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There were no boats moored in the harbor, tied up to the jetties, or at the harbor wall. Not even a dinghy, hauled up for repair. Sabriel stood on the steps, looking down, mind temporarily devoid of further plans. She just watched the swirl of the sea around the barnacled piles of the jetties; the moving shadows in the blue, marking small fish schooling about their business. Mogget sat near her feet, sniffing the air, silent. Touchstone stood higher, behind her, guarding the rear.
“What now?” asked Sabriel, generally indicating the empty harbor below, her arm moving with the same rhythm as the swell, in its perpetual tilt against wood and stone.
“There are people on the island,” Mogget said, eyes slitted against the wind. “And boats tied up between the two outcrops of rock on the southwest.”
Sabriel looked, but saw nothing, till she extracted the telescope from the pack on Touchstone’s back. He stood completely still while she ferreted around, silent as the empty village. Playing wooden again, Sabriel thought, but she didn’t really mind. He was being helpful, without metaphorically tugging his forelock every few minutes.
Through the telescope, she saw that Mogget was right. There were several boats partly hidden between two spurs of rock, and some slight signs of habitation: a glimpse of a washing line, blown around the corner of a tall rock; the momentary sight of movement between two of the six or seven ramshackle wooden buildings that nestled on the island’s south-western side.
Shifting her gaze to the breakwater, Sabriel followed its length. As she’d half expected, there was a gap in the very middle of it, where the sea rushed through with considerable force. A pile of timber on the island side of the breakwater indicated that there had once been a bridge there, now removed.
“It looks like the villagers fled to the island,” she said, shutting the telescope down. “There’s a gap in the breakwater, to keep running water between the island and shore. An ideal defense against the Dead. I don’t think even a Mordicant would risk crossing deep tidal water—”
“Let’s go then,” muttered Touchstone. He sounded nervous again, jumpy. Sabriel looked at him, then above his head, and saw why he was nervous. Clouds were rolling in from the south-east, behind the village—dark clouds, laden with rain. The air was calm, but now she saw the clouds, Sabriel recognized it was the calm before heavy rain. The sun would not be guarding them for very much longer and night would be an early guest.
Without further urging, she set off down the steps, down to the harborside, then along to the breakwater. Touchstone followed more slowly, turning every few steps to watch the rear. Mogget did likewise, his small cat-face continually looking back, peering up at the houses.
Behind them, shutters inched open and fleshless eyes watched from the safety of shadows, watched the trio marching out to the breakwater, still washed in harsh sunlight, flanked by swift-moving waves of terrible water. Rotten, corroded teeth ground and gnashed in skeletal mouths. Farther back from the windows, shadows darker than ones ever cast by light whirled in frustration, anger—and fear. They all knew who had passed.
One such shadow, selected by lot and compelled by its peers, gave up its existence in Life with a silent scream, vanishing into Death. Their master was many, many leagues away, and the quickest way to reach him lay in Death. Of course, message delivered, the messenger would fall through the Gates to a final demise. But the master didn’t care about that.
The gap in the breakwater proved to be at least fifteen feet wide, and the water was twice Sabriel’s height, the sea surging through with a rough aggression. It was also covered by archers from the island, as they discovered when an arrow struck the stones in front of them and skittered off into the sea.
Instantly, Touchstone rushed in front of Sabriel, and she felt the flow of Charter Magic from him, his swords sketching a great circle in the air in front of them both. Glowing lines followed the swords’ path, till a shining circle hung in the air.
Four arrows curved through the air from the island. One, striking the circle, simply vanished. The other three missed completely, striking stones or sea.
“Arrow ward,” gasped Touchstone. “Effective, but hard to keep going. Do we retreat?”
“Not yet,” replied Sabriel. She could feel the Dead stirring in the village behind them and she could also see the archers now. There were four of them, two pairs, each behind one of the large, upthrust stones that marked where the breakwater joined the island. They looked young, nervous and were already proven to be of little threat.
“Hold!” shouted Sabriel. “We are friends!”
There was no reply, but the archers didn’t loose their nocked arrows.
“What’s the village leader’s title—usually, I mean? What are they called?” Sabriel whispered hurriedly to Touchstone, once again wishing she knew more about the Old Kingdom and its customs.
“In my day . . .” Touchstone replied slowly, his swords retracing the arrow ward, attention mostly on that, “in my day—Elder—for this size of village.”
“We wish to speak with your Elder!” shouted Sabriel. She pointed at the cloud-front advancing behind her, and added, “Before darkness falls!”
“Wait!” came the answer, and one of the archers scampered back from the rocks, up towards the buildings. Closer to, Sabriel realized they were probably boathouses or something like that.
The archer returned in a few minutes, an older man hobbling over the rocks behind him. The other three archers, seeing him, lowered their bows and returned shafts to quivers. Touchstone, seeing this, ceased to maintain the arrow ward. It hung in the air for a moment, then dissipated, leaving a momentary rainbow.
The Elder was named in fact, as well as title, they saw, as he limped along the breakwater. Long white hair blew like fragile cobwebs around his thin, wrinkled face, and he moved with the deliberate intention of the very old. He seemed unafraid, perhaps possessed of the disinterested courage of one already close to death.
“Who are you?” he asked, when he reached the gap, standing above the swirling waters like some prophet of legend, his deep orange cloak flapping around him from the rising breeze. “What do you want?”
Sabriel opened her mouth to answer, but Touchstone had already started to speak. Loudly.
“I am Touchstone, sworn swordsman for the Abhorsen, who stands before you. Are arrows your welcome for such folk as we?”
The old man was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes focused on Sabriel, as if he could strip away any falsity or illusion by sight alone. Sabriel met his gaze, but out of the corner of her mouth she whispered to Touchstone.
“What makes you think you can speak for me? Wouldn’t a friendly approach be better? And since when are you my sworn—”
She stopped, as the old man cleared his throat to speak and spat into the water. For a moment, she thought that this was his response, but as neither the archers nor Touchstone reacted, it was obviously of no account.
“These are bad times,” the Elder said. “We have been forced to leave our firesides for the smoking sheds, warmth and comfort for seawinds and the stench of fish. Many of the people of Nestowe are dead—or worse. Strangers and travelers are rare in such times, and not always what they seem.”
“I am the Abhorsen,” Sabriel said, reluctantly. “Enemy of the Dead.”
“I remember,” replied the old man, slowly. “Abhorsen came here when I was a young man. He came to put down the haunts that the spice merchant brought, Charter curse him. Abhorsen. I remember that coat you’re wearing, blue as a ten-fathom sea, with the silver keys. There was a sword, also . . .”
He paused, expectantly. Sabriel stood, silently, waiting for him to go on.
“He wants to see the sword,” Touchstone said, voice flat, after the silence stretched too far.
“Oh,” replied Sabriel, flushing.
It was quite obvious. Carefully, so as not to alarm the archers, she drew her sword, holding it up to the sun, so the Charter marks could clearly be seen, silver dancers on the blade.
