The Ultimate Helm Page 3

  Near the tower of the minotaurs and the ruins of the once great palace of the beholders, the squat neogi tower afforded a panoramic view of the Spelljammer’s starboard wing. Neogi guards stationed atop the tower saw the Cloakmaster’s ship as it rapidly closed with them, and they quickly shouted word – as they had been first ordered to do months ago – that a new vessel was approaching for a landing.

  They had no idea that the Spelljammer, for reasons known only to itself, would not allow the Cloakmaster’s landing to be an easy one.

  So when the nautiloid crashed and exploded upon the starboard takeoff strips reserved for the ship’s smalljammers, the neogi warriors who their leader, Master Coh, had deployed took advantage of the crash’s unexpected proximity and scrambled across the wing like a swarm of black insects, frothing to attack the newcomers and kill anyone who might be the legendary Cloakmaster – the accursed Cloakmaster that had been foretold would soon arrive... and bring darkness upon the Spelljammer.

  In the darkness of the neogi temple, Coh had been taking sinister pleasure in feeding the great old master when Teldin’s nautiloid was first sighted. He had instantly ordered his squadron to attack upon landing, then he went on with the great old master’s feeding, ordering his personal slave, a towering umber hulk named Orik, to throw in another Gnoll slave that had been stolen the week before.

  Orik was fully four times Master Coh’s height – the largest, most grotesque umber hulk on the Spelljammer – and his sharp mandibles clacked with sadistic glee. A symbol of interlocked circles had been tattooed upon the hulk’s forehead, symbolizing Master Coh’s ownership, and the umber hulk happily bent and lifted a squirming Gnoll high above his head.

  The Gnoll thrashed in Orik’s calloused claws. One of its tiny hands beat helplessly against the hulk’s thick chest as its screams echoed through the temple. Orik laughed deep in his throat; he loved to hear the cries of the weak ones as they screamed for mercy.

  The pit before which Coh and Orik stood was deep, filled with shadows and surrounded by flat tiers upon which Coh’s neogi brethren could squat. Inside the stony pit, deep in the darkness and surrounded by the bloody bones of Coh’s victims, squatted the bloated, obscene form of the great old master.

  Master Coh lifted a claw in a sarcastic wave as Orik tossed the Gnoll high in the air. The slave plummeted into the pit. It screamed once as it disappeared over the lip of the deep pit, then there was a sickening crunch as its bones cracked against the stony floor.

  Coh lifted his bulbous, spidery body and scurried to the edge. Orik looked in wonderingly.

  The shadows seemed to move in a far corner of the pit. There was a yellow glimmer as two glazed eyes blinked open and the great old master stirred from its nest.

  The gnoll’s wails of pain shattered the stillness as it tried to drag its broken legs away from the horror inching toward it.

  The great old master had been the leader of the Spelljammer’s neogi community until Coh had defeated it in a bloody coup. As light fell upon it, Coh grinned mercilessly, baring his yellow fangs in hatred at the master’s mutated body.

  The transformation into old age wrought horrible changes upon the neogi. Their brown, hairy bodies enlarged to about twenty feet long, and their minds slowly wasted away until only feeding was important: the taste of raw meat, the heat of pulsing blood, were their only obsessions.

  The great old master’s shadow fell upon the disabled Gnoll. The neogi’s long black neck towered over him. Foul spittle oozed from the master’s wide, gaping mouth, and light glimmered wickedly off its poisonous teeth. With one ferocious lunge, the master’s eellike head snapped forward and took the Gnoll into its mouth. Bones crunched under the strength of its mutated jaws, and the gnoll’s screams faded like smoke on the wind.

  Coh laughed and brushed back a tuft of its multicolored fur with one claw. His brown coat was resplendent with all the colors of the spectrum, paints and tattoos in shapes and symbols that signified his rank as a superior neogi. He absently thought, as he watched the shape of the Gnoll slowly slide down the great old master’s long black throat, that there was at least one patch of fur that could use another design. He was the natural leader of the Spelljammer’s neogi; who else could claim that title?

  Master Coh was a natural mage, though of limited magical abilities, and he felt the newcomer’s presence behind him before a word could be spoken. “B’Laath’a, speak,” he said, and he kept his eyes studiously upon the great old master.

  B’Laath’a approached. In the dim light of the temple, no ornamental pigments were discernable on his squat, furred body, save for a line of arcane patterns splashed in bright scarlet, painted along the back of his neck and reaching to a point just above his eyes.

  B’Laath’a was an enigma to his fellow neogi: a powerful, spiteful wizard who eschewed the more typical trappings of neogi culture, such as the body paints that proudly signified rank and status among his brethren. He was proud of his muscular, hairy body, pruning it regularly with his long, sharp teeth and feeding off the lice that infested the soft fur of his abdomen. He refused to cover his body with military sigils; his vanity would not allow it. Instead his fur was dyed a permanent, deep black, symbolizing to him all of his secret powers, his hidden strengths – for black was all the colors of the spectrum merged into one.

  He held back a snarl of hatred. Coh. Coh was a joke, a pretender, as far as B’Laath’a was concerned, barely worthy of being leader. Coh was nothing more than a militaristic thug.

  Now, as to himself, …

  B’Laath’a feigned a respectful bow. “Master Coh, squadron attacked a nautiloid, have we. Cloakmaster it is come who has.”

  Coh turned around quickly. “Cloakmaster? Foretold you the one?”

  “Yes, lord. Numbers half dead are. Mighty the cloak is. Destroyed Sketh and slavemeat by magic are.”

  “So, come the Cloakmaster is. Dead he is?”

  B’Laath’a slowly shook his smooth black head. “No, lord. Forces returning speak as we are.”

  Anger glinted deep in Coh’s small eyes. “Dark Times not will neogi harm! Stopped Cloakmeat must be! Ours Cloakmeat will be!”

  B’Laath’a bowed his head as Coh scurried past him. Then the leader turned. “Prepared are you. The agent prepared is?”

  “Of course,” B’Laath’a said. “My assassinmeat ready has been since arrival. Meat smuggled to the tower has been … time for one last.”

  Coh smiled evilly. “Plan of ours action must be put to. Now time is!” He raised a claw to the series of colorful, interlocked circles tattooed on his forehead and concentrated. Come, he commanded silently.

  In a few moments, the door to the temple opened and closed silently. The agent stepped quietly forward on bare feet, a ritual of neogi enslavement.

  “Here your precious Cloakmaster almost is, meat,” the neogi master said. His black, hairy body was a proud swirl of colors and designs, radiating his power and status among his slithering brethren, and he puffed out his chest to impress the slave. “Well it may not go killing the Cloakmeat during our initial attempt. You will, of course, if caught as we have commanded do. Correct.” It was not a question.

  The agent seemed to stammer, as though B’Laath’a’s spells and mind-wiping were being fought. Coh grunted in anger, and a sharp pinprick of white-hot pain erupted in the agent’s mind. The agent fell to the floor.

  “Correct,” Coh said. B’Laath’a stood over the agent and spoke a spell of pain. The agent’s skin grew bright red with fiery pain. “Correct,” B’Laath’a said.

  “Y – yes,” the agent stammered. “Yes – the Cloakmaster will be yours, Master … Teldin Moore must d – die …”

  *****

  The neogi, clasped in the arms of its umber hulk, snapped out at the Cloakmaster with its needle-sharp teeth.

  Teldin’s hand went to the hilt of his short sword at the neogi’s scream, but the blade of its enslaved umber hulk was a silver, deadly arc, curving down toward Teldin’s head,
and Teldin realized in a flash that he had no time to deflect the blow.

  The Cloakmaster lunged forward, angrily grabbed the snapping neogi by its long, eellike throat, and wrenched it from the umber hulk’s grasp. The hulk’s sword hurtled down in an unstoppable arc and neatly sliced through one of the neogi’s legs.

  Teldin stomped on the flat of the umber hulk’s blade and threw a powerful kick into its chest. The hulk stumbled backward, hardly affected, as it was protected by thick layers of hide. With a shout, Teldin slammed the neogi to the ground and drove his foot into its fat neck. The neogi gurgled a cry of pain. Its claws scrabbled the air, vainly attempting to block Teldin’s assault. Its needle-sharp teeth bit at the air, coming far short of injecting their sickly venom deep into Teldin’s veins.

  The Cloakmaster’s sword was a blur as it arced high, then dropped swiftly down, deep through the neogi’s skull and into its evil brain.

  Teldin jerked out the sword. Great gouts of blood spurted from the wound. The dead neogi’s umber hulk stood and stared as its master’s blood pooled around its feet. Teldin wasted no time. He leaped forward and sliced into the umber hulk’s thick shoulder.

  It fell to one knee and screamed in rage. One great arm went up to block a second blow, and the arm was cleaved away at the shoulder with an eruption of hot, ugly blood.

  The umber hulk collapsed at Teldin’s feet. He spun to face squarely the oncoming horde of neogi, but a series of loud shouts echoed behind him, and the neogi horde was met from behind by an angry band of human warriors, which rushed from across the landing field at the Spelljammer’s bow.

  There were at least twenty of them, Teldin thought, a motley assortment of humans in armor, wielding weapons that had been collected from all the known crystal spheres. Armed with huge broadswords and battle-axes, the humans swarmed over the reptilian hordes and engaged them fiercely.

  Teldin dove into the fray, swinging his sword from side to side and carving a path through the waves of black neogi flesh. The reptiles chattered and snatched out at him with their razor teeth. His sword cleaved their heads from their necks; his cloak swatted at them unconsciously, protecting his limbs from sword cuts and blows, and even the tiniest scratch from a venomous neogi fang.

  Around him, the swarm of humans broke the neogi line. One small male, clad in a long, plaid cloak, shot barbed projectiles at the neogi from a deadly silver slingshot. When a neogi was hit, even with a minor scratch, within a minute it would begin to twitch horribly, then collapse into a spasmodic heap, screaming in searing pain.

  Other humans were not so lucky. One warrior went down, trapped between the sharp axes of two umber hulks. Another fighter battled back-to-back with a female warrior. The woman was the first to fall, caught in a thigh by the snapping jaws of an angry neogi. The man was left to fend off two more of the venomous beasts, then was pulled down as the woman’s murderer leaped upon him from behind. Another woman kept the neogi at bay with wide swings of her battle-axe, but one of the umber hulks cast a heavy spear with ease and impaled the woman through the chest.

  The battle shifted without warning. As their comrades began to fall, the surviving humans became determined to win and pressed on with increasing fury. Teldin heard the neogi scream in pain and rage, and he watched as umber hulks staggered away without guidance, their masters lying dead in their own dark blood.

  A human behind him shouted “Cloakmaster!” and Teldin spun around.

  A ferocious neogi had crouched and sprung from the deck and was rushing down at him from midair.

  Teldin brought up his sword and thrust the blade deep into the neogi fighter’s pulsing heart, then slammed the spiderlike body to the ground and kicked it off his sword.

  He turned to spy a huge man, almost broader across his shoulders than he was tall, swing his broadsword in a huge arc to slice through the thick necks of two advancing umber hulks. They fell at his feet, and as their blood sprayed onto his legs and boots, he laughed loudly at the reptilian hordes and their slaves.

  “Thanks,” Teldin said. The warrior kicked one of the hulks in the side. His foot bounced harmlessly off the thing’s thick carapace.

  The man’s long, thick beard was tied in a cord that dangled to his waist. He bent and lifted one of the hulk’s swords, and Teldin could see that this man, though small in stature, was barrel-chested and muscular, and his armor had seen a lot of damage.

  The warrior turned. “So, you’re the Cloakmaster?” he asked, panting.

  “I —” Teldin did not know how to react. “Well, yes, I suppose I am. How did you —”

  He was cut off as a huge umber hulk ran up behind the warrior and grabbed him from behind. The human’s swords clattered to the deck, and the warrior squirmed to get away. The hulk’s grip was like an iron vise, and as its sharp, clacking mandibles moved inches closer to the warrior’s neck, a fat neogi scurried out of the surrounding battle and bared its fangs, preparing to sink them deep into the human’s flesh.

  Teldin balanced his short sword in his hand, then aimed quickly and hurled it at the ugly neogi. The umber hulk lashed out with one hand, caught the sword, and cast it to the deck. The human lashed out with one, thick hand, but the hulk swatted it away and quickly replaced its hold on him. Its mesmerizing eyes seemed to glimmer with dull amusement.

  The neogi laughed at Teldin as it bared its yellow, needle-like fangs. Venom dripped from its mouth and spattered the deck. The neogi turned to the warrior again.

  It raised its blunt head, ready to lunge.

  Teldin felt his rage building, and his skin began to shiver with energy pulsing through his veins. He cried out “No!” and twin bolts of blue, magical lightning lanced out from the folds of the cloak and speared the neogi and its hard-skinned servant.

  Arcs of mystical energy pulsed from the cloak to engulf the unhuman enemies. The warrior fell from the hulk’s arms and scrambled away.

  The neogi screamed in white-hot pain. The umber hulk fell to its knees, covering its beady eyes with its thick claws. At once, fingers of crackling energy erupted from the assailants’ eyes and mouths. Their bodies seemed to blaze blue from within.

  Their screams were high-pitched wails of pain and seemed to echo in Teldin’s ears long after they had stopped. In an instant, the unhumans were nothing more than lifeless, burned-out husks, and their charred black bodies crumbled to the ground like the broken, blackened hull of Teldin’s nautiloid.

  The bearded warrior stood slowly. The fighting had stopped around them as Teldin’s cloak had fought back, and as their brother fell to the Cloakmaster’s magic, the remaining neogi started running for the safety of their tower. One female warrior carefully leveled her crossbow and nailed a scurrying neogi through its neck. She screamed a triumphant battle cry, and soon the unhumans were gone.

  The burly warrior picked up Teldin’s short sword and handed it to him. His eyes twinkled with the exhilaration of a battle well fought.

  “Yes, I guess you are the Cloakmaster,” he said.

  Teldin shrugged, smiling. “My name is Teldin Moore. How do you know me?”

  The warrior stroked his long beard. “I suppose you could say we’ve all been expecting you. I’m CassaRoc. CassaRoc the Mighty, they call me. And I think you can say...” He paused to appraise Teldin with his clear, cool eyes, then nodded once and smiled back. “I’m a friend,” he said.

  Teldin stared after the retreating neogi. In the distance, they were clambering off the wing, up the Spelljammer’s side, toward the protection of their tower. “Thanks,” Teldin said. “I need all the friends I can get.”

  “Don’t we all, boy?” CassaRoc said. “Don’t we all.”

  CassaRoc ordered his warriors to help move Djan and the fallen Corontea. As a dozen ran to help, the remaining humans gathered around the two warriors, sheathing their swords. CassaRoc shouted, making sure he could be heard by all. “Well, that should teach those damned neogi not to mess with the collective, at least for a while. All right,” CassaRoc yelled.
“Who’s up for a round of ale?”

  The humans laughed and shouted agreement. Many stood with their weapons poised, waiting for another possible attack. CassaRoc placed a hand on Teldin’s shoulder. “Come on,” CassaRoc said. “Your people will be well taken care of. We should leave now, before somebody else decides they want a piece of you.”

  A tall man strode up to them, neatly outfitted in shining armor of silver and white. A heavy white cloak billowed behind him, and the warrior wore his thick, reddish blond hair in a wild mane that suggested to Teldin that the man was far less tame than his paladin armor suggested. “The centaur tower,” the warrior said, casting his gaze over the others’ heads. “Mostias can protect us there for a while. We can smuggle the newcomer into the Chalice tower after things settle down.”

  CassaRoc nodded approvingly. “You’re right, Chaladar,” he said. He leaned to Teldin and winked. “Besides, the centaurs make some excellent ales.”

  The woman armed with the crossbow came up beside CassaRoc. Her curly brown hair was held back with a band of shining steel, and she held herself proudly, like a self-assured warrior. “What about Chel? And Gar? Do you want to just leave them here?”

  CassaRoc frowned and looked toward the bodies of his fallen comrades. “I know they were friends of yours, Na’Shee,” he said. “They were friends to us all, but we have to worry about the living now. Let’s get the Cloakmaster here to the tower first. You can round up some men later and bring the bodies back to the Tower of Thought.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t be forgotten.”

  Na’Shee nodded silently and looked back at her friends’ bodies.

  Chaladar called out “Let’s go!” and the group started jogging toward the outermost tower on the Spelljammer’s right wing, with Djan and Corontea each carried by four warriors in the center of the group. Chaladar, the paladin, took point, while CassaRoc ran at the rear. Teldin ran protected in the center, and continually glanced over his shoulders at the tall spires of the citadel sprawled across the Spelljammer’s back.