It's not bad at all. My suggestion as a reader would be to spend more time describing the environments and characters in a little more detail. When he jumped from the land of the dead to his library it happened so fast I had to do a double take to find out why his wife and desk were suddenly in the land of the dead. It took me a moment to see she'd summoned him. Rather than just say where he is, land of the dead, library, describe them a little more, it'll really help to set the scene, and it won't feel as abrupt and jumpy. Just saying he's in his library didn't paint much of a mental picture, and gave the impression the character exists in a void. How large is this library? Are the walls stocked with just books or are there paintings. Are there curios on shelves? Thing's in jars? Is there a cat asleep in front of a fireplace? These are the kinds of things that would have helped to place the character in a real environment. Hope you don't think I'm lecturing, just letting you know what it was like to read that passage, and what I felt was missing. The other thing I'd say is when you mentioned the sword's name being a cliche, it sounded a bit self-conscious, like you were worried how your work would be received, and this took me out of the story. I think if you're going to write fantasy, you'll have to accept some people are going to sneer whatever you do because haters gonna hate, so you just need to have complete faith in what you're doing. Even if part of you thinks it might be viewed as the corniest clichéd thing in the world, jump in with both feet, and fuckem.

Here is an edit. I fixed some of the things you have suggested, and I plan to expand the story itself tomorrow.

  The wordless screams of the dead rent the air like the shadowy claws of demons as the man fell from on high, the dead dragon beneath him offering little solace to the mighty battlemage.
  As he fell, Edarvur cursed his bad luck. He'd come into the land of the dead for a brief foray... that had quickly turned into a fiasco of unbelievable preportions. He was cursing himself, magic, and his steel, all for his stupid mistake.
  He damned himself to these hells for ever killing that dragon so close to the ceiling. And now he was going to turn into a tavern cake if he didn't cast a spell to save himself and quickly.
  He formed the words in his head as he fell. His arcane chants filled the air. The power flowed. The energy flared--
  --and fizzled out. "Damn," the man cursed as he fell. He should have remembered, magic was not as well suited to this damnable abyss as it was the world above. Anti-magics constantly corrupted him.
  The man sighed inwardly as he braced himself for the impact and hoped the dragons great bulk was enough to take the force of the collision.
  When they hit, Edarvur was thrown far and high. No, no, no! he screamed in his mind as he fell. He tried one last desperate attempt to cast a spell, and surprisingly it worked, stopping him three or so feet from the ground before fizling out and dropping him, flat on his back, to the ground.
  Groaning, the battlemage rolled over and rose to his feet, taking stock of his situation.
  His spellbooks were in order, thank the gods, wherever they were. His blades, forged in to the shapes of dragons wings, still rested at his hips. His robes, though tattered, still remained. And no bones were broken.
  "I am lucky indeed," he murmured, a habit he'd picked up on his solo adventuring quests. He was alone, but craved companionship. So he spoke to himself. He stood on the huge plain of desolation and decay that was the land of the dead... or at least, one of them.
  High above him, high above here, lay the Fields of Paradise, where the souls of the just and the goodly resided after their corporeal forms died.
  But here. Here were the Plains of Despair, where the souls of the wicked, the unholy and dishonorable, the shunned and the wickedly ambitious, were damned to forever unlive in a state of torture unknown to any living being.
  And here he was, Edarvur, mightiest of battlemages, trapped in the depths of this abominable place. He sighed as he looked at the thoroughly broken form of the guardian dragon. "A noble fight," he said, drawing one of his swords, Dragonwing, his right hand blade. He saluted the proud creature, then sheathed it, placing his hand upon the dragon's egg-shaped pommel.
  The other weapon, Dragonsbane, (A name he found endlessly cliche, but it was a wonderful weapon), he drew and saluted the creature as a worthy opponent.
  Both blades were identical, in all save the hilt. While Dragonwing was a red hilted blade with the egg being it's pommel, Dragonsbane was a deep, cleansing blue, the pommel of which was the great and mighty head of a blue, therefore goodly, dragon.
  He took the time to check  the rest of his reserves, both physical and magical. He would have to find a high place on this flat land upon which to cast his spell of returning. And that would not be an easy task.
  He would have to fight his way through legions of the damed to find said hill, and--
  "You are a dolt," came a voice from behind him. Turning quickly, he sought to draw his sword, then calmed, when he saw it to be his wife, Crissa. A cleric in her own right and a mighty one at that, she must have prayed for his release. "And you, my dear, are a life saver," Edarvur said as he stepped towards her. He took her slim, shapely hand, and was drawn back to the world of the living.
  He stepped back into reality into his tower's library, surveying it with a calm fondness. He loved spending his time here: Surrounded by the shelves of books and various magical artifacts. Ancient swords and other such weapons decorated the walls. Rugs of the finest weave carpeted the floor. A large fireplace, currently empty, stood in one corner, and a large, comfortable chair sat before it. The chair was currently occupied by a large, weighty tome awaiting placement among his overstocked bookshelves.
  Many mages of his calibur kept homes that were cold. Desolate. But not Edarvur. He was a man of cheer, of hope, of light. So, he decorated his home as such. His tower stood not atop a mountain, surrounded by nothing but rock and snow. His stood beside a lake, in a beautiful pine forest, not very far from his wife's homeland.
  Ahh, Crissa, he thought, his eyes drawn to her. She was a tall elven woman, her long, golden ringlets falling to the center of her back. She was not so slender as other elven women. She had a shape to her, and a fine one at that. Her eyes were the deepest of greens, her hands soft as the silk of a spider's web. Her prowess in battle was only matched by his own, and her prowess in the bedchamber, that was a secret he held in the highest regard.
  "You are lucky I was at hand," Crissa said to him, her face playfully stern. "For then, you would be thoroughly dead by now."
  "Is that so?" Edarvur said, going about cleaning himself off. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror and smiled. For she was probably right, he looked terrible, though he didn't feel it.
  His strong jawed face was cut in many places from his many falls of that day. His blue eyes looked tired, yet they sparked with his fierce determination and intelligence. His thick brown hair was matted with blood, not all the dragons, and his high, noble forehead had a particularly nasty gash upon it.
  He shrugged his broad shoulders and removed his white robes to reveal the chain mail armor he wore beneath. "You are correct," he conceded. "I am very lucky you are at hand."
  In all cases, he said to himself, smiling with pure contentment. She approached him slowly, resting her hands upon his face and giving him a long, loving kiss. And from that kiss came the healing energies of her god, smoothing the skin and clearing away the cuts as if with a sweep of some divine hand his corporeal form was shoved aside and replaced with a new one. He smiled at that thought, and for the kiss, for both were pleasing indeed.
  After she pulled away and finished healing him, the mage smiled. "You would have done well to venture with me. Who knows what we could have found?"
  "Oh, posh, we would have found our deaths," she said. "For not even my powers can stop a soul of the Plains of Despair." Her face darkened at that. "Not my sect, anyway."
  He nodded and went to his desk, seating himself behind it and picking up a tome he had been writing in beforehand. He copied down his notes from his brief travel there-leaving out the particularly embarrassing part with the dragon-and set his quill and inkwell aside.

Here is my latest draft. I hope you enjoy it.

The wordless screams of the dead rent the air like the shadowy claws of demons. A man fell from on high, the dead dragon beneath him offering little solace to the mighty battlemage in his current predicament.
As he fell, Edarvur cursed his bad luck. He'd come into the land of the dead for a brief foray... that had quickly turned into a fiasco of unbelievable proportions. He was cursing himself, magic, and his steel, all for his stupid mistake.
He damned himself to these hells for ever killing that dragon so close to the ceiling. And now he was going to turn into a tavern cake if he didn't cast a spell to save himself and quickly.
He formed the words in his head as he fell. His arcane chants filled the air. The power flowed. The energy flared--
--and fizzled out. "Damn," the man cursed as he fell. He should have remembered, magic was not as well suited to this damnable abyss as it was the world above. Anti-magics constantly corrupted him.
The man sighed inwardly as he braced himself for the impact and hoped the dragons great bulk was enough to take the force of the collision.
When they hit, Edarvur was thrown far and high. No, no, no! he screamed in his mind as he fell. He tried one last desperate attempt to cast a spell, and surprisingly it worked, stopping him three or so feet from the ground before fizzling out and dropping him, flat on his back, to the ground.
Groaning, the battlemage rolled over and rose to his feet, taking stock of his situation.
His spellbooks were in order, thank the gods, wherever they were. His blades, forged in to the shapes of dragons wings, still rested at his hips. His robes, though tattered, still remained. And no bones were broken.
"I am lucky indeed," he murmured, a habit he'd picked up on his solo adventuring quests. He was alone, but craved companionship. So he spoke to himself. He stood on the huge plain of desolation and decay that was the land of the dead... or at least, one of them.
High above him, high above here, lay the Fields of Paradise, where the souls of the just and the goodly resided after their corporeal forms died.
But here. Here were the Plains of Despair, where the souls of the wicked, the unholy and dishonorable, the shunned and the wickedly ambitious, were damned to forever unlive in a state of torture unknown to any living being.
And here he was, Edarvur, mightiest of battlemages, trapped in the depths of this abominable place. He sighed as he looked at the thoroughly broken form of the guardian dragon. "A noble fight," he said, drawing one of his swords, Dragonwing, his right hand blade. He saluted the proud creature, then sheathed it, placing his hand upon the dragon's egg-shaped pommel.
The other weapon, Dragonsbane, (A name he found endlessly cliche, but it was a wonderful weapon), he drew and saluted the creature as a worthy opponent.
Both blades were identical, in all save the hilt. While Dragonwing was a red hilted blade with the egg being it's pommel, Dragonsbane was a deep, cleansing blue, the pommel of which was the great and mighty head of a blue, therefore goodly, dragon.
He took the time to check  the rest of his reserves, both physical and magical. He would have to find a high place on this flat land upon which to cast his spell of returning. And that would not be an easy task.
He would have to fight his way through legions of the damned to find said hill, and--
"You are a dolt," came a voice from behind him. Turning quickly, he sought to draw his sword, then calmed, when he saw it to be his wife, Crissa. A cleric in her own right and a mighty one at that, she must have prayed for his release. "And you, my dear, are a life saver," Edarvur said as he stepped towards her. He took her slim, shapely hand, and was drawn back to the world of the living.
He stepped back into reality into his tower's library, surveying it with a calm fondness. He loved spending his time here: Surrounded by the shelves of books and various magical artifacts. Ancient swords and other such weapons decorated the walls. Rugs of the finest weave carpeted the floor. A large fireplace, currently empty, stood in one corner, and a large, comfortable chair sat before it. The chair was currently occupied by a large, weighty tome awaiting placement among his overstocked bookshelves.
Many mages of his calibur kept homes that were cold. Desolate. But not Edarvur. He was a man of cheer, of hope, of light. So, he decorated his home as such. His tower stood not atop a mountain, surrounded by nothing but rock and snow. His stood beside a lake, in a beautiful pine forest village that was not very far from his wife's homeland.
Ahh, Crissa, he thought, his eyes drawn to her. She was a tall elven woman, her long, golden ringlets falling to the center of her back. She was not so slender as other elven women. She had a shape to her, and a fine one at that. Her eyes were the deepest of greens, her hands soft as the silk of a spider's web. Her prowess in battle was only matched by his own, and her prowess in the bedchamber, that was a secret he held in the highest regard.
"You are lucky I was at hand," Crissa said to him, her face playfully stern. "For then, you would be thoroughly dead by now."
"Is that so?" Edarvur said, going about cleaning himself off. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror and smiled. For she was probably right, he looked terrible, though he didn't feel it.
His strong jawed face was cut in many places from his many falls of that day. His blue eyes looked tired, yet they sparked with his fierce determination and intelligence. His thick brown hair was matted with blood, not all the dragons, and his high, noble forehead had a particularly nasty gash upon it.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and removed his white robes to reveal the chain mail armor he wore beneath. "You are correct," he conceded. "I am very lucky you are at hand."
In all cases, he said to himself, smiling with pure contentment. She approached him slowly, resting her hands upon his face and giving him a long, loving kiss. And from that kiss came the healing energies of her god, smoothing the skin and clearing away the cuts as if with a sweep of some divine hand his corporeal form was shoved aside and replaced with a new one. He smiled at that thought, and for the kiss, for both were pleasing indeed.
After she pulled away and finished healing him, the mage smiled. "You would have done well to venture with me. Who knows what we could have found?"
"Oh, posh, we would have found our deaths," she said. "For not even my powers can stop a soul of the Plains of Despair." Her face darkened at that. "Not my sect, anyway."
He nodded and went to his desk, seating himself behind it and picking up a tome he had been writing in beforehand. He copied down his notes from his brief travel there-leaving out the particularly embarrassing part with the dragon-and set his quill and inkwell aside.
  He rose to his feet and gave his wife a loving smile. "Besides saving my life," he began, "How fared your day?"
  The elven beauty had been reading a tome of prayer, which she set aside now and sat up straighter in her plush armchair. She focused her green eyes upon him and stated, simply, "Well. Though I would have prefered to further my studies to a larger degree."
  He nodded. "As would I. But I had other issues pressing me." He gave a yawn as the fatigue of the day crashed over him. "I must rest, my love," he said, walking over to her and taking her in his arms. "Would you do me the honor of joining me?"
  Crissa smiled one of her shining smiles, then nodded coyly and rose to her feet.
---
  When they woke the following morning, Edarvur could not help but feel content. The previous day's aches and pains ailed him no longer, and he felt the soft form of his wife sleeping quietly beside him, her bare arm thrown over him as her naked form pressed into his side.
  He stroked her hair for a long while, taking comfort in the simple familiarities oof life. But alas, the chores needed doing, and they would not do themselves.
  Gently raising Crissa's arm, he rose to his feet. He washed himself clean in a basin and dressed himself a new in his magically cleaned chainmail and a fresh set of robes, set out by his butler and friend, Ellinard.
  The tall, elderly and stately man was waiting for him in the kitchen when Edarvur arrived to eat his breakfast. "Good morning, Elly,"he said, to the endless chagrin of Ellinard. The man cleared his throat to restore some of his dignity, and gave a curt, "Good morning, sir. Your greetings are nothing short of delightful."
  Edarvur had a chuckle at that as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot above the fire.
  The kitchen was not an extensive one. It was small and cozy, with one wall being an entire window gazing out upon the lake to the east. It was slid open now, letting in the warm, morning breeze and the scents of summer in this fine land of Minasa. Birds chirped, squirrels chittered, and he could hear the sounds of village children playing at the lake's edge.
  "Ahh, what a fine life this is, wouldn't you agree, Elly?" Edarvur said as he opened a book and sipped his tea.
  "Indeed, sir," his butler said, taking a seat at the table across from him. "I have read the notes you compiled of your journey yesterday," Ellinard began, "and I cannot help but believe you have left something out."
  "Ever the clever, my friend," Edarvur said as he set his book and cup down. "You would be correct. Upon entry I was attacked. A dragon of some sort, mighty indeed. I slew it quickly, for I do not think it was more than a pawn of some ambitious necromancer in the pits below, lacking true draconic intellect, but a mighty foe it remained." He thought back to that fight, short and brutal, the final stroke delivered by mighty Dragonsbane, imbued with his magical strength.
  "I see," said Ellinard, leaning back in his seat and scratching his impressive beard, a habit of his when he was thinking deeply. "This ambitious necromancer--"
  "Hypothetical necromancer."
  "This ambitious necromancer," Ellinard continued more forcefully, "did he leave any sort of mark upon the beast?"
  Edarvur thought for a moment, his own fingers tapping out a pattern on the table as he picked up his cup for another long sip. "Now that you have mentioned it," he said, "the beast bore a strange mark between it's horns." Horns that had given him trouble when magically wrestling the thing.
  "Go on," Ellinard said, leaning forward expectantly and producing a quill, pad and inkwell seemingly out of nowhere.
  "It would be easier if I were to draw it," Edarvur said, and Ellinard proffered the items to him.
  Taking them, Edarvur began to draw, working painstakingly to miss no details. After ten arduous minutes, when he was done, he showed hhis friend the drawing. It showed a skull, that of a dragon, spitting fire. It's tongue was yet another dragon, this one breathing ice. The two elements collided into a conflagration of red and blue to depict a human skull.
  "Our necromancer does not disappoint," Ellinard said with a hint of a smile in his voice. "I know this symbol. It is the relatively powerful Magiore. Though he should be no match for you, I would speak with him. And soon."
  Edarvur nodded. He knew the name well. Magiore was a necromancer that lived in a graveyard not far down the road. The caretaker and gravedigger, he was an old man, hunch-backed and bitter. But what was he doing controlling dragon spirits? He had always been powerful, but never that. Something was amiss.
  "I will go this very day," said Edarvur as Crissa stepped into the room, her hair freshly combed and her face radiant with happiness as she beheld the day outside. "You will go where, my love?" she asked, moving to him to offer a loving kiss. He returned it full-heartedly, then, "I am going to visit Magiore. I believe the dragon attack from yesterday was his doing."
  Crissa nodded as she spied the paper lying on the table before them. "That is his symbol. I always considered it to be the work of a crazed old hermit, but it seems to be garnering him some power."
  Edarvur nodded his agreement and sat back in his chair. "I will go this afternoon. For now, let us simply enjoy the day."