“Anet! Calew! Ferhan!”
Silver blades flew from the Borderer’s outstretched fingers, striking the Hand at neck, groin, and knees. Golden fire exploded around the gaping wounds they caused, but still the Dead Hand came on, clawed hands reaching for Ferin, who dodged aside, hacking with her knife. The Hand continued past her, staggering away, the spirit within unable to control the body but unable to leave it either, until the Charter-spelled blades dissipated and the golden flames died.
The other two Dead Hands stepped out onto the road, cautious now, both moving toward Ferin, one from the left, one from the right.
“Run!” croaked Ferin. “Deliver my message!”
Young Laska did not run. She reached for the Charter again. She had never been able to cast the spell of the silver blades twice, but she had never needed to so badly. Yet even if she could manage it, there were two Dead Hands . . .
The creatures crept forward warily, suspicious of the magic that had ended their companion. Red fires grew brighter in their eyes as they felt the life they would soon devour. Their newly curved and lengthy toenails made horrible screeching sounds upon the stones of the road and their bony jaws hung low in their almost fleshless skulls, showing teeth that had grown long and serrated.
One had a tongue, a kind of whip of leathery flesh, that lolled and flicked as far as the holes in its skull where once were ears. Both Dead Hands hungered for the life they were about to consume; if they were able to, they would have drooled.
Young Laska tried for the third mark of her spell, but it was too much. She fainted, the first two Charter marks falling from her mouth to dissipate upon the wind.
Ferin snarled and ran at the closest Dead Hand, her knife raised for slashing. But her ankle gave way and she rolled under it, trying to hack upward from where she lay, knowing it would be as much use as stabbing dirt.
The Dead Hand, not expecting her sudden fall, leapt over her. It turned to come back and rend her apart, taloned hands raised—and then suddenly there was a brilliant flash of light and Ferin caught the gone-in-an-instant sight of a golden rope of Charter marks looping over the Hand’s head to jerk it sharply away from her. The rope tightened and pulled the Hand’s head completely off its neck. The rest of the creature whirled off into the darkness, arms flailing, as the Dead spirit within frantically tried to find some other flesh it could anchor itself in to remain in Life. But it could not, and with a despairing, silent scream it returned to Death.
There was another explosion of golden fire off to Ferin’s right. She shut her eyes against the terrible brightness. When she opened them again, Astilaran the healer was looking down at her and offering his hand, and Megril the constable was bending over Young Laska and peeling back her eyelids.
“How many Dead?” asked Astilaran urgently as Ferin wriggled out of her pack and hauled herself up with his help. She did not even try to pick up her bow or arrow case.
“Three followed close,” said Ferin. “But the necromancer is somewhere behind . . . you came back for us?”
“No,” said Astilaran. He was looking behind Ferin, his eyes narrowed. “We came to scout in general. Just as well we did. A necromancer, you say?”
“Yes,” said Ferin.
“Swinther?”
Ferin pointed to a figure limned in golden fire, capering and bounding in circles some distance away. Young Laska’s first spell was still burning away, tormenting the Dead spirit inside. The leaping corpse did not look at all human.
“He fell,” she said, her voice somber and regretful.
“His body was used by the necromancer?”
“What was left of it,” whispered Ferin. She hopped forward, testing her ankle again.
“And you have overdone it and broken my healing spell, just as I said. Lean on me. Megril!”
“Aye?”
“A necromancer, close behind, probably more Dead. We must hurry!”
“Oh, aye!” called Megril. She deftly stripped the pack from Young Laska and threw it aside, then bent and hoisted the Borderer onto her shoulders. “Quick as I can!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
DINNER FOR TWO PLUS ONE . . .
Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
Lirael had just returned Raminah to the scabbard when there was a knock on the door, and one of the young Clayr on domestic service duty shyly poked her head around.
“Dinner’s coming up,” she said. “Do you want it in here?”
“Yes!” said Lirael eagerly. She was starving and also curious: she’d never had a meal brought to her in the Glacier; she’d always eaten in one or another of the refectories or taken snacks to eat in her study in the Library or in her room. There were three refectories in the Glacier: the Lower, which served mainly visitors; the Middle, which was by far the biggest and most used; and the Upper, which catered to those whose places of work lay highest in the mountains.
Several young Clayr came in bearing trays which held numerous dishes covered in silver domes to keep the heat in; behind them came three Sendings carrying baskets of crockery and silverware; and behind them some sort of superior majordomo Sending who held a folded blue and silver-edged tablecloth of very heavy linen. This Sending bowed to Lirael, flung the cloth over the table and straightened it, then gestured to the other Sendings to lay out plates, numerous glasses, and bright silver cutlery. The Clayr domestics were sent to a long sideboard, where they set down the dishes and then retreated, all of them trying to get a good look at Lirael and Nick while pretending they were not doing so.
“From the Upper Refectory,” said Imshi, gesturing to the covered dishes. “Nothing but the best for our important guests. Did you know there’s even a wine cellar here? Lots of famous old wine; I’m surprised no one’s tried to requisition it, though I suppose it is the Abhorsen’s, not like normal property.”
The Clayr typically had very few personal possessions, but could requisition anything they needed from the common stock. Such requisitions were governed by a relatively informal code policed by one’s peers, unless the requisitioning got out of hand and higher authorities needed to become involved. This was rare, but it did happen from time to time. When Lirael was a child she remembered the shame-faced Jasefel having to carry back more than a thousand pieces of soap, one bar at a time, held above her head so all would know.
Lirael was thinking about Soapy Jasefel and wondering if she ever fell back into her over-requisitioning ways when she noticed the table was only set for two.
“Only two places for dinner?” she asked.
“Oh, I ate ages ago!” declared Imshi breezily. She turned her head to Lirael and winked, so Nick couldn’t see. “I’m sure you two must be famished, and have lots to talk about. Besides, I have an appointment with a visitor myself, in the Perfumed Garden.”
“A garden?” asked Nick. “Here? On the mountain?”
“Inside the mountain,” said Lirael quickly. She didn’t want Imshi to start talking about the main reason people went to the Perfumed Garden in the evening, as it was for assignations with lovers. “A very large open space, full of scented plants and flowers, with Charter marks set high to mimic the sun and the night sky, in turn. But what have we been brought for dinner?”
She went over to the sideboard and began to lift the covers. Nick came to look as well, and neither noticed when Imshi slid out the door, leaving only the Sendings behind.
“Rabbit,” said Lirael. “Roasted with garlic.”
“Some kind of fish,” said Nick. He bent low. “It smells good.”
“That is eel,” said Lirael. “From the eel ponds, we . . . the Clayr eat a lot of eel. But here is fish, fresh-caught from the Ratterlin. Pike fillets.”
“Pike?” asked Nick. “Always thought that was too bony to eat, but this looks very good. Expertly filleted.”
Lirael felt a slight touch at her elbow and found the majordomo Sending holding a plate for her, while a second Sending offered one to Nick.
“Potatoes came to us from Ancelstierre, three