A rope bridge was attached to the edge of the cliff-the lines weathered and fraying, wooden slats warped and cracked. The bridge stretched across a vast gulf of space, and though Sarsour could not see the other side, he knew that the opposite end of the bridge was attached to another cliff much like this one. This was the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows, the entrance to Gadaran.
“Are you going to stand there staring for all eternity or are you going to cross?”
Sarsour turned and saw his father standing next to him. In this realm, Farren appeared not as a translucent shade but rather a flesh-and-blood man. But Sarsour knew that appearances could be deceiving, especially in this place.
He gave his father’s spirit a smile. “Nice of you to join me.”
“I wasn’t about to let my son and heir enter Gadaran without a proper escort. What would our ancestors say?”
“What, indeed?” Sarsour responded, amused. Farren was just as gruff in death as he had been in life, but Sarsour was grateful for his presence. Though the mage technically had no lungs here, he inhaled deeply as he stepped forward, took hold of the bridge’s guide ropes, and began crossing.
The air was cold and dank, and smelled of rot and grave mold. Strong crosswinds blew through the canyon, making the bridge sway. Though he knew it wasn’t a good idea, Sarsour looked down and saw nothing but darkness between the wooden slats. According to legend, the abyss below stretched on forever without end. It was one legend that he had no intention of confirming, however. Sarsour looked forward again, gripped the guide ropes tightly, and kept his gaze fixed on the bridge ahead of him so that he wouldn’t get dizzy.
The wind picked up speed, whistling and howling as it surged through the canyon. It sounded almost like voices-mournful, lost, despairing. It had to be his imagination, though. Legend made no mention of any spirits guarding the bridge. But the wailing sounds grew louder the farther Sarsour walked, and by the time the opposite end of the bridge finally came into view-the shade of his father following silently behind-the voices had taken on an edge of anger, and specific words became clear. Or rather, one specific word: they were shouting Sarsour’s name, over and over. Strands of etheric mist became visible, darting and swirling, over, around, and under the rope bridge. Faces coalesced out of the mist, disembodied ghostly heads that glared at Sarsour as they flew by, crying out his name as if it were some sort of epithet. At first Sarsour didn’t recognize any of the faces, then their features gradually became more defined, and he realized that he was looking at the spirits of all the men and women he’d executed over the years.
He recognized Renlak, originator of the Great Pestilence, and Paraselcis, also known as She Who Walked in Darkness. And there were so many more, all of them mages, all of them men and woman who’d chosen to use their mystical abilities and training for their own selfish-if not outright diabolical-purposes. Hundreds of them, and all had met their ends thanks to the necromantic spells of Sarsour Buhran.
Without taking his gaze from the swirling storm of angry spirits, Sarsour shouted back to his father. “What is this?”
“A welcoming committee!” Ferran shouted back. “When you’re Lord High Executioner for the Council of Hierarchs, you tend to make a lot of enemies-especially over here!”
“Wonderful,” Sarsour muttered. He’d already dispatched these villains once before. Now it seemed he would have to do so one more time. Making sure his feet were firmly planted on the wooden planks beneath him, Sarsour raised both of his hands high and began chanting a rite to repel angry spirits. It was a simple exorcism spell, but it might serve well enough. Though these spirits had all been powerful mages while alive, they didn’t appear to be anything more than angry ghosts. But even as he began the rite, he knew something was wrong. He could not feel necromantic energy flowing into his body, and the words that passed his lips sounded like nothing more than nonsense syllables, with none of the sinister sonorous overtones they took on as magic began to activate. The spirits showed no reaction either. Instead of turning away and fleeing back into the eternal blackness that had birthed them, they continued flying through the air, glaring at him and shouting his name. If anything, they flew faster and shouted more loudly than before.
“You’re wasting your time!” the spirit of his father shouted. “This is the land of the dead. Death-magic holds no power here!”
Sarsour halted his chanting and lowered his arms. “You might have told me that before I got started!”
“I thought you would figure it out on your own.”
The heads continued swirling around the bridge, so many that they formed a solid column of etheric energy. The noise of their wailing became deafening, and Sarsour had to clap his hands to his ears to try to muffle the sound, but it didn’t help much. While the heads continued circling, ghostly, disembodied hands appeared in the air above the guide ropes on both side of the bridge and began violently shaking it. The spirits obviously hoped to knock Sarsour off and send him tumbling into the dark abyss below to fall forever and ever, without either hope of rescue or death.
Sarsour yelped and grabbed hold of the guide ropes, but a large pair of phantom hands-so big they could only have belong to Arthis the Strangler-grabbed Sarsour’s wrists and forced him to release his hold on the ropes. The ghost hands then began to tug Sarsour toward the edge of the narrow bridge and the vast yawning emptiness that waited below. Sarsour knew he would be lost if he didn’t do something soon. So he did what any grown man might do in a similar situation: turned to his father for help.
“You’re supposed to be my spirit guide in this realm. Do something!”
“Guide, yes. Rescuer, no. It’s against the laws that govern Gadaran for me to interfere so directly.” Ferran considered for a moment. “I suppose this is an extraordinary situation, though.” He reached into his robe pocket and brought out a miniature ram’s horn carved out of bone. He placed the horn to his lips and blew. A high-pitched tone rang forth from the horn, seeming to grow louder and stronger until it filled the entire dimension of Gadaran, echoing from one end of the land of the dead to the other.
The ghostly shades of Sarsour’s enemies stopped and hovered in midair, eyes darting nervously back and forth. When the last echo of the horn blast died away, everything was silent for a moment. But the silence was soon broken by a loud battlecry as a stream of new spirits poured onto the bridge and came toward Sarsour like a flood of mist. Sarsour saw no faces in the mist, but he sensed numerous presences within it.
As the mist drew near, it separated into individual streams that arced into the air toward the hovering spirits of Sarsour’s enemies. The mist-streams slammed into the disembodied heads, creating small masses of roiling white that thrashed about violently.
“What’s happening?” Sarsour asked his father.
“Family reunion,” Ferran said, grinning. “I summoned our ancestors to come help. Now quickly-while they have the others busy-hurry across. Once you’re in Gadaran proper, the spirits will bother you no longer.
Why this should be, Sarsour had no idea, but he assumed it had something to do with the laws of Gadaran his father had mentioned before. Keeping a loose hold on the guide ropes with both hands, Sarsour began hurrying to the other side.
When they saw Sarsour escaping, the spirits of his enemies howled their fury and fought to free themselves from his ancestors. But the spirits of the Buhran family line managed to keep hold of the vengeful ghosts until Sarsour had set foot on the rocky soil of Gadaran. The spirits of the mages Sarsour had executed let out one last frustrated howl before dissipating into nothingness. An instant later, the misty forms of his ancestors did the same, and all was quiet once more at the Bridge of Unspoken Sorrows.