Richard Baker - Prince of Ravens

“Masters,” Malmor simpered at once. “What is-”

“Malmor,” the dung-splattered Varys snarled. “Oh, you will wish for a quick death before I am through with you. Kill the rest, but make sure the bugbear lives!”

The drow fell upon their slaves with merciless efficiency, blades flashing and crossbows singing. Two or three of the overseers went down at once beneath the murderous assault, while others threw themselves to the ground in terror or scattered to the four winds, thinking of nothing but getting away from the furious warriors. Malmor fell to his knees, cringing. “Malmor does not know what he has done, what he has done,” he wailed. “Please, masters, do not be angry, do not-” His groveling was cut off by the whistling impact of Varys’s stinging-rod, quickly joined by several more as the dark elves set about beating the bugbear as thoroughly and viciously as anybody had ever been beaten before.

Jack wormed his way over the top of the stored fodder and slipped out the other side of the crib. No one was close by, although he could see dark elves beating their overseers or chasing after fleeing ones here and there. He quickly stole his way across to Malmor’s shelter and ducked inside. The time had come to make his bid for freedom, even if he didn’t know exactly how it might fall out, and nothing he heard or saw from the dark elves outside dissuaded him. It was shaping up to be a very unpleasant time in the rothe fields for the indefinite future; clearly it was time to go.

Jack quickly ransacked Malmor’s possessions, looking for anything that might be useful in a trek through the Underdark. He found a trunk of better clothing than he was now wearing, no doubt taken from past prisoners who’d fallen into the bugbear’s power, and a pair of leather boots that couldn’t have come close to fitting on Malmor’s feet. He changed into the clean clothes, choosing the darkest colors he could find, donned the boots, and threw a battered old cloak around his shoulders for good measure. There was a good store of food in the form of rothe jerky, rothe cheese, and dried mushrooms of a somewhat more palatable variety than the fodder they fed to the livestock; Jack took as much as he could carry easily. He discarded a stinking wineskin filled with some sour vintage suitable only for a bugbear’s palate, but salvaged two more waterskins that were reasonably clean. Finally, he found a well-worn old short sword of drow make, and a good knife.

He risked a quick glance from the doorway of the hovel. More dark elf warriors were on their way, hurrying to the paddocks from all sides. Slaves milled around in terror, groveled for their lives, or ran here and there out in the pastures, trying to corral bleating rothe. “Confusion prevails,” Jack observed. “I should be on my way.”

He sidled around the hovel until he reached the side facing away from the paddocks, and loped off into the gloom of the great cavern, doing his best to stay out of sight. Behind him, shouts of terror, cries of pain, and the thundering hoofbeats and bleating of hundreds of panicking rothe filled the air. He reached the cover of the treelike fungi across the road from the pastures, and paused to survey his handiwork for a moment.

“I regret that I am no longer able to remain in management of Lady Dresimil’s pastures,” Jack said aloud, addressing the shadow of the drow castle ahead. “It is unfortunate that my departure leaves the property in no small disorder, but I am electing to pursue new opportunities elsewhere. Oh, and I expect you will need to replace Malmor as well, as he has proven unreliable.”

He hurried up the path leading toward the castle kitchens, keeping an eye open for drow soldiers coming the other way.

Two times Jack heard the jingle of mail in the gloom and hurriedly ducked off the path, hiding behind the great boles of tree-sized fungi dotting the cavern floor as dark elf patrols rushed down from the castle to quell the disturbances in the paddocks below. When he reached the door leading to the kitchens, he paused briefly to consider his options. A bold plan executed with confidence would be best, he decided. Jack brought the spell of disguise to mind again; he had already taxed his reserves of mystic strength, but he couldn’t imagine a way to proceed without employing another spell. This time he crafted for himself the lean, fine-boned, ebony-skinned features of a dark elf, dressing himself in illusory mail and a long, dark cape. Whether Varys would be flattered by the imitation or not Jack couldn’t say, but the guard-sergeant was the dark elf whose appearance he was most familiar with, and he judged that Varys would do for what he had in mind.

Squaring his shoulders and fixing his face in a contemptuous sneer, Jack sauntered up the path the remaining distance and strode into the kitchens as if he owned the place. Kitchen-slaves stopped their work and backed out his way, bowing and scraping. No other dark elves were in sight, but Jack was counting on that-he hadn’t seen any drow in the kitchens on any of his previous visits. He permitted himself a small sigh of relief at finding his expectations confirmed, because if any fellow drow had addressed him in their native language he wouldn’t have understood a word of it. With redoubled confidence Jack marched into the center of the bustling space, then turned in a slow, deliberate circle, studying each servant and slave in the room carefully.

The half-orc kitchen overseer Grelda approached carefully. “How can I help you, master?” she inquired with the mildest tone she could manage.

“Lord Jaeren requires a subject for a certain arcane experiment,” Jack replied. “Female, human, preferably young and healthy. Show me all slaves who meet that description.”

“This is a highly unusual request, master-” the kitchen-mistress began.

Jack wheeled on her with such vehemence that the woman quailed in fright. “You are half-human, are you not? And you appear healthy. I wonder if you might do?”

“Ah-ah-I am sure we can find some slave who is fully human, wise master,” Grelda gabbled. “It would be best to meet Lord Jaeren’s requirements exactly. Here, here, look at this one!” The kitchen overseer seized a thin, dull-eyed woman standing nearby and thrust her toward Jack; the poor scullery maid moaned in fear.

“Hmm, I think you can do better,” said Jack. He surveyed the room, seeing no sign of Seila. It was one thing to march into the kitchens he knew and pretend to be a dark elf, but he certainly didn’t want to have to search the castle for her. He made a show of examining several more unfortunate captives as he considered how to refine his ruse to send the half-orc specifically for Seila, but he feared that might begin to sound just a little suspicious. The longer he stood here in the kitchen, the more likely it was that something could go wrong. He was just about to reject the entire roomful of women and ask to see more, when a door opened and several laundresses appeared, carrying baskets full of dirty linens. They froze at once when they saw the rest of the kitchen hands waiting on Jack’s selection; Jack quickly hid a grin of relief when he saw that Seila Norwood was the second in the group.

“There, that one,” he said at once, pointing. “She meets all of Lord Jaeren’s requirements perfectly. You, there. Drop that basket and come with me.”

Seila stood stricken in terror. The kitchen overseer rounded on her and shouted, “You heard the master, you stupid slut. Go!”

Somehow, Seila overcame her fear enough to take one step, then another. She composed herself as best she could and came to stand before Jack. He looked her over, and turned back to Grelda. “And one more thing. Lady Dresimil instructed me to inform you that she grows weary of the customary menu. She doubts whether you season her dishes at all. If you value your life, you will prepare tonight’s meal with the most fiery spices you have at your disposal. She demands something that would, how did she put it, ‘char a dragon’s throat.’ Send up your most fearsome effort, and pray that it is enough to pique her interest.”