A/N: I was amazed by the awesome responses I got from you guys. Your reviews were fabulous, every one of them. And let me take this opportunity to say that I am sorry for the wait. Cassiel was just being very stubborn – blame him

I finally finished the last of five midterm exams. I'd rather go to the dentist five times in a row than have to go through all of that again. Am I crazy in thinking that essay questions shouldn't be posed on Biology exams? Anyway, here's the next chapter, in which Cassiel has a very tough day (even for an Abhorsen) and tackles a few different antagonists. Lucky guy. Oh yes, and we see an old face again.

A Greater Evil

A dark ribbon of shadow unfurled before Cassiel's feet and stretched away into the distance. With only the slightest hesitation the Abhorsen stepped onto the path that was the Fourth Gate, his sword drawn and ready. He kept his senses alert for anything that could be rushing down the path towards him in a treacherous dash for Life, but the only thing he could hear was the faint sound of rushing water. Satisfied that he was safe for the time being, Cassiel reached into his pack and took out a dried carp, ripping off an enormous bite with his teeth. His fisher hawk Charterskin always gave him peculiar cravings.

The Royal Guards at the outpost had been happy enough to let him through to Ancelstierre, once they got over the shock of seeing a bird transform into a man before their eyes. The ease of the crossing was a stroke of luck on Cassiel's part. After Javen won the match of single combat, tensions between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre had rapidly escalated. The Kingdom citizens were incensed that Sir Palidren had used a poisoned blade, and thought that the loss of his leg was well-deserved. The Ancelstierrans, for their part, were simply furious that they had lost. The knight still maintained that he hadn't known that his blade was poisoned, and to avoid a potential uprising King Dantalion had been forced to close the matter. And so it was that the Wall could only be crossed safely at the outposts, and strangers were looked upon with great suspicion on both sides.

Cassiel chewed on his carp as he scanned the path before him for possible dangers. He had seen the three necromancers in their protective ring of Free Magic fire. The Dead had been milling around aimlessly, although he did not doubt that they would spring into action to defend their masters against any foes. Cassiel had briefly considered eliminating the Dead Hands, getting past the Free Magic circle, killing the necromancers while they were still in Death, and then going on to battle the creature. Then he reflected that eliminating the creature ought to be his first priority, and that it wouldn't do to send a legion of his enemies into Death right before plunging in there himself. No, it would be better to slip into Death quickly and quietly.

So that was what the Abhorsen was doing right now. He wasn't overly concerned about his body back in Life – he had put up a strong diamond of protection some distance away from the necromancers. If he took them by surprise, hopefully he could defeat them quickly before facing the creature.

The path of dark ribbon ended at a waterclimb, and Cassiel burnt his lips as he recited the Free Magic spell that would get him through the Fifth Gate. A tentacle of water reached out of the face of the waterclimb to wrap around him, and he rose into the air. Strange as it seemed, Cassiel actually enjoyed the floating feeling he experienced whenever he crossed this gate. The ride itself did not always end as smoothly–

Cassiel was thrown forward through the waterclimb into the Sixth Precinct, and just managed not to stumble. He held out his sword warily, eyes darting to and fro. The Sixth Precinct was a shallow pool without a current, but it held a great number of Dead. He could see them too, some wandering aimlessly, some partially-submerged, and others that were clearly malevolent. They stared at him with the burning holes of their eyes, but when their gazes fell upon his sword and blue surcoat, they turned and shambled away. The Dead knew better than to cross the Abhorsen. For not the first time Cassiel was thankful for the reputation his father had built up, in Death as well as in Life.

And there they were, three tall figures with long auburn hair. Their backs were to him, and they hadn't even heard him come through the gate. Amateurs. Of course, their chanting had probably drowned out the sound of him coming through the waterclimb.

Cassiel stepped forward carefully, listening to their united voices. Every few words steam would pass their lips – he could see it float over their heads and dissipate in the cold grey air. Cassiel supposed that there were only a few spell-words among what they were saying, and that the chant was used to remember the order or to control the timing of a powerful summoning spell. So the creature was still deep in Death somewhere – good.

Taking care to move as silently as possible, Cassiel drew up behind the three necromancers. The summoning was nearly over, and they were completely focussed on the task at hand, not paying the slightest attention to their surroundings. A fatal mistake.

The sword sliced through the air, impaling one of the necromancers and killing her instantly. The others turned – her brothers, no doubt – as Cassiel withdrew his blade and let the woman's body fall soundlessly into the grey water. The younger one took one look at the swordsman before fleeing, stumbling through the water as he splashed his way back to Life. Cassiel let him go.

The remaining necromancer drew his own weapon. The two men took no notice of the Dead surrounding them, not even of the shadowy figures who watched in hungry anticipation. If the necromancer fell, then there would be one less to bind them to shameful service. If the Abhorsen fell, then the Dead would be merry.

"Our father told us about you," the necromancer said as they circled each other. "He called you a traitor to your own kind. The necromancer who went over to serve the Charter." The man spat out the last word like a mouthful of poison.

Cassiel gave a bland smile. "I think you have me confused with someone else," he said, but did not elaborate. Gabriel Abhorsen had never told his son about his past, and Cassiel had never asked him. "But you're right about one thing. I do serve the Charter, and I'm here to stop you from raising… whatever it is that you're trying to raise."

The necromancer grinned, and the white flash of teeth in his equally-pale face was disconcerting. "A servant," he said, tossing his sword from hand to hand with annoying insolence. "A powerful monster to do our bidding. All necromancers know of it, the legendary serpent trapped in Death long ages ago. And we found the remains."

"Congratulations," said the Abhorsen coldly. And with that he charged.

The necromancer was clever; Cassiel had to give him that. His blow was parried and a well-placed foot tripped him up. By the time Cassiel had fought his way, gasping, back to his feet, the necromancer had shouted out the final words of the summoning and slashed his own arm with his sword. Dark blood spattered into the water, and with a final sarcastic wave the necromancer was running back towards Life, following the path of his brother.

For a moment Cassiel hovered, torn between pursuing the necromancer or waiting for what he knew was going to come next. In the end the Clayr's vision won out, and he stayed put, shaking water from his eyes. The spilt blood swirled into an eddy, which drained and drained until it looked as if a bottomless well had been drilled down into the water. A faint roaring sound could be heard. Something was coming back through the Sixth Gate.

It was smaller than Cassiel had imagined, but no less horrifying. Its long sinuous body was covered in burnished scales encrusted with tarry grime. It raised a talon that ended in serrated claws the colour of old bone. Two bulbous yellow eyes protruded from the sides of a triangular head, with ropes of white mucus dribbling from the corners. The Abhorsen drew back in revulsion. At his movement the creature's head snapped towards him, and it reared up as well as it could on its two legs, jaws opening to reveal a mouthful of broken teeth. It gave a snort and blasted out a cloud of steam that scalded Cassiel's eyebrows.

The Abhorsen took a step back and wondered frantically what to do. He found himself wishing that Kibeth had been more helpful and told him how to fight the ghastly thing. It lowered its twisted claws, and he watched as its two legs pulled the long sinuous body forward, closer and closer. Cassiel jumped to the side and struck out, avoiding another gust of scorching air. The sword clanged against the scales and sparks showered from the contact, sizzling as they touched the water. Cassiel stared at the creature's thick scales. The sword had made the smallest of scratches on the armour, and it would take hours to hack through it.

"Charter take you," he snarled, and flung out his hand. A ball of golden fire left his fingers, and the creature hissed as it struck its side. "Oh, so you don't like Charter magic?" asked Cassiel mockingly. He nearly paid for his cheek when the creature whirled and shot out a serrated claw. It caught on the front of his surcoat and ripped to show the gethre armour underneath.

The Abhorsen sprang back and gathered his wits to perform another spell, but something caught his eye as he raised his hand. A thin black string as fine as spider silk had been knotted onto the creature's tail. That string was slack now, and in a moment of shocked realization Cassiel knew that something else had been dragged into the Sixth Precinct during the summoning. Now it was loose and probably scrambling hungrily towards Life – something that was meant to stay deep within Death and was cunning enough to hitch a ride.

His few seconds of distraction were interrupted as the creature lunged forward. One of its talons swiped at him, and Cassiel screamed as four long claws punctured his armour and sank deep into his thigh. He jerked back instinctively and the jagged hooks ripped free, taking fragments of tissue and gethre scales with them. The thing gave a shrill howl of disappointment as he staggered away. Cassiel was shaken. His powerful sword had little effect, and his supposedly-indestructible gethre armour could be pierced with ease. The dangers of this creature lay not in any special powers it possessed, but in its exceptional strength. He shuddered to think of the damage it could inflict in Life when mastering a superior form.

Cassiel backed away, sheathing his sword so as to leave both hands free for casting spells. He was beginning to understand this creature. It could not be defeated by things made by hand, even if they were imbued with the power of the Charter. He needed to fight it with the strength of pure Charter magic. That was how Kibeth must have fought it so long ago, and won.

The Bright Shiner's parting words emerged from the depths of his memory: "For what it's worth, Abhorsen, my Binder and Weeper sisters were always much stronger than me." Cassiel frowned. Could it be that the Dog had actually been helping him, and he had only been too blind to notice? Her Binder and Weeper sisters… Saraneth and Astarael.

Fumbling at his bandolier Cassiel drew the two bells, nearly dropping them in his haste. His wounded leg was trembling beneath him, and the shaking extended to his hands so that he was in danger of sounding the bells accidentally. The intricate diagrams of a page he had painstakingly copied from his father's notes swam to the forefront of his mind. He swung Saraneth in a figure-eight above his head, and simultaneously rang Astarael in a circle in front of him. The complex motions required nearly all of his concentration, and he barely noticed when the call of the seventh bell caused him to take several large steps forward. What he did notice was that the creature had frozen and was staring at him out of one slitted eye. Cassiel stared back at it, not daring to blink. The pain in his leg subsided as he concentrated on imposing his will on the creature. Slowly, incredibly, it was backing away. A circle of water around them was draining, and together they passed through the Seventh Gate.

Cassiel felt the familiar current twisting around his legs, but he never faltered as he rang the bells together. His eyes were locked with those of the creature as they made their way swiftly towards the line of red fire that marked the next gate. The Abhorsen instinctively pronounced the Free Magic spell, and the line of flames shivered up into a narrow arch.

The Eighth Precinct was much more perilous than the last two. Patches of flame floated eerily on the surface of the water, moving with no particular current and flaring up out of nowhere. The Dead around them shrieked as they were scorched by fire. Sweat poured down Cassiel's face as he fought to control the bells. Blood streamed down his leg and into the water, glittering slightly with the power of the Charter.

And there it was before him. He could see it clearly now, a wall of darkness blacker than deepest night. The creature was only five steps away… three… It had stopped still now, and was resisting the command of Saraneth and the call of Astarael. "Go," said Cassiel through gritted teeth. "I am the Abhorsen, and you are not welcome here. Retreat and find your final place beyond the Ninth Gate." He rang the bells with all his might and watched the creature's tail sink into the wall of darkness. Then the length of its sinuous body disappeared. Now only its head and talons were protruding, and it gave a final screeching howl before fleeing into the shadows.

Cassiel's exhausted brain failed to notice that he had followed the creature, and he stilled the bells to find himself engulfed in blackness. His father had told him never to go past the Eighth Gate, and here he was, so close to stepping through. He could not feel his body and after a moment of blind panic recalled the words that would return him to the Eighth Precinct.

Cassiel stumbled out into the cold grey light, returning the bells to their pouches. Now that his duty was over every ache and pain returned to him. His leg was in agony, and he tore a strip from his tattered surcoat to bind it. Somehow he managed to make it out of the precinct without getting burned to ashes by the floating plots of fire.

It was only when he reached the quiet Sixth Precinct that he remembered the broken string. The creature had dragged something with it out of the deep reaches of Death. Filled with new urgency, Cassiel rushed back towards Life. He practically leaped down the waterclimb, and was dismayed to see that the Fifth Gate was still intact, which meant that someone – or something – was using it.

He hurried along the narrow way, pausing only to turn back and shove a pursuing misshapen Dead thing into the waters below. He paused in the fast-flowing waters of the Fourth Precinct, and lunged to catch something as it swept by. Cassiel turned the body over to look into the face of the necromancer he had fought. He sensed that the spirit had left the body. It was an empty shell, drained so that whatever had killed him could move further towards Life.

Cassiel sped up in his pursuit, hoping to catch up with the killer before it reached the border. His hopes were dashed when he came upon the body of the youngest necromancer, the one who had fled as soon as he had seen the Abhorsen. He was floating face-down in the First Precinct. Whatever had killed the two brothers was in Life now. Cassiel did not hesitate, and threw himself at the barrier.

Coming out of Death so quickly was disorienting, and for a moment Cassiel panicked before he realized exactly where he was. His clothing cracked as he started to move, brushing ice from his face and hands and drawing his sword. His diamond of protection was still intact, but he quickly dissolved it, moving towards where he had seen the three necromancers. The Dead were running wild without direction, but Cassiel left them alone for now. The Dead he could deal with later. He needed to save what little strength he had for whatever had broken into Life.

Reaching out with his senses, Cassiel felt a strange presence. It was similar to those emitted by the Dead Hands, but it resonated more deeply and with greater intensity. Cassiel hurried forward, his boots crunching on the pine needles.

He spotted a man-like form walking upright between the trees. It seemed to sense his gaze and turned to face him. The figure clearly once was a man, and Cassiel's gaze immediately fixed upon a spiky necklace of Free Magic runes, though why anyone would wear such a nauseating piece of jewellery was beyond his comprehension. Upon more careful examination, however, the Abhorsen could see that it wasn't a necklace at all. The runes constantly shifted and changed, encircling the man's pale throat. The runes attached the severed head to the figure's neck. A severed head?

Cassiel's eyes widened before darting to the hilt of the man's sword, and sure enough a spiralling symbol met his eyes, a symbol that had become hateful to him. He recognized the broad-shouldered figure. Something had chewed on the head while it bobbed around Death and the morphological powers of the Fifth Precinct had altered the man's appearance, but that lopsided grin was sickeningly familiar.

"Raum," the Abhorsen whispered.

"Hello, Cassiel," said the necromancer. "What, you never thought you'd see me again? You should have remembered what your father taught you and killed me properly. Lucky you were too preoccupied with the old man to ring the bells. Lucky for me, that is."

"How did you –"

"Survive? It was very difficult, I assure you. It took over a year to find my head. Then I roamed the Precincts of Death, killing other creatures to gain their strength. My lucky day came when I found the Scourge sleeping beneath the waters of the Eighth Precinct."

"The Scourge?"

"Your father didn't tell you about it? It was a popular legend among necromancers. Centuries ago the Scourge was walked to the Eighth Precinct, and slumbered there waiting to be summoned. Nobody knew where to find the remains, but there is always the odd ambitious necromancer looking for them. I knew all I had to do was anchor myself to the Scourge until someone found its body. So I attached the line, and waited."

"You have learned patience in Death, Raum."

"Those who do not learn patience go mad, little Abhorsen."

"How fortunate, then, that you did not have a mind to lose in the first place."

Raum let out a growl deep in his throat, and Cassiel was startled when steam and sparks poured out of his mouth. "Careful, boy. You don't want to go the same way as your father."

Cassiel's hand convulsively clenched the hilt of his sword. He wanted nothing more than to attack this twisted being that Raum had become, but he was painfully aware of his injuries and exhaustion. Perhaps the necromancer had not noticed…

"What are you doing, Raum?" he asked quietly, trying to buy some time. "Are you going to kill me?" They faced each other among the trees surrounded by shambling corpses, and Cassiel gestured at them as they lurched by. "I have fought the Dead before, and won."

"Dead?" the necromancer scoffed. "I am not one of your Dead Hands, little Abhorsen. Those bumbling, mindless carcasses are enslaved to somebody else's will. Oh no, I am a far greater evil than they."

"Because you retain your will?" asked Cassiel.

"More than that."

He barely managed to roll out of the way as a streak of scarlet fire shot past. Cassiel tasted an acrid metal tang in the back of his mouth. Raum could still use Free Magic! Cursing inwardly, the Abhorsen fought his way to his feet. His leg chose that moment to betray him and buckled underneath his weight. He crashed to his knees, just catching himself against a tree and scraping his hand in the process.

"Finished already?" the necromancer scoffed, advancing on Cassiel. "Pity. Even your father put up a better fight than that."

Red-hot anger flashed behind Cassiel's eyes, and before he knew it he was on his feet again, battling Raum for all he was worth. The necromancer was as skilled a swordsman as he remembered, but Cassiel's tattered gethre armour saved him from serious injury more than once. In addition, this Dead Raum was a great deal stronger than he had been when alive, which was truly saying something. Weak and wounded as he was, Cassiel knew that his chances weren't very good.

Raum neatly parried a wild stab of his, reached out, and grabbed the back of his head. The next thing Cassiel knew was considerable pain as his face was smashed against the trunk of a tree. He toppled to the ground, sprawling over the twisted roots and landing awkwardly on his side. Stars flashed before his eyes; he could not see. Cassiel leaned his cheek against the cold October bark, listening to the crunch of pine needles under Raum's boots as the necromancer came closer.

"Giving up, Abhorsen?"

That was what he'd been waiting for. Cassiel swiped out with his sword, aiming for the direction of the voice, and was rewarded with a vicious howl of pain. The stars faded from his eyes and he blinked, staring at where his blade had sliced through the warped flesh. Raum shed his useless body, fleeing on the wind as a thing made of black smoke.

Cassiel peered after where his enemy had disappeared for a long time. He hadn't seen Raum since the day Vichael had been born – over thirteen years ago. He was awoken from his contemplation by one of the Dead Hands nearly stepping on him. With a loud groan, Cassiel pushed himself into a sitting position. He forced his mind to focus, although his head throbbed painfully in protest, and drew his bells to send the Dead to rest.

When he was finally alone in the woods, Cassiel allowed his exhaustion to overcome him and collapsed. His thigh was mangled and he would likely have the scars for the rest of his life. His scratched hand ached and his face was covered in blood. He felt his nose and winced; it was tender, but not broken. He let his hand fall and sighed, lying there on the ground and relishing the cool prickly feeling against his skin. Later when he heard footsteps approaching, he groaned and covered his ears. It was only when someone prodded him with the toe of a boot that he finally looked up.

He was surrounded by six scruffy-looking men, all of whom were staring down at him in utter astonishment. Cassiel supposed he must truly be a sight to see, with his ragged armour, wounded leg, and the piles of Dead scattered around him. He attempted a weak grin, which turned into a grimace of pain.

The men drew back in alarm. One of them plucked up his courage and cleared his throat. "Ahem! You're – ah – under arrest." His ginger moustache twitched nervously.

This was the very last thing Cassiel had expected to hear. He had become accustomed to villagers thanking him for banishing the Dead. Having faced more foes that day than most people did in a lifetime, he was amazed by this unkind reception. "I – beg your pardon?" he stuttered.

"You're under arrest," said the man with growing confidence. He seemed rather pleased with this pronouncement, and hooked his thumbs into his belt, looking around at his companions. "Well? Arrest him, lads!"

"I – ow, watch that! – I don't understand," said Cassiel as he was prodded to his feet by the blunt ends of spears. "What am I supposed to have done?"

The men stared at him as if he was mad, and the leader rolled his eyes. "You're a necromancer," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Cassiel reflected that with his bell-bandolier and the mass of corpses strewn about, it did look rather incriminating.

"I'm not a necromancer," said Cassiel, but his words fell on deaf ears. Two men stood on either side of him, two behind him, and two in front. The men at his back prodded him with their spears again. "Will you cut it out?" Cassiel snapped. "I can't walk very well, as you may have noticed." He pointed at his wounded leg.

One of the men sniggered. "Couldn't control the thing you summoned, eh?" Cassiel could have walloped him.

"Let's go, let's go," said the leader, setting off with a swagger.

Cassiel sighed and followed, sporting a pronounced limp. "I'm no necromancer," he repeated as reasonably as he could in his condition. "I am Cassiel Abhorsen, an enemy of the necromancers. Surely you've heard of me?"

The leader stopped and turned around, face scrunching up in thought over that ginger moustache. Cassiel held his breath, willing the leader to remember something about him. "Nah," said the leader finally, turning around and setting off again. "Can't say I have."

Cassiel was nearly dancing up and down with frustration. Of course, these men were from a small village on the fringes of civilization, and wouldn't have heard much about the politics between the two countries. He contemplated using magic to escape, but decided that even if he did succeed it wouldn't improve the delicate relationship between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre.

"Listen," he said in growing desperation, "I am the Abhorsen. I am a very important person in the Kingdom, on speaking terms with King Dantalion himself. You must have heard of me."

"Wait! I think I have heard of you," said the man the Cassiel's right. He grinned at the Abhorsen, who nearly cried with relief. "I went to Corvere a few years ago to see my sister, and visited Moot Hall. Chief Minister Tralusan was giving a speech and he mentioned a Lord Abhorsen, I remember now. Called him a madman, he did." Cassiel put his face into his hands. This was going nowhere. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if he just stayed silent.

Cassiel was exhausted when he finally stumbled into the village. Night had fallen, and he stared out of the window at the yellow moon as the mayor told him that the punishment for raising the Dead was life in a spelled prison. He barely reacted when they took away his weapons and bells, and watched in a stupor as his leg was bandaged.

It was only when he was pushed into his cell across from a noisy drunkard that he did anything. Cassiel didn't care how remote this place was. If he broke out now, word of his escape would eventually reach Tralusan's ears and cause a scandal that would lead to more problems for the Kingdom. The time just after peace was the most fragile.

He sat down on his bunk, checking that nobody was watching (the drunk didn't count), and reached into his pocket. Cassiel withdrew a square of silver and breathed upon it, whispering a quiet spell. The fog swirled before clearing, and he looked into a familiar face. "Your Majesty," he whispered, "I think I need your help…"

A/N: I enjoyed looking back in Abhorsen and researching the Nine Precincts. Honestly, how does Garth Nix come up with all of this great stuff? I found the creature a bit hard to write; humans are so much more expressive than dead dragony things! Reviews, as always, are welcome. Four chapters to go!