He studied it carefully, as if he expected it to disappear in his hands the moment he touched it. “So you have not yet lost the art.”
“Perhaps,” said the prince, eyeing Alfred, “your land is different from ours. Perhaps there is hope for the world, after all. I tend to judge everything by what I see. Tell me that I have judged wrongly!”
Alfred couldn't lie, he couldn't tell the truth. He stared at them, opening and closing his mouth.
“It's a big universe,” Haplo said easily. “Tell us about your part of it. What he said—your necromancer—about your brethren paying you back. What does that mean?”
“Be wary, Your Majesty,” warned Baltazar. “Would you confide in strangers? We have only their own words to trust that they are not spies from Necropolis!”
“We have eaten their food, Baltazar.” The prince smiled faintly. “The least we can do in return is answer their questions. Besides, what does it matter if they are spies? Let them take our story back to Necropolis. We have nothing to hide.
“The realm of my people is … or was … up there.” Edmund glanced upward beyond the shadows of the cavern ceiling. “Far, far up there …”
“On the surface of this world?” Haplo asked.
“No, no. That would be impossible. The surface of Abarrach is either cold and barren rock or vast plains of ice shrouded by darkness. Baltazar has traveled to that realm. He can describe it better than I.”
“Abarrach means world of stone in our language as well as in yours.” Baltazar nodded at Haplo and Alfred. “And it is just that, at least as far as the ancients—who had the time and talent to devote themselves to study—were able to determine. Our world consists of rock through which penetrate countless caverns and tunnels. Our ‘sun’ is the molten heart burning in Abarrach's core.
“The surface is as His Highness described it. It supports no life nor any possibility of life. But, beneath the surface, where we had our homes … ah, there the living was very pleasant. Very pleasant.” Baltazar sighed over his memories.
“The colossus—” he began.
“The what?” Alfred interrupted.
“Colossus. Don't you have them in your world?”
“He's not certain,” said Haplo. “Tell us what you mean.”
“Gigantic round columns of stone—”
“That support the cavern? We saw those outside.”
“The colossus do not support the cavern. Such support isn't necessary. They were created by magical means by the ancients. Their purpose was to transfer the heat energy from this part of the world up to us. It worked. We had bountiful supplies of food, water. Which makes what happened all the more inexplicable.”
“And that was—”
“A drop in our birthrate. Every year the number of children being born to us decreased. In some ways, however, the phenomenon proved fortunate. Our most powerful wizards turned their attention to the secrets of creating life. Instead, we discovered—”
“—the means of extending life past death!” Alfred exclaimed, voice quivering in shock and disapproval.
Fortunately, perhaps because of the language differences, Baltazar mistook shock for awe. He smiled, nodded complacently. “The addition of the dead to the population proved most beneficial. Keeping them alive does leech much of our magical power, but—in past days—we had little need for magic. The dead provided all physical labor. When we noticed that the magma river near our city was beginning to cool, we thought little of it. We continued to receive energy from below, heat traveled up through the colossus. The Little People mined the rock. They built our dwellings for us, and maintained the colossus—”
“Wait!” Haplo stopped Baltazar. “Little People? What Little People?”
The necromancer frowned, thinking back. “I don't know much about them. They are gone now.”
“I recall hearing stories about the Little People from my father,” Edmund said. “And I met them once. They loved more than anything to dig and delve in the rock. They coveted the minerals they found there, calling them such names as ‘gold’ and ‘silver,’ and brought forth jewels of rare and wondrous beauty—”
“Dwarves?” Alfred ventured at a guess.
“That word sounds strangely in my ears. Dwarves.” Baltazar looked to the prince, who nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “We had another name for them, but that is near the mark. Dwarves.”
“Two other races are believed to populate this world,” Alfred continued, either ignoring or simply not seeing Haplo's attempts to stop the Sartan from saying too much. “Elves were one, humans another.”
Neither Baltazar nor Edmund appeared to recognize the names.
“Mensch,” suggested Haplo, using the term by which both Sartan and Patryns referred to the lesser races.
“Ah, mensch!” Baltazar brightened in recognition. He shrugged. “Reports exist in the writings of our grandfathers. Not that they ever saw any, but they heard of them from their fathers and their fathers before them. These mensch must have been extremely weak. Their races died out almost immediately after they came to Abarrach.”
“You mean … no more remain on this world! But, they were left in your care.” Alfred began in severe tones. “Surely you—”
This had gone far enough. Haplo whistled. The dog left off eating. Following its master's gesture, it trotted over and, plopping itself down beside Alfred, gleefully began to lick the man's face.
“Surely you—stop that! Nice doggie. Go … go away, nice doggie.” Alfred attempted to shove the dog aside. The dog, thinking this was now a game, entered into the spirit of the contest. “Down! Sit! Nice doggie. No, please. Do go away! I—”
“You're right, necromancer,” Haplo struck in coolly. “These mensch are weak. I know something of them and they couldn't have survived in a world such as this, a fact that some should have recognized before they brought them here. It sounds like you'd found the good life. What happened?”
Baltazar frowned, his tone dark. “Disaster. The blow didn't fall at once. It came on us gradually, and that made it worse, I think. Little things began to go wrong. Our water supply mysteriously began to dwindle away. The air grew colder, fouler; poisonous gases were seeping into our atmosphere. We used up more and more of our magic in efforts to protect ourselves from the poison, to reproduce water, to grow food. The Little People—those dwarves as you called them—succumbed. We could do nothing to help them, without endangering ourselves.”
“But, your magic—” Alfred protested, having finally persuaded the dog to sit quietly at his side.
“Aren't you listening? Our magic was needed for ourselves! We were the strongest, the fittest, the best suited to survive. We did what we could for the … these dwarves, but in the end they died as the other mensch died before them. And then it became more important than ever for us to resurrect and maintain our dead.”
Haplo shook his head in profound admiration. “A labor force that never needs rest, never eats the food or drinks the water, doesn't mind the cold, hardship. The perfect slave, the perfect soldier.”
“Yes,” agreed Baltazar, “without our dead, we living could not have managed.”
“But don't you understand what you've done?” Alfred cried in earnest, agonized tones. “Don't you realize—” “Dog!” Haplo ordered.
The animal jumped back to its feet, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
Alfred raised his hands in front of his face and, with a fearful glance at Haplo, fell silent.
“Certainly we realize,” said the necromancer crisply. “We regained an art that was, according to the old records, lost to our people.”
“Not lost. Not lost,” Alfred said sorrowfully, but he said it beneath his breath. Haplo heard it through the ears of the dog.
“Of course, you must not think us idle in attempting to discover what was going wrong,” Edmund added. “We investigated and came at last, and most reluctantly, to the conclusion that the colossus, which had once provided us life, were now responsible for
depriving us of it. Warmth and fresh air had once flowed through the columns. Now our heat was being tapped and drawn off—”
“By the people in that city?” Haplo waved his hand in the direction of the buildings over which he'd flown. “That's what you suspect, isn't it?”
He barely listened to the answer. The subject didn't much interest him. He would have preferred to pursue the subject of necromancy, but didn't dare make his intense interest known, either to these men or to Alfred. Patience, he counseled.
“It was an accident. The people of Necropolis could have no way of knowing that they were harming us,” Edmund was arguing warmly, his gaze going to the necromancer. Baltazar scowled, and Haplo recognized this as an old disagreement between them.
The necromancer—perhaps because there were strangers present—forebore offering an opinion contrary to that of his ruler. Haplo was about to attempt to turn the conversation back to the dead when a clatter and commotion in the cavern drew everyone's attention. Several cadavers—soldiers by the remnants and fragments of their uniforms—came running from the direction of the cavern's entrance.
The prince rose immediately to his feet, followed by the necromancer. Baltazar caught hold of the prince's arm, pointed. The corpse of the dead king came shuffling forward, also intent on interviewing the guards.
“I told Your Highness this would be a problem,” Baltazar said in low tones.
Anger flushed the prince's pale skin. Edmund started to say something, bit off whatever hasty words he might have spoken. “You were right and I was wrong,” he said instead, after a frowning pause. “Are you pleased to hear me confess as much?”
“Your Highness misunderstands me,” the necromancer said gently. “I didn't mean—”
“I know you didn't, My Friend.” Edmund sighed wearily. Exhaustion drained the color from his thin cheeks. “Forgive me. Please excuse us,” he had just the presence of mind to say to his guests, and walked hurriedly over to where the corpse of the king was conferring with the corpses of his subjects.
Haplo made a motion with his hand and the dog, unnoticed, trotted along behind the prince. The living in the cavern had fallen silent. Exchanging grim glances, they began hastily packing away what items they had brought out to aid them in their meager meal. But, when they could turn their attention from their work, their eyes fixed on their prince.
“It isn't honorable for you to spy on them like that, Haplo,” Alfred said in a low voice. He glanced unhappily at the dog, standing at the prince's side.
Haplo didn't consider the comment worthy of response.
Alfred fidgeted nervously, toying with his bit of uneaten fish. “What are they saying?” he asked at last.
“Why should you care? It isn't honorable to spy on them,” Haplo retorted. “Still, you might be interested to know that these dead, who are apparently scouts, report that an army has landed in the town.”
“An army! What about the ship?”
“The runes will keep anyone from coming near it, let alone harming it. What should concern you more is that the army is marching this way.”
“An army of the living?” Alfred asked in a low voice, seeming to dread the answer.
“No,” Haplo said, watching Alfred closely. “An army of the dead.”
Alfred groaned, covered his face with his hand.
Haplo leaned forward. “Listen, Sartan,” he said urgently, softly. “I need some answers about this necromancy and I need them quick.”
“What makes you think I know anything about it?” Alfred asked uneasily, keeping his eyes averted.
“Because of that hand wringing and moaning and whining you've been doing ever since you saw what was going on. What do you know about the dead?”
“I'm not certain I should tell you,” Alfred said, lowering his bald head between hunched shoulders, the turtle ducking into its shell.
Haplo reached out, caught hold of the Sartan's wrist, and gave it a painful twist. “Because we're about to be caught in the middle of a war, Sartan! You're obviously incapable of defending yourself, which leaves your safety and mine up to me. Are you going to talk?”
Alfred grimaced in pain. “I'll… tell you what I know.”
Haplo grunted in satisfaction, let loose of the man.
Alfred rubbed his bruised flesh. “The cadavers are alive, but only in the sense that they can move around and obey orders. They remember what they did in life, know nothing beyond.”
“The king then …” Haplo paused, not quite understanding.
“Still thinks of himself as king,” Alfred said, his gaze going to the cadaver, to the white head and hoary locks crowned with gold. “He's still trying to rule, because he thinks he is still the ruler. But, of course, he doesn't have any conception of the current situation. He doesn't know where he is, probably thinks he's back in his own homeland.”
“But the dead soldiers know—”
“They know how to fight, because they remember what they were trained to do in life. And all a living commander has to do is point out an enemy.”
“What are those spirit things that follow the cadavers around like their shadows? What do they have to do with the dead?”
“In a way, they are their shadows, the essence of what they were when they were alive. No one knows much about the phantasms, as they are called. Unlike the corpse, the phantasm seems to be aware of what is happening in the world, but it is powerless to act.”
Alfred sighed, his gaze going from the dead king to Edmund. “Poor young man. Apparently he believed his father would somehow be different. Did you see the way the old man's phantasm fought against returning to this corrupt form of life? It was as if it knew—Oh, what have they done? What have they done?”
“Well, what have they done, Sartan?” Haplo demanded impatiently. “It seems to me that necromancy could have its advantages.”
Alfred turned, regarded the Patryn with serious, grave intensity. “Yes, so we thought once, long ago. But we made a terrible discovery. The balance must be maintained. For every person brought back untimely to this life, another person—somewhere—untimely dies.” He cast a despairing glance around the people huddled in the cavern. “It is possible, extremely possible, that these people have unwittingly been the doom of our entire race.”
CHAPTER 16
SALFAG CAVERNS,
ABARRACH
“THEORETICAL NONSENSE!” HAPLO SNORTED IN DISGUST.“You can't prove such a thing.”
“Perhaps it already has been proven,” Alfred replied.
Haplo rose to his feet, not intending to stay around and listen to any more of the Sartan's whimperings. So the dead had a few memory problems, a short attention span. Haplo considered that if he were in their position, he might not want to dwell on the present either. If he were in their position… would he want to be resurrected?
The thought brought him to a standstill. He pictured himself lying on the rock floor, the necromancer standing over him, his body rising …
Haplo shoved the question out of his mind, continued walking. He had more important matters to consider.
Maybe not, whispered a voice inside him. If you die on this world—and you very nearly died on two other worlds— then they'll do this to you!
The staring eyes that looked straight ahead into their past. The waxy, white flesh, the blue nails and lips, the lank, uncombed hair. Revulsion twisted his stomach. For an instant, he considered fleeing, running away.
Appalled, he got a grip on himself. What the hell's the matter with me? Running out! Running away! From what? A bunch of corpses!
“The Sartan's doings,” he muttered angrily. “That sniveling coward's working on my imagination. If I were dead, I don't suppose it'd matter to me one way or the other.” But his gaze shifted from the cadaver to the phantasms, those pathetic, shadowy forms always hovering near their bodies, within reach, yet unable to touch.
“Father, leave this to me,” Edmund was talking to the cadaver with praiseworthy patience. “S
tay with the people. I will go with the soldiers and see what this is all about.”
“We're under attack from the people in the city? What city? I don't remember any city.” The dead king sounded querulous, the hollow voice frustrated, confused.
“There isn't time to explain, Father!” The prince's patience was slipping. “Please, don't concern yourself. I will deal with it. The people. You stay with the people.”
“Yes, the people.” The cadaver caught hold of that, seemed to hang on tightly. “My people. They look to me for leadership. Yet what can I do? Our land is dying! We must leave it, search for somewhere new. My Son, do you hear me? We must leave our land!”
But Edmund was no longer paying attention. He left with the dead soldiers, hastening back through the cavern toward the entrance. The necromancer stayed behind to listen to the cadaver's rambling. The dog, having no instructions to the contrary, trotted along at the prince's heels.
Haplo hurried after the prince but, when he caught up with him, he saw tears glisten on Edmund's cheeks, saw the raw grief in the man's face. The Patryn fell back a pace, stopped to play with the dog, give the prince time to compose himself. Edmund halted, brushed the back of his hand hastily over his eyes, glanced around.
“What do you want?” he demanded, voice harsh.
“Came to get my dog,” Haplo said. “He ran off after you before I could catch him. What's the problem?”
“There isn't time …” Edmund hurried on ahead again.
The dead soldiers moved swiftly, if clumsily. Walking was difficult for them. They had trouble guiding their steps or making changes in direction if they encountered an obstacle. Consequently, they blundered headlong into the cavern walls, careened off boulders, stumbled over rocks. But although they couldn't seem to comprehend obstacles, no obstacle stopped them. They trundled through red-hot magma pools without hesitation. The glowing lava burned off whatever clothes or armor they might have had left, turned the dead flesh into charred lumps. Nevertheless, the lumps kept on moving.
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