Becoming aware of the panicked shouting behind him, Alfred swung around hastily. The preserver was yelling, but he was yelling at the duke, not at Alfred.
“You’re insane! You can’t do such a thing! It is against all the laws! Stop it, you fool!”
Jonathan was singing the runes working the magic on the body of his dead wife.
“You don’t know what you are doing!”
The preserver lunged at Jonathan, attempted to drag him away from the corpse. Alfred heard the preserver add something about a “lazar,” but the Sartan didn’t understand the incoherent shout.
Jonathan flung the preserver off him with a strength born of grief, despair, and madness. The man slammed into a wall, struck his head, and crumpled to the floor. The duke paid no attention to him, paid no attention to the sounds of pounding footsteps, far away, but drawing closer. Holding the still-warm body of his wife to his breast, Jonathan continued to sing the runes, tears running down his face.
“The guards are coming,” said Haplo, his voice sharp-edged, cutting. “You’ve probably saved my life just to get me killed again. I don’t suppose you gave any thought as to how we get out of here?”
Alfred looked involuntarily back down the way they’d come, realized the sound of the pounding boots emanated from precisely the same direction. “I. . . I—” he stammered.
Haplo snorted in derision, glanced grimly at the duke. “He’s too far gone to be of any help to us.” The Patryn stood up, somewhat shakily, nearly falling back on the stone bed. A furious look warned Alfred to keep his distance. Haplo regained his balance, staggered out of the cell, peered down the hallway that continued on into impenetrable darkness.
“Does it lead out of here? Or does it dead-end? If it comes to a dead end, then so do we. Or we could wander around in a maze forever. Still, it’s our—Well, hullo, boy! Where did you come from?”
The dog, seeming to materialize out of the darkness, leapt on its master with a joyous bark. Haplo bent down to fondle it. The dog wriggled and danced and nipped at his master’s ankles in a frenzy of affection.
The footsteps were nearer, but they had slowed and now Alfred could hear voices, indistinct but audible. From the fragments of conversation, it appeared that they were wary about entering the catacombs, facing the dread magic of the mysterious stranger.
Haplo patted the dog’s flanks, looked inquiringly at Alfred.
“I know what you’re going to ask me!” Alfred cried distractedly. The Sartan rose hastily, avoiding the Patryn’s gaze, and crossed the hall to where the preserver lay in a heap on the floor. He knelt beside the body of the comatose man. ‘And, no! I can’t remember the spell that I used to kill the dead. I’m trying but it’s impossible. It’s like my fainting. It’s something I can’t control!”
“Then what the hell are you doing wasting time?” Haplo demanded angrily. “We’ve got to get out of here! If we knew the way—”
The runes!” Alfred remembered, stared at the wall of the catacomb, shining in the light. He pointed a shaking hand. “The runes!”
“Yeah? So?”
“They’ll lead us out! I—Wait!”
Alfred’s fingers traced the carvings on the wall, ran over the whorls and notches and intricate designs. Touching one, he spoke the rune. The sigil beneath his fingers began to glow with a soft, radiant blue light. A rune carved beside the one he touched caught the magical fire and began to glow. Soon, one after the other, a line of runes appeared out of the darkness, running down the length of the hallway and vanishing beyond their line of vision.
“Those’ll lead us out of here?”
“Yes,” said Alfred confidently. “That is . . .” He hesitated, wavering, recalling what he’d seen in the halls in levels above. His shoulders sagged. “If the sigla haven’t been destroyed or defaced . . .”
Haplo grunted. “Well, at least it’s a start.” The voices were louder. “Cmon. It sounds like they’re massing the whole damn army! You go on ahead. I’ll get the prince. Knowing Baltazar, I have a feeling we may run into trouble trying to reach the ship without His Highness along.”