by Tina Daniel
Beaming, the kender held out a small, rolled parchment, sealed with wax. The seal was unbroken, Kitiara was surprised to see, given the notorious curiosity of kender. So he must be one of the breed of kender message bearers, whose reliability was as unpredictable as their curiosity was famous.
Kit reached for the letter, but the kender, switching to a serious mien, withdrew his hand so that she grabbed air.
“Kitiara Uth Matar?” asked the kender importantly. “Because if you are Kitiara Uth Matar, born of Solace but late of anywhere—at the present moment, Lemish—then I bear a message of the utmost urgency.”
Kitiara nodded impatiently, holding out her hand.
The kender resumed beaming and held out the scroll a second time. This time Kit was quicker and had the message in hand and pulled close before the kender could withdraw it. Undaunted, the smiling kender started to edge inside the room, but Kit stepped forward, standing in the doorway and adroitly blocking his path.
“Duty done,” chirped the kender cheerfully. “My name’s Aspendew, and I’ve traveled a couple of hundred miles just to deliver that particular message, although of course I have plenty of other things to do in this neck of the world. I’ve got a sister who lives just a day’s hike to the east. At least I think of her as a sister, I do love her as a sister, but actually she’s a cousin. And there’s this notorious haunted cavern I’ve always wanted to visit; it’s marked on one of my maps. It’s a big secret place; I never tell anybody about it, but I think I might tell you, especially if you happened to let me read that letter, which has me kind of curious after bearing it all this way.…”
Aspendew shuffled back and forth, looking for some opening past Kitiara. Nellthis’s servant, Odilon, moved forward and grabbed the kender by the collar, hauling him backward. As he disappeared down the winding stairs, firmly in Odilon’s clutches, Aspendew held up a gem on a chain, chattering.
“Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to pay me anything! The young mage—at least he said he was a mage, but he was pretty young for it—paid me handsomely in coin and then threw in this rare and dazzling necklace to boot. I hope it’s magical, but with mages, you never can tell. I happened to meet a mage once who had this very peculiar sense of humor, and … Oops, gotta go! I’ll be in the kitchen for a while, having a bite to eat, if you have any message you want to send back to Solace. Although I won’t be going back in that direction right away—not until next year actually, but …”
Kitiara shut the door, half grinning at the necklace, which she recognized as a common and inexpensive one of her mother’s that Raistlin had kept stored among his possessions as a keepsake. Raistlin possessed an odd fondness for kender, and he was one of the few people she knew who would trust one to deliver any message, much less an important one. In this instance, at least, his trust had been rewarded.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Kit opened the letter and began to read. Her half-smile quickly turned to a look of dismay. Kit reread the short message, then sat there for a long time thinking without coming to any definite plan of action.
Moonlight was silvering into the room when Kit finally rose, determined to seek out Uncle Nellthis and ask his advice.
This time she found him easily enough in his living quarters, sitting at a large desk surrounded by a pile of letters and reports. An oil lamp cast a golden glow. Though the hour was late, Nellthis seemed hard at work in one of the confounding ways he had of busying himself. Yet he looked up as if he had been expecting her and put aside his quill pen. Childless himself, Nellthis liked to look upon Kit as a daughter and never failed to greet her warmly.
Kitiara told him about receiving a letter from Raistlin delivered by the kender Aspendew. Nellthis had already heard about Aspendew, who had invited himself to stay for supper. Proving himself a good salesman, Aspendew had convinced the castle cook to write letters to his kin for delivery to various parts of Southern Ergoth. In spite of the late hour, the cook was still down in the kitchen, diligently composing his letters, which took some time and a good deal of assistance from Aspendew, since the cook was unschooled and practically illiterate.
“I suspect our kender guest will still be around for breakfast tomorrow morning,” chuckled Nellthis.
He asked to see Raistlin’s letter. Kit handed it over and waited as Nellthis read the communication, wrinkling his brow.
Nellthis had never met Raistlin, though Raistlin interested him indeed. He always asked Kit about him and Caramon, her half-brothers, when she visited. Nellthis didn’t know any of the other companions mentioned in the letter, although he had heard bits and pieces about them, too, especially the half-elf named Tanis. His expression, in the glow of the oil lamp, showed that he was as concerned by the letter as his niece.
“Can this be so?” Nellthis asked finally, setting the letter down. “Is it possible your brother is wrong?”
“Quite possible,” Kit said grimly, “but he has an annoying habit of being right. And what he says adds up. Don’t you agree?”
Nellthis nodded.
“What can I do? I was contemplating leaving here to attend to my own business. Now I suppose I will have to deal with this,” Kit said with a show of annoyance that didn’t entirely mask the concern she felt. A lifetime of caring for her younger brothers couldn’t be shrugged off so easily. “Caramon would lay down his life for me; I know that. I must do something, but how can I go to them? If Raistlin is right, the answer lies thousands of miles from here, a protracted journey by horse, and not much faster and ten times as treacherous by water. By the time I arrived, even assuming Raistlin is right and I can hook up with them …”
She paced back and forth in front of Nellthis, boiling with frustration. Nellthis drummed his fingers on his desk. His mouth compressed into a thin line. Slowly an enlightened expression dawned on his face.
“If only there was a way,” Kit repeated, pounding a fist into the palm of her hand.
“There might be a way,” said Nellthis in such a cunning tone that Kit stopped and stared at him. His eyes were narrowed, his fingers had stopped drumming, and his hands were templed together.
She leaned across the desk. “How? What do you mean, Uncle?”
“There might be a way,” repeated Nellthis, “but it will be difficult to arrange.”
“Money? I have some, but I can get more. My word can be my guarantee.”
Nellthis waved his hand to indicate that money was not the problem. “I have plenty of money.”
“Time? Isn’t there enough time?”
Again Nellthis waved his hand in dismissal. He was looking past her, up at the ceiling, making a show of thinking.
“What, then?” demanded Kitiara.
“Difficult,” Nellthis said, pursing his lips. “But perhaps it can be arranged. The journey itself will require no money, only courage and good luck.”
Although Kit had no idea what Nellthis had in mind, she could tell by his demeanor that he was serious. And in matters to do with family, she trusted Uncle Nellthis as much as Kitiara Uth Matar trusted anyone. Even though the trip seemed impossible, and Kitiara could think of no conceivable way that such a journey could be completed within a short frame of time, she found herself believing him when he said that it might be arranged.
She flashed him a warm, crooked grin. “I have the courage,” she said, “if you can supply the good luck.” More earnestly, she added, “I’ll do whatever needs to be done and repay you in any way I can.”
“Tut-tut, Kitiara,” replied Nellthis. Staring at her fixedly, he lowered his voice. “I expect nothing but your gratitude. Oh, before I forget,” he added nonchalantly, reaching for a tiny bottle of colorless liquid on his desk and holding it out toward her, “here’s a memento of the part you played in bagging that leucrotta. I had the man who preserved the head set it aside—especially for you.”
“What is it?” Kitiara asked, peering suspiciously at the thick liquid that floated in the small, innocuous-looking glass container.
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“A vial of the creature’s saliva,” explained Nellthis. “According to legend, it makes an effective antidote to love philters. Judging by that amusing episode in the courtyard, I think you might have more use for it than I.”
Skeptical, Kit’s eyes flicked back and forth from Nellthis to the vial. His expression was unreadable. “Take it,” he urged. “It might come in handy someday.”
Kitiara gave him another crooked grin as she pocketed the small vial.
“Now we must hurry,” Nellthis added, taking up the quill pen again and scribbling a note. He folded the note into his pocket and rose from the desk. “We have things to do … friends of mine that you must meet. You must pack your belongings. You have to hurry if you want to be on your way by sunrise.”
CHAPTER 4
ACROSS THE BLOOD SEA
———
THE FIRST TO AWAKEN WAS CARAMON, HIS HEAD THROBBING PAINFULLY. He had a vague sensation of having dreamed something—of being up in a high stone tower, buffeted by strong winds and driving rain. Only it wasn’t a tower; it was the tallest tree in a forest, bending and swaying, with Caramon clinging precariously high in its branches. Lightning struck the tree, and it snapped in the middle, and Caramon was falling. But he could save himself. All he had to do was grab the anchor of a silver ship flying by, an anchor that bobbed and dangled mere inches from his fingertips.…
“Unh,” he grunted. That sailor’s mead was worse than dwarf spirits. Caramon reached up to massage the bridge of his nose, but something held his hand down. Opening his eyes painfully, he realized that, for some reason that escaped him, he was roped to a post along with Sturm and Tas, who were still unconscious. Caramon closed his eyes again and relaxed. It was just a bad dream. It would all go away when the mead wore off.
The sounds of the storm faded and were replaced by the cries of gulls, the sighing of the wind, and the gentle rocking and swaying of a ship. Then, after some time, other sounds became gradually audible … low grunts and scraping noises and the squeaking of oars.
Caramon’s bleary eyes opened again, and he tried to assess the situation. Where was he, anyway? What had happened? Why were he and Sturm and Tasslehoff roped to the ship’s mast?
Sturm leaned against him, his head thrown back and his mouth agape. Behind them, if Caramon twisted his shoulder, he could make out Tas, an ugly purple bruise spreading across his forehead. Caramon elbowed Sturm, but got no reaction. He could hear Tasslehoff as the kender began to stir and groan.
All three were bound and shackled to the center post of the Venora. As far as Caramon could see, nobody else was aboard the ship, which seemed to be drifting gently with the current.
Caramon combed his memory, trying to recall how he got there. The last thing he remembered, he had been on deck, swapping yarns and sharing mead with some of the sailors. They were on their way back from Eastport. It was a beautiful clear night, one of those times when all seemed right with the world.
Straining his eyes, he couldn’t place the sun, but Caramon felt that it must be daytime. It was hot and humid. The sun must be up there somewhere, behind the filmy gray clouds. Not clouds … more like a warm-weather mist, which cast its pall over everything, so that Caramon could see only a short way ahead of him on the ship.
All of a sudden, the sounds that he had been hearing stopped and were replaced by other, closer, more distinct sounds. Footfalls. Clanking weapons. Voices.
“What is it?” whispered Tas groggily. “What has happened?”
“Shhh.”
The mist cleared slightly. Caramon saw hands gripping the side railings of the Venora and figures climbing over the rail onto the ship. In twos and threes, they began to creep forward, coming closer, closer, so that soon Caramon knew he would be able to make out their features.
Over his shoulder, Caramon whispered vehemently, “Sturm, wake up!” He could feel the Solamnic move his head and begin to stir.
As the figures approached, Caramon saw that they were a motley assortment including several human ruffians, a few ogres, a phalanx of minotaurs, and a mysterious caped, cowled figure, hunched over, who stood almost out of view toward the rear. Caramon couldn’t get a good look at this furtive figure, who occasionally hissed orders at the rest, unaccountably creating the impression of some slithering, serpentine creature.
Caramon shifted his attention back to the ogres. He felt certain they were ogres, yet they were strange and unlike others of that ill-begotten race. They were shorter and fatter, with stringy flaxen-colored hair, greasy gray skin, and webbed hands and feet. Caramon was taken aback by the sight of ogres alongside the minotaurs, for in olden times, the minotaurs had been slaves of the ogres, and the two brute races were usually regarded as dire enemies of each other.
The humans were dressed in ragged if colorful patchwork clothing. They were lean and sun-parched, but obviously rugged. From their waists dangled cutlasses and assorted seagoing utensils. The ogres and minotaurs likewise carried conspicuous tools and weaponry.
Caramon jerked his shoulder again, and this time he felt Sturm’s head rise groggily. He sensed Tas struggling with his bonds, but the warrior knew from experience that the kender’s efforts were in vain.
The minotaurs took charge of the boarding party, elbowing their way to the front of the group. Though there were only four or five of them, the bullish creatures, garbed in harnesses and skirts with gemmed rings through their ugly snouts, dominated the group. Short, rust-colored fur carpeted their massive bodies, and horns curved sharply upward from their wide brows. Their cloven hooves made a harsh clatter on the deck.
Two of the minotaurs stepped toward the trio of prisoners, pausing a few feet away. They spoke to each other in voices that were muted for minotaurs but whose deep, gravelly tones carried easily to Caramon’s ears.
“Be these the three?” rumbled one. He carried several axes and a wicked-looking knife stuck into his leather straps.
“Fool! Of course they are. Do you think the Nightmaster would make such a mistake?”
The creatures’ foul smell acted like powerful smelling salts for Caramon, clearing his senses of their previous grogginess.
The second one must be the leader, Caramon thought. Around the minotaur’s thick, muscular neck gleamed a tight collar of polished stones. At his waist, he wore a loincloth of girded metal. He carried only a barbed flail.
“They look pathetic. What threat could they possibly pose?”
“I only do the master’s bidding, Dogz. I do not read his thoughts.”
“Which is the one?”
“That’s what we must find out.”
The others hung back in a circle like wolves cringing at the edges of a blazing campfire. With their huge bulk and seven foot height, the minotaurs loomed over Caramon, obscuring his view. The cowled figure remained in the background, enshrouded by fog, so that Caramon couldn’t be sure of its outline. Only occasional hisses and swishing utterances reminded him that there was someone, or some thing, back there.
Struggling to sit erect, Caramon noticed another vessel through the mist, a sleek longship off in the distance. He could just make out the topsail poking through the curls of mist. He guessed the ship was about three hundred yards away.
“Caramon! What’s going on?” That was Sturm’s voice.
From his angle, the Solamnic couldn’t see much, and from the sound of his voice, it was clear that he was still dazed.
“Minotaurs and some human rabble,” whispered Tas, although he could see even less than Sturm.
“Pirates,” muttered Caramon.
“Silence!” barked the leader. The minotaur lashed out with his flail, catching Caramon on the side of the face and making a deep strawberry cut on his cheek. “We’re no pirates, fool!”
At that, the two minotaurs retreated back into the fog to where the caped figure stood. From the muttered growls that floated through the air, it appeared that the minotaurs were consulting with this peculiar specimen. The others moved clos
er to the mast, tightening their circle around the three prisoners. They had bloodthirsty looks in their eyes that left Caramon distinctly uncomfortable.
“Where are we?” asked Sturm in a low voice, sounding more clearheaded now.
“I was hoping you’d have an answer to that question,” replied Caramon grimly.
“If only I could consult my maps,” chimed in Tasslehoff.
Caramon said nothing. Best to keep silent, he thought to himself. No sense letting this piratical band know how confused they were. The big warrior had a feeling that any signs of weakness would only add to their trouble.
The two minotaurs who had been conferring with the cowled figure returned, towering over him. The one called Dogz reached toward Caramon with thick, wide hands, and ran them over the front and back of Caramon’s body, searching for something. Caramon struggled, but he could do little to resist. He spat defiantly into the face of the huge, smelly minotaur.
He heard chuckling from the onlookers as the minotaur reared back in surprise and, with the force of a sledgehammer, kicked the Majere twin in the face. Caramon spat out a bloody tooth and doubled over in pain as Sturm cried out, “By my honor, you will live to regret that cowardly blow!”
“That goes double for me!” shouted Tasslehoff. “When his brother hears about this, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t turned into a horny toad. He’ll—”
“Leave off, Tas!” Caramon managed to gasp.
But the minotaur paid no heed. Already Dogz had moved on, bending over Sturm and groping through the young knight’s clothing and gear with his rough hands. This is not the one either, thought Dogz. This human carried nothing on his person, no weapon or purse.
“Hunh,” Dogz grunted, holding up one hand, which dripped blood from the matted wound on the back of Sturm’s head. In disgust, he slapped Sturm across the side of the face. The Solamnic took the blow stoically, as he had the search, saying nothing.