by Garth Nix
“You may have to renew the marks before dawn,” said Mogget, watching Sam’s inspection. “It hasn’t been cast very well. You should get some sleep before you try again.”
“How can I sleep?” whispered Sam, instinctively keeping his voice down, as if it mattered whether the Dead could hear him. They already knew where he was. He could even smell them now—the disgusting odor of decaying flesh and gravemold.
“They’re only Hands,” said Mogget, looking out. “They probably won’t attack as long as the diamond lasts.”
“How do you know that?” asked Sam, wiping the sweat from his forehead, along with several crushed mosquitoes. He thought he could see the Dead now—tall shapes between the darker trunks of the trees. Horrible, broken corpses forced back into Life to do a necromancer’s bidding. Their intelli-gence and humanity ripped from them, leaving only inhuman strength and an insatiable desire for the life they could no longer have.
His life.
“You could walk out there and send them all back to Death,” suggested Mogget. He was starting to eat the second fish, beginning with the tail. Sam hadn’t seen him eat the first one.
“Your mother would,” Mogget added slyly, when Sam didn’t speak.
“I’m not my mother,” replied Sam, dry-mouthed. He made no move to pick up the bells, though he could feel them there on the sand, calling out to him. They wanted to be used against the Dead. But they could be dangerous to the wielder, most of them, or tricksome at least. He would have to use Kibeth to make the Dead walk back into Death, and Kibeth could easily send him walking instead.
“Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” Mogget asked suddenly, his eyes once again intent on Sam’s sweating face.
“What?” asked the Prince, distracted. He’d heard his mother say that before, but it didn’t mean anything to him then or now. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ve never finished The Book of the Dead,” said Mogget in a strange tone.
“Well, no, not yet,” said Sam wretchedly. “I’m going to, it’s just that I—”
“It also means that we really are in trouble,” interrupted Mogget, switching his gaze to the outer darkness. “I thought you would at least know enough to protect yourself by now!”
“What do you see?” asked Sam. He could hear movement upstream, the sudden splintering of trees and the crash of rocks into the water.
“Shadow Hands have come,” replied Mogget bleakly. “Two of them, well back in the trees. They are directing the Hands to dam the stream. I expect they will attack when the water no longer flows.”
“I wish . . . I wish I were a proper Abhorsen,” whispered Sam.
“Well you should be, at your age!” said Mogget. “But I suppose we will have to make do with whatever you do know. By the way, where is your own sword? An unspelled blade will not cut the stuff of Shadow Hands.”
“I left it in Belisaere,” Sam said, after a moment. “I didn’t think . . . I didn’t understand what I was doing. I thought Nick was probably in trouble, but not this much.”
“That’s the problem with growing up as a Prince,” growled Mogget. “You always think that everything will get worked out for you. Or you turn out like your sister and think nothing gets done unless you do it. It’s a wonder any of you are ever any use at all.”
“What can I do now?” asked Sam humbly.
“We will have a little time before the water slows,” replied Mogget. “You should try to place some magic in your blade. If you can make that Frog, I’m sure that will not be beyond you.”
“Yes,” said Sam dully. “I do know how to do that.”
Concentrating on the blade, he delved once more into the Charter, reaching for marks of sharpness and unraveling, magic that would wreak havoc upon Dead flesh or spirit-stuff.
With an effort, he forced the marks into the blade, watching them slowly move like oil upon the metal, soaking into the steel.
“You are skilled,” remarked the cat. “Surprisingly so. Almost you remind me of—”
Whatever he was about to say was lost as a terrible scream split the night, accompanied by frenzied splashing.
“What was that?” exclaimed Sam, going to the Northmark, his newly spelled sword held at guard.
“A Hand,” replied Mogget, chuckling. “It fell in. Whoever controls these Dead is far away, my Prince. Even the Shadow Hands are weak and stupid.”
“So we may have a chance,” whispered Sam. The stream seemed little affected by the dam building upstream, and the diamond still shone brightly. Perhaps nothing would happen before the dawn.
“We have a good chance,” said Mogget. “For tonight. But there will be another night tomorrow, and perhaps another after that, before we can reach the Ratterlin. What of them?”
Sam was still trying to think of an answer when the first of the Dead Hands came screaming across the water—and ran full tilt into the diamond, silver sparks exploding everywhere into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Flight to the River
Dawn came slowly to the outer fringes of the Sindlewood, light trickling over the treetops long before it penetrated the darker depths. When it did finally reach the lower regions, it was no longer a burning heat, but a greenish, diluted light that simply pushed the shadows back rather than extinguished them.
The sunlight reached Sameth’s magic-girded islet much later than he would have liked. The fire had long since burnt itself out, and as Mogget had predicted, Sam had had to renew the diamond of protection long before the first hint of dawn, drawing on reserves of energy he hadn’t known he possessed.
With the light came the full evidence of the night’s work. The streambed was almost dry, the Dead-made dam upstream still holding. Six Charter-blasted corpses lay piled all around the islet: husks vacated by the Dead when the protective magic of the diamond burnt through too many nerves and sinews, rendering the bodies useless.
Sam looked at them warily, through red-rimmed puffy eyes, watching the sunlight crawl across the stinking remnants. He’d felt the Dead spirits shucking the bodies as snakes shed their skins, but in the confusion of their suicidal attacks, he wasn’t sure whether all of them had gone. One might be lurking still, husbanding its strength, enduring the sun, hoping Sam would be overconfident and step out of the diamond.
He could still feel Dead nearby, but that was probably the Shadow Hands, taking up daytime refuges in rabbit holes or otter holts, slipping down into the dark earth under the rocks, where they belonged.
At last full sunshine lit the whole streambed, and Sam’s sense of the Dead faded, save for the ever-present Gore Crow, circling high overhead. He sighed with relief, and stretched, trying to relieve the cramp in his sword-arm and the pain in his wounded leg. He was exhausted, but he was alive. For another day, at least.
“We’d better start moving,” said Mogget, who had slept most of the night, ignoring the slam and sizzle of the Dead Hands’ attempts to break through the diamond. He looked ready to slip back into that sleep at a moment’s notice.
“If the Gore Crow’s stupid enough to get close, kill it,” he added, yawning. “That will give us a chance to escape.”
“What will I kill it with?” asked Sam wearily. Even if the Gore Crow came closer, he was too tired to cast a Charter-spell, and he didn’t have a bow.
There was no answer from Mogget. He was already asleep again, curled up in the saddlebag, ready to be put on Sprout. Sam sighed and forced himself to get on with the job of saddling up. But his mind, tired as it was, still grappled with the problem of the Gore Crow. As Mogget said, as long as it tracked them, other Dead would be able to find them easily. Perhaps it would be one of the Greater Dead next, or a Mordicant, or even just larger numbers of Lesser Dead. Sam would have to spend at least the next two nights in the forest, and he would be weaker and more tired with every passing hour. He might not even be able to cast a diamond of protection. . . .
But, he thought, lo
oking down at the dry streambed and the hundreds of beautifully round pebbles there, I do have the strength to put a mark of accuracy on a stone, and make a sling from my spare shirt. He even knew how to use one. Jall Oren had been keen on tutoring the royal children in all manner of weapons.
For the first time in days, a smile crept upon Sam’s face, banishing the weariness. He looked up. Sure enough, the Gore Crow was circling lower than yesterday, overconfident from Sam’s lack of a bow and obvious inability to do anything. It would be a long shot, but a Charter-spelled stone should go the distance.
Still grinning, Sam knelt down, surreptitiously picked up several likely stones, and ripped the sleeves from his spare shirt. He’d let the Gore Crow follow them for a while, he decided, and grow even more confident. Then it would pay the price for spying on a scion of the Old Kingdom.
Sam led Sprout westwards along the streambed, till it joined another, larger watercourse, and he had a choice of directions. Upstream to the northeast or downstream to the southwest.
At the junction, he hesitated, using Sprout’s bulk to shield himself from view as he cast a mark upon the stone and settled it into the makeshift sling. The Gore Crow, seeing his hesitation, circled lower to make sure it could see which way he chose. It was obviously put off by the running water of the larger stream and perhaps hoped he’d turn back.
Sam waited till its spiral turned it closest to him. Then he stepped away from Sprout, the sling whirring above his head. At just the right moment, he yelled “Hah!” and let the stone fly.
The Gore Crow had only an instant to react, and being stupid, sunstruck, and Dead, it simply flew straight into the rocketing stone, meeting it in an explosion of feathers, dry bones, and putrid gobbets of meat.
With great satisfaction and then outright joy, Sam watched the disgusting creature fall. The crushed ball of feathers landed with a splash in the stream, and the fragment of Dead spirit inside it was instantly banished back to whence it came. Better still, it would drag all the other fragments of that same spirit back into Death. So any Gore Crows that shared it would be dropping inexplicably, wherever they might be.
With the fall of the Gore Crow, he could sense no Dead nearby. The Shadow Hands would be long hidden now, as would any Dead Hands that remained. The intelligence that commanded them from afar might guess that Sam would take the southwest stream towards the Ratterlin, but whoever or whatever it was would not know for sure, and might split its forces, increasing his chance of evasion and escape.
“We have a chance, faithful horse,” announced Sam cheerfully, leading Sprout towards an animal track that ran parallel to the stream. “We have a definite chance.”
But hope seemed to slip from Sam’s grasp as the day progressed and the going became slower and more difficult, so he couldn’t ride Sprout. The stream had grown considerably deeper and faster, but also much narrower, barely three or four strides across, so it was impossible to stand in it or make a camp that would be protected on both sides.
The track had grown narrower, too, and overgrown. Sam had to hack through low branches, high shrubs, and barbed coils of blackberries. His hands became heavily scratched, attracting hordes of flies to the lines of drying blood. That would attract the Dead later, too. They could smell blood a long way away, though fresh would bring them faster.
By late afternoon, Sam had begun to despair. He was really exhausted now. There would be no question of casting a diamond of protection this coming night. He would pass out just trying to visualize the marks—and the Dead would find his defenseless body stretched out upon the ground.
His weariness was closing down his senses, too, narrowing his sight to a blinkered view and his hearing to little more than a muffled awareness of Sprout’s hooves, dull upon the soft, forgiving forest floor.
In that state, it took him several seconds to realize that Sprout’s hooves were suddenly making a sharper sound, and the cool green light of the forest had given way to something much sharper and more bright. He looked up, blinking, and saw that they had come to a wide clearing. The clearing was easily a hundred paces wide, cutting through the forest from the southeast to the northwest, continuing in both directions as far as he could see. Saplings had grown up on its borders, but the middle was stark and bare—and there was a paved road in the middle of it.
Sam stared at the road and then at the sun, which he’d barely been able to see under the forest’s shady roof.
“About two, maybe three hours to dusk,” he mumbled to Sprout, as he fiddled with the stirrup and mounted up. “You’ve had a good meal of grain today, haven’t you, Sprout? Not to mention an easy walk, without carrying me. Now you can pay me back, because we are going to ride.”
He chuckled then, thinking of an expression from the moving pictures he’d often seen in the Somersby Orpheum in Ancelstierre.
“We’re going to ride, Sprout!” he repeated. “Ride like the wind!”
An hour and a half later, Sprout was no longer running like the wind, but back at a walk, legs trembling, sweat drenching her flanks, and froth forming at her mouth. Sam wasn’t in much better shape, walking again himself, to give Sprout a chance to recover. He wasn’t sure now what hurt more—his leg or his backside.
Even so, they had covered six or seven leagues, thanks to the road. It was no royal road now, but it had been built and drained properly long ago, and so was more than serviceable.
They were currently climbing up a slight ridge, the road attacking it directly rather than winding around. Sam lifted his head as they approached the top, hoping for a glimpse of the Ratterlin before the day came to an end. By his reckoning, the ride—and the road—had saved more than a day of foot travel through the forest, so they should be close to the river. They must be close to the river. . . .
He stood on his toes for a moment but still couldn’t see. It was an annoying ridge, this one, full of false heights and annoying dips along the way. But surely in a moment he would see the Ratterlin!
Clip! Clop! Sprout’s hooves sounded loud on the road, as loud as Sam’s own beating heart, but much, much slower. His heart was racing, racing with a combination of hope and fear.
There was the real crest ahead. Sam pushed forward, trying to see, but the sun was setting directly in front of him, a huge red disc sinking into the west, blinding him.
He screwed his eyes almost shut and shielded them with a hand, looking again—and there, under the sun, was a thick ribbon of blue, reflecting orange-red streaks back into the sky.
“The Ratterlin! Ow!” exclaimed Sam, stubbing his toe as he stumbled over the rise. But he ignored the momentary pain. There was the swift river whose waters would bar any Dead. The river that would save him!
Except, he thought, with sudden dread, it was still half a league away, and the night had almost come. And with it, he realized, so had the Dead. There were Dead creatures not too far away—perhaps even ahead of him. This road—and the point where it joined the Ratterlin towpath—would be an obvious point to be watched.
Worse than that, he thought, looking down at the river, he hadn’t actually planned what he’d do once he reached it. What if there was no boat or raft to be found?
“Hurry,” said Mogget from the saddlebag behind him, making Sam jump in surprise and start leading Sprout on again. “We must head for the mill and take shelter there.”
“I can’t see a mill,” said Sam doubtfully, shielding his eyes once more. He couldn’t see any detail near the river at all. His eyes were blurry from lack of sleep, and he felt as stupid as a Dead Hand.
“Of course there’s a mill,” snapped Mogget, leaping down from the saddlebag onto Sam’s shoulder, making him start again. “The wheel does not turn—so we can hope it is abandoned.”
“Why?” asked Sam blearily. “Wouldn’t it better if there’s people? We can get food, drink—”
“Would you bring the Dead upon a miller and his family?” interrupted Mogget. “It will not be long before they find us—if they haven’t
already.”
Sam didn’t reply, merely encouraging Sprout with a gentle slap to the neck. Perhaps he wouldn’t weary her too much if he hung on the stirrup, he thought. He hoped she’d make the distance, because he didn’t think he could walk that far unaided.
As usual, Mogget was right. Sam could feel the Dead closer now and, looking up, saw two black specks spiraling down out of the night that swept in from the east. Clearly the particular necromancer who drove them had no shortage of Gore Crows. And where the Crows flew, there would soon be others, brought out of Death to seek their prey.
Mogget saw the Gore Crows, too, and whispered in Sam’s ear.
“There can be little doubt, now. This is the work of a necromancer who bears you particular ill will, Prince Sameth. His servants will seek you wherever you flee, and he will use all the creatures of Death to drive you to your doom.”
Sam swallowed. The dire pronouncement echoed in his ears, imbued with the faint hint of the Free Magic power that was contained within the cat form on his shoulder. He slapped Sprout on the rump to get her going; then he said the first thing that came into his head.
“Mogget. Shut up.”
Sprout fell a hundred yards from the mill, worn out by her earlier gallop and the dead weight of Sam hanging on a stirrup. He let go just in time to avoid being trapped under her. Mogget leapt off his shoulder to get even farther out of the way.
“Foundered,” said Mogget briskly, without looking at her, his green eyes peering sharply back into the night. “They’re getting closer.”
“I know!” said Sam, urgently pulling the saddlebags free and slinging them over his shoulder. He bent down to stroke Sprout’s head, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes showed white and rolled almost completely back. He took the reins and tried to pull her up, but she made no move to help, and he was too weak to force her.
“Hurry!” urged Mogget, pacing around him. “You know what to do.”
Sam nodded and glanced back at the Dead. There were a score or more of them, dim, lumbering shapes in the gathering darkness. Their masters had clearly driven them hard from some distant cemetery or boneyard, walking them even under the sun. Consequently, they were slow, but implacable. If he lingered even for a minute longer, they would fall upon him like rats on a worn-out dog.
