Domitori raised his hand and the flow of souls ceased to move through the Gateway. He stepped alongside Druss. “Bronze and steel have no place here, though you will see what appear to be swords and lances. This is a place of Spirit, and a man’s spirit can be steel or water, wood or fire. To cross the hill - and return - will require courage, and so much more. Do you have faith?”
“In what?”
The man sighed. “In the Source? In yourself? What do you hold most dear?”
“Rowena - my wife.”
“Then holdfast to your love, my friend. No matter what assails you. What do you fear most?”
“Losing her.”
“What else?”
“I fear nothing.”
“All men fear something. And that is your weakness. This place of the Damned and the Dead has an uncanny talent for bringing a man face to face with what he fears. I pray that the Source will guide you. Go in peace, brother.”
Returning to the Gateway he lifted his hand once more, and the entrance opened, the grim, silent flow of souls continuing without pause.
“You gutless whoreson!” stormed Sieben. “I should kill you!”
The surgeon Shalitar stepped between Sieben and the priest of Pashtar Sen. “Be calm,” he urged. The man has admitted to lacking courage and has no need to apologise for it. Some men are tall, some short, some brave, others not so brave.”
“That may be true,” conceded Sieben, “but what chance does Druss have in a world of enchantment and sorcery? Tell me that!”
“I don’t know,” Shalitar admitted.
“No, but he does,” said Sieben. “I have read of the Void; a great many of my tales are centred there. I have spoken to Seekers and mystics who have journeyed through the Mist. All agree on one point - without access to the powers of sorcery a man is finished there. Is that not true, priest?”
The man nodded, but did not look up. He was sitting beside the wide bed upon which lay the still figures of Druss and Rowena. The axeman’s face was pale, and he did not seem to be breathing.
“What will he face there?” insisted Sieben. “Come on, man!”
“The horrors of his past,” answered the priest, his voice barely audible.
“By the gods, priest, I tell you this: If he dies, you will follow him.”
Druss had reached the brow of the hill and gazed down into a parched valley. There were trees, black and dead, silhouetted against the slate-grey earth, as if sketched there with charcoal. There was no wind, no movement save for the few souls who wandered aimlessly across the face of the valley. A little way down the hill he saw an old woman sitting on the ground with head bowed and shoulders hunched. Druss approached her. “I am looking for my wife,” he said.
“You are looking for more than that,” she told him.
He squatted down opposite her. “No, just my wife. Can you help me?”
Her head came up and he found himself staring into deep-set eyes that glittered with malice. “What can you give me, Druss?”
“How is it you know me?” he countered.
“The Axeman, the Silver Slayer, the man who fought the Chaos Beast. Why should I not know you? Now, what can you give me?”
“What do you want?”
“Make me a promise.”
“What promise?”
“You will give me your axe.”
“I do not have it here.”
“I know that, boy,” she snapped. “But in the world above you will give me your axe.”
“Why do you need it?”
“That is no part of the bargain. But look around you, Druss. How will you begin to find her in the time that is left?”
“You can have it,” he said. “Now, where is she?”
“You must cross a bridge. You will find her there. But the bridge is guarded, Druss, by an awesome warrior.”
“Just tell me where it is.”
A staff lay beside the old woman and she used it to lever herself to her feet. “Come,” she said, and began to walk towards a low line of hills. As they walked, Druss saw many new souls wandering down into the valley.
“Why do they come here?” he asked.
“They are weak,” she told him. “Victims of despair, of guilt, of longing. Suicides, mostly. As they wander here their bodies are dying - like Rowena.”
