The Necromancer

Anfarin made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and scoff.

“Indeed.” Sonass agreed, shaking his cowled head and clasping his nose with a robed hand. The chilled air of the crypt did nothing to weaken the strong, nausea-inducing odor.

The body within the ornate sarcophagus was without a doubt expertly preserved. The flesh, though sapped of color and drawn tight against the bone, was still miraculously present. Sonass, still covering his nose, reached down and gently touched the corpse’s face, lifting the eyelid gently to confirm the preservation of the eye—one of the most difficult organs to keep around this long after death. He nodded to Anfarin to confirm.

Anfarin reached down and began to gently unbuckle the corpse’s funeral tunic.

“Easy. One mistake and we’re suddenly working with a rather large pile of dust.” Sonass warned. He started to walk around the sarcophagus as Anfarin worked, observing what he could see of the flesh. It was an expert binding, and whoever was responsible for this preservation was no doubt experienced in their art.

Anfarin finally unclasped the buckle, then began working on the undershirt with a small pair of shears. The technique required surgical precision, so as not to disturb the corpse. After a moment of carefully positioning himself, Anfarin began to cut, and the shirt began falling away easily enough.

Sonass stopped circling the coffin when his apprentice finished.

“Well.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Anfarin said.

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Sonass shot him a glance. “This is High Necromancy. What was the family name?”

“Demure.”

“Well, the family paid a price I don’t even want to imagine to have this done.”

“And what, the descendants want us to move him, after all these centuries?”

Sonass lowered his hood and nodded. “I’m not sure what they want with it. Regardless, this is still a good learning exercise for you. Look at the Mother rune. It’s old Necromancy, but what can you recognize in it?”

Anfarin studied center of the body’s chest, where an intricate and faded glyph, etched in the flesh, began to stretch out across the stomach and the neck, weaving over and around the limbs, encompassing the head, and even reaching the hands and feet, with small marks on each nail and fingertip. The entire body was covered, as was standard in preservation. Though Anfarin had never seen this particular language, the Motherrune in the center of the chest did hold symbols that he thought he recognized. The Motherrune was triangular though, and it was usually always circular. The corners of the triangle are where the dendritic runescript began and spread across the entire body.

“I recognize some of the staves. The language is old, but relative to ours. Why is the Mother rune shaped like that?”

“You’re right. Our language is a survival of this one. As for the Mother rune… I’ve only heard of this shape. I’ve never seen it.”

Sonass ran his hand along the expensive masonry of the sarcophagus, studying what inscriptions he could read in the stonework with what light the singular torch they had mounted on a pillar when they entered the crypt.

“Moving will be hard. We’d need someone with good enough manipulation to move him to a lighter coffin.”

Anfarin returned his shears to his robe. Their black robes had a purpose beyond being symbols fo their profession. They also possessed multiple inner pockets, not just within the robe but also throughout the sleeves. These pockets held more than shears. They held a small magnifying lens, a pocketbook in which he wrote notes, and the small bundle of flint he kept for torches. Among other things.

Then he suddenly froze.

“Wait, Sonass, I do have a question.”

“Hmm?” Sonass continued studying the body.

“If he is so well-preserved, why does the body still smell so bad?”

Sonass raised an eyebrow and looked at his apprentice.

“This is supposed to be the only body in this crypt. It’s too well-preserved to smell so pungent. Wait... I’m a foo—”

The ghoul moved fast, the darkness aiding its ambush. Anfarin’s head rolled across the stone before Sonass could react. The necromancer raised his hands, but the ghoul was upon him, a terrible thing of tooth and claw.

The heat of its vile breath scarred Sonass’ throat as its jaw descended on him.

One word rang within his head as the daggerlike teeth parted tissue and bone, and closed on the man’s head with impossible force.

Betrayed.