by Nix, Garth
She looked around at the multitude of sleeping Dead and added, “And he comes back here very quickly!”
“Tizanael?”
“She’s dead,” said Mirelle.
Elinor looked around fearfully. There were Dead Hands everywhere, lying in piles, but they only slept, she knew, and there were far more back in the fog. If they woke up . . .
“Can we burn them somehow?” she asked. “All of them, I mean, at once?”
“No,” said Mirelle. She was turning slowly in place, an arrow nocked and ready. She did not seem quite herself, and Elinor noticed there was a thin line of blood trickling from her left ear, the side that had been closest to the fallen bell.
“The fog!” exclaimed Elinor. “Can you summon a wind, blow the fog away? The sun—”
“I . . . I don’t know,” replied Mirelle. “My ears are ringing. If I can’t hear myself whistle I’ll get it wrong and—look out!”
She shoved Elinor aside as a bolt of fire sped overhead, missing Elinor’s head by inches, the hot-metal stench of its passage making her gag.
Ice cracked from the sudden movement, but Terciel’s hand stayed on Elinor’s and hers on the chain. She steadied herself, and with her free hand she drew a knife and sent it flying back where the bolt had come from: a man on the fringe of the fog, standing on the edge of the massive stump that had been Kerrigor’s throne room.
A man Elinor had seen twice before and wished never to see again.
Hedge.
Terciel stepped into the intensely cold river of Death and the current immediately grabbed him and tried to wrestle him under and take him away. He set his legs wide, steadying himself against the flow, and swiftly looked around. The chain blinded him. It was still bright here, a thing of fire and white light, the black iron links dripping with red flames and the golden daisies that joined them small suns made of brilliant Charter marks, which shed fountains of sparks.
At the end of the chain Kerrigor also braced himself against the current. A massive shape of darkness even bigger than the miller’s body he had occupied in Life. His eyes burned deep with fire, and flames licked about his mouth.
Terciel flicked the chain in the manner instructed by On the Making of Necromantic Bells and Other Devices and strode away, deeper into Death. He could already see the line of mist that marked the First Gate, and could hear the roar of its waterfall, deeper and louder than the rush of the river.
“Fool,” said Kerrigor, his voice loud and frightening, redolent with power. The huge mass of shadow leaned back, making the chain come taut, so it was a tight horizontal line of brightness between them, so strange in the grey light of Death. “You are too weak! You can take me no farther. Flee now, and I will allow you a little grace. You might even escape.”
Terciel flicked the chain again.
“Move!” he commanded. But the chain stayed taut, and Kerrigor did not move.
The Greater Dead creature chuckled, a horrible, wet laugh that made Terciel shiver. He forced himself to stay calm, to think about the book and the instructions in it. He couldn’t use the bells on Kerrigor now, not while holding the chain. He shouldn’t have to. Lerantiel’s book said a spirit bound by the chain would be forced by the chain’s power alone to walk deeper into Death.
Charter help me, thought Terciel. He couldn’t think, he was on the verge of panic, that awful chuckling sound was eating at his mind. I cannot move him, and Elinor and Mirelle are in Life, surrounded by Dead who will wake all too soon.
Doubt was fatal in Death. It was strength of will alone that kept the river from taking a spirit onward. Terciel felt the current growing stronger, felt his knees weakening. His arm ached where it had been broken, his foot was numb again, he wasn’t as strong as he should be, he couldn’t hold the chain . . .
Kerrigor stopped chuckling. Terciel heard the sound of something wading toward him, the change in the river’s rushing noise. He spun about, keeping a tight hold on the chain, and saw—
The sorcerer dodged aside and the knife missed. Hedge flung another bolt of Free Magic fire, this time straight at the frozen figure of Terciel. Elinor, about to throw a second knife at him, saw his hand move and without even thinking swung herself in front of the Abhorsen, pivoting around their joined grip on the chain.
The bolt struck her on the shoulder. Elinor felt an intense stab of pain that felt like it went all the way through her chest and came out her back. For a moment she thought that was it, this was the moment of her death. She looked down, expecting to see, just for that last elongated second of life, a hole like the one Hedge had blasted through the poor soldier back at Wyverley College.
But her shoulder was intact. The leather armor was singed and blackened, but it was whole. The pain was fading, and was already not much worse than being struck with one of Ham’s juggling balls, as had happened to her many times in her early training.
Mirelle’s bowstring thrummed. Elinor snapped her head up to see the arrow fly straight and true, into and through the sorcerer’s neck. Horrifyingly, no blood spurted forth, and he did not fall or falter. He dodged aside as another arrow sped through the air where he had stood, then slowly retreated, brushing another arrow away from his face as he backed off, as easily as if it might have been a fly. He did not have the air of someone defeated. It was rather a calculated withdrawal, and he took something that flashed silver from his belt as he disappeared back into the fog.
“Elinor! How badly—”
Mirelle’s question faltered as she saw Elinor was not mortally wounded, her mouth dropping for a moment before she realized what had happened.
“The spells to reinforce you against the chain!”
“I guess so,” said Elinor. She flexed her fingers a little, more ice cracking on Terciel’s hand above her own, though it instantly refroze. She wondered if the bolt had stripped her of the augmentation against the chain, and how she would know. The chain was warm, perhaps warmer than it had been before. But at least it was quiescent now.
“The sorcerer will be back, with help, I gauge,” said Mirelle, looking out into the fog. “At least I made him fear for his eyes.”
“That was Hedge,” said Elinor, shivering. She forced herself to stop the shivers, taking a deep, slow breath. She must not panic, she told herself, must not even think about running away or anything like that. All she had to do was hold the chain. Hold the chain until it disappeared, then Terciel would come back and all would be well. She had to keep hold of that, thought Elinor. Terciel would imprison Kerrigor in Death and come back into Life himself.
“Hedge?” said Mirelle. “Sword-work, then. I’ll have to get close enough to take off his head.”
“Maybe he won’t come back,” said Elinor, very hopefully.
Mirelle didn’t answer.
Elinor looked at the chain again. It was definitely warmer, almost hot now, even through the protective glove, though the links no longer burned, and the Charter marks on the daisies that joined them were no brighter than the sheen of the gold.
She took another long, slow breath and let it out over a dozen seconds.
As she exhaled, she heard an uncanny whistle. Not someone whistling a Charter mark to summon a breeze, this was more . . . metallic. It took her only a moment more to realize the sound was from necromantic panpipes like Terciel had used at Coldhallow House, the lesser instrument akin to the bells.
“Hedge is waking the Dead!” she exclaimed. “We have to clear the fog! We need the sun!”
“I still can’t hear well enough,” said Mirelle, very matter-of-fact. “You’ll have to do it. Do you remember, when I flew the paperwing, taking off from the Abhorsen’s House? That spell, that whistle, that’s the one you need.”
“I’m not sure,” said Elinor, shaking her head. She cast her mind back, pushing aside her fear that the chain was growing ever warmer, the piercing note of the pipe that made her skin crawl and her hair lift with static electricity. All that had to be ignored. She remembered the bright, cold
morning she was in the paperwing with Mirelle, and that whistle, and the marks that came out her mouth, she fixed them in her mind.
Taking a breath, she held it. If she called the wrong marks, miscast the spell, then she would likely burn out her throat and mouth, maybe die on the spot. But that fierce note from the pipe was waking the Dead, the hundreds of Dead Hands, and there was nothing she or Mirelle could do against so many, save banish the fog and let in the sun.
Elinor pursed her lips, reached deep into the Charter, and blew a pure note infused with magic.
Tizanael stood next to the staring, openmouthed Terciel. Her spirit form, at least. She looked different now in Death to how Terciel had seen her here before, because she had no living body to return to anymore. She was less vivid, her skin translucent rather than merely pale, her hair not black streaked with silver but a luminous white. Her eyes were deep pools of starlight, without white or pupil.
She reached out and gripped the chain, flicking it as Terciel had done, and called out, “Move!”
Her voice was strong and vigorous, more commanding than it had been in recent years. It reminded Terciel of when he had first met Tizanael, long ago in the fish hall of Grynhold.
Kerrigor looked up, up into the grey mist that swirled perpetually above and shouted, a wordless howl that sent a vicious jet of flame from his mouth. But as it faded, he bent his head and moved, reluctantly stepping forward, the river sizzling and steaming about his legs.
The chain grew slack, until Tizanael tapped Terciel’s elbow, a touch that was colder even than the river. He moved, too, striding with the current, careful to set each footfall so it could not trick him and carry him under and away. Kerrigor shambled after, led by the chain all too like some temporarily quiescent bear who the bearward feared might attack at any moment.
“How are you . . .” said Terciel. “How are you still here, Great-Aunt?”
“It is a grace given to all Abhorsens, at the end, that we may tarry on the way,” she replied. “But we must not waste what little time I have. Kerrigor has summoned his minions and allies with that shout. We must hurry. Be on your guard.”
She flicked the chain again. Kerrigor growled in response, and tried to rear back, but the chain tightened and he could not resist. Terciel pulled hard, felt Tizanael adding her strength, and they picked up the pace.
The veil of mist that marked the First Gate was close now. Terciel glanced at Tizanael, who inclined her head, telling him he must speak the words of the Free Magic spell that would open the way for them.
Terciel thought of the page from The Book of the Dead, saw the spell there. He had done this before, many times, gone through the First Gate and beyond. He spoke the words, feeling their heat in his mouth, the sparking on his lips.
The mist parted in answer, revealing a series of waterfalls that fell away forever, into some impossible depths. Terciel continued the spell, gesturing to the left and right with his sword, the Abhorsen’s sword, the emerald in the pommel now glowing with an eerie green light. Behind him, the chain still lit the rushing waters, a light that was somehow absorbed into the darkness that was Kerrigor.
A path appeared between the waterfalls, a gentle incline between the waters. It did not seem to extend far, but it was impossible to look along it, mind and eye unable to process what it saw.
A narrow path, where a false footfall would send the traveler over the edge, down into the falling waters and onward, without control or any chance of return.
Terciel stepped onto the path, Tizanael’s spirit close behind him, her with two translucent hands on one of the golden daisies, the light shining through her fingers, his own left hand clenched about the iron link he held as if it had been fixed there by a smith.
Together, they flicked the chain again, and Kerrigor followed. The mist closed up after his massive, shadowy form, and the path itself faded behind his last footfall.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charter marks flew from Elinor’s pursed lips, rising up to the white-shrouded, foggy sky, cutting through it like sparks through paper, boring light-streaked tunnels through the cloud as they continued to climb.
But her whistle did not drown out the call of the necromancer’s pipe. Mosrael the Waker called out to those pushed into slumber, and though the pipe was less powerful than the bell, Ranna no longer sounded and its influence waned by the minute. The Dead Hands stirred, bones clicking, dry tendons tightening, broken jaws grinding, dribbling out splintered teeth.
Wind lifted Elinor’s hair, the faintest hint of a breeze. The fog swirled and shifted, but showed no signs of breaking, as she continued to summon marks and send them into her breath, which was coming to an end, the last recesses of her lungs emptying.
Mirelle started forward and picked up Terciel’s sword, a lesser sword than Tizanael’s, but one still imbued with spells for the sundering of Dead flesh and the breaking of Dead bones. Charter marks flared as she lifted it, the steel of the blade surrounded with golden light.
The pipe’s harsh, waking call stopped at almost the same time Elinor’s breath failed and her whistling ceased. She was sure she had the spell right, but no wind came in answer, though at least she had not burned out her throat and mouth, or killed herself. In fact, she felt invigorated, closer to the Charter than ever. Not that this would be much help, not without the sun to banish the Dead.
She glanced at Terciel, still covered in ice, and at their hands together on the chain, and knew she was not alone, and never would be again, no matter what happened.
In the sudden silence, the Dead moved. Creaking and hissing, clicking and rasping, they came forward between the huge stumps of the sawn-down blackwoods, the protective fog wreathing their advance. Hands distorted into skeletal talons readied to rend, jaws snapped and those who still held weapons made stabbing or slashing motions, trying to recall how it was done.
“We have to try to keep them off Terciel,” said Elinor. She was surprised to hear how calm she sounded. “And I have to keep hold of the chain. For as long as we can. I’m sorry I couldn’t summon the wind. I did my best.”
Mirelle did not answer. Instead she suddenly charged forward, toward the closest Dead Hands, sword held high.
Elinor drew her poniard and leapt around on the pivot of her and Terciel’s handfast, to put herself between him and the Dead, the chain sliding in the blackwood needles behind her till it grew taut, anchored by the miller’s fallen body. With the blade she drew three Charter marks in the air, whispering the use-names to herself, before pointing the weapon at a Hand who was charging toward her, vanguard of many more to come. It was a misshapen thing, more skeleton than flesh, already distorted by the spirit inside, its arms lengthened and its fleshless hands fused into shearing blades of bone.
“Anet! Calew! Ferhan!”
Charter marks joined to become silver blades that flashed through the air. One smote the Hand’s head entirely from the body, one took off its left arm, and the third struck its right hip, so it fell over backward. It lay on its back like a headless insect for a moment, then flipped up and began to crawl forward, while the decapitated head chattered its teeth in rage.
A dozen Dead creatures overtook the crawling, dismembered thing and came on, straight for Elinor.
The path was of indeterminate length, and passage along it seemed to take both forever and no time at all, but they emerged into the Second Precinct, another flat and endless expanse, with the impossibly wide river flowing onward, ever on.
It was different from the First Precinct in some ways. The grey light was softer and weaker. It was difficult to see very far, and the river was even more dangerous because there were deep holes and sudden drops.
There was a safe way though, dependent on counting steps on leaving the path, and making memorized turns to get around the hidden depths. Or you could probe the river ahead with sword or staff, and go with the flow, slowly skirting any holes found with this probing method. That way was slow, if sure.
Terc
iel counted the steps, and did not probe ahead with his sword. It was more difficult than usual, because Kerrigor moved slowly and Terciel had to look back and make sure he made the correct turns as well, flicking the chain to ensure his obedience. Theoretically, since he was actually dead, Kerrigor had even more to lose if he fell in one of the deep holes and the current got hold of him properly, but Terciel didn’t know how the Greater Dead creature had kept himself from the river’s clutches so long anyway, or how he had got back into Life. Perhaps he could fall in a hole and somehow resist the pull of the river and return to Life, while Terciel and Tizanael would be swept away.
“Five steps,” he said to Tizanael as they neared the Second Gate and then without warning the chain snapped tight. Kerrigor strained against it in an explosion of fire and sparks from the iron and gold links, and at the same time something burst from the river ahead. A creature that had spent too long lurking beyond the Fifth Gate. A human now transformed into something that was a horrific mixture of pallid insect and ancient crone, a massively wrinkled, totally bald woman’s head atop a shriveled human torso, but with chitin-armored arms that ended in serrated claws, and a multiplicity of quadruple-jointed legs thrashing at the river to keep it in place.
Terciel kept hold of the chain and struck with the Abhorsen’s sword, slicing off a pincer aimed for his throat, twisting his wrist around to take off the other in a circular stroke to use the back edge of the blade. The creature still sprang at him, the apparently human head unhinging to show the whole head was all a single jaw full of rows of teeth. Terciel dodged and struck again, but before his sword landed, Tizanael used the slack in the chain, whipping it across that gaping maw. The chain smashed into the creature’s head, and the whole monster suddenly disintegrated in an explosion of red fire and silver sparks, its fragments falling into the river.
“Your servants are inferior,” said Tizanael to Kerrigor. She snapped the chain again, Terciel joining in a fraction of a second later. “Terciel, the gate.”
