CassaRoc whispered to Teldin, “Lazy creatures. ‘Sorry we couldn’t meet you fast enough,’” he mimicked. “Right.”
They bellied up to the bar as Mostias finished pouring Teldin a tankard of cool water. “On the other hand,” CassaRoc said, “these centaurs are second only to myself at the refined art of brewing.”
Teldin finished his water in several gulps. CassaRoc grasped his glass boot in both hands and opened his mouth wide. Twin streams of ale flowed messily down his chin. He slammed the boot down on the bar and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Ahh, Mostias, that’s good!” he cried.
CassaRoc turned around and spoke to the company. “Now don’t go quaffing all the ale you can. Leth, Spokaad, you, too, Hertek. Finish your ales and take positions along the tower. We have a guest —” he glanced at Teldin “— who a lot of our enemies would love to sink their diseased teeth into. Now, drink up! And take your posts!”
His warriors readily agreed and quickly finished their drinks. They nodded at Teldin as they filed out, and CassaRoc gestured Teldin over to an old, wooden table near the center of the room.
Chaladar, the grand knight, casually bowed his head to Teldin. He straightened the ends of his thick, reddish moustache with his fingers, and he said to CassaRoc, “I’ll take the door. I’ve already placed two men at the entrance to the tower. We should leave within the hour. The neogi may have time to regroup, or even ally themselves with the Long Fangs.” Chaladar gritted his teeth. “This could be more trouble than we expected.”
CassaRoc nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Be on your guard, paladin.”
Chaladar opened the door and stepped just outside the entrance. His broadsword gleamed with a pure silver light, and he ran a hand appreciatively down a flat side. “Scaleslicer and I are always careful.”
He turned his back to the room and stood watch with his shining sword unsheathed. CassaRoc leaned close to Teldin. “A good man,” CassaRoc whispered. “A holy fanatic, of course, but a good man nonetheless.”
Mostias poured Teldin another tankard of water, and CassaRoc led him to a table where they could sit and talk. “Sorry about your men, and your ship,” CassaRoc said. In his mind Teldin saw the mountain of flames engulfing the Julia, the explosion that had spewed shards of debris across the great ship’s wing, and the empty silence that followed, signifying the sudden death that had fallen upon his crew. “I wish things had been different. I promised them a quest, journeys to spheres no one has ever before seen. They didn’t sign on with me simply to die a few months later.”
CassaRoc nodded knowingly and watched him. “So you’re really the Cloakmaster?”
Teldin chuckled ruefully. “Either I am the Cloakmaster, or the cloak is the master of me. No matter the case, this cloak is what brought me here.”
“Well, we’re grateful you’re here. I’m grateful you’re one of us. And don’t worry. Your people will be taken care of.”
“Thanks. Quite a welcome,” Teldin said. “We would have been killed if it wasn’t for you and your men. I had no idea that word had reached you of our approach. To be honest, I never thought anybody here would even know who I was. Or would care.”
CassaRoc took a slow sip of his ale. “You don’t know how long we’ve been expecting you. There are wizards all over the
Spelljammer
who have been foretelling the coming of the Cloakmaster for years. But, lately, a lot of rumors have been spreading, especially an ancient beholder myth about the coming of the Cloakmaster. It has the whole
Spelljammer
on edge. That’s why you were attacked. The neogi didn’t know – gods, nobody knew – who the Cloakmaster was going to be, and they didn’t care. They only know the beholder myth: that the coming of the Cloakmaster will herald the start of the Dark Times.
“They’re not taking any chances. The older races know what happens during the Dark Times, and they don’t want it to happen again. They’re killing all the newcomers to the
Spelljammer
– to make sure they get the Cloakmaster, and the Dark Times will never come.
“Right now,” he said, “you can bet that word is spreading across the ship that you are here, and that we’ve got you. You are going to have a fiendish time here. Everybody wants you... and, I guess, that cloak of yours.”
Teldin had no reply and quietly sipped his water. CassaRoc lowered his voice. “That’s a mighty powerful weapon you got there, son. You know, I don’t take easily to a lot of people, but you’re all right, Moore. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re ready to take on more. And you saved my life. I owe you.”
“It wasn’t me,” Teldin said. “My cloak —”
“The gods it wasn’t! That cloak wouldn’t have done a thing if you hadn’t willed it. I saw you.”
Teldin thought back. He had learned to control the cloak somewhat, tapping into hidden energies and abilities that only months before he never would have thought existed. He still was not exactly sure what he was doing and what the cloak was responsible for, but he could command its awesome energies for the most part, especially when he let the control come naturally, without concentrating too hard. At least, he figured, if he was not now the complete master of the cloak, he was well on his way.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Perhaps. I had no chance against that ignorant umber hulk, not without a decent weapon.
Perhaps
. Right.”
Teldin looked around at CassaRoc’s assemblage. As he spoke, centaurs entered the room, carrying bandages and poultices for CassaRoc’s wounded fighters. “We were lucky out there. Hardly anyone was hurt.”
“I’ve got good fighters. Those neogi can’t compare to a human on a rescue mission. Or on a quest.” He finished the tall boot of ale and slammed it again on the table. “It’s time, Teldin Moore,” he said. “What’s your story?”
With the crash and the immediate battle for his life behind him, Teldin was beginning to feel light-headed and tired, and he was becoming desperate for a soft bunk for the night. Or the day. Whatever they have in the phlogiston, he thought. But a story?
“My story? I don’t have a story.”
CassaRoc watched him skeptically. “You said you were on a quest. What brings you across the Rainbow Ocean, Cloakmaster?”
Teldin’s eyes felt heavy from exhaustion. When he looked up, all the humans who had helped battle the neogi were expectantly watching him. “Well?” CassaRoc said.
“Well,” Teldin began, taking a gulp of water. “Very well. From the beginning.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve come here because the neogi shot down a
Spelljammer
that destroyed my farm on Krynn, and I was entrusted with some kind of magical cloak that I haven’t been able to take off, even for a bath, for about a year.”
The humans stared at him. Somewhere behind him, a centaur whinnied for another flagon of ale. “You asked,” Teldin said. “That I did,” CassaRoc said, smiling. He turned to his companions. “It’s going to be a long one, friends, but I think it’s going to be good.”
Teldin took a deep breath and started in, explaining the crash of the reigar craft on his farm, and his subsequent quest to remove the ancient cloak that the captain had given him. At first, the warriors listened as would any dubious group: laughing, making jokes and, occasionally, loud, sarcastic remarks. But by the time Teldin recounted his vicious fight with General Vorr and the almost accidental acquisition of the bronze amulet by Gaeadrelle Goldring, not a single warrior interrupted him, nor did they even march back to the centaurs’ bar for more of ale.
Teldin told his tale in a calm, even voice, looking back honestly at his own foibles and mistakes, even admitting his misguided trust toward Aelfred Silverhorn and his initial distrust of the giff Herphan Gomja – a mistake for which he felt he would never forgive himself. Frankly, it was all a little embarrassing to Teldin, revealing the chain of events that seemed now to be a life long past, perhaps even a childhood of sorts. Here, today, on the
Spelljammer
, he felt he was finally grown up, in charge of his fate and his life; and the people around him made him feel comfortable in their attentive silence, accepted, as though he truly belonged – a feeling he had never really had before, not even on Krynn.
When he was finished, the warriors nodded and talked quietly among themselves. At the door, Chaladar was nodding approvingly. Teldin had recognized the style of the paladin’s armor, and knew that he also hailed from Krynn.
Behind Teldin, Na’Shee touched his shoulder softly and said, “Men would die for a mission such as yours. Be proud of yourself. You have achieved your quest.”
Teldin raised his water mug in a mock salute. “Thanks to you.”
A shadow darkened the bar’s doorway, and Chaladar stepped aside to let another human in. He turned to watch the woman as she paused inside the doorway and stared at Teldin Moore.
“The Cloakmaster,” she said. “I knew it would be you.”
Her words were like the gentle flow of a mountain stream, and Teldin instantly recognized her voice. His mouth fell open as he stared at the elven maiden, her long silver hair flowing like a river over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with flakes of gold, perhaps a little more dimly than when Teldin had seen them last, but she was still beautiful, still radiant, and he felt a pit open up deep in his stomach.
He leaped up from the table and took the elf into his arms. One hand ran slowly down the length of her luxurious silver hair. “Cwelanas,” Teldin whispered into her lips. “Cwelanas, is it really you?”
Chapter Three
“... Destiny is not to be toyed with or ignored. In my crystals I have seen the destiny of the Sphere Chaser an eon from now. I have seen that it begins with an act of innocent kindness and will end once destiny has brought answers to all those with the courage – or the naiveté – to seek them....”
Corost, mage, The Scroll of the First Seeing;
reign of the First Pilot.
The beholder ruins stood in the shadow of the
Spelljammer
’s mammoth tail, the once-proud columns broken and cracked after two years of the fearful onslaught by the mysterious disease called the Blinding Rot, and the eye tyrants’ subsequent internecine wars.
The disease had decimated the beholder population, sending the survivors into a mad, xenophobic rage of destruction against their own race. No matter how much they hated all other races, they saved their true hatred for themselves: for all other beholder clans, and for any brethren who were different, or sick, or injured at all.
Still, the ruins stood, their tyrannical population diminished to barely a dozen beholders who craved the destruction of their enemies and, as did their most hated enemies, the neogi, the total enslavement of inferior races.
To the clans of the beholders, inferior meant everyone but themselves.
Inside the dimly lit ruins, the ancient tyrant Gray Eye held council with the remainder of his beholder brethren. His huge, milky white eye stared at each of the eleven beholders in turn. His smaller eyes waved stealthily on their thin stalks, like snakes targeting their prey, and the scales overlapping his round body were tinged pink in anger. Four powerful ioun stones circled his body in frenetic orbits that mirrored his evil mood, granting him safety against attack.
Gray Eye had considered the situation aboard the
Spelljammer
for a long time, ever since word had first reached the ship that the Cloakmaster was on his way.
The Cloakmaster. Gray Eye had bristled at the term when he had first heard it from one of his brothers. At the time, he had been floating along the roof of their ruins with three of his guard, and had been focused on the defensive capabilities of the nearby neogi tower. When word first came of the Cloakmaster’s approach, Gray Eye had been so infuriated that one of his smaller eyes had narrowed its focus on a neogi guard standing along the neogi tower. Within seconds, a scarlet beam of light erupted from the eye and took the neogi unawares. The guard thrashed and screamed in agony as its brown flesh disintegrated into smoke and ash.
The Cloakmaster. So many people had borne that cloak, Gray Eye knew; so many had commanded their own spell-jamming ships across the universe, wearing that same vestment of illusion. The Cloak of the Damned First Pilot. Who was this, one insignificant human, to dare wear the cloak upon his shoulders and claim himself its ultimate master?
It should belong to a beholder.
Gray Eye knew more of the history of this cloak, and its bearer, Teldin Moore, than most others. This human was much different, he knew: stronger, more determined than any cloak bearer before him. Perhaps the human was even linked to the
Spelljammer
in some subtle, intrinsic way – a way that might mean failure to the eye tyrants’ plans.
And to myself, Gray Eye thought. If the Cloak of the First Pilot belongs to anyone, it should belong to a beholder... and that eye tyrant is me.
And so, Teldin Moore must be destroyed.
“War,” the leader of the beholders began. His brethren watched him unblinkingly, their great eyes focused and glaring red in the gloom of their ruins. “War. This must be our goal. For too long, peace has reigned supreme upon this ship. We must focus our efforts on one goal – conquest!”
His fellow beholders hovered lazily above the floor of their sanctuary, waiting, smiling evilly, their great central eyes focused on their leader.
Long veins pulsed in anger under the surface of Gray Eye’s huge, ocular body. His scales rippled as a wave of fury washed over him. “The damned Cloakmaster has finally arrived,” he said. “The prophecy of darkness is coming true, even as we speak. The Dark Times will be upon us all if we are not swift.”
He paused in thought. “I almost wish that this human had been killed earlier by the neogi. Now the burden falls upon us, and it is one in which we should rejoice. The humans have decimated the neogi forces. The time to strike is now, to take the cloak from the Cloakmaster and destroy the damned neogi, all in one concentrated attack.
“We must form strategic alliances with others – those who also wish to take command of this vessel, perhaps the ogres, and the minotaurs – they will be easy to enslave – and then —” the beholder laughed maniacally “— break those alliances, and use the inferior species for our own purposes, for cattle.”