SAFE HARBOR, ABARRACH

[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. ...

“There’s nothing you can do for Jonathan,” Haplo’s voice grated, “except die with him. Help me reach the ship!”

The blackness receded, but seemed to take all feeling and rational thought with it. Numb, Alfred did as he was told, obeying Haplo like a puppet or a child. The Sartan put his arm around the Patryn’s shoulder and back. He aided Haplo’s limping footsteps, Haplo aided Alfred’s limping spirit.

“Stop them!” Kleitus howled in fury. “I need that ship! Let me through to stop them!”

But a thousand dead, milling around the dock, eager to kill, stood between Kleitus and his prize. Some of the cadavers heard the dynast’s cry; most heard only the screams of their victim, joining them in death.

“Don’t look back!” Haplo commanded with what breath he had remaining. “Keep running!”

Alfred’s arm ached with the strain of supporting Haplo, the fire of the magma sea glowing around him seemed to burn in his lungs. He tried calling on his magic, but he was too frightened, too exhausted, too weak. Sigla swam in his mind, burst in dazzling flashes before his eyes. A forgotten language, they meant nothing to him. Haplo sagged against his supporter, his footsteps slipped, although they never faltered their pace. Alfred glanced at him, saw the Patryn’s face ashen gray, jaw clenched tight, sweat glistened on his skin. They were near their goal, the ship loomed above them. But shuffling footsteps sounded close behind.

The footsteps goaded Alfred on. He was close, very close—A blur of black robes rose up in front of them like a wall of night. “Damn it all ...” Haplo sighed, sounding weary to the point of not caring.

In their fear of the dead, they’d forgotten the living. Baltazar stood before them. Pale, composed, black eyes red with the reflected light of the magma, he blocked their way to the ship. He raised grasping hands and Alfred shuddered in terror. But the hands clasped together, pleading.

“Take us with you!” Baltazar begged. “Take me, take my people! As many as we can crowd on board!”

Haplo regarded Baltazar intently, but for the moment the Patryn couldn’t answer, he lacked the breath to speak. Alfred guessed that the necromancer had already tried to board; the Patryn’s protective sigla had prevented him. The footsteps behind them grew louder. The dog barked a warning.

“I’ll teach you the necromancy!” Baltazar said softly, urgently. “Think of the power in the worlds beyond! Armies of the dead to fight for you! Legions of the dead to serve you!”

Haplo flicked a glance at Alfred. The Sartan lowered his gaze. He was tired, defeated. He’d done all he could and it hadn’t been enough. Hope—inexplicable and not clearly understood—had been born within him in the chamber. It had died with Jonathan. “No,” said Haplo.

Baltazar’s black eyes widened in astonishment, stared in disbelief, then narrowed in fury. The dark brows came together, the pleading hands clenched to fists. That ship is our only means of escape! Your living body will not tell me how to break the runes, but your corpse will!” He took a step toward Haplo,

The Patryn gave Alfred a push that sent the Sartan staggering into a bale of kairn grass.

“Not if my corpse is in there, it won’t.” Haplo pointed at the magma sea. Balancing precariously on his good leg, his sword in a bloodstained hand, he stood on the edge of the obsidian wharf, only a step or two from flesh-searing death.

Baltazar halted. Alfred was dimly aware of Kleitus’s shouts growing louder, of more footsteps rushing toward them. The dog had ceased to bark, the animal stood at Haplo’s side. Alfred picked himself up, not certain what he could do, trying desperately to summon his magic.

A chill voice sounded close by his ear.

“Let them go, Baltazar.”

The necromancer cast the prince a sorrowful glance, shook his head. “You are dead, Edmund. You no longer have power over the living.” Baltazar took a step nearer Haplo.

Haplo took a step nearer death.

“Let them go,” repeated Prince Edmund sternly.

“Your Majesty dooms his own people!” Baltazar cried. Foam flecked the necromancer’s lips. “I can save them! I—”

The cadaver raised its waxen hand, a bolt of lightning crackled, flashed out, and struck the ground at the necromancer’s feet. Baltazar fell back, staring at the prince in fear and astonishment.

Prince Edmund gave Alfred a gentle shove. “Go to your friend. Help him on board the ship. You had better hurry. The lazar are coming to take you.”

Dazed, stupefied, Alfred did as he was told and reached Haplo just as the Patryn’s strength began to fail him. They hastened toward the ship, the Sartan assisting the flagging steps of his ancient enemy.

Alfred slammed up suddenly against an invisible barrier. He had the startling impression of sigla flashing blue and red around him. A word from Haplo, barely audible, caused the barrier to disappear. Alfred continued on, Haplo leaning on him heavily. He grimaced in pain with every movement.

Baltazar saw the defenses lowered, took a defiant step toward them.

“Do so, and I will kill you, my friend,” said Prince Edmund, not in anger, but in sorrow. “What is one dead more or less in this world of ours?”

Alfred caught his breath in a choked sob.

“Just get us on board, damn you!” Haplo spoke through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to do it. I can’t ... I’ve lost ... too much blood ...”

The ship floated above the magma sea, a wide gulf of burning red stretching between them and escape from Abarrach. No gangplank, no ropes. ... Behind them, Kleitus had made his way off his ship. He was marshaling the dead, leading them to the assault, urging them to seize the coveted winged ship, urging them to sail into Death’s Gate.

Alfred blinked back his tears and he could see the sigla again, he could read them, understand. He wove the runes together in a bright and shining net that wrapped around him, around Haplo, around Haplo’s dog. The net raised them in the air, an invisible fisherman hauling in his catch, and lifted them on board the Dragon Wing.

The runes of his enemy closed protectively behind the Sartan.

*

Alfred stood on the bridge, stared out the porthole. The dead, led by the lazar, swarmed around the dragonship, beating unsuccessfully against the runes. Baltazar was nowhere to be seen. He was either dead, murdered by the lazar, or he’d managed to flee in time.

The people of Kairn Telest were abandoning Safe Harbor, escaping back to the Salfag Caverns or beyond. Alfred could see them, a long, thin, ragged line, straggling across the plain. The dead, momentarily distracted by their desire to seize the ship, were letting them go. It didn’t matter. Where could the living hide that the dead would not find them? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered ...

Kleitus shouted a command. The other lazar ceased their fruitless struggle, gathered around their leader. The crowd of dead parted, and Alfred caught a glimpse of Jonathan lying still and unmoving on the pier. Jera bent over him, clasped the body in her dead arms. Her lazar began the chant that would restore him to terrible, tormented life.

Alfred turned away.

“What are the lazar doing?” Haplo crouched on the deck, his hands on the steering stone. The sigla tattooed on his hands glowed blue, but only a faint blue, barely discernible. He swallowed, removed his hands, flexed them, and shut his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Alfred answered dispiritedly. “Does it matter?”

“Hell, yes, it matters! They may be able to unravel my magic. We’re not out of this yet, Sartan, so quit blubbering and tell me what’s going on.”

Alfred gulped, looked back out the porthole. “The lazar are ... are plotting something. At least that’s what it looks like. They’re gathered around Kleitus. All of them except ... Jera. She’s ...” His voice died.

“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.