him.
“Bring him to the altar!” Stel commanded.
The draconians dragged Vandor Grizt across the wet
deck to the odd-looking bowl that Stel had identified as an
altar.
“Master Stel, surely I am not a proper sacrifice!”
Vandor protested. “Have you considered that I am hardly a
worthwhile present to be given to one so illustrious as
beautiful, wondrous Zeboim!”
“Silence the buffoon,” the cleric muttered in a voice
much less commanding than normal. Stel’s dark eyes
turned on the dreadwolf that had been guarding Vandor.
At the silent command, the undead animal joined its
master. Prefect Stel returned his attention to the prisoner.
“Hold out his arm. The left one.”
Vandor struggled, but his strength was nothing
compared to that of the draconians.
The servant of Chemosh removed a twisted,
bejewelled dagger from within his robe. Vandor Grizt
recognized it – a sacrificial knife. He had even sold a few.
None had ever been so intricate in detail … or looked so
deadly in purpose.
Stel brought the dagger down lightly on Grizt’s
outstretched arm. The tip of the blade pricked his skin and
drew blood. Muttering under his breath, Stel cut a tiny slit
in his captive’s forearm. It was painful, to be sure, but
Vandor had suffered far more pain at the hands of city
guards. A tiny trail of blood dripped slowly down the side
of his arm and into the round interior of the altar bowl.
The blood struck the bottom and sizzled away with a hiss.
The metal began to radiate heat. Vandor swallowed,
fearing what would happen if his flesh touched the hot
metal.
Removing the blood-covered blade, Stel looked down
at the dreadwolf, which stared back with sightless, dead
eyes.
The cleric turned to face the sea. “Zeboim, you who are
also known as the Sea Queen, hear me! I give you some
thing of great value, something that will prove my humble
respect for your power! I give you a part of me!” The
black cleric drove the dagger into the skull of his pet, not
ceasing until the hilt was touching the bone.
The wolf howled in fierce pain and anger. Several of
the minotaur crewmen looked their way. Vandor Grizt
pulled his arm back from the hot metal. The two
draconians had loosened their hold on him in their shock
over the cleric’s act.
The servant of Chemosh removed the dagger from
the head of his dreadwolf. The monstrosity collapsed the
moment the blade was no longer touching it. The dead
creature crumbled, becoming ash in the space of a few
breaths. Vandor Grizt, looking up at his captor, saw the
cleric’s hands shake. Prefect Stel gave all the appearances
of a man who has just cut off his own hand.
A muttering rose among the minotaurs. The stomping
of heavy feet warned Vandor and his captors that Captain
Kruug was returning.
“Prefect Stel! What in the name of Sargonnas have
you done now? I will not risk my ship in this venture any
more, threats or no – ”
Stel raised his free hand and silenced the captain. He
looked out at the sea in expectation.
For a short time, Vandor Grizt, like the rest, saw
nothing out of the ordinary. The sea was calm and the
storm clouds near motionless. The Blood Sea was as calm
as a sleeping child.
Then it struck Vandor that THIS was out of ordinary.
The sea had calmed, the storm had ceased . . . with a
suddenness that could only be called DIVINE in nature.
“Shinare . . .” Vandor whispered, once more wishing
he had been just a little more consistent with his praying.
Moving a bit unsteadily, Prefect Stel turned on the sea
captain. “You were about to say, Kruug?”
It is not often that a minotaur can be taken aback by
events, but Kruug was. The beastman swallowed hard and
stared at the cleric with awe and not a little fear.
“I thought as much.” Stel said, evilly smiling. “We are
almost over the exact location, captain. I suggest you and
your crew bring us to as dead a stop as you can.”
“Aye,” Kruug replied, nodding all the while. He