The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016

by Alex Stargazer

  Inside, a tall, spacious room greeted her. In the centre, there lay a bed – it was elaborate, four poster, and fit for a queen. An elegant black mattress covered it.

  Around it, there was a wardrobe, a work desk, and a window. Night had fallen; the only illumination came from the lamps themselves, burning coldly on the walls.

  “Sorry about the décor – these rooms were furnished with more… male visitors in mind.” With that, Leira turned heel and exited the room.

  Linaera tried hard not to cry that night.

  At least there were no dreams.

  TWENTY ONE

  Life as a Formless One was an intriguing experience for Eiliara.

  After she was taken by the necromancer from the world of the living – from her friends, family and worldly possessions – she became a ghost of the past, incapable of being alive; but unwilling to move forward.

  Being without a body posed many an interesting conundrum: like, how to move things? She couldn’t physically interact with them – instead, she had to use magic. Of course, magic was a fickle thing with no spells to tame it, and so despite her great skill, Eiliara made many a great mistake.

  It had initially proven difficult to evade the necromancer’s detection; but fortunately, the undead had masked her presence. Besides: the necromancers were far too busy preparing for their “invasion” to notice the old ghost.

  After some practice, Eiliara learned how to mask her presence so that even Neshvetal didn’t know she was there. Naturally, it took a great deal of effort; but she could mostly avoid Neshvetal. Having so many other dead things around helped.

  It was the other things that Eiliara truly hated – being without a body meant she could no longer experience touch, taste or any of the things associated with a body. There was no rapidly beating heart when she was afraid (even though nothing physical could harm her). There was no holding your breath in suspense or being dizzy with your first crush (although Eiliara was much too old for that).

  The first few days had truly been agony – Eiliara hadn’t even realised what she was, and when she did, she became overcome with self-loathing, knowing how her existence tortured the living.

  Inevitably though, the need for revenge pulled her together.

  Soon, she followed Neshvetal into his deranged castle of horrors, and viewed the atrocities he committed with a sense of hopeless rage.

  Her powers were too unpredictable to try and attack him, and she doubted she could take him on in death when she couldn’t fight him in life.

  There were some perks to being dead however.

  One such example was the ability to float through walls: Eiliara could go through anything, and hear or see anything.

  Neither was she completely helpless; soon, she had learned she could move large objects with surprisingly little effort (though she did occasionally break something). Then she had learned that her powers of telepathy were becoming more acute – even if they still remained largely out of her control.

  Some of the things were completely bizarre. Like never being able to see yourself.

  It was a puzzle to Eiliara: how could she see light, but not interact with it? It defied all logic. Yet everything about her existence seemed to defy logic: was she energy? Some form of matter? Or something else entirely?

  Always though, her thoughts came back to the necromancer.

  She hated him. He had taken away everything she had, turned her into this, and now he was preparing to destroy everything she had fought for. All for what? A crush gone rogue, turning him into a mindless fanatic?

  Since she never slept, her thoughts were constantly filled with more and more creative ideas to torture him, then kill him. She imagined roasting him on a fire, making him drive knives into himself, or best of all: getting his own damn undead to kill him.

  Applying them was easier said than done. The necromancer never slept either; a bi-product of being undead. Unlike her, he could still interact with the world normally.

  Even if he did sleep, Eiliara had no doubt he had more than enough power to maintain wards around him.

  Eiliara had to find other ways to hurt him.

  First, she had started off with small things; perhaps scattering his books, spilling ink on them, making objects disappear. Minor things, petty things.

  Eiliara knew she couldn’t defeat him alone. She wondered how long it would take Terrin to act on her message – he wasn’t known to go jumping into danger, but they were, had been, good friends.

  Even if help didn’t come for her, the madman was planning on attacking Arachadia. Surely she could find some mages to aid her?

  While she was plotting things, she followed the necromancer’s apprentice. She had to admit, the girl fascinated her: she had, after all, been previously a mage. It made Eiliara wonder at what was so appealing about the necromancer’s madness that it made such seemingly good hearted people go flocking to him.

  The magi-lamps continued to glow; Eiliara’s presence had no effect on them. The apprentice’s footsteps could be heard. Eiliara breezed behind her, now aptly concealing her presence.

  Being unaware of the ghost lurking behind her, the other necromancer’s thoughts were idle and less guarded than what they would normally be. Eiliara understood snippets: something about a girl being captured, and the necromancer wondering what would happen come morning time.

  Eiliara was briefly distracted by morning time – she could rarely keep track of the day anymore.

  But wait, a girl captured? Curiosity, as well as despair, came over her. She had to know who it was; but she didn’t want to!

  Taking a cue from the necromancer’s head, she headed over to the approximate direction of the captive.

  She passed through several rooms, all filled with various items common in the hell-house. Among those were: books, of spells and things left untold; paintings, for the necromancer had strange tastes; and a variety of storage rooms, filled with items of the necromancer’s numerous excursions.

  Through the windows, she could indeed see it was dawn. The light was obscured however, by some sort of thick white blanket covering the windows.

  With a start, Eiliara realised it was snow.

  Am I forgetting the world of the living? she wondered. She hoped not: Neshvetal had to die.

  She finally found the source of all the interest.

  In one of the rooms, sleeping on the bed, framed by the vague grey light of the outside, was Linaera.

  The bastard! I’ll kill him! He got her too damn it! Why did he send her? Frustration boiled over Eiliara.

  There was a loud SMASH as something was destroyed; an aftershock from her outburst of anger. Eiliara didn’t care.

  What am I going to do? she wondered, after the fumes had died off. Somehow, she would have to get Linaera out of here. And kill Terrin too, if she got the chance.

  Don’t they remember what happened that fateful day seventeen years ago?

  TWENTY TWO

  Linaera awoke suddenly.

  She didn’t know why: the room was a perfect shade of grey, no bright light or noise to wake her up. In fact, the room wasn’t even cold – contrary to most of her mornings, which involved dusting off snow and casting warming spells.

  Wait. Room? She suddenly realised where she was.

  Damn.

  With a deep sense of reluctance, she got out of bed. She was wearing a plain white gown, made from cotton. She had managed that at least, before falling asleep.

  Outside, there was a knock.

  “Come in!” she called out. Not that she could stop her, of course.

  Leira popped her head in, and gave her a quick once-over.

  “We have to get you some clothes, won’t we? You can’t go in that. I’m not even sure I put proper clothing in your wardrobe. Won’t be a moment, now.”

  She walked out; almost straight away she arrived covered in clothes. Linaera wondered how she managed to do that.

  “Now look here: we’ve got all sorts of clothes
, except dresses. Neshvetal does not like dresses, and who could blame him? Tacky things, dresses.” Linaera filed away that smidgen of information: who knew? Maybe she could frighten Mr Oh-So-Scary with dresses. Sure, he’d run screaming. And maybe Hell would freeze over.

  “So instead, we’ve got some nice jumpers, skirts, trousers and of course, robes.”

  “They’re not black are they?”

  They could threaten her with whatever they liked, she would not wear that.

  “No, there’s white, red and even green,” Leira filled in helpfully.

  “I’ll take the white.”

  Leira smiled.

  “I knew you would. Now, I’ll also bring underwear, and some nice boots. My grandma always used to tell me to wear boots, even around the house. Guess you grow up with that, living up north,” she rambled.

  Linaera wondered why the necromancer was being so friendly with her.

  “Now, I’ll leave you to it.” She deposited the clothes, then zipped away.

  It really was a pretty robe, Linaera had to admit. The material was fine wool that seemed to float over her hands. Its colour made the snow pale in comparison. She imagined it would have taken remarkable skill for such a thing to be woven.

  It felt comfortable too, and fitted her surprisingly well. The boots’ colour was light brown, padded with fur; it made a surprisingly elegant design. Linaera wondered how the necromancers had obtained such luxury – weren’t they in the middle of nowhere?

  Once she had gotten dressed, the other girl came back.

  ***

  “Excellent. He was right. Now, follow me while I give you a tour of the surroundings. Don’t run away – the dead are hungry!” She turned around, not bothering to look whether Linaera was following.

  Linaera hurried after her, not willing to risk the creatures.

  Once outside her room, it immediately became dark again. Like last time, the only illumination originated from the magi-lamps. Linaera wondered if it was a deliberate ploy to frighten visitors. If so, it was very successful.

  Leira’s footsteps could be heard ringing on the granite floor. She had dumped her robes from last time, favouring black leather boots, black trousers and a black, woollen jumper.

  It suits her, Linaera thought.

  “Now, these are the corridors. They span throughout the entire castle, but they all lead back to the gate – that is the only point of entrance… and exit. Anyhow, all the rooms are accessible through them. Some rooms have more than one door: we are currently heading towards the centre of the castle, where Neshvetal’s throne room is located.”

  “Throne room? Okay, well I guess I should have expected that.” Linaera swallowed. She would not turn into a nervous wreck. All she had to do was confront a mad, extremely powerful necromancer who probably planned to kill her once he got bored. Yeah, just a walk in the park.

  “The other rooms serve numerous purposes: there are bedrooms, as you have seen. There are also storage rooms, studies, music rooms and fighting areas.”

  “Music rooms?” Linaera asked, bewildered.

  “Neshvetal has a passion for music, as he does all things artistic.

  “Now, make sure you look suitable. He really is very keen on proper dress.” Great. The crackpot wants me to look good while he lectures me.

  The corridor suddenly ended in a great, mighty door. It was easily double Linaera’s height, and made from thick oak. There didn’t seem to be any handles; the doors opened by themselves. The necromancer clearly enjoyed theatrics.

  Inside, the throne room was breath-taking. It was tall, far taller than any other room Linaera had seen. An intricate design of runes – all in red – covered the ceiling, as it did the floor, where it was engraved on smooth, black marble. There were several windows on both sides, although the light emanating from them was a dull grey.

  There were about a dozen skeletons surrounding the centre of the room. They carried axes – grotesque things, with blades of black bone. Guards, Linaera imagined.

  It was Neshvetal who dominated the scene, however. He wore the obsidian-black robes as he had last time Linaera had seen him, except that on this occasion, his hood was down. His face was tall, angular; his cheekbones sharp and pronounced, white as marble; and his eyes were blue, like the colour of long-lost diamonds. They were also cold.

  “Hello, Linaera.” His voice had a deep timbre to it; it was framed with a strange accent Linaera couldn’t quite place, a blend of North and South.

  “Hello to you too, bastard. Had fun killing my friends?” Linaera spat.

  “Master—”

  “Oh do be quiet, Leira. This teenage bravado will soon fade, once she realises who I really am. In response to your question, however, I do admit your friend’s death was a regrettable incident. The Dragethir can be so terribly hungry.”

  “That’s your excuse? Your monstrosities were hungry?” Linaera shrieked.

  “Linaera, calm down. Arguing with him will do you no good,” Leira informed her.

  Linaera pulled in a deep breath, calming herself down enough to think logically. The necromancer was more likely to make a mistake if he believed her to be docile; therefore, she would act docile. Easier said than done, with her current temper.

  “Leira, you are needed elsewhere. There are... things to be captured. Bye bye,” the necromancer stated.

  Leira took her leave, throwing Linaera one last concerned glance.

  The necromancer got off his throne. It was a splendid construction: granite, fashioned into a seat large enough for the greatest of Kings. Carved monsters lay on its armrests, their mouths open in fury.

  He had to travel through several steps to reach floor level – for it was above, on a pedestal. The skeletons automatically parted for him.

  “Come, Linaera. There is much you do not know.” The necromancer walked towards a small door, which opened to show a flight of circular stairs. Linaera followed after him, sulking.

  “I know you’re a murdering madman. Patronising, too,” she told him abrasively.

  The necromancer did not yet answer, preferring to let her blow off steam while she climbed the stairs. They were indeed very steep, and Linaera was huffing (and puffing) by the time they arrived at the top. Strangely, the necromancer showed no signs of tiring.

  At the top, another narrow door greeted them. Neshvetal opened it to reveal a study.

  Within, the room was framed in oak: oak floor, oak walls… all except the ceiling, which was plaster, and undecorated. Windows that stretched all the way to it provided Linaera with a view to the outside. The mountains were as breathtaking as she had expected, more so now that she could see them glistening with snow. It was spoilt by the mass of undead creatures slithering across the bottom.

  “Did you bring me up here to show me the view?”

  “No. I brought you here because the throne room is a little… overwhelming, considering the circumstances.”

  “You mean being trapped here with you?”

  Neshvetal turned to face her. His cobalt-blue eyes were not filled with cruelty or hatred, however.

  “Your robes sit well on you.” He sighed. “This is one conversation we should have had a long time ago. It’s about your mother.”

  Linaera tensed.

  “What do you know about my mother?”

  He reclined on his chair; he massaged his temples.

  “There are many things you do not know, Linaera. For one, your mother was a faerie. They must have told you that, at least.”

  They hadn’t, actually.

  “What they certainly didn’t tell you is that they killed her.”

  Linaera froze. Her mind came to a stop; her body locked up.

  “You really are insane.”

  “But I’m afraid I’m not. What’s more, that is but paltry compared to what they would never, ever have told you.”

  Linaera’s voice was very quiet.

  “And that would be?”

  “I’m your father.”
<
br />   ***

  Linaera backed away. Her footsteps were small, tentative shuffles, as if too afraid to run from the creature in front and his impossible claims.

  “You’re a sick bastard.”

  “What I say is true. Haven’t you wondered at your strange dreams, your hitherto unfathomed power?” he asked, his voice eerily seductive with forbidden knowledge.

  “Dreams? Powers? What are you talking about.”

  “Linaera, how did you vanquish those monsters?”

  “The swamp monsters? I... I don’t know.”

  “You did it because of power: a power you have not previously been able to control.”

  “Preposterous.”

  “Really? So how do you explain it? How do you explain that none of your companions were able to vanquish them; and how do you explain your dreams, and the strange premonitions they bring?”

  “I...”

  “Your powers are there because you are my daughter; your dreams exist because you are entwined with me, have been all your life.”

  “Entwined with you? I’d rather die.”

  She ran, ran as fast as her legs could carry her, for those treacherous steps were a better alternative than those ludicrous truths.

  Neshvetal could be heard laughing: it was a chilling laugh, and sent ice down Linaera’s spine.

  “You know what I say is true, Linaera. You will realise it too, one day.”

  She blocked him out, and went past the obnoxious throne room, through the corridors...

  And straight into Leira.

  “Hey! Linaera, what are you doing here?” she asked, surprised.

  Linaera guessed she had waited outside the throne room, listening in. Curious.

  “Getting away from him. The freak thinks he’s my father.”

  Leira sighed.

  “I guess he finally told you?”

  “That he thinks he’s my father? Yeah, didn’t you hear?”

  “I heard, Linaera. But I don’t believe you’ve had the full story yet.”

  “What more could there be to it?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough I guess. If he hasn’t followed you, I imagine he’s giving you time to deal with these revelations about yourself.”