The Ultimate Helm Page 4

  As they ran, CassaRoc pointed out some of the towers and explained a little of the ship’s layout. The light of the flow flickered gold and violet across the variegated collection of towers and turrets. Multipatterned flags flew at the pinnacles of several buildings, and the ship’s tail, towering above the rooftops and battlements, was a constant reminder of the majesty of the vessel, of the wonder of a living myth. To Teldin, the gleaming towers, the graceful sweep of the Spelljammer’s hull, represented nothing but the fulfillment of a dream – a dream of extraordinary adventure that he never could have conceived while a simple melon farmer on Krynn.

  But the simple life of Krynn was a lifetime ago and a universe away – or at least it seemed like that to Teldin. Krynn was now little more than a memory, both good and bad. The nights on his land had been sweet, especially in summers, when the hidaglia blossoms were in full bloom and the air was scented with their perfumed musk. But there were bad times that he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried... the things he had seen during his treks in the War of the Lance, and the oppressive abuse heaped upon him by his father.

  A gleaming glint of gold caught his eye, high atop the Given High Command. He focused on it and smiled at the sight, realizing that his long quest was now at an end, that his answers were here, and nowhere else – especially not on Krynn. Krynn was forever gone, for him; it was a way of life to which he could never return, and now did not want to.

  The centaur tower was low and asymmetrical, a guardian twin to the dracon tower strategically situated on the port wing. The centaurs were the ostensible wardens and gunnery officers for the tower’s fifteen huge catapults, but to Teldin, the building seemed dark and in terrible disrepair, and he wondered if the centaurs should hold the great responsibility for manning the Spelljammer’s starboard weapons.

  CassaRoc closed and bolted the main doors of the tower behind the humans. His band of warriors instantly relaxed inside the safety of the tower and started unbuckling their tight, heavy armor. Some told jokes and insulted the neogi hordes, calling their eellike mothers “beholder whores” and their fathers “Torilian maggot lovers” (though neogi had neither mothers nor fathers). A few centaurs popped their heads out from their stables and joined in the good humor, wondering if beer would later be poured for free.

  CassaRoc ordered Djan and the female helmsman taken to a healer. Teldin stopped them as they carried Djan away. The half-elf was still unconscious, and Teldin placed his hand upon Djan’s breast. “They’ll take care of you,” Teldin said. Then he turned to Corontea. She was bleeding heavily from a nasty gash to her forehead, and her legs and arms were seriously burned.

  He closed his eyes. CassaRoc said, “Go on, now,” and the warriors took Teldin’s people away.

  CassaRoc said, “You can’t do anything for them, now, Cloakmaster. There’s no sense in feeling guilty. We all know the risks of spelljamming. So did they.”

  CassaRoc and the others started off, and Teldin turned to survey his surroundings. His nose was filled with the underlying scents of farm odors that he had grown up with: of hay and sweat, of earth, and above that, the heavy aroma of horse manure. But here in the dim light – he could see that even light panels in this section of the tower were faulty and fading – the stables seemed cramped and unkempt. Wooden walls were rotting, some with ragged holes where angry centaurs had kicked them out, perhaps in drunken rage. Teldin could also make out the sweet, cloying scent of old ale permeating the walls and floor, almost like fermented honey.

  “These are their quarters,” CassaRoc told him. The two of them walked side by side through the stable common, then entered a cramped garden, somewhere in the central portion of the tower, Teldin decided. The feeble light panels in the walls and ceilings made what few grains the centaurs were cultivating seem pale and sickly. Gray mushrooms sprouted from the other half of the garden, some growing in rows, others in natural rings. “If they offer you any of the fungus, just say you’re not hungry. It wasn’t made for human consumption.”

  Teldin nodded. One large mushroom was mottled with splotches of purple. Teldin thought it quivered as the humans filed past. “I see what you mean,” he said.

  CassaRoc kept his voice low. “The damned centaurs are right enough, but they’ve grown soft. They just don’t care about anything. This tower could be impenetrable, if only they kept it up. The collective would hire on to fix things up for them, but they just don’t care. All the centaurs really care about are their brews.” He elbowed Teldin in the side. “By the Gods, I can understand that.” He smacked his lips. “The leader here, Mostias – big centaur. Big. You’ll like him – he makes this one ale that —”

  A loud, hearty shout greeted them as they entered a large dining area. The humans went to mingle with a troop of centaurs, grabbing goblets of ale at a long, wooden bar stretched along one wall. ‘The small warrior cloaked in plaid ordered a mug of fruit juice. The massive centaur behind the bar scowled at him, then poured him the mug and slammed it on the bar. The small man lifted it in salute and grinned lopsidedly at Teldin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cloakmaster, sir,” he said happily.

  Na’Shee approached Teldin, cutting off his view of the small fighter. Her eyes seemed strong and determined, but they glinted with gentle humor. “You did well out there.”

  “Thanks,” Teldin said, “you’re a great shot. I’m sorry about your friends. I owe you all.”

  She shrugged it off and looked away sadly. She changed the subject abruptly. “I’ve seen magic artifacts before, masks that speak, a tempest in a bottle; but that cloak —”

  Teldin grinned. “I’m just glad CassaRoc is all right.”

  “She held out her hand, and Teldin shook it. “I’m Na’Shee. Sometimes I work behind CassaRoc’s bar. You may find it a little tougher around here than you think. If you need anything, you let me know.”

  “Sure,” Teldin thanked her, and he slowly realized that he had somehow made a new friend. Then he turned as a huge centaur strode from behind the bar and trotted up to CassaRoc, towering at least three feet over the warrior’s head. The centaur held a huge, crystal tankard in one great hand; the mug was shaped like a giant boot and filled to the brim with golden ale. He handed it to the human and laughed. “Well fought, little one,” the centaur said. “Sorry we couldn’t meet you fast enough to help with the battle.” CassaRoc forced a smile while the centaur went on. “Damned neogi are an infernal lot. Can’t trust a one of them.”

  “Never have,” CassaRoc said. He took a long pull of his brew, then belched. “Never will. The only good neogi —”

  “— is a dead neogi!” cried the other humans. They raised their drinks to each other.

  “I think they’ve heard your tirade a little too often, my friend,” said the centaur.

  “I see that,” CassaRoc agreed, laughing. “But I’m not wrong, am I?”

  The centaur shook his head. “My friend here needs one of your brews,” CassaRoc told the huge centaur. He clapped Teldin’s shoulder. “Teldin Moore, meet the finest centaur brewmaster in all the known spheres: Mostias.”

  “Ahhh,” said the centaur, “the fabled Cloakmaster.” He bowed his head. “Come on. I’ll draw you an ale.”

  Teldin shook his head. “Just some water, if you will,” he said. “After the crash and that fight, all I’d like is a mug of water and a place to sleep.”

  Mostias nodded and clapped a heavy hand on his back. “Coming right up.” Teldin stared as the fat centaur shambled to the row of taps lined up behind the bar. He could not believe the centaur’s size: his thighs were as big as tree trunks, and his bulbous stomach seemed as large as a cow’s. His thick mane shook as he walked.

  CassaRoc whispered to Teldin, “Lazy creatures. ‘Sorry we couldn’t meet you fast enough,’” he mimicked. “Right.”

  They bellied up to the bar as Mostias finished pouring Teldin a tankard of cool water. “On the other hand,” CassaRoc said, “these centaurs are second only to myself at the refined art of
brewing.”

  Teldin finished his water in several gulps. CassaRoc grasped his glass boot in both hands and opened his mouth wide. Twin streams of ale flowed messily down his chin. He slammed the boot down on the bar and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Ahh, Mostias, that’s good!” he cried.

  CassaRoc turned around and spoke to the company. “Now don’t go quaffing all the ale you can. Leth, Spokaad, you, too, Hertek. Finish your ales and take positions along the tower. We have a guest —” he glanced at Teldin “— who a lot of our enemies would love to sink their diseased teeth into. Now, drink up! And take your posts!”

  His warriors readily agreed and quickly finished their drinks. They nodded at Teldin as they filed out, and CassaRoc gestured Teldin over to an old, wooden table near the center of the room.

  Chaladar, the grand knight, casually bowed his head to Teldin. He straightened the ends of his thick, reddish moustache with his fingers, and he said to CassaRoc, “I’ll take the door. I’ve already placed two men at the entrance to the tower. We should leave within the hour. The neogi may have time to regroup, or even ally themselves with the Long Fangs.” Chaladar gritted his teeth. “This could be more trouble than we expected.”

  CassaRoc nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Be on your guard, paladin.”

  Chaladar opened the door and stepped just outside the entrance. His broadsword gleamed with a pure silver light, and he ran a hand appreciatively down a flat side. “Scaleslicer and I are always careful.”

  He turned his back to the room and stood watch with his shining sword unsheathed. CassaRoc leaned close to Teldin. “A good man,” CassaRoc whispered. “A holy fanatic, of course, but a good man nonetheless.”

  Mostias poured Teldin another tankard of water, and CassaRoc led him to a table where they could sit and talk. “Sorry about your men, and your ship,” CassaRoc said. In his mind Teldin saw the mountain of flames engulfing the Julia, the explosion that had spewed shards of debris across the great ship’s wing, and the empty silence that followed, signifying the sudden death that had fallen upon his crew. “I wish things had been different. I promised them a quest, journeys to spheres no one has ever before seen. They didn’t sign on with me simply to die a few months later.”

  CassaRoc nodded knowingly and watched him. “So you’re really the Cloakmaster?”

  Teldin chuckled ruefully. “Either I am the Cloakmaster, or the cloak is the master of me. No matter the case, this cloak is what brought me here.”

  “Well, we’re grateful you’re here. I’m grateful you’re one of us. And don’t worry. Your people will be taken care of.”

  “Thanks. Quite a welcome,” Teldin said. “We would have been killed if it wasn’t for you and your men. I had no idea that word had reached you of our approach. To be honest, I never thought anybody here would even know who I was. Or would care.”

  CassaRoc took a slow sip of his ale. “You don’t know how long we’ve been expecting you. There are wizards all over the Spelljammer who have been foretelling the coming of the Cloakmaster for years. But, lately, a lot of rumors have been spreading, especially an ancient beholder myth about the coming of the Cloakmaster. It has the whole Spelljammer on edge. That’s why you were attacked. The neogi didn’t know – gods, nobody knew – who the Cloakmaster was going to be, and they didn’t care. They only know the beholder myth: that the coming of the Cloakmaster will herald the start of the Dark Times.

  “They’re not taking any chances. The older races know what happens during the Dark Times, and they don’t want it to happen again. They’re killing all the newcomers to the Spelljammer – to make sure they get the Cloakmaster, and the Dark Times will never come.

  “Right now,” he said, “you can bet that word is spreading across the ship that you are here, and that we’ve got you. You are going to have a fiendish time here. Everybody wants you... and, I guess, that cloak of yours.”

  Teldin had no reply and quietly sipped his water. CassaRoc lowered his voice. “That’s a mighty powerful weapon you got there, son. You know, I don’t take easily to a lot of people, but you’re all right, Moore. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re ready to take on more. And you saved my life. I owe you.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Teldin said. “My cloak —”

  “The gods it wasn’t! That cloak wouldn’t have done a thing if you hadn’t willed it. I saw you.”

  Teldin thought back. He had learned to control the cloak somewhat, tapping into hidden energies and abilities that only months before he never would have thought existed. He still was not exactly sure what he was doing and what the cloak was responsible for, but he could command its awesome energies for the most part, especially when he let the control come naturally, without concentrating too hard. At least, he figured, if he was not now the complete master of the cloak, he was well on his way.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Perhaps. I had no chance against that ignorant umber hulk, not without a decent weapon. Perhaps. Right.”

  Teldin looked around at CassaRoc’s assemblage. As he spoke, centaurs entered the room, carrying bandages and poultices for CassaRoc’s wounded fighters. “We were lucky out there. Hardly anyone was hurt.”

  “I’ve got good fighters. Those neogi can’t compare to a human on a rescue mission. Or on a quest.” He finished the tall boot of ale and slammed it again on the table. “It’s time, Teldin Moore,” he said. “What’s your story?”

  With the crash and the immediate battle for his life behind him, Teldin was beginning to feel light-headed and tired, and he was becoming desperate for a soft bunk for the night. Or the day. Whatever they have in the phlogiston, he thought. But a story?

  “My story? I don’t have a story.”

  CassaRoc watched him skeptically. “You said you were on a quest. What brings you across the Rainbow Ocean, Cloakmaster?”

  Teldin’s eyes felt heavy from exhaustion. When he looked up, all the humans who had helped battle the neogi were expectantly watching him. “Well?” CassaRoc said.

  “Well,” Teldin began, taking a gulp of water. “Very well. From the beginning.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve come here because the neogi shot down a Spelljammer that destroyed my farm on Krynn, and I was entrusted with some kind of magical cloak that I haven’t been able to take off, even for a bath, for about a year.”

  The humans stared at him. Somewhere behind him, a centaur whinnied for another flagon of ale. “You asked,” Teldin said. “That I did,” CassaRoc said, smiling. He turned to his companions. “It’s going to be a long one, friends, but I think it’s going to be good.”

  Teldin took a deep breath and started in, explaining the crash of the reigar craft on his farm, and his subsequent quest to remove the ancient cloak that the captain had given him. At first, the warriors listened as would any dubious group: laughing, making jokes and, occasionally, loud, sarcastic remarks. But by the time Teldin recounted his vicious fight with General Vorr and the almost accidental acquisition of the bronze amulet by Gaeadrelle Goldring, not a single warrior interrupted him, nor did they even march back to the centaurs’ bar for more of ale.

  Teldin told his tale in a calm, even voice, looking back honestly at his own foibles and mistakes, even admitting his misguided trust toward Aelfred Silverhorn and his initial distrust of the giff Herphan Gomja – a mistake for which he felt he would never forgive himself. Frankly, it was all a little embarrassing to Teldin, revealing the chain of events that seemed now to be a life long past, perhaps even a childhood of sorts. Here, today, on the Spelljammer, he felt he was finally grown up, in charge of his fate and his life; and the people around him made him feel comfortable in their attentive silence, accepted, as though he truly belonged – a feeling he had never really had before, not even on Krynn.

  When he was finished, the warriors nodded and talked quietly among themselves. At the door, Chaladar was nodding approvingly. Teldin had recognized the style of the paladin’s armor, and knew that he also hailed from Krynn.
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  Behind Teldin, Na’Shee touched his shoulder softly and said, “Men would die for a mission such as yours. Be proud of yourself. You have achieved your quest.”

  Teldin raised his water mug in a mock salute. “Thanks to you.”

  A shadow darkened the bar’s doorway, and Chaladar stepped aside to let another human in. He turned to watch the woman as she paused inside the doorway and stared at Teldin Moore.

  “The Cloakmaster,” she said. “I knew it would be you.”

  Her words were like the gentle flow of a mountain stream, and Teldin instantly recognized her voice. His mouth fell open as he stared at the elven maiden, her long silver hair flowing like a river over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with flakes of gold, perhaps a little more dimly than when Teldin had seen them last, but she was still beautiful, still radiant, and he felt a pit open up deep in his stomach.

  He leaped up from the table and took the elf into his arms. One hand ran slowly down the length of her luxurious silver hair. “Cwelanas,” Teldin whispered into her lips. “Cwelanas, is it really you?”

  Chapter Three

  “... Destiny is not to be toyed with or ignored. In my crystals I have seen the destiny of the Sphere Chaser an eon from now. I have seen that it begins with an act of innocent kindness and will end once destiny has brought answers to all those with the courage – or the naiveté – to seek them....”

  Corost, mage, The Scroll of the First Seeing;

  reign of the First Pilot.

  The beholder ruins stood in the shadow of the Spelljammer’s mammoth tail, the once-proud columns broken and cracked after two years of the fearful onslaught by the mysterious disease called the Blinding Rot, and the eye tyrants’ subsequent internecine wars.

  The disease had decimated the beholder population, sending the survivors into a mad, xenophobic rage of destruction against their own race. No matter how much they hated all other races, they saved their true hatred for themselves: for all other beholder clans, and for any brethren who were different, or sick, or injured at all.