The group of half a dozen gamblers turned lynch squad stepped forward in a threatening manner. The lead man waved his weapon in a threatening manner, although most weapon waving tended to be that.

    "Where''s the money wizard?"

    "I, erm, I''m not sure," Urt replied, truthfully, stepping back slightly and wondering why his spell had failed. "How about you take this talking head instead?" He pointed at Horace. "It''s very valuable."

    "Oh thank you very much!" the zombie said.

    "I don''t want to be given head," the thug replied, then paused for a moment as he considered the statement.

    "Where''s his… our money Kang?" said another, much smaller and skinnier man, just behind the leader.

    "Yeah, give us the money and we''ll probably just let you off with a beating." Kang, as he''d been identified, rubbed at his arm and glared at Urt.

    Spotting the movement, Urt stood straighter, in a belated attempt to recover some of his dignity, despite his current garments. He smiled slightly, doing his best to emulate his old master''s evil grin. "If you wish to live, I would suggest you grovel on the floor and beg forgiveness now."

    "What are you talking about?" The man scratched at his arm again and then his eyes widened. Looking down he cried out and dropped his club.

    Maggots fell to the floor alongside the weapon, dripping in a steady stream from sleeves of Urt''s aggressors, who screamed in panic as the small white creatures wiggled from their skin, puncturing through the flesh in a bloody orgy, trying to free themselves from their meaty prison.

    "Stop it! Stop it!" The lead man, now openly weeping, begged Urt as he plucked the small worms from his body. It had little effect, more followed, in a never ending stream. And now movement could be seen under his tunic.

    Urt laughed. "You dared to ?ssault me! Now you pay the price for that impudence. Writhe on the floor peasant! Writhe and wriggle like those that will consume you from the inside out, and know that Urt the Necromancer… the Great and Dark Necromancer," he added, supplementing his title, "has claimed bloody vengeance!"

    "No…" the man croaked, dropping to his knees. Blood dripped down his cheeks as small white forms burst out of his eyes and writhed about in the dim light.

    Behind him, his friends were already on the floor, limbs twitching as their muscles were consumed by the growing mound of small white forms. Blood pooled out on the floorboards in a dark counterpoint to the feeding creatures.

    "Boss!" Horace said.

    "Yes Horace?" Urt replied, eyes still on the dying men in front of him.

    "That was awesome! High five!"

    Urt sniffed. "Yes, well. One cannot allow these upstarts to act as they please now, can one?" He stepped back, to avoid standing in the spreading pool of blood.

    "I didn''t know you could even do that!" Horace continued. "I mean, maggots! That''s pure evil genius. How did you think of that?"

    "A true practitioner of the dark arts must present a certain artistic flair," Urt said, not mentioning that the effect wasn''t at all what he''d been trying for. "Anyone can simply kill someone." He waved his hands in a dismissive fashion. "Now, where are my clothes?"

    "Your extra-large girlfriend took them whilst you were sleeping," Horace replied. "She also took your purse and your turnip and climbed out of the window."

    "The window?" he asked, puzzled. "Why didn''t she just take the door? And why didn''t you wake me?"

    "I tried!" Horace said, rolling his eyes madly. "You were about as lively as your friends there." He glanced at the oozing remains of the angry gamblers.

    "Wonderful. What am I supposed to wear now?"

    "There''s bound to be more clothes around somewhere," the head said.

    "I suppose."

    Urt looked around the room. Apart from the dresser, which Horace was resting on, there was very little in the way of furnishings. He pulled the single drawer open in the desk. Inside was a sealed envelope and a silver hairbrush. He picked the envelope up and examined it. There was no addressee on it, but it had a deep red wax seal with the insignia of a crumbling tower.

    "Interesting," he said, picking at the wax with a finger. An act that was interrupted by a distant crashing noise, like glass breaking.

    "Did you hear that?" Horace asked.

    Wrapping his flimsy robe around himself a little tighter, Urt picked up Horace and tucked the head, and the letter, under his arm.

    "Let''s go and see," he said.

    Picking his way around the oozing mess that was all that remained of his gambling buddies, Urt slipped out of the room and padded gingerly downstairs. Shoes, he found, were severely under-appreciated. He resolved to look after the next pair he managed to acquire.

    The stairs led down into the main room he remembered from, what he ?ssumed was the previous night. There had been little change since that time. The tables still cluttered the majority of the floor space, and the bar was as he left it, with its row of bottles lined up against the wall. He saw the bottle housing the clear liquid named Scud and gave an involuntary shudder.

    There was one fairly noticeable difference though. It came in the shape of a figure standing by the shattered window.

    "And this would be the Warden I''m guessing," Horace said.

    "Oh dear," said Urt. "What are you?"

    "I have been summoned!"

    The figure standing in the centre of the room glared at Urt. His large, two handed axe sparkled in the low light, a direct contradiction to the studded matt black leather that covered most of his muscular body. The deadly air was only slightly spoiled by the very small poodle by his side. It had a pink bow on top of its head.

    "And you would be?" Urt asked, trying to wrap his gown a bit tighter around himself whilst not dropping Horace and the letter.

    "I''m The Warden. Guardian of this village. Nice gown." His voice was higher pitched than Urt would expect from someone of such a fearsome appearance.

    "Um… thank you. It''s a friend''s." Urt made up, still not fully back to full cognizance.

    "Oh, you''re such a fibber." The Guardian put a hand on his hip and raised an eyebrow. "He''s such a fibber isn''t he Fluffy?"

    The small poodle by his side yapped once.

    "No really!"

    "Very well sweetie, whatever you say. Now where''s this miscreant they complained about? I hear he''s a necromancer. I simply hate them, don''t you? So… icky." He made a face.

    Urt was torn between a d?s?r? to argue against the ickyness of his profession and the obvious respect due to the large axe the strange man was holding. There was no way he''d get a spell off before the weapon could be applied. Self-preservation finally beat pride by a whisper.

    "Yes indeed, total blagards no doubt. I heard a disturbance just up the stairs. I was the one that called you, in fact. Help," he added, as an afterthought.

    "Let''s just hope I don''t have to slay a dozen zombies first. I ruined my nails last time that happened." The warden held out a hand, revealing the items in question, which were painted a deep red colour.

    "That would be terrible," Urt agreed, unsure of what else to say. "I don''t think there are any zombies. At least I didn''t hear any." He shrugged.

    "That''s nice then. Where is he now?"

    "Upstairs somewhere," Urt said. "I, er, ran down here to get away." He stood to one side to allow the large man passage.

    "Is that a head you''re holding?" The Warden glared at Horace, still tucked under Urt''s arm. The zombie sensibly remained inert, much to Urt''s relief.

    "Yes." Urt thought quickly. "I''m a travelling salesman. This is one of my collection of shrunken heads. The last one I have in stock in fact."

    "It doesn''t look very shrunken to me." The Warden lifted his alarmingly large axe up. Besides him the poodle growled, though to be honest it didn''t add much to the menace.

    "It was a giant." Urt smiled disarmingly. "Are you interested in purchasing it? I can do a good price for such an upstanding citizen."

    "It''s a bit icky for me," the Warden replied. "Now, you should take your cute little behind away. This could get messy, necromancers are usually all blood and rot and such, terrible really. It takes simply ages to get the stains out of my leather. Come along Fluffy!" He snapped his finger at the dog, which trotted obediently after its master, growling at Urt as it went past.

    "I''ll just go and stand outside," said Urt.

    The Warden ignored him, no doubt worried about the state of his nails. Urt took the chance to escape out of the main exit, grabbing a large brown cloak that was draped over a chair as he fled.