Richard A. Knaak The Kingdom Of Shadow

“GAZARA! WENDOTYUREH! MAGRI! MAGRI!”

Clouds began to form over the shadowed kingdom, dark ones that did not remind Kentril so much of

Heaven as of that other realm. Arms stretched toward the ruins, Quov Tsin continued shouting the spell.

“Lucin Ahn! Lucin—”

“In the name of the Balance,” someone broke in, “I charge you to cease this effort before you cause

great calamity!”

Tsin faltered. The mercenaries turned as one, some reaching for blades.

A slim figure clad completely in black eyed them all with the arrogance reserved for those who did not

just believe themselves superior in all ways butknewit to be truth. Plain of face and younger than the

captain by more than a few years, the intruder would not have disturbed Kentril if not for two things. One

had to do with the slanted eyes, so unearthly a gray color that they seized the attention of all who looked

into them. Yet almost immediately those same eyes repelled, for in them Kentril sensed his own mortality,

something no mercenary desired to come to know.

The man was a necromancer, the most feared of spellcasters . . .

THEKINGDOM

OF

SHADOW

RICHARDA. KNAAK

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for Chris Metzen and Marco Palmieri

THEKINGDOM

OF

SHADOW

ONE

The horrific scream came from the direction of the river.

Kentril Dumon cursed as he shouted orders to the others. He had warned his men to avoid the

waterways as much as possible, but in the dense, steamy jungles of Kehjistan, it sometimes became

difficult to keep track of the myriad wanderings of the rivers and streams. Some of the other mercenaries

also had a tendency to forget orders when cool water lay just yards away.

The fool who had screamed had just learned the danger of growing complacent—not that he would

likely live long enough to appreciate that lesson.

The slim, sunburnt captain battled his way through the lush foliage, following the pleading call. Ahead of

him, he saw Gorst, his second, the giant, shirtless fighter ripping through the vines and branches as if they

had no substance at all. While most of the other mercenaries, natives of cooler, highland regions in the

Western Kingdoms, suffered badly from the heat, bronzed Gorst ever took all in stride. The scraggy mop

of hair, dark black compared with Kentril’s own light brown, made the giant look like a fleeing lion as he

disappeared toward the river.

Following his friend’s trail, Captain Dumon made better time. The screaming continued, bringing back

graphic memories of the other three men the party had lost since entering the vast jungle that covered

most of this land. The second had died a most horrible death, snared in the web of a horde of monstrous

spiders, his body so injected with poison that it had become bloated and distorted. Kentrilhad ordered

torches used against the web and its hungry denizens, carefully burning out the creatures. It had not saved

his man, but it had avenged the death somewhat.

The third hapless fighter had never been found. He had simply vanished during an arduous trek through

an area filled with soft soil that pulled one’s boots down with each step. Having nearly sunken to his

knees at one point, the weary captain suspected he knew the fate of the lost soldier. The mud could be

quick and efficient in its work.

And as he considered the death of the very first mercenary lost to Kehjistan’s fearsome jungles, Kentril

stepped out into a scene almost identical to that disaster.

A huge, serpentine form rose well above the riverbank, long reptilian orbs narrowed at the small figures

below who sought in vain to pry free the struggling form in its tremendous maw. Even with its jaws

clamped tight on the frantic mercenary whose screams had alerted Kentril and the others, it somehow

managed to hiss furiously at the humans. A lance stuck out of its side, but the strike had evidently been a

shallow one, for the behemoth appeared in no way even annoyed by it.

Someone loosed an arrow toward the head, likely aiming for the terrible eyes, but the shaft flew high,

bouncing off the scaly hide. The tentacle beast—the name their esteemed employer, Quov Tsin, had used

for such horrors—swung its prey around and around, giving Kentril at last a glimpse of whom it had

seized.

Hargo. Of course, it would be Hargo. The bearded idiot had been much a disappointment on this

journey, having shirked many of his duties since their arrival on this side of the Twin Seas. Still, even

Hargo deserved no such fate as this, whatever his shortcomings.

“Get rope ready!” Kentril shouted at his men. The creatures had twin curved horns toward the backs of

their heads, the one place on their snakelike bodies that the mercenaries might be able to use to their

advantage. “Keep him from returning to deep water!”

As the others followed his instructions, Captain Dumon counted them. Sixteen, including himself and the

unfortunate Hargo. That accounted for everyone—except Quov Tsin.

Where was the damned Vizjerei this time? He had a very annoying habit of wandering ahead of the band

he had hired, leaving the mercenaries to guess half the time what he wanted of them. Kentril regretted

ever taking this offer, but the talk of treasure had been so insistent, so beguiling . . .

He shook such thoughts from his head. Hargo still had a slim chance for life. The tentacle beast could

have easily bitten him in two, but they just as often preferred to drag their prey under and let the water do

their work for them. Made their meals soft and manageable, too, so the cursed sorcerer had said with

scholarly indifference.

The men had the ropes ready. Kentril ordered them in place. Others still harassed the gargantuan

serpent, making it forget that it could have long finished this encounter just by backing away. If the

mercenaries could rely on its simple animal mind a little longer—

Gorst had a line set to toss. He did not wait for Kentril to give the order, already understanding what the

captain wanted. The giant threw the loop with unerring accuracy, snagging the rope on the right horn.

“Oskal! Try to throw Hargo a line! Benjin! Get that rope on the other horn! You two—give Gorst a

hand with that now!”

Stout Oskal tossed his rope toward the weakening, blood-soaked figure in the behemoth’s maw. Hargo

tried in vain to grab it, but it fell short. The tentacle beast hissed again and tried to retreat, only to have

the line held by Gorst and the other two men keep it from getting very far.

“Benjin! The other horn, damn you!”

“Tell ’im to quit wigglin’, and I will, captain!”

Oskal threw the rope again, and this time Hargo managed to grab it. With what strength he had, he

looped it around him.

The entire tableau reminded Kentril of some macabre game. Again he cursed himself for accepting this

contract, and he cursed Quov Tsin for having offered it in the first place.

Wherewasthe foul sorcerer? Why had he not come running with the rest? Could he be dead?

The captain doubted his luck could be that good. Whatever the Vizjerei’s present circumstances, they

would have no effect on the desperate situation here. Everything rested on Kentril’s already burdened

shoulders.

A few of the fighters continued to try to wound the serpentine monster in any way they could.

Unfortunately, the tough hide of the tentacle beast prevented those with lances and swords from doing

any harm, and the two archers still at work had to watch out for fear of slaying the very man they hoped

to save.

A rope caught the left horn. Captain Dumon fought back the swell of hope he felt; it had been one thing

to catch the monster, but now they had to bring it in.

“Everyone who can, grab onto the lines! Bring that thing onto shore! It’ll be more clumsy, more

vulnerable on land!”

He joined with the others, pulling on the line Benjin had tossed. The tentacle beast hissed loudly, and

although it clearly understood at some level the danger it faced, it still did not release its captive. Kentril

could generally admire such tenacity in any living creature, but not when the life of one of his men was

also at stake.

“Pull!” the captain shouted, sweat from the effort making his brown shirt cling to his body. His leather

boots—his fine leather boots that he had bought with the pay from his last contract—sank into the muddy

ground near the river. Despite four men on each rope, it took all they could give just to inch the aquatic

horror onto the shore.

Yet inch it they did, and as the bulk of the beast came onto land, the mercenaries’ efforts redoubled. A

little more, and surely they could then free their comrade.

With the target much closer, one of the archers took aim.

“Hold your—” was all Kentril got out before the shaft buried itself in the left eye.

The serpentine monster reared back in agony. It opened its mouth, but not enough to enable the

gravely-injured Hargo to fall free, even with two men pulling from the ground. Despite having no

appreciable limbs, the tentacle beast writhed back and forth so much that it began dragging all of its

adversaries toward the dark waters.

One of the men behind Gorst slipped, sending another there also falling. The imbalance threw the rest of

the mercenaries off. Benjin lost his grip, nearly stumbling into his captain in the process.

One orb a mass of ichor, the tentacle beast pulled back into the river.

“Hold him! Hold him!” Kentril shouted uselessly. Between the two ropes snaring the horns remained

only five men. Gorst, his huge form a mass of taut muscle, made up for the fact that he had only one other

mercenary with him, but in the end even his prodigious strength proved ineffective.

The back half of the gigantic reptile vanished under the water.

They had lost the battle; the captain knew that. In no way could they regain enough momentum to turn

the tide.

And Hargo, somehow madly clinging onto life and consciousness, obviously knew that as well as Kentril

Dumon did. His face a bloody mess, he shouted out hoarse pleas to all.

Kentril would not let this man go the same way the first one had. “Benjin! Grab the line again!”

“It’s too late, captain! There’s nothin’—”

“Grab hold of it, I said!”

The moment the other fighter had obeyed, Kentril ran over to the nearest archer. The bowman stood

transfixed, watching the unfolding fate of his unfortunate companion with a slack jaw and skin as pale as

bone.

“Your bow! Give it to me!”

“Captain?”

“The bow, damn you!” Kentril ripped it out of the uncomprehending archer’s hands. Captain Dumon

had trained long and hard with the bow himself, and among his motley crew he could still count himself as

the second or third best shot.

For what he intended now, Kentril prayed he would have the eye of the best.

Without hesitation, the wiry commander raised the bow, sighting his target as he did. Hargo stared back

at him, and the pleas suddenly faltered. A look in the dying man’s eyes begged the captain to fire quickly.

Kentril did.

The wooden bolt caught Hargo in the upper chest, burying itself deep.

Hargo slumped in the beast’s jaws, dead instantly.

The act caught the other mercenaries completely by surprise. Gorst lost his grip. The others belatedly

released theirs, not wanting to be pulled in by accident.

In sullen silence, the survivors watched as the wounded monster sank swiftly into the river, still hissing its

rage and pain even as its head vanished below the surface. Hargo’s arms briefly floated above the

innocent-looking water—then suddenly, they, too, disappeared below.

Letting the bow drop, Kentril turned and started away from the area.

The other fighters nervously gathered their things and followed, keeping much closer to one another.

They had grown complacent after the third death, and now one of them had paid for that. Kentril blamed

himself most of all, for, as company captain, he should have kept a better watch on his men. Only once

before had he ever been forced to resort to slaying one of his own in order to alleviate suffering, and that

had been on a good, solid battlefield, not in some insufferable madhouse of a jungle. That first man had

been lying on the ground with a belly woundso massive that Captain Dumon had been amazed any life

lingered. It had been a simple thing then to put the mortally wounded soldier to rest.

This . . . this had felt barbaric.

“Kentril,” came Gorst’s quiet voice. For someone so massive, the tanned giant could speak very softly

when he chose. “Kentril. Hargo—”

“Quiet, Gorst.”

“Kentril—”

“Enough.” Of all those under his command through the past ten years, only Gorst ever called him by his

first name. Captain Dumon had never offered that choice; the simplistic titan had just decided to do so.

Perhaps that had been why they had become the best of friends, the only true friends among all those

who had fought under Kentril for money.

Now only fifteen men remained. Fewer with whom to divide the supposed treasure the Vizjerei had

offered, but fewer also to defend the party in case of trouble. Kentril would have dearly loved to have

brought more, but he had been able to find no more takers of the offer. The seventeen hardened fighters

accompanying him and Gorst had been all who would accept this arduous journey. The coins Quov Tsin

had given him had barely paid them enough as it was.

And speaking of Tsin—wherewas he?

“Tsin, damn you!” the scarred captain shouted to the jungle. “Unless you’ve been eaten, I want you to

show yourself right now!”

No answer.

Peering through the dense jungle, Kentril searched for the diminutive spellcaster, but nowhere did he see

Quov Tsin’s bald head.

“Tsin! Show yourself, or I’ll have the men start dumping your precious equipment into the river! Then

you can go and talk to the beasts if you want to do any more of your incessant calculations!” Since the

beginning of thistrek, the Vizjerei had demanded pause after pause in order to set up instruments, draw

patterns, and cast minor spells—all supposedly to guide them to their destination. Tsin seemed to know

where he headed, but up until now none of the others, not even Kentril, could have said the same.

A high-pitched, rather nasal voice called from the distance. Neither he nor Gorst could make out the

words, but both readily recognized their employer’s condescending tones.

“That way,” the giant said, pointing ahead and slightly to the right of the party.

Knowing that the sorcerer had not only survived but had utterly ignored Hargo’s fate ignited a fire within

Kentril. Even as he proceeded, his hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. Just because the Vizjerei had

purchased their services did not mean in any way that he could be forgiven for not lending his dubious

talent with magic to the desperate hope of rescuing the ill-fated mercenary.

Yes, Kentril would have more than words with Quov Tsin . . .

“Where are you?” he called out.

“Here, of course!” snapped Tsin from somewhere behind the thick foliage. “Do hurry now! We’ve

wasted so much valuable time!”

Wasted it?Captain Dumon’s fury grew.Wasted it?As a hired fighter and treasure hunter, he knew that

his livelihood meant risking death every day, but Kentril had always prided himself on knowing the value

of life nonetheless. It had always been those with the gold, those who offered riches, who least

appreciated the cost the mercenary captain and his men suffered.

He drew the sword slowly from the scabbard. With each passing day, this trek had begun to seem more

and more like a wild chase. Kentril had had enough. It was time to break the contract.

“That’s not good,” Gorst murmured. “You should put it back, Kentril.”

“Just mind your place.” No one, not even Gorst, would deter him.

“Kentril—”

At that moment, the object of the slim captain’s ire burst through the jungle foliage. To Kentril, who

stood just over six feet in height, Gorst had always seemed an astonishing sight, but as tall as the giant

appeared in comparison with his commander, so, too, did Dumon loom over the Vizjerei.

Legend had always made the race of sorcerers seem more than men, tall, hooded figures clad in

rune-covered, red-orange cloaks calledTurinnash,or “spirit mantles.” The small silver runes covering

much of the voluminous garment supposedly protected the mage from lesser magical threats and even, to

a limited degree, some demonic powers. The Vizjerei wore the Turinnash proudly, almost like a badge of

office, a mark of superiority. However, although Quov Tsin, too, had such a cloak, on his barely five-foot

frame it did little to enhance any image of mystical power. The slight, wrinkled figure with the long gray

beard reminded Kentril of nothing more than his elderly grandfather—without any of the sympathetic

nature of the latter.

Tsin’s slanted, silver-gray eyes peered over his aquiline nose in obvious disdain. The diminutive mage

had no patience whatsoever and clearly did not see that his own life hung by a thread. Of course, as a

Vizjerei, he not only had spells with which to likely defend himself, but the staff he held in his right hand

also carried protective magicks designed for countless circumstances.

One quick strike, though,Kentril thought to himself.One quick strike, and I can put an end to this

sanctimonious little toad . . .

“It’s about time!” snapped the mercenary’s employer. He shook one end of the staff in the captain’s

face.“What took you so long? You know I’m running out of time!”

More than you think, you babbling cur . . .“While you were wandering off, Master Tsin, I was trying

to save a man from one of those water serpents. We could’ve used your help.”

“Yes, well, enough of this babble!” Quov Tsin returned, his gaze slipping back to the jungle behind him.

Likely he had not even heard what Kentril had just said. “Come! Come quickly! You must see!”

As the Vizjerei turned away, Captain Dumon’s hand rose, the sword at the ready.

Gorst put his own hand on his friend’s arm. “Let’s go see, Kentril.”

The giant casually stepped in front of the captain, effectively coming between Kentril and Tsin’s

unprotected back. The first two moved on, Kentril reluctantly following them.

He could wait a few moments longer.

First Quov Tsin, then Gorst, vanished among the plants. Kentril soon found himself needing to hack his

way through, but he took some pleasure in imagining each dismembered branch or vine as the

spellcaster’s neck.

Then, without any warning, the jungle gave way. The early evening sun lit up the landscape before him as

it had not done in two weeks. Kentril found himself staring at a series of high, jagged peaks, the

beginnings of the vast chain running up and down the length of Kehjistan and heading even farther east for

as far as the eye could see.

And in the distance, just above the eastern base of a particularly tall and ugly peak at the very southern

tip of this particular chain, lay the weatherworn, jumbled remains of a once mighty city. The fragments of

a great stone wall encircling the entire eastern side could still be made out. A few hardy structures

maintained precarious stances within the city itself. One, possibly the home of the lost kingdom’s ruler,

stood perched atop a vast ledge, no doubt havingonce enabled the master of the realm to gaze down

upon his entire domain.

Although the jungle had surrendered in part to this region, lush plants still covered much of the landscape

and had, over time, invaded the ruins themselves. What they had not already covered, the elements had

battered well. Erosion had ripped away part of the northern section of the wall and taken with it a good

portion of the city. Further in, a sizable chunk of the mountain had collapsed onto the interior of the city.

Kentril could not imagine that there would be much left intact anywhere inside. Time had taken its toll on

this ancient place.

“That should assuage your anger a bit, Captain Dumon,” Quov Tsin suddenly remarked, eyes fixed on

the sight before them. “Quite a bit.”

“What do you mean?” Lowering his sword, Kentril eyed the ruins with some discomfort. He felt as if he

had just intruded upon a place where even ghosts moved with trepidation. “Is that it? Is that—”

“ ‘The Light among Lights’? The most pure of realms in all the history of the world, built upon the very

slope of the towering mountain called Nymyr? Aye, captain, there it stands—and, for our needs, just in

time, if my calculations hold true!”

Gasps came from behind Kentril. The other men had finally caught up, just in time to hear the sorcerer’s

words. They all knew the legends of the realm called the Light among Lights by the ancients, a place

fabled to be the one kingdom where the darkness of Hell had feared to intrude. They all knew of its

story, even as far away as the Western Kingdoms.

Here had been a city revered by those who followed the light. Here had stood a marvel, ruled by regal

and kind lords who had guided the souls of all toward Heaven.

Here had been a kingdom so pure, stories had it that it had at last risen whole above the mortal plane, its

inhabitantstranscending mortal limitations, rising to join the angels.

“You see a sight worthy of the loss of your men, captain,” the Vizjerei whispered, extending one bony

hand toward the ruins. “For now you are one of the few fortunate ever to cast your eyes upon one of the

wonders of the past—fabulous, lostUreh!”

TWO

She had alabaster skin devoid of even the slightest imperfection, long chestnut-red hair that fell well

below her perfectly rounded shoulders, and eyes of the deepest emerald green. If not for the eastern cast

of her facial features, he might have taken her for one of the tempestuous maidens of his own highland

home.

She was beautiful, everything a weary, war-bitten adventurer like Kentril had dreamed of each night

during the innocence of his youth—and still did to this very day.

A pity she had been dead for several hundred years.

Fingering the ancient brooch he had almost literally stumbled upon, Kentril surreptitiously studied his

nearby companions. They continued their back-breaking labor in complete ignorance of his find,

searching among the crumbled, foliage-enshrouded ruins for anything of value. So far, the treasure hunt

had been an utter failure as far as Kentril had been concerned. Here they worked, fifteen men strong, in

the midst of the remains of one of the most fabled cities of all, and the sum total for three days of hard

effort had been a small sack of rusted, bent, and mostly broken items of dubious value. The intricately

detailed brooch represented the greatest find yet, and even it would not pay for more than a fraction of

their arduous journey to this bug-infested necropolis.

No one looked his way. Deciding that he had earned at least this one token, Kentril slipped the artifact

into his belt pouch. As leader of the mercenaries, he would have beenentitled to an extra share of all

treasure anyway, so the scarred commander felt no qualms about what he did.

“Kentril?”

The captain bit back his startlement. Turning, he faced the one who had so stealthily approached him.

Somehow, Gorst could always manage to move in silence when he chose to, despite his oxlike

appearance.

Running one hand through his hair, Kentril tried to pretend that he had done nothing wrong. “Gorst! I

thought you’d been helping our esteemed employer with his tools and calculating devices! What brings

you here?”

“The magic man . . . he wants to see you, Kentril.” Gorst had a smile on his round face. Magic

fascinated him as it did many small children, and while so far the Vizjerei sorcerer had shown little in the

way of spells, the brutish mercenary seemed to enjoy the incomprehensible and enigmatic devices and

objects Quov Tsin had brought with him.

“Tell him I’ll be along in a little bit.”

“He wants to see you now,” the bronzed figure returned, his tone that of one who could not understand

why someone would not want to rush over immediately to find out what the Vizjerei desired. Gorst

clearly believed that some wondrous spectacle of sorcery had to be imminent and any delay by his friend

in returning to Tsin would only mean prolonging the waiting.

Knowing the futility of holding off and realizing suddenly that he had reason to talk to the Vizjerei,

Captain Dumon shrugged. “All right. We’ll go see the magic man.”

As he started past Gorst, the giant abruptly asked, “Can I see it, Kentril?”

“See what?”

“What you found.”

Kentril almost denied having found anything, but Gorst knew him better than anyone. With a slight

grimace, he carefully withdrew the brooch and held it in his palm sothat only the other mercenary could

see he had anything at all.

Gorst gave him a wide grin. “Pretty.”

“Listen—” Kentril began.

But the massive fighter had already started past him, leaving the captain to feel foolish about his

Richard A. Knaak The Kingdom Of Shadow

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