Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Faros frowned. “Tell me what you remember.”

  “Little enough! Tossed into the water, the ocean in my lungs, and you jumping in after me! I know you reached me, but after that … nothing until I woke up on that forsaken rock they use.”

  “You sound like you know them.”

  As Botanos rose, his cheerful mood faded. “I recall them from a brief encounter once. They aided my captain, Azak, and General Rahm Es-Hestos, in fleeing Hotak’s sharks, then, just like now, cut off all further contact.” Ears twitching, the master of the Dragon’s Crest snorted. “Captain Gaerth was there, too. Azak nearly came to blows with him. Gaerth and his fellows then sailed off. Never figured to run into him again. An odd one.”

  Faros grunted. Again, he squinted at the island, but no new vision was granted to him. Shrugging, the rebel leader turned to more pragmatic matters. “We’re ready to go?”

  “Aye! We were just waiting for you.”

  “Then let’s be gone from this place.” He glanced at the green ships. “Those three are to be our escort, eh?”

  Botanos nodded dourly. “I’m to signal them when we’ve set our proper course. Don’t know why I need the likes of those to lead me out to sea! I was born and raised in my craft and taught by the best, good Captain Azak!”

  “Follow them. Follow them exactly. Don’t try to deviate.”

  The mariner studied Faros’s face. “As you command.”

  As Botanos turned to issue orders, the former slave went to the rail to watch. Using triangular flags, the Dragon’s Crest signaled to the other rebels. When Captain Botanos was satisfied, he himself signaled the nearest of the green ships.

  Almost immediately, the three strange vessels moved out. Their curved sails caught the slightest wind with ease. Faros studied their unusual design.

  “Look at them cut through the water!” one of the crew blurted.

  The trio were indeed swift and very agile. Faros recalled the brief vision he had experienced. If there was any truth to what he had seen, there were more than three ships surrounding them, enough to bring his fleet to ruin if he broke his word.

  The Dragon’s Crest got underway. The rebel ships clustered together. As the entire armada left the island behind, Faros looked back. Gaerth’s isolated domain took on an indistinct appearance, as if it had lost some cohesion. The way station now seemed little more than a shadow. Faros felt disoriented. Even gazing up at the sky did not help, for the clouds—and the sun—appeared to shift randomly, making it impossible to say which way was which.

  Thinking of the other ships, Faros snapped, “Botanos! Signal the other ships to stay close!”

  The captain obeyed. As the signal passed from one ship to another, some of Faros’s unease faded.

  But a moment later, Botanos suddenly shouted, “Answer, damn you! Answer!”

  The rebel leader turned again. “What’s wrong?”

  “No one is answering from the Fury of Harnac! Worse, I think she’s drifting south and taking one of the others with her!”

  As they helplessly watched, the Fury veered completely away from its sisters. It sailed south, with another ship blindly trailing it.

  “Start a signal fire!” urged Botanos to a sailor.

  “That’ll take too long!” Faros looked about, saw the ballista. “Fire at them!”

  “You’ll not reach ’em at this distance!”

  “That’s not what I want! Let’s get their attention!”

  As quickly as possible, the trained crew had the weapon manned and ready. However, the two confused ships had sailed far away from the others.

  Faros gave the order. The steel-tipped lances flew as high as the weapon could send them. The missiles darted over the water, then dipped. They hit the water with a high splash.

  Those aboard the Crest waited. Botanos let out a gruff exhalation of relief as the last ship began to turn back toward the fleet, but the Fury failed to respond. It moved in a strangely haphazard, chaotic fashion, as if its crew had lost control.

  “Get back here, damn you!” the captain called in frustration. Gold rings jingling, he shouted to his own crew, “Prepare to come around!”

  Faros seized his arm. “No! Let them go!”

  “There’s still a chance we can catch them—”

  In response, the rebel leader shoved Botanos’s muzzle heavenward. “Look!”

  The larger minotaur gasped. Shaking off his leader, he tried to focus on the swirling and shifting clouds. The effort was too much and Botanos fell against the rail, eyes blinking. “What’s happening to the sky?” he gasped.

  “The same magic that protects this place! You follow the other ship and you risk losing complete control of your direction! Gaerth said to follow the escort! Do it, no matter how many sail wrong!”

  Botanos swallowed. Clutching his head, he shouted to the crew, “Belay that last order! Stay with the green ones! Make sure the other ships know that!”

  He and Faros took one last look at the Fury of Harnac. A splash occurred some distance behind it, the second vessel’s own desperate attempt to signal their comrade. However, the Fury paid them no heed. Like the island, it began to lose definition.

  “What do you think is happening to them?” Botanos murmured.

  If Faros understood Gaerth, they would sail until they died. Faros thought bitterly of Sargonnas, of Morgion, of all the deities. “One god or another will claim them. Aren’t we all pawns of the gods?”

  The huge mariner had no reply.

  Faros watched the Fury vanish toward its fate, then started toward the bow. He had no idea where Gaerth’s escort would take them, but the sooner the island was just another buried memory, the better. For the price of one ship, he had the supplies and arms for the rest. The rebellion could go on as planned.

  And more minotaurs could die as the gods stood by and observed.

  Maritia dreamed she was still a prisoner in Golgren’s cabin. However, this was not her current nightmare. It was worse than that. She awoke to find the Grand Lord himself lying at her side.

  She rolled away from him, one hand reaching for a dagger that she couldn’t find. To her horror, Maritia discovered she was clad only in a blanket.

  “I’ll flay you alive!” she growled at Golgren. Her eyes darted around the cabin. There had to be something she could use as a weapon.

  The Grand Lord calmly rose. He had been sitting right beside Maritia’s head. To her relief, she saw he was dressed in dark brown and green pants, tunic, and cloak, along with high, leather boots.

  “No harm is meant,” he said, smiling.

  Well aware of the duplicity always lurking in that smile, Maritia was not at all assuaged. She gestured at her bare garment. “No harm? What of this?”

  “There were wounds to tend to. The armor, it had to be removed for your sake.”

  “By you, of course!”

  He chuckled, an obscene sound to her ears. “No, no. My servant.” Golgren gestured. “Please, look.”

  Among the pillows, Maritia saw her clothing neatly arrayed. The armor had been arranged meticulously. Her sword lay nearby … and her father’s dagger next to the sword. All had been freshly polished.

  “Nagroch gave false words. The dagger he had.”

  “As I said.” Pushing back her loose mane, Maritia bared her teeth. “I’d like to get dressed.”

  Golgren simply turned his back, a gesture meant to prove both his trust and his power.

  Still a little unsteady on her feet, Maritia reached for her clothing. The Grand Lord politely admired the cabin wall. When she had her breastplate and kilt on, she muttered irritably, “If you wish to turn and face me, you can do so now.”

  As he turned, Golgren bowed like a human courtier. He dressed like an elf sometimes; now he was bowing like a human. Maritia wondered what race he would next emulate. The Grand Lord was a rare ogre, a contradiction at times.

  “The warrior queen!” the ogre declared grandly. “The victor!”

  “The p
risoner,” she countered tersely. “The betrayed.”

  “No betrayal, Maritia. This humble one but made certain you would not yet follow your father and brothers to the Field of Crows.”

  She understood the reference. The Field of Crows was an afterworld where the ogres believed champions of their race fought epic and eternal battles. Huge carrion eaters feasted on the losers, whose bones then regenerated with the coming of each new day. They would then rejoin the combat, this time seeking to make meals of the others for the scavengers. To the ogres, it was a warrior’s paradise.

  To Maritia, however, it was a hell only for Golgren’s race. She hoped whatever afterlife her sire and siblings had passed on to would be better than such fruitless, chaotic struggle. Maritia bent toward her weapons, watching her companion. Golgren spread his arms wide, showing he was not even armed with a dagger. Not at all comforted, she secured her belt. Maritia checked her sword for any damage or interference, but found none.

  “By your own guards the polishing done,” the ogre lord informed her.

  “Obviously so.” She stared Golgren in the eye. He had piercing orbs that tempted her to flinch. “What isn’t obvious is what you intend to do with me now.”

  “Now? You shall depart … as promised.”

  “That’s all? I just walk out of this cabin and take a boat back to my fleet?”

  His smile grew toothy. “Not to your fleet, uh, no.”

  Her hand went to the sword’s hilt. “What?”

  Golgren indicated the door. “Please! All is answered outside.”

  “You lead, then.”

  With a dire chuckle, the Grand Lord strode toward the door. It swung open, revealing a shaggy sentry. The ogre sentry hunched down to keep his head below that of Golgren’s.

  Her fingers hovering near her sword, the legion commander followed Golgren outside. The first thing she saw was dozens of ogres. It almost seemed as if every creature aboard the ship awaited her entrance. Her own bodyguard knelt near the bow. Looking ashamed for their failure to protect her, they bent their heads low to the deck, the tips of their horns almost touching the wood.

  “Rise up,” she hissed. “You are minotaurs.”

  They immediately obeyed. Maritia didn’t think there was anything they could have done to prevent her situation, and sacrificing their lives in the effort would have been a waste.

  Golgren indicated the starboard side. “This way, offspring of Hotak.”

  Flanked by her two warriors, Maritia walked over, the ogres parting way for her. She stopped dead in her tracks, gaping. A small boat rocked in the water. Beyond the rail, there were no other ships. A small speck not at all worthy of being called an island was the only break in the otherwise endless waters.

  She spun on Golgren, causing many of the ogres to growl and her own guards to brace for a fight. “Where have you taken us?”

  Unperturbed, he answered, “Not far, not far. The last ride will be short.” Golgren used his stump to point at the forlorn rock. “Only there.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we go. Uruv Suurt come.”

  “You ‘go’?” her brow wrinkled.

  “Return to Kern. The hunt … the hunt is yours, Maritia. The rebel Faros is yours … if catch him, you can.”

  “Why are you forfeiting your revenge? Why—”

  “Please, the boat,” Golgren said, gesturing.

  Maritia stared at him, not understanding. He stared back, smiling grimly.

  “Come,” she finally commanded of her soldiers. Whatever the ogre chose, her own mission was clear. Faros had to be hunted down.

  As she peered over the rail, she noticed the six burly ogres at the oars. One of her guards descended first, followed closely by Maritia. As she stepped into the long boat, her other guard climbed down the rope ladder—after which, to her surprise, Golgren also started down the ladder.

  Maritia sat and watched the maimed figure lower himself. Golgren moved deftly despite his incapacity, she had to admit. He was strong as well as sly. Had it been the Grand Lord who faced her in the combat, she wondered whether the outcome would have been different.

  “You needn’t have joined us,” Hotak’s daughter mocked as the ogre leader sat near to her.

  “No?” he replied, his visage grim. To a whip-wielding ogre at the boat’s bow, Golgren roared, “Tyraq i gero! Kya ne! Kya ne!”

  The other snapped his whip. With a collective grunt, the rowers went to work. Their muscles strained as they fought against the current. Wondering where they were headed, Maritia admired the rowers’ strength. The current was powerful and even minotaurs would have found it tough going.

  The small island proved no less bleak as it drew closer. Nothing in the landscape identified the place to Maritia.

  One of her guards leaned close, whispering, “This is some trick, my lady! They mean to kill us!”

  “Quiet, Rog!”

  Golgren pretended not to have heard the conversation, but Maritia knew better. He trusted her to keep her warriors under control, just as she trusted him to do the same.

  The boat jostled. There was a thump and the ogres started leaping out of the vessel.

  Rising grandly, Golgren commanded, “Please. Ashore.”

  Her other guard stepped from the boat then offered Maritia his assistance. Most of the ogres were already ashore. Two stayed behind to mind the boat. Rog suddenly roared. His axe came out in a blur, slicing into one of the two ogres still with the boat. The second rower reached for his own weapon.

  Immediately, the rest of Golgren’s followers swarmed Maritia and her other bodyguard. She drew her sword and managed a cut to one attacker’s side, but then she was hemmed in by the press of bodies. Hotak’s daughter saw the Grand Lord take a hand axe from one of his own protectors. With careful deliberation and clear skill, he threw the axe at Rog’s back.

  The spinning blade struck the neck and skull of its target with perfect accuracy. There was an audible crack of bone. The legionary toppled into the water.

  Golgren barked at his followers. Those hounding Maritia pulled back. Her remaining bodyguard moved to her side, his arm bloody from a savage cut near the shoulder. At the legion commander’s sign, both put away their weapons and waited.

  With a snap of his fingers, the Grand Lord had the remaining ogres form two lines flanking the minotaurs. As he stalked to the head of the party, he looked ruefully at Maritia.

  “Regrettable,” was his only comment.

  It took a short while for them to march to the center of the islet. There, Golgren indicated that the two prisoners—for prisoners they were again, Maritia believed—should stand.

  “Here,” he told her. “Stay until the boat is far.”

  She did not reply, but the ogre was obviously satisfied. He looked to one of his underlings, who brought forth a small leather sack Maritia had not noticed on the boat.

  As the bestial warrior dropped it unceremoniously at her feet, Golgren added, “For thirst and hunger.”

  Maritia did not bother to pick up the sack. The Grand Lord sent the other ogres back to the boat, keeping with him only two giant warriors.

  “Most regrettable,” he said again, this time more broadly.

  “No, not regrettable. This is a terrible mistake on your part,” she told him. “I will not forget it, Golgren.”

  He looked pained. “No, do not forget me. Farewell, Maritia. I wish you the good battle against the blood of Chot. May many enemy die screaming at your feet.”

  “They will … and some of them may yet be ogres.”

  He chuckled, then with a solemn bow, he left her. The legion commander watched bitterly as her sworn ally abandoned her on the wind-whipped rock. Her stare burned into his back.

  “Do we go after them, my lady?” asked her companion.

  “Why? To fight gloriously but fail my father’s empire by dying here? There’ll be time for the ogre, mark me. Now we’ve other matters to attend to. We’ve got a rebellion that must be crushed
… and the last of a cursed bloodline to sever.”

  Golgren studied the banner fluttering atop his flagship, admiring the design for which he was responsible. The wind made it look as if the severed hand moved, slashing again and again with the dagger. Each cut was a mortal blow against some rival, some foe …

  The die was cast. The pact with the Uruv Suurt was finally broken. The day had been inevitable, if not the manner of its occurrence. Lady Nephera and her dark powers had become more of a burden than they were worth and this debacle had cost Golgren more than he had desired. Nagroch had proven a disappointment, and perhaps Hotak’s daughter had actually done Golgren a favor by defeating him. It was not the outcome the Grand Lord had expected, but he found it pleased him more, for Lady Maritia’s sake.

  His enemies would think him weakened now, but Golgren had planned for this opportunity. Even the hellish powers of Hotak’s mate would not deter him from his ultimate goals. He had other methods, other sources of strength, from which to draw. His rivals might think him easy prey now, but he would be like the jakary—the spindly, wide-mouthed lizard that lulled its victims with an appearance of illness, then clamped its highly-poisonous fangs on the unsuspecting. The jakary’s potent venom killed in seconds. Golgren would try to be just as swift.

  As ever, the Grand Lord had more than one reason for his actions. Maritia still served a purpose, an important one. Let her hunt the cursed Faros and let much Uruv Suurt blood be spilled. Golgren wanted many, many minotaurs drawn into the conflict before it ended. Already, essential legions had left Ambeon … beautiful Ambeon, or as the Grand Lord saw it, Dyr ut iGolgrenarok—the Realm of Golgren’s Supremacy—a much more fitting title than the one that honored some worthless, long-decayed king of the Uruv Suurt.

  The long boat bumped up against his flagship. As Golgren ascended—accepting no aid—he paused to look at the island he had left behind. The pact he had made with the lead captain of the imperial fleet would give him the time he needed to depart. His other vessels had already long before left the area. The Uruv Suurt would pick up their commander then sail off to fight their own kind.