What a day. My shoulder gave a satisfying pop as it shifted with a few shrugs. Despite the blisters, sores and scrapes that decorated my hands, there was nothing more rewarding than a hard day's work. It wasn't much, but grandpa and I had always pulled through the winter.
The soft glow of lamplight welcomed my arrival, "Come on in, boy; grub is gonna get cold." Grandpa was a shaky old codger, wrinkled hands trembling with age as he finished slopping together our plates. Yet no matter the harvest, or lack thereof, he always managed to keep a positive disposition.
I shot him a smile, wiping some of the sweat from my brow and taking a seat. "Horses are all in and I fixed the broken fence along the riverbank; pesky beavers. Maybe tomorrow—"
"Eat, lad. Tomorrow is for tomorrow; you deserve a hot meal."
He was right, I thought. There were more important things than worrying about the future, and there was no sense getting too far ahead when we still had work to do. But even so…
"You know, Grandfather," I said slowly, setting aside my plate, "when you were young, did you ever think that this would be your life?"
My grandpa laughed a wheezing laugh, "No, boy, never once did I dream of being stuck here, tilling the dirt, raising crops like a common farmer," old, emerald eyes softened, "but it's a good life. Quiet." Sentimentality lingered in the old man's eyes, the whispers of songs unsung.
"I suppose you're right, but..."
"Go on, eat." He insisted, waving me off. The past was something seldom talked in our household. I'd little recollection of my youth, and had been a ward of my grandfather's for as long as I could remember. To me, everything was a matter of intrigue. Perhaps to him, there were scars better left as just that—scars.
The meal resumed in silence, per usual. I looked up, catching my Grandfather's eye just as he cracked a slight smile; in an instant, everything changed forever. A brilliant light flooded the cabin's interior, bathing us in a ethereal glow. My jaw slackened in a sudden stupor, transfixed by the strange phenomenon; it all happened so fast. As quickly as the light had come, a great blast of radiant energies decimated our home's exterior. Fascination was replaced with terror, then confusion, as a series of crackling wards wisped to life in the form of an arcane barrier. The source? Grandpa. He strained for only a moment before assuming a much more refined posture; never had I seen the old man stand up so straight. Gone was the dull, emerald glint of his eyes, supplanted by a shimmering plum.
"Grandpa?" My voice hitched, a few saliva-choked coughs escaping my chest. I lay amongst the wreckage of our home, searching for clarity or comfort where there was none to be found.
"Get up, boy. Hurry to the far side of the river, I'll find you there." His voice lacked fear or bewilderment—even the crack and croak of age. Shadows danced at his very fingertips and a hellish moan filled the ruins of our home; a voice cried out.
"Come out necromancer! Face retribution and let the world know peace from your kind!" A hoarse cry filled the knight, accompanied by the soft neigh of horses and a contingent of well-armed men. What was this about a necromancer? Weren't such magics extinct?
Gone was the softness of Grandpa's previous command, "Run, boy!"
Now was not the time to dally. On fleet foot did I scramble from the remains of our homestead, my lungs ablaze with fear and confusion. I ran, and ran and ran until my legs ached, until the cool waters of the Isul river came into view; the starlight danced upon its crystalline surface.
My knees met the damp earth, panting accompanied by the sharp call of planthoppers and other jovial insects. Minutes passed in what felt like hours. I'd barely the time to collect my thoughts when a rift tore through the open space of the river's clearing. The energies of the void rippled and spun like a weaver's loom, and from the darkness slumped my Grandfather, bloodied and singed.
"Grandfather!" A certain formality lined my words, tears forming at the corners of my cheeks as I fell to his side; what was going on.
"Quiet, boy. Listen." Though grievously injured, pain did not mar his expression. Instead, a certain coldness lingered in his eyes, one of brutal efficiency. "We are of an ancient bloodline, you and I. This kingdom—this world, belongs to us. We are necromancers, boy." The air chilled at the word: necromancer.
"I don't—"
"I said listen, fool boy." Grandpa snapped before regaining a familiar calm, "I wanted to tell you, m-my boy, in due time, but there is n-no time. This power...it is your birthright. The peons of this land—the maggots that they are—fear us. Or once did, at least. You and I are the l-last...the only ones able to perform t-true necromancy..." His breathing became shallow, belabored, "Had I the time, I'd have torn the innards from the bloated bellies of those 'heroes'...u-used them like puppets...but I needed my s-strength...for t-this."
His decrepit hand shot for my wrist, digging deep and harsh into its flesh; I winced and tried to pull away at my Grandfather's touch. Ancient, indecipherable runes carved along his flesh in a violet glow, worming their way from his forearm, up his fingertips and into my own wrist. It felt like the bullwhip lashing at my flesh incessantly.
"Devour the pain, boy, take my k-knowledge and power..." His voice grew faint, yet I could feel his presence in my mind, like a ghostly whisper; a silent command, laced with a powerful will.
"T-Take what i-is yours..." Grandpa's last words were carried away on the wind, along with the rest of his form. I'd not even the time to grieve for him as his flesh desiccated to a fine, ebon dust.