Fortunately, no trap or demon struck. At the end of the stairway, he found a short corridor ending in three closed doors, one in front and the others flanking him. A quick study revealed all to be identical, and when Zayl had the skull look them over, Humbart informed him that none of them had any sort of ward in place.
“I’m reminded of a story about an adventurer,” the skull went on while the necromancer considered his choice. “He came across three such doors. Now, he had been told that two doors led to treasure and escape, while the third held certain, horrible death. Well, the lad gave it some thought, listened at the doors, and finally made his choice.”
Zayl, just on the point of picking the one to his left, noticed Humbart’s sudden silence. “And so what happened?”
“Why, he opened one and got himself eaten alive by a pack of ghouls, of course! As it turns out, none of the doors led to gold or safety, and all of them, in fact, had monstrous, grisly ends waiting for those who—”
“Shut up, Humbart.”
Even though the skull had not seen any wards, Zayl did not assume the entranceways were free of risk. Placing his unliving companion back in the pouch, he readied himself for any trap his opening the first door might spring.
A vast chamber full of dust and nothing more greeted him.
“Are you eaten yet?” came Humbart’s muffled voice.
The necromancer grimaced. Gregus Mazi might have taken over what had been left of the old monastery, but he had not made use of much of it. Perhaps, Zayl thought, he would have been better off searching through the outer rooms first after all.
Looking at the remaining two doors, he chose the first of the pair. Surely the door faced first by any who came down the steps had to be the one.
Steeling himself again, Zayl pushed it open.
Row upon row of half-rotted tables spread out before him, and a looming archangel with one hand held forward in blessing seemed to reach out from the wall on the far side. Zayl swore under his breath, realizing that he had found where the monks had met for their meals. From the looks of everything, it was yet another chamber not bothered much with by the late Mazi.
With little fanfare, he turned about and headed directly for the one entrance left. Thrusting the glowing dagger before him, Zayl barged in.
An array of glassware and arcane objects greeted him from every direction, even the ceiling.
Zayl paused to drink it all in. Here now, the world of Gregus Mazi began. Here, displayed before the necromancer, was the workplace of a man of intense interest in every aspect of his calling. With one sweep of the illuminated blade, Zayl saw jars filled with herbs of every kind, pickled and preserved creatures the likes of which even the necromancer could not identify, and chemicals by the scores in both powder and liquid form. There were racks of books and scrolls, open parchments with notes, and drawings atop some of the tables, and even artifacts hung by chains from certain parts of the ceiling.
Everything had a polished appearance to it, making it seem as if it had been only yesterday that the sorcerer had been at work here. In point of fact, Zayl realized that for this sanctum, it had only been a few days at most. The peculiarities of limbo had once again preserved history.
“Must be very interesting out there . . . I suppose,” Humbart called.
Pulling the skull free, the necromancer placed it on the main table next to where Mazi had been making notes. Holding the dagger near, Zayl looked over the writing.
“What is it?”
“Spell patterns. Theoretical outcomes. This Gregus Mazi was a practical thinker.” The necromancer frowned. “Not what I would have expected of him.”
“Evil can be very clever, if that’s what you mean, lad.”
Zayl studied the parchment in more detail. “Yes, but all of these notes concern only how to make the ascension to Heaven possible. It is written as if by someone who truly believes in the quest.”
Giving the parchment one more glance, the necromancer turned to study the rest of the chamber again. As he held the dagger ahead of him, Zayl saw that the room stretched farther back than he had initially imagined. In the dim light, he could make out more shelves, more jars . . .
“Here now! You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”
“You will be fine, Humbart.”
“Says the one with the legs.”
Disregarding the skull’s protests, Zayl moved farther into Gregus Mazi’s sanctum. From container after container, creatures long dead stared back at him with bulbous, unseeing eyes. A black and crimson spider larger than his head floated in a thick, gooey mixture. There were young sand maggots and even a fetish, one of the sinister, cannibalistic denizens of the jungle. Doll-like in appearance, but with a totem mask face, they hid among the trees and thick foliage, seeking to take down the unwary by numbers. Necromancers destroyed them wherever they found the foul creatures, for nothing but evil came from them.
“Zayl, lad? You still alive there?”
“I’m still here, Humbart.”
“Aye, and so am I, but it’s not like I’ve so much choice in that respect!”
One specimen in particular caught the necromancer’s attention. At first, he thought it a square sample of skin, perhaps even from one of the tentacle beasts in the jungle rivers. Yet, as he peered closely at the gray, hand-sized patch, he saw that on each corner were three tiny but very sharp claws and in the center what might have been a mouth of sorts. Slight bits of fur also seemed evident near the edges of the form.
Curious about this oddity, Zayl took the jar down, placing it on the nearest table.
“What’s that you’ve got there, boy? I heard glass clink.”
“Nothing to concern yourself with.” The necromancer removed the lid, then, after locating a pair of tongs no doubt used just for such a purpose, fished for the specimen. He pulled the bizarre creature free of the soupy liquid, letting residue drip back into the container as he used the dagger to study it up close.
“I don’t like to complain, boy, but are you going to investigate every damned jar—”
Zayl glanced over his shoulder at the barely seen skull. “I will not be long—”
A hiss suddenly arose from the container.
The tongs were pulled from his hand as something massive tried to wrap itself over the top half of his body.
“Zayl! Zayl, lad!”
The necromancer could not answer. A dripping, pulsating form with hide like an alligator covered his face, shoulders, and most of one arm. Zayl cried out as what felt like daggers thrust into his back, tearing through his garments as if they were nothing.
Teeth, jagged teeth, tore at his chest.
Belatedly, he realized that he had also lost the dagger. Zayl tried to speak a spell, but could barely breathe, much less talk.
The force of his monstrous attacker sent both tumbling to the floor. The shock of striking the stone surface almost did Zayl in, but he held on, well aware that to give in to unconsciousness would mean certain, grisly death.
The hissing grew louder, more fearsome, and, so it seemed, did the monstrosity seeking to overwhelm him. Now the necromancer could feel it almost covering his body down to his hips. If the creature managed to enshroud him entirely, Zayl knew well that he would be lost.
With all his might, he struggled to push the moist, unsettling form up. As he did, though, the talons tore at his back, ripping through everything. The agony almost caused him to lose his grip.
From without came the muffled, desperate voice of Humbart Wessel. “Zayl! Lad! I can see a light! I think the blade’s by your left! Just a few inches left!”
Using his weight, Zayl sent both his attacker and himself sliding in that direction. He felt something near his shoulder, but then the tapestry-like horror shifted, causing the necromancer to move with it.
Humbart shouted something else, but whatever it was became stifled by the thick, suffocating form atop Zayl.
More desperate now, Zayl threw himself again to the le
ft. This time, he felt the hilt of the dagger under his shoulder blade. Half-smothered, in danger of being bitten, he twisted to reach it with his right hand.
The teeth clamped down on his forearm with such ferocity that the necromancer screamed. Nonetheless, Zayl forced himself to continue reaching for the ivory dagger. His fingers touched the blade, and although he knew it would cause him more suffering, the injured spellcaster seized the weapon tightly by the sharp edges.
Blood dripping from the cuts in his fingers, the necromancer brought the dagger up. At the same time, he muttered the quickest, surest spell of which he could think.
A lance of pure bone thrust up from the dagger, flying unhindered through the thick hide of the beast, tearing flesh, and soaring upward until it struck the ceiling hard.
Zayl’s horrific foe fluttered back, a strange, keening sound escaping its bizarre mouth. Ichor spilled over the necromancer as it pulled away.
As he dragged himself back, Zayl gave thanks to the dragon, Trag’Oul. The lance represented one of the talons of the mystical leviathan who served as the closest thing the followers of Rathma had for a god. Among the most effective of a necromancer’s battle spells, the bone lance had been summoned twice in the past by Zayl, but never under such dire circumstances.
However, despite its terrible injury, the tapestry creature seemed far from dying. Moving with swift, gliding motions, it rose up to the ceiling, then over to a corner. A slight shower of life fluids spilled onto the floor below it.
“Are you all right, lad?”
“I will live. Thank you, Humbart.”
The skull made a peculiar noise, like the rushing of air out of pursed lips. “Thank me when you’ve finished that abominable rug off!”
Zayl nodded. Raising the dagger toward the heavily breathing creature, he muttered another spell. Trag’Oul had helped him once; perhaps the great dragon would grant him one more boon.
A shower of bony projectiles roughly the size of the dagger formed from the air, shooting upward with astonishing swiftness.
The thing near the ceiling had no chance to move. Without mercy, the needle-sharp projectiles ripped through its hard hide. A rain of blood—or whatever equivalent the monster possessed—splattered the necromancer, the sanctum, and one cursing skull.
Now the creature keened, loud and ragged. It tried to flee, but Zayl had summoned the Den’Trag, the Teeth of the Dragon Trag’Oul, and they struck so hard that they pincushioned the struggling form to the wall and ceiling.
The movements of Zayl’s adversary grew weaker, sporadic. The flow of life fluids slowed.
At last, the monster stilled.
“Zayl! Zayl!” called Humbart. “Gods! Wipe this slime off of me! I swear, even without a good, working nose, I can smell the stench!”
“Q-quiet, Humbart,” the necromancer gasped. Summoning the aid of Trag’Oul twice had taken much out of him. Had he been more prepared, it would have not been so, but the initial assault by the beast had left him weakened even before the first spell.
As he tried to recoup his strength, Zayl eyed the vast array of specimens Gregus Mazi had collected over his life. The monster had been one small, seemingly dead sample among so many others. Did that mean that each of the sorcerer’s collected rarities still had some life left in it? If so, Zayl gave thanks that none of the shelves had been disturbed or their contents accidentally sent shattering on the floor. The necromancer doubted that he would have long survived among a room filled with dozens of strange and dire creatures.
When his legs felt strong enough to trust, Zayl returned to where the skull lay. A thick layer of yellowish ichor covered most of what remained of the late Humbart Wessel. Taking the cleanest edge he could find on his cloak, the necromancer proceeded to wipe the skull as well as possible.
“Pfaugh! Sometimes I wish you’d left me to rot where you found me, boy!”
“You had already rotted away, Humbart,” Zayl pointed out. Putting the skull on a clear part of the table, he looked around. Something on the wall to his right caught his attention. “Aaah.”
“What? Not another of those beasts, is it?”
“No.” The pale figure walked to what he had noticed. “Just a cloak, Humbart. Just a cloak.”
A cloak once worn by Gregus Mazi.
Yet it was not the garment itself that so intrigued Zayl, but rather, what he could find upon it. Under the light of the dagger, he carefully searched.
There! With the utmost caution, the necromancer plucked two hairs from inside the collar region. Even better than clothing, strands of hair granted almost certain success when summoning a man’s shade.
“You finally got what you want?”
“Yes. These will help us call the sorcerer forth.”
“Fine! It’ll be good to see old Gregus after all this time. Hope he’s looking better than I am.”
Surveying the chamber, Zayl noticed a wide, open area to the side of the entrance. As he neared, he saw that symbols had been etched into the floor there. How more appropriate—and likely helpful—than to summon the ghost of Gregus Mazi using the very focal point from which he had cast many of his own spells?
Muttering under his breath, the necromancer knelt and began to draw new patterns on the floor with the tip of his blade. As the point slowly drifted over the stone surface, it left in its wake the design Zayl wanted.
In the center of the new pattern, he placed the two hairs. Moving carefully so as not to disturb them, Zayl brought his free hand over, then, with the dagger, reopened one of the cuts he had suffered earlier.
The barely sealed cut bled freely. Three drops of crimson fell upon the hair.
A greenish smoke arose wherever the blood touched the follicles.
The necromancer began chanting. He uttered the name of Gregus Mazi, once, twice, and then a third time. Before him, the unsettling smoke swelled, and as it did, it took on a vaguely humanoid shape.
“I summon thee, Gregus Mazi!” Zayl called in the common tongue. “I conjure thee! Knowledge is needed, knowledge only you can supply! Come to me, Gregus Mazi! Let your shade walk the mortal plane a time more! Let it return to this place of your past! By that which was once a very part of your being, I summon you forth!”
Now the smoke stood nearly as tall as a man, and in it there appeared what might have been a figure clad in robes. Zayl returned to chanting words of the Forgotten Language, the words that only spellcasters knew in this day and age.
But just as success seemed near, just as the figure began to solidify, everything went awry. The billowing smoke abruptly dwindled, shrinking and shrinking before the necromancer’s startled eyes. All semblance of a humanoid form vanished. The hairs curled, burning away as if tossed into hungry flames.
“No!” Zayl breathed. He stretched a hand toward his two prizes, but before he could touch them, they shriveled, leaving only ash in their wake.
For several seconds, he knelt there, unable to do anything but stare at his failure. Only when Humbart finally spoke did the necromancer stir and rise.
“So . . . what happened there, lad?”
Still eyeing the pattern and the dust that had once been hair, Zayl shook his head. “I don’t—”
He stopped, suddenly looking off into the darkness.
“Zayl?”
“I do know why it failed now, Humbart,” the necromancer responded, still staring at nothing. “It never had a chance to succeed. From the first, it was doomed, and I never realized it!”
“Would you mind speaking in less mystifying statements, lad?” the skull asked somewhat petulantly. “And explain for us mere former mortals?”
Zayl turned, eyes wide with understanding. “It is very simple, Humbart. There is one and one reason alone that would make this and any other summoning of Gregus Mazi a futile gesture: he still lives!”
TEN
If anything, Quov Tsin had grown more unsettling, more unnerving, by the time Captain Dumon next visited him. An empty mug and a small bowl of hal
f-eaten food sat to the side of where he feverishly scribbled notes. His withered features had become more pronounced, as happened only in the dead as the flesh dried away, and he looked even more pale than the necromancer. Now the Vizjerei did not just mumble to himself; he spoke out in a loud, demanding tone. “Of course, the sign of Broka would be inherently necessary there! Any cretin could see that! Ha!”
Before entering, Kentril questioned Gorst, who leaned against the wall just outside the library. “What sort of state is he in?”
The giant had always been untouched by Tsin’s acerbic personality, but now Gorst wore a rare look of concern and uncertainty. “He’s bad, Kentril. He drank a little, ate even less. He don’t even sleep, I think.”
The captain grimaced. Not the mood he had been hoping for, although from the beginning it had been unlikely that the Vizjerei would be any more reasonable than before. Still, Kentril had no choice; he had to try to speak with Tsin now.
“Keep an eye out, all right?”
“You know I will, Kentril.”
Straightening, Captain Dumon walked up to the stooped-over sorcerer. Quov Tsin did not look his way, did not even acknowledge that anyone had entered. Taking a quick glance at the spellcaster’s efforts, Kentril saw that Tsin had filled more than a dozen large parchment sheets with incomprehensible notes and patterns.
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Dumon,” the Vizjerei abruptly announced in an even more poisonous voice than previously. He still had not looked up at the fighter. “I went against my better judgment last time in forgiving your interruptions—”
“Easy, Tsin,” Kentril interrupted. “This concerns you greatly.”
“Nothing concerns me more than this!”
The mercenary officer nodded sagely. “And that’s exactly what I mean. You don’t realize just what you might lose.”
At last, the diminutive figure looked at him. Bloodshot eyes swept over the captain, Quov Tsin clearly pondering what value the words of the other man might contain. “Explain.”
“Knowing you as I do, Tsin, you’ve got two reasons for doing this. The first is to prove that you actually can. The Vizjerei sorcerers are well known for their reputations as masters of their art, and your reputation exceeds most of your brethren.”
The Kingdom of Shadow Page 13
