Wynlar stepped forward. “I would like to believe that you are bluffing, K’tide, but I can’t make that assumption when the safety of my clan is concerned. On what basis do you make such a threat?”
A strange gleam lit the insectare’s multifaceted eyes. “When I called off the attack on the swan ship, I instructed the other members of Clan Kir to return to the scro ship. Very soon they all will be aboard the
Elfsbane,
under the albino paw of our good friend General Grimnosh.”
“But they were to reconnoiter on Vesta!” cried Wynlar.
“I took the liberty of changing that order,” K’tide said. He raised one green hand in a placating gesture. “Oh, I wouldn’t be overly concerned about your clan, Captain Wynlar. At the present, they are useful to Grimnosh. I imagine, however, that their value would tarnish considerably if the scro general knew they were plotting to destroy the goblins of Armistice.”
“But they are not,” protested the bionoid leader. “We in this room did not learn that aspect of your plan until this very hour.”
K’tide laughed, a dry, grating sound. “Do you think that will matter to Grimnosh, when his plans lie in ruins around him?”
Wynlar’s face crumpled into a mask of despair. “My people are doomed.”
“Not at all,” K’tide said pleasantly. “If all goes well, I should be able to get a message through to the bionoids aboard the
Elfsbane
before we release the primary Witchlight Marauder on Armistice. They can be safely away before Grimnosh learns of his ultimate failure.” The insectare’s eyes fixed meaningfully on Hectate. “If all goes well,” he repeated with quiet emphasis.
For a long moment, Hectate weighed his options: On one hand, the destruction of a planet of goblins and the haughty elves’ high command; on the other, the lives of his adopted family and his first love.
“Hectate …” Tekura whispered, her voice a barely audible plea.
Finally he bowed his head. “It would seem that I have only one choice,” he murmured.
“Splendid,” the insectare said with quiet triumph. “Now, suppose we plan how we’ll get you back into the good graces of Vallus Leafbower and Teldin Moore.”
*****
Aboard the elven man-o-war
Windwalker,
a battle wizard sat in deep trance despite the eery, low-pitched hum that pulsed from the magical alarm. An ancient disk hung from the ceiling of the bridge on a thick chain, and each pulse of sound that came from it pushed the fears of the assembled crew to new heights.
The battle wizard was oblivious to the other elves in the room. Waves of golden hair fell around her, curtaining her abstracted face and the narrow hands that cupped a scrying globe. On the wall before the entranced elf was a large, mirrorlike panel, a thin, shimmering oval sliced from the heart of a giant crystal. The captain and officers of the patrol ship
Windwalker
stood behind the wizard, and their eyes were fixed on the crystal panel in tense anticipation.
For centuries the elven ships that patrolled Armistice had been alert for the magical alarm, but this was the first time one had ever been activated. Its ancient voice warned them that a ship had breached the Armistice net. Slowly the battle wizard’s magic reached out through the scrying globe, seeking the intruder. As a picture formed in her mind, the panel before her began to glow as magical energy transferred her mental image to the ensorcelled crystal panel, so that all could see what she saw. It was an impressive feat of magic, one for which she had trained since childhood, but it was not a unique skill; every patrol ship carried at least two wizards with this ability. As the picture on the panel firmed into detail, the humming alarm faded away.
“One of ours,” the elven captain marveled as he stared at the image before them. Framing the downed ship were two distant mountains, the distinctive fang-shaped peaks that marked the domain of the Rakharian goblinkin. The ship’s standard plainly identified it as a vessel of the Imperial Fleet. Closer scrutiny identified it as a swan ship, though, with the swan-head tower gone and the tail section shattered, it was difficult to classify. The battered swan ship tossed in the restless seas of Armistice, obviously seaworthy. It clearly had not crashed, so it presumably had a working helm and was therefore spaceworthy as well. The only possible conclusion was that it had landed deliberately.
Rage coursed through the captain like a cold tide. What elf would land on Armistice, so close to the land of Rakhar, and risk putting a spelljamming vessel in the hands of the powerful orc tribe there? To choose this over death was more than an act of cowardice; it was an act of treason!
The captain’s jaw tightened. Whomever the swan ship’s captain might be, he or she would answer to the grand admiral. And he, as the
Windwalker’s
captain, would find intense pleasure in escorting the rogue back to Lionheart in chains.
“Stay with it,” he murmured to the battle wizard, speaking softly so as not to disrupt her concentration. “When you are tired, Circe will take your place, but we must keep that ship under observation. She can fly, have no doubt about that, and sooner or later she’ll escape into wildspace. And whether her crew at that time be elven or orcish, we’ll be there to meet it.”
*****
The first night on Armistice was spectacularly beautiful. Few stars were visible through the ribbonlike wisps of clouds that whirled and spun in the strong wind, yet the night was not dark. Three huge moons lit the skies; a pale lavender moon, one a rich amber reminiscent of winter ale, and the third – the closest and largest moon – white faintly tinged with green. The multicolored moonlight was reflected in vivid, ever-changing patterns by the restive sea that surrounded the battered
Trumpeter,
as well as on the snow-covered mountains on the distant shore.
The surviving crew of the swan ship began work on the repairs as soon as the ship splashed down, with nearly every crew member pitching in. Rozloom, naturally, took advantage of the excessive moonlight to press his suit with Raven Stormwalker. When word reached Teldin of the aperusa’s rather spectacular failure, he smirked, sighed, then headed down to the infirmary to check on the gypsy’s injuries. As the ship’s captain, he had a certain duty to the well-being of his crew.
Teldin found Rozloom seated on a cot, flirting outrageously with Deelia Snowsong. The elven healer’s tiny fingers flashed as she stitched a small gash on Rozloom’s forehead, pausing periodically to bat aside a straying, bronze hand. Teldin noticed that the elven woman did not seem offended by the gypsy’s playful advances, and he wondered why Rozloom persisted in his pursuit of Raven when there were more receptive targets aboard ship – not to mention less dangerous ones. In addition to the cut, Rozloom had collected some colorful bruises. One eye already had swollen shut.
“Why?” Teldin asked simply.
His question startled both the aperusa and the elf. Rozloom’s hand froze, cupping air several inches from the elven woman’s derriere. Deelia’s face flushed with embarrassment, and she edged away from the gypsy and hurried out of the room, murmuring something about needing herbs for a poultice.
“Why Raven?” Teldin repeated, this time with a hint of amusement.
Rozloom considered Teldin’s question for a long time, a faintly quizzical expression on his battered face. Finally he shrugged his great shoulders and shook himself as if to dispel the uncharacteristic moment of introspection. A wicked gleam lit his one good eye, and he gave Teldin a gold-toothed grin.
“Believe me, Captain, there is much to be said for a woman with fire,” he said, his jaunty air restored.
The image of a dragon flashed through Teldin’s mind, and he laughed aloud. If you want fire, Rozloom, you’re closer than you know, he thought with a surge of black humor. The aperusa’s one good eye narrowed as he drew his own conclusions about Teldin’s outburst.
“You also know this to be true?” Rozloom asked with an effort at nonchalance. Teldin’s amusement died abruptly. He had heard the odd rumor linking him and Raven, and he immediately got the gist of Rozloom’s inquiry. As Paladine’s my witness, Teldin thought, what do I do with a question like that’
As if in response, Rozloom’s huge hand drifted to the hilt of the jeweled dagger in his sash. Teldin’s eyes widened, then he realized that Rozloom’s gesture was no more than a reflex; knife fights over women were so common among aperusa that reaching for a dagger was a response as natural as sneezing over spilled pepper. To Teldin, the idea of Raven as a prize to be won was utterly ludicrous. He was tempted to tell Rozloom so, but such a notion lay too far outside an aperusa’s way of thinking.
Teldin was spared the necessity of making any response by the return of Deelia Snowsong. Rozloom’s jovial leer returned and his hand drifted away from the dagger’s hilt to preen his curling black beard. Murmuring captainlike platitudes that no one heard, Teldin backed out of the infirmary.
As he mounted the stairs to the upper deck, Teldin debated what he should do about the fight. He’d often thought it was just a matter of time before one of the ship’s female crew had more than enough of Rozloom. Even in light of the gypsy’s unflagging and often irritating pursuit, Raven’s response was a little extreme. Protocol probably demanded that he talk to her, but even he if was inclined to discipline her, he’d no idea how he could make it stick. As he did a dozen times a day, the captain wished he had the wisdom of a sage. Never a fal around when you need one, Teldin thought wryly.
A new thought hit him with the force of a fireball. Raven had a volatile temper, and she’d shown considerable magical ability in silencing Vallus’s spell. Had
she,
not Estriss, cast the magic missile that had killed the lakshu warrior?
If she had, Teldin didn’t blame her. He knew all too well that wearing an ultimate helm meant fighting to stay alive. His concerns were practical; magic missiles were powerful weapons, and if Raven could command them, that was one more thing he could add to the arsenal of skills possessed by the surviving crew members. They had lost far too many in the battle, including Hectate Kir. Teldin’s bionoid friend had simply disappeared, which had prompted a lot of speculation by the surviving elves. Gaston, in particular, seemed annoyingly gratified that his suspicions about the half-elf had been justified.
When he reached the deck, Teldin noted that the repairs were progressing much too slowly. The elves’ thin silver uniforms offered little protection from the bitter winds, and the intense gravity force of Armistice slowed their movements to a sluggish, exhausting struggle. Walking was difficult enough, but with the gravity force making everything feel three times its normal weight, lifting was nearly impossible and climbing became hazardous. A wiry elven sailor attempting to climb the ship’s rigging tore through the sturdy net and earned himself a painful fall. The final blow was a literal one: while perched on what was left of the tower, Ora “accidentally” dropped her gnome-sized wrench on the latest recipient of the irrepressible Rozloom’s flirting, sending the unfortunate elven woman sprawling, senseless, to the deck.
Teldin immediately sent one of the wizards to the secondary helm, guessing that conditions would be more tolerable if the swan ship maintained its own air envelope and gravity field. The results were immediate, and the elves worked much more effectively. Teldin also reasoned that it wouldn’t hurt to have the helm up in case Vallus’s goblins materialized in force.
Three watches came and went before dawn broke over the distant mountains. Vallus, who apparently was somewhat of an authority on the ice world, informed Teldin that days on Armistice were about sixty hours in length. The presence of three moons made the tides unusually strong, and as the sun rose the morning tides receded in a turbulent, compelling surge. The swan ship strained against its anchors and several times was nearly swept out to sea. Teldin suggested that they bring the swan ship closer to land, hoping that they might find a sheltered cove, but Vallus insisted that they were in less danger from the tides and weather than from the goblins. Teldin suspected that Vallus was being paranoid, and he agreed only with reluctance. Since the battle with the bionoids, relations between Teldin and the elven wizard had been strained, for Teldin’s faith in the wizard’s judgment and character had been badly shaken.
Teldin had never believed that the Imperial Fleet would give him a true choice of whether or not to use his cloak for the elven war effort, but up to the moment when Raven had stopped Vallus’s spell, Teldin had trusted the wizard personally. Now, having seen Vallus’s willingness to sacrifice his crew rather than allow the goblinkin to get hold of the cloak, Teldin was not so sure this trust was warranted.
And what about Raven Stormwalker? Her use of the sapphire pendant to land the swan ship proved that she wielded another ultimate helm. Yet she had done nothing to challenge Teldin for the captaincy of the
Spelljammer,
in fact, she had been nothing but helpful. In bringing the ship down safely, she’d probably saved them all. Teldin remembered little about the landing on Armistice, other than a vague sense of unease and a dim memory of dreams filled with golden light.
As for Raven, Teldin got the impression that she considered him an ally rather than an adversary. What that meant to her, he couldn’t begin to guess. Whatever her game, Teldin was getting tired of waiting for her to play out her hand.
Since the night he first had fastened the clasp of the cloak around his neck, Teldin had had little control over the events that shaped his life. He often vowed that the situation would change, but so far he’d had no inspiration on how to accomplish this. As the days on Armistice passed in ever-increasing frustration, at times Teldin could barely contain his urge to seize Raven’s shoulders, shake her, and scream, “What do you want from me?” into her beautiful face.
It was almost a relief when supplies began to run low; at least it gave Teldin something tangible and immediate to address. At first he directed the crew’s efforts toward the sea. The strange fish they managed to catch were ugly, spiked, eellike creatures, but under Rozloom’s skilled hands the fish became palatable enough. The elves also tried harvesting some of the abundant kelp; fortunately Deelia Snowsong intervened before anyone sampled the seaweed. The ice elf suspected anything that could grow in the frigid water, so she tested the weeds and found them highly toxic. She guessed that volcanic activity under the ocean bed warmed the deep water enough to produce the kelp, but also passed poisonous gases into the seaweed. Whatever the case, Chirp and Trivit took a dark and unexpected glee in distilling the kelp into poison.