"I'm in deep trouble," Miarael whispered to the glowing charter mark in her hand, oblivious to the pouring rain in her plight.
"Onward!" screamed a figure dressed in navy blue, a sharp contrast to the ashen bandolier stretched across his chest. He directed an army five hundred strong down the hill, the soldier's flesh peeling from their very bones in the cold rain. Their fetid stench identified them to be Dead, brought to Life by the necromancer.
Miarael fingered her own bandolier, mahogany and filed with the warmth of the Charter. "There's too many," she whispered, hidden among the tall grass at the base of the hill, behind her guards.
"Rip them to bits," the figure ordered as the Dead advanced on Miarael's position.
"I can't," Miarael sobbed.
"Feel their life," yelled the figure.
"I must."
"Leave none alive!"
"I will."
"GO!"
"GO!" Miarael's determined voice echoed. She flung herself out from behind a rock and faced the army of Dead squarely. Sheathing Aereba, her other hand groped the bandolier for a bell. Strangely, she was drawn to the largest, most foreboding bell. Shaking the feeling, she unwrapped Saraneth, the Binder, and rang it slowly at first, now growing and building speed and power She held back the power with a Free Magic spell, letting it accumulate. Her lips burned from the heat of the spell, and the bile rose in her throat at the hot metallic stench, but still Saraneth pealed.
The necromancer saw the young girl run from behind the rock, noticed the telltale gleam of silver that was a bell. A mischievous smile split his face, and he muttered one word: "Abhorsen."
Dimly, Miarael registered the battle raging before her, the Charter-spelled swords eating into Dead flesh. Charter marks flared along the blades, consuming the Dead things in a flurry of golden fire. Still more came. There were too many for the seven guards, only three of them mages.
She paid no heed to the Dead, slowly breaking through the wall of Life protecting her. Her will was focused on Saraneth, holding the building power of the bell back like a sluice gate holding back a river. Bits of it began to trickle out, striking the nearby Dead. Miarael knew she could hold it no longer and, with an accompanying whistle, let it go.
The sound of Saraneth permeated the air; it echoed everywhere, enveloping the very atoms of the atmosphere. Several of the Dead screamed, an unholy discord to the bell's sound, as they were forced back into Death. Most of them, however, were strong enough to resist Saraneth's call. Disappointed at this, Miarael began building power for another attack.
"Foolish Abhorsen," muttered the necromancer. "She should know better than to take on five thousand Dead at once. I thought it would be more difficult-" He was cut short as Saraneth rang though the air again, but this time Miarael's will was bent not upon the Dead, but fully upon the necromancer. He gasped and wavered for a moment, then, steeling himself, broke free of Saraneth's spell. Miarael was too far away to shackle him to her will. "Ah, is that how it's going to be? Abhorsen, don't be a fool. You can't play with the big boys." He carefully undid the third pouch on his bell-bandolier. From it he withdrew a bell, smaller than Saraneth, with an ashen handle to match. Perversions of Charter marks raced along its surface, twisting cruelly over the metal. Holding the clapper so it could not sound accidentally, he moved along the side of his ranks of Dead, towards Miarael.