Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

Xar let that pass. The lazar tended to have a dark outlook on things. He supposed he couldn’t blame them.

The lord took his seat at a large stone table whose top was covered with dusty volumes: a treasure-trove of Sartan lore. Xar had spent as much time studying these works as possible, considering the myriad duties of a lord about to lead his people to war. But this time spent among the Sartan books was minute compared to the years Kleitus had spent. And Xar was at a disadvantage: he was forced to read the material in a foreign language—the Sartan language. Although he had mastered that language while in the Nexus, the task of breaking down the Sartan rune-structure, then rebuilding it into Patryn thought, was exhausting and time-consuming.

Xar could never, under any circumstances, think like a Sartan. Kleitus had the information Xar needed. Kleitus had delved deep into these books. Kleitus was—or had been—a Sartan himself. He knew. He understood. But how to worm it out of the corpse? That was the tricky part. Xar wasn’t fooled by the lazar’s shambling walk and bloodthirsty demeanor. Kleitus was playing a far more subtle game. An army of living, warm-blooded beings had recently arrived on Abarrach—Patryns, brought here by Xar, brought here to train for war. The lazar hungered after these living beings, longed to destroy the life that the dead coveted and at the same time found so abhorrent. The lazar could not fight the Patryns. The Patryns were too powerful.

But it required an immense outlay of the Patryns’ magic to sustain life in the darksome caverns of Abarrach. The Patryns were beginning to weaken—ever so slightly. So had the Sartan weakened before them; so had many of the Sartan died.

Time. The dead had time. Not soon, but inevitably, the Patryn magic would start to crumble. And then the lazar would strike. Xar didn’t plan to be here that long. He had found what he’d come to Abarrach to find. Now he just needed to determine whether or not he’d really found it.

Kleitus did not sit down. The lazar can never rest in one place long, but are constantly moving, wandering, searching for something they have lost all hope of discovering.

Xar did not look at the animated corpse, shuffling back and forth in front of him. He looked instead at the dusty volumes lying on the table.

“I want to be able to test my knowledge of necromancy,” Xar said. “I want to know if I can actually raise the dead.”

“What is stopping you?” Kleitus demanded.

“... stopping you?”

Xar frowned. The annoying echo was like a buzzing in his ears, and it always came just when he was about to speak, interrupting him, breaking the chain of his thought.

“I need a corpse. And don’t tell me to use my own people. That is out of the question. I personally saved the life of every Patryn I brought with me from the Nexus.”

“You gave life,” said Kleitus. “You have the right to take it.”

“...take it.”

“Perhaps,” Xar said loudly over the echo. “Perhaps that is true. And if there were more of my people—far more—I might consider it. But our numbers are few and I dare not waste even one.”

“What do you want of me, Lord of the Nexus?”

“...Nexus?”

“I was talking to one of the other lazar, a woman named Jera. She mentioned that there were Sartan—living Sartan—still on Abarrach. A man named ... um ...” Xar hesitated, appeared at a loss.

“Balthazar!” Kleitus hissed.

“Balthazar...” mourned the echo.

“Yes, that was the name,” Xar said hastily. “Balthazar. He leads them. An early report I received from a man called Haplo—a Patryn who once visited Abarrach—led me to believe that this Sartan Balthazar and his people all perished at your hands. But Jera tells me that this is not true.”

“Haplo, yes, I recall him.” Kleitus did not seem to find the memory a pleasant one. He brooded for a long moment, the soul flying in, struggling, flying out of the body. He came to a halt in front of Xar, stared at the lord with shifting eyes. “Did Jera tell you what happened?” Xar found the corpse’s gaze disconcerting. “No,” he lied, forcing himself to remain seated when it was his instinct to get up and flee to a far corner.

“No, Jera did not. I thought perhaps you—”

“The living ran before us.” Kleitus resumed his restless walk. “We followed. They could not hope to escape us. We never tire. We need no rest. We need no food. We need no water. At last we had them trapped. They made a pitiable stand before us, planning to fight to save their miserable lives. We had among us their own prince. He was dead. I had brought him back to life myself. He knew what the living had done to the dead. He understood. Only when the living are all dead can the dead be free. He swore he would lead us against his own people.

“We readied for the kill. But then one of our number stepped forward—the husband of this very Jera. He is a lazar. His wife murdered him, raised him up, gave him the power we command. But he betrayed us. Somehow, somewhere, he had found a power of his own. He has the gift of death, as did one other Sartan who came to this world, came through Death’s Gate—”

“Who was that?” Xar asked. His interest, which had been lagging through the lazar’s long-winded discourse, was suddenly caught.

“I don’t know. He was a Sartan, but he had a mensch name,” said Kleitus, irritated at the interruption.

“Alfred?”

“Perhaps. What difference does it make?” Kleitus seemed obsessed with telling his tale. “Jera’s husband broke the spell that held the prince’s corpse captive. The prince’s body died. The prison walls of his flesh crumbled. The soul floated free.” Kleitus sounded angry, bitter.

“...floated free.” The echo was wistful, longing. Xar was impatient. Gift of death. Sartan nonsense.

“What happened to Balthazar and his people?” he demanded.

“They escaped us,” Kleitus hissed. His waxen hands clenched in fury. “We tried to go after them, but Jera’s husband was too powerful. He stopped us.”

“So there are Sartan still living on Abarrach,” Xar said, fingers drumming the table. “Sartan who can provide the corpses I need for my experiments. Corpses who will be troops in my army. Do you have any idea where they are?”

“If we did, they would not still be living,” Kleitus said, regarding Xar with hatred. “Would they, Lord of the Nexus?”

“I suppose not,” Xar muttered. “This husband of Jera’s. Where is he? Undoubtedly he knows how to find the Sartan?”

“I do not know where he has gone. He was in Necropolis until you and your people arrived. He kept us out of our city. Kept me out of my palace. But you appeared, and he left.”

“Afraid of me, no doubt,” Xar said offhandedly. “He fears nothing, Lord of the Nexus!” Kleitus laughed unpleasantly. “He is the one of whom the prophecy speaks.”

“I heard about a prophecy.” Xar waved a negligent hand. “Haplo said something about it. He viewed prophecies much as I view them, however. Wishes, nothing more. I give them little credence.”

“You should give this one credence, Patryn. So the prophecy is spoken: ‘He wilt bring life to the dead, hope to the living, and for him the Gate wilt open.’ That is the prophecy. And it has come to pass.”

“...come to pass.”

“Yes, it has come to pass,” Xar echoed the echo. “I am the one who has brought the prophecy to fulfillment. It speaks of me, not some perambulating corpse.”

“I think not...”

“...think not.”

“Of course it has!” Xar said irritably. “ ‘The Gate will open...’ The Gate has opened.”

“Death’s Gate has opened.”

“What other gate is there?” Xar demanded, annoyed and only half-listening, hoping to steer the conversation back to where it had started.