Prologue
Some things are not always what they seem.
I stood in the cold river, the chill water flowing around my knees. The bells of a necromancer strapped across my chest weighed slightly on my breathing, but I was learning to ignore it. Either that or they were having less and less effect on me. My dark blade of black fire dripped ghostly flames into the river from my right hand, the bell, held by the clapper, in my left.
I was right at the gate that would take me back to the sixth precinct, however, I was not moving. A disturbance in the water had made me pause, and as I looked back, I observed a thin line of ripples moving swiftly toward me, zigzagging back and forth underneath the water. It was strong, as I could not sense its presence, but it was clumsy. I had heard it as it descended below the water as it registered my appearance from the eighth precinct.
I had noticed this particular spirit before, as I crossed through this precinct on my way to the verge of the ninth, but it knew I was powerful, and so was wary and did not attack; however its hunger for life had now overcome its fear of my blade and bells, or so I thought. I put away Kibeth, the bell I was holding at the time, and drew Saraneth. It erupted from the water seconds later, a mass of roiling darkness, but it did not attack, as I thought it would, and so my sword swished harmlessly through air as I swung at it, preparing to ring the bell.
The dead spirit was standing in front of me, two sword-lengths away. I paused, unsure of its intention. It was vaguely human, with misshapen limbs. It was grossly thin, and easily over twelve feet tall.
It pointed one long hand at its twisted mouth, and opened and closed it. The movement was clearly meant to be talking, but it looked more like it was eating something. I looked at it warily. I kept my sword pointed at it, and rang Saraneth, to be on the safe side, for the dead creature could easily be trying to trick me. Now that it was bound to my will, and so frozen in place, I carefully put away the large, wieldy bell, and drew Dyrim. The Abhorsen would immediately banish this creature to beyond the ninth gate without a second thought, however my curiosity had overcome me.
As the sound of the bell rang out across the dark river, a tongue of shining silver formed in the dead thing's mouth. It garbled a few times experimentally, and then gazed at me.
"You are a necromancer." It stated. It was not a question. I stared at it cautiously, but I was safe, for it was under the power of Saraneth.
"Yes." I replied. "What is it that you want?"
"You wield the seven bells of a normal necromancer, yet you wield an extra two. Why?" It asked. I was surprised by the question. What reason could one of the dead possibly have for caring about what bells I had, so long as they were not being used on it?
"A personal addition to my arsenal. None other wields these bells, as no others exist." I ran a hand across the blackened mahogany of the bell handles across my chest. Nine in all.
"So you say. It matters not to me, I was merely curious." It said, though it eyed the two extra bells cautiously. "I wish to return to life. And you can help me." It kneeled down.
"I may be a necromancer." I stated. "But I am no normal necromancer. I serve a similar purpose to the Abhorsen." The dead thing flinched at the sound of the name. "I have just returned from banishing one of the greater dead past the ninth gate." Though the dead thing already knew this, it seemed important to note.
"I know, I observed you following the spirit on your way through towards the ultimate death. This is a request I can ask of only you. For I wish to return to life, not under the strict servitude of a necromancer, and the Abhorsen will not grant my wish, though neither can grant what I truly wish. I see the power in your bells, and in your spirit." I knew the thing was referring to the two extra bells on my chest, but it meant one in particular. The eight bell in the bandolier. One that I had made myself, along with the ninth in a long and complicated procedure that nearly destroyed me.
"Why should I free you, to wreak havoc in the land, when I have spent the past fifteen years banishing your kind?" I replied angrily.
"I have no violent intentions towards the world of the living. I have spent the past many years wrestling with my hunger for life, building my strength, so one such as you may come along and grant me the life I seek. But you already know that your bells can heal me of even the majority of that affliction." I took a small, unconscious step backwards. Could this dead thing really understand the power of the eighth bell? Impossible. Not even the other necromancers that I had banished recognised my bells, or the power that lay in them.
"I was once a necromancer. One very much like yourself, except I was not strong enough to overcome the power of the free magic that had twisted my mind. you, however, are different. You have embraced free magic, but denied its very nature. You can help me." I kept studying its face, its posture – still kneeling in the water, still taller than me – I detected no deception.
"If I bring you back. What will you do?" I asked, tentatively.
"If you allow, I would stay with you, for I wish to undertake the work that I yearned while I was alive." I faltered. I'd never had a companion. Nobody was willing to so much as go near me. People feared me, for I was a necromancer, other necromancers shunned me, for I did work similar to the Abhorsen, their sworn enemy. Even the animals shied away from the taint of free magic which surrounded me.
"I… will allow you to stay with me. You will not be under the control of any bell, for the power of my bell will heal you of any hunger you suffer for the living, however you will not be alive. It will not be a life of gratitude. You will not be able to inhabit a real body, for your spirit will still corrode any mortal flesh, so I must craft you one of free magic. I fear I have lingered much too long here, and must continue. Follow." The dead creature was still under the power of Saraneth, so it had no choice but to follow. It strode after me, as I made my progress back to life. Most of the greater dead in death knew me, and those that did not, could see my power, but some were still naïve enough to attack, and I didn't want to take that risk.
The string of free magic runes that I would use to create this dead spirits body already flowed through my mind. It would be a complex spell, but a necessary one, for even after the power of the eighth bell healed its deformities, and its hunger for life, it would still be a dead spirit. That was the nature of the eighth bell, for Yrael had the power to heal wounds and afflictions, but not entirely restore the spirit if it had stayed a lengthy time in death, as this one had.
As we came to the very edge of death, standing on the threshold of life, I stopped. The dead spirit stopped with me and stood expectantly behind me. I took a breath, and ran my hand over each of the bells, reciting their names and powers in my head, as was the custom of any Abhorsen to relieve stress, and was one I performed whenever I prepared to use the power of the eighth or ninth bells.
Ranna, the Sleeper. Takes all who hear it into a deep sleep.
Mosrael, the Waker. Brings many spirits back from death, but acts as a see-saw and throws the ringer far into death.
Kibeth, the Walker. Can grant the freedom of movement, or force them to walk at the ringers will. In an unsteady or inexperienced hand, Kibeth can also turn on the ringer, forcing them to walk where they would not.
Dyrim, the Speaker. Gives speech to those who lack it, or gives forgotten words their meaning. It can also still a tongue that moves too freely.
Belgaer, the Thinker. Restores independent thought to the dead, but can cloud a mind when used in a careless hand.
Saraneth, the Binder. Shackles the dead to the ringers will, forcing them to do the ringer's bidding.
And the last of the original seven, Astarael, The Weeper. Casts all who hear it deep into death, including the ringer.
My hand ran over the remaining two bells. I had created them myself, with fragments of long-forgotten knowledge, gained over a period of many years from a great many sources. The process of constructing these two bells had forced me into very close contact with the very nature of the bell's namesakes. It was this which made Yrael infinitely easier to craft than Orannis, for in order to create the ninth bell, I had to assert my dominance over the destroyer, nearly destroying myself in the process. They were dangerous and very powerful bells.
Yrael, the Healer. When sounded properly, Yrael can heal the wounds of the body, mind, and soul, restoring the target to health, even those who have already died. However, Yrael cannot completely heal a spirit if it has spent too long in the waters of death. When sounded in an unsteady, or inexperienced hand, Yrael can open old wounds of the ringer, strengthening their pain.
And the last, most powerful, most defiant bell. Orannis, the Destroyer. Orannis unleashes a devastating force on the target, creating new wounds, of both the body and soul. This bell should be used only by an extremely careful and powerful spirit, and even then, only if backed into a corner, as it will rage against the ringer's will, attempting to destroy everything around it, living or otherwise.
I took another deep breath, and drew Yrael. The bell was a different shape to the others, as was Orannis. They looked more like antique decorations than well-used bells, with ornate swirls and carvings on their surface. Yrael had the image of a tiny collar around the handle, with a small replica bell hanging from it. This was in tribute to Yrael, who spend millennia in servitude to the Abhorsens, but was released after the second binding of Orannis, over thirty years ago.
I rang the bell in the shape of an ictus, first one way, then the other, using my will to direct the force of the sound upon the dead creature that followed me. The bell, which I had, to that point, used but rarely, produced a sound of choirs. The creature shuddered. Then its outline began to waver, before becoming completely indistinct. It then quickly took the shape of a well proportioned, fit young woman. This I was not expecting, and the loss of focus almost made me lose control of the bell, however I grappled its power back under my control. The woman who now stood before me was quite beautiful, with midnight black hair, clashingly pale skin, with a slim figure and angled face. She opened her mouth to speak, the tongue of silver from Dyrim remained.
"I thank you necromancer. I realise we have not been properly introduced. My name is Livana; I am the daughter of Chlorr of the Mask." I recoiled slightly. Chlorr was a fierce and horrible necromancer, whose powers, along with her madness, were only exacerbated when Kerrigor made her a member of the greater dead. "Fear me not, necromancer, my mother was a creature most vile, and I am ashamed that I even began down the path she devoted herself to." This I understood. The lure of free magic was a difficult one to resist. I had originally begun down the path of the petty necromancer, before beginning my life anew.
"I understand." I replied. "I am not one to judge a person on their heritage. I myself am descended from a necromantic adept." She nodded. "I am Emantek. Understand, Livana, daughter of Chlorr, that while you may not be bound in servitude to me, neither will you have complete freedom. I must take responsibility for you. Where I go, you follow. It will be a partnership that has never before been seen." Livana nodded again.
"I understand, Emantek." She shivered. "You carry a name of power. I was not an adept at necromancy, as my mother was, however I had a talent for seeing the touch of fate in people's souls. And your soul, bane of the dead Emantek, has a touch of destiny about it." I shrugged, returning Yrael to my bandolier and sheathing my sword.
"We shall return to life once I have constructed your vessel. Where we go from there, I know not." I situated myself so that my back was at the very border of life, the warmth from the realm of the living seeping into me. I began chanting free magic runes, weaving a spell that would, after its completion, give Livana a body to use in life. The familiar acidic burn flowed up my throat with the words, as well as the metallic taste of free magic, however these were both sensations I had long since numbed myself to. The process would take little longer than a few hours, and I had no worry of my body, for it was protected by both its remote location, and by the many free magic wards and barriers I had placed around it. It would take even the full power of an Abhorsen days to break through these protections, and I had not been in death long.
Livana waited patiently, however I could tell she was eager to return to life. I would have to keep a very close watch on her until I knew she was trustworthy. Many would call it a horrible act of necromancy to return a being to the realm of the living; however I am one who dares venture where others would not. I am Emantek, a free magic sorcerer and necromancer, who fulfils the work of an Abhorsen. I am the bane of the dead, and am living proof that things are not always as they seem.
