are truly special?'
Fesz pondered the question, delighted that Tas had turned his imagination to such worthwhile pursuits. 'Well,' answered the shaman minotaur slowly, 'the Pit of Doom is a particularly cruel spectacle, one that I myself- before spending my time on Karthay, in devotion to the Nightmaster-always enjoyed watching.'
'The Pit of Doom?' mused the kender. Tas liked the sound of it.
'A dance of death around hellish holes of fiery liquid,' the shaman minotaur explained briefly. 'A demise made all the more humiliating by the fact that it is staged for the entertainment of hordes of spectators who watch from a gallery.'
Tas's eyes widened. 'The Pit of Doom!' he exclaimed with glee, practically shouting, 'That's it! That's the punishment that I would like to see meted out to that snooty Solamnic!'
'The only difficulty,' rumbled Fesz, 'is that we must get to Karthay in three days.'
'Three days!' repeated Tas loudly, clearly enunciating and emphasizing every word. 'So why can't we stick old Sturm in the Pit of Doom tomorrow morning and set sail by midday?'
'I don't see any reason why not,' agreed Fesz, 'but we must hasten to make arrangements.'
'Good,' said the kender. 'I would consider it a personal privilege to watch Sturm get his just deserts. Also, I have an abiding curiosity about all pits, whether of doom or just plain-'
Fesz was already in motion.
With a pitying backward glance at the kyrie and a hasty look up at the ceiling, Tas hurried after the shaman minotaur.
The broken man twitched.
Dogz snorted.
As Tas passed the minotaur guard, he paused and gave him a hard kick in the shins.
The next morning one hundred bull-folk crowded the small semicircular gallery that rose along one side of the Pit of Doom.
Snorting and stomping, the minotaur audience made its impatience known as they awaited the arrival of the officials, without whom the duel to the death-between the local champion, a merciless bull-man named Tossak, and the human prisoner, the Solamnic, Sturm Brightblade-could not begin.
In ceremonial procession, a dozen functionaries and prison authorities accompanied Dogz, Tasslehoff, and Fesz as they entered the arena and took their seats in a privileged section of the gallery. The spectators craned their necks to gawk at the unusual sight of a kender sitting next to an emissary of the Nightmaster. As befit the occasion, Tas sat up straight, scowling as fiercely as he could.
At the suggestion of the evil kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Sturm had been told the night before that he would be thrust into a deadly competition the following day. He took the announcement impassively.
On the bright side, his bonds were untied and he was given the very best food and a pallet to sleep on. The minotaurs promised he could fight with the weapon of his choice. After considering the options they showed him, Sturm chose a long, thin, double-edged blade with a chiseled hilt. Whatever happened in the fight to come, Sturm vowed that he would give a good account of himself.
Battered and weary from his torture and imprisonment, the young Solamnic tried to make sense of the situation. He tried to fathom why Tas would be cooperating with these minotaurs. Could it be possible that the kender truly was allied with them? As weak as he was, Sturm lay awake half the night thinking without coming to any definite conclusion.
In the morning, his hand drifted, in its customary fashion, up to his mustache to tug on it thoughtfully. The Solamnic felt only thin air. Ruefully Sturm rubbed his cheek, remembering the kender's glee as he snipped off half the young man's moustache. Sturm flushed, suddenly very angry, his determination to fight and fight well strengthened.
Within the hour, Sturm stood at one end of a tunnel, gripping his sword tightly. At a signal from a minotaur keeper, he started down the narrow passage. As he moved toward the entrance to the pit, he felt the first rush of warm air.
Entering the staging area, Sturm saw what his keeper had described as the Pit of Doom. It was actually a large bowl, superheated by some kind of subterranean geothermal source. The underground source had broken through to the surface in the base of the bowl, which consisted of molten lava that bubbled and seethed, occasionally belching out great bursts of searing gases. Islands of black rock jutted up from the fiery red liquid, connected by bridges that arched high over the lava pit. A fall from them would mean certain death.
Rising from the lava, the heat scalded Sturm's skin. As he looked around the pit, he had to shield his eyes from the brightness and intense heat.
Scanning the crowd in the gallery on the other side of the pit, the Solamnic saw no sign of Tasslehoff amidst the rows of seated minotaurs. Shouting and jeering assaulted his ears, even as the aggregate smell of the minotaur crowd overwhelmed his nostrils.
Directly opposite from Sturm, another tunnel opened into the arena, its entrance shrouded in shadow. As Sturm watched, a horned figure loomed in the darkness, filled the opening, then emerged into view.
Sturm guessed his opponent to be at least seven and a half feet tall. His horns, which added another two feet to his height, were waxed and shiny.
White-blond hair streamed down to his shoulders, and thick fur covered the exposed parts of his hide. Two large rings pierced one ear, while his massive chest rippled with muscle.
On one hand, he wore a mandoll-an iron gauntlet, of the unique type prized by minotaur champions, with spikes on the knuckles and a dagger blade along the back of the thumb. The other hand gripped a heavy clabbard with a sharp, saw-toothed edge.
'Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!' chanted the crowd.
'Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!' squeaked one voice, its high pitch distinguishing it from the minotaur crowd. Sturm recognized it as belonging to Tasslehoff.
Tossak acknowledged the crowd with an arrogant nod. Then the huge minotaur glared in Sturm's direction, flared his bestial snout, and emitted a fierce bellow of challenge.
With a speed and agility that took the Solamnic by surprise, Tossak charged toward him, nimbly leaping from island to island of black rock until he arrived at the bridge that led across to Sturm.
Again the minotaur champion bellowed his challenge, waving and stabbing his clabbard in the air for emphasis.
'Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!' chanted the crowd.
Dizziness swept over Sturm. The blasting heat, the thundering crowd, and the bellowing minotaur warrior all combined to throw him off balance. Sturm shook his head to clear it. Then the Solamnic surprised everyone by how quickly he moved-away from Tossak.
Vaulting across an island of black rock, Sturm planted himself on another bridge that gave him a clear view of Tossak yet kept him safe from immediate attack. Knightly tenets included prudence, Sturm rationalized, and in this instance, that meant buying some time while he figured out the best way to fight the huge beast-man.
Watching the human's retreat, Tossak snorted angrily, pawing the ground with his cleft hooves.
'Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!' chanted Tasslehoff.
Sturm risked a glance into the crowd. There, near the crowd's center, sat the kender, wedged between two minotaurs, one of them the same one he had seen Tas with yesterday, the furred and feathered shaman.
Tas waved gaily at Sturm.
Before Sturm returned his attention to the arena, Tossak made his move, once again leaping across the dark islands of rock, seemingly oblivious to the heat that engulfed the pit and burned Sturm's eyes.
Again the bull-man came to a stop just short of Sturm, on the far side of the bridge from Sturm. Again he thundered his challenge.
Once again the Solamnic turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, hopping over rock islands and sprinting across bridges until he was as far away from Tossak as he could get and still be in the arena.
The heat was sapping Sturm's energy. Drenched in sweat, the Solamnic fought to stay alert. Below him, the hot lava bubbled and belched at the bottom of the pit.
'Tos-sak! Tos-sak! Tos-sak!'
'Sturm! Sturm! Sturm!'
