“Quickly then,” Lirael said. She replaced Saraneth and drew Kibeth, transferring the bell to her left hand so she could also unsheath Nehima. “Mareyn, tell me where the pit is in relation to your body.”
“The pit lies in the next valley, over the ridge,” replied Mareyn calmly. “There are many Dead there, under constant cloud and lightning. They have made a road, too, along the valley floor to the lake. The young man Nicholas lives in a patchwork tent to the east of the pit... Something comes for me, Mistress. Please, I beg you to send me on.”
Lirael felt the fear within Mareyn’s spirit, even though her voice had the steady, uninflected tone of the Dead. She heard it and responded instantly, ringing Kibeth above her head in a figure-eight pattern.
“Go, Mareyn,” she said sternly, her words weaving into the toll of the bell. “Walk deep into Death and do not tarry, or let any bar your path. I command thee to walk to the Ninth Gate and go beyond, for you have earned your final rest. Go!”
Mareyn jerked completely around at that last word and began to march, her head high and arms swinging, as she must once have marched in Life on the parade ground at the barracks at Belisaere. Straight as an arrow she marched, off towards the First Gate. Lirael saw her falter for a moment in the distance, as if something had tried to waylay her, but then she marched on, till the roar of the First Gate stilled to mark her passage.
“She’s gone,” remarked the Dog. “But whatever came through is here somewhere. I can smell it.”
“I can feel it too,” whispered Lirael. She swapped bells again, taking up Saraneth. She liked the security of the big bell, and the deep authority of its voice.
“We should go back,” said the Dog, her head slowly moving from side to side as she tried to locate the creature. “I don’t like it when they’re clever.”
“Do you know what it is?” whispered Lirael as they began to trudge back to Life, zigzagging so her back was never truly turned. As on her first trip, it was much harder going against the current, and it seemed colder than ever, too, leaching away at her spirit.
“Some sneaker from beyond the Fifth Gate, I think,” said the Dog. “Small, and long since whittled down from its original— There!”
She barked and dashed through the water. Lirael saw something like a long, spindle-thin rat – with burning coals for eyes – leap aside as the Dog struck. Then it was coming straight at her and she felt its cold and powerful spirit rise against her, out of all proportion to its rat-like form.
She screamed and struck at it with her sword, blue-white sparks streaming everywhere. But it was too quick. The blow glanced off and it snapped at her left wrist, at the hand that held the bell. Its jaws met her armoured sleeve and black-red flames burst out between its needle-like teeth.
Then the Dog fastened her own jaws on the creature’s middle and twisted it off Lirael’s arm, the hound’s bloodcurdling growl adding to the sound of the thing squealing and Lirael’s scream. A moment later all were drowned in the deep sound of Saraneth as Lirael stepped back, flipped the bell, caught the handle and rang it, all in one smooth motion.
chapter eight
the testing of sameth
Sam walked around his small perimeter again, checking to make sure nothing was approaching. Not that he could see much through the rain and the foliage. Or hear anything, for that matter, till it would be too close for him to do anything but fight.
He checked Lirael again for any sign of change, but she remained in Death, her body still as a statue, rimed with ice, cold billowing out to freeze the puddles at her feet. Sam thought about breaking off a piece of ice to cool himself down but decided against it. There were several large Dog footprints in the middle of the frozen puddle, for the Disreputable Dog – unlike her mistress – was able to bodily cross into Death, confirming Sam’s guess that her physical form was entirely magical.
The Guard’s body was still propped up against the tree as well. Sam had considered laying her out properly, but that seemed stupid when it meant putting her body down into the mud. He wanted to give her body a proper ending, too, but didn’t dare use the Charter Magic required. Not until Lirael came back, at least.
Sam sighed at that thought and wished he could shelter out of the rain against the tree until Lirael did return. But he was acutely aware that he was reponsible for Lirael’s safety. He was alone again, in effect, now without even the dubious companionship of Mogget. It made him nervous, but the fear that had been with him all through his flight from Belisaere was gone. This time he simply didn’t want to let Aunt Lirael down. So he hefted his sword and began once again to walk around the tight ring of trees he’d selected as his patrol route.
He was halfway around when he heard something above the steady sound of the rain. The soggy snap of wet twigs breaking underfoot, or something like it. A sound out of keeping for the forest.
Immediately, Sam knelt down behind the checkered trunk of a large fern and froze, so he could hear better.
At first, all he heard was the rain and his own beating heart. Then he caught the sound again. A soft footfall, leaves crushed underfoot. Someone – or something – was trying to sneak up on him. The sounds were about twenty feet away, lower down the slope, hidden by all the green undergrowth. Coming closer very slowly, just a single pace every minute or so.
Sam glanced back at Lirael. There was no sign of her returning from Death. For a moment, he thought he should run and tap her on the shoulder, to alert her to come back. It was very tempting, because then she could take charge.
He dismissed the thought. Lirael had a task to do and so did he. There would be time enough to call her back if he had to. Perhaps it was only a big lizard crawling up between the ferns, or a wild dog, or one of those large black flightless birds that he knew lived in these mountains. He couldn’t remember what they were called.
It wasn’t anything Dead. He would have sensed it for sure, he thought. A Free Magic creature would be sizzling from the rain and he’d smell it. Probably...
It moved again, but not uphill. It was circling around, Sam realised. Perhaps trying to work its way past them to attack down the slope. That would be a human trick.
It could be a necromancer, said a fearful part of Sam’s mind.
Not Dead, so you couldn’t sense it. Wielding Free Magic, but not of it, so you couldn’t smell anything. It could even be him. It could be Hedge.
Sam’s sword hand began to tremble. He gripped the hilt tighter, made the trembling stop. The burn scars on his wrists grew livid, bright with the effort.
This it it, he told himself. This was the test. If he didn’t face whatever was out there now, he would know he was a coward for ever. Lirael didn’t think he was, nor the Dog. He had run from Astarael, but not out of fear. He had been made to by magic, and Lirael had run too. There was no shame in that.
It moved again, slinking closer. Sam still couldn’t see it, but he was sure he knew where it was.
He reached into the Charter and felt his heart slow from a frantic pace as he was embraced by the familiar calm of the magic that linked all living things. Drawing in the air with his free hand, Sam called forth four bright Charter marks. The fifth he spoke under his breath, into his cupped hand. When the marks joined, Sam held a dagger that was like a sunbeam caught in his hand. Too bright to look at directly, but golden at a glance.
“For the Charter!”
Sun dagger in one hand, sword in the other, Sam roared a battle cry and leapt forward, crashing through the ferns, slipping in the mud, half falling down the slope. He saw a flash of movement behind a tree and changed direction, still roaring, his father’s berserker blood beating in his temples. There was the enemy, a strange pallid little man—