Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

The Patryn didn’t immediately answer. What was he going to do with Alfred? This Sartan? This mortal enemy?

Haplo’s inclination, and he was astounded by how his hands and fingers itched to perform the action his mind presented to him, was to toss the man into the magma river. But to murder Alfred would be to indulge in his own hatred, a lapse of discipline the Lord of the Nexus would not tolerate. Alfred, a living Sartan—as far as Haplo had discovered, the only living Sartan—was an extremely valuable prize.

My Lord will be pleased with this gift, Haplo thought, considering. Far more pleased with this than anything else I could bring him, including my report on this hellish world. I should probably turn around, deliver the Sartan immediately. But.. . but. . .

But that would mean reentering Death’s Gate and Haplo, although he hated admitting his weakness to himself, couldn’t view that prospect without true alarm . He saw again the rows and rows of tombs, knew again the death of hope and promise, experienced the knowledge of being terribly, horribly, pitifully alone. . . .

He wrenched his mind from the dream or whatever it had been, cursed the eyes that had made him see it. I won’t make that journey again, not now, not so soon. Let time blunt it, blur the images. He rationalized: it would be extremely difficult and dangerous to turn the ship around. Better to keep going, complete my mission, explore this world, and then return to the Nexus. Alfred isn’t going anywhere without me, that’s for damn sure.

One glance at the Sartan’s sweat-dewed face, the shivering limbs, and Haplo was reassured. Alfred appeared incapable of making his way to the head without assistance. The Patryn didn’t think it likely that his enemy would have either the strength or the ability to wrest the ship away from him and make good an escape.

Haplo met Alfred’s eyes, saw—once again—not hatred or fear but understanding, sorrow. It occurred to the Patryn, suddenly, that the Sartan might not want to escape. Haplo considered, discarded the notion. Alfred must know what terrible fate awaited him at the hands of the Lord of the Nexus. And if he didn’t, Haplo would obligingly tell him.

“Did you say something, Sartan?” he tossed over his shoulder.

“I asked if you found anything of my people on Pryan,” Alfred repeated humbly.

“What I found or didn’t find is no concern of yours. It will be up to My Lord to tell you what he thinks you ought to know.”

“Are we going back there? To your lord?”

Haplo heard, with a bitter satisfaction, the nervous quaver in the man’s voice. So Alfred did know, or at least had a general idea, of the reception he would receive,

“No.” Haplo ground the word. “Not yet. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. I don’t think it likely you’ll want to wander about this place on your own, but, just in case you’re thinking you might give me the slip, the dog will have its eyes on you day and night.”

The animal, hearing the reference, brushed the plumy tail on the deck, the mouth widened in a grin, exhibiting razor-sharp teeth.

“Yes,” Alfred said in a low voice, “I know about the dog.”

Now what’s that supposed to mean? Haplo wondered irritably, not liking the man’s tone, which seemed to border on compassionate when the Patryn would have preferred fear.

“Just a reminder, Sartan. There are things I can do to you, things I would enjoy doing to you, that are not at all pleasant and would not ruin your usefulness to My Lord. Do what I tell you and keep out of my way and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”

“I am not as weak as you seem to consider me.”

Alfred drew himself upright with a semblance of dignity. The dog growled and lifted its head, ears flattened, eyes narrowed. The tail thumped ominously. Alfred shrank backward, stooped shoulders rounding.

Haplo snorted in derision and concentrated on his sailing.

Up ahead, in the distance, the river of magma forked. One large stream branched off to the right, another, smaller, veered to the left. Haplo steered his ship into the right, for no other reason than that it was the larger of the two and appeared easier and safer to travel.

“How could anyone live in such a terrible environ?” Alfred, talking rhetorically to himself, seemed considerably surprised that Haplo responded.

“Mensch certainly couldn’t survive, although our kind could. I don’t think our trip into this world will be a long one. If there ever was life here, it must be dead by now.”

“Perhaps Abarrach was never meant to be habitable. Perhaps it was meant to be only an energy source for the other—” Alfred’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, he fell abruptly silent.

Haplo grunted, glanced at the man. “Yeah? Go on.”

“Nothing.” The Sartan’s eyes were on his oversize feet. “I was merely speculating.”

“You’ll have the opportunity to ‘speculate’ all you want when we return to the Nexus. You’ll wish you knew the secrets of the universe and could reveal them, every one, to My Lord before he’s finished with you, Sartan.”

Alfred kept silent, stared out the glass porthole. Haplo darted glances up and down the black and barren shoreline. Small tributaries of the magma river meandered off among the rock shoals and disappeared into fire-lighted shadow. These might lead somewhere, might lead out. There was nothing above them except rock.

“If we’re in the center of the world, in the core, ifs possible that there could be life above, on the surface,” Alfred remarked, echoing Haplo’s thought. He found that extremely irritating.

He considered beaching his ship, proceeding forward on foot, but immediately abandoned the idea. Walking among the slick-sided, sharp, black stalagmites that gleamed with an eerie, lurid brilliance in the magma’s reflected glow would be difficult, treacherous. He would stay with the river, at least for the time being. . .

A dull roaring sound came to his ears. A glance at Alfred’s face told him the Sartan heard it, too.

“We’re moving faster,” Alfred said, licking his lips that must be rimed with salt to judge by the sweat trickling down the man’s cheeks.

The ship’s speed increased, the magma hurtling along as if eager to arrive at some unknown destination. The roaring sound grew louder. Haplo kept his hands on the steering stone, peered ahead anxiously. He saw nothing except vast blackness.

“Rapids! A fall!” Alfred shouted, and the ship plunged over the edge of a gigantic lava cascade.

Haplo clung to the steering stone, the ship fell downward into a vast sea of molten lava. Rocks thrust up out of the swirling fiery mass, black nails grasping for the puny ship that was hurtling down on them.

Shaking himself free of the fascinated horror that gripped him, Haplo elevated his hands on the steering stone and, as his hands lifted, the runes on the stone glowed fiercely, brightly. The ship itself lifted, the magic flowing through the wings, activating them. Dragon Wing, as he had named it, wrenched itself free of the magma’s clutching grasp and soared out over the molten sea.

Haplo heard behind him a groan and a slithering sound. The dog was on its feet, barking. Alfred lay huddled on the deck, the Sartan’s face white as death.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said faintly.

“Don’t do it here!” Haplo barked, noting his own hands shaking, experiencing himself a lurching in his stomach and a bitter taste of bile in his mouth. He concentrated on flying his ship.

Alfred apparently managed to control himself, for the Patryn heard nothing more from him. Haplo sailed his ship upward, hoping to discover that they had flown out of the cavern. As he flew up and up into the darkness, he was disappointed to observe stalactite formations. These were incredibly large—some as much as a mile in diameter. Far, far below gleamed the magma sea, flowing to a horizon that was red on black.