Tasslehoff reached into his pouch, rummaging for something. He pulled out a small pair of scissors. With the other hand, he grabbed one end of Sturm's long, drooping mustache.
"This is what I'd do," he cried triumphantly, slicing off the end of Sturm's mustache. Sturm winced but said nothing, glaring furiously at the kender.
"Yes!" Tas held the tuft of brown hair in the air, proudly displaying it to Fesz. "Now, that's what I call torture! These Solamnics are very proud of their mustaches. Oh, very proud indeed!"
He leaned back toward Sturm with an exuberant grin. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," the kender taunted the young Solamnic. "Yes, a very, very long time! You think you're so high and mighty just because you can grow a long, droopy mustache. Well, I could, too, if I wanted to. I could grow a mustache longer than a topknot. I—"
"I would like to see where the kyrie is held," rumbled Fesz, cutting Tas off, "and where the other human was last seen before he disappeared."
"Yes, your excellency!" said the guard, hurrying to escort them. Grabbing the kender by the shoulders, the guard steered Tas out of the cell. The evil kender twisted under the minotaur's grip, shrieking over his shoulder at the tight-lipped Sturm.
"And I suppose you think we came all this way just to see you, Mr. Droopy Mustache! Hah! It just so happens that we are on our way to Karthay, where we are going to rendezvous with the Nightmaster and do a great, big, important magic spell that will bring Sargonnas into this world. And did I mention that none other than Kitiara Uth Matar is there already, being held prisoner, so we've got more important people on our schedule to torture than you . . . ."
The minotaur guard led the way down a corridor. Fesz followed, prodding Tas in front of him.
It was Dogz who paused to gaze at Sturm. The minotaur rubbed his chin ruefully, thinking he really ought to have killed the two humans the first time he encountered them. Next time he would know better. Now he was up to his thick, bull neck in things he didn't understand. With a sigh, Dogz trailed after Fesz, Tas, and the minotaur guard.
Sturm was left with half a mustache to ponder what was going on.
* * * * *
The three minotaurs and Tas headed toward the far end of one of the dim corridors, where a sole prisoner was kept behind bars, manacled to a side wall.
This prisoner, Fesz explained to Tasslehoff on the way, was a kyrie, one of the fabled bird-people who lived in remote, mountainous areas of Mithas. The kyrie were sworn enemies of the race of minotaurs, rarely seen in captivity.
"Your former friend, Caramon, was a trustee who brought food and water to the other prisoners," noted Fesz. "He was last spotted outside the kyrie's cell. Then he vanished without a trace—like magic."
If he was talking about Raistlin, Caramon's twin brother, Tasslehoff said sagely, then they'd have to take into account all sorts of possibilities—invisibility spells, time travel, even escape disguised as a scurrying centipede. But since it was Caramon, the kender was certain that magic had had nothing to do with it.
"This Raistlin must be a very powerful mage," rumbled Fesz, impressed.
"Yes, very powerful," agreed Tas, adding mentally to himself, although he isn't really a mage—yet. Aloud he added, "As powerful as they come. I wouldn't even dare to guess how powerful, because even while I was taking the time to guess, Raistlin would probably be learning a new spell or two and becoming even more powerful!"
When they arrived at the cell of the kyrie, Tas was chagrined and disappointed. Except for his legs, which were decidedly birdlike, the prisoner didn't look much like a bird-man. The kyrie had been beaten severely, and his arms hung limp at his sides. A pathetic sight.
A slight twitch told Tas that the kyrie was alive, but just barely. From the looks of him, he might as well have been dead.
When Dogz leaned over and whispered to Tas that the ugly-looking, infected scars on the kyrie's back were where his wings had been ripped off, the kender exploded.
"What?" Tasslehoff exclaimed, turning on the dungeon guard and aiming several sharp kicks at the bull-man's knobby kneecaps. "I get one of the only chances of my life to sneak a peek at a kyrie, and you have to bully the man practically to death and tear his wings off! Why, without his wings, he's practically human-looking—hardly worth the trip to Atossa! You could at least have waited until—"
Fesz pulled Tas away from the astonished guard, whose first impulse was to bash the kender over the head until he thought better of it.
The guard retreated up the corridor. Dogz followed him, calmly explaining in a low voice that the kender had been taking an evil potion at the behest of the shaman and such behavior was to be expected, even sanctioned.
After Fesz soothed Tas, the shaman slowly paced the width of the corridor. He peered at the abject kyrie, then studied the inside and outside of the cell, his eyes roving slowly over the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. He knelt, and with his huge, muscular hands, he felt the solidity of the stone floor. He ran his fingers along the cracks in the side wall. He cocked his head, dosed his eyes, and listened for unaccustomed sounds. Then he opened them again, a frown creasing his bull face.
"We did all that, too," said the minotaur guard to Dogz sourly, from where he stood farther up the corridor. "We didn't turn up anything either."
The shaman jerked up his horns, which barely cleared the ceiling. Fesz shot the guard a withering glance. Realizing that he had been overheard, the guard lowered his eyes and stared at his feet.
Fesz stepped back, inviting Tas to take a look.
The kender was eager to prove himself. He had been watching Fesz carefully. First Tas stared at the kyrie. Then he examined the inside of the cell, his eyes darting around suspiciously. It was hard to see much in the dim light. Then he looked around the corridor outside the cell. He knelt down on the stone floor and felt for anything unusual. He ran his fingers along the walls. Like Fesz, he cocked his head, closed and opened his eyes, strained to listen.
He thought he heard a rustling sound somewhere.
"Did Caramon leave anything behind . . . even the slightest hint of a clue?" asked Tasslehoff.
"Nothing," mumbled the minotaur guard from farther up the corridor. "Just the two buckets of food and water that he had been carrying. They were overturned, almost empty."
Fesz watched the kender carefully.
Tas paced around in a circle, coming back to a position in front of the cell. He glanced at Fesz. He looked at the kyrie again. Slowly he raised his eyes to the ceiling, which was even higher than Caramon Majere was tall—but not by much.
About two buckets and an armspan higher, Tas guessed.
"I think—" began Tas.
"Yes?" Fesz asked eagerly.
"I think," the kender declared in a loud voice, "that the thing we ought to do is punish Sturm Brightblade!"
"Punish Sturm Brightblade?" Fesz repeated. The emissary of the Nightmaster sounded puzzled.
"It's a matter of principle," explained Tasslehoff, even louder. "The principle being that Sturm must have known that Caramon was going to try to escape, and since he refuses to give us the slightest cooperation—"
"We've already done our best to torture it out of him," offered the dungeon guard from up the corridor.
"Your best!" the kender exploded. "You have the temerity to tell me you've done your best?"
Dogz snorted but held his tongue. Although the minotaur guard wasn't a very fast learner, he realized that he ought not to say anything else.
Turning to Fesz, Tasslehoff asked, with great solemnity, "Are there any minotaur methods of execution that are truly special?"
Fesz pondered the question, delighted that Tas had turned his imagination to such worthwhile pursuits. "Well," answered the shaman minotaur slowly, "the Pit of Doom is a particularly cruel spectacle, one that I myself—before spending my time on Karthay, in devotion to the Nightmaster—always enjoyed watching."
"The Pit of Doom?" mused the kender. Tas liked the sound of it.
/> "A dance of death around hellish holes of fiery liquid," the shaman minotaur explained briefly. "A demise made all the more humiliating by the fact that it is staged for the entertainment of hordes of spectators who watch from a gallery."
Tas's eyes widened. "The Pit of Doom!" he exclaimed with glee, practically shouting, "That's it! That's the punishment that I would like to see meted out to that snooty Solamnic!"
"The only difficulty," rumbled Fesz, "is that we must get to Karthay in three days."
"Three days!" repeated Tas loudly, clearly enunciating and emphasizing every word. "So why can't we stick old Sturm in the Pit of Doom tomorrow morning and set sail by midday?"
"I don't see any reason why not," agreed Fesz, "but we must hasten to make arrangements."
"Good," said the kender. "I would consider it a personal privilege to watch Sturm get his just deserts. Also, I have an abiding curiosity about all pits, whether of doom or just plain—"
Fesz was already in motion.
With a pitying backward glance at the kyrie and a hasty look up at the ceiling, Tas hurried after the shaman minotaur.
The broken man twitched.
Dogz snorted.
As Tas passed the minotaur guard, he paused and gave him a hard kick in the shins.
* * * * *
The next morning one hundred bull-folk crowded the small semicircular gallery that rose along one side of the Pit of Doom.
Snorting and stomping, the minotaur audience made its impatience known as they awaited the arrival of the officials, without whom the duel to the death—between the local champion, a merciless bull-man named Tossak, and the human prisoner, the Solamnic, Sturm Brightblade—could not begin.
In ceremonial procession, a dozen functionaries and prison authorities accompanied Dogz, Tasslehoff, and Fesz as they entered the arena and took their seats in a privileged section of the gallery. The spectators craned their necks to gawk at the unusual sight of a kender sitting next to an emissary of the Nightmaster. As befit the occasion, Tas sat up straight, scowling as fiercely as he could.
At the suggestion of the evil kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Sturm had been told the night before that he would be thrust into a deadly competition the following day. He took the announcement impassively.
On the bright side, his bonds were untied and he was given the very best food and a pallet to sleep on. The minotaurs promised he could fight with the weapon of his choice. After considering the options they showed him, Sturm chose a long, thin, double-edged blade with a chiseled hilt. Whatever happened in the fight to come, Sturm vowed that he would give a good account of himself.
Battered and weary from his torture and imprisonment, the young Solamnic tried to make sense of the situation. He tried to fathom why Tas would be cooperating with these minotaurs. Could it be possible that the kender truly was allied with them? As weak as he was, Sturm lay awake half the night thinking without coming to any definite conclusion.
In the morning, his hand drifted, in its customary fashion, up to his mustache to tug on it thoughtfully. The Solamnic felt only thin air. Ruefully Sturm rubbed his cheek, remembering the kender's glee as he snipped off half the young man's moustache. Sturm flushed, suddenly very angry, his determination to fight and fight well strengthened.
Within the hour, Sturm stood at one end of a tunnel, gripping his sword tightly. At a signal from a minotaur keeper, he started down the narrow passage. As he moved toward the entrance to the pit, he felt the first rush of warm air.
Entering the staging area, Sturm saw what his keeper had described as the Pit of Doom. It was actually a large bowl, superheated by some kind of subterranean geothermal source. The underground source had broken through to the surface in the base of the bowl, which consisted of molten lava that bubbled and seethed, occasionally belching out great bursts of searing gases. Islands of black rock jutted up from the fiery red liquid, connected by bridges that arched high over the lava pit. A fall from them would mean certain death.
Rising from the lava, the heat scalded Sturm's skin. As he looked around the pit, he had to shield his eyes from the brightness and intense heat.
Scanning the crowd in the gallery on the other side of the pit, the Solamnic saw no sign of Tasslehoff amidst the rows of seated minotaurs. Shouting and jeering assaulted his ears, even as the aggregate smell of the minotaur crowd overwhelmed his nostrils.
Directly opposite from Sturm, another tunnel opened into the arena, its entrance shrouded in shadow. As Sturm watched, a horned figure loomed in the darkness, filled the opening, then emerged into view.
Sturm guessed his opponent to be at least seven and a half feet tall. His horns, which added another two feet to his height, were waxed and shiny.
White-blond hair streamed down to his shoulders, and thick fur covered the exposed parts of his hide. Two large rings pierced one ear, while his massive chest rippled with muscle.
On one hand, he wore a mandoll—an iron gauntlet, of the unique type prized by minotaur champions, with spikes on the knuckles and a dagger blade along the back of the thumb. The other hand gripped a heavy clabbard with a sharp, saw-toothed edge.
"Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!" chanted the crowd.
"Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!" squeaked one voice, its high pitch distinguishing it from the minotaur crowd. Sturm recognized it as belonging to Tasslehoff.
Tossak acknowledged the crowd with an arrogant nod. Then the huge minotaur glared in Sturm's direction, flared his bestial snout, and emitted a fierce bellow of challenge.
With a speed and agility that took the Solamnic by surprise, Tossak charged toward him, nimbly leaping from island to island of black rock until he arrived at the bridge that led across to Sturm.
Again the minotaur champion bellowed his challenge, waving and stabbing his clabbard in the air for emphasis.
"Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!" chanted the crowd.
Dizziness swept over Sturm. The blasting heat, the thundering crowd, and the bellowing minotaur warrior all combined to throw him off balance. Sturm shook his head to clear it. Then the Solamnic surprised everyone by how quickly he moved—away from Tossak.
Vaulting across an island of black rock, Sturm planted himself on another bridge that gave him a clear view of Tossak yet kept him safe from immediate attack. Knightly tenets included prudence, Sturm rationalized, and in this instance, that meant buying some time while he figured out the best way to fight the huge beast-man.
Watching the human's retreat, Tossak snorted angrily, pawing the ground with his cleft hooves.
"Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!" chanted Tasslehoff.
Sturm risked a glance into the crowd. There, near the crowd's center, sat the kender, wedged between two minotaurs, one of them the same one he had seen Tas with yesterday, the furred and feathered shaman.
Tas waved gaily at Sturm.
Before Sturm returned his attention to the arena, Tossak made his move, once again leaping across the dark islands of rock, seemingly oblivious to the heat that engulfed the pit and burned Sturm's eyes.
Again the bull-man came to a stop just short of Sturm, on the far side of the bridge from Sturm. Again he thundered his challenge.
Once again the Solamnic turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, hopping over rock islands and sprinting across bridges until he was as far away from Tossak as he could get and still be in the arena.
The heat was sapping Sturm's energy. Drenched in sweat, the Solamnic fought to stay alert. Below him, the hot lava bubbled and belched at the bottom of the pit.
"Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!"
"Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!"
By now, Tossak felt certain that his opponent was a coward. The minotaur champion rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, drawing another cheer from the crowd. He turned and sauntered in Sturm's direction, taking his time traversing the rock islands and bridges, until he came within striking distance of the Solamnic, just across a short rock bridge.
Again Tossak brandished his weapon in the air, shouti
ng and gesticulating.
The crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer . . .
. . . at which point Sturm charged across the bridge, his sword leveled before him, pointed straight at the minotaur.
All Sturm could think about was how slowly his legs seemed to be moving, how heavy the sword felt in his hands, how soon nothing would matter anymore because he would be dead. The Solamnic was hardly in the best of condition to be fighting a minotaur to the death. After days of hanging on to life at sea and more days of harsh treatment in the Atossa prison, Sturm felt as if he were wading through a lake choked with weeds.
For the moment, he had the advantage, though. Not expecting the charge, distracted by the din of the crowd, and not quite believing what Sturm was doing after his previous apparent cowardice, Tossak failed to react to his opponent's charge until the last possible instant.
Then, almost as if by reflex, the minotaur swung his gauntleted hand and caught Sturm's blow. The sound of Sturm's blade striking the iron gauntlet rang throughout the arena. The knight's weapon was knocked to the ground and went skittering across the bridge, teetering on the edge.
Sturm dove after it as Tossak, in earnest now, pursued him. Sturm reached the sword just in time to twist around and swing it upward, slashing one of Tossak's thighs.
The minotaur screamed with rage and backed up slightly, but only for a moment. Then Tossak lunged forward and, with his gauntleted hand, grabbed the sword from Sturm, wresting it from the Solamnic's grip and flinging it over the side of the bridge into the pit, where it sank into the fiery liquid.
The crowd roared its approval.
Tossak wiped blood from his leg, tasting it as he eyed Sturm. Advancing on the Solamnic, he swung his heavy clabbard. Sturm scrambled away from the edge of the bridge as he desperately sought an opening.
The minotaur champion swung his clabbard hard in a half-circle, coming just inches from Sturm's forehead. When Tossak swung once more, Sturm ducked under the blow, then came up in a low tackle that dropped Tossak to the bridge, knocking his clabbard down. Before Tossak, more astonished than hurt, could react, the Solamnic had managed to kick the weapon to the side of the bridge where it slid off into the fiery pit.
[Meetings 06] - The Companions Page 21
