Path of the Necromancer Ch. 01

Unfortunately, while he'd had some limited success in having coherent conversations with spirits, actually collecting money was turning out to be a pain in the ass. For the effort he put in, he might as well go work some wage job --oh wait, he couldn't even do that since anything on the books would be checked by the government.

What he needed was a fake I.D. and some sort of legitimate detective front where people would come to him to find things and pay upfront. At the very least, he could then go out into the missing person's section and make some dough. He knew simply contacting the family directly would peg him as a kidnapper right off the bat.

At this point, with his savings running out, he was debating on whether or not he should fall into the morally gray area of hunting down drug dealers and stealing their cash.

After admitting this somewhat jokingly to his companion, the Archive had piped up that it would be a great opportunity to create a patchwork man, more commonly called a flesh golem. Ian had been shying away from the suggestion for years, not really liking the idea of knitting bodies together to create a bodyguard --not that he would be doing the actual knitting he reminded himself with a brief prayer of thanks.

Sadly, his fights with the wizard and then the subsequent one against the sorceress had made it painfully clear to him that he needed some form of protection. Although he'd won, he'd been slow with his reactions, something a more competent opponent would be sure to capitalize on. He also didn't have much of an arsenal besides blasting stuff and calling on spirits, which if they had a decent shield wasn't going to work.

"Come on," the Archive urged, "how hard would it be to grab a few drugged-out drifters." He joked, "We could pull an all-nighter and then you could enter him into a few cage matches to make some money..." Ian chuckled at the image that conjured. "Embrace the Dark Side," the Archive said in his best James Earl Jones voice.

Ian convulsed into fits of laughter. He might be broke, jobless, and hunted, but at least he could still laugh...

* * * * *

It was on a dark and stormy night—okay, well it was nighttime and it was raining hard when Ian's feet led him off the main street his rat motel was located on in one of downtown Seattle's lesser districts. He hadn't actually committed himself to the plan of trying to find trouble, he'd just had a 'why not' moment as his hunger seemed to want to burn a hole through his stomach.

He didn't actually believe he'd find anything. Seattle was supposed to be in the top ten safest cities and all that. Even so, an invisible shield shimmered to life around him. Ian shook his head, clearing the water from his hair. At the very least it kept the rain out of his eyes.

He'd been walking through side streets and back alleys for nearly an hour and hadn't found anything. He was about to give up when he turned a corner and was met with a scene he couldn't make up. Ian blinked as a dozen young --for lack of better word- hoodlums charged at a short, stumping-looking man in a black duster. He had a cheesy goatee that was ruined by the glasses he was wearing.

The man cackled as the scruffy, lanky teens rushed him with knives and baseball bats. They only made it a couple of steps before they were suddenly shoved back wildly by an unseen force, sprawling them across the concrete to join another dozen of their group that didn't look like they were getting back up. "More, more!" he jeered. "I need you to give it your all. Otherwise you won't taste as good when I sacrifice you..."

"Un-fucking-believable," Ian muttered, taking a seat and watching the show. "The economy is so bad that even 'this' was taken..." He saw the... well, he assumed it was a gang, pick themselves up and face the crazed mage again. A tough-looking girl with oily hair and a smudged face turned to a pudgy-faced guy wearing a thick jacket.

"Damnit, Carlos," she shouted. "Shoot him!"

Carlos looked scared. "Bu-but the old man said not to use it; that it would draw cops. Any more attention and they'd raid the neighborhood again. We can't afford another raid!"

"I don't give a damn," she gritted out. "He killed Bobby --which means I'm the leader here, now shoot that fucker!"

Ian shook his head. If this was a TV show and every one of the main characters was in their group, he'd still bet on the other guy. Carlos reached into his jacket and pulled out an ancient-looking revolver. Shots rang out and, somewhat predictably, pinged off of the mage's shield. The man only laughed harder and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, Carlos was ablaze, rolling on the ground uselessly. His screams broke the resolve of two of his cohorts and they bolted down the alleyway.

Before Carlos died, the mage cast a spell and a blue light encompassed the twitching form. "You'll make a wonderful offering," the mage enthused, eyes alight with fanaticism. Ian's eyes narrowed when he saw the soul emerge from the body. He bolted to his feet when it was captured inside the blue light and sucked into a blackened orb the mage had pulled out and held in his hand.

The runes scrawled across the orb's surface flared as the soul was deposited. "Gotta catch 'em all," the short man laughed maniacally. He glanced around. "So who's next?" Then his eyes fell on Ian who was walking into the light. "Ah, a newcomer. You can help replace those cowards that ran away."

Ian's lip twitched and he ground his teeth as he felt an irrational hatred for this man. In Ian's mind, capturing a soul that was on the way to the afterlife or wherever they went was 'wrong' --as in kicking the goalie in hockey kind of wrong... Necromancers only used those that chose to remain behind as spirits. They couldn't even really be called souls, more manifestations of the energy souls left behind --echoes or shadows of what they had been.

Capturing a soul to use for who-knows what kind of sick scheme he'd planned was worse than taking away someone's free will. Ian found he had less morals than most people (something of a requirement for someone who carved up dead people) and he'd always wondered where he'd draw the line. Apparently taking away a person's ability to die and keeping their essence locked in eternal torment qualified.

As the fat fuck opened his mouth again, Ian stared at him and concentrated his will. The man stopped and looked down at himself with a puzzled expression on his face. His eyes widened in horror as he saw his skin decaying. Ian felt the man pour more energy into his barrier and he shook his head. "Wrong kind of shield, moron," Ian stated in a deadly calm voice.

He opened his eyes wide in realization. "B-but that means yo- you're a..." The man whimpered as he saw layers of skin start to peel off his hands and he sunk to his knees, bones turning brittle. His hair grayed, his skin cracked and wrinkled, his fingernails yellowed and then blackened.

Ian turned to the girl who seemed to be in charge of the group and said, "I'll let you do the honors." Ian had to give her credit. She didn't hesitate. Picking up a fallen baseball bat she took a running start and then swung at what was left of the man's head. A puff of gray ash and dust was all that remained after the bat drove through his skull. The crumbling headless corpse fell on its side stiffly.

Everyone in the alley just stared at his remains, the wind blowing the sandy particles in different directions. Ian stepped forward abruptly. "No, I think not," he said, in an ominous voice. He caught the man's soul as it emerged and made it visible for all to see. "A better man wouldn't sink to your level. A better man would just let matters lie and let whoever you're on your way to see pass judgment. I'm in more of an eye for an eye mood though..."

The group of strangers looked on incredulously as he bent and picked up the fallen orb and tapped it curiously with a finger. Inscribing a small amount of his power along the runes, he willed it open. Hundreds of souls flooded out for all to see, flickering into nothingness as they all sought to pass over. One of the last ones to leave swirled over the gathering briefly and Ian guessed that one had been Carlos.

Glancing at the soul frozen in his metaphorical grasp, he pointed the orb at it and activated the runes. The soul was sucked inside and there was a flash of light before the device returned to its normal, unassuming state. He tossed the orb to the girl who was staring at it with a feral look of satisfaction. "I think over the side of a bridge would be a good location for that," Ian said.

He cocked his head to the side as he began to hear sirens in the distance. "That's some shitty response time," he mumbled to himself. He bent low to retrieve the mage's wallet. 'Might as well get paid for this disastrous night,' he mused. He spotted something sticking out of the mageless duster and reached down to retrieve a black book.

Opening it up, he recognized the unnatural symbols and knew he'd found the mage's guide, though the Archive spirit that resided within seemed to have left it. Pocketing the book, he reflected on what his next step would be. Looking down at the dusty corpse he'd wrought, he was debating whether or not it would work as a contribution for a flesh golem given its condition. His thoughts were interrupted as the girl approached him.

"Thank you," she told him, wringing her hands. "For your help that is... Do you need a place to stay?" The rest of her 'crew' cast nervous glances at him. "I feel we need to do something to repay you."

Ian took in her bedraggled appearance and almost barked out a laugh. He was in dire straits just for considering it. He managed to turn it into a slight grin at the last second and coughed out, "What are you offering?"

She saw through his evasion and her eyes blazed. "We don't live on the street if that's what you're asking. We control this area and own some of the warehouses down by the waterfront. We even go to school and everything." She muttered something under her breath about people stereotyping them as a bunch of uneducated thugs.

Ian's eyebrows rose. Warehouses could be useful. He couldn't exactly store a bunch of corpses in his motel room. Well he could, but the smell... "I might take you up on that offer. Do you have an address?" She nodded cautiously and rattled it off. He turned down to look at the remains of the mage. "So... uh, do you mind if I take this guy?"

She raised an eyebrow, but shrugged her shoulders. Ian ignored the look she gave him that said, 'Oh, you're one of "those" guys.' He gestured at their fallen comrades weakly and winced as he said, "and what about them."

The reply came from a nerdy-looking kid with freckles towards the back of the group. "You know how to get rid of bodies?" he questioned, casting a worried glance over his shoulder towards where the sirens were getting considerably louder. Ian was depressed to hear him ask that like it was some kind of skill he ought to write down on a résumé.

Ian shot him a chilling smile and said, "Something like that..."

The girl seemed to be debating whether or not it was a good idea. It would be bad if the cops were able to connect the dead bodies to their group. They'd be raided for sure. Finally, she nodded her head. As they all spread out to each grab hold of one of the bodies, Ian shook his head, "No need." He turned his hand palm upwards and the spirits that had flown into the bodies pulled them jerkily to their feet.

The group of hoodlums jumped back and the youngest of the bunch screamed, "Holy crap!"

After making an effort to hide most of the blood and tossing a couple jackets over the headless body, he got them moving in a single file line. The girl stared at the expressionless cadavers, mouth agape. When they reached a distance, she glanced down at the remaining body of Bobby, her brother. She fought the tears that threatened to sprout. 'Later,' she berated herself brokenly, 'hold on until they can't see me.' Shouting after him, she yelled, "Hey, you missed one!"

Ian waved a hand absently behind him and called back, "That one's not dead..."

Her eyes went wide and she screamed for her friends to grab her brother and get him to the 'Doc' fast. They quickly ran off with him slung between two of the bigger guys' shoulders as a troupe of patrol cars made perfunctory sweep by the deserted alley and then sped up again.

Ian sighed as he turned back onto the main road, walking along beside his precession of the dead. There was really nothing for it. The Archive 'had' said ten corpses would be enough. And he did need a quiet, secluded place to work. He'd just have to move out of his motel room after he was done and screw the deposit. If there was anyone at the front desk he'd just put them to sleep. More than a little pissed, he reflected that he was still starving. He shook his head and thought, 'Hell of a night...'

* * * * *

Ian felt astonishment and... fear? ...emanating from the Archive. The spirit stammered out, "Th-that's not just any patchwork man. That's a fucking revenant! They used to call them ragmen back in the 16th Century. One of them managed to make it through the meat grinder at Rhodes and collapse the lines, forcing them into negations. It single-handedly did in one night what over 100,000 Turks failed to do in six months."

"Ragmen, huh," Ian said, looking at the dark tatters that made up its clothes --sweatshirt, jeans, gloves; every inch of skin was swathed in the stuff. "How appropriate..." Its head was bowed and a long mismatched hood hung low, hiding the thing's face from view. Ian could feel its presence. It was bonded to him now. If he died, so would it.

"There's no way in hell you should have been able to summon that," the Archive stated. There was still awe in his voice, but the fear had been replaced by fascination. "The last necromancer that managed to pull it off had needed to sacrifice a thousand spirits, and even then it didn't really serve him so much as do whatever it damn well pleased."

"Oi, Scraps," the Archive called to the motionless figure. "Can-you-hear-me?" he emphasized slowly. Ian was sure he'd use the exact same tone to mock a deaf person if given the opportunity. He really had no scruples.

The hooded head rose, revealing a mouth wrapped in more rags. "You have someone you'd like me to kill?" it asked in perfect English.

"Where the hell did it get a British accent from?" Ian couldn't help but wonder aloud. He was surprised that the smell had actually gone away when the corpses had been melded together.

The Archive shouted, "No! Well- At least not yet. I'm sure you'll get to kill later..."

"Do you have any memories?" Ian asked curiously. The revenant bowed his head, as if considering the question. After awhile it finally said, "Not as you would define them. I think about something and the information is just there, ready for me to use, but I can't recall how it came to be."

"That's... cool," the Archive said, "if not totally depressing." He sighed and began flipping pages unnecessarily. "Apparently you've got to name it to complete the ritual. Unless I fucked everything up by calling him Scraps. I don't know... you figure it out."

Ian thought a moment. Just as he was about to call him something intimidating like Skullcrusher or Reaper or 'the Un-fuck-able,' the revenant tilted his head and said, "Scraps is sufficient." Ian dropped his head in his hand and groaned. He was going to get so much crap in public when people thought he was mocking a burn victim.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Ian remembered the book he acquired and pulled it out. As he began flipping through pages, he muttered absently, "Well, at least I don't have to feed you."

The Archive perked up at the sight of the book in his hand. "Ooh, a warlock's manual. If you used his essence when you were creating Scraps, that might explain some of the mystery." At Ian's interested look, he asked almost petulantly, "Hey, you aren't actually thinking about using that trash? What hell man, trading me in for a newer model already?"

Ian turned to the Archive and pointed down at the black book. "This has pictures. How come you don't have pictures? I feel like I got gypped."

The Archive huffed angrily. "Quitcher bitchin', it's not like you can read the damn thing anyway. You still need me to let you know what it says." He paused as he saw Ian staring intently at an image. The spirit moved to hover over Ian's shoulder and he exclaimed, "Hell no. Don't even think about it. You're still a virgin. A succubus would eat you alive."

Seeing he wasn't getting through to his charge, the Archive resorted to yelling, "Seriously. They've got teeth down there. You don't want anything to do with them. She'll suck you dry and walk off without a care in the world to enjoy her newfound freedom."

Ian, eyes gleaming and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, looked up and asked, "How do I summon one?"

The Archive groaned, but he was bound to answer. "Well, I don't know the exact process... Warlocks generally have to sacrifice a ton of souls to bring a demon into the world. They then go about entering into a type of contract with them. The demon almost always finds a way to kill the warlock and is then released from his or her contract, free to do whatever they want in the world of the living."

"Warlocks are regarded as almost as bad as necromancers for this reason," the Archive grumbled. "Of course, they don't have a kill-on-sight order so the lucky bastards get the bad reputation without all the dangers that come with it."

"Necromancers," he continued with a sigh, "are different... I don't actually know of an instance where a necromancer tried to summon a demon. Why use something that has free will when you've got 'that.' He gestured towards the revenant, who had picked up the necromancy book the Archive was bonded to and was flipping through its pages with a mildly interested expression."

"You don't have to deal with all the rituals and sacrifices and B-Movie dialogue that warlocks are into," the Archive went on. "But as far as what you actually do when you bring them into the world... I don't have a clue. I know it probably involves anchoring their soul --yes, demons have souls too- in this world."

"Why can't I just bond them to me like I did with Scraps?" Ian asked curiously.

"I- uhh, hmm," the Archive pondered. "That might actually work. It might also cause your insides to implode. Why the hell are you willing to risk it again?"

Ian fingered the embossed image representing a succubus in her demon form, black wings splayed wide, devilish forked tail curled up with the tip resting at the corner of her curved lips. She had a smile that chilled his soul and he could make out the hint of fangs showing from between her lips. "Just something about her," Ian mused.

The Archive began cussing viciously about teenage hormones killing more magicians per year than all the other dangers in the world combined. From there it was a tedious process to collect all the things he'd need for a summoning. Scraps got some second and third glances in public, but otherwise things went off without a hitch. Finally, he was back inside the dingy box the motel clerk called a room, circle drawn out like it was depicted in the book with all the ingredients in their rightful places.

He shouldn't actually need any of this stuff since necromancy was all about intent, but he figured he might as well start out doing things like he was supposed to. Ian sat cross-legged on the bed and concentrated on the image he'd formed of a succubus in his mind. It wasn't hell he directed his thoughts at. He didn't even know if there was such a place. But he did know there was a barrier that all souls crossed when their bodies died and it was there that he sent the image.