The Maelstroms Eye (24 page)

The admiral craned his head at the papers Vorr held. “You may as well see if there’s anything useful there. I don’t want to lose Teldin’s course, so you should get that first message to the helm. When you’ve done that, let’s look at the second message and see what our … partner recommends as prudent courses to foil the elves. I’ll meet you back here in one hour.” The admiral slowly got to his feet.

Vorr headed for the door and saluted on his way out. Behind him, he heard the admiral call, “Remember that first order first, General.”

I will, Vorr promised himself. I will.

The humanoid fleet took up a new, tighter formation as it set out in pursuit of the lone gnomish ship. Invisible now because of the thousands of miles between them and the humanoids, the four surviving elven warships tracked their foes. Before long, two of the man-o-war spelljammers moved in to reconnoiter the humanoid ships.

One ship came back.

“They found us, my admiral,” said Captain Melwan, who just two days ago had been the second officer of the
Free Wind’s Fury.
“We sustained considerable damage to the forward areas of both the main and battle decks in the orcs’ initial volley. The
Leaping Hurt
lost its helm at once and was set aflame. We could not render aid. Captain Sirithea was wounded on the bridge, and First Officer Eal Dornal was killed by a shot outside the spelljammer’s cabin. Three others were killed, sixteen wounded. I took command and ordered a retreat, using a false movement pattern to avoid giving away the location of our fleet. I had to assume after the attack that the orcs were able to track us as they wished, and we made all speed back once we were certain we were not being followed.”

Admiral Cirathorn raised a finger from his command throne. “How do you know,” he said tonelessly, “that you were not followed?”

Melwan, a tall elf with dull gray hair and eyes, hesitated. “Sir, our battlewizard’s spells assured us that —”

“Are you certain?” Cirathorn’s voice was quiet and ruthless. “Are you certain? You were, after all, detected while your ship was cloaked. If theorcs could do that, how can you be sure they did not track you all the way back here?”

The captains and battlewizards in the
Empress Dorianne’s
conference room looked at one another. The idea that a cloaking helm could be defeated was unthinkable. Cloaking helms were distributed by the Imperial Fleet to only a handful of ships, and these had never been known to suffer casualties while cloaked. If the cloak was dropped early, the ship could be attacked at will.

“Sir,” said the tall elf, his face nearly white, “I did not order the Free
Wind’s Fury
to uncloak. Our closest approach to the orcish fleet was five hundred feet from the trailing vessel, an ancient vipership. We suddenly encountered a minor nebula, and the enemy fleet opened fire upon us moments afterward. I took command —”

“Ahh.” Cirathorn leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I see now. Theorcs detected the image of your ship as you passed through the nebula. It is the same principle a groundling adventurer would use against an invisible foe – hurling a sack of flour in the air to detect the opponent’s body after the flour coats it – only your ship blundered into a natural trap.” Cirathorn leaned forward in his chair. “Why did Captain Sirithea allow the
Fury
to enter the nebula? Was she not aware that this would happen?”

“I … haven’t any idea, sir,” said Melwan. “She’s in a coma and is being tended by —”

“I’m aware of her condition,” said Cirathorn. His hands were clasped together in front of him, elbows resting on the arms of his throne. “I want your opinion.”

The tall elf was silent for a few moments; “None of us saw the nebula, sir, before we entered it. It appeared suddenly as the orcish fleet was passing through it.”

The admiral stared down at the new captain. “Could it be that the orcs have suddenly become rather clever and have merely found a way to detect our ships by, say, firing flour, dust, or other paniculate debris from their jettisons and catapults, in essence creating their own temporary nebulae?”

Melwan’s eyes widened as he considered this. “Sir, after the incident, I did notice that our ship was covered with a fine white powder, which I assumed to have been from the nebula. We are still cleaning up the ship as well as repairing it, but I can have the material checked for its composition.”

“Do so immediately,” said the brown-haired admiral, his eyes sharp. “Report back before this watch is out.”

Melwan snapped off a salute and left with his battlewizard within five seconds. When the door shut behind him, Cirathorn turned to the other elves in the spacious room beneath the crystal chandelier. Paintings of landscapes hung on the walls, softly lit by the chandelier’s many candles.

“Theorcs have become much brighter since we last met them on the field of battle,” the admiral said tiredly. He looked up without seeming to see anyone present. “Perhaps they are far smarter than we would like to believe. Perhaps they are far stronger and far better fighters, too. The loss of the
Unicorn’s Wing
gave me pause, but this disaster while under cloaking has instilled me with dread. I have the gravest concerns for our safety, and for the safety of our entire Imperial Fleet and people. I believe a second Unhuman War is upon us, and we might not live to see it through.”

The other elves stared at Cirathorn in shock and disbelief. “Sir,” started one, an amber-haired male with a white mask painted on his face, “I don’t believe the orcs could possibly have the intellect to plan such undertakings as you have described. We are speaking of orcs, and they are incapable of any form of foresight and planning beyond a day’s time.”

Cirathorn smiled grimly. “Then how have they done so well so far?” he asked. “In the old days, we would have consumed their fleet by now with but the forces we have here. Yet we harry them from hiding like guerillas, not like the lords of wildspace we imagine ourselves to be. We dare not approach them again in direct battle without an invincible edge, one that will allow us to crush them quickly and decisively. As of yet, we lack that edge. Even the firepower of this armada is not sufficient. We need something more.”

None of the other elves spoke. Several looked away – whether in shame or thought, Cirathorn could not tell. It was obvious that no one had any new ideas.

Cirathorn let out his breath and leaned back in his throne. “We are less than a fortnight from this crystal sphere’s portal. Teldin Moore and his ship will not likely be caught before then if he is able to use the powers of his cloak to take his ship out of harm’s way. Once beyond the portal, it is twenty-nine days, with an error of three days, to Herdspace and the falmadaraatha. We must prepare ourselves as best we can for our next meeting with these orcs, or whatever they are calling themselves these days. We shall reconvene this evening for a discussion of tactics in such an event. You will each come prepared with at least two workable tactics, one fleet tactic and one ship tactic, given the caustic knowledge in which we have bathed ourselves this day.”

The other elves slowly came to their feet and made their way out of the room to their own chambers on a lower level of the armada. Cirathorn rubbed his eyes, feeling an ache in his head flow and ebb with each beat of his heart.

“Are you well, my admiral?” came a silk-soft voice.

“No.” He dropped his hands and looked at his battlewizard. “No, I am not well. Our people are not well, and our future is ill – but we have a chance, one pathway to salvation. You have been our best guide, and your direction has served us well. I must trust to the gods that it will be enough.”

The pale battlewizard nodded but said nothing.

“Have you heard any more from the lookouts about the signal light emitted from the gnomes’ ship?” Cirathorn asked. “Has anyone been able to translate the code?”

Mirandel mumbled a response to the negative.

“We will need to warn our ally with Teldin, then.” Cirathorn’s gaze ran up and down the female elf’s thin frame. “You still grieve for your sister,” he said. “Why?”

“She and I were very close,” said the battlewizard, her voice failing. Her shoulders slumped. “Since the battle, I … I feel lost. She was my only friend when we were children. I …” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the floor, unable to speak further. She appeared to be ready to cry.

Cirathorn frowned, sitting up. “I need you, Mirandel. Don’t leave me now to fall inside yourself. I lost six generations of my family when Aerlofalyn was taken. We are in the crucible. For all that we have lost, we will lose far more if we give in to weakness now. Be strong, my Mirandel. We will avenge your sister Yolantha and all who died with her.”

The battlewizard nodded her head slightly, barely enough to detect. “Yes,” she whispered. “I am sorry to be so weak, my admiral, but it is hard. I miss her.”

The admiral got up from his throne, his robes rustling, and stepped down to put a hand on the battlewizard’s warm cheek. With a careful stroke, he brushed her long white hair with his fingertips. She never looked up.

“You are my strength,” he said softly. “You devised the plan by which we can keep a closer watch over Teldin Moore, and we were able to use that plan to warn the accursed gnomes of the orcs’ invasion. I need your brilliance in this darkness. Help me find a way to fight the orcs. Save us.”

The battlewizard nodded after a pause. “Yes, my admiral.” Her voice was so weak that he could barely hear her.

Cirathorn smiled. He would wear the Cloak of the First Pilot before long, of that he was certain. He would then have the
Spelljammer,
and theorcs across all space would feel the flaming spear of elven rage. Mirandel would come through with something clever. She would not fail him now.

He pressed his lips to Mirandel’s smooth forehead as his arms encircled her and her thin body leaned into his for comfort. She was the best of all battlewizards, the best of all spouses, the truest of lovers. It was a shame he did not love her back, but surely she knew that and accepted it. There was no time for love now in these days of blood and war. There was time now for only vengeance.

*****

“Well,” said Dyffed heartily, as he sat down to breakfast, “I have some good news and some bad news.”

As one, Teldin, Aelfred, Sylvie, Gaye, and Gomja paused, exchanging glances. They then put down their wooden spoons and looked in the gnome’s direction. The group was packed so closely together in the ship’s narrow dining area that Teldin feared he would go mad from claustrophobia if the diet of creamed soaked grains did not kill him first. Gomja sat on the floor beside the table, unable to squeeze into one of the absurdly confining wooden seats, each mounted to the wall. Whoever was at the far end of the table was trapped there by everyone else who took a seat afterward. On this day, the eighth one out from Ironpiece, Teldin was the one who got to be trapped. The air was overly warm and stale, reinforcing his sense of confinement. His stomach was queazy and tense.

Dressed in the same clothes he’d worn since landing on Ironpiece, Dyffed spooned large dollops of sludgy gray creamed soaked grains into his bowl, taking them from the steaming pot resting at the near end of the table. He took a deep sniff of its flavorless aroma, sighed with contentment, and took a seat next to Aelfred, who looked at Sylvie with a why-me expression and shrugged. Sylvie fought back a smile.

“What’s the news?” said Teldin, unable to wait any longer. “Your good and bad news.”

“Hmm?” said Dyffed absently, about to take his first bite. “Oh! Yes, of course. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we’re about to run out of food.” With that, he began to consume huge spoonfuls of creamed soaked grains, each bite accompanied by much lip smacking and “Mmmmmm!” sounds.

Teldin felt an irrational urge to jump on his chair, run across the tabletop, and strangle the unkempt gnome. He closed his eyes and counted to ten instead. It didn’t help.

“I suppose that can be considered good news,” remarked Aelfred dryly. His bowl was half finished, consumed only to avoid starvation. “So, what’s the bad news?”

Dyffed took a moment to swallow. “Ah!” he said, spitting out a few bits of cereal, “the bad news is that we won’t be able to steer or take showers.” He chuckled to himself. “That’s quite the funniest thing, really.” The gnome shoveled another spoonful of creamed soaked grains into his mouth.

There was a fragile silence. Gomja used the break to carefully heave his enormous bulk up from the floor and help himself to his sixth bowl of gray mash this morning. Unlike everyone else but the gnomes, Gomja, a vegetarian from birth, loved creamed soaked grains (“Gnomes know how to cook!” he once had confided to Teldin).

“Dyffed,” said Teldin, his patience virtually gone, “what are you talking about?” He was aware that everyone but the gnome was staring at him, and he tried with little success to stem his rising anger. He had spent the last eight days stumbling over gnomes in hallways, finding them repairing springs in the middle of the night under his bed, and wedging himself into impossibly small spaces that obviously had been built for gnomes and no one else. Aelfred ran things aboard the ship, directing the gnomes in their duties, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. The gnomes were restless and ill at ease these days, and they were always in the way.

Gaye put a hand on Teldin’s arm and squeezed to distract him. Teldin tried to relax, contenting himself with imagining now terrible it would be if he were to give in to his baser urges and begin throwing gnomes off the ship.

“Well,” said Dyffed, wiping his mouth on his once-white shirt front, “once we run out of the creamed soaked grains, we shall have nothing left to feed the two giant hamsters in the hydrodynamic pumping station, and we shall be forced to eat them instead, and once we butcher them, we shall, of course, have nothing to make the water pumps operate, so our showers will stop, and we will also be unable to connect the steering gyroscope’s drive shaft to the pumping station, since our hamsters are being baked, unless we gnomes run inside the giant wheels in place of the hamsters. It’s quite simple.”