A/N: I forgot to put a disclaimer, so I'll just say that Garth Nix owns Ancelstierre, the Old Kingdom, and every person, structure, rock, and shrub within them. Oh, and big thanks to the Very Cool People who reviewed! Here's the next chapter; enter a new character!

Lord Abhorsen

It was the hour before dawn. The creature watched his prey through the trees, gloating at his good fortune. People hardly came that way anymore, frightened by rumours of a dark being that pounced on travellers. He had even been given a name by the nearby villages: Zhagam, a name to instil fear in children and keep them from wandering into the woods.

Zhagam slithered over the forest floor, careful to avoid twigs and dried leaves. His body was shaped like a man's, but with a horribly elongated neck and limbs shrunken down to many-fingered stubs. Those fingers crawled insect-like over the soil, carrying Zhagam steadily closer to his victim. He was lucky – this spirit was strong, and would provide a great deal of sustenance. Zhagam grinned to himself, and flitted silently out from between the trees, quickly settling into the darkness of the path behind his prey.

He could follow travellers for hours like this, and they would be none the wiser. But Zhagam was hungry and in no mood for games. He opened his mouth, and a triple-forked tongue snaked out, darting for his victim's leg.

The hiss of a blade being drawn, and a flash of pain! Zhagam gave a piercing squeal as the tip of his barbed tongue was sliced off, dripping black blood onto the forest floor. He gaped up at his intended quarry, and was surprised to see a young man dressed in blue. The man wore the bells of a necromancer, and Zhagam grasped at this final hope. "I will serve you!" he shrieked, choking on his spurting tongue. "Master! Let me serve you, my Lord Necromancer!"

The young man reached for one of the bells even as he raised his weapon again.

"I am Abhorsen", he declared coldly. His black eyes showed no mercy. "I do not bring the Dead to Life, but send them to their rest. Tell that to all you pass on your way to the Ninth Gate."

Zhagam shrieked and gurgled as the sword was thrust through his body, pinning his writhing form to the ground. In the midst of horrible agony, the creature felt terror grip him when the sound of Saraneth thrummed through his bones, binding him to the ringer's will. He could only wail in defeat as Kibeth's pealing call sent him walking – walking back into Death, towards the Ninth Gate.

Abhorsen stared down at the distorted body, at the clusters of fingers that had finally ceased to quiver. After putting away Kibeth, he wiped his rusty sword with a handful of leaves and sheathed it. In retrospect he had not needed the sword – he could simply have turned around and rung Kibeth and Saraneth together. But he had yet to become comfortable with his newfound powers. Even he did not know his full potential, now that his blood had been graced by one of the Charters.

Turning, Abhorsen hitched the rolled-up tent higher on his back, and set off down the path again. Due to his work he travelled constantly, but that was not a problem as he'd never had a proper home. Hired by King Berillan to hunt the threatening Free Magic creatures, the young man inevitably had to trek all over the Kingdom.

His earlier work had been across the Wall, which at the moment was undergoing construction. After the Civil War a new country had been founded in the strange lands to the south. It had been named Ancelstierre, of which the King's brother was now Chief Minister. Prince Orrofin had been adamant that no magical beings of any sort would be welcome there. To Abhorsen it sounded like a pretty dull place, despite the Prince's talks of 'progressiveness' and 'modern technologia'.

But in obedience to his King, Abhorsen had spent five years in Ancelstierre banishing the few remaining Free Magic creatures, or failing that, driving them north. They were quite rare as Magic tended not to work the farther south one went, but Free Magic creatures anywhere were quite the nuisance, especially among superstitious Ancelstierrans.

Although the Wall was far from complete, the Wallmakers had constructed gates which prohibited the passage of any Free Magic being – he had no idea how they did this, but they were the Wallmakers. And now that his work was complete the whole mess of Free Magic things was contained within the Kingdom – or rather, the "Old Kingdom", as it was starting to be called by the Ancelstierrans. And whose job was it to clear up that mess? Abhorsen's, of course.

The young man frowned as he continued down the road, grumbling under his breath. He did not really mind his job. One thing you could say about it was that it was never dull. But a new threat had been growing: Necromancers.

A couple generations ago, a few rare people had discovered that they could walk into Death of their own free will. By imitating the songs of the Seven, with voices or instruments, these Free Magic sorcerers found that they could actually raise and control the Dead. However, they had not become a threat until very recently.

Abhorsen had once been a necromancer – but after swearing his allegiance, undergoing a late baptism, and training under Charter Mages in the King's employ, his previous trade had been forgotten. He was a faithful subject of the Kingdom, and he had a new vocation now. The persecution of Free Magic creatures had been carried out by the Seven following the Destroyer's defeat. That had been countless years ago; the power of the Seven was fading with time, and abominations were still to be found. The Wallmakers had created his bells in order to imitate their powers more effectively than voice or pipes.

And therein was the problem. In the past few years, some of the necromancers had managed to craft bells of their own, Free Magic corruptions of his tools of trade. These necromancers were starting to become more than a nuisance, raising formidable powers to do their will.

At the sound of hooves, the young man was jerked out of his memories. Soon two of the King's messengers came riding into view, easily identifiable due to their red tunics and the ridiculously large plumes that adorned their hats. The two riders pulled their mounts to a stop, horses rearing in a most spectacular fashion. Abhorsen had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at this flashy display; the King's messengers were chosen from amongst the younger members of the nobility, and considered themselves to be very important indeed. Abhorsen contented himself by reflecting that these two idiots would tremble in their boots if they ever faced a creature like Zhagam.

"Are you Lord Gabriel Abhorsen?" one of the messengers asked, panting as though he had run a marathon.

"Just Abhorsen", the young man answered. "Only my mother calls me Gabriel."

The messengers exchanged mystified looks, obviously wondering whether or not he was teasing them, but his solemn expression gave nothing away. "Very well", the first messenger continued. "Lord Abhorsen, you are hereby summoned by his Royal Highness, King Berillan the First, Ruler of –"

"Yes, yes", Abhorsen interrupted, waving a pale hand. "What does he want now?"

He received the brunt of two righteously indignant glares for this discourtesy, but Abhorsen had faced the fiery stare of a Mordicant more than once. This was nothing in comparison.

"King Berillan requests your immediate presence at Belisaere", the second messenger said stiffly.

Abhorsen sighed – another long journey. Wonderful. "Did he say why?" he asked, barely managing to hide his exasperation.

The second messenger narrowed her eyes. "The Clayr has had a vision, one which concerns you – my Lord", she added grudgingly.

Abhorsen overlooked the rudeness in her tone. This was an unexpected development, and no mistake. "The Clayr… that would be Tirelle?" he mused, half talking to himself.

"Lady Tirelle", emphasized the first messenger. "And yes, she is still the Clayr." A slight sneer lifted his upper lip. "You thought that another would have taken her place by now? She is no more than five and thirty, and there are none to match her Sight in the Kingdom."

"Is she still popping out children?" the young man grinned, and the two messengers stared at him in shock. The first messenger spluttered with impotent fury, and the other blushed, face clashing with her crimson tunic. Apparently judging that staying any longer would soil their reputations, the riders wheeled their horses around and galloped off in a spray of dirt and leaves.

Abhorsen was not sorry at all to see them go, but he was quite sorry to see their horses go. If they were so keen to get him to Belisaere, why hadn't one of them offered their mount to him? With a slight shake of his dark head, the young man turned his steps east off the forest path. If he reached the road that passed through Orchyre, perhaps a cart would pick him up and take him to the capital city. As he trudged through a dew-sprinkled meadow, the golden sun rose before him, dazzling his eyes and throwing a long shadow in his wake.

A/N: I have made "Abhorsen" the surname of a noble family, of which Gabriel is the only surviving member. The silver key on blue was their coat of arms. Gabriel was a necromancer since his youth, and in his early twenties was hired by the King. Hope this makes sense! Reviews welcome!