“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.”