The Necromancer's Apprentice

Reunion

   Granny had been the town grave digger 70 years strong until the day Mayor Kieran's corpse met her gaze casually and thanked her for unearthing him. 

          She promptly threw down her shovel at him like a javelin to give time for her old bones to hobble away to the treeline beyond the cemetery. As she passed her body laden wagon, she paused in contemplation of whether or not she should try to bring it with her for protection. She had the power to reanimate him, but the power to control him was uncertain. She didn't need two rogue undead on her hands.

        Her hesitation wasted her escape as the mayor's hand found hold of the edge of his grave to hoist himself out in one fluid motion to land on his boots in the slick mud.

"Gran," he called with burly arms outstretched as if to calm a beast he was also prepared to wrestle, "It's just me, love..."

          The frail woman's footing failed her as her mind misjudged the capabilities of her body and sent her toppling back into Kieran's ready reach. She could never get adjusted to his inhuman speed even as a young lass. Even now, she was reeling from witnessing him standing at the grave to being upon her in a fraction of a second.

          Despite her wracked nerves, she was thankful to avoid another broken hip. All the same, a mild rage frothed forth from the shadows of anxiety, "Fucking lunatic, what were you doing down there?" Her growl hinted at the depth of intimidation she once possessed, but he knew the bite in her dentures was long buried, unlike those unlucky enough to die in his town.

          A smirk rustled the muddied length of his reddish beard. He guided her back to her feet with care then took hold of the wagon handle to ease rickety wooden wheels along the path to carry the nameless body back to Granny's cottage.

        "Getting my beauty rest, Gran," he called jovially over his shoulder, leaving her behind a few paces, "Can't you tell?"

         "You egotistical maniac, you'll put me in an early grave at this rate..." jested Granny in kind while she planted her hands at her hips and stretched her perpetually curved spine back into them. Then began the trek of bare toes digging into squelching foliage through the wilderness back home in a silence that allowed her still unanswered question to linger in the distance between them. 

           The sky blackened beyond the tree cover for chilling seconds when stars dissipated at once to ink which was soon prickling in anticipation of energy. His pace quickened with the realization, but she mentioned it all the same, "Sun'll be up soon... I reckon you'll be staying the day with me, then... Stop a second, you'll kill me." 

          He reacted to her final statement alone, though she could see the way his shoulders knotted to his ears in the flickering light of the wagon's lantern as he paused for her. She climbed alongside her hard earned specimen in the blood drenched wood frame to sit comfortably while Kieran began to pull once more with no more strain than if it had been empty.

           The scent of manure slapped him hard against his sinuses as he neared her few acres of farmland. Something had mysteriously already opened the door wide for him to bolt inside to safety after he parked the wagon unceremoniously by a small pig pen that contained only one rotund creature. 

          "Oh, no you don't!" crowed Granny when he barreled into the open hut. "Bartrund, send him to the pond first!" The mysterious something that assisted her around the hut landed hard on Kieran's shoulder at her order. A dismembered hand with a rose embroidered handkerchief concealing its stump and boasting a gold wedding band pinched his ear hard. He jerked his head hard into it and his knees buckled slightly. Then the hand rose a thick finger sternly to jab it several times toward the pond beyond the farm. 

          "Shit." Kieran knew his place on this farm well. No matter his status in wealth or politics, he would never surpass the respect due to the strange but deserving Granny of Quietville. That wouldn't stop him from grumbling beneath his breath as he fled the safety of the doorway toward the icy pond that awaited, leaving his clothes as a trail to guide him back.

         The water engulfed him eagerly to bind his flesh into firm buds like leather and the frigid fog that wrapped around him upon his emergence bit each goosebump formed like it might draw blood. Bartrund climbed to the mess of reddish dark hair atop his head to massage out the grime and grubs that had matted themselves into nests as Kieran worked the rest of the soap into a lather against his furry chest before spreading it to the defined angles of his abs and below. Kieran dived again hastily beneath the surface with a final shudder of determination before racing back across the farm to the hut where Granny was holding a towel to catch him like a speeding ball into a mit. "Fucking..." his teeth stalled his insult in vicious chattering, "W-wi.. Witch!"

          Granny loosed a gravelly laugh around her words that held only an echo of a once pleasing sound, "I think the proper term is Magician American these days." Then lovingly went about easing the hand from Kieran's scalp to pat it dry in a smaller towel near the hearth and replace the embroidery that covered the gory edge.

          He couldn't suppress a scoff in disbelief as he wrapped the towel high on his waist out of consideration of decency and neared the crackling flame Bartrund had evidently been maintaining. "Been interacting with the new youths, eh?"

          "They're a fascinating bunch. What can I say?" Her humor seemed to fall through the voids of his ears without even rattling them slightly. Gran had already sealed off their haven from prying eyes and the kiss of the sun, but still Kieran seemed to cower from the sounds outside as if any minute the hut would burn down. She tried to give patience, but her reserves had been depleted over the years and he had already stolen the last dregs. In her small fit of upset, she tossed a book at him and hissed, "Gods damn it, boy. Tell me what is going on!"

          The novel hit him flat on the chest before flopping down to his lap. After the initial shock settled, he lifted the dusty thing to the light of the fire. "A Ladies Guide to Demon Summoning," by Neilarith Aumoret, read the black ash brand across the tanned horse hide bound manuscript. Clearly the only one of its kind, having been so meticulously written and constructed years before as evident by yellowed pages and well worn edges.

          He chuckled while setting her night time reading to the side and climbed back onto his feet. "I'm going to borrow Gramp's clothes before you maim me further. Think of the scandal... Nude Mayor Murdered in Lonely Witch's Hut." He let the towel drop to the floor with a sly peek over his shoulder and seductive tilt of his hips which swayed slightly in playful feminine fashion for her. 

          "Stealing my moves, are we?" He only offered a coy shrug in return as he sashayed away from her accusations. 

          Bartrund had already freed himself from Gran's preening to open the only drawer that still contained his worldly possessions. Burlap trousers, cotton sleeved tunic, and a heavy cloak that covered their new owner entirely, but for a length of ginger beard. She was still waiting impatiently for him to explain as he rounded her rocker to face her.

          His lips fell tenderly to the concerned lines at the peak of her furrowed brow in a kiss to soothe her worries, then he knelt before her as she pressed the hood of his cloak back from his youthful but troubled face to peer down into his rich amber colored eyes. He buried his anxiety in the warmth of her hand cupping his cheek and inhaled the earth and blood that had been her signature scent for the century they'd been acquainted.

"What say you, we raise a little hell?"
Asked the politician to the necromancer. 

A\N: I don't know what frequency I'll upload the chapters. Maybe twice a week. Definitely Tuesdays so far and maybe Saturdays.
I want to just drop every little detail about my sweet angels on you at once. And don't worry, I won't be throwing any hardcore grandma erotica at you all.
Also, Quietville... I'm not entirely sold on that name. It was Camora, then Verys, then Ter'cespot (Top Secret, backwards, but pronounced tur-sess-poh), but I just can't settle on a name for this setting.