Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [86]
“You hold my friend and my dog hostage,” Rhys pointed out. “I gave you my word I would come with you, and I will.”
The captain’s snout twitched. He rubbed it, eyed Rhys. “So your word means something, does it, monk?”
“It does,” Rhys replied.
“What god put the curse on you?”
“Majere.”
“Humpf. A stern god, that one. Not a god to cross. What did you do to anger him?”
“I betrayed someone who had put his faith and trust in me,” Rhys answered steadily. “Someone who was good to me.”
Minotaurs have a reputation for being savage and brutal killers. Their god, Sargonnas, was a cruel god, intent on conquest. The minotaur race knew something of honor, however, or so Rhys had heard.
The captain again rubbed his muzzle. “You deserve the curse, then.”
“Yes,” said Rhys. “The staff is my constant reminder.”
“It will not harm me or my crew?”
“Not unless you try to touch it.”
“No one will do that,” said the captain, giving the staff a baleful glance. He yanked out another thorn, then, raising his head, he sniffed the air. “The tide is shifting.” He nodded in satisfaction and spat out the thorn. “Make haste, monk.”
Rhys fell into step beside the minotaur. He had to take two strides to every one of the beast-man’s to keep up.
The minotaur’s ship was anchored far out at sea, a long distance from the docks. A boat manned by stout minotaur crewmen was on hand to ferry them to the ship. Another boat, bearing Nightshade and Atta, had already set off and was crawling across the water.
Rhys sat across from the captain, who was handling the tiller. The boat jounced over the waves. Rhys watched the shoreline with its sparkling lights slip away from him. He did not curse his fate. He had brought this on himself. He hoped, somehow, to be able to bargain for the kender’s life and for Atta’s. It was not right they should suffer because of him.
The minotaur ship, silhouetted against the starlit sea, was a lovely thing to look at. Three-masted, it boasted a prow carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. Its single bank of oars were drawn up out of the water. He watched the minotaur crew rowing the shore boat and saw the muscles ripple across their broad backs. Slaves aboard a minotaur ship manned the oars, and Rhys wondered how long he would be able to keep going in their place, chained to the bench, plying the oars in time to the rhythmic beat of the drum.
Rhys was strong, or he had been strong, before this heartbreaking journey had taken its toll. Poor food, lack of food, tramping the road, and sitting in taverns had taken its toll on both body and spirit.
As if to prove him right, weariness overcame him. His head dropped to his chest, and the next thing he knew he was being pummeled to wakefulness by one of the crew, who was pointing to a rope ladder hanging from the side of the vessel.
The small boat bobbed up and down and back and forth. The ladder was also bobbing, only neither the ladder nor the boat were doing it together. At times, they were close, and at other times an enormous chasm opened between the boat and the ship—a chasm filled with inky black seawater.
The captain had already gone aboard, ascending the rope ladder with ease. The minotaur crewmen were glaring at Rhys and pointing emphatically at the ladder. One of the minotaurs indicated with hand gestures that if Rhys didn’t jump on his own, the minotaur would heave him.
Rhys lifted the staff. “I cannot jump with the staff,” he said, hoping his gesture would be understood if his words were not.
The minotaur shrugged his shoulders and made a throwing motion. Rhys had the feeling the minotaur meant he should toss the staff into the sea. He considered it likely that was probably where they would both end up. He eyed the ship’s rail, which seemed far, far above him, then, hefting the staff like a spear, he aimed and threw.
The staff sailed in a graceful arc up over the ship’s rail and landed on the deck. Now it was Rhys’s turn.