Richard Baker - Prince of Ravens

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.”