He now knew where to find the former abode of the mysterious Gregus Mazi, and, once there, he would surely be able to locate some item with which to summon the man’s shade. Then, at last, Zayl would find out the truth, find out whose version of facts fit.
Find out why a reborn Ureh would trouble him so.
Brek stumbled into the home of one of his two companions with lust fully on his besotted mind. Even the necromancer’s thankfully brief interruption of his pleasuring had not lessened his desires. Not only did both young women seem willing, but they were far, far more attractive than those with whom he usually found himself. It would be good, for a change, not to find the next morning that he had bedded some one-eyed she-demon with skin more leathery than his boots. Brek felt certain he had it in him to more than satisfy both beauties, and even if it turned out he didn’t, at least if they satisfied him, it would all be worth it.
Only a dim light far, far back in the building cast any illumination. The mercenary wended his way toward it, only belatedly realizing that he no longer had an arm around either of his intended treats. At some point near the doorway, both had gone missing.
“Here now, ladies!” he called. “Where’ve you run off to?”
“Over here . . .” called the voice of the one Brek recalled as wearing the striking golden outfit.
If she wanted to be first, then he would not disappoint her. Brek followed the call, reaching out with his hands as he gradually made his way toward the faint light.
“Almost there . . .” murmured the second, the woman whose shape the fighter had found so appealing.
“So you both want a piece of me at once?” He laughed. “That’s fine with me!”
“We’re glad you think so,” said the first, moving into the light.
Brek screamed.
Under scraps of hair, a husk of a face stared empty-eyed at the mercenary. A mouth shaped into a circle and filled at the edges with sharp, needlelike teeth gaped. Any flesh on what had once been a female face had dried away, leaving skin so taut it barely could hold in the skull.
Bony claws stretched forth, seeking him. Vaguely he noted the tattered remains of the golden dress, then the horror of what he faced finally stirred Brek to action. He reached down for his sword, only to find the scabbard empty.
Where had the weapon gone? He slowly recalled how, at an inn, he had showed the women and some other onlookers how he had helped battle the hellish cat. After that, there had been a round of drinks in honor of his heroism, and then—
He had never retrieved the sword from next to his chair.
Brek fearfully backed away, only to collided with someone. He looked over his shoulder and saw, to his horror, another cadaverous yet hungry face, a mummified shell who could only be the other of his feminine companions.
“We’d all like a piece of you,” it said.
And as she spoke, Brek became aware that other figures moved in the dim light, figures with similar outlines, figures all around him, reaching, hungering . . .
He managed one last, short cry before they enveloped him.
EIGHT
Captain Dumon had always imagined Heaven as a place of light, a place where darkness could never invade. He would have never thought that Heaven could be a realm where shadow preserved and even the light of dawn could mean death. Of course, Heaven to him was any place where he could be with Atanna.
He had left her some hours before, but still she had his heart and mind. Kentril had only slept lightly since, yet he felt refreshed, more alive than ever in his entire life.
He peered out of the window of the room given to him, to see the city still alive with torches. Although a part of him yearned for some bit of daylight simply in order to mark the passage of time, the captain knew that could not be. Until the people of Ureh could safely stand in the sun, the shadow had to remain fixed over the kingdom.
Atanna felt certain that her father could remedy the situation now that they had some stability on the mortal plane. However, to accomplish anything, he first had to be free, and only through Quov Tsin could that be possible.
Never before had Kentril looked to the Vizjerei for any true magical assistance. He had desired some, yes, during the battle with the demon cat, but had not actually expected much. Now he prayed that Tsin would prove himself the master he claimed to be.
“Kentril.”
Gorst stood at the doorway to his chambers, the massive fighter at attention. Kentril blinked, recalling that each morning he generally received a status report from his second. Of course, with their work for Tsin seemingly at an end, the captain had put all such tasks from his mind. Only Khan’s daughter concerned him now.
“Yes, Gorst.”
“Three missing, Kentril.”
“Missing?”
“Seven came back.” He grinned. “Drunk. Three didn’t.”
Captain Dumon shrugged. “Not too surprising, all things considered. Actually, I’m amazed that so many returned.”
“Want me to watch for them?”
“Not unless they go missing for a couple days. We’re all being treated like kings here, Gorst. They’re just reveling in it, that’s all.”
The black-maned fighter started to turn away, then commented, “She’s prettier than on the brooch, Kentril.”
“I know. Gorst . . . any word from Tsin on his efforts?” If any of them had kept some track of the Vizjerei’s work, it would have been the huge mercenary.
“The magic man thinks he’s got something.”
That pleased Kentril. “Good. Where can I find him?”
“With the books.” When it became clear that his captain did not understand, Gorst grunted. “I’ll show you.”
Kentril followed him through a maze of halls until they came to what surely had to be one of the largest collections of writings the mercenary had ever either heard of or seen. While he could read and write after a fashion—not something most of his men could do—Kentril could not imagine himself putting together so many words. Moreover, the words in these tomes and scrolls had not only meaning but power. These words had magic.
The shelves rose high, each filled with leather-bound volumes or tightly sealed parchments. No direct system of order could be seen, but as a military man, Captain Dumon assumed that there had to be one. Well-worn ladders stood before every other set of shelves, and tables with stools had been set aside for those making use of Ureh’s literary treasures.
As a mercenary, Kentril could also appreciate the value of the many writings stored in this vast chamber. Sorcerers like Quov Tsin often paid hefty prices for such books, and he had himself retrieved one or two for good pay. Still, at the moment, all Kentril saw in the library was the means by which Atanna could be free.
No, he saw something else besides. Seated in the midst of the lamplit chamber, Quov Tsin huddled over books and sheets, scribbling notes with a quill and keeping his index finger on one of the pages of one particularly massive tome.
The Vizjerei did not look up as Kentril neared. Under his breath, Tsin muttered incomprehensible things, and the sorcerer had a look upon his wrinkled features that caused the hardened fighter to pause. He had seen the diminutive Vizjerei obsessed before, but now Tsin resembled a man gone completely mad. His eyes never blinked as he worked, and his gaze went only from the book to the sheet upon which he wrote and back again. A grin that the captain had only seen on corpses stretched far across the slight figure’s face, giving Tsin a very unsettling expression.
Kentril cleared his throat.
The stooped figure did not look up, instead scrawling new notes over the already heavily covered parchment.
“Tsin.”
With what almost seemed a monumental struggle, the avian face turned his way. “What is it, Dumon?”
The venom with which the Vizjerei spoke each syllable left both Kentril and Gorst taken aback. The captain realized that his hand had slipped to the hilt of his sword, and he quickly removed it before Tsin could take any furthe
r umbrage.
“I came to see how you were progressing with Lord Khan and the city’s—”
“I could be progressing much faster without constant and inane interruptions by the likes of you, cretin!” Quov Tsin slammed his fist on the table, sending ink spreading across the bottom of the parchment and over his hand. He seemed not to notice what he had done, more concerned with spitting barbed words at those before him. “You come clawing and squeaking and questioning, all of you, when here I sit on the verge of discovery! Can your feeble minds not comprehend the magnitude of what I struggle toward?”
Releasing the quill, the ink-stained hand reached for the sorcerer’s staff. Malice filled Tsin’s eyes.
Kentril backed up more, nearly colliding with Gorst. “Easy there, Tsin! Are you insane?”
Knuckles white, the Vizjerei clutched the staff. His silver-gray eyes darted from the two men to the rune-covered rod and back again. For a few dangerous seconds, a struggle between choices clearly unfolded . . . and then at last Quov Tsin put the staff to the side and with much effort turned back to his task.
Without looking at the pair, he whispered, “You had better leave.”
“Tsin, I think you need some rest . . . and when’s the last time you ate any—”
Both of the spellcaster’s bony hands tightened. Eyes still downcast, he said again, “You had better leave.”
Gorst took Kentril by the shoulder, and the two backed out of the library. They said nothing until several steps down the corridor, where they hoped Tsin could not hear them.
“Was he like that the last time you saw him?” Captain Dumon interrogated his second.
“No . . . not so bad, anyway, Kentril.”
“I knew the old mage was ill tempered, but Tsin nearly tried to kill us, you know that, don’t you?”
The giant gave him a brooding look. “I know.”
“I should go have a talk with Juris Khan. It won’t do anyone any good if old Tsin goes violently mad. He might hurt someone.”
“Maybe he just needs to take a nap.”
Kentril grimaced. “Well, if anyone can make him do it, it’d have to be Khan. You saw how much he listened to me.”
“You want me to keep an eye on him?” Gorst asked.
“Only if you keep your distance. Don’t do it immediately, though. Let him get lost in his work again for an hour or two first. That might be better.”
From somewhere within the palace, a flute began to play. Suddenly, Kentril lost all interest in the damnable Vizjerei’s antics. He knew of only one person in Khan’s sanctum who played a flute.
“Maybe if I talk to Atanna first, she can better explain it to her father,” the captain could not help saying. “That’d probably be the best course of action for me.”
The grin returned to Gorst’s broad face. “Probably be.”
Kentril felt his face flush. He turned to go, but could not help adding at the last, “Just be careful, Gorst.”
The grin remained. “You, too.”
The flute playing continued, the same haunting melody that he had heard that first fateful time. Captain Dumon followed the music through numerous, winding halls that made it feel to him as if he were repeating his journey to the library. At last, Kentril came not to a balcony or one of the many vast chambers but rather to an open gate leading to, of all things, a vast inner courtyard open to the sky, a courtyard doubling as an extensive garden.
Garden perhaps understated severely the sight. A miniature forest—more a jungle—spread out before the veteran soldier. Exotic trees and plants that seemed like none Kentril had ever encountered, not even on the trek to this distant part of Kehjistan, grew tall and strong. Dark greens, vivid crimsons, bright yellows, and fiery oranges decorated the tableau in arresting fashion. There were hanging vine plants and monstrous flowers, some of the latter larger than his head. One could literally become lost within a garden such as this, of that Kentril had no doubt.
And near the path leading into it, Atanna, seated on a stone bench, played her flute. A billowing, silky dress with a long, thin skirt somehow emphasized rather than hid her slim but curved form. Her long red tresses hung down over the left side of her face, reaching all the way to a most attractive décolletage. She did not notice him at first, but when he started toward her, captivated by the sight of her playing, Atanna suddenly looked up.
Her eyes held such an intensity that they left Kentril at a loss for how to proceed. Atanna, however, took control of the situation by putting down her flute and coming to him.
“Kentril! I hope you slept well.”
“Very much. You play beautifully, Atanna.”
She gave him a most demure look. “I think not, but my father shares your opinion.”
Not certain what to say yet, the captain glanced past her at the garden. “One never knows what to expect next here.”
“Do you like it? This is my favorite place. I’ve spent much of my life here, and much of our exile, too.”
“It’s . . . unique.”
Atanna pulled him toward it. “You must have a closer look!”
Despite the fanciful colors of the flowers and some of the plants, the garden had a rather foreboding look that Kentril did not truly notice until his hostess had led him up to the path running through it. Suddenly the beauty and wonder of it gave way to an uneasiness. Now it reminded him more of the jungle through which he and his men had fought, the same jungle that had claimed four of his party.
“What’s the matter?” Juris Khan’s daughter asked.
“Nothing.” He steeled himself for the walk through. This was not the same stark jungle. This was simply a fanciful garden built for the lord of the realm. What danger could possibly exist within such a confined space?
“I love it here,” she murmured. “It takes me away from the world in which I’m trapped, lets me imagine I’m far away, in another land, about to meet a handsome stranger.”
Kentril started to say something but decided he could not trust his tongue not to tie itself up. He could scarcely believe himself. Never in his life had any woman left him feeling so befuddled.
Broad-leafed plants brushed their shoulders, and occasional vines, seeming to drop from nowhere, dangled near their heads. The path at their feet had been made to seem quite natural, a covering of soft dirt and sand over what felt like solid stone.
With each step, though, it grew darker and darker, until at last he could see neither the entrance through which they had come nor the exit far ahead. Now he truly felt as if he had stepped back into the jungle.
His companion noticed his sudden anxiety. “You’re shivering!”
“It’s nothing, my lady.”
“You’re supposed to call me Atanna,” she responded in mock anger. “Or did this mean so little to you?”
She leaned forward and kissed him. His anxieties concerning his surroundings vanished in an instant. Kentril wrapped his arms around her and returned her passion.
Then he felt something on his neck, a slow but steady movement like that of a worm or a caterpillar. Yet whatever crawled upon his skin did so with appendages as sharp as needles.
Unable to withstand it, Captain Dumon pushed Atanna back and quickly reached for the creature. However, as his hand neared, the thing suddenly pulled away, as if perhaps falling off.
“What is it?” Atanna cautiously asked.
“Something landed on me! It felt as if it walked across my neck with tiny swords at the end of each leg!”
Even in the darkness, he could make out her face well enough. Atanna frowned in consideration, but seemed to have no knowledge to offer. “Shall we leave?”
The pain had faded, and Kentril had no desire to look cowardly and foolish before her, especially over some insect. “No, let’s go on as we have.”
They moved on a few paces, stopping again to kiss. Atanna then buried her head in his chest, saying, “Father still hopes to complete the journey to Heaven.”
He stiffened. “Is th
at still possible?”
“So he believes. I pray he’s wrong.”
“But why?”
She put her hand on his cheek. “Because I find the mortal world more to my liking.”
“Can you talk him out of it?” The gentle caress of her hand against his skin helped Kentril relax again.
“It would help if I knew that we stood an easier and safer chance of making our tentative hold on the mortal plane a permanent one. If I could convince him that for the sake of all, we would be better off once more among men, then I feel that he’d acquiesce. After all, the threat we fled no longer exists.”
She wanted to stay, and he wanted her to stay. Yet Juris Khan wished at last to achieve the holy goal offered to him during those dark years of terror. Not surprising, but certainly not wanted by either here.
“Maybe Tsin would know—” Kentril started before recalling the possession the Vizjerei seemed under. He did not want to try to speak with Tsin, at least not until the sorcerer had been persuaded to rest and eat properly.
“Maybe he could convince Father?” Her tone spoke openly of hope. “The old one seems very skilled, if lacking in common courtesy. Do you think he could do it?”
“I don’t—” The captain paused. An idea began to formulate, one that would possibly play on old Tsin’s personality.
Atanna appeared to sense his shifting mood. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”
“A possible idea. If Tsin remains constant, it could work to our—your benefit. I need to think about it a little longer, and it would be good if I didn’t talk to him just now.”
“I have no intention of parting with you just yet, anyway,” the young woman responded. “Not at the moment.” Atanna stepped up and kissed him again.
Feeling much better about matters, Captain Dumon responded in kind. If the Vizjerei could be persuaded to see his way, then Tsin, in turn, would likely persuade Khan. All Kentril had to do was play on the spellcaster’s greed—
He let out a gasp of pain. Something dug at his back as if trying to reach all the way into his heart. He twisted around, felt what seemed one of the vines, and swiftly grabbed it.
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