by Tom Lloyd
‘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.
CHAPTER 3
As he woke, Major Amber twitched his head, which was enough to send a spasm of pain racing down his neck. He whimpered, but a moment later panic overshadowed everything and wakefulness hit him like a deluge.
Cold fear enveloped his mind; all he could feel was searing agony, a rod of iron where his spine should be. Every other sense was numb. He tried to lift his arm and felt nothing, nothing at all. When he tried to open his eyes all he managed was a facial twitch, and another wrenching spasm. At last he edged them open, only to immediately close them against the searing light.
‘Hush now,’ said a woman’s voice beside him as Amber began to hyperventilate in terror, wincing at every gasp. ‘Hey, settle down - you’re injured, but you will recover.’
He felt a weight on his chest, a palm pressing down to hold him still, and he moaned in relief. For a while all he could remember was stars bursting in his head, the crunch of bones breaking and the death-cry of the man he’d killed. The details eluded him for the moment as his thoughts floundered, lost in a world of hurt.
‘That’s better,’ the woman continued, her voice soothing. Her fingers found his, and this he could feel, a comforting sensation. ‘You’re bound to the bed,’ she told him, ‘you broke a few bones and the surgeons wanted to keep you still.’
He tried to respond, but all that came out was a wheeze.
‘Don’t speak; you’re too weak. I’ll fetch a healer. We’ll talk later.’
Her hand moved away and Amber felt himself slide back into the cool arms of sleep. When he awoke a second time it was better; as he opened his eyes he felt the return of some part of him that before had been trapped in the darkness. He still hurt all over, but now he was aware enough to feel the bed underneath him, and he could tally the individual injuries. His neck was now a dull throb, and he found he could lift his left arm, although moving his right caused him to hiss in pain.
‘Ah, awake at last,’ came the same woman’s voice. ‘I was beginning to worry they’d given you too much there.’
He turned his head gingerly to the left and took a moment as Horsemistress Kirl came into focus. She smiled down at him from a campaign chair and leaned forward. Behind her he saw a white plastered wall and a shuttered window, the only light in the room provided by a small fire and two large pillar candles standing iron lamp-stands.
‘Don’t try to move. Our best healers have been working on you, but there’s only so much a mage can do.’
‘How long?’ Amber croaked.
‘Since the battle?’ She thought for a moment. ‘You woke the first time two weeks back. Another day and a half since then.’
Amber opened his mouth to say something else, but this time the effort defeated him. Instead he bathed in the warmth of the Horsemistress’ lopsided smile. She’d cut her dark hair shorter since he’d last seen her and it hung loose to the raised collar of her unbuttoned tunic.
Amber started: that wasn’t her uniform - he didn’t recognise it at all. Kirl was an auxiliary attached to Amber’s legion, the Cheme Third - so why was she wearing a fitted cavalryman’s tunic? The scarlet adorned with blue and white slashes and gold buttons was more along the lines of Amber’s formal Menin officer’s uniform than Kirl’s usual plain grey outfit.
‘You like it?’ Kirl asked with a coquettish smile. ‘I found it in the Farlan baggage. The Penitent Army left everything and ran; Hain reckons it was made for an officer of the Cardinal Paladins.’
Amber didn’t respond immediately, then he realised he was staring, his mouth open, and he looked away.
‘That good, eh?’ Kirl laughed, ‘I’m glad to hear it!’
He coughed. ‘Aye, not bad,’ he said hoarsely.
His throat was dry and sore, but he ignored the pain. Kirl’s lovely crooked smile was enough to make his breath catch when she wore drab riding leathers; dressed in a fine, narrow-waisted tunic . . . As she bent over him to help him lie back he brea
thed in her scent and prayed she wouldn’t notice any stirrings under the blanket.
‘You tending to me?’ he rasped. ‘What’s happened since the battle?’
She scowled. ‘Not much that needs my attention. I’ve got all my horses pastured for the moment and I’m just trying to keep my head low. It’s all . . . tense out there right now, but you’re a fucking hero and you’ve got a nice warm room, so I might possibly have stretched the truth a little so I could hide out in here till everyone calms down.’
She gestured around her and Amber realised for the first time that he was in a bedroom large and luxurious enough for a duke, even though it was mostly empty. A wooden partition was drawn up to one side of him to keep the fire’s heat close. He could see nothing around him to tell him who the room normally belonged to, but someone had dragged his kit in - and even managed to retrieve his scimitars from the battlefield! The career soldier in him prayed to Karkarn that same someone would have seen fit to clean the swords and hammer out the nicks before they got rusty.