Today Your Life Will End . . .

. . . and Your Legend Will Begin.

         The phrase that comprises the title and subtitle of this piece have been prodding me for a few days now. I suspect it's something I've read or heard in the past, most likely from an old video game, but it won't leave me alone, so I'm going to start pantsing something (a thing I never do) and see where it leads. I have reasonable hopes of getting a short story out of it. In the best of possible outcomes, it will serve as the introduction to a trilogy, but I guess we'll all find out together!

*          *          *

         He'd been in these old manor houses before... Many times. Some had some old retired city guardsman serving as a night watchman, some had regular patrols, but they were all far too big for the families that lived in them, and they were all the easiest and most lucrative targets on the countryside. That's what had drawn Jackson Walsh to Summerworth Manor.
         It was well-known throughout the county that old man Summers had spent his youth traveling the empire and amassing wealth and treasure everywhere he went. Walsh had meant to include this place in his conquests for several seasons, and now that he was finally inside, he was mentally rubbing his hands in anticipation at the prospect of making off with a sack of Chinese jade, African diamonds, and perhaps even some Indonesian pearls. It couldn't be anything too heavy, as he would have to carry it far away and dispose of it in markets where it wouldn't be recognized.
         No great hardship for a man who traveled as much as the Grey Fox. Once he collected this haul, he'd move to the south of the country, perhaps even cross the channel. They would never catch him, couldn't, for their view was too parochial; they'd search the local village and perhaps a few farmhouses, then declare it a mystery and double the guard. It meant nothing to Jackson Walsh. It would be years before he returned, if ever, and his previous visit would be long forgotten.
         The house was dark, and Walsh, having entered through a second-story window, crouched at the rail of the gallery that overlooked the grand ball room below. Far off beyond the ballroom, he could hear the slow, measured footsteps of a patrolling guard. He'd have to keep his focus on that, as it wouldn't do to be surprised, but that wouldn't prove difficult for the accomplished burglar that he was. King of Thieves was another of his nicknames, going hand-in-hand with the Grey Fox. His silent footsteps were a perfect compliment to his dark gray clothing that blended into everything in the dim light of the watchlamps or the cold yellow moonlight that rendered every color another shade of gray.
         The Grey Fox, indeed, he thought with a smile, opening a display case to examine some jewelry placed there in the alcove to ignite the envy of guests, no doubt. Won't be nobody envyin' these no more.
         These pieces were garish, probably too ostentatious for the lady's taste, but the big stones and silver filigree suited his just fine. He slid them out into a cloth sack and moved on around the gallery. He looked into the next case, this one holding a jeweled dagger, curved, probably acquired in Arabia by the look of it. His first thought was that this would make a nice piece for him to casually display as he drank the ladies' health in this pub or another, but his practical side squashed that thought almost instantly. Wear, do, or carry nothing that makes you stand out. To do otherwise was death, and he knew it. He made his way around the gallery, taking several more choice pieces that filled his bag comfortably. It wasn't too heavy and the drawstring still closed with room to spare.
         "No need gettin' greedy," he whispered, and turned to make his way back to the window he had used to enter. As he padded silently along the smooth boards, a door opened a few feet ahead of him and an older gentleman, not quite elderly, emerged in a nightshirt to confront him. Both were surprised, but Walsh recovered much more quickly.
         "Relax, grandpa," he whispered. "It's just a bad dream."
         Far from relaxing, the old gentleman reached back into his room and pulled forth a sword.
         "Intruder!" he shouted. "Sound the alarm!"
         "Shit!" Walsh swore, and vaulted the rail to the main floor below, making for a row of large windows that fronted onto the garden. A bell began to clang in the distance, and from his left a man began to blow a whistle. Two men, uniformed guards of some sort, moved across his path ahead to cut off his retreat.
         "Halt!" cried a voice from behind. "Stop or I'll fire!"
         Not a chance the Grey Fox was going to surrender to this disorganized mob! They'd gotten a bit of luck when the old man had opened the door, but that was all he intended to allow them. The windows denied to him, he shifted to his right, temporarily putting the row of supporting columns between himself and the men ahead, and darted up a staircase that led back to the gallery.
         "Halt!" came the cry from the base of the stairs, but he was up and darted left, onto the gallery and out of the man's line of fire.
         "There he goes!" called one of three men at the same level but across the ball room. He turned away from them and sprinted toward the end of house with its windows and freedom. Mere feet separated them when he heard the distinctive click-poof-BOOM of a flintlock and nearly simultaneously came a searing pain as the lead ball tore into his back, breaking a rib and gouging his rapidly pumping heart.
         All will left him. His legs collapsed, dropping him hard on his face on the wooden floor. He tried to pull himself to the windows with his arms, but they barely moved, and did nothing that he commanded. Within moments, the hunters had surrounded him, one of them snatching the sack from his hand.
         "Just as I thought," a voice snarled, "a damnable thief."
         "You think he had an accomplice?" someone else asked.
         "It's possible," another said. "We caught the right one, if he did. His lordship will be glad to get these items back."
         The voices were angry and loud, yet fading, fading away as if he were moving off at a brisk pace.
         "What about this one?"
         "He's done for. We'll take him to the city watch tomorrow. With any luck, there'll be a bounty on him."
         Then, as Jackson Walsh's breathing became too difficult to sustain any longer, the voices faded completely, and he was left in blissful darkness.

*          *          *

         The surface he lay on was hard, cold, cold as the grave. Odd that his back hadn't warmed it. Perhaps he hadn't been here that long. He tried to shift his position but found that he couldn't. It wasn't that he was bound. He tried and tried again, but couldn't even feel muscles trying to contract, never mind any resistance. He opened his eyes and tried to look around, but again, he couldn't. He felt that he was indoors, yet any ceiling that might have been present was far beyond view, hidden behind a haze of distance. And there were odors, foul chemicals and hot metal.
         And then he noticed that he wasn't breathing. This brought a horrible rising dread climbing up the back of his neck, and he willfully heaved in a deep breath and exhaled with a groan.
         "Ah, Mr. Walsh," a sonorous voice pronounced. "We've been waiting for you."
         "Where... Who?" he croaked, struggling to drive air through his vocal chords.
         "There, there, Mr. Walsh. I know you have questions. All will be explained."
         "I... Why can't I move."
         "Because I am preventing it. Can't have you panicking and harming yourself before you're aware of what is going on."
         "I can't breathe."
         "That's because you're dead, Mr. Walsh. You're never going to breathe again, at least not in the way you've been accustomed."
         "Why—"
         "Mr. Walsh, I really must insist. There is a certain protocol here, and things must... Things will be done properly. You will soon be released from your stasis, though you may wish it weren't the case. I have already released some of the enchantment. You have already learned that you can speak. You can also look around by moving your head and eyes slightly. Now, may I continue?"
         "Yes," Walsh replied, exhausted by the tiny effort. He turned his head and shifted his eyes to see the speaker. It was mostly a collection of long white robes, wrinkled parchment skin serving as a face with no sockets for eyes. There was a nose, hooked and narrow, and surrounding the mouth a long sweep of straight white hair that made it impossible to see where, if anywhere, the voice emanated from.
         "That's good of you, Mr. Walsh. My name is Bane. It is my function to greet the new arrivals and explain what they need to know to begin their new... well, lives, to use a term that might have more meaning to you. You see, you are dead, Mr. Walsh, gunned down in the commission of a crime, the last act in a lifetime of crime. Wonderful things, these guns. They have provided us with more customers here than we could have ever imagined. But I digress.
         "I know your mother tried to bring you up in the Christian faith. I also know that the only things you believe in are yourself and the power of money, but I will use Christian terms so you may readily understand your situation. You have been sent to what the Christians call Hell, Mr. Walsh. You've been a very bad boy, and a bit of the fire and brimstone might serve you well."
         "I..."
         "Don't worry, Mr. Walsh, we have far more effective methods than fire and brimstone. The human imagination is so limited, don't you know? Now, personally, I've never understood what it is that one can do in the space of a human lifetime to warrant living in such unimaginable agony for eternity, but the Great Ones make the rules for a reason, and it isn't for us to question."
         "Then it was all real?" Walsh asked, fear beginning to tighten his throat.
         "In principle. The bible, as all religions, only asks you to live a moral life. I believe "thou shalt not steal" is mentioned prominently. Not to mention all the whoring. Really, Mr. Walsh, you've brought new meaning to hedonism. All religions try to give you a sense of what awaits if you fail to live a moral life, but of course, fire and brimstone is about the worst the human mind can conjure. I assure you, fire and brimstone is one of our lesser levels, reserved for more minor transgressions."
         "But wait, Mr. Bane—"
         "It's just Bane."
         "Didn't Christ die for our sins so we could all go to Heaven?"
         "Sadly, Mr. Walsh, you've grasped the concept, but overlooked the details. I believe it says in there somewhere that you must accept Christ into your life, beg for forgiveness, and sin no more. I have it on good authority that the only reason you have ever entered a church is to rob it. I'm sorry, Mr. Walsh, but I'm afraid we're going to make things very uncomfortable for you here."
         "Oh, my God!" Walsh moaned, his face a mask of terror.
         "Of course," Bane continued, "the Great Ones always have a list of tasks the condemned can undertake to perhaps earn a degree of mitigation."
         "Tasks? I could... I could do tasks for you. What would I receive in return?"
         "How about a mansion made of gold?"
         "I don't know. I think I'd prefer absolution."
         "Oh, Mr. Walsh, that's easy to ask for now that you know that Hell, whatever you conceive it to be, is real. But the Great Ones don't work that way. You had your chance. But things could be made a bit less agonizing for you if you were to do well at what you were asked to do."
         "I beg you to let me try."
         "The tasks aren't easy. They don't involve sweeping a courtyard, for example."
         "Please, Mr. Bane. Anything has to be better than this."
         "I assure you that anything is. But if you'd like to discuss them, come with me to my office. Yes, you can move freely. Stand up. Come, let us talk of tasks. What the Great Ones have in mind for you will push you past every limit you ever thought you had."