by Tina Daniel
Pleased with the kender’s ceaseless flow of information, Fesz wrote this new tidbit down as Tasslehoff rattled on. It would be part of his next report to the Nightmaster.
By now the minotaur shaman had a quite thorough description of Raistlin Majere and the half-elf and the dwarf who would likely be accompanying him. He had a sense of the young mage’s flaws and weaknesses. Disguised assassins—minotaurs would be too conspicuous—would be dispatched to Solace in the event that Raistlin was still there. But if Raistlin was on his way to the minotaur isles, the Nightmaster would be forewarned and ready.
This Raistlin was not a genuine threat, Fesz felt certain, but it couldn’t hurt to be vigilant.
On the eighth day of the kender’s evil transformation, Fesz entered Tas’s quarters, looking puzzled. He was carrying a parchment bearing a message he himself had transcribed. It was a message from the Nightmaster, delivered to Fesz by the superintelligent bees.
Always happy to see his friend, Tas bounced up and down, greeting him with an elaborate salute he had devised. Then he snatched the message from the shaman’s hands:
Have captured a lone female on the shore. She is well armed, obviously a warrior. She refuses to tell me her name or how or why she has come here. We are holding her for sacrifice. I suspect she is the one we have been awaiting. Ask the kender if he knows who she is.
The Nightmaster
“The bees brought this message today,” said Fesz, his bullish brow knit in thought. “Do you have any idea who this woman could be?”
Tas didn’t have to think about it for very long. “Why, it must be Kitiara!” he exclaimed. “Although how she got to Karthay so fast is beyond me.”
“Who is Kitiara?”
“Kitiara Uth Matar,” said Tasslehoff. “Didn’t I tell you about her? Well, I tend to forget her about half the time because she’s only Raistlin’s half-sister. No pun intended, but if she’s here now, that must mean that Raistlin contacted her, so he can’t be very far behind.…”
Fesz scribbled it all down as fast as he could.
Fesz and Tas became such good friends that sometimes, in the late afternoons, they would get into a cart pulled by human slaves and travel to various sites around Lacynos. These amiable trips always put Tas in a talkative mood, Fesz discovered—not that it took much to do that—and the shaman minotaur learned more and more about the aspiring mage, Raistlin.
Naturally these two were always followed by one or two minotaur guards, who kept some distance behind them not only out of a sense of protocol, but also because they didn’t want Tasslehoff throwing stones at them or otherwise harassing them.
On these trips, Tas got to know the entire city. He especially liked the evil, smelly places, like the slave pits and the arena of games.
A number of slave pits were scattered around the city. They were deep holes carved out of the ground for use as primitive living quarters for the thousands of slaves who carried out the day-to-day labor of Lacynos. During the daytime, only about one hundred slaves might occupy these pens—those too ill or too young to work. Their numbers swelled to seven hundred or so in each pen at night, when those slaves who were still alive after a hard day’s toil returned.
The ranks of slaves consisted mostly of persons captured by minotaur pirates, sold by professional slavers, or condemned to a period of indenture for criminal offenses. There was an occasional luckless elf or dishonored minotaur, but nary a kender. In Lacynos, Tas observed, humans predominated as the oppressed race.
Dozens of minotaur guards lined the perimeter of each pit. The only access was a wide ramp, up whose slope the slaves marched, six or seven abreast, every morning, then down again at nightfall. To guard against an uprising, several retaining walls rimmed the pit. These could be collapsed, dropping tons of earth onto any rebellious mob.
Tas was very impressed by one slave pit that he visited. He praised the ingenuity of the setup and asked a lot of questions.
“If I ever go back to Solace,” he told Fesz, adding quickly, “not that I really want to, because I’m having such a good time here in Lacynos. But if I do ever go back to Solace, I think it would be a fine idea to have a slave pit just like this one in the middle of the town. Teach ’em all a lesson. Of course, Solace is up in the treetrops, and speaking technically, I’m not sure that you can build a pit up in the trees, so that is a minor problem I’ll have to work out. But I sure do love these slave pits!”
The kender stood on a walkway, peering down into the pit at a throng of slaves, some of them obviously ill or wounded, lying curled up on the ground, others pushing and fighting. He saw a broad-shouldered human wearing some tattered Solamnic regalia shove his way proudly through the milling population. At the other end of the slave pit, he saw a female cleric on bended knee tending to one of the fallen slaves.
One of the minotaur guards got too close and Tasslehoff raised his elbow, accidentally knocking him over the railing of the walkway and down some fifty feet to the bottom of the pit. The slaves scurried out of his way as he hurtled downward, landing with a sickening crunch.
“Oops! Pardon me,” said Tas, looking up at Fesz sheepishly. “I was just wondering what a minotaur would sound like, landing on his head after falling a long way down.”
The indulgent Fesz returned the kender’s evil smile.
The arena of games was spectactular as architecture, even if the games were a mite boring, to Tasslehoff’s taste, as a spectator sport. Thousands of slaves had toiled under the whip to build the huge stone structure with its high walls, imposing entryways, and comfortable viewing galleries. Many thousands more had died in the barbaric competition in the packed dirt arena, a twice-monthly event that drew the entire city’s population, so rabid were the minotaurs about their national sport of watching one gladiator pitted against another in a fight to the death.
Tas and Fesz spent one sunny afternoon in a private box reserved for the king and his guests near the floor of the arena, directly opposite the ramp entrance, which ascended from the catacombs that served as a waiting room for the gladiators.
One human scum was fighting another human scum. Both were dressed in skimpy clothing and carried fierce-looking weapons. Both were quick and muscular.
For the life of him, Tas couldn’t tell them apart. He could barely keep his bleary eyes open as their ruthless combat went on for what seemed like hours.
Cheering, jeering, shouting minotaurs and human pirates packed the coliseum. The atmosphere was festive. Wives and children accompanied some of the bull-men. Everyone applauded his champion wildly. Many had placed bets.
One of the human gladiators dodged the other’s thrust, smashed him in the face with his shield, and stuck him through the neck with his long sword. The audience roared, demanding that the loser be beheaded. The victorious human obliged, then pranced around the arena, pleasing the crowd by holding aloft the head dripping with blood.
“By the way,” said Tas, yawning, “that reminds me. I sure would like to have my hoopak back. It’s the only real weapon I carry, and besides, it’s got sentimental value.”
“Where is your hoopak?” rumbled Fesz solicitously.
“It was with my rucksack,” explained Tas, “until everything I owned got confiscated. I sure would like it back.”
“Would you like the whole rucksack back?” asked Fesz.
“You bet.”
Fesz said he didn’t see any harm in that. Tas grinned.
They spent the whole next day at the shipyard. Tas found it very interesting. He could plainly see that the minotaurs were busy preparing for a big war or something. Piles of lumber littered the wharf. Hundreds of human slaves, overseen by grim-faced, weapon-flourishing minotaurs, streamed over the scene like ants, wielding tools such as adzes, saws, and drills.
“At night,” explained Fesz, “the work continues. Torches illuminate the construction. We need to be ready for Sargonnas when he is brought into this world.”
Tas nodded. He already knew all
about what Fesz and the Nightmaster and the kingdom of minotaurs were planning. Fesz had been telling him bit by bit, just as Tas had been telling Fesz about Raistlin Majere.
The jalopwort was part of an obscure spell that the leading shaman of the minotaurs intended to cast to open a portal and invite the evil god into the material world. Sargonnas would lead the minotaur kingdom in its obsessive goal to conquer and oppress the inferior races of Ansalon—that is, everyone who wasn’t a minotaur.
From what Fesz had told Tas, the spell was scheduled to be cast when the sun, moon, and stars formed a special configuration in the skies.
“Very soon,” Fesz had hinted. “Very, very soon.”
Naturally Tas, being evil himself, was excited about the coming of an evil god and was hoping to make the acquaintance of Sargonnas. That was one of the reasons why the kender was working so hard developing his friendship with Fesz.
“Are you sure the minotaurs can take over the whole world without any help?” asked Tas innocently, a concerned and thoughtful look on his face. He looked around the shipyard with all its war galleys nearing completion. They were pretty impressive, but there were a great many humans and dwarves and elves and kender and gnomes and sundry other races over on the mainland. Maybe the minotaurs had been stuck on these remote isles for so long they didn’t have any idea of the enormous opposition they would face.
“Very sensible of you, Tas,” said Fesz, lowering his voice to a soft rumble and looking over his shoulder cautiously. “No. Although we are a mighty race, we need and seek allies. We have made tentative pacts with the ogres and with their aquatic cousins, the orughi. We have made diplomatic approaches to the trolls, although they are such a disorganized race, and to certain tribes of barbarians. There are also certain other, uh, elements that you would not be familiar with—I am not at liberty to discuss them, but they will be very important to our combined force as the invasion plans unfold.”
“What about kender?” asked Tas, a trifle put out. “Don’t you think kender might be able to contribute something?”
“Why, of course,” said Fesz, somewhat disconcerted. “I don’t know why I left out kender. Kender might be very helpful, if they are all more or less like you. We know very little about kender, you see, and up until now, we hadn’t considered them in our thinking.”
Tas puffed himself up. “I may be able to intercede with the kender race,” he said, “After all, I am a figure of some renown in Kendermore. Or at least I was a figure of some renown last time I was there, which was, oh, ten or twenty or thirty years ago, before my period of wanderlust. My Uncle Trapspringer is a figure of much, much greater renown, it goes without saying.” Tas frowned as something occurred to him. “Although I’m not sure that Uncle Trapspringer will want to throw in with us, because he’s rather crotchety about his friends. He’s not too friendly with his enemies either.” The kender thought a moment, then brightened. “But since I haven’t been back there in quite some time, it’s more than possible that Uncle Trapspringer isn’t living in Kendermore anymore and won’t pose the least problem!”
“Well,” rumbled Fesz considerately, “I’ll be sure to let the Nightmaster know all about the kender race and their, uh, potential.”
“Tell him it was my idea,” said Tas, beaming.
Fesz nodded and wrote it down.
When they got back from the shipyard, Dogz was waiting for them with a communication from the king. Dogz handed the message to Fesz, but he wouldn’t even look at Tasslehoff. The minotaur averted his eyes, as if he were ashamed of his kender friend.
Over Fesz’s shoulder, Tas read the message:
Two humans captured near Atossa. One of them escaped by inexplicable, perhaps magical means. Might he be this Raistlin you are seeking? Report immediately to the Supreme Circle.
The King
Fesz looked questioningly at Tasslehoff.
“Well,” said the kender, “I don’t know. I don’t think it could be Raistlin. The note says two humans. Raistlin’s only one human, not to mention Flint’s a dwarf and Tanis is an elf—well actually a half-elf, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of his human heritage. So I don’t think it could be Raistlin.”
Fesz knitted his bullish brow.
“Hey, wait a minute!” added Tas excitedly. “Maybe it’s Sturm and Caramon. They’re two humans. They’re supposed to be dead, and I don’t think they know any magic, but maybe Raistlin taught Caramon some tricks when they were kids together or something. I bet that’s who it is. Oh, boy! Sturm and Caramon are alive. I wonder which one escaped?”
“Sturm and Caramon,” rumbled Fesz. “Those were the two humans who were thrown into the Blood Sea.”
“That’s right.”
“Supposing they were still alive,” wondered the shaman minotaur. “Why would Raistlin have taught Caramon magic when they both were children?”
“I don’t know,” responded the kender. “Except maybe because they’re twin brothers.”
“They’re brothers!” Fesz practically shouted. Even Dogz gave a start. Fesz had to lower his voice and struggle to maintain a calm tone. “You never told me that Raistlin has a brother!”
The kender shrugged. “You never asked me. Besides, I thought Caramon was dead, didn’t you? Does it matter if Raistlin has a brother? I told you he has a sister, didn’t I? Well, actually a half-sister, if you want to get—”
“Wait!” Fesz put up a hand, then, with a great weary sigh, took out his quill pen and began to scribble something on a scrap of parchment. He paused, thought of something, and looked down at Tas. “Before we go on,” he said with an extraordinary effort at patience, “does Raistlin have any more sisters or brothers whom we haven’t talked about so far?”
“No,” Tas said petulantly, confused as to why Fesz seemed so upset. “At least not any that I’ve heard about.”
“Only Kitiara and Caramon.”
“Yup.”
Fesz wrote something else down hurriedly, then stuck the note in a pocket.
“I wonder which it was, Sturm or Caramon …” murmured Tasslehoff.
“We must go to Atossa and find out,” declared Fesz.
Tas broke out into a huge, happy grin.
“After I make an appearance before the Supreme Circle,” added the shaman minotaur hastily.
“The Supreme Circle … wow!” exclaimed Tasslehoff. “I’ve never met a whole circle of supreme anything before. I can hardly wait!”
From behind him, Dogz clamped a huge, heavy hand on the kender’s shoulder.
“I am truly sorry, friend Tas,” said Fesz with obvious sincerity, “but I must go alone. The Supreme Circle would not be pleased if I brought a kender.”
Around the large, round oaken table in the palace’s main hall sat eight grim-faced, bull-horned minotaurs—nine, if you included the king, who had journeyed from his main residence in the southern city of Nethosak for this emergency conclave. While the others merely looked displeased, the king’s bestial countenance bristled with murderous anger, which he was barely able to keep in check. The king had other important things to do and didn’t appreciate this interruption in his schedule.
Clockwise from the left of the king, the eight members of the Supreme Circle included Inultus, who commanded the minotaur military and civil police. He was swathed in emblems and badges proclaiming his rank. Next to him sat Akz, whose nickname was Attacca, but no one dared utter it to his face. He was the leader of the minotaur navy. Akz detested Inultus, and vice versa. They were known enemies but were forced to cooperate on policy matters for the greater good of the kingdom. Akz wore nothing across his broad muscular chest. His only garb was a jeweled leather strap girding his powerful loins.
Next to Akz sat the oldest among them, a furrowed minotaur with tufts of gray-white hair called Victri, the representative of the rural minotaurs who tilled the land and maintained isolated government farms throughout the few fertile sections of the isles. Although most self-respecting warriors held the agricul
tural minotaurs in contempt, they were vital to the economy and stability of the isles. Furthermore, Victri had served on the Supreme Circle the longest. Everyone knew his reputation for honor and wisdom. Quite apart from that, Victri was a ferocious fighter who had distinguished himself in battle. Dressed like a tiller of the land, Victri wore more clothing than any other member of the Supreme Circle, including a heavy shawl that draped his brutish shoulders.
Next to Victri sat Juvabit, a historian and scholar in a society that did not much value scholarly pursuit. Although he was an intellectual by minotaur standards, Juvabit looked indistinguishable from the rest, with his ugly snout, curved horns, and cloven hooves. The only thing that hinted at his stature was a tassel, woven from thin gold strands, which he wore dangling from one shoulder. It signified the Order of the King, the nation’s highest accolade, and Juvabit was the only one in the room to have earned it. If anything, that made Juvabit even more insolent than the others, confident in his belief that his fellow members of the Supreme Circle were dullards and that not only was he smarter than any of the others, but he could hold his own against any one of them in hand-to-hand combat.
Next to Jubavit sprawled Atra Cura, his bulky form spilling out of the big wooden chair he sat in. Atra Cura’s job was to monitor the human and minotaur pirates who roamed the nearby seas, to extract a percentage of their plunder for the king—and a percentage of that percentage for himself—and to keep the rival pirate factions in line. It would not be inaccurate to say that Atra Cura himself was the fiercest, most murderous pirate of them all. Alone among the minotaurs of the Supreme Circle, he was dressed flamboyantly in bright hues decorated with magnificent gems. Atra Cura flaunted conspicuous weapons, with several sabres and knives tucked into his garb.