The Companions

by Tina Daniel

  Bouncing around in the cage, Tas decided to say nothing, sorely tempted though he was.

  Here in the market square, with only a few more hours of daylight remaining, business was conducted in a colorful and chaotic manner. Few noticed Dogz and Sarkis as they shoved and elbowed their way through the crowd. Tas spotted exotic jewelry and weapons for sale, wool and clothing, and every variety of fish in the sea, smoked, canned, fresh, and not so fresh.

  Up another, more deserted street they turned toward the most impressive building in the city of Lacynos, the seasonal residence of the king of the minotaurs. This was an elaborate, marble-columned mansion with spacious gardens and adjoining buildings set on high ground overlooking the teeming minotaur metropolis.

  They passed a contingent of human slaves, disfigured with cuts and dried blood, digging ditches for runoff under the supervision of whip-wielding minotaur guards. These humans, in many cases gaunt and jaundiced-looking, were objects of pity in Tas’s eyes. They slaved under the lash and didn’t even dare to glance up at the kender as Tas passed.

  When they arrived at the front gate of the palace’s outer wall, Tas saw well-ordered formations of minotaur soldiers drilling outside the grounds. Sentries were posted at intervals along the wall, and everyone seemed to know Dogz and Sarkis. The guards quickly hailed and admitted them.

  To tell the truth, Tas was getting a little tired of his cramped sightseeing trip and more than a little curious about where he was going. Consequently, the kender was perfectly happy when, after descending a long flight of steps to a lower level of one of the buildings, the minotaurs finally stopped. Sarkis unlatched the cage and Tas tumbled out. He barely had time for a good stretch before Sarkis pushed him into a dim and dank, if much roomier, jail cell.

  Without further comment, Sarkis gave a snort, turned, and climbed back up the stairs. Dogz stalled, glancing at Sarkis’s retreating form before turning back to Tas. “Goodbye, friend Tas,” the minotaur said sadly and turned to leave.

  “Wait! What’s going to happen now?” Tas shouted, but it was too late, for Dogz had hurried back up the stairs.

  An hour or two went by. It was hard to keep track of time in the boring cell. It wasn’t that it was so dirty, although it was dirty enough, or that it was so smelly, considering that Tas was almost getting used to the stench of minotaurs. It was just that the complete furnishings consisted of a bunk and a bucket, with nothing else to see or do, and Tas was so uncharacteristically dispirited that he didn’t even feel like rummaging through his pouches. By comparison, the minotaur ship had been a carnival of entertainment.

  Things began to look up when footsteps sounded and two minotaurs he hadn’t seen before came down the stairs with Sarkis, who carried a flail. One of the minotaurs wore a crimson cape and a thin gold band around his forehead. Tas wondered if it was truly gold and wished he could hold it in his hands for just a minute to see. The other minotaur was ugly and horned like most of them, but wore a kilt and didn’t bear any weapons.

  The one with the gold band bore an air of authority. He stepped in front of the others and looked at Tas. The expression on his snout face was blank. His foul breath made Tas retreat to the back of the cell. His yellow teeth glistened.

  “So this is the kender mage,” said the caped minotaur.

  “Yes, King,” answered Sarkis.

  Kender mage? Tas thought. What in blazes were these dumb bullheads talking about?

  “The Nightmaster will be very pleased,” the king said, then spun on his cloven heels and started up the steps.

  So astonished was Tas by the brief exchange that he barely had time to say anything. “Nightmaster who?” he shouted after the retreating figure. “King who? If you’re the bull in charge, then you’d better let me out of here before my friends find out where I am! And I’ve got plenty of friends—numerous—lots! If they chose you for king, it must be because you have the worst breath in all of Lacynos—no, make that all of Mithas. Make that all of Ansalon, you overdressed, forked-tailed, bulging-eyed lardhead!”

  If only he had room to toss his hoopak. If only iron bars didn’t stand between him and the minotaurs. Tas grabbed his hoopak and waved it threateningly.

  Sarkis and the other minotaur, the one who wore the kilt, stood there, watching Tas indifferently, waiting for him to shut up. Eventually he did.

  “I have never seen a kender before,” rumbled the kilted minotaur in a surprisingly civilized tone. “And I have certainly never seen a kender mage.”

  “Yes, Cleef-Eth,” said Sarkis. “As ordered, I have delivered him to your keeping.”

  Tas waited to hear what Cleef-Eth was going to say next. Sarkis deferred to him, that was plain. And Cleef-Eth appeared to be a minotaur of some intelligence and standing.

  “Torture him until he reveals to us his secrets,” said Cleef-Eth, leveling his big, round bullish orbs at Tasslehoff. “Don’t kill him, though … not right away, at least. But hurt him so he knows that we mean business.”

  Sarkis snapped his flail against his palm. “It will be my pleasure, Cleef-Eth,” he said with relish.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE ORACLE AND THE PORTAL

  ———

  FALLEN TREE LIMBS OVERGROWN WITH TWISTED VINES AND A SPONGELIKE, mossy vegetation crosshatched the dense forest, making the going difficult. Sudden torrents of water, evidence of some vast underground river, surfaced, rushed by, then vanished back beneath the wooded maze.

  The land sloped gradually upward. Peaks ringed the forest where the terrain broke into abrupt escarpments and promontories. Here and there, shafts of pale sunlight pierced the greenish-blue atmosphere that enveloped the woods.

  Slowly the three friends made their way through the junglelike forest. With blunt swings, Flint and Tanis hacked away at the lush greenery, clearing a path. Tanis grumbled at having to use his sword for such activity, while Flint, who had been the grumbler for most of the morning, could find some pleasure in wielding the sharp-edged shortaxe he usually kept slung at his side. Behind them, Raistlin waited wordlessly each time they halted, leaning on the stout cedar walking stick that had been carved for him by Flint some months ago. His pale face was lined with tension, but he was more patient with delay than either of his two companions.

  The Master Mage’s directions had been very precise. Although well-concealed, its whereabouts known only to a small, privileged number of magic practitioners, the cave of the Oracle lay only slightly more than half a day’s trek from Solace. Morath had warned Raistlin to beware. In spite of deceptive appearances, the Oracle had fantastic powers and did not welcome uninvited strangers.

  Outside Solace, the crushed gravel road that led to the southeast cleaved into two smaller pebble roads, one leading deeper into the mountainous south and the other curving to the east. Following Morath’s instructions, Tanis, Flint, and Raistlin took the eastern fork. After a half-dozen miles, the path spidered off in numerous directions, giving a traveler the choice of several well-trodden dirt paths. Without the Master Mage’s counsel, they never would have chosen the least of these, a northeasterly trail of dirt and mud that led, after a few miles, to a seeming dead end, a thick canopy of low-growing plants surrounding a grove of immense, broad-leafed trees with low-slung branches and huge trunks.

  For half an hour, they slashed their way through the smothering undergrowth, then maneuvered past a cluster of formidable trees with outstretched branches. On the other side of the barrier, as the Master Mage had foretold, the faint traces of the old trail resumed.

  Sometimes stooping, at other times crawling over or under obstacles of boulders and fallen trees, the trio spent an hour laboring on the wending, debris-ridden trail.

  Raistlin kept a dogged pace. His determination to reach the Oracle impressed Tanis, who had banished Kitiara from his thoughts and was occupied with the task at hand. Flint took every opportunity to gripe and grumble.

  “This mage of yours better know what he’s talking about!” Flint complained at one po
int, mopping his brow with a handkerchief that was by now mottled with dirt and sweat.

  Raistlin fixed him with a stare. “If you have any doubts, then turn back,” rasped Caramon’s twin, who was every bit as road-weary as the dwarf and furthermore less accustomed to such exertion. His face was pale and shiny. “Although I thought someone with your forest skills would find this outing a lark.”

  Flint scowled furiously but held his tongue, turning his back on Raistlin and continuing to clear the trail. Tanis would also have liked some assurances, but he saw the glint of anger in Raistlin’s eyes and chose to say nothing.

  Finally the elusive trail appeared to end in a small grassy clearing. At one end of the clearing stood a mammoth fir tree with a trunk that seemed welded to other trees and huge rocks wedged up behind it. At the base of the great fir was a black, hollow maw. This was obviously the place, for out of the cavity spewed tendrils of mist, accompanied by a strange brackish smell.

  Both Flint and Tanis hesitated, but Raistlin moved ahead of them, peering cautiously. With his staff, he beckoned the dwarf and half-elf forward. The young mage led the three of them up to the mouth of the forbidding cave.

  “Hallo!” cried Raistlin boldly, leaning into the darkness, his voice harsh and loud in the forest calm. “Three friends have come to call! We have greetings from Morath, the Master Mage!”

  The only reply was silence. As Raistlin spoke, cold, white fingers of mist curled around his feet and spiraled upward, encircling his legs and his body, not quite touching the young mage, but oscillating and pulsating as if responding to the warmth of his blood.

  With widening eyes, Tanis observed the eerie mists and glanced over at Flint, who nodded grimly. A few paces behind Raistlin, the two of them pulled weapons. Over his shoulder, the young mage cast a stern glance. Reluctantly the dwarf and half-elf sheathed their fighting tools.

  After several long moments, Raistlin shook his head with irritation and came to a decision. Without a word of warning to his companions, he lowered his staff, ducked his head, and plunged into the black cavity. Almost instantaneously the mist broke up and was sucked inside the cave with him. Flint and Tanis had to hurry to catch up.

  Just inside the opening, the three collided. Raistlin had paused beyond the entrance to allow time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. At first, none of them could see very much through the murky darkness. The bone-white mist swirled about them, undulating and changing shape. Even using his elven night vision, Tanis could see little. The mist, while seemingly insubstantial, created a barrier impenetrable to sight. It did not hinder hearing, however. After a moment of utter silence, Tanis and the others picked up the sound of voices, wailing indistinguishably from farther ahead in the darkness.

  Nor were their senses of smell blocked. “It smells worse than a dead troll in here,” Tanis whispered to Flint, who clutched a rag to his nose and mouth in an attempt to ward off the stench.

  “Silence!” hissed Raistlin.

  Reaching upward with his staff, Raistlin touched the ceiling and informed the others that they were in a low tunnel. He edged forward, feeling his way with his right hand, his companions following. Bunched together, the trio stumbled forward for several minutes until they rounded a narrow bend. Then a spot of dim illumination directly ahead of them made their progress easier.

  The light gradually grew brighter until they emerged into a living quarters of some type, round rather than rectangular, walled on all sides except for the tunnel entrance. The room was free of weird voices and dark augury. Looking up, Tanis saw sunlight filtering down. The dirt floor was dry, hard-packed, and swept tidily. A chair, a cot, and a large rope trunk gave evidence of habitation.

  At the far end of the room, a huge caldron steamed and bubbled. The mist retreated, hovering over the caldron. There was no sign of owner or occupant. The overpowering, putrid smell still hung in the air.

  Relaxing somewhat, Tanis reached out to touch the walls, which intrigued him. Streaked with muted colors, they appeared to be neither wood nor stone. Nevertheless, they felt hard to Tanis’s touch.

  “Some sort of petrified wood,” muttered Flint admiringly, stroking his gray-flecked beard. He nudged Tanis with his elbow, hooking his eyes toward Raistlin.

  Both watched with some bewilderment as the young mage, oblivious to his companions, edged forward and dropped to a squatting position in front of the cot, seeming to speak in a low voice to the very ground at his feet.

  “We do not come as enemies …” Raistlin was murmuring, his gaze cast downward. Tanis and Flint could barely pick up his words. “… and if we did, surely you could easily defeat us, Chen’tal Pyrnee.”

  Peering closer, Tanis saw a white shrew cowering under the cot, its whiskers twitching furiously. Flint spied the tiny creature at the same time. The shrew, which had red pinprick eyes as hard as darts, was scurrying back and forth, squeaking and squealing.

  “You do not need to be afraid of us,” Raistlin added hastily, still crouching close to the floor. “We are here to show our respect and to beg a favor. I know that we have intruded upon your abode, but hear us out. If you choose, you may banish us, or even destroy us. My teacher, Morath of Poolbottom, tells me that you can do either, for you have truly extraordinary powers.”

  A boom split the air, followed by a sizzling and crackling noise. The shrew vanished. Materializing next to the heavy caldron, as if emerging from a jagged opening in the air that immediately closed behind it, stood an ancient ogress … the Oracle. She stirred the pot, one venomous purple eye appraising Raistlin. The other seemed to be sewn shut, oozing pus.

  Watching warily, Tanis took a step backward. Flint fingered his axe handle nervously. Raistlin straightened to a standing position.

  “I would just as soon have your bones for soup!” cackled the ogress. “Don’t think I can’t; I need but lift a finger!” Her voice was hoarse and shrill. She stirred vigorously, cocking her head in Raistlin’s direction. “How is that old fool Morath, anyway? I never hear from him unless it’s for a favor. Who are you to flaunt his name?”

  Chen’tal Pyrnee was an incredibly ugly ogress. It would have been impossible to guess her age or weight. Swaddled in loose clothing and numerous scarves of various, mismatched, faded colors, she was as bulky as a bear. Her presence seemed to fill the cave, casting an ominous shadow over the three companions.

  Her face was mottled with warts and bumps. Her nose and chin sprouted long, curling hairs. Her mouth showed missing and blackened teeth. Stringy, corn-colored hair fell beneath a plaited cap. The hideous effect was topped off by the hooded eye, which looked to be the result of accident or disease. The nauseous odor emanated more from her than from the contents of the mist-shrouded caldron.

  “I was his pupil,” said Raistlin, facing the ogress and bowing slightly. “Morath trusts me, and that is why he told me how and where to find you. There wasn’t time or means for me to send any message in advance. We are on a mission of some urgency.”

  The ugly ogress lifted a dipper of whatever foul liquid she had been stirring and tasted it, frowning. As she did so, her one good eye squinted disdainfully at Raistlin. Tanis marveled at the young mage’s composure. Caramon’s twin brother met the hostile gaze of the Oracle without flinching and without any apparent distaste.

  “That mage is a blabbermouth, if you ask me,” Chen’tal Pyrnee muttered. “He’s always sending young know-it-alls to connive and bargain for my spells. They line up by threes and fours outside my door, begging my assistance. I take pity on a few of them and help ’em out, just to be nice on account of Morath. But most I turn into warthogs or grass snakes. If they can’t change themselves back, why they ain’t worthy of being mages in the first place!”

  “The master told me that he hasn’t sent anyone to you for several years,” replied Raistlin blandly. His eyes met her rheumy, solitary gaze.

  “Ha!” Chen’tal Pyrnee made chewing motions with her lips. She glared at Raistlin. “Mebbe so, mebbe so. I lose tra
ck of the years. But does that give you any excuse to contradict me? You young, pious, snotty know-it-alls are all alike. Who are the other two? I can’t imagine the Master Mage is taking in dwarves and elves these days.” With a long, wrinkled finger, she contemptuously indicated Tanis and Flint.

  Flint was of a mind to conk the ugly Oracle on the head with the butt of his axe, but Tanis held him by his tunic. Tanis glanced quickly at Raistlin, who, with a small frown, indicated they were to treat the ogress with respect. Tanis lowered his head humbly, managing to elbow Flint into joining him in the gesture.

  Raistlin had made it clear how important this cave-dwelling ogress was to their quest to rescue Tas, Sturm, and Caramon. He had also made it clear how dangerous Chen’tal Pyrnee could be if crossed.

  “They are my friends,” Raistlin said.

  The ogress’s gaze flickered back to the young mage. “Friends, pah! It is easy to know an enemy,” Chen’tal Pyrnee said cryptically, “but not as easy as it is to mistake a friend. An enemy can prove himself by a single deed. A friend must prove himself over and over again.”

  “I quite agree,” Raistlin said, nodding.

  Watching the young mage suspiciously, Chen’tal Pyrnee scooped another dipperful from the caldron and then unexpectedly threw the liquid against the wall of the cave so close to Raistlin that he had to step aside quickly to avoid being splashed. The liquid scorched the rocklike wood and drizzled down the wall, burning away an outer layer to reveal brilliant patterns of copper and turquoise. For a brief instant, the room was flooded with light and color. Then it flickered and faded.

  Tanis had all he could do to restrain Flint. Raistlin, his face taut, said nothing. The young mage knew the ogress was trying to intimidate him. In truth, he was impressed and more than a little afraid. Morath had warned him that Chen’tal Pyrnee could be volatile.

  The Oracle kept stirring her brew, gauging Raistlin’s reaction. The mists pulsed above the steaming caldron. The wall sizzled. The ogress’s solitary eye roamed the cave, surveying the companions.