“You have led me a long chase,” said Hedge. His voice was flavored with Free Magic, and he sounded much more like something Dead than a living man. He looked like it, too. He towered over Lirael, and there were fires everywhere within him, glowing red in his eyes and mouth, dripping from his fingers and shining through his skin. Lirael wasn’t even sure he was a living man. He was more like a Free Magic spirit himself, only clad in human flesh. “But it is finished now, here and in Life. My master is whole again, and the destruction has begun. Only the Dead walk in the living world, to praise Orannis for Its work. Only the Dead—and I, the faithful vizier.”
His voice had a hypnotic quality about it. Lirael realized he was trying to distract her while he went for a killing blow. He hadn’t tried the bell upon her, which was curious—but then, she’d broken free of Hedge and Saraneth before.
“Look up, Hedge,” she answered, as they circled again. “The Ninth Gate calls. Can’t you feel the summons of the stars?”
She lunged at him on “stars,” but Hedge was ready, and more practiced with a sword. He parried, and his swift riposte cut the fabric of her surcoat directly above her heart.
Quickly, she backed off again, this time circling away from the Dog. Hedge followed, his head still bent, watching her through hooded eyes.
Behind him, the Dog stirred. Slowly, she raised one paw from the shallow river, careful not to make a splash. Then she began to sneak after the necromancer as he stalked towards Lirael.
“I don’t believe you about the Destroyer, either,” said Lirael as she backed away, hoping her voice would cover the sound of the Dog’s advance. “I would know if anything had happened to my body in Life. Besides, you wouldn’t bother with me if It were already free.”
“You are an annoyance, nothing more,” said Hedge. He was smiling now, and the flames on his sword grew brighter, feeding off his expectation of a kill. “It pleases me to finish you. There is no more to it than that. As my Master destroys that which displeases, so do I!”
He slashed viciously down at her. Lirael barely managed to parry and push his sword aside. Then they were locked together, body to body, his head bent over hers and his metallic, flame-ridden breath hot upon her cheek as she turned away.
“But perhaps I will play a little with you first.” Hedge smiled, disengaged, and stepped back.
Lirael struck at him with all her strength and anger. Hedge laughed, parried, stepped back once more—and tumbled over the Disreputable Dog.
He dropped his sword and bell at once, and clapped his hands to his eyes as he struck the water with the hiss and roar of steam. But he was an instant too late. He saw the stars as he fell, and they called to him, overcoming the weight of spells and power that had kept him in the living world for more than a hundred years. Always postponing Death, always searching for something that could let him stay forever under the sun. He thought he had found it, serving Orannis, for he cared nothing about anyone else or any other living thing. The Destroyer had promised him the reward of eternal life and even greater dominion over the Dead. Hedge had done everything he could to earn it.
Now, with a single glimpse of those beckoning stars, it was all stripped away. Hedge’s hands fell back. Starlight filled his eyes with glowing tears, tears that slowly quenched his internal fires. The coils of steam wafted away, and the river grew quiet. Hedge raised his arms and began his own fall towards the sky, the stars, and the Ninth Gate.
The Disreputable Dog picked up Lirael’s bell from the river and took it to her, careful not to let it sound. Lirael accepted it in silence and put it away. There was no time to savor their triumph over the necromancer. Lirael knew that he was only ever a lesser enemy.
Together they crossed the Eighth Gate, both filled with a terrible fear. The fear that though Hedge’s words were lies, they would become the truth before they could get back to Life.
Lirael was further burdened by the weight of knowledge. Now she knew how to bind the Destroyer anew, but she also knew it couldn’t be done just by her. Sam would need to be the heir of the Wallmakers in truth and not just be entitled to wear their silver trowel on his surcoat.
Others of the Blood would be needed too, and they just weren’t there.
Even worse, the binding was only half of what must be done. Even if Lirael and Sam could somehow manage that, there was the breaking, and that would require more courage than Lirael thought she had.
Chapter Twenty-six
Sam and the Shadow Hands
AS THE DEAD broke free of Saraneth’s hold, Sam blew on the Ranna pipe. But the soft lullaby was too late, and Sam’s breath too hasty. Only a half dozen of the Dead lay down to sleep under Ranna’s spell, and the bell caught several soldiers, too. The other ninety or more Dead Hands charged down out of the fog, to be met by swords, bayonets, silver blades, and the white lightning of the Charter Mages.
For a furious, frenzied minute of hacking and dodging, Sam couldn’t see what was happening. Then the Hand in front of him collapsed, its legs cut away. Sam was surprised to see that he’d done that himself, the Charter marks on his sword blazing with blue-white fury.
“Try the pipes again!” shouted the Major. He stepped in front of Sam to engage the next broken-jawed apparition. “We’ll cover you!”
Sam nodded and brought the pipes to his lips again with new determination. The Dead had driven the defenders back with their charge, and now Lirael was only a few feet behind him, a frozen statue who would be totally vulnerable to attack.
Most of the Dead Hands were fresh corpses, still clad in their workers’ overalls. But many were inhabited by spirits that had lain long in Death, who quickly transformed the dead flesh they now occupied, making it less human and more like the dreadful shapes they’d assumed in Death. One came at Sam now, wriggling like a snake between Major Greene and Lieutenant Tindall, its lower jaw unhinged for a larger bite. Reflexively, Sam stabbed it through the throat. Sparks flew as the Charter marks on the blade destroyed dead flesh. It wriggled and threshed but couldn’t free itself from the sword, so the thing’s spirit began to crawl out of its fleshy husk, like a worm of darkness leaving a totally rotten apple.
Sam looked down at it and felt his fear replaced by a hot anger. How dare these Dead intrude upon the world of Life? His nostrils flared, and his face reddened, as he drew breath to blow upon the pipe. This was not the Dead’s path, and he would make them choose another.
Lungs expanded to the full, he chose the Kibeth pipe and blew. A single note sounded, high and clear—but then it somehow became a lively, infectious jig. It cheered the soldiers and even made them smile, their weapons moving with the rhythm of Kibeth’s song.
But the Dead heard a different tune, and those with working mouths and lungs and throats let out terrible howls of fear and anguish. But howl as they would, they couldn’t drown out Kibeth’s call, and the Dead Spirits began to move against their will, thrust out of the decaying flesh they occupied and back into Death.
“That’s shown them!” shouted Lieutenant Tindall, as the Dead Hands fell all along the line, leaving empty corpses, the guiding spirits driven back into Death by Kibeth.
“Don’t get too excited,” growled the Major. He looked swiftly around and saw several men on the ground, clearly dead or dying. There were many wounded heading back to the aid post set up at the base of the spur, some of them supported by far too many able-bodied companions. Considerably more men were simply fleeing down the hill, back towards the Southerlings and the relative protection of the stream.
Most of the company had fled, in fact, and Greene felt a pang of disappointment in what he knew would be his last command. But the great majority of the men were conscripts, and even those who’d served on the Perimeter for a while would never have seen so many Dead.
“Damn them! Just when we’re winning, the fools!”
Lieutenant Tindall had noticed the fleeing men at last, with all the indignation of his youth. He made as if to start after them, but Major Greene held him back.
“Let them go, Francis. They’re not the Scouts, and this is too much for them. And we need you here—that was probably only the first wave. There will be more.”
“Yes, and soon,” confirmed Sam hurriedly. “Major—we need to bring everyone in closer to Lirael. I’m afraid if even one Dead creature gets past—”
“Yes!” agreed the Major fervently. “Francis, Edward—close up, everyone, quick as you can. See what you can do for the wounded, too, but I don’t want to lose any more effectives. Go!”
“Yes, sir!” the two Lieutenants snapped in unison. Then they were shouting orders, and the sergeants were relaying them with extra flavor. There were only thirty or so soldiers left, and within a minute they were almost shoulder to shoulder in a tight ring around Lirael’s iced-over form.
“How many more of the Dead are coming?” asked the Major, as Sam stared up into the fog. It was still spreading, and growing thicker, wisps winding around them as it rolled downhill. There was more lightning beyond the ridge, too, and the storm clouds had spread across the sky like a great inky stain, in parallel with the white fog below.
“I’m not sure.” Sam frowned. “More and more of them keep emerging into Life. Hedge must be in Death himself, and is sending them out. He has to have found an old graveyard or some other supply of bodies, because they’re all Dead Hands so far. Timothy said he only had sixty workers, and they were all in the first attack.”
Both glanced over at Tim Wallach as Sam spoke. He had taken a dead soldier’s rifle, sword bayonet, and helmet and now stood in the ring—much to everyone’s surprise, perhaps including his own.
“It’s always better to be doing,” said Sam, quoting the Disreputable Dog. As he said it, he realized that he actually believed it now. He was still scared, still felt the knot of apprehension in his guts. But he knew it wouldn’t stop him from doing what had to be done. It was what his parents would expect, Sam thought, but he did not dwell on that. He could not think of Sabriel and Touchstone, or he would fall apart—and he could not, must not, do that.
“My philosophy exactly—” the Major began to say; then he saw Sam shiver and reach for his panpipes.
“Shadow Hands!” Sam exclaimed, pointing with his sword as he put the pipes to his lips.
“Stand ready!” roared the Major, reaching into the Charter for marks of fire and destruction, though he knew they would be of little use against Shadow Hands. They had no bodies to burn or flesh to break. The Charter Magic the soldiers knew might slow them, but that was all.
Up on the ridge, four vaguely human shapes of utter darkness came down through the fog, rippling across rock and thorn. Silent as the grave, they ignored the arrows that passed straight through them and glided inexorably forward—directly towards Lirael and the gap between the boulders where Sam, Major Greene, and Lieutenant Tindall stood to bar their way.
When they were only twenty yards away, one Shadow Hand paused—and pounced upon a wounded soldier who’d been overlooked, lying under the overhang of a large rock. Frantically, he tried to stand and get away, but the Shadow Hand wrapped all around him like a shroud and sucked his life away.
As the soldier’s dying scream gurgled into nothing, Sam took a breath and blew desperately on the Saraneth pipe. He had to dominate the Shadow Hands, bend them to his will, for he and his allies had no other weapons that would work. His sword, and the marks it bore, would hurt them, but no more.
So he blew, and prayed to the Charter that he would have the strength to overcome the Shadow Hands.
Saraneth’s strong voice cut through even the thunder. Immediately, Sam felt the Shadow Hands resist his dominion. They raged against his will, and sweat broke out all over his body from the effort. It was all he could do just to stop them in place. These spirits were old, and much stronger than the Dead Hands Sam had sent walking into Death with Kibeth. It took all his strength to stop them moving forward, as they constantly pushed against the bonds Saraneth had—oh so lightly—woven around them.
Slowly, the world narrowed for Sam, till all he could sense was the four spirits and their struggle against him. Everything else was gone—the dampness of the fog, the soldiers around him, the thunder and lightning. There was only him and his opponents.
“Bow down to me!” he shouted, but it was with his mind and will, not a shout any human ears could hear. Sam heard the voiceless spirits answer back the same way, a chorus of mental howls and hissing that clearly defied him.
They were clever, these Shadow Hands. One would pretend to falter, but as Sam concentrated his will against that one, the others would counterattack, almost breaking his hold.
Gradually, Sam became aware that they were not only resisting him, they were actually eroding the binding. Every time he shifted his concentration, they would shuffle forward a little. Just a few steps, but gradually the gap was closing. Soon they would be able to leap past him, drain the life from the soldiers at his side—and attack the defenseless body of Lirael.
He also became aware that only a few seconds had actually passed since he had started blowing through the Saraneth pipe—and he had yet to take another breath. Though the sound of the pipe continued, it was weakening. If only he could pause, refill his lungs, and sound Saraneth again, he could greatly strengthen the binding. Sam knew he was close to total command of these spirits, yet not close enough. He also knew that if he shifted his full concentration away from the four Shadow Hands to take a breath, they would be upon him.
Given that, all he could do was continue the battle of wills and try to slow them down even more. Lirael could return at any moment and banish them with the bells. Sam just had to hold them for long enough.