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“You may have to renew the marks before dawn,” said Mogget, watching Sam’s inspection. “It hasn’t been cast very well. You should get some sleep before you try again.”
“How can I sleep?” whispered Sam, instinctively keeping his voice down, as if it mattered whether the Dead could hear him. They already knew where he was. He could even smell them now—the disgusting odor of decaying flesh and gravemold.
“They’re only Hands,” said Mogget, looking out. “They probably won’t attack as long as the diamond lasts.”
“How do you know that?” asked Sam, wiping the sweat from his forehead, along with several crushed mosquitoes. He thought he could see the Dead now—tall shapes between the darker trunks of the trees. Horrible, broken corpses forced back into Life to do a necromancer’s bidding. Their intelli-gence and humanity ripped from them, leaving only inhuman strength and an insatiable desire for the life they could no longer have.
His life.
“You could walk out there and send them all back to Death,” suggested Mogget. He was starting to eat the second fish, beginning with the tail. Sam hadn’t seen him eat the first one.
“Your mother would,” Mogget added slyly, when Sam didn’t speak.
“I’m not my mother,” replied Sam, dry-mouthed. He made no move to pick up the bells, though he could feel them there on the sand, calling out to him. They wanted to be used against the Dead. But they could be dangerous to the wielder, most of them, or tricksome at least. He would have to use Kibeth to make the Dead walk back into Death, and Kibeth could easily send him walking instead.
“Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” Mogget asked suddenly, his eyes once again intent on Sam’s sweating face.
“What?” asked the Prince, distracted. He’d heard his mother say that before, but it didn’t mean anything to him then or now. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ve never finished The Book of the Dead,” said Mogget in a strange tone.
“Well, no, not yet,” said Sam wretchedly. “I’m going to, it’s just that I—”
“It also means that we really are in trouble,” interrupted Mogget, switching his gaze to the outer darkness. “I thought you would at least know enough to protect yourself by now!”
“What do you see?” asked Sam. He could hear movement upstream, the sudden splintering of trees and the crash of rocks into the water.
“Shadow Hands have come,” replied Mogget bleakly. “Two of them, well back in the trees. They are directing the Hands to dam the stream. I expect they will attack when the water no longer flows.”
“I wish . . . I wish I were a proper Abhorsen,” whispered Sam.
“Well you should be, at your age!” said Mogget. “But I suppose we will have to make do with whatever you do know. By the way, where is your own sword? An unspelled blade will not cut the stuff of Shadow Hands.”
“I left it in Belisaere,” Sam said, after a moment. “I didn’t think . . . I didn’t understand what I was doing. I thought Nick was probably in trouble, but not this much.”
“That’s the problem with growing up as a Prince,” growled Mogget. “You always think that everything will get worked out for you. Or you turn out like your sister and think nothing gets done unless you do it. It’s a wonder any of you are ever any use at all.”
“What can I do now?” asked Sam humbly.
“We will have a little time before the water slows,” replied Mogget. “You should try to place some magic in your blade. If you can make that Frog, I’m sure that will not be beyond you.”
“Yes,” said Sam dully. “I do know how to do that.”
Concentrating on the blade, he delved once more into the Charter, reaching for marks of sharpness and unraveling, magic that would wreak havoc upon Dead flesh or spirit-stuff.
With an effort, he forced the marks into the blade, watching them slowly move like oil upon the metal, soaking into the steel.
“You are skilled,” remarked the cat. “Surprisingly so. Almost you remind me of—”
Whatever he was about to say was lost as a terrible scream split the night, accompanied by frenzied splashing.
“What was that?” exclaimed Sam, going to the Northmark, his newly spelled sword held at guard.
“A Hand,” replied Mogget, chuckling. “It fell in. Whoever controls these Dead is far away, my Prince. Even the Shadow Hands are weak and stupid.”
“So we may have a chance,” whispered Sam. The stream seemed little affected by the dam building upstream, and the diamond still shone brightly. Perhaps nothing would happen before the dawn.
“We have a good chance,” said Mogget. “For tonight. But there will be another night tomorrow, and perhaps another after that, before we can reach the Ratterlin. What of them?”
Sam was still trying to think of an answer when the first of the Dead Hands came screaming across the water—and ran full tilt into the diamond, silver sparks exploding everywhere into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Flight to the River
Dawn came slowly to the outer fringes of the Sindlewood, light trickling over the treetops long before it penetrated the darker depths. When it did finally reach the lower regions, it was no longer a burning heat, but a greenish, diluted light that simply pushed the shadows back rather than extinguished them.
The sunlight reached Sameth’s magic-girded islet much later than he would have liked. The fire had long since burnt itself out, and as Mogget had predicted, Sam had had to renew the diamond of protection long before the first hint of dawn, drawing on reserves of energy he hadn’t known he possessed.
With the light came the full evidence of the night’s work. The streambed was almost dry, the Dead-made dam upstream still holding. Six Charter-blasted corpses lay piled all around the islet: husks vacated by the Dead when the protective magic of the diamond burnt through too many nerves and sinews, rendering the bodies useless.
Sam looked at them warily, through red-rimmed puffy eyes, watching the sunlight crawl across the stinking remnants. He’d felt the Dead spirits shucking the bodies as snakes shed their skins, but in the confusion of their suicidal attacks, he wasn’t sure whether all of them had gone. One might be lurking still, husbanding its strength, enduring the sun, hoping Sam would be overconfident and step out of the diamond.
He could still feel Dead nearby, but that was probably the Shadow Hands, taking up daytime refuges in rabbit holes or otter holts, slipping down into the dark earth under the rocks, where they belonged.
At last full sunshine lit the whole streambed, and Sam’s sense of the Dead faded, save for the ever-present Gore Crow, circling high overhead. He sighed with relief, and stretched, trying to relieve the cramp in his sword-arm and the pain in his wounded leg. He was exhausted, but he was alive. For another day, at least.
“We’d better start moving,” said Mogget, who had slept most of the night, ignoring the slam and sizzle of the Dead Hands’ attempts to break through the diamond. He looked ready to slip back into that sleep at a moment’s notice.
“If the Gore Crow’s stupid enough to get close, kill it,” he added, yawning. “That will give us a chance to escape.”
“What will I kill it with?” asked Sam wearily. Even if the Gore Crow came closer, he was too tired to cast a Charter-spell, and he didn’t have a bow.
There was no answer from Mogget. He was already asleep again, curled up in the saddlebag, ready to be put on Sprout. Sam sighed and forced himself to get on with the job of saddling up. But his mind, tired as it was, still grappled with the problem of the Gore Crow. As Mogget said, as long as it tracked them, other Dead would be able to find them easily. Perhaps it would be one of the Greater Dead next, or a Mordicant, or even just larger numbers of Lesser Dead. Sam would have to spend at least the next two nights in the forest, and he would be weaker and more tired with every passing hour. He might not even be able to cast a diamond of protection. . . .
But, he thought, lo
oking down at the dry streambed and the hundreds of beautifully round pebbles there, I do have the strength to put a mark of accuracy on a stone, and make a sling from my spare shirt. He even knew how to use one. Jall Oren had been keen on tutoring the royal children in all manner of weapons.
For the first time in days, a smile crept upon Sam’s face, banishing the weariness. He looked up. Sure enough, the Gore Crow was circling lower than yesterday, overconfident from Sam’s lack of a bow and obvious inability to do anything. It would be a long shot, but a Charter-spelled stone should go the distance.
