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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 fish-drying 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 bridle-path 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?”
