Unfortunately, as Kruug and his men finished the second, a dozen more ensnared their ship.
"All hands to battle!" roared the captain. Minotaurs all over the TAURON abandoned their stations and joined the fight against the beast.
Another wave washed over the front of the ship. Vandor's left arm was nearly torn from its socket and something like an army of blades tore at his flesh. He was being flayed. In desperation, he lifted one foot and kicked. His boot struck something solid. He kicked again.
The blades pulled free of his flesh. Only when the first shock subsided did he realize that the sivak draconian — the cursed shapechanger — was no longer holding him. He looked around but saw no sign of the foul reptile. The draconian had been washed overboard. At least he had succeeded in avenging himself on the creature that had killed his friend and captured him.
A brief satisfaction was all he was allowed. Then, it was a matter of struggling for his own life. Another wave washed over the ship. The other draconian released Vandor and fled, slipping and sliding, for the TAURON'S interior, choosing self-survival over the orders of the cleric.
Stel had moved to one side and was holding onto the rail, eyes wild. He was shouting something at the leviathan but his words were having no effect. Desperate, the gaunt priest whirled on the silent figures of the merchant's ancestors and made a sign.
The undead shuffled forward, forming a half-circle around the cleric.
Struggling to maintain his own hold on the rail, Vandor Grizt sought some sort of escape. To stay aboard the ship was folly in his opinion, but the Blood Sea offered the only other option.
"Shinare," he whispered, "is there anything I can offer you?"
Kruug, axe covered in a brown, thick muck, was trying to get his crew's attention.
"Prepare to abandon ship!" Kruug glanced around and spotted Vandor. Grimacing, the minotaur called, "I'll not leave even you to this, manling! Get over to the — "
A tentacle struck the captain. Kruug flew over the other side of the ship and, as Vandor watched helplessly, the beastman dropped into the water and vanished beneath.
The Tauron began to shudder and crack.
This is the end for all of us! Vandor thought.
His undead ancestors had formed a tighter ring around the cleric. No longer were they the blindly obedient slaves that Stel had summoned. They had the prefect pinned against the rail and were closing the circle around him.
Chemosh will understand… Stel had said that over and over. Chemosh — Lord of the Undead — had not been as understanding as his servant imagined.
One of the wraiths, the skeleton in armor, reached out and tore the mask from the cleric's face. The skeletal hand closed over Stel's throat. Stel screamed horribly. The other undead closed around him.
A gigantic wave swamped the Tauron.
Vandor Grizt lost his hold, falling overboard. The sea took him. He could no longer see the TAURON and for all he knew it had been pulled under after the last wave. Water was all there was in the world. It surrounded him; it filled him.
Then he saw a woman, a beautiful but fiery creature of the depths. She was reaching for him, but something… no SOMEONE — another woman
… was pulling him away from her.
Vandor Grizt smiled vaguely at the first woman, regretting that their liaison was not possible.
Then, he was no more.
Vandor Grizt discovered he did not like the taste of sand.
Raising his head, an act that strained to the limit what few resources he had left, he spat out a grainy mouthful.
Vandor kept his eyes closed. He was not at all certain he wanted to know where he was. After all, if he were dead, he might be in the domain of Zeboim… or worse.
Curiosity got the better of him.
All he saw was a beach. Daytime. Brilliant light nearly blinded him. Closing his eyes, he restarted the process, allowing himself only a narrow gap of vision at first.
He allowed that gap to widen when he saw the feet in front of him. They were not human feet.
"So you survived," rumbled a horribly familiar voice. "Some god truly watches over you, human…"
Vandor Grizt rolled over, the best he could do at the moment, and stared at the looming bestial countenance of Captain Kruug. After a moment, Vandor became aware of the presence of three other minotaurs, one of whom leaned heavily on another.
Vandor tried to speak, coughed and spit up sea water.
Kruug snorted. He looked tired. Very tired. "Save your words, human. I've no interest in you. Anyone who survived that folly… and I'm amazed there are any of us… deserves some peace." The minotaurs started to turn away, but the captain held back long enough to add, "If you'll take my advice, you'll go inland. deep inland. If I see your ugly face again, I might remember how I lost my ship because of you."
Although he had a somewhat different perspective on the recent events, Grizt did not think it wise to argue. He watched in silence as the battered foursome stumbled off.
"You're lucky, Vandor Grizt," he said as he lay there trying to regain enough strength to move on. "The bullman must be right: some god does smile on me!" The thought comforted him. If that was true — and it certainly seemed so — then it might be a wise time to begin a new life.
Grizt started to rise, but felt something under his left hand. He dug the object out of the sand and stared long at it.
It was the upper portion of Stel's skull mask — an eyehole and part of the cheek. Vandor smiled. His ancestor had bequeathed him a present.
Vandor dropped the battered mask and, finding new strength, rose to his feet. He looked around and saw that the minotaurs were still within sight, their pace slowed by the injured member.
Vandor Grizt ran after them, calling out in order to get their attention. Kruug turned around, his fists balled tight. When he saw who it was, his anger was replaced by annoyance.
"What do you want? I thought I told you — "
"Please!" Vandor Grizt put up both hands in placation. "Just a question of directions. That is all I ask. You know this region much better than I."
"All right. Where is it you want to go?"
Trying not to sound too anxious, Vandor asked, "Would you happen to know the way to the nearest temple of Shinare?"
The Vingaard Campaign
From the Research of Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe in the service of Astinus, Master Lorekeeper of Krynn.
Most Gracious Historian, you do me too much honor! To think of this task — the study of the greatest military campaign in the post-Cataclysm history of Krynn — and to realize that you have selected me to prepare the documents! I am honored, humbled. But, as always, I shall endeavor to do my best, so that the truth can be recorded and saved.
Thank you too, Excellency, for your concern about my health following my previous mission. My nerves have settled and the tremors have almost disappeared from my hands. Also, I am able to sleep for several hours at a time without suffering the recurrence of nightmares.
As always, a return to my work seems to promise the most complete cure — and in this assignment, Your Grace, you could not have provided a more perfect medicine. The tale of the Vingaard Campaign! The very phrase strikes a martial note in my soul! I hear the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves and the strident call of the battle trumpet! I imagine the wings of dragons, good and evil, blotting out the sky. I picture the blasts of powerful magicks, the gallant charge of the knights!
But forgive me. I have not forgotten that the historian is a dispassionate reporter of the truth. Such flights of fancy are for poets, not scholars such as I. I shall try to control my emotions. Nevertheless, as I relate the exciting story of a young elven princess who changed the face of Krynn in a few short weeks — the sharp, dangerous attacks that baffled her foes, the fast marches across the plains placing her miles from her supposed location, and of course, her epic victory at Margaard Ford — I trust that Your Excellency will forgive an occasional exclamatory aside.