Tom Lloyd: The ragged man

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. 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 Gods 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 massive 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 Gods 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, assailing 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 God 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.'