Never fear death again . . .
They would make him like her.
He tried to flee again, but his body refused to obey his demands. Kentril could breathe, he could even blink his eyes, but his legs and arms remained frozen.
“Really, Dumon! The embarrassment you cause us both. You can certainly spare a few drops to save a city and the offer Lord Khan gives you—if it could be done more than once, I’d do it to myself.”
To his minor satisfaction, the mercenary commander discovered his mouth worked. “You’re welcome to it, Tsin!”
“I, regrettably, must assist in the spell. Besides, our good host assures me that when the conjunction of forces is correct again, he shall grant the favor. For now, you are the fortunate one!”
Kentril’s legs began to move, but not by his choice. Next to the platform, Quov Tsin made walking motions with two fingers. As he did, the fighter’s legs mimicked his actions.
“Damn it, Tsin! Don’t you realize that something’s wrong here?”
As he neared the Vizjerei, though, the captain noticed a faint, glazed look in the sorcerer’s eyes. Up close, Tsin had the appearance of a man entranced.
“Up, please,” the Vizjerei commanded.
Unable to resist, Kentril climbed atop the platform, spreading out as if his limbs had been bound by invisible cuffs.
Juris Khan loomed over him. In his hand, the monarch wielded a slim but serpentine dagger. “Have no qualms, Kentril Dumon. Ureh shall be eternally grateful to you.”
As he raised the blade above his head and uttered words of power, the captain caught sight of Atanna smiling expectantly at him.
Soon they would be together again . . . and he would be just like her.
The winged gargoyle leapt out of the door, its entire body seeming to sprout from the iron itself. The beaked maw opened and roared, and the metallic talons slashed at the pair.
To his credit, Gorst placed himself in front of Zayl and began trying to slay the creature with his ax. Unfortunately, the ax bounced off the body of the beast with a loud clang, chipping the weapon’s head in the process.
“What do we do?” asked the giant. The gargoyle stretched a good eight to ten feet from end of beak to tip of hind quarters. Zayl knew that even Gorst dared not get too close; the unliving sentinel would tear him to ribbons.
“Let me try a spell.” The gargoyle seemed much like a golem, only in animal form. Perhaps, the necromancer thought, it could be dealt with in much the same manner.
He did as he had done before, reversing both words and spell, trying to transmute false life back into an inanimate object.
For a moment, the monster paused. It shook its head as if trying to clear its thoughts, then continued to advance unchecked.
Beaten for the moment, Zayl and Gorst withdrew, winding their way back up the steps. The gargoyle continued to follow until it reached the midway point between the top and bottom of the stairway. There it suddenly froze, iron gaze fixed upon the pair above.
“So . . . first and foremost, it protects the door,” Zayl muttered, wondering what he could do with that bit of information.
Gorst leaned on the ax, glaring back at the beast. “We gotta get down there. Kentril’s there for sure, and I don’t like that.”
The necromancer had to agree with him. For what reason Captain Dumon might be down there, he could not say, but surely it had to involve something dire. The longer the gargoyle kept the two of them at bay, the greater the likelihood that the captain would be murdered . . . or even worse.
“What goes on out there?” demanded a voice at his belt.
In all that had happened, Zayl had forgotten about Humbart. Of course, the skull could do little, but unless the necromancer responded, he knew that Humbart would only continue to rant.
“We face a gargoyle blocking the door through which we believe Captain Dumon can be found,” he informed the contents of the bag. “Unless you have something to offer, I would suggest you keep still.”
True to form, the skull paid him no mind. “You try one of your golem spells?”
“Yes, and it failed.”
“What about—?”
Zayl sighed, exasperated as usual with his bodiless companion despite the good Humbart had done for him in the past. “This is hardly the time! I—”
“Only one question, lad! What about the Iron Maiden?”
“Iron Maiden?” grumbled Gorst, likely knowing the term only from the torture device.
“Another spell involving reversal. Why it should even be brought up I—” The pale necromancer hesitated. “But it could work, I think. It will involve risk, but if I am careful, I should be all right.”
The giant shook his head. “If it’s dangerous, use me.”
“Gorst—”
The massive fighter would not hear him. “If it doesn’t work with me, you can try something else. If it doesn’t with you, what am I going to do?”
He had a point there, one that Zayl disliked immensely. Servants of Rathma saw themselves as the front line in the battle to keep the mortal world in balance. They did not generally gamble the lives of others in their place.
“Very well, but do not risk yourself needlessly.”
“What do I do?” Gorst asked.
Already casting the spell, Zayl replied, “You must engage the gargoyle in combat.”
“That all?”
From the skull came another response. “You could also try praying a bit, lad!”
Gorst grunted. Zayl finished the spell, explaining, “If it works as planned, whatever blow it strikes against you will damage it instead. If you feel the slightest pain, retreat quickly.”
The giant said nothing more, not even commenting on the fact that if the gargoyle got one good strike at him, he would not have the chance to retreat. Hefting his weapon, the mercenary descended toward the metallic beast.
Nearly within range, Gorst suddenly paused. “If I strike him, does it hurt me?”
“No, you may attack at will.”
The massive figure gave him a happy grin. “Good.”
Nearly motionless while the two had stood atop the steps, the winged gargoyle suddenly stirred to savage life as the human approached. It snapped and slashed at Gorst even though the fighter had yet to get near enough. Despite his confidence in his spellwork, Zayl could not help feeling much concern for his companion. One never knew what spells might also surround the beast. He readied himself to protect Gorst the moment anything turned awry.
Barely a yard from the guardian, the giant suddenly raised the ax over his head and let out a war cry. The gargoyle roared in turn, leaping forward.
Metal clashed against metal. Despite the spell set upon him by the necromancer, Gorst fought as if his skills alone would save him.
Twice, three times, the head of the ax met the claws and savage beak of the gargoyle. The razor-sharp nails came within inches of the mercenary, but Gorst avoided them as he would have any attack.
With his prodigious strength, he dented the head of his adversary, but the toll of hitting the iron hide of the beast proved too much. The blade chipped and dulled, and each swing came slower and slower.
The gargoyle finally got one paw under Gorst’s defenses. The fighter tried to retreat, but stumbled over the step behind him.
“What’s happening?” Humbart called.
Zayl said nothing, poised to cast a spell even though he knew that it would not save the mercenary from terrible injury.
The claws tore at Gorst’s right leg.
A horrible, metallic screeching sound rippled through the passage.
Gorst’s monstrous foe suddenly tumbled to the side, its right rear leg shredded open. Seemingly unconcerned, the gargoyle pushed forward, trying with its beak to snap at the human’s unprotected midsection.
Again the metallic shriek echoed throughout the area. Now the gargoyle did back away, although in rather haphazard fashion. In the area of its belly, a gaping hole now existed. A live anim
al would have already been dead or dying from such wounds, but the magic animating the winged terror kept it going, albeit without as much skill and fluidity of movement as in the beginning.
“It’s working!” shouted Gorst. “I’m going in closer!”
Even seeing that his spell worked perfectly, Zayl did not relax. He also moved nearer to the struggle, watching for any possible threat or an opening of which he could make use.
Swinging the ax hard, the giant actually indented the gargoyle’s left shoulder. Unimpeded by such a wound, the beast struck again, reaching for Gorst’s right forearm.
The results were as expected. Instead of mangling soft, human flesh and ripping apart muscle and bone, the animated guardian only tore its own front right leg asunder. Suddenly stricken with two badly mauled limbs on the same side, the gargoyle teetered, falling against the wall. Yet still it did not give in.
“This is takin’ too long!” bellowed the mercenary. “I’m gonna try something!”
He threw down his ax and leaned forward, presenting his face and throat for the beast.
“Gorst! No!” Even though the spell had so far protected the fighter, Zayl wanted to take no chances.
The metallic guardian, however, reacted too swiftly for the necromancer. With its good front limb, the winged creature slashed hard, aiming for the entire target. Claws that could have ripped away Gorst’s face to the very bone came closer and closer . . .
With a savage squeal of wrenching iron, the gargoyle’s own muzzle and throat tore off.
Little remained of the monstrous visage save a bit of eye. A ragged hole reminiscent of the damaged golems greeted the staring humans.
The gargoyle took an awkward step forward, choosing to stand on the ruined front limb. This time, it toppled completely to the side and seemed unable to right itself.
With almost childlike interest, Gorst leaned down and bared his chest to the one good forelimb. He then reached out and tapped the ruined guardian on the paw.
The paw instinctively attacked.
A great gouge appeared in the gargoyle’s chest.
The metallic beast screeched once . . . then stilled.
“Nice spell,” Gorst commented, rising. “How long does it last?”
“This battle is done,” replied the necromancer. “It is gone now.”
“Too bad. Can you cast it on me again?”
Zayl shook his head. “Not with any trust to its success. Besides, I suspect that such a spell will not help you down there.”
The giant seized his battered ax again, not at all bothered by the other’s answer. “Guess I’ll just have to fight like normal, huh?”
With the gargoyle destroyed, the handle to the door had also been lost, but Zayl suspected that it did not serve as the true mechanism for entry. Such a place would not depend upon so mundane a device. The true key to opening the door had to involve magic—but how to discover that key?
He pulled the skull free. “Humbart, what do you see?”
“A red force blankets the whole thing. There’s dark, greenish lines zigzagging over it from top to bottom, and in the center I see a kind of blue-yellow spot—”
That had to be what Zayl sought. “Guide the tip of the blade to it.”
The skull did, urging the necromancer’s hand left and right, up and down, as needed. “Right on the mark there, lad!”
A slight tingle coursed through Zayl as he touched the point of his weapon to the spot. Immediately, he began a spell of searching and unbinding. Without the unique properties of the skull, Zayl knew that he would have never been able to pinpoint the area so precisely, so cleverly had the wards been set in place.
His mind untied and unfolded the myriad patterns creating the lock, slowly teasing out the secret to its opening. Unbidden from his mouth came words even he had never heard before, old, old words of dark imagining. The necromancer considered pulling free, but that would have left him with no other options, and Captain Dumon most certainly in some dire strait.
Then, at last, a single word came to him, the final key and, if he had been privy to the knowledge of the original caster, the only one truly needed.
“Tezarka . . .” Zayl whispered.
With a slow moan, the door began to open.
The necromancer leapt back, joining a wary Gorst in preparation of the attack surely to come. The iron door opened wider, revealing light from within. A flood of varied and powerful forces emanated from within, enough to awe even Zayl.
Yet nothing burst forth to attack them. No guards, no golems, nothing.
Glancing at each other, Zayl and Gorst cautiously entered.
The vast, angled room immediately snared their attention, for here clearly stood the most private sanctum of a powerful spellcaster. The weighty tomes, the gathered specimens, powders, and artifacts—Zayl had never seen such a collection. He stared, for the moment caught up in the sight. Even Gregus Mazi’s abode had not touched him so.
It took Gorst to break the spell over him, Gorst, who asked the question that had to be asked.
“Why is it empty?”
NINETEEN
They had left him unable to move but at least able to talk, and Kentril saw no reason to remain silent. “Tsin, Snap out of it! Can’t you see how wrong everything about this is? You’re under a spell yourself, damn it!” “Do relax, Dumon,” chided the Vizjerei. “Such an ungrateful cretin you are! Immortality, riches, power . . . I thought that was what a mercenary dreamed of.”
It was no use. Quov Tsin could not see past whatever had been cast upon him. Lord Khan had preyed upon the sorcerer’s greed, just as the captain himself had when first instigating Tsin to persuade their host to make Ureh part of the mortal world again.
Or had their host needed any convincing? It had been Atanna who had first broached the subject with Kentril, telling him that they could be together if her father did not decide to try once more to follow the path to Heaven. The mercenary realized that he had been duped; Juris Khan had no doubt sent his daughter to fill the gullible captain’s head with such notions, knowing that Kentril would do his utmost to sway the Vizjerei.
Both he and Tsin had been played like puppets or, worse, fish on a line. Bait had been set to catch each, then the lord of Ureh had reeled them in with ease.
“It’s quite ironic,” commented the elder monarch. “I had only just sent my darling daughter to find you when you apparently came looking for her. I had meant to wait longer to cast this spell . . . but my children were so eager, so hungry, that I was forced to move the spell to this night.”
Kentril looked to Tsin to see if he heard any of what their host had just confessed, but the short, balding sorcerer seemed quite contented preparing for the task at hand. The Vizjerei had begun to go around the edge of the platform, using mumbled spells to cause various runes to glow brighter. Whatever hold Juris Khan had over the sorcerer looked to be very complete, indeed.
“I had promised them your men when first we noticed your arrival, but I needed one of you for this precious work. I also needed another wielder of sorcery to aid in my effort, the others having been necessarily sacrificed to my sacred mission long ago.”
“Gregus Mazi never tried to destroy Ureh, did he?”
The regal lord looked offended. “He did worse than that! He dared claim that I knew not what I did, claimed that I, Juris Khan, loving lord of all my subjects, damned rather than saved my people! Can you believe such audacity?”
Captain Dumon could believe that and much more about his captor. He saw now what he and the rest had so blindly missed. Ureh’s master had gone completely insane, his desire for good somehow twisted into all of this.
“I admit, there were times when my beliefs faltered, but whenever that happened, the archangel would appear to me, bolster my will, and once more set me on the proper course. Without his guidance, it’s possible I wouldn’t have pressed on to the end.”
This archangel Juris Khan constantly spoke of had to have been a product of
his own mind—and yet, here stood the man who had nearly succeeded in reaching the sanctuary of Heaven! How could the archangel have been delusion, then? Only with the efforts of such a one could any mortal possibly have hoped to accomplish so incredible a feat.
“He warned me of the insidious efforts of the dark powers to influence those around me, that I could not trust any but myself. Even those who worked in concert to bring success to our goal might have become tainted . . .” Khan wore an expression of intense pride. “And so I cleverly planned to make certain that none of them would have the opportunity to betray me at the moment of our destiny!”
When the priests and spellcasters had gathered to do their part, they had not realized that their master had something else in mind in addition to their work. Devised in secret, Ureh’s monarch had instituted a second spell, one so enmeshed in the principal effort that none of his underlings would take notice of it. Each would unknowingly assist in ensuring that there would be no attempt to usurp the holy quest.
Juris Khan had laid within the master spell a means by which to slay each and every one of those who aided him.
Their fates had been decided the moment they had begun. The spell that had sought to cast Ureh to Heaven had not only drawn from the innate magical powers of the world, but had also done so with equal force from the casters themselves.
“It had all been so well-planned, down to the most delicate of details,” Kentril’s captor went on. “I could feel Ureh’s soul being lifted from its earthly shell . . . and the life forces of the corrupted ones being leeched from their treacherous selves.”
But he had underestimated one among them, the one he most should have watched. Gregus Mazi, trusted confidant and nearly son to the elder ruler, a sorcerer knowledgeable and skilled. Along with the priest Tobio, Mazi had been the one who had most contributed to the breakthrough needed to make the great spell possible in the first place.
“I saw it in his eyes. I saw the moment when he comprehended what the spell sought to do to him. He didn’t realize that I had done the altering, but he knew nonetheless the result. At the most crucial moment, at the most critical juncture, Gregus tore himself free from the matrix we had all created. With his remaining power he cast himself out of Ureh . . .”
The Kingdom of Shadow Page 26
