Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  At last the cleric removed his hands. Looking at the crowd, he shook his head. “I can do nothing … and that is curious.”

  “And why is that curious, human?” the first robed one asked, very skeptical.

  “Because the power of Kiri-Jolith should flow through me and into this one, and no mere illness should be strong enough to block such power. Perhaps a healer of Mishakal would do better, since that is her sphere, but I know what I can do. No, I find this curious, just as I found it curious when I examined one or two others who had the cough. I could not discern a way to aid them either.”

  A sense of foreboding struck Aryx. “What does that mean?”

  Rand frowned. “That this disease may be more than we think. There may be a force behind it … the same force, I think, that Sargonnas fears will eventually encompass all of Krynn.”

  The Encroaching Darkness

  Chapter Six

  Since their realm had been invaded so many times, the minotaurs had attempted to stem some assaults by creating a complex series of sentry posts situated around the perimeter of each island. Each post depended upon the terrain, the defenders believing that an attacker should not have advance notice that he had been spotted. Because of this, most posts consisted of carefully camouflaged blinds or holes dug deep into the earth. Other times, the minotaurs made use of natural formations, such as overhangs, ridges, or boulders … anything natural behind which one could hide. In times past, this natural series of sentry posts had indeed preserved the islanders’ independence. It was other faults, such as over-confidence, that were more likely to bring about the race’s downfall.

  With the coming of the Knights of Takhisis, the posts had suffered. Lord Broedius did not trust minotaur sentries to report to his commanders. In addition, he wanted as many of the able warriors as possible to be prepared to depart for Ansalon the moment he gave the order. Therefore, the knight commander had immediately begun stripping the more distant posts, gradually replacing them with a series of roving patrols consisting of his own warriors. Only key points retained sentries, and those posts were generally reduced to no more than two or three men. Aryx’s people had, of course, protested this stripping of their right to secure their own domain, but Lord Broedius had been adamant. The fragile sense of cooperation that the gray minotaur had managed to put together threatened again to come apart. Lord Broedius had made a mild concession, allowing the possibility of some of the inhabitants rejoining in the defense of those regions near and surrounding Nethosak, but he had left to his subcommanders the decision as to how those minotaur sentries would be used.

  Sir Brock, a broad-shouldered, heavily mustached subcommander in charge of several miles of shoreline southwest of Nethosak, cared little for the minotaurs’ protests or, for that matter, their very manner. In his eyes, they had shown none of the efficiency or training for which they were reputed, and as far as he was concerned, they were little better than the brutes Lord Ariakan had recruited. Not trusting them at all, he maintained his own patrols, all knights, and personally rode to each checkpoint to see that security remained high. So far he had come across no major incidents, but he felt certain that eventually the minotaurs would reveal their hand, sabotaging Lord Broedius’s efforts.

  Accompanied by ten men, Sir Brock rode toward the most remote of the checkpoints. This night, all had been in order, something of a minor disappointment. The only annoyance had been the damnable fog, which had finally crept in to the edge of the island. The patrol leader could do nothing about the weather. He yearned for action or the discovery of some plot against his commander. Brock dearly wanted something he could hang on the minotaurs other than their slow pace and constant grumbling.

  “How much farther?” he asked of his second.

  “Just a short distance, sir. Even with the growing fog, we should see their torchlight any—”

  Brock cut him off with the wave of one massive hand. He saw a torch flickering just over a tall ridge. The figure of one armored man stood nearby. The subcommander frowned. He could see that this night would bring nothing of interest. The other two men stationed here were probably resting, so bored that they would dare disobey orders. While he could not blame them for that, they would still have to pay for their insubordinate behavior.

  In order to reach the others, the band had to ride along the very edge of the shoreline, in this case a sandy beach. The horses had to move slowly, but Sir Brock had no intention of dismounting and leading them. After he reprimanded these men for their lack of discipline, the subcommander planned to return to headquarters as soon as possible. Perhaps he would at last be able to convince Lord Broedius to assign him to something more active.

  Two figures lying near the hill showed him that his suspicions were true; the sentries were asleep at their post. Such negligence would require harsh punishment indeed. As his party neared, Brock called out to them. “Ho there! Look alive, you sluggards!”

  None of the three moved. The lone knight standing remained by the torch, uncaring.

  “Sir Tristyn, ride up there and drag that one down while I deal with these other miscreants!”

  “Aye, sir! Gladly, sir!” Eagerly Brock’s second urged his mount around the side of the hill. Tristyn was an excellent second, a young blade who brooked no fault in his fellows. Someday he would be leading his own fighting talon.

  “Probably drunk, all of them,” Brock muttered. The other knights exchanged glances. Drunkenness on duty was punishable by death. He sniffed the air, a peculiar odor prevalent everywhere. “What’s causing that stench?”

  The patrol leader rode up until his steed nearly stood hoof to toe with the dark, slumbering figures. Disgusted, the huge knight finally dismounted. If they did not wake up soon, he would kick them awake.

  The sandy soil proved very moist, caking his boots. He decided to clean them off on the nearest of the insubordinate pair.

  “Wake up, damn you! Wake up or I’ll have your head!” He kicked the man in the side as hard as he could.

  The body rolled with the kick, but the helm—and the head within—rolled to his feet.

  “Great Takhisis!” Brock reached for his sword.

  From above, Tristyn called, “Sir! The man up here’s been gutted and hung like a fish!”

  “Get down here quick!” Sword free, the commanding knight mounted. This had to be the work of minotaurs, and with any luck, they would still be nearby. Brock would track them down and—

  A scream from the top of the hill made him pause. In the dim torchlight, he saw Tristyn come tumbling down the hill … in three different directions. Something had not only beheaded him, but cut off his legs as well.

  The beach erupted with sand-covered forms, monstrous, shadowy figures that Brock could not have envisioned in his worst nightmares. Horrific, armored creatures, with savage weapons in their inhuman appendages.

  A sicklelike blade severed the arm of one of his men. The injured knight screamed, and as he did, another of the monsters dragged him from his suddenly fearful charger and buried a wicked, barbed lance in his throat.

  The knights were surrounded. Brock tried to turn his mount, but everywhere he looked the hellish creatures loomed in the fog, which seemed to grow thicker by the second. He struck at one with his blade but watched with horror as it bounced off the armor … or, rather, shell.

  Two more men went down, one with a lance through him, the other minus his hand and head. Even the horses were not spared, sometimes man and mount dying together. Stunned, many of Brock’s knights perished while they were still trying to draw their weapons. The few that did manage found their adversaries as difficult to kill as Sir Brock had.

  Managing to fend off the creature nearest him, the subcommander glanced around, intending to rally those still with him. To his horror, though, nearly all of his knights had already been slaughtered. One of his remaining men tried to flee, but a flurry of scythe swords cut both horse and rider to ribbons.

  “Sir Brock—” The cry for help
ended abruptly, along with the last of his warriors.

  His horse screamed, its front legs cut out from under it. Brock swore as he fell with the dying animal. One of the shadowy behemoths loomed over him, slashing with the wicked sword through the metal protecting his shoulder. Blood—Brock’s blood—spilled over the disbelieving subcommander. He was a Knight of Takhisis, one of her majesty’s chosen! He wore her mark; he wore the armor that she had promised would make him nigh invincible!

  His enchanted armor did nothing to stop the seven lances that pinned his twitching body to the ground.

  * * * * *

  The morning brought with it many things, few good as far as Aryx was concerned. The fog, which had previously remained some distance offshore, now covered most of the edges of Mithas. Aryx sniffed the air but detected no noticeable increase in the faint musky odor. Still, he tried to alert Lord Broedius of the possible danger, certain that the commander of the occupation force would understand his great fear. To his astonishment, however, Broedius refused to even see him, allowing the minotaur only to pass his concerns on through a disinterested aide who seemed unlikely to disturb his superior.

  Frustrated, Aryx headed back to the temple, for once alone. Seph had returned to the clan house, seeking news of the rest of their family, especially their parents. The death of Hecar still haunted both, but Aryx most of all. He could not help but link his brother’s mysterious disappearance with the destruction of the Kraken’s Eye. He wondered how many others might also be dead. Minotaurs lived with death, it being part of the way of the warrior, but the monstrous shadows who struck from beneath the waves were unlike any foe that they had ever faced.

  His gaze happened to drift toward his destination, the looming, ever staid Temple of Sargonnas. His so-called chosen had perished, or at least vanished under sinister circumstances, and yet the god did little. Where did he disappear to each day? Why did Broedius and not the great Horned One oversee the grand expedition? Surely the mood of the minotaurs would be much higher under the leadership of the god. With Sargonnas leading the way, Aryx suspected that even followers of the other gods would take up arms for the crusade. Instead, the minotaurs cursed the Knights of Takhisis and threatened insurrection, a course leading to nothing but useless bloodshed.

  The ground beneath him suddenly shook. Caught up in his thoughts, Aryx did not immediately realize the seriousness of the situation, not until a large chunk of marble from the top of the building next to him fell, coming within a foot of his head.

  He immediately abandoned the walkway, stumbling toward the center of the street even as the shaking intensified. Aryx’s instinctive reaction proved fortuitous, for the building by which he had been standing already had severe cracks running through it. More pieces of loosened stone, some quite larger than the first, dropped from its high roof. Another minotaur who had moved a bit slower than Aryx fell, bleeding, struck down by a jagged stone.

  No minotaur born and raised on either Mithas or Kothas could have reached adulthood without having experienced at least one tremor a year. Aryx’s homeland reflected those who peopled it, volatile, unpredictable, powerful. Most prominent of all features were the volcanoes of Argon’s Chain. If one did not rumble, another soon would. Situated far to the north, the four largest stood like angry sentinels, gods even, watching over their domain. Some called them the Horns of Sargas, for the Lord of Vengeance also went by the title of God of Volcanoes, and they often seemed to reflect his dark mood.

  As the tremor increased, Aryx looked to the temple, wondering if indeed Sargonnas grew angry over something. He knew that the volcanoes most often rumbled of their own accord, but with the deity here in Nethosak, the thought that Sargonnas’s ire might be the stimulus could not be ignored. The unsteady warrior tried to make his way toward the temple, which seemed to stand strangely still, despite the shaking. The going proved maddening, however, as even the street began to turn treacherous.

  Aryx recalled tremors of the past, but none that, within his memory, had grown so violent so quickly. He managed two more steps toward the distant temple before a new shock wave sent him tumbling.

  No longer could this simply be called a tremor. It was a full-fledged earthquake.

  Someone screamed. A bell tower atop one building began to tip, the bell ringing madly. A fault developed in the street, running across the entire width. Even as Aryx watched, the widening fault reached an inn, tearing the front in two. Mortar, brick, and stone crumbled, while minotaurs still inside fought desperately to escape the deadly rain. On one of the nearby clan houses, spider-web cracks spread across the foundation, then upward. The statue of a minotaur near the gate of the clan house toppled over, scattering the already harried guards trying to maintain their positions throughout the crisis.

  A great, slow groan filled the air, and a shadow covered Aryx. He looked up and saw that, above him, the face of one building had broken away and now slowly fell in his direction. Scrambling as best as he could over the increasingly unpredictable surface of the battered street, the minotaur dodged massive fragments presaging the complete collapse of the wall. The shadow continued to keep pace with him, dire warning that he needed to move even swifter.

  A tawny figure collided with him, a slim female fleeing from one of the buildings to his left. She paid him no mind as she pushed away, but in doing so, she fled directly toward the path of the crumbling wall. Aryx cursed, reaching out at the last minute to keep her from a fatal mistake. Caught off guard, she struggled little, enabling Aryx to drag her along.

  The shadow moved ahead. He cursed again, wondering if it were even possible to escape. In the end, his unwilling companion still in tow, Aryx had to throw himself forward, praying to Kiri-Jolith that both of them would at last be out of range.

  The wall crashed to the ground, chunks flying everywhere. Aryx grunted in pain as one struck his shoulder, another his left leg. Beside him, the female also cried out. Uncertain as to whether the downpour had finished, they remained still, waiting.

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, the quake ended.

  For several minutes, an eerie silence reigned. Then, from around the city, cries rose up, some of them in pain, some in anger, and others from those trying to help.

  Aryx at last arose, the agony in his leg and shoulder beginning to subside. He inhaled, trying to regain his breath, only to cough violently as he swallowed dust.

  “Let me help you,” a feminine voice insisted. Strong hands pulled him around. “It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”

  He waved off her aid, the coughing already slowing. For the first time, Aryx had a good look at his companion. Near his age but more lithe of form, she looked as formidable a warrior as she did an attractive one. Deep brown eyes stared out over a short, graceful muzzle. A streak of white ran down from between her eyes to her nose. Her horns were slightly curved inward and no more than half the length of Aryx’s. She stood a few inches shorter than he, but not for one second did he think her less than his match in skill.

  Under his gaze, she lowered her eyes momentarily. Then, recovering quickly, she said, “My thanks for saving me from my own foolishness. I was so eager to escape from inside I never considered the dangers outside.”

  “In a quake, it’s hard to find anywhere safe.” He saw blood on her arm. “Are you badly injured?”

  “This?” she shook her head. “More surprise than pain … but you have two terrible bruises.”

  “They’ll heal.” Aryx looked around. “We were lucky.”

  “Thanks to you. I am Delara Es-Hestos, and I pledge that I’ll repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

  “I am Aryximaraki de-Orilg, and you owe me nothing.” He stopped as a peculiar look came over her. “Are you all right?”

  “Aryximaraki de-Orilg? The Blessed One’s companion?” Delara’s eyes shone. “He who walks with Sargonnas?”

  To his horror, she started to go down onto one knee, apparently to pay him homage. Angered more than he
should have been, Aryx seized her by the shoulders, pulling her up. “Stop that! You owe me none of that! I’m a warrior like you, Delara, nothing more! The humans’ ship, the Vengeance, found me adrift after my own vessel had been attacked. Sargonnas happened to be aboard. Nothing more! No godly connection, no divine intervention! I am no more chosen than—” He stopped, having been about to say “no more chosen than any other minotaur,” but clearly Delara belonged to those who followed closely the worship of the Horned One. “I am no chosen of the gods.”

  “As you say,” she finally returned, although the light did not completely vanish from her eyes.

  “What matters more,” he persisted, “is seeing to the injured.”

  Even as he spoke, cries rose anew. To her credit, Delara immediately agreed with him, and the two began to work in earnest to help wherever they could. The building from which she had emerged was their first destination, since many of those behind her had failed to escape. Aryx, Delara, and soon a host of others fought to free those they could and to gather for burial those for whom the quake had proven fatal. Fortunately, the loss of lives turned out to be less than Aryx had feared, but even those few hurt, for somehow he felt responsible.

  Despite the quake’s brevity, some parts of the city had been struck hard. The worst damage had been near the imperial capital. In addition, the storehouses where the knights had put many of the supplies intended for the fleet had suffered badly. Some had been completely leveled. The region around the headquarters of the Knights of Takhisis had also been ravaged, but the reinforced clan house Lord Broedius had usurped still stood, albeit now with a few cracks. Many of the other clan houses nearby had also suffered at least minor damage. On the other hand, regions of the capital where past quakes had proven prevalent had hardly faced more than a slight tremor.

  The quake had been very focused, but only Aryx seemed to find this so. He chose to say nothing, not at all certain of his suspicions.