Though they usually wore clothing, particularly outside their island nation, they were scantily covered by human standards. Their outfit of choice was a harness studded with weapons and decorations, and a short leather skirt.
Before long, the small, gleaming, beautifully crafted longboat, propelled by sixteen powerful oarsmen, glided gracefully up to the barge, barely leaving a wake. Everyone aboard the minotaur boat looked worse than unfriendly—angry, almost. They stared unabashedly without speaking, their collective gaze primarily on Tasslehoff.
The kender was beginning to feel like one of the bugs in Lig’s and Bozdil’s display cases, and it made him squirmy. “Hello,” he called, flashing his friendliest smile. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot. And you are—”
“Goar. We’ve had much trouble of late with the kender on the Blood Sea Coast.” The speaker and apparent leader, if his lone red harness was any indication, was a head taller than the other oarsmen. “They are an infantile and thievish race. You are not, perhaps, like the rest?” His words sounded awkward but were phonetically correct, as if he had learned the common tongue from a textbook.
Tasslehoff was too busy staring to hear the insult at first. Woodrow watched the kender’s cheeks grow hot as the words sank in. He cut in before the kender could launch into one of his spine-tingling taunts.
“My friend and I are stranded out here, having mistakenly boarded this barge without knowing that it would be cut adrift.” Woodrow licked his lips nervously, knowing that this pronouncement sounded unlikely. “Perhaps you could give us a ride to the nearest port, or at least tow us? We would be most grateful.”
Goar turned his back and engaged in a loud series of moans and harsh grunts with his crewmen. Suddenly, one of them, a red-furred minotaur whose horns stretched two feet if they were an inch, growled long and low in the back of its throat. The monstrous creature shook its heavy head twice, pointing an accusing finger at Tas, and crossed its arms defiantly.
But Goar’s answer was a vicious snort, his lip curled back in an ugly sneer. The gesture left no room for debate. The other minotaur averted its head in angry shame and stormed to the back of the small boat.
Goar turned back to Tas and Woodrow, regarding them as he carefully prepared the unfamiliar words. “We have decided to believe that you are, indeed, stranded.”
Woodrow and Tas waited for the minotaur to continue, both thinking, What an odd way to agree to help us! When it appeared the silence would stretch on indefinitely, Tas said, “Well, we are—stranded, that is. So are you going to help us or not?”
“We did not say we would, no.”
Tas and Woodrow exchanged puzzled looks. “Surely you can’t leave us out here to die!” croaked Woodrow.
“We cannot?” Goar’s voice was without guile. “We are unaware of any law regarding this.”
Tas gave an uneasy laugh. “Of course there’s no law, but …”
Goar arched an eyebrow at the kender, who decided to try a gamble.
“We can pay you!”
Goar’s furry ears perked up, but he looked dubiously at the pile of garbage. “I doubt you have anything we would find of value.” His attention was abruptly commanded by a tug on his arm from another of his crew. Goar turned away from the barge again.
“Mr. Burrfoot,” Woodrow whispered hoarsely, “I’m not sure it was a good idea to promise them payment. Remember, we paid for passage on the other ship, which, after breakfast, leaves us with next to nothing.”
“You shouldn’t worry about things so much, Woodrow,” Tas said in that lecturing tone kender used so frequently. “Something will come up. It always does.”
“I don’t know,” Woodrow said slowly. “They don’t seem like the trusting type.”
“Human and kender,” Goar rumbled behind them. Tas and Woodrow spun around. “My …” He seemed to be searching for a word. “… my cook tells me that he detects the scent of seasoned owlbear coming from your boat. We would accept that in payment for delivering you to the nearest port.”
Tasslehoff and Woodrow were dumbstruck.
“However, if you are unwilling to relinquish such a valuable item in exchange for your lives,” Goar continued, “regrettably we would continue on our way.”
“Take it!” kender and human cried in unison.
* * * * *
Minotaurs made incredible oarsmen, Tas concluded, watching the strange bull-men pulling at their respective oars. Driven by the cadence of their leader/coxswain, their rhythm never faltered, their strength never flagged. It was mesmerizing to watch, back and forth, back and forth, corded muscles rippling in their thick arms and necks.
The ride was smoother than any Tasslehoff had ever encountered, on land or at sea. The sleek, streamlined minotaur ship cut through the still waters of the Khurman Sea like a hot knife through butter. The speed of sea travel was difficult to gauge, since there were no landmarks to follow, but Tas was quite certain he had never before traveled as swiftly on land. It was more like flying on a dragon, he concluded.
They had been at sea with the minotaurs through two sunsets and sunrises. The garbage barge had been cast adrift after the removal of the owlbear. Life aboard the minotaur ship was all work and no play. When the rowers were not at the oars, they were sanding and polishing the gleaming chestnut-colored deck to remove any imperfections in its surface.
The two passengers were treated with barely veiled distaste by all but the leader, Goar, who seemed to be the only one able to communicate with them. Tas tried speaking with the others in fragments of several languages and concluded that they spoke only Minotaur. Woodrow doubted from their attitudes that they’d acknowledge a human even if they could understand him.
On the third morning, Goar announced, “We are nearing Port Balifor,” though neither Woodrow nor Tas saw any sign of land.
“How long will it be before we reach the port?” Woodrow asked.
“We will not be reaching the port,” Goar growled. “We have no wish to mingle with human sailors, nor they with us.”
“So you’re dumping us?”
“We will provide you with a floating conveyance that should maintain you until another ship passes by. Many ships pass this area. You should not have long to wait.”
Tasslehoff was about to protest when the minotaur cook came forward hefting a large, lidless barrel.
“You don’t mean for us to float around in that,” Woodrow said, shaking his head in disbelief and backing away.
The minotaur’s hairy lip curled up. “It is waterproof. We can provide you with paddles, if that would assist you.”
“Look at it as an adventure,” Tas said to Woodrow, his eyes sparkling eagerly. “This might be fun. I’ve never been set adrift in a barrel.”
“An adventure? Haven’t you had enough of adventure for a while?” Woodrow asked impatiently.
“How can you have enough adventure?” asked Tas as Goar lifted him effortlessly. The cook rolled the barrel over the gunwale and Goar deposited Tas, and then Woodrow, into the pitching, bobbing tub.
Tasslehoff splashed merrily in the lapping water as the minotaurs pulled rapidly away. Before long, they were once again just a speck on the horizon. Woodrow slumped down to the bottom of the barrel.
While Woodrow sulked, Tas experimented with the barrel’s balance and buoyancy. He rocked from side to side, jumped up and down, and made the barrel spin in slow circles by paddling with one hand.
Occasionally Tas took a break from his research to scan the horizon for sails. After hours of seeing nothing, he suddenly began jumping up and down in the barrel with a purpose, tossing it from side to side and frantically waving his arms above his head. Soon he was shouting at the top of his lungs, “We’re over here! This way! Are you blind or stupid? We’re over here!”
Woodrow leaped to his feet and squinted across the water. He, too, saw the approaching sail. “You know, something about that ship looks familiar,” he said, grasping opposite sides of the wildly swaying barrel, trying to ste
ady it.
“I know!” Tas snapped his fingers. “I recognize the captain’s red flag with the golden cloverleaf symbol. It’s the ship we booked passage on, and then you threw me on my head!”
Woodrow’s blood froze in his veins. How could that ship have got behind them?
“Paddle, Mr. Burrfoot!” Even as he made the desperate cry and stabbed his own oar in the water, Woodrow knew that the attempt was useless. He closed his eyes and steadied his nerves for the inevitable.
When the human opened his eyes again, he could see the ship was much closer—close enough for him to pick out the dark, sinister form of Gisella’s killer at the bow, looking like its figurehead. His cloak flapped around his knees, and he was flanked by two sailors who scurried about, one with a long pole with a hooked blade and the other with a rope.
As the ship approached, it did not reduce its speed. Instead, the sailor with the long pole hooked its blade onto the barrel. The barrel tipped dangerously and some water spilled over the rim as it swung toward the ship. As the barrel bumped against the hull of the ship, the second sailor tossed a rope down to the two castaways. “Climb up quick!” he barked. “We ain’t got all day.”
Keeping one suspicious eye on Denzil, both figures clambered up the side of the boat. The barrel was set adrift. Through all of this, Denzil stood in the forecastle and watched, perfectly playing the role of the disinterested stranger.
The steward, holding quill and parchment, found them moments after they boarded. The hunch-backed, grumpy-looking human wore the same black wool, salt-stained breeches he’d worn almost a week before, when Tas and Woodrow had first booked passage on the ship. He recognized them at once.
“You paid for your passage, then disappeared,” he said, his glance suspicious. “If you have enough coin to be throwing it away, what are you doing sailing Balifor Bay in a barrel?”
Tas shifted while he thought fast. “See, after we paid for passage, a friend of ours came along and offered us the use of his boat. We couldn’t say no, could we? But we didn’t think it was right to ask for our money back from you—a deal’s a deal, isn’t it, Woodrow?” The human nodded his blond head.
“Anyway, neither of us really knows how to sail a boat, so we ran into a bit of trouble—a hurricane, I think—lot’s of wind, anyway. We escaped in the barrel before the boat sank.” Tas finished his story, out of breath. That one had been a real test of his storytelling skills.
The steward looked dubious, but he shrugged. “This close to land, who cares why you’re really here? You paid for the whole ride, anyway. You may as well finish it out with us.”
“One more thing,” injected Tas artlessly. “That man up front,” he pointed, “standing next to the anchor rope, is a murderer. He should be arrested and turned over to the constables in Port Balifor.”
The steward was taken aback by the turn in the conversation, then at the claim. “You are confused,” he explained. “Master Denzil is a model passenger. I’ll take no action against him on the whim of a couple of castaways.” The steward laughed at what he considered to be a silly request.
Walking away to resume his duties, the sailor shot back over his shoulder, “We should reach Port Balifor in a few hours. Until then, stay on this deck and don’t bother any of the other passengers.”
“But he’s—”
“I said, don’t bother any of the other passengers!” roared the steward. Then he turned and strode back to his post at the stern of the ship.
As soon as the ship tied up and the gangplank was lowered, Tasslehoff and Woodrow were ordered off. They retreated into the beehive of barrels, bundles, sacks, and urns that covered the wharf.
“We can follow Denzil easily in all this bustle without being seen,” proposed Tasslehoff. “Let’s wait here and see what happens.”
Shaking his head dazedly, Woodrow kept walking through the throng. “No, Mr. Burrfoot. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I intend for us both to get as far away from that murderer as possible.” Suddenly the human was dragged to a stop by the surprisingly strong arms of the kender.
“Wait, Woodrow,” Tasslehoff insisted. “That Denzil guy is dangerous, and we can’t just let him walk away. If not for Gisella’s sake, then for our own safety we’d better keep track of him. He’ll be a lot more dangerous if he gets out of our sight.”
Woodrow stood silently behind the kender. He was still jittery, but his friend’s confidence soothed his nerves somewhat.
They watched the ship for several minutes. Denzil emerged from belowdecks leading his monstrous nightmare. He led the huge, black animal down the gangplank and across the wharf. The crowd parted before him, people edging away from the snorting, red-eyed nightmare. Still within view of the ship, Denzil strode directly past Woodrow and Tasslehoff, ignoring them, and continued into the town.
“What do you suppose he’s up to?” murmured Woodrow, tearing a fingernail to the skin with his teeth.
“Maybe he just doesn’t care about us,” Tasslehoff said, though he didn’t sound convinced himself. “Maybe what happened outside the gnomes’ castle had nothing to do with us personally. He doesn’t seem interested in us at all anymore.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Woodrow agreed warily.
“Let’s follow him anyway,” suggested Tas. “Maybe we can get something to eat while we’re at it.”
Tas led the way down the street, trailing Denzil. Before long, however, the kender was absorbed in the sights, smells, and sounds of the bustling seaport. Strange languages, exotic dress, people with unusual features and tattoos, and dozens of merchants all trying to sell him something (or keep him away from their stalls) proved too distracting for the irrepressible kender. By the time they left the second market square, Tas no longer knew where Denzil was, nor was he very concerned.
Instead, Tas paused to buy some smoked fish, admired the merchandise in a map seller’s booth, and was chased away by a silversmith after the merchant caught him making funny faces in the side of a teapot.
Even Woodrow had begun to relax as they passed an alley, munching on the last chunks of smoked fish. Suddenly, two powerful arms shot out and grabbed the startled kender and human. One hand wrapped around Tas’s neck, the other grasped Woodrow’s shirt. The human was flung against the wall at the back of the alley. Tasslehoff felt himself being hoisted face-down across the pommel of a saddle. The pommel gouged painfully into his ribs. Then someone else leaped into the saddle beside him. Woodrow scrambled to his feet, only to be met by the ringing sound of a sword being drawn.
Denzil!
“This doesn’t concern you, farmboy!” growled the assailant. “Stay out of it.” With that, the dark-cloaked assailant swung the flat of the sword viciously down on top of Woodrow’s head, and the human crumpled. A powerful hand on Tasslehoff’s back pressed him tightly to the saddle as the mount and rider turned and dashed from the alley.
Chapter 21
Denzil threw Tasslehoff on the hay-strewn dirt floor of a warehouse near the docks. Dusty light streamed through knotholes in the walls’ wide boards. The room contained only large wooden barrels held together with rusty bands, and stank overpoweringly of herring.
With his hands tied together at the wrists, the kender had to struggle to get into a sitting position. He gave the sinister-looking human a murderous glance. “You’re going to pay for what you did to poor Gisella, and now Woodrow!”
“Give me your maps.”
Tas met his challenging gaze. “I wouldn’t give you a bucket of spit!”
“Lucky for me, I’m not asking for one,” Denzil said. He grabbed the kender by the neck of his tunic, lifted him off the ground, then rummaged around in Tas’s vest until he found what he wanted. Letting his mouth crack slightly with an expression that was half grimace, half smile, he held a roll of parchment up victoriously. Denzil dropped the kender absently and turned away.
Kneeling on the ground, he unrolled the maps and regarded them in a stream of light with the tender gaze of
a lover. After scouring the top one with his eyes, he grunted angrily, then viciously threw the map over his shoulder. He repeated the scene with each of some six maps, rose to his feet, then scowled darkly. Turning to find the kender, he nearly tripped over Tasslehoff, who had been spying over the human’s shoulder.
“Where is it?!” Denzil stormed, reaching for the kender’s throat.
Tasslehoff backpedaled quickly. Even he was a bit alarmed by the murder in the human’s eyes. “Where’s what? I’m sure there’s a useful map in there somewhere. Are you having trouble reading them? You needn’t be embarrassed. I could read them for you—”
Denzil closed the gap between Tas, and his black-gloved fingers tightened around the kender’s throat.
“Of course you don’t need any help reading them,” gurgled Tasslehoff.
“Don’t jerk me around, ken-dirt,” Denzil growled. “I want the other half of a map that covers the territory east of Kendermore.”
“Withh twwr—?” Denzil loosened his hold on the purple-faced kender somewhat. “Thank you.” Tasslehoff gave a raw cough. “The only area worth mapping due east of Kendermore is the Ruins. And even that isn’t really worth mapping, since it’s ruined.” Tasslehoff gave a resigned shrug, then another thought struck him.
“Hey, I once had a small map of the Tower of High Sorcery there, and the magical grove surrounding it.”
Denzil leaned into him, his fetid breath fanning the kender’s face. “What do you mean, ‘had’?”
“Well, as I recall, there wasn’t much detail on the map—just a bunch of trees with a beware sign on them, then this tall, round tower, with lots of steps. I don’t remember how many rooms there were.
“Anyway, one day I was out of parchment and I wanted to draw a new map—of Neraka, I think, So I sorted through the maps I had and I decided to use the back of the one with the Tower on it.
“So where is that map?”
Tasslehoff shrugged again. “I haven’t seen it in a long time. I must have given it away.” The kender could see the human’s hands trembling with rage.
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