Page 16 of Heart of the Shadow King

I can, however, see the dead.

They hover in the ether above their funeral-wrapped bodies. So many of them, row upon row, extending far beyond the reaches of the echoing chamber. We are all together in this space of formless endlessness, this realm ofGuralth Harredas the priests have named it—the Waiting Place.

I gaze out across that sea of dead faces. The song of theVulug Ugdthand the thrum of the crystals gives them temporary form even as it does for me. They cannot remain here. But there are so many of them, and I do not know what I am supposed to do. How am I to guide them on to rest? Their faces are long and solemn, their eyes dark pits without light or expression. Here and there as the song shifts, they waver out of sight only to return. They will only last so long as the song is sung and the Stone of the Dead remains aloft to catch the vibrations. I need to send them home. Before either the song ends or my physical body collapses under its weight.

I stretch out my hand, given shape by song, humming with life and magic. “Come,” I call, my voice strangely hollow and echoing. “Come, my friends. It is time you were at peace.”

They do not move. Those endless voids where eyes should be gape at me. The song rolls on, and the crystals pulse. Their forms begin to clarify until I can see the wounds from which they died, flesh and bone ripped, broken, and shredded. Men, women, and children all hover in the strange mist before me, filling my vision with their suffering.

My heart, somewhere beyond the veils of reality, tightens in my breast. “Come,” I beg, holding out both arms now as though to take them all in. “Let me help you.”

But they hold back. Afraid, uncertain. Do they not trust me? Do they not believe in me, their king? I failed them in life, after all. Who’s to say I will be any use to them in death?

Then there’s movement in the ranks. Phantom people blink out of sight only to reappear a few paces back, clearing a path for one figure to pass through. Once again, I feel my physical heart leap. “Yok!” I cry and hold out both hands.

The boy is dead. Of course, I’ve known all along he must be. Not even the strongest trolde could survive a fall like that. Though the molten river would not harm his tough trolde hide, the impact would shatter his bones, leaving him to sink under the flow as burning magma filled his lungs and burned him from the inside out.

He staggers toward me now, however, a phantom figure with lumps of dried pumice falling from his ethereal limbs. The nearer he comes, the more his image clarifies, until I could swear it was the Yok I once knew standing before me. He wears his armor, polished to perfection, and his pale hair is swept back from his face and secured with a bit of black string. I can see the crooked break in his nose from a fall he took as a youngling. I can see the chip in his front tooth when he opens his mouth. What I cannot see are his eyes. They remain black pits of nothing.

My King!His voice gurgles strangely as though he drowns even now. But he goes on, and the words clarify:My King, my beloved King!He grasps and presses his forehead to the backs of my hands.Why are you here?Did I fail you? Did you die too? Was it all for nothing?

“No, Yok,” I respond at once, squeezing his hands as hard as I can. “You saved me. You are a true warrior, heart and soul.”

The boy lets out a sigh, his ghostly breath stirring the mist before his lips. When he straightens, the darkness in his eyes has cleared. For a moment he is the same earnest boy I’ve known since the day he was born.

“Go now, Yok,” I say. Clasping the back of his head, I draw him to me, press my brow to his. “Go and be at peace, Warrior of Mythanar.”

Grakul-mir, Aruk,Yok says and steps back to offer me a salute. Then he adds in a softer voice,You will tell Hael . . . ?He trails off, uncertain how to finish.

I nod, setting my jaw firmly. “I will tell her. I swear it.”

Yok smiles, relieved. Then he sweeps forward, passing through me. I feel him against my heart for a moment. Even when he is gone, the sensation lingers, a ghostly trace which I somehow know will never truly vanish. But Yok himself is vanished to whatever rest our god has in store.

I turn to face the remaining crowd, all those hesitant, timid souls. Already my physical body tires, and my soul is strained by the unexpected pain of this encounter. But there are many more to go. And I must face them all, one after another. “My people,” I say, extending my arms. “Come to me. Let me help you as I may.”

Now that they’ve seen Yok approach and pass on, they gain courage. One by one, they draw near to me, each eager to be seen, heard, held, and blessed as they begin the next leg of their journey. Many of them ask me to promise them something or to bear a message to a loved one. The children are the most heartbreaking. They ask only,Why? Why?or worse still,Where is my mar?For them I can offer no answer. I simply get down on my knees and take them in my arms, hold them while the resonance of theVulug Ugdthsurrounds and creates us. Only when they choose to draw back do I let them go and look into their eyes. Eyes which do clear eventually. When I ask if they are ready to go, they nod, smile, and proceed on through me.

How does any man have the strength for this? I’m not sure I can keep going, keep facing these individuals one after the other. Perhaps Queen Roh was right—perhaps it would be better for all of us simply to go to the stone. To become hardened to the shocks of our breaking world and our own devastated hearts. To feel nothing, to experience nothing. Would this not be a sort of paradise?

But I will not show weakness to the dead. They need me strong. They need to know I am still their king and I will watch over their loved ones, carrying on their legacy in the world they leave behind.

At long last I shudder, exhausted. But I’ve done it. I’ve sent all those souls through. Turning, I peer through the hazy mist to where my physical body stands still, supporting the crystal. Part of me hates the prospect of returning to that form and all the burdens of that life. But I have proven myself a true king of Mythanar. Now I must go on proving. Until the very last breath is crushed from my lungs.

I move to slip back into that reality, then stop. My soul quickens. Something is pulling on the edge of my awareness. Something sharp, insistent. I try to resist, but it redoubles its force, compelling me to look back into the realm of obscurity. I strain my sight, strain my consciousness.

YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN US.

The voice hits me like a club across the head. In the other world, my physical body shudders. With an effort, I pull my spirit form together, draw myself up straight. “Who is there?” I call into the formlessness. “Who are you?”

No one answers. But the echoes of that voice—or many voices, spoken in perfect unison—reverberate through my soul. A terrible foreboding coils like a dark thread through my being. I take a step, then another. “Come to me,” I call, holding out my arms. “If you are among my own beloved dead, let me help you. I am your king, and I will—”

A great wordless roar shakes the sky, the ground, the reality around me, ripping the mist to shreds. The pale softness of diffused light vanishes, replaced by a wrathful pulsing glare. The dead are revealed before me.

No. Not the dead.

The undead.

They’re wrapped in stone from head to toe. Layer upon layer of craggy rock, so thick it obscures their features. But inside, their souls writhe in anguish, tormented and burning. Poisoned.

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