by Garth Nix
“We made it.”
“So far,” replied Sabriel, warily looking around. She could see the long grey bulk of the Wall, with the deep honey-colored sun of autumn on the Ancelstierran side. Here, the snow lay banked against the grey stone, and it was overcast, with the sun almost gone. Dark enough for the Dead to be wandering around.
Touchstone’s smile faded as he caught her mood, and he took his swords from the Paperwing, giving the left sword to Sabriel. She sheathed it, but it was a bad fit—another reminder of loss.
“I’d better get the books too,” she said, bending in to retrieve them from the cockpit. The two Charter Magic books were fine, untouched by snow, but The Book of the Dead seemed wet. When Sabriel pulled it out, she found it wasn’t snow-wet. Beads of dark, thick blood were welling up out of its cover. Silently, Sabriel wiped it on the hard crust of the snow, leaving a livid mark. Then she tucked the books away in the pockets of her coat.
“Why . . . why was the book like that?” asked Touchstone, trying, and almost succeeding, to sound curious rather than afraid.
“I think it’s reacting to the presence of many deaths,” Sabriel replied. “There is great potential here for the Dead to rise. This is a very weak point—”
“Shhh!” Touchstone interrupted her, pointing towards the Wall. Shapes, dark against the snow, were moving in an extended line towards them, at a deliberate, steady pace. They carried bows and spears, and Sabriel, at least, recognized the rifles slung across their backs.
“It’s all right,” Sabriel said, though a faint stab of nervousness touched her stomach. “They’re soldiers from the Ancelstierran side—still, I might send the Paperwing on its way . . .”
Quickly, she checked that they’d taken everything from the cockpit, then laid her hand on the nose of the Paperwing, just above its twinkling eye. It seemed to look up at her as she spoke.
“Go now, friend. I don’t want to risk you being dragged into Ancelstierre and taken apart. Fly where you will—to the Clayr’s glacier, or, if you care to, to Abhorsen’s House, where the water falls.”
She stepped back, and formed the Charter marks that would imbue the Paperwing with choice, and the winds to lift it there. The marks went into her whistle, and the Paperwing moved with the rising pitch, accelerating along till it leapt into the sky at the peak of the highest note.
“I say!” exclaimed a voice. “How did you do that?”
Sabriel turned to see a young, out-of-breath Ancelstierran officer, the single gold pip of a second lieutenant looking lonely on his shoulder-straps. He was easily fifty yards in front of the rest of the line, but he didn’t seem frightened. He was clutching a sword and a revolver, though, and he raised both of them as Sabriel stepped forward.
“Halt! You are my prisoners!”
“Actually, we’re travelers,” replied Sabriel, though she did stand still. “Is that Colonel Horyse I can see behind you?”
Jorbert turned half around to have a look, realized his mistake, and turned back just in time to see Sabriel and Touchstone smiling, then chuckling, then out-and-out laughing, clutching at each other’s arms.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Lieutenant Jorbert, as the two of them laughed and laughed, till the tears ran down their cheeks.
“Nothing,” said Horyse, gesturing to his men to encircle Sabriel and Touchstone, while he went up and carefully placed two fingers on their foreheads—testing the Charter they bore within. Satisfied, he lightly shook them, till they stopped their shuddering, gasping laughter. Then, to the surprise of some of his men, he put an arm around each of them and led them back to the Crossing Point, towards Ancelstierre and sunshine.
Jorbert, left to cover the withdrawal, indignantly asked the air, “What was so funny?”
“You heard the Colonel,” replied Regimental Sergeant-Major Tawklish. “Nothing. That was an hysterical reaction, that was. They’ve been through a lot, those two, mark my words.”
Then, in the way that only RSMs have with junior officers, he paused, crushing Jorbert completely with a judicious, and long delayed “Sir.”
The warmth wrapped Sabriel like a soft blanket as they stepped out of the shadow of the Wall, into the relative heat of an Ancelstierran autumn. She felt Touchstone falter at her side, and stumble, his face staring blindly upwards to the sun.
“You both look done in,” said Horyse, speaking in the kindly, slow tone he used on shell-shocked soldiers. “How about something to eat, or would you rather get some sleep first?”
“Something to eat, certainly,” Sabriel replied, trying to give him a grateful smile. “But not sleep. There’s no time for that. Tell me—when was the full moon? Two days ago?”
Horyse looked at her, thinking that she no longer reminded him of his own daughter. She had become Abhorsen, a person beyond his ken, in such a short time . . .
“It’s tonight,” he said.
“But I’ve been in the Old Kingdom at least sixteen days . . .”
“Time is strange between the kingdoms,” Horyse said. “We’ve had patrols swear they were out for two weeks, coming back in after eight days. A headache for the paymaster . . .”
“That voice, coming from the box on the pole,” Touchstone interrupted, as they left the zigzag path through the wire defenses and climbed down into a narrow communication trench. “There is no Charter Magic in the box, or the voice . . .”
“Ah,” replied Horyse, looking ahead to where a loudspeaker was announcing stand-down. “I’m surprised it’s working. Electricity runs that, Mr. Touchstone. Science, not magic.”
“It won’t be working tonight,” Sabriel said quietly. “No technology will be.”
“Yes, it is rather loud,” Horyse said, in a strong voice. More softly, he added, “Please don’t say anything more till we get to my dugout. The men have already picked something up about tonight and the full moon . . .”
“Of course,” replied Sabriel, wearily. “I’m sorry.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, slogging along the zigzagging communication trench, passing soldiers in the fighting trenches, ready at their stand-to positions. The soldiers’ conversations stopped as they passed, but resumed as soon as they turned the next zig or zag and were out of sight.
At last, they descended a series of steps into Colonel Horyse’s dugout. Two sergeants stood guard outside—this time, Charter Mages from the Crossing Point Scouts, not the regular garrison infantry. Another soldier doubled off to the cookhouse, to fetch some food. Horyse busied himself with a small spirit-burner, and made tea.
Sabriel drank it without feeling much relief. Ancelstierre, and the universal comforter of its society—tea—no longer seemed as solid and dependable as she had once thought.
“Now,” said Horyse. “Tell me why you don’t have time to sleep.”
“My father died yesterday,” Sabriel said, stony-faced. “The wind flutes will fail tonight. At moonrise. The Dead here will rise with the moon.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Very sorry,” Horyse said. He hesitated, then added, “But as you are here now, can’t you bind the Dead anew?”
“If that were all, yes, I could,” Sabriel continued. “But there is worse to come. Have you ever heard the name Kerrigor, Colonel?”
Horyse put his tea down.
“Your father spoke of him once. One of the Greater Dead, I think, imprisoned beyond the Seventh Gate?”
“More than Greater, possibly the Great,” Sabriel said bleakly. “As far as I know, he is the only Dead spirit to also be a Free Magic adept.”
“And a renegade member of the royal family,” added Touchstone, his voice still harsh and dry from the cold winds of their flight, unquenched by tea. “And he is no longer imprisoned. He walks in Life.”
“All these things give him power,” Sabriel continued. “But there is a weakness there too. Kerrigor’s mastery of Free Magic, and much of his power in both Life and Death, is dependent on the continual existence of his original body. He hid it, long ago,
when he first chose to become a Dead spirit—and he hid it in Ancelstierre. Near the village of Wyverley, to be exact.”
“And now he’s coming to fetch it . . .” said Horyse, with terrible prescience. Outwardly, he looked calm, all those long years of Army service forming a hard carapace, containing his feelings. Inwardly, he felt a trembling that he hoped wasn’t being transmitted to the mug in his hand.
“When will he come?”
“With the night,” replied Sabriel. “With an army of the Dead. If he can emerge out of Death close to the Wall, he may come earlier.”
“The sun—” Horyse began.
“Kerrigor can work the weather, bring fog or dense cloud.”
“So what can we do?” asked Horyse, turning his palms outwards, towards Sabriel, his eyes questioning. “Abhorsen.”
Sabriel felt a weight placed upon her, a burden adding to the weariness that already pressed upon her, but she forced herself to answer.
“Kerrigor’s body is in a spelled sarcophagus under a cairn, a cairn atop a little hill called Docky Point, less than forty miles away. We need to get there quickly—and destroy the body.”
“And that will destroy Kerrigor?”
“No,” said Sabriel, shaking her head wistfully. “But it will weaken him . . . so there may be a chance . . .”
“Right,” said Horyse. “We’ve still got three or four hours of daylight, but we’ll need to move quickly. I take it that Kerrigor and his . . . forces . . . will have to cross the Wall here? They can’t just pop out at Docky Point?”
“No,” agreed Sabriel. “They’ll have to emerge in Life in the Old Kingdom, and physically cross the Wall. It would probably be best not to try and stop him.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” replied Horyse. “That’s what the Perimeter Garrison is here for.”
“A lot of your soldiers will die to no purpose then,” said Touchstone. “Simply because they’ll be in the way. Anything, and anybody, that gets in Kerrigor’s way will be destroyed.”
“So you want us to just let this . . . this thing and a horde of Dead descend on Ancelstierre?”
“Not exactly,” replied Sabriel. “I would like to fight him at a time and a place more of our choosing. If you lend me all the soldiers here who have the Charter mark, and a little Charter Magic, we may have enough time to destroy Kerrigor’s body. Also, we will be almost thirty-five miles from the Wall. Kerrigor’s power may only be slightly lessened, but many of his minions will be weaker. Perhaps so weak, that destroying or damaging their physical forms will be sufficient to send them back into Death.”
“And the rest of the garrison? We’ll just stand aside and let Kerrigor and his army through the Perimeter?”
“You probably won’t have a choice.”
“I see,” muttered Horyse. He got up, and paced backwards and forwards, six steps, all the dugout would allow. “Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps—I am currently acting as the General Officer commanding the whole Perimeter. General Ashenber has returned south, due to . . . ah . . . ill health. A temporary situation only—Army HQ is loath to give any sort of higher command to those of us who wear the Charter mark. So the decision is mine . . .”
He stopped pacing, and stared back at Sabriel and Touchstone—but his eyes seemed to see something well beyond them and the rusty corrugated iron that walled the dugout. Finally, he spoke.
“Very well. I will give you twelve Charter Mages—half of the full complement of the Scouts—but I will also add some more mundane force. A detachment to escort you to . . . what was it? Docky Point. But I can’t promise we won’t fight on the Perimeter.”
“We need you too Colonel,” Sabriel said, in the silence that followed his decision. “You’re the strongest Charter Mage the Garrison has.”
“Impossible!” Horyse exclaimed emphatically. “I’m in command of the Perimeter. My responsibilities lie here.”
“You’ll never be able to explain tonight, anyway,” Sabriel said. “Not to any general down south, or to anyone who hasn’t crossed the Wall.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll think about it while you have something to eat,” Horyse declared, the rattle of a tray and plates tactfully announcing the arrival of a mess orderly on the steps. “Come in!”
The orderly entered, steam rising around the edges of the silver dishes. As he put the tray down, Horyse strode out past him, bellowing.
“Messenger! I want the Adjutant, Major Tindall and the CSM from ‘A’ Company, Lieutenant Aire from the Scouts, the RSM and the Quartermaster. In the Operations Room in ten minutes. Oh . . . call in the Transport Officer too. And warn the Signals staff to stand by for coding.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
EVERYTHING MOVED RAPIDLY after the tea was drunk. Almost too rapidly for the exhausted Sabriel and Touchstone. Judging from the noises outside, soldiers were rushing about in all directions, while they ate their belated lunch. Then, before they could even begin to digest, Horyse was back, telling them to get moving.
It was somewhat like being a bit player in the school play, Sabriel thought, as she stumbled out of the communication trench and onto the parade ground. There was an awful lot happening around her, but she didn’t really feel part of it. She felt Touchstone lightly brush her arm, and smiled at him reassuringly—it had to be even worse for him.
Within minutes, they were hustled across the parade ground, towards a waiting line of trucks, an open staff car and two strange steel-plated contraptions. Lozenge-shaped, with gun turrets on either side, and caterpillar tracks. Tanks, Sabriel realized. A relatively recent invention. Like the trucks, they were roaring, engines belching blue-grey smoke. No problem now, Sabriel thought, but the engines would stop when the wind blew in from the Old Kingdom. Or when Kerrigor came . . .
Horyse led them to the staff car, opened the back door and gestured for them to get in.
“Are you coming with us?” Sabriel asked, hesitantly, as she settled back in the heavily padded leather seats, fighting a wave of tiredness that threatened immediate sleep.
“Yes,” replied Horyse, slowly. He seemed surprised at his own answer, and suddenly far away. “Yes, I am.”
“You have the Sight,” said Touchstone, looking up from where he was adjusting his scabbard before sitting down. “What did you see?”
“The usual thing,” replied Horyse. He got in the front seat, and nodded to the driver—a thin-faced veteran of the Scouts, whose Charter mark was almost invisible on his weather-beaten forehead.
“What do you mean?” asked Sabriel, but her question was lost as the driver pressed the starter switch, and the car coughed and spluttered into life, a tenor accompaniment to the bass cacophony of the trucks and tanks.
Touchstone jumped at the sudden noise and vibration, then smiled sheepishly at Sabriel, who’d lightly rested her fingers on his arm, as if calming a child.
“What did he mean ‘the usual thing’?” asked Sabriel.
Touchstone looked at her, sadness and exhaustion vying for first place in his gaze. He took her hand in his own and traced a line across her palm—a definite, ending sort of line.
“Oh,” muttered Sabriel. She sniffed and looked at the back of Horyse’s head, eyes blurring, seeing only the line of his cropped silver hair extending just past his helmet rim.
“He has a daughter the same age as me, back at . . . somewhere south,” she whispered, shivering, clutching Touchstone’s hand till his fingers were as white as her own. “Why, oh why, does everything . . . everyone . . .”
The car started forward with a lurch, preceded by two motorcycle outriders and followed by each of the nine trucks in turn, carefully spaced out every hundred yards. The tanks, with tracks screeching and clanking, took a side road up to the railway siding where they would be loaded up and sent on to Wyverley Halt. It was unlikely they would arrive before nightfall. The road convoy would be at Docky Point before six in the afternoon.
Sabriel was silent for the first ten miles, her head bowed, hand st
ill clutching tightly on Touchstone’s. He sat silently too, but watching, looking out as they left the military zone, looking at the prosperous farms of Ancelstierre, the sealed roads, the brick houses, the private cars and horse-drawn vehicles that pulled off the road in front of them, cleared aside by the two red-capped military policemen on motorcycles.
“I’m all right now,” Sabriel said quietly, as they slowed to pass through the town of Bain. Touchstone nodded, still watching, staring at the shop windows in the High Street. The townspeople stared back, for it was rare to see soldiers in full Perimeter battle equipment, with sword-bayonets and shields—and Sabriel and Touchstone were clearly from the Old Kingdom.
“We have to stop by the Police Station, and warn the Superintendent,” Horyse announced as their car pulled in next to an imposing white-walled edifice with two large, blue electric lanterns hanging out the front, and a sturdy sign proclaiming it to be the headquarters of the Bainshire Constabulary.
Horyse stood up, waved the rest of the convoy on, then vaulted out and dashed up the steps, a curiously incongruous figure in mail and khaki. A constable descending the steps looked ready to stop him, but stopped himself instead and saluted.
“I’m all right,” Sabriel repeated. “You can let go of my hand.”
Touchstone smiled, and flexed his hand a little in her grip. She looked a bit puzzled, then smiled too, her fingers slowly relaxing till their hands lay flat on the seat, little fingers just touching.
In any other town, a crowd would certainly have formed around an Army staff car with two such unusual passengers. But this was Bain, and Bain was close to the Wall. People took one look, saw Charter marks, swords and armor, and went the other way. Those with natural caution, or a touch of the Sight, went home and locked their doors and shutters, not merely with steel and iron, but also with sprigs of broom and rowan. Others, even more cautious, took to the river and its sandy islets, without even pretending to be fishing.
Horyse came out five minutes later, accompanied by a tall, serious-looking man whose large build and hawk-like visage were made slightly ridiculous by a pair of too-small pince-nez clinging to the end of his nose. He shook hands with the Colonel, Horyse returned to the car, and they were off again, the driver crashing through the gears with considerable skill.