by Tina Daniel
Vigila snorted savagely, his eyes seeming to bore through Lazaril. “Throw them back in the water, old fisherman. Stick to your usual catch. Hook something that you can at least put on your plate for supper.” The low rumble that came from his throat might have been a chuckle.
Lazaril summoned his courage, and again came the sly smile. “I believe this one”—the fisherman patted Caramon’s shoulder—“could be trained for the games. He could be a gladiator; he has the girth of one. Although I will gladly sell him to you at a special price for a gladiator. Think of how pleased the king would be if you gave him a gladiator who had been plucked from the sea. It would be another distinguishing mark in your career.”
Vigila looked thoughtful. The idea clearly appealed to the harbormaster, Lazaril saw.
“Humans never last long in the games,” the minotaur said contemptuously.
“But,” pursued the fisherman, silently congratulating himself on his tact and bargaining prowess, “they are very entertaining to watch, even when they lose.”
Caramon and Sturm stirred slightly, then lifted their heads. Each wondered, not for the first time in recent days, where he was. After days adrift in a savage sea, neither could make sense of the scene before him.
An old fisherman with carrot-colored hair was standing bowlegged in his boat, talking in a low voice to a huge minotaur, who towered over him. The minotaur wore a leather skirt and a variety of straps and belts. He carried a huge, rough-hewn stick. A figure of some authority as he stood on the pier, the bull-man appeared to be haggling with the fisherman.
But their brains were so clouded and the discussion between the fisherman and the huge minotaur so seemingly muted and far away that Caramon and Sturm couldn’t make out the words.
The harbormaster glanced over at the two companions, saw their heads lifted pitifully toward him, and saw them slump over again. The old fisherman nodded and beamed encouragingly.
“Here, old fisherman,” grumbled Vigila, reaching into one of his pockets and throwing Lazaril a handful of coins. “I will take this human wreckage off your hands. Maybe I can freshen them up. Maybe not.” The harbormaster turned and signaled for a cart.
Another minotaur, far down the pier, cracked a whip. Two human slaves began pulling a large wooden-wheeled cart toward the harbormaster.
Lazaril scrambled to scoop up the coins, some of which, the old fisherman was dismayed to notice, had fallen into the scummy harbor water and sunk down out of reach, out of sight.
While Lazaril scurried, Vigila flexed his muscles, leaned over, and picked up Caramon and Sturm, one powerful limb gripping each of them around the chest. Too weak and confused to struggle, Caramon and Sturm felt themselves fly through the air as Vigila lifted them up and tossed them into the cart. They landed, sprawled over each other.
A whip cracked, the human slaves reversed position, and the cart moved away down the pier.
“Hey! These are all coppers!” complained Lazaril as the old fisherman counted the coins he had picked up and realized he had been cheated. “That’s the slave price, not the gladiator price!”
The old fisherman took a step up the ladder toward the pier. That was his second mistake. His first had been raising his voice in anger.
Vigila turned back to him, his eyes bulging with fury.
Lazaril froze. “But this is not the gladiator price,” the old fisherman whined softly. He wanted to retreat to his boat. He wanted to go back out in the middle of the ocean and catch his daily string of eel. But his foot dangled uselessly in the air as he missed the rung of the ladder.
Vigila lowered his head and charged at the fisherman, impaling the old man on his sharp horns. Lifting his head up into the air, the harbormaster bellowed angrily and then spun around several times before he finally lowered his head once again and flicked the body off so that it sailed far out over the water.
Lazaril twitched and thrashed as he flew through the air, then landed heavily in the water and lay still. Gulls dove to peck at the old fisherman’s body.
The ragamuffin messenger, who had taken refuge behind a barrel, crawled forward to pick up a few of the coppers the fisherman had dropped. He didn’t give Lazaril’s corpse a second glance. Such outbursts of violence were not at all uncommon in the harbor of Atossa, and were to be expected from Vigila. Those who noticed at all paused only briefly, then resumed their buying and selling, their arguing and fighting, as if nothing had happened. Nobody stared.
It would not have been wise to stare.
At the same time that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was being tortured in his cell in the minotaur capital of Lacynos, Sturm Brightblade and Caramon Majere were being locked up in a dungeon not thirty miles away, in the smaller enclave of Atossa.
Relieved to be rescued from certain doom in the Blood Sea, Sturm and Caramon didn’t put up any fight. In truth, they had no energy and little will to do so.
Tossed into a filthy cell, one of dozens in an underground prison in Atossa, the two companions crumpled to the stone floor. They slept all the rest of the day and ensuing night, and when they awakened, they ate ravenously. Minotaur guards dished out bowls of meat and water from huge buckets they carried from cell to cell. Despite the unappetizing color and aroma of the meat, Caramon and Sturm did not complain. Never had either of them been so hungry.
By the second night, they were able to sit up and talk to each other. Although their clothes hung in shreds on their grimy bodies, which bore numerous marks of their ordeal, Sturm and Caramon were able to call on large reserves of youth and strength. They were rebounding miraculously.
“From what I have been able to overhear, and from the obvious nature of our captors, I believe we are on the island of Mithas,” Sturm told Caramon as the two conversed in low voices late that night. “Somehow we were transported on the Venora thousands of miles from the Straits of Schallsea to the far fringe of the Blood Sea. Whoever accomplished that incredible feat took Tasslehoff prisoner for some reason and tossed us overboard, left for dead.” Sturm paused, thinking back to their days floating in the torpid, turbulent Blood Sea. “Whatever our fate here, we are fortunate to be alive. The Blood Sea does not relinquish many castaways.”
“And what do you think,” asked Caramon slowly, “about the fate of Tas?”
Sturm shook his head sadly.
On their third morning in the cell, two brutish minotaurs came to stare at them. One of them wore official-looking insignia and listened as the other talked in a low growl, pointing back and forth between Caramon and Sturm.
“See how quickly they recover from their wounds. They are very powerful fighters. If we permit them time to mend and build their strength, they will entertain us in the games. If they don’t work out as gladiators, we can always throw them into the slave pits.”
Caramon stared at them indifferently. He felt weak and beaten and couldn’t make much sense of what they were saying anyway. What did it matter which he was destined to be, a minotaur slave or a doomed gladiator, here, thousands of miles from Solace?
Sturm rose and thrust his face between the bars, glaring at the two minotaurs. “I would gladly fight either of you right now,” said the young Solamnic angrily, “if you would let me out of here but for a moment! I will never be a slave, and as for your gladiator games—pah!” He spat in their direction.
In an eyeblink, the minotaur with the insignia backhanded him, catching Sturm across the face before the Solamnic was able to pull it safely behind the bars. He was knocked backward, his lip bleeding. Sturm continued to glare at the ugly horned creature.
“That one is quite foolish,” rumbled the important minotaur, “but we shall cure him of his foolishness.” With a huge, hairy hand he rubbed his chin, looking at the two companions. “Feed them well for a few weeks, and then we shall see how strong they are.
“Let that one”—the minotaur pointed to Caramon—“help with the feeding and emptying the slops. It is reward,” he said with a smirk, “for holding his tongue. Unlike his fri
end, he shall have the opportunity to stretch and build his muscles, and when it comes time to fight for his life, perhaps he will live a little longer.”
The next morning the companions were awakened rudely by the minotaur guards. One held a sword at Sturm’s throat, while the other beckoned Caramon outside the cell. The guard handed Caramon two huge buckets of meat and water and instructed him to deliver a portion to each of the prisoners in the cells that lined the dark, dank corridors heading off in four directions—north, south, east and west.
Faltering under the weight of the buckets, the warrior realized how much he had been weakened by his experience at sea. The minotaur guards laughed at Caramon as he struggled to lift the buckets, then stumbled off along his designated route. One of the minotaur guards returned to his post, while the other trailed behind Caramon, brandishing a sword to make sure the ridiculous human did as he was instructed.
For three hours thereafter, Caramon walked the corridors of the prison, ladling rations into troughs outside the prisoners’ cells. From inside, the prisoners could stretch out their hands and cradle the food and water to their mouths.
The prisoners were minotaur as well as human, the twin was surprised to discover. Despite their humiliation at being prisoners, the minotaur captives stared at Caramon with bitter contempt. Though he brought them the food and water they desperately craved, Caramon knew they regarded humans as an inferior race.
Most of the prisoners were renegades, pirates, or worse. Some were too tired or sick or wounded to even respond when Caramon dished out their food. In at least one instance, Caramon felt certain that the prisoner, crumpled forlornly in a corner and covered with crawling insects, was long dead. He told the minotaur guard, who was always nearby, watching him. The guard expressed indifference but took a closer look and made a notation in a leather-hided book that hung at his side.
At the far end of one of the dim corridors was an isolated cell, several hundred feet from its nearest neighbor. This was the strangest case of all. An abject figure was strapped to the inside wall, held erect, unable to sit or lie down. His body seemed broken. His head drooped. He had to muster all of his strength in order to look up as Caramon came tottering along with the buckets of meat and water.
Caramon could see very little inside the dimly lit cell, but he could make out that the man’s head was oval-shaped, his eyes tiny black holes. Pus and blood oozed from his shoulders and back, as if some vital appendage had been torn from his body. He didn’t look as though he could even be alive, hanging there, yet, looking up at Caramon, he managed a curious, brave grin.
Caramon wondered how the broken man could get loose to eat his meat and drink his water. Putting the buckets down, the warrior hesitated.
“Go on,” growled the minotaur guard, several feet behind Caramon. “We lets him eat a little now and then. Otherwise he can look at it and smell it as it goes rotten. It’s all part of the accommodations here.”
Caramon took his time measuring out the meat and spooning some water into the man’s trough. As he suspected he would, the minotaur guard had turned away idly and walked a few paces down the corridor. He was no longer watching closely.
“Why are you chained?” whispered Caramon softly.
“So I do not kill myself,” said the broken man. “I would prefer death to subjugation.”
“Why are you here?”.
“I am being interrogated,” answered the man in a curiously amused tone.
“What did you do?”
“I am not one of them. That is enough.”
Caramon turned.
“Wait!” whispered the man. “Are you one of the new humans?”
Caramon looked astonished. He glanced at the minotaur guard. The bull-man was paying no attention. His back was to them, and he was clanging his sword idly against the corridor walls.
Caramon leaned toward the broken man. “What do you mean?”
“Are you one of the humans plucked from the sea?”
“Yes,” said Caramon wonderingly. “How could you know about that?”
“Shh. Not now. Another time.”
The minotaur guard turned, bored with waiting. “Hey, you, don’t dawdle! Hurry up!”
With a nod of his chin, the chained man waved him on. Reluctantly Caramon followed the minotaur. His shoulders and arms ached from carrying the heavy buckets.
Although they weren’t watched closely, Caramon and Sturm chose to talk only at night, whispering in the dark. Caramon told Sturm about the strange man chained in his cell and how he seemed to know about the humans “plucked from the sea.” Sturm thought about it, but he couldn’t figure out how the prisoner could have known about them. He must be mistaking them for others, the young Solamnic surmised.
Wistfully they talked about Solace and their friends, Tanis, Flint, and Raistlin, Caramon’s twin.
They wondered about Tasslehoff and why the minotaurs who had sailed up to the wreck of the Venora had wanted to keep the kender alive. Considering possible reasons, Sturm said that if Tas were indeed alive, he would make a very poor slave, and he wouldn’t fare much better as a gladiator against minotaur opponents.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” disagreed Caramon with a broad grin. “If they let Tas improvise with his hoopak, he’d stand a fighting chance.”
They both had to chuckle at the thought of Tas brandishing his hoopak against one of the hulking bull-men.
Sturm realized that it was the first time either of them had smiled or laughed for over a week. “How long do you think it has been,” he asked Caramon, “since we were betrayed by the captain of the Venora, and delivered to this part of the world?”
“I’ve lost track of time. I’d say ten to twelve days.”
“That sounds about right,” said Sturm dispiritedly. “Do you think Raistlin and the others are looking for us? Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?”
Caramon looked over at his friend, surprised at the glum tone. In the darkness, he could see only an occasional reflection from Sturm’s eyes. This time, it was the twin who was feeling optimistic. He reached out and touched the young Solamnic on the shoulder. “Trust in the gods,” Caramon said.
“Yes,” repeated Sturm. “Trust in the gods.”
They slept as best they could on the stone floor, their backs against each other for warmth.
Four more days and nights passed with agonizing slowness. At times they heard other prisoners cry out. Other times they heard what sounded like dead bodies being dragged out.
Once the important minotaur with the insignia came back to gaze at them again. This time he was with a bony human slave dressed in rags and wearing thick sandals. The minotaur said nothing but simply stared, arms folded, appraising them. The look on his face was impassive. The human slave fawned and slavered at his feet, muttering incomprehensibly. The minotaur stroked his head like a dog. Finally the minotaur turned on his heels and left. The human slave loped after him.
This time Sturm held his tongue during the inspection, having decided to conserve his anger until he had a real chance to fight back.
Caramon was the fortunate one. Once a day he was let out of his cell and given the task of lugging the buckets of meat and water to the other prisoners. The exercise reinvigorated his muscles, and each day the buckets seemed lighter, the chore easier.
The routine was always the same: Two guards would let him out, then one of them would retreat to the guard post near the entrance of the dungeon, while the other would accompany Caramon on his rounds, hovering nearby.
There were at least a dozen armed minotaurs stationed at the guard post every hour of the day and night. Rushing them would be suicidal. There seemed little opportunity of escape.
On the second day of his new task, Caramon had seen the broken man again. It was obvious the man had been tortured during the night. His shoulders and back were bleeding profusely. He hung limply in his bonds, unconscious. Again Caramon whispered to him, but this time he got no response.
The broken man had been in little better condition the next day.
On the fourth day, the oval face had looked up and the mouth twitched but the words that came out were babble to Caramon’s ears. The man spoke in a foreign tongue, not the common speech. And after speaking in a delirious rush, the man’s head fell limp.
Caramon and Sturm talked about the broken man again that night. Most of the other captives were obviously scum who would be familiar types in any prison population. However, this one aroused Caramon’s sympathy and curiosity. But the two companions could reach no conclusion as to who the broken man might be or how he might have known of their coming.
On the fifth day, the chained man was stronger, somehow revived. He seemed to be waiting for Caramon and motioned him to come closer. The twin looked over his shoulder at the minotaur guard, who waited far down the corridor, seated on the floor with his back to the wall. The minotaur was growing careless. After all, Caramon was unarmed and had no prayer of escape.
“It is being arranged,” whispered the broken man, summoning all his strength.
“What?” asked Caramon, puzzled. He made a great show of slowly ladling out the meat and water in case the minotaur guard was watching. The warrior edged closer, so that his face protruded through the bars. “How do you know about me and Sturm? And what is being arranged?”
“I have spoken to my brothers. We can get you out.”
Caramon’s heart beat rapidly. “Why me? Why not you?”
“I am trapped,” the broken man said pathetically. “My cage is never unlocked, except for interrogations and beatings—and occasional feedings.” He nodded toward the trough. “But my people know about you and your friend. I was told of your coming. They will help you.”