Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  “I’ll take responsibility. So will the cleric, if you like. You have to let us through, though.”

  “Kiri-Jolith guide me!” Kamax muttered, with a look to the sky.

  Not for the first time, Aryx wished that it had indeed been the bison-headed god and not Sargonnas who had come down to the mortal plane. Where had Kiri-Jolith gone? If Sargonnas found it of necessity to be here, why not his rival? Did not the other god care about those who followed him?

  A grim look stole over the brown minotaur. “All right, Aryx. I’ve known you for a long time. I’ll take it on my head to let you all pass, but if some treachery befalls the clan while she’s in there, I’ll be the one to finish the job before I face my punishment in the arena. As it is, Torvak’ll probably have me assigned to mucking out the stables!”

  “Nothing will happen.” So Aryx hoped. He turned back to the others, signaling them to come with him.

  Carnelia turned back to her escort. “You know your orders if I’m not back out before the allotted time.”

  One of the men nodded gravely. The knights made no attempt to sheathe their swords, an ominous sign. Aryx understood then that if he did not talk fast and get Torvak to agree even faster, the fatal incident that sent the two races to war would be on his head. He wondered just how much time the female had allotted for this meeting. Not nearly enough, the anxious minotaur suspected.

  Kamax waved two other guards aside, allowing just enough gap for the small party. “Move quick, Aryx, before I recover my wits.”

  Beyond Kamax, they passed a gauntlet of sentries, none of whom looked on them with favor. Aryx understood that his own position had become suspect. Why would a warrior of Orilg come in such company during this crisis? Even those who recognized and knew him well could not necessarily be counted as comrades. He had hoped that some of his immediate family might be in attendance, especially his parents, but only a few cousins seemed to be present, and they stared back at him as if they did not recognize him.

  Burly warriors lined the halls, the walls behind them filled with relics and symbols of Orilg champions past. Axes, swords, shields, most of them dented to near uselessness, spoke volumes of the adventurous history of the descendants of Orilg. Busts of some of the most famous—or infamous, as many of those outside the clan thought them—warriors stared down at the intruders. Most unnerving was the bust of Kaz Dragonslayer, which, when Aryx was young, had seemed as much a god to him as Kiri-Jolith. Broad of face, stern, and yet with a rebellious look in his eyes, the heroic visage seemed to demand great things of the dusky gray warrior.

  The legacy of Orilg did not go unnoticed by the humans, even Carnelia sensing the history and strength. She eyed the relics with something near respect, a warrior perhaps at last recognizing those as dedicated as she.

  A pair of intricately adorned doors opened for them, reminding Aryx of his entry into Sargonnas’s chamber. In truth, there were similarities between the two great rooms, especially their vast dimensions, but whereas the sanctum of the God of Vengeance echoed an emptiness that Aryx felt whenever he was in Sargonnas’s presence, the hall of the clan patriarch remained ever the center of activity.

  At last they stood before the assembled elders and the patriarch, barrel-chested, battle-scarred Torvak, who, by this time, had learned of their coming. The patriarch looked a bit unwell, the rims of his eyes slightly redder than normal, and every now and then he coughed. The hair atop his head had thinned to almost nothing, a rare thing among Aryx’s kind. Torvak’s generally round features sagged, and even his lengthy muzzle seemed to droop. His rich robe of evening blue and ivory had been soiled by his incessant coughing, which the patriarch only managed to get under control after sighting the party. Several of the elders in attendance also coughed, but not with the intensity of the clan leader.

  “Well, well,” Torvak rumbled. “I think I spy young Aryximaraki … and his shadow, Sephimaraki. Too old for stealing food from the kitchens now, so why are you here?” Attentive eyes looked over both humans. “Hostages, perhaps? Doubtful, doubtful, knowing your tendencies. When I saw your father but weeks ago, I asked Marak if you’d returned from your voyage aboard Jasi’s old vessel.” Another cough. “I hear old Jasi’s died a warrior’s death and you’ve new shipmates. I hear a lot.”

  Torvak’s rambling manner did not put Aryx at ease one bit. He knew that behind the almost fatherly tones dwelt a cunning and occasionally unpredictable mind. Torvak preferred to keep the clan coffers filled and business as usual, but Aryx recalled that his method for maintaining business as usual sometimes involved the ruination and frustration of rival clans. Once in a while it even became necessary to sacrifice a clan member … for purely honorable reasons, of course.

  Aryx hoped now would not be such a case. “Patriarch, I come to you to speak about this protest that Orilg has made against Lord Broedius.”

  “Speak, then, lad.” He coughed again. “I never refuse to listen.”

  Nor promise to consider the words, either. Nonetheless, Aryx pushed on. “Patriarch, clan Orilg must end this protest. It’s essential that we all work hand in hand, not fight one another when a threat exists that seeks to engulf all of Krynn.”

  “We have only a few stray words on that.”

  “The words of the God of Vengeance, who is much a part of our lives even if our eyes do turn to Kiri-Jolith.”

  Torvak leaned forward, coughing. “Before you go any further, Aryx, I would like to ask you if you would continue to argue for these humans if you knew that one of the ships we believe they recently sank carried your brother Hecar?”

  The words so stunned him that the gray minotaur could not answer at first. Aryx’s hands folded into tight fists. Behind him, he heard Seph choke back a sob.

  It had to be a lie.

  A look of compassion spread across Torvak’s wide features, a look shattered by a brief spell of coughing. “I am so sorry, Aryx, Seph! I had thought you heard! Hecar sailed off on the Crimson Blade a week ago. Word reached me yesterday that wreckage identified as coming from the Blade floated ashore. Three others of our clan perished on that ship”—he stared intently at Carnelia—“a vessel that vanished under very suspicious circumstances.”

  The young minotaur held back his anger. Despite his claims to the contrary, the patriarch had surely known of Aryx’s ignorance and chosen to play on it. Trust Torvak to find a way to set him off course. Aryx stood there, feeling as if he had just sailed into the heart of the Maelstrom.

  Rand broke the silence. “Patriarch, may I offer both the condolences of myself and the blessings of Kiri-Jolith for the fighting spirits of your revered dead.”

  “I am very touched, cleric, very touched indeed. An honor and pleasure it is to have one of our own among us for a change instead of the state robes. For too long have we endured the temple when it does not even speak for our hearts. Now, in his black name, in his human name and form, Sargonnas would have us march to the slaughter for these knights.” The barrel-chested figure snorted. “After Hecar and so many others, why should we who do not even acknowledge him obey? We can defend the empire without these humans.”

  The blond man seemed unperturbed. “I should tell you that this mission is sanctioned by not only Sargonnas, but also the other gods as well, including Kiri-Jolith.”

  A buzzing of conversation rose up among the elders. Torvak slammed his fist against the arm of his chair, nearly cracking the wood. Silence reigned again.

  “I’ve only your word of this, cleric, however august your station.”

  “Very true, but if you know me to be what I claim, then you must also consider the fact that I would willingly travel in the company of those who would follow the Dragon Queen. Just as important, you should wonder why they would suffer me to live.”

  “Many games require pawns, human.” Another short fit of coughs prevented Torvak from adding anything more.

  Rand started to say something else, but Aryx cut him off. “Patriarch, if I may speak again.”


  “Please feel free.”

  He looked long and hard at the elders, meeting the gazes of as many as he could. Among them, Aryx recognized several of his teachers, minotaurs who had turned their long experience to the benefit of the clan and its future. “Clan Orilg, the heavy news that the patriarch passed on to me only urges me more to press for a peaceful end to this impasse. I’ve little love for the Knights of Takhisis, but I fear that we may truly face far worse than their arrogance and insults very soon. My ship, the Kraken’s Eye, went down with all hands save myself, the crew slaughtered by creatures who, though I cannot swear to what they were, I feel must be precursors to this Chaos of which Sargonnas spoke. What little glimpses I had were of no beast born of Krynn.”

  “In the darkness and fog, armor can resemble nightmares, young Aryx.”

  “These were nightmares, but no knights!” The frustrated survivor looked around at the mostly disbelieving faces. But one thing might convince them of the truth of what he spoke. Straightening, Aryx met Torvak’s gaze. “Perhaps if you had lived through what I did, patriarch, elders, you would understand better.…”

  He related to them then the story of the ship’s tragic fate, leaving out no detail, however bloody. Small things that he hadn’t even recalled when speaking before Broedius surfaced, adding to the depth of his terrible tale. Torvak sought to interrupt him at the start, but perhaps the ailing patriarch saw something in Aryx’s darkening expression, for the elder minotaur held his peace from then on. The rest of the clan leaders listened with varying looks of disbelief, growing astonishment, and, more often, bitter frustration as the hopeless cause of the ill-fated crew unfolded.

  As he spoke, Aryx saw each of his crew mates as if they stood before him: Captain Jasi, Hugar, Hercal, Feresi, and all the others. The ghosts stood and listened, as if hoping that by telling their story, Aryx would at last let them rest. He could not, though, because so long as he lived, as long as he felt responsible for failing them, they would haunt Aryx.

  Torvak leaned back as he finished, the patriarch having stifled his coughing as best as possible throughout the retelling. “A tragic tale. Very tragic. Very disturbing, too.”

  Aryx pressed on. He had to make his final plea before he lost the sympathies of the crowd. “Patriarch, elders … although Sargonnas may not be our patron, I believe his tale. Surely Kiri-Jolith would have intervened if this expedition did not have merit. The Horned One himself has said that we’re needed to help save the rest of Krynn; if we fight among ourselves here and now, we’ll be of no help at all. Ansalon, all of Krynn, may fall to worse than what took the Kraken’s Eye, and by our own actions, we’ll have dishonored ourselves beyond all redemption.”

  Honor … it always came down to honor, the cornerstone of minotaur society. Sargonnas himself was said to have been the one to instill the trait within his children. A warrior who did not live with honor did not live. Even those who followed the God of Just Causes acknowledged what history said about Sargonnas’s influence in the early days. The minotaurs might not even exist if not for the Horned One.

  “Can we trust the word of the God of Vengeance?” one of the elders asked. “We have abandoned him. He may now be living up to his name.”

  “Even Kaz Dragonslayer found times to trust the Horned One,” Aryx added, a hint of black amusement in his voice, “and no one trusted Sargonnas less than he.”

  The patriarch opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a sentry barged in.

  “Patriarch, the humans without are preparing for an assault!”

  “What?” Fury overtook Carnelia. “Someone’s disobeying orders! I gave them a specific timetable to follow. My men would not disobey!”

  “These are not the ones who came with you,” the guard replied curtly. “These are the ones who were already stationed in the street.”

  “That would be Dumarik. Let me talk to him. I’ll see to it that he’s kept under control.”

  Torvak shook his head. “If this is a sign of your trust, the time for talk is past.”

  She met his gaze. “Only if you let it be. I mean what I say. I want no battle between us. It goes against fulfilling the Vision.”

  “Ah, yes, this Vision I’ve heard so much about.” Torvak scratched his chin in thought. “Your goddess shows each of you your place in an overall vision of the world beneath her boot, if I understand correctly.”

  “We know our place in the future of Krynn, yes.”

  Aryx knew something of the Vision from his time spent aboard the Vengeance, but he found it as hard to comprehend as the patriarch apparently did. Still, the Knights of Takhisis seemed, for the most part, very dedicated to it.

  The patriarch coughed. His eyes shifted to Aryx, then back to the knight. At last he inclined his head. “Go and speak to them, but know that we’ll be ready for whatever the outcome.”

  “I’d expect no less, but the outcome will be as I promised.”

  “I will join you,” Rand said. Carnelia nodded and the pair started out.

  Torvak gestured. A pair of tall warriors flanked the humans, escorting them. The patriarch’s trust went only so far.

  He turned to Aryx. “I believe she will keep that promise … but only because it serves her now. So you still think we should trust them, young Aryx? You think we should also trust this humanized Sargas?”

  Aryx took a deep breath. “I think we’ve no choice but to work with them. I think the fate of the empire and our people depends on it.”

  “I note the word ‘trust’ didn’t enter your response, young warrior.”

  “I say what I think.”

  The massive patriarch roared with laughter, which ended in yet more coughing. He looked even worse than when Aryx had first come in, but still Torvak’s energy did not flag. “A tendency of your lineage, Aryximaraki, and one that will both serve you and continue to make your life an adventure, to say the least! Try not to seek my position too soon, will you?”

  “I’ve no desire to be patriarch.”

  “Neither did I when I was as hot-blooded a warrior as you, boy … neither did I.” Torvak looked around at the elders, and Aryx realized that he sought a vote from them through their expressions. Aryx studied the worn and scarred visages but could not read their decision. However, Torvak apparently could with ease. “Settled, then. We will, at least for the time, rejoin the humans’ efforts.” He stared at the two brothers. “Make certain that Lord Broedius understands, though, that Orilg and those aligned with it will not long brook the arrogance and disregard with which he has treated our people so far. We will be slaves no more, regardless of what Emperor Chot and the circle have agreed. You’ll relay this to the lord bought himself, of course, Aryx. In addition, since I already have a recommendation of you from young Geryl, you are hereby chosen as our representative in these matters and any future ones that may pop up. You’ll come speak directly to me if necessary.” Torvak ignored Aryx’s suddenly stricken expression. “Congratulations … and watch your neck, lad.”

  He snapped his fingers, and four well-armed warriors immediately formed a guard around Aryx and Seph.

  “Patriarch—” the dusky gray minotaur began.

  “You’re”—a cough—“honored, of course.” Torvak coughed long, his eyes watering.

  Aryx suddenly realized that the patriarch had been fighting back such a fit through most of the audience, and now his resistance had at last slipped. The exasperated warrior gave up, knowing that he could not argue with the stricken elder now.

  Another collar had been hung around his neck. Aryx felt some relief that the present crisis had been averted, but knew that this victory would not alter the minotaurs’ precarious situation much in the long run. Something else would have to be done, something, unfortunately, that would probably fall on his head.

  Resigned to his fate, Aryx saluted the stricken elder, then turned around in order to depart. He needed to relate the news to Carnelia as soon as possible.

  A loud crash, followed by
several shouts of consternation, made Aryx whirl back.

  Patriarch Torvak lay in a heap at the foot of his chair, unmoving. Two robed minotaurs knelt by his side, trying to check his condition. One of them muttered, “He pushed himself too far.…”

  Aryx barged passed the sentries, Seph close behind him. Torvak’s bodyguards kept most of the crowd at bay, but Aryx managed to get near enough to see the patriarch’s face. He had thought Torvak ill, but not this bad. “What’s happened to him?”

  “The same thing that has happened to many others,” one of the robed figures replied. “A strange new illness spread by means we do not understand. We only know it starts with the cough.”

  The cough. Rand had mentioned seeing minotaurs coughing, but at the time, Aryx had not thought much about it. Even minotaurs caught colds.

  “The cleric!” Perhaps Rand could help. Turning on the nearest guard, Aryx ordered, “Find the human cleric! Tell him he’s needed here urgently!”

  The robed figure who had spoken took umbrage. “A human? What can he do for our patriarch?”

  “Possibly nothing, but there’s a good chance he can help.”

  The guard reluctantly left, to return a few minutes later with Rand in tow. The look of concern on the cleric’s visage indicated that he had been informed about what had happened.

  “How is he?”

  “Trouble breathing,” one of the robed ones, clearly a physician, reported. “The red around his eyes is stronger. He lost all control as he started to seat himself. We had warned him not to put up so strong a front, but Torvak will be Torvak.”

  “They said it started with that cough you mentioned,” Aryx added.

  “Did it?” Rand looked grim. “I should have known.” He bent down. “I promise nothing but to give the utmost available to me through my patron.”

  The cleric put one hand on the fallen patriarch’s chest, the other on his forehead. Rand closed his eyes and started whispering. Try as he might, Aryx could not understand one word.

  A minute passed. Two. Five. Still the human continued to whisper. Aryx saw no change in Torvak, and from the hard expressions of the others, neither did they.