by Garth Nix
A few minutes later, before they’d left the last buildings of the town, a bell began to ring behind them, deep and slow. Only moments later, another followed from somewhere to the left, then another, from up ahead. Soon, there were bells ringing all around.
“Quick work,” Horyse shouted into the back of the car. “The Superintendent must have made them practice in the past.”
“The bells are a warning?” asked Touchstone. This was something he was familiar with, and he began to feel more at home, even with this sound, warning of dire trouble. He felt no fear from it—but then, after facing the reservoir for a second time, he felt that he could cope with any fear.
“Yes,” replied Horyse. “Be inside by nightfall. Lock all doors and windows. Deny entry to strangers. Shed light inside and out. Prepare candles and lanterns for when the electricity fails. Wear silver. If caught outdoors, find running water.”
“We used to recite that in the junior classes,” Sabriel said. “But I don’t think too many people remember it, even the people around here.”
“You’d be surprised, ma’am,” interrupted the driver, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving the road. “The bells haven’t rung like this in twenty years, but plenty of folk remember. They’ll tell anyone who doesn’t know—don’t fret about that.”
“I hope so,” replied Sabriel, a momentary flash of remembrance passing through her mind. The people of Nestowe, two-thirds of their number lost to the Dead, the survivors huddled in fish-drying sheds on a rocky island. “I hope so.”
“How long till we reach Docky Point?” asked Touchstone. He was remembering too, but his memories were of Rogir. Soon he would look on Rogir’s face again, but it would only be a husk, a tool for what Rogir had become . . .
“About an hour at the most, I should think,” replied Horyse. “Around six o’clock. We can average almost thirty miles an hour in this contraption—quite remarkable. To me, anyway. I’m so used to the Perimeter, and the Old Kingdom—the small part we saw on patrol, anyway. I’d have liked to see more of it . . . gone farther north . . .”
“You will,” said Sabriel, but her voice lacked conviction, even to her own ears. Touchstone didn’t say anything, and Horyse didn’t reply, so they drove on in silence after that, soon catching the truck convoy, overtaking each vehicle till they were in front again. But wherever they drove, the bells preceded them, every village belltower taking up the warning.
As Horyse had predicted, they arrived at Wyverley village just before six. The trucks stopped in a line all through the village, from policeman’s cottage to the Wyvern pub, the men debussing almost before the vehicles stopped, quickly forming up into ranks on the road. The signals truck parked under a telephone pole and two men swarmed up to connect their wires. The military policeman went to each end of the village, to redirect traffic. Sabriel and Touchstone got out of the car and waited.
“It’s not much different from the Royal Guard,” Touchstone said, watching the men hurry into their parade positions, the sergeants shouting, the officers gathering around Horyse, who was speaking on the newly connected phone. “Hurry up and wait.”
“I’d have liked to see you in the Royal Guard,” Sabriel said. “And the Old Kingdom, in . . . I mean before the Stones were broken.”
“In my day, you mean,” said Touchstone. “I would have liked that too. It was more like here, then. Here normally, I mean. Peaceful, and sort of slow. Sometimes I thought life was too slow, too predictable. I’d prefer that now . . .”
“I used to think like that at school,” Sabriel answered. “Dreaming about the Old Kingdom. Proper Charter Magic. Dead to bind. Princes to be—”
“Rescued?”
“Married,” replied Sabriel, absently. She seemed intent on watching Horyse. He looked like he was getting bad news over the telephone.
Touchstone didn’t speak. Everything seemed to sharpen in focus for him, centering on Sabriel, her black hair gleaming like a raven’s wing in the afternoon sun. I love her, he thought. But if I say the wrong thing now, I may never . . .
Horyse handed the telephone back to a signaler, and turned towards them. Touchstone watched him, suddenly conscious that he probably only had five seconds to be alone with Sabriel, to say something, to say anything. Perhaps the last five seconds they would ever have alone together . . .
I am not afraid, he said to himself.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Sabriel looked back at him, and smiled, almost despite herself. Her sadness at her father’s death was still there, and her fears for the future—but seeing Touchstone staring apprehensively at her somehow gave her hope.
“I don’t mind,” she whispered back, leaning towards him. She frowned. “I think . . . I think I might love you too, Charter help me, but now is—”
“The telephone line to the Perimeter Crossing Point just went out,” Horyse announced grimly, shouting above the village bell even before he was close enough to talk. “A fog started rolling across the Wall over an hour ago. It reached the forward trenches at four forty-six. After that, none of the advance companies could be reached by phone or runner. I was just speaking to the Duty Officer then—that young chap who was so interested in your aircraft. He said the fog was just about to reach his position. Then the line went silent.”
“So,” said Sabriel. “Kerrigor didn’t wait till sundown. He’s working the weather.”
“From the timings given by the Perimeter,” Horyse said, “this fog—and whatever’s in it—is moving southwards at around twenty miles an hour. As the crow flies, it’ll reach us around half past seven. Dark, with the moonrise yet to come.”
“Let’s go then,” snapped Sabriel. “The bridle-path to Docky Point starts from behind the pub. Shall I lead?”
“Best not,” replied Horyse. He turned, and shouted some orders, accompanied by considerable waving and pointing. Within a few seconds, men were moving off around the pub, taking the path to Docky Point. First, the Crossing Point Scouts, archers and Charter Mages all. Then, the first platoon of infantry, bayonets fixed, rifles at the ready. Past the pub, they shook out into an arrowhead formation. Horyse, Sabriel, Touchstone and their driver followed. Behind them came the other two platoons, and the signalers, unreeling field telephone wire from a large and cumbersome drum.
It was quiet among the cork trees, the soldiers moving as silently as they could, communicating by hand signals rather than shouts, only their heavy tread and the occasional rattle of armor or equipment disturbing the quiet.
Sunshine poured down between the trees, rich and golden, but already losing its warmth, like a butter-colored wine that was all taste and no potency.
Towards the top of the hill, only the Crossing Point Scouts went on up. The lead platoon of infantry followed a lower contour around to the northern side; the other two platoons moved to the south-west and south-east, forming a defensive triangle around the hill. Horyse, Sabriel, Touchstone and the driver continued on.
The trees fell away about twenty yards from the top of the hill, thick weeds and thistles taking their place. Then, at the highest point, there was the cairn: a solid, hut-sized square of grey-green stones. The twelve Scouts were grouped loosely around it, four of them already levering one of the corner stones out with a long crowbar, obviously carried up for this purpose.
As Sabriel and Touchstone came up, the stone fell with a thud, revealing more blocks underneath. At the same time, every Charter Mage present felt a slight buzzing in their ears, and a wave of dizziness.
“Did you feel that?” asked Horyse, unnecessarily, as it was clear from everyone’s expressions and the hands that had gone to ears that they all had.
“Yes,” replied Sabriel. To a lesser extent, it was the same sort of feeling the Broken Stones caused in the reservoir. “It will get worse, I’m afraid, as we get closer to the sarcophagus.”
“How far in is it?”
“Four blocks deep, I think,”
said Sabriel. “Or five. I . . . saw it . . . from an odd perspective.”
Horyse nodded, and indicated to the men to keep prying away the stones. They went to it with a will, but Sabriel noticed they kept looking at the position of the sun. All the Scouts were Charter Mages, of various power—all knew what sundown would bring.
In fifteen minutes, they’d made a hole two blocks wide and two deep in one end, and the sickness was growing worse. Two of the younger Scouts, men in their early twenties, had become violently sick and were recuperating further down the hill. The others were working more slowly, their energies directed to keeping lunches down and quelling shaking limbs.
Surprisingly, given their lack of sleep and generally rundown state, Sabriel and Touchstone found it relatively easy to resist the waves of nausea emanating from the cairn. It didn’t compare with the cold, dark fear of the reservoir, there on the hill, with the sunshine and the fresh breeze, warming and cooling at the same time.
When the third blocks came out, Horyse called a brief rest break, and they all retreated down the hill to the tree line, where the cairn’s sickening aura dissipated. The signalers had a telephone there, the handset sitting on the upturned drum. Horyse took it, but turned to Sabriel before the signaler wound the charging handle.
“Are there any preparations to be made before we remove the last blocks? Magical ones, I mean.”
Sabriel thought for a moment, willing her tiredness away, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. Once we have access to the sarcophagus, we may have to spell it open—I’ll need everyone’s help for that. Then, the final rites on the body—the usual cremation spell. There will be resistance then too. Have your men often cast Charter Magic in concert?”
“Unfortunately, no,” replied Horyse, frowning. “Because the Army doesn’t officially admit the existence of Charter Magic, everyone here is basically self-taught.”
“Never mind,” Sabriel said, trying to sound confident, aware that everyone around her was listening. “We’ll manage.”
“Good,” replied Horyse, smiling. That made him look very confident, thought Sabriel. She tried to smile too, but was uncertain about the result. It felt too much like a grimace of pain.
“Well, let’s see where our uninvited guest has got to,” Horyse continued, still smiling. “Where does this phone connect to, Sergeant?”
“Bain Police,” replied the Signals Sergeant, winding the charging handle vigorously. “And Army HQ North, sir. You’ll have to ask Corporal Synge to switch you. He’s on the board at the village.”
“Good,” replied Horyse. “Hello. Oh, Synge? Put me through to Bain. No, tell North you can’t get through to me. Yes, that’s right, Corporal. Thank you . . . ah . . . Bainshire Constabulary? It’s Colonel Horyse. I want to speak to Chief Superintendent Dingley . . . yes. Hello, Superintendent. Have you had any reports of a strange, dense fog . . . what! Already! No, on no account investigate. Get everyone in. Shutter the windows . . . yes, the usual drill. Yes, whatever is in . . . Yes, extraordinarily dangerous . . . hello! Hello!”
He put the handset down slowly, and pointed back up the hill.
“The fog is already moving through the northern part of Bain. It must be going much faster. Is it possible that this Kerrigor could know what we’re up to?”
“Yes,” replied Sabriel and Touchstone, together.
“We’d better get a move on then,” Horyse announced, looking at his watch. “I’d say we now have less than forty minutes.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE LAST BLOCKS came away slowly, pulled out by sweating, white-faced men, their hands and legs shivering, breath ragged. As soon as the way was clear, they staggered back, away from the cairn, seeking patches of sunlight to combat the dreadful chill that seemed to eat at their bones. One soldier, a dapper man with a white-blond moustache, fell down the hill, and lay retching, till stretcher-bearers ran up to take him away.
Sabriel looked at the dark hole in the cairn, and saw the faint, unsettling sheen from the bronze sarcophagus within. She felt sick too, with the hair on the back of her neck frizzing up, skin crawling. The air seemed thick with the reek of Free Magic, a hard, metallic taste in her mouth.
“We will have to spell it open,” she announced, with a sinking heart. “The sarcophagus is very strongly protected. I think . . . the best thing would be if I go in with Touchstone taking my hand, Horyse his, and so on, to form a line reinforcement of the Charter Magic. Does everyone know the Charter marks for the opening spell?”
The soldiers nodded, or said, “Yes, ma’am.” One said, “Yes, Abhorsen.”
Sabriel looked at him. A middle-aged corporal, with the chevrons of long service on his sleeve. He seemed one of the least affected by the Free Magic.
“You can call me Sabriel, if you want,” she said, strangely unsettled by what he had called her.
The corporal shook his head. “No, Miss. I knew your dad. You’re just like him. The Abhorsen, now. You’ll make this Dead bugger—begging your pardon—wish he’d stayed properly bloody dead.”
“Thank you,” Sabriel replied, uncertainly. She knew the corporal didn’t have the Sight—you could always tell—but his belief in her was so concrete . . .
“He’s right,” said Touchstone. He gestured for her to go in front of him, making a courtly bow. “Let’s finish what we came to do, Abhorsen.”
Sabriel bowed back, in a motion that had almost the feel of ritual about it. The Abhorsen bowing to the King. Then she took a deep breath, her face settling into a determined mold. Beginning to form the Charter marks of opening in her mind, she took Touchstone’s hand and advanced towards the open cairn, its dark, shadowy interior in stark contrast with the sunlit thistles and the tumbled stones. Behind her, Touchstone half-turned to take Horyse’s calloused hand as well, the Colonel’s other hand already gripping Lieutenant Aire’s, Aire gripping a Sergeant’s, the Sergeant the long-service Corporal’s, and so on down the hillside. Fourteen Charter Mages in all, if only two of the first rank.
Sabriel felt the Charter Magic welling up the line, the marks glowing brighter and brighter in her mind, till she almost lost her normal vision in their brilliance. She shuffled forwards into the cairn, each step bringing that all-too-familiar nausea, the pins and needles, uncontrollable shaking. But the marks were strong in her mind, stronger than the sickness.
She reached the bronze sarcophagus, slapped her hand down and let the Charter Magic go. Instantly, there was an explosion of light, and a terrible scream echoed all through the cairn. The bronze grew hot, and Sabriel snatched back her hand, the palm red and blistered. A second later, steam billowed out all around the sarcophagus, great gouts of scalding steam, forcing Sabriel out, the whole line going down like dominoes, tumbling out of the cairn and down the hill.
Sabriel and Touchstone were thrown together, about five yards down from the entrance to the cairn. Somehow, Sabriel’s head had landed on Touchstone’s stomach. His head was on a thistle, but both of them lay still for a moment, drained by the magic and the strength of the Free Magic defenses. They looked up at the blue sky, already tinged with the red of the impending sunset. Around them there was much swearing and cursing, as the soldiers picked themselves up.
“It didn’t open,” Sabriel said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “We don’t have the power, or the skill—”
She paused, and then added, “I wish Mogget wasn’t . . . I wish he was here. He’d think of something . . .”
Touchstone was silent, then he said, “We need more Charter Mages—it would work if the marks were reinforced enough.”
“More Charter Mages,” Sabriel said tiredly. “We’re on the wrong side of the Wall . . .”
“What about your school?” asked Touchstone, and then “Ow!” as Sabriel suddenly shot up, disrupting his balance, then “Ow!” again as she bent down and kissed him, pushing his head further into the thistle.
“Touchstone! I should have thought . . . the Senior magic classes. There must b
e thirty-five girls with the Charter mark and the basic skills.”
“Good,” muttered Touchstone, from the depths of the thistle. Sabriel put out her hands, and helped him up, smelling the sweat on him, and the fresh, pungent odor of crushed thistles. He was halfway up when she suddenly seemed to lose her enthusiasm, and he almost fell back down again.
“The girls are there,” said Sabriel, slowly, as if thinking aloud. “But have I any right to involve them in something that . . .”
“They’re involved anyway,” interrupted Touchstone. “The only reason that Ancelstierre isn’t like the Old Kingdom is the Wall, and it won’t last once Kerrigor breaks the remaining Stones.”
“They’re only schoolchildren,” Sabriel said sadly. “For all we always thought we were grown women.”
“We need them,” said Touchstone, again.
“Yes,” said Sabriel, turning back towards the knot of men gathered as close as they dared to the cairn. Horyse, and some of the stronger Charter Mages, peering back towards the entrance and the shimmering bronze within.
“The spell failed,” Sabriel said. “But Touchstone has just reminded me where we can get more Charter Mages.”
Horyse looked at her, urgency in his face. “Where?”
“Wyverley College. My old school. The Fifth and Sixth Form magic classes, and their teacher, Magistrix Greenwood. It’s less than a mile away.”
“I don’t think we’ve got time to get a message there, and get them over here,” Horyse began, looking up at the setting sun, then at his watch—which was now going backwards. He looked puzzled for a moment, then ignored it. “But . . . do you think it would be possible to move the sarcophagus?”
Sabriel thought about the protective spell that she’d encountered, then answered. “Yes. Most of the wards were on the cairn, for concealment. There’s nothing to stop us moving the sarcophagus, save the side effects of the Free Magic. If we can stand the sickness, we can shift it—”
