This brought confident laughter all around. Faros himself said nothing about Sargonnas. He didn’t think Sargonnas watched over him or them, and it was up to the rebels to make their own destiny.
Seeing they were with him, Faros outlined his plan. He spoke in great detail, even though he was acutely aware a ghostly spy might be peering over his shoulders, recording all for the sake of Lady Nephera. Faros, though, no longer cared. Let her report to Ardnor. Let him send every warrior at his disposal, let the high priestess exhaust her dark spells. If the rebellion was meant to fail, better it lose a great battle than fade away shamefully.
Hours passed before they were finished with the plans. Faros listened to suggestions from each captain and incoporated those that seemed sound. He had seen too many deaths of comrades not to heed valuable advice, though he always reserved the final decision.
At last, the gathering broke up. The factions returned to spread word to their comrades. Faros sat staring at the map by the light of the fire. Soon, only Botanos was there to keep him company.
“Should we head back to the ship?” asked the captain.
“Finish what you need to do, then come for me. I want to be alone and think.”
“As you say.” Grunting, the heavyset minotaur wended his way out of the cave.
Staring at the map, Faros’s eyes wandered toward Ansalon, and he thought of the Grand Lord Golgren and Lady Maritia. One day he would reckon with them both. His eyes strayed far to the east. Faros almost imagined the ships there, where the rebels of Nolhan and the might of the Eastern Fleet were locked in mortal combat. A victory by Nolhan, however much it might complicate the leadership of the rebellion, would invaluably boost Faros’s cause. If he only knew what was happening—
The truth can be known.
Faros looked around, certain one of Nephera’s ghosts had caught up to him again. However, no shadowy specter was visible.
You have but to wield me …
He looked down at the sword.
Draw me, use me … I can show you the truth …
With some misgiving, the former slave drew his dark blade. The weapon slipped from its sheath with a mournful scraping.
The battle, you would see … the fate of your rival, you would see …
He stared at the sword, Sargonnas’s sword. “Nolhan? You can show me what’s happening to Nolhan?”
What is happening has happened. What happened cannot be changed.
Faros frowned.
“Show me, then.”
His arm lifted—the sword rose—and cut a huge circle before him. The very air seemed to quiver. Through a shimmer, Faros suddenly heard thunder, shouting, and the clash of arms. He leaned forward … and without warning the hole enveloped him.
Storm clouds rumbled overhead and lightning flashed. Faros’s footing shifted. He found himself standing on the deck of a ship in flame. Minotaurs were running around everywhere, some trying to douse the flames, others grabbing weapons. There were ships all around the one he was on. Some floated singly, others were packed together. Many were either on fire or in the midst of sinking.
“They’re coming alongside!” roared someone. “Prepare to repel!”
Wooden hulls groaned as they collided. An imperial warship was alongside. Marine fighters waved swords and axes. Grapplers swung hooks onto Faros’s ship, sealing the two vessels together. A flight of arrows hissed through the air, striking more than a dozen attackers. The rebel arrows were answered by twice that number from the Imperial. Screams erupted from all over the deck. A sailor, his left eye pierced by bolts, crumpled at Faros’s feet.
“Look out!” someone called.
The warning was punctuated by a massive crash near the bow. Huge javelins from the Imperial’s ballistae had crushed in the hull, shattering part of the deck.
“To the rail!” Faros suddenly felt compelled to cry. “Meet them at the rail! Don’t let them get a foothold!”
As every available hand ran to obey, Faros started after them. He realized that he was acting through the body and seeing through the eyes of another person, most likely the captain. More than two dozen hooks now secured the ships together. A few fell prey to quick axe chops by the defenders, but archers and marine fighters with long pikes forced the rebels back.
Aboard the warship, a horn blew. With a collective roar, the marine fighters leapt over. The first several died quickly. Two fell between the vessels and were crushed as the pitching of the sea pushed the hulls together.
“Hold them!” Faros shouted.
A half dozen archers fired. Three bolts caught marine fighters on the rail, but the long pikes kept the defenders at bay, enabling a small group of the enemy to gain a hold near the center. The marine fighters pushed forward. Many were killed, but the rebels also paid. Axes clashed against axes. Swords bit through flesh and bone. One rebel was lifted high by a pike buried in his rib cage.
“The mast is falling!” a voice to Faros’s right called.
Burning rigging collapsed onto the deck. The foremost mast came crashing down, breaking through the wooden deck. Faros stumbled back, sliding against the half-buried mast. A sharp pain went through his left shoulder. A huge, jagged splinter from the broken mast stuck out of his flesh. Blood stained his fur, which he saw for the first time was gray brown, or silver and—
Silver brown.
Nolhan. Faros was experiencing the disaster through Nolhan.
A stocky figure bent down before him. “There’s a long boat prepared for ye! We need to get ye aboard!”
“Where’s the captain?” Faros heard himself gasp.
“Dead when the ballista opened fire—my lord, your wound! By Zeboim’s Cradle!”
Faros heard himself shouting in what he now recognized was Nolhan’s voice: “Help me bind it, then take anyone you can and get away! I’ll have the line hold as long as it can to give you time!”
“Ye can’t stay!”
The Faros who was also Nolhan seized the stocky minotaur by the fur below his throat. “Do as I say! Get to—”
He suddenly shoved the other minotaur aside as a snarling marine fighter descended upon them. Faros twisted, avoiding the axe, but winced from the pain. With a shout, the figure who had come to Nolhan’s assistance barreled into the marine fighter. They struggled over control of the weapon. Faros/Nolhan rose, thrusting with his sword, but the two fighters spun about, and instead of the marine fighter, the sword sank deep into the back of Nolhan’s savior. With a startled grunt, the other minotaur dropped to the deck.
Faros/Nolhan was aghast at his understandable mistake. He tried to raise the sword again, but he was too slow. The marine fighter’s axe struck between his eyes.
The world became a mix of burning blood and chaotic agony. Muffled shouts came from everywhere. Faros/Nolhan grasped at empty air. A second later his feet crumpled and his head struck hard on something. Numbness took over. A darkness settled over him—and Faros once more found himself back in the cave, his sword quivering before him. Frightened, he dropped the blade. There was no doubt in his mind that he had experienced Nolhan’s death.
After a long while, he slowly bent down and seized the dropped sword. “How long?” Faros snarled. “When did this happen?”
Now Sargonnas’s gift was mercilessly silent. In truth, it did not matter much. Nolhan had battled … and lost.
A scuffling sound alerted him to someone entering the cave. Back bowed low, Captain Botanos rejoined him. “All set. Finished here?”
Faros blinked then looked at the fire. It was nearly burned to embers, even though Botanos had rebuilt it just before his departure. How long had the sword’s vision gripped him?
“Yes, I’m finished here,” he answered, quickly rising. Faros said nothing of what he had witnessed, knowing it would only cast doubt on his own cause for him to tell the others about Nolhan’s failure.
Botanos scooped up the map as Faros hurried past. “Is there something wrong?”
The rebel leader paused
to look back, then shook his head. “No. This changes nothing. Everything goes on as planned.”
Faros moved on before the confused captain could say anything.
Botanos shrugged. He finished rolling up the map then followed the last great hope of the rebellion outside.
Haab, governor of Mito, considered himself a pragmatic creature. He had followed Hotak loyally during the Night of Blood and for his loyalty had gained control of the third largest region—until Ambeon, that is—in all the imperium. Haab had strictly performed his duties as he felt Hotak would have preferred, maintaining an iron grip on the large colony.
When Hotak fell victim to an accident, the slim-snouted Haab had quickly lined up behind Ardnor. He had even joined the Forerunner faith to which the new emperor belonged. Of course, his conversion had been more expedient than religious. As a member of the faithful, the colonial governor could better handle the Protectors sent to strengthen Ardnor’s rule. Haab found the officers of the order obnoxious and overzealous, but they did keep order—at least until now.
The ebony-armored figure stalked into his official chambers. “I’ve come, Brother Haab.”
As was his habit when he was either in thought or irritated, the governor tapped his fingers over and over on the desktop. This particular Protector insisted on calling him by his religious title instead of his proper governmental one. “I am greatly disappointed in your brethren, Brother Malkovius. There was another disturbance in the central square today.”
Malkovius removed his helmet, revealing the shorn mane of his order. His eyes displayed the red tinge around the edges that was an increasingly familiar sign of the real fanatics among the Protectors.
Malkovius shrugged. “There were some who thought their apportioned supplies were wanting. They believed they were due more, despite the gift that is taxed each citizen for their expected pledge to the temple. We were forced to arrest five radicals.”
“Two of whom are now dead.”
“They resisted arrest.”
Haab snorted. The deaths of enemies of the throne never bothered him, but other behavior of the Protectors did. His fingers went tap-tap on the desk. “I have reports that indicate the situation almost spilled over into a riot.”
The Protector’s eyes blazed. “We maintained order. Punishments will be meted out to the sector involved.”
“This is becoming too frequent. Worse, productivity is slowing. We’re going to be hard-pressed to meet the throne’s goals, Brother Malkovius. Goals I’ve not had difficulty meeting in the past, I might add.”
For the first time, the armored figure betrayed emotion: anxiety. Failing the throne meant not only failing Ardnor—which would be terrible enough—but also the temple. Clearly, Malkovius did not wish to fail the Lady Nephera.
“Order must be restored,” the Protector insisted. “Disciplinary action is vital when people fail their duty to the imperium.”
The governor tapped his fingers, considering “You may need further assistance. I’ll withdraw half the legionaries from the outposts and place them under your command. They’ve been idling for months, waiting on the movements of the rebels, but according to all reports there is no longer any imminent threat.”
“I am grateful, Brother Haab! Those who guide us have spoken wisdom in your ears—”
“Yes, yes! I’ll see to it. If—” Haab paused to recall the legion commander’s name. She had been a thorn in his side since Hotak’s death and was clearly not enamored with the Protectors. Haab considered this officer short-sighted and had transferred her legion to shore protection in part to get rid of her. “—General Voluna—protests, have her come see me.”
“As you say.” Brother Malkovius beat his fist against his breastplate then eagerly departed.
Haab ceased tapping his fingers. Every report reaching his desk said the nearest rebel fighting was either in Kern or far beyond the eastern edge of the realm. The rebellion was clearly in tatters, but he knew Voluna; she would protest being reassigned to the Protectors. He smiled to himself. If she protested too hotly and slandered the throne, then he would have her removed from command. Otherwise, let her deal with Malkovius.
“Where are they?” muttered Maritia, peering out at the Blood Sea. “They wouldn’t dare be using galleys on this mission.”
“Surely the Grand Lord is not such a fool,” the barrel-chested mariner next to her said in a startingly soft tone. Captain Xyr’s voice belied his huge form. The streak of gray running down the front of his fur was the only evidence of his many years on the sea. Otherwise Xyr looked young for his years.
As captain of the Stormbringer, Xyr had been the one who had first reported Bastion lost at sea. Xyr had taken it upon himself to search long after everyone else had lost all hope. That dedication, in Maritia’s mind, was exactly what she expected from an officer of the empire, and so she had made Xyr senior captain of her fleet.
“No, he’s not,” she reluctantly agreed. “He’s far from that.”
The lookout suddenly shouted, his exact words drowned by the strong sea wind, but his meaning quite clear. Maritia shifted her gaze to the west. Golgren coming from that direction puzzled her. Imperial intelligence reported the majority of the ogres’ warships were much further north. Either Golgren had taken a wide swing, or the empire was wrong about the location of his sea might. Maritia made a mental note to have her officers look into the matter. It was unsettling to think so many ogres could go undetected so near to Ambeon.
Most of the ships in Golgren’s fleet had once either belonged to other races—including minotaurs—or had been crafted to imitate those of the empire. They were generally more bulky vessels, and as the ogre ships neared, Maritia saw a banner she did not recognize—a severed hand grasping a bloody dagger set in a field of brown that matched too closely the color of her own fur.
Assuming the lead vessel was the Grand Lord’s flagship, she had Captain Xyr give the signal of recognition. A sailor blew five short notes followed by a longer, higher one. Seconds later, the long note was returned, with the five quick ones coming after.
“Prepare my boat, Captain,” she commanded.
“With all due respect, my lady, it is better protocol that he should come over here.”
Maritia’s ears twitched. “The Stormbringer is the latest design in the imperium. I’m sure that Golgren would like to have its hull and sails studied by what passes for shipwrights among the ogres. Let them make their crude copies from a distance; I don’t want them aboard to study the smaller details.” She snorted. “They are allies, not equals … and certainly not to be trusted.”
Xyr turned to give the order. “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
In a few minutes the long boat was readied. Maritia took only two guards with her. The more minotaurs aboard the ogre ship, the more likely some trouble might stir up. She knew her soldiers would not start any tiff, but they would spill blood if provoked.
Four rowers brought them across the dark waters of the Blood Sea. As she waited, Maritia studied the Grand Lord’s ship. It was the newest and sleekest ogre vessel yet. It was definitely in the minotaur style, probably captured at some point in the past. At the bow Maritia could make out the old imperial designation. The letters had been crudely removed and replaced with the funny symbols that ogres preferred to represent their names.
Maritia puzzled out the symbols, finally arriving at the ship’s name: Hand that Devours All. What did that mean exactly? She had a suspicion it had to do with Golgren. Since the loss of his appendage, he flaunted his missing hand in various ways.
The Hand rocked slowly in the water. The deck was all but devoid of ogre sailors. Only a mere handful could be seen.
Just as she was about to call up, a shaggy beast in a simple gray kilt came to the rail and tossed over a rope ladder. One of the rowers took hold of the ladder, tested its strength, then held it against the side while the first of the guards ascended. Maritia followed, her other escort taking up the rear
.
“Most welcome, most welcome, offspring of Hotak, blood of the emperor and khan of Ambeon! Most welcome!”
The Grand Lord Golgren was costumed in all his finery, looking more like an elven elder than an ogre overlord. His green and brown robes swooped nearly to the deck. His mane was far more well-kept than Maritia’s herself. She had been forced to bind her own mane behind her in a tail, due to the constant dampness.
Accompanying Golgren was his omnipresent shadow, the hulking Nagroch. For some reason, Nagroch did not look directly at her. The frog-faced ogre eyed her guards, peered at his master, and even feigned to gaze at the sky—but never met her eyes. Maritia marked that oddity for later consideration.
One of her companions leaned over the rail and tapped the flat of his axe against the hull. Maritia heard the rowers begin to return to the Stormbringer. It attested to her trust in her host—and her trust in her own power—that they did not linger.
She greeted Golgren. “Hail, Grand Lord of Kern, Liberator of Blöde, and Protector of his people! I thank you for your good hospitality!”
He grinned. “It is pleasure. Come! My cabin has a welcome more proper!”
Maritia walked beside Golgren, as both their bodyguards walked close behind. Nagroch stalked ahead. Again, Maritia thought Golgren’s lieutenant was behaving strangely. Two armored giants of Blödian origins stood sentry at the Grand Lord’s cabin door. Nagroch barked an order. They immediately stepped to the sides, raising their axes to form an archway.
As Nagroch opened the door, the Grand Lord gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Please! It is the guest who first is in.”
As Maritia stepped inside, her eyes could not help but widen. In contrast to her own cabin, her host’s was an explosion of grandeur. Silks of many colors draped the huge room, all but obscuring the excellent wood. A gossamer veil hanging from the ceiling further gave a dreamlike quality to their surroundings.
There were no chairs or tables, only countless plush pillows and elaborate rugs that were spoils of the former elven kingdom. To the sides were some tools for writing and a small platform upon which lay charts, but otherwise the room was like the personal chamber of a Grand Khan. The more she thought about it, the more the minotaur felt certain the room intentionally resembled one she had seen on her single visit to Kernen. Glittering plates and goblets had been set on the floor for two. A high, curved glass flask of wine stood near.
Empire of Blood Page 18
