Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  The sword moved. Instead of meeting the edge of the axe, its wielder brought the blade under it, then up. He caught Garith’s weapon beneath the head, twisted his wrist … and tore the axe free. As the massive weapon went flying into the air, the self-proclaimed god brought the blade down.

  It had to be his imagination, but Aryx thought he heard the sword wail briefly just before it dug deep into the chest of the councillor. At first, Garith did not even seem to realize that he had been slain. He looked around, puzzled, as if wondering where his weapon had gone. Then the shaggy warrior’s eyes rolled up, and he collapsed on the arena floor, blood already drenching him.

  A movement caught Aryx’s eye. He reacted without thinking, throwing himself toward the crimson victor and raising his axe high in the air. He heard something ricochet off the side of the axe head. A gasp came from several onlookers within the emperor’s box.

  Rising to his feet, Aryx looked toward the sound. One of Garith’s aides lay dying, a slim dagger embedded in his throat. From what someone else shouted, it appeared he had tried to avenge his superior’s death, but Aryx’s quick act had caused the blade to deflect back to its owner. The gray minotaur eyed his weapon, then glanced at the one whose life he had just protected. A brief confrontation with those scarlet orbs left him wondering if luck had been the only force behind the dagger’s miraculous turn.

  All thought concerning the dagger vanished as a rumbling noise rose from every side of the coliseum, a noise that did not originate from the crowd. Chot and every other minotaur, Aryx included, turned about, trying to discover the cause. The long, low rumble reminded Aryx of a great landslide he had once witnessed while part of an expedition sent by Captain Jasi to search an island. Hundreds of tons of rock had come cascading down just a short distance from the crew’s encampment. The sound had remained burned into his mind, for until the slaughter of those aboard the Kraken’s Eye, it had been the most momentous event in his young life.

  A commotion far above caught his attention. Minotaurs in the topmost sections had scattered from their seats, looking back as if something were following them. Aryx saw nothing at first save a line of gray-furred warriors moving slowly forward. Then, as he squinted, he realized that they were the source of the din.

  The statues of every champion had come to life.

  Aryx turned around, surveying the stunning spectacle. The marble figures moved slowly, but with purpose, forming a long row that circled the top of the circus. Stone groaned against stone as they marched into position. Aryx glanced at the emperor and saw that Chot watched, as stunned as the rest.

  The stone champions paused, their empty gazes focused downward. Then, as one, they raised the weapons that the artisans had carved for them in salute. As if the marvels he had witnessed had not been sufficient, Aryx gaped as each and every unliving champion roared out a victory cry, followed by the name of him they saluted.

  The name “Sargonnas” echoed throughout the Great Circus, and even well beyond. In fact, not all the cries came from within the arena. It dawned on Aryx that likely every such statue in the capital repeated the god’s name. The young warrior wondered what those outside the arena must be thinking of the moving figures and the shouts of “Sargonnas” issuing from their stone throats. He doubted that anyone in Nethosak could have avoided hearing the great cries. Again and again the stone figures roared the Horned One’s name: “Sargonnas! Sargonnas!”

  Fire burst from all around the tall figure on the arena floor, sending both Aryx and Lord Broedius back several steps. A blazing corona surrounded the self-proclaimed god, a corona that crackled and sent brief, jagged shocks of lightning shooting out in all directions. Aryx had never witnessed anything like it and sincerely doubted that any mortal could have wielded the power to do all of this, not even the legendary human mage Raistlin.

  With the simple wave of a hand, the crimson minotaur silenced his unliving worshipers. At the same moment, the blazing corona extinguished itself, leaving not even a whiff of smoke behind.

  Sargonnas turned his baleful gaze on Emperor Chot. Without hesitation, Chot fell to one knee. The others within the box immediately followed. Row after row of minotaurs in the stands sank to the same position. Caught between his own worship of Kiri-Jolith and the fact that a god now stood next to him, Aryx reluctantly knelt. Only two living figures still stood: Sargonnas and the Knight of Takhisis.

  That the Horned One did not strike down the unbeliever made no sense, but Sargonnas did not even seem to notice the human’s blasphemy. He held up the jeweled blade, turned once more to survey his children, then faced Chot again.

  “Rise, Chot Es-Kalin.”

  The emperor obeyed. Aryx noticed he did not face the living god like some defeated warrior. “My throne is yours, Blessed One. There can be no emperor in the presence of a god.”

  “I have no concern about mortal thrones … only about the welfare of my chosen.” The crimson minotaur looked up at the stricken crowd, his voice carrying to each. “I have come in this hour to my children to let them know that their time of destiny is at hand! The war of wars has come to Ansalon, to all Krynn, and the minotaur race must be prepared to play its most vital part! The balance of the world has shifted, and if you, my children, will not be integral to its future, you will be of its unlamented past!”

  The statues cheered again, and as they did, the audience began to cheer also, possibly without fully understanding why. They knew only that Sargas—or Sargonnas, as the god himself seemed to prefer—had a duty for them to fulfill … and had that not always been the basis for their existence? Even those who worshiped Kiri-Jolith or Paladine himself could not help but feel some pride. Aryx’s chest swelled. He had dreamed of rising high among his kind, earning a captaincy or better, and this grand adventure the Horned One spoke of sounded like a return to the days of true champions, true heroes. Aryx had missed the War of the Lance, but now he had the opportunity to prove himself in what would be one of the few wars in which the minotaurs fought for their own glory, not that of a master.

  Sargonnas had come to lead his children to their destiny.

  The dusky gray minotaur found himself cheering. Even the emperor cheered, although with a bit less enthusiasm. Chot no doubt felt some disappointment at no longer being needed, but he would come to accept it.

  We have been enslaved, but we have always thrown off our shackles. We have been driven back, but always returned to the fray stronger than before. We have risen to new heights when all other races have fallen into decay. We are the future of Krynn, the fated masters of the entire world. We are the children of destiny.

  The day of destiny had finally come.

  Suddenly Sargonnas brought the jeweled blade down hard, cutting a swath in the air. The baneful sword wailed, a shuddering sound that silenced the crowd in the Great Circus in midcry. Even the animated statues ceased chanting, as if they, too, had been caught by surprise.

  “The greatest force that has ever been raised by you, my children, must be ready within weeks, even days, for a foe more terrible than any ever known has already struck! From beyond has come a horror that calls itself the Chaos, and it would lay waste to Mithas and Kothas, Ansalon, all of Krynn! The Knights of Solamnia will be helpless, despite their courage and honor. The dwarves of Thorbardin will find no protection behind their gates. The elves will discover that no forest can hide them for long. Only one race has the will to stand against the Chaos! The elves, knights, dwarves, and the rest of the lesser races will find that, in the end, it is the minotaurs who will be their saviors!”

  As the crimson minotaur finished, Broedius stepped up beside him, as if he somehow deserved to stand on equal terms beside the chief god of Aryx’s people. It seemed a wonder that Sargonnas did not simply swat him aside.

  Only then did Aryx recall what he had been told while aboard the Vengeance.

  “By honor’s face!” Aryx muttered to himself. “He would not do that!”

  “Chot Es-Kalin.” Fiery orbs st
ared down the emperor. “You will have all generals, all commanders, all ship captains gathered immediately. Plans must be finalized.”

  Chot quickly recovered his wits. “Yes, Blessed One! They shall be gathered as quickly as can be, ready to hear and obey your every command.”

  “No. Not mine.”

  The emperor tried to hide his confusion. “Blessed One, I do not under—”

  Lord Broedius took a step forward. “Your people will report to me, Chot. In the name of my lady and queen, Takhisis, and by her pact with her consort and your god, Sargonnas, I take charge of these islands and all who live on them!”

  “A hu—” With great effort, Chot smothered his horror. “That is—”

  “That is the way of things,” Sargonnas interjected, his tone brooking no rebellion. He still spoke so that all could hear, whether they now desired to or not. “Before a fortnight passes, the minotaur legions will ready themselves, sail to the mainland, and fight … under the command of my queen’s knights.”

  Roars of protest arose, too many elder warriors recalling the yoke of slavery the minotaurs had worn in the last war. Now their own god had decreed that they return to the yoke willingly. Had there been weapons allowed in the audience, a riot such as none had ever witnessed would have surely taken place then, god or not.

  Sargonnas eyed them. The words that he spoke next were surprisingly tender, yet still struck like an axe. “The gods have decreed that all of this will be so … and so it will be.”

  He turned away then and as he did, he transformed one last time. No longer did he appear as a tall, imposing minotaur warrior, but with each step away from his children, he looked more and more like a human.…

  The Temple of Sargonnas

  Chapter Four

  As Sargonnas stalked past, his gaze briefly settled on Aryx. Even in human form, his eyes disturbed Aryx so much that the minotaur had to tear his gaze away.

  “Come” was all the god said and all he really needed to say. Aryx obeyed immediately, despite misgivings. Behind him, the young warrior could hear Broedius giving commands to Emperor Chot—the beginning of a new age of slavery, this time sanctioned by the gods themselves.

  “All minotaurs of fighting age will begin to gather at designated points to be set by the morrow. Runners will be sent from Lacynos to all points on Mithas. Messengers will then be sent by ship to Kothas.”

  Aboard the Vengeance, Aryx had learned that the knights called Nethosak by another, typically human sort of name: Lacynos. It served now as a reminder that minotaurs no longer ruled their own home.

  The cloak Sargonnas had worn in minotaur form leapt from the ground to fasten itself around his neck, all the while fluttering as if blown by some mad wind. The sallow figure in black armor reached out, spreading the cloak even wider. Aryx didn’t notice until too late that it was once more about to envelop him. He had time only to take a deep breath before the Great Circus vanished and the unsettling darkness devoured everything.

  The folds of the cloak reopened almost immediately, but not to the sight the dusky gray minotaur had expected. Instead, he now stood beside the god in the midst of a great temple, where massive figures of Sargonnas, the Horned One, looked down upon them. Torches lit the interior, revealing the vastness of the chamber. Tapestries commemorated the deeds of the chief god of the minotaurs, including battles against sea serpents, raising high Argon’s Chain—the string of volcanoes that dotted Mithas—and bringing the first minotaurs to the safety of the land they would call home.

  Great condors of gold perched over the inner entrance to the chamber, sculpted with such care Aryx almost thought them alive. In their talons, they clutched struggling figures, metallic dragons cast in what seemed to be platinum.

  Two acolytes in gray robes let out gasps and scurried away. Sargonnas, still in human form, paid them no mind, instead staring up at his carved images as if not entirely recognizing them. The avian cast of his present features made him seem more akin to the condors than to his own statues. Under dark, narrow brows, his crimson orbs, the only features unchanged, took in everything with what seemed self-mockery. The thin, bloodless lips curled slightly downward. Sargonnas said not a word, although Aryx would have dearly loved to know why he had been given the honor of becoming the traveling companion to a deity. Other than the fact that he had ended up on the Vengeance, he saw no reason why Sargonnas should honor him so. In fact, Aryx would have been pleased if the Horned One—a title something of a misnomer at the moment—had completely forgotten him.

  The acolytes returned with a full legion of robed figures, foremost among them one clad in the robes of the high priest himself. Tall and thin of fur atop his head, the elderly high priest made a sorry contrast to the stern figure he approached, but at least he was a minotaur. Aryx found it both curious and disturbing that Sargonnas had elected to retain his human shape rather than that of one of his children.

  “Blessed One! Forgive us for not making your welcome a proper one! We knew you first to be at the docks, then in the arena! We’ve made preparations, but they’re up front, not here in the central chamber! Please forgive us!” As if he had not abased himself enough, the high priest fell to his knees. A wave of robed forms followed his action.

  While Aryx could not blame the clerics for showing their obedience, he found their actions a bit revolting. Perhaps because he was not a follower of Sargonas, he did not see their intensity as quite appropriate. Minotaurs believed in dignity and honor. The clerics fairly fawned over their master.

  “You have made ready all I ordered, Xarav?”

  “Yes, Great Sargas.”

  “You will call me Sargonnas.” Thinner and more angular than minotaurs, the god nonetheless looked easily capable of taking any of the robed figures and crushing the life out of him with one hand.

  “Yes, my Lord Sargonnas!”

  “This chamber will serve as my domain.”

  “This?” the high priest looked around. “Great Sargonnas, I’ve set aside my very own chambers for your pleasure! While you grace us with your earthly visitation, you must have nothing but the best.”

  “This chamber will be mine.” Sargonnas eyed the looming statues. “The better to remember myself,” he added cryptically.

  “As you command! These humble priests and acolytes will remain here at all hours to serve your needs.”

  “I need no one. No one will enter this chamber unless I summon him.”

  Xerav swallowed hard. “As you command.”

  “I do. You will all leave me now … all save you.” The last referred to Aryx. Xerav glanced jealously at the young warrior, wondering, no doubt, as Aryx did, why this one should be so blessed. Unwilling to question his god, the elderly minotaur rose and, bowing, backed out of the chamber. Aryx found the departure almost humorous, the many robed figures occasionally colliding with one another as they backed up. The last of the group respectfully shut the huge bronze doors.

  When they were alone, Sargonnas faced him. Suddenly the god sat on an ornate, high-backed throne that had not existed prior to the priests’ departure. The sinister blade he had used on Councillor Garith now hung from a sheath at his side, the green stone seeming to wink at the minotaur. The god closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his strength. For a deity of such power, Aryx thought Sargonnas looked rather weary.

  “At one hour before dawn, you will come to me. Listen for the bell marking the fifth hour. Knock then. No sooner, no later. If I do not summon you immediately, you will stand before the doors and try thrice more.” He did not ask if Aryx understood, only acted as if what he commanded made perfect sense. “You will also find quarters in my house.”

  “The priests won’t be happy with my company,” Aryx pointed out.

  “They will make do. You are permitted to leave now. I must think … and plan.” As he finished speaking, Sargonnas raised his left arm. A flutter of massive wings echoed throughout the immense chamber. The minotaur looked up, spotting the huge form as it de
scended.

  A condor alighted onto the arm of the god, but this was no ordinary bird. The condor shared the same burning eyes as its master, and streaks of fire offset its otherwise ebony plumage. It eyed the mortal as if trying to decide whether to make him its next meal. Sargonnas stroked it, treating it almost like a beloved child. He no longer paid the slightest attention to Aryx.

  Recalling that he had been dismissed, Aryx turned away, leaving the god to his pet. The uneasy minotaur wondered where the bird had come from; he could see no openings in the top of the room. Of course, a pet of Sargonnas’s did not necessarily arrive by mortal means.

  As he departed from the chamber, Aryx heard the dark deity quietly command, “Tell me what she does now.…”

  Another voice, almost a whisper, spoke, but fortunately for Aryx’s nerves, once he shut the bronze doors behind him, the warrior could not make out what it said.

  The entire encounter had left the warrior confused and anxious. Sargonnas had hardly turned out to be what the minotaur had expected, but he supposed gods were well beyond mortal comprehension. He had heard that the god Paladine sometimes walked the world, wearing the most outlandish forms. The same had been said about some of the other deities, but Aryx had assumed that Sargonnas would be different, that the Horned One would have remained ever in the form recognized by his chosen.

  More than the dark god’s choice of shapes, Sargonnas’s mood and actions disturbed him. Much had been left unsaid, much that Aryx suspected touched the minotaur race heavily. He wondered what those things were, then wondered if he really wanted to know.

  Suddenly the high priest and several tall, muscular acolytes blocked his path. The senior cleric looked down his especially long muzzle at Aryx. “The Blessed One is satisfied with his surroundings?”