Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “If you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Jack, now would be the time to put them to use,” Seila whispered.

  The rogue thought quickly. He could already hear more dark elves returning. If they’d only given him a little more time to gain his bearings, he might have had a chance to concoct some sort of ruse or find an appropriate use for his magic … but of course the drow knew their own sleep poison quite well, and likely had a very good idea of just how long its effects would last. With no better plan in mind, he started to work the spell of shadow-jumping he’d learned from the Sarkonagael, figuring that if he slipped out of his cell then more possibilities might make themselves evident—but as he started to murmur the words of his magic, a shooting, burning pain raced up his right arm from the ring to his shoulder. He broke off his spell in mid-word with a sharp cry of pain, cradling his right hand in his left and swearing colorfully.

  “Jack, what’s wrong?” Seila hissed.

  Before he could answer her, Sinafae and several more guards returned to Jack’s cell. The sergeant looked at Jack holding his aching hand and laughed coldly. “Ah, you tried to work some magic, did you? Well, as you have now discovered, the ring of negation you are wearing will permit no such thing. We remember your talents all too well, Wildhame. Go ahead, try another spell or two, and see if it goes any better.”

  Jack stifled a retort about what Sinafae might try and glared at the dark elf. The diabolical part about the ring was that if a spellcaster wearing it became truly desperate and decided to sacrifice a finger to regain his magic, the maiming might be enough to ruin any hope of casting a spell requiring complicated gestures—which, naturally, many spells did. Very well, then; if he could not magic his way out of this predicament, he would have to fall back on his native quickness, agility, wits, and daring. “The dark elves do not have a chance,” he promised himself.

  Sinafae motioned to her warriors, then produced the keys to the cells. Jack offered no resistance as two drow jerked him to his feet, bound his hands, and pushed him out into the hallway. Another pair of soldiers brought Seila out of her cell, and then they were marched off together through the echoing corridors of the drow castle. After climbing a staircase of gleaming dark marble and passing through several antechambers, the two captives were brought into a magnificent throne-hall, its walls draped in arrases of scarlet and purple. A dozen dark elf guards stood watch here, but Jack paid them no mind—the Marquise Dresimil Chûmavh watched him languidly from her spider-shaped throne, one of her twin brothers standing just a step below her.

  The drow noblewoman was every bit as beautiful as Jack remembered, attired in a snugly fitting gown of emerald green that seemed to almost glow against her perfect ebony skin. Jack stared at her in a curious mixture of admiration and horror, until one of the dark elf guards at his side growled, “On your knees!” Seila sank down with a defiant glare, but Jack took too long abasing himself; the guard kicked his feet out from under him, then reached down to grab him by the collar and yank him to a half-upright pose.

  In that undignified position, Jack looked up and saw Dresimil gazing down at him and Seila with cold amusement dancing in her eyes. “Welcome, Jack,” she said. “We missed you in Chûmavhraele, especially after your very memorable leave-taking from our fields. As you might imagine, we have been very anxious to offer our hospitality again.”

  Jack winced in pain, but rallied as best he could. “I disliked the prospects for advancement in my position, and decided to seek other employment,” he replied.

  “And here we have Seila Norwood as well, daughter of Lord Marden himself,” Dresimil continued. “Such a pretty girl. I see why you fancied her enough to pluck her out of our grasp, Jack. But I must say that was not well thought out—she was not yours to take. She was bought and paid for by House Chûmavh. We do not like to be parted from our property, you know.”

  Jack bit back his angry reply. These dark elves were so thrice-cursed unreasonable! He could not imagine the combination of pride, cruelty, and avarice one needed to steal back slaves whose chief offense was successfully escaping. “Your property may think otherwise,” he replied.

  Seila was not quite so circumspect in her response. She glared at the drow noblewoman. “I am no one’s property,” she snarled. “You have no right to take me captive, and if you do, you must expect that I will bend every effort to regaining my freedom. What wrong did I ever do to you? You have hundreds of slaves already. What possible reason could you have for kidnapping me again? Or Jack, for that matter? Is this all for spite?”

  “You would do well to remember whom you address, slave,” Sinafae hissed in reply. She stepped forward and struck Seila a back-handed slap that knocked the young noblewoman to the ground. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Jack surged to his feet in anger—only to find two bared blades at his neck an instant later.

  Dresimil regarded Seila in silence for a moment, with a small cold smile fixed on her perfect features and a gleam of wicked delight in her eye. She rose gracefully and descended from her seat on the dais, motioning for the guards to raise Seila to her feet. “You do not understand us very well, my dear child,” she purred. “Spite is all the reason we need. Although what you term spite I might call a redress of injury—Jack left behind a good deal of damage and brought about a number of deaths when he made his escape, and as I noted before, my house paid good gold to purchase you from Fetterfist. There is a sound purpose in making certain that no one ever deals us a blow without earning retribution threefold at our hands. Your recapture serves as a highly useful lesson to all my slaves that escape is pointless; we will go to any lengths to take back what is ours.”

  Seila slumped in despair. Jack swallowed carefully, conscious of the blades at his neck—a rather ironic predicament, considering how he had treated Cailek Balathorp earlier in the evening. “What do you intend to do with us?” he asked Dresimil.

  The drow noblewoman studied Jack and Seila for a long time, her smile growing wide and cruel. “As it turns out, I have little further need of Seila Norwood,” she said. “She was useful for ensuring that her father made no attempt to drive me from my castle. But now my brothers inform me that the repairs to our old mythal stone are complete; our defensive enchantments will soon ring us in walls of magic that Norwood and all the rest of the foolish lords of Raven’s Bluff will be completely unable to assail. In any event, it seems that dear Fetterfist is smitten with Seila’s charms in his own way, and he has asked for her. I am inclined to indulge him.” Seila drew a deep breath and looked down at the floor, her shoulders quivering as she stifled a sob.

  Dresimil laughed softly at the girl’s distress, and turned her attention to Jack. “As for you, my Lord Wildhame … I believe that we can take some steps to better fit you for your duties in the rothé fields. Although I shall miss our interesting conversations, I believe we will begin by removing your tongue. We will leave you enough of your fingers to grasp a shovel. And I think we will secure you to a chain and stake, so that you do not wander from your assigned place. You have much toil to repay before we consider your release, however that might come to pass. You are an inventive fellow; perhaps you will think of something … entertaining.”

  Despite his effort to remain uncowed, Jack’s mouth went dry as dust and his knees almost failed him. He tried to speak and found himself unable to say anything at all—not a plea for mercy, a barbed insult, or a witty rejoinder came to mind. Seila looked up at him in horror as Dresimil finished her sentence.

  “Lord Wildhame seems overcome,” Jaeren remarked. “A pity. I’d hoped for some small jest or perhaps a trenchant observation at this point. Ah, well.”

  He motioned to the guards accompanying Jack, who moved to secure his arms and drag him off … but at that moment a drow soldier hurried into the throne room and approached Dresimil. The fellow bowed to the noblewoman and spoke swiftly in the liquid tongue of the drow. Dresimil’s eyes narrowed, and she straightened in her seat, responding with a sharp quest
ion or comment, which the messenger replied to at length. She then dismissed him with a wave of her hand and spoke softly with her brothers. Jack could only make out a few snippets of the conversation—“humans,” “warriors,” and perhaps “tunnels” or “caverns”—but the guards who had been about to drag him away halted and waited on their mistress.

  Somehow Jack found the courage to speak. “Unexpected news, my lady?” he asked.

  Dresimil glanced back to him, and her smile this time was without any humor at all. “It seems that our little foray against Blackwood Manor has provoked a reprisal. We anticipated this possibility, of course, and prepared a suitable reception. The mythal is my web, and Lord Norwood is ready to play the fly to my spider. We all know how that turns out, do we not?” She motioned to the guards holding Jack and Seila. “Take them back to their cells until we are ready to continue, and watch them carefully. If Wildhame offers you any trouble, torment the girl and make sure that he can hear her every cry.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the guards answered. They seized Jack by the arms and spun him around, then marched him back down to the dungeon again, with Seila just a few steps behind.

  JACK PASSED THE NEXT HOUR PACING RESTLESSLY IN HIS cell. This time he was held several doors down from Seila, unable to see her or speak with her. From time to time he tugged at the ring of negation, hoping to find it no longer fixed on his finger, but the thing refused to budge. That was unfortunate, to say the least; he had not counted on being unable to work magic at all. In fact, he might have thought twice about walking nonchalantly into the arms of the dark elves if he’d known his magic could so easily be neutralized. “Somehow I must find a reason to convince the dark elves to remove the ring,” he decided. “My prospects would be much more promising without it.”

  His reflections were interrupted by the rattle and clatter of the dungeon door opening and the footfalls of his jailors. Jack moved closer to the bars to peer down the corridor, wondering if the dark elves were bringing a brazier of coals and a sharp knife to begin the work Dresimil had promised for him … but instead the slaver Cailek Balathorp strode into the dungeon. The tall, straw-haired lord had changed into the black leathers he favored in his guise as Fetterfist, and wore proudly the half-hood Jack had taken from him. He paused by Jack’s cell and regarded Jack with a very unpleasant smile on his face. “Now this is gratifying,” the slaver remarked. “I have quite a score to settle with you, Ravenwild. I doubt the dark elves will leave me much to work with, but never fear—if you are worried that I will be shortchanged, well, I have some very special arrangements in mind for Seila Norwood.”

  Jack glared at the renegade lord. He started to compose the darkest and most dreadful threat he could think of, but stopped himself; there was little point in making any promises of vengeance in his current situation. Instead he decided to appeal to the man’s greed. “Ransom Seila back to her father,” he said. “She’s worth far more to you whole and unhurt. Norwood will pay a fortune for her return.”

  “I expect that he will, and I may do as you suggest … after I have a little sport first.” The slaver grinned and started to turn away.

  “Wait!” A sudden notion struck Jack, and he stretched his arm through the bars of his cell. “Listen, Balathorp, I know that I am finished. You’ll have your revenge upon me, and more; the drow will see to that. But if you agree to see Seila Norwood to freedom, I will give you all that remains to me—this enchanted silver ring.” He held up the ring of negation.

  The slaver snorted. “I will do as I please with Seila anyway, Ravenwild. That little bauble makes no difference to me.”

  Jack reached through the bars, extending the ring. “Take it from my hand,” he begged. “I throw myself on your mercy.”

  Balathorp hesitated, and for a moment Jack’s hopes soared … but at that moment a contingent of drow guards appeared. The slaver stepped back, inclining his head to the dark elves; the drow warriors marched past Jack’s cell to where Seila was held. “I am sure the Lady Dresimil will think of a fitting end for you,” he said to Jack. “Console yourself with the thought that I will take good care of Seila Norwood. Farewell, Ravenwild.”

  Jack searched for some clever riposte, some appeal that might reach the man, but nothing came to mind. Balathorp turned and followed the dark elves down the corridor to Seila’s cell. Jack heard the rattle of keys in the iron lock, the jingle of chains, Seila’s voice raised in protest … and then Balathorp and the drow jailors returned back along the corridor, ushering Seila along with her arms bound behind her back. She struggled, to no avail, and had time to cry out, “Jack!” as she was swept past him. Jack reached out after her, his fingertips brushing her dress, and then she was gone.

  He caught one more brief glimpse of her in the guardroom at the entrance to the row of cells; Balathorp handed her to a pair of hobgoblin slavers. “Take her to the caravan and lock her up with the rest of the merchandise,” he told the fierce creatures. They responded in Goblin, asking some question or another; the slaver shook his head and said, “No, the east tunnel, it looks like we won’t be able to slip out to the north.” Then the dark elves shut the dungeon door, and Jack could hear or see nothing more except the empty cells around his own.

  He gave the bars of his cell an angry shake; they did not move much at all. Then he commenced pacing and worrying at the numerous things that seemed to be out of his control at the moment. He’d succeeded in finding Seila, only to watch her carried away again by the vile Cailek Balathorp while he was very much powerless to prevent it. “Perhaps I should have come up with some more cautious plan than leaping through the portal after Seila,” he muttered. He’d assumed that with his magic and native cleverness it would not be difficult to escape the dark elves if they captured him, but now he was much less confident of that. And every moment he remained trapped in this cold, cheerless cell, Balathorp was dragging Seila farther away from him!

  He sighed and stretched himself out on a cold stone ledge that served as a bed. Where would Balathorp take Seila? He was certainly through in Raven’s Bluff after Jack had exposed him in front of everybody at the Lord Mayor’s Revel, and Balathorp’s part in the attack had cemented his place as an enemy of the city. It seemed that Balathorp intended to quit Chûmavhraele at his earliest convenience, so presumably the tunnel or tunnels to the east led to the surface. And were Jelan and Norwood still fighting their way down to the drow realm, or had Dresimil already sprung her trap? Did Raven’s Bluff even have sufficient forces to defeat the dark elves if they had control over the wild mythal? Jack glanced toward the left-hand wall of his cell and realized that he was looking in the direction of the mythal stone on the lakeshore a mile distant. He could feel the magic of the device through the castle walls, much as one could feel the direction and strength of the sun even with eyes closed. It was much stronger, more focused, than it had been the last time he was in Chûmavhraele.

  Jack frowned as he considered the subtle tug and play of unseen forces around him. “What are Jaeren and Jezzryd up to?” he wondered. He felt a certain protective impulse toward the wild mythal; after all, he was fairly certain the goddess Mystra had once asked him to look after it, although it was possible that was only a dream. It was a strange fate that had bound up his magic with the work of drow archmages ten thousand years before his birth, he reflected. The mythal’s touch had rested on him long before he’d been encysted within it for a century; he knew now that it was the source of his magic. He likely wouldn’t have been a sorcerer at all if he had been born in some less magical city.

  He was roused from his reflections by a sudden clamor of battle not far from his cell. Steel rang against steel just outside the dungeon in which he was imprisoned, followed by the thundering detonations of powerful battle-magic. Even within his cell he could feel the wash of heat and smell the acrid brimstone of flames washing through the chambers outside. Drow shouted to one another, rallying to meet the threat. “Norwood’s armsmen!” he decided, scrambling to his fee
t. His freedom might be at hand … assuming the soldiers discovered the guardroom. He hurried over to the bars of the cell, peering toward the door leading to the guardroom and waiting for it to open.

  There was a clatter of swordplay from the other side of the door and a quick rattle of heavy keys—and then a dark elf warrior threw open the door and rushed over to Jack’s cell. The drow glanced up and down the hallway, then raised his crossbow and aimed it at Jack. “You are coming with me,” he snarled. “Stand back from the door.”

  “So much for the notion of rescue,” Jack muttered. He stepped back from the cell door under the threat of the dark elf’s weapon. It seemed likely that the guard was under orders not to kill him, but he would certainly lose any opportunity of slipping away if he were drugged with sleep-venom again. The dark elf reached for the keys at his belt and took a step toward the cell, but at that moment he heard something behind him and spun to face it—only to catch a thrown dagger in his breast. The dark elf staggered back to the bars, his face gray, and started to raise his crossbow at Jack before collapsing to the floor.

  Jack stared at the dead drow in astonishment before he glanced up at the guardroom door. The half-orc swordsman Narm stood there, straightening up from his throw, and beside him stood Myrkyssa Jelan. “Elana! Narm!” he exclaimed. “This is a welcome turn of events. I feared I was being summoned to my execution.”

  “It’s still a possibility,” Narm grunted. “There is a whole castle full of drow around us—the rest of our troops are tied up in the tunnels.” He hurried forward to take the keyring from the fallen guard’s belt and began working at the cell door.

  Jelan took a moment to examine the cell, then positioned herself to keep an eye on the doorway behind them. “Hello, Jack,” she said. “Somehow I knew that sooner or later I would see you behind bars. There is a certain ironic satisfaction to this moment.”