скачать книгу бесплатно
At the Gates of Darkness
Raymond E. Feist
The conclusion of the bestselling Demon War series, which began with Rides a Dread Legion.Recent events have devastated the Conclave of Shadows; the discovery of the Demon horde on the heels of the taredhel invasion of Midkemia, the threat of the star elves themselves, and the terrible personal cost paid by Pug and his family.But grieving must wait. At a deserted fortress in the Valley of Lost Men, the Conclave’s agents witness horror beyond their imagination, orchestrated by a familiar enemy. But Belasco's motives are as yet unclear. The Conclave must regroup and discover the true meaning behind the chaos seeded by the evil magician if they are ever to find a way to stop the destruction of Triagia before the demon horde even arrives.
At the Gates of Darkness
The Demonwar Saga Book Two
Raymond E. Feist
Copyright (#ulink_f7c1cb3d-4cd5-5feb-9587-56298296e46b)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by HarperVoyager 2010
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2010
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007264711
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007290215
Version: 2018-10-08
Dedication (#ulink_ea835076-dd5f-5613-b012-11a5c3bcb5bb)
For the ladies who make me look so good: (in alphabetical order) Jennifer Brehl, Emma Coode, Jane Johnson, and Katherine Nitzel; rarely does an author get one good editor, let alone four.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u02e09f71-6190-5711-8a5d-08d5fd3f55f5)
Copyright (#ufa05d35f-2820-561b-85d4-497c52e7af41)
Dedication (#ub1d1f370-70b7-5b51-af8e-25291f94a87e)
Chapter One: Sacrifice (#ua458566f-bb08-56e5-9719-60c943399bce)
Chapter Two: Foreboding (#ufc44d09f-7174-5d12-96f9-2e8f13745738)
Chapter Three: Sergeant-Adamant (#udd3567ef-8dfa-5a18-95f7-4062e4eec038)
Chapter Four: Death Magic (#uf7f0900f-9c88-52fd-9a3b-d57e5100bb65)
Chapter Five: Legacy (#ub4280bc7-042e-58e2-a28e-ddc4546596d8)
Chapter Six: Survivors (#u98951643-5b79-5a91-b9ff-3d0d1e3e0f5e)
Chapter Seven: Queg (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight: Fortress (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine: War (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten: Demon Lore (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven: Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Allies (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Ancient Histories (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Slaughter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Strategy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Reconnaissance (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Summoning (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Attack (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen: Demon Unleashed (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
• CHAPTER ONE • Sacrifice (#ulink_a152b300-6a28-5a6f-b93f-f7057317d9e5)
HOWLS FILLED THE NIGHT.
The blasted hills smoked and the stench of char filled the air. Hundreds of robed figures slowly wended their way between rocky debris to reach the huge clearing below the remains of a fortress gate tower. A powerful man stood silently on top of the pile of stones, looking down upon his followers.
Another figure waited in the shadows, using his considerable skill to remain unseen, and wishing fervently that he was anywhere else in the world but here. James Dasher Jamison took a slow, even breath, as much to calm himself as to catch his breath, and struggled to keep his wits about him. Within the courts of the three largest nations of the region, he was known as a minor noble of the Kingdom of the Isles; a man who had inherited, not earned, his rank, being the grandson of the Duke of Rillanon. To others he was Jim Dasher, a businessman involved in some petty criminal dealings in the city of Krondor; and to a few, he was known as the Upright Man, leader of the Thieves Guild: the Mockers. But even fewer knew James Dasher Jamison as the head of the Kingdom of the Isles intelligent apparatus, reporting directly to his grandfather.
In his forty or so years, Jim had seen many strange and terrifying things—experiences that came with his various positions. At times he feared he had become as heartless a bastard as those he had put down in the name of the Crown, or for the Conclave of Shadows, with whom he often worked; but even his lifetime of violence and intrigue could not have adequately prepared him for what he now saw before him.
A massive fire encompassed a circle of stakes, to which were tied four human sacrifices. They were not the first, already the dead numbered in the dozens, if not hundreds; but what churned Jim’s stomach more than this terrible scene, was that the slain had seemed willing, even eager to embrace a painful, flaming death.
Around the edges of the clearing more victims dangled at the ends of ropes; moments before, Jim had witnessed them place the nooses around their own necks, and jump off small ladders, to hang themselves. Many necks had broken with an audible crack, but a few had died slowly, kicking for what had seemed far too long a time. Jim had seen more than his fair share of public hangings in Krondor, but this was far more horrific than a criminal reaping his just deserts. This was a chilling display of self-sacrifice to evil. The howls lessened as the masochists finally began to lose consciousness and die.
As Jim watched, sickened, another score were impaled on wooden stakes, their blood and faeces filling the air with the unforgettable stench of death. Some of them quivered and twitched as their own weight drove the stakes deeper into their bodies. Others gave out only one death spasm before they hung on the stakes, motionless.
Jim saw nothing sane here. He turned his attention to the man standing on top of the tumbled down masonry, who held his hands up in a welcoming gesture. The man’s expression and bearing made Jim wish to turn tail and run away as fast and as far as he could. He had never seen this man before, but his description fit what he had learned from Pug of Sorcerer’s Isle and a Demon Master named Amirantha: The man on the stones above was Belasco; one of the most dangerous men alive, and certainly one of the maddest.
With a sweep of his hand, the domineering magic user conjured a mirage, a shimmering likeness that hung in the air above his head, one that made the mob at his feet cry out in supplication and awe.
The image was Dahun, and from what Jim had learnt over the last six months, the appearance of his likeness, almost as if he stood here in the flesh, meant that his servants were closer to opening a portal for him.
Dahun was twenty feet tall and roughly man shaped, but he also possessed a long black, scaled lizard’s tail, which descended from the base of his spine. His chest was massive and his stomach rippled with muscles under reddish skin that stretched from black at his feet and blended to crimson over his chest. His face was human, save for a massive, jutting lower jaw and large bat-like ears. His eyes were solid black orbs. Long tendrils of hair, braided with human skulls, hung to his shoulders. His brow was adorned with a massive golden circlet, set with a dark stone that pulsed with purple light. The fingers of his left hand ended in black talons and flexed restlessly, as if in anticipation of tearing his enemies apart. In his right hand he held a flaming sword. His hips were girded with a studded kilt, and two large leather bands crossed his chest with a massive golden emblem at their centre.
Jim spent a moment fixing the image in his memory. Then he glanced around and noted the slack jawed, empty eyed expression on the worshippers around him. It was clear they had been drugged in preparation for this ritual, so he attempted to mimic their shambling walk.
Feeling almost sick to his stomach, Jim steeled himself and slowly joined the people who were approaching the monster. Like them he wore a heavy black robe, but he had pulled the cowl forward to conceal his features. The original owner of the robe now lay at the bottom of a deep ravine less than a quarter mile away.
He shuffled his feet, moving slower than those around him to keep to the rear of the crowd; he wanted the opportunity to slip away easily should the need arise. He kept his hands inside the sleeves of his robe—one hand held a dagger treated with a fast-acting poison that would cause paralysis within a minute and the other a device which had been constructed for him by a master artificer in Krondor: a ball that when shattered would emit a blinding light for ten seconds, providing him more than enough time to get away. It would disable those around him for a few minutes, or at least the human onlookers, he couldn’t be certain that everyone in attendance tonight was like him.
Jim swallowed hard again and paused, forcing himself to confront the vision of the monster above him.
Belasco raised his hands again. Jim could easily see that the magic user was madder than a bug trapped in a bass drum. His demon projection was the most horrifying sight that Jim had ever witnessed, yet the magician was laughing like a delighted child. He was calling out to the faithful, but Jim wasn’t quite close enough to hear his words, only the tone of his voice.
Jim inched to the right as the followers in front of him continued their slow progression forward; the group was coming together at the centre of what had once been a fortress. Perhaps five hundred of the faithful had gathered. Jim glanced around; a sudden tightness in his neck had caused him to worry about who might now be behind him. It was a sense he had inherited from his great-grandfather, something the family called his ‘bump of trouble’. Right now it was starting to itch badly.
As he suspected, figures moved along the rocks that surrounded the flat central area of the ancient marshalling yard. The roaring fires at its edge made everything beyond their light difficult to see, but Jim had mastered the trick of not looking directly at the flames, and kept alert for flickering movement betraying those outside the light.
The name of this ancient Keshian fortress had been lost in time. Its walls and towers were mostly gone, crumbled like the masonry upon which Belasco stood, and only one underground entrance a few hundred feet away still led into its tunnels and caverns. Jim had no intention of entering that labyrinth. In his great-grandfather’s day it had been known locally as The Tomb of the Hopeless. Legend told that an entire garrison had been left to die in there. It once commanded the entrance to what was called the Valley of Lost Men.
Jim reoriented himself. To his right was a gap in the rocks that would grant him relatively fast access to a trail north: it was an abandoned caravan route that ended in the Keshian port city of Durbin. At the foot of these hills waited half a dozen of the deadliest thugs Jim could find. Five were cutthroats who occasionally worked for him in Durbin; the sixth was Amed Dabu Asam, his most trusted agent in the Jal-Pur desert region and the one he relied on to carry word back to Krondor should Jim not return by dawn.
To his left was an open expanse and then the sudden drop down of sheer cliffs. Only the gods knew what waited in the desolate valley below them, so should he have to bolt, Jim knew that he was certainly going to veer right.
He glanced around again, trying hard to look like just another devoted follower of the demon, mimicking the ritual movements of the others. He hoped his wary looks towards the archers hadn’t attracted attention. He sensed that other things would start happening soon, all of them bad.
For over half a year Jim had been trying to find the lair of The Servants of Dahun, a group of outlaws known to others as The Black Caps. He had decided to investigate this ancient fortress whilst poring over the many reports from his great-grandfather’s days.
Once home to a cult of fanatical assassins called the Nighthawks, the site had been considered abandoned for over a century. Obviously someone had decided that since no one was paying attention, it was time to reoccupy the fortress.
It was close enough to Krondor and the Empire city of Durbin to allow the murderous dogs quick and easy access, and remote enough that the chance of discovery was small. Jim had almost been killed twice, getting here, and now was counting the seconds of borrowed time that he had remaining.
He considered the tale of his ancestor facing down a cult of assassins here, with almost no help. Jim would take a fortress full of assassins over this mob of religious fanatics any day. The assassins might kill you, but at least it would be swift, but these lunatics would probably slow roast him over a fire and eat him.
Finally, Jim was close enough to hear Belasco’s words. ‘We are here to give blood and life to our master!’
As one the assembled mob chanted, ‘Hail Dahun!’
Jim instinctively took a step back, checking first to his right, then the left. The crouching figures on the rocks surrounding the area were archers. He began sidestepping towards the closest boulder, which stood a very distant twenty feet to his right.
With two more rapid steps, Jim reached a deep shadow beneath an overhanging rock. He had to crouch, which made removing his robe more difficult, but in seconds he was almost invisible within the tiny pool of concealing darkness. He reached back and from behind his neck pulled a thin hood over his head that left only his eyes exposed. The material he wore was dull black, with dark metal fastenings. He gripped his dagger and waited.
Belasco shouted, ‘Rejoice! Know that your sacrifice brings our master closer to us!’
As he spoke, the archers crouching in the rocks rose up and began firing at the worshippers. Most stood stunned as those next to them fell. The eeriest aspect to Jim was their silence. A muffled exhalation of breath, or just a faint grunt of pain; no one screamed or cried out. The wind whipped up the dust, and Jim could only catch glimpses of their faces, but none of them showed any fear.
They stood like sheep, waiting quietly until a bow shaft found their mark.
Jim didn’t need to see any more. He crept along under the rock and slipped behind it, circling until he was behind the archer perched above his hiding place. There was ten feet of open ground he needed to cross to reach his next cover and he didn’t hesitate. All eyes were on the worshippers falling around Belasco’s feet, but Jim knew that very soon they would all be dead and that the archers would then start checking for survivors. He was determined to be as far away as possible before that moment.
Jim reached the second shadow and looked around. Seeing no one nearby, he sprinted across another open space and cut between two large rocks marking the entrance to a game trail that would lead him down a short incline to the old caravan route to Durbin. The eerie sound of the desert wind deepened Jim’s apprehension as he half ran, half stumbled down the trail.
His nearly out-of-control flight caused him to bowl over a black-clothed figure waiting at the bottom of the trail. The two men went down in a tangle of arms and legs and Jim almost plunged his knife into the figure before he recognized him. ‘Amed!’
‘Peace, my friend,’ said the Keshian agent as he regained his feet.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘When you failed to return, I thought to follow, in case you needed aid.’
Jim glanced upward and said, ‘What I need now is to get as far from here as quickly as possible. Horses?’
‘Down the road a little,’ said the spy. ‘I thought it reckless of you to come on foot, so I brought along a spare.’
Jim nodded, and followed his companion. He had insisted on approaching the ancient fortress on foot, as all the supplicants were walking and a rider would have stood out. Suddenly, Jim thought he saw a movement above and behind them and with a quick tug on Amed’s shoulder, had him kneeling at his side. Pointing upward, he nodded once.
The nod was returned and Amed signalled his route up. Practiced in ambush, both men knew almost instinctively what the other would do. Jim would head back the way he came while his companion would loop around, to approach the possible stalker from behind. Jim waited to see if anyone was coming down the trail, and after ensuring that Amed was in place, he started back up the path.
Reaching the top of the trail, he found Amed kneeling, inspecting the ground in the moonlight. ‘I can’t be sure,’ said the Keshian spy, ‘but I think whoever followed you turned back when you headed down to the caravan road.’ He said, ‘Do we follow?’
‘No,’ said Jim. ‘I need to report back as soon as possible.’
‘Magic?’
Jim smiled. ‘I wish. Those devices are only loaned out when necessary and lately, some of the older ones have stopped working. Pug is trying to find a way to restore them, but it looks as if a lot of Tsurani art is being lost.’
