A/N: Long chapter, just what you've been waiting for! This is more than twice as long as the rest, but I didn't have the heart to break it into two chapters. Oh, and in a few places I'm not completely sure of my "facts," so if you find anything inaccurate I would be much obliged if you let me know, and I'll fix it ASAP. Enough of my babbling, on to the story!
"Lirael!…Lirael, wake up!"
Lirael forced her eyes open as she sat up, her hand automatically reaching for Nehima, which rested beside her in the tent. "What is it?" she called, softly, since Nick's urgent voice had only been a whisper.
"Gore Crow," he said breathlessly. He had poked his head in the entrance of the tent, without even thinking about modesty. Thankfully, Lirael had gone to sleep in her clothes, surcoat and all, barely taking time to take off her bandolier and sword. These two weapons she donned now as she sat up and joined her companion outside, forcing back fear. A single Gore Crow could only mean a scout, watching for a much larger force of Dead. Her worst fears were confirmed: Chlorr was near.
"Where?" she asked Nick.
He pointed to where he saw the crow only moments before it had disappeared in the darkness. Had it been lighter, and had she been paying closer attention, she would have seen that Nick's arm was shaking. Nick was no coward, but it was his first time encountering the Dead like this. He was no stranger to the Dead, but when he knew them, he had called them the "Night Crew," and had assumed they were only humans suffering a terrible disease. He quickly withdrew his arm, unwilling to let Lirael see him tremble.
She hadn't noticed. She was on high alert as she stared, eyes narrowed, in the direction Nick had indicated. Her grip on her sword tightened and she agitatedly touched one of the bells, her fingers unconsciously landing on the third bell. Kibeth. Her favorite bell, her one reminder of her lost friend of the same name.
"Diamonds," she muttered to herself. Nick inclined his head, confused.
"Pardon?"
"Diamonds of protection," she explained. "We should try to get at least one up. Sam ever teach you—?"
"One of the first things," Nicholas assured her.
"Let's make one around the campsite," was her response.
They quickly got to business, setting up the four marks around the site, including the tent, the horses, and the saddlebags. Once that was completed, they stood in the center and grasped each other's hands. It was easier to work together on a spell with some physical contact. In any other situation, Lirael would have blushed, but she was all business now. There was no time for pleasantries when the Dead were near.
She could feel her Death sense tingling, and knew that they had to work quickly. Together, she and Nick activated the West mark. Lirael found it easier, and her energy was hardly affected. Dimly, she realized what Sam had told her was true: Nick seemed to have boundless amounts of energy. Next they did the South mark, and that took more time and vigor, but eventually they got it. The East mark was harder still, but they accomplished it with plenty of energy to spare. Finally, they faced the North mark, which was most difficult because it was last. Normally, Lirael would have been barely able to complete the diamond of protection, with little strength to spare. But with Nick, she finished it with plenty of power for the inevitable battle ahead.
"There," said Lirael once they were done. She was a little out of breath, but was more than ready for the upcoming Dead. And they were close. They were very close.
"That'll hold them for a while," she informed Nick. "But…be prepared to do some fighting."
He nodded grimly, and tried to smile as if this were no more than a cricket match in Ancelstierre. "I'm ready," he said, sounding bolder than he felt.
She returned a sad smile, knowing he would be nervous. She, too, was anxious, for as experienced as she was as an Abhorsen-in-Waiting, she still didn't like fighting the Dead. Especially not a vast army of them, sent by a long-ago enemy.
She felt something on her ankle and nearly beheaded the thing with Nehima. A sharp yowl let her know who the intruder was, and stayed her hand.
"Watch it," Mogget grumbled as he curled up by her feet.
Lirael nearly lost her patience with the cat. "Mogget," she said sternly. "We're about to fight an army of the Dead, sent by Chlorr of the Mask."
"And, of course, I'm here to help," he replied wanly. "This is why I followed you two. Mind you, I'm not going to do any actual fighting, but I figure I'll save your necks when you're in the most danger."
"You're so generous," Lirael said, smiling down almost fondly at the cat.
"I know it," he agreed, nonchalantly licking a paw.
Nick raised an eyebrow at Mogget, but said nothing. He was looking out past their diamond of protection, gripping a sword. Lirael had almost forgotten that he had carried such a weapon with him for the journey. But, of course, Nick wouldn't rely on the Charter alone for defense. She knew that Nick, in addition to Charter lessons, had been learning swordsmanship from the guards at the Belisaere Palace. She hoped that he was more prominent with the weapon than he was at horse riding.
Nick suddenly pointed, and Lirael realized that she had been staring at him the whole time she was contemplating. Hastily she followed his finger, hoping he hadn't noticed. She saw—and felt, as her Death sense prickled—the army they were so apprehensively waiting for. She had been too lost in her thoughts to notice, and cursed herself for her foolish daydreams. She couldn't afford to not pay attention to the situation.
"Here they come," she said softly, raising Nehima with one hand. The other tightened on Kibeth's pouch.
The first Dead Hands who reached the diamond of protection were too dull to realize the nature of the defense. They sizzled and vanished as they crashed into the invisible wall, sent back where they belonged, in Death. Only after several of the Hands had suffered this fate did the others begin to catch on. They stopped, a few feet away from the diamond. Lirael realized that for the moment, the only thing that stood between her and the almost innumerable Dead creatures was a thin, imperceptible shield. She prayed that Nick or Mogget wouldn't be compelled to walk into the diamond, breaking it. But they were all congregated at the center, so that seemed unlikely. Still, she worried.
A few moments passed, and the Dead force stared at the few creatures inside the diamond. Lirael wondered, hopefully, if they would be discouraged and would wander away. But there was little chance of that, she knew. She couldn't afford to disillusion herself with false hope.
Her Death sense pressed her so suddenly she almost lurched forward. Nick moved for her, concerned, but she was back on her feet in a moment. Her eyes, however, were wide in fright. Nick, seeing Lirael's fear, shuddered. Anything that scared Lirael had to be bad.
Lirael clamped down on her fear, and turned to Nick. "There's a Mordicant with them," she said dully.
Nick felt his high spirits plummet. He had learned about Mordicants, too. One of the Greater Dead. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to control his trembling. His grip on his sword tightened until he was sure he would get blisters just from holding the weapon.
Lirael, too, was nervous. The only way this situation could turn out to be worse was if Chlorr herself had been here, but a Mordicant was nearly as bad. She would have to work much harder than she figured. She would need all the help she could get, and sadly glanced from Nick to Mogget. Was it possible that they could prevail?
With the arrival of the Mordicant, the Dead Hands grew more confident. They knew that if they continued to attack the diamond of protection, eventually it would break, or at least be rendered too weak to prevent them from entering. The first Hands mindlessly crashed against the diamond, and Lirael winced as each one was sent back to Death. They would go through a lot of their army, but they were willing to make the sacrifice to get to Lirael, Nick, and Mogget.
"It's weakening," whispered Nick. He, too, felt their creation shudder with each Hand that threw itself against it.
"It'll hold," Lirael said faintly, but knew that it was a vain hope.
How long they stood there, watching in disgust as Hand after Hand plunged into their defense, Lirael couldn't say. All she was aware of was the first Hand that came through—unhindered. She froze, surprised, not expecting to be attacked so soon. The Dead Hand came after her, in her brief moment of paralysis. Suddenly, a glinting weapon soared through and decapitated the Hand. Lirael, startled, looked up into the concerned face of Nicholas.
"They're here," was all he said. All humor and smiles were gone from his visage now. His eyes were hard, but beneath them Lirael could see a sort of repulsion. Nick clearly didn't like chopping up bodies, as vile to life as they might be. Her respect for him raised another notch. Nicholas nodded once and rushed to the other side of the camp, where Hands were rushing in.
But she had work to do. She couldn't just stand there gaping as Dead Hands came through. The hand on the bell-bandolier almost reached into Kibeth's pouch, but changed at the last instant and went for Ranna. Nick, she knew, would be out of range, so he wouldn't be affected by the Sleeper. It would make her task easier if she struck down many of the Hands before her with sleep. She rang the bell, putting her will into it, forcing all who heard it to drop into slumber.
The first wave of Dead Hands before her fell under Ranna's influence. Lirael felt a tickle of fur by her foot and glanced down to see Mogget, likewise affected. She winced; she had forgotten about the cat. Putting it out of mind, she turned to face the Hands who had fallen. They had bought her precious time. She next drew out Kibeth, knowing that she would need Saraneth when the Mordicant came.
The cold bell nevertheless felt a little warm in her hand. Her heart twinged, missing the Disreputable Dog, but she couldn't think about that now. She swung the bell, letting its powerful tone sound out among the oncoming onslaught of Dead. Even the sleeping Hands were forced to Walk, into Death and beyond the Ninth Gate. Lirael had made a vast amount of Hands return to where they belonged…and still the horde came.
Ignoring the sleeping Mogget for the time being, she replaced Kibeth and held out Nehima. She needed to save her strength for the approaching Mordicant, and any other larger threats than simple Dead Hands. It was time to resort to swordfighting and Charter Magic. She swung her sword vehemently at the first Dead Hands who scrambled over their fallen comrades, slicing off limbs wherever blade met Dead flesh. The Hands who had been struck fell back, weakened. Lirael next reached into the Charter and summoned fire, which she flung at the nearing Hands. She struck true, burning several of the Hands. And still they came…
Lirael wiped her perspiring brow and set to work.
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On the other side of the camp, Nicholas was faring similarly.
Near the beginning of the attack, when he had first parted from Lirael, he faintly heard the tinkle of a bell. Immediately he'd felt drowsy, but had fought this sudden lethargy. He lashed out with his sword, trying to kill as many Hands as possible. There were much less coming from this side, but still much more than Nick would have liked.
Before long, he tired of slashing at countless Hands. He remembered his promise to Sam, and smiled grimly. He would fulfill that now. Nick reached into the Charter, hardly realizing he was doing so without stumbling, for the first time. Sam had praised his talent with fire with good reason. Nick summoned a wave of flame, and as soon as it came to him he sent it at the mass of Dead creatures coming towards him. The wave leaped from his hands, spreading out in all directions when it reached the center of the horde. It burnt those who it touched to a crisp. Nick watched in grave satisfaction, hating the killing (if such a term could be used) in such a gruesome way. But he knew he had no choice, and tried to reconcile for the guilt by telling himself he was only doing it out of defense. The alternative would be much worse. But still, he wished he wasn't forced to perform such a deed.
Now that he had wiped out most of the Dead Hands on his side (he cut up a few lingering ones with his sword), he raced back to Lirael's side. She was in need of much help. The brunt of the force was coming for her. She lashed out, with sword, fire, lightning, and even some water, but still they came.
Nick added his power to hers. She was tiring, that much was plain. And he knew that she needed as much energy as possible to face the Mordicant. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. Startled, she looked up; she hadn't noticed his arrival.
"Let me," he said. No more words were needed.
She nodded wearily, and relented, plunking down unceremoniously on the ground beside a sleeping white shape. Mogget, Nick realized. Some good that cat has done for us.
He turned away and faced the army. He took in a deep breath, and once again reached into the Charter without thinking about it. He couldn't afford another fire wave that had eliminated the other Hands, since that would cost him more energy than he could afford. Instead, he touched the dry grass that covered a part of the plain. A spark leaped from his finger and soon the whole area was ablaze. Dead Hands stumbled into the fire, burning away without a cry. The others, no geniuses, plunged blindly into the fire as they had the diamond of protection. Soon, only one wave of Dead Hands remained, but they did not approach the licking, greedy flames. They must have been ordered, Nick thought, staring hard ahead to see what he knew was there.
The entire area was suddenly chill with the coldness of Death. Nick shivered, and the fire he created still blazed, but seemed to throw off no heat. He swallowed, all his fear and anxiety from the pre-battle coming back to haunt him. He no longer felt he could fight. He sank down beside Lirael, full of despair and fright.
Lirael had felt the cold long before Nick had. She took in a deep breath and stood, wishing that Nick would heal her of her fatigue. But he was exhausted, and surely that simple request would drain him. He was also unprepared, mentally; the coldness of the Mordicant affected others in more than one way.
About thirty or so Dead Hands stood in front of a looming figure, who seemed to be made of darkness itself. Lirael knew, from having read The Book of the Dead more than once, that a Mordicant was a terrible creature that could go from Life to Death, of its own will. It was made from human blood mixed with Free Magic of a necromancer. And this one was strong, as if there was plenty of Free Magic to spare where it was born.
Tongues of flame shot out from its mouth, its pointed head and glowing eyes glaring at Lirael. She fought the urge to run, and stood up straight, ignoring the chill and the terror associated with Mordicants. She deliberately took her time in removing Saraneth from its pouch, carefully stilling the clapper. She forced herself to meet the gaze of the awful thing. Then, slowly, purposefully, she rang Saraneth with all her might and will.
As the sounds reached the Dead Hands, they were instantly bound to Lirael, for they were so much weaker than the Mordicant. But she did not make them do anything yet. Ignoring them as though they were no more than gnats, she sent the brunt of her will and the call of the Binder to the Mordicant.
She felt resistance, and fought a wave of nausea. This Mordicant would not back down to her will so easily. It fought, and nearly threw her and Saraneth's song off, but she clamped down harder than ever. The Mordicant wavered, unprepared for such power, but refused to bend. Lirael felt some of her strength sapping, but battled on. The war of the wills clashed, and Lirael felt herself gasping. She had never quite done anything like this: attempting to bind a Mordicant, after wearing herself out fighting almost innumerable Dead Hands. Had she been at full strength, she doubted she would have as much resistance as this.
How long they fought, Lirael wasn't sure. She was at the end of her energy, but still struggled on. She fed into her will the hatred she had for Chlorr, and the sense of vengeance she felt for the kidnap of Sabriel and Ellimere. She also added her determination to set things right, and her anger that Clayr's Glacier was melting. Her newly forged resolve proved harder for the Mordicant to oppose. It shoved against her once last time, then dwindled.
But that last conflict proved almost too much for Lirael. She screamed, but couldn't be sure if she screamed in agony or anger. She dimly realized in her emotion that she had succeeded in binding the Mordicant, as well as the remaining Dead Hands. Weakly she bid them all walk beyond the Ninth Gate of Death. She barely felt them acquiesce before she collapsed, sapped of all her strength, on the ground.
A hissing behind her caught her attention. She spun around, her hold on Nehima frail but firm, instinctively. The approaching Dead Hand—the one survivor from Nick's side—was immediately cloven in two. Sighing in exhaustion, Lirael lay down.
A white cat looked at her, fully awake. "It's a good thing you heard me," he remarked. "That would've been ironic, defeating a Mordicant only to be killed by a Dead Hand. Wouldn't you say so?"
Lirael could only nod feebly, then instantly fell asleep.
A/N: That was incredibly long. I hope you enjoyed it!