We came to another grey stone, and Morrolan once more took the right-hand path, once again after some thought. I said, “Is it pretty much the way you remember it?” Morrolan didn’t answer.
Then a thick old tree covered with knots appeared just off to our right, with a branch hanging across the path, about ten feet off the ground. A large brown bird that I recognized as an athyra studied us with one eye.
“You live,” it said.
I said. “How can you tell?”
“You don’t belong here.”
“Oh. Well, I hadn’t known that. We must have made a wrong turn on Undauntra. We’ll just leave, then.”
“You may not leave.”
“Make up your mind. First you say—”
“Let’s go, Vlad,” said Morrolan.
I assume that he was having his own little conversation with the athyra while I was having mine, but maybe not. We ducked under the branch and continued on our way. I looked back, but tree and bird were gone.
A little later Morrolan stood before another grey stone. This time he sighed, looked at me, and led us around to the left. He said, “We are going to have to, sooner or later, or we will never arrive at our destination.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Yes.”
And, a little later, “Can you give me a hint about what to expect?”
“No.”
“Great.”
And then I was falling. I started to scream, stopped, and realized that I was still walking next to Morrolan as before. I turned to him as I stumbled a bit. He stumbled at the same moment and his face turned white. He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, looked at me, and continued down the path.
I said, “Were you falling there, just for a moment?”
“Falling? No.”
“Then what happened to you?”
“Nothing I care to discuss.”
I didn’t press the issue.
A little later I took a step into quicksand. For a moment I thought it was going to be a repeat of the same kind of experience, because I was aware that, at the same time, I was still walking, but this time it didn’t let up. Morrolan faltered next to me, then said, “Keep walking.”
I did, though to one part of my mind it seemed that every step took me deeper. I also felt panic coming from Loiosh, which didn’t help matters, as I wondered what he was seeing.
It occurred to me that Loiosh could feel my fear, too, so I tried to force myself to stay calm for his sake, telling myself that the quicksand was only an illusion. It must have worked, because I felt him calm down, and that helped me, and the image let up just as it was covering my mouth.
Morrolan and I stopped for a moment then, took a couple of deep breaths, and looked at each other. He shook his head once more.
I said, “Aren’t there any clear paths to the Halls of Judgment?”
He said, “Some books have better paths than others.”
I said, “When we get back, I’ll steal one of the better ones and go into business selling copies.”
“They can’t be copied,” said Morrolan. “There are those who have tried.”
“How can that be? Words are words.”
“I don’t know. Let’s continue.”
We did, and I was quite relieved when we came to another grey stone and Morrolan took the right-hand path. This time it was a wild boar who couldn’t touch us, and later a dzur.
Morrolan chose among more paths, and we came to another stone. He looked at me and said, “Well?”
I said, “If we have to.”
He nodded and we went around it to the left.
I returned to my flat, my legs feeling better, my disposition sour. I decided I never wanted to see Gruff’s again. I was beginning to get positively irritated at Kynn, who kept refusing to let himself be set up. I poured myself a glass of brandy and relaxed in my favorite chair, trying to think.
“So much for that idea, Loiosh.”
“We could try it again tomorrow. “
“My legs won’t take it.”
“Oh. What next, then?”
“Dunno. Let me think about it.”
I paced my flat and considered options. I could purchase a sorcery spell of some sort, say, something that worked from a distance. But then someone would know I’d done it, and, furthermore, there are too many defenses against such things; I was even then wearing a ring that would block most attempts to use sorcery against me, and it had cost less than a week’s pay. Witchcraft was too chancy and haphazard.
Poison? Once again, unreliable unless you’re an expert. It was like dropping a rock on his head: It would probably work, but if it didn’t he’d be alerted and it would be that much harder to kill him.
No, I was best off with a sword thrust; I could be certain what was going on. That meant I’d have to get close up behind him, or come on him unexpectedly. I drew my dagger from my belt and studied it. It was a knife-fighter’s weapon; well made, heavy, with a reasonably good point and an edge that had been sharpened at about eight degrees. A chopping, slicing weapon that would work well against the back of a neck. My rapier was mostly point, suitable for coming up under the chin, and thus into the brain. Either would work.
I put the knife away again, squeezed my hands into fists, and paced a little more.
“Got something, boss? “
“I think so. Give me a minute to think about it.”
“Okay.”
And, a little later, “All right, Loiosh, we’re going to make this idiot-simple. Here’s what I’ll want you to do...”
There were times when we were howling maniacs, times when we were hysterical with laughter.
Keep walking.
We were dying of hunger or thirst, with food or drink just to the side, off the path.
Keep walking.
Chasms opened before us, and the monsters of our nightmares bedeviled us, our friends turned against us, our enemies laughed in our faces. I guess I shouldn’t speak for Morrolan, but the strained look of his back, the set of his jaw, and the paleness of his features spoke volumes.
Keep walking. If you stop, you’ll never get out of it. If you leave the path you’ll become lost. Walk into the wind, through the snowstorm, into the landslide. Keep walking.
Paths crisscrossing, Morrolan choosing, gritting our teeth and going on. Hours? Minutes? Years? I dunno. And this despite the fact that anytime we took a right-hand path we were safe from the purely physical attacks. Once we were attacked by a phanton sjo-bear. I have a clear memory of it taking a swipe through my head and being amazed that I didn’t feel it, but I still don’t know if that was the product of a right-hand or a left-hand choice.
Frankly, I don’t see how dead people manage it.
There came a point when we had to stop and rest and we did, taking food and drink, directly before another grey stone. I’d given up asking stupid questions. For one thing, I knew Morrolan wouldn’t answer, and for another, I had the feeling that the next time he shrugged I was going to put a knife in his back. I suppose by that time he was feeling equally fond of me.
After a rest, then, we stood up again and Morrolan chose a left-hand path. I gritted my teeth.
“You holding up all right, Loiosh?”
“Just barely, boss. You?”
“About the same. I wish I knew how long this was going to go on. Or maybe I’m glad I don’t.”
“Yeah.”
But, subjectively speaking, it wasn’t long after that when the path before us suddenly widened. Morrolan stopped, looked up at me, and a faint smile lightened his features. He strode forward with renewed energy, and soon the trees were swallowed in mist, which cleared to reveal a high stone arch with a massive dragon’s head carved into it. Our path led directly under the arch.
As we walked through it, Morrolan said, “The land of the dead.”
I said, “I thought that’s where we’ve been all along.”
“No. That was the outlying area. Now things are likely to get strange.”
I squeezed my right hand into a fist and slowly began to bring it toward my left. There was a resistance against my right hand that wasn’t physical. It was as if I knew what I had to do, and wanted to do it, yet actually making the motion required fighting an incredible lassitude. I understood it—it was the resistance of the universe to being abused in this fashion—but that was of little help. Slowly, however, there was motion. I’d bring my hands together, and then the break would come, and I’d commit everything to it.