Feeling almost sick to his stomach from fear, Jim steeled himself and moved slowly to join those approaching the monster. Like the others he wore a heavy black robe and had pulled the cowl forward to conceal his features. The original owner of the robe was somewhere at the bottom of a deep ravine less than a quarter mile away, no longer needing the garment.

He scuffled his feet a little, moving slower than those around him, to keep to the rear of the crowd. He wanted everyone possible in front of him—he didn’t dare be noticed and he wanted the opportunity to slip away should the need arise. He kept his hands up inside the sleeves of his robe—one hand held a dagger treated with a fast-acting poison that would render anyone cut unable to move within a minute, and the other a device constructed for him by a master artificer in Krondor, a ball that when shattered would emit a brilliant white light for ten seconds, more than enough time for Jim to slip away. It would leave those blinded unable to see into the shadows for at least another minute or two. Jim had a well-earned reputation for being able to slip away given the slightest opportunity, and with this crew he knew “slight” was the best he could hope for.

From the human onlookers, anyway. He couldn’t be certain that everyone in attendance tonight was human.

Jim swallowed hard again and paused, forcing himself to confront the image of the monster above.

Belasco raised his hands again. Jim took only a moment to conclude the magic user was madder than a bug trapped in a bass drum. What was projected before the crowd was as horrifying a sight as Jim had ever witnessed, yet the magician was laughing like a delighted child. He was calling out to the faithful, but Jim wasn’t quite close enough to hear the words, only the indistinct sound of his voice.

Jim inched forward and to the right as those in front of him slowly rose to their feet, for the group was coming together in the middle of what had once been a fortress. Perhaps five hundred of the faithful gathered. Jim glanced around, a sudden tightness in his neck causing him to worry about who might now be behind him. It was a sense he had inherited from his great-grandfather, something the family called his “bump of trouble.” And right now it was starting to really itch.

As he suspected, figures moved along the rocks surrounding this flat area, what was once an ancient marshalling yard. The roaring fires made everything beyond inky dark, but Jim had mastered the trick of not looking at the flames if he could help it, keeping alert for flickering movement and reflecting highlights betraying those outside the light.