There was a built-up path through the flooded fields, but it was submerged to ankle-depth, with occasional thigh-high slippages.

Only the raised canal drains stood well above the brackish water, and they all ran towards the east, not towards the village, so Sabriel and Touchstone were forced to wade along the path. Mogget, of course, rode, his lean form draped around Sabriel’s neck like a white fox fur.

Water and mud, coupled with an uncertain path, made it slow going. It took an hour to cover less than a mile, so it was later in the afternoon than Sabriel would have wished when they finally climbed out of the water, up onto the beginnings of the village’s rocky mount. At least the sky is clear, Sabriel thought, glancing up. The winter sun wasn’t particularly hot and couldn’t be described as glaring, but it would certainly deter most kindred of the Lesser Dead from venturing out.

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