The Necromancer's Chronicles

By Neil Hartley

Urt is a Necromancer with an embarrassing problem. He's suffering from Resurrectile Dysfunction. Which means, he can no longer raise the dead, as serious problem.

Not only that, but his master has disappeared, leaving him alone in the swamp with only a talking head for company.
After one final failure, Urt has had enough, and decides he wants to see the world and have adventures.
You know the saying: 'Be careful what you wish for'? Well, that.

A fantastic and unlikely fantasy story with comedic overtones, dark magics and handsome people. (Yes, ugly ones too). Oh, and zombies of course.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Hartley
• Release date: Nov 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005281434

Neil Hartley

I write fantasy, horror, sci-fi, comedy and now erotica too!Latest releases:The (erotic) Misadventures of Black Alice - Space Pirate Queen! - Naughty sci-fi.The (erotic) Misadventures of an Alien's Slave. - Very naughty sci-fi.The Lord of All. An epic fantasy tale.The Necromancer's Chronicles - The story of a dark Wizard.

Book preview

Book I – Out of the Swamp.

Copyright – Neil Hartley

Rev21b

www.NeilHartleyBooks.com

1 – Mudrut.

"Rise! Rise! Rise! I command thee RISE!" Urt waved one hand over the corpse in the prescribed fashion and threw the Redroot powder with the other.

Nothing happened.

Rise damn you! Rise and do my bidding.

The corpse failed to do any such thing.

"You will rise!" screamed Urt, losing his temper.

The body twitched and, for a brief moment, the eyes opened. Urt could have sworn a moment of panic passed over the dead man's face, but then it was gone, and the body slumped back and remained still. Again.

Curses!

The necromancer’s apprentice punched the stomach of the corpse, which resulted in no change at all. It remained dead, counter to everything that was good and natural. Or at least evil and unnatural, which was the situation here.

No luck then boss? a voice said.

It must have been the Redroot powder, he replied. Too old.

Yeah, and I’ll sprout a body and do the tango.

Shut your face you! Urt swung round and pointed a finger at the partially rotten head sitting on the table next to him.

Oh, that’s it. Take it out on your only friend in the world. Like it’s my fault. The detached noggin rolled its eyes.

"You are not my friend, the young necromancer scowled, brushing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen down over his eyes. You are the first of my army. My undead army of world domination."

The head of it I hope.

Original.

I like to help where I can.

Well, you can come with me and help me look for more Redroot.

You know it wasn’t the…

Shut up.

Yes boss.

Urt stepped back from his latest failed attempt and heaved a deep sigh. If he was honest with himself, it probably wasn't the root. It was the same thing that stopped him raising anything larger than a frog. The same thing that had prevented him from raising anything worthwhile since…

Hey, if you’re finished with the body, do you mind passing me over a bit of brain? Horace, his heady companion, smacked what remained of his lips.

Urt ignored the zombie head and looked around his small living quarters. It was a depressing place, even for someone who was supposed to live in depressing places. The small chamber barely had room for his work bench, which was pushed up against the wall. Behind him, close enough for him to fall over if he took a step back, was a narrow bunk. A single window looked out over the marshland that served as scenery in this part of the world. It was a tiny space.

We work with what we have, he muttered, sitting on his bed, which squeaked and sagged in the middle.

Don’t get down boss, said Horace, in an overly cheerful voice. You’ll get he hang of it one day, and then it’ll be world domination in no time at all. Zombies all over the place, obeying your every whim.

I appreciate the sentiment, Urt sighed. But I’ll be undead and a lich before that happens at this rate. Maybe old Mangle was wrong about me.

No, he might have been mad and deranged, but he knew his stuff. If he said you had power, then you have power.

Maybe he realized he was wrong. Maybe that’s why he disappeared.

Come on now. We’ve been over this so many times, Horace said. He ran into an angry badger or fell into the swamp or something. There are million things that could have happened to him.

Urt smiled scratched his head, wondering if badgers were that ferocious. He’d never seen one, so he couldn't estimate how likely it was that Mangle had fallen prey to one of the beasts. He shrugged. We all do what we can, he murmured.

That’s the spirit! Come on, let’s get rid of this useless body and find some Redroot shall we? I could use some fresh air anyway, it's not good to be stuck indoors so long. Bad for the complexion.

Urt rolled his eyes, but stood up. Very well, let’s go for a walk.

Maybe he'd get lucky and fall into a muddy hole and drown.

~ * ~

Stalking through the swamp, Horace swinging in a pouch hanging from his hip, calmed Urt down a little. It was good to get out of the shack for a while. A change of scenery, even if the scenery consisted mainly of stinking plant life and fetid pools of water, did him good.

The odd scaly head broke the surface of the murky liquid at intervals, but the 'gators knew he wasn’t food. Uncomfortable things happened to the creatures that had tried, and the lesson had been learned by the survivors. Even the mosquitoes and bugs kept away from him, he was powerful enough to repulse those at least.

…boss? Boss! Are you listening to me? What’s the point in having me along if you don’t pay attention?

Snapping out of his reverie, Urt looked down at the head. Sorry Horace, I was miles away. What is it?

Over there, the zombie said, rolling his eyes. "Redroot. You do still want some I presume?

Oh, yes. Thanks. Urt scanned the area and located the ugly brown plants. Sauntering over he squatted down and plucked the toadstool shaped growths out of the ground. They resisted, as if reluctant to come, but a good tug freed them from the earth.

The crop harvested, he stood up and took a deep breath. The methane in the air lifted his spirits. If there was any place more suited to Necromancy, he didn’t know where it was. Actually, he pondered as he started walking once more, that really was true. Most of his young adult life had been spent in this place, under the harsh guidance of mad Mangle, his old master. Mangle had insisted he had power, great power, despite the failed attempts to raise.

Squelching through the bog, Urt wrinkled his forehead. It seemed that as he grew older he grew less able to raise anything. There had been a time, once, when he was very young, he’d performed a great magic. That was when Mangle had found him, or shortly after anyway, when his village has expelled him in fear, so Mangle had explained. He shook his head. It was all such a long time ago, the memories were fuzzy at best. He certainly couldn't remember any village.

Where we going now boss? Horace once again piped up, no doubt bored by their wandering.

What? Oh, er… Urt stopped and looked around. He’d been walking aimlessly, lost in his thoughts. Not the best idea considering one wrong step and he’d be hair deep in a muddy hole. The swamp had plenty that specialised in sucking down anything stupid enough to walk into them.

Getting his bearings, he discovered the area he’d wandered into was close to the trail that led to the only civilization in the area, though to term a village called Mudrut civilization was pushing the boundaries of the definition.

Maybe we should go and dig up another corpse, he said.

You didn’t bring a shovel, Horace pointed out.

There’s usually one lying around, Urt replied, though in truth a bucket would probably serve just as well. Mudrut’s method of disposing of their dead lacked all ceremony. The villagers seemed to believe that the swamp did the best job of getting rid of bodies, though in fact it was usually Urt that performed that duty.

May as well go and take a look, he said, taking a wet step forward. As we’re in the area.

That's it, get back on the horse, Horace encouraged, as the young necromancer squelched his way along the path, towards the huddle mass of rude dwellings that made up Mudrut.

As he approached the village he slowed, moving with care. The villagers knew there was a dark wizard in the swamp, but they didn’t know what he looked like. Urt wanted to keep it like that, on the vague suspicion they wouldn’t be enlightened enough to treat him with the fear and respect that he deserved, ignorant savages that they were.

There’s the burial area, whispered Horace, from Urt’s waist. Can you see if there’s any new business?

Not yet, Urt replied. He scrambled behind a bush and peered through its slimy leaves, trying to make out if there was the telltale lump that indicated a fresh corpse. They didn’t come along very often, and the most recent had only been a few weeks ago, so he was surprised to see not one, but two low mounds.

We’re in luck, he whispered. After a final quick look left and right, he dashed forward in a bent over run.

Two of them! said Horace, spotting the graves. We’ve hit the jackpot!

Hush, Urt said, sticking his head up and looking over at the village. We should have come back at night.

Oh it’s alright. They’re probably getting drunk or whatever the living do these days.

Urt rolled the sleeves of his robe up, stuck one hand into the mud and groped about until he touched flesh. With some effort he managed to pull the body slowly from its rest, until the wet earth released its hold with a dull plop.

It’s a young one, Horace said. Practically a baby. What a waste, they’re so tasty fresh.

No eating my experiments, Urt scolded, grimacing at the mud on his arms and reaching back down, into the other grave.

The second one took more effort, and he was covered in mud by the time the cadaver, a girl of maybe seven or years old, was freed from the embrace of the cold ground.

At least they won’t be hard to carry, Horace pointed out, as Urt viewed his finds with distaste. How was he to build an army with young child zombies? It wasn’t fair.

Beggars can’t be choosers, he muttered. Putting the baby in the sack he carried for herbs - he had to squash it down a bit to make it fit - he slung it over his back and turned his attention to the girl, only to step back in shock. She was looking at him!

What the hell! he said. She’s alive! How can they bury a living person?

Dunno, Horace said. Does this mean I can taste her though? Just a finger, nothing important.

No. Urt sidled forward and examined the girl, who blinked and slowly sat up. You know they go right through you. He directed his attention to the child. Hello girl, who are you?

Braaains, the girl said, and stood slowly up. She turned to Urt and repeated herself. "Braaaains."

Ahhh, isn’t that cute? said Horace, as the young zombie lurched forward. She’s trying to eat your brains. That brings back memories, do you remember the time...

Er, hold on a second. Urt took a step back, to avoid a swipe from the girl, and raised a hand. A dark haze spread from his fingers as he said a Word.

The young zombie stopped at once. "Masster," she said.

Nice catch, said Horace.

I may currently be having difficulties getting them up, but I’m not totally helpless. Urt addressed his new friend. What’s your name?

"Lucy massster."

Yes, I think we can drop the speech as well, that’s just for tourists,

Of course master, she said, in a far more normal voice.

Who raised you? Urt asked.

The zombie shrugged. I don’t know.

When were you raised? Horace interjected. I mean, you still look fresh. It can’t have been long ago.

I don’t know, Lucy said. Why aren’t I sad?

It’s the whole zombie thing, Urt said. You tend to have a whole different perspective on life, when you’re dead.

I see. The young deceased paused. What’s perspective mean?

It’s… Urt struggled for the words and gave up. Never mind.

Can we keep her master? Can we? Can we? Horace licked where his lips used to be excitedly. It would be nice to have another deceased around the place.

Well, maybe, Urt pondered. I mean it’s not as if you’re good with the cleaning. But why would someone raise a perfectly good zombie and then just go and abandon it?

Maybe she was too small. She’s hardly army of darkness material is she now? Horace said. Perhaps they raised her by accident.

Great. Here’s me, unable to raise more than a head, and other necromancers are throwing undead away because they have too many. That makes me feel really wonderful, a real morale booster.

Urt turned to his new Zombie friend and passed her his bag. Here, carry this. Come with me.

Yes master.

And don’t fall in any quicksand. In a bad mood once more, Urt turned around and tramped down the path he’d come along, heading back to the small hut he called home.

~ * ~

The following day Urt busied himself with preparations to raise the baby. He was determined to have everything exactly as it should be. He added extra ingredients and drew runes that were supposed to help with the spell, and made sure there was no contamination in the area. He replaced anything that was even slightly old, unless it had to be old, and polished his equipment until it shone.

During all this Horace was unusually quiet, watching him as he made the preparations. Lucy ran errands, collecting things and helping arrange the raising area.

Finally Urt could put it off no longer. Everything was as ready as it could be.

This is it Horace, he said. He was standing in front of the slab where the baby was laying at rest. The smell of decomposition lingered in the air, but this didn’t bother him. Such was the craft of the necromancer.

I’m nodding, replied Horace.

Very well.

Urt picked up the Redroot powder and flung it into the burning brazier beside him. He closed his eyes and spoke the Words of Power, feeling the Dread Forces marshal around him.

He glared at the body as he chanted the incantation, feeling the mana, twisting it to his ends. The dark light washed through him, settling into the corpse exactly as it should, pulsating with energy as he shouted the final words.

"Rise! Rise and do my bidding! Rise!"

The baby twitched and its dead eyes opened.

Yes! It’s working! Urt clenched his fist in triumph.

The tiny zombie opened its mouth, made a croaking sound, and then slumped back. Lifeless, or at least inanimate, once more.

"Noooooooo!! Noooooooo! Curses! Blast and curses! By the oozing pustules of Dreg noooooo!" Urt fell to his knees and shook his fists at the sky.

Oh bravo! Horace said.

A red mist descended upon Urt, and he swung around, pointing a finger at the detached zombie. "Quiet you!" He shouted, and a blast of dark energy blew Horace off the bench and into the wall, which he bounced off before hitting the floor and rolling under the bed. A fearful moaning emanated from under the narrow space.

"Curse this place! shrieked Urt. Raising both arms he swept them outwards, sending a wall of power hurtling away, tearing his small hut apart as if it were no more than paper. I hate this swamp!"

A howling wind descended, whirling around him in a mini cyclone, picking up the debris and hurling it into the sky.

"Ahhhhh!!" A massive explosion of power emanated from the enraged necromancer, ripping any surviving material out of the ground and sending it, smouldering, into the surrounding swamp.

When the dust cleared, Urt was on his knees, sobbing in in the centre of a large, muddy crater.

~ * ~

"Finally! I thought I’d have to sit and look at that tree forever!"

Urt bent down and picked up Horace. The zombie didn’t seem to be any the worse for wear, although the bar was set pretty low in that area. He plucked a twig out the scraggy hair and held the unhead before him.

Sorry, lost my temper there, he said.

I wouldn’t have guessed, Horace replied. What with all the cursing and explosions and howling and all.

But you could have been killed. Again I mean.

Boss, as far as I’m concerned that little show just proved to me you are a master necromancer. As a creature of the dark, you really had no other choice.

Urt smiled. Yes, well. Maybe you’re right. He took a deep breath and put Horace in his special sling so he could have his hands free whilst travelling.

I see the little one survived too, Horace said, noting Lucy waiting a little way off.

Yes, I sent her to get something before I started the… spell.

So, where are we going now then? I think I saw the bed fly past me when I was in the air, so I’m assuming the hut is gone.

I’ve decided to leave the swamp, Urt said, plodding along a narrow mud path. I have to seek out another necromancer, or some kind of wizard doctor. There has to be some reason why I can’t raise the dead.

Finally, we get to see the world.

Well Mudrut anyway, Urt said.

Mudrut? Why there? What about somewhere more exciting?

One, it’s closest, said Urt, ticking off the points on his fingers. Two, it’s the only place I know.

Oh. Fair point.

Anyway, depending on what we find after that, perhaps it’s time to relocate. Travel broadens the mind, so old Mangle used to say.

So why did he live in a marsh then? Horace asked.

Urt shrugged. No idea. Maybe he was just looking after me. I mean, he always told me of other places, so he must have come from somewhere else, plus he would disappear for days, even weeks at a time on occasion.

They travelled on in silence after that, heading back to the village Urt had always seen from a distance, but never entered. Mangle had always been the one to visit there, on the rare occasion they needed something. Apart from the odd item of clothing, or item for magical preparation, the swamp provided all they required.

Any ideas on how we’re going to find another necromancer? asked Urt of Horace, when they were closer.

Can’t you just ask someone?

I don’t think that’s how it’s done.

Why not? said Horace.

I don’t know. Urt shrugged. "It just doesn’t seem to be the thing to say. Hello there, do you know where I can get the dead raised? They may get the wrong idea."

Bah, the living are so repressed. No offence intended.

I share your view in this one instance.

I mean, Horace continued. There’s nothing unusual in raising the dead. It’s as nature intended.

I’m not sure I’d go that far, Urt said, cautiously. He looked back at Lucy, who was walking steadily behind him. Did you live in Mudrut? he asked her.

I can’t remember master.

Do you know if they have any necromancers in the village?

What’s a necromancer master?

I’m beginning to agree with your theory about why they left her behind, Urt said to Horace. Still, we’d better be cautious. You’ll have to go in my pack I’m afraid.

Oh come on boss! I hate it in there! It’s all dark and musty smelling.

Firstly, you’re dead; dark is your thing. Secondly, the musty smell is actually you, and musty is rather a generous description at that.

Well I can’t see out, grumbled the head. You know how I enjoy travelling, seeing new places, meeting different people, and then eating them.

When have we ever travelled? Except for here? Urt made a sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing what passed for scenery in the marsh.

A head can dream can’t it?

Urt sighed. I’ll see how things go alright? If it looks like there are necromancers every second house, you can come out and enjoy the sights. Otherwise, caution is our watchword. Until I can raise an army of the dead to conquer all I survey, I’m just like any other human being. Except obviously superior.

Yes boss.

Good, glad we have that settled, because we’re close. You need to go into the pack now. He stopped and shed the backpack he’d recovered from the wreckage of his former dwelling. Opening it, he plucked Horace from his sling and shoved him into the bag.

Hey, careful there! the zombie complained. "I want to go in