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Amed shrugged. ‘I know little of the Tsurani, few ever venture this far south. And I have no desire to visit LaMut.’
‘It is a less than captivating city,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s be on our way.’
As they made their way to where the horses waited, a man hidden deep in shadows watched their departure. He waited until they were far enough down the old caravan route then turned to trot silently back into the night. Reaching the clearing now strewn with bodies, he found Belasco waiting for him.
The mercenary said, ‘Master, it is as you predicted.’
The magician smiled but there was nothing akin to humour in his expression. ‘Good. Let Jim Dasher return to Krondor with his tale of bloodshed and dark magic.’
‘Master,’ said the killer. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Belasco as he sat on top of the rock on which he had been standing. He looked at the carnage around him. ‘Sometimes you have to put on a demonstration to show your opponents what you’re capable of accomplishing.’
‘Again, I do not understand. You instruct?’
‘Ambition?’ said Belasco, regarding the mercenary with a narrow gaze. ‘I’m not sure I like that.’
‘I do as you bid,’ said the man, lowering his head.
‘Where are you from? You speak oddly.’
The mercenary smiled broadly, revealing teeth filed to points. ‘I am of the Shaskahan, master.’
Brightening up at that, Belasco said, ‘Ah! The island cannibals! Lovely.
‘Yes, I will instruct. Sometimes you wish your opponent to think they are ahead. Other times not. This time, I want them to concentrate on bloody murder and dark magic, as if I were just another mad necromancer like my brother.’
‘This is to serve Dahun, master?’
‘Of course,’ answered Belasco annoyed by the question. ‘Just not in the way you think.’ He stood up. ‘Get the horses,’ he shouted. ‘We ride south!’
The mercenaries moved with precision. Of all the hired murderers he had at his disposal, this group was the most unswerving in their obedience and loyalty. The fanatics had their uses, but were too willing to die for their ‘god,’ and at the moment Belasco needed men who were willing to kill and reluctant to die.
‘Eventually,’ said Belasco quietly, ‘Jim Dasher and his masters will decide that the time has come to investigate the Valley of Lost Men. We shall have to prepare another distraction for them when they do.’
With that he leaped down from the rock and hurried to where a mercenary held his horse. Mounting, he looked around to see that all was as he wished it. The fires would burn for hours, and the embers would remain hot for a day or more. The smoke and stench of death would drape this plateau for a week, but eventually the hot desert winds and the scavengers would reduce everything to dust and dry bones, and even the charred wood and dry bones would eventually be carried away.
He signalled and led his men down the steep trail into the Valley of Lost Men.
Sandreena, Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak, waited at the docks. Her orders had been simple: meet with a Kingdom noble. She had no idea of who it would be, but she had been told that he would recognize her. She didn’t know if he had met her before or simply been provided with a description; there weren’t many members of the Order who were tall blonde women.
A pair of men covered in road dust approached. Their faces were obscured by the trailing edges of their keffiyehs that formed a covering for their noses and mouths—not unusual for men riding in from the Jal-Pur. Despite the oppressive heat, Sandreena stood motionless in her armour, her shield slung across her back and her sword within easy reach.
The taller of the two men came to stand before her and handed her a bundle of parchment. ‘For Creegan,’ was all he said before he turned and walked toward the end of the dock where a Kingdom trading vessel waited.
She wondered who this mysterious nobleman might be, but as he was probably disguised as a local trader, she knew that the situation did not warrant scrutiny. Father-Bishop Creegan was only forthcoming with the information she needed to ensure the success of her missions. Apparently, in this case all she needed to know was that those papers needed to reach Krondor.
She moved towards the stable yard where her horse waited. If the unknown nobleman needed her to ride to Krondor with his missive, then his ship was bound for another destination. She put aside her musing and stopped at a local stall. She would need a week’s provisions and several skins of water, for Durbin was three day’s ride from the first oasis, and Kingdom town of Land’s End another four days from there.
Not looking forward to the task before her, but resolute in her devotion to her duty, she paid for the dried meat, dried fruit and roasted grain that would be her only sustenance for the coming week. She also needed a week’s worth of grain, as there would be no fodder for her mount along the way.
Considering her assignment, she let her curiosity about the unknown Kingdom noble fade away.
Jim stood on the deck of the Royal Sparrow, a message cutter that had been turned out to look like a small coastal trader, renamed Bettina for the duration. The crew were among the finest sailors and marines Jim could steal from Admiral Tolbert’s fleet, each trained personally by Jim at one time or another. They were forty-five of the hardest, most dedicated and dangerous fighting men afloat on the Bitter Sea, and Jim had been grateful for their skills and loyalty on more than one occasion.
He considered his chance meeting with Sandreena. Dressed as a court noble, he was unrecognizable to her, but covered in dirt, with three day’s growth of beard, he had risked that she might remember him as the Mocker who had sold her into slavery years before. He was grateful for the keffiyeh he wore, and relieved that he hadn’t been forced to avoid being killed as he tried to explain his role in the period of her life that she’d most like to forget. Instead he considered himself lucky to now be surrounded by those loyal to him and the Crown, who would ensure he reached his destination safely.
Like Amed, the crew were among the few men Jim would trust his life to; they would follow him to the lower hells. And given what he had seen over the last month, that was very likely to be their destination.
Overhead, a nasty squall was finally leaving the small ship behind, as it moved eastward towards the distant city of Krondor. The storm had seemed to come over them in waves, and they had endured four days of bad weather in a row. Jim ignored the drenching he had received on deck, and waited to get close enough to the island to disembark.
In the distance, through the gloom, he could make out the dark, looming castle on the bluffs overlooking the one approach-able cove on Sorcerer’s Isle. The sight filled Jim with a vague foreboding, as it had the first time he had seen it. He knew from experience that the feeling was a very subtle magic employed by Pug, the Black Sorcerer, and that it would pass once he entered the premises. He noticed that the magical, evil-looking blue light in the northernmost tower was absent, and had been replaced by a relatively benign looking yellow glow, as if only a stout fire burned within.
Jim waited until Captain Jenson, master of the ship, gave the orders to reef sails and drop anchor before he indicated he was ready to go ashore. He was now dressed in a simple, utilitarian fashion—woollen tunic and trousers, a broad belt with sword and knife, high boots, and a large flop hat—all well-made despite their simplicity. He entered the longboat as it was lowered over the side and waited until the first breakers drove it into the shallows to jump out. He was already soaked to his small clothes, so waiting for the men to pull the boat ashore seemed unnecessary.
He was impatient to talk to Pug and his advisors, especially the Demon Master, Amirantha, and he hoped to unburden himself; he wanted the intelligence he carried to be someone else’s problem. He had Keshian spies to catch, competing criminal gangs to crush, and a court life that had been neglected for far too long.
He waded ashore, ignoring the water sloshing into his boots. The route from the beach was short and divided quickly. To the left the trail meandered up and over a ridge, then down into a vale where the sprawling estate, Villa Beata, had rested. Gutted by fire in an attack a year before, it now lay abandoned, a testament to the wickedness of Belasco and his minions. To the right lay the stony path which led up to the black castle.
He trudged up the path, now regretting his impulsive jump into the surf, as the water had knotted his stockings in his boots. Even with the rain, they had managed to stay dry until he jumped into the water. Not only would he have some serious polishing to do to save the fine leather boots from the predations of seawater, he would have a heroic set of blisters to show for his impatience, as well.
Sighing in resignation, he wondered if one of the inhabitants of the black castle might have a balm for his feet when he reached the gate. He crossed over a rickety looking drawbridge, which despite its dilapidated appearance, was well-maintained and sturdy.
The castle itself was a study in theatricality. Originally constructed by Macros, the first Black Sorcerer, it had been built using magic out of a blackish stone, shot through with steel grey. The looming gatehouse had the look of an open maw, as if any who entered would be devoured. The empty courtyard was weed choked and dusty, and the twin doors to the castle stood ajar.
Jim knew as well as those who lived here that the decision to relocate from the villa to this miserable haven was part of a ruse, to let Belasco think that the Black Sorcerer and the Conclave of Shadows had been humbled and driven into the old fortress where they huddled in fear, waiting for the next assault.
The truth was much more complex than that.
As he entered the forlorn looking castle, Jim reflected on his changing relationship with these people over the last year. The relationship between the Conclave of Shadows and the Jamison family had been difficult for twenty years. Jim’s great-grandfather, the legendary Jimmy the Hand, later Lord James of Krondor, had married Pug’s foster daughter Gamina. In a sense, they were distant family, but along the way a division had slowly developed.
Jim crossed the empty great room, crossing before the massive fireplace. In ages past, this type of castle would have housed as many as a hundred members of a noble family, their retainers and families, and on especially cold nights they would have gathered in this one room. He paused for a moment and considered the attention to detail undertaken by Macros the Black in constructing this place. Anyone exploring this near ruin would assume it had been built ages before its actual erection.
He mounted the stairs leading to the one tower he knew to be occupied and wondered how his great-grandfather would have viewed the current situation. By all reports of his nature, Jim concluded that he would have been both annoyed and amused by it.
Pug had shamed the Prince of Krondor at that time, later King Patrick, disavowing his loyalty to the Kingdom of the Isles and virtually daring the Kingdom to assert its claim on the island duchy of Stardock, in the Vale of Dreams.
Jim knew there had also been some dispute with those running Stardock on Pug’s behalf at that time, as well. Whatever the true cause, Pug had then withdrawn to this island with his family and retainers. He had also begun the Conclave of Shadows, the secret organization that had become a major part of Jim’s life, despite his original wish to have nothing to do with it.
Reaching the top landing, Jim paused and thought about his report. He carried the most dire intelligence, but he was about to make an important choice.
The relationship between the Jamison family and the Conclave became strained when Jim’s grandfather had been summoned to the King’s court and elevated to the rank of Duke of Rillanon.
At times during his grandfather’s administration of the capital city—and by extension of the Kingdom itself—conflicts of interest had arisen between the Conclave and the Kingdom. James of Rillanon, like his grandfather before him, had been steadfast in his loyalty to the Kingdom of the Isles.
Jim reflected that it might have been simpler for his great-grandfather; in those days the aims of the Stardock magicians and the Kingdom were more or less in harmony. He wondered if Jimmy the Hand would have looked at this situation the same way Jim did.
Jim’s father, William Jamison, and his uncle Dasher had both died in the border wars with Kesh when Jim was a boy, and his great uncle Dashel had no surviving sons. By the time he was twenty years of age, Jim Dasher Jamison was the sole surviving heir to the family, and both his grandfather and great uncle had marked him.
Jim pushed aside the memory of the ruse his forbearers used to persuade him to take control of all the criminal activity along the Bitter Sea coast, as well as taking charge of the Kingdom’s intelligence services. He had found he had a knack for both and had made the criminal activities serve the Kingdom’s interest, but that hadn’t made wearing two caps at the same time any easier.
And now he was on the verge of more responsibility, as a fully committed agent of the Conclave. Pushing open the door to the tower’s common room, he wondered if he was making the right choice.
He pushed open the door and was confronted by two young women knitting, while a third placed wood on a fireplace set in the opposite wall. Three men huddled close to the fire speaking quietly. One young magician recognized him and said, ‘Jim Dasher, welcome!’
Jim nodded a return greeting and said, ‘Jason.’ He glanced around. ‘Where is everyone else?’
‘Scattered,’ said Jason, pushing his long blond hair back from his forehead. ‘Pug’s sent many of the younger students home or to Stardock, the rest have been moved to safe locations. A few of us have stayed to keep a lookout for any more trouble and convey messages. What do you require?’
‘I need to speak to Pug,’ said Jim, not bothering to mask his impatience. He held up a sphere of dull golden metal. ‘This doesn’t work. I had to take a fast ship from Durbin to get here.’
The magician took the sphere and said, ‘The Tsurani transport spheres…We’ve not had any new ones in years.’ He looked at it and his tone was regretful. ‘I fear most of the artificers who made them perished on Kelewan. The few who survived…’ He shrugged. ‘Most of those we have are decades old, my friend,’ Jason said softly.
Jim knew that the few Tsurani magicians who survived now struggled with the rest of their people on their new home world, or were perhaps living quietly in LaMut. And, without saying as much, Jason had implied that if the Conclave had access to newer devices, Jim would have had them.
Feeling a fool, Jim said, ‘Yes. You’re right. Now, may I speak with Pug?’
‘Pug’s not here,’ said Jason.
‘Where is he?’
Glancing over at his companions the young magician’s tone was apologetic. ‘We don’t know. We haven’t seen him for nearly a month now.’
Jim said, ‘Then I need to speak with Magnus.’
‘He’s gone as well,’ said Jason. ‘Come, sit by the fire and rest. We have means of sending word, but it may take some time.’
‘By some time, do you mean hours or days?’ asked Jim, pulling off his leather gauntlets and moving to a stool near the fire.
Jason only shrugged, and Jim felt his frustration return in full. He knew his crew would wait until he sent word or returned, so he felt little need to move away from the warming fire. Thinking of nothing better to do, he sat back against the cold stones, removed his boots, and wondered just where the two magicians might be.
• CHAPTER TWO • Foreboding (#ulink_27159234-89a9-5851-b49d-102bb52f61a0)
LIGHTNING FLASHED ACROSS THE SKY.
Amirantha silently counted before the distant boom of thunder came. Looking at his old companion, Brandos, the Warlock of the Satumbria said, ‘The storm is moving away from us.’
The fighter nodded, remaining silent as he concentrated on cleaning his armour. He sat on a low stool near the massive fire burning in the ancient keep’s fireplace in the tiny room near the top of the only occupied tower.
Amirantha had been amused the first time he had visited the legendary castle of the Black Sorcerer. Now he simply found it old and drafty, stifling in its familiarity and a place locked in the grip of sorrow. After a year of living with these people, the Demon Master now understood their pain and anger. Whatever had passed for normalcy before the vicious attack on Villa Beata, the death of Miranda, her son Caleb and his wife Marie, along with the murder of a score of students, that normalcy had never returned.
One of the few brighter moments over that year had been Brandos’ return a month previous. He had travelled back from their home near the city of Maharta in Novindus, with his wife Samantha. But even that unrelentingly cheerful woman had only been able to lift the constant pall of gloom of this place momentarily.
Pug and his surviving son, Magnus, would come and go from the castle, and at times they shared interesting discussions. Amirantha was forced to concede he had broadened his understanding of demons and the demon realm more in the last year than he had in fifty years of solitary study. Often they possessed similar information, but the magicians had misinterpreted its significance, and he had frequently helped Pug identify misapprehensions in his knowledge.
But those times were growing more infrequent as Pug and Magnus were away for longer stretches dealing with matters pressing upon the Conclave. Amirantha and Brandos had not been formally invited to join their organization, but there was a tacit understanding that they were nevertheless a part of it, willing or not. Amirantha had no doubt that the magicians had the means to ensure he didn’t leave the island with the vital knowledge he possessed, so he considered his choice in the matter a moot point.
He stood and stretched, then made a small motion with his head to indicate that Brandos should look out of the small window. The old fighter put aside the leather jerkin he had been cleaning and walked over to his friend. He now looked ten years the magic user’s senior despite being the younger of the two. ‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘The rain is going to play out soon,’ answered the Warlock as he looked out at the late afternoon murk.
‘You look bored.’
‘Constantly,’ said the Warlock. ‘When I first came here, I did so with great anticipation, I thought that for the first time in my life I might have colleagues with whom I could share my knowledge as well as learn from; that I might find kindred souls, and I did at first, but lately…Now, who do I have instead?’
‘Children.’
Amirantha smiled. The magicians who remained here with Pug and his son, Magnus, were hardly children, yet with one word Brandos reminded Amirantha of his tendency to be dismissive of almost everyone he met, because of his long life and the perspective it offered. Yet, Pug was even older than him, as were others who came and went from this island. Miranda, Pug’s late wife, had been one of those, and her sudden death had served as a grim reminder to Amirantha that his long life and vast experience was not a defence against mortality.
‘Hardly,’ said Amirantha. ‘But most of them are still in the formative stages of their education, training, and power. None of them have been practicing their arts for more than twenty years.’
Brandos returned to his stool and took up the leather he had been cleaning. Applying a generous dollop of soap to his weapons belt, he said, ‘It makes you wonder where all the grown-ups went, doesn’t it?’
Amirantha continued to stare out of the window. ‘Indeed.’ He craned his neck slightly. ‘I’m ready to go outside.’
Brandos sighed, looking at his unfinished cleaning. ‘Well, a short walk. I could use a leg stretcher.’ Looking at his friend, he added, ‘Samantha says that lately I’ve been as irritated as a bear woken from an early hibernation, so maybe it’ll do us both good.’
‘We’ve had four days of rain.’
‘It’s an island in the middle of an ocean, Amirantha. It’s late autumn. There’s going to be a lot of rain.’
Muttering as he opened the door, Amirantha said, ‘It’s not an ocean. It’s a sea.’
Brandos shook his head but said nothing.
While Amirantha descended the stairs that led to the common room, he let out a long silent sigh. He knew his foster son understood that his argumentative impulse was only borne of frustration. After the destruction of the villa there had been a flurry of activity. The dead had been cremated, the wounded tended to, and then the long conferences between Pug and his most trusted advisors had drawn to a close. Those discussions had animated the Warlock in a way he rarely experienced; they had made him happy.
Continuing down the stairs, Amirantha realized that some of his current irritation was brought forth by the contrast between that initial period of reorganization on the island, and what he was now forced to endure here. It had changed one night, two months ago; Pug and Magnus had simply vanished, along with more than thirty of their most powerful colleagues. What had been a somewhat crowded keep was all of a sudden occupied by fewer than a dozen souls.
The month Brandos had travelled south to fetch Samantha had been the loneliest time in Amirantha’s life, and he was vexed to discover how lonely he could feel. He had strong feelings on matters concerning his own conduct and appearance, and the extent to which he had missed his foster son did not sit well with them. He had cursed himself for such a feeling more than once. It was not wise to grow close to anyone, especially as he was destined to outlive most people, assuming he survived the approaching struggle.
Reaching the floor of the tower, they entered the common room and were met with an unexpected presence.
‘Jim Dasher!’ said Amirantha in greeting.
Jim turned and rose from his seat before the warming fire and said, ‘You’re still here, Amirantha.’ He extended his hand and they shook.
He exchanged greetings with Brandos, as Amirantha said, ‘My lingering was at Pug’s request. He can be most persuasive.’
‘Ah,’ said Jim, nodding. ‘He wouldn’t let you leave.’
Brandos snorted, and Amirantha said, ‘He was insistent, but truth to tell, I have found many things here interesting.’
Glancing around the stark hall, Jim said, ‘Really?’
Amirantha smiled, ‘Well, not so much lately, but the first nine months were fascinating.’
He motioned for Jim to move with him towards the large doors. ‘My quarters are adequate, but hardly commodious, so I thought to step outside for a breath of air now that the rain has nearly stopped.’
