“I thought it was later than twelve o’clock,” she said to Sam as they moved up to take a position in the forward line of soldiers. There were about sixty of them in two lines across the road and out into the fields on either side. The front line all wore mail, and their rifles were fixed with long sword bayonets that shone with silver. The second rank were archers, though Lirael could tell by looking at the way they held their bows that only half of them really knew what they were doing. Their arrows were silvered, too, she noticed with approval. That would help a little against the Dead.

“Um, Major Greene’s ‘twelve o’clock’ meant ‘straight ahead’; the time is about two in the morning,” replied Sam, after a glance at the night sky. Obviously he knew the Ancelstierran stars as well as the Old Kingdom ones, for the heavens here meant nothing to Lirael.

“Front rank kneel!” ordered Major Greene. He stood at the front with Lirael and Sam and cast a sideways glance at the Disreputable Dog, who was growing to her full fighting size. The soldiers next to the hound shifted nervously, even as they knelt and set their bayoneted rifles out at a forty-five degree angle, so the front rank was a thicket of spears.

“Archers stand ready!”

The archers nocked arrows but did not draw. The Dead were approaching at a steady pace, but they were not close enough for Lirael and Sam to make out individuals in the dark other than Chlorr. The clicking of their bones could be heard, and the shuffle of many misshapen feet upon the road.

Lirael felt the tension and fear in the soldiers around her. The drawn-in breaths that were not released. The nervous shifting of feet and the fussing with equipment. The silence after the Major’s shouted orders. It would not take much to set them fleeing for their lives.

“They’ve stopped,” said the Dog, her keen eyes cutting through the night.

Lirael peered ahead. Sure enough, the dark mass did seem to have stopped, and the red glint from Chlorr was moving sideways rather than ahead.

“Trying to outflank us?” asked the Major. “I wonder why.”

“No,” said Sam. He could sense the much larger group of Dead farther back. “She’s waiting for the second lot of Dead. Close to a thousand, I’d say.”

He spoke softly, but there was a ripple among the nearer soldiers at his last words, a ripple that went slowly through both lines as his words were repeated.

“Quiet!” ordered Greene. “Sergeant! Take that man’s name!”

“Sir!” confirmed several sergeants. Most of them had just been whispering themselves, and none made even a show of writing something in their field notebooks.

“We can’t wait,” said Lirael anxiously. “We have to get to the Lightning Farm!”

“We can’t turn our backs on this lot either,” said Greene. He bent close, the Charter Mark on his forehead glowing softly as it responded to the Charter Magic in the Dog, and whispered, “The men are close to breaking. They’re not Scouts, not used to this sort of thing.”

Lirael nodded. She gritted her teeth, marking a moment of indecision, then stepped out from the front rank.

“I’ll take the fight to Chlorr,” she declared. “If I can defeat her, the Hands may wander off or go back to Hedge. They’ll fight badly, anyway.”

“You’re not going without me,” said the Dog. She stepped forward too, with an excited bark, a bark that echoed out across the night. There was something strange about that bark. It made everyone’s hair stand on end, and the bell in Lirael’s hand chimed quietly before she could still it. Both sounds made the soldiers even jumpier.

“Or me,” said Sam stoutly. He stepped forward as well, his sword bright with Charter marks, his cupped left hand glowing with a prepared spell.

“I’ll come and watch,” said Mogget. “Maybe you’ll scare a couple of mice out of their holes.”

“If you’ll let an old man fight with you—” Greene began, but Lirael shook her head.

“You stay here, Major,” she said, and her voice was not that of a young woman but of an Abhorsen about to deal with the Dead. “Protect our rear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Major Greene. He saluted and stepped back into the line.

Lirael walked ahead, the gravel of the road crunching under her feet. The Disreputable Dog was at her right hand and Sam on her left. Mogget, a swift white shape, ran along the roadside, darting backwards and forwards, presumably in search of more mice to torment.

The Dead did not move towards Lirael as she marched on, but as she got closer, she saw they were spreading out, moving into the fields to present a broader front. Chlorr waited on the road, a tall shape, darker than the night save for her burning eyes. Lirael could feel the Greater Dead’s presence like a chill hand upon the back of her neck.

When they were about fifty yards away, Lirael stopped, the Dog and Sam a half step behind her. She held Saraneth high, so the bell shone silver in the moonlight, the Charter marks glowing and moving upon the metal.

“Chlorr of the Mask,” shouted Lirael, “return to Death!”

She flipped the bell, catching it by the handle and ringing it at the same time. Saraneth boomed out across the night, the Dead Hands flinching as the sound hit them. But it was for Chlorr the bell sounded, and all Lirael’s power and attention were focused on that spirit.

Chlorr raised her shadow-bladed sword above her head and screamed back in defiance. Yet the scream was drowned in the continued tolling of the bell, and Chlorr took a step back even as she brandished her sword.

“Return to Death!” ordered Lirael, walking forward, swinging Saraneth in slow loops that were straight out of a page of The Book of the Dead that now shone so brightly in her mind. “Your time is over!”

Chlorr hissed and took another step backwards. Then a new sound joined the bell. A peremptory bark, impossibly sustained, stretching on and on, sharper and higher pitched than Saraneth’s deep voice. Chlorr raised her sword as if to parry the sounds but took two more steps back. Confused Dead Hands staggered out of her way, gobbling their distress from their decayed throats.

Sam’s arm circled in an overarm bowling motion, and golden fire suddenly exploded on and around Chlorr and splashed onto the Hands, who screamed and writhed as it ate into their Dead flesh.

Then a small white shape suddenly appeared almost at Chlorr’s feet. A cat, capering on its hind feet, batting at the air in front of the Greater Dead spirit.

“Run! Run away, Chlorr No-Face!” laughed Mogget. “The Abhorsen comes to send you beyond the Ninth Gate!”

Chlorr swung at the cat, who nimbly leapt aside as the blade swept past. Then the Greater Dead thing turned the swing into a leap, a great leap across thirty feet over the heads of the Dead Hands behind her. Transforming as she leaped, she became a great raven-shaped cloud of darkness that sped across the fields to the north, to the Wall and safety, pursued by the sound of Saraneth and the bark of the Dog.

Chapter Nineteen

A Tin of Sardines

AS CHLORR FLED, the mass of Dead Hands erupted like an anthill splashed with hot water. They ran in all directions, the most stupid of them towards Lirael, Sam, and the Dog. Mogget ran between their legs, laughing, as Charter Magic fire burnt through their sinews and sent them crashing to the ground, the Dog’s barking sent their spirits back into Death, and Saraneth commanded them to relinquish their bodies.

In a few mad minutes, it was all over. The echoes of bell and bark died away, leaving Lirael and her companions standing on an empty road under the moon and stars, surrounded by a hundred bodies that were no more than empty husks.

The silence was broken by cheering and yelling from the soldiers behind them. Lirael ignored it and called out to Mogget.

“Why did you tell Chlorr to run? We were winning! And what was that No-Face thing about?”

“It was quicker, which I thought was the point,” said Mogget. He went up to Sam’s feet and sat there, yawning. “Chlorr was always overcautious, even when she was an A— alive. I’m tired now. Can you carry me?”

Sam sighed. He sheathed his sword and picked the cat up, letting the little beast rest in the crook of his arm.

“It was quicker,” he said to Lirael apologetically. “And I hate to mention it, but there are a lot more Dead Hands coming . . . and Shadow Hands, unless I’m mistaken. . . .”

“You’re not mistaken,” growled the Dog. She was looking suspiciously at Mogget. “Though like my Mistress, I am not satisfied with the Mogget’s motivation or explanation, I suggest we leave immediately. We have little time.”

As if in answer to her words, the sound of truck engines came from down the road. Obviously Lieutenant Tindall and his men had pushed them back far enough, and they could start again.

“I hope we can loop around,” said Sam anxiously as they ran to the trucks. “If the wind changes again, we’ll be stranded even farther away.”

“We could try and work it . . .” Lirael began. Then she shook her head. “No, of course not. That would only make it worse for the Ancelstierran . . . what do you call it? Technologia?”

“Close enough,” puffed Sam. “Come on!”

They had caught up with Major Greene and the rear platoon, who were double-timing back to the trucks. The Major beamed at them as they matched his pace, and several soldiers slapped their rifles in salute. The atmosphere was very different from what it had been only a few minutes before.

Lieutenant Tindall was waiting by the lead truck, studying the map once again, this time with the aid of a working electric flashlight. He looked up and saluted as Lirael, Sam, and Major Greene approached.

“I’ve found a road that will work,” he said quickly. “I think we might even be able to beat Hedge there!”

“How?” asked Lirael urgently.

“Well, the only road south from the Western Strongpoint winds up through these hills here,” he said, pointing. “It’s a single lane and not even metaled. Heavily laden wagons—as Maculler described them to me—will take a day at least to get up through there. They can’t possibly be at the Mill before late afternoon! We can be there soon after dawn.”

“Good work, Tindall,” exclaimed the Major, clapping him on the back.

“Is there any other way the hemispheres could be taken to the Mill?” asked Sam. “This has all been planned so carefully by Hedge. In both the Kingdom and here . . . everything was prepared. Using the Southerlings to make more Dead, the wagons ready . . .”

Tindall looked at the map again. The flashlight beam darted in several directions over it as he thought about pos-sible alternatives.

“Well,” he said finally, “I suppose they could take the hemispheres by wagon to the sea, load them on boats, and take them south and then up the loch to the old dock at the Mill. But there’s nowhere to load them near the Western Strongpoint—”

“Yes there is,” said the Major, suddenly grim again. He pointed at a single symbol on the map, a vertical stroke surrounded by four angled strokes. “There’s a Navy dock at the Western Light.”

“That’s what Hedge will be doing,” said Lirael, suddenly chill with certainty. “How quickly can they go by sea?”

“Loading the hemispheres would take a while,” said Sam, joining the cluster of heads bent over the map. “And they’ll have to sail, not steam. But Hedge will work the wind. I’d say less than eight hours.”

There was a moment of silence after his words; then by unspoken consent, the huddle exploded into action. Greene snatched the map and hauled himself up into the cab of the first truck, Lirael and her companions ran to the back to jump in, and Lieutenant Tindall ran along the road waving his hand and shouting, “Go! Go!” as the trucks revved higher and slowly began to move out, their headlights flickering as the engines took the strain.

In the back of the truck, Sam put Mogget on top of his many-times-mended pack and sat down next to it. As he did, he pulled a small metal container out of his belt pouch and set it next to the cat’s nose. For a few seconds, the cat appeared to be sound asleep. Then one green eye opened a fraction.

“What’s that?” asked Mogget.

“Sardines,” said Sam. “I knew they were standard rations, so I got a few tins for you.”

“What are sardines?” asked Mogget suspiciously. “And why is there a key? Is this some sort of Abhorsen joke?”

In answer Sam tore the key off and slowly unwound the top of the tin. The rich smell of sardines spilled out. Mogget watched the procedure avidly, his eyes never leaving the tin. When Sam put it down, narrowly avoiding cutting himself as the truck went over a series of bumps, Mogget sniffed the sardines cautiously.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“You like fish,” said Sam. “Besides, I said I would.”

Mogget tore his gaze away from the sardines and looked at Sam. His eyes narrowed, but he saw no sign of guile in Sam’s face. The little cat shook his head and then ate the sardines in a flash, leaving the tin spotless and empty.

Lirael and the Dog glanced at this exhibition of gluttony, but both were more interested in what was going on outside and behind them. Lirael pushed aside the canvas flap, and they looked past the three following trucks. Lirael could sense the second, much larger group of Dead and Shadow Hands that was advancing along the road. The Shadow Hands, which were both more powerful than the Dead Hands and unconstrained by flesh, were moving very swiftly, some of them leaping and gliding like enormous bats ahead of the main body of their shambling, corpse-dwelling brethren. They would undoubtedly wreak great trouble somewhere, but she could not spare them any further thought. The greater danger lay to the west, and already a little south, where lightning played on the horizon. Lirael noticed that the other, artificial thunder from the Ancelstierran artillery had ceased some time before, but she had been too busy to hear it stop.