Prologue The Penultimate
The Walker was little more than a skeleton that had risen from a local graveyard. Necromancers rarely bothered to raise the long dead as they were fragile, easily defeated by fire or water or a sword blow. The local peasants could have dealt with it without more than the shock of seeing the undead so near.
What concerned the Abhorsen as she stalked the skeleton that it was more than likely that had responded to some errant Free Magic from a nearby, larger spell. She treaded carefully; afraid she might startle the Walker and loose her guide to the source of the magic.
The Walker climbed a rocky hill, following a switchback cut across the exposed limestone. They rose above the tree tops. The Abhorsen could smell the tang of Free Magic as she climbed after; there was more Magic afoot than she had bargained for. Stepping still lighter, she drew her sword from and ran her hand over her bandolier of bells.
The Walker jumped off the edge into the trees below. It disintegrated in a torrent of invisible Free Magic rising from the stand of trees. The Abhorsen didn t know what lay beneath her, but she was bound to oppose Necromancy at all costs. She sheathed her sword and drew the symbols for Water and Fire from the Charter. She hoped that whatever she met could be stunned by at least one of the symbols long enough to let her figure out what she should be doing.
She jumped in much the same way the Walker had, but instead of disintegrating she merely choked on the acrid air before landing on one of the high branches. She began descending expertly; her blue cloak embroidered with silver keys made the only sound. When she climbed low enough she peered into the gloom.
Ten Necromancers stood upon a Pentagram; five were at the points, five in the arms. In the central pentagon was an elaborate coffin with lifelike carvings of Undead. The Abhorsen was not easily startled by images of the raised passed, but they were still her worst memories carved into stone.
She decided that she had no choice but to fight the Necromancers.
She released the Fire and Water Charter Symbols together, and they merged to form a cloud of steam. The Necromancers all staggered backwards. The Abhorsen jumped down from the branches drew her sword. She sliced at the nearest Necromancer, felling him.
She felt his soul slip into the River Death.
She felled two more in the same way, even less afraid of the Necromancers than she had ever been.
Then the Free Magic began. The seven surviving Necromancers began hissing the words to dangerous spells. The Abohorsen dodged the first few and struck down another Necromancer with her blade. Knowing that the odds were still against her she dodged behind a tree and felt it shudder as spells hit it. She was running out of options.
She pulled out the last and biggest bell, Astareal and took a deep breath.
The Abhorsen then came back around the tree and charged the nearest Necromancer. With a wide cut she slit his throat and he collapsed, slipping into death.
That was when the first spell hit her. It penetrated her gut. She took a deep breath; fighting Astareal s urge to ring and cast her into death. She vowed to take one more before she passed into the river forever. She dropped her bandolier into the dirt and threw the sheath down; he was glad the heat of the spell had cauterized her wound. She threw her sword through the chest of the nearest necromancer.
I bind you by the Charter, as Abhorsen, to deliver my sword and bandolier by whatever means to my son! she yelled.
He fell to his knees, but his spirit would not enter Death until he achieved that goal.
A second spell took the flesh off of her sword arm. She knew that she would never return
The Abhorsen rung Astareal with one resounding clang and dropped the bell as the five remaining Necromancers and she slipped into Death
***
the Ninth Precinct was as cold and silent as ever. The stars winked at the Abhorsen as three of the Necromancers simply rose to meet them.
It s not our time, a tall woman wearing a bandolier of her own said. Her silver hair looked regal under the stars.
Indeed, the other said, his voice echoing like in the gloom. Goodbye Abhorsen, you were always a worthy advisory.
The Abhorson found it strange to be in death with no bells and no sword. She knew she had no body to which to return. Her son would become the Abhorsen. She had no reason to fight the strange sensation that she was rising towards the great ceiling of stars