Lieutenant Stone stood waiting, his hands held high. Tindall approached him carefully, all his senses open to any sensation, any hint or scent of Free Magic or the Dead. But all he could feel was Charter Magic, some fuzzy, blurring magic that wrapped both men and the dog. Some protective charm, he presumed.
At arm’s length, he gently placed his sword point against the stranger Lieutenant’s throat, an inch above where the mail coat laced. Then he reached forward and touched the Charter mark on the man’s forehead with the index finger of his left hand.
Golden fire burst from the mark as he touched it, and Tindall felt himself fall into the familiar, never-ending swirl of the Charter. It was an unsullied mark and Tindall felt relief as strongly as he felt the Charter.
“Francis Tindall, isn’t it?” asked Sam, thankful that he’d made a luxurious moustache part of the glamour that disguised him with the uniform and accoutrements of a Scout officer. He’d met the young officer several times the year before at the regular official functions he always attended in term time. The Lieutenant was only a few years older than Sam. Francis’s father, General Tindall, commanded the entire Perimeter Garrison.
“Yes,” replied Francis, surprised. “Though I don’t recall...?”
“Sam Stone,” said Sameth. But he kept his hands up and jerked his head back. “You’d better check Sergeant Clare. But be careful of his head. Arrow wound on the left side. He’s pretty groggy.”
Tindall nodded, stepped past, and repeated the procedure with sword and hand on the wounded sergeant. Most of the man’s head was roughly bandaged, but the Charter mark was clear, so he touched it. Once again he found it uncorrupted. This time he also realised that the power within the Sergeant was very, very strong – as had been Lieutenant Stone’s. Both these soldiers were enormously powerful Charter Mages, the strongest he’d ever encountered.
“They’re clear!” he shouted back to Sergeant Evans. “Stand the men down and get the listening posts back out!”
“Ah,” said Sam. “I wondered how you picked us up. I didn’t expect the trenches here to be manned.”
“There’s some sort of emergency further west,” explained Tindall, as he led the way back to the trench. “We were ordered out only an hour ago. It’s lucky we were still here, in fact, since the rest of the battalion is halfway to Bain. Called out in support of the civil authorities. Probably trouble with the Southerling camps again, or Our Country demonstrations. Our company was the rear party.”
“An emergency west of here?” asked Sam anxiously. “What kind of emergency?”
“I haven’t had word,” replied Tindall. “Do you know something?”
“I hope not,” replied Sam. “But I need to get in touch with HQ as quickly as possible. Do you have a field telephone with you?”
“Yes,” replied Tindall. “But it’s not working. The wind from across the Wall, I expect. The one at the Company CP might just work, I suppose, but otherwise you’ll have to go all the way back to the road.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Sam as they climbed down into the trench. An emergency to the west. That had to have something to do with Hedge and Nicholas. Absently, he returned Evans’s salute and noted all the white faces staring at him out of the darkness of the trench, faces that showed their relief that he was not a creature of the Old Kingdom.
The Dog jumped down beside him and the closest soldiers flinched. Lirael climbed down slowly after the hound, her muscles still sore from flying. It was strange, this Perimeter, and frightening too. She could feel the vast weight of many deaths here, everywhere about her. There were many Dead pressing against the border with Life, prevented from crossing only by the wind flutes that sang their silent song out in no-man’s-land. Sabriel had made them, she knew, for wind flutes would stand only as long as the current Abhorsen lived. When she passed on, the wind flutes would fail with the next full moon, and the Dead would rise, till they were bound again by the new Abhorsen. Which, Lirael realised, would be herself.
Lieutenant Tindall noticed her shiver and looked at her with concern.
“Shouldn’t we get your Sergeant to the regimental aid post?” he asked. There was something peculiar about the Sergeant, something that made him difficult to look at directly. If he looked out of the corners of his eyes, Tindall could see a fuzzy aura that didn’t quite match the outline he was expecting. That bandoleer was odd too. Since when did the Scouts carry bandoleers of rifle ammunition? Particularly when neither of them was carrying a rifle?
“No,” said Sam quickly. “He’ll be all right. We have to get to a phone as fast as possible and contact Colonel Dwyer.”
Tindall nodded but didn’t say anything. The nod hid a flash of concern across his face and the thoughts that were racing through his head. Lieutenant Colonel Dwyer, who commanded the Crossing Point Scouts, had been on leave for the last two months. Tindall had even seen him off, following a memorable dinner at his father’s headquarters.
“You’d better come with me to the Company CP,” he said finally. “Major Greene will want to have a word.”
“I must telephone,” Sam insisted. “There’s no time for talking!”
“Major Greene’s telephone may be operational,” said Tindall, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. “Sergeant Evans – take charge of the platoon. Byatt and Emerson... follow on. Keep those bayonets fixed. Oh, Evans – send a runner for Lieutenant Gotley to join me at the CP. I think we might need his signals expertise.”
He led the way off down the communications trench, Sam, Lirael and the Dog following. Evans, who had caught his Lieutenant’s eye and call for the only other Charter Mage in the company besides Major Greene, held Byatt and Emerson back for a few moments, whispering, “Something funny’s up, lads. If the boss gives the word, or there’s any sign of trouble, stick those two in the back!”
chapter sixteen
a major ’s decision
Sameth’s heart fell as Lieutenant Tindall led them into a deep dugout about a hundred yards behind the fighting trench. Even in the dim light of an oil lamp, he could see it looked too much like the abode of a lazy and comfort-loving officer – who probably wouldn’t even listen, let alone understand what they needed to do.
There was a woodstove burning fiercely in one corner, an open bottle of whisky on the map table and a comfortable armchair wedged in one corner. Major Greene, in turn, was wedged in the chair, looking red faced and cantankerous. But he did have his boots on, Sam noted, a sword next to his chair, and a holstered revolver that hung by its lanyard from a nearby peg.
“What’s this?” bellowed the Major, creakily rising up as they ducked under the lintel and spread out around the map table. He was old for a major, Sam thought. Pushing fifty at least, and imminent retirement.
Before he could speak, Lieutenant Tindall – who’d moved around behind them – said, “Imposters, sir. Only I’m not sure what kind. They do bear uncorrupted Charter marks.”
Sam stiffened at the word “imposters” and he saw Lirael grab the Dog’s collar as she growled, deep and angrily.
“Imposters, hey?” said Major Greene. He looked at Sam, and for the first time Sam realised the old officer had a Charter mark on his forehead. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“I’m Lieutenant Stone of the NPRU,” said Sam stiffly. “That is Sergeant Clare and the Sniffer Dog Woppet. I need to phone Perimeter HQ urgently—”
“Rubbish!” roared the Major, without any anger. “I know all the officers of the Scouts, the NCOs too. I was one for long enough! And I’m pretty familiar with the sniffer dogs, and that one ain’t of the breed. I’d be surprised if it could smell a cow pat in a kitchen.”
“I could so,” said the Dog indignantly. Her words were met by a hushed silence; then the Major had his sword out and levelled at them, and Lieutenant Tindall and his men had moved forward, sword and bayonet points only inches behind Sam’s and Lirael’s unprotected necks.