He was emperor of all minotaurs. In his name, legions marched to war. Gladiators fought to the death in the Great Circus. His Protectors kept martial law throughout the realm.…
All this he had desired for as long as he could remember. From boyhood, Ardnor had been groomed to take his father’s place and now, after many obstacles, Hotak’s eldest had achieved that goal, yet the true power, he knew, resided not in the palace but rather emanated from the temple. It was from there that the dictates came, often bearing his name. He might be the emperor in name, but it was his mother who ruled the minotaur realm.
The figure in the tapestry appeared to be scrutinizing him. Ardnor finally seized the bottom of the tapestry with one huge hand, intending to rip the entire thing from the wall. Instead, after hesitating, with immense frustration he released the tapestry, grabbed his helmet, and stormed from the dining hall.
The guards stiffened to attention as he stalked through the corridor looking for something upon which to vent his foul mood. An unlucky legion courier was spotted coming from the opposite direction.
“You there! What’re you doing here? You’ve some news of import?”
The courier quickly dipped his horns as he fell down on one knee. “Your majesty! I bring a private missive directed to you!”
Ardnor’s ears twitched. “Well, give it over then, fool!”
Fumbling with his bound, leather pouch, the minotaur courier handed him a tiny, sealed note that had come by messenger bird. The emperor turned the note over, looking for a certain mark and finding the broken axe icon. It was discreetly placed.
“Dismissed!” he commanded the officer. Turning from the guards, Ardnor broke the seal.
Hail, First Master of the Protectors, Venerated Offspring of the High Priestess, Emperor of Emperors—
The list of titles went on for several lines. Although Ardnor snorted in derision, he found the faithful one’s words quite flattering.
I, Genjin Es-Jamak, a mere acolyte not worthy to stand in your shadow, send this report at the utmost haste for your eyes alone. I felt it imperative to alert you to—
Ardnor’s eyes widened. He read over the message three times, his ears flattening and the crimson in his eyes flaming. When he had digested the contents sufficiently, the emperor crushed the note, almost pulverizing it in his powerful fist. Though his nostrils flared, he otherwise kept his emotions hidden from the sentries.
Whirling on one of the guards, he commanded, “Summon that courier back! Tell him to wait outside my quarters! He shall have a message in reply.”
The soldier hurried off to retrieve the officer. Ardnor started toward his private chambers. As he stalked along, he bared his teeth in a grim, predatory smile. His mother had wanted him to be great emperor, and so he would be one. He was about to make a difficult but necessary decision, an imperial decision.
One even his father—the great Hotak—would have shrunk from making.
Faros drifted into and out of consciousness. How long he lay sprawled on the floor of the ancient chamber, he could not say. Hours, certainly. Days … at least one, possibly two or three. His body was wracked with pain, he felt horribly parched. He was both starved and nauseated, and his body felt as if it was burning up.
He dreamed … or rather, he had nightmares. The nightmares were more grotesque than ever. He was visited by the macabre faces of Sahd, of Paug, and the others, often by the Grand Lord Golgren. There were other vague, disquieting images, visions of a dank, foreboding realm over which shambling figures with disease-eaten bodies forever wandered in torment. At times, that realm would mingle with his memories of Nethosak, the imperial capital becoming a place of cadaverous ghouls and crumbling buildings.
Only one thing saved Faros from the madness brought on by the plague, a constantly-murmuring voice, that sought to draw him back to reality.
So close … so close … just a few feet more … it can be done, yes, it can be done …
The voice did not belong to any he recognized, not one of his followers. No help would come from them. The rebels had followed his orders and left the areas filled with the ill and dying.
Vaguely, Faros registered that he lay in the center of his quarters and that struck a chord. He had collapsed near the entrance. Somehow Faros had managed to drag himself inside, but to what purpose he could not remember. Ahead lay his sword. With a groan, Faros reached for it, but the weapon seemed an eternity away. Summoning what strength he could, the ravaged minotaur dragged himself a few inches closer.
The effort made him black out. The nightmares returned, as did the murmuring voice. At one point, Faros stirred again—and discovered the sword just barely out of reach. He could not recall pulling himself closer, but nothing surprised him.
The largest of the jewels in the sword’s hilt—the great green stone in its center—provided the only illumination in the chamber. Faros did not question this odd fact, nor was he encouraged by it. Clearly the sword possessed magic.
His body wanted to sleep, but Faros dragged himself forward on his elbows. His fingertips grazed the handle of his sword, which unexpectedly shifted so as to fit firmly in his palm. Faros gasped. He felt the effects of the plague tremble and recede slightly. His body still burned, but at least he could think more clearly.
The ring …
The voice said nothing more. Faros peered through bloodshot eyes for the other artifact he had inherited from Sargonnas. A dry croak of a curse escaped his blistered mouth as he recalled where it was.
The ring … again he heard the voice’s urging.
From somewhere deep inside, he summoned the ability to rise to his feet. His grip on the sword as tight as possible, he weaved recklessly across the chamber. At one point, he crashed into a wall and nearly fell, but somehow the sword caught on the stone floor enough to help him regain his precarious balance.
Finding the crack in which the ring had fallen, Faros dropped to his knees. He felt a resurgence of illness, so much so that he had to plant his snout against the opposing wall lest he slip to the floor. Faros tightened his grip on Sargonnas’s sword, feeling a brief resurgence of strength. For some reason, it was paramount that he locate the ring.
Eyes blurred, he ran his fingers through the gap, at first grabbing nothing but grit. Then he felt metal, a round loop that surely had to be the lost ring. Faros tried to raise the object with his index finger, but it slipped out of his grasp. Cursing out loud, he tried his smallest finger. He managed to hook part of the loop and gingerly raised the ring into sight.
The ring dangled, almost ready to slip off. Faros’s hand shook, as he pulled away from the crevice, the ring clattering to the floor with a spark, landing close by his knee. He snatched it up with his free hand, but as the minotaur prepared to put the ring on, the voice sounded again.
Blood there must be, for it and me …
Despite his struggles, Faros frowned. Blood?
A drop to each, centered on the eye … or the plague take you …
Whoever was murmuring, even if it was Sargonnas, he felt sick and weary, tired of riddles. “A-all right, damn you …” He readied the sword, eyeing his shaking hand, then brought the weapon’s sharp edge to his palm. It took the barest touch of the blade to cut open the skin. Blood spilled out—and at the same time Faros could have sworn he heard a wail coming from the sword.
Once again, he felt the renewal of the plague. Blinking away tears, Faros turned his palm, allowing the first drop of blood to fall. It landed square on the black gem … sinking in without a trace. Faros almost reached for his sword then recalled the rest of the command. He turned the sword to view the emerald in the hilt.
He saw an eye staring back, but then he blinked, and Faros saw nothing. Taking a deep breath, he twisted his palm around again. The droplet touched the emerald, and as the first had, this too vanished into the jewel. The sword suddenly flared a brilliant green. The light completely filled the chamber.
The ring …
Shaking more th
an ever, Faros let go of the sword just long enough to put the ring back on his finger. The moment he was done, a jolt went through him. Faros screamed and would have dropped the weapon, but his fingers kept their tense grip. His entire body felt as if a wave of fire was coursing through him.
Then the agony of the plague abruptly diminished. The pressure in the minotaur’s head eased, and suddenly he could breathe properly again. His strength began to return. All of a sudden the pain ceased. Now it was possible to stand, even move.
Your blood is bound, your blood is cleansed …
The sword barely glowed, but the ring had a warmth to it. Faros looked around and found his water sack and some dried food. He ate and drank greedily, water spilling across his fur.
Afterward, Faros stumbled into the halls beyond. He heard no sound other than his own footsteps. The temple was dark save for the faint radiance of Sargonnas’s blade. Holding the weapon ahead of him, the rebel leader wended his way. Only the faint wind met his ears.
As he finally neared a window—and saw by the darkness outside that it was surely night—he heard a horrific sound. He froze, listening and trying to decipher the noise, a great cry. Beyond the temple, grotesquely illuminated by torches and fires dotting the landscape, Faros saw his followers. They had not escaped the insidious plague. The cry he heard—and heard again and again—was the combined voices of the hundreds suffering from it. Everywhere he looked, he saw the sick and dying. Few stood or moved about. The stricken lay all around, spread out over the ground, their bodies mingling with the enemy dead.
Nephera had at last succeeded. Where force of arms had failed, foul magic was destroying the rebellion. Peering up, he saw the stars glittering. The peace of the heavens contrasted sharply with the scene below. The smell of decay and disease overwhelmed even his jaded senses.
One set of stars caught his eye. It took a moment for Faros to identify the constellation representing his would-be patron. A sense of responsibility he had never experienced before touched his heart. With a shudder, Faros recalled his father.
“All right!” the rebel suddenly roared at the stars. “All right, damn you, Lord of Vengeance! I need you! Not your toys, but you! You want to hear me plead? Well, I do! Help us! Help us now or you won’t have a single worshiper left! You hear me? Help—”
A fierce rumble of thunder shook the temple. The minotaur grabbed hold. He heard startled voices cry out. Silence followed the thunder … and after the silence came the caw of a single bird.
A moment later, a second avian responded to it. Then another, and within the blink of an eye, it seemed that every bird in the world was answering, though as yet none could be seen. The raucous sounds drowned out all else. Suddenly, there came the flapping of wings. Hundreds, thousands of wings. The racket grew so loud that Faros’s head pounded.
A fat, ugly crow darted in through the window. It flew past Faros, entering the chamber where the dead lay. The crow landed on one of the corpses and pecked out a bit of flesh, then, swallowing that, eagerly took a second morsel.
Another crow flew past Faros’s shoulder. It alighted on another corpse and proceeded to imitate its counterpart. Without warning, birds by the scores suddenly filled the temple. They ranged from the tiny to the huge, but each was a carrion eater. They fell upon the corpses with eager abandon. Some of the plague-ridden bodies were so blanketed by feathered forms they could no longer be seen.
Aware that this was something he himself had somehow unleashed, the rebel leader raced through the temple and to the outside, hoping to reach his surviving followers and aid them. More and more avians poured into the stone structure as he ran, darting around the various corridors. Faros stumbled across corpses reduced to little more than heaps of bones, but in many cases the birds devoured everything—flesh, sinew, even bone.
With the cries of the voracious feeders resounding in his ears, Faros finally staggered outside. There he was struck dumb by the sheer magnitude of what was happening. Visible under stars that now shone nearly as bright as the sun, the carnage before him was worse than any battle he had ever experienced. Both the heavens and the ground were black with carrion eaters. Out here were not only the dark crows and their cousins, but the giant vultures, buzzards, raptors, and condors. They had all come and were attacking the field of dead. They tore off huge ribbons of flesh and made a horrific sound as they feasted.
Everywhere, survivors huddled together, watching the grisly business. All they could do was stand and stare with wide eyes. After what felt like forever but what was in actuality mere minutes, the work was all done. Of the sea of dead, there was little left except for empty armor, lost weapons, and some overlooked straps of leather.
The source of the plague had been entirely eradicated. Or at least, the dead would spread the disease no longer. Next an incredible deluge struck. Rain poured down, drenching all, including the birds. There were no clouds, no warning. The storm began from nowhere in the clear night sky.
From the rain emerged a mist, a pale, white, yet somehow comforting mist. It covered all but seemed thickest around the temple.
Indeed, it felt to Faros as though the rain and mist had washed away some foulness deep within him. He glanced down and snorted in surprise to see a foul, greenish puddle forming at his feet then dissipating into the earth. Looking around, he saw the same insidious substance pooling around most of the others—especially those lying desperately ill. It was as if each surviving rebel was being purged of all remnants of his illness. Those caught up in the worst throes of the plague had the largest, most vile puddles, and as the puddles washed away, the sick began to stir as if healed.
No one else but Faros saw and understood all, though. Gradic’s son understood that Sargonnas’s gifts had rescued them. The last of the foulness sank out of sight. As it did, the rain and misting ceased. Normal darkness returned, with normal stars.
As if on cue, many of the birds took to the air, flying off to wherever they had come from. However, hundreds more remained where they were perched, watching, waiting, as if expecting something else to occur, but it was over. No one who was there could doubt that it was a miracle. Several who had lain at death’s door were already sitting up, looking little the worse. No one cheered, though, for all were worn out and dazed by the sudden turn of events. As for Faros, he stood silent among them, reflecting …
Everything that he had tried to bury inside of himself finally exploded to the surface. Arms raised to the sky, Faros roared both his pain and his awakening to the knowledge of the path he must take. He screamed over and over, with those who had followed him so loyally watching dumbfounded, uncertain.
When he could scream no more, Faros turned in the direction of faraway Mithas. He stood there, peering into the distance, envisioning Nethosak—and the grandiose palace of the emperor and the sprawling temple of the Forerunners.
Envisioning them awash in fire and blood.
The summons came as Ardnor rode beyond the city. Too bad, for it was a pastime he relished; the speed with which he drove his black charger allowed him to forget everything and revel in a basic pleasure. Minotaurs had long bred their mounts for swiftness as well as strength. Their massive steeds had to carry heavy weight; but in battle quick maneuvers often decided the day.
Across the wooded hills—the same wooded hills where General Rahm Es-Hestos had slain Kolot—the emperor raced. Two Protectors atop their own black steeds did their best to keep pace, but of all the horses in the capital, perhaps even the empire, Ardnor’s was the fastest. He took great care in training and raising his animals, and this particular one was his pride and joy. Even his father had admired Ardnor’s expertise with horses.
He sighted the lone figure just as he was he returning to the gates of Nethosak. A blunt-nosed male, with the shorn head of a Protector, but wearing the gold-trimmed, white robes of the temple. The messenger bowed his horns as the emperor approached, then reverently uttered, “She would see you, First Master …”
There
were only a few things that Ardnor allowed to disturb his entertainment. A summons from the temple was first and foremost among them.
Quickly returning to the palace, he took special care to wash away the sweat of the ride before donning his armor. Then, flanked by his Protectors and surrounded by a contingent of the Imperial Guard, he rode to see what his mother desired.
He traveled with the pomp and circumstance of an emperor. Horns blared as he and his retinue exited the gates, led by a single rider bearing the banner of the Forerunners. In contrast to his father, Ardnor flaunted his relationship with the temple.
The citizenry dutifully gathered on the walkways on each side of the streets. They cheered, many calling out his name. They threw sheaves of horsetail grass in honor of their emperor or waved their fists in salute. Such was expected of the citizens whenever he bestowed his presence upon them.
Behind the crowds, Protectors kept a vigilant watch, making sure that the organized enthusiasm stayed orderly.
Midway to the temple, Ardnor slowed as he spotted a squadron of Protectors—their commander mounted—crossing a street ahead. The helmed warriors trotted along at a brisk pace, their maces held ready as if expecting trouble. As the emperor passed the street, he glanced and saw the unit stop before the business of a prominent miller. Ardnor realized their dire task, all of a sudden, for he himself had signed the warrant at his mother’s behest. Despite the absolute authority he had given the temple to supervise food distribution, there were still those who thought they could secretly flout the rules. The miller had attempted to increase his profits despite his duty to the imperium and its expansion. The Protectors were already smashing the doors in and breaking through the windows. By tomorrow morning, every mill owned by the miscreant would be operating under imperial management.
By tomorrow night, the former owner and his workers would be serving Ardnor in one of the mining colonies.
He sighed with exasperation as the gates to the temple grounds opened. Leaving the crowds behind, Ardnor entered to a single, deep-bellowed bark emitted from a waiting line of stolid warriors. As a second salute to him, they raised their weapons as the First Master rode up to the steps. Ardnor leapt easily from his black beast and climbed the steps two at a time. Once atop, he turned and beat his fist against his breastplate, striking the area of his chest upon which the symbol of the order was branded.
Empire of Blood Page 11
