A Darkness at Sethanon (22 page)

“Who built
this place?” Pug wondered aloud.

“The
gods,” Tomas replied. Pug studied his companion and saw there
was no jest in his words.

“Can this
truly be so?”

Tomas shrugged.
“Even to such as us some things remain a mystery. Some agency
constructed those tombs.” He pointed at one of the major
buildings near the square. “That bears the name Isanda.”
Tomas looked lost in memory. “When my kin rose up against the
gods, I remained apart.” Pug did not fail to notice Tomas’s
reference to
his
kin; in the past he had spoken of
Ashen-Shugar as a being apart. Tomas continued. “The gods were
new then, coming into their power, while the Valheru were ancient. It
was the passing of an old order and the birth of a new one. But the
gods were powerful, at least those who survived. Of the hundred who
were formed by Ishap, only sixteen survived, the twelve lesser and
four greater gods. The others lie here.” He pointed again to
the building. “Isanda was the Goddess of Dance.” He
looked about slowly. “It was the time of the Chaos Wars.”

Tomas moved past
Pug, clearly reluctant to speak more. Upon another building was
inscribed the name Onanka-Tith. Pug said, “What do you make of
that?”

Tomas spoke
quietly while he walked. “The Joyful Warrior and the Planner of
Battles were both mortally wounded, but by combining their remaining
essences they survived in part, as a new being, Tith-Onanka, the War
God with Two Faces. Here lie those parts of each which did not
survive.”

Softly Pug
observed, “Each time I think I have witnessed a wonder
unsurpassed . . . It humbles me.” After a long stretch of
quiet, as they passed dozens of buildings upon which were inscribed
names alien to Pug, the magician said, “How is it that
immortals die, Tomas?”

Tomas did not
look at his friend as he spoke. “Nothing is forever, Pug.”
Then he looked at Pug, who saw a strange light in his friend’s
eyes, as if Tomas were poised for battle. “Nothing.
Immortality, power, dominance, all are illusions. Don’t you
see? We are simply pawns in a game beyond our understanding.”

Pug let his eyes
sweep over the ancient city, its strange assortment of buildings half
overgrown with lianas. “That is what humbles me most.”

“Now, we
must seek one who might understand this game. Macros.” He
pointed at a gigantic edifice, a building dwarfing those about it.
Upon it were carved four names, Sarig, Drusala, Eortis, and
Wodar-Hospur. Tomas said, “The monument to the lost gods.”
He pointed to each name in turn. “The lost God of Magic, who,
it is thought, hid his secrets when he vanished. Which may be why
only the Lesser Path rose upon this world among men. Drusala, the
Goddess of Healing, whose fallen staff was picked up by Sung, who
keeps it against the day of her sister’s return. Eortis, old
dolphin-tail, the true God of the Sea. Kilian now holds sway over his
dominion. She is now mother of all nature. And Wodar-Hospur, the
Lorekeeper who, alone among all beings below Ishap, knew Truth.”

“Tomas,
how do you know so much?”

Looking at his
friend, he answered, “I remember. I did not rise to challenge
the gods, Pug, but I was there. I saw. And I remember.” There
was a note of terrible, bitter pain in his tone, which he could not
mask from his lifelong friend.

They began to
walk on, and Pug knew Tomas would speak no more on this subject, at
least for the present. Tomas led Pug into the vast hall of the four
lost gods. A fey light illuminated the temple, filling the gigantic
room with an amber glow. Even to the high vaulted ceiling, no shadows
existed. On each side of the hall a pair of gigantic stone thrones
sat empty and waiting. Opposite the entrance a vast cavern led away
into darkness. Pointing at that black maw, Tomas said, “The
Halls of the Dead.”

Without comment,
Pug began walking, and soon both were engulfed in darkness.

One moment they
had existed in a real, albeit alien, world, the next they had entered
a realm of the spirit. As if a coldness beyond enduring had passed
through them, they each felt an instant of supreme discomfort and
another instant of near-rapture. Then they were truly within the
Halls of the Dead.

Shapes and
distances appeared to have little meaning, for one moment they seemed
in a narrow tunnel, then upon an endless sunlit field of grasses.
Next they passed through a garden, with babbling brooks and
fruit-laden trees. After that, they walked below an ice flow, a
white-blue frozen cataract spilling from a cliff surmounted by a
giant hall from which issued joyous music. Then they seemed to walk
atop clouds. But at last they were in a dark and vast cavern, ancient
dead rock vaulting away into a darkness beyond any eyes’
ability to penetrate. Pug ran his hand over the rock and discovered
the surface to have a slippery feel, as of soapstone. Yet when he
rubbed thumb and fingers together, there was no residue. Pug put away
his curiosity. A broad river slowly flowed across their path, and in
the distance they could see another shore through dense mist. Then
from out of the fog came a wherry, with a single figure hidden by
heavy robes at the stern, propelling the craft by means of a scull.
As the boat gently nudged the shore, the figure raised the large oar
out of the water and motioned for Tomas and Pug to board.

“The
ferryman?” said Pug.

“It is a
common legend. At least here it is true. Come.”

They boarded,
and the figure held out a gnarled hand. Pug removed two copper coins
from his purse and deposited them in the outstretched hand. Pug sat,
and was astounded to discover the wherry had reversed itself and was
now heading across the river. He had felt no sensation of motion. A
sound from behind caused him to turn, and over his shoulder he saw
vague shapes on the shore they had left, quickly hidden by mist.

Tomas said,
“Those who fear to cross or who cannot pay the boatman. They
abide upon the far shore for eternity, or so it is supposed.”
Pug could only nod. He looked down into the river and was further
astonished to see that the water glowed faintly, lit from below by a
yellow-green light. And within its depth stood figures, each looking
up to the boat as it passed overhead. Feebly they waved at the boat
or reached out, as if seeking to grab hold, but the boat was too
quickly past. Tomas said, “Those who attempted to cross without
the ferryman’s permission. Trapped for all time.”

Pug spoke
softly, “Which way were they seeking to cross?”

Tomas said,
“Only they know.”

The boat bumped
against the far shore, and the ferryman silently pointed. They
disembarked, and Pug glanced back to discover the wherry gone from
sight. Tomas said, “It is a journey that may be taken in one
direction only. Come.”

Pug hesitated,
but realized the point of no return had just been crossed and
reluctance was useless. He gazed at the river for a last, lingering
moment and quickly followed Tomas.

They paused in
their trek. One moment Pug and Tomas had been walking upon an empty
plain of greys and blacks; the next, a vast building rose before
them, if in fact it was a building. In each direction it stretched,
to vanish at the horizon, more a wall of immense proportion. Upward
into the strange grey which served as a sky in this forlorn place it
rose, until the eye could no longer follow its lines. It was a wall
in this reality; one with a door.

Pug looked over
his shoulder and saw nothing but empty plain behind. He and Tomas had
spoken infrequently since leaving the river some unknown time before.
There had been nothing to comment on and somehow breaking the silence
seemed inappropriate. Pug looked forward once more and discovered
Tomas’s eyes upon him.

Tomas pointed
and Pug nodded and they mounted the simple stone steps to the large
open portal before them. Crossing the threshold, they halted, for
they were greeted by a sight that confounded their senses. In every
direction, even behind them, a vast marble floor stretched away, upon
which rows of catafalques were arrayed. Atop each rested a body. Pug
approached the nearest and studied its features. The figure seemed
asleep, for it was unmarked, but the chest was still. It was a girl
no more than seven years of age.

Beyond lay men
and women of every description from beggars in tatters to those
wearing royal raiment. Bodies old and rotting, and those shattered or
burned beyond recognition, lay beside bodies unmarked. Infants, dead
at birth, lay beside withered ancient crones. Truly they were now
within the Halls of the Dead.

Tomas said
softly, “It seems one direction is much the same as another.”

Pug shook his
head. “We are within the boundaries of eternity. I think we
must discover a path, or we shall wander without let for ages. I do
not know if time has any meaning here, but if it does we cannot
afford to idle it away.” Pug closed his eyes and concentrated.
Above his head glowing mists gathered, forming into a pulsating globe
that began to rotate rapidly. A faint white light could be seen
within; then the conjuration vanished. Pug’s eyes remained
closed. Tomas watched quietly. He knew Pug was using some mystic
sight to scout in moments what would have taken years on foot. Then
Pug’s eyes were open and he pointed. “That way.”

Figures waited
quietly without the portal to the next hall. It was an oddity of this
place that from one angle more corpses could be seen stretching away
in every direction, forming a chessboard of reclining figures, but
from another angle a new wall was visible, one with another arched
portal. Before it more than a thousand men and women, boys and girls,
stood silently. While Pug and Tomas approached, one of the reclining
figures sat up and dismounted the catafalque to walk past them and
join with those waiting by the door. Pug looked back and saw another
figure approaching from a different direction. He glanced at the just
vacated catafalque and saw another body had appeared in place of the
former occupant. Pug and Tomas moved past those who hovered by the
door, discovering they took no notice of the newcomers’
presence. Pug reached out and touched a child’s shoulder, and
the small boy absently brushed at Pug’s hand, as if an insect
had briefly alighted there. But the boy betrayed no other awareness
of the magician. Tomas indicated with a jerk of his head they should
continue. Through the door they found more people standing, in lines
that led away beyond the limits of their perception. Again there was
no reaction to their passing. Quickly the two men walked toward the
head of the line.

For what seemed
hours a light had been brightening before them. Thousands of figures
formed silent lines facing that brilliance, each seemingly without
impatience. They passed those who stood turned toward the light,
expressions impossible to fathom upon their faces. Every so often Pug
would notice those in one of the lines taking a step forward, but the
lines moved at a snail’s pace. As they approached the shining
light, Pug glanced behind and noticed there were no shadows cast.
Another oddity of this realm, he considered. Then at last they
reached stairs.

Atop a dozen
steps sat a throne, surrounded with golden brilliance. Something
almost like music tickled at the edge of Pug’s hearing, but it
was not substantial enough to be apprehended. He lifted his eyes
until he beheld the figure upon the throne. She was stunning in her
beauty, yet frightening. Her features were impossibly perfect, but
somehow daunting. She confronted the converging lines of humanity
before her and studied each person at the head of the line for some
time. Then she would point at one of the figures and motion. Most
often the figures simply vanished, to whatever destiny the goddess
had selected, but occasionally one would turn and begin the long trek
back toward the plain of catafalques. After some time she turned to
regard the two men, and Pug’s gaze was captured by eyes like
sooty coal, flat jet without any hint of warmth or light contained
therein, the eyes of death. Yet for all her fearful demeanour, a face
the colour of white chalk, she was a figure of incredible seduction,
one whose lush form cried out to be embraced. Pug felt his being burn
with the need to be gathered within the folds of her white arms, to
be taken to her bosom. Pug used his powers to set aside those
desires, and he stood his ground. Then the woman upon the throne
laughed, and it was the coldest, deadest sound Pug had ever heard.
“Welcome to my domain, Pug and Tomas. Your means of arrival is
unusual.” Pug’s mind reeled and raced. Each word from the
woman was an icy stab through his brain, a chilled pain, as if merely
to comprehend the goddess’s existence was something nearly
beyond his ability. With certainty he knew that without his training
and Tomas’s heritage they would have been overwhelmed, swept
away, most likely dead, by the force of her first uttered word.
Still, he maintained his equilibrium and stood his ground. Tomas
spoke. “Lady, you know our needs.” The figure nodded.
“Indeed, better than yourselves, perhaps.”

"Then will
you tell us what we need to know? We dislike being here as much as
our presence displeases you.”

Again the
bone-chilling laugh. “You displease me not at all, Valheru. Of
your kin I have often longed to take one to my service. But time and
circumstances have never permitted. And Pug shall eventually come
here, in time. Yet when that occurs, he shall be like these before
me, standing in patient line for their turn to be judged. All wait
upon my pleasure; some shall return for another turn of the Wheel;
others shall be granted the ultimate punishment, oblivion, and fewer
still will earn final rapture, oneness with’the Ultimate.

“Still,”
she said, as if thoughtful, “it is not yet his time. No, we all
must act as is foreordained. He whom you seek does not abide with me
yet. Of all those within the mortal realms, he above all has been
most astute in declining my hospitality. No, to find Macros the
Black, you will need to look elsewhere.”