The ragged man

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 inhabiting 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.'

Death leaned forward. 'So granted, but entry through those doors will not be without peril. The guardian heeds neither God nor mortal. The bones of those who have turned from Ghain's ascent litter the first step on your journey.'

Mihn bowed his head in acknowledgment. 'I thank you, my Lord.'

'You do not fear it?'

'My fear is reserved for others,' Mihn said, trying to keep his voice from breaking as his throat dried at the thought. Daima had warned him about the journey he would have to take; the Jailer of the Dark was only the most certain of the many horrors he would have to face. But there was no choice.

'Very well. Your have my favour.' Death gestured to the objects adorning his throne. 'I offer you the pick of my trophies. Each one bears my blessing, and will keep you safe on the slopes of Ghain. A thousand torments await the judged there, but the taste of the living will be all the sweeter for them.'

Mihn opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and thought. Of Daima's many warnings, the first had been to take neither staff nor weapon with him. 'Carry nothing but what you wear. A weapon is an invitation to war, and they will smell the blood on it.'

'I thank you, Lord Death, but I do not go to war on Ghenna. I must trust myself alone.'

He felt the weight on his shoulders lessen as Death sat back in his throne. 'Good. I had thought to have the Mercies teach you that lesson, but it is one you have already learned.'

Death raised a bone-white finger and pointed towards the door beneath the great stone dragon. 'Go then. Find what you seek.'

Mihn stood and backed out of the black square, bowing all the while. As soon as he was out he saw the woman's ghost drift within and Death's gaze lifted as the Herald stepped beside Mihn once more. The small man looked first at Death, then His Herald before rubbing a hand roughly over his face and blinking hard.

'Strange,' Mihn commented to the expressionless Aspect of Death. 'I never really thought I'd even get this far.'

There was no reply, or even a sign the Herald had heard him. Mihn gestured towards the door and set off towards it, the Herald beside him.

'Now I just have to break into the Dark Place itself.'

As he walked, he felt the weight on his shoulders returning with every step.

Venn moved with the painful care of an old man whose next fall would be his last. Walking across the floor of the shrine cavern and up the gently sloped tunnel that led to the Land outside, even so short a distance, left the renegade Harlequin fatigued and huffing for breath in the cold air. He found the steps up to the tunnel particularly difficult; the priestess, Paen, was at his side and had to help him balance as he lifted one foot after the other.

She seemed taller now than when he'd first returned, when her pride had been the key Venn had used to unlock the Harlequin clans – she was standing tall and strong and proud while Venn grew steadily weaker. His unnatural grace was a distant memory now, his speed as absent as the whipcord strength he'd once boasted.

Paen tried to dissuade him from this daily pilgrimage, but Venn knew he had to do it. With two heartbeats hammering in his ears and the breath of two men forcing its way through his lips, Venn knew he had to force himself to move each day, no matter how hard, otherwise he would slowly succumb to the fatigue that was deep in his bones. It was bitterly cold outside, where the snow still lay thick on the ground, but that was still preferable to an interminable tramp around the vast cavern, past the shrines and open temples that littered it.

Jackdaw was silent, even after Venn had dismissed the priestess and two apprentice Harlequins who watched over him with possessive reverence. The black-clad Harlequin was the herald of a new dawn in their eyes; something between an oracle of the Gods and a prophet. They feared and worshipped him in equal measure.

Jackdaw remained a secret from all the others, but while the former monk of Vellern was the secret of Venn's success, as his magery slowly turned the Harlequins to Azaer's service, he was slowly killing Venn. His presence in Venn's shadow was taking a toll the Harlequin would not be able to bear much longer.

I am failing you, master, Venn thought distantly, knowing Azaer could most likely not hear his prayers; not while the shadow inhabited a mortal body. I had thought this was how I would deliver the Harlequin clans to you, but I do not have the strength. These spells you taught Jackdaw did everything I asked, but I am failing nonetheless.

He began to shuffle through the snow, barely noticing the cold at first. The evening was clear and sharp, the stars bright and the hunter's moon free of cloud. In Kasi's light the cloud-oaks studding the forest below glowed a dull white against the miles of dark pine. He stopped and looked up at the sky above the forest: Kasi lay low against the horizon while the greater moon, Alterr, was a yellowed lump at its zenith.

Kasi: this monument to a dull, unthinking thug, and Alterr: a spiteful bitch whose icy heart is displayed for the whole Land to pity. Neither of you deserve the magnificence of the night.

He hunched over, coughing, as the cold air began to tickle his throat, the effort causing his whole chest to ache.

Perhaps I shall ask to be the one to change that.

Venn smiled to himself at the thought. In the fullness of time there would be nothing beyond Azaer's ability to grant.

He continued on, taking careful steps alongside last night's trampled path, which had already compacted into treacherous ice. His bearskin was a leaden weight on his shoulders, but without it he would freeze so he bore it, and fought his body to keep the signs of hardship from his face. As he made his slow progress he watched carefully for discarded branches or stones that might trip him. Slowly an ache built in his chest, dull but insistent, wrapped around his ribcage like a serpent's embrace. He let out a grunt. His foot scuffed along the snow-covered ground and hit something, a yielding mass that rolled under his foot and pitched Venn to the ground. A tearing sensation raced through his chest, driving the wind from his lungs.

He cried out again, unable to bear the pain as purple stars burst before his eyes. The apprentice Harlequins were quick to run to his side. One feeble arm, unable to break his fall, was pinned under his body.

They were about to roll him onto his back when the priestess' stern voice cut the air. 'No, fetch a stretcher!'

Without thinking Venn pushed himself over with his free arm. The weight on his body had lifted without warning, the sapping ache of exhaustion that gripped his body vanishing into numbness.

Spirits below, am I dying?

The pain in his chest was gone; whatever had happened in the fall, now he felt nothing.

'Sweet Prince,' exclaimed the priestess as she hurried over. The apprentices stepped back from Venn.

She crouched at his feet and Venn lifted his head to look at her, puzzled. She appeared to be inspecting his boots – no, she was looking at the lump he had tripped on.

'It's a man,' she breathed.

Venn struggled into a sitting position, then looked down with wonder as he realised the ease with which he had moved. The apprentices stared at him with even greater astonishment and fear than they had before.

'A man?' he rasped.

She looked up, the face behind her half-mask of obsidian shards betraying even greater shock than the others. 'Master – Your face -? You look – '

'Reborn,' Venn muttered, realisation stealing over him. 'My faith has restored my youth.'

'A miracle,' one of the apprentices breathed. 'That fall should have killed you in your weakened state!'

Venn inclined his head. 'And yet my weakness has become strength.'

Paen turned to the figure on the ground, rolling the body over so they could see his face.

'He's not of the tribes,' she announced with alarm. These parts were remote and the Harlequin clans did not welcome travellers eager to discover their secrets. She turned the head to one side. 'These are feather tattoos; he was a priest of Vellern?'

'What?' screamed a voice in Venn's mind. 'What is happening?'

'He must have travelled a long way to reach us, but he died at the very entrance to the cavern,' Venn said softly. 'Hush your mouth, Jackdaw, let me think.'

'Is he Farlan?'

Venn peered at the dead body. There was no mistaking the face; it was the former Prior Corci, the monk dubbed Jackdaw by his new master, Azaer. The puckered scars where Azaer had ripped a handful of tattooed feathers from his cheek were clearly visible. Venn restrained the urge to laugh long and loudly.

'It appears so,' he ventured, thinking madly. 'Please, help me up.'

He allowed the apprentices to slip their hands under his arms and bear him upright, tottering a little for good measure before adopting the same hunched posture imposed on him for months. Acting was part of a Harlequin's training, and Venn shuffled over to the corpse as like the man who had ventured outside a few minutes earlier as possible. The strain might have been lifted from his face, but he'd quickly realised a more gradual return to his former strength would be safer. Jackdaw's magic had not dampened their ability to question.

'What was he doing here?' one of the apprentices asked in a whisper.

'What's happening? What has happened to me?' Jackdaw wailed in Venn's mind.

'Seeking me,' Venn said finally. 'The Land has sickened and men seek a cure to its ills. This man has followed his faith and given his life to call us forth.'

'Should we leave sooner than the Equinox Festival?' Paen asked.

Venn bowed his head. 'We will leave within the week. My time of testing is over; I will soon be strong enough to travel again.'

'Venn, I'm lying dead on the ground! ' Jackdaw shrieked hysterically, unheard by the others.

'So you are,' Venn said softly once the others were out of earshot, trying to hide the quick grin that stole over his face. 'Our master has quite a sense of humour.'

'Humour?' Jackdaw screamed, 'my body is dead! Merciful Gods, I'm trapped inside your shadow, and I cannot feel anything! I'm a ghost, a living ghost!'

'Living? Oh, I don't think so, my friend,' Venn replied.

'Far from it,' purred a third voice inside him.

Venn froze, an icy twitch of fear running down his spine.

'Morghien will so relish having competition for his title.'

'Spirits below,' Venn breathed, stumbling in shock. The priestess gave him a puzzled look but Venn ignored it, as he ignored Jackdaw's sobs of terror. On the wind there was a faint smell, one Venn recognised all too well: the scent of peach blossom… despite the winter snow.

'Indeed,' said Rojak.

Mihn stepped through the black doors and for a gut-clenching moment everything went dark. There was a distant boom as the enormous doors closed again. After a while he realised there was some faint light on the other side. At first he could see little, though he could feel the oppressive presence of a vast slope, stretching up ahead. The incline was shallow, and more or less regular, but it continued endlessly into the distance with nothing beyond. A hot, sour-smelling wind drifted over him, and Mihn felt very vulnerable and exposed as he took in the boundlessness of the place.

Behind him came a great rasping noise, accompanied by a stench so foul he found himself gagging even as he ran blindly for several hundred yards, not daring to look back. Ancient, brittle bones crackled underfoot, and an awful whispery sound was interspersed with faint sighs and occasional groans. Daima had warned him not to linger there, nor to look back, but there was little need for her caution: Mihn knew full well the rotting corpse of a dragon was bound to this side of the doors and he had no desire to look upon it. Bad enough that he would have to if he returned.

As he reached a chunk of rock twice his height that was protruding awkwardly from the slope Mihn stopped, realising the bones underfoot had given way to grit and dirt. As he paused to catch his breath he felt the heat radiate out from the rock. Now he dared to look at his surroundings and take in the sight of Ghain, the great slope which all souls must walk before they reached either the land of no time or the punishments of Ghenna.

The darkness was not so complete as he'd first thought, more a ghastly red tint, and little by little he started to see some detail of the immeasurable mountain slope. Nothing was clear, but at least he could discern where the bigger stones lay, and the cant of the ground. Here and there boulders punctuated the jagged, stony slope. He crouched and ran his fingers through the dirt at his feet. It felt gritty, almost greasy on his skin, quite unlike the sands of a desert.

There were a few stunted trees but Mihn knew this was not a place where any real life could be sustained. Up above was a roiling mess of smoke-clouds that looked positively poisonous, far from the sort that might provide rain. He started out towards the nearest tree, but after a few hundred yards he began to make out shapes around its base and as he got closer he could see something writhing in its crooked, dead branches… He turned away at once, giving the strange sight a wide berth.

When he was safely clear, Mihn stopped and looked up the slope. He felt terribly alone, as fearful as an abandoned child, and part of him wanted to curl up in a hollow and hide from the dread that pervaded the slope. The quiet was broken only by tremors running through the ground and the distant moans of the damned drifting on the air, which was uncomfortably hot, irritating his eyes and throat. At last Mihn shook himself and started off again, trudging up the slope. He kept a wary eye open, checking in all directions every few minutes, but Ghain remained empty until he came to a hollow in the ground, a dozen yards across, below a level stone. From Mihn's angle it looked like a door lintel set into the slope and while there was nothing but the position of the stone to differentiate it, something made Mihn stop.

He checked his feet and palms, brushing the dirt from his bare soles and ensuring the tattoos put there by the witch of Llehden remained unbroken. Reassured, he skirted the hollow and checked around. Some faint dragging sound seemed to accompany a tiny movement in the distance, but it was miles away and Mihn discounted the threat, at least for the present. He bent and picked up a large stone, hefting it to feel the weight for a moment, then hurled it into the hollow.

The dead soil exploded into movement, a grey cloud of dust erupting up as some hidden creature snapped at the stone. It clawed at the place where the stone had landed, then shook violently to bury itself once more in the ground.

Mihn gaped. Years ago a friend had shown him an ant-lion's lair, and whilst he had seen only the claw of whatever lay in hidden in Ghain's slope, it had to be several hundred times larger than the savage insect they'd teased out of the ground all those years ago. He shivered, and continued even more warily on his way.

Death was not a God prone to exaggeration. He had said there were a thousand torments lurking on the slopes of Ghain, and as he walked, Mihn began to wonder whether these were neither daemon nor Aspect: What if they are the mischief and cruelty of mortals given flesh? Or is all I see born of my own fears?

He shivered and chanced a look behind. He felt like he'd walked several miles already and as he turned he saw, far away, the pitted stone construction that housed the door to Death's throne room, standing alone like a forgotten monument, forever overshadowed by the enormous, torn wings of a shape perched above it. The wings reflected no light, throwing off even Ghain's lambent glow.

Behind the gate a featureless wasteland stretched out into the distance: endless flat miles of red dust and rock. There was no escape from Ghain, this empty place that sat between the domain of daemons, Ghenna, and the implacable Jailer of the Dark. In the Age of Myths, the dragon had been too proud and too powerful to accept death, so the Gods had chained it there, to prevent it from ever returning to the Land.

Mihn felt it watching him, its presence like acid on the breeze. Above his head something invisible flapped past with slow, heavy strokes. He shrank down instinctively but the sound of tattered leather wings soon passed and he was left alone once more, feeling increasingly bleak.

He rubbed his palms together and looked at the stylised owl's head on each. While he hadn't seen what had flown past, it had been close enough to see him. Clearly the magic imbued into his skin by the witch was still working here.

Please let that continue, he prayed fervently. Without it I don't stand a chance.

How much the tattoos could protect him he didn't know, but he had no wish to find out what would happen if the magic failed. As he lingered, chilling howls rolled over the dusty slopes, provoking renewed fear. Mihn wondered how he ever thought what he was attempting was even possible…

But he walked on, glad to turn his back on the dragon. He focused on picking his way up the slopes rather than thinking too hard about the sounds that echoed across Ghain. Still he saw no others, neither torments nor trudging souls, until the slope suddenly levelled out for a stretch and he saw a silver pavilion emerge from the gloom.

Not far away was a figure, a man in rags, slightly transparent, who wore around his neck a collar with a dozen or more long chains attached; they were twenty or thirty feet in length, of all sorts of thicknesses and materials, and they dragged behind the soul along the ground. The soul was looking up the slope as he plodded slowly on, but he made no progress because one of the multitudes of chains had snagged on a stone.

Mihn looked around. He could see nothing else nearby, neither spirit nor daemon. As he neared the tormented soul he checked again, but there was no visible cover that some creature might lurk behind. The soul himself paid Mihn no attention as he tried in vain to march forward. The ground was flat and featureless, with no indication of lurking torment, despite the easiness of the prey – and Mihn suddenly realised why: they would not come within sight of Mercy's pavilion, for fear of the only Aspects that trod Ghain's slope.

Mihn had spent the last few days before his journey trawling his remarkable memory for stories of this place, anything that might help him survive his sojourn here. So it was apparently true that following Death's judgment, the Herald would affix a collar around each soul's neck, so they would proceed up Ghain's slopes dragging their sins behind them. There was copper for avarice, jade for envy, pitted iron for murder; a different material for each sin. Death had built seven pavilions on Ghain, and some of the sins could be forgiven at each. This was a journey all mortals made; some ascended only part of the way before they were borne off to the land of no time, while others were forced to travel untold miles to the fiery River Maram and across to the gates of Ghenna itself, before which the last of the pavilions stood. Even then, some sins were unforgivable, and the dead would be forced to continue onwards.

He crept closer to the chain, watching the soul carefully, but he appeared not to notice the not-dead traveller at all, not even when Mihn nudged the chain – ivory for malice of deed – off the stone. Once freed the soul continued to plod onwards, and as he began to approach the empty pavilion Mihn followed at a cautious distance, wanting to witness what would happen, despite his fear of being observed.

The pavilion was hexagonal, with a pillar at every corner supporting the scrolled roof, and an iron lantern hanging from each pillar. There were bee-shapes cut into the lantern sides, indicating that this was Death's province still, though only a few rays of light escaped.

The soul walked up the steps of the pavilion and across the centre, oblivious of his surroundings. In a flash of light a woman appeared at the spirit's side. She was robed in gold and white and carried an enormous golden hammer, which she smashed down on the trailing chains as they passed her. One shattered in a brief blaze of light and faded to nothing. The rest remained unbroken, continuing to drag after the soul, who made no reaction. The woman lowered her hammer and turned towards Mihn as he approached.

'You should not have freed him. It is not your place to judge the dead,' she called to him.

'I did not judge,' he replied, bowing to her as he approached the steps. 'I merely showed mercy. There are many chains around his neck; he will not be escaping Ghain's slopes too quickly.'

The woman nodded approvingly. 'You bear no chains. Have you led a blameless life?' She stretched out her hand and a long curved horn chased with silver appeared in it. 'Few come to me this way; usually only children have no chains. Rarely do I have the pleasure of calling Death's attendants for a grown man.'

Mihn shook his head. 'My judgment is not yet at hand, Lady. You must not call them but must let me pass.'

'Must let you pass?' the woman said. 'You walk these slopes out of choice, and the folly is your own – but I am a Mercy. Lord Death alone commands me.'

Mihn ducked his head in humility. 'That is so, but it is written that all those who name you may ask a boon of you. This I so do, Kenanai the Mother, to pass uncalled and unharmed.'

The Mercy was silent for a while as she stared at him. She betrayed no emotion but he assumed she was confused by his presence; such a thing had never happened before for those asking a boon of the Mercies in myth had always been immortals.

Eventually Kenanai lowered her hand and the horn vanished. She gestured after the spirit, indicating that he could pass.

'It is granted.'

A low rumble echoed across Ghain's slopes and she too disappeared, leaving the pavilion empty and still but for the flickering light of the lanterns. Mihn climbed the steps and as he crossed the pavilion he whispered an ancient prayer to the Mercies. When he reached the other side he stopped and looked around. The soul he had helped was nowhere in sight, though he could see the trail in the dust left by the chains. Other than that, Mihn could see only the empty landscape – broken boulders, dust and dead trees – for miles in all directions.

'"This journey I walk alone,"' he quoted grimly. 'And how alone I feel now.' He continued his ascent, choosing his path as carefully as he could, keeping a look-out all the time. Occasionally creatures flew or scampered across his path – many-limbed beings like horrific spiders the size of small dogs and crawling bat-winged monstrosities – and once he saw a daemon marching grimly across Ghain's jagged landscape: a fat figure as tall as he, with four spindly arms, each dragging an ancient weapon behind it. His heart jumped as the daemon paused and looked up, as though sniffing the air, but whatever it had noticed, it wasn't enough to make it linger there for long.

Each time he saw movement he would stop and crouch, trusting the witch's magic to keep him safe. Each time, he was passed by without note. Distance proved meaningless in this blasted place, where a dozen steps felt like a mile. All Mihn was certain of in this strange domain was that no time was passing as he walked. After a score or more miles he was no less exhausted by the journey than he had been when he started. Though the neverending heat and the fear Ghain itself engendered sapped his strength, the exertion of walking had no discernible effect, he was glad to discover.

Another of the Mercies' pavilions was passed, then another, and another. After some indeterminate period of time he had counted off six, and he knew he was close to his goal – though before he could reach the one that remained, Mihn would have to cross the river of fire called Maram – the barrier that kept the daemons of Ghenna within the Dark Place. A new fear started up within him: worry that a bargain the witch of Llehden had made had in fact not been kept and the next step of his journey would be all the more risky. It was a gamble he hated to have been forced into, and while he knew it had been necessary, Mihn couldn't help but wonder what sort of chain it might add to his own burden of sins.

At last he came to a peak, where indistinct clouds raced close overhead. His human senses saw it as a great crater at the peak of Ghain, within which the ivory gates of Ghenna's entrance were to be found, but he knew it was not so simple – not even by digging down through the rocky slope of Ghain could one break into the Dark Place; it took an immortal's eyes to fully behold the mountain and the Dark Place within.

He stood at the peak of the slope and looked back over the empty miles he had walked, then down at the swift, churning river of orange flames no more than a hundred yards off. As Mihn tried to follow Maram's twisty path, he found the effort hurt, and his vision became blurred. Maram obviously didn't like to be stared at.

He gave up and concentrated on the two constructed features he could see: a silver pavilion, bigger and more magnificent than the rest, stood just the other side of a thin bridge that crossed Maram. Mihn knew from the myths he'd studied that the bridge was only a hand-width wide, and covered in nails to tear the feet of sinners. Aside from the pavilion, the other bank was hidden by impenetrable shadows, though Mihn felt a subconscious horror at what lay beyond.

The scene was exactly as the stories described, but nothing could prepare a man, not even a Harlequin, for the sight of it. For a moment he forgot his mission and simply stared: at Maram, at the nail bridge, at the Dark Place beyond… until a soft moan broke the silence and awakened him from his reverie, enough to stir him into movement. He scrambled down the slope towards to the edge of the river, where a figure stood, ghostly of form and clad in tattered rags, the soul of a woman. The chains she was dragging were far longer and heavier than those carried by the first soul Mihn had met – despite the Mercies, there remained dozens of sins unforgiven by Lord Death. Mihn could see half-a-dozen were the pitted iron of murder.

The soul was walking towards the bridge, compelled, as all souls were. Mihn watched, shaken, as she ground to a halt, turning about in confusion, as a shapeless but unmistakably malevolent black mist swirled about her feet.

He saw her walk a few yards back the way she had come, head bowed and feet dragging with exhaustion, before being turned again, and again.

After a while Mihn approached, with great caution, watching the black mist in particular. He knew the threat it posed, but he was far more afraid that the scent of the soul's many sins would attract Ghain's many torments.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he felt the words catch in his throat, the bile rising, for all that he knew how necessary this was. The soul's journey up Ghain's slopes must have been long and hard, attracting each of the thousand torments like moths to a flame, and it was impossible to tell how many years it had felt like to her.

The passage of time in the afterlife bore little relation to that of the Land, and Ehla's bargain, suggested by Daima – who knew the lay of Ghain better than most mortals – might have kept the soul walking for centuries more, especially given the weight of her sins. That she was a grievous sinner, one ineluctably bound for the Dark Place, made Mihn feel no better about inflicting further cruelty – even more since the first Mercy had told him judgment was not his to mete out.

Mihn reminded himself of the choices involved and called out, 'Duchess, turn around and close your eyes to it.'

The soul turned, as though waking from a dream.

'It – It is everywhere,' she sobbed eventually. 'I cannot…'

'Close your eyes,' Mihn commanded, 'and walk.'

After more wails of protest he repeated himself, and this time the soul did as he ordered. Almost instantly the swirling blackness around her stopped its darting movements and rose up angrily. For a moment Mihn thought it was about to take form and attack him, but instead it raced away, disappearing into the distance.

'Now cross the bridge,' Mihn told the soul.

The soul that had once been Duchess Lomin, quietly executed for heresy and treason, began to trudge wearily towards the bridge. She stopped as she reached it. The bridge was roughly built and insubstantial, just a thin, nail-studded walkway, with a single handrail on the left-hand side. She started to gather the chains dragging behind her, intent on draping them over the rail, until Mihn called out again to stop her.

'You must carry your sins; you must bear them, or risk the boatman dragging you from the bridge.'

On cue a scow appeared from nothing, racing towards them on the fiery tumult below. Standing at the prow was a single figure swathed in red robes. Its face was hidden by a veil and a jewelled pouch hung from its waist: the Maram boatman, neither daemon nor God, but a being of power whose true name was hidden to mortals. The Maram boatman was one of the few beings in existence that bowed to no authority. To see behind its veil was to see horror itself, so the legends said, and to be dragged into the river by the pole with which it propelled the scow was to become fuel for the flames.

The figure raised its pole as it reached them and swiped at the handrail where the duchess had been about to heap her chains. The pole caught only air, and the boatman flashed on underneath, a deep laughter echoing all around.

Reluctantly the soul started across the bridge, her chains heaped in her arms. Mihn watching as she laboured across, blood from her torn feet and arms dripping into the river below. He was horrified when he saw the trapped souls in the flames, leaping and fighting to lap up the falling droplets of blood. He looked away, at the pavilion at the other end of the bridge, only to see a shifting mass of darkness that was just as terrible.

This close Mihn could hear the screams ringing out from Ghenna's ivory gates, the hoarse voices of the damned, the yammer of the Dark Place's foul denizens. Jagged metallic sounds echoed discordantly over the river of flame, heavy thumps like huge hammers and screeching like the scrape of knives. He suppressed a shiver and walked to the end of the bridge.

The ghostly soul of Duchess Lomin had reached halfway, wailing piteously as she walked, but he willed the sound into the background, just another cry of the damned. The bridge of nails was nothing to what awaited her in Ghenna, and the time for pity was gone. Once her soul was near the end of the bridge Mihn readied himself and checked for the boatman again. It was nowhere in sight, but that meant little.

He took a deep breath and leaped up onto the single handrail, and as he did so, the boatman appeared again, poling the scow along with deceptive lethargy. Mihn wasn't fooled; he had seen how quickly it could move, but he forced himself to ignore it. He looked down at the rail beneath his feet. It wasn't wide, but at almost the width of his foot it was thicker than the cable every Harlequin learned on.

'A shame I was only passable at wire tumbling,' Mihn muttered to himself, 'but this will be easier – and it did teach me to be good at grabbing the rope before I fell.'

He took a pace forward, testing his bare feet on the wood. It bore him easily enough, so before he could think any more about the consequences he set off at a brisk trot, his arms held wide for balance. The boatman underneath carved a path through the fire as it brought the scow sharply around. Mihn kept his eyes on the rail under his feet and the dark shape of the Maram boatman in his peripheral vision. The scow darted forward, racing to intercept him before he reached the other side, and Mihn slowed his pace a fraction, measuring out his steps as the little boat reached the bridge and the boatman raised his pole like a lance to snag Mihn's legs.

At the last moment Mihn flipped his body forward, tucking his head down and throwing his legs over. Distantly he heard a screech as the pole caught only the wood underneath and then his feet were over, landing safely on the rail again as he dropped into a crouch. The boatman shot past underneath and jerked hard back around. Mihn stayed where he was, watching it come back on-path with unnatural speed to try the tilt again.

The end of the bridge was still a distance away.

'I'm not going to make it in time,' he murmured.

The boatman turned again, running alongside the far bank of the river behind him.

Damn, it is learning from its mistakes. He didn't wait to watch any more but broke into as fast a run as he dared. He guessed the boatman could cover the distance in a matter of seconds.

Something different then, he thought, picking a spot ahead. He scampered forward until, without warning, he dropped onto his belly and wrapped arms and legs around the rail. He felt the pole whip over his head and dip as fast as the boatman could manage, but it was quick enough only to skim Mihn's cropped head and then it was gone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scow turn again to avoid colliding with the bank, but now there was no time to waste. He jumped up and raced for the end of the bridge – until, in his haste Mihn misjudged the last footstep and slipped sideways, crashing to the ground at the steps of the silver pavilion. He lay on his back a moment, panting, staring up at the darkly boiling sky above before a bright flash of light prompted him to scramble up again.

In the centre of the pavilion stood the soul of Duchess Lomin, still laden with the massive chains of her sins, while beside her was the last of the Mercies, a tall, bearded man wearing a crown. His hammer was pitch-black, but no less ornate than those of the other Mercies Mihn had passed. With a solemn flourish the man brought the hammer on the ground behind the soul, not apparently caring that its sins were still held tightly to its chest.

That done, he reached out his right hand, but instead of a silver-chased horn, a twisted spiral of carnelian appeared in the Mercy's hand and he sounded a deep, forbidding note. Mihn felt his breath catch as an answering note came from within the darkness beyond. He crouched at the foot of the stair to watch. This close to the pavilion he saw the roof and pillars were not pristine but scored and scratched: it was so close to Ghenna that even Death's authority was not untouchable.

At first nothing happened, then a great hot wind began to whip up all around. Mihn screwed his eyes as tight as he could against the dusty whirlwind. With mounting dread he felt the swirling darkness being driven up and away, and he opened his eyes in time to see for the first time the entrance to Ghenna.

No more than fifty yards away stood several enormous barred gates, each apparently carved from a single piece of ivory, and set into bare rock. The entrance to Ghenna was a humped peak in the centre of the crater, curved around the level plain that stood between the gates and the Mercy's pavilion. Each gate was hinged at the top and opened outwards, but they opened only for those who'd sold their soul to one of Ghenna's inhabitants. The bars were slightly curved, the smooth flow to the design suggesting an organic creation rather than the rigid regularity of a human construction.

The journals of Malich Cordein had named the three main gates for him: Jaishen Gate, the smallest, was on the left; the largest of them all, Gheshen, was in the centre, with Coroshen on the right. There were three other gates, each around fifty feet tall – less than half the size of Jaishen's – that Malich had called the borderland gates, opening to the parts of Ghenna where no master ruled and the daemons fought a never-ending war of attrition.

Mihn scanned each of the main gates in turn. He had no idea which would open to admit the soul. Malich himself had dealt with a prince of Coroshen, the domain that existed nearest to the surface, but Duchess Lomin was of the Certinse family and he guessed the Certinses would have sought help elsewhere – if ever there was a family to play two sides it was theirs.

'Mihn, you must move,' Mihn growled to himself as the soul walked out of the pavilion and stopped. He urged it on until at last the soul began to stumble towards the gates. 'They are creatures of darkness; they turn away from the light. You need to go closer to them.'

Against every natural instinct, against the terror that was welling up in his gut, Mihn followed his own advice and forced himself forward. The ground was hot now, enough to scorch his feet, and the air was growing foetid and sulphurous, but he ignored the increasing discomfort, intent only on the gates ahead. One began to open, and Mihn threw himself forward, just in time to grab the bottom rung of the Jaishen Gate before it lifted away. He swung his leg over the smooth ivory and hauled himself up until he was sitting on the lower bar.

As he looked around he noted to his relief there were no sounds of alarm, no hungry calls of delight at the sight of an undamned soul. It looked like the old myths had once more come to his aid: the denizens of Ghenna did indeed turn their faces away from the light of the last pavilion. Mihn wasted no time as the gate continued to rise; he could see patrols of minion daemons, armed with harpoons or huge barbed fishing lines – the sort of weapons that had damaged the pavilion, he now realised. The daemons were only at ground level; a skilled climber like Mihn might be able to make his way up, and avoid the guards and hunters entirely – or so he hoped.

A condemned soul would stumble around in the darkness beyond the pavilion until it was snagged by one of those patrolling daemons and hauled through one of the gates into Ghenna, to the domain of whichever master the daemon served. There, the damned soul would have to face horrors unnumbered and untold, until the end of time or the fires of torment forged them into a new shape.

There were gaps in the gates easily large enough for souls to be dragged through, big enough even for daemons to step out from Ghenna – but they would not, not whilst the last of the Mercies stood, forever watchful, in his pavilion.

As the Jaishen Gate lifted, Mihn found it easy to climb the massive ivory bars. The biggest were easily twice as thick as his own body and bore his weight easily. When he reached the side he looked down and saw two massive, squat beasts standing below the gate, one end of a long iron bar strapped to their backs that lifted the bottom edge of the gate as they walked forward. From the way their heads swayed he guessed the beasts were blind – that was how they were able to face the light of the Mercy's pavilion. They sniffed at the stinking air, snuffling their way towards the soul of Duchess Lomin, limping onwards to its eternal damnation. The beasts lunged at her, displaying rows of jagged teeth in huge mouths, but they could move no more than a foot before being stopped by the pivot mechanism they were harnessed to.

Excited howls emanated from deep within Jaishen as the gate began to close and darkness started to return. A pair of spindly figures quested out, advancing on the soul with hands covering their eyes. When they found her they ran exploratory hands all over the soul's ghostly body before grasping it firmly and dragging it further within. Somewhere in the depths Mihn heard a heavy booming, a steady rhythm that prompted high-pitched squeals from the long dark tunnel below him. The horn sounded again and the beasts turned to pull the gate closed. It was only when the darkness had descended fully that Mihn heard the soul's wailing renew.

Mihn clung tight to his perch, too focused on the task in hand to feel pity now. He had been studying the paintings of Elshaim, a necromancer-turned-prophet – the same painter whose works Malich Cordein himself had spent several years poring over – and it looked like he was right: the gate's gigantic hinges did protrude, and as the gate closed, so a wide gap began to appear in between the ivory frame and the rock.

Mihn slipped quickly into the gap as it opened up before him. He felt a fleeting flush of relief as he reached towards the rock roof and found it jagged and uneven, providing plenty of hand-holds for him to pull himself inside. Moving carefully, he advanced inside the tunnel, and he was several yards from the gate when Jaishen ground shut once more. As it closed, a bone-numbing tremor rumbled through the rock.

Mihn braced himself on the unnatural honeycombed rock and rested for a moment, focusing all his strength into calming the fear now burning inside him. That great grinding closure hit him like the kick of a mule, driving the wind from his lungs, leaving him shaking and gasping for breath.

Mihn had made it to Ghenna, and here he was, all alone in the Dark Place. Not even the Gods could help him now.