Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The procession of ghosts grew longer with each death.

  Rage suddenly getting the better of him, Faros charged up to the statue. Drawing his sword, he threatened the figure.

  “Where are you this time, Horned One? Here lies a fool … your fool! Here’s one who imagined you would return one day and make all right! See the reward he got for his faith? To be burned with others in a mass pyre, then forgotten by all!”

  He slashed at the statue, but this time all he did was leave a jagged line in the marble. No floodgates opened, no river of blood or molten earth poured forth.

  With a frustrated grunt, Faros sought something stronger to wield against the statue. His eyes alighted on Grom’s good, dependable axe.

  As his fingers grazed the handle, revulsion filled him. Faros pulled back, staring into the face of the one who had followed him so loyally. Grom had courageously fought Sahd’s minions, legionaries, and the horde of the Grand Lord Golgren. He could have remained with Jubal’s comrades but had sworn to guard Faros’s back.

  Now, instead of battle, it was disease that had claimed the sturdy warrior. To minotaurs, such a death was a life wasted. No glorious songs of final battle would be sung for him, no stories would be told to his children of the enemies he had taken with him.

  Grom’s head lay tipped slightly to the side, almost as if his lidded eyes watched Faros.

  Going down on one knee, Faros readjusted his dead comrade’s head so that Grom could stare up at the heavens.

  “You should’ve chosen a different god,” muttered the rebel leader, “and a different cause to follow.”

  He sheathed his sword again and hurried from the scene. The coolness of the temple would help preserve the dead. Grom’s body could lie under the indifferent eye of his god overnight, then Faros would see to it that his second’s body was burned. He owed Grom that much.

  The sounds and sights of the plague continued to assail him all the way back to his quarters. He tried to return to his sword practice, but even slaying a hundred Golgrens did nothing to calm Faros. His heart beat faster and faster. Finally, Faros tossed his sword away in disgust.

  As he did so, the rebel leader noticed the other gift of the god. Still caught up in his rage, Faros ripped the ring from his finger and threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

  The ring did not break. However, it struck the stone with a loud clatter, making a brief, red spark, then clattered across the floor, leaving other sparks in its wake. Faros watched with some satisfaction as it rolled down into a crack in one corner.

  “So much for your gifts,” he murmured to the absent deity. “So much for your power …”

  The sound of intense coughing made him spin about. An elder male with graying brown fur stood outside the entrance. Faros had seen him ministering to some of the other stricken minotaurs, but now he himself looked ill. Even as Faros opened his mouth to say something, the other minotaur abruptly fell to the left, striking the opposite wall in the corridor.

  By the time Faros reached the entrance, the older rebel had slumped to the floor. Faros leaned over the quivering figure and turned his head so he could better see this one’s face—especially his eyes.

  The pustules were there. Faros cursed. Straightening, he shouted, “I need someone! Now!”

  Perhaps it was the confusion of the echoing corridors or the simple fact that there were so many cries and coughs, but no one came. Finally growing impatient, Faros bent down. Straining with effort, he lifted the limp form enough to pull it down the corridor. The minotaur’s feet dragged, slowing him.

  By the time he made it to the chamber where the latest victims were being cared for, his fur was soaked with perspiration and his breathing had grown a bit ragged.

  At last, someone noticed him. A sandy-haired human and a female minotaur with one eye covered by a cloth bound around her head raced up to take Faros’s burden. As they did, he looked around in disgust. The number of victims grew by the hour.

  “How many new ones?”

  “Thirteen more,” answered the pug-nosed human, who looked little healthier than the ones he supervised.

  The minotaur shook her head. “Fourteen, Hanos. They brought in Guan when you stepped out for more water.”

  Hanos grew agitated at mention of Guan, though Faros didn’t know why and could not concern himself with every individual who came down with the plague.

  “Grom is dead,” he said dully. “Grom was the first, wasn’t he?”

  “Grom was one of the first,” the female said, “but there was also the human, Izak, and Sakron and Dor.”

  Faros did not know Sakron, but the names Izak and Dor were familiar to him. He tried to recall where he had seen them last—and realized that they had been part of the crew Grom had gathered to build the secret pyre.

  The plague must have come with the attackers. They couldn’t have known they were infected. The rapidity with which the plague spread made that very unlikely.

  “Order those outside to stay outside as long as they feel healthy,” he commanded. “If anyone comes down with the symptons, they’re to be moved to the lower level of the temple. Maybe we can contain the situation.” Faros doubted that, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. His head pounded. “That goes for you, too, if you are still healthy. Everyone out of the temple!”

  Hanos and the female looked aghast. The latter blurted, “Who’ll watch over the sick?”

  “Can you really do anything for them?” he shot back.

  Wearing defeated expressions, they hung their heads.

  “Go tell the others!” Faros commanded again. “Now!”

  As they reluctantly did so, he abandoned the sick room and started back to his chamber to get his sword and head outside himself. The corridor grew stifling as he walked. For some reason the halls also seemed to stretch on forever. Faros blinked constantly from the sweat that dripped into his eyes from his brow.

  He spotted his quarters. Before he grabbed the sword, Faros would first drink some water from the leather sack near his bedding. That would finally cool him …

  A voice suddenly whispered in his head. Faster … swifter! So close! So far!

  The rebel leader shook his head, wondering if he had perhaps heard someone talking down a side corridor. He took another step, then paused at the entrance of his quarters, one hand against the doorway.

  Do not stop, do not halt! The black kiss is upon you …

  The words made no sense, whatever their source. Faros shook his head again, determined not to listen. All he desired was water, the sword, and maybe a few minutes rest. A short nap before he abandoned the temple. There could not be any danger in that—

  His hand slipped at the very same moment that his legs buckled. Faros felt himself strike the floor with a jarring thud. The pain momentarily stirred him from his malaise and he realized with mounting horror the truth of his situation.

  He too was a victim of the plague.

  Maritia eyed the unwelcoming landscape, so different from the fertile lands of Ambeon a few hours’ ride south. The crags jutted up randomly like savage claws. The temperature was much hotter than when they had left the colony’s capital. The musky scent of the minotaurs mingled with the sweat of the horses. What breeze there was served only to blow dust in their faces. The only life she had spotted for miles was a few scraggly shrubs and a brown viper scurrying off before it could be trampled by the huge warhorses. There was supposed to be a river around here somewhere, but they were surrounded by baked landscape.

  “We should not be here,” suggested an elder officer at her right.

  “Be at ease,” Maritia commanded. “We’re in the land of our allies, after all.”

  One of the others snorted. Maritia gave him a reproving look. Despite her comment, she was well aware of the dangers. Golgren might have both ogre realms firmly under his governance, but there were always raiders or outlaws to be concerned about.

  The sun had begun to descend. By Maritia’s calc
ulation, they did not have much longer to wait. Bastion had always been obsessively punctual and she had no doubt that he still was.

  Shadows from the western crags lengthened. A bird’s harsh cry echoed among the rocks. The party was flanked by the high formations. This area made an excellent spot for a trap, which bothered Maritia.

  Maritia ordered everyone to dismount. She intended to meet Bastion honoring the minotaur traditions of truce, regardless of his possible affiliation with the rebels. Barely had her feet touched the baked earth when suddenly the slow, steady echo of hooves arose from ahead. Her escort immediately drew their weapons.

  “Lower those!” Maritia snapped, despite her own gut impulse to reach for her sword. “We abide by the laws of truce!”

  The clatter ceased.

  A dark-furred figure, his axe slung behind him, materialized from the shadowed path ahead. Behind him walked four others. Each of the newcomers led a horse.

  One of the soldiers couldn’t help blurting, “Lord Bastion!”

  Maritia had warned the four with her, four devoutly loyal to her, that her brother would be meeting them, but even she eyed the long-lost minotaur with some astonishment. To see Bastion living, breathing … and to have his betrayal verified in the flesh …

  The black minotaur handed the reins of his mount to another rebel. The act was a signal, for all four of Bastion’s companions stopped, leaving Hotak’s son vulnerable as he approached his sibling. Maritia left her own horse and escort behind. She made certain to keep her hand away from her sheathed sword, no matter how much she was tempted to pull the weapon free. Bastion and she met midway, far enough from each party so that the two could speak without being overheard.

  “Military commander of Ambeon,” her brother announced respectfully. “An appointment richly deserved.”

  “As was heir to the throne,” she countered coolly.

  “I never desired that. That was Father’s choice.”

  “I thought it a good idea at the time, Bastion.”

  His brow wrinkled. “ ‘At the time,’ Mari?”

  “What’re you doing consorting with the rebels?” she asked bluntly. “If you survived your reported death, which is apparent, why didn’t you return directly to the empire? How could you betray everything Father taught you to believe in, damn you?”

  He started to say something then seemed to reconsider. After a moment, Bastion finally answered, “Because I had no choice. Because the path we chose for our people is tainted, and it grows more poisoned, leading to chaos and doom.”

  “Talk straight!” Maritia snapped.

  “You want bluntness? Then consider this. I believe Ardnor is the one who tried to have me killed.” He briefly recounted what happened: the assassin aboard the Stormbringer, how he had fought the attacker and tumbled into the sea, how he had been rescued by the rebels, and how the body of a Protector with the wounds Bastion had inflicted had been discovered by those same rebels.

  Maritia listened to all open-mouthed.

  “You—you can’t be serious!” she uttered when he finished. “For all his faults, Ardnor would never stoop to that!”

  Expression somber, Bastion nodded in disagreement, then slowly added, “There is more. Mari … I suspect that Father’s death was no accident, either.”

  “What do you mean about Father? Of course, it was an accident! What else—?”

  His countenance grew darker. “Mari … I think that Mother used her magic to lead Father to his death and bring Ardnor to power.”

  It was too much to bear, such heresy coming from her once beloved brother. “You’re insane!” she said. “The sea must’ve poured through your ears and soaked your brain! I’ve my disagreements with Mother and Ardnor, but—but—” she shook her head. “Maybe Ardnor is capable—maybe—but never Mother! She and Father were devoted to one another! They worked together all their lives to deliver our race from Chot’s corruption! I don’t believe it! They are rebel lies that you have foolishly accepted.”

  “No, Mari, I—”

  The female minotaur thrust a demanding finger at his muzzle. “You’ve proof?”

  “Proof is a difficult matter—but I know what I believe.”

  “How could you even know anything about what happened to Father? You were already gone, probably already turned traitor!”

  Her outburst stirred the other rebels to movement. One drew his sword and advanced a few steps. The rest tugged at axes. Their response in turn caused the legionaries to wake up. Weapons raised, they moved toward the rebels.

  Bastion whirled on his companions. “Get back! We will not dishonor the truce, no matter what!”

  Maritia glared at her own soldiers. “You heard my brother! I’ll not permit dishonor either!”

  Maritia turned her baleful gaze on Bastion, who eyed her back with his usual calm. For the first time in her life, she found his placidity maddening.

  “You called me here for a reason, Bastion! Spit it out and we’ll take it from there. Are you ready to return to the empire now? Is that it? As long as your crimes are not heinous, perhaps—”

  “No, Mari. I’m not going to return. Not so long as Ardnor and Mother control the throne.”

  Her blood raced. “Then what?”

  “I have an offer to pass on that may put a peaceful end to this civil war—”

  “Civil war? Insurrection!”

  He snorted slightly. “Call it what you may. Faros has agreed to this plan, my suggestion. I propose that we—”

  “Faros.” The name she had read in reports, but very little was known about him for certain. The suspected leader of the rebellion, an escaped slave from the ogre camps. He had managed to defeat Golgren in personal combat, Maritia knew, not a trifling deed. She had never disgraced Golgren by asking him about it.

  “So …” she said, her thoughts spinning. “You know this Faros?”

  “You’ve met him yourself. Even before Vyrox. Faros, Mari. The son of Gradic, Chot’s youngest brother.”

  She tried to match the name with a face and wasn’t sure. “A wastrel? Perhaps I remember, but that one was everything that was wrong with the empire, a gambler and a drinker! A pathetic warrior, too! You can’t be serious! That Faros?”

  His expression changed, with an animation that Maritia had never seen before. Bastion quickly smothered his emotions, but his sister recognized the anger he had flashed in defense of the rebel leader.

  “ ‘That Faros,’ as you put it, survived the whippings and poison air of Vyrox, the slave rebellion to which you yourself were witness, then the indignities and horrors of minotaur servitude to the ogres. I need not remind you of the stories told of our ancestors’ struggles as ogre chattel.”

  “This Faros is the blood of Chot! So what of his suffering? He should’ve been executed that night! Under what rock did he hide?”

  “The Faros you knew is no more. This Faros realizes the truth of things, is growing as a leader. He has drawn to him not only slaves of many races—”

  “The filth of Ansalon!”

  “But legionaries as well.”

  “Traitors! Nothing more!” The nephew of Chot was the mysterious leader of the rebellion! Maritia would have found it laughable if not for the fact that her brother took it so seriously. “What is this grand offer?”

  “There is an island off of Kern …” With his usual succinctness, Bastion explained the proposal. The end of fighting. The rebels living in an independent colony. The empire could expand onto mainland Ansalon without any distraction.

  She could immediately see the advantages. The conflict here and out at sea badly drained the military. The ogres controlled part of Neraka, and even Ambeon extended beyond the recognized borders of old Silvanesti, but at the moment the empire was blocked from further expansion. To do so was to spread the legions and supply routes too thin. A capable enemy like the Solamnics exploited any weaknesses.

  Yet it made no sense to authorize an island stronghold of malcontents. The nephew of Chot w
ould, by his very existence, draw recruits from everywhere. Once it became known that Bastion was alive, loyal to Faros, the rebellion would blossom and not be contained.

  “Out of the question,” she said abruptly.

  The black-furred minotaur did not intend to give up so easily. “Mari, if you would just—”

  “I said out of the question!” Maritia flushed. She looked at Bastion as if having never seen him before. “How could you imagine I would even consider such a thing, much less speak on your behalf to Golgren or Ardnor? This betrayal of our father!”

  “Father taught us that honor was first and foremost, Mari! Faros offers an honorable solution! Can you say that our brother and mother are acting honorably? I’ve seen the work of the Protectors firsthand! I know the tales of disappearances of any who speak out against the temple! Does such activity make you comfortable? Is this the imperium of which Father dreamed?”

  “He certainly never dreamed that you would join a rebellion and accuse Mother of such horrors!” Before Maritia realized what she was doing, her sword was out and within an inch of her brother’s throat.

  Again the other rebels reacted, which in turn spurred the minotaur soldiers toward Maritia. Bastion didn’t budge, though he waved one hand slightly to order the others to stay away.

  “I will not dishonor the truce,” he repeated, tersely.

  “Nor will I,” Maritia managed to say. Stepping back, she lowered her sword. “I’ve heard your words, Bastion, and in the memory of our father, I reject them! If not for the truce, I’d throw you in chains or even challenge you here and now to a duel!”

  “Mari—”

  “Go back to your rebel friends! My true brother drowned at sea! He would never have betrayed all his father had believed in, never followed one of Chot’s lineage! Go! You’ll all be dead soon enough!” Maritia forced the blade back into its sheath. “Go, before I fall as far as you and forget my own honor …”

  He stood there for several seconds, studying her as if seeking something in her eyes. Whatever he was looking for, Bastion evidently did not find it, for he finally shook his head and turned away. Maritia watched him leave, a part of her ready to run him through, another simply wanting to run away from this.