“I’m sorry, Norbert. We’ve had to revoke your membership. It’s nothing personal.”

Norbert started at the sound of his name. He’d grown used to people calling him Worm. To hear his name was more than a little surprising. It was also why he knew things were serious.

He stared back at the other man until he spoke again.

“Really, Norbert. I’m very sorry.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“We had to. We had no choice.” He sighed, his chin wobbling. His gaze flicked towards the window. “They were here.”

“Who?”

“Them. They were here all day yesterday. And again this morning.” He shuddered. “It was the chanting that did it. I just can’t endure chanting, Norbert. Not since my time in the Demonic Monastery of Doom in ’56. It reminds me too much of… Of things best left unmentioned. Terrible unmentionable things. Evil things. You know what I mean.”

“Who? Who could make you do this? The King’s Guard?”

“No.” He pushed his spectacles back up his bulbous nose and shook his head. If he felt ashamed, he didn’t look it. “It was the Neighbourhood Association for Undead Rights.”

“Oh.” Worm looked down at his grimoire. He felt very tired. “Bugger.”

“Yes. Bugger indeed. Now, you know I’m not anti-undead, Norbert. You know me, right? But these people… They’re very loud. And you did… Well. You know what you did.” He sighed again before pulling out a small scroll. “Look. Take this. It’s an introduction letter to a friend of mine. He might be able to get you out of the city for a while. To… You know. Sort things out, I suppose. Then, once this all blows over, we can possibly look to reinstating you.”

“Right.” He wanted to shout at him, but instead found himself reaching for the scroll. “Who’s it for?”

“Ah. Well. Do you know where the Dungeon Master’s guild is?”

“Oh.” Worm closed my eyes. “Bugger.”

----------------------------------------

Every day, a tired old man hauls himself from his bed and shambles into his little kitchen.

He prepares a simple meal. Oats. A bit of milk. Half an apple.

A pinch of cinnamon on a good day.

After eating it all with the passion of a potato, he shuffles out the door. At sight of the cobblestone street, he lets out a minor groan of distaste. Spits on the sidewalk.

Then whips out a large broom and starts sweeping the road.

He’s been doing it for forty years.

You’d think if you had done something for forty years that you’d be able to claim some level of mastery over it. But sweeping the road is something you can master in about twenty minutes if your Intelligence stat is particularly low.

Which it has to be if you want to be a street sweeper.

What I mean is, you wouldn’t call him a Master Street Sweeper.

This same logic should apply to Dungeon Masters but if it did then nobody would want to be one.

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The room was cramped. The desk was cluttered.

Behind it, Gripthook Ood studied Worm with a mix of wariness, resentment, and amusement.

Like all goblins, he was short. Unlike most, he was fat. He had a heavy brow, a heavier nose, and his little red eyes squinted through the thick smoky glass of his spectacles.

He sighed a lot and had recently eaten more beans than the average person with any sensibility should.

He clearly didn’t like Worm. But he didn’t not like him, either. He was, mostly, ambivalent to the point of rudeness.

“So, you’re Norbert Granfield Nightwhisper.”

Worm nodded in response. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

“I always wondered what you’d look like.”

“Wonder no more.”

His wide grey eyes settled on Worm in a way which made his froglike head look reptilian.

“You know, iIt’s not often I meet a Lord.” He couldn’t quite hide the bitterness in his tone. Goblins weren’t allowed into the nobility of Eldoria. Not since the last one was found guilty of major tax fraud.

“You still haven’t.” Worm returned Gripthook’s bitterness with some of his own. He liked to think it was sharper. “I had my title stripped from me.”

“And your lands, too,” he said. Not quite smug, but close.

“Yes. I remember.”

“And all your belongings.”

“I know. I was there.”

“And all your gold.”

“They didn’t get all of it.”

“Oh?” His eyes twinkled and an edge of greed slid into his smile.

“That’s right.” Worm patted the money pouch clipped to his belt. “I still have twelve gold coins.”

“Twelve? Imperial or Common?”

“Common.”

The goblin grunted sourly. “So, eleven.”

“Twelve. And two silvers.” He showed him a small copper coin. “And this penny. Of course, no one knows what country it’s from, so no one will accept it as legal currency.”

“Eleven gold won’t last long.”

“Twelve. I’ll be broke by Tuesday,” Worm said. “Thursday if I skip breakfast.”

“And if you skip lunches?”

“Thursday. I’m already skipping lunches.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “There’s a beggar who sits in the alley two shops down. Stinks of fish and booze. Everyone stays away from him where they can. I’m fairly sure he’s got more than eleven gold in his hat.”

“He does. And the Beggars Guild also rejected me.”

At that, the goblin grimaced. His chin didn’t wobble, but his ears did. “Well. It’s your own fault, you know. If you hadn’t-”

“Can we talk about something else, please? Like, will you let me join your guild or not?”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

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“It’s perfect for you, all things considered. It’s far enough away that no one should know who you are or what you’ve done. And it’s a relatively young Dungeon, too.”

“How young?”

“Err… It’s, umm, quite young...” The goblin’s cheeks reddened a little, which always looks strange on green skin. Then quickly mumbled something under his breath.

“Sorry?”

“Alright. In the interest of transparency, I said it’s six months old. Give or take a month. Probably take.”

“Oh.” Worm felt something inside his gut squirm uncomfortably. The kind of something which started as discomfort. Then turned into an itch. And, finally, mindless rage which often initiated a rampage of murder and mayhem. “Bugger.”

“Don’t underestimate it, Norbert. Dungeons can be tricky things when they’re young.” The goblin kept writing as he spoke, filling out the required forms. “They’re also very impressionable. Look at this as a unique opportunity to study a fresh new Dungeon and support its growth. You mages like to study things, don’t you?”

Worm said nothing.

Instead, he watched the neat strokes of the goblin’s pen.

Finally, Gripthook looked up and offered a smile which might have been just a little apologetic. “Sign here, if you will.”

Worm quickly read the document. Even if it were true, he tried not to offend Gripthook by making him think he was only reading it because it’d been written by a goblin.

Goblins loved clauses and, true to his instincts, he’d put a few in.

Surprisingly, there was nothing too horrible.

Except…

“Ten gold a month?” Worm blinked. “How can I live on that? That’s… That’s… I don’t know what it is, but it is. And I don’t like it!”

“It’s the set rate for a Level One Dungeon, Norbert,” he said. He almost sounded apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything else I can give to you. You know… Because you… Did what you did… Anywhere I put you would lead to more trouble. For you more than me, of course.”

“Oh.”

“Chin up, though. If you work patiently with the Dungeon, you might be able to get it to Level Two by winter.”

“Does that come with a pay rise.”

“Of course!”

“How much?”

The goblin squeezed out a small cough. “One gold.” Then, quickly; “But it does come with free accommodation!”

“Well. That’s something, I guess.”

“Exactly. It’s a wizard tower not too far from the Dungeon.”

“Wizard tower?”

“Yes. A fabulous place, I’m told. A lot of charm and personality. And so much history!”

Worm sighed. “It’s a ruin, isn’t it?”

“Well.” He bit his lip. “It might need a little maintenance. It’s been a while since anyone lived in it.”

“How long?”

“About two hundred years.”

“What? You mean no one has tried living in it for two centuries? Why not?”

“Well, the locals say it’s haunted.” He gave me a wry grin. “But you’re a Necromancer, right? A little ghost shouldn’t bother you at all…”

“Oh.” The Necromancer looked at the window. They were only on the second floor. All he’d get if he jumped out would be some minor abrasions and an Alchemist’s bill. “Bugger.”

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His Inventory contained a small tin of grave dirt, a jar of mandrake root tea, a plain iron dagger, two pickled thumbs, and his precious grimoire of spells and incantations.

Other than his cape, which gave +1 to protection from sunlight, his mostly black necromantic garb was unenchanted and in need of repairs he couldn’t afford. It had once been of fine quality with trims of black lace back when its Durability was high.

In his pocket, Worm carried a couple of dead moths, two tickets for the next carriage to Heartwood Hollow, and a pamphlet called The Dungeon Master’s Guide to Dungeons.

Gripthook said the pamphlet contained everything he needed to know and was enchanted to respond to verbal questions.

He sat in a tavern for a few minutes and all he learnt from it was that the goblin had greatly exaggerated its usefulness.

The barmaid asked if he was going to order something.

He asked what she had for a silver.

She asked him to leave.

Worm left.

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Very few mages have the potential to be accepted into the Mages Guild.

They don’t just take anyone.

It takes passion, power, a high Intelligence stat and gold.

Lots of gold.

A title helps.

That’s how Norbert got in. He ticked all those boxes. He’d also been granted a rare Class when he came of age. At the time, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Necromancy was special. The thought of rummaging through graveyards didn’t excite him all that much.

But his parents were ecstatic. A rare class, no matter what it was, guaranteed entry into the Mages Guild and this would reflect well on the family.

As Norbert entered those hallowed halls the first day, he’d expected hard work. He’d expected years of shenanigans with a plucky and loyal cadre of fellows, and perhaps a nice dramatic graduation where everyone recognised him as the best student the Guild had ever had.

Glory. Power. Fame.

These he’d expected.

Norbert didn’t expect to find pretty much everyone came from richer families than his and would spend the next few years bullied and tormented.

Everyone hated or ignored him. He had no friends. Not even the kitchen staff.

By far the worst was her. Aurora Angeline Asterwood.

Disgusted by his Class, she likened the young Necromancer to a worm digging through soil looking for dead things. Everyone thought that was funny and, from that day onward, Norbert wasn’t Norbert.

He was Worm.

Aurora Astorwood.

Hers was the first name he wrote on a blank page at the back of his grimoire.

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“You don’t have to evict me, Mrs Bramble. Daisy and I will be leaving tomorrow morning if that’s alright with you.”

“Hmm.”

Worm knew she wanted to kick him out right there and then, but she knew if she did then Daisy would leave too. And she was eager to prove she cared about Daisy’s feelings even if, not very deep down, she didn’t.

They stood there for a few more heartbeats, eyes locked on each other. An invisible battle was being waged. On one side was the hardened landlady with steel in her eyes and razors for teeth.

On the other, a Necromancer with, quite literally, nothing left to lose.

Mrs Bramble scowled and shrugged in defeat. “Just you make sure everything is in good condition before you leave! I won’t hesitate to take it to the constabulary if you’ve damaged my property.”

“Of course.”

“And make sure you sweep the floors.”

“Naturally.”

“And fold the sheets!”

“Is there anything else?” Worm raised an eyebrow. “Daisy will be happy to scrub the walls too, if you want.”

The old woman’s wrinkled lips twisted like little ropes as she realised any work she gave him would only go to Daisy. “What you’ve done to that poor girl… It should be outlawed! You should be in prison, you should. And never let out! You’re disgusting. You hear me? Absolutely the vilest creature I’ve ever met.”

“You should get out more,” Worm murmured, turning away.

“What did you say?”

“Goodnight, Mrs Bramble.”

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Worm trudged upstairs, his mood made more sour as he heard cheerful humming from within the room.

Opening the door, the Necromancer found himself greeted by a sight both familiar and disturbing.

His Level One Undead Servant, Daisy Deadwood, was busy dusting the windowsill.

With a feather duster.

Dressed in a maid uniform of white lace and black silk.

Like most undead, she was thin to the point of being skeletal. Any clothing she wore should be able to cover her slim frame, but the uniform revealed more of her pale grey skin than it covered. She was, Worm noticed with a guilty blush, surprisingly soft in places designed to be soft.

His strangled gasp morphed into a string of hiccups which would terrorize the Necromancer until morning.

She whirled with a delighted squeal and threw herself into his arms. “Master! You’re home at last! Oh, I’ve missed you so much. It’s been so long! Did you miss me, too?”

“It’s only been two hours…”

“Was it?” She gazed up at him as he struggled to extricate himself. Her violet eyes fluttered in a way he was fairly sure she thought was seductive. “It felt like forever. Please don’t leave me alone again. Without you, I feel so empty I could die. Again.”

“Get off me!” He finally worked himself out of her grip and frowned at her skirt. “What are you wearing?”

She twirled, showing there wasn’t much skirt at the back. In fact, not much was being generous. The skirt lifted as she twirled and he could see her silky white panties underneath.

If he looked closely, he could also see-

“Do you like?”

Worm snarled, staggering away from the girl as if she was a viper. “Bloody hells, Daisy!”

She grinned, eyes sparkling. “I’ll take that as a yes. I knew you would. Daddy said you’d like it.”

“Your father knows you have this?”

“Of course! He paid for it. Mummy insisted that if I’m going to be a servant that I should dress like one.” Daisy hummed happily as she spun again, those white panties flashing brightly. “They cut me out of my inheritance, of course. And I’ve been formally removed from the family. But it’s worth it, Master. Because I can now be with you forever! Isn’t that wonderful? This is the best day of my death!”

“Daisy, you can’t… You can’t wear this! Everyone already thinks the worst of me. This… Do you have any idea what they’ll say?”

“But it’s very trendy, Master. All the best servants in Upper Scotswald have them.”

“Of course they do. And do you know what else they have in Upper Bloody Scotswald?” Worm tore his enraged gaze from her trembling breasts and glared into her eyes instead. “Bloody syphilis!”

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The raising of an Undead Servant involves a highly complex and exhausting ritual which returns the soul of a recently departed being into their body. It also binds their will to the Necromancer, ensuring total submissive obedience.

At least, that’s what is supposed to happen.

Sometimes, things just go wrong.

Like, for example, if a certain Necromancer who’d been celebrating for two days straight and was deep in his cups were to delve into a shiny new marble crypt and raise a fresh corpse without the proper preparation.

Then, if he was too drunk to remember what colour candles to use and thought the red ones were good enough before forgetting the incantation which binds the undead’s will to his own…

Well.

To say things could go awry would be an understatement.

Most spirits aren’t thrilled at being forced back into their corpse.

In fact, it makes them very tetchy.

This sort of thing generally ends with the Necromancer being reduced to a well-chewed lump of meat and bone fragments.

It’s very messy.

Unfortunately, as Daisy’s eyes re-opened only days after her death, she gazed up at Worm not with revulsion or rage.

But with awe and adoration.

“I love you,” she breathed into the drunk Necromancer’s ear as he struggled to get loose of her.

She was, Worm knew, a malignant spawn of evil and he had to find a way to destroy her.

His sanity depended on it…