The Companions

by Tina Daniel

  The lone female, Kharis-O, was the designated leader of a nomadic band of female minotaurs called the Apart Clan that scorned males and lived outside the cities. The Apart Clan, which had followers in each of the main minotaur isles as well as most of the lesser ones, rarely interacted with the more organized sectors of the society, yet nobody doubted their loyalty to the minotaur race. They could be counted on in times of war, and their fierce battle prowess was every bit the equal of the male warriors. Nothing in Kharis-O’s exceptionally ugly face hinted at femininity. Indeed, she offered no concession to her gender in her clothing. She wore tight leather leggings beneath a short leather skirt, and thick, hobnailed sandals. She sat glowering at everyone around the table but said nothing.

  The last two members of the Supreme Circle were Bartill and Groppis. Bartill was the head of the architectural and construction guilds, and therefore one of the most powerful minotaurs in the realm. Everyone had to be careful to curry favor with him.

  Groppis, inevitably Bartill’s ally in a debate, was the keeper of the treasury, every bit as vital in the hierarchy as Bartill. It was Groppis who collected taxes, stashed plunder, and kept a strict accounting of the government wealth, doling out stipends according to autocratic decisions.

  The ninth was the king himself, in his fourteenth year of rule. The king exhibited the arrogance of his office and the physical superiority to match. In order to retain his rank, the king met his strongest challenger annually in one-on-one combat in the coliseum arena. For fourteen years, the present king had maintained an adamant grip on his position, ramming, stabbing, piercing, or strangling to death with his bare hands any and all comers. The thin silver band set with small diamonds that he wore around his forehead as a symbol of his reign would be passed on to the next king only if and when he was ever bested.

  The king and the eight other members of the Supreme Circle glared at Fesz, demanding to know how the Nightmaster’s plans were progressing and whether the unusual news from Atossa meant any kind of setback.

  “I will go to Atossa myself in the morning,” replied Fesz firmly, “and from there to Karthay to assist the Nightmaster in the final preparations.”

  “Is this human who escaped the mysterious mage you have been seeking?” asked Akz, the leader of the navy. “I do not intend to mobilize my fleet unless I have absolute assurances that nothing has interfered with the Nightmaster’s plans to bring Sargonnas into this world.”

  “We have lavished great resources on the Nightmaster and his effort,” noted the keeper of the treasury, Groppis.

  “As for me,” put in Atra Cura, the pirate representative, “of course I believe and trust in the Nightmaster, but some of my loose federation of followers are independent-minded, and will require more than my word to go on.”

  The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

  Fesz took a long moment to reply, placing his hands on the table and lowering his eyes to gaze at them from beneath hooded lids. His eyes were deep, his expression furious, yet he managed to calm himself and took a deep breath.

  “I am one of the three chosen shamans of the Nightmaster,” said Fesz in a low, ominous rumble, “and I do not need to reply to each of your individual craven anxieties. Your petty fears do dishonor to all minotaurs and to your status as members of the Supreme Circle.

  “The Nightmaster has informed you that he will cast a remarkable spell to bring Sargonnas, the Lord of Dark Vengeance, into the world. Much expense and preparation has gone into that spell. And everything will happen according to plan when the heavens are in conjunction four days from now, in early nighttime when the stars are at their zenith.”

  There were gasps from several of the members of the Supreme Circle. Until now, the Nightmaster hadn’t revealed the precise timetable of the spell. Fesz’s mention of the exact date and time had had the intended effect of making all the worry and opposition among the assembled leaders disappear.

  “What about this escaped prisoner?” asked the king.

  “I do not believe he is the human called Raistlin,” Fesz answered respectfully, “but I will stop in Atossa on the way to Karthay and make certain.”

  “Where is this Raistlin, then?”

  “That I do not know,” admitted Fesz. “Perhaps he isn’t coming after all. Perhaps we have overestimated him in our minds. In any case, I don’t think Raistlin Majere is anything but a minor annoyance, a mosquito on the arse of a woolly mammoth.”

  The eight members of the Supreme Circle chuckled at Fesz’s use of an old minotaur adage.

  The king looked satisfied. “What about the kender?” he wanted to know. “Is he still under the effects of the evil potion?”

  Fesz nodded. “Most assuredly he is,” rumbled Fesz, “and he has proved quite helpful as an ally. I plan to take him with me to Atossa and Karthay. I hope to persuade the Nightmaster that he might play a role in the ritual.”

  The king looked skeptical.

  “Do not fear,” the shaman minotaur said smoothly. “Before I depart, I will be sure to double the dose of his potion.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE ANCIENT KYRIE

  ———

  ALTHOUGH HE BOUNCED AND JOSTLED INSIDE THE SACK, WHICH WITHSTOOD his repeated efforts to tear a hole in it so that he could see out, Caramon didn’t sense he was in any immediate danger.

  The Majere twin guessed he was being transported a great distance away from the minotaur prison, although who his rescuers were and why they had taken him remained a puzzle. As glad as he was to be free of the minotaurs, Caramon fretted about leaving Sturm behind, and he realized that he was someone else’s prisoner now. In effect, he had traded one captivity for another.

  His uneasiness wasn’t relieved, over the course of the next two hours, by the distinct impression that he was being swept through the air. Caramon could feel no hard surface beneath or on either side of the burlap sack. The only noises that reached his ears sounded like nothing so much as the steady beating of wings and the occasional caw of a giant bird.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young warrior seemed to remember having heard a similar cawing once before.

  Eventually Caramon had the sensation he was descending from a great height, a descent that ended with the burlap sack, with him still curled up inside, bumping and scraping along rocky ground. Moments later, someone tugged the sack open. On wobbly legs, Caramon stepped out.

  A spectacular sight greeted him.

  He stood on a ledge in a high-walled canyon that wound out of sight to his left and right. The sides of the canyon were honeycombed with dozens of caves stretching as far as the eye could see. And perched in front of the caves, as if to greet him, were hundreds of an ancient and wondrous folk whose remote civilization few humans ever had been privileged to glimpse.

  A welcoming committee of these fantastical “bird-people” stood with Caramon on the ledge. They were a mix of hawk and human, walking upright on long, sinewy legs that ended in birdlike talons. Huge feathered wings sprouted from their backs and attached to their arms and hands. With growing excitement, Caramon thought, Why, they look just like …

  … like the broken man back in the prison cell. These were his people! Those terrible wounds on his back and shoulders, Caramon now realized, must have been where the minotaurs had ripped off his wings.

  The bird-man nearest Caramon was the one who had rescued the Majere twin from captivity. He was taller than Caramon, and leaner. His bronzed face, quite human in appearance, was fiercely handsome. Rather than hair, flowing golden feathers grew from his head. Fine brown pinfeathers covered his chest. He wore no clothing other than a waistcloth of leather.

  “Who are you?” Caramon asked his rescuer.

  “In your language,” the bird-man said with pride in the common tongue, “I am Cloudreaver.”

  Caramon fumbled for the proper words. “What are you?”

  Cloudreaver frowned and stepped aside, gesturing with his wings to one of the bird-people behind h
im. His pebble-black eyes watched Caramon haughtily.

  Following Cloudreaver’s gesture, Caramon saw an elder whom he had not noticed at first. Others grouped protectively around this venerable bird-man who shuffled forward on clawed feet to meet Caramon. In spite of his odd gait, he moved with dignity and grace.

  The elder bird-man’s feather hair was silver white and streamed down to his chest. Many year of exposure to the sun and elements had darkened and lined his face. In spite of his apparent age, muscles rippled across his chest and in his sinewy legs.

  Slightly bent over, his head cocked to one side, the elder bird-man approached Caramon with a glimmer of warmth in his clear yellow eyes. “We are the kyrie,” explained the elder, his speech clipped but precise. “I am Arikara—in your tongue, Sun Feather, leader of the people who inhabit the skies.”

  “Kyrie?” questioned Caramon.

  Sun Feather cocked his head, peering at Caramon. “A proud and long-lived folk,” the kyrie leader said softly. “You have not heard of us?”

  Caramon glanced at the hundreds of feathered kyrie who gazed at him from the high safety of their respective aeries. They murmured amongst themselves; some of them pointed at him. Raistlin may have mentioned the kyrie once. His twin read so many books, it was hard for Caramon to keep track. The burly warrior shook his head from side to side in response to Sun Feather’s question.

  “That is to be expected,” said Sun Feather, placing a huge wing over Caramon’s shoulder and leading him gently toward a shelter dug out of the canyon wall.

  Caramon hadn’t spotted the cave before, perhaps because the hide that draped the entrance was the color of sandstone and blended in with the canyon wall. Some of the other kyrie followed, including Cloudreaver, another elder whose face was dotted with sun spots, and two females, one young, another older, both dresed in leather skirts and vests decorated with quills and beads.

  The entrance opened onto a spacious cave that vaulted upward into a high dome. Dried grass and twigs covered the floor of the tamped-down earth. A central fire pit, filled with heated rocks, gave off warmth. Weapons and cooking utensils hung from pegs in the walls. Animal furs, more than sufficient to ward off the desert night cold, were stacked near the threshold.

  Sun Feather took aside the two females and gave them some instructions in a language that Caramon could not decipher.

  Cloudreaver bade Caramon sit near the fire pit. The other elder, whom Cloudreaver introduced as Three Far-Eyes, sat opposite their visitor. Cloudreaver took a place next to Three Far-Eyes.

  Sun Feather sat down next to Caramon, moving gingerly. He picked up a stick and prodded the ground with it. It took Caramon a moment to realize he was outlining a rough map. “Centuries ago the kyrie inhabited many of the islands of Ansalon,” Sun Feather told Caramon. “We migrated around the world, never content to stay in one place. Our long flights over the oceans were made possible by a magical device called the Northstone. Because we grew to depend on the Northstone, we lost many of our natural instincts, including the ability to navigate. Then we lost the Northstone, and it fell into the possession of our dire enemies, the minotaurs.”

  The female kyrie hovered in the background, apparently busy with preparations for a meal. Now the older one circled behind the three male kyrie and Caramon, distributing stone mugs of a pale, flecked liquid. Caramon cupped his in both hands, sipping eagerly. The warm broth was like nothing Caramon had ever tasted before—rich, flavorful, and instantly nourishing. He could feel it course through his body, refreshing him and sating his hunger.

  The kyrie leader’s face hardened with bitter memories as he continued his chronicle. “Gradually we gathered here,” Sun Feather related, “most of us on the island of Mithas, other clans scattered on nearby islands. Although we can still take long, soaring flights, we no longer cross the oceans. Without the Northstone, we are stranded in this part of the world. We live here”—he gestured broadly—“as best as we are able, as peaceably as we are allowed.”

  Caramon had countless questions he wanted to ask. He sputtered out two: “What do you want with me? Why did you rescue me from the dungeon in Atossa?”

  Cloudreaver answered before Sun Feather could. “I saw you and your friend nearly drowning in the Blood Sea. I did what I could to alleviate your plight.”

  Caramon’s eyes widened. “So that was you!” he exclaimed. “You dropped some kind of bread to us.”

  “It was my own ration,” said the kyrie mildly.

  Impulsively Caramon reached across and clasped the kyrie’s hands. “You saved our lives,” the Majere twin said warmly. “Then you risked your own to help me escape from prison.” The young warrior spoke passionately, his words heartfelt. “I owe you more than I could ever hope to repay.”

  Cloudreaver looked a little uneasy at Caramon’s effusive display of emotion. Sun Feather beamed. “Cloudreaver is my son,” said the kyrie elder proudly. As Caramon gazed at the bird-man who had gone to such lengths to rescue him, Cloudreaver lowered his eyes. All the earlier traces of arrogance had vanished.

  “I have two sons,” added Sun Feather. “My firstborn …” His voice faltered. “My firstborn, Morning Sky, is the one who was … with you … being held prisoner in Atossa.” He bent his head sorrowfully.

  Caramon didn’t know what to say. Finally he had learned who the broken man was. Bowing his head, he was overcome with emotion at the realization that the man was Sun Feather’s firstborn, Morning Sky. Did Sun Feather know how close his son was to death? How Morning Sky had been tortured and abused by the minotaurs? Did Sun Feather know how brave and resolute his son was? How, even in his brief conversations with Caramon, he had shown no fear of his fate?

  Silence settled over the room, then was broken by the plaintive weeping of one of the females.

  “We know how the minotaurs are treating Morning Sky,” said Sun Feather softly. “We know that he has been tortured to the point of death. We have little hope of ever seeing him free, among us, again.”

  It was as if the leader of the kyrie had read Caramon’s mind. Noticing the warrior’s questioning glance, Sun Feather pointed to his head, and Caramon remembered what the broken man had said about telepathy.

  “But why couldn’t you have freed your son instead of me?” asked Caramon earnestly.

  “My son is chained constantly,” replied Sun Feather in an even voice, “except when he is permitted to eat. Otherwise he would kill himself. The minotaurs know that about kyrie, even if they know little else about our kind. It is a disgrace for a kyrie to be captured alive.”

  Caramon drank from his cup of broth. It didn’t seem right. He was free, while Morning Sky was being tortured and beaten in prison. “Maybe,” the human warrior ventured, “if we were to storm the dungeon …”

  “It would be suicide for all involved,” put in Three Far-Eyes, speaking for the first time. The old one’s face was somber. “We are a courageous people, but we are not foolhardy.”

  “What about the tunnel?”

  Cloudreaver scoffed. “The tunnel is tight and narrow. It would take hours to squeeze even a small attack force into the prison through the tunnel, and there would be no fast way out. We would have a dozen guards to contend with, as well as the chains and bars of my brother’s cell. We have thought about all of this. We have discussed it, argued about it, and come up with nothing.”

  The kyrie frowned, a shadow darkening his face. “No, there is no way out for my brother. He is doomed.”

  From the other kyrie came murmured assent. Caramon sat silent for a long time. “Why do they torture him?” the young human from Solace wondered aloud.

  “We have pitted ourselves against the minotaurs for hundreds upon hundreds of years,” answered Sun Feather. “Over time, we have gathered in these and other mountain enclaves, living far away from the minotaur cities. Although we roam the valleys, foraging food and hunting small animals, we always retreat here. While the bull-men are adept in land battle or at sea, they are oafs when i
t comes to exploring the mountains. They cannot climb the high peaks to drive us out. To them, we are an alien presence in the midst of their homeland. To us, they are a scourge upon the earth. As they are determined to hunt and destroy us, so too are we sworn to kill them whenever they cross our path.

  “In recent months,” Sun Feather continued, “minotaur contingents have penetrated our territory and become more intrepid in locating our aeries. The bull-men have successfully raided some of our smaller outlying settlements, vanquishing our warriors, butchering scores of our women and young. It is said that, in some instances, they have been aided by scaly flying creatures who scouted the terrain in advance and carried weapons and supplies.”

  “Dragons?” It was Caramon’s turn to scoff. “Everyone knows there are no dragons in Ansalon. That is nighttime talk for children, for fables.”

  “Not dragons,” Cloudreaver cut in vehemently. “Flying creatures of a type that has not existed before this time.”

  Caramon looked skeptical.

  “Of course we have no proof,” said Sun Feather. “There are no surviving eyewitnesses. The minotaurs kill every kyrie and burn everything, leaving only scorched earth. They rarely take prisoners.” He paused, allowed himself a sip of hot liquid, and continued, choosing his words carefully and controlling his emotions. “My son, Morning Sky, is one of the exceptions. He was captured at an outpost that he commanded. They realized he is of high rank, possibly noble lineage. From him, they demanded information about our number, our customs and rituals, the whereabouts of our sanctuaries.”

  This soliloquoy seemed to have exhausted Sun Feather, whose face sagged and shoulders drooped. He put down his cup of broth, then clasped his hands together and nodded to Cloudreaver.

  “They have not tortured any information out of him,” spat Cloudreaver, “nor will they get any, no matter how devious their cruelty. Morning Sky will expel his final breath without telling them so much as his name.”