Darkness at Sethanon

by Raymond E. Feist

  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.’

  Tomas considered. ‘May we know where he is?’

  The lady upon the throne leaned forward. ‘There are limits, Valheru, even to what I may attempt. Put your mind to the task and you shall know where the black sorcerer abides. There can be only one answer.’ She turned her gaze again upon Pug. ‘Silent, magician? You have said nothing.’

  Softly Pug said, ‘I wonder, lady. Still, if I may’ – he waved a hand at those about him – ‘is there no joy in this realm?’

  For a moment the lady upon the throne regarded the silent lines of people arrayed before her. It was as if the question was new to her. Then she said, ‘No, there is no joy in the realm of the dead.’ She again studied the magician. ‘But consider, there is also no sorrow. Now you must away, for the quick may abide here a short while only. And there are those within my realm who would distress you to apprehend. You m
ust go.’

  Tomas nodded and with a stiff bow, led Pug away. Past long lines they hurried, as the brilliance of the goddess dimmed behind. It seemed hours they walked. Suddenly Pug halted, transfixed by recognition. A young man with wavy brown hair stood quietly in line, his eyes fixed forward. In near-silent voice, Pug said, ‘Roland.’

  Tomas paused, studying the face of their companion from Crydee, dead for almost three years. He took no notice of his two former friends. Pug said, ‘Roland, it’s Pug!’ Again there was no reaction. Pug shouted the squire from Tulan’s name, and there was a nearly imperceptible flicker about the eyes, as if Roland heard a distant voice calling. Pug looked pained as his boyhood rival for Carline’s affections took a step forward in the long line of those to be judged. Pug’s mind ached for something to say to him. Then at last he shouted, ‘Carline is well, Roland. She is happy.’

  For a moment there was no reaction, then, faintly, the corners of Roland’s mouth turned up for the briefest instant. But Pug thought he looked somehow more at peace as he stared blankly forward. Then Pug suddenly discovered Tomas’s hand upon his arm, and the powerful warrior propelled his friend away from Roland. Pug struggled an instant, but to no avail, then walked in step with Tomas. A moment later, Tomas released his grip. Softly he said, ‘They’re all here, Pug. Roland. Lord Borric and his lady Catherine. The men who died in the Green Heart, and those taken by the wraith in Mac Mordain Cadal. King Rodric. All who died in the Riftwar. They’re all here. That’s what Lims-Kragma meant by saying there were those here who would cause us distress if we met.’

  Pug only nodded. Again he felt a deep sense of loss for those whom fate had taken away from him. Turning his mind again to the cause of their strange travel, he said, ‘Where are we bound now?’

  ‘By not answering, the Lady of Death answered. There is only one place beyond her reach. It is an oddity outside the known universe. We must find the City Forever, that place which stands beyond the edge of time.’

  Pug halted. Looking about, he noticed they had again passed into the vast plain of bodies, all arrayed in neat rows. ‘Then the question is, how do we find it?’

  Tomas reached out and placed his hand upon Pug’s face, covering his eyes. A bone-wrenching chill passed through the magician, and he suddenly found his chest exploding in hot fire as he sucked in a lungful of air. His teeth chattered and he shook, a fierce, uncontrollable trembling as his body coiled and uncoiled in knots of pain. He moved and discovered he was lying on a cold marble floor. Tomas’s hand was gone from his eyes and he opened them. He lay upon the floor in the Temple of the Four Lost Gods, just before the entrance to the dark cavern. Tomas rose on wobbly legs a short distance away, also pulling in ragged gasps of air. Pug saw that his friend’s face was pale, his lips bluish. The magician regarded his own hands and saw the nails were blue to the quick. Standing, he felt warmth creep slowly back into his limbs, which ached and shook. He spoke, and his voice was a dry croak. ‘Was it real?’

  Tomas looked about, his alien features showing little. ‘Of all mortal men on this world, Pug, you should know best how futile that question is. We saw what we saw. Whether it was a place or a vision in our mind, it doesn’t matter. We must act upon what we experienced, so to that end, yes, it was real.’

  ‘Now?’

  Tomas said, ‘I must summon Ryath, if she is not too deep in sleep. We must travel between the stars once again.’

  Pug could only nod. His mind was numb, and dimly he wondered what possible marvels could await beyond that which was already behind.

  • Chapter Eight •

  Yabon

  The inn was quiet.

  It was fully two hours before sundown and the hectic quality of evening revelry was not yet unleashed. For this, Arutha was thankful. He sat as deep in shadows as he could, Roald, Laurie, and the two squires occupying the other chairs. His newly cropped hair, shorter than he had worn in years and his thickening beard lent him a sinister appearance, giving credence to their impersonation of mercenaries. Jimmy and Locklear had purchased more common travel clothing in Questor’s View, burning their squire’s tunics. In all, the five of them looked to be nothing more than a simple crew of unemployed fighting men. Even Locklear was convincing, for he was no younger than some of those who passed through, aspiring young bravos seeking their first tour of duty.

  They had been waiting three days for Martin, and Arutha was growing apprehensive. Given the timing of the message, he had expected Martin to reach Ylith first. Also, each day in the city increased the chance of someone’s remembering them from their last encounter here. A tavern brawl ending in a killing, while not unique, was still something to cause a few to remember a face.

  A shadow crossed the table and they looked up. Martin and Baru stood before them. Arutha rose slowly and Martin calmly extended his hand. They quietly shook, and Martin said, ‘Good seeing you well.’

  Arutha smiled crookedly. ‘Good for me also.’

  Martin’s answering smile was his brother’s twin. ‘You look different.’ Arutha only nodded. Then he and the others greeted Baru, and Martin said, ‘How did he get here?’ He pointed at Jimmy.

  Laurie said, ‘How can you stop him?’

  Martin looked at Locklear and raised an eyebrow. ‘This one’s face I recognize, though I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘That’s Locky.’

  ‘Jimmy’s protégé,’ Roald added with a chuckle.

  Martin and Baru exchanged glances. The tall Duke said, ‘Two of them?’

  Arutha said, ‘It’s a long tale. We should tarry here as little as possible.’

  ‘Agreed,’ answered Martin. ‘But we’ll need new horses. Ours are weary, and I expect we still have a long road before us.’

  Arutha’s eyes narrowed and he said, ‘Yes. Very long.’

  The clearing was little more than a widening in the road. To Arutha’s party the roadhouse was a welcoming beacon, every window on both floors showing a merry yellow light that knifed through the oppressive gloom of night. They had ridden without incident since leaving Ylith, passing beyond Zun and Yabon, and were now at the last outpost of Kingdom civilization, where the forest road turned northeast for Tyr-Sog. To travel directly north was to enter Hadati country, and the northern ranges beyond marked the boundary of the Kingdom. While there had been no trouble, all were relieved to be reaching this inn.

  A sharp-eared stable boy heard them ride up and came down from his loft to open the barn – few travelled the forest roads after sundown and he had been about to turn in. They quickly cared for their animals, Jimmy and Martin occasionally watching the woods for signs of trouble.

  When they were done, they gathered their bundles and headed for the roadhouse. As they crossed the clearing between barn and main building, Laurie said, ‘It will be nice to have a warm meal.’

  ‘Maybe our last for a while,’ commented Jimmy to Locklear.

  As they reached the front of the building, they could make out the sign over the door, a man sleeping atop a wagon while his mule had broken its traces and was making its getaway. Laurie said, ‘Now for some hot food. The Sleeping Wagoneer is among the finest little country inns you’ll ever visit, though at times you may find it occupied by a rather strange assortment.’

  Pushing open the door, they entered a bright and cheery common room. A large open hearth contained a roaring fire, and three long tables stood before it. Across the room, opposite the door, ran a long bar, behind which rested large hogsheads of ale. And making his way toward them, a smile upon his face, came the innkeeper, a man of middle years and portly appearance. ‘Ah, guests. Welcome.’ When he reached them, his smile broadened. ‘Laurie! Roald! As I live! It’s been years! Glad I am to see you.’

  The minstrel said, ‘Greetings, Geoffrey. These are companions of mine.’

  Geoffrey took Laurie by the elbow and guided him to a table near the bar. ‘Your companions are as welcome as yourself.’ He seated them at the table and said, ‘Pleased as I am to see
you, I wish you had been here two days ago. I could have done with a good singer.’

  Laurie smiled at that. ‘Trouble?’

  A look of perpetual trial crossed the innkeeper’s face. ‘Always. We had a party of dwarves through here and they sang their drinking songs all hours. They insisted on keeping time to the songs by beating on the tables with whatever was at hand, winecups, flagons, hand axes, all in complete disregard for whatever was upon them. I’ve broken crockery and scarred tables all over. I only managed to return the common room to a semblance of order this afternoon, and I had to repair half of one table.’ He fixed Roald and Laurie with a mock-stern expression. ‘So don’t start trouble, like the last time. One ruckus a week is plenty.’ He glanced around the room. ‘It is quiet now, but I expect a caravan through at any time. Ambros the silver merchant passes through this time of year.’

  Roald said, ‘Geoffrey, we perish from thirst.’

  The man became instantly apologetic. ‘Truly, I am sorry. Fresh in from the road and I stand jabbering like a magpie. What is your pleasure?’

  ‘Ale,’ said Martin, and the others echoed the request.

  The man hurried away, and returned moments later with a tray of pewter jacks, all brimming with cool ale. After the first draught of the biting liquid, Laurie said, ‘What brings dwarves this far from home?’

  The innkeeper joined them at the table, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Have you not heard the news?’