“How did you find me?”
“I guessed that you would be held in the castle, and led a small company around the tunnel fighting to see if we could spirit you and Seila away while Dresimil was busy with Norwood’s troops. We found our way in through the kitchens.” Jelan looked at the empty cells, and frowned. “By the way, where is Seila?”
“Balathorp has her. He and his slavers are leaving this place—in fact, they may already be gone.”
“That is unfortunate, because Lord Norwood is very anxious to get her back safe and unharmed.”
“As am I,” Jack replied. He met Jelan’s eyes. “Thank you for coming to our aid.”
Jelan snorted. “I did not do it for you, Jack. It seems Dresimil Chûmavh has realized the very scheme I had in mind when I attempted to seize the mythal in the Year of Wild Magic. Since I have some aspirations of my own, I find myself unwilling to stand aside and let her plans proceed. Besides, you and I have some unfinished business.”
“If you are angry about the affair with the Sarkonagael’s spell, I am sure that Norwood is angrier,” he said. “After all, he paid me seven thousand gold crowns for half a spell.”
Narm looked up as he fumbled with the keys. “He paid you how much for that book?” he asked.
“I, ah, presented a request to be compensated for some additional expenses. It is a routine ploy in this sort of negotiation.” Jack grimaced. “I suspect he will want that money returned now.”
The swordsman found the right key, unlocked the cell, and opened the door. “Finally,” he muttered. “Let’s continue the conversation elsewhere. This is not a good place to linger.”
“Agreed,” said Jack. He stepped out and helped himself to the sword and crossbow of the fallen guard. Then he followed Jelan and Narm as they hurried out of the guardroom into the castle’s dimly lit corridors. Five dark elf warriors sprawled dead just outside the door; fighting continued elsewhere in the fortress. The warlord and the swordsman turned left and headed toward the sound of battle until they came to a large, thick-pillared hall at the foot of a wide staircase leading from the dungeon level up into the castle proper. Dozens of orc slave-soldiers and a handful of dark elves sprawled on the floor and the steps.
In the shadows of the large pillars in the hall, several adventurers took cover from drow archers and spellcasters who were themselves out of sight at the top of the stairs. Kurzen, Halamar, and Arlith watched the right-hand side of the stairs. On the other side of the room, several of Jelan’s Moon Daggers—the elf mage Kilarnan, along with the Tempus-priest whom Jack had last seen at the beholder’s hall in Sarbreen, and the tattooed swordsman who had accompanied Jelan on that occasion—guarded the left-hand side of the room.
“I see that you found him,” the priest said to Jelan.
The Warlord nodded. “You may remember Jack Ravenwild from the Temple of the Soulforger. Jack, this is Wulfrad, and the fellow with the tattoos is Monagh. Kilarnan I believe you already know.” Jack bowed to Jelan’s companions, doing his best to ignore the suspicious looks they gave him; they hadn’t exactly parted on very good terms, after all.
“Good to see you, Jack,” Halamar said. The fire-sorcerer gave him a firm arm-clasp. “Was Seila not with you?”
“She was, but Balathorp took her, perhaps an hour ago. I think he is making a run for it.” Jack glanced over to Jelan and her crew. “We need to fight our way out of here. Balathorp is getting away.”
“That was more or less my plan.” Jelan peered through the gloom up the stairs, then nodded at the small band. “This way—”
“One moment,” Jack said. He moved over to Jelan and held up his right hand. “Can you remove this ring for me? It is cursed so that I cannot take it off myself.”
Jelan gave him a skeptical look. “What does it do?”
“It prevents me from using my own magic,” Jack said. The warlord hesitated, so he added, “I have no intention of leaving the Underdark until the drow are dealt with, one way or another. They will hound me to the end of my days otherwise. Besides, I am going nowhere until I find Seila Norwood and see her to safety. I cannot leave her in the dark elves’ hands.”
“You surprise me, Jack. Sentimentality? A sense of responsibility? What next, I wonder?” She took Jack’s right hand in her left, steadying it, and then grasped the ring in her other hand, covering it completely to suppress the ring’s curse with her own native antimagic. With one easy motion she pulled the ring off Jack’s finger, then dropped it into a pouch at her belt. “Hmm, I expected that to be harder,” she said. “Perhaps it was enchanted only so that you could not remove it yourself.”
Jack rubbed his hand with a sigh of relief. “Much better; I thank you. I am ready now.”
Jelan nodded. “Good. Kilarnan, Halamar, will you clear a way for us?”
The two mages looked at each other, then began casting. Jack sensed both of them struggling to gather the power for their spells; all the currents of magic seemed to flow toward the wild mythal, and it required an unusual effort for Halamar and Kilarnan to divert the invisible eddies to their own spell. Halamar launched a huge fireball up the stairs leading to the castle, while Kilarnan followed an instant later with a crackling sphere of lightning. Twin detonations rocked the chamber; screams and shouts echoed down the steps. On the heels of the battle spells, Jelan and her mercenaries darted up the stairs; Jack and his comrades followed. Dead or unconscious dark elves littered the landing above, killed where they’d been standing or crouching to fire down at the adventurers below. The dark elves who survived the powerful spells were quickly cut down by Jelan, Narm, and the others, or else they fled silently down the castle corridors.
“They’ll come back with reinforcements,” Kurzen observed.
“Keep moving,” Jelan replied. “To the gatehouse!” She turned to the right and headed down a new hallway of blood-red arrases and gleaming black marble. The small party of adventurers fell in around her as they hurried through Tower Chûmavhraele. They took several turns, and passed through a couple of large, empty halls and foyers, until finally they halted by a large double-door reinforced with bands of adamantine. Jelan cracked it open and peeked through; Jack saw the courtyard of the castle just beyond. A squad of drow with a pair of hulking battle-trolls guarded the courtyard and the main gate leading outside.
“Not as many as I expected,” Jelan remarked. “Dresimil must have thrown most of her strength against Norwood’s soldiers. Well, she’ll have cause to regret that soon enough. Kilarnan—the trolls, if you please.”
The elf nodded. “Be on your guard. The drow will not be fooled for long.” Then he drew his wand and began to whisper the words of an enchantment, his wand rising and falling with the sonorous tones of his voice.
For a moment Jack thought the spell had failed altogether … but then the trolls suddenly straightened up, shaking their heads from side to side with snorts and growls. The drow warriors nearby turned to see what was troubling the big monsters; then one troll let out a bellow of rage and smashed at the nearest drow with its huge spiked hammer, while the other wheeled and rampaged into the middle of the warriors behind it. In the space of an instant the trolls and the drow were locked in a furious melee, as the simple-minded monsters flailed and struck at their masters under Kilarnan’s spell.
“Well done,” Jelan said to the mage. “The rest of you, follow me when I charge.”
“Stupid beasts!” one of the drow warriors cried. “Have you lost your minds?”
“They’ve been charmed!” another dark elf who must have been the captain of the detachment shouted back. “Stay away from them until the spell passes!”
The drow warriors scrambled back from the trolls, but not before another one had been hacked down by a huge axe. Jelan watched them scatter, and then she suddenly threw open the tower door and sprinted toward the captain while his back was turned. Narm, Kurzen, the priest Wulfrad, and the tattooed warrior Monagh followed after her; Halamar found a good vantage to throw bolt
s of fire at the drow as they struggled to meet the new attack. Jack decided to make use of the small crossbow he’d taken from the guard down in the dungeons, staying a few steps back from the heavy fighting. He shot a dark elf who looked like a wizard just before he finished whatever spell he was intoning. Meanwhile, in a few vicious passes of her blade, Myrkyssa Jelan cut down the distracted dark elf captain while the rest of the band and the charmed trolls made short work of the others.
“That seems like a very useful spell,” Jack said to Kilarnan, impressed by how quickly his companions had cut the drow guards to pieces. Perhaps their odds were better than he had thought.
Kilarnan gave him a small nod, then motioned with his wand again and sent the two trolls lumbering off into another castle doorway. “Trolls are weak-willed creatures, easily controlled,” he said. “Still, the enchantment will not last long. Best to send them far away and tell them to forget what they were doing, before they recover and turn on us.”
Jelan headed for the castle’s main gate, and motioned to her companions to draw the foot-thick bolt securing the doors. In a few moments they had the castle gate open. No more drow were close by, but Jack could see dark phalanxes several hundred yards off to his left, near the spot where the cavern of Chûmavhraele ended and the labyrinthine tunnels of the Underdark began. There was heavy fighting near the tunnel mouth; half a dozen brilliant globes of yellow light, carried aloft before ranks of human soldiers, dispelled the gloom like miniature suns. The clangor of steel echoed through the dank air, along with the distant roaring cacophony of battle. “Norwood’s almost here!” Jack said.
“Excellent,” Jelan replied. “If we hold the gatehouse, we’ll keep the drow soldiers from falling back to the castle when Norwood’s forces overwhelm them. We’ll be the anvil to Norwood’s hammer, if we can hold this spot long enough.”
“A sound plan,” Jack agreed. He bowed to the swordswoman. “Give Dresimil Chûmavh and her charming brothers my best if they appear, will you? I am going to rescue Seila.”
The Warlord nodded. “Take Narm or Kurzen with you. I doubt Balathorp will be alone.”
“I’ll go,” Narm said. “Jack has a knack for forgetting to divide treasure, it seems, and Balathorp is a wealthy man.”
The rogue gave Narm a wounded look. “As I said, I incurred additional expenses … but if you wish to assure yourself of my honesty, then suit yourself. Shall we be on our way?”
Skirting through the mushroom-forest and avoiding the road leading up to the castle gate, Jack and Narm headed out into the dark cavern. Jack was struck by how deserted the place seemed. Dresimil Chûmavh must have thrown almost her entire strength into the effort to block Norwood’s invasion, which boded well for Jack’s current mission. Every drow warrior and orc slave who was off fighting on the far side of the cavern was one less they’d have to avoid in their pursuit of the slaver.
“How do we find Balathorp?” Narm asked.
“We’ll begin with the rothé pastures,” Jack said. “They’re east of the castle, I think, and I know there are tracks leading to tunnel mouths in that direction.” How much of a head start did Balathorp have—half an hour? A whole hour? Had he left Chûmavhraele immediately after removing Seila from the drow dungeon, or was he engaged in collecting additional captives to take with him? Jack guessed from what he’d heard of Balathorp’s conversation with his hobgoblins that the slaver wanted to escape with all the merchandise he could find, and that gave Jack hope—slaves in fetters and irons wouldn’t travel fast.
Together the rogue and the swordsman paralleled the track leading from the castle down to the fields. They soon came to Malmor’s pastures, which Jack remembered all too well. The supervisor’s shack, bunkhouse, and feed-cribs appeared to have been burned down, most likely in the quelling of the slave riots Jack had provoked. No rothé were pastured in the nearer fields, but he could see that a couple of the outlying pastures were filled with the shaggy beasts; evidently the drow had recovered at least some of their herd.
No one was near.
“Well, which way now?” Narm asked.
Jack fought back a surge of sick dread that rose up in him at the idea that he’d missed Balathorp, leaving Seila in the slaver’s power. “I don’t know,” he groaned. “I am afraid that I have no skill for tracking. I was hoping that Balathorp would still be here.”
“Should we continue along this trail? It seems to lead toward the cavern wall. Or this other path, here?” Narm compared the two trails. “One of them must be right.”
Jack looked at the forking trails. One headed more or less directly toward the cavern wall, while the other cut toward the right between two paddocks and seemed to head for a more distant intersection with the edge of the cavern and the tunnel mouths that would likely be found there. He was just about to guess on the straighter path to the left, but then his eye fell on a very familiar sight—a relatively fresh rothé patty in the middle of the right-hand path. A narrow wagon-wheel sliced right through the fresh dung. He pointed it out to the half-orc. “To the right, friend Narm,” he said. “That patty’s not an hour old. Make haste!”
He broke into an easy, long-striding lope, staying on the trail as he ran along. Narm matched his pace with some difficulty, because the half-orc was wearing a heavy chain hauberk over thick leather. They went on for several hundred yards, as the glimmering faerie-lights of the tower faded into the gloom of the cave and the sounds of battle from the north grew dim and distant. Jack began to wonder if they’d actually chosen the right path … but then, a short distance ahead of them, they saw a small caravan of rothé pulled wagons standing along a track winding through towering mushrooms. A handful of hobgoblin and human slavers directed the loading of the carts with chests of treasure and trunks of supplies, while a score of slaves—most of them pretty young women—stood chained to posts at the roadside. It seemed that Fetterfist and his gang were making preparations to move on and did not expect to return, just as he’d thought. Balathorp was nowhere in sight, but Jack caught sight of Seila waiting at one of the posts. She had been stripped to her smallclothes, and sat on the ground with her hands chained above her head. An ugly bruise marked one cheek, but she held her head high, glaring at the slavers.
Jack and Narm ducked off the trail, taking cover amid the giant mushrooms. Narm studied the slaver caravan and scratched at his chin. “I count eight,” he said. “Four or five, and I would say that we could charge on in and rely on surprise to see things through. But eight, I am not sure.”
“I’d settle for getting Seila free of them,” Jack said softly. “We can send word for the authorities to scoop up the rest when they reach the surface. Hmm … what if you created a distraction up by the head of the caravan, draw their attention away from the captives by the posts? I can slip in and cut her loose while the slavers are looking the other way.”
“If by distraction you mean attack them all by myself, then I have concerns about your plan,” Narm answered. “One on eight sounds even less appealing than two on eight.”
Jack handed the half-orc the hand crossbow he was carrying. “Here, try this. Circle around to those rocks over there, and shoot one or two of Balathorp’s men. Shout something drowish while you are at it. If they chase after you, retire into the forest here. I’ll meet you back by the pastures.”
“I don’t know any drow expressions.”
“Try caele’ilblith rodhen,” Jack suggested.
“What does it mean?” Narm asked.
“I have no idea, but drow shouted it at me when they were angry. Now go. I will wait until you make your presence known before I move in.”
The half-orc took the crossbow in hand and hurried off into the shadows, crouching to keep low. He was surprisingly stealthy when he put his mind to it, Jack noticed; Narm vanished from sight within twenty steps. Jack composed himself to wait, observing the caravan. Balathorp appeared once or twice, issuing instructions to his slavers before heading away to check on some other task. He seem
ed impatient, and Jack decided that Balathorp was browbeating his minions into hurrying their preparations.
Suddenly there was a cry of alarm from the front of the caravan. One of the hobgoblins staggered back several steps and collapsed, drugged by the poison on the drow quarrels. From somewhere in the gloom Jack head a rather deep and raspy bellow of “Callie blith rotten! Callie blith rotten!” which didn’t seem terribly convincing to him. On the other hand, another quarrel hissed out of the shadows and knocked down a human slaver. Balathorp’s men dove for cover or hefted their own weapons, shouting at each other and pointing toward the darkness.
Jack whispered the words of his invisibility spell, and darted up the road. The shadows were deep and dark beneath the mushrooms; in a few moments he was close behind Seila, crouching in the shadow of a tree-sized fungus.
“Seila, it is I, Jack,” Jack whispered.
The young noblewoman started in her chains, and looked back toward Jack. Her eyes opened wide, and she looked left and right, seeking him. “Jack,” she whispered back. “I thought the drow were going to kill you.”
“I enjoy the most peculiar luck, including enemies who are occasionally quite helpful,” he replied. None of the slavers were close by, so he knelt by her and began to work at the lock to her manacles. He had no key, but that was hardly an insuperable challenge; Jack knew from experience that the locks on such devices were necessarily simple, and only needed to be resistant to opening from whoever was wearing them at the time. He started with the point of a dagger, searching for the release mechanism. “Are you hurt? Did that fiend harm you?”
“He stripped me and told me what he would do, but no more,” Seila said, her voice shaking. “I think Balathorp wanted to ransom me back to my father for a fortune, but not before he … before he … oh, I don’t want to speak of it.”
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