Into a Dark Realm (2 page)

Armed men moved silently through the night. Before them lay a small cave, large enough to admit one man at a time, half-hidden under an overhanging cliff, where a knoll rearing up over the beach had been worn away by years of erosion. Above the cave two archers crouched, ready to fire down on anyone attempting to exit the cave without permission.

Mist rolled in off the Bitter Sea, and no moon was visible through the overcast. The night was coal-mine dark and the men surrounding the cave could barely make out one another in the murk.

Caleb, son of Pug, motioned for his three boys to wait. Behind him his brother Magnus stood ready to answer any magical onslaught that might be forthcoming. A dozen other men were also moving to form a semicircle around another exit to the cave a hundred yards down the cliff.

The two brothers bore a strong resemblance to one another. They were tall and slender yet strong, with hair to the shoulders, an almost regal bearing which they had inherited from their mother, and eyes that seemed to look through you. The one startling difference was in their coloring. Caleb had dark brown hair and eyes, while Magnus’s hair was the palest blond, looking white in the sun, and his eyes were the palest blue. Caleb wore hunting garb, tunic and trousers, knee high boots, and a floppy-brimmed hat, while Magnus wore simple black robes with the hood thrown back.

Caleb had spent most of the night before interrogating the trader Aziz with the help of his brother. Magnus lacked the special art to determine if the trader was telling the truth or lying, but the trader didn’t know that, and after a simple demonstration of Magnus’s magical ability Aziz was convinced the magician could parse falsehood from sincerity. Magnus came back with Caleb before dawn and the two brothers had employed their respective skills—tracking and
magic—to ensure their quarry was, indeed, inside those caves. Just before dawn, two assassins had exited the cave and made a quick sweep of the surrounding terrain. Magnus had employed a spell of levitation to lift his brother and himself a hundred feet above the knoll, so there was no sign of them when the patrolling sentries reached the top of the knoll. In the dark, even if they had looked straight upward, there was little chance they would have seen the brothers.

A single lookout had been stationed a short distance down the coast to ensure that no one had fled while Magnus had returned to the City of Kesh to get Chezarul, an erstwhile trader from the City of Kesh, who was one of the most trusted agents of the Conclave, and his most reliable warriors, returning within hours by magic. At dusk they had approached these caves and taken up position after nightfall.

Their best estimate was that Jomo Ketlami was holed up in a warren of caves with at least half a dozen assassins, waiting for Aziz to arrive so the fugitives could arrange safe passage out of Kesh. And given the events of the past month, these would be the toughest, wiliest, most fanatical survivors of the Nighthawks.

Since the attempt on the Emperor by the sorcerer Leso Varen, and his role in leading the Nighthawks, soldiers of the Empire, under direction from Keshian spies and agents of the Conclave of Shadows, had been rooting out every last hiding place in Kesh. By imperial decree, these men were under an order of summary execution.

Similar campaigns had been under way in the Kingdom of the Isles, as well as Roldem, Olasko, and several of the other larger cities in the Eastern Kingdoms. The Conclave was certain they had identified every last headquarters but one: the ultimate source of this murderous brotherhood, where their Grand Master sat like a giant spider in the center of a web that stretched over an entire continent. And the man in the caves just a few dozen yards away knew where the headquarters for the Guild of Death was hidden.

Caleb signaled. A sentry standing behind the archers above uncovered a lantern and the men down the beach slowly entered the second cave mouth. Magnus had used every art he possessed to de
termine there were no magical snares waiting for them. He was less confident about more mundane traps. The dozen men entering the cave were among the most skilled agents of the Conclave in Kesh, and perhaps the most experienced hand-to-hand fighters in the Empire. They expected to give their lives if necessary, for they were committed to the undertaking of ridding the world of Midkemia of the Nighthawks for well and good.

Another half-dozen men took up positions before the second cave mouth, with another pair of archers poised above on the cliffs as well. The orders were clear: to defend their own lives, but Jomo Ketlami must be taken alive.

Caleb motioned for his men to move toward the mouth of the smaller cave, ready to receive anyone fleeing. With hand gestures, barely seen in the faint lantern light, he instructed them to stand ready, taking up their positions on either side of the cave. He motioned to the man carrying the lantern, who shuttered it again, plunging the beach into blackness once more.

Minutes dragged by slowly, the only sound being the rolling of the surf and the occasional distant sound of a nightbird. Jommy nodded to Caleb, who waited on the other side of the cave mouth, then turned to see how his two younger companions were doing. In the dark he could make out Tad and Zane huddled against the cliff face behind him, ready. In the months he had lived with them, he had come to feel a kinship, and he found himself adopting the role of eldest brother more often than not. Their family had welcomed him and made him feel at home—even though home was far from ordinary; but he had come to accept the extraordinary as a matter of course since meeting Caleb and his adopted sons. He knew he would die defending them, and knew in turn each would be willing to lay down his life for him.

Abruptly a shout echoed from within and the sounds of combat followed instantly.

The first assassin to bolt the cave was met with the flat of Caleb’s blade across his face. Blood fountained from a broken nose as Jommy
clubbed him on the side of his head with the hilt of his sword. Zane grabbed the stunned assassin by the collar and hauled him out of the way by main force.

A second assassin saw his companion fall, even if he couldn’t see exactly what occurred in the dark, and hesitated before leaping forward, sword at the ready. Caleb barely avoided a thrust to his side, his parry ringing like an alarm. Jommy stepped forward to club the man on the head. He felt something tug hard at his tunic and realized he had almost been skewered by another assassin’s blade as he crossed before the threshold of the cave. There was a burning sensation across his lower back as the swordsman pulled back his blade.

Ignoring the pain, Jommy slammed his hilt into the back of the head of the man facing Caleb, and in turn felt another burning cut as the swordsman behind him attempted to disengage his sword from Jommy’s tunic.

Caleb reached out with his left hand, grabbed Jommy by the shirtfront, and yanked hard, pulling him away from danger. Zane hit the man trying to kill Jommy as another man leaped past him, attempting to run down the beach.

“Stop him!” shouted Caleb.

A sizzling sound, like a nearby discharge of lightning, filled the night and a bolt of energy sprang from Magnus’s hand. Blinding blue light illuminated the cave mouth and beach for an instant as a sphere of energy sped after the fleeing man, overtaking him in an instant. The man screamed and fell, his body contorting in pain as tiny bolts of energy danced over his body, a sizzling sound punctuated by crackling adding a sinister note to the display.

Caleb and Magnus hurried to the fallen man, while the boys and the other agents of the Conclave subdued the remaining assassins.

“Coming out!” shouted a familiar voice, and a moment later Chezarul came out of the cave. “How did we do?” he asked.

Jommy motioned toward the fallen man as Caleb reached him, shouting, “Light!”

A pair of lanterns, one above them and another a short way down
the beach, were uncovered, and they could see the form of a man writhing on the sand as the energy display faded from sight. Magnus said, “Bind him before I release the spell. He is unable to use any poison secreted upon him. Search him well.”

Caleb looked down on the man for whom he’d been searching for weeks. Jomo Ketlami lay in agony, his face contorted. His fists flailed uselessly in the air, his elbows hard against his sides. His back was bowed and his legs kicked feebly against the sand. Caleb went through the man’s clothing quickly and found two poison pills and an amulet, the iron Nighthawk emblem they had come to know so well. He pulled a cord out of his belt pouch, turned the quivering man over as easily as he would a felled deer, and trussed him up in the same manner.

“Check his mouth,” suggested Magnus.

“Get me a light.”

A lantern was fetched and held above Ketlami’s face. Gripping his captive’s jaw with his right hand, Caleb forced his mouth open and motioned for the lantern to be moved closer. “Ah, what is this?” he said.

He held out his left hand, and a pair of iron tongs were placed in them. Caleb deftly reached into Ketlami’s mouth with them and yanked out a tooth. The captive’s whimpering increased but otherwise he was unable to react to the extraction. “Hollow tooth,” said Caleb. He stood up and told Magnus, “You can let him go, I think.”

Magnus released the spell and the captive fell limp for a moment, panting like an exhausted dog.

As they approached Ketlami, Chezarul said to Caleb, “Two of them are dead, one will not live through the night, but three are unconscious and bound.”

Caleb nodded. “Check them for poison as well.” He glanced at Jommy. “You’re injured.”

“I’ve had worse,” said the young man with a grin. “Last time I crossed swords with Talwin Hawkins he cut me three times, and he wasn’t even trying.”

Caleb looked at the spreading bloodstains on Jommy’s tunic. “Get them bound, boy, or Marie will have my ears.”

Jommy winked at Tad and Zane as they joined the others in standing over their quarry. “Your mum does look after me, doesn’t she?”

Tad made a wry face. “I think she likes you best.”

Zane nodded. “I swear that’s true.”

Jommy’s grin widened. “That’s because you’ve been causing her grief your entire lives. I’ve only been annoying her for a few months. She’ll get tired of me quick enough.”

Magnus said, “No doubt,” as he cast a sidelong glance at the tall, redheaded youth. Jommy had quickly become well liked at Sorcerer’s Island and had easily fitted in with Caleb’s adopted family. In a few difficult spots, he had revealed himself to be tough, loyal, and willing to risk himself for others, yet he never seemed to lose his sense of humor.

Tad moved to look at Ketlami who now lay motionless, moaning and cursing softly. “What now?”

Caleb said, “We need to take this one to Father.” To Chezarul he said, “Take the three captives back to the city and get what you can out of them. These should be the last of the Nighthawks in Durbin, but against the possibility there are stragglers still at large, wring every drop of truth from them you can. Then see they plague the world no longer.”

Chezarul nodded once, then began issuing orders to his men.

Magnus pulled out an orb and said, “Boys, stand close.” He stood directly over Ketlami, while Caleb reached down and gripped a handful of the man’s tunic with one hand, and the hem of Magnus’s black robe with the other. Jommy put a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, while Tad and Zane each stood close behind Caleb.

Magnus depressed a switch on the orb and suddenly they vanished, leaving Chezarul and his men on the empty beach to clean up the last vestige of the Nighthawks in Durbin, and perhaps Great Kesh, if they were lucky.

T
he prisoner glared defiantly.

Jomo Ketlami hung by shackles from the stone wall. His clothing had been cut away, leaving him no dignity, but Pug had judged it necessary as his dark body was tattooed with arcane symbols, black, white, red, and yellow, and some of these were wards.

He was a powerfully built man. To the three boys at the back of the room, he looked strong enough to rip the iron rings out of the wall. His head was completely shaved and glistened with perspiration. He had a wrestler’s neck and shoulders, and his bare torso rippled with muscle. His black eyes showed no hint of fear. He snarled as he confronted his captors.

Half a dozen guards had been stationed outside the
door and Magnus stood watch inside against any magical incursion, either to rescue Ketlami or to silence him. Caleb and the boys stood against the opposite wall, out of the way. Two men entered the room.

It was Pug, followed by Nakor.

Magnus asked, “Where’s Bek?”

“Outside, if I need him,” said Nakor. “He doesn’t need to see this.”

Magnus’s glance at his brother communicated a silent question:
But these boys do?
Caleb nodded once. Magnus studied his brother’s face then returned a single nod. The boys had proven themselves so far, showing iron will when needed and a fearlessness that was the hallmark of youth, but which was being rapidly replaced by a more sober appreciation of the real dangers they faced, youthful bravado becoming genuine bravery before Magnus’s and Caleb’s eyes. But combat was one thing, and torture another.

No one spoke for a moment longer, then Ketlami shouted at Pug, “You may as well kill me now, magician! I’m oathbound to take the secrets of the Guild to Lims-Kragma’s Hall!”

Pug said nothing, but turned toward the door as two more men entered the small chamber. The boys moved to the left side of the rear wall, giving the newcomers room to make their way to where the prisoner waited.

One of the two men wore a black leather hood and a faded tunic covered in old stains. Tad glanced at his two companions and knew instantly that they all concluded the nature of those stains. The torturer took up a position before the prisoner, while the second man came to stand beside Pug.

He was a nondescript man of middle height, with no distinguishing features and brown hair, and he wore the shirt and trousers of a trader or farmer. His feet were clad in modest leather boots. He stared at the prisoner, who suddenly turned and locked eyes with him. Ketlami’s eyes widened. After a moment, he closed his eyes and an expression of pain crossed his face. More perspiration beaded on
his forehead and he let out an animal growl, half pain, half aggravation. “Get out of my head!” he shouted, then with an expression of triumph, he laughed and said to the newcomer, “You’ll have to do better than that!”

Pug glanced at the other man with an unspoken question. The other man looked at Pug, nodded once, then looked once more at Ketlami.

Pug said, “Begin,” and the torturer took a quick step forward and drove his fist straight into Ketlami’s stomach. He stepped back while the prisoner gasped, his eyes watering. After a moment, Ketlami sucked in a deep breath and said, “A beating? What next? Hot irons and pincers?”

The torturer struck Ketlami in the stomach again, but this time it was two quick blows, and suddenly the content of the victim’s stomach emptied onto the floor.

Jommy’s expression was grim as he looked at his companions. All three boys had been trained in hand-to-hand combat and an early lesson had been about double strikes to the stomach. A strong man could take a single blow and not miss a stride, but two quick strikes, the second coming before his stomach muscles could recover fully from the first, and he was doubled over, losing his last meal.

Magnus, Caleb, Pug, and Nakor stood implacably, watching as Ketlami spat. The first indignity was but a start in slowly breaking the man down and learning what they needed to know, the location of the Grand Master of the Nighthawks.

Everyone remained silent as the torturer struck Ketlami across the face with the back of his hand. It was an insulting blow as much as a damaging one, and did nothing more than bring tears to the prisoner’s eyes again and make him even more defiant. Caleb turned and whispered to the boys, “It will be some time before he truly begins to feel hopelessness. He is a strong man: moreover, he’s a fanatic.”

The three boys stood quietly, their grim expressions reflecting the proceedings they observed. The torturer was methodical and ap
peared to be in no hurry. He would strike the prisoner repeatedly, then pause, as if letting Ketlami catch his breath. He struck him in the face, the torso, the legs.

After nearly half an hour of this slow beating, Jomo Ketlami hung from his chains, unable to stand. He appeared to be on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Revive him,” said Pug.

The torturer nodded and moved to the far corner of the room where a table stood, upon which rested a variety of bags and instruments of his trade. He opened one of the bags and removed an item, a small vial. Stepping up to the limp form of Ketlami, he unstoppered the vial, holding it under the man’s face. Ketlami’s head jerked back and everyone heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a faint groan.

“Where hides your master?” Pug demanded.

Ketlami raised his face to face Pug. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut and his lip was split. He could barely speak for the swelling of his mouth, but he still retained a look of defiance. “You’ll never break me, magician. Kill me and get it over with.”

Pug glanced at the man standing next to him who shook his head slightly. “Continue,” Pug said.

The torturer returned the vial to his bag and then came to stand before the prisoner. Ketlami glared at him. The man suddenly brought his knee up, brutally striking the Nighthawk in the groin. Ketlami collapsed completely, and hung for a moment from his chains, gasping for air.

And the beating continued.

Well into the second hour, Tad appeared to be on the verge of collapsing himself. With each repeated blow he would wince visibly. Caleb observed his adopted son’s behavior, then motioned him to leave the room with him. With a wave of his hand, he instructed Jommy and Zane to stay.

Outside the door, in a long corridor with guards on either hand,
Ralan Bek was hunkered down with his back against the wall. The strange and dangerous youth had been given over to Nakor’s supervision and seemed content with the situation.

“Are you all right?” Caleb asked Tad.

Tad took a long breath and let it out slowly. “Not really,” he replied. “I’ve seen a few fights, as you know, but this…”

“It’s different,” finished his stepfather.

Tad took a deep breath. “I know what he is, but…”

Caleb looked Tad in the eyes. “It’s brutal. It’s evil, and it’s necessary. You know what he is: he would kill you without a thought; kill me, your mother, anyone, and then sleep the night like a baby after doing so. He is not worthy of your conscience.”

“I know, it’s just that I feel as if…”

Caleb, in an uncharacteristic act, suddenly put his arms around Tad and hugged him close. “I know; believe me, I know.” He released his stepson. “Something is lost by this, and it is something I doubt any of us can earn back.

“But those who oppose us mean naught but ill for those we love and they must be stopped. Now, this is going to take a while longer. If we didn’t have the resources we do, it might take days. But this man will give up what we wish to know in another hour or two. If you wish, you may remain out here.”

Tad thought it over for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Someday I may have to do this myself.”

Caleb nodded, knowing that both Jommy and Zane would have missed this aspect of the lesson. “Yes, more’s the pity.”

They returned to the room and found the torturer reviving Ketlami again. Caleb and Tad resumed their places alongside the others, and Zane whispered, “Surely he can’t last much longer?”

Caleb whispered in return, “You will discover that men are a great deal more resilient than you think if they believe strongly in their cause. This man is a depraved animal, but he thinks he serves a higher cause, and that makes him very difficult to break. Talk to Talwin Hawkins”—as he remembered his own father’s stories of his
years in a Tsurani labor camp—“or your grandfather about what men can endure. You’ll be surprised, I wager.”

For almost another hour the punishment was meted out, then suddenly the torturer halted. He glanced at Pug, without a word, and the magician nodded. Pug then turned to the man next to him, who made a noncommittal gesture.

Pug said, “Give him water,” and the torturer complied, giving the prisoner a long drink from a copper cup. The drink seemed to restore Ketlami a little and he spat in the torturer’s face. The implacable man in the black hood merely wiped away the spittle and looked at Pug for instructions.

Pug asked again, “Where is your Grand Master?”

“I’ll never tell you,” said Ketlami.

The man next to Pug reached over and gripped his forearm. “I have it,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re certain?” asked Nakor.

“I am certain,” replied the man.

Pug took a deep breath, then looked at Ketlami, whose distorted features couldn’t hide the malevolence of his expression. Pug said quietly, “Finish.”

With a quick, unhesitating motion, the torturer drew a sharp blade from his belt and made a single downward cut, sliced through an artery which fountained blood into the air. Ketlami’s eyes widened in shock for a brief instant. “What—”

Then his mouth filled with blood and his head fell forward.

Nakor turned to the three boys. “Sever the bloodflow to the head and he loses consciousness before he even understands he’s been cut. It looks like butchery, but it’s kinder than any other cut I know of.”

Jommy whispered, “Kind or not, dead is dead.”

Pug motioned for everyone to depart as the torturer began to take Ketlami’s body down.

Seeing everyone leaving the room, Bek stood up and said to Nakor, “Can we go now? I’m bored.”

Nakor nodded. “We will have some bloody work to do soon
enough.” He turned to Pug. “We will meet you upstairs,” he said, leading Bek away.

The room where the torture had taken place was in the cellar of one of Chezarul’s warehouses on the edge of the City of Kesh. The now dead Nighthawk had been transported there by Magnus against the threat of any agents lingering in Durbin. They were nearly certain the Conclave had destroyed the Nighthawks in Great Kesh, but nearly certain wasn’t absolutely certain.

Pug turned to the man who had stood next to him and said, “Where?”

“Cavell Keep.”

Pug’s expression turned thoughtful, as if he were trying to recall something. “I remember,” he said, finally. “Thank you,” he told the man, and motioned for him, and the guards, to depart. After a moment only Magnus, Caleb, and the boys remained in the hallway.

“Who was that man, Father?” asked Caleb.

“Joval Delan. Though he is not one of our community, he is someone who owes the Conclave a favor or two. He’s the best human mind reader I’ve ever encountered, but rather than use his ability for a cause, he hides it except when he exploits it for profit.” He glanced at the back of the retreating man. “A shame. He could teach us much. He knew Ketlami would have strong wards to prevent his mind being read, but that eventually he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what he wished to hide.” Glancing at the three boys, he added, “That was the reason for the beating. Remember the child’s game where you say, ‘Don’t think of the dragon in the corner?’

“You can force yourself not to think of something for a great deal of time if you have the training, and the physical and mental resources, but if you’re beaten down enough, what you are trying to hide does eventually come to the surface of the mind.” To his son he said, “Which is why we now know the Grand Master of the Nighthawks hides at Cavell Keep.”

“Cavell Keep?” asked Caleb. “I know Cavell Town, north of Lyton, but a keep?”

“Abandoned,” said Pug. “High in the hills above the highway. From a distance it blends into the rocks; you’ll only notice it from the road or river if you’re looking for it. It’s up a draw from the town. You have to want to find it.

“The last Baron Corvallis refused to live in it…it’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time, but what I know is that the ancient keep used to guard a fair portion of the trade route between Lyton and Sloop. Baron Corvallis’s daughter married a man from Lyton, a commoner I believe, and the King let that title fall vacant. The Earl of Sloop was given that area to rule, despite it being closer to Lyton.

“In any event, the old keep was linked to Nighthawk activity nearly a century ago, and it was one of my students, Owyn Belfote, and Prince Arutha’s man James who ended that particular threat to the region.”

Pug tapped his chin with his forefinger and considered for a moment. “They must have decided enough time has passed for them to utilize the place again, and it’s a smart choice: no one goes there, even the villagers, because of superstition, and it’s an inconvenient place to visit by any measure. As long as people think it’s deserted, why bother?”

Caleb said, “Shall we go to Lyton?”

“No,” said Pug. “I’m going to give this to Nakor. He’s close to Duke Eric and the Kingdom should handle this final confrontation.” He looked at Magnus. “I’m sending you along with Nakor, though, just to make sure Eric has enough protection against any magic the Nighthawks might still muster, and you know I’m only moments away if you have need of me. I’ll ask your mother to visit the Assembly and see what progress is being made with the Talnoy.”

Magnus nodded, smiling wryly. “We know how much the Great Ones of the Empire enjoy that.”

Pug smiled, the first time he hadn’t looked grim in days. There was some amusement in his tone as he said, “They still have trouble with women magicians in general, but your mother…I’ll tell her to mind her manners.”

Magnus’s smile broadened. “And Mother began doing what you tell her to…when?” Pug’s wince showed that his son’s barb had hit home. “Shall I tell Nakor to make ready?”