Kaz the Minotaur

Chapter Eleven

Once it appeared, this room had been a place where knights could come and pore over the records of their own past. There was still a wall of shelves containing specially preserved scrolls. The rest of the room, though, had been taken over by the elf and his work.

“There. Do you see it?”

Kaz followed Argaen Ravenshadow’s gaze. They stood on the upper floor of the library at a window that faced into the center of Vingaard.

“I see it. That’s where the Grand Master lives and commands from, isn’t it?” Over five years might have gone by, but Kaz doubted his memory was that hazy.

“It is where he now sits in a world of distorted visions, commanding an ever-decreasing band of men, each as mad as himself, and unconsciously protecting what I suspect is responsible for the insanity and the sorcery you have witnessed so far.”

The elf stepped abruptly away from the window. Kaz remained for the moment, staring out at the circle of torches now surrounding the sanctum of the Grand Master. Darius, who, along with Tesela, had been watching from another window, followed the elf. “What is it? What has the power to turn the Grand Master himself from the path of Paladine?”

Argaen walked over to the single table in the room, where a number of unusual and malevolent objects rested. He picked up the most ordinary, a stick that curled inward at the end, and seemed to contemplate it. He seemed to have forgotten the knight’s question. “Did Sardal mention why I was here, minotaur?”

“With all that’s happened, I can’t really say. I don’t think so.” Kaz looked at the objects on the table. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You may not want to, but you have to now that you are here.” The elf held up the stick, still examining it. “Harmless-looking?”

“Since you ask, I doubt it.”

“You would be correct. I will not go into detail, but I can tell you that this tiny item was used by some to distort the weather during the war.”

‘That thing?” Kaz recalled the unpredictable weather during his early days in the war and the terrible storm traps created by the dark mages in the final months. He recalled the one great storm that had preceded the darkness, in which the dragons of Takhisis and the monsters of Galan Dracos had passed the tattered remains of a vast Solamnic campsite. The knights themselves had been in full retreat, in what some termed the worst disaster in the history of the orders.

“Galan Dracos either created or stole the spell to make this. It is far stronger than any I have heard of. Fortunately-or perhaps unfortunately-the only one in existence-this one-was sealed inside one of three vaults.”

The elf was playing games, Kaz knew. It was a trait of the elder race.

“Tell us of these vaults, Argaen Ravenshadow, and what they have to do with Galan Dracos.”

The bell tolled again, but the elf ignored it. “The citadel of Galan Dracos, the master renegade who planned to turn even those sorcerers who followed the dark path into slaves of his ambition, was originally situated on the side of a peak in the mountains between Hylo and Solamnia.”

“Really?” Delbin, who had remained unusually silent, perked up. “There’re ruins of a sorcerer’s castle in Hylo? Can we go there sometime? I wonder if any of my family’s been there. I should write this down!” The kender reached into his pouch for his book and instead pulled out a tiny figurine. “Where do you suppose this came from? Isn’t it neat?”

“Give me that!” With a ferocity that stunned Delbin into silence and made the others stare wide-eyed, Argaen stalked over to the kender and tore the figurine from his hand. While the party continued to look on in shock, the elf thrust the tiny item into a pocket of his robe and glared down at Delbin. “Never touch another thing in this room! You have no idea what you might accidentally unleash! I promise you, even a kender would regret it!”

Delbin seemed to shrivel up before Argaen’s burning eyes. Argaen took a deep breath, and for the first time, he seemed to notice the effect his tirade had had on the others. The elf put a hand to his head and frowned.

“My… apologies to all of you! For over three years have I labored here, and while three years is not much in the physical life of an elf, it can be an eternity in other ways. Over three years of struggling to maintain sanity while those around me, already mad, have sunk ever deeper. Over three years of knowing how close the possible solution lay but being unable to do anything about it. Each day I wait for the madness to overwhelm me while I seek in vain for some way to reach the vaults and solve the secrets of the locks. Each day…” Ravenshadow closed his eyes.

“I was telling you of the citadel of Calan Dracos,” he suddenly commented. His eyes opened, and the pain that had racked his visage was no more. The mask was back in place.

Tesela walked over to the elf and put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell us now. Perhaps later, and perhaps you might let me see what I can do.”

“You can do nothing. This is a spell, not a wound. Trust me. I know.”

“Are you sure-”

He waved her away. “I am. Now if you will let me continue…” The elf purposefully stepped away from her and nearer to Kaz. “As I was saying-”

“I’m familiar with the citadel,” Kaz replied quietly. Images still overwhelmed him. “I was there. I rode a dragon, a fighter after my own soul. His name was Bolt. With a Dragonlance, we, along with a few others, followed Huma of the Lance to the battlements. At first we all feared we would never find the place-there was a spell of invisibility or something on it-but Dracos was betrayed by the Black Robe sorcerers, who knew that they, too, would be slaves if he triumphed.”

Ravenshadow’s eyes lit up, but he said nothing, merely indicating with a gesture that the minotaur should go on.

Kaz grimaced as the memories dredged up unwanted emotions. “Huma was the only one to succeed in penetrating the lair of Dracos, and it was he who fought the mage by himself, somehow winning out and shattering the renegade’s schemes.” He smiled grimly. “It seems Dracos intended even to betray his mistress, Takhisis. When he realized, though, that he’d lost, he destroyed himself rather than face the wrath of the goddess.”

“And the stronghold?” Argaen asked.

“Without the power of Dracos to support it,” Kaz concluded to a suddenly intent elf, “the citadel could not maintain its hold on the side of the mountain. It crashed to the earth, and that was the end of it.”

“And there I must take over, although your story fills some gaps and is quite entertaining in itself.” Argaen picked up another object, which looked like a polished black rock. He began tossing it from one hand to the other. “You see, that was not the end of it. Despite the height from which the structure fell, much of it remained intact-a tribute, again, to the powers of Dracos.”

“Dracos deserves no tributes… only curses.”

Argaen gave Kaz a quick look. “As you say, minotaur. Be that as it may, not only did his citadel remain partially intact, but countless items he had either gathered from those under his control or had devised himself survived as well. They were ignored at first as the Knights of Solamnia began the process of systematically crushing the now leaderless armies of the Dragonqueen. Only when news filtered into Vingaard that mysterious happenings were taking place near the site of the ruins did the Grand Master realize the danger.”

“The summoning,” Darius interrupted. “Five years ago the Grand Master requested aid from the southern keeps. He wanted them to help maintain the peace while those from Vingaard and some of the other northern keeps worked on some important project! Dracos’s stronghold!”

“The stronghold,” Ravenshadow concurred. He continued to toss the smooth rock back and forth. “Lord Oswal had men scour the area. More than fourscore clerics of Paladine aided in the search, utilizing their lord’s power to seek out small yet exceedingly deadly instruments that had been buried. They gathered fragments of the more powerful items that had been shattered. I do not doubt that, as thorough as they were, a few pieces escaped their notice.”

Kaz glanced at Delbin, whose eyes were bright. The thought of the kender returning to his people and telling them about the possible treasures in the ruins made the minotaur shiver. Dark sorcery in the hands of kender?

“When the clerics were satisfied that they had done all they could, the gathered remnants of the relics were brought to Vingaard Keep under an armed guard so great in number that one would have thought the knights were marching on their own keep. The caravan arrived during the night, the better to avoid the close scrutiny of any spies, and the artifacts were carried down to the vaults, locked inside, and purposefully forgotten by the Grand Master and the Knightly Council.”

What they overlooked, the elf went on to say, was that the Conclave of Wizards had its own sources of information. The mages were aghast at the thought of so many potentially dangerous objects in the care of an organization that knew so little about the balances of sorcery. In this, all three Orders of Wizardry were in agreement. It was only reasonable, though, that the Knights of Solamnia would be a bit leery about letting any magic-user touch the cursed toys of the renegade. Argument followed argument until the elven members of the conclave proposed that one of their own, a neutral who lived solely for research, study the relics.

Argaen Ravenshadow had jumped at the opportunity.

“More the fool, I,” the elf muttered. “Rather would I trust myself than most of my stiff-necked brethren. They would have passed into madness long ago.”

Argaen said he had been greeted by the Grand Master upon his arrival. Lord Oswal proved to be a formidable man and one that even an elf could admire with ease. The first few weeks seemed to pass easily. While the knights would not give Argaen immediate access to the vaults, they were willing to remove the objects one by one for his inspection. As time passed, however, the elf began to notice a couple of things. The pieces he was given tended to be of lesser power than he would have expected, and it soon became obvious that someone was carefully picking and choosing what he was to study. Also, there was a growing attitude of distrust on the part of the knighthood. Not merely distrust for Argaen, but for anyone. Projects designed to rehabilitate the lands of northern Solamnia were abandoned as the Knightly Council began to see turncoats and raiders everywhere. The locals were pressed and then punished for imaginary wrongs. Most of what little the land provided was snatched up by Vingaard as the knighthood began gearing up for a return to war with a new, imagined enemy.

All the while, the elf worked on, feeling that there was something amiss here.

“They refused to allow me access to the lower chambers where the vaults lie, and my sole attempt to steal past the sentries and safeguards proved for naught. I learned then how well the Knights of Solamnia guarded their prizes.” Argaen had finally stopped tossing the black rock back and forth and now began to squeeze it with his left hand. Kaz, his gaze briefly moving to Ravenshadow’s hand, watched in growing amazement as the rock began to crumble under the surprising strength of the elf. “Yet, I learned one other thing in that attempt-something was alive in those vaults. Not alive in the same sense that you and I are alive, but alive in the sense of being active… as a lingering spell.”

Darius had returned to the window as Ravenshadow spoke, his eyes fixed on the center of the keep, and specifically the building housing the Grand Master, but he turned at this final pronouncement. “Why did you not warn them, elf? The Grand Master surely would have listened carefully to a warning concerning a threat beneath his very feet!”

“Your Grand Master was beyond reason by then, knight. He came very close to accusing me of being a spy for his enemies.” The elf glared at Darius coldly, and it was the knight who finally backed down. Argaen’s expression softened. “I know it is difficult for you to comprehend, human, but such was the case.”

Kaz chose that moment to yawn. “I have one question for you, elf, and then I, at least, must eat and rest.”

“How remiss of me!” Argaen Ravenshadow boomed. He looked over the others. “You all need something! I shall return in a moment.” With an abruptness that caught all of them unprepared, the elf stuffed the remains of the black rock into one of his pockets and departed the room.

For several seconds, the party simply stared at the doorway Argaen had scurried through. Then Kaz spoke quietly. “Tesela, what do you make of our benefactor? Is he as mad as he claims the others are?”

She thought about it and replied, “I think he still clings to sanity, but the longer he’s here, the worse it will become.”

“He seems reluctant for your help.”

“I am a cleric of Mishakal, and I’ve healed people’s minds. Sometimes they refuse help because they don’t want to admit their own failures. Sometimes I must do it without their knowledge.” She looked down at the medallion.

“We are in danger ourselves, Kaz,” Darius pointed out. “If we take what Argaen Ravenshadow says as truth, then each day we are here our own minds are at risk.”

“I know.” The minotaur snorted irritably.

“Kaz?” Darius was staring out the window once more.

“What is it?”

“I must do what I can to save my brothers.”

The minotaur grimaced. He knew that tone well, for Huma had used it many a time. It meant danger. It meant trying to take on the stronghold of the knighthood and possibly dying on a Solamnic blade. “You have only Argaen’s word as to what is going on.”

Darius shook his head. “I have eyes as well, and other senses as sharp as any elf’s. You merely have to look out the window again. You can feel the threat.”

Kaz refused to be moved. “I feel nothing but hunger and exhaustion.”

“Kaz, in the name of the Grand Master, who is your comrade…” The knight turned to him, his eyes burning much as the minotaur’s did at times.

Kaz would not have refused a certain other knight, and the realization made him feel guilty. “Let’s see what the daylight brings.”

The bell tolled… once.

The minotaurs sat around a campfire whose embers were dying. They were on their way home after years of chasing what some had begun to believe was a phantom. A search of the river area had revealed neither Greel’s body nor that of the fugitive. Hecar and Helati had described in detail the battle between the two, which, in their version, ended in the drowning of both combatants as they struggled in the raging current.

Scum was not happy, and neither was the ogre, Molok. In different ways, their lives had totally revolved around the eventual capture and death of Kaz. Their reasons varied greatly, but their obsessions were virtually identical-and now both felt betrayed by the disappearance of their longtime adversary.

Molok rubbed a scar on his forehead, his mind afire. Kaz was supposed to have been his, regardless of the piece of paper the minotaur leaders had given the party. Kaz would have never made the return trek east if it was up to him.

As for Scum, he couldn’t have cared less whether Kaz died or not, as long as it was he who had bested the coward. Even branded as he was, Kaz was still known for his strength and ability in the arenas, and it galled the disfigured minotaur to think that one like the fugitive was praised still. Scurn wanted the praise, the status, of defeating one of the former champions, a fighter who could have risen high in the ranks if he had not believed those in control to be mere puppets of Takhisis’s warlords.

They were camped on the edge of what one of the others had termed the Solamnic Wastes. A vast military unit had passed near here only recently. The tracks of an estimated two hundred horses cut a path through the wasteland. Knights of Solamnia, Helati had suggested, either returning to or moving on Vingaard Keep. A situation was brewing there that, at one time, might have drawn their interest. Now, however, they only wanted to go home.

A squeal alerted the group to a possible attack. Axes, massive swords, and other weapons were flourished as the minotaurs rose. The squeal had not been torn from the throat of one of their kind; no minotaur would squeal like a pig. But there was a sentry out in that direction.

Even as the first of the minotaurs started to move, the sentry stepped into the dim light of the campfire. In one hand, he held an axe that dripped with fresh blood. In the other hand, he held a quivering, cowardly goblin.

“Two of these tried to jump me.”

The minotaurs grunted, growled, and snorted in disdain. The goblin tried to look as small as possible. No one cared for goblins. Even Molok looked at the sorry sight in disgust.

“Kill it,” was all he said.

“Only in combat.” The sentry spat. “Executing this one would be a loss of honor.”

The other minotaurs nodded. There was no glory in killing unarmed opponents. Outnumbered as he was, Molok knew better than to question the minotaur code of honor.

“Besides,” the sentry went on, “this bag of shaking bones and fat spouted something that sounded of great interest.”

“What was that?” Scum asked impatiently. He would have killed the goblin there and then. Goblins were not deserving of a combat of honor. They were vermin, like rats.

‘Tell them. Repeat what you said to me, goblin!”

“My… name is… Krynge, honorable, wonderful masters-”

Scurn kicked the goblin in the side. “Quit drooling on our feet and get to the point! We might let you live.”

The goblin seemed to take Scum’s word to heart and began to babble. “My band-it were much bigger then- we found… knights. All dead but one. We have fun and then… and then a minotaur attacks, killing all but three!” Krynge smiled up at the group, revealing jagged, yellow fangs. “Three goblins against one minotaur not good odds, especially since one goblin knocked out. We retreat.”

The minotaur on watch added, “I found the three of them skulking about like dogs. Two of the fools attacked me in panic, and I killed them. They died from one swing.” The sentry, smiling proudly, hefted his axe. The others nodded their appreciation for his skill. “This coward started babbling about ‘another minotaur,’ so I brought him back here for everyone to listen to.”

“Another minotaur? So near?” Molok stepped up to the goblin and took the creature’s ugly head in his massive hands. “What direction came he from?”

“South! Came from south!”

“Kaz!” The ogre turned on Hecar and Helati. “It’s got to be Kaz!”

Scurn stalked up to Helati. To her, his ravaged face was even more disgusting so close. “You said Kaz was dead! So did your brother! Only you two saw them fight, and I wonder about that. Explain!”

Hecar stepped between his sister and the other. “Do you question my honor? Do you call me a liar?”

The other minotaurs were working themselves up for a combat of honor. Many looked sympathetically at Hecar, knowing what he faced. More than a few of them had questioned their own honor in this quest. Hecar was standing up for much more than his sister and himself.

Molok realized this, too, as he scanned the group, noting the reactions of each. Like Scurn, he no longer believed Hecar’s story, but unlike the disfigured one, he knew that every minotaur would be needed if Kaz was truly alive. The ogre was no fool; he had no intention of taking on Kaz by himself.

“Hecar, he be thinking no such thing.” Molok put a hand on Scum’s shoulder. The minotaur glared at him but did not interrupt. “Kaz’s body was never found. Why? Because he survived and hid-like a coward!”

There was renewed muttering from the other minotaurs. They had reacted as the ogre wanted them to. Speak of honor and cowardice, and they would believe anything he said.

The two minotaurs were still facing one another. Scurn still wanted Hecar, and the other still wanted to protect his sister. Helati was caught between bringing dishonor to her brother by speaking the truth or dishonoring herself even more by remaining silent. She chose the latter.

“What about Greel?” Scurn asked. He was beginning to realize that he would gain nothing by fighting and killing Hecar at this time. The other minotaurs still favored Hecar, and Scurn, like the ogre, knew he could not hunt Kaz alone. Yet he could not bring himself to quit the argument altogether. He would lose some face if he backed down now.

“Greel was not a swimmer,” one of the other minotaurs called out. “His clan is in mountains, where there are only streams. He never learned.”

If not for the muttering this new fact brought forth, the surrounding minotaurs might have heard four simultaneous sighs of relief. Molok quickly took control. “You see? Greel drowned. He be no swimmer. True courage, that Greel. True honor.”

Hecar and Helati exchanged quick glances. Greel had ended up in the river only because they had thrown his body into it after Hecar had killed him. As for honor, Greel had had none. It had been his intention from the first to strike Kaz square in the back with the spear. Only a shout from Helati had saved Kaz. Startled, Greel had succeeded only in mortally wounding Kaz’s horse. As far as Hecar and Helati were concerned, both minotaurs had died there. No trace of Kaz had been found-that much was true. Though their faces did not show it, the news of his survival both relieved and frustrated them.

“Kaz lives. If he heads north, then he heads for the keep at Vingaard,” Scurn decided.

“The knighthood would make him a prisoner,” Hecar protested. “He would not go there.”

“He will.” Scurn looked at the others, his eyes lingering on Molok. “We will go to Vingaard. If Kaz is there, we will demand our right to him.” Some of the other minotaurs looked a bit uneasy at the thought of walking up to the keep of the knighthood and demanding a prisoner. Scurn snarled at them. “Are there cowards among us? Does anyone wish to return home without fulfilling his oath?”

There was no answer. To turn back now would be a great loss of honor and an outright act of cowardice. Better death than that.

“It is settled, then.”

“What about this one?” the minotaur sentry asked. He pulled Krynge to his feet by the back of the goblin’s neck.

Scurn bared his teeth.

“Give him a sword. He will have the honor of fighting bravely for his life. A rare thing for a goblin.”