Brittle bones are the bane of any good Lich. That is why it is essential to not simply sip, but chug lots of milk. Your bones will thank you when barbarians bring down their spiked maces, when warriors heave their heavy axes. As these muscle-headed brutes make contact with your bones, the vibrations of your frame will ring out into the heavens, telling the world that you are a Lich worthy of the corpses you command.
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Not a living soul was around. I could hardly see through the thick fog that must've rolled in over the night. It would’ve been peaceful if I didn’t know that a necromancer was lurking around the village, or if I had known how I ended up here. I didn’t feel well. It must’ve been the alcohol.
“Hey! Is anyone there!” I yelled as I wandered over the rolling hills of stones filled with the dead. Gravestones to be more precise. I wondered if purgatory was like this: the vast expanse of nothing but cut grass. If that was so, then hell was probably cutting the grass with tiny left handed scissors. I was never religious, but I figured it was a good policy to pray when strange things started happening.
No response came from gods or actual people. Only the whistling of the wind and the eerie cry of crows could be heard. This was seriously creepy, and I seriously couldn’t find the way out of the cemetery. I guess this is what I got for neglecting to visit my Grandmother’s grave, although it was hard to respect the dead old hag that called me her beautiful daughter's ugly troll spawn. Like, sure, my old baby teeth were a bit crooked, but you couldn't tell when I kept my mouth shut. She, unfortunately, died before I got to smile at her with my new somewhat straighter adult teeth. I missed her.
A shining beam of light cut through the mist in the distance. It was a slow moving light. Light was not supposed to move like that.
“Hey, over here!” I hollered to who I assumed was the supposed Cleric. He arrived today. I figured I’d be safer around him, or at the very least get some directions on how to leave this godforsaken place.
Again, I heard no response. I walked towards the faint glow of what I assumed was magic. I had never witnessed magic; not many wizards hung out in Mudvale. The magic was gold: the color of holy magic. Well, that wasn't quite right. It was almost the color of gold, the tinge was slightly off. Knock off gold, I muttered to myself.
“Stop, where you are, you filthy necromancer! One more step and I will obliterate you from where you stand!” boomed the voice of a devout man.
Oh, thank goodness, I thought. My heart thumped in my chest as I fear overtook my body. It was the implication that a Necromancer was in my vicinity, that caused my heart to try and escape my chest. I prayed for Cleric that he’d smite the evil lurking amongst the fog. If I played my cards right, I could even ask for a blessing after I was saved.
A bolt of gold shimmered through the mist, whizzing by my head. I swiveled my head, staring into the obscured graveyard. The Necromancer must’ve been behind me, just out of my vision. There is a saying, somewhere, at some point in time, that brave folk don’t face their fears, instead they turn and run from danger. I turned my back on the Necromancer and sprinted towards the safe embrace of a loving, holy man. The shimmering glow of tarnished holy magic grew more frequent.
I knew, as I weaved through the increasing number of magic bolts, that the true evil was closing in on me. Why else would the Cleric become so frantic? Why else would the bolts of magic come so close to my body? Desperation.
“Stop!” screamed the cleric as a bolt of magic hit me in the chest. I stumbled back onto the ground. I had never felt anything this painful; I had never known what it was like to feel every nerve in my body screaming at me that I was going to die. I was going to die.
“Help.” I croaked, immobilized on the floor. My legs twitched as my body fought against the magic, as the magic ravaged my body. I reached out for the Cleric, my fingers trembling. I prayed for the pain to stop. It hurt. It hurt so much.
A holy man in decorated robes appeared out from the mist. His stoic face and clasped hands told me he was very serious. His bald head loomed over me. His pristine white robes juxtaposed his fat lumpy body caused by overindulging. Even holy men had to eat.
“Begone vile creature. You’ll receive no help from me, for I am a child of the god of Justice.”
“This must be a mistake.” I croaked.
“You cannot trick me. I am impervious to the Dark Arts for I believe in the Big Three. I can sense the dark malevolent energy swirling inside you, foul abomination!” spat the Cleric. He glared at me as if I was worth no more than a bug to be stepped on. There was no human before him.
Again, the Cleric blasted me with his benevolent god’s magic. I could not move my jaw to beg for mercy; I was too weak to raise my voice. I writhed on the ground in pain as I watched the Cleric stroll away, leaving me stranded and alone in the middle of the graveyard.
My torment lasted hours as the magic coursed through my body, searing my skin and burning my flesh. This shouldn't have happened. Holy magic’s purpose was to rid the world of the wicked. Yet I burned all the same.
I vowed to get revenge on that nasty Cleric, The High Cleric of Nosterdam. I did not know his name, but I vowed to remember his hateful eyes, his misshapen chin, his opulent robes. I’m going to live, I repeated. I’m going to live, I repeated. I’m going to…
I was interrupted by the rhythmic staccato of a shovel by my feet.
I managed to crane my head to the left. Grave Digger George stood by my feet, shoveling dirt onto my torso.
“You’re the Necromancer. You framed me,” I croaked, connecting the dots. .
George paused his digging. His dead cold eyes stared at me.
“The dead shouldn’t be talking yet. So shut yer mouth.”
“Answer me!” I hoarsely demanded.
George grinned maniacally, revealing his misshapen teeth dangling from his rotting gums. A small sliver of skin peeled from his face as he scratched his cheek. I noticed that his left hand was mangled, missing three fingers. I hadn't noticed that before.
“What an honor it is for you to think I’m anything like my Master. No, I serve because I am worthless compared to him. You will be called to serve. First, the soil must embrace you.”
The staccato of George’s shovel continued as he dug into the ground. It was a slow going, steady sort of shoveling. There was no exhaustion in George’s movements, he did not tire.
“Why are you covering me in dirt? I’m not dead, you know. I’m going to live,” I repeated.
“I must follow my orders. You are to be buried before noon. If I stop for a second, I’ll be late. Time is of the essence. Punctuality is one of the three and a quarter pillars of perfection.”
Few people want to be buried, and I was not among them. I didn’t even like being dirty. Worse, I hated the idea of being buried in dirt, dead, and forgotten. So my mind raced to think of a way, any way I could escape from becoming whatever monstrosity George was.
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Running was out of the question. I could barely move my body without a searing pain shooting up through my legs. Crawling would not be fast enough, even if George didn’t initially notice me. Playing dead was out of the question, because I was not a Possum.
“What exactly were your orders, George?” I asked, my voice cracking somewhat.
“To bury the dead body,” hummed George as he dug.
“Well, I’m not dead, so you shouldn’t bury me.”
That statement really wasn’t much of an argument, but it was a start. I started to think of ways to talk my way out of this situation.
George paused as he thought real hard, taking ample time to concoct a proper response. It was as if his mind had rotted away and maybe it had.
“Well, I’ll just have to kill you first,” concluded George, as the cogs in his brain began once more.
“Wait! Wait!” I shouted, panicking as George slowly marched towards me.
George stopped.
“You were never given any instructions to kill anyone. I suspect your master would be pretty angry if you killed me before he discussed our important business,” I lied.
“What business? I was told there would be a body here to bury, no more, no less.”
“I’m a… I’m a corpse wrangler, my friend. Who do you think was going to bring the dead body, a novice, a klutz? No, as a Necromancer of the finer things in life, your necromancer master wants the best. I am the best. Dead bodies don’t magically appear out of nowhere, but I sure make it look like they do.”
“Nice try. You've been sleeping here all night. . There’s no way you could’ve acquired a quality body in the short period I wasn't watching you sleep.”
"You're watching me sleep?"
"Well, yes. On and off, taking breaks as I do my tasks. What else would I be doing?"
"Well, it's a bit rude and a little creepy. I wouldn't stay up all night and watch you sleep," I said, the worst of the pain dissipated. I was reminded of the sharp pain every time I fidgeted.
"Why not?" said George.
"Why not? I'll tell you why not. You're no that much of a looker." I repeated, taken aback.
"So you'd watch someone who was pretty, like a pretty girl?" inquired the zombie.
"No... That would be weird too. Anyways, let me go and I'll find you the body.”
"I thought you had the body?" George's eyes narrowed. He tightened the grip around his shovel.
"I do. I do, but I hid the body to protect it from thieves, scoundrels, and weirdos who watch me sleep. The big three, as they say. The problem is that I'm such a professional and so good at hiding bodies that I lost it. But if you leave me so that I can get to looking, I'll have it ready for your master in almost no time. In fact, you'll get a discount.”
"How long will it take for you to find the body?" George asked.
That was not how looking worked. There wasn't a known time with looking, looking took as long as it took. I scowled at the clearly deteriorating zombie, wondering just how rotted his brain was. His mental faculties seemed to shift. Some moments, his mind was sharp, and others his brain didn’t contain any thoughts.
"Thirty minutes on the dot, not a second more not a second less." I lied.
“I don’t have time for that! I need to bury the body before Noon. It's like..." George looked straight into the sun that was beginning to peak out from the fog. "It's like Eleven Forty-Five! You’re coming with me, we’ll ask my master together. That’ll save us some time.”
George grabbed me by the collar of my leather tunic, dragging me across the graveyard like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey! Put me down!” I yelped.
George, of course, did not put me down. I grimaced as I scraped my singed torso across rocks and the occasional stone grave. What felt like eternity must’ve been about fifteen minutes. I laid in the front of an old looking catacomb, my body torn, blistered, and unwilling to sit upright. Laying on the ground was a more efficient position, anyway.
“Oh, great master, forgive me for my ignorance. I have brought with me the scoundrel who was supposed to bring the body for me to bury!” roared George.
A cloaked figure strolled out of the catacomb.
“You fool! He was supposed to be buried! Why would you think that?! What other corpse could possibly be around there?” shouted the cloaked figure.
The cloaked figure pointed at me as he continued to rant, his spindly but still human fingers suggested he was alive, although maybe a little malnourished. He hung his head low so I was unable to look underneath his dark gray cloak.
Frankly, Gray cloaks and drab colors are gaudy and stereotypical of a novice necromancer. The notion that a Lich must be boring and without color, is frankly absurd. But that hardly mattered as I stood before this necromancer.
George cowered, ducking his head away from the necromancer in shame.
The robed figure approached me.
“Interesting. Your mana pool is quite large. That must’ve been how you survived the Clerics holy magic, albeit burned and scarred. A shame that I have to kill you. Your skin will make a nice rug for my office. Or would you rather be skinned into a fine tablecloth for my desk?”
“Neither? Also, might I suggest you, uh, not murder me.”
“Killing you, murdering sounds too personal. That word makes me feel bad, like I did something wrong. But killing you is mere logic. I can’t have you running around telling people I’m still alive: the most noteworthy Necromancer in the county."
"You mean country, right?"
"No, I mean county. Belrog of Velum has me beat there. I'm going to change that, obviously, but for now I'm humble enough to admit he's more renowned than I. Rumors will have the full force of the Kingdom coming down on my operation. I’m afraid that I’ll have to turn you into a seat pad for my chair. It’s nothing personal of course.”
I gulped.
“Of course, no, no hard feelings. However, someone of your stature and grace could use an apprentice. It just happens that I’m actually in the process of looking for an apprenticeship.”
“Elaborate.” demanded the cloaked figure.
“You said I have a big mana pool and if I’m involved you’ll know I won’t spread any rumors. A necromancer as significant as you should have some underlings who aren’t rotten corpses. You could use someone with an actual working brain. ”
The necromancer stopped to contemplate. It was true that the dead just didn’t have the nimble minds of the living. George had showcased that on many occasions, and the rest of his undead minions weren’t any better.
“Don’t listen to him, Master! He’s just trying to trick you like he tricked me,” countered George.
“Silence, you undead welp! The fact that you were tricked just proves how little intelligence you have. He has a point. ”
George cowered.
“I like that idea. Yes, you’re right. A necromancer of my caliber should have an apprentice doing his dirty work. I must say my frustration of my minions' incompetence at fetching ingredients is at an all time high. Also, I won’t have to slave away grinding reagents anymore. I have too many blisters for a proper necromancer. Make sure you don’t try to flee. The curse I’m about to place on you will kill you if you try anything funny.”
“You can’t be serious! He’s a nobody!” screamed George. He trembled with rage.
“I SAID SILENCE.” dark mana extruded from the necromancer’s fingers, sealing George’s lips shut.
I was horrified. For a second, I questioned what I was getting myself into. But, no, I was tired of being no one. This was an opportunity that didn’t involve me dead, or raised as a horrible abomination. Sure, it wasn’t terribly appealing and, sure, it may have been illegal throughout the kingdom but there is an art to necromancy. I just didn’t know it yet.
“What’s your name, my apprentice?”
“Arthur.”
“I’m Alric.”
We clasped hands and I shivered as foreign mana was pumped into my body. It was a strange feeling, but unlike the holy magic it did not hurt.The cloaked figure beckoned me into the Catacombs. I lumbered inside.