The fingers of his left hand ended in black talons and flexed slowly, restlessly, as if in anticipation of rending apart his enemies. His brow was adorned with a massive golden circlet, set with a dark stone pulsing with purple light. Long tendrils of hair braided with human skulls hung to his shoulders.
His face was human, save for a massive, jutting lower jaw and large bat-like ears.
#BETRAYAL AT KRONDOR FILL CHEST BEFORE CHAPTER SKIN#
His chest was massive and his stomach rippled with muscles under skin that started black at his feet, blended to red at his stomach, and turned crimson at his chest. Dahun was twenty feet tall and roughly man-shaped, but with what could only be called a scaled black lizard’s tail descending from his spine to drag on the ground behind him. The image was of Dahun, and from what Jim had been able to learn over the last six months, the appearance of his likeness, as if he stood here in the flesh, meant his servants were closer to opening a portal for him. With a sweep of his hand, the magic user conjured an image, a shimmering likeness that hung in the air above his head, and which had the robed mob at his feet cry out in supplication and awe. The man on the stones above was named Belasco, and if what he had been told about him was true, Jim knew him to be one of the most dangerous men alive today, and certainly one of the maddest. He had never seen this man before, but his description fit with what he had learned from Pug of Sorcerer’s Isle and a Demon Master named Amirantha. His expression and bearing made Jim wish to turn tail and run as fast as he could, as far as he could. He turned his attention to the man standing atop the tumbled-down masonry of an ancient wall, holding his hands up in a welcoming gesture. Jim saw nothing here that could be called anything but insane. Others gave out a death spasm then hung on the stakes, motionless. Some quivered and twitched as their own weight drove the stakes deeper into their bodies, until finally succumbing to their wounds. Another score were impaled on wooden stakes, blood and feces filling the air with the unforgettable stench of death. The screams were lessening as the sacrifices finally, mercifully began to lose consciousness and die. This was a willing self-sacrifice to as evil a creature as man could imagine. Jim had witnessed more than his share of public hangings in Krondor but this was something far more horrific than a criminal meeting his just desserts.
Many broke their necks with an audible crack, but a few died by slow strangulation, kicking for what seemed far too long a time. What had churned Jim’s stomach as much as anything had been that the murdered seemed willing, even eager, to embrace their flaming death.Īround the edges of the clearing more sacrifices dangled at the ends of ropes, as only moments before Jim had witnessed them place nooses around their own necks then jump off small ladders, hanging themselves. At times he felt he had become as heartless a bastard as those he had put down in the name of the Crown, or the Conclave of Shadows, with whom he often worked, but even a lifetime of blood and intrigue had not adequately prepared Jim for what he saw before him.Īlready the dead numbered in the dozens, if not hundreds, as a massive fire burned around a circle of stakes, to each of which had been tied four human sacrifices. In his slightly more than forty years, Jim had seen a great many strange and terrifying things-it came with his various positions. And known to even fewer, he was the head of the Kingdom of the Isles intelligence apparatus, reporting directly to his grandfather. In the courts of the three largest nations in the region, he was a minor noble of the Kingdom of the Isles, a man who had inherited rank solely due to his lineage, being the grandson of the Duke of Rillanon to most others, he was Jim Dasher, a businessman with some ties to crime in the city of Krondor to a few, he was the Upright Man, leader of the Thieves Guild, the Mockers. James Dasher Jamison struggled to keep his wits about him. He took a slow, even breath, as much to calm himself as to catch his breath. On the opposite side of the clearing, another man hung back in the shadows, using his considerable skills to remain unseen, and wishing fervently he was just about anywhere else in the world but here. A man of power stood atop the pile of stones, looking down at his followers. Hundreds of robed figures slowly wended their way through rocks to the huge clearing below what remained of a fortress’s gate tower. The blasted hills smoked and the stench of char filled the air. Jennifer Brehl, Emma Coode, Jane Johnson,Īnd Katherine Nintzel rarely does an author
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