“Djan, don’t —”
But the half-elf’s eyes rolled up, and Djan fell into oblivion.
Teldin placed his fingers upon Djan’s neck. Good – there was still a pulse. He looked up. He could still make it over to the crash and tear through the wreckage to find the others – there were thirteen other crewmen trapped under thirty-or-so tons of debris. He stood and had time to take just a single step, then he pulled up short at the shrill cry of hatred that emanated behind him, like the chilling howl of a hungry war wolf.
He spun abruptly. His eyes widened in sudden fear, and he reached for the sword hanging at his waist.
He cried out, “By the gods!”
But an adequate defense was too late. The neogi that had crept up behind him, held tight in the arms of its enslaved umber hulk, screamed an ululating cry of death at the Cloakmaster. The misshapen umber hulk, its mandibles clacking in rage, raised its broadsword high above its head and swiftly brought it down, straight down toward the Cloakmaster’s skull.
Chapter Two
“... The few scrolls and books that remain from the beginning show that the survivors who sailed the Wanderer were far different from the barbarians I must share the Spelljammer with today. The early sailors cherished life, cherished diversity, and wished for no better life than to explore and bring peace to all peoples.
“Today the populace lives in fear of unhumans and even their human brethren, and peace is a forgotten word, replaced by the lust for power and the fear that a particular way of life will be threatened from without....”
Corac, Grandson of Erbur, warrior of Mosabor;
reign of Rygosa
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 been 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 form 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 the edge. Orik looked in wonderingly.
The shadows seemed to move in a far corner of the pit. There was a 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. Bones 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 kept his eyes studiously upon the great old master.
B’Laath’a approached. In the dim light of the temple, no ornamental pigments were discernable 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 assassinmeat 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 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 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 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.