Chlorr appeared as a shape of darkness that was only vaguely human, with misshapen appendages upon a bulky torso that suggested two arms, two legs and a head. Deep fires burnt where eyes should be, though the fires were too large and too widely set apart. Chlorr had crossed the Wall with Hedge the first time and had led the surprise attack on the Ancelstierran Army garrison, in their Western Strongpoint. They had not expected an assault from the south. Chlorr had reaped many lives and was all the more powerful for it. Hedge watched her warily and kept a firm grip on Saraneth. The bells did not like to serve necromancers, and even a bell that an Abhorsen would find steady had to be shown who was master at all times.
Chlorr bowed, somewhat ironically in Hedge’s estimation. Then she spoke, a misshapen mouth forming in the cloud of darkness. The words were a gibberish, slurred and broken. Hedge frowned and raised his sword. The mouth firmed up and a tongue of blood-red fire flickered from side to side in the hideous maw.
“Your pardon, Master,” said Chlorr. “Many soldiers are coming on a road from the south, riding horses. Some are Charter mages, though they are not adept. I slew those who came first, but there are many more behind, so I returned to warn my master.”
“Good,” said Hedge. “I am about to prepare a new host of Dead, which I will send to you when they are ready. For now, gather here all the Hands that you can and attack these soldiers. The Charter Mages in particular must be slain. Nothing must delay our lord!”
Chlorr bent her great, shapeless head. Then she reached back behind her and dragged forward a man who had been hidden by the fog and her dark bulk. He was a thin, little man, his coat ripped off his back to show a classic clerk’s white shirt, complete with sleeve protectors. She held him by the neck just with two huge fingers, and he was almost dead from terror and lack of air. He fell to his knees in front of Hedge, gasping for breath and sobbing.
“This is yours, or so he says,” said Chlorr. Then she strode off, her hands reaching out to touch any Dead Hands that were close by. As she touched them, they shuddered and jerked, then slowly began to follow her. But there were surprisingly few Hands left, and none at all in the tunnel through the Wall. Chlorr was careful not to go near the brooding mass of stone that still shimmered every now and then with golden light. Even she did not take crossing the Wall lightly, and possibly could not have done it without Hedge’s help and the sacrifice of many lesser Dead.
“Who?” demanded Hedge.
“I’m... I’m Deputy Leader Geanner,” sobbed the man. He proffered an envelope. “Mister Corolini’s assistant. I’ve brought you the treaty letter... the permission to cross... to cross the Wall—”
Hedge took the envelope, which burst into flame as he touched it and was consumed, grey flakes of ash falling from his blackened hand.
“I do not need permission,” whispered Hedge. “From anyone.”
“I’ve also come for the... the fourth payment, as agreed,” continued Geanner, staring up at Hedge. “We have done all you asked.”
“All?” asked Hedge. “The King and the Abhorsen?”
“D... d... dead,” gasped Geanner. “Bombed and burnt in Corvere. There was nothing left.”
“The camps near Forwin Mill?”
“Our people will open the gates at dawn, as instructed. The handbills have been printed, with translations in Azhdik and Chellanian. They will believe the promises, I’m sure.”
“The coup?”
“We are still fighting in Corvere and elsewhere, but... but I’m sure Our Country will prevail.”
“Then everything I need has been done,” said Hedge. “All save one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Geanner. He looked up at Hedge but barely had begun to scream before the burning blade came down and took his head from his shoulders.
“A waste,” croaked Chlorr, who was returning with a string of Hands shambling behind her. “The body is useless now.”
“Go!” roared Hedge, suddenly angry. He sheathed his sword all bloody and drew Mosrael again. “Lest I send you into Death and summon a more useful servant!”
Chlorr chuckled, a sound like dry stones rattling in an iron bucket, and disappeared off into the night, a line of perhaps a hundred Dead Hands shambling after her. As the last one crossed into the forward trenches, Hedge rang Mosrael. A single note issued from the bell, starting low and gradually increasing in both volume and pitch. As the sound spread, the bodies of the Southerlings began to twitch and wriggle, and the mounds of corpses became alive with movement. At the same time, ice formed on Hedge. Still Mosrael sounded, though its wielder was already stalking through the cold river of Death.
chapter eighteen
chlorr of the mask
Lirael awoke with a start, her heart pounding and her hands scrabbling for bells and sword. It was dark and she was trapped in some chamber... no, she realised, coming fully awake. She was sleeping in the back of one of the noisy conveyances – a truck, Sam called it. Only it wasn’t noisy now.
“We’ve stopped,” said the Dog. She thrust her head out the canvas flap to look around and her voice became rather muffled. “I think rather unexpectedly.”
Lirael sat up and tried to banish the sensation of being recently clubbed on the head and made to drink vinegar. She still had her cold. At least it was no worse, though the Ancelstierran spring had yet to fully flower and winter had not given up its grip on night-time temperatures.
The stop certainly seemed unexpected, judging from the amount of swearing coming from the driver up front. Then Sam drew back the flap completely from the outside, narrowly escaping a welcoming full-face lick from the Disreputable Dog. He looked tired, and Lirael wondered if he’d been able to sleep after hearing the terrible news about his parents. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they’d got in the... truck... though she had no idea how long she’d been asleep. It didn’t feel long and it was still very dark, the only light coming from the Dog’s collar.
“The trucks have stalled,” reported Sam, “though the wind’s practically a westerly. I think we’re getting too close to the hemispheres. We’ll have to walk from here.”
“Where are we?” Lirael asked. She stood up too quickly and her head hit the canvas canopy, just missing one of the steel struts. There was a lot of noise outside now – shouting and the crash of hobnailed boots on the road – but behind all that there was also a constant dull booming. In her half-asleep state, it took a moment for her to understand it wasn’t thunder, which she half expected, but something else.
The Dog jumped out over the tailgate and Lirael followed, somewhat more sedately. They were still on the Perimeter road, she saw, and it looked like early morning. The moon was up, a slim crescent rather than the nearly full moon of the Old Kingdom. It was subtly different in shape and colour too, Lirael noted. Less silver, and more a pale buttercup yellow.
The booming noise was coming from further south and there was a faint whistling with it. Lirael could see bright flashes on the horizon there, but it was not lightning. There was thunder as well, to the west, and the flashes from that direction were definitely lightning. As she looked, Lirael thought she caught the faintest whiff of Free Magic, though the wind was indeed a southerly. And she could sense Dead somewhere up ahead. Not more than a mile away.
“What is that noise, and the lights?” she asked Sam, pointing south. He turned to look but had to step back before he could answer, as soldiers started to trot past the trucks.
“Artillery,” he said after a moment. “Big guns. They must be far enough back, so they aren’t affected by the Old Kingdom or the hemispheres and can still fire. Um, they’re sort of like catapults that throw an exploding device several miles, which hits the ground or blows up in the air and kills people.”