‘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
