“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.”