“Bloody hell!” exclaimed one of the boys next to Sam.
“Now!” shouted Sam, and the schoolboys rushed forward with a roar, waving their makeshift weapons. Sam and the sergeant went with them, but Cochrane struck out on his own, running down the hill at a right angle to everyone else.
Then there was a blur of screaming, bats rising and falling, the dull thud of stumps being driven through Dead flesh and into the sodden ground.
Sam experienced it all in a strange frenzy, such a tangled mess of sound, images, and emotion that he was never really sure what
happened. He seemed to come out of this concentrated fury to find himself helping Druitt Minor hammer a stump through the forearm of a writhing creature. Even with a stump through each limb, it still struggled, breaking one stump and almost getting free, before some of the boys in reserve cleverly rolled a boulder over the loose arm.
Everyone was cheering, Sam realized, as he stepped back and wiped the rain off his face. Everyone except him, because he could sense more Dead, coming up from the road and on the other side of the hill. A quick survey showed that there were only three stumps left, and two of the five bats were broken. “Get back,” he ordered, quelling the cheering. “There’s more on the way.”
As they moved back, Nick and the sergeant came up close to Sam. Nick spoke first, quietly asking, “What do we do now, Sam? Those things are still moving! They’ll get free within half an hour.”
“Troops from the Perimeter will be here before then,” muttered Sam, glancing at the sergeant, who nodded in affirmation. “It’s the new ones coming up I’m worried about. The only thing I can think of doing . . .”
“What?” asked Nick, as Sam stopped in mid-sentence.
“These are all Dead Hands, not free-willed Dead,” replied Sam. “Newly made ones. The spirits in them are just whatever the necromancer could call quickly, so they’re neither powerful nor smart. If I could get to the necromancer who’s controlling them, they would probably attack each other, or wander in circles. Quite a few might even snap back into Death.”
“Well, let’s get this necromancer chap!” declared Nick stoutly. His voice was steady, but he couldn’t help a nervous look back down the hill.
“It’s not as easy as that,” said Sam absently. Most of his attention was on the Dead Hands he could sense around them. There were ten down near the road, and six on the other side of the hill somewhere. Both groups were getting themselves into ragged lines. Obviously, the necromancer planned to have them all attack at once, from both sides.
“It’s not so easy,” Sam repeated. “The necromancer is down there somewhere, physically at least. But he’s almost certainly in Death, leaving his body protected by a spell or some sort of bodyguard. To get at him, I’ll have to go into Death myself—and I don’t have a sword, or bells, or anything.”
“Go into Death?” asked Nick, his voice rising half an octave. He was clearly about to say something else but he looked down at the staked-out Dead Hands and shut up.
“Not even time to cast a diamond of protection,” Sam muttered to himself. He had never actually been into Death by himself before. He’d gone only with his mother, the Abhorsen.
Now he wished desperately that she were here. But she wasn’t, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He could almost certainly get away himself, but he couldn’t leave the others. “Nick,” he said, making up his mind. “I am going to go into Death. While I’m there, I won’t be able to see or sense anything here. My body will seem to be frozen, so I’ll need you—
and you, sergeant—to guard me as best you can. I plan to be back before the Dead get here, but if I’m not, try to slow them down. Throw cricket balls, stones, and anything else you can find. If you can’t stop them, grab my shoulder, but don’t touch me otherwise.”
“Right-oh,” replied Nick. He was clearly puzzled, and afraid, but he put out his hand. Sam took it, and they shook hands, while the other boys looked at them curiously, or stared out into the rain. Only the sergeant moved, handing Sam his sword, hilt first.
“You’ll need this more than I do, sir,” he said. Then, echoing Sam’s own thoughts, he added, “I wish your mum was here.
Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Sam, but he handed the sword back. “I’m afraid only a spelled sword would help me. You keep it.”
The sergeant nodded and took the sword. Sam dropped into a boxer’s defensive stance and closed his eyes. He felt for the boundary between Life and Death and found it easily, for a moment experiencing the strange sensation of rain falling down the back of his neck while his face was hit by the terrible chill of Death, where it never rained.
Exerting all his willpower, Sam pushed towards the cold, making his spirit cross into Death. Then, without warning, he was there, and the cold was all around him, not just on his face. His eyes flashed open, and he saw the flat grey light of Death and felt the tug of the river’s current at his legs. In the distance, he heard the roar of the First Gate, and shivered.
Back in Life, Nick and the sergeant saw Sam’s entire body stiffen suddenly. A fog came from nowhere, twining up his legs like a vine. As they kept staring, frost formed on his face and hands—an icy coat that was not washed off by the rain.
“I’m not sure I can believe what I’m seeing,” whispered Nick, as he looked away from Sam and down at the approaching Dead.
“You’d better believe it,” said the sergeant grimly. “Because they’ll kill you whether you believe in them or not.”
Chapter Sixteen. Into Death
Apart from the distant roar of the waterfall that marked the First Gate, it was completely silent in Death. Sam stood still, staying close to the border with Life, listening and looking. But he couldn’t see very far in the peculiar grey light that seemed to flatten everything out and warp perspective. All he could see was the river around him, the water completely dark save where it rushed in white rapids around his knees. Carefully, Sam began to walk along the very edge of Death, fighting the current that tried to suck him under and carry him off. He guessed that the necromancer would also be staying close to the border with Life, though there was no guarantee that Sam was going in the right direction to find him, or her. He wasn’t skilled enough to know where he was in Death in relation to Life, except for the point where he would return to his own body.
He moved much more warily than he had when last in Death. That was a year past, with his mother, the Abhorsen, at his side. It felt very different now that he was alone and unarmed. It was true he could gain some control over the Dead by whistling or clapping his hands, but without the bells he could neither command nor banish them. And while he was a
more than proficient Charter Mage, this necromancer could easily be a Free Magic adept, completely outclassing him. His only real chance would be to creep up on the necromancer and catch him unawares, and that would be possible only if the necromancer were totally focused on finding and binding Dead spirits. Even worse, Sam realized, he was making a lot of noise by wading at right angles to the current. No matter how slowly he tried to wade, he couldn’t help splashing. It was hard work, too, physically and mentally, as the river tugged at him and filled him with thoughts of weariness and defeat. It would be easier to lie down and let the river take him; he could never win. . . .
Sameth scowled and forced himself to keep wading, suppressing the morbid pressure on his mind. There was still no sign of the necromancer, and Sam began to worry that his enemy might not be in Death at all. Perhaps he was out there in Life even now, directing the Dead to attack. Nick and the sergeant would do their best to protect his body, Sam knew, but they would be defenseless against the Free Magic of the necromancer.
For a moment, Sam thought about going back—then a slight sound returned all his attention to Death. He heard a distant, pure note that seemed far away at first but was moving rapidly towards him. Then he saw the ripples that accompanied the sound, ripples that ran at a right angle to the flow of the river—straight towards him!
Sam clapped his hands to his ears, grinding his palms into his head. He knew that long, clear call. It came from Kibeth, the third of the seven bells. Kibeth, the Walker.
The single note slid between Sam’s fingers and into his ears, filling his mind with its strength and purity. Then the note changed and became a whole series of sounds that were almost
the same, but not. Together they formed a rhythm that shot through Sam’s limbs, tweaking a muscle here and a muscle there, rocking him forward, whether he liked it or not.
Desperately, Sam tried to purse his lips, to whistle a counter-spell or even just a random noise that might disrupt the bell’s call. But his cheeks wouldn’t move, and his legs were already stumping through the water, carrying him quickly towards the source of the sound, towards the wielder of the bell. Too quickly, for the river found its chance in Sam’s sudden clumsiness. The current surged and wove itself between Sam’s feet. Caught on one leg, he teetered for a moment, then went over like a bowling pin, crashing into the river. The cold stabbed into him like a thousand thin knives, all over his body. Kibeth’s call was cut off in that moment, but it still held him, as if he were a fish on a line. Kibeth tried to walk him back, even as the current tried to keep him in its grip. Sam himself fought only to get his head clear, to get a breath of air before he was forced to take a breath of water. But the effects of the bell and the current were too much, locking him in a struggle in which he could not control his body. And while he could no longer hear Kibeth, his whole body trembled, shot through with the tremendous power of the First Gate, the waterfall that was sucking him deeper and closer with every second.
Desperately, Sam thrust his face towards the surface, and for a moment he broke free to snatch a breath. But at that instant, he heard the roar of the Gate rise to a crescendo. He was too close, he knew, and at any moment he would be swept through the Gate. Without bells, he would be easy prey for any denizen of the Second Precinct. Even if he escaped them, he was probably already too weak to resist the pull of the river. It would take him on, all the way through to the
Ninth Gate and the ultimate death that lay beyond.
Then something grabbed his right wrist and he came to a sudden stop, the river raging and frothing impotently about him. Sam almost struggled against his rescuer, for fear of what it might be, but his fear of the river was greater and he needed to breathe so desperately that he could think of nothing else. So he simply fought to get a proper footing, and cough up at least some of the water that had managed to get into his throat and lungs.
Then he realized that steam was billowing from his sleeve, and his wrist was burning. He cried out. Fear of his captor rose in him again, and he was almost too afraid to look and see who—or what—it might be.
Slowly Sam raised his head. He was being held by the necromancer he’d hoped to surprise. A thin, balding man, who wore leather armor with red-enameled plates for reinforcement—and a bandolier of bells across his chest.
Here in Death, Free Magic magnified his stature, cloaking him with a great shadow of fire and darkness that moved as he moved, transforming his presence into something truly terrible and cruel. The touch of his hand blistered Sam’s wrist, and flames burnt where the whites of his eyes should be.
In his left hand he held a sword level with Sam’s neck, the sharp edge a few inches from his throat. Dark flames ran slowly down the blade like mercury and fell to the surface of the river, where they continued to burn as the current carried them away.
Sam coughed again, not because he needed to, but to cover an attempt to reach into the Charter. He had hardly begun when the sword swung even closer, the acrid fumes of the ensorceled blade making him cough for real.
“No,” said the necromancer, his voice redolent with Free Magic, his breath carrying the reek of drying blood. Desperately, Sam tried to think of what he could do. He couldn’t reach the Charter, and he couldn’t fight barehanded against that sword. He couldn’t even move, for that matter, as his sword-arm was held impossibly still in the necromancer’s burning grasp.
“You will return to Life and seek me out,” ordered the necromancer, his voice low and hard, supremely confident. It wasn’t just words either, Sam realized. He felt a compulsion to do exactly what the necromancer said. It was a Free Magic spell—but one that Sam knew would not be complete till it was sealed with the power of Saraneth, the sixth bell. And there was his chance, because the necromancer would have to let go of Sam or sheathe his sword in order to wield the bell.
Let me go, Sam wished fervently, trying not to tense his muscles too much and give his intentions away. Let me go. But the necromancer chose to sheathe his sword instead, and draw the second-largest of the bells with his right hand. Saraneth, the Binder. With it he would bind Sam to his will, though it was strange that he wanted Sam to return to Life. Necromancers did not normally care for living servants.
His grip on Sam’s wrist did not slacken. The pain there was intense, so bad that it had gone beyond bearing, and his mind had decided to shut it out. If he hadn’t still been able to see his fingers he would have believed that his hand had been burnt off at the wrist.
The necromancer carefully opened the pouch that held Saraneth. But before he could transfer his grip to grasp the bell by its clapper and pull it out, Sam threw himself backwards and scissored his legs around the necromancer’s waist.
Both of them plunged into the icy water, the necromancer sending up a huge plume of steam as he hit. Sam was under—
neath, the water instantly filling his mouth and nose, beating at the last breath in his lungs. He could feel the flesh of his thighs burning, even through the cold, but he did not let go. He felt the necromancer twisting and turning to get free, and through half-closed eyes he saw that under the river, the necromancer was a shape of fire and darkness, more monstrous and much less human than he had seemed before.