Path Of The Necromancer: Origins

Preface

Magic isn’t something that creates, it divides. There is no school of magic, only affinities. Mages, those with this ability, harness this latent power to affect the world around them. Be they Druid, Wizard, Sorceress or Warlock, each is separate and disjointed. Yet with separation comes prejudice, the conception of ideas and ideals about another unlike oneself that can breed nothing but ill intent. Labels, prejudices, ignorance and judgement surround us and that, is what this story is all about.

For few laws govern the magical communities across the world. While all laws are equal in penalty, some are more equal than others. One such law, none can know what really lurks in the dark. Only when they’ve experienced it for themselves, and are brought within, can be told the truth.

It’s typical if you think about it. the average stiff working a desk job gets to sleep peacefully at night while those at the extremes of society know the score. Those at the top get rich while those at the bottom barely survive.

So, what do you do when you discover you can see spirits, interact with the restless dead and raise zombies…, that you’re a Necromancer. What do you do when you learn the world’s united against you? That they see nothing wrong with removing you as a threat to the order that keeps them oppressed.

You raise a middle finger, and do what needs to be done.

* * * * *

Author Profile

J. C. Laird. Born February 24, 1994.

Early in life I was drawn to books. I can admit that late at night my parents would find me awake and reading, despite their best attempts otherwise. I read anything, spreading from technology and travel, of magic and mythology, even horror and crime. I loved what stories represented: creating worlds, people, cultures, societies and more with nothing but the flair of their words or the depth of their description. I yearned to create a world of my own that could capture this, of what humanity represented, in both its best and worst lights. I feel that part of this love with reading, and by extension writing, stems from my visual impairment. Looking out at the world, I don’t see what others do. To them they can take in a mountain range with a single glance, but for me, I need to take time to absorb it. This, I feel, is where my creativity comes from. Writing brings the world to us, giving us the details enough to empower our imagination, and those slow moments of absorption meant my imagination would spiral on these seemingly innocuous landscapes.

I continued to read throughout my childhood. On occasion I would write, but they were never much beyond the rough plot and vague ideas. Eventually my daydreaming grew and my teenage years developed the scope of what I would read, landing me in urban and high fantasy. Discovering these sects of literature, I began writing in a serious style before attending university. Despite my enthusiasm, I shelved my ambitions when my time became increasingly constrained by university life. Although I continued to read, the itch to explore worlds, cultures and people remained. Through my reading I developed my understanding on the creation and development of the relationships between characters and those who read their tale.

It was only during my Masters did I return my focus to writing once more. Writing became a way for me to relax, an escape and to unwind at the end of the day after lectures and studies whittled away at my energy. Yet, when I sat before my keyboard, I found that time would sweep by and the midnight hours soon became my companions as dormant ideas came flooding back to me.

Initially, I posted these tales online on free websites for aspiring authors, hoping that I could build something for myself. To my astonishment, I racked up thousands of readers, followers and supporters who pushed me through difficult times and celebrated joyous occasions with me.

Sadly, this success was a double-edged sword. The summer after my Masters completed, I discovered someone had taken my works from these websites and was selling it as their own, despite the copyright protection these websites afforded me. It was only with my involvement of legal procedures was the story returned to me, but my will to write had been shaken. I shied away from writing, becoming recluse and spending my time on smaller tales, unwilling to write something only for it to be stolen once again.

Beyond this I used my degree and travelled, leading me to China where I taught English, bringing my writing with me and contenting myself with keeping it as a hobby. That quickly changed when I found myself homeless and jobless, scraping by on the scraps off the tables of strangers, sleeping in parks and under the benches I could find. Without access to money and without a job, I used writing to keep myself alive. From this my ‘on-and-off-again’ hobby became my career. I would write to stay in hostels, and the hostels gave me the internet to spread my ideas on. I survived my ordeal, grew from it and came home more determined than ever to make something of myself. After all, if I could survive that level of misfortune, I shouldn’t give up on my dream of writing.

And that, good reader, is what brings me to the here and now. I love writing, I love creating, and most of all, I love the continued support of my fans. I would never have thought myself creative enough nor determined enough to bring my ideas to the world at large. To the supporters and detractors alike, I say thank you. Without you all I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

I will leave you with this: One life, one chance, no regrets.

James Crawford Laird

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Contents

* * * * *

Preface

Author Profile

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Connect with the J.C Laird

Other books by J.C Laird

Chapter 1

* * * * *

Nine-year-old Ian Cale was about to die. The monster that had just butchered his sister turned its wild gaze on him and growled threateningly, displaying row after row of yellowish fangs stained red with blood. Its gore-spattered fur gleamed in the light of the campfire as it took a menacing step towards him, then another.

Yes, Ian was about to die. The monster knew it. He knew it. It was a sure thing..., until his sibling's body moved. It wasn't a natural movement; it jerked upright like some demented puppet master grabbed hold of her limbs and brought her back to life. That wasn't the worst of it, though.

The worst part was that Ian could feel her spirit deep inside himself. It was a chilling, bone-deep presence that called to him. He recognized the energy that remained of her, but the thing rising behind the blood-spattered beast 'wasn't' his sister. He shuddered and saw the reanimated corpse spasm in response, seeming to feed off his emotions.

The huge, grotesque monster paused, appearing to sense her. Suddenly, it wheeled around, a massive, deadly claw streaking out to rend her midsection. Her lifeless skin tore apart, opening large furrows. The cadaver's lips curled into an unnerving smile, seemingly unaffected by the damage wrought. A low, mocking laugh flowed out of her dead parted lips, the unsettling sound causing a shiver to run down his spine.

Ian watched with wide eyes as the pintsized corpse backhanded the beast across the clearing, breaking bark from the tree it smashed into. The furred creature gave a startled yelp of pain and surprise that was abruptly cut off when the corpse, which Ian expected to move sluggishly like a zombie, sprinted towards the fallen monster, wrapping her tiny hands around its neck.

It seemed ridiculous that a savage beast that outweighed its opponent by hundreds of pounds could be losing in a battle of strength, but it was. The monster struggled under the corpse, arms flailing, trying to get leverage or cause enough damage to kill what was already dead.

Ian saw the monster that'd killed his sister dying and felt satisfaction. The body that had replaced his sister cooed in pleasure at this emotion and her fingers ripping through the neck of the monster, cleaving through tissue and bone, until she'd finally beheaded it. As if a switch had been flipped, the creature stopped its convulsions, resting still. Then its furred body began to mutate and shift.

All those present heard the crackling of bones breaking. Where a few moments earlier there had been a massive, terrifying beast, now lay the naked, beheaded body of a man, still stained with blood. The corpse turned to face Ian and he could have sworn, for an instant, he recognized his sister in those dull eyes.

She smiled sadly, somehow showing a spark of life in her grim visage. Her fingers seemed to reach for him in a final farewell, and then the corpse dropped to the ground, its strings cut. Ian felt the energy that represented her... what? Spirit? Soul? Whatever it was, it left her body and seemed to fade from his awareness the further away it travelled until it became indistinct, like a ship that had just sailed past the horizon.

Ian dropped to his knees, knowing with a certainty more concrete than any he'd felt before that his big sister was gone. He vaguely became aware of an agonizing wail that had started up to the right of him. Reality began to set in once more.

His parents, who'd been frozen in indecision and horror when the monster had first struck from the shadows to take his sister from him, now began to react. His mother seemed to want to reach out to caress the remains of Alice, but the memories of what she'd just seen had scarred her and she recoiled in revulsion.

Ian was curious to note that he wasn't repulsed by her corpse. In fact, when it had been defending him, he'd felt oddly comforted. He hated to see his best friend and closest family go, but that last act..., at least it felt like he'd gotten to say goodbye.

His father was staring at him in equal parts disbelief and disgust. He knew that whatever it was that had happened with his daughter, his son had been the cause. Ian couldn't tell if he was disappointed that he'd lived and his sister had died, or because he was a freak. Frankly, he didn't care. He just stared at his sister's lifeless body until the fire had died down.

Chapter 2

* * * * *

The aftermath of the attack that took place while the family had gone camping in the Northern Cascades, was depressingly predictable. The authorities couldn't make head nor tail of what had happened given the evidence. Ian and his parents made it seem like they had been traumatized, all of them stating they'd seen some kind of wild animal, but not really remembering much else.

This, in and of itself, might not have been enough, but the medical examiners found something fascinating in the beheaded man's DNA and soon the government was involved and everything was hushed up.

At home, Ian's parents became distant with him. He never did find out if it was because they blamed him, they were suffering from the loss of Alice, or they were afraid of him. Needless to say, being around them tended to get uncomfortable. It was for this reason that Ian had started going to the public library after school, and staying there until dinner time. Dinner was when he'd then suffer through a tense hour with his parents before disappearing into his room.

One late afternoon, while he was perusing through the deserted stacks, he saw a book cover that stood out to him. It looked like an ancient tome made of handbound leather that appeared more than a little out of place in the modern paperbacks of the Sci-fi/Fantasy section.

Taking hold of the cover, it slid out easily and he felt a sense of rightness and belonging about it. Looking down at it in his hand, he knew he'd check the book out without even knowing what it was. However, as he approached the front desk, something made him tuck it under his arm and keep walking.

When he approached the front door of his house, he heard his parents shouting again. By the way they immediately stopped when he entered, he knew the argument had been about him. Sighing, he turned and walked up the stairs and into his room. Shutting the door, he sat the book on his desk and flipped on the desk lamp.

As he reached for the book, he was startled when it flipped open on its own accord and an impatient, masculine voice barked, Fucking finally!

Ian was surprised, but he didn't feel fear. He supposed seeing his sister get torn to bits, then watching those bits reanimate and kick the crap out of a monster straight out of Lovecraft's nightmares, helped him look at talking books with some perspective.

As he watched, a glowing presence surround the tome and could tell when it turned its attention on him. So, you're the new meat, It said, sounding unimpressed. You don't look like much of a teenager, have you even hit puberty yet? Some Master of the dead you are.

The spirit paused, looking him over then admitting, At least you aren't some dark prince wannabe like my last client. I swear, if I ever find out who started the goth trend, I'll shove my ethereal boot so far up their ass their future descendants will shit leather. Can you believe that prick actually asked me if drinking blood would make him stronger?

Ian stared at the open book, taking in the outburst and the ensuing rant. Finally, not really knowing what to make of this situation, he said simply, I'm nine, not really a teenager.

Ian thought he sensed surprise and..., curiosity?

No kidding? The spirit asked, sounding like the boy had just done a neat trick that deserved praise. Well, they say the younger you are when your powers awaken, the more potential juice you have to throw around. I've never actually heard of anyone performing magic before they were eleven. So, what'd you do?

Ian understood the question. His reality had been severely jarred when that beast had jumped out of the shadows, but when he'd felt his sister..., seen her react to his emotions, it'd been like someone turning on a light in a dark room and realizing you weren't anywhere near where you'd thought.

I brought my sister back- He cut himself off before he could say 'to life.' His sister had never really been alive, as that, thing.

The spirit whistled. Heavy stuff. Most noobs just end up moving an object without really meaning to, he explained. Well, let's get the obvious stuff out of the way. Congratu-fucking-lations you're a Necromancer. I know..., what the hell does that mean? There are many different kinds of magicians out there. Sorcerers that are good at mind magic, Wizards that can control the elements, Druids that heal and do shit with their tree hugger friends, all kinds of folks. You get my drift?

The spirit sighed, as if going over something he'd had to explain a hundred times before, Your realm of power is that of the dead. While you can power Spirit Magic with the limited energy that resides inside your body like most other Mages do, your main resource is channelling the energy found in spirits, Souls that haven't crossed over yet, and ghosts, spirits that have used their energy to manifest themselves.

Pausing, as if preparing himself, the spirit gave Ian the bad news, Since you have an almost limitless resource to expend, and since necromancy doesn't exactly have the best reputation, what with everyone thinking you're a bunch of corpse diggers-

You mean I don't have to dig up corpses? Ian interrupted, more than a little hopeful.

Certainly not, The spirit exclaimed, sounding offended. They almost always dig themselves up. Ian paled a little. Now, The learned ghostly presence continued, Necromancers tend to be..., destructive. Because of their constant contact with the dead, which aren't all that coherent themselves, they tend to go insane more often than not. Ian's eyes widened.

Aaand, The spirit drew out, coming full circle, "Since everyone thinks you're all loose cannons with a freakin' ton of power, they see nothing wrong with removing your kind as a potential threat. It's actually one of the few things all of the different communities agree