The Maelstrom's Eye

by Roger Moore

  Ironpiece was a bright spot of light against a stupendous backdrop of stars as the pair of doors at the stern of the Perilous Halibut came open. The figure there looked out but was oblivious to the splendor of wildspace. Instead, the figure stepped around the rear jettison, from which shrapnel could be launched at trailing foes, then carefully scanned the void.

  Despite its apparently mechanical trappings, the gnomish covered lantern the figure bore was powered by a simple magical spell that provided continual light. The gnomes had merely added assorted gears and sparking devices that made the lantern weigh three times what it normally would, yet none of the devices worked and all had frozen in place with rust. Still, the light inside was as bright as ever.

  After a few moments, the figure spotted a faint, blinking light trailing the ship. It was the signal. Carefully, the figure raised the lantern and, recalling the code that had been so painfully learned, began to open and shut the lantern’s cover, sending the first of many messages that its master awaited. Only the stars saw the figure’s face and noted its grief.

  Chapter Ten

  The scro who broke the news did not sweeten its bitter taste, simply gave the facts.

  “Sit, five ships out of Captain Sharak’s force of twelve have reported back from Ironpiece. The rest were disabled by ground fire. Our casualties are estimated at one hundred and fifteen troops. The gnomes were somehow able to detect Sharak’s approach even after our fleet had distracted or disabled their orbital scouts, as the gnomes were quite ready for us on the ground. Neither Teldin Moore nor his companions could be found. He may have escaped us.”

  The eight naval and marine commanders crowded into General Vorr’s office said nothing in their humiliation. Vorr looked calmly at the tall, black-armored scro, who stared back without apparent qualms. “Captain Geraz, do you have any idea of where Teldin might be?”

  “Sir, I’ve heard several reports of gnomish ships fleeing during the fighting,” Geraz said, slurring his words a bit. “One ship crashed through the rooftop of a hangar and fled into the sky, another took off normally, and a third crashed into the lake. Our troops were able to capture enough papers to indicate that one of the ships that got away was of an experimental design, a long-range craft, but Intelligence is having trouble translating the gnomes’ notes.

  “We followed the lich’s directions for finding Teldin in the infirmary. One of our ogres, your bodyguard Gargon, found him in the infirmary, but Gargon was slain. We recovered the body for questioning by the war priests and learned that the ogre was killed by a human in a cloak – Teldin, we believe. Two scro reported seeing a man in a cloak with a female half-elf and a gnome enter a hangar just before a black spelljammer craft smashed through the roof and fled.”

  So, Teldin had killed Gargon. Lost in thought, Vorr drew in his breath. This human would spend hours in torture before he died. It would be an interesting show for the troops.

  “Exactly what damage was the force able to inflict on the gnomes?” said a slow, venomous voice. All heads turned to the speaker, propped up in a heavy chair. Admiral Halker’s face was pale and his expression haggard, but an unnatural light burned deep in his eyes.

  Captain Geraz’s lifeless eyes looked into the admiral’s. “Sir, we destroyed five small craft in orbit, and two small and two large craft on the ground. At least four buildings, two of them hangars or storehouses, were set ablaze with class-two aerial bombs. Of the gnomes’ casualties, we estimate that they suffered forty dead and wounded at the very least.”

  “So, the ground mission was a failure,” finished the admiral, an edge to his voice. He leaned forward in his seat.

  Captain Geraz stared back without blinking. “Yes, sir. We were apparently anticipated, as I mentioned earlier.”

  Silence drew out in the cramped command room aboard the Tarantula’s Trident. “How could that be possible, Captain?” asked the admiral in a voice like a serpent’s hiss. “Why are you so sure that the gnomes knew in advance of the attack?”

  “Sir, for all their cleverness, gnomes are still gnomes, and they almost never fight efficiently without strong, decisive leadership. A surprise attack is only rarely repulsed by them. Yet ground fire began immediately after our ships broke cloud cover, and it remained heavy throughout the attack. The entire base was effectively on alert status when Captain Sharak’s force arrived. Gnome units had already sealed most of the critical base buildings, and ground fighting was reportedly severe and without quarter. I cannot believe that the gnomes were capable of this without foreknowledge of the assault, though I am at a loss to say how they possibly could have learned of it.”

  Halker sucked in his cheeks as he looked at the captain.

  “You sound regretfully close to saying we have a spy among us, Captain.”

  The thought hung in the air for a few moments before Vorr broke in. “Or the gnomes have spell-casters or mechanical devices that can do their spying for them.”

  “Or our most venerable foes have decided to send their own intelligence on to the gnomes,” added an aged voice. Everyone turned to look at the withered Oriental man in flower-print robes of silk. Usso casually gestured at the ceiling, as if to the stars. “The elves have cloaking helms, have they not? They could have seen Captain Sharak’s ships depart from our fleet while one of their man-o-wars was barely more than hailing distance away. With but a spell or two, they could have sent warning to the gnomes, despite their earlier differences in the battle, Remember, the elves stood to lose nothing by telling the gnomes of our plans, and they stood to gain much: the restoration of some of the gnomes’ goodwill, the destruction of our ships and soldiers, and the safety of Teldin Moore and his cloak. I must consider this the most likely alternative, as I have detected no sign of weakness or treason among our own fleet. I must dismiss General Vorr’s concerns, as I have armored the command offices of our fleet with lead mesh to prevent outside agencies from scrying upon us, and the reports filed by the survivors of the expedition gave no sign that the gnomes made use of any wizardry, whether their own or hired. I believe the elves have again made fools of us.”

  Admiral Halker broke the brief silence that followed. “Of all the alternatives,” he said softly, “I find that one to be the most disturbing. A traitor can be rooted out. A wizard’s spells can be blocked. But to think that the elves have outfoxed us, that they can become invisible at will...” Halker’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair. “The elves whipped our ancestors like mongrels, broke their fleets, drove them from the rich worlds, shut them out of the light of a hundred suns, gave them dust to drink and rock to eat and filth with which to clothe themselves, and laughed at the thought that we, the children of Dukagsh, would ever repay the blood debt owed them. That we must swallow this elven vomit for our meals, that we must endure the laughter that must surely ring in their ships – Almighty Dukagsh must long to put out his own eyes to spare him our shame.” The admiral’s grip tightened on the chair arms until his hands were corded knots.

  One of the admiral’s hands suddenly arose, a narrow finger sweeping the room. “But I say now, ‘no more.’ I charge you to find a way, a dozen ways, a thousand ways to counter this threat. I want to find those elves with all the effort we are putting into finding this Teldin Moore, and find a thousand ways to destroy them. I want to see their lifeblood spill into space. I want their heads to hang from our ships and their bodies to grace our tables as dessert. I want them to fear us. I want to avenge our lost brothers and ancestors, to avenge the lives and spirits that were crushed under the golden heel of the elves! Find those ways, and avenge us!”

  “Sir,” said Captain Geraz, his face still expressionless, “our strategies appear to have been laughably weak of late. When we cannot outsmart gnomes, we should look elsewhere for military advice. The lich might have a better idea of what to do than we have had. Perhaps we should consult him.”

  General Vorr flushed with shock and rage. No scro had ever spoken so to a superior officer, much less a room
full of them. The other scro captains and commanders stirred with equal rage, teeth bared and murmuring curses.

  “Captain Geraz – ex-Captain, I should say – you are out of line.” Admiral Halker’s eyes burned into the young captain. “This is a matter for scro and the living, not for the mad and the dead. Moreover, you are disrespectful, and you will pay for that.” The admiral’s words dropped in volume but redoubled in intensity. “It is likely that you will pay with your life.” He dropped a hand to the golden ceremonial dagger on his belt. General Vorr, at the same moment, reached down for his sword hilt. He could see almost every other scro captain do the same thing. Scro justice was nothing if not fast.

  “You cannot collect from that which has no currency,” said the scro captain, making no move to draw his own weapons. He raised his hands and pulled away his helmet.

  The admiral’s eyes grew large, and his mouth fell open, revealing hardened gums. Two of the scro ship captains sitting near Geraz leaped to their feet with shouted oaths.

  The top of Captain Geraz’s head was gone, the skullcap cut away. The vile odor of rotting flesh spilled into the room. A red-brown crust of blood matted Geraz’s short, bristly hair. The wound obviously had been cleaned sufficiently to be hidden by the helmet. Those closest to Geraz saw that his brain was gone, his skull left empty, and they withdrew from the animated corpse as if it were poisoned.

  “I am beyond the world of the living now,” said the scro captain dully. “I was killed by catapult shot from an elven ship during the attack by the elves. My body was recovered from the Cursed Shadow and enspelled to serve you on Ironpiece and bear a message from your ally Skarkesh.”

  Vorr stared in disbelief at the undead scro. The false lich did this? He dared do this to a scro and show off the results? Something caught fire in his blood and spread to the core of his soul. That someone would do such a thing was unthinkable, a violation that had but one punishment.

  Admiral Halker, for all his rage, had the presence of mind to respond. “Your message from Skarkesh is?” he asked hoarsely, fingers still clutching his golden dagger.

  “Skarkesh has located Teldin Moore in wildspace, aboard a gnomish ship. He is on course for one of this crystal sphere’s portals. Here is his heading.” The undead scro pulled a flattened, tolled parchment from his belt, offering it to the admiral. General Vorr intercepted it, knowing that his touch would nullify any cursed item designed to harm a living being, but he didn’t look at the paper.

  “And here,” the scro said, untying a belt pouch and pulling a second sheet of parchment from it, “are a few ways to counter the cloaking helms of the elves. Skarkesh, in his wisdom, has seen fit to present these to you as gifts, to better enable you to do your jobs.” General Vorr took that, too.

  “Have you any further requests?” asked the undead scro.

  “Only one,” said Admiral Halker, breaking a short, tense silence. The admiral half stood from his seat and raised his right hand, bearing the steel symbol of the eyes of Dukagsh from a necklace he wore. “By the powers invested in me as a war priest of the Chosen of Dukagsh, I command you, undead, to be destroyed and return to dust.”

  Geraz’s body rocked on its feet, then collapsed on the floor. The other scro edged back in case there was another trick, but nothing further occurred.

  General Vorr carefully reached down and checked the body. Captain Geraz had definitely been dead for some time; his skin was cold to the touch. The spell cast over him had overcome the corpse’s natural rigidity, which was even now taking effect. Vorr took his fingers from the scro’s neck and sat back on his heels. Captain Geraz had been a good warrior. It was a mortal insult to have abused him like this.

  Vorr looked back at the admiral, then stood up. “Sir,” he said, “this would be a good time to adjourn and have Captain Geraz’s body cared for.”

  The old scro nodded, his expression unreadable. “I agree,” he said quietly, letting his holy symbol fall. “Everyone but General Vorr is to leave and await further orders, lake Captain Geraz with you and see to his proper burial in space.”

  The other officers immediately stood and saluted, their voices shouting the Elvish curse in unison. They filed out, some carrying Geraz’s remains, to talk among themselves on the squid ship’s main deck. Usso left with a thoughtful look on his aged man’s face. Admiral Halker seemed lost in a reverie, staring at the far wall from his chair.

  When the door had closed, the admiral turned to Vorr. “Whatever else we do on our little jaunt through the spheres,” he said, “I want to see something done about the lich. He has made a fool of me before my officers. I want him to burn for this – not now, but one day, and soon. We’ve got the ships and the soldiers he needs to recover that cloak, but we’ll have precious little of our command and respect if we let that filth pile get away with this. Start making plans for an assault on his pyramid ship, to be carried out at a future date.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Vorr crisply. He had been toying with this very idea since he had first met Skarkesh.

  The admiral craned his head at the papers Vorr held. “You may as well see if there’s anything useful there. I don’t want to lose Teldin’s course, so you should get that first message to the helm. When you’ve done that, let’s look at the second message and see what our … partner recommends as prudent courses to foil the elves. I’ll meet you back here in one hour.” The admiral slowly got to his feet.

  Vorr headed for the door and saluted on his way out. Behind him, he heard the admiral call, “Remember that first order first, General.”

  I will, Vorr promised himself. I will.

  The humanoid fleet took up a new, tighter formation as it set out in pursuit of the lone gnomish ship. Invisible now because of the thousands of miles between them and the humanoids, the four surviving elven warships tracked their foes. Before long, two of the man-o-war spelljammers moved in to reconnoiter the humanoid ships.

  One ship came back.

  “They found us, my admiral,” said Captain Melwan, who just two days ago had been the second officer of the Free Wind’s Fury. “We sustained considerable damage to the forward areas of both the main and battle decks in the orcs’ initial volley. The Leaping Hurt lost its helm at once and was set aflame. We could not render aid. Captain Sirithea was wounded on the bridge, and First Officer Eal Dornal was killed by a shot outside the spelljammer’s cabin. Three others were killed, sixteen wounded. I took command and ordered a retreat, using a false movement pattern to avoid giving away the location of our fleet. I had to assume after the attack that the orcs were able to track us as they wished, and we made all speed back once we were certain we were not being followed.”

  Admiral Cirathorn raised a finger from his command throne. “How do you know,” he said tonelessly, “that you were not followed?”

  Melwan, a tall elf with dull gray hair and eyes, hesitated. “Sir, our battlewizard’s spells assured us that —”

  “Are you certain?” Cirathorn’s voice was quiet and ruthless. “Are you certain? You were, after all, detected while your ship was cloaked. If theorcs could do that, how can you be sure they did not track you all the way back here?”

  The captains and battlewizards in the Empress Dorianne’s conference room looked at one another. The idea that a cloaking helm could be defeated was unthinkable. Cloaking helms were distributed by the Imperial Fleet to only a handful of ships, and these had never been known to suffer casualties while cloaked. If the cloak was dropped early, the ship could be attacked at will.

  “Sir,” said the tall elf, his face nearly white, “I did not order the Free Wind’s Fury to uncloak. Our closest approach to the orcish fleet was five hundred feet from the trailing vessel, an ancient vipership. We suddenly encountered a minor nebula, and the enemy fleet opened fire upon us moments afterward. I took command —”

  “Ahh.” Cirathorn leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I see now. Theorcs detected the image of your ship as you passed through the nebula
. It is the same principle a groundling adventurer would use against an invisible foe – hurling a sack of flour in the air to detect the opponent’s body after the flour coats it – only your ship blundered into a natural trap.” Cirathorn leaned forward in his chair. “Why did Captain Sirithea allow the Fury to enter the nebula? Was she not aware that this would happen?”

  “I … haven’t any idea, sir,” said Melwan. “She’s in a coma and is being tended by —”

  “I’m aware of her condition,” said Cirathorn. His hands were clasped together in front of him, elbows resting on the arms of his throne. “I want your opinion.”

  The tall elf was silent for a few moments; “None of us saw the nebula, sir, before we entered it. It appeared suddenly as the orcish fleet was passing through it.”

  The admiral stared down at the new captain. “Could it be that the orcs have suddenly become rather clever and have merely found a way to detect our ships by, say, firing flour, dust, or other paniculate debris from their jettisons and catapults, in essence creating their own temporary nebulae?”

  Melwan’s eyes widened as he considered this. “Sir, after the incident, I did notice that our ship was covered with a fine white powder, which I assumed to have been from the nebula. We are still cleaning up the ship as well as repairing it, but I can have the material checked for its composition.”

  “Do so immediately,” said the brown-haired admiral, his eyes sharp. “Report back before this watch is out.”

  Melwan snapped off a salute and left with his battlewizard within five seconds. When the door shut behind him, Cirathorn turned to the other elves in the spacious room beneath the crystal chandelier. Paintings of landscapes hung on the walls, softly lit by the chandelier’s many candles.

  “Theorcs have become much brighter since we last met them on the field of battle,” the admiral said tiredly. He looked up without seeming to see anyone present. “Perhaps they are far smarter than we would like to believe. Perhaps they are far stronger and far better fighters, too. The loss of the Unicorn’s Wing gave me pause, but this disaster while under cloaking has instilled me with dread. I have the gravest concerns for our safety, and for the safety of our entire Imperial Fleet and people. I believe a second Unhuman War is upon us, and we might not live to see it through.”