by Lloyd, Tom
When he reached the end of the song he moved straight on to another, preferring that to the unnatural hush. This one was a long and mournful deathbed lament, where pleas of atonement were interspersed with praise of Death’s wisdom. Considering where he was going it seemed only sensible.
CHAPTER 2
In the silence of the ghost hour two figures walked through the fens beyond Byora. The expanse stretched for miles; few knew the safe paths and still several of those fell victim each year to the sucking mud or malign spirits. Marsh alder and ghost willows studded the watery landscape, either solitary trees looming in the mist like spectres or small copses huddled and hunched like bitter old men.
The brother and sister walked side by side, neither carrying a lantern, despite the deepening gloom. They were several miles from Byora, at the very heart of the fens. Though the air was cold, the vapour of their breath was barely visible even once the sister stopped and pushed back the hood of her cape to speak.
‘This will serve,’ Zhia said.
The sun had sunk below the eastern horizon and its light had faded from all but a sliver of the clear evening sky. A low mist surrounded them and everything beyond ten yards in any direction was tinted white and indistinct. In the distance a light flickered, pale blue and cold. From another direction came the cough of a fox and a wordless mutter that faded to nothing when she turned her sapphire eyes that way. The light she ignored. No will o’ the wisp would come closer unless someone were floundering in the water, and only then when their struggles had weakened considerably - and that was not going to happen tonight.
Koezh looked at the ground around them. A hump of earth less than a dozen yards across, but firm underfoot thanks to the roots of an ancient marsh alder that bore the scars of a lightning strike. One branch had fallen; grass was already growing up around the wood. Its furthermost twigs were draped in the still water like the fingers of a corpse. The tree was old and with an open break running down the main trunk wouldn’t last many more winters, so it was perfect for their purposes.
‘And to guard it?’
Zhia drew her long-handled sword and used the tip to cut a circle in the sodden ground around the tree. At her murmured command the circle glowed briefly, a pale blue light similar to the will o’ the wisp. That done, she sheathed the sword and drew another from her back, this one wrapped in cloth. She freed her gloved left hand from the folds of her cloak and raised her hood before unwrapping the cloth. Both turned side-on, hiding as much of their faces as possible, as a bright white light shone out and dissipated the surrounding curtain of mist.
Without waiting Zhia pushed the shining crystal sword into the split part of the marsh alder and muttered a few more words. The trunk of the tree closed up over Aenaris and the light winked out. Zhia turned away, fingers touched to her face, hissing with discomfort. The Key of Life shone with light as pure as the sun’s; the vampire’s cheek now bore a blackened scorch-mark.
Koezh gave a polite cough and drew a dagger from his belt. ‘The Key of Life will make the tree stand out if someone passes this way,’ he said as he cut a band of bark away from all around the tree’s base. A touch of his broadsword made the exposed wood blacken and decay. A little mud covered the damage and made it barely noticeable. ‘I doubt that will kill the tree, but it might slow it up a while.’
‘I’m rather more concerned some daemon will discover it,’ Zhia said pointedly. ‘The Devil Stair Lord Styrax created is only a few miles away and who knows how many places in these fens reach down to Ghenna? No human will find their way here, even if we were followed, not once I’m finished.’
‘All the same, caution is rarely without worth,’ he replied. ‘It will take any daemon time to work out how to handle the sword of the Queen of the Gods. Perhaps we should save our concern for finding a new resting place for Aenaris.’
‘A permanent one? That won’t be necessary.’
Koezh looked askance at his sister. ‘My sister the convert? Once more you have faith in a cause?’
‘I have faith in my own senses,’ Zhia replied, not bothering to rise to his insinuation. ‘Players remain in this game who can give us what we want. One of them will win out.’
‘Which?’
‘Perhaps the shadow after all. Few of the power players consider it any real threat; it seems to be content to wait and let them exhaust themselves fighting each other.’
‘And this is the side you wish to support?’
Zhia looked surprised. ‘What do you mean, “wish to support”? You’d prefer to do nothing? Prefer the Land to continue as it has for the last seven millennia?’
‘I am just one man. I cannot choose a fate for the entire Land.’
She laughed. ‘Compassion? Just another part of our Gods-imposed curse - and yet another thing we might be freed of.’
‘At what price?’
‘Let consequences be someone else’s problem, we’ve had enough of them.’
He regarded her as he used to when they were children and he the reticent elder brother. ‘So you are decided?’
‘Not at all, that time is yet to come.’ Zhia’s voice became more insistent. ‘Don’t you feel it though? Can’t you sense change on the horizon? That our time has finally come?’
‘I do.’ Koezh gave a sigh and looked to the western horizon. The sky was black, and the first stars of night had appeared. ‘Yet still I think of the price others might bear.’
At last Mihn came to the ivory doors of Death’s chamber and there he stopped. Something inside told him he would be permitted a moment to wonder at the sight - to tremble at the judgment that lay beyond. The doors to the throne room appeared to be more than three hundred feet high, but Mihn guessed measurements meant little in the Herald’s Halls. The walk there had taken hours; the ghost of fatigue fluttered through his body, but he was cool and his breath was calm.
The huge doors that dominated the miles-high Herald’s Hall were somehow brighter and more real than the hard, cold stone underfoot. The wall they were set into was indistinct, slanted away from Mihn and stretching into the murky distance, with no corners in sight. The doors themselves were composed of a chaotic network of bones, ranging from the smallest finger-bone to thigh-bones broader and longer even than the biggest of white-eyes; bigger than Mihn imagined a dragon’s bones would be. White marble formed a peaked frame around them, through which ran threads of faintly glittering silver.
The tangle of interlinked bones was bleached a uniform white. There were gaps Mihn would have been able to slip himself into, perhaps even make his way all the way through, but some fearful part of him pictured the bones closing around him, including him in the structure. He stepped back and looked up and a moment of renewed dizziness washed over him as his mind struggled to accept the sight. When that passed Mihn began to see a purpose to the chaotic structure; a pattern that absorbed the jumble of linked bones to impose a rigid grandeur upon the whole.
Somehow that realisation made him feel better, easing the feeling of being lost amidst chaos. The time had come, so without even his staff to hand - the witch Daima had sternly forbidden him to carry anything, he could take only what could be worn - Mihn touched his finger to the nearest bone. It was freezing cold, and a chill ran up the underside of his arm while a great creak rang out through the hall. The doors yielded smoothly, beginning to swing inwards. They moved silently once they had cleared each other, barely disturbing the air.
He felt his breath catch as a vast, dark room was revealed. Torches flickered distantly on the walls, enough only to trace the bare lines of Death’s throne room. As he walked forward he looked around, the Herald keeping pace at his side. The throne room was hexagonal, maybe not as staggeringly vast as the Herald’s Hall, but still bigger than any human construction - as big as the entire Temple Plain in Thotel. The Hall of Judgment had two doorways in it. On Mihn’s right was the second of those, two pillars supporting a portico above a door of profound and featureless blackness.
Atop the portico were statues, distant enough to appear small to Mihn, but illuminated by huge flickering torches on either side. On one end stood a group he recognised all too well from his lord’s shadow - worryingly, the largest of the five was the Wither Queen. On the other were daemons of various shapes, only one of which he recognised: a minotaur-like figure with a gigantic hammer known as Getan of the Punishment. Carved into the jutting portico itself was an image of a dragon, wings outstretched in a way that reminded him of the entrance to the Tower of Semar in Tirah Palace.
A faint breeze touched his skin as the doors closed behind and Mihn’s gaze was dragged inexorably away to the other side. The sudden weight of terror and awe mingling drove him to one knee. Through the darkness, set against the centre of the wall, he could make out an enormous throne, part of the very fabric of the hall itself.
The throne was two hundred feet high, of sculpted stone that needed no finery or adornment to convey its power, and it was occupied by a gigantic cowled figure that slowly appeared from the gloom. Mihn could feel Death’s presence like a raging wind blowing through the room, power incarnate that made his bones judder and his hands tremble. The cold of the grave was tangible on Mihn’s skin, a biting chill that worked its way into his veins as he stared in horror at the emaciated white fingers curled around the end of one armrest. A golden sceptre rested in the crook of His left arm, decorated with spirals of ruby and diamond. Of His face there was no sign - even here in the Hall of Judgment the face of Death was hidden - but Mihn could feel His eyes, white-hot on his skin.
The throne had iron braces hammered into its side, which held hundreds of sceptres, orbs and other royal accoutrements. Carelessly scattered on the stone floor below was a carpet of skulls and weapons, some shining with unnatural power, others ancient and corroded.
Offerings for the dead, Mihn realised, tributes for the Final Judgment of those lost. He paused. Weapons thrown into lakes to find their way here, just as I was.
All around the edge of the room were statues, some the size of a white-eye, others half again as large. The smaller appeared to be powerful men, lords and ladies, while the larger were Gods and their many Aspects - but so huge was the room that it still looked desolate despite the hundreds of figures. The interior was empty, adorned only by a massive square flagstone in the very centre of the floor, as black as Death’s own robe and echoed in every formal courtroom throughout the Land.
He looked past the statues and noticed rounded protrusions jutting out from the wall. Distantly he could make out a low hum, deep and threatening. As he looked closer a shape moved at the top of one, darting out from an opening to rise up and disappear from sight - a black-winged bee, Death’s chosen creature.
Now indistinct grey shapes moved slowly around the room. As Mihn tried to observe them, to make out a face or form, he realised they were being drawn inward towards the square in the centre: the spirits of the dead, making their reluctant way towards judgment.
Mihn struggled to his feet, his balance again failing momentarily as he glanced up to the apex of the room and his senses failed to comprehend the room’s unreal proportions. The slap of his palm against the stone cut through the quiet and made him wince, but not even the Herald at his side appeared to notice. The eyeless, expressionless Herald stood tall beside him, giving the impression of watching over the entire room. Mihn wondered whether each drifting shade also felt the Herald at their side, or whether his not-quite-extinguished mortality made him a curiosity.
No time to waste, Mihn reminded himself. Daima’s words of wisdom echoed in his mind: ‘Don’t tarry - don’t think about what you’re doing. The Gods love a bold man and this isn’t a place for second thoughts.’
He set off towards the black square, the Herald at his side still walking in perfect time. As he reached it Mihn caught a slight movement in his peripheral vision, a flutter of wings arcing down from the dark reaches of the hall’s roof: a stream of bats attending their master. Mihn had been to many places where the bat was sacred to the locals, considered the keepers of history and guardians of secrets. The bats were his messengers, the black bees his fearless warriors. The bees were impossible to fight, driven by a selfless will. They appeared only rarely in myth, but they were known to be remorseless when they attacked.
As Mihn entered the black square a great weight fell upon his shoulders, dragging him, head bowed, to his knees. The presence of Death surged all around him, like black flames leaping from the stone. Dread filled Mihn’s stomach as the touch of that power drove the breath from his lungs. An excited chatter and click of bat-song raced all around him, assailing his ears before suddenly breaking off. He recoiled from the oppressive silence that replaced it, realising what would come next.
‘Mihn ab Netren ab Felith,’ Death intoned, His voice as deep and penetrating as the greatest of temple bells. ‘For what purpose do you come here? You stand between the lands of the living and the dead. A witch and one of the Chosen stand in your shadow, yet you kneel for judgment.’
Mihn opened his mouth to reply, but the words would not come. He forced himself to swallow and breathe, ignoring the cold taste of ashes in the air. With an effort he managed to raise his head and look at the cowled darkness that hid Death’s face, but it was only when he reminded himself of his mission that he found the courage to speak.
‘Lord Death, I do not seek your judgment, not yet. Instead I beg a boon.’
‘Are you so certain? Etched in your face I see a life lived only reluctantly. Come, receive my judgment - embrace the peace you crave.’
Mihn felt his hand begin to tremble and his vision swam. Death’s words spoke to the very core of him, their deep tones reverberating through his soul and shaking the strongest of defences.
‘I ... I cannot,’ he gasped even as he felt tears spill down his cheeks.
‘No mortal is denied my judgment,’ Death replied. ‘No obligation you bear will hold you from it. You learned the tales of the Harlequins; you know it is both the wicked and the good who receive judgment. It is a blessing for as many as it is punishment.’
‘This I know,’ choked Mihn, unable to stop shaking as part of him cried out to receive the oblivion it would bring, ‘but as long as I have a choice I must keep to my word — ’
‘Do not decide in haste,’ Death commanded before Mihn could fully finish. ‘No God can see the future, but immortals do not sense time as you do. History is not a map to be read, nor a path to be followed. It is a landscape of contours and textures, of colours and sounds. What lies ahead of you is duty beyond the call of most mortals - that much I can see. The burden is great. Too great, even.’
‘This I know,’ Mihn repeated in a small voice.
He remembered what the witch of Llehden had said the night she burned Xeliath’s rune into his chest, the third favour he had asked of her. ‘It is said that to ask of a witch a third time is to give away a piece of your soul . . . That claim I offer to another; to the grave, to the wild wind, to the called storm.’
For his sins - for his failures - Mihn had agreed, but even then the full import of his words had sickened him to his core. He had not felt the weight of the obligation as heavily as when Lord Death spoke to him now.
His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Whatever is asked shall be done. Whatever cannot be asked of another will be done. Whatever should not be asked of another, it will be done.’
The God regarded him for a long, unbearable time. At last Death inclined His head slightly. ‘As you wish.’
Silence reigned once more. Even the circling, spiralling bats were hushed. Mihn found his head bowed again. A movement in the corner of his eye prompted him to glance to the right and there, instead of the Herald he saw the faint grey face of a woman peering down at him from the edge of the black square.
Too astonished to react, too drained and awed to fear the presence of a ghost, Mihn simply stared back. He couldn’t make out much; it was like a darker, fogged version of when Seliasei, one of the spirits inh
abiting Morghien, stepped out of the aged wanderer’s body. The spirit’s jaw was moving and it took Mihn a moment to realise it was trying to speak to him. What chilled him, and made him look away, was the pity in the ghost’s eyes.
Pitied by the dead. Oh Gods, what have I done?
‘Mihn ab Netren ab Felith,’ Death declared in a voice that rattled Mihn’s teeth, ‘speak the boon you crave.’
‘I — Your blessing,’ Mihn said hesitantly, rather more hurriedly adding, ‘Lord Death, my duty leads me beyond your doors. I beg permission to leave this room without receiving your judgment, to ascend the slopes of Ghain and pass through the ivory gates of Ghenna.’
‘Such permission is not mine to give,’ Death replied in an emotionless voice. ‘The slopes of Ghain are mine to rule and all may walk them as they wish, but beyond the River Maram the rule is only of chaos.’
‘I understand. I ask only permission to leave this hall and reenter it again without your judgment being pronounced.’
