by Garth Nix
The next day was much the same as the first. Not surprisingly, considering his thin bed of leftover straw, Sam found it easy to rise before dawn, and once again he pushed Sprout to a pace beyond her liking.
He met few people on the road—which was not much more than a track—and spoke little but pleasantries to them, for fear of discovery. Just enough to seem normal, when he bought some food, or asked about the best way through Sindlewood to the Ratterlin.
He had a fright in one village, when he stopped to buy some grain for Sprout and a bag of onions and parsnips for himself. Two constables rode straight towards him, but they didn’t slow, merely nodding as they passed, riding back eastwards. Apparently, the word had not spread either about a dangerous necromancer-at-large or a missing Prince, or else he didn’t look as if he could be either one. Whatever the cause, Sam was grateful.
In the main, it was an uneventful if tiring journey. Sam spent much of the time thinking about Nick, his parents, and his own shortcomings. These thoughts always led back to the Enemy. The more he thought about it, the more Sam was convinced that the necromancer who had burnt him must be the architect of all the current troubles. That necromancer had the power, and he had shown his hand by trying to capture and dominate Sam.
Mostly Sam agonized over what he should do and what might happen. He constructed many quite horrifying scenarios in his head, and he generally failed to work out what the best course of action would be if they turned out to be true. Each passing day made him envision more horrible possibilities. Every day Sam was more acutely aware that Nicholas might have already found something inimical in the Lightning Trap. Perhaps his doom.
Four days after his encounter with the constables, Sam found himself looking down from a pastured hill into the shadowy green borders of the ancient forest known as Sindlewood. It looked much larger, darker, and more overgrown than the small wood where he’d met Mogget. The trees were taller, too, at least the ones he could see on the fringe, and there was no obvious path.
Even as Sam looked at the forest, his thoughts were far away. Nick’s situation weighed heavily on him, as did the presence of The Book of the Dead and the bells. All these things were closely entwined now, for it seemed that Sam’s best hope of rescuing Nick—if he was in trouble—lay in mastering the skills of an Abhorsen. If Nick was held by the Enemy, he would probably be used to blackmail the Chief Minister in Ancelstierre and stop Sabriel and Touchstone’s plan to prevent the Southerlings’ being massacred, which in turn would mean an invasion by the Dead and the end of the Old Kingdom, and . . .
Sam sighed and looked back at the saddlebags. His imagination was getting out of control. But whatever was really happening, he would have to make a supreme effort to read the book, in order to become a rescuer and not just an idiot riding into disaster, getting himself killed or enslaved for nothing.
Of course, there was always the possibility that Mogget was lying. Sam was somewhat suspicious of Mogget, having the dim recollection that the cat never left Abhorsen’s House without the Abhorsen. True, Sabriel couldn’t have taken him into Ancelstierre on a diplomatic mission, and it was possible that she had granted him freedom to leave the House. But Sabriel also had the ring that could control the Free Magic being that would result if Mogget were unbound. If the creature within Mogget should be freed, it would kill any Abhorsen it could. Which, in this case, meant Sam. Surely Sabriel wouldn’t have let the cat out without making sure it also brought Sam the ring.
Maybe it was her very absence in Ancelstierre, on the other side of the Wall, that had allowed Mogget to do what he liked.
Or perhaps Mogget had even been suborned by the Enemy and was actually guiding Sameth to his doom. . . .
Busy thinking unpleasant thoughts and trying to direct Sprout the best way down the hill, Sam was totally unprepared for the cold shiver that suddenly touched his spine. In that same instant, he realized he was being watched. Watched by something Dead.
The old rhyme, drilled into him since childhood, leapt into his head:
When the Dead do walk, seek water’s run,
For this the Dead will always shun.
Swift river’s best or broadest lake
To ward the Dead and haven make.
If water fails thee, fire’s thy friend;
If neither guards, it will be thy end.
Even as the words were running through his head, Sam looked at the sun. There was little more than an hour of daylight left. Simultaneously he looked for running water—a stream or river—and saw a reflection, silver in the shadows, near the edge of the forest. Farther away than he would have liked.
He directed Sprout towards it, feeling the fear rise in him, coursing through his muscles. He couldn’t see the Dead creature, but it was close. He felt its spirit like a clammy touch upon his skin. It must be strong, too, or it would not risk even the waning sun.
Sam’s knees twitched, the reflex of an overwhelming urge to kick Sprout into a gallop. But they were still going down the hill, on broken ground. If Sprout fell on him, he would be trapped, easy prey for the Dead. . . .
No. Best not to think of that. He looked around again, squinting against the yellow-red sun, low in the sky. The creature was somewhere behind him . . . and no . . . to the right.
His fear grew as Sam realized there were two creatures, perhaps more. They must be Shadow Hands, slinking from the shade of rock to rock, almost impossible to see till they reared up to attack.
Fumbling, he reached back and opened the saddlebag. If he couldn’t reach running water in time, the bells would be his only defense against Shadow Hands. A fairly pathetic defense, since he didn’t know how to use them properly and they might easily work against him.
He felt one of the Dead move again, and his heart stammered at the awful swiftness of the thing. It was right next to him and he still couldn’t see it, even in bright sunlight!
Then he looked up. A black speck hovered above him, just beyond arrow-shot. And another, behind the first and farther up.
Not Shadow Hands at all. Gore Crows. And where there were two, there would be many more. Gore Crows were always created in flocks, made from ordinary crows killed with ritual and ceremony, then infused with the splintered fragments of just one Dead spirit. Guided by this shattered but single intelligence, these decaying lumps of rotten flesh and feathers flew by force of Free Magic—and killed by force of numbers.
But as Sam scanned the horizon, he could see no more than two. Surely no necromancer would waste his power on just a pair of Gore Crows. They were too easy to kill in anything less than a flock. A sword-stroke could smash a single crow, but even a mighty warrior could be defeated by a hundred Gore Crows attacking at once, sharp beaks striking at the eyes and neck.
It was also unusual for them to be out under the sun. The spell that drove them was quickly eroded by heat and light, even as their physical forms were shredded by the wind.
Unless, Sam suddenly thought, there really were only two Gore Crows, sharing the Dead vitality that would normally be spent on hundreds of crow bodies. If this was the case, they would last much longer and would be stronger under the sun. They could also be used in other ways than to merely attack.
Like watching, he thought grimly, as neither Dead bird sought to come any closer. They were keeping station above him, circling slowly, probably marking him for the assault of other Dead come nightfall.
As if to confirm his thoughts, one of the Gore Crows—the one farther away—let out a mocking, scratchy caw and turned away to the south, dropping rotten feathers as it flew, propelled more by magic than by the occasional beats of its wings.
It looked all too much like a messenger, with its partner the shadower, staying high to follow wherever Sam might go.
For a moment he contemplated casting a spell of destruction upon it, but it was too far away and obviously well instructed in caution. Besides, he was still weak from his wounded leg. He knew he must save his powers for the night.
Keeping a wary eye on the black speck above him, Sam urged Sprout on. The stream didn’t look like much from here, but it would offer some protection. After a moment’s hesitation, he also drew out the bell-bandolier and put it on. The weight of the bells and their power lay heavily upon his chest, and shortened and shallowed his breath. But if worst came to worst, he would try to use the lesser bells, drawing on the lessons he’d had from his mother. They were supposed to be merely a prelude for the study he’d abandoned. Ranna, at least, he could probably wield without fear of being forced unwillingly into Death.
A nagging voice at the back of his mind said that even now it was not too late to pick up The Book of the Dead, to learn more of the birthright that could save him. But even his fear of an attack by the Dead was not enough to conquer Sam’s fear of the book. Reading it, he might find himself taken into Death. Better to fight the Dead in Life, with what little knowledge he had, than to confront them in Death itself.
Behind him, Sam thought he heard a chuckle, a muffled laugh that didn’t sound like Mogget. He turned, hand instinctively going to his sword, but there was nothing and no one there. Just the sleeping cat in one saddlebag, and The Book of the Dead in the other. Sam let go of the hilt, already sweaty from his trembling fingers, and looked down at the stream again. If the bed was smooth, he would ride along it as far as he could. If he was lucky, it might even take him as far west as the Ratterlin, a mighty river even one of the Greater Dead couldn’t cross.
And from there, a secret and cowardly voice said in his mind, he could take a boat to Abhorsen’s House. He would be safe there. Safe from the Dead, safe from everything. But what, another voice asked, would happen to Nick, to his parents, to the Kingdom? Then both voices were lost as Sam concentrated on guiding Sprout down the hillside, towards the promised safety of the stream.
Sam lost sight of the Gore Crow when the last of the daylight was eaten up by the shadows of the trees and the falling darkness. But he could still feel the Dead spirit above him. It was lower now, braver with the cloaking night about it.
But not brave enough to descend too close to the running water that burbled on either side of Sam’s temporary camp. The stream had proved to be a bit of a disappointment, and a clear indication that the spring floods were already receding. It was only thirty feet wide, and shallow enough to wade in. But it would help, and Sam had found an islet, no more than a narrow strip of sand, where the water ran swiftly on either side.
He had a fire going already, since there was no point trying to hide with the Gore Crow circling above. All he had to do to make his camp as secure as possible was to cast a diamond of protection large enough for himself, the horse, and the fire.
If he had the strength to do it, Sam thought, as he made Sprout stand still. As an afterthought, he also took off the bandolier of bells, which had grown no easier to bear. Then he limped to take up a spell-casting stance in front of Sprout, unsheathed his sword, and held it outstretched. Keeping this pose, he took four slow, deliberate breaths, drawing as much oxygen into his tired body as he could.
He reached out for the four cardinal Charter marks that would create the points of the diamond of protection. Symbols formed in his mind, plucked out of the flow of the never-ending Charter.
He held them in his mind, breath ragged at the effort, and drew the outline of the first mark—the Eastmark—in the sand in front of him. As he finished, the Eastmark in his head ran down into the blade like golden fire. It filled the outline he’d made in the sand with light.
Sam limped behind Sprout, past the fire, and drew the Southmark. As this one flared into life, a line of yellow fire ran to it from the Eastmark, forming a barrier impenetrable to both the Dead and physical danger. Intent on moving on, Sam didn’t look. If he faltered now, the diamond would be incomplete.
Sam had cast many diamonds of protection before, but never when he was wounded and so weary. When the last mark, the Northmark, finally flared up, he dropped his sword and collapsed, wheezing onto the damp sand.
Sprout, curious, turned her head back to look at him, but she didn’t move. Sam had thought he would have to spell her into immobility to keep her from accidentally moving out of the diamond, but she didn’t stir. Perhaps she could smell the Gore Crow.
“I take it we’re in danger,” said a yawning voice close to Sam’s ear. He sat up and saw Mogget extricating himself from the saddlebag, which lay next to the fire and a probably insufficient pile of rather damp wood.
Sam nodded, temporarily unable to speak. He pointed up at the sky, which was now beginning to show single stars and the great white swathe of the Mare’s Tail. There were black clouds too, high to the south, crackling with distant lightning, but no sign of rain.
The Gore Crow was invisible, but Mogget seemed to know what Sam was pointing at. The cat rose up on his hind legs and sniffed, one paw absently batting down an oversized mosquito that had probably just dined on Sam.
“A Gore Crow,” he said. “Only one. Strange.”
“It’s been following us,” said Sam, slapping several mosquitoes that were coming in to land on his forehead. “There were two, but the other one flew away. South. Probably to get orders. Curse these bugs!”
“There is a necromancer at work here,” agreed Mogget, sniffing the air again. “I wonder if he . . . or she . . . has been searching for you specifically. Or is it just bad luck for a wayward traveler?”
“It could be the one who caught me before, couldn’t it?” asked Sam. “I mean, he knew where I was with the cricket team. . . .”
“Perhaps,” replied Mogget, still staring up at the night sky. “It is unlikely that there would be Gore Crows here, or that any lesser necromancer would dare to move against you, unless there is a guiding force behind them. Certainly these Crows are more daring than they have any right to be. Have you caught me a fish?”
“No,” replied Sam, surprised by the sudden change of subject.
“How inconsiderate of you,” said Mogget, sniffing. “I suppose I’ll have to catch one myself.”
“No!” exclaimed Sam, levering himself up. “You’ll break the diamond! I haven’t got the strength to cast it again. Ow! Charter curse these mosquitoes!”
“I won’t break it,” said Mogget, walking over to the West-mark and carefully poking out his tongue. The mark flashed white, dazzling Sam. When his vision cleared, Mogget was standing upright on the other side, intent on the water, one paw raised, like a fishing bear.
“Show-off,” muttered Sam. He wondered how the cat had done it. The diamond was unbroken, the lines of magical fire streaming without pause between the brightness of the cardinal marks.
If only the diamond kept the mosquitoes out as well, he thought, slapping several more into bloody oblivion against his neck. Clearly their bites did not come into the spell’s definition of physical harm. Suddenly he smiled, remembering something he’d packed.
He was getting this object out of the saddlebag when the Westmark flashed again, reacting to Mogget’s return. The cat had two small trout in his mouth, their scales reflecting rainbows in the mix of firelight and Charter glow.
“You can have this one to cook,” said Mogget, dropping the smaller one next to the fire. “What is that?”
“It’s a present for my mother,” replied Sam proudly, setting down a bejeweled clockwork frog that had the interesting anatomical addition of wings made of feathery bronze. “A flying frog.”
Mogget watched with interest as Sam lightly touched the frog’s back and it began to glow with Charter Magic as the sending inside the mechanical body waked from sleep. It opened one turquoise eye, then the other, lids of paper-thin gold sliding back. Then it flapped its wings, brazen feathers clashing.
“Very pretty,” said Mogget. “Does it do anything?”
The flying frog answered the question itself, suddenly leaping into the air, a long and vibrantly red tongue flashing out to grab several startled mosquitoes. Wings beating furiously, it spiraled after several more,
ate them, and then dived back down to land contentedly near Sam’s feet.
“It catches bugs,” stated Sam with considerable satisfaction. “I thought it would be handy for Mother, since she spends so much time in swamps hunting the Dead.”
“You made it,” said Mogget, watching the flying frog leap again to twirl and twist after its quarry. “Completely your invention?”
“Yes,” replied Sam shortly, expecting some criticism of his handiwork. But Mogget was silent, just watching the frog’s aerobatics, his green eyes following its every move. Then the cat shifted his gaze to Sam, making him nervous. He tried to meet that green stare, but he had to look away—and he suddenly realized that there were Dead nearby. Lots of Dead, drawing closer with every second.
Mogget obviously felt them too, for he leapt up and hissed, the hair on his back rising to a ridge. Sprout smelt them, and shivered. The Flying Frog flew to the saddlebags and climbed in.
Sam looked out into the darkness, shielding his eyes from the firelight. The moon was occluded by cloud, but starlight reflected from the water. He could feel the Dead, out there in the forest, but the darkness lay too heavy under the branches of the old tangled trees. He couldn’t see anything.
But he could hear twigs cracking, and branches snapping back, and even the occasional heavy footfall, all against the constant burble of the stream. Whatever was coming, some of them at least had physical forms. There could be Shadow Hands out there as well. Or Ghlims or Mordaut or any of the many kinds of Lesser Dead. He could feel nothing more powerful, at least for now.
Whatever they were, there were at least a dozen of them, on both sides of the stream. Forgetting his tiredness and his limp, Sam moved around the diamond, checking the marks. The running water was neither deep nor fast enough to do more than discourage the Dead. The diamond would be their true protection.
