Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  Hiding between two shearing-sheds, Jack took a moment to work out his spell of disguise. This one was simple enough, and now that he had the knack of it, the subtle strands of magic fairly hummed in his mind’s grasp. Threads of illusion shimmered around him as he crafted a new appearance, a bigger, fatter, hairier appearance. A crooked fang protruded over his lip; his ears grew long and pointy; his arms lengthened while his legs shortened, giving him a rolling, bandy-legged posture. In ideal circumstances he would have performed his magic in front of a mirror, correcting minor details as he noticed them, but no such facilities were at hand. In thirty heartbeats he judged he was done, and emerged from his hidden corner with a wide-bellied swagger.

  Instantly he found himself confronted by the field overseer Two-Tusks, a bald orc with a severe underbite. The orc grunted in surprise.

  “What are you doing, you shirking mongrel, you mongrel shirker?” Jack demanded in his best imitation of Malmor’s voice. “I should put you back in the paddocks, the paddocks.”

  Two-Tusks cringed and stammered, “The human rat is not at his place, Malmor! The goblins told me he ran off this way. They said he went mad. I go to find him.”

  “He is not here!” Jack growled. “Now you listen: Go to the south gate and open it. Drive all the rothé out of the paddocks. No more rothé in the paddocks, turn them out, turn them out.”

  Two-Tusks stood and gaped. “But then the rothé will all get out.”

  “Of course!” Jack bellowed. “Why would I tell you to open the gate if I did not want the rothé to get out? The drow want the beasts to graze free for a time, so Malmor must let them out. Now do what I say at once, at once!”

  The orc turned and fled the scene, dashing off toward the south. Jack could hear him shouting orders to other slaves, lashing about with his stinging-rod as he yanked them away from their current tasks and drove them toward the assignment Jack had given him. Jack grinned to himself, then swaggered off toward the next overseer to catch his eye, the gaunt gnoll Karshk. The unpleasant creature was hurrying across the pasture to put a stop to whatever Two-Tusks was up to. “Karshk!” Jack bellowed, stopping the gnoll in his tracks. “Go at once to the west pasture and drive out all the rothé. Now is the time they are to graze free. Quickly, quickly!”

  The gnoll stifled a yip of surprise. “But Malmor-r-r, we’ll never-r-r catch them all once they get fr-r-ee,” Karshk protested.

  “They must have exercise, exercise. So the drow command. Who are we to argue with what our dark masters desire? Who are we, who are we?” He raised his hairy hand as if to backhand the gnoll, but Karshk scampered off westward, heading for the next pasture over.

  Jack surveyed his handiwork for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of bleating rothé running in circles before field hands frantically shouting and waving, trying to drive the stupid creatures out the open gates. Next he swaggered his way to the pastures on the far side of the tower, browbeating and threatening every field-slave and overseer he saw along the way. He could hear the confused lowing of the rothé as they scattered out into the open cavern beyond the pasture enclosures, trampling this way and that in the gloom somewhere beyond his sight. How much trouble that might cause the drow and their thrice-cursed overseers, Jack couldn’t say, but at the very least perhaps he’d done something to shake the dark elves’ confidence in their mastery of all they surveyed. It occurred to him that perhaps he might have been wiser to consider carefully the combination of impersonation and misdirection that would provide the best opportunity for him to make his escape, but then he abandoned the idea with a shrug. He was an improviser, not a planner. Didn’t they say perfect was the enemy of good enough?

  He circled through the lakeside pastures, ordering slaves to set fire to the feed-cribs so that they could be purged of an imaginary rothé plague. It proved more difficult to convince the field-laborers to actually burn the troughs and granaries, but once he seized a torch and struck a light himself to provide an example, the rest of the field hands quickly followed suit. Then Jack headed toward the bunkhouses and cribs surrounding Malmor’s hut, near the entrance to the paddocks. Despite his bold actions elsewhere, Jack proceeded more carefully here, because there was an excellent chance he would run into Malmor himself, and Malmor, at least, would know that Jack was not him. He circled around the great mushroom-cribs where much of the rothé fodder was stored, and peered around the corner at the hovel where the bugbear slept. There was Malmor, standing just in front of his little bunkhouse, his face twisted in fury as he listened to half a dozen field-slaves and overseers all gabbling on at once about the rothé escaping from the paddocks.

  “Hmm, now what?” Jack wondered. He heard a soft jingle of mail and arms behind him, then the soft sibilance of dark elves speaking among themselves. He quickly stole to the other end of the crib. A patrol of dark elf guards was hurrying down the road from the castle, no doubt coming to find out what in the world was going on in their fields.

  Sudden inspiration struck Jack, and he acted upon it at once. He dashed back to the yard-facing edge of the mushroom-crib, picked up a stone, and hurled it at Malmor and his knot of overseers. It was a poor throw, missing the bugbear by several feet, but it did clip a nearby orc behind his right ear. The orc howled and fell; Jack shouted, “Hey, fathead!” and ducked back around the corner before Malmor and his henchmen could get a good look at him. Then he rushed to the other corner, scooped up a rothé patty, and leaped out in full view of the oncoming drow patrol.

  “Malmor!” the drow-sergeant—as it happened, it was the warrior Varys—shouted. “What is the meaning of this? The rothé are escaping!”

  “Stupid dark elves!” Jack retorted. “Catch your own rothé, your own rothé!” Then he flung the patty at Varys. It was a long throw, a good fifteen yards or more, but this time Jack’s aim was unerring. The lump of dung sailed spinning through the air and struck Varys on his mailed shoulder as he vainly tried to duck out of the way; the dung splattered with great effect. The dark elves gaped in astonishment, stunned by the sudden suicidal defiance from their lackey. Jack capered and flung another dung patty at the dark elves, then ducked back around the corner just in time as one or more of the dark elves fired their hand-crossbows at him.

  From the yard-facing corner Jack heard the sudden rush of footsteps coming to meet him. “My work here is done,” he decided. He released his magical guise with a word of dismissal, and scrambled up the side of the crib. He threw himself into the foul-smelling mushroom feed just as Malmor and his overseers rounded one corner in furious pursuit, while Varys and the dark elves he led stormed around the other with murder in their eyes.

  “Masters,” Malmor simpered at once. “What is—”

  “Malmor,” the dung-splattered Varys snarled. “Oh, you will wish for a quick death before I am through with you. Kill the rest, but make sure the bugbear lives!”

  The drow fell upon their slaves with merciless efficiency, blades flashing and crossbows singing. Two or three of the overseers went down at once beneath the murderous assault, while others threw themselves to the ground in terror or scattered to the four winds, thinking of nothing but getting away from the furious warriors. Malmor fell to his knees, cringing. “Malmor does not know what he has done, what he has done,” he wailed. “Please, masters, do not be angry, do not—” His groveling was cut off by the whistling impact of Varys’s stinging-rod, quickly joined by several more as the dark elves set about beating the bugbear as thoroughly and viciously as anybody had ever been beaten before.

  Jack wormed his way over the top of the stored fodder and slipped out the other side of the crib. No one was close by, although he could see dark elves beating their overseers or chasing after fleeing ones here and there. He quickly stole his way across to Malmor’s shelter and ducked inside. The time had come to make his bid for freedom, even if he didn’t know exactly how it might fall out, and nothing he heard or saw from the dark elves outside dissuaded him. It was shaping up to be a very unpleasant time
in the rothé fields for the indefinite future; clearly it was time to go.

  Jack quickly ransacked Malmor’s possessions, looking for anything that might be useful in a trek through the Underdark. He found a trunk of better clothing than he was now wearing, no doubt taken from past prisoners who’d fallen into the bugbear’s power, and a pair of leather boots that couldn’t have come close to fitting on Malmor’s feet. He changed into the clean clothes, choosing the darkest colors he could find, donned the boots, and threw a battered old cloak around his shoulders for good measure. There was a good store of food in the form of rothé jerky, rothé cheese, and dried mushrooms of a somewhat more palatable variety than the fodder they fed to the livestock; Jack took as much as he could carry easily. He discarded a stinking wineskin filled with some sour vintage suitable only for a bugbear’s palate, but salvaged two more waterskins that were reasonably clean. Finally, he found a well-worn old short sword of drow make, and a good knife.

  He risked a quick glance from the doorway of the hovel. More dark elf warriors were on their way, hurrying to the paddocks from all sides. Slaves milled around in terror, groveled for their lives, or ran here and there out in the pastures, trying to corral bleating rothé. “Confusion prevails,” Jack observed. “I should be on my way.”

  He sidled around the hovel until he reached the side facing away from the paddocks, and loped off into the gloom of the great cavern, doing his best to stay out of sight. Behind him, shouts of terror, cries of pain, and the thundering hoofbeats and bleating of hundreds of panicking rothé filled the air. He reached the cover of the treelike fungi across the road from the pastures, and paused to survey his handiwork for a moment.

  “I regret that I am no longer able to remain in management of Lady Dresimil’s pastures,” Jack said aloud, addressing the shadow of the drow castle ahead. “It is unfortunate that my departure leaves the property in no small disorder, but I am electing to pursue new opportunities elsewhere. Oh, and I expect you will need to replace Malmor as well, as he has proven unreliable.”

  He hurried up the path leading toward the castle kitchens, keeping an eye open for drow soldiers coming the other way.

  Two times Jack heard the jingle of mail in the gloom and hurriedly ducked off the path, hiding behind the great boles of tree-sized fungi dotting the cavern floor as dark elf patrols rushed down from the castle to quell the disturbances in the paddocks below. When he reached the door leading to the kitchens, he paused briefly to consider his options. A bold plan executed with confidence would be best, he decided. Jack brought the spell of disguise to mind again; he had already taxed his reserves of mystic strength, but he couldn’t imagine a way to proceed without employing another spell. This time he crafted for himself the lean, fine-boned, ebony-skinned features of a dark elf, dressing himself in illusory mail and a long, dark cape. Whether Varys would be flattered by the imitation or not Jack couldn’t say, but the guard-sergeant was the dark elf whose appearance he was most familiar with, and he judged that Varys would do for what he had in mind.

  Squaring his shoulders and fixing his face in a contemptuous sneer, Jack sauntered up the path the remaining distance and strode into the kitchens as if he owned the place. Kitchen-slaves stopped their work and backed out his way, bowing and scraping. No other dark elves were in sight, but Jack was counting on that—he hadn’t seen any drow in the kitchens on any of his previous visits. He permitted himself a small sigh of relief at finding his expectations confirmed, because if any fellow drow had addressed him in their native language he wouldn’t have understood a word of it. With redoubled confidence Jack marched into the center of the bustling space, then turned in a slow, deliberate circle, studying each servant and slave in the room carefully.

  The half-orc kitchen overseer Grelda approached carefully. “How can I help you, master?” she inquired with the mildest tone she could manage.

  “Lord Jaeren requires a subject for a certain arcane experiment,” Jack replied. “Female, human, preferably young and healthy. Show me all slaves who meet that description.”

  “This is a highly unusual request, master—” the kitchen-mistress began.

  Jack wheeled on her with such vehemence that the woman quailed in fright. “You are half-human, are you not? And you appear healthy. I wonder if you might do?”

  “Ah—ah—I am sure we can find some slave who is fully human, wise master,” Grelda gabbled. “It would be best to meet Lord Jaeren’s requirements exactly. Here, here, look at this one!” The kitchen overseer seized a thin, dull-eyed woman standing nearby and thrust her toward Jack; the poor scullery maid moaned in fear.

  “Hmm, I think you can do better,” said Jack. He surveyed the room, seeing no sign of Seila. It was one thing to march into the kitchens he knew and pretend to be a dark elf, but he certainly didn’t want to have to search the castle for her. He made a show of examining several more unfortunate captives as he considered how to refine his ruse to send the half-orc specifically for Seila, but he feared that might begin to sound just a little suspicious. The longer he stood here in the kitchen, the more likely it was that something could go wrong. He was just about to reject the entire roomful of women and ask to see more, when a door opened and several laundresses appeared, carrying baskets full of dirty linens. They froze at once when they saw the rest of the kitchen hands waiting on Jack’s selection; Jack quickly hid a grin of relief when he saw that Seila Norwood was the second in the group.

  “There, that one,” he said at once, pointing. “She meets all of Lord Jaeren’s requirements perfectly. You, there. Drop that basket and come with me.”

  Seila stood stricken in terror. The kitchen overseer rounded on her and shouted, “You heard the master, you stupid slut. Go!”

  Somehow, Seila overcame her fear enough to take one step, then another. She composed herself as best she could and came to stand before Jack. He looked her over, and turned back to Grelda. “And one more thing. Lady Dresimil instructed me to inform you that she grows weary of the customary menu. She doubts whether you season her dishes at all. If you value your life, you will prepare tonight’s meal with the most fiery spices you have at your disposal. She demands something that would, how did she put it, ‘char a dragon’s throat.’ Send up your most fearsome effort, and pray that it is enough to pique her interest.”

  “Master–” the kitchen overseer began, but Jack turned his back on her and strode away with one curt motion to Seila to follow.

  He led her out of the kitchens and down the path a good ways before turning to face her. Raising a finger to his lips to encourage silence, he allowed his magical disguise to fade away. She stared at him in surprise. “Jack?” she asked in a timid voice.

  “Indeed,” he answered. “I apologize for frightening you in the kitchens, but it was the best way I could think of to get you away from there.”

  “You have recovered your magic!”

  “Enough to provide us with the means to escape from this place, I hope. Are you ready?”

  “By all I hold holy, yes,” Seila answered. “Better to die trying to win to freedom than to live another day as a slave to the drow.”

  “With luck we won’t have to put that to the test,” Jack replied. “Come, we’d better get away from the path and move quickly. If the dark elves piece things together, they will certainly organize pursuit—and after what I’ve done, I do not want to be caught.”

  Taking Seila’s hand, he led her into the dark.

  THE DISTANT TUMULT OF FIGHTING AND CONFUSION from the pastures faded away quickly as Jack and Seila made their way into the fungal forest ringing the dark elves’ tower. The shadows beneath the gigantic toadstools seemed to pool around the fugitives as they pressed on deeper into the gloom. Once or twice they heard small slithering movements or tiny clattering sounds, as unseen creatures moved about in the darkness around them. Jack tried hard not to dwell on what manner of creatures might be responsible for the sounds; he doubted that he would like the answer.

&nbs
p; Seila’s grip on Jack’s hand tightened, and she pressed herself up close beside him. “Jack, I don’t like this place,” she whispered.

  “I know. We won’t linger a moment longer than we must,” he replied softly. He glanced to her pale face and decided that it might be a good idea to distract her from the looming shadows and unsettling sounds around them. “Tell me, do the Norwoods still reside at Sarpentar House?”

  She smiled nervously in the gloom. “Yes, it’s my home, but no one’s called it that since my grandmother’s day. Everyone knows the estate as Norwood Manor now. Have you been there?”

  “Once,” Jack answered. “Who is the head of the family now?”

  “My father, Marden.” Seila’s brow knitted. “He’s been the Lord Norwood for thirty years or more. How long ago did you visit, Jack?”

  He paused and motioned her to silence, standing still beneath the great fungal boles, looking and listening for any signs of pursuit. After a moment he nodded. “It seems quiet enough,” he said softly, and drew her onward.

  Seila followed close behind him. “You said before you hailed from the Vilhon Reach,” she said. “Is that really true? I thought no one lived there anymore. It’s a terrible plagueland, isn’t it?”

  Jack snorted to himself. Seila had a very good memory for detail, it seemed; he would have to be careful about what he said around her. “It seems that I am a man out of my time, so to speak,” he replied. Seeing the girl’s puzzled expression, he continued. “I’m afraid I do not belong to this age. I was magically imprisoned by some unknown enemy during the Year of the Bent Blade—thirteen hundred and seventy-six, by Dalereckoning. Apparently I passed the last hundred years in magical stasis, until Lady Dresimil and her followers stumbled across my prison and released me. I must say, I am so far very disappointed by the future.”