“Then why is the Fugue Plain so crowded?” Midnight asked, eyeing the milling masses.
Rhaymon frowned. “Because this is our final test,” he said. “With only one or two exceptions, the gods have chosen to leave us here to prove our worthiness.”
“It seems callous to abandon loyal worshipers like that,” Midnight observed.
“They haven’t abandoned us,” Rhaymon answered quickly. “They’ll come for us someday.”
Midnight accepted this answer, though it was obvious that Rhaymon’s statement was founded on hope, not knowledge. For if the gods were concerned about their worshipers, the Fugue Plain would have been far less crowded.
They continued their conversations and their trek for another two days. The mage learned little more of significant interest. Eventually, the crowds began to thin, and a dark line appeared on the horizon. Midnight had no doubt that they were getting close to Myrkul’s city.
Finally, the dead cleric and the mage reached a point beyond which there were no more milling souls. The dark line on the horizon had changed to a dark ribbon stretching from one side of the endless plain to another.
Rhaymon stopped walking. “I’ve brought you as far as I can,” he said. “Beyond here, I’m no use to you.”
Midnight sighed and tried to smile, though she felt lonely and abandoned. “You’ve done more than enough already,” she replied softly.
Rhaymon pointed toward the left end of the ribbon. “I understand the entrance to the city is down there,” he said. “I brought you here so you could approach the wall without meeting the denizens as they go to and from the gate.”
Midnight took Rhaymon’s hand. “Words cannot express my gratitude,” she said. “I’ll miss your company.”
“And I’ll miss yours,” he replied. After a small pause, he added some last-minute advice. “Midnight, this is not the world of the living. What seems cruel and evil to you is the normal course here. No matter what you find in Myrkul’s city, remember where you are. If you interfere with the denizens, you’ll never leave.”
“I’ll remember your advice,” she said. “I promise.”
“Good. May the gods favor your path,” Rhaymon said.
“And may you keep your faith,” Midnight responded.
“I will,” he answered. “I promise.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the souls upon the Fugue Plain.
Midnight turned toward Myrkul’s city and started walking. Two hours later, an eerie moan reached her ears and musty whiffs of rot plagued her nose. The magic-user continued at her best pace. The moan gradually became a suppressed wail, and the stench of decay grew stronger and hung more steadily in the air. The wall constantly grew higher and larger, and as Midnight got close to it, she saw that its surface swayed and writhed—as if it were alive.
The mage wondered if the wall was made of serpents. That would explain the absence of sentries. If the wall itself was menacing enough, Myrkul would not need guards.
Midnight continued forward, approaching within fifty feet of the wall. The suppressed wail changed into a cacophony of muffled sobs, the foul smell of decay grew so strong it nauseated her, and the magic-user saw that she had been mistaken about the writhing forms in the wall. What she had taken to be serpents were thousands of squirming legs.
The wall was constructed entirely of human bodies. Men and women were stacked fifty feet high, their bodies turned inward to face the interior of the city. The largest people gave the wall bulk and height, while the smaller ones chinked gaps and filled holes. They had all been sealed into place with a greenish mortar that reminded Midnight of solidified mold.
The hideous barrier was nearly enough to end Midnight’s journey. For a long time, she could only stand and stare in sickened shock. The magic-user had intended to climb over the wall, but could not bring herself to grapple the legs. Instead, deciding to the make use of her magic, she summoned and performed the incantation for levitation.
Immediately, her feet left the ground and she rose into the air. Every now and then, Midnight grasped a squirming leg and used it as a guide. A moment later, she pulled herself into a prone position just inches over the top of the wall, hoping to look like just one more body.
A squall of howls and screeches greeted her. The magic-user recoiled and covered her ears. On the other side of the wall, the cries of the dead had been muffled by the space between the Fugue Plain and Myrkul’s city. But when Midnight had pulled herself onto the wall, she had crossed from the demiplane into Hades.
The air inside the wall smelled rank and profane, with a caustic bite that scorched her nose and throat when she breathed. The dark gray sky cast only a dim light over the city. Here and there, pinholes of illumination penetrated the murky heavens. From what Rhaymon had told her, Midnight suspected that the tiny lights were gateways between Myrkul’s domain and various spots in the Realms.
The city itself sat in a great bowl that sloped down from the wall toward the opposite horizon. The metropolis was so immense that, even from atop the wall, Midnight could only see that the far side disappeared into a haze of indistinguishable detail.
Closer to Midnight, a broad avenue circled inside the wall’s perimeter. Twenty feet down the road, thirty whip-carrying denizens were driving several hundred slaves in Midnight’s direction. As the group passed beneath her, the magic-user saw that the slaves had remarkably similar, drab features: gray hair, yellow-gray skin, and expressionless gray eyes. But the people they carried had distinctive features. Here was a woman with buckteeth, there was a man with a large nose, and behind him was an obese woman with a triple chin.
Although the mage wanted nothing more than to free the slaves, Rhaymon’s warning against interfering with the denizens remained fresh in her mind. Midnight simply turned her head away. After the slave train passed, she turned to watch the city again.
Inside the perimeter avenue stood a countless number of ten-story brownstone structures. These buildings had once been identical, but ages of decay and corrosion had twisted them into a plethora of different shapes. While some remained in pristine condition, many had deteriorated so badly they were little more than stacks of rocks that might collapse at any moment. Others had sprouted twisted minarets and crooked towers, and were now warped into shapes only vaguely reminiscent of their original form.
As Midnight studied the buildings, she observed that structures of similar condition were grouped together. Then she noticed the city was divided into boroughs of more or less equivalent size. The areas with pristine buildings were divided into orderly blocks with straight, clean streets. Where the buildings were crumbling, the streets were so clogged with rubble that it appeared impossible to traverse them. In areas with twisted and grotesque buildings, the streets were crooked and narrow, curling and winding back on themselves with mazelike confusion. There was no sign of anything that might be Bone Castle, and Midnight did not know where to begin her search.
But she knew she had to get off this wall. After waiting for another caravan of slaves to pass, Midnight pushed herself over the city and floated down to the road that ran along the wall. She paused a moment to reconnoiter the area. One group of three denizens was tottering down the avenue after her, and two more were approaching from the borough directly ahead. Fortunately, both groups were over five hundred feet away, so she sprinted down the avenue away from them. After ten seconds of running, she ducked into a borough of deteriorated buildings that had looked abandoned from the wall.
The thoroughfares were cluttered with rubble and deserted. From the building’s windowsills, sputtering yellow lamps cast putrid circles of light into the street. As Midnight passed one of the lamps, she inhaled a breath of the sulfurous vapor. She briefly choked and her skin stung where a wisp of black smoke had touched it.