Golgren replied with a small shake of his head. There was a time when enemies had to be removed and times when they simply had to be kept on reins. The Grand Lord had many plans for the future, and even the Titans might play a role. They would serve him well if they wished to keep their pretty faces and magic powers.
If they did not … he would deprive them of their precious elixir—and watch them wither away, until they begged him to slay them.
It took some maneuvering of cargo and space, but they managed to get everyone aboard. Quarters were cramped, though, and after waiting another day to see if any other ships were coming, it was decided they had to leave or risk discovery.
“We head northeast,” grunted Captain Tinza. “If any of the others plan to join us, they’ll have gone to the safe point beyond Karthay, to prepare for the journey across the Courrain.”
Setting such a course meant many days sailing in the opposite direction from the capital, though Mithos and Kothas lay so tantalizingly close.
Captain Botanos read Faros’s flashing eyes. “If we sail into enemy waters in such a cramped fashion, we’ll be more danger to ourselves than any Imperial force. We need more ships.”
Faros reluctantly nodded. “Get us there as soon as possible,” he commanded Botanos.
“Consider us already underway, my lord.”
The rebel ships left Kern’s shore under cover of night. Imperial warships still patrolled the waters, and the rebels could not afford to spend much time fleeing from or engaging the enemy. Thundering clouds accented their departure, and the weather only grew worse as they headed toward Karthay. Barely two days into the voyage, the heavens unleashed their fury. Lightning raked the sea and waves grew as tall as the masts. Winds roared, seeming to blow unwary mariners overboard and fill the sails so they tore, yet the rebels pushed on, for they had no choice.
The weather made it impossible for Faros to sleep, for each heavy rumble or unusual bolt of lightning made him wonder if they were once again being stalked by the temple’s dark magic. He tossed and turned in the cot attached to one wall of his cabin, then, when sleep failed, made futile attempts at whittling—a traditional pastime for minotaurs at sea. However, it was not long before he threw the dagger and stick of driftwood to the side, and securing his sheathed sword, he burst from his cabin onto the main deck to see firsthand what was happening.
The crew was working hard to keep the Dragon’s Crest on course. Shouts from the first mate to a pair of hands trying to control the mainsail greeted the rebel leader. Faros, however, barely glanced at their hard toil, his mind on his own matters.
He found a place of seclusion near the portside. Standing at the rail, the spray soaking his fur, Faros eyed the storm. There was nothing to mark the shifting clouds as anything but normal. If the high priestess was behind this weather, he could not tell.
On impulse, Faros drew his sword, studying the jewel in the hilt. The enchanted sword was, in its own way, more mysterious than his magic ring. It seemed to pulse with a life of its own. However, he admitted, with the exception of the Magori attack—which was illusion after all—the sword had served him well.
An immense exhaustion filled him. He had not asked for the destiny that was being thrust upon him. If it could have been avoided, he would have done so. Faros was aware of the looks and whispers of those around him. These rebels followed him, yes, but some likely questioned his sanity, his often cruel decisions.
He glared at the enchanted sword. Over the crashing waves and howling winds, Faros shouted, “Are you listening, Sargonnas? I’d gladly give this sword and all else up to another if I could … I’d gladly be rid of it all for some peace of mind …”
Peace … The word resounded within him. Escape and peace.
There is always the sea, a voice in his head murmured. The sea of the ancestors of all minotaurs. How many of your brethren have found peace in the sea? How many have nestled in its soft depths? How many have escaped to its eternal peace?
Watching the evening waves lapping against the Crest’s hull, Faros saw them as soft, inviting blankets. The soothing darkness of the waters called to him. His slumber was always haunted by nightmares; how good it would be to finally sleep soundly. Almost as though hypnotized, he clamped his free hand on the rail then put one foot up on the lower edge. The ship rocked, tossing him forward. He would have slipped over the rail, but the sword twisted, catching its point in the wood and propping him up.
There are no enemies in the ocean, only the sweet bliss of oblivion …
Faros peered into the water, seeing the faces of family and friends lost to him, beckoning.
Toss the sword over, then follow …
Just then, lightning flashed. The gem in the hilt reflected that light into his eyes, making him blink.
Faros’s brow furrowed. He thought he felt something nudge him from behind, something evil.
The minotaur summoned all his will, and steeled himself. The urge to leap into the sea faded, replaced by fresh determination. With a savage growl, Faros spun about, slashing with his blade. Then he heard an inhuman cry that pierced his very soul.
A macabre figure flashed across his vision. Under a thick hood draped over thrusting horns, a decaying muzzle and blazing orbs met Faros’s gaze. Tatters of clothing hung over a body ripped open so completely that the innards looked as though ready to pour free. A stench emanated from the monstrous specter.
His blade had not cut the ghost, but it had sliced at the voluminous cloak that surrounded him like a protective kraken. The folds and corners of the cloak fluttered like tentacles, as though eager to seize and choke the mortal. One ghastly fragment lay limp, though, the end of it sheared off where Faros had struck.
Rising up as if borne on the wind, the sinister phantasm loomed grandly over the rebel. The fold of cloak that Faros had severed repaired itself then joined in reaching for him.
“Keep back!” Faros roared, “or see if the dead can die again!”
One fold of the cloak darted to the side. It touched a set of barrels secured by strong rope against the whims of the sea. Like a serpent uncoiling, the knot undid itself. The barrels bounced toward Faros.
He leapt out of the way of the first one, but the second caught him in the leg, knocking him over. A third and fourth barrel rammed into him, momentarily pinning the rebel leader. Faros almost lost his sword. Gasping, he shoved away the heavy containers and rose just in time to avoid the last one hurtling at him.
Toward the stern, shouts arose. The ghost glanced at the ruined rope. Suddenly the rope whirled itself at the minotaur, snaking around his legs and sword arm and quickly constricting his movements. Faros chopped away at the animated rope. His blade cut through it easily, leaving small pieces that wriggled around the deck.
A crackle of thunder so close that it shook the Dragon’s Crest jolted the minotaur. He looked up just in time to see a bolt of green lightning strike the rigging above. Flames spread over the sail and much of the rigging rained down upon him. Faros tried to dodge, but the rigging dropped on the minotaur. His sword tumbled away. As Faros reached for the weapon, the cloak of his horrific foe stretched to enshroud him.
The Dragon’s Crest, the sea—everything—disappeared.
Faros floated in a smothering blackness. He waved his limbs but found no hold nor footing. The trapped rebel strained to breathe. Although his lungs filled with air, not water, he still felt as though he were suffocating. Voices assailed him. They pleaded for mercy, pleaded for rescue. Faros felt desperate fingers grab at him, but he saw no one, nothing. Something seized his arms and legs, pulling his limbs tight, tighter. He felt his muscles and tendons stretch to their limits.
You are mine now, the ghost’s voice mocked. First you shall die and then afterwards you shall truly be punished …
Blood-chilling laughter overwhelmed the pleading voices. Fighting whatever bound him, Faros clutched at his own throat. He couldn’t breathe!
Where was Sargonnas now? Certainly he
wasn’t waiting for Faros to call out! Only a god could aid him in this infernal netherworld. Then, in the midst of the darkness, a brief glimmer of red, like a tiny spark of flame, caught his attention. It took him a moment to realize that it emanated from his hand.
The ring.
Sure enough, a deep, red fire emanated from within the black gem. Faros focused on the stone, trying to summon its power. He concentrated his willpower on it, each breath feeling like his last.
The spark grew stronger. Then a crimson flame erupted from the ring. The flame ate away at the emptiness. Its terrible light drove back the suffocating blackness. The tentacles of darkness retreated from Faros, who could suddenly breathe.
Vertigo shook him. His feet landed on a hard surface. Once more, he found himself standing aboard the deck of the Dragon’s Crest. Around him, sailors were frantically trying to put out the fire and restore the ship to order.
One crew member nearly collided with him, then stared in shock. “My lord! Where did—”
Something rolled across the deck, rattling to a halt near the rebel leader’s feet. Faros’s sword. As he bent to retrieve it, he heard Captain Botanos’s baritone voice nearby giving orders. Faros looked up just as Botanos turned his way. Like the sailor, the captain looked at Faros as though he saw a ghost.
“Where by the Sea Queen did you come from all of a sudden? Faros, you shouldn’t be out here in this!”
Storms and fires did not concern the younger minotaur at the moment. Nostrils flaring, he glanced anxiously among the figures racing around. “Where is it? Where did it go?”
“Where did what go?”
“The ghost! That thing with the cloak that moved like it was alive! Where’d that demon go?”
Botanos spun around as if expecting to confront the nightmarish monster. “But … I see nothing!”
Neither did Faros. He cursed.
Botanos came over to him. Lowering his voice, the mariner asked, “What happened?”
Faros told him, leaving nothing out. When he had finished, it was the captain’s turn to swear. He quickly surveyed the area again, but the menace was clearly gone … at least for now.
“We must get you below!” Botanos insisted. “Put a guard around you day and night! I’ll have the hold searched! He could be down there even now—”
“It—Never mind, Captain. He comes and goes at will and is already far from here. I can’t say how I know—” The ring felt cool on his finger now. “—but he is gone.” Faros grunted. “Time is running out for us. They’re getting bolder.”
“What do you mean?”
The rebel leader thrust the ring up for the heavyset minotaur to inspect. “This was once worn by General Rahm Es-Hestos.”
“Aye, I wondered. It looked just like it—but no! That ring burned with his body—”
“Afterward it came straight to me.” Faros sheathed his sword, then lowered the ring. “From what I’ve heard, it seemed that the general was brilliant at eluding the temple.”
“He was that.”
“For awhile, even I couldn’t be noticed by them—or else, I think, they would’ve hunted me down before this.”
Captain Botanos’s frown indicated that he understood. “The Lady of the Lists,” Botanos began, referring to Nephera by one of the lesser epithets the rebels had given her. “Perhaps she just got lucky a couple of times.”
“Or her powers are growing …” Faros hesitated, then finished, “and even Sargonnas is intimidated.”
“That’s not possible!” the mariner nearly bellowed. “There’s no force stronger than the Horned One! He—”
“Quiet!” The former slave looked past his companion. None of the sailors, it appeared, had heard Botanos’s outburst. “Keep your voice down! I don’t want to spread panic!”
Much more subdued, the captain murmured, “How can we hope to defeat such evil as the empire and the power of the temple?”
“How, I don’t just know,” Faros finally answered, after a long pause. He glanced out to sea. “We’ll fight our best … because even if Sargonnas fails us, we really don’t have any other choice.”
As her servants removed the body, the high priestess bathed her hands in the bronze bowl next to the larger brass one. It took more scrubbing than the previous ritual, which had taken more than the time prior to that one. The crimson stains refused to completely wash out of her fur, regardless of what soap or other cleaning substance Nephera utilized. She could have worn gloves, but that she considered an affront to her god.
Nephera had dismissed all, even the ghosts, desiring the utmost privacy, but suddenly she could not help the feeling she was being watched. The high priestess glanced over her shoulder, but no one-eyed specter drifted there, his lone orb condemning. She returned to the frustrating task of cleansing her hands. The stains had to come out! Nephera scrubbed hard, scraping away fur and flesh, but the stains themselves never seemed to diminish.
Again, the sense that she was being watched burned into the high priestess’s consciousness. Nephera spun about, water splashing all around. The armored figure stood nearly muzzle-to-muzzle with her.
“Away, damn you!” she blurted, not caring how high and shrill her voice had grown. “Away!”
She thrust a hand through the silent shade, which vanished the instant her fingers reached him. The robed minotaur swore then turned in a circle to make certain the figure had not materialized elsewhere.
“I did what had to be done …” Nephera muttered to the emptiness. “No matter what the cost.”
There was no reply. She expected none. Her husband’s shadow never spoke; Hotak never did anything but stare. Nephera spun back to the bowl, back to washing her hands of the blood. Attempting to put her mind at ease, the high priestess reviewed the tasks ahead. She had prepared a proclamation for Ardnor to announce: a new holiday to be celebrated throughout the empire. Galh’Hawan—The Day of the Risen—would be explained as a way of honoring the spirits who guided the living. Not coincidentally, the night following the proclamation would be when the constellation of Morgion fell into perfect alignment.
A pain-wracked voice filled her head. Nephera put a bitter end to her cleansing and seized the sheepskin cloth next to the bowl.
Mistress … came the voice. Mistress—I return.
She looked to her right, where what materialized at first seemed a mound of rotting rags. Nephera raised an eyebrow; she had recognized the voice of Takyr, but never had she seen him so weakened. Whatever the shade’s state, she had to know immediately.
“Is he dead or alive?”
The ghost kept his head bowed. Alive … alive …
“And yet … you still exist.”
Forgive me … mistress …
Though she was stunned by this failure, she kept her face impassive. The high priestess dried her hands with the cloth, rubbing the stains vigorously but still to no avail. “It is of no consequence.” Her unblinking eyes looked momentarily to where the silver Forerunner symbols hung high. “Tell me this: Does he, as I suspected, bear gifts of the Condor Lord?”
Two … mistress. A sword … and a … and a ring with a stone of black that spits fire … This last was said with some venom, a clear sign the ring had caused ghost’s disheveled state.
“A sword,” she whispered. “Could it be—?” Nephera eyed the fallen ghost. “A ring, you say? With a black gem?”
Aye …
She had heard vague descriptions of just such an odd piece of jewelry worn by General Rahm. Ardnor insisted Rahm had used a magic ring to cause Kolot’s death. A light had shone from the ring, blinding her youngest son long enough for Rahm to slay him.
Now Faros Es-Kalin wore the very same artifact.
Nephera brooded. Such weaponry, such magic, could spell disaster for her … for her lord’s goals, yet even with these magical aids, Takyr had found him once and he could find him again. Perhaps Sargas had given him these trinkets then chose to leave him to his own devices. She chuckled, a sound that
made Takyr prostate himself lower yet.
“Excellent!” Nephera abruptly shouted to the ceiling. “You hear, my beloved lord? You see the weakness?”
The high priestess laughed merrier yet. Her earlier distresses faded away. She gazed down upon her servant, who, seeing her fierce expression, recoiled in expectation of punishment.
“Rise up and have no fear, Takyr! You bring me good tidings after all! Do you not see? The gifts of his god do the son of Kalin little good any more! Sargas clearly lacks the strength to protect his chosen! Soon, very soon, Faros will fall—either to my spells or to the combined military efforts of my daughter and Golgren! One way or another, he must, he will fall!” Lady Nephera gazed up at the ceiling again. “And soon after, my dear lord … soon after, so too will his god!”
The inhabitants of Ardnoranti—the name still stuck in Maritia’s craw for some reason—watched solemnly as the selected legions marched out through the eastern gates. General Kalel of the Direhounds, a tall, slim minotaur with a down-turned muzzle, saluted Maritia sharply as he passed with his crack troops. She returned his salute, hiding her frustration that it was the Direhounds, not Kolina’s Crystal Legion, that departed the capital. Pryas had invoked Ardnor’s name to keep Kolina near. He seemed to think he was the temporary commander of all Ambeon.
She could not permit Pryas to supersede her authority. The Protector’s demands put a strain on everyone. Many projects had ground to a halt so he could focus time and resources on his infernal temple. The master plan Maritia was following had to be postponed, thanks to Pryas’s obsessive allegiance to his faith.
Maritia herself could have stayed behind, could have chosen Kalel to command the pursuit of Faros, but her own urge to lead the hunt was strong. She was impatient to catch the rebel leader, the one she now knew was responsible for Bastion’s murder. She could scarcely wait to present his horns to Ardnor.
“My Lady Maritia,” said a somewhat nasal voice behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the burly General Bakkor, commander of the Wyverns, who had ridden up to join her. He studied the Direhounds as they passed, before continuing.
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