The Ultimate Helm (5 page)

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.

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.