chapter vii

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    But the hand didn’t close; the talons failed to rend defenseless flesh.

    Instead, Sabriel felt a sudden surge of Charter Magid Charter marks flared around the door, blazing shtly that they left red after-images at the back of her eyes, black dots dang across her vision.

    Blinking, she saw a man step out from the stones of the wall, a tall and obviously strong man, with a longsword the twin of Sabriel’s own.

    This sword came whistling down on the Mordit’s arm, biting out a k of burning marsh-rotten flesh. Rebounding, the sword flicked back again, and hewed another slice, like an axeman sending chips flying from a tree.

    The Mordit howled, more in ahan in pain—but it withdrew the arm and the strahrew himself against the door, slamming it shut with the full weight of his mail-clad body.

    Curiously for mail, it made no sound, no jangling from the flow of hundreds of steel links. A strange body u too, Sabriel saw, as the black dots and the red wash faded, revealing that her rescuer wasn’t human at all. He had seemed solid enough, but every square inch of him was defined by tiny, stantly moving Charter marks, and Sabriel could see nothiween them but empty air.

    He . . . it was a Charter-ghost, a sending.

    Outside, the Mordit howled again, like a steam traiing pressure, then the whole corridor shook and hinges screeched in protest as the thing threw itself against the door. Wood splintered and clouds of thick grey dust fell from the ceiling, mog the falling snow outside.

    The sending turo face Sabriel and offered its hand to help her up. Sabriel took it, looking up at it as her tired, frozen legs struggled to make a tenth-round eback. Close to, the illusion of flesh was imperfect, fluid and uling. Its face wouldn’t stay fixed, migratiween scores of possibilities. Some were women, some were men—but all bore tough, petent visages. Its  body and clothing ged slightly, too, with every face, but two details always remaihe same; a black surcoat with the blazon of a silver key, and a longsword redolent with Charter Magic.

    “Thank you,” Sabriel said nervously, fling as the Mordit pouhe dain.

    “ . . . do you think that . . . will it get through?”

    The sending nodded grimly, a go her hand to point up the long corridor, but it did not speak.

    Sabriel turned her head to follow its pointing hand and saw a dark passage that rose up into darkness. Charter marks illuminated where they stood, but faded only a little way oe this, the darkness seemed friendly, and she could almost taste the Charter-spells that rode on the corridor’s dusty air.

    “I must go on?” asked Sabriel, as it pointed again, more urgently. The sending nodded, and flapped its hand backwards and forwards, indig haste. Behind him, another crashing blow caused anreat billow of dust, and the door sounded as if it was weakening. Once again, the vile, burnt smell of the Mordit wafted through the air.

    The doorkeeper wris nose and gave Sabriel a bit of a push in the right dire, like a parent urging a relut child to press on. But Sabriel needed n. Her fear was still burning in her. Momentarily extinguished by the rescue, the smell of the Mordit was all it o blaze again. She set her face upwards and started to walk quickly, into the passage.

    She looked back after a few yards, to see the doorkeeper waitihe door, its sword at the guard position. Beyond it, the door was bulging in, iron-bound planks bursting, breaking around a hole as big as a dinner plate.

    The Mordit reached in and broke off more planks, as easily as it might snap toothpicks. It was obviously furious that its prey was getting away, for it burned all over now. Yellow-red flames vomited from its mouth in a vile torrent, and black smoke rose like a sed shadow around it, eddying in crazy circles as it howled.

    Sabriel looked away, setting off at a fast walk, but the walk grew faster and faster, became a jog and then a run. Her feet pounded oone, but it wasn’t until she was almost sprinting, that she realized why she could—her pad skis were still back at the lower door. For a moment,  she was struck with a nervous ination to go back, but it passed before it even became scious thought. Even so, her hands checked scabbard and bandolier, and gained reassurance from the etal of sword hilt and the handsmoothed wood of the bell handles.

    It was light too, she realized as she ran. Charter marks ran ione, keeping pace with her.

    Charter marks fht and for fleetness, and for many other things she didn’t know. Strange marks and many of them—so many that Sabriel wondered how she could have ever thought that a First in magi an Aierran school would make her a great mage in the Old Kingdom. Fear and realization of ignorance were strong medies against stupid pride.

    Another howl came rag up the passage and echoed onwards, apanied by many crashes, and thuds or gs of steel striking supernatural flesh, or ricocheting off stone.

    Sabriel didn’t o look back to know the Mordit had broken through the door and was now fighting the doorkeeper—or pushing past him. Sabriel knew little of such sendings, but a on failing with the sentinel variety was an inability to leave their post. Ohe  creature got a few feet past the doorkeeper, the sending would be useless—and one great charge would soohe Mordit past.

    That thought gave her another burst of speed, but Sabriel khat it was the last. Her body, pushed by fear and weakened by cold aion, was on the edge of failure. Her legs felt stiff, muscles ready to cramp, and her lungs seemed to bubble with fluid rather than air.

    Ahead, the corridor seemed to go on and on, sloping ever upwards. But the light only shone where Sabriel ran, so perhaps the exit might not be too far ahead, perhaps just past the  little patch of darkness . . .

    Even as this thought passed through her mind, Sabriel saw a glow that sharpened into the bright trag of a doorway. She hal?99ｌib.f gasped, half cried out, both slight human noises drowned out by the unholy, inhuman screech of the Mordit. It ast the doorkeeper.

    At the same time, Sabriel became aware of a new sound ahead, a sound she had initially thought was the throb of blood in her ears, the pounding of a rag heart. But it was outside, beyond the upper door. A dee<big></big>p, r noise, so low it was almost a vibration, a shudder that she  felt through the floor, rather than heard.

    Heavy trucks passing on a road above, Sabriel thought, before remembering where she was. In that same instant, she reized the sound.

    Somewhere ahead, out of these encirg cliffs, a great waterfall was crashing down. And a waterfall that made so great a sound must be fed by an equally great river.

    Running water! The prospect of it fueled Sabriel with sudden hope, and with that hope came the strength she thought beyond her. In a wild spurt of speed, she almost hit the door, hands slapping against the wood, slowing for the instant she o find the handle .

    But another hand was already on the ring wheouched it, though none had been there a sed before. Again, Charter marks defihis hand, and Sabriel could see the grain of the wood and the blueing of the steel through the palm of another sending.

    This one was smaller, of ierminate sex, for it was wearing a habit like a monk’s, with the hood drawn across its head. The habit was blad bore the emblem of the silver key front and back.

    It bowed, and turhe ring. The door swung  open, to reveal bright starlight shining dowween clouds fleeing the newly risen wind. The noise of the waterfall roared through the open doorway, apanied by flecks of flying spray.

    Without thinking, Sabriel stepped out.

    The cowled doorkeeper came with her and shut the door behind it, before dragging a delicate, silver portcullis down across the door and log it with an iron padlock. Both defenses apparently came out of thin air. Sabriel looked at them a power in them, for both were also Charter sendings. But door, portculli<var>..</var>s and lock would only slow the Mordit, not stop it. The only possible escape lay across the swiftest of running water, or the untimely glare of a noonday sun.

    The first lay at her feet and the sed was still many hours away. Sabriel stood on a narrow ledge that projected out from the bank of a river at least four hundred yards wide. A little tht, a st few paces away, this mighty river hurled itself over the cliff, to make a truly glorious waterfall. Sabriel leaned forward a little, to look at the waters crashing below, creating huge white wings of spray that could easily swallow her entire school, new wing and all, like a rubber  duck sed in an unruly bath.

    It was a very long fall, and the height, coupled with the sheer power of the water, made her quickly look back to the river. Straight ahead, halfway across, Sabriel could just make out an island, an island perched on the very lip of the waterfall, dividing the river into two streams. It wasn’t a very big island, about the size of a football field, but it rose like a ship of jagged rock from the turbulent waters.

    Encirg the island were limestone-white walls the height of six men. Behind those walls was a house. It was too dark to see clearly, but there was a tower, a thrusting, pencil silhouette, with red tiles that were just beginning to catch the dawning sun. Below the tower, a dark bulk hi the existence of a hall, a kit, bedrooms, armory, buttery and cellar. The study, Sabriel suddenly remembered, occupied the sed to top floor of the tower. The top floor was an observatory, both of stars and the surroundiory.

    It was Abhorsen’s House. Home, although Sabriel had only visited it twiaybe three times, all when she was too young to remember much. That period of her life was hazy, and mostly filled with recolles of the Travelers,  the interiors of their wagons, and many different campsites that all blurred together. She didn’t even remember the waterfall, though the sound of it did stir snition—something had lodged in the mind of a four-year-old girl.

    Unfortunately, she didn’t remember how to get to the house. Only the words her mother-sending had given her—Abhorsen’s Bridge.

    She hadn’t realized she’d spoken these words aloud, till the little gate warden tugged at her sleeve and pointed down. Sabriel looked and saw steps carved into the bank, steps leading right down to the river.

    This time, Sabriel didn’t hesitate. She o the Charter sending and whispered, “Thank you,” before taking the steps. The Mordit’s presence ressing at her again, like a stranger’s rank breath behind her ear. She k had reached the upper gate, though the sound of its battering aru was drowned in the greater roar of the waters.

    The steps led to the river, but did here. Though invisible from the ledge, there were stepping-stones leading out to the island.

    Sabriel eyed them nervously, and looked at the water. It was clearly very deep and rushing past   at an alarming speed. The stepping-stones were barely above its boisterous wavelets and, even though they were wide and cross-hatched frip, they were also wet with spray and the slushy remnants of snow and ice.

    Sabriel watched a small piece of ice from upstream hurtle by, and pictured its slingshot ride over the falls, to be smashed apart so far below.

    She imagined herself in its place, and then thought of the Mordit behind her, of the Dead spirit that was at its heart, of the death it would bring, and the impriso she would suffer beyoh.

    She jumped. Her boots skidded a little and her arms flailed for balance, but she ended up steady, bent over in a half-crouch. Hardly waiting to rebalance, she jumped to the  stone and then the oer that, and again, in a mad leapfrog through the spray and thunder of the river.

    When she was halfway out, with a hundred yards of pure, ferocious water behind her, she stopped and looked back.

    The Mordit was on the ledge, the silvery portcullis broken and mangled in its grip. There was no sign of the gate warden, but that was not surprising. Defeated, it would merely fade until the Charter-spell reself—hours, days or even years later.

    The Dead thing was curiously still, but it was clearly watg Sabriel. Even so powerful a creature couldn’t cross this river and it made no attempt to do so. In fact, the longer Sabriel stared at it, the more it seemed to her that the Mordit was tent to wait. It was a sentry, guarding what might be the o from the island. Or perhaps it was waiting for something to happen, or for someoo arrive . . .

    Sabriel suppressed a shudder and jumped on.

    There was more light now, heralding the advent of the sun, and she could see a sort of wooden landing stage leading up to a gate in the white wall. Treetops were also visible behind the walls, wirees, their branches bare of green raiment.

    Birds flew between trees and tower, little birds laung themselves for their m fe. It was a vision of normalcy, of a haven. But Sabriel could not fet the tall, flame-etched silhouette of the Mordit, brooding on the ledge.

    Wearily, she made the jump to the last stone and collapsed oeps of the landing stage. Even her eyelids could barely move, and her field of vision had narrowed to a little slit directly to her  front. The grain of the planks of the landing stage loomed close, as she crawled up to the gate and halfheartedly fell against it.

    The gate swung open, pitg her onto a paved courtyard, the beginning of a red-brick path, th<s>..</s>e bricks a, their redhe color of dusty apples. The path wound up to the front door of the house, a cheerful sky-blue door, bright against whitewashed stone. A bronze doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head holding a ring in its mouth gleamed in terpoint to the white cat that lay coiled on the rush mat before the door.

    Sabriel lay on the bricks and smiled up at the cat, blinking back tears. The cat twitched and turs head ever so slightly to look at her, revealing bright, green eyes.

    “Hello, puss,” croaked Sabriel, coughing as she staggered once more to her feet and walked froaning and creaking with every step. She reached down to pat the cat, and froze—for, as the cat thrust its head up, she saw the collar around its ned the tihat hung there.

    The collar was only red leather, but the Charterspell on it was the stro, most enduring, binding that Sabriel had ever seen or felt—and the bell was a miniature Sarah. The cat was no cat, but  a Free Magic creature of a power.

    “Abhorsen,” mewed the cat, its little pink tongue darting. “About time you got here.”

    Sabriel stared at it for a moment, gave a little sort of moan and fell forward in a faint of exhaustion and dismay.

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