Nephera drew a circle with her finger and the wind spun faster. Dust, fragments of bone, and bits of brown metal spun around and around. The faster the wind raced, the more it condensed into a shrinking mass. It became a funnel cloud, a tiny tornado.
As quickly as it had arisen, the wind ceased. With it went all trace of the awful event. Nephera bared her teeth in pleasure, a genuine grin.
With minor matters out of the way, the high priestess again stared lovingly at Morgion’s gift. Only five nights to wait.
When his head finally felt clear again, Faros knew that the rebels had left the spell surrounding Gaerth’s island. This was verified minutes later when the three escort ships suddenly veered away. There was no signal, no warning. The strangers wanted nothing of the empire or its rebels and Faros desired nothing of them.
“I can’t see any hint of land behind us,” Captain Botanos remarked. “I know we should be able to see at least a speck from here, but even the glass doesn’t help.”
“Leave it. Forget it.” Faros eyed the descending sun. Night was almost upon them, not that it mattered. Minotaurs were skilled sailors. The stars made for excellent points of reference. “What we need to find out now is where we are.”
“We’re probably east of the empire,” Botanos suggested. He grunted. “Or northeast … or southeast.”
The rebel leader thought of drawing his sword and seeing if it could provide some guidance, but then his eyes fell upon the ring. General Rahm’s ring. Sargonnas’s ring. A faint glow radiated from within.
He raised it to chest level. “Show me the way, I command you.”
Thinking of Mithas, thinking of a home no longer standing and a family no longer living, Faros turned toward the east. The glow did not intensify. Undaunted, he turned some more. Still nothing.
Botanos watched, clearly puzzled. Faros’s nostril’s flared as he thought of how foolish he looked. Despite that, he turned some more.
The black gem flared, its brilliance startling him.
There was an intake of breath from his companion. Faros smiled victoriously. This time he had not begged for aid; he had demanded obedience. “There lies our path, captain! Mark it!”
“Already done,” returned the mariner, recovering. “I suspect us to be east by northeast from that.” Some of his enthusiasm waned. “What distance we are is clear, much farther than we’d like.”
“Set sail, anyway.” Faros looked from the ring to the deep waters. “She brought us here. She can help us get back.”
“ ‘She’—” The massive minotaur shook his head, his eyes wide. “Lord Faros … you’d not be thinking of talking to the Sea Queen again!”
“Keep the ship on the course I showed you,” Faros said, heading further up the bow. “Make sure to pass it on to the others.” He looked back one last time at the Crest’s master. “And see to it that I’m not disturbed.”
“Oh, aye! I’ll see to that, all right!”
As he neared the forward rail, Faros contemplated drawing Sargonnas’s sword, all the better to show himself to the Horned One’s tempestuous daughter, yet it might also diminish him in her eyes. Foregoing the blade, he leaned over the rail. The waters rocked against the hull, the darkness below absolute. Faros was not a seasoned sailor, but he had a healthy respect for the power of the ocean … and its mistress.
He rubbed the ring, thinking that it would somehow connect him to her. “I know you’re down there …”
The Dragon’s Crest rose as a strong wave lifted the ship like a toy. With his ring hand, Faros clutched the rail tighter. He would not be so easily repulsed.
“I know you’re down there, Sea Queen,” the minotaur repeated steadily, his gaze never leaving the water. “I know you hear me …”
The last traces of the sun sank beneath the surface, turning the ocean blacker yet. The wind shifted, picking up. The salty spray burned Faros’s eyes, but he continued to lean precipitously over the rail toward Zeboim’s domain.
“You know what your father wants,” he muttered. “You know what I want.”
A brief sound made his ears go taut. For just a moment, Faros thought that he had heard feminine laughter.
Gripping the rail with both hands, he cried, “Laugh if you like, Sea Queen! Keep laughing when Morgion’s greedy grasp comes for your domain as well! Don’t you think that the Lord of Decay covets those lost in your seas? Don’t you understand that if he takes what is your father’s, he can certainly take what’s yours?”
Faros waited, but only the waves and the wind answered him. Snarling, he turned from the bow. Even if it took the ships a year to sail back to the empire, they would accomplish the task. He would not fail. He had chosen his course, and whether his destiny was the throne or death, he would not be dependent on the whims of a capricious goddess.
The minotaur had gone only a few steps from the rail when again he thought he heard the laughter. At the same time, there was a peculiar shift in the wind and the ocean began to rock oddly.
Shouts rose from the crew. Captain Botanos met him, the generally-stalwart mariner shaking. “By the Sea—By her! What did you say? What did you do?”
“Get a hold of yourself!” Faros demanded.
The Crest’s hull creaked ominously. A thump shook everyone, causing one crew member to nearly slip from the rigging.
“The stern!” someone called.
Faros and Botanos ran. The rebel leader shoved aside a stunned sailor in order to see what was happening. Behind the flagship, a great wave arose. It was not as high as the masts but massive enough to do quite a bit of damage if it hit.
“Never demand of the Sea Queen,” uttered Captain Botanos. “She’ll brook that from no one!”
The wave crashed toward the ship. Most of those standing at the stern fled, but something inside Faros made him stand and face the disaster.
Just as it reached the Dragon’s Crest, the wave split. Brow wrinkled, Faros thought he saw the upper part form fingers of water. The dusk made him uncertain of what he saw but not of what the wave did next. Instead of smashing part of the ship to flotsam … it pushed almost gently against the stern. The vessel lurched, then glided forward. Simultaneously, the wind filled the sails to their fullest. The Dragon’s Crest coursed through the waters at a clip no sailing ship had ever managed before.
“Hold tight!” Faros shouted to the others. “Get everyone off the nest and rigging!”
Wiping his eyes clear, he looked for the other ships. Knowing Zeboim’s wicked humor, he expected them to be far, far behind, but they, too, were racing along the turbulent ocean at the same remarkable clip. Behind each pushed a massive wave.
“Gods above!” Botanos had wrapped rope around his waist, securing himself to an inner rail. “What’d you ask of her?”
“To get us to where we’re going, and quickly enough!”
“Did you ask her to do it in one piece?!”
Faros did not bother to answer, for he had asked no such thing. Still, while the others hung on for dear life and no doubt prayed for the goddess to spare them, he stared eagerly ahead.
The empire awaited him.
As General Bakkor returned from his evening ride, he noticed a contingent of soldiers approaching from the opposite direction. Aware that most of his own troops would not be out this way, his grip on the reins tightened. Around him, the nighttime forest seemed more dark and threatening of a sudden.
“We’ve company,” the muscular figure informed his three guards.
“Aye, General,” responded his senior guard.
The legion commander did not have to see the emblem on the first rider’s breastplate to know that they hailed from Kolina’s Crystal Legion. The arrogance with which they rode was characteristic of the Protectors and their ilk.
The captain leading the newcomers—his helmet poorly concealing the fact his mane was shorn off—saluted Bakkor as they rode up. A quick estimate by the general put the Protectors’s numbers at roughly twenty. Twenty against his four
.
“General Bakkor, legion commander of the Wyverns?”
“You know I am, Captain Tulak,” Bakkor responded in his clipped, nasal voice.
Tulak’s legionaries immediately started to fan out around the smaller party. As they did, Tulak announced, “General Bakkor, by the authority of the Procurator General, Pryas, you are hereby under arrest for insurrectionist thoughts and actions—”
Bakkor scoffed. “Me? Insurrectionist thoughts and actions? I’m a good, loyal soldier, as your precious Procurator General well knows!”
“Any sign of resistance,” the captain went on, eyes wide and fanatical, “will be dealt with harshly!”
“You mean, such as this?” Drawing his sword, Bakkor gave a yell.
From the branches above rained down countless armored figures with short swords, hand axes, and taloned gloves. The Protector captain spun around in the saddle as several of his fighters were knocked off their horses by the minotaurs raining from above.
“Never ambush a Wyvern in the forest!” the general barked, closing on Tulak, but the captain swiftly raised his mace, swinging it heavily, and Bakkor had to adopt defensive measures.
All along the path, legionary fought legionary. A Wyvern’s clawed climbing gloves ripped open the side of a Protector’s muzzle. One of Bakkor’s troops fell to a blow from an axe.
“Heretic!” cried Tulak as he battered at the general.
While the Protector was a good fighter, General Bakkor had experience as well as talent with the blade. He finally managed to deflect the mace, driving his sword under the captain’s arm.
Pierced through the lower shoulder, the other legionary fumbled his weapon. Still his hands reached for Bakkor. Seeing that his foe would never yield, the veteran mionotaur general thrust for the unprotected underside of his adversary’s muzzle. Clutching at the red river gushing down his chest, the captain beholden to Nephera and the Protectors slumped in the saddle.
The other Protectors fought on, showing no willingness to surrender, but the Wyverns finally bested them. When the last of Kolina’s soldiers had fallen, Bakkor called a weary halt. One of those who had dropped from the trees marched up and saluted him. The minotaur was tall and lean and moved almost elegantly.
“All elements of resistance crushed, General!”
“Well done, Vacek. You’re commended for keeping pace with us. They were supposed to come for me half a mile back.”
The first hekturion snorted. “Kept half my number there and half ahead here. Thought I’d catch them between, but this worked as well.”
“Yes …” Bakkor eyed the strewn bodies. “Losses?”
“Seven to their twenty-one. We have four more with wounds, two serious. They fought well for being entirely surprised.”
The general grunted. “Minotaurs against minotaurs … of course they fought well. Where will it all end … where’s the honor that Hotak claimed to be returning to the empire?”
Vacek shrugged. “In the trust of his son.”
“Where it’ll die malnourished.” Bakkor stared grimly in the direction of the city whose name was now Ardnoranti. “The Procurator General has forced our hand. Let the others know. That damned Protector’s not going to get away with this.”
The first hekturion nodded. “Aye, General. Right away.”
“Hold there a moment, Vacek.” The Wyvern commander’s ears flattened. “Talk to the others. Make sure they understand what we’re doing here. Talk to all the sub-officers and legionaries.”
“Aye, General. We’re protecting the true empire.”
“ ‘Protecting the true empire.’ Yes. An apt way of putting it. Be on your way.”
As the officer hurried off, General Bakkor wiped his blade clean. “ ‘Protecting the true empire,’ ” he repeated to one of his personal guard. “I wonder if that’s how the damned rebels see it.”
Through the night, the ships sailed mercilessly fast, cutting across the ocean as if across a slick, endless patch of ice. Faros felt certain they would encounter some catastrophe or one or more of the ships would founder. How could every mast and hull survive such a fantastic journey? Yet all appeared intact.
“By the Abyss!” roared Captain Botanos. “How much longer can we endure? ’Tis just coming on dawn!”
Barely had he asked … then the ocean stilled. The huge waves tapered off, spilling harmlessly. The terrible wind expended itself abruptly. The sails fell as limp as rags. The only sound was a gentle lapping of water against the hull.
Twisting himself free of the rail, Faros surveyed the rest of his fleet. Despite the speed and distance they had sailed, each vessel appeared to be in position – in almost exactly the same position with regard to its sisters as before the amazing journey.
“See if they’re all in one piece down below!” Botanos called. “Signal those nearest and find out how they fare!”
Faros wasn’t surprised when none of the other vessels reported distress. There were a few broken limbs, but no loss of crew overboard or any deaths. Not one captain reported cracks in the hulls or the masts, and even the sails needed scant repairs.
“Unbelievable,” the captain muttered to Faros. “Only you could’ve persuaded Herself to do all this without extracting a fearsome price!”
“She’s sending us into war. She’ll collect her due then,” the rebel leader replied grimly. “Where do you figure we are, exactly?”
Botanos tried to convince Faros to get some rest. However, despite having spent the entire night holding on for his life, the younger minotaur felt not the slightest exhaustion. Faros ordered the captain himself to get some sleep for a few hours, while he stayed near the bow, watching for a hint of land.
At midday he saw something else—not land—and quickly shouted to a sailor to wake up Botanos and summon him on deck.
The captain, rubbing his eyes, emerged moments later. “What is it?” The other minotaur followed his gaze. “A ship!”
Far behind them but coming from another direction, a lone vessel plied the same waters as the Dragon’s Crest.
“Can we intercept them, Botanos?”
The other minotaur did a quick calculation. “Aye, easily too, I think!”
The Crest veered toward the newcomer. Four other ships followed, swinging wide to cut off the vessel, should it try to run. Either the other ship did not spot them at first or it assumed them to be friendly, for the strange vessel continued on at its same stolid pace.
As they drew close, the lone ship suddenly turned from the other five, trying to angle away. The maneuver cost time, however, and the Dragon’s Crest came within hailing distance. By this time it was obvious the lone ship was also manned by minotaurs. Botanos called for the lone vessel to slow and in reply received a catapult shot that flew far past his bow.
“She ain’t friendly, and she flies the emperor’s flag,” he growled.
“Take them. Try not to sink the ship, though.”
“We’ll do what we can.”
Bringing its ballista about, the rebel vessel fired. The lances tore into the port side of the stern. Wood from the upper deck flew everywhere, and a chorus of cries arose. Minotaurs raced along the ruined deck, seizing axes and other weapons.
“I want this done quickly!” urged Faros, drawing his weapon.
Another rebel ship, captained by one of Tinza’s former comrades from the imperial fleet, came along the lone ship on the opposite side.
“Lower your flag!” Botanos demanded of their adversary.
An arrow struck the rail before him.
“That was their last chance!” he snarled. “Grapplers to the ready! You up there! Bring us even with ’em!”
Aboard the enemy ship, the catapult crew readied their weapon, but Faros’s forces were already too near for the missile to be any threat. Meanwhile, the other rebel ship fired its own ballista, raking the trapped ship’s opposite side.
“Make sure the crew knows I want to keep the enemy afloat, Botanos!”
“A
ye, they know!”
The Crest drew neatly alongside. As a barrage of arrows peppered the rebels, grapplers began tossing the hooks over the enemy rail. Two of Botanos’s crew fell dead and another pulled back with a wound to the arm, but most of the grapplers held their positions. More than a dozen hooks were strongly fastened.
“Heave, blast you!” Captain Botanos shouted.
Faros signaled their archers. “Fire!”
The second barrage was larger and decimated the front ranks of the foe. A few bolts answered back, but little damage was done. Grunting hard from exertion, the grapplers brought the hulls together. A roar of anticipation burst from the throats of the rebels.
Caught between two larger opponents, the crew of the imperial ship could not battle equally on both fronts. With the second rebel ship harassing them on one side, Faros led the boarding party on the other. Sword high over his head, he let out a shout and leapt over the rail. Faros eagerly slashed at the first soldier to face him. His blade cut through the enemy’s throat. He stabbed a second foe deep in the forearm then traded blows with a third.
The rebels were swarming over the opposite deck. Quickly beaten back from the rail, the imperial crew tried to regroup. A narrow-muzzled, graying female who was likely the captain managed to create a line, but before Faros could reach her, an arrow from the second rebel vessel caught her between the shoulder blades.
The surviving defenders swiftly changed into a confused rabble. They fell easy prey to the superior attackers. Before long, all resistance had crumbled. Faros contemplated executing those who surrendered, but decided prisoners might prove of value.
“The ship’s a good one,” Captain Botanos told Faros as he came aboard. “The damage at the stern and the other rail can be dealt with in short order. She’s fit enough to go into battle.”
“Appoint someone to take command. Have a complement made up.”
“Aye.”
The eye-patched second mate of the Crest dragged up a disheveled figure that turned out to be his counterpart aboard the imperial. “This is what’s left o’ the enemy command, my lord!”
Empire of Blood Page 25
