THE CATACOMBS, ABARRACH

THE CATACOMB TUNNEL continued to descend at a moderate slope, the runes lighting a smooth path that appeared to be delving straight into the depths of the world. Haplo had doubts about anything that Alfred undertook, but the Patryn was forced to concede that the tunnel, although ancient, was dry, wide, and had been kept in good repair. He hoped he was right in deducing, therefore, that it had been designed to accommodate a considerable amount of traffic.

Why? he reasoned, if not to take a large number of people to a specific place. And wouldn’t that place more than likely be out?

It made sense. Still, he reminded himself gloomily, there was no telling with the Sartan.

But, wherever the path was leading them, they were forced to follow. There was no turning back. Haplo paused often to listen, and now he was certain he heard footsteps, the clank of armor, the rattle of sword and spear. He glanced over at his charges. The dead were in better condition than the living. The lazar and the prince’s cadaver walked down the tunnel with calm, purposeful steps. Behind them, Jonathan stumbled aimlessly, paying little attention to his surroundings, his gaze fixed with a puzzled horror on the tortured figure of his beloved wife.

Haplo wasn’t moving all that well himself. The poison was still in his system. Only a healing sleep would cure him completely. The runes on his flesh glowed in a sickly manner. His magic fought to place one foot in front of the other. The runes on his skin might flicker and die out completely if the sigla had to fight anything more challenging. Silent, watchful, the dog padded along, keeping at the duke’s heels.

The Patryn edged his way through the narrow tunnel, past the living and the dead, to catch up with Alfred. The Sartan sang the runes softly beneath his breath, watched the sigla flame to life and light their path.

“We’re being followed,” Haplo announced in a low voice.

The Sartan was concentrating on the runes, had no idea Haplo was near. Alfred jumped, tripped, and nearly fell. He saved himself by clinging to the smooth, dry wall and glanced nervously behind him.

Haplo shook his head. “I don’t think they’re close, although I can’t be certain. These damn tunnels distort the sound. They can’t be sure which way we went. My guess is that they’re having to stop and investigate every intersection, send patrols down every branching path to make certain they don’t lose us.” He gestured at the glowing blue marks on the wall. “These sigla wouldn’t be likely to light up again, show them the way, would they?”

“They might,” Alfred paused, considering. He looked unhappy. “If the dynast knew the proper spells ...”

Haplo stopped walking, began swearing fluently. “That damn arrow!”

“What arrow?” Alfred cringed back against the wall, expecting barbed shafts to come flying past him.

“The arrow Her Grace yanked out of her body!” Haplo pointed in the direction they’d just come. “Once they find that, they’ll know they’re on the right track!”

He took a step in that direction, hardly knowing what he was doing.

“You can’t be thinking of returning!” Alfred cried, panicked. “You’d never find the way back!”

Is that what I’m thinking? Haplo wondered to himself silently, nerves tingling with the idea. I use retrieving the arrow as an excuse, double back on our own trail. The soldiers will keep going forward. All I’d have to do is hide until they’re gone, then be on my merry way and leave these Sartan to their well-deserved fate.

It was tempting, very tempting. But that left the problem of returning to his ship, a ship that was now moored in hostile enemy territory.

Haplo resumed walking beside Alfred.

“I’d find a way back,” he said bitterly. “What you mean is that you’d never find the way back—the way back through Death’s Gate. That was the reason you saved my life, wasn’t it, Sartan?”

“Of course,” returned Alfred softly, sadly. “Why else?”

“Yeah. Why else?”

Alfred was apparently deeply absorbed in his chanting. Haplo couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the Sartan’s lips move, the runes continue to light. The slope in the floor had decreased markedly. It ran level, which might indicate they were getting somewhere. The Patryn didn’t know if this was good or bad.

“It wouldn’t be on account of the prophecy, would it?” he asked abruptly, keeping his gaze fixed intently on Alfred.

The Sartan’s entire body jerked as if dancing on a puppeteer’s string—head, hands flew up, eyes opened wide. “No!” he protested. “No, I assure you! I don’t know anything about this ... this prophecy.”

Haplo studied the man. Alfred was not above lying, if driven to it, but he was a terrible liar, offering up his prevarications with a wistful, pleading expression, as if begging you to believe him. He was looking at Haplo now and his look was frightened, miserable. ...

“I don’t believe you!”

“Yes, you do,” answered Alfred meekly.

Haplo fumed, angry, disappointed. “Then you’re an idiot! You should have asked them. After all, the prophecy was mentioned in connection with you.”

“The one reason that I never want to know of it!”

“That makes a hell of a lot of sense!”

“A prophecy implies that we are destined to do something. It dictates to us, we have no choice in the matter. It robs us of our freedom of will. Too often, prophecies end up being self-fulfilling. Once the thought is in our minds, we act, either consciously or unconsciously, to bring it to pass. That can be the only explanation ... unless you believe in a higher power.”

“Higher power!” Haplo scoffed. “Where? The mensch? I don’t plan to believe in this ‘prophecy’. These Sartan believe in it, and that’s what interests me. As you say”—Haplo winked—“that prophecy could be self-fulfilling.”

“You don’t know what it is either, do you?” Alfred guessed.

“No, but I intend to find out. Don’t worry, though. I don’t plan to tell you. Say Your Grace—” He turned toward Jonathan.

“Haplo!” Alfred sucked in his breath, caught hold of the Patryn’s arm.

“Don’t try to stop me!” Haplo tore himself free. “I’m warning you—”

“The runes! Look at the runes!”

Alfred pointed a trembling finger at the wall. Haplo glared at the Sartan, thinking it was a ruse to keep him from talking to the duke. But Alfred appeared truly upset. The Patryn reluctantly and warily shifted his gaze.

The sigla, lighting one by one, had been running consistently along the base of the wall ever since they left the dungeon. At this point, however, they left the base of the wall, traveled upward to form an arch of glowing blue light. Haplo squinted his eyes against the brilliance, peered ahead. He could see nothing beyond but darkness.

“It’s a door. We’ve come to a door,” said Alfred nervously.

“I can see that! Where does it lead?”

“I—I don’t know. The runes don’t say. But ... I don’t think we should go any farther.”

“What do you suggest we do instead? Wait here to pay our respects to the dynast?”

Alfred licked his lips. Sweat beaded on his balding head. “N—no. It’s just ... I mean I wouldn’t—”

Haplo walked straight for the arch. At his approach, the runes changed color, blue turned to flaring red. The sigla smoldered, burst into flame. He put his hand in front of his face, tried to advance. Fire roared and crackled, smoke blinded him. The superheated air seared his lungs. The runes on his arms glowed blue in response, but their power could not protect him from the burning flames that scorched his flesh. Haplo fell back, gasping for air. He’d be immolated if he went through that doorway.

The Patryn glared at Alfred, irrationally blaming him. At Haplo’s retreat, the sigla’s fire faded to a red-yellow glow.

“Those are runes of warding. You can’t enter,” said Alfred, wide eyes reflecting the rune light. “None of us can enter! There’s another hallway over here.” He indicated a tunnel running at right angles to the one in which they stood.

They left the flaring archway, whose runes dimmed to darkness behind them, and entered the hallway. Alfred began to chant, the blue runes lit up along the base of the wall, leading them onward. But after taking about forty steps, they discovered that the corridor bent around to the right, leading them back in the direction from which they’d come. Haplo wasn’t surprised to see another archway light up before them.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Alfred, distressed. “But this can’t be the same one!”

“It isn’t,” said Haplo, voice grim.

“Look, the hall continues on around—”

“—and my guess is that it will only take us to another arch. You can go look, but—”

“The dead are coming.” The lazar spoke suddenly, chill lips curved in a strange and eerie smile. “I can hear them.”

“... hear them ...” murmured the phantasm.

“I can hear them, too,” Haplo said, “the clash of cold steel.” He eyed Alfred. The Sartan shrank back against the wall. By his expression, it seemed he wished very much he could crawl into the rock. “Runes of warding, you said. That means they would ‘ward’ people away, not prevent them from entering.”

Alfred flicked a despairing glance at the sigla. “No one who came across these runes would want to enter.”

Haplo checked a bitter, frustrated comment, turned to Jonathan. “Do you have any idea what could be in there?”

The duke raised glazed eyes, glanced around without interest. He had little or no idea where he was and obviously cared less. Haplo swore softly, turned back to Alfred. “Can you break the runes?”

Sweat trickled down the Sartan’s face. He gulped, swallowed. “Yes.” His voice was tremulous, barely audible. “But you don’t understand. These runes are the strongest that could possibly be laid down. Something terrible lies beyond that door! I will not open it!”

Haplo eyed Alfred intently, measuring what it would take to force the Sartan to act. Alfred was very pale, but resolute, stooped shoulders braced, eyes meeting Haplo’s with unflinching, unexpected resolve.

“So be it,” Haplo muttered and, turning, started walking toward the arch. The sigla flared red, he could feel the heat on his face and arms. Gritting his teeth, he continued to walk forward. The dog gave a frantic bark.

“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.