The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  The soldiers’ host had arranged a ceremony in the grand chamber where once he had been imprisoned. A legion of courtiers clad in their finest flanked Kentril and the rest, clapping enthusiastically at various points during their master’s speech. Kentril had met many of the nobles at least twice now, but still could not recall any names. Other than Atanna and her father, those in the palace seemed almost of a single kind, voices constantly in echo of the great Lord Khan. That did not entirely surprise the captain, of course, for powerful rulers often ended up surrounded by such, and in a realm as blessed as Ureh, what reason would anyone have to do otherwise? Juris Khan had seen them through the worst that anyone could possibly imagine.

  Kentril himself bid the men farewell once the ceremony had ended. He reminded the six of the safest route possible through the jungle and emphasized the importance of avoiding the deeper waterways. “Once you reach Kurast, the way should be clear. Just try not to let anyone see everything you bring with you.”

  “We’ll be careful, cap’n,” Orlif bellowed.

  Gorst clapped each man on the back, sending most staggering, and like a dutiful parent told them to remember everything the captain had taught them.

  At a signal from Albord, the six saluted their commander, then headed out. Kentril and Gorst followed the party to the outer gate, wishing each man the best again.

  Although the breaking up of a company always affected Captain Dumon more than he revealed, watching his surviving men depart now nearly shattered the mask of strength he generally wore at such times. Bad enough that so many would not be returning home, but the dark shadow cloaking the kingdom made him feel as if the six left in the dead of night. Both the men and their escort carried torches just so that they could see the steep steps. While Kentril knew that just beyond Nymyr the sun had only an hour before risen, he could not help worrying about nighttime predators or enemy warriors hiding in the dark. Even knowing such vile dangers existed mostly in his mind, it was all the captain could do not to go chasing after the others.

  “Think they’ll be okay?” Gorst asked suddenly.

  “Why do you ask?”

  The giant shrugged. “Dunno. I guess I always feel bad when others go.”

  Chuckling at this reflection of his own concerns, Kentril responded, “They’re together, armed, and know where they’re going. You and I made it back from the mountains of northern Entsteig with only one sword between us.” He watched the torches, now the only visible sign of the party, descend into the city. “They’ll do just fine.”

  When even the torches could not be singled out among all the other fires illuminating Ureh, the duo headed back to the palace. Lord Khan had given some hint of planning to speak with Quov Tsin about the work needed to settle the kingdom completely in the real world and remove the last vestiges of the vile spell. However, what interested Kentril more had been the knowledge that Atanna awaited him within. More than ever, he longed for her lips, her eyes, her arms. The departure of the others signified to him the end of his life as a mercenary and the beginning of something astounding. If not for the concerns he and Zayl had regarding the truth about Gregus Mazi, Kentril would have considered himself at that moment the luckiest man alive.

  Thinking of the necromancer, he asked Gorst, “Have you seen Zayl lately?”

  “Not since you tried to find out about Brek and the others.”

  When the captain had finally managed to ask Juris Khan what had happened to the quarters of the missing trio, the elder monarch had expressed complete puzzlement and a promise to have the matter investigated by one of his staff. He had spoken with such honest tones that Kentril could not disbelieve him. In fact, Kentril had even wanted to find Zayl afterward in order to tell the spellcaster of his certainty that Lord Khan could have had nothing to do with the clearing out of the mercenaries’ belongings. Unfortunately, even then he could not find the necromancer.

  “Keep an eye out for him. Tell him I need to see him as soon as possible.”

  Gorst hesitated, a rare thing for the generally sure-minded giant. “Think he’s gone the way of Brek?”

  Kentril had not considered that. “Check his room. See if his gear is still there.” The Rathmian had few personal articles, but surely he would have left something behind. “If you discover his room just like theirs, come running.”

  “Aye, Kentril.”

  Now it was Captain Dumon who paused, his gaze turning to the flickering torches and lamps of eternally darkened Ureh. By now, Albord and the men would be well on their way to the city’s outer gate. In an hour, two at most, Jodas, Orlif, and the other four would greet the sunlight.

  “Kentril?”

  “Hmm? Sorry, Gorst. Just wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  The veteran mercenary gave his second a rueful smile. “Just wondering if I’ll regret us not having left with them.”

  The gathered crowd cheered and waved as Albord and the others marched through the city. It looked to the young officer as if every citizen had come to see his fellows off. Never in his short career had he imagined such acknowledgment from others. Captain Dumon had warned him from his first day that a mercenary’s life was generally a harsh, unappreciated one, but this moment made every past indignity more than worth it.

  “Sure you don’t want to come with us, Alby?” Jodas called. “Another good arm’s always welcome!”

  “I’m sticking here, thanks.” Albord had few regrets about staying behind, despite his earlier desire to see his family. How better to return in, say, a year and show them what he had reaped as one of Captain Dumon’s aides. Lord Khan had already announced as a certainty the captain’s elevation to the nobility, his command of the military forces of the holy kingdom, and the upcoming marriage to the monarch’s own daughter—possibly the greatest prize of all in Albord’s mind.

  “Well, maybe we’ll come visit you again,” the other mercenary returned with a short laugh. He hefted the sack containing his reward. “After all, this can’t last forever!”

  The rest laughed with him. They all had a king’s ransom. Each man could live in wealth for the rest of his life and still have much left over. True, mercenaries were gambling men, but Albord doubted that the worst of them would go broke before a few years had passed.

  “These jokers know the way to their own city gates?” Orlif grunted, referring to the six armored guards making up their farewell escort. Solemn and silent, they marched in unison even Captain Dumon’s strict training had never managed to perfect among his men. “Seems like forever to reach it, and this load ain’t goin’ to get any lighter!”

  “If those heavy sacks are slowing you down,” Albord jested, “I’ll be glad to watch ’em for you until you get back from Westmarch!”

  Again, the men all laughed. Albord felt a hint of withdrawal; he would miss them, but his odds were much better with his captain. He had always sensed a greatness, and now that had been more than proven.

  “There it is at last,” one of the others cried. “Only an hour past there, lads, and we’ll be smilin’ in the sun! Won’t that be a welcome sight?”

  To Albord, the gates stood so very tall. When the party had first come to investigate the ruins, the gates had still been shut, almost as if yet trying to protect Ureh’s secrets. Rusted relics then, the recreated gates now looked far more imposing. At least twelve feet high and so very, very thick, they could have barred an army trying to force its way inside. As with the doors of the palace, winged archangels brandishing fiery swords acted as centerpieces for each of the pair, and as with the other doors, those figures had been battered brutally by some force. Albord vaguely wondered again how the damage had occurred. Had some vassal of the sinister Gregus Mazi he had heard about taken to trying to destroy the symbols of Heavenly power?

  The honor guard stopped at the gates, turning to face the departing soldiers. Their solemn, almost expressionless faces made Albord nearly reach for his sword, only at the last the white-haired fighter realizing h
ow foolish that would have looked.

  Then a strange silence fell over the crowd, a silence made all the more obvious by the distant sounds of continual celebration, the same sounds that had gone on without pause ever since Captain Dumon had set the magical gem in place atop the peak. Albord looked around, discovered that all the faces had turned to him, waiting.

  Jodas and the other found nothing wrong with the scene and, in fact, eyed him impatiently. “Time to say our goodbyes, Alby. Got to be goin’ . . .”

  Caught up again in the moment, the departing mercenaries shared handshakes and back slaps with the young officer. Albord had to struggle to keep tears from showing and found it amusing to discover that Jodas and Orlif, among others, clearly suffered from the same affliction.

  “Be better if you go off before we step out,” Jodas suggested as the honor guard started to open the gates. “Good luck and all that, you know.”

  Many mercenary companies had a variety of superstitions, one of those among men from Westmarch being that if you didn’t actually see your comrades walk out the gates, then there stood a good chance you would be seeing them again soon. Seeing them step through meant the definite possibility of never reuniting—and the likelihood that some had perished elsewhere afterward. Mercenaries lived too chancy a life not to take to heart whatever beliefs might help them survive. In fact, that had been in great part why their captain and second-in-command had remained at the palace in the first place.

  Giving the six one last wave, Albord marched off. Still uncertain about his control of his emotions, he did not look back and suspected that the others imitated his ways. The continual noises of celebration began to get on his nerves, for he felt no reason for cheer at the moment. Even the thought of his own future in Ureh did not assuage him at the moment.

  Louder and louder the merrymakers grew, the most adamant sounds coming now from behind him, where he had left his comrades. Albord quickened his pace; once he returned to the palace, surely his nerves would settle and he would recall all the good reasons he had chosen not to leave with Jodas and the rest.

  But at that moment, a voice just barely audible over the raucous cries caught his attention. Albord paused, trying to understand what he had just heard. The voice had sounded like Orlif’s—and the man had been calling the white-haired fighter’s name.

  Albord took a step toward Juris Khan’s abode, but the sudden uncertainty made him pause. What harm would it do to go back and check? If he had heard Orlif, then surely they wanted something of him. If he had been mistaken about even hearing the man, there would be no trouble or danger of bad luck, for by this time surely the six had long vanished through the gates.

  He turned back. It would take him but a minute or two to discover whether or not he had heard Orlif. At least, then, Albord could be satisfied that he had done all he could.

  The shouts of merriment had risen so high now that they actually hurt his ears. Did these people never rest? Had they nothing more to do than celebrate? True, they had much reason for their happiness, but even a mercenary liked peace and quiet on occasion. The sooner Albord returned to the palace, the better. At least there he could find some escape from the carefree madness spread among the populace—

  A short-lived scream cut through the air.

  Drawing his sword, the young fighter raced the rest of the way to the gates. Perhaps he had been wrong, but he swore to himself that the scream had sounded as if torn from the throat of Jodas. Albord rounded the final corner—

  And came across a tableau of terror that stopped him dead in his tracks.

  A sea of horrific, shambling corpses—husks of bodies, to be precise—swarmed together like the hungry, vicious fish he had seen once in the jungle rivers. Clad in tattered, soiled garments, they madly fought one another as they all sought to claim some prize in their midst. Their gaping mouths, rounded and full of sharp teeth, opened and closed repeatedly. A few to the side could be seen feeding, their gnarled, skeletal hands gnawing on some bloody bit of meat.

  From within the ever-growing mass, a human figure struggled his way to the top.

  Orlif, his face ripped, his arms drenched with his own blood, cut with his sword, trying to reach freedom. From where he stood in shock, Albord could see that most of the mercenary’s other hand had been either torn or bitten off.

  Orlif saw him, and what Albord caught in that pleading gaze made him more terrified than he ever could have thought possible.

  Then suddenly something tugged at the older fighter from within the hungering mass of fiends. Orlif let out one hopeless cry—and was dragged back down among them.

  “No!” The shout escaped Albord before he could stop himself.

  Empty eye sockets stared unerringly at the stunned soldier. Ghoulish shapes began to turn his direction.

  Sense at last returned . . . and Albord turned and ran as fast as he could.

  Throughout the monstrous, grisly scene, the music, laughter, and cheers had continued unabated. Albord looked this way and that as he ran, but of the merrymakers themselves he saw no sign. It was as if a city of ghosts celebrated around him.

  Then, from an alleyway, one of the grotesque, shambling forms reached for him. Albord leapt aside, slashing with his sword as he hurried on. The sharp edge cut through one of the wrists, sending the clawed, cadaverous hand flopping to the ground. However, undeterred by the loss of its appendage, the ghoulish fiend followed after the mercenary.

  The palace. If he could reach the palace, Albord felt certain that he would be safe. Captain Dumon would be there, and he would know what to do.

  As he ran, the city itself began to change, with each second growing as twisted and deathly as its foul inhabitants. Buildings rapidly decayed or crumbled, and what seemed like thick blood slowly poured over rooftops onto cracked walls and parched earth. The sky took on a sickly color, and the smell of rotting, burnt flesh assailed the young fighter’s nose.

  In the distance, though, the palace of Juris Khan looked untouched. Albord focused on the one bit of sanity in a world now gone mad. Each step took him closer and closer to salvation.

  Then, to his horror, he found the way blocked. A horde of desiccated, hungry corpses moved slowly and purposely toward him from the very street that would have led him directly to the stone steps. Rounded, toothy mouths opened and closed in anticipation of a new feast. The stench they exuded turned the frantic fighter’s stomach, and it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and throwing up.

  Albord looked left, finding an open side street. Without hesitation, he raced into it, hoping that it would open up onto a path leading to the steps.

  Something in the shadows caught his arm. Albord found himself face-to-face with one of the ghouls, a mockery of feminine form, a dry husk clad in the shreds of what had once been a very feminine, very revealing golden outfit. Strands of hair draped around the horrific visage, and the mouth opened wide in anticipation.

  “Come, handsome soldier,” it rasped in a voice straight out of the grave. “Come play with Nefriti . . .”

  “Let go of me, hellspawn!” With wild abandon, Albord struck at the demon, dealing only superficial damage. He finally cut into one arm, but then, recalling how not even that had slowed another of the creatures, he went for the neck.

  The blade bit through the crusted skin and the dry bone as if through parchment.

  The head of the demon dropped to the street, rolling several feet away. It spun for a moment, then stopped with the soulless face pointed in his direction.

  “Nefriti hungers for your kiss,” the head mocked. “Come kiss Nefriti . . .” The mouth opened and closed.

  To his further dismay, the body continued to struggle with him. Albord managed to cut himself free, then for good measure ran the torso through. As the body finally began to collapse, the desperate mercenary fled.

  The side street led to a major avenue that was, thankfully, deserted. Albord paused to catch his breath and decide on the best direction. Atop t
he hill, the palace, larger now, seemed to encourage him on. If he could get around the unholy throng, then the way would be clear.

  With visions of Orlif to urge him forward, the young officer stumbled his way toward the hill. Now he knew what had happened to the three men who had earlier vanished. Surely this somehow had to be the work of the sorcerer their host had mentioned, the vile, corrupted Gregus Mazi. The Lord of Ureh had claimed to have destroyed the villain, but Albord had seen enough of sorcerers to know that they could create perfect illusions. No doubt Mazi had tricked his former master into believing his death and now sought his revenge.

  Captain Dumon and the others had to be warned . . .

  Laughter and music continued to assail his ears. Now the tones took on a mad quality, as if those who celebrated did so in an asylum. Albord wanted to cover his ears, but feared that to do so would slow him down, even if only by a fraction of a second. The sounds tore at his very soul, filled him with as much horror as the demonic horde behind him.

  His pace picked up as he came within sight of the base of the hill. Only a short distance more . . .

  His boot snagged on something.

  Albord tripped, falling forward. He struck the stone avenue hard, sending waves of sharp pain through his entire body. For a few moments, he blacked out.

  Forcing himself to consciousness, Albord saw his blade a few feet away. He reached for it, then pulled himself up.

  Only then did he sense that he was no longer alone.

  They came from the alleyways, the ruined buildings, and the streets. They moved as one, with one vile purpose. They plodded toward him, reaching, reaching . . .