The Pierian Spring...

Hello readers!

Previously, I released the new cover of the republished edition of the Necromancer, along with a blurb and prologue—to tease you. I did not give a firm publication date; I said it would be soon, very soon.

You see, I have sent out a review request to several reviewers, and will be sending out several more over the coming days. I hope to gain a fair number of reviews, and high star reviews if possible; these are important for the success of the book. I am therefore hoping to have the new Necromancer out by the 10th November, possibly later—it depends on the reviewers. (Reviewers, as you can imagine, are as fickle as writers.)

In any case, while you are still waiting for the book, you can still follow the many intriguing writings here on the Magical Realm. Up today is a piece I consider particularly interesting: it is about the rules of magic in fantasy, and the important consequences that it brings for plot.

Too Much Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing

Going back over the Necromancer—by editing it, rewriting it, and thinking how I might remarket it—it occurred to me that the greatest strength of the book was that... one could never really tell where it would go. Every encounter was a mystery; it was always possible for something to go wrong unexpectedly.

Indeed, ‘things going wrong unexpectedly’ are perhaps the most compelling element of any plot. It’s what keeps your reader in suspense—it’s what surprises them and makes them want to read more. If the reader knew the outcome of 90% of encounters... well: what would be the point? No one would care to read the book.

And this is where the rules of magic systems become important. In a system where the rules of magic are clearly defined and unbreakable—then the outcomes of magic battles are clearly defined and unbreakable. And thus, as above, such battles become boring.

So what can the intrepid writer do? There are a few options:

1. Keep the magic system deliberately vague.
2. Make the magic system inherently uncertain. For example: the principles of quantum physics are immutable, but at the same time, uncertainty is inseparably part of quantum physics. A similar thing can be done with the principles of magic systems.
3. Let the magic system have clear principles, but don’t reveal them all to your readers—leave them with just enough to try and puzzle it out.

There are some problems associated with all of these approaches, but (2) and (3) are—in my experience—superior to (1). The issue with the first option is that, by making your magic system vague, you end up with a world that doesn’t have any rhyme or reason to it. Why did x lose a battle to y? How does the magic system work? (Your readers will be wondering about this, trust me.) And most of all: what are the limitations of magic? Can mages move mountains or just pen knives?

The second and third options are superior, though not entirely perfect. The second option is attractive if you can pull it off—but it requires some quite complex magical principles, and may be difficult to visualise and implement.

The third option is what I took with the Necromancer. I was able to create a world with clearly delineated roles of magic, limitations, and relative power levels. At the same time the reader was always left in suspense—because the magic system was complex and never explained in full detail.

The take-away point here is that, as is often the case with fiction, you need not tell the reader everything. Sometimes, too much knowledge is a dangerous thing. Sometimes—a little ignorance can go a long way.

Review: As the Crow Flies

It is not usual for me to indulge in publishing my reviews here on the Magical Realm; however, this particular work was recommended to me by a fellow writer. I, perhaps foolishly, elected to accept. And as they say: unusual situations demand unusual action.

Therefore, here is my review of As the Crow Flies, by Robin Lythgoe.

‘Alex!’ you interrupt; ‘but what the Ark, and all the things you promised? Are there not essays, and poetry, awaiting?’

Well, dear reader: you would be right. I will soon update the Magical Realm with the aforementioned. And since you are no doubt wondering what exactly I’ve been doing these past many days, the answer would be: writing an article. I have sent it to one OpenDemocracy —a small online magazine specialising in human rights, along with foreign and domestic policy alike—which shall consider it within three weeks. Or so they claim. If published, I will inform you here.

And to allay your curiosity: it concerns the FPTP voting system employed here in the UK, along with why it’s a failure, and what to do about it. If OD does not deign to publish it, I will do so here.

As for the Ark: it is under work. I have a few more planning items to concern myself with—I need to ensure coherency within the Ark’s universe, along with a full and accurate portrayal of the world—and doing so will demand more of my time in planning. But rest assured that with 62 pages a-written, progress is respectable.

I will write another episode in the Fallen Saga when time and the fickle heart of my writerly muse permit. Until then, check out my review. You may even want to consider reading the work in question—but not before you’ve read my own book, the Necromancer. I insist!

As the Crow Flies was recommended to me. This is unusual: it is usually I who recommend books, especially if they’re my own. In this instance, the opposite occurred—I was recommended a book, the recommendee being none other than the author herself. I suppose she would be a little opinionated in that though.

Anyway: onto the book. It’s actually rather good—and I don’t say that lightly, being an angry competitor fellow writer. I was most immediately struck by the writing (indeed it was why I was so kind as to review this) so let’s start with that.

Writing

Robin’s style is a curiously formal one; it is rare that one finds formal writing—even in self-proclaimed literary fiction, let alone ‘mainstream’ works—which was, therefore, in itself unusual. It speaks well of my own less-than-casual style. But enough of me!

Robin’s style is also a descriptive one: the details of the world are described beautifully—everything from the ivory figurines, the various and eclectic jewellery, and the manner of the attire—and in wonderful depth. One can easily imagine the sweeping rooflines of Marketh, the vast and desolate fields of the darker country (I found it eerily reminiscent of the Welsh black mountains) and the frightening but awe-inspiring presence of the dragons. As you can perhaps guess, I was quite pleased about this.

What I wasn’t pleased about? The lack of genuine aesthetic prose. Oh, yes; the prose is detailed—and Robin isn’t afraid to bring out the loquacious and the asperity—but there’s never a poetic element to it, never a sense of fully escaping the pages and entering your heart.

Which is a pity. But, there you go.

Aside from that, the minutiæ of the writing and the execution are worth detailing. Robin’s prose inevitably favours hypotaxis over parataxis, though at times I wished there were more of the latter—it would have worked well in giving the dark country a truly frightening portrayal, and in giving a sense of impetus and energy to some of the action scenes.

In terms of pacing, all was good: there were never times when one was left with a sense of ennui, nor did the action ever overwhelm the senses. I would however point towards the end of the tale, whereby the anticipation and raw energy that should have preceded the finale was instead broken up by far too many minor action scenes. When the finale did come, it was somewhat of an anti-climatic start.

All of this, however, leads me to what is arguably the strongest aspect of this work: the plot.

Plot

As the Crow Flies begins with our darling protagonist—aptly named Crow—attempting to... purloin a certain jewel, from none other than one secret wizard: Baron Duzayan. To be honest, I think it a disappointing start to an otherwise excellent tale.

Yes: there was action. Crow’s powers of theft, espionage, and roof-climbing are really quite remarkable; more foolish souls might even think him possessed of magic, though that is of course nonsense. At least for now. Impressive though they may be, the beginning fails to distinguish itself from more common, less remarkable tales.

Why? Well, because there isn’t a hint of the true scope and power of this novel. Crow, for all his charms, is just a thief. And it is Baron Duzayan’s remarkable wizardly powers that ought be hinted at, and far more insidiously than Robin does. The blurb, also, falls fowl to the same mistake.

The beginning aside, the tale then progresses to have our darling protagonist beaten—I love a good beating; did I mention? It makes for excellent empathic bonding—and is then placed in a dark, deep, cell. Crow, as his namesake suggests, is claustrophobic. Suffice to say that it made for amusing reading.

Once the imprisonment is over, however, Crow is given an ultimatum: help Duzayan procure a dragon’s egg (apparently fictional) or die a miserable death owing to Duzayan’s poison. Thus, we proceed to the real meat of this book.

The journey that Crow undertakes is a compelling one. We travel across vast and (relatively) varied landscapes; we meet bandits, a curious mute girl, and a mysterious old seer; and Crow is forced to travel through a strange underground cave, where dark echoes of a tragedy continue unabated. Here, he is temporarily possessed by the ghosts of the ‘Ancestors’—people burned alive in a terrible war of many years past.

And this is where things start to get interesting. At first, the Ancestors do no more than allow Crow a strange form of magic; he is able to sense emotions, to feel conscious minds, and to detect dishonesty. Later, they begin to speak; to bring long-forgotten knowledge to fore.

I could detail many more fascinating events. I could speak of the dragon, the strange order of magic-wielding priests that guard it, and a great deal more besides; but suffice to say: As the Crow Flies never fails to keep one’s guard up. There is always hidden danger, always unfathomable possibilities; there is action, and energy, and all that it should be.

In short: it is the archetypal High Fantasy novel. And as befits this wonderful genre, the age-old qualities are there—there are creatures of myth and wonder, powers strange and otherworldly (literally), and of course: there are strange new worlds to explore...

World Building

If the plot impresses with its grandeur and its conviction, then the world building comes up short. Sure: there’s detail—there’s imagination, too, in the manner of dress, the architecture (mediaeval and exotic among it equally) and in the cuisine.

But there’s an element of originality that’s missing. There is nothing untowardly remarkable about the technology, or of the language, or even—yes—the architecture. The world feels like another mediaeval fantasy world. Don’t get me wrong: mediaeval fantasy worlds are great—I wouldn’t have written a book in one if they weren’t—but this one is just a little unexceptional.

The religion, also, is elucidated upon: Crow regularly thanks the gods of thieves, of luck, and all manner of other deities. But I would have enjoyed a stronger elucidation still; I wondered at how the temples looked, what manner of rituals they performed, even their creation myths. In short: I wanted more.

Still, I did enjoy the descriptions of luxurious items, of beautiful designs, and of all the things that gave this world detail.

Characterisation

Crow is a wonderful creation. He is at once intelligent, and charming; both boisterous, and thoughtful; and erudite, yet accessible. I found his eye for detail entrancing—and his wits admirable. Crow always seems to have a devilish plan in store; he is able plan, to calculate, and to execute daring stunts with great alacrity.

Tanris, his former enemy turned friend, was also wonderfully well fleshed. He possesses great determination, analytic intelligence (as opposed to Crow’s cunning), and he is also very... human. We feel the pain of an imprisoned wife as if it were his. His mannerisms are unique; he always has a glare, a snarl, a gesture of compassion—he is always quintessentially Tanris.

We are also introduced to a girl, who is mute. This is unfortunate. For a long while, all she does is tag along—at most she is a distraction, more often a nuisance.

But Girl (as Crow takes to name lackadaisically) is more than that. Her muteness makes her easy to dehumanise—her regular crying fits not really helping, nor her simple name—but as time progresses, we begin to learn that she is all too human. She lost her only relatives to a vicious bandit attack. And she cannot voice that trauma. Who would be surprised at her crying; who wouldn’t cry, with no other release?

Robin even goes as far as to create the vestiges of an incipient romance. Girl’s surprising abilities—she is a deadly marksman, a fighter, and also an excellent cook (we love a good cook)—certainly do account for this. Crow’s fearless antics attract her; Girl’s enviable competence attract him.

Is it love? Not yet. But maybe.

I have however noticed that there is a lack of female characters throughout. This is surprising—for a modern fantasy author, and a woman at that—but is not that inconceivable, seeing as to how the tale usually deals with wizards, barons, and the powerful. For whatever reason (be it cultural, physiological, or both of those) women generally don’t populate that section of the population—especially in what is effectively still a mediaeval world.

(I guess it would be more correct to call it an Early Modern world, but I digress.)

Speaking generally, Robin has a perchance for characterisation: she can detail characters through their subtle mannerisms, through their internal struggles, and through some apt description. I cannot fault her in this.

Conclusion

My thoughts have been somewhat confused through this review. Allow me to be clarify, therefore: As the Crow Flies is an excellent, though imperfect, example of High Fantasy. The plot begins uncertainly; but it grows to occupy the mind with feverish insistence, and culminates in a very grand finale. The characters are well-portrayed and human. The writing is formal, accomplished, though at times requiring a little revision—shorter sentences, more parataxis.

All in all, I am glad to have read it. I await the sequel; for dragons and dark magic, my appetite was always insatiable.

Rating: 4/5

The Dead have Risen...

Hello Reader:

Mr Stargazer’s book is now out! It’s called the Necromancer. It is—as you may be able to guess—about a guy who raises the dead. But not just any old mindless zombies (though there are plenty of those too); rather, Mr Stargazer delights in the Dragethir (flying zombies), the Aêgland (really fast zombies), and of course: the Wraiths (you don’t want to know).

In addition to this, Mr Stargazer’s book contains elves (sexy, deadly ones—not the garden variety) along with mages, ghosts, basilisks, faeries and talking trees. And no: they’re not nice talking trees. In fact, they can crush your mind like glass, rip you in two with their roots, or—as Mr Stargazer cheerfully reminds us—teleport you to the clouds.

What can I say? They’re nice really. I mean, they give you plenty of time to scream...

Go ahead. Buy it. Below are some links—there’s a discount at Google Play, giving you the Necromancer for a bargain £2.70. You can also get your hands on a print copy, via Lulu. Who says I don’t cover all the options?

The Day Before All Hallow’s Eve

Readers! Welcome to the Magical Realm of Alex Stargazer. Mr Stargazer’s book—the Necromancer—will be out tomorrow at Witching Hour. He will now try to convince you to pre-order it. Please nod attentively while he talks—he’s a bit long-winded, is Mr Stargazer, but he has found that you lot do (for some reason; the world is a baffling place) like his ramblings, so here we go...

Okay, Mr Stargazer: What’s It About?

The plot is much too complicated for poor old me to adumbrate. Mr Stargazer is very long-winded, you see; and he always did take KISS far too literally.

Since Mr Stargazer would feed me to a basilisk if I don’t write anything about this (yes, there are basilisks in it) I’m going to say that it has magic (plenty of that), undead (far too many of those), Necromancers (yes, plural), along with elves—cool, sexy, dangerous ones, not garden variety stuff—and ghosts (who’d have thought?) and faeries and dragons and... did I mention the flying zombies? No? Well, it has those too.

Most of all though, the Necromancer is about losing yourself to power—the power to change, the power to be eternal, and the power to kill.

Why Should Buy this Instead of... Fifty Shades?

Well, Fifty Shades doesn’t have flying zombies and talking trees. Also, all the other stuff tends to be written by adults (booooring!) instead of crazy teenagers. Did I mention that? Well, Mr Stargazer is sixteen. But don’t despair! He got the top grade in English. (Quick, change the subject: he’s muttering profanities...)

Anyway... are you listening? I don’t write for nothin’ you know. Mr Stargazer pays me with star dust. Worst employer in the world...

Anything Else?

The Necromancer is available for pre-order on Amazon and Smashwords. And it costs just three quid (five bucks for you Americans) so it’s not like you’d lose much. If you didn’t like it, that is. And you will like it, won’t you?

But I digress. If you like magic, elves,—and even a little romance—buy the Necromancer. You won’t regret it. Here: read an excerpt.

---

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE NECROMANCER

He enjoys fear, I think. He enjoys it: no man would dare surround himself with the things if that wasn’t the case. Once, he might have thought them macabre; but now, he arranges them in artful circles, as if to mock the Creator’s hand.

Perhaps there’s practicality, too, I think; for what better way to defend against his (no doubt numerous) foes?

And yet, I don’t believe it. We’re too far, here in these mountains forsaken by the he; and no one would be stupid enough to attack him in this Castle of the Damned.

There is a certain grandeur about it, I admit. There is something... majestic, in the way it cradles that giant of a mountain; a child enmeshed by motherly love. It is a tall thing, too: its roofs hang in seemingly impossible angles, daring those who would intrude; its windows are easily taller than Herculean heroes, and its tower—well, let’s just say it might be a very long flight of stairs.

I wonder why he bothers with the gate. Made from what can only be steel—though it drinks the light like the wraiths he undoubtedly has hiding—it is capable of withstanding (with adroit ease) anything a catapult can throw at it. (Not that you could ever get a catapult up here—those ravines would eat you and keep the bones.)

Speaking of bones, he does have a propensity for skeletons. I see them holding bows on the roofs, by the gate, and hidden carelessly behind rocks. Dragethir would have been more practical—flying is a useful ability here besides a drop into nothing—but skeletons did have a knack for defence which no other creature of their kind really possessed.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to fight them; for if I did, my plangent wails would find no solace among these inhuman giants of rock and ice. The wind would laugh as it buried my remains into forgotten memories.

(Assuming, of course, that the Necromancer wouldn’t turn me into his pet.)

I began walking. The wind promised me release from its inhuman embrace, though I was not foolish enough to believe it. Ice crunched under boots hardened by years of use. The cold battled against clothes enured in its merciless grip.

Dusk was falling; night was approaching. Then the dead shall rise.

A smile pulled against an alabaster face. My eyes—bluer than the streams which would gurgle here in summer days—twinkled with irony. The dead have already risen. It is now merely a matter of meeting their creator.

*

With every step, the dead parted. With every thought, their hunger strengthened. With every imagining of grisly ends, they seemed to smile all the wider.

Stupid creatures, I think; they know not what life means. Their master’s rule is absolute. (Or so I hope.)

I would have knocked, but I was spared the triviality; the door invited me in. The Necromancer knew I was coming. Of course he did: he knew everything. He was the master of these dead forests and lifeless rocks. That was part of his curse. He was the master of those who wielded no thought—he was, in a sense, master of nothing.

The castle wasn’t fully complete yet: there was a wall halfway through the right corridor, which lead to the pit. The Necromancer had strategic sense. No point in building the least vulnerable parts first.

Granite lay underneath; it was fashioned into large bricks, with a white cement in between. They were aligned perfectly (the dead were good at that), though they were ever so slightly curved upwards—it was more comfortable that way. Who says Necromancers don’t live the high life?

The doors promised entry to places unseen; the ceiling was made from a dark winter wood, and had engravings of deer... and other, less natural beasts. I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how good the craftsman must have been. The Necromancer’s tastes are stunningly well-developed; and the fear of death has spectacular purchasing power.

“Necromancer, where art thou? Your home is too vast for poor me to comprehend.”

“I’m in the throne room. And don’t be so theatrical—I’m the Lord of Histrionics here.”

I smiled. He sure did have a sense of humour. Narcissistic, too; even kings did not meet in their throne rooms for such personal matters.

The door—made from a single oak that must have taken a half dozen undead to carry—opened silently.

Black granite—cut to perfection—comprised the floor; rough granite the roof; and dark rimmed windows shone cold light onto the throne. It was a beautiful thing: a base of (you guessed it) granite held a carving of ancient trees. Gargoyles—posing as if to scare away admirers, though redundant in the face of his awesome power—gripped elegantly curved armrests.

When he rose, I saw enamelled red and gold on the backrest. It was an almost... modest feature. Who hid their gold? (Hint: those who have more than they can ever find use for.)

The Necromancer himself, of course, was the real pièce d’resistance. Robes of the night’s dark hand enmeshed unblemished skin; writer’s hands held an artefact of war; and hair forged of wrathful shadows graced crystal blue eyes. He has the stark beauty of Winter, I think; he is the envy of lustful men, and the terror in tremulous hearts.

I do not lie to you: he inspired desire. And I preferred the fairer sex.

“Not looking too shabby for a hundred and eleven, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, don’t be a bore. You don’t want me to get bored. I might feed you the Dragethir—they enjoy their snacks, the big hungry bastards.”

This provoked a laugh. Even the wielders of unlife must have some from time to time. Raising all those undead is a tedious business.

The stronger ones are more fun.

Can you read my mind?

No, you are merely transparent. Come.

“Do you have less... vainglorious quarters?” I asked, reverting to speech.

“Naturally. This place does get a bit overwhelming.”

I followed him. We passed the main door (the only point of entrance—the stairs led up the tower) and then did the same with several smaller ones. Eventually, we stopped. Telekinesis was the Necromancer’s choice of opening doors; undoubtedly, pure physical means would have been indecorous for one of his power.

“You go first; I think you’d like exploring this room.”

“I don’t want the lion behind me.”

“The lion can jump you anytime he wants. Besides, if I let you go after, you’d have to close the door. And that’s not as easy as it looks.”

The door was indeed made from steel. It was difficult to notice everything in such constant darkness; a feature which the Necromancer probably felt added to the atmosphere. As if it wasn’t disturbing enough.

This time, he closed it with his hands.

A metallic smash. A ringing of unyielding steel against indefatigable stone. The Necromancer had used too much force—accidentally, it seemed. He is not in full control of his body, I realised. I knew why: he was Lichtr. A lich. And a recently transformed one at that.

It would have been a weakness, if it wasn’t such a damn strength.

*

I can see why the Necromancer wants me to explore, I think; for these books—with their minimalist covers of gold on black—would surely tempt those who have lived for as long as I.

But he does not know me. Four hundred years of tenacious life has taught me this: tempt the devil and he shall come. Enter a realm of darkest magic, and their seductive promises shall forever fester in your heart.

The rest of the room was beautiful too. Shelves of dark wood—now plated in silver by the light of a full moon—lay on a stone floor decorated by Northern warriors fighting deathly figures. They weren’t winning.

The windows were in the form of a triangular ark; a style perpetuated by ancient fortresses of the north. (They were deemed too overwhelming for lords these days.) I could see little more—I had not nearly the same capabilities of sight as he.

I had started to notice a chill. And I wasn’t talking about the one of death. (That would forever remain indelible.)

“Is a fire in order?”

“Yes,” I admitted without preamble. He may be dead, but he still remembers the plight of the living. Maybe he can be saved. I doubted it, but one could only hope. Certainly, he will not be salvageable once his magic truly eats into his soul, I think.

The Necromancer walked towards the fireplace. He attempted smooth elegance, but succeeded only in appearing unnatural. Once, he might have rivalled the most magnanimous of monarchs; but now death had inculcated a sense of... other. No amount of good looks could change the fact that his heart no longer beat.

A flash of blue. A taste of ionised air.

The fire was lit.

“I would have used fire, but you know…”

“That your kind no longer has that ability? Yes, of course I know. You are not the only Necromancer I have met; one finds many in four hundred years.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Four hundred? And capable of only telepathy and that dream power of yours?”

“Who says I was not merely being polite?”

“Oh please. Whatever you are, you must be very powerful to have lived so long; and clearly if that power could translate into fire… you’d have burned us all down by now.”

A clever one, I thought. I have met only one other like that, and he didn’t build his castle so big. Or maybe this one just has a bigger ego.

“Necromancer, we did not discuss about interviewing me. We talked about interviewing you.”

“Indeed. Let me begin by telling you by name: Neshvetal.” He smiled, ever so thinly. The orange glare of those flickering flames held no sway over the coldness that lay in his eyes.

“It is a harsh name,” I say.

“I had a smoother name, once; and I despise it now, for it fooled those who should have known better.” No fruit could temper the bitterness in his voice.

“You have talked about… your loss. In your dreams.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Perhaps not. Few do. Dreams are like that.”

“I shall have none now that I am Lichtr.”

“Everyone dreams, Neshvetal. Every time you gaze off into the distance; every time you see not the world around you, but something… different. Strange. But somehow beautiful.”

“You see beauty. I see death.”

“There is beauty in death.”

“She wasn’t pretty when I found her.”

“Tell me more.”

Again that bitter smile.

“Would you enjoy a drink?”

“You have drink out here? And for that matter, can you even taste it.”

“A little,” he replied; “and I have everything out here. I have my own flying footmen.”

Ah, the Dragethir. I have never seen a Necromancer with as many and as large. He has truly mastered their creation.

I wondered if he was lying about the drink. Liches weren’t supposed to taste anything. Then again: he was recently turned. And he was probably even more powerful than Anathós, who was rumoured to have enjoyed drinking the blood of his victims before Raising them. (One wonders if vampirism and Necromancy can coexist. I couldn’t say. I’ve only ever met two vamps. And they didn’t exactly want to chat.)

“Here’s the Amarús. I think it’s ten years old.”

He poured me the drink in the crystal he brought along. Its dark brown veneer made warm fusion with fire light; and if the Necromancer hadn’t been with me, I would have felt cosy.

“It tastes as good as it looks,” I complemented.

“There is... a mellow taste to it. I am reminded of those yellow things—what were they called? Fudge, ah yes!”

So he wasn’t lying, I realise. And the world of the living still has a place within.

“Did you know about the baby?”

He froze.

“Of course I did.”

“Do you know if he still lives?”

“My wraiths have been trying to find out. It seems so. Though it’s a she.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“I am dead now. Fathering is an instinct long gone.”

A hundred and eleven, I think, and still not a perfect liar. And such a classic giveaway, too: a twitch of a mouth.

“Would you live again for Araya?”

“Who wouldn’t? But even I—greatest of all Necromancers—have not the power to bring her back.”

“You’re very modest.”

“Do you know of any other Necromancers?”

“Fair point.”

“She died fighting, you know. The silvers tried lying to me... but they were a little too afraid of joining the dead to pull it off.”

“Do you keep them around?”

“I don’t like being reminded of past things. The future is what I want to see; I want to taste the sweetness of possibility, and to possess the knowledge... that I will be lord.”

“I don’t think Araya would have wanted you lord. You’ve twisted her memory into ambition; and now your own lies are fooling you.”

Blackness surrounded me. Snarling faces of utter hatred barred teeth of a thousand lost souls’ pitiful wails. Ice seduced my soul; death promised release in the servitude of evil.

“They say the wraiths devour souls,” said the Necromancer. “I think they really devour your mind, and leave your soul here to fulfil my wants.”

“I speak the truth, Necromancer,” I replied. Of course I feared the creatures—I knew the one closest saw his sister raped, and wanted me to feel that—but somehow I knew the Necromancer had taken enough criticism in his long life to rise to a little bait.

I am a prescient being; and rarely am I wrong. Though if I am, now sure is a bad time to die. (Isn’t it always?)

“Get rid of them, Neshvetal. Or put out the fire. No point wasting wood.”

He laughed, and the creatures vanished.

“It seems you can predict the actions of even the most fickle beings.”

“You are fickle, yes; but predictable, too.”

“I never could tell what Araya was thinking.”

“And that, my dear man, is the source of all this madness.”

“Begone, oh silly fool.”

“I have a better idea. Come with me.”

I never moved a muscle in that fateful time. Dreams are subtle in their awesome power.

*

We stood on the highest peak, on the coldest lake, and in the grip of most inclement howling storms.

There was no sun. There was no moon. There was only the perpetual light of imagined possibilities; a veil from which fear and wonder sprung as equal partners.

“Where are we? And for that matter, how the hell did we get here?” asked Neshvetal.

“I think you know.”

“Dreams.”

“It seems you’ve managed to learn something over all these years.”

Iridescent fire burst from dead hands. They caressed with teeth that could never bite.

“You do not control the dream; the dream controls you.”

“Wise fallaciloquence from the one who controls the dream, oh Master.” Yes, sarcasm was a favourite of his. And he was definitely mad: only lunatics don’t fear for their mind.

We gazed across the peak. It was a pointless exercise. Impenetrable mist obscured what could only be infinity. It was the arbitrator of existence; the incarnation of being; and the bequeather of knowledge.

I almost did not notice when it began to part. But it was there: in the eddies of wind; in the slowly approaching light; in the feel of a presence.

What a fantastic memory, I think. How perfectly he recalls those eyes of gold—and that unblemished shade of peach that is her skin! How truly she smiles; how utterly believable it all is!

“Neras.” She spoke little, but said much. No word could match for disapproval or longing; no utterance could convey the million contradictory emotions of a being like her.

“Araya, dear, do tell me more. I haven’t heard you in a while. Dying is so inconvenient, isn’t it?”

“I see you’ve kept your sense of humour. I can almost envision falling in love with you again. In fact... I still love you. I really do. But I hate what you’ve become.”

“I killed only the criminals. The rapists, the murderers... the monsters.”

“So that you can make them the monsters they could never become?

“Don’t answer me. You think you are right now, and maybe you are; but in time, you shall forget me. You shall not remember how I reprobated murder. How I always believed the ends do not justify the means.

“It shall consume you, Destres.”

It was with his truest of names that we left the dream world.

*

“And so the interview is over,” says he, while pouring himself another glass of Amarús. (I don’t why he bothered: the whole bottle couldn’t make him drunk.)

“Indeed, oh Lover,” I replied.

“You know too much for your own good, you know,” he says, before proceeding to down another glass.

“In all the ages that I have lived—in all the crimes I have seen, all the destruction that has been wrought upon this fateful continent—danger found me when I knew least.

“You do not know how very doomed the path you walk is, Neshvetal. No Necromancer has ever retained full sanity; no wielder of the dark arts could be called a hero and not a villain. Are you arrogant enough to think you will be different?”

“Perhaps I want to be bad. To wreak havoc and fear among those who did the same to me. Perhaps I am tired of being that hero.”

“Or maybe you’re no better than those Wraiths.”

“Leave, oh Master of Dreams,” he commanded.

And so I did. I would meet him again, that I was sure of. Question is: would he be on the side of the light, or the dark?

The Necromancer... Covers

Hello Blogosphere:

I, Alex Stargazer—writer extraordinaire and not-so-extraordinaire poet—presents to you five possible covers for my book, known as the Necromancer.

If you are unfamiliar with it, know that it is a High Fantasy novel with—surprise surprise—a Necromancer (that is, a person who raises the dead) and flying zombies, and magic, and stuff. Oh: did I mention our Necromancer is trying to take over the respective world?

Well, he is. That’s what people with 50,000 strong undead armies tend to do. Right? (Note: those 50,000 undead happen to be really fast, and strong, and fearless and all that. He’s kinda difficult to stop. That’s kinda the premise of the book, ya know?)

In any case, here are some descriptions of him:

Neshvetal permitted himself a small smile. It was not a pleasant one: it revealed teeth that were inhumanly white, and a twinkle of madness within those cold orbs of sight.

His eyes are balls of azure light, glowing with deep, unnatural power; his hair is darker than the darkest of nights, yet it reflects the scant moonlight like some fantastical lake. His form is tall – his posture, arrogant. A cruel smile lights up his long, aristocratic nose and handsome (if rather dark) features. He knows he has won.

As you can see, our Necromancer looks as scary as he is.

And without further ado, I present to you these covers. (Thanks goes to Kit Foster for providing them. Yes, I am paying him. Yes, it is still polite to thank those who enable your success.)

You can share them with whom you think may be interested. And please make sure to rate them on the comments below. After all: a good book needs a good cover to get you lot to read it.

Poem of the Week: The Necromancer

If you read the title and thought: ‘Isn’t the name of his upcoming book?’ then you’d be right. This poem is, indeed, related to my upcoming book; and, unsurprisingly therefore, the Necromancer of which it speaks is the one (and only) Neshvetal.

This is a poem about him. His tragedy. His loss. For he, dear reader, is the saddest of them all.

I think I shall be including the poem in the actual book. I believe it captures the Necromancer’s emotions with total perfection—and that reading it will give you a real view into who he really is.

Here is the link.

Analysis

Let me start, funnily enough, with the beginning. Take:

In a castle
Enmeshed in frozen flakes
Of mountains clear and tall
A Necromancer lyeth thinking.
He sits on the throne of a king forgotten
Of which granite is the only known companion.

Structurally, the poem is a hexameter with lines of increasing length. I like this structure: I feel it reflects the way my imagination works—a spark (a premise) in the beginning, leading to several trees of thought; until, finally, it arrives to some sort of ‘chapter’ (for lack of a better word) in which the next section begins.

The poem also makes heavy use of enjambment—lines unseparated by punctuation, for those of you unfamiliar with literary nomenclature.

This means that the lines flow into one another; a fact which, I believe, is helped by the use of some rhyme and a lot of alliteration. There’s even a bit of assonance, though it rarely occurs.

Now that the structure is out the way, we’ll get onto the story. You’ll have noticed that most of my poems have a strong narrative: I believe this is due to the fact that I am (surprisingly) a logical person with a very linear mind.

Moreover, I think that… I don’t like poems written purely for the sake of words. The best written creations are made in the presence of the best stories, if you ask me.

Neshvetal’s Tale

His eyes
Are the colour of Winter’s
Wind-blown kiss; and his lips
Are firm like unyielding ice, but
Bright, as neon hues. His hair—ruffled
By Northern winds and distant cries of basilisks

—Leaves many an
Autumn’s caress upon
Those who gaze surreptitiously.

I begin with some description. Description in this poem is important: the poem is a most graphical one—that’s how it was created. That’s how most of my poems are formed, actually. I find it strange that I am so unable to convey that through drawing or painting; but so much more easily through words. Perhaps those are not meant to be my calling.

(You’re wishing I would leave the philosophy by the wayside, now aren’t you?)

Regardless, the poem is set in winter; fittingly, therefore, the Necromancer’s eyes are described in terms of such. This incidentally portrays him as a cold character—which he is, ostensibly.

Instead of attempting anything foolish (such as trying to assassinate his lover’s killer) he lay in wait, and so became poisoned by her caricatured memory.

His firm lips reveal his character: a tough one. He did not cry when she died. The alternative—unbeknownst to him—is far worse.

The quote ‘bright as neon hues’ reveals a degree of liveliness to him—but not a natural one.

Also: I hope you’ve noticed my little reference to ‘Leaves many an / Autumn’s caress’.

Some More ‘Interesting’ Quotes

How cruelly
Her life was taken:
By a bitter man with accrued ambition

Now for those of you unfamiliar with us writer’s various odd words, ‘accrued’ means ‘to silently accumulate—especially with regards to finance‘.

Aside from making some nice alliteration, the modifier (that’s the proper term; we don’t use ‘changer’ or even the posh adjective) reveals an aspect of ambition: how very cold, inhuman and… financial it is. (Indeed, how finance is very anti humanist—but that’s an entirely different kettle of fish…)

Life! He thinketh; such foolish tomfoolery!
Only death knows the truest hearts of undying lovers.

The last line reveals what sad parody his love has become. Oh, and did you notice my little archaism? I love archaisms: they make me sound all clever and posh.

(‘Yes, but Alex; you’ve used them inconsistently. And they’re not terribly imaginative.’ Moi: ‘It’s called effect you idiot.’)

Did you even notice the extraneous foolish on tomfoolery? There’s a fancy name for that, but I think I’ll just leave it at ‘it’s cool cos it’s stupid.’

And so love’s evil doppelgänger form
Crowns herself queen of a puppeteer.
The Throne of Puppeteers! How fitting.

Love’s evil doppelgänger form is of course a reference to the madness that plagues him now—a madness that truly invaded him once he became a Lichtr. (That’s the Proto-Zaelic—Old Arachadian—word for Lich, which is forgotten in the time period at which the Necromancer is set. I shall be writing a hopefully succinct intro on the Arachadian language soon, which shall be part of the book.)

(PS: a lich is an undead being; but a conscious, empowered and very much sentient one at that.)

The ‘puppeteers’ is a mockery of Necromancers. They puppet their undead; but like the evil puppets that they are, the undead also puppet him. (Geez, that’s a lot of puppet isn’t it?)

Also, I am making reference to the primary antagonist of the sequel, if I ever get to that.

Oh, and an earlier quote I forgot to mention:

His hands play idly with the toys of tyrants.

The ‘toys of tyrants’ refers to his knife and his spellbook. This is relevant to tyrants because their power is in fear and in political success; their knives are just toys.

His spellbook is less obvious—doesn’t he need it to Raise his undead? Well, he does, but only the more complex ones. And it is the Revenants—the many and the mindless—that form the bulk of his army.

Conclusion

My musings on my poem have been very literary and clinical. The poem, on the other hand, is very emotive. Honestly, I think its meaning is abundantly clear. I am merely drawing your attention to some of the subtleties; there are more, though, so do pay attention.

And I do hope this poem has drawn you in. You don’t think the Necromancer is boring, right? Hello? Are you there?

(Echoes of the uncaring ring emptily, leaving yours truly to work on his book. Thank you for reading.)

Exams Are Over

My exams are now officially over.

After 125 pages of revision (no, that is not a typo) and 16 past papers (not a typo), and 24 hours of exams (are you getting the gist of this?) I am finished.

I’ll say this: these 12 GCSEs of mine better be good, and they better count for something. I think the school was too optimistic on both counts, especially with the last—having a shedload of GCSEs isn’t that amazing; what counts more is having a couple of very good GCSEs.

In any case: I will be doing History, Philosophy, Maths and Physics for my A-levels in the upcoming two years. I am confident about all except Maths. That will be hard. But—I’m not certain I want to do law. And my best options after that are computer science, engineering and economics; all of which, as you may have guessed, require maths.

Let us leave such heavy matters aside though. No exams means no stress. No exams means more time. And more time means—more blogging!

My Internet connection is rather unreliable (curse BT) but I shall try and write poems, blog posts, and even get my novel and novelette on the shelves.

Speaking of which—here’s an extract from the Necromancer. It’s the Prologue, in fact. Maybe it will interest you, and my little foray into the world of writing will not have been in vain.

PS: I shall be in Romania for most of August. My grandmother has a better Internet connection than we do, but there will be some occasions where there won’t be any updates—we’ll be going to the mountainside (hopefully) and to our country home as well, in which case, Internet is not a certainty. Anyway...

Under the cold, unforgiving light of the full moon, under the harsh shadows of the Northern Mountains, there lies a forest.

The moonlight reflects off the trees to give them a stunted, unnatural feeling, like mutated giants; the moonlight reflects off the crystalline stream to give it an almost ethereal appearance, like a river into Hades; and so does the moonlight reflect off the mage.

Her eyes are bluer than polished diamonds, but in the darkness they appear more like imitation crystals. They betray anger, determination, and fear.

Her hair is light blond, like spun silver. Her robe is silver too; its fine weavings are visible even in this twilight gloom.

And she runs. She is running from him: the Necromancer.

“Come now little bird, wouldn’t want to spoil the fun for daddy now would we?” he croons sadistically.

The mage keeps running.

Damn. I should have realised their master would come running here when I killed those things. Stupid, Eiliara, stupid!

A shadow comes towards her. Its tenebrous form slides and slithers like the supernatural snake it is; it travels quickly, too quickly for a human to evade. It bypasses the streams, that being its only hindrance.

It has reached the mage.

It grips her in its icy tendrils, attempting to carry her into the dark, pitiless void from which it originates.

But the mage is ready.

“Allear Nesmbotal!” The spell makes her voice seem distorted, as if from some great chasm. It rings out, staying in the air longer than what any natural sound should. Power follows it.

The Wraith splutters, and screams, and twists. But the mage has used its greatest weakness: magic. There is a brief sense of saturation, the way a storm is just before it drops its deadly hammer. There is a brief flash of light, as if from some unseen plane. Then the creature is gone.

Stupid Neshvetal. Why send a Wraith – a being of magic – against a skilled mage? she thinks.

Moments later, the answer presents itself.

There is a sudden WOOSH of power, and the Necromancer appears.

His eyes are balls of azure light, glowing with deep, unnatural power; his hair is darker than the darkest of nights, yet it reflects the scant moonlight like some fantastical lake. His form is tall – his posture, arrogant. A cruel smile lights up his long, aristocratic nose and handsome (if rather dark) features. He knows he has won.

Maybe he has, the mage thinks. Stupid Eiliara. Of course it was bait – your magic alerted him to where you were!

“Hello my pretty,” the Necromancer says. Smugness tinges his voice.

“Damn you, Neshvetal! I am a Silver Mage in the Order of Peacekeepers: you should not be able to defeat me!” the mage replies. Her bravado is false, of course. She knows she cannot defeat this strange, alien being. She knows it deep in her heart; and although she has been trained to never feel hopeless, to never feel crushed, that is exactly what she is.

“Foolish mage. You are arrogant just like the rest of them. You think you can rule Arachadia all by yourself, sharing the wealth of the petty, unwanted Queen.

“But hear this: I will end your corrupt tyranny! No more shall Arachadia be ruled by the incompetent. No more shall peasants fear the tax collector, and no more shall the Peacekeepers exist – for I will be its new leader!”

The Necromancer attacked. Eiliara’s wards – her magic defence system – absorbed the first ball of icy blue fire that came towards her.

But she swayed.

Damn. He’s powerful.

She made a futile attempt to counter-attack. But as the words of the spell formed on her lips, she was struck by his mind.

She was enveloped in a storm, the storm of his telepathic barrage. Darkness, hatred and madness were its clouds – and behind that, there was a deep, underlying anger. She spun and spun, trying not to fall into its malignant, twisting vortex; trying not to meet the fate of the damned.

As if it were possible, the attack intensified. The mage had been trained to combat such attacks: counterspells, shields, bluffs and misdirections had been hammered into her head from day one.

None of them do her a shred of good. The Necromancer is simply too skilled, too powerful.

But before her mind finally succumbed to the darkness, before she could be overwhelmed, she summoned one last, desperate spell.

A telepathic message. It narrowly passed through the invisible magic surrounding her, finding its way to her friend – Terrin.

There was no detailed report of her findings, no vainglorious warning. The message was simple:

The Dead have risen.