by Garth Nix
‘Yes, Second!’ replied Morghan. He turned and raced back past the tents, jumping over guy ropes rather than taking the time to go around them.
‘Keen,’ remarked Terril.
‘Yes,’ said Limath. ‘I hope he makes it to the bridge. I confess that I do not fancy watch-and-watch for the whole winter.’
Morghan did make it to the bridge, though he was battered and scratched from his daily practices with Sergeant Ishring and other guards, and weary beyond reckoning, for he had never walked so far for so long and had so little sleep.
None of that mattered as he stood on the hilltop and looked along the road that wound down to the river valley. The Greenwash ran there, in slow curves, at its narrowest more than two thousand paces wide. But the river, for all its majesty, did not hold Morghan’s eye. He looked at the bridge, the greatest bridge he had ever seen. Nine vast arches sat on piers the size of houses, their flanks extended by cutwaters that divided the river’s flow into nine swift channels. Though the stone deck was not yet laid, it was clear that when finished the bridge would be wide enough for four carts to pass abreast.
The Midriver Bastion, built on an all but submerged islet that underpinned the middle of the bridge, was complete, barring all passage along the temporary boardwalk or the side parapets. It was a square tower, eighty feet higher than the bridge deck, which was itself forty-five feet above the water. The bastion’s gates were shut, and guards walked along the battlements, the company’s banner flying high above them.
As Morghan watched, a horn sounded on this tower. It was answered a few moments later from the castle on the northern bank. Morghan switched his attention to that, noting that while it was a relatively small fortification of only four towers around a single bailey or courtyard, it was built on a rocky spur that rose from the river, and a small stream wound about it before rejoining the Greenwash. The castle was thus protected by swift water and sat on the highest point for at least a league, till you reached either the southern hill where Morghan was, or the slowly sloping land to the north, which led to the high steppe, somewhere beyond the far horizon.
Ahead of Morghan, the Bridgemistress raised her hand in the air, and a single bright Charter mark flew into the sky. It whistled as it sped, a single pure note that was louder and clearer than the horn-blasts of the two fortifications, loud enough to be heard for leagues. Morghan wondered what mark it was, for he did not know it, and wished he did.
‘Onward!’ ordered Amiel. ‘Let the Winter Shift take possession of our Bridge!’
Three months later, Morghan felt it was indeed his bridge, as much as anyone else’s in the company. He had walked and climbed every accessible inch of it, slipped on its icy stones, been bruised by it, and almost drowned shooting the rapids under its arches in a too-flimsy craft. He knew every nook and cranny of the North Fort, the Midriver Bastion, and the work camp on the southern shore. He had learned and even understood Company Orders and could recite any part of it. He had grown a fingersbreadth in height and a fraction broader in the shoulders and arms, though he was still thin. He had come to know several hundred new Charter marks, and forty-six particular spells. Though his elbow held him back from reaching the standard Sergeant Ishring expected with a poleaxe, he had been graded as very good with a crossbow, and the Sergeant had once hinted that another year or two of constant practice might … just might make Morghan a worthwhile addition to the company’s fighting strength.
It was more difficult to tell what the Bridgemistress thought about his value. She was not generous with praise, but did not criticize unduly either, not unless it was deserved. Morghan had made his small mistakes and had taken his punishments without complaint, which were usually designed to ensure that he learned whatever he had gotten wrong the first time.
But he still worried that he might not be considered good enough, a fear that slowly grew as the winter waned and the first signs of spring began to show in sky and field. Eventually, he broke his habit of caution and on one of their last evenings spoke to Terril about it. They were on watch in the Midriver Bastion, Terril commanding the small garrison, while Limath was off with the Bridgemistress, inspecting the southern ferry station, which was a league to the west, far enough away to avoid the rapids created by the bridge. With the Field Market only a week away, the ferry was very busy, and there was a line of waiting wagons, trains of mules, and even footsore peddlers that stretched from the ferry station to the bridge and then halfway up the southern side of the valley.
‘Second Terril, may I ask a question?’ Morghan said as he stood at her side on the top of the tower.
‘You may, Cadet Morghan,’ said Terril. She was always formal and deliberate, unlike Limath, who treated Morghan as something of a cross between a pet dog and a little brother, with great enthusiasm and friendliness, but not a lot of thought.
‘I have been wondering,’ Morghan said carefully. ‘I have been wondering if cadets are often dismissed.’
Terril turned her complete attention to him.
‘Very rarely,’ she said. ‘Only in circumstances of incompetence, or gross turpitude. Selling our secrets, for example. Or weapons or something like that.’
‘What exactly might comprise incompetence?’ asked Morghan. He swallowed and thought of his elbow and Sergeant Ishring’s frowns at his poleaxe work.
Terril put her head on the side and looked Morghan in the eye.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Cadet Morghan,’ she said firmly. ‘You have worked well, and I am sure that you will get a very good report.’
‘I will?’ asked Morghan.
‘Yes,’ said Terril firmly. ‘And if you keep on as you have, I expect that one day you will make an excellent Second, and in time, will be a redoubtable Bridgemaster yourself.’
Morghan nodded gratefully, unable to speak. He had not been able to think past their return to Navis. But to one day be a Bridgemistress’s Second, and then … to reach the impossible peak of becoming a Bridgemaster!
‘Now go and get some sleep,’ instructed Terril. ‘I expect we’ll swap watches a little early, when the Bridgemistress comes back tonight, and you go with her, and Limath takes over here.’
‘But the dusk rounds, shouldn’t I go with you?’
‘Not tonight,’ said Terril. ‘I’ll go in a moment, and Farremon will keep watch here. I’ll wake you in good time for the Bridgemistress, have no fear of that. We won’t see her much this side of midnight.’
‘Thank you, Second,’ said Morghan gratefully. He bowed, and climbed down the stairs to the guardroom on the second floor, where everyone off-duty slept. The bastion was garrisoned by a dozen guards and an officer, and six of the beds were occupied by variously silent or snoring guards. Morghan found his own, wearily shrugged off his hauberk and hung it and his weapons on their stands, and sat on the bed. He thought about taking off his gambeson and boots, but before he could decide one way or another, he fell sideways and was instantly asleep.
Morghan awoke from the grip of a terrible, frightening dream to find himself in total darkness, and immediately felt waking panic too. There should have been a lantern lit, as per standing orders, and the Bridgemistress might be there at any moment. He leaped up and felt for his armor and weapons, dressing and equipping himself with practiced speed, despite the absence of light.
It was only when he fastened his belt that he fully woke up and realized something was wrong, much more wrong than one unlit lantern.
He couldn’t hear any snoring, or even the soft breath of his companions, and there had never been, nor could there be, a guardroom so quiet.
They’ve been called to arms, was Morghan’s immediate thought, and panic choked him. I’ve slept through an alarm! I’ll be dismissed after all!
He caught a sob in his throat, choked on it, and coughed, the sound harsh and loud in the silence. With the intake of breath after the cough came a sour, nasty taste, as if the air itself was tainted with something like the hot, metallic air of a forge …
‘Free Magic,’ whispered Morghan, and a different fear rose in him and washed away all other fears. Instinctively he reached for the Charter, and found that it was already there, that he must have reached for it in his sleep. A faint, almost extinguished mark glowed feebly just below his heart, and it was joined to other marks that ran in a chain around his chest. Morghan touched them one by one and remembered a spell he had forgotten he knew, a spell his grandmother had taught him when he was too young to know what she guarded him against. But somewhere deep inside, the child within had remembered, in the time of need.
Morghan called the marks again and rebound them to himself, winding them around like the armor they were. Armor against spells of ill-wishing, that, if strong enough, might still a beating heart, or close mouth and nose against the life-giving air.
With the new marks came light, but not enough. Morghan reached into the Charter again and found the mark he sought. He drew it in the air, and it hung above his head, a companion brighter than the best of candles. In its light, Morghan surveyed the room.
Wisps of fog, thick and unnatural, oozed in through the shuttered arrow-slits and clustered around the beds. One quick glance across the silent, still figures and the winding fog was enough for Morghan to know that all his sleeping companions were dead, even the three who also had the Charter Mark.
Morghan picked up his poleaxe and ran down the steps.
Morghan did not immediately recognize that the five guards below were no longer alive, for though their chests were still, they were moving. Four of them were clumsily unbarring one of the northern gates, while the fifth kept walking into the wall, bouncing off it, and walking into it again. The reek of hot metal was stronger than ever, and the fog flowing in under the gates was as thick as wool.
‘Stop! Stand!’ he shouted. But they did not stop, or stand still, or even turn. They had one end of the bar lifted out of its bracket, and he realized they would have it off entirely in a minute.
Morghan shouted again, then dashed forward and struck the closest man across the back of the legs with the shaft of his poleaxe. Bone cracked, but the man did not turn. Still he lifted the beam, and Morghan belatedly saw what he was dealing with.
The poleaxe swung, and a head rolled on the floor. The decapitated body kept at its work for a few seconds, then lost coordination and began to flail angrily at the gate.
Sobbing, Morghan swiftly beheaded the other guards and beat the headless bodies back from the gate. The Dead tried to keep opening the door, but without heads they could not see, so they crashed into each other and fell over, and felt about blindly and worked at cross-purposes.
For an instant Morghan thought he was done with them and could take a moment to think. But then he heard something from outside, something that at first gave him heart, for it was the pure, sweet sound of a bell, before the sound was overlaid with something else, something he felt rather than heard, that made his stomach cramp, and bile come flooding into his mouth.
The dead guards, headless as they were, answered the bell as if a guiding intelligence had occupied them all. They came at him together, hands grasping, trying to bring him down, and he swung and bashed and cut and kicked at them with everything he’d learned from Sergeant Ishring and in the alleys behind the inn, but it was not enough, and at last he had to jump back to the stairs.
He was only just able to slam shut the heavy door as the Dead charged against it. One dead guard’s hand was caught in the doorway and severed. It scuttled at him as he swung down the bar, and he had to stomp it to pieces before it lay still. Morghan stood for a moment, trying to regain his breath. He could hear the Dead going back down to unbar the gate. There had to be a necromancer there, maybe more than one, or several Free Magic sorcerers. There might be an army of the Dead …
Morghan stopped that thought. There would not be an army of the Dead. They could not cross fast running water. In fact, it was only because the bastion was built on a rocky island that the Dead below could survive. The necromancer outside could only use those people in the bastion who had already been slain with Free Magic to raise the Dead—
Like the sleeping guards upstairs.
The thought had barely formed in Morghan’s mind before he was running again, jumping up the steps four at a time in a desperate race to get above the guardroom and bar the next door. If he could make it past, then there would only be the sentry above … and Terril.
Maybe Terril’s alive, thought Morghan. Please, please, let Terril be alive!
Kworquorakan stepped into his path, eyes still half shut as if he merely slept, but his skin was pallid and blue around the mouth and eyes. He held a sword in a weak and clumsy grip, for the Dead spirit within him was not his own, and was too new to the body.
Morghan swept the sword to the floor and hammered the Dead guard to one side, rushing past before it could get up. He caught a glimpse through the open guardroom door, of the other Dead shambling from their beds, arming themselves slowly and stupidly.
Morghan shut the next door and barred it twice. This door was almost as heavy as the lower gate, but he had no illusions about how long wood and iron alone could hold against the Dead and Free Magic. Despite his lack of breath and the wave of shock and weariness that threatened to overwhelm him, he calmed himself and found the Charter. For a moment he almost lost himself in the welcoming sea of marks, before training and desperation asserted control. He found the symbols he needed, cupped them in his hands, and pressed them against the door while he whispered their use-names.
Warm, soft light spilled out between his fingers and ran through the tight grain of the wood, swirling round and round as it sank deeper, strengthening and binding. Rivulets of gold ran from wood to stone, like tree roots seeking water deep underground. The iron hinges spewed rusty flakes as they took on a deep, yellow glow that was sunlight and gold and a comforting, well-banked fire.
Morghan turned away from the door and fell over, momentarily too weak to support himself. He jarred his bad elbow on the stone, but the pain helped, the old familiar sensation cutting through his exhaustion. He got up and picked up his poleaxe, only to see that the axe was notched and there was a crack in the shaft. His fight against the Dead below had been desperate indeed.
Morghan left the poleaxe where it lay and stumbled to the rack of crossbows on the wall. He took down his own, and the cranequin and quarrel, and quickly wound back the string and loaded a shaft. Then he thrust four more quarrels through his belt and slowly began to climb the stairs.
He tried to be as quiet as he could, but within five steps this became unnecessary, as the Dead below attacked the door he had spelled shut. He heard the deep boom of heavy timber against timber and realized that they had made a battering ram from one or more of the beds. Beds which should be made less sturdy so as not to be used against us, Morghan thought. Something to be noted for the Bridgemistress, and if she approved, a memorandum sent to Famagus for the other shifts.
Morghan slowed near the top. The battlements were reached by a ladder through a hatch, and this was open, when it should not be. Tendrils of fog came spiraling down through the hatch, as if some hideous, tentacled sea creature of mist and dark vapor was squatting on the tower.
His crossbow held ready, Morghan moved underneath and looked up. But he couldn’t see anything but the fog, and he couldn’t hear anything, either, apart from the repeated crack and boom of the ram below.
Morghan started to climb the ladder with the crossbow at the ready, and found that he could not. He could not pull himself up or balance with his left arm. It would not support him, the elbow locking up or giving way, all flexibility lost. Morghan cursed under his breath and put the crossbow down to take up one of his thin daggers in his left hand. He could barely manage even that slight weight, but at least he could climb with his right hand.
But I won’t be much use in a fight, Morghan thought. When I stick my head up through that hatch, there’ll be … there’ll likely be two Dead on me
right away … I can’t win … I can’t do any good … but I have to try … whoever is attacking us, they mustn’t cross the bridge … they will not cross the bridge … my bridge …
Morghan took a breath and began to climb. Slowly at first, then as he neared the top, it became a sudden, scrabbling rush and he burst out onto the battlements like a startled pheasant from the heath, sending the fog swirling in all directions.
Two bodies lay near the hatch. The guard Farremon was dead, pale and blue. But Terril’s chest rose and fell slowly. Morghan put his dagger down, ready to hand, and quickly pushed Farremon’s body through the open hatch, slamming it shut afterward and locking the bar. Then he turned to Terril. Her eyes were half open, but she looked drugged and insensible. Her hand was on her breast, and there were three faint Charter marks drawn there, pulsing in time with a very slow heartbeat.
‘Terril!’ said Morghan. ‘Terril!’
There was no answer. The death magic that had come with the fog had not claimed Terril, but it had left her fighting for her life. Perhaps the spell was weaker higher up, Morghan thought. Not that it mattered.
He reclaimed his dagger, drew his sword, and went to the northern battlements to look over the side. All he could see was thick, white fog, completely cloaking the bastion, hiding it from the North Fort and the southern shore. He couldn’t even see directly below, though he could hear the clank and jangle of armor and weapons on the boardwalk, in between the booms of the ram on the lower door. There were a lot of enemy out there, scores of them, if not more.
But the continued booming was oddly reassuring. It meant that the door, or more likely at this point, the spell alone, still held. When he didn’t hear it, but heard instead the clatter of feet on the stair, that would be … well … the end.
I’m not thinking straight. I need to warn the fort, and the ferry … and all the waiting merchants …
Morghan’s head hurt, almost as much as his elbow, and he now knew that it was possible to feel even more exhausted than was the usual lot of a cadet on the bridge. It took a supreme effort to prise himself from the embrasure and walk over to the great horn that hung between two iron posts.
