The village of Mudrut in the early morning was as quiet as the swamp. Quieter actually, as there were fewer toads and other night animals crawling about.

    "It''s a bit spooky isn''t it?" Horace whispered, as Urt traipsed down the middle of the main street.

    "Spooky? How can you think something''s spooky?" Urt asked. "You''re a hideous flesh eating undead, or the head of one at least. You are spooky."

    "I never really liked ghosts," the zombie confided. "Give me the willies they do. All pale and ghostlike."

    "I must have been on some kind of funny juice when I raised you," Urt said, shaking his head. He looked around. "Right, this should do."

    "Why do we have to do this in the middle of town?" Horace asked.

    "I told you already. This is where the greatest concentration of life force is. The passed over always congregate near the Warmth of Life. Moths to the flame and all that. Now shut up, I''m trying to concentrate."

    "Yes boss." Horace looked up at the raised girl who was carrying him. "You be quiet too," he said. Lucy, never the big talker, merely raised her eyebrows in response.

    Urt closed his eyes and extended his senses. Old Mangle had taught him the spell for conversing with ghosts, but he hadn''t needed it. He could do that already, just by concentrating, something he''d not mentioned to his missing mentor.

    "Heed me!" he commanded to the pale shadows of the dead, as he felt their presence drifting about around him. "Show yourself! By my power, you will attend me." He opened his eyes again and looked about. Half a dozen ghosts were facing him, curious expressions on their shimmering faces.

    "Who are you then?" one of them, the spirit of an old lady with her hair done up in a bun, asked.

    "I am…"

    "He''s a necromancer isn''t he? What a stupid question," said the spirit of man with a deep gash in his neck. "Who else would be calling us?"

    "You shut up Roger," the old lady ghost replied. "He could be a passing traveller, wanting to know the way out of here, goodness knows I''d leave if I could."

    "There''s nothing wrong with this place," the ghost of Roger scowled back.

    "Oh, ignore him," Granny said to Urt. "He always did think he knew everything."

    "How would you know? You died years before me." Roger sniffed.

    "I watched you," the woman said. "And may I just add that…"

    "Ahem." Urt interrupted the impending argument. "Attend me!"

    "''oo''s this then?" asked the ghost of an old man, drifting up to the group. Urt could see more spirits beginning to congregate, attracted by the excitement. No doubt being dead in Mudrut was possibly the one thing that was worse than being alive in Mudrut.

    "He''s a necromancer, obviously," Roger pointed out patiently.

    "Ooh, we ''aven''t ''ad one of them around ''ere for a while." the newcomer peered at Urt through ghostly spectacles. "What you want then?"

    "I''m trying to tell you, if only you''d stop jabbering for a minute," Urt scowled.

    "Cheeky bugger!" the old woman said. "You pay respect to your elders!"

    "I''m only ten," said the spirit of a very thin young boy.

    "You''ve been ten for three hundred years," the woman replied, but in a more kindly tone.

    "Shut up!" Urt shouted, losing his temper, and then looking about, nervous that he would wake the living. "Now, listen. You lot are going to help me…"

    "Presumptuous beggar ''ain''t ''e?" the old man interrupted.

    "You just don''t get the same quality of necromancer these days," another, middle aged, ghost said.

    "What would you know about it?" said the spirit of a woman dressed in a short skirt. "You only died six months ago."

    "Again, be quiet!" hissed Urt as loudly as he dared.

    "May as well hear him out," the woman said. "What do you want dearie?"

    "Firstly, my name is Urt, necromancer," Urt said. He stood a little straighter. "You will address me with the respect my station deserves."

    "I thought I was doing," the ghost commented.

    "Secondly," Urt ploughed on. "I need information, and you lot are going to give it to me."

    "I don''t think I like your tone young man," the middle aged spirit said.

    "Presumptuous," the old man ghost repeated.

    "Don''t make me send you all to purgatory!" Urt said, gritting his teeth. He looked at the ?ssembled dead and nodded as they remained quiet. "I''m a dark mage remember? There are worse things than simply being dead!"

    He glared at the crowd of spirits, who suddenly looked very sheepish. Those that were still Present enough to still have feet, shuffled them.

    "Better," he said, nodding. "Now then, this is what I want to know…"

    ~ * ~

    Giles staggered out of his house and, holding on to the edge of the horse trough with both hands, plunged his head into the icy water within.

    "No more Scud for me, ever again," he m??n?d. "Hello, what''s going on here?"

    Traipsing over to the small crowd in the middle of the street, he squinted into the rising sun to see a young man in black robes address his fellow villagers.

    "My name is Urt, and I am a Wizard of Death! You will answer my questions or suffer my wrath."

    "Sod off," said Henry, the town clerk. "We''re not afraid of you. The Warden will sort you out good and proper."

    "Maybe, maybe not," the wizard replied. "However, if you call him, I??ll just have to tell everyone here what you do in the living room with the dog won''t I Henry?" The mage smiled grimly.

    "Er…" Henry stumbled backwards.

    "And you, Harriet," the wizard pointed a finger at the first wife of the local priest. "I know all about you and a certain young schoolboy."

    "I never!" shrieked Harriet, both palms on her face.

    Giles sniggered, and then stopped as the mage shifted his finger to point at him.

    "Giles. You won''t be laughing when I tell your wife about what''s buried behind the privy."

    Gasping, Giles shut up quickly. How did he know about that? he wondered.

    "What do you want wizard?" asked someone from the front of the crowd.

    The Dark mage smiled.

    ~ * ~

    Urt glared at the small crowd of Mudruttians as they shifted uncomfortably in front of him. Once he was sure there wasn''t going to be any more challenges, he nodded and spoke again, in a slightly kinder tone.

    "Right, what can you tell me about Groan?" he asked.

    "Groan?" Harriet said, making a face. "What do you want to know about that place for? It''s two days hard ride to the East."

    "Right," another man, who looked like a farmer, agreed. "I don''t hold with ''forn places. They have all sorts of funny customs."

    "I hear they put their poop in a hole, rather than have it flow healthily down the middle of the road," Giles added.

    "Disgusting!" the farmer exclaimed. "How can the vapours escape?"

    "And sometimes they put themselves in water!" Henry chimed in, eager to contribute his knowledge to the general conversation. "In water! Water I tell you!"

    There was a general muttering about the horrors of strange lands.

    Sensing he wasn''t going to get any useful information about Groan, Urt changed his line of questioning to something closer to home.

    "What about the town of Necromancers then? What do you know about that?"

    "They''re evil! Evil!" Henry waved his hands about.

    "Do a good pie though," Harriet said. "So I hear."

    "Pie? It''s made by zombies! They''re dead people," the farmer pointed out. "And not all properly dead either, they''re all shambling about with bits falling off. Unsanitary, zombies cooking."

    Urt had to agree with that, and resolved not to eat the pie, should he make it to Banesville. Still, he needed more specific information.

    "So where is this place then?"

    "North and east a bit," Giles said.

    "No, it''s west," the farmer disagreed.

    "I heard it was south of the swamp," the town clerk said.

    "None of you have been there have you?" Urt asked.

    There was an uncomfortable mumbling, and the small group shuffled their feet. Someone muttered something about ''forn parts'' again.

    Sighing, Urt tried another tack.

    "Fine, never mind then. I don''t suppose anyone has heard of the Lexicon Tormentus?"

    "What''s a lexicon?" asked the farmer.

    "A kind of book," Henry replied.

    "Oh." The farmer scratched his head.

    He''s going to ask what a book is, Urt thought.

    "What''s a…"

    "Very well," Urt interrupted. "Just one more thing, and then you can go about whatever pathetic business that usually occupies you."

    Several blank stares met his, and he decided that, should he ever gather his undead horde, Mudrut would be wiped off the face of the earth.

    "I need a horse and food. You will supply me."

    Once again, the gathered townspeople fidgeted uncomfortably.

    "You do have a horse, don''t you?" he asked.

    "Well," Henry replied. "Sort of…"