Текст книги "Abhorsen"

Автор книги: Garth Nix

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

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 savour 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 half a 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 flavour. 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 realised 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 defenceless 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.

He stopped even trying to take a breath, shunting his body’s urgent demands for air into a corner of his mind. Nothing was as important as stopping the Shadow Hands. He would concentrate every last particle of his mind and power upon them and every last wisp of air into the pipe. They would not reach Lirael. They must not. She was the last hope for the entire world against the Destroyer.

Besides, she was his blood kin and he had promised.

The Shadow Hands took another step closer and Sam’s entire body shuddered with effort as he tried to force them back, his muscles reflecting the struggle of his mind. But he was growing weaker, he knew, and the Dead stronger. He was also close to passing out from lack of breath and an almost overpowering urge to step back was rising inside him. Get out of the way! Take a breath! Let these monsters past!

But as he fought the Dead, he fought his own fears, pushing them away into the same distant corner of his mind that so badly wanted to draw air into his lungs. They would stay there and he was determined to fight well beyond his last breath. At the same time, he tried desperately to think of some stratagem or cunning ploy.

Nothing came to him, and though he hadn’t seen or felt them move, the Shadow Hands had stolen some ground. They were now only just out of sword’s reach, tall columns of inky blackness, spreading a chill colder than the coldest of winter days.

The two on the outside were moving around him, Sam realised, though not by much. Clearly they intended to surround and smother him with their shadow stuff, to wrap him in a cocoon of four hungry spirits. Then they would move on to Lirael.

Fire suddenly burst out around the head of the closest Shadow Hand, a fist-sized globe of pure blue flame. But the Dead creature didn’t so much as flinch, and the fire spluttered out into the individual marks that had made it, and these vanished into the fog.

Another Charter-spell struck, to no effect, save to set one of the stunted trees alight as the fire rebounded off the shadowy form of the Dead. Sam realised that Major Greene and Lieutenant Tindall were trying to help him with these spells, but he could spare neither thought nor breath to warn them of the uselessness of fire against such an enemy.

All Sam’s attention was on the Dead. In turn, all their attention was focused back on him and on the struggle between them.

So neither noticed the fog suddenly swirl around them, as if disturbed by some mighty gust of air, nor the shouts and cries of the soldiers behind them.

That is, till they heard the bell. A strong, ferocious chime that fell from the air above them. It gripped the four Shadow Hands like a puppet master picking up marionettes to put back in the box. Unable to resist, they bent down, their shadowy heads raised to beg wordlessly for mercy.

No mercy was forthcoming. Another bell rang, building an angry, violent dance over the broad shout of the first. The Shadow Hands jerked upright at its sharp song, their shadow stuff stretching into thin lines, as if they were being sucked through a narrow hole.

Then they were gone, summarily executed, this time for good.

Sam fell to his knees as the Dead disappeared and drew a long, shuddering breath into his desperate lungs. Above him, a bright blue and silver Paperwing hovered for a moment, like a giant hawk over its prey. Then it fell quickly and circled down to the valley floor, where the ground was level and clear enough to land. Sam stared at it and at the two other Paperwings that were gliding down in front of the Southerlings.

Three Paperwings. The craft that had passed overhead was blue and silver, and that was the Abhorsen’s colour. The second was of green and silver, for the Clayr. The third was the red and gold of the royal line. Two of the three paperwings had a passenger as well as a pilot.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Sam. “Who wields the bells?”

Mogget was just short of the top of the ridge, zigzagging between Dead Hands and lightning rods, when he heard the bells. He smiled and paused to shout at the single Dead Hand who stood in his way.

“Hear the full voice of Saraneth! Flee while you still can!”

As a ploy, it didn’t work. The Dead Hand was too newly returned to Life, too stupid to understand Mogget’s words, and it didn’t have Mogget’s unnaturally keen hearing. It hadn’t heard the bells through the thunder and it had no sense of the power unleashed beyond the ridge. As far as it was concerned, living prey had just stopped in front of it. Close enough to grab.

Rotting fingers leapt out, clutching the little albino’s leg. Mogget yowled and kicked back, the dry bones of his captor snapping with the force of the blow. But still it hung on, and other Dead were lumbering towards Mogget now, drawn by the prospect of Life to feast on.

Mogget yowled again and put Nick down. Then he whipped around, his long-nailed fingers scratching and his sharp-toothed mouth fastening on the Dead Hand’s wrist.

If it still had human intelligence, the Hand would have been surprised, because no man ever fought like this one, with an arched back and a wild combination of hissing, biting and scratching.

Mogget bit through the Dead creature’s wrist, severing it completely. Instantly, he sprang back, picked up Nick, dodged around the Hand and sprinted off with a triumphant yowl.

The creature ignored its missing hand and tried to follow them. Only then did it discover that its strange opponent had clawed through its hamstrings as well. It took two uncertain steps and fell, the Dead spirit that inhabited it already looking desperately around for some other body to inhabit.

By then, Mogget was on the other side of the ridge. He held Nick’s arm out to one side as he ran, keeping it well away from his own body. That arm shook and shivered, muscles twitched under the skin, and dark bruises blossomed all around the elbow and forearm.

Behind Mogget, the lightning storm began to abate and the thunder to lessen. The fog was still lit with electric blue around the edges – but at the centre, both the fog and the storm clouds above it had become a bright, bright red.

chapter twenty – seven

when the lightning stops

Sam picked himself up. He felt very weak, washed out and confused. Slowly he turned to look down at the three Paperwings in the valley, several hundred yards away. They looked very small in front of the crowd of Southerlings. Magical flying craft made from laminated paper and Charter Magic, they were rather like large, brilliantly feathered birds.

The pilots and passengers from the three Paperwings were already climbing out of their craft. Sam stared at them, unable to believe who he was seeing.

“That’s the King and the Abhorsen, isn’t it, Prince Sameth?” asked Lieutenant Tindall. “I thought they were dead!”

Sam nodded and smiled and shook his head at the same time. He felt an irresistible spring of relief flow up through every part of his body. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or sing, and was unsurprised to find that tears were running down his cheeks, and laughter had come unbidden and was leaping out of his mouth. Because the people climbing out of the blue and silver Paperwing were indisputably Touchstone and Sabriel. Alive and well, all tales of their demise proven false in that single joyous sight.

But the surprises did not end there. Sam wiped the tears away, calmed his laughter before it became hysterical and caught his breath as he saw a young, raven-haired woman vault out of the red and gold craft and run to catch up with his parents, her sword already out and flashing. Behind her, two very blonde, brown-skinned and willowy women were leaving the green and silver Paperwing, a little more sedately but also in a hurry.

“Who’s that girl?” asked Lieutenant Tindall, with more than professional interest in their saviours. “I mean, who are those ladies?”

“That’s my sister, Ellimere!” exclaimed Sam. “And two of the Clayr, by the look of them!”

He started to run down to them but stopped after only two paces. They were all hurrying up and his place was here, by Lirael. She was still frozen in place, still somewhere in Death, facing who knew what dangers. That realisation brought Sam back to the current situation. The Dead had fled from Saraneth as wielded by the Abhorsen. But they were only lesser minions of the real Enemy.

“The lightning has stopped,” said Tim Wallach. “Listen – there’s no thunder now.”

Everyone turned back to the ridge. Sam’s feelings of relief vanished in an instant. The thunder and lightning had faded away to nothing, sure enough, but the fog was as thick as ever. It was no longer lit with blue flashes but by a steady, pulsing red that grew brighter as they watched – as if an enormous heart of fire grew in the valley beyond.

Something was coming down from the ridge, a shape that seemed to have too many arms, an awful silhouette backlit by the blood-red glow from behind the ridge.

Sam raised his sword and felt for the panpipes. Whatever this was didn’t seem to be Dead – or at least he couldn’t sense it. But it carried the hot stench of Free Magic with it – and it was coming straight towards him.

Then the thing shouted, with the voice of Mogget.

“It’s me – Mogget! I’ve got Nicholas!”

The fog eddied, and Sam saw that the voice came from the strange little man with the pale hair and skin who he had last seen on the hill above the Red Lake. He was carrying an emaciated body that just might be Nick. Whoever it was, Mogget held the man’s right arm out to the side, where it writhed and twitched with a life of its own, all too like a tentacle.

“What is that?” asked Major Greene quietly as he signalled his men to close up again around Lirael.

“It’s Mogget,” replied Sam with a frown. “He had that shape in my grandfather’s time. And that... that is my friend Nick.”

“Of course it is!” shouted Mogget, who hadn’t stopped walking down. “Where is the Abhorsen? And Lirael? We must hurry – the hemispheres have almost joined. If we can get Nicholas further away, the fragment will not be able to join and the hemispheres will be incomplete—”

He was interrupted by a terrible scream. Nick’s eyes flashed open and his whole body jerked into rigidity, one arm pointed back towards the loch valley like a gun. Something brighter than the sun flared at his fingertip for a moment, then it flashed over the ridge, too fast to follow.

“No!” Nick screamed. His mouth frothed with bloody foam and his fingers clutched uselessly at empty air. But his scream was lost in another sound, a sound that welled up from the red heart of the fog beyond the ridge. An indescribable shout of triumph, greed and fury. With that shout, a column of fire boiled up to the sky. It climbed up and up till it loomed high above the ridge. The fog swirled around it like a cloak and began to burn away.

“Free!” boomed the Destroyer. The word howled across the watchers like a hot wind, stripping the moisture from their eyes and mouths. On and on the sound carried, echoing from distant hills, screaming through far-off towns, striking fear into all who heard it, long after the word itself was lost.

“Too late,” said Mogget. He laid Nick carefully down on the rocky ground and crouched himself. His pale hair began to spread down his neck and face, and his bones contracted and tightened under the skin. Inside a minute, he was once again a little white cat, with Ranna tinkling on his collar.

Sam hardly noticed the transformation. He hurried up to Nick and bent over him, already reaching for the strongest Charter marks he knew for healing, assembling them in his mind. There was no question that his friend was dying. Sam could feel his spirit slipping through to Death, see the terrible pallor of Nick’s face, the blood on his mouth, and the deep bruises on his chest and arm.

Golden fire grew in Sam’s gesturing hands as he pulled marks from the Charter with ferocious haste. Then he gently laid his palms on Nick’s chest and sent the healing magic into his damaged body.

Only the spell wouldn’t take hold. The marks slid away and were lost, and blue sparks crackled under Sam’s palms. He cursed and tried again, but it was no use. There was still too strong a residue of Free Magic in Nick and it repulsed all Sam’s efforts.

All it did do was bring Nick back into consciousness – of a sort. He smiled as he saw Sam, thinking himself back at school again, struck down by a fastball. But Sam was in some weird armour, not in cricket whites. And there was thick fog behind him, not bright sunshine, and stones and stunted trees, not new-mown grass.

Nick remembered, and his smile disappeared. With memory came pain, everywhere in his body, but there was a welcome lightness as well. He felt clear and unrestricted, as if he were a prisoner freed from a lifetime locked in a single room.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, the blood in his mouth choking him as he spoke. “I didn’t know, Sam. I didn’t know...”

“It’s all right,” said Sam. He wiped the bloody froth away from Nick’s mouth with the sleeve of his surcoat. “It’s not your fault. I should have realised something had happened to you...”

“The sunken road,” whispered Nick. He closed his eyes again, his breath coming in choking gasps. “After you went into Death on the hill. I can remember it now. I ran down to see what I could do and fell into the road. Hedge was waiting. He thought I was you, Sam...”

His voice trailed off. Sam bent over him again, trying to force the healing marks into him by strength of will. For the third time, they slid off.

Nick’s lips moved and he said something too faint to hear. Sam bent still closer, his ear to Nick’s mouth, and he took his hand and held it as if he might physically drag his friend back from Death.

“Lirael,” whispered Nick. “Tell Lirael I remembered her. I tried...”

“You can tell her yourself,” Sam said urgently. “She’ll be here! Any moment. Nick – you have to fight it!”

“That’s what she said,” coughed Nick. Specks of blood stained Sam’s cheek, but he didn’t move. He didn’t hear the soft bark of the Dog as she returned to Life, or the cracking of ice, or Lirael’s exclamation of surprise. For Sam, there was only the space he and Nicholas occupied. Everything else had ceased to exist.

Then he felt a cold hand on his shoulder and he looked around. Lirael was standing there. She was still covered in frost. Ice flaked from her as she moved. She looked at Nick, and Sam saw a fleeting expression that he could not place. Then it was gone, visibly repressed by a hardness that reminded Sam of his mother.

“Nick’s dying,” said Sam, his eyes bright with tears. “The healing spells won’t– The shard flew out of him– I can’t do anything!”

“I know how to bind and break the Destroyer,” said Lirael urgently. She turned her gaze away from Nick and looked directly at Sam. “You have to make a weapon for me, Sam. Now!”

“But Nick!” protested Sam. He didn’t let go of his friend’s hand.

Lirael glanced at the column of fire. She could feel its heat now, could gauge the state of the Destroyer’s power by its colour and the height of the flames. There were still minutes left – but very few of them. Even twice as many would not be enough for Nick.

“There’s... there’s nothing you can do for Nick,” she said, though the words came out with a sob. “There’s no time and I need... I need to tell you what must be done. We have a chance, Sam! I didn’t think we would, but the Clayr did See who was needed and they’re here. But we have to act now!”

Sam looked down at his best friend. Nick’s eyes were open again, but he was looking past Sam, at Lirael.

“Do what she says, Sam,” Nick whispered, attempting a smile. “Try and make it right.”

Then his eyes lost their focus and his ragged breath bubbled away to nothing. Both Sam and Lirael felt his spirit slip away, and they knew that Nicholas Sayre was dead.

Sam opened his hand and stood up. He felt old and tired, his joints stiff. He was bewildered too, unable to accept that the body at his feet was Nick’s. He had set out to save him and he had failed. Everything else seemed doomed to failure too.

Lirael grabbed him as he swayed in front of her, his eyes unfocused. The shock broke through the distance he felt around him and he reluctantly met her gaze. She swung him around and pointed to Sabriel, Touchstone, Ellimere and the two Clayr, who were moving rapidly up the spur.

“You need to get a drop of blood from me, your parents, Ellimere, and Sanar and Ryelle, and bind it with yours into Nehima with the metal from the panpipes. Can you do that? Now!”

“I haven’t got a forge,” Sam replied dumbly, but he accepted Nehima from Lirael’s hand. He was still looking down at Nick.

“Use magic!” shrieked Lirael, and she shook him, hard. “You’re a Wallmaker, Sam! Hurry!”

The shaking brought Sam all the way back to the present. He suddenly felt the heat of the fiery column and the full dread of the Destroyer filled his bones. Turning away from Nick, he used the sword to cut his palm, wiping the blood along the blade.

Lirael cut herself next, letting the blood flow down the blade.

“I’ll remember,” she whispered, touching the sword. Then in the next breath, conscious of how little time they had, she shouted at the soldiers.

“Major Greene! Get all your people back to the Southerlings! Warn them! You must all stay on the other side of the stream and lie down as low as you can. Do not look towards the fire, and when it suddenly brightens, close your eyes! Go! Go!”

Before anyone could respond, Lirael was shouting again, this time at the group led by Sabriel, which was almost upon them.

“Hurry! Please hurry! We have to make at least three diamonds of protection here within the next ten minutes! Hurry!”

Sam rushed down to meet his parents, his sister and the two Clayr, holding the bloody sword flat, ready to take more contributions. As he walked, he built a spell of forging and binding in his mind, knitting the marks together into one long and complex net. When the blade was fully blooded, he would lay the pipes upon it and the spell over it all entire. If it worked, blood and metal would join in the making of a new and unique sword. If it worked...

Behind him, the Dog slunk over to the sprawled, silent body of Nicholas. She looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention, then barked softly in his ear.

Nothing happened. The Dog looked puzzled, as if she expected an immediate effect, and licked his forehead. Her tongue left a glowing mark. Still nothing happened. After a moment, the Dog left the corpse and bounded across to join Lirael, who was casting the Eastmark of a very large diamond of protection. It was to be the outermost of three, if there was time to cast them. If there was not, they would not survive.

Beyond the ridge, the huge column of fire burnt with increasing heat, though it stayed a terrible, disturbing red. The red of bright blood, fresh from a wound.