“It is a lie! This man—” Balathorp shouted, but Jack silenced him with a little more pressure of his dagger. The clock struck its eighth bell.
Jack looked past the slaver’s shoulder at Seila’s father and Lord Blacktree, still standing next to each other. “My lords, there will be time later to demand explanations. Dresimil Chûmavh is here, and she means to take or kill you all.”
“What do you say?” said Blacktree. The ninth bell sounded. “The drow will attack us here?”
“Along with any thugs or sellswords Balathorp here could arrange,” Jack replied. He swept the ballroom and its balconies with his eyes, looking for cloaked and hooded figures in the shadows.
“Perhaps it would be wise to—” the Lord Mayor started to say, but at that moment the tenth bell of the hour struck. On the very note, globes of pure blackness suddenly sprang into being throughout the grand ballroom, followed at once by screams of panic and the sudden shrill sound of steel. Jack caught one glimpse of slender figures in dark cloaks appearing in the doorways and alcoves of the room before darkness suddenly swallowed him where he stood. The scuffle and trample of panicked footsteps seemed to be all around him; he tightened his grasp on Balathorp. But at that moment a large, strong hand clamped onto his right wrist, challenging him for control of the dagger—Balathorp had used the cover of the darkness to make a grab for the weapon.
Jack struggled to drive the blade home and managed to give the tall slaver a nasty cut, but a hard-driven elbow knocked him back. Balathorp grunted and twisted out of Jack’s grip. “Too late, Ravenwild,” the slaver hissed from somewhere nearby. “We have prepared a long time for this day. When we are done here, I will be the only lord left in Raven’s Bluff.”
“By all means, keep talking,” Jack replied, groping in the darkness. “I find this fascinating.” Someone blundered into him, and Jack very nearly stabbed him or her before he recognized the soft curve of a woman’s shoulder under his fingers. The woman gave a shriek of fright and recoiled; Jack muttered an oath and sheathed his dagger. He stopped moving and held still, listening for his foe, but it was hopeless. The ballroom was panic and bedlam, with screams of pain, cries of panic and dismay, the crash and clatter of furniture and glass, and countless footsteps and boot-scufflings in the dark. He heard Marden Norwood shouting commands, Lord Mayor Blacktree shouting out orders of his own, and half dozen other lords and captains all trying to assert control over the room.
“Chaos and calamity,” Jack said to himself. “This is madness!” If he moved he might blunder into someone else’s raised blade. If he stayed put some clever dark elf might cut him down like a stupid sheep. Jack stood paralyzed, unsure whether to wait for the darkness to end, try to find his way out, or announce his presence by calling out. But then a single terrified scream ended his indecision—Seila’s cry, ringing from somewhere not far off.
“Help! Jack!” she cried. Her cry was suddenly muffled, as if by a hand or gag clamped over her mouth.
“Seila,” Jack breathed. Without another thought, he rushed in the direction of her voice, only to stumble at once over a body lying motionless on the floor. He picked himself up and proceeded more carefully—and then he felt a strong counter spell wash across the ballroom. The drow darkness-globes evaporated one after another, dispelled by some spellcaster in the room. The return of the ballroom’s lanternlight revealed a scene of absolute pandemonium: Dozens appeared to be dead or wounded already, and drow warriors moved through the crowd, cutting down some and shooting others with their drugged quarrels. The guards of half a dozen noble houses battled fiercely against quick, graceful drow swordsmen, while others fought against a large gang of brown-hooded ruffians—Fetterfist’s men, or so Jack guessed—who were pouring into the manor’s foyer and front hall, blocking escape.
At first the whole scene appeared to be an unmitigated disaster, and Jack’s heart sank. But then he noticed that things were not all in the villains’ favor. Many of the nobles and city officials were armed with rapiers, daggers, and other such weapons suitable in a social setting, and they appeared to know how to use them. Others were spellcasters, and they plied wand and spell against the manor’s attackers. Norwood stood in the middle of a knot of his own armsmen, his wife Idril by his side shouting “Seila! Seila!” and looking desperately around the room. Jack spied Narm and Kurzen battling furiously against the ruffians near the ballroom entrance, while Halamar defended himself with five darting daggers of flame that wheeled and tumbled through the air around him.
“The issue is in doubt,” the rogue said to himself as he turned one way and another, searching for some glimpse of Balathorp or Seila. After a moment he spotted the tall lord’s yellow hair near the main entrance. Balathorp was shoving his way toward the brown-hooded sellswords blocking the door … and he was dragging Seila along behind him. Jack ran after him, dodging and twisting his way through the press of panicked party-goers and brawling guards.
A pair of drow warriors appeared in front of him, and Jack found two rapiers hedging him in. Behind them stood one of Dresimil’s brothers—most likely Jaeren, because he was the one with the sense of humor and the sorcerer confronting Jack had a wide and insincere grin on his ebony features. “Well, well,” said the drow prince. “If it isn’t the Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame! We have been looking for you, sir. You departed without taking your leave of my sister; she was very disappointed.”
“I have always heard that it is unwise to overstay one’s welcome,” Jack replied. He drew his own rapier, although he did not fancy his odds against two skilled drow warriors at once, especially if Jaeren employed his magic. He lost sight of Balathorp, but then glimpsed the tall, thin lord once again, now fighting with his gang of ruffians at his back. “You might be well advised to consider that old adage, Lord Jaeren. Your troops are outnumbered and you no longer possess the advantage of surprise.”
“Do not fear, Lord Wildhame. We shall withdraw when we are good and ready,” the sorcerer promised. “In the meantime, my sister has specifically instructed me to extend you the hospitality of Chûmavhraele, and your friend Seila Norwood as well.” He glanced at Jack’s blade, and raised an eyebrow. “If you please?”
“I fail to see what possible use your sister has for us. I was an indifferent field hand, after all.” Jack stood his ground, trying to project confidence he did not feel. “Was Seila Norwood a better scullery maid than I thought?”
There was a sudden surge in the fighting near the door. Jaeren glanced over, as did Jack. A new band of fighters entered the fray, crashing into the rear ranks of Balathorp’s slavers. They were a motley band of ruffians and sellswords, not much different from the slavers they attacked, but instead of brown hoods, these wore surcoats or jackets with a flash of white cloth over the breast—the image of a crescent moon crossed with a dagger. Jack caught a glimpse of the tattooed swordsman who’d fought for Myrkysa Jelan in Sarbreen, and an instant later, he saw Jelan herself, dressed in her armor of black mail and wielding her katana with precise savagery. Jack grinned and raised a fist. “Huzzah!” he shouted. “Your timing is impeccable, Elana!”
Jaeren’s good humor vanished. He spared one more glance for Jack, and gestured to the two warriors with him. “Take him alive,” he said. “I must deal with this.” Then he leaped into the air, hurling bolts of black ice at the mercenaries accompanying Jelan.
The two warriors facing Jack struck as one; the rogue barely parried the first blade, and twisted awkwardly away from the other. The dark elves tried again, and this time Jack took a shallow cut along his ribs. The drow grinned and circled him, flashing finger signs at each other, and then they attacked again. The first warrior pressed Jack closely, and their blades flashed and rang in the middle of the chaotic ballroom. But the second warrior stepped back, drawing his hand-crossbow and loading it with a poisoned quarrel. He took deliberate aim at Jack while Jack was fully engaged by his comrade … but before he could shoot, Arlith slipped up behind him and stabbed him with her dagger. Th
e drow cried out and twisted, firing his quarrel randomly into the fray before sinking to the ground. The warrior dueling Jack glanced back at his comrade for just an instant, but it was long enough for Jack to circle his rapier under his foe’s blade and skewer him. “What a scene,” the halfling said to Jack. “Things aren’t often boring around you, are they?”
“Not often,” Jack agreed. He started after Balathorp again, only to realize that the slaver was no longer where he thought. Jelan’s mercenaries had turned the tide of the fighting by the entrance, and the assembled nobles with their armsmen had blunted the drow assault. Battle spells thundered and crashed across the manor as Jaeren and other drow spellcasters traded blasts of ice and seething acid with Halamar and other wizards among the assembled lords. The dark elves were giving ground everywhere Jack looked. He finally caught sight of the slaver again, this time standing among the drow who were retreating toward a large alcove where a stage had been set up for the evening’s entertainment.
Jaeren abandoned his duel with Halamar and abruptly flew back to the stage where the dark elves gathered. The sorcerer reached into his robes and pulled out a rod or scepter of silver, shouting the words to a spell. A swirling, dark portal formed in the wall … and the drow once again used their darkness spells, blotting half the ballroom in magical darkness. The clash of arms ebbed, although many of Balathorp’s brown-hooded ruffians were still on their feet. This time Jack watched Halamar and Jelan’s elven wizard Kilarnan hurriedly cast counter spells to remove the inky barrier, wiping away the unnatural blackness shadowing the area by the stage.
The drow were gone … and so, too, were Balathorp and Seila.
“No,” Jack groaned. He surged toward the black, rotating disk of magic that hovered before the far wall, along with half the remaining nobles and armsmen in the room. Marden Norwood stood close by him, his face ashen, his guards in a tight knot around him. But Jack merely stared at the portal. Seila was in the hands of the drow again, and the gods alone knew what sort of tortures they would invent to punish her for her previous escape.
Myrkyssa Jelan strolled up beside Jack, cleaning the blood from her katana. “A useful trick,” she said, glancing at the portal. Then she looked back to Jack. “I came as you asked. Do you have what you promised me?”
Jack reached into his inner pocket and withdrew the pages he’d cut out of the Sarkonagael. Jelan smiled and extended her hand—but Jack folded the pages from top to bottom, and deliberately tore them in half. He handed the top halves to Jelan, who stared at him in amazement and growing anger. “This is the one spell in that book that you were concerned about,” he told her. “You didn’t trust Norwood with this spell, but I remember what you did with it when it was in your hands. Keep this half, and you will be assured that no one will create a shadow simulacrum without your consent.”
“That is not what you promised me in your message,” Jelan said, her eyes flashing.
“Read my note again, my dear Elana. I promised you that Norwood would not have it, and I lived up to my word. I have learned better than to make you a promise I do not intend to keep.”
Their conversation attracted Marden Norwood’s attention. The lord looked at Jack and Jelan, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the dark parchment with its silver lettering in Jack’s hands. “What do you have there?” he demanded.
“The spell of umbral simulacra from the Sarkonagael,” Jack replied. “I doubt that you will forgive me for this, but I do not trust anyone with the entire spell. However, if you wish to assure yourself that no one will employ this magic against you, you need only keep this somewhere safe.” He handed the remaining fragments to the old lord.
“You are the one who recovered the Sarkonagael?” Norwood asked in amazement. “You had the gall to extort two thousand more crowns from me, and then you give me an incomplete book?”
“Did you want the book to make use of its powers or to make sure no one else did?” Jack asked. “I would like to think it was for the better reason, but if not, then yes, I cheated you. If we meet again, I will make good on any restitution you require of me.”
“If we—” Marden Norwood glowered at Jack. “Where do you think you are going?”
“Chûmavhraele, of course. Seila is there, and she needs my help.”
Jelan glanced at the portal in surprise. “Jack, don’t! If the dark elves left it open, it is almost certainly a trap.”
“I agree,” he replied, “which is why I would not recommend following. Elana, you may distrust Norwood here, but he has fought the dark elves and their friends on the Council for years. Lord Norwood, Elana here knows other ways to Chûmavhraele, and she is no friend of the dark elves. Persuade her to guide you, and bring all the soldiers you can—I am counting on you to storm Dresimil’s castle. The two of you together can defeat the drow.”
Both Jelan and Norwood began to protest, but Jack ignored them. He took two quick steps and hurled himself headlong into the magic darkness.
The drow were waiting on the other side.
Jack awoke in darkness. His head was pounding as if he’d downed ten flagons of cheap wine, and he felt shaky and weak. With a small groan, he opened his eyes to a dishearteningly familiar gloom. He was in the Underdark again; the dim echoes of faerie-fire that illuminated his surroundings did nothing to dispel the cool dampness in the air or the absolute blackness brooding in the shadows. For a long moment he wondered how he had come to be in the cavern-world again, until the throbbing in his hip, chest, and shoulder reminded him that he’d been shot by small, poisoned crossbow bolts. He remembered stepping through the portal into an open place below the walls of the castle, the sudden snap of crossbows and the whirring flight of their bolts …
“Damn the drow, and all their mischief,” he groaned, sitting up and holding his head in his hands. At least they’d taken the trouble to dress the small bolt punctures. He seemed to be in a tiny, windowless cell, with nothing more than a simple pallet and a chamber pot for his convenience; one wall of the cell was made of iron bars, through which he could see cells like his own, along with a dark, smooth vault of stone blocks. There was a guardroom down the hallway to his right, from which faint purple-tinted wizard light glowed. “My accommodations have improved,” he muttered. “It seems this time I will be staying in the tower instead of the pastures.”
He heard a faint rustle from the cell to his left, and a soft voice called out. “Who’s there?”
“Seila?” Jack jumped to his feet—too swiftly, because his head reeled and his knees felt weak—and staggered to the front of his cell, trying to look down the row of cells.
“Yes, it’s me. Is that you, Jack?”
“I am afraid so. I see that I pursued you all too well.” He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. The first part of his plan had worked out, at any rate. Well, perhaps not entirely as he would have liked, because he’d had some idea of slipping out of sight after passing through the portal and slinking about stealthily without being imprisoned, too. “How long have I been here?”
“I have no way to mark time, but I would guess I heard the dark elves drag you into your cell eight or ten hours ago. I had no idea who they were locking up, though.”
That long? he wondered, before reminding himself that he was in no particular hurry to meet whatever fate was in store for him. Besides, time was on his side—it would take Norwood and Myrkyssa Jelan hours to assemble a company strong enough to attack the drow castle and lead them down to the Underdark through Sarbreen or the cavern tunnels the slavers used. “Am I correct in assuming that we are now prisoners in Tower Chûmavhraele?”
He could almost picture Seila nodding in agreement in the cell next to his. “Yes, but I have never been in this part of the castle.”
“I am afraid this is the sort of dungeon reserved for the truly incorrigible captives. A nice young lady such as yourself would normally have nothing to do with a place like this.” Jack looked back down the hallway to his right, and frowned in surprise
—there was a large silver ring on his right ring-finger. It was shaped like a serpent grasping its tail in its teeth. “Now that is odd. The drow put a ring on my finger.”
“A ring? Whatever for?”
“I have no idea.” He immediately tried to remove it, only to discover that it was impossible to move even a fraction of an inch—which was quite curious, because the ring did not otherwise seem unusually tight or fixed to his flesh. “Hmm. I suspect that I will not like what I hear when its purpose is explained, but I cannot remove it.”
The effort to pull off the ring left his temples throbbing, and he leaned back against the wall to rest his head. Giving up for the moment, he considered their predicament. Was Dresimil simply intent on exacting some measure of revenge for their escape of a couple of months past? What form would that take? A return to toil and drudgery? A swift execution? Or—he shuddered at this thought—a more drawn-out and creative one? The drow were nothing if not a cruel and artful people, and no doubt they’d forgotten more interesting ways of putting someone to death than torturers in surface lands had come up with in a thousand years. Time, he reminded himself—the longer Dresimil dithered over just what to do with them, the more likely it was that help could reach them. Then again, if a threat materialized, the drow might decide to hurry things along.
Seila was silent for a long moment. “If it is any consolation, Father probably believes your story about Maldridge now.”
Jack laughed softly in spite of himself. “I can think of better ways to be proven right. Speaking of which, I have reason to hope that help is on the way. Do not despair.”
He started to say more, but then he heard light footfalls in the hall outside his cell. A drow sergeant—a woman, tall and broad-shouldered for a dark elf—appeared in front of his cell. Jack thought it was Sinafae, one of two who had escorted him to the rothé fields when he first arrived in Chûmavhraele. The sergeant studied him through the bars with a cruel smile on her face. “I see that you are awake,” the warrior said. “Good. Lady Dresimil has asked for you; best not to keep her waiting.” She walked away, calling to other drow nearby in their soft language.
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