by Troy Denning
Several hours of wandering later, Midnight realized that she would never find her way around the Realm of the Dead without directions. Stopping a rotund man, she asked, “Can you tell me how to find Bone Castle?”
His eyes opened wide in fear. “No—no, I can’t!” he snapped. “Why would I know where it is—and why would you want to?” He abruptly turned and fled into the crowd.
Midnight stopped three more people and asked them the same question. The reactions of all three were strikingly similar: each claimed ignorance of the castle’s location, and each told her in no uncertain terms that she was a fool for asking. The mage decided to stop inquiring about the castle. For some reason, her question disturbed the dead.
To Midnight’s left, someone screamed in terror. The magic-user spun toward the sound. Thirty feet away, a mound of flesh was attacking a woman. The crowd had cleared away from the struggle, so Midnight had a clear view of the conflict.
The woman appeared to have been about forty years of age, with hair as black as Midnight’s, save that it was streaked with gray. More interesting to the magic-user was the woman’s pendant: a blue-white star within a circle.
Mystra’s symbol.
The woman’s attacker was a hideous thing. Its head resembled that of a man, with a normal nose, mouth, and ears. But it also had dull fangs that drooled yellow bile and eyes that glowed as red as hot embers. The head sat atop a grotesque body thicker around than a hogshead cask, and long, gangling arms hung from its shoulders. Spongy masses of leathery hide bulged where muscles should have been, and old wounds oozed a foul green pus in a dozen places. The creature’s legs were so pudgy they barely held its body off the ground. Still, the mound of flesh tottered after the woman with remarkable speed and grace.
“Come here, hag!” it growled. The beast’s voice was so low and guttural that Midnight barely understood the words. In one hand the fat blob carried a rusty scimitar, and in the other a pair of manacles that it waved after the woman.
Because she knew so little about the Realm of the Dead, the mage hesitated to involve herself, but that indecision didn’t last for long. She could not allow an attack on one of Mystra’s followers. “Leave her alone!” Midnight yelled.
Upon hearing the mage’s words, the woman fled toward her. The thing stopped in its tracks, then frowned and shook its head as if it were unable to believe what it had heard. Finally, it grumbled, “She belongs to Lord Myrkul.”
As if the explanation were adequate, the beast ran after the woman and smashed the manacles into her head. Mystra’s follower fell in a limp heap.
“Stop!” Midnight ordered, advancing toward the fight. “Touch her and you die!”
The thing paused to stare at the raven-haired woman. Finally, it roared, “Die? Touch her and I die?” It broke into a cackle that sent waves rolling through its fat body. Then it kneeled and placed a shackle on the woman’s wrist.
A powerful imprisonment incantation appeared in Midnight’s mind. The magic-user hesitated for an instant, then felt the magical weave around her. It was strong and stable, not wavering and unpredictable as it had been in the Realms. Midnight smiled and repeated the spell.
The thing placed a shackle on the woman’s other wrist.
After completing the incantation, Midnight started toward the mound of flesh, saying, “I warned you.”
The woman’s attacker looked up and snarled, then stood to meet Midnight. “You’ll rot in—”
The magic-user reached out to the foul creature and touched it, triggering the imprisonment magic. The mound of flesh stopped speaking in midsentence, then froze in place. An instant later, a dark sphere engulfed the fat monstrosity and carried it into the white ground. It would remain there in suspended animation until someone freed it.
Midnight started to tremble, then sat down and closed her eyes. While confronting the ugly mound of flesh, the magic-user had been angry and determined. Now that the fight was over, however, she felt surprisingly queasy and frightened. Although the magical weave had felt stable when she called upon it, Midnight could not help but shiver at what might have happened had her magic misfired.
She tried to put thoughts of failure aside. The incantation had worked flawlessly, and the mage realized that she had no reason to believe that magic was unstable outside the Realms. For several moments, Midnight remained sitting with her eyes closed.
“Do I know you?” asked a man’s voice.
The voice seemed vaguely familiar, though Midnight could not place it. She opened her eyes and, to her surprise, saw a hundred people staring at her. The woman Midnight had saved was nowhere in sight. She had vanished without thanking her savior.
The man who had spoken stood directly ahead of Midnight, wearing a scarlet robe trimmed with gold. He was Rhaymon of Lathander.
“What are you doing here, Rhaymon?” Midnight asked, standing. The last time she had seen him was at the trial in Shadowdale. He had been very much alive.
“Then I do know you!” Rhaymon cried, delighted. “I was right!”
However, the cleric didn’t answer Midnight’s question. In fact, he had died in the forest outside of Shadowdale, when an oak tree’s limb became mobile and strangled him. He rarely cared to talk about the experience.
“Yes, you know me,” Midnight confirmed. “You testified against Adon and me at the trial for Elminster’s murder.”
Rhaymon frowned. “Elminster? But he’s not dead … is he?”
“No,” Midnight said quickly. “The trial was a mistake.”
Rhaymon frowned, wishing he could remember more about Midnight’s trial, for his memories had begun to slowly slip away since he’d come to the plain in the Realm of the Dead. But the cleric did remember that Midnight had not been executed. “I don’t remember much about the trial,” he admitted. “But you escaped, so, as the faithful of Lathander say, ‘a bright dawn made the dark night worthwhile.’ ”
“I’m not sure I’d say that,” Midnight replied, thinking of the people Cyric had murdered to gain her freedom.
Rhaymon did not take note of Midnight’s uneasiness. “You were brave to rescue that woman,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “But you were also foolish. You won’t save her by stopping just one of them.”
“What was that thing?” Midnight asked, pointing at the spot where she had imprisoned the mobile mound of flesh.
“One of Myrkul’s denizens,” Rhaymon explained.
Midnight’s heart jumped and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She noticed that the spectators were still staring at her. “I wish they’d stop watching me like that,” Midnight noted uneasily, glaring back at the crowd.
Rhaymon turned and addressed the gapers. “Go on—there’s nothing to see here.”
When the crowd continued to stare, Rhaymon took Midnight by the elbow and guided her away. “Don’t mind them. They’re curious about your eyes.”
“My eyes?” Midnight asked.
“Yes. A moment ago, your eyes were closed. The dead don’t close their eyes, you know.” Rhaymon stopped and studied Midnight for a moment. “I suppose that means you’re alive?”
“And what if it does?” Midnight asked, looking away and avoiding a direct answer to Rhaymon’s question.
“Nothing. It’s just unusual.” The cleric guided her forward again. “Most dead don’t use magic—not unless they’re liches. By the way, which are you: undead or alive?”
Midnight sighed. “I’m alive, Rhaymon. And I need your help.”
“What do you want?” he asked, leading the way around a group of old ladies—worshipers of Lliira, the Goddess of Joy—rolling on the ground, laughing.
“I need to find Bone Castle,” Midnight replied. “The fate of the whole world depends on my success.” She did not say more. Until Rhaymon agreed to help, it seemed wise to reveal as little as possible.
“Bone Castle!” Rhaymon exclaimed. “That’s in Myrkul’s city!”
“Isn’t this Myrkul’s realm?” Midnight asked.
Rhaymon shook his head. “Not quite. But you can get there easily enough.”
“Will you help me?”
“What you say must be true,” Rhaymon replied, “or you’d never risk the kind of eternal suffering you’ll find in Myrkul’s city. I’m sure that Lord Lathander would want me to do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Midnight said. “Where do we go?”
Rhaymon pointed to his right. “West.”
“West?” Midnight asked, searching the barren sky for something by which to tell her direction. “How do know that’s west?”
Rhaymon smiled. “I don’t. But when you’re dead, you acquire a certain sense for this place that I can’t explain. You’ll just have to trust me on this—and a hundred things like it.”
Considering the difficulties she had encountered so far, Midnight thought that seemed wise.
Rhaymon led the way through the milling crowd, pausing or turning aside every now and then to make sure they did not cross paths with a denizen. After what must have been hours of walking, Midnight began to stumble.
“How much farther is it?” she asked.
“A lot farther,” Rhaymon answered, continuing forward steadily.
“We’ve got to find some way to get there faster,” Midnight gasped between panted breaths. “I’ve got to meet Kelemvor in Waterdeep.”
“There is no faster way to travel,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “Unless you care to attract denizens. But don’t worry. Time and distance are different here. Whether it takes you a day or a month to reach Bone Castle, the time that passes on Toril will be only a fraction of the time that passes here.”
They continued walking for several more hours, then the mage could go no farther. She collapsed and slept while Rhaymon watched over her. After a long time, Midnight woke refreshed and they continued their journey. The mage took the opportunity to have Rhaymon explain what he knew about Myrkul’s realm.
Adjusting his pace so that Midnight walked at his side, Rhaymon said, “Myrkul has two domains: his city in Hades, which is where you are going and which he rules absolutely, and the Fugue Plain, which is a demiplane outside his city that he oversees as part of his duties. When somebody dies in the Realms, his spirit is drawn to one of the thousands of gates between the Realms and the Lord of the Dead’s two domains. The spirits of Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city in Hades.”
Here, Rhaymon stopped walking and interrupted his lecture. “You might actually beat your friend Kelemvor to Waterdeep, you know.”
“How?” Midnight asked, also stopping. The idea of using the Realm of the Dead as a short cut delighted her.
“The chances are good that there’s a gate between Waterdeep and Myrkul’s city,” Rhaymon answered. “If you can escape from the city at all, you can return to the Realms via the gate to Waterdeep.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Midnight replied grimly, starting to walk again.
Rhaymon resumed his pace and his lecture. “Although Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city, everybody else comes to the Fugue Plain, which is really a waiting area for the spirits of the dead. Here, Myrkul’s denizens—who were once his worshipers, I suppose—harvest the spirits of the Faithless and the False—”
“The Faithless and the False?” Midnight interrupted.
“The False are those who betray their gods,” Rhaymon explained. “The Faithless don’t worship any gods.”
“What do the denizens do with the spirits?” Midnight asked, thinking of Adon and his break with Sune.
“Take them to Myrkul’s city for an eternity of suffering, I’d imagine,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “I don’t know—but I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”
“No doubt,” Midnight replied darkly.
“After the denizens cull out the spirits of the Faithless and the False, the Faithful wait here for their gods to take them to a final resting place in the Planes.”
“Then why is the Fugue Plain so crowded?” Midnight asked, eyeing the milling masses.
Rhaymon frowned. “Because this is our final test,” he said. “With only one or two exceptions, the gods have chosen to leave us here to prove our worthiness.”
“It seems callous to abandon loyal worshipers like that,” Midnight observed.
“They haven’t abandoned us,” Rhaymon answered quickly. “They’ll come for us someday.”
Midnight accepted this answer, though it was obvious that Rhaymon’s statement was founded on hope, not knowledge. For if the gods were concerned about their worshipers, the Fugue Plain would have been far less crowded.
They continued their conversations and their trek for another two days. The mage learned little more of significant interest. Eventually, the crowds began to thin, and a dark line appeared on the horizon. Midnight had no doubt that they were getting close to Myrkul’s city.
Finally, the dead cleric and the mage reached a point beyond which there were no more milling souls. The dark line on the horizon had changed to a dark ribbon stretching from one side of the endless plain to another.
Rhaymon stopped walking. “I’ve brought you as far as I can,” he said. “Beyond here, I’m no use to you.”
Midnight sighed and tried to smile, though she felt lonely and abandoned. “You’ve done more than enough already,” she replied softly.
Rhaymon pointed toward the left end of the ribbon. “I understand the entrance to the city is down there,” he said. “I brought you here so you could approach the wall without meeting the denizens as they go to and from the gate.”
Midnight took Rhaymon’s hand. “Words cannot express my gratitude,” she said. “I’ll miss your company.”
“And I’ll miss yours,” he replied. After a small pause, he added some last-minute advice. “Midnight, this is not the world of the living. What seems cruel and evil to you is the normal course here. No matter what you find in Myrkul’s city, remember where you are. If you interfere with the denizens, you’ll never leave.”
“I’ll remember your advice,” she said. “I promise.”
“Good. May the gods favor your path,” Rhaymon said.
“And may you keep your faith,” Midnight responded.
“I will,” he answered. “I promise.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the souls upon the Fugue Plain.
Midnight turned toward Myrkul’s city and started walking. Two hours later, an eerie moan reached her ears and musty whiffs of rot plagued her nose. The magic-user continued at her best pace. The moan gradually became a suppressed wail, and the stench of decay grew stronger and hung more steadily in the air. The wall constantly grew higher and larger, and as Midnight got close to it, she saw that its surface swayed and writhed—as if it were alive.
The mage wondered if the wall was made of serpents. That would explain the absence of sentries. If the wall itself was menacing enough, Myrkul would not need guards.
Midnight continued forward, approaching within fifty feet of the wall. The suppressed wail changed into a cacophony of muffled sobs, the foul smell of decay grew so strong it nauseated her, and the magic-user saw that she had been mistaken about the writhing forms in the wall. What she had taken to be serpents were thousands of squirming legs.
The wall was constructed entirely of human bodies. Men and women were stacked fifty feet high, their bodies turned inward to face the interior of the city. The largest people gave the wall bulk and height, while the smaller ones chinked gaps and filled holes. They had all been sealed into place with a greenish mortar that reminded Midnight of solidified mold.
The hideous barrier was nearly enough to end Midnight’s journey. For a long time, she could only stand and stare in sickened shock. The magic-user had intended to climb over the wall, but could not bring herself to grapple the legs. Instead, deciding to the make use of her magic, she summoned and performed the incantation for levitation.
Immediately, her feet left the ground and she rose into the air. Every now and then, Midnight grasped a squirming leg a
nd used it as a guide. A moment later, she pulled herself into a prone position just inches over the top of the wall, hoping to look like just one more body.
A squall of howls and screeches greeted her. The magic-user recoiled and covered her ears. On the other side of the wall, the cries of the dead had been muffled by the space between the Fugue Plain and Myrkul’s city. But when Midnight had pulled herself onto the wall, she had crossed from the demiplane into Hades.
The air inside the wall smelled rank and profane, with a caustic bite that scorched her nose and throat when she breathed. The dark gray sky cast only a dim light over the city. Here and there, pinholes of illumination penetrated the murky heavens. From what Rhaymon had told her, Midnight suspected that the tiny lights were gateways between Myrkul’s domain and various spots in the Realms.
The city itself sat in a great bowl that sloped down from the wall toward the opposite horizon. The metropolis was so immense that, even from atop the wall, Midnight could only see that the far side disappeared into a haze of indistinguishable detail.
Closer to Midnight, a broad avenue circled inside the wall’s perimeter. Twenty feet down the road, thirty whip-carrying denizens were driving several hundred slaves in Midnight’s direction. As the group passed beneath her, the magic-user saw that the slaves had remarkably similar, drab features: gray hair, yellow-gray skin, and expressionless gray eyes. But the people they carried had distinctive features. Here was a woman with buckteeth, there was a man with a large nose, and behind him was an obese woman with a triple chin.
Although the mage wanted nothing more than to free the slaves, Rhaymon’s warning against interfering with the denizens remained fresh in her mind. Midnight simply turned her head away. After the slave train passed, she turned to watch the city again.
Inside the perimeter avenue stood a countless number of ten-story brownstone structures. These buildings had once been identical, but ages of decay and corrosion had twisted them into a plethora of different shapes. While some remained in pristine condition, many had deteriorated so badly they were little more than stacks of rocks that might collapse at any moment. Others had sprouted twisted minarets and crooked towers, and were now warped into shapes only vaguely reminiscent of their original form.
