Alfred grimaced in pain. “I’ll.. . tell you what I know.”
Haplo grunted in satisfaction, let loose of the man.
Alfred rubbed his bruised flesh. “The cadavers are alive, but only in the sense that they can move around and obey orders. They remember what they did in life, know nothing beyond.”
“The king then...” Haplo paused, not quite understanding.
“Still thinks of himself as king,” Alfred said, his gaze going to the cadaver, to the white head and hoary locks crowned with gold. “He’s still trying to rule, because he thinks he is still the ruler. But, of course, he doesn’t have any conception of the current situation. He doesn’t know where he is, probably thinks he’s back in his own homeland.”
“But the dead soldiers know—”
“They know how to fight, because they remember what they were trained to do in life. And all a living commander has to do is point out an enemy.”
“What are those spirit things that follow the cadavers around like their shadows? What do they have to do with the dead?”
“In a way, they are their shadows, the essence of what they were when they were alive. No one knows much about the phantasms, as they are called. Unlike the corpse, the phantasm seems to be aware of what is happening in the world, but it is powerless to act,”
Alfred sighed, his gaze going from the dead king to Edmund. “Poor young man. Apparently he believed his father would somehow be different. Did you see the way the old man’s phantasm fought against returning to this corrupt form of life? It was as if it knew—Oh, what have they done? What have they done?”
“Well, what have they done, Sartan?” Haplo demanded impatiently. “It seems to me that necromancy could have its advantages.”
Alfred turned, regarded the Patryn with serious, grave intensity. “Yes, so we thought once, long ago. But we made a terrible discovery. The balance must be maintained. For every person brought back untimely to this life, another person—somewhere—untimely dies.” He cast a despairing glance around the people huddled in the cavern. “It is possible, extremely possible, that these people have unwittingly been the doom of our entire race.”
16
“Theoretical nonsense!” Haplo snorted in disgust. “You can’t prove such a thing.”
“Perhaps it already has been proven,” Alfred replied.
Haplo rose to his feet, not intending to stay around and listen to any more of the Sartan’s whimperings. So the dead had a few memory problems, a short attention span. Haplo considered that if he were in their position, he might not want to dwell on the present either. If he were in their position . . . would he want to be resurrected?
The thought brought him to a standstill. He pictured himself lying on the rock floor, the necromancer standing over him, his body rising. . .
Haplo shoved the question out of his mind, continued walking. He had more important matters to consider.
Maybe not, whispered a voice inside him. If you die on this world—and you very nearly died on two other worlds—then they’ll do this to you!
The staring eyes that looked straight ahead into their past. The waxy, white flesh, the blue nails and lips, the lank, uncombed hair. Revulsion twisted his stomach. For an instant, he considered fleeing, running away.
Appalled, he got a grip on himself. What the hell’s the matter with me? Running out! Running away! From what? A bunch of corpses!
“The Sartan’s doings,” he muttered angrily. “That sniveling coward’s working on my imagination. If I were dead, I don’t suppose it’d matter to me one way or the other.” But his gaze shifted from the cadaver to the phantasms, those pathetic, shadowy forms always hovering near their bodies, within reach, yet unable to touch.
“Father, leave this to me,” Edmund was talking to the cadaver with praiseworthy patience. “Stay with the people. I will go with the soldiers and see what this is all about.”
“We’re under attack from the people in the city? What city? I don’t remember any city.” The dead king sounded querulous, the hollow voice frustrated, confused.
“There isn’t time to explain, Father!” The prince’s patience was slipping. “Please, don’t concern yourself. I will deal with it. The people. You stay with the people.”
“Yes, the people.” The cadaver caught hold of that, seemed to hang on tightly. “My people. They look to me for leadership. Yet what can I do? Our land is dying! We must leave it, search for somewhere new. My Son, do you hear me? We must leave our land!”
But Edmund was no longer paying attention. He left with the dead soldiers, hastening back through the cavern toward the entrance. The necromancer stayed behind to listen to the cadaver’s rambling. The dog, having no instructions to the contrary, trotted along at the prince’s heels.
Haplo hurried after the prince but, when he caught up with him, he saw tears glisten on Edmund’s cheeks, saw the raw grief in the man’s face. The Patryn fell back a pace, stopped to play with the dog, give the prince time to compose himself. Edmund halted, brushed the back of his hand hastily over his eyes, glanced around.
“What do you want?” he demanded, voice harsh.
“Came to get my dog,” Haplo said. “He ran off after you before I could catch him. What’s the problem?”
“There isn’t time . . .” Edmund hurried on ahead again.
The dead soldiers moved swiftly, if clumsily. Walking was difficult for them. They had trouble guiding their steps or making changes in direction if they encountered an obstacle. Consequently, they blundered headlong into the cavern walls, careened off boulders, stumbled over rocks. But although they couldn’t seem to comprehend obstacles, no obstacle stopped them. They trundled through red-hot magma pools without hesitation. The glowing lava burned off whatever clothes or armor they might have had left, turned the dead flesh into charred lumps. Nevertheless, the lumps kept on moving.
Haplo felt the revulsion rise in him again. He’d seen sights in the Labyrinth that would have driven most men insane, yet he was forced to harden what he had considered a will of iron in order to keep following along behind the gruesome army.
Edmund shot him a glance, as if the prince would like very much to tell this interloper to go away. Haplo kept his expression purposefully friendly, concerned.
“What did you say was going on?”
“An army from Necropolis has landed on the shores of the town,” Edmund answered shortly. Something seemed to occur to him, for he continued, in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry. You have a ship docked there, I believe you said.”
Haplo started to reply that the runes on his ship would protect it, thought better of it. “Yeah, I’m worried about it. I’d like to see for myself.”
“I’d ask the dead to check it for you, but they’re unreliable in their reports. For all I know, they could be describing an enemy they fought ten years ago.”
“Why do you use them as scouts, then?”
“Because we cannot spare the living.”
So, what Alfred told me was true, Haplo thought. At least that much. And that brought another problem to mind. The Sartan ... by himself....
“Go back,” Haplo ordered the dog. “Stay with Alfred.”
The animal obediently did as it was told.
Alfred was exceedingly miserable and almost welcomed the animal’s return, although he knew very well it had been sent back by Haplo to spy on him. The dog flopped down beside him, gave the man’s hand a swift lick with its tongue and nudged its head beneath his palm to encourage Alfred to scratch behind its ears.
The return of the necromancer was far less welcome. Baltazar was a hale and hearty man. His straight stance, commanding air, long black flowing robes emphasized his height, making him appear taller than he was. He had the ivory-hued skin of these people who had never known sunshine. His hair, unlike that of most Sartan, was so black as to be almost blue. His beard, squared-off about three inches beneath his jaw, glistened like the obsidian rock of his homeland. The black eyes were exceedingly intelligent, shrewd, and intent, stabbing whatever it was they looked at and holding it up to the light for further examination.