《The Necromancer's Heart》
Herr, Ms Kimia
¡°Turn to page 2262.¡±
Kimia sighed as she slumped forwards, her persistence in not being known as the girl who slept in class the only thing the only thing preventing herself from collapsing under the weight of these long drawn out potions formulae
Potions class was so terribly, terribly boring!
It had not always been like this at first, as the young witch had once greatly devoured any and everything to do with potions and chemistry and
But that was back in Timberly College, under the watchful eyes of older witches who¡¯d assessed her magical abilities and and where her aptitudes in the future would lay.
Here, at the National University of Yan B¨®n Mor, her interest had faded into a smudge of leftover ink blots. There was far too much theory, and not enough hands on work that would¡¯ve suited her farmer raised personality.
And the lectures, Dear Goddesses! She had hoped the near endless would¡¯ve come to a crashing halt by the time she left Timberly College, but she soon found plentiful of those under Ms Hemlock, her tedious Potions Professor.
Long drawn out monologues, dull at best efforts at engaging with her students, and 10 pages essays on the difference between Potion formulae were often the hallmarks of Ms Hemlock class. She had come and studied here when the University had first open, a refuge for all witches who¡¯d fled the draconian magical laws that were popping up all over Mylea some 300 years ago, but she had never made attempts to change the teaching methods she¡¯d been reared in.
She would not go as far to commit a mindless killing, but a part of Kimia wished there was some way out of this class rather than hoping for Ms. Hemlock''s unfortunate demise.
Her first year as a Potions student had come and went, and her grades had slipped to such an extent that her mothers had fretted whether or not she would be able to continue on with a 4 year degree. But Kimia assured her that she would, that she would not let their years of saving up money on the farmlands go to waste because she had badly chosen her degree.
It had been sold to her as a safe major, and that she would find employment by the end of her four years, but the pessimist within her felt that her life had already been set in stone as Herbal Potions receptionist.
The job she always dreamed of, she mused bitterly.
Of course, studying at YBM was not all bad, even as she was forced by commitment to pay half attention to dreary Potions presentations. She had made many friends here that were much like her, an improvement from the life of the handful witches back in Timberly College. Her social needs were fulfilled with the extracurricular interests she took part in with the friends she¡¯d already made here, though not a potions master among them.
They¡¯d gone down the path of studying an arts degree, safe in the knowledge that a Masters conversion in a METS (Magical Elemental Thaumaturgic Studies) would be paid for by their parents if the theatre job or degree in underwater broomstick weaving hadn¡¯t worked out.
Kimia, by her circumstance as the daughter of lesbian farmers, was was only allowed to get it right once. And she had gotten it gravely wrong already.
She peered around, to see that most of the students were just as byt today¡¯s lecture as she was. YBM University had started off as a women¡¯s only university, and it had largely remained that way, despite it¡¯s best efforts of targeting men after allowing men to join some 20 years ago. She couldn¡¯t find a single man among today¡¯s audience, until a freshman with soft oval eyes poked at her with a message composed from a torn notebook.
¡°Delivery.¡± He whispered as he passed her the note. Ms Hemlock, old Matriarch as she was, had always expected total obedience from her students. Even the most slight of sounds would be enough to send someone outside the classroom, and be heaped with daily exams for the rest of the term. He had crossed over no-woman¡¯s land to give her it.
She thanked him, and soon discovered that it had arrived from Merrin, a friend of a friend who Kimia had grown friendly with in their shared commiserations of being Potions students.
Did you hear there¡¯s a new Professor on campus? It read.
No, I did not hear, was what Kimia scribbled back.
She was normally not one to gossip in class, but she not bear another millisecond on the differences between rat poison and mouse poison. Furry little creatures with tails like that always gave her worrisome vibes, especially now that Ms Hemlock intended to dissect one in front of the class.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
She gave the note back to the freshman and whispered directions on where it should head next. Like a game of Venadian whispers one student passed it from another and scribbled something a little extra on the small piece of paper until it had arrived back in Merrin¡¯s lap. She suddenly reddened in the face once she got it, perhaps noticing a lewd comment had been added on it¡¯s way and, then wrote her follow up and sent it right back down to Kimia.
There was a slight jibe from someone who wanted to tease Kimia and her newfound freshman admirer, but once again she could make the original message from Merrin¡¯s large handwriting.
He¡¯s supposed to be a Professor of Necromancy, the Dean is going to setup up a new degree centred around it.
Necromancy, really? Kimia scribbled down, You. Must. Be. Joking!
Necromancy was a real form of magic, but it had a well deserved reputation for attracting all sorts of delinquents to it. Necromancers were the types to clean up the messes others had made, or rather clean up the others who¡¯d been turned into a mess. YBM University, with it¡¯s squeaky clean emphasis as the last refuge of witches and Dragon Mascots, was surely not going to have a course like that on Campus?
Ms Hemlock¡¯s gaze seem to weigh in on her, and suddenly she felt the pull to pretend as though she was writing formulae from whatever new piece of Potions masterclass they were learning. She tried to scribble down from memory, almost like she was playing a game with herself on how much she could remember the potions equation which stretched from one end of the blackboard to another.
It was the only way she found studying Potions bearable under Ms Hemlock.
Just as Ms Hemlock¡¯s gaze had dissipated on her, she soon felt another message arrive from the Freshman. She felt compelled to ask for him after class, and thank him for doing a such a wonderful job as temporary student Postman.
I¡¯m not, Merrin¡¯s response went, lots of people saw him exploring the university with the Dean in tow. She says he¡¯ll be lecturing here next term.
Well next term is the start of Spring, Kimia thought, and I¡¯ll be almost halfway through my degree then. If only there was a way out of this class.
If only.
Kimia first noticed something was unwell with Ms Hemlock, when the chalk piece that had been suspended in air collapsed to the floor without a word of dismissal. This was odd, as Hemlock did not let just something go amiss, nor would she let someone desecrate her lecture hall floor.
She reached for her breast pocket, and soon Kimia and the rest of the classroom saw her beginning to crumble up, and then fall, and fall, and fall until she¡¯d collapsed behind the several centuries old wooden desk she¡¯d requested to be with her in every class she taught.
"Professor!" Kimia screamed. And suddenly all the venom she held for the elderly woman disappeared in an instant. The others in the class screamed, but Kimia soon found herself moving down into Hemlock''s personal quarters, which she had always forbade others from entering.
Her face was growing paler, the dim black mascara she¡¯d been conservative with in the morning now heightening a strange contrast between what once was and what would be. Kimia began to press on her chest, but soon felt a a sudden warmth began to divulge itself from Ms Hemlock¡¯s body. She knew that warmth, and did not have to proficent in the darker arts of witchcraft to know that Ms Hemlock was leaving this mortal coil. She did not want to accept that, that such a sudden death would come for someone, anyone, even possibly her.
"Someone get a doctor!"
That was when she saw the faint outline of a figure emerging from the entrance corner. She felt, not darkness, but a shadowy light drift into the room as it entered. Ms Wynne, the usually straight forward dean of the school, stood behind it like a wary hound unable to determine it¡¯s master¡¯s next move.
It was a man, and as he approached Kimia and Ms Hemlock¡¯s cold, lifeless body, he waved his hand away at her.
She felt stiff magic that was as subtle as fishhooks arrive on her knitwear and yank her away to a nearby wall. It was dark and powerful magic, enough that would drive any novice mad with maladies if they were forced to try and control it. Anyone who could muster up a spell like that without even a muttering of words was not someone she did not want to get on the bad side of.
As he found himself reaching for Ms Hemlock¡¯s body, she took time to study him. He was nestled in dark green furs that hid his largely emancipated body. Bald, aside from a intricate braided ponytail split into three parts. And then dark hazel eyes that had been reddened from years of gathering and restitching body parts, and which, once their eyes had met, made Kimia realise she¡¯d stepped into the middle of a mess he was usually tasked to clean up.
Kimia was spooked, and hurried up the steps to find Merrin to console into. The Dean started asking question, furious that only her only Potions Professor had died an untimely death when the University was already having an exodus of staff, but soon found herself trailing after the newcomer when he held Ms Hemlock¡¯s body in his long, skeletal hands and departed the classroom with the same spring in his step as she entered.
Kimia felt that dark light drift out once again, and soon Merrin was speaking to her in fast, hushed tones about how that was the Necromancer who¡¯d been spotted on Campus, was he now going to take over Ms Hemlock¡¯s now that she was probably dead?
The rest of the the class became unaware that a death had occurred in the classroom, and not even before Ms Hemlock¡¯s body had grown cold were they talking about their other options and what they were planning for the weekend.
All Kimia felt was just an unease in the pit of her stomach as she watched him take Ms Hemlock¡¯s body away, like a tabby orange cat dragging a whimpering mouse away to it¡¯s demise.
The Art of Mummification
Mort Cavendish''s first assignment on campus was to be the removal, embalming and passing of the funeral rites of Ms Hemlock, recently deceased, 324 years old, emeritus Professor of Potions at Yan Bon Mor University.
The news was widespread by the next day, but Kimia, with her young woman¡¯s perfectly attuned antennae, had already sensed it from the the remaining faculty who suddenly felt the dark cloud of death hang over their heads.
As for herself, she had gone home content in the knowledge that she would not be heading to a Potions class anytime soon.
In fact, she did not even stir herself out of bed when the great roar of the Black Wyvern echoed the walls of her dilapidated student room.
It was situated on the highest floor of the University¡¯s housing, itself having once been a large attic, and it was all that her mothers could afford to place her in for the time being. It was dusty and moist and, at times, Wyvern¡¯s droppings seemed to creep in at the most unexpected of places, all of which made it more difficult for Kimia to concentrate on the dreadful Potions formulae she had to rote memorise most of the time.
Kimia was not content with studying in an attic, and had banked on passing through Schols, the midterms exams which would earn her a scholarship, warm meals and a much more pleasurable place to sleep and study in. But the exams were still a month and a half away, so she had to make due with coming up and down several flights of stairs everyday until then.
That early morning, as the thick fog began to life for the first time in months, Kimia felt a sudden clearness in her mind which she¡¯d so desperately sought when she tired through her degree of Potions. She took time to breathe, and decided she would try if she could find something fashionable to wear from what little clothes she had on her, and admire herself in the large mirror that had been left behind by the last inhabitant of the place.
She had always felt like an outsider most of the time while she lived in Yan Bon Mor. She was 5¡¯9¡±, brunette and blessed with emerald eyes, but it was her olive skin that made sure she did not go amiss.
It had been inherited from her surrogate father, a Pendaline man who had once been an acquaintance to both of her farming mothers. How they¡¯d come to convince him to give them a daughter was a mystery, but he agreed and soon the younger mother had given birth to a girl on the day of the Darkest Moon.
It was her Pendaline father who¡¯d suggest the name Kimia when it became apparent that neither mother could settle on a name. It meant ¡°Moon¡± in olde Pendaline speak, and was both fitting and more pleasurable to hear than some of the more traditional Yan Bon Mor names they¡¯d picked out, like Guthrie or Ursula.
She tugged at her black frizzy hair, the hairpin the only thing she was wearing at the moment. It was also apparently inherited from him, and it seemed to forever remain frizzy despite her harsh attempts at brushing the untrimmed mess that it always was.
In truth, she had never met him, and eventually all letters between her mothers and him had fizzled out by the time she was three, but she¡¯d always hoped to go to Pendaline and someday run into him in the most unusual of circumstances. It was a strange fantasy she¡¯d concocted up to keep her nerves settled when she felt that strange disdain other children had for her, that should go to Pendaline and find comfort among other people who were olive skinned. Nor would she have to deal with the cold, something she never felt she could get used considering how much specially crafted knitwear had made for her.
It was practical knitwear, but it often covered her best assets, namely her slender frame and perky butt. A lifetime spent on the family farm had starved off the plumpness most Yan Bon Mor girls suffered from, but Kimia wondered if it was even worth having that if she was going to look like and overstuffed big girl in her sweater regardless.
She did not even attempt to rush down the staircases from her room in a hurry, nor did she find herself ruminating on the privileges others had in the floors below as she passed them by. Nor was there a halfheartedness as she moved through the snow to get to the campus gates.
Ms Hemlock¡¯s death, as morally distasteful as it sounded, had set her free at last on the road to contentment. She could not even bring herself to get annoyed at Merrin, waiting for her at the gates like a preppy new friend, started prattling on about this or that or all the latest gossip that was centred around Mort Cavendish.
She nodded absentmindedly as they walked, until breaking out of her stupor when Merrin uttered a bizarre and brazen request.
¡°Want to come and watch Mort perform on Ms Hemlock?¡± She asked excitedly.
¡°Isn¡¯t that, you know, off limits?¡± Kimia replied.
¡°Well, yes, but¡.¡± And then Merrin told her all about the secret hiding spot that was above the old Wyvern¡¯s lair, and where Necromancy was soon to be taught once Mort had settled into his new life as a Professor of YBM university.
Soon they had settled themselves in the room where the chandeliers had been kept, and where several holes for eyes sockets had been carved out with the help of a trusted pen knife. Merrin explained to her it once been the a room where lesbian witches had their first carnal experiences, away from the troubling conservative thoughts of others, but Kimia did not want to hear in case Merrin suddenly got any wild ideas.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
The Wyvern¡¯s Lair had once held the few white wyvern¡¯s that were still left in Yan Bon Mor, the instrument of their survival being decreed by Wise King Wladimir who did not want his favourite pet to go without a mate sometime in the future. The students and faculty had fed them and raised them and then let them depart back into the wild once they¡¯d come of age. The project had been a success, but once the last white wyvern had departed some 20 years ago it fell into disarray and irrelevancy.
The room was already filled with all sorts of morbid and deadly knick knacks from across the world: Coffins whose insides were filled with spikes, shrunken heads that had been excavated out of old tombs, large and brooding black magic books which were filled with all sorts of powerful hexes that would turn any normal person into a whitened sheet if they read them.
Mort was already in the room, speaking a sombre lecture to himself as he went through the motions of his craft with Ms Hemlock. Headmistress Wynne was also there, but had backer herself in the furthest corner she could as she watched Mort do his work.
¡°Must I bear witness to this?¡± Headmistress Wynne perked up nervously, her face already a sickly green.
¡°An acquaintance of the deceased must be in the room as I work,¡± Mort replied as he let his fingertips trail over the scalpel, ¡°And since her friends and family aren¡¯t on hand, then¡¡±
Kimia could already sense Wynne¡¯s stomach beginning to drop. Hers too would¡¯ve begun to wobble, if it weren¡¯t for the fact she¡¯d come across many other dead animals within her youth.
¡°I suppose that makes sense,¡± Wynne said distraught, ¡°We do try to go by the book here.¡±
Mort didn¡¯t answer back, perhaps already tired by all the bludgeoning questions that were to come. She wondered why a professional would be tired at such thoughts, but perhaps he was a closed off person in general. Maybe he went through life in the hopes that one sentence answers would be enough, and perhaps it was in a field as dark and strange as this.
Ms Hemlock was still as sickly pale as she had been when she departed, dressed in little more than a loincloth and a chest garb to hide her ample sized breasts. Her stomach had swollen, but it began to fizzle out without the burst as Mort pressed two of his long grey fingers on her bellybutton. There was a sudden wheeze of air, and Merrin frowned in disgust as she turned away not to look, but Kimia pressed on to watch.
According to Ms Hemlock¡¯s wishes, she had broken away from the long Coven tradition of being cremated alongside her broomstick (or boomstick, given they both went up in smoke), and would instead be mummified like the mystics of Witherdom, who''s customs Mort had studied once as he as he specialised as an Undertaker. Necromancer took odd jobs here and there when they could, and it was up to Mort to make her look as presentable as possible before her body was wrapped up tightly altogether.
For a witch to have such a morbid fascinating with Mystics, whose approach to magic was as night and day compared to the covens, was not something most other witches would¡¯ve taken lightly. It seemed Ms Hemlock had nursed a secret obsession with the Mystics and Witherdom culture all her life, and went there several times through her life when the academic year had finished.
Though a spinster all her life, her immediate family would take her off Mort¡¯s hand once they came, and leave her body deep within in the Witherdom forest once they¡¯d paid their respects, where she¡¯d be feasted upon by the wildlife who lived there in accordance to Mystic tradition.
Once the dampest of makeup had been given to brighten Hemlock¡¯s face, Mort set upon her body with rolls of Venadian Parchment, strong stuff would make it difficult for all but the most persistent of predators to tear through.
Kimia watched this with a bubbling new sense of enthusiasm for mummification. She was normally not one to feel comfortable in her skin, but watching Mort peel layer upon layer of white parchment on Hemlock¡¯s body, was a strangely soothing experience. She could not even fill in the silence with the slight know it all attitude she sometimes possessed, for she was completely engrossed in watching this Necromancer perform.
As sudden as Hemlock¡¯s own death, she had found her new interest in life.
Merrin began tugging at her shoulder, telling her that she too was as sick as a pig and was going to throw up at a moment¡¯s notice. She was not going to let a friend fall apart, nor would she want to clear up her mess if she could help it, so Kimia took a final look at Mort¡¯s handiwork before she departed down the slender ladder steps from whence they came.
By sundown, the university had blinked. Unable to field a replacement of the same esteemed calibre as Ms Hemlock, the university could not continue on with their degree in foundational Potions and Elixir Brewing.
Instead, as a gesture of much needed good will, Potions student would receive compensation for their wasted years, as well as a choice of a new degree, from which all fees would be waived.
While Merrin fretted whether or not to choose Broomstick weaving or the much maligned field of Divination, Kimia had already settled on her new choice of major. As she and the more sceptical students waited patiently on Mort Cavendish in the newly refurbished Necromancy Room, she began to etch out a sketch of what he may be like before his arrival. It sounded childish, almost like a teenage girl¡¯s fantasy, but it kept Kimia amused as she passed the time.
Was he a lord? A lowly peasant that hid big brains under his ponytail cut? Perhaps a sly rogue who''d killed the old Mort and taken his identity and had went on with the charade for the past decade?
Bethany scribbled out her thoughts about her new professor with a relative ease that was at all common for her. Usually when she tried creative writing, she would constnalty find herself getting stumped and blocked as she wrote, but she felt as ease writing about Mort as she did back in her first unofficial lecture with him.
Then came a sound of chains rattling as Mort closed in on the door. The others found themselves coming to attention, but Kimia continued on with her writing. Where could that come from? Why do the chains rattled? What could be causing that? Why was even chains at all? Her mind whizzed with so many possibilities until Mort finally spoke up to ease the nerves of the rest of the room.
"Turn to page 2564.¡±
Introduction to Necromancy
Mort wished his body wasn¡¯t torn to shreds already by the time he was 35. He made things difficult for him to get out of bed and arrive on campus, until he¡¯d fastened the last of the buckles that held his frail body together to a more acceptable, human state.
He came late, as he usually did too in the world of Necromancy, and he struggled to find his way along even after Ms Wynne had given him a tour of the campus several times already. A part of him considered asking the faculty he crossed the way, but he pulled away from it. He sensed subtle fear as he made his way to the old wyvern room, almost like they considered him to be a Banshee who moved through the university undeterred by others.
Mort did not like it when others feared him. To see someone unnerved in his presence made him feel a bit under the weather himself. At times he would try and make himself appear as nonthreatening as possible, but there was only so much you could do when you were a heavily inked man with the lean, slender facial features of a devouring snake, dressed in dark robes and lifesaving buckles which left others with the impression that you were a dark figure in the Magi underworld. He¡¯d made sure to keep his senses as softly attuned as they were when he was still a small child. So many Necromancers became lost in their work that they lost parts of themselves as they sorted through the messes others had made. Mort had promised himself he would be not reduced to that, keeping a childish whimsical sense of his past with him at all times.
The old wyvern room was far away from the rest of the academic rooms, deep below the ground and not far away from where the old Dwarven expeditions archives were kept. Mort has asked for something more spacious so he could move bits and bodies around with more ease, and Ms Wynne had obliged, not wanting to hear anymore details about bits or bodies or whatever manner of gruesome details that might stretch their way into her office.
Perhaps Mort¡¯s friends were right - Necromancy had a stigma to it which would never go away no matter how hard he tried.
¡°Good Afternoon.¡±
The breadth of living conversation came to a crashing halt when Mort¡¯s shadow appeared through the classroom doors. He knew that YBM University was largely female dominated, but he did not expect it to be so lopsided that he was the only man within the room, surrounded by 15 or so young women curious about their new professor and the strange, dark magic he practised. The plump sized blondes at the front eyed him with a slight caution - still an improvement over the terror he¡¯d inflicted on his wide eyed fellow professors when their noses weren¡¯t deep in the covers of a book. He took a deep breath, uncertain of where to start or where to begin. Lecturing was not something that came easy to him, but Ms Wynne had reminded him, after much procrastinating on her part, that it was mandatory for all faculty to lead a few classes here or there. In fact Mort had never strayed into a classroom like this before, nor gotten credentials in a higher education setting. He was as clueless about this class as they were about him.
¡°Welcome to an introduction to Necromancy,¡± he said, repeating the words he chalked down on the blackboard, ¡°I am Mort Cavendish, practitioner of Necromancy, and your professor for this course.¡± Solemn words, but it was all that Mort could come up with in the middle of this silence. He preferred silence, which was the usual response he got when he worked with the undead, but it stung a little that the girls might still consider a dark creature they were wary to interact with. "Now, what is Necromancy?" He asked, "Could anyone begin to share what they know about it with the rest of the class?" Mort smiled hoping it would out their shells, but his lips were far too thin for it to be anything but a wide eyes grin. He had noticed a young girl in the back row deep in the middle of writing since he begun his lecture. She was Pendaline, her swarthy skin a dead giveaway, and her was name was probably Kimia, which was the only Pendaline-esque name from the list of names Wynne had left on her desk. A part of him felt compelled to bring her out of daze, but decided he would let it go for the time being. There was still silence, so Mort continued on with chalking down what he wanted to say.
"Necromancy is," He took him time as he wrote, "The study of the tiny sliver of life which differs the dead from the undead.¡± His students would find this contradictory, but Mort knew it was a beginners mistake. Necromancy was a field where life was the oasis from which studies sprang, everything else - dead bodies, funeral rites, reassembling a victim was - were things it simply brushed against as a Necromancer worked with it. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
¡°Turn to page 2564.¡± He commanded. He wanted to get into the thick of it already, and not fall behind wasting valuable time studying more basic rudimentary spells that were of little use for a Necromancer in today¡¯s harsher world. The textbook they had had been one that was first compiled several decades ago, and a Necromancer¡¯s rogue gallery had already come to learn how to counter and prevent being entangled in those spells and curses. He wanted them to learn advanced material immediately, which meant learning all sorts of intricate designs off by heart. It was the only way a Necromancer could call upon magic after all. He reached for the chalk and began to draw a a pattern of spirals and snakes colliding and coalescing against one another. He drew by hand, and not the invisible strings magic brought, which he felt was the best way to learn something in his experience. Too much dependency on magic could leave someone unable to depend even on themselves when it mattered. Just like that young Pendaline woman in the background, who still hadn¡¯t noticed they were starting to scribble.
¡°Ms Kalpur?¡± His voice was barely above a whisper, but she straightened up almost immediately when he came calling.
¡°Yes?¡± She said spooked. He had taken a guess, and he turned out to be correct.
"I''m coming up to something really important here," he continued, "Would you care to keep up and follow?"
She reddened, and Mort knew he had her on her toes for the rest of the class, possibly even the rest of the semester. That subtle power between professor and student lingered as he watched her hastily write down the design in her notebook uneasily but content to catch up. It was power he could not always will to his heart¡¯s content, and felt a stab of pity as some of the girls remarked disparagingly about her as they left the class, knowing they were unable to keep up as the lacked the artistic spirit needed for pattern magic. Mort¡¯s class was whittled down to just 8 potential Necromancers.
"Could anyone explain to me what the concept of Rigor Mortis means?" Mort asked candidly. A few of the survivors were now starting to get a bit squeamish. The overstuffed blondes in the front were starting to turn a little bit green. Kimia¡¯s hand dashed upwards from the corner of Mort¡¯s scarred eyelid.
¡°Yes, Ms Kalpur?¡±
¡°When a body begins to stiffen and¡¡±
¡°And?¡±
She smiled, struggling to find the proper words. ¡°And? That¡¯s all there is to it, professor Cavendish.¡±
¡°If you were a secular thinker, that¡¯s where it would end,¡± Mort countered, ¡°but it¡¯s also when the souls departs this muddy earth of ours.¡± He was now suddenly getting the hang of the teaching thing, but only it seemed, when he had someone to bounce words back with.
¡°Let¡¯s have an experiment,¡± Mort spoke softly, ¡°has anyone here even seen a dead body before?¡± Out came a few low pitched acknowledgements of finding dead pets and birds on the ground, but never one was flesh and blood just like them. Witches, it seemed, lacked a great exploration of death, even when they moved through the mists of magic.
He reached for the brown sack he¡¯d carried with him, and pulled out the carcass of a dark wyvern like another magician would pull a rabbit from a black hat. Mort heard stomachs begin to churn, and suddenly there was a rush of students reaching for the door and enlisting in majors that were less hands on and didn¡¯t focus on guts and entails and that entailed. There was only one student left in his classroom, which offered Mort some comfort. He would not have to worry about making some embarrassing gaff in front of a group of young women now. ¡°Ms Kalpur?¡±
¡°Yes?¡±
¡°Would you like to come to the front of the class?¡± Mort quizzed, ¡°I feel like it¡¯ll be easier for you to understand that way.¡± Momentarily, she grimaced, but moved to the front to be with him. He already felt this was not her first time seeing a dead body - man or beast. Perhaps she had a much harder life than her plump sized peers, timidity around him, but also with an unfulfilled confidence which made Mort feel her as though she could be crafted into an ideal Necromancer. ¡°Are you ready?¡± He asked. He¡¯d laid his tools needed for Necromancy, a large collection of scalpels and stabbing knives blessed to put down any unruly spirit who¡¯d been infected with a demon. He held out to her a pair of tweezers needed to give the wyvern a glow up. ¡°I am,¡± She smiled, ¡°Those patterns you drew, they¡¯re very strange.¡± ¡°Strange, in what way?¡±
Just strange,¡± Kimia replied, ¡°it¡¯s pattern magic, but there are no words to accompany them in the textbook.¡±
¡°When you need to use them, you won¡¯t have time to speak words,¡± Mort explained, ¡°Or being able to speak at all.
Wyvern Necromancy
When Kimia moved up the desk, she saw a more gaunt figure under the morning light that drifted in from the stained glass windows. Not at all like the large brooding figure she¡¯d come up with, who lived in the shadows and only crept out when it was absolutely necessary that he needed to. That he looked more like a phantom than a beast, however, did nothing to curb the snake pit of anxiety was starting to grovel inside of her her. All she could do for the time being was stand steadily behind him as he explained all the intricacies that came with bringing a dead wyvern back to life.
¡°Where did you find the wyvern?¡± She asked, letting her fingertips roll up from behind it¡¯s neck. Wyverns were not considered bright creatures during infancy, and this one didn¡¯t break the mould either. It¡¯s cranium was pea sized, with an eyelid that was torn and several large gnashes that were stretched across it¡¯s forehead. Kimia, with some certainty, felt it had not a graceful death when it had exited from this murky world of theirs.
¡°Outside my cottage,¡± Mort answered, ¡°under a great oak tree from which I saw it watching me from time to time.¡±
¡°It fell?¡±
It does look that way, yes. Or rather, the branch it was on fell and it came crashing down alongside it.¡±
Kimia felt her free hands being guided along by Mort to the other side of the wyvern, where she discovered it''s more slovenly nature. It''s stomach bulged, larger than it''s shallow wide eyes combined, and Kimia figured it might''ve been the only child of it''s mother. The only child who probably gobbled up most of the cliff side critters she would work tirelessly to catch. She was starting to dislike this dark wyvern the more she continued on with embalming him like this. Upturning his damaged feathers, Kimia wondered if he would upturn it¡¯s nose at them when it was brought back to life. Even in death, it still had a face that was ready to sneer at anything less majestic than it¡¯s black wings dabbled in crimson.
"I never knew it was such a delicate practice, putting together a body like this for Necromancy."
"Bodies are quickly revealed to be delicate things once they crumble down a treetop." Mort answered, "I''ve dealt with nobles who only came to realise that in their final moments."
"Nobles?" Kimia asked dumbfounded, "You mean, you''ve done Necromancy on humans?"
"I have, but only humans who''ve been dead for a long time," Kimia watched as he chipped away at the ingrown toenail on the wyvern''s right foot, "I mean a really long time. When they¡¯re just a few bones and part of an exhibition on royalty from the archaic times.¡±
"Why is that?"
"We''re not sure why, but we think it''s something to do with the nature of grief," he answered, "pass me the tweezers." He was getting frustrated with the speed at which she plucked away the wyvern''s lopsided feathers.
"Grief?"
"Yes, when someone has only recently died, there is an outpouring of grief for days, weeks even years afterwards," Mort explained, "and that makes trying to retrieve their soul all the more trickier."
"So, grief acts like a barrier then?" Kimia felt the pieces were coming together now, like a strange puzzle that, when fitted together, unravelled the inner machinations of Death''s work.
"Sort of, but not quite. Grief confuses the soul, and leaves it unable to decide whether to bring cold comfort to a griever, or return to it''s old home and restart again." He did not linger long on the feathers as he worked, tossing and turning each one with only the slightest care for his corpse. He was not rushing through the endeavour, it simply seemed to come easy to him to prickle the feathers of a dead wyvern. She would be content to let him pick apart any feathers on her behalf from now on.
¡°So when there¡¯s nobody left to grieve you, you can be brought back to life?¡± She watched as Mort trawled his fingertips around the edge of the dishevelled wingspan, pricking and pulling at any signs of abnormalities before he was content to put it all back together again. ¡°Now you¡¯ve hit the root of it Kimia.¡± Mort answered.
¡°But it¡¯s possible to be brought back to life, even when others are still grieving you?¡± She pondered. There was little in magic that was definite, or would even remain definite for long. He started to strew together the wingspan with a thin and sharpened needle that might¡¯ve come from the end of a pike. Her birth mother, Camilla, had taken much of Kimia¡¯s torn skirts to task with similar needles, but Kimia had not inherited the same precision when she tried to do the same with her raggedy old dolls. She wished Mort well with stitching it together.
¡°In theory, yes, but mishaps have have happened over the years.¡±
¡°Mishaps?¡±
¡°Someone might be brought back to life, only to find themselves left as a rotten shell of a mess.¡±
¡°And you¡¯ve seen this happen, Mort?¡±
¡°Well, I¡¯ve heard stories from acquaintances in this kind of work.¡±
¡°Such as¡?¡±
¡°Let¡¯s not jump ahead of ourselves,¡± Mort exclaimed, as he pulled on the needle work like a thick garrote, ¡°I still want your stomach intact for what¡¯s to come.¡± Kimia could only begin to gurgle at what horrors she was still to see. ¡°Now, where do you think this wyvern¡¯s mother was on a Tuesday Sunday afternoon?¡±
Kimia felt uncertain, and that left her feeling slightly odd and out of place. She was studious, and would even take on the derogatory title of bookworm for herself, but here she was as stumped as the wyvern had beenThis narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
¡°A wyvern mother would never leave her child to die, unless¡.¡±
¡°Unless?¡±
¡°It had left her to die instead!¡±
¡°Quite right Kimia!¡±
Though cute from a certain angle, wyverns were infamous for brewing up snake pits as they aged. A mother would never be content to kill off it¡¯s offspring, but a young wyvern wouldn''t have any qualms about doing the same. Perhaps he¡¯d grown cocky and developing such a large frame from overeating that he threw her off the highest perch possible once her used had come to end. Kimia had heard many serenades that lamented the life of a wyvern mother, where, at the end of it¡¯s tether, would be cast aside like turned leftovers.
¡°It feels wrong to bring such a creature back to life.¡±
¡°A creature?¡±
¡°Such a treacherous, familicide creature.¡±
¡°It¡¯s also a very fortunate creature,¡± Mort smiled as he felt for the bones in it¡¯s neck, ¡°because you¡¯re going to invoke him back to life.¡±
¡°Are you serious?¡± Kimia asked incredulously. She felt bile begin to form at the bottom of her stomach. Betrayal from a friend stung, but betrayal from a family member often left a permanent mark. She wanted to reach out and tear it¡¯s neck off by hand, removing such a foul-nature creature on the behalf of everyone else who lived in Mylea.
¡°I am. I want you to redraw the spiral pattern I showed to the class earlier on.¡± Mort¡¯s gaze drifted into a reverie of dark purple, and Kimia watched as his own rendition vanished off the face of the blackboard. He gave her the chalk. ¡°By hand and by memory as well, of course.¡±
She took it, and wondered how on earth she could be able to do this. Pattern magic usually invoked words sometime before or after she crafted one, but if Mort¡¯s admission earlier was true, then she did not need to speak at all.
¡°Make sure you do it perfectly as well, we don¡¯t want any hellspawn coming out of the blackboard.¡±
¡°Hellspawn?¡±
¡°Lonesome monsters who take the souls of those who didn¡¯t draw a pattern correctly.¡±
Mort knew it was not so for invoking spells like this, but felt it was best she believed that and not grow careless. In the future, one she versed in much higher magic, one misremembered pattern would be enough to drag her into a world where not even the darkness of death was allowed to unwind it¡¯s shadows. Acquaintances, who¡¯d gotten far into their careers using avarice and arrogance, were lost in that nameless world, and Mort often awoke on a moonless night hearing their pleads to find and retrieve them.
Kimia felt his dark eyes watch her as she begun to scribble down the earlier of snakes, spirals and serpents. She was not sure what to make of him quite yet, but felt he was someone who¡¯d forgone earthly possessions wherever he¡¯d had wondered before coming to this university. His robes were little more than dirty rags, not like the priestesses robes of the Dominion Sect, held together by a few belt buckles that were clamouring to break free from him and his dishevelled appearance. At time did Kimia felt his gaze begin to drift to her toned body as she worked too. Kimia did not dress immodestly, nor did she feel his gaze was entirely lecherous, but a part of her wondered why he would do so.
Maybe he was simply watching her hand strokes, ready to come in and save her if she made a terrible mistake when she drew the long snout of a snake in a most ill-tempered way. Her new professor reminded her of a long snout snake who''d been drawn in the most ill-tempered way, actually.
"I was a Potions student once," She answered
¡°Finished.¡±
¡°Let your mind take in what you have written, and remind what time you have lost in order to bring this creature back to life.¡±
¡°A dark, treacherous creature.¡± Kimia reminded him.
¡°Yes, but keep it in mind that you have given part of your own life to invoke him into this world once more.¡±
Kimia smiled, and sensed her eyes her eyes beginning to clench. Then she felt something begin to trail between here and the blackboard, and she reached out to grab it. It started to nibble at the ends of sharpened nails, much like the tabby orange cat she had once upon a time would do. Both hands began to press down upon the spirit, until she felt it burst like a bubble without the sudden pop.
Mort, who moved from her and the wyvern with an unsettling scabbard in both hands, who was relived to see the wyvern beginning to break out of the long slumber of death. There were a few groans and wheezes as it tasted life again, but he could that it was in little pain other than reaching to feel the crown of it¡¯s head. Their embalming had been a success.
¡°Turn around.¡±
The wyvern had broken out of it¡¯s long slumber of death, leaving Kimia surprised at how relived she was for it. There were a few groans and wheezes as it tasted life again, along with reaching for the crown of it¡¯s to feel a hard pressed bump that even Mort couldn¡¯t soothe down, but overall their embalming had been a success.
¡°What will you call him?¡±
¡°I leave that up to you, you were the one who invoked him, after all.¡±
Kimia paused, and never in her wildest dreams did she ponder what name she would give to a pet dragon.
¡°I¡¯m not even sure I¡¯m allowed to keep a wyvern, Mort.¡± Surely there were all sorts of guidelines draw up to prevent something like that. She could already see it nibbling at the ends of a curtain, or snatching toupees from more esteemed members of the faculty.
¡°Well, it¡¯s part of your degree, so now you have to.¡± Mort had decided to stomp out all those rules right there and then.
¡°Let¡¯s call him Wesley?¡±
¡°Wesley the Wyvern?¡± Mort asked, in a way that made Kimia wonder if she was curiously out of touch when it came to naming dragons.
After some time, she nodded, and Wesley it was to be. She was to spend the next few years looking after this shuffling wyvern corpse as part of her apprenticeship with Mort.
And it was to be an apprenticeship, as Mort explained, considering how high the turnover rate was in this line of work. It would not be premature at all for her to refer to him as her master, as he guided her through this dangerous world where magic was distorted at times without caution or ethics.
All Kimia do was nod her head as they cleaned up at the end of class, the strange little wyvern withering around in her arms, unable to resist reaching up and nibbling at the cords of her long, treasured choker from time to time.
Letters Back Home
For the next few weeks, Kimia felt time beginning to slip away from underneath her feet as she found herself become fully immersed under the tutorship of Mort. She did mean time and not free time, as that would imply it was work and that she did not enjoy spending time with him or learning about the strange, whimsical magic he practised.
The coursework involved in learning Necromancy was staggering. In fact, it was so incredibly intensive that Kimia wondered to if it was designed to intrude into her personal life as much as possible. She had to take electives in advanced anthropology and archaeology, the history of Necromancy and it¡¯s foundations, it''s troubled past as a fringe, dark art to it¡¯s recent gradual acceptance as a serious school of magic within the last 100 years or so.
There was also the readings she had to do - so much reading, and the essays that were to come with it. Books on anatomy, books on funeral customs from the past, present and future, archaic works on seemingly unrelated subjects that she read through just to discover a small morsel of Necromancy history to add as the final part ot her weekly essay - it never truly seemed to end.
Mort, who had walked through the same ring of fire when he first started learning Necromancy, would slyly describe her herculean efforts as cataloguing a cadaver one body part at a time. Perhaps that was so in Mort¡¯s undergraduate days, but Kimia felt it made more sense to describe her workload as one skin molecule at a time.
Overworked and a head stuffed with Necromancy terms in several different Mylean languages, her temper would eventually come come between them. When it had happened last week it concerned a questionable essay he¡¯d assigned to her on the subject of bats. She liked bats, and had already learnt of the structure in her earlier anatomy classes but the essay he¡¯d requested of her was ridiculous.
¡°Master, why I need to know what it is like to be a bat?¡± She sighed from the sole student desk in the room. Once it had become apparent no one else was willing to sign up for Necromancy lessons, Mort had done away with the other tables, and brought in more treasures and knickknacks he¡¯d gathered on his journeys to add a personal touch to it. The Necromancy 101¡¯s classroom was quickly morphing into a strange cross between a morbid museum and a ferryman¡¯s workshop.
¡°It¡¯ll make things easier for you.¡± He answered near the blackboard. He was lost too, absentminded as he studied some early attempts at Zantzar pattern magic that he¡¯d noted down with chalk. He was always at chalk like this. Sometimes Kimia would arrive much early to her morning classes, and find him staring into the corner like a dullard, the walls of which had been marked with intricate patterns once he¡¯d run out of space on the main blackboards nearby. She had not yet developed such an enthusiasm for pattern magic, and preferably hoped she never would.
¡°How is thinking of myself as a bat going to make things easy for me?¡±
¡°Because when you picture yourself as a bat, you¡¯ll take more care when embalming them.¡±
¡°But, that¡¯s only going to make things easy for the bats, not me.¡±
¡°I know, that¡¯s the point.¡± He mumbled out, his body starting to shift aimlessly, a sure sign in Mort¡¯s body language that he¡¯d made a breakthrough.
¡°But the bat will be dead.¡± Kimia snapped, tired of cutting down Mort¡¯s nonsensical points. ¡°How is a bat going to know if I embalm him well or not?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not whether or not he knows, it¡¯s so you take good care of him regardless.¡± Mort explained, the snappy exchange breaking his concentration away from the spirals. ¡°Who knows, maybe you might come back as a bat, and I think you would enjoy a proper funeral
She did not want to repeat her point, this time that as a bat she would also likely be dead, and not able to tell the difference between shoddy mummification and mummification that was a few steps away from shoddy. Nor, as a wild furry creature who lived in caves, was she likely to get a royal sendoff like that, unless she happened to be the personal bat of the archaic kings who lived in Venada some several hundred years ago. Nonreligious as she was, she doubted that whatever deity spun the the thread of lives was going to send back her in time as a bat so she could enjoy some delightful funerary practices after her death.
The exchange left Kimia exasperated, and she slunk further back into her chair. Writing down a few illustrations of herself and Mort as bats to keep herself sane, Kimia realised, with her own luck, that she would probably come back as a Wyvern mother, a role she was already preparing for when she fed Wesley what leftover barley stew she had in the morning.
One night, when her eyelids had heavily set felt she was on death¡¯s door as she pried through one chapter or another on the subtle nuances that archaic Necromancers had to juggle through when working in early Zantzar, Kimia decided she had enough.
The clock would soon strike midnight, always a bad sign when someones pries her head into the dark arts, and Kimia groggily realised she might soon be dragged by hellspawn if she kept up with this timid pace of hers. She could let the darkness of sleep take her, but she still had a few fleeting moments where she could devote to her leisure.
The choices were either to read through the YBM University newsletter, or compose a letter back home, something she had not been spared the time to do ever since the world of Necromancy had gobbled up her up. She peered down at the headlines on the heavy papyrus - Queen Cressia of the Zantzar Kingdom renews ties with the Elven Conclave. Noteworthy, but nothing that was going to impact Kimia or Yan Bon Mor for the time being.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
She pushed the papyrus aside on her desk, and started to write. Kimia was someone who always struggled with coming up with the right words as she wrote, be it essays or creative writing, but something about writing letters back home made those troubles fade out in the distance. She could even smell the distinct aroma of beetroot sandwiches lofting in, something her mothers would force feed her when she couldn¡¯t take
Dear mothers, she began, never able to address one before the other as she loved both as dearly, Ms Hastings, my potions professor died several weeks ago, and I am now enrolled in a Necromancy degree, where I am the only student.
Kimia felt she should be honest from the beginning with her mothers, as lying, as much it might settle their nerves around her and her magical pursuits, would never lead to anywhere good.
Willow, the elder mother, had been a farmhand all her life before taking over her own parents farm by the time she was Kimia¡¯s age. She was a Yanian, which meant she could trace her ancestry back to the Yanian tribe that first inhabited the alps on Yan Bon Mor.
Claudia, the younger mother, was not of farmhand stock, nor a Yanian. She was a Bonbon, another of the three tribes that had lived in Yan Bon Mor in the archaic times, and the most prosperous, a trait which had stretched into the present day.
Kimia¡¯s knowledge of history had been shaky, but the three tribes had lived together in a constant cycle of conflict, compassion and commiserations for as long as they¡¯d been around. Most natives of Yan Bon Mor could trace their lineages back to the first two tribes, and still a sense of tribal identity lingered between them.
The Mordians, the least numerous of the three, only existed in some of the more remote and rural parts of Yan Bon Mor, where they had not truly integrated with the other two camps. Kimia could count the amount of times she¡¯d encountered a Mordian on one hand, despite living in Yan Bon Mor her whole life.
The cycle between the three tribes continued, until a great expulsion of witchcraft was to happen at the end of the Archaic times. Wise King Vitali, the ruler of Archaic Zantzar and then de facto leader of Mylea, had grown tired of witches plotting against him as he threw his support behind the new Dominion Sect religion that was beginning to emerge. An exodus emerged as witches were driven out in their droves, and soon they by and large arrived in Yan Bon Mor, the one place where Vitali didn¡¯t have his gaze set upon, as he was terribly afraid of dragons.
Magic was, of course, prevalent in Yan Bon Mor before witches came in their droves. In fact, the Soothsayer, a much older women imbued with magic, was often of the highest positions a person could aspire to hold in those times. But such rapid growth made tensions rise as both groups settled into a suspicious coexistence with the other.
That changed when Drekovic, the greatest of the Yan Bon Mor dragons and who the three tribes worshipped like a god, grew ill. Whatever home remedies and dire medicines the tribes came up with, it wasn¡¯t enough to cure Drekovic of whatever had malaise he¡¯d come down with.
Soon, after listening to the agonising cries of their Dragon God, the three leaders pleaded for help from the Witches of Yan Bon Mor, who were now already in the middle of conjuring up plans for a university, which would also double as a refuge for any witch fleeing the rest of the Mylean continent. The witches, sensing a chance to foster goodwill, agreed, and soon set upon Drekovic while being carried on several thousand different broomsticks.
It was not malaise or even a bug that was torturing Drekovic, but rather a large splinter that been dug deep beneath one of his sombre talons. After sating him with strong potent magic, the witches and the tribes people were able to carefully remove it from him, and now that same large splinter sits in the centre of the garden of YBM University.
Kimia¡¯s first memories involved Willow and Claudia recounting this story to her over candlelight, along with many more folklore tales which were now a bit of a fussy mess in her own mind. It was also when her mothers first discovered that Kimia was magically imbued too.
Once, when they¡¯d gotten a little too wine within them, and started telling Kimia all about how they¡¯d first met and how Willow, with dirt in her nails, had seduced Claudia when she was just passing by and needed a place to stay at her farm, the candle flickered out. Before either mother could reach to alight it again, Kimia had huffed out a breath of air, and suddenly a florescent glow filled their kitchen once again. Not only was it enough to bring a candle back to life, but also enough to send the mothers scurrying across to the other side of the house in fear. They did not expect their surrogate daughter, for whom neither could trace even the tiniest bit of magic within their bloodlines, to have turned out to be a witch in training.
The idyllic farm life Kimia had until then came to a crashing end, and suddenly her mothers were besotted with worries for her future. She did not like thinking too hard on this part of her life, of the shame and terrible strain she caused on them as they realised she was to have her own tutor to guide her through the pains that were to come with developing magic in adolescence and the high price that was to come for paying for all of that.
Somehow they survived Kimia¡¯s difficult teenage magical years, though Kimia felt they¡¯d probably eating one too many beetroot sandwiches growing up, stunting her growth until she came here to university and feasted on leftover lamb the chefs had given her out of pity, which she had not devoured in almost a decade at that point.
Kimia felt her mind beginning to wander as she closed out the final few words of her letter. She did not like the way she had ended it, explaining that Necromancy was a serious art and that Mort, her new professor, wasn¡¯t going to cause her any harm as they worked together, but Kimia felt she might lose the battle of a parents worry if she did not reassure them at every opportunity.
Just as she reached to stamp it down, Wesley started nibbling at the ends of her feet, leaving her to suppress a yelp of pain. It always happened, like clockwork, just as her own clock was about to strike midnight. It was time for bed, but not until she first put every together, with the same care her mothers did went they sent leftover beetroots for sandwiches in the lean, winter months that were now behind her.