The two companions woke up briefly, choking when Lazaril poured some spring water down their gullets, then force-fed them some dried fish. The larger one, the first one he had fished out of the sea, looked up at him with questioning eyes, swallowing hungrily but dazedly before once again losing consciousness. The other one seemed in worse shape. Lazaril couldn't get more than a few bites down his throat.
Working quickly, the fisherman did some hurried, makeshift mending of their clothes and daubed their skin with a folk balm to soothe the blistering. A little touch here, a little remedy there, and the two half-drowned humans looked almost normal. Well, not quite, but almost.
"You're missing your true calling, Lazaril," the old fisherman said to himself admiringly, chuckling. "You should have been a practitioner of the healing arts."
The fisherman grabbed the oars and pulled strongly, making headway against the slight wind, and within an hour, the boat came into view of the small harbor of Atossa.
Neither of the two companions had regained consciousness. That would be too much to expect. As they approached the harbor Lazaril pulled a tarpaulin over the two unconscious figures so that none of his competitors would spot his unusual cargo. On the main pier, the old fisherman spotted a ragamuffin and gave the boy a copper to run and find the minotaur who served as harbormaster.
The small harbor bustled with trade and activity. Human pirates and mercenary brigands rubbed shoulders with the hulking beast-men who ruled the island. Pitiful slaves—mostly human, but a smattering of other races as well—shouldered cargo, watched over by minotaurs who strode the docks imperiously and, when the slightest occasion warranted, wielded their whips viciously.
A strapping minotaur with fierce eyes and jutting horns came marching up the boardwalk, the ragamuffin behind him hurrying to keep up. Lazaril gave the boy his copper and shooed him away officiously. The minotaur folded his arms and waited, a stern, impatient look on his bestial visage. Lazaril gave him a sly, toothy grin.
Lazaril knew this one by sight, although until now he had always been anxious to give the harbormaster of Atossa wide berth. This was Vigila, appointed by the king himself. All fishermen, and any other harbor regulars, knew him for his brutality and iron command of the small harbor. It was he who dispensed justice on the docks, collected the king's tithe—keeping a portion for himself—and maintained the necessary quota of slaves. It was with him that Lazaril must bargain.
With a modest flourish, the fisherman pulled aside the tarpaulin, revealing the two humans. He looked up at Vigila expectantly.
"What?" asked Vigila, sneering. "You have caught a couple of human carp, old fisherman. Of what interest are they to me?"
Lazaril swallowed and forced a toothy grin. "Your excellency," he began, not sure how to address the harbormaster, "their wounds are quite superficial. I believe these are very strong humans who, if they were brought back to health, would make excellent slaves. They are weak now, but they just need food and water to regain their strength. Then they could be worked hard—worked hard until their deaths. That would be of some interest to you, would it not?"
Vigila snorted savagely, his eyes seeming to bore through Lazaril. "Throw them back in the water, old fisherman. Stick to your usual catch. Hook something that you can at least put on your plate for supper." The low rumble that came from his throat might have been a chuckle.
Lazaril summoned his courage, and again came the sly smile. "I believe this one"—the fisherman patted Caramon's shoulder—"could be trained for the games. He could be a gladiator; he has the girth of one. Although I will gladly sell him to you at a special price for a gladiator. Think of how pleased the king would be if you gave him a gladiator who had been plucked from the sea. It would be another distinguishing mark in your career."
Vigila looked thoughtful. The idea clearly appealed to the harbormaster, Lazaril saw.
"Humans never last long in the games," the minotaur said contemptuously.
"But," pursued the fisherman, silently congratulating himself on his tact and bargaining prowess, "they are very entertaining to watch, even when they lose."
Caramon and Sturm stirred slightly, then lifted their heads. Each wondered, not for the first time in recent days, where he was. After days adrift in a savage sea, neither could make sense of the scene before him.
An old fisherman with carrot-colored hair was standing bowlegged in his boat, talking in a low voice to a huge minotaur, who towered over him. The minotaur wore a leather skirt and a variety of straps and belts. He carried a huge, rough-hewn stick. A figure of some authority as he stood on the pier, the bull-man appeared to be haggling with the fisherman.
But their brains were so clouded and the discussion between the fisherman and the huge minotaur so seemingly muted and far away that Caramon and Sturm couldn't make out the words.
The harbormaster glanced over at the two companions, saw their heads lifted pitifully toward him, and saw them slump over again. The old fisherman nodded and beamed encouragingly.
"Here, old fisherman," grumbled Vigila, reaching into one of his pockets and throwing Lazaril a handful of coins. "I will take this human wreckage off your hands. Maybe I can freshen them up. Maybe not." The harbormaster turned and signaled for a cart.
Another minotaur, far down the pier, cracked a whip. Two human slaves began pulling a large wooden-wheeled cart toward the harbormaster.
Lazaril scrambled to
