Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  The dog, who had been keeping a wary eye on Alfred, was satisfied that it, too, could relax. Curling up beside its master, the animal rested its head on Haplo's chest, but kept its eyes open.

  Haplo awoke from a long sleep that had healed his body, but had not brought peace or ease to his mind. He was unaccountably restless, vague anger gnawed at him. Lying on the floor in the darkness, he stroked the dog's head, and attempted to figure out what was the matter with him.

  He had something of extreme importance to do or say or tell someone. Something urgent, something of value and … he couldn't remember what it was.

  “Arrant nonsense,” he told the dog. “Impossible. If it were that important, I'd remember it.” But, try as he might, he couldn't, and the lost knowledge burned within him, another kind of poison.

  Added to his disquiet were hunger and a raging thirst. He'd had nothing to eat or drink since the supper that had nearly been his last. He sat up, glanced about, searching for water—perhaps a tiny rivulet streaming through a crack in the wall, a drop falling from the ceiling. He could use a drop to create more with his rune-magic, but he couldn't conjure water out of solid rock.

  No water. Nothing. Everything was going wrong, had gone wrong ever since he'd arrived on this blasted world. At least he knew where to lay the blame.

  Alfred lay hunched up on his side, his mouth wide open, snoring softly.

  1 should have let the bastard die back there. Especially after he cast that spell on me, made me see those people around that table, made me say—Haplo shook free of the unpleasant memory. But at least now we're even. I saved his life in return for him saving mine. I don't owe him a damn thing.

  Haplo stood up suddenly, startling the dog, who jumped to its feet and stared at him with an air of faint reproach.

  “You are setting off on your own.” Prince Edmund's cadaver stood motionless at the end of the corridor, near the sealed door, near where Jonathan lay in spellbound sleep on the floor.

  “I travel faster that way.” Haplo stretched his arms, rubbed a stiff neck. He didn't like looking at the phantasm. The sight made him think again of whatever it was he'd forgotten.

  “You're going to leave without the guiding runes.” The phantasm wasn't attempting to persuade him, apparently. It didn't seem to care, was merely pointing out the obvious. It was probably lonely, liked hearing itself talk.

  “I figure we're at the bottom of the catacombs,” said Haplo. “I'll find a corridor that leads back up, follow it until I get to the top. I can't end up much worse than I've ended up following him!”

  He gestured at Alfred, who had rolled over on his stomach, his backside hunched up in a most undignified position.

  “Besides,” Haplo grunted, “I've been in worse places. I was born in one. C'mon, dog.”

  The dog yawned and stretched, front paws extended, rocked forward, back legs extended, then shook itself all over.

  “Do you know what is going on up there?” The phantasm's gleaming-eyed gaze lifted.

  “I can guess,” Haplo muttered, not liking to discuss it.

  “You will never reach your ship alive. You will become like Kleitus and Jera—souls trapped in dead bodies, hating the mockery of life that binds them to this realm, fearing the death that would free them.”

  “That's my risk,” retorted Haplo, but the palms of his hands grew clammy. Sweat broke out on his body, chilling him, although the air in the tunnel was warm and oppressive.

  All right, I'm afraid! We respect fear, we're not ashamed of it—so the elders taught us in the Labyrinth. The rabbit feels no shame fleeing the fox, the fox feels no shame fleeing the lion. Listen to your fear, confront it, understand it, deal with it.

  Haplo walked over, faced the phantasm of the prince. He could see through it, see the wall in back of it, and he knew from the cool, intent stare of the eyes that, in much the same way, it could see through him.

  “Tell me the prophecy.”

  “My words,” said the prince, “are for the dead.”

  Haplo turned abruptly, moving swiftly, and fell over the dog, who had been trotting along behind. He stepped on the animal's fore paw. The dog yelped in pain, sprang backward, cringing, wondering what it had done wrong.

  Alfred woke with a start. “What—? Where—?” he gabbled.

  Haplo cursed fluently, held out his hand to the dog. “I'm sorry, boy. Come here. I didn't mean it.”

  The animal accepted the apology, came forward graciously to be scratched behind the ears, indicated that there were no hard feelings.

  Seeing only Haplo, Alfred gulped in relief, mopped his brow. “Are you feeling better?” he asked anxiously.

  The question annoyed Haplo almost beyond endurance. A Sartan, concerned for my health! He gave a brief, bitter laugh and turned away, continued his search for water.

  Alfred sighed, shook his bald head. He was obviously in misery, his stiff body twisted like an old gnarled tree. He watched Haplo a moment, guessed what he must be doing.

  “Water, that's a good idea. My throat is raw. I can barely talk—”

  “Then don't!” Haplo made a fourth fruitless circuit of the tunnel, the dog trotting along at his heels. “Nothing here. There's bound to be water near the surface. We better get started.” He walked over to the duke, nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, dear! I forgot.” Alfred flushed. “He's under a spell. He was dying. Well, he wasn't, but he thought he was and the power of suggestion …”

  “Yeah. I know all about the power of suggestion! You and your spells! Wake him up and let's get out of here. And no more guide-runes, either, Sartan!” Haplo held up a warning finger. “The Labyrinth only knows where they'd lead us next! This time, you follow me. And be quick about it or I'll leave without you.”

  But he didn't. He waited. He waited for Alfred to wake the duke, waited for the wretched Jonathan to come to his senses.

  Haplo waited, fretting with impatience, tormented by his thirst, but he waited.

  When he asked himself why he had changed his mind about going off alone, he answered himself that traveling in numbers made sense.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE CATACOMBS,

  ABARRACH

  THE TUNNEL CLIMBED STEADILY UPWARD, LED THEM OUT and away from the Chamber of the Damned to the shores of a vast pool of magma. Its fire lit the cavern's eternal night with a red glow. There was no way around it, they could only go over it. A narrow rock bridge spanned the molten lava, a thin black line snaking over an inferno. They moved across it in single file.

  The sigla tattooed on Haplo's skin glowed blue, their magic protected him from the heat and the fumes. Alfred chanted beneath his breath; either his magic was aiding his breathing or his walking. Haplo wasn't certain, but he guessed the walking, amazed that the clumsy-footed Sartan made it over the treacherous span.

  Jonathan followed after, his head bowed, ignoring the others’ talk, absorbed in his own thoughts. He had changed since yesterday, however. His step was no longer aimless and stumbling, but firm and resolute. He took an interest in their surroundings and in his own well-being, walking the span with care and caution.

  “He's young, after all,” said Alfred softly, watching anxiously as the duke, accompanied by the cadaver, arrived at the end of the bridge. “His instinct for self-preservation has won out over the desire to end his despair by ending his life.”

  “Look at his face,” said Haplo, wishing for the hundredthtime that Alfred would keep out of his brain and stop saying what he, Haplo, was thinking.

  Jonathan had lifted his head to stare at the prince's phantasm hovering near him. The young face, lit by the magma's fiery glow, was prematurely aged; grief and horror had tightened the once-smiling mouth, shadowed the light of the eyes. But the sullen uncaring desperation and despair were gone, replaced by a thoughtful, introspective study. His gaze was fixed most often on the prince.

  The tunnel continued to carry them upward, the floor slanting upward at
a steep angle as if it couldn't wait to leave behind the horror of what lay below. But what horror lay ahead? Haplo didn't know and at this point didn't care.

  “What did you do to him with that spell of yours?” He kept talking to distract himself, keep his mind off his thirst. A gesture sent the dog back to watch over the duke and the cadaver.

  “It was only a simple sleep spell—” Alfred stumbled, fell headlong over his own feet.

  Haplo walked grimly on, ignoring sounds of scrabbling and panting behind.

  “It's grown rather dark,” Alfred said timidly, catching up with Haplo. “We could use the guide-runes for light—”

  “Forget it! I've had enough Sartan magic to last a lifetime. And I wasn't referring to your sleep spell. I meant that spell you cast over him in that chamber back there.”

  “You're mistaken. I didn't cast any spell. I saw what you saw and what he saw. At least, I think I did…” Alfred glanced at Haplo sideways, an open invitation to talk about what they'd seen.

  The Patryn snorted and continued on in silence.

  The tunnel widened, grew lighter. Other tunnels branched off from it, heading in several different directions. The air was cooler, more moist, easier to breathe. Gas lamps hissed, formed pools of yellow light that alternated with pools of darkness. Haplo had no doubt they were nearing the city.

  What would they find once they reached the top? Guards posted, waiting for them? All exits blocked?

  Water. That was all Haplo cared about at this moment. At least, there would be water. He'd fight an army of the dead for one swallow.

  Behind him, the prince and Jonathan spoke together in low tones. The dog trotted along at their feet, a quiet, unobtrusive spy on their conversation.

  “Whatever happens, it will all be my fault,” Jonathan was saying. His tone was sad, regretful. He was accepting blame, not whining in self-pity. “I've always been heedless, reckless! I forgot all I'd been taught. No, that's not quite true. I chose to forget it. I knew what I was doing was wrong when I worked the magic on Jera…. But I couldn't bear to let her go!”

  He paused a moment, added, “We Sartan became obsessed with life. We lost our respect for death. Even a semblance of life, a horrible mockery of life, was better for us than death. Such an attitude came from thinking of ourselves as gods. What is it, after all, that separates man from the gods? Ultimate rule over life and death. We were able to control life with our magic. We worked until we were able to control death—or thought we had.”

  He's speaking about himself and his people in the past tense, Haplo realized. He might have been eavesdropping on a conversation between two cadavers, instead of one.

  “You are beginning to understand,” said the prince.

  “I want to understand more,” Jonathan spoke humbly.

  “You know where to look for the answers.”

  Back in that damn chamber, no doubt. Or just have good, old Alfred sing his blasted runes at you again. What is it I'm supposed to remember? I saw it all so clearly…. Saw what clearly? … I understood … understood what? If only I could recall….

  The hell with it! I know everything I need to know. My Lord is all-powerful, all-wise, all-knowing. My Lord will one day rule this world and all others. My duty is to My Lord and to his cause. These doubts, these confusing vagaries are a trick of the Sartan's.

  “Haplo …” Alfred's voice.

  “What now?”

  Turning around, Haplo saw that the Sartan had again come to grief. Alfred lay sprawled on the stone floor, his face twisted with pain. He raised his hand, held it palm out.

  “If you think I'm helping you, forget it. You can lie there and rot for all I care.”

  The dog hurried up to Alfred, began to lick the man's cheek. Haplo turned away in disgust.

  “No, it's not that! I think—that is … I've found water. I—I'm lying in a puddle.”

  Alfred had, unfortunately, soaked up quite a bit of the water on his clothes, but once they had a small amount of the precious liquid, they could magically replicate more. Haplo searched until he discovered the source, a steady drip of water draining through a crack in the ceiling.

  “We must be near the upper level. Best stay alert. Don't drink too much,” he cautioned. “It'll cramp the stomach. Slowly, in small sips.” He found it difficult to follow his own advice. The liquid was muddy and tasted faintly of sulfur and iron, even after magic had purified it. But it quenched thirst, kept the body going.

  “Some gods we are,” said Haplo to himself, sucking on a piece of cloth he'd dipped in the puddle. He caught Alfred's swift glance and scowled, turned away in irritation. Why had such a thought crossed his mind? The Sartan had put it there, no doubt…

  The dog lifted its head, ears pricked. It growled low and softly.

  “Someone's coming!” Haplo whispered, twisting, catlike, to his feet.

  A figure in black robes emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor. It moved slowly, haltingly, as if injured or greatly fatigued, and made frequent stops to look back over its shoulder.

  “Tomas!” cried Jonathan suddenly, although how he could tell one black-robed necromancer from another was beyond Haplo's ability to fathom. “Traitor!” Before anyone could stop him, the young duke sprinted forward, robes flapping behind him.

  Tomas whirled around to face them, his panicked shriek echoed through the corridors. He tried to run. An injured leg or ankle gave out, and he fell to the stone floor. Crawling on hands and knees, he attempted to drag himself away. Jonathan caught up with him easily, placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

  Screaming fearfully, Tomas lurched over on his back, raised his hands over his face. “No, please! Don't! Please! No!” he babbled, over and over, writhing in a paroxysm of terror, his body twitching and rolling on the floor.

  The duke stared at the man. “Tomas! I'm not going to hurt you! Tomas!” Jonathan attempted to catch hold of the wretched man, soothe him. But the sight of hands approaching him only increased his panic.

  “Shut him up!” ordered Haplo furiously. “He'll have every guard in the palace down on us!”

  “I can't!” Jonathan looked helpless. “He's … he's gone mad!”

  Alfred knelt beside Tomas, began weaving his hands over him, chanting the runes.

  “Don't put him to sleep, Sartan! We need information.”

  Alfred shot Haplo a stern, reproachful glance.

  “You want to carry him through the corridors with us?” Haplo demanded. “Or just leave him here, unconscious?”

  Abashed, Alfred nodded. The motion of his hands formed an invisible blanket over the man. Tomas's cries ceased, he began to breathe easier. But he continued to stare at them with wide eyes, his limbs shivered and shook. Haplo crouched on the floor near the man. The dog, coming up alongside, sniffed and pawed at Tomas's robes with intense interest. Haplo reached out and touched the robe's fabric. It was wet and sodden. He held up his hand to the light, his fingers were stained crimson.

  Alfred shoved the man's robe aside, looked at the leg beneath. It was bruised, but otherwise uninjured. The blood wasn't his own. Alfred went extremely pale.

  “You know this man?” Haplo asked Jonathan.

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “Talk to him. Find out what's going on up there.”

  “Tomas. It's me, Jonathan. Don't you recognize me?” The duke had forgotten his anger in pity. He reached out his hand, gingerly.

  Tomas's eyes followed the hand, his gaze suddenly shifted to Jonathan's face. “You're alive!” he gasped. He grasped Jonathan's hand convulsively, held it fast. “You're alive!” he whispered over and over, and burst into dry, heaving sobs.

  “Tomas, what happened to you? Are you hurt? There's blood—”

  “Blood!” The man gasped, shuddered. “It's in the air. I can taste it! Breathe it! It stands in pools, burns like the magma. It drips, drips. I can hear it. All cycle. Drip, drip.”

  “Tomas …” Jonathan urged.

  The man paid
no attention. He clutched the duke's hands, stared out into the shadows. “She came … for her father. His blood seeped down through the floor … drip, drip.”

  Jonathan's face went livid. He let loose Tomas's grasping hands, sat back on his heels.

  Haplo decided it was time to intervene. Roughly crowding the duke aside, he caught hold of Tomas and shook him. “What's going on in the city? What's going on up there?”

  “Only one alive. Only one—” He began to choke, his eyes bulged from his head, his tongue protruded from his mouth.

  “Sartan! Do something, damn it! He's having some sort of fit! I have to know—”

  Alfred moved to minister to him. Too late. Tomas's eyes rolled back in the head, his body stiffened, then went limp.

  Haplo felt for a pulse, shook his head.

  “Is he—? Is he … dead?” Jonathan's voice was barely audible. “How?”

  “His own fear killed him,” Alfred replied. “Whatever he saw up there.”

  “ Only one alive,’ “ Haplo repeated the words slowly.

  “I hear the voices of the dead,” said the phantasm. Prince Edmund's cadaver stood near Jonathan, the phantasm's gleaming eyes gazed dispassionately at the corpse. “They are many and they are filled with anger. Be at ease, poor spirit,” the prince added, speaking to a thing unseen.

  “Your wait will not be long. Time grows short. The prophecy is about to be fulfilled.”

  The prophecy! Haplo'd forgotten all about it. He rose to his feet. “Tell me about this—”

  The dog growled, lowered its head.

  “Damn! Get out of the light!” Haplo ordered, melting back into the darkness. “Keep quiet!”

  Shadowed forms appeared, hooded faces hidden.

  “The man ran this way,” said one. “I am positive. I can sense warmth. There is life down here!”

  “… life down here…”came the faint, sibilant whisper.

  “Lazar …” Alfred said, gave a gentle sigh, and slid down the wall.