Richard A. Knaak makes his home in Barlett, Illinois. A graduate of the University of Illinois with a bachelor’s degree in rhetoric, he has succeeded in making writing his full-time occupation. He is the author of The New York Times bestseller The Legend of Huma, the first volume in the DRAGONLANCE® Saga Heroes series, and a successful fantasy series of his own, including the novels Firedrake and Ice Dragon. The author enjoys reading, long drives, cat-free environments, and fan letters full of gratuitous flattery.
FROM THE CREATORS OF
THE DRAGONLANCE® SAGA
LEAVES FROM THE INN OF THE LAST HOME
COMPILED BY TIKA AND CARAMON MAJERE, PROPRIETORS
THE ART OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
EDITED BY MARY KIRCHOFF
THE ATLAS OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
BY KAREN WYNN FONSTAD
DRAGONLANCE TALES:
VOLUME 1—THE MAGIC OF KRYNN
VOLUME 2—KENDER, GULLY DWARVES, AND GNOMES
VOLUME 3—LOVE AND WAR
EDITED BY
MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY HICKMAN
DRAGONLANCE HEROES
THE LEGEND OF HUMA
STORMBLADE
WEASEL’S LUCK
DRAGONLANCE PRELUDES
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
KENDERMORE
BROTHERS MAJERE
KAZ, THE MINOTAUR
Dragonlance® Heroes: Volume Four
©1990 TSR, Inc.
©2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Cover art by: Duane O. Myers
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6312-6
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www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
To Jennifer Ashley King,
niece and godchild,
who wasn’t yet with us
when last I dedicated a book
to the family
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
CHAPTER 1
They sat huddled around a small campfire, twelve and one. The distinction was important, because, although the twelve followed the one who was their leader, they despised him as much as he despised them. Only necessity and a matter of honor threw them together and somehow held them together for so long.
The one was an ogre, a coarse, brutish figure well over six feet tall and very wide. His face was flat, ugly, with long, vicious teeth, good for tearing flesh from either a meal or a foe. His skin was pasty and mottled, and his hair was flat against his head. He wore only a dirty kilt and belt. In a scabbard strapped to his back, he carried what would have been, for a man, a two-handed sword, but for the ogre was just fine for one: a trophy of war. Stuffed into his belt, seemingly insignificant compared to the huge blade, were two knives. The ogre’s name was Molok, and as he used his huge, bloody claws to tear meat from his portion of the kill, he surreptitiously eyed the others.
Most of the others, when standing, were a full head taller than the ogre, not that the fact disturbed Molok. He tore another piece of the nearly raw meat from the bone in his hand and jammed the morsel into his mouth while he watched the dozen minotaurs eat their own meals. Unlike the ogre, the minotaurs ate more slowly, carefully, albeit still with a certain savageness that would have unnerved humans or elves. There were nine males and three females, and all were armed. A couple had spears and three others’ swords, like those their unwelcome companion carried, but the remainder carried huge, double-headed battle-axes. The males had horns more than a foot long, while the females’ were a bit shorter.
The minotaurs were too at ease, Molok decided. That did not suit him. He wanted them agitated and anxious to be done with this task, if only so they would not have to travel with an ogre much longer.
“It’s been near a week, Scar-face, since you found any trail.” Molok picked a piece of meat out from between two yellowed fangs. “Is it maybe that the coward is craftier than you? Be he your better?”
At the sound of his gravelly voice, all twelve of the minotaurs looked up, the fire giving their eyes a burning, haunting look. One minotaur, whose ravaged features bespoke many fierce combats, threw his meat down and started to rise. A smaller one, female, grabbed hold of one arm.
“No, Scurn,” she said quietly. Her voice was deep, but for a minotaur, it would have been considered quite pleasant.
“Release me, Helati,” the one called Scurn rumbled. His voice was like the low, rolling thunder before a great storm. The battle-axe he used, which lay next to him, was huge even for one of his kind. Molok had seen it wielded most effectively, but was not concerned. He knew how to manipulate this band. Had he not kept the chase alive for over four years now?
“Easy, Scurn,” muttered another minotaur next to Helati. These two bore a strong resemblance to one another. Hecar was sibling, brother, to Helati. They were the weak links as far as the ogre was concerned. Over the four years, they had gone from dedicated pursuers to abject admirers of the renegade the band sought. The renegade that these minotaurs could never return home without.
The scarred minotaur settled down, but Molok saw that he had already accomplished his purpose. He had stirred things up. As always, the band began to talk about the latest setback.
“Cannot deny that Kaz is crafty.”
“Even cowards have minds!”
“Coward? He survived the lands of the Silvanesti!”
“Scurn said that was just a rumor, didn’t you, Scurn?”
The ravaged head tipped forward briefly. His horns, even in the light of only a single moon, Lunitari, were quite plainly worn from action. Scurn was a fighter, one who, if his mind had been as strong as his body, would have been leader of his p
eople by now. Scurn was headstrong. He was perfect for Molok’s purposes.
“Kaz never journeyed into the lands of the Silvanesti,” Scurn snorted in derision. “He’s a coward and dishonorable. Just another ploy to throw us off the trail.”
“Which he be doing all too well,” added Molok casually.
Scurn glared at him with blood-red eyes. He wanted to take the ogre by the neck and squeeze until the life was gone. He could not, however. Not, at least, until their journey was over and Kaz was either dead or captured. “You’ve been of little help to us, Molok. All you are good for is telling us how bad we are. What have you done to speed up this Sargas-be-damned quest? We are as sick of staring at your mongrel face for the past four years as you are of staring at ours.”
Shrugging disinterestedly, the ogre bit off another chunk of meat. “I was told that you be great trackers, great hunters. I see nothing so far. I think you be losing your edge. Does your honor mean so little to you? What about Tremoc? Would you be less than him?”
The ogre liked to bring up Tremoc at times like this. It was a favorite minotaur tale. In the name of honor, Tremoc had crossed the continent of Ansalon four times in his quest to bring the murderer of his mate to justice. The pursuit had lasted more than twenty years. It was a useful story for two reasons. First, it reminded his bullheaded companions of dedication and what was most important in their lives and, second, it urged them to renewed efforts. None of them wanted to be doing this for twenty years.
He had stirred them up enough. Now it was time to get them thinking about the hunt. “If not among the elves, Scurn, where be he?”
It was Hecar who answered. “Whether or not Kaz journeyed to the lands of the Silvanesti elves—which he could have—he probably turned west.”
“West?” Scurn glanced at the other minotaur. “Qualinesti? That’s as foolish as entering the lands of the Silvanesti!”
Now it was Hecar who snorted. “I was meaning Thorbardin. The dwarves are more likely to leave him alone. He can go from there to the land called Ergoth.”
Studying them both, the ogre said nothing. He was interested in hearing what the scarred minotaur’s response would be.
Scurn rose, tore off a piece of fat and gristle from their catch, and tossed the piece into the low flames. The fire shot up, a sizzling, spitting sound erupting where the fat melted away. The disfigured minotaur laughed, an ugly sound.
“You are either growing stupid or you have come to admire Kaz so much for his ability to run and hide that you are trying steer us away!”
Hecar started to rise, and it looked as if the two creatures would come to blows. Many of the others began to grow agitated, snorting loudly in their excitement. Helati, once more trying to be peacemaker, quickly rose in front of her brother, facing him.
“No, Hecar!” she hissed quietly.
“Out of my way, female,” her brother muttered through clenched teeth.
“Scurn will kill you,” she whispered. “You know that!”
“My honor—”
“Your honor can take a little punishment. Remember, it is the wise minotaur who knows when to pick his battles. Another time, perhaps.”
“I will not forget this. The others—”
Despite their difference in height, she somehow managed to look him straight in the eye. “The others know full well that you can defeat any of them any time.”
Hecar hesitated. He glanced briefly toward the ogre, who appeared to be busy examining the bone he held on the off chance that it still held some shred of meat, and snorted quietly. Nothing is certain about that one. Finally he nodded and sat down. Helati joined him. Scurn gave him as much of a triumphant grin as a minotaur’s bovine features could. What his expression mostly consisted of was a showing of sharp teeth. Hecar could barely contain his fury.
“Kaz will not go west, nor will he go east. He will stay in the south, hoping to evade us.” Scurn turned toward Molok for agreement.
The ogre gazed at the minotaurs around him as if only just now remembering he was the instigator of this heated argument. It was time to settle things, Molok decided. Wiping his hairy paws on his kilt, he reached down to a pouch between his feet and pulled out a crumbled piece of parchment. With one fluid motion, he tossed it at Scurn. The startled minotaur succeeded in catching it before a sudden burst of fire scorched both paper and his own hand.
“What is this?”
Molok cracked open the bone he had been picking over and began sucking the marrow. Frustrated, the minotaur unfolded the sheet and tried to make out the markings in the dim, flickering light of the flames. His eyes widened, and he looked angrily at the ogre.
“This is a proclamation signed by the Grand Master of the Knights of Solamnia himself!”
There was renewed muttering on the parts of the assembled group. After four years of pursuing their quarry through the lands of humans, they now knew more about the Knights of Solamnia than any others of their race did, save Kaz.
“What does it say, Scurn?” one of the other minotaurs asked impatiently.
“The Grand Master offers a reward for several beings of various races. One of them is Kaz!” The last was said with total disbelief. “He is wanted, it says, for conspiring against the knighthood, specifically, the planned assassination of the Grand Master himself. There is also mention of murder here, but it does not specify whose and when.” Scurn’s tone indicated that he was a bit confused about what he had just read.
“Then he is wanted by the knighthood as much as he is wanted by us,” someone stated.
“Where did you get that proclamation?” Hecar snapped at the ogre.
Molok shrugged. “I find it yesterday. It had … fallen … from the tree that someone had posted it on, I think.”
“Why would the knights demand Kaz? He was their comrade!” one of the other females asked the group as a whole.
“As are some of these others,” Scurn added. He tossed the parchment to one of the other minotaurs, who started reading it slowly. The minotaurs prided themselves on the fact that, of all races save perhaps the elves, they were the most literate. While physical strength was the final arbiter in their society, knowledge was the tool that honed that strength.
“The knights are mad!” Hecar muttered. “Have they given a reason?”
“Have they given a reason for anything we have seen in the time we have pursued Kaz?” Scurn glanced around. “They may have a reason; they may not. There are names on that proclamation that were their staunchest allies in … in that time.”
“That time” was a war that the minotaurs were doing their best to wipe from their memories. More than one gave Molok a look of bestial hatred. The minotaurs had been slave-soldiers to the ogres and humans who had followed the dark goddess, Takhisis, in her struggle against her counterpart, the lord of light, Paladine. The Knights of Solamnia had represented that god, and in the end, it was one of their number, a Knight of the Crown named Huma, who had literally forced the goddess to capitulate. Only one other who had witnessed the costly victory had survived.
Kaz. Very few actually knew what part he had played in the final battle. Humans did not care to glorify what they tended to think of as a monster. The other minotaurs had pieced the story together over the years, though some, like Scurn, denied its plausibility.
“If the Knights of Solamnia want his head,” the mutilated warrior began, “then he will surely stay in the south, where their presence is weaker.”
Many of the others nodded. Molok looked at each and every one of them and then shook his head. “After four years, you know nothing. Even you who knew Kaz.”
He received twelve steady glares, which he ignored, as usual. “The knights be acting strange. His friends be now his foes, even the Lord of Knights, who, if what we learned be true, called him comrade in the war.”
There was a pause. He had their full attention now. “Kaz will go north—north to Vingaard, I think.”
It was fortunate that the land they pres
ently roamed was empty of settlements, for the shouts that rose among the group could no doubt have been heard for miles around. It was finally Scurn who quieted the others—Scurn and Hecar.
“The Knights of Solamnia may have become twisted, Molok,” Hecar blurted, “as we have seen time and again, but do not make Kaz one with their madness. Despite all else, he is still a minotaur!”
Scurn nodded. Even he did not believe their prey was enough of a fool to head north.
Molok retrieved the proclamation and glanced at it one last time. With a toothy, predatory smile, he thrust it into the fire. After watching it burn to ash in mere seconds, he looked up once more at his companions … his hated companions.
“He be no fool. Never said he was.” Molok reached down, gathered his few belongings, and rose. He gave the minotaurs a look full of contempt for what they were. Even now, no longer slave-soldiers, they needed an ogre to lead them around by their ugly noses. “He be Kaz, though, and that be why he will go north to Vingaard. He needs no other reason.”
The ogre turned and stalked away, a disturbing look on his face, hidden from the minotaurs.
CHAPTER 2
I should go west, Kaz thought grimly. West or remain in the south.
He snorted as he glanced back at the path he had been following. The sun was high in the sky, making it possible to see quite some distance. So why am I continuing north, when each day brings me nearer and nearer to Vingaard Keep and whatever madness has descended upon the Knights of Solamnia?
His mount, the giant war-horse that Lord Oswal himself had bestowed upon the minotaur as a token of his appreciation, nickered impatiently. After five years with Kaz, the animal had picked up rebellious tendencies that would have shocked the more formal knighthood. In many ways, the horse was a reflection of its master.
Kaz quieted his mount and stared at the proclamation once more.
It was the fifth copy he had seen of this particular one, and it made no more sense to him now than it had the first time he had read it. Lord Oswal was a friend, a comrade. The elder Knight of the Rose, made Grand Master after the death of his brother, had even given Kaz a seal permitting him safe passage in any land that respected the might of the Solamnic Order. Yet now this same comrade was making unsubstantiated accusations of crimes Kaz had supposedly committed!
Kaz the Minotaur Page 1
