And then came a figure, stepping out onto the docks, a figure that was sharp and clear, if somewhat stoop-shouldered and faltering. Two figures walked beside it—one clad in the black robes of a necromancer, the other one a woman, a Patryn.
Xar’s eyes narrowed. He smiled.
“Make ready,” he said to the Patryn standing beside him, who gave a signal to the ship, waiting below. “I think it will be much better if I go on ahead alone,” Alfred said to a disapproving Balthazar and a skeptical Marit. “If Kleitus sees an army approaching, he will feel threatened and immediately attack. But if he just sees me—”
“—he’ll laugh?” Balthazar suggested.
“Perhaps,” Alfred replied gravely. “At least he might not pay me much heed. And that will give me time to cast the spell.”
“How long will this take?” Marit demanded, dubious, her gaze on the lazar, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
Alfred flushed, embarrassed.
“You don’t know.”
Alfred shook his head.
Balthazar looked back at his people, huddled in the shadows of the buildings, the weak who could walk supporting those weaker who couldn’t. Children—faces pinched, eyes huge and staring—clung to their parents or, in those cases where the parents were dead, to those who now held their responsibility. After all, what help could his people give?
The necromancer sighed. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “Do this your way. We will come to your aid if need be.”
“At least let me go with you, Alfred,” Marit urged.
He again shook his head, cast a swift, oblique glance at Balthazar.
Marit saw the look, understood, made no further argument. She was to watch the necromancer, prevent him from trying to seize control of the ship, which he might do while Alfred was busy with the lazar.
“We will wait for you here,” Marit said, giving the word emphasis to indicate she understood.
Alfred nodded, rather dismally. Now that he had achieved his aim, he was extremely sorry he’d done so. What if his spell failed? Kleitus would attempt to murder him, make him one of the lazar. Alfred looked at the corpse, scarred with the marks of its own violent death. He looked at the hapless phantasm, struggling to escape, and at the waxen hands, longing to end life—his life. He remembered Kleitus’s attack on Marit, the poison . . . Even now, she was not free of it. Her cheeks had an unnatural flush; her eyes were too bright. The slashes on her throat were inflamed, painful.
Alfred went hot and then extremely cold. The words to the spell slipped out of his mind, fluttering like the butterfly souls of the elves of Arianus, flapping off in a thousand different directions.
“You think too damn much,” came Haplo’s voice. “Just go out there and do what you have to do!”
Do what you have to do. Yes, Alfred told himself. I will do what I have to do.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the shadows and headed for the docks.
The dog, knowing Alfred and foreseeing a hundred obstacles in his path, trotted along watchfully at his side.
The runes surrounding the ship were now more than three-quarters dark. From her vantage point in the shadows of a ruined building, Marit could see Hugh the Hand, moving about restlessly on board, keeping watch on the ghastly being walking about the ship. She wondered suddenly how the Cursed Blade would react to Kleitus. He was Sartan, or had been. Most likely, the blade would fight for the lazar. She hoped Hugh had sense enough not to intervene, wished she had thought to warn Alfred of this additional danger.
Too late, though. Her duty was here. She cast a sidelong glance at Balthazar. His gaze slid across hers like a fencer’s sword, testing, seeking out his opponent’s weakness.
Marit caught herself just before she laughed aloud. Weakness! Both of us so damn weak neither one could likely melt butter. What a fight that would be. What an inglorious battle. Yet we would fight. Until both dropped down dead.
Tears filled her eyes. Angry, she blinked them away.
She was beginning, at last, to understand Alfred.
Kleitus was systematically unraveling the magic. The blood-mottled, waxen hand made plucking motions in the air, as if he were ripping apart a woven rug. The glimmering rune-structure surrounding the ship was fading, flickering, dying. Kleitus was watching Alfred. Or rather, the trapped phantasm was watching Alfred. The shambling corpse of the Dynast paid the approaching Sartan scant attention, preferring to concentrate instead on the destruction of the ship’s protective magic.
Alfred crept closer, the dog pressed against his leg, offering both its support and—if the truth be known—urging the reluctant Sartan along.
Alfred was terribly, horribly frightened, more frightened of this than he’d ever been of anything, even the red dragon in the Labyrinth. He looked at Kleitus and he saw himself. Saw—with awful fascination—the blood on the decomposing hands, saw the hunger for blood in the dead, living eyes. A hunger that might well become his own. He saw, in the brief flicker of the imprisoned phantasm, peering out of the moldering body, the suffering, the torment of a trapped soul. He saw . . .
Suffering.
Alfred stopped walking so suddenly that the dog pattered on ahead a few steps before realizing it was alone. Turning, the animal fixed Alfred with a stern look, suspecting he was about to cut and run.
This is a person suffering. This is a being in torment.
I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I’m not going to kill this man. I’m going to give him rest, ease.
Keep thinking that, Alfred told himself, resuming his advance, somewhat stronger now. Keep thinking about that. Don’t think about the fact that, in order to cast this spell, you must grasp the lazar’s dead hands . . .
Kleitus ceased his work, turned to face Alfred. The phantasm flicked in and out of the eyes.
“Come to share immortal life?” the lazar asked.
“. . . life . . .” moaned the phantasm.
“I ... don’t want immortality,” Alfred managed to gasp from a throat closing with fear.
Somewhere on board the ship, Hugh the Hand watched and listened. Perhaps he was exultant. Now you understand!
Now I understand . . .
The lazar’s bluish lips drew back in a smiling grimace.
The dog growled low in its chest.
“Stay behind,” Alfred said softly, with a brief touch on the animal’s head. “You can’t do anything for me now.”
The dog eyed him dubiously, then—hearing another word of command—fell back meekly, to watch and to wait.
“You are responsible!” Kleitus accused. The dead eyes were cold and empty, the living eyes filled with hatred . . . and pleading. “You brought this on us!”
“... us ...” hissed the echo.
“You brought it on yourselves,” Alfred said sadly. He had to take hold of the dead hand. He stared at it, and his own flesh crawled. He saw again the long nails digging savagely into Marit’s flesh. He felt them closing over his own throat.
Alfred tried to drive himself to do what he had to do ... and then he had no choice.
Kleitus sprang at him. The hands of the lazar grappled for Alfred’s neck, seeking to choke the life from him.
Acting on instinct, in self-defense, Alfred grabbed hold of the lazar’s wrists. But instead of trying to break Kleitus’s hold, Alfred clasped the lazar’s hands even tighter, closed his eyes to blot out the horror of the murdered corpse’s twisted, anguished face so near his own.
Alfred began to extend the circle of his being. He let his own soul flow into that of Kleitus. He sought to draw the tormented soul into his own.
“No!” the lazar said softly, “Yours will be mine!”
To his horror and astonishment, Alfred was suddenly aware of brutal hands reaching inside him. Kleitus had grasped hold of Alfred’s soul and was attempting to wrench it from his body.
Alfred shrank back in panic, released his hold on Kleitus to defend himself. The battle was an unequal one, Alfred realized in despair. He could not win, because he had too much to lose. Kleitus had nothing, feared nothing.