The tunnels wove unevenly through the Spelljammer, ending at only a few points with concealed entrances at the lowest levels of the citadel. Where the living made their homes above, in chambers of light and air, surrounded by mementoes of their accomplishments and the items they needed to live happily among their brothers, the undead of the warrens lay quietly in nests of dry straw, moldy furs, and torn tapestries. Their existence was one of unquiet hatred, existing against their wills between the planes of light and dark, in lairs where the endless warrens intersected or widened enough to afford room for nests.
The dead enjoy their own company.
In one dark, secret lair, hidden deep within the ship so that even the Spelljammer's magic could not detect his evil, exiled to a chamber carpeted with spongy layers of black mold, hung with fineries of moss and green fungi, and furnished with the bones of the long dead, the Fool watched.
His eye sockets were black pits of darkness burning deep inside with bright pinpoints of silver light. He watched through the eyes of his undead vermin as the warriors far above, in the Tower of Thought, surrounded the Cloakmaster and accepted him as one of them.
The Fool rose from his throne, a bleached chair formed from the spines of orcs and the skulls of elves, and he paced the chamber. Where he walked, cold black smoke rose from his footprints.
His gray skin was shrunken, pulled tightly, like parchment, across his undead bones. His eyes glared fiercely, and his skull-like face was contorted in an eternal rictus of hatred. His long, skeletal fingers absently rubbed the length of a crimson amulet at his neck, and the long, rectangular crystal swirled with an unnatural, inner fire.
Long ago his name had been Romar. Now he was simply the Fool. A library of legends had grown around him over the decades. Some believed he was merely a zombie. Some believed he was a skeletal worm that fed on the heart of the Spelljammer. Others believed he was the Spelljammer's secret captain. Few had ever seen him; most believed he was a myth, a shadow creature used to scare children.
But the few who had had dealings with the Fool were never the same again. Master Coh believed the Fool was an ally- Hah! The neogi had much to learn, and would learn it soon. The Fool brooked friendship with no one and was ally only to the dark gods. Coh was not a master, but a puppet.
The Fool laughed. He was not called "the Fool" because he was stupid, like his "allies," but because he had fooled everyone- even the Spelljammer itself- about his secret existence within the ship's warrens.
But things, the Fool foretold, will soon change.
Through the eyes of his undead rat, he could see the contemptible respect on the human warriors' faces, the sickening strength with which the Cloakmaster carried himself-oh, the arrogance of this human pest! — and the Fool whispered to himself of the things he would do to Teldin Moore, Teldin Cloakmaster, of how delicious it would be to command this mortal's undead body like a marionette, once the cloak and the Spelljammer were his.
He knew the cloak. He had followed the signs and had bonded long enough with the Spelljammer for knowledge of the cloak's history to become his. He knew what was the legend and what was the truth; he knew the course of the Spelljammer's destiny, and what the coming of the Cloakmaster truly meant.
For the Cloak of the First Pilot had been returned, and the Compass was the key that would guide the Cloakmaster and the Spelljammer to their unseen fate.
Unless he could take the cloak, and the Spelljammer, for himself.. one last time.
The Fool hissed, the laughter of the dead.
"Spelllljammerrrrrrr…"he said, licking his taut lips with a desiccated tongue.
The Fool's whispering was the sound of the cold wind whistling through dead trees; the sound of worms burrowing through bones nestled deep within the ground. His ways of thinking were far different from those of the living. His ways were the madness of death, the joy of destruction, the sweet perfection of utter despair.
As he whispered dementedly to himself, he ran his hands over the mildewed doll's head atop his long conjuring wand, and he imagined his darkest fantasies, his secret desires, his long-hated memories: of the Spelljammer, of his failure as captain of the great ship many years ago-Failure! Because the Spelljammer was not worthy of me! — of his death-long quest for revenge.
His whispers were broken and rambling, the rasping of the dying. They echoed off the cold, slimy walls, a perverted reflection of Teldin Moore's own promises of life, of peace.
"Yesss," the Fool uttered to the darkness. He could see it all now, his last stand before the Dark Times began. "Yesssss. A mighty fight. Many battles… and blood… the blood…"
The Fool shuddered in ecstasy, his twisted mind filled with visions of death and revenge against the Spelljammer.
"Many will die at my hands. War and blood, to the death…
"A fight… for evil. For souls… for death… for the Spelljammer's final destiny
"Its… death!
The master lich laughed to himself for a long time. Above, in the market of the Spelljammer, shopkeepers shivered for no reason, and children began to cry.
Chapter Five
"… Of course, we had heard the legends of a fabulous cloak of untold power. It was even written that the Architects themselves had no conception of its powers when the cloak was first transformed. It appears to protect and answer its bearer eccentrically, but in ways entirely appropriate to the situation… "… The fight was over within mere seconds. We never saw Lekashta, the mind flayer, again…"
Several hours later, after Teldin had bathed and eaten a hearty meal of cold meats in CassaRoc's galley-for fires were forbidden while the Spelljammer was sailing in the phlogiston-he felt relaxed and ready to take on the duty of convincing the leaders of the halflings, the dwarves, and the giff that his coming was not a promise of doom. He was here only to fulfill his quest, to discover why he had been called out to find the most legendary spelljamming craft of all time. The cloak, an ultimate helm, he knew, was too valuable to fall into the hands of the evil neogi or any other Unhuman race. If it did, then the Dark Times would truly come, for the unhumans would use the cloak to subjugate all others. These things would serve as his argument to win allies.
Their only hope of success against the unhumans was to ally themselves behind Teldin, the Cloakmaster, and help him end his questbefore the forces of evil could take control and wreak destruction across the known spheres.
CassaRoc had provided him private quarters in the Tower of Thought, and he had quickly fallen into a deep, restful sleep for several hours. He woke refreshed, though still a little weary from the day's events. He bathed and put on fresh, comfortable clothes, which CassaRoc had provided, then lay down for a while in his quarters, trying to relax before his meeting with his potential allies.
He put an arm across his eyes and felt his heart beating fast, too hard. Things had happened too fast since he had reached the Spelljammer, and it was hard for him to conceive that he, a simple farm boy from a backwater world such as Krynn, was finally aboard a legendary ship- almost a god-ship- that sailed between the spheres as easily as a fish could swim across a pond.
The Spelljammer!. It was almost too much to believe. The magic amulet felt warm against his chest, and he sighed, happy that he was finally where he belonged Yes! I belong here! he suddenly realized-but he had no idea what he should do next, or how he had to end his quest. His heart beat faster. He wanted this over with, soon; he wanted to finish what he had come here for, whatever that was…