Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  Hours after the quake, the weary minotaur paused, his gaze sweeping past the temple. He felt his blood race as he stared at the sanctum of Sargonnas, which had not suffered so much as a single tiny crack. Little if any help had emerged from the temple, least of all the Blessed One himself. Once a few priests had made their way around the perimeter of the area, but they seemed more interested in avoiding those in need than in reaching out to them.

  At last he could stand it no longer. Weary but fueled by his increasing bitterness, Aryx abandoned his work the moment circumstance permitted him. He had to try to see Sargonnas. Even after the quake, surely the god could do something for his people. They had already sacrificed too much not to deserve at least that.

  He realized belatedly that someone followed him. Turning, he saw Delara at his heels.

  “I saw you run off. You had such a look on your face, I … I feared for you.”

  “You’ve no reason to worry about me, Delara, and where I head, you may not wish to follow.”

  She glanced past him to the temple. “You’re going to see the Blessed One, aren’t you, Aryx? You’re going to ask him for help!”

  At this point, Aryx planned to demand help, whatever the consequences. True, he would probably fail, but at least he, of all people, might stand a chance. Certainly no one else seemed to be willing to speak with the dark deity.

  Delara’s face lit up. “I want to go with you. May I?”

  Aryx started to tell her that she could not, then realized he had no right. Besides, as one of Sargonnas’s truly faithful, perhaps her presence would aid him in gaining help from the dark one. Even if the God of Vengeance chose to strike him down for his audacity, Delara would probably be safe.

  “All right, you can come. But if we do see him, and he seems a little angry with me, be sure to keep your distance.”

  He moved on, ignoring her puzzled look. Aryx’s mind raced ahead, wondering how he would confront the god. The entire notion seemed insane, but he could not back down. Sargonnas had to be made to see that he had a responsibility.

  As he neared his destination, anger again overrode his uncertainty. Many buildings in the vicinity of the temple either lay in ruins or showed some visible sign of damage, but the sanctum of Sargonnas stood untouched. A good sign, in some respects, but if the god could preserve his house of worship, then why did he not preserve the houses of his worshipers as well?

  “Halt there!” A temple guard, big and brawny, blocked their path. “The high priest orders—”

  He got no further, for Aryx charged him without warning, pushing the guard against a marble column. Stunned, the other minotaur collapsed long enough for the duo to enter the temple, Delara with some sudden nervousness. Several acolytes, eyes wary, stood within, but none approached them.

  “Aryx,” Delara dared. “Perhaps a little caution and respect would be advisable here.”

  Aryx would not hear her. He felt he had been too passive in this matter. Since the death of his crew mates, his shame had secretly held him back. No more. What point was there for a god to come to his people if the god did nothing?

  “Sargonnas!” He pulled his axe out and prepared to hammer the great doors with the base of the handle. “Sargonnas! Your people need you! Sargon—”

  Aryx paused, suddenly aware of voices within. Sargonnas’s he recognized, but in addition, a female spoke. Her very tone, her every word, seduced and beguiled him, and yet for reasons he could not explain, Aryx did not feel lust so much as distaste and suspicion.

  Beside him, Delara whispered, “What is it? Why have you stopped?”

  “Don’t you hear them?”

  She leaned close. “I hear nothing. Is—is this where he stays?”

  She heard nothing? Aryx almost questioned her, but then the beguiling voice filled his ears once more.

  “… could I ever be disappointed in you, my dearest Sargonnas? You, who have been my shield, my warrior, my true one?”

  “I have played many roles to suit you, from sycophant and coward to reluctant avenger. Whatever your whims desired. I choose no longer to play roles. We are beyond that point. We are beyond the plotting, beyond the tricks, beyond the betrayals. We agreed to this pact, but I am feeling as if you have forgotten that, and so I have had to ask you.”

  “Ah, my sweet Sargonnas! You wound me! With Father Chaos prepared to strike all around us, do you think that I would jeopardize all? Surely you know me better than that.”

  “Which is why I dare ask.”

  “I do not think I like this present incarnation of yours. It’s too arrogant even for you. Too much the warrior, with little of the labyrinthian mind I cherish so much. Where has my sweet, dark Sargonnas gone?”

  “To war. We have made a pact—Paladine, you, and all the rest—and I, for one, will honor that pact.”

  The mysterious female might have said something in reply, but a sudden urge drove Aryx forward, almost as if his body had decided to act without his mind. Axe in one hand, the gray minotaur shoved the doors open, using every bit of strength at his command. The great bronze doors swung back hard, rocking on their hinges. Unable to prevent himself, the young warrior charged inside.

  Shadows surrounded Sargonnas, who, for a change, did not sit upon his throne. As Aryx’s eyes adjusted to the unexpected gloom, he thought he saw a face and form in those shadows, a human or possibly elfin woman of such remarkable dark beauty that even the minotaur wished for a second glance. She seemed to smile knowingly—whether at Sargonnas or himself, Aryx could not say—then all trace of her faded. The mortal blinked, wondering if he had imagined her. One look at Sargonnas, though, made him suspect not.

  “Aryximaraki …” the armored figure whispered, his tone very cold. “You have some reason for disturbing me now?”

  The horned warrior snorted. “Other than the fact that Nethosak’s suffered a tremendous quake and many of your people were either killed or injured? Or that you’ve done nothing but sit here safely ensconced in your little temple, oblivious to all?”

  “My children have suffered worse. It is their lot … and you do not understand the game now unfolding, a most terrible game.”

  “Games such as your kind play, we mortals can do without,” Aryx snarled. “Perhaps if we had a god or two acting with us, it might be different.”

  “You are my children, my chosen.” Eyes like embers swept over the pair. Aryx glanced to the side, in the heat of anger, having forgotten Delara. She had fallen to one knee, her awe of the Horned One clear. Sargonnas seemed to consider her before finally asking, “Do you think I do not fight beside you, fight for you?”

  “We’ve seen damn little—” Aryx began.

  “I know what you have seen, Aryximaraki, and I know very much how you think. You were chosen for that reason, among others.”

  Taken aback by the god’s enigmatic statement, Aryx could only blurt, “What do you mean by that?”

  Sargonnas went on as if the minotaur had not spoken. “I fight on more levels than mortal minds can comprehend. This battle began long before the minotaur race became involved, and it may continue long beyond the last minotaur is laid to rest.”

  This did not sit at all well with the young warrior. “Vague riddles and evasive talk! So far, the only thing I know is that you do nothing for your so-called children, while the knights prepare to use us as fodder in some war we don’t understand!”

  “You will be used as necessary, or else none of us may see the end of this terrible trial.”

  “Spoken like a god …” Aryx took a threatening step toward Sargonnas, heedless of the possible consequences. “Will you at least help—”

  The pale, gaunt figure suddenly clutched the side of his head, as if struck by a great ache. Ember eyes blazed hotly. He glared at the defiant minotaur with such intensity that Aryx at last faltered. “This audience is at an end, Aryximaraki. Do not presume upon your position again. You will come when summoned and no sooner. Nethosak and my children have suffered other quak
es, other wars. They will do so again and be the stronger for it.”

  “Stronger, or all dead? I’ve lost a brother already, his fate as murky as your damned words, and—”

  The dark god straightened, looking impossibly thin. At Sargonnas’s side, the gem in the hilt of his sword seemed almost to wink at Aryx. Sargonnas momentarily shimmered, the vague outline of the throne briefly visible through him. “I said that this audience was at an end.”

  Aryx abruptly found himself standing outside the great temple. Beside him, Delara, still in a kneeling position, leapt quickly to her feet, stunned by the shift in location.

  “Blasted gods …” muttered Aryx. He almost regretted having talked his clan out of their struggle against the Knights of Takhisis. Sargonnas claimed to care for the minotaurs, but when confronted, the god rejected his children’s entreaties. Of what use was he, then?

  Of what use am I? the frustrated young warrior asked himself. He had failed in his most important quest. Sargonnas turned a blind eye to events, claiming godly struggles more important. That was the way with gods; their own bickering took precedence over all, even the very existence of the little mortal creatures they claimed to cherish.

  “You might have been killed in there,” Delara whispered, interrupting his dark thoughts.

  “I should have been dead like the rest of my crew mates,” he snapped back. “Perhaps that would have been better.”

  She chose to ignore his outburst. “He seemed … not at all what I would have expected.”

  “Are the gods ever what we expect … or hope them to be?”

  “That’s not—that isn’t what I mean. He looked … weaker.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” If the dark deity could send them away with but a word, Aryx refused to believe he could not help those who had suffered from the quake.

  She prepared to refute his words, but Seph came along at that moment. Nearly out of breath, Aryx’s younger brother stumbled into his arms. Seph looked greatly relieved at having found his elder sibling.

  “Aryx! Praise Kiri-Jolith that you’re all right! When I couldn’t find you, I grew worried! Then someone said he saw you heading toward the temple.”

  “Save your breath, Seph. I’m fine. What about you?” Aryx felt a little guilty. Between aiding victims and venting his fury over Sargonnas’s lack of assistance, he had all but forgotten his young brother.

  “I’m okay. I was at the clan house when it happened. The building shook a little, but nothing more!”

  “Good. Any news of the rest of our family?”

  Here Seph exhibited disappointment. “I only know that our parents are still supposed to be on Kothas. As for the rest, only rumors, but all have been seen of late somewhere, so …”

  His brother trailed off. Aryx, though, understood what had gone unsaid. As far as they knew, the rest of their family remained alive. Kiri-Jolith and Paladine smiled over them so far, if they watched at all. If Sargonnas spoke some truth, then perhaps they, too, no longer listened to the entreaties of their followers. It would certainly explain why the God of Just Causes allowed the grand plans of the Knights of Takhisis to proceed as they did.

  Seph suddenly grew alert again. “Kaz’s axe! I almost forgot! I did hear some other news … news about you!”

  He felt the hair on the nape of his neck crawl. “News?”

  “About an hour ago—” Seph broke off as a storm of thundering hooves made all three minotaurs look off to the right. A full talon of the Knights of Takhisis rode toward the temple, at their head, Carnelia and a rather dour Rand. Aryx knew immediately that once again they sought not the god but him. He suspected that Seph’s unspoken news had concerned this Very fact.

  This time he chose to meet them head-on, striding toward the massive party as if unconcerned. Inside, his mind raced, wondering what they sought of him. Had Orilg turned once more against the knights? Did they now want him to confront Sargonnas with some wrong? If so, Aryx would have to disappoint them. He doubted that, today at least, the God of Vengeance would even allow him back into the temple, much less grant him an audience.

  Carnelia raised a hand, calling a halt. Rand looked ready to say something to Aryx, but a glance from the knight silenced him. Clearly the matter was of some great import, enough to drive a wedge between the pair.

  “We’ve been scouring the capital for you, bull,” Carnelia called. “You should have left some word where to find you!”

  “I am not one of your uncle’s servants,” the minotaur snapped back. “And you seem to find me readily enough. My people suffered a catastrophe and I helped. Would you have expected otherwise from me?”

  She calmed a little. “I suppose not, but your constant moving about made my task all the more difficult. You’re to come with us immediately!”

  “What have I done?”

  “It’s not what you might have done, bull. It’s what you might be able to do!”

  Aryx tensed, not at all liking the sound of what she had said. “What I might be able to do?”

  “Some sentries and a patrol are missing,” Rand interjected, ignoring Carnelia’s expression. “They must have vanished last night. Lord Broedius thought you might know what happened.”

  “Does the human think I kidnapped them?” Had Broedius gone mad? “I’ve no time for this. The city is still trying to recover.”

  “Lacynos will recover without your help,” the female knight retorted, seizing control of the conversation again. “As for the sentries, no, Broedius doesn’t think you kidnapped them. He thinks instead that they’re all dead, and that others of your race, perhaps even your own clan, are responsible.” She leaned forward, making certain he heard every word. “And unless you can prove otherwise, you and your kind will pay for each life with one of your own.”

  The Storm

  Chapter Seven

  Aryx dismounted and began inspecting the moist, sandy shore. Superficially there were no signs of the missing knights save the remains of their campfire, but the knights who were investigating the site had already found some small traces they claimed were bloodstains, and Carnelia herself had located a black dagger she said that the missing subcommander, Brock, had owned.

  Try as he might, Aryx could find no clue as to what had befallen the humans. However, like the others, he, too, suspected that they had been killed. That his own people might have done this made some sense, but the attack had clearly not been an honorable one. Some trap had to have been set, one to which the knights had readily fallen prey. As most of them had been riding together in a patrol and not even their mounts had been located, that bespoke a large, coordinated group responsible.

  With Torvak ill, nearly dying, had Aryx’s own clan rejected the stricken patriarch’s pledge to cooperate? No doubt Lord Broedius saw it that way, which might have been why he specifically had chosen to include Aryx in this hunt. Perhaps he used the warrior to draw out the clan or even believed that Aryx, too, might be a part of the murderous plot.

  “How many men were stationed here?” he asked an impatient Carnelia, stalling for time.

  “Three. Brock probably had at least half a dozen men with him; we’re not sure yet exactly how many. They were last seen at a post beyond that high ridge.” She pointed to her left.

  Aryx studied the ridge. By rights, the post there should have been able to at least see the fire, however dimly. “What did they say?”

  “The fire stayed lit, but they couldn’t see anything else because of the growing fog. The sea and wind made it impossible to hear anything softer than a horn blast.”

  “Fog?” Aryx stiffened. “Thick fog?”

  She shrugged. “Thick enough. Not like that soup still out there.

  “Don’t even think it, bull,” the knight went on. “Lord Broedius has eliminated that possibility. The sentries at the other post said that not once had they noticed that musky smell you harped about when we were aboard the Vengeance.” From her tone, Aryx suspected that Carnelia doubted great parts of Ar
yx’s earlier story of disaster. So, too, it seemed, did her uncle, who clearly preferred standard foes, such as rebellious minotaurs, to aquatic reavers whom no one alive other than one injured survivor claimed existed.

  Aryx, however, knew they existed, but proving it here and now seemed unlikely. Nonetheless, he clamped his mouth shut and continued his search, his mind churning over the possibility. Shadow monsters, tall, armored, and clawed, haunted him as he crawled over rocks, inspected the camp remains on the ridge, and even dug in the sandy soil as the waves rolled in.

  “Do you really think you’ll find anything?” Delara asked as she helped him with the last of the three tasks. Although strangers to one another, she and Seph had united together, insisting on accompanying him. Possibly they feared for his life in the company of so many hostile knights, although Aryx trusted Rand’s presence enough to believe himself safe. That the humans might arrest him was still a risk, but Aryx wanted to see the evidence. If his clan had done this …

  The kneeling minotaur shifted away more sand. The deeper he went, the more moist it grew. The ground seemed terribly loose, too. Aryx had noticed that upon first riding over it, his mount sinking in more than it should have. The knights, unfamiliar with the terrain, had appeared to notice nothing amiss, but Aryx wondered what could have turned the land so soft, even taking into account its link to the sea. It almost seemed as if the ground had been churned up.

  “This is futile,” Carnelia remarked, clearly bored by Aryx’s absurd-looking activities. “We should move on.”

  Aryx had come to the same conclusion, but something urged him to dig a little deeper. Did he expect to find some tunnel, some hidden underground passage that might …

  He pulled back as fingers from below grazed his own.

  “What is it?” Seph called, leaping from his horse. “Aryx! do you need—”

  “Get back!” Carnelia roared. She, too, had dismounted and now stood at Aryx’s side, peering down at his grisly find.

  It proved to be a hand, one still wearing a gauntlet, but when Aryx dug deeper, he found the hand no longer remained attached to any arm. The appendage had been neatly severed at the wrist, the blade that had been used having cut through metal, bone, and flesh with the same ease. Carnelia swore, then commanded some of her men to dig in the vicinity of the find.