chapter xxix

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    Kerrigor seemed to have finished with the Free Magic thing that had once been Mogget. His great cloud of darkness was plete again, with no sign of white fire, no dazzling brilliance fighting away within.

    He was remarkably still, and Sabriel had a moment’s brief hope that he was somehow wouhen the awful realization came.

    Kerrigor was digesting, like a glutton after an overly ambitious meal.

    Sabriel shuddered at the thought, bile tainting her mouth. Not that her end was likely to be better. Both she and Touchstone would be taken alive, ahat way, till they pumped out their life’s blood, throats yawning, down in the dark of the reservoir . . .

    She shook her head, dispelling that image.

    There had to be something . . . Kerrigor had to be weaker, so far from the Old Kingdom . . .

    perhaps weakened more than her Charter Magic. She doubted that a single bell could sway him, but two, in cert? It was dark in the Hall, save for the moonlight falling through the shattered wall behind her. And quiet. Even the wounded were slipping away in sileheir cries muted, last wishes whispered. They kept their agony close, as if a scream might attract the wrong attention. There were things worse thah in the Hall . . .

    Even in darkness, the form of Kerrigor was darker still. Sabriel watched him carefully, undoing the straps that held Sarah and Kibeth with her left hand. She seher Dead all around, but ered the Hall.

    There were still men to fight, or feast upon.

    What went on in the Hall was their Master’s business.

    The straps came undone. Kerrigor didn’t move, his burning eyes closed, his fiery mouth shut.

    In one quick motion, Sabriel sheathed her  sword, and drew the bells.

    Kerrigor did move then. Swiftly, his dark bulk bounding forward, halving the gap between them. He grew taller too, stretg upwards till he almost reached the vaulted ceiling. His eyes opeo full, raging, flaming fury, and he spoke.

    “Toys, Abhorsen. And too late. Much too late.”

    It was not just words he spoke, but power, Free Magic power that froze Sabriel’s nerves, caught at her muscles. Desperately, she struggled t the bells, but her wrists were locked in place . . .

    Tantalizingly slowly, Kerriglided forward, till he was a mere arm’s length away, t over her like some colossal statue h-hewn night, his breath rolling down o<q>..</q>n her with the stench of a thousand abattoirs.

    Someone—a girl quietly coughing out her last breath on the floor—touched Sabriel’s ah a light caress. A small spark of golden Charter Magic came from that dying touch, slowly swelling into Sabriel’s veins, traveling upwards, warming joints, freeing muscles. At last it reached her wrists and  hands—and the bells rang out.

    It was not the clear, true sound it should be, for somehow the bulk of Kerrigor took the sound in and ed it—but it had an effect.

    Kerrigor slid back, and was dimiill he was little more than twice Sabriel’s height.

    But he was not subject to Sabriel’s will.

    Sarah had not bound him, and Kibeth had only forced him back.

    Sabriel rang the bells again, trating on the difficult terpoiween them, f all her will into their magic. Kerrigor would fall under her domination, he would walk where she willed . . .

    And for a sed, he did. Not into Death, for she lacked the power, but into his inal body, ihe broken sarcophagus. Even as the chime of the bells faded, Kerrigor ged.

    Fiery eyes and mouth ran into each other like molten wax, and his shadow-stuff folded into a narrow n of smoke, r up into the ceiling. It hovered among the rafters for a moment, then desded with a hideous scream, straight into the Rogir-body’s open mouth.

    With that scream, Sarah and Kibeth cracked, shards of silver falling like broken stars,  crashing to the earth. Mahogany hauro dust, drifting through Sabriel’s fingers like smoke.

    Sabriel stared at her empty hands for a sed, still feeling the harsh imprint of bell-handles . . .

    then, without any scious thought, there was a sword hilt in her hand as she advanced upon the sarcophagus. But before she could see into it, Rogir stood up and looked at her—looked with the burning fire-pit eyes of Kerrigor.

    “An invenience,” he said, with a voice that was only marginally more human. “I should have remembered you were a troublesome brat.”

    Sabriel lu him, sword blowing white sparks as it struck, pung through his chest to project out the other side. But Kerrigor only laughed, and reached down till he held the blade with both hands, knuckles pallid against the silver-sparking steel. Sabriel tugged at the sword, but it would not e free.

    “No sword  harm me,” Kerrigor said, with a giggle like a dying man’s cough. “Not even one made by the Wallmakers. Especially not now, when I have finally assumed the last of their powers. Power that ruled before the Charter,  power that made the Wall. I have it now. I have that broken puppet, my half-brother—and I have you, my Abhorsen. Power, and blood— blood for the breaking!”

    He reached out, and pulled the sword further into his chest, till the hilt was lodged against his skin. Sabriel tried to let go, but he was too quick, one chill hand clutg her forearm. Irresistibly, Kerrigor drew her towards him.

    “Will you sleep, unknowing, till the Great Stones are ready for your blood?” whispered Kerrigor, his breath still reeking of carrion. “Or will you go waking, every step of the way?”

    Sabriel stared back, meeting his gaze for the first time. Surely, there in the hellfire of his eyes, she could see the fai spark of blazing white? She unched her left fist, ahe silver ring slip down her finger. Was it expanding? “What would you have, Abhorsen?” tinued Kerrigor, his mouth peeling back, skin already breaking at the ers, the spirit within corroding even this magically preserved flesh.

    “Your lover crawls towards us—a pathetic sight—but I shall have the  kiss . . .”

    The ring was hanging in Sabriel’s hand, hidden behind her back. It had grown larger—but she  could still feel the metal expanding . . .

    Kerrigor’s blistered lips moved towards hers, and still the ring moved in her hand. His breath was overp, reeking of blood, but she had long gone beyond throwing up. She turned her head aside at the last sed, a, dry, corpse-like flesh slide across her cheek.

    “A sisterly kiss,” chuckled Kerrigor. “A kiss for an uncle who has known you since birth—or slightly before—but it is not enough . . .”

    Again, his words were not just words. Sabriel felt a frip her head, and move it back to face him, while her mouth was wedged apart, as if in passionate expectation.

    But her left arm was free.

    Kerrigor’s head bent forward, his faing larger and larger—then silver flashed between them, and the ring was around his neck.

    Sabriel felt the pulsion snap off, and she leant back, trying to hurl herself away. But Kerrigor didn’t let go of her arm. He seemed surprised, but not anxious. His right ha up to touch the band, fingernails falling as he did so, bone already pushing through at the fiips.

    “What is this? Some relic of . . .”

    The ring stricted, cutting through the pulpy  flesh of his neck, revealing the solid darkness within. That too was pressed, forced inwards, pulsating as it tried to escape. Two flaming eyes looked down in disbelief.

    “Impossible,” croaked Kerrigor. Snarling, he pushed Sabriel away, throwio the floor.

    In the same motion he drew the sword from his chest, the blade slowly ing free with a sound like a rasp on hardwood.

    Swiftly as a snake, arm and sword went out, striking through Sabriel, through armor and flesh and deep into the wooden floor beyond.

    Pain exploded, and Sabriel screamed, body vulsing around the blade in one awful reflexive curve.

    Kerrigor left her there, impaled like a bug in a colle, and advanced upon Touchstone.

    Sabriel, through eyes fogged with pain, saw Kerrigor look down and rip a long, jagged splinter from one of the pews.

    “Rogir,” Touchstone said. “Rogir . . .”

    The splinter came down with a strangled shriek e. Sabriel closed her eyes and looked away, slipping into a world of her own, a world of pain.

    She knew she should do something about the blood p out of her stomach, but now—  with Touchstone dead—she just lay where she was, a bleed.

    Then Sabriel realized she hadn’t felt Touchstone die.

    She looked again. The splinter had broken on his armored coat. Kerrigor was reag out for another splinter—but the silver ring had slipped down to his shoulders now, shredding the flesh away as it fell, like an apple corer pung the Dead spirit out of the rotting corpse.

    Kerrigor struggled and shrieked, but the ring bound his arms. Capering madly, he threw himself from side to side, seeking to cast off the silver band that held him—only causi more flesh to fall away, till no flesh remained, nothing but a raging n of darkness, strained by a silver ring.

    Then the n collapsed upon itself like a demolished building, to bee a mound of rippling shadow, the silver ring shining like a ribbon. A gleaming red eye shone amidst the silver—but that was only the ruby, grown to match the metal.

    There were Charter marks on the ring again, but Sabriel couldn’t read them. Her eyes wouldn’t focus, and it was too dark. The moonlight  seemed to have goill, she knew what must be done. Sarah—her hand crept to the bandolier, but the sixth bell wasn’t there—or the seventh, or the third. Careless of me, thought Sabriel, careless— but I must plete the binding. Her hand fell on Belgaer for a moment, and almost drew it—but no, that would be release . . . Finally, she drew Ranna, whimpering with the pain of even that small movement.

    Ranna was unusually heavy, for so slight a bell. Sabriel rested it against her chest for a moment, gathering strength. Then, lying on her back, transfixed with her own sword, she rang the bell.

    Ranna sounded sweet, a f, like a long-expected bed. The sound echoed through the Hall, and out, to where a few men still battled with the Dead. All who heard it ceased their struggles, and lay themselves down.

    The badly wounded slipped easily into Death, joining the Dead who had followed Kerrigor; those less hurt fell into a healing sleep.

    The mound of darkhat had been Kerrigor split into two distinct hemispheres, bounded by aorial ring of silver. One hemisphere was as black as coal; the leaming white.

    Gradually, they melted into two distins— two cats, joi the throat like Siamese twins.

    Then the silver ring split in two, a ring around eaeck, and the cats separated. The rings lost their brilliance, slowly ging color aure till they were red leather bands, each supp a miniature bell, a miniature Ranna.

    Two small cats sat side by side. One black, one white. Both leaned forward, throats moving, and each spat up a silver ring. The cats yawned as the rings rolled towards Sabriel, then curled up ao sleep.

    Touchstoched the rings roll through the dust, silver flashing in the moonlight. They hit Sabriel’s side, but she didn’t pick them up. Both her hands still clutched Ranna, but it was silent, resting below her breasts. Her sword loomed above her, blade and hilt casting the moonshadow of a cross upon her face.

    Something from his childhood memory flashed through Touchstone’s mind. A voice, a messenger’s voice, speaking to his mother.

    “Highness, we bring sorrowful tidings. The Abhorsen is dead.”

    Epilogue Death seemed colder than ever before, Sabriel thought, and wondered why, till she realized she was still lying down.

    Ier, being carried along by the current.

    For a moment, she started tle, then she relaxed.

    “Everyone and everything has a time to die . . .”

    she whispered. The living world and its cares seemed far away. Touchstone lived, and that made her glad, inasmuch as she could feel anything.

    Kerrigor was defeated, imprisoned if not made truly dead. Her work was done. Soon she would pass beyond the Ninth Gate, a forever . . .

    Something grabbed her arms and legs,  picked her up out of the water a her down on her feet.

    “This is not your time,” said a voice, a voice echoed by half a huhers.

    Sabriel blinked, for there were many shining human shapes around her, h above the water. More than she could t. Not Dead spirits, but something else, like the mothersending called by the paper boat. Their shapes were vague, but instantly reizable, for all wore the deep blue with the silver keys. Every one was an Abhorsen.

    “Go back,” they chorused. “Go back.”

    “I ’t,” sobbed Sabriel. “I’m dead! I haven’t the strength . . .”

    “You are the last Abhorsen,” the voices whispered, the shining shapes closing in. “You ot pass this way until there is another. You do have the strength within you. Live, Abhorsen, live . . .”

    Suddenly, she did have the strength. Enough to crawl, wade and fall back up the river, and gingerly edge bato Life, her shining escort dropping back at the very last. One of them— perhaps her father—lightly touched her hand in the instant before she left the realm of Death behind.

    A face swam into view—Touchstone’s, staring down at her. Sound hit her ears, distant, raucous bells that seemed out of place, till she realized they were ambulance bells, ambulances rag in from the town. She could sense no Dead at all, nor feel any great magic, Free or Charter. But then, Kerrigor was gone, and they were nearly forty miles from the Wall . . .

    “Live, Sabriel, live,” Touchstone was muttering, holding her icy hands, his own eyes so clouded with tears he hadn’t noticed hers opening.

    Sabriel smiled, then grimaced as the pain came back. She looked from side to side, w how long it would take Touchstoo realize.

    The electric lights had e ba in parts of the Hall, and soldiers were plag lanterns out again. There were more survivors than she’d expected, tending to the wounded, propping up dangerous brickwork, even sweeping up the brick-dust and grave mold.

    There were also many dead, and Sabriel sighed as she let her senses roam. el Horyse, killed outside oeps; Magistrix Greenwood; her i schoolfriend Ellimere; six irls; at least half the soldiers . . .

    Her eyes wao clions, to the two sleeping cats, the two silver rings o her on the floor.

    “Sabriel!”

    Touchstone had finally noticed. Sabriel turned her gaze ba, and lifted her head cautiously.

    He’d removed her sword, she saw, and several of her schoolfriends had cast a healing spell, good enough for the moment. Typically, Touchstone had dohing for his own leg.

    “Sabriel,” he said again. “You’re alive!”

    “Yes,” said Sabriel, with some surprise. “I am.”

    How I Write: The Process of Creating a Book Garth Nix offers some notes on his craft to the readers of the PerfectBound e-book edition of Sabriel This is a brief overview of how I go about writing a book, which may well be quite different from many other writers and different to the way you like to work yourself. However, in amongst the cries of “How could he work like that!,” there may be some useful pieces of information to help you with your own writing.

    To me<samp>?</samp>, there are really four stages to writing a book, though they do overlap each other, slaces at times, or even take over for far lohan they should. These stages are: thinking, planning, writing, and revising. There is also a fifth stage, that runs currently with the above: staying motivated.

    Thinking Most of my books seem to stem from a single image or thought that lodges in my brain and slowly grows into something that o be expressed.

    That thought may be a “what if?” or perhaps just an image. Sabriel largely began from a photograph I saw of Hadrian’s Wall, which had a green lawn in front of it and snow on the hills behind it. Many other thoughts, scious or otherwise, grew out, upon, and over that single image, both before and  during the writing of the book.

    Typically I seem to think about a book for a year or so before I actually start writing. In this thinking stage, I often write a few key points in my “ideas”

    notebook. At this stage, I merely put down bullet points or mnemonics that will remind me of what I was thinking. This  be very useful later on, particularly if the gestation period for a book is several years. Titles are also handy to jot down. The right title  be very useful as the seed from which the whole idea of the book  grow.

    Planning For all my longer works (i.e., the novels), I write chapter outlines so I  have the pleasure of departing from them later on. Actually, while I do always depart from them, writing a chapter outline is a great discipline for thinking out the story and it also provides a road map or tral skeleton you  e back to if you get lost. I often write the prologue or initial chapter first to get the impetus for the stoing and then write the outline.

    Usually, I have to write a revised chapter outliwo or three times in the course of writing the whole book, but once again it does focus the mind ohe story is <q></q>going and where you want it to go.

    Writing  Short stories, articles, and items on my website I type straight into the puter (mostly a Matosh, though I also use a P Microsoft Word. However, I write the novels longhand first.

    Nowadays I use a Waterman fountain pen (for Shade’s Children and Lirael), though I used felt-tips earlier. I was ied to see that Stephen King wrote one of his ret novels with a Waterman fountain pen. He reportedly found that this did influehe actual style of the book.

    The advantages of writing longhand are several, at least for me. First of all, I write iively small handbound notebooks which are much more transportable than any sort of puter, particularly since you  take them away for several weeks without having to sider power supplies, batteries, or printouts. Parts of Sabriel, for example, were written on a trip through the Middle East. Parts of Shade’s Children and Lirael were written at the beach.

    The other major advantage of writing longhand is that when I type up a chapter from my notebook, I rewrite as I type, so the first printout is actually a sed draft. Sometimes I ge it quite a lot, sometimes not so much, but it gives me a distinctive and separate stage where I  revise.

    The first page of the first chapter of Sabriel (as opposed to the prologue, which I wrote earlier, before I did my chapter outline) was actually writ-  ten in a spiral-bound notebook, which I tore out and pasted into my preferred blad red notebook ( /” x  /” or mm x mm “sewn memo book”).

    At the typing stage, I ed up the writing a bit and it had further minor revisions later, but in this case at least, it stayed much the same. You  see the inal manuscript page and pare it to the finished version on my website.

    Which brings me to revising.

    Revising As I said, when I type the handwritten words, I am also carrying out my first major stage of revision.

    However, I usually have to gh at least two revision stages after that. The first of these is when I first print out the typed chapter. I gh it and make ges in pen, which I will incorporate later. The sed stage (and sometimes a third time as well) occurs wheire manuscript is finished for the first time. I leave that big, beautiful pile of printout on the shelf for a few weeks, then sit down ahe whole thing, making corres as I go.

    Finally, I buhe ms. off to my Australian and U.S. publishers and wait for their rea(s), which generally will include some suggestions for revision and occasionally a request for rewriting. Sometimes  these will be good, worthwhile ges and I work them in. Sometimes they are not, and I argue about them and — unless I  be viherwise — refuse to alter the text. Basically, I try and keep an open mind, sihere is nearly always room for improvement.

    Staying Motivated I’m often asked by aspiring writers how I  i a year or more in writing a full-length novel.

    My stoswer is that I never sit down and think “I have to write a oday.” I sit down and think “I have to write a chapter,” or “revise a chapter,”

    or “finish the chapter.” That way, it’s only ever ,-, words that are the immediate goal.

    As a further motivational gimmick, I always use the word t utility when I’ve fiyping a chapter, and write that down, with a running total of words and the date in the front of my first notebook for the current work (eaovel takes between five and six of those red and blaumbers).

    I also write down the music I’ve been listening to as I write and anything else that might be iing to look back upon. Like the fact that I uploaded my first home page on  April ! The word t is a relatively small thing, but it has an amazing psychological effect, particularly as  more and more chapters appear and the word total grows. I find it very encing, particularly in the first third of the book, which always seems to take the majority of the time.

    Summary Here are several one-lihat sum up my writing philosophy. Some I’ve made up and some are probably paraphrases of other people’s sayings, only I ’t remember who said what. (Though I think the “read, write, revise” one is from Robert Heinlein.) “You ’t write if you don’t read.”

    “Just write one chapter at a time and one day you’ll be surprised by your own finished novel.”

    “Writing anything is better than not writing something perfect.”

    “Read, write, revise, submit, repeat.”

    “Expect reje, but don’t let it stop you submitting again.”

    “Submit the very best work you , not the first draft. Always read it again before you send it.”

    About the Autharth Nix was born in  and grew up in berra, Australia. After taking his degree in professional writing from the Uy of berra, he slowly sank into the morass of the publishing industry, steadily devolving from sales rep through publicist, until in  he became a senior editor with a major multinational publisher. After a period traveling iern Europe, the Middle East, and Asia in , he left publishing to work as a marketing unications sultant. In , he was lured back to the publishing world to bee a part-time literary agent. He now lives in Sydney, a five-minute walk from Coogee Beach, with his wife, Anna, and lots of books.

    Garth is the author of, among other books, Sabriel, Lirael, and Shade’s Chldren.

百度搜索 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯 或 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.