The rogue shook his head. Tharzon’s son looked just like Tharzon had, well, a hundred years ago. He tried to find a way to say that without confusing the poor fellow, and settled for asking, “Is Tharzon still … here?” After so many years, it simply seemed impossible that he might still be the proprietor of the Smoke Wyrm.
“Aye. What’s your business with him?”
“I’m an old friend.”
Kurzen squinted at Jack. “I’m near sixty years old, and I’ve never seen you before. Give me your name, then.”
“Tell Tharzon that Jack Ravenwild is at his doorstep,” Jack said. “I’ll wait.”
The dwarf grunted and closed the door. Seila glanced at Jack. “Ravenwild?” she asked.
“A nickname,” Jack explained. “Tharzon and I were sometimes engaged in ventures that wouldn’t have been entirely sanctioned by the civil authorities.” He heard Kurzen’s steps receding inside, and the distant sound of deep voices from somewhere inside. He gave Seila a quick wink. A moment later there came a cry in Dwarvish, and a sudden rush of footsteps toward the door, punctuated by a thumping or knocking sound. Then the door flew open wide again, and Jack found himself gazing upon the aged features of Tharzon the dwarf. If Tharzon had once looked very much like his son did today, he did no longer. His beard was gray, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, and most of the hair on top of his head had gone the way of last year’s snows. He was thinner than Jack remembered, too. The old dwarf’s shoulders were more hunched, and he leaned on a heavy cane-but the dark, fierce eyes and bushy brow were the same.
“Good morning, Tharzon,” Jack said. “I’ll wager you’d thought you’d seen the last of me.”
“Impossible,” the old dwarf whispered. “Impossible!”
“Not impossible, my old friend, merely highly improbable,” Jack answered. He glanced up at the taphouse and nodded in approval. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hard to believe you’ve kept it for a hundred years.”
“Are you well, Da?” Kurzen said to his father. “If this fellow troubles you, say the word, and I’ll run him off for you.”
Tharzon stood, his mouth agape, for a long moment, and then he managed to shake his head. “No, my boy, no. Don’t you know who you’re looking at? This is the man that found the Guilder’s Vault and defeated the Warlord herself. Did you not listen to any of the stories I told you when you were a youngster?”
“But that’s not possible,” Kurzen protested. “Why, he’d have to be a hundred and thirty years old! That’s no great age for our folk, but not so for a human.”
“Nevertheless, here I am,” said Jack. “Seila, this is my old comrade in arms, Tharzon Brewhammer. Tharzon, this is my new friend, Lady Seila Norwood of the Norwood family.”
“The noblelady as was rescued from the thrice-damned drow the other day?” Tharzon replied. “Don’t be so surprised, the story’s all over the town. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady. Please, come in. Come in! Jack Ravenwild, as I live and breathe. What a day!”
The old dwarf led the way into the empty taphouse, and motioned for his son to set up a table and chairs. “What can we draw for you fine folk?” he asked.
“It’s a little early in the day for me,” Seila replied. “I don’t suppose you have some tea?”
“I’d ask if you still brew Old Smoky, but I won’t get far today if I started now,” Jack said. “Better make it your mildest lager.”
“Suit yourself, then,” Tharzon replied. Kurzen retreated to the bar, and soon returned with mugs for Jack, his father, and himself, and a plain kettle and teacup for Seila. “Where have you been for all these years, you scoundrel? How is it that you turn up a hundred years after the last time I saw you, not looking a day older?”
Kurzen frowned at Jack. “Doesn’t seem right, Da. Maybe he’s one of those … undead.”
Tharzon harrumphed. “Use your eyes, boy. Did you not see the sun shining outside? It’s no weather for such things as ought to be in their graves.”
“Someone imprisoned me with magic, Tharzon,” Jack replied. “They entombed me in the old mythal stone where we fought Jelan and her sellswords, and left me there. I might have gone on sleeping until the end of days, but the drow took it into their heads to meddle with the wild mythal and released me just a few tendays ago.” He took a sip of his lager and nodded in appreciation. Trust dwarves to know their business with a good ale. “Which reminds me: Do you have any idea who might have encysted me in an ancient ruin half a mile deep in the Underdark? I have no memory of the event, and I would dearly like to find out who used me with such malice.”
“Those of us who knew you wondered about that for years, Jack,” Tharzon said. “You simply vanished one night without a word to anyone. Most folk assumed that you’d run afoul of some enemy who’d chained an anchor to your feet and dumped you in the harbor, although there were some as held that you’d fled to safer parts after angering some high and powerful person with your … indiscretions.”
“Did no one think to look for me?” Jack asked.
“Oh, we checked your usual haunts. Anders looked for you for some time, because he was of the opinion that you owed him a great deal of coin. But naught ever came of it.”
Seila regarded Jack with a raised eyebrow. “It seems you had some interesting associations in your earlier life, Jack,” she observed.
“I was the victim of jealousy, misunderstandings, and false accusations, dear Seila. All would naturally have been answered in due course, clearing my good name and confounding my enemies, if only a lost century had not intervened.” Jack returned his attention to Tharzon. “Where was I last seen? In whose company? Were there any noted villains or malefactors in town who seemed especially pleased by my disappearance?”
“It’s been a long time, Jack.” The old dwarf frowned, thinking hard on the question. “I seem to remember that the Knights of the Hawk were looking for you, but then again, that wasn’t terribly unusual. There was a ball at some noble manor where you made some sort of scene, and as far as anyone could tell, you never came home.”
“Which manor?”
“You would know better than I,” Tharzon replied, but seeing that Jack was serious about the question, he fixed his gaze on the taproom’s great stone hearth, his brow knotting as he delved deeper and deeper into his memories. Jack began to wonder if his old friend had actually fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then the dwarf grunted. “Ah, there it is,” he muttered at last. “Sevencrown Keep. You certainly indulged your ambitions in those days, Jack.”
“The Leorduins? What business did I have with them?” Jack wondered aloud. The Leorduins were a very rich and very prickly family, indeed. Had they caught him in some scheme? If so, what scheme was it? Or had he simply gone to the Leorduin affair, whatever it was, to maneuver toward some other noble mark?
“How did you finally escape from your magical prison?” Tharzon’s son Kurzen asked. “You’d already been there a hundred years or so. What broke the spell?”
“Ah, that I think was an accident,” said Jack. “The drow had no idea that someone had been entombed within their old mythal stone. They were at work restoring its old spells, and their magic interfered with the encystment in which I slept, releasing me. They asked me how I’d come to be in their mythal, heard me out, agreed that my story was fascinating, and promptly condemned me to slavery once they’d decided they had no other use for me.”
“A black-hearted race, and that’s no lie,” Tharzon agreed. He looked over to Seila. “Is that where you come into the tale, my lady?”
Seila nodded. “I was traveling on the Tantras Road with one of my father’s caravans when a large party of brigands ambushed us. They took me and most of our people captive, and sold us to the dark elves. I was sent to the tower kitchens, and met Jack a tenday or so later. It took a long time, but eventually he managed to arrange our escape.”
“That’s a tale I’d like to hear,” Tharzon said. “How did you do it?”
“I’m glad you asked, friend Tharzon,” Jack replied. He immediately launched into a recounting of his toils among the drow, his befriending of Seila, and his daring escape. If his telling of the tale perhaps overemphasized his own cleverness, stoicism, and personal bravery, well, that was merely a bit of artistic license. After all, it was his story to tell, and he ought to be able to tell it as he liked, as long as he avoided embellishing the parts Seila could corroborate. Half an hour passed as Jack lingered on every detail and described every perilous development, during which he finished his first lager and embarked on a second, until finally he concluded with their arrival in the alley in Sindlecross. Even Kurzen left his work to listen to the story, caught up despite himself.
