Abhorsen (Abhorsen 3)

Most of the Dead Hands were fresh corpses, still clad in their workers’ overalls. But many were inhabited by spirits that had lain long in Death, who quickly transformed the dead flesh they now occupied, making it less human and more like the dreadful shapes they’d assumed in Death. One came at Sam now, wriggling like a snake between Major Greene and Lieutenant Tindall, its lower jaw unhinged for a larger bite. Reflexively, Sam stabbed it through the throat. Sparks flew as the Charter marks on the blade destroyed dead flesh. It wriggled and threshed but couldn’t free itself from the sword, so the thing’s spirit began to crawl out of its fleshy husk, like a worm of darkness leaving a totally rotten apple.

Sam looked down at it and felt his fear replaced by a hot anger. How dare these Dead intrude upon the world of Life? His nostrils flared, and his face reddened, as he drew breath to blow upon the pipe. This was not the Dead’s path, and he would make them choose another.

Lungs expanded to the full, he chose the Kibeth pipe and blew. A single note sounded, high and clear—but then it somehow became a lively, infectious jig. It cheered the soldiers and even made them smile, their weapons moving with the rhythm of Kibeth’s song.

But the Dead heard a different tune, and those with working mouths and lungs and throats let out terrible howls of fear and anguish. But howl as they would, they couldn’t drown out Kibeth’s call, and the Dead Spirits began to move against their will, thrust out of the decaying flesh they occupied and back into Death.

“That’s shown them!” shouted Lieutenant Tindall, as the Dead Hands fell all along the line, leaving empty corpses, the guiding spirits driven back into Death by Kibeth.

“Don’t get too excited,” growled the Major. He looked swiftly around and saw several men on the ground, clearly dead or dying. There were many wounded heading back to the aid post set up at the base of the spur, some of them supported by far too many able-bodied companions. Considerably more men were simply fleeing down the hill, back towards the Southerlings and the relative protection of the stream.

Most of the company had fled, in fact, and Greene felt a pang of disappointment in what he knew would be his last command. But the great majority of the men were conscripts, and even those who’d served on the Perimeter for a while would never have seen so many Dead.

“Damn them! Just when we’re winning, the fools!”

Lieutenant Tindall had noticed the fleeing men at last, with all the indignation of his youth. He made as if to start after them, but Major Greene held him back.

“Let them go, Francis. They’re not the Scouts, and this is too much for them. And we need you here—that was probably only the first wave. There will be more.”

“Yes, and soon,” confirmed Sam hurriedly. “Major—we need to bring everyone in closer to Lirael. I’m afraid if even one Dead creature gets past—”

“Yes!” agreed the Major fervently. “Francis, Edward—close up, everyone, quick as you can. See what you can do for the wounded, too, but I don’t want to lose any more effectives. Go!”

“Yes, sir!” the two Lieutenants snapped in unison. Then they were shouting orders, and the sergeants were relaying them with extra flavor. There were only thirty or so soldiers left, and within a minute they were almost shoulder to shoulder in a tight ring around Lirael’s iced-over form.

“How many more of the Dead are coming?” asked the Major, as Sam stared up into the fog. It was still spreading, and growing thicker, wisps winding around them as it rolled downhill. There was more lightning beyond the ridge, too, and the storm clouds had spread across the sky like a great inky stain, in parallel with the white fog below.

“I’m not sure.” Sam frowned. “More and more of them keep emerging into Life. Hedge must be in Death himself, and is sending them out. He has to have found an old graveyard or some other supply of bodies, because they’re all Dead Hands so far. Timothy said he only had sixty workers, and they were all in the first attack.”

Both glanced over at Tim Wallach as Sam spoke. He had taken a dead soldier’s rifle, sword bayonet, and helmet and now stood in the ring—much to everyone’s surprise, perhaps including his own.

“It’s always better to be doing,” said Sam, quoting the Disreputable Dog. As he said it, he realized that he actually believed it now. He was still scared, still felt the knot of apprehension in his guts. But he knew it wouldn’t stop him from doing what had to be done. It was what his parents would expect, Sam thought, but he did not dwell on that. He could not think of Sabriel and Touchstone, or he would fall apart—and he could not, must not, do that.

“My philosophy exactly—” the Major began to say; then he saw Sam shiver and reach for his panpipes.

“Shadow Hands!” Sam exclaimed, pointing with his sword as he put the pipes to his lips.

“Stand ready!” roared the Major, reaching into the Charter for marks of fire and destruction, though he knew they would be of little use against Shadow Hands. They had no bodies to burn or flesh to break. The Charter Magic the soldiers knew might slow them, but that was all.

Up on the ridge, four vaguely human shapes of utter darkness came down through the fog, rippling across rock and thorn. Silent as the grave, they ignored the arrows that passed straight through them and glided inexorably forward—directly towards Lirael and the gap between the boulders where Sam, Major Greene, and Lieutenant Tindall stood to bar their way.

When they were only twenty yards away, one Shadow Hand paused—and pounced upon a wounded soldier who’d been overlooked, lying under the overhang of a large rock. Frantically, he tried to stand and get away, but the Shadow Hand wrapped all around him like a shroud and sucked his life away.

As the soldier’s dying scream gurgled into nothing, Sam took a breath and blew desperately on the Saraneth pipe. He had to dominate the Shadow Hands, bend them to his will, for he and his allies had no other weapons that would work. His sword, and the marks it bore, would hurt them, but no more.

So he blew, and prayed to the Charter that he would have the strength to overcome the Shadow Hands.

Saraneth’s strong voice cut through even the thunder. Immediately, Sam felt the Shadow Hands resist his dominion. They raged against his will, and sweat broke out all over his body from the effort. It was all he could do just to stop them in place. These spirits were old, and much stronger than the Dead Hands Sam had sent walking into Death with Kibeth. It took all his strength to stop them moving forward, as they constantly pushed against the bonds Saraneth had—oh so lightly—woven around them.

Slowly, the world narrowed for Sam, till all he could sense was the four spirits and their struggle against him. Everything else was gone—the dampness of the fog, the soldiers around him, the thunder and lightning. There was only him and his opponents.

“Bow down to me!” he shouted, but it was with his mind and will, not a shout any human ears could hear. Sam heard the voiceless spirits answer back the same way, a chorus of mental howls and hissing that clearly defied him.

They were clever, these Shadow Hands. One would pretend to falter, but as Sam concentrated his will against that one, the others would counterattack, almost breaking his hold.

Gradually, Sam became aware that they were not only resisting him, they were actually eroding the binding. Every time he shifted his concentration, they would shuffle forward a little. Just a few steps, but gradually the gap was closing. Soon they would be able to leap past him, drain the life from the soldiers at his side—and attack the defenseless body of Lirael.

He also became aware that only a few seconds had actually passed since he had started blowing through the Saraneth pipe—and he had yet to take another breath. Though the sound of the pipe continued, it was weakening. If only he could pause, refill his lungs, and sound Saraneth again, he could greatly strengthen the binding. Sam knew he was close to total command of these spirits, yet not close enough. He also knew that if he shifted his full concentration away from the four Shadow Hands to take a breath, they would be upon him.

&n

bsp; Given that, all he could do was continue the battle of wills and try to slow them down even more. Lirael could return at any moment and banish them with the bells. Sam just had to hold them for long enough.

He stopped even trying to take a breath, shunting his body’s urgent demands for air into a corner of his mind. Nothing was as important as stopping the Shadow Hands. He would concentrate every last particle of his mind and power upon them and every last wisp of air into the pipe. They would not reach Lirael. They must not. She was the last hope for the entire world against the Destroyer.

Besides, she was his blood kin, and he had promised.

The Shadow Hands took another step closer, and Sam’s entire body shuddered with effort as he tried to force them back, his muscles reflecting the struggle of his mind. But he was growing weaker, he knew, and the Dead stronger. He was also close to passing out from lack of breath, and an almost overpowering urge to step back was rising inside him. Get out of the way! Take a breath! Let these monsters past!

But as he fought the Dead, he fought his own fears, pushing them away into the same distant corner of his mind that so badly wanted to draw air into his lungs. They would stay there, and he was determined to fight well beyond his last breath. At the same time, he tried desperately to think of some stratagem or cunning ploy.

Nothing came to him, and though he hadn’t seen or felt them move, the Shadow Hands had stolen some ground. They were now only just out of sword’s reach, tall columns of inky blackness, spreading a chill colder than the coldest of winter days.

The two on the outside were moving around him, Sam realized, though not by much. Clearly they intended to surround and smother him with their shadow stuff, to wrap him in a cocoon of four hungry spirits. Then they would move on to Lirael.

Fire suddenly burst out around the head of the closest Shadow Hand, a fist-sized globe of pure blue flame. But the Dead creature didn’t so much as flinch, and the fire spluttered out into the individual marks that had made it, and these vanished into the fog.

Another Charter-spell struck, to no effect, save to set one of the stunted trees alight as the fire rebounded off the shadowy form of the Dead. Sam realized that Major Greene and Lieutenant Tindall were trying to help him with these spells, but he could spare neither thought nor breath to warn them of the uselessness of fire against such an enemy.