The Ultimate Helm tcc-6

by Russ T. Howard

  Mostias murmured to CassaRoc, "Now, about that tab… "

  Cwelanas reported as she had been told, and the first group from the centaur tower, including the disguised Teldin Moore, made it safely across the great starboard wing of the Spelljammer to rendezvous with three of CassaRoc's men at the edge of the ship's long landing field.

  The group crossed in front of the council chambers and entered the great open market beneath the ship's stores. Here merchants hawked their meager wares and curios; weapons and armor were made and repaired; clothing and footwear were tailored to order.

  The market was neither as extensive nor as bustling as had been most markets Teldin had toured, but it was certainly more friendly than most. At least a half dozen humans waved to him, greeting him as Emil or "little adventurer"- a term Teldin quickly came to despise, and he wondered just how Emil could put up with it. But, knowing Emil, he mused, how could they put up with him?

  Then he remembered how valiantly Emil had fought against the neogi, and he realized that, though Emil's body was small, his courage and honor more than made up for it.

  The band of warriors passed a booth full of charms and crystals. The men hardly noticed an old woman sitting in the stall who gasped as they walked by. They did not know that Teldin had been spotted, and quite easily, at that; the magical qualities emanating invisibly from his cloak had been detected by the old woman, who had seen the cloak's energies fanning out behind him in the shape of a great manta, glowing with all the colors of the spectrum.

  As Teldin's company left the market and headed straight for the Tower of Thought, Teldin was also identified by an elf loitering near a stall that sold exotic desserts. "Did you see that?" the elf said. The shopkeeper, a stout man used to eating a large percentage of his own wares, twisted his fat bulk out of the booth to watch the warriors turn toward the tower. "What? 1 don't see anything."

  The thief ran off with an armful of pastries and sweets, and he headed straight for his quarters at the Elven High Command. It's true. It's true! he thought. The Cloakmaster legend is true! The Dark Times are almost upon us! The elf knew he had to report to Lothian Stardawn that he had seen the one called the Cloakmaster enter CassaRoc's tower, and that the stories about the cloak were true: for with a simple magical charm that he had stolen from his grandmother two decades earlier, the elven thief had seen a cape of energy swirling around Teldin Moore as though it were a thing alive.

  Oblivious to all this, Teldin paused as CassaRoc opened the great door to the Tower of Thought and invited him in.

  The thick door closed behind the party, and CassaRoc led them all up to a great dining area, where most of CassaRoc's fifty men waited for their leader. As they entered, the group clapped him on the back, while Teldin strayed around the room, secure in his disguise. He found Cwelanas at the bar, and he sidled up to her. "So far, so good," he whispered.

  "That's what you think," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were spotted out there by someone," Cwelanas said. "Count on it. If you weren't seen by a neogi mage, or a beholder, then someone else with magical abilities found you out."

  "Perhaps… an elf?" Teldin asked, instantly suspicious.

  Cwelanas glanced up. For a moment, she appeared almost sad. "Perhaps."

  "I'll be on my guard."

  CassaRoc came over and pulled Teldin an ale from a long line of taps behind the bar. He sipped at it until the larger group finally came in, led by Chaladar. Emil had been kept hidden tightly in the center.

  When Emil was revealed, the disbelieving humans stared between him and Teldin. Finally, Teldin imagined himself wearing his own features, his own musculature, and his own clothes. His body seemed to grow warm, tingling with energy, and he heard the warriors gasping and talking among themselves as his features reshaped into his own natural appearance. The plaid cloak metamorphosed into a dark band at his throat, clasped in front by his amulet, which had shrunk to the size of a coin.

  There was silence for a moment, until Emil said, "Boy, that sure was something, Mr. Moore, sir. I sure would be honored to help you out even more- hah! more, get it, sir? hah! — you just let me know if I can help you out at all, Mr. Cloakmaster, sir-"

  Teldin patted him on the shoulder. "I appreciate the offer, Emil-"

  "Emil the Fierce!" Emil said.

  Teldin smiled. "Yes, yes. Thanks."

  CassaRoc stood up on a table in the center of the room and motioned Teldin to come over. He looked down at all his warriors and nodded appreciatively.

  "Fellows of the Pragmatic Order of Thought," CassaRoc began, "we have a very important guest with us- more important than even he knows, I think. This is Teldin Moore. He's come a long way to rendezvous with the Spelljammer. And he's not a mage or anything like that. He's the one we've heard all the rumors about. He's the Cloakmaster."

  The crowd turned toward Teldin, who really did not know what to say. He had not expected a reception such as this, nor a formal introduction to the Human Collective by its leader.

  "I know, it's hard to believe, but you all saw it here, and the ancient rumors about the cloak are true. And with it, Teldin here saved my life and routed the cursed neogi."

  CassaRoc paused for effect. "Now, I think the Spelljammer is at a turning point, and I think things are going to be a lot different now that Teldin is on board. Chaladar and I have talked about this a lot, lately, once we all heard the rumors. And we're pretty much agreed: Teldin here is the Cloakmaster, and it is his destiny to be here with us, whether we like it or not.

  "We've all heard the legends of the Dark Times. Now, it seems to me that if the legend of the Cloakmaster is true, then the legend of the Dark Times is probably true as well.

  "But we are humans, here, and Teldin is one of us. His cloak has brought him here for a purpose, whatever that purpose may be. I, for one, think we have to stand behind him. Now, I'll let him speak to you, and you can judge for yourselves the truth of his words."

  CassaRoc climbed down and placed his hand on Teldin's shoulder. "Go ahead, boy. Don't you worry. They're good people." He left and walked around to the bar.

  "CassaRoc is very kind," Teldin stammered. "Honestly, I don't know what all this means. I don't know anything about the Dark Times. I don't even know what they are."

  As he spoke, his confidence grew and his voice became stronger. "Please don't think that I've come here to do you harm. I've been trying to reach the Spelljammer for a very long time-it seems like forever. I always thought I'd been called out here for a reason. I thought at first that it was the curse of my cloak, but now I think maybe it's more than that."

  The words came easily, and he knew that these thoughts were honest, things he had been considering for a long time.

  "I'm here for some great purpose, whatever that is. And so, I think, is the Spelljammer itself. I have been called across the spheres for a reason. I have a lot of enemies who want my cloakneogi, illithids, even elves- " He glanced at Cwelanas, who smiled thinly at him. "And I believe they want this so they can somehow control the Spelljammer and make it a force of evil across the spheres."

  This gained Chaladar's full attention. The paladin stood up straight and focused his gaze on Teldin. The zeal for punishing evil was strong in Chaladar, and he would do anything to thwart the plans of those who dared to embrace chaos.

  "I won't allow this," Teldin proclaimed.

  Chaladar agreed loudly, shouting, "Go on, Cloakmaster."

  Teldin looked out into the warriors' eyes and realized they were listening to him. Their trust was incomplete, he knew; he could see that in some of their expressions. He knew he had to prove himself to them, as he had already proved himself to CassaRoc, and now Chaladar. "If I am here for a reason, somehow bound together with this cloak and with the Spelljammer, then it is a purpose for good, not evil. It is a purpose for life, and for honor- not conquest and death."

  The warriors began murmuring their agreement. The dark band at his throat began to grow war
m, but he did not notice.

  "I will need your help. If my enemies- our enemies- want this cloak, then that means they want me. That means that we'll have a fight on our hands, another fight to the death, probably, but a fight for good, a battle for the Spelljammer's destiny. There is a war raging right now, perhaps a second Unhuman War. When this is over on the Spelljammer, maybe we will all be able to live in peace and explore the universe, without fear of dark magic and Unhuman enemies. But I'll need your help."

  The crowd was silent, staring at Teldin. Chaladar came up and said quietly, "Teldin, your cloak."

  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 ov
er 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 questbefore 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…