Goldenhand (31 page)

Greenwash Bridge, Old Kingdom/Beyond the Great Rift

T
he first assault came exactly as foretold by Arielle, on the night of the full moon. Fog rose on the northern shore, not on the river, a fog summoned and thickened by many sorcerers. As it drifted toward the north bank castle, horns sounded the alarm, which was repeated mid-river, in the South Castle, and in the newly fortified camp hastily built near the river's edge to hold the small army Touchstone had gathered to repel the invasion.

“So it begins,” said Sameth, as he joined his parents at the top of the tower in the mid-river bastion. It was taller by three dozen paces than anything in either the North or South castles, and so offered the best view, though apart from its height it was otherwise considerably smaller than the keeps of the two castles.

“Yes, but how exactly?” asked Touchstone. “The fog is sorcerous, without a doubt. But it is crossing well to the west of the north fort. . . .”

“They may have lost control of it,” said Sabriel. “It is drifting toward the river.”

“Against the wind,” said Ferin, startling Sam. She hadn't been behind him a moment before and he didn't think anyone should be that quiet on crutches.

“Yes,” agreed Sabriel, looking up at the flag that billowed out above their heads. “So it is intentional. They haven't lost control. But why spread it over the river to the west?”

She raised her hand, fingers spread wide, and whistled five
separate notes. With each whistle, Charter marks flew from her mouth to cluster on each finger. After the fifth note, Sabriel closed her hand, bringing all the marks together in one glowing ball, which she threw high in the air, whistling again, the five notes joined in an eerie tune.

The ball hurtled across the river and disappeared into the great bank of fog that was slowly drifting across the water.

Nothing happened. Sam heard Ferin let out a deep breath she had obviously been holding in expectation.

“Wha—” Ferin began to say when there was a sudden explosion of light. Five spears of lightning shot horizontally out of the fog bank like spokes of a massive, burning wheel, cloud wreathed around them. Within seconds, the fog was torn apart, and what lay beneath it was exposed to the light of the great red-tinged moon.

A line of Spirit-Walkers was entering the water half a league upstream of the bridge. Huge things of crudely shaped stone, each inhabited and animated by a Free Magic creature, they were immensely strong and almost impossible to harm with ordinary weapons. There were more than two score of them visible, and perhaps more already under the water.

“Why?” asked Touchstone. “We can deal with Spirit-Walkers, particularly one by one as they come out the other side. A line abreast would make more sense. And big as they are, they're still going to get washed downstream a ways, and split up . . .”

“No,” said Sameth. He was looking through a telescope he had made himself, one magically augmented to increase available light. “They're holding a chain of dark metal that will keep them together. But I do not think they are crossing to fight.”

He swung the telescope slowly along the northern bank. Without it, the others could see movement there, but not in enough detail to work out what was going on.

“Horse nomads,” said Sam, his voice suddenly very slow and
deeper than usual. “Thousands of them, I'd say, going back as far as I can see. They look as if they're preparing for a charge.”

“Across the river?” asked Touchstone.

“The Spirit-Walkers,” said Sabriel suddenly. “The chain. It's all preparation for a spell. Freezing the water, perhaps. Or holding it back. They
will
charge across.”

“How do we stop them?” asked Ferin. “We go out of the castles? They are too far away to shoot, even with your longbows.”

“They can bypass the bridge, the castle, and the camp, go on to kill and pillage wherever they want,” said Touchstone grimly. “We don't have the mounted strength to pursue, or stop them. We'll have to try and hold them on the riverbank.”

“But there's
ten thousand
of them, maybe more,” protested Sam. He could see rank after rank of mounted nomads lining up on the northern bank, a vast column stretching back and back until the individual horses and warriors were indistinguishable, merging together so it was like looking at a forest or a feature of the landscape. It was all very orderly. He could almost believe it was some kind of illusion, though he knew it was not. “We can't stop them!”

“We have to try,” said Touchstone. He looked through his own telescope for half a minute, then turned to the two aides who stood behind and snapped out orders. “Send a messenger to the camp, everyone to move out
now
to take up defensive positions on the riverbank, the Guard to take the center where the charge will come. I will be there shortly to arrange the exact deployment. Another messenger to the North Castle—two-thirds of the garrison are to
run
south to join us at the riverbank. We'll take two-thirds from this bastion as well; tell Captain Kindred to pick them but to move immediately.”

“We have to break the spell!” said Sam, as soldiers ran down the steps behind with Touchstone's orders.

“There will be hundreds of Free Magic creatures
within
the chain; it must be the work of months or perhaps years,” said Sabriel
grimly. “It could not be unmade in hours, or even days.”

She took Sam's telescope and studied the monsters lumbering into the water, and then the cavalry waiting in their patient lines.

“At least the Spirit-Walkers will have to stay on the riverbed. I can see no wood-weirds or sand-swimmers among that host on horseback,” said Sabriel. “Sensibly, perhaps, for most horses are wary of such creatures, and they might disrupt the great charge they obviously plan. But it means they will likely be used against the bridge.”

She handed the telescope back to Sam, embraced him quickly, and turned to Touchstone.

“I will fight on the riverbank with you, my love.”

“You stay,” said Touchstone to Sam.

“But Father—”

“I order you to take command here,” snapped Touchstone. “Expect wood-weirds and the ilk. Hold out as long as you can. Lirael may still succeed. If Chlorr falls, this host will tear itself apart.”

He clapped Sam on the shoulder and he and Sabriel were gone, clattering down the stairs. Touchstone was already shouting orders for various officers to attend him.

“Hold out here?” asked Ferin. “We should also go to the riverbank. That is where the battle will be!”

“With the North Castle stripped of troops, and only one-third of the garrison here, you will likely get plenty of fighting even if you stay right here with me,” said Sam.

“Ah,” said Ferin. “That is different. You want me to fight at your side? I accept.”

“Hold my hands,” said Nick. “Think of the Charter. Breathe slowly. Stay calm. You're the one who normally says that to me, by the way.”

“Yes,” said Lirael shakily. She took his hands and bent her head. At first there was nothing, and she felt the fear rise within her. Being
cut off from the Charter was almost like not existing herself, as if . . . she fought off these feelings and tried to concentrate.

“It's there,” said Nick. “I can sense it. Far away. But drawing closer.”

A single Charter mark blossomed in Lirael's mind. One small mark, an everyday mark, nothing in itself, one used for joining other marks together. But Lirael welcomed it joyfully, and then another followed, and another, and then there was a trickle of marks, all ones she knew, and more and more came, until the full flood returned and she felt the ocean of marks, the multitude, more than could possibly be known crash down upon her and flow through every part of her being.

Lirael opened her eyes, mouthed “Thank you” at Nick, and began to make her globe of air.

It was still more difficult than usual, but fortunately it was a spell she knew well, and one often used so that the marks themselves seemed to want to fall into place, the correct ones easy to find and take from the ceaseless flow of the Charter. When the spell was finished, Lirael raised her arms and let it spread around them, a glowing ball of light a dozen paces in diameter, with both her and Nick in the middle.

“Can you reach out and touch it?” asked Lirael anxiously.

Nick did so. As his hand touched the globe, the marks there grew brighter.

“I think you'll have to keep hold of the globe,” said Lirael. “Otherwise it will just disappear when we cross that threshold of airlessness. Where the Charter vanishes entirely. You will have to sustain it.”

Nick looked across at the second flag, and then two or three hundred paces beyond that, to the third flag.

“If it fails, there's no way we can hold our breath long enough to make it back,” he said.

“No,” agreed Lirael. “Just as there is no way the others can hold back the massed might of all the clans unless we can finish off Chlorr.”

“Well then,” said Nick lightly. “I will be sure to keep it going.”

He raised his other hand so it also touched the globe, and wound his fingers around and through the glowing marks.

“Let's find out if it works,” said Lirael. She walked forward, and the globe moved with her, Nick stumbling along with his arms outstretched above his head.

“I look ridiculous,” he said. “Though on the bright side, if there is a sorcerer out there they'll think I'm surrendering.”

“I don't think anyone is out there,” said Lirael. “It is just the two of us, the only living things for leagues around. And the very first Chlorr, who has been in a sarcophagus for hundreds and hundreds of years, neither alive nor dead, but something in between.”

They walked on past the second flag. Nick found himself taking a deep breath, but noticed Lirael didn't. He let the breath go as they continued on, and hoped she didn't notice. But of course she did.

“It works,” she said. “Keep hold.”

Neither spoke again, as if talking might use more air, but they walked swiftly until they reached the third flag, and Lirael pointed to the little rise of ground some thirty paces away.

“It's under there,” she said. “I'll dig. You need to hold the globe. I don't think it'll be far underneath.”

“No,” agreed Nick, scuffing with his foot. “I reckon that's just windblown dirt that's piled up. At least I hope so. If it's hard-packed, we'd need a shovel and a pick.”

“And more air,” said Lirael. “I just remembered the spell is for one person to have two hours of breathable air. But for two people, it will be half that. One single hour.”

“What's it been already?” asked Nick. “Ten minutes? I'll . . . uh . . . breathe shallowly.”

“A little more than ten minutes, I think,” said Lirael, frowning. She stopped on top of the mound and knelt down. Nick crouched too, as the globe moved with her.

“Won't need to get out a plate,” said Lirael with satisfaction. She used the side of her golden hand to sweep back the loose soil, revealing a flat, worked stone beneath. A few minutes later, both of them moving backward, she had cleared enough to reveal it to be a stone slab, the lid of a sarcophagus.

Strange, twisted symbols were carved into the stone. Not Charter marks, though they shivered and moved about. Nick averted his eyes from them. They made him feel sick but were also weirdly fascinating, and he had to resist the urge to touch them.

“Perversions of Charter marks,” said Lirael briefly. “Free Magic. Spells to keep the sarcophagus secure and slay enemies. But too old and faded to have any effect now. Though I am glad I used my golden hand to sweep away the dirt.”

“So am I,” said Nick.

“The lid isn't very thick,” said Lirael, feeling with her golden hand. A few white sparks jetted out under her fingers, but no more, and after a moment the carved Free Magic symbols were still, all power spent. “I think I can slide it off. Be careful to stay with me.”

She bent down low and pushed against the stone lid. At first it didn't move, but then it suddenly slid free, moving right across. Lirael slid with it, and so did the globe of air, Nick almost tripping over Lirael and into the sarcophagus as he tried to keep up and keep hold.

It was a fairly shallow coffin. Lirael looked into it, left hand on her sword hilt. Though it would be an awkward, same-side draw, at least she could be sure her hand would work.

Nick looked too.

“She's already dead,” he said, gazing down at the desiccated corpse in the sarcophagus. It was little more than a skeleton, with a few pieces of deeply yellowed skin here and there, and the rags of a
funeral robe. “How can you kill a bunch of bones?”

“Her spirit is still attached to it,” said Lirael heavily. “Or rather, some fragment of her spirit. A small part that Chlorr didn't move to the new body.”