At the Gates of Darkness Read online

  “Eventually,” said Belasco to no one in particular, “Jim Dasher and his masters will decide 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 up, 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 blowing sand and the scavengers would reduce everything to burned char and dry bones, and even the charred wood and dry bones would eventually be carried away by the unforgiving winds.

  He signaled 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 who it would be, but she had been told he would recognize her. She didn’t know if he had met her before or had simply been provided a description; there weren’t many members of the order who were tall blond women.

  A pair of men covered in road dust approached down the docks. Their faces were obscured by the trailing edges of their keffiyehs being pulled up and tucked in, forming 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 armor, 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” is all he said, and 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 obviously disguised as a local trader, she knew there were things at play that did not warrant scrutiny. Father-Bishop Creegan was always forthcoming with what she needed to know personally to ensure the success of her missions. Apparently all she needed to know in this case was that those papers needed to reach Krondor.

  She moved toward the stable yard where her horse waited. If the unknown nobleman needed her to ride to Krondor with his bundle, then his ship was bound for another destination. She put aside her musings and stopped at a local stall. She would need a week’s provisions and several skins of water, for from Durban to the first oasis was three days’ ride. And from there to the Kingdom town of Land’s End another four days.

  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 next week. She also needed a week’s worth of feed as there would be no fodder for her mount along the way.

  Considering her assignment, she let 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 more than once Jim had been grateful for their skills and loyalty.

  He had along the way 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 ran the risk that she might remember him as the Mocker who had sold her into slavery years before. He was relieved he hadn’t been forced to take valuable time out to avoid being killed as he explained to her his role in all the things in 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, these were among those few men Jim would trust with his life, and they would follow him to the lower hells. And given what he had seen over the last month, that very likely was their final destination.

  Overhead a nasty squall was finally leaving the small ship behind, as it moved eastward toward the distant city of Krondor. The storm seemed to come in waves, and they had endured four days in a row of bad weather. Jim ignored the drenching he had received on deck, waiting to get in close enough to the island to disembark.

  In the distance, through the gloom, Jim made out the looming dark castle on the bluffs overlooking the lone approachable cove on Sorcerer’s Isle. As it had since the first time he had seen it, the sight of the structure filled Jim with a vague foreboding. He knew from experience this was a very subtle magic employed by Pug, the Black Sorcerer, and that it would pass once he entered the premises. He did note that the magically induced evil blue light in the north-most tower was absent, now replaced by a relatively benign-looking yellow glow, as if a stout fire burned inside.

  Jim waited until Captain Jenson, master of the ship, gave 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: woolen tunic and trousers, broad belt with sword and knife, high boots, and a large flop hat—all well made despite the simple look. 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 smallclothes, so waiting for the men to pull the boat ashore seemed to serve little purpose.

  He was impatient to talk to Pug and his advisors, especially the Demon Master, Amirantha, and, he hoped, unburden himself with his intelligence; he wanted this to be someone else’s problem. He had Keshian spies to catch, competing criminal gangs to crush, and a court life that was going neglected far too long.

  He waded ashore, ignoring the water up to his thighs, sloshing into his boots. He wanted to get this obligation of his discharged and be on his way.

  The pathway up from the beach was short and came to a divide. To the left it 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 previous, it now lay abandoned, a testament to the wicked effective-ness of Belasco and his minions. To the right lay the stone-strewn path leading to the black castle.

  Now regretting his impulsive jump into the surf, he trudged up the path, water knotting 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 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—really well maintained and sturdy, but allowed to look as if it had fallen into disuse.

  The castle itself was a study in theatricality. Originally constructed by Macros, the first Black Sorcerer, it had been magically erected out of a blackish stone, shot through in places 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 were 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 and his masters think the Black Sorcerer and the Conclave of Shadows had been humbled, driven into a fortress where they huddled in fear and waited for the mad magician’s next assault.

  The truth was much more complex than that, Jim had quickly come to realize. As he approached the entrance of 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 nearly legendary Jimmy the Hand, later Lord James of Krondor, had married Pug’s foster daughter Gamina. In a sense, they were distant famil
y, but along the way a division had slowly developed.

  Jim walked through the empty great room, crossing before the massive fireplace. In ages past, this type of castle would house as many as a hundred members of a noble family, and retainers and their families, and on especially cold nights they could gather in this one room. He paused for a moment and considered the painful 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 erection. Jim, not for the first time, counted the Black Sorcerer who built this place slightly mad.

  As he mounted the stairs leading up to the one tower he knew to be occupied, he wondered how his great-grandfather would have viewed the current situation. By all reports of his nature, he would have been annoyed and amused by it, Jim concluded.

  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 to control over the island duchy of Stardock, in the Vale of Dreams.

  Jim recalled there was some issue with those running Stardock on Pug’s behalf at that time, as well. Whatever the causes, truly, Pug had 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 wishing to have nothing to do with it at the outset.

  Reaching the top landing, Jim paused, considering what he would report to Pug. Not only was he bringing intelligence of the most dire sort to the magician’s attention, he was about to make a choice.

  The relationship between the Jamison family and the Conclave became strained when Jim’s grandfather had been summoned to the King’s court, eventually rising to the rank of Duke of Rillanon. Jim’s great-uncle Dashel had retired from public service, beginning the family’s merchant presence in Krondor.

  At times during his grandfather’s administration of the capital city—and by extension 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 it might have been simpler for Jimmy the Hand—in those days the aims of the magicians of Stardock and the Kingdom were more or less in harmony. He wondered if his great-grandfather would have looked at this situation the same way Jim did.

  Jim’s father, William Jamison, and his uncle Dasher had both died in 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, James Dasher Jamison was the sole surviving heir to the family, and both his grandfather and great-uncle had marked him.

  Jim pushed aside flooding memories of the ruse used by both his forebears to get him to take over control of all crime along the Kingdom’s Bitter Sea coast, and taking charge of the Kingdom’s intelligence services. That he had found a knack for both and had made the criminal activities serve the Kingdom’s intelligence interest hadn’t made wearing two caps at the same time any easier.

  And now he was on the verge of donning a third cap, 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 was confronted with two young women, knitting, while a third was putting wood on a fire in a small fireplace in the opposite wall. A group of three men huddled near the fire speaking in low tones. One young magician recognized him and said, “Jim Dasher, welcome!”

  Jim nodded a return greeting and said, “Jason.” He glanced around. “Where is everyone?”

  “Scattered,” said Jason, running his hand through his long blond hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “Pug’s sent many of the younger students home or to Stardock, while most of the rest of us have been moved to safe locations.” He indicated the others in the room. “A few of us stay here to keep a lookout for any more trouble, and convey messages. What do you require?”

  “I require to speak to Pug,” said Jim, not masking his impatience. He held up a sphere of dull golden metal. “This doesn’t work. I had to take a fast ship from Durban 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 one of regret. “I fear most of the artificers who made them perished on Kelewan. The few who survived…” He shrugged.

  Jim knew Jason meant those few were struggling with the rest of the Tsurani survivors on their new home world, or perhaps were living quietly in LaMut. And, without saying as much, implied that if the Conclave had access to newer devices, they would have them. “Most of those we have are decades old, my friend,” Jason said softly.

  Feeling a fool, Jim said, “Yes. You’re right. Now, may I speak with Pug?”

  “Pug’s not here,” said Jason.

  “Where is he?”

  As he glanced 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 either 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 and wondered just where the two magicians might be.

  CHAPTER 2

  FOREBODING

  Lightning flashed across the sky.

  Amirantha silently counted, and then came the distant boom of thunder. 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 sat on a low stool, attentively cleaning his armor. He hunched over near the fire burning in the ancient keep’s fireplace, barely able to fend off the chill in this tiny room, perched near the top of the occupied tower.

  Amirantha had been amused the first time he had come here, to visit the legendary castle of the Black Sorcerer. Now he found it old, drafty, almost stifling in its familiarity and a place locked in the grip of sorrow. After a year of living with these people, the usually solitary Demon Master felt a sense of understanding their pain and anger. Whatever had passed for normalcy before the attack on Villa Beata and the death of Miranda, her younger son Caleb, and his wife Marie, along with a score of students, that normalcy would never return.

  Among the very few bright moments over that year was the return a month previous of Brandos, who had traveled down to their home near the city of Maharta in Novindus, with his wife Samantha. But even the unrelentingly cheerful woman had been unable to do more than momentarily lift the pall of gloom that constantly hung over this place.

  Pug and his surviving son, Magnus, would come and go, and at times there were interesting discussions on matters common to their interest. 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 the previous fifty years of solitary study. Often it was a case of having similar information, but interpreting its significance in a faulty way, and he had helped Pug identify misapprehensions in his knowledge.

  But those times were growing more infrequent, and Pug and Magnus were absent for longer stretches, as they saw to the matters pressing upon their secret organization, the Conclave of Shadows. Amirantha and Brandos had not been invited formally into that organization, but there was a tacit understanding that they were now part of this effort, willing or not. Amirantha had no doubt they had the means to ensure he didn’t leave with the vital knowledge he possessed, so he considered having a choice in the matter moot.


  He stood and stretched, making a small motion with his head indicating Brandos should look out the small window. The old fighter put aside the leather jerkin he had been cleaning, stood, and walked over to his friend—a stepfather as much as anything else, despite the fact he now looked ten years the old magic-user’s senior. “What?” he asked softly.

  “Rain is going to play out soon,” answered the Warlock as he looked out into the late afternoon murk.

  “You look bored.”

  “Constantly,” said the Warlock. “When I first came here, I will concede I did so with some anticipation, finding those I counted kindred souls, and thought for the first time in my life I might have colleagues with whom I could share my knowledge as well as learn from, and at first it was like that, but lately…? Now, what do I find instead?”

  “Children.”

  Amirantha smiled. The magicians remaining here with Pug and his son, Magnus, were hardly children, yet his foster son reminded Amirantha that he had a tendency to be dismissive of most everyone he met because of his long life and the perspective it offered. Yet Pug was even older, as were others who came and went from this island. Miranda, Pug’s late wife, also had been older, and her sudden death had been a grim reminder to Amirantha that long life and experience are not defenses against mortality.

  “Hardly,” said Amirantha. “Still, for the most part they’re 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 leather soap to his weapon’s belt, he said, “Sort of makes you wonder where all the grown-ups went, doesn’t it?”