“That was fascinating,” said Sam. “I’d like to learn how to make one myself.”
“I’ve left In the Skin of a Lyon back at the Glacier,” replied Lirael. “But you can have it if you ever go there. It belongs to the Library, but I expect you’d be allowed to borrow it.”
Sam nodded. The prospect of him visiting the Clayr’s Glacier seemed exceedingly remote. It was just another piece of a future that he couldn’t imagine. All he could think of was reaching the safe haven of the House.
“Can we sail through the night?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Lirael. “If the Dog is prepared to stay up as lookout, to help Finder.”
“I will,” barked the Disreputable Dog. She had not shifted from her position at the bow. “The sooner we’re there, the better. There is a foul scent on this wind, and the river is too deserted to be normal.”
Sam and Lirael both looked around. They had been so intent on the Charter-skin that they hadn’t noticed the complete absence of any other boats, though there were a number anchored close to the eastern shore.
“No one’s followed us down from High Bridge, and we have passed only four craft coming from the south,” said the Dog. “This cannot be normal for the Ratterlin.”
“No,” Sam agreed. “Whenever I’ve been on the river, there’ve always been lots of boats. Even in winter. We should have seen some of the wood barges at least, heading north.”
“I haven’t seen a single craft all day,” said the Dog. “Which means that they have stopped somewhere, to take shelter. And the boats I’ve seen tied up have all been out on the jetties or moored to buoys. As far as they can get from the land. “
“There must be more of the Dead, or those Free Magic constructs, all along the river,” said Lirael.
“I knew Mother and Dad shouldn’t have gone,” said Sam. “If they’d known—”
“They would still have gone,” interrupted Mogget with a yawn. He stretched, and tasted the air with his delicate pink tongue. “As per usual, trouble comes in several directions at once. I think some is coming our way, for I am afraid to say that the hound is correct. There is a reek on this breeze. Wake me if something unpleasant seems likely to occur.”
With that, he settled back down again, curling into a tight white ball.
“I wonder what Mogget would call ‘something unpleasant,’ ” muttered Sam nervously. He picked up his sword and drew it partially out of the scabbard, checking that the Charter marks he’d put there still flourished.
The Dog sniffed the air again as the boat came about, onto a port tack. Her nose quivered, and she raised her snout higher as the scent grew stronger.
“Free Magic,” she said finally. “On the western shore.”
“Where, exactly?” asked Lirael, shading her eyes with her hand. It was hard to see anything to the west, against the setting sun. All she could make out was tangled groves of willows between empty fields, a few makeshift jetties, and the semi-submerged stone walls of a large fish trap.
“I can’t see,” replied the Dog. “I can only smell. Somewhere downstream.”
“I can’t see anything, either,” added Sam. “But if the Free Magic isn’t on the river, we can just sail past.”
“I can smell people, too,” reported the Dog. “Frightened people.”
Sam didn’t say anything. Lirael glanced at him and saw that he was biting his lip.
“Could it be the necromancer?” Lirael asked. “Hedge?”
The Dog shrugged. “I cannot tell from here. The scent of Free Magic is strong, so it could be a necromancer. Or perhaps a Stilken or Hish.”
Lirael swallowed nervously. She could bind a Stilken, since she had Nehima to help. And Sam, the Dog, and Mogget. But she didn’t want to have to.
“I knew I should have read that book,” muttered Sam. He didn’t say which book.
They sat in silence for a minute, as Finder continued on her way towards the western shore. The sun was sinking fast now, more than half of its ruddy disc below the horizon. The stars were starting to become brighter as darkness fell.
“I suppose we’d better . . . we’d better take a look,” Sam said at last, with obvious effort. He buckled on his sword, but made no move to pick up the bandolier of bells. Lirael looked at them and wished she could take them up, but they were not hers. It was up to Sam to decide what to do with them.
“If we tie up at that next jetty, will we be close?” Lirael asked the Dog. The hound nodded her head. Without needing orders, Finder turned towards the jetty.
“Wake up, Mogget!” said Sam, but he spoke softly. It had grown quiet on the river with the fall of night. He did not want his voice to carry over the soft burble of the current.
Mogget did not stir. Sam spoke again and scratched the cat’s head, but Mogget continued to sleep.
“He’ll wake when he needs to,” said the Dog. She also spoke softly. “Prepare yourselves!”
Finder expertly slid up to the jetty as Lirael lowered the sail. Sam jumped ashore, his sword drawn, closely followed by the Dog.
Lirael joined them a moment later, Nehima bare, the Charter marks on the blade glowing in th
e twilight.
The Dog sniffed the air again and cocked one ear. All three stood still. Listening. Waiting.
Even the hungry gulls had stopped calling. There was no sound, save their own breathing and the rush of the river under the jetty.
Off in the distance, the silence was suddenly broken by a long-drawn-out scream. Then, as if that were a signal for noise to begin, it was followed by muffled shouts and more screams.
At the same time, Lirael and Sam both felt several people die. Though it was far away, they flinched at the shock of the deaths and then again as it was quickly repeated. There was something else there, too, that they could sense. Some power over Death.
“A necromancer!” blurted Sam. He took a step back.
“The bells,” said Lirael, and she looked down at the boat. Mogget was awake now, his green eyes gleaming in the dark. He was perched upon the bell-bandolier.
“They’re coming this way,” announced the Dog calmly.
The shouts and screams grew closer. But Lirael and Sam still couldn’t see anything beyond the line of willows. Then, fifty yards downstream, a man burst out of the trees and fell into the water. He went under at once but bobbed to the surface some distance out. He swam for a few strokes, then turned on his back to float, too weary or too hurt to keep swimming.
Behind him, a burnt and blackened corpse shambled to the water’s edge and let out a horrible, gobbling cry as it saw its prey escape. Repelled by the swift flow of the river, the Dead Hand staggered back into the trees.
“Come on,” said Lirael, though she could barely get out the words. She drew her panpipes and marched off. The Dog followed her. Sam hesitated, staring out into the darkness.
More people screamed and shouted beyond the trees. No words were clear, but Sam knew they were desperately afraid, and the shouts were for help.
He looked back at the bells. Mogget met his gaze, unblinking. “What are you waiting for?” asked the cat. “My permission?”
Sam shook his head. He felt paralyzed, unable to reach for the bells or to follow Lirael. She and the Dog were almost at the end of the jetty. He could sense the Dead nearby, less than a hundred yards away, and the necromancer with them.