by Tina Daniel
“Why me?” repeated Caramon.
“Because you are not a minotaur,” the broken man said. “Because you were sent. But most importantly”—he managed a weak smile—“because it can be done.”
Daring another glance over his shoulder, Caramon saw that the minotaur guard’s chin had dropped down on his chest. He was nodding off. That gave Caramon precious extra moments. “How do you communicate with your people?” asked the twin. He had to be suspicious, yet admittedly he was drawn to this courageous prisoner.
Painfully the broken man brought a hand up as far as it would go against the straps holding him, pointing to his head. “Telepathy.”
Caramon looked up. “Telepathy?” he repeated dubiously.
The broken man nodded. In spite of himself, Caramon wanted to believe him.
“What about my friend? What about Sturm?”
There was a long moment of silence. “You will have to leave him behind,” the broken man said grimly.
“I can’t do that!”
“You will have to leave him.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
A scuffling behind him told Caramon that the guard had scrambled to his feet and was coming this way.
“Hey!” came the by now familiar growl. “What are you two talking about?”
Caramon grabbed the buckets and whirled around, coming face-to-face with the minotaur. The Majere twin caught a breath. “Just like all the others,” he said with what he hoped was an edge of annoyance. “He’s complaining about the food.”
The minotaur guard looked at Caramon suspiciously, then raked the broken man with a glance. Satisfied, he gave Caramon a shove down the hall. The warrior stumbled, then regained his footing, and continued along the corridor without a backward glance. He could hear the minotaur guard shuffling after him.
“So he don’t like the food, don’t he?” the minotaur guard grunted. “Well, we only lets him eat as a reward, and something tells me he’s gonna be all tied up today!”
Later that night, Sturm and Caramon talked over what had happened. Neither of them understood it, nor did either think it was possible to escape.
“Anyway,” said Caramon stubbornly, “I wouldn’t go without you.”
“You have no choice,” Sturm replied solemnly. “We have no choice. If one of us is free, the other has hope. I would go if it were me.”
“Would you?” asked Caramon skeptically.
“Yes,” lied Sturm.
Caramon thought long and hard. “If by some means I do escape, I vow to return and get you out.”
Sturm clasped his friend’s hand warmly.
The next day, as usual, the minotaur guards came to let Caramon out at mealtime. The Majere twin hoisted the two heavy buckets of meat and water and began his regular tour, traveling up and down the dank corridors of the prison cell block. He was careful to follow his customary routine so that the minotaur guard, who watched over him halfheartedly from a dozen yards behind, wouldn’t grow suspicious. Caramon had no idea what to expect, but he was determined to stay alert to every possibility.
After Caramon had been carrying the food and water to prisoners for over two hours, the guard began to lag farther behind, confident that his charge was performing his duties adequately.
By the time Caramon came to the far end of the corridor where the broken man was sequestered, the minotaur guard had dropped well behind. He squatted on the floor, idly stabbing at some vermin that darted across his path.
Caramon felt his stomach turn when he saw that the broken man had been beaten and tortured anew. His wounds were streaming with blood. It seemed as though his back had been shredded open. His face was covered with black and purple bruises.
The warrior dropped the two buckets, spilling the contents, and rushed forward, pressing his face through the bars.
The chained man raised his chin ever so slightly, but his eyes were puffed shut. His head twisted in Caramon’s direction.
Down the corridor, the minotaur guard, seemingly oblivious, stabbed at another creature on the floor.
“What—” began Caramon in a shrill whisper that he had to suppress before it turned into an angry scream.
“Business as usual, my friend,” gasped the broken man, his voice cracked and weak.
“Why do they torture you so?”
“I am not one of them. That is enough.”
Caramon lowered his head, filled with pity and shame. In doing so, for the first time he caught a glimpse of the man’s feet. His long legs tapered into birdlike claws. The Majere twin opened his mouth in astonishment.
“There is no time for further explanations,” gasped the broken man. “Hurry! Set those buckets on top of one another to the right of the door. No … there! Steady. Keep them balanced. Now climb on top!”
Caramon looked dubious.
“Hurry!”
Without having any idea why, Caramon did as he was told. He began to mount the stacked buckets. A glance over his shoulder told him that the guard was still distracted by his little game of stab the vermin.
“What about you?” Caramon asked, hesitating.
“If I am lucky, I will be permitted to die.”
Then Caramon heard a rough sliding of stone. He looked up and saw a massive brick being shifted out of place in the ceiling over his head.
“Stretch your hands up!”
As he did so, Caramon caught a last glimpse of his savior. The broken man’s face glowed with momentary triumph before his chin dropped to his chest.
Rough, strong hands pulled Caramon up.
The massive brick slowly slid back in place.
Caramon could see nothing but darkness and a dim, moving shape. He was prodded into a low, flat tunnel. The burly Majere twin had to half crawl, half crouch as he tried to scurry along. Whoever—whatever—was ahead of him turned every dozen yards or so and shrieked at him in an inhuman language. It was a high-pitched, barking noise that had the effect of urging him forward even if Caramon had no idea what it meant.
The person or thing scuttling with ease along the low tunnel stayed so far ahead of him that Caramon couldn’t distinguish any of its features.
Rocks scraped Caramon’s head and back. Roots and cobwebs brushed across his face. His joints hurt from the bending.
“Hey!” Caramon whispered. “Who are you? Where are we going?”
The shape up ahead stopped for a moment, turned, and shrieked something at Caramon, then kept going, seeming to pick up speed. It was all Caramon could do to keep the shape in sight as it lurched and twisted ahead of him in the dim tunnel.
Once or twice they came to places where the tunnel forked, and if Caramon hadn’t kept the figure in view, he wouldn’t have known which way to go. He realized he could never find his way back, even if for some reason he chose to return to the prison.
After an hour of this arduous progress, the tunnel began to slope gradually upward. Caramon followed the shape ahead of him as it found footholds, clung to roots, and scratched for purchase. Aching from the unaccustomed exertion, the warrior wished they could take a moment to rest.
Finally, almost without warning, Caramon felt the ground slope up steeply under his feet. Clawing upward, he burst out of the ground into bright sunlight. It had been so long since he had seen the sun that he was momentarily blinded. Before Caramon could adjust his eyes and take stock of his rescuer, a burlap sack was dropped over his head, someone pulled the drawstring at his feet, and he fell over.
But he didn’t strike the ground, because in the same instant, Caramon had the distinct sensation of being caught, lifted off the ground, and borne aloft.
The minotaur guard who had failed the simple responsibility of keeping watch over Caramon was executed the next morning.
The minotaur with the important insignia came back down to the dungeon and, with his fawning human slave hopping along at his side, he retraced Caramon’s movements. He walked up and down the corridors, looking and thinking. He
stopped in front of the cell where the minotaur guard said he had last seen Caramon. He looked at the miserable inhabitant of the cell, barely clinging to life, and he gazed at the walls and the floor and the ceiling.
Although he was a very intelligent minotaur, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how the human, who was being nurtured toward a glorious future as a gladiator, had escaped. Where could he go?
He and his minotaur aide took out their frustration on the other human, the one called Sturm. They beat him bloody, demanding to know how his companion had gotten away. They may have beaten Sturm a little too hard, because the human’s face became so swollen that he wouldn’t have been able to say anything even if he wanted to. In any case, he couldn’t have told much, because Sturm had absolutely no idea where Caramon had gone or how he had escaped.
After beating him, the minotaur officer decided that the one called Sturm probably knew nothing or he would have talked, and that the best thing to do, considering, would be to nurse Sturm back to health all over again, favoring him with the best food and water.
If they were lucky, they would still get one gladiator out of all this trouble.
Then, heaving a deep sigh, the minotaur dictated a communique to his fawning human slave. The communique would be sent to the capital city of Lacynos, to the king himself. Unpleasant though it may be, it was his duty to report such an unusual occurrence as an escape from the prison of Atossa.
CHAPTER 9
TANIS KEEPS A LOG
———
CAPTAIN NUGETRE MADE HIS LIVING HIRING OUT THE CASTOR TO CARRY cargo, people—whatever he was asked, no questions asked—throughout the Eastern seas. Tanis, Raistlin, Flint, and Kirsig attracted little attention from the crew when they boarded that morning.
Anticipating an eventful voyage, Tanis decided to keep a log, requesting and receiving paper for that purpose from the captain’s supply.
FIRST DAY
Tempestuous winds and murky weather greeted us as soon as we lost sight of the shoreline. The reddish sea deepened in color to a muddy brown, a portent of dangers ahead.
Captain Nugetre gathered myself, Flint, Raistlin, the half-ogre Kirsig, and his own first mate—a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a cap of straight blond hair, who goes by the name of Yuril (she reminds me of no one so much as Caramon, for she is a strapping physical specimen)—in his cabin for a look at his maps and a discussion of the route.
Although Nugetre is an arrogant man, it seems from the attitude of his crew that he has earned their liking as well as respect. Certainly Kirsig speaks highly of him, mostly as a result of his contacts with her father. His cabin is a modest affair, containing a plain writing desk, a cabinet of charts and maps, and a small hammock.
Once we were all present, Captain Nugetre began by warning us that there could be no guarantee that we would arrive safely at our destination, the far minotaur isles. “I have chanced the Blood Sea as often as any seafaring man,” the captain declared, “but I never forget that it is a risk, a deadly one. Your reasons had better be worth gambling of your lives.”
Flint started to say something, but Raistlin cut him off. The dwarf’s broken leg was bound in neat wrapping, but his face was green and had been ever since he was dragged aboard the ship. The choppy waves that we have experienced since setting sail have confirmed his misgivings about sea voyages and aggravated his suffering.
Raistlin assured the captain that we had no intention of turning back. To emphasize his point, he set a bag of gems and coins on the captain’s desk. Their value was substantial. Flint sat up, his eyes wide. “Double that,” said Raistlin pointedly, “if we make the crossing within ten days.”
Kirsig had already told Nugetre that we needed to make all possible speed, and the captain outlined his unusual tactic for meeting Raistlin’s deadline.
Other ships’ captains steer well clear of the Outer Reach of the Maelstrom at the center of the Blood Sea. It is the wisest course, for when a vessel is caught in its mighty undertow, it is sucked into the ever tightening rings of the whirlpool, and finally down into the dark red waters that churn feverishly where once stood the great city of Istar.
Nugetre proposed to head directly for the outer ring of the Maelstrom, and to ride its current without giving in to the choking waters. Once it had carried us near enough to the minotaur isles—a distance of some three hundred miles—the Castor would fight free of the deadly pull.
“That is the only way we can make the distance inside of ten days,” the captain concluded. “Otherwise, because of the currents and the prevailing winds, it is a journey of several weeks. Safer, but slower by far.”
“Have you ever attempted this before?” asked Raistlin intently.
“No,” answered the captain flatly.
A heavy silence thickened the air after his reply. “But it can be done,” spoke up Yuril unexpectedly. “I sailed with a captain once who did it. The voyage was terrible. Not only did we have to battle the current, but also the perpetual storm that reigns over the Maelstrom. Death beckoned at every instant. We lost several good sailors in the heavy squalls. But the captain was determined to ride it out. He turned the ship at precisely the right instant, and we broke free. The strategy did indeed save time.”
Curious, I asked her what had happened to that captain. Why did she now sail with Captain Nugetre?
“Pah,” Yuril replied. “My former captain lost his life on land, in Bloodwatch. He was a genius aboard ship, a dolt in other respects. Imagine besting the Blood Sea, only to be stabbed to death in a common barroom brawl.” She paused and squared her shoulders, staring at each of us in turn. “I have been sailing with Captain Nugetre for two years now. He has the skill and courage necessary. With these, it can be done”
She stabbed her finger at the map laid out on the desk, showing where the ship would enter the Maelstrom, and where, if luck was with us, we would be expelled.
Yuril said the Outer Reach of the Blood Sea was approximately three days away, assuming steady breezes and no problems.
“How long will we be in this … Maelstrom?” asked Kirsig a bit plaintively.
“Two days and two nights,” replied Yuril, “if we stay on course.”
Raistlin seemed to be pondering the map. I waited for him to make the decision.
A woeful-faced Flint whispered to me, “Don’t you think we should consider the slower and safer method? We really have no proof that Sturm, Caramon, and Tas are in imminent danger.”
Raistlin shot him a reproachful glance. Flint looked down, tugging at his beard.
I knew my old friend was no less concerned about the others than Raistlin and I were. I patted him on the back, whispering, “It will get us off this ship sooner.” Then I spoke up in favor of the plan.
Raistlin nodded agreement, and Kirsig surprised me with a hug. I didn’t dare look at Flint again, for I knew that the dwarf, embarrassed at his earlier remark and annoyed to be stuck in the middle of a sea voyage—with a broken leg to boot—would be glowering at me.
By nightfall, strong gales buffeted the Castor. Darkness blanketed the waters. The sea was cold and black and roiling. No stars graced the night sky. We are three days away from the suction of the Maelstrom, so it may have been my imagination already to feel the gradual, quickening pull.
SECOND AND THIRD DAYS
Frequent strange calms broken by heavy winds, hail and rain. We have sighted no other ships in this section of the sea. Even during the calms, our ship is being drawn in a northerly direction.
Did I describe the Castor?
A two-masted pentare, it is, with two sails and oar ports that are left unmanned except during calms. The crew numbers about two dozen, at least half of whom are female. They are all human and regard Flint and Kirsig, particularly, with some wonderment, even though I believe they have seen ogres before in their travels.
Some of the sailors are black-skinned, from remote northern islands, and I peer at them with equal curiosity. The women, espe
cially, for they are beautiful to look at, yet well muscled and obviously seaworthy. They dress in leather and sandals and can climb the masts and rig the sails as well as any seaman.
They speak mostly in their own harsh-sounding vernacular, although almost all of them also speak Common.
None of the crew carry weapons, and so far we have had no cause to resort to any. There is a small armory aft, in which are stored swords, crossbows, ballista bolts, oil, some armor, and the ship’s supply of brandy.
Yuril moves among the crew easily, barking commands that they hasten to carry out. She oversaw the building of four extra side rudders, crude in their design, shaped almost like giant flippers. According to Captain Nugetre’s plan, they were attached to either end of the ship just below sea level. When we enter the treacherous perimeter of the Blood Sea, they will act to steady the Castor and, we hope, guide it during the worst of the buffeting it will surely receive from the Malelstrom.
With the extra rudders come an elaborate system of ropes and gears fastened to blocks of wood hammered into the deck. Two sailors volunteered to dangle off the side of the boat, plunging their heads below crashing waves in order to securely attach the additional rudders. They received extra rations that night and the cheers of their comrades.
Captain Nugetre presides over everything, his head held high. He says very little, and it is almost as if Yuril is in command. But he chides her when she is slow and laughs loudly when she barks an insult in reply.
Apart from the main deck and the captain’s cabin, the Castor has a small galley with fresh water and food supplies, an aft and bow castle, the oar bay and lower deck, crew quarters (which the crew uses in shifts) and a cargo hold. As far as I can tell, we are carrying no cargo other than food, repair supplies, and the array of weapons already mentioned.