Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

oiled.
    “And now he will require a steed,” said Vorbis.
    The stableman’s face was yellow with dread.
    “My pleasure. The very best the sta—”
    “My friend Brutha is a humble man before Om,” said Vorbis. “He will ask for no more than a mule, I have no doubt. Brutha?”
    “I—I do not know how to ride, my lord,” said Brutha.
    “Any man can get on a mule,” said Vorbis. “Often many times in a short distance. And now, it would appear, we are all here?”
    He raised an eyebrow at the sergeant of the guard, who saluted.
    “We are awaiting General Fri’it, lord,” he said.
    “Ah. Sergeant Simony, isn’t it?”
    Vorbis had a terrible memory for names. He knew every one. The sergeant paled a little, and then saluted crisply.
    “Yes! Sir!”
    “We will proceed without General Fri’it,” said Vorbis.
    The B of the word “But” framed itself on the sergeant’s lips, and faded there.
    “General Fri’it has other business,” said Vorbis. “Most pressing and urgent business. Which only he can attend to.”

     

    Fri’it opened his eyes in grayness.
    He could see the room around him, but only faintly, as a series of edges in the air.
    The sword…
    He’d dropped the sword, but maybe he could find it again. He stepped forward, feeling a tenuous resistance around his ankles, and looked down.
    There was the sword. But his fingers passed through it. It was like being drunk, but he knew he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t even sober. He was…suddenly clear in his mind.
    He turned and looked at the thing that had briefly impeded his progress.
    “Oh,” he said.
    G OOD MORNING .
    “Oh.”
    T HERE IS A LITTLE CONFUSION AT FIRST . I T IS ONLY TO BE EXPECTED .
    To his horror, Fri’it saw the tall black figure stride away through the gray wall.
    “Wait!”
    A skull draped in a black hood poked out of the wall.
    Y ES ?
    “You’re Death, aren’t you?”
    I NDEED .
    Fri’it gathered what remained of his dignity.
    “I know you,” he said. “I have faced you many times.”
    Death gave him a long stare.
    N O YOU HAVEN’T .
    “I assure you—”
    Y OU HAVE FACED MEN . I F YOU HAD FACED ME , I ASSURE YOU … YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN .
    “But what happens to me now?”
    Death shrugged.
    D ON’T YOU KNOW ? he said, and disappeared.
    “Wait!”
    Fri’it ran at the wall and found to his surprise that it offered no barrier. Now he was out in the empty corridor. Death had vanished.
    And then he realized that it wasn’t the corridor he remembered, with its shadows and the grittiness of sand underfoot.
    That corridor didn’t have a glow at the end, that pulled at him like a magnet pulls at an iron filing.
    You couldn’t put off the inevitable. Because sooner or later, you reached the place when the inevitable just went and waited.
    And this was it.
    Fri’it stepped through the glow into a desert. The sky was dark and pocked with large stars, but the black sand that stretched away to the distance was nevertheless brightly lit.
    A desert. After death, a desert. The desert. No hells, yet. Perhaps there was hope.
    He remembered a story from his childhood. Unusually, it wasn’t about smiting. No one was trampled underfoot. It wasn’t about Om, dreadful in His rage. It was worse. It was about what happened when you died…the journey of your soul.
    They said: you must walk a desert …
    “Where is this place?” he said hoarsely.
    T HIS IS NO PLACE , said Death…. all alone …
    “What is at the end of the desert?”
    J UDGMENT .
    … with your beliefs …
    Fri’it stared at the endless, featureless expanse.
    “I have to walk it alone?” he whispered. “But…now, I’m not sure what I believe—”
    Y ES ?
    A ND NOW , IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME …
    Fri’it took a deep breath, purely out of habit. Perhaps he could find a couple of rocks out there. A small rock to hold and a big rock to hide behind, while he waited for Vorbis…
    And that thought was habit, too. Revenge? Here?
    He smiled.
    Be sensible, man. You were