What felt like a thousand pins sank into his fingers and palm.
“Kentril!”
Despite his agony, the mercenary kept his hold, then tugged with all his might.
A peculiar and not at all human squeal coursed through the garden. The entire vine tumbled to the path, a dark, sinewy form more than three times the length of a man.
Throwing the end down, Kentril clutched the hand that had held the plant with his other. It felt as if he had stuck the throbbing appendage into an open fire.
“Atanna! Wh-what was—”
“I’ve no idea! Your hand! Give me your hand!”
Her soft fingers lightly touched his own. The pain receded. Atanna whispered something, then leaned down and let her lips lightly touch his palm.
Fearful of her suffering from whatever plant poison had gotten him, the captain tried to pull away. With surprising strength, however, Juris Khan’s daughter held on.
“Please, Kentril! Rest easy. I know what I’m about.”
It seemed that she did, for the more she worked at his injury, the less and less it hurt him. Before long, he could even flex the fingers without feeling so much as a twinge.
“What did you do?” he finally asked.
“I am my father’s daughter,” was her reply. “I am the daughter of the Most Revered Juris Khan.”
Meaning that she shared some of his wondrous skills. Caught up in her glory, he had forgotten that she had such talents.
Now that Atanna had dealt with his injury, he recalled what had attacked him in the first place. Squinting, Kentril searched the dark path for the end of the vine.
His companion found it first. “Were you looking for this?”
“Be careful!”
But she looked unaffected by the vile plant. “This could not be what stung you. This is only a Hakkara vine. In some parts of the world, they eat the fleshy bottom part. It has much juice and is claimed to be healthy.”
“That spiny thing?” He took it from her, only to find it smooth and soft save for a few tiny bumps. Frustrated, Kentril ran his hands along the length of the vine, finding nothing out of the ordinary.
“You must’ve been bitten by an insect of some sort. Probably the same one that bothered you before,” Atanna suggested. “Sometimes some of the jungle insects used to make their way to the city, despite how the mountain causes the air here to be cooler than they like.”
“An insect? In Ureh?”
“And why not? You and your friends are here. Why not an insect that happened to be near? The jungle isn’t that far from the edge of our kingdom.”
Her words made sense, but did not completely mollify him. He looked around the darkened garden, finally saying, “Let’s move on.”
Only when the first glimmer of light at the other end materialized did Kentril feel any calmer. As they exited, he looked back with barely concealed distaste. Atanna and others in Ureh might find such a grove peaceful and beautiful, but to the soldier, it now seemed more in tune with the nightmarish curse Gregus Mazi had wrought. Had the timeless exile in limbo somehow changed the plants in ways that Khan’s daughter did not notice?
“Now that we’ve got better light,” Atanna suddenly said, “let me see your hand again.”
He turned it over for both of them to study—and saw little more than a few healing welts. Kentril could scarcely believe it, having felt as if his entire hand should be a bloody, perforated mess.
Running her finger over the remaining marks, the young woman commented, “In a short time, these, too, will vanish.”
“It’s amazing. Thank you.” He had witnessed magic before, but never had any been performed on him. Kentril felt certain that if Atanna had not used her skills, he would have been much worse at this moment.
“It’s only a small thing . . . and I feel bad that you suffered because of me. If I hadn’t invited you to walk with me—”
“Such things happen. Don’t blame yourself.”
She looked up at him with imploring eyes. “Will you still talk to Master Tsin about trying to get Father to change his mind?”
“Of course I will!” How could Atanna think otherwise? The captain did this as much for himself as for her. “Old Tsin’s consistent. I explain the matter to his liking, he’ll be certain to do what he can to make Lord Khan see it right, too.”
“I hope so.” She kissed him again. “And thinking of my father, I must go to him now. Since he cannot move from the chair, I play for him to help ease his burdens. Perhaps I can even make a mild suggestion already. He’s always more agreeable after my music.”
With one final kiss, Atanna left him, her slim form disappearing into the garden. Kentril watched her vanish, but although the garden would have likewise been the appropriate route for him, the mercenary did not enter. Instead, he walked around the perimeter, keeping a cautious distance. By the time Kentril reached where Khan’s daughter had been playing, both she and the flute had long left.
Alone, Captain Dumon took one last, measured look at the unsettling grove. At first glance, it seemed no more unusual than any patch of jungle or forest, and as a place specifically sculpted by some master gardener, it should have presented an even less intimidating image than either of the former. Yet, the more he studied it, the more Kentril felt that if he had entered alone, it would have been much more difficult to come out.
From behind him, someone cleared his throat. “Captain?”
“Albord.” He hoped that the other mercenary had not noticed him jump ever so slightly. “What is it?”
“Sorry to bother you, but a couple of us were wonderin’ when we might get our reward from his lordship so we can get goin’ home.”
“You’re already tired of all the acclamation, Albord?”
The plain-faced, white-haired fighter looked a bit uncomfortable. Kentril forgot that despite his experience and skills, Albord was much younger than most of those in the company. That he had often been left in charge when Gorst could not be spared had said much for his abilities. “It’s not that—I had as good a time as any, captain—but a few of us want to head back to Westmarch.” He shrugged. “Just feel more comfortable at home than here, sir.”
The last thing that Kentril wanted was to leave, but he could understand how the others might feel. Gorst would probably stay; he had no family, no kin. The rest, though, had ties to the Western Kingdoms, even loved ones. That these men served as mercenaries had as much to do with feeding mouths as with becoming rich.
All thought of the garden fading, the captain patted Albord on the shoulder. “I’ll see what can be done about the lot of you going home. If I do, can I trust you to bring something back to the families of those lost? If I read our host right, one small sack should have enough to split among the survivors and leave them well off.”
“Aye, captain! You know I’ll be honest.”
Kentril had no doubt about that. He also knew which other men from the survivors would be cut from similar cloth. No one joined Captain Dumon’s company who did not first undergo thorough scrutiny. If Kentril sent Albord home with coin for those left behind by Benjin, Hargo, and the others, it would reach them.
Grateful, the younger fighter saluted. He started to step away, then hesitated. “Captain, two men still haven’t come back from the city.”
“I know. Gorst told me three, actually.”
“Simon dragged himself in just a little while ago, but he said Jace was headin’ back hours before, and no one’s seen a sign of Brek.”
Having known far too many men like the pair missing, Kentril shrugged off Albord’s concern. “They’ll pop up, you’ll see. They won’t want to miss their share, remember.”
“Should I send someone out to look?”
“Not now.” The captain became a little impatient. He needed to take some time to think about how best to phrase things so that Tsin would readily see his point of view. Kentril had no more time to waste on drunken mercenaries gone astray. “I told Gorst already that if
they don’t show up in a couple days, maybe then.” Hoping he had not sounded too uncaring, Captain Dumon patted Albord’s shoulder again. “Try to relax. Enjoy this! Believe me, Albord, it happens all too little for those like us. The jungle we crossed or that winter near the Gulf of Westmarch, that’s our usual payoff.”
Albord gave him a plowboy’s smile, reminding Kentril of the background of almost every low-paid mercenary ever born. “I suppose I can take the food and women a little longer.”
“That’s the spirit!” the older fighter proclaimed as he began guiding the other back down the hall. In his mind, Kentril pictured Atanna, his own reason for staying . . . perhaps forever. At least until he had talked the Vizjerei into persuading Juris Khan no longer to seek the righteous path to Heaven, the captain did not want to broach the subject of payment. It was not as if Albord and the others were not being rewarded in other ways.
Besides, Kentril thought, what harm could a few more days’ waiting do?
NINE
The perpetual shadow over Ureh worked in Zayl’s favor as he climbed toward Gregus Mazi’s mountain sanctum. Even though the former monastery faced away from much of the city below, enough of a line of sight existed that would have made it quite simple in daylight for anyone to spot the cloaked form wending his way up the half-broken path carved into the rock face. Zayl could appreciate the location the sorcerer had chosen and wondered why he had never noticed the ruins of it earlier. The spell that had taken a spirit form of Ureh and cast it Heavenward had interesting touches to it that he hoped later to investigate.
Below him, the celebrating continued unabated. Zayl frowned. Did the people require no sleep? True, the realm of limbo did not fall under the same laws as the mortal plane, but surely by now exhaustion should have taken many of the inhabitants.
Huge, ominous forms stood guard as he at last reached what passed for a gateway to the monastery. Once they had been archangels with majestic, blazing swords and massive, outstretched wings, but, like their counterparts on the doors of Khan’s palace, these had been heavily damaged. One angel missed an entire wing and the right side of its face; the other had no head at all and only stubs where once the magnificent, plumed appendages had risen.
Zayl crawled over rubble, finding it interesting that Gregus Mazi’s abode remained so ruined when all else in Ureh had been restored to new. The necromancer could only assume that the people of the cursed city had taken out their anger at some point on the abode of their absent tormentor. Zayl only hoped that this did not mean that Mazi’s sanctum had been ransacked.
He wished again that he knew more about the ways of the realm in which Ureh had been trapped. Khan hinted that a semblance of the passage of time did exist, for had he not talked of researching a method of escape during those centuries of imprisonment? Yet it seemed that no one had needed to eat, for certainly the food could not have lasted so very long.
What remained of the monastery itself did not initially impress Zayl. Thrust out of the very side of the mountain, the unassuming outline indicated only a two-story, block-design structure that could not have held more than two rooms to a level. A single small balcony overlooked all below, and only a low wall pretended to give any protection whatsoever to the place.
Despite some disappointment in what he had found so far, the necromancer continued on. At the base of the building, he found a plain wooden door the likes of which might have decorated a simple country inn. His eyesight far better suited to the dark than most humans, Zayl made out damage on every side of the doorway. Someone had used axes and clubs to batter every inch of the stone frame, almost as if in absolute frustration. Oddly, though, the door itself looked absolutely untouched.
It took only the placing of his hand on the wood to discover why. A complex series of protective spells crisscrossed all over, making the door itself virtually impenetrable not only to physical attack, but even to many forms of magical assault. The stone frame, which had suffered some superficial cracks, also had spells cast over it, but those felt older, as if not laid upon the structure by its last and most infamous tenant. Zayl’s estimate of the monastery as a place for a sorcerer to live rose. The monks who had built it had evidently strengthened it through some very powerful prayers if even after all this time most of the wards held.
Looking up, the necromancer found no visible windows. In one place, it appeared as if once there had been a window, but in the past it had been covered over quite thoroughly with stone. Zayl assumed that if he climbed up and investigated it, he would find the former opening as well-shielded as the entrance.
That left only the door as a way inside. The pale spellcaster touched it again, sensing the myriad bindings Gregus Mazi had set into place to ensure the safety of his sanctum. The ancient sorcerer had clearly been very adept at his art.
Zayl pulled Humbart’s skull free. “Tell me what you see.”
“Besides the door, you mean?”
“You know what I want from you.”
He thrust the skull closer to the entrance, letting it survey everything. After a few moments, Humbart said, “There’s lines all over, boy. Some good strong magic here and not all by one person. Most of it is, but there’s underlying lines that have to be from two, even three. Even some prayer work, too.”
One interesting feature concerning the skull that the necromancer had discovered after animating it had been that the spirit of Humbart Wessel could now see the workings of magic in ways no living spellcaster could. Zayl had no references upon which to draw for a reason for this ability and could only assume that the many centuries of having lain near the ruins of Ureh had somehow changed the skull. Over the past few years, the talent had come in quite handy, saving Zayl hours, even days, of painstaking work.
With his other hand, the black-clad figure removed the ivory dagger. Hilt held up, he asked Humbart, “Where do most intersect?”
“Down to the left, boy. Waist level—no!—not there. More to the right—stop!”
Pointing the hilt at the spot the skull had indicated, Zayl muttered under his breath.
The dagger began to glow.
Suddenly, a multicolored pattern reminiscent of a hexagon within a flower burst into existence at the point specified. Still whispering, Zayl thrust the hilt into the exact center, at the same time turning the end of the dagger in a circular motion.
The magical pattern flashed bright, then instantly faded away.
“You’ve cleared much of it, lad. There’s still a little lock picking to do, though.”
With Humbart’s fleshless head to guide him, Zayl gradually removed the last impediments. Had he been forced to rely on his own skills alone, he doubted that he would have had such quick success. The wards had been skillfully woven together. However, one advantage the necromancer had discovered had been that the most cunning had been set to guard against demons, not men. Questioning the skull revealed that the majority of those had been created more recently, which likely pointed to Gregus Mazi as their caster.
“You can walk right in now,” Humbart finally announced.
The skull in the crook of one arm and the dagger now held ready for more mundane use, Zayl stepped inside.
A darkened hall greeted him. The necromancer muttered a word, and the blade of the dagger began to glow.
Zayl had thought Mazi’s sanctum rather small, but now he saw that he had been sorely mistaken. The empty hall led deep into the mountainside, so deep that he could not even see the end. To his left, a set of winding steps obviously led to the more visible portion of the structure, but Zayl only had interest in where the corridor ahead ended. True, he might have been able to find what he needed in the outer rooms, but the spellcaster’s curiosity had been piqued. What secrets had Gregus Mazi left behind?
With the dagger lighting the way, Zayl headed down the hall. The walls had been patiently carved from bedrock, then polished fine. However, the same monks who had no doubt performed the back-breaking work had not then bothered much with adornme
nt. Now and then, the fluttering figure of an armed archangel pointed farther ahead, but other than that, neither the monks nor Mazi had bothered to decorate further.
Zayl paused at the third such image so lovingly carved into the walls, suddenly noticing something about it.
Humbart, still in his arm, grew impatient. “I’m staring at a blank wall inches from where my nose used to be, Zayl, lad. Is there anything more interesting above?”
The cloaked figure raised the skull so that his dead companion could see. “It is untouched.”
“And that would mean?”
“Think about it, Humbart. The doors of the palace. The archangels at the gateway leading here. All purposely damaged, as if by those who hated such holy images.”
“Aye, and so?”
Moving to the next angel, Zayl saw that it, too, remained in pristine condition. “Why would so corrupted a mage as Gregus Mazi has been claimed to be leave these untouched?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to make a mess in his own good home?”
“This means something, Humbart.” But what it meant exactly, the necromancer did not know. He pushed on, glancing at some of the other heavenly guides, yet none had more than a slight weathered look to it. No, Mazi had not wreaked any harm on those images within his own abode, and that made no sense to Zayl.
They came at last across the first rooms actually carved into the mountain, rooms the last tenant had clearly not bothered much to use. Little remained of any furnishings. A few very old beds sat lonely in the far corners of some, the wood slowly rotting away. Some had already collapsed.
“Old Gregus never struck me as a sociable sort,” Humbart commented quietly. “Looks like that was truth. Can’t think he had too many visitors here.”
After several more such rooms, Zayl at last came across a set of stone steps leading down. Unable to see the bottom, the necromancer proceeded with even more caution, the dagger ahead of him and a spell upon his lips.
The Kingdom of Shadow Page 12