The Seventh Bell

"Apparently, Master Myk believes otherwise," he grimaced. He wasn’t about to tell her the rest of it, about the ancient map the necromancer had hunted up which gave the location of Cormanthor, the old capital city of Aramanthia. The map would allow him to do in three months what many had failed to do in lifetimes. No, better to look like a miracle-worker when he came home with his prize.

"I suppose," he said, on a sudden thought, "that the spell he put on you won’t let you kiss me goodbye."

Kyrinne sighed in exasperation. "Even if it didn’t, you have no claim to any of my kisses."

"Ice Maiden, what can I do to make you mine?" Antarn laughed confidently.

"You’d better go if you want to reach a safe inn before nightfall," she rolled her eyes at the irrepressible apprentice. Antarn knew better than most what could befall any lone traveler in Aramanthia once darkness had settled, but still he lingered. There was more to say.

"Kyrinne," he began, ignoring her sigh, "You have perhaps heard the story of the creation of Elwold Mountain. When the sorceress Mistral was pursued by a huntsman who was captivated by her beauty, she..."

"I know," the girl interrupted, visibly annoyed by this waste of her time. "She cast forth a great mountain of stone between them that stood fast until she died, protecting her from all men who would dare to touch her."

He nodded slowly. "I will return to your mountain of ice." The youth cast one last look at the enchanting maiden and walked away, telling himself that somehow, one day she would love him, despite their Master’s connivings. Kyrinne watched him for a moment, then turned back to her work. She had just begun to continue her memorization when she heard a faint, boyish call.

"What is the difference between stone and ice?" Antarn shouted, never breaking his stride.

For the next three months, the days passed slowly for Kyrinne. She studied her spellbook and learned more about the usage of the Six Bells from her master. She assisted him in various great-magics to summon the lesser Dead to serve as soldiers in the neverending war. Making nightly trips into the Realm of Death to bring back spirits of the deceased to serve Myk, the weary maiden developed haggard circles under her eyes and an ashen tint to her once rosy skin. She began to miss Antarn’s strength of mind, a quality that had certainly made using the tricksome Bells easier. The necromancer was becoming alarmingly ruthless, and any mistake of Kyrinne’s brought a harsh reprimand. Fear of Myk’s horrible punishments held her tongue silent as she watched the necromancer grow more and more careless about his usage of the Dead. Battle-mangled spirits, still half attached to their rotting bodies, roamed Aramanthia at nightfall, preying on the life-energy of the Living. The standard list of protections, made long ago, was resurrected and posted on all doorways for easy reference:

Get out of the open. Go inside, light as many candles and fires as possible. Wear silver. Lock the doors. If possible, find running water to hide in. Mask your scent.

The battles between the necromancer’s Dead soldiers and the sorcerer’s Living (though unwilling) recruits raged constantly. The Dead had to feed on the life-energy of the Living in order to maintain their physical bodies, and in doing so left many Aramanthians as living corpses - biologically alive but mentally vacant, with spirits trapped in their useless bodies. Many others fled the land. For the first time in a hundred years, the elves closed their cities to other races. The dwarves burrowed deep into the crusty earth and remained there. Merfolk refused to break the surface of their lagoon. The remaining humans and nonmagical animals alike were almost helpless against this infestation of the Dead. No one knew how to get rid of them. Years later, in historians’ books, the span of time after Antarn’s departure became known as The Trepidation.