Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Nephera observed their departure with wide, bloodshot eyes. All was at last falling into place. Mortal weapons would end the life of the Horned One’s chosen champion, but for a god, a different battle was envisioned. The high priestess’s decree would demand that all work be shifted to the building and perfection of the new temples. Not only that, but the faithful—and that meant every minotaur—would be required to attend services three times a day, extolling the Forerunners and their patron. All memory of the other gods would be discouraged and punished. The only god for the minotaurs was Morgion, who would be revealed by name only when the faithful had been properly and firmly indoctrinated. Without the minotaurs, his once favored race, Sargonnas would be bereft. He would retreat and shrivel to a minor deity known only to a few. Gradually he would fade into obscurity.

  Smiling faintly, Nephera touched the axe symbol on her chest, murmuring lovingly, “First, I will slay his mortal hound, my lord. Then, for your glory, I will slay the god himself.”

  The ghostly messengers soared through the heavens, shrieking and screaming as they darted over all parts of the empire. They descended swiftly over the colonies to which they had been sent, honing in on individuals targeted by their mistress.

  On Mito, on Amur, even on Ambeon, the ghosts hovered before these individuals then materialized for their eyes only. The Protector General of Dus nearly toppled from his saddle when the pale, mournful young child appeared, hovering in the air before him. His counterpart on Thuum, in the midst of pronouncing sentence on a legionary who had been heard uttering unkind words about the emperor, instead blurted out a shocking epithet when he was startled by a ragged, thin male, who formed before his eyes.

  For Second Master Pryas, the visitation of a ghost dispatched by his priestess brought exaltation. He considered it the greatest honor of his life thus far. The pale yet still beautiful female stared with hungry, pained eyes at the Procurator General. Pryas ignored her agony, eager to know her message.

  “Hear my message, faithful one,” the drifting, translucent figure began in the high priestess’s voice. “I have been given a vision from beyond, a vision of a task of such magnitude that when it is accomplished it will forever change our world …”

  Pryas listened as Nephera’s messengers outlined her intentions. For the Procurator General of Ambeon, the job was an especially challenging one and proof he had been blessed with favor. Truly, the Forerunners had guided his destiny. Only an hour later all the riders had been dispatched to give the good word to the rest of Ambeon, and a short time after that Pryas was disturbed by the furious entrance of General Bakkor.

  “What in the name of sanity is this?” asked the Wyverns’ commander, waving in front of the Protector’s muzzle one of the documents hastily scribed by Pryas’s assistants.

  Pryas perused the document, whose contents he well knew, then responded, “This defines your duty, General … and you’re hereby warned against speaking such blasphemy again. Be grateful for my good mood, or else you’d be facing punishment right now.”

  “First of all, we share authority equally here!” Bakkor said, pulling himself together and staring angrily at the Protector. “Second, with all due respect, if we follow this decree to the letter, Ambeon will collapse. You’ve got the western fortresses all but stripped of power, our ogre allies are nibbling at the north, and there’ll be hardly anyone tending the fields—”

  “We have elves for that chore.”

  “They need to be watched by more than a few overseers! They’ll slip away! The same goes for the workers at the quarry.”

  Judging by his equally angry expression, the Procurator General was unmoved by this argument. “We embark on a more important, more ambitious project than Ambeon! This will set the course for the future of our people …”

  “There won’t be a future if we don’t keep a constant eye on the day-to-day aspects of empire-building. I’ll not permit this—”

  Pryas beat his fist on the table. Immediately, four massive warriors in black helms entered, surrounding General Bakkor on all sides. “You’ll perform your duty as dictated.” To the guards, the Protector said, “Escort the commander to his mount.”

  “Never mind! I’ll happily see myself out!” Nodding curtly, Bakkor turned and stomped out the door.

  The Second Master signaled an underling. “Tulak. Earlier, I sent a dictate from the throne, which ordered the arrest of Lady Maritia. I’ve heard nothing back. What happened to that message?”

  The brawny aide’s thick brow furrowed. “I took it only as far as the eastern gate. A legionary took it from there.”

  “From Wyvern, no doubt. That settles it. Interference with the throne. A sign of treason. I’ll bet the legionary took it to General Bakkor …” He frowned. “Begin gathering a force from Crystal Legion. I’ll have an important task for you soon.”

  An evil grin spread across Tulak’s muzzle. “Aye …”

  Pryas, too, allowed himself a smile as the officer left to obey. The high priestess would be very proud of him. Nothing would stand in the way of the temple’s work in Ambeon. The minotaur race would be exalted, the people saved—even if a few, like General Bakkor, found themselves ascending to the next plane a little sooner than they had expected.

  The storm erupted just before dawn and grew more intense as the day progressed. Although the ships had anchored in safe waters, the harsh currents and high winds scattered them. Many drifted near to the island, threatening to run aground.

  The ship closest to Faros’s was the first to suffer. A sudden cracking sound was followed by a low groan. As rebels on the other vessels watched helplessly, the ship’s main mast collapsed. It dropped into the savage waters, taking with it the rigging, part of the rail, and two slow-moving sailors. The hapless figures were immediately swept out of sight.

  “She’s not goin’ to last!” cried Botanos. “They’d better get everyone off before it’s too late!”

  “The Champion of Duma and the Karak’s Avenger are veering into one another!” warned someone from the aft.

  Sure enough, the bow of the Champion was only yards from the portside of the smaller Avenger. The crews tried frantically to avoid a collision, but the same anchors that had failed to root the two in deeper waters now tangled their efforts.

  The Champion of Duma’s stronger hull crushed into its sister ship. Karak’s Avenger listed, tossing several hands overboard.

  “The rebellion will end here unless we do something!” Faros called. “Give the signal to set sail! My father once said it’s better to ride out a storm than let it strike you in the muzzle!”

  “We might capsize in deeper water!” Botanos warned him.

  “Would you rather wait and pray?”

  Nodding, the captain went to the rail, sending the word by lantern to the rest of the fleet. The Dragon Crest’s crew worked to ready the sails. Grunting with effort, minotaurs fought the whipping lines. Crew members scurried up the rigging to make sure the sails filled properly.

  Aboard the damaged ships, the survivors began filling the long boats and heading to other vessels. The crossings were hazardous. More than a few minotaurs were washed overboard into what many dubbed Zeboim’s Cradle. At last, the ruined ships lay empty. The sea had already engulfed the Karak’s Avenger. One by one, the rebel fleet abandoned the island.

  As they headed away into the storm, Captain Botanos pointed. “It’s rough ahead! There’s no chance of heading on a proper course for the Blood Sea! We’ll have to steer for the Courrain!”

  “How long?”

  “Storm like this? Couldn’t say! Hours certainly, days maybe!”

  With a curse, Faros nodded. Even he could see that heading southwest of Karthay would be courting death The Dragon’s Crest took the lead. Thunder boomed as the sky darkened.

  “Get those lanterns lit!” shouted Botanos. “I want that stern blazing like the Great Circus at festival time!”

  The show of lights would help the others keep the flagship in si
ght. The fear of the ships getting separated was far greater than the remote possibility the Imperials might be near enough to spot the lights.

  Slowly, Dragon’s Crest wended its way deeper into the northern Courrain. Against their hopes, the storm worsened. The waves rose higher than the masts. The lookout had to abandon the crow’s nest for fear of being washed away.

  “Hard to port!” Botanos called, looking to Faros. “We’ve got to slow down a little. We’re starting to leave some behind! If we lose ’em here, we may never find ’em again!”

  Then, without warning, a massive wave washed over the deck. The rebel leader was knocked over and sent flying. He collided with another body, struck a wooden framework and flipped over the rail. Just as quickly, something thrust him back up and over, onto the ship. As the wave died, Faros, half the ocean rising up from his gut, found himself lying face down on the deck. Pushing himself up, he gazed through waterlogged eyes at another form tumbling through the tempest. Captain Botanos was trying to swim back to the boat, but his efforts were pathetic in the storm.

  Looking around, Faros found a long coil of rope. He yelled at the nearest sailors. “Over here! Your captain’s overboard!”

  They came to his assistance as he bound one end of the rope around his waist.

  “You shouldn’t try this, my lord,” a sailor shouted. “Let me—”

  “No time! Secure the other end!”

  Faros looked to Botanos. Although the larger minotaur still remained afloat, his strength clearly was flagging. Each stroke seemed an effort. His drenched fur pulled him down. Faros dove in. Striking the water was like hitting a stone wall. Shaking his head to clear his dizziness, the rebel leader started for Botanos.

  At first the waves aided him, tossing Faros toward the captain, but when he tried to grasp the other’s hand, he was thrown back. Worse, the rope drew so tangled it threatened to strangle him.

  Faros struggled with the rope—which suddenly slipped free, vanishing in the water. The younger minotaur grabbed for Botanos. The captain remained afloat but was barely moving.

  “Botanos!”

  The other did not respond. The ocean abruptly tilted. Faros looked behind him and saw only a wall of water. The high wave came crashing down. It pushed Faros deep beneath the surface. Water filled his lungs.

  Abruptly, he was surrounded by a strange calm. The storm, the crash of the waves … all turbulence vanished. A startling green glow filled the water.

  A short distance ahead, he could see Botanos drifting limply underwater. Faros tried to reach the captain, but his limbs felt like stone. Then a giant hand with slender fingers materialized under the captain. At the same time, another cradled Faros. He tried to swim away, but to no avail.

  The fingers parted slightly as Faros came to rest upon the palm. He saw webbing among the fingers. The skin was ivory with just a hint of sea green, although that might have been an effect of the light. The two hands drew together, cupping both minotaurs. It occurred to Faros that by all rights he and Botanos should be dead—perhaps they were dead. They had been underwater for far longer than any surface creature could hold its breath.

  A feminine chuckle, soft and reminiscent of a tidal breeze, startled him. He looked around but did not at first see anything clearly. Then Faros noticed a pair of creatures swimming toward him. At first they appeared to be Magori, but then he saw that they were huge sea turtles of an unsettling grey color, yet as they drew near, their forms grew murkier. Rather than turtles, they looked like eyes—grey eyes, the color of storms. Feminine eyes, too. The more Faros stared, the more he was sure they were giant orbs, beautiful, hypnotic, but ominous.

  When they blinked, revealing themselves to be heavily-lidded eyes, the rebel leader finally understood. Around the eyes, a pale, surreal countenance formed. The female figure seemed neither elven nor human. Indeed, the beauty of the Irda did not compare to her beauty, yet as the perfect, full lips parted in a smile, the slim, elegant nose twitched, and the long hair of white sea foam floated around him, Faros felt unsettled more than entranced. In this being, the minotaur sensed death.

  With what awkward effort he could muster, Faros bowed his horns to Zeboim, feared mistress of the darkest seas. Again, he heard the female god giggle. Legend had it that Zeboim was a capricious spirit, as inclined to seize a mariner off his ship and sleep with him as she was to feed the unfortunate to the sharp-toothed denizens of her realm. The Sea Queen, as she was often called, constantly battled Habbakuk—the Fisher King—for sovereignty of Krynn’s waters. Zeboim was mistress of all those who had died in the seas and the races who lived underwater.

  When she did not immediately drag him deeper down into the darkness, Faros dared to meet her eyes. Under a graceful brow, the grey orbs studied him. Her expression mingled curiosity, disdain, and amusement. He felt strangely drawn to her as to no other female. She was the promised shore that all sailors yearned for, yet also the turbulent deep to which some were doomed.

  One hand gently tipped Botanos toward Faros. Zeboim drew the pair near her chest as if they were babes. The sea queen wore a gossamer green and blue gown that looked spun from the very sea. The pale goddess swam through the ocean. As she did, she waved her hand toward the darkness below, as if beckoning.

  From the black depths emerged a presence so huge that it even dwarfed Zeboim. It was some kind of fish, for it had fins and gills, but it was round with a mouth filled with needlelike teeth. So huge was the behemoth it could have swallowed the entire rebel fleet whole.

  Thinking that this was perhaps Zeboim’s intention, Faros tried to wriggle from her hand. The moment he did, however, his lungs filled with water and he started to drown.

  Naughty, naughty! came a female voice both melodious and hideous in the minotaur’s thoughts. The Sea Queen—her expression vexed and eyes suddenly a violent green—held him up and shook him as one might a disobedient puppy. Gasping, Faros could only watch as the goddess—a hint of dark mirth now spread across her face—and the beast rose close to the surface.

  Zeboim pointed up at the ships. Through white, horrific orbs without any pupil, the monstrosity seemed to understand. It started for the unsuspecting rebels, its canyon-wide maw opening. Raising her hand to her face again, the deity looked deep into Faros’s eyes. Hers were now the color of the deep azure of the sea.

  For my daddy … came her susurrating voice again. And because your little people understand proper respect for a queen …

  With that, Zeboim laughed and tossed the two mortals to her gigantic pet. Faros tried to hold his breath as he started to sink. His vision blurred. Faros saw Botanos tumble past him, a single twitch of the captain’s arm the only sign his comrade lived.

  Swimming up from beneath them, the abomination opened its mouth to swallow the duo. A huge, serpentine appendage, the sea beast’s tongue, thrust out at them. The blood-red appendage snared both bodies and sucked the minotaurs inside.

  The two fleets lay locked in position despite the foul weather. The minotaurs had the strength of numbers and better equipment, while the ogres held the advantage of ferocity. They also held the key to the minotaurs’ continued cooperation.

  Maritia had not suffered in the days since her capture, at least not physically. In fact, Golgren had gone out of his way to make her comfortable. Even her two guards had been treated moderately well, although their quarters were down below and far more cramped. The guards were fed decently and left alone by their captors. True, they did not receive the fine food and drink, nor plush pillows upon which to sleep, like Maritia, but all things considered, Golgren had been very gracious indeed.

  The Grand Lord had turned over his own cabin to her as her cell. Maritia had searched the place as thoroughly as possible but could find no way out other than the barred, guarded entrance.

  The stalemate could not last forever. Golgren had to decide what to do about her. The minotaur fleet had only held back so far because of her safety. His best bet was to sail back to his own realm, but tha
t would not be a permanent solution, and surely the minotaur ships would maneuver to block him if he tried.

  Why did he “arrest” her anyway? Could she really be condemned by Ardnor and her mother? Maritia doubted it. They would want to avenge Bastion’s death as much as she did.

  She couldn’t figure out Golgren’s motives.

  Golgren did not like feeling off balance. Everything had been going perfectly. He had his people under his thumb, the Titans in check, the beginnings of a solid expansion into Neraka, and strong ties to his minotaur allies, to the Lady Nephera—the true emperor. Now because of Nephera, all of it threatened to unravel.

  “Jahara i du f’han i’Maritia’n,” muttered the seated Nagroch, from behind his pacing master.

  “F’han i’Maritia’n?” the Grand Lord snapped, turning to glare at his huge second. “Kyal nur f’han i’Nagrochi, ke?”

  The ogre from Blöde pulled his head back, his eyes round with uncertainty.

  “Ngi,” added Golgren dismissively.

  The Grand Lord had taken over Nagroch’s cabin. The Uruv Suurt was kept prisoner in his quarters. Unlike Golgren’s perfect paradise, however, Nagroch lived in the squalor to which most ogres were accustomed. The huge warrior slept on soiled skins on the floor. Bits of old food lay scattered about; the floor had stains of spilled wine. Only one weak oil lamp lit the cabin, a preferable thing to Golgren, who did not wish to see every foul detail.

  A rank odor filled the room. While bathing was all but impossible on such journeys, Golgren at least attempted to counter his own sweat with scented oils. It was doubtful that a barrel of such oil would have done anything to douse the smell prevalent here. The cabin also appeared to be infested with bugs.