Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  He made a calculation of how long it would take for everything to be prepared, then added, “I want us ready to march in three days!” He smiled grimly. “It’s time we headed home …”

  Second Master Pryas was an aloof figure who clearly reveled in the glory of his swift ascension in power. With ranks such as Legion Commander and Procurator General to his credit—the second giving him free rein in almost any critical situation—he was now one of the most powerful minotaurs in the empire.

  To Maritia’s dismay but not her surprise, General Kolina and the other Protector officers fell all over themselves to please Pryas. In the short time since he had arrived, more than half of the legionaries and colonizers who were supposed to be helping renovate the capital had switched to appeasing the temple first and foremost. Even as Maritia angrily rode toward the sprawling edifice, she estimated a good hundred or so soldiers from the Crystal Legion were busy at work on it. Several were in the midst of building a massive framework that would eventually hold gigantic versions of the axe and bird aloft over the entrance.

  That Kolina’s warriors, Forerunner faithful all, had come here did not astonish her, but there were also dozens of soldiers from various other legions, including the Snowhawks and even one or two stalwarts from her own.

  She met the steely-eyed Protector at the base of the temple steps. Pryas wore the black and gold of his calling, his helmet tucked in the crook of his right arm. At his side hung a powerful mace whose thorny head looked capable of cracking either rock or bone with equal ease. Four of his towering guards stood near.

  “My Lady Maritia!” he called as she approached. “Your presence is a blessing!” The Second Master swept forward in a bow, his dark cloak fluttering. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have had a more formal welcome prepared!”

  “You’ve pulled enough of my soldiers from their appointed tasks, Pryas. There’s no need to borrow any more.”

  He did not look at all chastened. “The people are the soul of the imperium and the temple is the soul of the people, my lady. It should’ve been open for worship long before this.”

  “There were a few other priorities. Supplies, housing, the enemy …”

  He turned from her, seizing an unhelmed dekarian from the Gryphons and commanding, “Go tell those laggards to put hammers to those blasphemous icons now!”

  As the officer hurried away, Maritia glanced to where several minotaurs were piling elven statuary that represented Branchala to one side of the entrance. Most of the figures were already cracked or broken.

  “Why not just cart them off to a refuse pit like the rest of the trash? It would save time.”

  “In the presence of that which we serve, there must be no false deities or even their graven images,” Pryas said, frowning. “As her holiness’s daughter and his majesty’s sister, you should understand this better than I, blessed one!”

  “I’m a soldier, Pryas, a legionary like my father. I understand war, like most of our people.”

  “With our ancestors to guide us, we all take our appointed places, perform our appointed deeds, for the good of our race and the glory of that which we serve.”

  Trying to keep a straight face, Maritia said, “I understand also that your subordinates have moved into the distribution centers. When one of my treverians attempted to procure our allotment of food supplies, he was turned away by swords and axes!”

  “A misunderstanding, of course! Your treverian should’ve known better. Ambeon’s foodstuffs and other essentials are under the auspices of the Protectors! It’s the same in Nethosak; it surely follows that the colonies would do likewise.”

  It was all she could do to keep from using her fist to wipe the sanctimonious expression off his face. “I am military commander of Ambeon—”

  “I simply follow the dictates of the emperor, as do you.”

  She could little argue with that logic. Still, Maritia stared hard at the Protector. “I trust you’ve collected enough laborers here, though. I can’t have lapses in other crucial areas of colonization or security. Those Snowhawks, for example. Their duty is supposed to be securing and guarding the northwest. If you need more help, there’s always the slaves—”

  Drawing himself up, Pryas, nostrils flaring, growled. “No elf scum will touch anything regarding that which involves the Forerunners! I’ll not trust their soft, treacherous hands! Better an ogre or a gully dwarf than one of them! The elves should all be executed! There will be no place for them in the pure realm!”

  As much as Maritia despised elves, she found the Procurator General’s attitude extreme, but she forced a smile. “As you like … just talk to me before any other ‘requisitions’ of personnel, yes?”

  His expression altered immediately. Pryas acted as if she had granted him a great gift. “I look forward to your company at the next best moment, my lady.”

  Maritia recognized the look in his eyes. She had had her share of lovers but never a Protector. She had already shunned advances by the Supreme Councilor, Lothan. If the Second Master thought to rise higher in status by binding himself to her, he was deluded.

  “A simple written request will suffice,” she managed.

  He revealed no disappointment. Instead, Pryas gazed past her. Ears straightening, the Protector remarked, “It would seem that one of your adjutants is looking for you.”

  While Maritia had an official headquarters, she could rarely be found there. However, she always left word with her subordinates where she could be found, in case of important messages.

  “My lady!” gasped the rider. “There are ogres at the northern gate!”

  “Ogres?” blurted Pryas, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He started to signal the working soldiers, but Maritia forced his hand down.

  “Hold!” To the newcomer, she asked, “How many? Are they attacking?”

  “Four, my lady. Two fat ones from Blode and a pair of thinner ones from Kern. One of the former said this was for you.”

  She took the small, sealed parchment. A fierce mastark image marked the wax. The fact that it came from the ogres meant only one person could have written it.

  Golgren.

  It would have been best to return to her quarters before reading it, but Maritia’s curiosity got the best of her. Ignoring Pryas, she turned to the side and cracked the seal.

  I await you.

  That was all it said … and for Maritia, that was more than enough.

  Rolling up the missive and secreting it in a pouch, she told Pryas, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to this matter.”

  “I can have every soldier toiling here armed and ready—”

  “These are our allies, if you recall, and I doubt four ogres could conquer this place.”

  “There may be more in hiding,” he suggested. “In my capacity, I should at least come with you and ascertain the exact danger.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Before the Protector could say anything further, she left. Pryas’s spies would find out soon enough what was happening, but for now, Maritia had to meet with Golgren.

  Why had he journeyed so far?

  The four ogres were seated, waiting, when she arrived at the gate. The Grand Lord was not among them.

  “Wait here,” Maritia commanded her guards.

  “My lady—”

  “I’ll be safe.” To the ogres, she asked, “Where are we headed? Only a short distance?”

  One of the Blodians grunted, the closest thing to an affirmation.

  Leaving her reluctant underlings behind, Maritia plunged into the woods. Despite her seeming comfort in their company, she had already calculated her course of action should the ogres prove treacherous. The one to her left Maritia could gut, then, as he fell, she would drive her horse past his. She was very familiar with these woods, having journeyed through them time and again. There were dips and gullies that would help her leave her pursuers behind.

  All thought of flight vanished a moment later as a lone, hooded figure astride a brown
devil of a steed met her, bowing his head. That he was roughly her height—and, therefore, at least a foot shorter than her guides—was enough to identify him, even before he pulled back the thick, brown hood back.

  The Grand Lord Golgren flashed her a smile … which might have been charming if not for his ugly sharp teeth and Maritia’s knowledge that the ogre smiled even, perhaps especially, when cutting throats.

  “Offspring of Hotak, Commander of All Ambeon, good ally to the Free Ogres of Kern and Blode … I give greetings!”

  Maritia didn’t feel like smiling. She had the impulse to frown. Golgren’s cheerfulness had a strange artificiality about it. That and his very presence in Ambeon was worrying.

  “I greet you in turn, Grand Lord.” She skipped his list of titles, which would have required several minutes of oration. He had come this distance to alert her to something, and Maritia was impatient to hear the news. “I am surprised by this visit. The border station’s proven reliable enough for passing on messages.”

  There were actually two border stations, one located on the ogre side, the other in Ambeon. A small group of couriers attended each. When messages came from Golgren, an ogre would bring them to the neutral zone in between, where a minotaur would take custody of the missives. From there, one of the legionaries would bring the message to the colonial capital. The system worked equally well in reverse.

  Early on, the two sides had tried messenger birds, but the avians did not fare well in the clumsy care of the Grand Lord’s followers.

  “This was … a delicate matter,” he replied, much of the false cheer vanishing. He waved his sole hand at his compatriots, sending them off. His maimed arm the ogre kept obscured under his travel cloak.

  Most of the riders headed off to the east, but Maritia noticed one ride in the opposite direction. Storing that information, she eyed her ally. “Are you in need of supplies? Has there been a setback along the Nerakian border?”

  “No, all is good,” the Grand Lord said with justifiable pride. What had once looked like the subjugation of his kind by the black knights had become a debacle for the humans. True, he had employed minotaur assistance, but the actual fighting had been done mostly by ogres under his leadership. “As, I know, all is good in Silv—Ambeon. Excuse, please.”

  “Then if things are going so well for both of us, what, by my father’s axe, causes you to risk coming here?”

  He looked in the direction the single rider had gone. Maritia saw that the lone ogre had now returned with another horse laden with packs. Her brow arched.

  “What goes on here?” she uttered, suddenly wary.

  Golgren indicated the animal, then, his voice flat, he told her, “I bring back that which was the Lord Bastion’s, who is dead.”

  She stiffened in the saddle, unable to speak.

  “I do not lie,” Golgren insisted, perhaps believing she thought him telling tales. “I—”

  Maritia found her tongue. “Tell me everything—everything!”

  “Little to say. Much guessing. The body, viciously cut, was found by Nagroch’s people. Your brother was alone, but the tracks of horses led to the northeast. One there was who knew of your Bastion and brought the body to this humble one.” He slapped his fist against his other shoulder, an ogre salute to the dead. “I had believed the son of Hotak was already lost, yet when I saw the body I knew it was he.”

  “Where’s the body? I see only a horse …”

  He grimaced. “Our lands are no more kind to the dead than the living. The body was no longer good, so it was given to the flames—as Uruv Suurt prefer—and much singing was done to honor the warrior. I saw to this myself.”

  Golgren then explained where Bastion had been found. Maritia gritted her teeth as she heard the details. He had been slain while still in the same region where he had met her. It was likely Maritia had been mere hours away. He must have been betrayed somehow, she thought furiously.

  “Nya orn i’fhani ge!” Golgren snapped at the other ogre.

  The other sullenly brought the packed horse to Maritia. Taking the reins, she glanced at the pouches, some of which were of minotaur make. One had her brother’s mark etched in it.

  “What was recovered,” was all the Grand Lord said.

  Dismounting, Maritia searched through the items, which proved a paltry collection. A dagger, a bedroll, the saddle from his mount—with blood splattered on it—and so on. Little that spoke of the owner, which, somewhat ironically, made her all the more certain they were indeed Bastion’s effects.

  As she rummaged through the pouches, her blood raced faster. A tension such as she had not felt since first hearing of her father’s fall took hold of Maritia. Even before, when she had thought Bastion lost at sea, she had not reacted so strongly to his death. Without a body, it had been simple to pretend that he might still return some day. Of course, when he did return, it was as a rebel.

  Now there was no pretending.

  “The wounds!” she snapped, still staring at his skimpy belongings. “Describe them for me!”

  The Grand Lord did not reply at first, which caused Bastion’s sister to pause and look at him. The ogre appeared much distressed.

  “The wounds,” Golgren finally said. “Deep in the back and neck. All from behind. Many … many wounds …” His brow furrowed. “A base death. His weapon, it was not drawn.”

  Maritia’s ears flattened. All in the back. His weapon unused. A base death, indeed! “Were there any other bodies? Ogres? Minotaurs?”

  “Only tracks to the northeast … One there was who later claimed to see minotaurs riding that way, but too far and too fast to catch..”

  Only tracks … to the northeast … other minotaurs riding away …

  The other rebels …?

  Faros Es-Kalin. Yes, that made sense. He must be responsible! Why the rebel leader would kill Bastion, she didn’t understand. Her brother had proposed peace, and she had countered with her own offer of another meeting. Maybe that was enough of a failure in the eyes of one who was reputed to be crazy with bloodlust. Her brother’s escort had been his own assassins!

  Such a dishonorable death. Stabbed in the back by his supposed comrades! Maritia felt the blood fill her eyes. All the animosity she had felt toward Bastion vanished, to be replaced by a burning hatred for the nephew of Chot.

  “Faros …” she muttered to herself.

  Golgren heard and understood. He nodded and brought his other arm out to view. The stump was expertly bound with silk and cloth, obscuring what was left. “Faros it may be, yes. That would be my guess, too.”

  “Who else?” Maritia closed the pack again. Still holding the reins, she leapt back up onto her mount, her fury rapidly building. “Who else would deal so treacherously? Who else but some misbegotten refuse of Kalin?”

  “My lady,” the Grand Lord Golgren murmured soothingly in his best Common. “This is news not good, of course. I will ride with you to the city—”

  “I thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” the female minotaur replied, steeling herself. “I mourned my brother once already. That he is now truly dead, I accept. That his murderer is Faros, I readily believe.” Maritia lined up the second horse with her own. “That I’ll see Faros’s head and horns on the end of a pike, I swear!”

  This caused Golgren to grin, a cruel, savage grin. “A delicious image, yes …”

  The urge to return to the capital swelled within her, then Maritia remembered Golgren. She turned to him. “You have my gratitude, my lord, and more. If you’ll wait, I’ll provide you with safe escort back north.”

  His grin grew devilish. “There was no need in, will be no need out.”

  She nodded, knowing that if he said as much, it was the truth.

  “Then I bid you a swift journey, my lord,” Maritia said. “My thanks for all you did for my brother.”

  “What was done was done necessarily,” he said.

  Without warning, he veered his mount away from hers. At the same time, Golgren calle
d out to his other companions and they rode off.

  Maritia had already lost all interest in the ogres. Pulling the reins of the second horse, she led it back toward Ardnoranti. As she rode, her mind continued to replay what she believed to be the circumstances of Bastion’s death. By the minute, her fury grew. Maritia smelled blood—Faros’s blood.

  “I’ll hunt you down, wastrel!” She spat. “I’ll hunt you down like the jackal you are!”

  The other horse snorted, reminding her of Golgren. He had risked his life to bring her this news and these mementos of her brother. The minotaur and the ogre had their mutual mistrust, true, but he had proven himself by this deed and she was grateful.

  It was telling, Maritia thought, that even an ogre had more honor than Faros Es-Kalin.

  Faros drove his followers to complete their preparations for the journey in as short a time as possible. He barely slept, constantly overseeing the pace of activity. If their leader had seemed a creature possessed before, now Faros’s urgency gave him a manic appearance that caused unnerved whispers and fearful glances.

  Huge plumes of dust marked their departure. Dry winds combined with the dust. Faros rode at the head of the rebel force, his eyes surveying the landscape as if daring some interference, but the column traveled untouched. The journey northeast was arduous, but most of the rebels had long since been hardened by adversity. They traversed the unstable, winding paths through the foreboding land. A few were lost and left behind along the way.

  Finally, the badlands gave way to the wooded regions of northeastern Kern. Despite the more tranquil atmosphere of their surroundings, the rebels grew more wary. The salty sea called to them, but they also knew that, this close to the Blood Sea, an imperial vessel might be nearby. Ogre ships, too, were a viable threat. Faros almost would have gladly welcomed one last strike at his former tormentors, no matter how weary his followers might be.

  As they neared the coastline, Faros sent out more scouting patrols. Despite protests, he himself led one party consisting of twenty riders. Somewhere ahead was the site where he remembered Jubal’s crew had made camp once. Captain Botanos—assuming he still lived—might have left some sign or message.