Not only is this unedited, but I'm also still sick. At least I'm not woozy!
This is somethin' that's been stickin' around in my head as of late, and I do believe this is the start of it, yeah. I mean I'd want to actually write this from when the guy is born in this new world, not to mention of the bitterness and rage within him as he begins to grow old enough to take his destiny in hand.
The impetus of using his family's death (or the possibility thereof) is a simplistic, used trope but if done well...well!
Either way, do enjoy. :D
The necropolis shook with the roars of the Necromancer as she sank back onto her decrepit throne.
These heroes were neither plucky or young. In fact, she was surprised by how pragmatic they were - all of them middle-aged, having experienced countless battlefields and death-defying situations. They wore their capability on their sleeve, and the Necromancer had immediately taken her “Necromongrel” form in order to face them.
The stern, taciturn soldier, a fallen knight who took up the cause. The hag witch, a wise magician and herbalist, practically a druid with her strong connection to the land. The fencer, fast and efficient, effective as a rogue.
And the small one, yessssss. The small one who hung to the back and supported them all, employing magics in ways that the Necromancer had never seen before. This one, swaddled in a consuming robe and bearing a mask of purest silver, the ipso-facto leader who maneuvered them about the battlefield with the strength and conviction of a general-king.
This one was her downfall. She knew, instinctively, that the caster sought her out, but to what end?
Sighing to herself, the Necromancer held her bloodied hands out towards them, her glorious, honorable vanquishers.
“You have made me come undone. You have freed this blasted, foolish kingdom. To what end? I would know why you have sought me out.
It could not for this wretched kingdom, aye? It’s foolish, terrible King with his high taxes, the fools that whisper in his ear. It couldn’t be because I represent the salvation of the blighted people, eh?
Tell me.”
She pointed at the small being, whispering, “Please tell me your name.”
The three bodyguards looked towards the caster as he drew closer, his youthful voice ringing out, “I will tell you, but first you will give me what I want. Your life for your knowledge.”
“Deal,” the Necromancer whispered quickly, “My life for my knowledge.”
“Good. Heal her.”
The youthful caster merely breathed as the Hedge Witch and Soldier came to her aid, healing her with both practical combat medicine and the Witch’s nature magics. The Necromancer, her unlife once again surging in strength, knew when she was beaten - it would take another decade to raise the undead army they had defeated within a couple of hours, and even her mightiest of powers needed time to be replenished.
She looked towards the caster dispassionately as he continued, “You belong to me now. The binding of this contract is absolute and immortal, the gift of the gods between all creatures on this world. By the pact of this world, do you understand?”
On the edge between possibilities, she now saw the truth, the power of the Pact enabling her to see beyond the mask even as she, in her heart of hearts, gave herself to her conqueror.
Her victim.
“You.”
The young boy took off his mask, frowning at her with a man’s glare in his dark eyes, “Yeah. Me. And now you’re gonna pay for bringing me to this godforsaken planet you fucking corpse.”
The cries of the Necromancer rang through the camp as their leader worked her over, tearing into her with a wrath that had taken ten years to properly ferment. The Hedge Witch frowned as she communed with the fire, the Fencer stirring the bubbling pot of stew, fresh with game he had caught from traps set earlier before their final assault of the Necropolis. Though it was common knowledge to never eat any food found within the deadlands, the creatures that survived on the border were perfectly fine.
Though he was a gee-whiz of a woodsman, he lacked the forest knowledge of a proper ranger, having been a city boy since his inception. Unlike his comrades, he practically enjoyed the fetching screams of the Necromancer, having found her comely and absolutely desirable the moment he saw her on the bounty board.
The Soldier frowned and oiled his blade, a simple longsword with neither enchantment or enhancement. Using pure skill he had once fought his way to the highest court of courts, becoming the King’s Champion only to learn of the filth and corruption that had greased his way.
Much like his comrades, it was at his lowest point that the noble’s son had approached him with his terrible secret. He knew, instinctively, that the boy was telling the truth, seeing the same kind of wretched existence within those fathomless, old eyes.
The Soldier understood how angry the child was, having been forcibly killed on his world only to be dragged to this one, forced to once again grow in a new body from birth until now. Youth was wasted on the young, but the loss of his body’s experiences and muscle memory, the pain of puberty and the forbidden knowledge of an older, deadly mercenary was nothing compared to the loneliness that his strangeness caused.
His bitterness and rage only increased as he proved his mastery over the magics known only to royalty, employing it in ways that confounded and defeated the Magic Scholarium.
Earning both his title as Scholar and the first-ever “Battle Mage,” the boy then traveled the lands, acquiring specific people, people who would trust and respect him.
The people who could see the pain beyond his youthful mien.
Despite that, the Soldier still had to fight with his own innate need to silence those pitiful screams, the pathetic wails of the Necromancer, suffering under the young man’s merciless endurance, the old man’s terrible knowledge.
So it was when the Necromancer finally passed out, mid-scream, that their leader strode out of the ten with a fierce scowl, softening when he noted his comrades. Nodding to the Hedge Witch, he took a seat by the fire and growled at the Fencer, “Stop thinking that. I’m not a sadist like you.”
The Fencer shrugged and chuckled, “Can’t blame me for my thoughts, boss! Besides, it’s your fault for not letting me at her - I would’ve enjoyed it more than you.”
The boy frowned and refrained from shaking his head. The Fencer had a horrible sense of humor and even worse sense of “pleasure.”
The Hedge Witch offered the boy a bowl, ignoring the Fencer as he held his bowl out for her to fill as well, “Sirrah, you should let one of us take her. Even the Fencer, bloody sadist as he is, this…you’ll only cloud your sight with darkness if this continues.”
“I know, I know,” the boy closed his eyes and shivered, letting her hug him close, as close to the strange connection the four shared through his Battle Magic, “But I’m a grown-assed man, dammit. I can’t forget that, even if I have to carve it into the body of each Cabal member’s family, I swear to fuckin’ Christ!”
“And what information did your work get you?” The Soldier asked. Gruff and curmudgeonly, only his magically-connected comrades knew the depths of emotion his rough inflection carried. He was worried, greatly worried, about his friends and deeply fearful of the changes he had seen in the world.
Through the eyes of the child, the entire world was crazy, unbelievable. A fantasy of the worst, darkest kind.
The boy sighed, shrugging off the Hedge Witch but not without patting the top of her head, a gesture of affection she only allowed them to use, “I’m..fine. I’ll be fine. And yes, I got plenty of information out of her. She’s completely on our side, now, and my work will see that she’ll die the moment she betrays us.”
He grinned, a feral gleam to his eye that he eagerly shared with his crew, “The Cabal. She is, indeed, the first of those Scholarium mage-heretics who summoned me here. Sacrificed me there! She cannot undo the ritual, but it CAN be undone! I can be sent home, right at the moment before my unjust and untimely death.
Time froze for that world when I was brought here. I can save them! My family!
I can save them all!”
The Fencer barked a laugh, “GOOD! Good! Ten years of despair and rage, why aren’t you happier boyo?!”
Ignoring the jab, the boy nodded, “Tomorrow we’ll clean up, head to the base and prepare ourselves and our new guest. I need to finish the hypnosis treatment and make sure she synchronizes well with us.
Tomorrow we head to Rodeim. The next Cabal member is there.”
“Rodeim, the Lich Kingdom?” The Hedge Witch frowned, “I really, really hate how half the Cabal are, apparently, undead.”
”Says you, lady!” The Fencer laughed cruelly, “Undeads can take more damage, like it rougher, and take longer to get off~!”
Ducking her hurled rock, the Fencer danced back as the Witch stood up, finally pushed to fight him after his taunts. The Soldier and the boy ate their bowls of stew, knowing full well that the Fencer hid his honorable core with a veneer of lies, presenting the ever-present image of a sadistic, perverted rogue.
Of course they weren’t going to stop the Witch from braining him if she ever caught him, either.
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Adieu, mah peoples.
~Thomas Duder, Author of the Things
