Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  “I think so.”

  “You are most fortunate to have been granted his company for a time. Truly an experience to cherish for one’s entire life. Now that you return to your mundane existence, you would do best to remember that.”

  The priest’s attitude nearly made Aryx bristle. He did not like being dismissed as inconsequential. “I’m not leaving just yet. The Blessed One wants me to stick around for the foreseeable time.”

  “Oh?” Xerav did not seem at all amused. “You may have been mistaken.”

  “ ‘You will find quarters in my house,’ ” Aryx added. “He said so himself.”

  The high priest steepled his fingers. “I see. One would certainly not mistake such words, would one? Not without fearing his wrath.”

  The young warrior nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Then we shall see if we can find you most suitable quarters.” Xerav pulled himself together. “Will you come this way?”

  Although from then on the priesthood outwardly treated him with respect, Aryx readily noted the sour attitude hidden behind the polite words and conscientious expressions. The high priest soon presented him with a small but suitable chamber, clean and proper, but much farther from Sargonnas than Aryx believed necessary. Moreover, the clerics seemed to be watching for any action or word that they might take for sacrilege. Casually asked questions about his faith ended with raised eyebrows when Aryx did not denounce the worship of Kiri-Jolith and Paladine. While the official face of the state clerics reflected tolerance for the minorities following the ways of the latter gods, especially Kiri-Jolith, Aryx quickly came to realize that the high priest had hoped Sargonnas’s coming would put an end to the other religious factions.

  With great relief, the young minotaur watched as the last acolyte departed. Alone now, he unharnessed his ax, then threw himself on the simple cot. While not the most comfortable, compared to his berth on the Kraken’s Eye the cot felt like soft down. In seconds, Aryx found himself struggling to stay awake. He welcomed the thought of sleep; for a time, he could forget the madness of which he had become a part. Still, disturbing questions played in his mind even now. Aryx could not help wondering what tomorrow would bring.

  “We’re his chosen,” he muttered to the ceiling. “He wouldn’t want to endanger us.”

  Aryx tried hard to believe that … and was still trying when sleep at last claimed him.

  * * * * *

  Gods do not sleep, not in the mortal sense. They may blanket their thoughts for a time, but rest as humans or elves or minotaurs know it is beyond them.

  Secretly, Sargonnas had always envied mortals for this.

  He sat in the grand throne he had created, seeing many things, doing many things, appearing many places. Most mortals did not understand that what they often saw was only part of the god, that at any time he or she might be in three or four other places at the same time. When events grew particularly dire, this meant that the gods could not concentrate on any one thing with the effort that they might desire. Considering also how each had to protect himself against the personal machinations of his own brethren, it seemed a wonder sometimes that they managed to accomplish anything at all.

  Plots, counterplots, plans, dreams … and all for very little in the end. Sargonnas brooded. She plotted again, twisting what should have been a working plan into one of her campaigns for personal victory. All she ever thought about was getting the upper hand over Paladine. Even what they had once shared no longer truly existed. She plotted against him, too.

  Of course, he did the same.

  The minotaurs, his chosen, were to have been the great power after the War of the Lance. Even with the factions split between their worship of him, oh-so-noble Kiri-Jolith, and the Platinum Dragon himself, Sargonnas had been certain of his children’s eventual ascension to glory. Now, once more, he had bowed to her whims, turning the minotaurs once more into slave soldiers.

  Of course, she did not know that this time he had formulated plans of his own. Although he hated her, he also adored her, but too long had she ignored his desires and entreaties. She would have the minotaurs, but not necessarily the way she wanted them.

  He stiffened in the throne. Already the strain took more out of him than he had thought. Fighting on more than one level of existence drained him too much, especially with the plans he had to put into motion at the same time. None of them, not even Paladine nor her, knew just how thin he had spread himself. True, he had help now, help from the only one he trusted to some extent, but would that be sufficient if the veil he had cast over his activities thinned too much? It had proven difficult enough to keep the ships and his work on the islands hidden.

  Sargonnas feared that the veil had already been pierced. He could sense that something lurked in and around the dark, churning waters of the Blood Sea, something beyond the macabre beasts the minotaur had spoken about. Not for a minute had Sargonnas disbelieved Aryximaraki de-Orilg’s fanciful tale, even though such creatures had never been created by either the gods or the cursed Greygem. Perhaps they had other origins, but he doubted that, or else why could he not sense more than a shadow of their presence? They had to have been sent by the Father of All and of Nothing.

  Damn you, Reorx! You should have told us the truth about the Greygem from the start! He stiffened again. Gods do not feel pain as mortals do, not generally, and when they do feel pain, it is on a threshold far beyond that which any mortal could tolerate even for a second. The battle that Sargonnas fought now, a battle that she had only hinted at to her loyal puppets, Ariakan and Broedius, grew more fierce, and the Horned One had few worthy allies, especially among his own band. He already entertained suspicions about some of them, more suspicions than usual.

  Yes, he grew more and more certain that her announced plan had already floundered, that the minotaurs had already been discovered. The knight might believe her absurd Vision, but Sargonnas believed only in reality. The Father of All and of Nothing surely knew that they planned to reinforce those on the main continent, to force him to expend more and more energy on the mortal plane, thereby draining him on all others. A combined, coordinated effort would have struck him a terrible blow, whereas confusion only served his cause. Damn you, Father Chaos!

  Something else, something massive, stirred all around his islands, something shielded even from his piercing gaze. He could protect the islands some, but not as he might once have. She knew that he had spread himself along too many places, not that she would trouble to do so. As much as he desired her in all respects, he hated her for this and other things. Someday he would teach the temptress a lesson for all her tricks and half-truths … that is, if they all survived this.

  Again he felt movement in and around the Blood Sea. At the same time, the battle on those other planes intensified, demanding more of him. Sargonnas braced for the pain, shifting more of his presence from the world of mortals to the beyond. Time to fight back with the intensity that had earned him the title of Lord of Vengeance not only among the mortals but also his own kind.

  Sargonnas’s eyes flickered shut. His body shimmered, growing transparent, as if he had somehow turned into colored glass.

  The battle of the gods raged on.

  * * * * *

  In a vast undersea cavern at the edge of the Blood Sea, dark forms, serpentine in shape, slithered and swarmed about one another, endless forms without head or tail, only body. They moved as one, for in fact they were one. Scaled, green-gold in color, and with segments as thin as reeds or as thick as two full-grown ogres, the swarming mass moved with much agitation, much excitement.

  The time had nearly come to strike. The Magori had gathered, had been told what they must do if they desired to exist. The Lord of All and of Nothing had given permission.

  The Coil could hardly wait.

  * * * * *

  The shadowy outline loomed over him. Aryx’s pathetic little axe bounced off the hard armor of the mist-enshrouded creature. In each three-digited hand, it held a scythe sword.
Aryx tried to back away, but the deck was too slippery, awash with the blood of his fellow crew members, who cried out for his aid.

  The monster swung its weapons, cleanly cutting off first one, then the other arm. Aryx cried out and tried to reach for his fallen arms. His horrific foe waded forward, both swords raised high. The shadowy form filled his view.

  The minotaur screamed as the jagged blades crossed.…

  Aryx woke, gasping. He inhaled deeply, trying to pull himself together. A dream … only a dream. Yet it had played over and over in his head. Each time he relived the battle on his ship, each time the attack growing more brutal, more hopeless. Aryx saw each of them die … Jasi, Hugar, Feresi, Krym, Hercal, and the rest. He saw the murky shapes of the abominations again and again, slaughtering everything that moved.…

  The weary minotaur doubted that he would ever forget the deaths, but he prayed that at least he could live with the nightmares. Aryx wondered how others survived such dreams, or if perhaps only he suffered them. Somehow he doubted that.

  Perhaps if he tried thinking of his family—his brothers, sister, and parents. He had meant to see them when he returned from his voyage aboard the Kraken’s Eye, but the extraordinary circumstances of his arrival had kept him from even thinking much of them. Somehow he would make contact with them, providing that they, too, were home.

  Aryx exhaled, feeling a little better. The phantoms of his shame retreated. He now became aware of a distant noise. The Knights of Takhisis at work already? Lord Broedius seemed adamant about getting matters moving ahead regardless of how hard this would all be for the minotaurs to accept. To surrender their freedom, especially to servants of the Dark Queen, was unthinkable.

  The world under Takhisis. Not something to appeal to any minotaur, since the Dark Queen had generally seen fit to utilize the minotaurs as fodder. Even the fact that Sargonnas, her reputed consort, saw the minotaurs as his people had never seemed to hold sway with Takhisis … and now the Horned One himself had given them over to her minions. Why?

  Thinking of Sargonnas, Aryx recalled the god’s command. Sargonnas had made it very clear that he wanted the young warrior to come to him at a certain hour, the reason for which the Lord of Vengeance had not bothered to elaborate. However, when a god commanded, it generally improved one’s chances of survival to obey without question.

  Despite being without a method by which to tell the time, Aryx felt certain that he had not missed the hour. He quickly readied himself, deciding to leave his axe ready in his back harness. No sense going about unarmed, even here. He did not expect attacks by the priesthood, but also did not know what Sargonnas might have in mind for him.

  Acolytes were already hard at work in the temple, the high priest no doubt wanting his god’s place of worship in good order since Sargonnas had taken up residence. Some looked up at him as he passed, and Aryx could sense both their curiosity and distrust. The priests had been trained in the belief that, since they were the most dedicated of the Horned One’s children, they were the ones he would most appreciate. To see an outsider so honored—not that Aryx thought of it that way—had to grate them.

  He would have gladly given up the dubious distinction if only he knew how.

  Although torches and oil lamps illuminated most of the temple, the area around the great doors leading to Sargonnas’s chamber remained dark. Aryx wondered whether that was by the god’s choice.

  He reached up to knock, then paused. From the acolytes, he had learned that a few minutes still remained. Sargonnas had specifically commanded him to knock when the hour struck, and Aryx suspected the god had a particular reason for that command. The minotaur doubted that Sargonnas simply wanted to be awakened.

  Minutes passed, minutes in which Aryx wondered whether the clerics had forgotten to ring the bell. Then, just as he grew particularly edgy, the hour struck.

  He reached up and knocked.

  At first there was no response, but then the tall bronze doors shuddered, as if an immense wind within tried to shake them loose. The shuddering increased, growing to such intensity that several acolytes and priests came to see what had happened. Aryx stood back, not at all certain that the doors would not fly off toward him.

  The shuddering abruptly ceased. Then, from within, came a sound, at first like a hiss, but almost immediately more resembling a groan like that a ship would make on the high seas as the waves tossed it about. The priests backed away, but Aryx refused to step back.

  The groaning ended.

  The doors slowly creaked open.

  “Enter.”

  Aryx obeyed. The priests started to follow, but the doors shut behind the lone warrior before the others could step inside. Aryx looked around at the massive chamber, somewhat disappointed to find that it had not dramatically altered despite the ominous actions. He had also thought that Sargonnas might have redecorated the entire interior in some fashion suitable to his station, but the shadowy deity had made few, if any, changes. The same high-backed throne perched in the midst of the great chamber, although now it seemed decorated with scrollwork and two fanciful avian figures resembling birds of prey. Upon the intricate chair sat the Horned One, still in human form. Aryx began to wonder whether Sargonnas had even budged from the throne since the night before.

  Suddenly the wary minotaur blinked. For the briefest of moments, he thought that Sargonnas faded slightly. The stylized condor pattern on the back of the chair appeared and disappeared, as if he who sat upon it had vanished, however briefly. The warrior blinked again, but now Sargonnas did indeed sit before him, every bit as solid as any normal person. Had Aryx been mistaken?

  “I am not your god,” Sargonnas quietly uttered.

  His words startled the dusky gray minotaur, for he did not know how to take them. Had the shadowy figure confessed to some great hoax? Surely not. No mage could have done what he had.

  “Corij lays claim to you … far more claim than I could ever make.”

  At first Aryx did not recognize the name, but then he recalled it from an encounter with an Ergothian trader. The Ergothians called Kiri-Jolith by that title, among others.

  The crimson orbs flashed as Sargonnas continued. “But Corij is not here and I am, and so foremost you are of my chosen, a warrior dedicated to honor and duty … concepts that some might claim at odds with who I am.” The god stared at him, and not for the first time, Aryx felt he looked into the minotaur’s soul. “You have done as you were bid. Now you may go, but you will return at this time tomorrow and each morning after without fail until I tell you otherwise.”

  With that said, Sargonnas closed his eyes as if resting. Aryx did not move immediately, the abruptness of his dismissal momentarily catching him off guard. He had only just arrived, and now Sargonnas had commanded him to depart. Aryx stared at the ominous figure on the throne, trying to decipher him. Then, still more than a little disgruntled, the minotaur finally backed out of the chamber. However, long after the doors shut behind him he continued to seethe within, feeling like a puppet.

  “Gods,” muttered Aryx, seeing no one would hear him. “They’re all mad!” Yet he also wondered if there had been more to Sargonnas’s short ramblings than simply madness. Sargonnas had many secrets he no doubt did not feel he needed to share with mortals, and some of those secrets clearly pressed on him. What would bother a god so?

  Suddenly he noticed a band of priests, Xerav in the lead, headed toward him. The high priest regarded the warrior with a veiled expression. “You have spoken with him?”

  Aryx nodded. “I have.”

  “We must see him about important matters. We have been waiting.”

  The warrior pointed at the great doors. “Try knocking, then. It seems to work. Excuse me now. I must be going.”

  He made his way through the hostile throng, never looking back. Aryx marveled at his own behavior. A year ago he would have never dared to speak to the high priest in such a flippant tone.

  It would probably be prudent if he left the temple f
or a time, returning to the outside world. Sargonnas had told him when to come back.

  Outside, the first traces of light had just appeared on the horizon, casting a peculiar tone over the entire city. A thin mist also filled the air, not an uncommon sight this close to the sea, but one that reminded Aryx too much of the events surrounding the slaughter aboard the Kraken’s Eye. He shivered, but fortunately there were few around to notice.

  The slim minotaur looked around, for the first time drinking in some of the details around him. Foremost, Aryx noticed the exterior of the temple itself, which he had not had the opportunity to see, considering the unusual circumstances of his arrival the night before. Utilitarian in many ways, as often was the case with government structures, the central temple of the Holy Order of Stars resembled an oval ball half-buried in the earth. A pair of towers offset the effect to some extent, but not enough to erase the image from Aryx’s mind. There were, of course, the obligatory statues of Sargonnas in his minotaur form, mighty titans guarding the entrance with crossed axes. Bas-reliefs of the god’s head had also been carved into the front walls near the great doors. Seeing them now after having spent so much time in the company of the actual deity, Aryx found them somewhat deficient in their rendering.

  Some distance from the temple stood a tall, wide edifice with an arched roof, marble columns, and a long series of wide steps in front. What at first seemed a sculpted park surrounded the building, a park patrolled by legions of wary sentries ready to strike down any and all unauthorized intruders. Although impressive in its size, like the temple, it also lacked personality. A few windows equipped with small balconies dotted the upper levels of the structure, which stood some five stories high, but otherwise it appeared even more subdued than the building from which Aryx had emerged. In so many ways, the minotaurs tended toward the functional, and the palace of the emperor served to reflect that attitude as well.

  Aryx wondered what Chot did now. Once the emperor had ruled two kingdoms, but now … now who needed him when a god walked the streets and barbarians from the mainland had control of the capital?