Текст книги "Abhorsen"

Автор книги: Garth Nix

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chapter nineteen

a tin of sardines

As Chlorr fled, the mass of Dead Hands erupted like an anthill splashed with hot water. They ran in all directions, the most stupid of them towards Lirael, Sam and the Dog. Mogget ran between their legs, laughing, as Charter Magic fire burnt through their sinews and sent them crashing to the ground, the Dog’s barking sent their spirits back into Death, and Saraneth commanded them to relinquish their bodies.

In a few mad minutes, it was all over. The echoes of bell and bark died away, leaving Lirael and her companions standing on an empty road under the moon and stars, surrounded by a hundred bodies that were no more than empty husks.

The silence was broken by cheering and yelling from the soldiers behind them. Lirael ignored it and called out to Mogget.

“Why did you tell Chlorr to run? We were winning! And what was that No-Face thing about?”

“It was quicker, which I thought was the point,” said Mogget. He went up to Sam’s feet and sat there, yawning. “Chlorr was always overcautious, even when she was an A– alive. I’m tired now. Can you carry me?”

Sam sighed. He sheathed his sword and picked the cat up, letting the little beast rest in the crook of his arm.

“It was quicker,” he said to Lirael apologetically. “And I hate to mention it, but there are a lot more Dead Hands coming... and Shadow Hands, unless I’m mistaken...”

“You’re not mistaken,” growled the Dog. She was looking suspiciously at Mogget. “Though like my mistress, I am not satisfied with the Mogget’s motivation or explanation, I suggest we leave immediately. We have little time.”

As if in answer to her words, the sound of truck engines came from down the road. Obviously Lieutenant Tindall and his men had pushed them back far enough, and they could start again.

“I hope we can loop around,” said Sam anxiously as they ran to the trucks. “If the wind changes again, we’ll be stranded even further away.”

“We could try and work it...” Lirael began. Then she shook her head. “No, of course not. That would only make it worse for the Ancelstierran... what do you call it? Technologia?”

“Close enough,” puffed Sam. “Come on!”

They had caught up with Major Greene and the rear platoon, who were double-timing back to the trucks. The Major beamed at them as they matched his pace, and several soldiers slapped their rifles in salute. The atmosphere was very different from what it had been only a few minutes before.

Lieutenant Tindall was waiting by the lead truck, studying the map once again, this time with the aid of a working electric flashlight. He looked up and saluted as Lirael, Sam and Major Greene approached.

“I’ve found a road that will work,” he said quickly. “I think we might even be able to beat Hedge there!”

“How?” asked Lirael urgently.

“Well, the only road south from the Western Strongpoint winds up through these hills here,” he said, pointing. “It’s a single lane and not even metalled. Heavily laden wagons – as Maculler described them to me – will take a day at least to get up through there. They can’t possibly be at the Mill before late afternoon! We can be there soon after dawn.”

“Good work, Tindall,” exclaimed the Major, clapping him on the back.

“Is there any other way the hemispheres could be taken to the Mill?” asked Sam. “This has all been planned so carefully by Hedge. In both the Kingdom and here... everything was prepared. Using the Southerlings to make more Dead, the wagons ready...”

Tindall looked at the map again. The flashlight beam darted in several directions over it as he thought about possible alternatives.

“Well,” he said finally, “I suppose they could take the hemispheres by wagon to the sea, load them on boats, and take them south and then up the loch to the old dock at the Mill. But there’s nowhere to load them near the Western Strongpoint—”

“Yes there is,” said the Major, suddenly grim again. He pointed at a single symbol on the map, a vertical stroke surrounded by four angled strokes. “There’s a Navy dock at the Western Light.”

“That’s what Hedge will be doing,” said Lirael, suddenly chill with certainty. “How quickly can they go by sea?”

“Loading the hemispheres would take a while,” said Sam, joining the cluster of heads bent over the map. “And they’ll have to sail, not steam. But Hedge will work the wind. I’d say less than eight hours.”

There was a moment of silence after his words; then by unspoken consent, the huddle exploded into action. Greene snatched the map and hauled himself up into the cab of the first truck, Lirael and her companions ran to the back to jump in, and Lieutenant Tindall ran along the road waving his hand and shouting, “Go! Go!” as the trucks revved higher and slowly began to move out, their headlights flickering as the engines took the strain.

In the back of the truck, Sam put Mogget on top of his many-times-mended pack and sat down next to it. As he did, he pulled a small metal container out of his belt pouch and set it next to the cat’s nose. For a few seconds, the cat appeared to be sound asleep. Then one green eye opened a fraction.

“What’s that?” asked Mogget.

“Sardines,” said Sam. “I knew they were standard rations, so I got a few tins for you.”

“What are sardines?” asked Mogget suspiciously. “And why is there a key? Is this some sort of Abhorsen joke?”

In answer Sam tore the key off and slowly unwound the top of the tin. The rich smell of sardines spilled out. Mogget watched the procedure avidly, his eyes never leaving the tin. When Sam put it down, narrowly avoiding cutting himself as the truck went over a series of bumps, Mogget sniffed the sardines cautiously.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“You like fish,” said Sam. “Besides, I said I would.”

Mogget tore his gaze away from the sardines and looked at Sam. His eyes narrowed, but he saw no sign of guile in Sam’s face. The little cat shook his head and then ate the sardines in a flash, leaving the tin spotless and empty.

Lirael and the Dog glanced at this exhibition of gluttony, but both were more interested in what was going on outside and behind them. Lirael pushed aside the canvas flap and they looked past the three following trucks. Lirael could sense the second, much larger group of Dead and Shadow Hands that was advancing along the road. The Shadow Hands, which were both more powerful than the Dead Hands and unconstrained by flesh, were moving very swiftly, some of them leaping and gliding like enormous bats ahead of the main body of their shambling, corpse-dwelling brethren. They would undoubtedly wreak great trouble somewhere, but she could not spare them any further thought. The greater danger lay to the west, and already a little south, where lightning played on the horizon. Lirael noticed that the other, artificial thunder from the Ancelstierran artillery had ceased some time before, but she had been too busy to hear it stop.

“Dog,” whispered Lirael. She drew the Dog closer and hugged her about the neck. “Dog. What if we’re too late to destroy the Lightning Farm? What if the hemispheres join?”

The Dog didn’t say anything. She snuffled at Lirael’s ear instead and thumped her tail on the truck floor.

“I have to go into Death, don’t I?” whispered Lirael. “To use the Dark Mirror and find out how It was bound in the Beginning.”

Still the Dog didn’t speak.

“Will you come with me?” asked Lirael, her whisper so low no human could have heard it.

“Yes,” said the Dog. “Wherever you walk, I will be there.”

“When should we go?” asked Lirael.

“Not yet,” muttered the Dog. “Not until there is no other choice. Perhaps we will still reach the Lightning Farm before Hedge.”

“I hope so,” said Lirael. She hugged the Dog again, then let her go and settled back on to her own pack. Sam was already asleep on the opposite side of the truck, with Mogget curled up against him, the empty sardine tin sliding about on the wooden floor of the truck. Lirael picked it up, wrinkled her nose and wedged it into a corner where it wouldn’t rattle.

“I will keep watch,” said the Disreputable Dog. “You should sleep, Mistress. There are still several hours before the dawn and you will need all your strength.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” said Lirael quietly. But she leant back on her pack and closed her eyes. Her whole body felt edgy, and if she had been able to, she would have got up and practised with her sword, or done something to try to drain the feeling off with exercise. But there was nothing she could do in the back of a moving vehicle. Except lie there and worry about what lay ahead. So she did that, and surprisingly soon crossed the line between wakeful worrying and troubled sleep.

The Dog lay with her head on her paws and watched Lirael toss and turn, and mumble in her sleep. Beneath them, the truck rattled and vibrated, the roar of the engine going up and down as the vehicle negotiated bends and rises and falls in the road.

After an hour or so, Mogget opened one eye. He saw the Dog watching and quickly shut it again. The Dog quietly got up and stalked over, pushing her snout down right against Mogget’s little pink nose.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t take you by the scruff of your neck and throw you off right now,” whispered the Dog.

Mogget opened one untroubled eye again.

“I’d only run behind,” he whispered back. “Besides, she gave me the benefit of the doubt. Can you do anything less?”

“I am not so charitable,” said the Dog, showing her teeth. “Let me remind you that should you turn, I will make it my business to see that you are ended for it.”

“Will you?” purred Mogget, opening his other eye. “What if you can’t?”

The Dog growled, low and menacing. It was enough to wake Sam, who blinked and reached for his sword.

“What is it?” he asked sleepily.

“Nothing,” said the Dog. She turned back to Lirael and plonked herself down with a frustrated sigh. “Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.”

Mogget smiled and shook his head, the miniature Ranna tinkling. Sam yawned mightily at the sound and slipped back against his pack, asleep again in an instant.

Nicholas Sayre swam into wakefulness like a fish rising to a fly. A slow ascent that left him gasping and confused, flopping about like that same fish fresh caught on the shores of a loch – which was where he was. He sat up and looked around. Some part of his mind was comforted by the fact that he was in a twilight world made by the storm clouds above him and that lightning was crackling down less than fifty yards away. He was less interested in the pallid half sun in the east, just rising above the ridge.

Nicholas was lying on a pile of straw next to a hut, off to one side of what had once been an active wharf. Twenty yards away Hedge’s men swore and cursed as they wrestled with sheerlegs, ropes and pulleys to swing one of the silver hemispheres ashore from a small coastal trader. Another coaster stood off the wharf, several hundred yards into the loch, carefully positioned not to get close enough for the hemispheres to work their violent repulsion on each other.

Nicholas smiled. They were at Forwin Mill. He couldn’t remember how they had done it, but they had got the hemispheres across the Wall. The Lightning Farm was ready, and all they had to do was join the hemispheres and everything would fall into place.

Thunder cracked and someone screamed. A man fell away from the boat, his skin blackened and hair on fire. He lay on the dock, writhing and groaning till one of the other men stepped down and quickly cut his throat. Nick watched it all happen quite calmly. It was just the price of dealing with the hemispheres, and they were all that mattered.

Slowly, Nick got up, first to all fours and then fully upright. It was hard work and he had to clutch at the broken drainpipe of the hut for a while, till the dizziness passed. But slowly he grew steadier. Another man died as he stood there, but Nick didn’t even notice. He had eyes only for the sheen of the hemispheres and the progression of the work. Soon the first hemisphere would be ready to be shifted into the ruined shell of the timber mill. It would be loaded into a special cradle mounted on a waiting railway wagon, one of two on the same short stretch of track.

At least that was what Nicholas had ordered. It occurred to him that he hadn’t actually inspected the Lightning Farm. He had drawn the plans and paid for its construction before leaving for the Old Kingdom. That seemed like a very long time ago. He had never seen the Lightning Farm in actuality. Only in paper plans and in his troubled dreams.

He was still weak from the illness he’d picked up across the Wall, too weak to easily walk around. He needed a stick or a crutch. There was a stretcher nearby, a simple thing of canvas and wood. Perhaps he could pull out one of the poles and use that as a staff, Nick thought. Very slowly and with infinite care, he walked over to the stretcher, cursing his weakness as he nearly fell. He knelt down and removed the pole, dragging it out of the canvas loops. It was easily eight feet long, and a bit heavy, but it would be better than nothing.

He was about to use it to stand up when he saw something glowing on the stretcher. A piece of splintered wood, painted with strange luminous symbols. Puzzled, he reached out to pick it up.

As he touched it, his body convulsed and he was violently sick. But even as he vomited, he kept one finger on what he now knew was a fragment of a wind flute. He couldn’t pick it up, for his hand refused to obey him and close, but he could touch it. As long as he touched it, memory came rushing back. As long as he touched it, he was really Nicholas Sayre and not some puppet of the shining hemispheres so close by.

“Word of a Sayre,” he whispered, remembering Lirael again. “I must stop this.”

He stayed crouched over the pole, over his own vomit, just touching the fragment, while his mind worked fiercely at his predicament. As soon as he let the charm go, he would regress, go back to being a mindless servant. He could not pick it up or carry it in his hands. Yet there had to be some way he could keep it close enough to work its magic, to remind him who he was.

Nick inspected himself. He was both shocked and scared by how thin he had become, and by the blue and purple bruising that extended all down the left side of his chest. His shirt was merely threads and tatters, and his trousers were not much better, secured at his skinny waist not by a belt but by a piece of tarred rope. The pockets were gone, as were his underclothes.

But the cuffs on his trousers were still turned up. Nick felt in them with his right hand, making sure they would hold. The fine woollen cloth was thinner than it had been only weeks before, but it would not easily tear.

Panting with the effort, he manoeuvred his ankle as close to the wind flute fragment as he could, pulled the cuff open and used his other hand to sweep the chunk of wood towards it. It took a couple of attempts, but finally he got it in. As he did, he forgot what he was doing, till a few seconds later the trouser cuff hit against his skin. Pain shot through his ankle, but it was bearable.

He didn’t want to look at the hemispheres, but he found himself doing so anyway. The first one was on the wharf. Many people were swarming about it, tying new ropes for dragging and untying the ones used to swing it ashore. Nick saw that many of the workers grabbing the landward ropes were Night Crew again. Somewhat better looking ones, though still rotting under their blue hats and scarves.

No, Nick thought, as the wooden charm slapped against his ankle. They were not diseased humans but Dead creatures, corpses brought into a semblance of life by Hedge. Unlike the normal men, they did not seem troubled by close proximity to the hemispheres, or by the constant lightning.

As if even thinking his name summoned Hedge, in the after-flash of the most recent lightning strike, the necromancer suddenly appeared at the side of the hemisphere. Once again Nick was surprised by how monstrous Hedge had become. Shadows crawled across his skull, twining into the fire deep in his eyes, and his fingers dripped with red, viscous flames.

The necromancer walked to the bow of the coaster and shouted something. Men moved quickly to obey, though it was clear they were nearly all wounded in some way, or sick. They cast off and raised sail, and the boat slid away from the wharf. The other, loaded coaster immediately began to make its approach.

Hedge watched it come in and raised his hands above his head. Then he spoke, harsh words that made the air ripple around him and the ground shiver. He stretched out one hand towards the waters of the loch and called again, making gestures that left after-trails of red fire in the air.

Fog began to rise out of the loch. Thin white tendrils spiralled up and up, dragging thicker trails of mist behind them. Hedge gestured to the right and left, and the tendrils spread sideways, dragging more fog up out of the water to form a wall that slowly extended down the full length of the loch. As it spread sideways, it also rolled forward, towards the wharf, the timber mill, the loch valley and the hills beyond.

Hedge clapped his hands and turned back. His eyes fell on Nick, who instantly looked down and clutched at his chest. He heard the necromancer approach, his heels loud on the wooden planks.

“Hemispheres,” mumbled Nick quickly as the footsteps stopped in front of him. “The hemispheres must... we must...”

“All progresses well,” said Hedge. “I have raised a sea fog that will resist any attempts to move it, should there be any amongst our enemies skilled enough to try. Do you wish to instruct me further, Master?”

Nick felt something move in his chest. Like a panicked heartbeat, only stronger and much more frightening and repulsive. He gasped at the pain of it and fell forward, his hands scrabbling at the planks, fingernails breaking as he tore at the wood.

Hedge waited till the spasm subsided. Nick lay there panting, unable to speak, waiting for unconsciousness and the thing within him to take over. But it did not rise, and after several minutes Hedge walked away.

Nick rolled on to his back and watched the fog roll across the sky, blanketing out the storm clouds, though not the lightning. Fog lit by lightning was not a sight he had ever expected to see, he thought, some part of him making notes at the strange effects.

But the greater part of his mind was given over to something much more important. He had to stop Hedge from using the Lightning Farm.

chapter twenty

the beginning of the end

Dawn was breaking as the truck engines began to cough and splutter once again, then ground to a halt. Lieutenant Tindall swore as his red Chinagraph pencil slipped, and the dot he was making on the map became a line, which he turned into a cross. The cross was marked on the thickly clustered contour lines that marked the descent into Forvale, a broad valley that was separated from Forwin Loch and the loch by a long, low ridge.

Lirael had fallen asleep again as the trucks had driven through the night. So she had missed the small dramas that filled the hours as the trucks sped on, not stopping for anything, the drivers pushing much faster than common sense allowed. But they had had good luck, or made their own, and there had been no major accidents. Plenty of minor collisions, scrapes and scares, but no major accidents.

Lirael was also unaware of the desertions during the night. Every time the trucks had slowed to negotiate a sharp bend, or had been forced to stop before crawling across a washed-out section of what was a very secondary road, soldiers who could not face the prospect of further encounters with the Dead leapt from the trucks and disappeared into the darkness. The company had more than a hundred men when it left the Perimeter. By the time they came to Forvale, there were only seventy-three left.

“Debus! On the double!”

The Company Sergeant Major’s shouts woke Lirael. She jerked up, one hand already scrabbling at a bell, the other on Nehima. Sam reacted in a very similar way. Disoriented and scared, he stumbled towards the tailgate, right behind the Disreputable Dog, who jumped out a moment later.

“Five-minute rest! Five minutes! Do your business and be quick about it! No brew-ups!”

Lirael climbed out of the truck, yawned and rubbed her eyes. It was still half dark, the eastern sky light beyond the ridge but without any sign of the actual sun. Most of the sky was beginning to turn blue, save for a patch not far away that was dark and threatening. Lirael saw it out of the corner of her eye, turned swiftly and had her worst fears realised. Lightning flashed in the cloud. Lots of lightning, more than ever before, and it was striking down across a wider area. All beyond the ridge.

“Forwin Mill and the loch,” said Major Greene. “They lie beyond that ridge. What the—”

They had all been looking across to the ridge. Now Greene pointed down into the valley that lay between them. It was lush green farmland, divided into regular five-acre fields by wire fences. Sheep occupied some of the fields. But on the southern end of the valley there was a moving mass of blue. Thousands of people, a great crowd of blue-scarved and blue– hatted Southerlings, a huge migration all across the valley.

Greene and Tindall had their binoculars to their eyes in a flash. But Lirael did not need binoculars to see which way the great crowd was heading. The leading groups were already turning to the west, to the ridge and Forwin Mill beyond. To the Lightning Farm, where from the look of the storm the hemispheres were already in place.

“We have to stop them!” said Sam. He was pointing at the Southerlings.

“It is more important to stop the hemispheres from being joined,” said Lirael. She hesitated for a second, unsure of what to do or say. Only one course seemed obvious. They had to get up on the western ridge to see what was happening beyond it, and that meant crossing the valley as quickly as possible. “We need to get up on that ridge! Come on!”

She started off down the road into the valley, jogging slowly at first but slowly increasing her speed. The Dog ran at her side, her tongue lolling out. Sam followed a half minute later, Mogget riding on his shoulders. Major Greene and Lieutenant Tindall were slower, but they were both soon bellowing orders, and the soldiers were running back from the ditch on the side of the road and forming up.

The road was more of a track, but once down the hill it cut straight through the fields, crossed the stream in the centre of the valley at a concrete ford or sunken bridge, and then ran along the side of the ridge.

Lirael ran as she had never run before. A lone figure, she splashed across the ford and cut in front of the Southerlings. Closer to, she saw that they were in family groups, often of many generations. Hundreds of families. Grandparents, parents, children, babies. They all had the same scared look on their faces, and nearly everyone, no matter how old or small, was weighed down with suitcases, bags and small bundles. Some had strange possessions, small machines and metal objects that Lirael did not know but Sam recognised as sewing machines, phonographs and typewriters. Strangely, nearly all the adults also clutched small pieces of paper.

“They must not be allowed to cross the ridge,” said the Dog as Lirael slowed to look at them. “But we must not stop. I fear the lightning is increasing.”

Lirael halted for a second and turned back. Sam was about fifty yards behind, running with grim determination.

“Sam!” Lirael shouted. She indicated the Southerlings, who were starting to turn towards the ridge. Some younger men were already climbing the slope. “Stop them! I’m going on!”

Lirael began to run again, ignoring the pain from an incipient stitch in her side. With every forward step it seemed to her that the lightning beyond the ridge was spreading, and the thunder was growing louder and more frequent. Lirael left the road and began to zigzag up a long spur that ran up to the ridge. To help her along, she grabbed at stones and the branches of the white-barked trees that were dotted along the slope.

She could feel the Dead beyond the ridge as she climbed. No more than a score at first, but at least a dozen more appeared as she climbed. Obviously Hedge was bringing spirits in from Death. He must have found a source of corpses somewhere. Lirael did not think they would be Shadow Hands, for it took longer to prepare a spirit for Life if there was no flesh to house it in. At least, it was supposed to take longer. Lirael was afraid that she had no idea what Hedge was capable of.

Then, without warning, she was on top of the ridge and there were no more white-barked trees, no great boulders. She could see clearly down the bare western slope to the blue waters of the loch. The hillside had been totally cleared, swept clean as if by fire and a giant broom, leaving only furrowed brown dirt. But the dirt had sprouted a strange crop. Slender metal poles, twice Lirael’s height. Hundreds of them, spaced six feet apart, and joined at the roots by fat black cables that snaked down the slope and into a ramshackle stone building that had lost its roof. Parallel metal lines laid on top of many short wooden beams formed a track of some sort. They ran on the ground through the building, ending abruptly twenty yards on either side of it. There were two flat-bed metal-wheeled wagons on the line, one at each end. Lirael instinctively knew that these were for the hemispheres. They would be mounted on the wagons and somehow be brought together by using the power of the lightning storm.

Lightning flashed as if to punctuate her thoughts. It came forking down all around the quay, so bright that Lirael had to shield her eyes with her hand. She knew what she would see there because she could smell the hot-metal scent, the corrosive smell of Free Magic. It turned her stomach and she was thankful that she hadn’t eaten for hours.

One of the silver hemispheres was already on the quay. It flashed blue as the lightning struck it. The other hemisphere was on a boat out on the loch. Though most of the lightning was hitting the hemispheres, Lirael saw that it was also spreading out and up the slope, and most of the strikes hit the tall poles. They were lightning rods, the thousand lightning rods that together made up Nicholas’s Lightning Farm.

As if the dark clouds above were not enough, fog was beginning to swirl off the loch. Lirael could sense this was a magical fog, built with real water, so it would be much harder to force back or dispel. She felt the Free Magic working in it, and the source of it. Hedge was somewhere down on the quay. There were Dead down there with him, moving the first hemisphere, and there were more Dead around the various small buildings that lined the quay. Lirael could sense them moving about, with Hedge at the centre of everything. She felt like a fly on the edge of a cobweb, feeling the movement of the great mother spider at the centre and its many offspring further around the web.

Lirael drew Nehima, and then after a moment’s hesitation her hand fell on Astarael. The Weeper. All who heard her would be thrown into Death, including Lirael. If she could get close enough, she could send Hedge and all the Dead a long, long way. Hedge, at least, would probably be able to return to Life, but there was a slim chance Lirael could return as well, and it would gain her precious time.

But as she started to draw the bell out of the bandoleer, the Dog jumped up against her and pushed Lirael’s hand away with her nose.

“No, Mistress,” she said. “Astarael alone cannot prevail here. We are too late to prevent the hemispheres from being joined.”

“Sam, the soldiers...” said Lirael. “If we attack at once—”

“I do not think we would easily pass through this Lightning Farm,” said the Dog, shaking her head. “The Destroyer’s power is less constrained here, and the Destroyer is directing the lightning. Besides, the Dead here are led by Hedge, not Chlorr.”

“But if the hemispheres join...” Lirael whispered to herself. Then she swallowed and said, “It’s time, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the Dog. “But not here. Hedge will have noticed us, as we have noticed him. His mind is on the hemispheres for the moment, but I do not think it will be long before he orders an attack.”

Lirael turned to retreat back down the eastern side of the ridge, then stopped and looked back.

“Nicholas? What about him?”

“He is beyond our help now,” replied the Dog sadly. “When the hemispheres join, the shard within him will burst from his heart to become part of the whole. But he will know nothing of it. It will be a swift end, though I fear Hedge will enslave his spirit.”

“Poor Nick,” said Lirael. “I should never have let him go.”

“You had no choice,” said the Dog. She nudged Lirael behind the knee, anxious to make her move. “We must hurry!”

Lirael nodded and turned back to retrace her path down the slope. As she hurried down, sliding and almost falling in the steeper parts, she thought of Nicholas and then of everyone else, including herself. Perhaps Nick would have the easiest path. After all, it was likely he would be only the first to die, unknowing. Everyone else would be only too aware of their fate, and they would probably all end up serving Hedge.

Lirael was halfway down when an enormously loud, booming voice filled the valley. It shocked her for a second, till she recognised it was Sam, his speech greatly magnified by Charter Magic. He was standing on a large boulder only a hundred yards or so further down the spur, his hands cupped around his mouth, his fingers glowing from the spell.

“Southerlings! Friends! Do not go beyond the western ridge! Only death awaits you there! Do not believe the papers you hold – they offer only lies! I am Prince Sameth of the Old Kingdom and I promise to give land and farms to everyone who stays in the valley! If you stay in the valley, you will be given farms and land beyond the Wall!”