as they passed into the pocket dimension. A large leather-bound book, pages of vellum, was pulled into view and set on the table. The book animated with life opened itself and flipped pages as Mawdy shook her head. Then, nodding as if the book could see the command, the slips of vellum stopped, settled in place, and went to sleep.
***
Mawdy was initiated; transformed in body and mind, becoming a wizard one hundred and eighty-one years ago. Her magic was descended from Yexam. Necromancy was the detestable art because the knowledge was stolen and turned on the father of all sorcery. Woglow was crafting a spell to make his brothers and sisters forget the frightening forms of magic he created. He feared no matter what he did, they would steal his secrets and turn them into weapons. The only way to protect the universe was to erase the memory such things were possible.
Yexam stole a part of this spell to use on Woglow and make him forget. The incomplete spell fractured his mind. Mostly he slept, catatonic, but other times pieces of his personality surfaced. His fragments took turns; sometimes he emerged mid-battle ready to destroy, on other occasions he was the genius spell crafter or stuck in a loop repeating the same gibberish and actions.
This detestable magic could destroy a mind but selectively leave pieces. A victim could be made worse than a slave, something more similar to a machine. A man with a shovel could be forced to dig, not stopping for rest, water or injury. In the zombie's mind, there is only digging. The worst side effect occurred when the victim expired. The zombie knows one other desire: killing and consuming the flesh of the living.
Yexam discovered this magic could be used on the dead as well as the living. The soul of a creature is linked to the physical remains, it can be called back to the body and animated magically. The master will break apart the mind, keeping only what she wants the reanimated to know and discarding the remainder. If she wants a soldier, she chisels away everything but violence and rage. If she wants a cook, she removes the unwanted self-awareness, identity, and memories of loved ones but leaves the appropriate memory and a few others so they are obedient. Unless constantly restrained, they will seek the living and maul it to death.
***
Part of her spell book is written in the material and partially in the ethereal plane. Like the many sides of an icosahedron, they are the same object. Mawdy focused her mind, using the sight of her astral body to select components for the spell. Her material and astral hands moved together, assembling the parts of her machine. Beneath the ethereal plane is yet another side of the multifaceted universe. Energy from the void is channeled into the spell matrix, which transforms it into the wizard's design.
From Mawdy's fingertips, silver particles flowed into the air, coming together like a school of fish. She directed the conjuration into her patient. The energy merged with Bren, seeking out the venom circulating in his veins. The cure should be swift; the spell was quite strong, but in a light only she could see, the jumping and diving magic fish were starving.
She returned to her spell book and double-checked the recipe. Assembled another matrix, bigger and reinforced. The old witch pulled quadruple the void energy into her machine and spun ten times the aquatic venom seekers. Landing on Bren was like rain in the desert. They dried and turned to dust immediately. Two more versions of toxin eradication spells and a third she invented on the spot failed to remedy his condition.
Dawn light claws at the eastern horizon, and Bren looks pallid. His eyes are oozing yellow tears, and when he exhales, his breath smells like old milk. Everywhere is painful to the touch. He stopped sweating some hours ago. Rive tried to give him water but he vomited it back quickly.
"Maw…dy" Bren croaked. The old witch sat in the chair listening.
"There's nothing else I can do. This sickness in you is destiny."
"I have to finish the harvest."
"You won't be able to, I'm sorry."
"Yes, I can if you make me like my brother, just until the work is done. There won't be anything for them to eat this winter. Please, Mawdy."
***
The old necromancer had churned corpses by the thousands in her youth, her undead army turned the southern coast into abattoirs. She had ambitions of empire until the Vulture King put her in her place. Creating undead with their memories and personalities intact was a violation of her minuscule conscience.
Dismembering the souls of the dead was an impermanent delay. The broken pieces become black water and return to the rivers. If the person carried guilt, it could even be a blessing to have their memories destroyed. They will be whole eventually.
The crimes they would commit if she left them whole would stay with them as they approached the white tower. No god would accept them tainted with the detestable art. They would be left unclaimed and fall into the eternal war, but there might be a compromise.
If she lay a curse on the family. The delayed magic would turn them into zombies when they died, and as such, the undead would tolerate them as kin. This would keep them hidden from the innate hatred the undead have for the living. Then, break off all of Bren's memories except what he'd known as a farmer, and the family would be safe as he completed his work.
***
Bren's murky eyes begged while she sucked on her gums, thinking but deciding nothing. No conclusion, no weighing of the consequences, no morals, no plan, no intent malicious or helpful. She loathed indecision, so if only to end her pitiful state, she would act. Without action, there is always the possibility to act, which felt the same as indecision.
"Ok, you fool." Mawdy hissed.
The necromancer returned her items to the satchel, tightened down the cover flap, and placed the book over her head onto her shoulder. The book was returned to its hidden place, she wouldn't need it. These spells were always at the ready. Entering the astral sight, she programmed the conditions and began marking Bren's soul like a surgeon drawing lines on the areas she intended to cut.
When she entered the front room Rive and the children were still awake, too shaken with worry to relax. They looked at her with bloodshot eyes, raw from crying. She began casting the spell on the family while they waited, dumbfounded. There was no reason to explain what their new fate would be.
"There's nothing I can do. This toxin was no normal Syleth. I do not know who would use such means to hurt a simple farmer. I'm sor…" Mawdy paused, stunned by her remorse. "…Sorry. I tried everything I know. There's more. I… I… I've done something horrible."
The old necromancer appeared to age even more in seconds, the creases in her face darkening, eyes yellowing, teeth blackening, hair thinning. The failing candlelight returned to normal, and the effect vanished as she burst into a swarm of black swollen corpse flies buzzing obnoxiously and flying up the chimney.
Bren's cold body sat up mechanically. The children's faces are shock and hope. Is father ok? He's staring ahead at nothing, eyes drying and turning milky. They call to him but he doesn't acknowledge any familiarity, instead shambling out the door to begin the day's work. In the scorching heat of the day, without rest or pause, he reaps the wheat. Scything into the evening, in darkness he keeps going, seeing without light, without eyes because maggots ate them and spilled out. Some fell into his breast pocket, wriggling until they died of dehydration.
Then he gathered the harvest into the barn and threshed the stalks. When the cord broke, he went to his workshop and repaired it. Plaire watched, unwilling to give up hoping it was all a dream. Her voice had given out this morning from unceasing involuntary screaming. Daddy!
She tried to hold his arm, but he pulled away, not even looking at her. She wrapped her arms around his waist as he worked unaware. She beat her fists on his back and sobbed until Rive pulled her away back into the house. They held her down until she fell unconscious from exhaustion.
It was dark when she woke next. Her throat burned, so she drank water. Outside in the barn was the sound, rhythmic, steady, and slow. Whump… Whump… Whump. There he was, empty eye sockets, lips drying, splitting, and shriveling like dead worms. She watched, trying to understand. She started to speak, but all she could manage was a whisper.
Plaire had already begged and pleaded but nothing changed. Now, she confessed all the regrets she kept secret, wishing she was a better daughter. All the things she hoped for in life, the handsome husband she imagined someday sweeping her off her feet to live on his estate. Then she was angry he would never see his grandchildren. He had to come back to be with mom and her brother but he was ignoring her. Daddy, please come back.
With the threshing done, he picked corn. His nose, blackened and slimy like a rotten mushroom, was soon picked off by the crows landing on his shoulder. Then his ears and cheeks were bare. The greedy blackbirds stripped the little meat there was from his scalp. Bren was unconcerned.
When finally, the last bundle is tied and stored away, the monster turned to look at his house with vacant eyes and crumbles to dust.
Plaire awoke every night screaming, the sight of her dead father sitting up, fresh in her dreams. Her screams were not loud or howling but choking, gasping as if the panic was robbing her of the ability to make sound at all. Her arms were not shaking, but rather like she was trying to swim, or maybe reaching out to hug someone no longer able to be touched.
Mother woke a minute later in the next room. She held her daughter from behind and rocked her back to sleep. It was almost dawn, anyway. After Plaire was soothed, tears already drying into trails of salt, she went outside to the woodpile. Mawdy was there, the old crone necromancer, black tattered cloak with a damp ring of green moss growing around the bottom.
Rive hissed at her, "what do you want hag?" she wanted to grab a log and bash her skull but was afraid of the old witch's magic.
"I feel her nightmares, and I am sorry. I have been watching over your house since that night. I have kept you safe, but it is not in my power to ease anyone's pain," the old woman answered.
Mother sighed as she remembered it was only at her husband's urging, no begging, that she did this for him, for us, so that we have food at least for one more year. Her anger was momentarily defeated, and she felt her eyes beginning to swell.
The crone continued, "Someday the daughter will come to me seeking…" her words trailed off as if lost in a memory. "Seeking to face her tormentor. She hates what I did but will demand answers, she has a strong spirit. Worry not mother, I will not harm her, let her come and her mind may be healed or maybe she is destined for greater things."
The tears came now; mother dabbed at her eyes with her apron, and when she looked again, the old witch was gone. Rive goes back inside and then remembers the wood. Everything is so hard now, thinking clearly is an immense challenge. She stands in the morning light, confused, looking at the wood pile in silence.
Tanze has her by the hand, pulling her back inside towards the table. Instinctively, she sits. Her son returns with a bundle of wood. He trims tinder and kindling then stacks the wood inside their iron stove. The fire is healthy and orange. Water starts to boil, he adds oats, salt, and a spoonful of butter and stirs it gently.
***
It was his job to milk the cows, he milked them yesterday as that thing brought fresh hay just as his father did. He jumped off his stool careful not to spill the milk pale. Ready to fight or run, unsure of what to do. The monster dropped the bundle in the feeder and shambled off like it didn't even see me. Tanze followed, insane curiosity overriding fear and revulsion. It almost looked like father, but clearly, it was not; his father died in bed two nights ago. He watched for some time until he was bored. The sooner he milked the cows, the sooner his chores would be done.
Father was dead, Tanze told himself, but don't let yourself think about it. At least, not yet. Mom and Plaire are so sad right now, they need me to take care of them. He could almost hear Pa's voice saying, 'You're the man of the house now' like he did every time he went into town. Keeping busy with chores prevented too much remembering.
***
Rive looked at the bowl of mush her thoughtful son made, he's so sweet. I can't let it go to waste. She forced herself to put the oats in her mouth, so dry she couldn't swallow. After rolling the food around her tongue and tasting the salt and butter, her saliva started working. Before, her stomach felt like a brick, but the tiniest morsel of food reactivated her. She took a breath, feeling as if it were the first breath she'd taken in days. Her brain was awaking along with all the grief, then she had the strength to cry again.
When she stopped crying, she took another bite from the bowl. Sob, wait, breathe, calm. The cycle shortened each time. There was nothing else to do but go back to life the way it was.