Master Stel!” Vandor protested, insulted. But the protest
was halfhearted.
Chemosh – lord of the undead. The mask should have
been sufficient evidence, and the undead dog the ultimate
proof, but the confused and frightened Vandor had not
made the connection. Vandor was in the hands of a
necromancer, a priest who raised the dead for vile
purposes, vile purposes that usually required a
SACRIFICE. But why specifically Vandor Grizt? The
shape-shifting sivak had come for him and no one else.
The sailing ship rocked again in the turbulent waters.
A wave splashed over the rail, soaking everything but the
magical torches and – oddly enough – the cleric. Stel’s tiny
skull gleamed brighter now. His clothes were perfectly
dry.
Thunder crashed. A series of heavy thuds continued
on after; the noise caused Vandor to look up to the
heavens to see what could create such a phenomenon. A
massive form came up beside him and Vandor
immediately realized that what he had taken for part of the
storm had actually been footfalls.
“Prefect,” the newcomer rumbled, his voice louder
than the thunder.
“Yes, Captain Kruug?”
Kruug appeared ill-at-ease before the cleric. Odd,
since the minotaur was over seven feet tall and likely
weighed three times more than Prefect Stel. Vandor had
no idea how long the beastman lived, but Captain Kruug
looked to have been sailing the seas for all of Vandor’s
thirty years and more. Such experience made Vandor’s
chances of surviving the rough waters and threatening
storm much better, but that didn’t hearten the captive. It
only meant that he would live long enough to confront
whatever fate the cleric of Chemosh had in mind for him.
“Prefect,” Kruug repeated. The minotaur’s very stance
expressed his dislike for the necromancer. “My ship is
here only because you and your Highlord ordered my
cooperation.”
Vandor’s hopes rose. Perhaps the minotaurs would
refuse to sail on, destroy whatever dread plan the
necromancer had in mind.
“My crew is growing anxious, cleric,” the captain
said. Minotaurs did not like to admit anxiety. To them, it
was a sign of weakness. “The storm is bad enough and
sailing through it at night is only that much worse. Those
two things, though, I could handle at any other time,
PREFECT.” Kruug hesitated, unable to stare directly at
the mask for more than a few moments.
“And so?” Stel prompted irritably.
“It’s time you tell us why we are sailing to this
location in the middle of the deepest part of the Blood Sea.
There are rumors circulating among the crew and as each
rumor grows, they, in turn, become more uneasy.” Kruug
snorted, wiping sea spray from his massive jaw. “We find
it most interesting that a priest of Chemosh has spent so
much time paying homage to the Sea Queen that it seems
he has forgotten his own god!”
The dreadwolf snarled, its pupil-less eyes narrowed.
Stel petted it.
“You are being paid well, captain. Too well for you to
ask questions. And I would think that you would approve
of my efforts to appease the Sea Queen. Is she not
deserving of respect, especially now? We are in her
domain. I give her tribute as she deserves.”
Vandor Grizt’s heart sank. MY LUCK HAS BECOME
LIKE A POUCH FILLED WITH COIN . . . ALL LEAD!
Kruug apparently did not trust Stel’s smooth words.
He snorted his disdain, but glanced around uneasily. A
creature of the sea, the captain had to be more careful than
most in maintaining a respectful relationship with the
tempestuous Sea Queen.
The storm worsened. The sea mist that drenched all
save the cleric was accompanied by a light sprinkle, a
harbinger of the torrential downpour to come. Lightning
and thunder broke overhead.
“You had better pray that Zeboim has listened to you,
prefect,” the minotaur retorted. “Else I shall appease her
by throwing you and your stinking mutt over the side. My
ship and my crew come first.” He grumbled at no one in
particular. “It’s easy for the Highlord to agree to mad plots
when he’s safe in his chambers back on shore! He isn’t the
one who’ll suffer, just the one who’ll reap the benefits!”