Once or twice they came to places where the tunnel forked, and if Caramon hadn't kept the figure in view, he wouldn't have known which way to go. He realized he could never find his way back, even if for some reason he chose to return to the prison.

After an hour of this arduous progress, the tunnel began to slope gradually upward. Caramon followed the shape ahead of him as it found footholds, clung to roots, and scratched for purchase. Aching from the unaccustomed exertion, the warrior wished they could take a moment to rest.

Finally, almost without warning, Caramon felt the ground slope up steeply under his feet. Clawing upward, he burst out of the ground into bright sunlight. It had been so long since he had seen the sun that he was momentarily blinded. Before Caramon could adjust his eyes and take stock of his rescuer, a burlap sack was dropped over his head, someone pulled the drawstring at his feet, and he fell over.

But he didn't strike the ground, because in the same instant, Caramon had the distinct sensation of being caught, lifted off the ground, and borne aloft.

The minotaur guard who had failed the simple responsibility of keeping watch over Caramon was executed the next morning.

The minotaur with the important insignia came back down to the dungeon and, with his fawning human slave hopping along at his side, he retraced Caramon's movements. He walked up and down the corridors, looking and thinking. He stopped in front of the cell where the minotaur guard said he had last seen Caramon. He looked at the miserable inhabitant of the cell, barely clinging to life, and he gazed at the walls and the floor and the ceiling.

Although he was a very intelligent minotaur, he couldn't for the life of him figure out how the human, who was being nurtured toward a glorious future as a gladiator, had escaped. Where could he go?

He and his minotaur aide took out their frustration on the other human, the one called Sturm. They beat him bloody, demanding to know how his companion had gotten away. They may have beaten Sturm a little too hard, because the human's face became so swollen that he wouldn't have been able to say anything even if he wanted to. In any case, he couldn't have told much, because Sturm had absolutely no idea where Caramon had gone or how he had escaped.

After beating him, the minotaur officer decided that the one called Sturm probably knew nothing or he would have talked, and that the best thing to do, considering, would be to nurse Sturm back to health all over again, favoring him with the best food and water.

If they were lucky, they would still get one gladiator out of all this trouble.

Then, heaving a deep sigh, the minotaur dictated a communiquй to his fawning human slave. The communiquй would be sent to the capital city of Lacynos, to the king himself. Unpleasant though it may be, it was his duty to report such an unusual occurrence as an escape from the prison of Atossa.

Captain Nugetre made his living hiring out the Castor to carry cargo, people-whatever he was asked, no questions asked-throughout the Eastern seas. Tanis, Raistlin, Flint, and Kirsig attracted little attention from the crew when they boarded that morning.

Anticipating an eventful voyage, Tanis decided to keep a log, requesting and receiving paper for that purpose from the captain's supply.

Tempestuous winds and murky weather greeted us as soon as we lost sight of the shoreline. The reddish sea deepened in color to a muddy brown, a portent of dangers ahead.

Captain Nugetre gathered myself, Flint, Raistlin, the half-ogre Kirsig, and his own first mate-a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a cap of straight blond hair, who goes by the name of Yuril (she reminds me of no one so much as Caramon, for she is a strapping physical specimen)-in his cabin for a look at his maps and a discussion of the route.

Although Nugetre is an arrogant man, it seems from the attitude of his crew that he has earned their liking as well as respect. Certainly Kirsig speaks highly of him, mostly as a result of his contacts with her father. His cabin is a modest affair, containing a plain writing desk, a cabinet of charts and maps, and a small hammock.

Once we were all present, Captain Nugetre began by warning us that there could be no guarantee that we would arrive safely at our destination, the far minotaur isles. "I have chanced the Blood Sea as often as any seafaring man," the captain declared, "but I never forget that it is a risk, a deadly one. Your reasons had better be worth gambling of your lives."

Flint started to say something, but Raistlin cut him off. The dwarf's broken leg was bound in neat wrapping, but his face was green and had been ever since he was dragged aboard the ship. The choppy waves that we have experienced since setting sail have confirmed his misgivings about sea voyages and aggravated his suffering.

Raistlin assured the captain that we had no intention of turning back. To emphasize his point, he set a bag of gems and coins on the captain's desk. Their value was substantial. Flint sat up, his eyes wide. "Double that," said Raistlin pointedly, "if we make the crossing within ten days."

Kirsig had already told Nugetre that we needed to make all possible speed, and the captain outlined his unusual tactic for meeting Raistlin's deadline.

Other ships' captains steer well clear of the Outer Reach of the Maelstrom at the center of the Blood Sea. It is the wisest course, for when a vessel is caught in its mighty undertow, it is sucked into the ever tightening rings of the whirlpool, and finally down into the dark red waters that churn feverishly where once stood the great city of Istar.

Nugetre proposed to head directly for the outer ring of the Maelstrom, and to ride its current without giving in to the choking waters. Once it had carried us near enough to the minotaur isles-a distance of some three hundred miles-the Castor would fight free of the deadly pull,

"That is the only way we can make the distance inside of ten days," the captain concluded. "Otherwise, because of the currents and the prevailing winds, it is a journey of several weeks. Safer, but slower by far."

"Have you ever attempted this before?" asked Raistlin intently.

"No," answered the captain flatly.

A heavy silence thickened the air after his reply. "But it can be done," spoke up Yuril unexpectedly. "I sailed with a captain once who did it. The voyage was terrible. Not only did we have to battle the current, but also the perpetual storm that reigns over the Maelstrom. Death beckoned at every instant. We lost several good sailors in the heavy squalls. But the captain was determined to ride it out. He turned the ship at precisely the right instant, and we broke free. The strategy did indeed save time."

Curious, I asked her what had happened to that captain. Why did she now sail with Captain Nugetre?

"Pah," Yuril replied. "My former captain lost his life on land, in Bloodwatch. He was a genius aboard ship, a dolt in other respects. Imagine besting the Blood Sea, only to be stabbed to death in a common barroom brawl." She paused and squared her shoulders, staring at each of us in turn. "I have been sailing with Captain Nugetre for two years now. He has the skill and courage necessary. With these, it can be done."

She stabbed her finger at the map laid out on the desk, showing where the ship would enter the Maelstrom, and where, if luck was with us, we would be expelled.