Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

“One group of Sartan sought to fight death, to end dying. They turned to necromancy. Instead of conquering death, however, they became enslaved by it. At the same time, another group of Sartan pooled their magical talents and resources in an effort to establish contact with the other three worlds. They built a chamber, devoted to this purpose, and brought into it a table that was one of the last surviving relics of another place and time. They established contact.. .”

Jonathan’s voice softened. “But not with our brethren in other worlds. They established contact with a higher order. They spoke to One who had been long, long forgotten.”

“Heresy!” cried Kleitus and “Heresy!” came the sibilant echo rising from the dead.

“Yes, heresy.” Jonathan shouted above the clamor. “That was the charge leveled at those Sartan long years ago. After all, we are the gods, are we not? We sundered worlds! Created new ones! We had defeated death itself! Look around you.”

The duke spread his arms, turned to the left, to the right, gestured forward and behind. “Who has won?”

The dead were silent. Alfred, glancing up at Kleitus, standing on the prow of the dragonship, saw by the twisted, sneering smile on the lazar’s crawling visage that the dynast was playing out the rope, allowing his victim to wrap the noose around his own neck. The lazar would cinch it tight and watch with pleasure as his victim’s body twitched and writhed.

Jonathan was making matters worse, not better, but Alfred had no idea how to stop him ... or even if he should. Never before had the Sartan felt so completely, utterly helpless.

A cold touch on the back of his leg nearly sent Alfred leaping into the sea. He thought it was one of the hands of the cadavers, and he shuddered, waited for death, until he heard a soft, pathetic whine.

Alfred opened his eyes, sighed in relief. The dog stood at his side. Certain it had the Sartan’s full attention, the animal darted sideways several steps, then darted back, and looked at Alfred expectantly.

The dog wanted him to go to its master, of course. Haplo stood on the pier, propped up against a bale of kairn grass. The Patryn’s shoulders sagged. His face was deathly pale. Only his indomitable will and strong sense of survival kept him conscious.

Mercy, compassion, pity...

Alfred drew a deep breath. Expecting to be halted, challenged, cut down by arrow, spear, or sword, he gripped his courage in both hands and began to edge his way through the dead toward Haplo.

Jonathan continued his speech, a speech now pitiable in Alfred’s estimation. He knew how it must end and so, he realized suddenly, did the young duke.

“Our ancestors feared these people who now came forward, crying out against the necromancers, warning that we must change or we would end up destroying not only ourselves, but the fragile balance that exists in the universe. The answer of our ancestors to murder the ‘heretics’, seal their bodies up in the chamber that became known as Damned’ and surround it with runes of warding.”

The dead eyes of the cadavers followed Alfred’s movements, but they made no attempt to stop him. He reached Haplo’s side, knelt down near the wounded man. “What. . . what can I do?” he asked in a low voice.

“Nothing,” Haplo answered, teeth clenched against his pain, “unless you can shut that fool up.”

“At least, while he’s talking, we have time—”

“For what?” Haplo demanded bitterly. “Write a last letter home, maybe?”

“They didn’t do anything to me.”

“Why should they bother? They know we’re not going anywhere.”

“But your ship—”

“Make one move toward it, and that move will be your last.” Haplo drew a shuddering breath, bit off a groan. “Look on board the dragonship. The lady isn’t paying attention to her husband’s speech.”

Alfred looked up, saw Jera looking directly at him. “She knows about the ship, about Death’s Gate. Remember?” Haplo pushed himself into a more upright position, gasping at the agony the move caused him. The dog, standing over him, whimpered in sympathy “My guess is ... they want to take it for themselves, try to enter . . .”

“Enter worlds of the living! Enter to kill! That’s .. . that’s awful! We’ve got to do something!”

“I’m open to suggestion,” Haplo said dryly. He had managed—at what terrible cost in pain Alfred couldn’t begin to imagine—to hack off much of the shaft of the arrow in his thigh. But the arrow’s head remained lodged in his flesh, his pant leg was soaked with blood. His shirt had stuck to the wound on his arm, forming a crude bandage. The deep slash would break open and begin to bleed the moment he moved.

“We might have one chance,” he said softly, his gaze intent on the young duke. “You can see, of course, where this tale of his is leading?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

“When they move in for the kill, we make a run for the ship. Once we’re on board, the runes will protect us. I hope.”

Alfred looked back at Jonathan, standing, alone.

“You mean .. . abandon him?”

Haplo’s bloody hand snaked out, grabbed Alfred’s collar, dragged the Sartan’s face to within an inch of his.

“Listen to me, damn you! You know what will happen if these lazar come through Death’s Gate! How many innocents will die? How many on Arianus? How many on Pryan? Balance that against one man’s life on this world. You made him believe in this ‘higher power.’ You’re the one who sent him to his death! You want to be responsible for bringing death itself through Death’s Gate?”

Alfred’s tongue felt swollen. He couldn’t talk, could only stare at Haplo in wordless confusion.

Jonathan’s voice, firm, strong, powerful, caught their attention. He drew even Jera’s dead eyes.

“Your warding runes couldn’t keep out those who went searching for the truth! I saw. I heard. I touched. I don’t understand yet. But I have faith. And I will prove to you what I have discovered.”

Jonathan took a step forward, raised his arms in appeal. “Beloved wife, I wronged you deeply. I would make amends. Slay me where I stand. I will die by your hands. Then raise me up. I will join your ranks, the ranks of the eternally damned.”

The lazar that had once been Jera left Kleitus’s side. It walked down the ramp that stretched from the ship to the pier. Her phantasm, trapped in its dead shell, surged as far ahead as it could, ephemeral hands outstretched in eager anticipation.

Tears slid down Jonathan’s cheeks. “So you came to me as my bride, Jera . . .”

He waited for her. The dead gathered around them, waited. The corpse of Prince Edmund and its shadowy phantasm, floating free beside it, waited. Out in the magma sea, the dragon drifted on the burning lava, waited. The lazar of Kleitus, standing on board ship, laughed, and waited.

The cadaver’s hands reached out as if to clasp her husband to her breast. The cruel fingers, strong in death, closed instead around Jonathan’s throat.

“Now!” cried Haplo.

Reached out a hand to Alfred to support him. Alfred cast a stricken glance back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Jonathan, for the wall of dead surrounding the young man. He saw fists flail, saw a sword flash, heard a muffled groan. When the sword was raised again, it was dark with blood.

Blackness crept toward Alfred, comforting, soothing oblivion, a place where he could hide and not be responsible for anything that happened, including his own death.

“Alfred, don’t pass out! Damn it, Sartan, for once in your miserable life, accept the responsibility!”

Responsible. Yes, we’re responsible. I’m responsible for this ... for all this. I’ve been like the dead myself, walking the land in a shell of a body, my soul buried in a tomb....