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 Belascos 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 didnt 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 didnt hesitate. All eyes were on the worshippers falling around Belascos 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 Jims 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 Ameds 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 cant 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.
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. Lets 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 wouldnt 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 youre capable of accomplishing.
Again, I do not understand. You instruct?
Ambition? said Belasco, regarding the mercenary with a narrow gaze. Im 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.
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 didnt know if he had met her before or simply been provided with a description; there werent 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 mouthsnot 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 weeks provisions and several skins of water, for Durbin was three days ride from the first oasis, and Kingdom town of Lands 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 weeks 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 Tolberts 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 days 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 hadnt been forced to avoid being killed as he tried to explain his role in the period of her life that shed 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 Sorcerers 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 fashionwoollen tunic and trousers, a broad belt with sword and knife, high boots, and a large flop hatall 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 elses 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. Jims great-grandfather, the legendary Jimmy the Hand, later Lord James of Krondor, had married Pugs 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.