"What the hell is that thing?" he muttered.
"What isn't it?" Pearl retorted in the distant, detached voice Teldin had come to associate with a spelljamming wizard. "It's got more ingredients than one of Rozloom's soups."
"Slow to tactical speed," Teldin directed her, and immediately the swan ship complied. "We're almost in ballista range," Teldin guessed, turning to the weapon master. The slight elf, whose face was tattooed in whorls of green and brown, nodded grimly. "Take over, Quon," Teldin directed.
The elf stepped to the speaking pipe that led down to the cargo deck, where the fore ballista was mounted. As he did, the orc vessel ahead began to execute a clumsy circle. Teldin raised his brass looking tube, and he could just barely make out a cluster of gray orcs bustling around the ship's large weapon. He gripped Quon's shoulder. "Get them before they bring that slingshot thing to bear on us," he commanded.
The elf shouted down the order to fire, and an enormous bolt shot toward the orc vessel. It missed, soaring harmlessly over the low hull. Before the ballista crew could get off another bolt, a fireball sped toward the orc ship and its wooden hull exploded in flame. Suddenly off balance, the shell section began a dizzy, spiraling descent to the icy waters far below.
"That's one," Teldin said with satisfaction, clapping Quon's shoulder. "Keep picking them off." He left the bridge and went to the stern, where Om frantically was making last-minute adjustments on the "improved" tail catapult. Trivit and Chirp stood ready beside a pile of what appeared to be boulders and spikes. A glance over the rail showed Teldin the reason for the gnome's frenzy. A second fleet of ragtag vessels-at least a half dozen bastard dragonflies-was coming up behind them.
"Almost in range," Om muttered with a worried glance at the approaching ships. She caught sight of Teldin and rose to her feet.
"Stomp and spit, Captain," she said solemnly, naming a gnomish ritual for courting luck, then she threw herself against an oversized lever.
The catapult shot forward, and, with a sharp intake of breath, Teldin watched its strange payload unfurl. Om had rigged up a number of giant bolas: large, spiked balls connected by lengths of chain. One missile spun end over end toward an insectlike ship, and the spikes of the first ball bit deeply into the wooden hull. The second ball hurtled around the ship, held in orbit by the long, stout chain, gaining momentum and snapping off legs with each cycle. Its final impact shattered the vessel into flame and flying splinters. Another bola tore through a second dragonfly's wing, whizzing through the fragile substance. The one-winged ship tumbled out of control.
Om grinned and cranked back the catapult for a second shot, and the dracons quickly loaded a second pile of the gnome's lethal bolas into the weapon.
By the time the swan ship shuddered through the atmospheric boundary, most of the ragtag fleet had been destroyed. The "battle" was over in minutes without casualty or damage to the swan ship. Teldin should have been pleased with the ease of their victory, but he felt restless and uneasy. Something was wrong. The orc and goblin ships all appeared -to be heavily armed, but not one of them had so much as fired on the Trumpeter.
A deep foreboding filled Teldin, and he sprinted toward the bridge.
*****
For the third time in a millennium, the magical alarm on a man-o-war patrol ship sounded.
The only living occupant of the ship's bridge, a bloated tertiary Witchlight Marauder, aimed an incurious stare at the pulsing disk suspended over its head. The monster reached up toward it, and two of its swordlike fingers bracketed the thick mithril chain. With a casual, effortless snap, the creature brought the blades together and severed the chain. The disk hit the floor in a shower of spraying fragments. The tertiary marauder picked up a large splinter of crystal with dexterous foot claws and tossed the shard up and into its gaping maw.
It crunched, considered, then spat. Silently the monster directed its rapacious appetite back to its preferred food, and the bodies of the ship's captain and battle wizard quickly disappeared. Over the monster's head, the image of a ragtag goblin fleet and a battered swan ship slowly faded from the crystal panel.
Chapter Eighteen
Teldin burst onto the bridge. "Hard astern. Get us the hell away from here!" he shouted at Celestial Nightpearl.
Surprise registered in the dragon's elven eyes, then understanding. "Tiamat's talons!" she swore to the god of evil dragons. "Those ships are leading us, aren't they?"
The captain gave a grim nod of confirmation, then sped down to the upper deck. Gaston Willowmere rushed past with an armload of crossbow bolts, and Teldin grabbed the elf's shoulder. "Don't bother. We're breaking off the attack."
"You're letting them get away? We're retreating? the first mate asked, not bothering to hide his disdain for the human captain.
Teldin faced down the elf. "When you can recognize an ambush, perhaps you'll be ready to give orders. Until then, don't question mine."
Gaston shot a glance toward the port rail, where Vallus Leafbower stood with the ship's battle wizards. Vallus confirmed the order with an almost imperceptible nod, and with a final, frustrated glance toward the fleeing goblin ships, the first mate spread the order to stand down. Vallus spoke a few words to the other wizards, then came to walk alongside Teldin.
"They did not return fire," the elf commented as they walked down the stairs to the main deck.
"You noticed," Teldin said. "I wonder what was waiting out there for us."
"Scro, no doubt. The Armistice orcs got their ships somewhere, and who else would supply them?"
"What about those bionoids?" Teldin suggested.
Vallus stopped short. "That's impossible," he said flatly. "The bionoids obviously want to get their hands on your cloak, but why would they serve orcs? They are elven weapons."
Anger flashed in Teldin's eyes, but he kept his voice even. "You probably can't understand this, Vallus, but you just answered your own question." Not trusting himself to say more, he turned away and went off to check on Hectate.
Had he looked back, Teldin would have been astounded at the effect his words had on the elven wizard. Vallus Leafbower's stunned face suggested a soul who had glimpsed himself in a mirror and had been deeply disturbed by what he had seen.
Needing time alone to think over the troubling insight, the elf turned to the solitude of his cabin. Since writing usually helped him sort through his thoughts, Vallus went to the locked cabinet that held the ship's log and automatically his fingers began to rehearse the spell that released the lock. He stopped in midspell, puzzled, then leaned in for a closer look. It appeared that someone had attempted to open the lock-physically, not with magic. The signs of intrusion were subtle: the tarnished metal around the keyhole was slightly brighter where a key or picking tool had been inserted.
Vallus sped through the unlocking spell and snatched up the log. He leafed through it rapidly, checking sequence and dates to ensure that no pages were missing. To his eyes, the book did not appear to have been disturbed, and he exhaled in a slow, relieved sigh. Not that the log would have yielded much information. As was required, all of his entries were made in a unique, magical code that he himself had devised, so that the log was impossible to read without powerful spells. Of course, there was always the possibility that someone strong enough to break the magical lock could also, in time, decipher the code.