The Ultimate Helm (9 page)

Teldin looked down. On its own, the cloak had unfurled and grown, softly flaring out behind him in the approximate shape of the
Spelljammer.
Its colors flared brightly, seemingly infused with the energies of the flow, and, as he watched, the inner lining grew dark and the light of stars appeared within, as though the cloak were a vista upon some distant wildspace.

Chaladar said, “I told Teldin that I believed he could unite the collective into a force for good. I now believe that was his destiny all along. Teldin Moore... Cloakmaster... I will be honored to stand with you – and all the warriors of the Chalice tower will stand with you as well.”

CassaRoc’s warriors shouted agreement with the grand knight. From the bar, CassaRoc shouted, “And we’re with you as well, Teldin. Aren’t we, lads?”

At that, all the warriors in the room cheered. Teldin looked upon them and smiled, at CassaRoc, at Chaladar, at Emil and Cwelanas. But there was a frown on her face, and before he could question it, hands were reaching for him, clapping his back, shaking his hand. From around the room he heard cries of “To Teldin Cloakmaster!” Toasts were made, and the warriors introduced themselves for so long that, by the end, he could remember only a handful of their names. His doubts slowly drowned in an overwhelming sea of friendship.

Through it all, no one noticed a small, dark shape crawling on the floor, poking its black, furred snout from around the bar. No one noticed its faint sweet smell, the stench of something long dead.

And no one noticed its white, burning eyes.

*****

There was no warmth, no friendship, in the oppressive silence that lay deep within the secret warrens that veined the mighty
Spelljammer.
The dark world hidden beneath the citadel, the tunnels that stretched mazelike from tip to tip throughout the
Spelljammer’s
body, were cold and reeked with the stench of ancient evil. Only the dead and the undead walked in the warrens. Silence was spoken here, broken only by the shudder of a death rattle, the screams of souls, the whisper of black winds from the worlds beyond the grave.

The tunnels wove unevenly through the
Spelljammer
, ending at only a few points with concealed entrances at the lowest levels of the citadel. Where the living made their homes above, in chambers of light and air, surrounded by mementoes of their accomplishments and the items they needed to live happily among their brothers, the undead of the warrens lay quietly in nests of dry straw, moldy furs, and torn tapestries. Their existence was one of unquiet hatred, existing against their wills between the planes of light and dark, in lairs where the endless warrens intersected or widened enough to afford room for nests.

The dead enjoy their own company.

In one dark, secret lair, hidden deep within the ship so that even the
Spelljammer’s
magic could not detect his evil, exiled to a chamber carpeted with spongy layers of black mold, hung with fineries of moss and green fungi, and furnished with the bones of the long dead, the Fool watched.

His eye sockets were black pits of darkness burning deep inside with bright pinpoints of silver light. He watched through the eyes of his undead vermin as the warriors far above, in the Tower of Thought, surrounded the Cloakmaster and accepted him as one of them.

The Fool rose from his throne, a bleached chair formed from the spines of orcs and the skulls of elves, and he paced the chamber. Where he walked, cold black smoke rose from his footprints.

His gray skin was shrunken, pulled tightly, like parchment, across his undead bones. His eyes glared fiercely, and his skull-like face was contorted in an eternal rictus of hatred. His long, skeletal fingers absently rubbed the length of a crimson amulet at his neck, and the long, rectangular crystal swirled with an unnatural, inner fire.

Long ago his name had been Romar. Now he was simply the Fool. A library of legends had grown around him over the decades. Some believed he was merely a zombie. Some believed he was a skeletal worm that fed on the heart of the
Spelljammer.
Others believed he was the
Spelljammer’s
secret captain. Few had ever seen him; most believed he was a myth, a shadow creature used to scare children.

But the few who had had dealings with the Fool were never the same again. Master Coh believed the Fool was an ally
 –
Hah! The neogi had much to learn, and would learn it soon. The Fool brooked friendship with no one and was ally only to the dark gods. Coh was not a master, but a puppet.

The Fool laughed. He was not called “the Fool” because he was stupid, like his “allies,” but because he had fooled everyone
 –
even the
Spelljammer
itself
 –
about his secret existence within the ship’s warrens.

But things, the Fool foretold, will soon change.

Through the eyes of his undead rat, he could see the contemptible respect on the human warriors’ faces, the sickening strength with which the Cloakmaster carried himself – oh, the arrogance of this human pest! – and the Fool whispered to himself of the things he would do to Teldin Moore, Teldin
Cloakmaster,
of how delicious it would be to command this mortal’s undead body like a marionette, once the cloak and the
Spelljammer
were his.

He knew the cloak. He had followed the signs and had bonded long enough with the
Spelljammer
for knowledge of the cloak’s history to become his. He knew what was the legend and what was the truth; he knew the course of the
Spelljammer’s
destiny, and what the coming of the Cloakmaster truly meant.

For the Cloak of the First Pilot had been returned, and the Compass was the key that would guide the Cloakmaster and the
Spelljammer
to their unseen fate.

Unless he could take the cloak, and the
Spelljammer,
for himself... one last time.

The Fool hissed, the laughter of the dead.

“Spelllljammerrrrrrr...” he said, licking his taut lips with a desiccated tongue.

The Fool’s whispering was the sound of the cold wind whistling through dead trees; the sound of worms burrowing through bones nestled deep within the ground. His ways of thinking were far different from those of the living. His ways were the madness of death, the joy of destruction, the sweet perfection of utter despair.

As he whispered dementedly to himself, he ran his hands over the mildewed doll’s head atop his long conjuring wand, and he imagined his darkest fantasies, his secret desires, his long-hated memories: of the
Spelljammer,
of his failure as captain of the great ship many years ago – Failure! Because the
Spelljammer
was not worthy of me! – of his death-long quest for revenge.

His whispers were broken and rambling, the rasping of the dying. They echoed off the cold, slimy walls, a perverted reflection of Teldin Moore’s own promises of life, of peace.

“Yesss,” the Fool uttered to the darkness. He could see it all now, his last stand before the Dark Times began. “Yesssss. A mighty fight. Many battles... and blood... the blood...”

The Fool shuddered in ecstasy, his twisted mind filled with visions of death and revenge against the
Spelljammer.

“Many will die at my hands. War and blood, to the death...

“A fight... for evil. For souls... for death... for the
Spelljammer’s
final destiny...

“Its...
death
!”

The master lich laughed to himself for a long time. Above, in the market of the
Spelljammer,
shopkeepers shivered for no reason, and children began to cry.

Chapter Five

“... Of course, we had heard the legends of a fabulous cloak of untold power. It was even written that the Architects themselves had no conception of its powers when the cloak was first transformed. It appears to protect and answer its bearer eccentrically, but in ways entirely appropriate to the situation....

“... The fight was over within mere seconds. We never saw Lekashta, the mind flayer, again...

Journal of Steelbender,

dwarf of the Rock of Bral.

Several hours later, after Teldin had bathed and eaten a hearty meal of cold meats in CassaRoc’s galley – for fires were forbidden while the
Spelljammer
was sailing in the phlogiston – he felt relaxed and ready to take on the duty of convincing the leaders of the halflings, the dwarves, and the giff that his coming was not a promise of doom. He was here only to fulfill his quest, to discover why he had been called out to find the most legendary spelljamming craft of all time. The cloak, an ultimate helm, he knew, was too valuable to fall into the hands of the evil neogi or any other unhuman race. If it did, then the Dark Times would truly come, for the unhumans would use the cloak to subjugate all others. These things would serve as his argument to win allies.

Their only hope of success against the unhumans was to ally themselves behind Teldin, the Cloakmaster, and help him end his quest – before the forces of evil could take control and wreak destruction across the known spheres.

CassaRoc had provided him private quarters in the Tower of Thought, and he had quickly fallen into a deep, restful sleep for several hours. He woke refreshed, though still a little weary from the day’s events. He bathed and put on fresh, comfortable clothes, which CassaRoc had provided, then lay down for a while in his quarters, trying to relax before his meeting with his potential allies.

He put an arm across his eyes and felt his heart beating fast, too hard. Things had happened too fast since he had reached the
Spelljammer
, and it was hard for him to conceive that he, a simple farm boy from a backwater world such as Krynn, was finally aboard a legendary ship – almost a god-ship – that sailed between the spheres as easily as a fish could swim across a pond.

The
Spelljammer
! It was almost too much to believe. The magic amulet felt warm against his chest, and he sighed, happy that he was finally where he belonged –
Yes! I belong here!
he suddenly realized: – but he had no idea what he should do next, or how he had to end his quest. His heart beat faster. He wanted this over with, soon; he wanted to finish what he had come here for, whatever that was....

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Rest would do him no good now; he was too excited, and, though he felt strong after his bath, he knew that the events of the long day would catch up with him in a few hours. Already he felt light-headed, but he did not know if that was from the day’s battle or simply exhilaration at his journey’s end. Or...

Cwelanas. No matter what he thought about, her face appeared to interrupt his concentration. It had been so long since they had last seen each other, but the emotions he felt for her were strong, perhaps stronger than when they had parted at Sancrist.

Not long after his impromptu speech before CassaRoc’s warriors, Cwelanas had begged off to perform a few errands for CassaRoc. She had given Teldin a gentle kiss and let her hand linger on his arm. “‘Teldin Cloakmaster.’ I like the sound of that. They’ll rally around you with a title like that.” She looked into his eyes. “I never thought you would find me,” she had whispered to him, a hint of sadness in her golden eyes.

Then she had left, and Teldin had been pulled by CassaRoc to meet some of his fighters.

Now he could not get her out of his mind. She had been lost to him long before he had even met Gaeadrelle Goldring, the kender. He wanted to believe that Cwelanas’s presence here was more of a distraction than anything else, pulling him from his purpose. He hated to admit it: he could not deny a very obvious attraction to the silver-haired elf. But his mission on the
Spelljammer
was paramount, he thought, and a romance was not at all what he had planned, not at all.

Still, her face would not disappear from his mind.

Teldin was lost in thought when CassaRoc’s messenger knocked on his door, and he did not even look up until the messenger loudly called out his name. He recognized the voice and sighed softly.

He opened the door, and Emil stepped in quickly. The short little warrior threw back his plaid cape and exclaimed, “Hi, Mr. Cloakmaster, sir. CassaRoc the Mighty sent me to get you. He said the leaders of the halflings and the giff and somebody else are here to see you. Boy, I tell you, you and that cloak of yours sure are impressive. You don’t know how much I’d love to —”

“Okay, okay,” Teldin said, “calm down.” Then he added, “You remind me of some gnomes I once shipped with.”

This sent Emil into a fit of high-pitched laughter. “Oh, no, no, sir, I’m not a gnome, not at all. I just get excited and get carried away sometimes. You just let me know if I start bothering you, sir,” he said, grinning. “Everybody else does. Oh, yeah, you bet, I can be a pain.” He laughed.

Teldin patted his shoulder, wondering why Emil smelled vaguely of cheese, and together they went down to the tower’s meeting hall, Emil chattering incessantly along the way. Teldin tuned him out eventually, since Emil really needed only himself to carry on a conversation, and spoke to him only when they reached the great hall’s door.

“Thank you, Emil. You’ve been a great help.”

Emil blushed and squirmed happily, wringing his hands. “Boy, Mr. Teldin Cloakmaster, sir, I sure do —”

“Thank you. That’s fine, Emil. You go on now. I don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, okay, sir,” he said happily, and he scurried away.

Teldin opened the door and heard CassaRoc call out, “Here he is now.”

He stopped and stared at the huge giff rising from the table, convinced that what he was seeing was impossible. “Gomja?” he almost asked. But Gomja, the giff that had become his friend while still on Krynn, was far away. He was with the gnomes now, the leader of the entire gnomish military, and he knew he would probably never see his large friend again.

The broad-shouldered giff that stood before him now was fully Gomja’s height, maybe taller. He boasted an odd, triangular plate that seemed to have been bolted onto his snout, and it was overlaid with ivory and decorated with scintillating diamonds. His uniform was the full dress of the giff military, and his barrel chest seemed ready to burst the uniform at its seams.