“Sorcerers have marked the way for us,” said Lirael. “How much water do you have?”
“Two-thirds of a bottle,” replied Nick.
“A little over half,” said Lirael. “Well, it will have to be enough until we can get back to that spring in the last cave but one. I guess it’s time for me to look into Death, and see where that black thread leads.”
“What do I do?” asked Nick.
“Guard my body,” said Lirael. “It will become covered with ice, by the way. Don’t touch me unless we’re being attacked, or some other danger threatens.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dangerous for both of us,” said Lirael. “It will distract me in Death, perhaps at some critical moment. And there is a chance you will also be drawn into Death, and the river would almost certainly take you under and away.”
“The river . . . I almost remember that,” said Nick. “Where the Dog came to get me. It was very peaceful, I was floating—”
“No!” snapped Lirael. “If, Charter help us, you do somehow end up in Death while still living, do not relax; do not float. Fight against it. Fight the current. Force yourself back into Life.”
“I will,” said Nick softly. “You too, okay?”
“Yes,” said Lirael. “Me too.”
Lirael drew Raminah, noticing that the Charter marks on the blade were dull and did not move, save for a very few near the cross-guard. But the marks on Saraneth were as lively as ever. She looked at them, and thought perhaps it was because the bells were also a mixture of both magics. But she had no time to dwell on this. As Touchstone had drilled into her, they had a job to do, and the sooner it was done the better.
Lirael went into Death even more cautiously than she had the last time with Sabriel. She stopped almost at once, setting her feet against the current, and looked about, every sense taut, absorbing the slightest sensation. But there was nothing, just the soft rush of the current and the distant sound of the river crashing through the First Gate.
Lirael sheathed bell and sword, got out the box with the bone charm, and opened it. As before, two threads came up out of the water. One to the left, one to the right. Lirael followed the left-hand thread. It went barely six paces before going back out into Life, confirming the closeness of the sarcophagus.
The Abhorsen-in-Waiting looked around again, checking for any signs of lurking Dead. Then she put her head against the border, which was something to be sensed rather than a visible boundary, and closed her eyes. A moment later, she saw into Life. It wasn’t quite the same as seeing with her eyes, more like imagining a picture in her head. But there was the path through the blackened wasteland, the flags on the spears marking the way, and there was the black thread. It followed the path for the first three flags, then veered sharply off to the left toward a slight rise . . . no . . . it was a very low mound. There, it went into the earth.
Lirael opened her eyes and immediately looked around. She had felt something, some twinge of her sense of Death. Was something creeping up on her? Or was she just tired and apprehensive? Quickly she put the box with the charm away, and drew her sword and a bell again, almost without thinking. As so often, the bell was Kibeth. Though she held it by the clapper, it seemed to sound faintly, with the echo of a distant, haunting bark.
The river swung around Lirael’s knees, changing direction twice, and her left foot moved a fraction. Almost instantly she felt the ground under her heel disappearing, the river eating away where she had lifted herself up on her toes. Grimacing, Lirael plunged her foot down hard, and then slowly began to wade back to where she’d entered, to rejoin her body.
Nick let out a great sigh of relief as Lirael came back into Life. She had been gone so little time there wasn’t much ice, only a few flakes falling from her face and left hand.
“Can we drink that?” asked Nick, pointing to where the ice melted on the ground. It was hotter here on this side of the Rift, much hotter. The sun seemed brighter, and was even a different color, the yellow tinged with blue.
“I wouldn’t,” said Lirael. “Well, not unless we absolutely have to. I found where the sarcophagus is, or at least I think I have. Three flags in, and to the left. A low mound. We’ll have to dig it out. With our plates, I guess. Or mugs.”
They had tin plates in their packs, but not much to put on them anymore. Lirael had hardly eaten as an owl, just a few small animals snatched up here and there on the steppe, but they had also brought rations for only seven days. Just enough to get to the Rift and back again. Presuming Lirael could make another owl Charter skin.
“Onward,” said Lirael. “Remember, any shortness of breath, we step back.”
At the second flag, both of them stepped back, suddenly gasping, and with a glance, mutually agreed to retreat as swiftly as possible, staggering several paces in a near panic until their breath came more easily.
They had reached the point where the air disappeared.
There was no obvious sign of a change in the atmosphere, no mark on the ground, no difference in the light. Even the flag looked the same as the others, if a tattered rag could be said to have similarities to another tattered rag.
“I didn’t like that,” whispered Nick. “The choking, just nothing coming in, no matter what . . .”
“I will make us a globe of air,” said Lirael. “It’s much like making a Charter skin. A very well-known spell, for pearl-fishers and the like.”
She reached for the Charter, and nothing happened. Nick saw her eyes change, the panic rising there. Lirael gulped and looked at her hand. She tried to make a fist, but her fingers were frozen in place.
“It’s gone,” whispered Lirael. “The Charter! It’s completely gone!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE BATTLE BEGINS
Greenwash Bridge, Old Kingdom/Beyond the Great Rift
The first assault came exactly as foretold by Arielle, on the night of the full moon. Fog rose on the northern shore, not on the river, a fog summoned and thickened by many sorcerers. As it drifted toward the north bank castle, horns sounded the alarm, which was repeated mid-river, in the South Castle, and in the newly fortified camp hastily built near the river’s edge to hold the small army Touchstone had gathered to repel the invasion.
“So it begins,” said Sameth, as he joined his parents at the top of the tower in the mid-river bastion. It was taller by three dozen paces than anything in either the North or South castles, and so offered the best view, though apart from its height it was otherwise considerably smaller than the keeps of the two castles.
“Yes, but how exactly?” asked Touchstone. “The fog is sorcerous, without a doubt. But it is crossing well to the west of the north fort. . . .”
“They may have lost control of it,” said Sabriel. “It is drifting toward the river.”
“Against the wind,” said Ferin, startling Sam. She hadn’t been behind him a moment before and he didn’t think anyone should be that quiet on crutches.
“Yes,” agreed Sabriel, looking up at the flag that billowed out above their heads. “So it is intentional. They haven’t lost control. But why spread it over the river to the west?”
She raised her hand, fingers spread wide, and whistled five separate notes. With each whistle, Charter marks flew from her mouth to cluster on each finger. After the fifth note, Sabriel closed her hand, bringing all the marks together in one glowing ball, which she threw high in the air, whistling again, the five notes joined in an eerie tune.
The ball hurtled across the river and disappeared into the great bank of fog that was slowly drifting across the water.
Nothing happened. Sam heard Ferin let out a deep breath she had obviously been holding in expectation.
“Wha—” Ferin began to say when there was a sudden explosion of light. Five spears of lightning shot horizontally out of the fog bank like spokes of a massive, burning wheel, cloud wreathed around them. Within seconds, the fog was torn apart, and what lay beneath it was exposed to the light of the
great red-tinged moon.
A line of Spirit-Walkers was entering the water half a league upstream of the bridge. Huge things of crudely shaped stone, each inhabited and animated by a Free Magic creature, they were immensely strong and almost impossible to harm with ordinary weapons. There were more than two score of them visible, and perhaps more already under the water.
“Why?” asked Touchstone. “We can deal with Spirit-Walkers, particularly one by one as they come out the other side. A line abreast would make more sense. And big as they are, they’re still going to get washed downstream a ways, and split up . . .”
“No,” said Sameth. He was looking through a telescope he had made himself, one magically augmented to increase available light. “They’re holding a chain of dark metal that will keep them together. But I do not think they are crossing to fight.”
He swung the telescope slowly along the northern bank. Without it, the others could see movement there, but not in enough detail to work out what was going on.
“Horse nomads,” said Sam, his voice suddenly very slow and deeper than usual. “Thousands of them, I’d say, going back as far as I can see. They look as if they’re preparing for a charge.”
“Across the river?” asked Touchstone.
“The Spirit-Walkers,” said Sabriel suddenly. “The chain. It’s all preparation for a spell. Freezing the water, perhaps. Or holding it back. They will charge across.”
“How do we stop them?” asked Ferin. “We go out of the castles? They are too far away to shoot, even with your longbows.”
“They can bypass the bridge, the castle, and the camp, go on to kill and pillage wherever they want,” said Touchstone grimly. “We don’t have the mounted strength to pursue, or stop them. We’ll have to try and hold them on the riverbank.”
“But there’s ten thousand of them, maybe more,” protested Sam. He could see rank after rank of mounted nomads lining up on the northern bank, a vast column stretching back and back until the individual horses and warriors were indistinguishable, merging together so it was like looking at a forest or a feature of the landscape. It was all very orderly. He could almost believe it was some kind of illusion, though he knew it was not. “We can’t stop them!”
“We have to try,” said Touchstone. He looked through his own telescope for half a minute, then turned to the two aides who stood behind and snapped out orders. “Send a messenger to the camp, everyone to move out now to take up defensive positions on the riverbank, the Guard to take the center where the charge will come. I will be there shortly to arrange the exact deployment. Another messenger to the North Castle—two-thirds of the garrison are to run south to join us at the riverbank. We’ll take two-thirds from this bastion as well; tell Captain Kindred to pick them but to move immediately.”
“We have to break the spell!” said Sam, as soldiers ran down the steps behind with Touchstone’s orders.
“There will be hundreds of Free Magic creatures within the chain; it must be the work of months or perhaps years,” said Sabriel grimly. “It could not be unmade in hours, or even days.”
She took Sam’s telescope and studied the monsters lumbering into the water, and then the cavalry waiting in their patient lines.
“At least the Spirit-Walkers will have to stay on the riverbed. I can see no wood-weirds or sand-swimmers among that host on horseback,” said Sabriel. “Sensibly, perhaps, for most horses are wary of such creatures, and they might disrupt the great charge they obviously plan. But it means they will likely be used against the bridge.”
She handed the telescope back to Sam, embraced him quickly, and turned to Touchstone.
“I will fight on the riverbank with you, my love.”
“You stay,” said Touchstone to Sam.
“But Father—”
“I order you to take command here,” snapped Touchstone. “Expect wood-weirds and the ilk. Hold out as long as you can. Lirael may still succeed. If Chlorr falls, this host will tear itself apart.”
He clapped Sam on the shoulder and he and Sabriel were gone, clattering down the stairs. Touchstone was already shouting orders for various officers to attend him.
“Hold out here?” asked Ferin. “We should also go to the riverbank. That is where the battle will be!”
“With the North Castle stripped of troops, and only one-third of the garrison here, you will likely get plenty of fighting even if you stay right here with me,” said Sam.
“Ah,” said Ferin. “That is different. You want me to fight at your side? I accept.”
“Hold my hands,” said Nick. “Think of the Charter. Breathe slowly. Stay calm. You’re the one who normally says that to me, by the way.”
“Yes,” said Lirael shakily. She took his hands and bent her head. At first there was nothing, and she felt the fear rise within her. Being cut off from the Charter was almost like not existing herself, as if . . . she fought off these feelings and tried to concentrate.
“It’s there,” said Nick. “I can sense it. Far away. But drawing closer.”
A single Charter mark blossomed in Lirael’s mind. One small mark, an everyday mark, nothing in itself, one used for joining other marks together. But Lirael welcomed it joyfully, and then another followed, and another, and then there was a trickle of marks, all ones she knew, and more and more came, until the full flood returned and she felt the ocean of marks, the multitude, more than could possibly be known crash down upon her and flow through every part of her being.
Lirael opened her eyes, mouthed “Thank you” at Nick, and began to make her globe of air.
It was still more difficult than usual, but fortunately it was a spell she knew well, and one often used so that the marks themselves seemed to want to fall into place, the correct ones easy to find and take from the ceaseless flow of the Charter. When the spell was finished, Lirael raised her arms and let it spread around them, a glowing ball of light a dozen paces in diameter, with both her and Nick in the middle.
“Can you reach out and touch it?” asked Lirael anxiously.
Nick did so. As his hand touched the globe, the marks there grew brighter.
“I think you’ll have to keep hold of the globe,” said Lirael. “Otherwise it will just disappear when we cross that threshold of airlessness. Where the Charter vanishes entirely. You will have to sustain it.”
Nick looked across at the second flag, and then two or three hundred paces beyond that, to the third flag.
“If it fails, there’s no way we can hold our breath long enough to make it back,” he said.
“No,” agreed Lirael. “Just as there is no way the others can hold back the massed might of all the clans unless we can finish off Chlorr.”
“Well then,” said Nick lightly. “I will be sure to keep it going.”
He raised his other hand so it also touched the globe, and wound his fingers around and through the glowing marks.
“Let’s find out if it works,” said Lirael. She walked forward, and the globe moved with her, Nick stumbling along with his arms outstretched above his head.
“I look ridiculous,” he said. “Though on the bright side, if there is a sorcerer out there they’ll think I’m surrendering.”
“I don’t think anyone is out there,” said Lirael. “It is just the two of us, the only living things for leagues around. And the very first Chlorr, who has been in a sarcophagus for hundreds and hundreds of years, neither alive nor dead, but something in between.”
They walked on past the second flag. Nick found himself taking a deep breath, but noticed Lirael didn’t. He let the breath go as they continued on, and hoped she didn’t notice. But of course she did.
“It works,” she said. “Keep hold.”
Neither spoke again, as if talking might use more air, but they walked swiftly until they reached the third flag, and Lirael pointed to the little rise of ground some thirty paces away.
“It’s under there,” she said. “I’ll dig. You need to hold the globe. I don’t think it’ll be f
ar underneath.”
“No,” agreed Nick, scuffing with his foot. “I reckon that’s just windblown dirt that’s piled up. At least I hope so. If it’s hard-packed, we’d need a shovel and a pick.”
“And more air,” said Lirael. “I just remembered the spell is for one person to have two hours of breathable air. But for two people, it will be half that. One single hour.”
“What’s it been already?” asked Nick. “Ten minutes? I’ll . . . uh . . . breathe shallowly.”
“A little more than ten minutes, I think,” said Lirael, frowning. She stopped on top of the mound and knelt down. Nick crouched too, as the globe moved with her.
“Won’t need to get out a plate,” said Lirael with satisfaction. She used the side of her golden hand to sweep back the loose soil, revealing a flat, worked stone beneath. A few minutes later, both of them moving backward, she had cleared enough to reveal it to be a stone slab, the lid of a sarcophagus.
Strange, twisted symbols were carved into the stone. Not Charter marks, though they shivered and moved about. Nick averted his eyes from them. They made him feel sick but were also weirdly fascinating, and he had to resist the urge to touch them.
“Perversions of Charter marks,” said Lirael briefly. “Free Magic. Spells to keep the sarcophagus secure and slay enemies. But too old and faded to have any effect now. Though I am glad I used my golden hand to sweep away the dirt.”
“So am I,” said Nick.
“The lid isn’t very thick,” said Lirael, feeling with her golden hand. A few white sparks jetted out under her fingers, but no more, and after a moment the carved Free Magic symbols were still, all power spent. “I think I can slide it off. Be careful to stay with me.”
She bent down low and pushed against the stone lid. At first it didn’t move, but then it suddenly slid free, moving right across. Lirael slid with it, and so did the globe of air, Nick almost tripping over Lirael and into the sarcophagus as he tried to keep up and keep hold.