The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016

by Alex Stargazer

  THE NECROMANCER

  NEW EDITION: REPUBLISHED 2016

  Alex Stargazer

  Copyright © 2014 Alexandru Bujorianu (original version). Copyright © 2016 Alexandru Bujorianu (revised version 2016). All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, sold or made available, by any means (be they electronic, mechanical or otherwise), without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction: all characters, names, places or persons – whether living or deceased – are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The name “Alex Stargazer” is a pseudonym of Alexandru Bujorianu..

  Cover art copyright © 2014 Kit Foster.

  Map illustration copyright © 2014 Christian Stiehl.

  Typeset in Linux Libertine by the author.

  Edition: Amazon KDP, republished 2016.

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  This ebook is the version republished in 2016. It has some differences from the original that was published on Halloween, 2014. The preface has been rewritten, as has the about the author, to reflect on the developments I have experienced in the past two years. On top of that, the content is different: certain bonus sections have been removed, and replaced with others. Changes have been made to specific chapters in the book—if you wish to discover the originals, head to my website.

  PREFACE

  Two very long years ago, I published this book. It was, suffice to say, a difficult journey. At age 14, I began writing it. The why is a tale in and of itself—the abridged version is that I was compelled to do it; the necromancer was so vivid a character, so potent a force, he all but transcended from the realm of imagination and onto paper.

  Of course, what writers often don’t tell you is that characters don’t write themselves on the page. You need the writer to do that. Naturally, that proved quite a task: all 108,000 words of the first draft took me six months (and two weeks) to write. But that was only the beginning. After a year and a half seeking feedback, editing, re-writing, re-writing some more, and perusing the services of book professionals, I ended up publishing the book you are now reading.

  The years I spent working on the Necromancer were important ones. I grew up in that time. I like to think my characters grew with me, though writers are prone to fancy; take that with a grain of salt.

  In any case, a great deal more has changed since I published this book. I am now an established blogger. I am a burgeoning journalist, and poet. And I am writing a new novel, details of which you can discover towards the end of the book.

  But since you have bought this book for the story encased within, I shall trouble you no longer. Consider this book the work of an incipient writer, a story not quite realised to its full potential. But consider also that this is a story which compelled a fourteen year old boy to write it. What will you judge? The decision, alas, is your own. It is time for me to tell you the story of the Necromancer...

  ALMANAC

  Necromancer: a dark magician capable of raising the dead.

  Mage: a human capable of practising magic.

  Wraith: a being born of magic; a spirit given loose form.

  Basilisk: a sentient, intelligent reptile not dissimilar to a dragon.

  Order of Peacekeepers, the: The collection of mage schools to which all bar a few belong. Led by the Great Mage.

  Great Mage: The most powerful mage in Arachadia. Selected by trial, and given near absolute rule.

  Arachadia: the name of the world in which the Kingdom of Arachadia, the Southern Desert, and the Island of Ohn call home (among others).

  Arachadia, the Kingdom of: The largest territory and bearer of the world’s name. Monarchical – though the Order holds a degree of power.

  Northern Mountains, the: a substantial swathe of territory in the North, of which the topology is elevated but also populated by forest. Not to be confused with the Northern Mountains proper, which is in the far North and quite impassable – there, only Gryphons and goats make a living.

  Northern People: Inhabitants of the Northern mountains formal; allied with the Arachadians and broadly of the same cloth.

  PROLOGUE

  The mage ran through the forest, and the necromancer followed.

  Eiliara was her name. She was a fool. She told herself as much: You fool, Eiliara; you arrogant, stupid fool. Determined to uphold justice, you doomed yourself. You can’t fight him—you’ll die here, on this forsaken mountain. What the mage told herself was true, but still she carried on running. Perhaps she thought she could evade him—though that was folly, as any halfway competent mage would have told her. In reality, she ran because she was a Silver Mage, and Silver Mages never give up.

  The forest around her is shrouded by darkness; the moon, a graceful queen in her empyrean abode, shines a pale blue light. The necromancer’s laughter follows her laboured breathing and tired footsteps. His is a dark laugh, a mixture of both arrogance and madness.

  “Trying to escape me, mage?” The mage pays him no heed; she continues running.

  Then Eiliara feels it—a terrible emptiness, a howling being of death, given birth through unholy magic.

  The Wraith, for it can be no other, soon outruns her. It moves with an impossible grace; it moves unhindered by physical imperfections or moral bounds. It tries to grasp her in its lethal embrace—to consume her with darkness.

  Eiliara’s spell is but a whispered word, and yet its power is undeniable. There is a searing flash of white. There is a bitter tang of ozone, not such as might be caused by a storm, but the taste of powerful magic. The Wraith screams, and then it implodes.

  The necromancer is no fool, Eiliara; he sent the Wraith only to toy with you. Her words prove correct. There is a powerful gust of wind; the necromancer then appears before her, darkness pooling at his edges.

  He was, Eiliara had to admit, rather beautiful. His jaw was masculine—a faint hint of stubble graced it, perfectly trimmed and subtly seductive. His hair was obsidian black, and gleamed in that pale moonlit night. His countenance was that of an aristocrat; his bearing arrogant and forceful.

  “My darling mage!” he begins. “To think you could destroy my faithful undead, and hope to avoid my notice. Your arrogance is remarkable. But I must admit,” he says mockingly, “that I do find it intriguing. Are you brave, or merely stupid?”

  “Spare me your insults, necromancer, and do not pretend that you yourself are not privy to the allure of arrogance.”

  The necromancer laughs. “Ah, but you see, my arrogance is justified; for I am the most powerful wielder of magic in this forsaken realm. You, Silver Mage, are no match for me.”

  “Let us see if your words mean anything,” the mage taunts. Her attack is powerful and without warning. The world turns white; her power slams into the necromancer. She attacks with spells—spells of fire, of thunder, and of magics beyond the ken of ordinary battle mages.

  The light fades, and the efforts of her assault are revealed. The necromancer stands tall, his expression amused—perhaps even bored. His eyes glow an ethereal blue; they are alit by the unholy power of his dark magic, and the madness of his disturbed mind.

  “Is that really all the mage academies could teach you? I fear I shall not be terribly entertained.” His words are not in jest; the power he unleashes cannot be underestimated.

  At first he attacks with ice—a coldness so profound, Eiliara feels as if all the stars of Arachadia had been extinguished. Then he attacks with fire: a fire unearthly and blue. Then with blackness. It is a darkness absolute, an abyss into the dead lands, a precipice where life hangs dearly for its continued exi
stence.

  Eiliara’s wards shudder, and her power is exhausted. She had been trained to fight dark magics, of course: indeed she had been trained to fight anything. But none of her skills—her mastery of spellcraft, her cunning ploys, her subtle tactics—are a match for him. The necromancer was no ordinary meddler of the dark arts; his was a power perfected by many years, great skill, and staggering ability.

  “So this is it,” she says.

  “Indeed; but consider yourself fortunate. You, at least, shall not see the institution you so cherish be destroyed by my power.”

  “Do you truly believe you can destroy the mage academies?” She intends the words to mock, but they only show her fear. Eiliara knew the necromancer’s power—and nothing seemed beyond him.

  “I do, and you know full well I can. My undead shall rise and smite down the living. They shall destroy your corrupt administration and the injustices you perpetrate. Death will bring a new beginning: Arachadia shall see the dawn of my rule, and a new dynasty of necromancers will be born.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Perhaps. You would not be the first to say as much, and I doubt you will be the last. Indeed I find your accusation quite entertaining. After all: it is you who live in gilded halls while the poor suffer in their slums. It is you who gaze imperiously at their downtrodden faces, secure in the knowledge that your power renders you immune to whatever revolt the peasants may devise.”

  “But surely you know that the queen is responsible for this! She sets the taxes, not we.”

  “Oh, I know, and rest assured the nobility shall perish with you. But you are complicit. Your powers are used to demand loyalty from the army, and ensure the continued rule of the Sovereign. I know; I was part of it, once.”

  “Who are you?” Eiliara whispers.

  “Don’t you know? I’m the necromancer. I’m the being forgotten; the love destroyed by the ambitions of a fool.”

  “Are you...” Eiliara searches her memory. She had lived for many years—sixty in total—and recalled much. The necromancer’s identity was a suspicion; if only it could be confirmed...

  “Are you—”

  “Enough talk. Prepare to die.”

  Eiliara focused all of her power on the strength of her wards, but she kept a tiny reserve—the very edge of her power—towards a different purpose. As the necromancer attacked, she sent out a message.

  Eiliara died on that cold night. Her screams found no solace in the inclement face of the mountain, nor in the necromancer’s forgotten conscience. But her message found its way.

  A darkness rises; a necromancer haunts the mountains of the north. Years ago, he was betrayed. His vengeance cannot be quenched. He must be stopped—and his progeny kept safe. I am Eiliara, and I will be no more. Let my sacrifice not go in vain.

  ONE

  Far away, in the land of Arachadia proper, a mage academy lay. It was a small school – barely a few hundred mages walked its halls – but among them were mages of importance. One among them was attending a lesson.

  The room around her was a pleasant space: light from tall, elegant windows revealed the grain of the wooden flooring, the intricate patterns on the ceiling, and of course the mage herself.

  Linaera was her name. Her eyes were ocean-blue: she had read of the ocean only in books, but all who had seen it complemented the colour. She was tall – for a girl of seventeen – but not ungracefully so. Her features were delicate; her friends jokingly compared her to an elf.

  Next to her was her friend, Mark.

  Linaera used to have a crush on him a few years back. Who could blame her? His hair was like spun gold, his eyes iridescent green, and his body well-built, like that of a fighter.

  Despite this, he was childish. He wore an expression of leprechaun glee, as he twiddled his thumbs and the illusions flew.

  The illusions were butterflies, to be more particular. But not the normal kind: these were bright pink, diamond blue, forest green. They spun and flew around the teacher’s back (they made no noise; the teacher was unaware) and the girls in the classroom giggled.

  The teacher was an enchanter mage by the name of Sharpe. He had no imagination to speak of – he really was terribly dull – and he repeated himself far too often – but he was willing to overlook indecorous behaviour from the part of his students. That suited Linaera just fine.

  “Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, there are three schools of magic you may specialise in: Healing, Enchantry, and Battle Magic. There are of course other orders, but they are not available to mere apprentices,” he said in a voice that managed to be both dry and patronising.

  Linaera paid him no attention. Her focus was on Mark; he had now, thankfully, finished with his illusion making – the academy did not approve of the “misuse of magic”.

  “Mark, what are your plans for tonight?”

  “Oh you know me, Lin – father always wants me to help.”

  Mark’s father was an artisan – he was skilled as both a blacksmith and a potter, and made many fine and intriguing works. Although Mark was technically independent from them now, he retained a close relationship: one born of both love and necessity.

  Life had not always been easy for Mark. Technically, all students enrolled at the academy had to pay dues – and these, Linaera had been told, could run up to ten gold pieces a year. Mark was lucky; he received a scholarship. Otherwise Linaera doubted Mark’s parents could have afforded to send him here.

  Of course the situation drew the ire from some students. They resented that their parents – typically nobility or magery – had to pay, while Mark did not. They targeted Mark with their vitriol. Unfortunately for them, Mark easily outwitted their jibes.

  “Do they ever let you have your own life?” Linaera asked. It was not that she didn’t like Mark’s parents; on the contrary, she had found them to be warm people (quite unlike the stereotype levelled at North Arachadians). It was just that Mark had little spare time because of them, and Linaera had always desired Mark’s attentions.

  Mark only smiles wanly. “They do, Lin, but you know that not all of us benefit from the sponsorship of an Arch Mage.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I forgive you.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the bell – a contraption of magic that always rang far too loudly. The students left the room in a puff of noise, the lesson finally over.

  Most of them would be leaving for the local town. Its name was Renas; it was a small northern town, but unlike most towns of its kind, Renas was wealthy. The local mage academy, and the parents of the alumni, desired many things – and Renas catered to them all.

  Mark, of course, rarely partook.

  “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Linaera asked.

  “Sure. Are you going to Terrin’s?”

  Linaera looked up. Clouds hung over the sky, like mean-eyed guards. They smiled with their rain, and the rolling of their thunder seemed very much like laughter. The wind was its companion; it howled against the walls, barely contained by the best efforts of Arachadian engineering and magic.

  “I don’t think I’ll be going out right now. Terrin won’t be happy to see me out in this weather” – the sky darkened, as if to enunciate her words – “and Mrs Nancy has blessed me with more of her assignments.”

  Mrs Nancy was the academy’s historian. She was elderly and kind... or so you would think from her pleasant demeanour and off-hanging spectacles. In reality, she was strict, and pedantic, and sometimes just plain mean.

  Mark interrupted her train of thought.

  “In that case, good luck.” He smiled; his was a beautiful smile. Linaera sighed inwardly. The boy was handsome as a fairy, but no girl had ever touched him.

  With a final wave, he left.

  ***

  Linaera began walking to her chambers – to the Tower.

  As she hurriedly made her way through the grey rain, and the grey stone buildings, it revealed itself.

  The Tower was
made from the same granite as the rest of the school, but somehow it seemed altogether greater. It was incredibly tall – it stretched far beyond the walls of Renas, the tallest building of the north. Its roof seemed to touch the sky, as if the power of the magery could challenge that of the He. (The church, Linaera knew, had disliked it immensely.)

  There was only one door. It was crafted from oak, and other more exotic species of tree – it was tall, and solid, and impregnable. Linaera had no need to knock, of course; the door opened soundlessly, sensing its owner’s presence.

  Inside, the walls were whitewashed, as if hoping to counter the Tower’s frightening presence. Such attempts were in vain, of course: the Tower oozed with a power that could not be whitewashed.

  Linaera knew that the stairs were very long, very winding, and very treacherous. She had tried going up them, once, when she had been young; it was an experience she had not relished. So instead, she prepared her teleportation spell.

  Teleportation was an unusual piece of magic. Most magic used the caster’s power to alter reality as close to the source as possible. Trying to make a fire appear half a league away was virtually impossible – even fireballs would lose their power the further away they got from the caster.

  Teleportation was very different. It worked as a field: it allowed the transfer of matter from any one place within it. It did not even require power from the caster, recharging itself via the natural environment.

  Linaera intones the words of the spell. She could have spoken them only in her mind, but she found it easier to say them out loud. Teleportation was tricky magic – she had no intention of getting it wrong.

  For a moment, nothing seemed to happen.

  Then, the spell acted. There was a moment of indescribable confusion, when Linaera felt herself stretched and twisted into impossible shapes. Lights and sounds blurred; for a time, chaos reigned. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. She was upstairs.