As the rebels reached the gates, a squad of defenders rushed out. Their sacrifice went in vain, for they were quickly overwhelmed. With a wail, Faros swung his sword, severing the arm of one soldier then cutting through the throat of another. He entered the fort and was immediately confronted by another dekarian. The officer chipped at one of Faros’s horns but left his side open. Faros jabbed, forcing the dekarian to fumble his weapon and reach for his dagger. Faros slashed his hand then finished his foe with a quick thrust.
More and more rebels filled the small fort. Faros spotted the commander, a broad-muzzled, gray-furred hekturion. Already pressured by two rebels, the scarred veteran fought with admirable tenacity.
Making his way to the combat, Faros pushed aside one rebel and shouted, “Surrender and you’ll be spared!”
The commander hesitated. He looked around, estimating the odds, and finally nodded. “I yield!”
When news of the garrison’s fall reached the docks, the crew of the other ship also surrendered. Faros had the vessel’s officers held with the remaining garrison command in order to question all.
Botanos, his axe and fur crimson with the blood of foes, joined him in what had been the hekturion’s quarters. “A fine plan! Executed smartly!”
Faros was looking over messages and maps. “Have the other ships land as quickly as they can! I want every able fighter ordered off, then you and the other captains fulfill your orders—”
The other rebel shook his head. “This once I’m comin’ with you—no arguments, my lord! I owe you my life twice over and, besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on you for the sake of us all! I’ve got a fine first mate who’ll take the Dragon’s Crest where she’s got to go!”
Faros let Botanos’s words pass. “Get the ships unloaded then! Have that other vessel brought out to sea so that someone can take its spot!”
“Aye, my lord!”
With the Crest already empty, it did not take long for both ships to depart. However, only four vessels could dock at a time, and even though the crews worked as swiftly as they could, the hours raced by. Gradually, though, a considerable army began to take shape. The long voyage had forced them to abandon many of their mounts and almost all their siege weapons. The garrison supplied them with a few good horses and a pair of small catapults, but, overall, what they had was strength and courage.
The commander’s quarters told Faros something about Mithas. A recent dispatch caught his eye, for it indicated the routes of the two legions nearest their location. Despite the news the rebels were on Mito, someone—Ardnor or the high priestess—was cautiously deploying legions in all directions.
“These’re on their way north,” he told the captain. “They look to be taking up a position south of Varga, just in case Mito was a ruse.”
“Hmmm, which it is.” Botanos rubbed the underside of his muzzle.
Gazing at the map, Faros pointed at a spot on the coast midway between the capital and Varga. “They probably think we’ll land around there. There’s some beach there, where long boats could land, that and Varga make the most sense for any concerted attack.”
“That’s where you did send some of the other ships …”
“Droka’s expecting rebels to make landings where landings can be made. I can’t disappoint them.”
“Aye,” grumbled the mariner, “and they expect us to cross where crossings can be done. You have any idea how long it’ll take us to get through this mountainous region?”
“Just get everyone ready as soon as possible.”
Thunder boomed, shaking the structure. Botanos swore.
“Hope this weather doesn’t get worse or we’ll be going nowhere fast,” he grumbled.
“Oh, we’ll be going fast all right,” Faros promised. “The weather is the least of our problems.”
For miles beyond Mithas, the storm clouds raged. Over Nethosak, the skies were at their worst and most inhabitants fled inside. Though hardened minotaurs, they had lived long enough to understand that when such weather erupted, it boded ill.
In the sanctum of the high priestess, the mood was equally tense. Lady Nephera proudly stood in the center of the pattern where she had cast her earlier spell. Her eyes were riveted on the massive, silver symbols on the wall, seeing beyond them to the realm of her cherished patron. Around her, every ghost under her iron will fluttered anxiously, fearfully. Tonight she would utilize her spirits as never before. Tonight their pain and suffering would be tenfold.
Takyr moved among them, keeping order. A bloodlust filled his monstrous countenance and one ruined hand twitched as if in memory of another time, another life. His cloak undulated eagerly.
“The time is nigh!” Nephera announced. “My son should be here! Takyr!”
He vanished, then immediately rematerialized. Your offspring approaches, mistress …
There was a hard clang on the door. Without taking her gaze from the wondrous sight of her god’s symbols, Nephera gestured. The doors swung open, and the emperor—black helmet in the crook of his arm—marched in. His bravado faltered as his eyes swept the chamber, for although Ardnor could not quite make out the legions of dead, he sensed that he and his mother were not alone.
Drawing himself up, Ardnor said, “It’s the hour you mentioned.”
“Yes, and you have come not a moment too soon!” With effort, the cadaverous figure turned to face him. “Join me, my son …”
Something in her tone proved pleasant, for the emperor couldn’t repress a grin. He put his helmet on a bench nearby and stalked toward his mother. Even though he paid them no mind, specters in his path fled fearfully from the mountain of strength. Ardnor had already been touched by both his mother’s power and the dark glory of their deity, and the shades felt the emanations.
Only Takyr stood his ground, but if he sometimes almost mocked his mistress’s son, this time he nodded respectfully toward the unknowing Ardnor, though perhaps his eyes showed a hint of jealousy.
Ardnor took his place in the center then knelt submissively at the high priestess’s feet. He lowered his massive horns to the floor.
“He has made you his champion, his arm on this mortal plane, dear Ardnor.” Nephera put a loving—albeit burnt and fleshless—hand on her son’s forehead, brushing a spot between his horns.
“I am grateful, Mother! What must I do to fulfill my rightful role?”
“Be strong of body,” she answered. “Be stronger of soul.”
As he knelt there, she pressed her palm into the spot she had been but a moment before caressing.
As powerful as he was, Ardnor nonetheless screamed in shock. He tried to move but struggled in vain. The high priestess’s hand alone held the massive bull where he was.
Looking up, Nephera stared at her unwilling servants. One by one, then by the dozens, their faces twisted with even more pain than the suffering evinced by Ardnor. The same silver aura surrounding the Forerunner symbols enveloped the ghostly throng. As the shades convulsed, the aura swelled to include Nephera, then her son.
“My hand touches you,” she told the emperor, “but it is his that blesses you. My hand guides the spell, but it is his that casts it.”
Ardnor’s cry lessened. Tears pouring down his face, the emperor stiffened. He gritted his teeth and in staccato bursts, replied, “Blessed—is—his—power! I—am—but—his—vessel!”
A sinister green glow formed around his mother’s hand. The fur nearest Nephera’s hand blackened then turned to powder. Nephera looked to Takyr, who bowed. The cloaked fiend vanished, materializing almost muzzle-to-muzzle with the high priestess.
Takyr entered the body of his mistress. She shuddered momentarily, her eyes closing. When they opened but a moment later, they were completely red, even the irises.
“Come to me,” said a dark voice that was neither hers nor Takyr’s. “Come to me …”
As one, the unwilling ghosts flooded into the high priestess. The body of Lady Nephera shook violently, but never did her palm leave
the emperor’s forehead. As each phantasm entered her, the glow around her hand pulsated and Ardnor grunted anew with fresh pain. Soon the spirits flowed in with such swiftness that his grunts became a low, constant moan.
The last shades disappeared within their host. The green glow abruptly intensified around Ardnor, who froze as if one of the statues in the halls. Nephera’s crimson eyes narrowed and laughter never uttered by anything mortal echoed in the chamber.
Head rocking back, Ardnor let out a roar before collapsing. Separated from him, the high priestess also nearly fell, but her body righted itself as if some great hand had picked her up like a doll. From out of Nephera burst the ghosts. They dispersed in every conceivable direction, screaming silently with pain. They flew through the walls, the ceiling, and the floor—seeking to escape what they could not.
The last to emerge was Takyr. He was now a faded shadow, a ghost of a ghost, but unlike the others, what pain still ravaged him he held in check. Takyr waited stoically, watching his mistress.
She blinked. The terrible, crimson orbs vanished, replaced by her own unsettling ones. Nephera ran a trembling claw through her mane, now all but silver itself. Her breathing steadied and she looked around, finally seeming to register her surroundings. Her gaze alighted on her son, still prone on the floor.
Straightening, the high priestess adopted an imperious expression. “Arise, my son! Is this how his champion presents himself?”
“No, Mother …” rasped the emperor, sounding more like one of her ghosts than her child. “It is … not …”
Ardnor rose … and kept rising. He had been a giant among his kind before, but now he swelled to a height taller than an ogre. He was three times as broad as the high priestess. Like Nephera, the emperor was marked by a shocking change over parts of his fur—only in his case the touches were of a deep, ghastly green—a green that now matched his burning eyes … and the blazing, downturned axe branded into his forehead.
Morgion’s gift.
“This …” the giant said, now voice growing stronger, clearer, “this is how his champion presents himself.”
Ardnor stretched out his hand and his helmet flew to his grip. He thrust it on then extended his other hand. His mace, which he had not brought with him, formed in the air.
Turning to face the massive icons, the emperor shouted, “I am your hand, your weapon!” The walls shook from the thunderous sound of his voice. “I am your will on this mortal plane!”
The head of his mace glowed with the same dark aura as that which had surrounded him before. Ardnor fell to his knee again, striking the floor with the weapon as he did. A fissure opened up at his feet. From within, tendrils of smoke arose and mournful voices pleaded in chorus. With his free hand, Ardnor made a grasping motion, as if he sought to pull something from the depths.
Indeed, he did, for out of the chasm five black shadows appeared. They spiraled once around the emperor, then came to rest before him. Each vaguely resembled the form of a warrior, albeit of different shapes and even races.
Ardnor chuckled and glanced over his shoulder to see the beaming face of his approving mother. “Maritia has her generals. Now I have mine.”
Nephera nodded proudly.
He struck the stone again and the fissure sealed, cutting off the eternal cries.
Turning the mace downward in a symbolic gesture, the First Master pronounced, “My life is yours, now and forever …”
The silver icons flashed.
With Takyr trailing behind her, Lady Nephera joined him. “You have been given a great gift, one even I must envy, my son! Wield it well! Prove yourself worthy in his eyes—and mine!”
“I will bring you the head, hide, and horns of Chot’s nephew, Mother.” He reverently touched his forehead where the helmet hid his new brand. “And for him—I’ll bring Faros Es-Kalin’s very soul …”
Nethosak. It seemed like years since Maritia had been home, yet it was only months. Still, her heart lightened at the initial view of her homeland as her ships entered the harbor. She expected no fanfare and did not receive any. No one—save perhaps her mother—would have known of her coming until just a day or two ago. Nor did her arrival presage good news.
“You understand your orders, Captain Xyr?” asked Maritia as she disembarked the Stormbringer.
“Absolutely, my lady. I only await the word.”
“It’ll be given soon enough. I have to speak with my brother first.”
The mariner looked past her to the docks. “It appears he urgently wants to speak with you, my lady.”
“Hmm?” Maritia followed his gaze to note the arrival of a rather dour welcoming party. A dozen resolute Protectors in full black regalia rode up; at their head was an officer in Imperial Guard uniform whose shorn mane revealed his true loyalties. At his side he held the reins of one of Maritia’s favored steeds.
Descending the gangplank, she met the saluting officer.
“Captain Arochus, my lady. We are here to escort you directly to the emperor.”
“Where’s Captain Doolb?” she asked, recalling the veteran officer who should have been the one to meet her.
“Arrested for treason and executed some weeks ago, my lady,” the Protector answered without batting an eye.
“I see,” the legion commander replied, hiding her shock. Doolb had been one of her father’s most loyal warriors. “My guards also need mounts,” she added blandly.
“Unnecessary. The emperor believes you quite safe with this hand-picked contingent. Your guards are given leave until needed.”
Eyeing the Protectors, Maritia could see they were capable. Each was nearly as wide and muscular as Ardnor. If he ordered them to give their lives to defend hers, they would do so with zeal.
Still, Maritia desired her own trusted troops. Unfortunately, she couldn’t countermand Ardnor’s directive. Turning to her personal guard, she said, “You heard what was said. Report to me at first light.”
“Aye, my lady,” they responded.
Arochus was courteous if distant as he handed the reins to her. She was the sister of his master and the daughter of the high priestess of his faith, but he surely knew—as most did—that she did not follow the ways of the sect.
As Maritia mounted, she noticed other minotaurs in the area moving about peculiarly. They were going about their tasks in ordinary fashion, but with studied movements and pensive expressions that she could only attribute to the presence of the Protectors. Many looked worn and tired. Other Protectors dotted the area, guarding for trouble. Their numbers had grown, and apparently they were now acting in place of the State Guard.
“My lady?” urged Arochus.
Maritia nodded. As the party turned their mounts, Maritia saw a fishing ship unloading its catch. An official in grey robes with the look of one of the faithful watched each net and marked each catch on a parchment. Four armored figures kept a wary eye while the contents were poured into lined barrels then loaded aboard a wagon marked with the Forerunner symbols. Other wagons awaited other cargo ships. With a pang, Maritia thought of Pryas and wondered if a similar regimen had been introduced to Ambeon.
As they rode, the Protectors formed a stiff wall of defense around her. It almost felt claustrophobic. In an attempt to take her mind off their over-zealousness, the female minotaur focused on her beloved city. The buildings of Nethosak stood tall and proud. The banners fluttered over the clan houses. The streets—
The streets were edged with grime, the stones were obviously muddy. The prints of past pedestrians covered the walkways. The few citizens she saw moved furtively, looking exhausted and wary.
“It’s been some time since I was here. How fare matters?”
Arochus looked surprised. “All is in perfect order, my lady. Nethosak runs with the efficiency of which your father dreamed. The emperor and high priestess have made those dreams reality. By edict of the throne, the temple oversees much of the activity needed for imperial expansion. Productivity is at its peak and work is well
underway on the addition to the main building.”
“The addition?”
“By necessity, the temple must grow. The same goes for temples elsewhere in the realm. I imagine that is also the case in Ambeon.”
“I left before such measures started.”
“The faithful work during their free time to achieve a rapid realization of the project. Even many of those not yet converted feel compelled to offer their help.” He beamed. “It is a wonderful time in our history!”
Maritia said nothing. They went on in silence for some blocks, then suddenly Arochus had the escort veer from the expected path. Maritia stared as the roof of the palace, just visible over a merchant’s home, receded.
“I thought we were going straight to the emperor.”
“We are, but he will be at the temple at this hour. He spends much of his time there.” The last was said with an edge that hinted Arochus expected her to have known this.
The tromping of feet made her involuntarily reach for her sword. Moving with a swiftness Maritia would not have expected, the captain blocked her action with his mace.
“It would be my head if something befell you, my lady. Please! Wait. I will ascertain things.”
A regiment of Protectors burst onto the scene, a mounted officer at their head. He took one look at Maritia’s party, then nodded curtly to Arochus before shouting something that sent his own band twisting into the street ahead.
Maritia watched the rank upon rank of black armored figures, noticing how one seemed to blend into another. It was as though the Protectors were all the same figure duplicated time and time again.
Her grip tightening on the reins, Maritia asked, “What’s going on, Captain?”
Crimson abruptly tinged Arochus’s eyes and his breath quickened. “They hunt assassins, my lady! Vile assassins!”
“In Nethosak? How can this be?”
Empire of Blood Page 27
