The Ultimate Helm

Chapter Twenty-Four

Blehal, the beholder, approached the dais of Gray Eye, the leader of the eye tyrants. His eyestalks wavered nervously as the leader turned to face him with his clouded great eye. Gray Eye focused all his eyes on his second in command. His huge mouth curled in a grotesque grimace. "How goes the war?" Gray Eye asked.

Blehal floated forward, casting his gaze to the floor. With the approach of the vessels that now surrounded the Spelljammer, skirmishes had broken out all across the vessel and the beholders were hard pressed by all the races on the ship that hated the beholders.

Blehal's usually gruff voice seemed softer, almost in shame. "The war goes badly, lord. Even with our superior magic, the numbers are too great, and our allies are falling. The humans and the giff have joined the war, and I fear-" The beholder hesitated. "1 fear we will soon be defeated."

Gray Eye laughed, the sound of bones being gnashed between his ragged teeth. "Defeat. You are insignificant, Blehal. You underestimate our power. The beholders will never see defeat-not with the kasharin in our control."

"The k-kasharin?" Blehal stammered, barely able to believe the leader's words.

Gray Eye faced away from him and stared off in serene contemplation. "The kasharin. Who else could bring total victory to the beholders? Who else on the Spelljammer has such… unimaginable power?"

Blehal floated back a few feet, shocked. His eyestalks stare'd at Gray Eye with horror. "But, lord, can we trust them to be released? They will kill without thinking. They will probably even try to kill us."

"They can be controlled," Gray Eye said, spinning around furiously. "They must be controlled." He glared at Blehal, his opaque eye pulsing with rage. "The surviving beholders must be called back. Only together can we charm the kasharin into obeying us. Only with them can our victory be assured."

He raised his voice. "Recall the beholders, Blehal! Now we prepare to destroy our enemies without quarter! And the unholy kasharin shall be our secret weapon!"

On a circular platform near one of the walls of his lair, the Fool kept Cwelanas chained with heavy iron manacles, so that he could torment her at any moment he pleased.

Blood ran in small trickles down her ankles, where the Fool had ordered his undead rats to snap at her flesh. Bruises ran up and down her arms, where the undead Coh had taunted her, in the ethereal voice of the Fool, with promises of his love, and how he could not wait to take her in his claws and show her the meaning of passion.

Occasionally the lair's carpet of black smoke curled up in wisps before her and figures took shape, almost like afterthoughts from the Fool's diseased mind. Several times the smoke took the shape of the cloak, billowing out and waving as though it were alive, calling the Fool into its embrace. Once it formed the shape of the Spelljammer, towered over by the Fool's silhouette, thrusting into the vessel with his black, serrated long sword. She wondered where the shapes came from, if they were unconscious manifestations projected by the Fool… and if the Fool even knew they were being formed.

The Fool sat in his ivory throne of bones, his burning eyes flickering as he stared into his orb of sight. Occasionally a finger or arm would twitch nervously, or a low moan would escape from the Fool's cavernous mouth.

Cwelanas watched him. One skeletal hand was wrapped protectively around his heavy amulet, and she strained her eyes to get a better look.

The amulet was ornate, made of delicate gold that curled in on itself to create patterns and shapes as the amulet was twirled in the Fool's fingers. The crimson stone in the center seemed to burn with an inner fire. She had seen the Fool toying with the amulet once before, while he was pacing his chamber, worrying aloud that the Spelljammer might never be his to command, and that his plans to destroy the ship might fail. Then the Fool laughed with the false bravado of the evil dead, refusing to acknowledge such a possibility.

She was startled by a scream of both laughter and rage from the Fool as he stirred on his throne. He held the amulet of bloodfire in one hand as he rose and approached her. His eyes shone with bright, unnatural light.

"Your lover is on his way, little elf," the Fool croaked in his dry, brittle voice. "None of your magic can save him. He is coming for you, and he will give me exactly what I want, or you-and he-will die."

The Fool rasped an evil laugh. "You will die anyway. No matter. No matter. Your precious Cloakmaster is on his way here. And the cloak will be all mine."

He laughed, returning to rest upon his throne. Cwelanas focused on the amulet and wondered why the Fool held the jewel so tightly when she could tell he was afraid. Perhaps, in his obsession with the Spelljammer's death, he no longer controlled his subconscious, hence the shapes from his mind formed in the chamber's dark air, he twitched nervously, and moaned unconsciously while peering into his orb.

He held the amulet and laughed and laughed.

"This is very good," he said, chuckling. "He's following my lures. He has discovered the entrance in the elven tower.

"Oh, he's on his way. The Spelljammer soon will die."

The Fool laughed. "Who is the fool now?" he cackled. "Who is the fool now?"