Maquesta Kar-Thon

by Tina Daniell

  For an instant, Melas stood erect with fury, staring at Attat. A pulse throbbed visibly at his temple. Then his shoulders slumped; his gaze dropped. The intricacy of Attat's plotting and arranging overwhelmed him. Was it possible the lord had this planned from the very beginning, intending to find a pawn for his creature hunt?

  "Yes, I'll do it," he said, his voice pitched just above a whisper. "When do you expect us to leave? It will take a day or two to lay in supplies, and—"

  "No!" The objection came from Averon, who had stood silently next to Attat throughout the meeting. Averon directed his exclamation not at Melas, but at Attat.

  "We had an agreement! I paid you! I am to be the captain of the Perechon on the mission to catch the morkoth!" Averon shouted, thrusting himself forward to the edge of the dais.

  Melas looked in astonishment at his friend. "Paid him? Why? With what money? What do you mean, you would be the Perechon's captain?"

  "I wanted to help," Averon said, turning, wild eyes toward Melas. "Don't you see, I wanted to help you instead of you always helping me. I wanted to show I could captain the Perechon and help you get her back!" Averon pleaded, sounding more desperate each second. Melas stared at him in disbelief.

  "Your friend here," Attat interjected sarcastically, "is the proud new owner of a tidy purse as a result of a bet he placed on the race, a large wager that the Katos would win."

  The enormity of Averon's betrayal shattered Maq, even though she knew it was coming. He must have known the Perechon couldn't win, perhaps had even plotted with Attat to arrange the loss. Maq closed her eyes for an instant. She opened them in time to see Averon, uttering a strangled cry of protest, leap onto the dais, pull a dagger from his waistband, and lunge at Attat. In that same instant, Melas pulled his sword from its scabbard and leapt up after him.

  Maq wasn't sure whether her father intended to hurt or help Averon. She simply couldn't tell. But it didn't matter. With a graceful series of movements, Attat rolled aside to avoid Averon's dagger, stood up from the chair, pulled a clabbard sword from his harness, turned and, holding the hilt of the sword with both hands, sliced off Averon's head.

  Everything that followed took on a slow-motion, dreamlike quality for Maq. Averon's headless body crumpled at Attat's feet, spurting blood, while his head rolled off the dais and landed with a sickening thud on the paving stones, the eyes open. His eyes blinked once, a muscle reflex, then became glassy and fixed.

  On the dais, one of the minotaur guards next to Tailonna aimed his barbed shatang throwing spear at Melas, who stood with his sword drawn facing Attat. Just as the guard made a move to throw the shatang, the sea elf jostled against him, knocking the spear off its intended target at the center of Melas's chest. The shatang hit Melas in the shoulder with such force that it knocked him backward and pinned him to the dais.

  "No!" Maquesta screamed, jumping forward to reach her father.

  Guards moved in from both sides of the hall to contain Maquesta and the others. Instinctively, she swung her right leg out in a roundhouse kick that struck one of the guards in the groin, causing him to drop his shatang and double over in pain. She drove her elbow up into another guard's stomach, just below his rib cage.

  The blow was well placed and caused the huge beast to pause, but only for an instant. He was upon Maq before she could draw her short sword. He struck her across the face, knocking her to the ground, where she lay, face against the cold stones, the guard's hoof in the small of her back, holding her down.

  Vartan had managed to draw his weapon and wielded it expertly against one of the guards who looked clumsy with his. After a final parry, he stuck the guard through, but wasted too many seconds appreciating his own handiwork. With a roar, another guard leapt at Vartan from behind, bringing a studded tessto down on his shoulder, causing Vartan to drop his sword and fall to his knees, groaning in pain. Attat must have instructed his guards not to kill any of the sailors if there was trouble because Vartan's attacker, instead of finishing him off, kicked him, then sat on the human to immobilize him.

  Micah was not so lucky, however. In the first moments of the melee, he had jumped on a guard's back, stabbing at the minotaur with a dagger. The creature smashed his antagonist against one of the stone columns, trying to dislodge Micah. The guard's aim was, perhaps intentionally, a little off. Micah's head flew back hard, becoming impaled on one of the daggerlike points of the metal torch holders. He hung there, the point protruding from his forehead.

  Greatly outnumbered, Canin, Magpie, Gorz, and Hvel were swiftly and efficiently overpowered. A cacophony of roars, grunts, and howls filled the hall as the chained monsters vocalized either their bloodlust or fear. The guards looked for further instructions, but Attat only paced back and forth across the dais, occasionally kicking Melas savagely.

  "Take them to the dungeon," he snarled, finally turning to address his lackeys. "Take them all below!"

  Chapter 5

  Attat's Dungeon

  Maquesta drifted in and out of consciousness. The race played over and over in her mind, and she felt her body being tossed about as if she were constantly cresting one wave after another. Numerous times she stared at the crew of the Torado going down to the fangs and talons of the sea hags, and she watched Lendle tend to the only survivor, Fritzen Dorgaard. She also saw her father's grinning face, and she recalled many of the pleasurable moments they had shared on the deck of the Perechon. Then she saw his heartbroken expression when the Katos pulled ahead for the last time. She saw her mother's face, too; the details of that pale elven visage were distinct and beautiful and put Maquesta at ease. It had been fourteen years since the elf's disappearance, and with each passing month it became more difficult for Maquesta to remember just what her mother looked like. But it wasn't hard to remember in her dreams. She tossed and turned and her mind whirled, churning like the water around the Eye of the Bull.

  Eventually the visions vanished, and she slowly pulled herself back to ugly reality. Sweating, her heart pounding, she finally opened her eyes. She must have been hit harder than she remembered. She recalled being dragged down narrow stone steps, slimy with mold and fungus. The steps ended in an evil-smelling pit of darkness. There must have been doors, because she heard a number of them creak open on rusty hinges, followed by the sound of bodies being thrown or pushed inside and the doors loudly slamming shut. Then it was her turn to be tossed inside, and a door closed behind her.

  Maquesta rubbed her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. She remembered the cell as being very small. Looking about the dim interior, she decided her memory was serving her well. Standing, with her curls brushing against the low ceiling, she grabbed her throbbing head with both hands. Maq tenderly felt about until she discovered a bump just above her left ear. They had been none too gentle in subduing her. She paced back and forth, only three good steps between the walls. Her stomach rumbled, and her throat and mouth were dry. Feeling her ribs and gauging her hunger, she guessed she had been in here several days. Frustrated, she selected a wall that felt less slimy than the others and leaned against it. Sliding down to the floor with her back against the cool stone, Maq could almost stretch her legs out and touch the opposite wall with her feet. She had to sit with her back angled away from the damp stones in order to avoid slipping into the open refuse trench that ran around the entire perimeter of the room. She sat slumped uncomfortably like that for she knew not how long. Hours, she suspected, as her head had started to hurt less and her stomach rumbled more.

  The sound of groans eventually roused her from her state of despair. When Maq opened her eyes, she was feeling a little better, though she was weak from hunger. Her eyes, more perceptive than a human's, adjusted well to the lack of light. She easily could make out the cell's wooden door with its grated window. What illumination existed came through that opening. At the very top of the walls on either side of the cell, a long, shallow gap, also covered with an iron grate, presumably led to neighboring cells. Groans filtered in to her th
rough one of these.

  Listening closely, Maq thought she recognized the tones.

  "Father?"

  The moaning stopped.

  "Father?" She leapt to her feet and made it to the door in two steps.

  "Maquesta?" The voice that spoke her name quavered with ill health and fatigue. Nonetheless, Maq felt tremendous joy and relief. She had feared her father was dead.

  "Thank the gods you're alive, Father! How is your shoulder? Did they tend to it at all?"

  "No. They did nothing other than handle me roughly. I fear it is infected. I have no way to clean it. But don't worry, dear. Your mother has come to nurse me. She will take good care of me."

  "Mother?" An icy hand gripped Maquesta's heart. Melas must be delirious, which meant his wound was indeed infected. She had to think of a way to get him out of here! Maq slumped back against the wall and cried.

  The next time Maq woke it was to the sounds of guards conversing in the guttural minotaur tongue. She heard the repeated metallic clink of keys banging together on a large key ring. The guards sounded nervous. Moments later, several pairs of hooves came clicking down the stone stairs. Maq pressed her face against the opening in her cell door. In the eerie light cast by several large braziers of glowing coals, Maquesta saw Attat sweep into the central court of his dungeon, which Maq could now see was used for torture. She stepped back away from the door and let the shadows hide her.

  She heard Attat stalk directly over to Melas's cell. He called for one of the guards on duty to open the door.

  "You have ruined my plans!" Attat spoke loudly, but Maq wondered if her father were even consciousness. She heard a dull thud, followed by a wince of pain.

  "Get up when I'm speaking to you!" Attat said something in the minotaur language to the guards. Maq heard a rustling in the cell, then a sharp exclamation from her father. The guards must have grabbed him by his arms and forced him to his feet, wrenching his wounded shoulder. She couldn't bear to listen.

  "There, that's better," Attat continued. "Normally I would have had you all killed for daring to attack me. But with Averon dead, I wanted you to go after the morkoth. I thought a week in my dungeon would teach you to have greater respect for me. But I see now that you're of no use to me in your condition.

  "There's nothing for it—I'll have to find a new captain and crew, and you all will have to die. You last, Melas Kar-Thon, so you can watch your sailors pay for your foolishness and so you can watch your woman pay for your affront to me."

  "Lord Attat! Lord Attat! May I please have a word with you?"

  Maquesta summoned all her strength and presence of mind to call out to the minotaur noble. She had propped herself up against the wall for support, and maneuvered around to the door again, holding on to the bars with her fingers.

  Attat, however, gave no sign of having heard her, or perhaps merely did not wish to respond. He began to walk toward the stairs.

  "I can captain the Perechon! I can capture the morkoth for you!"

  With a minotaur's infravision, his ability to see remarkably well in the gloominess of the dungeon, he turned and peered at each of the cells until his eyes lit on Maquesta's hands.

  "And who might you be?"

  "Maquesta Kar-Thon, daughter of Melas. I grew up on the Perechon. I've sailed my whole life. The crew knows me. I can do it. I even steered the ship through some tough conditions in the race."

  "Daughter?" he purred. "I thought you were his doxy."

  Attat's laughter echoed off the dungeon's walls. "I like a girl who has dreams, but not ones that I have to pay for," he said harshly. "I do thank you for one thing, however. Now that I know who you are, I can be sure to have you killed last, so you can watch your father die. Slowly."

  Attat clapped his hands, and the guards came running. "I want them fed, though not much, and give them water. I want them reasonably healthy, clinging to life, thinking they have a chance. There's no satisfaction in it if they're praying for their deaths."

  Over the next few days, Maquesta was forced to witness the horrific tortures of Magpie, Canin, and Gorz. The guards brought both her and her father out of their cells to watch the macabre rituals. For Canin it was the rack. Then, weakened by hours of torment, he was thrown back into his cell with a bullywug, which finished him off and then ate him.

  For Magpie, it was hot coals and branding irons, followed by a one-sided encounter with a griffon. When Maq closed her eyes and covered her ears, she could still see the blood and hear his screams.

  Gorz hung from his wrists for hours while a case lined with sharp spikes slowly closed around him, piercing his skin. The guards sneered that they left him alive so they would have someone to torment tomorrow.

  Maquesta cursed herself for selecting the men to accompany her, her father, and Averon to the minotaur lord's. If the men had stayed behind on the Perechon, they would be safe and free. Tears streamed down her face, and she wondered if the rest of the crew had already left the ship. At least they would not fall prey to Attat, she told herself.

  Through the horror, Maq was still thankful she could be near her father, though his condition was rapidly worsening. When the guards were preoccupied with their amusement, Maq did what she could to clean Melas's wound. The infection seemed to be spreading down his arm. Most of the time, he rambled—about Mi-al, about sailing ships, about his youth, but never about Averon.

  Only once did the fog seem to lift completely. He looked at Maq clearly. "I got you into this mess, Maquesta, and it's all because I trusted someone I shouldn't have. Never make that mistake—promise me. You can trust your family, but no one else. Promise me you'll never forget. Promise!"

  He grasped her arm and held her gaze until she nodded. "Yes. I promise," she whispered.

  "Money is something that will never betray you, either. Remember that, too!" She nodded again.

  Maquesta studied the dungeon's layout and the guards' routines every chance she had in the hopes of divining some means of escape. The cells extended in a horseshoe pattern around three sides of the large central area where the torture implements were prominently displayed. The only prisoners were, or had been, the Perechon crewmembers—except for one minotaur, a muscular, imposing figure whom Maq had never heard speak. While clearly a prisoner, the minotaur had something of a special status in the dungeon. Maq had never seen him tortured, for one thing. With his legs shackled, he was sometimes allowed out of his cell by the guards and commanded to aid them by doing such things as handing them hot branding irons while they "worked." From the way the prisoner minotaur regarded such activities, however, that may have been a type of torture.

  The narrow stairway leading up to the rest of Attat's palace was located on the fourth side of the torture chamber. The stairs afforded the only way in or out of the dungeon.

  As a result, only two guards were routinely assigned to stand watch at a time, on rotating shifts. The two who worked at night seemed less responsible than the others, Maq had observed, occasionally bringing a flask of spicy spirits that they would imbibe late in the evening. It was during one of these episodes that Maq saw a dirk slip from one of the guard's harnesses. Without realizing what had fallen, the guard inadvertently kicked the dirk underneath one of the hot coal braziers, which sat on short legs, close to the ground.

  The next day, Maquesta was let out of her cell to watch the final torment of Gorz, who was beaten until his flesh was bloody and then thrown in an iron-barred cage with an ice bear. While the guards watched the grisly scene with growing excitement, she edged away from them, squatted by the coal brazier, and reached about for the dirk. She burned her hand, but she managed to wrap her fingers about the weapon. Taking a quick look around before extracting it, Maq realized that the minotaur prisoner had seen her. His eyes met hers, and while his face remained impassive, she didn't believe he would sound a warning. Maq slipped the dirk into her back waistband and watched helplessly as the bear finished devouring Gorz.

  Only Vartan, Hvel, herself, and
Melas were left. She wasn't even certain Vartan was still alive, or what kind of condition he was in. He was never allowed out of his cell, so she hadn't seen him since they were all thrown into the dungeon. Still, Maquesta hadn't seen him tortured and killed, so that was some consolation. Hvel was alive. At night when the guards were drinking, he called to her. But he was not doing well. They were feeding him the same amount passed under the door to her, which was little, and the guards continued to berate him, teasing him about how he would be tortured and what creature he would soon fill the belly of.

  Maquesta knew she had to act before she grew much weaker on the meager, gray gruel the guards fed them. She had to do something.

  The next day when the guards dragged her and Melas out of their cells, she was ready. Maq watched until the guards unlocked Hvel's cell and started to drag him out. They barked some command in their language at the minotaur prisoner, who shuffled over to the cell. With all three of their backs turned to her, Maquesta braced her back against the wall near one of the hot coal braziers and used her feet to push it over, spilling the coals onto a pile of moldy straw. For an instant, she feared the straw was too damp to catch fire. Then the straw began to smoke and finally flames flickered up, dancing merrily in the still air.

  "Fire!" She hoped the guards understood that word in the human tongue. Whether it was that or the smoke, they turned around in alarm.

  One of them immediately ran over and began stomping on the straw. The flames licked about his hooves, and he howled as he continued his efforts, even thrashing at the straw with his club. Maq grinned—he was too stupid to realize the fire could not spread beyond the straw. It could not burn the stone floor or walls.