Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER ONE

1479, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE

Jack awoke with the sensation of falling. He cried out in alarm and flailed his arms in thick, cloying blackness, trying to catch himself as he pitched forward-to no avail. He toppled full-length onto a cold, damp floor, and his breath whooshed out of his lungs.

He sprawled on the ground for a long moment without moving, unable to make sense of the situation. Had he fallen out of his bed? Passed out after imbibing overly potent spirits? The air was chilly and dank, and the cold floor he was lying on was covered in shallow puddles of icy water. That did not seem very much like the floor of his bedchamber or any place he might care to drink himself into a stupor. He could feel smooth, glassy tile and crumbling grout under his fingers. “What in the world?” he groaned. “Where am I?”

Jack opened his eyes, and wondered what was wrong with his vision before he realized that there was little light to see by. Gradually he became aware of an eerie greenish glow illuminating the scene. He was lying on a tile-covered plaza at the foot of a great stone monolith thirty or forty feet high. The tiles in the plaza were arranged in a strange, spiraling mosaic of greens, purples, and blues; the mighty column was made of subtly twisted rock, cut and polished like an enormous gemstone of onyx. Around the plaza hovered several glowing emerald globes, which cast their soft light over a confused clutter of work tables housed in open-sided shelters or pavilions.

“I know this place,” Jack murmured. This was the mythal stone of the ancient drow ruins below the dungeons of Sarbreen, which of course sprawled under the streets and squares of Raven’s Bluff. Once upon a time ancient dark elf wizards had crafted the monument to anchor spells of surpassing power, only to abandon it thousands of years ago. Magical power still filled the great stone, its subtle influence seeping out to affect the caverns and surface lands for miles around. But that made no sense at all-the last time Jack had been in this spot, the stone was situated at the bottom of a deep, dark, and excruciatingly cold lake.

He tentatively raised his head to take in more of his surroundings. It seemed that the mythal’s plaza was still in the Underdark-the impenetrable darkness overhead and the chilly air strongly suggested a vast subterranean space, but there was no sign of a lake now, other than the puddles on the tile floor. Was this actually the wild mythal or a stone in a different locale that happened to resemble the one he was familiar with?

Gingerly, Jack pushed himself to his feet, shivering in the dank air as he checked himself for injury. He turned a little to one side and discovered that the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan was standing right beside him, sword drawn back to strike and a look of black fury on her face.

He yelped aloud and threw himself back to the ground to avoid her attack. But Jelan did not move. Cautiously Jack peered around his upraised arm, and then realized that Jelan was frozen like a statue in mid-stride. Her fine skin, the long tumbling mane of dark hair, her clothing, her mail, even her sword of fine steel from the distant isle of Wa: All of it was glossy gray stone. Either some unknown sculptor had created the most perfect and lifelike statue Jack had ever seen or she’d been captured in the very last instant he’d seen her, about to be sealed within the wild mythal’s mighty stone.

With a deep sigh of relief, he stood up once more, shivering yet again in the chill air. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and battalions of goose bumps were forming ranks on his bare chest and arms. “Silly of me to come down here without warm clothing,” he remarked, and then he frowned in puzzlement. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten to the foot of the wild mythal. He remembered a hazy jumble of events in the last few days-a soiree at some noble’s manor, casing a merchant warehouse he meant to burgle soon, some sort of trouble with the Knights of the Hawk … but nothing led him to the Underdark or the mythal stone. “Wait a moment,” he continued. “Wait a moment! How in the world did I come to be here?”

“Well, that is unfortunate,” a silken voice purred from the shadows. “We were confused on that point as well, and hoped that you might provide some explanation.”

Jack whirled in surprise and found himself facing a slender dark elf woman of striking beauty. She was a little taller than him (not unusual in and of itself, because he was somewhat short), with smooth ebony skin and flowing white hair arranged beneath a silver tiara. Her diaphanous clothing clung to her soft curves, and she carried a scepter of silver that she tapped against her shapely thigh as she regarded him with lips pursed. Two more dark elves-handsome young men dressed in mage robes of an exotic and somewhat sinister cut-stood by the woman’s side, also studying him. Jack hadn’t seen many drow before, but he guessed at once that the three in front of him were close kin to each other. They all had the same eyes of bright lavender, pointed chins, and wide brows; in fact, the two men seemed to be twins. He’d missed the three of them in his first cursory inspection of his surroundings, because they’d been standing quite still and quiet as they watched him pick himself up from the floor.

“I beg your pardon, dear lady,” Jack stammered. This situation was quickly deteriorating from inconvenient and inexplicable to downright perilous. Drow were well-known for their cruelty and depravity, and he was not at all reassured by their presence. “I am at a loss for words, which-as any who know me can attest-is a rare occasion, indeed. Doubtless some underhanded villain has arranged for me to be embarrassed in this most peculiar fashion, but the dastard responsible or the methods he employed elude me for the moment.”

“For a fellow who claims to be at a loss for words, he certainly has much to say,” one of the robed drow observed. “Is it possible that he does not know what has happened to him?”

“It would not be unusual,” the second of the drow mages answered. “If he has been in stasis for a long time, his memory may have been affected.” The three dark elves exchanged a look. Jack noticed that there were more drow surrounding the plaza of the mythal stone, stern-faced guards who had their attention firmly fixed on him. In fact, there were quite a number of people-well, orcs and ogres and bugbears and such folk, anyway-engaged in a variety of toils and chores beneath the light of floating green globes all around the plaza of the mythal. He was standing in the middle of a bustling enterprise of some kind, although he noticed that the area immediately around the mythal stone was an island of calm; no one but drow ventured near.

The dark elf woman nodded thoughtfully and returned her attention to Jack. “Let us begin with something easy, then,” she said. “Who are you?”

Jack considered feigning ignorance, since it seemed they expected him to have difficulty remembering things. Unfortunately, he couldn’t guess what advantage he might gain by convincing the drow that he was an idiot. He chose his favorite fable instead. “I am the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame, of the Vilhon Reach,” he declared. “However, I do not stand overmuch on formalities, and encourage my friends to call me Jack. Might I have the honor of knowing whom I address?”

“I am Dresimil Chumavh, marquise of Chumavhraele. These are my brothers, Jezzryd and Jaeren,” the drow noble replied. “Who is the swordswoman? You seemed badly frightened to find her beside you.”

Jack glanced at the imprisoned form of Jelan again-could one call her statuesque in such a condition? he wondered-and cleared his throat. “Frightened? No, merely … alarmed. She is the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan.”

The dark elves did not seem overly impressed. The noblewoman Dresimil glanced at her brothers, who gave small shrugs. “Are we supposed to be familiar with that name?” she asked Jack.

“Myrkyssa Jelan? General of the great horde that attacked Raven’s Bluff a few years ago? Imposter who posed as the Lady Mayor?” Jack detected not the slightest glimmer of recognition in his hosts’ eyes. Perhaps it was not so surprising; dark elves might have no particular interest in events on the surface, he supposed. With a small gesture of indulgence and a patient smile, he added, “We are not far from the surface city of Raven’s Bluff. Myrkyssa Jelan is, or was, the most capable and dangerous adversary Raven’s Bluff has ever encountered. When her attempt to conquer the city failed, she took a new identity, and seized through subterfuge what force of arms had failed to win. In the guise of Lady Amber Lynn Thoden, she ruled over the city for a year before her duplicity was uncovered.”

“I don’t expect that you would know how she came to be in our mythal stone, do you?” the more serious-looking of the two mages-Jezzryd, if Jack had followed the introductions correctly-asked.

“Oh, I put her there,” Jack answered. “She was engaged in using the stone for a spell to break her curse of unmagic and make her a great sorcerer again. My comrades and I successfully foiled her plot.” He held up his hand ruefully, showing his bare fingers. “I have a magic ring of stone command, which now seems to be missing. I employed it to push her into the wild mythal, imprisoning her there.”

Jezzryd scowled fiercely. “You sabotaged our ancient mythal stone by transmuting some surface-world freebooter into its substance, and simply left it like that?”

“In all honesty, I had no idea there were any dark elves about who still laid claim to the stone. It was at the bottom of a lake, after all.” It was possible the dark elves might not regard ignorance of such things as an excuse; Jack decided to deflect the blame. He pointed at the perfect statue of the Warlord and added, “Jelan was the one who chose the mythal for her ritual. If I hadn’t stopped her when I did, there’s no telling what harm might have come to your people’s ancient works. I must say, I’m proud to have played a small part in preserving something of such obvious historical significance.”

Dresimil studied the Warlord’s statue for a moment longer, and then turned back to Jack. “Did you say your lands lie in the Vilhon Reach, Lord Wildhame?”

“Why, yes,” Jack replied. A sudden nasty suspicion crossed his mind, and he added, “Are you perchance familiar with the nobility and domains of the Vilhon?”

Lady Dresimil allowed herself a small smile. “Not particularly. Then again, I doubt that many are in this day.”

A strange turn of phrase, Jack observed. “Well, it is to be expected,” he continued. “The Vilhon Reach is a very long way from here, and of course there are many easily confused baronies, counties, marks, and such things in my homeland. One would have to be an expert in heraldry or exceptionally well-traveled to have heard of the Wildhame demesnes.”

“On the contrary, one would have to be a historian,” remarked the second brother-Jaeren, Jack supposed. The three drow enjoyed a soft laugh; Jack uncomfortably joined in, wondering what the joke was.

“Clearly, he has been in the stone for quite some time,” said Jezzryd. “This would seem to confirm the premise I just advanced.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand,” Jack replied. “What do you mean when you say I’ve been ‘in the stone’? Is it perhaps a drowish idiom that translates poorly into the common tongue?”

The three drow ignored him for a moment, exchanging a few quick, soft words in their native language. It reminded Jack of Elvish, although he couldn’t follow it. Then Dresimil returned her attention to him. “What year do you believe this to be?” she asked.

“The fact that you have asked that question makes me much less certain of the answer than I thought I was,” Jack muttered. “This is, of course, the Year of the Bent Blade, also known as the thirteen hundred and seventy-sixth in the reckoning of the Dales. Or am I somehow mistaken?”

“Significantly so,” Dresimil answered. “You see, this is now the Year of the Ageless One, which I believe is the fourteen hundred and seventy-ninth by the surface calendars. I regret to inform you”-and Dresimil’s cruel smile suggested that she did not regret it much at all-“that among the many other things that have occurred since the Year of the Bent Blade, the lands of the Vilhon Reach were largely destroyed by the effects of the Spellplague about nine years after you were imprisoned. It is highly likely that Wildhame, wherever it was, is no more.”

Jack gave a small, nervous laugh. “My lady is armed with a very imaginative sense of humor, I see. Or perhaps there is some discrepancy between the drow calendar and that in common use elsewhere?”

Dresimil raised an eyebrow. “No, I am quite certain that my people and the surface dwellers agree on what year it is. What a fascinating circumstance you must find this. Humans are not a very long-lived race; while imprisoned you have likely outlived everyone you ever knew. Your enemies are dead, and their descendants do not even suspect you exist. Why, think of the delicious acts of vengeance one could exact in such a situation.”

Jack’s knees felt weak, and he reached out to steady himself on the nearby shoulder of the petrified Myrkysa Jelan. If these drow were not playing some convoluted jest on him … could it truly be that a century had passed him by? He glanced again at the stone and the plaza surrounding it. A hundred feet or more of water should have covered the entire site, and yet the lake was nowhere to be seen. “You still have not made clear what you mean when you say that I was in the stone,” he said.

The dark elves shared another laugh at Jack. One of the twins shook his head. “It means that we just removed you from that stone you’re standing beneath, you idiot. Or, to be more precise, the spells we were weaving to repair the mythal undid a spell of encystment we hadn’t perceived. You and your adversary emerged from the stone more or less where you now stand. She appears to have been petrified, but you were not; you fell to the ground, which is how this entire conversation began. Or has that already escaped your faulty memory?”

“Wait a moment,” Jack protested. “You mean to say that someone imprisoned me in the mythal stone, and now a hundred years have passed? But who would do such a thing? Why did no one retrieve me before now? This situation is intolerable! There is much to be set right.”

“I doubt that we will get much more out of Lord Wildhame,” Jezzryd said to his brother and sister. “He cannot explain how he came to be in the mythal, and whatever he knows is a century out of date in any case. The question now is what to do with him.”

“The quarry?” Jaeren mused. “The foreman was begging me for new drudges just this morning. It’s hard to keep up his numbers given the nature of the work.”

“He seems rather small of stature for rock-breaking,” Dresimil said. “Foreman Barzash would not thank you for providing him with unsuitable laborers.”

“A porter, then. If goblins can manage an eighty-pound pack, surely he can. In no time at all he’d be just as stooped and bandy-legged as they are.”

Jack was still grappling with his astonishment at the entire situation, but he belatedly realized that he had a very definite interest in the outcome of the dark elves’ deliberations. It seemed that he needed to change the topic of this conversation at once if he didn’t care to be condemned to a lifetime of toil in the Underdark. “Ah, that is all very interesting, but I am not sure that I agree that I am indebted to you for any amount of servitude, physical or otherwise,” he said. “I have not caused you any great inconvenience, and you will be relieved to learn that I hold nothing against you for interrupting my restful repose in yon stone. The entire affair is resolved equably; we shall go our separate ways, enriched by a fascinating anecdote. If you could perchance direct me to the elevator-stone that ascends to the dungeons of Sarbreen, I will trouble you no more.”

Dresimil laughed aloud. “Well spoken, sir,” she said. “However, it is our custom to enslave those who fall into our power, and I am nothing if not an admirer of my people’s traditions. More to the point, my house is in great need of unskilled laborers at the moment, and your unexpected appearance here seems a stroke of fortune I shouldn’t ignore. We have done you a great service by freeing you from your encystment; surely some recompense is due.”

Jack gave a small shrug. “As your brother observed a moment ago, I am not a man of any great strength. In addition, I have something of a delicate constitution. It seems unlikely that I would be very useful as a laborer.”

“In that event, you may provide a bit of sport,” Jaeren remarked. “The lower orders enjoy the spectacle of the fighting-pits at the end of a long day’s work. I believe the diggers on the south channel captured a giant solifugid a day or two ago. They’re anxious to see it try to eat somebody, but so far no one has volunteered.”

Jack had no idea what a solifugid might be, but he disliked the suggestion immediately. “Assuming for the moment that I do indeed owe some small compensation for my freedom-a premise I accept only for the sake of argument, mind you-perhaps some other arrangement might be more profitable to both parties? The payment of ransom in exchange for liberty is a time-honored tradition. I will take my leave and return to the surface world to take stock of my fortunes after a hundred years of undisturbed growth, after which I shall at once deliver the necessary payment to House Chumavh. All that is necessary now is to agree on the sum. What strikes you as fair, my lady?”

“Since the Wildhame lands are no longer in existence, and as far as I understand the last century has been especially tumultuous in commercial affairs, I am afraid I regard your prospects with some pessimism,” Dresimil replied. “No, I think we’ll keep you here to work off your obligation to us, Jack.” She glanced at Jaeren. “Perhaps he might tend the rothe herd? No great strength is needed to shovel dung, and he seems spry enough to avoid being crushed.”

Jack sensed that the negotiations were getting away from him. The dark elves were proving every bit as obstinate as he’d feared. “I can see why you’d think that,” he offered gamely. “But, before I take up management of your herds, perhaps I can make myself more useful to you in another way. I am a man of many rare talents, specialized in the gathering of information, unearthing of secrets, and recovery of lost treasures. And I am quite skilled in the sorcerous arts, to boot. Surely there must be some enemy you wish discomfited or some long-lost valuable you would pay dearly to have back. I am just the fellow for the job. Come, now, there must be some way I can put my considerable talents to work for you.”

“A sorcerer, you say?” Jezzryd asked.

“Indeed!” Jack folded his arms across his chest and gave the drow mage a nod of professional respect. “I am a master of time and space-well, space, anyway, since time has momentarily bested me-and I am quite talented with illusions as well.”

Dresimil raised an eyebrow. “As it so happens, talent in the arcane arts may be of some use to me,” she said. “If you please, would you provide a small demonstration of your skill? Nothing my guards might construe as an attack, of course. They will shoot you down at once if they believe you are threatening me.”

Jack managed a weak smile. “Of course. Hmm … would a spell of invisibility be acceptable?”

The drow noblewoman glanced to her brothers, who gave small shrugs in reply. “Very well. Proceed when you are ready.”

“Excellent! Now, observe carefully. I have been told that my style is quite unorthodox.” Jack breathed a silent sigh of relief, and called to mind his invisibility spell. He’d never studied magic formally, instead learning his spells through experimentation and natural inclination. Once he’d been told that his talents were born of the wild mythal that lay beneath the city he called home. In fact, the last time he’d been in the presence of the mythal stone, he’d been able to feel it seething with magical energy. Strangely enough, it was quiescent now … but then Jack reminded himself that on the occasion of his previous visit to this place, his enemy Myrkyssa Jelan had been engaged in manipulating the wild mythal to rouse its magic for her purposes. Quiescence was probably its normal condition.

With serene confidence, Jack moved his hands in soft, sweeping passes, as if drawing a cloak over himself, mumbling a few words of nonsense under his breath. The trick of it was of course in the mind, in marrying the sheer desire to vanish from sight with a few careful plucks of the will at the intangible Weave of magic slumbering in his surroundings. To his surprise he found that the unseen currents of magical power were quite distant in this place; he could not really sense them at all. Usually the Weave’s warp and woof were warm and alive, an unseen web of living energy that rippled and thrummed to a mage’s gentle plucking. But Jack was not well versed in the theory of arcane matters, working more by feel and intuition than anything else. He set aside his concerns and focused on the familiar action of working the spell. “Do not be alarmed, Lady Dresimil!” he called out. “I have not teleported myself away. I am here still, but by the power of my magic you cannot perceive me. And this of course is but one of the many spells at my command.”

The drow stared in astonishment at the place where Jack stood, seemingly struck speechless with the skill and deftness of his casting. He grinned from ear to ear in his transparent state, realizing that he had defied their expectations. “Here, allow me to demonstrate that I am indeed physically present,” he continued. “Attend! You see this small stone about six or seven feet in front of Jezzryd’s noble toe? I am picking it up in my hand now.” He lifted the pebble between thumb and forefinger, bobbing it up and down to make sure the drow could see it, and then discarded it over his shoulder. For good measure he stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth and boggled his eyes at the dark elves, indulging himself in a small jest at their expense as long as he was unseen.

The three drow simply continued to stare in his direction in amazement. Finally Jezzryd managed to speak. “By all Nine Hells,” he whispered. “He’s mad. Completely mad.”

“Lesser minds than mine have of course cracked under the strain of arcane study, but I assure you, my sanity is not in question,” Jack replied. He quickly tiptoed over to a nearby table, and, because the dark elves had not yet offered the simple courtesy of refreshment after dragging him forth from whatever magical prison had held him, indulged himself in a stealthy sip of wine from a fine ewer standing there. Then Jack tiptoed back to where he’d been standing before speaking again. “I trust you are satisfied with my skills?” he said.

Dresimil put her hand to her mouth and seemed to stifle a small cough. “Lord Wildhame, you’re still there,” she said.

“Why yes, of course. That was the purpose of the demonstration with the pebble,” Jack answered. “I have not gone anywhere, I am merely invisible. If you would care to see a spell of teleportation demonstrated, I shall of course be glad to oblige.”

“Dear Dark Queen, yes,” Jaeren said aloud. “This I have to see.”

Jack gestured and released his spell, offering a gracious bow as he returned to visibility. He glanced around, and his eye fell on a workbench across the small plaza. “There,” he said. “I shall teleport myself to that small table. Please instruct your guards not to panic.”

“Of course,” Dresimil replied. “Continue when you are ready.”

With another small nod, Jack fixed his eye on the spot he wished to be. He considered simply teleporting himself as far from this place as he could, and taking his chances in the Underdark. Unfortunately, he was unarmed and completely unequipped for finding his way around in the darkness. If he fell into the dark elves’ hands again after an attempted escape, he had no doubt that he’d soon encounter the limits of their reasonableness, such as it was. No, better to convince the beautiful Lady Dresimil of his usefulness, then plot an escape later when he was better prepared. He reached again for the subtle energies of the Weave, whispering the words of his dimension-sliding enchantment. Once again the familiar energies of magic seemed strangely elusive, almost as if he were working through some sort of metaphysical fog. He pressed on anyway, redoubling his efforts.

“Now I am here,” he announced between the words of his casting. “And an instant later, I am-here!”

Nothing happened. Jack stood before the three dark elves, dumbfounded. He’d never botched a spell in that manner before, not one he knew so well. He offered an embarrassed grin, and quickly repeated the spell, only to fail again. He remained exactly where he was, an arm’s reach from the frozen form of Myrkyssa Jelan.

The dark elves shared predatory grins. “Perhaps you should give a little pirouette and announce that you are immaterial?” Jaeren asked. “Or you might make a whooshing sound as your proceed to your destination?”

“I was rather expecting him to run across the square and make a show of ‘appearing’ by the table,” Jezzryd remarked. “Standing there stupidly is much less entertaining.”

“We’re still waiting for you to magic yourself to your destination, Jack,” Dresimil said. “I must tell you, I shall be very disappointed if you have exaggerated your arcane talents.”

With a terrible sinking despair, Jack realized that not only had his teleportation failed-so, too, had his spell of invisibility. No wonder the drow had seemed so astonished. He’d been acting like an idiot, capering about under the mistaken belief that he was unseen. “I–I am certain that I will recall the proper forms of my spellcasting soon,” he stammered. “It must be some lingering effect of my encystment in the mythal stone. You will see, I am a very useful fellow-”

The three dark elves laughed aloud. “Pray, no more for now, Lord Wildhame,” Dresimil finally said. “So far you have been an amusing guest, but I must warn you against becoming tiresome. Should you recover your arcane powers-” the three dark elves shared another chuckle at that-“then perhaps we will find another way to put your talents to work.” She motioned to two of the guards standing nearby. “Varys, Sinafae, take our guest here down to Malmor. Tell him to provide Lord Wildhame with clothing and quarters suitable to his station, and introduce him to his duties.”

Jack started to protest, but checked himself. He wasn’t sure what Lady Dresimil would do if she decided that he was tiresome, but he suspected that he wouldn’t like it in the least. It was clear that his customary charm and talents were not as useful as he would have hoped in this dismal new age, however he had stumbled into it. Time to make the best of a poor hand. He drew himself up with all the dignity he could muster and bowed graciously. “I am at your disposal, my lady,” he said.

“Of course you are, my dear Lord Jack,” the drow noblewoman replied. She watched with a bemused smile as the dark elf guards came up on either side and marched him away from the plaza.

A thousand questions hovered at the tip of Jack’s tongue as he slogged along between the guards, dejected. For the moment he shut them out of his mind and gazed at the curious scene around him. The exposed lake bed was still quite muddy in many places, and the dark elves’ laborers had laid down large planks of a curious gray wood over the worst patches of muck. Slimy walls outlined the shapes of ancient buildings surrounding the mythal stone’s plaza. Jack couldn’t imagine why anybody had built a city on the bottom of a lake, but then he realized that the lake’s level must have varied significantly over time. When he’d been here a hundred years ago (and that was a thought that made his knees go weak), the lake had clearly been much fuller. He didn’t remember seeing old buildings on the lake bed then, but perhaps they’d been buried in muck or simply hidden by the murky water. The ancient drow had built their city here when the shore was dry; the lake had flooded at some point afterward and remained that way through Jack’s first visit to the site; now the lake had fallen, revealing the old city again. Given the scale of the excavations and the miserable slaves toiling to clear away the muck, Jack decided the drow had drained the lake deliberately. But why would they care about old ruins?

“This all seems like a great deal of trouble,” he said to the guards escorting him, waving an arm to indicate the ruins. “If I may ask, what is the point of the work?”

The guards turned on him, eyes narrowed. One stepped forward and drew a long, supple baton from his belt in a single motion, flicking it across Jack’s upper arm with whiplike speed before Jack could even register that he was under attack. The sharp crack of the baton echoed in the damp air, and Jack buckled in pain. “Slaves do not speak unless spoken to,” the guard snarled. “Call any drow you must address master if you wish to keep your tongue in your head. Do you understand?”

“Damn it!” Jack wailed. “Was that necessary?”

The baton flicked again, and this time slashed him across his left knee. Jack crumpled to the ground. The baton was more than simple wood; it had a rasping, almost sticky feel to it, and a fierce burning sting began to rise up in the welt it left behind. “I said, do you understand?” the drow guard shouted.

“Yes,” Jack replied. Seeing the drow’s hand draw back for a third blow, Jack cringed. His arm and leg were afire where the stinging rod had touched him. “Yes, master! Yes, master. I understand!”

“Speak again before we get to the fields and we’ll beat you until you can’t walk,” the second guard said. “And if you can’t keep up with us, you’ll wish we’d killed you instead. Now get up, slave.”

Jack pushed himself to his feet, not daring to say another word. Dresimil and her brothers had struck him as reasonably well-mannered people, not remotely as bloodthirsty and barbaric as drow were reported to be. Granted, they’d taken a certain cruel pleasure in his unusual predicament, but he knew plenty of surface nobles who might have done the same. But now that Dresimil was done with him, he was just a slave … and evidently the drow weren’t in the habit of wasting courtesies on their chattel.

The guards escorting him set off again, and Jack hobbled after them, determined not to provide either with an excuse to strike him again. They passed out of the ruins into a belt of gigantic mushrooms the size of trees, into a forest of pale gray fungi on the floor of the vast cavern. A crew was at work sawing a fallen stalk into the slick gray planks he’d seen in the ruins-naturally, the drow wouldn’t have easy access to the trees of the surface world-but Jack carefully kept his questions to himself. The path led through the fungal grove to the gates of a great dark castle, which loomed over the cavern floor. Weird globes and twisting streamers of eldritch light danced along the ramparts and spires of the structure, which seemed to have been carved from a ring of enormous stalagmites. Here, before the gates of the castle, the guards turned onto a path leading to a stone-fenced paddock lying beneath the castle ramparts. Jack became aware of a heavy animal stink in the air, a charming combination of dank fur, dung, and crushed fungus.

They halted before a crude bunkhouse or shelter of stone, mud, and moss. “Malmor!” the guard who’d struck Jack called. “We’ve got a new dung-shoveler for you, Malmor.”

There was a thick, snuffling grunt, and then a huge, shaggy figure appeared in the shelter’s doorway. Its yellowed skin was covered in lank, reddish hair, and a vast belly sagged over its ill-fitting leather breaches. The creature-a bugbear, Jack thought, although he’d never seen one so fat-bobbed his head and grinned crookedly at the drow guards. “Good, good, masters. I have much work, much work. But I do not like the looks of this one, no, no. Too small, too small, too thin, I think. He seems a shirker to me, a shirker he seems.”

“That is hardly our concern now,” the second drow guard said.

The bugbear Malmor approached and poked Jack with one fat finger. “I will have to keep an eye on him all the time, all the time. Easier to kill him now.”

“If Matron Dresimil wanted him dead, she would have killed him herself,” the guard Varys replied. “If you have dung in need of shoveling, have him do it. Otherwise, work him as you see fit, but do not kill him.”

The bugbear flicked a spiteful look at Jack, but bowed and simpered to the dark elves. “Dung I have in plenty, masters, in plenty. It shall be as you say.”

“Good,” the dark elves said. They threw Jack to the ground at the bugbear’s feet, and marched away back to the castle.

Jack picked himself up and started to brush himself off, only to discover that he’d already encountered his first rothe patty. He grimaced in disgust, but Malmor only laughed. “Don’t trouble yourself, no, no,” the bugbear said. “By the end of the day you’ll wear it from head to toe no matter what you do. Now follow me if you want a shovel.”

Jack sighed, and followed the bugbear.