The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Something came out, tore him apart, and moved so quick none of us saw it much at all!”

  “Was a cat!” insisted another man. His expression turned dumbfounded. “A huge, hellish cat . . .”

  “All I saw was a blur!” insisted Albord.

  “No blur rips open a man’s guts like that!”

  Kentril looked to Tsin. “Well?”

  The sorcerer raised his staff, drawing a circle in the air. He stared upward for a moment, then said, “Whatever it was, it’s not around here anymore, Dumon.”

  “Can you be certain?” asked Zayl. “Not all things are so easily detected by magic.”

  “Do you sense anything, cretin?”

  Zayl pulled free the ivory dagger Kentril had earlier seen. Before the eyes of the startled mercenaries, he pricked a finger with the tip. As a few droplets of blood coursed down the blade, the necromancer muttered silent words.

  The dagger flared bright, then faded to normal again.

  “I sense nothing,” the pale figure reported. “But that does not mean that there is nothing.”

  Swearing, Kentril turned to Albord. “Which way did it head after it killed Benjin?”

  “Toward that building there on the left . . . I think.”

  “Nah!” interrupted a fellow mercenary. “It turned and went farther up into the dark!”

  “You’re daft!” came the one who had identified it as a cat. “It whirled around and darted back the way it came! That’s how I saw it fer what it was!”

  The rest of the party looked at Albord’s group as if all of them had gone mad. One of Gorst’s men spat on the building next to which he stood, snarling, “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if maybe they killed ’im themselves, eh, captain?”

  It would not have been the first time that mercenaries had murdered one another over treasure, but Captain Dumon did not see that as the case this time. Still, it made sense to question those involved further. “Where were each of you when Benjin bought it?”

  “Spread out like you’ve always taught us, captain,” Albord replied. “Jodas there, me next to him, Benjin right there where Toko,”—he indicated the man who had accused him of murder—“is—”

  And at that moment, a flash of black burst out of the doorway next to Toko, catching him across the chest.

  The fighter screamed in much the same way as Benjin had as curled claws a foot in length tore through padded leather and flesh, revealing to his horrified companions wet, red ribs and ravaged organs. Toko actually managed to look down at his horrendous wound before death claimed him and he toppled forward.

  A beast that, yes, could vaguely be described as a cat emerged from the building, hissing at the humans. Yet no cat stood seven feet in height and had eyes red and without pupils. In the light of the lamps, its fur looked jagged, almost sharp, and fire black. The hell cat roared once, a blood-curdling sound, and revealed not one but two sets of long, feline teeth.

  “Pincer pattern!” called Kentril. “Pincer pattern!”

  The familiar tone of their captain giving commands brought the rest of the soldiers back to the moment at hand. They quickly formed themselves as he had ordered, working to cut off the monstrous beast’s escape.

  Barbed tail swishing back and forth, the cat stepped toward its foes. The eyes went from man to man, studying each.

  “What’s that thing doin’?”

  “Maybe it’s deciding who to eat next?”

  “Silence in the ranks!” Kentril demanded. The beast paused in its study of the others to take special care in viewing him. Captain Dumon met the inhuman gaze and, despite his inner fears, matched it.

  At last, it proved to be the creature who looked away first. It slowly backed up, almost as if intending to return to the building from whence it had come.

  That could not be allowed. Kentril knew better than to follow any foe back into his lair. Worse, if the cat escaped, it would likely catch them again later, when their guards were down. “Albord! Oskal! You and—”

  With another horrific cry, the cat suddenly crouched, then leapt for him.

  Kentril had no time to recover. Claws flared from the paws of the monster, the same razor-sharp sickles that had ripped to bloody gobbets two of his men. He saw his own terrible death coming and knew that his reactions would be too slow even to delay the dire event.

  Then a form as much a shadow as the beast met the cat in midair. Although smaller, the second hit with such force that both fell directly to the street.

  A flash of white appeared at the end of the new figure’s limb. Not a claw or talon, as Kentril first believed, but rather a dagger—a dagger made of ivory.

  Zayl had sacrificed himself to save the captain.

  Never had Kentril seen such agility and speed in any man. Despite still wearing his voluminous cloak, the necromancer danced around the savage claws of the cat. The hellish creature snapped at Zayl, tasting only air. The pale spellcaster leapt atop his gargantuan foe and this time struck true with the ivory dagger.

  A flash of emerald-green light flared where the peculiar blade bit in, and although Zayl clearly managed only a shallow wound, the cat howled as if pierced through the heart. It writhed wildly, finally sending the necromancer tumbling to the side.

  Kentril dove in, determined that no man should die for his sorry sake. As he attacked, Oskal, Jodas, and two others joined in while another fighter dragged Zayl to momentary safety.

  The cat swiped at the necromancer, howling when the claws missed. Kentril thrust, managing only to catch its unwanted attention again.

  As one paw reached with lightning swiftness for their leader, Oskal and Jodas attacked from opposing sides. The beast’s head turned toward the latter, who stumbled back as quickly as he could. On the other side, Oskal, still undetected, jabbed as hard as possible into the unprotected flank.

  His sword went in a foot and more. The cat shrieked, turning upon the mercenary. Withdrawing his blade, Oskal fled from the reach of either the jaws or the curved claws.

  The retreat proved a fatal mistake.

  With the full force of a footman’s mace, the barbed tail swung down hard on the unwary fighter.

  The weaponlike appendage crushed the back of the mercenary’s skull with an audible crack. Blood splattered the two men nearest Oskal. Eyes still wide, the already dead soldier fell forward, his sword clattering to the ground.

  Enraged, Kentril charged again, thrusting with all his might at the cat’s throat. The beast turned to meet him, but something distracted it again from the other side. Caught between two directions, the monstrous feline hesitated.

  With as much force as he could muster, Captain Dumon drove the full length of his sword into the thick, muscular throat.

  The hellish cat pulled back, taking Kentril’s weapon with it. Hacking, its life clearly flowing from the great wound, the badly injured beast spat and swiped at everything in sight. Albord barely missed having his head taken from his body. The mercenaries retreated a step, hoping that death would come quick.

  But even with such a wound, the cat did not forget Kentril. Still lithe, still quick, it focused on the cause of its agony, the unblinking eyes locked on Kentril’s own. In those crimson orbs, the captain saw clearly his death coming.

  Then Gorst acted, the barbarian giving a howl worthy of the cat and leaping atop from behind. The monstrous creature tried to twist backward to get the shirtless giant. However, Gorst wrapped his arms around the neck and used the hilt of Kentril’s sword as a grip. Not only did he keep his foe from reaching him, but with his prodigious strength he worked the already deep blade around, further tearing at the cat’s dripping wound.

  At last, the murderous beast stumbled, then fell. It tried to rise but failed. Even then, Gorst held on tight. His muscles strained, seeming almost ready to tear apart, but still he held his position. The barbed tail flew at him once, twice, but, positioned where he was, Gorst remained beyond its limited reach.

  “Let’s finish it!” Kentril deman
ded.

  Zayl alongside them, the rest of the mercenaries closed in, everyone still avoiding the tail. Seizing Oskal’s sword, Kentril joined the others in stabbing the cat time after time. For what seemed an hour but in truth was only a minute, maybe two, they tried to put an end to the murderous creature.

  Then, when Kentril had just begun to believe that nothing could completely slay the monster, the cat exhaled once . . . and fell motionless.

  Still untrusting, the survivors watched with blades ready as Gorst dismounted. When the hellish beast made no move for Captain Dumon’s second, they knew at last that they had slain it.

  “Are you well?” asked a much-too-calm voice.

  Kentril turned to see Zayl, the necromancer, looking untouched both physically and mentally by the disastrous event. At another time, that might have irritated the mercenary, but Zayl had saved his life, and Kentril would never forget that.

  “Thank you, Master Zayl. I would’ve surely been dead if not for your quick reaction.”

  This brought a brief ghost of a smile. “I am simply Zayl. One born to the jungle finds it necessary to learn to react even quicker than the animals, captain—or one gets eaten at an early age.”

  Not certain whether the necromancer had just made a jest or not, Kentril nodded politely, then turned toward the only one in the party who had done nothing to avert the tragedy.

  “Tsin! Damn you, Tsin! Where was all your vaunted power? I thought you Vizjerei had all sorts of magical spells! Three men are dead!”

  Yet again, the diminutive sorcerer managed somehow to look down his nose at the much taller fighter. “And I stood ready in case there existed more than one of these beasts—or did you think your little troop capable of fending off a second at the same time?”

  “Captain,” Albord cut in. “Captain, let’s leave this place. No gold’s worth this.”

  “Leave?” snarled another fighter. “I ain’t going back without something!”

  “How about your head still on your shoulders, eh?”

  Kentril whirled on his men. “Quiet, all of you!”

  “Leaving would probably be a wise choice,” suggested Zayl.

  Tsin waved the wooden staff at the necromancer. “Nonsense! So much awaits us in this city! Likely the animal already lived here before the change, and we just never ran across it. And since no other came to its defense, I dare say it lived alone after all. There should be nothing else to fear here. Nothing!”

  And at that moment, music began to play.

  “Where’s that from?” blurted Jodas.

  “Sounds like it’s comin’ from everywhere!” replied one of his comrades.

  Indeed, the music seemed to close in on the band from all sides. A simple yet haunting tune, not entirely unmerry, played on what sounded like a single flute. Kentril felt two urges at once, one to dance to the tune and the other to run away as fast as he could.

  A man’s light laughter briefly joined the music.

  To Kentril’s far right, a figure moved . . . a human figure.

  Albord pointed down the street. “Captain, there’s folk over by that old inn!”

  “Horse and rider comin’ this way!” shouted another mercenary.

  “That old man! He wasn’t there before!”

  All around the party, figures that had not been visible moments before now walked, rode, or simply stood nearby. They wore free-flowing garments of all shades, and Kentril identified the old, young, strong, and infirm all in the space of one sweeping glance.

  And through each one he could see the buildings beyond . . .

  “Not all the riches in the world are enough for this, Tsin!” The captain summoned the men toward him. “We head to the front gate together! No one strays, no one tries to turn off to search for a few trinkets, understand?”

  None of the fighters argued. To ransack an abandoned city was one thing, but to be trapped in a city of ghosts . . .

  “No!” spat the Vizjerei. “We’re so close!” Nevertheless, he did not wait behind when the mercenaries and Zayl started off.

  Thinking of the necromancer, Kentril asked, “Zayl! You deal with the likes of these. Any suggestions?”

  “Your command is the most prudent course, captain.”

  “Can you do anything about the ghosts?”

  The pale figure’s brow furrowed. “I can ward them off, I believe, but something about them leaves me uneasy. It would be best if we could escape Ureh without any confrontation.”

  This warning from the necromancer did not ease Kentril’s concerns in the least. If even Zayl found Ureh’s ghosts unsettling, then the sooner the band made it through the gates, the better.

  So far, though, the phantasmal figures had done nothing, did not even seem to notice the intruders. And while the flute continued to play, its song growing stronger with each passing moment, it, too, had caused the fleeing group no actual harm.

  “There’s the gate!” Albord shouted. “There’s the—”

  He got no further. As one, the mercenaries froze, the blood draining from their faces as they beheld the way to safety . . . a way open to them no more.

  Yes, there indeed stood the gate, but not as they had left it. Now the drawbridge stood high, and the gate itself had been bolted shut. Worse, a throng had assembled before it, a throng of pale, spectral forms with drawn faces and hollow eyes, the ghostly inhabitants of the shadow-enshrouded kingdom. The hollow eyes turned as one toward the treasure hunters, stared at Kentril and his companions with dreadful intensity.

  Above the music, the light laughter of a man continued.

  FIVE

  Zayl held up the ivory dagger, at the same time muttering something under his breath. The dagger flared bright, and for a moment, the unearthly horde seemed to back away. Then, as if galvanized by some unseen force, they surged forward, moving in determined silence toward the small party. “That should have worked,” muttered the necromancer in an almost clinical tone. “They are ghosts, nothing more . . . I think.”

  The horrific throng seemed to swell further with each second. They did not stretch forth grasping hands toward the fighters, did not in any visible way show menace, but they kept coming, more and more of them. Their eyes never strayed from Kentril’s band, never gave any indication but that they sought to reach those before them.

  No one wanted to know what would happen when they did.

  One of the mercenaries finally broke, turning and fleeing back the way the group had just come. Captain Dumon swore, yet he could think of no other course of action. Waving his sword high over his head, he ordered the rest back as well.

  Weapons clutched tightly—although what use against fleshless horrors blades might be no one could say—the treasure hunters retreated into Ureh in quick fashion. Even Zayl and the Vizjerei ran, Quov Tsin remarkably quick for one of his size and age. Behind them, seeming barely to move yet somehow more than keeping pace, the legion of pale figures followed.

  “At the next street, turn left!” Kentril called to the others. If memory served him, that way led to one of the watchtowers. If they could gain entrance to it, then they could use it to climb over the wall. Two of the men still alive carried rope, certainly enough for them to reach the ground outside.

  But as they approached the intersection, movement from down the very path Kentril had chosen made the mercenaries pause.

  More of Ureh’s forgotten inhabitants approached from there, their faces as hollow and wanting as those behind.

  “They’re comin’ from ahead, too!” shouted Albord, pointing.

  True enough, more filled the street before them. Kentril glanced right. Only in that direction did no ghastly horde yet confront the party. Only to the right did any hope of escape remain.

  Beside him, Zayl murmured, “What other choice do we have?”

  With a wave of his hand, Kentril led the way. At every moment, he expected them to be cut off, but, despite his concerns, their path remained clear as they went along.

  Not s
o any of the side avenues. When two of the mercenaries broke away from the rest and tried to take one, spectral figures materialized from the shadows barely inches from the startled men. The fearful pair quickly returned to the group. Curiously, although the new ghosts also gave pursuit, they, like those already behind, neared the fleeing party but never actually came within reach.

  The necromancer said it first. “We are being led, captain. We are going exactly where they want us.”

  Kentril knew what he meant. Even the slightest indication of variance in the party’s route summoned forth scores of additional silent, horrific shades, but none that ever actually caught any of their prey. No, so long as the mercenaries continued on the path designated, the ghosts only kept pace.

  But what, the captain wondered, awaited the intruders at the end?

  Past tall stonework shops they fled. Past narrow, elegant homes with domed roofs and walled entrances the band ran. In many, lamps and torches flickered, and now and then voices could be heard, but the few times Kentril managed a glance into one of the structures, he saw no sign of life.

  And throughout their perilous flight, the flute continued to play the same, never-ending tune. The jovial laugh of the unseen man would now and then join in, seeming to mock the efforts of the harried company.

  Then the weary mercenaries found the path ahead cut off by more of the ghastly throng. At first, Kentril did not understand why, but then he saw the narrow alley to the left, a dark, uninviting place that went on seemingly forever. The captain quickly surveyed the rest of his surroundings for some other recourse, but only the alley offered any chance.

  “That way!” he shouted, pointing with the sword and hoping that he had not just made a terrible mistake.

  No unblinking, ghoulish forms materialized to block their way. One by one, the men slipped into the narrow passage. Kentril kept the sword ahead of him at all times, aware of the foolishness of the act but feeling some slight comfort despite that knowledge.

  “They’re still behind us, cap’n!” shouted the last in line.

  “Keep following me! There has to be an end to this! There has to be—”