Well, This is the first time I've tried my hand at writing Old Kingdom fanfiction... I'm thinking it's going to turn out well but you never know, might be horrible too. If it is, please tell me; that's the kind of thing I'd want to know...
Anyway, this is the prologue, so it's a little on the short side. If you read it, I hope you enjoy...
A man stood waist deep in the waters of Death, ignoring the river's call by sheer force of will. Both of his hands were clenched around the bone handle of a large, silver bell. Not that anyone would have recognized the raw mass of free magic that he held as silver. Words of power were spewing forth from his mouth, accompanied by a near constant stream of foul smelling white smoke. The words scorched his throat and rattled his teethe as he spoke them; a lesser sorcerer would surely have been consumed by them.
Here, standing alone in the icy waters of the eighth precinct, his attention entirely consumed by the spell, he was far more vulnerable than he had ever been in his life. A small part of his brain was acutely aware of this. The thought of what would happen if something came across him just then ran a distracting undercurrent to his otherwise flawless concentration. He didn't know how long he stood there; it was hard to keep track of time while in death even when you were paying attention. All he knew was that it had been quite some time since he had started, when he finally came to the end of the long stream of words. There was only one left.
"Astarael!" As he said its name, he thrust the near complete bell into the river and held it there. A great plume of white steam went up. Eventually, it stopped coming. As the last of the steam drifted disappeared into the featureless sky, he carefully lifted his prize out of the water. He kept his free hand on the clapper. This was the eighth precinct. Even a short, chance ringing of the seventh bell here would send him clear through the ninth gate. The ninth precinct was the one part of death he had never seen, and would never if he had his way.
He cautiously strapped Astarael into its place in the long vacant seventh pouch of his bandolier. He was overcome by a brief glow of accomplishment. It had taken many years, but he had all seven at last. Most necromancers didn't survive that long. A gout of unnatural red fire exploded from the river nearby, snapping him back to reality. He could celebrate when he was back in life. This wasn't the time and certainly not the place to stand around admiring his handiwork. Hastily, he turned to the wall of fire that was the seventh gate. As he waded his way towards it, he drew the short sword he wore at his waist in his right hand, and Saraneth in his left. As always, he could practically feel the resentment coming off the brass bell was he took it up. Saraneth hated being used by a necromancer. As he neared the gate he spoke the word that would open it, and passed through.
The necromancer managed to make his way through the seventh, sixth and fifth precincts without event. In fact, it was almost eerie how easy it was. His sword and bells remained completely unused. The whole thing was putting him on edge. This was Death, things weren't supposed to come easily. As he neared the third gate, he was tenser than he'd been in years. He hadn't felt like this since that night over fifty years ago, on that horrible night when his Charter Mark had first become tainted… He was still a good ten metres from the gate when it appeared, a misty doorway hanging in the air. He almost wasn't surprised when someone stepped out.
It was bound to just be another petty necromancer. They were pretty much the only ones stupid enough to willingly walk in death, after all. If he was lucky, they would pass each other with nothing but suspicious glances and threatening looks. The river momentarily swelled around his ankles as the remainder of the third gate's wave broke through the gate, carrying with it a multitude of stunned dead. The necromancer ignored that, instead concentrating on the figure carefully wading towards him. It was a he, that much he was sure. Predictably, he had a sword in one hand and a bell in the other, Saraneth, judging by its size. A flash of silver from the man's clothing distracted him from his hands. An icy chill seemed to grip his insides. Keys. The other man's surcoat; it was covered with silver keys.
The necromancer slowly raised his fearful eyes to the Abhorsen's face. He was met with a steady gaze staring back at him. In those dark eyes, he saw only one thing. Death. He was going to die, like he should have years ago. The freezing current seemed to pull slightly harder against him, as though in anticipation of what was coming next. Whether it was by blade or Charter Magic, he was going to die. He would then slide into the river, hurried on his way by the sound of the Abhorsen's bells, through the four precincts he'd just come through, into the ninth. And there he would die. Knowing it was hopeless, undignified and frankly dangerous, the necromancer turned and fled farther into death as fast as he could.
Not ready, not ready, never ready … the thought went through his head over and over again as he charged recklessly back toward the fourth gate. He could hear the sound of someone wading quickly behind him. He shouted out the word of command that would make the bridge through the gate appear one again, silently urging it to hurry. The necromancer cast a frantic look behind him, and saw that the Abhorsen was almost upon him. The bridge, a solid ribbon of night, appeared, and he all but leapt onto it. So distracted was he that he barely had time to register the blazing eyes monstrosity that barreled into him. The necromancer was bowled over, and plunged into the river's icy grip.
If he had been frantic before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. Through shear force of will, he fought the current, finally managing to resurface right before he could go over the waterfall that was the fourth gate. The dead thing was still making its suicidal charge towards life, seemingly oblivious to the Abhorsen standing in its way. The Abhorsen tensed himself for battle, raising his sword to lash out at the onrushing dead. The Necromancer saw his chance then. He summoned his remaining strength and willpower and ran for the third gate. His passing caused the Abhorsen a moment's distraction. That was all the monster needed.
The necromancer heard a loud splash behind him followed by a mad thrashing as the two attempted to fight both the current and each other at once. He didn't turn around to see what was happening. It wasn't important All that mattered was that he return to life as soon as possible. If he could cling to life for even one more day it would all be worth it. He shouted the spell that summoned the third gate, and poured on even more speed as he went through it. Behind him, the wave began its raging passage across the precinct.
Back in the fourth, the dead creature clung tightly to the Abhorsen. The Monster, no longer entirely in the right mind, was determined to take the only bit of life force it was ever likely to see again with it. The Abhorsen had lost his sword. Saraneth was jammed between his arm and the coiling blackness that was his enemy. With his free hand he clawed desperately at his bandolier. Finally, his fingers wrapped around the handle of Kibeth. The small feeling of triumph he harboured lasted for the minuscule amount of time it took before he was thrown off of the edge of the fourth gate, and into the deep, soul warping waters of the fifth precinct.
The Necromancer returned to his body and collapsed, sobbing with relief. By all rights, he should be dead. It was rare for any petty necromancer to survive an encounter with an Abhorsen, and this was his second. He crawled a few feet to where his pack was, and all but tore a flask from it. He took a long drink, and subsided into trembling. During this moment the one truly important piece of information never occurred to him. It wouldn't either for a good three weeks, when he'd finally overhear it being mentioned in the common room of a particularly shady inn.
The Abhorsen was dead.