That’s it, he realized with a sharp feeling of distaste. The klicklikak was shaped to look like the head of an enormous grasshopper. The disembodied head seemed to possess an eery sentience, and Teldin had the uncanny sensation that the buglike eyes were watching and taunting. The insectare ship halted just out of ballista range, as if it discerned the elves’ intent.
A strange, scraping sound distracted Teldin, and he cast a sideways glance toward the source. He immediately turned and gave Hectate Kir his full attention. The half-elf labored up the stairs to the deck, half carrying and half dragging an enormous, two-headed halberd. Like the halberd Hectate had lost in the battle with the mind flayers, the weapon had blades easily two feet across and a staff fashioned from an eight-foot length of stout oak. This weapon, however, boasted a bewildering overlay of bolts and levers that marked it as a gnomish design. Om’s work again, Teldin supposed. The gods only know what “improvements” the gnome had made. ‘Whatever the case, Teldin could have no doubt about Hectate’s intent.
“Don’t you think you should sit this battle out?” Teldin asked him pointedly. The racket of Hectate’s approach had drawn the attention of the elves on deck, and all were eyeing the half-elf and his enormous weapon with astonishment and suspicion. It was not an auspicious moment to debut as a bionoid.
“If possible, sir, I will,” the half-elf replied, “but I’ve fought insectare before. My experience may prove useful.”
“You have?” Vallus asked, coming over to stand by Teldin.
“A swarm of the creatures destroyed my home and family when I was little more than a boy,” Hectate said quietly. “I know how they fight, and how they attack. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Teldin gripped the half-elfs shoulder, accepting his offer with a mixture of gratitude and foreboding. If Hectate was willing to reveal his bionoid nature before a swan ship full of elves, the risk presented by the insectare must be serious indeed. “What do you think they are up to?” he asked the half-elf.
Hectate squinted at the monstrous insect head. “That’s not a battleship. The ballistae ports that should be around the base have been closed up. It looks as though it’s been stripped down, either for crew or cargo.”
“So?” Vallus prompted.
“I’d say the ship’s a diversion,” Hectate said. “A klicklikak is rare enough to get attention and keep it. Insectare only fight if they have to. What they’re likely to do is to —”
His last words were lost in a piercing whistle. Teldin ducked reflexively, then shot a glance in the direction of the approaching sound and saw …
Nothing.
Their invisible adversary whistled in with a rising shriek. With horror Teldin recalled the banshees of his grandfather’s tales – ghostly creatures with a keening cry. He’d seen strange things in wildspace, but so far all of them had been alive. As Teldin formed the thought, a current of air swept over them and he grabbed for the stair railing to keep his balance. Suddenly the banshee had passed, and its voice abruptly dropped in pitch to a thrumming roar. It approached and shrieked past again, and then a third time. Each cycle came in closer and lower. Just as Teldin thought he might scream aloud, a small, birdlike ship appeared from nothing but sound and air.
“A cloaking device,” Vallus said tersely. “One of ours, on a shrike ship!”
Hectate tensed as the shrike ship approached again, his brown eyes narrowing as he stared fixedly at the ship. Suddenly he grabbed Teldin’s arm and, with surprising strength, shoved him toward the steps. “Get below, sir,” he shouted.
Teldin didn’t answer, staring upward in disbelief as the small craft veered sharply from its path, making a suicidal lunge directly for the swan ship’s long, curved neck. Twin bolts of light, magic balls of incredible power, burst from the shrike ship’s forecastle and hurtled forward. The balls of force hit the bridge tower with an explosion of magical power and splintered wood. Teldin watched helplessly as the severed top half of the tower plummeted toward the deck, shattering boards and pinning several members of the elven crew. The shrike ship dove straight through the opening it had made and continued on its frenzied, circling path.
“They got the bridge,” Vallus said in disbelief.
“And the helm,” Teldin noted grimly. The ship was essentially what it appeared to be: a beheaded swan. The crew would be every bit as dead if he didn’t act quickly. Teldin doubted there would be time to get up the secondary helm before the battle began.
In response to the crisis, his cloak began to glow, its pale sunrise pink signaling its spelljamming magic. Teldin felt his awareness growing, spreading to every part of the wounded ship. He could see the elves hurrying to rescue their fellows, Deelia Snowsong bending over a wounded elf as her tiny, pale hands forced a dislocated shoulder back into place. He saw Rozloom taking refuge under a stout table in the galley. Suddenly he could feel the ship itself, as if wood and iron were no more than a continuation of his own bone and sinew. Soon he would be the ship, and his untended body would be exposed and vulnerable on the deck, despite the bionoid protector that now loomed over him.
. “Vallus, you’ve got to take command. I’m going to take the helm,” Teldin said in a faint, faraway voice, and he gathered up a handful of the luminous, pale fabric. “This helm.”
The elf shot a glance at Teldin, and his eyes widened at the sight of the glowing cloak. A mixture of comprehension and wonder suffused the wizard’s face, and he gave Teldin a quick nod. As Teldin turned to leave, he couldn’t resist adding, “Watch yourself, Vallus. Stay close to Hectate, and you’ll be safe.”
The elf’s eyebrows rose, and he turned quizzical eyes toward Hectate Kir. He recoiled in shock and horror. In the shadow of the stairwell where the half-elf had just stood was a ten-foot, muscular insect holding the halberd in a guard position as it watched the shrike ship slowly circle in for another pass. The Change had overtaken Hectate silently and instantaneously.
Teldin slapped Vallus’s shoulder. “There’s something you should know about Hectate,” he said casually, then he turned and left the wizard alone with the bionoid fighter. While he was still able, he pushed open the door that led to his cabin.
No sooner had Teldin disappeared than the shrike ship slowed to a hover directly over the Trumpeter’s deck. Three enormous creatures leaped from it to land nimbly on the swan ship’s deck, creatures identical to the one hidden in the landing behind Vallus.
Everywhere on deck the elves froze. All had heard stories of battles the bionoids had fought and won for the elves in the first Unhuman War. No one had the faintest idea how to fight against such creatures.
The bionoids, standing shoulder to shoulder and armed with huge swords or pikes, were a daunting sight even to the battle-hardened elves. Vallus shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see a treacherous halberd swinging at his neck, but Hectate, in his bionoid form, still stood guard.
One of the creatures stepped forward and spoke into the silence. “We have come for the human. If you turn Teldin Moore over to us, we will leave peaceably.”
In response, Vallus swept an implacable, narrowed glare across the immobile elven crew. “Attack,” he said simply.
The battle that followed was ghastly. The elven crew fought with bravery and skill, but they fell so rapidly that the dead and wounded piled around the bionoid band. Two other bionoid ships closed in, and each ship discharged two more of the fearsome creatures. The light emanating from their crystal eyes bathed the deck with a reddish glow. Some of the bionoids battled the elves; others seemed to be searching the swan ship.
In his cabin, now fully taken up in the spelljamming magic of his cloak, Teldin’s expanded senses took in the battle with a growing sense of horror. If Hectate alone had destroyed dozens of the mind flayers’ slaves when in his bionoid form, how could the Trumpeter’s crew stand against the bionoid invaders? If there was a way the creatures could be overcome, perhaps Hectate would know it.
Like a hawk circling a meadow,
Teldin’s magically enhanced vision searched the ship for his friend. The bionoids, however, were eerily identical, and Teldin was not sure he could recognize Hectate when he found him.
One of the bionoids fought at the head of the stairs, barring the way to the lower decks and to the captain’s quarters, and its flashing halberd held off two of the invaders. Teldin’s instincts told him with unerring certainty that Hectate lived within the creature.
As Teldin watched, one of the invaders leaped, a spiked foot kicking out with lightning speed. The Hectate bionoid apparently anticipated the move, for he nimbly sidestepped and circled upward with the staff of his halberd, catching the attacker behind the knee. A quick twist threw the creature off balance. It landed heavily, and Hectate was upon it instantly. He planted one enormous foot on the creature’s back, pinning it to the deck, then he hooked the curved blade of his halberd under a plate of insectlike armor and wrenched his weapon back toward him as if it were a giant lever.
A horrible cracking sound rent the air as the bionoid’s armor gave way, followed by a woman’s scream of unbearable anguish. Hectate’s enormous body shuddered, but he quickly plunged the blade of his halberd deep into the opening. Ichor puddled on the deck, and the red light faded from the fallen bionoid’s crystal eye. With a creaking groan the creature’s body began to compact, for in death it reverted to its elven form.
As if from a great distance, Teldin noted that the fallen bionoid had become a tiny, red-haired elven woman with a huge, gaping wound under her left shoulder blade. Teldin saw his monstrous friend slump, and he felt Hectate’s grief and despair as if the emotions were his own. He knew with certainty that Hectate had known the bionoid he had just slain, and known her well.
The second bionoid advanced, its enormous sword held out before it, and Hectate halfheartedly raised his dripping halberd into a defensive position. The creature came closer, but it did not attack. Its insectlike head tilted to one side, giving it an oddly quizzical air.
“Hectate? Hectate Kir, can that really be you?”
The creature spoke in a woman’s voice, a voice that was soft, intimate, and full of longing. It sheathed its sword and stepped forward, massive hands reaching out and up as if to cradle Hectate’s bionoid face. Hectate’s weapon lowered reflexively.
At the last moment, the creature’s fist smashed into Hectate’s vulnerable crystal eye. Teldin’s bionoid friend slumped as if lifeless to the deck.
“No!” Teldin screamed. A second keening cry escaped him, only to be lost in an explosion that shook the swan ship to its keel. With effort he forced aside his grief to attend the ship. Again he slid his expanded vision over the elven vessel.
The Trumpeter’s stern had been damaged almost past recognition. One of the bionoids had loosed a spell, taking out the swan ship’s rear catapult and sending the heavy machinery crashing to the lower level. The blasted bodies of elven crew lay amid shattered boards and smoking debris.
To Teldin’s surprise, the invaders abandoned the fight as abruptly as it had begun. One after another, the shrike ships dove in, hovered, and threw down boarding ropes. Within moments the bionoids were gone. All of the bionoids; try as he might, Teldin could not locate Hectate anywhere on the ship. The klicklikak faded from sight, and the shrike ships darted off into wildspace after it.
Teldin took inventory of the ship’s wounds. The bridge was gone, and with it the lookout tower and the primary helm. Their heavy weaponry had been destroyed. The Trumpeter was without eyes, power, or defenses. They had to put down for repairs, but they still were many days from Radole.
He sought outward for a solution. Below them was a world, a tiny gray sphere streaked with white. From this distance, it looked very much like his last glimpse of his native Krynn. With sudden resolve, Teldin sent the swan ship into a rapid descent.
Vallus Leafbower burst into Teldin’s cabin. His silver hair was disheveled and the shoulder of his uniform had been slashed open. His once-proud tabard was stained with blood and ichor. “What in the gods’ names are you doing?” he demanded.
“Landing,” Teldin murmured. “We’re landing.”
“No!”
“The ship is damaged. The helm is gone. We’ve got to put down.”
“But that’s Armistice. We can’t land there.”
“Why not? Doesn’t it have large bodies of water?” Teldin asked in sudden concern. The swan ship wasn’t designed to put down on land, and an attempt would doubtlessly reduce the battered ship to kindling.
“Vast oceans, but elves must not land on that planet.”
“Spare me your elven scruples,” Teldin said wearily. “We haven’t got much choice.”
“We do. The secondary helm is operational. I’ve got someone on it now, but we can’t override the magic of your cloak.”
“Damn right,” Teldin muttered.
“Let go, Teldin Moore,” Vallus insisted, taking a step closer. “We cannot land on Armistice. It’s heavily patrolled by the Imperial Fleet, and for good reason. There are huge nations of orcs and hobgoblins there, landlocked monsters who would do anything to obtain spelljamming capability. If the swan ship lands, we present them with not only a ship and a helm, but also your cloak.”
“Vallus, let’s fly that hawk when its feathers are grown,” Teldin said. “The swan ship needs repairs now, or we’re in serious trouble. We might not make it as far as Radole.”
“I know,” Vallus said quietly, “but it would be better to lose the swan ship and everyone on board than to put the cloak in goblin hands.”
“Haven’t enough people died for this damnable cloak?” Teldin snapped. “I won’t put the crew at risk.”
“Really? And what do you think would happen to these elves in the hands of the Armistice orcs?” Vallus demanded. When Teldin hesitated, the elven wizard repeated, “Do not land the ship.”
Teldin’s resolved firmed. “I’m sorry, Vallus.”
“So am I,” the elven wizard said softly. He began to cast a spell, his long fingers gesturing as he murmured arcane syllables.
Teldin tensed, not sure what to expect. The cloak’s magic had protected him from physical attacks many times before, but he had no idea whether it would turn aside a spell, especially one from a wizard as powerful as Vallus Leafbower.
A second voice joined the chanting, then suddenly there was only one. Vallus’s fingers and lips moved, but no sound came from him. Chagrin flickered across his face, then fury. He spun to face the second spellcaster. In the doorway stood Raven Stormwalker, arms crossed as she leaned casually against the doorjamb, a catlike smile on her face.
“About time someone put him in a sphere of silence,” she observed. She leaned her head back to look over her shoulder. “Oh, Chirp! Take the so-called wizard to his quarters, won’t you? Keep him there until the captain orders otherwise.”
The dracon poked his mottled green head into the cabin. He hesitated, though, his reptilian face uncertain as his gaze flicked from Teldin to Vallus to Raven. His green shoulders slowly slumped under the weight of such a mind-boggling question of hierarchy. Seeing Chirp’s dilemma, Raven shoved Vallus out into the hall.
“This elf attacked your kaba,” she said briskly. She pointed across the hall that separated Teldin’s quarters from those of the elven wizard. “Throw him in there and see that he doesn’t get out. I’ll stay here and protect the captain.”
Chirp’s rubbery face embodied outrage. “On your command, Celestial One,” he said. He prodded the silent Vallus across the hall with a series of shoves, haranguing him as they went. The dracon’s voice faded in and out as he entered and exited the sphere of silence surrounding the wizard.
Raven came into the cabin and seated herself on the cot beside Teldin. “Go ahead and put the ship down, Captain.”
Suddenly Teldin wasn’t so sure that Vallus was wrong. “There are orcs down there. I’ve fought scro – space orcs – before, and if those orcs are anything like them …” His voice trailed away uncertainly.
“Look at me,” she demanded.
The elf’s voice thrummed with power. Startled, Teldin glanced up into her mismatched eyes. His vision swam, and it seemed to him that Raven’s eyes glowed with a compelling, golden light. He felt himself drawn into that light, into a swirling, sleepy haze. As if from a great distance, he heard her voice again.
“You don’t look well, Captain. I think you could use some help.” Still holding Teldin’s gaze, she reached into the front of her leather jerkin and pulled out an antique pendant set with a blue stone. Even through the golden haze that held Teldin in thrall, he felt a stab of dread and dismay. It was as he’d feared. Raven had an ultimate helm of her own, the one described by the slain lakshu.
Raven’s fingers tightened around the sapphire pendant. In response, the rich blue color faded from the gem, and a faint pink glow dawned in the heart of the sapphire. “Rest,” she suggested. “I’ll take over.”
Despite his weariness, Teldin regarded the pendant-helm warily as he remembered his first attempt at using his cloak as a helm. “You’ve done this before?”
“Spelljamming? Since the day I was hatched,” she quipped lightly. “Not with this magic bauble, of course, but how hard could that be?”
A twinge of panic twisted Teldin’s gut, and suddenly he feared he’d handed a death sentence to the ship’s crew. Raven’s vanity and utter self-confidence could easily blind her to the real difficulties ahead. He felt he had lost Aelfred’s hammership, as well as some good people, the first time he’d tried landing a ship. Even if Raven succeeded …
“Maybe we shouldn’t land there.” Teldin fingered the edge of his glowing cloak. “The scro want this. I think you know why.”
The Radiant Dragon Page 19
