Abhorsen (13 page)

Who disappeared.

Sam tried to stop. He dug his heels in, but his feet skidded in the mud and he ran straight into a tree trunk, rebounded into a fern, and fell flat on his back. Down in the mud, he remembered his arms master telling him, “Most who go down in a battle never get up again. So don’t bloody well fall down!”

Sam dropped the sun dagger, which was extinguished immediately, the individual marks melting into the ground, and pushed himself up. He had been down for only a second or two, he thought, as he stared wildly around. But there was no sign of the . . . whatever it was. . . .

Lirael.

The thought struck him like a blow, and instantly he was running up the slope he’d just careered down, grabbing at ferns and branches and anything that could make him go faster. He had to get back! What if Lirael was attacked while she was still in Death? Struck from behind with a dagger, or a knife? She wouldn’t have a chance.

He made it back to the small clearing. Lirael still stood there. Icicles made from raindrops hung from her outstretched arms. The frozen pool around her feet had spread, so strange in this warm forest. She was unharmed.

“Lucky I was here,” said a voice behind Sam. A familiar voice.

Mogget’s voice.

Sam whirled around.

“Mogget? Is that you? Where are you?”

“Here, and regretting it as per usual,” replied Mogget, and a small white cat sauntered out from behind a fern tree.

Sam did not relax his guard. He could see that Mogget still wore his collar, and there was a bell on it. But it could be a trick. And where . . . or who . . . was that strange pale man?

“I saw a man,” said Sam. “His hair and skin were white, white as snow. White as your fur . . .”

“Yes,” yawned Mogget. “That was me. But that shape was forbidden to me by Jerizael, who was . . . let me see . . . she was the forty-eighth Abhorsen. I cannot use it in the presence of an Abhorsen, even an apprentice, without prior permission. Your mother does not generally give me permission, though her father was more flexible. Lirael cannot currently say yea or nay, so once again you see me as I am.”

“The Dog said that she . . . Astarael . . . wasn’t going to let you go,” said Sam. He had not lowered his sword.

Mogget yawned again, and the bell rang on his neck. It
was
Ranna—Sam recognized both the voice and his own reaction: he couldn’t help yawning himself.

“Is that what that hound said?” remarked the cat as he padded over to Sam’s pack and delicately sliced open half the stitches on the patch with one sharp claw so he could climb in. “Astarael? Is that who it was? It’s been so long, I can’t really remember who was who. In any case, she said what she wanted to say, and then I left. Wake me up when we’re somewhere dry and comfortable, Prince Sameth. With civilized food.”

Sam slowly lowered his sword and sighed in exasperation. It clearly was Mogget. Sam just wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not that the cat had returned. He kept remembering that gloating chuckle in the tunnel below the House, and the stench and dazzle of Free Magic. . . .

Ice cracked. Sam whirled about again, his heart hammering. With the cracking of the ice, he heard the echo of a distant bell. So distant it might have been a memory, or an imagined sound.

More ice cracked, and Lirael fell to one knee, ice flaking off her like a miniature snowstorm. Then there was a bright flash, and the Dog appeared, jumping around anxiously and growling deep in her chest.

“What happened?” asked Sam. “Are you hurt?”

“Not really,” said Lirael, with a grimace that showed there was something wrong, and she held up her left wrist. “Some horrible little Fifth Gate Rester tried to bite my arm. But it didn’t get through the coat—it’s only bruised.”

“What did you do to it?” asked Sam. The Dog was still running around as if the Dead creature might suddenly appear.

“The Dog bit it in half,” said Lirael, forcing herself to take several long, slow breaths. “Though that didn’t stop it. But I made it obey me in the end. It’s on its way to the Ninth Gate—and it won’t be coming back.”

“You really are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting now,” said Sam, admiration showing in his voice.

“I guess I am,” replied Lirael slowly. She felt as if she’d claimed something when she’d announced herself as such in Death. And lost something, too. It was one thing to take up the bells at the House. It was another to actually use the bells in Death. Her old life seemed so far away now. Gone forever, and she did not yet know what her new life would be, or even what she was. She felt uncomfortable in her own skin, and it had nothing to do with the melting ice, or the rain and mud.

“I can smell something,” announced the Dog.

Lirael looked up and for the first time noticed that Sam was much muddier than he had been, and was bleeding from a scratch across the back of his hand, though he didn’t appear to have noticed it.

“What happened to you?” she asked sharply.

“Mogget came back,” replied Sam. “At least I think it’s Mogget. He’s in my pack. Only at first he was a sort of really short albino man and I thought he was an enemy—”

He stopped talking as the Dog prowled over to his pack and sniffed at it. A white paw flashed out, and the Dog jerked back just in time to avoid a clawed nose. She settled back on her haunches, and her forehead furrowed in puzzlement.

“It is the Mogget,” she confirmed. “But I don’t understand—”

“She gave me what she chooses to call another chance,” said a voice from inside the pack. “More than you’ve ever done.”

“Another chance at what?” growled the Dog. “This is no time for your games! Do you know what is being dug up four leagues from here?”

Mogget thrust his head out of the pack. Ranna jangled, sending a wave of weariness across all who heard the bell.

“I know!” spat the little cat. “I didn’t care then and I don’t care now. It is the Destroyer! The Unmaker! The Unraveler—”

Mogget paused for breath. Just as he was about to speak again, the Dog suddenly barked, a short, sharp bark infused with power. Mogget yowled as if his tail had been trodden on and sank hissing back into the pack.

“Do not speak Its name,” ordered the Dog. “Not in anger, not when we are so close.”

Mogget was silent. Lirael, Sam, and the Dog looked at the pack.

“We have to get away from here.” Lirael sighed, wiping the most recent raindrops off her forehead before they could get into her eyes. “But first I want to get something straight.”

She approached Sam’s pack and leaned over it, careful to stay out of striking distance of a paw.

“Mogget. You are still bound to be a servant of the Abhorsens, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” came the grudging reply. “Worse luck.”

“So you will help me, help us, won’t you?”

There was no answer.

“I’ll find you some fish,” interjected Sam. “I mean, when we’re somewhere where there are fish.”

“And a couple of mice,” added Lirael. “If you like mice, that is.”

Mice chewed books. All librarians disliked mice, and Lirael was no exception. She was quite pleased to discover that becoming an Abhorsen had not removed that essential part of the librarian in her. She still hated silverfish as well.

“There is no point bargaining with the creature,” said the Dog. “He will do as he is told.”

“Fish when available, and mice, and a songbird,” said Mogget, emerging from the pack, his little pink tongue tasting the air as if the fish were even now in front of him.

“No songbird,” said Lirael firmly.

“Very well,” agreed Mogget. He cast a disdainful glance at the Dog. “A civilized agreement, and in keeping with my current form. Food and lodging in return for what help I care to offer. Better than being a slave.”

“You are a—” the Dog began hotly, but Lirael grabbed her collar and she subsided, growling.

“There’s no time for bickering,” said Lirael. “Hedge let Mareyn—the Guard—go, intending to enslave her spirit later—a slow death makes for a more powerful spirit. He knows roughly where she died, and he may have had other servants in Death who will report my presence. So we need to get going.”

“We should . . .” Sam began as Lirael started to walk off. “We have to give her a proper ending.”

Lirael shook her head, a diagonal motion that was neither agreement nor refusal, but simply weariness.

“I must be tired,” she said, wiping her brow again. “I promised her I would.”

Like the bodies of the merchant party, Mareyn’s body, if left here, could become inhabited by another Dead spirit, or Hedge might be able to use it for even worse things.

“Can you do it, Sam?” Lirael asked, rubbing her wrist. “I’m a bit worn out, to be honest.”

“Hedge may smell the magic,” warned the Dog. “As may any Dead creatures that are close enough. Though the rain will help.”

“I’ve already cast a spell,” said Sam apologetically. “I thought we were being attacked—”

“Don’t worry,” interrupted Lirael. “But hurry.”

Sam went over to the body and drew the Charter marks in the air. A few seconds later, a white-hot shroud of fire enveloped the body, and soon there was nothing left for any necromancer save the blackened rings of mail.

Sam turned to go then, but Lirael stepped forward, and three simple Charter marks fell from her open hand into the bark of the tree above the ashes. She spoke to the marks, placing her words there for any Charter Mage to hear in the years ahead, for as long as the tree might stand.

“Mareyn died here, far from home and friends. She was a Royal Guard. A brave woman, who fought against a foe too strong for her. But even in Death she did her duty and more. She will be remembered. Farewell, Mareyn.”

“A fitting gesture,” said the Dog. “And a—”

“Fairly stupid one,” interrupted Mogget, from behind Sam’s head. “We’ll have the Dead down on us in minutes if you keep doing all this magic.”

“Thank you, Mogget,” said Lirael. “I’m glad you’re helping us already. We are leaving now, so you can go back to sleep. Dog—please scout ahead. Sam—follow me.”

Without waiting for an answer, she struck off up towards the ridgeline, heading for a point where the trees clustered more thickly together. The Dog ran up behind her, then slipped around to get ahead, her tail wagging.

“Bossy, isn’t she?” remarked Mogget to Sam, who was following more slowly. “Reminds me of your mother.”

“Shut up,” said Sam, pushing aside a branch that threatened to slap him in the face.

“You do know that we should be running as fast as we can in the other direction,” said Mogget. “Don’t you?”

“You told me before, back at the House, that’s there’s no point running away or trying to hide,” snapped Sam. “Didn’t you?”

Mogget didn’t answer, but Sam knew he hadn’t fallen asleep. He could feel the cat moving around in his pack. Sam didn’t repeat his question, because the slope was becoming steeper and he needed all his breath. Any thoughts of conversation quickly slipped away as they climbed farther, weaving between the trees and over fallen logs, torn out of the hillside by the wind and their inability to set deep roots.

At last they reached the ridge, sodden despite their oilskins, and wretchedly tired from the climb. The sun, lost somewhere in cloud, was not far off setting, and it was clear they couldn’t go much farther before nightfall.

Lirael thought of calling a rest, but when she gestured at the Dog, the hound ignored her, pretending she couldn’t see the frantic hand signals. Lirael sighed and followed, thankful that the Dog had turned to the west and was following the ridge now, instead of climbing down. They kept on for another thirty minutes or so, though it felt like hours, till at last they came to a point where a landslide had carved out a great swathe of open ground down the northern face of the ridge.

The Dog stopped there, choosing a stand of ferns that would shelter them. Lirael sat down next to her, and Sam staggered in a minute later and collapsed like a broken concertina. As he sat, Mogget climbed out of his pack and stood on his hind legs, using Sam’s head as a rest for his two front paws.

The four of them looked down through the clearing, out and along the valley, all the way to the Red Lake, a dull expanse of water in the distance, lit by flashes of lightning and what little of the setting sun made it through the cloud.

Nick’s pit was clearly visible too, an ugly wound of red dirt and yellow clay in the green of the valley. The land around it was constantly struck by lightning, the boom of the thunder rolling back to the four watchers, a constant background noise. Hundreds of figures, made tiny by the distance, toiled around the pit. Even from a few miles away, Lirael and Sam could feel that they were the Dead.

“What are the Hands doing?” whispered Lirael. Though they were hidden high on the ridge amongst the trees and ferns, she still felt that they were on the verge of detection by Hedge and his servants.

“I can’t tell,” replied Sam. “Moving something—that glittering thing—I think. Towards the lake.”

“Yes,” said the Dog, who was standing absolutely stiff next to Lirael. “They are dragging two silver hemispheres, three hundred paces apart.”

Behind Sam’s ear, Mogget hissed, and Sam felt a shudder run down his spine.

“Each hemisphere imprisons one half of an ancient spirit,” said the Dog. Her voice was very low. “A spirit from the Beginning, from before the Charter was made.”

“The one you said to Mogget not to name,” whispered Lirael. “The Destroyer.”

“Yes,” said the Dog. “It was imprisoned long ago, and trapped within the silver hemispheres; and the hemispheres were buried deep beneath wards of silver, gold, and lead; rowan, ash, and oak; and the seventh ward was bone.”

“So it’s still bound?” whispered Sam urgently. “I mean, they might have dug up the hemispheres, but it’s still bound inside them, isn’t it?”

“For now,” said the Dog. “But where the prison fails, little hope can be placed in the bonds. Someone must have found a way to join the hemispheres, though I cannot guess how, and where they are taking them. . . .

“I am sorry to have failed you, Mistress,” she added, sinking down on her belly, her chin digging into the ground with misery.