Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “The Leorduins? What business did I have with them?” Jack wondered aloud. The Leorduins were a very rich and very prickly family, indeed. Had they caught him in some scheme? If so, what scheme was it? Or had he simply gone to the Leorduin affair, whatever it was, to maneuver toward some other noble mark?

  “How did you finally escape from your magical prison?” Tharzon’s son Kurzen asked. “You’d already been there a hundred years or so. What broke the spell?”

  “Ah, that I think was an accident,” said Jack. “The drow had no idea that someone had been entombed within their old mythal stone. They were at work restoring its old spells, and their magic interfered with the encystment in which I slept, releasing me. They asked me how I’d come to be in their mythal, heard me out, agreed that my story was fascinating, and promptly condemned me to slavery once they’d decided they had no other use for me.”

  “A black-hearted race, and that’s no lie,” Tharzon agreed. He looked over to Seila. “Is that where you come into the tale, my lady?”

  Seila nodded. “I was traveling on the Tantras Road with one of my father’s caravans when a large party of brigands ambushed us. They took me and most of our people captive, and sold us to the dark elves. I was sent to the tower kitchens, and met Jack a tenday or so later. It took a long time, but eventually he managed to arrange our escape.”

  “That’s a tale I’d like to hear,” Tharzon said. “How did you do it?”

  “I’m glad you asked, friend Tharzon,” Jack replied. He immediately launched into a recounting of his toils among the drow, his befriending of Seila, and his daring escape. If his telling of the tale perhaps overemphasized his own cleverness, stoicism, and personal bravery, well, that was merely a bit of artistic license. After all, it was his story to tell, and he ought to be able to tell it as he liked, as long as he avoided embellishing the parts Seila could corroborate. Half an hour passed as Jack lingered on every detail and described every perilous development, during which he finished his first lager and embarked on a second, until finally he concluded with their arrival in the alley in Sindlecross. Even Kurzen left his work to listen to the story, caught up despite himself.

  “Well done, Jack, well done,” Tharzon said in approval when Jack finished. “You always had a daring streak in you.”

  “It was nothing,” Jack replied with false modesty, waving away Tharzon’s praise.

  “You can bet that the drow won’t believe it to be nothing,” Kurzen warned. “The dark elves have long memories, and they never let a slight pass without answer. You’d best watch your back, Jack Ravenwild.”

  “I am not concerned,” Jack answered. “The drow do not frighten me; I have their measure now.”

  Kurzen shook his head at Jack’s reply. “They have their eyes and ears in the city. I would not be so quick to dismiss them. If I were you, I’d lay low for a time.” The young dwarf rose and returned to his work at the bar.

  Jack took a long pull from his mug, and then he looked back to Tharzon. “There’s one other thing you should know. I think the drow released Myrkyssa Jelan, too.”

  Tharzon sat up straight. “The Warlord herself? No!”

  “I see that you remember her as fondly as I do,” said Jack. “I actually saw her down in the mythal-plaza, which is no longer under a lake, by the way. She emerged from the mythal as a very lifelike statue, and still managed to scare me half to death in that condition.” He grinned crookedly. “Apparently she didn’t stay that way for long, and the drow made the mistake of trying to enslave her. She cut her way out of Chûmavhraele and vanished into the Underdark.”

  The dwarf shook his head. “If Myrkyssa Jelan is at liberty again, trouble’s sure to follow. I wouldn’t be surprised …” Tharzon’s voice trailed away, and his eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “Hmmph. I wonder? Is it possible?”

  “Is what possible, friend Tharzon?”

  “A new gang moved into the Skymbles a couple of tendays ago. They call themselves the Moon Daggers, and they’ve already put a couple of local street gangs in their place. I’ve heard that the Moon Daggers aren’t just guttersnipes and street rats; skilled adventurers run the gang, with a dark-haired swordswoman at their head. Do you think it’s the Warlord?”

  “I deem it unlikely. Street gangs come and go, and for that matter so do adventurers. All of Jelan’s plots and designs are a hundred years out of date; even she couldn’t easily recover from such a setback.” Jack considered the question again, and decided that he was well satisfied with that answer. He winked at Seila. “Now on to more important matters: I promised you three days ago that I’d tell you the tale of the Guilder’s Vault. Well, here sits one of my comrades in that harrowing adventure, and between the two of us I think we can do it justice.

  “The tale begins in the disorderly library of a disreputable old sot of a sage by the name of Ontrodes, whose counsel I’d sought on the matter of a missing arcane tome known as the Sarkonagael …”

  The telling of the story of the Guilder’s Vault took up the rest of the morning. Jack counted it as time well spent, because Seila was completely enthralled by the story, all the more so because old Tharzon was able to reinforce the telling of the tale with his own recollections. After that, Jack and Tharzon traded news of old comrades for a little longer—most of whom, as one might expect, were long since dead—until Jack finally held up his hand. “I could spend the rest of the day talking with you, friend Tharzon, but I’ve a lot of city still to see, and it would be a pity to bore my lovely companion, here. I promise that I will return soon to resume our conversation.”

  “Fair enough,” Tharzon replied. He snorted in bemusement, and shook his head. “Jack Ravenwild, here under my beams again. Who could have thought it?”

  With another round of handclasps, Jack and Seila said their goodbyes and returned to the sunny streets outside. They climbed back into the carriage, and Seila leaned close to Jack. “He seems a very pleasant fellow,” she remarked. “And what stories, too. I think you were not as much of a gentleman back in those days, Jack.”

  “Rather like a good brandy, Tharzon’s mellowed with age,” Jack replied. “He was a very fierce fellow a century ago, and in fact once swore a blood oath to hack me to pieces if he ever saw me again. Fortunately, that little misunderstanding was cleared up! But I never would have thought him to be so sentimental.”

  “Where to now?”

  Jack considered the question for a moment. He’d hoped that Tharzon might be able to shed some light on why he’d been encysted in the wild mythal, but it seemed that his disappearance had been as much a mystery to his friends as it was to himself. He would have to think of some other way to pursue that inquiry, he supposed. “Hmm … well, I can’t think of any other old friends to look up unless we visit the cemetery. Let’s just have a turn around the city and see what we see. I used to have a house over in Mortonbrace, and I sometimes made do with a little loft in Burnt Gables and a cottage on the Ladyrock.” Jack’s eye fell on a counting house, and another thought struck him. “And I would dearly like to visit Wyrmhoard House, if they are still around. My deposits have had a hundred years to grow; I am frankly curious as to the state of my accounts.”

  “To Mortonbrace, Hartle,” Seila said to their driver. “But take your time, there’s no hurry.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” the driver replied. He gave the reins a shake and clucked at the horse, and the carriage rolled away from the Smoke Wyrm. They drove east on Vespers Way until they reached Moorland Ride, where they turned south and passed through the neighborhoods of Sixstar, Tentowers, and Swordspoint. Jack engaged himself wholly in the game of trying to spot which buildings remained the same and which had changed, then comparing the current occupants or business to the ones he remembered from his time. Many of the fine townhouses and manors in the noble neighborhoods still belonged to the same families, as one might expect, but most of the businesses were strange to him.

  In Swordspoint they turned east on Raven Way, an
d crossed the small bridge over DeVillars Creek into the neighborhood of Mortonbrace. In Jack’s day Mortonbrace had been something of an up and coming neighborhood, a place where many of the newly wealthy—including no small number of adventurers—had built fine new houses for themselves. Now, a hundred years later, it seemed that Mortonbrace had seen its peak and was growing old. Fine old manor houses now verged on dilapidation; some were broken out into a dozen or more apartments occupied by poor laborers and craftsmen, many of them from foreign lands. Jack discovered that the fashionable townhouse he’d bought for himself with his reward from the whole Myrkyssa Jelan affair was now occupied by several families of halflings.

  “Well,” he said with a sigh. It surprised him how much the sight of his house falling into disrepair and full of strangers darkened his mood; he’d never been one to care too much for the roof over his head, as long as he had one. “I suppose it would have too much to expect that the house would have stood vacant all this time.”

  “You might still have a claim on the place,” Seila offered. “Or I’m sure you could buy it back if you wanted to.”

  Jack eyed the place dubiously. The roof now had a distinct sag to it, the porch slanted noticeably, and the siding was covered with salvaged planks and patches. He put on an air of indulgent good humor, and waved off the suggestion. “I think I’ll let them keep it,” he replied.

  Next they visited Wyrmhoard House, the counting house where Jack had once kept the modest wealth he’d managed to save instead of spending on fine furnishings, splendid garb, and various dissipations and entertainments. There Jack learned that the five hundred or so gold crowns he’d once possessed had vanished into history, the account having been settled by someone claiming to have been acting as his legal heir about four years after he’d disappeared. “Duplicity! Despoliation!” Jack cried at the clerk assisting him. “How could you have simply given away the funds I entrusted to you?”

  “Sir, you are referring to an event that occurred ninety-five years ago,” the clerk protested. He was a balding, middle-aged gnome who stood on a high riser behind the counter. The gnome pointed to the ancient, yellowed ledger in which the transaction was recorded. “It’s a wonder that we have this much of a record. This—” he paused to squint at the fading signature—“Morgath? Is that it? This Morgath apparently presented a court writ attesting to your demise, and another authorizing him to see to your estate. I can only surmise that my predecessor here at Wyrmhoard House saw no reason to doubt the veracity of the documents.”

  “This is outrageous!” Jack protested. “I demand immediate redress.”

  The clerk closed his dusty ledger. “You may seek such a ruling from the city magistrate, sir, but I will not hand you five hundred and thirty-five—”

  “You neglect one hundred years of compound interest,” Jack interrupted.

  “Five hundred thirty-five gold crowns or their compounded value, then. I cannot simply give you that sum. Do you have any proof that you are this person who lived a hundred years ago?”

  “Of course I am me!”

  “Then the magistrate should be able to establish that fact to my employer’s satisfaction. But I must reiterate that as far as Wyrmhoard House is concerned, the estate of Jack Ravenwild has already received all funds owed to it. I suggest you take up the matter with Master Morgath. Or, more likely, his descendants, if you can find them.” The clerk sniffed at Jack, tipped his cap to Seila, and scurried off with his ledger.

  “If I can find them,” Jack muttered. “You have not heard the last from me on this matter!” he called after the retreating gnome.

  Seila offered a small smile in sympathy. “I’m sure we can help you reestablish your identity,” she said. “My father has friends in the courts. Do you have any idea who this Morgath was?”

  “No,” Jack said glumly. They left the counting house and climbed back into the carriage. Then Jack was struck by a memory … a fat, unctuous fellow from the thieves’ guild who always had a tall, bony thug at his side. “Wait, yes. Morgath was a thief. The clever bastard must have forged the documents so that he could plunder my savings after I disappeared, Mask damn his black heart!”

  “I am sure that you will not be left in want,” Seila pointed out. “My father will be grateful for my return, I can promise you that much.”

  Jack’s interest piqued at the thought of a handsome reward, but he carefully put on an air of good cheer. “Nothing of the sort is necessary,” he claimed. “Come, let’s continue our tour. I am enjoying the outing greatly, that last little bit of unpleasantness excepted.”

  They drove on along Stonekeep Way through the Skymbles, and turned westward again into Burnt Gables—no, Jack reminded himself, Sindlecross, as it was now called. There he found that the old warehouse he’d once lived above was simply gone, replaced by a large granary. Jack grimaced; behind the stove in his loft there’d been a hidden cache where he remembered leaving a sackful of gold coins and gemstones for a day when he might need them, but clearly the hidey-hole and its treasures were gone now. “So much for that,” he sighed. It seemed that he was much poorer than he’d hoped he would be. “Take us through Shadystreets, and then find us a ferry to the Ladyrock.”

  “Very good, sir,” the coachmen replied. He drove them south on Sindle Street to Riverview, where Jack pointed out to Seila the spot where the leaning tower of the old sage Ontrodes had once stood. The sage’s house was long gone, of course; it had been on the verge of falling down in Jack’s day, so he would have been astonished to find it still there. Then they made their way down to the point of Crow’s End. There Jack and Seila hired a boatman to scull them two hundred yards over to the island in the middle of Raven’s Bluff’s harbor. A half-hour’s walk in the afternoon sunshine was sufficient to circle the Ladyrock; Jack’s old cottage was still standing but was abandoned, its roof mostly caved in and its walls overgrown with ivy and brambles.

  Seila looked at it with distaste. “Did you really live here once?”

  “It was in much better repair a hundred years ago. But it was a very modest abode, even then.” Jack looked it over and shook his head. “I suppose I could fix it up.”

  “Why did you need so many residences, anyway?” Seila asked. “And, excuse me for saying so, weren’t they all rather modest for a gentleman of your station?”

  “The Mortonbrace house was a perfectly genteel address when I bought it. As for the loft and the cottage, well, I think I have already told you that I was not without enemies. This cottage may have been little better than a hovel, but no one knew I owned it and I could retreat here for privacy when I found it prudent to drop out of sight.”

  Seila gave Jack a long look. “Were you a criminal of some sort, Jack?”

  “Absolutely not. You must remember, in my time the city fell under the rule of corrupt merchants and nobles who subverted our civic institutions. Why, the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan insinuated herself into the office of Lady Mayor by adopting an alias. When a city is ruled by malefactors, then patriots become outlaws.”

  “I’ve heard the story of Myrkyssa Jelan before, but never the rest about corruption in the merchant houses and nobility.”

  “Well, of course not. Powerful people were very embarrassed by the events of that time. I have no doubt that over time they worked very hard to whitewash the civic records.” Jack noted the concerned frown on Seila’s face, and quickly added, “The Norwoods were, of course, above reproach. Your family was one of the noble houses who worked to set matters right.”

  “That is good to hear,” Seila replied, a look of relief on her face. “I was afraid that my ancestors might have been on the wrong side of that. So where would you like to go now?”

  Jack glanced up at the sun, beginning to lower toward the west. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. I propose that we return to Norwood Manor.”

  “I’m ready to go home,” Seila agreed.

  They returned to the Ladyrock’s landing and hired another boat to take them back
over to Crow’s End, where the carriage waited. Jack busied himself with studying the passers-by in the streets as they drove back to Mortonbrace. If anything, Raven’s Bluff seemed even more cosmopolitan than it had been a hundred years before. Sprinkled among the teeming crowds of humans he saw sturdy dwarves, dapper halflings, graceful elves of several kindreds, and people of kindreds he’d never even imagined before. As interesting as that seemed to him, none of the city folk seemed to take any notice of the nonhumans among them; clearly they were a routine sight in Raven’s Bluff.

  An hour’s drive carried them through the city’s northern gate and out along the Tantras Road again. The carriage returned to Norwood Manor as the shadows stretched out long black fingers across the lawn and the evening chill gathered close. Seila shivered, and Jack took the liberty of putting his arm around her shoulders and inviting her to snuggle closely beside him. She looked up at him with her enchanting green eyes before leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “Not everything is misery and toil in this age, Jack,” Seila said. “What do you think of the Year of the Ageless One now?”

  “It shows more promise than I had first thought,” Jack admitted. “Much has changed, and not all for the better. But I could become used to it, I think.”

  Seila chuckled softly to herself. “Do you think that you might be the Ageless One named by this year? Perhaps old Augathra caught some glimpse of your predicament when he wrote out his Roll of Years.”

  “I doubt very much that my troubles and travails inspired a half-mad seer who lived a thousand years ago to add one more cryptic euphemism to his great prophecy. As much as it pains me to say it, I am not that important.”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad that you found your way to this day,” Seila replied. She reached up to turn Jack’s face toward hers and kissed him soundly. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the soft delight of her lips as the horse’s harness jingled and the wheels clattered over the cobblestones of the manor drive. Then, all too soon, the carriage rocked gently to a halt by the manor steps, and Seila drew away. “Thank you for saving me,” she said.