Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Your note—brought so interestingly to me—said you wished a few last words.”

  A treverian from the Direhounds shouted out to his troops. Immediately the legionaries turned their heads and saluted Maritia as they marched along. Her legions would journey to the small ports on the eastern shores of Ambeon, where warships from Sargonath waited for them. At her request, Maritia’s flagship would be the Stormbringer, once Bastion’s own vessel.

  “I hope you’re still not upset at being left here to monitor things, general,” Maritia murmured as she nodded to the ranks.

  “I question not the orders of my superiors.”

  Despite everything, she almost smiled. “You should. My father did.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “I want you to know that I’ve sent a message by bird to my brother, to encourage him to increase your authority over the Protector while I’m gone.” Pryas thought he would be sharing command with Bakkor. However, the emperor’s sister did not trust the Protector while she was gone. Pryas was too ambitious.

  “May the emperor see your wisdom,” the officer murmured.

  Glancing around, Maritia said, “General Bakkor, you will be in charge while I’m away, and I trust you completely. However, I have one request for you, one that should remain between us, if I may.”

  “You are my commander, Lady Maritia. Your will is mine.”

  “I appreciate that, Bakkor, but hear me out first. Pryas is very eager to impress his master.” From the officer she received only a noncommittal grunt. “I ask you to do nothing beyond your normal duties, general … but at the same time keep an eye on him if you would. See he doesn’t overstep the bounds we have agreed to.”

  Bakkor, his eyes following the departing legionaries, responded, “He always tests the bounds, Lady.”

  Maritia nodded grimly. The last of the Direhounds passed by. She scanned the crowd, eyeing Pryas atop his mount, watching the departure. His black helm obscured his gaze from Maritia’s eyes. General Kolina sat next to him, with a more telling look. She seemed to mentally urge the legionaries out the gates.

  A regiment of Protectors stood around the pair, as still as statues, their maces held before their chests, their eyes staring straight ahead, never blinking. They even appeared to breathe in unison.

  Maritia suppressed a shudder. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Bakkor.”

  He bowed his head. “May you have good hunting, my lady.”

  All worry about Pryas and Protectors vanished as Maritia grimly turned her thoughts to the quest. Eyes narrowed in prospect, she answered, “Oh, I will, general … you may count on that.”

  With her bodyguards surrounding her, she rode off to join her own legion, which marched far ahead of the column. She had already forgotten Pryas. Nothing would distract her from Faros Es-Kalin.

  She hoped Golgren would be ready. They had traded messages concerning their preparations, and he had promised to meet her at the appointed rendezvous. Maritia would need the help of the ogres to make certain the rebels did not escape this time. Trapped between her forces and one commanded by the Grand Lord, they would be cut down one, until she faced Faros himself.

  There were risks, of course. Golgren might consider going after Faros himself, for his own glory. For the honor of the empire and her brother, though, Maritia would make sure that didn’t happen. Surely, in the end, the ogre would see reason.

  Faros was her enemy above all. He had slain her brother.

  The vast smithy radiated a heat akin to standing atop one of the great volcanic craters of Argon’s chain. More than two hundred skilled crafters toiled day and night for the glory of the emperor. Sweat matting their fur, their breathing labored, the minotaurs hammered, pumped bellows at gargantuan forges, and expertly manipulated molten metal into molds.

  Ardnor watched as one apprentice held a hot, metal plate with long tongs out toward a vat of water. A searing hiss and spouts of steam marked the plate’s descent into the vat.

  Shadows created by the many furnaces danced on the walls of the huge, stone building. There were windows up by the base of the ceiling, but merely for ventilation; they allowed in no light. The fiery glow from the furnaces provided the only illumination of the blood-red tableau.

  Sulfur from the coal tainted the air, but at least it smothered the odor of sweat. Ardnor found the acrid scent as pleasantly aromatic as his father had the lavender perfume of his mother.

  Over to the side, one of the smiths raised high a finished product. The black breastplate bore the broken axe symbol. The smith turned the breastplate over to an apprentice, who respectfully hung it next to another plate, which hung next to another. Ardnor chuckled as he inspected the endless rows of breastplates, helmets, maces, and more. Each already had a wearer waiting, one of the many ready to do the emperor’s bidding, but even working in continuous shifts day and night, the smiths could not keep up with the demands of the empire. The master smith, who had accompanied him for this inspection, waited for Ardnor’s comments.

  Nephera’s son hid his approval, instead saying, “The pace must be increased.”

  Dipping his horns, the smith said reluctantly, “I’ll have to borrow workers from those who regularly supply the legions.”

  “Then do it.”

  A figure already clad in armor materialized in the midst of the smoke-filled chamber, helmed eyes searching. He spotted the emperor and hurried over. Another messenger. It must be important for the officer to search for Ardnor here.

  “From Ambeon, my lord,” coughed the warrior. The smoke had thickened.

  Stepping to the side, Ardnor studied the missive. When he saw his sister’s mark, he grunted with disapproval. Un-scrolling the parchment, the emperor quickly skipped over the imperial salutations and read:

  My brother, by now I know the news has reached you of the true death of Bastion, whom we thought lost at sea. Slain most cowardly by the rebel Faros near the border of Kern and Ambeon. I have chosen to lead the legions in pursuit of him, coordinating with the Grand Lord Golgren …

  She then went into some details of her plan, which Ardnor skipped.

  In my place, I’ve appointed General Bakkor to govern alongside your Pryas. However, I respectfully ask, for the sake of stability, that the general be granted full command. He is more familiar with the activities and layout of the colony and was instrumental in setting up the vital supply distribution network. I request you send word as soon as possible making this so —

  The emperor read no further. He crushed the note, stuffing in in a belt pouch.

  “You!” he demanded of the courier. “I sent off a message directed to Protector General Pryas some days ago! It went on its way?”

  “Aye, my lord! It should’ve been in his hands long ago!”

  “I thought so …” Ardnor rubbed the underside of his muzzle, trying to hide his frustration. “Come with me! “I’ve two messages to send!”

  “To the Protector General?” the officer asked, trying to keep up with the emperor’s long strides.

  “To him,” muttered Ardnor, trying to think, “and to another …”

  The tiny island north of Karthay was a miserable, windblown place covered in twisted trees with needles instead of leaves, and bushes that cringed close to the ground. There was fresh water from two springs and a creek, but the only food and supplies were those abandoned by prior ships. Stored in cold, underground caves, the dried, salted fruit and jerky were edible but unappetizing.

  Eight ships awaited them. Four more arrived the next day. At Faros’s behest, the leaders of the various rebel factions met in the largest of the caves. The low ceiling forced the tall minotaurs to duck and stoop, but once seated, they were relatively comfortable.

  Squatting on a rock, Faros surveyed the group. Botanos represented those already loyal to him and sat to the left of Chot’s nephew. On Faros’s right sat Captain Tinza, with the marine officer Napol next to her. They could likely be counted on, although the former Imperials eye
d him a bit warily.

  Some of the other two dozen or so figures he knew only by sight or reputation, and not a few he was meeting for the first time. They could be lumped into three parties. One consisted of those from the outer colonies whose freedom had been squashed under the iron hand of the throne. Several had their fur trimmed short and sported tattoos. The second category were former members of once-prominent clans whose holdings had been expropriated. They still dressed like the wealthy merchants they had been, and despite the loss of their clans, they still boasted prestige and power. They were among the most reluctant of the factions who had come, at Faros’s summons, to Karthay.

  The third group was the most unpredictable. These minotaurs were more on the fringes of the empire than even the escaped slaves. ‘Brigands’ and ‘pirates’ were the terms most aptly applied to this bunch and not simply because they attacked ships of other races. They freely committed all kinds of crimes, yet they could contribute to the rebellion too. Surveying the assembly, Faros saw that everyone there wore the same hardened face. They had all come too far to turn back; it was either attack and defeat the throne or go on the way they had been going on – eventually to die at the hands of the empire. None trusted the other, however. No one could unite and lead them.

  “You all know who I am,” he began.

  “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t,” one of the tattooed figures declared.

  Faros nodded. “First, I’ll tell you that if you’re looking for another Chot, you should leave. I’m not my uncle.”

  “A good thing,” interjected a female privateer wearing an eye patch and with one ear missing. “We’d all be sailing with Nolhan if you were.”

  That surprised him. The former adjutant to the late Councilor Turibus, once head of the Supreme Circle, Nolhan had grandiose ambitions. There were rumors Nolhan was Turibus’s bastard son. He was Faros’s only real rival among the rebels and was absent from this parley. Nolhan had sent with one of the ships a note saying he refused to recognize Chot’s nephew. According to Captain Tinza, Nolhan was leading a number of rebel ships into the empire along its southeastern edge. That meant passing near Thuum, where the Eastern Fleet often anchored for restocking.

  It was evident what the former adjutant intended. Nolhan planned to surprise the Eastern Fleet. Attacking the Eastern Fleet would spread his name throughout the realm. Warriors would flock to his banner. Even some of Faros’s own followers might be tempted to defect to such a daring leader.

  Tinza explained, “With your pardon, my lord, Chot was no treasure, though he had our sworn loyalty.”

  “Speak for yourself!” growled the female privateer.

  Tinza ignored her. “Hotak could’ve had a number of us on his side, if he’d done matters differently. In his own way, though, he was as arrogant as your uncle. The Night of Blood and what followed proved that. Now, though, ’tis even worse than when Chot ruled. Ardnor de-Droka and the Lady Nephera have assumed the power of Hotak but surely not his sense of honor. The Protectors and the temple will ruin the empire in the end, mark me.”

  “Jubal was right when he thought you being Chot’s nephew could draw us together,” added Botanos. “That is because we understand vengeance, but that’s where any tie to Chot leaves off being any use. It’s not who your uncle was; it’s what we’ve heard from those who follow you—the things you’ve survived, the deeds you’ve done. You’re Tremoc crossing Ansalon four times to avenge his mate. You’re Makel, cutting a bloody swathe through the ogre realms. You’re Mitos, outwitting a far superior foe.”

  “You’ve got an aptitude for … well, survival,” grudgingly added the lead merchant, a grizzled but well-muscled figure in flowing sea-green robes.

  The other privateers said nothing, their leader folding her arms and watching Faros intently.

  “Hotak claimed he could restore the empire to its glory of old,” the captain of the Dragon’s Crest went on. “He turned out a fool, but we think you can actually do it, my lord.”

  “Not all of us think that,” another merchant interjected. Next to him some of the pirates nodded.

  “Droka’s hereditary throne. We don’t want that, Kalin,” a tall, tattooed outlander growled. In addition to small, gold rings in his right ear, he wore one huge ring through his nostrils. “Not if it means the likes of Ardnor ruling.”

  Faros eyed the parties most resistant to his authority. “If I win this for us, should I expect a challenge the next day?”

  Botanos stared at the rebel leaders, daring anyone to speak. When none did, he shook his head and answered for them. “Nay, not you, Faros … but if your sons and daughters wish the throne, they’ll have to contest for it like any other good minotaur.”

  Again the others agreed. Faros grunted. He had no children and did not believe he ever would. He would die first, so the point was moot. “Then it’s time we spoke of what we need to do.”

  “Is it safe?” asked Tinza. “Is it safe to conspire here, with the Lady of the Lists no doubt listening to us even now?”

  “Kern’s parched ground is covered with the bones of ogres and Protectors who knew exactly where I was and what I was trying to do.” His bold words met with approval from most of the rebel representations, but the merchants looked uncertain.

  “Not so fast, we’ve not agreed that we’ll follow you,” one of the merchants pointed out. His gaze swept over the others. “What stands before us is an ex-slave without a bloodline that matters any more, a minotaur without land, status, or reputation—”

  “Oh, I think he’s got reputation,” put in Napol, “and the ability that goes with his reputation. You all know that.”

  “We are aware where you stand, Napol. What is unclear is whether the rest of us share your view.”

  “Then let me hear bluntly,” Faros demanded, eyeing the leaders. He stared at the privateers. “What say you?”

  The one-eyed female grunted, then glanced back at her companions. “Dagger up or down?”

  “Up,” rumbled one.

  “Down,” another.

  Two more declared “up,” another called “down.” Another “down” followed.

  Botanos leaned close to Faros, whispering, “A dagger up means you’ll fight for someone. Turning it down means you stand against them. An old voting ritual of mariners. I’d forgotten it.”

  One brigand muttered, “Mine stays sheathed.”

  To Faros’s curious glance, the captain added, “Means he’s abstaining.”

  One more brigand chose “down,” but then the next five declared up.

  “There ’tis,” the female declared. She slapped her fist against her chest. “Majority rules. We always act together, as one. We’re yours, Lord Faros!”

  The merchant leader sniffed.

  “What of you?” asked Tinza of the sniffing merchant.

  “We wait and see.”

  That left the outer islanders. Unlike the privateers, they did not hesitate. “You are marked. The condor guards your back. We have not forgotten our place with him, so we will follow you.”

  At this, the leader of the clan merchants abruptly added, “As do we, of course!”

  The female pirate sniggered, but Faros pretended to pay no attention to the sudden change of mind. He glanced around at the few independent captains and saw they were leaning with the majority.

  “It’s decided, you’re our leader,” Captain Botanos declared with satisfaction, “not that any sane warrior could’ve argued otherwise!”

  A few of the brigands and islanders scoffed at the merchants, who feigned ignorance.

  Captain Botanos looked up at Faros. “Command us now! What would you have us do?”

  “First, is this all there will be? Are the ships that surround this miserable place all we can trust to?”

  “There’s some others,” rumbled a broad-shouldered figure among the independents. He had a gleaming, almost mirror-like axe slung on his back. “They’re still hesitating. They think Nolhan might still manage a miracl
e.”

  Faros looked to Botanos and Tinza. “Can he?”

  “He has the heart,” answered the former Fleet officer, “but I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think he can.”

  “Then we make do with what we have,” Faros decided, “because we set sail tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” blurted Napol, with others muttering their surprise at Faros’s urgency.

  “Most of the imperium’s forces are either in the Courrain or on Ambeon. If we sail as swiftly as possible, we can catch them before they’re fully organized.” He unfurled a massive map showing the Blood Sea and the edges of the Courrain. In the center were the twin islands, Mithas and Kothas and to their east, Mito and other islands.

  Faros used his finger to circle the main pair, then Mito. “We need to attack all three, almost simultaneously. Toroth once said it,” he added, referring to the emperor who had initiated the greatest expansion of the realm. “ ‘Who holds the heart of the empire holds its soul.’ Take these three swiftly and any who wish Droka gone will seize their chance. You all know our people. It will happen.”

  Eyes were wide among the rebel leaders, astonished at Faros’s boldness.

  “The majority of the empire’s soldiers might be spread east and west of the heart of the main islands,” argued the minotaur with the axe, “but Protectors are settled in on every island.”

  “Enough to keep all the inhabitants in check, if they are heartened by a rebellion against the evil throne, that might succeed?”

  Several looked around, slowly nodding. There were many Protectors, many Forerunner faithful … but most minotaurs belonged to neither group. Everyone knew that discontent was rife in the realm. The strategy would be bloody, but it was possible.

  “What of the temple?” asked Napol. “What about what your message said, the powers of Morgion, the dread one?”

  “That stinking cadaver will learn he can’t pirate in the Condor Lord’s waters!” the one-eyed female declared passionately. “Sargas will use him for bait for hunting krakens—if even they are attracted by such putrid fare.”