Tired Of Death

Urt awoke to a hammering noise that seemed to force its way in through his nostrils and then bounce around inside his skull. 

"Dreg's* balls!" he m.o.a.n.e.d, raising his hands to his face. "What the hell happened?"

"Oh thank the powers of darkness, you're finally awake!" The familiar voice of Horace came from nearby.

Forcing his eyes open, Urt discovered he was lying down. Above him was an unfamiliar ceiling. The paint was peeling he noted. 

"Open up! We want our money back! Cheater!" A muffled voice added to Urt's headache. 

"Where am I? What happened?" Urt sat up, and discovered three things.

The first was that he was in a bedroom the likes of which he had never imagined. It was pink all over, with cushions that had frills on them. A slightly battered dressing table sat opposite, with Horace's head propped up against the large mirror leaning against the wall. The reflection allowed him to discover the second thing.

The only item he was wearing was a frilly gown with pink fur trim.

The third thing he discovered was that sudden movement triggered a wave of nausea. That, in turn, resulted in him leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting violently for a good minute. Some of the things that came out he couldn't recognize.

"Way to go!" Horace said, above the hammering. 

"What... happened?" croaked Urt, wiping his mouth and gasping for breath. 

"Master, you were amazing. If I'm dead another thousand years I'll still be telling the tale of last night. The necromancer that conquered Mudrut, separated the cheating locals from their money, and captured the heart of the girl. It was magnificent."

"Wha… what's that hammering?" Urt clutched at his head and wished he could remove it until the pain went away.

"The cheating locals. I think they want the money back."

"What money?" Urt's thought process was still only up to the pink thing he was wearing.

"The money you won master! I say you fight them for it! Banish them with magic! Though you'd better cast a spell quickly, before they break the door down."

Urt finally caught up with what Horace was saying, though he was still utterly confused in many other regards. What was apparent though, was that people intent on doing him harm appeared to d.e.s.i.r.e entrance. 

Risking another bout of nausea, he glanced around the room again. Apart from the besieged door, the only other exit appeared to be a window. There was also no sign of his clothes.

"Master?" Horace wiggled his eyebrows. "I don't wish to worry you, but I don't think that door's going to hold much longer."

"Dreg's balls," repeated Urt. His turnip was missing too.

*Dreg: Minor deity of not quite living things.

~ * ~

"We want our money back!" The angry voice from outside was only just audible above the hammering on the door.

Holding his head with both hands, to ensure it didn't fall off, Urt staggered over to the window and looked out.

Through the gloomy dawn outside he saw he was impossibly high up off the ground, perhaps even as far as the third floor. He let go of his head and held onto the windowsill to steady himself. This wasn't a good time to find out he was afraid of heights.

The thumping on the door stopped, though he doubted the angry gamblers had given up. More likely they were just getting organized. 

"Cast a heal spell master!" Horace urged, casting worried glances at both him and the door.

"I'm a necromancer not a cleric damn it," Urt replied, he stumbled back to the bed and sat down heavily on it. 

"I saw old Mangle heal himself once," Horace said. "It was only a scratch, but he healed it."

"I don't remember that." Urt closed his eyes in the hope that it would help his nausea. It didn't. 

"It's true though."

"Fine." Trying to block out the pain, not very successfully, Urt considered how a necromancer could have healing skills. On first examination it didn't seem likely, but then he thought about it again. He dealt in raising the dead, which obviously meant that the magic had to, in some form at least, affect rotting flesh, making it stronger and more resilient. What if he tried that on living tissue?

"It's risky," he mumbled, just as the hammering resumed. This time it was in the form of a single, forceful attack.

"They've put together a battering ram," Horace exclaimed.

"Cease your babbling," commanded Urt. "Let me concentrate." He went over the spells he used to raise the dead, considering which ones would be the most likely to work on his immense headache. Finally he decided to merge parts of two.

Standing up again, he mentally went over his improvised spell once more. Once that was done he nodded to himself, which nearly instigated another bout of vomiting.

"Right." Raising his hands, he summoned the Power, which seemed more willing to respond than usual, and incanted the Words needed.

Immediately his headache eased, and strength flooded through his limbs.

"Woo!" he exclaimed, bucking up. "That hits the spot!" Then he sagged back slightly. He still didn't feel totally well, but at least he could think a little more clearly. Another thump at the door made him wince again, and he snarled.

"Stop that you imbecile! I have a headache."

The pounding ceased, to be replaced by a gravelly voice. 

"Give us back your money and we'll let you live. Probably."

"Your money is it? I think it's my money. Why would I give you back my money?" Urt wondered where the money actually was, he couldn't see any in the room.

"You used magic to win the game! You're a dark sorcerer! An evil mage!"

"So what if I am?"

That seemed throw them. There was a short bout of muffled whispering. 

���You're evil!" the voice restated eventually. "And you cheated."

It seemed to Urt they were more concerned about their losses than the fact he was a wizard. "Go away or I'll blast you into turnip," he shouted. "By the way, where is my turnip?"

"We've called the Warden," the voice replied, ignoring the question. "He'll deal with you if you don't give us our money back. He don't like cheats he don't. Or evil warlocks."

Urt decided to try persuasion. "Look, just because I'm evil doesn't mean I'm a bad person."

This statement provoked another bout of whispering. 

"We think it does."

Urt's patience, never a large supply, dried up. "Very well. Come and die foolish minions." He rolled the sleeves of his pink gown up and tried to think of some kind of offensive spell whilst the hammering resumed.

The problem with Necromancers is that they weren't really big on actual battle spells. It was simple evolution. Death Mages were supposed to be surrounded by an obedient horde of raised horrors. Any hero strong enough to fight their way through an army of the walking dead was probably not going to be put off by a few fireballs anyway. 

"Curses," he said. 

"Why don't you just Turn them boss?" asked Horace. 

"They're not undead you idiot."

"There's no need for name calling." The head gave a sniff. 

Urt considered the spells he knew. They were mainly limited to raising and animating. What if he tried the raising part, but in reverse, on his betting friends? It was worth a try he decided, especially as the door was beginning to splinter under the continual assault.

He tied the belt of his robe about his middle and concentrated again. With his head clearer, the magic responded even faster, congealing in an almost visible dark cloud. 

"Bastalar!" he cried, opening the spell with a forceful Word of evil. His enemies on the other side of the door cried out in alarm as they realized what he was doing, and redoubled their efforts. The door began to come off its hinges.

Sweating slightly, Urt incanted as fast as he dared, concentrating as hard as he'd ever done. Word after Word fell from his lips as the door slowly gave way under the battering. Perspiration beaded his brow. Casting magic when under stress was harder than he'd anticipated. He shook his head slightly and uttered the final Words just as the wooden portal gave way to one final attack, and fell inwards with a loud crash.

"Zamara!" With a dramatic cry, Urt raised his arms and swept them around in a double thrust towards the group that was hastily reorganizing from siege to attack force.

Urt's robe fell open. 

"Arg!" the angry gamblers cried as a one.

"Ah ha!" Urt declared in triumph. "Feel my power! You peasants are under my control. Bow before your new master."

"I'm not bowing," replied the first man, a big fellow dressed in a simple brown tunic and wielding a large club. "Close your robe!"

"Oh." Urt lowered his hands and pulled the pink thing he was wearing closed in a dignified a fashion as was possible, which wasn't much.