A story of Byzenthrak the Necromancer...

Do your demons ever let you go? Can you ever escape who you really are?

The outside winds were rising to a howl as rain smashed down onto the earth below. Muddy puddles were quickly becoming miniature rivers, flowing ever faster downhill. The squeaky wooden shutters on the windows were flapping wildly back and forth; black claws waving in an equally black night. Byzenthrak gave it no mind however. The gale forced several trees to come splintering down on top of a few townspeople's dwellings, but still Byzenthrak sat in his high back chair and felt the magic essences flow and ebb around him, slowly coalescing, gathering his power.

Only when lightening struck the nearby inn, making the structure burst into purifying flames did he move. His eyes opened and leisurely scanned his domicile. The lone window of the small house had blown open, and rain was pouring in. One of his large manuscripts had blown open and the pages noisily fluttered in the cold wind. The walls lay bare, except for a book-lined shelf. His research lay scattered across the floor, which was also naked except for a sole thread-bare rug which hunkered by the large oaken-bound entrance.

"Loss..." he sighed, "have you ever lost everything you held dear in your life, my friend?"

His question fell upon dead ears. In the corner of the room a small, singular figure stirred stiffly and shambled towards the seated man. "Twenty years ago, on this very night, I lost everything, ...I lost my world. But tonight I shall regain it all!" He stood briskly, laughing wickedly as he crossed the room to latch the window.

"You might want to reconsider your actions, Master."

Byzenthrak spun on his heel. "Don't you EVER say that to me! Why, now, do you question me? How can you doubt the one who gave you life?"

No reply came. He looked over to where his philters and beakers lay bubbling over a small flame he had previously set up. "Your opinions don't matter anyway, when have they ever? Why should I listen to a thing such as you? What will be done, will be done. We have no control over our fates. No one does."

He paused, tapping at a glass container, "We throw our lives before the gods, and they gamble with us from there."

He added some curled wood chips to his flame. One of the viscous, churning fluids changed from rose to black due to his minstrations. The necromancer smiled. He turned to look to the corner; happy little Anthrax, his childhood pet, chittered there happily. The squirrel always had a way of changing his outlook. How could anyone be unhappy looking at such a magnificent animal? He beckoned and the squirrel bounded playfully over to his feet. Byzenthrak smiled.

Outside the winds howled. "I was trained by the best, you know, after I lost them. Yes, the best...despite his race. Oosur Greythorne was one of the greatest necromancers in history! They laughed at him too, you know," He waited for acknowledgment, but strangely he received none, "Yes,... I was young when I first sought him out, so soon after we lost them ...so young. You too, my pet. I tried to pursue any avenue that might reunite us! In their ignorance, they could not see the rightousness of my path. Many tried to dissuade me from my path, tried to 'warn' me of the dangers, but those fools know nothing of the dark secrets. They have never seen the dark beauty that is the universe!"

"Nor have they lost sight of their humanity, ...Master."

"BLAST YOU!" Byzenthrak's eyes flared. He gestured wildly with his hands and great flaring arcs of electricty sizzled out, scaring the table where the hobbling squirrel once rested. A bit of its tail was left behind. Green smoke curled up from the charred wood, slowly, ever so slowly wafting up to the ceiling. The mottled rodent stared up at its creator with its one baneful eye, one of its long, black nails cracked and fell to the floor due to this unusual activity. It uneasily flexed its claws, waiting, trying to anticipate something. Byzenthrak slumped back into his chair, his voluminous robes showering down to the floor like some grey sheet of sleet and rain. "I'm sorry, my friend, I did not mean to rebuke you so. It was my err."

"Nothing to forgive, master. You are not yourself, you are not well."

Byzenthrak glanced quizzically at his childhood companion, not sure of what he thought he had heard. Times like now he almost regretted making his small, zombie familiar.

Then, as if commanded, a set of disembodied, skeletal hands floated to the table and started moving vials and tubes of fluid around, mixing them, preparing some concoction. Byzenthrak seemed not to notice while his moldering helpers worked on. The rotting squirrel shimmied back to his side, almost begging for attention. Byzenthrak turned his head and smiled down on his cheery little friend. It was good to have friends.

The townspeople had gathered to talk about a problem. Quite a large problem many of them thought. They spoke, at first, only in fearful, whispered tones, but as their numbers grew they became ever more bold and vocal. They all distrusted any hint of the unexplainable. Being poor and mostly uneducated, the peasants feared that which they could not understand. The man known as Byzenthrak was quite a mystery.

"He's a menace," some would say, while others said, "They're all the same, you can't trust any of them damned bastards!"

They had weathered many months of the mystic and his idiosyncrasies, and this night was the pinnacle of their distaste. Many felt it was the necromancer that had caused such a poor crop yield, or the death of a favorite pet, or the loss of livestock, and tonight's tumultuous storm was their final convincing factor. Any unexplained event in the recent past had been attributed, rightly so or not, to the lonely mage. The complaints from their accumulated lists were many.

"I've seen him conjuring up the walking dead!" One bemoaned, "Them monstrosities ate my livestock, and almost slaughtered me!"

"'Dat monster cast a spell on me pappy! He tortured 'im to do his evil deeds! We needs to stretch that bastisch!"

Some were more merciful, actually showing concern for the obvious unfortunate. Some suggested "showing" him the light of their respective, benevolent gods. Most however, saw the sorcerer as a black malignancy to be stomped out. As their "discussion" grew, so did their anger. Any imaginable crime that could be rationalized to be blamed on the fate-cursed mage, they ascribed to him. Various farm implements clanged together, and a few torches were lit. The mob slowly started to gain enough confidence to suggest "solutions" to their mutual problem. Their cries rang out through the hamlet, almost drowning out the outside downpour...almost.

For a few moments the outside torrent abated, slowed down to a mere trickle from the heavens, for a time at least. Thunder still ominously roared, shaking the very foundations of the small village. Byzenthrak ran through the preparations of his plans, plans that he had calculated, and outlined for years. He thought of the gifts his teacher had endowed him with, the inner strengths he could tap, and the vast fluxing lines of magic that spanned the earth that he would tap into.

He commanded it all, he was master over everything, even death itself. He smiled again. The happy squirrel bounded over and perched on the dark mage's lap and chirruped gleefully. It was hard to remain mad at a creature so cute. As a tantalizing reward, he dug into a hidden pocket to produce a cracker which he offered to his familiar. Anthrax happily gobbled it down in one titanic gulp. The cracker, along with fragments of teeth, dribbled onto his lap from the decaying maw of the small animal. Byzenthrak smiled, not noticing.

"Yes, little one, it will happen soon." He idly scratched the back of its head, seemingly not paying any heed to the damp grey fur coming off in clumps with each stroke. "Once, yes...once I was happy, before all of this, and so I know that through my great magic, I will be again." Anthrax's long broken nails tensed and flexed again. Perhaps it feared the dredging up of the past, or the implications this work might have on the future. The master continued, "My whole world was shattered with violence, violence which parted myself and my dear beloved parents. They were everything to me, you know."

"Yes Master, you made that readily apparent to me."

Ignoring what he thought he had heard, he solemnly looked out into the blackness of the stormy night. The dark pane showed only lonely rain droplets drizzling down the rough glass. Tap, tap, tap. Rain coming down. Blood falling like rain, watching, paralyzed, not able to help them, watching them be cut mercilessly down. Drip, drip, drip, Rain puddles in dark red pools, flows ever downward. Blood, not rain, was all he saw.

"As I created you, my perfect pet, and the others, so shall I remake those I have lost," The squirrel, hearing itself mentioned, stiffly tilted its head as if attentively listening. Its sole baneful eye stared out lovingly. "We shall all be one, big, happy family again!"

"Why do you create, master?"

"Well, young Anthrax, I create so we can be happy. Magic is the only solace that allows me to be happy again. I can give life to those who have none. Almost nothing is beyond my reach." Byzenthrak looked gravely as he thought.

"There are those who would oppose you and your methods."

The necromancer quickly stood, dropping the rotting animal to the ground as he rose, "Any who oppose us are fools and will be destroyed. Fate has no mercy when it comes to enacting her will. Her will MUST be done! It is all part of life's natural course."

The villagers had first welcomed him, thinking that this dark, lithe man was a healer. They had seen him save a youth, whom it had appeared was beyond death's door. Then, they had called him a miracle worker, if only they had known. They kept him cloistered in a cozy cottage near the outskirts of town. Far enough away not seem to be witnessing to his every action, but close enough to see no blasphemies were occurring. They wanted to use his unique talents for their own. The local lord needed never know of the townsmen's new benefactor, and so it continued. But as always, familiarity breeds contempt.

The necromancer performed a few basic divinings from the dead, made a few paltry potions that anyone versed in the healing arts of herbs and plants could have mixed together. This satiated their dull hungers for a time. Despite being a native of the surrounding area, he was not like them, and the villagers knew this. He always had something otherworldly about him, something dark and dangerous. Perhaps if they had delved into his true nature, when he first arrived so emaciated and frail, they would have destroyed him like so many "witches" in the past. Perhaps.

Tap, tap, tap, the yellowed hands went about their work. Clack, click...they rubbed together, making strange, beautiful music. One measured out a quantity of tomb dust onto a scale. When the ratio was right, it poured the contents into a bowl. The green glass of the bowl reflected strange colours onto the walls in the dim candle light.

"It's not hard, you know." He rose again to supervise his skeletal hands as they went through their macabre labours. "It actually is quite easy! It just takes years of dedication, and the forethought, plans upon plans. What I'm going to do is not unusual. Those damn priests and their gods do it all of the time! It's really all just a question of perspective. What reality is just depends on where you stand! If mere man can unmake life and kill, why can I not make life anew!" The squirrel just sat silently. Byzenthrak cocked his head towards the small beast, expecting some retort. None came.

Frustrated, he continued, "Why do you doubt me thus? Why can you not see the logic of my plans! I have no flexibility in this issue! It all has been preordaned that I WILL do this!" Nothing again, "It's not just for me, it's for all of us! Do not be so selfish and try to steal our happiness at the brink of our achievement. That would make you no better than the murderous bastards that killed our parents."

"You seem confused master. They were not my parents"

"You small-minded little fool! They treated you as a son, a kindred spirit! Now you rebuke them!" Anger flashed through his eyes as doubt raged through him. Could he really complete his conjuring? For the first time in his obsessed life, Byzenthrak had fears of completing his life's work. Was his conscience finally breaking through to him? He clenched his fists white with anger, "Why do you try to rob me of my ultimate victory? Bah!" He drove away from the squirrel. It teetered on after him, one of its toes crumbling off.

Torches were making their way through the small hamlet. The farther the mob walked, the more angered it became. This damn wizard, demon, or whatever he was had suddenly become the root of all of their universal problems. The only way to be free of their problems would be with the eradication of the misunderstood man. The crowd rallied forth bearing rope, and pitch with which to burn the troublemaker with. As the group approached the small shanty, lightening was flaring through the heavens. Heavenly claws raking the skies. Their skeletal ministrations crackled and boomed with amazing energy. Their light added to the light of the burning structures gave an eerie, shadowy quality to everything.

"Yes, the time is right. Are the components measured?" He queried. No response came but Clack, click. "YES! Now is the culmination of all my yesterdays spent in study, and all of my tomorrows that will be filled with joy! Let the conjuring be made! I command the forces of universe to release their cold grasp on those who are my parents!" As his incantation rolled on the room dimmed. Poor, little Anthrax just sat in a formless lump watching his master work.

Magic sizzled in the chamber, the air was electric. Byzenthrak could feel the essences pulsing through him, he could see the very forces of magic viscously flowing about him. He smiled, fierce and terrible. "Now we shall set nature right again, we shall not be denied our fates!"

As he forced his will to shape the energies around him, his bony helpers poured his potions onto the burning brazier, releasing noxious fumes and changing the wickedly dancing flames sickly emerald and then to writhing cerulean. They waved over the cold flames, making gestures of power and summoning. The patterns they traced glowed fiery red for a few moments afterwards, becoming awful glyphs and runes in the air.

The air was thick. The intricate gestures necessary for the completion of the conjuring seemed as if they were moving through water. Time seemed frozen, this was the single greatest moment of his life.

The door exploded inward. Byzenthrak turned, his beaming smile turning to a snarl of hatred. The incoming winds plastered his grey robes to his lithe form, drowning out his chant with their merciless torrent. The fire under his small brazier flared, the pages of one of his large manuscripts ripped and ruffled, upsetting a black candle. The villagers rushed in and throttled the poor mage. Three of the large ones grappled him, and viciously pulled his arms behind him. He choked out the words of summoning as they bashed him to the floor.

Flames spread like quicksilver to the large tome next to the candle, and virulent smoke clogged the air as a new fire sprang to life. The overcharged atmosphere burst out as flames mixed with the electric-like essences swirling throughout the room.

"Unhand me you plebeians! I command you to stop!" But all of his struggling was for naught. They started pummeling him to silence his cries. His skeletal helpers continued their eerie dance, continuing on with the ritual as if nothing had gone awry. They were spotted by some of the more curious folk, where upon they started to dodge attempts to smash them back to dust. Where ever they moved, the magic they had begun to invoke followed in a golden trail.A noose was thrown over Byzenthrak's head and the interlopers manhandled him towards the door and the black, wet night outside.

"Stretch him!" Some cried. Now that they had him, they knew not what to do with him. The necromancer struggled desperately, hopelessly trying to free his arms to cast the masses away. His robes clung heavily to him as they became inundated with rain. He had come so close,....so close.

"I will not be stopped from fulfilling my destiny!" He spat out, "You all will pay for your insolence! Anthrax, my pet, help me!" Some of the crowd stepped back, afraid of what his very words might spawn. Others looked around seeking out his unseen companion and savior.

"Master, I fear that I am abjectly equipped to help you, far more than you know."

As the rotting squirrel shuffled forward to its captured master the fainthearted of the mob screamed. What was this abomination? Its sickly shadow, cast from the burning house, flickered and wavered in the moaning gale in the starless night. One brave fellow poked at it with a pitchfork, but somehow this impossible mass of fur and bone nimbly jumped out of harm's way, with only the loss of an ear.

As it staggered up to the three men who held its master, one fled screaming into the night. A second tried to turn the mage in front of him, in a vain attempt to shield himself from the horror. Little Anthrax then bit him, gouging out a savage chunk of his calf. A few blackened, rotted teeth fragments were left lodged around the bite, and before everyone's eyes the bleeding flesh was starting to turn a sickly, puitressent green with rot. He yowled and fell to the ground, releasing his hold on the creature's master.

Then a farmer, not distracted by the horrid abboration, swung his shovel down upon the poor, cursed Anthrax with a resounding, sickening splat and a wet crunch. The anger of the crowd was again raised to a boiling rage, much like the fire that was engulfing the former dwelling of Byzenthrak the Necromancer. The greedy flames were winning out over the wet wood of the house, and was starting to catch onto nearby dwellings, but the mob did not notice. The flames continued along, unhindered and unmolested spredding like the cancerous hate that moved the mob.

Cries arose from the rabble towards the back, but the leaders were not going to pay them any heed. They just pushed in closer to see the spectacle before them. The rope was quickly thrown over the lower limbs of an awaiting tree. Torches were set to bundles of covered kindling wood and pitch. They would enact their sick justice now, quickly. The purity of the flames would cleanse them all, it would wash away the cancerous blight from the their midst.

Byzenthrak's eyes were blinded by tears, smoke, and his own blood. His whole life was being destroyed, just like the lives of his parents before him. He felt the steady, pulse-like throb of the magical essences around him, but he was hindered to reach out and command them. It was slowly fading away. He had lost his touch to the spirit world. He was being undone by people that would never understand him or his methods, just like his parents. His throat was constricted by the rough hemp rope that encircled it. Blood and rain were pouring down his body. He heard some popping, crunching sounds, and more cries from the rear of the group. It sounded like fresh flesh rending, bones being ripped from their sockets. He couldn't breathe. Perhaps what he heard was his own death knell.

Smoke and crackling flames were everywhere. One of the villagers was making a glorious speech about how they should never forget this evening, where they had overcome Evil incarnate. If part of his mouth wasn't swollen shut, Byzenthrak would have tried to spit on him. He felt disoriented, dream-like. He was being lifted now, by whom or what he knew not. His breath was instantly cut off as the rope cinched tight, tighter than he ever could have imagined.

Reeking smoke choked the last life-giving vestiges of air from his pain-wracked body. He twitched uncontrollably. His whole body was violently fighting for life. The constricting pain was terrible. He tried to cough, but couldn't. He gasped and gacked to no avail.

The pyre under him was lit. The hate-filled, pock-ridden faces around him jeered him and celebrated. Long live the true light of goodness and purity, or so they thought. Cinders from the hot burning pitch wafted upwards, burning his struggling mouth and nose. He flopped hopelessly. His hair was starting to singe. The heat and the crushing pressure was too much.

The smoke and vapours seemed to form images and pictures before the dizzied Byzenthrak. He felt some strange detachment, as if he was away from himself, almost observing everything. He saw tableaus of his childhood, before the tragic deaths, times filled with happiness and joy, with his sylvan pets he played. The images seemed to transform the gawking crowd around him. He could have sworn he saw one of his tormentors scream in agony, his face torn with fright and terror.

Death has a funny way of changing how you see things. He finally realized this. Death changes everything, shatters lives and sanity, crushes hopes and dreams. Byzenthrak smiled as he thought he saw the mob start to fight amongst themselves, as if they were clawing to get away from something.Several stumbled into the fire under his kicking legs.

Every fiber of his body screamed out! Every inch of him demanded air which wasn't being provided. The flames licked upwards lighting his robes in smoldering flames. The oppressive heat was everywhere. He was drifting down into blackness when he felt the fire snap the rope about his neck. The wind whipping past him, and the ground rushed up to meet him as he fell into the grey mud. As the great crushing force of the rope was suddenly removed and his lungs erupted in a flurry of motion to reclaim lost time and air. He mainly sucked up water and mud, which only added to his hacking and coughing. Smoke and mist lay heavy upon the valley. His beautiful house was falling down, burning, burning. He coughed up phlegm and blood and mud as he struggled to raise himself, but was sadly unable to. He fell, faced first back into the mud.

The crowd was everywhere around him. Rushing around, they seemingly did not see him anywhere. He turned his head to search for Anthrax, his perfect, little, loving pet. Maybe it was the obscurity of the illusionary mists and smoke, but he could not locate his happy little Anthrax. Perhaps the little squirrel was off playing.

Pain coursed through his whole body; a villager trampled over him. He did not stop running. He only ran off into the obscuring smokes, fear burned bright in his eyes as blood ran down his body. "Queer. How queer. " Byzenthrak thought. "Why would they run?"

Then he saw it, two forms were leisurely shambling over to him. The larger of the two idly drug a dismembered arm behind it. It solidly limped and stumbled with a shattered hip bone. The smaller's head hung cocked to one side, laying languidly at inhuman angles. They both were covered by blood and gore, but as they drew nearer he started to smile. Bits and pieces poked out at odd angles, but they still relentlessly limped over towards the prone mage through the fog and smoke. Though their visages were cloaked by this disorientating, thick, haze the mage recognized them, for his smile grew ever broader.

The rain had stopped, the gathering was almost cleared, the few remaining spectators were dead, or had otherwise departed. It had grown lighter and the sun was shining, but maybe that was just the burning village structures Either way, he paid it no mind. To him, he could see perfectly through the dream-inspired mists. A gentle breeze was only heard, not the crash of lightening and thunder. Maybe even the gentle, sweet chittering of a small squirrel bounding through the green lushness of their home could be heard, or that is what he told himself he heard.

Byzenthrak steadied himself to meet his long awaited guests, and as they shuffled over, he spoke to them as long, lost friends. The larger's arm fell out of place and splashed into the mud, the smaller's jaw hung shattered from it's grizzly feasting.

He spoke. He spoke the words, and waited for the reply he had so dreamed of for these last twenty years. The aches and pains so recently inflicted upon him were forgotten. It all seemed so natural, just like nothing had ever happened.

"Mother, Father. You've come back to me"

The reply was short, loving, and to the point, whispered out of rotted mouths. His body tingled in anticipation of his long awaited reward. He was not disappointed by their reply. It was just one gravely word, as the two sickening figures embraced the young mage greasily with clawed hands, and viscera covered arms. Just one :

"Son. . ."

by Christopher Robinson

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