Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

“That’s what they’re doing,” said Haplo softly. “They’re going to try to break down the runes.”

“Jonathan was so certain.” Alfred stared out the window. “He had faith—”

“—in nothing but your trickery, Sartan.”

“I know you won’t believe me, Haplo, but what happened to you in the chamber happened to me, as well. Just as it happened to Jonathan. I don’t understand it.” Alfred shook his head, added in a low voice, “I’m not certain I want to understand it. If we’re not gods ... if there is some higher power...”

The ship moved beneath his feet, nearly throwing him off balance. He looked back at Haplo. The Patryn had his hands on the steering stone. The sigla glowed a bright, intense blue. Sails shivered, ropes tightened. The dragonship spread its wings, prepared to fly. On the pier, the dead began to clamor and clashed their weapons together. The lazar lifted their horrible visages, moved as a group toward the ship.

Apart from them, at the far end of the dock, Jonathan rose to his feet. He was a lazar, he had become one of the dead who was not dead, one of the living who was not living. He began walking toward the ship.

“Stay! Stop!” Alfred cried, pressing his face against the glass. “Can’t we wait a minute longer?”

Haplo shrugged. “You can go back if you want to, Sartan. You’ve served your purpose. I don’t need you any longer. Go on, get out!”

The ship began to move. Haplo’s magical energies flowed through it, the blue light beamed brightly, welled up from between his fingers, surrounding him in a brilliant halo.

“If you’re going, go!” he shouted.

I should, Alfred told himself. Jonathan had faith enough. He was willing to die for what he believed. I should be prepared to do the same.

The Sartan left the porthole, started toward the ladder that led up from the bridge. Outside the ship, he could hear the chill voices of the dead, shouting in fury, enraged at seeing their prey escape. He could hear Kleitus and the other lazar raise their voices in a chant. From the strain suddenly apparent on Haplo’s face, they were attempting to break down the Dragon Wing’s fragile, protective rune structure.

The dragonship jolted to a halt. It was caught, held fast like a fly in a web of the lazar’s magic. Haplo closed his eyes, focused his mental powers, his concentration visible in the rigidity of the hands pressed against the steering stone. His fingers—red against the light welling up from beneath—seemed to be made of flame.

The dragonship lurched, sank a few feet.

“Perhaps the choice will be taken from me,” Alfred murmured, almost relieved. He turned back to the porthole.

Haplo gasped, grit his teeth, and held on. The ship rose slightly.

A spell came, unbidden, to Alfred’s mind. He could enhance the Patryn’s failing energy. He could help break free of the web before the spider stung them.

The choice, far from being taken away, was being laid squarely on him.

The lazar that was Jonathan stood apart from the other lazar, the eyes of the soul not quite torn from the body gazed up at the ship, gazed through the runes, through the wood, through the glass, through flesh and bone into Alfred’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Alfred said to the eyes. “I don’t have the faith. I don’t understand.”

The Sartan turned away from the window. Walking over to Haplo, Alfred placed his hands on the Patryn’s shoulders and began to chant.

The circle was joined. The dragonship gave a great shudder, broke free of the magical toils, lifted its wings and soared upward, leaving behind the fiery sea, leaving behind the dead and the living on the stone world of Abarrach.

The ship floated before Death’s Gate.

Haplo lay on a pallet on the deck, near the steering stone. He had collapsed moments after they’d freed themselves. Hovering on the brink of unconsciousness, he’d fought to keep himself awake, fought to guide their ship to safety. Alfred had watched over him anxiously, until Haplo ordered him irritably to go away and leave him alone.

“All I need is sleep. When we reach the Nexus, I’ll be fine. You better find yourself a place to lie down, Sartan, or you’ll end up breaking your neck when we go through Death’s Gate. And this time, when we go through, keep your mind out of mine!”

Alfred stood by the porthole, staring out, his mind walking back on Abarrach, regret gnawing at him. “I didn’t mean to pry into your past life. I don’t have much control—”

“Shut up and sit down.”

Alfred sighed and sat—or rather tumbled—into a corner. He huddled there dejectedly, his bony knees level with his chin.

The dog curled up beside Haplo, put its head on his chest. The Patryn settled himself comfortably, stroked the dog’s ears with his hand. The animal closed its eyes, and its tail wagged contentedly.

“Sartan. You awake?”

Alfred kept silent.

“Alfred.” Grudgingly.

“Yes, I’m awake.”

“You know what’ll happen to you in the Nexus.” Haplo didn’t look at him when he spoke, he kept his gaze on the dog. “You know what My Lord will do to you.”

“Yes,” Alfred answered.

Haplo hesitated a moment, either deciding on his next words or deciding whether or not to say them. When he made his decision, his voice was hard and sharp, cutting through some barrier within himself.

“Then, if I were you, I wouldn’t be around when I woke up.” Haplo closed his eyes.

Alfred stared in amazement, then smiled gently. “I understand. Thank you, Haplo.”

The Patryn didn’t respond. His labored breathing grew even and easy. Lines of pain relaxed from his face. The dog, sighing, wriggled closer.

Death’s Gate opened, drew them slowly inside.

Alfred leaned back against the bulkheads. Consciousness was slipping away from him. He thought he heard, though it may have been a dream, Haplo’s sleepy voice.

“I never did find out about the prophecy. I don’t suppose it matters. No one will be left alive down there to fulfill it. Who believes in that crap anyway? Like you said, Sartan. If you believe in a prophecy, you have to believe in a higher power.”

Who believes? Alfred wondered.

The lazar, angered at losing the dragonship, turned their wrath on the living who yet remained on Abarrach. Kleitus led the armies of the dead in an attack on the small band of refugees from Kairn Telest.

The living were led by Baltazar, who barely escaped with his life from the docks. Protected by Prince Edmund, the necromancer hastened back to his people, hiding in the Salfag Caverns. He brought them the terrible news that their own armies of dead had turned against them.

The people of Kairn Telest fled the coming of the dead, running out into the open plains of the land that was itself, dying. They fled without hope, however, for among their number were many sick and many children, who could not stand the forced pace. The cycles of their suffering and hardship were mercifully brief. The dead were hard on their heels and soon the last living beings on Abarrach were brought to bay. They had no choice but to turn and fight.

During this time, I walked among the lazar, pretending to be one with them, for I knew that my hour had not yet come. Prince Edmund remained by my side. Although I knew his grief for his people was acute, he, too, waited for his hour.

The people of Kairn Telest chose for their field of battle a level plain not far from the Pillar of Zembar. They gave some thought to trying to protect the children, the sick and infirm, the elderly. In the end, they decided that it mattered little. Against the dead, there could be only one outcome. Men and women, old and young gathered what weapons they could and prepared to fight. They formed their ranks into a single line—families together, friend beside friend. The fortunate ones would be those who died first and swiftest.