At the Gates of Darkness

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 He noticed that the magical, evil-looking blue light in the northernmost tower was absent, and had been replaced by a relatively benign looking yellow glow, as if only a stout fire burned within.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

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.’

Jim nodded, pulled his boots on, and fell into step behind him. ‘I just came in from the…’ Jim began, and then stopped himself. ‘Actually, I’m supposed to report directly to Pug on this matter.’ He looked hard at Amirantha, then said, ‘Still, much of what I’ve seen concerns you, too.’

‘Really?’ said the Warlock. He said no more, content to let the mysterious noble-turned-spy speak when he was ready.

As they reached the entrance to the yard, they paused, feeling the occasional rain-drop blown in by the freshening wind, then continued on, leaving the relative warmth of the keep entrance for the soggy ground of the marshalling yard. The rain had almost stopped and the wind was freshening a little; it already felt dryer.

‘So, you were about to say?’

Jim appeared annoyed. ‘I can never tell who knows what around here.’

Amirantha laughed. ‘I can tell you this much, my friend: all of us here have some power and ability, despite appearances to the contrary. Pug ensured all the vulnerable students were safely away within a day of—’

‘The attack,’ Jim finished.

‘I was going to say the death of his wife and son.’ Amirantha sighed. ‘Never having had children, I can only imagine what he’s going through. I had little experience of him to judge what he was like before that, scant hours really, but…’ He shrugged.

‘You sense he’s changed,’ said Jim. He looked to the west where somewhere behind the clouds the sun was lowering toward the horizon. ‘He knew I was engaged on important business, and yet he has left no apparent means of contacting him; that is most unlike Pug. It’s as if he’s…’ Jim shrugged.

‘Distracted?’ offered Amirantha.

‘More,’ said Jim. ‘He’s distant in a way that troubles me.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Jim smiled slightly. ‘I don’t expect you to. I hardly know the man well, despite our tenuous kinship.’

‘Kinship?’

Jim said, ‘My great-grandmother was his foster daughter.’

Amirantha raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. ‘Tenuous by blood perhaps, but otherwise?’

‘We are not close. It is a long story, a family matter, and really not pertinent to the discussion at hand.’

Amirantha shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but we have ample time to fill. Enlighten me.’

Jim stared off into the darkening afternoon gloom and said, ‘While Pug and I may not be close, I do know a great deal about him; his role in Kingdom politics has been significant, since long before I was born.’

‘Obviously,’ agreed Amirantha. ‘Given the rank and status of those who have visited here since I was first made aware of the Conclave’s existence.’

‘So in my other duties to the Crown, I’ve been required to study a great deal of history, much of it penned by my own forbearers. I know Pug to be a man of strong convictions and one who pays attention to detail. He is not the sort to let impor-tant things slip by. Yet lately…’ Jim took a deep breath.

‘I assume you mean this,’ Amirantha said, indicating the cold, nearly empty castle around them with a wave of his hand.

‘I would have expected the man I knew, the one I studied, to have begun reconstruction on the villa at once, defiantly, to let his enemies know that they would not prevail.’

Amirantha nodded, pursing his lips in thought. He remained quiet for a moment, then asked, ‘How much time do you think his enemies spend studying him?’

Jim inclined his head slightly as if conceding the point.

‘Would it not seem, given what has happened here, that Pug knows he’s under a great deal of scrutiny? By such accounts, his enemies have been coming at him for years, in one form or another.’

‘Only if you assume that there is a single intelligence behind the series of assaults on this world going, yes. But that can only be an assumption.’

‘A better one,’ observed the Warlock, ‘than thinking that this land has been beset by a string of coincidental afflictions.

‘I may not be a master of magic on Pug’s scale, but I know enough about the other realms to suspect this is not a series of random occurrences.’ He paused, and Brandos recognized his expression. Amirantha was frustrated. ‘Over the last year I’ve heard frequent reference to things such as the Pantathian Serpent Priests, the Riftwar, the Great Uprising, and all the rest of it; enough of them to believe there is one agent behind all of this, one intelligence that has targeted this world, perhaps this very nation, even perhaps this island, for reasons known only to them; but irrespective of those reasons, the consequences for this entire world are bound to be dire.’

‘I agree,’ said Jim, ‘but explain your reasons.’

‘The Pantathians exist in the distant mountains to the west of my home, yet stories of them travel; they are a strange race, and their obliteration has been assumed numerous times, yet they linger.

‘They serve an ancient hate, a female idol they call “the mother of us all”. They kill without remorse any who refuse to serve her.

‘The Emerald Queen, whose army savaged my homeland before travelling half-way around the world to come to the Kingdom, was a demon in disguise.’ Suddenly Amirantha became animated. ‘Do you have any notion of how remarkable that is?’

Jim shook his head.

‘I will bore you with a long lecture some other time—’

‘And he will,’ interjected Brandos.

‘—But demon possession on that level, of a powerful magic user…It’s unknown to those of my calling.’

Jim said, ‘I still don’t see the connection.’

Amirantha seemed to fight for words. ‘I can’t explain. It’s as if I’m on the edge of understanding something important, but I’m not quite there yet. But it’s more than a feeling, Jim.’ He looked at Brandos and said, ‘Am I usually prone to leap to conclusions, Brandos?’

Brandos shrugged, then realized it wasn’t the time for more japes; it had been a serious question. ‘No, you’re occasionally too convinced of your own brilliance, but you are hardly rash.’ He paused, and then added to Jim. ‘He’s miscalculated and almost killed us several times, but at those times he was wrong, not impetuous. If he says he’s on the edge of understanding something huge, I’d believe him.’

‘Well, then,’ said Jim Dasher. ‘Is there any way I can help?’

‘Only if you can supply me with more information than I’ve been privy too lately.’

Jim was silent for a long moment as he stared out into the fading light.

Brandos cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m going to go inside; I will ask Samantha to rustle up something for you to eat. I imagine you’re hungry.’

Jim smiled. ‘Thank you, Brandos. That would be wonderful.’ After the old fighter had left, Jim said, ‘He should be a diplomat.’

Amirantha laughed. ‘Hardly, but he can be discreet at times.’

Jim paused, then said, ‘Very well. I expect that Pug will ask you to listen to my report anyway, as you are the demon expert.’

Amirantha nodded. ‘That elf, Gulamendis, is the only being I’ve met who knows as much, possibly more.’

Jim looked uncomfortable. ‘Those Star Elves make my skin itch. But they’re a matter for another time.’ Jim told the Warlock what he had witnessed in the distant Jal-Pur desert and when he was finished, he asked, ‘What do you think?’