Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  And then Captain Jasi fell.

  A scythe sword caught her in the throat. The captain’s neck exploded, her chest drenched in crimson. Clutching at the gaping wound, she nonetheless managed to push forward, thrusting her blade at her killer’s head. The sword sank in where Aryx guessed the eyes to be. The shadowy invader gave a hissing squeal and fell into her. Minotaur and monster collapsed together.

  “Captain!” Aryx cut a path toward Jasi, killing the nearest attacker and pushing several others back. Even before he reached her, the young minotaur could see that she had already died. Snarling, he took his axe and brought it down on another of the armored boarders, managing to cleave through the damnable hide that protected its chest. Pulling back before its life fluids could scar him, Aryx sought out another foe. Desperation and rage controlled him now. He knew that soon he and the others would share the captain’s fate, but he would see to it they were accompanied by as many of their attackers as possible.

  The small knot of defenders had shrunk to no more than a handful. Aryx cut down one foe in an attempt to save a companion, only to watch helplessly as two other reavers impaled the same minotaur on their lances. Aryx shattered one of the lances but could not prevent the remaining attacker from flinging the dying minotaur aside.

  Kiri-Jolith, he thought, if you watch over me, may you and not the Horned One take my spirit when I perish. He had never had much time for gods, be it Sargas, father of the minotaurs, or Kiri-Jolith, God of Just Causes, whose worshipers among Aryx’s race had been grudgingly accepted only a century ago by the rulers in Nethosak. Now he hoped his family’s long history of following the way of the bison-headed god would give him some benefit in the afterlife.

  The flames pressed on one side, the monstrous warriors on the other. Somehow Aryx found himself nearly flattened against a rail. With him stood only three other crew members, although two or three more still fought futilely elsewhere on the deck.

  A fog-enshrouded form so immense that it loomed over the rest raised a scythe sword, its attention clearly fixed on the minotaur nearest Aryx. Aryx moved to deflect the attack. Only too late did he realize that the attack had been merely a ploy; the scythe sword cut a twisting arc back toward him. Unable to bring the head of his axe back in time, Aryx tried to defend himself with the handle.

  Powered by the great strength of its wielder, the scythe sword cut easily through the thick axe handle and, barely slowed, across the chest and stomach of the hapless fighter. Aryx roared in agony but refused to topple. He grabbed the upper half of his axe and threw his entire weight into one last blow. The axe head sank deep into white flesh just below the creature’s wriggling snout.

  Foul, burning blood spewed over him, blinding Aryx in one eye and sending the rest of his senses into turmoil. He felt part of the edge of the shelled horror’s sword pass into his side as the pair grappled.

  They fell against the rail, shattering it. Both combatants plummeted into the Blood Sea, still clutching one another.

  He broke free from the creature’s grasp before they bobbed to the surface. Through his good eye, Aryx caught a glimpse of the murky shape of his adversary rolling onto its back, its arms floating limply at its side. A moment later, the still form slowly sank out of sight.

  Aryx tried one feeble stroke, then dropped his arm. He could feel his life slowly ebbing from him. The waves began to push him away from the blazing inferno that had once been the Kraken’s Eye. He heard another cry and knew that there could be only one or two defenders left.

  Something bumped against his legs. His first thought was of sharks, but then the new outline of one of the aquatic attackers rose from the water next to him.

  A three-digited claw reached out toward him. Aryx wanted desperately to reach out and try to choke the monstrous reaver, but he couldn’t even raise a finger. Even when the sinister figure raked his open wound with its claw, Aryx could do nothing to defend himself.

  He watched as the creature turned and swam away from him. Rather than at least give him an honorable death, it had decided he was too far gone to be worth the effort. Aryx was left to die a slow, ignominious death in the water.

  The Kraken’s Eye was little more than a blazing shadow in the fog. The sounds of combat had ceased. Aryx heard a series of splashing sounds. The attackers had begun to abandon the ruined vessel. Moments later the ship itself began to list to the stern.

  Mercifully, Aryx passed out before he could witness the Kraken’s Eye—and his hopes—vanish beneath the dark waters.

  * * * * *

  At first it amazed him that he still lived, but Aryx knew the state might be only a temporary one. Even as his mind relived the death of his friends and fellow crew members, the wounded minotaur noted that he could no longer feel either his legs or his left arm. At least the pain had lessened.

  Not long now, he thought dimly. The fog had thinned slightly, but somehow it seemed even more oppressive. Aryx could see no sign of life. He heard only the lapping of the waves and the distant roar of the Maelstrom. Eventually, if the sharks didn’t get to him first, he would drift inexorably toward the Maelstrom, then be sucked down into the Abyss.

  “Kiri … Kiri-Jolith,” he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m no coward, but I ask again that you take me before … before …” Aryx’s voice failed him. His head dipped beneath the water, and he had to fight to force it up again. Soon it would be over.

  The familiar sound of oars in the water startled him. At first the wounded minotaur believed he had imagined the sound, but then he heard it again. A booming voice, a voice that could not have come from one of his kind, called out unintelligible orders. Human, perhaps, or maybe that of an elf or dwarf, although it seemed unlikely either of the latter two would be out here. Only the humans even came close to matching the minotaurs’ love of sailing and exploration.

  But what was a human ship doing out in such treacherous waters?

  It didn’t matter. In this fog, they’d sail right past him. Even if they did spot him, he had bled too much to survive. Only a cleric could save him now, and any vessel daring to sail in these parts wasn’t likely to have a cleric on board. These newcomers were probably marauders or pirates.

  An ominous shape took form in the mist, growing larger by the second. Through his good eye, Aryx judged it to be several times the size of his own proud vessel. A warship, in all likelihood. A human warship.

  Closer and closer it came. Torchlight on the deck created an eerie halo in the fog. He spotted figures on deck and heard the clank of metal against metal.

  The ship would pass within a few yards of him. Vague hopes sprang in Aryx’s breast. He tried to call out, but all that escaped his mouth was a gasp. His head began to swim, and the minotaur fought to stay conscious.

  Aryx could hear the well-synchronized oars dipping into the water as the immense ship neared him, but he no longer fought to gain the crew’s attention. The numbness had spread throughout his entire body. Aryx just wanted to sleep, to forget the pain, the horror, the shame.

  In his last moments of consciousness, the minotaur dreamed that the ominous vessel sighted his limp body. They lowered a small boat, manned by humans clad in dark clothing. The sole exception seemed to be a tall figure in flowing, light-colored robes, who appeared to be guiding the small boat toward Aryx. He imagined that, despite his condition, they pulled him from the water and returned to the great ship, where the crew carefully hoisted him aboard.

  The dream faded for a time, and when it returned, Aryx thought he saw several figures, mostly human, standing over him, including a young man in the robes of a cleric and an older, scowling warrior in ebony armor. They drifted from his view, to be replaced by a tall, blood-colored minotaur whose face bore the scars of many years of battle and who stared at Aryx curiously. Although he seemed old enough to be Aryx’s father, the other minotaur looked capable of besting even the strongest of the champions of the Great Circus. Curiously, however, instead of a kilt and harness, the
crimson minotaur wore an immense dark cloak that seemed to flutter despite there being no wind.

  His image filled Aryx’s world, becoming more distorted with each passing moment. The crimson minotaur leaned forward, as if still uncertain of what he saw. Deep within, Aryx knew that the moment the dream ended, his own life would end with it. He accepted that fact, knowing that if Kiri-Jolith took him, it would be all he could ask for.

  The image of the other minotaur twisted first into fog, then faded into darkness. As the dream came to an end and consciousness slipped away, Aryx heard a human voice mutter, “I would say welcome aboard the Vengeance, warrior, but by the time you recover, you may wish the Maelstrom had taken you instead.…”

  Dread Companions

  Chapter Two

  The realization that he still lived struck Aryx when brief but intense pain jolted him to consciousness. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. Instead of endless miles of the fog-enshrouded Blood Sea, Aryx saw that he lay upon a bunk in the bowels of a ship. A single oil lamp on one wall illuminated his surroundings. Other than the bunk, a simple wooden table, one chair, and a good-sized chest, little else decorated the spartan chamber. The room in which he lay could hold a dozen warriors or more if they did not mind being crowded, but Aryx suspected it instead served some other purpose, perhaps as some officer’s quarters. On the wall opposite him stood the only exit, a strong, wooden door. Gradually bits and pieces of what he had thought to be a dream came back to him, along with the knowledge that the dream had been reality.

  He tried to rise, but stiffness and pain prevented him. Yet the pain proved far less terrible than what he had suffered aboard the Kraken’s Eye. Cautiously Aryx touched his chest, moving his hand down to his stomach. The wounds that should have been fatal had been healed. Only long scars remained. Stunned, Aryx forced himself to a sitting position. This time he found he could fight the pain.

  A detailed examination confirmed his suspicions. All of his wounds had been healed, even the burns from the monsters’ acidic blood. The vague image of a human in clerical robes returned to him. With it came the other images, especially the faces of the cleric’s companions: the knight in ebony, a foreboding presence; the older minotaur, the one with the disturbing, questioning gaze.

  What had one of the humans uttered? I would say welcome aboard the Vengeance, warrior, but by the time you recover, you may wish the Maelstrom had taken you instead. So this warship, carrying both humans and minotaurs, bore the name Vengeance. A name of strength, of determination. Aryx had no quibbles with the choice, but the rest of the other’s words made little sense. Why might he regret being rescued?

  He would find out nothing by remaining in bed. The answers lay without, and he determined to go above deck. Carefully the minotaur lowered his legs from the bunk. They ached, but the pain he had experienced earlier did not return. Greatly encouraged, Aryx placed his feet on the floor, then, adjusting to the ship’s rocking motions, the once-injured warrior stood. At first his legs seemed ready to buckle, but with effort, he kept them straight.

  He looked around for a weapon. Despite the fact that their cleric had healed him, Aryx did not assume that his rescuers were his friends. If marauders, they might want him as a slave or as a source of information. Aryx also wanted a weapon simply because of his own uncertainty. Memories of the monsters that had slaughtered his companions still burned in his mind. What if the creatures attacked this vessel as well? Would even the Vengeance, with its possibly larger crew, be immune from such danger?

  On teetering legs, Aryx began to search. However, he had only just begun when he heard someone at the door. Moving as quietly as he could, the minotaur tried to hide behind it in order to ambush any potential foe.

  The door opened a crack. A voice Aryx had heard once before called out, “If you try to jump me, warrior, you are only going to splatter your dinner over the floor. After a day without food, I would imagine you have a hole in you as big as the Abyss, so you might not want to do that.”

  The gray minotaur stepped to the center of the room and faced the entrance. “All right. I won’t try anything.”

  The door swung open, pushed aside by the same tall, robed human Aryx recalled from his dreams. Pale and blond, he had the solid, earthy features one might have found on a farmer. Blue eyes watched the minotaur with some slight amusement, but the thin mouth remained set in a neutral expression. Aryx wondered if this was the one who had healed him, for the young human wore a cowled robe colored brown and white, and from his neck hung a medallion with the profile of a bison upon it.

  A cleric of Kiri-Jolith! Aryx had met a few such clerics, for they were scarce among his own people. He wondered if he should kneel in the other’s presence, but he held back. This might be a cleric, but he was also a human.

  In one hand, the newcomer held a bowl that contained a concoction that looked like a mixture of fish and seaweed. The handle of a wooden spoon thrust upward from the center of the unsightly contents. The food repelled him, but nevertheless the minotaur’s stomach grumbled loudly. His visitor chuckled. “I hope you still feel that way about it after the fourth or fifth mournful. It tastes as awful as it looks.”

  At the moment, Aryx didn’t care. Once he had hold of the bowl, he quickly began devouring the contents, not even bothering to sit back down on the bunk until well into his meal. The cleric stood over him, watching.

  As the first mouthfuls reached his stomach, Aryx began to calm down. He looked up to study the cleric. Not much older than he, if Aryx reckoned human years correctly. Faint lines under the eyes, though, as if this cleric had lived through some troubles. For a human, the nose seemed a little on the majestic side, although compared to a minotaur’s, it looked like a mere knob. The blond hair hung shoulder-length and seemed well groomed. Perhaps there was a hint of a well-to-do background after all.

  The robed figure handed him a water sack, and Aryx drank thirstily. After the young warrior had returned the sack to him, the stranger asked, “Do you have a name?”

  “Aryx.”

  “What clan?”

  The younger warrior hesitated only briefly. “I am Aryximaraki de-Orilg. My father, Marak, fought in the War of the Lance. My grandfather slew seven ogres in one battle.” With a hint of defiance, he added, “I trace my ancestry directly to Kaziganthi de-Orilg, also known as Kaz of the Axe, Kaz Dragonslayer, Kaz the—”

  “Say no more! Say no more!” His rescuer laughed. “I know all the names. He is spoken of even amongst us humans, although not so openly! It is said he fought side by side with the hero Huma of the Lance. Very impressive, although I know that being one of his descendants cannot have always made it easy for you. His reputation for defiance against the powers-that-be in your kingdoms was well known.” He sobered, pointing at his medallion. “Well, I certainly cannot claim such illustrious ancestry, and my calling is plain to see. You will need a friend aboard, though, and I hope to be one. You may call me Rand.”

  “Well met, Rand.” With some hesitation, they briefly clasped hands. Aryx felt he could trust the cleric … to an extent. “You saved me, didn’t you?”

  “I had that humble honor. In truth, I did not know if I could. Such things are more the field of followers of Mishakal, but Kiri-Jolith granted me such talent.”

  “Thank you.” Aryx took a breath, then asked the questions that had been haunting him since he had awakened. “What is this ship, cleric? A human one, I know, but why is it in these waters? I remember a warrior in black, an older human …”

  “Broedius.” Rand did not speak the name with fondness. “The knight is Lord Broedius. You’ll be meeting him soon.”

  “Why are they here? I also saw another minotaur, a cleric of the state, I think. Where—”

  “Listen to me, Aryx.” When the cleric had Aryx’s full attention, he shook his head and continued. “You will know soon enough what is happening, warrior. As soon as you go up on deck, in fact. Broedius said that as soon as you recovered enoug
h, I was to bring you to him immediately.”

  “Bring me to him?” Aryx tensed, suspecting some sort of inquisition. Humans and minotaurs had never been on very good terms, and a warship meant humans with a mission of conquest … a mission that had, perhaps not so coincidentally, led them deep into minotaur waters.…

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.” Rand stared deep into Aryx’s eyes. “Forget everything you know, warrior!” The cleric seemed to force the next words out. “Forget that your people have been free since the War of the Lance. Forget everything about Krynn you ever thought had to be. It will be better in the long run if you do.” Before Aryx could protest, Rand shook his head. “I know you don’t want to listen, but I have to try. I must take you now to Lord Broedius. There is no choice. You definitely look stronger, and it would not be wise to delay. When you are before him, answer any questions as honestly as you can. Ask no questions of your own.” When Aryx sought to interrupt, the cleric cut him off. “Ask no questions of your own, I said … but listen. If you listen, you will learn. That is all I can say.”

  “Cleric—”

  Rand rose. “Come. I suspect Lord Broedius is already growing impatient. He wanted to question you even as I worked to save your life, minotaur.”

  Curiosity mingled with anxiety. Aryx bit back the questions he wanted to ask. In silence, he followed the human outside, where a faint trace of the musky scent greeted him. Aryx hesitated, recalling the attack, but the trace seemed so weak that he finally decided to push aside his anxiety rather than shame himself before his rescuers.

  Their journey proved a short one, but by the time Aryx stood on deck, he had already learned a great deal. The Vengeance, a great, black-sailed, three-masted vessel, bristled with humans, all clad in dark armor adorned by a skull and death lily pattern. The eyes of each warrior bore an intensity that unsettled him. He had never seen, much less heard of, humans so dedicated to war, save perhaps the Knights of Solamnia, but he knew that these were not the fabled knights. This force had some more dire purpose in mind, something they intended to back up with an impressive show of arms. How many there were on the vast ebony ship he could not estimate, but it was a sizable force indeed.