“Corvere capital of two million principal products manufactured banking the attraction between two objects is directly proportional to the product of the day breaks not it is my heart four thousand eight hundred and the wind shifts generally in direction white wild Father help me Mother Sam help me Lirael—”
Nick stopped, coughed, and drew breath. The white smoke drifted off into the fog, and no new smoke emerged. Nick drew in two more shaky breaths, then experimentally let go of his trouser cuff and the piece of wind flute inside it. He felt a chill run through his body as he let go, but he still knew who he was and what he must do. Using the corner of the building, he hauled himself upright and staggered off into the fog. As always, the silver hemispheres glowed in his mind, but he had forced them into the background. Now he was thinking of the blueprints of the Lightning Farm. If Tim had made it according to Nick’s design instructions, then one of the nine electrical junction boxes would be just around the corner of the main mill building.
Nick almost ran into the western wall of the mill, the fog was so thick. He skirted around it to the north as quickly as he could, staying away from the southern end, where the Dead labored to lift the first hemisphere onto a flatbed railway wagon.
The hemispheres. They glowed in Nick’s mind brighter than the lightning flashes. He was suddenly struck with a compulsion to make sure that they were properly lifted into the cradles, that the cables were correctly joined, the track sanded for traction in this wet fog. He had to see to it. The hemispheres had to be joined!
Nick fell to his knees on the railway, and then forward, to lie curled up across the cold steel and the worn wooden sleepers. He clutched at his trouser cuff, fighting against that overwhelming urge to turn right and go over to the hemisphere on its railway wagon. Desperately he thought of Lirael lifting him into the reed boat, of his promise to her. His friend Sam, picking him up after he’d been knocked out by a fast ball playing cricket. Tim Wallach, bow tied and dapper, pouring him a gin and tonic.
“Word of a Sayre, word of a Sayre, word of a Sayre,” he repeated over and over again.
Still mumbling, he forced himself into a crawl. Across the track, ignoring the splinters from the old railway sleepers. He crawled to the far side of the mill, and used the wall to half crawl, half stumble down to the junction box, which was actually a small concrete hut. Here, hundreds of cables from the lightning rods fed into one of the nine master cables, each as thick as Nick’s body.
“I’ll stop it,” he whispered to himself as he reached the junction box. Deafened by thunder, half blind from the lightning, and crippled by pain and nausea, he reached up and tried to open the metal door that was marked with a vivid yellow lightning bolt and the word “DANGER.”
The door was locked. Nick shook the handle, but that small act of defiance did nothing but use up his last store of energy. Exhausted, Nick slid back down and sprawled across the doorway.
He had failed. Lightning continued to spread up the slope, accompanied by fog and booming thunder. The Dead continued to struggle with the hemispheres. One was on its railway wagon, which was being moved along the rails to the far end of the line, even as the Dead who pushed it were struck again and again by lightning. The other hemisphere was swinging off the coaster—till lightning burned the rope and it came crashing down, crushing several Dead Hands. But when the hemisphere was raised, the crushed Hands came slithering out. No longer recognizable as anything remotely human, and no use in the work, they squirmed their way east. Up the ridge, to join the Dead that Hedge had already sent to make sure that the final triumph of the Destroyer was not delayed.
“You have to believe me!” exclaimed Sam in exasperation. “Tell her again that I promise on the word of a Prince of the Old Kingdom that every single one of you will be given a farm!”
A young Southerling was translating for him, though Sam was sure that like most Southerlings, the matriarch understood at least spoken Ancelstierran. This time she interrupted the interpreter halfway through and thrust the paper she held out to Sam. He took it and quickly scanned it, acutely aware that he had only a minute or two left before he had to go back to Lirael.
The paper was printed on both sides, in several languages. It was headed “Land for the Southerling People” and then went on to promise ten acres of prime farmland for every piece of paper that was presented to the “land office” at Forwin Mill. There was an official-looking crest, and the paper supposedly came from the “Government of Ancelstierre Resettlement Office.”
“This is a fake,” Sam protested. “There is no Ancelstierre Resettlement Office, and even if there were, why would they want you to go to somewhere like Forwin Mill?”
“That is where the land is,” replied the young translator smoothly. “And there must be a Resettlement Office. Why else would the police let us leave the camps?”
“Look at what’s happening over there!” screamed Sam, pointing at the thunderclouds and the constant forks of lightning, all of which were now easily visible, even from the valley floor. “If you go there, you will be killed! That is why they let you out! It solves a problem for them if you all get killed and they can say it wasn’t their fault!”
The matriarch straightened her head and looked at the lightning playing along the ridge. Then she looked at the blue sky to the north, south, and east. She touched the interpreter’s arm and said three words.
“You promise us on your blood?” asked the interpreter. He pulled out a knife made from the ground-down end of a spoon. “You will give us land in your country?”
“Yes, I promise on my blood,” said Sam quickly. “I will give you land and all the help we can so you can live there.”
The matriarch held out her palm, which was marked with hundreds of tiny dotted scars that formed a complex whorl. The interpreter pricked her skin with the knife and twisted it around a few times, to form a new dot.
Sam held out his hand. He didn’t feel the knife. All his concentration was behind him, his ears straining to hear any sound of an attack.
The matriarch spoke quickly and held her palm out. The interpreter gestured for Sam to hold his palm against hers. He did so, and she gripped his hand with surprising strength from her bony old fingers.
“Good, excellent,” babbled Sam. “Have your people go back to the other side of the stream and wait there. As soon as I can, we will . . . I will arrange for you to be given your land.”
“Why do we not wait here?” asked the interpreter.
“Because there’s going to be a battle,” said Sam anxiously. “Oh, Charter help me! Please go back beyond the stream! Running water will be the only protection you have!”
He turned and ran away before any more questions could be asked. The interpreter called after him, but Sam did not answer. He could feel the Dead coming down this side of the ridge, and he was terribly afraid he had been away from Lirael too long. She was up there on the spur, and he was her main protector. There was only so much Ancelstierrans could do, even those who had some slight mastery of Charter Magic.
Sam did not see, because he was sprinting for all he was worth, but behind him the interpreter and the matriarch spoke heatedly. Then the interpreter gestured back towards the center of the valley and the stream. The matriarch looked once more towards the lightning, then tore up the paper she held, threw it to the ground, and spat on it. Her action was mimicked by those around her, and then by others, and a great paper tearing and spitting slowly spread throughout the vast crowd. Then the matriarch turned and began to walk east, to the middle of the valley and the stream. Like a flock following its bellwether, all the other Southerlings turned as well.
Sam was panting up the spur, three quarters of the way back, when he heard shouts ahead.
“Halt! Halt!”
Sam couldn’t sense the Dead so close, but he found extra speed from somewhere, and his sword leaped into his hand. Startled soldiers stepped aside as he ran past them and up to Lirael. She was still standing frozen in the ring of
stones. Greene and two soldiers were in front of her. About ten feet in front of them, two more soldiers were standing over a young man with their bayonets to his throat. The youth was lying still on the ground and was shrieking. His clothes and skin were blackened, and he had lost most of his hair. But he was not a Dead Hand. In fact, Sam saw that this scorched fugitive was not much older than he was.
“It’s not me, it’s not me, I’m not them, they’re behind me,” he shrieked. “You have to help me!”
“Who are you?” asked Major Greene. “What is happening over there?”
“I’m Timothy Wallach,” gasped the young man. “I don’t know what’s happening! It’s a nightmare! That . . . I don’t know what he is . . . Hedge. He killed my workmen! All of them. He pointed at them and they died.”
“Who’s behind you?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know,” sobbed Tim. “They were my men. I don’t know what they are now. I saw Krontas struck directly by lightning. His head was on fire, but he didn’t stop. They are—”
“The Dead,” said Sam. “What were you doing at Forwin Mill?”
“I’m from the University of Corvere,” whispered Tim. He made a visible effort to get himself under control. “I built the Lightning Farm for Nicholas Sayre. I didn’t . . . I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s nothing good. We have to stop it being used! Nick said he’ll try, but—”
“Nicholas is there?” snapped Sam.
Tim nodded. “But he’s in bad shape. He hardly knew who I was. I don’t think there’s much chance of him doing anything. And there was white smoke coming out of his nose—”
Sam listened with a sinking heart. He knew from Lirael that the white smoke was the sign of the Destroyer taking control. Any faint hope he’d had that Nick might escape was dashed. His friend was lost.
“What can be done?” asked Sam. “Is there any way to disable the Lightning Farm?”
“There are circuit breakers in each of the nine junction boxes,” whispered Tim. “If they were opened . . . But I don’t know how many circuits are actually needed. Or . . . or you could cut the cables from the lightning rods. There are a thousand and one lightning rods, and since they’re already being struck by lightning . . . you’d need very special gear.”
Sam didn’t hear Tim’s last few words. All thoughts of Nick’s plight and the Lightning Farm were swept away as a cold sensation froze the hair on the back of his neck. His head snapped up, and he pushed past Tim. The first wave of Dead were almost upon them, and any question of doing something to any junction boxes was academic.
“Here they come!” he shouted, and jumped up on a rock, already reaching into the Charter to prepare destructive spells. He was surprised by how easy it was. The wind was still blowing from the west, and it should have been harder this far from the Wall. But he could feel the Charter strongly, almost as clear and present as it was in the Old Kingdom, though it was somehow inside him as much as it was outside.
“Stand ready!” shouted Greene, his warning repeated by sergeants and corporals in the ring of soldiers around Lirael’s frozen form. “Remember, nothing must get through to the Abhorsen! Nothing!”
“The Abhorsen.” Sam closed his eyes for a second, willing that pain away. There was no time to grieve or think about the world without his parents. He could see the Dead Hands lumbering down the slope, gathering speed as they sensed the Life ahead.
Sam readied a spell and quickly looked around. All the bowmen had arrows nocked, and they were teamed with pairs of bayonet men. Greene and Tindall were next to Sam, both ready with Charter spells. Lirael was several paces behind them, secure with soldiers all around her.
But where was Mogget? The little white cat was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-three
Lathal the Abomination
THE FIFTH GATE was a reverse waterfall: a waterclimb. The river hit an unseen wall and kept on flowing up it. The dark ribbon path that crossed the Fifth Precinct ended short of this waterclimb, leaving a gap. Lirael and the Dog stared up from the end of the path, their stomachs crowding their throats. It was very disorienting to see water rising where it should fall, though fortunately it blurred into grey fuzziness before it went too far up. Even so, Lirael had the unpleasant feeling that she was no longer subject to normal gravity and might fall upwards too.
That feeling was fueled by the knowledge that this was actually what was going to happen when she spoke the Free Magic spell to cross the Fifth Gate. There was no path or stair here—the spell simply made sure the waterclimb didn’t take you too far.
“You’d better hold my collar, Mistress,” said the Dog, eyeing the rising water. “The spell won’t include me otherwise.”
Lirael sheathed her sword and grabbed the Dog’s collar, her fingers feeling the warmth and comfortable familiarity of the Charter marks that made it up. She had a strange sense of déjà vu as she pushed her fingers through, as if she knew the Charter marks from somewhere else—somewhere relatively new, not just from the thousand times she had held the collar. But she had no time to follow that feeling to some conclusion.
Holding the Dog tight, Lirael spoke the words that would carry them up the waterclimb, once again feeling the heat of Free Magic through her nose and mouth. She would likely lose her voice from it eventually, she thought, but it also seemed to have cured her Ancelstierran cold. Though she might still have a cold in her real body, out in Life. She didn’t know enough about how things like that in Death would affect her in Life. Of course, if she were slain in Death, her body would die in Life as well.
The spell was slow to start, and for a moment Lirael contemplated saying it again. Then she saw a sheet of water reach out of the surface of the waterclimb, moving like a strange, very thin, very wide tentacle. It crossed the gap to the ribbon path in a series of shuddering extensions and wrapped around Lirael and the Dog like a large blanket, without actually touching them. Then it began to rise up the waterclimb, moving at the same rate as the vertical current—taking Lirael and her closely gripped hound with it.
They rose steadily for several minutes, till the precinct below was lost in the fuzzy grey light. The waterclimb continued upwards—perhaps forever—but the extension that held Lirael stopped. Then it suddenly snapped back into the face of the waterclimb—throwing its passengers out the other side.
Lirael blinked as she hurtled into what her common sense told her should be a cliff, but the back of the waterclimb no more followed common sense than the waterclimb acknowledged gravity. Somehow, it had pushed them through to the next precinct. The Sixth, a place where the river became a shallow pool and there was no current at all. But there were lots and lots of Dead.
Lirael felt them so strongly, they might have been standing next to her—and some probably were, under the water. Instantly, she let go of the collar and drew Nehima, the sword humming as it sprang from its scabbard.
The sword, and the bell she held, were warning enough for most of the Dead. In any case, the great majority were simply waiting here till something happened and they were forced to go on, since they lacked the will and the knowledge to go back the other way. Very few were actively struggling back towards Life.
Those that were saw the great spark of Life in Lirael, and they hungered for it. Other necromancers had assuaged their hunger in the past and helped them back from the brink of the Ninth Gate—willingly or not. This one was young, and should thus be easy prey for any of the Greater Dead who chanced to be close.
There were three who were.
Lirael looked out and saw that huge shadows stalked between the apathetic lesser spirits, fires burning where once their living forms had eyes. There were three close enough to intercept her intended path—and that was three too many.
But once again The Book of the Dead had advice upon such a confrontation in the Sixth Precinct. And, as always, she had the Disreputable Dog.
As the three monstrous Greater Dead thrust their way towards her, Lirael replaced Ranna and d
rew Saraneth. Carefully composing herself this time, she rang it, joining her indomitable will with its deep call.
The Dead creatures hesitated as Saraneth’s strong voice echoed out across the Precinct, and they prepared to fight, to struggle against this presumptuous necromancer who thought to bend them to her will.
Then they laughed, awful laughter that sounded like a great crowd of people caught between absurdity and sorrow. For this necromancer was so incompetent that she had focused her will not upon them, but on the Lesser Dead who lay all around.
Still laughing, the Greater Dead plunged forward, greedy now, each warily eyeing the others to gauge if they were weak enough to push out of the way. For whoever reached this necromancer first would gain the delight of consuming the greater part of her life. Life and power, the only things that were of any use for the long journey out of Death.
They didn’t even notice the first few spirits who clutched at their shadowy legs or bit at their ankles, shrugging them off as a living person might ignore a few mosquito bites.
Then more and more spirits began to rise out of the water and hurl themselves at the three Greater Dead. They were forced to stop and swat these annoying Lesser Dead away, to rip them apart and rend them with their fiery jaws. Angrily, they stomped and threshed, roaring with anger now, the laughter gone.
Distracted, the Greater Dead closest to Lirael hardly noticed the Charter Spell that revealed its name to her, and it didn’t see her as she walked almost right up to where it fought against a churning mass of its lesser brethren.
But Lirael gained the creature’s full attention when a new bell rang, replacing Saraneth’s strident commands with an excitable march. This bell was Kibeth, close by the thing’s head, sounded with a dreadful tone specifically for its hearing. A tune that it couldn’t ignore, even after the bell had stopped.