“That word sounds strangely in my ears. Dwarves.” Baltazar looked to the prince, who nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “We had another name for them, but that is near the mark. Dwarves.”
“Two other races are believed to populate this world,” Alfred continued, either ignoring or simply not seeing Haplo’s attempts to stop the Sartan from saying too much. “Elves were one, humans another.”
Neither Baltazar nor Edmund appeared to recognize the names.
“Mensch,” suggested Haplo, using the term by which both Sartan and Patryns referred to the lesser races.
“Ah, mensch!” Baltazar brightened in recognition. He shrugged. “Reports exist in the writings of our grandfathers. Not that they ever saw any, but they heard of them from their fathers and their fathers before them. These mensch must have been extremely weak. Their races died out almost immediately after they came to Abarrach.”
“You mean... no more remain on this world! But, they were left in your care.” Alfred began in severe tones. “Surely you—”
This had gone far enough. Haplo whistled. The dog left off eating. Following its master’s gesture, it trotted over and, plopping itself down beside Alfred, gleefully began to lick the man’s face.
“Surely you—stop that! Nice doggie. Go ... go away, nice doggie.” Alfred attempted to shove the dog aside. The dog, thinking this was now a game, entered into the spirit of the contest. “Down! Sit! Nice doggie. No, please. Do go away! I—”
“You’re right, necromancer,” Haplo struck in coolly. “These mensch are weak. I know something of them and they couldn’t have survived in a world such as this, a fact that some should have recognized before they brought them here. It sounds like you’d found the good life. What happened?”
Baltazar frowned, his tone dark. “Disaster. The blow didn’t fall at once. It came on us gradually, and that made it worse, I think. Little things began to go wrong. Our water supply mysteriously began to dwindle away. The air grew colder, fouler; poisonous gases were seeping into our atmosphere. We used up more and more of our magic in efforts to protect ourselves from the poison, to reproduce water, to grow food. The Little People—those dwarves as you called them—succumbed. We could do nothing to help them, without endangering ourselves.”
“But, your magic—” Alfred protested, having finally persuaded the dog to sit quietly at his side.
“Aren’t you listening? Our magic was needed for ourselves! We were the strongest, the fittest, the best suited to survive. We did what we could for the... these dwarves, but in the end they died as the other mensch died before them. And then it became more important than ever for us to resurrect and maintain our dead.”
Haplo shook his head in profound admiration. “A labor force that never needs rest, never eats the food or drinks the water, doesn’t mind the cold, hardship. The perfect slave, the perfect soldier.”
“Yes,” agreed Baltazar, “without our dead, we living could not have managed.”
“But don’t you understand what you’ve done?” Alfred cried in earnest, agonized tones. “Don’t you realize—”
“Dog!” Haplo ordered.
The animal jumped back to its feet, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
Alfred raised his hands in front of his face and, with a fearful glance at Haplo, fell silent.
“Certainly we realize,” said the necromancer crisply. “We regained an art that was, according to the old records, lost to our people.”
“Not lost. Not lost,” Alfred said sorrowfully, but he said it beneath his breath. Haplo heard it through the ears of the dog.
“Of course, you must not think us idle in attempting to discover what was going wrong,” Edmund added. “We investigated and came at last, and most reluctantly, to the conclusion that the colossus, which had once provided us life, were now responsible for depriving us of it. Warmth and fresh air had once flowed through the columns. Now our heat was being tapped and drawn off—”
“By the people in that city?” Haplo waved his hand in the direction of the buildings over which he’d flown. “That’s what you suspect, isn’t it?”
He barely listened to the answer. The subject didn’t much interest him. He would have preferred to pursue the subject of necromancy, but didn’t dare make his intense interest known, either to these men or to Alfred. Patience, he counseled.
“It was an accident. The people of Necropolis could have no way of knowing that they were harming us,” Edmund was arguing warmly, his gaze going to the necromancer Baltazar scowled, and Haplo recognized this as an old disagreement between them.
The necromancer—perhaps because there were strangers present—forebore offering an opinion contrary to that of his ruler. Haplo was about to attempt to turn the conversation back to the dead when a clatter and commotion in the cavern drew everyone’s attention. Several cadavers—soldiers by the remnants and fragments of their uniforms—came running from the direction of the cavern’s entrance.
The prince rose immediately to his feet, followed by the necromancer. Baltazar caught hold of the prince’s arm, pointed. The corpse of the dead king came shuffling forward, also intent on interviewing the guards.
“I told Your Highness this would be a problem,” Baltazar said in low tones.
Anger flushed the prince’s pale skin. Edmund started to say something, bit off whatever hasty words he might have spoken.
“You were right and I was wrong,” he said instead, after a frowning pause. “Are you pleased to hear me confess as much?”
“Your Highness misunderstands me,” the necromancer said gently. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, My Friend.” Edmund sighed wearily. Exhaustion drained the color from his thin cheeks. “Forgive me. Please excuse us,” he had just the presence of mind to say to his guests, and walked hurriedly over to where the corpse of the king was conferring with the corpses of his subjects.
Haplo made a motion with his hand and the dog, unnoticed, trotted along behind the prince. The living in the cavern had fallen silent. Exchanging grim glances, they began hastily packing away what items they had brought out to aid them in their meager meal. But, when they could turn their attention from their work, their eyes fixed on their prince.
“It isn’t honorable for you to spy on them like that, Haplo,” Alfred said in a low voice. He glanced unhappily at the dog, standing at the prince’s side.
Haplo didn’t consider the comment worthy of response.
Alfred fidgeted nervously, toying with his bit of uneaten fish. “What are they saying?” he asked at last.
“Why should you care? It isn’t honorable to spy on them,” Haplo retorted. “Still, you might be interested to know that these dead, who are apparently scouts, report that an army has landed in the town.”
“An army! What about the ship?”
“The runes will keep anyone from coming near it, let alone harming it. What should concern you more is that the army is marching this way”
“An army of the living?” Alfred asked in a low voice, seeming to dread the answer.
“No,” Haplo said, watching Alfred closely. “An army of the dead.”
Alfred groaned, covered his face with his hand.
Haplo leaned forward. “Listen, Sartan,” he said urgently, softly. “I need some answers about this necromancy and I need them quick.”
“What makes you think I know anything about it?” Alfred asked uneasily, keeping his eyes averted.
“Because of that handwringing and moaning and whining you’ve been doing ever since you saw what was going on. What do you know about the dead?”
“I’m not certain I should tell you,” Alfred said, lowering his bald head between hunched shoulders, the turtle ducking into its shell.
Haplo reached out, caught hold of the Sartan’s wrist, and gave it a painful twist. “Because we’re about to be caught in the middle of a war, Sartan! You’re obviously incapable of defending yourself, which leaves your safety and mine up to me. Are you going to talk?”