Beyond the Moons

by David Cook

  The farmer leaned on the porthole sill and contemplated. He had come a long way since his adventure had begun. The farm seemed like something far distant, even though it was only a few weeks’ journey away. Going back now would feel very different, even more than when he had rejoined his father after the war. At least then there had been something to go back to, Teldin ruefully realized.

  “Did you wish to speak with me, sir?” asked Gomja.

  “Right, right,” Teldin finally said distractedly. He turned away from the porthole, his jaw set with determination. “What’s it like out there?” the human finally asked after several false starts.

  “Sir?” Gomja dropped his stiff stance.

  “Out there, beyond this world, what’s it like?”

  Gomja cocked his head and didn’t answer for a long time. “I don’t know, sir. I mean, I can’t explain. It’s

  quiet and dark, sir.” The giff fingered his knives nervously.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” Teldin broke in. “I mean, are there people out there, humans, or is everyone – well, something else? I guess I want to know, would I be alone?”

  Ears wiggling in surprise, the giff answered, “You will never be alone, sir. I’ll be with you.” Teldin shook his head, realizing Gomja didn’t understand. The big alien tried again. “There are humans, yes,” he cautiously offered.

  “Oh” Teldin said in disappointment, hoping for something more poetic. He didn’t really know what he expected the giff to say. “I wish I knew what’s so special about this cloak, Gomja. Why do the neogi want it?”

  The giff pursed his big lips. “As I have told you, sir, I don’t know. Perhaps you should rest some more.

  The injured farmer ignored the giffs suggestion. “But the neogi do want it, and if they don’t get it this time, they’ll try again, won’t they?” Teldin looked at the opalescent fabric for the thousandth time, trying to fathom its mystery.

  “Yes, sir, that seems certain.” All this was obvious, and Gomja could not see what the human was getting at. “The neogi are a determined race,” he offered.

  Teldin paced the little bridge, looking from the giff to the neogi ship. Unconsciously, the farmer’s fist drummed against his leg. “Would I like it?” Teldin blurted.

  “Like what, sir?” Gomja asked, by now very confused.

  “You know, out there. Would I like it out there?” Teldin demanded, a little irritated that the giff had not followed his thoughts.

  Gomja sputtered with his mouth agape. “Well, sir, I suppose you might. I mean, I don’t know, sir.” Gomja realized he was gawking and closed his big mouth.

  Teldin shook his head, cutting the hapless giff off. “Damn the gods, Gomja, I can’t let them have it!” the farmer proclaimed. “Look, I don’t know what this thing does, but, by the Abyss, I’m not going to hand it over to the neogi, not after —” His voice dropped to a whisper — “not after what they did to me.” Teldin’s eyes were hard and grim and blood flushed into his cheeks. He stopped pacing and planted himself in the center of the bridge. “I’m going with you.”

  The giff’s ears twitched. “But, you said you didn’t want to leave the land, sir. We said good-bye and you made me a sergeant and everything.” The giff peered closely at Teldin’s face. “Are you sure, sir, that you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Teldin avowed, though he felt far from it. The poultice caused his cuts to itch and burn while his shoulder sockets still throbbed from the lordservants’ wrenching. “I am going with you,” he stated again, almost as if to convince himself.

  “Why, sir? Space isn’t your home. What about your farm, sir?”

  Teldin looked back out the porthole toward the hovering deathspider. “As I said, Gomja, because I’ll be damned if the neogi are going to get this cloak.” Teldin’s face was cold and stony as he nodded toward the neogi ship. “When I was a prisoner, there was something one of them said, about using the cloak to enslave worlds. Maybe I didn’t get it then, but now I do.” Teldin turned back to face the giff. “Look, Gomja, if I stay here, the neogi will just keep coming, hunting for the cloak. How many have they killed already? You’re saying Mount Nevermind might fall. If that happens, what then? Can you imagine it – fleets of neogi floating over Krynn? I’ve seen enough fighting. This whole land has seen enough war.” Teldin turned away and quickly brushed a tear from his eye. “The farm’s gone anyway – Grandfather, Amdar, Liam – all the people who meant anything. If I stay, the neogi will just hurt someone else close to me. This way there’s no more killing.”

  “But fighting the neogi is a great honor, sir. They are friends to no one.” Gomja’s earnest face confirmed the truth of what he spoke.

  “No, Gomja, I’m not you and I’m not a Solamnic knight. The war taught me a long time ago that there’s no honor in fighting. Look what happened to Vandoorm, or the gnomes here. Do you think they felt honored?” Teldin’s fingers clenched the porthole. “I can’t – I won’t be responsible for bringing the neogi to Krynn – so I’m leaving.”

  Gomja scowled, his voice dark and ominous. “Running away? A giff shouldn’t serve under a cowardly captain.”

  Teldin turned slowly, pulling the cloak tightly around himself, biting back a surge of anger. “You don’t understand! Whatever this cloak is, the neogi want it badly. I’m not running away. I’m drawing them away. I want them to follow me, to leave Krynn alone. Besides, out there maybe I can learn what this cloak does.” Teldin’s voice grew soft. “If it’s as powerful as the neogi think, then maybe I can pay them back in kind.” The farmer’s eyes looked past the giff and toward something only the human could see. Never before had Gomja seen the human show such coldblooded fire.

  Teldin jerked his finger toward the deck, snapping out of the spell. “When this ship leaves, I’m going to be out there waving this damn cloak right under neogi noses if I have to.” The mule skinner glared defiantly at the giff, challenging the alien to protest.

  Gomja’s ears slowly rose and his little eyes widened. The giff now saw the dangerous sense of Teldin’s plan. “I understand now, Commander. I was... wrong.” Fumbling at his sash, the giff drew one of his pistols and held it, stock first, for the human to take. Teldin hesitated, the farmer in him unwilling to accept the commitment the pistol implied. “Please take this,” Gomja urged. “You would have been a noble giff, sir. You have a hero’s soul.”

  Teldin reddened at the big alien’s compliment. Gingerly, he took the pistol by the stock. Made for a giffs big, clumsy fingers, the weapon was huge in his own hand. As Teldin looked it over, Gomja drew the pouches from his sash and set them on the table. Dividing the bags of powder, wadding, and shot, the giff motioned for Teldin to join him.

  “It works like so …”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The pistol lesson went quickly, though, despite Gomja’s assurances, it seemed like so much magic to Teldin. The rattle of eager footsteps toward the bridge signaled the lesson’s end. The giff, knowing the gnomes would dearly love to dismantle and analyze his precious weapons, hastily scraped everything back into the pouches.

  The clanking door’s valves parted and Captain Wysdor, the braid-bedecked gnome from their earlier meeting, rushed onto the bridge. Gone was the jeweler’s loupe, but the gray braids remained. He wore practical, ordinary shirt and trousers. His leather apron, standard dress for a working gnome, was scratched and cracking with age. The captain’s arms were covered with grease up to the elbows. “It’s done, sir!” he shouted, breathless from his hurried trip from the depths of the engine hold to the bridge. “Wefinishedthe-modificationstothespelljammerhelm —”

  “What’s done?” Teldin demanded. The rapid gnomish speech was adding to his already throbbing headache. Gomja, his brows knitted as he tried to figure out what had been said, towered over the gnome.

  Even the normally professional captain found it difficult to suppress his natural pride in the Unquenchable. “The spelljammer helm has been mounted, as instructed by the large, b
lue-skinned stranger who calls himself Gomja —”

  “You told us that already,” Teldin snapped. “Well, yes,” Captain Wysdor said, catching his breath and slowing down, “but now we have finished all the modifications to the helm —”

  “Does this mean the ship can leave?” Teldin asked, ignoring the gnome’s wordy barrage.

  “— yes – and furthermore we have made several improvements on the design, which, though untested, should enhance the overall performance of the spelljammer engine, assuming, of course, various assumptions about the physical properties of space made by Master Alphonlongrutadinatachruvinuscadilmastrki —”

  “We can leave, right?” Teldin demanded again, laying one hand on the captain’s shoulder. He wanted to be absolutely certain that the gnome had answered his question. Teldin suppressed the urge to shout in the little fellow’s face.

  The captain stopped, pointedly removed Teldin’s hand, and carefully straightened his braid. “Yes,” he answered icily, glaring up at the human with impressive dignity, the mantle of professionalism restored.

  Teldin stared just as fiercely back, unintimidated by the gnome’s posturing. “Is everything else ready?” He kept his finger poised to cut off any long-winded speeches.

  “The Unquenchable will be ready to depart as soon as the admiralty reaches the bridge and gives the necessary —”

  “Excellent,” Teldin interrupted. Human patience with gnomes and their ways was wearing thin.

  Gomja, poking his head out the door, called back to those inside. “The admirals are coming, sir. I don’t think you’re going to like it, though.”

  “Admirals?” Teldin echoed.

  “Admirals, sir. Three of them,” Gomja explained as he stepped back into the room. Captain Wysdor hastily stepped out of the way.

  Marching in lockstep, the three admirals – neatly groomed Ilwar, wild-haired Niggil, and paunchy Broz – strode onto the bridge. The three were dressed in comical blue-and-green uniforms, overloaded with gold braid and heraldic symbols. Behind them came a jostling gaggle of technicians, toting unruly boxes of charts and papers. Gomja unconsciously stiffened to attention and snapped off a salute. “Admirals on the bridge, sir!” he bawled in proper military fashion.

  With a groan Teldin collapsed into one of the gnome-sized chairs. Spotting him, the three admirals burst into congratulations at his escape, and shook his hands until Teldin though his miserable joints would be wrenched free once again. Finally Ilwar srpoothed his square, black beard and asserted control. “Officer of the Day, prepare a boat to carry Teldin Moore of Kalaman back to shore,” Ilwar ordered. Captain Wysdor moved toward the door.

  “That’s not necessary,” Teldin quickly put in, before the orders could be set in motion. “I’m staying.”

  “You are staying?” the gnome squeaked with surprise. His wrinkled eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Teldin. The concerned old gnome laid a paternalistic hand on the yeoman’s arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked softly, keeping his question simple. “What about the farm you talked about? You may never get back, you know.” Teldin nodded in understanding, but the square-bearded admiral would not be put off. “Teldin Moore of Kalaman, you do not have to do this because of us, and you are not to blame for what has happened, nor do I want you to go with us for these reasons, so be sure of what you are saying —”

  “I would be honored to sail with you,” the cloakmaster answered firmly.

  Ilwar nodded a little reluctantly. “Belay that order, Officer of the Day!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “Excellent to have you aboard, Teldin Moore of Kalaman,” the admiral said cheerfully, his demeanor completely changing upon seeing Teldin’s resolve. “I am very glad we will have the opportunity for further scientific study of your cloak, which, of course, you realize, can only be conducted beyond the earthly influences of Krynn, and that is why we recommended you come with us in the first place —” Behind Ilwar, admirals Niggil and Broz eagerly chattered in excitement to each other, clearly pleased with the human’s decision.

  Teldin could already see the greedy scientific gleam in Niggil’s eyes. Holding his hand up, he firmly announced, “There’ll be no testing of the cloak until I say so – if I say so. Is that understood?” Somewhat crestfallen by the announcement, the three gnomes, Niggil in particular, reluctantly agreed in their long-winded way.

  “But my life-quest —” Niggil began to whimper before a shudder ran through the deck and cut him off. Through the forward portal they all could see the deathspider fire a missile from its aft. They heard the grinding noise of another ballista bolt hit.

  “Captain Wysdor, get this thing out of here before the neogi sink us,” Teldin urgently suggested. Captain Wysdor looked lamely at the three admirals. It didn’t surprise Teldin that the gnomes would be redundant in choosing officers.

  “Yes, yes, do as the human orders,” Ilwar said. “Crew, assume positions and prepare presailing check. Bridge doors closed?”

  The valves rattled shut. “Bridge doors closed – check!” shouted a squeaky voice. Even before that was finished, Niggil called out another step, followed by a shouted reply. Soon all three admirals were calling for confirmations, overlapping and, to Teldin’s ear, contradicting each other. The crew seemed to find nothing unusual at all in the whole procedure, though at one point it seemed as if bearded Ilwar and goggle-eyed Niggil were about to come to blows over whether the bridge doors should be open or closed. They finally compromised by leaving them halfway.

  Teldin kneeled next to the captain, who, throughout all the checks, double checks, and counterchecks, had said or done nothing but wait patiently to assume his place at the center of the bridge. “How does this ship fly anyway, Captain Wysdor?” Teldin asked, curious to know just how he was going to be traveling. “Where’s that chair, the helm?”

  Wysdor drew himself up, proud to be of service. “The chair, as you call it, is the spelljammer engine, and it has been installed in the engine room, where is can provide motive power to the paddlewheels —”

  “Engine room? What’s that?”

  “Why, that is the room where the spelljamming engine is housed, since the engine must be close to the paddlewheel shafts to turn the —”

  “Well, how does the bridge tell it what to do?” Teldin asked, sensing that he was getting an elaborately circular explanation.

  “Ah,” Wysdor said brightly, “that’s the ingenious part of it, because from here we can visually examine our route, then, by means of automated carillon signal system …”

  Seeing the human’s confused look, Wysdor stopped and struggled to find a simpler explanation. “By means of signal bells, the bridge tells the engine to go slow or fast,” he finally explained, as if talking to a child.

  At least that made sense to Teldin. The clamor on the bridge continued unabated, and Teldin had to shout over the noise for Wysdor to hear him. “So what powers the engine? It was only a chair.”

  Wysdor stared at the ceiling as he tried to think of the simple way to describe the process. “This is very hard to explain. According to studies of the Spelljammer’s Guild, the spelljammer engine derives its energy through the absorption of thaumaturgical power, which it then redirects into motive force, which —”

  “Eh?” the puzzled human interjected.

  Wysdor sighed and tried again. “It, uh, drains spells from our ship’s wizard and uses that power to lift the ship.” The captain looked to see if Teldin understood.

  “But I thought you said the paddlewheels moved the ship.” The farmer’s head was hurting again. A bustling gnome carrying a bundle of charts and scrolls squeezed between Teldin’s legs, bound for the admirals.

  “The paddlewheels are a vital part of the secondary systems, as are the masts and sails, just in case the engine should fail at some critical time during flight and the need for secondary backup systems becomes apparent, in which case —”

  “Ready and away!” Ilwar finally shouted, interrupting

&
nbsp; Captain Wysdor’s explanation. Wysdor bobbed a quick bow, ushered everyone to a seat, and hurried to assume his post beside Ilwar, Niggil, and Broz. A hush fell over the assembled gnomes, giving the maiden flight – and first field test – of the new and improved Unquenchable a near-religious significance. Teldin tensed with eager expectation, not really knowing what was supposed to happen.

  All at once the silence was shattered by the blaring of clanging bells and ear-shattering whistles. Teldin sprang from his seat. “What’s wrong?” he shouted to anyone who would listen. Gomja stood wincing, his ears pressed tightly against his head.

  Instead of answering, the gnomes let loose with a cheer. Their celebration was broken by a violent jerk as the deck suddenly lurched upward, a movement that threw Teldin and the rest of the crew sprawling to the floor. The cloakmaster hit the wooden deck on one shoulder and lay gasping for breath as the reignited pain of his injuries coursed along his nerves like molten fire. Only Gomja, feet widespread and knees braced, remained standing. With one big hand, the giff easily hoisted the numb human back to his feet.

  The deck wobbled underfoot. Eager and fearful, Teldin joined the gnomes crowding around the portholes. Tall enough to stand in the back, the human was able to look over the assembled heads as the gnomes jumped up and down, fighting for a glimpse of the outdoors. Beyond the edges of the deck, the crater lake’s dark water slowly receded. The Unquenchable was airborne.

  And headed straight for the neogi deathspider, Teldin noted when he raised his eyes to the horizon. “Gomja!” he shouted. “What’s the plan for getting past the enemy?”

  Gomja pushed his way over to Teldin and shouted over the pinging racket the Unquenchable made. “Plan? I assume the improvements to speed the gnomes made on the helm will let us easily outrun the neogi ship, sir.”