Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The massive ogre twisted backward. The planks beneath him cracked as he hit with a thud. Maritia rolled over and tried to rise. The crowd grunted loudly. Nagroch, too, struggled for his footing.

  Swearing, the minotaur sought her weapon. Finding it, she crawled over to the ogre.

  Eyes still filled with venom, the dying ogre reached for her and managed to seize her by the ankle. His fingers tightened, almost crushing the bone.

  “Nya—nya i f’han—i’Bastioni—” he growled, baring ugly teeth.

  “What?” About to land a death blow, Maritia faltered. “What did you say?”

  She struggled to remember her ogre tongue. What was this brute trying to say about Bastion?

  Suddenly, Golgren stood beside them. Maritia glanced up, saw his darkening face.

  “Duel is yours, Maritia. Death must be demanded.”

  “Not until—”

  “You will shame Nagroch’s clan by letting him die slow, like a sheep blooded. Slay now!” Around them, the ogres barked ‘f’han’ over and over.

  Maritia did want to finish the duel as decreed, but she also wanted to know what Nagroch had said about Bastion.

  Nagroch’s grip on her faltered. He opened his mouth, eyes narrowed.

  “i’Bast—”

  He got no further. A curved blade suddenly glided across his throat, opening a ravine through which the last of Nagroch’s life poured.

  A hush overtook the assembled warriors. With a sigh, Nagroch finally fell still. Maritia tugged her leg free of his death grip.

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” she said angrily, looking up at Golgren.

  The Grand Lord stared back indulgently, almost fondly. “It is the way of our kind. Your life I might have saved from them.” He indicated the other warriors, who had now resumed their cheering and shouting.

  “But he—”

  Golgren would hear no more. He handed his own dagger to a subordinate, who, in turn, gave the Grand Lord a small water pouch.

  “Drink! You need.”

  She could not argue. As she sipped, Maritia’s thoughts whirled. Nagroch had been trying to trick her, babbling. That had to be it. He could know nothing of Bastion.

  Why had the Grand Lord interfered?

  “Will have Nagroch’s things searched, Maritia. Will find your father’s dagger.”

  “Good …” Maritia swayed. The fight had depleted her. Her eyes swam. She could barely think.

  “Fought well, Uruv Suurt,” Golgren remarked, with only the barest smile. He peered at her. “Fought well, Maritia.”

  “I-I won, Golgren. Now, I demand m-my freedom as—as is my right!”

  The Grand Lord said nothing, his eyes narrowing. The smile took on a predatory appearance, all sharp teeth clamped tight.

  He said nothing else, nor did she. Exhaustion and nausea overwhelmed Maritia. The water sack slipped from the female minotaur’s hand, the contents spilling. The deck spun about.

  Maritia collapsed.

  Faros was drowning. The intense pressure squeezed his lungs. The darkness of the deep embraced him. He knew he was dying.

  Still, he clawed futilely. A thick forest of seaweed wrapped itself around him. The long, sinewy plants clutched his arms and legs. He felt as if bound by ropes. Faros desperately tore at the seaweed, yet it only appeared to grow thicker, stronger …

  He woke up gasping.

  For what seemed an eternity, Faros couldn’t fill his lungs. No matter how many desperate breaths he took, it didn’t seem enough.

  Something grabbed his arms. Faros struggled.

  “Easy now, lad! Easy!”

  The familiar voice soothed him. Shaking, Faros slowly came to grips with his surroundings. He could smell the sea, but was no longer in the water. His breathing began to return to normal and, as it did, the memories returned.

  Memories of the behemoth from the deep … and the mercurial goddess who was its mistress.

  “My Lord Faros!” the voice growled. “Do you hear me? Snap out of it, lad!”

  “Botanos?” the rebel leader managed to gasp. He gazed through blurry eyes at a male minotaur, yet neither the voice nor the shape was that of the Dragon Crest’s captain.

  “Here.” A cup was thrust in Faros’s left hand. “Drink this, slowly.”

  If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was thirsty, but his murky companion pushed the cup toward the younger minotaur’s muzzle. With great reluctance, Faros swallowed the contents.

  Fire erupted in his head, his belly, and his limbs.

  “By Vyrox! What—?”

  “Aye, they said it was potent.” The other minotaur coalesced into Napol, the marine commander.

  Napol sailed with Tinza aboard the Sea Reaver. How had Faros ended up on the other ship? Had they plucked him from the waters? Had the entire vision of Zeboim and her creature been nothing more than his waterlogged imagination?

  Slowly, things around him registered. He was in a high but narrow hut. His bed, a brown, cotton mattress atop a six-legged wooden cot, was stuffed thick with down. A blanket of similar make covered him. The floor was soft, white sand. A tall candle in a boxy, silver holder sat upon a table whose top was made of planks that had once been part of a ship. The door was the treated hide of some animal. It flapped lightly from the ocean breeze outside. Faros could tell it was day, but nothing more. There were no personal items in the hut other than the candle holder, nothing that told him where he was.

  “Where—?”

  Napol stopped him. “They won’t tell us the name of the place, even though it’s only a way station. That was a promise made.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “You’ll meet them soon enough. They want us out of here. They weren’t too happy when we appeared like that.”

  Trying to hide his confusion, Faros asked, “Captain Botanos. Is he dead?”

  Napol’s eyes widened. “Dead? He’s been awake for a day already. You’re the one who’s been worrying us, my lord! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes! If I hadn’t lived through it—and I’ll tell you I was sure none of us would—I’d have never believed it!”

  He raised a large leather sack and offered Faros some more of the drink. Quickly refusing it, the rebel leader said, “Tell me.”

  “Better you rest. I’ll tell you when we take the long boat back to our ships—”

  Faros’s expression hardened. “Tell me …”

  Under that gaze, the veteran soldier swallowed anxiously. “Aye, my lord! Aye …”

  Napol kept the story simple. Aboard the Sea Reaver, they had known nothing of the two lost at sea. Tinza had had her own problems to worry about, chiefly a mast that was cracking and ships behind her that were starting to scatter recklessly.

  “We feared that once those behind us lost direction, we’d have rebels sailing off in every direction. We’d be lucky if some of them we’d ever find again!”

  Faros nodded.

  “Then … you’ll swear I’ve been drinking sea water instead of good rum … but it’s true what happened next: the water became deathly calm! We stood on the deck, wondering at it. The sails hung as limp as a hanged corpse, and there wasn’t a sound!” He grimaced. “Was a mighty stench, though! Smelled like every fish in the sea had gone and died, and we’d found the place they’d chosen to rot!”

  So caught up in his own story, Napol unthinkingly nearly took another drink from the sack. Only at the last did the minotaur pull it away, his lips curling in distaste. “Pfah! Forgive me, lad! ’Tis what happened next that makes me forget myself …”

  “What was it?”

  “You’ll think me daft, but everyone else save Botanos will swear to it, too! We were all looking around, trying to decide what happened—when the tentacle of the largest kraken I ever saw rose from the water!”

  A sailor at the stern saw it first. Giving a cry, she pointed up. As Napol, Tinza, and the rest stared, the huge appendage rose out of the sea. Its diameter was greater than the height of the tallest shi
p. It stretched into the dark heaven, thrusting forward far beyond the sight of the Sea Reaver.

  “Your ship saw it, too, after you’d gone missing,” the marine commander added. “The most curious thing about the tentacle, however, was that it hung in the sky for the longest time. Not only that, but no one among any of the rebel vessels reported seeing the rest of the giant. Still can’t fathom how it could be swimming like that—one limb up in the air.

  Faros said nothing. Napol’s words were too frighteningly close to describing the tongue of the Sea Queen’s creature. There was no longer any doubt in his mind: his encounter with Zeboim had been real. Faros attempted to rise. Napol reached to help, but the rebel leader shook him off.

  “How did we end up here—and where is here anyway?”

  “The first I can’t say much of, lad. Suddenly the tentacle dropped back beneath the waters, and the sky returned. The stench faded and we found ourselves in the calm of this island. They came out to meet us at first light … and told us they had you and the captain.”

  “ ‘They’ again. Just who are they, Napol?”

  “He means us.”

  Faros spun toward the voice. A minotaur stood at the entrance to the cabin. Tall and lean, he moved like a predatory cat. He wore a simple green kilt that reminded Faros of Napol’s, though clearly they were not related. The newcomer looked down his tapering muzzle at the younger minotaur.

  “My name is Gaerth. My people … are no longer yours.”

  With a snarl, Faros tried to leap at Gaerth. However, his brain was swimming dizzily, and it was only Napol’s aid that kept him from toppling over.

  Gaerth watched all with complete indifference. “After taking the durag brew, you should make no sudden actions for the first hour. Did you not tell him?”

  Napol’s ears flattened. “I didn’t have a chance to warn him, my lord.”

  “What do you mean, your people aren’t mine?” asked Faros, fighting the dizziness. He straightened.

  “We long ago parted ways with the empire. Our home is ours, our destiny is ours, we belong neither to the throne nor the Horned One. You are here because of a request of another, one to whom we owe respect and homage. The Lord of Just Cause has asked that we do what we can for you, but we shall do no more than that.”

  “ ‘Lord of Just Cause’?” repeated Faros. “Who—?

  Gaerth had already turned back to the door. “Your ships make ready. You’ll be leaving soon … and you will not be returning.”

  Vertigo or no vertigo, Faros struggled free of Napol’s grasp and seized Gaerth’s shoulder. The taller minotaur attempted to shrug him off, but Faros grabbed his arm and twisted it back. Gaerth grunted in surprise.

  Immediately, two others burst into the cabin. They reached for Faros, but Gaerth waved them back. Napol, despite having no weapon, tried to defend Faros, snarling at the pair.

  “Listen to me,” Faros muttered between clenched teeth, his head feeling on fire. “I never asked for your help, nor that of your ‘Lord of Just Cause!’ I was brought here without my knowledge by the whims of a goddess—”

  “Zeboim,” Gaerth declared, rubbing his freed arm. “ ’Tis a strange time when such gods ally themselves thusly …”

  “She’s Sargonnas’s daughter, nothing strange in that.”

  “She brought you to those who follow the ways of Kiri-Jolith, Faros Es-Kalin. She brings her father’s champion to his archrival for our race. Truly they are strange shieldmates …”

  First I am bothered by one god, then two, and now three. Faros snorted. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s three too many gods. What do they want of me? Can’t three gods defeat Morgion?”

  Gaerth shrugged. “This is not the only battle going on. Zeboim and the bison god have their own struggles to overcome. The pantheons as we know them are a thing of the past. Already no Takhisis, no Paladine. Who can say what will happen next?”

  “I can … and will!” Faros searched around. “My sword!” His expression tightened. “Where is it?”

  “The weapon … all your weapons … are being held in safety until you leave these shores. We will not take any chances—”

  “You’ll return my sword to me now!”

  The guards moved close to Gaerth, blocking the rebel leader from reaching him. Gaerth’s eyes became slits. “No outsider bears arms in our domain. You will cease your demands and—”

  Faros’s fingers folded and folded again, as if he already tensely gripped the weapon. “I demand my sword!”

  The two guards moved toward him—then froze. A flash of black light burst from Faros’s empty grip. It stretched long, shaped itself to a sharp point—and became the blade created by Sargonnas.

  One of the sentries gave a cry and lunged. Faros sliced his axe in two, then took a swing at the minotaur, nearly slicing him in two.

  “Get back!” snapped Gaerth. He gestured at the sword. “Stay away from that … thing!”

  They retreated, leaving the way open for the rebel. Without waiting for Napol, Faros pushed past Gaerth, through the doorway and a moment later stumbled to a halt in absolute shock.

  A city of high, silver spires and curved structures, reminiscent of the shell of a nautilus, met his disbelieving gaze. The city was surrounded by water dappled with foam green and glistening blue colors. A blue banner with the silver outline of a twin-edged axe fluttered atop many of the city’s structures. A thick, serrated wall of iridescent pearl protected the city from the waters to the east, where the rebel ships lay anchored.

  Circling the rebel ships were several low-slung, green-tinted vessels with shorter, slimmer masts. Their bows ended in elongated, narrow points looking to Faros like ideal spears to puncture the hulls of an enemy. The bows of each ship also sported a ballista aimed at the outsiders.

  “Lord Faros!” Napol shouted. “Remember, the durag brew—”

  The moment the other rebel spoke, Faros’s world spun about. The fantastic city vanished, leaving only a rocky, foreboding set of hills with no sign of life in his vision. He looked out at the water, this time seeing only three ships near the rebel vessels. Faros blinked and looked again at the hills, then back at the ships, but nothing had changed. He eyed his sword and ring, but even then the silver city did not reappear.

  “Are you all right, my lord?”

  “Where is it? How is it hidden?”

  Napol looked perplexed. “Where’s what?”

  “The city! What magical veil covers it?” He turned to Gaerth, who had calmly followed them out. “What is this place?”

  “A way station for our people. A half dozen man it at any time. The rest of us sailed here at the behest of the Lord of Just Cause.”

  “A way station.” With a snort, the rebel leader pointed at the hills. “What if I climb up for a better look at your mighty fleet?”

  Gaerth shrugged. “If you wish to do so, I will not prevent you from climbing.”

  “Which means that I shouldn’t bother …” The illusion had to to be a potent one, Faros thought.

  “The brew is very heady, outsider. It can cause one to imagine things … at least temporarily.”

  The two guards approached. Faros readied his blade, but Gaerth sent the pair back inside. To Faros, he said, “Your Captain Botanos is back aboard the Dragon’s Crest. He has been directing the taking aboard of supplies and weaponry. I would venture that he is just about done. You look fit for travel now, so it is time you left.”

  As Faros had no desire to keep Gaerth’s company any longer, he nodded. “What did you mean about supplies and weaponry?”

  “A promise kept to our patron. You have all we can give. The empire is yours to win … or lose. We do not care. Our ships will guide you to a familiar point, then our part in this is ended. Be warned, though. Do not sail from your escort until signaled.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you do not follow the escort, you may be forever lost. Even we will not be able to save you and none of us will risk ourselves to
try.”

  “All this protection for a mere way station?”

  Gaerth did not answer, instead gesturing at Napol, who anxiously sought to guide his leader away before another argument ensued.

  “I’ve no war with you,” Faros declared to the stranger. “I’ll not come hunting you if I win the empire.”

  “You could never find us again.”

  The younger warrior bared his teeth at the slim minotaur. “I would … if I needed to.”

  Gaerth’s nostrils flared but he said nothing.

  Faros turned and followed Napol away. At the edge of the white, sandy beach upon which the cabin sat, a long boat awaited them. Four sailors from the Dragon’s Crest saluted as he neared.

  As the boat launched, Faros glanced back. Gaerth stood near the tiny, unprepossessing cabin. The structure looked well-worn, ready to collapse. The island seemed as stark and uninviting a piece of ground as the rocks north of Karthay.

  They passed one of three green ships. The crew, all built like Gaerth and with similar, less pronounced features, watched them in silence.

  “An arrogant bunch for so few in number,” Commander Napol commented.

  “They supplied us with what we needed?”

  “Aye! Every vessel!”

  Faros looked over the closest green ship from stern to bow. As swift and as deadly as it appeared, it clearly could hold no more than a third the number of crew and fighters of his flagship.

  “Every vessel,” he repeated back to Napol.

  The veteran warrior did not see what Faros did. Three ships could not restock his fleet. They could not possibly have held enough supplies, much less weaponry.

  It would take more than a dozen …

  The Sea Reaver sat anchored to the port side of the Crest. Faros climbed aboard the latter. Napol took another long boat and headed back to the Sea Reaver.

  A boisterous Captain Botanos greeted Faros. “My lord! Praise be, you’re finally up and well!” The hulking minotaur went down on one knee, his horns lowered to the side. “You saved me from the depths! My life is yours, once again!”