Beyond the Moons

by David Cook

  The Cloakmaster Cycle One

  BEYOND

  THE MOONS

  David Cook

  BEYOND THE MOONS

  Copyright © 1991 TSR, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

  Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc., and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Ltd.

  Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

  Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

  Distributed to the book trade in the United Kingdom by Random Century Group.

  Cover art by Jeff Easley.

  DRAGONLANCE is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. SPELLJAMMER and the TSR logo are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

  First Printing: July 1991

  These ePub and Mobi editions by Dead^Man February, 2012

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-71504

  987654321

  ISBN: 1-56076-153-9

  TSR, Inc.

  P.O. Box 756

  Lake Geneva, WI 53147

  U.S.A.

  TSR Ltd.

  120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

  Cambridge CB1 3LB

  United Kingdom

  To Ian, who might someday read this.

  Prologue

  “Jettison away!”

  “Aye, Captain, jettison away!” The mate’s words were almost swallowed by a shrieking crash. The flying ship’s deck shuddered as a section of the sterncastle shattered in a rain of wood and iron splinters. An agonized howl echoed from below, somewhere along the catapult ball’s destructive path. The captain and mate, both staggered by the hit, grabbed the rail.

  “Damn my eyes! Hard to port, helmsman,” bawled the captain. “Get us out of their fire, now! Mister Yandars, see to the damage below!”

  “Aye, sir,” the helmsman and the mate responded simultaneously. The captain hardly took notice, certain that her orders were being carried out. Already she was striding to the sterncastle, her long, fine cloak billowing behind her. She found the ballista crew frantically struggling with its weapon. Two men were just giving the last turns to the winch that bent back the powerful bow, while a third laid a massive bolt into place.

  “Take your aim carefully, lads,” the captain intoned, trying to soothe her artillerists’ shaken nerves. “We’ll be coming about in a moment. They’ll steer to port to avoid our jettison. When they do, take aim for an eye. If you can hit her square, you should cause those villains some grief.” She laid a soothing hand on the loader and watched over the firer’s shoulder as the man adjusted the aiming screws, laying in the shot.

  Finally satisfied, the artillerist jerked the weapon’s lanyard, pulling the trigger. The ballista’s great bow released its burden with an off-key twang that hung in the air as the bolt shot away toward the enemy. At first, the shaft arced straight and true, only to skitter off the enemy ship’s rounded hull just yards from the bulging, domed porthole.

  “Faster, boys! Load and fire again!” The captain thumped the loader on the back to get him moving. “Keep our course steady,” she shouted to the helmsman, “till we fire again, then bring —”

  The whistling whine of an incoming projectile interrupted the captain’s words. Before anyone could react, another catapult stone struck, ripping through the ship just aft of where the captain stood. The deck buckled under her feet, shearing the ballista from its mountings. The gigantic crossbow heaved over, one end of the metal bow savagely impaling the loader, pinning the writhing man to the deck. Another of the artillerists was pitched against the rail. The decorative spindles shattered under the man’s weight and he plunged over the side into the darkness with a pleading scream. The captain was flung backward against a bulkhead, wood splinters bloodying her arm and face. She slid to the deck, dazed by the blow.

  Before the officer could recover, she was gently scooped up in the massive arms of her cabin boy. Head still groggy, the captain felt herself being carried toward the forecastle. “Private Gomja is here for you, Captain,” the cabin boy offered in a deep, rolling voice.

  “Captain, are you injured?” the first mate frantically inquired when he met the pair while coming up from below.

  The captain waved off the mate’s question while ignoring her cabin boy’s ministrations. “Report on the damage below.” Instinctively, she knew the information would be bad. The last two shots from the enemy had been too well aimed for the Penumbra to escape lightly.

  “Captain, Mister Tyreen reports the helm was cracked by that last shot. The wizard’s trying to hold it together, but he says we’ll have to cut our speed if we want to keep it from breaking up.” The first mate looked worriedly toward the stern, where their pursuers followed.

  “Blast and damn!” sputtered the captain, pushing herself out of the cabin boy’s arms. “Well, we can’t run anymore. Get below and tell Tyreen I want every drop of speed he can get out of her, and I don’t give a damn about his helm. We’re going to run for the cloud bank and make for land.”

  “But the helm —”

  “Mister Yandars, this is our only chance, so just do as you’re ordered! Unless, of course, you’re willing to trust your fate to them.” The captain pointed emphatically toward the dark shapes astern, three hulking ships slowly closing on the small, crippled merchantman. “Tyreen’s got to hold it together till then. If my rudders are right, that’ll be Krynn below us. There’s a fair-sized continent down there – Ansalon it’s called on the charts. We’ll make to land on it. Once we’re down, Tyreen can make his repairs.”

  Mister Yandars fearfully glanced back at their pursuers, his face pale. “Aye, Captain,” he said weakly, “I’ll see your orders are carried out.”

  “Very good, mister. Helmsman, take us into the clouds,” commanded the bloodied captain. The rigging creaked slightly as the Penumbra nosed downward.

  Chapter One

  “Dragon!”

  Teldin Moore stopped in midswing, and the hoe he held almost flew from his grasp. Liam’s excited shout, practically in Teldin’s ear, was as startling as the word itself. “Liam, by the returned gods,” Teldin snapped as he dug the hoe into the ground, “I’m right here!” The tall farmer swung around to give an icy, blue-eyed glare at his shorter, older neighbor, but a dribble of sweat, brought out by the setting sun, dripped down his forehead. Teldin blinked as it dropped into his eyelashes, ruining the reproachful glare he hoped to achieve.

  The pair were standing in the middle of the melon field, which filled one small corner of Teldin’s land. The farmer’s property extended from his cabin to a wooded ridge an acre away, beyond which lay Liam’s farm. Teldin scanned the horizon as he tried to guess just what had gotten his neighbor so excited. To the west, the yellow-red glare of the setting sun burned through the thin clouds to dazzle his eyes. Blinking, Teldin let his gaze follow the cottonwoods that ran past the edge of the field. There was no sign of a dragon above the stream where the cottonwoods grew. Teldin turned almost completely about and faced northeast, where his simple cabin stood. The wavering branches of an apple orchard behind the house rose above the roofline, but even there Teldin saw no sign of anything that looked like a dragon. Neither did the chickens in the yard show any sign of alarm. Instead they lazily scratched the ground outside their coop. The young farmer threw one last glance around the small d
ale that enclosed his land. “Where?” Teldin skeptically demanded.

  Liam Shal, with his worn, ill-fitting clothes flapping like a scarecrow’s, bobbed nervously and excused himself with a grimace of embarrassment. The scrawny old farmer practically hopped from foot to foot, one hand jabbing at the sky, the other balancing against his own hoe, firmly set in the broken dirt. The scrawny melon plants’ yellowing leaves scratched at Liam’s bare legs. “Teldin, look up in the sky! It must a be dragon, right? You saw them in the wars right? That’s a dragon, isn’t it?”

  Teldin leaned against his hoe, dubiously scanning the horizon where Liam pointed. The older man was a good farmer, but Teldin knew his neighbor had never seen much of the real world. Even at dusk, weeding out the melon field was hot work, and the farmer wondered if his neighbor had conjured up an imaginary dragon as an excuse for a break. Not that he really cared, for his own taut muscles suddenly motionless after a day’s worth of hoeing, ached agonizingly. Stiffly flexing his shoulders, Teldin brushed back trickles of sweat into his stubby, light brown hair, and, shading his eyes, peered into the reddish western sky. This time he took care not to gaze into the setting sun, but looked more toward the faint image of Solinari, the Moon of Silver, as it hid behind wispy clouds.

  At first there was nothing to see. Teldin looked toward his neighbor. “Liam, you’ve been in the sun too long,” he declared with a snort.

  “No, look over the big oak on the ridge, just below the clouds!” Liam thrust his arm under Teldin’s nose, his finger pointing toward a distant spot in the sky.

  Teldin barely noticed the rich, salty tang of sweat and dirt emanating from Liam’s grimy skin. Instead he squinted and tried to sight on Liam’s outstretched fingertip without luck. Then a sparkle, hanging over the top of the big oak that Liam had named, caught his eye. A familiar childhood landmark at the end of the field, the tree stood above most of the others. Teldin squeezed his eyes down to wrinkled slits against the glare, then saw a series of brilliant, red-gold flashes that seemed to shoot from the oak’s topmost branches. Before the two farmers could say another word, though, it was gone into the wispy tails of a glowing cloud bank.

  “Dragon fire, I bet, just like you saw in the war,” Liam blurted, obviously confident in his identification. The older man nevertheless looked eagerly to Teldin for evidence that he had guessed right. Although half again Teldin’s age, Liam had the bubbling enthusiasm of a child.

  “Could be,” Teldin cautiously allowed, not letting the old man influence him. With such scant evidence, Teldin reserved his judgment, pointedly avoiding the faults of his late father. Amdar’s fierce opinions had been one of the reasons Teldin had run away to become a soldier in the first place.

  The few dragons Teldin had seen as a youth during the War of the Lance were always at rest and never fighting. The truth, which Teldin had never broached with Liam, was that in his years as a soldier, the young farmer had been little more than a mule skinner. The older farmer was pleased to know a “war hero” and Teldin just could not disillusion him.

  The fact was that he had never been in anything but a few minor skirmishes, let alone seen a dragon fight in earnest, using its fearsome breath to scorch men to cinders. Coming after the warriors, though, he’d seen the results. At the Battle of the High Clerist ‘s Tower, Teldin had buried men – and things that weren’t men – all roasted by dragon fire, blasted by lightning, or eaten away by corrosive spittle. It was an awful memory that filled him with horror, and he quickly shut it out of his mind, but not before his neck instinctively tensed and strained already stiff muscles even more.

  Liam, still prancing about from foot to foot, thought of dragons only as exciting. The grizzled neighbor finally despaired that the thing he had seen would return. The lustrous evening sky was already darkening. Both Solinari, with its smooth, silver disk, and Lunitari, Krynn’s other, blood-red, moon, were well up into the heavens. Stars were faintly visible in the east, opposite the setting sun.

  “Well, it’s gone,” Liam said dejectedly, after spitting at a gob of dirt between the melon vines. Teldin blinked, trying to get the sun’s dazzle and sweat out of his eyes.

  Teldin walked over beside his neighbor. “All for the best, Liam,” he consoled. “Dragons are bad business.” Taking up the hoe, the young farmer hefted it for another try at the weeds that lay thick among the melon hills at his feet. His shoulders, barely rested, ached so that Teldin let out a surprised grunt, and he let the hoe fall. “Oh, gods, that’s enough for today.”

  Teldin stiffly clapped his friend on the shoulder. “No more today, Liam. You should be getting home. I can finish the field tomorrow.” The pair had worked all day and even if they were not done, Teldin was content with their progress.

  Liam stood firm. “Teldin, these melons have got to get weeded, and you’ve been letting it slip for a week now. Those weeds are going to choke off your vines real soon. If this were my field, I’d be out here hoeing by torchlight.”

  Teldin shrugged somewhat painfully, ignored the older man, and began to march off toward his cabin. “It’s not your field,” he called back upon reaching the porch. “There are more than enough melons hoed for me. Who else is going to eat them?” Teldin set the hoe against the cabin’s log wall and disappeared inside. The cabin was old and small but well cared for. Teldin’s grandfather had cut the timber back when he first had claimed the land. He had dressed out the logs and cut the joints to fit them together. Teldin’s father had replaced the thatch roof with hand-split shingles and built the stone chimney that thrust up through the center of the roof, replacing his father’s original smokehole. After returning from the war, Teldin, grateful to be home, added the porch that wrapped around the front, and whitewashed the logs until the place looked like the village houses found in other parts of Estwilde. The whitewash gave the cabin a cozy, speckled gray look that Teldin liked. The house seemed to blend in with the trunks of the few trees around it. Although he had lived alone ever since his father had died, Teldin kept the house neat and in good condition. It was home, and now he was proud of it. He had run away once, but now he was staying.

  When Liam didn’t come out of the field, where he still stubbornly swung his hoe, Teldin stepped back onto the porch and held up a pair of wooden cups. “You can stay and hoe if you want, but I’ve got a fine cheese and a fat skin of wine cooling in the stream. Join me for a swim and a drink!” he yelled. “Or are you too old to remember how to do that?” Teldin grinned at his neighbor’s determination, trying to get in a few more moments of work by the last rays of the setting sun. Old Liam lived for nothing but farming, but Teldin preferred a balance of work and relaxation.

  Still, the offer was enough for the old farmer. With a higgledy step, scrawny Liam picked his way through the melon hills to the house. He followed Teldin across the yard, all the while chiding in mock irritation, to where the stream ran close by the house. The pair sat on a rock and let their feet soak in the cool water. Not bothering to pull off his shirt, Teldin slid down into the stream and let the water play over his tortured shoulders. Liam stayed on the rock and dabbled in the water with his feet.

  “Liam, thanks for helping with the melons. I know you’re busy with your own place and everything,” Teldin said sitting up, “but I’m grateful for the help.”

  The older man kicked up some water in mock disgust. “Your father and I helped each other for years while you were soldiering. Just because he’s passed on doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.

  Amdar was a painful subject, one that Teldin just as soon hoped didn’t come up. Memories of his stern father churned upward from the pits of Teldin’s past – the painful years of fights and criticism that finally drove a young farm boy to run away to the war. There were other memories, those of the strange silence between them when Teldin finally had come home. Neither man had spoken much of their years apart, leaving each to his peace. Even now a Teldin wanted to respect that silence.

  Climbing out of the stream, Teldin cla
cked the wooden cups together. “Let’s have a drink.” Water dripped from the goatskin bag as he fished it from the stream. Strong, homemade purple wine sloshed into the wooden cups.

  The two men sat in silence, enjoying their drinks until the sun was completely set, leaving only a faint glow on the horizon. This was complemented by the light from the twin moons, causing the trees, crops, cabin – everything – to leave twin shadows tinged in red and silver. Teldin was content, even a little bored.

  Finally Liam set his cup down, “Time I headed home, Teldin. My old eyes are too weak to see that path in the dark.” Liam grinned a crooked-toothed smile. Teldin snorted at the joke, knowing perfectly well that Liam’s eyes were not nearly that bad or that old.

  Standing, Liam wobbled a little, the wine apparently taking its toll. Teldin corked the wineskin and stood to see his friend off. “Now, you sure you can handle that melon field?” Liam pressed as he held out his hand.

  Teldin took the smaller man’s hand and clasped it firmly. “It’ll be fine, Liam, just fine. Go home now, before Eloise starts worrying. You be sure to fetch me when it’s time to do your haying.”

  “I’ll do that, I will,” promised Liam. With one last “swipe at the sweat on his brow, the smaller man turned and headed across the fields toward his own farm. It would be a long walk back. Teldin’s homestead was cut off from the other farms in the area by the wooded ridge to the west. Most of the other farmers lived clustered in small villages along the road from Kalaman, which ran through the main valley about two leagues away. Only a few smaller homesteads, like Teldin’s, were situated in the side valleys. Teldin’s father had liked it that way, and it suited Teldin just fine, too. Teldin, like all the Moores, had never been a particularly sociable man. The isolation did not bother him, because he never thought about it. When Teldin felt the urge for company, he visited Liam or some of the other farmers in Dargaard Valley, particularly those with pretty, young daughters.