chapter xxvi

Everything moved rapidly after the tea was drunk. Almost too rapidly for the exhausted Sabriel and Touchstone. Judging from the noises outside, soldiers were rushing about in all directions, while they ate their belated lunch. Then, before they could even begin to digest, Horyse was back, telling them to get moving.

It was somewhat like being a bit player in the school play, Sabriel thought, as she stumbled out of the communication trench and onto the parade ground. There was an awful lot happening around her, but she didn’t really feel part of it. She felt Touchstone lightly brush her arm, and smiled at him reassuringly—it had to be even worse for him.

Within minutes, they were hustled across the parade ground, towards a waiting line of trucks, an open staff car and two strange steelplated contraptions. Lozenge-shaped, with gun turrets on either side, and caterpillar tracks.

Tanks, Sabriel realized. A relatively recent invention. Like the trucks, they were roaring, engines belching blue-grey smoke. No problem now, Sabriel thought, but the engines would stop when the wind blew in from the Old Kingdom. Or when Kerrigor came . . .

Horyse led them to the staff car, opened the back door and gestured for them to get in.

“Are you coming with us?” Sabriel asked, hesitantly, as she settled back in the heavily padded leather seats, fighting a wave of tiredness that threatened immediate sleep.

“Yes,” replied Horyse, slowly. He seemed surprised at his own answer, and suddenly far away.

“Yes, I am.”

“You have the Sight,” said Touchstone, looking up from where he was adjusting his scabbard before sitting down. “What did you see?”

“The usual thing,” replied Horyse. He got in the front seat, and nodded to the driver—a thin-faced veteran of the Scouts, whose Charter mark was almost invisible on his weather-beaten forehead.

“What do you mean?” asked Sabriel, but her question was lost as the driver pressed the starter switch, and the car coughed and spluttered into life, a tenor accompaniment to the bass cacophony of the trucks and tanks.

Touchstone jumped at the sudden noise and vibration, then smiled sheepishly at Sabriel, who’d lightly rested her fingers on his arm, as if calming a child.

“What did he mean ‘the usual thing’?” asked Sabriel.

Touchstone looked at her, sadness and exhaustion vying for first place in his gaze. He took her hand in his own and traced a line across her palm—a definite, ending sort of line.

“Oh,” muttered Sabriel. She sniffed and looked at the back of Horyse’s head, eyes blurring, seeing only the line of his cropped silver hair extending just past his helmet rim.

“He has a daughter the same age as me, back at . . . somewhere south,” she whispered, shivering, clutching Touchstone’s hand till his fingers were as white as her own. “Why, oh why, does everything . . . everyone . . .”

The car started forward with a lurch, preceded by two motorcycle outriders and followed by each of the nine trucks in turn, carefully spaced out every hundred yards. The tanks, with tracks screeching and clanking, took a side road up to the railway siding where they would be loaded up and sent on to Wyverley Halt. It was unlikely they would arrive before nightfall. The road convoy would be at Docky Point before six in the afternoon.

Sabriel was silent for the first ten miles, her head bowed, hand still clutching tightly on Touchstone’s. He sat silently too, but watching, looking out as they left the military zone, looking at the prosperous farms of Ancelstierre, the sealed roads, the brick houses, the private cars and horse-drawn vehicles that pulled off the road in front of them, cleared aside by the two red-capped military policemen on motorcycles.

“I’m all right now,” Sabriel said quietly, as they slowed to pass through the town of Bain.

Touchstone nodded, still watching, staring at the shop windows in the High Street. The townspeople stared back, for it was rare to see soldiers in full Perimeter battle equipment, with sword-bayonets and shields—and Sabriel and Touchstone were clearly from the Old Kingdom.

“We have to stop by the Police Station, and warn the Superintendent,” Horyse announced as their car pulled in next to an imposing white-walled edifice with two large, blue electric lanterns hanging out the front, and a sturdy sign proclaiming it to be the headquarters of the Bainshire Constabulary.

Horyse stood up, waved the rest of the convoy on, then vaulted out and dashed up the steps, a curiously incongruous figure in mail and khaki. A constable descending the steps looked ready to stop him, but stopped himself instead and saluted.

“I’m all right,” Sabriel repeated. “You can let go of my hand.”

Touchstone smiled, and flexed his hand a little in her grip. She looked a bit puzzled, then smiled too, her fingers slowly relaxing till their hands lay flat on the seat, little fingers just touching.

In any other town, a crowd would certainly have formed around an Army staff car with two such unusual passengers. But this was Bain, and Bain was close to the Wall. People took one look, saw Charter marks, swords and armor, and went the other way. Those with natural caution, or a touch of the Sight, went home and locked their doors and shutters, not merely with steel and iron, but also with sprigs of broom and rowan. Others, even more cautious, took to the river and its sandy islets, without even pretending to be fishing.

Horyse came out five minutes later, accompanied by a tall, serious-looking man whose large build and hawk-like visage were made slightly ridiculous by a pair of too-small pince-nez clinging to the end of his nose. He shook hands with the Colonel, Horyse returned to the car, and they were off again, the driver crashing through the gears with considerable skill.

A few minutes later, before they’d left the last buildings of the town, a bell began to ring behind them, deep and slow. Only moments later, another followed from somewhere to the left, then another, from up ahead. Soon, there were bells ringing all around.

“Quick work,” Horyse shouted into the back of the car. “The Superintendent must have made them practice in the past.”

“The bells are a warning?” asked Touchstone.

This was something he was familiar with, and he began to feel more at home, even with this sound, warning of dire trouble. He felt no fear from it—but then, after facing the reservoir for a second time, he felt that he could cope with any fear.

“Yes,” replied Horyse. “Be inside by nightfall.

Lock all doors and windows. Deny entry to strangers. Shed light inside and out. Prepare candles and lanterns for when the electricity fails.

Wear silver. If caught outdoors, find running water.”

“We used to recite that in the junior classes,”

Sabriel said. “But I don’t think too many people remember it, even the people around here.”

“You’d be surprised, ma’am,” interrupted the driver, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving the road. “The bells haven’t rung like this in twenty years, but plenty of folk remember. They’ll tell anyone who doesn’t know—don’t fret about that.”

“I hope so,” replied Sabriel, a momentary flash of remembrance passing through her mind. The people of Nestowe, two-thirds of their number lost to the Dead, the survivors huddled in fishdrying sheds on a rocky island. “I hope so.”

“How long till we reach Docky Point?” asked Touchstone. He was remembering too, but his memories were of Rogir. Soon he would look on Rogir’s face again, but it would only be a husk, a tool for what Rogir had become . . .

“About an hour at the most, I should think,”

replied Horyse. “Around six o’clock. We can average almost thirty miles an hour in this contraption—quite remarkable. To me, anyway.

I’m so used to the Perimeter, and the Old Kingdom—the small part we saw on patrol, anyway.

I’d have liked to see more of it . . . gone further north . . .”

“You will,” said Sabriel, but her voice lacked conviction, even to her own ears. Touchstone didn’t say anything, and Horyse didn’t reply, so they drove on in silence after that, soon catching the truck convoy, overtaking each vehicle till they were in front again. But wherever they drove, the bells preceded them, every village belltower taking up the warning.

As Horyse had predicted, they arrived at Wyverley village just before six. The trucks stopped in a line all through the village, from policeman’s cottage to the Wyvern pub, the men debussing almost before the vehicles stopped, quickly forming up into ranks on the road. The signals truck parked under a telephone pole and two men swarmed up to connect their wires. The military policeman went to each end of the village, to redirect traffic. Sabriel and Touchstone got out of the car and waited.

“It’s not much different from the Royal Guard,” Touchstone said, watching the men hurry into their parade positions, the sergeants shouting, the officers gathering around Horyse, who was speaking on the newly connected phone. “Hurry up and wait.”

“I’d have liked to see you in the Royal Guard,”

Sabriel said. “And the Old Kingdom, in . . . I mean before the Stones were broken.”

“In my day, you mean,” said Touchstone. “I would have liked that too. It was more like here, then. Here normally, I mean. Peaceful, and sort of slow. Sometimes I thought life was too slow, too predictable. I’d prefer that now . . .”

“I used to think like that at school,” Sabriel answered. “Dreaming about the Old Kingdom.

Proper Charter Magic. Dead to bind. Princes to be—”

“Rescued?”

“Married,” replied Sabriel, absently. She seemed intent on watching Horyse. He looked like he was getting bad news over the telephone.

Touchstone didn’t speak. Everything seemed to sharpen in focus for him, centering on Sabriel, her black hair gleaming like a raven’s wing in the afternoon sun. I love her, he thought. But if I say the wrong thing now, I may never . . .

Horyse handed the telephone back to a signaler, and turned towards them. Touchstone watched him, suddenly conscious that he probably only had five seconds to be alone with Sabriel, to say something, to say anything.

Perhaps the last five seconds they would ever have alone together . . .

I am not afraid, he said to himself.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Sabriel looked back at him, and smiled, almost despite herself. Her sadness at her father’s death was still there, and her fears for the future—but seeing Touchstone staring apprehensively at her somehow gave her hope.

“I don’t mind,” she whispered back, leaning towards him. She frowned, “I think . . . I think I might love you too, Charter help me, but now is—”

“The telephone line to the Perimeter Crossing Point just went out,” Horyse announced grimly, shouting above the village bell even before he was close enough to talk. “A fog started rolling across the Wall over an hour ago. It reached the forward trenches at four forty-six. After that, none of the advance companies could be reached by phone or runner. I was just speaking to the Duty Officer then—that young chap who was so interested in your aircraft. He said the fog was just about to reach his position. Then the line went silent.”

“So,” said Sabriel. “Kerrigor didn’t wait till sundown. He’s working the weather.”

“From the timings given by the Perimeter,”

Horyse said, “this fog—and whatever’s in it— is moving southwards at around twenty miles an hour. As the crow flies, it’ll reach us around half past seven. Dark, with the moonrise yet to come.”

“Let’s go then,” snapped Sabriel. “The bridlepath to Docky Point starts from behind the pub.

Shall I lead?”

“Best not,” replied Horyse. He turned, and shouted some orders, accompanied by considerable waving and pointing. Within a few seconds, men were moving off around the pub, taking the path to Docky Point. First, the Crossing Point Scouts, archers and Charter Mages all. Then, the first platoon of infantry, bayonets fixed, rifles at the ready. Past the pub, they shook out into an arrowhead formation. Horyse, Sabriel, Touchstone and their driver followed. Behind them came the other two platoons, and the signalers, unreeling field telephone wire from a large and cumbersome drum.

It was quiet among the cork trees, the soldiers moving as silently as they could, communicating by hand signals rather than shouts, only their heavy tread and the occasional rattle of armor or equipment disturbing the quiet.

Sunshine poured down between the trees, rich and golden, but already losing its warmth, like a butter-colored wine that was all taste and no potency.

Towards the top of the hill, only the Crossing Point Scouts went on up. The lead platoon of infantry followed a lower contour around to the northern side; the other two platoons moved to the south-west and south-east, forming a defensive triangle around the hill. Horyse, Sabriel, Touchstone and the driver continued on.

The trees fell away about twenty yards from the top of the hill, thick weeds and thistles taking their place. Then, at the highest point, there was the cairn: a solid, hut-sized square of grey-green stones. The twelve Scouts were grouped loosely around it, four of them already levering one of the corner stones out with a long crowbar, obviously carried up for this purpose.

As Sabriel and Touchstone came up, the stone fell with a thud, revealing more blocks underneath.

At the same time, every Charter Mage present felt a slight buzzing in their ears, and a wave of dizziness.

“Did you feel that?” asked Horyse, unnecessarily, as it was clear from everyone’s expressions and the hands that had gone to ears that they all had.

“Yes,” replied Sabriel. To a lesser extent, it was the same sort of feeling the Broken Stones caused in the reservoir. “It will get worse, I’m afraid, as we get closer to the sarcophagus.”

“How far in is it?”

“Four blocks deep, I think,” said Sabriel. “Or five. I . . . saw it . . . from an odd perspective.”

Horyse nodded, and indicated to the men to keep prying away the stones. They went to it with a will, but Sabriel noticed they kept looking at the position of the sun. All the Scouts were Charter Mages, of various power—all knew what sundown would bring.

In fifteen minutes, they’d made a hole two blocks wide and two deep in one end, and the sickness was growing worse. Two of the younger Scouts, men in their early twenties, had become violently sick and were recuperating further down the hill. The others were working more slowly, their energies directed to keeping lunches down and quelling shaking limbs.

Surprisingly, given their lack of sleep and generally run-down state, Sabriel and Touchstone found it relatively easy to resist the waves of nausea emanating from the cairn. It didn’t compare with the cold, dark fear of the reservoir, there on the hill, with the sunshine and the fresh breeze, warming and cooling at the same time.

When the third blocks came out, Horyse called a brief rest break, and they all retreated down the hill to the tree line, where the cairn’s sickening aura dissipated. The signalers had a telephone there, the handset sitting on the upturned drum. Horyse took it, but turned to Sabriel before the signaler wound the charging handle.

“Are there any preparations to be made before we remove the last blocks? Magical ones, I mean.”

Sabriel thought for a moment, willing her tiredness away, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. Once we have access to the sarcophagus, we may have to spell it open—I’ll need everyone’s help for that. Then, the final rites on the body—the usual cremation spell. There will be resistance then, too. Have your men often cast Charter Magic in concert?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied Horyse, frowning.

“Because the Army doesn’t officially admit the existence of Charter Magic, everyone here is basically self-taught.”

“Never mind,” Sabriel said, trying to sound confident, aware that everyone around her was listening. “We’ll manage.”

“Good,” replied Horyse, smiling. That made him look very confident, thought Sabriel. She tried to smile too, but was uncertain about the result. It felt too much like a grimace of pain.

“Well, let’s see where our uninvited guest has got to,” Horyse continued, still smiling. “Where does this phone connect to, Sergeant?”

“Bain Police,” replied the Signals Sergeant, winding the charging handle vigorously. “And Army HQ North, sir. You’ll have to ask Corporal Synge to switch you. He’s on the board at the village.”

“Good,” replied Horyse. “Hello. Oh, Synge? Put me through to Bain. No, tell North you can’t get through to me. Yes, that’s right, Corporal.

Thank you . . . ah . . . Bainshire Constabulary? It’s Colonel Horyse. I want to speak to Chief Superintendent Dingley . . . yes. Hello, Superintendent. Have you had any reports of a strange, dense fog . . . what! Already! No, on no account investigate. Get everyone in. Shutter the windows . . . yes, the usual drill. Yes, whatever is in . . . Yes, extraordinarily dangerous . . .

hello! Hello!”

He put the handset down slowly, and pointed back up the hill.

“The fog is already moving through the northern part of Bain. It must be going much faster. Is it possible that this Kerrigor could know what we’re up to?”

“Yes,” replied Sabriel and Touchstone, together.

“We’d better get a move on then,” Horyse announced, looking at his watch. “I’d say we now have less than forty minutes.”