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“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.”
chapter xxvii
The last blocks came away slowly, pulled out by sweating, white-faced men, their hands and legs shivering, breath ragged. As soon as the way was clear, they staggered back, away from the cairn, seeking patches of sunlight to combat the dreadful chill that seemed to eat at their bones. One soldier, a dapper man with a white-blond moustache, fell down the hill, and lay retching, till stretcher-bearers ran up to take him away.
Sabriel looked at the dark hole in the cairn, and saw the faint, unsettling sheen from the bronze sarcophagus within. She felt sick too, with the hair on the back of her neck frizzing up, skin crawling. The air seemed thick with the reek of Free Magic, a hard, metallic taste in her mouth.
“We will have to spell it open,” she announced, with a sinking heart. “The sarcophagus is very strongly protected. I think . . . the best thing would be if I go in with Touchstone taking my hand, Horyse his, and so on, to form a line reinforcement of the Charter Magic. Does everyone know the Charter marks for the opening spell?”
The soldiers nodded, or said, “Yes, ma’am.” One said, “Yes, Abhorsen.”
Sabriel looked at him. A middle-aged corporal, with the chevrons of long service on his sleeve. He seemed one of the least affected by the Free Magic.
“You can call me Sabriel, if you want,” she said, strangely unsettled by what he had called her.
The corporal shook his head. “No, Miss. I knew your dad. You’re just like him. The Abhorsen, now. You’ll make this Dead bugger—begging your pardon—wish he’d stayed properly bloody dead.”
“Thank you,” Sabriel replied, uncertainly. She knew the corporal didn’t have the Sight—you could always tell—but his belief in her was so concrete . . .
“He’s right,” said Touchstone. He gestured for her to go in front of him, making a courtly bow. “Let’s finish what we came to do, Abhorsen.”
Sabriel bowed back, in a motion that had almost the feel of ritual about it. The Abhorsen bowing to the King. Then she took a deep breath, her face settling into a determined mold. Beginning to form the Charter marks of opening in her mind, she took Touchstone’s hand and advanced towards the open cairn, its dark, shadowy interior in stark contrast with the sunlit thistles and the tumbled stones. Behind her, Touchstone half-turned to take Horyse’s calloused hand as well, the Colonel’s other hand already gripping Lieutenant Aire’s, Aire gripping a Sergeant’s, the Sergeant the long-service Corporal’s, and so on down the hillside. Fourteen Charter Mages in all, if only two of the first rank.
Sabriel felt the Charter Magic welling up the line, the marks glowing brighter and brighter in her mind, till she almost lost her normal vision in their brilliance. She shuffled forwards into the cairn, each step bringing that all-too-familiar nausea, the pins and needles, uncontrollable shaking. But the marks were strong in her mind, stronger than the sickness.
She reached the bronze sarcophagus, slapped her hand down and let the Charter Magic go. Instantly, there was an explosion of light, and a terrible scream echoed all through the cairn. The bronze grew hot, and Sabriel snatched back her hand, the palm red and blistered. A second later, steam billowed out all around the sarcophagu
s, great gouts of scalding steam, forcing Sabriel out, the whole line going down like dominoes, tumbling out of the cairn and down the hill.
Sabriel and Touchstone were thrown together, about five yards down from the entrance to the cairn. Somehow, Sabriel’s head had landed on Touchstone’s stomach. His head was on a thistle, but both of them lay still for a moment, drained by the magic and the strength of the Free Magic defenses. They looked up at the blue sky, already tinged with the red of the impending sunset. Around them there was much swearing and cursing, as the soldiers picked themselves up.
“It didn’t open,” Sabriel said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “We don’t have the power, or the skill—”
She paused, and then added, “I wish Mogget wasn’t . . . I wish he was here. He’d think of something . . .”
Touchstone was silent, then he said, “We need more Charter Mages—it would work if the marks were reinforced enough.”
“More Charter Mages,” Sabriel said tiredly. “We’re on the wrong side of the Wall . . .”
“What about your school?” asked Touchstone, and then “Ow!” as Sabriel suddenly shot up, disrupting his balance, then “Ow!” again as she bent down and kissed him, pushing his head further into the thistle.
“Touchstone! I should have thought . . . the Senior magic classes. There must be thirty-five girls with the Charter mark and the basic skills.”
“Good,” muttered Touchstone, from the depths of the thistle. Sabriel put out her hands, and helped him up, smelling the sweat on him, and the fresh, pungent odor of crushed thistles. He was halfway up when she suddenly seemed to lose her enthusiasm, and he almost fell back down again.
“The girls are there,” said Sabriel, slowly, as if thinking aloud. “But have I any right to involve them in something that . . .”
