The Ultimate Helm Read Online Free PDF Page A

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