Death Gate Cycle 3 - Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  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 voi
ce, then you’ll tell me with the voice of the dead!” Half-turning, 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.

  CHAPTER 17

  SALFAG CAVERNS, ABARRACH

  “I KNEW I should never have left that weakling on his own!”

  Haplo fumed to himself when Alfred’s stammering and confused denials came to his ears through those of the dog. The Patryn almost turned around, returned to try to salvage the situation. He realized, however, that by the time he made his way back through the cavern, the worst of the damage would already be done and so he kept going, following the prince and his army of cadavers to the cavern’s end.

  By the conclusion of the conversation between Baltazar and Alfred, Haplo’d been glad he’d kept out of it. Now he knew exactly what the necromancer planned. And if Baltazar wanted to take a little trip back through Death’s Gate, Haplo would be more than pleased to arrange it. Of course, Alfred would never permit it, but—at this point—Alfred had become expendable. A Sartan necromancer was worth far more than a sniveling Sartan moralist.

  There were problems. Baltazar was a Sartan and, as such, inherently good. He could threaten murder, but that was because he was desperate, intensely loyal to his people, to his prince. It was unlikely that he would leave his people, abandon his prince, go off on his own. Haplo’s lord would most certainly take a dim view of an army of Sartan marching through Death’s Gate and into the Nexus! Still, the Patryn reflected, these snarls in the skein could be worked out.

  “The enemy.” The prince, slightly ahead of Haplo, came to a halt.

  They had reached the end of the cavern. Standing concealed in the shadows, they could see the approaching force—a ragged, tattered army of corpses, shuffling and shambling in what they remembered as military formation. Several of the enemy in the forward ranks had already encountered the prince’s troops and skirmishes were occurring on the field.

  It was the strangest battle Haplo had ever seen. The dead fought using skills they remembered having used in life, giving and taking sword blows, parrying and thrusting, each obviously intent on killing their opponent. But whether they were fighting this particular enemy or one they had fought years past was open to debate.

  One dead soldier parried a thrust his opponent never delivered. Another took a sword through the chest without bothering to defend itself. Blows were dealt in a deliberate, if aimless manner, and were sometimes blocked, and sometimes not. Sword blades wielded by dead hands sank deep into dead flesh that never felt it. The cadavers wrenched the blade free and kept at it, striking each other again and again, doing significant damage but never making much headway.

  The battle between the dead might have gone on indefinitely had the strength of both sides been equal. The army from Necropolis was, however, in a far more advanced state of corruption and decay than the prince’s army. These dead appeared less well cared for than the prince’s dead, if such a thing could be said.

  The flesh of the cadavers had, in many instances, fallen from the bones. Each had suffered numerous injuries, most—it appeared—after their deaths. Many of the dead soldiers were missing various parts of their bodies—a bone gone here and there, perhaps a part of an arm or a piece of a leg. Their armor was badly rusted, the leather straps that held it together had almost all rotted away, leaving breastplates dangling by a thread, leg protectors falling down around the cadaver’s ankles, often tripping them up.

  The corpses made mindless attempts to march over or through obstacles and were constantly impeded by their own falling accoutrements. Thus the army of dead appeared to spend more time tumbling over itself than it did advancing. Those that were fighting were being battered into shapeless heaps of bones and armor over which their phantasms wavered and twisted with pleading, outstretched wisps of arms. It might have been a comic sight, if it hadn’t been horrific.

  Haplo started to laugh, felt—by the clenching of his stomach—that, if he did so, he might retch.

  “Old dead,” said the prince, watching them.

  “What?” Haplo asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Necropolis is using their old dead, the dead of generations past.” Edmund motioned to the dead captain of his army. “Send one of your men to fetch Baltazar. You can always tell the old dead.” The prince, speaking offhandedly, turned back to Haplo. “The necromancers weren’t so skilled in their art. They lacked the knowledge of how to keep the flesh from decaying, of how to maintain the cadavers.”

  “Do your dead always fight your wars?”

  “For the most part they do, now that we have built up substantial armies. Once, the living fought wars.” Edmund shook his head. “A tragic waste. But that was many years ago, long before I was born. Necropolis sent the old dead. I wonder,” he continued, frowning, “what this means.”

  “What could it mean?”

  “It could be a feint, an attempt to draw us out, force us to reveal our true strength. That’s what Baltazar would say,” the prince added, smiling. “But it could also be a sign from the people of Necropolis . that they don’t mean us serious harm. As you can see, our new dead could defeat this lot with ease. I believe Necropolis wants to negotiate.”

  Edmund gazed ahead, eyes squinting against the bright red glow of the magma sea. “There must be living among them. Yes, I see them. Marching at the rear.”

  Two black-robed and cowled necromancers walked some distance behind their shabby army, well out of range of spear throw. Haplo was startled to note the presence of living wizards, but realized, on observation, that the necromancers were required not only to lead the army and maintain the magic that held the crumbling bodies together, but also to act as macabre shepherds.

  More than once, a corpse came to a standstill, ceased to fight, or sometimes one would fall down and not get back up. The necromancers hastened into their flock, prodding and commanding, urging them forward. When a cadaver fell down, it might, on standing, face the wrong direction and head off on some erratic course directed by its faulty memory. The necromancer, like a conscientious sheepdog, raced after it, turned the dead soldier around, forced it to once more join the fray.

  Edmund’s dead, which Haplo supposed could be called the “new dead,” did not appear subject to these failings. The small skirmishing force fought well, reducing enemy numbers by literally battering the old dead into the ground. The larger portion of the army remained grouped behind their prince in the cavern opening, a skilled army awaiting command. Edmund’s only precaution was to continually remind the dead captain of its orders. At each reminder, the captain would nod its head alertly, as if receiving such instructions for the first time. Haplo wondered if the prince’s messenger would remember the message by the time it reached Baltazar.

  Edmund stirred restlessly. Suddenly, giving way to impulse, he leapt up on a boulder, showing himself to the advancing army. “Hold!” he cried, raising his hand up, palm outward, in a gesture of parley.

  “Halt!” cried the enemy necromancers, and both armies, after a moment of confusion, lurched to a stumbling standstill. The necromancers remained stationed behind their troops, able to see and hear, but still protected by their dead.

  “Why do you march on my people?” Edmund demanded.

  “Why did your people attack the citizens of Safe Harbor?” It was a female who spoke, her voice ringing clear and strong through the sulfurous air.

  “Our people did not attack,” the prince countered. “We came to the town seeking to buy supplies and were set on—”

  “You came armed!” the woman interrupted coldly.

  “Of course, we came armed! We have passed through perilous lands. We have been attacked by a fire dragon since we left our homeland. Your people
attacked us without provocation! Naturally, we defended ourselves, but we meant them no harm and, as proof, you can see that we left the town with all its wealth safe and untouched, although my people are starving.”

  The two necromancers conferred together in low voices. The prince remained standing—a proud and lordly figure—on the black rock.

  “What you say is true. We saw that much for ourselves,” said the other necromancer, a male. He walked forward, moving around the army’s right flank, leaving the female at the rear. The wizard lowered his cowl, showing his face. He was young, younger than the prince, with a smooth-shaven jaw, large green eyes, and the long chestnut-colored hair of the Sartan, the white tips curling on his shoulders. His mien was serious and grave and fearless as he advanced on his enemy. “Will you talk with us more?”

  “I will, and welcome,” said Edmund, starting to jump down from his rock.

  The young necromancer held up a warding hand. “No, please, We would not take unfair advantage of you. Have you a minister of the dead who can accompany you?”

  “My necromancer is coming now, as we speak,” said Edmund, bowing at this show of courtesy. Haplo, glancing back into the cavern, saw the black-robed figure of Baltazar hastening in their direction. Either the cadaver had remembered its message or the necromancer had decided he should be on hand and had already started this way. And there, stumbling along behind him, as clumsy as a cadaver himself, was Alfred, accompanied by the faithful dog.

  While waiting for Baltazar to catch up with them, Edmund marshaled his army, permitting enough of his troop strength to be seen to make an impression on the enemy, yet not enough to give away their true numbers. The enemy necromancer waited patiently at the head of his own army. If he was at all impressed with Edmund’s show of force, the youthful face didn’t reveal it.