The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Enter,” came the unmistakable hollow voice of Humbart Wessel.

  Slipping inside, Kentril discovered the necromancer seated on the floor, his legs folded in, his hands on his knees, and his eyes staring straight at the ivory dagger that hung suspended in the air before him. Zayl’s vast cloak lay on the bed. Atop a small wooden table to the side, the skull had been set so it faced the doorway.

  “Hallo, lad!” it cheerfully greeted him. “He does this two to three times a day, if he can. Mind completely disappears from this world . . .”

  “How long does he stay like this?” whispered the captain.

  The necromancer’s left hand suddenly moved. At the same time, the dagger dropped toward the floor, only to be caught by the hand.

  “As long as need be,” Zayl remarked, quickly unfolding his legs, then rising in one smooth action.

  The skull chuckled. “Just in case, though, he leaves me pointed at the door. Anyone comes in, I give the alarm.”

  Zayl gave Humbart a dark look. “And I am still waiting to hear it.”

  “ ’Tis only our good comrade Kentril Dumon, boy! I recognized his voice right away.”

  “While I have nothing against you, captain, what Humbart fails to remember is that you might not be alone . . . or you might not even be you. There are spells of illusion that can fool almost anyone, even the overconfident dead.” The slim, pale man retrieved his cloak. “Now, what is it I can do for you?”

  “I came because . . . because an idea occurred to me based on your own experiences.”

  “And that would pertain to—?”

  The captain found his gaze drifting to the skull. “Three of my men have never returned from the city. The rest, by the way, are making plans to leave come the morrow. Before that happens, though, I may need them to plan a rescue.”

  He had Zayl’s full attention now. “A rescue? You have reason to believe that the missing ones still live?”

  “That’s where you come in. I remembered all of a sudden that you said the reason for your earlier failure had to do with Gregus Mazi actually still being alive. You then used a different spell to locate his general surroundings—”

  “And you wish me to attempt to do the same for those of your command now lost.” The necromancer frowned in thought. “I can see no reason why it should not work—and perhaps it might yet shed some light on this shadowed land. Yes, captain, I would be glad to try.”

  “How soon can you start?”

  Zayl reached for the skull, placing it in the pouch hidden by his cloak. “I cannot do anything until we find some personal item or, better yet, a hair or clipping from any of the three. Would it be prudent at this time to visit the quarters they used?”

  Doubting that anyone would question the company’s captain wanting to investigate the missing men’s belongings for some clue to their disappearance, Kentril readily nodded. That seemed all the necromancer needed to satisfy himself. With a wave of his hand, he indicated for the captain to lead on.

  In that most rare of circumstances for a mercenary, the kindness of their host had enabled each man of the hired company to have rooms of his own. Some, like Kentril, had become so used to cramped quarters or sleeping without a roof at all that they had barely made use of more than the bed. Others, meanwhile, had taken advantage of the situation to the point where the few items they had lay scattered everywhere. Kentril felt certain that they would find something useful in the rooms of all three.

  Which made it all the more startling when, upon entering the first set of rooms, they found no trace of habitation at all.

  When Kentril had first stepped into his own chambers, he had not been able to imagine anyone else ever having entered them before. From the silky, gold-threaded draperies to the wide, plush, canopied bed, everything in sight had looked absolutely new. Both the bed frame and the elegant furniture had been meticulously carved from the finest oak, a wood that the captain could not recall having seen anywhere in eastern Kehjistan, then stained a dark, rich reddish brown. Besides the bed, the main room in his quarters came equipped with a sturdy bronze-handled cabinet, four chairs, and a pair of tables—the wide one possibly used for dining and the other a small twin near the doorway. The filigreed walls had also been accented by a series of small but detailed tapestries that seemed to outline the early history of Ureh.

  Beyond the main room, the smaller of the two lesser chambers gave the occupant a place for personal care, including rarely seen plumbing, a true mark of the wealth wielded by Lord Khan and his predecessors. The remaining room consisted of a pair of leather chairs, a tiny but no less elegant table, and a shelf filled with books. Out of mild curiosity, Captain Dumon had picked over the collection in his own chambers, but he knew that most of his men could not even decipher letters, much less read.

  Brek’s rooms had been chosen first, and one quick survey of them led the captain to decide quickly that someone else had straightened up after the mercenary’s disappearance. Brek had not been the most organized of fighters and certainly not one of the cleanest; there should have been food, empty bottles, and more lying about. Even the bearded warrior’s pack, which he would have left in the palace during his sojourns down to the city, had vanished.

  “This is most troubling,” Zayl quietly remarked.

  A quick hunt through the rooms of the other two brought the same unsettling results. All had been arranged as if they had never been occupied by the hardened mercenaries. Even Kentril, who kept his quarters neater than most of his kind, could not match the cleanliness.

  He sought out Gorst, whom he found playing cards with Albord and two other men. The fighters rose as he entered the giant’s quarters, but Kentril quickly ordered them at ease.

  “Who’s been in Brek’s rooms? Anyone?” When all four shook their heads, he focused on Albord, whose own quarters sat next to those of the missing man. “You’ve heard nothing through the wall?”

  “Not since the last time Brek himself was in there . . .”

  Letting them return to their game, Captain Dumon rejoined the necromancer. It did not please Kentril to see that the generally calm Zayl looked quite irked by what they had discovered.

  “The palace has many servants,” the latter solemnly proposed. “They move with a silence and swiftness worthy of my brethren, but it is very possible that they removed the belongings for some custodial reason.”

  “Or they didn’t expect the boys to return,” countered Humbart from the pouch.

  Kentril felt defeated . . . and even more anxious than ever. “Is there nothing you can do, then?”

  Holding up the dagger, Zayl muttered under his breath. The enchanted blade flared bright. The necromancer held the dagger before him, letting it sweep across the room.

  “What’re you up to?”

  “I am trying to see if any useful trace at all was left behind. A single hair hidden under a chair, a scrap of cloth accidentally covered by a blanket . . .” No sooner had he explained, however, then the necromancer lowered the blade in mild disgust. “None of which I can find in this particular place. I am sorry, captain.”

  “Maybe we can—”

  Before Kentril could finish, the door swung open, and Atanna appeared. “Why, here you are!”

  She swept toward the fighter, Zayl seemingly nonexistent. Kentril accepted a swift kiss from her, then discovered himself being conducted out of the room.

  “And you’ve changed back into that horrid, old outfit!” She tsked at him, sounding more like a mother hen than the desirable enchantress at which he stared. “You must dress before it’s too late! Father already expects us there!”

  “Where?” Kentril could recall no urgent matter.

  “Why, for a formal introduction to the court, of course. You must be known to everyone before you officially take up the roles Father’s promised you. It would be bad form otherwise.”

  “But—” Despite his uncertainties, despite the surmounting questions concerning Lord Khan, Captain Dumon found h
imself once again defenseless against the charms of the crimson-tressed princess. Atanna had come to him clad in a white-and-green gown fit perfectly to her well-curved form and designed, as it seemed with everything she wore, to utterly bewitch him.

  “Now, you mustn’t argue,” she returned, guiding him to his own rooms. “I’ll wait for you, but you must hurry! This is very important for your future here, Kentril”—her eyes seemed to shine like jewels—“and for ours as well.”

  And against that last point, his final defenses fell. Away went any concerns about the secrets of Gregus Mazi, about any subterfuge by Juris Khan . . . and any doubt that he would be Atanna’s slave forever.

  Despite some faint amusement concerning how completely overwhelmed the good captain had proven to be in the presence of Juris Khan’s glorious daughter, Zayl otherwise worried about the man. Kentril Dumon surely had to feel caught between trust and betrayal, love and lies. Not trained as followers of Rathma were in the cultivation and control of emotions, the mercenary risked making a fatal misstep. Zayl hoped that would not be the case, for he knew that the captain remained his best ally. The giant Gorst could be trusted, yes, but lacked some of Kentril Dumon’s battle-honed wits. As for Quov Tsin, if the Vizjerei ever proved Zayl’s only hope, then surely they were all very much doomed.

  But doomed to what? The key, he suspected, had something to do with the three missing men. More and more, the necromancer distrusted the notion that they had simply perished at the hands of common street thugs. No, he felt that there had to be something darker, something more ominous going on.

  A check of the rooms inhabited by the other two missing mercenaries revealed the same lack of clues. Zayl considered mesmerizing one of the servants into revealing what had happened to the men’s effects, but not only did that seem likely to earn him the watchful eye of their host, he could also not find any of the attendants. As the necromancer had remarked to Captain Dumon, they indeed moved as if trained by Zayl’s own people, a curious thing to think about liveried servants. Yet another confounding piece of a puzzle whose image he had yet to divine.

  “One hair, one piece of nail,” he murmured as he finished his second search of the last set of rooms. “Not so much to ask, but apparently too much to hope for.”

  One single strand, one follicle, and he could have done as he had in the sanctum of Gregus Mazi. Zayl did not like being thwarted by such minuscule things; surely the forces that sought to keep the mortal world in balance did not intend such frustration. Zayl only wished that he could have—

  The necromancer froze in the act of putting away the dagger, his mind suddenly aflame with a realization that he had been ignoring an entire path open to him all this time. Captain Dumon had actually brought it up, but, focused on the mercenary officer’s actual reason for coming to him, Zayl had lost sight of it. The possible answer to all their questions shouted to be heard, and the spellcaster had been blithely deaf to it.

  When first Zayl had sought the shade of Gregus Mazi, the latter had not been dead.

  But now the sorcerer was . . . put down mercifully by the necromancer’s party after discovering his horrific plight.

  “I am a fool!” he uttered.

  “Are you looking for argument?” came Humbart’s voice.

  He looked down at the pouch. “Gregus Mazi is dead!”

  “Aye, and it’s nothing to cheer, you hear me, lad?”

  But Zayl did not answer him, already departing the emptied chamber for his own. He would set up the patterns, arrange the spell—

  No! His room would never do. During the course of their search, the captain had told Zayl of Juris Khan’s disturbing reaction during Tsin’s spellwork. The necromancer suddenly wondered if seeking the ghost of the sorcerer would be a wise thing to do in the very sanctum of the one who had claimed, either erroneously or falsely, to have slain him.

  At the very least, it would pay to perform the spell elsewhere, and Zayl could think of no better location than the mouth of the cave leading to where they had found what had remained of the unfortunate mage.

  It took the necromancer little time to retrieve what he needed from his quarters and even less time to exit the palace by secret means. Zayl had memorized the layout to the edifice well, suspicious, somehow, that it would prove opportune later. Part of a calling held in mistrust and apprehension among most folk, he had done so out of habit. One never knew when an overzealous official might decide to make his mark by capturing and disposing of the “evil” summoner of the dead.

  In some ways, escaping to the shaft filled Zayl with more assurance. Born to the jungle lands, he was distracted by the confining qualities of any building, even one so massive as the palace. Now, outside, he felt as if he could breathe again. His wits seemed to grow sharper, so much so that the necromancer had to ask himself again why he had not thought to attempt a new summoning of Gregus Mazi once the latter had actually perished. So much time wasted . . .

  With the dagger to light his way, Zayl headed several yards into the shaft. Finding a fairly open part of the corridor, the necromancer squatted down and began to draw patterns in the dirt floor with the glowing blade. The spell Zayl planned would be virtually identical to the one he had cast in Gregus Mazi’s sanctum, the only difference being some added symbols to increase the odds of success.

  From out of the pouch he took Humbart’s skull, three small candles, and a single strand of hair. Putting the skull to the side, Zayl arranged the candles, then placed the hair in the center. After pricking his finger and letting the necessary number of drops of blood fall onto the one hair, the necromancer lit each of the candles with the tip of his blade, then proceeded with the incantation.

  A slight breeze arose in the shaft. Zayl quickly paused in his efforts, moving so as to block the wind before it could blow the hair away. Satisfied, he started his work anew.

  Suddenly, the wind came at the display from the other side. Zayl frowned, recalling no such turbulent currents during his previous visit. He sniffed the air, seeking the scent of magic, but found none.

  “Trouble?” asked the skull.

  “A minor nuisance.” Taking some rocks, the spellcaster built a small wall to protect everything.

  Once more, he began muttering. This time, no wind interrupted. Zayl focused his gaze on the hair, thinking of the dead sorcerer.

  As before, smoke arose above the hair where the blood touched it, the smoke then taking on a vaguely humanoid shape. As the necromancer advanced in his spell, the smoke swelled tremendously, growing as tall as a man and taking on more and more the characteristics of one. Zayl could make out a robed form, a man in a sorcerer’s garb. The figure seemed to be reaching out, at the same time trying to speak.

  “Gregus Mazi, I summon thee!” Zayl called. “Gregus Mazi, I conjure thee! I call upon thee to walk the mortal plane for a time more, to come to me and share your knowledge!”

  And in the smoke, there formed an imposing, black-haired figure more like Kentril Dumon than either the necromancer or the Vizjerei. Broad of shoulder, determined of face, Gregus Mazi looked not at all like the viper he had been portrayed as and more like a legendary protector.

  “Bit younger than when I saw him,” Humbart remarked.

  “Quiet!” Zayl had not yet bound the spirit to him, and until he did, any interruption risked breaking the summoning.

  He muttered more, then with the dagger drew a double loop in the air. Mazi’s flickering ghost solidified, becoming so distinct that ignorant onlookers might have believed that they could actually touch him. In truth, had Zayl worked hard, he could have created an even more substantial specter, but the necromancer had no need of such and respected the dead mage too much even to try to bind him so.

  Soon, very soon, the spell would be complete. Then only Zayl would be able to dismiss the shade without the most extreme effort.

  And as he became more a part of the mortal world, Gregus Mazi tried once more to speak. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped him. He
continued to try to reach for the other spellcaster, but moved as if caught in some thick fluid. Only the eyes managed to express anything definite, and in them Zayl saw an urgent need to communicate a message, perhaps the very information he and the captain had sought.

  “Gregus Mazi, let air once more fill your lungs! Let speech be yours as I permit it! Let the words you wish to speak be heard!”

  The dead sorcerer moaned. With grim determination, he thrust a finger toward Zayl and at last forced a single word from his gaping mouth.

  “Diablooooo!”

  And as he spoke, Mazi’s appearance transformed. His sorcerer’s robe, briefly a resplendent blue and gold and covered with holy wards, burst into flames. The finger that pointed in warning shriveled rapidly, becoming skeletal. Likewise, the strong, determined visage melted away, leaving until the end the staring, warning eyes . . .

  “Zayl, lad! Look out!”

  Craggy, monstrous hands of rock suddenly thrust forth from the walls, catching the necromancer from both in front and behind. They forced the air from Zayl’s lungs, and it was all he could do to keep from being immediately crushed to a pulp.

  In his struggles, he kicked apart the display. Now bound to the necromancer, the monstrous ghost of Gregus Mazi should have remained fixed where it was, but instead it instantly faded away, the single word of warning still on its lipless mouth.

  Zayl still had the dagger, but with his arms clamped awkwardly to his body, he could not raise it. With the vestiges of breath left to him, the desperate spellcaster shouted out words of power.

  “Beraka! Dianos Tempri! Berak—”

  He could not force anything more out. A rumbling shook the cave, and somewhere distant Zayl heard Humbart Wessel’s voice calling to him.

  The necromancer blacked out.

  FIFTEEN

  Juris Khan did not shirk when it came to rewarding the mercenaries who had chosen to depart. Kentril marveled at the riches he rained upon the men—gold coins, glittering diamonds, scarlet rubies, and so much more. The only limit to what the men received had to do with how much they themselves could carry, for the lord of Ureh had no horses or other animals to give them. That did not seem to bother Jodas and the rest, though; they found the bounty they had received more than sufficient. “Come back to us again once Ureh stands among the mighty kingdoms of the world, and I shall make amends,” Lord Khan informed them. “All of you are ever welcome here!”