Necromancer story (original, fragment)
Azgan looked up from the grave dirt he was examining at the first prickle that ran down the back of his neck. The sky had cleared from the earlier rain and the sun stung his eyes despite the wide brimmed hat he wore. A swift wind sent the leaves rustling. In one corner of the cemetery, a cat lazily drowsed on the stone wall. A nest of field mice slept in the tallest grass, their tiny hearts beating a staccato rhythm. There was no reason for his senses to have become so aware.
That didn’t stop the prickle from sliding down his spine, sending the fine hairs on his arm to attention. Was it a calling or a warning? Azgan couldn’t tell.
“Did you find something, noktm?” Wissazic asked nervously. The graveyard was neat and well maintained, the dead well honored and respected. There should be no problem.
Several towns and a few outlying farms had had issues over the summer. This was the eighth graveyard Azgan had visited at the request of the locals. Rumors flew quickly in the mountains. There was always a risk when it came to burying the dead when there was no resident noktm to maintain the balance.
The sensation on his skin flared before settling near his hip. Azgan sighed. There was only one thing that had such an effect on him, and it had nothing to do with the church or graveyard. There was a mage around and Azgan was going to encounter them at some point.
He suddenly realized he’d never answered Wissazic’s question. The man was probably worrying himself into a fit waiting. “I do not think any of the dead grew restless this summer. I see no signs of it. Even if they did, when you perform the ceremony at the beginning of autumn, they will return to their slumber,” Azgan said. Wissazic did not look convinced.
What to do about it? Azgan did not like advice or suggestions that would do nothing to ease the dead’s sleep. But he also knew that sometimes people wanted to do something even if it was ineffective. They needed to feel useful, and giving them a goal kept them from making one up for themselves. “There’s room in the corner of the yard for a tree. Apples are traditional, to help appease the dead.”
“What about a yew?” Wissazic suggested. Azgan shook his head.
“A yew will quickly outgrow this small yard.” The wind pick up, sending whispers through the grass. Azgan listened briefly to their tiny voices, but couldn’t make out anything of importance. His hip still pulsed. “An apple would be better.”
Wissazic ran a hand through his thinning, brown hair, before putting his hat back on. It was made of felted beaver pelt, same as Azgan’s, though in a different style. A huge brown feather provided decoration and marked him as a man of means. “I can have my son transplant a sapling from the orchard come spring.”
“No,” Azgan replied. “Grown from seed is best. If you try and plant a transplant in a graveyard, it will never take. Leave some apples here when you perform the autumn ceremony. They’ll sprout in the spring. You may get three of four saplings. Only one will make it through the first year.”
“Thank you, noktm, thank you. Knowing the dead still sleep will ease all the villagers minds” Wissazic passed three coins over, one copper, one silver, and one bronze. It was a traditional payment. Azgan quickly pocketed them. When he did so, his fingers brushed the earrings he’d received from Yronte just a few days ago.
Azgan looked into eyes the color of pumpkins or the Harvest moon, framed by long lashes and beneath a fringe of darkest black. He didn’t recognize the face, though his dark skin proclaimed him to be a lowlander. The stranger wore one of the earrings Azgan carried in his pocket in his right ear. A simple silver stud graced the left ear.
“Who are you?” Azgan asked.
The man just smiled.
Just like that, the vision was gone. Wissazic had moved closer to him, his fingers hovering inches from Azgan’s shoulder. His brown eyes were dark with concern. “Are you okay, noktm?”
“I am fine.” A sharp caw greeted his words. Azgan looked up towards the graveyard wall to see a crow regarding him with a dark eye. “Too much sunlight probably. I don’t see how you can stand it.”
“I should have waited till nightfall. I just didn’t want to give an old woman a heart attack just because one of my relatives decided to rise from the grave. It's not like they would ever go beyond the iron and stone, but you know how lowlanders get,” Wissazic complained as Azgan stood and brushed the dirt off of his hands. There was still brown under his nails, but he would deal with that later. “My apologies though. I know that the light isn’t comfortable for your kind.”
“No apologies needed. I would come here in the middle of summer if you needed me to.” The crow continued to eye him. Azgan reached out his mind towards it, but the bird kept its counsel to itself. “But I think I will find my bed now.”
“Blessings to you, noktm.” Wissazic made a gesture of blessing with his hand, spreading his ringed fingers wide and making a flat sweeping gesture.
“And the same to you,” Azgan replied, repeating the gesture.