Soren Summersbane: International Necromancer of Mystery

Part I: Getting the Band Back Together

Summersbane awoke to pain, punctuated by pure blackness. He sent tendrils of magic probing along his facsimile of a skull to assess the damage: a contusion, & a cracked vertebra which had sliced into the brainstem, severing it. Whoever did this either wanted me dead, he thought—Or, even scarier, they know I am already dead & therefore aren’t pulling their punches. The ability to think was a good sign—so Summersbane focused on the task at hand. He dissolved the bones in the back of his smashed skull, creating ample space to reknit his brainstem.  As sensation returned to his gnarled flesh, he noted his visual cortex was intact; & it slowly dawned on him that this was indeed a worst-case scenario. This was personal and professional.

An unfamiliar voice growled, as if behind glass, “Take it off.”  A hood yanked off, revealing one of Summersbane’s worst fears: a room full of government psychos. 

“Suits,” Summersbane mused coolly, as he reformed the bones in his jaw. He cracked & shaped his occipitals, allowing his eyes to move in their sockets in a way no eyes ever should—No reaction from the peanut gallery. They knew all about him, it seems, & were numb to every horror. He took in the scene: a dank concrete room, a holdover from the OSS days, full of bureaucrats of every flavor—plus, one particularly suit-y suit behind a pane of glass.

Summersbane looked down to see that his hands had been pierced by cold-iron needles, inlaid with runes of binding, pinning his arms to the chair. They are getting better at this.

“You know you can just call me, yes? Or send a raven, whisper to a shadow…”

“We don’t take chances when it comes to immortal, defiant, necromancers,” the head suit said, with some steel in his voice. Easy to play it tough when you’re the one behind volcanic glass.

“So, what does Uncle Sam want from me now? Is there yet another apartheid government trying to sell cobalt to Russia?”

“No—well, yes. But that’s not what we need you for. There’s something we need you to steal…”

“More like someone.” A hulk of a woman parted the sea of suits. “We need a necromancer, & I put your name into the cake pan. Hi, Summersbane. Long time no see.”

“Betty?! Are you still working for the government?”

“What can I say? My programming makes me feel nostalgic for the bad old days.” There she stood, Betty C.R.O.C.K.E.R., as beautiful as the day she was wrought all those years ago. Her sculpted face, created by General Mills as the perfect avatar of domesticity, sat flawlessly atop her steel endoskeleton.  The edge of her lip raised ever so slightly into the smile that sold a million cookbooks—the last smile a lot of dead men ever saw.

“Well, if you’re on the op, count me in. What’s the game this time? Did Berkshire-Deathaway pop back up in Iowa?

Betty, straightened her apron, stretched taut over her terminator armor. “Worse. The old enemy is back.”

Summersbane nearly gasped, but kept his cool in front of Betty.

“Kissinger? Impossible! We stopped him from becoming a lich last year, when we cut off his access to unmarked graves. He died—for good! We made sure of it!” 

“We did…but we didn’t factor in his backup recipe.”

“What backup is there for annihilation?” The suits shifted nervously. Summersbane filed their apparent anxiety away for later—it could come in handy. Focus.

“Summersbane, he…he made a Soulstone. With that, he can—”

“—escape death, & stride the Earth anew, enfleshed. Spare me the Necromancy 101, old friend.”

“Fine, I’ll skip to the frosting: we’re going to steal it, & we know exactly where it is.”

Betty’s legs pistoned as she lurched forth, tapping her left eye to display a hologram-blueprint of a large resort & golf club.

“Ever wonder why Donald Trump kept all those top-secret documents?”

“That buffoon was hiding Henry Kissenger’s Soulstone!?”

“Yes, exactly! He seeks to use the stone to unlock immortality for himself.”

Cr-a-cc-k! Summersbane’s gambeson sprouted several holes as bone-darts shot out from his forearms, knocking away the binding needles. With his wounds closing noisily, Summersbane stood up—he could have escaped any time, & he wanted the suits to know it.

“All right, Betty C.R.O.C.K.E.R. Let’s Go to Mar-a-Lago & get Kissinger’s Soulstone.”

CONTINUED IN PART II

WOW! An incredible first installment—the true tale of Summersbane’s recent adventures, penned by the dread necromancer himself! Part II shall arrive to ye next Monday, True Believers—if ye have a friend who missed this one, send it along to them! The more mortals who join us, the more POWERFUL WE ALL BECOME. Please consider also supporting our work & endeavors with $5 monthly!

We thank the many who have already signed up, we thank ye for reading, & we hope ye have enjoyed the story so far! I shall write ye again Wednesday, with something delightful & new. In the meantime, stay safe, be well, & keep an eye out for Betty C.R.O.C.K.E.R.

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Baker