Darkness magic was largely frowned upon in the world. Even in a pseudo magic nation like Amateus, so unlike Haran and Varia. It had little in the way of utility to offer, but it wasn't evil. No educated man thought as life as good or death as bad. Both could kill a man just the same, if weaponized well enough. The problem was their singularity of purpose.
Darkness was pure entropy. A force of destruction, but like an onion – it had layers. Layers that the learned could peel away, revealing its components. Light was life, but also growth, and pure order. Darkness was entropy, but also destruction, and death. Each prime element represented something so important to the cycle of life that the world could not exist without both existing in tune, and that's where the study of anima lay.
Anima wasn't evil, but like darkness had been in the far flung past, the study of it was shrouded in superstition. Humans had a poor grasp on the stuff naturally, unable to chase it down one side of the thread or another for the purposes of metamagic typically. In comparison, darkness and light were far easier elements to wield. Singular enough in purpose, and bereft of the complexities added by metamagic. In the current age, that was considered impossible. Influencing them on a basic level, that is, it could be done with anima, but no known mage had ever managed to create a metamagic phenomena with light or dark as the prime element.
'Death magic' lay not in darkness, not necessarily. It was too destructive to be death. For death to have any significance, life has to exist in the equation. One of the studies within the school of anima was necromancy, and that is where Tythas found himself now, attending his first practical lecture.
Darkness was not evil, that was the consideration it was given in the modern era. At least in such a progressive place as Amistad, it was very common for master healers to be consummate 'black magicians', or whatever one wanted to call a master of the dark. Like a sword, it was only as threatening as the man (or mage) wielding it, but necromancy...
“Necromancy, contrary to what your various kingdoms have taught you is not evil either. It is a manipulation of the energies that sit between life and death to create constructs. Constructs of mana with no free will of their own. No souls, no sacrilege on all things holy, the churches can say what they want – but we in academia have long outgrown dogma.” Her name was professor Urden, and she was the proctor for practical necromancy. One of the foremost experts on the topic. “Mind you, without the study of necromancy – of death – healing magic would be centuries behind its current state. Our vocation is no less valid than any other. But...” She paused. “It can be dangerous.”
Dangerous because it had an allure to it. A temptation. For a man to summon servants from beyond the grave who would obey their every command without question. It could warp men, or women, giving them certain 'ideas'. Thus, it was a strictly regimented discipline, controlled and monitored, with only vetted students being given access to learn the greater secrets of the school.
Anything to do with the manipulation of anima was treated this way. Academic, and studied like everything else, but regulated quite fiercely. Tythas could understand why. Great necromancers could give rise to personal armies, something that was illegal in most nations. Or worse, desecrating land to create self perpetuating undead, always looking for more 'research materials'. As far as he knew, nobody was running a shop that allowed someone to purchase human corpses. Almost always done with animals, or if they had the aesthetic taste – artificial human-esque bodies created from various beast parts.
In Haran, necromancy was banned. No college mage was permitted to study it, but curiously, he was given clearance to do so by Jartor himself. Something he had never seen coming, having been relatively surprised that the primus even knew of his existence. While he was not a college mage, he was still a servant of the empire sworn in oath to the prince. A knight, in a manner of speaking, though Tyr had kept his vows rather ambiguous as he did with all of the men. Tythas had planned to study anima, because it interested him, but his initial course load had not included anything related to death magic.
“Look here...” He snapped from his thoughts to observe the professor as she lay the corpse of a chicken on the stone slab serving as her work surface. Not a corpse, just the skeletal remains. A pile of bones not bound by tendon or ligament and stripped of flesh. “I've cleaned the corpse, as any self respecting necromancer should, to save your stomach. Note that it is not always so pleasant a taste, flesh rots and withers but the bones remain. Always clean your corpses, we have little need for anything else. Bow, if you would, please observe.”
With a flourish of her hand and a few spoken words, the skeletal chicken rose to life. It's bones clattering in the air to form a shape one might recognize, just without the feathers and flesh. Wreathed in dark energy, the anima sank itself into the bones, drawing energy from the atmosphere. Recovering what part of its soul still present in the surrounding area. Because of that, they posited, corpses gone overlong beyond a month were not so easy to be reanimated. Necromancers would store cleaned corpses in their dimensional artifact, but never were they human or humanoid. Even in Amistad, that was against the law. And, despite the official description of the energy manipulated, they weren't actually using souls – but there were many who believed a part of the soul remained behind and that was another reason for the former rule surrounding the discipline.
For a moment, it was a mad thing, shrieking despite having no throat and clawing angrily at the stone table with its talons. A burst of light later, and it was placid. Perfectly still, staring up at the professor with baleful yellow flames where its eyes should be.
“Your first lesson, and the most important – is imprinting. Undead hunger for life. That is their goal and mission, the only thing they care about. By offering it a bit of your 'life' – or light magic – you imprint the construct to yourself. This is an artificial offering of life force, putting the proverbial carrot on the stick, but to be clear – you are not offering them anything more than mana. I see many of your faces...”
Tythas could easily see it, and was sure he looked much the same.
“These are not living things. You do not defile the work of great Thanatos or any other god of death in practicing necromancy the proper way. Ward properly, cast properly, and all you have is an extension of your mana given physical form. No different than a golem, but unlike those practitioners of alchemical anima, ours are both easier to raise and require no expensive power source.”
“How long do they last?” Someone asked.
“That depends.” Urden replied with a shrug. “Five or six hours for a standard undead, but it depends on your ability. Some, myself included, could keep a lesser undead like this animated indefinitely. As for those at your age, a day – at most. For greater undead, which is something you'll learn in your later years – a matter of hours would be considered impressive. Any other questions?”
“Does it hurt?” Another question from a raised hand. The young woman was staring at the chicken in abject concern.
Urden chuckled, as did the rest of the class, mocking the other student for their foolishness. “Now, now. This is a good question. A necromancer without morals is a future apostate! But no.” Her face was full of compassion. Round and jovial, she was one of the rare mages who remained portly despite their line of work, giving off a motherly vibe. “No nerves, no soul except the smallest trace fragments, it does not hurt. These are not living or thinking creatures, I assure you. While your courses might allow you to commune with souls, you are never to slave them to your will. That's why we use animals, because what energy comprises their 'souls', if that is really what they are, can't possibly result in a creature capable of feeling.”
“Professor...” Tythas raised his hand, receiving a nod from her to speak freely. “If necromancy is so... Benign... Why is it so hated elsewhere?”
He wanted to know. As a sorcerer, with darkness being his prime element as fire was to Tyr, he had to know. Before the academy, he'd sworn against practicing it. To his own father, no less.
She sighed at that. Urden clucked her tongue, though it was clear she wasn't disappointed in Tythas, but rather mankind as a whole. “A few bad apples, a rotten tree does not make. Healers use darkness magic to degenerate tumors without risking the health of the patient. It's no different. However... There have indeed been 'bad apples'. Men and women who thought themselves above control. Necromancy is a powerful tool with endless utility. Want to speak to one beyond the grave? We can do that, albeit inconsistently. Raise golems, and believe me, that's all they are – we can do that too. Because of these bad apples – we are only allowed to study to a certain point. Too many wish for eternal life, thinking they'll find it in the study of death...” She shook her head at this.
“It's foolishness that had cursed our kind, to exist in this half-assed consideration of the school. People fear what they cannot and do not know, young Tythas, and that is why we are censored. Now, turn to page twenty one of your textbooks, and begin attempting to raise your own chicken. Remember, the darkness serves only as a funnel, something to bend at the aura of life, a transit line for your anima to settle around the remains. You do not want to touch any of the bones with darkness magic. Fortunately, failure is expected and we have more than enough poultry to go around.”
Stolen novel; please report.
It only took about thirty seconds at most for Tythas to complete his objective, earning fifty points from the professor and a nod of praise. Anima flowed through his hands and suffused each and every bone of the skeletal chicken. Like water, it seeped into the calcified remnants and unlife burst from within it. Tythas was a sorcerer, and could see mana differently. It wasn't a sense or a guess, he could see the core generate within the indistinct energy that would serve as the body of mana necessary for it to move. He watched as the coils of darkness and anima combined to create a pseudo-soul of pure mana, animating the chicken and giving rise to a crude sentience within it. It was bound to him through the imprinting process, and he could feel that string of himself marking this connection.
She approached him as he stroked the bony creature. Despite her words, he couldn't see it as anything other than a living thing. It even cooed and rubbed itself against his hand, seeking solace in his warmth. A thoughtless golem? It certainly didn't feel like one...
“You've done this before?” Urden observed the construct carefully, taking note of its smoother movements and the luster of its eyes. Necromancy was a magical art of great nuance, and it wasn't so easily divided into 'lesser' or 'greater'. Advanced courses would teach them that they were creating an artificial soul, programming it to give the corpse they raised some approximate of its living faculties again, but at the end of the day it was all an 'approximate'. A puppet. 'Raising the dead' was more superstition than anything, in proper necromancy. They weren't technically raising the dead, they were using what was left to create something new, the core at its center serving as an anchor to keep it stable.
“No.” Tythas shook his head. “This would be my first time.”
This kid... Urden was shocked. Typically it'd take months for one in her class to successfully animate a corpse, even a lesser one. It was a complex art, and that's why smaller animals were chosen at first. Part of the spell was understanding what could make a creature move and how they behaved, necessitating a real understanding of anatomy that differed from creature to creature – and hardest of all was giving a creature will instead of raising it as a clumsy puppet. Necromancy was a fine art predicated on a supreme control of mana, not so much a memorization of spells and ritual as one might assume. Yet here he was, on the first day of practical lessons, and this was no lesser undead...
“I...” She gulped. There were three ranks of undead, categorized, though with all things cast by man it was imperfect. Lesser and standard could come from any corpse, but greater undead could only come from sapient beings. Typically. This chicken, as unlike and imperfect as it was, it was most definitely closer to the 'greater' side of things. A sentient undead, that was where the distinction lay, or at least one capable of free will and independent behavior. “Amend that to five hundred points to mister Slakt for being the first student to raise an intermediate undead! And another two hundred for doing it on his first try!”
Whoever he was, this Tythas Slakt, he was the most naturally gifted necromancer she had ever seen, tagging his file for observation and notifying the headmaster of their discovery. Talent was good, and necromancy didn't have the perception it used to. But talent like this needed to be watched.
–
“How did class go, everyone?” Brennwulf asked. He was a burly man, and tall for his age, standing over six feet tall. Wide of shoulder, with a shock of dark wavy hair. Strong, with a body tempered by physical exercise, unlike most mages. Giving him an intimidating appearance, a heavy brooding brow and a neck like a bull.
“It was alright.” Magnus shrugged. “Boring as usual.” They'd begun to eat together at Iscari's insistence. 'The boys', as they were called. Chosen for their 'unique talent' and bright future, or so the prince claimed.
“I animated a chicken, rat, and dog on the first day. I spent hours in the workshop demonstrating for professor Urden, in front of various classes. Even the fifth and sixth year.” Tythas looked tired, downcast, but he quickly perked up. “She gave me eight hundred points. Is that a lot?”
Brennwulf grimaced. “Necromancy.” He was classified as a battlemage, but most of all – a paladin in training. Sent to the academy by his church for his talent in magic, to pursue the path of the templar. As far as the clergy was concerned, even the simplest of necromancy was pure evil. Naturally, any person predisposed to academics would ignore such blatant dogma, but not 'Brenn'. “It's unnatural.”
“Eight hundred points is a lot.” Magnus ignored his new friend and addressed Tythas directly. “Some students don't make that in a year, let alone a single semester. Hells, I only have four hundred points and I've been working my ass off. What about you, Iscari?”
“Nothing serious... Only eleven hundred.” He grinned, accepting the challenge and rubbing his index finger and thumb together suggestively. “Tyr? You're the only one who hasn't shared. How many points do you have?”
“I don't know...” Tyr responded. “A few. I think.”
“Give me that.” Iscari pulled the communication amulet off his friends neck. They were programmed with certain features, among them were their balances at the academy, their grades, etc. Most were not accessible by any hand other than his own, but Iscari had 'talents' too...
“Two thousand!” Magnus choked on his salad, spitting half of it on the table. It was, even for a research student, a lot of points. “How!?”
Tyr shrugged. “They are all from runesmithing. Valkan gives them to me all the time, our labor and time spent out of class is compensated for, I suppose. Three hundred or so are from the healing specialization, but I haven't gotten any from that in a long time.”
“Runesmithing?” Brennwulf let his chin rest in his hands. “It would be awesome if you could make me a--”
“No.” Tyr replied. “I'm busy enough as it is, and the academy keeps most of the things I make. Actually... Now that you mention it, they keep them all. What a scam!” Thinking about it, and tallying the balance, Valkan had taken everything. Including three tier-2 artifacts and a score of tier-1 rings and other things. Small weapons and utility items he'd been trained to make. If sold, these could net him dozens or maybe even hundreds of gold, all he had left was a shortsword or two that hadn't been asked for. “This is child labor!”
“You're eighteen years old...” Tythas frowned. “Did you not notice that we're going here for free? There's no tuition, we all signed agreements that said any new developments we make in the academy become their property, compensated for of course.”
At the same time, any contribution you made to the academy was taken from you, for students to be rewarded in 'points' instead. Something like the merits accrued by adventurers. That would be all well and good, but as it stood – the 'shop' for these points was full of nothing but garbage. At least in Tyr's opinion.
“Well, that's very impressive and all...” Micah added. A Harani man by appearance, though he hailed from the marches and not the proper empire. The last of their 'brotherhood' that Iscari had forced together, apparently he had shared some classes with Tythas and Brenn. “We have the day off tomorrow. We should look for a party! Maybe some girls...” He let that last part hang, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I'm married.” Tyr responded.
“Me too.” Iscari shook his head. He knew that students would be up to all sorts of extra curricular activities, but had never had much interest in participating. With his constitution, he was immune to poisons, including alcohol. His father would drink wine laced with monster venom, but Iscari was 'too young' for that. Everything else made him feel nothing more than bloated.
“I'm betrothed.” Magnus said dreamily. “My Aquila... You should all come with me to meet her one day, her father is an imperial legatus. There is no woman more beautiful in the entire world, and she's so talented! Ah... Aquila...”
Tyr just stared at him with a complex look on his face as the man rambled on about how she was one of the youngest preceps in recent history. About her beautiful curls, how golden and radiant they were.
“C'mon man...” Micah whined. “I thought we were friends.” He looked pointedly at Iscari. With a primus on their side, there were few young maidens who would scorn him. Micah was small, and a cripple, rolling around in a wheeled chair. While he was thankful that this group had taken him in without a scathing comment or making inappropriate jokes between them, he very much planned to take advantage of his association.
Iscari the primus, Magnus who was the son of the headmaster, Tythas who was rumored to be the only mage in direct service of House Faeron, and Tyr... Who was just handsome. He was a noble, but he didn't seem very special other than his northern blood giving him such an impressive build. Too pretty, dark and brooding – all of the girls in his class would make comments about how 'cute' they thought he was. Too scary to talk to, though, or so they said – asking Micah to do it for them. He wondered why women always seemed to gravitate toward the toxic assholes of the world, because they were mysterious. Or just because they looked good, they wouldn't know a 'nice guy' when they saw one...
Of course, he refused. Not because he didn't want to take advantage of his own 'cuteness' courtesy of his disability, but because he was equally afraid of Tyr. Without the others around, he found the man too hard at the eyes to look at directly. Sometimes Micah would crack a joke or try to talk to him about classes and the other man would just stare at him, or grunt a brief response. He'd never miss the hunger in those eyes, Tyr would constantly be glaring at his legs, all strapped up in that chair. Chewing his lip but never elaborating on it even when Micah asked why.
“What? We are.” Iscari glared back at him. “Don't say such a thing. Go do as you please, but we have obligations to our women and families. I will not be your aide-Du-gallivant as it were.”
“You can figure this out later.” Brennwulf had little interest in women. Well, he did, but he was vowed and that was his priority. Paladins could marry and bear children, among his order, but his focus for now would be to achieve a knighthood and earn his hammer. “Would anyone care to join me in the sparring hall?”
“Sure.” Tyr wanted to get out of that situation before he could be coerced into doing something that might get him into trouble. He had no interest in stoking the ire of his wives. They hadn't spoken to him since the events at the tower, and while he was fine with that, he wouldn't push them even further.