(Here You can listen to audio version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCdlph835qc )
Today I’m going to tell you about a necromancer… Not just any necromancer, but the Necromancer… The one who was the first to make a pact with Death, who was the first to learn its dark secrets, who coined the creed of the ancient brotherhood of graveyard sorcerers….
But let’s start at the beginning. Centuries ago… No, more than centuries, thousands of years ago. It’s hard to say how long ago, because there are no chronicles so old as to date back to that time… In some country in the East; the name of that land, the name of the people who inhabited it, the language that people spoke, the names of the cities they inhabited. All this is lost in the darkness of oblivion….So, as I say, thousands of years ago, in some country in the East, there lived a man. An ordinary craftsman. He made pots out of clay. He couldn’t be called rich, but he certainly wasn’t poor. Well, he earned enough to provide a decent living for himself, his wife and two sons. And he could even afford small pleasures from time to time, such as a jug of wine for dinner or a small trinket for his beloved….
But, although his wife was beautiful and diligent, and his sons were healthy and diligent too, this man was deeply unhappy. What was the reason for this?… His profession.
First of all, when a man sits at the potter’s wheel performing monotonous and familiar motions by heart, he often does so in passing, while his mind is sunk in contemplation. Secondly, the potter’s life and work provided him with plenty of material for musings that were not very cheerful.
But before I go any further, you should know something : the people among whom the man lived have always been afraid of wraiths( the cursed corpses that walk the earth to harass the living). Ironically, the people feared the undead at a time when there was still no necromancer who could summon them from beyond the grave…. Therefore, they did not bury the corpse as we do today. Each body went to a pyre made of dry wood, which the priests set on fire. The pyre burned until all that was left of the deceased was ash, at which time the assembled family praised the merits of the deceased and raised a lament. The conflagration ritual was meant to ensure that the dead would not take revenge on the living, and the annihilation of the body was meant to prevent them from doing so, should the rite itself not be enough. When the fire was extinguished, the priests would collect the ashes and pour them into a clay urn, which was then buried in the ground.
We should remember that the future Necromancer was engaged in the processing of clay. But, as you already know, his creations were not only used to store wine, beer, water or milk… They were also a resting place for the dead members of his community. So, the Necromancer was not only a simple potter, but also a bit of a mortician. Every time someone died, the family of the unfortunate person would come to the potter’s workshop to order a new vessel in which the ashes would be placed. Therefore, the craftsman was aware of every death occurring in the area.
At first, this man felt a certain pride in the important role he played in society. After all, he ensured the souls of the dead a peaceful rest, and guarded the boundary between the world of the living and the hereafter… He had a stake in this as much as the priests .After all, they knew what prayers to say during a funeral, but they themselves could not create urns that were at least as important as the prayers they offered.
It was not uncommon for a potter to go to a funeral to watch what was left of the deceased’s mortal shell go into an urn. A person’s body, his entire earthly life, was finally housed in the vessel that his hands had made….Yes, at first this reflection was a cause of pride for the craftsman. He was young and foolish at the time. But over time, the thought that everyone, sooner or later, would become just a pile of ashes enclosed in an urn buried in the ground, became a cause of anxiety and bitterness for him.
Everyone was dying. Everyone. There was no turning back. This thought did not leave the future Necromancer day and night. As he caressed his wife’s hair and skin, he couldn’t relish it – he kept thinking about how her beauty would one day begin to fade as the inexorable old age arrived, until it would disappear completely when the inevitable death came. Looking at his sons, full of joy of life and strength, he couldn’t be proud of them ; all the time thinking about the fact that their youth was merely a postponement of judgment. While molding another urn, he couldn’t rejoice in his future earnings. He kept thinking about the fact that one day someone would pour his and his loved ones’ ashes into such a vessel. When he went to bed, he thought about how sleep was similar to death. When he woke up in the morning, he thought about how pointless it was to get out of bed ;after all, everything he had done was just a plaything in the face of what had to come. He might as well lie there and wait to die.
And so the thought of death flavored every moment of the potter’s life with bitterness. He raised prayers to the Gods to send him solace, but the Gods remained silent. Besides, what was the point of praying? Although the powers were said to have meddled in human affairs and lives, had anyone heard of the Gods saving anyone from the inevitable fate of all beings: death? No. As everybody could see, even they were powerless against it. Or did they not exist at all? After all, he didn’t see them with his own eyes.
But… Even if the Gods did not exist, there was another force ruling the universe. Impetuous, all-powerful… It could not be doubted because every day it showed its power. The only certainty in all the chaos was death itself.
And so the Necromancer stopped praying to the Gods and started making supplications to Death. And this time, he was heard.
What really happened then? The modern necromancers tell it differently. Some say: “Yes, there is such a thing as the God of Death, the Terrible One, an all-powerful being from whose hand no one escapes. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of matter, hidden deep in the inaccessible, primordial layers of eternal Chaos. It rests and observes the world and mortals, its subjects… And sometimes, when its gaze rests on a promising being, its makes him its prophet… Who will comprehend its intentions?” Others shake their heads, answering: “No, Death is not a deity. It is something more. It is the fundamental power in the Universe, It is the basic nature of everything that exists, it is the force that drives the spokes of the Great Wheel… One can try to oppose it, but what is the point? It won’t accomplish anything. Nor is it possible to win its favor. But… Just as a ship going with the tide, positions itself so that the wind blows in its sails, plows the waves unhindered so you can follow this great power that is Death… And then its strength will become your strength, and the currents of life lost by others will flow directly into your soul.”
Anyway, great changes have taken place in the Necromancer’s life. At first he didn’t notice them, until one day he accidentally grasped which way was the way to realize his dreams. His wife asked him to buy a goat so that their family would have fresh milk every day. The necromancer went to a nearby farm, where he exchanged freshly fired pots for the animal. He led the goat towards his house. At one point, the creature stopped. Tugging on the halter didn’t help, shouting didn’t help, the goat didn’t even think to move. It just stood there and barfed. Seeing that his attempts were to no avail, full of anger the Necromancer sat down on a nearby stone.
“Damned cattle!” – He growled at the disobedient goat. “Life is so short, and because of you I’m wasting a chunk of it on a stupid jerk!” – he muttered, unloading all his grief to the world on the animal. What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Maybe you could somehow make up for my lost time, LOST LIFE!” .He yelled, extending his hand toward the goat. Unexpectedly, the animal, which until then had remained insensitive to reproach, made a despairing moan, much louder than before, and took a few steps back.
At the same time, the Necromancer felt… strength. The fatigue disappeared. He felt crisp, as if he had just gotten out of bed. This feeling was so sudden that it seemed suspicious to the man. And his suspicions were going in a certain direction….
“Well, calm down now, come here, I won’t hurt you…” – he tried to make his voice sound soothing and reassuring as he approached the terrified goat. Finally, he ran his fingers into its fur.
“Well, give me some of your life, little goat…” – he muttered. He tried to imagine the force flowing from the animal’s body to his own. And indeed, the longer he did this, the better he felt. The energy was buoying him up. To say he felt rested is an understatement… Now he felt like he had lost years! Yes, he knew that wasn’t quite the case… He wasn’t getting any younger… But maybe… Maybe if he tried harder… He would make it! At that moment he realized that the poor goat was barely standing on its feet, trembling and moaning quietly. He pulled his hands away from her. After all, he did not want to put the animal to death. “ Don’t be afraid, little goat… Just in addition to milk, you will also give me something much more valuable”. – he said. This time there was sympathy in his voice – after all, this animal gave him hope to overcome his fears.
From then on, the Necromancer regularly fed on the goat’s life force, trying to draw enough to keep her from dying. Besides, she was not his only “feeder”. The potter became a regular at cattle markets. He could be spotted going from one animal to the next, occasionally patting down a particularly mature piece to check its fat and muscle. Curiously, he never bought any. One day the Necromancer thought: Since I can receive, maybe I can also give?. He began to conduct tests. He kept some of the strength he took from the animals for himself, and sent some to his wife and children. It worked.
Good days have come for the potter. Yes, he had not yet found a way to avoid death, but he finally gained hope that it was possible! All he had to do was fill his body with the life force he had taken from time to time. What’s more, he could also feed his loved ones with it!
The potter rejoiced that his wife was always full of strength and rest, that she was endowed with new life and became even more beautiful, full of energy and joy. He rejoiced that his sons were becoming healthier and stronger than all the other young men, that they were leading among their peers. He rejoiced when he worked and his hands did not get tired. He rejoiced when he went to bed, knowing that he would wake up crisp and rested. He rejoiced when he got up, knowing that with his new powers he would be able to do so much today.
He hoped it would always be like this.
He knew perfectly well to whom the thanks for these changes were due. Oh, yes, he still pretended to worship the gods to avoid condemnation from his countrymen. But for the silent, powerless deities, he had only voiceless lip movements, while during each prayer, deep in his heart, he sang grateful hymns in honor of Death, who deigned to move her punishing hand away from him.
The day came when his new faith was put to the test. He sat in his workshop, quietly preparing the next batch of pots to be fired. He whistled while working – why wouldn’t he? Everything was going perfectly. Suddenly he heard some shouting. He went out in front of the house to see what was going on. Imagine his horror when he saw his son being carried in his friend’s arms. The rag tied around his head was soaked with blood. Climbing onto nearby rocks, he had fallen and hit his temple.
The friends carried the unconscious young man to the home of the potter’s family and laid him on a bed. The priest came, but all he was able to do was wave his incense stick over the boy and recite a few formulas. An old healer came, but all she was able to do was soak the bandage in an infusion of herbs , because the wounded young man wouldn’t be able to swallow it. The unconscious man’s mother and brother kept vigil at his bedside, but all they were able to do was cry and lament.
At the time, the potter was looking for a way to REALLY help his child. He could sense the life force leaving his body like blood oozing from a wound. He tried to replenish the cavities with his own, but to no avail . It was like trying to fill a leaking bucket with water poured through a tiny colander.
The man was overwhelmed by despair. What good was it if he was not able to protect himself and his family from old age and loss of strength, if they could still die from a simple mishap? Liberation from the fear of death was only a naive dream…
Suddenly the potter realized that he had to give his son enough strength in one fell swoop to get his body to heal before he lost it again. At the same time, the Necromancer felt that he was unable to do so. He had already given away too much, if he tried to give the rest to the child now, he would die himself, and he would not help the wounded. He needed more strength… With all his speed, he ran in front of the house, where a goat stood tied to a post. He hooked his fingers into its fur like a hawk sinking its talons into the flesh of its prey, and began to scoop. And he didn’t stop even when the animal fell dead, he kept scooping until he squeezed out the last “drops” of energy, so that the goat’s corpse became a shriveled, decaying corpse into dust. Then he returned home.
It was already night. His wife and second son, tired of watching over the wounded man, were drowsy. The potter leaned over the unconscious man, then gently touched his head right next to the wound. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began to give his son his gathered strength. After a while, it began to have an effect. Of course, the potter was not a trained doctor, he did not know the principles of the human body, but thanks to his power over life energy, he sensed instinctively what was happening. The body, which had received such a great boost, was beginning to fight back with redoubled strength. He could feel his son’s body starting to produce new blood to replenish losses, he could feel the wound on his head starting to heal slowly and the bones to knit together. It wasn’t an immediate process, but it was a step in the right direction. When the potter took his hand off the child’s head, he knew the child would survive.
He went outside to bury the goat carcass. The sight of it might have aroused someone’s suspicion. The potter had no remorse. Since animals were killed to eat their meat, wasn’t it all the more justifiable to sacrifice the life of a cattle to save his own son?
Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed with magic. He didn’t attach any importance to it, especially in view of the joy the whole family felt the next morning when the wounded man opened his eyes and, in a weak voice, asked what had happened… But, looking back on what would happen later, it was the first step into darkness.
More days passed, and the potter was even happier than before. Because now he knew that he could protect his family from any threat. As long as he could find the right source of power…
Of course, this is not the end of the story. A plague swept into the land. People were languishing by the dozens. There were so many corpses that not even a dignified burial was cared for according to ritual – bodies were thrown on a pile to burn together, and then the ashes were poured into a mass grave. Dying people lay in the streets, covered with hideous boils. Their relatives threw them out of their homes, hoping that in this way they would protect themselves from infection. Priests circulated among the houses, singing hymns and brandishing their incense sticks. The saying “It helped like incense to the dead” fits here perfectly.
Of course, while Death was reaping such a bountiful harvest, its chosen one avoided a terrible fate. But not without cost. Day after day, without fail, the potter had to pump energy into his body and the bodies of his loved ones, so that they would have the strength to fend off the disease’s attacks at any moment. Sucking the life out of animals was not enough… He had to get a new and better source of power. Fortunately, the streets were full of it….Potter became a true angel of mercy. He walked from one sick person lying on the cobblestones to another, leaning over each of them. To each he whispered a good word, to each he stroked his head… Each of them died quickly and painlessly. As you can probably guess, the Necromancer helped each of them to transfer to the after-world.
The potter had no remorse. These people were dying anyway. Their life force would evaporate on its own if he didn’t suck it out. He didn’t let it go to waste. What does it mean to shorten the life of a dying person by a few hours in exchange for the opportunity to ensure a long and healthy life for his own family? In addition, he was shortening their suffering. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Nevertheless, the necromancer had crossed a line. He started killing people with magic. And while he only sacrificed the lives of those who had to die to save those who had a chance, from a later perspective it was another step into darkness.
News spread among his countrymen about a man who walks among the sick and dying, bringing them solace at the moment of death, while the plague itself did not touch him. Some began to murmur something about , “chosen by the Gods”. The potter paid no attention to this. He had other things on his mind.
Although he was drawing power to the right and left, he realized that he couldn’t last long like this. He was not able to continually strengthen all the members of his family, day in and day out to remove from each of them the threat of developing the disease. He realized that if he continued to do this, he himself would fall from his strength, succumb to the disease… And then who would save his family? He couldn’t try to save everyone .If he wanted to save anyone, he had to decide who to sacrifice.
His choice was his younger son. He was weaker than his brother. And… he loved him less. No, not that he didn’t care about him at all. With a heavy heart he destined him to die. But someone had to.
He simply stopped giving him life force. Within a few days, the younger of his children developed the first patches of skin. Soon the son was only able to recoil in pain and moan. The potter’s heart sliced in his chest as he watched this… But he knew it was necessary.
The moment came when the Necromancer’s wife and his older son left the house to get something to eat. He himself was to stay with the sick man to tend to him. He sat right next to his bed, ready to give him water or serve him in some other way if necessary. Admittedly, this was not necessary… The dying man fell into a restless sleep, probably haunted by delirium because he quietly moaned. The potter sat down right next to him. Looking at his son’s face, covered with signs of illness, he began to feel remorse again. Perhaps he had too hastily sentenced him to death? Perhaps he would be able to keep his entire family alive after all?
While he was pondering like this, suddenly his descendant opened his eyes and looked at his father. He also parted his chapped lips and whispered in a voice full of suffering and despair , “Help me, father!”.
And his father helped him as much as he could. It was too late to change his plans, to try to cure his son, the disease had wreaked too much havoc in his body. The only thing he could do was to shorten his suffering….
The necromancer began to suck the life out of his descendant. The young man was so weak that after just a moment he lost consciousness and did not regain it until his death.
A few days later, the plague ended. Although so many of the land’s inhabitants died a horrible death, those who survived managed to rise from the calamity.
People remembered how the potter tended to the sick in the streets, while he himself did not succumb to illness. It’s true that he didn’t cure any of the poor, but still many people thought he was a man , “touched by the Gods”. Some people were hinting that he was touched by demons rather than the Gods… He offered his son to the evil spirits in exchange for his own life, they said. Suddenly it appeared that the potter was on everyone’s tongues. Unfortunately, his opponents were becoming more numerous… and louder. Much louder than those who thought he had been favored by the Gods. Well, whenever a severe calamity befalls a community, people are eager to find a scapegoat….The potter realized that he had to do something about it if he didn’t want to wait for the day when the hysteria would become so strong that someone would set fire to his house at night… He chose a few provocateurs, and then began to “work” on them… He systematically sucked the life force out of them so that they became apathetic and lethargic… They lost the will to incite the crowd against him. Except for one of them, a local butcher. Full of envy, the man kept spreading rumors about the potter. The necromancer realized that he had to silence him for good. At the time, he had already learned to suck the life from a distance. One day, as the butcher was strolling at noon between the stalls set up in the marketplace, he suddenly fell to the ground. When others ran up to see what had happened, they found that the man was dead. No one was surprised. The old fat man was not enjoying the best of health, and it was a sultry and sunny day… Such things happen. When the butcher died, the potter’s opponents, deprived of the provost, quieted down. The atmosphere definitely improved. The necromancer didn’t think he had done anything wrong. The victim was a fool and envious… What’s worse, his stupidity and envy posed a danger. The world became a better place after the death of the butcher.
Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed a person who was not doomed to die, whom he himself had chosen as a victim. And although the potter was convinced that he had killed an individual who was unnecessary or even harmful, from a later perspective, this was his final step into darkness…
From then on, he happened to kill those who stood in his way – a drunkard who harassed his wife, a stingy rich man who wasn’t going to pay him for a new vase, a haughty warrior who looked at him with contempt… a man who wanted to set up a rival pottery workshop.
At the same time, he increased his knowledge and power. When he realized the weapon he had got his hands on, he longed to strengthen it even more. He greedily absorbed any crumbs of knowledge he was able to acquire.
He visited the old quack healer in her hut, bringing wine. As the old woman sipped to herself, grateful for the gift and overjoyed with the liquor, she spun him tales about good and evil spirits and how to win their favor.
He long had some contacts with the priestly caste, thanks to his work as a funeral urn provider. He found some clergyman, a wise, though vain man. He pretended to be a simpleton before him, stunned that he could interact with such a great sage and curious about his knowledge (the latter was not pretended). So the priest, in a condescending voice, introduced him to the secrets of his art He told him how to know when the stars are in the right position and the veil between the worlds becomes thin. He talked about the gods and the hereafter. He taught the basics of writing. Doubtless he was convinced that the potter would understand nothing of this, just let the humble commoner have the pleasure of listening to the sage’s tales… And let him feel awe of his wisdom.
One day a man who called himself a wandering fortune teller and enchanter came to the settlement. For a few days he drove out evil spirits, sold amulets and divination from his hand. Then he moved on with his journey. The potter waited for him in a nearby ravine. He went out to meet the enchanter. He proposed to him that they seek knowledge and power together. The magician laughed at the crazy villager who stood in his way. What was the Necromancer to do? He sucked the life out of the enchanter to the core. I guess the wanderer was not a real magician, otherwise he would have been able to defend himself. But even if the dead man turned out to be a charlatan, meeting him helped Necromancer expand his knowledge. In the corpse’s bag he found several scrolls about magic. Most of it was occult gibberish, full of bizarre metaphors and symbols intended to bewilder the reader… But between the lines he could read something useful.
So the potter collected scraps of secret knowledge. And then he tried to put them together into some kind of whole… and put them into practice. He meditated on the secrets he had learned, drinking decoctions of the herbs indicated by the quack, reciting in half-voice the formulas handed down by the priest, gazing at the symbols scrawled on the scrolls of the enchanter. He did this for so long that he fell into a strange half-sleep, during which his senses opened up to hitherto unknown phenomena… In his ears… Not in his ears, directly in his mind… resounded the whispers of strange, inhuman voices that promised him power and might beyond all comprehension…. In the background, he could hear eerie music – he could feel it at the limit of audibility, its source seemed more distant than the farthest stars, but at the same time he felt every slightest tone with his whole being… Full of dissonances and chaos, but mesmerizing and gripping his soul….
Sometimes, at night, the potter would sneak out to the cemetery, where thousands of urns – many of them created by his hand – were buried underground. He would draw ancient symbols on the cemetery ground and intone a song of invocation. And then he would fall into a trance. When he began to hear the music, he would move into a dance, spinning pirouettes on the graves of the dead… And then he had the impression that out of the corner of his eye, in the midst of the darkness, he could see the indistinct shapes of beings dancing along with him… The outlines of wings, claws…. Ghastly maws opened in bloodthirsty smiles – so terrible that he felt that if he looked at them for too long, his heart would stop with fear… And beautiful faces with features so wonderful that he felt if he looked directly at them, his heart would burst with happiness.
The man had come a long way. He was no longer the same man he once was – a simple, if somewhat bitter and over-thinking craftsman. He had become haughty and cynical. He used his powers to subjugate others. Some people still remembered what he did during the plague. Some still thought he was the chosen one of the gods (the opponents quieted down with the death of the butcher). One day, one of the neighbors came to the potter asking him to try to help him heal his sprained wrist. I don’t think he himself believed that the artisan would grant his request… Just in case, he asked him, because he was anxious to be able to return to work and was grasping at anything. The potter touched his neighbor’s injured hand… And the next day it was as good as new!
And so the Necromancer gained his first follower. The healed man told his friends about the miracle, and they soon went to the potter, asking him to help them with their problems. And the potter helped. The people of the settlement began to treat him with great respect. Even before, as a person who had a part in the funeral ritual, he was treated as someone connected with the spiritual world… But now, in the eyes of his countrymen, he had grown to be a sorcerer, a miracle worker, a mystic.
Anyway, he was no longer sticking pots. In his workshop he hired several “followers”. They did all the work. He only engraved on the prepared vessels the secret symbols he saw in the spell books, looted from the slain spell caster. This still added to his majesty and mystery.
He tried not to arouse suspicion among the priests. And he succeeded. They treated him with great leniency. In those days there was nothing strange, if for example the father of a family or the leader of a community performed religious rites by himself. They were many ecstatic mystics and self-proclaimed prophets roaming the world. The clergy didn’t fight it – as long as someone didn’t exhort people to stop offering sacrifices at their temples and paying tithes to support them.
Potter only revealed scraps of his knowledge to a handful of his most faithful and trusted followers. He dosed it carefully, at first throwing only enigmatic and insignificant remarks to gauge their reactions and views… And when he saw that they were ready to accept his teachings, he initiated them into them. He told them about the powerful force that is Death. He said that it is a force that benefits those who deserve it – after all, it is Death that eliminates the weak to make room for those who are worth something. Sometimes he surprised himself at how smoothly he came to formulate thesis like that.
Yes, indeed, he went the second way… He evolved.
At the same time, using the craft of reading and writing, the basics of which he learned from a vain priest, and which he developed by poring over scrolls taken from a spell caster, he began to write down his knowledge. And so were the first beginnings of a great work that countless generations of necromancers, witches and warlocks later developed. And finally they became the book that today some call the Necronomicon… The Dead Law… The Lark of Demons…
And others are afraid to talk about it at all.
What’s worth mentioning is that the Necromancer was careful not to involve his family in these dark affairs. His wife and son knew that the father of the family was gathering acolytes, and suspected that he was initiating them into some strange practices – but they didn’t know the details. Paradoxically, while the Necromancer had no doubt that he was following the right path, he was also aware that he was touching the dark Void that lies beyond the material world and interacting with the incomprehensible and dangerous beings that inhabit it. He did not want his loved ones to come into contact with these entities or even know about them. It was enough for him to get his hands dirty… and his soul. They were to remain clean. After all, he was doing all this for them.
Well, mostly for them.
The day came when the Necromancer decided that several of his disciples were ready to take part in the cemetery rites with him. He announced to them that they were to report to the funeral field after dark. Everyone he invited showed up . With excited voices, they asked their “master” what he had also planned for tonight. He answered them that they would see for themselves. He sat down in a crouch and then began to meditate. The students stood around him, not understanding what he was doing. The necromancer was already beginning to hear unearthly music. With a mechanical movement, he pulled out a simple pipe from behind his gown, and began to play. He was not a gifted musician, and the sounds he produced from the instrument were only a pale reflection of those that resounded in his mind… But it was enough to put the assembled people into a trance. After a while, the students circled around their teacher in a somewhat awkward but ecstatic dance. What’s more, the Necromancer sensed that his friends from the Other Side were joining them… And he even saw the first signs of their presence. Perhaps his acolytes were unable to notice the strange shapes drawing in the gloom right next to them… Or perhaps they were so mesmerized in the dance that they didn’t mind.
It turned out that a ritual performed in a group works even more magnificently than one performed alone. Perhaps the Necromancer drew strength from the bond with his acolytes… Or perhaps the spirits rewarded him graciously for gaining new followers?
In any case, the mage felt wonderful. A sense of power filled him, and his senses expanded to incredible limits. He could hear every breath, every heartbeat of the students whirling around him. And not just theirs. In some way incomprehensible to himself, he perceived every living thing in the vicinity… He was aware of the field mouse trembling with fear in its burrow, sensing with animal instinct that something was happening right next to its lair that should not be happening. He noticed how the moths and mosquitoes crisscrossing the air around him lost their flight paths, stunned by the intensity of the power.
In addition, he perceived clearly the life force of each of these creatures. Luminous auras surrounding and permeating the bodies of his pupils… Smaller dots symbolizing minor creatures… He felt he could draw from these sources at will. At the same time, he reached for the life of all the animals and insects in the area and absorbed them, like a drunkard tilting his pint in one gulp. After a while, the only living creatures in the area were himself and his disciples (though it was difficult, he refrained from sucking out their energy… they were too useful to be sacrificed so foolishly).
Oh, yes. There were still ghosts, but they probably could not be called living creatures…
Necromancer’s perception continued to expand and take on new aspects… Now he could enjoy the full sound of the afterworld symphony. Each of its tones vibrated all the members of his body. He recognized the individual sounds and saw with the eyes of his soul where they came from. Somewhere across the sea in the middle of the bush, a shaman painted with the blood of his enemies was beating his drums steadily. Somewhere out there on the plain, a trumpeter intoned the signal for the soldiers to march – the Necromancer felt that none of them would survive this battle. Somewhere out there in another world, a crazed violinist with an inspired face and madness in his eyes played his instrument, using his own veins as strings. Somewhere in Hell, the damned wailed and the demons retched – the voices of one and the other were equally filled with suffering. Somewhere out there, in the Void between worlds, lightning bolts of power crackled during astral storms.
Perhaps the Necromancer would have completely lost his soul and mind in contemplation of the amazing phenomena that had been revealed to him, had it not been for the fact that something suddenly disturbed his trance and snapped him out of his ecstasy. He instantly narrowed his perception to the immediate area. Yes, that was right… Near the cemetery, he sensed two new clusters of human life force that did not belong to his followers… Two profanes were hiding in the bushes, watching the ceremony! They couldn’t be allowed to tell the people of the settlement everything!
The necromancer stretched his hand toward the bushes and shouted the words of command. Surprisingly, the demons obeyed his words and rushed in the indicated direction. The bushes obstructed the view, but the shrieks coming from behind them proved that the spirits had caught up with the voyeurs. The voice of one of them seemed familiar to the Necromancer… very familiar! He felt his heart go up to his throat. He immediately ordered the demons to leave the two profane men alone. The spirits refused to obey, excited by the pain and fear of their victims, but by the force of his will, he forced them to go away, back to the Void and the infernal worlds that float in it.
One of the peepers certainly survived. Out of the corner of his eye, the necromancer noticed a figure fleeing toward the settlement, but he didn’t care. Just like the fact that his followers, stunned by the sudden snapping out of trance and terrified by the sudden awareness of what they were participating in, scattered around the area. The mage paid no heed to this, all that mattered was to find the dying man in the bushes as quickly as possible. When the Necromancer reached him, his worst guesses came true.
The son of the former potter lay in a pool of his own blood. Probably he and one of his friends had slipped away to suspect what his father was also doing nights after nights. The companion slipped away, but the mage’s child was not so lucky. His body was marked with red welts from the claws of demons. His face had an expression of terrible pain and horror. The necromancer wanted to immediately attempt to heal his descendant, but it was too late. The young man released his last breath and the essence of his life began to evaporate.
The mage stood by his son’s body for some time. Eventually he shook off his despair – it was not so great that he himself wanted to follow in his child’s footsteps. Therefore, he had to return to the settlement as soon as possible and make efforts to avoid self-judgment from his countrymen. Probably a friend of his dead son had already managed to describe to them in detail the terrible rituals he had witnessed.
When the Necromancer returned to the town, he heard some voices coming from the main square and saw the light of a torch. It seemed that the residents were already awake… Probably the whole settlement already knew about his dark arts, and now people were conferring about what to do with the mage. There was no point in trying to talk to them, it was necessary to run away. The necromancer wrapped himself in a cloak of darkness and sneaked through the streets to his home. There he found his wife – she had woken up, and was now listening worriedly to shouts from afar. He was lucky that she wasn’t talking to anyone – he could give her his version of events. Of course, for her sake, he didn’t want to multiply her pain. He lied to her, saying that his enemies had incited the population against him. Their son had died at the hands of the rampaging mob, and any minute now the haters would approach the house with torches. The woman began to weep and lament the fate of their last child, but the Necromancer managed to reason with her enough for her to understand that they must flee. The wife wanted to pack at least the most necessary things, but at that moment angry voices of people walking towards their home could be heard outside. They had to leave immediately. The mage shielded himself and the woman with darkness so that no one could see them as they fled the city.
They ran, without looking back. Finally, already in the morning, the woman stood up, panting heavily. She asked for a moment’s rest; she was no longer able to stand on her feet. The necromancer agreed – firstly because he still loved his wife despite everything, and secondly because he realized that he himself was also already falling from fatigue.
They squatted on some stone. The man began to look around. He realized that in fleeing, they had left the inhabited and reasonably fertile areas around the settlement and were now in the middle of nowhere… He did not know where exactly. What he did know was that they were in the desert, without water or food, exhausted after a night’s run, and soon the sun would rise high and begin to roast, which would only make things worse. They had to find some shelter and a watering hole… But they were unable to.
The necromancer looked at his wife. She was half-lying with her eyes closed, probably asleep exhausted from the night’s experiences. The mage hesitated for a moment, but decided he had no choice. He had to take some of his wife’s life force so that he himself would be able to go in search of shelter and water, and then return for the woman and lead her there to regain her strength. Otherwise, they would both die.
He began to draw. Slowly and gently, so as not to wake his wife and so as not to hurt her. He felt the fatigue disappear, but said to himself: , Just a little more, just a little more… Nothing will happen, and I need to make sure I have enough strength for the search. He drew until finally his wife was left with only a sliver of strength, a tight core that kept her alive… With the eyes of his soul, the necromancer saw it as a heart-like pulsating weave of energy… He couldn’t help himself, he wasn’t able to. He also devoured this last reserve, drained his wife’s strength to the bone. The pulsing stopped – both of the energy and of the true heart – and the woman slumped to the ground.
When the Necromancer realized what he had done, he fell into despair. He realized that he had just killed the last person he loved – and who loved him. He also realized the cruel irony of fate. Here he had surrendered himself to Death in order to protect his loved ones from her… and as a result, all his loved ones had died at his own hands!
But…
Perhaps not all was lost?
After all, he could not only take power away from people, he could also give it to them. It worked both ways. Therefore… Since he could kill… he could also resurrect!
He immediately began to give energy to his wife. To his joy – it worked! The woman opened her eyes. She even began to move. But… although he could sense the donated forces in her body, he could not sense this pulsation of energy… He could not sense life… And her open eyes looked blank and mindless.
He may have been able to restore his deceased wife’s vital energy… But that something ephemeral we call , “soul” or “mind” had gone irretrievably. His beloved was merely a mindless puppet. She was not alive. She was at best … un-dead.
The mage stood up and started walking with a quick step, to get away from the filth he had turned his wife into. He heard footsteps. He turned around. The woman was following him, with a slow, clumsy step, looking dully ahead.
“Go away! Leave me!” – he yelled. The undead woman made a slow backward turn and then began to walk away from him. She stumbled on a stone, almost toppling over, but continued her march, faithfully following the orders of her … husband? Master? The creator?
“You are responsible for what you created,” flashed through the Necromancer’s mind.
“Come back.” – he said. The woman turned toward him. He walked out to meet her. When he stood in front of her, he put his hands on her shoulders. They stood like that for a while. Finally, the Necromancer burst out laughing. He retched hysterically, as if he wanted to spit out his own lungs, retching in such a way that all the jackals went limp in their burrows in fear. His wife stood, calm with the serenity given by Death, and in her glassy eyes the man found approval for his plans.
“Come on, dear! Let’s go home!” – he shouted, and then in gusto pressed a kiss on the woman’s cold lips. Still laughing, he moved toward the settlement, and his undead companion faithfully followed him step by step.
What was so entertaining about the former potter?
Why did he become a Necromancer? Because the need to make funeral urns inspired him with unhappy thoughts, which led him to a pact with Death. And why did he have to make urns? Because his countrymen believed that cremating the dead would protect them from the living dead.
Well, it won’t be long before their worst fears take real shape. “Soon you will have company, dear! Many servants… And who knows, I may even be able to make our sons return… Admittedly, one of them has already overtaken a bit, but what is not done for love?” – exclaimed the Necromancer. And then, in a sudden flash, he uttered the words that were to become the credo of all necromancers, to the ends of time, until the world desiccates and returns to the Void from which it arose: ”Life grows out of death. Life feeds on death. Life toward death follows.”