Chemosh pricked the skin of Vandor’s arm and reopened
the long wound. Vandor gasped in relief.
Blood dripped into the altar. Stel muttered something.
At first, Vandor neither felt nor heard anything out of
the ordinary. Then, slowly, every hair on his head came to
life. A deep, inexplicable sense of horror gripped him.
Someone was speaking his name from beyond the
minotaur ship!
“Come!” Stel hissed. “Blood calls!”
Vandor trembled. The draconians dug their claws into
his arms. The minotaurs, who generally grumbled at
everything, paused at what they were doing and watched
and waited silently.
The waters around the TAURON stirred. Something
was rising to the surface.
SHINARE? Vandor Grizt prayed frantically.
“Answer them!” Prefect Stel hissed again, beckoning.
“You cannot resist the blood!”
To Vandor’s dismay, he saw a ghostly, helmed head
rising above the rail. “B-blessed Shinare! I implore you! I
will honor you twice … no! … four times a day!”
“Stop babbling, human!” snarled the nervous sivak.
Then, it, too, saw the monstrosity trying to climb aboard.
“Prefect Stel! Look to your right!”
Turning, Stel sighted the walking corpse. “Aaah! At
last! At last!”
Much of the visage was hidden by the rusting helm,
but two empty eye sockets glared out. The armor that it
wore was loose and clanked together. The undead being
floated onto the deck. From the waist down, its legs were
obscured by a chill mist.
Stel eyed the breastplate. “The insignia of the house
guard of the Kingpriest!” He looked up into the ungodly
countenance. “A royal cousin, perhaps?”
Vandor Grizt’s ANCESTOR did not respond.
“Prefect Stel!” hissed the draconian again.
Another form, clad in what had probably been a
shroud, rose almost next to Vandor Grizt. He thought he
saw a crown beneath the shroud, but he could not be
certain. He had no desire to take a closer look.
“Better and better . . .”
A third spectral figure joined the other two. The cleric
fairly rubbed his hands in glee. “I had hoped for one,
perhaps TWO after so long, but thr – four!”
Four it was – for the space of a single breath. Then,
two more rose from the water. They seemed less
substantial than the others; Vandor wondered if that meant
they had been dead longer.
Stel glanced heavenward, then at his captive. “There
is the answer to your protests, Vandor Grizt. Your blood
runs truer than you – than I – thought.”
The dark cleric looked at the night sky. The clouds
were thickening and the winds were rising. “Time is
limited! We must not try the Sea Queen’s admirable
patience!”
Holding the dagger before him, Stel summoned forth
the undead that had been first to appear. With his other
hand, the cleric removed the tiny skull on the chain and
handed it to Vandor’s ancestor. “You are mine. You know
what I desire, do you not?”
The helm rattled as the ghost slowly nodded.
Vandor Grizt found himself sympathetic to his
ancestors. It was not right that they be used as menial
servants. Perhaps, he thought desperately, if blood truly
called to blood, he could send them back to their rest.
“Don’t listen to him!” Vandor shouted. “Go! Go
back.” His cries were cut off as one draconian put a scaly
hand over his mouth and the other twisted his arm
painfully.
It all proved to be for nothing. His shambling
ancestors paid no attention to him, but listened obediently
to the masked cleric who had summoned them.
“Make haste, then,” Stel continued, ignoring his
prisoner’s outburst. “The talisman will guide you. Bring
what you can, but most important, bring the Pendant of
Chemosh! Its image is burned into the device I gave you.
You cannot help but be drawn to it, no matter how deep it
be buried!”
The six spectral figures floated from the ship … and
sank into the murky depths.
I’M FINISHED! Vandor thought. There was nothing he
could do but wait until Prefect Stel sacrificed him. He
morbidly wondered which god was going to get him,
Chemosh or the Sea Queen. Chemosh, surely, for Stel had
already given up a great deal to the Sea Queen.
“Great Chemosh, magnificent Zeboim,” Vandor