“This may sound strange to you, Haplo. I have no desire to betray you. Oh, I've heard your threats against me and, believe me, I don't take them lightly. I know what will happen to me in the Nexus. But now we are strangers in a strange world—a world that appears to grow exceedingly more strange the deeper we probe it.”
Alfred appeared confused, almost shy. “I can't explain myself, but I feel a … a kinship to you, Haplo. Perhaps because of what happened to us going through Death's Gate. I've been where you were. And I think, if I'm right, that you've been where I was. I'm not explaining this very well, am I?”
“Kinship! The hell with all that. Keep in mind one thing—I'm your way out of here. Your only way out of here.”
“True,” said Alfred gravely. “You are right. It appears, then, that while we are on this world we must depend on each other for survival. Would you like me to pledge it?”
Haplo shook his head, fearing he might be called on to pledge something in return. “I'll trust you to save your own skin and because that includes saving mine, I guess that'll be good enough.”
Alfred glanced about nervously. “Now that that's settled, shouldn't we be going back to the ship?” “Are these people Sartan?” “Ye—es …”
“Don't you want to find out more about them? What they're doing on this World?”
“I suppose so …” Alfred hesitated.
Haplo ignored his reluctance. “We'll move closer, see if we can figure out what's going on.”
The two men and the dog crept ahead, keeping to the shadows of the tunnel wall, edging their way toward the light until Haplo deemed they were close enough to see without being seen, hear without being heard. He raised a warding hand and Alfred bobbed up close beside him, hovering silently in the air. The dog flopped down on the rock floor, keeping one eye on its master and the other on Alfred.
The cavern was filled with people, all of them Sartan. Sartan appear to be human at first glance, with the exception that their hair rarely varies in color. Even among children, the hair is almost always white, shading toward brown at the bottom. Patryn hair coloration is exactly the opposite. Haplo's hair was brown on top, shading to white at the bottom. Alfred had almost no hair (perhaps the balding was another unconscious attempt at disguise) and was thus not easily recognizable.
Sartan also tended to be taller in height than those of the lesser races. Their magical power and the knowledge of that power gave them extraordinarily beautiful and radiant countenances (Alfred being the exception).
These people were Sartan, beyond doubt. Haplo's eyes darted swiftly over the crowd. He saw only Sartan, none of the lesser races, no elves, no humans, no dwarves.
But there was something odd about these Sartan, something wrong. The Patryn had met one living Sartan—Alfred. Haplo had seen visions of the Sartan on Pryan. He'd looked on them with scorn, but he was forced to admit that they were a beautiful, radiant people. These Sartan seemed aged, faded; their radiance dimmed. Some of them were, in fact, hideous to look on. Haplo was repelled by the sight of them and saw his own revulsion reflected strongly in Alfred's eyes.
“They're holding a ceremony of some sort,” Alfred whispered.
Haplo was about to tell him to shut up when it occurred to the Patryn that he might learn something to his advantage. He swallowed his words and counseled patience, a hard lesson he'd learned in the Labyrinth.
“A funeral,” said Alfred in a pitying tone. “They're holding a funeral for the dead.”
“If so, they've waited long enough to entomb them,” Haplo muttered.
Twenty corpses of varying ages, from that of a small child to the body of a very old man, lay on the rock floor of the cavern. The crowd stood at a respectful distance, giving Haplo and Alfred—unobserved watchers—an excellent view. The corpses were composed, hands folded across the chest, eyes closed in eternal sleep. But some had obviously been dead a long time. The air was foul with the odor of decay, although—probably by their magic—the Sartan had succeeded in keeping the flesh from rotting away.
The skin of the dead was white and waxy, the cheeks and eyes sunken, the lips blue. On some, the nails had grown abnormally long, the hair was wild and uncombed. Haplo thought there was something familiar about the sight of the dead, but he didn't know what. He was about to mention his notion to Alfred, when the Sartan signaled him to be quiet and watch.
A man stepped forward, stood before the dead. Prior to the man's appearance, the crowd had been whispering and murmuring among themselves. Now, they all fell silent, all eyes turned to him. Haplo could almost feel their love and respect reach out to the unknown man.
Haplo was not surprised to hear Alfred whisper, “A Sartan prince.” The Patryn knew a leader when he saw one.
The prince raised his hands to draw their attention, an unnecessary gesture, because it seemed everyone in the cave had their eyes fixed on him.
“My people”—and it seemed that the man was speaking as much to the dead as to the living—“we have traveled far from our homeland, our beloved homeland….”
His voice choked, and he had to pause a moment to regain his composure. It seemed his people loved him the more for his weakness. Several put hands to their eyes, wiped away tears.
He drew a deep breath, continued. “But that is behind us now. What is done is done. It is up to us to continue on, to build new lives on the wreckage of the old.
“Ahead of us”—the prince flung out an arm, pointed, if he had known it, directly at Haplo and a startled Alfred— “lies the city of our brethren …”
The silence broke, angry mutterings interrupted. The prince raised his hand in a gentle but peremptory and commanding gesture and the voices ceased, although they left behind the heat of their emotions, like the heat welling up from the magma sea.
“I say ‘our brethren’ and I mean ‘our brethren.’ They are of our race, perhaps the only ones of our race left on this world or anywhere for that matter. What they did to us—if they did anything to us—they did unknowing. I swear it!”
“Robbed us of all we possessed!” cried one elderly woman, shaking a gnarled fist. The weight of years gave her the right to speak. “We've all heard the rumors you've tried to keep silent. They robbed us of our water, of our heat. Doomed us to die up there of thirst, if the cold didn't kill us first and starvation second. And you say they didn't know! I say they knew and they didn't care!” Snapping her mouth shut, the old woman wagged her head wisely.
The prince smiled at the old woman, a smile that was patient and fond. She obviously recalled pleasant memories. “Nevertheless I say they didn't know, Marta, and I am confident that I speak truly. How could they?” The prince raised his gaze directly to the rock ceiling above his head, but his look seemed to penetrate the stalactites and carry him far above the shadows of the cavern. “We who lived up there have long been parted from our brethren who live here beneath. If their lives have been as difficult as ours, it is no wonder that they have forgotten our very existence. We were fortunate to have wise ones among us, who remembered our past and from whence we came.”
Reaching out, the prince laid a hand on the arm of a man who had come to stand beside him. At the sight of this man, Alfred sucked in a deep and horrified breath that echoed among the rocks.
The prince and most of the people standing around him were wrapped in all types and manner of clothing, primarily animal furs, as though the region they'd left had been an exceedingly cold one. The man to whom the prince referred was clad differently. He wore a black skullcap and long black robes that, although the worse for wear, were clean and well kept. The robes were trimmed in silver runes. Haplo recognized these sigla as Sartan, but could make nothing else of them. Obviously, Alfred could but when Haplo cast him an interrogatory glance, the Sartan shook his head and bit his lip.
Haplo returned his attention to the prince.
“We have brought our dead with us these long and hard miles. Many have died along the way.” The prince walked over, kne
lt beside one corpse, who lay in the front of the rest and wore, on its wispy-haired head, a golden crown. “My own father lies among them. And I swear to you”—the prince raised his hand in solemn vow—“I swear to you before our dead that I believe the people in Kairn Necros to be innocent of the harm they did us. I believe that when they hear of it they will weep for us and will take us in and shelter us, as we would do the same for them! I believe this so strongly that I, myself, will go to them alone, unarmed, and throw myself on their mercy!”
The men raised spears, clashing them against shields. The people cried out in shock. Haplo was in shock himself— the peace-loving Sartan were actually wielding weapons. Several pointed at the dead, and Haplo saw that four corpses were those of young men, whose bodies lay on their shields.
The prince was forced to shout to be heard over the clamor. His handsome face grew stern, he sent a flashing-eyed glance around them, and his people hushed, chagrined, at the sight of his anger. “Yes, they attacked us. What did you expect? You came on them too suddenly, armed to the teeth, making demands! If you had remained patient—”
“It isn't easy, remaining patient, seeing your children starving!” mumbled one man, his eyes on a thin little boy, clinging to his father's leg. He reached out a hand, fondled the small head. “We asked them only for food and water.”
“Asked them at spear point,” the prince said, but his face softened in compassion, took the sting from his words. “Raef, don't you think I understand? I held the body of my father in my arms. I—” He lowered his head, put his hands to his eyes.
The man in the black robes said something to him and the prince, nodding, looked up again. “The battle, too, is past and done. We cannot undo it. I take the blame. I should have kept the people together, but I thought it best to send you on while I stayed behind to prepare my father's corpse. I will carry our apologies to our brethren. I am certain they will be understanding.”
To judge by the low growl among the crowd, the prince's certainty was not shared by his people. The old woman burst into tears. Hastening forward, she clasped her feeble hands on the prince's arm, begged him, as he loved them, not to go.
“What would you have me do, Marta?” the prince asked, gently patting the gnarled hand.
She looked up at him, suddenly fierce. “I would have you fight, like a man! Take back from them what they stole from us!”
The low growl increased in volume, spear clashed against shield. The prince climbed on a boulder, so that he could see and be seen by all the crowd gathered in the cave. His back was to Haplo and Alfred, but Haplo could tell by the rigid stance and the squared shoulders that the man had been pushed almost past endurance.
“My father, your king, is dead. Do you accept me for your ruler?” The edge in his voice sliced through the noise like the whistle of a sword's sharp blade. “Or is there one of you that means to challenge me? If so, step forward! We will have the contest here and now!”
The prince tossed aside his fur cloak, revealing a body young and strong and well muscled. By his movements, he was lithe and obviously skilled in the use of the sword he wore on his hip. For all his anger, he was cool and kept his wits about him. Haplo would have thought twice about confronting this man. No one among the crowd took the prince up on his offer. They appeared ashamed, and all of them lifted their voices in a shout of support that might have been heard in the far-distant city. Again, spear clashed against shield, but it was in homage, not in defiance.
The man in black robes came forward, speaking aloud for the first time. “No one challenges you, Edmund. You are our prince”—another shout—“and we will follow you as we followed your father. It is natural, however, that we fear for your safety. If we lose you, who will we turn to?”
The prince clasped the man's hand, looked around at his people and, when he spoke, his emotion could be heard plainly in his voice. “Now it is I who am ashamed. I lost my temper. I am nothing special, except that I have the honor to be my father's son. Any one of you could lead our people. All of you are worthy.”
Many of his people wept. Tears flowed freely down Alfred's face. Haplo, who had never supposed he could feel pity or compassion for anyone outside his own people, looked at these people, noted their shabby clothing, their wan faces, their pitiful children, and he was forced to remind himself sternly that these were Sartan, these were the enemy.
“We should proceed with the ceremony,” said the man in black robes, and the prince agreed. He stepped down from his boulder and took his own place among his people.
The man in black robes walked among the corpses. Lifting both hands, he began to make strange designs in the air and, at the same time, he started to chant words in a loud, singsong voice. Moving among the dead, passing up and down the silent rows, he drew a sigil above each one. The eerie singing grew louder, more insistent.
Haplo felt the hair rise on his head, his nerves tingled unpleasantly, his skin crawled, though he had no idea what was being said. This was no ordinary funeral.
“What's he doing? What's going on?”
Alfred's face had gone livid, eyes wide and staring in horror. “He's not entombing the dead! He's raising them!”
CHAPTER 14
SALFAG CAVERNS,
ABARRACH
“NECROMANCY!” HAPLO WHISPERED IN DISBELIEF, CONFLICTING emotions, wild thoughts overwhelming him with confusion. “My Lord was right! The Sartan do possess the secret of bringing back the dead!”
“Yes!” Alfred gasped, wringing his hands. “We did, we do! But it should not be used! Never be used!”
The man in black had begun to dance, weaving gracefully among the corpses, twining in and out between them, hands floating above them, continuing to make the same, singular signs that Haplo recognized now were powerful runes. And then Haplo knew suddenly what had struck him as familiar about the corpses. Looking into the crowd, he noted that many among the living, particularly those huddled near the back of the cavern, were not living at all. They had the same look as the cadavers, the same white flesh, same sunken cheeks and shadowed eyes. Far more of these people were dead than alive!
The necromancer was nearing the end of the ceremony, seemingly. White insubstantial forms rose from the corpses. Possessed of shape and substance, the forms lingered near the bodies from which they sprang. At a commanding gesture from the necromancer, the misty forms drew back, yet each kept near its corpse, like shadows in a sunless world.
These shadows retained the form of the being each had left. Some stood straight and tall over the bodies of straight, tall men. Others stooped over the bodies of the aged. One little one stood near the corpse of the child. Each appeared reluctant to be separated from the bodies, some made a feeble attempt to return, but the necromancer, with a stern and shouted command, drove them away.
“You phantasms have nothing to do with these bodies now. Abandon them! They are no longer dead! Life returns! Get away from them or I will cast you and the body into oblivion!”
From his tone, the wizard would have liked to banish these ethereal shapes altogether, but perhaps that was impossible. Meekly, sorrowfully, the phantasms did as they were commanded, each moving away from its corpse, each standing as near as it dared without risking the ire of the necromancer.
“What have my people done? What have they done?” Alfred moaned.
The dog, leaping up suddenly, gave a sharp, warning bark. Alfred lost his magic, tumbled to the ground. Haplo ripped the bandages from his hands, turned to face the threat. His only hope was to fight and try to escape. The sigla on his skin glowed blue and red, the magic throbbed in his body, but, at the sight of what he faced, he was helpless.
How did one fight something already dead?
Haplo stared, confounded, unable to think through the magic, unable to sort out the possibilities that governed it to find any that might help him. His split-second delay proved costly. A hand reached out, closed over his arm, grasping him with a chill grip that came near freezing his
heart. It seemed to him that the runes on his skin actually shriveled up beneath that deadly touch. He cried out in bitter pain, slumped to his knees. The dog, cringing, fell on its belly and howled.
“Alfred!” Haplo cried, through teeth clenched against the agony. “Do something!”
But Alfred took one look at their captors and fainted.
Dead warriors led Haplo and carried the comatose Alfred into the cavern. The dog trotted quietly behind, although it took great care to avoid the touch of the dead, who seemed not to know what to do with the animal. The cadavers laid Alfred down on the floor in front of the necromancer. They brought Haplo, sullen and defiant, to stand before the prince.
Had Edmund's life been measured in gates, as was Haplo's, the prince must have been near the Patryn's age, around twenty-eight. And it seemed to Haplo, as he looked into the serious, intelligent, shadowed eyes of the prince, that here was a man who had suffered much in those twenty-eight years, perhaps as much as Haplo himself.
“We caught them spying,” one of the dead warriors said. The cadaver's voice was almost as chilling as the lifeless touch. Haplo strove to remain motionless, although the pain of the dead fingers biting into his flesh was excruciating.
“Is this one armed?” Edmund asked.
The cadavers—three of them—shook their grisly heads.
“And that one?” The prince glanced at Alfred with a half-smile. “Not that it would matter if he were.”
The dead indicated he wasn't. The cadavers had eyes, but the eyes never looked at anything, never shifted or moved, never brightened or dimmed, never closed. Their phantasms, drifting restlessly behind the cadavers, had eyes that retained the wisdom and knowledge of the living. But the phantasms, it seemed, had no voice. They could not speak.
“Restore him to consciousness and treat him gently. Release the other one,” the prince ordered the cadavers, who removed their fingers from Haplo's arm. “Return to your watch.”
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