Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

Confusion and panic might reign on the docks at this moment, but a single goal would soon unite them.

The carriage dashed down the hill, veering in an easterly direction that would take them clear of the docks. Jonathan drove the maddened pauka at a breakneck pace. The army and ships vanished from Alfred’s sight.

The wild ride finally came to a halt. The carriage brought up on a rock shore of the Fire Sea. The pauka collapsed in the traces, sinking to the ground, breathing heavily.

Before them, the vast ocean of flaming magma gleamed orange-red, its fiery light reflecting off the glistening black stalactites spiraling downward from the cavern’s roof. Huge stalagmites, dark against the red background of the sea, formed a jagged-toothed shoreline. The magma washed and pushed against them sluggishly. A meandering stream of water, that had escaped from the city above plunged, hissing, into the sea, sending rolling clouds of steam into the hot, sulfurous air.

The living and the dead stood on the beach and stared out across the sea. Barely visible, in the distance, Alfred thought he could make out the opposite shore.

“I thought you said we’d find a boat here,” said Haplo, eyeing the prince grimly, suspiciously.

“I said you would find the way to cross here,” corrected Prince Edmund. “I said nothing about a boat.” The white, gleaming arm of the phantasm raised, an ethereal finger pointed.

At first Alfred thought Edmund meant them to use their magic to cross the sea of flame.

“I can’t,” the Sartan said meekly. “I’m too weak. Its costing me nearly all my energy, just to stay alive.”

He had never before felt the weight of his own mortality, never before realized that his powers had physical limits. He was beginning to understand the Sartan of Abarrach, beginning to understand them as he had begun to understand Haplo. He was walking in their skins.

The phantasm said nothing; again Alfred thought he saw a smile flicker on the translucent lips. It continued to point.

“A bridge,” said Haplo. “There’s a bridge.”

“Blessed . . .” Alfred had been about to say, Blessed Sartan. The words died on his lips. That was one oath he’d never use again, at least not without serious thought.

Now that Haplo had pointed it out, Alfred could see the bridge (he supposed one could dignify it by that appellation). In reality it was nothing more than a long row of large, oddly shaped boulders that happened to be arranged in a straight line extending from one shoreline to the other. It looked almost as if a gigantic column of rock had crashed into the sea, its skeletal remains forming the bridge.

“The fallen colossus,” said Jonathan, in understanding. “Except it was located in the middle of the ocean.”

“It used to be in the middle of the ocean,” said the prince. “The sea is shrinking, and now one may reach it and use it to cross.”

“If we have the courage,” Haplo murmured. He fondled the dog, scratching it on the head. “Not that it makes any difference.” His eyes flicked to Alfred. “As you said, Sartan, we have no choice.”

Alfred tried to reply, but his throat burned, the moisture in his mouth had gone dry. He could only stare at the broken bridge, at the huge gaps yawning between segments of the shattered column, at the magma sea, flowing beneath.

One slip, one false step . . .

And what has my life been, Alfred wondered dismally, but an endless series of slips and false steps?

They scrambled down among the boulders on the shoreline. The way was treacherous—hands and feet lost their grip on wet rock, mists floated before their eyes, obscuring their vision. Alfred chanted runes until he lost his voice and came near losing his breath. He was forced to concentrate on each footstep, each handhold. By the time they reached the base of the broken colossus, he was exhausted, and the difficult part lay ahead of them.

They halted at the base to rest, survey the way before them. Jonathan’s pallid face glistened with sweat, his hair straggled down around his temples. His eyes were sunken, dark shadows surrounded them. He wiped his hand across his mouth, licked his tongue across parched lips—they’d been attacked before they could carry off water—and gazed across at the opposite shore as if he fixed one end of his will on that dark horizon, planned to use it as a rope to pull himself along.

Haplo walked out on the first segment of broken colossus, examined the stone beneath his feet. The first segment, the base, was the longest and would be the easiest to cross. He squatted down on his haunches, stared curiously at the rock, ran his hand over it. Alfred sat gasping for breath on the shore, envying the Patryn his strength, his youth.

Haplo motioned. “Sartan,” he said peremptorily.

“My name ... is Alfred.”

Haplo glanced up, scowled, frowned. “I don’t have time for games. Make yourself useful, if that’s possible. Come take a look at this.”

They all ventured out onto the colossus. It was wide—three large farm carts might have been driven abreast across it and left room on either side for a carriage or two. Alfred crept across it as gingerly as if it had been the branch of a small hargast tree spanning a rushing stream. Nearing Haplo, the Sartan’s foot slipped, sending him sprawling on his hands and knees. He closed his eyes, fingers dug into the rock.

“You’re safe,” said Haplo in disgust. “Hell, you’d have to work at throwing yourself off this thing! Open your eyes, damn it. Look, look there.”

Alfred opened his eyes, gazed fearfully around. He was a long way from the edge, but he was acutely conscious of the magma sea flowing beneath him, and that made the edge seem much closer. He wrenched his gaze from the orange-red viscous flow and stared down beneath his hands.

Sigla ... inscribed on the rock. Alfred forgot his danger. His hands traced lovingly the ancient runes carved on the stone.

“Can these help us in any way? Is their magic good for anything anymore?” Haplo asked in a tone that implied the magic had never been good for much in the first place.

Alfred shook his head. “No,” he said, voice husky. “The magic of the colossus cannot help us. Their magic was meant to give life, to carry life from this realm below to those realms above.”

The prince’s cadaver raised its head, dead eyes looked above to a land it could see perhaps more clearly than the land on which it now walked. The expression on the face of the phantasm grew grim and sad.

“The magic is broken now.” Alfred drew a deep breath, looked back at the shoreline, at the broken, jagged edges of the column’s base. “The colossus didn’t fall by accident. It couldn’t have, its magic would have prevented such an occurrence. The colossus was knocked down, deliberately. Perhaps by those who feared it was sucking life out of Necropolis and carrying it to realms above. Whatever the reason, its magic is gone, can never be renewed.”

Like this world, the world of the dead.

“Look!” cried Jonathan. His face, his eyes reflected the heat of the fire.

They could barely see, in the distance, the first ships setting out from the shoreline.

The dead had begun the crossing.

They hurried forward, traveling as fast as they dared across the runeinscribed column. They had an advantage over the ships, in that the shrinking Fire Sea flowed at its narrowest point there. They were much closer to the shore than Kleitus and his army. The sight of the ships gave them impetus, renewed strength. The sigla may have lost their magic, but the runes carved into the stone provided traction, sure footing on a slippery surface.

And then they came to the end of the broken segment. A huge, V-shaped gap separated one part of the colossus from another. The magma sea churned in between, roiling among the sharp, jagged edges.