“I be Orym,” the prisoner muttered abjectly. “My horns are yours! Take ’em and be done with me!”
Faros brought his sword up to one of the horns and ran the edge against the latter. The well-honed blade cut into the bony growth. As Faros expected, Orym shivered with humiliation and pain. A minotaur’s horns meant more to him than an arm, or even a leg.
“You can keep your horns and your life for the answer to one or two simple questions.”
The captive tried not to look hopeful, but there was a slight glint in his eyes. “What sort of questions?”
“What island lies closest ahead?”
Orym blinked, almost choking. He seemed to find something funny, a humor that quickly vanished as Faros again tapped his horn with his sword.
“You sailing these parts and not know? Fine fighters you be, but as mariners you’re not so educated as a gully dwarf!”
“The name.” This time Faros cut deeper.
“Okay! ’Tis Mito, of course! What other place would it be?”
Mito. Gradic’s son could almost hear the Sea Queen’s laughter. He had wanted Zeboim to return them to the empire and she had. They were now surrounded by imperial ports, and one of the largest outside Nethosak lay but a short distance ahead.
“Mito,” Faros repeated, savoring the name. He lowered his weapon. “Take him and the others away. Spread them among the other ships so that they can’t organize themselves.”
As the second mate dragged the prisoner away, Botanos eyed his leader. “Mito! Is that good or bad news?”
“Well, we can’t sail the waters of Mito for very long without being noticed, unless we head so far out we waste precious time.”
The captain shook his head. “I say, waste the time. If we attack Mito, even assuming we have unlikely success, someone’s bound to rush the word to Nethosak! Mito’s close enough that they can send the fleet before we’ve barely left the docks.”
Faros nodded, thinking. “Yes, they’ll do that, won’t they?”
Governor Haab tapped impatiently on his desk. Special missives from Amur and other key colonies were to have reached him two days earlier, but the ship carrying the messages had still not materialized. One day late, he could understand, but the courier vessel should have easily made it to Strasgard by now.
An aide entered. Daring the governor’s wrath, she announced, “Brother Malkovius is here.”
Haab’s ears flattened. With a snort of resignation, he said, “Send him in.”
The Protector officer removed his helmet as he stepped into the room. “Brother Haab.”
“May the Forerunners guide your path.”
“And yours.” Malkovius was clearly impatient about something. “Governor, has there been word of the courier ship?”
“I was just looking into that myself. None. A little later than usual—”
“I am expecting important instructions from my counterparts. Progress on the temple-building in each colony must be synchronized according to the high priestess’s command. I—”
The governor cut him off. “I’m aware of your needs, Brother. I’ve already decided to dispatch a scout along the route the courier should have taken. If they have encountered any delay, I’ll soon know about it and you’ll be informed.”
That satisfied the Protector. “There is another matter. General Voluna’s legionaries are not cooperating with my orders. Most recently, she refused to crack down on protesters at the allocation centers.”
“A niggling matter. Voluna has overstepped herself for the last time. I’ve already written up orders for her removal—”
Noise from without made both minotaurs straighten. As Haab came around his desk, Malkovius went to the window overlooking the port.
“What is it?” asked the governor.
“A ship coming in!”
“The courier at last!”
“No, another ship—and three more!”
Sure enough, Haab could see four huge warships sailing into Strasgard, their line virtually sealing off the harbor from the outside.
At that moment, a horn blared. Haab listened. “The northern outposts! That’s the signal they give in case of attack!”
Another sound filled the air, growing stronger by the second. The governor’s ears pricked. He knew that sound—
The wall across the room exploded. Both were sent tumbling to the floor. The roof near the governor’s desk collapsed. Beams of wood and blocks of stone flew at Haab and the Protector.
When the dust finally settled, the governor had to fight his way out of the debris. His left leg felt numb and blood poured down his cheek. He noted the remnants of a huge rock, a catapult missile. Someone had aimed a very good shot.
“Guards!” Haab cried. “Malkovius—?”
The Protector’s armor had failed. A huge chunk of stone had crushed Malkovius’s unprotected head. Dismissing him from his thoughts, Haab lifted himself up and reached for his axe, which he kept near his desk. Using it partly as a crutch, he hurried into the next chamber, as one of his guards rushed over to him.
“Governor! Rebels on land! They’re pouring into the city!”
“I know, you fool! Get me to the messenger birds! Quickly!”
With the aid of the guard, the governor reached the small room where they kept the birds. Shelves lined the walls and on each shelf were cages. Generations of training had schooled the small, predatory avians. Each clutch instinctively knew its birthplace, and no matter how far away, they would always return.
Each cage held a single bird, with its birthplace designated in markings above the door. There was no sign of the handlers. Haab searched for the avians he needed, then quickly seized several of the small parchments used for messages. Quill in hand, he quickly wrote an urgent message. The governor took the missive, rolled it tight, then, keeping the avian within the cage, popped the note in the tiny leather pouch strapped to one of the bird’s legs.
“Send it off!”
Taking the cage to the window, the guard opened the door toward the sky. The messenger bird immediately fluttered off.
Haab copied the information several times over. Twice his work was punctuated by loud crashes. Some distance away, he heard shouts.
“The last!”
When the last bird flew off, the governor felt relieved. He had sent messages to fleet elements in the capital and the emperor himself, among other places. Within hours they would learn what was happening. The fleet, poised to sail at a moment’s notice, would head to Mito. The legionaries and Protectors must hold out until then.
He heard horns signalling the arrival of the legion.
“Find Malkovius’s second,” he ordered the guard. “Inform him that I will be taking command of both the Protectors and the soldier in the name of the emperor. Tell him that the spirit of Malkovius has guided me to this decision.”
“Aye, Governor.”
Haab tested his leg, finding it sturdy enough. He snorted at the rebels’ audacity. “We’ll turn their tactics into a trap and finish the revolt here!” The governor hefted his axe with a smile. “Perhaps I’ll even have the opportunity to take the leader’s head myself!” He suddenly blinked at the guard. “Well? Get going!”
“Aye, governor!”
As the soldier left, Haab peered out of the window, where he could see another of the rebel ships. He stared incredulously.
“Fools!” mocked the former provost captain. “Fools! What did they possibly think that they would accomplish?”
The ogre ships slipped into the southern harbor, which was strategically close to Ambeon. The harbor was well-hidden by the high, barren rocks all but encircling it.
Golgren’s flagship was the first to dock. Ogres onshore and those crewing the other nearby ships paused to bark their allegiance. The Grand Lord—his hulking bodyguards surrounding him—strode imperiously down the gangplank and waited.
From the flagship, an underling led down the Grand Lord’s favored steed. The massive steed moved uns
teadily at first, but quickly regained its footing. Golgren patted the animal on the side, inspecting it with care before mounting up. However, as the Grand Lord did so, another ogre trotted anxiously over to him. In one hand, the newcomer carried a goatskin parchment, in the other a wooden cage holding a squawking messenger bird. The ogre set the cage down then bowed low.
The avian was one of the few that had survived the attempt to create a communication system between the ogres and the minotaurs. Golgren recognized from the plumage a bird he himself had trained, likely the reason it had prospered when others had died.
“Halag i kira tuk?” snapped Golgren, eyeing the bird.
“Wosagi mun dreka …” replied the bowing subordinate, indicating the sun and holding up three fingers.
“Hmm …”
Snapping his fingers, Golgren had the cage raised higher. The bird’s demeanor grew more antagonistic when the other ogre lifted the cage but changed as the Grand Lord leaned close. Murmuring to the creature, Golgren removed the messenger from its prison, setting it on his maimed limb. He removed the missive from the tiny container and let the bird calmly preen itself as he read.
More demands from the emperor. More drivel. Without finishing, the ogre leader crushed the note, dropping the fragments. The avian sensed his darkening mood and squawked, but Golgren soothed the bird with a few strokes of its plumage, then reached for the goatskin parchment.
“Ambeon …” he murmured.
The script of the message was crude but legible, and it was written in Common. Nephera had her eyes, but Golgren had his, and not all of them were among his own kind. What he read in the goatskin parchment made his own eyes widen and his mouth open hungrily.
… armed conflict between legions … between temple and army …
The rest of the message provided details, which Golgren readily absorbed with an almost careless glance. What mattered was the crux of the situation. The legions loyal to Maritia had risen against those controlled by the Forerunners. The reasons were not clear, but that hardly mattered.
Golgren chuckled. If the gods were indeed back, they were certainly smiling upon him. It appeared he would not have to wait so very long, after all. His destiny was quickly approaching.
Stuffing the parchment in his belt, he reached down to return the messenger bird to its cage. Already the Grand Lord’s mind was awhirl. There would need to be a rearrangement of his forces, a shift of more strength to the southern regions. It looked as though it would be his duty to restore order to a troubled land.
The avian shrieked and hopped about on Golgren’s arm as the other ogre sought to grab it. The bird snapped at the handler and spread its wings wide in order to make itself too large to shove through the opening. A scowl erased Golgren’s smile. Swiftly he took the raptor by the neck. The messenger bird managed one final squawk before a deft movement by the Grand Lord crushed its windpipe.
Tossing the mangled corpse to the ground, the Grand Lord wiped blood and bits of feather off onto the parchment. He eyed the dead avian for a moment. There had been no reason to save the bird for future work anyway. With the news brought to him, the last tie to the Uruv Suurt had been severed as decisively as his hand.
“Gaj i kira nun!” Golgren commanded harshly, indicating the bird. He pushed on as the handler bent to remove the carcass. As his huge mount trudged along, it trampled into the hard ground what remained of Ardnor’s last missive, reducing it—and the pact between the ogres and minotaurs—to dirty bits.
Countless ships of the imperial fleet converged on Mito, certain of their ability to trap the foolhardy rebels there. They had set sail almost immediately after receiving the urgent word. The renegade, Faros, was there and could at last be cornered.
Except Faros wasn’t there. Mito was far behind him. By this time, either Captain Tinza and Commander Napol had secured a viable position or they would be slaughtered on the docks. Whatever happened, they would die serving the cause to which they were dedicated. They had asked no more from him.
Faros intended that their sacrifices—and those of all who attacked Mito—supply glorious inspiration for the rebels.
“We’re getting awfully close,” Captain Botanos muttered. “Those storm clouds worry me, though. Even in the dark, they don’t look natural.”
“They aren’t.” Both the ring and the sword had reacted to the clouds, vibrating softly as if in warning. Now and then Faros even heard the sword whisper, Beware her … beware him …
“Faros?”
The rebel leader stirred. “What?”
Botanos shrugged. “Nothing. Just didn’t like that odd look in your eye. Saw it in General Rahm’s before he … uh, died.”
The stormy sky shortened the day. As the last light faded, the distant mountains thrust up like claws grasping for the sky.
“Argon’s Chain,” Faros declared quietly.
“Is this wise? Of all directions to take, this one’s the worst! It’ll take a week or more to get through the southern region and even if we do, we’ve got to pass through the mining areas—”
“Not quite. There’s a secret port on this side, one that the imperials use on special occasions. You won’t find it on any map.”
The captain frowned. “Then how do you—”
Faros continued to gaze at the nearing shore. “It was the last sight of Mithas we saw as the ogre galleys sailed for Kern.”
Botanos wisely said nothing more on the subject. Slowly the fleet wended its way toward the obscure region. Faros expected to encounter some imperial presence but not enough to slow them drastically. From what little he had seen of the port on the day when Hotak’s officers turned him over to Golgren, the facility was for military matters only. There was no civilian settlement, only a garrison manned by about a hundred at most.
The rebel leader held up his ring. It flared when he pointed the stone a little more to the southwest. “There.”
Botanos had his crew correct their course. At the stern, a single oil lamp guided the ships directly behind them, who, in turn, signalled the others. An old breastplate acted as a shield, preventing anyone on shore from noticing the flickering illumination at sea. This close, the rebels could take no risks.
“Ship ahead,” muttered the captain.
In the distance, several small lights marked the newcomer. Faros, studying the angle, judged it to be heading toward the same place. “Follow her.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Roughly half an hour later, they noticed the first lights of the port. The ship they stalked sailed serenely toward its destination, clearly unconcerned about any rebel attack this close to the heart of the realm.
Straightening, Faros commanded, “Signal everyone else to stay back. We sail in alone first.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ll have a better chance if they mistake us for just one more imperial.”
With the other ships dropping behind, the Dragon’s Crest headed toward the port. The heavy darkness caused by the unnatural storm clouds now worked in the rebels’s favor, obscuring them from clear sight until they were nearly at the docks.
Someone aboard the other ship, which had already tied up, called out to them. Captain Botanos pretended not to hear. Two dock workers scurried over to where the Crest neared, ready to help. The officer on duty, a legion dekarian, marched up as the rebel ship came to rest. His squad stood at attention behind him as he peered aboard.
“You up there! Where’s the captain?”
Botanos moved to the rail. “Here I be!”
In the dark behind him, much of the fighting force had gathered stealthily. Faros stood near the front line, arm raised.
“Blasted weather!” the officer growled, holding his helmet to his head. “What ship is this? Can’t see well in this dark! By whose orders are you here?”
Botanos gave him the name of the courier they had captured, then its orders—including codes—which the rebels had gleaned from its captain’s cabin. The rebels did not expect t
o completely fool the port watch, but they would buy some time.
Scratching his head, the dekarian looked over his list. Not finding what Botanos had said, he summoned two of his warriors and sent them running into the port.
“We need to get official approval!” the officer yelled up. “You’re not cited on here!”
“At least let us tie up!” Botanos insisted. “The weather’s worsening and I’d like to prevent any damage to my ship!”
Seeing no reason why not, the dekarian waved the go ahead. The dock workers took lines from the Dragon’s Crest then tied up the ship.
“We’re secure …” Botanos murmured to Faros.
“The gangplank.”
With a surreptitious nod, the captain called, “We’ve a crew member badly injured! Can you take ’im? We’ve no proper mender on board!”
The dekarian mulled this request over. “All right, but just the one and whoever’s carrying ’im!”
Captain Botanos snapped his fingers. Two of the crew already standing by hurried to get the plank into position. As the board settled onto the dock, the two legionaries sent by the dekarian materialized in the distance.
“They’re almost back—and they don’t look happy, lad!”
Faros dropped his arm. As silent as death, the rebels poured down the gangplank. The officer on duty froze, not at all certain what he was seeing. Belatedly, he drew his axe and shouted a warning.
Faros crashed into one legionary, cutting him down before the latter could raise his weapon. The rebels swarmed the watch, killing many quickly. The dekarian held off for a few seconds, wounding one rebel and warding off another, but an arrow from the Crest’s deck finished him.
Two remaining legionaries turned and fled. A horn sounded, ending the element of surprise. Behind Faros, rebels took on the dock workers and the crew of the smaller ship.
Leading a band deeper inland, Faros located the garrison fort. The gates had been left wide open; the commander didn’t expect trouble. However, as Faros neared, soldiers began dragging them shut.
“Hurry!” he roared.
Several bolts struck down those near him. He ducked one that would have stuck him through the eye. Unlike the docks, the port was well lit, lamps hanging from iron poles. Archers among the rebels answered, firing at the gates. Two minotaurs loyal to the empire fell, slowing the efforts to seal the way.
Empire of Blood Page 26
