Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  Nightshade quit talking. He didn’t like the way Rhys looked.

  “Wondering what?” Rhys asked harshly.

  Nightshade didn’t know whether he should go on or not. “I think maybe this should wait until morning.”

  “Tell me,” Rhys said.

  “Maybe these priests weren’t real,” Nightshade suggested meekly.

  “Do you think I am lying about this?” Rhys demanded.

  “No, no, no, not that, Rhys.” Nightshade stumbled over his tongue in his haste. “I think you think the priests were real. It’s just—”

  He didn’t know how to explain himself, and he looked to Patrick for help.

  “He is saying that the priests were real, Brother—as real as Majere made them,” Patrick said.

  Rhys stood in the peace of Mishakal’s temple, thinking back on the horrific events of that night. He was suddenly deeply and intensely angry.

  “What do the gods want of me?” he cried out.

  Patrick looked grave. Atta cringed at his tone, and Nightshade took a step backward.

  “They play games with my life,” Rhys continued in a rage, “and with the lives of others. That poor child and his mother. Was it necessary to make them suffer like that? They will be cursed with the terrible memory of this night for the rest of their lives. If Majere wanted me to know how to destroy these Beloved, why didn’t he just come to me himself and tell me? Why does Zeboim bring Mina to me and then snatch her away?”

  “Brother Rhys,” said Patrick, resting his hand on the monk’s arm. “The ways of the gods are not for mortals to understand.…”

  Rhys looked at him coldly. “Spare me the sermon, Revered Son. I’ve heard it all before.”

  He turned so suddenly he stepped on Atta, who yelped in pain. She gave her hurt paw a quick lick and then ran forgivingly after her master. Nightshade hesitated. He flashed Patrick an agonized glance.

  “I think he’s really mad at me,” said the kender.

  “No,” said Patrick. “He’s mad at the heavens. It happens to all of us at one time or another.” He gave a wan smile. “I have to admit I’m not overly pleased with the gods myself at this moment, but they understand. Go after him. He needs a friend.”

  Rhys must have been walking very fast, for Nightshade saw no sign of him or Atta in the street. He called out Rhys’s name, but there was no answer. The kender called out Atta’s name, and he heard her bark.

  Following the sound, he found Rhys’s staff lying on the pavement. Rhys was dragging the aqua-green robes over his head.

  “Rhys,” said Nightshade, frightened. “What are you doing?”

  “I quit,” Rhys said.

  He flung the robes in a heap by the staff and walked off, clad only in his breeches and boots, his chest and shoulders bare. He looked back over his shoulder to see Nightshade standing rooted to the spot and Atta nosing the robes.

  “You coming or not?” Rhys asked coldly.

  “Uh, sure, Rhys,” said Nightshade.

  “Atta!” Rhys called.

  The dog looked at him and then lowered her head to pick up the staff.

  “Leave it!” Rhys ordered savagely.

  Atta jumped back. Startled by his tone, she stared at him.

  “Atta, come!”

  She assumed she was at fault, though she had no idea what she’d done wrong. Head down and tail drooping, the dog slunk toward him. Rhys waited for her, but he did not apologize for his bad temper, either to her or to the kender. He stalked off down the street.

  Rhys had no idea where he was going. He needed to walk off his fury and let the sea breeze cool his fevered skin. He heard Nightshade panting behind him and Atta’s nails clicking on the pavement, so he knew they were following him. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking.

  “Rhys,” said Nightshade after a few moments, “I don’t think you can quit a god.”

  Rhys heard the kender’s voice and the dog’s barking, but it was muffled and disembodied, as if wrapped in a thick fog.

  “Rhys,” Nightshade persisted.

  “Please, just … be quiet!” Rhys said through clenched teeth. “Keep Atta quiet, too.”

  “All right, but before we’re both quiet I think you might want to know that someone’s following us.”

  Rhys halted. He had broken the first rule of the Master. He had given in to his emotions. He had allowed rage to overcome him, completely forgetting in his blind fury that he and the kender were alone in the middle of a dark night in the very worst part of the city. He started to turn around to confront the threat behind and realized there was also a threat in front.

  A large minotaur stepped out from an alley.

  Rhys had never seen one of these man-beasts before and he was taken aback by the sheer size and brute strength of the beast. Rhys was tall for a human male, yet he came only to the minotaur’s chest. Clad in a leather vest and loose-fitting pants, the minotaur was a daunting sight. His feet were bare and covered with fur. A golden ring encircled the top of one of his sharp horns, and gold glinted in one ear. Dark eyes, set close together above a fur-covered snout, gazed coolly down on Rhys.

  “Those are my lads coming up behind you,” the minotaur remarked. He glared down at Atta, who was in a frenzy of barking. The minotaur laid a gigantic hand on the hilt of a huge dagger he wore in a broad sash at his waist. “Silence the mutt or I’ll silence her for you.”

  “Atta, quiet,” Rhys said. Atta’s barks subsided to growls interspersed with pants. He could feel her body quivering against his leg.

  “We have no money,” Rhys said as calmly as he could. “It would be useless to rob us.”

  “Money?” The minotaur snorted and then laughed so that the gold on his horn flashed red in the light of several flaring torches now surrounding Rhys and Nightshade. “We’re not after money. We got money!”

  The beast thrust his muzzle into Rhys’s face. “What we need are hands and legs and strong backs.”

  He straightened and gestured. “Take him, mates.”

  “Aye, Capt’n,” called out several guttural voices.

  Two burly minotaurs approached Rhys, who realized now what kind of trouble had found them. They’d run afoul of a press gang, minotaur pirates, seeking slaves for their ships.

  his un’s a kender, Capt’n,” stated one of the minotaurs in disgust. He held his torch so close to Nightshade’s head that the smell of singed hair wafted on the air. “You want him, too?”

  “Sure, I like kender,” said the captain with a chortle. “Baked, with an apple in his mouth. And grab the dog. I like dogs, too.”

  “I would not grab me, if I were you!” Nightshade said in his deepest voice, which sounded rather like he was suffering from a cold in the head. He held up his left hand and pointed his finger at the minotaur. “Any who dare touch me will find himself feeble as a newborn babe. Er, make that calf.”

  All the minotaurs laughed uproariously at this. One of them started toward Nightshade.

  “Whoa, I’d be careful if I were you, Tosh,” said the captain, winking. “They’re ferocious, these kender. Why, he might step on your little toe!”

  The minotaurs grinned at their captain’s humor. One offered to write to Tosh’s widow if he didn’t come back alive, and that drew more laughter. Rhys had no idea what Nightshade was up to, but he had confidence in his friend. He quietly watched and waited.

  “I warned you,” said Nightshade, and he began to waggle his finger at Tosh who was closing on him. Then the kender started to sing a little song, “ ‘By the bones of Krynn beneath my feet, I smite you on the beak and leave you weak.’ ”

  The minotaurs roared. Their mirth increased when Tosh suddenly collapsed and went down heavily on his knees.

  “C’mon, Tosh,” said the captain, when he could talk for laughing. “Quit your fooling now and get up.”

  “I can’t, Capt’n!” Tosh howled. “He’s done somethin’ to me. I can’t stand up nor walk nor nothin’.”

  The captain cea
sed his laughter. He stared at his man, as did the other minotaurs in silence. None of them said a word and then, suddenly, they all started laughing harder than before. The captain doubled over and wiped his streaming eyes.

  Tosh howled again, this time in rage.

  The captain straightened and, still chuckling, reached out his huge hand to seize the kender. Rhys leaped into the air, lashed out with his foot, and struck the minotaur in the midriff.

  The blow would have crippled a human, knocked the breath from his body, sent him flying backward. The minotaur captain gasped, coughed once, and looked down at his gut in astonishment. He lifted his horned head to glare at Rhys.

  “You hit me with your foot!” The captain was indignant. “That’s no way for a man to fight! It’s … not honorable.”

  He clenched fists that were the size of war hammers.

  Rhys’s foot ached. His leg tingled as though he’d kicked a stone wall. Hearing the other minotaur come up behind him, he tried to stand balanced, ready to fight. Atta crouched on her belly, growling and baring her teeth. Nightshade stood his ground, his spellcasting finger shifting threateningly from one minotaur to the next.

  The captain eyed the three of them, and suddenly he relaxed his fists. With the flat of his hand, he clouted Rhys a blow on the shoulder that sent him staggering.

  “You’re not afraid of me. That is good. I like you, human. I like the kender, too. A kender with horns, by Sargas! Look at old Tosh there, flopping about like a fish on a hook!”

  Reaching down with his enormous hand, the captain grabbed hold of Nightshade’s collar, plucked the kender off his feet, and held him, kicking and flailing, high in the air.

  “Bag him, lads.”

  One of the minotaurs produced a gunny sack. The captain dropped Nightshade into the sack, then reached down and grabbed hold of Atta by the scruff of her neck and flung her inside the bag along with the kender. Nightshade gave a cry that was extinguished by the sack closing over his head. The minotaur pulled the drawstring, hefted the sack, and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Take them to the ship,” the captain ordered.

  “Aye, sir. What about Tosh?” the minotaur asked, as they were about to dash off.

  Tosh was rolling about helplessly on the pavement, looking up at them with pleading eyes.

  “Leave him for the city guard,” the captain growled. “Serves the lubber right. Maybe I’ll make the kender First Mate in his place.”

  “No, Capt’n, please!” Tosh groaned and struggled and succeeded only in making himself look even more pathetic.

  “The rest of you get back to the ship afore the guard finds us. Leave me one of those torches.”

  The other minotaur ran off, carrying Nightshade and Atta with them. The captain turned to Rhys.

  “What about you, human?” the minotaur asked, amusement glinting in his black eyes. “Are you going to kick me again?”

  “I will come with you,” Rhys said, “if you promise not to hurt my friend or the dog.”

  “Oh, you’ll come with me, all right.”

  The captain laid a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. Huge fingers bit deeply and painfully into Rhys’s shoulder muscles, nearly paralyzing his arm. The captain propelled Rhys along, giving him a shove and another pinch when it seemed Rhys might be slowing down.

  The captain glanced up ahead, to make certain his men were out of earshot, then said softly, “Could you teach me to fight like that? With my feet?” He massaged his belly and grimaced. “It is not honorable, but it would certainly take an opponent by surprise. I can still feel that blow, human.”

  Rhys tried to envision himself teaching the art of merciful discipline to a minotaur and gave up. The captain kept his grip tight on Rhys’s arm and steered him along.

  A short distance down the street, they came to the place where Rhys had flung away his staff and divested himself of his robes.

  The captain saw Rhys’s gaze go the staff and halted.

  “I saw you toss that away. Why would you do that?” The practical minotaur shook his head. “The staff looks good and solid. The robe is serviceable and it is the color of our sea goddess’s eyes.”

  He picked up the robes and smoothed them reverently, then tossed them at Rhys. “Nights at sea grow cold. You’ll need clothes for warmth. Do you want your staff?”

  From what Rhys had heard, slaves on board a minotaur ship measured their lifespan by days. If he had been carrying the blessed staff, he, Nightshade, and Atta might not now be in such dire peril. He looked at the staff, remorse filling his heart. To take it now would be wrong, like a small child who kicks his father in the shins, then runs sniveling back to his parent the moment he is in trouble.

  Rhys shook his head.

  “I’ll take it then,” said the captain. “I need something to pick my teeth.”

  Chuckling at his own jest, the captain reached down to pick up the staff. Rhys thrust his arms into the sleeves and was pulling the robes over his head when he heard a roar. He looked up to see the captain sucking his fingers and glaring at the staff.

  Roses sprouted from the wood. Thorns as long as a man’s thumb glistened in the torchlight.

  “You pick it up,” the captain ordered. He clamped his teeth over a thorn stuck in his palm, yanked it out, and spat it onto the street.

  Rhys could barely see the staff for the tears in his eyes. He clasped his hand around it, expecting the thorns to prick his flesh, too, for he deserved the punishment far more than the minotaur. The wood was smooth to the touch. The staff did not harm him

  The captain gave the staff a wary glance. “I see now why you threw it away. The thing is god-cursed. Put it down. Leave it for some other fool to find.”

  “The curse is mine,” said Rhys quietly. “I must bear it.”

  “Not aboard my ship,” the captain snarled. He spat out another thorn. His eyes began to gleam. “Or maybe we should see how you handle that staff in a fight. We’re alone now. Just the two of us. If you beat me, I’ll give you your freedom.” The minotaur reached for the hilt of the enormous sword he wore thrust into a sash around his broad waist. “Come, monk. Let’s see how you handle the god-cursed staff!”

  “You hold my friend and my dog hostage,” Rhys pointed out. “I gave you my word I would come with you, and I will.”

  The captain’s snout twitched. He rubbed it, eyed Rhys. “So your word means something, does it, monk?”

  “It does,” Rhys replied.

  “What god put the curse on you?”

  “Majere.”

  “Humpf. A stern god, that one. Not a god to cross. What did you do to anger him?”

  “I betrayed someone who had put his faith and trust in me,” Rhys answered steadily. “Someone who was good to me.”

  Minotaurs have a reputation for being savage and brutal killers. Their god, Sargonnas, was a cruel god, intent on conquest. The minotaur race knew something of honor, however, or so Rhys had heard.

  The captain again rubbed his muzzle. “You deserve the curse, then.”

  “Yes,” said Rhys. “The staff is my constant reminder.”

  “It will not harm me or my crew?”

  “Not unless you try to touch it.”

  “No one will do that,” said the captain, giving the staff a baleful glance. He yanked out another thorn, then, raising his head, he sniffed the air. “The tide is shifting.” He nodded in satisfaction and spat out the thorn. “Make haste, monk.”

  Rhys fell into step beside the minotaur. He had to take two strides to every one of the beast-man’s to keep up.

  The minotaur’s ship was anchored far out at sea, a long distance from the docks. A boat manned by stout minotaur crewmen was on hand to ferry them to the ship. Another boat, bearing Nightshade and Atta, had already set off and was crawling across the water.

  Rhys sat across from the captain, who was handling the tiller. The boat jounced over the waves. Rhys watched the shoreline with its sparkling lights slip away from him. He did not curs
e his fate. He had brought this on himself. He hoped, somehow, to be able to bargain for the kender’s life and for Atta’s. It was not right they should suffer because of him.

  The minotaur ship, silhouetted against the starlit sea, was a lovely thing to look at. Three-masted, it boasted a prow carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. Its single bank of oars were drawn up out of the water. He watched the minotaur crew rowing the shore boat and saw the muscles ripple across their broad backs. Slaves aboard a minotaur ship manned the oars, and Rhys wondered how long he would be able to keep going in their place, chained to the bench, plying the oars in time to the rhythmic beat of the drum.

  Rhys was strong, or he had been strong, before this heartbreaking journey had taken its toll. Poor food, lack of food, tramping the road, and sitting in taverns had taken its toll on both body and spirit.

  As if to prove him right, weariness overcame him. His head dropped to his chest, and the next thing he knew he was being pummeled to wakefulness by one of the crew, who was pointing to a rope ladder hanging from the side of the vessel.

  The small boat bobbed up and down and back and forth. The ladder was also bobbing, only neither the ladder nor the boat were doing it together. At times, they were close, and at other times an enormous chasm opened between the boat and the ship—a chasm filled with inky black seawater.

  The captain had already gone aboard, ascending the rope ladder with ease. The minotaur crewmen were glaring at Rhys and pointing emphatically at the ladder. One of the minotaurs indicated with hand gestures that if Rhys didn’t jump on his own, the minotaur would heave him.

  Rhys lifted the staff. “I cannot jump with the staff,” he said, hoping his gesture would be understood if his words were not.

  The minotaur shrugged his shoulders and made a throwing motion. Rhys had the feeling the minotaur meant he should toss the staff into the sea. He considered it likely that was probably where they would both end up. He eyed the ship’s rail, which seemed far, far above him, then, hefting the staff like a spear, he aimed and threw.