The Companions tms-6

by Tina Daniell

  "Money? I have some, but I can get more. My word can be my guarantee."

  Nellthis waved his hand to indicate that money was not the problem. "I have plenty of money."

  "Time? Isn't there enough time?"

  Again Nellthis waved his hand in dismissal. He was looking past her, up at the ceiling, making a show of thinking.

  "What, then?" demanded Kitiara.

  "Difficult," Nellthis said, pursing his lips. "But perhaps it can be arranged. The journey itself will require no money, only courage and good luck."

  Although Kit had no idea what Nellthis had in mind, she could tell by his demeanor that he was serious. And in matters to do with family, she trusted Uncle Nellthis as much as Kitiara Uth Matar trusted anyone. Even though the trip seemed impossible, and Kitiara could think of no conceivable way that such a journey could be completed within a short frame of time, she found herself believing him when he said that it might be arranged.

  She flashed him a warm, crooked grin. "I have the courage," she said, "if you can supply the good luck." More earnestly, she added, "I'll do whatever needs to be done and repay you in any way I can."

  "Tut-tut, Kitiara," replied Nellthis. Staring at her fixedly, he lowered his voice. "I expect nothing but your gratitude. Oh, before I forget," he added nonchalantly, reaching for a tiny bottle of colorless liquid on his desk and holding it out toward her, "here's a memento of the part you played in bagging that leucrotta. I had the man who preserved the head set it aside-especially for you."

  "What is it?" Kitiara asked, peering suspiciously at the thick liquid that floated in the small, innocuous-looking glass container.

  "A vial of the creature's saliva," explained Nellthis.

  "According to legend, it makes an effective antidote to love philters. Judging by that amusing episode in the courtyard, I think you might have more use for it than I."

  Skeptical, Kit's eyes flicked back and forth from Nellthis to the vial. His expression was unreadable. "Take it," he urged. "It might come in handy someday."

  Kitiara gave him another crooked grin as she pocketed the small vial.

  "Now we must hurry," Nellthis added, taking up the quill pen again and scribbling a note. He folded the note into his pocket and rose from the desk. "We have things to do… friends of mine that you must meet. You must pack your belongings. You have to hurry if you want to be on your way by sunrise."

  Chapter 4

  Across the Blood Sea

  The first to awaken was Caramon, his head throbbing painfully. He had a vague sensation of having dreamed something-of being up in a high stone tower, buffeted by strong winds and driving rain. Only it wasn't a tower; it was the tallest tree in a forest, bending and swaying, with Caramon clinging precariously high in its branches. Lightning struck the tree, and it snapped in the middle, and Caramon was falling. But he could save himself. All he had to do was grab the anchor of a silver ship flying by, an anchor that bobbed and dangled mere inches from his fingertips…

  "Unh," he grunted. That sailor's mead was worse than dwarf spirits. Caramon reached up to massage the bridge of his nose, but something held his hand down. Opening his eyes painfully, he realized that, for some reason that escaped him, he was roped to a post along with Sturm and Tas, who were still unconscious. Caramon closed his eyes again and relaxed. It was just a bad dream. It would all go away when the mead wore off.

  The sounds of the storm faded and were replaced by the cries of gulls, the sighing of the wind, and the gentle rocking and swaying of a ship. Then, after some time, other sounds became gradually audible… low grunts and scraping noises and the squeaking of oars.

  Caramon's bleary eyes opened again, and he tried to assess the situation. Where was he, anyway? What had happened? Why were he and Sturm and Tasslehoff roped to the ship's mast?

  Sturm leaned against him, his head thrown back and his mouth agape. Behind them, if Caramon twisted his shoulder, he could make out Tas, an ugly purple bruise spreading across his forehead. Caramon elbowed Sturm, but got no reaction. He could hear Tasslehoff as the kender began to stir and groan.

  All three were bound and shackled to the center post of the Venora. As far as Caramon could see, nobody else was aboard the ship, which seemed to be drifting gently with the current.

  Caramon combed his memory, trying to recall how he got there. The last thing he remembered, he had been on deck, swapping yarns and sharing mead with some of the sailors. They were on their way back from Eastport. It was a beautiful clear night, one of those times when all seemed right with the world.

  Straining his eyes, he couldn't place the sun, but Caramon felt that it must be daytime. It was hot and humid. The sun must be up there somewhere, behind the filmy gray clouds. Not clouds… more like a warm-weather mist, which cast its pall over everything, so that Caramon could see only a short way ahead of him on the ship.

  All of a sudden, the sounds that he had been hearing stopped and were replaced by other, closer, more distinct sounds. Footfalls. Clanking weapons. Voices.

  "What is it?" whispered Tas groggily. "What has happened?"

  "Shhh."

  The mist cleared slightly. Caramon saw hands gripping the side railings of the Venora and figures climbing over the rail onto the ship. In twos and threes, they began to creep forward, coming closer, closer, so that soon Caramon knew he would be able to make out their features.

  Over his shoulder, Caramon whispered vehemently, "Sturm, wake up!" He could feel the Solamnic move his head and begin to stir.

  As the figures approached, Caramon saw that they were a motley assortment including several human ruffians, a few ogres, a phalanx of minotaurs, and a mysterious caped, cowled figure, hunched over, who stood almost out of view toward the rear. Caramon couldn't get a good look at this furtive figure, who occasionally hissed orders at the rest, unaccountably creating the impression of some slithering, serpentine creature.

  Caramon shifted his attention back to the ogres. He felt certain they were ogres, yet they were strange and unlike others of that ill-begotten race. They were shorter and fatter, with stringy flaxen-colored hair, greasy gray skin, and webbed hands and feet. Caramon was taken aback by the sight of ogres alongside the minotaurs, for in olden times, the minotaurs had been slaves of the ogres, and the two brute races were usually regarded as dire enemies of each other.

  The humans were dressed in ragged if colorful patchwork clothing. They were lean and sun-parched, but obviously rugged. From their waists dangled cutlasses and assorted seagoing utensils. The ogres and minotaurs likewise carried conspicuous tools and weaponry.

  Caramon jerked his shoulder again, and this time he felt Sturm's head rise groggily. He sensed Tas struggling with his bonds, but the warrior knew from experience that the kender's efforts were in vain.

  The minotaurs took charge of the boarding party, elbowing their way to the front of the group. Though there were only four or five of them, the bullish creatures, garbed in harnesses and skirts with gemmed rings through their ugly snouts, dominated the group. Short, rust-colored fur carpeted their massive bodies, and horns curved sharply upward from their wide brows. Their cloven hooves made a harsh clatter on the deck.

  Two of the minotaurs stepped toward the trio of prisoners, pausing a few feet away. They spoke to each other in voices that were muted for minotaurs but whose deep, gravelly tones carried easily to Caramon's ears.

  "Be these the three?" rumbled one. He carried several axes and a wicked-looking knife stuck into his leather straps.

  "Fool! Of course they are. Do you think the Nightmaster would make such a mistake?"

  The creatures' foul smell acted like powerful smelling salts for Caramon, clearing his senses of their previous grogginess.

  The second one must be the leader, Caramon thought. Around the minotaur's thick, muscular neck gleamed a tight collar of polished stones. At his waist, he wore a loincloth of girded metal. He carried only a barbed flail.

  "They look pathetic. What threat could they poss
ibly pose?"

  "I only do the master's bidding, Dogz. I do not read his thoughts."

  "Which is the one?"

  "That's what we must find out."

  The others hung back in a circle like wolves cringing at the edges of a blazing campfire. With their huge bulk and seven foot height, the minotaurs loomed over Caramon, obscuring his view. The cowled figure remained in the background, enshrouded by fog, so that Caramon couldn't be sure of its outline. Only occasional hisses and swishing utterances reminded him that there was someone, or some thing, back there.

  Struggling to sit erect, Caramon noticed another vessel through the mist, a sleek longship off in the distance. He could just make out the topsail poking through the curls of mist. He guessed the ship was about three hundred yards away.

  "Caramon! What's going on?" That was Sturm's voice.

  From his angle, the Solamnic couldn't see much, and from the sound of his voice, it was clear that he was still dazed.

  "Minotaurs and some human rabble," whispered Tas, although he could see even less than Sturm.

  "Pirates," muttered Caramon.

  "Silence!" barked the leader. The minotaur lashed out with his flail, catching Caramon on the side of the face and making a deep strawberry cut on his cheek. "We're no pirates, fool!"

  At that, the two minotaurs retreated back into the fog to where the caped figure stood. From the muttered growls that floated through the air, it appeared that the minotaurs were consulting with this peculiar specimen. The others moved closer to the mast, tightening their circle around the three prisoners. They had bloodthirsty looks in their eyes that left Caramon distinctly uncomfortable.

  "Where are we?" asked Sturm in a low voice, sounding more clearheaded now.

  "I was hoping you'd have an answer to that question," replied Caramon grimly.

  "If only I could consult my maps," chimed in Tasslehoff.

  Caramon said nothing. Best to keep silent, he thought to himself. No sense letting this piratical band know how confused they were. The big warrior had a feeling that any signs of weakness would only add to their trouble.

  The two minotaurs who had been conferring with the cowled figure returned, towering over him. The one called Dogz reached toward Caramon with thick, wide hands, and ran them over the front and back of Caramon's body, searching for something. Caramon struggled, but he could do little to resist. He spat defiantly into the face of the huge, smelly minotaur.

  He heard chuckling from the onlookers as the minotaur reared back in surprise and, with the force of a sledgehammer, kicked the Majere twin in the face. Caramon spat out a bloody tooth and doubled over in pain as Sturm cried out, "By my honor, you will live to regret that cowardly blow!"

  "That goes double for me!" shouted Tasslehoff. "When his brother hears about this, you'll be lucky if you aren't turned into a horny toad. He'll-"

  "Leave off, Tas!" Caramon managed to gasp.

  But the minotaur paid no heed. Already Dogz had moved on, bending over Sturm and groping through the young knight's clothing and gear with his rough hands. This is not the one either, thought Dogz. This human carried nothing on his person, no weapon or purse.

  "Hunh," Dogz grunted, holding up one hand, which dripped blood from the matted wound on the back of Sturm's head. In disgust, he slapped Sturm across the side of the face. The Solamnic took the blow stoically, as he had the search, saying nothing.

  "That's it!" Tasslehoff cried, struggling in vain against his bonds. "Now you've crossed the point of no return! Sturm never hurt an unarmed person in his whole life-well, at least as long as I've known him! Which is years, or certainly a year or two by now. And he is about as noble and well-meaning a fellow as you will ever meet, quite apart from myself."

  This time the kender's voice seemed to surprise the minotaur, as if he hadn't quite deigned to notice Tas before. Caramon heard a sharp intake of breath as Dogz stepped back to speak, in his low rumbling voice, with the leader.

  "The third one is a kender, Sarkis."

  "So?"

  "Kender are unclean. They roam the earth, living by stealth and dishonor. To touch one, it is said, is to invite scorn or, worse, disease. I do not think it is necessary to search this one."

  From behind the two minotaurs came an angry hiss. From behind Caramon rose Tas's indignant voice.

  "Unclean! Why, you big horny cow! I'll have you know that I bathe regularly. I washed my face just yesterday, to be exact-that is, assuming this is the day after yesterday, which I don't know for sure because I have no idea where I am or how long it took me to get here. But if you want to bring up personal hygiene, I suggest you take your two moon-sized nostrils, bend over, and take a whiff of yourself!"

  Sturm bit his tongue.

  Caramon rolled his eyes.

  The human scum and webbed ogres snickered.

  The one named Sarkis stepped away from Dogz and faded into the gray mist toward the cloaked figure. This time Caramon couldn't make out any words, only bestial snorts interspersed with guttural syllables and hissing sounds. The leader was obviously conferring with the mysterious figure.

  Caramon's thoughts whirled. They stopped at the thought of his twin. Raistlin and he had become expert at pairing up to seize the advantage in many tight situations. With a fierce longing, the young warrior wished he had his brother at his side now. What would Raistlin do in such a spot?

  Sarkis returned and addressed Dogz contemptuously. "Pah, Dogz! It is true that kender are dishonorable, but it is well known they are impervious to common or uncommon illness. You are as likely to catch disease from a tree stump. Let me do the job, you superstitious fool!"

  Tasslehoff was able to twist around to see Sarkis descend upon him, huge hands outstretched. "You ugly, wart-faced, pig-snouted, dun-colored cretin! I'm as honorable as they come-well, maybe not as honorable as Sturm, or even Caramon, who is honorable in his own humble way-but twice, ten times, one hundred thousand times as honorable as the likes of you! And let me warn you that I could give you any disease I wanted if I only cared enough to bother… Hey, stop! Quit that! That tickles! Heh-heh! Hah-ha-ha-ha-hah!"

  That crazy kender talks too much for his own good, thought Sturm. He saw from his vantage that Sarkis had discovered Tasslehoff's packs and pouches. The minotaur leered, showing yellow teeth in his brutish face.

  Sarkis stomped over to his second-in-command, holding up Tas's pouches. He glared savagely at his subordinate.

  "Well, what is it?" asked the chastened Dogz.

  The humans and webbed ogres tittered until Sarkis silenced them with a glance. Sarkis strode back to the figure in the fog. Their conversation consisted of more hissing and muffled grunts. He returned to Dogz.

  "He is the one," Sarkis announced.

  Dogz started forward, but Sarkis grabbed him by the shoulder. "Do not harm him! Bring him and" — he handed over the kender's belongings- "his pouches."

  Dogz hurried over to Tasslehoff. A high-pitched shriek filled the air. Caramon and Sturm strained against their bonds, but there was nothing they could do.

  Dogz came back around the mast, carrying Tas, holding the squirming, ranting kender as far away from him as he could, dangling him by his topknot. It looked as if the huge minotaur was carrying a rabbit by the ears, but the rabbit, in this instance, was cursing a vile streak.

  "Ouch! Of all the-You clod-footed, garlic-breathing pokehead! Watch what you're-Ouch! Where are we go-Ouch! You overgrown, thickheaded, milkless cow! Ouch! That's my hair you're pulling! Hey, what about Caramon and Sturm? Yeeeow!"

  As Caramon and Sturm watched, the minotaur passed the kicking kender to two of the humans, who climbed over the rail and disappeared, presumably into a dinghy below. Smirking with satisfaction, Dogz turned to face Sarkis.

  Caramon heard a scuttling sound and could just make out the cowled figure retreating toward the ship's railing, then being swallowed up by the fog as he went over the side. Other humans, webbed ogres, and minotaurs hurried to do likewise.

&n
bsp; Stepping forward, Dogz asked menacingly, "What about these two?"

  Sarkis shrugged indifferently. "They are unimportant. Throw them overboard and set fire to the ship."

  The few remaining humans edged forward. One of them, a lumbering hulk of a man with a red beard and bearing a rope scar on his neck, gave Dogz a look of eager pleading. Dogz nodded to him.

  The two bull creatures turned away and also disappeared over the side of the ship.

  The humans swarmed over Caramon and Sturm, punching and beating them with short clubs. Unable to defend himself, Caramon tried to protect his eyes by clamping them shut. Next to him, Sturm moaned, then grunted as the first blows landed, but after that the Solamnic took his punishment in silence.

  The huge man with the rope scar began to kick at the mast. After several kicks, it snapped at the bottom, and he and the other humans lifted it, dragging Sturm and Caramon over to the side of the Venora.

  Sounds of the ship being wrecked surrounded them. Then came a sloshing noise, followed by a whoosh and a sudden rush of heat and fire.

  Still bound to the jagged section of mast, Sturm and Caramon were hefted into the air. The men began a crude chant, lofting the prisoners in an arc over the water, then swinging them back to the ship several times before letting go with a final shout. Sturm and Caramon and the mast section sailed through the air before plummeting toward the water in a twisted jumble.

  As he smacked the water, Caramon struggled to react. His arms seemed all tangled up with the wooden mast, and his hands were tied tight. Even without these disadvantages, swimming wasn't Caramon's strong point. He would have drowned in Crystalmir Lake some months ago if Sturm hadn't rescued him. He had made some modest strides since that day, but now he kicked for all he was worth.

  Because of the way in which they had hit the water, Sturm was briefly pinned under the mast and took a few seconds to surface. Gasping for air, Sturm struggled to free his arms, but like Caramon, he couldn't. He scissored his legs, kicking strongly. Fortunately for the two of them, the wooden mast section helped keep" them afloat.