Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

“Stay!” Haplo commanded, and kept on walking.

“Wait!” Alfred cried in a tone no less frantic than the dog’s. “What are you doing? Your magic can’t protect you!”

The heat was intense. Breathing was difficult. The doorway was ablaze, an arc of fire.

“You’re right, Sartan,” Haplo said, coughing, moving steadily forward. “But ... it will be over quickly. And”—he glanced backward—“my body won’t be of much use to anyone afterward ...”

“No! Don’t! I’ll .. . I’ll open them!” Alfred cried, shuddering. “I’ll.. . open them,” he repeated. Pushing himself up from the wall, he shuffled forward.

Haplo came to a stop, stepped to one side, watched with a quiet, satisfied smile. “You weakling,” he said in disdain as Alfred moved slowly past.

Standing before the archway, a preposterous, ungainly figure in his tooshort black robe, Alfred began to perform a solemn dance.

The feet that could not take ten steps without falling over themselves were suddenly executing intricate steps with extraordinary grace and delicacy. His face was grave and solemn, wholly absorbed in the music. He accompanied himself with a grave and solemn song. Hands wove the runes in the air, his feet replicated the pattern on the floor. Haplo watched until he discovered some wayward part of himself feeling touched and entranced by the beauty.

“How long is this going to take?” he demanded, his voice harsh and discordant, breaking in on the song.

Alfred paid no attention to him, but the dancing and the singing ended soon after Haplo spoke. The red light of the warding runes glimmered, faded, glimmered, and died. Alfred shook himself, drew a deep breath, as if he were emerging from deep water. He looked up at the dying light of the runes and sighed.

“We can go in now,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

They passed through the arch without incident, although Haplo was forced to fight down a sudden overwhelming reluctance to enter, and he experienced an unpleasant tingling sensation on his skin.

If I were in the Labyrinth, I’d heed these warnings. He was the last to walk beneath the arch, the dog trotting along at his heels. The runes lit again almost immediately, their red glow illuminating the tunnel.

“That should stop whoever’s following us, or at least slow them down. Most of the Sartan may have forgotten the old magic but I wouldn’t put it past Kleitus—” Haplo paused, frowning. The redglowing sigla gleamed on both sides of the arch. “What does that mean, Sartan?”

“The runes are different,” said Alfred softly, fearfully. “The sigla on the opposite side were designed to keep people out. These”—he turned, staring into the darkness—“are meant to keep something in.”

Haplo leaned wearily back against the tunnel wall. Patryns are not noted for their imagination or creativity, but it took little of either for Haplo to conjure up visions of various terrible monsters that might be lurking in the depths of this world.

And I haven’t got the strength left to fight an angry house cat.

He felt eyes on him and glanced up swiftly. The lazar was watching him. The eyes in the dead face were fixed and staring, without expression. But the eyes of the phantasm, that sometimes looked out of the dead eyes, like a sentient shadow, were regarding him steadfastly.

Their look was fey, dire. A slight smile touched the lazar’s blue-gray lips. “Why struggle? Nothing can save you. In the end, you will come to us.”

Fear twisted inside Haplo, turned his guts to water, clenched his bowels; not the adrenaline-pumped fear of battle that gave a man strength he didn’t possess, stamina and endurance he didn’t have. This fear was the child’s fear of the darkness, the terror of the unknown, the debilitating fear of a thing he didn’t understand and, therefore, couldn’t control.

The dog, sensing the menace, growled, hackles raised and stepped between its master and the lazar. The corpse’s malevolent eyes lowered, their dreadful spell broke. Alfred had moved on down the hallway, murmuring the runes to himself. Blue sigla on the walls were once again leading them forward. Prince Edmund’s cadaver stalked after him. Its phantasm had again separated from the body, trailed along behind the cadaver like a ragged silk scarf.

Shaken and unnerved, Haplo remained leaning against the wall until the rune’s light had almost faded, attempting to recover himself. A voice, speaking out of the dimness, set every nerve jumping and twitching.

“Do you suppose all the dead hate us that much?” It was Jonathan’s voice, torn, anguished.

Haplo hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t known the duke was near. Such a lapse would have cost the Patryn his life in the Labyrinth! Cursing himself, the tunnel, the poison, and Alfred, Haplo cursed Jonathan for good measure. Grabbing the duke by the elbow, he propelled him roughly along down the hallway.

The tunnel was wide and airy, the ceiling and walls dry. A thick coating of dust lay undisturbed on the rock floor. No sign of footprints or claw marks or the sinuous trails left by serpents and dragons. No attempt had been made to obliterate the sigla, the guide-runes shone brilliantly, lighting their way to whatever lay ahead of them.

Haplo listened, smelled, felt and tasted the air. He kept close watch on the runes on his skin, was alert to every fiber of his body that might warn him of danger.

Nothing.

If it hadn’t seemed too preposterous, he could have sworn he actually felt a sense of peace, of wellbeing that relaxed taut muscles, soothed frayed nerves. The feeling was inexplicable, made no sense, and simply increased his irritation.

No danger ahead, but he distinctly sensed pursuit behind.

The tunnel led them straight forward, no twists or turns, no other tunnels branched off this one. They passed beneath several archways, but none were marked with the warding runes as had been the first. Then, without warning, the blue guide-runes came to an abrupt halt, as if they’d run into a blank wall.

Which, Haplo discovered, catching up to Alfred, was exactly the case.

A wall of black rock, solid and unyielding, loomed before them. It bore faint markings on its smooth surface.

Runes, Sartan runes, observed Haplo, studying them closely by the reflected light of the blue sigla. But there was something wrong with them, even to his untrained eye.

“How strange!” Alfred murmured, gazing at the wall.

“What?” demanded Haplo, jumpy and on edge. “Dog, watch,” he commanded. A hand motion sent the animal back to stand guard over the path down which they’d come. “What’s strange? Is this a dead end?”

“Oh, no. There’s a door here...”

“Can you open it?”

“Why, yes. A child could open it, in fact.”

“Then let’s find a child to do it!” Haplo seethed with impatience.

Alfred gazed at the wall with academic interest. “The rune structure is not complicated, rather like locks one places on one’s bedroom door in one’s own home, but.. .”

“But what?” Haplo suppressed a strong desire to wring the Sartan’s scrawny neck. “Quit rambling!”

“There are two sets of runes here.” Alfred lifted a finger, traced it over the wall. “Surely, you can see that?”

Yes, Haplo could see it and realized that’s what he’d noticed when he’d first approached.

“Two sets of runes.” Alfred was talking to himself. “One set apparently added later . . . much later, I would guess . . . inscribed on top of the first.” Lines wrinkled the high, domed forehead; thin, gray brows came together in thoughtful consternation.

The dog barked once, loudly, warning.