Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel Read online

  ALSO BY RICHARD BAKER

  BLADE OF THE MOONSEA

  Swordmage

  Corsair

  Avenger

  THE LAST MYTHAL

  Forsaken House

  Farthest Reach

  Final Gate

  JACK RAVENWILD

  City of Ravens

  R.A. SALVATORE’S

  WAR OF THE SPIDER QUEEN

  Condemnation

  PRINCE OF RAVENS

  ©2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Marc Simonetti

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6131-3

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  For my family,

  It seems that new adventures await.

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF

  UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  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 Chûmavh, marquise of Chûmavhraele. 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?”