whirled about and started shouting at the other minotaurs,
taking out his fear and shame on his crew.
Stel turned to Vandor. The cleric smiled. “It is as I
hoped. Your blood is the key. She has heard us. She has
given us her favor.”
“My blood? Key?” Vandor babbled.
“Oh, YES, Vandor Grizt, petty thief and purveyor of
purloined properties, your blood! Can’t you hear the
voices?” The deep, black eyes behind the mask widened in
anticipation. “Can’t you hear them calling you?”
“Who?” Vandor gasped.
“Your ancestors,” Stel said, looking at the sea.
“Prefect 1” The kapak was spluttering with fear. A
tiny bit of acidic saliva splattered Vandor on the cheek. He
flinched in pain, but there was nothing he could do with
his arms pinned. “Prefect, you sacrificed the
DREADWOLF!”
“It was necessary. Chemosh will understand. Zeboim
has to be placated. This venture is too important.”
“But the dreadwolf … it was bound to you by your
lord!”
Stel’s destruction of his ungodly pet had evidently
taken much out of him and the kapak’s reminder was only
stirring the pain. If what the draconian said was true, then
the prefect had wantonly destroyed a gift from his god in
order to gain the favor of the Sea Queen.
A COSTLY VENTURE THIS, Vandor thought
fearfully.
The skull mask made its wearer look like the
embodiment of death itself. Stel’s voice was so steady, so
toneless, that both Vandor and the draconians shrank back
in alarm.
“We are in the Sea Queen’s domain. Even my lord
Chemosh must be respectful of that. It is by his power that
this task will be done, but it is by HER sufferance that we
survive it!”
The skull necklace flared brighter, so bright that the
two draconians and Vandor were forced to look away.
Stel shouted, “Captain Kruug! This is the position! No
farther!”
The minotaur dropped anchor; the vessel slowed, but
continued to drift, giving Vandor a brief hope. But, the
minotaurs turned the vessel about and slowly brought it
back.
“Still a short time left,” Stel whispered. In a louder,
more confident voice, he asked, “Do you hear them,
Vandor Grizt? Do you hear your ancestors calling you?”
Vandor, who could not trace his ancestors past his
barely-remembered parents, heard nothing except
bellowing minotaurs and the lightest breeze in the
rigging. He refrained from responding however. The
answer might mean life … or death. He needed to know a
bit more to make the correct choice.
“You don’t, do you?” Stel frowned. “But you will.
Your blood is the true blood, child of KINGPRIESTS.”
“KINGPRIESTS? Me?” Vandor stared blankly at his
captor.
“Yes, Kingpriests.” Stel toyed with the dagger and
stared off at the becalmed sea. “It took me quite some time
to find you, thanks to your nomadic lifestyle. I knew that I
would not fail at what I undertook. I was the one who
found the ancient temple, who understood what OTHERS
of my order did not.”
“You have me completely at a loss, Master Stel,”
Vandor quavered. “You say I am a descendent of the
Kingpriests?” As he asked, Vandor shivered
uncontrollably. He remembered suddenly what legend said
lay at the bottom of the Blood Sea.
Istar . . . the holy city brought down by the conceit of
its lord, the Kingpriest. In the blackest depths of the Blood
Sea lay the ruins of the holy city . . . and the rest of the
ancient country for that matter.
“Of direct descent.” Stel touched the blazing skull.
“This charm marks you as such, as it marks where the
great temples . . . and storehouses … of Istar sank. The
spells I cast upon it make it drawn to all things – including
people – that possess a strong affinity with Istar. The
charm was carved out of a stone from the very temple
where I found the records, duplicates preserved by the
magic of the zealous acolytes of the Kingpriest. Preserved
but forgotten, for those who had stored them there either
perished with the city or abandoned the place after their
homeland was no more.”
“Please, Master Stel.” Vandor hoped for more
information, though he had no idea what good it could do