SALFAG CAVERNS, ABARRACH

“I KNEW I should never have left that weakling on his own!”

Haplo fumed to himself when Alfred’s stammering and confused denials came to his ears through those of the dog. The Patryn almost turned around, returned to try to salvage the situation. He realized, however, that by the time he made his way back through the cavern, the worst of the damage would already be done and so he kept going, following the prince and his army of cadavers to the cavern’s end.

By the conclusion of the conversation between Baltazar and Alfred, Haplo’d been glad he’d kept out of it. Now he knew exactly what the necromancer planned. And if Baltazar wanted to take a little trip back through Death’s Gate, Haplo would be more than pleased to arrange it. Of course, Alfred would never permit it, but—at this point—Alfred had become expendable. A Sartan necromancer was worth far more than a sniveling Sartan moralist.

There were problems. Baltazar was a Sartan and, as such, inherently good. He could threaten murder, but that was because he was desperate, intensely loyal to his people, to his prince. It was unlikely that he would leave his people, abandon his prince, go off on his own. Haplo’s lord would most certainly take a dim view of an army of Sartan marching through Death’s Gate and into the Nexus! Still, the Patryn reflected, these snarls in the skein could be worked out.

“The enemy.” The prince, slightly ahead of Haplo, came to a halt.

They had reached the end of the cavern. Standing concealed in the shadows, they could see the approaching force—a ragged, tattered army of corpses, shuffling and shambling in what they remembered as military formation. Several of the enemy in the forward ranks had already encountered the prince’s troops and skirmishes were occurring on the field.

It was the strangest battle Haplo had ever seen. The dead fought using skills they remembered having used in life, giving and taking sword blows, parrying and thrusting, each obviously intent on killing their opponent. But whether they were fighting this particular enemy or one they had fought years past was open to debate.

One dead soldier parried a thrust his opponent never delivered. Another took a sword through the chest without bothering to defend itself. Blows were dealt in a deliberate, if aimless manner, and were sometimes blocked, and sometimes not. Sword blades wielded by dead hands sank deep into dead flesh that never felt it. The cadavers wrenched the blade free and kept at it, striking each other again and again, doing significant damage but never making much headway.

The battle between the dead might have gone on indefinitely had the strength of both sides been equal. The army from Necropolis was, however, in a far more advanced state of corruption and decay than the prince’s army. These dead appeared less well cared for than the prince’s dead, if such a thing could be said.

The flesh of the cadavers had, in many instances, fallen from the bones. Each had suffered numerous injuries, most—it appeared—after their deaths. Many of the dead soldiers were missing various parts of their bodies—a bone gone here and there, perhaps a part of an arm or a piece of a leg. Their armor was badly rusted, the leather straps that held it together had almost all rotted away, leaving breastplates dangling by a thread, leg protectors falling down around the cadaver’s ankles, often tripping them up.

The corpses made mindless attempts to march over or through obstacles and were constantly impeded by their own falling accoutrements. Thus the army of dead appeared to spend more time tumbling over itself than it did advancing. Those that were fighting were being battered into shapeless heaps of bones and armor over which their phantasms wavered and twisted with pleading, outstretched wisps of arms. It might have been a comic sight, if it hadn’t been horrific.

Haplo started to laugh, felt—by the clenching of his stomach—that, if he did so, he might retch.

“Old dead,” said the prince, watching them.

“What?” Haplo asked. “What do you mean?”

“Necropolis is using their old dead, the dead of generations past.” Edmund motioned to the dead captain of his army. “Send one of your men to fetch Baltazar. You can always tell the old dead.” The prince, speaking offhandedly, turned back to Haplo. “The necromancers weren’t so skilled in their art. They lacked the knowledge of how to keep the flesh from decaying, of how to maintain the cadavers.”

“Do your dead always fight your wars?”

“For the most part they do, now that we have built up substantial armies. Once, the living fought wars.” Edmund shook his head. “A tragic waste. But that was many years ago, long before I was born. Necropolis sent the old dead. I wonder,” he continued, frowning, “what this means.”

“What could it mean?”

“It could be a feint, an attempt to draw us out, force us to reveal our true strength. That’s what Baltazar would say,” the prince added, smiling. “But it could also be a sign from the people of Necropolis . that they don’t mean us serious harm. As you can see, our new dead could defeat this lot with ease. I believe Necropolis wants to negotiate.”

Edmund gazed ahead, eyes squinting against the bright red glow of the magma sea. “There must be living among them. Yes, I see them. Marching at the rear.”

Two black-robed and cowled necromancers walked some distance behind their shabby army, well out of range of spear throw. Haplo was startled to note the presence of living wizards, but realized, on observation, that the necromancers were required not only to lead the army and maintain the magic that held the crumbling bodies together, but also to act as macabre shepherds.

More than once, a corpse came to a standstill, ceased to fight, or sometimes one would fall down and not get back up. The necromancers hastened into their flock, prodding and commanding, urging them forward. When a cadaver fell down, it might, on standing, face the wrong direction and head off on some erratic course directed by its faulty memory. The necromancer, like a conscientious sheepdog, raced after it, turned the dead soldier around, forced it to once more join the fray.

Edmund’s dead, which Haplo supposed could be called the “new dead,” did not appear subject to these failings. The small skirmishing force fought well, reducing enemy numbers by literally battering the old dead into the ground. The larger portion of the army remained grouped behind their prince in the cavern opening, a skilled army awaiting command. Edmund’s only precaution was to continually remind the dead captain of its orders. At each reminder, the captain would nod its head alertly, as if receiving such instructions for the first time. Haplo wondered if the prince’s messenger would remember the message by the time it reached Baltazar.

Edmund stirred restlessly. Suddenly, giving way to impulse, he leapt up on a boulder, showing himself to the advancing army. “Hold!” he cried, raising his hand up, palm outward, in a gesture of parley.

“Halt!” cried the enemy necromancers, and both armies, after a moment of confusion, lurched to a stumbling standstill. The necromancers remained stationed behind their troops, able to see and hear, but still protected by their dead.

“Why do you march on my people?” Edmund demanded.

“Why did your people attack the citizens of Safe Harbor?” It was a female who spoke, her voice ringing clear and strong through the sulfurous air.

“Our people did not attack,” the prince countered. “We came to the town seeking to buy supplies and were set on—”

“You came armed!” the woman interrupted coldly.

“Of course, we came armed! We have passed through perilous lands. We have been attacked by a fire dragon since we left our homeland. Your people attacked us without provocation! Naturally, we defended ourselves, but we meant them no harm and, as proof, you can see that we left the town with all its wealth safe and untouched, although my people are starving.”

The two necromancers conferred together in low voices. The prince remained standing—a proud and lordly figure—on the black rock.

“What you say is true. We saw that much for ourselves,” said the other necromancer, a male. He walked forward, moving around the army’s right flank, leaving the female at the rear. The wizard lowered his cowl, showing his face. He was young, younger than the prince, with a smooth-shaven jaw, large green eyes, and the long chestnut-colored hair of the Sartan, the white tips curling on his shoulders. His mien was serious and grave and fearless as he advanced on his enemy. “Will you talk with us more?”

“I will, and welcome,” said Edmund, starting to jump down from his rock.

The young necromancer held up a warding hand. “No, please, We would not take unfair advantage of you. Have you a minister of the dead who can accompany you?”

“My necromancer is coming now, as we speak,” said Edmund, bowing at this show of courtesy. Haplo, glancing back into the cavern, saw the black-robed figure of Baltazar hastening in their direction. Either the cadaver had remembered its message or the necromancer had decided he should be on hand and had already started this way. And there, stumbling along behind him, as clumsy as a cadaver himself, was Alfred, accompanied by the faithful dog.

While waiting for Baltazar to catch up with them, Edmund marshaled his army, permitting enough of his troop strength to be seen to make an impression on the enemy, yet not enough to give away their true numbers. The enemy necromancer waited patiently at the head of his own army. If he was at all impressed with Edmund’s show of force, the youthful face didn’t reveal it.

The female necromancer kept her face covered, her cowl pulled low over her head. Attracted by the sound of the rich, smooth voice, Haplo was extremely curious to see her features. But she stood unmoving as the rocks around her. Occasionally, he heard her voice, chanting the runes that kept the dead functional.

Baltazar, breathing heavily from the exertion, joined the prince and the two moved out of the tunnel to the neutral territory in front of each army. The young necromancer advanced in his turn, meeting them halfway. Haplo sent the dog trotting after the prince. The Patryn leaned back against a wall, settled himself comfortably.

Alfred, huffing and puffing, tumbled into him. “Did you hear what Baltazar said to me? He knows about Death’s Gate!”

“Shhh!” ordered Haplo irritably. “Keep your voice down or everyone in this blasted place will know about Death’s Gate! Yes, I heard him. And, if he wants to go, I’ll take him.”

Alfred stared, aghast. “You can’t mean that!”

Haplo kept his eyes fixed on the negotiators, disdained to answer.

“I understand!” Alfred said, voice trembling. “You want ... this knowledge!” The Sartan pointed a finger at the rows of cadavers lined up in front of them.

“Damn right.”

“You will bring doom on us all! You will destroy everything we created!”

“No!” Haplo said, shifting suddenly, jabbing his words into Alfred’s breast with his finger. “You Sartan destroyed everything! We Patryns will return it to what it was! Now shut up, and let me listen.”

“I’ll stop you!” Alfred stated, bravely defiant. “I won’t let you do this. I—” Loose gravel gave way beneath his foot. He slid, slipped. His hands scrabbled frantically in the air, but there was nothing to hold onto and he landed on the hard rock floor with a thud.

Haplo glanced down at the balding middle-aged man who lay in a pathetic heap at his feet. “Yeah, you do that,” the Patryn said, grinning. “You stop me.” Lounging against the wall, he turned his attention to the parley.

“What is it you want of us?” the young necromancer was asking, once the formalities of introduction had been effected.

The prince recited his story, telling it well, with dignity and pride. He made no accusations against the people of Kairn Necros but took care to attribute the wrongs his own people had suffered to mischance or ignorance of the true situation.

The Sartan language, even in its corrupt form, is adept at conjuring up images in the mind. By his expression, it was obvious that the young necromancer saw far beneath the surface of Edmund’s words. The young man attempted to keep his face impassive, but a flutter of doubt and self-conscious guilt brought a crease to the smooth forehead and a slight tremor to the lips. He glanced swiftly at the female standing motionless at the rear of the army, inviting her help.

The woman, understanding, glided forward and arrived in time to hear the end of the prince’s tale.

Removing the cowl from her head with a graceful motion of two fair hands, the woman turned a soft-eyed gaze on Edmund. “Truly, you have suffered much. I am sorry for you and for your people.”

The prince bowed. “Your compassion does you honor, mistress—”

“Madam,” she corrected him, glancing, with a smile, at the necromancer standing beside her. “My public name[5] is Jera. This man is my husband, Jonathan of the ducal House of Rift Ridge.”

“My Lord Jonathan, you are blessed in your wife,” said Edmund with courtesy. “And you, Your Grace, in your husband.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. Your story is indeed a sorrowful one,” Jera continued. “And I fear that my people are, in many ways, responsible for your misfortune—”

“I spoke no word of blame,” said Edmund.

“No, Your Highness.” The woman smiled. “But it is all too easy to see accusation in the images your words conjure. I do not believe, however”—a frown creased the marble-smooth forehead—“that the dynast will take kindly to his subjects coming to him as beggars—”

Edmund drew himself up tall and straight. Baltazar, who had previously said no word, glowered dourly, black brows drawn tight, black eyes reflecting the lurid red of the magma sea.

“Dynast!” Baltazar repeated incredulously. “What dynast? And to whom do you refer as subjects? We are an independent monarchy—”

“Peace, Baltazar.” Edmund laid his hand on the wizard’s arm. “Your Grace, we do not come to beg of our brethren.” He emphasized the word. “Among our dead we number fanners, skilled artisans, warriors. We ask only to be given the chance to work, to earn our bread and shelter in your city.”

The woman stared at him. “Truly, you didn’t know you were under the jurisdiction of Our Most Holy Dynastic Majesty?”

“Your Grace”—Edmund appeared embarrassed at being forced to contradict—“I am the ruler of my people, their only ruler—”

“But, then, of course!” Jera clasped her hands together, her expression bright and eager. “That explains everything. It’s all a dreadful misunderstanding! You must come immediately to the capital, Your Highness, and make your obeisance to His Majesty. My husband and I will be honored to escort you and give you introduction.”

“Obeisance!” Baltazar’s black beard stood out against his livid complexion. “It is rather for this self-proclaimed dynast—”

“I thank you for your gracious invitation, Duchess Jera.” Edmund’s hand clasped his minister’s arm with slightly more pressure than must have been exactly comfortable. “The honor in accompanying you is mine. I cannot leave my people, however, with a hostile army camped before them.”

“We will withdraw our army,” offered the duke, “if you pledge your word that your army will not sail across the sea.”

“Since my army has no ships, such a feat is impossible, Your Grace.”

“Begging Your Highness’s pardon, a ship is docked at Safe Harbor. We have never seen its like before and we assumed that it—”

“Ah, now I understand!” Edmund nodded, glanced back at Haplo and Alfred. “You saw the ship and thought we intended to sail our army across the sea. As you mentioned, Your Grace, there is, much misunderstanding among us. The ship belongs to two strangers, who landed at Safe Harbor just this cycle. We were pleased to entertain them with what hospitality we could, although,” the prince added, flushing, pride vying with shame, “they gave us more than we could offer them.”

Alfred clambered to his feet. Haplo stood straight. The duchess turned to them. Her face, although not beautiful by any purity or regularity of feature, was made attractive by an expression of singular intelligence and an obviously strong and resolute will. The eyes, a green-flecked brown, were exceedingly fine, reflecting the quickness of the mind that moved behind them. Her gaze flicked over the two strangers and Jera immediately picked out Haplo as the ship’s owner.

“We passed your vessel, sir, and found it extremely interesting—”

“What type of runes are those?” her husband interjected with boyish eagerness. “I’ve never seen—”

“My dear,” his wife interposed gently, “this is hardly the time or place for discussions of rune-lore. Prince Edmund will want to inform his people of the honor that awaits him in being presented to His Dynastic Majesty. We will meet you in Safe Harbor, Your Highness, at your convenience.” Jera’s green eyes focused on Haplo and, behind him, Alfred. “It would be our honor, as well, to introduce these strangers to our fair city.”

Haplo regarded the woman thoughtfully. This prince hadn’t known him for the ancient enemy, but the Patryn had come to realize, by this conversation, that Edmund’s people were nothing more than a small satellite circling a larger and brighter sun. A sun that might be much better informed.

I could leave now and no one would ever blame me, not even My Lord. But he and I both would always know that I turned tail and ran.

The Patryn bowed. “It is we who would be honored, Your Grace.”

Smiling at him, Jera glanced back at the prince. “We will send word ahead of your coming, Your Highness, in order that all may be in readiness to receive you.”

“You are most kind, Your Grace,” Edmund replied.

Everyone made final polite bows, then the group separated. The duke and duchess returned to their dead army, herded them together (several had wandered away during the talks), prodded them into formation, and headed them back toward Safe Harbor.

Baltazar and the prince reentered the cavern. “A dynast,” the necromancer was saying in grim tones. “The people of the sovereign nation of Kairn Telest are nothing but his subjects! Tell me now, Edmund, that the inhabitants of Necropolis brought disaster to us in ignorance!”

The prince was obviously troubled. His eyes went to the far distant city, barely visible beneath the mass of clouds hanging low over it. “What can I do, Baltazar? What can I do for our people if I don’t go?”

“I’ll tell you. Your Highness! These two”—the necromancer gestured at Haplo and Alfred—“know the location of Death’s Gate. These two came through it!”

The prince gazed at them with wondering, astonished eyes. “Death’s Gate? Did you? Is it possible that—”

Haplo shook his head. “It wouldn’t work, Your Highness. It’s a long, long way from here. You’d need ships, a lot of ships, to transport your people.”

“Ships!” Edmund smiled sadly. “We have no food, and you talk of ships. Tell me,” he added, after a pause. “Do the city people know about ... Death’s Gate?”

“How should I know, Your Highness?” Haplo answered, shrugging.

“If he’s telling the truth,” hissed Baltazar. “And we can get ships! They have ships!” He nodded his head toward Necropolis.

“And how will we pay for them, Baltazar?”

“Pay, Your Highness! Haven’t we paid already? Haven’t we paid with our lives?” the necromancer demanded, fist clenched. “I say it’s time we take what we want! Don’t go crawling to them, Edmund! Lead us to them! Lead us to war!”

“No! They”—the prince gestured to the departing duke and duchess—“were sympathetic to us. We have no reason to believe the dynast will be less eager to listen and to understand. I will try peaceful means first.”

“ ‘We,’ Your Highness. I’m going with you, of course—”

“No.” Edmund took the necromancer by the hand. “You stay with the people. If anything happens to me, you will be their leader.”

“At last your heart speaks, Your Highness.” Baltazar was bitter, sorrowful.

“I truly believe all will be well. But I would be a poor ruler if I did not provide for contingencies.” Edmund continued to press the man’s hand. “I may rely on you, My Friend? More than friend, mentor ... my other father?”

“You may rely on me, Your Highness.” The last part of the necromancer’s sentence was little more than a choked whisper.

Edmund walked back to confer with his people. Baltazar remained behind a moment in the shadows to compose himself.

When the prince was gone, the necromancer raised his head. Ravages of a terrible, heart-wrenching grief had aged the pallid face. The stabbing black-eyed gaze struck Alfred, passed through the trembling body of the Sartan, and bored into Haplo.

I am not an evil man. But I am a desperate one. Haplo heard the necromancer’s words echo in the fire-lighted darkness.

“Yes, My Prince,” Baltazar promised fervently, softly. “You may rely fully on me. Our people will be safe!”