A/N: The Dead… some of you might not pick up on this in first place but you should know: the Wind Flutes? The ones that Colonel Horyse says Abhorsen made? That keep the dead at bay from the wall? They're not made yet! Just so you know and don't correct me. (I am not saying don't correct me when I'm wrong I'm saying don't correct me about that.)

Fanar felt her senses sharpen, and in an instant, she was reaching out, feeling carefully with unfurling senses. She cast them far, like an invisible net that inched further out even as she laid it down. Even before she smelt it, Fanar felt the hard, hideous feeling of Free Magic, of things unbound and terrible. She smelt it then: like metallic bleach crystals wedged up her nose, a smell so strong it made her eyes water. Without hesitation she reached for her dagger and withdrew it with unspoken purpose.

She looked at Abhorsen – Terciel, whose hands clutched two bells: his thick hands grasping the mahogany handles tight. Fanar vaguely recognised the bells from her first introduction to them back in the cave.

She thought one might be Kibeth, and the other Astarael – no, Saraneth. She decided it was the latter bell since she had ill premonitions of what Astarael' s voice might bring… something she couldn't quite place… but it had something to do with that little girl… Arielle, or something else… something that Arielle would bring.

Fanar came to stand by him, and he looked briefly at her, concentrating on the location of the necromancer – wherever he was. She could tell he was somewhere else too. She hesitated, wondering if she should bring him out of his concentration, but Mogget dug his claws into her. She yelped as they nicked the skin on her shoulder and turned to meet the startling eyes. Stark against the white of the feathers that surrounded them, they glared fiercely at her and she withdrew her unsure hand.

'He needs to concentrate,' Mogget explained after he was sure she would not distract him. 'You won't be much good just pulling him out of it. You must alert the guards at once!'

Sheepishly, Fanar turned and lolloped into a run, racing down the steps two at a time, almost tripping over her feet. She reached the first intervening balcony between the ground and upper wall and filled her lungs.

'Attack!' she called, breathing charter power to her vocals, so her word reverberated out across the trenches, and into several dun coloured tents

Heads instantly popped above the ground and Fanar could tell they could not find the source of the call. She thought it better stay that way: for no teenage girl should be trusted under panicky conditions, she reasoned. She repeated the call, followed with: 'Every man to his post! A necromancer has come! All to the wall immediately! Ready the guns! He must not cross!'

At this, the curious youths down in the trenches quickly steered themselves into orderly actions, and Fanar watched older men organise their troops, snapping them all into one quickly formed line and joining ranks as quickly as possible to make their way swiftly to the wall. Fanar marvelled at their efficiency, her eyes catching on the mail hauberks worn by every soldier. Above her, she suddenly heard the mystified voices of other soldiers who had gathered.

'Abhorsen? On the wall? What are you doing here, Abhorsen?'

They curious tones turned into ones of slight panic as they spotted the danger:

'A necromancer! So near the wall!'

'Who are those mangled men with him- ?'

'- Stand by soldiers! Those are no ordinary men! We need firepower, and lots of it!'

'Abhorsen?'

'Leave the Abhorsen alone, he will help us without us hindering him…'

The voices trailed off and from not far off, Fanar heard the clacking on the nails in the bottom of their boots against the stone.

They were very near –about to come up and discover her if she was not mistaken, and if she was not next to Abhorsen she would look very suspicious. She had already ascertained that the predominant sex on the wall was male, with a few female exceptions – but even these were fully uniformed, and she was not, wearing and odd miss-match of breeches, beige shift and thick jumper.

A foul wind whipped in, dipping down over the wall. Fanar coughed, and felt bile rise in her throat, her mind whirling and she recovered – another taste of corrosive Free Magic – and something else, potent, festering, rotting. Dead flesh. She swallowed and bent her head, breathing deeply to allow herself energy and time to fill her lungs. The hobnail clacking grew louder and, daintily, Fanar straightened and tucked her sweeping black hair back behind her ears. She looked carefully round the corner and saw the first soldier come up the staircase. Quietly, Fanar climbed the staircase further along and went to re-join with Abhorsen.

Terciel, or Abhorsen, emerged from his trance, and began to assess what to do next, he turned for Fanar, expecting her to be there, but she was not, and her absence made his stomach jolt. He gulped, and looked around, men, soldiers were now pouring onto the wall, clearly searching for the necromancer, but Abhorsen, in his trance and felt the necromancer slip from life. The first few soldier's he and Fanar had heard die were ones under the spell of Mordauts. They had been waiting, presumably, for their master's call, and when it had come they had claimed what life their hosts had had left, and sneaked away, foul blobby bodies easily hidden in dark corners. The next soldier to pass them would be the one who would open the gate for the necromancer, and Terciel could not let it happen.

The necromancer and about fifty other Dead Hands were half a kilometre from the wall. Clearly they were meaning to cross, and Abhorsen gazed out in wonderment, Why do they want to cross? He thought, They have nothing much to gain in Ancelstierre – they only weaken back there.

He set his gaze on the horizon, not surprised by the mist hiding the Necromancer and his dead from obvious view. Above the mist, the sky was blue, between patches of cloud, but Abhorsen took this to be a trick of the necromancer too.

Kibeth and Saraneth in his hands, he took one last look around the area in which he was in, looking for Fanar.

'Went to alert everyone,' came Mogget's call in his ear, and Terciel turned to confront him. But he was nowhere to be seen. Terciel wasn't really surprised, the incorrigible owl had never been one for battles, and never had been, and now was no time for him to become suddenly partial to them.

Terciel turned back to the oncoming force, but his mind was elsewhere, suddenly filled with ghastly images of Fanar, ripped and bloody, lying on the ground, screaming. He jerked himself backward a step and shook. What were these violent images? He had known the girl barely the entirety of that day, and already he felt such a desire to stand over her. For a brief moment his heart panged, and his stood blankly, horrified by the pain her death would cause him, should it happen.

He stamped his foot and shook himself violently. Stop it. He thought firmly, that's enough.

But he had felt those feelings, and there they were, planted inside him like parasitic vines, leeching onto his innermost feelings. Once planted, they remained and it was that sudden rush of emotion that made Abhorsen slow. He wasn't alert to that portion of the wall becoming slowly empty as soldiers cleared the way for him. He wasn't quick enough to brace for the attack that followed.

Fanar climbed the steps, thinking of her strongest charter spells, ones which would be most use against Dead creatures and necromancers. The basic self-defence stuff taught at Wyverly was all very well until she actually needed to use it, but it wasn't enough for this degree of sorcery. She knew some self-defence spells in theory, such as force fields, but she felt very she knew a rather meagre amount of spells she could actually do.

If physical force, fighting arts, that is, was needed, then Fanar was more than confident, but spells were not exactly her circle of expertise. All the same, complaining that it was not her business to know such things was no use to her when she needed proper spells at a time like this. She called to the charter, extracting marks against the dead and traced them across her chest and back, a shield of protection that glowed with golden fire. She unsheathed her sword with a great swoop and held it aloft: It might not do any damage, without charter magic engraved into it, but it made her feel safer. She hurried up the steps and collided with Abhorsen, clearly about to make his way down. He stopped and caught her tenderly as she fell back. 'Careful,' he warned, dark eyes wary.

'I must go down to them now. You must stay out of the way, Fanar, do you understand?' He pressed his hand on her chest and whispered something powerful. It spread along her shield of protection and she felt stronger for it.

Abhorsen hesitated, and then put his forehead on hers. It was the strangest feeling, charter mark against charter mark, and it made Fanar shiver and jolt, as Abhorsen's arms snaked around her, so close that it should feel uncomfortable, but it didn't. Slowly, Fanar reached up around his neck and together, they drew closer, until finally her lips sealed his and they were briefly nowhere else but in each others arms. It was not passionate until Fanar tried to draw away and then he held her, arms encircling her like a tide, his lips pressing fiercely against hers with ease and not just a little bit of lust.

He drew away, finally, eyes burning with sad, unmistakeable love. His hands held her face there, and he drew away finally, kissed her charter mark and hurried down the steps.

Fanar gazed after him, stunned.

Ok, ok, I know... I promised to be quicker with my next post and I wasn't so... forgive me...