“What do you say?” said Blacktree. The ninth bell sounded. “The drow will attack us here?”
“Along with any thugs or sellswords Balathorp here could arrange,” Jack replied. He swept the ballroom and its balconies with his eyes, looking for cloaked and hooded figures in the shadows.
“Perhaps it would be wise to-” the Lord Mayor started to say, but at that moment the tenth bell of the hour struck. On the very note, globes of pure blackness suddenly sprang into being throughout the grand ballroom, followed at once by screams of panic and the sudden shrill sound of steel. Jack caught one glimpse of slender figures in dark cloaks appearing in the doorways and alcoves of the room before darkness suddenly swallowed him where he stood. The scuffle and trample of panicked footsteps seemed to be all around him; he tightened his grasp on Balathorp. But at that moment a large, strong hand clamped onto his right wrist, challenging him for control of the dagger-Balathorp had used the cover of the darkness to make a grab for the weapon.
Jack struggled to drive the blade home and managed to give the tall slaver a nasty cut, but a hard-driven elbow knocked him back. Balathorp grunted and twisted out of Jack’s grip. “Too late, Ravenwild,” the slaver hissed from somewhere nearby. “We have prepared a long time for this day. When we are done here, I will be the only lord left in Raven’s Bluff.”
“By all means, keep talking,” Jack replied, groping in the darkness. “I find this fascinating.” Someone blundered into him, and Jack very nearly stabbed him or her before he recognized the soft curve of a woman’s shoulder under his fingers. The woman gave a shriek of fright and recoiled; Jack muttered an oath and sheathed his dagger. He stopped moving and held still, listening for his foe, but it was hopeless. The ballroom was panic and bedlam, with screams of pain, cries of panic and dismay, the crash and clatter of furniture and glass, and countless footsteps and boot-scufflings in the dark. He heard Marden Norwood shouting commands, Lord Mayor Blacktree shouting out orders of his own, and half dozen other lords and captains all trying to assert control over the room.
“Chaos and calamity,” Jack said to himself. “This is madness!” If he moved he might blunder into someone else’s raised blade. If he stayed put some clever dark elf might cut him down like a stupid sheep. Jack stood paralyzed, unsure whether to wait for the darkness to end, try to find his way out, or announce his presence by calling out. But then a single terrified scream ended his indecision-Seila’s cry, ringing from somewhere not far off.
“Help! Jack!” she cried. Her cry was suddenly muffled, as if by a hand or gag clamped over her mouth.
“Seila,” Jack breathed. Without another thought, he rushed in the direction of her voice, only to stumble at once over a body lying motionless on the floor. He picked himself up and proceeded more carefully-and then he felt a strong counter spell wash across the ballroom. The drow darkness-globes evaporated one after another, dispelled by some spellcaster in the room. The return of the ballroom’s lanternlight revealed a scene of absolute pandemonium: Dozens appeared to be dead or wounded already, and drow warriors moved through the crowd, cutting down some and shooting others with their drugged quarrels. The guards of half a dozen noble houses battled fiercely against quick, graceful drow swordsmen, while others fought against a large gang of brown-hooded ruffians-Fetterfist’s men, or so Jack guessed-who were pouring into the manor’s foyer and front hall, blocking escape.
At first the whole scene appeared to be an unmitigated disaster, and Jack’s heart sank. But then he noticed that things were not all in the villains’ favor. Many of the nobles and city officials were armed with rapiers, daggers, and other such weapons suitable in a social setting, and they appeared to know how to use them. Others were spellcasters, and they plied wand and spell against the manor’s attackers. Norwood stood in the middle of a knot of his own armsmen, his wife Idril by his side shouting “Seila! Seila!” and looking desperately around the room. Jack spied Narm and Kurzen battling furiously against the ruffians near the ballroom entrance, while Halamar defended himself with five darting daggers of flame that wheeled and tumbled through the air around him.
“The issue is in doubt,” the rogue said to himself as he turned one way and another, searching for some glimpse of Balathorp or Seila. After a moment he spotted the tall lord’s yellow hair near the main entrance. Balathorp was shoving his way toward the brown-hooded sellswords blocking the door … and he was dragging Seila along behind him. Jack ran after him, dodging and twisting his way through the press of panicked party-goers and brawling guards.
A pair of drow warriors appeared in front of him, and Jack found two rapiers hedging him in. Behind them stood one of Dresimil’s brothers-most likely Jaeren, because he was the one with the sense of humor and the sorcerer confronting Jack had a wide and insincere grin on his ebony features. “Well, well,” said the drow prince. “If it isn’t the Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame! We have been looking for you, sir. You departed without taking your leave of my sister; she was very disappointed.”
“I have always heard that it is unwise to overstay one’s welcome,” Jack replied. He drew his own rapier, although he did not fancy his odds against two skilled drow warriors at once, especially if Jaeren employed his magic. He lost sight of Balathorp, but then glimpsed the tall, thin lord once again, now fighting with his gang of ruffians at his back. “You might be well advised to consider that old adage, Lord Jaeren. Your troops are outnumbered and you no longer possess the advantage of surprise.”
“Do not fear, Lord Wildhame. We shall withdraw when we are good and ready,” the sorcerer promised. “In the meantime, my sister has specifically instructed me to extend you the hospitality of Chumavhraele, and your friend Seila Norwood as well.” He glanced at Jack’s blade, and raised an eyebrow. “If you please?”
“I fail to see what possible use your sister has for us. I was an indifferent field hand, after all.” Jack stood his ground, trying to project confidence he did not feel. “Was Seila Norwood a better scullery maid than I thought?”
There was a sudden surge in the fighting near the door. Jaeren glanced over, as did Jack. A new band of fighters entered the fray, crashing into the rear ranks of Balathorp’s slavers. They were a motley band of ruffians and sellswords, not much different from the slavers they attacked, but instead of brown hoods, these wore surcoats or jackets with a flash of white cloth over the breast-the image of a crescent moon crossed with a dagger. Jack caught a glimpse of the tattooed swordsman who’d fought for Myrkysa Jelan in Sarbreen, and an instant later, he saw Jelan herself, dressed in her armor of black mail and wielding her katana with precise savagery. Jack grinned and raised a fist. “Huzzah!” he shouted. “Your timing is impeccable, Elana!”
Jaeren’s good humor vanished. He spared one more glance for Jack, and gestured to the two warriors with him. “Take him alive,” he said. “I must deal with this.” Then he leaped into the air, hurling bolts of black ice at the mercenaries accompanying Jelan.
The two warriors facing Jack struck as one; the rogue barely parried the first blade, and twisted awkwardly away from the other. The dark elves tried again, and this time Jack took a shallow cut along his ribs. The drow grinned and circled him, flashing finger signs at each other, and then they attacked again. The first warrior pressed Jack closely, and their blades flashed and rang in the middle of the chaotic ballroom. But the second warrior stepped back, drawing his hand-crossbow and loading it with a poisoned quarrel. He took deliberate aim at Jack while Jack was fully engaged by his comrade … but before he could shoot, Arlith slipped up behind him and stabbed him with her dagger. The drow cried out and twisted, firing his quarrel randomly into the fray before sinking to the ground. The warrior dueling Jack glanced back at his comrade for just an instant, but it was long enough for Jack to circle his rapier under his foe’s blade and skewer him. “What a scene,” the halfling said to Jack. “Things aren’t often boring around you, are they?”