Prince of Ravens frr-1

by Richard Baker

  The Temple of the Soulforger was almost exactly as he had seen it in the crystal ball of Aderbleen Krestner. Lustrous yellow marble gleamed beneath his feet; pillars of red marble carved in the shape of dwarf warriors towered over him. Ramshackle bookshelves covered with old tomes, scrolls, and various baubles and junk were arranged haphazardly in the great chamber, clearly the addition of the temple’s current tenants and not the original dwarf artisans. Jelan and her companions-the tiefling blacksword, the elf mage, the priest of Tempus, and the warrior with the tattoos-were scattered about the room, searching through the clutter.

  Myrkyssa Jelan caught sight of Jack at once, and her face darkened. “You simply do not know when to leave well enough alone, do you?” she snapped. She drew her katana and advanced on Jack as he skidded to a halt in the middle of the temple chamber.

  “Elana, there is something you ought to know,” Jack cried. At that very moment his comrades, the pursuing troglodytes, and the terrible round shape of the beholder all spilled into the temple through the archway from the narthex. The monster’s eye-rays flashed and sizzled in the air, throwing polychromatic flashes of light across the room.

  “The beholder has returned!” shouted the tattooed swordsman beside Jelan-one of the most ridiculous statements of the obvious Jack had heard in some time.

  Jelan did not hesitate a moment. “Slay the beholder,” she told her mercenaries. “We’ll deal with the others afterward.”

  The Warlord’s mercenaries ran up to join the battle. A furious skirmish developed just inside the temple as the two companies of adventurers battled the beholder and its minions. Narm stormed toward the beholder with his greatsword, only to be blocked by troglodytes leaping to their master’s defense. Halamar scorched several troglodytes and turned his fire against the beholder, but the monster fixed its central eye on him and the sorcerer’s spells abruptly died. Eyes wide in sudden alarm, the young pyromancer seized his staff in both hands to fend off the rush of two more troglodytes trying to cut him down while his magic was suppressed. Arlith, skulking in the shadows, shot the beholder with a crossbow bolt that struck it dead-center on its side; the monster gurgled in pain and lashed out with a purple eye-ray that swept over the halfling. Deep cuts suddenly appeared across her face and hands, streaming blood; Arlith cried out and collapsed, cradling her useless hands. Another eye-ray, this one pure black, reached out to flick the tiefling with the ebony sword. The devil-kin warrior simply dropped where he stood, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, but the elf Kilarnan loosed a lightning bolt that crashed through two or three more trogs before blasting the beholder from its other side. The monster roared again and spun to fix its antimagic eye on the mage.

  “Close in on the thing!” Kurzen shouted. “Don’t give it a chance to pick us off with its eyes.” The dwarf battled closer, shouldering his way through the troglodytes as he followed his own advice.

  Jack wondered if it had been such a good idea after all to try to combine with Jelan’s company against the beholder. Flight might have been the better option … but they were committed now. He conjured his force-darts and pounded the beholder’s flank, only to be seized by the telekinesis-ray once again and flung into the nearest pillar. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and he wheezed for air as he staggered to his feet once again, bruised and battered. Then Jelan charged into the fray with a piercing war-cry, deliberately trying to attract the monster’s attention. The beholder flicked its ebony ray at her, which struck her in the center of her breastplate and had no effect. The Warlord did not even break her stride; the beholder glowered and shifted two more of its eye-rays onto her, to no avail-her peculiar immunity meant that she had nothing to fear from the monster’s magical eyes. She threaded her way through the troglodytes, and leaped high to slash the beholder across its crooked fanged mouth. Blood spurted from its slashed lips, and sheared-off teeth scattered across the floor. “Keep after it!” she shouted.

  “We will destroy you all!” the beholder roared in anger. “Death is the kindest of our retributions, foolish humans!” It raised itself higher in the air and rotated, spinning away from Jelan. The creature was a fast learner; having determined that its eye rays could not affect the mailed swordswoman, it changed its tactics. With its telekinesis-ray it grabbed the Tempus-priest from where he stood and flung him headlong into Jelan, using him like a living battering ram to drive her away. Then its disintegration-ray flashed at the marble floor beneath Jelan and her companion, vaporizing the ancient dwarf stonework in a sinister green flash to instantly dig a pit. Jelan and the cleric dropped out of sight before they could regain their feet.

  The swordsman with the tattoos snatched a handaxe from his belt and threw it at the beholder, striking the monster in its central eye. Dark gore splattered, and the creature wailed in agony, contracting the heavy lid and reeling away. It struck back with a ray from one of its eyestalks; Jack didn’t see what the beholder did next, but the warrior suddenly gibbered in panic and bolted in response, throwing away his shield as he fled the temple. However, the beholder could no longer suppress the magic of the elf mage and the sorcerer Halamar; both lashed at the monster with furious battle spells. Jack spied a troglodyte lining up on Halamar with a heavy dart, and he dashed across the fray to make a running lunge at the monster. He skewered the creature through its back; it screeched and dropped its javelin. Jack turned to face the beholder, wondering how he could come to grips with the creature without being lashed by its fierce eye-rays.

  Behind the creature, Kurzen momentarily found himself in the clear. The dwarf reached down and seized one of the heavy darts the troglodytes carried, wound up, and let it fly with all his strength. The heavy missile found a seam in the monster’s chitinous armor, sinking deep into its back and striking something vital. The beholder’s eyestalks flailed wildly, and it began to sink to the ground. Narm leaped forward and drove his greatsword deep into its bloated body. The eyestalks abruptly went slack, and the monster hung motionless in the air, dripping gore from its wounds. The few surviving troglodytes hissed and wailed in despair, abandoning the fight as they scattered and ran.

  “Thank the gods,” Halamar panted. “It’s dead.”

  The Temple of the Soulforger fell silent. Narm and Kurzen clasped arms, flashing grins of relief and victory at each other. Jack clapped the fire-mage on the shoulder before stooping to clean his rapier on the ragged hides worn by the last troglodyte he’d killed. Then he limped over to the edge of the pit the beholder had excavated for Jelan and peeked over the edge cautiously. The bottom was easily eleven or twelve feet down, and the sides were as smooth as polished glass. The priest of Tempus was sprawled on his back, unconscious, while Myrkyssa Jelan gazed back up at him.

  “I take it the fight is won?” she asked.

  “The beholder is dead,” Jack answered. “Without their master, the troglodytes have lost heart.”

  “I see.” Jelan folded her arms. “It seems the day belongs to you, Jack. What do you intend to do?”

  “I think I’ll have a look around. One never knows what one might find.”

  The swordswoman grimaced. “My comrade Wulfrad is seriously injured. I hope you do not intend to simply leave us here.”

  Jack offered a small smile. “My dear Elana, I would do no such thing. Of course we will help you out of your predicament, just as soon as I secure my prize.”

  He straightened up and turned his attention to the elf Kilarnan, the only one of the Warlord’s followers still on his feet. Narm and Arlith faced the mage, not quite threatening him but not turning their backs on him, either. Jack approached and gave the elf a small bow. “I have no particular wish to be unpleasant,” he said, “but as I see it, I and my companions outnumber you four to one. We hold the field, so we will take our pick of the spoils. Stand aside, and as soon as we are finished, you may retrieve your employer and go about your business.”

  Kilarnan swept the temple with his eyes, searching for some sign that he was not alo
ne, then grimaced. “I have little choice,” he said. “I will wait.”

  “Friend Narm, keep Kilarnan company,” Jack said. “The rest of us will have a look around and see what we can find.”

  “Best not to dawdle,” Narm said. “The troglodytes may have friends nearby.”

  Jack turned and faced the great anvil-shaped altar at the far end of the room, orienting himself in the chamber. When he’d seen the Sarkonagael in the crystal ball, it had been lying on a work table standing against a wall … he paced over to the shelves and benches along the nearest side of the temple chamber, looking for a table of about the right size and orientation. “What was the beholder’s interest in all these old books?” he wondered aloud as he looked. Was it searching for some specific knowledge, or was it simply interested in any sort of lore it could get its hands-or more accurately, its minions’ hands-on?

  He spied a heap of books piled on one end of a large table that struck him as familiar, and hurried over to investigate. There, lying more or less in plain sight, lay the black leather and silver lettering of the Sarkonagael. Only the vast piles of clutter around it concealed the book. Carefully Jack picked it up, examining it closely before opening it for a peek within. It was exactly as he remembered, and he grinned to himself. “How curious a fate to steal the same book twice,” he said.

  “Is that it, Jack?” Halamar asked.

  “Indeed it is,” Jack replied. He quickly scooped it into his pack, and looked around at the rest of the beholder’s clutter. “Let’s have a good look around. The beholder has no further use for any of its treasures, after all.”

  While Kurzen, Arlith, and Halamar quickly searched the room, Jack returned to the edge of the pit to make sure Jelan hadn’t somehow escaped already. The Warlord was waiting where he had left her. “I have what I want,” Jack told her. “We’ll be on our way shortly.”

  Jelan stood with folded arms. Her dark eyes flashed with irritation. She started to speak, then stopped herself, glaring down at the rough floor of the pit. After a moment, she regained her customary composure and raised her eyes to meet Jack’s again. “What do you intend to do with the book?” she asked.

  “I have no grand designs for the Sarkonagael. The reward is sufficient for me.”

  “I thought as much,” she replied. “Before you turn in the book, you should ask yourself who wants it, and why. The Sarkonagael is dangerous, as I am sure you know.”

  Jack was quite familiar with the potential mayhem hidden in the tome; he’d spent a wretched tenday or so dealing with a shadow-doppelganger created by a Sarkonagael spell when he and Jelan had crossed paths the first time. A dark suspicion came to him, and he peered more closely at the swordswoman. “You aren’t the one who posted the reward, are you?”

  Jelan allowed herself a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “No, I am not,” she answered. “But if it is merely a matter of coin to you, then I’d be willing to pay you the five thousand crowns for the book. It is important that the Sarkonagael not fall into the wrong hands.”

  Kurzen trotted up beside Jack, and leaned over to look down at the pit before speaking to him. “We’re done here, Jack. Best be on our way.”

  “Excellent,” Jack replied. He glanced down at Jelan. “Your friend Kilarnan is unhurt. I’ll leave him with a rope. Farewell, dear Elana.”

  He started to turn away, but Jelan called after him. “One more thing, Jack,” she said. “You would be wise to watch out for the drow. Two days ago a party of dark elves came in search of me, with some notion of taking me back down to Tower Chumavhraele. I discouraged them, of course, but they seemed interested in locating you, too.”

  “I am inclined to regard all drow with suspicion at this point,” Jack remarked. He could only imagine how Myrkyssa Jelan had discouraged would-be captors. “I thank you for the warning, anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reward to claim.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Beholder’s hoard was not as magnificent as the treasure Jack had once looted from the Guilder’s Vault, but it was certainly a substantial addition to the expedition’s returns. A dozen or more of the scrolls seemed magical, and many of the old tomes looked rare or valuable. In a back room of the Smoke Wyrm, the small company tended their injuries, divided out the coins and gemstones, made their arrangements to have the books and scrolls appraised and sold, and settled their nerves after the harrowing day with pints of the excellent Old Smoky. Perhaps inspired by the effects of the dark dwarven ale, Jack hit upon the idea of keeping the Sarkonagael safely out of sight for a few days while negotiating a higher price for its return. After all, anyone who would offer five thousand gold crowns for this book might very well offer six, or even seven; could it hurt to send word to Horthlaer House that the book was in the possession of an anonymous party who required a somewhat larger payment before parting with it? “It never hurts to ask,” he decided.

  Pleased with himself for devising such a simple method for increasing his gain from danger already past, Jack returned to Maldridge. He waved off Edelmon’s daily correspondence and instead composed a letter containing his instructions for the counting house of Albrath, which would serve as a fine go-between with Horthlaer’s. “Discretion is required,” he told himself when he finished. “I will allow my agent to make inquiries at Horthlaer’s without revealing my name, just in case the person seeking the Sarkonagael might consider more stringent measures to obtain the book when he discovers that the price is under negotiation. Anonymity is assured.”

  “What was that, sir?” Edelmon asked.

  “A stroke of genius, my good man,” Jack replied. “Draw me a bath, if you please.”

  With that important bit of business attended to, Jack indulged himself in an hour-long soak in a tub of piping hot water, after which he had Edelmon summon the physician to look after the various cuts, bruises, and sprains that he’d acquired in the dungeons of Sarbreen. By nine bells he was in his bed, from which he did not stir for the next fourteen hours. He only roused himself the next morning when Edelmon knocked on the bedchamber door and let himself in.

  “Excuse me, Master Jack, but you have a guest. Lord Norwood is here to call on you.” The valet studied Jack’s groggy visage and added, “Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”

  Jack sat up and ran his hand through his hair.

  “Norwood here?” he muttered. “What does he want with me at this indecent hour?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s already struck eleven bells this morning.”

  It seemed like it would be a bad idea to turn away his benefactor out of sheer indolence. Jack allowed himself one long yawn, and gave the old valet a nod. “In that case I’ll be right down,” he said. “And ask the cook to begin breakfast; I’m famished.” Edelmon bowed and withdrew; the rogue climbed out of his bed, dressed himself quickly from his fine new wardrobe, and took a moment to drag a comb through his hair. In a matter of minutes Jack trotted down the grand zalantar-wood staircase to the front hall.

  Marden Norwood waited for him there, with an armsman in Norwood colors standing unobtrusively two steps behind the lord. “Ah, there you are, Jack,” Norwood said. He studied Jack’s face for a moment, and snorted softly to himself. “My apologies if I woke you early.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Jack replied with a wave of his hand. “I intend to breakfast shortly; would you care to join me, Lord Marden?”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.” The nobleman’s customary geniality was nowhere in sight; his silver brows brooded low over his eyes, and his mouth was set in an even frown. “You might say that this is not a social call.”

  This does not look promising at all, Jack decided. He suddenly wished that he’d feigned illness and had Edelmon send away Seila’s father. Still, there was nothing for it but to play out the scene; he could hardly avoid it now. He clicked his heels and bowed. “I am at your disposal, my lord.”

  “Let us adjourn to your study,” Norwood said. He held out a h
and, indicating the adjoining room with its katana-holed door. Jack glumly led the way to the study, and waited by the door until Norwood entered. “Have a seat,” the lord said, motioning toward a chair by the hearth as if it were his study and not Jack’s they were entering. Jack took the offered seat; Norwood took the chair opposite. He studied Jack long and carefully, a look of keen thoughtfulness etched on his features. Jack didn’t like it at all.

  Finally Jack couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. “You have something you wished to discuss with me?” he prompted.

  “I do,” Norwood replied. “You may not be surprised to learn that I have recently conducted some inquiries into the estate, family, and titles of the landsgraves of Wildhame. Do you know what I found, Jack?”

  “My home and family survived the Spellplague?” Jack asked with an artfully hopeful note in his voice.

  Norwood smiled and shook his head. “Not exactly. I learned that Hlath was never ruled by a king. The ruler of the city in the years before the Spellplague was Lord Darvis Shennelm, High Councilor of the city’s Council of Lords, yet you claimed your family had a home quite near the king’s palace. Clearly, you never lived anywhere near Hlath or you would have known that. Moreover, I have determined to my satisfaction that there never existed any holdings or lords by the name of Wildhame in Hlath, the lands nearby, or any realm in the Vilhon Reach.” His expression darkened, and he leaned forward to point an accusing finger at Jack. “You, sir, are an imposter, a fraud, laying claim to a place and station not your own. Who are you, really? The time for deceptions is at an end.”

  Jack mustered every ounce of wounded dignity and earnestness he could summon. “Your suspicions are ill-founded, sir,” he said sharply. “Clearly your research is incomplete, or quite possibly the records of my home and family simply have not survived to this day. Your library is admirable, but it is hardly the summation of all there is to know about vanished Chondath or its proud old families.”