The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

Kentril thrust his hand forward, palm up.

  Nodding, the necromancer reached forward with his blade, at the same time saying, “You, too, Gorst.”

  The giant obeyed with less trepidation, likely because of Kentril’s own decision. Zayl pricked the forefinger of each, then had the pair turn their palms down.

  Spots of blood stained the ridge. The ebony-clad spellcaster waited until each fighter had lost three drops, then ordered the two to step back.

  He whispered for several seconds, waving one hand over the stained areas. Then, to both mercenaries’ astonishment, Zayl pricked his own finger, carefully letting three drops fall upon each set.

  “Under other circumstances, I would cast this in an entirely different way,” he commented. “But this will have to do.”

  Again, he muttered under his breath. Kentril could see the strain in the necromancer’s face and understood then that what Zayl sought to accomplish opposed everything he had been taught.

  Suddenly, the ground before the captain began to rise up. A few inches at first, then more and more, in less than a minute the mound of rock and earth growing to half the size of a man and getting larger by the second. The taller the mound grew, the more it also took a defined shape. Arms sprouted from the sides, and from the arms grew individual fingers, then entire hands.

  As the first mound rose, a second did the same next to it. This one outpaced even the first, quickly rising to become as tall as Gorst. In fact, the more Kentril studied it, the more it outwardly resembled a carving of the giant. Legs formed, and the outline of a torso developed. Even the thick mane of hair began to sprout forth.

  And before the astounded eyes of the fighters, their very twins came into being.

  The new Kentril and Gorst stood as still as the rock from which they had been born. Only the eyes blinked, but they did so at a uniform pace, not randomly like living people.

  “A variation on the golem spells,” Zayl told his friends. “Not an experiment to be tried first under such conditions, but at least it worked.”

  Gazing at his own face, Kentril asked, “Can they talk?”

  “They have no true minds of their own. They can perform basic functions, such as walk and, to a point, fight, but that is it. Enough, though, I think, to keep the eyes of Juris Khan upon me until you reach the Key to Light.”

  “Zayl, you’re setting yourself up to be a decoy—and not the type that usually survives the hunt!”

  The necromancer’s expression remained guarded. “I present us with our best odds, captain.”

  He obviously would not be talked out of it, and, in fact, Kentril could think of no good reason to turn down his plan. In truth, Zayl had more of a chance against Khan than either of the nonmagical fighters.

  “We have taken enough chance here,” Zayl went on. “I must send you away before he finally discovers where we are. I believe only because we did not end up where I expected did we avoid instant pursuit.”

  Once more, the necromancer focused his powers on the two. Kentril stood close to Gorst and tried to prepare himself for the sorcerous journey. That Zayl’s last attempt had gone awry did not ease his mind about this second try. For all they knew, the mercenaries might end up dangling from the top tower of Khan’s palace.

  “May the Dragon watch over you,” the spellcaster quietly called.

  Zayl and the ridge vanished.

  Juris Khan stared at the place where Kentril Dumon had been, stared at it in both pious anger and disappointment. The dark one had to be at fault for this, the foul necromancer he had been forced to accept as a guest in order to maintain appearances. It had disturbed him even to allow such a dealer in the magic of corpses to enter his beloved city, but he had forced himself to smile whenever Zayl had been near.

  And now this was how the necromancer had repaid him.

  “What in blazes?” spouted Quov Tsin. “What happened?”

  “A misunderstanding,” Khan returned. “A foolish misunderstanding.”

  Atanna had a look of intense disappointment on her face, something that only deepened the monarch of Ureh’s fury at the unclean Zayl. “My Kentril!” she cried. “Father! My Kentril!”

  He put a calming hand on her soft shoulder. “Calm yourself, my beloved daughter. The good captain will be returned to us. We may have to perform a different rite on him to make him ready for you, but rest assured, it’ll happen.”

  “But what of Dumon?” the Vizjerei demanded. “Where did he go?”

  “It appears I underestimated this Zayl. Not only did he see past the magical variation of this chamber I had long ago cast, but he used it to his advantage, reaching out from the other reality into this one and taking the captain with him.”

  “What of the spell, though? What of that?”

  Lord Khan gazed thoughtfully at the sorcerer, but directed his words to his daughter. “Yes, what of that? Atanna, my darling, has our work been completely ruined?”

  “Of course not, Father! I would never let you down like that. How could you even ask such a thing?”

  “Of course, of course! My sincerest apologies, Atanna.” He chuckled. The tall robed figure stepped within an arm’s length of Quov Tsin. “And to you, too, Master Tsin.”

  The diminutive sorcerer squinted. “Apologies? For what, my lord?”

  “For what I must do now.” With shocking strength, Juris Khan seized the short Vizjerei and flung him atop the platform.

  “My lord—”

  “Know that your sacrifice will allow my children to spread across every land and open the way of Heaven to this benighted world!”

  Tsin’s mouth opened in preparation of a spell. Every rune upon his robe flared bright. The elderly sorcerer even sought to stave off Khan with his stick-thin arms.

  None of his defenses, either magical or mundane, aided him against the power wielded by Juris Khan. With a prayer to the great archangel Mirakodus, Lord Khan drove the dagger into the Vizjerei’s bony chest.

  Tsin’s eyes bulged. He gasped for breath but found none. His hands slid from the robes of the monarch, at last falling limply.

  Blood spilled from the deep wound, racing over the garments and at last falling upon the platform.

  A crackle of lightning shot up from the body of Quov Tsin, forcing Lord Khan back. More bolts quickly followed, creating an epic battle of forces in play directly over the corpse.

  The master of the holy city fell to one knee in supplication. “Great Mirakodus, hear my humble plea! Let the world of mortal men be ours once again!”

  A tremor shook the entire palace, but did not at all frighten Juris Khan. A sense of displacement swept over him, and momentarily he saw a hundred different variations of his surroundings. At last, however, they all began to merge, finally coalescing once more into the version with which he was most familiar.

  The spell had succeeded. The soul and body of Ureh had been united again. The Light among Lights once more shone brightly on the mortal plane . . .

  And all he needed to make it perfect was for the sun, only a scant time away from rising, to let its glory touch the Key atop Nymyr. That would seal the spell in place, remove the last impediment—

  But no . . . there existed one more impediment, for surely the necromancer would attempt to stop him. Surely the corrupted one would persuade his friends to try to steal or destroy the stones, just as Gregus had convinced poor Tobio.

  Zayl had to be removed. Without him, Kentril would return to the fold. The giant Gorst seemed an innocent, but if he could not be turned back to the light, then Lord Khan would have to remove him also.

  “Shakarak!” A fiery ball materialized before him. Khan muttered another word of power, and the center of the burning sphere suddenly grew transparent.

  The face of Zayl appeared.

  “Shakarog!” The image backed away, revealing more and more of the pale necromancer and his surroundings. Juris Khan looked upon the corrupted figure with loathing. Hardly any color in his flesh and clad in clothes almost entirely
as black as his heart. Truly an instrument of Hell, not Heaven. The archangel would have immediately commanded him destroyed for the good of all.

  A second figure appeared behind Zayl.

  Captain Kentril Dumon.

  “So,” he whispered to himself, “unlike Gregus and Tobio, these choose to travel together, the better to concentrate their efforts. A pity that it’ll avail them nothing.”

  Atanna stepped up beside him, one delicate hand stretched out toward the mercenary captain.

  “Kentril . . .” she cooed.

  “I shall bring him back for you, my darling.” He did not add that he would do so only if it did not prove necessary to slay the man. The spell that would have given his daughter the perfect mate could no longer be cast, and although Lord Khan had promised her that Captain Dumon would yet be hers, more and more he realized how difficult that might be.

  Still, he would try . . . but first he had to distract her, lest she wish to come with him. It would not do for her to see the captain slain, should that prove necessary.

  “Atanna, my darling, I see no sign of the large one, the one called Gorst. I need you to keep watch on the Key to Light, make certain that he doesn’t climb up and try to take it before sunrise. Understood?”

  Fortunately, she had not heard what he had said about the group traveling together, nor did she see, as he briefly had, that the giant followed behind his fellow mercenary. “But I want to go to Kentril—”

  “He would only become more confused, possibly even injure himself because of that. You know how torn he was. The necromancer will surely have turned his mind wrong for the moment.”

  Atanna obviously still wished to go, but she nodded her head nonetheless. “All right, Father . . .”

  “Wonderful!” He gave her a hug, then kissed her forehead. “Now, be off with you. Soon we’ll have this all sorted out, and the good Captain Dumon will be yours again.”

  “As you wish.” She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and vanished.

  Any pleasantry vanished with his daughter. Grimly, Juris Khan glared at the figures wending their way down toward the Key to Shadow. They had condemned themselves with this sinful action, just as Gregus had. He would smite them down, even Atanna’s beloved, if necessary. Their wicked deeds could not go unpunished.

  Still, fairness dictated that he pray for the sinners even as he prepared to slay them. Just as he had done with Gregus and Tobio, Lord Khan whispered a few words, then ended with the phrase that always most brought him comfort.

  “May the Archangel Mirakodus take up your souls.”

  And with a satisfied smile, he went to send the three to their final rewards.

  TWENTY-ONE

  With the last of the power he had drawn from Juris Khan’s sanctum, Zayl had managed to send himself and the golems to the very cavern in which he had so recently been imprisoned. The necromancer had dared not attempt another, similar spell, such magic risky at best and, under the circumstances, more foolhardy than helpful. From here on, it had to be with the aid of spells he knew well, no matter how that might limit him in the long run. In truth, the necromancer did not expect to reach his goal unhindered—or possibly to reach it at all. Captain Dumon had suspected the truth; Zayl fully intended to sacrifice himself if it meant that the two mercenaries would manage to reach their own goal. Only one Key had to be removed before the sun rose, and the one atop Nymyr would serve as well as any.

  Zayl had done everything he could to draw the attention of their foe, leaving a trail of sorcerous residue any competent wielder of power would notice, much less trace. That alone might not perhaps have sufficed, but the necromancer’s companions surely erased any chance that Khan might turn his gaze elsewhere. Surely with his might, the ruler of Ureh would seek out his prey, beginning with the so-simply-detected spellwork of Zayl, then, through the arts, divining that the Rathmian did not travel alone.

  The other two followed docilely along, almost like puppies trailing their mother. They wore determined expressions, but only because Zayl desired such from them. It would not do for Juris Khan to arrive only to see that the two fighters stared like empty-minded zombies. That would give away the truth much sooner than Zayl hoped. Every second extra granted to the captain and his comrade meant greater hope of success.

  With the aid of a makeshift version of his original magical strand of rope, they quickly descended deep into the mountain’s belly. The necromancer led each segment, showing the golems how it had to be done. Tied to his blood, they could repeat his actions exactly. The only danger other than their adversary remained any need for independent action. If they had to act for themselves, they risked falling and shattering.

  “Are you sure of this?” asked Humbart as they drew nearer and nearer to their goal. “Maybe he went after them instead.”

  That had occurred to Zayl early on, but the pale spellcaster had not wanted to speak of such a disastrous turn of events. “He would surely come after me first, for fear that with my skills I would be the most logical threat.”

  “Aye, but logic might not have much to do with it, eh?”

  “We shall hope for the best, Humbart.”

  The skull did not reply to that, answer enough in many ways.

  Yet the deeper they descended, the more the concern grew. Had Lord Khan ignored the obvious and instead discovered the trail of the mercenaries? Had he recognized the necromancer’s ploy with the golems from the very start? Question after question, uncertainty after uncertainty, plagued Zayl as they had never done in his entire life.

  At last, they reached the level at which the enchanted crystal could be found. Keeping his dagger ready at all times, Zayl guided the golems along. The constructs had weapons identical to those of the men they had been designed to emulate, although these weapons had actually been forged from the same rock used to mold the bodies. How strong those would prove in combat, the spellcaster could not say. Again, all he hoped for was enough of a delay to give the others time to fulfill their own mission.

  Nearer and nearer they drew, and still nothing impeded their progress. The slight frown that had early on creased Zayl’s mouth deepened with each step. Already he noticed ahead the peculiar illumination radiating from the Key to Shadow’s lair. So close, and still no sign that Juris Khan had pursued him. Would it be the necromancer who succeeded and the mercenaries who paid the ultimate sacrifice?

  He paused. After a moment’s thought, Zayl indicated that the Gorst golem should take the lead.

  The massive figure stepped forward, ax in hand in much the same manner as the true Gorst would have held it. Every movement spoke of the fighter, a sign of how well the necromancer’s quick spell had worked.

  The false Gorst stepped into the very edge of the Key’s unsettling light. He readied his weapon.

  Nothing happened. The golem turned to Zayl, awaiting orders.

  A howling form materialized over the construct, falling upon him.

  The necromancer had never seen such demonic figures before, but he recognized well Captain Dumon’s description of the ghoulish creatures that had been all that remained of Ureh’s once-pious inhabitants. The dry husk of a body, the gaping, rounded mouth filled with edged teeth, the soulless black holes where the eyes should have been—even versed as Zayl was in the arts of dealing with the dead and undead, the corrupted humans of the fabled kingdom left him shuddering.

  As the golem struggled with his monstrous foe, a second and third materialized around him. Zayl started forward, only to have another fiend leap out of the rocky wall and attack.

  Under strands of loose hair, a face out of nightmare stared hungrily at the necromancer. The tattered remnants of a once seductive emerald dress barely clothed the shriveled, cadaverous form.

  “Kiss me,” it croaked. “Come enjoy my caresses . . .”

  Again, Zayl shuddered in open fear. Acting more on reflex than anything, he thrust.

  To his surprise, the blade sank readily into the ghoul’s throat.

&nbs
p; The dagger flashed brightly as it dug into the dry flesh. The abomination let out a gasp that almost sounded relieved. For good measure, Zayl twisted the magical weapon, uttering a few quick words.

  The throat wound flared. As the necromancer removed the blade, the flaring intensified, quickly overwhelming the macabre figure. The creature fell against the wall, curling into a fetal position. In but the blink of an eye, the entire body lay bathed in the furious brightness, the already shriveled form shrinking ever more in on itself.

  Zayl watched a moment longer in order to assure himself that soon there would be nothing at all remaining. He then turned to face those already attacking the first golem and found that not only had their numbers trebled, but now they attacked from both ends.

  He had been surrounded.

  The golems did their best to hold the horrific band at bay, both fighting with the mechanical skill that they had inherited from the true mercenaries. The false Gorst chopped off the arm of one ghoul, while his counterpart ran another through the chest. Unfortunately, although both warriors were the products of sorcery, their weapons lacked the magical abilities inherent in the spellcaster’s blade. True, with enough effort and time, they might be able to hack their foes to pieces, but the numbers and circumstances did not offer that as a likely hope.

  That left matters to Zayl’s skills.

  In such tight quarters, he dared not use either the Talons or the Teeth of Trag’Oul, especially with Juris Khan no doubt lurking near, preparing to strike. Still, perhaps something similar . . .

  Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Zayl cast the spell.

  From both walls, the ceiling, and even the floor erupted thick bars of ivory, bars of actual bone. One of the demonic attackers collided with the barrier as it arose. Under a silent command from Zayl, the Kentril golem fell back just in time, barely avoiding being caught with the oncoming fiends.

  Composed of the bones of a thousand different long-dead creatures, the wall very efficiently barred the ghouls’ way. The gaping mouths snapped open and closed, and twisted, dried fingers madly but vainly sought the necromancer. With demonic fury, they struggled to get past his work, but, at least for the time being, the defensive wall held.