Fire Sea

42

It was difficult to count the number of lazar. Seen in shadow, their bodies and spirits merged and separated constantly, confusing to the eye, appalling to the brain. They were clad in black robes, necromancers—those who had the power to turn other newly dead into those who were neither dead nor alive.

Haplo had one consolation. They wouldn’t be interested in his skin. They’d just butcher him outright. He supposed he should be grateful.

The lazar came to a halt. Strong hands reached out to capture the pesky dog, throttle it, twist its neck.

Haplo traced a sigil in the air. It caught fire, streaked from his hands, flashing like lightning, and struck the dog. Blue and red flame engulfed the animal. It grew in size and continued to grow with each bounding leap. Its massive head brushed against the ceiling, huge paws shook the ground. Its eyes were fire, its breath hot smoke.

The dog leapt on the lazar, crushed their bodies beneath its gigantic paws. The animal’s teeth sank into dead flesh. It didn’t rip out the throat, it tore off the head.

“This will stop them, but not for long,” Haplo shouted above the dog’s hoarse growling. “Get Alfred on his feet and start moving!”

Jonathan tore his horrified gaze from the carnage at the end of the hallway. Grabbing hold of a groggy Alfred, who was just starting to come to his senses, the duke and the prince’s cadaver managed to lift the Sartan to his feet.

Haplo took a moment to consider his strategy. Going back was out. Their hope lay in reaching the city, in joining forces with the rest of the living. And to reach the city, they had to get past the lazar.

He started down the corridor at a run, not looking behind him. If the others followed, fine. If they didn’t, it was all the same to him.

The dog stood in the center of a grisly battlefield of dismembered corpses and torn, black robes. The stone floor was slippery with blood and gore.

Haplo kept close to the wall, watching his footing. Behind him, he heard the young duke’s breath rattle in his throat, his footsteps falter.

“Haplo!” he cried in a fear-choked voice.

One of the mangled corpses started to move. An arm crawled toward a trunk, a leg slithered over to join it. The lazar’s phantasm, shimmering in the darkness, was exerting its magical power, bringing its severed body back together.

“Run!” Haplo shouted.

“I—I can’t!” Jonathan gasped. The man was frozen stiff with terror.

Alfred swayed on his feet, looked around dazedly. Prince Edmund’s cadaver stood stock-still, unmoved by the threat.

Haplo gave a low, piercing whistle. The flames around the dog flickered and died, the animal shrank back to its normal size. It jumped lightly over the reassembling corpses, ran over, and nipped Alfred on a bare, bony ankle.

The pain brought the Sartan to his senses. He saw their danger, understood Jonathan’s predicament. Grasping hold of the duke by the shoulders, Alfred dragged him past the lazar. The dog raced around them, darting forward to bark threateningly at the various twitching pieces of the corpses. Prince Edmund’s cadaver marched gravely, solemnly behind. One of the dead hands clutched at him. He shook it off, heedless, uncaring.

“I’m all right,” Jonathan said through stiff lips. “You can let go of me now.”

Alfred glanced at him anxiously.

“Really,” the duke assured him. He started to turn his head, drawn by a terrible fascination. “It ... it was just the shock of seeing.. .”

“Don’t look back!” Haplo grabbed Jonathan, forced him around.

“You don’t want to see what’s going on. Do you know where we are?”

The catacombs had come to an end. They stood at the entrance to brightly lighted, sumptuously decorated corridors.

“The palace,” said Jonathan.

“Can you lead us out, back into the city?”

The Patryn feared at first that Jonathan had been through too much, that he was going to fail him. But the duke drew on reserves of strength he undoubtedly never knew he had. Color tinged the pallid cheeks.

“Yes,” said Jonathan, voice faint but steady. “I can. Follow me.” He walked ahead, Alfred keeping by his side, the prince coming along behind.

Haplo cast a last glance back at the lazar. I should try to get hold of a weapon of some sort, he thought. A sword wouldn’t kill them, but it would put them out of action long enough to escape—

A cold nose pressed into his hand.

“Don’t hang around here with me,” snapped Haplo, pushing the animal away. He started walking. “You like the Sartan so much, you go be his dog. I don’t want you.”

The animal grinned. Tail wagging, it trotted along close to Haplo’s side.

+

The only one alive.

Haplo had seen many dreadful sights in his lifetime. The Labyrinth killed without mercy or compassion. But what he saw that day in the palace of Necropolis would haunt him the remainder of his life.

Jonathan knew his way around the palace, led them swiftly through the twisting corridors and confused maze of rooms. They moved warily, cautiously at first, keeping to the shadows, hiding in doorways, fearing at every corner to meet more of the lazar, searching for new victims.

The living hold us in bondage. We are slaves to the living. When the living are no more, we will be free.

The echo of Jera’s voice lingered in the halls, but there was no sign of her or any other being, either living or half-living.

The dead, however, were everywhere.

Corpses littered the corridors, lying where they’d fallen, none of them resurrected, none of them treated with any ceremony at all. A woman cut down by an arrow held a murdered baby clasped in her arms. A man taken unaware, stabbed from behind, stared sightlessly at them, an almost comical expression of astonishment on the dead face.

Haplo yanked the sword from the body, appropriating it for his own use.

“You will not need that weapon,” said the prince. “The lazar no longer pursue us. Kleitus has called them. They have more urgent business.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I feel better with it, all the same.”

Swiftly, working as he walked, keeping his group moving, the Patryn traced in blood several sigla on the blade. Looking up, he met Alfred’s horrified stare.

“Crude, I admit,” Haplo told him. “But I don’t have time for anything fancy.”

Alfred opened his mouth to protest.

“This spell might,” the Patryn added coolly, “sever the magical life that binds those lazar, holds their bodies together. Unless you think you can remember that spell you cast on them?”

Alfred shut his mouth, averted his eyes. The Sartan looked ill, haggard. His skin was gray, his hands trembled, his shoulders were bent beneath a crushing weight. He was suffering acutely, and Haplo should have been exultant, should have reveled in his enemy’s torment.

He couldn’t, and the feeling angered him. He drew a sigil in the blood of his ancient enemy and felt only gut-wrenching pain. Like it or not, Alfred and I spring from the same source. Branches far removed from each other, one at the top of the tree, one at the bottom; one reaching toward the light, the other keeping to the shadow. But we each grow from the same trunk. The blade of the ax is biting into the trunk, intent on bringing down the whole tree. In the Sartan’s doom, Haplo could read his own.

Do I take this knowledge of necromancy back to My Lord? Or do I conceal its discovery? That would mean lying to My Lord. Lying to the man who saved my life.

What am I thinking? Of course, I’ll take the knowledge back to My Lord. I’ll take Jonathan. What’s the matter with me? I’m growing weak! Sentimental! All the fault of that damn Alfred. He goes back me, too. My Lord will deal with him.

And I’ll watch and enjoy every minute ...

Only one left alive.

They came to the antechamber, near the throne room. The courtiers who’d waited on Kleitus, currying his favor, hoping for even a glance from the dynastic eye, lay dead on the floor. None had been armed, none had been able to fight for their lives, although it appeared that a few had sought desperately to escape. They’d been stabbed from behind.

“They got what they wanted,” said Jonathan, gazing at the bodies dispassionately. “Kleitus paid attention to them at last, every one.”

Haplo glanced at the young man. Alfred was enduring vicariously every agony the dead had experienced. Jonathan, by contrast, might have been one of the corpses. He and the dead Prince Edmund bore an uncanny resemblance to each other. Calm, solemn, untouched by the tragedy.

“And where is Kleitus?” Haplo wondered aloud. “And why did he leave these dead behind? Why not turn them into lazar?”

“You will note that there are no necromancers among this group,” Alfred answered in a low, shaken voice. “Kleitus must maintain control. He will return, in a few days’ time, and raise these dead, as has been done in the past.”

“Except,” added Jonathan, “that now Kleitus can communicate with the dead directly. Through the intervention of the lazar, the dead have gained intelligence.”

Armies of dead advancing with purpose and resolve, bent on slaughtering those they envied and hated—the living.

“That is why we have found no one in the palace,” said the prince. “Kleitus and Jera and their army have moved on. They are preparing to cross the Fire Sea, preparing to attack and destroy the last remaining people left alive on this world.”

“Your people,” said Haplo.

“They are my people no longer,” said the prince. “Now my people are these.” The white, glistening phantasm stood among the corpses, its cold light casting a pale glow over the chill faces. The whisperings of the unhappy spirits filled the air as if they were answering him.

Or pleading with him.

“We have to warn Baltazar. And what about your ship?” asked Alfred suddenly, turning to Haplo. “Will it be safe? Will we be able to leave?”

Haplo started to snap that, of course, his ship was safe, protected. But the words died on his lips. How could he be sure? He didn’t know what powers these lazar possessed. If they destroyed his ship, he’d be trapped here until he could find a new one. Trapped, battling against armies of dead, battling against those who could never be stopped, never be defeated. Haplo’s breathing shortened. The Sartan’s panic was catching.

“What’s he doing now? Where is Kleitus at this moment? Do you know?”

“Yes,” the prince answered. “I hear the voices of the dead. He is mobilizing his forces, gathering his army together, preparing to send them forth. The ships swing at anchor, waiting. It will take some time for him to board all his troops.” Haplo could have sworn the phantasm smiled. “The dead cannot be herded about like sheep now. They are intelligent, and intelligence brings independence of thought and action, and that leads, inevitably, to confusion.”

“So we have time,” Haplo said. “But we have to cross the Fire Sea.”

“I know of a way,” said the prince, “if you have the courage to use it.”

It wasn’t a question of courage anymore.

Alfred spoke Haplo’s thought. “We have no choice.”