Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except the plot. I didn't even make up the name: Jerizael was breifly mention in Abhorsen as the 47th Abhorsen. So... yeah.
She quickly slashed at the Dead Hand, cutting it across the chest. It screamed and lunged toward her, scratching ruthlessly. Her face was a blend of amusement and wild ferocity. Another slash of the sword, the Hand fell to the ground, a moan slipping out of its throat. She quickly pulled two silver bells from the leather bandolier slung diagonally across her chest. The mahogany handles and silver plating were covered with the flow of Charter marks, never ceasing and beautiful in their mystery.
She rang Saraneth first. Its powerful tone echoed down the hilltop and throughout the surrounding country side. As she completed the figure-eight, she lifted the other bell and let its soft melody join with the strong sound of the Binder. She sent Dyrim into the air with a practiced flick of the wrist and caught it as it drifted down. The Dead below her gave in easily to the power of the bells. She had bound it to her will, and given it the ever-important gift of speech. The Hand waited for her orders.
"What was your name?" the necromancer asked, bending down to get her face even with that of the Dead Hand's.
"Rellin," it replied, its voice grating.
"How did you die?" her voice was soft, and her eyes stayed transfixed on the rotting face before her.
"I was attacked, they killed me."
"Who killed you?"
"My family."
"Why?"
"To save me."
"Did you come out of Death on your own?"
"No."
She had heard enough. The necromancer pulled out Kibeth and rang it in a u-shape, sending the Hand walking into Death; hopefully all the way to the Ninth Precinct and beyond.
"Let's go home, Mogget," she turned and stood, walking down the hill. As if from nowhere, a short bearded man started trotting behind her. He wore a pale frock with a vivid red belt, upon which hung a silver bell: Saraneth. He looked at the necromancer, his piercing green eyes interrogative.
"You should have asked who summoned her." The man said.
"That's no fun," came the reply.
"Stupidest reason I've heard. How could you be having fun? All you do is kill things that aren't living in the first place."
Perhaps she was stupid. She had never thought about it before. But even if she wasn't, Mogget would tell her she was. That was how he had fun. She had fun fighting. She sheathed her sword then pushed some stray black hairs behind a pale ear. Her face was dramatic, and made more so by her jet black hair. A blue surcoat powdered with silver keys draped her strong shoulders and the bell sleeves hung from her muscled arms. She wore travelers' boots and khaki breeches, and plenty of other layers consisting of a light scale-like amour, soft cotton under things and stockings. Winter was approaching the Old Kingdom.
She glanced to the south, and she could just see the winding stripe of the Wall. The sky was full of bright shining stars on this side, but the sun drifted lazily up on the other. She had heard tales about the other side. You couldn't use magic, and people used things like explosives and some strange power source called 'gasoline'. It all seemed so foreign to her. She would never cross that Wall willingly.
Mogget turned to her, having kept going after she stopped to look at the scenery. "Jerizael, we need to get back to the House. I want dinner."
She turned, ready with a rebuttal, but he was already walking again. And so, she followed him, leaving the Wall and that strange world on the other side in the back of her mind. Soon, they would be at the House and the wonderful sunrise as seen from Barhedrin Hill would be only a dim memory.