Death Gate Cycle 3 - Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  “The creature is extremely well trained.” Jera, dismounting from the carriage with her husband, turned to the chancellor. “I will vouch for its good behavior while inside the city.”

  “The law is dear: No beasts inside the city walls,” the Lord High Chancellor stated, his face flint-hard and sharp, “except those destined for the marketplace and they must be butchered within the specified time after entering. And if you will not submit to our laws peaceably, sir, then you will submit by force.”

  “Ah, now,” said Haplo, smoothing the rune-covered skin on the back of his hands, “that should be very interesting.”

  More trouble, Alfred foresaw unhappily. Having his suspicions concerning the dog and its relationship to Haplo, the Sartan had no idea how this would be resolved. Haplo would sooner part with his life than the animal and it seemed, from the look on his face, that he would enjoy the opportunity to fight.

  No wonder. Face-to-face, at last, with an enemy who had locked his people into a hellish world for a thousand years. An enemy who had deteriorated in magical skills ... and in so much else! But could the Patryn deal with the dead? He had been captured easily enough back in the cavern. Alfred had seen pain twist the man’s face, and the Sartan knew Haplo well enough to guess that there were few who had ever seen him so incapacitated. But perhaps now he was prepared, perhaps the magic in his body was acclimated.

  “I don’t have time for such nonsense,” said the Lord High Chancellor coldly. “We are late for our audience with His Majesty as it is. Captain, deal with it.”

  The dog, having grown bored during the conversation, had been unable to resist taking another sniff and mischievous nip at the pauka. Haplo’s gaze was fixed on the chancellor. The captain of the guard leaned down, grabbed the dog up in strong arms and, before Haplo could prevent it, the cadaver hurled the animal into a pit of bubbling hot mud.

  The dog gave a wild, pain-filled scream. Its front paws scrabbled frantically, liquid eyes fixed in desperate pleading on its master.

  Haplo leapt toward it, but the mud was thick and viscous and scalding hot. Before the Patryn could save it, the animal was sucked down beneath the surface and vanished without a trace.

  Jera gasped and hid her face in her husband’s breast. Jonathan, shocked and appalled, glowered at the chancellor. The prince cried out in bitter, angry protest.

  Haplo went berserk.

  Runes on his body flared into brilliant life, glowing bright blue and crimson red. The vivid light could be seen through his clothing, welling out beneath the fabric of his shirt, showing clearly the runes drawn on his arms. The leather vest he wore hid those on his back and chest, the leather trousers concealed those on his legs, but so powerful were the runes that a glowing halo was beginning to form around him. Silent, grim, Haplo launched himself directly at the cadaver, who—seeing the threat—went for its sword.

  Haplo’s lunge carried him to his prey before the captain had its sword halfway clear of the scabbard. But the moment the Patryn’s choking hands touched the cadaver’s chill flesh, white lightning flared and danced crazily around the two of them. Haplo cried out in agony, staggered backward, limbs twitching and writhing convulsively as the charge passed through his body. He slammed up against the side of the carriage. Groaning, he slid down to lie, seemingly unconscious, in the soft ash that covered the road.

  An acrid odor of sulfur filled the air. The cadaver continued, unperturbed, the motion of drawing its sword, then looked to the chancellor for orders.

  The Lord High Chancellor was staring, wide-eyed, at Haplo, at the glow of the runes that was just beginning to fade from the skin. The minister licked his dry lips.

  “Kill him,” was the command.

  “What?” Alfred quavered, staring in disbelief. “Kill him? Why?”

  “Because,” Jera said softly, laying a restraining hand on Alfred’s arm, “it is far easier to obtain information from a cadaver than a stubborn, living man. Hush, there is nothing you can do!”

  “There is something I can do,” Edmund said coldly. “You cannot kill a helpless man! I won’t allow it!” He took a step forward, obviously intent on impeding the cadaver in its grisly task.

  The captain never paused, but raised its hand in a commanding gesture. Two of its troops ran to obey. Dead soldiers grasped the prince from behind, pinioning his arms skilfully to his sides. Edmund, outraged, struggled to free himself.

  “Just a moment, Captain,” said the chancellor. “Your Highness, is this man with the strange markings on his skin a citizen of Kairn Telest?”

  “You know very well he isn’t,” answered Edmund. “He is a stranger. I met him just today, over on the opposite shore. But he has done no harm and has seen a faithful companion meet a barbarous death. You have punished him for his effrontery. Let it go at that!”

  “Your Highness,” said the Lord High Chancellor, “you are a fool. Captain, carry out your orders.”

  “How can my people ... my people commit these terrible crimes?” Alfred babbled wildly, talking to himself, wringing his hands as if he would wring the answers from his own flesh. “If I stood in the midst of the Patryns, then, yes, I could understand. They were the race that was heartless, ambitious, cruel. ... We ... we were the balance. The wave correcting itself. White magic to their black. Good for evil. But I see in Haplo ... I have seen good in Haplo. ... And now I see evil in my fellow Sartan. ... What shall I do? What shall I do?”

  His immediate answer was: faint.

  “No!” Alfred gasped, fighting against his inherent weakness. Blackness crept over him. “Action! Must ... act. Grab the sword. That’s it. Grab the sword.”

  The Sartan flung himself at the captain of the guard.

  That was the plan. Unfortunately, the Sartan ended up flinging only part of himself at the captain of the guard. Alfred’s upper half went for the sword. His lower half refused to move. He fell flat, landed in a headlong sprawl on top of Haplo.

  Alfred, looking at him, saw the Patryn’s eyelids flicker.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Haplo shot irritably out of the corner of his mouth. “I had everything under control! Get off me!”

  Either the cadaver didn’t notice that now it had two victims instead of one, or perhaps it assumed that it was to save time by dispatching both at once.

  “I—I can’t!” Alfred was paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Looking up in frantic terror, he saw the razor-sharp, if slightly rusted blade, descending.

  The Sartan gasped the first runes that came to his lips.

  The captain of the dead had been a brave and honorable soldier, well respected and loved by his men. He had died in the Battle of the Pillar of Zembar,[8] of a sword thrust in the gut. The horrible wound could still be seen, a gaping, although now bloodless, hole in the cadaver’s stomach.

  Alfred’s rune-chant appeared to inflict the same killing blow over again.

  For a brief instant, a semblance of life flickered in the dead eyes. The cadaver’s well-preserved face wrenched with pain, the sword fell from a hand that reached instinctively at its torn vitals. A silent scream came from blue lips.

  The cadaver doubled over, clutching its gut. Those watching in stunned shock saw its hands curl around the invisible blade of some unseen attacker. Then, seemingly, the sword was wrenched free. The cadaver gave a last, silent groan and slid to the ground. It did not get back to its feet, it did not continue the attack. The captain lay on the ash-covered ground, dead.

  No one moved or spoke; all standing near might have been struck by the same invisible sword. The Lord High Chancellor was the first impelled to action.

  “Bring the captain back!” he commanded the court necromancer.

  Hastening forward, her black robes fluttering around her, her cowl fallen, unheeded, from her head, the necromancer approached the captain’s corpse.

  She sang the runes.

  Nothing happened. The captain lay motionless.

  The necromancer sucked in a deep breath, eyes widened i
n astonishment, and then narrowed in anger. She began to chant the runes again, but the magic died on her lips.

  The cadaver’s phantasm rose up before the necromancer and stood between the wizardess and its corpse,

  “Be gone,” ordered the necromancer, attempting to brush it aside, as she might brush away smoke from a fire.

  The phantasm remained where it was, began to change in appearance. No longer was it a pitiful wisp of fog, but the semblance of a man—strong and proud—who faced the wizardess with dignity. And all realized, who stood watching in amazed awe, that they were seeing the corpse as he had been in life.

  The captain faced the necromancer and the watchers saw, or thought they saw, the phantasm shake its head in firm denial. It turned its back on its corpse and walked away, and it seemed a great and sorrowful wail resounded from the mist around them, a wail that was fraught with envy.

  Or was it the wind, howling among the rocks?

  The necromancer stood gazing at the phantasm in openmouthed stupefaction. When it disappeared, she suddenly became aware of her audience and snapped her mouth shut.

  “Good riddance.” Bending over the corpse, she spoke the runes again, adding, for good measure, “Get up, damn you!”

  The corpse didn’t move.

  The necromancer’s face flushed an ugly red. She kicked at the cadaver. “Get up! Fight! Carry out your orders!”

  “Stop it!” Alfred cried in anger, regaining his feet with difficulty. “Stop it! Let the man rest!”

  “What have you done?” The necromancer rounded on Alfred. “What have you done to it? What have you done?”

  Alfred, taken aback, stumbled over Haplo’s ankles. The Patryn groaned and stirred.

  “I—I don’t know!” Alfred protested, bumping into the side of the carriage.

  The necromancer advanced on him. “What have you done?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill scream.

  “The prophecy!” Jera exclaimed, clutching at her husband. “The prophecy!”

  The necromancer overheard, paused in her harangue. She stared at Alfred narrowly, then looked swiftly to the chancellor for orders. He appeared dazed.

  “Why doesn’t it get up?” he asked in a shaken voice, staring at the corpse.

  The necromancer bit her lip, shook her head. She went over to discuss the matter with him in low, urgent undertones.

  Jera took advantage of the chancellor’s distraction to hasten to Haplo’s side. She was solicitous of the Patryn, attentive to him, but the green eyes fixed in silent questioning on the stammering Alfred.

  “I—I don’t know!” he answered, as confused as anyone there. “Truly, I don’t know. It all happened so fast. And ... I was terrified! That sword—” He shuddered, shivering from cold and reaction. “I’m not very brave, you see. Most of the time I ... I faint. Ask him.” He pointed a shaking finger at Edmund. “When his men captured us, I passed out cold! I wanted to faint this time, but I wouldn’t let myself. When I saw the sword ... I spoke the first words that came to me! I can’t recall, for the life of me, what I said!”

  “For the life of you!” The necromancer turned, glared at Alfred from the depths of her black hood. “No, but you’ll recall them swiftly enough after death. The dead, you see, never lie, never keep anything concealed!”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” said Alfred meekly, “and I doubt if even my corpse would have very much to add.”

  Haplo groaned again, almost, it seemed, as if he were responding to Alfred’s statement.

  “How is he?” Jonathan asked his wife.

  Jera’s hand reached out to trace the runes on Haplo’s skin. “I think he’ll be all right. The sigla appear to have absorbed most of the shock. His heartbeat is strong and—“

  Haplo’s hand closed suddenly and firmly over hers. “Don’t ever touch me again!” he whispered, voice hoarse.

  Jera flushed, bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She flinched, tried to move her arm. “You’re hurting me ...”

  Haplo flung her from him, regained his feet by his own power, though he was forced to lean for support against the carriage. Jonathan hastened to his wife’s side.

  “How dare you treat her like that?” the duke demanded savagely, swinging around on Haplo. “She was only trying to help—“

  “Don’t, my dear,” Jera interrupted. “I deserve his reproach. I had no right. Forgive me, sir.”

  Haplo grunted, muttered something in ungracious acceptance. He was obviously still not feeling well, but he understood that danger had not lessened.

  If anything, thought Alfred, it has increased.

  The chancellor was giving new instructions to his troops. Soldiers massed themselves around the prince and his companions, herding them close together.

  “What in the name of the Labyrinth did you do?” Haplo hissed, edging nearer the wretched Alfred.

  “He fulfilled the prophecy!” said Jera in a low voice.

  “Prophecy?” Haplo looked from one to the other. “What prophecy?”

  But Jera only shook her head. Rubbing her bruised flesh, she turned away. Her husband put his arm around her protectively.

  “What prophecy?” Haplo demanded, turning his accusing stare to Alfred. “What the hell did you do to that corpse?”

  “I killed him,” said Alfred, adding by way of explanation. “He was going to kill you—”

  “So you saved my life by killing a dead man. That figures. Only you—” Haplo stopped talking, stared at the corpse, then looked back at the Sartan. “You say you ‘killed’ him.”

  “Yes. He’s dead. Quite dead.”

  The Patryn’s gaze switched from Alfred to the infuriated necromancer to the sharp-eyed duchess to the watchful, suspicious prince.

  “I really didn’t mean to,” Alfred pleaded unhappily. “I ... I was frightened.”

  “Guards! Keep them apart!” The chancellor gestured, and two cadavers hastened to separate Alfred and Haplo. “No talking among yourselves! Any of you! Your Graces.” He turned to the duke and duchess. “I’m afraid that this ... incident changes matters. His Majesty will want to interview all of you. Guards, bring them!”

  The chancellor and the necromancer strode on, heading toward the gate in the city walls. The cadavers closed ranks around their captives, separated them one from the other, and ordered them forward.

  Alfred saw the Patryn cast one glance at the mud hole into which his faithful dog had disappeared. Haplo’s mouth tightened, stern eyes blinked rapidly. Then the guards took him away, blocking him from Alfred’s sight.

  A moment of confusion followed. Edmund struck aside the chill hands of the cadavers, stated that he would enter the city as a prince, not a captive. He moved forward proudly on his own, his guards trailing behind.

  Jera took advantage of the situation to whisper hurried, urgent instructions to her carriage driver. The cadaver nodded and turned the pauka’s head toward home, guiding the animal down a road that ran for some distance beneath the city wall. Duke and duchess exchanged glances, they were of one mind on something, but what that could be the unhappy Alfred had no idea.

  Nor, at the moment, did he care. He had not been lying. He had no idea what he had done and he wished, with all his heart, he hadn’t done it. Lost in dark thoughts, he didn’t notice that the duke and duchess fell into step with him, one on either side, the dead guards tramping along behind.

  CHAPTER 22

  NECROPOLIS, ABARRACH

  THE INHABITANTS OF NECROPOLIS had taken advantage of a peculiar natural rock formation in building their city walls. A long row of stalagmites, poking up from the cavern floor, extended from one side of the back end of the cavern around in a half circle, closing it off at the other end. Stalactites flowed into the stalagmites, forming a wall that gave the visitor the startling impression he was entering a gigantic, bared-toothed mouth.

  The stalactic form was ancient, dating back to the world’s origins, and was undoubtedly one reason that this point had bec
ome one of Abarrach’s earliest outposts of civilization. Old Sartan runes could occasionally be seen on the massive wall, their magic having once conveniently filled up gaps left by the natural architecture.

  But Sartan magic had dwindled, the continual fall of drizzling laze had worn most of the sigla away, and no one now remembered the secret of restoring them. The dead kept the wall in repair, filling the gaps between the “teeth” with molten lava, pumping magma into the cavities. The dead also guarded the walls of Necropolis.

  The city gates stood open during the dynast’s waking time. Gigantic doors woven of strong kairn grass reinforced by the few crude runes these Sartan remembered were shut only when the royal eyes closed in sleep. Time in this sunless world was regulated by the ruler of Necropolis, which meant that it tended to change depending on the whim of His or Her Majesty.

  Time was, therefore, denoted by such appellations as “the dynast’s breakfast hour” or “the dynast’s audience hour” or “the dynast’s napping hour.” An early-rising ruler forced his subjects to rise early to conduct their business under his watchful eye. A late-rising ruler, as was their current dynast, altered the routine of the entire city. Such changes were no great hardship on the living inhabitants, who were generally at leisure to alter their lives to suit their ruler. The dead, who did all the work, never slept.

  The Lord High Chancellor and his prisoners entered the city gates during the close of the dynast’s audience hour, one of the busiest times of day for the city’s inhabitants. Audience hour marked a last moment’s flurry of activity before the city shut down for the dynast’s luncheon hour and the dynast’s napping hour.

  Consequently, the narrow streets of Necropolis were crowded with people, both living and dead. The streets were, in reality, tunnels, created either naturally or artificially, designed to give the inhabitants some protection from the constantly falling rain. These tunnels were narrow and twisting and tended to be dark, shadowy places, imperfectly lighted by hissing gas lamps.