by Garth Nix
Sabriel, a scream somehow stuck and choking in her throat, turned to the cliff, hammering on it with the pommel of her sword.
“Open! Open!” she screamed, as Charter marks raced through her brain—but not the right ones for forcing a door, a spell she’d learned in the Second Form. She knew it like she knew her times tables, but the Charter marks just wouldn’t come, and why was twelve times twelve sticking in her head when she wanted Charter marks . . .
The echoes from Mosrael faded, and in that silence, the pommel struck on something that thudded hollowly, rather than throwing sparks and jarring her hand. Something wooden, something that hadn’t been there before. A door, tall and strangely narrow, its dark oak lined with silver Charter marks dancing through the grain. An iron ring, exactly at hand height, touched Sabriel’s hip.
Sabriel dropped her sword with a gasp, grabbed the ring, and pulled. Nothing happened. Sabriel tugged again, half-turning to look over her shoulder, almost cringing at what she would see.
The Mordicant turned the last corner and its eyes met hers. Sabriel shut them, unable to bear the hatred and bloodlust glowing in its gaze like a poker left too long in the forge. It howled again and almost flowed up the remaining steps, flames dripping from its mouth, claws and feet.
Sabriel, eyes still closed, pushed on the ring. The door flew open and she fell in, crashing to the ground in a flurry of snow, eyes snapping open. Desperately, she twisted herself around on the ground, ignoring the pain in her knees and hands. Reaching back outside, she snagged the hilt of her sword and snatched it in.
As the blade cleared the doorway, the Mordicant reached it, and twisting itself sideways to pass the narrow portal, thrust an arm inside. Flames boiled from its grey-green flesh, like beads of sweat, and small plumes of black smoke spiraled from the flames, bringing with them a stench like burning hair.
Sabriel, sprawled defenseless on the floor, could only stare in terror as the thing’s four-taloned hand slowly opened and reached out for her.
Chapter Seven
BUT THE HAND didn’t close; the talons failed to rend defenseless flesh.
Instead, Sabriel felt a sudden surge of Charter Magic and Charter marks flared around the door, blazing so brightly that they left red after-images at the back of her eyes, black dots dancing across her vision.
Blinking, she saw a man step out from the stones of the wall, a tall and obviously strong man, with a longsword the twin of Sabriel’s own. This sword came whistling down on the Mordicant’s arm, biting out a chunk of burning marsh-rotten flesh. Rebounding, the sword flicked back again, and hewed another slice, like an axeman sending chips flying from a tree.
The Mordicant howled, more in anger than in pain—but it withdrew the arm and the stranger threw himself against the door, slamming it shut with the full weight of his mail-clad body. Curiously for mail, it made no sound, no jangling from the flow of hundreds of steel links. A strange body under it too, Sabriel saw, as the black dots and the red wash faded, revealing that her rescuer wasn’t human at all. He had seemed solid enough, but every square inch of him was defined by tiny, constantly moving Charter marks, and Sabriel could see nothing between them but empty air.
He . . . it was a Charter-ghost, a sending.
Outside, the Mordicant howled again, like a steam train venting pressure, then the whole corridor shook and hinges screeched in protest as the thing threw itself against the door. Wood splintered and clouds of thick grey dust fell from the ceiling, mocking the falling snow outside.
The sending turned to face Sabriel and offered its hand to help her up. Sabriel took it, looking up at it as her tired, frozen legs struggled to make a tenth-round comeback. Close to, the illusion of flesh was imperfect, fluid and unsettling. Its face wouldn’t stay fixed, migrating between scores of possibilities. Some were women, some were men—but all bore tough, competent visages. Its body and clothing changed slightly, too, with every face, but two details always remained the same; a black surcoat with the blazon of a silver key, and a longsword redolent with Charter Magic.
“Thank you,” Sabriel said nervously, flinching as the Mordicant pounded the door again. “Can . . . do you think that . . . will it get through?”
The sending nodded grimly, and let go her hand to point up the long corridor, but it did not speak. Sabriel turned her head to follow its pointing hand and saw a dark passage that rose up into darkness. Charter marks illuminated where they stood, but faded only a little way on. Despite this, the darkness seemed friendly, and she could almost taste the Charter-spells that rode on the corridor’s dusty air.
“I must go on?” asked Sabriel, as it pointed again, more urgently. The sending nodded, and flapped its hand backwards and forwards, indicating haste. Behind him, another crashing blow caused another great billow of dust, and the door sounded as if it was weakening. Once again, the vile, burnt smell of the Mordicant wafted through the air.
The doorkeeper wrinkled its nose and gave Sabriel a bit of a push in the right direction, like a parent urging a reluctant child to press on. But Sabriel needed no urging. Her fear was still burning in her. Momentarily extinguished by the rescue, the smell of the Mordicant was all it needed to blaze again. She set her face upwards and started to walk quickly, into the passage.
She looked back after a few yards, to see the doorkeeper waiting near the door, its sword at the guard position. Beyond it, the door was bulging in, iron-bound planks bursting, breaking around a hole as big as a dinner plate.
The Mordicant reached in and broke off more planks, as easily as it might snap toothpicks. It was obviously furious that its prey was getting away, for it burned all over now. Yellow-red flames vomited from its mouth in a vile torrent, and black smoke rose like a second shadow around it, eddying in crazy circles as it howled.
Sabriel looked away, setting off at a fast walk, but the walk grew faster and faster, became a jog and then a run. Her feet pounded on the stone, but it wasn’t until she was almost sprinting, that she realized why she could—her pack and skis were still back at the lower door. For a moment, she was struck with a nervous inclination to go back, but it passed before it even became conscious thought. Even so, her hands checked scabbard and bandolier, and gained reassurance from the cool metal of sword hilt and the hand-smoothed wood of the bell handles.
It was light too, she realized as she ran. Charter marks ran in the stone, keeping pace with her. Charter marks for light and for fleetness, and for many other things she didn’t know. Strange marks and many of them—so many that Sabriel wondered how she could have ever thought that a First in magic from an Ancelstierran school would make her a great mage in the Old Kingdom. Fear and realization of ignorance were strong medicines against stupid pride.
Another howl came racing up the passage and echoed onwards, accompanied by many crashes, and thuds or clangs of steel striking supernatural flesh, or ricocheting off stone. Sabriel didn’t need to look back to know the Mordicant had broken through the door and was now fighting the doorkeeper—or pushing past him. Sabriel knew little of such sendings, but a common failing with the sentinel variety was an inability to leave their post. Once the creature got a few feet past the doorkeeper, the sending would be useless—and one great charge would soon get the Mordicant past.
That thought gave her another burst of speed, but Sabriel knew that it was the last. Her body, pushed by fear and weakened by cold and exertion, was on the edge of failure. Her legs felt stiff, muscles ready to cramp, and her lungs seemed to bubble with fluid rather than air.
Ahead, the corridor seemed to go on and on, sloping ever upwards. But the light only shone where Sabriel ran, so perhaps the exit might not be too far ahead, perhaps just past the next little patch of darkness . . .
Even as this thought passed through her mind, Sabriel saw a glow that sharpened into the bright tracing of a doorway. She half gasped, half cried out, both slight human noises drowned out by the unholy, inhuman screech of the Mordicant. It was past the doorkeeper.
At the same time, Sabriel became aware of a new sound ahead, a sound she had initially thought was the throb of blood in her ears, the pounding of a racing heart. But it was outside, beyond the upper door. A deep, roaring noise, so low it was almost a vibration, a shudder that she felt through the floor, rather than heard.
Heavy trucks passing on a road above, Sabriel thought, before remembering where she was. In that same instant, she recognized the sound. Somewhere ahead, out of these encircling cliffs, a great waterfall was crashing down. And a waterfall that made so great a sound must be fed by an equally great river.
Running water! The prospect of it fueled Sabriel with sudden hope, and with that hope came the strength she thought beyond her. In a wild spurt of speed, she almost hit the door, hands slapping against the wood, slowing for the instant she needed to find the handle or ring.
But another hand was already on the ring when she touched it, though none had been there a second before. Again, Charter marks defined this hand, and Sabriel could see the grain of the wood and the blueing of the steel through the palm of another sending.
This one was smaller, of indeterminate sex, for it was wearing a habit like a monk’s, with the hood drawn across its head. The habit was black and bore the emblem of the silver key front and back.
It bowed, and turned the ring. The door swung open, to reveal bright starlight shining down between clouds fleeing the newly risen wind. The noise of the waterfall roared through the open doorway, accompanied by flecks of flying spray. Without thinking, Sabriel stepped out.
The cowled doorkeeper came with her and shut the door behind it, before dragging a delicate, silver portcullis down across the door and locking it with an iron padlock. Both defenses apparently came out of thin air. Sabriel looked at them and felt power in them, for both were also Charter sendings. But door, portcullis and lock would only slow the Mordicant, not stop it. The only possible escape lay across the swiftest of running water, or the untimely glare of a noonday sun.
The first lay at her feet and the second was still many hours away. Sabriel stood on a narrow ledge that projected out from the bank of a river at least four hundred yards wide. A little to her right, a scant few paces away, this mighty river hurled itself over the cliff, to make a truly glorious waterfall. Sabriel leaned forward a little, to look at the waters crashing below, creating huge white wings of spray that could easily swallow her entire school, new wing and all, like a rubber duck swamped in an unruly bath.
It was a very long fall, and the height, coupled with the sheer power of the water, made her quickly look back to the river. Straight ahead, halfway across, Sabriel could just make out an island, an island perched on the very lip of the waterfall, dividing the river into two streams. It wasn’t a very big island, about the size of a football field, but it rose like a ship of jagged rock from the turbulent waters.
Encircling the island were limestone-white walls the height of six men. Behind those walls was a house. It was too dark to see clearly, but there was a tower, a thrusting, pencil silhouette, with red tiles that were just beginning to catch the dawning sun. Below the tower, a dark bulk hinted at the existence of a hall, a kitchen, bedrooms, armory, buttery and cellar. The study, Sabriel suddenly remembered, occupied the second to top floor of the tower. The top floor was an observatory, both of stars and the surrounding territory.
It was Abhorsen’s House. Home, although Sabriel had only visited it twice, or maybe three times, all when she was too young to remember much. That period of her life was hazy, and mostly filled with recollections of the Travelers, the interiors of their wagons, and many different campsites that all blurred together. She didn’t even remember the waterfall, though the sound of it did stir some recognition—something had lodged in the mind of a four-year-old girl.
Unfortunately, she didn’t remember how to get to the house. Only the words her mother-sending had given her—Abhorsen’s Bridge.
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken these words aloud, till the little gate warden tugged at her sleeve and pointed down. Sabriel looked and saw steps carved into the bank, steps leading right down to the river.
This time, Sabriel didn’t hesitate. She nodded to the Charter sending and whispered, “Thank you,” before taking the steps. The Mordicant’s presence was pressing at her again, like a stranger’s rank breath behind her ear. She knew it had reached the upper gate, though the sound of its battering and destruction was drowned in the greater roar of the waters.
The steps led to the river, but did not end there. Though invisible from the ledge, there were stepping-stones leading out to the island. Sabriel eyed them nervously, and looked at the water. It was clearly very deep and rushing past at an alarming speed. The stepping-stones were barely above its boisterous wavelets and, even though they were wide and cross-hatched for grip, they were also wet with spray and the slushy remnants of snow and ice.
Sabriel watched a small piece of ice from upstream hurtle by, and pictured its slingshot ride over the falls, to be smashed apart so far below. She imagined herself in its place, and then thought of the Mordicant behind her, of the Dead spirit that was at its heart, of the death it would bring, and the imprisonment she would suffer beyond death.
She jumped. Her boots skidded a little and her arms flailed for balance, but she ended up steady, bent over in a half-crouch. Hardly waiting to re-balance, she jumped to the next stone and then the one after that, and again, in a mad leapfrog through the spray and thunder of the river. When she was halfway out, with a hundred yards of pure, ferocious water behind her, she stopped and looked back.
The Mordicant was on the ledge, the silvery portcullis broken and mangled in its grip. There was no sign of the gate warden, but that was not surprising. Defeated, it would merely fade until the Charter-spell renewed itself—hours, days or even years later.
The Dead thing was curiously still, but it was clearly watching Sabriel. Even so powerful a creature couldn’t cross this river and it made no attempt to do so. In fact, the longer Sabriel stared at it, the more it seemed to her that the Mordicant was content to wait. It was a sentry, guarding what might be the only exit from the island. Or perhaps it was waiting for something to happen, or for someone to arrive . . .
Sabriel suppressed a shudder and jumped on. There was more light now, heralding the advent of the sun, and she could see a sort of wooden landing stage leading up to a gate in the white wall. Treetops were also visible behind the walls, winter trees, their branches bare of green raiment. Birds flew between trees and tower, little birds launching themselves for their morning forage. It was a vision of normalcy, of a haven. But Sabriel could not forget the tall, flame-etched silhouette of the Mordicant, brooding on the ledge.
Wearily, she made the jump to the last stone and collapsed on the steps of the landing stage. Even her eyelids could barely move, and her field of vision had narrowed to a little slit directly to her front. The grain of the planks of the landing stage loomed close, as she crawled up to the gate and halfheartedly fell against it.
The gate swung open, pitching her onto a paved courtyard, the beginning of a red-brick path, the bricks ancient, their redness the color of dusty apples. The path wound up to the front door of the house, a cheerful sky-blue door, bright against whitewashed stone. A bronze doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head holding a ring in its mouth gleamed in counterpoint to the white cat that lay coiled on the rush mat before the door.
Sabriel lay on the bricks and smiled up at the cat, blinking back tears. The cat twitched and turned its head ever so slightly to look at her, revealing bright, green eyes.
“Hello, puss,” croaked Sabriel, coughing as she staggered once more to her feet and walked forward, groaning and creaking with every step. She reached down to pat the cat, and froze—for, as the cat thrust its head up, she saw the collar around its neck and the tiny bell that hung there. The collar was only red leather, but the Charter-spell on it was the strongest, most enduring, binding that Sabriel had ever seen or fe
lt—and the bell was a miniature Saraneth. The cat was no cat, but a Free Magic creature of ancient power.
“Abhorsen,” mewed the cat, its little pink tongue darting. “About time you got here.”
Sabriel stared at it for a moment, gave a little sort of moan and fell forward in a faint of exhaustion and dismay.
Chapter Eight
SABRIEL AWOKE TO soft candlelight, the warmth of a feather bed, and silken sheets, delightfully smooth under heavy blankets. A fire burned briskly in a red-brick fireplace and wood-paneled walls gleamed with the dark mystery of well-polished mahogany. A blue-papered ceiling with silver stars dusted across it, faced her newly opened eyes. Two windows confronted each other across the room, but they were shuttered, so Sabriel had no idea what time it was, no more than she had any remembrance of how she’d got there. It was definitely Abhorsen’s House, but her last memory was of fainting on the doorstep.
Gingerly—for even her neck ached from her day and night of travel, fear and flight—Sabriel lifted her head to look around and once again met the green eyes of the cat that wasn’t a cat. The creature was lying near her feet, at the end of the bed.
“Who . . . what are you?” Sabriel asked nervously, suddenly all too aware that she was naked under the soft sheets. A sensuous delight, but a defenseless one. Her eyes flickered to her sword-belt and bell-bandolier, carefully draped on a clothes-horse near the door.
“I have a variety of names,” replied the cat. It had a strange voice, half-mew, half-purr, with hissing on the vowels. “You may call me Mogget. As to what I am, I was once many things, but now I am only several. Primarily, I am a servant of Abhorsen. Unless you would be kind enough to remove my collar?”
