Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “Say no more. I will have you free in a moment.” Jack bent his efforts toward prying open the lock of the manacles, trying to be as silent as he could.

  He opened one lock, and turned to the other—and just at that moment a heavy cudgel whirled through the shadows, striking him across the shoulders. The surprise and impact threw him off his feet, knocking the wind out of him. His invisibility faded as he lost his concentration on maintaining the spell, and he sprawled on the cold hard ground by Seila’s feet. What happened? he wondered, shaking his head in confusion until he realized that someone had thrown a heavy club at him, just barely missing his head.

  “Jack, behind you!” Seila cried out, a moment too late.

  “Ravenwild,” a familiar voice snarled. “I thought I heard someone playing with Seila’s chains.” Cailek Balathorp stood fifteen feet away beneath the towering mushroom, a sneer of contempt beneath his leather hood. “I had thought the dark elves would see to you, but it looks like I can settle our score personally. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Jack picked himself up, his shoulder aching from the slaver’s club. “Well, I had thought the Watch would see to you, but I was mistaken,” he retorted. “More’s the pity.”

  Balathorp drew the sword at his hip and grinned wickedly, advancing on Jack. Jack glanced around, looking for some potential advantage or distraction, but nothing leapt to his eye. Several of the slavers were thrashing about the rocks and mushrooms at the head of the caravan, apparently in pursuit of Narm, but others were turning back this way. He took a deep breath, drew the drow rapier he carried, and advanced to meet the slaver. He needed to defeat Balathorp quickly and quietly, before the rest of the slaver’s gang came running.

  The slaver lunged forward and aimed a thrust straight at Jack’s belt buckle. Jack parried and riposted; Balathorp’s blade leaped to meet his own, and the duel was on. Balathorp was tall and had a significant advantage in reach, but Jack was quicker. They were a close match in skill, but Jack faced one crucial problem: Time was not on his side. The shrill song of steel beating against steel already rang in the air, and Jack could hear the shouts of alarm from the rest of the slaver gang. Even if he could wear down Fetterfist and best him in a fair fight, he could never hope to beat five or six at once; he was no Myrkyssa Jelan, after all.

  Balathorp recognized Jack’s vulnerability, too, and he grinned as he shifted to the defensive, switching to cautious jabs and quick slashes. “You fool,” he said to Jack. “Did you think to steal my wares? You will pay with your life … or better yet, you will join your dear Seila in chains.”

  “Not this day, I think,” Jack replied. He took a step back out of sword reach, and invoked his spell of invisibility again—something he was not sure he could do, but the growing swell of the wild mythal’s power seemed to invigorate his arcane talents as it increased. Balathorp swore and backed up himself, swinging his sword in a wide arc to fend off any invisible rush Jack mounted. The rogue watched the slaver’s sword whip past once, then twice, before jumping inside his reach and sinking his rapier into Balathorp’s black heart.

  The stricken slaver groaned and staggered. “A base ploy,” he gasped.

  “For a base foe,” Jack snarled. His invisibility spell faded, spoiled by his sudden lunge. He snatched Balathorp’s keys from his belt, then kicked the slaver off his swordpoint and hurried back over to Seila. Several of Balathorp’s thugs saw the whole thing, taking in the scene with cries of dismay, but Jack coolly bent down to Seila’s manacles and opened the lock with the slaver’s keys.

  “Jack!” Seila called, looking over his shoulder. Running footsteps and roars of challenge grew loud behind him.

  “I know,” he answered. He grasped her hand and brought to mind his spell of shadow-teleport. An instant before the thugs’ blades skewered both of them, Jack and Seila vanished into the cavern gloom.

  Hand in hand, Jack and Seila made their way through the gigantic mushrooms of the drow cavern, retracing the path they’d followed in their first escape from Chûmavhraele months before. Behind them Balathorp’s slavers vainly scoured their area around the crossroads for any sign of the noblewoman and the rogue, but Jack’s spell had carried them two hundred yards or more in the blink of an eye—there was no trail for the slavers to follow, and Jack had no intention of lingering any place their enemies might blunder into them.

  “We seem to be making a habit of this,” Jack said to Seila as they hurried along. “Remind me to hide a change of clothing and some good food and drink somewhere around here for the next time we find ourselves fleeing the dark elves’ domain.”

  Seila squeezed his hand and shook her head, even though she smiled. “I should have known you would find a way to slip away again.”

  “I had some timely help. Myrkyssa Jelan set me free; she’s down here with a band of sellswords, looking for a way to throw a handful of peppers in Dresimil Chûmavh’s bowl of cream. I came straightaway to find you.”

  “I can’t believe that you came back for me a second time, especially after my father treated you with such suspicion.”

  Jack snorted. “I didn’t pluck you away from Balathorp to win Lord Norwood’s regard. I simply couldn’t live with myself if I left you in the slavers’ hands.”

  He paused to study their direction; Seila tugged on his hand, and when he glanced at her, she flowed into his arms and kissed him with such fierceness that his head swam. “There will be more later,” she breathed into his ear when she finally drew away. “That is twice now you have saved me, Jack Ravenwild. I don’t care what my father thinks, any man who would do that is a man worthy of my love.”

  He drew a deep breath to slow the racing of his heart, and allowed himself a wry smile. “We haven’t escaped yet,” he said.

  “Should we make for the platform again?”

  “Not this time, my dear. Your father brought a small army down here to deal with the dark elves once and for all. If he isn’t storming Tower Chûmavhraele, he will be soon; I think we’ll be able to find him there.”

  They reached Malmor’s paddocks, and Jack motioned for Seila to wait. He peered around in the gloom, looking for any sign of Narm. The half-orc was nowhere in sight; Jack frowned, but told himself that it was possible that he’d been forced to retreat in some inconvenient direction. He was just about to move on again when he finally caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered figure trotting up along the trail behind them. Narm was limping, and blood ran freely from a shallow cut across his forehead, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

  “Seila, this is Narm,” Jack said. “He is the leader of the Blue Wyvern adventuring company. Narm, this is Seila Norwood.”

  “A pleasure,” the half-orc said gruffly. He looked at Jack with a scowl. “Next time, you create the distraction and I’ll sneak up to free the girl.”

  “I am sorry you were hurt on my behalf, Master Narm,” Seila said. “I am truly grateful for your help.”

  Narm looked down at the ground and gave a small shrug. “It was nothing, m’lady,” he mumbled.

  “Let us press on,” Jack suggested. He led the way back toward the tower, listening closely for any sounds of fighting and peering cautiously into the shadows of each mushroom-stalk and boulder they approached—the last thing he wanted to do was to blunder into a battle. The road between pastures and tower seemed deserted for the moment. The black battlements loomed over them, still adorned with their eerie globes of witch-light and faerie fire. Jack could hear fighting within the walls, but no one was in sight atop the ramparts.

  Seila paused suddenly at his side, pulling on his hand with hers. “What is that?” she murmured.

  Jack glanced back at her, and saw that she was gazing up at the cavern ceiling. A flickering aurora of emerald energy danced in the high air of the great cavern, organizing itself in great spirals orbiting above a central point some distance away from them. “The wild mythal,” Jack said. “The drow intend to use its magic against your father’s soldiers, I wager.�
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  “It’s growing stronger.” Seila pointed, and Jack realized that she was right; a visible thread of energy lanced straight up from the cavern floor toward the swirling aurora above them. Moment by moment, the thread seemed to grow a little brighter, a little more substantial, driving back the eternal darkness of the Underdark.

  “So it is,” he agreed. That did not seem like a good sign, to say the least. The mythal spell was evolving in front of them, and Jack could feel the subtle currents of its magic shifting and flowing in response. “Come along. I’d like to see what Elana and our mages make of this.”

  They came to the castle’s gatehouse. The gates stood open, and whole companies of armsmen from Raven’s Bluff—some in the uniform of the city’s army, others wearing the colors of various noble houses—seemed to be engaged in occupying the castle. There was no sign of Jelan, the Moon Daggers, or the Blue Wyverns, but in the middle of a band of twenty or thirty captains, banner-bearers, and Norwood bodyguards stood Marden Norwood himself. The silver-haired lord stood just outside the courtyard, watching as the captains of the city’s assault force directed the taking of Tower Chûmavhraele. Jack could see human, dwarf, and elf soldiers storming the doorways and halls of the drow castle; shouts and the clatter of steel rang from the depths of the fortress.

  “Father!” cried Seila. She ran up to embrace the old lord. “How did you get here?”

  “Seila, my lass!” Norwood swept Seila into his arms and hugged her close. “I feared that something terrible had happened to you!”

  “It almost did,” Seila answered. “Balathorp tried to spirit me away before your army arrived, but Jack here—and his friend, Narm—tracked him down and rescued me.”

  Norwood’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Jack, and after a long moment gave him a grudging nod of respect. “Well done, Jack. I am once again in your debt.”

  Jack nodded back. There was no particular reason to mention the Sarkonagael business if it had momentarily slipped Norwood’s mind, he decided. “What happened here?” he asked. “We left Elana and her company at the gatehouse when we set out after Balathorp.”

  “We broke the drow lines when we finally pushed them out of the tunnel and into the open cavern,” Norwood replied. “They fell back on the castle, but Elana and her warriors held the gate open just long enough for my soldiers to storm the place on the heels of the remaining dark elves. We have them, I think.”

  “You must have half the army here,” said Seila.

  “Six companies of it,” the old lord replied. “That was the most I could persuade the Noble Council to release, given the possibility that there might be other enemies like Balathorp ready to move if we stripped our defenses. However, I also have armsmen of six or seven noble houses here, too. It’s time to put an end to this.” He glanced at the soldiers securing the castle. “I am sorry that it took us so long. It took a couple of hours to gather the troops, and it was a half-day’s march through the tunnels to find our way to this cavern.”

  “Where are Elana and the others?” Jack asked.

  “They pursued a small party of dark elves who escaped the castle when our assault began.” Norwood pointed toward the flickering green column of eldritch energy. “The drow fled into the old ruined city, and that started up soon afterward. Do you know what it is?”

  “The wild mythal of their ancient city,” Jack replied. “I think Dresimil means to turn its power against you. Send all of the soldiers you can spare—we can’t let her have it to herself.” Jack clapped Narm on his arm. “Come, friend Narm, and let’s see if we can find our companions again. They might have need of us.”

  The half-orc shrugged. “As long as you realize that someone must pay for all this.”

  “Wait,” said Seila. “I am coming, as well.”

  “Absolutely not,” Norwood said. “Seila, stay with me. You will be safer with our soldiers around you.”

  “Please, do as your father says,” Jack said. “I will feel better knowing that you are as safe as you can be in this place.”

  Seila bridled and started to protest, but reluctantly she nodded. “Very well. But be careful yourself, Jack.”

  Norwood clasped Jack’s hand firmly, and then Jack and Narm hurried back out of the castle. They turned right, and Jack led the way as they struck out across the cavern floor, making their way in a roundabout direction toward the excavations by the lakeshore. Jack led the way with more haste than caution; Dresimil’s warriors were busy, and he thought that patrols in Chûmavhraele’s cavern were likely to be few and far between at the moment. In a quarter-hour, the faint outlines of the rambling walls and mud-filled towers of the long-drowned drow city loomed ahead in the gloom. No slaves were at work in the ruins; Jack guessed that the dark elves had most of the workers locked in their pens while so many of their soldiers were busy fighting elsewhere. They slowed their pace and quietly groped their way through the maze of muddy streets and crumbling buildings.

  Even without the flickering shaft of emerald light to guide them, Jack could have picked out the wild mythal’s bearing and set a straight course for the stone. He trotted as swiftly as he dared through the ancient streets, Narm at his side. They passed through the broken archway of an old city gate, crossed a square of fluted columns arranged in different heights and numbers, and came to a broad boulevard leading straight toward the plaza at the heart of the city. In silence they stole forward, until Jack spied the ruined shell of a palace or temple that would let them reach the plaza unobserved. He slipped inside through a gloomy doorway and made his way closer until he could peer through a hole in the outer wall at the old mythal.

  Dozens of drow soldiers stood guard around the plaza, protecting Jaeren and Jezzryd Chûmavh as they chanted and wove their arms before the mythal stone, seeming to shape and conduct the blazing font of magical power in front of them. Dresimil stood a short distance behind her brothers, observing the proceedings.

  “To the right,” Narm said in a low voice. He nodded at the shell of a building across the street; there, Jack glimpsed Jelan, Kilarnan, Kurzen, Wulfrad, and Halamar likewise sheltering out of sight of the dark elves guarding the plaza. Crossing directly over to the other building would entail darting across a street with nothing to conceal them … but Jack had no intention of letting the drow know he was nearby.

  “Hold still,” he whispered, and took Narm by the arm. With a small invocation he worked his spell of shadow-teleporting, and whisked the two of them to the same building sheltering the others. In the blink of an eye they stood beside Jelan and the mercenaries.

  Jelan, Kurzen, and the rest swore and leaped back, raising weapons and beginning spells before they recognized Jack and Narm. “Moradin’s beard, Jack,” Kurzen snarled. “I was ready to split your skull! A word of warning next time, if you value your life.”

  “My apologies,” Jack said. “It seemed safer than trying to sneak up on you.”

  “What are the drow mages doing?” Narm asked, watching the dark elves through the ruined wall.

  Jack peered through the gap, trying to sense the fluctuations in the mythal’s magic. After a moment he said, “They are altering its enchantments. I have the sense that Jezzryd is preparing a barrier of some sort, while Jaeren is concentrating destructive energy.”

  “Nothing that we should permit them to finish, then,” Jelan said.

  Kilarnan looked at Jack in surprise. “You can discern the spells they are shaping?” he asked.

  “I have a connection with the mythal. It’s the source of the magic I was born with.”

  “What could they do with the mythal’s powers?” Arlith asked.

  Jack shrugged. “I am afraid I have little insight to offer. The device has been inert for most of my life, and I have no idea what it is capable of.”

  Kilarnan frowned. “Mythals create magical effects in a wide area. A barrier might take the form of a wall of energy that physically blocks enemies from entering or a mystic obstacle that impedes hostile magic. The destr
uctive energy of the mythal might be capable of smiting every non-drow in this cavern with a bolt of arcane lightning, or razing Raven’s Bluff to the ground with a storm of fire, or opening up a gate to the Abyss for demons to pour into our world. There is almost nothing that they could not do.”

  Jack grimaced; those were unappealing notions, to say the least. “As Elana said, nothing we should permit them to finish.”

  “We are somewhat outnumbered,” Halamar pointed out.

  “We have the advantage of surprise,” Jelan said. The swordswoman studied the plaza for a moment, and nodded to herself. “Halamar and Kilarnan, employ your spells on the drow warriors. Do what you can to scatter and confuse them. I will deal with Dresimil. Jack, the mythal is your task. You and the Blue Wyverns must stop the sorcerers. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Jack. Narm, Kurzen, and the rest followed with brief nods or “ayes.”

  The Warlord looked to Kilarnan and Halamar. “Spells first,” she said. “Strike together when you are ready.”

  The mages briefly conferred, then began summoning their magic. Jack poised himself to make a sprint for the mythal stone as the rest of the party readied their weapons. Then Kilarnan unleashed a spell of chained lightning at the drow warriors standing on one side of the plaza, while Halamar conjured a huge ball of fire that burst in a great explosion on the other side. Dozens of drow fell beneath the leaping blue arcs of lightning cascading from one warrior to the next or shrieked and flailed in the roaring flames of Halamar’s spell. Instantly Jelan leaped out of hiding and led the way as she charged across the plaza, roaring a battle cry; Monagh and Wulfrad followed only a step behind her, throwing themselves against their foes. Even as the adventurers hammered into the battered ranks of the dark elves, Kilarnan and Halamar were working new spells, while drow mages retaliated with bolts of ice and blasts of lightning back at the adventurers.

  Jack waited a few moments to get a sense of how the fighting might shape up, then drew the drowish rapier at his belt and darted out into the plaza with Narm, Kurzen, and Arlith close behind him. Narm and Arlith were swept up into the furious melee, peeling away to meet drow warriors moving to intercept them, but Jack and Kurzen dodged through the press and reached the mythal stone. Jack pointed Kurzen at Jaeren and turned on Jezzryd. “Cut them down!” he cried.