“Sure do,” she said in a jaunty tone, “but don’t worry about the scro. I’ve met worse creatures on my travels, and you’ve come this far wearing most of your skin. Between the two of us, we can handle a few overgrown goblins.”
“But —”
“Oh, stop fussing,” Raven chided him with a touch of impatience. She leaned closer, and it seemed to Teldin that the golden light of her eyes intensified. An image filled his mind, the memory of a long-ago trip to market, with his grandfather driving the wagon and himself as a lad curled up in the back.
All would be well, Teldin thought with drowsy contentment. He could sleep and be safe. With a sense of relief he began to release his hold on the cloak’s spelljamming magic. As his cloak faded, the light in Raven’s sapphire correspondingly increased. The transfer from one helm to the other was as smooth and effortless as if they’d rehearsed it a dozen times.
Suddenly it occurred to Teldin that he’d just turned the ship over to his most serious rival for the Spelljammer. He struggled to free himself from the lure of slumber.
Raven hissed with exasperation. “By the gods, you’re being difficult! Let go, would you? After all the time I’ve spent looking for you, Teldin Moore, I’m not about to let anything happen to you now.”
Her words puzzled Teldin, but he was too weary to examine them. As he drifted into a half-conscious sleep, his last thought was that Raven had sounded a little surprised by her own cryptic admission.
When Teldin Moore finally was snoring, Raven shook her head in disbelief. “Must be losing my touch,” she muttered to herself. “That damn human was harder to charm than a dwarf’s in-laws.” Despite her disgruntled tone, she regarded the ensorcelled, sleeping human with a measure of respect. Maybe, just maybe, Teldin Moore would be a credible partner – even for a radiant dragon.
Less than an hour later, the wounded swan ship splashed safely down in the frigid oceans of Armistice.
Chapter Fourteen
When Hectate awoke, his first observation was that he’d regained his half-elven form. His head hurt and his vision was still blurry, but he could see well enough to know he was aboard an unfamiliar spelljamming ship. Beside his hammock was a chair, and in it sat a slender feminine form.
His eyes focused on the familiar face, elven and delicate, and his heart ached with sadness. The beautiful woman beside him was utterly unlike the monster who had attacked him aboard the Trumpeter, yet there was more similarity between her two aspects than Hectate could bear. She was wearing a uniform of sorts, and Hectate took that to be a bad sign. After experiencing the Change, bionoids traditionally wore loose, silver robes for a period of meditation and purification. Tekura wore no robes; she did not mourn the lives she had taken.
“How are you feeling?” Her voice was soft, and her green eyes were as warm as if Hectate had never left the Clan – had never left her.
“Puzzled,” he answered frankly, not knowing what else to say. “Why have you brought me here?”
“You belong here, now more than ever. We’re nearing a great prize, a great victory.” Tekura leaned forward, reaching out to take one of Hectate’s hands between both of hers.
Hectate’s fears crystalized into a dull, aching certainty. Clan Kir had entered the race for Teldin Moore’s cloak.
“Ah, our guest is finally awake,” said a voice behind them.
The scratchy whisper startled both bionoids. At the door stood a tall, robed figure with an elflike face. He came into the room and lowered the cowl of his robe. The dim lamplight revealed a narrow, pale green face, above which prehensile antennae slowly unwound to rise high over elflike ears. Hectate recoiled from the insectare with a surge of horror.
A second shock came with the insectare’s shadow. Behind the creature stood three bionoids, all from Clan Kir, all of them known to Hectate since late childhood. Wynlar, the scholar, and his two brothers: the wizard Zeddop, and a wiry, flame-haired farmer named Enester. Their faces brought a flood of memories. The extended clan had taken him in when he was a confused, wounded lad grieving the death of his parents. Clan Kir had been a warm, closely knit community made up of several related families and a number of adopted bionoids such as himself and Tekura, and it had been his entire world. Yet he’d left over ten years ago when he realized that Clan Kir had been formed to be a battle clan. Seldom in bionoid history had such a clan been gathered, and the results had been so appalling that both elves and bionoids shrouded those episodes in secrecy. Refusing to be a party to another such disaster, Hectate had left Clan Kir and gone his own way. Even so, he was gladdened by the sight of his family after so many years.
Wynlar had greatly aged in the intervening years, and Zeddop’s perpetually worried expression had chiseled deep, parallel lines into his forehead. The red tabard that signified the death of a beloved was draped over Enester’s uniform as the farmer-turned-warrior mourned his daughter’s death. The sight brought a despairing chill over Hectate, and his vision swam, to be momentarily replaced by the sight of a red-haired girl lying dead on the deck of the swan ship.
Hectate turned his eyes back toward the insectare. The evil monster at his bedside was easier to contemplate than the death of merry little Soona – his childhood playmate – at his own hands.
Tekura had risen immediately upon seeing the insectare, and as she stepped forward to greet the creature, her deferential attitude brought new, raw pain to Hectate’s heart.
“You keep strange company, Tekura,” he said softly.
She shot him a look of unmistakable warning, then turned back to the newcomer. “Lord K’tide, this is —”
“I know.” The insectare’s voice reminded Hectate of the snapping of dry twigs. The creature walked to Hectate’s bedside and lowered himself into the chair Tekura had just vacated. Hectate heard a faint chittering sound beneath the robes, and he shuddered. He knew that the insectare’s body was covered with hard, interlocking plates, with only the exposed face and hands covered by humanoid skin. As he regarded the elflike creature, Hectate had the strange sensation of being confronted with the dark side of his own dual nature. He often had feared becoming trapped forever in his own monstrous form. What manner of creature would he become? The answer was one he did not care to face in his darkest dreams, yet here it was, sitting at his bedside.
“Your clan speaks highly of you, Hectate Kir,” said the insectare in his dry, brittle voice. “When we were forced to abandon the elven ship without the human, acquiring a fighter of your caliber made the attack not entirely without gain. Your skills, not to mention your connection to Teldin Moore, make you an invaluable ally.”
“I’ll not fight with you,” Hectate stated. His voice was quiet but inflexible.
“Let me tell you an ancient tale, Hectate Kir,” K’tide said as if the half-elven bionoid had not spoken at all. “Many centuries past, orc priests developed a mighty weapon of destruction. Like them, it was crude and difficult to manage, but effective. Oh, yes, undoubtedly so.”
Hectate swallowed a wave of revulsion as he realized the nature of the weapon. “The Witchlight Marauder,” he whispered as soon as he could speak.
One of K’tide’s antennae quirked, the equivalent of an arched brow. “You know history,” the insectare said approvingly. He leaned forward, his multifaceted eyes compelling. “The question is, are you ready to make history?”
Tekura stepped forward. “One of the secondary Witchlight Marauders has been tested in battle, with great success.” She paused significantly, giving him time to absorb her revelation. “We soon will release another!”
“Where?” Hectate whispered.
“Lionheart.” Tekura’s voice rang with triumph, and her eyes held cold fire. “The first marauder ate its way through an elven armada. Let us hope its twin is equally hungry.”
Hectate had to turn away from the sight of her. “What manner of creature have you become, Tekura?” he asked softly. His gaze shifted to the insectare, and the implication was unmistakable. Teku
ra flushed, but she lifted her chin in defiance.
“An outcast,” she said flatly, “like all bionoids. Our only hope of improving our lot is to break the power of the elves.”
“But what happens once the elven high command is destroyed?” Hectate argued. “How will that aid the bionoids? The goblin races, particularly the scro, will simply fill the void. They hate all things elven or elflike. Do you think they will regard us with tolerance and respect?”
“So far, they’ve —” Tekura broke off abruptly, biting her lip in chagrin. She looked quickly at the insectare, who merely regarded her with his strange, expressionless eyes.
“No, Tekura. You can’t be working with the scro,” Hectate said, aghast. Despite everything he’d seen, he could not bring himself to believe that of Clan Kir.
“We are using the scro,” K’tide corrected. “The alliance is regrettable, but necessary. Only orc priests know the rituals that hold the primary Witchlight Marauder in thrall.”
Hectate shook his head in disbelief. The primary Witchlight Marauder was an enormous slug whose mouths consumed everything in its path – metal and minerals as well as living things – and produced poisonous gas and more marauders. A well-fed primary marauder periodically would spawn secondaries, which were gray monsters twenty feet tall with six-taloned hands and insatiable appetites for elven flesh. They, in turn, ejected tertiary marauders, miniature versions of themselves that had two metallic swords for each hand. The tertiaries were incomparable berserker warriors who finished off any living thing the larger monsters might have missed. Once the creatures ran out of food, they turned upon and destroyed each other; not, however, before their entire environment had been laid waste.
“The orcs were willing to revive the primary marauder and feed it until it released secondaries?” Hectate asked in disbelief. “The risks are incredible!”
“Indeed they are,” the insectare agreed. “A number of orc priests were killed during the process. But the goblinkin are so eager to wash their hands in elven blood that they are willing to endure such losses.”
Hectate felt numbed by the appalling revelation. “And you share that emotion, Tekura?”
“Why not?” The silver-haired bionoid stepped closer, and Hectate saw the unmistakable flame of fanaticism in her eyes. “The primary Witchlight Marauder, the source of our secondary weapons, was hidden on Armistice, frozen under a time-stop spell.” She paused, and her smile was grim. “I don’t think the goblins had much to do with that decision.”
“What are you saying?”
“Think, Hectate. Do you think the Witchlight Marauder exists on Armistice due to elven oversight” she demanded. “I’d wager my life that the elves not only know about it, but that they deliberately trapped the goblins on Armistice with that monster. It gives them a convenient way to destroy the goblinkin if the urge arises.”
“I can’t believe that,” Hectate said flatly. “Assuming the elves would sanction the destruction of an entire world, they would never deliberately allow a marauder to live.”
“Believe it,” she said flatly.
Hectate was silent for many moments, then he looked up into the grave face of Wynlar, the clan leader. “What does a bionoid clan have to do with this?”
“Bionoids,” Tekura echoed bitterly before Wynlar could respond. “The name we were given says it all. Bionoid, a simulated life form, not quite alive. Don’t you see, Hectate?” she concluded passionately. “As far as the elves are concerned, we are monsters that they once created and now regret, not true and living beings. They have no concern for us; do not waste yours on them.”
Hectate’s eyes drifted shut. He had no arguments for her. He had left Clan Kir because he could not agree with their increasingly militant goals, yet he had no illusions about the elven opinions concerning his race. For years he had traveled alone, gaining a measure of acceptance because of his skills. More than anything, Hectate wished to be known and valued for his ability as a navigator, not be defined as a bionoid or even a half-elf. Despite Teldin Moore’s persistent efforts on his behalf, life aboard the swan ship Trumpeter had been a painful reminder that this dream was unlikely to come true, at least not as long as the elves ruled wildspace.
“What do you want from me?” Hectate asked finally.
“You travel with Vallus Leafbower,” K’tide observed. “Since he is wizard to the grand admiral of the Imperial Fleet, he certainly will know the current location of the command base.”
“Vallus Leafbower is not in the habit of confiding in me,” Hectate said dryly.
“Nevertheless, he will take you to Lionheart, and you will lead us there.”
“But how?” the bionoid hedged.
Again the antennae quirked, this time into a skeptical angle. “Surely the swan ship has logs, records of some sort. You could find them and relay the information to us.”
Hectate considered. “But if your plan succeeds, the scro will have an almost endless supply of new troops.”
The insectare permitted himself an evil smile. “Not at all,” he assured Hectate. “I assure you, the thousands of orcs, hobgoblins, bugbears, goblins, and kobolds that now live on Armistice will die on Armistice. Once the destruction of Lionheart is accomplished, one of our training crews will kill the priests and witch doctors whose spells keep the primary Witchlight Marauder in time-stop hibernation. Let the monster forage for a year or two, and there will be no life left on Armistice.”
“You see?” broke in Tekura, her pale eyes bright with fierce excitement. “With one hand we behead the Imperial Fleet. With the other we destroy a goblin world!”
The swan ship Trumpeter was badly damaged in battle, and far too many of its crew members were killed.” K’tide leveled a glance at Wynlar. “Some of our troops were too caught up in the joy of battle to follow orders, it would seem. Since Lionheart is our primary goal and the swan ship merely our means of finding the elven base, I called off the attack before the elven vessel was destroyed. It landed on Armistice.”
A small sigh of relief escaped Hectate. “Then Teldin Moore is unharmed?”
“For the present,” the insectare said meaningfully, “but, as you can imagine, the Armistice orcs are unpredictable allies.” K’tide shrugged. “The temptation of an elven ship may prove too great for them to resist.”
“Unless …” Hectate prompted.
“If you will agree to return to the swan ship as a spy, we will send down a bionoid team to stall the orcs until we get the necessary information from you. Although the goblinkin are not known for being farsighted, perhaps we can persuade them to allow the swan ship time for repairs so that it might lead us to Lionheart.”
“If it’s Lionheart you’re after, you have to keep the swan ship safe,” Hectate countered.
K’tide inclined his head in a gesture of congratulations. “That’s an astute observation, but not entirely correct. We easily could persuade our orc friends to lay waste the elven ship and bring us any information they find on board.”
“But what makes you think you could get near Lionheart, even if you discover its location?”
“Aboard the swan ship, of course,” K’tide said smoothly. “Whether the Trumpeter is manned by elves or bionoids in elven form, it will be admitted to the elven base and it will carry with it a secondary marauder.”
Hectate was silent for a long moment. “I owe Teldin Moore pledge loyalty,” he said slowly, counting on the insectare’s knowledge of the bionoid battle code.
“I understand your dilemma.” K’tide’s thin lips stretched into a magnanimous smile. “All the more reason for you to return to the swan ship, for then you can see that Teldin Moore is safely removed from Lionheart once the marauder is released.”
“That is reasonable,” Tekura urged Hectate.
Hectate looked at Tekura and then at the expectant faces of the other Clan Kir bionoids, all known to him, all dear, yet all were strangers.
“And if I don’t help?” he asked.
&n
bsp; “You die, and every member of Clan Kir with you,” K’tide said flatly.
The bionoids responded with an quick intake of breath. Tekura’s eyes widened, but she did not look unduly surprised. Even if the rest of Clan Kir did not, Hectate thought sadly, Tekura knew insectares well enough to expect such treachery. She’d come to the clan as a young girl, under circumstances identical to his own.
Wynlar stepped forward. “I would like to believe that you are bluffing, K’tide, but I can’t make that assumption when the safety of my clan is concerned. On what basis do you make such a threat?”
A strange gleam lit the insectare’s multifaceted eyes. “When I called off the attack on the swan ship, I instructed the other members of Clan Kir to return to the scro ship. Very soon they all will be aboard the Elfsbane, under the albino paw of our good friend General Grimnosh.”
“But they were to reconnoiter on Vesta!” cried Wynlar.
“I took the liberty of changing that order,” K’tide said. He raised one green hand in a placating gesture. “Oh, I wouldn’t be overly concerned about your clan, Captain Wynlar. At the present, they are useful to Grimnosh. I imagine, however, that their value would tarnish considerably if the scro general knew they were plotting to destroy the goblins of Armistice.”
“But they are not,” protested the bionoid leader. “We in this room did not learn that aspect of your plan until this very hour.”
K’tide laughed, a dry, grating sound. “Do you think that will matter to Grimnosh, when his plans lie in ruins around him?”
Wynlar’s face crumpled into a mask of despair. “My people are doomed.”
“Not at all,” K’tide said pleasantly. “If all goes well, I should be able to get a message through to the bionoids aboard the Elfsbane before we release the primary Witchlight Marauder on Armistice. They can be safely away before Grimnosh learns of his ultimate failure.” The insectare’s eyes fixed meaningfully on Hectate. “If all goes well,” he repeated with quiet emphasis.
For a long moment, Hectate weighed his options: On one hand, the destruction of a planet of goblins and the haughty elves’ high command; on the other, the lives of his adopted family and his first love.
The Radiant Dragon Page 20
