The Radiant Dragon (19 page)

“Oh, Nimick,” he called out, spotting his gray-green adjutant in the doorway. “Be a good fellow and put this soldier down.”

Nimick hurried to his general’s side and carried out the order by running a single claw across the wounded scro’s throat. He watched with detached pleasure as the black scro gurgled and fell heavily to the floor, then he turned to his general and saluted. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked, raising his voice over the yapping, howling anguish of the nearby kobolds.

“Actually, yes,” Grimnosh said dryly. “You might jettison the kobolds. They’re becoming rather tiresome.”

Lacking Grimnosh’s macabre sense of humor, the green scro took the comment at face value and gave a sneer of agreement. “Load them into the catapult, sir? The last of the elven ships might still be within range. Might as well get some use out of the miserable ankle-biters.”

Grimnosh looked pleasantly surprised. “What a clever notion. You do that.” His assistant saluted again and began to herd the unfortunate creatures above deck. K’tide watched this with a mixture of apprehension and relief. Having vented his ire, perhaps Grimnosh now would be receptive to K’tide’s plans. Perhaps.

“You were about to explain your last impertinent comment, I believe,” Grimnosh prompted.

K’tide did not consider the scro’s choice of words to be a good sign. “The goblin navy needs additional time for training – battle training,” he stressed. “Small raids, minor battles. If you send green troops against current elven strength, the goblins will be decimated and
all
the risks of the Armistice project will be for nothing.”

Grimnosh did not miss the implied reference to scro command, and his colorless eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And think of this: What success would be more highly esteemed than the destruction of Lionheart?” K’tide hastily added.

The scro general regarded K’tide with cold, calculating eyes. “Let’s say we do attack Lionheart. How do you propose to find the base, much less penetrate it?”

“We will send the weapon in aboard an elven vessel, an oddly appropriate one. The captain is a direct descendant of Aldyn Leafbower, the elf whose vile bargain condemned the Armistice goblins to an icy hell.”

The albino chuckled, a harsh canine growl of genuine amusement. “Why, K’tide, you have the soul of a poet. Quite a valuable thing in a spy master, I must say. You must tell me how you plan to accomplish this miracle of poetic justice.”

“We have placed an informant on board the ship.”

“An elf? Is that so?” The scro’s amusement deepened, but his eyes also betrayed his fascination with the concept.

K’tide shifted his shoulders, not committing either way. “The swan ship is being followed by some of my allies. The informant passes information on to them, who, in turn, relay it to me. According to my latest report, the ship is bound for Lionheart. They will put down on Garden for supplies, and we will load the weapon on board at that time. It has already been dispatched and is being held for the swan ship’s arrival. Our informant is placed highly enough to get the weapon smuggled aboard and then see it released once the swan ship reaches Lionheart.”

Grimnosh was silent for a long moment. “A risky proposal, I would think. The weapon could destroy the swan ship long before it reaches the elven base.”

“Believe me, we have taken precautions. The ship will be amply protected.”

Something in the spy master’s fervent response caught Grimnosh’s attention. “What is so special about this ship?”

Teldin Moore, K’tide answered silently. He hesitated, weighing the benefits of telling Grimnosh against the risks. “There is a human aboard who possesses an artifact of great power.”

Like many warriors, the scro general held magic in low esteem. “If you wish me to die of suspense, you’ll have to do better than this,” Grimnosh said with dry sarcasm.

“The human’s name is Teldin Moore, and he possesses the Cloak of the First Pilot. Whoever wears the cloak can control the great ship
Spelljammer,”
K’tide said bluntly.

The spy master’s response shocked Grimnosh into silence. Then his lupine face twisted into an expression of savage rage. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“I just recently learned of it,” K’tide lied smoothly.

With visible effort, Grimnosh pulled control over his face as if it were a mask. “You have no designs on this cloak yourself, I suppose,” he asked in an arch tone.

“Hardly.” K’tide punctuated his denial with a dry, brittle chuckle. “My people survive by weighing odds and choosing battles carefully —”

“Your people survive by getting others to fight their battles,” Grimnosh pointed out.

“Be that as it may, the fact is that whoever takes the cloak faces a wide variety of powerful enemies. That is not our way.”

“Indeed,” Grimnosh agreed. “Who might these foes be?”

“The neogi, the mind flayers of Falx, the arcane, a band of pirates sponsored, I believe, by the reigar, and especially the elves. The Imperial Fleet is attempting to recruit the human to the elven side. Any attempt on the cloak at this point would draw too much attention to you and your other activities.”

“I see your point,” Grimnosh acknowledged thoughtfully. “If I were to acquire the cloak from this Teldin Moore now, I also would inherit all his enemies.”

“Precisely. The elves must be dealt with first. As for the cloak, our informant is prepared to rescue Teldin Moore from Lionheart and bring him here. Once the Imperial Fleet is in disarray and the cloak is in your hands, you will have both the means and the opportunity to establish a true base of power.”

Grimnosh thought over all the spy master had said. He had heard scuttlebutt about this cloak and about General Vorr and Fleet Admiral Halker’s incompetent attempts to retrieve it. Grimnosh had the scro contempt for failure, though he expected little more from Vorr, an orc-ogre mongrel. He could do better himself, of that he had no doubt.

The legendary
Spelljammer,
under his command, trailed by the Armistice goblin fleet. Grimnosh permitted himself a smile. There would be no trouble with the scro command. As captain of the
Spelljammer
and the scro responsible for the destruction of Lionheart, he would
be
the scro command. The plan had a Tightness that he could not deny. Grimnosh nodded slowly.

“Very well, K’tide,” he said, it will be as you say.”

Chapter Ten

Toril was a blue-and-white spot in wildspace by the time Teldin and Vallus had finished filling Hectate in on the details of the elven meeting, including the newly discovered power of the medallion. “Vallus thinks we should take the amulet to Lionheart,” Teldin concluded, “on the theory that once the elven experts there tell me what I’m seeing, we’ll know where to find the
Spelljammer.”

A strange expression crossed Hectate’s face, and one hand absently drifted up to the red-brown tuft at the crown of his head. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to leave the ship then, sir,” he said quietly as he reflexively flattened his cowlick.

Teldin blinked. “No. Why would you even ask?”

“The location of Lionheart is a closely guarded secret,” Vallus explained. “Those of other races are not admitted. In your case, obviously, the Imperial Fleet will make an exception, but I’m afraid the other
n’tel quess
would have to leave the ship.”

“N’tel quess?”
Teldin echoed with a touch of anger. His cloak did not translate the elven phrase for him, but he didn’t care for the sound of it.

“Anyone who is not elven,” Hectate supplied hastily. Teldin did not miss the warning glance the half-elf shot at Vallus, and he made a mental note to pursue the matter with Hectate at some later time. Teldin took the medallion from his bag and laid it down on the navigation table.

“We’re not going to Lionheart, Hectate. I’m going to use this again, and I want
you
to tell me what I’m seeing.”

Understanding, then the excitement of a professional challenge, dawned in the half-elven navigator’s eyes. Teldin sat down in the captain’s chair and took the medallion in his hands, and Hectate took a place nearby at a table spread with star charts.

Vallus stepped back, leaned against the wall, and watched as Teldin dropped into deep concentration, much more quickly this time that he had in the moon elf palace. Before Vallus could draw three breaths, the cloak began to glow with the eery molten bronze hue that signaled its connection to the magic medallion. The human’s expression became remote as his vision focused on a place far from the ship’s bridge.

Although the elven wizard had witnessed the process just the day before, he was shaken by Teldin Moore’s transformation. Vallus had seen that degree of focus and concentration many times, but only on the faces of highly skilled wizards or priest. What the untrained human had achieved amazed him, and it steadied his faith in the stand he had taken against the grand admiral.

“What do you see?” Vallus asked softly.

For a long moment Teldin did not answer, then the molten bronze glow faded from his cloak, and his face settled into a mask of pure frustration. “A purple cloud, a river of rainbow colors. I’ve never seen the phlogiston in quite that way.”

“The
Spelljammer’s
in the phlogiston? It could be anywhere,” Vallus said in dismay.

Hectate took a step forward, “Can you describe what you saw the first time?”

Under Hectate’s detailed prompting, Teldin recalled some of the details of his first vision. Hectate identified them as constellations around Toril.

“So the
Spelljammer
was in Realmspace.” Teldin felt both excited and frustrated by this news. “It must move incredibly fast to have already left the crystal sphere.”

“So where do we go now, sir?”

Teldin shrugged. “Set the shortest possible course for the edge of Realmspace’s crystal sphere. Maybe once we’re out in the phlogiston, I can get a better idea where the ship is bound.”

“Are we going to stop on Garden first?” Hectate asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Vallus broke in. “We obtained all the supplies we’ll need from the Evermeet elves.”

Hectate nodded and turned to the navigator’s table. Picking up a triangular tool, the half-elf bent over a star chart and quickly became lost in the task he loved. Teldin left the bridge behind to acquaint himself with his new command.

The first two clays passed quickly. On the whole Teldin was satisfied with the way things aboard the swan ship were progressing, though he still noted a marked coolness in the bridge. The first mate, in particular, made little effort to hide his displeasure over Hectate’s promotion. The half-elven navigator handled the slights with more grace than Teldin thought he himself could manage under similar circumstances.

On the third day of travel, Teldin and Hectate ended a watch together and headed toward the mess for eveningfeast. They nearly bumped into the exiting dracons. Chirp and Trivit exchanged guilty, furtive glances and looked at the dinner tray in Chirp’s mottled green hands.

“Er, lovely night, wouldn’t you say, sir?” fluted Trivit nervously. He stepped forward, deliberately blocking Chirp from view. Chirp looked frantically around for a place to put his tray. Seeing none, he reached around and placed it on his own broad green back.

“Lovely night,” Teldin agreed, struggling to keep a straight face. “Carry on with whatever you’re doing.”

Trivit snapped off a salute and scuttled off down the corridor. Chirp fell in behind, in his haste forgetting about the dinner tray balanced on his back. Both creatures took on a nonchalant, four-footed swagger as they headed for their cabin.

“What do you suppose they’re up to?” wondered Teldin.

Hectate shrugged. “Maybe we could look into it after we’ve eaten,” he hinted delicately.

Teldin suppressed a smile. After they got their meal, he noticed that Om was sitting alone, and they went over to her table. Her dinner sat untouched and she was absently toying with a gnome-sized wrench. “May we join you?” Teldin asked,

“Why not?” she responded glumly.

“Problems?” Hectate asked sympathetically as he dropped into a chair.

The gnome’s only response was a morose grunt. A quick glance at the neighboring table revealed what was bothering the tiny technician. Rozloom was sprawled on a couple of chairs, regaling three elven women with a wild tale of adventure that, though obviously fabricated, nonetheless was entertaining. Teldin noticed that the aperusa had preened himself to an almost blinding degree. His blue satin pantaloons were embroidered with stars and tucked into boots that had been polished to a mirrorlike finish. He wore a shirt of flowing red silk with voluminous sleeves and a leather vest upon which was tooled several complicated abstract designs. Intrigued, Teldin squinted at one of the designs. The picture was a clever illusion that under his scrutiny focused into a scene of campfire revelry. The explicit gypsy “art” brought sudden heat to Teldin’s face. As he hastily averted his eyes, he aught a whiff of the faint, spicy odor that wafted from the small silk sachet suspended around the aperusa’s neck. The scent reminded Teldin of the similar pendant worn by the gypsy seductress in the tavern back on Garden, and he asked about it.

“Love potion,” Om grunted.

“What gnomes are to machinery, aperusa are to herb lore,” Hectate elaborated. “They have potions for everything. This is the first time I’ve seen Rozloom resort to a potion, though.”

“For whose benefit, I wonder?” Teldin mused.

Om’s brown eyes narrowed dangerously. “I don’t know … yet,” she intoned. As she spoke, she smacked her palm with the wrench in an unconscious, ominous rhythm.

Teldin and Hectate exchanged a quick glance of guilty amusement. Although the gnome obviously was disconsolate over Rozloom, it was difficult to take her infatuation seriously. Back on Krynn, Teldin once had owned a bantam rooster that became attached to the plow horse, following it around and even roosting on the horse’s back. To his mind, anything between the tiny, serious Om and the flamboyant gypsy was almost as improbable. When several attempts to engage the taciturn gnome in conversation failed, Teldin and Hectate finished their meal as quickly as decently possible and left Om to enjoy her misery alone.