The first door that tore through reality made my eyes ache. It was the size of a barn, and it hung in the air fifty feet above the floor, and through it I could see a vast land.
It was grey and flat, going out to a distance that did not end, and in the sky was a green sun that was spilling its flame down to the ground, as if the sun was bleeding, or maybe crying.
My perception left the sun and went to the land, and the only thing I could see were the dead, in numbers that stopped being a number and became a texture.
Men and Beastkin and Stoneborn and shapes with the wrong count of limbs, standing shoulder to shoulder from the lip of the door to the edge of sight, and every one of them was lit from inside with the same cold green fire, and every one of them turned to look when the door opened.
Behind them, further out, there were shapes on that plain the size of hills.
