From alt.pub.dragons-inn Sun Aug 13 23:21:18 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8626 Path: netcom.com!csus.edu!news.ucdavis.edu!agate!spool.mu.edu!caen!reeve.research.aa.wl.com!WS008013F18C2D!simonj From: simonj@rh.wl.com (Jeff Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Party] [Jack Kincaid] Jack Kincaid and the Fortress of the Ebony Elves, Part 2 Date: Sat, 12 Aug 1995 06:26:00 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 483 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 Summary: In which Kincaid learns that things have changed in Dyyksi X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] ************************************************************************* What has gone before: At the party of Luthor Anside, the outland warrior known as Jake Shade has opened a bottle of the legendary Chateau de Memfys, the greatest and rarest vintage of wine in the multiverse. While the participants in the Story-Circle enjoy the wine, Shade begins to tell a somewhat rambling account of how this wine came into his possession. The story revolves around a rather infamous interplanar thief and trans-dimensional rogue by the name of Jack Kincaid, also widely known as Jack Flash. At the point at which we rejoin the tale, Jack has just made the trip to the plane of Dyyksi, where the Chateau de Memfys is guarded by the evil Ebony Elves, a band of xenophobic warriors who - legend has it - are also surprisingly good dancers. ************************************************************************ JACK FLASH AND THE FORTRESS OF THE EBONY ELVES (PART 2) Although it seemed to be only a few hours after dusk, the streets of the little village were empty. Kincaid turned off a boulevard named Creole Avenue, and onto one named Lonely Street. At the end of the street, light and noise spilled out from the tavern's open doors. The lanky wanderer had nowhere else to go, so he walked in that direction. The sign that hung from the front of the tavern was old, the paint faded and chipped. It showed a stylized heart, with a crack running completely through it. There were no words printed on the sign, apparently the villagers of Wasanark were not big readers. Kincaid entered the tavern and looked around carefully. Despite the apparently deserted nature of the rest of the town, the tavern was packed with people. Faces turned towards him in the darkness, checking out the new arrival. They displayed no unusual amount of curiosity at the sight of an unknown face, and Kincaid concluded that they must see a lot of strangers in these parts. He sauntered over to the bar. The bartender saw him coming, and moved over to take his order. He was a big, balding man of middle-age. He looked over- worked and understaffed, and in the mood for nothing complicated. "What do you have on tap?" Kincaid asked him. The bartender looked at him blankly, and Kincaid decided to try again. "What kind of ales do you have?" he asked. "We got Duph ale and Phudd ale." the bartender answered him, seemingly bemused by the concept that anyone could care about the type of alcohol they poured down their throats. Kincaid cursed blackly under his breath. The Phudd/Duph Brewery was an interdimensional consortium of mercenary brewers who shipped their brand of diabolically tasteless suds to inns and taverns all over the multiverse. Their beers contained rice, cheap substandard grains, artificial colorings and other additives. Phudd/Duph also marketed their brew under false names, giving the unsophisticated denizens of these backwater planes the idea that the swill was being produced locally. They had no way of knowing that they were being victimized by a interplanar Mega- Corporation; but sophisticated travellers like Jack Kincaid knew exactly what was going on. Those who knew the truth resisted the evil Brewmeisters whenever it was possible. "What kind of tavern is this, that only has two types of ale?" Kincaid asked spitefully. The bartender drew himself up and glared at this particularly uncooperative customer. "This is actually a hotel, pal. The bar is merely part of the overall enterprise. If you don't like the way we serve our drinks, you can always mosey on out the door." "How about whiskey?" Kincaid asked. "You must have that." The bartender sighed as if much put upon and drew a dusty bottle from under the bar. He set down a small clay vessel, and poured about four ounces of liquor into it. The label on the bottle said: YE OLDE SUTHRON COZYNESS. "Let's see the color of your money, first." Kincaid sneered as he flipped a coin onto the bar. "Is gold good enough for you?" he asked facetiously, grabbing up the clay mug and draining it. The alcohol had a fiery bite and he exhaled with a slightly unsteady grin. The bartender picked it up and looked at it. "Gold is fine, stranger. But this coin ain't legal tender." The bartender stuck his hand under the bar and drew up a silver coin, holding it up before Kincaid's eyes. "If it don't look like this, I can't accept it." Kincaid looked at the coin, which was stamped with the image of a young man who seemed to be screaming into some sort of short scepter. He looked down at his now-empty clay mug and winced. "We seem to have some sort of problem, then. I'm sure that we can work it out, though." Although Kincaid had used his most reasonable tone, the man behind the bar did not seem willing to cooperate. He turned to one of the wenches ferrying drinks to the customers and bellowed to get her attention. "Luanne!" The woman he had shouted at walked over. Her hair was piled high on top of her head, and her eyes were thickly black with some kind of eyeliner. She looked Kincaid over with a saucy eye before turning her attention to her boss. "What do you want now, Bubba?" she asked in a tart tone. The bartender was unfazed by her abundance of cheek. "Go on over to the sheriff's office, and tell that man that we got us a stranger trying to pass us some funny money," Although the woman allegedly worked for the man, she did not seem in a hurry to comply with his request. Instead she turned to the copper-haired stranger and looked him over again. "Where you from, sugah?" she asked him. "Here and there," Kincaid answered, smiling at her. "Mostly there." She smiled back at him, and turned back to the bartender. "Now Bubba, honey, surely there ain't no need to get the law involved here. This stranger just didn't know no better, that's all. Surely he can perform some kind of service to balance the scales, can't he?" Kincaid shuddered inwardly at the nightmarish vision of having to chop wood or wash dishes. "I play a pretty mean harp," he volunteered tentatively, indicating his musical instrument. "Maybe I can entertain the clientele in exchange for a room and a couple more drinks." "We already got us a singer, funny-bwoi." the bartender growled. Kincaid bristled. He didn't know what a 'funny-bwoi' was, but he didn't like the sound of it. Luanne seemed determined to help Kincaid out. "Bubba, Priss can't sing all night. You know she's been complainin' about never gettin' a break. You can use this here stranger to let her rest a spell, and it will only cost you a couple of drinks and a room for the night. How often do we have a new musician in town, anyway?" Bubba seemed inclined to disagree, and Kincaid prepared himself to fight his way out of the tavern. But suddenly, the bartender relaxed. "Okay. But you better be good, bwoi." "I bet he is," Luanne said. She winked at Kincaid, and sashayed off to fill her orders. Kincaid pushed his way to the back of the tavern and leaned against the wall. Every table in the place was occupied, it was standing room only. The establishment's regular singer was up on stage, lounging on a baby grand piano as she serenaded the crowd in a sultry voice. She had a slender, angular beauty that was evident even from the back of the room. Kincaid narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. His mouth dropped open in surprise. The singer was of the elvish descent, probably from Memfys. "You're gonna catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that, sugah." Luanne materialized at Kincaid's elbow, and passed him a mug of ale. Her eyes twinkled. "She's real good, ain't she?" "She's great," Kincaid confirmed, "but I thought it was against the law for humans and elves to mix." The barmaid pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and looked him over speculatively. "You're really not from around these parts, are you?" she asked. "What makes you think that?" Kincaid asked innocently. "Don't worry sugah, we get a lot of strangers through these parts. Anyways, the law says that humans don't go messin' around in the Elven territories. It doesn't say anything about elves who feel like slummin' with us humans." Luanne patted Kincaid on the shoulder. "You'll get your turn soon, hon. Just go on up about fifteen minutes after Priss finishes up her last set. I've got to get back to my customers." Kincaid waited until she left, then sniffed the ale she had brought him suspiciously. The unmistakable skunked aroma of Duph ale drifted across his sensitive olfactory nerves. As unobtrusively as possible, he poured the ale into a nearby potted plant. The plant began to quake and rattle violently, then keeled over into a wilting pile of brown leaves and stalks. "Not as bad as usual," Kincaid observed with surprise. There was a thunderous round of applause as the singer concluded her number. Kincaid winced inwardly at the thought of following an act that well received. A table near him suddenly became vacant and he moved quickly, sliding into one of its chairs, neatly outmaneuvering a couple that had been standing nearby. They glared at him, but did not make trouble. Jack drew his harp out of its case and began to tune it. His slender fingers teased supple, unharplike tones from the silvery strings. "What type of musical instrument might that be?" a sultry voice asked from behind him. Kincaid looked up. The elvish singer trailed her hand across his shoulder as she circled to the other side of the table. She took the empty seat there without asking, and looked across it at him with eyes like smokey amethyst. The lanky thief felt a surge of . . . something, as he returned her frank stare. The Elven woman leaned over the table, extending a hand. "My name is Priscilla. It is always a pleasure to make the acquaint- ance of another musician." Kincaid masterfully resisted an impulse to look down her low- cut blouse as he took the Elven singer's hand. Instead of kissing it, he raised it to his lips and gently brushed them against the back of her hand. "I am likewise pleased," he said in a low voice. "You may call me Jack." Priscilla smiled at him, her cheeks dimpling nicely. "That has to be the most beautiful harp that I have ever seen, Jack. Is it truly a harp? It sounds quite . . . unusual." "It's a Changeling Harp," Jack told her. "The man I got . . . the man who gave it to me said that it is capable of reproducing the sounds of any other stringed instrument. If you know how to work it." Kincaid's hand slipped and a particularly odd note sounded. He quickly pressed his hands against the strings, damping the sound. The Elven woman raised an exquisitely arched eyebrow. "And what instrument might you be trying to imitate now?" she asked mischievously. "I'm trying to emulate the sounds of an instrument known as an electric guitar," Kincaid told her. "It's an instrument found on higher-tech worlds, powered by electrical current run through an amplifier that -" "I know what an electric guitar is," Priscilla said. "Some of the human musicians in the Delta have them. They connect them to some sort of lighting wand set for a trickle discharge. How can you expect to match that sort of tone without power for your harp?" Kincaid leaned back, putting his feet up on a nearby empty chair. He cradled the harp against his chest the way a mother might hold her baby. "Silvertongue is a magical harp, Priscilla. She doesn't require external sources of power. Just the right man to play her." Priscilla was no longer listening to his dissertation. She was looking at Kincaid's feet. "Nice boots," she commented. A little confused by the change in subject, Kincaid smiled at the singer. "Er . . . thank you." The Elven woman caught his eyes, and held them. "There was a man who came through Dyyksi about . . . thirty years ago. His name was also Jack. Jack Flash, if I recall correctly. He also wore boots like those." Kincaid pulled nervously at the neck of his tunic. "Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?" he asked. He took his feet down from the chair and thrust them out of sight under the table. "As I recall, this human also named Jack stole something from the Lord of the Black Fortress, the Battle Lord known as War Den." "Thirty years ago, you say?" Kincaid asked. "Why, I was just a nipper then, a little crumb-snatcher who couldn't even walk." "Do not fret, Jack," Priscilla said, tilting her head in a flirtatious manner. "I'm not exactly one of War Den's biggest admirers. And of course, I'm sure that it couldn't have been you, even though you are an outworlder and it is quite possible time might move at a different rate in the plane you come from." Suddenly the bartender's voice cut through the din of the crowd. "Hey bwoi, you gonna get up there and play or you just gonna suck down my brew all night?" "I wouldn't drink that crap if you paid me to," Kincaid said in a low voice as he clambered to his feet. "Good luck, Jack 'Not-Flash'," Priscilla said, winking slyly. Kincaid's feet dragged as he slowly approached the stage. On the way up, he spied another vacant chair and snagged it He carried it up on the stage, and set it down. Taking a seat, he looked out into the darkness, where the audience sat quietly, expectantly. He lowered his head to his instrument and with slow hands, he continued tuning it. He adjusted the strings and the slender crossboard carefully as he sought just the right pitch. The audience watched him at first, but their attention soon drifted. Convinced that he would take a while to prepare, they turned back to their conversations and their drinks. The sounds of his instrument soon faded into a pleasant sort of background noise, and Kincaid was swiftly forgotten. Kincaid was not used to playing for audiences. He had no formal training in any musical art; he had in fact taught himself. To him, music was a very private thing, it was the one thing that he did not do for money or acclaim, but for himself. Although Jack did not consider himself an artistic or even a especially creative person, his journeys had exposed him to many places of great beauty and many things of great wonder. Such experiences had a way of painting a man's soul with colors. Music was Kincaid's way of expressing the things he had seen but could not put into words. At last he had the harp in a condition he thought acceptable, if not perfect. Jack stood, and rested one foot on top of the chair. His fingers stroked the strings of the Changeling Harp, and a high, wavering sound shivered out into the air. If a musical note could sound like a cry of pain and still remain a thing of beauty, that was what it sounded like. The audience looked at the lanky, auburn-haired man in awe. He began to sing; his voice deep yet oddly melodious. His voice was roughened, as if by a hidden, inner hurt that made the song's lyrics all the more meaningful. It was if the song was a true confession of his soul's pain, not just words written for the comparitively frivolous purpose of entertainment. A hush fell over the room as the tavern's patrons listened to him raptly. RAIN FELL THIS MORNING MADE ME FEEL SO BAD ON ACCOUNT OF MY BABY WALKED OFF WITH ANOTHER MAN LIKE TAKING EYESIGHT FROM A BLIND MAN OR MONEY FROM A POOR THAT WOMAN TOOK MY LOVIN' AND WALKED ON OUT THAT DOOR AND IT SURE GOT COLD, AFTER THE RAIN FELL BUT NOT FROM THE SKY . . . FROM MY EYES SOMEBODY, CAN YOU TELL ME JUST WHAT MAKE A MAN FEEL THIS WAY LIKE A RIVER WITHOUT A SWAN LIKE NIGHT WITHOUT A DAY AND IT SURE GOT COLD, AFTER THE RAIN FELL NOT FROM THE SKY . . . FROM MY EYES IF IT WERE EARLY IN THE MORNING YOU'D HERE THAT RAIN BEGIN TO FALL WITH THUNDER AND LIGHTNING THE WIND BEGINS TO CALL YOUR WORRY IS SUPERFICIAL 'CAUSE YOU SLEPT ON THROUGH THE NIGHT BUT STORMY WEATHER KEEPS ME WONDERIN' IF EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT AND IT SURE GOT COLD, AFTER THE RAIN FELL BUT NOT FROM THE SKY . . . FROM MY EYES NOT FROM THE SKY, FROM MY EYES Kincaid played for almost half a minute after the vocal part of the song was over; sending notes winging out into the quiet darkness of the tavern and into the warm night air beyond. As the last shivering note faded, he reopened his eyes for the first time since he had stared playing. It had not gone too badly, he thought to himself. He wondered how the song had been received. The audience's reaction surprised him. A low moan lifted up from the crowd. "The Blues, the Blues!" someone was shouting. A tumultuous swelling of energy began in the tavern, as every patron surged upwards to their feet and began talking at once. On the far side of the room, the bartender was shouting something at the stage angrily, but the crowd was too loud for Kincaid to make it out. Priscilla was coming towards him, her face stark with an emotion that Kincaid could not identify. He pulled her up onto the stage, and she put her arms around his waist. She looked at him with eyes that were alight with a kind of melancholy laughter. "Are you trying to stir up trouble? Or are you just crazy?" she asked him, her voice full of affection. All things considered, Jack Kincaid had never been more confused in his entire life. "What do you mean?" he asked in confusion, feeling that he was missing something of great importance. Priscilla leaned back in his embrace, to better take in the expression on his face. She shook her head in disbelief. "The Ebony Elves have declared it a High Crime for humans to play that sort of music," she told him in a solemn voice. "They hold that it contributes to human unrest, and leads humans to disobey Elven Laws. Any human caught playing the Blues north of the delta is subject to immediate hanging." Running his finger around a collar that was suddenly too tight, Kincaid realized that his life might very well rest on his choice of the next few words. "I, uh . . . ." Kincaid realized with despair that his well of cleverness had suddenly run dry. He was in a serious situation. At that moment, the door to the tavern slammed shut with a thunderous crash. Standing before it - blocking any escape - was a huge form. The tavern fell completely silent, and all eyes turned in the direction of the new arrival. A broad aisle suddenly opened up between the door and the stage as the center part of the floor magically cleared of bodies. The figure began to move forward, boot heels thudding dully against the planks of the wood floor. Spurs jingled at its heels, sounding somehow flat and unmusical in that silence. A pearl handled Wand of Blasting rode one muscular hip in a creaking leather holster. The man stopped one pace from the edge of the stage. Light from the lamp overhead gleamed on a silver badge pinned on one side of the man's black leather vest. He was so tall that his eyes were level with Kincaid's own. Kincaid was not that impressed until he suddenly remembered that he was standing on a stage. The silence in the tavern was so all-encompassing that the drop of a pin would have been audible, and involuntarily Kincaid flinched as one suddenly did. His eyes narrowed as the figure before him reached over its shoulder, drawing a huge wooden club from a sheath fastened there. Kincaid could not help but notice the grim runes that had been carved into that formidable weapons side. 'Luyvylle', they read. The dark figure thumped the club against one meaty palm; a gesture filled with portent for the moments immediately ahead. When Priscilla spoke, her voice was dark with despair. "It's the Lawgiver James Raven, and he's brought the Big Bopper with him." ************************************************************************** Will Kincaid find away around the James Raven Laws? Will he be able to withstand the punishing caress of the Big Bopper? Will he ever make it to the city of Memfys and steal the bottle of Chateau de Memfys so we can wrap up the [Party] Thread, which is nearing its fourth month? Stay tuned and find out next week as Jack Flash returns in Part 3 of [JACK FLASH AND THE FORTRESS OF THE EBONY ELVES]. ************************************************************************** -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.