Om grinned and cranked back the catapult for a second shot, and the dracons quickly loaded a second pile of the gnome’s lethal bolas into the weapon.
By the time the swan ship shuddered through the atmospheric boundary, most of the ragtag fleet had been destroyed. The “battle” was over in minutes without casualty or damage to the swan ship. Teldin should have been pleased with the ease of their victory, but he felt restless and uneasy. Something was wrong. The orc and goblin ships all appeared to be heavily armed, but not one of them had so much as fired on the Trumpeter.
A deep foreboding filled Teldin, and he sprinted toward the bridge.
*****
For the third time in a millennium, the magical alarm on a man-o-war patrol ship sounded.
The only living occupant of the ship’s bridge, a bloated tertiary Witchlight Marauder, aimed an incurious stare at the pulsing disk suspended over its head. The monster reached up toward it, and two of its swordlike fingers bracketed the thick mithril chain. With a casual, effortless snap, the creature brought the blades together and severed the chain. The disk hit the floor in a shower of spraying fragments. The tertiary marauder picked up a large splinter of crystal with dexterous foot claws and tossed the shard up and into its gaping maw.
It crunched, considered, then spat. Silently the monster directed its rapacious appetite back to its preferred food, and the bodies of the ship’s captain and battle wizard quickly disappeared. Over the monster’s head, the image of a ragtag goblin fleet and a battered swan ship slowly faded from the crystal panel.
Chapter Eighteen
Teldin burst onto the bridge. “Hard astern. Get us the hell away from here!” he shouted at Celestial Nightpearl.
Surprise registered in the dragon’s elven eyes, then understanding. “Tiamat’s talons!” she swore to the god of evil dragons. “Those ships are leading us, aren’t they?”
The captain gave a grim nod of confirmation, then sped down to the upper deck. Gaston Willowmere rushed past with an armload of crossbow bolts, and Teldin grabbed the elf’s shoulder. “Don’t bother. We’re breaking off the attack.”
“You’re letting them get away? We’re retreating? the first mate asked, not bothering to hide his disdain for the human captain.
Teldin faced down the elf. “When you can recognize an ambush, perhaps you’ll be ready to give orders. Until then, don’t question mine.”
Gaston shot a glance toward the port rail, where Vallus Leafbower stood with the ship’s battle wizards. Vallus confirmed the order with an almost imperceptible nod, and with a final, frustrated glance toward the fleeing goblin ships, the first mate spread the order to stand down. Vallus spoke a few words to the other wizards, then came to walk alongside Teldin.
“They did not return fire,” the elf commented as they walked down the stairs to the main deck.
“You noticed,” Teldin said. “I wonder what was waiting out there for us.”
“Scro, no doubt. The Armistice orcs got their ships somewhere, and who else would supply them?”
“What about those bionoids?” Teldin suggested.
Vallus stopped short. “That’s impossible,” he said flatly. “The bionoids obviously want to get their hands on your cloak, but why would they serve orcs? They are elven weapons.”
Anger flashed in Teldin’s eyes, but he kept his voice even. “You probably can’t understand this, Vallus, but you just answered your own question.” Not trusting himself to say more, he turned away and went off to check on Hectate.
Had he looked back, Teldin would have been astounded at the effect his words had on the elven wizard. Vallus Leafbower’s stunned face suggested a soul who had glimpsed himself in a mirror and had been deeply disturbed by what he had seen.
Needing time alone to think over the troubling insight, the elf turned to the solitude of his cabin. Since writing usually helped him sort through his thoughts, Vallus went to the locked cabinet that held the ship’s log and automatically his fingers began to rehearse the spell that released the lock. He stopped in midspell, puzzled, then leaned in for a closer look. It appeared that someone had attempted to open the lock – physically, not with magic. The signs of intrusion were subtle: the tarnished metal around the keyhole was slightly brighter where a key or picking tool had been inserted.
Vallus sped through the unlocking spell and snatched up the log. He leafed through it rapidly, checking sequence and dates to ensure that no pages were missing. To his eyes, the book did not appear to have been disturbed, and he exhaled in a slow, relieved sigh. Not that the log would have yielded much information. As was required, all of his entries were made in a unique, magical code that he himself had devised, so that the log was impossible to read without powerful spells. Of course, there was always the possibility that someone strong enough to break the magical lock could also, in time, decipher the code.
The elven wizard returned the book to the cabinet, which he locked and reinforced with additional spells and wards. That accomplished, he began to go through the motions of preparing for sleep. He strongly suspected that his dreams would be haunted, not only by Teldin Moore’s accusing blue eyes, but also by the echoes of his own words, so full of blind confidence in elven right and reason.
Vallus had thought himself beyond thoughtless bigotry, and he was deeply disturbed to learn otherwise. Not long ago he’d congratulated himself for his open-minded acceptance of half-elf Hectate Kir, but the moment he’d learned that the half-elf was a bionoid, Hectate had ceased to be a person. He was simply a bionoid, and all the elven prejudices and reluctant guilt concerning that race had completely pushed aside any other perspective. No wonder the scro were finding ready allies against the elves. What other races, Vallus wondered, felt they had reason to rebel against the elves’ arrogant dominance of wildspace?
It was ironic, Vallus thought as he crawled onto his cot, that such thoughts should come to him now, when he had good reason to suspect that Hectate Kir was a spy.
Teldin Moore, of course, would never believe this. In his current frame of mind, Vallus himself felt inclined to disregard the facts. Yet, they were there, and too numerous to ignore.
Someone with access to elven technology had stolen a cloaking device for a bionoid clan. It was likely that the bionoid shrike ships tracked the Trumpeter using information obtained from someone on board, and who knew the swan ship’s course better than Hectate Kir, the navigator? Whoever had tampered with the locked cabinet was no thief, but someone who knew exactly what he was looking for and where to look. Other, more accessible valuables in his cabin – spell components, rare books, a few bottles of rare elven spirits – had not been touched. Finally, there was Hectate’s mysterious disappearance during the bionoid attack. It could not have been coincidence that the half-elf turned up on Armistice in a crashed insectare vessel, which was almost certainly the same vessel that had taunted the swan ship during the battle. And, according to the healer, there was no reason why Hectate Kir should not have regained consciousness. What was he up to, and what did he want with the ship’s log?
Vallus could not shake the feeling that Teldin Moore’s cloak was not the primary issue in this mysterious plot. When the bionoids attacked, they easily could have slain every elf on board the swan ship and captured Teldin, but the creatures broke off the attack when victory seemed assured. Why? Vallus puzzled over this until he drifted into a restless slumber.
Much later, his troubled dreams were interrupted by a loud knocking at his cabin door. Gaston Willowmere, who, as first mate, was acting as the third watch commander, stood at attention, and his angular face was deeply troubled.
“Captain, we’ve spotted one of the Imperial Fleet patrol ships.”
“Ahh.” Vallus spoke the word on a sigh. “Well, it had to happen. I’m surprised we haven’t been called into account long before this for violating the Armistice net.”
“They don’t want our report, sir,” the first mate said. “The ship appears to be in trouble. It’s adri
ft.”
“A man-o-war, adrift!” Vallus said sharply, and Gaston nodded. A familiar, icy feeling crept through the elven wizard, the same nameless dread he’d felt on Lionheart upon hearing the tale of the armada ghost ship. A force that could overcome an armada or a man-o-war – without leaving a trace! – was a terrifying prospect. He hadn’t heard the results of that investigation, but he wondered if he was about to confront the mysterious foe himself.
“Have you alerted Captain Moore?” he asked Gaston.
Vallus’s question clearly took the first mate by surprise. Without waiting for a response, Vallus instructed him to get Teldin to the bridge immediately. The wizard quickly dressed and made his way to the bridge. He instructed the third-watch helmsman, Kermjin, to make a cautious approach to the man-o-war.
Teldin came to the bridge only moments later. His sandy hair was rumpled and his clothing bore wrinkled testament to several restless hours in a hammock – he’d given up his own cabin to Hectate Kir, so that the half-elf could recover in comfort and privacy. Vallus quickly explained the situation, and, when the swan ship came close enough to the drifting man-o-war, Teldin trained his looking glass at the deck. He recoiled in horror and swore an oath that would have done credit to a drunken dwarf.
The elven wizard snatched up a second looking glass and peered through it. On the deck of the man-o-war was a roiling pack of gray, hideous creatures, engaged in what appeared to be a feeding frenzy. So quickly did the monsters move that only flashes of silver and red betrayed the identity of their feast. The elf’s bile rose, and he lowered the glass with shaking hands.
“If we’re to save any of those elves, we’ll have to move in fast,” Teldin declared.
Vallus shook his head. “There is nothing to be done,” he said in a dull whisper. “There is nothing left to save.”
Teldin’s face darkened, and Vallus wearily supposed that the human would argue the matter as usual. But the young captain took a closer look at Vallus’s stricken face, and his wrath dissolved. Although his blue eyes held many questions, he merely laid a steadying hand on Vallus’s shoulder.
The elven wizard nodded his thanks, and Teldin turned away and directed the helmsman to give the doomed man-o-war a wide berth. Vallus was grateful for Teldin’s unexpected empathy and his good judgment. At the moment he himself felt overwhelmed with despair, incapable of speech or action.
It was almost too much to absorb. The goblins of Armistice were escaping into wildspace, a clan of bionoid warriors apparently had joined forces with the goblinkin, and the dreaded Witchlight Marauders had been released to feed. Vallus wondered if even the worst days of the first Unhuman War could compare to the threat now facing the elven people.
*****
The main deck of the ogre dinotherium rang with the sounds of battle. From the walkway above, a mismatched pair of generals observed the training.
Grimnosh was, as usual, immaculate: his studded leather armor had been freshly oiled, elaborately carved totems decorated his fangs and daws, and a fine cloak of night-blue silk flowed over his broad shoulders and set off the albino scro’s striking white hide. Even the trophy teeth that hung from his toregkh had been polished until they gleamed. Superbly muscled and over seven feet tall, Grimnosh was an imposing figure who carried both his well-used weapons and his grisly scro finery with aplomb.
His counterpart, Ubiznik Redeye, hardly could have been more different. In contrast to Grimnosh’s military bearing, the orc chieftain’s stance suggested the crouch of a gutter fighter. Ubiznik was a hideous creature even discounting the scars that crisscrossed his face and sealed one eyelid shut over a sunken socket. A canny intelligence blazed in the orc’s good eye, however, and the beastlike yellow hue and blood-red pupil underscored Ubiznik’s fierce nature. He stood less than five feet tall, but his barrel chest and great limbs spoke of incredible strength. Layers of corded muscle bulged under a gray hide thicker than the toughest leather. The orc wore no clothing but a weapon belt, and his only weapons were a bone knife and a deeply pitted axe forged by long-dead dwarves. Indeed, in many ways, Ubiznik resembled a dwarf; centuries of living underground and battling the punishing gravity force of Armistice had chiseled Ubiznik’s tribe from the same sort of stone. A closer study, however, revealed the generals’ common heritage; both had the upturned snouts, pointed canine ears, and lethal tusks of their ancestor orcs.
Grimnosh observed the scene below with satisfaction. The “ice orcs,” as the scro soldiers had named the newcomers, were coming along nicely. Weapon training had begun immediately, to the ice orcs’ grim delight. Only a few of them owned battered blades or axes, and the Armistice orcs desperately coveted such weapons. They proved embarrassingly inept with swords, so Grimnosh had quickly switched their training to battle axes. These suited the ice orcs perfectly, and they sparred so fiercely that Grimnosh wondered if they were determined to chop each other into kindling. They had an utter disregard for wounds given – or received. As advance troops, the ice orcs were incomparable: brutal, barbaric, and totally devoid of fear or wit. Grimnosh was pleased.
For the most part, the ice orcs were adjusting well to life aboard the Elfsbane. Although their tough hide made the regulation scro armor redundant, Grimnosh had insisted that they be properly outfitted, from the lowliest orc foot soldier to the priests who kept vigil over the terrible monster stashed in the hold of the Elfsbane. The scro general knew the value of ritual and outward appearance to ensuring loyalty; already he could see the difference in the bearing and attitudes of the ice orcs. They seemed eager to assimilate into the ranks of the Elfsbane’s crew. Only Ubiznik had resisted the encroachments of scro culture. Grimnosh was confident that the orc chieftain would come around. Despite his uncouth appearance, Ubiznik was a good officer who owned the respect and loyalty of his soldiers. Granted, his discipline did not produce the clean, precise order known to the scro, but Ubiznik kept his troops in line well enough with his grunted orders, hand gestures, and an occasion skull-shattering cuff. After Lionheart was in shambles and all the orc and hobgoblin troops had left Armistice behind, Grimnosh intended to see that Ubiznik received a real commission. The other scro commanders might not appreciate the elevation of the rough-hewn orc to general, but they could hardly argue with one Admiral Grimnosh. The scro’s tusks gleamed as he smiled.
Ubiznik looked less happy. “No like,” he grumbled. “Orcs want to kill elves, not bait snares.”
The scro general nodded sympathetically, but he had no intention of changing his strategy. Why should he? The elven presence around Armistice was being systematically and efficiently destroyed. A few at a time, the goblin ships would leave the atmosphere shield and trigger the alarm. When an elven patrol ship gave chase, the cloaked bionoid shrike ships would close in and drop either bionoid warriors or the tertiary marauders to wipe out the elves.
“No like,” the orc repeated. “Deal was, we fly with scro, fight many elves.”
“And fight them you shall,” Grimnosh agreed. “Once all of your tribe and your servant hobgoblins have escaped from Armistice, and once the elven high command is destroyed, you will be able to take elven trophies from a hundred worlds. First things first, my good fellow. As you yourself say, we have a deal.”
Ubiznik grunted in reluctant agreement. The metallic click of mailed boots announced the approach of two scro soldiers. The ice orc watched warily as they snapped to attention and jammed their fists into the air, back side presented out so that their unit totem was displayed.
“Sky Sharks hail Almighty Dukagsh!” they barked out in unison.
Grimnosh absently returned the salute, but Ubiznik responded by slamming one fist into the palm of his other paw and grunting, “Gralnakh Longtooth!”
The orc’s tribute to the great orc general of the Armistice Treaty was lost on the scro soldiers. Assuming that the barbarian had insulted them, one soldier snarled and let his hand settle on the grip of his short sword. Ubiznik didn’t bother reaching for a weapon, and his
single red eye blazed a challenge as he returned the snarl through a sharp-fanged sneer.
“At ease,” Grimnosh told the scro calmly. “General Redeye’s troops – and their heroic forebear – are worthy of respect. Surely we can allow for a few cultural differences?”
The scro’s comment carried with it both a direct order and an unmistakable threat. With only the slightest hesitation, the soldiers crisply returned the ice orc’s unorthodox salute.
“We received a message from your informant, General,” one of the scro said, handing Grimnosh a slip of paper.
As Grimnosh read, a thoughtful look crossed his face. “It would appear that our friend is trying to redeem himself,” he murmured. After a long moment of reflection, he turned to his orc ally. “Well, General, it looks as though you’re going to fight elves sooner than we’d anticipated.”
Bloodlust shone in the Ubiznik’s red eye, and the ice orc bared his fangs in a fierce grin.
*****
Gaston Willowmere was tired and disgruntled. Everyone aboard the Trumpeter was serving double watches, and he was nearing the end of two very eventful and disturbing shifts. His only remaining duty was making a final round of the ship, and he made his way down to the lower deck to begin.
The elf was not pleased with the swan ship’s mission, or with many of the directions the Imperial Fleet was taking. His own homeworld was a world of deep, ancient forests and sacred tradition. To one of his upbringing the breaking of elven tradition was a serious matter. Aboard this swan ship, they had done little else. They’d harbored an illithid, suffered the constant tinkering of a gnome and the lechery of that appalling gypsy. They were forced to acknowledge a human captain and look the other way when the human made a half-elf head navigator. When the half-elf was revealed to be a bionoid, no one was supposed to mind. It was beyond belief.
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