Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jack passed the next hour pacing restlessly in his cell. This time he was held several doors down from Seila, unable to see her or speak with her. From time to time he tugged at the ring of negation, hoping to find it no longer fixed on his finger, but the thing refused to budge. That was unfortunate, to say the least; he had not counted on being unable to work magic at all. In fact, he might have thought twice about walking nonchalantly into the arms of the dark elves if he’d known his magic could so easily be neutralized. “Somehow I must find a reason to convince the dark elves to remove the ring,” he decided. “My prospects would be much more promising without it.”

His reflections were interrupted by the rattle and clatter of the dungeon door opening and the footfalls of his jailors. Jack moved closer to the bars to peer down the corridor, wondering if the dark elves were bringing a brazier of coals and a sharp knife to begin the work Dresimil had promised for him … but instead the slaver Cailek Balathorp strode into the dungeon. The tall, straw-haired lord had changed into the black leathers he favored in his guise as Fetterfist, and wore proudly the half-hood Jack had taken from him. He paused by Jack’s cell and regarded Jack with a very unpleasant smile on his face. “Now this is gratifying,” the slaver remarked. “I have quite a score to settle with you, Ravenwild. I doubt the dark elves will leave me much to work with, but never fear-if you are worried that I will be shortchanged, well, I have some very special arrangements in mind for Seila Norwood.”

Jack glared at the renegade lord. He started to compose the darkest and most dreadful threat he could think of, but stopped himself; there was little point in making any promises of vengeance in his current situation. Instead he decided to appeal to the man’s greed. “Ransom Seila back to her father,” he said. “She’s worth far more to you whole and unhurt. Norwood will pay a fortune for her return.”

“I expect that he will, and I may do as you suggest … after I have a little sport first.” The slaver grinned and started to turn away.

“Wait!” A sudden notion struck Jack, and he stretched his arm through the bars of his cell. “Listen, Balathorp, I know that I am finished. You’ll have your revenge upon me, and more; the drow will see to that. But if you agree to see Seila Norwood to freedom, I will give you all that remains to me-this enchanted silver ring.” He held up the ring of negation.

The slaver snorted. “I will do as I please with Seila anyway, Ravenwild. That little bauble makes no difference to me.”

Jack reached through the bars, extending the ring. “Take it from my hand,” he begged. “I throw myself on your mercy.”

Balathorp hesitated, and for a moment Jack’s hopes soared … but at that moment a contingent of drow guards appeared. The slaver stepped back, inclining his head to the dark elves; the drow warriors marched past Jack’s cell to where Seila was held. “I am sure the Lady Dresimil will think of a fitting end for you,” he said to Jack. “Console yourself with the thought that I will take good care of Seila Norwood. Farewell, Ravenwild.”

Jack searched for some clever riposte, some appeal that might reach the man, but nothing came to mind. Balathorp turned and followed the dark elves down the corridor to Seila’s cell. Jack heard the rattle of keys in the iron lock, the jingle of chains, Seila’s voice raised in protest … and then Balathorp and the drow jailors returned back along the corridor, ushering Seila along with her arms bound behind her back. She struggled, to no avail, and had time to cry out, “Jack!” as she was swept past him. Jack reached out after her, his fingertips brushing her dress, and then she was gone.

He caught one more brief glimpse of her in the guardroom at the entrance to the row of cells; Balathorp handed her to a pair of hobgoblin slavers. “Take her to the caravan and lock her up with the rest of the merchandise,” he told the fierce creatures. They responded in Goblin, asking some question or another; the slaver shook his head and said, “No, the east tunnel, it looks like we won’t be able to slip out to the north.” Then the dark elves shut the dungeon door, and Jack could hear or see nothing more except the empty cells around his own.

He gave the bars of his cell an angry shake; they did not move much at all. Then he commenced pacing and worrying at the numerous things that seemed to be out of his control at the moment. He’d succeeded in finding Seila, only to watch her carried away again by the vile Cailek Balathorp while he was very much powerless to prevent it. “Perhaps I should have come up with some more cautious plan than leaping through the portal after Seila,” he muttered. He’d assumed that with his magic and native cleverness it would not be difficult to escape the dark elves if they captured him, but now he was much less confident of that. And every moment he remained trapped in this cold, cheerless cell, Balathorp was dragging Seila farther away from him!

He sighed and stretched himself out on a cold stone ledge that served as a bed. Where would Balathorp take Seila? He was certainly through in Raven’s Bluff after Jack had exposed him in front of everybody at the Lord Mayor’s Revel, and Balathorp’s part in the attack had cemented his place as an enemy of the city. It seemed that Balathorp intended to quit Chumavhraele at his earliest convenience, so presumably the tunnel or tunnels to the east led to the surface. And were Jelan and Norwood still fighting their way down to the drow realm, or had Dresimil already sprung her trap? Did Raven’s Bluff even have sufficient forces to defeat the dark elves if they had control over the wild mythal? Jack glanced toward the left-hand wall of his cell and realized that he was looking in the direction of the mythal stone on the lakeshore a mile distant. He could feel the magic of the device through the castle walls, much as one could feel the direction and strength of the sun even with eyes closed. It was much stronger, more focused, than it had been the last time he was in Chumavhraele.

Jack frowned as he considered the subtle tug and play of unseen forces around him. “What are Jaeren and Jezzryd up to?” he wondered. He felt a certain protective impulse toward the wild mythal; after all, he was fairly certain the goddess Mystra had once asked him to look after it, although it was possible that was only a dream. It was a strange fate that had bound up his magic with the work of drow archmages ten thousand years before his birth, he reflected. The mythal’s touch had rested on him long before he’d been encysted within it for a century; he knew now that it was the source of his magic. He likely wouldn’t have been a sorcerer at all if he had been born in some less magical city.

He was roused from his reflections by a sudden clamor of battle not far from his cell. Steel rang against steel just outside the dungeon in which he was imprisoned, followed by the thundering detonations of powerful battle-magic. Even within his cell he could feel the wash of heat and smell the acrid brimstone of flames washing through the chambers outside. Drow shouted to one another, rallying to meet the threat. “Norwood’s armsmen!” he decided, scrambling to his feet. His freedom might be at hand … assuming the soldiers discovered the guardroom. He hurried over to the bars of the cell, peering toward the door leading to the guardroom and waiting for it to open.

There was a clatter of swordplay from the other side of the door and a quick rattle of heavy keys-and then a dark elf warrior threw open the door and rushed over to Jack’s cell. The drow glanced up and down the hallway, then raised his crossbow and aimed it at Jack. “You are coming with me,” he snarled. “Stand back from the door.”

“So much for the notion of rescue,” Jack muttered. He stepped back from the cell door under the threat of the dark elf’s weapon. It seemed likely that the guard was under orders not to kill him, but he would certainly lose any opportunity of slipping away if he were drugged with sleep-venom again. The dark elf reached for the keys at his belt and took a step toward the cell, but at that moment he heard something behind him and spun to face it-only to catch a thrown dagger in his breast. The dark elf staggered back to the bars, his face gray, and started to raise his crossbow at Jack before collapsing to the floor.

Jack stared at the dead drow in astonishment before he glanced up at the guardroom door. The half-orc swordsman Narm stood there, straightening up from his throw, and beside him stood Myrkyssa Jelan. “Elana! Narm!” he exclaimed. “This is a welcome turn of events. I feared I was being summoned to my execution.”

“It’s still a possibility,” Narm grunted. “There is a whole castle full of drow around us-the rest of our troops are tied up in the tunnels.” He hurried forward to take the keyring from the fallen guard’s belt and began working at the cell door.

Jelan took a moment to examine the cell, then positioned herself to keep an eye on the doorway behind them. “Hello, Jack,” she said. “Somehow I knew that sooner or later I would see you behind bars. There is a certain ironic satisfaction to this moment.”

“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 Chumavh 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 Chumavhraele. 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 bolts 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 Chumavhraele 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 Chumavh 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 Chumavh 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 rothe 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 Chumavhraele 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 rothe 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 rothe 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 rothe 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 seemed 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.”

“Say no more. I will have you free in a moment.” Jack bent his efforts toward prying open the lock of the manacles, trying to be as silent as he could.

He opened one lock, and turned to the other-and just at that moment a heavy cudgel whirled through the shadows, striking him across the shoulders. The surprise and impact threw him off his feet, knocking the wind out of him. His invisibility faded as he lost his concentration on maintaining the spell, and he sprawled on the cold hard ground by Seila’s feet. What happened? he wondered, shaking his head in confusion until he realized that someone had thrown a heavy club at him, just barely missing his head.

“Jack, behind you!” Seila cried out, a moment too late.

“Ravenwild,” a familiar voice snarled. “I thought I heard someone playing with Seila’s chains.” Cailek Balathorp stood fifteen feet away beneath the towering mushroom, a sneer of contempt beneath his leather hood. “I had thought the dark elves would see to you, but it looks like I can settle our score personally. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Jack picked himself up, his shoulder aching from the slaver’s club. “Well, I had thought the Watch would see to you, but I was mistaken,” he retorted. “More’s the pity.”

Balathorp drew the sword at his hip and grinned wickedly, advancing on Jack. Jack glanced around, looking for some potential advantage or distraction, but nothing leapt to his eye. Several of the slavers were thrashing about the rocks and mushrooms at the head of the caravan, apparently in pursuit of Narm, but others were turning back this way. He took a deep breath, drew the drow rapier he carried, and advanced to meet the slaver. He needed to defeat Balathorp quickly and quietly, before the rest of the slaver’s gang came running.

The slaver lunged forward and aimed a thrust straight at Jack’s belt buckle. Jack parried and riposted; Balathorp’s blade leaped to meet his own, and the duel was on. Balathorp was tall and had a significant advantage in reach, but Jack was quicker. They were a close match in skill, but Jack faced one crucial problem: Time was not on his side. The shrill song of steel beating against steel already rang in the air, and Jack could hear the shouts of alarm from the rest of the slaver gang. Even if he could wear down Fetterfist and best him in a fair fight, he could never hope to beat five or six at once; he was no Myrkyssa Jelan, after all.

Balathorp recognized Jack’s vulnerability, too, and he grinned as he shifted to the defensive, switching to cautious jabs and quick slashes. “You fool,” he said to Jack. “Did you think to steal my wares? You will pay with your life … or better yet, you will join your dear Seila in chains.”

“Not this day, I think,” Jack replied. He took a step back out of sword reach, and invoked his spell of invisibility again-something he was not sure he could do, but the growing swell of the wild mythal’s power seemed to invigorate his arcane talents as it increased. Balathorp swore and backed up himself, swinging his sword in a wide arc to fend off any invisible rush Jack mounted. The rogue watched the slaver’s sword whip past once, then twice, before jumping inside his reach and sinking his rapier into Balathorp’s black heart.

The stricken slaver groaned and staggered. “A base ploy,” he gasped.

“For a base foe,” Jack snarled. His invisibility spell faded, spoiled by his sudden lunge. He snatched Balathorp’s keys from his belt, then kicked the slaver off his swordpoint and hurried back over to Seila. Several of Balathorp’s thugs saw the whole thing, taking in the scene with cries of dismay, but Jack coolly bent down to Seila’s manacles and opened the lock with the slaver’s keys.

“Jack!” Seila called, looking over his shoulder. Running footsteps and roars of challenge grew loud behind him.

“I know,” he answered. He grasped her hand and brought to mind his spell of shadow-teleport. An instant before the thugs’ blades skewered both of them, Jack and Seila vanished into the cavern gloom.

Hand in hand, Jack and Seila made their way through the gigantic mushrooms of the drow cavern, retracing the path they’d followed in their first escape from Chumavhraele months before. Behind them Balathorp’s slavers vainly scoured their area around the crossroads for any sign of the noblewoman and the rogue, but Jack’s spell had carried them two hundred yards or more in the blink of an eye-there was no trail for the slavers to follow, and Jack had no intention of lingering any place their enemies might blunder into them.

“We seem to be making a habit of this,” Jack said to Seila as they hurried along. “Remind me to hide a change of clothing and some good food and drink somewhere around here for the next time we find ourselves fleeing the dark elves’ domain.”

Seila squeezed his hand and shook her head, even though she smiled. “I should have known you would find a way to slip away again.”

“I had some timely help. Myrkyssa Jelan set me free; she’s down here with a band of sellswords, looking for a way to throw a handful of peppers in Dresimil Chumavh’s bowl of cream. I came straightaway to find you.”

“I can’t believe that you came back for me a second time, especially after my father treated you with such suspicion.”

Jack snorted. “I didn’t pluck you away from Balathorp to win Lord Norwood’s regard. I simply couldn’t live with myself if I left you in the slavers’ hands.”

He paused to study their direction; Seila tugged on his hand, and when he glanced at her, she flowed into his arms and kissed him with such fierceness that his head swam. “There will be more later,” she breathed into his ear when she finally drew away. “That is twice now you have saved me, Jack Ravenwild. I don’t care what my father thinks, any man who would do that is a man worthy of my love.”

He drew a deep breath to slow the racing of his heart, and allowed himself a wry smile. “We haven’t escaped yet,” he said.

“Should we make for the platform again?”

“Not this time, my dear. Your father brought a small army down here to deal with the dark elves once and for all. If he isn’t storming Tower Chumavhraele, he will be soon; I think we’ll be able to find him there.”

They reached Malmor’s paddocks, and Jack motioned for Seila to wait. He peered around in the gloom, looking for any sign of Narm. The half-orc was nowhere in sight; Jack frowned, but told himself that it was possible that he’d been forced to retreat in some inconvenient direction. He was just about to move on again when he finally caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered figure trotting up along the trail behind them. Narm was limping, and blood ran freely from a shallow cut across his forehead, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

“Seila, this is Narm,” Jack said. “He is the leader of the Blue Wyvern adventuring company. Narm, this is Seila Norwood.”

“A pleasure,” the half-orc said gruffly. He looked at Jack with a scowl. “Next time, you create the distraction and I’ll sneak up to free the girl.”

“I am sorry you were hurt on my behalf, Master Narm,” Seila said. “I am truly grateful for your help.”

Narm looked down at the ground and gave a small shrug. “It was nothing, m’lady,” he mumbled.

“Let us press on,” Jack suggested. He led the way back toward the tower, listening closely for any sounds of fighting and peering cautiously into the shadows of each mushroom-stalk and boulder they approached-the last thing he wanted to do was to blunder into a battle. The road between pastures and tower seemed deserted for the moment. The black battlements loomed over them, still adorned with their eerie globes of witch-light and faerie fire. Jack could hear fighting within the walls, but no one was in sight atop the ramparts.

Seila paused suddenly at his side, pulling on his hand with hers. “What is that?” she murmured.

Jack glanced back at her, and saw that she was gazing up at the cavern ceiling. A flickering aurora of emerald energy danced in the high air of the great cavern, organizing itself in great spirals orbiting above a central point some distance away from them. “The wild mythal,” Jack said. “The drow intend to use its magic against your father’s soldiers, I wager.”

“It’s growing stronger.” Seila pointed, and Jack realized that she was right; a visible thread of energy lanced straight up from the cavern floor toward the swirling aurora above them. Moment by moment, the thread seemed to grow a little brighter, a little more substantial, driving back the eternal darkness of the Underdark.

“So it is,” he agreed. That did not seem like a good sign, to say the least. The mythal spell was evolving in front of them, and Jack could feel the subtle currents of its magic shifting and flowing in response. “Come along. I’d like to see what Elana and our mages make of this.”

They came to the castle’s gatehouse. The gates stood open, and whole companies of armsmen from Raven’s Bluff-some in the uniform of the city’s army, others wearing the colors of various noble houses-seemed to be engaged in occupying the castle. There was no sign of Jelan, the Moon Daggers, or the Blue Wyverns, but in the middle of a band of twenty or thirty captains, banner-bearers, and Norwood bodyguards stood Marden Norwood himself. The silver-haired lord stood just outside the courtyard, watching as the captains of the city’s assault force directed the taking of Tower Chumavhraele. Jack could see human, dwarf, and elf soldiers storming the doorways and halls of the drow castle; shouts and the clatter of steel rang from the depths of the fortress.

“Father!” cried Seila. She ran up to embrace the old lord. “How did you get here?”

“Seila, my lass!” Norwood swept Seila into his arms and hugged her close. “I feared that something terrible had happened to you!”

“It almost did,” Seila answered. “Balathorp tried to spirit me away before your army arrived, but Jack here-and his friend, Narm-tracked him down and rescued me.”

Norwood’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Jack, and after a long moment gave him a grudging nod of respect. “Well done, Jack. I am once again in your debt.”

Jack nodded back. There was no particular reason to mention the Sarkonagael business if it had momentarily slipped Norwood’s mind, he decided. “What happened here?” he asked. “We left Elana and her company at the gatehouse when we set out after Balathorp.”

“We broke the drow lines when we finally pushed them out of the tunnel and into the open cavern,” Norwood replied. “They fell back on the castle, but Elana and her warriors held the gate open just long enough for my soldiers to storm the place on the heels of the remaining dark elves. We have them, I think.”

“You must have half the army here,” said Seila.

“Six companies of it,” the old lord replied. “That was the most I could persuade the Noble Council to release, given the possibility that there might be other enemies like Balathorp ready to move if we stripped our defenses. However, I also have armsmen of six or seven noble houses here, too. It’s time to put an end to this.” He glanced at the soldiers securing the castle. “I am sorry that it took us so long. It took a couple of hours to gather the troops, and it was a half-day’s march through the tunnels to find our way to this cavern.”

“Where are Elana and the others?” Jack asked.

“They pursued a small party of dark elves who escaped the castle when our assault began.” Norwood pointed toward the flickering green column of eldritch energy. “The drow fled into the old ruined city, and that started up soon afterward. Do you know what it is?”

“The wild mythal of their ancient city,” Jack replied. “I think Dresimil means to turn its power against you. Send all of the soldiers you can spare-we can’t let her have it to herself.” Jack clapped Narm on his arm. “Come, friend Narm, and let’s see if we can find our companions again. They might have need of us.”

The half-orc shrugged. “As long as you realize that someone must pay for all this.”

“Wait,” said Seila. “I am coming, as well.”

“Absolutely not,” Norwood said. “Seila, stay with me. You will be safer with our soldiers around you.”

“Please, do as your father says,” Jack said. “I will feel better knowing that you are as safe as you can be in this place.”

Seila bridled and started to protest, but reluctantly she nodded. “Very well. But be careful yourself, Jack.”

Norwood clasped Jack’s hand firmly, and then Jack and Narm hurried back out of the castle. They turned right, and Jack led the way as they struck out across the cavern floor, making their way in a roundabout direction toward the excavations by the lakeshore. Jack led the way with more haste than caution; Dresimil’s warriors were busy, and he thought that patrols in Chumavhraele’s cavern were likely to be few and far between at the moment. In a quarter-hour, the faint outlines of the rambling walls and mud-filled towers of the long-drowned drow city loomed ahead in the gloom. No slaves were at work in the ruins; Jack guessed that the dark elves had most of the workers locked in their pens while so many of their soldiers were busy fighting elsewhere. They slowed their pace and quietly groped their way through the maze of muddy streets and crumbling buildings.

Even without the flickering shaft of emerald light to guide them, Jack could have picked out the wild mythal’s bearing and set a straight course for the stone. He trotted as swiftly as he dared through the ancient streets, Narm at his side. They passed through the broken archway of an old city gate, crossed a square of fluted columns arranged in different heights and numbers, and came to a broad boulevard leading straight toward the plaza at the heart of the city. In silence they stole forward, until Jack spied the ruined shell of a palace or temple that would let them reach the plaza unobserved. He slipped inside through a gloomy doorway and made his way closer until he could peer through a hole in the outer wall at the old mythal.

Dozens of drow soldiers stood guard around the plaza, protecting Jaeren and Jezzryd Chumavh as they chanted and wove their arms before the mythal stone, seeming to shape and conduct the blazing font of magical power in front of them. Dresimil stood a short distance behind her brothers, observing the proceedings.

“To the right,” Narm said in a low voice. He nodded at the shell of a building across the street; there, Jack glimpsed Jelan, Kilarnan, Kurzen, Wulfrad, and Halamar likewise sheltering out of sight of the dark elves guarding the plaza. Crossing directly over to the other building would entail darting across a street with nothing to conceal them … but Jack had no intention of letting the drow know he was nearby.

“Hold still,” he whispered, and took Narm by the arm. With a small invocation he worked his spell of shadow-teleporting, and whisked the two of them to the same building sheltering the others. In the blink of an eye they stood beside Jelan and the mercenaries.

Jelan, Kurzen, and the rest swore and leaped back, raising weapons and beginning spells before they recognized Jack and Narm. “Moradin’s beard, Jack,” Kurzen snarled. “I was ready to split your skull! A word of warning next time, if you value your life.”

“My apologies,” Jack said. “It seemed safer than trying to sneak up on you.”

“What are the drow mages doing?” Narm asked, watching the dark elves through the ruined wall.

Jack peered through the gap, trying to sense the fluctuations in the mythal’s magic. After a moment he said, “They are altering its enchantments. I have the sense that Jezzryd is preparing a barrier of some sort, while Jaeren is concentrating destructive energy.”

“Nothing that we should permit them to finish, then,” Jelan said.

Kilarnan looked at Jack in surprise. “You can discern the spells they are shaping?” he asked.

“I have a connection with the mythal. It’s the source of the magic I was born with.”

“What could they do with the mythal’s powers?” Arlith asked.

Jack shrugged. “I am afraid I have little insight to offer. The device has been inert for most of my life, and I have no idea what it is capable of.”

Kilarnan frowned. “Mythals create magical effects in a wide area. A barrier might take the form of a wall of energy that physically blocks enemies from entering or a mystic obstacle that impedes hostile magic. The destructive energy of the mythal might be capable of smiting every non-drow in this cavern with a bolt of arcane lightning, or razing Raven’s Bluff to the ground with a storm of fire, or opening up a gate to the Abyss for demons to pour into our world. There is almost nothing that they could not do.”

Jack grimaced; those were unappealing notions, to say the least. “As Elana said, nothing we should permit them to finish.”

“We are somewhat outnumbered,” Halamar pointed out.

“We have the advantage of surprise,” Jelan said. The swordswoman studied the plaza for a moment, and nodded to herself. “Halamar and Kilarnan, employ your spells on the drow warriors. Do what you can to scatter and confuse them. I will deal with Dresimil. Jack, the mythal is your task. You and the Blue Wyverns must stop the sorcerers. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Jack. Narm, Kurzen, and the rest followed with brief nods or “ayes.”

The Warlord looked to Kilarnan and Halamar. “Spells first,” she said. “Strike together when you are ready.”

The mages briefly conferred, then began summoning their magic. Jack poised himself to make a sprint for the mythal stone as the rest of the party readied their weapons. Then Kilarnan unleashed a spell of chained lightning at the drow warriors standing on one side of the plaza, while Halamar conjured a huge ball of fire that burst in a great explosion on the other side. Dozens of drow fell beneath the leaping blue arcs of lightning cascading from one warrior to the next or shrieked and flailed in the roaring flames of Halamar’s spell. Instantly Jelan leaped out of hiding and led the way as she charged across the plaza, roaring a battle cry; Monagh and Wulfrad followed only a step behind her, throwing themselves against their foes. Even as the adventurers hammered into the battered ranks of the dark elves, Kilarnan and Halamar were working new spells, while drow mages retaliated with bolts of ice and blasts of lightning back at the adventurers.

Jack waited a few moments to get a sense of how the fighting might shape up, then drew the drowish rapier at his belt and darted out into the plaza with Narm, Kurzen, and Arlith close behind him. Narm and Arlith were swept up into the furious melee, peeling away to meet drow warriors moving to intercept them, but Jack and Kurzen dodged through the press and reached the mythal stone. Jack pointed Kurzen at Jaeren and turned on Jezzryd. “Cut them down!” he cried.

The sorcerers glanced at Jack and went back to their work. Jack simply stepped forward and thrust his rapier straight at Jezzryd’s heart-but an inch before the steel point pierced the sorcerer’s robes, a green field flashed into visibility around Jezzryd’s body, stopping the point as surely as if Jack had stabbed a stone wall. An electric jolt like a buzzing of angry wasps ran up the hilt and through Jack’s arm, so sharp and intense that he dropped his blade with a cry of pain. Ten feet away, Kurzen fared no better-the warhammer he leveled at Jaeren’s skull rebounded with such force that he staggered and fell, swearing.

“Your efforts are futile, Lord Wildhame,” Jezzryd remarked. “But you may continue them if you wish.”

Kurzen picked himself up and tried to bodily tackle Jaeren, but he rebounded as before. “Damn it all,” he growled. “Jack, what do we do?”

Jack stared, helpless. He could feel the mounting power of the mythal. The sorcerers could scour all life from the plaza with a mere thought if they decided to. In pure desperation he shouted, “Guard me!” and stepped forward to brush his fingertips against the mythal stone, reaching out with his arcane senses and opening himself to the intangible flow of mystic energies that seethed around the wild mythal.

The torrent was powerful enough to stagger him where he stood, but he kept his feet and fixed his mind on sending the device into dormancy again. To his amazement the raging column of magic visibly dimmed and weakened … but then Jaeren and Jezzryd, standing on the opposite sides of the stone, detected his interference and redoubled their own efforts to feed the stone’s churning power. “You have outlived your usefulness, Ravenwild!” Jaeren snarled. “Continue this interference at peril of your life!”

“I believe I will take my chances,” Jack replied. He tried to shape a force-missile spell to blast the drow sorcerer, but the instant he diverted his attention from the struggle for control of the mythal’s power Jaeren shaped the torrent into a blazing emerald flame that nearly incinerated him on the spot. Only a desperate mental lunge for the unseen strands of power saved Jack; he retaliated with the same attack, but Jezzryd interposed an impenetrable barrier, protecting his brother. The mythal’s power was a knife, lethal and beautiful, poised directly between them-and like three warriors struggling over a single blade, whichever one of them lost his focus or will first would die.

In the corner of his eye Jack observed the battle raging around the mythal plaza. A drow warrior ran through the tattooed fighter Monagh from behind, slaying him as he battled two other dark elves. The guard-sergeant Sinafae leveled her crossbow at Jack, but Kurzen barreled into the dark elf and knocked her down. Sinafae slashed Kurzen across the midsection with the short sword in her other hand, but the dwarf’s armor held, and he smashed her shoulder and breastbone with his hammer. Narm tore into drow warriors with a berserker’s fury, leaping and darting like a cornered tiger.

In the center of the plaza, Myrkyssa Jelan faced Dresimil Chumavh. “I have seen that no spell can harm you,” Dresimil snarled at the Warlord, “but Lolth strengthens my hand, human. Let us see whether you are immune to my mace.” An aura of pale white fire seemed to surround the drow marquise, empowering her with the Spider Queen’s blessing; the silver scepter in her hands flew and struck like a switch of willow, but each blow shattered flagstones or pulverized blocks in the walls. It was all Jelan could do to avoid Dresimil’s attacks.

Jaeren and Jezzryd’s grasp on the wild mythal grew ever stronger, and Jack felt his hold beginning to slip. Jezzryd shielded his brother, guarding for both of them, while Jaeren bent his full attention to Jack’s destruction. One opponent Jack might have been able to stand against; after all, it was his mythal. But two working together were rapidly overwhelming him.

“Excellent, my brother!” Jaeren shouted within the coruscating sheets of raw magic. “Feed me more strength, so that I may finish this impudent human!” Jezzryd heard his twin and responded, pouring his strength into the mythal. Jack’s knees buckled and he sagged to the floor, fighting for nothing more than sheer survival.

Behind him, Dresimil cornered Myrkyssa. “And you were supposed to be impossible to defeat,” she laughed, and drew back for one blow of overwhelming strength. The silver mace rose high into the air, and then came down-but instead of attempting to parry the blow that could not be stopped, Jelan dropped her katana, reached up with her hands to seize Dresimil’s hands on the grip of the mace, and allowed herself to fall under the blow. With all her strength she pulled down on the mace, adding her strength to Dresimil’s Lolth-granted might, and allowed the drow noblewoman to overbalance. Dresimil struck the cold flagstones face-first, landing on her head and shoulders as she flipped over Jelan. Dresimil struggled to right herself, but Jelan was quicker. She seized the katana on the floor beside her, gripped it at hilt and mid-blade, and punched ten inches of its chisel-like point through the mail covering Dresimil’s chest.

Myrkyssa Jelan rolled to her feet and stood. “And you supposed that magic made you invulnerable,” she said. “Give your dark goddess my regards.” She looked for another foe, just as one of Dresimil’s bodyguards nearly killed her with a sword-slash across the ribs. Jelan cried out and staggered back, a hand clapped across her wound, but before the dark elf could finish her, a small crossbow quarrel appeared in his left cheek, and he sagged to the ground unconscious. Arlith bared her teeth in a fierce grin from her place at the edge of the plaza and drew back her string for another shot.

Emerald fire crackled around Jack, mere inches from consuming him. He felt his strength beginning to give out … but Myrkyssa’s ploy suggested a desperate gambit. Rather than directly resisting Jaeren’s power, he abruptly shifted the nature of his defense, throwing his effort into deflecting Jaeren’s attack toward the mythal itself and recklessly drawing as much power as he could to aid the effort. The mythal’s magic was caught, absorbed, and magnified to be returned an instant later. With each heartbeat the magical conflagration doubled and redoubled in strength.

Jaeren sensed the danger. “You fool, stop!” he shouted at Jack. “You will destroy us all!” He tried to arrest the mythal’s power and regain control of its energy, but Jezzryd was slower to perceive the danger and worked to shield his brother with ever more determination. Now Jack and Jezzryd worked together to stoke the fires of the mythal, while Jaeren frantically tried to rein in the mounting power. Before Jack the mythal stone grew completely transparent, the stone only a hint of dark glass encasing a blazing emerald fire that was too bright to look at. Bolts of green incandescence escaped from the blaze, lancing randomly across the plaza to pulverize ancient ruins or strike down unlucky warriors. Drow and surface adventurers alike retreated from the fierce blaze. Half-blinded by the day-like brilliance and fighting without the leadership of Dresimil, the dark elves wavered and began to break.

The others standing near felt the mythal’s strain, too. Halamar turned a stricken look on the rogue and shouted, “Flee, Jack! It’s going to shatter!” But Jack hardly heard him; his blood sang with the mythal’s unquenchable fire, and for one dizzy instant he teetered on the brink of the precipice. Then, suddenly, he felt the crumbling of the last wards and checks designed long ago to preserve the mighty device from being consumed by the magic it controlled. He released his grasp on the mythal and staggered back; Jaeren and Jezzryd could not spare even the eyeblink of attention it would take to destroy him, as the drow sorcerers tried to bring under control something that had slipped all bounds of mortal magic.

Shimmering cracks appeared in the mythal stone, and everyone still fighting in the plaza, drow and non-drow alike, abandoned their duels to distance themselves from the incipient disaster. Jack staggered away, suddenly exhausted beyond all measure. He had no idea what would happen when the mythal failed, but whatever it was, there could surely be no harm in being as far from the stone as possible. He decided on a sturdy old wall that looked like it might offer some shelter … but then he found his feet rooted to the ground. He looked back in horror, and saw Dresimil Chumavh-lying on the ground, blood bubbling from her lips-holding a fist clenched in front of her, her eyes fixed on him. “Not so fast, Jack,” she rasped. “You can die where you stand, or you can help my brothers contain the mythal.”

Jack strained to escape the spell of holding, but it was useless-he was unable to take another step. He glanced once more at the mythal, now turning black with the virulence of its power, and averted his face. Just then, Myrkyssa Jelan ran back onto the plaza, and moved to shield him from the mythal with her body. “You are insane!” he shouted against the howling of the unrestrained magic.

“On the contrary, I have confidence in my curse,” she replied. The mythal gave one final tortured blast of energy toward the cavern ceiling, and Jelan suddenly hugged Jack as tightly as she could, shielding him. Then the mythal exploded. Wild magic lashed and flailed the ancient ruins, shattering buildings and bringing huge falls of rock and dust from the cavern ceiling far overhead. Jack felt the mythal’s end as if someone had reached into the very core of his being and severed some taut cord with a sharp knife. Jaeren and Jezzryd, standing only ten feet away, simply disintegrated in the wash of arcane power. Dresimil was blasted into an unyielding stone wall with enough force to break every bone in her dying body; drow and adventurers a hundred yards away were thrown from their feet. But the raving emerald streams passed around Myrkyssa Jelan … and Jack as well, guarded by her antimagic.

Echoes of thunder rolled through the cavern as blackness descended once more. Jack blinked away bright green after-images that dotted his vision and found his feet free to move. He pulled away from Jelan with a simple nod of thanks, and then looked around the plaza. Slowly, his surviving comrades were standing up and checking themselves for injury. Halamar and Kurzen appeared unharmed; Narm lay unconscious, apparently knocked out by a chunk of flying masonry, and the priest Wulfrad had been crushed under a cart-sized stalactite that lay broken around his body.

“Jack! Jack!” The rogue looked up and saw Seila and her father hurrying down the avenue leading to the plaza, columns of armsmen flanking them on each side. “Are you hurt?”

“Seila?” Jack called. He picked his way through the wreckage, and then ran over to catch her in his arms.

Jelan stood staring at the wreckage of the wild mythal. She held up her hand and, with a small frown of concentration, evoked a small green flame from her fingertip. “Remarkable,” she breathed. “I can feel the substance of magic. I can feel it!”

“Is that it, then?” Norwood wondered aloud. “Are they truly beaten?”

Jack looked around for more dark elves, anticipating that they might be regrouping in the shadows-but there were no conscious drow in sight. He’d seen Jaeren, Jezzryd, and Dresimil killed outright, and even if some cousin or another survived to claim leadership of House Chumavh, most of their warriors and slave monsters had been wiped out in Norwood’s assault. Fetterfist, Cailek Balathorp, was dead under Jack’s own blade … but there were certainly any number of slaves to rescue.

A small, wiry figure groaned and stirred quite close to the mythal’s resting place, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. Jack frowned, wondering who it was … and found himself staring at his own visage, although somewhat burned and disheveled from the force of the explosion. The shadow-double met Jack’s eyes, smirking in silence, and then darted off into the smoke and gloom of the ruined city. Jack took two quick steps and seized a drow crossbow to bring down the creature before he got away, but it was too late-by the time he had the weapon in hand, the simulacrum was nowhere in sight.

“What was that, Jack?” Seila asked.

“No one of consequence,” Jack said slowly. Apparently the simulacrum was disheveled enough that Seila hadn’t noticed the resemblance. Tarandor must have indeed found his way down to Chumavhraele and interred his double in the wild mythal sometime in the last few days before the attack on Blackwood Manor and Norwood’s attack. He wondered if the abjurer would discover that the imprisoned Jack was now free, and decided it didn’t matter. Whatever Tarandor feared, the ancient mythal stone was a smoking heap of rubble, and even Jack, dabbler and dilettante that he was, could see that there was no magic that could ever make it whole again.

Halamar and Kurzen limped up, joined a moment later by Jelan. “Well, I expect that bounced every wizard within a thousand miles out of his bed,” Halamar remarked. “Did you have to destroy the thing, Jack? Great magics like that are rare wonders indeed, you know.”

“It was that, or let the drow have it for their own. I don’t want to think about what Dresimil and her brothers would have done with the wild mythal; it was too powerful a weapon to leave in anyone’s hands,” Jack answered. “In fact, Mystra herself told me as much once upon a time. I only hope there is not too great an area of dead magic left behind. Raven’s Bluff without magic would be little fun.”

Halamar frowned. “Dead magic? The arcane currents flow unconstrained, Jack.”

Jack blinked. “I do not sense them,” he said. He glanced at Jelan, and a sudden suspicion came to him. His magic was born of the wild mythal, in its way. Had he just deprived himself of his own sorcery? Or had Myrkyssa Jelan’s curse been transferred to him when the overwhelming power of the mythal’s destruction had washed over them both? He tried a minor cantrip, summoning up a light spell … but absolutely nothing happened. Quickly he tried several more spells; he might as well have been making up nonsense. “My magic’s gone,” he groaned.

Myrkyssa Jelan bowed her head. “If I caused it, Jack, then I am sincerely sorry; I only meant to see you spared if I could manage it.” Then she looked up with a wry smile. “And yet irony is again served; you once deprived me of my magic, and now perhaps I have deprived you of yours. However, look at it like this: You may find there are certain advantages to learning to rely on wits, character, and hard work alone.”

Jack made a small strangled sound in his throat. “What a horrible thing to say.”

Seila came to Jack’s side and slipped her arm around his waist again, quietly comforting him. She looked around the ruined plaza and gave a small shake of her head. “It seems that we are done here,” she said. “What do we do now?”

“Now?” Jack answered. He stood silent for a moment, wondering whether his magic was indeed gone forever or merely dormant for a time, and then shook off his self-pity with a low laugh. He stepped back to kiss her hand, rendering a florid bow. “Now, my dear, we go home, enjoy a flagon of the best wine gold can buy, and celebrate! I, for one, am through with the Underdark, the drow, and all their works.”

Seila laughed, and kissed Jack until his heart thundered in his chest; and he was consoled by the thought that there was more than one sort of magic in the world.