Fire Sea

29

The next cycle, the conspirators planned their move to the city, to the house of Tomas. They would have no difficulty slipping into Necropolis under the cover of the slumber hours. Only one main gate led into the city and it was guarded by the dead. But, being a network of tunnels and caves, Necropolis had any number of other entrances and exits, too numerous for guards to be posted at each, particularly because there was usually no enemy to guard against.

“But now there is an enemy,” said Jera. “Perhaps the dynast will order all the ‘rat holes’ stopped up.”

But Tomas was confident that the dynast would not have issued such an order; the enemy was, after all, on the other side of the Fire Sea. Jera appeared dubious, but Jonathan reminded her that their friend Tomas stood high in the dynast’s regard and was extremely knowledgeable concerning His Majesty’s way of thinking. At length all agreed that they would sneak into the city through the rat holes. But what were they to do with the dog?

“We could leave him here,” suggested Jera, eyeing the animal thoughtfully.

“I’m afraid the animal wouldn’t stay,” Alfred returned.

“He’s got a point,” Jonathan said in an undertone to his wife. “The dog wouldn’t even stay dead!”

“Well, we can’t let it be seen. Few in Necropolis are likely to pay any attention to us, but some zealous citizen would report a beast inside the city walls in a moment!”

Alfred could have told them they needn’t have worried. The dog could be tossed into any number of boiling hot mud pits. It could be hauled off by any number of guards, locked into any number of cages, and, as long as Haplo lived, the dog would, sooner or later, turn up again. The Sartan didn’t know quite how to put this into words, however. He let the discussion continue until it became obvious that their solution was to leave both him and the dog behind.

The old earl was in favor of this plan. “I’ve seen corpses dead fifty years who got around with less likelihood of falling apart!” he said to his daughter testily.

Moments before, Alfred had nearly broken his neck tumbling down a staircase.

“You’d be much safer here, Alfred,” added Jera. “Not that smuggling the prince out of Necropolis will be all that dangerous, but still—”

“I’m coming,” Alfred insisted stubbornly. To his surprise, he had an ardent supporter in Tomas.

“I agree with you, sir,” the young man said heartily. “You should definitely be one of us.” He drew Jera to one side, whispered something to her. The woman’s shrewd eyes gazed at Alfred intently, much to his discomfiture.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right.”

She had a talk with her father. Alfred listened closely, picked out a few threads of conversation.

“Shouldn’t leave him here ... chance dynast’s troops ... remember what I told you I saw ... the dead dying.”

“Very well!” stated the old man disagreeably. “But you’re not planning to take him into the palace, are you? He’d go bumbling into something and that’d be the end of us!”

“No, no,” soothed Jera. “But what,” she added with a sigh, “do we do about the dog?”

In the end, they decided to simply take their chances. As Tomas pointed out, they were entering the city during the slumber hours and the odds of meeting any living citizens who were likely to protest against a beast inside the city walls were slim.

They traveled the backroads of Old Provinces, and reached Necropolis during the deepest of the slumber hours. The main highway leading into the city was deserted. The city walls stood dark and silent. The gas lamps had been dimmed. The only light was a lambent glow shining redly from the distant Fire Sea. Dismounting from the carriage, they followed Tomas to what appeared to be a hole burrowing beneath the cavern wall. All the citizenry knew about the rat holes, as they were called, and used them because they were more convenient than entering by the main gate and trying to move through the congested tunnel streets.

“How does the dynast plan to defend these entrances against an invading army?” Jera whispered, ducking her head to walk beneath a glistening wet cavern ceiling.

“He must be wondering that himself,” said Tomas, with a slight smile. “Perhaps that’s why he’s shut up in his room with his maps and military advisers.”

“On the other hand, he may not be worried at all,” pointed out Jonathan, assisting Alfred to his feet. “Necropolis has never fallen in battle.”

“Wet pavement,” murmured Alfred in apology, cringing at the earl’s look of irritation. “Have there truly been that many wars fought among you?”

“Oh, yes,” Jonathan answered, quite cheerfully. They might have been discussing rune-bone games. “I’ll tell you about them later, if you’re interested. Now, we should probably keep our voices low. Which way, Tomas? I get rather muddled down here.”

Tomas indicated a direction, and the group entered a perfect maze of dark, intersecting tunnels that had Alfred completely lost and confused in a matter of moments. Glancing around, he saw the dog, trotting along behind.

The first streets, those nearest the wall, were empty. Narrow and dark, they wound among a confused jumble of shabby houses and small shops, built of blocks of black rock or carved out of lava formations.

The shops were shuttered for the sleep-half, the houses dark. Many of them appeared to be deserted, abandoned, left to fall to ruin. Doors hung crazily on hinges, rags and bits of bone littered the street. The odor of decay was unusually strong here. Curious, Alfred peeped through a broken window.

A cadaverous face loomed white in the darkness. A pair of empty, dark eye sockets stared sightlessly into the street. Alarmed, Alfred stumbled backward, nearly knocking Jonathan off his feet. “Steady, there!” the duke remonstrated, catching his balance and helping Alfred reestablish his. “I admit it’s a depressing sight. This part of the city used to be quite nice, or so the old records tell us. In the ancient time, this area housed the working class of Necropolis: soldiers, builders, storekeepers, and the lower echelon necromancers and preservers.

“I suppose,” he added, lowering his voice after a warning glance from his wife, “that you could say they live here still, but they’re mostly all dead.”

So depressing were these empty streets with their tomblike houses that Alfred breathed a sigh of relief to actually emerge into a larger tunnel and see people moving about. Then he remembered the danger of the dog being observed. Despite Jera’s whispered assurance that everything would be all right, Alfred crept nervously along, keeping near the wall, avoiding the pools of dim light cast by the sputtering lamps. The dog followed almost at his heels, as if the animal itself understood and was willing to cooperate.

The people in the streets passed them without a glance, not seeming to notice or care about them at all. Alfred realized, gradually, that these people were not living. The dead walked the streets of Necropolis during the slumber hours.

Most of the cadavers moved along purposefully, obviously intent on performing some task assigned to them by the living before the living took to their beds. But, here and there, they came on a cadaver roaming about aimlessly or performing some task it should have been performing during the waking time. Necromancers patrolled the streets of Necropolis, picking up any of these dead who had become confused, forgotten their tasks, or were making nuisances of themselves. Alfred’s group took care to keep out of the way of these necromancers, slipping into the shadows of doorways until the black-robed wizards had passed.

Necropolis was built in a series of half circles that radiated out from the fortress. Originally, a small population of mensch and Sartan had dwelt inside the fortress, but as more and more people began to settle in the area permanently, the population soon overflowed the fortress and began building homes in the shadow of its sheltering walls.

In the days of Necropolis’s prosperity, the then-current dynast, Kleitus HI, took over the fortress as his castle. The nobility dwelt in magnificent homes located near the castle and the remainder of the population spread out around them, in order of rank and wealth.

Tomas’s house was located about halfway between the poor houses on the city’s outer walls and homes of the wealthy, near the castle walls. Depressed and weary from his journey, Alfred was extremely glad to escape the dark and drizzling atmosphere and enter rooms that were warm and well lighted.

Tomas apologized to the duke and duchess and the earl for the modesty of the dwelling, which was—as were many of the dwellings in the cavern—built straight up to conserve space.

“My father was a minor noble. He left me the right to stand around in the court with the other courtiers, hoping for a smile from His Majesty, and not much else,” Tomas said, with a tinge of bitterness. “Now he stands around with the dead. I stand around with the living. Little difference between us.”

The earl rubbed his hands. “Soon all that will change. Come the rebellion.”

“Come the rebellion,” said the others, in a sort of reverent litany.

Alfred sighed bleakly, sank into a chair, and wondered what he was going to do. The dog curled up at his feet. He felt numb, unable to think or react of his own volition. He wasn’t a man of action, not like Haplo.

Events move me, Alfred reflected sadly, I don’t move events. He supposed that he should be doing something to bring about an end to the practice of the long-forbidden art of necromancy, but what? He was one man, alone. And not a very strong man or a very wise one at that.

The only thought in his mind, his only wish, his only desire, was to flee this horrible world, run away, escape, forget it, and never be reminded of it again.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the duke, coming up and touching Alfred deferentially on the knee.

Alfred jumped, and lifted a frightened face.

“Are you well?” Jonathan asked in concern.

Alfred nodded, waved a vague hand, mumbled something about a tiring walk.

“You mentioned being interested in the history of our wars. My wife and the earl and Tomas are planning our strategy for sneaking away the prince. They sent me off.” Jonathan smiled, shrugged. “I simply don’t have the head for plots. My task is to entertain you. But if you’re too tired and you’d rather retire, Tomas will show you to your room—”

“No, no!” The last thing Alfred wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts. “Please, I’d be very interested in hearing about... wars.” He had to force the word out past the lump in his throat.

“I can only tell you about the ones fought around here.” The duke pulled up a chair, made himself comfortable. “Tea? Biscuits? Not hungry. Where shall I start? Necropolis was originally nothing more than a small town, mostly a place where people came to wait until they could move to other parts of Abarrach. But, after a while, the Sartan and the mensch—there were mensch back then—began to look around and decide that life was good here and that they didn’t need to move. The city grew rapidly. People began to farm the fertile land. Crops flourished. Unfortunately, the mensch didn’t.”

Jonathan spoke in a carefree, cheerful manner that Alfred found quite shocking.

“You don’t seem to care much about them,” he observed, gently rebuking. “You were supposed to protect those weaker than yourselves.”

“Oh, I think our ancestors were extremely upset, at first,” said Jonathan defensively. “Devastated, in fact. But it really wasn’t our fault. The help they were promised from other worlds never came. The magic needed to keep the mensch alive in this grim world was simply too great. Our ancestors couldn’t provide it. There was nothing they could do. Eventually, they quit blaming themselves. Most of them, back then, came to believe that the era of the Dying of the Mensch was something inevitable, necessary.”

Alfred said nothing, shook his head sadly.

“It was during this era, possibly in reaction to it,” Jonathan continued, “that the art of necromancy was first studied.”

“The forbidden art,” Alfred corrected, but in such soft tones that the duke didn’t hear him.

“Now that they no longer had to support the mensch, they discovered they could live quite well in this world. They invented iron ships to sail the Fire Sea. Colonies of Sartan spread throughout Abarrach, trade was established. The realm of Kairn Necros came into being. And as they progressed, so did the art of necromancy. Soon the living were living off the dead.”

Yes, Alfred could see it all as Jonathan talked.

Life in Abarrach was good. Death was not bad, either. But then, just when everything (not counting the mensch, who by this time had been mostly forgotten anyway) seemed to be going so well, it all began to go terribly wrong.

“The Fire Sea and all the magma lakes and rivers and oceans were cooling and receding. Realms that had previously been trading neighbors became bitter enemies, hoarding their precious supplies of food, fighting over the life-giving colossus, That’s when the first wars were fought.

“I guess it would be more correct to term them brawls or skirmishes, not really wars. Those,” Jonathan said more seriously and solemnly, “would come later. Our ancestors apparently didn’t know much about waging war at that time,”

“Of course not!” Alfred said severely. “We abhor warfare. We are the peacemakers. We promote peace!”

“You have that luxury,” said Jonathan quietly. “We did not.”

Alfred was struck, startled by the young duke’s words. Was peace a luxury available only to a “fat” world? He recalled Prince Edmund’s people, ragged, freezing, starving; watching their children, their elderly die while inside this city was warmth, food. What would I do if I was in their position? Would I meekly die, watch my children die? Or would I fight? Alfred shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable.

I know what I’d do, he thought bitterly. I’d faint!

“As time passed, our people became more adept at war.” Jonathan sipped at a cup of kairn-grass tea. “The young men began to train as soldiers, armies were formed. At first, they tried to fight with magic as their weapon, but that took too much energy away from the magic needed to survive.

“And so we studied the art of ancient weaponry. Swords and spears are far cruder than magic, but they’re effective. Brawls became battles and, inevitably, led to the great war of about a century ago—the War of Abandonment.

“A powerful wizardess named Bethel claimed that she had discovered the way out of this world. She announced that she was planning to leave and would take those who wanted to go with her. She drew a large following. If the people had left, it would have decimated the population that was rapidly dwindling anyway. To say nothing of the fact that everyone feared what might happen if the “Gate” as she called it was opened. Who knew what terrible force might rush in and seize control?

“The dynast of Kairn Necros, Kleitus VII, forbid Bethel and her followers to leave. She refused to obey and led her people across the Fire Sea to the Pillar of Zembar, preparatory to abandoning the world. The battles between the two factions raged off and on for years, until Bethel was betrayed and captured. She was being ferried across the Fire Sea when she escaped her captors and flung herself into the magma, to keep her corpse from being resurrected. Before she jumped, she cried out what later became known as the prophecy about the Gate.”

Alfred pictured the woman standing on the bow, screaming defiance. He pictured her hurling herself into the flaming ocean. He lost the thread of Jonathan’s tale, picked it up again only when the young man suddenly lowered his voice.

“It was during that war that armies of the dead were first formed and pitted against each other. In fact, it’s said that some commanders actually ordered the killing of their own living soldiers, to provide themselves with troops of cadavers . . .”

Alfred’s head jerked up. “What? What are you telling me? Murdered their own young men! Blessed Sartan! To what black depths have we sunk?” He was livid, shaking. “No, don’t come near me!” He raised a warding hand, rose distractedly from his chair. “I must get out of here! Leave this place!” It seemed, from his fevered attitude, that he meant to run out of the house that instant.

“Husband, what have you been saying to upset him like this?” demanded Jera, coming into the room with Tomas. “My dear sir, please sit down, calm yourself.”

“I was only telling him that old story about the generals killing their own men during the war—”

“Oh, Jonathan!” Jera shook her head. “Certainly, you can leave, Alfred. Any time you want. You’re not a prisoner here!”

Yes, I am! Alfred groaned inwardly. I’m a prisoner, a prisoner of my own ineptness! I came through Death’s Gate by sheer accident! I would never have the courage or the knowledge to get back alone!

“Think about your friend,” Tomas added soothingly, pouring out a cup of kairn tea. “You don’t want to leave your friend behind, do you, Sir?”

“I’m sorry.” Alfred collapsed back into his chair. “Forgive me. I’m ... tired, that’s all. Very tired. I think I’ll go to bed. Come on, boy.”

He laid a trembling hand on the dog’s head. The animal looked up at him, whimpered, slowly brushed its tail against the floor, but didn’t move.

The whimper had an odd note to it, a sound that Alfred had never heard the dog make before. He took more notice, looked down at it intently. The dog tried to lift its head, let it sink back weakly on its paws. The tail wagging increased slightly, however, to indicate that it appreciated the man’s concern.

“Is there something wrong?” asked Jera, staring down at the dog. “Do you think the animal’s sick?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know much about dogs I’m afraid,” Alfred mumbled, feeling dread shrivel him up inside.

He did know something about this dog, or at least suspected. And if what he suspected was true, then whatever was wrong with the dog was wrong with Haplo.