Galdar had heard news of Mina after that, how she had become a High Priestess of Chemosh, beloved of the Lord of Bones, and Galdor had scowled and shaken his horned head. Mina’s turning priestess was a grievous waste. Galdor could not have been more shocked if he’d heard that the renowned minotaur war hero, Makel Ogrebane, had become a druid and gone about healing baby bunnies.

Because of this, Galdar was reluctant to meet Mina again. If the woman who had boldly and courageously ridden with him on dragon back to do battle with the dread Dragon Overlord Malys was now a bone-waving, spell-chanting, grave-robbing follower of the sly and treacherous Chemosh, Galdar wanted nothing to do with her. He didn’t want to see her like that. He wanted his memories of her to be of the conquering soldier, not some lying priest.

He disliked this assignment for another reason. It involved gods and Galdar’d had a belly full of gods during the War of Souls. Like his old enemy-turned-friend, Gerard, Galdar wanted as little to do with gods as possible. His feelings were so strong that he had almost refused to take the assignment, even though this would have meant saying “No,” to Sargas, something not even the god’s own children dared.

In the end, Galdar’s faith in Sargas (and his fear of him) and his longing to see Mina won out. He reluctantly agreed to accept the assignment. (It should be noted that Sargas did not tell Galdar the truth-that Mina was a god herself. The Horned God must have considered that too great a test for his faithful follower.)

Galdar and the small minotaur patrol under his command spent considerable time scouting the enemy, determining their numbers, appraising their skill. A cautious and intelligent leader, Galdar did not immediately assume, as did some of his race, that just because they were dealing with elves his soldiers would have an easy time of it. Galdar had fought elves during and after the War of Souls, and he had come to respect them as a warriors even if he didn’t think much of them in any other regard. He impressed upon his troops that elves were skilled and tenacious fighters, who would fight all the more fiercely because of their loyalty and dedication to their Walking God.

Galdar laid his ambush in the wilds of the Khalkist mountains. He chose this region because he calculated that once the Walking God was far from civilization the numbers of his followers would dwindle. When Valthonis traveled the major highways of Solamnia, he might have as many as twenty or thirty people accompanying him. Here, far from any major city, close to Neraka, a region of Ansalon most people still considered cursed, only the most dedicated remained at his side. Galdar counted six elven warriors armed with bow and arrow and sword, a Wilder elf who bore no weapons, and a druid of Chislev clad in moss green robes who would probably attack them with holy spells.

He set the time for the ambush at twilight, when the shadows of night stealing among the trees vied with the last rays of the sun. At this time, tricks of the waning light could fool the eye, make finding a target difficult even for elven archers.

Galdar and his troops hid themselves among the trees, waiting until they heard the party moving along the trail, which was little more than a goatherd’s path. The small band was still some distance away, time for Galdar to give his minotaur band some last-minute whispered orders.

“We are to take the Walking God alive,” he said, laying heavy emphasis on the word. “This command comes from Sargas himself. Remember this-Sargas is the god of vengeance. Disobey him at your peril. I for one am not prepared to risk his wrath.”

The other minotaurs agreed wholeheartedly and some glanced uneasily at the heavens. Sargas’ retribution against those who thwarted his will was known to be as swift as it was brutal.

“What if this so-called Walking God chooses to do battle, sir?” asked one. “Will the Gods of Wimps fight for their own? Should we expect lightning bolts to strike us down?”

“Gods of Wimps, is it, Malek?” Galdar growled. “You lost the tip of your horn to a Solamnic knight. Was she a wimp, or did she kick your sorry ass?”

The minotaur looked chagrined. His fellows grinned at him, and one nudged him with an elbow.

“So long as we threaten no harm to the Walking God, the Gods of Light will not intervene. So the priest of Sargas assured me.”

“And what do we do with this Walking God once we have him, sir?” asked another. “You haven’t told us that yet.”

“Because I don’t want to burden your brain with more than one thought at a time,” Galdar told him. “All you need worry about now is capturing the Walking God. Alive!”

Galdar cocked an ear. The voices and the footfalls were drawing nearer.

“Take up your positions,” he ordered and dispersed his men, sending them running to the ditches on either side of the road. “Don’t move a muscle and keep upwind of them! These blasted elves have a nose for minotaur.”

Galdar crouched behind a large oak tree. His sword remained sheathed. He hoped he would not have to use it, and rubbed the stump of his missing arm. The wound was an old one. The arm was fully healed, but sometimes, strangely, he felt pain in the limb that was not there. This evening the arm burned and throbbed worse than usual. He blamed it on the damp, but he had to wonder if it hurt because he was thinking of Mina, recalling their first meeting. She had reached out her hand to him and her touch had healed him, given him back his severed limb.

The limb he’d lost again, trying to save her.

He wondered if she remembered, if she ever thought of their time together, the happiest and proudest time of his life.

Probably not, now that she was a high muckety-muck priestess.

Galdar rubbed his arm and cursed the damp and listened to the voices of elves coming closer.

Hunkering down among the dead leaves and shadows, the minotaur soldiers gripped their weapons and waited.

Two elven warriors walked in front, four came behind. Valthonis and the druid of Chislev walked in the center of the group, absorbed in their conversation. Elspeth kept very close to him, almost at his heels. Usually she would have been far in the rear, several paces behind the rear guard. This sudden change added to the uneasiness the others felt at being so near the accursed valley of Neraka where the Dark Queen had once reigned. They had questioned Valthonis about why he had chosen to come here, to this dread place, but he would only smile and tell them what he always told them in answer to their questions.

“I do not go where I want to go,” he would say. “I go where I need to be.”

Since they could elicit no information from the Walking God, one of the Faithful took it upon himself to question Elspeth, asking her in a low voice what was wrong, what she feared. Elspeth might have been deaf, as well as mute, for she did even glance his way. She kept her gaze fixed upon Valthonis and, as the elf later reported to his fellows, her face was drawn and tense.

Already uneasy and nervous about their surroundings, the elven warriors were not quite caught off guard by the sudden attack. Something struck them as wrong as they passed beneath the leaves of the overhanging tree limbs. Perhaps it was a smell; minotaur have a bovine stench that is not easy to conceal. Perhaps it was the breaking of a stick beneath a heavy boot, or the shifting of a large body in the underbrush. Whatever it was, the elves sensed danger, and they slowed their pace.

The two in front drew their swords and fell back to take up positions on either side of Valthonis. The elves following nocked their arrows and raised their bows and turned to stare intently into the shifting shadows in the trees.