From alt.pub.dragons-inn Wed Aug 2 07:24:25 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8595 Path: netcom.com!csus.edu!csusac!zimmer!nic-nac.CSU.net!usc!howland.reston.ans.net!spool.mu.edu!news.nd.edu!news1.oakland.edu!newshub.gmr.com!news.elec.mid.gmeds.com!sun126!sz9njm From: sz9njm@sun126.hqs.mid.gmeds.com (Eric T. Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Party] [Jack Kincaid] Jack Flash and the Fortress of the Ebony Elves Date: 1 Aug 1995 21:59:18 GMT Organization: General Motors Corporation Lines: 740 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3vm83m$cji@mloeff01.elec.mid.gmeds.com> Reply-To: sz9njm@sun126.hqs.mid.gmeds.com NNTP-Posting-Host: sun126.hqs.mid.gmeds.com !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This story is being posted for me by my brother. Please do not send him any comments or questions. They can be directed instead to simonj@rh.wl.com !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ************************************************************************* What has gone before: The enigmatic outlander known as Jake Shade, just recently arrived in Generica, rescues a pretty woman and her small child from a quartet of ruthless cutthroats. In gratitude, the woman Serene has invited Jake to the party of her housemate, the ShadowMaker known as Luthor Anside, at his home in the Elven Quarter, ShadeHaven. Intrigued by the woman and amused by the name of her home, Shade has joined the Founder's Day party, already in progress. Although these parties have been known to get out of control in the past, this one seems relatively tame despite some early pyrotechnics. Shade has met another outlander, the bipedal otter/Mage known as Lutra. Shade has opened a mysterious bottle of wine with the label Chateau de Memfys and shared it with the other participants in the Story Circle. As the others enjoy this truly unparalleled vintage, Jake begins to explain how it came into his possession. ************************************************************************ JACK FLASH AND THE FORTRESS OF THE EBONY ELVES "What really makes this wine special is the story that goes along with it," Shade told the group as he leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on a convenient footstool, and looked into the fire. "Many years ago, in a land called Aurauna, there was a man famed far and wide as the greatest thie- uh, Acquisitioner of Rare and Wondrous items. His name was Jack Spar- er, Jack Kincaid. But everyone knew him as Jack Flash." **************************** In the city of Ironcrag, in the shadowy, smoke-filled interior of the Blistered Tongue Tavern, a meeting was taking place. "Read my lips, Bylub, I don't do jobs in Dyyksi." Jack Kincaid repeated for the third time that night. The tall, lean man with hair the color of burnished copper stretched his legs out with a languid air; an air that was intended to communicate a deadset refusal to engage in anything that even remotely resembled work. Kincaid motioned to the barmaid. She hastened over, eager to keep a good tipper happy. Kincaid handed over his empty mug with a wide, white smile. "Say honey, ask the barkeep to go a little lighter on the foam this time, will you?" "As you wish, my lord." Kincaid watched the gentle sway of the woman's hips as she sauntered off. Bylub harrumphed angrily, annoyed at being so completely forgotten. "Jack, you gotta do this. I'm telling you, it'll be easy. All you gotta do is bring back one bottle. One lousy bottle, for cryin' out loud!" "I don't do jobs in Dyyksi," Kincaid said again wearily. He vowed that Bylub would not be able to force him to say it again. "Why not?" Bylub demanded. "Is the great and masterful Jack Kincaid afraid of a few elves?" The greasy little man put his hands high behind his ears and waggled them, mimicking a giant set of elf-ears. "Oooooo, look out! I'm a scary little elf, come to get the mighty Jack Flash!" Kincaid's long arm reached over the table with near- invisible speed. His slender hand gathered Bylub's cravat into a bundle and yanked the little man choking and gagging across the table. Kincaid let Bylub struggle for breath until the barmaid returned with his ale. Then he let the little man strangle a while longer while he drank it. When the mug was empty he threw the now red-faced man back into his chair. "I told you never to call me by that name around here," Kincaid snarled, looking around the tavern meaningfully. The Blistered Tongue was what people generously referred to as a 'hole in the wall'. It was the sort of dive scrupulous people avoided like the plague; peopled with beggars, thieves, prostitutes and every other imaginable breed of rogue living in the narrow margins outside the law. That was why Kincaid liked to drink here; anyone involved with law enforcement had a tendency to stick out like a knock-kneed dwarf in an apple picking contest. Of course, there was always the chance a bounty hunter might be lurking nearby, in disguise. Bylub massaged his throat gingerly. "That's a hell of a way to treat me," he sulked darkly, "How many friends do you think you've got in this town, Jack?" "The number varies with the amount of money I have available at the time," Kincaid said cynically but realistically. Ironcrag was a tough place. "But you don't have any money, Jack," Bylub protested. "A few more beers and you're flush. That's why you gotta take this job." Kincaid growled and began drumming his fingers on the table. He looked at Bylub darkly, one side of his upper lip curling into a sneer. The little man sitting opposite him flinched and discreetly scooted back in his chair. "The last time I worked in Dyyksi, my mother got thrown in jail," Kincaid explained. "Then my dog got run over by a lumber wagon, and my fiancee ran off with my best friend. I don't like Dyyksi, it's bad luck. I don't pull any jobs that require me to go there, and if I have to explain that choice to you one more time, I'll put my boot so far up your ass that you'll taste shoe polish for a month." "That's what I've been tryin' to tell you, Jack. You don't have any choice about it anymore. Smilin' Sam bought the notes on all your gear." Kincaid felt black tendrils of despair begin to wrap around his heart. Smilin' Sam was what could loosely be classified as a competitor in the 'business'. Kincaid had beaten the Smiling One out on a few sweetheart deals in years gone by. Ever since then, Smilin' Sam had been hot to even the score. "He bought the note on my harp?" Kincaid asked in a mournful voice. Bylub nodded. "And that's not all, Jack." Kincaid stared at the little man in misery, a terrible suspicion beginning to form in his mind. "Don't tell me-" Bylub cut him off. "He bought the note on your boots, too, Jack." Kincaid's composure crumbled. His lip began to tremble uncontrollably, and a tear welled up in one moist eye. Bylub turned away, embarrassed to see a strong man so completely broken. He reached across the table and patted Jack's hand in a consoling manner. "Do this job for me, Jack, and you'll have enough money to keep your stuff out of hock for ten years." Kincaid nodded sadly, the tear falling from his eye like a sparkling diamond. It dropped into his tankard and mixed with the traces of foam therein, unnoticed. ******************************** Puogo the Pawn looked up with a smirk as Jack Kincaid entered his establishment. The fat man was sitting on a creaking stool behind the counter of the biggest pawn-shop in Ironcrag. He wore a loose, loudly colored shirt and the unlit stub of a cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, bobbing as he smiled . "I had a feeling you'd be by, Flash. Bylub told me you had a 'job' coming up." "Don't call me Flash, Puogo," Kincaid snarled. The copper- haired thief was not in the mood for pleasantries of any sort. "I can't believe you sold the tickets on my gear, you fat bastard." he said. Puogo spread his hands helplessly. "Business is business, Jacky. You ought to know that." "Yeah, but selling my notes to Smilin' Sam? That's pretty damn cold, Puogo." The fat man spread his hands again, the seams on his loud shirt creaking from the strain. "What can I say? He made me a good offer, Jack." Kincaid spat in the general direction of the cuspidor in one corner. He pulled a handful of gold coins out of a belt pouch and scattered them across the counter. "There's the money. Give me my stuff back." The stool squeaked as Puogo stood up. "Sure Jack, I'll be glad to." The heavy man removed a key from a hook hanging on one wall, and unlocked a heavy, iron-banded oak door that was behind the counter. He trundled down the stairs revealed by the newly opened door, down to where he kept the most valuable of the items people brought to him for money. Jack listened as Puogo rummaged around down there for a long time. It was obvious that the fat man's filing system left a lot to be desired. When Puogo finally tromped back up the stairs, he was sweating beneath an armful of boxes that he could barely see over. Puogo set the boxes down on the counter gently, aware of Kincaid's watchful gaze. The copper-haired man reached out and opened one of the cases. He removed a medium-sized harp from it, wrapped in a slightly dusty velvet cloth. It was a thing of beauty, constructed of silver and rare woods inlaid with ivory. Kincaid cradled it against his chest for a moment, then ran his hand over its strings. Despite three months in storage, it was still perfectly tuned. Its voice was high and sweet and pure. Kincaid smiled tenderly at the instrument. "You know, Jacky, you should have taken up music full time." Puogo was always happy to share one of his unsolicited opinions. "If you played the popular songs that people wanted to hear instead of that moody, depressing crap you picked up in Dyyksi, you'd probably be a rich man. For sure it would be an easier job than acquisitions, and I bet you'd have to beat the court ladies away with a stick." Kincaid struck the metal strings of the harp, wringing a strange, vibrating noise from the instrument. No harp should have been able to make that sound. He began playing, using only three chords, all the notes that same strange mix of music and vibrating distortion. As he sang, he closed his eyes as if he was blind to the world; his head slowly swaying back and forth. I'VE HAD MY FORTUNES, SPENT THEM FAST AND AS FOR WOMEN, THEY DON'T SEEM TO LAST... Kincaid stopped suddenly, his mood to play breaking off as suddenly as it had stolen upon him. Puogo looked at the tall man with a sort of superstitious awe. Nobody played music like that in THIS world. Kincaid wrapped the harp back in its cloth, placed it in its leather case and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed another one of the wooden boxes Puogo had brought up from the cellar and slid it across the counter towards himself. As he dug the key out of his pocket, something caught his eye. He bent over, inspecting the box, then turned a gimlet eye on the suddenly sweating pawn-keeper. "Say Puogo, there seems to be a few scratches on this lock. You didn't get a sudden urge to look inside it some time in the last three months, did you?" Puogo rubbed his hands together nervously. "Nah, not me Jack. You know people's stuff is safe with me, at least until their ticket runs out. That box must have rubbed up against something hard down there in the cellar; something that scratched it up a little bit." Kincaid eyed the man for a moment longer, then unlocked the box. The wood case fell open, revealing a rich satin lining. Inside, held in place by a custom-built interior, was a pair of boots. They were made for traveling, sturdy and long enough in the shaft to reach the knees of even a man as long-legged as Jack Kincaid. They were constructed of leather, with the smooth side turned inward. The color was a strange sort of blue, almost a steel gray. They reminded Puogo of the evening sky on a cold winter day. They were the exact color of Jack Kincaid's eyes. Covetously, Puogo's hand stretched out to stroke the supple leather surface of one of the boots. There was a sudden, thunderous THUNK, and Puogo was suddenly staring at a huge knife which had sunk an inch deep into the wood surface of his counter. The blade protruded upward between his middle two fingers, a fraction of an inch from his tender flesh. Puogo's eyes wandered slowly and fearfully away from that knife, up Kincaid's lanky arm, and finally met the copper-haired man's angry gaze. The pawnkeeper did not move until Kincaid had pried the knife out of his counter and resheathed it. "Don't touch the boots, man," Kincaid warned him in a dangerous tone of voice. "Sorry Jack, I didn't mean anything by it." Kincaid closed the box back up, and gathered everything into his arms. "This must be a pretty big job if Bylub was willing to front you enough money to get your gear out of hock," Puogo ventured timidly as he watched Kincaid prepare to depart. The auburn-haired rogue did not reply to the pawnkeeper's remark. "You don't happen to need a Changer on this job, do you Jack?" Puogo asked hopefully. "I don't know what you're talking about, Puogo." The door slammed shut behind Kincaid's back. "Stuck-up, sanctimonious bastard," Puogo muttered to himself darkly, but not so loud that it might be heard through the door. "Who does he think he is?" Reluctantly, the pawnkeeper's hand reached out and touched the surface of his counter. His pudgy fingers measured the depth of the new hole gingerly. He winced, then headed back to his squeaky stool, vowing never to sell the notes on Jack Kincaid's stuff again. ***************************** Kincaid had been camped out for nearly a week before the mists began to rise again amongst the stone monoliths. On his sixth night out on the damp moors, the wind suddenly died and the fauna fell silent. An eerie silence descended. Above him, the stars began to wink out one by one. The copper- haired adventurer stamped out his small fire of peat chunks and picked up his equipment. He strode briskly into the vast circle circumscribed by the colossal stones, left ages ago by some long-vanished people. The Dimensional Mists rarely appeared in these days, and they had become treacherous to navigate in the years since the fall of Corinth. Some of the darkly arcane weapons that had been used to destroy that great city had somehow shifted Aurauna further away from the Elseworlds, making it ever more difficult to go 'Tween. Now most Mages feared to even attempt the Middle Journey, lest they be lost forever . . . Elsewhere. Only a man who was intimate with Shadows and the places In-between could make the journey safely in these times. Jack Kincaid was one of the few men in Aurauna both capable and unafraid of making the trip. He had learned about the Middle-Places at the knee of the Grey Reaver, a legendary rogue Shadowmage. He had learned from the best. Kincaid walked until he reached what his best guess told him was the center of the vast circular area. He looked around for a moment. The remains of a small campfire lay at his feet, most of the wood burned almost to charcoal. Kneeling down by the small ring of stones, Kincaid broke out his tinderbox and struck a light. Muttering at the absurdity of lighting another fire so soon after dousing one, he managed to kindle the small pile of wood into a feeble, smoky blaze. The fire's orange light was reflected by the mists, which seemed almost to glow. Kincaid took a seat next to the fire, crossing his lanky legs. He closed his eyes and began to think about where he wanted to go. Slowly but surely, he slid into a meditative trance. He had no way to gauge how much time had passed when his trance was interrupted by the sound of approaching foot- steps. Casually, he unsheathed his rapier and laid it across his lap. The footsteps slowed, then stopped completely. There was a brief pause during which silence ruled, then the footsteps resumed and came nearer. "Nice boots." the man said as he stepped forward and became visible by the light of the fire. "Yowp!" Kincaid said in a choked voice. The man looked at him across the tiny fire, a small smile of amusement seeming to play at the corners of his mouth. The paladin's blond hair fell to his shoulders like a golden mane, his green eyes were as piercing and direct as the last time Kincaid had seen them. He wore plate armor of an enameled white material, worth a king's ransom. Kincaid reflected to himself that Castidor looked as strong and tall as ever, even though it had been years since they had last met. The lanky Master of Acquisition noted that the fabled sword Vindicator was still sheathed across the paladin's back. That Holy sword was a weapon feared across the continent of Brytaenia, perhaps across all of Aurauna. In that entire world, there was only one blade to equal it. A counterpart existed, a black and evil blade that had been forged in a shower of sparks on Hell's own anvil. Kincaid carefully slid his own rather mundane weapon back into its sheath. "Hail and well met, Castidor," he said, recovering from his surprised outburst as smoothly as possible. "Been walking the Mists again, eh?" Castidor took a seat across the fire from him, his white armor creaking slightly. The paladin nodded, and began poking at the fire moodily with a small stick. "I'm still looking for my brother, Jack. Have you seen him?" Jack Kincaid had once stolen the Orb of Eramoor from beneath the wing of a sleeping dragon. Not once during that endeavor had his pulse increased even a beat. During the siege of the city of Corinth, as he had crawled through the picket lines of the Hellriders of Loiyngesh, he had been so calm that he had made a quick pause for dinner in their very midst. It was a statement of sorts, on the formidable nature of the paladin, that Jack Kincaid was at that very moment sweating heavily. "I have not seen Auraubec recently. I had heard rumors that he was serving in the legions of Jhared as some sort of military advisor." Castidor shook his head in the negative. "I have been there. I have reason to believe that he is somewhere in the east." Kincaid shrugged. "I cannot help you, Castidor," he said truthfully. The blond paladin nodded thoughtfully, and looked into the fire. After a time, he spoke. "I cannot help but wonder what you are doing here, Jack, traveling the Mists. You are not trying to get away from someone are you?" Kincaid let his indignation play across his features. "I am on an important errand, I'll have you know. I am traveling to the plane of Dyyksi in order to retrieve a very valuable item for the Governor of Seacliff." Castidor nodded knowledgeably. "Dyyksi, eh? A dangerous place. The Ebony Elves are a strange and unpredictable folk, full of strange humors and odd ways. They have no love of humans there, Jack." Kincaid nodded. "I appreciate your warning, but I have been there before, and know full well the dangers involved. I have to admit, though, it has been more difficult than usual to find my bearing in the Mists." "Well, perhaps I can help you there, Jack. The plane of Dyyksi lies along the path which starts at the foot of that small monolith over my right shoulder. It is a long walk, though." Kincaid got to his feet, eager to be on his way and beyond the reach of certain crusading avengers with impossibly high moral standards. "These boots were made for walking," he said. "And that's what I'm going to do. Thanks for the info." "You're welcome, Jack. Always happy to help a fellow traveler." Kincaid nodded politely to the paladin, and gathered his gear. He set off in the direction Castidor had indicated, quickly finding the small monolith and the path that it marked. He had just set a boot onto it when Castidor's voice came to him through the fog. "Make sure that the 'retrieval' of that 'valuable object' is completely legal, Jack." "Sanctimonious, stuck-up bastard," Kincaid said to himself quietly. "Who does he think he is?" Kincaid moved through the Mists, his gray-blue boots eating up the distance at an astonishing rate. As he walked, he thought back to his last conversation with Bylub. ***************************** "It's simple, Jack. Moraklod, the Lord-Governor of Seacliff, is getting married to one of King Leopold of Lyones' nieces. He never was the sort of fellow to deny himself anything, and now he wants to show off for his future uncle-in-law. Moraklod somehow heard a story about this wine from Dyyksi called Chateau de Memfys. He wants a bottle for the nuptial toast, and he's willing to pay just about anything to get it." "Chateau de Memfys," Jack mused. "I've heard of that myself. It is supposed to be so rare that the King of the Ebony Elves has made it a capital offense for anyone but the Royal Family of Dyyksi to drink it." "That's right, Jack," Bylub confirmed. "It is the best wine to be found in any plane of existence, made from the rarest grapes in the universe and aged in casks made from the wood of the exotic Phoenix tree; which only grows on the Island of Despite for one century of every ten." "Why did Moraklod come to you?" Kincaid wondered aloud. "What made him think you could get this wine for him?" "I have managed to make something of a reputation for myself in the exotic beverages field," Bylub said modestly. "Plus I have let it be known that I can get in touch with the greatest thief in Aurauna, if necessary." "That's a dangerous game to play, Bylub. The wrong kind of people might come looking for you, in order to get at me." "I can take care of myself," the little man said quietly. "What is my percentage on this deal?" Kincaid asked, cutting to the heart of the matter. "One thousand gold imperials," Bylub said quickly. The speed with which he had named the figure did not go unnoticed by Kincaid. "Anyone who would pay a thousand gold imperials for a bottle of wine would certainly pay twice that," Kincaid observed. "I am thinking that I will do this thing for two thousand imperials." "One thousand, and that's firm, Jack. I've got a lot of overhead on this deal. And don't forget that I'm putting up the fifty gold up front to leverage your equipment away from Puogo." "Spare me your sob-stories," Kincaid growled. "Moraklod has to be laying at least five thousand on you. We're talking about another dimensional plane here, not a walk down to the city-market. There's maybe five guys in the world who know how to get to Dyyksi. Two thousand or I forget the whole thing." "Twelve hundred and fifty, with the fifty I'm fronting you to come out of the payoff at the end of the job." Bylub said, his tone indicating that this was a very generous offer. "And I thought Puogo was a cheap bastard. Two thousand." "Fifteen hundred. No more or we forget the whole thing," Bylub blustered. Kincaid covered his eyes with both hands. "Wait a minute, Bylub; a vision is coming to me. I see a tall, good-looking man with auburn hair walking out of this tavern in disgust. I see a fat, greasy little runt hauled in chains before a very angry Lord- Governor, with no explanation of why he couldn't deliver on the deal he made. Now I see the Lord-Governor's elite guards stomping the little runt into a steaming pile of goo." "Seventeen fifty, and that's my final offer," Bylub said in a threatening manner. Kincaid left his hands over his eyes. "I see the runt's reputation in ruins. I see other, smarter merchants - who aren't afraid to pay a good price for services rendered - moving in on the runt's territory. I see the cheap bastard dressed in rags, thrown out on the street and forced to beg for a living." "Two thousand for a full case, and that's only because we've had such a solid, long-lasting working relationship," the little man sniveled. "Two thousand for one bottle, and that's only because I don't have anything better to do this week." Bylub finally capitulated. "Okay, Jack. Two thousand for one bottle." "Damn it!" Kincaid swore. "I knew I should have asked for more." Bylub hid his smile behind a foaming tankard of ale. ********************************* Kincaid continued to walk until the mists about him began to thin. Above him a pinpoint of light became visible, then another and another as the stars came out once more. He stood motionless for a time as the fog slowly dissipated. The terrain of Dyyksi gradually became visible to his eyes. Dyyksi was an ancient land, and the aura of ages gone by permeated its very soil. The air was warm and damp, scented with a hint of jasmine and the wet smells of the nearby bayous. The air swelled with the sounds of nocturnal insects, and every- where he looked, there were trees. Huge trees, ancient specimens of maple, oak and elm, all draped with sheets of a gray moss that hung toward the ground in ghostly trails. A few notes of music were carried to his ears, drifting hauntingly on the night wind, carried from who knew how far away. Kincaid sighed, feeling melancholy. He looked about himself for several moments before choosing a direction. He chose well, and soon found himself walking on a smooth dirt road. He headed south, and after a while the lights of a small town glimmered dimly in the darkness ahead of him. His boots devoured the distance with an insatiable pace that never slackened. Within minutes, he stood just outside the limits of the town. He unlimbered his pack and withdrew a piece of smoked beef, which he chewed thoughtfully while he considered the sleepy little village. A small wooden sign nearby indicated that this was the town of Wasanark. "Say pal, you don't happen to have any more of that, do you?" Startled, Kincaid looked around for the source of that low voice. About ten paces away from him, a large black and white cat sat on its haunches, looking at him with eyes that glowed in the moonlight. "Well, how about it?" the cat asked him. "You gotta be shitting me," Kincaid said, looking up at the heavens in disbelief. The cat padded over to him, and Kincaid saw how big the animal truly was. With huge paws and a long, double coat, the animal must have weighed thirty pounds or more. It was twice the size of any cat Kincaid had ever seen. "Well?" it asked him. Kincaid had seen a lot of strange things in his time, but for some reason he just couldn't adjust to this talking cat. "Well, what?" he asked the cat. The cat sighed and crouched back down on its haunches. It raised one paw and began to wash it, keeping one eye on Kincaid the entire time. "Beef, chicken, maybe some fish? You know, tastes that cats naturally crave. You got any?" "How can a cat naturally crave the taste of beef?" Kincaid asked the cat, in order to prove he was no dummy. "It's not a part of a cat's natural diet. I've wandered many lands, and I have yet to see a cat pull down a steer when it got hungry." The cat stopped cleaning itself, and stared at the thief with wide eyes. "Are they all as intelligent as you, where you come from?" "Sorry," Kincaid said, taking the hint. He tossed a small piece of jerky in the direction of the animal. The cat sauntered over to the piece of meat with a laconic air, keeping one eye on Kincaid as it did so. It delicately picked the piece of jerky up in its jaws, then turned and loped off into the brush. Darkness swallowed it up. "You're welcome!" Kincaid shouted after it, grumpily. He picked up his pack and headed into the town of Wasanark. ****************************************************************************** All the characters in this Jack Kincaid story, as well as the fantasy world of Aurauna, are copyrights of Jeff A. Simon, 1995. All rights reserved. This concludes Part One of _Jack Kincaid and the Fortress of the Ebony Elves_. Stay tuned for Part Two. All comments are welcome, and should be directed to: simonj@rh.wl.com. ****************************************************************************** Eric T. Simon #1 Paige O'Hara/Belle fan E.Simon@hqs.mid.gmeds.com ()_() Judy Kuhn/Poca fan FDC Captain of Monorail Black ( ) Jodi Benson/Ariel fan ---- Views expressed are my own and not those of my employer. ----