The Radiant Dragon (4 page)

At the signal, the purple-clad woman jumped onto the card table and began a sinuous, suggestive dance. Some of those fighters nearest the table stopped in midbrawl, oblivious to their own upraised fists or drawn daggers as they gaped at the sensuous display. As she whirled and stamped and beckoned, several of the tavern patrons forgot their grievances and drifted closer to her makeshift stage, opening a path between Teldin’s hiding place and the rear door of the tavern.

The gypsy woman seemed to notice the same thing. Smiling seductively, she caught up her swirling skirts and ripped them from hem to sash, revealing a small arsenal of knives strapped to shapely legs. She began to snatch up knives and throw them with chilling accuracy.

“Now,” intoned the aperusa man. He slid out from under the table and bounded to his feet. “We go now.”

Teldin crawled out and cast a look toward the beleaguered gypsy woman. Her knife collection almost depleted, she now lashed out with bare feet at anyone who ventured within range. “But —”

“Please to hurry,” pleaded the aperusa, pushing Teldin toward the back of the tavern. “Must go out back door, and quickly. Amber can hold them only for so long.”

“And then?” Teldin asked pointedly, brushing the man’s hand off his shoulder. The aperusa’s black brows knitted in befuddlement, so Teldin tried again. “What will happen to her then?”

“Ah.” Understanding lit the gypsy’s eyes, but he shrugged as if the answer were of little consequence. “A short stay in prison. Amber will charm the jailor and leave when she chooses.”

A bolt of blue light shot past Teldin’s head with a sharp, sizzling hiss. He stared in stunned amazement at the stars glimmering through the smoking, black-edged hole in the tavern wall. The charred remains of what used to be bar patrons lay on the floor, as crumpled and dried as fallen leaves. They might as well have been leaves, for all the identity that was left to them.

“Eye of disintegration,” moaned the gypsy, again shoving Teldin toward the exit. “Angry beholder, very dangerous. We go
now.”

A thunderous rumble nudged Teldin out of his shock and indecision. He looked up to see the pair of dracons, panic etched on their dragonlike faces, stampeding toward him. Teldin leaped for the door, but not soon enough. The dracons, the human, and the aperusa crashed through the doorway and into the alley.

As he pulled himself free of the bruising tangle of tails, limbs, and splintered wood, Teldin thought that it would be a cold day in Reorx’s Forge before either of the dracons told another beholder joke.

Chapter Two

The grand admiral sat at the very center of the secret command base called Lionheart, her tiny form almost lost in the deep blue leather of her chair. Despite her diminutive size, the ancient ruler of the Imperial Fleet was an imposing elf who wore her years like hard-earned battle trophies. Her bearing was still erect and proud, her close-cropped silver curls were thick and lustrous, and her face was a triangular network of lines framing eyes of tempered steel. The power that came with the office of grand admiral shaped and defined those who wielded it, and the passing of centuries had left little to the elven leader that spoke of personality, name, or even gender. Yet her office was furnished throughout in deep blue, a color that uniquely complemented her silvery appearance. There was enough personal vanity left in the elven woman’s soul for that.

Her office was in a tower, and from any of the circular room’s windows she could see the ring of armadas, enormous butterfly ships planted wing-to-wing on a remote asteroid of Garden. She stared idly at one of these titanic butterflies as she pondered the strange message an elven wizard had just delivered to her.

The grand admiral turned slowly to face her adviser and studied the wizard with shrewd, pale eyes. Vallus Leafbower stood stiffly as he awaited her response. The gossamer chain mail of his uniform glittered in the dim lamplight, and his blue tabard was embroidered with a wizard’s insignia as well as elven runes naming his house and rank. He had been with the Imperial Fleet only a short time, yet Vallus Leafbower was highly regarded by the command of Lionheart. He was a powerful wizard of impeccable lineage, and he’d brought information deemed vital to the elven war effort. Had the report he’d just given come from any other adviser, the grand admiral likely would have dismissed it as hysteria.

“Ghost ships are not uncommon. Perhaps you should tell me why this particular one was brought to my attention,” she suggested.

Vallus hesitated, and the admiral did not miss the foreboding in the wizard’s eyes. “The abandoned ship was an armada. It was adrift in Winterspace,” he said.

The ancient admiral’s face turned gray at this news, but her disciplined features showed no other sign of her distress. “I see.” She nodded curtly. “Very well, you may bring the patrol ship captain to me now.”

Vallus Leafbower bowed and left the small chamber. Alone, the grand admiral slumped low in her chair and passed one hand wearily over her eyes. The power and authority of her position fell from her, and for a moment she was no longer the grand admiral, the representative and embodiment of all elves; she was only a frail and heartsick elven woman, exhausted by the weight of centuries and the responsibility of directing an escalating war.

She dragged herself from her chair and began to pace, relying on the motion of her legs to nudge her numbed mind into action. There was time to collect her thoughts, for it could be a good while before Vallus returned with the rescued captain.

Lionheart was a vast place. The base under her command was actually a fleet of ships connected by magically animated walkways and enveloped by a single atmosphere. In addition to the armada battleships, Lionheart included patrol ships, supply barges, docking bays, warships, and, of course, the enormous, coin-shaped vessel that housed the magnificent blue-and-silver Elven Council, a chamber large enough to seat representatives from every known elven world. Soon, the admiral feared, she might have to call a general council of the elven peoples. Such a thing had not been done in living memory, but the war was going badly.

In the first Unhuman War, the goblinkin had been unorganized and undisciplined. Unfortunately, her people’s disdain for all goblin races had left them ill prepared for the scro. Descendants of orcs, the highly evolved, fiercely militaristic scro were a force to fear both in wildspace and on world-to-world combat. Already the scro had overcome and destroyed whole elven worlds. Now, as if the elves hadn’t problems enough, it seemed that the mighty armadas were somehow vulnerable.

A small knock on her office door interrupted the admiral’s troubled thoughts. Vallus Leafbower had returned, and with him was a young male elf clearly long past exhaustion.

“Captain Sirian Windharp reporting, Admiral,” Vallus said gently, unobtrusively supporting the haggard elf.

The admiral motioned the captain to a chair. “Please have a seat, Captain Windharp,” she said kindly. “We will try to keep this interview as brief as possible, so that you may be free to rest and recover from your ordeal.”

Sirian Windharp sank gratefully into the offered chair, and the admiral took the seat behind her desk and folded her hands on the polished expanse of blue marble. “I understand that you have something important to tell us. Please start at the beginning.”

The elf nodded. “I am captain of the
Starfoam,
a dolphin patrol vessel recently assigned to duty in Winterspace. As we approached our post, we came across an abandoned armada —”

“Where, precisely?”

The captain blinked, startled by the interruption. The elven custom of long, uninterrupted narrative was deeply entrenched, even in situations of greatest import. “It was adrift in^interspace, about two days’ travel from the planet Radole. I’m afraid the exact coordinates were lost with our navigator.”

“The armada was old? Derelict?” she demanded.

“No. It was of recent metamorphosis.”

Silver eyebrows flew upward. “You’re quite sure of that?”

“Oh, yes,” Sirian said with quiet certainty. “The armada’s wings were patterned in purple and yellow, marking it as a newly developed strain. I believe that only one or two generations of this particular ship have been grown.”

The admiral nodded slowly. “That is so. Go on.”

“There was no sign of life on board, and the armada’s air was fouled. The
Starfoam
could not land on the ship, but we sent down a boarding party.” A haunted look filled the elven captain’s eyes. “Not one member returned.”

“It is a great loss,” the admiral said gently. “We will speak of it again when you are well. For now, please describe the damage done to the armada.”

The elf’s gaze turned inward as he tried to recall the details. “The ship was virtually unscathed,” he said slowly. “The only mark on it was a few broken boards on the top hull, as if the armada had been bombarded. The damage wasn’t severe enough to explain why the armada was deserted, though.”

“Did you attempt to destroy the ship?” She had to ask; policy decreed that any adrift elven vessel was to be reclaimed or annihilated, at all costs. Always important, in time of war this policy was now vital. Allowing the scro to obtain an armada – particularly in Winterspace – could result in disaster.

“Yes, we tried.” The elven captain was silent for a long moment. The loss of his crew showed in his eyes like a physical pain. “I sent down two more parties, with the same result. The ship seemed to swallow them whole. In order to report back, I kept only the barest minimum crew needed for the return trip.”

“But you left the armada in a spaceworthy condition,” the admiral stated, in the manner of one who must be absolutely sure.

“What else could I have done?” Sirian Windharp cried with a sudden burst of emotion. “I could hardly tow an armada back to Lionheart behind the
Starfoam!”
As soon as the words were out, the captain blenched, horrified by his own grievous breach of protocol. The grand admiral, however, appeared not to notice.

“It seems incredible that an enemy capable of overcoming the armada would resist claiming it,” she mused aloud. A long silence filled the chamber. Dread hung in the air as the three elves contemplated an unknown force that could render the most powerful vessel in the elven fleet a lifeless hull.

Finally the admiral looked over at the captain. “Thank you for your report, Sirian Windharp. You did well in returning to Lionheart with this news. Be assured that we will do all we can to find and reclaim the armada.”

The elven captain rose, but, despite the obvious dismissal, he hesitated. “With your permission, I would like to be among the searchers.”

“If you remember your history lessons, you realize that this matter is of grave importance,” she said. “The fleet must leave at once. Can you be ready?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The grand admiral held his gaze with eyes that saw and measured. Finally she gave a crisp nod and clapped her hands twice. A uniformed aide appeared at her door. “Take Captain Windharp to the supply master,” she directed. “His ship, the
Starfoam,
is to be prepared for flight, provisioned, and crewed. Give the captain whatever he requests.” She turned to Sirian Windharp, and a rare smile brightened her face. “Go, then, Captain, and may you find sweet water and light laughter.”

The traditional elven farewell, seemingly incongruous in such grim circumstances, was an affirmation of the unquenchable elven spirit and a personal tribute to Sirian Windharp. The elven captain bowed deeply, then followed the aide from the chamber.

The admiral’s smile faded abruptly, and her eyes drifted shut. After a moment she shook off her dark introspection and turned to Vallus Leafbower. “We need the ultimate helm,” she stated. As legend had it, an ultimate helm was the only device that could be used to control the mighty ship
Spelljammer.
Such helms were said to be ordinary artifacts imbued with special powers by the great ship itself, and they were exceedingly rare.

“An attempt was made to recover the Cloak of the First Pilot, as Captain Kilian reported,” Vallus reminded, referring to elven admiral Cirathom’s effort to take Teldin Moore’s cloak. “It was not an honorable attempt.”

“What, then, do you recommend? The war is taking a great toll, with a high loss of lives and ships. Kilian’s own ship is the sole survivor of the fleet we had stationed at the Rock of Bral. Now we learn that our newest and most powerful armada is vulnerable to some mysterious enemy. As highly as we value life, even a life as fleeting as a human’s, can we risk the survival of the elven nation on this principle?” she asked. From her dispassionate tone, they might have been discussing the menu for eveningfeast. “No, I think we must recover the cloak, and soon.”

She paused, and the gaze from her sharp, ancient eyes met and held Vallus’s.”
You
will recover the cloak. I tell you this because you must be the next to wear it.”

The wizard’s fine-boned face paled almost to transparency. “Why me?” he asked with unelven bluntness.

A faint, sad smile thinned the admiral’s lips. “Because, dear Vallus, you do not
wish
to wear the cloak. We have seen that such power can be dangerous in the hands of those who covet it too dearly. The Imperial Fleet must ensure that the cloak, and the
Spelljammer,
will be brought to bear on the side of the elves. You would use it as you were bid.”

Vallus’s silence affirmed the older elf’s insight, but his face remained troubled. “There may be another way,” he suggested cautiously. “I believe that Teldin Moore could be persuaded to join our cause.”

“Do you?” She sniffed. “May I remind you that this conflict is widely called ‘The Second
Unhuman
War’? Humans, with the exception of the scro’s riffraff mercenaries, consider it none of their concern. As long as the war doesn’t inconvenience them, they’re more than happy to ignore it.”

“But —”

“Another issue,” she continued, pointedly overriding Vallus’s interruption. “Many of our people have made finding the
Spelljammer
their lifework, without success. Have you any reason to think that Teldin Moore can succeed where we have failed? Or that he could command the ship if he should find it?”