Friday, March 6, 2015

Alex Stargazer ~ an interview and his novel The Necromancer

Alex Stargazer

The Necromancer (Linaera the Great, Book #1)
By Alex Stargazer
Genre: Dark Fantasy, High Fantasy, Young Adult


I’m called Alex Stargazer. That’s not my real name. And no: I’m not going to tell you. I like a little mystery.

What I will tell you: I’m sixteen. I have a passion for fantasy; and a soft spot for romance. I like to write about anything fantastical (elves are a favourite; dragons too) and my favourite book’s either Narnia or Northern Lights—never could decide, poor vacillating me.

Anyway: give my stuff a read. You might like it. No, really; I got fans. (If you listen carefully at night, you’ll hear them whispering my name. They’re shy, are my fans; but they’re a determined lot.)

PS: if you want to know more, email me at Yes, the address is deliberately long; I don’t like stalkers. They scare me.

Q: Tell me one thing about each of the four seasons you like. It can be anything. A: Which of the four seasons do I liketh most? An interesting question, I dare say; and he’s my answer:
Winter = Ah, my old favourite! I love Winter. I love those quintessential flakes of white; I love their peace, their mellow promises contained within their icy touch. So too I enjoy warm fires, and sweet, guilty pleasures of all sweet things. In short: Winter is my age old love. I could write all my novels within its equally cruel and beautiful grasp—but alas, I fear my readers would not find her so congenial a beast.

Spring = Admittedly not a favourite. Even so, the gleam of newborn green can bring much reprieve from the ever present darkness of former months.

Summer = Ah, the time when sunshine springs forth (or not, as is the case in England). ’Tis a time for warmth and movement; but those are not my virtues. I enjoy summer for what it is—but it is Winter that gives fond memories.

Fall/Autum = Summer’s alluring warmth gives way to cold wind; and nature signals the coming of the darkness through the quintessential decaying leaves. I think of Autumn as a kind of Limbo—ironically, since it is when I am most productive (this very book was started then).

Q: How do you feel when a reader (or a fan) takes the time to contact you?
A: What do I feel when a fan contacts me? A sense of giddiness and apprehension. Giddiness, for I am flattered; apprehensive, for my works are imperfect, and may be so criticised.

Q: If you could morph into any creature what would it be?
A: If I could be any creature? Well, it would have to be the dragon. Without a doubt. Such a noble creature; such a terrifying monster.
If you don’t mind me asking, why?
A: Perhaps I am a romantic old fool; but perhaps those great reptiles are a being worthy of my soul. Though I dare say that—unlike the dragons of my world’s former years—I would not be so quick to bequeath terror into the hearts of lesser humans.


Q: When did you start writing and why?
A: The 14th, October 2012 is the fateful day my writing began. As for the why—well, that’s a trickier question. You could say it was my ineluctable calling; my purpose in this existence (if I may make so presumptuous a statement). Mostly I just felt the need to create—to release the passion flowing inside.

Q: Where do you get your ideas?
A: From my nature, is perhaps the most accurate (though unsatisfying) answer. I gain them from the ether of consciousness, would be an even more unsatisfying elucidation; in the place between dreams and wakefulness, between what is real and what is imagined, they spring forth. (Am I really annoying you now? Sorry. I’ve no answer you can really understand.)

That said, music is an important fuel for my machinations—I’m a big fan of trance.


Q: Do you have a new book coming out soon? Tell us about it.
A: Yes. I am preparing a standalone sequel to the Necromancer; however, I have my doubts. Nevertheless, even if the Deathbringer—as it may be known—is not the work that I shall be releasing... I have plenty more ideas. Most pressing is Methusalem—a tale of a 2000 year old vampire, and his quest to save his kingdom from the Dark Ones. I have other ideas, also; though of them I shall not speak yet.

Q: How can we find you? Do you have a web page, FaceBook page or any buy links?
A: My venerable blog ( is of course the place you should go. It acts as Stargazer HQ, and has a fair few interesting poems, essays, and trivia. Do give it a look! I am also on Facebook; I administer a page by the name Neshvetal the Necromancer (and no: you don’t get brownie points for guessing who that’s referring to). Goodreads is another place I frequent—I’m a reviewer there.






From the fires of deceit, he was reborn in ice. His name bequeathes fear into the mighty; and death into the meek.

Meet Neshvetal: a being of darkest magic—beautiful, powerful, and eternal. Or so he thinks...


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.

Here’s what my readers are saying:

‘It truly made me feel like I was seeing everything the characters were seeing.’ —Ashley

‘[Full] of action and mystery...’ —A. Jellison

‘I was highly entertained, completely captivated, and entirely sucked into this amazing novel...’ —Margaux

‘The book is beautifully written... rich words that stretch throughout the pages...’ —Ishiee

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Funny/Stupid and Interesting Tabs.

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