The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  Albord spun around, only to find every possible avenue of escape filled with gaping, hungering corpses. He glanced longingly toward the steps, toward the palace, and knew that despite his close proximity to the former, he stood no chance of making the final few yards.

  Curiously, the voice of Captain Dumon suddenly filled his head. Whenever possible, take the battle to the enemy. Better to fight and die quickly than to wait for the inevitable. Captain Dumon had taught him that early on. The company commander had also taught Albord the facts about a mercenary’s life, how for the vast majority death would prove almost a certainty.

  Gripping his sword tight and raising it high over his head, Albord roared and charged.

  As he collided with the foremost horrors, his blade bit well into dried flesh, crisp bone. Grasping limbs flew, and cadaverous bodies crumbled. Farther on, the palace continued to beckon, encouraging him to do his best.

  They caught his free arm, then his legs. Grotesque faces filled his view. The sword was wrenched from his hand. Still, Albord struggled forward another foot, two . . .

  At last, they brought him down, monstrous faces leering at him, hideous mouths eagerly working.

  Albord screamed.

  In the vast, silent library, Quov Tsin pored over the books left by centuries of predecessors, marveling at the work they had gathered for him. As much as he had savored the praises he had received from the courtiers of Juris Khan, the wizened Vizjerei loved his calling more.

  Yet now he could not concentrate as well as usual . . . and for that he had to thank the fool mercenaries. Captain Dumon and the giant, Gorst, had left him with small but irritating doubts abut the veracity of their host’s stories. Tsin did not like having doubts; Lord Khan had given him the entire library and made him high sorcerer for the most fabled of kingdoms. With such power, the Vizjerei could become known as the greatest of his kind!

  “Damn you, Dumon!” Tsin muttered as he turned a page. “Damn you for not leaving things lie . . .”

  “Is something amiss, Master Tsin?”

  The sorcerer jumped. He glared at the newcomer, only to see that the fatherly Juris Khan himself towered above him.

  “Nothing—nothing of consequence, my lord.”

  Khan smiled beatifically. “I’m so glad to hear that. You’ve done so much for the kingdom—and myself specifically—that it would disturb me if you were not happy.”

  Standing up, Quov Tsin surreptitiously studied his good host. How could the suspicions of the captain possibly have any merit? The man before him truly fit every aspect of the legend that the sorcerer had studied so closely over the decades. Surely he, Tsin, could better read the situation than a lovestruck, low-caste brute like Kentril Dumon! “I am most pleased by your gracious reward, my Lord Khan, and know that I live to serve you in whatever capacity as sorcerer you need.”

  “For that I’m very grateful, Vizjerei. It’s the reason, in fact, I’ve come to see you alone.”

  Tsin’s already narrow eyes narrowed further, almost becoming slits. “My lord desires my aid?”

  “Yes, Master Tsin . . . in fact, I cannot hope to save Ureh without you.”

  The bold statement caught the diminutive spellcaster’s imagination. I cannot hope to save Ureh without you. A flush of pride washed over Quov Tsin. Here at last was a ruler who appreciated his fine skills! More and more, the murky anxieties of the mercenary captain seemed but smoke. “I am at your beck and call, Lord Khan . . .”

  The taller man put a companionable arm around the shoulder of the sorcerer. “Then, if you can tear yourself away from the books for a time, I need to show you something.”

  He more than had Tsin’s interest. “Of course.”

  Juris Khan led him from the library. As they walked, the monarch of Ureh explained some of the historical aspects of the holy kingdom, telling how this ancestor or that one had helped gradually raise the realm to its ultimate glory. Knowing that his host simply sought to pass the time until they reached their ultimate destination, Quov Tsin all but ignored the other’s words, instead noting such little things as how each guard stood at his most attentive when they passed or the way the servants looked in complete awe when Lord Khan simply acknowledged them with a nod of his head. The tall elder man ruled absolutely, and yet his people loved and honored him. Against that, Kentril Dumon’s fears meant nothing.

  Tsin quickly realized that he was being led to a part of the palace to which he had never been before. Near the grand hall, Juris Khan opened an unobtrusive door that the sorcerer could not understand having missed earlier. Within, a narrow stairway led down a passage only barely lit by a source undefinable. Deeper and deeper Tsin and his new lord descended into the underlayers of the vast edifice. The Vizjerei had expected that the holy palace had levels below ground, but he was astounded by just how far down they went.

  No candles, torches, or oil lamps could be seen throughout the journey, yet the mysterious dim illumination prevented the two from having to travel entirely in the dark. Curiously, the dank, almost sinister aspects of his surroundings did not disturb Tsin, but rather heightened his anticipation. Surely what Lord Khan led him toward could only be a place of great importance.

  And then he felt the forces in play, forces raw and chaotic. Even before they reached the thick iron door, Tsin already had some idea of what awaited him.

  The savage, beaked head of a gargoyle acted as holder for the massive ring used as a door handle. Quov Tsin marveled at the intricate work of the head, so very lifelike that he expected the creature to snap at Juris Khan as the robed monarch reached for the ring.

  “Tezarka . . .” whispered Khan as he touched the handle.

  With a slight groan, the door slowly opened—to reveal the sanctum of a sorcerer extreme.

  “My private chamber . . . a place of power.”

  Shaped as a hexagon, the room stretched wide in every direction. The Vizjerei could have fit his own humble sanctum in this place a dozen times over. Shelf upon shelf of powders, herbs, and various rare items lined every wall, while books of arcana lay open upon three vast wooden tables. Jars with specimens that even the well-versed Tsin could not identify had been arranged on another set of tables to his right. Runes had been etched into various places around the chamber, wards against possible spells gone awry. From the center of the ceiling, a vast crystal illuminated all, its source of power that which Quov Tsin could feel permeating the entire place.

  But most arresting of all proved to be the vast stone platform in the center of the room.

  It stood at least as tall as the Vizjerei, and etched in the rectangular base were intricate runes, many of which even Tsin did not recognize. The platform, too, had been covered with such markings and, in addition, bore the symbol of the sun.

  Without thinking, the gnarled Vizjerei stepped forward to inspect the platform. Running his bony fingers over the upper edge, he sensed the inherent forces that had been called up in the past . . . and still waited to be called upon again.

  “This is . . . very ancient,” he finally commented.

  “Carved before the concept of holy Ureh had even been birthed in the minds of my ancestors. Built before any of the eastern realms, much less the western ones, existed. Created by the precursors of the Rathmians, my own people, and your worthy Vizjerei brotherhood, good Tsin. There are times when I question if those who hollowed out this sanctum were even human but perhaps instead heavenly servants sent to prepare the way . . .”

  “So much power . . .” More than any of Quov Tsin’s kind had ever wielded, even during those centuries when they had made pacts with supposedly subdued demons.

  “It is here that you and I will undo the last of Gregus’s curse, my good friend. It is here that I plan to restore Ureh fully to the mortal plane.”

  And Tsin could well believe that possible. Such primal forces proved tricky enough to manipulate, but if Lord Khan could do as he hoped, it would make all that the sorcerer had seen before seem like the spellwork of
apprentices. Here existed a place of true mastery . . .

  “I could do nothing,” explained his host, “nothing at all while I was trapped. Yet I considered and considered well what would happen once someone of skill could free me. Thanks to the treachery of Gregus Mazi, all sorcerers were lost to me, save my dear Atanna.” His expression shifted. “But, of course, as talented as she is, she is not you, Master Tsin.”

  The spellcaster accepted readily this obvious statement. Atanna did indeed have skill—enough so that if she had not already fallen for Kentril Dumon, Tsin might have approached her in the future himself for breeding purposes—but to manipulate such forces required great care, exceptional experience. In truth, without the Vizjerei, Tsin felt certain that any attempt by Lord Khan alone would have ended in abject failure.

  “In this chamber,” Juris Khan whispered, having somehow come up behind the short sorcerer, “with skills such as the two of us combined wield, there is no limit to what we can accomplish, my friend. Even beyond Ureh rising once more among the great kingdoms. The secrets of the world, and those beyond, could be open to us, if we are only willing to chance matters.”

  Quov Tsin could see all of it, all the glory, the power. He ran his hands across the runes, drinking in the forces each held. The wrinkled Vizjerei imagined all of them at play, all his to command, to wield . . .

  Then he caught sight of a strange pattern at the very center of the platform, a curious, disquieting marking almost like a stain that someone had not quite been able to remove.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Juris Khan barely looked at the marking. The tone of his voice when he responded completely dismissed the spot as unimportant.

  “Blood, of course.”

  SIXTEEN

  Zayl . . . He tried to move, but could not.

  Zayl . . .

  He tried to breathe, but could not.

  Zayl . . .

  If not for his training, he would have already been dead, his lungs completely deprived of air.

  Zayl, you bloody young fool! You can’t die on me now, damn it!

  The necromancer tried to talk, but although he knew his mouth was open, no sound escaped it. He tried to open his eyes and at first they resisted. Only with arduous effort did he manage finally to raise the lids enough to see.

  And only then did Zayl discover that he had been made like Gregus Mazi.

  Even with eyes well-suited for the dark, Zayl could only just make out enough detail to know his terrible fate. He hung from a stalactite high above the first massive chamber that he and the two mercenaries had come across on their previous journey. Like the unfortunate Mazi’s, Zayl’s arms and legs had been pinned back tightly. Unlike the sorcerer, though, Zayl clearly lacked any purpose for being there. The power that had placed him there desired no sentinel, but rather merely wished the necromancer very, very dead.

  Zayl would die, too—and soon. Already he could feel his body changing, becoming the same as the stalactite. Strange forces leeched into his body, altering his structure. Given time, he would become more a part of the mountain than even Gregus Mazi.

  But before that happened, he would suffocate.

  “Zayl, boy! You’ve got to still be able to hear me!”

  Humbart Wessel’s hollow voice echoed through the vast cavern, seeming to come from every direction. Straining, the necromancer managed just to make out the passage through which he and his companion had earlier entered. Somewhere within, the skull no doubt still rested, in many ways as trapped as he.

  His hopes, which had briefly risen, plummeted. What could the bodiless Humbart do for him?

  Zayl’s thoughts grew murkier. An immense exhaustion filled him.

  “If you’re hearing me, I’m right where you left me, remember? You’ve a sharp mind! You see it in your head?”

  What did the skull hope to accomplish? Zayl only wanted to go to sleep. Why did Humbart have to bother him?

  “I think you’re still listening, lad, or at least I hope so! Don’t like the thought of sitting in this dank place the rest of eternity, so hear me out!”

  Humbart’s voice irritated the necromancer. He wanted to tell the undead mercenary to go away, but without legs, Humbart could hardly do that.

  “Your dagger, Zayl! You need your dagger to help yourself!”

  His dagger! Zayl’s eyes widened. Did he still have his dagger?

  His companion answered that quickly. “I can see it, lad! It’s just a few feet ahead of me!”

  And a thousand miles away, for all the good it would do. If the necromancer could have at least seen it, he could have summoned it to him. Zayl, however, had never mastered indirect summoning of objects, especially not under such dire circumstances. He had to see what he desired.

  The urge to sink into oblivion grew strong again.

  “Listen to me!” insisted the skull. “It’s pointed toward me, with just a little bit of rock covering the tip. There’s another rock shaped like a giant’s tooth propping up the hilt area . . .”

  Despite his desire to sleep, Zayl listened. In his mind, a picture of the dagger began to form. He even saw Humbart’s skull, the empty eye sockets staring hopefully at the blade.

  But why bother?

  “You see it, don’t you, lad? Damn it! If you’re still alive and can hear, you’ve got to see it!”

  And finally Zayl understood. Humbart had been with Zayl long enough to know the skills of the one who had animated him. He knew that the necromancer needed to see the dagger, so the skull sought to create a perfect picture for him.

  It would never work—or would it? It would require what remained of the air trapped in his body, the minute particles here and there that enabled Zayl to last four, five times longer without breathing than a normal man. Zayl would have to squeeze his lungs completely empty in order to draw enough strength for this one spell.

  Meanwhile, Humbart went on with his descriptions, the skull either very optimistic about his companion’s chances or merely not wanting to think yet about the alternative. If the latter, Zayl could hardly blame him, for thanks to the spell the necromancer had used, Humbart, too, would suffer. If someone did not find the skull, then unless the rest of the passage collapsed and shattered him, the former mercenary would be trapped in Nymyr forever, his spirit unable to move on.

  “That’s about it, Zayl, lad!” the skull shouted, Humbart’s voice slightly more subdued. “You should have a good image now . . . that is, if you’ve heard anything at all.”

  Focusing on the dagger, Zayl quickly pieced together the image as the other had described it. He saw the rocks and how the blade lay upon them. He saw again Humbart’s skull staring at the partially buried tip. The necromancer visualized each variation in the rocky walls, filling out his picture.

  With every last iota of strength, Zayl fixed on the enchanted dagger, demanding in his mind and heart that it come to him.

  “Zayl!”

  Something gleaming flew out into the cavern as if shot from a crossbow. The trapped necromancer immediately focused on it. The object suddenly veered toward him, a beacon of light in the deathly dark.

  The ivory dagger flew unerringly toward him. For just a brief moment, Zayl recalled what they had been forced to do for Gregus Mazi. Should he now will the dagger to come point-first? Should Zayl wish the blade to sink deep into his still-human flesh?

  But the situation with Mazi had been different. Not only had the sorcerer been set into place with a purpose, but the spell had been given centuries to do its foul work.

  Not so with Zayl. The transformation had barely begun. With the dagger to guide his work, he could still save himself—

  The blade suddenly dropped. Struggling, the necromancer brought it back toward him. His concentration had slipped, and, worse, he felt his will ebbing.

  Come to me, he called in his mind. Come to me.

  It did, moving with such swiftness that at first it seemed it would yet slay him. Only at the last moment did the dag
ger suddenly veer, darting around Zayl and the stalactite and forcing itself into the necromancer’s encrusted hand.

  The moment the hilt touched, Zayl found he could move his fingers. Gripping the blade, he channeled his strength into it. His lungs screamed, his heart pounded madly, but the imprisoned spellcaster would not give in.

  As if struck by lightning, the shell around him shattered.

  Weakened, Zayl plunged earthward. Had he been above the uppermost floor of the cavern, he likely would have died, but the stalactite upon which he had been bound had hung over the vast drop. That and that alone enabled him to recover enough to save himself.

  As he fell past the ledge, Zayl managed to utter a spell. A gust of wind suddenly lifted him upward. With tremendous effort, Zayl managed to take hold of the cavern wall before him. His success proved timely, for the spell suddenly faltered, nearly sending him falling into the abyss.

  Zayl managed to drag himself slowly to the upper floor of the cavern. Exhausted beyond belief, he lay there for some time, his breathing ragged and every inch of his body feeling as if someone had dropped Nymyr on top of him.

  “Zayl?” came a tentative voice.

  “I—I am—alive,” he croaked back.

  “You sure?” returned Humbart’s skull. “You don’t sound like it.”

  “Give—give me—time.”

  “It ain’t like I’m going anywhere,” mumbled the necromancer’s companion.

  Gradually, Zayl’s breathing normalized. His body continued to ache, but at last he could at least move.

  Under the glow of the dagger, Zayl discovered he had not escaped unscathed. His clothing had been reduced to shreds, and his skin had scars everywhere from where the spell had caused the stalactite and his body to begin to merge. Zayl had no doubt that his face, too, bore such marks, but he thanked the Great Dragon that his life had been spared.

  On unstable legs, the necromancer finally returned to the passage in which the attack had taken place. The rock slide that he and Captain Dumon had discovered had all but vanished, almost as if it had been blasted away by some tremendous force. Zayl held the dagger before him just in case he might be assaulted anew, but could sense no danger.