Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Whoever won did not, in the long run, matter to the ogre. Golgren allowed himself a genuine smile as he imagined the fate of imperial colony on Ansalon. His hordes would surprise them. The Uruv Suurt there would replace the slaves Faros had freed.

  There was much to plan, much to do. The Uruv Suurt—the minotaurs—believed themselves the children of destiny, but they were wrong. There was only one child of destiny, one being fit to rule all.

  And Golgren would humbly accept that mantle …

  The Stormbringer arrived several hours later, much too late to catch Golgren’s Hand. The sun was nearly at the horizon. An apologetic Captain Xyr met Maritia as she climbed aboard her flagship.

  “Should’ve stormed his vessel, my lady.” He presented his axe and the back of his neck. “I’ve failed your brother and failed you. ’Tis yours to take.” The mariner crouched low.

  Maritia refused the weapon and spared his life. “I’ll not waste your blood, Captain. Rise up. You did what you thought right.” She snorted. “I’d likely have done the same.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “What about the rest of the ogre fleet?” she finally asked. “Have they all fled?”

  “Every single ship. I’d say that the Grand Lord is meeting up with them even now.”

  “That’s the end of it, then … for now. Get us underway, Captain,” Maritia declared bitterly. “We need to get back to the others. We’ve got rebels to catch.”

  “Aye.”

  Maritia calculated the time. “How many days lost, Captain?”

  “Five.”

  She was stunned. “Too damn long, then! Wherever the rebels were before, they won’t be there now. By my father’s axe, they could already be slipping into the heart of the realm!”

  The captain looked even more downcast. “A thought that occurs to me, also, my lady.”

  “Has there been any word—or sign of word—from Nethosak?”

  “None, my lady. Were we to expect a messenger bird?”

  “No,” Maritia replied at last. “No messenger bird.”

  “With your permission, then, I’ll get us going.”

  “Do so.”

  As Captain Xyr shouted orders, Maritia marched to her cabin. Her charts and notes lay within. Two sentries saluted her, one opening the door. However, as the door closed, the darkness within suddenly made her halt. Maritia felt a chill along her spine that made her shiver. She imagined Golgren’s grinning face in the shadows. Swearing with the skill of a veteran legionary, Hotak’s daughter hurriedly lit the round oil lamp hanging near the bolted oak table. The illumination pushed away her fears.

  “That’s better,” she muttered to herself.

  Like her father and Bastion before her, her cabin held few personal items. She had a place on the wall near her cot for both an axe and her sword. A niche in the wall held some bottles of wine and heavily-salted strips of dried goat in a clay jar. The table where she worked out her strategies dominated the room, the squat, square piece of furniture sealed by pegs to the floor. The charts and notes, all held in place by lead weights, lay open for her perusal. Despite the weights, the parchments had shifted some and Maritia spent a few moments organizing her papers. By the time she was done, she already had decided. The rebels were somewhere in the empire. If she tried to follow their trail, she could end up on the opposite side of the realm.

  “He won’t like this,” she muttered, “and neither will she.”

  Whether Ardnor or their mother would have agreed with her, Maritia did not know. She felt she had no other recourse. She had to follow her gut, and her gut steered her in one direction.

  A shout brought one of the guards. “My lady?”

  “Summon the captain! Immediately!”

  Moments later, Xyr hustled into the room. Slightly out of breath, he had clearly been in the midst of some hard labor.

  “Aye, Lady Maritia?”

  “As soon as we rendezvous with the others, I want a new course.” She thrust a finger at the map. “Get us there as quickly as possible! Everything may hinge on seconds!”

  He eyed her destination. “Sargonath? You think to go back to Ambeon?”

  “No, but we’ll need reinforcement for what I’ve planned. I can’t take them from Ambeon …” Maritia did not dare borrow from Ambeon, not with Pryas eager to usurp her and Golgren acting unpredictably. “There’s two legions stationed there just sitting around. Let’s pick them up and then head on to Nethosak!”

  “Nethosak?” Xyr’s confusion mounted. “We’re going to the capital? What about the rebels?”

  She nodded grimly. “Faros Es-Kalin wants nothing more than to go home. Let him. When he arrives, the least we can do is be waiting with a proper welcome … an axe in his chest.”

  Scores of ghosts swarmed around Nephera, each seeking to relay some important piece of information, but she had no time for them now. With her Protectors in charge in most of the colonies, certainly any situation short of a crisis could be handled.

  The ogre had betrayed her. The betrayal that Nephera had expected had come too soon, but she refused to be daunted. “You are a nothing more than a gnat to me,” she whispered to the distant, departing figure of the Grand Lord Golgren, “and when I feel in the mood, I will crush you as easily as I would any insect.”

  She would have done so today, if Faros was not more of an immediate concern. He came from the bloodline of the old emperor, and was the champion, however inept, of a rival god.

  Nephera eyed the vision rippling in the bowl. Through the crimson liquid, she watched the Stormbringer wend its way back to the rest of the fleet. “First Kolot, then Bastion, and now you, my Maritia. My children are becoming such disappointments.” The cadaverous figure touched the surface of the fluid, causing it to ripple more. “But punishment and redemption can wait.”

  Maritia had made an important decision on her own: She had decided that rather than pursue the rebels, she would let them come to her. Yet perhaps Nephera’s daughter had inadvertently chosen the perfect course. Here in Nethosak, everything was to Nephera’s advantage. Faros would be sailing into the heart of the empire to confront a force more terrible than the Maelstrom.

  But where was the rebel fleet? She had to keep close track of it, and for some reason, it had vanished from her sight again.

  “Takyr!”

  Mistress …

  As was his wont, the monstrous ghost materialized right next to her. The high priestess looked at him with eyes as ghastly as any specter’s. They had sunken into her sockets, as Nephera had delved deeper and deeper into what Morgion taught her; they danced nervously after the incessant visitations by the condemning spirit of her mate.

  Even now, even as she spoke, Nephera’s eyes darted around for signs of the cursed shade, “Spread word to all others. Let them understand there must be no exception. They’re to seek out the rebels of Sargonnas, target the one called Faros, and alert me as to their whereabouts. All other commands are to be superceded by this! Is that understood?”

  The hooded shade slowly nodded then spoke sonorously, There is unrest in the Imperium … the building of the temples drains resources—

  “All prior commands superceded!” Her skeletal hand thrust out at Takyr’s throat and although he was already dead, the fearsome specter cringed from her wrath. “All else is of negligible concern! The Protectors know their orders! They will raise the temples to the Great One and will continue to convert the rabble! All memory of gods past—The Condor Lord in particular—must be eradicated from the minds of our kind …”

  In due time Morgion would become the dominant god, first of the minotaurs, then of all creatures. Nephera did not wonder whether her notions were possibility or madness. She had long since ceased to think of anything but her deity.

  Soon, in fact, another sacrifice would be underway. Even now, the chosen approached the temple. They came in secret, entering the vast complex through a series of hidden passages built by the high priestess’s predecess
ors. The irony that the priests of Sargonnas had supplied her with means to aid in the defeat of their own patron amused Nephera.

  Takyr vanished without another word. Nephera gazed lovingly at the huge symbols of the Forerunner faith that decorated this room, only her eyes seeing the downturned axe imposed over them. A scraping of stone alerted her. Attempting to look as kindly as possible, Nephera pushed her hood completely back and loosened her mane. The high priestess covered the bowl with a black silk cloth, then with a smile made to welcome her guests.

  The wall to the right shifted open, the rectangular gap barely wide and high enough to admit a minotaur. The lanky figure who first entered immediately fell to one knee when he saw Nephera.

  “My beloved mistress,” rumbled Lothan. Underneath the voluminous, brown travel cloak he wore, his grey robes could just be seen. “You honor us this evening. Such an occasion I thought never possible for myself, despite my loyalty, which you know.”

  Nephera touched not his forehead—as she did when blessing the faithful—but instead briefly rubbed the side of his muzzle. Lothan tried to contain his ecstasy, but his entire body quivered with pleasure.

  “Dear, darling, loyal Lothan … tonight I promise that you will reap my eternal gratitude. Tonight you will be rewarded for all your years of service.”

  “I am grateful.”

  He rose as a second figure entered. The immaculate older female wore a cloak identical to Lothan’s, but under hers was a clean and polished breastplate and kilt marking her as belonging to the fleet.

  “Admiral Sorsi,” Nephera greeted, extending her hand.

  Going down on one knee, Sorsi took the high priestess’s hand. In a scratchy voice, she said, “I live to serve the faith, my lady.”

  “You shall, you shall.”

  Three others appeared in short order, all from the highest ranks in the imperium. Tonight they would learn the truth about Morgion.

  “Faraug … Lesta … Timonius …” The trio dipped their horns as she uttered their names; merchant, another councilor, and the patriarch of one of the most loyal Houses.

  “This is truly an honor,” gasped Lesta, a young but steely-eyed female. She had been a late convert to the faith, but her diligence and devotion put even Lothan to shame.

  “It is I who am honored with your presence, all of you. You have served well, served loyally, even in dark days. Now we are in ascension. Now it is time to secure the world for our god.”

  “We will know the god, then?” murmured hefty Faraug. “We will know the truth?”

  “You will know the face and the love of the god, my children!” the high priestess declared, gazing at all of them, one by one in turn. “You will know the perfection, and you will understand the need for your ultimate devotion to that perfection.”

  Some of them looked slightly perplexed. They would realize everything soon enough, though. When Morgion blessed them, they would understand all.

  “The time draws nigh,” Nephera told them. She indicated the center of the chamber, where the symbols of the Forerunners had been meticulously etched in the stone. “Please. Your places.”

  They went to the five points designated on the symbols. Three stood at the head, end, and point of the breaking of the axe. The other two took the upper wing and head of the ghostly avian.

  Nephera positioned herself directly between the axe and the bird. The moment she did so, her smile, persistent until now, vanished. The torches that lit the chamber dimmed, yet the room did not darken. Now an unsettling silver glow radiated from the huge symbols hung over the high priestess’s empty chair atop the dais. Aging Timonius let out a small, surprised snort, but no one else broke the silence. The five stood entranced by this clear sign of the god’s presence.

  Raising her hands, Nephera opened herself to the dread lord she served. She felt his nearness. Compared to him, the entire minotaur race were worthless cockroaches. That her god granted her some tiny bit of his glory was so overwhelmingly generous that, not for the first time, tears were brought to her eyes.

  Nephera drew with her finger the symbol of the down-turned axe. Her nail left a streak of dark green flame in its wake. She completed the axe then drew around it a five-pointed star. The moment Nephera completed the star, the axe flared. From each tip of the star, a tendril of light darted out, seeking one of the supplicants.

  “What—” Lothan began. He got no further, for the moment that the tendrils touched the chosen, they froze.

  Turning in a circle to view her companions, Lady Nephera read their uncertainty, even fear in their faces. She smiled to reassure them and said, “He is with us, all around us! Let yourselves see and feel now the Great One …”

  Within the minds of each of the five, a voice spoke, Know me … know me …

  And to each, the Lord of the Bronze Tower revealed himself.

  “The gods preserve us!” Faraug blurted.

  Lothan shook his head once. Lesta evinced a look of rapt devotion. Admiral Sorsi gritted her teeth and Timonius only stared.

  I am Morgion … the voice continued. I am the end of all things …

  Faraug tried to struggle free, annoying Nephera. The five had been chosen at Morgion’s command. They had been given an honor. If they were short-sighted, that was unfortunate for them.

  She reached up to the blazing images and, muttering under her breath, caused them to invert. Sorsi howled. Timonius shook as if some giant, invisible hand throttled him. Lesta was the only one who did not move, perhaps because her devotion was so strong that it had not been unaltered by the revelation of her deity’s identity.

  You will serve me, said the dread lord’s voice, and your sacrifice will serve your high priestess.

  “Sacrifice?” Lothan asked. “My—My Lady Nephera! What—?”

  “It is all right, dear, darling Lothan,” she replied, cupping both hands under the burning symbols. “I will love you all the more for this. I will love all of you for this.”

  “Not the Lord of D-Decay!” the admiral murmured. “Not for—”

  Her words ended in a hellish keening. Timonius joined her, then Faraug added his voice to the shrill choir. Lothan struggled, but even he was overwhelmed by the god’s work. Only Lesta remained silent, though tears poured down her cheeks.

  “Know that through your actions, the temple will be stronger,” the high priestess informed them. “The empire will be stronger.” That most of them did not even hear her any more through their screams did not interest Nephera in the least. They were in communion with their god, as they had long begged of her. “You will have served the Great One as few others.”

  With that, she seized the tiny axe by its handle.

  Above her, the huge symbols flared so bright that even Nephera had to shield her eyes. The fiery axe burned her flesh, but if she suffered, it was little in comparison to the ravages that overwhelmed the five. Pustules swelled over the bodies of the chosen, covering their flesh rapidly and then bursting. A green and yellow pus spilled forth, eating away at what remained beneath. In mere seconds, the five could no more be identified as minotaurs, save that they had horns. The pus had rotted away their muzzles. Their decaying flesh sloughed off in great gobbets. Throughout it all, they continued to howl. Now even Lesta joined in.

  The green fire surrounding the tiny axe grew more intense. It burned away the skin on Nephera’s fingers. Nephera felt none of the pain, though, as she was enraptured. Then, from each of the chosen, a thick, ghastly haze arose. The tendrils drew the haze forth, and as they did, the spell entered its final phase. With one last howl, Admiral Sorsi twisted as if she was a rag wrung out from the wash. Her flesh, her sinew, and her bones melted. Her shining breastplate reddened with rust, her cloak rotted.

  The bodies of the chosen crumbled. As the tendrils tore free their prizes—the souls—what little remained of the five’s shells collapsed in horrid heaps. Sorsi’s armor clattered as it struck stone, the rusted breastplate cracking in two.

  The tendrils ret
reated into the star and the star into the axe. Breathing heavy, eyes moist with tears, Nephera continued to clutch her creation, though her hand was now a charred, twisted ruin. Without warning, the fire ceased. The Forerunner symbols still glowed silver but with their intensity diminished.

  Nephera’s breathing was the only sound. Heedless of her ruined hand, she stared with awe at what Morgion had wrought through her. The dread god’s symbol fit in her palm, its edges still glowing. It was no larger than the one emblazoned on her breast, but she could sense its tremendous power.

  “It is done …” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It is good.”

  It is good … agreed the voice within her mind.

  Facing the Forerunner symbols, she fell to her knees in gratitude. “I thank you, my lord …”

  Five nights … the moons will be in conjunction in five nights … the hour of that night’s zenith …

  “I understand.”

  With that, Morgion’s presence receded. She felt the same great disappointment every time communion with her deity ended, yet this time, he had left something of himself behind. Out of the corner of her eye, Nephera noticed the remains of one of the chosen. Morgion had demanded that for what he would bestow on her, she would have to sacrifice followers of value.

  The disappearances of the five, especially Lothan and Admiral Sorsi, would not go unnoticed, but there were always rebel elements to blame. That, in turn, would allow her, through Ardnor, to have the Protectors and State Guard clamp down harder on those she found wanting.

  A slight clink came from the direction where the admiral had stood, the rusted pieces of armor still settling. Folding her monstrous fingers around the tiny axe in order to keep it secure, the high priestess summoned her power.

  A high wind swirled through the chamber. It ruffled Nephera’s robes but otherwise touched nothing else except the grisly remnants of the faithful. Like a hound fed by its mistress, the wind scooped up first one, then another pile. In swift fashion, all trace of what had happened spun high in the air.