The Radiant Dragon (33 page)

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.

Wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, the mate did not at first see a shadowy figure slipping through the cargo hold. He caught a glimpse of a trailing robe – or blanket – as someone entered the room housing the wing and paddle machinery.

“You there!” Gaston called. There was no response, and the angry mate sped after the silent figure. He burst through the door and immediately staggered back from a fierce blow to his face. Gaston hit the deck hard and bounded to his feet, spitting out bits of broken teeth. The room was dark, but he could make out a tall elven figure swathed in flowing robes. Gaston’s vision slipped into the night vision spectrum. To his horror, the elf-shaped assailant registered in a pattern of cool blue and green light, not the healthy red one expected of a warm-blooded elf.

Gaston drew his short sword and lunged. He connected – hard! – to the creature’s midsection. The sword should have gone up and under the rib cage, but the only result was the sharp clunk of blade meeting tough plate armor. Before the first mate could recover from the failed lunge, he received a backhanded blow that shattered his nose and sent him reeling. The stranger advanced, raining blows so fast and vicious that Gaston could do no more than bring his arms up in a futile attempt to shield his face. The elf fell to his knees, and the room closed in on him with a rush of blood and darkness.

*****

Sleep would not come to Teldin. He returned to the hammock in Hectate’s cabin. Despite his exhaustion, he could not dispel from his mind the image of gray monsters with swords for hands and insatiable appetites for elven flesh. Vallus had called them Witchlight Marauders, and he’d also muttered something about them destroying entire worlds. From what Teldin had seen, he didn’t doubt for a minute that such a thing was possible.

Also disturbing to Teldin was the choice that lay before him. He wanted to join forces with Pearl, and not only for what she could offer him. In many ways, the dragon was a kindred spirit. Her curiosity and love of adventure reminded Teldin of both his grandfather and Aelfred. She was an irreverent character, always poking sardonic fun at conventions and authority figures. Solitary by nature, the dragon prized her independence, yet, like Teldin, she enjoyed being with others from time to time. That, he realized, was one of the main attractions of the alliance. He’d been alone for too long. So many of his friends and companions had fallen victim to his quest that he’d isolated himself, fearing to bring danger to those he loved. A dragon would be not only a good companion, but a durable one. And he had a responsibility to make his comrades’ deaths mean something.

On the other hand, Teldin felt torn by a growing sense of duty. The Witchlight Marauders had to be stopped. He wasn’t sure what he could do about the monsters, but neither did he feel that he could just walk away. Like Hectate, he hadn’t wanted to get involved in the spreading conflict between the elves and goblinkin, but it was starting to look as if he wouldn’t have a choice. Until he’d seen the gray monsters on the man-o-war, Teldin wasn’t sure he could have chosen one side over the other. Granted, the scro were vicious, brutal characters, but the elves’ methods were not exactly beyond reproach either.

Teldin thought back to his first war, the War of the Lance, back on his native Krynn. He’d entered it believing in black and white, heroes and villains; he’d left it believing in very little and deeply suspicious of those in positions of power. Cynicism came easily; at least, it did until he himself had been faced with the necessity of making a decision. He was beginning to understand some of the problems of leadership, some of the pitfalls that came with power. There were no right answers, only the struggle to find the greater good – or the lesser evil. And power! He’d survived the attempts of a dozen races who were willing to kill him and others to possess the magic cloak. What would he himself become in the process of wielding the cloak? And what would he become as captain of the
Spelljammer?
Even now, there were days when he looked in the mirror to shave and felt as if he were confronting a stranger.

After half of a watch slipped by, Teldin was no closer to either sleep or answers. With a sigh of surrender, he swung himself out of the hammock and went in search of the dracons. They both were on duty this watch, and maybe one of them would be free to drill with him. Perhaps the activity would clear his mind. At the very least, it would help sharpen his skills for the next battle. If there was one thing Teldin
was
sure about, it was that there would be more battles.

*****

Teldin was fending off Chirp’s battle axe when Vallus came to the upper deck. “We must talk about Hectate Kir,” the elf said without preamble.

Breathing heavily, Teldin wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded to the dracon. Taking the hint, Chirp tucked the ornate weapon into its holster and ambled off, whistling as he went. “What is it?” Teldin asked anxiously, sheathing his own sword. “Did Hectate finally wake up?”

“So it would appear,” Vallus said solemnly. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but you must know. The first mate was found in the hold, beaten almost beyond recognition and left for dead. Under Deelia’s care, he revived enough to describe his attacker.”

Teldin’s blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t like where this is leading.”

“Gaston claims that the being who attacked him was covered with plate armor, like an insect. There is only one person aboard who could fit that description.”

“And that person is unconscious in my cabin,” Teldin returned heatedly.

Vallus shook his head. “According to Deelia, the bionoid’s injuries are not sufficient to explain his condition. Isn’t it possible that he is feigning sleep to keep us off guard?”

“Let’s say you’re right. How did Hectate leave the cabin undetected?” the captain asked. “Someone has been with him at all times. If not Deelia or me, then Rozloom.”

In response, Vallus merely turned and led the way to Teldin’s cabin. When the elf eased open the door, they were greeted by a sonorous snore. Puzzled, Teldin peered in. Hectate still was unconscious. His breathing still was weak and shallow, and his unruly red hair was a shock of color above his pallid face.

Rozloom also slept. He lay on the floor, his booted feet propped up on Teldin’s writing table and his vast belly rising and falling with each raucous blast of sound. An empty bottle from Teldin’s sagecoarse hoard lay on the floor beside the snoring gypsy.