The Ultimate Helm

Chapter Two

.

The citadel laid out upon the Spelljammer's broad back rose raggedly at the end of a long landing field, which lay at the ship's bow. The fore buildings held primarily the Spelljammer's human population and were devoted to the ship's politics and social functions. Aft, in the wide shadow of the Spelljammer's great tail, most of the ship's unhumans had formed their individual communities: beholders, illithids, dwarves, goblins, ogres, and dracons. Also aft were the buildings of the Long Fangs and the Tenth Pit, dark dens reserved for the foulest sailors upon the Rainbow Ocean.

Near the tower of the minotaurs and the ruins of the once great palace of the beholders, the squat neogi tower afforded a panoramic view of the Spelljammer's starboard wing. Neogi guards stationed atop the tower saw the Cloakmaster's ship as it rapidly closed with them, and they quickly shouted word- as they had been first ordered to do months ago-that a new vessel was approaching for a landing.

They had no idea that the Spelljammer, for reasons known only to itself, would not allow the Cloakmaster's landing to be an easy one.

So when the nautiloid crashed and exploded upon the starboard takeoff strips reserved for the ship's smalljammers, the neogi warriors who their leader, Master Coh, had deployed took advantage of the crash's unexpected proximity and scrambled across the wing like a swarm of black insects, frothing to attack the newcomers and kill anyone who might be the legendary Cloakmaster-the accursed Cloakmaster that had been foretold would soon arrive… and bring darkness upon the Spelljammer.

In the darkness of the neogi temple, Coh had been taking sinister pleasure in feeding the great old master when Teldin's nautiloid was first sighted. He had instantly ordered his squadron to attack upon landing, then he went on with the great old master's feeding, ordering his personal slave, a towering umber hulk named Orik, to throw in another gnoll slave that had teen stolen the week before.

Orik was fully four times Master Coh's height-the largest, most grotesque umber hulk on the Spelljammer-and his sharp mandibles clacked with sadistic glee. A symbol of interlocked circles had been tattooed upon the hulk's forehead, symbolizing Master Coh's ownership, and the umber hulk happily bent and lifted a squirming gnoll high above his head.

The gnoll thrashed in Orik's calloused claws. One of its tiny hands beat helplessly against the hulk's thick chest as its screams echoed through the temple. Orik laughed deep in his throat; he loved to hear the cries of the weak ones as they screamed for mercy.

The pit before which Coh and Orik stood was deep, filled with shadows and surrounded by flat tiers upon which Coh's neogi brethren could squat. Inside the stony pit, deep in the darkness and surrounded by the bloody bones of Coh's victims, squatted the bloated, obscene fonn of the great old master.

Master Coh lifted a claw in a sarcastic wave as Orik tossed the gnoll high in the air. The slave plummeted into the pit. It screamed once as it disappeared over the lip of the deep pit, then there was a sickening crunch as its bones cracked against the stony floor.

Coh lifted his bulbous, spidery body and scurried to tin-edge. Orik looked in wonderingly.

The shadows seemed to move in a far corner of the pit. There was yellow glimmer as two glazed eyes blinked open, and the great old master stirred from its nest.

The gnoll's wails of pain shattered the stillness as it tried to drag its broken legs away from the horror inching toward it.

The great old master had been the leader of the Spelljammer's neogi community until Coh had defeated it in a bloody coup. As light fell upon it, Coh grinned mercilessly, baring his yellow fangs in hatred at the master's mutated body.

The transformation into old age wrought horrible changes upon the neogi Their brown, hairy bodies enlarged to about twenty feet long, and their minds slowly wasted away until only feeding was important: the taste of raw meat, the heat of pulsing blood, were their only obsessions.

The great old master's shadow fell upon the disabled gnoll. The neogi's long black neck towered over him. Foul spittle oozed from the master's wide, gaping mouth, and light glimmered wickedly off its poisonous teeth. With one ferocious lunge, the master's eellike head snapped forward and took the gnoll into its mouth. Hones crunched under the strength of its mutated jaws, and the gnoll's screams faded like smoke on the wind.

Coh laughed and brushed back a tuft of its multicolored fur with one claw. His brown coat was resplendent with all the colors of the spectrum, paints and tattoos in shapes and symbols that signified his rank as a superior neogi. He absently thought, as he watched the shape of the gnoll slowly slide down the great old master's long black throat, that there was at least one patch of fur that could use another design. He was the natural leader of the Spelljammer's neogi; who else could claim that title?

Master Coh was a natural mage, though of limited magical abilities, and he felt the newcomer's presence behind him before a word could be spoken. "B'Laath'a, speak," he said, and he kepi his eyes studiously upon the great old master.

B'Laath'a approached. In the dim light of the temple, no ornamental pigments were discern. ible on his squat, furred body, save for a line of arcane patterns splashed in bright scarlet, painted along the back of his neck and reaching to a point just above his eyes,

B'Laath'a was an enigma to his fellow neogi: a powerful. spiteful wizard who eschewed the more typical trappings of neogi culture, such as the body paints that proudly signified rank and status among his brethren. He was proud of his muscular, hairy body, pruning it regularly with his long, sharp teeth and feeding off the lice that infested the soft fur of his abdomen. He refused to cover his body with military sigils; his vanity would not allow it. Instead his fur was dyed a permanent, deep black, symbolizing to him all of his secret powers, his hidden strengths-for black was all the colors of the spectrum merged into one.

He held back a snarl of hatred. Coh. Coh was a joke, a pretender, as far as B'Laath'a was concerned, barely worthy of being leader. Coh was nothing more than a militaristic thug.

Now, as to himself,…

B'Laath'a feigned a respectful bow. "Master Coh, squadron attacked a nautiloid, have we. Cloakmaster it is come who has."

Coh turned around quickly. "Cloakmaster? Foretold you the one?"

"Yes, lord. Numbers half dead are. Mighty the cloak is, Destroyed Sketh and slavemeat by magic are."

"So, come the Cloakmaster is. Dead he is?"

B'Laath'a slowly shook his smooth black head. "No, lord. Forces returning speak as we are."

Anger glinted deep in Coh's small eyes. "Dark Times not will neogi harm! Stopped Cloakmeat must be! Ours Cloakmeat will be!"

B'Laath'a bowed his head as Coh scurried past him. Then the leader turned. "Prepared are you. The agent prepared is?"

"Of course.'' B'Laath'a said. "My assassinmeal ready has been since arrival. Meat smuggled to the tower has been… time for one last."

Coh smiled evilly. "Plan of ours action must be put to. Now time is!" He raised a claw to the series of colorful, interlocked circles tattooed on his forehead and concentrated. Come, he commanded silently.

In a few moments, the door to the temple opened and I closed silently. The agent stepped quietly forward on bare feet, a ritual of neogi enslavement.

"Here your precious Cloakmaster almost is, meat," the neogi master said. His black, hairy body was a proud swirl of colors and designs, radiating his power and status among his slithering brethren, and he puffed out his chest to impress the slave. "Well it may not go killing the Cloakmeat during our initial attempt. You will, of course, if caught as we have commanded do. Correct." It was not a question.

The agent seemed to stammer, as though B'Laath'a's spells and mind-wiping were being fought. Coh grunted in anger, and a sharp pinprick of white-hot pain erupted in the agent's mind. The agent fell to the floor.

"Correct," Coh said. B'Laath'a stood over the agent and spoke a spell of pain. The agent's skin grew bright red with fiery pain. "Correct," B'Laath'a said.

"Y- yes," the agent stammered. "Yes- the Cloakmaster will be yours, Master… Teldin Moore must d- die…"

The neogi, clasped in the arms of its umber hulk, snapped out at the Cloakmaster with its needle-sharp teeth.

Teldin's hand went to the hilt of his short sword at the neogi's scream, but the blade of its enslaved umber hulk was j a silver, deadly arc, curving down toward Teldin's head, and Teldin realized in a flash that he had no time to deflect the blow.

The Cloakmaster lunged forward, angrily grabbed the snapping neogi by its long, eellike throat, and wrenched it from the umber hulk's grasp. The hulk's sword hurtled down in an unstoppable arc and neatly sliced through one of the neogi's legs.

Teldin stomped on the flat of the umber hulk's blade and threw a powerful kick into its chest. The hulk stumbled backward, hardly affected, as it was protected by thick layers of hide. With a shout, Teldin slammed the neogi to the ground and drove his foot into its fat neck. The neogi gurgled a cry of pain. Its claws scrabbled the air, vainly attempting to block Teldin's assault. Its needle-sharp teeth bit at the air, coming far short of injecting their sickly venom deep into Teldin's veins.

The Cloakmaster's sword was a blur as it arced high, then dropped swiftly down, deep through the neogi's skull and into its evil brain.

Teldin jerked out the sword. Great gouts of blood spurted from the wound. The dead neogi's umber hulk stood and stared as its master's blood pooled around its feet. Teldin wasted no time. He leaped forward and sliced into the umber hulk's thick shoulder.

It fell to one knee and screamed in rage. One great arm went up to block a second blow, and the arm was cleaved away at the shoulder with an eruption of hot, ugly blood,

The umber hulk collapsed at Teldin's feet. He spun to face squarely the oncoming horde of neogi, but a series of loud shouts echoed behind him, and the neogi horde was met from behind by an angry band of human warriors, which rushed from across the landing field at the Spelljammer's bow.

There were at least twenty of them, Teldin thought, a motley assortment of humans in armor, wielding weapons that had been collected from all the known crystal spheres. Armed with huge broadswords and battle-axes, the humans swarmed over the reptilian hordes and engaged them fiercely.

Teldin dove into the fray, swinging his sword from side to side and carving a path through the waves of black neogi flesh. The reptiles chattered and snatched out at him with their razor teeth. His sword cleaved their heads from their necks; his cloak swatted at them unconsciously, protecting his limbs from sword cuts and blows, and even the tiniest scratch from a venomous neogi fang.

Around him, the swarm of humans broke the neogi line. One small male, clad in a long, plaid cloak, shot barbed projectiles at the neogi from a deadly silver slingshot. When a neogi was hit, even with a minor scratch, within a minute it would begin to twitch horribly, then collapse into a spasmodic heap, screaming in searing pain.

Other humans were not so lucky. One warrior went down, trapped between the sharp axes of two umber hulks. Another fighter battled back-to-back with a female warrior. The woman was the first to fall, caught in a thigh by the snapping j jaws of an angry neogi. The man was left to fend off two more of the venomous beasts, then was pulled down as the woman's murderer leaped upon him from behind. Another woman kept the neogi at bay with wide swings of her battle-axe, but one of the umber hulks cast a heavy spear with ease and impaled the woman through the chest.

The battle shifted without warning. As their comrades began to fall, the surviving humans became determined to win and pressed on with increasing fury. Teldin heard the neogi scream in pain and rage, and he watched as umber hulks staggered away without guidance, their masters lying dead in their own dark blood.

A human behind him shouted "Cloakmaster!" and Teldin spun around.

A ferocious neogi had crouched and sprung from the deck and was rushing down at him from midair.

Teldin brought up his sword and thrust the blade deep into the neogi fighter's pulsing heart, then slammed the spiderlike body to the ground and kicked it off his sword.

He turned to spy a huge man, almost broader across his shoulders than he was tall, swing his broadsword in a huge arc to slice through the thick necks of two advancing umber hulks. They fell at his feet, and as their blood sprayed onto his legs and boots, he laughed loudly at the reptilian hordes and their slaves.

"Thanks," Teldin said. The warrior kicked one of the hulks in the side. His foot bounced harmlessly off the thing's thick carapace.

The man's long, thick beard was tied in a cord that dangled 1 to his waist. He bent and lifted one of the hulks' swords, and Teldin could see that this man, though small in stature, was I barrel-chested and muscular, and his armor had seen a lot of damage.

The warrior turned. "So, you're the Cloakmaster?" he asked, panting.

"I- " Teldin did not know how to react. "Well, yes, I suppose I am. How did you- "

He was cut off as a huge umber hulk ran up behind the warrior and grabbed him from behind. The human's swords clattered to the deck, and the warrior squirmed to get away. The hulk's grip was like an iron vise, and as its sharp, clacking mandibles moved inches closer to the warrior's neck, a fat neogi scurried out of the surrounding battle and bared its fangs, preparing to sink them deep into the human's flesh.

Teldin balanced his short sword in his hand, then aimed quickly and hurled it at the ugly neogi. The umber hulk lashed out with one hand, caught the sword, and cast it to the deck. The human lashed out with one, thick hand, but the hulk swatted it away and quickly replaced its hold on him. Its mesmerizing eyes seemed to glimmer with dull amusement.

The neogi laughed at Teldin as it bared its yellow, needlelike fangs. Venom dripped from its mouth and spattered the deck. The neogi turned to the warrior again.

It raised its blunt head, ready to lunge.

Teldin felt his rage building, and his skin began to shiver with energy. The cloak whipped wildly about him. He felt its warm energies pulsing through his veins. He cried out "NO!” and twin bolts of blue, magical lightning lanced out from the folds of the cloak and speared the neogi and its hard-skinned servant.

Arcs of mystical energy pulsed from the cloak to engulf the Unhuman enemies. The warrior fell from the hulk's arms and scrambled away.

The neogi screamed in white-hot pain. The umber hulk fell to its knees, covering its beady eyes with its thick claws. At once, fingers of crackling energy erupted from the assailants' eyes and mouths. Their bodies seemed to blaze blue from within.

Their screams were high-pitched wails of pain and seemed to echo in Teldin's ears long after they had stopped. In an instant, the unhumans were nothing more than lifeless, burned-out husks, and their charred black Ixxlies crumbled to the ground like the broken, blackened hull of Teldin's nautiloid.

The bearded warrior stood slowly. The fighting had stopped around them as Teldin's cloak had fought back, and as their brother fell to the Cloakmaster's magic, the remaining neogi; started running for the safety of their tower. One female warrior carefully leveled her crossbow and nailed a scurrying neogi through its neck. She screamed a triumphant battle cry, and soon the unhumans were gone.

The burly warrior picked up Teldin's short sword and handed it to him. His eyes twinkled with the exhilaration of a I battle well fought.

"Yes, I guess you are the Cloakmaster," he said.

Teldin shrugged, smiling. "My name is Teldin Moore. How I do you know me?"

The warrior stroked his long beard. "I suppose you could I say we've all been expecting you. I'm CassaRoc. CassaRoc the Mighty, they call me. And I think you can say…" He paused I to appraise Teldin with his clear, cool eyes, then nodded once and smiled back. "I'm a friend," he said.

Teldin stared after the retreating neogi. In the distance, they I were clambering off the wing, up the Spelljammer's side, toward the protection of their tower. "Thanks," Teldin said. "I need all the friends I can get."

"Don't we all, boy?" CassaRoc said. "Don't we all."

CassaRoc ordered his warriors to help move Djan and the I fallen Corontea. As a dozen ran to help, the remaining humans gathered around the two warriors, sheathing their I swords. CassaRoc shouted, making sure he could be heard by all. "Well, that should teach those damned neogi not to mess with the collective, at least for a while. All right," CassaRoc I yelled. "Who's up for a round of ale?"

The humans laughed and shouted agreement. Many stood with their weapons poised, waiting for another possible attack. CassaRoc placed a hand on Teldin's shoulder. "Come on," CassaRoc said. "Your people will be well taken care of. We should leave now, before somebody else decides they want a piece of you."

A tall man strode up to them, neatly outfitted in shining I armor of silver and white. A heavy white cloak billowed I behind him, and the warrior wore his thick, reddish blond I hair in a wild mane that suggested to Teldin that the man was far less tame than his paladin armor suggested. "The centaur tower," the warrior said, casting his gaze over the others' heads. "Mostias can protect us there for a while. We can smuggle the newcomer into the Chalice tower after things settle down."

CassaRoc nodded approvingly. "You're right, Chaladar," he said. He leaned to Teldin and winked. "Besides, the centaurs make some excellent ales."

The woman armed with the crossbow came up beside CassaRoc. Her curly brown hair was held back with a band of shining steel, and she held herself proudly, like a self-assured warrior. "What about Chel? And Gar? Do you want to just leave them here?"

CassaRoc frowned and looked toward the bodies of his fallen comrades. "I know they were friends of yours, Na'Shee," he said. "They were friends to us all, but we have to worry about the living now. Let's get the Cloakmaster here to the tower first. You can round up some men later and bring the bodies to the Tower of Thought." lie laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled softly. "Don't worry. They won't be forgotten."

Na'Shee nodded silently and looked back at her friends' bodies.

Chaladar called out "Let's go!" and the group started jogging toward the outermost tower on the Spelljammer's right wing, with Djan and Corontea each carried by four warriors in the center of the group. Chaladar, the paladin, took point, while CassaRoc ran at the rear. Teldin ran protected in the center, and continually glanced over his shoulders at the tall spires of the citadel sprawled across the Spelljammer's back.

As they ran, CassaRoc pointed out some of the towers and explained a little of the ship's layout. The light of the flow flickered gold and violet across the variegated collection of towers and turrets. Multipatterned flags flew at the pinnacles of several buildings, and the ship's tail, towering above the rooftops and battlements, was a constant reminder of the majesty of the vessel, of the wonder of a living myth. To Teldin, the gleaming towers, the graceful sweep of the Spelljammer's hull, represented nothing but the fulfillment of a dream-a dream of extraordinary adventure that he never could have conceived while a simple melon farmer on Krynn.

But the simple life of Krynn was a lifetime ago and a universe away-or at least it seemed like that to Teldin. Krynn was now little more than a memory, both good and bad. The nights on his land had been sweet, especially in summers, when the hidaglia blossoms were in full bloom and the air was scented with their perfumed musk. But there were bad times that he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried.. the things he had seen during his treks in the War of the Lance, and the oppressive abuse heaped upon him by his father.

A gleaming glint of gold caught his eye, high atop the Given High Command. He focused on it and smiled at the sight, realizing that his long quest was now at an end, that his answers were here, and nowhere else-especially not on Krynn. Krynn was forever gone, for him; it was a way of life to which he could never return, and now did not want to.

The centaur tower was low and asymmetrical, a guardian twin to the dracon tower strategically situated on the port wing. The centaurs were the ostensible wardens and gunnery officers for the tower's fifteen huge catapults, but to Teldin, the building seemed dark and in terrible disrepair, and he wondered if the centaurs should hold the great responsibility for manning the Spelljammer's starboard weapons.

CassaRoc closed and bolted the main doors of the tower behind the humans. His band of warriors instantly relaxed inside the safety of the tower and started unbuckling their tight, heavy armor. Some told jokes and insulted the neogi hordes, calling their eellike mothers "beholder whores" and their fathers "Torilian maggot lovers" (though neogi had neither mothers nor fathers). A few centaurs popped their heads out from their stables and joined in the good humor, wondering if beer would later be poured for free.

CassaRoc ordered Djan and the female helmsman taken to a healer. Teldin stopped them as they carried Djan away. The half-elf was still unconscious, and Teldin placed his hand upon Djan's breast. "They'll take care of you," Teldin said. Then he turned to Corontea. She was bleeding heavily from a nasty gash to her forehead, and her legs and arms were seriously burned.

He closed his eyes. CassaRoc said, "Go on, now," and the warriors took Teldin's people away.

CassaRoc said, "You can't do anything for them, now, Cloakmaster. There's no sense in feeling guilty. We all know the risks of spelljamming. So did they."

CassaRoc and the others started off, and Teldin turned to survey his surroundings. His nose was filled with the underlying scents of farm odors that he had grown up with: of hay and sweat, of earth, and above that, the heavy aroma of horse manure. But here in the dim light-he could see that even light panels in this section of the tower were faulty and fading-the stables seemed cramped and unkempt. Wooden walls were rotting, some with ragged holes where angry centaurs had kicked them out, perhaps in drunken rage. Teldin could also make out the sweet, cloying scent of old ale permeating the walls and floor, almost like fermented honey.

"These are their quarters," CassaRoc told him. The two of them walked side by side through the stable common, then entered a cramped garden, somewhere in the central portion of the tower, Teldin decided. The feeble light panels in the walls and ceilings made what few grains the centaurs were cultivating seem pale and sickly. Gray mushrooms sprouted from the other half of the garden, some growing in rows, others in natural rings. "If they offer you any of the fungus, just say you're not hungry. It wasn't made for human consumption."

Teldin nodded. One large mushroom was mottled with splotches of purple. Teldin thought it quivered as the humans filed past. "I see what you mean," he said.

CassaRoc kept his voice low. "The damned centaurs are right enough, but they've grown soft. They just don't care about anything. This tower could be impenetrable, if only they kept it up. The collective would hire on to fix things up for them, but they just don't care. All the centaurs really care about are their brews." He elbowed Teldin in the side. "By the Gods, I can understand that." He smacked his lips. "The leader here, Mostias-big centaur. Big. You'll like him-he makes this one ale that-"

A loud, hearty shout greeted them as they entered a large dining area. The humans went to mingle with a troop of centaurs, grabbing goblets of ale at a long, wooden bar stretched along one wall. 'The small warrior cloaked in plaid ordered a mug of fruit juice. The massive centaur behind the bar scowled at him, then poured him the mug and slammed it on the bar. The small man lifted it in salute and grinned lopsid-edly at Teldin. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Cloakmaster, sir," he said happily.

Na'Shee approached Teldin, cutting off his view of the small fighter. Her eyes seemed strong and determined, but they glinted with gentle humor. "You did well out there."

"Thanks," Teldin said, "you're a great shot. I'm sorry about your friends. I owe you all."

She shrugged it off and looked away sadly. She changed the subject abruptly. "I've seen magic artifacts before, masks that speak, a tempest in a bottle; but that cloak-"

Teldin grinned. "I'm just glad CassaRoc is all right."

"She held out her hand, and Teldin shook it. "I'm Na'Shee. Sometimes I work behind CassaRoc's bar. You may find it a little tougher around here than you think. If you need anything, you let me know."

"Sure," Teldin thanked her, and he slowly realized that he had somehow made a new friend. Then he turned as a huge centaur strode from behind the bar and trotted up to CassaRoc, towering at least three feet over the warrior's head. The centaur held a huge, crystal tankard in one great hand; the mug was shaped like a giant boot and filled to the brim with golden ale. He handed it to the human and laughed. "Well fought, little one," the centaur said. "Sorry we couldn't meet you fast enough to help with the battle." CassaRoc forced a smile while the centaur went on. "Damned neogi are an infernal lot. Can't trust a one of them."

"Never have," CassaRoc said. He took a long pull of his brew, then belched. "Never will. The only good neogi- "

"— is a dead neogi!" cried the other humans. They raised their drinks to each other.

"I think they've heard your tirade a little too often, my friend," said the centaur.

"I see that," CassaRoc agreed, laughing. "But I'm not wrong, am I?"

The centaur shook his head. "My friend here needs one of your brews," CassaRoc told the huge centaur. He clapped Teldin's shoulder. "Teldin Moore, meet the finest centaur brewmaster in all the known spheres: Mostias."

"Ahhh," said the centaur, "the fabled Cloakmaster." He bowed his head. "Come on. I'll draw you an ale."

Teldin shook his head. "Just some water, if you will," he said. "After the crash and that fight, all I'd like is a mug of water and a place to sleep."

Mostias nodded and clapped a heavy hand on his back. "Coming right up." Teldin stared as the fat centaur shambled to the row of taps lined up behind the bar. He could not believe the centaur's size: his thighs were as big as tree trunks, and his bulbous stomach seemed as large as a cow's. His thick mane shook as he walked.

CassaRoc whispered to Teldin, "Lazy creatures. 'Sorry we couldn't meet you fast enough,'" he mimicked. "Right."

They bellied up to the bar as Mostias finished pouring Teldin a tankard of cool water. "On the other hand," CassaRoc said, "these centaurs are second only to myself at the refined art of brewing."

Teldin finished his water in several gulps. CassaRoc grasped his glass boot in both hands and opened his mouth wide. Twin streams of ale flowed messily down his chin. He slammed the boot down on the bar and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Ahh, Mostias, that's good!" he cried.

CassaRoc turned around and spoke to the company. "Now don't go quaffing all the ale you can. Leth, Spokaad, you, too, Hertek. Finish your ales and take positions along the tower. We have a guest-" he glanced at Teldin "-who a lot of our enemies would love to sink their diseased teeth into. Now, drink up! And take your posts!"

His warriors readily agreed and quickly finished their drinks. They nodded at Teldin as they filed out, and CassaRoc gestured Teldin over to an old, wooden table near the center of the room.

Chaladar, the grand knight, casually bowed his head to Teldin. He straightened the ends of his thick, reddish moustache with his fingers, and he said to CassaRoc, "I'll take the door. I've already placed two men at the entrance to the tower. We should leave within the hour. The neogi may have time to regroup, or even ally themselves with the Long Fangs." Chaladar gritted his teeth. "This could be more trouble than we expected."

CassaRoc nodded. "Very well," he said. "Be on your guard, paladin."

Chaladar opened the door and stepped just outside the entrance. His broadsword gleamed with a pure silver light, and he ran a hand appreciatively down a flat side. "Scaleslicer and I are always careful."

He turned his back to the room and stood watch with his shining sword unsheathed. CassaRoc leaned close to Teldin. "A good man," CassaRoc whispered. "A holy fanatic, of course, but a good man nonetheless."

Mostias poured Teldin another tankard of water, and CassaRoc led him to a table where they could sit and talk. "Sorry about your men, and your ship," CassaRoc said. In his mind Teldin saw the mountain of flames engulfing the Julia, the explosion that had spewed shards of debris across the great ship's wing, and the empty silence that followed, signifying the sudden death that had fallen upon his crew. "1 wish things had been different. I promised them a quest, journeys to spheres no one has ever before seen. They didn't sign on with me simply to die a few months later."

CassaRoc nodded knowingly and watched him. "So you're really the Cloakmaster?"

Teldin chuckled ruefully. "Either I am the Cloakmaster, or the cloak is the master of me. No matter the case, this cloak is what brought me here."

"Well, we're grateful you're here. I'm grateful you're one of us. And don't worry. Your people will be taken care of."

"Thanks. Quite a welcome," Teldin said. "We would have been killed if it wasn't for you and your men. I had no idea that word had reached you of our approach. To be honest, I never thought anybody here would even know who I was. Or would care."

CassaRoc took a slow sip of his ale. "You don't know how long we've been expecting you. There are wizards all over the Spelljammer who have been foretelling the coming of the Cloakmaster for years. But, lately, a lot of rumors have been spreading, especially an ancient beholder myth about the coming of the Cloakmaster. It has the whole Spelljammer on edge. That's why you were attacked. The neogi didn't know- gods, nobody knew- who the Cloakmaster was going to be, and they didn't care. They only know the beholder myth: that the coming of the Cloakmaster will herald the start of the Dark Times.

"They're not taking any chances. The older races know what happens during the Dark Times, and they don't want it to happen again. They're killing all the newcomers to the Spelljammer-to make sure they get the Cloakmaster, and the Dark Times will never come.

"Right now," he said, "you can bet that word is spreading across the ship that you are here, and that we've got you. You are going to have a fiendish time here. Everybody wants you… and, I guess, that cloak of yours."

Teldin had no reply and quietly sipped his water. CassaRoc lowered his voice. "That's a mighty powerful weapon you got there, son. You know, I don't take easily to a lot of people, but you're all right, Moore. You've been through a lot, and you're ready to take on more. And you saved my life. I owe you."

"It wasn't me," Teldin said. "My cloak- "

"The gods it wasn't! That cloak wouldn't have done a thing if you hadn't willed it. I saw you."

Teldin thought back. He had learned to control the cloak somewhat, tapping into hidden energies and abilities that only months before he never would have thought existed. He still was not exactly sure what he was doing and what the cloak was responsible for, but he could command its awesome energies for the most part, especially when he let the control come naturally, without concentrating too hard. At least, he figured, if he was not now the compleat master of the cloak, he was well on his way.

"Perhaps," he said.

"Perhaps. I had no chance against that ignorant umber hulk, not without a decent weapon. Perhaps. Right."

Teldin looked around at CassaRoc's assemblage. As he spoke, centaurs entered the room, carrying bandages and poultices for CassaRoc's wounded fighters. "We were lucky out there. Hardly anyone was hurt."

"I've got good fighters. Those neogi can't compare to a human on a rescue mission. Or on a quest." He finished the tall boot of ale and slammed it again on the table. "It's time, Teldin Moore," he said. "What's your story?"

With the crash and the immediate battle for his life behind him, Teldin was beginning to feel light-headed and tired, and he was becoming desperate for a soft bunk for the night. Or the day. Whatever they have in the phlogiston, he thought. But a story?

"My story? I don't have a story."

CassaRoc watched him skeptically. "You said you were on a quest. What brings you across the Rainbow Ocean, Cloakmaster?"

Teldin's eyes felt heavy from exhaustion. When he looked up, all the humans who had helped battle the neogi were expectantly watching him. "Well?" CassaRoc said.

"Well," Teldin began, taking a gulp of water. "Very well. From the beginning." He cleared his throat. "I've come here because the neogi shot down a Spelljammer that destroyed my farm on Krynn, and I was entrusted with some kind of magical cloak that I haven't been able to take off, even for a bath, for about a year."

The humans stared at him. Somewhere behind him, a centaur whinnied for another flagon of ale. "You asked," Teldin said.

"That I did," CassaRoc said, smiling. He turned to his companions. "It's going to be a long one, friends, but I think it's going to be good."

Teldin took a deep breath and started in, explaining the crash of the reigar craft on his farm, and his subsequent quest to remove the ancient cloak that the captain had given him. At first, the warriors listened as would any dubious group: laughing, making jokes and, occasionally, loud, sarcastic remarks. But by the time Teldin recounted his vicious fight with General Vorr and the almost accidental acquisition of the bronze amulet by Gaeadrelle Goldring, not a single warrior interrupted him, nor did they even march back to the centaurs' bar for more of ale.

Teldin told his tale in a calm, even voice, looking back honestly at his own foibles and mistakes, even admitting his misguided trust toward Aelfred Silverhorn and his initial distrust of the giff Herphan Gomja-a mistake for which he felt he would never forgive himself. Frankly, it was all a little embarrassing to Teldin, revealing the chain of events that seemed now to be a life long past, perhaps even a childhood of sorts. Here, today, on the Spelljammer, he felt he was finally grown up, in charge of his fate and his life; and the people around him made him feel comfortable in their attentive silence, accepted, as though he truly belonged- a feeling he had never really had before, not even on Krynn.

When he was finished, the warriors nodded and talked quietly among themselves. At the door, Chaladar was nodding approvingly. Teldin had recognized the style of the paladin's armor, and knew that he also hailed from Krynn.

Behind Teldin, Na'Shee touched his shoulder softly and said, "Men would die for a mission such as yours. Be proud of yourself. You have achieved your quest."

Teldin raised his water mug in a mock salute. "Thanks to you."

A shadow darkened the bar's doorway, and Chaladar stepped aside to let another human in. He turned to watch the woman as she paused inside the doorway and stared at Teldin Moore.

"The Cloakmaster," she said. "I knew it would be you."

Her words were like the gentle flow of a mountain stream, and Teldin instantly recognized her voice. His mouth fell open as he stared at the elven maiden, her long silver hair flowing like a river over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with flakes of gold, perhaps a little more dimly than when Teldin had seen them last, but she was still beautiful, still radiant, and he felt a pit open up deep in his stomach.

He leaped up from the table and took the elf into his arms. One hand ran slowly down the length of her luxurious silver hair.

"Cwelanas," Teldin whispered into her lips. "Cwelanas, is it really you?"