A woman’s voice called to him from the side of the road. He paused and glanced to his right. A dark-haired woman, scarce more than a girl, was sitting on a rock with legs apart, her right hand stroking her thigh. She licked her lips and tossed her head. “Come here,” she called. “Come here!”
Druss shook his head. “I have other business.”
She laughed at him. “Here? You have other business here?” Her laughter rang out and she moved closer to him, but he saw that she did not set foot upon the road. Her eyes were large and golden but there were no pupils, merely black slits in the gold. When her mouth opened a forked tongue darted between her lips, which Druss now saw were grey-blue. Her teeth were small and sharp.
Ignoring her he walked on. An old man was sitting in the centre of the road with shoulders hunched. Druss paused. “Which way, brother?” asked the old man. “Which way do I go? There are so many paths.”
“There is only one,” said Druss.
“So many paths,” repeated the other man. Again Druss moved on, and behind him he heard the woman’s voice speaking to the old man. “Come here! Come here!” Druss didn’t look back, but only moments later he heard a terrible scream.
The road moved ever on through the mist, level and straight as a spear. There were others on the road, some walking tall, others shuffling. No one spoke. Druss moved through them silently, scanning their faces, seeking Rowena.
A young woman stumbled from the path, falling to her knees. Instantly a scaled hand caught at her cloak, dragging her back. Druss was too far back to help, and he cursed and moved on.
Many pathways merged with the road and Druss found himself travelling with a multitude of silent people, young and old. Their faces were blank, their expressions preoccupied. Many left the path and wandered through the mist.
It seemed to the axeman that he had walked for many days. There was no sense of time here, nor any fatigue, nor hunger. Gazing ahead, he could see vast numbers of souls wending their way through the mist-enveloped road.
Despair touched him. How would he find her among so many? Ruthlessly he pushed the fear from his mind, concentrating only on scanning the faces as he moved ever on. Nothing would ever have been achieved, he thought, if men had allowed themselves to be diverted by the scale of the problems faced.
After a while Druss noted that the road was rising. He could see further ahead, and the mist was thinning. There were no more merging pathways now; the road itself was more than a hundred feet wide.
On and on he moved, forcing his way through the silent throng. Then he saw that the road was beginning to diverge once more, into scores of pathways leading to arched tunnels, dark and forbidding.
A small man in a robe of coarse brown wool was moving back through the river of souls. He saw Druss and smiled. “Keep moving, my son,” he said, patting Druss’s shoulder.
“Wait!” called the axeman as the man moved past him. Brown Robe swung back, surprised. Stepping to Druss, he gestured him to the side of the road.
“Let me see your hand, brother,” he said.
“What?”
“Your hand, your right hand. Show me the palm!” The little man was insistent. Druss held out his hand and Brown Robe grasped it, peering intently at the calloused palm. “But you are not ready to pass over, brother. Why are you here?”
“I am looking for someone.”
“Ah,” said the man, apparently relieved. “You are the despairing heart. Many of you try to pass through. Did your loved one die? Has the world treated you savagely? Whatever the answer, brother, you must return whence you came. There is nothing for you here - unless you stray from the path. And then there is only an eternity of suffering. Go back!”
“I cannot. My wife is here. And she is alive - just like me.”
“If she is alive, brother, then she will not have passed the portals before you. No living soul can enter. You do not have the coin.” He held out his own hand. Nestling there was a black shadow, circular and insubstantial. “For the Ferryman,” he said, “and the road to Paradise.”
“If she could not pass the tunnels, then where could she be?” asked Druss.
“I don’t know, brother. I have never left the path and I know not what lies beyond, save that it is inhabited by the souls of the damned. Go to the Fourth Gateway. Ask for Brother Domitori. He is the Keeper.”
Brown Robe smiled, then moved away to be swallowed up by the multitude. Druss joined the flow and eased his way through to the Fourth Gateway where another man in a brown, hooded robe stood silently by the entrance. He was tall and round-shouldered, with sad, solemn eyes. “Are you Brother Domitori?” asked Druss.
The man nodded, but did not speak.
“I am looking for my wife.”
“Pass on, brother. If her soul lives you will find her.”
“She had no coin,” said Druss. The man nodded and pointed to a narrow, winding path that led up and around a low hill.
“There are many such,” said Domitori, “beyond the hill. There they flicker and fade, and rejoin the road when they are ready, when their bodies give up the fight, when the heart ceases.”
Druss turned away, but Domitori called out to him. “Beyond the hill the road is no more. You will be in the Valley of the Dead. Best you arm yourself.”
“I have no weapons here.”
