Who shall guard and guide?

I thought, with the success of L'epoux du cadavre, I would do another crossover phic, since people seem to like them. So I mused: apart from Corpse Bride, what hasn't been crossed over so far?

And then I thought of Garth Nix's Abhorsen trilogy.

So, yes. I have a weird mind.

Anyway, I have two apologies to make to fellow writers:

The first is to Elektra 1, since my Erik's job will be to hunt down and get rid of the Dead, much like your Hunter Erik; and

Second to Omega Devin, since you were the first to have the idea of a talking Ayesha. If you read the Abhorsen trilogy, you will understand my branch of thought. I hope.

This story takes place in a Europe and a world that is the same as our own, with one important difference: magic. For centuries, perhaps even millennia, humans served and drew upon the power that gave life to the earth and everything in it, the Charter. By using Charter marks to create spells, Charter Mages could summon fire or split earth, whistle up a gale or cause the heavens to open and the rain to fall. They could create and destroy, heal and kill, see into the future or the past. Many became kings or queens and ruled the countries of the world and created mighty empires, and their works were awesome to see.

But those times are the dust of ages, and the balance and order has been lost. Now to be a Charter Mage is a less than safe occupation as the Bloodlines weaken and Charter magic begins to leak from the world, and the enemies of the Charter begin to increase. Free Magic, angry and forceful and the power which lends strength to the sorcerers and foul creatures that wallow in its influence, is growing fast. As humans find more ingenious ways to kill each other necromancers are provided with plenty of fodder to summon evil spirits from beyond the Gates of the river of Death, and turn them upon hapless innocents. Death is encroaching into Life; soon it may overwhelm the world altogether.

Who will guard the living, when the Dead arise? (A.N. Yes, I know it sounds rather Buffy-the-vampire-slayer-ish. So sue me. No, wait, sue Garth Nix instead. You'll get more out of him in the long run.)

Prologue

The midwife tucked a lock of unruly hair back under her head scarf, and bent her eyes once more to her task. It was at least not difficult to see what she was doing; the woman writhing on the bed before her was outlined by the glow of literally thousands of Charter marks, swimming up and down her limbs like luminous insects. They spangled in her sweat soaked dark hair, shimmied across her face, exhaled in every breath – or groan – that came out of her mouth; they poured off the bed like water and grouped around her like a luminous cloud. Many thousands of marks for warmth and shielding, for light and protection, for prevention of decay and for the relief of pain, though from what she could tell the latter ones were not doing the woman much good.

She had rarely seen so many Charter marks in one place during her forty odd years, and never conjured by one person at one time: the man she assumed was the father of the child that was now being brought into Life – though the strangely pale, tall Charter Mage who had summoned her from the village to this tiny, remote camp, and who now lurked in the corner of the tent, seeming exhausted from his efforts to ensure the woman's comfort, might well have been the girl's father for all she knew. There were few lines on his face and his age was impossible for her to tell, despite the streaks of grey in his hair, but there was definitely a great weight upon him, whether from many years or from some other burden entirely.

But come now; she should not let her attention wander! Her mother would surely have scolded her of such neglect at this critical moment, especially when she could see the new born one about to come into this world, the head crowning, a red bubble emerging from between its mother's straining legs.

"Nearly there, my dear, nearly there. One more push, now!" she cried encouragingly, positioning her hands to catch the infant. The Charter sending standing by the woman's head blithely wiped a damp cloth across the hot flesh with glowing fingers, its serene and immovable face a sharp contrast to the straining features of the one it served. The magic servant was yet another sign of the strangeness of this extraordinary couple, apart from the handful of gold coins the man had coaxed her from her house with in the middle of the night – very few still had access to the books that allowed someone to create a being as life-like as this one, the only sign of its otherworldly nature the faint gleam of the Charter marks that flowed beneath its skin, instead of blood.

The woman roared – such a strange sound, coming from so petite a being – and with that the baby fell out from between the girl's legs and into her hands, like ripe fruit. She raised it up, preparing to strike him, for she could see at once that it was a boy, to make him start breathing-

And then she saw the face.

She had seen visages like that before, however little she cherished the memories; but never on something living.

Dead!

The mother hissed in fear as she realised what had come out of her, and scrambled away to the top of the bed, the sending still dabbing unconcernedly at her forehead. At once she threw the thing away from her; but the man's pale hands grasped it and pulled it away quickly into his own embrace as he stared in outrage at her.

"Are you mad, woman?" he spat, once he had a firm hold on the creature. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What I should rightly do, as a servant of the Charter, whose mark I bear," she replied at once, fervently touching her own Charter mark upon her forehead and feeling the familiar warmth of the Charter comfort her, if only slightly, in the presence of that creature. "And if you are a true servant of the Charter as well, you would not hold it to you so dearly."

The man stared at her before looking down at the thing's face for the first time. If it were possible she would say his skin turned a shade paler at the sight of what he held, but after a few moments he raised his eyes again and said, quite calmly, "Would you provide the baptism, good mother?"

She gaped at him. "Are you mad, sir? Baptise that? The Charter would never accept such a travesty!"

But the mage paid no attention to her protests at all, for his eyes were fixed once more upon the baby – if that was what she could really call it – in his arms. The creature was not moving nor breathing, and its horrid yellow eyes stared blankly at nothing. Well, that was certainly a relief. The thing was truly dead; and not Dead.

But no – his eyes were not on the child's, for want of a better word, face; they stared at nothing, saw nothing. As she watched, in growing awe and terror, a chill started to emanate from his form. Ice crystals began to form on the folds of his open coat and across the bells she now, for only the first time this night, saw on the bandolier across his chest…

That was more than enough for her. Without a backwards look at the young mother, still moaning softly in disbelief and pain, she grabbed her cloak and her midwifery tools and fled, out of the tent and into the black night, which at the moment held no more terror for her than what she left behind in the tent; a monster, and its father….

Necromancer!

He was vaguely aware of the midwife fleeing in terror, back in Life, but at the moment he was focused almost entirely on the errant spirit of his son. He could hear a voice, a human voice, more beautiful than most, crying out. He paused, doubtful, the waters of the First Precinct swirling about his knees as they leeched him of colour. Surely no human should sound like that, not even one like him? Was this a trick, a trap?

Then he caught sight of the little spirit, not far ahead, bawling his head off and thrashing, which was good, for it showed great integrity on the child's part and in his spirit – and heading straight for the First Gate. That was not good.

Swiftly he began to wade forward, avoiding the pools and eddies which caught unwary travellers and pulled them into the current of the river. If the child passed the gateway, then it would be all the harder for him to retrieve his spirit, and it might become warped in the time it took to reach him. Already he could see the colour draining from a waving, cubby little arm. He had little enough time as it was.

But something was already coming up the other way, for he could hear the tone of the gateway changing. It was something big, something which muted the roar of the gate, and he could feel its malice and hunger like a knife blade across the skin. He cursed, and as he increased his speed his hand darted to the bandoleer, and alighted on a bell handle, ready to pull it out should the as yet unseen threat reveal itself.

The child was almost at the gateway now, but so was he. Swiftly, dreamlike, he reached out for the small form, just as some dark thing reached out from the black depths of the hole in the mist of the gateway, and then…

His arm beat the Dead thing's arm and wrapped itself around the child, pulling him sharply out of reach and to the safety of his chest, and at the same time he pulled the bell out and rang it in a double eight shape.

There was a hiss and gurgle that shore through his eardrums, and then the unseen thing beyond the Gate was gone, sucked away by the river beyond. But he was just able to catch a glimpse of a pair of burning red eyes – and to be aware that if he had not caught the creature off guard, it would not have been pleasant for either him or the child. Foolish of me, foolish…

With a sigh he replaced the bell in the bandoleer, and only then looked down at the babe he held in the crook of his arm. The baby stared back with wide, yellow eyes in its decayed ruin of a face; so like a Dead thing itself, and yet as unlike as could be. Then, as if conferring a great favour upon him, the yellow eyes closed, and he fell fast asleep.

He sighed again as he looked upon his sleeping son. This was not good. This was not good at all. And it would only get worse.

But as the sense of the child's warmth and life flowed into him, giving him the strength he needed to pace back toward Life itself, he could not help but be comforted, and even smile a little. His son had died once, but he would not do so again so easily.

He blinked as the frost fell off his face and nose and unstuck from his eyes, blinked again and focused on Madeline as she sat hunched away at the far side of the makeshift bed. Her eyes were wide, but not with pain; the Charter marks had taken care of that, healing her torment and stress. Nor, however, were they wide with joy.

He felt so very tired as he quietly accepted a blanket from Marie, who had finished its attentions to Madeline for the moment and focused at once on its duty to its master as well as its mistress. He wrapped the cloth around the baby, wiped the…face…and then advanced to hold him out to Madeline. She looked at their son, and then at him, her face blank and unreadable.

"Well, take him, can't you?" he said, when it became apparent that she was not preparing to welcome the boy into her arms.

"You shouldn't have brought it back." Her voice came as if from beyond the grave, reminding him uncomfortably of past creatures he had fought. But he had never believed that such a tone could come from her throat. "You should have left it there."

"You would have had me consign our son to Death?"

"You are the Abhorsen. It is what you do, after all." She turned her head away, away from both of them. He was flabbergasted. That she could behave in such a way, in such a manner, towards a child! An innocent child! True that his looks were against him, but he was still their son! He was aware that Marie's head was turning to and fro, listening to them argue with as much curiosity as the sending could show, eyebrows slightly raised and blinking rapidly. He wished fervently that it would go away – even if it was not truly alive and probably could not understand what was going on, that pretty bland face was intruding upon a very private matter indeed.

"Madeline, just take him!" "No, I won't!" And now he saw her beautiful eyes were brimming with tears. "I won't take the foul thing, Charles – no!" she exclaimed as he again tried to put the child into her arms; she batted him away, waking the babe again and making him wail. "Keep it away from me!"

"Madeline! For shame! You might not be expected to show any more courage; but you should be ashamed to show less!"

"I don't care!" His wife buried her face in the bed furs; her shoulders now heaving with sobs. "I don't care! I don't want it. You shouldn't have brought it back, Charles – I know you shouldn't have!"

He stared at his wife before sighing deeply, from the very depths of his spirit, and turning away. There was no point in arguing his case – Madeline, he had found all too easily, was always determined to get her own way, no matter what.

She would not get her own way in this, though.

"Where are you going?" Madeline had now emerged from the bed furs, her sweet face sticky with tears, but also sulky and pouting like a spoiled, selfish child herself.

Is that really you? he thought, as he replied, "I am taking him away from you, my wife, since you so obviously do not wish to see him. Maybe Ayesha will appreciate him more."

She scowled, all her beauty gone, transforming her face into a snarl wreathed with tremulous hatred. "Oh, fine then; go off to your pissy little Free Magic mistress. Never mind me. I don't know why you bother with me sometimes, Charles." And she flung herself down into the bed furs and heaped them over herself, truly tantrum like.

He bit back a sharp retort as he grudgingly sketched the Charter marks for sleep, healing, rest and calm, and indicated towards the hidden form in the bed. In a few moments her shoulders stopped shaking, and her gulping, irritating sobs stopped altogether, as she in her turn fell asleep. Marie at once began rearranging the blankets around her, making her more comfortable and finishing the job of pulling off the bloodstained sheets from the mattress.

Without a backwards glance he walked out of the tent with the child, quiet once more, cradled carefully in his arms, a scowl still wreathing his own face. Why he had ever married her, he did not know. No, he did know. It was because he had loved her. But now, he didn't know what to think any more.

Better not to think, for the moment. "Ayesha?" he called softly, staring into the darkness which surrounded the tent and the cart that stood by it. "Ayesha?"

At once his servant's exotic, lethargic voice emerged from between the dark forms of the trees, only a few feet away. "I take this to mean that the blessed event had occurred, Charles?"

"You could say that," he replied, searching in vain for some sign of her in the shadows. Madeline hated Ayesha, so the being – more out of respect for himself than for his wife, whom she dismissed as far less than worthy of him and certainly not worthy of her time – always kept her distance whenever they made camp; and of course Madeline would not dream of having her at the birth of her child. Madeline would not dream of a lot of things concerning the achievement of perfection in her life.

"Judging by the way the midwife fled in such a panic, and the screaming fit your precious little wife just had, I believe this is not the joyous event you hoped it would be?"

"That was my doing," he admitted, reluctantly, "though I believe the babe had a part in it."

"Dismay on all sides?"

"Indeed."

There was silence between the two, for a while. But it was not the silence that was so familiar to them – the silence of years of companionship, which meant that nothing had to be said. This absence of speech signified that neither of them was sure of what to say, which was quite unusual in this particular partnership.

"So the child lives?" came her voice, at last.

"Could you not guess?"

"Oh, I can guess all right." There was a slight pause once more, before she spoke again. "May I see him?"

"You need not ask, Ayesha." Again he looked to her emergence, but at first he saw nothing. What...?

And then he thought to look down. A strange cat had just made its way into the circle of light which the fire just outside the tent made; from what he could tell in the flicker between light and dark it was the colour of cream with brown fur upon its paws, the tip of its tail, its ears and its muzzle, as if it had rooted in mud – as if so elegant a creature could ever do something as common place as rooting – and eyes such a bright blue as to be like sapphires. A black leather collar was fastened around its neck, without ornamentation except for a single bell, which swung and chimed ever so slightly as the creature moved.

And its shadow, he saw all too well, was not always that of a cat.

But this was not Ayesha's usual form. In fact it was no form she had ever taken at all, or at least not in his lifetime.

The eyes of both man and cat met. They both knew what this meant, and they could see that the other knew as well.

Charles licked his suddenly dry lips, and carefully knelt down barely inches from the cat, holding out his son to her, as if in offering. If she was surprised at the appearance of the babe, she made no sign of it whatsoever. She sat down on her dainty haunches and looked from him to the boy and back again, a number of times. He cleared his throat.

"Ayesha, this is the boy who will one day be your master…"

The little cat now looked steadily at the babe for a long while, and the boy stared back with his wide, unearthly yellow eyes in the rotting plain of his face. Something unreadable seemed to be passing between the two, a conversation which even he with his unnatural powers could not and was not meant to hear. Then, ever so carefully, the feline leant forward, her tongue darted out and touched the child's forehead; and when the little pink slice of her tongue came away, a Charter mark glowed where it had been, a baptism into the everlasting Charter.

Charles let out his breath, which he had not been aware he had been holding until then, and spoke again, choosing his son's name in that exhalation.

"…Erik."

So Erik's mum hates him, and his dad likes him, and he's been saved from death and baptised in the Charter! Wow! Cool stuff!

Review for the half Irish seamstress, please!