The Kingdom of Shadow

by Richard A. Knaak

  Yet for how long he could not say. Quickly turning back to those swarming around the Gorst golem, Zayl cast another spell. With the dagger, he drew a pair of curving lines in the air, at the same time reciting.

  Two of the monstrous attackers had slipped past the construct, but they managed to come only a few feet toward the necromancer before the spell affected them. With almost human screams, they abruptly cringed, then swiftly backed away. Beyond them, those that had continued to fight the golem likewise suddenly cowered in outright fear.

  One turned, fleeing into the darkened passage beyond. That caused the rest of the ranks to break, creating a scene both horrific and saddening. Each of these horrors had once been human, and in some ways Zayl regretted everything he had just been forced to do to them. They had not been at fault. Rather, they had been betrayed by the one they had most trusted, most revered.

  Lord Juris Khan.

  With the golems keeping guard, Zayl pushed on to the chamber of the Key. Whether or not he or his companions survived, at least one of the crystals had to be removed or shattered. If it proved necessary that this be the one, the necromancer would not falter.

  And there it stood, exactly as he had seen it last. Beyond it, the dead form of Gregus Mazi still hung above, his nightmare, at least, at an end.

  Keeping vigilant, Zayl started toward the Key. The rotting bodies of the winged fiends he and the others had slain previously lay all about, but no new danger reared its ugly head. Closer and closer the necromancer got to the dark crystal. His fingers came within inches—

  A crackling sound drove him back, Zayl’s first clue that the ceiling had begun to collapse. He looked up, saw no sign of any fissure or falling bits of rock, yet the harsh crackling sound continued.

  Something farther back in the chamber moved.

  The necromancer’s eyes widened.

  With movements akin to those of a marionette, Gregus Mazi tore himself free of his centuries-old prison.

  But as Zayl stared into the eyes, he knew that Mazi himself had not stirred to life. The sorcerer had indeed perished earlier . . . but now his corpse moved at the will of the mad Juris Khan.

  Body glittering from the many crystalline deposits covering it, the undead figure stretched out a crusted hand toward Zayl, who immediately stepped farther out of reach.

  The hand suddenly shot forth, growing larger and longer as it neared.

  The necromancer reacted too slowly. The elongated fingers wrapped completely around him, squeezing him tight much as the stone ones had done in the tunnel.

  However, in contrast to that nearly fatal struggle, Zayl did not this time have to rely on himself alone. The golems, attuned to his will, strode into the chamber, weapons raised for battle.

  The stalactite man thrust forward with his other hand, seeking to do with the false Kentril as he had done with Zayl. Commanded by the necromancer, the golem countered the assault with a swing of his blade. A good chunk of the outstretched hand dropped to the floor . . . but so did a part of the construct’s blade.

  “Surrender to your fates,” Gregus Mazi uttered. “Repent your sins, and the archangel may yet accept you . . .”

  The mouth might have belonged to the resurrected sorcerer, but the voice and words truly could only be those of Ureh’s mad monarch.

  “Kentril Dumon, my good captain,” the macabre figure continued, the blank eyes fixing on the false mercenary, “throw off the shackles of doubt and deceit forced on you by this corrupted soul! Immortality with Atanna awaits you . . .”

  Despite his predicament, Zayl’s hopes rose. In those few lines, Lord Khan had revealed that he believed the construct to be the true captain. That meant that he had not noticed the two mercenaries climbing Nymyr. Even if Zayl perished, the chance still existed that Captain Dumon and Gorst could put an end to the threat posed by this city of the damned.

  The Kentril golem did not answer, of course, that ability well beyond the necromancer’s skills. Instead, he struck again at the reaching hand, chipping off one of its fingers but losing more of the sword as well.

  Apparently seeing through the eyes of his undead puppet, Khan had not so far noticed anything odd about the golem, not even the peculiarity of the sword. The longer Zayl could distract him, the better.

  “Captain Dumon listens only to me, my lord,” the spellcaster retorted, putting as much condescension in his voice as possible. “So long as I live, his will is mine!”

  “Then for the sake of his soul—and yours, even—you must die, necromancer!”

  But although he expected to do just that, Zayl had no intention of falling prey to his adversary so easily. Juris Khan’s interest in the captain had bought him necessary seconds in which to plan. The spell risked his own life, but if it succeeded, then Khan himself would have to take the stage.

  He pictured a starburst in his mind, then overlaid it upon the crystalline form once inhabited by Gregus Mazi. With what air still existed in his lungs, Zayl shouted out a single word of power.

  Gregus Mazi exploded.

  The force of the explosion sent Zayl flying backward into the Kentril golem. A torrent of rocky missiles assailed the necromancer and his two puppets. The entire chamber shook, and the stalactite that had held Mazi for so long plummeted to the floor, impaling the earth there.

  Zayl struck his head hard, becoming momentarily dazed. Rocks continued to pelt him, forcing the necromancer to cover his face with his arm. He had cast a variation of a spell that caused the corpse of one who had died violently to unleash in an awful explosion the anguish sealed in the body during its last terrible moments of life. Unfortunately, although Zayl had tried hard to focus the direction of that explosion, the size of the chamber had made it impossible for him to avoid some backlash.

  With effort, the stunned necromancer rose to his feet. Neither golem moved to assist him, not having been told to do so. Zayl looked them over quickly, assessing the situation. Up close, he could see the damage that they, unprotected by any wards, had taken. Portions of each face had been completely obliterated, and chunks of rock had been broken off from the torso and limbs. Several vicious cracks now spread across both figures, hinting of further instability.

  “There are no depths of evil to which you’ll hesitate to go, are there, necromancer?”

  Zayl quickly turned to the Key to Shadow—and, behind it, the sanctimonious face of Juris Khan.

  The robed monarch gazed down fondly at the crystal, even placing his hands upon it as one might a favored child. Illuminated by the peculiar dark light, Lord Khan looked as monstrous as the creatures his people had become.

  “To take a man’s body, to destroy the house in which his soul had resided so crassly, so without care . . . truly your corruption is irrevocable!”

  It proved tempting to remind the robed figure that he had seen no fault in seizing control of Gregus Mazi’s corpse for himself, but Zayl suspected that Juris Khan would have a ready rationalization for anything he did. In his own mind, however the lord of Ureh acted, he did so with the blessing of this not-so-Heavenly archangel of which he always spoke.

  “I’m afraid,” Zayl’s former host went on, “that, for your soul, there is only the pits of Hell.” His eyes began to shift to the Kentril golem. “But for the good captain and his friend, perhaps there might still be some hope . . .”

  In the dim light, Khan had obviously not yet noticed the flaws and breaks in the two figures. Realizing that he still had a chance to stall the other a little longer, Zayl immediately leapt forward, brandishing the gleaming dagger.

  “If I am going to the pits of Hell, then I shall take you with me!” he shouted.

  Juris Khan reacted exactly as he had hoped, turning away from the constructs and focusing all his attention on the necromancer.

  A wave of black light erupted from the Key, striking at Zayl.

  He barely raised a magical shield in time. Still, the force with which the dark light hit sent the spellcaster flying against the wall. Zayl l
et out a scream as the pain of the collision jarred every bone in his body.

  “Captain Dumon,” the robed figure called out, “step away from him. Come to me. Atanna awaits you.”

  The golem, of course, did not move.

  Leaning forward, face contorted with effort, Lord Khan repeated himself. “Step away from him. Come to me! Atanna—”

  And as Zayl struggled once more to his feet, his head pounding and his legs almost ready to buckle again, Atanna’s father realized the trick that had been played on him.

  “Homunculi!” Khan shouted. Raising one hand, he pointed at the one resembling Captain Dumon.

  The golem trembled. It took one step forward, only to leave the bottom half of its leg behind. The lack of balance quickly assailed the necromancer’s creation, and it tipped forward. However, even before it could crash to the floor, the arms, the other leg, even the head, broke off, scattering in different directions.

  Lord Khan formed a fist.

  The golem lost any last semblance to the form of a man. A pile of fine dirt and crushed rock spilled over the chamber floor, the only remnants of Zayl’s cleverly made puppet.

  Zayl had not thought it possible for his adversary’s countenance to grow any more grim, but the expression Juris Khan wore now caused even the stalwart spellcaster to regret standing so near.

  “The mountaintop . . .” Lord Khan stared at Zayl with utter loathing. “They’re climbing to the top of Nymyr!”

  “M-maybe you should go after them. I shall w-watch the Key to Shadow for you.”

  “Do not taunt me! By the archangel, you are a thing of evil!”

  The necromancer felt his strength returning, albeit slowly. If he could hold on to Khan’s attention a little longer, then the mercenaries would succeed. “The only evil is the one you yourself let into Ureh, Lord Khan! You have succeeded in doing what demons and duped summoners failed to do for centuries. You brought eternal damnation to the holy kingdom. You corrupted your beloved people!”

  “How . . . dare . . . you?”

  Again, the wave of black light burst out of the crystal, but this time Zayl was better prepared for it. The attack pushed him against the wall, even made it hard for the struggling spellcaster to breathe, but it did not batter him as before.

  Under his guidance, the remaining golem suddenly charged forward, swinging the stone ax at both Juris Khan and the stone.

  Lord Khan redirected his power at the oncoming figure, beating at the false Gorst and sending fragments flying everywhere. The stone giant stumbled, but pressed on, driven toward his goal by the will of Zayl.

  Forced to deal with two foes at once, Khan’s effort against the necromancer himself flagged ever so slightly. It proved all Zayl needed not only to brace himself better, but to counterattack.

  He did not seek out the elder monarch, however, but rather the Key to Shadow. Zayl did not know if he had any hope of destroying the artifact. If he managed even to damage it, so much the better. His greatest concern continued to be the success of Captain Dumon and Gorst. A servant of Rathma devoted his life to the struggle to maintain the balance; if Zayl had to give his now, it would only be his duty.

  He sent forth the Teeth of Trag’Oul, hoping that one of the missiles would hit its mark.

  Juris Khan waved his hand, and a shield of gleaming silver protected the Key from the horrendous rain of projectiles. The bony missiles went clattering in a hundred other directions, some of them even turning back upon the necromancer.

  Gritting his teeth, Zayl dismissed the projectiles. As he did, his last golem finally crumbled, the Teeth finishing what Khan had begun.

  “Spawn of Diablo!” The towering lord stepped in front of the protected crystal, seeming to grow even larger in the process. His eyes burned as red as those of any demon, an irony considering his opinion of the necromancer. Corrupted so thoroughly by the darkest of the Prime Evils, Juris Khan could not even see his own damnation. “Enslaver of souls! Accept your eternal punishment!”

  “Would that punishment involve having to listen to more of your preaching, my lord?” Zayl taunted. His best weapon so far had not been any of his spells or even his golems. Words seemed to affect Juris Khan more than all else, especially those that placed him in anything other than the pious light he shone upon himself.

  But this time, Ureh’s master did not react as the spellcaster had supposed he would. Instead, Lord Khan shook his head in mock pity and replied, “Misguided fool. The evil that corrupts you makes you underestimate the powers of light. I know what you try, and I know why you try it!”

  “I try it in order to keep you from continuing to assail my ears with your incessant sermonizing.”

  Again, Juris Khan did not rise to the bait. He chuckled quietly, looking down upon Zayl as if the necromancer were little more than a flea-bitten hound. “The last, desperate weapon of a defeated scoundrel. Your puppets served you better, Master Zayl, for they, at least, fooled me for a short time.”

  “They only needed to draw you here,” countered the necromancer, “where I waited.”

  “And you think that you’ll keep me here, occupy my time while your companions seek to reach the other Key. Did you believe I’d leave it unattended? Atanna watches over it; she will see when the mercenaries come, and she will do what is right.”

  Zayl allowed himself a slight smile. “Even against Kentril Dumon?”

  Now, at last, he had caught Juris Khan’s attention. “Atanna will see to it that he doesn’t remove or damage the crystal. That is all she needs to do.”

  “She wants the captain, my lord. She wants him badly. Your daughter may be persuaded by her desire—her love, even?—to hesitate. That may be all he needs.”

  “Atanna knows her duty,” the elder man countered, but his expression hinted otherwise. “She’ll not betray the work of the archangel!”

  As he spoke, Khan’s hands suddenly crackled with energy. Zayl saw that the time for talk had passed; now, if he hoped to give the captain and Gorst any chance of success, the necromancer had to fight with all his might.

  “It is time to confess your sins and ask absolution, necromancer,” Juris Khan boomed, his face lit up madly by the powers he summoned. “And fear not for Atanna’s heart. She is, after all, her father’s daughter . . . and she will do what must be done even if it means utterly destroying Kentril Dumon!”

  The high winds and fierce chill did not in any way touch the crimson-haired enchantress as she searched the darkened mountainside for the giant, Gorst. From her momentary perch atop a narrow, precarious ledge, she surveyed the rock face with eyes that saw in the dark almost as well as a cat’s, seeking out the telltale signs of movement.

  Only one other thought distracted her, burrowed into her mind with the savage intensity of a hungry leech. She knew that her father had promised not to harm her darling Kentril, but accidents did happen. In his misguided belief that the necromancer spoke truly, Kentril might sacrifice himself for the dour, pale figure. That would very much upset Atanna.

  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she transported herself to another location. Atanna hoped to stay clear of the near-top of the mountain peak, even the night sky no protection. Only the black shadow, the comforting shadow, shielded her from a horrific fate that even the archangel’s gift could not prevent.

  Her concerns vanished in an instant as she immediately noticed a distant form below. It had to be the giant. Atanna prepared to move closer, the better to ensure that her strike would prove fatal the first time. For the sake of her Kentril, she would make his friend’s death a swift one—

  A second, smaller figure moved into sight.

  “No!” she gasped. It could not be Zayl, whom she had seen in her father’s vision, but neither could it be Kentril. He had been with the necromancer. How could he be here?

  She would have to stop them. She would have to keep them from reaching the Key to Light. A simple spell would destroy the part of the mountain on which they climbed . . . and would kill K
entril.

  Atanna could not do that. There had to be another way to stop them. Yet any attempt to block their path by destroying part of the mountain would also likely slay them.

  “I cannot do it,” she muttered. Yet to stand idly by would mean betrayal not only of her father, but also of the glorious archangel, Mirakodus.

  Thinking of the archangel brought both love and fear to Atanna. She thought of his wondrous gifts yet also recalled with fear what had happened when he had entered her mind and soul. Atanna never wanted to go through that again. The memory still scarred her soul.

  She prayed for an answer, and almost instantly her prayer seemed granted as an idea blossomed. Atanna could not raise a hand against her beloved, but neither could she betray all her father had sought. Therefore, she would have to place a challenge before her Kentril, a challenge that would prove whether or not he had truly been worthy from the start. Surely her father and the archangel would see the fairness of that. Surely they would understand what she did.

  And if Kentril did indeed die . . . well, Atanna felt that he, too, would simply have to understand.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It had occurred too late to Kentril that he and Gorst would be at a great disadvantage when they attempted to climb Nymyr. When last they had done so, it had been with torches to guide them through the dark. The captain had only recalled that fact just as Zayl’s spell had taken effect, but by then, the chamber and the necromancer had already faded away. To his surprise, however, Zayl had evidently considered the problem, too, and dealt with it. Upon materializing on the mountainside, Kentril immediately noticed that the utter darkness of the shadow had given way to a deep gray, which enabled the mercenary to see at least some distance in every direction. Gorst, too, had gained this ability. The spellcaster clearly could not have altered the essence of the shadow itself, which meant that he had instead granted his companions a crude form of night vision.