The Radiant Dragon (18 page)

So the human had not yet found the great ship. If he truly was looking for the Broken Sphere, he was farther off track that she’d dared to hope. Celestial Nightpearl smirked, a satisfying response even if it did not register on her hummingbird anatomy. Let the elves trot out their best threats and blandishments. She had a bargaining chip that the human Other could not resist.

Still, it never hurt to fight a battle on two fronts, she mused as she pondered her next step.

“You know, there is one thing about our
kaba
that concerns me,” Trivit said thoughtfully. “He apparently is without a consort, and he’s unlikely to find one on a journey into deep space. If the line of clan succession is to be assured, we must remedy this situation as soon as possible. And taking the short view of the matter, his solitary state is not healthy or natural, even for a human.”

Chirp’s face drooped into an expression of glum agreement. “I know whereof you speak. For that matter, it would do our own constitutions a world of good to meet some lusty green wenches.”

The dracons shared a manly soprano chuckle and a few knowing nudges. Their posturing, absurd though it might be, gave Celestial Nightpearl an amusing idea. A burst of silent, sardonic laughter shook her tiny frame, sending her crashing into a flower-covered trellis. She staggered out of a large blossom, dazed and dusted with pollen. As she flew off unsteadily toward the privacy of a nearby grape arbor, she admonished herself to be more careful. Flight in wildspace was one thing: serene, majestic, powerful, and faster than lesser creatures could begin to comprehend. The obstacle course provided by this cluttered little world made flight another matter altogether.

Perching on a blade of blue grass, the hummingbird beat her tiny wings for balance as she brought to mind the name, face, and form she wished to assume. Her new identity would be perfect, as well as vastly entertaining.

The transformation came easily. She had seen the creature depicted in an ancient, illuminated manuscript of dragon legend. From the perspective of a radiant dragon, there was not that much difference, after all, between a hummingbird and an elf. Her shapechanging was accomplished in moments, and Celestial Nightpearl stood upright on two booted feet.

She examined her new hands, pale and slender and without ornament, the nails blunt and the palms hard with calluses. An assortment of well-used weapons hung about her person, and thick braids of ebony hair brushed the back of her knees. Granted, the adventurer’s drab leathers were a far cry from the jeweled feathers of a hummingbird, but she’d learn to adapt. At least, she mused with a half-smile, her new name continued the avian theme.

As Raven Stormwalker, the radiant dragon strode through the palace gardens toward the dracons. The Little Ones, for all their clannishness and odd, militaristic ways, could prove to be valuable allies. They would help her on the strength of her new identity alone, but “Raven” thought she might clue them in on her real identity as well. Dracons had a proper and most satisfying reverence for dragons. A little adulation would be a pleasant side benefit, and with all she’d gone through recently, she certainly deserved a treat.

The look of awe on the dracons’ faces brought a gratified smile to her true dragon’s visage. At last, things were starting to work out as they should.

*****

The silver sea around Evermeet was stained with sunrise pink by the time Vallus Leafbower brought his charge back to the
Trumpeter.
On the whole, the elf thought, the trip had gone well. The moon elves had been gracious and welcoming, the festive dinner and the starlit dance that followed an unrestrained and joyful celebration of elven life, such as humans seldom saw. Although Teldin Moore had been enthralled by it all, he doubtlessly was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He had spoken but little since the diplomatic litter had left the palace.

Perhaps Teldin’s silence was a good sign, Vallus thought. At least the man was no longer taking refuge behind sarcasm. Vallus was fairly confident that, in time, Teldin would come around to the elven side. The man had not seemed upset when informed that the dracons had preceded them back to the
Trumpeter,
and he made no further mention of his plan to take “his” crew members out looking for a new ship.

As they strode across the dock to the swan ship, Vallus decided to test the strength of his perceptions. “Shore leave ends at daybreak. We’ll take off as soon as the last of the crew boards, if that’s acceptable,” he said in a deferential tone.

His manner took the distracted human by surprise. “You’re asking me?”

“But of course.”

Vallus removed an odd-shaped silver insignia from his tabard and held it out to Teldin. The elf knew that Teldin’s cloak could translate spoken communications, and he was counting on its ability to transmute the meaning of the elven rune. Judging by the way the human’s blue eyes widened as he stared at the captain’s insignia, the cloak had done its job.

“This is yours,” Vallus said simply. “As I have said, the swan ship is at your disposal. Matters would be simpler all around if you were the actual as well as the de facto captain.”

Since Teldin continued to eye the emblem with suspicion, Vallus added, “In case you’re worried, wearing the insignia will in no way be construed as a commitment to the elven navy. The insignia merely identifies you as captain, and it is specific to this particular ship.”

After a moment of hesitation, Teldin Moore’s face firmed with resolve and he took up the insignia. He pushed back the cloak and pinned the captain’s emblem onto the left shoulder of his jacket. He met Vallus’s gaze squarely. “Let’s get this ship underway, then.”

“Aye, Captain,” Vallus agreed mildly. As the elf followed the new captain up the plank to the main deck, he had to call upon the discipline earned through centuries of rigorous training to keep from shouting out loud with elation.

The red rim of the sun was just breaking above the surface of the water as Teldin and Vallus walked onto the deck, and the swan ship was alive with a bustle of activity as the elves prepared for departure.

“As soon as you give the order, we can take flight. The crew has been instructed to set course directly for Lionheart,” Vallus explained helpfully. Teldin stopped abruptly, and the elf raised his hands in a mildly defensive gesture. “I thought the matter had been decided,” Vallus said.

“Not as far as I’m concerned,” Teldin replied. His sudden ire melted under the elf’s mild, earnest gaze, and he raked a hand through his hair and swallowed his frustration. Vallus Leafbower obviously was doing all he could to help, and from the elven wizard’s perspective Lionheart was the best way to go. The elf didn’t have a clue why that idea might bother Teldin.

“Look, Vallus, I trust you about as much as I do anyone, but I’m not sure that walking into the elven stronghold would be a wise move. Too many people want this cloak too badly. If some group of elves in Lionheart decided to take it, there isn’t much I could do to stop them.”

“I see,” Vallus said slowly. Teldin noticed that the elf did not bother to contradict him. “I take it you have an alternate plan?”

“Well, almost,” Teldin said with a wry smile. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Gaston Willowmere, the ship’s first mate. He quickly flipped aside his cloak so that the captain’s insignia was prominently displayed, then he caught the first mate’s arm as he rushed past.

Gaston did a double take at the sight of the emblem on a human’s chest, but he quickly pulled himself up and snapped off a salute. “Aye, Captain?”

“Take off as scheduled and follow the course you were given until you hear from me otherwise,” Teldin said crisply. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added as the elf started to turn away. “Find Hectate Kir and send him to the bridge immediately.”

The first mate saluted again and hurried off to tend to his orders. A high, piping signal floated out over the deck, and everywhere the crew members braced for takeoff. The swan ship lifted smoothly out of the Evermeet harbor and rose into the morning sky.

Vallus arched a silver eyebrow. In response to the silent inquiry, Teldin said sternly, “If I’m to be the captain of this ship, there’s one thing you’re going to have to do.”

“Oh?” the elf replied. His angular face showed a touch of apprehension.

Teldin’s scowl collapsed into a teasing grin. “You’re going to have to show me where the bridge is,” he said.

*****

Working quickly, K’tide’s informant slipped his latest message into one of the tiny, specially designed boxes he’d been given. Since coming aboard the swan ship, he’d had second thoughts about his assignment and he’d been less than faithful about sending them regularly, but this one he sent the moment the swan ship broke free of Toril’s atmosphere. He spoke the words that activated the magical tracking device, then tossed the box into a refuse barrel.

His lowly work assignment brought him hours of tedium, but it also gave him access to the ship’s cargo doors. He jettisoned the barrel and two others and watched them tumble out into wildspace. Reaching into a pocket, he took out a small, specialized looking glass and squinted out at the barrels. Sure enough, one of them gave off a pulsing, greenish light that would easily be detected by the crew of the shrike ship that shadowed Teldin Moore. The thought of those proud beings sorting through the elves’ garbage for their message brought a tight smile to the informant’s lips. Not taking any particular precaution – no one who saw him perform this “duty” would spare him a second glance – he turned and made his way to his quarters.

Some time later, the barrel was picked up by the shrike ship. The message brought excitement to them all, even the usually peevish wizard. Immediately he took out his scrying crystal to send messages to K’tide and to the Clan Kir members stationed on Garden. The moment they had so long awaited was at hand.

The swan ship was headed for Lionheart!

*****

A barrage of firepower – a final gift from the retreating elven forces – shook the massive frame of the ogre dinotherium. The ship-to-ship battle was over, but the crew of the
Elfsbane
had taken a severe beating. In the hold of the ship, a makeshift infirmary had been set up to tend the scores of wounded. The scro warriors endured their injuries with stoic pride, but the less disciplined goblins filled the air with a cacophony of groans and inarticulate oaths. Worse still were the kobolds; a pack of the tiny goblinoid creatures huddled together in whining, yapping misery.

At a safe distance, K’tide followed Grimnosh on his rounds of the troops. The scro general was livid over the loss of so many of his best fighters, and his veneer of culture could be stretched only so thin. K’tide doubted that Grimnosh would actually lose his temper, but the scro had a way of calmly issuing the most appalling orders when riled. Adding to the spy master’s discomfort was the chill; the hold was deliberately kept cold to slow the flow of the goblinkin blood. K’tide’s insectlike exoskeleton provided him little protection from the cold, and he drew his brown cloak closer as he moved stiffly after the scro general.

The sound of chanting wove through the cries of the wounded. One of the scro war priests was tending to a badly wounded half-orc, a female whose heavy leather armor – and a good deal of her brownish hide – had been split from gut to gizzard by an elven sword. Grimnosh stalked over to the priest and dropped a huge white paw on his shoulder. The priest stopped in midchant.

“Perhaps you might direct your efforts more judiciously, good father,” the scro suggested, voicing the title with heavy irony. Grimnosh gestured pointedly to the two scro lying on nearby pallets. “Heal one of those.”

“But which?” stammered the unnerved priest.

Grimnosh’s brows rose, and his expression plainly inquired why it was necessary for him to tend to such matters himself. Nevertheless he crossed the distance to the wounded scro and stooped over their pallets. He took up and examined their
toregkh’s
in turn, then rose to his feet. “This one,” he said casually, pointing to one of the scro.

The general took K’tide’s arm and drew him to the side of the room. “They’ll be back,” he said grimly. “We must have new troops. Do whatever you must, but I want the Armistice fleet.”

“Surely the scro rulers could reassign a few squadrons to your command on a temporary basis,” K’tide prevaricated. His people had been making regular shipments, and, in truth, the goblinkin were almost battle-ready, but K’tide had no intention of releasing the new troops. The alliance with Grimnosh was a convenient ploy, no more. In his opinion, this second Unhuman War was a marvelous thing. With the elves and goblinoids decimated, there would be more room in wildspace for his own kind.

“Just order up a few squadrons, eh?” Grimnosh glared at the spy master. “If the scro had troops to spare, do you think I’d take the risks involved with the Armistice plan?” the general asked with a touch of exasperation.

“But with a fresh supply of troops so near at hand, surely the scro command could make an exception for you,” K’tide pointed out.

Grimnosh’s tiny pause was telling.

“Your superiors do not know about the Armistice project,” K’tide stated as objectively as he could. To reveal a trace of the elation he felt over this news would be courting certain death. Still, he could not resist adding, “I take it they would not approve?”

“The scro command approves of success,” the general said. He spun and walked away, absently resuming his rounds of the infirmary. “Once I get the Armistice troops, I’ll have the strength needed to launch an attack on the elven communities of Radole. Once we control this crystal sphere, we will go on to Realmspace. I must have those troops,” he reiterated.

“But we must destroy Lionheart first,” K’tide said firmly as he hurried to keep up with the scro.

“Must we? Perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain why,” Grimnosh said with dangerous calm. He stopped to examine a black-hided scro warrior who, despite a number of grievous wounds, had propped himself against a wall in a ramrod straight pose. Even so, the scro’s eyes were glazed and his breathing shallow. It was apparent to K’tide that the warrior would die if not tended soon. Grimnosh reached for the scro’s
toregkh.
There were but five trophy teeth, and all but one were human or dwarven. The general dropped the trophy with a derisive sniff, then scanned the room.