“Jorbert. Mind if I have a look?”

The young officer lowered the binoculars reluctantly, and handed them across like a boy deprived of a half-eaten lollipop.

“It’s definitely an aircraft, sir,” he said, brightening up as he spoke. “Totally silent, like a glider, but it’s clearly powered somehow. Very maneuverable, and beautifully painted, too. There’s two . . . people in it, sir.”

Horyse didn’t answer, but took up the binoculars and the same elbow-propping stance. For a moment, he couldn’t see the aircraft, and he hastily panned left and right, then zigzagged up and down—and there it was, lower than he expected, almost in a landing approach.

“Sound stand-to,” he ordered harshly, as the realization struck him that the craft would land very close to the Crossing Point—perhaps only a hundred yards from the gate.

He heard his command being repeated by Jorbert to a sergeant, and then bellowed out, to be taken up by sentries, duty NCOs, and eventually to hand-cranked klaxons and the old bell that hung in the front of the Officer’s Mess.

It was hard to see exactly who or what was in the craft, till he twiddled with the focus, and Sabriel’s face leapt towards him, magnified up to a recognizable form, even at the current distance. Sabriel, the daughter of Abhorsen, accompanied by an unknown man—or something wearing the shape of a man. For a moment, Horyse considered ordering the men to stand-down, but he could already hear hobnailed boots clattering on the duckboards, sergeants and corporals shouting—and it might not really be Sabriel. The sun was weakening, and the coming night would be the first of the full moon . . .

“Jorbert!” he snapped, handing the binoculars back to the surprised and unready subaltern. “Go and give the Regimental Sergeant-Major my compliments, and ask him to personally organize a section of the Scouts—we’ll go out and take a closer look at that aircraft.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” gushed Lieutenant Jorbert, obviously taking the “we” to include himself. His enthusiasm surprised Horyse, at least for a moment.

“Tell me, Mr. Jorbert,” he asked. “Have you by any chance sought a transfer to the Flying Corps?”

“Well, yes, sir,” replied Jorbert. “Eight times . . .”

“Just remember,” Horyse said, interrupting him. “That whatever is out there may be a flying creature, not a flying machine—and its pilots may be half-rotted things that should be properly dead, or Free Magic beings that have never really lived at all. Not fellow aviators, knights of the sky, or anything like that.”

Jorbert nodded, unmilitarily, saluted, and turned on his heel.

“And don’t forget your sword next time you’re on duty, officer,” Horyse called after him. “Hasn’t anyone told you your revolver might not work?”

Jorbert nodded again, flushed, almost saluted, then scuttled off down the communication trench. One of the soldiers in the Forward Observation Post, a corporal with a full sleeve of chevrons denoting twenty years’ service, and a Charter mark on his forehead to show his Perimeter pedigree, shook his head at the departing back of the young officer.

“Why are you shaking your head, Corporal Anshy?” snapped Horyse, irked by his many interrupted shaves and this new and potentially dangerous appearance of an aircraft.

“Water on the brain,” replied the corporal cheerfully—and rather ambiguously. Horyse opened his mouth to issue a sharp reprimand, then closed it as the corners of his mouth involuntarily inched up into a smile. Before he could actually laugh, he left the post, heading back to the trench junction where his section and the RSM would meet him to go beyond the Wall.

Within five paces, he’d lost his smile.

The Paperwing slid to a perfect landing in a flurry of snow. Sabriel and Touchstone sat in it, shivering under oilskin and boat cloak, respectively, then slowly levered themselves out to stand knee-deep in the tightly packed snow. Touchstone smiled at Sabriel, his nose bright red and eyebrows frosted.

“We made it.”

“So far,” replied Sabriel, warily looking around. She could see the long grey bulk of the Wall, with the deep honey-colored sun of autumn on the Ancelstierran side. Here, the snow lay banked against the grey stone, and it was overcast, with the sun almost gone. Dark enough for the Dead to be wandering around.

Touchstone’s smile faded as he caught her mood, and he took his swords from the Paperwing, giving the left sword to Sabriel. She sheathed it, but it was a bad fit—another reminder of loss.

“I’d better get the books, too,” she said, bending in to retrieve them from the cockpit. The two Charter Magic books were fine, untouched by snow, but The Book of the Dead seemed wet. When Sabriel pulled it out, she found it wasn’t snow-wet. Beads of dark, thick blood were welling up out of its cover. Silently, Sabriel wiped it on the hard crust of the snow, leaving a livid mark. Then she tucked the books away in the pockets of her coat.

“Why . . . why was the book like that?” asked Touchstone, trying, and almost succeeding, to sound curious rather than afraid.

“I think it’s reacting to the presence of many deaths,” Sabriel replied. “There is great potential here for the Dead to rise. This is a very weak point—”

“Shhh!” Touchstone interrupted her, pointing towards the Wall. Shapes, dark against the snow, were moving in an extended line towards them, at a deliberate, steady pace. They carried bows and spears, and Sabriel, at least, recognized the rifles slung across their backs.

“It’s all right,” Sabriel said, though a faint stab of nervousness touched her stomach. “They’re soldiers from the Ancelstierran side—still, I might send the Paperwing on its way . . .”

Quickly, she checked that they’d taken everything from the cockpit, then laid her hand on the nose of the Paperwing, just above its twinkling eye. It seemed to look up at her as she spoke.

“Go now, friend. I don’t want to risk you being dragged into Ancelstierre and taken apart. Fly where you will—to the Clayr’s glacier, or, if you care to, to Abhorsen’s House, where the water falls.”

She stepped back, and formed the Charter marks that would imbue the Paperwing with choice, and the winds to lift it there. The marks went into her whistle, and the Paperwing moved with the rising pitch, accelerating along till it leapt into the sky at the peak of the highest note.

“I say!” exclaimed a voice. “How did you do that?”

Sabriel turned to see a young, out-of-breath Ancelstierran officer, the single gold pip of a second lieutenant looking lonely on his shoulder-straps. He was easily fifty yards in front of the rest of the line, but he didn’t seem frightened. He was clutching a sword and a revolver, though, and he raised both of them as Sabriel stepped forward.

“Halt! You are my prisoners!”

“Actually, we’re travelers,” replied Sabriel, though she did stand still. “Is that Colonel Horyse I can see behind you?”

Jorbert turned half around to have a look, realized his mistake, and turned back just in time to see Sabriel and Touchstone smiling, then chuckling, then out-and-out laughing, clutching at each other’s arms.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Lieutenant Jorbert, as the two of them laughed and laughed, till the tears ran down their cheeks.

“Nothing,” said Horyse, gesturing to his men to encircle Sabriel and Touchstone, while he went up and carefully placed two fingers on their foreheads—testing the Charter they bore within. Satisfied, he lightly shook them, till they stopped their shuddering, gasping laughter. Then, to the surprise of some of his men, he put an arm around each of them and led them back to the Crossing Point, towards Ancelstierre and sunshine.

Jorbert, left to cover the withdrawal, indignantly asked the air, “What was so funny?”

“You heard the Colonel,” replied Regimental Sergeant-Major Tawklish. “Nothing. That was an hysterical reaction, that was. They’ve been through a lot, those two, mark my words.”

Then, in the way that only RSMs have with junior officers, he paused, crushing Jorbert completely with a judicious, and long delayed “Sir.”

The warmth wrapped Sabriel like a soft blanket as they stepped out of the shadow of the Wall, into the relative heat of an Ancelstierran autumn. She felt Touchstone falter at her side, and stumble, his face staring blindly upwards to the sun.

“You both look done in,” said Horyse, speaking in the kindly, slow tone he used on shell-shocked soldiers. “How about something to eat, or would you rather get some sleep first?”

“Something to eat, certainly,” Sabriel replied, trying to give him a grateful smile. “But not sleep. There’s no time for that. Tell me—when was the full moon? Two days ago?”

Horyse looked at her, thinking that she no longer reminded him of his own daughter. She had become Abhorsen, a person beyond his ken, in such a short time . . .

“It’s tonight,” he said.

“But I’ve been in the Old Kingdom at least sixteen days . . .”

“Time is strange between the kingdoms,” Horyse said. “We’ve had patrols swear they were out for two weeks, coming back in after eight days. A headache for the paymaster . . .”

“That voice, coming from the box on the pole,” Touchstone interrupted, as they left the zigzag path through the wire defenses and climbed down into a narrow communication trench. “There is no Charter Magic in the box, or the voice . . .”

“Ah,” replied Horyse, looking ahead to where a loudspeaker was announcing stand-down. “I’m surprised it’s working. Electricity runs that, Mr. Touchstone. Science, not magic.”

“It won’t be working tonight,” Sabriel said quietly. “No technology will be.”

“Yes, it is rather loud,” Horyse said, in a strong voice. More softly, he added, “Please don’t say anything more till we get to my dugout. The men have already picked something up about tonight and the full moon . . .”

“Of course,” replied Sabriel, wearily. “I’m sorry.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, slogging along the zigzagging communication trench, passing soldiers in the fighting trenches, ready at their stand-to positions. The soldier’s conversations stopped as they passed, but resumed as soon as they turned the next zig or zag and were out of sight.

At last, they descended a series of steps into Colonel Horyse’s dugout. Two sergeants stood guard outside—this time, Charter Mages from the Crossing Point Scouts, not the regular garrison infantry. Another soldier doubled off to the cookhouse, to fetch some food. Horyse busied himself with a small spirit-burner, and made tea.

Sabriel drank it without feeling much relief. Ancelstierre, and the universal comforter of its society—tea—no longer seemed as solid and dependable as she had once thought.

“Now,” said Horyse. “Tell me why you don’t have time to sleep.”

“My father died yesterday,” Sabriel said, stony-faced. “The wind flutes will fail tonight. At moonrise. The Dead here will rise with the moon.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Very sorry,” Horyse said. He hesitated, then added, “But as you are here now, can’t you bind the Dead anew?”

“If that were all, yes, I could,” Sabriel continued. “But there is worse to come. Have you ever heard the name Kerrigor, Colonel?”

Horyse put his tea down.

“Your father spoke of him once. One of the Greater Dead, I think, imprisoned beyond the Seventh Gate?”

“More than Greater, possibly the Great,” Sabriel said bleakly. “As far as I know, he is the only Dead spirit to also be a Free Magic adept.”

“And a renegade member of the royal family,” added Touchstone, his voice still harsh and dry from the cold winds of their flight, unquenched by tea. “And he is no longer imprisoned. He walks in Life.”

“All these things give him power,” Sabriel continued. “But there is a weakness there, too. Kerrigor’s mastery of Free Magic, and much of his power in both Life and Death, is dependent on the continual existence of his original body. He hid it, long ago, when he first chose to become a Dead spirit—and he hid it in Ancelstierre. Near the village of Wyverley, to be exact.”

“And now he’s coming to fetch it . . .” said Horyse, with terrible prescience. Outwardly, he looked calm, all those long years of Army service forming a hard carapace, containing his feelings. Inwardly, he felt a trembling that he hoped wasn’t being transmitted to the mug in his hand.

“When will he come?”

“With the night,” replied Sabriel. “With an army of the Dead. If he can emerge out of Death close to the Wall, he may come earlier.”

‘’The sun—” Horyse began.

“Kerrigor can work the weather, bring fog or dense cloud.”

“So what can we do?” asked Horyse, turning his palms outwards, towards Sabriel, his eyes questioning. “Abhorsen.”

Sabriel felt a weight placed upon her, a burden adding to the weariness that already pressed upon her, but she forced herself to answer.

“Kerrigor’s body is in a spelled sarcophagus under a cairn, a cairn atop a little hill called Docky Point, less than forty miles away. We need to get there quickly—and destroy the body.”

“And that will destroy Kerrigor?”

‘’No,” said Sabriel, shaking her head wistfully. “But it will weaken him . . . so there may be a chance . . .”

“Right,” said Horyse. “We’ve still got three or four hours of daylight, but we’ll need to move quickly. I take it that Kerrigor and his . . . forces . . . will have to cross the Wall here? They can’t just pop out at Docky Point?”