At this comment, Juris Khan chuckled. “Dead? I should say not! You’re not dead, dear, are you?”
And from behind him stepped his daughter.
Captain Dumon let out a strangled cry and fell back against the massive platform.
“I didn’t mean to make you upset before,” she purred, the door through which she had just walked closing of its own accord. As Atanna moved closer, she wobbled some, for clearly one leg had snapped in the middle and the foot of the other twisted to the side. Her left arm bent at an impossible angle behind her, and the right, which reached out to Kentril, ended in a hand so badly mangled it could not even be identified as such. Dirt stained her torn robe, but, oddly, not a single drop of blood.
Her head bent completely to the side, barely held on by tendons from the neck.
“You see?” offered Juris Khan. “Broken a little, perhaps, but certainly not dead.”
SEVENTEEN
Gorst had been through nearly every level of the palace and had discovered a few significant things. Most important of them was that almost all of the servants and guards had vanished; only those he would have expected to see in the vicinity of his and Kentril’s quarters seemed to be still active. When he secretly visited other floors, the halls remained empty, silent. Even the many courtiers who had clustered around the grand hall during Lord Khan’s announcements could not be found. It was as if only a skeleton crew manned the vast edifice. The giant had not yet concluded his hunt, but had already seen enough that he knew he had better report to his captain. Kentril would understand what this all meant. Gorst admired his commander and friend immensely and trusted his judgment—except perhaps sometimes with Khan’s daughter. Then it seemed that the captain on occasion lost track of matters. Of course, if she had focused her beauty on Gorst, the giant suspected he probably would have been even more befuddled. Battle was one thing; women were four, five, six complex things all at once.
He slipped past two watchful but unsuspecting guards near his own rooms, then, pretending to come from a side hall, nonchalantly walked into sight. Although he did not see their eyes move, Gorst sensed them suddenly take in his presence. They were good, but not good enough.
Reaching Kentril’s apartment, he rapped twice on the door. When no one answered, he repeated the action, this time much harder.
Still no response. While it seemed very likely that the captain could be found with Atanna, Gorst nonetheless felt his unease grow. He could not imagine what he would do if now Kentril, too, had vanished. While he could certainly think for himself, Gorst worked best when given orders.
The giant had started to turn back to his own rooms when a hint of black at the back end of the hall caught his attention. He glanced in that direction, but saw nothing. Still . . . one did not survive long as a mercenary by ignoring such things.
Reaching the location without alerting the guards proved simple enough, but trying to find the source of the momentary patch of black afterward turned out to be much harder. Gorst soon began to wonder if he had imagined it. He could find no trace whatsoever in the hall, and unless it had somehow managed to melt into the wall—
And then the giant’s sharp eyes noticed part of a door frame ripple.
Curious, Gorst reached out and gently touched the area in question.
The left side of the frame suddenly lost all but a vague semblance of normalcy, rippling so madly it almost seemed as if he stared at it through flowing water. A second later, even that vestige of reality faded away—and suddenly the battered, torn body of the necromancer, Zayl, fell toward Gorst.
The startled giant barely caught him in time. Zayl groaned slightly, clutching at him with what little strength remained.
“Get me—” the slim, pale figure gasped. “Get me—inside—room!”
Making certain that no one saw them, Gorst carried the spellcaster into the rooms set aside for him. He quickly lowered Zayl onto the bed, then anxiously looked for something to give the injured man.
“Open the pouch, damn it . . .”
At first, Gorst thought that the necromancer had spoken, but a quick check revealed Zayl’s eyes were closed, the spellcaster’s breathing slow but steady. The giant finally recalled Zayl’s disturbing companion and where best to find him.
It had probably been fortunate that the skull had spoken, for when Gorst reached for the pouch, he saw that, like the spellcaster’s clothing, it, too, had been ripped in several places. Hints of its grisly contents could be seen through the tears, and if not for some luck, Gorst suspected the contents would have spilled out long ago.
Gingerly removing the skull, he placed it on the nearest table.
“My thanks, lad. Didn’t think there for a while that we’d make it back in one piece.”
Gorst tried to remind himself that he spoke with a fellow mercenary, not simply the skull of a man dead for centuries. “What happened?”
“Young fellow there tried to conjure up the spirit of old Gregus,” Humbart Wessel explained. “Only, when Gregus did show up, he wasn’t old, and he wasn’t by far in a good mood! He tried to warn us, but right when he spoke, the very walls grabbed for poor Zayl . . .”
Humbart went on to tell of a most horrifying fate that the necromancer had only barely escaped with the skull’s assistance, then the arduous climb out of the caverns and the exhausting return to the palace. The tale would have struck Gorst as half fanciful if not for all else that had gone on.
“Let no one tell you,” the skull concluded, “that this young one’s not as fit as a fighter for all his being a spellcaster, lad! Zayl’d be a good, sturdy man to have on your side in battle any time.”
“Is there anything we can do for him?”
“Well . . . see if you can find a small red pouch among the things he left here.”
Picking through Zayl’s meager belongings, Gorst found the pouch in question. He held it up.
“Aye, that’s the one. Now, if there’s no curses or wards on it, open it up.”
The giant obeyed, only after undoing the strings realizing just what Humbart had said. Fortunately, nothing sought to strike him down or reduce him to dust.
“There a small vial with a yellowish liquid in it?”
There was, right next to what looked like a dried eyeball. Swallowing, Gorst pulled out the vial, then immediately sealed the bag.
“Pour it down his gullet. I saw him use that kind of stuff once after a thorned hulk almost beat him into the ground—’course, Zayl did manage to blast him to splinters in the end.”
When opened, the thick, ugly liquid proved to have an odor well-matched to its appearance. Wrinkling his squat nose, Gorst went to the unconscious figure and, slipping his other hand under the back of Zayl’s head in order to lift the latter up slightly, the mercenary carefully poured the contents into the other’s mouth.
Zayl coughed once, then swallowed everything. Suddenly, the necromancer’s entire body jerked wildly. Dismayed and startled, Gorst pulled back.
“Thought you said it’d help him!”
The skull did not reply.
The jerking abruptly ceased . . . and Zayl began to cough again. As he did, the peculiar wounds over every visible part of his body began to heal, then even fade away. The giant watched in amazement as, in but seconds, what little color the spellcaster had ever had returned and the last of the injuries utterly vanished.
Still weak but clearly recovering, Zayl eyed the soldier. “My thanks.”
“And don’t I get any credit?” grumbled Humbart Wessel. “Isn’t like it’s my fault that I haven’t any hands, or I’d have fed you the stuff myself!”
“I definitely thank you, too, Humbart.” The necromancer tried to rise, but could not. “It appears I need a few minutes longer. Perhaps it would be best if you brought Captain Dumon to see me. There is much we need to discuss.”
“Can’t find Kentril,” Gorst admitted. “Can’t find anyone but you so far.”
The silver, almond-shaped eyes that did
and did not remind the giant so much of Quov Tsin’s narrowed in suspicion. “No one?”
“Albord’s gone missing. That worried Kentril enough so he sent me looking around the palace. Couldn’t find Tsin, couldn’t even find hardly a soul anywhere besides on this floor. Seems the whole place is all but empty . . .”
“Yes, that is making more and more sense, I am afraid.”
This brought a snort of disapproval from the skull. “Now, you said that once or twice while climbing out of Nymyr, and you still haven’t explained to me just what you mean.”
Zayl frowned. “And that is because I do not yet completely understand it myself.”
Gorst knew he understood less than either, but one thing of which he felt certain was that his captain had gone missing, and that meant only one course of action as far as he was concerned.
“I need to find Kentril.”
“It might be best—”
“Come with me or not,” the giant said, determination hardening, “I’m going after my captain.”
The necromancer forced himself up. “Give me just a short time, Gorst, and I will be more than happy to help you search. I think it might be best if we left Ureh and its shadowed past. The holy kingdom seems to me anything but.”
Despite his impatience, Gorst agreed to wait. He knew that magic was involved and knew that against such he had little hope. He could wield an ax or sword well against any blood-and-flesh foe, but against magic he felt pretty much defenseless. Having Zayl with him would help even the odds. Gorst had already seen how skilled the man was.
It took the necromancer some minutes to recover his strength sufficiently and a few more minutes to do anything about his ruined garments. Gorst expected him to magic up some new clothes, but instead Zayl went to his pack and removed an outfit nearly identical to that which had been torn to shreds. Only the cloak could not be replaced.
“We shall have to find you a new pouch,” Zayl commented to the skull. “I fear I do not have another large enough in which to place you, Humbart.”
“Well, I’m not staying behind! If you don’t—”
Gorst did not want to have to wait for them to finish arguing. “I’ve got a bag big enough. It can tie to your belt just like your old one.”
Zayl nodded. “Then it is time to go find the captain and be rid of this place.”
It seemed to Zayl that he had underestimated the giant. Gorst appeared far more clever, far more adept, than the necromancer had assumed. The information he provided Zayl concerning the layout of the palace not only matched the drawing that the spellcaster had studied, but corrected some errors caused by expansion and even evidently sheer mistake on the part of the one who had drawn the diagram.
The mercenary had used simple tricks to evade the notice of the armored guards, but Zayl felt that even such would slow their efforts too much. Thanks to the potion that Gorst had fed him—and whose contents the necromancer knew he had best never explain to the fighter—Zayl felt almost as good as new. His wounds had vanished, and the only remnant of his almost catastrophic finish consisted of a slight twinge in one arm. Still, the necromancer felt confident that he could now not only mask himself from the sight of the soldiers, but do the same for the giant as well. They would save much time by walking right past rather than inching their way along the sides.
While Gorst obviously did not entirely agree, he did not argue when Zayl began casting. Using the dagger to draw the fiery symbols in the air, Zayl strengthened his normal spell, then touched the mercenary with the tip of the blade.
“Nothing’s happened,” complained the giant.
“We are both tied to the spell. We can see each other, but no one else can see us. The same applies for most basic sounds, but I would not recommend shouting or sneezing as we pass. Abrupt and loud noises might penetrate the glamour.”
Still a little reluctant, Gorst followed him out into the hall. Farther on, the sentries continued their motionless, tireless stare across the corridor. Zayl could not help but admire their training, so akin to his own. Each of the eight men stood tall and straight. Armed alternately with sword or ax, they almost could have been mistaken for very lifelike statues. Their nearly identical faces and expressions only served to emphasize that look and, in addition, had made Zayl early on wonder if they were perhaps all related.
He and Gorst slowly walked along, shoulder to shoulder, step by step. They passed the first pair, then the second, without any notice whatsoever. The mercenary seemed to relax, and even Zayl, who knew the power of his spell, felt some relief.
Then something about the next guard’s countenance made the necromancer pause despite the urgency of the situation. Gorst gave him a worried, insistent look, but Zayl ignored it. He stared cautiously at the armored figure, wondering what about the man’s face so bothered him. Unable to ascertain what it might be, he glanced at the opposing sentry, studying him.
It suddenly occurred to him what it was that he found so disturbing and yet so difficult to identify.
Neither guard had blinked. Zayl had waited far beyond reasonable human limit, and yet neither had reacted like a normal man. No matter how well-trained these guards might be, surely they had to blink at some point.
And yet they did not.
Zayl wanted to tell Gorst, but feared risking his spell. Once they were far past, he could tell the other of his disquieting discovery. For now, it behooved them to—
The unblinking eyes of one of the guards suddenly shifted in his direction, meeting the necromancer’s widening gaze.
“They see us!” Zayl shouted.
Everyone moved at once. Gorst had his sword out and ready to confront any of the four they had already crept by. The one who had met Zayl’s eyes leapt forward, ax swinging, face completely expressionless. The other three moved in behind him, similar blank looks on each.
Dagger before him, Zayl muttered. A black sphere briefly materialized, then shot directly into the chest of the first attacker. The armored sentry hesitated, then continued as if unhindered.
The results did not please the necromancer. Never before had he cast a spell of weakening and seen it completely fail. These guards were more than simply men—and, because of that, possibly more than he and Gorst could handle.
If he worried about such things, the gigantic mercenary did not show it. In fact, where Zayl’s magical assault had failed, Gorst’s considerable skill and strength made up for it. The first to reach the wild-maned fighter moved in with the obvious intention of quickly decapitating Gorst with his ax. Seemingly outfought already, Gorst waved his blade wildly about, leaving himself wide open.
However, as the ax neared, the giant did an amazing thing. He let the head and upper part of the shaft come within inches of his throat, then, with one meaty hand, stopped the ax in mid-flight and finally ripped it from the hands of its wielder.
Although disarmed, the guard charged forward. Keeping the handle foremost, Gorst slammed the sentry hard in the stomach. Metal bent in, and a gasp of air escaped the giant’s otherwise emotionless foe. Not satisfied with forcing his enemy to double over, Gorst swung hard, using the flat of the ax to strike the guard solidly in the face.
A face that shattered.
The fragments fell away. Within the helm, utter darkness reigned. To his credit, the mercenary did not even wait for the pieces to hit the floor. Quickly twisting the ax around, he did as his adversary had intended for him, slicing off helmet, neck brace, and whatever might have held them in place.
The now-completely headless figure collapsed with a clatter onto the marble floor.
“They’re not alive!” Gorst shouted needlessly.
“But they can be stopped,” Zayl returned. Now that he knew better what they confronted, the necromancer felt more confident. Small wonder his spell had failed; he had based his work on the type of enemy he assumed he faced. These were not men, no. They resembled golems of a sort, and as a necromancer he had become well-versed in dealing with their like.
Dodging the sword of his nearest opponent, Zayl ran through the spell for creating a golem, then reversed it. Hoping he would not misstep, he shouted the words not only in the latter order, but completely backward as well—everything to create the opposite effect.
The guard dropped his sword . . . and his hand . . . and his arms and legs and head and body. Armor scattered over the floor, and the face the golem had worn cracked into a thousand pieces as it struck the hard surface.
A second one nearly caught the necromancer while he stood admiring his work. The ax came within inches of Zayl’s chest. Only barely did Zayl manage to spout out the altered spell again before the monstrous sentry could try a second strike.
Something different happened, though. The guard lost his ax, and his actions became uncoordinated, but he did not crumble as the first had. In fact, Zayl could see him slowly recovering, his movements returning to fluidity.
The golem had adapted to his spell.
Behind him, Gorst grunted as he lifted another adversary up into the air using the spiked head of the ax. Had the guard truly been human, he would have been impaled to death, but the golem only struggled, trying hard to reach the giant with his sword.
With massive effort, Gorst used the ax to throw the one construct into another. The force of his toss caused the one beneath to shatter when the pair hit the floor. However, the first rose again, a gaping hole in his armor where his chest should have been. He seized the ax left behind by his fellow and moved in to match weapons with the mercenary.
The Kingdom of Shadow Page 24
