“Kirsig tells us that the bull-men are forging alliances with the ogres and other nefarious races. I fear that this is part of their scheme to introduce Sargonnas into our world and to set in motion events that would mean the conquest of Ansalon.”

  “Sargonnas,” hissed Cloudreaver.

  “Then you have heard of him?” queried Raistlin.

  “Kyrie legend tells of a Sargonnas, a giant red condor who wreaked havoc on our people many generations ago. It communed with one of our weakest-minded nobles, who betrayed into the condor’s possession our nation’s most sacred artifact, the Northstone, which enabled the kyrie to navigate between all the islands and land masses of the world instead of being confined to this small pocket, in perpetual war with our enemies, the minotaurs,” Cloudreaver explained. “If Sargonnas is hoping to return, that is very bad news for my people. We will help you in any way that we can.”

  For a moment, everyone was silent, the enormity of the task before them weighing on the group. What do we do next? was the question on everybody’s mind.

  “We can’t do anything until the morning,” Tanis answered the unspoken question, “so let’s try to get some rest.”

  Now the group consisted of eight humans, plus a dwarf, a half-elf, a half-ogre, and six kyrie. Other kyrie were scouting parts of the island, but only one had arrived at their camp by morning, making seven. Raistlin was buoyed by the news that the kyrie could fly the others to a place near the Nightmaster’s encampment in the ruined city in two shifts. First the kyrie would fly Raistlin, Tanis, Caramon, Sturm, and Yuril, then they would return and, after a short period of rest, do likewise with Flint, Kirsig, and the sailors.

  Even with the time necessary for two round trips, the journey would take much less time than an overland march. The companions would arrive at the edge of the ruined city of Karthay one day before the conjunction of the heavens that, Raistlin gauged, was vital for the spell of Sargonnas.

  Flint, who had already weathered the Blood Sea, was in no hurry to be swept aloft by the feathered bird-men, no matter how noble or friendly they were with Caramon and Sturm. “I don’t mind waiting behind with all these females,” said the dwarf. “I don’t mind a bit. First I’ll watch you all go for a sky ride, and if you don’t fall or crash or get burned by the sun, then don’t worry, I’ll be sure to follow.”

  “I hate to leave you behind,” said Tanis.

  “Don’t worry,” joked Flint. “I’ve got Kirsig to watch over me.”

  Tanis smiled. “Yes,” granted the half-elf. “I think she is giving Lolly Ockenfels some stiff competition.”

  “That’s the last time I try to hold a civil conversation with you, Tanis Half-Elven,” Flint exploded, turning beet red. “No respect! You show me no respect!”

  Flint continued sputtering while Tanis and the others took off.

  *

  The kyrie had had time to fashion harnesses out of leather and rope for their passengers. The bird-men’s strong talons would grip these and carry the humans aloft. It wasn’t the most graceful way to fly, suspended from the shoulders, legs dangling, Tanis decided, but it would have to do.

  A kyrie named Heart of Storm carried the half-elf, his huge wings beating steadily for several hours as the land passed below. At times, Tanis could glimpse the others nearby, but at other times the formation of kyrie couldn’t be seen in the banks of clouds. Tanis felt fortunate to be suspended by Heart of Storm’s shadow, for once again the sun was blazing in the sky, radiating intense, dry heat.

  As they approached Worldscap, the kyrie tightened their formation and flew lower. Cloudreaver, who was carrying Caramon, made a wide sweep westward and glided to a landing on high ground overlooking the ruined city to the east and the inactive volcano of Worldscap to the north. Gently Heart of Storm lowered Tanis to the ground. The kyrie rested only a moment, waiting while Tanis and the others removed their harnesses, before taking off to get the ones who had been left behind and complete the first round of their mission.

  The dead city, only a few miles away, looked like a gray, pock-marked moonscape. From this distance, the companions could see no evidence of habitation-only broken towers and miles of lava-encrusted ruins. Farther north, Worldscap loomed, a dark, ominous specter casting its shadow on the ruins of Karthay.

  Raistlin broke the awed silence of the group as they looked out over the scene. “Yuril, you and Sturm wait here for the rest of the company,” directed the mage. “Caramon, Tanis, and I will scout the immediate area to make sure that there are no minotaurs in the vicinity and perhaps to forage some food for supper.”

  Sturm clasped each of them in turn on the shoulder. Yuril nodded coolly. When they filed away down a trail, she began to sharpen her sword on a stone. Sturm, still less than his vigorous self, lay sprawled on the ground nearby.

  Even this far from the city, black ash dotted the rocks and ground. A half-mile down the trail, the hardened path forked. Raistlin stood rubbing his chin as he considered the two possibilities, both sloping gradually downward.

  “This way,” said Caramon, pointing.

  “No,” said Tanis, indicating the other path. “This way.”

  “I’ll go that way,” said Raistlin, selecting the one that Tanis had picked out, “and you two try the other path.”

  Both Caramon and Tanis looked aghast at the idea of Raistlin setting off on his own, but neither of them could figure out what to say. The mage stared at them coolly.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Don’t-don’t you think we should stick together?” Caramon stammered.

  Tanis nodded his agreement with Caramon.

  “It would be better to check out both directions,” said Raistlin. “You aren’t worried about me, are you, Brother? I got this far without your help.”

  “No,” said Caramon softly.

  “Only…” said Tanis.

  “Only what?” asked Raistlin, glaring.

  “Only,” said the half-elf, “we should agree to meet back here inside of two hours.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And call out if you see anything,” added Caramon.

  “Of course,” Raistlin said testily.

  With misgivings, Tanis and Caramon watched Raistlin set off down one fork of the path. Then they sighed in unison and started off along the other trail.

  The two of them had some luck. Caramon killed a fat snake, which could be cooked up in a stew, and Tanis found some edible nuts on a stubborn bush that clung to the rocky ground. They saw no signs of minotaurs or any other enemy. After an hour of exploring along the trail, they turned back. For more than an hour, they waited at the designated place without any sign of Raistlin. Concerned, Tanis and Caramon hiked back up to where Sturm and Yuril waited, hoping the mage had returned in their absence. But Raistlin wasn’t there either.

  Just then the other kyrie arrived carrying Flint, Kirsig, and the rest of the sailors. Flint was a whiter shade of pale and cursing a blue streak. Kirsig had never had a more exciting time, she averred. The female sailors took it all in stride. They were veterans at travel, and if the Blood Sea hadn’t killed them, why, they weren’t likely to die during an airlift from the kyrie.

  “Did you happen to see my brother Raistlin from above?” Caramon asked Cloudreaver anxiously.

  “No,” said Cloudreaver, frowning. “Isn’t he here with you?”

  “No,” Caramon replied with agitation. Angrily the warrior twin kicked a rock. “I should have known better,” Caramon muttered. Gloomily he sat down on a rock.

  Flint looked at Tanis questioningly. The half-elf shrugged. “Caramon’s right,” said Tanis somberly. “We should have known better.”

  Cloudreaver went over to Caramon and squatted on the ground next to him. “Is your brother safe? Did he wander off somewhere? What do you suspect?”

  “I suspect,” Caramon said miserably, “that my dear brother has sneaked off to try to do something about this Nightmaster on his own. I only hope he doesn’t get himself killed.”

  “Well,” prodded Flint, “Raistlin said the big spell was going to be cast tomorrow night. In the meantime, what’s the plan?”

  There was a general awkward silence.

  “I had the idea,” said Tanis with some slight embarrassment, “that Raistlin had something in mind. Unless he comes back, we’ll have to guess at what it was-or think of something ourselves.”

  “He won’t be coming back,” said Caramon dismally.

  “Then we must act accordingly,” said Cloudreaver with authority. The kyrie divided up his warriors, sending half of them to rove the skies, spy on the ruined city, and, if possible, make contact with the other kyrie who were scouting the island, urging them to rejoin the main group. Three of the kyrie would stay behind and take up guard and camp duties.

  “We must return by nightfall,” Cloudreaver advised Bird-Spirit, who was chief among the scouts, “or by morning at the latest. Tomorrow, whatever the strategy, we must mount an attack.”

  Kirsig, Yuril, and the sailors started setting up the camp. Flint, Sturm, Tanis, and Caramon, watching the others dutifully go to work, looked at each other sheepishly. Trying to forget their worries about Raistlin, the companions pitched in.

  Chapter 14

  The Nightmaster

  Several miles off the eastern tip of Karthay, in the sea near Beakwere, hundreds of orughi had begun to gather. Their gray, thickly muscled shoulders stuck out of the water, while their webbed feet flapped below the surface. Their upturned faces showed high foreheads, blunt noses, pointy ears, beady eyes, and stringy golden hair slick with wetness. Some carried battle-axes and daggers, while others bore the iron boomerangs with long metallic cords called tonkks.

  The orughi looked to the west. Because they were an amphibious species, they could swim for days on end without tiring. Now the orughi treaded water, waiting to see some manifestation of Sargonnas.

  Some miles away, on the other side of the point and farther out into the Land Ho Straits, beneath a blanket of haze waited a fleet of warships manned by ogres sent to seal the alliance with the minotaurs. There were only dozens, not hundreds, of ships, but each was there as a representative of an ogre tribe, each answerable to a chieftain of that despised race. At a signal, they would mobilize. Now their warships rocked in the waters almost peacefully, awaiting the time.

  The ogres kept their distance from their watery cousins, the orughi. They held the thick-witted, web-footed orughi in contempt and would not join with the water-bred ogres unless Sargonnas decreed it.

  Even now the appointed commander of the ogre fleet, Oolong of the Xak clan, watched the distant orughi horde through his eyescope. Oolong Xak sighed with disgruntlement, scratching his lice-ridden scalp and running his grimy fingers through long, matted hair. Any upstanding ogre would be embarrassed to be allies with the orughi in a war, yet the minotaurs had almost talked the ogres into it-lured them with promises and trinkets. But Oolong Xak was not the only one among them whose doubts would not be allayed except by the final proof of Sargonnas himself.

  Scores of miles away, in the palace in the city of Lacynos on the island of Mithas, the eight minotaurs of the Supreme Circle and their king awaited the great spell with varying degrees of enthusiasm, impatience, and skepticism.

  The king of the minotaurs sorely desired the conquest of Ansalon as a means to impress his subjects with the scope and vision of his power. The king had invested troops and money in the careful plans of the Nightmaster; success would be a validation of his wisdom.

  His only wholehearted supporter was Atra Cura, the bloodthirsty representative of the minotaur pirates. Any war was a good war for Atra Cura and his confederation of followers, who stood to gain much from the chaos that would inevitably occur along the lanes of the Blood Sea.

  Dozens of war galleys stood at the ready in the harbor of Lacynos, and many dozens more were in various stages of completion across the bays and harbors of Mithas. Akz, leader of the minotaur navy, had driven his slaves ruthlessly to meet the deadlines, although he was of a mixed mind, more or less indifferent, to the grand intentions of the Nightmaster. Akz was not an overly religious minotaur, and he had been around long enough as a member of the Supreme Circle to see war plans come and go.

  Still, no one had ever dared try to summon Sargonnas into the world before. That took boldness and ambition, Akz admitted to himself. But if the spell did not attain its end, then so what? The galleys could be used for another future enterprise. Akz was in no hurry to sacrifice his ships and trained forces on a wild-eyed, long-range war unless it could be said that the gods themselves approved of it. Therefore Akz would not lift a finger to act unless Sargonnas decreed it.

  Although Inultus, the commander of the minotaur military, hated Akz, they always agreed on questions of war. Inultus, too, was happy to commit his legions of trained soldiers… if Sargonnas decreed it. Otherwise, Inultus did not see any reason to enter into an historic and highly distasteful pact with the ogres and orughi in order to launch the most significant attack on the continent of Ansalon in the annals of the minotaur race.

  Two other members of the Supreme Circle had unquestioned loyalty to the king and backed his policies despite personal qualms about allegiances with the ogres and orughi. Victri, chosen leader of the rural minotaurs, would gladly fight in any war decreed by the king, yet he nurtured misgivings about this one and secretly hoped the Nightmaster would fail. The great scholar and historian, Juvabit, also voted with the king, whom he had known through family ties dating back to his youth. But the rational Juvabit distrusted the mystical Nightmaster and his obsessive cult. So Juvabit, too, privately wished the Nightmaster would be unsuccessful.

  Groppis, keeper of the treasury, held no opinion other than that he wished the whole thing hadn’t cost so much money to this point-almost as much as he wished the mapped-out campaign for the future conquest of Ansalon was budgeted at less.

  That left the sole female, Kharis-O, leader of the nomadic minotaurs, and Bartill, head of the architectural and construction guilds.

  There was nothing duplicitous about their expressed views. Both were on record against the alliance, the planned war, and the grandiose schemes of the Nightmaster: Bartill, because he was always preoccupied with his own projects and need for money; Kharis-O, because she represented separatist clans and was herself exceedingly contrary. Regularly she voted against the majority, and regularly she lost.

  However, like Bartill, Kharis-O was fully prepared to go to war. A minotaur was loyal unto death, and honor required that both act in accordance with all the decisions of the Supreme Circle.

  The eight members of the Supreme Circle had been summoned by the king to await the coming of Sargonnas.

  The eight waited in the main hall of the palace. Some drummed fingers on the large oaken table. Some paced the room, snorting with irritation when they brushed shoulders with each other. Some lay their horned bull heads down on the oaken table, snoring gutturally.

  Tomorrow night would be the time.

  The sanctum of the Nightmaster was perfectly fascinating, Tasslehoff Burrfoot had to admit.

  Crumbling walls dotted the dry, broken land. Here and there a few columns, all that was left of the temples of the fabled city, slanted toward the sky. Tumbled masonry lay everywhere. A broken statuette or two stood among the rubble.

  Fissures, the result of earthquakes that had rocked the once-great city, zigzagged across the ground, contributing to the eerie landscape. Gray and black ash, some hardened into a brittle crust, blanketed everything.

  The Nightmaster watched Tasslehoff as the kender picked his way across part of the dead city, plucking up an occasional ash-covered object and stuffing it in his backpack. Tas turned, saw the Nightmaster observing him, and waved, bounding back in his direction.

  ‘Isn’t the kender… interesting?” asked Fesz, for lack of a better word. The shaman was standing at the Nightmaster’s elbow. “I trust you agree that it was a good idea to bring him here. Tasslehoff has been very helpful with information about all of his former friends, and he begged to accompany me.”

  “You’re certain that he is evil?” rumbled the Nightmaster, tilting his head to peer at the approaching kender with his big bull eyes.

  “He drinks a double dose of the potion every day. And he has given me no cause to doubt him.”

  “What is that strange wooden stick across his back?”

  “It is called a hoopak, my lord,” replied Fesz. “The kender says it is an invincible weapon.” The shaman minotaur cracked a jagged smile. “I don’t see any harm in indulging his childishness.”

  The Nightmaster cast a sideways glance at his disciple. Fesz was in line to succeed him. In some ways, he was the Nightmaster’s most shrewd and trusted disciple, but in other ways, the Nightmaster knew, Fesz was the most guileless, the most trusting of minotaurs.

  “What about the human, Sturm?”

  “An incident that does dishonor to all minotaurs,” agreed Fesz, “but Tasslehoff cannot be suspected. Sturm was within moments of losing the duel, and Tas was cheering as loudly as the rest of us. No minotaur was more upset and angry at the rescue than Tasslehoff himself. He insisted that several of the guards be put to death as punishment for allowing the Solamnic to escape! Why, he asked to execute one himself. Of course, we couldn’t allow that because of the High Laws, but the fact remains, he asked.”

  The Nightmaster seemed to ponder this information. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned back to his room without walls that had once been the entrance to the great library. As he moved with animal grace, feathers rustled in the wind and the bells draping his immense shoulders and horns jingled.

  “Hullo, Nightmaster!” Tasslehoff chirped after him.