The Ragged Man Part 2

'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 pa.s.sed 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 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 G.o.ds 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 ma.s.sive 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 G.o.ds 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, a.s.sailing 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 G.o.d 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 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. - 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds, 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 pa.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounced.'

Death leaned forward. 'So granted, but entry through those doors will not be without peril. The guardian heeds neither G.o.d 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 succ.u.mb 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 G.o.ds 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. 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 ma.s.s 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. ' 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.'