The Ultimate Helm tcc-6

by Russ T. Howard

  He was planets. He was stars. He was spheres, suns, systems, memories, races long dead.

  He was all.

  His sight, his senses, were filled with a panoramic vista of the flow, of the oneness of each sphere with its obsidian counterparts scattered like pebbles across the universe.

  He thought of himself. He felt his being pull back, into the reality of the Spelljammer, and his mind saw and felt the Unhuman fleets converging on the Spelljammer. Elves, neogi, humans, giff-their ships promised bloodshed and war, and the stench of death followed in their wake.

  — Who? he thought. -Where?

  The answer rang through him with a force unimaginable, a force that had seen stars being born, seen planets die, seen whole spheres bubble into existence and slowly solidify, a thousand years witnessed within a second. It was a word, yet not a word, more a feeling that was sound and sight and touch and smell and taste, all at once.

  — Here, was the answer.

  — Live.

  — See.

  — Feel.

  — Hear.

  — Die.

  — Experience.

  — Know.

  — All.

  Then:

  — We are not the first.

  And the universe was a sphere, a single, wondrous black jewel floating in the empty, endless wastes of the chaotic phlogiston. Alone, perhaps; at least unknown by the beings from any other sphere.

  — Ouiyan.

  Eighteen worlds swung in slow, graceful arcs around Aeyenna, the eternal sun. Eighteen worlds-blue, green, vibrant with a variety of life unknown today. There, among the worlds, life had evolved, reaching out from mother oceans to stare transfixed into the skies. Empires flourished and were destroyed, then were rebuilt upon ancient foundations. Myth gave way to science, then magic, and humanity learned to coexist peacefully with the animals that shared the worlds. Children swam with the great beasts of the sea; mages and scholars shared philosophies with wolves and whales. Most unique among the worlds of Ouiyan were the spaakiil.

  Alone among all the beasts of the One Sphere, the spaakiil sailed through wildspace and atmospheres alike, great mantas that sang and frolicked among the stars, swam along the boundaries of magic and reality. To each world they brought wonder. To each world they brought the joys of life and diver sity. To each world they brought peace. To each world they brought their songs of greeting from other worlds, and the knowledge that granted humanity the skills to break the cage of gravity and sail the first spelljammers into space.

  To each world, the spaakiil were considered holy: gods to one world; messengers to another; brothers to a third.

  To each world-except one-they were considered friends.

  The outermost planet was unknown to the others, circling Aeyenna in an orbit so far distant that the sunlight never shone brighter than dark twilight. The eighteenth world was a cold rock, where vegetable life was limited to black scrubs and thick, dark flowers that cried plaintively as the pinpoint that was the sun teased the sky.

  It was from here that evil came and spread across the sphere.

  They called themselves the Sh'tarrgh, and for years, the Sh 'tarrgh waged war against humanity, the Stealers of the Sun. The grotesque gray humanoids fed on the blood and fear of their chosen enemies. They attacked first the seventeenth world and spread from there to claim the sphere as their own. For years cities were leveled by their weapons of destruction, their mages of darkness. The oceans of Resanel boiled under the heat weapons of the Sh'tarrgh. The Citadel of Kiril, housing four thousand men and women, was reduced to rubble in a day. Worlds died as armies were enveloped in clouds of magic, and nothing but bones and armor were left when the clouds dispersed.

  The worlds burned at the Sh 'tarrgh's departure, and the One Sphere echoed with the screams of the innocent and the dying.

  The Sh 'tarrgh wanted nothing but the worlds that orbited peacefully in the glow of the sun. They cared not at all for life; they simply wanted, and wanted. They wanted what before they could not have… the sacred, blessed sunlight, and their lust for power fueled their evil.

  The leaders of the sphere met only days before Ouiyan was to become but a memory, a legend. The war had gone on too long, for almost a century of mindless death. Already BedevanSov and Ladria had been taken by the Sh 'tarrgh, and Ondora was about to fall. Politicians and kings, wizards and priests, knew that the sphere would not hold much longer. It was decided, then, to devise apian that could save those who were left.

  Days later, magic users and kings converged secretly on Irryan, the forest moon of Colurranur, to organize one last attempt to tvin back their worlds.

  The sky above Irryan darkened, and they knew that all was lost-the Sh 'tarrgh were attacking.

  Then they looked up and rejoiced, for the sky was filled with the triangular shapes of the spaakiil, circling silently, filling the survivors with awe at their graceful omnipresence.

  The numbers of the spaakiil had dwindled under the ceaseless attacks of the Sh 'tarrgh; but they selflessly offered humanity one last chance to defeat the Sh 'tarrgh, one last chance for life.

  The humans listened to the idea of the spaakiil, and rejected it. No one should sacrifice so much for others, but the spaakiil were insistent, and the threat of the Sb'tarrgh was overwhelming.

  Word was soon sent throughout the sphere to all the mages on all the worlds. On the island of Terah, in the sea o fGelaan, the spaakiil and wizards from all the races of Ouiyan together wove their spells. The skies swirled with dark clouds and danced with lightning. On the other side of the planet, tornadoes cut swaths across the countryside, and strange lights played in the sky.

  Then it was over. A thousand mages had come to Terah, but fewer than two hundred survived the stress of what they had done.

  The spaakiil, the wild singers of the stars, were gone.

  In the sky, blotting the sun, swam a single, impossibly large spaakiil.

  No longer alive, as humans knew life, the first Spelljammer, Egrestarrian, swam above Colurranur, a gleaming, sprawling city spread out upon its back for the refugees of the original, forgotten Unhuman War-the people who would be known in later ages as the Lovokei, the Kutalla, the Broul, and thejuna. Egrestarrian sailed to every world of the One Sphere and took on all who wished to escape the Sh 'tarrgh.

  Many stayed to fight, to defend their homes. Some were held prisoner by the Sh'tarrgh; others felt that escape was cowardly and simply wished to die.

  The virginal ship sailed through wildspace and defended itself with its stinger, a powerful weapon of annihilation, while the humans built the first spacebome ballistae and catapults to destroy their evil enemies.

  The armadas of the Sh 'tarrgh came together as the Spelljammer left the orbit of the innermost world, laden with the refugees and survivors of the unbuman wars. Sh'tarrgh battleships numbered six score and converged on the ship from all sides.

  The Spelljammer was built to preserve life, and was not conceived as an offensive weapon. Its only defenses were natural: speed, maneuverability, and its magical nature. In the Sh'tarrgh Convergence-an attack that lasted only seconds-the people of the Spelljammer learned a valuable lesson: that to defend, even peaceable peoples need defensive weapons.

  Against the combined might of the Sh'tarrgh, the Spelljammer was impotent. Its only hope-the only hope of thousands-was to escape, to explore.

  Escape lay on the other side of the black, crystalline wall of the One Sphere.

  The survivors knew nothing of what awaited them beyond the barrier. The Spelljammer knew only that escape was their only hope, and that the means to flee this sphere were inborn with the ship, a natural talent of the spaakiil, carried over to their legacy.

  The people in the citadel waited, and Egrestarrian sang.

  Its song reverberated off the sphere, and its simple beauty cast fear into the hearts of the demonic Sh'tarrgh.

  Then, near Aeyenna, between the Spelljammer and the fleets of the Sh 'tarrgh, opened a portal.
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  The Spelljammer sang. The portal widened, and the great ship sailed to freedom through the gateway, into the endless, eternal Rainbow Ocean.

  But no one had ever before been outside, into the phlogiston. No one knew that if the gateway were left open too wide for too long, the phlogiston would pour inside, into wildspace, and be sucked into the sun, there to explode.

  The Spelljammer was only minutes outside Ouiyan when the crystal shell exploded. The ship screamed and wept at the same time as it felt the worlds, the peoples, of its birth die in an all-consuming blast that cracked the crystal sphere and sent black shards hurtling into the flow.

  The phlogiston's destructive force sent the Spelljammer turniling helplessly. In seconds, the surfaces of the worlds were blown to black cinders, and the peoples, along with their deadly enemies, the Sh tarrgh, became memories, forever mourned by the Spelljammer.

  For the Spelljammer was created to preserve life, not destroy it.

  The Spelljammer wept in shame for centuries. The Spelljammer sailed on. Children were born, families were raised; old people died. The Spelljammer sailed on. Communities were built. New spheres were discovered. War was started, for one insignificant reason or another.

  In time, the Spelljammer found purpose in the tragedy that had borne it.

  Untold worlds awaited the Wanderer. The One Sphere was not the only sphere, as humanity soon learned. The Spelljammer sailed on to explore the spheres and their worlds, to discover, to learn; and left behind a sense of wonder, a sense of purpose, of the quest that pulled humanity out of the spheres to explore…

  And the Spelljammer sailed on.

  Egrestarrian, the Spelljammer, died.

  Drestarin, the Spelljammer, was born.

  The Spelljammer died.

  Wrycanion, the Spelljammer, sailed on.

  Finally, Creannon, the Spelljammer of the Cloakmaster, was bom, with all its precursors' memories-and guilt-intact. like the blinding instant when a sun is born, all this the Cloakmaster experienced in a moment that lasted for eternity.

  Teldin, at one with the Spelljammer, knew that time at the Broken Sphere had become dangerously short. The ferocity of the unhumans was unstoppable, and he realized instinctively that only one thing could prevent the Spelljammer s own needless death and the conquest of evil throughout the spheres.

  That one thing would destroy everything and everyone within range.

  — Not again, Teldin said.

  — Verenthestae, the ship responded. -The circles close once again. As one dies, one is born.

  — There have been too many deaths already.

  — Murderers embrace death, worship death. Are they not one with death, as we are one with life?

  — Death can be cheated.

  — Destiny cannot.

  — But there may be choices…

  — Destiny demands fulfillment. Murder demands atonement.

  — There may be a way.

  — Our destiny is clear.

  — Why me? Teldin asked.

  His universe was the amulet, glowing with white heat as it was when it was forged upon an anvil at the base of the Spelljammer 's captain's tower millennia ago. It blazed from within with the power of the three-pointed star, the idealized symbol that was to represent Ouiyan's long-lost sun. The points represented the powers that created the Spelljammer; the merging of the spaakiil, of humans, and of magic. Its light, its power, represented the eternal light of hope, of life.

  Attached with a golden chain to the original ultimate helm, the cloak, together they formed a single, inseparable device: the helm created for the First Pilot to command the ship, the amulet to help guide the captain-and the Spelljammer-to their twin destinies.

  Years later, they were separated, forced to wait for destiny to once again bring tbem together. Without the amulet, the Spelljammer was captained haphazardly by other captains with other helms-such was the nature of spell jamming. The true helm, the Ultimate Helm, the creators knew, eventually would find its way back to the true captain, perhaps many centuries after they had been forgotten. The cloak and the amulet would be joined again, and the Last Pilot would sail the Spelljammer to its ultimate fate.

  — Why me? Teldin said again. -Who am I?

  — You are the Last Pilot.

  — Why?

  — You are the Son of the Architect.

  — Who? Who am I?

  — This is the purpose for which you have sought. It was foreordained for you to find your destiny here, where it began millennia ago. Only you are the Chosen. Only you have the courage and the Helm and the Compass and the need. You are the Last Pilot.

  — There have been too many deaths already, Teldin said. — Something else must be done.

  — It is our destiny to end and begin again, to renew, to punish, to rejoice, to live.

  They were silent. The Cloakmaster thought for a minute, perhaps a year, as the Spelljammer knew time. Then he spoke.

  — Tell me. What happens when a Spelljammer dies?

  They spoke together then, for a long time,… minutes, perhaps, or years.

  Then they were decided, and for the first time since the coming of the Cloakmaster, the Spelljammer sang out joyously, spreading the colors of hope upon the eddies of the flow. The Spelljammer cast forth a seed of being, of pure, magical energies, that shot through Teldin's awareness and across the universe, and he felt it explode against its target, permeating ancient metal with its dormant energies.

  Teldin waited until the Spelljammer's song was finished, then he spoke.

  — I need one last thing, he said. -For me.

  — For… life…

  The two agreed as one, for the destiny that Teldin sought was the destiny that had always been.

  The Spelljammer sang with a song of Teldin. In Herdspace, a kender, lost in a healing, meditative trance, woke suddenly and heard the song. Music filled with latent energies and inner fires coursed through her, and she answered with a thought that knew no physical boundaries.

  The Cloakmaster heard, and he opened his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  "… The statues could only be those of the ship's captains. The weapons, the artifacts, the vessels under glass-all must have some purpose that I have not yet fathomed. " The secrets of this accursed ship will soon be mine, I vow. I know the nature of the helms, and I know of the magic that each person here unwittingly breathes. This prison is intolerable! I wonder if any of the items in the Armory are actually helms, and if they can help me escape…"

  The journal of Arcane; following the reign of Jokarin

  Na'Shee was the first to react. She leaped upon Stardawn and hurled him to the floor. Her hand went up, ready to smash into the elf s face, but the elf threw a powerful right jab into her jaw.

  She was knocked across him. Stardawn scrambled up and jerked the sword from the Cloakmaster's lifeless chest. He angled the blade toward the dark shape of the Fool. "The Cloakmaster is dead, now, Fool!" the elf shouted. "I shall be captain now, as it always should have been!"

  He placed his hand on one of the throne's pedestals, then stared down, waiting for the trickle of energy to flow up his arm, bonding him to the Spelljammer.

  The Fool laughed.

  " You killed the captain, elf" the Fool said. " You killed my plans for the Spelljammer. The helm is gone with the Bonding, and you have only your own, pitiful delusions to live for."

  The others in the party pulled out their weapons as the Fool approached. He lifted a hand, and an invisible wave of force sent the warriors sprawling into the walls. Djan's head collided with the wall, and the world went dark around him.

  The Fool spun on Stardawn. To the elf lord it was as if the Fool suddenly sailed from the floor to stand before him upon the dais. Two skeletal hands clasped tightly around Stardawn's throat.

  The Fool's eyes glimmered brightly, blazing into Stardawn's eyes. He felt the strength wash out of him, felt his legs go limp, and the Fool clasped him high in the air with one hand
around his neck.

  "Mine…" the Fool said, as though to himself. " You have ruined it all… and you shall pay."

  Stardawn's eyes went wide with terror. The dried, brittle skull that was the Fool's face seemed to open in a smile. Star-dawn shuddered in the Fool's grasp, his limbs twitching in an uncontrollable paroxysm of fear. The Fool covered the elfs face, his mouth and nose, with his hand. Two fingertips of bone touched the elfs eyes gently, like a lover's embrace.

  Stardawn screamed. He flailed violently in the Fool's cold grasp, and his life force was sucked from his body like smoke, consumed hungrily like a sweet morsel, and the Fool laughed at his meal.

  He flung the elfs body to the floor at the warriors' feet. CassaRoc stood uneasily, half-dazed, and the others brought themselves around as the Fool crept toward them.

  "All shall pay," the Fool said softly. "All shall pay for stealing my revenge."

  The master lich halted suddenly. A sphere of light formed around the warriors, a protective bubble of force. Inside the shield, a glow appeared, and the astral form of Gaye Goldring materialized, burning with a strength the Fool had never conceived. The lich spoke a chant, and the shield shuddered as his spell flickered at its edges, ineffective against the kender's psionic strength.

  "How?" he asked.

  Inside the shield, the warriors turned away from the Fool and gasped, staring behind him.

  Then the Fool felt himself levitated, held in a grip of power that spun him around to face his assailant. His black, shining eyes dimmed in uncomprehending fear.

  The Cloakmaster stood before him, holding the Fool in midair with the forces of his new life with the Spelljammer. He willed the Fool closer, and his vision, filled with dream-scapes and worlds beyond imagining, focused on the dead face of the master lich.