Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  With one last flourish of his sword, Faros beheaded the imaginary emperor he was fighting. The sword practically sang as it cut through the air. In the same motion, he sheathed the weapon.

  “What is it now, Grom?” Faros asked impatiently, unmindful of the dust. Distant sounds drifted from the halls into the chamber—hammering, voices, the rebels keeping some semblance of life.

  “In accordance with the rites, our own dead are finally all burned.” The other minotaur coughed—harder—as he made the sign of Sargonnas. “I ask again to let me organize parties to begin doing the same for at least the legionaries we fought.”

  Faros responded to his request by drawing the sword again. This time, he began thrusting at the condor symbol carved into the nearest wall. He had not told anyone about Sargonnas’s visitation, especially the pious Grom, who would have been unable to keep such a remarkable tale secret.

  “Leave them where they lay! It’ll be a reminder for anyone else who tries to storm our sanctum.”

  “Faros, the stench—”

  “It will dissipate, is already dissipating!” Faros had smelled far worse during his years of slavery.

  In truth, the odor aroused his obsession, reminding him there were more ogres to slay, more Sahds and Golgrens. When there were no ogres left to kill, maybe then he would start in on the empire that had betrayed him.

  No, Faros reminded himself. He had agreed to Bastion’s quest. Faros did not know whether he truly wanted that compromise to succeed or not, but he would allow the Lady Maritia’s brother to try, which reminded him that Bastion had not yet departed.

  Without a word, he stepped past the still-kneeling Grom. The latter quickly rose as Faros stormed by, but the rebel leader did not give him time to again plead his case. In the matter of the enemy dead, Faros would not be moved. The sun would dry their corpses and the scavengers pick them clean. The bones would serve to decorate this part of Kern in a manner most appropriate for both the hellish realm and Faros’s own tortured dreams.

  Grom, with a deep sigh, wisely did not follow. Faros marched through the halls, the echoes of his sandaled feet on the stone floor matching the pace of his ever-racing heart. The dead eyes of the ancient figures stared down from the walls, seeming to warily watch his progress. Torches flickered wildly in his wake.

  He found Bastion in his quarters—a small, square domicile no doubt once used by novices. Bastion was the only one who, like Faros, saw little need for even the most meager ornamentation. Others sought to recall better times, better lives, with carvings they arranged or colored stones they had found, but nothing about the chamber gave any hint of the black minotaur dwelled within. Like Faros, when he departed Bastion would leave no memory of having been here.

  “You are still here then,” muttered the lighter-furred warrior. “Why the delay? The sooner this farce is over, the better!”

  “The delay was necessary,” Bastion responded in a clipped manner. He slung a small cloth bag over his shoulder, a week’s worth of rations. Strapped to his back was a twin-edged axe. “Besides, I thought it would be wiser to start off closer to dusk, when we would be less visible.” Bastion saw that Faros was not satisfied. “I was just about to alert you to my departure.”

  “You know where to find her?”

  “I know those who do. They will contact her for me.” Bastion shrugged. “As I said, I can promise nothing. When she realizes I have been fighting alongside the rebels, Maritia could throw me in chains or behead me on the spot. I trust she will listen first.”

  “Killing her own brother would be dishonorable,” the former slave remarked sarcastically.

  “True,” Bastion said, chuckling, “but the definitions of honor has become quite fluid these days.” Bastion dipped his horns in farewell. “I am in part responsible for that.”

  Ignoring the other’s philosophical tone, Faros returned to the subject. “You’re certain you want to risk your life on this mission?”

  “Yes.”

  Even if Bastion’s sister agreed to all, it would still be up to Maritia and her brother to convince the Grand Lord Golgren. Though Blöde bordered the former Silvanesti, the emissary from Kern would have the final word. Blöde had become just a province of the northern ogre realm and Kern a land dominated by Golgren. The once powerful Donnag had been transformed into a grotesque mockery of himself, as if some disease he did not notice ran amok through him. Golgren … first Bastion had to convince Maritia, then Golgren.

  Thinking of the ogres, Faros added, “The route through Kern and Blöde should steer you past the most populated areas, but you will encounter patrols. You still insist on only four companions?”

  “They all served me at some point in the legions. They are skilled. Any larger a group would be more noticeable or slow me down.” The black minotaur adjusted his pack then concluded, “Whatever happens, do not fear. I will betray nothing.”

  Faros brought the sword up, so that Bastion stared level at the sinister, unvarnished blade. “I do not fear anything, much less betrayal.”

  Bastion nodded, then, with a dipping of his horns, left the chamber.

  Minutes later, Faros, sword sheathed, watched from an opening far overhead as the small party rode off to the southwest. Well, then. He had done his part; he had tried to live up to his father’s memory. There was nothing else to be done for now.

  Then a sudden sense of foreboding touched him. He quickly looked around but saw no one. Unconsciously, Faros rubbed the gem on the black ring. Sargonnas’s ring.

  A brief flash of something passed at the edge of his vision—a figure pale and deathly. Faros spun about, still touching the ring and concentrating.

  Nothing appeared. With a silent curse, he glared at the artifact. “Some gift, Condor Lord! No wonder its last wearer is dead!”

  He should take it off, hurl it away. No, not yet.

  Faros clutched the hilt of his sword. That gift, at least, had served him well. It had bathed in the blood of many ogres and not a few legionaries, and still the blade was unblemished. Better that Sargonnas had given him a thousand such swords with which to arm his ragtag army, but gods never conducted affairs in a sensible manner.

  At that moment, the briefest hint of a noxious odor that stirred foul memories assailed his nostrils. Faros glanced over the darkening terrain, finally noticing a slight, winding column of smoke to the north edge. If not for a sudden shift in the wind, the scent and smoke would have remained out of sight.

  His eyes reddened as he realized what it meant. “Grom!”

  Faros’s fury rose as he rushed through the ancient temple, frightening many of his followers. Guards jerked to attention. Two humans playing a game of stones and sticks kicked away the pieces and scrambled away. Everyone had witnessed his explosive rages in the past, and no one wished to become the fresh object of his ire.

  “A horse!” he roared to one of those tending to the rebels’ small herd.

  Most of the animals had been recovered from mining camps or slaughtered patrols. The outcasts took as good care of them as they could, although keeping the horses fed was a problem as persistent as feeding the army of former slaves themselves.

  Someone quickly brought him a saddled mount. Faros leapt atop the huge ogre steed and urged it toward the northern gateway.

  Those near the gate cheered him as he rode through. Faros ignored the cheers, focused only on the winding path leading down. The ogre horse was not the speediest of mounts, but it was sure-footed. Loose stone scattered as he swiftly made the descent, before long reaching the base of the mountain.

  Faros veered the animal north. Once around the next bend, he would not be far from his goal.

  Movement atop the ridge caught his eye. A figure slid out of sight behind the rocks. Faros had no fear of harm; the sentinel had been posted by Grom to call a warning, not attack. Grom had disobeyed a direct command, the worst offense in Faros’s mind.

  As he neared, the full extent of Grom’s duplicity revealed itself. Mor
e than a dozen figures were working frantically to maintain a fair-sized pyre consisting of dried shrubs and other debris found amidst the harsh landscape. Another band of ex-slaves and former soldiers were tossing large burdens upon the fire. The odor of burnt flesh wafted toward Faros.

  “Grom!” he shouted as he rode up. “Grom! Where are you?”

  The rest halted their efforts, staring at their rebel leader in surprise and terror.

  The focus of his anger finally materialized from behind the pyre. Stepping through the rising smoke, a sweat-drenched Grom strode defiantly toward Faros. The minotaur coughed as he approached.

  “Blame—blame none of the others, Faros. This is my sin alone. They followed my orders and dared not disobey.”

  In response, Faros leapt off his horse, stepped right up to his second, and struck Grom heavily on the jaw. Grom tumbled to the ground. The others were frozen, not certain what they should do.

  “I too gave an order. A specific order. You disobeyed me.”

  Grom embarked on a coughing fit, but finally managed to stand. Through tearing eyes, he faced Faros. “My conscience would not permit me to leave the dead, not even for you, Faros. At least the legionaries deserve a pyre! They only fight as they’ve been trained! They only follow orders, too.”

  “We’ve left their dead behind before. It never bothered you so much, then.”

  “Yes, it did. I never protested much. There didn’t—there didn’t seem much reason to, either, not with the gods gone.”

  There it was. Ears twitching, Faros snorted. “And now the gods have returned, is that it? Suddenly, you’ve got the fear of them again?”

  “Not fear …” the dark-brown minotaur returned sharply, “Not fear.”

  Ignoring Grom, Faros looked to the rest of the guilty party. “Douse that fire! Leave those where they lay! The scavengers’ll give them the last rites they deserve! Do it now!”

  They raced to oblige. Whatever their convictions concerning the dead, first and foremost they had sworn themselves to follow Faros. Grom, Faros understood, had led them astray.

  Grom and the intrusive Sargonnas.

  Faros refused to let the god meddle with his life.

  The others finished smothering the flames. Grom began coughing again, a series of harsh barks. Faros glanced distastefully at the minotaur who had once been among his most loyal stalwarts. Grom had inhaled too much smoke, the fool; likely he had been standing too near the pyre all the while.

  “It would serve you right if—”

  The other minotaur tumbled forward.

  Instinct made Faros reach out and grab Grom before he struck the earth. With moist, red eyes, Grom tried to focus on his leader. Faros’s own eyes widened as he noticed small, bloody pustules lining the other minotaur’s lower lids.

  “Faros …” Grom managed. “F-Faros … I—I’m sorry …”

  He coughed again. His entire body shuddered—and grew still.

  The heart of the empire was beating soundly, and the high priestess took this as evidence of the absolute might of the power she served. Wherever her ghostly servants roamed, her own eyes seeing through theirs, Nephera saw proof of success and prosperity.

  Mito and most of the other major shipbuilding colonies were at full capacity, shipwrights and dockworkers toiling day and night to strengthen the empire’s expanding armada. Mito was constructing new shipbuilding facilities on the southern edge of the colony, and Mithas too was busy with plans for growth.

  The additional ships would strengthen the new garrisons and outposts being established throughout the empire and police the outer colonies. They would help deal with rebel attacks. Not all the new vessels were warships, however. Huge squat cargo carriers filled with food supplies and raw materials—such as iron or oils—made regular runs to the main colonies, distributing to smaller vessels heading to lesser settlements.

  All food distribution was overseen by the temple now. To Nephera, that made perfect sense and since the majority of the Supreme Circle—the governing body under the emperor—were among her faithful, it had proven easy to obtain the required vote. Supervisors sent to the farming colonies made certain all growers brought their produce and meats directly to shipyard stations. Sow and yield was closely monitored, so that as the empire expanded, demand would not exceed availability.

  Nethosak itself was the shining example of Nephera’s achievement. What Hotak had envisioned, she had transformed into reality. The capital’s full resources were focused on the needs of the empire. Every worker served the expansion. The Protectors commanded all levels, enforcing the priestess’s decisions.

  Her decrees …

  The high priestess rose from the great marble bath that had once served the clerics of Sargonnas. Two acolytes clad in white, gold-trimmed garments quickly toweled her off while another brought Nephera her robes of office. As she donned the black and silver-lined outfit, leaving the voluminous hood pulled back, Lady Nephera allowed one of the servants to take a horsehair brush to her mane.

  The scent of lavender drifted throughout the room. Steam rose from the waters of the huge, rounded bath. The temple kept a vat of water heated at all times for the high priestess, and the intricate plumbing system devised by some clever cleric long ago enabled Nephera to have the water temperature adjusted to her preference. Of late, she wished it hotter and hotter, almost to the point of scalding her flesh. The fur of her servants was matted by the constant humidity, not so Nephera. Those who came in physical touch with her often found her flesh strangely cold. Even now, fresh from the heated bath, she felt as though she stood upon a chill mountain top. Her fur hung smooth, crisp, and dry.

  She little resembled the onetime young, glowing, beautiful (for one of her species) bride of Hotak, and had changed much even from the time of his ascension to the throne. The Lady Nephera who now stood in the center of the chamber as her faithful toiled for her pleasure was a wild-eyed, cadaverous, vaguely repellant female. Little flesh filled her minotaur form and face, and her outstretched arms ended more in talons than fingers. Nonetheless, her servants attended her with rapt adoration, as if she were as she imagined herself to be, beauty and perfection incarnate.

  “Send word to Lord Gunthin that his presence is requested in the temple tonight. I would speak with him concerning the disappointing news of shipping delays.”

  “It will be done, mistress,” responded the one brushing out her mane.

  “Is the chamber prepared for me?”

  “All is in readiness, mistress,” answered a second, adjusting the robes just so.

  Nephera made a slight gesture with her left hand. Her acolytes immediately ceased their exertions, retreating several steps from her august personage.

  “Clean this area. I want it perfectly clean and in order,” she commanded, then murmuring to herself, “I want all in perfect order …”

  As they scurried to obey, the high priestess strode from the bath toward the wall. Although she did not look behind her, she knew that the three did not dare watch as she touched one of the stones in the wall.

  While part of the wall gave way to a black passage beyond, Nephera suddenly started. Her unblinking eyes blazed as she stared to her left, looking at a figure only she could see.

  “Cease your reproachful manner!” Lady Nephera snapped at the figure, though others might have thought she was snapping at thin air. Her attendants shivered to overhear, but still none dared glance in her direction. Such things were not for them to question.

  “Away with you!” she commanded, raising one clawed hand up to chest level. Her fingers flared a dark, sinister green and in their glow there appeared briefly the shade of a massive minotaur in armor, his head twisted, his limbs bent as if his death had been cruel. He showed no emotion, not even in the one good eye, now flat and dull, he once boasted.

  Hotak’s silent shade vanished at her command. That should have been the end of it, but Nephera had exorcised the spirit before … and each time her mate had returned. He was not
like Kolot, a most obedient shadow, like all the rest. Hotak did nothing but stand and watch her, hovering close. No matter how harshly she sent him away, he always returned. When she commanded him to some hopefully lengthy task, he would obligingly disappear, only to materialize a short time later, the task forgotten, never started. He was alone among her ghosts in this stubborn, disobedient behavior.

  Teeth bared in frustration, Nephera darted through the passage, the wall sealing behind her. For some distance she walked in total darkness. Then the high priestess paused at another wall. Her hand rose unerringly to touch the wall, which opened up into her sanctum, deep in the heart of the vast main temple of Nethosak.

  The scent of lavender heavily pervaded her new surroundings, the scent designed to mask other, more foul odors that might arise. As she entered, three acolytes dipped their horns in acknowledgement. Unlike the ones who assisted her with her bath, these wore robes akin to hers, though with the barest hint of silver thread.

  “It is fresh?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Drawn less than a quarter of the hour ago, as commanded, mistress,” reverently answered the middle one of the trio. “As prescribed by ritual.”

  Nephera nodded, then with a frown, glanced about the chamber. Fortunately, there was no sign of the shade for whom she searched, and her confidence returned.

  The three acolytes parted. Behind them stood a pedestal upon which sat a squat, brass bowl with the symbols of the Forerunners—the axe and avian—embossed five times around the upper edge. Next to it sat a small, less elaborate bowl and a cloth towel.

  The lesser priestesses made way for Nephera as she walked up to the larger bowl. She gazed down into it then thrust her hands into its crimson contents.

  An exclamation of manic pleasure escaped her. Although only her ears could hear them, voices whispered from the bowl. Nephera felt a tingle, a rejuvenation. Her body quivered in ecstasy.

  From her mouth came words in a tongue foreign to all but a handful in all the world of Krynn. The dark red of the liquid within did not merely splash her wrists but flowed up her arms halfway to the elbow. Not one drop, however, so much as stained the sleeves of her garments, even as they dipped into the liquid itself.