Prologue

Moments of deaths not experienced flicker into being on either side, are extinguished. His eyes do not see them, fixed as they are on the way. Beasts of flesh and metal and light and gem-cut stone rear in surprise, in anger, poised to attack or flee, blink out of existence as quickly as they emerge. Haloes of their presence remain for moments or eternities, as does his, perhaps, in the realities where they hunted, were hunted or never passed, accompanied by a momentary echo of his continued chant.

The red river leads his dry-shoed feet to a place of solidity. Suddenly there is stone beneath, a cloudless, sunless sky above, the great metal-bound doors ahead, unopened since the birth of things. For one short moment he pauses, thinking – ridiculously – that he has been here before, then his attention turns to the Guardian.

Tall and dark, it is. Handsome, it is not. Congealed from the essence of the world, pustulant with the cries of the anguished, strengthened by the torture of the innocent, given form by nightmares; it stands twice his height and equally wide. He stops, stands immobile before the ghost-living wall that bars his way to the doors. The Guardian moves, grating, screaming, grinding as it bends slightly to regard him with its faceless face. It has no lips, no breath, no tongue, but speaks the words it is charged to speak, its voice the death-rattle of innumerable generations.

“None may pass. None may walk the Abyss.”

He raises his staff and the gem at its tip glows stronger, the light spreading into the shadow cast by the Guardian under the non-existent sun. A pressure begins as the same darkness expands towards him, pushing him back; he leans forward and begins to chant louder. The Guardian lifts one arm, reaching for him with shadow and repugnant skin, but he moves the staff in that direction and the arm returns to its place at the thing’s side.

The pressure builds; his voice rises in response. Soon, he is almost shouting. The purple gem-borne light of his will and the creeping, crawling shadow of the Guardian fight, lifting from the stony ground, tendrils feeling for weakness, projecting, retracting, spawning progeny to bolster their forces, generations forming ranks of luminescent armies to crash upon each other, be thrown back, regroup, die.

Time passes or does not in that un-place between and beyond all things. Sweat beads his brow. Light and shadow twist and burst. He leans forward further, pushing the staff with the force of his being, throwing yet more effort into the struggle. The Guardian lurches as the staff’s radiance finally touches it, twists, forms new limbs as the light withers those it had, sees those wither, forms more. It is a squirming, writhing mass as his voice becomes triumphant; he raises the sun-bright light above his head and reaches the end of his unending chant. The Guardian reels, shudders once, collapses and is no more.

He leans on his staff for a moment, breathing heavily, then throws back the hood of his purple robe, wipes his brow on his sleeve and moves to the great doors. With a small gesture, he bids them open. Beyond lies the Abyss, where none have walked save It.

Eternity passes. Life, somewhere, goes on – perhaps. Moments pass, or years; he does not know. The infinite divides itself infinitely, leaving him no space to exist, beyond the non-space that he inhabits, there where there is no here. He is nothing, he feels, but is everything everywhere. The chill worsens, despite already being inhumanly, impossibly cold. Beneath his feet lies a dark path, barely visible against the Abyss. He walks slowly, carefully, placing each foot almost immediately in front of the other, following the unnatural movement of the road. Silence surrounds him, stealing away his magical chanting, yet he is sure he can hear the moans and cries of the newly dead as they travel the non-distances of that place.

Finally, he comes to It. It sits on the seat of power. It is indescribable. It raises Its head and regards him with eyes that see all. He raises his staff and addresses It.

“I am come, Lord Death. I am the Walker. As prophesied, I come to defeat you.”

It laughs, a sound without sound and of such coldness that he feels it penetrate every bone, every fibre of his being. It shakes his magical protections violently, but they hold against the onslaught.

“You come into the Abyss?” he hears, though nothing is said. “You come to defeat me, yet you walk alone? None in the mortal world have arms to defeat me, yet you dare face me here, in my place of power?”

“I will not fight you by force of arms, Death. I come to defeat you with knowledge. Ask,” he demands. “Ask the question that none may answer. I will give you satisfaction, and claim my prize.”

It voices no words, but speaks so loudly that he is wracked by the echoes in that place without walls. Despite the pain, he smiles.

“Finally,” he whispers.