Reavers of the Blood Sea

by Richard Knaak

  He had said it. At long last, he had said it. All the knight commander had to do was give the minotaurs their due and his expedition could continue on, this time with less chance of disaster fomenting from within. Aryx did not expect everyone on both sides to be satisfied, but both forces stood a far better chance with cooperation than with division.

  “The notion has merit,” Rand contributed.

  Carnelia looked at her uncle, who remained silent, staring past Aryx. He knew that Broedius might possibly despise the minotaurs more than Carnelia ever had, but Aryx hoped that Broedius’s intelligence, combined with his determination to fulfill the wills of both the distant Lord Ariakan and the dread goddess Takhisis, would make him see reason. If not, then the knights and minotaurs would, in the long run, be doomed to failure.

  “Carnelia,” Broedius finally began, “issue orders for the release of Emperor Chot, the council of the Supreme Circle, and all generals of the minotaur legions currently under house arrest.” She started to obey, but Broedius waved her to a halt. “The generals will report to me at first light—make that the fifth hour, since I doubt this fog’ll lift enough to call it light—to discuss the distribution of native forces under native commanders subject to my ultimate control.” When Carnelia hesitated, the senior knight frowned at her. “Go!”

  “Yes, Broedius!” Saluting, she rushed from the chamber.

  The knight commander gazed at Aryx once more. “Don’t think that this gives you all you demanded, bull. Know, though, that I understand the need for less aggression between our forces, and so your suggestions have merit. I’ll grant the minotaurs control of their own legions so long as those generals realize that final say in matters belongs to me. I’ll not argue with a dozen different commanders on the correct course of action in the midst of a war.”

  “You may have some trouble convincing them on that last point.”

  The trace of a smile briefly formed on the face of Lord Broedius. “My task won’t be to convince them. That will be yours.”

  “Mine?” Aryx stumbled out of the bed, almost ready to take up the Sword of Tears. “What do you mean?”

  “When you stood beside Sargonnas and endangered yourself when the assassin struck, you created a certain myth about yourself. Now there is the growing legend of the minotaur hero who saved the imperial capital from the minions of Chaos. By the time you meet with the generals, I daresay even they will know of your accomplishments this day.”

  Much to his dismay, Seph substantiated the human’s words. “It’s true, Aryx! The ones who followed you into battle have spread the word to others! They all saw how you waded into the invaders with the sword, cutting through them like Orilg himself!”

  “That was the sword, not I!”

  “A sword can only do what its wielder bids it to do,” Broedius remarked. “Lord Ariakan himself said something of that sort.”

  None of them understood just how alive and independent the sword truly was, and Aryx doubted that the sinister blade would reveal the truth about itself now. “I’m no Orilg!”

  “Orilg probably made similar denials about earlier champions when he lived, bull. Understand me; you’ve no voice in this matter. I give you the opportunity to forge the alliance of which you spoke. Whether you choose to succeed is entirely up to you.” The knight commander gave him a salute. “For your actions in the defense of her Lady’s expedition, I commend you. The generals will be gathered here by the fifth hour. You’ll have your chance to speak with them while I go over damage assessments.”

  “I won’t do this, Broedius!”

  “Then we may all perish on this island.” With that said, the knight commander marched out of the room, leaving an angry and still unsteady warrior behind.

  Delara put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You need to rest, Aryx! Lie down.”

  “He’s mad! Don’t any of you see that?”

  “Aryx …” Rand whispered.

  He turned on the human, then hesitated. Standing, Aryx could at last see Rand up close, and what he saw disturbed him. Despite how the cleric had handled himself while the knights had been present, the injured minotaur saw that Rand had clearly been through some fierce trial. As pale as the human had always looked, he seemed nearly as white as snow now. At some point during Aryx’s argument with Broedius, Rand had seized a nearby chair for support, and this he clutched now, almost seeming ready to collapse.

  “What ails you, cleric?”

  “Forgive me for revealing too much. I did not want Broedius to know how much my work has taxed me. It seems—it seems to take more effort lately to draw from my patron, perhaps because he, too, has other matters to deal with. Also, I find that working with mages can present great difficulties.”

  “What difficulties? What are you attempting, human?”

  Rand shrugged. “Among other things, trying to rid the islands of this cursed fog. I feel that without it, we could deal with the crustaceans, but neither prayers nor incantations have accomplished much. We managed to cause it to thin a bit in some regions.”

  “It did disperse a bit during the last part of the battle,” Seph offered.

  “I can only hope it did. Two of the Knights of the Thorn will be unable to cast spells for a day … a day we likely do not have. There is no word from the south, and the only messages we get from Kothas are short ones through a sickly mage with a talent for such spells. I think there will be a second assault on Lacynos—Nethosak—before long, and that this one will be worse than the first.”

  Aryx agreed. “And fire won’t help us nearly as much as it did the first time. You know that.”

  “I do. That which controls them will not permit the same trick twice, not on this scale. That is why I feel we must remove this fog. It is an essential part of our adversaries. Without it, I believe these creatures will rout.” He shook his head. “But some other spell must be utilized, something that hasn’t been tried before. I have some thoughts … wild ones, I admit.”

  The injured minotaur’s guilt increased. “And you’ve been attending me as well. Get some sleep, cleric. You need it more than I.”

  “I supposed I must,” Rand agreed ruefully.

  “Seph … Delara … I might need your assistance. My thanks for the use of your chambers, human, but by rights, you should be sleeping here. I’ll return to …” Aryx hesitated, not at all certain where he should go now that Sargonnas’s temple lay in ruins. Delara had offered refuge at her clan house if he did not care to return to his own, but …

  Rand prevented them from leaving. “Aryx, Broedius wants you to speak with the minotaur generals at the fifth hour. If you leave here, you won’t manage more than an hour or two of sleep. Stay here. There are other rooms in this quarter. The Knights of Takhisis prefer to live among company other than mine. Perhaps you and your friends would be interested.…”

  A sound suggestion, and one that Aryx, who could feel his legs wanting to buckle, readily took up. “All right, then. Thank you, cleric.”

  “My name is Rand, Aryx.”

  “Thank you … Rand.”

  The thin, pale human led them to the doorway. “Let me show you the way, so you can all get some rest.” His face darkened. “I suspect we will get very little rest from here on.”

  He led them to some empty rooms just a few yards from his own chambers. Clearly these, too, had belonged to elders of the clan. The finely crafted furniture, flowing drapes, and elaborate displays where once prized weapons had hung were unmistakable signs of their owners’ high status. Aryx, though, cared little about status at the moment, seeing only that the bed, while more extravagant than his preferences, would serve well for sleeping.

  Seph and Delara were given similar rooms adjacent to Aryx’s. The minotaurs, more used to sharing quarters with family and comrades, felt a little guilty with so much room for each of them, but Rand pointed out that the entire hall remained empty. Had they desired so, they could have chosen any room. While the knights maintained control of the hou
se, the clan elders would not return.

  “Think of these bedrooms as the price of war,” the cleric commented with a ghost of humor in his tone.

  The others left Aryx. The minotaur fell onto the bed, twinges of pain still causing him to twitch now and then. He had kept his true condition secret from the others, not wanting them to worry. Given time and rest, he knew that much of the pain would fade. His eye might never heal completely, but the warrior hoped that someday he would become used to it.

  The Sword of Tears hung from his scabbard, which in turn hung on a hook near the bed. The demon blade had said nothing, which disturbed Aryx. He felt that it kept secrets from him, secrets that might endanger not only him but also his companions. What could they be, though?

  Aryx never got the opportunity to think the question through, for exhaustion at last caught up with him and he fell into a deep sleep.

  And in that deep, deep sleep, he dreamed.…

  * * * * *

  A hand the size of a dragon plucked him from the bed, catching him just as he opened his eye. Aryx tried to cry out, but no words came from his mouth. The hand raised him high into the air, so high that he could see all of the fog-enshrouded minotaur isles and then all of Ansalon. Higher and higher he went, so that soon he could make out the entire disk of Krynn as seen from one side.

  And then a voice boomed, “You don’t have to frighten him half to death!”

  A second voice, more fluent than the first, rumbled, “I hardly think I’ve frightened him, old comrade! He is one your grandchildren, after all, is he not?”

  “He has the temper, all right. I just hope he doesn’t make the same sort of mistakes.…”

  Standing on the open palm of the great hand, Aryx turned about, trying to see the faces of the giants. Instead, he first made out a set of stars formed into a familiar pattern. The dusky gray minotaur wracked his brain, then cursed himself for not immediately recognizing the constellation of Kiri-Jolith.

  As if recognition had been all it needed, the constellation suddenly transformed. Golden eyes stared out from a majestic bison head, eyes that seemed to find favor with Aryx. It made the minotaur calm … somewhat.

  The bison spoke. “Hail to you, Aryximaraki de-Orilg! Hail to you, warrior!”

  “You’ll deafen him, you will,” grunted the other, still unseen, speaker.

  The god ignored his companion. Bringing Aryx up closer to his golden eyes, Kiri-Jolith seemed fascinated by what he saw. A twinkle of amusement in the divine warrior’s gaze unsettled the young minotaur. Kaz Dragonslayer had once said that when a god had his eye on you, it’s time to start praying. Aryx felt like doing so now, if he could only think of someone else to whom to pray.

  “Aryximaraki,” Kiri-Jolith began, all traces of humor gone. “Circumstance chose you … circumstance or fate, matters which even we gods cannot always control.”

  The invisible speaker snorted. “Bad luck, he means.”

  “But although you were beaten back, you returned to the fray even stronger than before.…”

  “Spare the rehashing of old sayings! You all talk too much! Show him and be done with it!”

  The bison-headed god glanced at the darkness where the other should have been, now at last a little annoyed. “As you wish, old comrade.”

  The god began to fold his hand into a fist. With nowhere to run, Aryx knelt with his arms over his head, awaiting the inevitable. The gargantuan fingers folded in on him, cutting off all light.

  “Behold …” Kiri-Jolith uttered.

  Aryx found himself floating in emptiness so dark, so desperate, that immediately he knew it could only be one place … the Abyss. Unable to prevent it, Aryx felt himself drawn deeper into that terrible place. All perspective went awry. Everything he had always known to be true about the physical world suddenly turned false in his head. The laws that governed this place had been created elsewhere, using entirely different guidelines. He knew all of this in a rush and knew that the source of this knowledge had to be Kiri-Jolith.

  Then a great force scattered the darkness, bringing about a kaleidoscope of maddening colors and sounds, and in the center of it all, Aryx beheld several astonishing figures locked in mortal combat.

  The battle of the gods …

  Aryx knew this also, without even trying. He saw each of them as he had been raised to think of them. Brave, majestic Paladine, the platinum dragon and the armored knight both. From his maw, the glittering dragon let forth a shower of silver, and from his sword, the knight cut an electrifying arc. Aryx tried to focus on one form or another of the god, only to find instead that knight and dragon became what looked to be the most befuddled old human wizard he could have imagined … and yet somehow this form comforted him most.

  A war cry tore his attention from Paladine, and there, with his back to the minotaur, stood his own patron, Kiri-Jolith. The bison-headed god carried a sword in one hand and a war axe in the other. Bringing both together with a tremendous crash, the God of Just Causes released a torrent of blue rain that sparkled with energy.

  One after another, gods, most bearing human forms, flickered into and out of existence. Gilean, a tall, gray, thin figure, held a tome-shaped shield up before him, his expression unreadable. Near him stood Mishakal, a look of extreme sadness upon her delicate yet determined face. Even Reorx fought, his great war hammer striking some invisible surface again and again. Of all of them, the dwarf looked the most frustrated, the most upset, as if he took some personal blame for the struggle.

  Of Takhisis, there was no sign.

  She did not appear to be alone in her absence either. Very few of those termed the darker gods seemed to be in evidence, although one long, slim robed figure did grow to prominence for a time. By his ebony robes, he most resembled the wizards, and so Aryx assumed him to be Nuitari. Near the robed deity seemed to be a wild, watery female with eyes much like the one next to her, save that a savage passion ruled them. The warrior swallowed, for along with Sargonnas and Kiri-Jolith, what seafaring minotaur did not recognize turbulent Zeboim?

  Aryx understood that these images were of his own design, that any of the gods could wear a thousand shapes a day if they so chose. It did not surprise him, then, when he saw Sargonnas just as he had seen him in the temple. Now, however, the pallid figure wore a complete suit of armor, including a visored and horned helm of frightening design. The visor bore the distorted image of a raging minotaur warrior, and Sargonnas fought like one, raising a weapon much like the Sword of Tears high and unleashing its power …

  … but against what? Against what did the gods unleash their combined might?

  In the blinding flashes of power, Aryx at last thought he glimpsed something. With his one good eye, he tried to focus on it, this time noting what seemed to be a form of Promethean proportions. It never remained in focus long, but more and more he thought it resembled some fiery giant. The visage, barely viewed, could only be described as chaotic, mad. To stare too long into even that partially seen countenance threatened to drive the minotaur mad as well, and so he quickly tore his gaze from it.

  Father Chaos … the Father of All and of Nothing. He had heard the names from Sargonnas, and now he understood some of what they meant. A god more powerful than any of the gods, an elder god who, from the looks of him, might very well be the creator of Krynn’s deities.

  Aryx looked again at the figure in crimson and black armor, saw the strain beneath the fury, and knew that Sargonnas and the others were tiring. He recalled the Horned One’s words about fighting on more than one plane and at last realized how much of a burden these few must be putting on themselves, Sargonnas especially. Did Kiri-Jolith also wage other battles at the same time? Was that why he could protect his children no better than his darker counterpart had?

  Then, just as abruptly as he had been thrust into the battle, Aryx found himself again perched on the vast palm of Kiri-Jolith. He looked up at the god, for the first time seeing the great weariness, the lines of effort, in the majest
ic warrior’s face.

  “That which has been,” the God of Just Causes explained. “The war still rages, but we who defend are fewer.”

  The remark instigated a question from Aryx, who had not thought of even daring to speak before now. “Sargonnas?”

  “Probably run off with that harridan of his,” muttered the unseen one. “So much for the honorable and brave God of Vengeance!”

  “Sargonnas is not Takhisis,” Kiri-Jolith replied to his companion. To Aryx, he answered, “Where the Horned One is, even I cannot say, but if he has not fallen to the Father of All and of Nothing, then he fights. Somehow, somewhere, he fights.”

  His first question resolved, the mortal dared to ask a second, more important one. “What do you want of me? What more do you want from me?”

  “Nothing that you will not give freely, warrior.”

  “Finish it, Kiri,” interrupted the unnamed other, sounding more and more impatient. “Finish with him. Give him the blasted eye.”

  Eye? Aryx cared little for the sound of that.

  His fears grew stronger as the god’s expression turned troubling. “Yes … the eye.”

  Another gigantic hand appeared, and with it, the bison-headed god reached up among the other stars, plucking at last a faint jade one from an obscure corner of the heavens. He brought the star down, and as the other hand neared, Aryx saw that the god had not seized a star after all, but rather a tiny emerald stone carved into a narrow oval shape.

  “Would that I could give you something more in place of that which you lost, but time is short. Even this would have been more than I dared, but someone—” Kiri-Jolith glanced toward the direction from which the other voice ever came “—someone insisted that you were owed.”

  Again the other broke in. “Owed something other than that eye!”

  “But it is all I can give for now. Hear me, Aryximaraki, I have saved this, not knowing for certain what to do with it until now. Perhaps Gilean or frustrating Zivilyn, who cannot point to us one proper future, although our very existences might depend upon it, could have told me why … if he cared. Now, though, I find purpose for my ancient act. This was meant for you, minotaur, for readily taking on a mantle that you did not choose, for becoming one of those who shape the course of action.”