The Judgment of the Dead
The Underworld, the Territory of Osiris
MALTHUS KRAYL WALKED the endless trek to the Hall
of Two Truths. How long had he been here? Could be
an hour. Could be a week. Hard to tell. Time played out
differently in the realm of Osiris.
His footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor.
Mammoth columns rose on either side of him, so
high their tops were swallowed by shadow. Beyond
them was a void of utter blackness. Each column was
etched with ancient symbols—hieroglyphics that predated the language unlocked by the Rosetta Stone—
and each was guarded by a sentry. Their hands, their
bodies, even their faces were obscured by the long
robes that draped their forms, the purple cloth so dark
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it looked almost black in the eerie greenish light that
guided his way.
“You will be judged,” one cowled creature whispered as he passed.
Yeah. He figured.
Red eyes glowed from beneath the hood, the face in
shadow except for the snout. A dog or a jackal. Mal was
betting on jackal because, hey, Anubis had a twisted
sense of humor.
A second sentry spoke, “Leave this place. Only
Lokan Krayl may pass.”
“Lokan Krayl is dead.” The words were like ash on
his tongue. “I am here in his place.”
Whereverherewas. An illusion, most likely, conjured by Osiris’s power for the benefit of the souls of
the dead and soon-to-be-judged.
