All the minotaurs laughed uproariously at this. One of them started toward Nightshade.
“Whoa, I’d be careful if I were you, Tosh,” said the captain, winking. “They’re ferocious, these kender. Why, he might step on your little toe!”
The minotaurs grinned at their captain’s humor. One offered to write to Tosh’s widow if he didn’t come back alive, and that drew more laughter. Rhys had no idea what Nightshade was up to, but he had confidence in his friend. He quietly watched and waited.
216
“I warned you,” said Nightshade, and he began to waggle his finger at Tosh who was closing on him. Then the kender started to sing a little song, “ ‘By the bones of Krynn beneath my feet, I smite you on the beak and leave you weak.’ ”
The minotaurs roared. Their mirth increased when Tosh suddenly collapsed and went down heavily on his knees.
“C’mon, Tosh,” said the captain, when he could talk for laughing. “Quit your fooling now and get up.”
“I can’t, Capt’n!” Tosh howled. “He’s done somethin’ to me. I can’t stand up nor walk nor nothin’.”
The captain ceased his laughter. He stared at his man, as did the other minotaurs in silence. None of them said a word and then, suddenly, they all started laughing harder than before. The captain doubled over and wiped his streaming eyes.
Tosh howled again, this time in rage.
The captain straightened and, still chuckling, reached out his huge hand to seize the kender. Rhys leaped into the air, lashed out with his foot, and struck the minotaur in the midriff.
The blow would have crippled a human, knocked the breath from his body, sent him flying backward. The minotaur captain gasped, coughed once, and looked down at his gut in astonishment. He lifted his horned head to glare at Rhys.
“You hit me with your foot!” The captain was indignant. “That’s no way for a man to fight! It’s. . . not honorable.”
He clenched fists that were the size of war hammers.
Rhys’s foot ached. His leg tingled as though he’d kicked a stone wall. Hearing the other minotaur come up behind him, he tried to stand balanced, ready to fight. Atta crouched on her belly, growling and baring her teeth. Nightshade stood his ground, his spellcasting finger shifting threateningly from one minotaur to the next.
The captain eyed the three of them, and suddenly he relaxed his fists. With the flat of his hand, he clouted Rhys a blow on the shoulder that sent him staggering.
“You’re not afraid of me. That is good. I like you, human. I like the kender, too. A kender with horns, by Sargas! Look at old Tosh there, flopping about like a fish on a hook!”
Reaching down with his enormous hand, the captain grabbed hold of Nightshade’s collar, plucked the kender off his feet, and held him, kicking and flailing, high in the air.
“Bag him, lads.”
One of the minotaurs produced a gunny sack. The captain dropped Nightshade into the sack, then reached down and grabbed hold of Atta by the scruff of her neck and flung her inside the bag along with the kender. Nightshade gave a cry that was extinguished by the sack closing over his head. The minotaur pulled the drawstring, hefted the sack, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Take them to the ship,” the captain ordered.
“Aye, sir. What about Tosh?” the minotaur asked, as they were about to dash off.
Tosh was rolling about helplessly on the pavement, looking up at them with pleading eyes.
“Leave him for the city guard,” the captain growled. “Serves the lubber right. Maybe I’ll make the kender First Mate in his place.”
“No, Capt’n, please!” Tosh groaned and struggled and succeeded only in making himself look even more pathetic.
“The rest of you get back to the ship afore the guard finds us. Leave me one of those torches.”
The other minotaur ran off, carrying Nightshade and Atta with them. The captain turned to Rhys.
“What about you, human?” the minotaur asked, amusement glinting in his black eyes. “Are you going to kick me again?”
“I will come with you,” Rhys said, “if you promise not to hurt my friend or the dog.”
“Oh, you’ll come with me, all right.”
The captain laid a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. Huge fingers bit deeply and painfully into Rhys’s shoulder muscles, nearly paralyzing his arm. The captain propelled Rhys along, giving him a shove and another pinch when it seemed Rhys might be slowing down.
The captain glanced up ahead, to make certain his men were out of earshot, then said softly, “Could you teach me to fight like that? With my feet?” He massaged his belly and grimaced. “It is not honorable, but it would certainly take an opponent by surprise. I can still feel that blow, human.”
Rhys tried to envision himself teaching the art of merciful discipline to a minotaur and gave up. The captain kept his grip tight on Rhys’s arm and steered him along.
A short distance down the street, they came to the place where Rhys had flung away his staff and divested himself of his robes.
The captain saw Rhys’s gaze go the staff and halted.
“I saw you toss that away. Why would you do that?” The practical minotaur shook his head. “The staff looks good and solid. The robe is serviceable and it is the color of our sea goddess’s eyes.”
He picked up the robes and smoothed them reverently, then tossed them at Rhys. “Nights at sea grow cold. You’ll need clothes for warmth. Do you want your staff?”
From what Rhys had heard, slaves on board a minotaur ship measured their lifespan by days. If he had been carrying the blessed staff, he, Nightshade, and Atta might not now be in such dire peril. He looked at the staff, remorse filling his heart. To take it now would be wrong, like a small child who kicks his father in the shins, then runs sniveling back to his parent the moment he is in trouble.
Rhys shook his head.
“I’ll take it then,” said the captain. “I need something to pick my teeth.”
Chuckling at his own jest, the captain reached down to pick up the staff. Rhys thrust his arms into the sleeves and was pulling the robes over his head when he heard a roar. He looked up to see the captain sucking his fingers and glaring at the staff.
Roses sprouted from the wood. Thorns as long as a man’s thumb glistened in the torchlight.
“You pick it up,” the captain ordered. He clamped his teeth over a thorn stuck in his palm, yanked it out, and spat it onto the street.
Rhys could barely see the staff for the tears in his eyes. He clasped his hand around it, expecting the thorns to prick his flesh, too, for he deserved the punishment far more than the minotaur. The wood was smooth to the touch. The staff did not harm him The captain gave the staff a wary glance. “I see now why you threw it away. The thing is god-cursed. Put it down. Leave it for some other fool to find.”
“The curse is mine,” said Rhys quietly. “I must bear it.”
“Not aboard my ship,” the captain snarled. He spat out another thorn. His eyes began to gleam. “Or maybe we should see how you handle that staff in a fight. We’re alone now. Just the two of us. If you beat me, I’ll give you your freedom.” The minotaur reached for the hilt of the enormous sword he wore thrust into a sash around his broad waist. “Come, monk. Let’s see how you handle the god-cursed staff!”
“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 steadly. “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.