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