The staff sailed in a graceful arc up over the ship’s rail and landed on the deck. Now it was Rhys’s turn.
He stood on the bench, trying to time his leap with the wildly plunging boat. The rope ladder swung near him. Rhys lunged at it in desperation. He snagged it with one hand, missed with the other, and scrabbled for purchase. He very nearly lost his grip and plunged into the sea, but the minotaur boosted him from below and Rhys was able to clamber up the ladder. Two more minotaurs grabbed him as he reached the rail and hauled him over the side and dumped him on the deck.
All seemed confusion on board, with the captain bellowing orders and sailors running every which way in response, racing across the deck and climbing into the rigging. Canvas sails unfurled, and the anchor was cranked aboard. Rhys was in everyone’s way, and he was bumped, shoved, trampled, and cursed. Finally a minotaur, on orders from the captain, picked Rhys up bodily and hauled him over to where crates containing cargo were being lashed to the deck.
The minotaur grunted something Rhys did not understand. He gathered from the jabbing finger that he was to stay here, out of the way.
Holding fast to the staff, Rhys watched the organized frenzy in a kind of daze until a familiar voice roused him.
“There you are! I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“Nightshade?” he called, looking around and not seeing him.
“Down here,” said the kender.
Rhys looked down, and there was the kender locked inside a crate. Atta, woebegone, was inside another crate. Rhys squatted down, squeezed his hand through the slats, and managed to stroke the dog on the nose.
“I’m sorry, Nightshade,” he said ruefully. “I’ll try to get us out of this.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” said Nightshade morosely, peering out at Rhys from behind the slats.
The kender and Atta had been put with the rest of the livestock. A crate containing a slumbering hog was stacked next to his.
“There’s something fishy about this, Rhys, and I don’t mean the smell. Don’t you think it’s strange?”
“Yes,” Rhys said grimly. “But then, I know so little about minotaurs …”
“I don’t mean that. For one thing,” Nightshade explained, “do you see any other prisoners? What sort of press gang goes out and only brings back two people, one of whom is a kender—though I am a kender with horns,” he added with considerable pride.
“For another, the sight of a minotaur pirate ship anchored off a city like New Port should have the people up in arms. There ought to be bells ringing the alarm, and women screaming, and soldiers soldiering, and catapults flinging stones. Instead, the minotaurs were walking the streets as if they were at home.”
“You’re right,” Rhys said, thoughtful.
“It’s as if,” Nightshade said in a hushed tone, “no one ever saw them. Except us.”
He sat back on his heels in the crate and gazed at Rhys.
The ship was underway now, sailing over the ocean in a stiffening breeze. Catching the wind, the ship sliced through the water. Black waves curled back from the sides. Foam spattered Rhys’s face.
With the strong wind to propel them, the oars were pulled inside. The drums were silent.
The ship’s speed increased. Sails bellied out, the strain drawing them taut. The wind blew harder and harder. Rhys was nearly blown off his feet, and he clung to the rail to keep himself upright. The deck heaved, nearly plunging into the waves at one point, rising up over the tops the next. Salt water washed over the deck.
Certain they were bound to sink, Rhys looked back at the minotaurs, to see how they were reacting to this fearful journey.
The captain stood at the helm, his chest puffed out like the sails. He faced into the teeth of the wind, sucking it gratefully into his lungs. The crewmen, like Rhys, were in good spirits, drinking in the wild wind.
An enormous wave reared up beneath them. The ship slid up the surface of the wave, rising higher and higher and it kept going, taking flight.
The wave broke with a thunderous crash, far below the ship’s keel. The minotaur vessel left the sea to sail the waves of night.
Atta howled in terror. Nightshade beat on the slats of the crate.
“Rhys! What’s happening? I can’t see! No, wait! If it’s horrible, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Nightshade waited. Rhys remained silent.
“It’s horrible, isn’t it,” the kender said miserably, and he slumped over in his crate.
Rhys gripped the railing. The wind whipped around him. The ocean dropped away. The sea boiled and frothed far beneath the ship. Wisps of clouds fluttered like tattered sails from the mast.
“I told you so, Rhys,” Nightshade shouted. “You can’t quit a god!”
Rhys slid his hand over the staff. He knew every knothole and whorl, every imperfection. He could feel the grain of the wood, the stripes that marked the lifespan of the tree and told the story of its growth—the summers that were hot and dry, the gentle rains of spring, fall’s glorious and defiant colors, and the silent, waiting winter. He could feel, within the staff, the breath of the god, and not just because this staff had been blessed by the god. The breath of the god was present in all living things.
The breath of god was hope.
Rhys had lost hope, or rather, he’d thrown hope away. It kept coming back to him, though. Stubborn, persistent.
He stood braced on the lurching deck, the wind of a dark and evil night lashing him, the ghostly ship bearing him to some unknown destination. He rested his head on his staff and closed his eyes and looked within.
The kender was wise, as kender often are to those with the wisdom to understand.
You can’t quit a god.
hemosh stood on the ramparts of his fortress castle, watching the travesty that was taking place on a patch of scorched ground in front of him. The handsome brow of the Lord of Death was furrowed. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Occasionally he would grow so frustrated he had to quit watching and take to pacing the ramparts. He would then halt, looking back in hopes that things would have taken a turn for the better. Instead, it seemed they were going from bad to worse.
“Here you are, my lord,” said Mina, emerging from a door set in one of the corner towers. “I have been searching for you everywhere.”
She went to him and put her arms around him.
He pushed her away, repulsed by her touch. “I am not in a good humor,” he told her. “You would do well to leave me.”
Mina followed his irate gaze to where the death knight, Ausric Krell, was attempting to train the Beloved of Chemosh into a fighting force.
“What is wrong, my lord?” Mina asked.
“See for yourself!” Chemosh gestured. “That undisciplined mob is my army. The army that is going to march below the sea to conquer Nuitari’s tower. Bah!” He turned away in disgust. “That army could not raid a kender picnic!”
Krell was attempting to form the Beloved into ranks. Many of the undead simply ignored him. Those who did obey his commands would take their places in line only to forget why they were there a few moments later and wander off. Krell tried to bully and threaten those who refused to obey, but they were immune to his terrifying presence. He could break all the bones in their bodies and they would shrug it off and take another drink from their hip flasks.
Krell went to round up those who had wandered away and order them back in line. While he was gone, more deserted, forcing Krell to go thudding in pursuit. Some of the Beloved simply stood where they’d been told to stand, taking no interest in anything, staring up at the sky or down at the grass or across at each other.
“This is what I do to recruits who don’t obey my commands!” Krell howled in a rage. “Let this be a lesson to you!”
Drawing his sword, he began slashing at the Beloved, hacking off arms and hands and heads. The Beloved dropped down dead on the ground, where they began to wriggle themselves horribly back together in a f
ew moments.
“There! Did the rest of you see that?” Krell turned around, only to discover the rest of the company had departed, heading in the direction of the nearest town, driven by their desperate need to kill.
“I have created the perfect soldier,” Chemosh fumed. “Impervious to pain. Ten times stronger than the strongest mortal. Unaffected by magic of any type. They know no fear. They can’t be slain. They would kill their own mothers. There’s just one problem.” He drew in a seething breath. “They are all idiots!”
Mina remembered that she had once envisioned an army of dead men—corpses marching to battle. Like the Lord of Death, she had imagined this would be the perfect army. Like him, she now began to realize the very traits that could make a man weak were those that also made him a good soldier.
“Nothing is going right for me!” Chemosh left off watching the ridiculous scene on the parade ground and stalked over to the door that led back inside his castle. “Everyone has failed me. Even you, who profess to love me.”
“Do not say I have failed you, my lord,” Mina pleaded.
She caught up with him and twined her hands around his arm.
“Haven’t you?” He glared at her and flung her away. “Where are my holy artifacts? You were inside the Solio Febalas. You had my artifacts in your grasp, and you came back with nothing. Nothing! And you refuse to go back there.”
Mina lowered her eyes before his rage. She looked down at his hands, at the lace falling over the slender fingers. His hands had not caressed her for many nights now, and she longed for his touch.
“Do not be angry with me, my dearest lord. I have tried to explain. The Solio Febalas is … holy. Sanctified. The power and majesty of the gods—all the gods—are in the chamber. I could not touch anything. I did not dare! I could do nothing but fall to my knees in worship.…”
“Spare me this drivel!” Chemosh snarled. “Perhaps you fooled Takhisis with your show of piety. You do not fool me!”
He walked off, leaving Mina standing in hurt silence. Reaching the door, he paused, then turned around and stalked back.
“Do you know what I think, Mistress?” he said coldly. “I think you took some of those artifacts and you are keeping them for yourself.”
“I would not do such a thing, my lord!” Mina gasped, shocked.
“Or maybe you gave them to Zeboim. You two are such friends—”
“No, my lord!” Mina cried.
He seized hold of her, gripped her tight. Mina flinched in pain.
“Then go back to the Blood Sea Tower! Prove your love for me. Nuitari’s magic cannot stop you. The dragon will let you pass—”
“I cannot go back there, my lord,” Mina said, her voice low and trembling. She shrank in his grasp. “I love you. I would do anything for you. Just … I can’t do that.”
He hurled her from him, flung her back against the stone wall.
“As I thought. You have the artifacts and you want their power for yourself.” Chemosh pointed a finger at her. “I will find them, Mistress! You cannot hide them from me, and when I do …”
He did not finish his threat, but glared at her, his gaze dark and menacing. Then, turning on his heel, he stalked off. He threw open the door with a bang, entered, and slammed it shut behind him.
Mina slid down the wall, too weak to stand. She was drained, bewildered, and confused. Chemosh had been pleased at her description of the wonders she had discovered in the Hall of Sacrilege. His pleasure had quickly waned when she spoke of her reverence and her awe.
“Never mind that. What wonders of mine did you bring out with you?” he had demanded.
“Nothing, my lord,” Mina had faltered. “How could I dare touch anything?”
He had risen from their bed and stalked out and he had not come back.
Now he believed that she was lying to him, hiding things from him. Worse, he was jealous of Zeboim, who had done all she could to foster his jealousy, though Mina was not aware of that.
“Forgive me for not bringing this charming young human back to you immediately,” Zeboim had said to Chemosh, upon their return. “We took a little side trip. I wanted her to meet my monk. You remember him—Rhys Mason? You traded him to me for Krell. It proved a most interesting experience.”
Chemosh would have thrown himself into the arms of Chaos before he would have given Zeboim the satisfaction of asking her what had occurred. He had asked Mina about the monk, but she had been vague and evasive, arousing his suspicions further.
Mina had not wanted to talk about that fleeting and disturbing visit. She could not get the monk’s face out of her mind. Even now, bitterly unhappy and grieving, Mina could see the man’s eyes. She did not love the monk. She did not think of him in that way at all. She had looked into his eyes and she had seen that he knew her. Just as the dragon knew her.
I am keeping secrets from my lord, Mina admitted to herself, consumed with guilt. Not the secrets of which he accuses me. Still, does it matter? Perhaps I should tell him the truth, tell him why I cannot go back to the Tower. Tell him it is the dragon who frightens me. The dragon and her terrible riddles.
Terrible—because Mina could not answer them.
But the monk could.
Chemosh would not understand. He would mock her or, worse, he would not believe her. Mina, who had slain the powerful Dragon Overlord, Malys, afraid of an elderly, practically toothless sea dragon? Yet Mina was afraid. Her stomach shriveled whenever she heard that reptile voice ask, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Chemosh emerged into the great hall to find Krell just entering. Several of the Beloved milled about aimlessly, some calling for ale, others demanding food. A few glanced up at the Lord of Death, but they looked away without interest. They paid no attention at all to Krell, who cursed them and shook his mailed fist at them. They paid no attention to each other, and that was strangest of all.
“You might as well field a regiment of gully dwarves, my lord,” Krell growled. “These numbskulls you have created—”
“Shut up,” Chemosh ordered, for, at the moment, Mina was walking down the stairs. She was very pale and had obviously been crying, for her eyes were red and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. Chemosh felt a stab of remorse. He knew he was being unfair to her. He didn’t truly believe she had stolen artifacts and was keeping them from him. He’d said that to hurt her. He needed to lash out, hurt someone.
Nothing was going right for him. None of his grand schemes were turning out as he’d expected. Nuitari laughed at him. Zeboim mocked him. Sargonnas, who was currently the most powerful god in the Dark Pantheon, lorded it over him. The White Lady, Mishakal, had recently come at him in a blaze of blue-white fury, demanding that he destroy his Beloved or face the consequences. He’d spurned her, of course. She’d left him with a warning that her clerics were declaring open war on his followers and it was her intent to wipe all his disciples off the face of Krynn.
She could not easily destroy his Beloved; he’d seen to that, but Chemosh did not have all that many living followers, and he was starting to realize their value.
He was brooding on this and his other troubles, when Krell suddenly nudged him.
“My lord,” the death knight said softly. “Look at that!”
The Beloved had, only moments before, been roaming aimlessly about the hall. Some had even bumped into the Lord of Death and never noticed. Now, however, the Beloved were still. They were silent. Their attention was fixed.
“Mina!”
Some spoke her name in reverence.
“Mina!”
Others cried it in agony.
“Mina …”
No matter whether spoken in admiration or in supplication or in dread, her name was on the dead lips of all the Beloved.
Her name. Not the name of their god, their lord. Not the name of Chemosh.
Mina stared in astonishment at the throng of Beloved that pressed around the staircase and lifted their hands to her and called out her n
ame.
“No,” Mina said to them in confusion. “Do not come to me. I am not your lord.…”
She felt Chemosh’s presence, felt it pierce her like a thrown spear. She raised her head, stricken, to meet his gaze.
Hot blood flooded her face. The hot blood of guilt.
“Mina, Mina …” The Beloved began chanting her name. “Kiss me again!” cried some, and “Destroy me!” wailed others.
Chemosh stood there, watching, amazed.
“My lord!” Mina’s despairing voice rose over the growing tumult. She ran down the stairs, tried to approach him, but the Beloved surged around her, desperate to touch her, plead with her, curse her.
Chemosh recalled a conversation he had overheard between Mina and the minotaur, Galdar, who had been her loyal friend.
“I raised an army of the dead,” said Mina. “I fought and killed two mighty dragons. I conquered the elves and brought them under the heel of my boot. I conquered the Solamnics and saw them run from me like whipped dogs. I made the Dark Knights a power to be feared and respected.”
“All in the name of Takhisis,” said Galdar.
“I wanted it to be in my name.…”
I wanted it to be in my name.
“Silence!” Mina’s voice rang through the hall. “Stand aside. Do not touch me.”
At her order, the Beloved fell back.
“Chemosh is your lord,” Mina continued, and her guilt-ridden gaze went to him, standing at the opposite end of the hall. “He is the one who gave you the gift of unending life. I am but the bearer of his gift. Never forget that.”
None of the Beloved said a word. They stood aside, allowing her to pass.
Krell snorted. “She thinks she’s so smart. Let her command your sorry excuse for an army, my lord.”
The death knight had no idea how close he came to being snapped in twain and tossed into oblivion. Chemosh contained his fury, however.
Mina walked swiftly through the throng of the Beloved. She crossed the hall, her pace increasing. Reaching him, she fell to her knees before him.
“My lord, please do not be angry with me! They don’t know what they are saying—”
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