The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  The ability to fool Tsin did not impress Kentril as much as Zayl perhaps thought it did, but the time to turn back had long passed. “How long do we have?”

  “Such a spell as the Vizjerei must cast will require many hours, even a day, but we must start out as soon as they begin preparations.” The necromancer glanced again at the tracing. “Which makes it all the better that we have this. Do not lose it, captain.” Zayl stepped back as if preparing to leave, then suddenly asked, “How went the dinner?”

  “Well.” Now did not seem the time to tell the necromancer all that had happened.

  Zayl waited for him to elaborate, but when Kentril remained quiet, the cloaked figure finally departed.

  Kentril fell back onto his bed. He had nearly managed to fall asleep when a single tap on the door made him sit up straight, one hand already on the dagger habit caused him to keep at his side. A moment later, Gorst and Albord stepped in, both looking perturbed.

  “What is it, Gorst?” Kentril asked, hand relaxing only slightly.

  “Albord’s got something to say.”

  The younger mercenary clearly felt ill at ease. “Captain, there’s something I don’t like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one’s still seen hide nor hair of Brek, and now besides him there’s two more missing.”

  Not what Kentril wanted to hear at any time, but even more so with the coming events. “Who?”

  “Simon. Mordecai. I asked the others, and no one knows when they were last seen.”

  “Everyone else accounted for?”

  Gorst nodded. “Kept ’em in. They’re a little cranky about it, but it ain’t too bad bein’ stuck in here, eh, Kentril?”

  The captain was certain that his face flushed, but he could hardly worry about that now. Counting Albord, that made only seven men left besides Kentril and Gorst. “Three missing now. I don’t like that. Someone resents our being here.” Inwardly, he wondered if the disappearances had anything to do with Gregus Mazi. Did the sorcerer work to eliminate his former master’s new allies?

  “What do we do?” asked Albord.

  “We keep this to ourselves. No one leaves the palace until I say so. There’s not enough of us to go hunting the others. We’ll have to consider the worst, I’m afraid.” Kentril rubbed his chin in thought. “Albord, you’ve got charge of them. I’ve something in mind I need Gorst for. Can you handle it?”

  The younger mercenary snapped to attention. “I’ll see it done, captain!”

  “Good lad. And if any of the three do return, question them carefully as to their whereabouts. We need to find out all we can.”

  Not once did he mention saying anything to Lord Khan, and not once did Albord or Gorst suggest it. Whatever choice their captain made they would accept.

  Kentril dismissed Albord, but had his second stay. “Gorst, there’s something I need you to help with, but since there’s a strong element of risk, I’ll only accept you as a volunteer. If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand.”

  The familiar grin faded. “What is it, Kentril?”

  Captain Dumon told him, starting with Zayl’s astonishing revelation and what the necromancer and he had decided to do. Gorst listened quietly through it all, the dark, round eyes of the giant never once leaving his commander.

  “I’ll come,” he responded as soon as Kentril had finished.

  “Gorst, this could be more dangerous than any battlefield.”

  The giant smiled. “So?”

  Despite some guilt at having included his friend in this possibly suicidal quest, Kentril also felt much relieved. Having Gorst at his back made coming events seem a little more reasonable, a little more normal. This would just be another battle situation, a special mission behind enemy lines. True, the foe wielded sorcery, but they had the talents of Zayl for that. If the necromancer could keep Gregus Mazi at bay, the two fighters would move in to strike the mortal blow. A three-pronged assault on a single enemy, a nearly perfect battle plan.

  Kentril snorted at his own naive notion. It all sounded so simple when thought of in such terms, but he doubted that would turn out to be the case once reality hit. One thing he had learned early on in his career, when the battle began in earnest, all the magnificent plans for victory went up in smoke.

  Waiting for the moment itself proved to be the worst of ordeals. To the captain, each minute felt like an hour, and each hour a day. If not for those interludes when Atanna could break away from the preparations Tsin required, Kentril suspected that he would have gone mad.

  Lord Khan’s daughter and he spoke little when they were together, and what talk did take place concerned more hints of the future. Half-veiled promises filled the captain’s head as the enchantress herself filled his arms.

  “Not long now,” Atanna whispered more than once, “but so much longer than I want to wait . . .”

  Fueled by such honeyed words, Kentril silently swore that when the time came, he would take Gregus Mazi’s head himself and present it to Atanna and her father as proof of his worthiness. Surely then Lord Khan would see him as a respected suitor.

  And then at long last came the time. A different Atanna met Captain Dumon as he pretended to be cleaning his gear. She wore a chaste white robe much akin to that of Juris Khan, and her luxurious hair had been tied tightly back in a tail. The solemn expression alone informed Kentril of why she had come dressed so.

  “It’s to begin?” he asked, his question having double meaning to him.

  “Master Tsin says that the forces are in correct alignment and the patterns matched to their purposes. It will still take us hours, but I must be there for all of it. I came to ask for your confidence, your belief in our success.”

  He kissed her. “You’ll succeed—and I’ll be there in spirit.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him a hopeful smile, then rushed off.

  Kentril’s own smile reversed as he understood that his quest had also now begun. Gathering his gear, he waited a few minutes to be safe, then marched out of his chambers to seek Gorst and the necromancer.

  The giant met him in the hall, their encounter quite casual in the eyes of any guard seeing them. They spoke of stretching their legs, taking a run to keep their muscles strong, the typical routines of veteran fighters. Acting completely at ease, the pair made their way through the many halls of the palace, finally exiting the building altogether.

  Far beyond the protective wall surrounding the palace lay what the necromancer had revealed as the best of entrances to the caverns that honeycombed Nymyr. This had been the very opening that Khan’s brave volunteers had utilized to carry the Key to Shadow to its resting place deep below. According to Zayl, the passage through which they would enter the system had no natural origin; someone had carved into the rock until they had met up with one of the natural caverns inside. The necromancer suspected that perhaps the ancient monks had taken up the task, either as a place to hide should the monastery be overwhelmed or possibly as some part of their holy rituals.

  Kentril had not cared at the time of explanation about the history of the cave, only that it existed and gave them a direct route to the underworld. However, when he initially saw the craggy mouth, his heart suddenly beat as it had not since his first battle. Only by quickly taking deep breaths was Kentril able to approach without revealing to Gorst his inexplicable fear.

  “I don’t see Zayl,” the captain muttered.

  “I am here,” replied one of the shadows near the narrow opening.

  A section of rocky mountainside suddenly fell away as the cloak of the necromancer dropped, revealing the waiting figure. “I thought it might be best to mask myself in illusion until you arrived.”

  Gritting his teeth, Kentril pretended not to have been startled by the spellcaster’s astounding appearance. “How’s it look inside?”

  “Carved to let one man pass at a time. Your friend will have to bow his head and may find a few parts a bit tight.”

  “Don’t worry about Gorst
. He’ll make his own path if necessary.”

  Turning from the two mercenaries, Zayl led the way inside. As Kentril entered, he experienced a slight sensation of the walls closing in on him, but fortunately, the feeling quickly passed.

  Zayl muttered something. A moment later, a peculiar, pale light filled the shaft. In the necromancer’s left hand, Kentril saw the ivory dagger gleam.

  “This should go on for about five, six hundred yards,” Zayl commented. “After that, the caverns should begin to open up.”

  Gorst was indeed forced to keep his head bent much of the way, but only once did he have to squeeze through in order to continue on. As for Kentril, he might as well have been taking a walk through a darkened hall in the palace. Even the floor had been smoothed, making footing almost perfect.

  Their good luck appeared to end almost where the caverns should have opened up before them. Rounding a turn, the trio at first saw not the widening mouth that they had expected but instead, a wall of rubble.

  “I had not counted on this,” responded the necromancer. “And according to the drawing, there is no other path.”

  Kentril went up to investigate the wall of rock and dirt, pulling at a few good-sized stones.

  The vast pile suddenly rolled toward him, burying his legs up to the tops of his boots in a matter of only seconds. Gorst pulled him back before he could become any more trapped. The trio stepped back quickly and waited for the dust to settle.

  “I think . . . I see something,” Zayl declared after a brief coughing fit.

  Sure enough, the dagger revealed a hole near the top. Borrowing the necromancer’s enchanted blade, Kentril quickly but carefully crawled up to investigate. “It opens wide just ahead. If we can crawl through safely for a few yards, we should be clear.”

  Gorst and Kentril worked to make the opening bigger while Zayl held the light for them. Once that had been accomplished, the necromancer worked his way through, followed by the giant, then Kentril.

  And on the other side of the collapse, they at last stood before the true beginning of the cavern complex.

  The chamber stretched hundreds of feet up and across. Jagged limestone teeth thrust down from the ceiling, some of them three, four times the size of Gorst. Others burst from the floor of the vast cave, several more than a yard thick and twice that in height.

  Water trickled over the walls, carving niches, creating myriad shapes everywhere, and, in the process, revealing bright, glittering crystals embedded in the rock face. In the light of the dagger, the cavern glistened.

  Kentril looked down, and any wonder over the beauty of the chamber died as he saw what faced them. Roughly twenty yards ahead, the floor dropped off abruptly, a veritable cliff that ended in a chilling, black abyss.

  “Down there?” Gorst cheerfully asked.

  Zayl nodded as he reached into the confines of his voluminous cloak. Kentril marveled that despite their crawling, the spellcaster looked unsullied.

  From the cloak, Zayl suddenly pulled forth a short, almost laughable length of rope. However, as the necromancer began tugging on the ends, it grew. Only a foot long in the beginning, under his effort it stretched to twice, then three times more what it had been.

  “Gorst,” the pale figure called, “help me with this.”

  Handing the dagger again to Kentril, Zayl gave one end of the small rope to the larger mercenary. As the two pulled, Kentril saw that it stretched even farther.

  Five feet, six, eight, and more. Gorst and the necromancer pulled and pulled, and each time they did, the rope gave way. In but the space of a few breaths, the party ended up with a sizable length, more than enough to begin their descent.

  Zayl wordlessly took back the dagger. The two soldiers secured the astonishing rope around one of the broader stalagmites, then tested it. The necromancer, meanwhile, leaned over the edge, studying the dark depths.

  “If the original drawing is correct, we should have more than enough room on which to land.”

  The captain did not like the sound of that. “And if it’s not?”

  “Then we shall find ourselves dangling over a thousand-foot drop.”

  Fortunately, the calculations of the nameless person who had originally charted the caverns proved to be accurate not only with this initial descent, but with those that followed. Moving with more confidence, the trio journeyed farther and farther down into the system, guided all the while by Zayl’s glowing blade.

  At last, they came to an area where the passages leveled off. The necromancer paused to consult the tracing, not desiring to head off toward a dead end or a pit. Kentril and Gorst, meanwhile, drew their weapons just in case.

  “Are we on the right trail still?” the captain asked of Zayl.

  “I believe so. The spell I cast before leaving for the cave did not give me as exact a location as I had hoped, but it did pinpoint matters enough for me to believe we are very near. Be wary.”

  Slowly they wended their way through a series of twisting passages punctuated on occasion by small and unprepossessing chambers. Only once did they have any cause to halt, that being when Gorst came across a tattered water sack that they all assumed had been left by the party carrying Juris Khan’s creation. Zayl inspected it for any clues, but found none.

  Then Kentril noticed that the area ahead of them seemed slightly brighter than Zayl’s dagger should have been able to make it. He touched the necromancer on the arm, indicating that he should cover the enchanted blade.

  Despite the momentary loss of the weapon’s light, the passage ahead remained illuminated.

  Sword at the ready, the captain proceeded, Zayl and Gorst ready to back him up at the slightest sign of danger. With each step, the glow ahead increased a bit. It never truly grew bright, and even what illumination there was had a dark quality to it, but Kentril could definitely see better the nearer he drew.

  And suddenly the party entered a wide, rounded chamber in the midst of which, atop a reworked stalagmite, gleamed the source of the illumination . . . the Key to Shadow.

  Those who had risked themselves to bring it down here had carefully chipped away at the cavern growth, creating a stone hand of sorts in the very center of whose craggy palm the mighty black crystal pulsated quietly.

  Seeing no sign of danger, Kentril moved to investigate better Lord Khan’s creation. Dagger thrust forward, Zayl stepped up next to him, also eager to see the magical gemstone.

  A face of utter horror suddenly greeted both men from a stalactite just beyond the crystal.

  Both mercenaries swore loudly, and even Zayl muttered something under his breath. They stared in disquiet at the figure carved into the growth. A man of limestone and other minerals, he hung as if violently tied to the very stalactite from which he had been sculpted. Arms and legs had been pulled back as far as they could humanly go, seemingly bound together from behind. The expression of agony and dismay had been shaped so exquisitely that Kentril expected the trapped figure to finish his silent cry at any moment. The artisan had managed to touch both the macabre and the human at the same time, making the sculpture even more arresting.

  “What is that thing?”

  “Some sort of guardian, perhaps. Like the gargoyles and archangels we have seen.”

  “Why didn’t he raise the alarm when we entered?”

  The necromancer shrugged.

  Kentril stepped up to the horrific sculpture. With great care, he stretched forth his sword and tapped the figure on the chest.

  Nothing happened. The eyes shut in pain did not open to condemn him; the mouth did not move to bite the foolish interloper’s head off. The statue remained just that, a statue.

  Feeling a little foolish, the captain turned back to the others. “Well, if Gregus Mazi isn’t around here, we’d better—”

  A chill ran up his spine, and he saw both of his companions’ gazes suddenly widen—and focus not on Kentril, but rather behind him.

  Captain Dumon spun around.

  The eyes—the eyes tha
t had stayed closed even after his somewhat arrogant inspection—now did indeed glare madly at him.

  The already open mouth let loose with a terrible, haunting cry.

  All three men covered their ears as the harsh, painful sound overwhelmed all else. Over and over, the sentinel cried, the mad scream echoing throughout the chamber and well beyond.

  For more than a minute, the horrific sound continued. Then, finally, the cry gradually lessened, enough so that at last the party could lower their hands.

  And that was when they could finally hear the flapping of oncoming wings.

  A flock of batlike forms darted into the chamber, shrieking wildly as they attacked. In the uncertain illumination, Kentril saw small, gray, demonic shapes no more than knee-high and looking vaguely like reptilian men. Talons akin to those of predatory birds slashed at the trio whenever one of the creatures passed overhead, and toothy maws sought bites of their flesh.

  “Alae Nefastus!” shouted the necromancer. “Winged Fiends! Lesser demons but dangerous in quantity!”

  And in quantity they had come. Kentril quickly ran one through the torso, watching with grim satisfaction as it fell twitching to the floor. Unfortunately, in its place came six new and very eager ones. Nearby, Gorst battered two with the flat of his ax, only to have another dig deep into his shoulder. The giant shouted in surprise and pain, even his muscular hide no match for the demon’s razor-sharp nails.

  They filled the chamber, their savage cries almost as terrible as the warning by the sentinel. The captain managed to slay two more yet still felt as if he accomplished nothing. Nevertheless, he continued fighting, the only other recourse not at all attractive.

  One of the fiends dove past him, seeking instead Zayl. Opening his vast cloak, the necromancer trapped the small demon within.