The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I think my people would demand it!” Juris Khan looked over the other mercenaries. “There are places for you to sleep in the palace, but there’s no need for you to stay here otherwise. Outside, I know that wine, food, and other entertainments are available to you, my friends! If you like, go now with my blessing, and when you finally reach your limit, you are welcome back here!”

  The captain nodded permission. That was all the news that Albord and the others needed. With much backslapping and cheerful words, they started out of the chamber, each saluting Kentril as they passed.

  “You men can go, too,” he informed Jodas and those who had journeyed to the mountain.

  They quickly joined their fellows. As Gorst started to leave, though, the captain called him over.

  “Keep a bit of an eye on them if you can,” he asked of his loyal second. “Make certain that they don’t wear out our welcome despite everything, eh?”

  Gorst gave him his biggest grin yet. “I’ll watch, Kentril. I will.”

  That left only Zayl, and while Captain Dumon felt more comfortable around the necromancer than he had at first, he still desired his pale companion to find some other interest. Atanna still held Kentril’s hand, and he hoped that meant that she would not be averse to advances made by him.

  As if reading his thoughts, Zayl suddenly announced, “Great Lord of Ureh, with your permission, I think that I shall see if the Vizjerei might need some of my assistance.”

  “That would be most appreciated, my friend. One of the guards can direct you.”

  With a sweeping bow, the necromancer backed away, leaving Kentril with Juris Khan’s daughter.

  Her father smiled at the pair. “Atanna, I’m sure that the captain hungers. See that he is satiated.”

  “If that is your order,” she replied with a slight inclination of her head.

  Atanna led Kentril out, guiding him down a hall he had not traversed previously. Not once did she loosen her hold on him, and not once did the veteran fighter struggle to free his hand. In his mind, she could have led him the length and breadth of the kingdom, and he would have willingly followed.

  “You’ve done so much for us, so much for me,” she said as they walked alone. “I don’t know how to thank you, captain.”

  “Kentril. My name’s Kentril, my lady.”

  Under thick lashes, she smiled at him. “Kentril. You must call me Atanna in return, of course.”

  “It’d be my honor.” He frowned. “Is Ureh really safe? Have we really beaten Gregus Mazi’s spell?”

  The smile faltered a bit. “You have secured us to the world. We cannot go beyond the area the shadow forms, but there is hope now that soon we can. Once my father is free of the other spell, he can proceed with some thoughts he has had, possibilities in which the sorcerer and the necromancer would be of much aid.”

  “You’d better have someone keep an eye on old Tsin. He’s not the most honest of his ilk.”

  “My father knows how to read people, Kentril. You should realize that.”

  The corridor suddenly felt much too warm. The captain tried to think of another direction of conversation . . . and finally recalled the brooch.

  “My lady—Atanna—I’ve got to confess that when I saw you with Lord Khan, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen your face.”

  She laughed lightly, a musical sound. “And here I thought that I had entranced you with one single glimpse! I noted that you reacted far more than any of your comrades.” Atanna cocked her head. “Tell me, then. How do you know of me?”

  “Because of this.” He pulled forth the brooch.

  Atanna gasped when she saw it. She took it from his hand, running her index finger over the image of herself. “So long! So very long since I saw this! Where did you find it?”

  “In the ruins, in the midst of the city—”

  “He took it,” the crimson-tressed young woman said in a tone so dark it actually made Kentril shiver slightly. “Gregus. He took it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he desired me, Kentril, desired me heart and soul. When he discovered that Ureh would return once the shadow of Nymyr touched this area in just such a way, he came not only to rectify his foul failure but to try to take me as his prize!”

  Without his realizing it, the mercenary captain’s hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. Atanna, however, noticed his action and blushed.

  “You would be my champion, Kentril? If only you would’ve been there the first time. I know you wouldn’t have let him do to Ureh what he did. I know that you would have slain the beast for us . . . for me.”

  He wanted to throw his arms around her but managed to hold back. Yet Captain Dumon could not help himself from replying, “I would do anything for you.”

  Her blushing only increased . . . and made her that much more alluring. Atanna put the brooch back into his palm. “Take this back as a gift from me. Let it be a sign of my gratitude and . . . and my favor.”

  He tried to speak, tried to thank her, but before he could, Juris Khan’s daughter stepped up on her toes and kissed him.

  All else in the world faded to insignificance.

  Zayl felt extremely uncomfortable. He had felt so for quite a long time, almost since he and the others had first met Juris Khan. That no one else might have recognized this discomfort gave credit to the necromancer’s mental and physical skills. The training through which he had lived his entire life had granted Zayl virtual control over every aspect of his being. Few things could disturb the balance within him.

  But something about Ureh and its inhabitants had. On the surface, the necromancer could see nothing capable of doing so. Khan and his people had been thrown into a most dire predicament, the victims of a spell twisted by a corrupted sorcerer. He as much as Captain Dumon had wanted to help them, although while the mercenary’s interests had much to do with the beauteous offspring of Ureh’s ruler, Zayl’s interest had been in returning to balance that which had been madly left awry. Such a travesty as Gregus Mazi had enacted could have threatened the stability of the world itself, for whenever innocents suffered as the citizens of this kingdom had, it strengthened the cause of Hell.

  Gregus Mazi . . .

  “Here we are, sir,” the guard who had accompanied Zayl remarked.

  “Thank you. I have no more need of you.”

  The pale spellcaster entered. As he had requested, he had been led to the library where Juris Khan had kept Ureh’s greatest magical tomes, holy works, scrolls, and artifacts. In the days of the kingdom’s glory, a hundred scholars of both the mystical and theological paths would have been in the vast room perusing the ceiling-high shelves for the secrets and truths gathered here over the centuries.

  Now only one slight figure hunched over a massive, moldering book almost as large as himself. Even as he entered, Zayl could hear Quov Tsin muttering to himself.

  “But if the rune here means the sun’s power and this segment refers to the Eye of Hest . . .”

  The Vizjerei suddenly looked up, then glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the necromancer.

  “Master Tsin,” Zayl greeted the other spellcaster.

  The short, bearded man snorted at the newcomer, then returned his gaze to the book.

  “How goes your research?”

  Without looking at Zayl, Quov Tsin testily retorted, “It goes slowly when young cretins constantly interrupt it with their blather!”

  “Perhaps a combination of efforts would—”

  Now the elderly Vizjerei did look at the necromancer again, but with eyes that burned bright with growing fury. “I am a sorcerer of the first magnitude. There is nothing I could learn from you.”

  “I only meant—”

  “Wait! It occurs to me that there is one thing you can do.”

  Zayl frowned, suspicious. “What?”

  With a venomous tone, the Vizjerei replied, “You can leave this library right now and get as far away from me as possible! You taint the very air I breathe.”


  The necromancer’s gray eyes met Tsin’s silver-gray ones. Both the Vizjerei and the servants of Rathma shared some common ancestry, but neither spellcaster would have ever acknowledged such a blood relation. As far as both sides were concerned, a gulf almost as wide as that between Heaven and Hell existed, a gulf neither wished to bridge.

  “As you desire,” the pale mage responded. “I would not want to put too much distress on one of such senior years. It could prove fatal.”

  With a snarl, Quov Tsin turned away. Zayl did likewise, leaving the library and marching down a deserted hallway.

  He had not meant to get into any confrontation with the Vizjerei, no matter how minor. The necromancer had honestly wanted to help, the better to see Juris Khan free.

  However, there were spells and research that Zayl could do on his own, paths of which the more materialistic Tsin would have never approved. Those who followed the ways of Rathma often found what other spellcasters carelessly overlooked. How ironic it would be if Zayl discovered quickly what his counterpart so struggled to find. Tsin badly wanted the magical tomes and relics Khan had promised him; it would eat him up inside if Zayl instead garnered the prizes.

  “Zayl, boy! I must speak!”

  He planted a hand over the bulky pouch at his side, trying to smother the voice that could not be smothered. Even though it had hardly spoken above a whisper, to the necromancer it had resounded like thunder in the empty hall.

  “Zayl—”

  “Quiet, Humbart!” he whispered. Quickly surveying the area, Zayl noticed the entrance to a balcony. With smooth, silent movements, the slim, pale man darted outside.

  Below, the sounds of merriment continued. Zayl exhaled; out here, no one would hear him speaking with the skull.

  He pulled what remained of Humbart Wessel out of the pouch, glaring into the empty eye sockets. “More than once you have nearly given away yourself, Humbart, and thereby put me in straits! Trust is not always an easy thing for one of my kind to attain, but it is a fairly easy thing for us to lose. Those who do not understand the truth of Rathma prefer to believe the lies.”

  “You mean, like raising the dead?”

  “What is it you want, Humbart?”

  “Gregus Mazi,” answered the skull, the eye sockets almost seeming to narrow.

  He had captured Zayl’s attention. “What about him?”

  “You didn’t believe that hogwash about old Gregus, did you?” mocked Humbart. “Gregus, who wanted so badly to join his friends in Heaven that he prayed each morning and eve and cried most of the day through?”

  Looking down at the torchlit city, the necromancer thought over everything that had been said about the sorcerer. During Juris Khan’s revelations, Zayl had more than once pondered inconsistencies with what Humbart Wessel had told him but had also assumed that the lord of Ureh would certainly know Mazi better. “Sorcerers, especially those like the Vizjerei, can be a treacherous, lying bunch. Mazi simply fooled you, Humbart.”

  “If he fooled me, lad, then I’ve got two legs, a pair of arms, and all the bones in between still—and covered in a good wrapping of flesh to boot! Old Gregus, he was a torn man, blaming himself for not being good enough and praying for redemption from day one. He was no monster, no corrupted wizard, mark me!”

  “But Juris Khan—”

  “Either was fooled or lies through his teeth. I’d swear on my grave, and you know that’s one oath I’ll hold true to.”

  Now Zayl truly understood his own earlier anxieties. In the past, he had heard from the skull bits and pieces of the events that had taken place outside the shadowed kingdom, when Humbart Wessel and his men had watched Gregus Mazi rush to the ghostly city, arms raised in praise to Heaven and voice calling out thanks for this second opportunity. Every time Humbart had mentioned the spellcaster, it had always been as a man driven to redeem himself, to prove himself worthy.

  Not at all the beast that Khan and his daughter had described.

  “And what would you suggest?” the necromancer muttered.

  “Find out the truth from the source, of course!”

  Zayl gaped. “Gregus Mazi?”

  It had never occurred to him to try to raise the specter of the dead mage. In the past, it had seemed impossible, for all trace of the man had been thought to have vanished along with the legendary kingdom, but now Zayl stood within that realm himself.

  One problem remained, though. According to Juris Khan, Mazi had been utterly destroyed, his corporeal form incinerated. Without skin, hair, blood, or a sample of well-worn clothes, even a skilled necromancer such as Zayl could hope to accomplish little.

  He said as much to the skull, which brought back a harsh and sarcastic response from Humbart. “Am I the only one of us who still has a brain in his head? Think, lad! Gregus was born and raised in Ureh. He lived here all his life until the spell that cast the soul of the city and its people into oblivion, and then he still came back again. More to the point, Zayl, Ureh’s been frozen in time, almost unchanging. If old Gregus had a place to call his own here, the betting’s good that it still stands.”

  What Humbart said made such sense that Zayl could not believe that he had not thought it. If a piece of clothing or an item often used could be found among the dead mage’s belongings, it might prove enough to summon the shade of the man. Then from Gregus Mazi himself the necromancer could learn the truth—and possibly even the key to Ureh’s salvation. If Mazi proved to be the evil that Juris Khan claimed him to be, Zayl could wring the secret of his spellwork from him far faster than Tsin could ever hope to do by thumbing through volume after volume of dusty tomes.

  “We must find his home.”

  “Can’t likely just ask, though, can we?”

  Eyeing again the city below, where the celebrations continued unabated, Zayl allowed himself the slightest of smiles. “Perhaps we can, Humbart . . . perhaps we can.”

  A few minutes later, the cloaked spellcaster walked among the citizens of Ureh, a tower of black among the colorful locals dancing, cheering, and singing under the light of torches and oil lamps. It seemed odd to need torches and lamps at what should have been the brightest part of the day, but with the deep shadow of Nymyr also their protection from both exile and horrific death, the inhabitants of Ureh certainly seemed unwilling to complain.

  Several men insisted on shaking his hand or slapping his back, while more than one enticing female sought to thank him even more personally. Zayl suffered the slaps and accepted politely the kisses on his cheek, but although he could not help being slightly caught up by the mood around him, the necromancer kept his mind on the task ahead.

  “Damn, but I wish I had a body to go with this cracked old skull,” came Humbart’s voice from the pouch. “Ah, to drink some good ale, to find some bad women—”

  “Quiet!” While it seemed unlikely that anyone would hear the skull in the midst of all this festivity, Zayl wanted to take no chances.

  One of Kentril Dumon’s men came swaggering down the street, a young woman on each arm. The bearded mercenary kissed the one clad in a golden outfit more appropriate for a harem, then noticed the necromancer watching him.

  “Enjoyin’ yourself, spellcaster?” He grinned and, momentarily releasing his companions, extended his arms to include all of Ureh. “The whole blasted kingdom wants ta celebrate us heroes!”

  Zayl recalled the dark-haired fighter’s name. Putting a slight smile on his own face, he commented, “A change from the usual mercenary’s reward, yes, Brek?”

  “You can say that!” Brek placed his arm around the second young woman, a sultry beauty with ample curves whose gossamer dress hid little. The fighter let his fingers dangle a scant inch or two over the uppermost of those curved areas as he paused to kiss her on the throat.

  The one in gold began giving Zayl admiring glances. Under shaded eyes, she said, “Are you one of the heroes, too?”

  “Careful there!” the mercenary jested. “He’s a necromancer, ladies! You know, rai
se the dead and commune with spirits!”

  If Brek thought that this would scare the two, he was sorely mistaken. In fact, both eyed Zayl with much more interest, so much, in fact, that he felt like a bound mouse set before two hungry cats.

  “You raise the dead?” the first breathed. “And spirits, too?”

  “Can you show us?” asked the second.

  “Here now, ladies! Don’t go givin’ him any notions about that!”

  Zayl shook his head. “It is not something lightly done, anyway, my ladies. Besides, I would not wish to dampen these festivities. After all, the curse of Gregus Mazi has finally been countered.”

  The one in gold lost all trace of humor. “A terrible, terrible man!”

  “Yes, a traitorous person. Ureh would be well rid of all memory of him. Any images, any writings, they should all be destroyed. Even his sanctum should be razed to the ground, the better to forget his evil . . . that is, unless to do so would endanger the homes of others.”

  “There’d be little enough to burn,” replied the curvaceous woman, “built into the mountain as it is.”

  “The mountain? He lived in a cave? How monstrous!”

  “It was part of an old monastery, built before the city,” she offered. “But monstrous of him, yes,” the woman quickly added. “Monstrous, indeed.”

  Brek had heard enough such talk. “Now, girls, why don’t we let the spellcaster be on his way? I’m sure he’s got himself a rendezvous of his own, don’t you, sir?”

  Zayl recognized the suggestion to leave. With the smile still in place, he said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is someone dying to meet me.”

  The women laughed lightly at this, but the fighter gave Zayl’s jest a sour expression in reply. Bowing slightly, the necromancer bid them goodbye, then walked off as if rejoining the celebration.

  “Now I know where they got the expression gallows humor,” Humbart muttered from his pouch.

  “I merely wanted them to think I had no purpose but amusement tonight.”

  “With jests like that? Now, me, I would’ve said—”

  “Quiet.” Zayl gave the pouch a slight rap as added emphasis.