Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

The beast glanced at him, but the red eyes were far more intent on the phantasm of the prince.

  “What are you?”

  The dragon spoke to the prince, ignored Jonathan, ignored everyone else standing on the broken column. Haplo put his hand on the dog's head, keeping it quiet. The animal trembled, but obeyed its master.

  “I have never seen anything like you.”

  The dragon's words were perfectly intelligible, clearly understood, but they weren't spoken aloud. The sound seemed to run through the body, like blood.

  “I am what was always meant to be,” said the phantasm.

  “Indeed.” The slit eyes flicked over the group. “And a Patryn, too. Stranded on a rock. What next? The fulfillment of the prophecy?”

  “We are in desperate need, Lady,” said Jonathan, with a low bow. “Many of the people in the city of Necropolis now lie dead—”

  “Many of my people now lie dead!” The dragon made a hissing sound, its black tongue flickered. “What is this to me?”

  “Do you see those ships, crossing the Fire Sea?” Jonathan pointed. The dragon did not turn her head, she was obviously aware of what was passing in her ocean. “They carry lazar and armies of the dead—”

  “Lazar!” The slit eyes of the dragon narrowed. “Bad enough the dead walk. Who brought lazar into Abarrach?”

  “I did, Lady,” said Jonathan. His hands clasped together, holding tight, keeping his pain within.

  “You will get no help from me!” The dragon's eyes flared in anger. “Let the evil you have brought into this world take you down with it!”

  “He is innocent of that charge, Lady. He acted out of love,” stated the phantasm. “His wife died, sacrificed her life for his. He could not bear to let her go.”

  “Folly, then. But criminal folly. I will have nothing further—”

  “I want to make amends, Lady,” Jonathan said. “I have been given the wisdom to do so. Now, I am trying to find the courage….” Words failed him. He swallowed, drew a deep breath. Hands clasped tighter. “My companions and I must reach the opposite shore, ahead of the lazar and the dead they command.”

  “You want me to carry you,” said the dragon.

  “No …” Alfred shook in his shoes.

  “Shut up!” Haplo laid a silencing hand on the Sartan's arm.

  “If you would so honor us, Lady.” Jonathan bowed again.

  “How can I be certain you will do what you say? Perhaps you will only make matters worse.”

  “He is the one of whom the prophecy speaks,” said the prince.

  Haplo's hand, on Alfred's arm, twitched. Alfred saw the man's lips twist, the brows knot in frustration. The Patryn kept silent, however. His major concern now was to reach his ship in safety.

  “And you are with him in this?” the dragon queried.

  “I am.” Prince Edmund's cadaver stood straight and tall, the phantasm was its shining shadow.

  “The Patryn, as well?”

  “Yes, Lady.” Haplo's words were brief, bitten off at the end. What else could he say, with those fire red eyes intent on him?

  “I will take you. Be quick.”

  The dragon glided nearer the broken colossus, spikemaned neck and head towering over the puny figures who stood beneath. A sinuous, twisting body rose out of the sea, flat backed, spikes extending the full length of the spine. The tip end of a spiny tail could be seen slashing through the lava far, far behind it.

  Jonathan descended swiftly, grabbing hold of one of the spikes and using it to steady his landing. The cadaver followed, its gleaming phantasm guided the corpse's steps. Alfred came after, touching the mane gingerly, expecting it to be hot. The scales were quite cool, however, hard and shining as black glass.

  The Sartan had ridden dragonback on Arianus and, although this dragon was considerably different from those in the air world, he wasn't nearly as frightened as he'd expected to be. Only Haplo and the dog remained standing on the column, the Patryn eyeing the dragon warily, his gaze shifting to the column ahead of him, as if measuring what his best decision might be. The dog whimpered and cringed and ducked behind its master, doing its best to avoid the dragon's eye.

  Alfred knew enough about the Labyrinth to understand the Patryn's fear, his dilemma. Dragons in the Labyrinth are

  intelligent, malevolent, deadly; never to be trusted, always to be avoided. But the steam-powered ships of the dead were nearing the middle of the ocean. Haplo made his decision, jumped onto the dragon's back. “Here, dog!” he called.

  The animal ran back and forth on the column, made a tentative try at a jump, gave it up at the last moment, ran up and down the column again, whining.

  “Hurry!” the dragon warned.

  “Dog!” Haplo commanded, snapping his fingers.

  The animal gathered itself together and made a desperate jump right into Haplo's arms, nearly bowling him over.

  The dragon whipped around with a speed that caught Alfred unaware. He had let go of the mane and now almost slid off the back. Grabbing hold of a spike that stood taller than he did, he clung to it with both hands.

  The fire dragon swam through the magma as easily as the dragons of Arianus flew through the air, using slithering motions and the push of its strong tail to propel the wingless, gigantic body forward. The hot wind of their passing blew Alfred's wispy hair back from his head, fluttered his robes behind him. The dog howled in terror the entire way.

  The dragon moved at an angle to cut off the ships, then raced ahead of them. At home in her element, her speed was formidable. The iron ships could not match it. But they were now more than halfway across. The dragon was forced to cut close, swinging across the bow of the lead ship. The dead saw them. A hail of arrows rained down around them, but the dragon was sailing too rapidly for the archers to find a good target.

  “My people,” said the cadaver in its hollow voice.

  The army of the dead of Kairn Telest was drawn up on the docks, prepared to meet the army of the dead of Necropolis and drive them back before they could establish a foothold.

  Baltazar's strategy was sound, but he didn't know of the lazar, had no word of what had happened in Necropolis. He was prepared for war—a war between cities. He had no idea that now it was a war between the dead and the living. He had no suspicion that he and his people were among the last living

  beings on Abarrach and that, soon, they might be fighting for their lives against their own dead.

  “We're going to make it,” said Haplo, “but not by much.” His gaze flicked to Alfred. “If you're coming back with me through Death's Gate, run straight for the ship. The duke and I will join you.”

  “Duke?” Alfred was puzzled. “But he won't come. Not voluntarily.” And then he understood. “You don't mean to give him a choice, do you?”

  “I'm taking the necromancer back to the Nexus. If you're coming along, head for the ship. You should thank me, Alfred,” Haplo added with a grim smile. “I'm saving his life. How long do you think he could survive here?”

  They were within sight of those waiting on shore. The cadaver of Prince Edmund, prompted by its phantasm, raised its arms. A cheer greeted him; swarms of the dead soldiers began running along the wharf to assist them, protect them from attack as they disembarked.

  The dragon surged in among the docks, her momentum sent waves of lava crashing onto the shoreline. The ships of the dead arrived so close behind that Alfred could see the dreadful writhing image of the lazar Kleitus standing on the prow of the lead vessel. At his side—Jera.

  CHAPTER 45

  SAFE HARBOR,

  ABARRACH

  HAPLO'S SHIP SWUNG AT ANCHOR, UNHARMED, SAFE, INTACT. Within moments, they could be aboard, the Patryn's runes keeping them safe from assault. Alfred was in a quandary. What Haplo said was undoubtedly true. The duke would not survive long on Abarrach. None of those still living on Abarrach could survive the fury of the dead, driven to vengeance and destruction by the lazar.

  At least I would be able to save
one person, one Sartan. Mercy, compassion, pity…. Surely I could devise some means of keeping a necromancer out of the hands of the so-called Lord of the Nexus! But what if I failed? What terrible tragedies would follow if a necromancer entered the other worlds? Wouldn't it be better for him to die here?

  The troops of Kairn Telest raced along the docks, intent on saving their prince. Archers covered their advance, flights of arrows vaulted through the air to land, clattering, against the sides of the iron dragonships. The dead plucked the arrows from their chill flesh and tossed them into the magma, where they vanished with snake-like hisses. Kleitus tore out an arrow that had lodged in his breast and brandished it aloft.

  “We are not your enemy!” he shouted, his voice ringing over the magma sea, silencing the army of the dead of Kairn Telest on the docks below. “They, the living”—he pointed to the black-robed figure of Baltazar—“are the true enemy! They have enslaved you, robbed you of your dignity!”

  “Only when the living are dead, will the dead be free!” Jera cried.

  “… dead be free echoed her tormented spirit.

  The army of Kairn Telest hesitated, wavered. The air was filled with the moaning wails of its phantasms.

  “Now's our chance!” said Haplo. “Jump for it!”

  He leapt from the dragon's back to the stone dock. Alfred followed, landed in a confused jumble of hands and knees that took him some moments to sort out. When he was erect and more or less walking, he saw Haplo grip the duke firmly by the arm.

  “Come along, Your Grace. You're going with me.”

  “Where? What do you mean?” Jonathan pulled back.

  “Through Death's Gate, Your Grace. Back to my world.” Haplo gestured toward his ship.

  The duke glanced at it, saw safety. He hesitated, wavering, much as the dead around him. The dragon swam a short distance from shore, stopped, its slit eyes watching, waiting.

  Jonathan shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

  Haplo's grip tightened. “Damn it, I'm saving your life! If you stay here, you'll die!”

  “Don't you understand?” Jonathan said, looking at the Patryn with a strange, detached calm. “That is what I am meant to do.”

  “Don't be a fool!” Haplo lost control. “I know you think you communicated with some sort of higher power, but it was a trick! His trick!” He jabbed a finger at Alfred. “What you and I saw was a lie! are the highest power in the universe! My Lord is the highest power. Come back with me and you will understand—”

  A higher power! The revelation was devastating. Alfred staggered where he stood, his legs sinking beneath him. Now he understood, understood what had happened to him in the chamber! He remembered the feeling of peace and contentment that had filled him, understood the reason why he felt such sorrow when he'd awakened from that vision to discover the feeling was gone. But it had taken the Patryn to show him!

  Deep within, I knew the truth, but I couldn't admit it to

  myself, Alfred realized. Why? Why did I refuse to listen to my heart?

  Because, if there is a higher power, then we Sartan have made a dreadful, an appalling, an unforgivable mistake!

  The idea was too awful to comprehend. His brain was barely capable of handling the flood of emotions that rolled over him, waves of concepts and new ideas slammed into him one after the other. The solid ground on which he stood was suddenly washed out from beneath him, casting him adrift on a perilous sea with no ship, no compass, no anchor.

  A shaft whistled past Alfred, jolted him to conscious awareness of their surroundings, of their danger. The dead of Kairn Telest were raising their weapons, turning those weapons on their own.

  A thrown spear had struck Haplo on the arm. Blood flowed from the wound that wasn't serious; but it was a mark of the Patryn's weakening magic that the point had penetrated the sigla tattooed on his skin.

  “Can't you stop them?” Alfred cried at Prince Edmund, trusting him to do something, prevent what must be the massacre of the last living beings on Abarrach. “They're your people!”

  The cadaver stood silent, more silent than death in this world. The phantasm's gleaming eyes were fixed on Jonathan.

  “Leave us, Patryn,” said the duke. “You have no part in what happens on Abarrach. We brought this on ourselves. We must do what we can to make amends. Return to your world and share with your people the knowledge you have gained in this one.”

  “Pah!” Haplo spit on the ground. “C'mon, dog!” The Patryn ran toward his ship. The dog, after one backward glance at Alfred, dashed after its master.

  Kleitus's ship docked. The ramps were lowered, the dead swarmed out to join their brethren on land. The duke would soon be surrounded by an army. On board ship, Kleitus and Jera stood together. The duchess's hand was outstretched, she was shrieking at the dead to slay her husband.

  Jonathan stood unmoved by the chaos. He stared up at his

  wife, his face pale with grief and sorrow. A brief, bitter struggle shadowed the eyes.

  He knows what he must do, thought Alfred, but he is afraid. Is there any way for me to help? Frustrated, the Sartan wrung his hands. How can I help? I don't understand what's happening.

  Another flight of arrows flew past Alfred like hordes of wasps. One stuck in his robes, another landed point first on the toe of his shoe. An arrow thudded into Haplo's thigh. He clutched at his leg, tried to keep running. Blood welled from between his fingers. His leg gave out, he collapsed onto the dock.

  The dead cheered, several broke from their ranks and ran toward him. The dog whirled to face them, teeth bared, hackles raised. Haplo stood up, tried to limp on, but he knew he couldn't move fast enough to outpace the dead. He drew the sword, turned, and prepared to fight.

  The arrows that showered down around Jonathan might have been drops of rain. He paid no attention to them, and they didn't touch him. He was calm, resolute. He raised his hand for quiet and such was the commanding presence of the young man with the grief-ravaged face that the dead fell silent, the lazar hushed their calls for revenge. Even the faint plaintive moaning of the phantasms sunk into stillness.

  Jonathan raised his voice. “In ancient days, when we Sartan first came to this world we had created, we worked to build lives for ourselves and the mensch and the creatures that were a sacred trust to us. In the beginning, all went well with one exception: we did not hear from our brethren in the other worlds.

  “Their silence was, at first, disquieting. Then it became alarming, for our world was failing us. Or, perhaps it is more correct to say that we were failing our world. Instead of studying how to conserve our resources, we wantonly exploited them, always believing that, in time, we would be connected with those other worlds. They would provide us with what we lacked.

  “The mensch were the first to succumb to the poisons of this world that was growing chill and barren around us. The

  creatures were next. And then our own population began to dwindle. At that critical juncture, our people took two steps—one forward into light, one backward into darkness.

  “One group of Sartan sought to fight death, to end dying. They turned to necromancy. Instead of conquering death, however, they became enslaved by it. At the same time, another group of Sartan pooled their magical talents and resources in an effort to establish contact with the other three worlds. They built a chamber, devoted to this purpose, and brought into it a table that was one of the last surviving relics of another place and time. They established contact…”

  Jonathan's voice softened. “But not with our brethren in other worlds. They established contact with a higher order. They spoke to One who had been long, long forgotten.”

  “Heresy!” cried Kleitus and “Heresy!” came the sibilant echo rising from the dead.

  “Yes, heresy.” Jonathan shouted above the clamor. “That was the charge leveled at those Sartan long years ago. After all, we are the gods, are we not? We sundered worlds! Created new ones! We had defeated death itself! Look around you.”

&nb
sp; The duke spread his arms, turned to the left, to the right, gestured forward and behind. “Who has won?”

  The dead were silent. Alfred, glancing up at Kleitus, standing on the prow of the dragonship, saw by the twisted, sneering smile on the lazar's crawling visage that the dynast was playing out the rope, allowing his victim to wrap the noose around his own neck. The lazar would cinch it tight and watch with pleasure as his victim's body twitched and writhed.

  Jonathan was making matters worse, not better, but Alfred had no idea how to stop him … or even if he should. Never before had the Sartan felt so completely, utterly helpless.

  A cold touch on the back of his leg nearly sent Alfred leaping into the sea. He thought it was one of the hands of the cadavers, and he shuddered, waited for death, until he heard a soft, pathetic whine.

  Alfred opened his eyes, sighed in relief. The dog stood at his side. Certain it had the Sartan's full attention, the animal darted sideways several steps, then darted back, and looked at Alfred expectantly.

  The dog wanted him to go to its master, of course. Haplo stood on the pier, propped up against a bale of kairn grass. The Patryn's shoulders sagged. His face was deathly pale. Only his indomitable will and strong sense of survival kept him conscious.

  Mercy, compassion, pity …

  Alfred drew a deep breath. Expecting to be halted, challenged, cut down by arrow, spear, or sword, he gripped his courage in both hands and began to edge his way through the dead toward Haplo.

  Jonathan continued his speech, a speech now pitiable in Alfred's estimation. He knew how it must end and so, he realized suddenly, did the young duke.

  “Our ancestors feared these people who now came forward, crying out against the necromancers, warning that we must change or we would end up destroying not only ourselves, but the fragile balance that exists in the universe. The answer of our ancestors was to murder the ‘heretics,’ seal their bodies up in the chamber that became known as ‘Damned’ and surround it with runes of warding.”

  The dead eyes of the cadavers followed Alfred's movements, but they made no attempt to stop him. He reached Haplo's side, knelt down near the wounded man. “What… what can I do?” he asked in a low voice.