Panting, Lirael stood tall, eyes glaring furiously. She shook her head to flip her bangs out of her eyes, and the silver cord slipped away and left the sheet of raven-night hair to tumble down her back.
She raised the knife, her eyes narrowed upon this new stranger.
'Careful Abhorsen,' the voice hissed, a high, nasal sound that made Lirael bare her teeth, and her eyes flickered from one corner of the room to the next, trying to manipulate the man to move out of the way. She now had the chance to take the stranger in, she soaked up every detail. A pale white face, hideously scabbed and flaky. A long nose, and a line for a mouth. The irises and pupils of his oval-shaped eyes were hidden under the shadow of the hood. His robe was like a monk's and swabbed the ground with thick, grey material that looked to be made of sack-fibres. In contradiction to Lirael's keys and stars, the robe was dotted with an array of gold padlocks and silver moon-crescents.
One long, pale hand slipped down a loosely hung sleeve and withdrew a long, glistening blade, and it took Lirael a moment to recognise the glistening to be powerful charter-spell, such as one that had encased her own Nehima when it had been made to slay Orannis.
Lirael's eyes wavered, and then came to rest upon the hooded face. Her lips curled, and she bent to retrieve her sword from the unworthy white grip of Cronwell, whose eyes stared blankly at the slate floor.
'What do you want?' Lirael whispered, raising both weapons, her eyes watching for the slightest advance in powerful movement.
Cronwell's blood dripped down the dagger and onto Lirael's hand. She yelped and dropped the blade. The blood had stung her.
'Yes, that blood on your weapon is tainted. I daresay you ought to wipe it.'
Lirael did cautiously, using Cronwell's black robe for a cloth, her eyes watching the newcomer all the while.
'Well, I suppose I ought to thank you.' The pockmarked skin stretched as the man spoke and Lirael shuddered.
The man continued, oblivious. 'If you hadn't killed the Charter-Cursed fool, I would have had to myself. Glad to see you spared me the job.
'He killed Touchstone.' Lirael whispered, her voice broken and raw from the unprotected charter-magic she had performed.
'Not without my aid.' The man muttered bitterly. 'Stupid, undeserving arse. He could never kill the King alone. Of course, he couldn't kill Sabriel...her own defences are surprisingly strong, as are your own, young Abhorsen.'
'What are you talking about?' Lirael spat, 'What do you want with my family?'
The man laughed, a bitter croaking sound.
'Family, Lirael? Is that what they are? People who have known you six months only are your family?'
Lirael held her head high. 'Yes.' She said proudly, knowing this more now than ever. Sam had re-assured all fear that perhaps her family did not want her.
The man shrugged, and, in a sudden, swift movement, arched the blade high over his head and then about himself in smooth-cutting movements.
'I hope Sabriel does not disapprove of her circumstance in dying.'
'What do you mean?' Lirael asked, eyes suddenly wide.
She was suddenly aware that someone in the hall next door had screamed, and following that, an uproar of noise. The feel of the dead was suddenly overpowering, and Lirael cursed herself in panic: how could she have not felt them?
'My minions have their way with a large crowd,' the man cawed, as Lirael prepared to wrap herself in charter magic.
She whispered them about her body, and the world blurred. In not two seconds Lirael completed the teleportation and the world around her refocused gently, and the shock to her ears was suddenly hard, and she stood, finding herself in the hall. She sat up, and had to quickly lie down again as a man tumbled over her.
The hall was in uproar, and Lirael turned, taking in the chaos with wide, disbelieving eyes. The doors, tall as the hall itself had been wrenched apart, the wood in splinters and what remained of the doorframe ruined and crumbling to give wave to hundreds of dead pouring into the hall. The congregation – generally not people who went around without weaponry were fighting back, but Lirael saw freshly dead bodies, and felt a window from the river itself close by.
Her stomach dropped as she thought of the Charter-stones, and prayed for their safety. They could not be broken again. She stood, and a dead hand spotted her movement, leaping upward to cry with a guttural moan.
Lirael brought spelled sword and dagger up to slice through rotten flesh and the Hand screamed as she decapitated it's head.
The familiar peal of Saraneth called her, and Lirael turned so swiftly her hair flew about her. There, she saw Sabriel, perched on an upturned altar, wielding the bell high above her dark head, pushing her hands around the mahogany with expert ease. Several of the Dead Hands swarming towards her stopped in their tracks and Lirael unbuckled her own bandoleer with ease. In an answering call she targeted all the weaker members of the hands and felt their spirits leave, the ones around Sabriel dropping to the floor. Sabriel looked to her sister and smiled in relief. Lirael ran to her and Sabriel halved the distance between them by jumping from the table.
'Where is Sameth?' Sabriel called, shoving her blade through a stumbling dead nearby.
'I don't know!' Lirael called back with desperation, 'I sent Nick after him. Sabriel! Cronwell betrayed us... he and his master planned this... I.'
She saw tears in Sabriel's eyes and the pair were momentarily forced back to back to fend of a surrounding crowd of Hands, whom they sent back to the river with several loud peals of two Kibeth bells.
'I prayed it wasn't so,' Sabriel whispered, 'But we are lucky, so far. Ellimere has not arrived.'
Lirael looked at her in warning and Sabriel read it.
'Go.' Lirael said firmly, 'I shall stay. Perhaps I can ward off the dead for long enough to evacuate the Lords and Ladies.'
Sabriel nodded, withdrew Ranna and began to fight her way out.
Lirael turned back to the battle and met the dead with a flurry of deadly-sword swipes and blows.
Lucky so far, she thought grimly – Only Dead Hands. What happens if one of the greater dead is here? What happens when the Shadow Hands come?
'Hurry, Mogget, Touchstone,' The Disreputable Dog turned her head and shook away silvery drops of the grey water than had condensated on her fur.
Mogget was pouncing forward elegantly, Touchstone panting as he waded the river.
'Its alright for you,' he grunted impatiently, heaving his legs through the back-pushing current. 'But you have longer legs. Above all, I am Dead. The dead should not walk this way.'
'And yet you are.' Mogget observed, green eyes glittering.
'Do hurry up, Torrigan. Find something in you that drives you forward. I cannot stand that stupid mutt bettering the two of us in a simple uphill climb.'
'Uphill battle, is more like it.' Touchstone grunted, 'Not to mention this.' He nodded at the Wallmaker's gift. We must put it's use together at the first precinct. It needs the final...'
'Yes, I know!' Mogget spat, 'Now hurry along or we'll leave you behind.'
Nick stumbled up the stairs to Sameth's workroom with considerable speed. Panting, he gripped the handle with slippery hands and forced it open.
The room, wide, and unruly, buzzing with Charter Magic was too big, in Nick's opinion, and searching the room, he stumbled upon Sameth, almost tripping on him as he called his friend.
Sameth was white, a large, bloody wound on his head, his curls encasing the wound protectively.
'Sam?' Nick whispered, pulling his friend's body up quickly, searching Sameth's pale face for signs of life. His friend glittered with Charter Magic, and Nick shook him, feeling sick.
'Sam please don't this.'
Nick clenched his eyes and prayed Sameth was fine.
He touched the charter-mark on Sam's forehead, and it glowed briefly, to Nick's immense relief. He almost collapsed on his friend.
'Come on, Sam,' he muttered, pushing the curls away from the wound, which sparked blue. Nick recognised the colour for protection, as the charter-mages had taught him, and realised the protection had been dented.
'Oh, bloody hell!' Nick cried, 'I'm not a bloody doctor!'
He gazed at the wound, screwing up his eyes, and touching his own charter mark carefully. He still did not know the properties of the mark Lirael's dog had christened him with, only that it was there, and that his immediate dismission of magic was gone, and he knew it as well as he knew the importance of the name 'Sayre'.
He thought of Lirael, and it tortured him to think of her, down there... venerable with that ogre, Cronwell lurking...
Nick wiped a tear away and gazed at his best friend.
'Please, Sameth,' he whispered, 'Come on. Come back to me.'
Gently. Nick pressed his forehead against Sam's.
It felt as though he were leaning down a well, and he felt sick as dizziness and disorientation as the charter buzzed around his ears.... Endless.
Unconsciously, Nick depicted symbols he had no recollection of seeing. But somehow... he knew. Slowly they formed a chain in his mind, and dizzyingly, all symbols clicked effortlessly into place. Nick swooned and fell away.
Recovering himself, he blinked away the pressure spots that lurked at the edge of his vision and rubbed his throbbing temples.
Gingerly he looked Sameth over, and saw that the wound had been reduced to a swelling no larger than a mosquito bite. Nick gazed in wonder.
Sameth opened his eyes.
Lirael felt his presence at the back of her mind, and, wrenching her sword from the Dead flesh it had just slaughtered, she swung around to face the grey-robed demon.
Her eyes danced on his masterfully spelled sword, and gasped, coming forward to him.
'Are you sure this is wise, Abhorsen?' the voice bore traces of mockery, and Lirael glared, dark eyes boring into her enemy.
'I do not know the ways of the wise.'
'No, you don't.' the man agreed, 'That is why the Clayr rejected you. No befuddled brains such as yours could ever be accepted there.'
The taunt stung slightly, but Lirael did not rise to it, she kept her face impassive, making the tip of her blade trace lazy circles as she readied for attack.
The man's unnaturally thin mouth flickered into a smirk and carefully and he took on the common start stance that commenced a duel.
Lirael sank back on her left leg, ready.
The man launched, blade slicing through the air too quickly to see, Lirael blocked, the movements jarring her flesh hand, and nimbly, she swapped to her golden hand, and came away, her hand retrieving her dagger and flinging it at the man's chest.
The blade struck with the crack and thud of driven flesh and bone, and Lirael stood back.
She gasped in horror as the man smiled again, and merely plucked the dagger from his chest and tossed it aside.
'Skilful.' He applauded softly. 'How are your techniques?'
Lirael came forward, forcing him back with harsh uppercuts of the sword blade, constantly trying to catch the hilt and sent it flying from the man's corrupted flesh. He smiled and forced her back, hard, making her golden handwork with constant twists to stay away fro the flashing blade.
The man finished his attack and Lirael did not hesitate to cut hard across her shoulder. To her horror, a dead, scabbed, hideous arm fell to the floor, crumpling and turning to ash.
The man hissed in anger, 'You will pay for that, Abhorsen.'
Lirael said nothing, nor had she the time to do so as the man came at her furiously punching the air with harsh swipes.
A sibilant free-magic hiss echoed from the bizarre lips and out escaped a trailing spell that gathered and then flew at Lirael, small blades which etched small cuts along her arms and torso. Lirael banished them with a mastermark that further burned her throat.
'Give up, Abhorsen.' The man hissed.
'Never.' Lirael croaked.
The man sneered.
'I have had enough.'
His fingers snapped. And Lirael felt free-magic spark inside the sound. She stumbled as her head suddenly reeled and with faint brushing of leather, she felt her bell bandoleer fall to the ground at her side.
'No.' she whispered.
Dead Hands encased her, dead flesh gripped her. Lirael smelt grim, rotten flesh, and, as her head was forced upward with the tug of her hair, Lirael looked up and saw the eyes behind the hood in full light. Her stomach swelled and her lips trembled violently- aftermath of the magic she had worked.
'End it, Abhorsen, eh?'
A voice murmured. Slowly, it dawned on Lirael that death was near. With the slip of the hand, she had fallen into this...
Lirael gazed into the eyes.... Colourless, bland. Rimmed in the grey of the river.
As some feeling encased her, as her armour was slowly pierced with the tip of a sword, Lirael saw the entrance to the river. A song echoed out from it's mouth, the strangest song... so familiar. Such long, passionate tones.
Lirael's vision swam as she identified the source of the noise.
Yrael was singing again.
