Pawnshops were plentiful in Khuri Khan, as was usual in a port city. Tasslehoff received seventy steel pieces for the emerald ring, which he thought was much less than its true value, but still a lot of money. In any case, it would more than cover their immediate needs.
They found an inn by the waterfront, with a very large stable around the corner willing to board a woolly mammoth. Though frightened to be without his new friends, Winnie seemed relieved to be sheltered from the noise and evening bustle of the city.
After a filling repast of curried pork with yellow rice and exotic plum wine, the kender and the human dragged themselves upstairs to their quarters above the taproom, sparsely furnished with two beds and a chamber pot. Both fell into an exhausted sleep, fully clothed, their breathing in sync with the deep-throated harbor bells outside their window.
* * * * *
It was well past midmorning when Tas and Woodrow stumbled out of bed and retrieved an anxious Winnie from the stable. The day was warm and clear, the sky azure blue. A strong breeze blew across the wide, central dock, where they sat eating honey-glazed sweetbuns and sipping thick coconut milk they’d purchased at a bakery.
Tasslehoff removed his blue leggings and dipped his toes in the cool, black water. He tore off a piece of sticky bun, stuffed it into his mouth, and licked his fingers with gusto. Then, after a few moments of pawing through his pack, he removed his ever present roll of maps. Woodrow eyed the bundle skeptically.
“They’re not all from before the Cataclysm,” Tas said, noting the human’s pained expression. He unrolled the maps and thumbed through them. “Here’s one of Southern Solamnia; I know that one’s OK, ’cause I made it myself when I teleported there with a magic ring. Did I tell you about my teleporting ring?”
Woodrow was not in the mood for one of the kender’s stories today. “I believe I’ve heard something about that, yes,” he mumbled, telling himself that this particular lie was really a very small one.
“I haven’t heard it,” Winnie said. He was not keen about water, and particularly disliked the way the dock groaned when he moved across it. Despite coaxing, he would not venture far from solid land.
“Sorry, Winnie, but we really should discuss if we’re going to Kendermore by boat or by riding you overland.”
Tasslehoff’s face fell; the teleporting ring story was one of his favorites. But the kender continued searching through his pile of maps; it had been a long time since he’d examined them closely. Nordmaar, Estwilde, the islands of Northern and Southern Ergoth and Enstar—he had maps from all over.
Woodrow elbowed the kender suddenly. “I think we should travel to Goodlund on that,” he said, squinting into the morning sun and pointing to a sleek, two-masted ship docked at the end of the pier. Its sails were furled, but a gaudy, red-and-gold flag snapped smartly from the top of the taller mast. The long, thin ship looked much more elegant than the round, squat ships that crowded the quays. Despite the shipwreck, Woodrow thought longingly of the sea—he was not keen for any more bumpy riding on Winnie’s back.
“What would we do with Winnie?” Tas asked.
“I’m sure we could bring him aboard. Ships carry livestock all the time.”
“You’re going to put me in a compartment with cows and pigs and chickens that are waiting to be butchered?” Winnie squealed. A passerby looked at the talking mammoth in stunned disbelief, then hurried by.
“That’s the wrong attitude, Winnie,” Woodrow said in his most solicitous voice. “Look at it as a chance to save your feet miles of stumbling over unfamiliar ground.”
“All ground is unfamiliar to me. Remember where I’ve been for the last fifteen years.”
Tasslehoff stood up and stamped his feet on the dock to dry them. “Let’s go find out how much it would cost to cross the Khurman Sea with a mammoth. Or even where the ship is headed.” Woodrow agreed with this suggestion and stood up to join the kender when Winnie’s frightened voice stopped both of them.
“Wait, Tasslehoff, Woodrow,” he said, his tone reluctant. “I don’t think I can ride on a boat.” The mammoth looked embarrassed.
Tas hugged one of Winnie’s massive legs. “If you’re frightened by water, we’ll travel overland so you can go with us. Won’t we, Woodrow?” the kender offered generously.
The human’s “Sure,” was not as enthusiastic, but no less sincere than Tasslehoff’s.
Winnie shook his massive head, his trunk swinging wildly. “It’s not just the water, Tasslehoff.” The mammoth paused as if thinking, then blew a big sigh. “For years—ever since I was captured—I’ve thought about where I came from. The gnomes said they found me abandoned, and I believe them. But I had to have parents sometime, didn’t I?”
“But how will you know where to look?” asked Woodrow.
“I have one clue,” said Winnie, taking a drink of water off the side of the dock. “Bozdil told me that they found me south of someplace called Zeriak.”
“South of Zeriak … that’s Icewall,” Tasslehoff muttered to himself, tapping his chin. “I think I can help you.” The kender took out his roll of maps and found one that satisfied him. “Yes, here it is, a map of the South.” Tasslehoff rolled it back up and slipped it into the tight curl in the end of Winnie’s trunk. “A farewell present,” the kender said, swallowing a sniffle. He hugged the mammoth’s trunk and stepped away, his eyes welling.
“I have no gift for you except my gratitude, friend,” Woodrow said, reaching out to pat the hairy pachyderm. “Good-bye, and good luck.”
“I’m the one who must thank you,” corrected the mammoth. “But if I don’t go right this minute, I’ll lose my courage. Thank you, and so long!” Winnie the woolly mammoth called with a wave of his trunk as he left the dock and disappeared into the bustling city streets. Biting his lip, Tasslehoff stood and waved long after the mammoth had disappeared.
“Shall we see when the ship at the end of the dock leaves for Port Balifor?” Woodrow suggested gently.
Tasslehoff’s blue mood passed as quickly as it appeared at the mention of another sea voyage. Kender and human hurried down the pier. A gangplank led onto the ship. Finding no one on the dock, they boarded the ship. As they crossed the gangplank, Woodrow noticed a barge floating behind the ship and tethered to it. The barge was loaded with heaps of wilted produce.
Once aboard, Tas hung back to explore while Woodrow spoke to the steward, a hunch-backed, grumpy human in salt-stained, black wool breeches.
With his arms crossed (he thought it made him look older), Woodrow concluded a deal with the steward, who seemed reluctant to allow a kender aboard. Woodrow was looking for Tasslehoff when his eyes focused on a sight on land at the end of the dock. There, amongst a small gathering of men, was an unusual but familiar horse with red nostrils, and its well-muscled owner. Walking with a bit of a limp, the man and his huge, black horse were striding down the dock toward the ship. Gisella’s killer!
Woodrow made himself small and ducked behind the large mast, his eyes scanning the deck frantically for the kender. He swore.
Where was that kender?!
Woodrow wondered briefly how the man they’d fought near the gnomes’ tower and who had murdered Miss Hornslager could have survived his wounds. Obviously he had, for there was no mistaking either him or his frightening horse. But now Woodrow had a greater mystery to solve.
Such as where the damned kender was, and how both of them could hide from Gisella’s ruthless killer.
Woodrow spotted the kender when Tas suddenly popped up a narrow stairway near the stern, his mouth open in an impending exclamation. Woodrow launched a low, flying tackle and clamped his hand over the startled kender’s mouth. He ducked between a water barrel and the ship’s rail, dragging a struggling Tasslehoff along.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burrfoot, but I’ve got terrible news. That man who killed Miss Hornslager is about to board this ship with his horse. We can’t get off without him seeing us, and I can’t think of any place to hide where he won’t ev
entually find us.”
Tasslehoff’s face burned with anger and he bit Woodrow’s hand, which the human hastily snatched away. “I thought you said you killed him!” accused Tas.
The human looked sheepish as he rubbed his smarting palm. “I thought I did. I don’t have much experience at that sort of thing, Mr. Burrfoot.”
Tas’s anger ebbed somewhat. “I’m not going to hide from him,” he announced firmly. “That troll-spawn is going to pay for what he did to Gisella!” The kender struggled against Woodrow, trying to get to his feet.
Tas’s fearlessness only heightened Woodrow’s fear. The human had seen this stranger in combat and knew that one kender, however determined, and a runaway squire like himself were no match for such a man.
Woodrow peeked around the corner. Denzil spoke with the steward, then handed him a small bag full of jingling coins. He had obviously booked passage for himself and his monstrous horse.
Fear squeezed Woodrow’s heart. He and Tas couldn’t leave the ship without being seen, and they couldn’t stay where they were without being discovered.
Then the human remembered the barge containing wilted produce. Assuming it hadn’t drifted too far from where he’d seen it, it should be only a few feet away. A pile of lettuce and carrots would make a soft landing.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burrfoot, but this is for your own good.” With one arm around the struggling kender’s shoulders and another over his mouth, Woodrow threw Tasslehoff and himself over the ship’s railing, praying that his aim was true, that the vegetables were as cushiony as they looked, and that he didn’t land on and squash the kender.
Woodrow hit the barge with a wet, sloshing slap and released the kender. Tumbling and rolling side to side, he slid down a hump of slimy refuse and tumbled up against the side of the barge. With horror, he realized that the garbage on the barge was a lot older and more rotten than he’d thought—mounds and mounds of rotting lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, meat, rags, and worse.
After spitting over the side a dozen times and wiping his lips and face as thoroughly as possible, Woodrow scanned about for Tasslehoff. “Mr. Burrfoot?” he whispered loudly, trying not to swallow. “Tasslehoff, are you all right? Please answer me!”
Woodrow heard a soft groan nearby. Raking through the awful-smelling garbage, he found the kender lying in a heap against the side of the barge, a large lump forming in front of his topknot. Woodrow felt awful, but he was glad too that the kender was unconscious, because he would surely kick up a fuss otherwise.
Woodrow curled up into a ball in the mess, forming a plan. He knew from speaking to the steward that the ship was scheduled to sail as soon as the crew returned from shore, which would be very soon. If he and Tasslehoff could remain hidden, the ship would leave and tow them along. Then they could keep an eye on the man who killed Gisella without worrying about bumping into him accidentally. Working as quickly and quietly as possible, he buried himself and Tasslehoff in the garbage.
Within the half-hour, the crew was reassembled on deck. Sails were unfurled, the anchor weighed, and mooring lines cast off.
The sun was just past midday when the ship slipped away from the dock and headed out to sea, trailing the stinking barge. Woodrow peeked his head out at the first sign of movement and caught sight of the evil man standing at the stern of the ship. Woodrow shivered involuntarily. Excitement and fear had left him exhausted. With nothing else to do, he fell asleep next to Tasslehoff.
A wave slapped over the barge and Woodrow awoke with a start, gagging on water. A putrid taste clogged his nose and mouth. His heart pounded furiously until he remembered where he was. The sky was bright orange and white, the sun a giant half-circle on the horizon. He could see no land in any direction.
When Woodrow looked toward the ship, his panic returned.
A sailor was bent over the rail, a hatchet in his hands. With a soft “thunk,” the sailor’s hatchet chopped through the rope that linked the barge to the ship. Tas’s and Woodrow’s garbage barge slowed and fell behind. The beautiful, two-masted ship glided through the water toward Port Balifor as the barge glided to a stop and rolled gently on the waves.
* * * * *
“For the last time, Woodrow, I’m not mad!” Tasslehoff snapped. Tempers were short on the garbage barge. The kender had cleared himself a little, slimy patch of boat, which he’d rinsed as best he could by scooping up seawater with his hands.
“I just wish you’d warned me before you tossed me on my head, that’s all.” He gingerly touched the bruised knot that had formed just above his brows. “I’ll bet it looks like a third eye.”
“You can hardly see it,” Woodrow said kindly, privately amazed by its size.
“Not see it!” Tas cried. “I can see it myself without looking in a glass!” To demonstrate his point, he crossed his eyes and looked up, only managing to look demented. They broke into ridiculous, hysterical laughter, hiccupping slowly to a stop.
The barge fell unnaturally silent. Not even a whiff of a breeze crossed their heap of fermenting, rotten, stinking garbage. The midday sun beat down on them, and the sea was as still as bathwater.
“I’m hungry,” Tas said at last, rubbing his growling stomach. He remembered their sweetbuns back on the dock.
Woodrow’s boyish face scrunched up in disgust. “How can you think of eating in the middle of this stench?”
“I eat when I’m bored, OK?” Tas said defensively.
“We haven’t been out here that long,” Woodrow said.
“How long is long enough?” Tas asked genuinely. “I wasn’t bored during the shipwreck, though.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “Things were flying and crashing about on the deck, the gully dwarves were, well, being gully dwarves, and Gisella was rolling off the side in the wagon—” The kender’s eyes misted over at the mention of their fallen friend. The memory of her sacrifice was fresh in his consciousness.
“Remember before, how we thought she had drowned?” Woodrow was trying to sound inspirational. “It turned out she was just fine!”
“That time,” Tas said sorrowfully.
“I miss her, too, Mr. Burrfoot.”
Tasslehoff set his chin with determination. “I pledged to return to Kendermore, for Gisella—to complete her job—and to rescue my Uncle Trapspringer.” His eyes sparkled fiercely. “I must!”
“We’ll get there somehow,” Woodrow promised, his unblinking eyes staring into the neverending horizon. Gulls swooped overhead, squawking in their distinctive voices.
Tas’s nose lifted in the air as he sniffed. “Something smells like my mother’s furniture polish. Or maybe it was her broth.” He shrugged. “They may have been the same thing.”
Woodrow picked up the corner of a soiled piece of parchment. “What could possibly be causing such an awful smell, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if we find it we can throw it overboard.”
Woodrow picked up a sturdy-looking piece of lumber and started poking through the refuse. After turning over several piles, both he and Tas retreated, holding their noses.
“We must be getting close,” Tas said.
Two more reluctant pushes with the piece of wood revealed the gray, decomposing carcass of a beak-faced owlbear buried beneath the more usual sorts of garbage. Both Woodrow and Tas dashed for the farthest corner of the barge and hung their heads beneath the level of the gunwale.
“We’ve got to dump that thing overboard, Mr. Burrfoot,” gasped Woodrow.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” the kender answered. “I’m sure it would attract sharks.”
“Would a shark eat that?”
“Oh, yes. Sharks eat everything, dead or alive, but mostly alive, and mostly humans and kender and such. And they’re enormous and can chew a boat apart if there is something aboard they want to eat. Which is—as I said—everything.”
“But we’re not in the ocean,” objected Woodrow. “This is the ‘Bay’ of Balifor. So we’re all right, right?”
Tasslehoff flopped back into the bottom of the barge and inhaled deeply. “They call it a bay, but it connects right up to the ocean. Ships that sail on the ocean come in and out of Port Balifor all the time. We’re definitely safer with a dead owlbear than with a live shark.”
Wordlessly, Woodrow sank down beside Tas. In the quiet, windless heat, the stink hung over the barge like a shroud. Together they sat and stared at the offensive owlbear carcass and wished themselves elsewhere.
Tas was soon bored again, so he absently watched a distant dot grow against the horizon. “What is that, land?” he asked at last, pointing for the human’s benefit.
Woodrow squinted down the end of the kender’s finger. “It can’t be. We’re not moving, but the dot is getting bigger.”
“It’s a boat!” Tas cried suddenly, his sharp kender eyes catching a glimpse of movement. Rowers, he guessed from their constant motion. Tas jumped up and down, waving his arms excitedly and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Woodrow stilled the kender’s arms and said, “We may not be happy to see who’s on this boat.”
Tasslehoff looked at Woodrow as if the human had lost his mind. “Not happy? But they can rescue us! Anything has got to be better than riding around on here, particularly since there’s nothing very interesting in the heap.” He squinted at the speck again. “Besides, I think it’s too late. They’ve spotted us.” As the rowers drew closer, Tas recognized bull-shaped heads—minotaurs.
Minotaurs were one of Krynn’s most unusual—and unfriendly—races. Before the Cataclysm, their history was filled with prejudice and slavery, first by the Kal-Thax dwarves, (according to legend, at least), and later by the Istar Empire. Their bovine appearance and incredible strength made them both despised and coveted as slaves.
No one but another minotaur ever called one of their number beautiful. Both bulls and cows were seldom less than seven feet tall. Short, black or red-brown fur covered their heavily muscled, human/bovine frames. Though they walked upright and had hands like men, their ankles, or tarsal joints, were the hocks of quadruped animals with cloven hooves. Horns as much as a foot long grew from their temples or browbones.
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