by Roger Moore
Duffed grabbed for the paper, but Gaye caught it first and held it up to her wide, dark eyes. All that was written on the scrap was a simple notation:
E =mc2
“Eee mik two,” she said, just before Dyffed snatched the paper away. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s actually rather simple,” Dyffed said irritably, folding the paper up again and putting it safely away in his inside vest pocket. “It’s the relationship between mass and magical potential in all the spheres, throughout the cosmos. The equation shows clearly that —”
“The armada’s sending down a flitter, sir,” said Gomja in a flat, deep voice. He was looking up into the sky. His large, blunt fingers closed on the butts of two of the pistols at his belt. “You and the others had better get inside the ship. I can stall the flitter crewmen if they still think I’m helping them. I might be able to force my way inside and take the crew hostage, using them to get our freedom.” The giff shoved himself unsteadily to his feet. He looked down and saw that no one else had moved. “Sir, you and the others had better get inside now,” he repeated.
Teldin’s face turned to look into Gomja’s own. The giff shifted uncomfortably. There was something new in Teldin’s face that the giff did not recall ever having seen before. It was so intense that Gomja swallowed, almost turning away.
“I’m going with you,” Teldin said, and abruptly got to his feet. His cloak was at full length, so blue that it seemed almost purple. He waved at the gnomes and Gaye. “Get the hell inside the ship, right now. Move.”
With only the slightest pause and without even the slightest comment, the kender and the gnomes did exactly as they were told, though Gaye stopped before him long enough to look into his face. Her hand came our as if to touch him, but it then pulled back, and she followed the others to the rope ladder to climb inside.
Teldin and Gomja glanced up at the tiny green-and-white striped flitter that slowly descended from the orange butterfly ship in the sky. Teldin looked over for a moment at Aelfred.
The big warrior was stroking Sylvie’s face with his fingertips, still cradling her head with his other hand. His face was hidden. Teldin looked away and began walking in the Sitter’s general direction. After a moment, Gomja straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and followed.
*****
Mirandel watched the flitter fall toward the ground. It was impossible to tell at this close distance that what lay beneath them was the surface of the head of a creature larger than many worlds, whose footsteps could span continents. The Empress Dorianne hovered over what seemed like a high hill, with a patchwork sky of green, blue, and brown overhead. With her husband gone to meet Teldin Moore, she felt a faint stirring of interest in things, no longer having to face his frigid, uncompromising expression and hide her feelings. It was still best to keep busy, however; the ghosts within her mind would gain control the moment she gave them a foothold. It was impossible to think straight.
A noise caught her attention. The battlewizard, now acting captain for the armada, stepped away from the window when she heard footsteps and rattling armor hurrying toward the open bridge door. An officer burst into the room, his face flushed and obviously out of breath.
“Captain!” he gasped, staggering to a stop. “Captain, the Fury has sent a message that it has been found and is under attack. The whole orcish fleet is behind the four pursuing craft, each ship protected by fog clouds and illusions. The sun blocked our view!”
Mirandel started toward the speaking crystal that would transmit her voice to the helm room, then stopped. She had thought to order the Empress to move in to support the Fury, but she remembered then that Cirathorn was below on the unarmed flitter – an unavoidable target for any orcish ship that came near enough to see it.
“Order the Hornet to support the Fury!” she shouted at the officer. “Have Second Battlewizard Ervar contact the flitter and request its immediate return! We must stay long enough to get the admiral back before we can join battle with the orcs.
All weapons crews are to fire on any enemy ship that threatens either the Empress or the flitter. Abandon all ground targets. Go and do!”
*****
“The Trident has rammed!” Usso’s squeal rang throughout the tiny helm room. She gripped the arms of the ill-made helm chair with trembling fingers, her face alive with the vision of the battle outside. “It drove through the back of the man-o-war. There’s considerable debris falling.” She pulled back from the scene, blinking with surprise. Her eyes registered nothing in the room where she sat. “The man-o-war lost its port wing. It’s begun to fall apart. The Trident is going down with the hull and starboard wing. It cannot pull free – it’s falling now. The man-o-war must have lost its helm. They’re both falling. The Trident is losing deck gear. A deck hand has fallen free …” Usso stopped. For several seconds, she pursed her lips together. “Both ships are falling out of control,” she continued. “They’re … they’ve both crashed.” She exhaled slowly, then looked up at the armored giant who stood before her. “A search for survivors is not advised.”
Vorr nodded curtly, making a brief fingerspelling gesture with his left hand. He then stuck out his other hand and made a cutting gesture across his wrist with the blade of the left hand. His expression could not be read through the many scars and burns across his face.
Usso nodded at Vorr’s last command, her long black hair swaying gently. “Within the next two minutes, General. The last man-o-war has engaged the fleet but is now trying to break off and escape. We are almost in position for the final blow.”
And so I am, she thought. So am I.
*****
The flitter glided down in complete silence. Only the wind in the tall grass sounded around Teldin and Gomja as they stood to greet the ship.
“Forgive me, sir,” muttered Gomja from behind. “It’s better this way.” Teldin heard the hammer being drawn back on a flintlock pistol, then felt something like a thick finger poke him in the back of the head.
Teldin felt that he couldn’t be surprised any longer. “So you’re still working for the elves,” he said evenly, looking up at the striped flitter.
The giff drew in his breath as if to make a reply, then let out his breath, saying nothing. The flitter dropped until it was only a dozen feet above the ground, thirty feet away. Gradually it drifted down and closer, its four spindly legs soon making contact with the ground and settling down under the weight of the ship. It was barely twenty feet away and facing them. A lone elven pilot was visible through the darkened forward window, his face impassive and calm.
A door opened in the back of the flitter. Teldin heard boots thump into the grass, then saw a figure slowly walk around the starboard wing of the flitter. It was an autumn-haired elf in silver armor, his helmet in the crook of his left arm. The elf smiled slightly as he stopped a dozen feet short of Teldin and Gomja, eyeing both the human and the thick-bodied giff. He wore no obvious weapons but appeared relaxed and sure.
“Teldin Moore,” said Admiral Cirathorn. “I have come a long way to find you.”
Teldin stared at the elfin undisguised hatred. “Go to hell."
"I might for what I’m about to do,” the admiral said. “I need your cloak, Teldin Moore. The elven people need it. We are at war, and your cloak is the key to victory. I must take that cloak from you in any way I can. If First Colonel-Commander Herphan Gomja will oblige me, I will perform the deed myself.” With that, Cirathorn raised his right hand, appearing to pull a leafy decoration from the top of his helmet. He raised his hand, now clenched around a silvery pistol-like device, which he aimed directly between Teldin’s eyes. “Your cloak is likely to block magic or weapons aimed at your body, but not a lead bullet aimed at your head,” he said. “Cloaks, even magical ones, are not the best of armor.”
“I wish to perform the deed,” Gomja rumbled suddenly. The object sticking in the back of Teldin’s head poked him slightly, though Teldin did not move. “I have been waiting for this moment fo
r some time, sir.”
Cirathorn grinned. “Then wait no more.”
A huge hand grabbed Teldin by the left shoulder and shoved him out of the way. As Teldin fell back, he caught a momentary glimpse of Gomja hurling himself forward and bringing his pistol directly into the admiral’s face. Then Teldin struck the grass and rolled.
Two shots tore the air, coming so close together that Teldin could barely tell them apart. He sprang to his feet, giving a wild look at the combatants by the flitter. A thick haze of smoke almost obscured the both of them.
“Stupid giff,” said Cirathorn with scorn. His hand and pistol were still extended. There was not a mark on him.
Gomja stepped forward one more pace, then went down on his knees. The pistol fell from his fingers. His. broad hippopotamus face looked down at his dirty red uniform front in disbelief. Teldin saw the giff put a thick blue hand to his great chest. The hand came away as brightly colored as the crimson uniform once had been.
“Not even lead bullets can penetrate a spell that is proof against nonmagical missiles,” said Cirathorn. “It’s a fairly basic spell in the Imperial Fleet, but I recall that you giff have little faith in magical things. A pity.”
Gomja looked up at the elf, who was on eye level with him. His thick lips and jowls moved.
“Before you die,” the giff said, pronouncing each word with care, “know that your slayer is Herphan Gomja, commander of ship’s … marines, assigned to the … Perilous Halib —”
The giff fell forward into the grass.
“Gomja!” Teldin shouted. His eyes burned with tears. “Gomja, you son of a bitch, get up!”
“Not likely,” said Cirathorn. He reached down to drop his silver pistol and pull a new one from Gomja’s belt. “He was a very poor actor, anyway. We never charmed him or magically compelled any behavior from him. He was much easier to manipulate directly. If he believed he was doing you good, Teldin Moore, he would do anything. He was faithful and loyal to the end. Not very bright, but faithful, certainly. Giff overplay their parts, and pretending to betray you by turning you over to me was only to be expected. But he tried. He gave it his last full measure.” Cirathorn looked up at Teldin and raised his new pistol, steadying his aim once again on Teldin’s face.
“And you gave your last full measure and more, Teldin Moore, but the Cloak of the First Pilot does not recognize that. It responds only to who is the more clever and powerful and dangerous. That would be me, I believe.”
On impulse, Teldin raised his hand and pointed a finger at Cirathorn. “Die,” he said, not knowing how the cloak would respond. “Die and rot in the Abyss.”
Cirathorn did not move for several moments, his face frozen in surprise. Nothing happened. Then he smiled broadly. “Interesting,” he said. “I feel fine. And now, it’s your —”
There was a movement behind him. A thick blue hand stained with gleaming red came up swiftly and caught the admiral by the leg. Cirathorn started involuntarily and half turned, the pistol swinging around at his assailant.
A second blue fist the size of a baked ham swung up and slammed into the elf’s midsection. Metallic armor crumpled under the force of the blow. The admiral gasped and choked, the wind knocked out of him. Swiftly, Gomja came to his feet, one hand still locked on the admiral’s leg and causing the elf to fall halfway to the ground.
The wide-eyed pilot of the flitter, who had not moved a muscle until this moment, suddenly grabbed for the arms of his helm chair in obvious panic. Gomja spun on his feet at the same moment, whirling the admiral in a tight orbit once around his body, pulling the elf close to avoid striking Teldin or the flitter. On the second pass, as the flitter was beginning to lift away from the ground, Gomja gave a mighty heave and flung the armored elf at the nose of the small ship.
The port window was smashed instantly as the admiral struck it. The flitter rolled backward suddenly, its wings digging into the ground and pivoting the craft onto its back. With a sound like shattering glass, the two wings on the ship broke apart, the shards flying through the air. The ship’s fuselage leaped up, free of all but its wing stubs, and flung the admiral’s body out of the port window. It then flipped again onto the ground. This time, it lay still.
“Gomja!” Teldin cried out, rushing forward to the giff. Gomja stepped back clumsily from looking at the flitter’s wreckage and turned to see Teldin. The front of his crimson jacket was splashed with a darker red that spread down over his barrel chest toward his waist. The giff tried to swallow.
“I hope he heard ray name,” Gomja said. Then he sagged and fell backward to the ground just as Teldin reached him, the giffs thick arms spread-eagle on the grass and weeds.
“Damn you, you are not going to die on me!” Teldin roared, kneeling and tearing at Gomja’s uniform coat. He had the idea that by shouting, Gomja would hear him and would know enough to stay alive. “You’re going to live, you stinking giff! You’re going to live, and I’m going to beat the hell out of you for scaring me like that! Damn you, live! Live, you ugly blue monster, live!”
“There’s … no need to be profane,” came a husky, gasping whisper from the giffs thick lips. “I’m … hardly deaf either. I’m just … a little tired, sir.” The giffs small black eyes blinked open and stared up at the sky. “Giff are notoriously … hard to stop.”
Teldin found the bullet wound: a round hole nearly in the center of the giffs chest, bleeding profusely. He quickly tore the giffs coat at the entry hole for the bullet and wadded one red strip into a thick bandage, which he pressed to the wound. “Hold this!” he ordered. It had been years since he had done this, during the War of the Lance, when he had cared for several victims of arrow attacks in his unit on Krynn. He was amazed he remembered anything at all about first aid.
“You should get to … the ship, sir,” Gomja wheezed, slowly raising a thick blue hand to press on the bandage. “Leave me here, and I’ll —”
“Just shut up!” Teldin yelled. “We’re both going to the ship and we’re getting our butts off this monster for wild-space! Knock off this noble crap, and just shut up and move! Keep that bandage on tightly, as tight as you can!”
Gomja did not reply right away, but after a moment he did make an effort to get up on one elbow, his other hand pressing the bandage to his chest. “I’m not deaf,” he repeated petulantly, in a barely audible voice.
Gomja had almost made it to his feet when he froze, his wide-eyed face turned up toward the sky. Merciful Paladine, not again, Teldin thought in despair. What now?
“Look out, sir!” Gomja began. “That —”
The explosion overhead drowned out the rest.
*****
The yellow man-o-war was too close, Mirandel noticed. It didn’t matter. She looked down again at the wreckage of the flitter and the sprawled silver body that lay among the green litter. She knew, without using a spell or device of any sort, that her husband’s family line had now ended – except for her.
There was some sort of alarm going off, a howling collision alert. She looked up at the window and saw the yellow man-o-war coming straight for the Empress Dorianne – straight for her window, in fact.
It didn’t matter. Her lips moved. She would see her sister soon, her beloved sister, and all would be well.
She had started to say her sister’s name when the yellow man-o-war hit the bridge.
*****
Only Gomja and a handful of other onlookers saw the transformation as the yellow man-o-war collided with the armada’s bridge. The man-o-war had looped in as if seeking refuge from its pursuers, then had dived dead-on at its prey. As the two made contact, the yellow-winged ship vanished in a glittering shower of magical lightning and fire that burst across the gigantic armada as its bridge was destroyed. The craft that was the man-o-war exited the blast and was now revealed to be a tan stone pyramid much smaller than the armada but obviously far more compact. One point on the pyramid’s base had pierced the bridge, like a chisel point through the head of an insect.
The debris from the falling armada rained down across an area a thousand feet wide, and the giff and the human were right in the middle of it.
Chapter Nineteen
Fire fell from the sky. Teldin looked up and said, “No.”
Power surged through his body. Time slowed down. The flaming debris fell lazily now. Teldin grabbed for Gomja’s free arm and heaved. The giff seemed to be unusually light, and Teldin was able to drag the blue-skinned, red-suited goliath at a respectable speed. As he did, Gomja’s face slowly turned to face Teldin with a look of astonishment, one hand still pressing the bloodied bandage to his chest.
A shadow drifted over the grass around Teldin. He looked up and saw a gigantic orange wing tumbling directly at him, magical sparks and flames pouring in rivers across its surface from where it had been torn free of the armada’s hull. The wing was two hundred feet across. It fell quickly, even in slow time, and it was too big to avoid. He tried to speed up his pace, but he was still too slow. The orange wing covered the sky, seconds from striking him.
You will fear not, said a voice in Teldin’s mind. Teldin slammed into something incredibly hard that he had not seen before him just a moment earlier. Stars exploded in his vision.
He came to on the grass, Gomja gasping for breath at his side. He thought his head was split open, judging from the pain he felt, but he had only smashed his nose. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. And what was Gomja doing here? What was going on? Flames roared all around.
I owe you my apologies, said a strangely familiar voice in his head. I want you to sleep very deeply for now, both of you. You will feel no more pain. You soon will awaken and be refreshed.
Teldin clawed at the earth to get to his knees. Darkness overtook him before he could manage to get halfway up. He never felt the ground when he hit it.
*****
The wreckage of the armada was stupendous. Vorr allowed himself to be impressed as the pyramid ship settled down toward the earth, casually passing over the smoldering, smoking pyre of the elven warship. There was no sign of the last man-o-war, which had broken free of combat after the armada was destroyed and had fled. Several ships were chasing it, but the man-o-war had the edge in speed. Vorr could accept its loss, given the magnitude of the victory over the other elven forces. “My general,” called a scro from inside the cargo deck. Vorr turned from the doorless opening where his forces had entered the deck. He shifted his grip on the newly loaded harpoon bombard as the scro continued his message. “Usso reports that he has located the body of Teldin Moore. We will be there in a moment.”