Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Nagroch stood and leaned in a bored fashion against the wall. Golgren paid him no mind, more interested in the absence of the one he had been expecting for days and nights.

  Kolot’s ghost should have returned by now. The specter had the ability to travel great distances in but the blink of an eye, Golgren knew. There had been more than ample time for him to deliver the Grand Lord’s message to his mistress and bring the reply.

  Did the high priestess have no concern for her own daughter?

  Nagroch grunted something under his breath. Although he did not understand the other’s words, the meaning was clear. Nagroch wanted the Lady Maritia’s horns, blaming her for the death of his brother at the hands of Bastion. This stupidity—considering Maritia was totally in the dark—was not lost on Golgren.

  “G’hai!” the Grand Lord snapped, finally irritated with his second. “Roch g’hai!”

  With a sullen expression, Nagroch bowed his head and left the cabin.

  Golgren scowled after him, but his annoyance was not entirely directed at the other ogre. His good hand pressed against the one hanging from his chest as he considered the benefits and dangers of his alliance.

  Grand Lord …

  His only hint of surprise was the suddenly tightened clutching of his severed hand. Golgren gazed over his shoulder, but it was not the now-familiar youngest son of the high priestess he saw.

  Steeling himself, the Grand Lord eyed the foreboding, cloaked specter. He knew that Takyr sensed his unease despite his apparent composure. “So, the mistress’s hound! I have been waiting …”

  She has far more important tasks than guiding you by one hand …

  Ignoring the jab at his maimed condition, Golgren responded, “But her own daughter? Have done all you requested, all the son of Nephera demanded …”

  And now you shall let her go. The emperor has reviewed the situation and found error. Maritia is loyal. The priestess has been informed of that.

  The ogre’s eyes narrowed. “Just so? All a jest? Proclaimed her a traitor in her brother’s name. Waited days for word.” Despite his distaste for the ghost, Golgren approached the malevolent shade. “I am the Grand Lord. To let her go now, in such a manner … this is a loss of face to my own, even I cannot explain.”

  Takyr suddenly seemed to fill his view. The folds of his cloak spread toward Golgren, who refused to move. The mistress has commanded. All … all will obey …

  “I—” Before he could say more, the damnable spirit vanished. Golgren spat where moments before Takyr had floated.

  The high priestess’s decision had done nothing but worsen his mood. Golgren did not like being played like a puppet and then having his strings jangled. It was simple for the Uruv Suurt to tell him to let Maritia de-Droka go, yet to do so now, without the explanation he dare not give, would make his followers believe he had weakened. Then there was Maritia herself; how to tell her?

  Teeth bared, Golgren hissed. It would do not good to reveal the emperor’s part in Bastion’s death to his sister Maritia. She would not believe him over her mother and brother. Indeed, she was clever enough to wonder about the ring, perhaps even follow clues to the truth regarding his own dire connection to the death.

  Too bad, because actually he preferred the daughter to the mother.

  “This alliance,” the Grand Lord muttered to himself, “not so worth the trouble, any more …” He stroked his chest where the mummified hand dangled. “Not worth it at all …”

  He nodded to himself, making his decision. The Lady Nephera had left him with the proverbial baraki in the bag, but the Grand Lord would do what was best for him, not any Uruv Suurt. If Nephera did not concern herself with Golgren, then he would not concern himself with the high priestess.

  Then the solution dawned, a solution so obvious it amazed him that he hadn’t immediately thought of it.

  Nagroch would be very eager for it too. “Nagroch!”

  Maritia sat casually plumped against some pillows, eyeing Golgren. He had come to see her with Nagroch and a couple of guards. What was he up to now? Her captor was quite cunning.

  “It is to your comfort?” the Grand Lord asked, indicating the surroundings.

  “A little genteel for my tastes. I prefer my own cabin.”

  Golgren glanced around, saw there was no ready flask. “You have no drink?”

  “They took it away when I tried to beat in the skull of one of them with it.”

  He chuckled, his eyes admiring her. There were times, Maritia suspected, when Golgren wished she were one of his kind. She did not know whether to be flattered or disgusted.

  “You’ve come to tell me when I’m to be executed, I suppose,” she declared, her expression unchanging.

  “Ah, not so! I come for a different, happy reason. You are to be released! All a misunderstanding!”

  “A misunderstanding?” She rose abruptly, trying to hold her temper. “Like my ring?”

  “A crossing of communication, as you say. All is well now.”

  “If what you say is true, then I’ll be leaving immediately. My guards?” She moved about, as though to gather her things. To her surprise, Golgren did not balk or try to stop her.

  “Will join you on deck.”

  “What about my weapons?” To be among so many ogres without even a dagger …

  “Nagroch?”

  At the Grand Lord’s command, the hulking ogre, standing there and glaring at her, all but shoved her sheathed sword, breastplate, and dagger to her. Maritia glared back at him then slipped on the breastplate. She belted her sword and was about to slip the dagger in place when she saw it was not her dagger.

  “This isn’t my father’s blade!” Glancing up, Maritia saw Nagroch’s hand curl over a dagger at his side. “Give that back!”

  “Not have your knife!” Nagroch snarled.

  She started toward him, only to be restrained by two guards. Frowning, Golgren called, “Kul itak! Itak!”

  The guards pulled back. Maritia shoved toward Nagroch, but now the Grand Lord stood in front of her, blocking her way.

  “You claim him a thief?” he asked casually.

  Hotak’s daughter threw the dagger she had been handed onto the floor. “This is not mine. I demand the return of my father’s dagger!”

  Pointing at Nagroch’s belt, she no longer saw the dagger. Maritia stared at the leering ogre, but her father’s gift was gone.

  “No thief!” Nagroch rumbled. “Lies!”

  “You have it somewhere!”

  The ogre spat at her feet. The blood surged to Maritia’s head. She tried to maintain calm, but the days of captivity, the loss of a precious memento that belonged to her father, all this took a toll. Nagroch had stolen from her and now impugned her honor.

  “G’lahdi i suug …” Nagroch continued to speak with much venom. “Nera i suug …”

  She knew enough of the ogre tongue to realize that, roughly translated, Nagroch had called her a female unable to bear children. On the surface, a weak, almost laughable insult, but she was fed up, and she struck Nagroch across the jaw.

  He flinched from the blow but held his ground. Nagroch leered evilly. “Ih hita f’hon! Duel! Honor demands!”

  “Draw your weapon!” Maritia countered.

  “No!” The Grand Lord rushed between them. His expression was very aggrieved. He looked from Nagroch to Maritia. “Enough bad has happened. Must not endanger yourself, offspring of Hotak!”

  Her temples pounded. His words only made her more determined. “I’ll endanger him now!”

  Golgren shook his head. “The emperor would never understand!”

  “Summon my guards! I’ll have them as my witnesses!”

  “What if you die, who is to blame?”

  Maritia straightened proudly. “None!”

  He sighed. “Maritia, Nagroch was struck. Declared duel. Ogre law says, ogre rules.”

  Meaning the arrangements would tend to favor Nagroch. Maritia, however, did not care. “Do it!” To her a
dversary, she added, “And when it’s done, I’ll have my dagger back!”

  Nagroch only grinned. He seemed quite happy with the outcome.

  The Grand Lord barked orders to his followers, including his second. The other ogres departed, leaving Golgren with her.

  “Certain of this?” he asked.

  Maritia already regretted her rash outburst, but her honor would not permit her to retreat. “Deadly certain.”

  “Then prepare.” The ogre leader gave her a look of sympathy. “And beware. For Nagroch does not lose.”

  They came for her as the sun set. The beating of the leather drums preceded Golgren’s grand entrance. The Grand Lord wore a solemn expression, though inwardly he felt like grinning. The daughter of Hotak had forgotten her mistaken imprisonment, and everyone else had forgotten Golgren’s “mistake,” so focused was the minotaur upon revenge. Nagroch had accepted Golgren’s plan unquestioningly as a way of avenging his brother by slaying Maritia.

  Revenge begets revenge, the Grand Lord thought with a rueful sigh.

  “All is made ready.” Golgren wore not his usual fine garb, but rather a simple kilt. In contrast, his breastplate—of minotaur manufacture—had been polished as bright as that of any legionary. “Such a tragedy it is, coming to this.”

  Maritia displayed no emotion. Never show an enemy or an ally weakness, her father had more than once instructed her. The Grand Lord was enemy and ally both, she thought to herself.

  As she stepped out of the cabin, guards flanked her. Golgren led the small procession toward the open deck. There, Maritia saw the rails had been lined with torches. She wondered if those aboard her own flagship knew what was happening. Would they attack, if they did? She hoped not. Now was not the time to smash the uneasy alliance. Especially with the rebels threatening, the ogres were still important to the long-range plans of the imperium.

  The drums continued to beat. There was no sign of her bodyguards. She had talked with them earlier, made them understand she had chosen this duel. They had protested, in the end acquiescing. Now Golgren likely kept them out of sight to avoid flare-ups between them and the crew.

  A hexagonal pattern had been drawn with chalk on the deck. Each point was inscribed in the bastardized High Ogre script utilized by Golgren’s caste. The only symbol the minotaur recognized was that of a snake. The snake seemed to be eating a tiny skull.

  The drums ceased. The ogres began what sounded like a chorus of barking. Several batted the tops of their clubs or the tips of their axes on the wood, at times audibly cracking the rails.

  “Kya du ahn di i’gorunaki!” the Grand Lord called, raising his hands to the sky. “i’Nagrochi ut i’Maritia’n!”

  The ogres repeated his shout, obviously thirsty for blood, preferably Maritia’s. The female minotaur strode to meet her opponent. Nagroch grinned eerily at her and then waved to the crowd.

  The Grand Lord pointed to the center of the design. As the two positioned themselves where he indicated, Golgren waved another ogre over with two much-abused hand axes. Nagroch took one, tested its balance, then proceeded to discard his breastplate.

  As she took the other chipped and rusting axe, Maritia felt a sudden flash of panic and considered rushing to the rail and leaping over. No, it was too late for that dishonorable move, and besides, her guards below would suffer the most for her cowardice.

  Ogres surrounded the pattern, holding their clubs steady. They were not simply there to watch. If she or Nagroch tumbled outside any part of the fighting area, the ogres there were to beat the unfortunate until he or she returned to the duel. Once the duel begun, it wouldn’t end until one combatant lay lifeless.

  They studied each other for weaknesses. However, Golgren had chosen his second wisely. Even though Nagroch had shed his armor, her adversary appeared to be a veritable small mountain of muscle.

  “Be ready,” the Grand Lord cautioned.

  Maritia crouched, her axe gripped tight. Nagroch’s froglike features spread wide in grinning anticipation. From somewhere behind her she heard a single drum beat.

  Axe high, Nagroch leapt at her. The deck erupted in roars.

  She barely deflected the first strike. Every bone vibrated as the monstrous warrior’s blow landed. The minotaur fell to one knee, struggling to push her opponent’s axe away from her skull.

  “F’han, Uruv Suurt,” Nagroch breathed at her. “F’han …”

  Her snort was partly an attempt to clear her nose of his stench. Straining to push herself up, Maritia suddenly kicked at the ogre. Her foot harmlessly bounced off Nagroch’s thick leg, but the maneuver startled the pockmarked warrior and he backed up a step.

  Leaping to her feet, the minotaur swung low, seeking Nagroch’s belly. His own weapon came down, pushing her axe away, though she managed to crease his side. The meager cut likely did not even sting, but it was symbolic. First blood was hers. Last blood was what mattered most, however.

  Cheers rose, for the ogres relished the violence, the spectacle, and the promise of more blood. Maritia looked around for Golgren but couldn’t see him, and Nagroch gave her no time. The frog-faced ogre swung again. When the legion commander shifted to defend herself, Nagroch’s beefy hand thrust at her. The feint had caught her by complete surprise.

  He seized her throat and began throttling her. Choking, Maritia grabbed his wrist. However, she might as well have been trying to tear the Great Circus down, so solid was the warrior’s arm.

  Nagroch chuckled. “Skin you, Uruv Suurt! Wear you close!”

  He intended to do just that. Ogres sometimes used the skulls, horns, and fur of their dead enemies for home and body decoration. Minotaurs, on the other hand, saw little value in collecting such grisly trophies. Perhaps a tusked skull here and there lay in some legionary’s home, but that was uncommon.

  Nagroch’s fingers closed tighter. Maritia felt her neck twisting, but using his bare hands made Nagroch negligent. He momentarily lowered his axe, and Maritia jabbed upward with her own weapon. Nagroch fell back rather than risk a deep wound on his arm.

  Maritia slipped to one knee. She inhaled deeply, trying to overcome the dizziness she felt. A harsh pain ripped across her weapon arm. Her axe skittered across the deck. She rolled away from the ogre, clutching her shoulder. Stomping feet warned her that Nagroch was close behind. Instinctively backing away, Maritia collided with a pair of hairy legs.

  “No!” she gasped.

  The female minotaur leapt back into the fight just as the guard on the line swung his club at her, grazing her thigh. Barreling forward, Maritia collided with Nagroch. Her left horn struck him hard. He gave a yelp, as Hotak’s daughter looked out of dazed eyes and saw his blood dripping down on her muzzle.

  “Nya i koja eza f’hani, Uruv Suurt!” roared Golgren’s second.

  His axe struck her hard on the side of the head, but fortunately he made contact with the flat of his blade. Still, her ears rang, her jaw felt numbed. The minotaur stumbled back.

  Nagroch limped to one side. His right leg had a deep, round wound. The limb shook. The ogre now had to favor his good leg.

  Clutching her axe, Maritia rose to face the giant. Nagroch grinned anew, and if anything seemed more eager for the fight. The crowd jeered their momentary hesitation. Shouting his own taunts back at his fellows, Nagroch stomped toward Maritia, swinging his axe back and forth in a series of savage arcs.

  Maritia swung her weapon. The clanging of the two axes resounded beyond the ship. The minotaur and her foe whirled around and around as each sought advantage. Among the sea of roaring ogre faces, Maritia spotted Golgren’s. As ever, the Grand Lord seemed unreadable, watching the duel with almost clinical detachment.

  “You fall!” grunted Nagroch. “Fall and save your hurt! Will make your death swift, I promise …”

  “I feel no pain, no weakness,” the minotaur commander lied. “Can you say the same?”

  “I am Nagroch! Nagroch, He Who is the Mastark Bull! Named so by Donnag at birth!”

  Mari
tia could well believe the Lord Chieftain of Blöde had given this brute such a name. Despite his quivering leg, Nagroch seemed very much like a mastark bull, ready to fight all night if necessary.

  Maritia knew that she could never last the night. The minotaur focused on Nagroch’s lower right side. Every opportunity, her axe attacked his vulnerability. Again and again, she forced the heavy ogre to lean on his weakened leg. Soon her efforts began to tell. Nagroch’s bleeding didn’t stop, and his leg grew more and more unsteady. Maritia, risking herself at times, continued to drive him to the right.

  Still he hammered hard at her. Twice he slipped past her guard, the first time grazing her side, the second time piercing her thigh. Maritia bit back the pain and again pushed to the right.

  Then … Nagroch stumbled and fell to one knee.

  The audience roared loudly at this surprise. Whether they cheered for Maritia or to encourage Nagroch, it was impossible to say.

  The ogre pushed up, but his limb buckled. He swung wildly. Sensing her opportunity, Maritia lunged for his open chest.

  Nagroch’s weapon shifted to block her, but the minotaur abruptly feinted and drew her adversary off-balance. As Nagroch tried to compensate, Maritia adjusted for her true target. The blade sank deep into Nagroch’s thick throat, a spray of blood soaking the weapon to the handle.

  He let out a piteous, garbled sound. To Maritia’s horror, though, Nagroch did not fall or die. Rather, moving with a swiftness that should have been impossible, he tore her axe away from her hand, tossing it beyond the gathering.

  His chest bathed in his own life fluids, Nagroch then rose slowly. Like a clumsy puppet, he took one awkward step, then another, toward his opponent. Each step was accompanied by a wide, jagged swing of his own blade. Forced to retreat, Maritia found herself dangerously close to the line of waiting ogres. One took a swing at her but stopped his club at the line.

  Nagroch tried to speak, but his words emerged as guttural gasps. If anything, his grin was wider, wilder, crazier. He left a trail of red drops on the deck, but still he advanced.

  Now he was so close she could smell his horrible breath. Feeling all but spent, Maritia twisted to one side and at the same time kicked out at him desperately with both feet. This time, she caught Nagroch’s legs, striking them with her last might.