Mercedes Lackey & Mark Sheperd - Bard's Tale 03 - Prison Of

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PRISON OF SOULS
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or
incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Mercedes Lackey and Mark Shepherd
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
The Bard's Tale characters and descriptions are the sole property
of Electronic Arts and are used by permission. The Bard's Tale is a
registered trademark of Electronic Arts.
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-72193-3
Cover art by Larry Elmore
First printing, November 1993
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter I
"Let's begin," Naitachal said, casting his black cloak to
one side and raising his practice sword in salute. "And
see if you can get through this drill without tripping
over yourself." He smiled, softening the sarcasm just a
little. Few ever saw a Dark Elf smile and survived to
tell about it; but Naitachal's smile meant only what
any human's would, and it warmed his cold blue eyes
in a way that no other Dark Elf could match.
His apprentice Alaire returned the salute with his
practice sword, and stifled a sardonic reply.
This time, Master Naitachal, you'd better watch out,
Alaire thought as he checked his footing on the coarse
gravel. I've been practicing while you were away!
They faced each other on the small practice field of
the Dark Elf's modest estate. Alaire was a head taller
than his mentor, but Naitachal had decades of experi-
ence. Both were slender, rather than heavily muscled.
At high noon the sun shone directly from above, a dis-
advantage to neither swordsmen.
The contest began, a graceful dance of flesh and
wood, their oak swords clacking away in the bright
sun. Alaire lunged early, catching Naitachal by sur-
prise. But the elf parried and thrust easily, slipping out
of the trap the youth was setting up, trying to pin the
elf against a tree. Alaire charged, using his blade like a
broadsword, and using his greater reach to force his
Master to the edge of the field. Naitachal tucked and
rolled, becoming a blur of black motion that vanished
behind Alaire before he turned, then reappeared at
the periphery of Alaire's vision.
"I thought you said no magic!" Alaire protested,
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fielding a counterattack with difficulty.
"None used," Naitachal said smoothly. "Pay atten-
tion to the sword, lad."
Alaire yielded to Naitachal's powerful, but meas-
ured thrusts, hoping to gain control of the contest. The
Dark Elf tripped and wavered momentarily as he lost
his balance, but gained it back quickly.
"Good move," Naitachal said, as their weapons
clacked; the contest fell into a mesmerizing rhythm as
Alaire probed for a weakness in the Dark Elf's
defense. 'Ten more of those and we might come out
even."
The bardling grinned; he Liked how his teacher
turned praise into a demand for more and better
effort. It kept the game interesting.
Alaire sensed that the Dark Elf was intentionally
ignoring his weaker left side. Only yesterday Naitachal
had drilled him endlessly, attacking on his left, until
that side ached. Now... nothing. Even as he consid-
ered this, Naitachal sidestepped off the field, ducked
behind a tree and came out on the weaker left.
Alaire was ready. Instead of backpedaling he lunged
again. The tip of the sword touched the edge of Nai-
tachal's black tunic, but no more; the elf had
sidestepped. Alaire cursed softly, catching a glint of
amusement in Naitachal's dark blue eyes.
Anger surged briefly over him as the swords clashed,
though Naitachal was only doing what any Master
should. The pace of the combat increased. The two
moved back towards the center of the practice field,
kicking up dust in the process. Naitachal was not going
to relinquish his control of the combat that easily. The
Dark Elf's breathing was a little more labored now.
After first faking high to lure Alaire's point away from
his intended target, the elf came in low with his sword.
Alaire deflected it, knocking the elf's swordtip into the
dirt. If he'd parried a little harder, he might have
disarmed his Master, and that would have been a first.
Too easy. Far too easy, Alaire thought, wondering
what distracted his mentor today. Normally he would
have landed me on my backside by now. He knew he
was an average swordsman; Naitachal was a master,
with uncounted years of practice behind him. Was
something wrong? Had the elf learned something on
his last journey to cause him worry?
The bardlings thoughts wandered slightly, enough
to give the Dark Elf an advantage.
"Look!" Naitachal shouted, pointing with his free
hand. "A comet!"
Alaire looked without thinking, following Nai-
tachal's gaze and pointing finger, to something above
and behind him. As his attention wavered, Naitachal
dropped his own blade to the side and shouldered into
him. The next second, he was sitting in the dust in an
undignified heap.
Naitachal regarded him calmly with disappoint-
ment and faint, elven amusement. "I can't believe you
fell for that, bardling."
"Not fair!" Alaire protested weakly, somehow man-
aging to laugh at himself. Boy, was that stupid. Fell, or
rather stepped, right into that one. "I was winning and
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you cheated."
"If you were really winning you wouldn't be sitting
there like that," Naitachal said. "We're getting to the
point in your training when almost anything is fair.
The real world is like that. Assassins," he added, his
sword waving in the sunlight as if to punctuate the
sentence, "will go to any lengths to kill their mark."
"What would an assassin want with me?" he replied,
but only half seriously. Someone might want me dead,
if only to get at my father. Being the eighth son of the
King put him in an awkward position. Derek, the first
born and oldest brother, would almost certainly
become king one day. The other brothers were train-
ing for important government or military positions.
Yet, the King had never planned on having so many
sons. As he once half-complained to the Queen, any
other woman would have produced at least a few
daughters along the way. Eventually he ran out of
things to do with them.
Alaire, being the eighth and youngest son, enjoyed
the rare luxury of choosing his life's work. He had been
a very precocious child, and at six, he had decided to
become a Bard. Fortunately, Naitachal was an old
friend of the King as well as a loyal friend to many
generations of the family. No one questioned who his
Master would be.
This had not been a childish whim, but a real voca-
tion. Naitachal had been able to assure the King that
his son's talent was considerable, and that all would be
well.
In many ways, his choice of lifework made him a
less likely mark. The older brothers would certainly
make better targets than he would. However, Alaire
could not ignore the possibility that he could be sin-
gled out by young toughs looking for a fight Naitachal
had often pointed this out when he was sitting in the
dust after a thorough trouncing.
For a year Alaire had trained under the King's Bard
Laureate, Gawaine, and under his guidance convinced
everyone that he had an exceptional degree of musi-
cal, and magical, talent. However, Gawaine was
getting no younger; he had other students besides
Alaire, as well as the enormous burden demanded by
his office of Laureate. Gawaine eventually found it
increasingly difficult to keep up with the workload.
Since Alaire was hardly an ordinary, common student,
Gawaine had known he ran the risk of favoring him
over the other bardlings. It would have been a situ-
ation fraught with trouble for a younger man than
Gawaine; for the Laureate, it was something he simply
did not have the strength to deal with.
By this time Alaire was eight, and he had heard
enough tales about Naitachal to be both excited and
alarmed by having him as his Master. Though he had
"always" assumed Naitachal would be his teacher, he
certainly didn't know what to expect from the mysteri-
ous elf; the Necromancers becoming a Bard was
bizarre enough. He had never seen a Dark Elf before;
he'd had no notion that his father had used the name
"Dark Elf" so literally.
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In the bright, airy colors of the court, Naitachal had
stood out like a drop of ink on a white lace tablecloth.
The black cloak he wore habitually flowed about him
as if it were liquid, and the tunic, hose and boots
seemed to absorb whatever light hit them, as if the
Bard's body was a place that canceled daylight. Top-
ping the darkness was his straight, silver hair that hung
down his back, long as all elves wore it, and swept
gracefully from side to side as he turned. His brilliant
blue eyes, twin pools of color in the smooth black skin
of that ageless face, burned right through Alaire when
they first met. They distracted him, even now, during
sword practice. Alaire soon found out Naitachal was
no ordinary Dark Elf, if there could be such a thing.
The somber darkness that seemed to follow him wher-
ever he went was only deceptive camouflage; within
lurked an absurdly cheerful Bard, a master of his
trade, as well as a teacher of other, more practical
skills.
Naitachal had often reminded him of his royal obli-
gations and duties, and the possibility that one day he
might be nearer the throne than he was now. How-
ever, this was the first time Naitachal had mentioned
assassins.
It disturbed him at first, but after a moment of
reflection, he shrugged it off. Sometimes the meaning
of the elf's words didn't become clear for days or even
weeks.
He's probably talking about years from now, when I
join Fathers court. Right now, the prospect of Alaire's
ever having to deal with an assassin seemed vague.
How would an assassin get out here near Fenrich, this
remote village on the northeast coast? And once here,
how could he ever be less than conspicuous?
Alaire loved this place, its peace and quiet, although
he knew it would probably drive his brothers mad with
boredom to stay here for more than a day. It seemed
the ideal location to learn Bardic skills as well as
magic; after all, there were few distractions here to
speak of.
Naitachal had chosen this location to settle, in part
because of the isolation, but also because the village
folk readily accepted him as himself. His money was
good, after all. In times of trouble Naitachal had gen-
erously given his time and magical expertise, winning
considerable popularity among the townsfolk.
Alaire stood and brushed the dust off his breeches,
nursing some pride back into his damaged ego.
"Living out here on the edge of the kingdom
doesn't change your lineage," Naitachal reminded
him. "There's always the chance some enemy of your
father's may want to kidnap you and hold you for ran-
som. This is more likely to happen, though the same
people often kidnap or kill with equal indifference."
"Perhaps," he said, acknowledging Naitachal's
warning, but not really believing he could ever be a
target. At least, not while he was a mere bardling, and
under Naitachal's supervision. First, so few people
knew he even existed, and even fewer knew he was
way out here, Next Door to Nowhere. He didn't like
the sudden serious turn the conversation had taken,
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but then what could one expect from a Dark Elf ?
Despite Naitachal's cheer he sometimes lapsed into
the gloom and doom of his own kind. The bardling
had met only a few Dark Elves, who were far more
morbid than his Master had ever been.
No, it was probably just that Naitachal was having
one of those relapses into depression. Probably no one
remembered his existence, outside his own family.
Alaire could almost forget his royal blood out here on
the outskirts of the kingdom.
It's a good thing I'm the eighth son. I know I could
never handle being king. Lucky Derek, he has the
throne and all its responsibilities to look forward to.
By now he must feel like an actor in a play, with all his
lines and actions written out for him.
Alaire struggled to his feet and answered Nai-
tachal's salute with one of his own.
"We aren't finished yet," the Dark Elf said.
As if I was worried we might not be, Alaire thought,
heeding the challenge nevertheless.
Naitachal struck with a vengeance, taking Alaire by
surprise. What's gotten into him? The boy thought as
he frantically defended himself. The elf was attacking
his left side, just as he had the day before.
He did his best, but it became painfully evident that
either Naitachal had been toying with him earlier, or
else he had been distracted by something and was
now leveling his full concentration on the bout. Within
moments, Alaire was struggling just to keep from
being scored on.
Within a few breaths, it was obvious that he was not
going to manage even that.
"Hit," Naitachal declared; the swordpoint wavered
just above his heart. "You're dead."
Alaire froze, then dropped his swordpoint to the
ground.
They both bowed, formally, as the etiquette of
Swordmaster and pupil demanded. Then both
grinned, and Alaire wiped sweat from his forehead
with his sleeve.
"Let's take a break," Naitachal said, "then back to
work."
"I was about ready for a breather," Alaire admitted,
omitting the real reason he wanted to stop: he wanted
a drink to wash away the dust he'd eaten.
They set their wooden swords on a small rack near
the practice field and went to the well beside the front
door. Dipping a ladle into the bucket of ice-cold water,
Alaire drank deeply, clearing his mouth of the dirt.
Naitachal drank too, though he didn't seem winded
or even truly tired. His folk have a constitution we
humans can only dream of, the bardling thought with
envy, at the same time uttering a brief prayer to the
gods that be that he would never have to fight an elf
for real. The practices are hell enough!
Naitachal's age was as much an enigma now as it
had been when Alaire first met him. From some of the
old songs and tales, Alaire learned that he had been
around in King Amber's time. Even then he was old by
human standards.
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