Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Acolytes in white robes with red trim bowed low as he bulled his way into the main hall. A thin, fanatic-eyed male in the hooded robe of a mid-level priest hurried to greet him.

  “The high priestess is not in her quarters any more, your majesty. She expects you to meet her in the meditation chamber.”

  Ardnor grunted, his expression hiding any unease he felt about joining his mother in that dread place.

  The halls grew deathly quiet as he left the public area of the temple. The subtle scent of lavender drifted through the air. Gargantuan statues of shrouded, ethereal figures gazed down upon the emperor. These were the high priestess’s interpretation of the Forerunners, those who supposedly had gone on to the next plane and now guided the progress of the living. Some had faces, others were obscured. No two were alike. They lined the path on both sides and although they were made of marble, Ardnor sensed their energy, powers only he and his mother could note.

  Chanting broke the silence as he neared his destination. Two Protectors stood guard at the bronze doors, their tense stance owed not only to his arrival, but also to the ominous aura even Ardnor felt emanating from behind the doors. Ardnor girded himself as he neared, telling himself that the power he served would sustain him.

  But as he reached the doors, the sentinels crossed axes, barring his path.

  “She ordered that you not enter until word’s given,” the senior of the two warriors informed him anxiously.

  The emperor considered ignoring the command, but thought better of it. It was his own tardiness that had put him into this position. Besides, he was in no hurry to go inside.

  The chanting abruptly ceased. All three instinctively tensed.

  Without warning, what felt like a monstrous wave of cold coursed through the hall. Ardnor, his senses extremely acute due to his training, saw first the doors, the guards, then the hall ripple with the cold. The chill touched not only the flesh, but the soul. The torches all but died … then burst to life again.

  Silence hung over the area like a shroud.

  The bronze doors swung open. The deep darkness prevailing within seemed to seep out. Without realizing that they did so, the two menacing Protectors edged away from the lengthening shadows.

  Needing no other sign, Ardnor strode past the pair and into the high priestess’s sanctum.

  “So,” a voice echoed within. “My prodigal son comes at last …”

  He did not see her at first. The chamber was so dark his eyes needed time to adjust. At the same time, though, the emperor felt the presence of the others, the many unseen forms flitting back and forth, awaiting Lady Nephera’s commands.

  “I was … detained,” he answered.

  Something came into vague focus ahead of him. A wide stone slab was set at an angle. The scent of lavender was stronger there, as if masking an odor more baleful. Something lay upon altar, a loose form. Even as he squinted, trying to see it in detail, two shadowed forms—priestesses, he belatedly realized—took the form up and carried it into the deeper dark.

  From somewhere, Lady Nephera returned, “I was not referring to you.”

  A trickling sound, as if someone was washing their hands in a bowl, turned his attention to his right. He waited, but nothing became visible.

  Then from beyond the altar, his mother’s voice added, “The fates conspire. He lives … he still lives …”

  Without warning, torches in the walls erupted. Their flame was not blazing red or sun-searing gold, but rather a sickly, infectious green.

  And at last Ardnor faced his mother … or saw her. She now sat upon a high-backed chair—almost a throne—atop the dais behind the altar. Her silver and black robes draped her as if she had no flesh, only bone.

  Above her, tainted by the flames, hung the massive, silver symbols of the Forerunners. Yet, for all their size, they did not seize his attention as did the glittering icon burned into his mother’s upper chest. He couldn’t help but stare at the icon etched into her skin as he approached, knowing only he and she were aware of its existence. All others saw nothing unless the high priestess ordained it.

  A war axe, turned upside down. The true mark of the god behind the sect, the god who had come to his mother when all others had abandoned her.

  He shrugged. Morgion or Takhisis, one deity or another did not matter to Ardnor, so long as he was emperor.

  His mother did not look up as Ardnor went down on one knee at the base of the dais. Her tone, when the high priestess finally spoke, made the hairs on his neck bristle. Her hands lay curled upward.

  “He lives …” Nephera repeated, her words filled with venom. “Even after all this, he still lives.”

  “The slave in Kern, mother?”

  “The slave in Kern, yes, my son …” The high priestess raised her head slowly. Ardnor swallowed. In the flickering light of the torches, she looked more than ever like a corpse torn from the grave. Her eyes burned into his, but he couldn’t turn away. “The slave who is Faros Es-Kalin.”

  The emperor blinked. After some thought, he said, “Kalin. Chot’s clan was Kalin …?”

  “A brilliant, astute deduction!” the robed figure spat, rising. “Yes, he is Chot’s nephew! A weak, whimpering gambler is the cause of so much trouble!”

  “Faros …” The brutish warrior rubbed his chin. “I think I remember the little snot … it can’t be him, though. He could’ve never—”

  “Cease overtaxing your mind, my son! It is indeed him!”

  Thrusting his helmet on, Ardnor rose decisively. “Then, I’ll go hunt him down like a rabbit! His hide’ll become my cloak and his horns will make a good hook to hang the cloak on!”

  “No!”

  “Let me take him, Mother! I am emperor! The last of Kalin should rightly be mine! I’ll hang his head on the gates of the palace for all to see! It’ll prove to all who it is that rules here!”

  Darkness enveloped the high priestess so suddenly that Ardnor stepped back in surprise. In the dark, half-seen figures collected, dire warriors with monstrous, dead faces and twisted bodies.

  But Nephera waved away her horrific servants with the least of gestures. “No, my son, that task you must give to others. It is Maritia and Golgren who shall finish this rabble off for us. If I have to send all the might of Ambeon and the combined ogre realms, Faros will be crushed! His ghost will then bow at my feet!”

  “Golgren and Maritia?” The huge minotaur snorted. “A one-handed, foppish ogre and my sister? What makes you think they can take care of this problem, when they have failed for so long?”

  “The Grand Lord will because I wish it. Your sister … have you any cause to distrust her, any suspicion you would like to discuss with me?”

  Immediately, he shook his head. “No. None.”

  “Then, we are agreed.” She raised her hand to her left, and a priestess came from out of the shadows to hand her a goblet. Nephera paused to sip its contents, letting Ardnor wait until she was satisfied. “So that all is done officially, I have written up orders for you to send to both.” She gestured, and suddenly there appeared two rolled parchments, hovering before her son. “They will need your imperial mark before they are sent.”

  With a grunt of annoyance, Ardnor dipped his horns to the side. He took the parchments, replying, “I’ll see to it.”

  “Do not feel so slighted, my son.” Nephera reached the goblet back to her attendant, who, as before, vanished with it into the shadows. “You have not been called here simply for this purpose. You see, I have a very special mission in mind for you. You may consider it a brief taste of what is to come.” One hand lovingly outlined the symbol scarred into her flesh. Lady Nephera’s gaze was like that of one deeply enamored. “It is close coming to the time when you should knew your god better …”

  Ardnor had the sudden urge to tear his gaze from the downturned axe, but could not. He could not even blink, much less close his eyes. As he stared, the axe first pulsated, then swelled. It became the only thing that he could see, a living,
fearsome thing.

  And then the axe became a tower in the distance, a tarnished bronze tower from which there came the rasping voice.

  My champion … the voice grated. My champion …

  As quickly as that, the voice and glow vanished.

  Ardnor felt an immense, inexplicable loss.

  “Very soon, my dear son …” Nephera said, rising, and, as she did, two priestesses flanked her. “I am weary. I wish to bathe and then retire for a time. You may go.”

  The brevity of their encounter did not surprise him. This was his mother’s strange way, especially of late. He started to leave—when a gasp from his mother made him spin back.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but froze. Nephera stood in the shadows, her expression mixing anger and concern. She gestured at the darkness, as if trying to repel something.

  “Go! I will not have you here!” she suddenly blurted. “Away!”

  Ardnor squinted, and just for the briefest moment imagined he saw a familiar form fade away. He involuntarily bared his teeth in consternation. Had he seen—?

  Her countenance once more neutral, Nephera turned and nodded to her son. “There is something you wish?”

  Ardnor shook his head. “Nothing. I’m going.”

  She nodded again, continuing on. Clutching the parchments tightly, the emperor headed for the bronze doors. Ardnor could not help but glance over his shoulder as he left. Not in search of his mother, who had vanished through a passage, but rather for proof of something.

  Proof that the condemning shade of his father did not now follow behind him.

  While they waited for Bastion’s return, Faros led the exercise of the meredrakes. Left penned up, they would soon turn on one another, creating an orgy of blood and gore.

  With the handlers, Faros used whip and torch to urge the beasts in the direction desired. Others among the group used long lances. Everyone kept a sword or axe handy, just in case of sudden disorder. Being bitten by a meredrake generally caused death, for their saliva was poisoned by the foul things they ate.

  While the other handlers kept as safe a distance as possible, Faros always waded in close. To the surprise of many, the reptiles treated him with the obeisance and caution, perhaps recognizing, in some manner, a more fearsome predator.

  Faros roared at one hesitant beast, the crack of the whip accenting his guttural command. The stench of the monstrous creatures’ breath and body odor forced many of the minotaurs to wrap cloths over their nostrils, but Faros went unmasked.

  The scouts rode up as Faros urged the matriarch toward the pens. The matriarch hissed, forked tongue darting, displaying her savage, stained teeth, but she obeyed his signal.

  But the nearby arrival of horses stirred the reptiles up again. One young, eager male tried to break from the herd. His tail flickered, bowling over an unprepared handler.

  Faros signaled two others to grab the male. He, in turn, leapt toward the fallen figure, driving back a mature female with an open maw. The lash struck her squarely in the snout. Shaking her head and hissing vehemently, she turned from her intended prey.

  When the matriarch entered the pen, Faros deemed it safe enough to leave matters in other hands. Passing the whip and torch to one of his subordinates, he approached the newcomers.

  “Well? What did you find?”

  Their grim expressions told all. The lead one spoke. “He is dead, my lord. They are all dead. We didn’t find his body, but we found fragments of his belongings and the evidence of a scuffle leading to the cliff overlooking the river.”

  Despite himself, Faros felt dismayed. “Which way were they heading?”

  The lead scout, a worn veteran with a thinning, grey mane, sounded bitter. “Back to us, my lord.”

  Faros snorted. The meeting had taken place. Bastion had been betrayed … and by his own sister. Faros, who had lost his entire family to the Droka ambition, still could not believe the depths of their evil. Bastion had spoken of his sister as someone with a mind like his, but he had also called her the most like their father. Maritia had proven that, indeed.

  So there it was. So much for any pact. If the unnatural plague had not been enough to convince Faros of the throne’s determination to exterminate him and his followers, the diabolical assassination of Bastion by his own sister left no doubt. There would be no peace. No hope of ending this before more minotaurs perished. If Maritia had betrayed her own brother, then she certainly would not bargain fairly with Faros. With peace out of the question, the bitter feud between him and House Droka could only end in war.

  As he turned from the scouts, a black bird the size of his head dodged his foot, then landed nearby. Faros stalked past that avian and dozens more before even making halfway to the winding path leading up to the temple.

  Suddenly, the birds were everywhere. They filled the field, perched on the mountainside, and even infested the ancient edifice itself. They didn’t utter a sound. Even when frustrated warriors tried to sweep them away, all the birds did were silently flap out of reach, then settle down again. They looked as if they anticipated something, but what it was, no one could say.

  Regardless of their overwhelming numbers, the creatures were mostly an annoyance, nothing more, and so Faros attempted to ignore them. Of far greater concern was how to contact Captain Botanos and the rest. It could take weeks, even months, for any message to be delivered.

  But there was no choice, not any more. Faros knew he had to try.

  From the wreckage of the legion, he had procured a supply of ink and parchment. In his quarters, spreading the latter across the crude, stone table he had constructed out of natural slabs from the mountainside, Faros tried to compose the necessary message.

  But the words did not come easily to him, and he struggled. As if to mock his efforts, one large black bird alighted onto the table. Faros made a half-hearted attempt to grab the avian, but it leapt a couple of feet in the air, then landed only when he withdrew his hand. With a snort, Faros returned to his work.

  Unfortunately, hours later and he was no closer to success. Nothing he wrote could articulate what he desired to express.

  With a roar of mounting frustration, Faros shoved everything aside. His winged companion fluttered up but did not fly off. Ignoring the bird, Faros looked to the ceiling, silently cursing the deity. Before the Night of Blood, the only writing Faros had done had been notes of debt for his gambling losses. His father had been the one who wrote speeches, not him.

  “Would that they could hear the words from my own mouth,” he muttered to himself. “Then I might at least have a chance …”

  “From my own mouth …” his voice repeated from nearby.

  Faros shoved back from the table, looking for the speaker. The black bird glanced in the same direction as him.

  “Who said that?” he demanded.

  The bird gazed up at him. “Who said that?”

  Ears flat and eyes narrowed, Faros said, “So, now you speak?”

  “You speak?” it imitated.

  The rebel leader growled. Had Sargonnas provided him the means to send his message? Leaning toward the creature, he tested his theory. “Hear my words …”

  “Hear my words …” The bird answered back, every syllable, every inflection, that of the minotaur’s.

  It was all the proof Faros needed. The message came spilling out of his mouth. He began to dictate, telling the other rebels of the plague, of the deaths, and of Sargonnas’s rescue. He spoke of his realization that the nightmare could only end with the destruction of House Droka. He pledged his life to that goal, swearing on the names of his father and mother …

  Throughout his speech, the avian watched him intently. It did not interrupt his chain of thought with any more repetitions. Even after Faros finished, the bird only cocked its head to the side, waiting for instructions.

  Without hesitation, the minotaur commanded, “Speak the message.”

  Word for word, the black bird—in Faros’s voice—told of the new c
rusade. The minotaur listened carefully, but the avian did not make one mistake. Even the deep emotions of the words it somehow conveyed perfectly, astonishing the hardened former slave.

  When it reached the end of its spiel, the bird simply clamped its beak shut and preened its feathers.

  Before he could consider the matter further, the raven abruptly ceased its preening and leapt off the table, flying from the chamber before Faros could stop it.

  And even as it vanished, he heard the bird begin proclaiming his message. Faros pursued the bird, wondering if he had made a mistake in entrusting his voice to the Condor Lord’s minion.

  He had gone only a few yards down the corridor when he heard himself speaking from a side hall where the bird had not gone. A moment later, a third echo came from another direction. As Faros passed a window, he heard himself from the outside.

  Pausing, Faros peered through the window—and saw that every bird had suddenly taken to the air. The sky was filled with black birds. Yet, even more astounding than that sight was the clamor. Not the caws of crows and ravens—but rather it was the voice of Faros Es-Kalin speaking over and over and over, echoing proud and strong.

  When it seemed that they all had spoke his message, the huge flock dispersed, heading off to every point of the compass

  The die was cast. As Faros watched the feathered messengers wend their way over the world, he willed them on as fast as they could fly. The sooner they reached their goals, the better.

  When the last had vanished over the horizon, Faros spun from the window, calling out to the nearest of his followers. “Spread the word! From tomorrow on, I want everyone to gather everything of value from the region—food, especially! I want all weapons sharpened and the animals prepared for a long, hard journey!”