by Tina Daniel
“We went out there ourselves to see, and sure enough, what the man said was true: A great big explosion had ripped through the cave and blown out the side of the mountain. Bits of the minotaur’s goods and belongings were scattered in all directions. ‘Argotz probably made a mistake and mixed some of the wrong herbs,’ one of the local geniuses said. But if that were true, I answered, then why was his head, neatly severed and dripping blood, stuck on a pike at the edge of the path leading off the main road to the cave?
“Sturm and Caramon and I thought it was darned curious, but probably none of our business, and we were ready to leave anyway, so we made the boring journey back to Eastport and hired Captain Murloch and his ship to take us to Abanasinia. Captain Murloch reminds me of Flint, although he’s much burlier and human, of course, but Captain Murloch thinks he knows the right way to do everything and doesn’t always appreciate my advice.
“Anyway, that’s the story of the minotaur herbalist and the crushed jalopwort, which I hope you like, since it cost me the use of this magic message bottle. I have to hurry now because there’s a powerful storm brewing—rather unusually dark and fearsome, if you ask me—and I want to toss this into the sea while the waves are crashing high.
“P.S.: To anyone who finds this bottle and uncorks it, you will hear this message, but that’s okay. Bring the bottle to Raistlin Majere of Solace, and he will give you at least fifty coppers for it, or even more because he’s generous and doesn’t care a whit about money anyway. Ask around town. Most everybody knows him.
“Truly yours,
“Tasslehoff Burrfoot of Kendermore,
“lately of Solace”
Swiftly Raistlin replaced the cork in the bottle and dropped it back into the folds of his cloak. The mage peered at Flint and Tanis, watching their reaction. “The magic is in the cork,” the young mage noted for their benefit, “more so than in the bottle.”
Still entranced by the idea of Tas in a bottle, Flint could only shake his head in wonderment.
“Where did you get it?” Tanis, his eyes narrowed, repeated his earlier question.
“A lucky stroke,” replied Raistlin. “An honest peddler scooped it out of the water near the docks when he disembarked at a small port called Vengeance Bay on the coast of Abanasinia. After uncorking it and hearing the message, he decided to seek me out. He was planning to travel in this vicinity anyway, but fortunately he came to Solace directly. He arrived yesterday and inquired about me at the Inn of the Last Home. Otik located me, and,” the mage added pointedly, “I paid the peddler seventy-five coppers just to prove the kender right.”
“Seventy-five coppers!” exclaimed the notoriously thrifty dwarf.
“The message bottle is quite unique,” agreed Tanis, standing and stretching. He gazed out over Crystalmir Lake, remembering a picnic he and Kitiara had had once on its shores. “But I don’t understand why it puts you in mind of danger. It’s just Tas on a boat writing one of his rambling letters. The part about the minotaur herbalist is a little odd, but—”
“The peddler brought other information with him,” Raistlin cut in. “He had come from Eastport himself, where the talk of the docks was that the Venora had been lost at sea in an unusually sudden and violent storm. The peddler has made the trip between Southern Ergoth and Abanasinia many times, so he knows Captain Murloch by sight, and he swears he saw some of the captain’s mates drinking in the taverns of Vengeance Bay. And they were paying for their celebration with minotaur coin.”
“Curious,” agreed Tanis, running his fingers through his reddish brown hair.
“Even more curious,” added Raistlin, “is that the corpse of Captain Murloch washed up on the rocks within the week. His body was bloated, his features erased. His face was eaten away, covered by strange burns and punctures. Despite that, the crew recognized him as their captain, and immediately they collected what remained of their minotaur money and scattered to the winds.”
Tanis sat down heavily. Flint’s brow furrowed.
“It’s been over seven weeks since the Venora left Eastport,” added Raistlin significantly.
“How do you know it isn’t some kind of trick, or one of Tas’s pranks?” barked Flint suspiciously. “How can you trust this peddler?”
“It’s no trick!” responded Raistlin impatiently, “The peddler only wanted to do the errand and get his coppers. I could see that. He was well-meaning. The message in the bottle held no augury for him.”
Flint sighed. He stood and skipped a stone across the surface of placid Lake Crystalmir. Seven skips. Not bad, the dwarf thought to himself with some pride.
Sturm and Caramon—those big oafs were nothing more than overgrown kids, really. They couldn’t be counted on to behave sensibly, Flint thought. Why, he had spent hours with them in the woods along these very shores, and all around Solace for that matter, teaching them the lore of the forest. Willing enough pupils, but put them together with Tasslehoff, and …
“So they’re a few weeks late,” said Flint cautiously. “I don’t see what all the bother is.”
Raistlin grew solemn. “There’s something else … something I should have realized before. You remember that I happened to be with Tasslehoff when his friend Asa told him there was a minotaur herbalist on Southern Ergoth who sold crushed jalopwort in his shop.
“As unlikely as that information seemed, I paid special attention because of an ancient spell I had come across once in one of Morath’s spellbooks. Although the pages were crumbling and I couldn’t decipher all the phrases, the spell intrigued me.”
Tanis watched Raistlin closely. As he had when he first heard this story, the half-elf thought there was some part of the account that Raistlin was keeping to himself.
“I knew that the spell required jalopwort,” Raistlin continued, “and that jalopwort is rarely found in these parts. Here was an opportunity to obtain some. Sturm and Caramon volunteered to accompany Tas on a journey to Southern Ergoth to purchase a quantity for me.”
“And?” prompted Flint, who was beginning to think that Raistlin was getting awfully long-winded these days. The dwarf knew all about the crushed whatever-it-was and the reasons behind the trip to Southern Ergoth. He took aim and skipped another stone. Nine skips, the dwarf counted with satisfaction.
Raistlin templed his fingers, staring at both of them with that intensity that so unnerved Tanis. “After receiving Tasslehoff’s message, I made the journey to Poolbottom yesterday and consulted with the Master Mage. He reminded me of something that I should have taken into account. Jalopwort grows in abundance only on the island of Karthay, a remote and desolate part of the minotaur isles. According to minotaur law, it cannot be transported or sold outside the realm. Minotaur society deems jalopwort sacred. That indicates whoever killed the minotaur herbalist—”
“Argotz,” murmured Tanis, remembering.
“Whoever killed Argotz,” continued Raistlin, “may have followed Sturm, Caramon, and Tasslehoff and tried to kill them.”
Tanis jumped up, eager for an adventure, eager to be doing something, anything but mooning around in Solace. “Then we must go to Vengeance Bay, track these seamen, and force them to tell us what happened to the Venora. If necessary, we’ll go to Eastport and look for clues.”
Flint looked at his elven friend in horror. “Go to Vengeance Bay … Eastport?” the dwarf sputtered. He was worried about his friends, but this seemed a little hasty. Flint had been thinking of taking a summer trip, but somewhere nice and quiet and alone up in the mountains, not to the rowdy, crowded towns of the seacoast.
“No,” Raistlin said flatly. “It has been over ten days since the peddler was in Vengeance Bay. And Eastport would yield nothing. It would be a fruitless chase.”
“Listen to Raistlin,” agreed Flint hurriedly. “It wouldn’t make any sense.”
Raistlin gestured impatiently. “And remember, the sailors were celebrating with minotaur coin,” the mage said. “No, it wouldn’t make any sense to head to the west, bec
ause if I am right, the danger to my brother and our friends lies far, far to the east. That is where we must go as quickly as possible. To the Blood Sea and the minotaur isles.”
“To the Blood Sea?” gasped Flint. His face lost color. He had to sit down to absorb the shock.
“The minotaur isles?” asked a surprised Tanis. “But they’re thousands of miles away, several months of arduous land travel. Even if Sturm, Caramon and Tasslehoff have been taken there, if they’re in danger, we could never hope to arrive in time.”
“How the devil would they get from the Straits of Schallsea to the minotaur isles in so short a time?” asked a bewildered Flint.
“I don’t know how,” admitted Raistlin. “Probably by some highly evolved magic. But if they are alive, that is where they are. This I believe. And I am going to go there and try to find them. The only thing I want to know is are you going to come with me?”
“How?” asked Tanis again. “How can we possibly hope to cover such a distance?”
The mage’s eyes glittered excitedly. “When I spoke with Morath, he told me of an oracle who lives near Darken-wood and knows of a portal that could take us, in the matter of heartbeats, to Ogrebond on the coast of the Blood Sea.”
“Ogrebond!” muttered Flint disconsolately.
“From there, we would have to make our own way by hiring a ship and crossing the Blood Sea to the minotaur kingdom.”
“Oh, no!” Flint threw up his hands. “I’m not crossing any Blood Sea! I’ve heard all about the Blood Sea!” He pointed out across peaceful Crystalmir Lake. “Maybe,” he continued, “just maybe, I’d cross Crystalmir Lake to rescue my friends, but maybe I wouldn’t, either. It would depend on my mood and which friends they happened to be. But you’re not going to get me into a boat to cross the Blood Sea no matter what portal or which friends or how many coppers you gave some shrewd roving peddler!”
Raistlin paid little attention to the grizzled dwarf, who was making a great show of stomping around kicking rocks and tree stumps. He stared intently at Tanis. The half-elf shifted uncomfortably under Raistlin’s gaze. Tanis guessed the mage knew more than he was telling them, but he didn’t doubt his genuine purpose. He knew that if Raistlin believed it to be so, then Sturm, Caramon, and Tas were indeed in trouble.
After a long silence, Tanis stood and extended his hand in agreement. “They would risk their lives for us,” said the half-elf solemnly, “and we owe as much to them.”
Raistlin gave him a nod of thanks.
“What about Kit?” Tanis asked, thinking of her all of a sudden. “Don’t you think one of us should make an effort to contact her?”
“I have already sent her a message,” said Raistlin. “Don’t worry about Kitiara. If she can meet up with us, she will.”
“But where is she?” persisted Tanis. “Maybe I—”
Raistlin cut him off with a look.
Flint stood near the shore, glowering, holding a perfectly round, flat stone in his hand. He sailed it out over the water. It skipped once, twice, then sank. A bad omen, he was certain.
The stocky dwarf came over to Raistlin and Tanis, who were waiting for his decision. He looked them both in the face, certain he was staring at two fools.
He extended his thick, right arm and laid his knotty hand over Tanis’s and Raistlin’s. “I just want to make one thing clear,” the dwarf growled to the mage. “I’m doing this for Sturm and your brother, not for that blasted kender!”
Raistlin had told them to pack food, weapons, clothing, climbing equipment, and other essentials. Flint got little sleep that night, packing and repacking his haversack, sharpening his axe and knife, and muttering to himself about what a fool he was. Just before dawn, a knock sounded at the door, and there stood Tanis, all packed for the trip and grinning broadly. What put the half-elf in such a blasted good mood? Flint wondered.
They were supposed to meet Raistlin at a bend in the road leading out of Solace. Hurrying out the door, Flint remembered something, then raced back in and brought out the piece of bark. With a stub of charcoal, he scribbled something and hung the sign on his door as he and Tanis hurried out into the gray dawn.
The sign read, Gone Hunting—Indefinitely.
CHAPTER 3
UNCLE NELLTHIS
———
FOX SIX DAYS, NELLTHIS’S HIRED MEN HAD BEEN TRYING TO PICK UP the trail of the elusive leucrotta that was rumored to be preying on denizens of the forest east of Lemish near the foothills of a small, saw-toothed mountain range.
Of all the unusual creatures of Ansalon, the leucrotta was one of the most rare, so rare that Nellthis doubted the reports of its existence so near his fiefdom.
He sent a loyal subordinate, a broad-shouldered worthy by the name of Ladin Elferturm, his best hunter, to lead the band of a dozen stalwart men who would stalk the creature.
Around women and at feasts and small gatherings, Elferturm seemed a bumpkin whose thick tongue was somehow stuck in his square jaw. But in the forest or the mountains he was in his element, his senses alert to the slightest nuance of sound or smell. No one had better aim with a longbow—no one except Nellthis himself, that is.
Even accepting that the rumors were correct and a leucrotta was in the vicinity, tracking it would be tricky. A leucrotta’s hoofprints were virtually identical to those of a stag, and the woods in these parts were rife with mature deer. By the second day, Ladin Elferturm believed the peasant accounts because he had found several carcasses of doe and stags, ravaged and torn by sharp, jagged teeth, then left half-eaten. By the fourth day, he felt certain that he could distinguish the tracks of the leucrotta from the other wild animals in the area, and that he and his men had the huge, dangerous creature on the run.
On the morning of the sixth day, Ladin Elferturm squatted on his haunches and, with his fingertips, felt the moistness of the spoor on the ground at his feet. His almond eyes, framed by short black hair and a well-trimmed beard, lifted up to note the steep, winding gorge ahead. He knew that the gorge, a narrow, straight-walled canyon with a seasonal streambed, had only one other opening, less than a mile to the north.
With a signal, Ladin Elferturm separated his men into two groups and sent the splinter group around to the other end of the gorge, through a sloping forest, to guard the way out. Then he gave one of his men a message to take to Nellthis. After that, Elferturm and his men made temporary camp. With some pride, the hunter waited for his lord.
Nellthis arrived at the camp less than four hours later, accompanied, as Ladin Elferturm knew he would be, by his niece, Kitiara Uth Matar and several loyal retainers. All wore jerkins and carried assorted hunting and trapping gear. With her cropped, raven hair and easy swagger, Kit was virtually indistinguishable from the men who hurried over to confer with Elferturm.
Impatient these last several days, Nellthis had ridden out from his small castle immediately after receiving word that the leucrotta was trapped. Now his manner was brisk and authoritative. He barked out orders. The men hastened to take their positions, some near and others distant, posting sentries at several points above the gorge.
Elferturm’s job was done and done well. The hunter stole a glance at Kitiara, her face flushed and eager, her dark eyes watching her uncle as he hurried about, readying his men for the kill. Kit did not so much as give Elferturm a nod.
Within minutes, the hunting party was ready and mounted again. Nellthis had chosen two men, as well as his niece, to accompany him below. The four cautiously began to descend into the gorge.
Elferturm’s task was to keep watch from the high ground. He wasn’t surprised to be left behind, but he couldn’t help being annoyed. Elferturm fancied himself a better shot than his master, although everyone knew otherwise, and he had hoped against hope for a chance to demonstrate his skill in front of Kitiara by slaying the leucrotta.
Nellthis and Kitiara, followed by two others whose principal responsibility was to carry weapons and supplies, eased their horses down into the narrow gorge. A
s Kit watched, her uncle dismounted and checked a trail of hoofprints, still fresh in the sand next to the shallow stream. He grinned up at her with fierce satisfaction. Nellthis signaled Kit and the others to tie up their horses and to proceed, as stealthily as possible, on foot.
Nellthis of Lemish carried only his favorite ornamented longbow, made of hemp and yew, its width the equal of his height. Over one shoulder he wore a sling of arrows, their shafts of birch with feathers of goosewing and arrowheads of poison-tipped iron. Kitiara carried the longbow with which she had been practicing, shorter than her uncle’s for easier handling, with a heavy leather grip.
They stepped lightly among the stones, moving along the gorge, doing their best to stay hidden, weaving from clumps of bushes to outcrops of granite. Nellthis and Kitiara split up, one on each side of the gorge, each followed by one of the retainers.
Nellthis kept slightly ahead of the others. As they moved down the gorge, they could spot the other men, far above, posted at intervals. Kit knew that her uncle relished this moment. A great hall in his castle was set aside for his animal trophies. Nellthis prided himself on his vow to have assembled one day a perfect stuffed specimen of every beast on the face of the continent. His eagerness for this hunt was all the keener because months had passed since Nellthis had been able to add to his already impressive collection.
Now Kitiara watched as her uncle pressed against the wall opposite her, straining his eyes and ears for any indication of the creature trapped in the gorge. To kill a leucrotta, Kit knew, would keep her uncle satisfied for many months.
In some respects, Nellthis was a comical man. Hopelessly short and chunky, with an incongruous rapier mustache, he was nonetheless vain and fussy about the way he looked. Like a spoiled princess, he would spend hours choosing the color and trim of his garments. He kept a seamstress on the payroll solely to provide him with the latest in fashionable wear.