Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  “What do you mean?”

  Drejjen’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword. “As a matter of fact, I’ve orders to find this one. I thought I’d have to search all over this stinking city for him, but the Lady’s favored me today.”

  “Me?” Aryx now regretted putting away the axe. “Why do you want me?”

  “Oh, I don’t want you at all, bull,” the Knight of Takhisis returned smoothly. “But Lord Broedius does … quite urgently, too. He said to bring you in.” Drejjen clamped his hand on the hilt. “Do you have any objections?”

  The minotaur cursed and started to reach for his axe again, then saw something in the officer’s eyes that made him pause. Drejjen baited him, wanted Aryx to create a conflict. The knight could not have lied about Lord Broedius wanting him, though, Aryx suspected. If that were the case, then it served the minotaur better to choose a path other than battle.

  Aryx lowered his hand again, briefly glimpsing disappointment in Drejjen’s face. “Very well. If Lord Broedius needs me, I’ll come.”

  “As will we,” Rand added, saving Seph from making a protest that would have only served the knight’s hidden cause.

  Drejjen clearly did not want them along, but also knew better than to protest. With more than a little venom in his voice, he turned away from them, taking his anger out on his men. “What are you waiting for? Form ranks and get moving!”

  The Knights of Takhisis immediately filed out of the inn. Drejjen waited until the last had left, then glanced at the trio. “We’ll await you outside.”

  “We had best follow him quickly,” the cleric suggested after the officer had departed. “He will seek every opportunity to stir you into some terrible mistake.”

  “It wouldn’t take much from him,” Aryx growled. Still, he saw the blond human’s point. “All right. Let’s go, Seph.”

  They marched out to find Drejjen and his men waiting. The knights formed a square around them, making it look more as if the minotaurs were prisoners rather than allies.

  Were they prisoners? Aryx realized he had no idea what Broedius wanted from him. He had originally assumed his part in this to be over once he had left the ship, yet still Aryx had been drawn back in, first by Sargonnas and now by the knight. What did the dark-eyed commander want with a simple warrior?

  The gray minotaur grunted. He would find out soon enough, whether he wanted to or not.

  The House of Orilg

  Chapter Five

  The Obsidian Axe had been at sea for some time, but soon, Krag knew, they would reach their destination. The husky black minotaur could hardly wait to see the homeland … or anything else, for that matter. The fog they had come upon the other day refused to lift, making day almost as dark as night and certainly murkier.

  With the wind so quiet, the crew had taken to the oars, which meant only a few hands on deck. One of those, First Mate Belso, a barrel-chested brawler with eyes like a hawk, stood in the crow’s nest, trying to make out anything through the murky fog.

  “Well?” Krag called.

  “Like starin’ into the woolly side of a sheep!” the tawny first mate replied. “And about as bad a stench, too!”

  There the captain had to agree with him. The peculiar musky smell had increased over the past few hours. Krag had peered over the side more than once, trying to see if some huge sea mammal or something swam nearby, but the Blood Sea revealed nothing.

  “Captain, I’m doin’ no good up—Hold on!” Belso leaned to the port side, peering out into the fog. Krag turned in the same direction, but only thick mist greeted him. He looked up at the first mate.

  “Thought I saw somethin’, but no.…”

  For some reason, the black minotaur did not like that hesitation. “What did you think you saw?”

  After a moment of consideration, the other sailor called, “I thought … I thought I saw a serpent … a huge one!”

  The Blood Sea held many mysteries, but Krag had never come across a sea serpent. He began to wonder if his first mate had been dipping into the rum rations before coming on duty. “A serpent, Belso?”

  “Probably not, Captain. It looked like a long tubular form as big as me … but my eyes’re probably playin’ tricks. This damned fog is gettin’ to me, I’m not too proud to say, sir.”

  It had been getting to all of them. Captain Krag leaned on the rail, studying the murky water. Minotaurs did not spook easily, but the veteran sailor knew his nerves were on edge, and so were the nerves of every other member of the crew.

  He tried to calm himself by listening to the rhythmic stroking of the oars. Something good and solid about the oars. They made him think of the strength and skill needed to keep the ship on course rather than moving in circles. Better a good arm and a sturdy oar than some cleric’s or mage’s contrary spells. Krag had heard of human vessels that had made use of such, often to their misfortune. Not minotaurs, though. Krag would never have relied on …

  The water just beyond bubbled slightly.

  The captain leaned over. For a moment, he thought he saw a massive tubular form much as Belso had described. Stuff and nonsense! He’d sailed these waters long enough to know that if he avoided the blasted Maelstrom, he had little to fear. Any minotaur with an ounce of brains learned early how to avoid the hazards of the treacherous sea, and those who did not lay at the bottom of it, food for the fish.

  A dark shape swelled momentarily above the water, a dark shape of gargantuan proportions.

  “Sargas preserve us …” The captain backed away from the rail.

  “Captain Krag!” Belso called out, clearly having sighted the same shape.

  Krag turned. “All remaining hands to the oars! Double-time strokes! All remaining hands to—”

  His mouth hung open as an arch rose from the sea and quickly towered over the ship. Even in the fog, Krag could see that it had scales like a snake, a vast serpent, green-gold in color. Yet if this was a serpent, it kept its head and tail beneath the surface, an awkward position for such a titan.

  Unable to turn or halt its progress in time, the Obsidian Axe sailed beneath the monstrous arch. A torrent of seawater dripping off the massive shape drenched the crew.

  “Get those oars moving!” Krag had an uneasy feeling about the way the living arch patiently waited. He could see the pulsing of the great body, almost feel the rhythm of its movements. It waited, waited for the correct moment.

  The minotaur ship moved directly beneath it.

  “Sargas save us …” the black minotaur whispered. He waited for the inevitable, knowing he could do nothing.

  The serpentine form came crashing down.

  The Obsidian Axe splintered. Minotaurs screamed as fragments of the ship flew in every direction. Those below had no chance of survival. Krag saw his first mate go flying from the crow’s nest. Another sailor screamed as one of the masts crashed down on him. A heavy plank struck the captain in his midsection, cracking ribs and throwing him off what remained of the deck. He struck the water hard.

  Krag rolled in the water, wondering what he had done to upset Zeboim so. Surely only she could be responsible for such a catastrophe.

  The waves tossed him about. Someone cried out, but the cry cut off abruptly. Krag tried to make out other survivors, but the fog hindered him.

  Suddenly he saw a form swimming in his direction. Krag gradually recognized it as none other than First Mate Belso. The monster’s attack had thrown him clear, and, as ever, the huge first mate’s prime duty remained his captain. Krag tried to wave to him, but his injuries slowed any efforts.

  Suddenly Belso stopped short. He gazed down into the water, his eyes widening. He had time only to gasp before something pulled him under. Blood stained the dark sea. Krag searched desperately, but his second never resurfaced.

  Sharks? The captain found that hard to believe. It generally took several minutes for them to arrive. A horrific thought occurred to him. Had the serpent returned?

  The water around him began to bubble … an
d then a hideous shadowed form like that of no creature Krag had seen on the face of Krynn rose out of the Blood Sea. Eyes, too many eyes, stared unblinking at the stunned mariner. A sinewy maw snapped open, revealing row upon row of teeth. In the back of his mind, Krag knew somehow that this could be no creature of the sea goddess. This monstrosity had no right to even exist on this world.

  The barbed lance that the horror wielded skewered him through the chest with such speed that the captain’s expression remained one of astonishment even after he died. Krag’s body twitched several times before finally growing limp. The minotaur’s killer shook the lance once more for good measure, testing for any sign of life.

  A moment later, victor and victim vanished beneath the waves. The fog continued to thicken, burying any last traces of the Obsidian Axe from sight.

  * * * * *

  Aryx marched defiantly toward the headquarters of the Knights of Takhisis, a lesser clan house near the port now usurped by the human invaders. Young though he was, even Aryx knew the insult that the knights had heaped not only upon that clan, but the rest as well. If the humans would take from the lesser, they would soon grow bold enough to demand from the great houses as well.

  Orilg, for one, would never stand for that.

  A full legion, or talon, if Aryx recalled the proper term, of knights lined the grounds of the clan house. The dusky gray warrior noted others—archers, watching from the top of the three-story structure. Broedius had chosen well. The house, belonging to Clan Skalas, was of recent origin, which enabled that clan to fortify it with the latest and strongest materials. They had also lined the roof with battlements, creating a miniature castle much like those of the humans. Perhaps that made the knights feel more at home here.

  Messengers and soldiers continually entered and exited from Lord Broedius’s stronghold, many of them clearly emissaries from Aryx’s people. One wore the insignia of an imperial aide, which meant that the commanding knight had forced Chot to deal on Broedius’s terms. Aryx doubted that many human aides rushed to the palace.

  Drejjen led them past the guards and into the tall edifice. The wary minotaur marveled at so many knights; he had never really discovered just how many there had been aboard the Vengeance, much less her sister ships. Carnelia’s brief mention had only given him a vague idea, which he already saw had been a severe underestimation.

  As if hearing her name in his thoughts, Carnelia herself appeared at the iron doors that no doubt led into what had once been the clan elder’s hall. She returned Drejjen’s perfunctory salute, but not before glancing at Rand. Again Aryx suspected that the cleric and the female knight had some secret—or perhaps not so secret—understanding.

  “As commanded,” Drejjen announced. “The minotaur Aryximaraki de-Orilg.”

  Carnelia nodded, then eyed Seph. “And the other?”

  “Aryx’s brother,” Rand interjected. “He is with me.”

  Her eyes widened briefly at that, but she seemed to accept it. To Drejjen, she said, “Well done. You will now take your command and supervise the fitting of Ariakan’s Victory, the three-masted ship still labeled The Hand of Orilg.”

  Aryx’s eyes narrowed and he barely contained himself. The Hand of Orilg had still been under construction when he left Nethosak aboard the Kraken’s Eye. Now, if he understood her correctly, the knights had not only taken her for their use, but they had also stripped her of her proper title.

  Drejjen nodded, but with a surreptitious glance at Aryx, he added, “I know the vessel. A scow unworthy of the name. I thought these minotaurs were supposed to be exceptional shipwrights. I’ve not seen a decent vessel in this port.”

  “That’ll be enough of that,” Carnelia snapped, seeming not so upset over his remarks as his hesitation to obey. “You have your orders.”

  “As you command.” The officer saluted, then, with his men, departed.

  Aryx watched Drejjen leave, his ire still dangerously near to erupting. Rand put a hand on his shoulder, a warning. Belatedly Aryx realized that Carnelia was watching him, possibly waiting for his reaction.

  The minotaur exhaled. “All right! I’m here. Why?”

  “Lord Broedius will answer that,” was all she would say. Carnelia indicated the doors.

  “You must go alone from here,” Rand whispered.

  Snorting, the wary warrior marched forward. He expected the sentries at the doors to demand his axe, but to his mild astonishment, they simply opened the way for him. Bracing himself, Aryx continued on, noting the great hall that had been stripped of all clan markings and the few bits of furniture, around which several angry minotaurs and humans eyed one another. Chief among the humans stood Broedius himself, his black, penetrating eyes sweeping up to the newcomer from a chart on the vast oak table before him.

  “And here he is,” the commander remarked blandly. “As I said he would be.”

  A score of minotaur faces turned to inspect him, their insignia and cloaks enough to mark them as high-ranking generals. Aryx recognized Hojak of the Supreme Circle, but no one else. As a fairly young warrior, Aryx had not had close contact with any of the senior commanders, although he recognized one as a distant clan member.

  “This is the Blessed One’s favored?” that one asked, looking somewhat incredulous.

  “You saw him in the circus,” Broedius replied.

  “Aryximaraki,” the unknown general pronounced. “Do you know who I am?”

  Aryx tried to remain stalwart, although suddenly he wished that he could return to the safety of his quarters in the temple. To be of interest to these senior commanders could not be a good thing. “No … no, sir. I’ve been away for well over a year, and—”

  “The Kraken’s Eye, yes …” Several of the other generals muttered, as if somehow the ship meant much to them. “A pity, that.” He straightened. Although graying, especially around the muzzle, the broad-shouldered general reminded Aryx of his father, Marak. Several scars along the side of the elder warrior’s face attested to years of battle experience. The scars also served to jog Aryx’s memory. This general not only stood as a clan member, but he was also a distant cousin of sorts. “I am General Geryl of House Orilg, member of the Supreme Circle and speaker for this delegation.”

  General Geryl. Aryx immediately knelt, recognizing the tall, stately warrior as one of the champions of the realm. “I am your servant, Geryl.”

  “On the contrary, we are more likely yours, lad.”

  Aryx only barely caught the irony in Geryl’s tone, so stunned had he been by the actual words. “Sir?”

  Geryl frowned. “Up off the floor, blast you!” He glared at Broedius, who, for the first time that Aryx could recall, wore the ghost of a smile. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

  “He was your choice, too,” the knight replied simply.

  “We had no choice.” The general approached Aryx. “It seems, warrior, that there must be someone to coordinate matters between our allies, the humans here, and our own people. This one here”—Geryl indicated Broedius—“would have none of us, but rather the one with whom the Blessed One himself chose to travel. As it turns out, word has already spread of this mysterious warrior who walks with gods, a warrior whom some few in the crowd recognized as being of my own clan.” Tired but still capable brown eyes studied Aryx. “One who must be more than he seems.”

  The assembled generals and knights all stared at Aryx as if marking him for target practice. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I am General Geryl to you, or if you choose, simply Geryl. I … we … will be addressing you as Administrator General and will, it seems, be taking our lead from you in all matters concerning the eventual shipping out of our warriors to the mainland.”

  A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. Otherwise how could such madness actually exist? “You can’t be serious!”

  “You walked with the Blessed One. Many saw that. You leapt to save his life as if he were any comrade-in-arms. We’ve been told of your
rescue, the luck of the gods surely playing a hand in that as well. You are a symbol already to many of those who attended the Great Circus yesterday, the champion of Sargas … Sargonnas.” Again Geryl looked at Broedius. Aryx read little love in the general’s expression. “And this one’s chosen you, too, for his own reasons.”

  Aryx still refused to accept the outrageous announcement. He had been chosen to be some sort of representative between his people and the god-sanctioned invaders? Broedius’s reasons for doing so Aryx might have understood. The appointment of a low-ranking warrior such as himself was just another example of the menial position the minotaurs would play in the chain of command. Yet surely his own people would not accept him in such a role. Surely someone like Geryl would have been better suited.

  The general apparently read his expression. “There is no choice in this matter. The emperor has decreed this, and more significantly, our illustrious allies will have no other.”

  “Now that this matter is settled,” Broedius interrupted, not concerned about anyone else’s opinion on the matter, “we may return to the task at hand. Aryx, step forward.”

  At Geryl’s silent coaxing, the warrior obeyed. Broedius had him come around to where he stood. In one hand, the knight held a badge with the skull and lily symbol of the knighthood etched into it. This he pinned on the front of the minotaur’s weapon harness. Aryx glanced down at the horrific badge, feeling more disgust than honor. Such a badge would earn him no respect from his own kind.

  “You are appointed. You will act as an in-between for both sides in all matters. Is that understood?”

  Aryx understood very little, but he nodded nonetheless. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps he could use the unwanted position to benefit his people. How he might manage that, the gray warrior did not know, but given time, perhaps …“I understand.”

  Aryx heard a voice very similar to General Hojak’s mutter something about puppets, but someone else hushed him. Broedius had the unwilling administrator turn to face the senior officers, who, led by Geryl, saluted him.