Fire Sea

16

“Theoretical nonsense!” Haplo snorted in disgust. “You can’t prove such a thing.”

“Perhaps it already has been proven,” Alfred replied.

Haplo rose to his feet, not intending to stay around and listen to any more of the Sartan’s whimperings. So the dead had a few memory problems, a short attention span. Haplo considered that if he were in their position, he might not want to dwell on the present either. If he were in their position . . . would he want to be resurrected?

The thought brought him to a standstill. He pictured himself lying on the rock floor, the necromancer standing over him, his body rising. . .

Haplo shoved the question out of his mind, continued walking. He had more important matters to consider.

Maybe not, whispered a voice inside him. If you die on this world—and you very nearly died on two other worlds—then they’ll do this to you!

The staring eyes that looked straight ahead into their past. The waxy, white flesh, the blue nails and lips, the lank, uncombed hair. Revulsion twisted his stomach. For an instant, he considered fleeing, running away.

Appalled, he got a grip on himself. What the hell’s the matter with me? Running out! Running away! From what? A bunch of corpses!

“The Sartan’s doings,” he muttered angrily. “That sniveling coward’s working on my imagination. If I were dead, I don’t suppose it’d matter to me one way or the other.” But his gaze shifted from the cadaver to the phantasms, those pathetic, shadowy forms always hovering near their bodies, within reach, yet unable to touch.

“Father, leave this to me,” Edmund was talking to the cadaver with praiseworthy patience. “Stay with the people. I will go with the soldiers and see what this is all about.”

“We’re under attack from the people in the city? What city? I don’t remember any city.” The dead king sounded querulous, the hollow voice frustrated, confused.

“There isn’t time to explain, Father!” The prince’s patience was slipping. “Please, don’t concern yourself. I will deal with it. The people. You stay with the people.”

“Yes, the people.” The cadaver caught hold of that, seemed to hang on tightly. “My people. They look to me for leadership. Yet what can I do? Our land is dying! We must leave it, search for somewhere new. My Son, do you hear me? We must leave our land!”

But Edmund was no longer paying attention. He left with the dead soldiers, hastening back through the cavern toward the entrance. The necromancer stayed behind to listen to the cadaver’s rambling. The dog, having no instructions to the contrary, trotted along at the prince’s heels.

Haplo hurried after the prince but, when he caught up with him, he saw tears glisten on Edmund’s cheeks, saw the raw grief in the man’s face. The Patryn fell back a pace, stopped to play with the dog, give the prince time to compose himself. Edmund halted, brushed the back of his hand hastily over his eyes, glanced around.

“What do you want?” he demanded, voice harsh.

“Came to get my dog,” Haplo said. “He ran off after you before I could catch him. What’s the problem?”

“There isn’t time . . .” Edmund hurried on ahead again.

The dead soldiers moved swiftly, if clumsily. Walking was difficult for them. They had trouble guiding their steps or making changes in direction if they encountered an obstacle. Consequently, they blundered headlong into the cavern walls, careened off boulders, stumbled over rocks. But although they couldn’t seem to comprehend obstacles, no obstacle stopped them. They trundled through red-hot magma pools without hesitation. The glowing lava burned off whatever clothes or armor they might have had left, turned the dead flesh into charred lumps. Nevertheless, the lumps kept on moving.

Haplo felt the revulsion rise in him again. He’d seen sights in the Labyrinth that would have driven most men insane, yet he was forced to harden what he had considered a will of iron in order to keep following along behind the gruesome army.

Edmund shot him a glance, as if the prince would like very much to tell this interloper to go away. Haplo kept his expression purposefully friendly, concerned.

“What did you say was going on?”

“An army from Necropolis has landed on the shores of the town,” Edmund answered shortly. Something seemed to occur to him, for he continued, in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry. You have a ship docked there, I believe you said.”

Haplo started to reply that the runes on his ship would protect it, thought better of it. “Yeah, I’m worried about it. I’d like to see for myself.”

“I’d ask the dead to check it for you, but they’re unreliable in their reports. For all I know, they could be describing an enemy they fought ten years ago.”

“Why do you use them as scouts, then?”

“Because we cannot spare the living.”

So, what Alfred told me was true, Haplo thought. At least that much. And that brought another problem to mind. The Sartan ... by himself....

“Go back,” Haplo ordered the dog. “Stay with Alfred.”

The animal obediently did as it was told.

Alfred was exceedingly miserable and almost welcomed the animal’s return, although he knew very well it had been sent back by Haplo to spy on him. The dog flopped down beside him, gave the man’s hand a swift lick with its tongue and nudged its head beneath his palm to encourage Alfred to scratch behind its ears.

The return of the necromancer was far less welcome. Baltazar was a hale and hearty man. His straight stance, commanding air, long black flowing robes emphasized his height, making him appear taller than he was. He had the ivory-hued skin of these people who had never known sunshine. His hair, unlike that of most Sartan, was so black as to be almost blue. His beard, squared-off about three inches beneath his jaw, glistened like the obsidian rock of his homeland. The black eyes were exceedingly intelligent, shrewd, and intent, stabbing whatever it was they looked at and holding it up to the light for further examination.

Baltazar turned those relentless eyes on Alfred, who felt their sharp blade enter and drain him dry.

“I am glad for this opportunity to talk with you alone,” said Baltazar.

Alfred wasn’t, not in the least, but he had lived much of his life in court and a polite rejoinder came automatically to his lips. “Is .. . is there going to be trouble?” he added, squirming beneath the gaze of the black eyes.

The necromancer smiled and informed Alfred—politely—that, if there was trouble, it was no concern of his.

This was a point Alfred might have argued, because he was among these people, but the Sartan wasn’t very good at arguing and so he meekly kept quiet. The dog yawned and lay blinking at them sleepily.

Baltazar was silent. The living in the cave were silent, watching and waiting. The dead were silent, standing around at the back of the cavern, not waiting, because they had nothing for which to wait. They simply stood and would apparently keep standing until one of the living told them otherwise. The king’s cadaver didn’t seem to know what to do with itself. None of the living spoke .to it, and it eventually drifted forlornly to the back of the cave to join its dead subjects in doing nothing.

“You don’t approve of necromancy, do you?” Baltazar asked suddenly.

Alfred felt as if the magma flow had diverted course and gone up his legs and body directly to his face. “N—no, I don’t.”

“Then why didn’t you come back for us? Why did you leave us stranded?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” The fury in the necromancer’s voice was all the more appalling because the anger was contained, the words spoken softly, for Alfred’s ears alone.

Not quite alone. The dog was listening, too.

“Yes, you do. You are Sartan. You are one of us. And you did not come from this world.”

Alfred was completely nonplussed, he had no idea what to say. He couldn’t lie. Yet how he could tell the truth when, as far as he knew, he didn’t know it?

Baltazar smiled, but it was a frightening smile, tight-lipped, and filled with a strange and sudden exultation. “I see the world from which you come, I see it in your words. A fat world, a world of light and pure air. And so the ancient legends are true! Our long search must be nearing an end!”

“Search for what?” Alfred asked desperately, hoping to change the subject. He did.

“The way back to those other worlds! The way out of this one!” Baltazar leaned near, his voice pitched low, tense and eager, “Death’s Gate!”

Alfred couldn’t breathe, he felt as if he were strangling.

“If—if you will excuse me,” he stammered, trying to stand, trying to escape. “I... I’m not feeling well—”

Baltazar laid a restraining hand on Alfred’s arm. “I can arrange for you to feel worse,” He cast a glance at one of the cadavers.

Alfred gulped, gasped, and seemed to shrivel. The dog raised its head, growled, asking if the Sartan needed help.

Baltazar appeared startled at Alfred’s reaction, the necromancer looked somewhat ashamed.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have threatened you. I am not an evil man. But,” he added in a low, passionate voice, “I am a desperate one.”

Alfred, trembling, sank back down onto the cavern floor. Reaching out an unsteady hand, he gave the dog a hesitant, reassuring pat. The animal lowered its head, resumed its quiet watch.

“That other man, the one with you, the one with the runes tattooed on his skin. What is he? He is not Sartan, not like you, not like me. But he is more like us than the others—the Little People.” Baltazar picked up a small, sharp-edged stone, held it to the softly glowing light that filled the cavern. “This stone has two faces, each different, but both part of the same rock. You and I are one side, it seems. He is another. Yet all the same.”

Baltazar’s black eyes pinned the struggling Alfred to the wall. “Tell me! Tell me about him! Tell me the truth about yourself! Did you come through Death’s Gate? Where is it?”

“I can’t tell you about Haplo,” Alfred answered faintly. “Another man’s story is his to tell or to keep hidden, as he chooses.” The Sartan was beginning to panic, decided that he could find refuge in the truth, even if it was only partial truth. “As to how I came here, it... was an accident! I didn’t mean to.”

The necromancer’s black eyes bored into him, turned their sharp blade this way and that, probing and piercing. Finally, grunting, he withdrew his gaze. Brooding, Baltazar sat staring at the location on the rock floor where the dead had lately rested.

“You are not lying,” he said finally. “You cannot lie, you are not capable of deceit. But you’re not telling the truth, either. How can such a dichotomy exist within you?”

“Because I don’t know the truth. I don’t fully understand it and, therefore, in speaking of the small portion I see only very imperfectly, I might do irreparable harm. It is better if I keep what I know to myself.”

Baltazar’s black eyes blazed with anger, reflected the yellow firelight. Alfred faced him, steadfast and calm, blanching only slightly. It was the necromancer who broke off the attack, his frustrated rage dwindling to a heavy sorrow.

“It is said that such virtue was once ours. It is said that the very notion of one of our own kind shedding the blood of another was so impossible to conceive that no words existed in our language to speak of it. Well, we have those words now: murder, war, deceit, treachery, trickery, death. Yes, death.”

Baltazar rose to his feet. His voice cracked, its hot rage cooled and hardened, like molten rock that has flowed into a pool of chill water. “You will tell me what you know about Death’s Gate. And if you won’t tell me with your living voice, then you’ll tell me with the voice of the dead!” Halfturning, he pointed at the cadavers. “They never forget where they have been, what they have done. They forget only the reasons why they did them! And thus they are quite willing to do them again . . . and again . . . and again.”

The necromancer glided away, striding down the tunnel after his prince. Alfred, stricken dumb, gazed after him, too horrified to be able to say a word.