The War Of The Lance (27 page)

“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 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 him. “What great wonder did these records hold that would make you search for
one as unworthy as myself?”

Stel chuckled - a raspy, grating sound. “During the last days of Istar, the Kingpriest
persecuted and murdered many such as myself. The clerics of good stole many objects of
evil from the bodies of clerics of Takhisis, Sargonnas, Morgion, Chemosh. The fools who
followed the Kingpriest either could not destroy these powerful artifacts ... or found
them too tempting to destroy, just in case they could find uses for them.”

Vandor Grizt almost laughed aloud. It was too absurd. He knew how easily such rumors got
started. He'd created a few himself in order to sell his wares. The Knights of Solamnia
were rumored to have once stored such evil clerical items, but no one had ever actually
SEEN one. A REAL one, that is. Still, the cleric did not seem a man who would be chasing
after . . . ghosts.

A thought occurred to Vandor Grizt. “I am certain, Master Stel, that you must have been
pleased to find records of your stolen property. But if that property is at the bottom of
the sea ...”

The cleric looked knowingly at Vandor. “Of course, I knew that the treasures I sought -
the talismans of my predecessors - were out of my reach. Even a necromancer such as myself
could not summon the ancients of Istar. Their tomb lies buried deep beneath the sea; they
do not dwell in my lord's domain. But, if I use the blood of kin - however many
generations distant - I might be able to summon these dead.”

Vandor Grizt was skeptical. “If I am related to the . . . um . . . Kingpriests, how did
you find me?”

“I told you I will permit NOTHING to remain beyond my grasp. I followed the pull of the
skull talisman, traveling through land after land until it led me to you in Takar. You are
as great a charlatan - in your own way - as your ancestors. It was simple to trap you.”

The sivak draconian laughed.

“Now,” Stel continued, “we are almost at the end of my quest. There is one item in
particular - relic of Chemosh - that I have sought ever since I discovered its existence.
A pendant on a chain, it may be the most powerful talisman ever created, an artifact that
can raise a legion of the undying to serve the wearer!”

The image of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undead warriors marching over the countryside
was enough to

sink even Vandor's jaded heart. Stel grimaced. "Do not think that I will neglect the

other treasures, though. I will be able to pick and choose! I will wield power like no
other!"

The familiar stomping that marked Captain Kruug's coming sent a shiver through Vandor.

“We're as steady as we can be, Prefect Stel! If you're going to do anything, do it now!”

Stel looked up into the eerie night sky. “Yes, the time is close enough, I think.” To the
draconians, he barked, “Stretch the fool's arm over the altar!”

SHINARE! Vandor tried praying again, but he kept forgetting the proper words and losing
his place in the ritual.

“Blood calls blood, Vandor Grizt,” murmured Stel.

“Surely, my blood is so tainted by lesser lines that it would hardly be worth anything to
you!” Vandor squirmed desperately.

The draconians seemed to find this statement amusing. Stel shook his masked head, touched
the glowing skull.

“Your blood has already proven itself. For you, that means a reward. When the time comes,
I will kill you in as swift and painless a fashion as I can.”

Vandor did not thank him for his kindness.

Stel raised his dagger high and intoned, “Great Sea Queen, you who guide us now, without
whom this deed could not be done, I humbly ask in the name of my lord Chemosh for this
boon . . .”

Vandor Grizt heard nothing else. His eyes could not leave the dagger.

The blade came down.

Vandor flinched and cried out in pain, but in what seemed a reenactment of the first
ritual, the cleric of 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!”