The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  As if reacting to his very words, the alley abruptly gave way to a vast, open plaza. Kentril paused just beyond the end of the alley, staring at what he could not recall having seen at all during the first few days’ scavenging.

  “We couldn’t have missed this . . .” he whispered. “We couldn’t have . . .”

  “By the dragon!” gasped Zayl, now behind him. When Kentril glanced at the necromancer, he saw that Zayl’s mouth hung open in outright awe, a sight in some manner nearly as startling as what lay before them.

  A massive hill—in actuality a huge outcropping of Nymyr itself—rose up in the very midst of Ureh. The hill itself Captain Dumon did recall, of course, and even then he had wondered why the inhabitants would have chosen to build their kingdom to encompass a several-hundred-foot-tall mound of pure, black rock. Yet not only had they chosen to include it in their plans, but someone had successfully carved out an entire stairway leading up to the very top.

  And there, looming over all else, stood what had so ensnared the eyes of all. A magnificent stone edifice with three spiral towers and a high wall of its own overlooked not only Ureh but the countryside far beyond. In shape it reminded Kentril more of the castles from back home, tall, jagged, cold. Fierce winged figures guarded the gate through which any had to pass even to reach the outer grounds. Where the black hill upon which it stood melted perfectly into the shadow cast by the mountain, a faint aura seemed to surround the peculiar white marble from which the keep had evidently been built.

  Kentril blinked twice, but the hint of light surrounding the regal structure remained. A bad feeling rumbled to life in his stomach.

  “The palace of Juris Khan!” whispered Zayl. “But it vanished with him—”

  “Juris Khan’s palace?” Quov Tsin barged through the stunned group, battering larger, more able fighters with only the staff. He stepped to the front and surveyed it as best he could from his low position. More than a hint of avarice tinged his voice as he muttered, “Yesss . . . what better place to look? What better place to look?”

  Kentril suddenly recalled the pursuing phantoms. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see them even now emerging from the alley, only to find his party seemingly abandoned by their terrifying companions.

  “They have ended the hunt,” declared the necromancer, expression guarded. “They have led us to where we must go.”

  Captain Dumon examined again the high, twisting stairway leading up to the huge, barred gate and the murky, winged forms atop the wall who seemed to stare down at the newcomers. “We go up there?”

  “At the moment,” Zayl remarked, “it would seem better than returning to our friends. Do not doubt that if we turn back, they will come again . . . and this time, they may do more than follow.”

  “Of course we should go up!” Tsin nearly spat. He jabbed the staff in the direction of the fabled palace. “In there, Juris Khan’s master spellwork was completed by the combined efforts of his priests and wizards! In there, the greatest of the magebooks will be found—and much gold, of course!”

  Only the Vizjerei seemed at all interested in the pursuit of power and treasure. Kentril and his surviving men had lost their lust for riches, at least for the moment. Not a soldier there wanted more than to be far from the shadowed kingdom, even if it meant leaving without the smallest coin.

  But no choice had been given them. They had been led to this stairway, and the mercenary captain knew that it had indeed not been by accident.

  “Up we go,” he growled. “Keep those torches well lit.”

  As they reluctantly began the climb, Kentril noticed that something else had changed with the vanishing of their unearthly pursuers. No longer did he hear the unnerving music or even the laughter. Ureh had fallen as silent as death.

  Up they slowly struggled, the stairway so steep, so awkward, that Kentril wondered how anyone could have made the journey often. Here and there, parts of steps had given way, making the trek even more troublesome. The torches helped little to guide them, the flames seeming to be dulled somehow by the intense shade. Kentril had seen pitch-black nights brighter than this day. Why, he wondered, had he not noticed how dark it had been on the previous excursions into the ruins? Why did it seem so different now?

  Up and up the band climbed. The stairway seemed twice as long as it should have been. After what felt like a thousand steps, Kentril noted the ragged breathing—his own included—and called for a brief rest. Even Tsin, who so desired to reach the palace, did not argue.

  Zayl, looking far less worn than the rest, sat down a few paces above, hand once more on the bulging pouch. Eyes closed, he sniffed the air, as if seeking something.

  The necromancer opened his eyes quickly when Kentril approached him. Once more, the hand slipped away, and the cloak obscured the pouch. “Captain Dumon.”

  “A word with you, Zayl?”

  “I am at your service.”

  Squatting down near the spellcaster, Kentril commented, “You evidently know a lot about this place. You know more even than old Tsin, and he’s been obsessed with this region all his life.”

  “He has been obsessed all his life, but I have lived near it all mine, captain.”

  “A point well taken, Zayl. How much do you know? When you saw this”—Captain Dumon indicated the palace—“you reacted with some surprise, but not nearly as much as me. This wasn’t here, necromancer! This hill, yes, but this palace of marble, it wasn’t!”

  “And in a realm with ties to Heaven itself, this surprises you?”

  Kentril snorted. “For an earthly Heaven, Ureh’s shown me only blood.”

  Zayl’s left eyebrow arched. “You have a very sharp sense, Captain Dumon, and an innate knowledge of the world I suspect would surprise even me.”

  “I ask you again, necromancer, what do you know about this palace?”

  “Only that, as the Vizjerei indicated”—the pale figure pronounced the one word with something akin to disgust—“it was the place where the spell unfolded, where the path to Heaven was opened. It does not surprise me to find that the home of Juris Khan would not follow mortal dictates even now. It was touched by forces beyond our ken, and even a few centuries would not lessen their effect upon it.”

  The words did Kentril little good. He tried a different tack. “I want to know what’s in that pouch.”

  “As I said, a keepsake.”

  “And for what reason are you keeping it? It seems very precious to you.”

  Zayl stood, his face unemotional. In a louder voice, he asked, “Is it not time we pushed on, captain? We have a bit of a climb still.”

  “He’s right, Dumon,” muttered Tsin from farther down. “Time is wasting.”

  Zayl started up without another word. Kentril gritted his teeth, then reluctantly nodded to the others to continue the climb. The time would come when the spellcaster told him the truth, the captain swore to himself . . . provided that they survived this madness, of course.

  Curiously, from that point on, the remainder of the trek went much swifter. The walled domain of the great and long-absent Juris Khan grew larger and larger with each passing step. Before very long, the high gates finally beckoned to the climbers.

  “Ugly beasts,” Albord grunted, eyeing the two winged gargoyles. Up close, they had manlike bodies but with leonine tendencies and beaked faces reminiscent of vultures. Their paws ended in curved talons like those of eagles or hawks. Wide, inhuman orbs glared down at any who stood directly before the barred entrance.

  “This is the home of the most pious of the pious?” Kentril remarked.

  “Gargoyles are often considered the guardians against Hell,” Zayl explained. “These obviously impress upon the visitor that only the good of heart will cross into the palace.”

  “Does that mean we got to wait out here, cap’n?” someone in the rear called.

  “We all go in, or none of us goes in.” Kentril studied the barred gateway. “If we get in at all.”

  In answer, Zayl reac
hed forward to check. At the slightest touch of his hand, the massive door swung wide open.

  “Shall we enter?” he politely asked the mercenaries.

  The captain fought down a shiver. In opening, the ancient gate had been perfectly silent, as if freshly oiled.

  Zayl took a step forward, then, when nothing happened, he continued on to the palace grounds. Emboldened by the necromancer’s success, Captain Dumon followed him, then signaled his men to come one by one.

  Albord crossed next, to be followed by Jodas and the rest. The more nothing happened to the first through, the easier the minds of those following became. One man even jested with the gargoyles, insisting that they reminded him of a former wife. For the first time since the city had awakened, the mood became somewhat relaxed.

  Tsin stood back, watching each mercenary enter. When the last had passed through the gate, he tightened his grip on the staff and strode forward with all the arrogance of a conqueror.

  From above the entrance, the gargoyles suddenly howled to life.

  Wings outspread, the beaked creatures reared up, stony orbs glaring at the Vizjerei. Talons stretched forth. Tsin immediately retreated.

  The gargoyles instantly returned to their still positions.

  “The guardians are wise-eyed,” murmured Zayl from behind Kentril.

  Ignoring him, the captain stepped to the gate, looking over each gargoyle in turn. Had he not seen it himself, he would have thought someone had made the incident up over a few mugs of strong ale. Reaching up with his sword, he tapped lightly on one figure, hearing only the sound of metal against solid rock.

  “Stand aside, Dumon,” the sorcerer abruptly commanded. “I shall deal with these noisy dogs.”

  Quov Tsin had the tip of his magical staff pointed at the gargoyle to his left. Even as he spoke, his other hand gestured over the wooden rod, causing some of the many runes inscribed in it to glow ominously.

  Zayl joined Kentril. “That might not be wise, Captain Dumon.”

  The mercenary officer had to agree. “Don’t do it, Tsin. You’ll only make matters worse!”

  “This from the man who so demanded my magical aid earlier?” the Vizjerei scoffed. “These beasts will not keep me out!”

  Kentril quickly jumped through the entranceway, blocking Tsin. The Vizjerei stepped back but did not lower the staff.

  “Get next to me,” ordered the captain. “Stay close, and we might be able to avoid unnecessary trouble.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “Just do as I said, Tsin!”

  As Kentril started to moved back to the gate, Zayl confronted him. “If you insist upon this, you will need someone other than the Vizjerei to watch the second gargoyle.” He held the ivory dagger steady. “I will assist you.”

  “I don’t need any—” the wrinkled spellcaster began.

  “Quiet, Tsin!” Sorcerer or not, Captain Dumon had finally had more than enough of his employer. Zayl had been able to step where Tsin could not, and that said much about both men.

  With the diminutive figure between them, Kentril and the necromancer moved sideways toward the gate. The gargoyles stood fixed, simple statues of rock. No hint of their previous awakening could be seen.

  Placing one foot within the palace grounds, Kentril exhaled slightly. His idea appeared to be working; with the sorcerer hidden between the two taller men, the magical guardians seemed caught unaware.

  “Just a step or two more—”

  As Tsin’s robed form began to cross the threshold, the gargoyle before Kentril leapt to life, wings suddenly flapping, monstrous eyes glaring, and stony mouth opened in a wild, ear-splitting roar.

  Behind him, Kentril heard a second, identical cry, proof enough that Zayl also faced a newly revived beast.

  The beaked head came forward, snapping at an area just to the left side of the fighter. The captain’s sword clanged hard against the marble maw, but the gargoyle at least withdrew. From the necromancer, Kentril heard words of some unfamiliar tongue, then a brief flash of light at the corner of his vision startled him.

  The first gargoyle used his surprise to attack again, and again it tried to reach around the mercenary. It wants Tsin! Kentril realized. It’s trying to avoid fighting me! It wants only him!

  Fearsome talons swept by his shoulder, snatching at the small sorcerer. The Vizjerei batted at them with the staff, sparks flashing whenever the wooden rod touched stone.

  “Tsin!” Kentril shouted. “Now’s your chance! Jump—”

  At that moment, the flute music began again, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Kentril clamped his mouth shut, wondering what the return of the haunting melody portended.

  The music had a startling effect on the gargoyles. The one before the leader of the mercenaries paused in mid-attack, then peered up at the sky. It squawked once, then quickly repositioned itself as the party had first seen it. As Kentril watched, all semblance of life swiftly vanished, the guardian once more simply a sentinel of stone.

  “Incredible . . .” he heard Zayl remark. Twisting, Kentril saw that the necromancer’s monstrous foe had also returned to its original state.

  There could be no question but that the music had given them this reprieve, and the captain intended to make good use of that sudden luck. “Move it, Tsin!”

  The Vizjerei needed no encouragement. Already he had one foot on the inner yard of the ancient palace, and by the time Kentril and Zayl turned to follow, Quov Tsin stood waiting for them some distance inside.

  And still the music played . . .

  “It comes from inside,” insisted the Vizjerei, now very eager to enter. “Follow me!”

  A chuckle escaped from the vicinity of Zayl. “Brave man, indeed, I say, to go where he’s clearly not wanted!”

  Kentril glanced at the necromancer, but Zayl acted as if he had not spoken, and the captain had to admit that the voice had not sounded like his. Nor had it sounded like any of the men under Kentril’s command.

  No one else seemed to have noticed the voice, though. Albord and the others awaited his orders. Tsin already had a good start on the rest of the party, and for some reason, Kentril did not want the Vizjerei getting too far away. Something told him that he should keep an eye on the short, arrogant figure. The gargoyles had been placed at the entrance for a reason, and they had reacted only to Tsin—not Zayl, as one might have expected. That did not bode well.

  Guided by the flute, the party reached the entrance, a high, arched opening with two bronze doors upon which had been sculpted sword-wielding archangels. Curiously, the images looked badly battered while everything else appeared untouched.

  With the tip of his staff, Quov Tsin pushed at one of the doors. Like the gate, it swung open in silence. With all the confidence of one returning to his own home, the Vizjerei marched inside.

  Marble columns three stories tall flanked a magnificent hall illuminated by a massive chandelier that the captain estimated held more than a hundred lit candles. The floor consisted entirely of skillfully crafted mosaic patterns of fanciful animals such as dragons and chimaera—something of a contrast to the archangels, Kentril thought. Between the two series of columns, portraits of imposing figures in robes of state no doubt gave homage to those who had ruled Ureh over the centuries.

  At the end of the corridor, another set of doors awaited them. Making their way past the staring visages of lords long dead, the party paused there, everyone quite aware that the music seemed now to be coming from within. Once again, archangels with swords adorned the entrance, and once again, the figures had been battered hard. Tsin reached for the doors, but this time they would not open for him. When Zayl, too, tried, he met with no better success.

  Kentril stepped up next to the two spellcasters. “Maybe there’s a lock or a—”

  He had been about to touch one of the ruined images when suddenly both doors swung wide open. The trio backed away as a rush of cold air swept out from the darkened chamber before them.

  At first,
they saw nothing, but then the music drew their gazes to the very back of the room, where they could faintly make out a dim lamp . . . and, seated next to it in a high-backed chair, an elderly man in robes of white.

  He leaned forward, as if not noticing their coming. Kentril’s eyes adjusted enough to see that a slim, hooded figure sat upon the floor before the elder, a figure with a flute held up to where the lips would have been.

  “More ghosts . . .” Albord muttered.

  Although he had spoken only in whispers, the two within reacted as if the chandelier had suddenly fallen whole from the ceiling, loudly smashing to fragments on the marble floor. The hooded form ceased playing, then rose and slipped into the darkness with one graceful movement. The robed patriarch glanced up and, to everyone’s surprise, greeted them as if having waited all this time for their arrival.

  “You have come at last, friends,” he announced in a soft voice that yet seemed to carry the strength of an army in it.

  Never one to stand on ceremony save where it concerned his own magnificence, the Vizjerei tapped the staff once on the floor and declared, “I am Quov Tsin! Sorcerer of the Innermost Circle, Brother of the High Initiate, Master of—”

  “I know who you are,” the elder responded solemnly. He looked at Kentril and the others, and even though a vast distance stretched between them, the captain felt as if he stood immediately in front of the former, every thought and emotion revealed. “I know who all of you are, my friends.”

  Zayl pushed ahead of the sorcerer. He wore an intense expression that surprised most of those around him, especially Kentril. All had come to assume that the necromancer had such utter control over his emotions that nothing, not even a ghostly kingdom, could draw much reaction from him. Even the expression he had worn when first seeing the looming palace could not match his present eagerness.

  “And am I right, honored sir, am I right in thinking I know you as well?”

  This the white-robed figure found almost amusing. He leaned on one arm of the chair, his chin resting on the palm of his hand. “And do you?”

  “Are you not—are you not the great Juris Khan?”