The regiment spread out through the entire block, lining the walkways and facing the buildings. At a shout from the officer, the Protectors began banging furiously on doors, in some cases breaking them down. One shaggy minotaur who answered found himself dragged outside and chained. Other Protectors burst into his home, from which the sounds of protest subsequently erupted.
Looking eager, Arochus said, “The assassins slew none other than five of the most prominent, most faithful! Admiral Sorsi, for one, and even two of the Supreme Circle—Councilor Lothan himself included!”
She was shaken by the news. Even her distaste for Lothan, who had for a time seen in her the prospect of a valuable political marriage, did not keep her from cursing those who had assassinated him.
“How were they slain?”
“Of that no one can say, for the bodies cannot be found, yet they have disappeared and their personal belongings were ransacked! Blood was found nearby! The logic is irrefutable.”
Not so to Maritia, who frowned to hear this strange story. The officer in charge of the search dismounted. He rumbled something to the chained prisoner, who shook his head. Dissatisfied, the officer seized a whip from his saddle. He growled again at the captive, who muttered something in reply. With a furious snort, the red-eyed Protector lashed his prisoner several times.
Hotak’s daughter stiffened. The quick brutality with which the armored figure struck stunned her. She turned her steed.
Arochus suddenly urged his mount in front of Maritia’s. “We will be delayed and miss the emperor! Forgive me, my lady, but we must move on if we’re to avoid lateness!”
He did not wait for her reply but instead encouraged her horse on with a heavy tap of his mace on its side. Maritia’s steed reared, but she got him under control. Arochus, already ahead, made no apologies.
Maritia glanced back at the ongoing interrogation, but her escort blocked her view. Ears flattened, Hotak’s daughter tried to push the images from her mind. She would speak with her brother about the disturbing incident. The Protectors served Ardnor’s will. He surely would punish any who overstepped their authority.
The temple came into sight. Maritia saw that Arochus had understated the new addition; it almost looked as if her mother was adding a second, equally vast structure alongside the first. The massive wall surrounding the temple grounds had been torn down on the east end, and both the street and the opposing buildings had been demolished. Wracking her memory, Maritia realized some of those missing buildings had housed clans loyal to her father.
The captain must have been watching her even more closely than Maritia had imagined, for he quickly said, “Traitors, my lady. Uncovered by the combined efforts of the temple and the throne. Their properties were seized by your brother and turned over as reward for good service to the high priestess. As your father did, these clans have been ceremoniously shunned, their names never to be uttered, their histories forgotten.”
“All of them?”
Arochus nodded sagely. “They were on the Lady Nephera’s lists, after all.”
An ominous line of Protectors stood guard at the gateway, looking akin to the malevolent statues within. Their fiery-eyed commander nodded to Arochus, barely noticed Maritia, and opened the way.
Despite the lateness of the day, the addition swarmed with hard-working minotaurs hefting stone blocks or raising beams. They did not look as enthusiastic as she had imagined. Nor had she expected so many Protectors keeping watch over the proceedings.
“Why so many guards?”
“The assassinations, of course, my lady.”
Maritia looked up, where the dark outline of the addition rose high. A dome would top it. The faithful could come there and hear her mother preach.
Two guards took their steeds. Leaving their escort behind, the captain led her inside. Acolytes in the familiar white and gold robes bowed as she passed. A few others in elegant black robes caught her eye. These were her mother’s elite priests and priestesses, the inner circle who aided her in private ceremonies. Even more so than the rest of the acolytes, they had a drawn, pinched look. They imitated the high priestess in their look as well as their deep devotion.
Maritia hesitated. A chill swept down her spine. It did not help that she sensed Arochus’s unease, too. Just ahead lay the first of the gargantuan statues—the Forerunners themselves—and even from where she stood their unearthly figures somehow frightened her. Only statues, Hotak’s daughter reminded herself. Well-crafted, almost lifelike—if such a word could be used for spirits of the dead—mere huge pieces of marble. Nothing to fear, especially for a hardened legion veteran.
Gritting her teeth, Maritia pushed on past. She sensed if not saw the partially obscured visages, the shrouded forms. The whispers in her ears were the currents of the air, not actual voices. The feeling that shadowed figures moved alongside her was an illusion, having to do with the flickering torches.
Still, it was almost with gratitude that Maritia reached her mother’s personal quarters. The two female guards saluted Maritia with crispness. Nearby, a pair of hulking Protectors silently watched.
“My lady,” uttered the elder female, “you are welcome. The high priestess and master await within.”
“I will leave you here,” Captain Arochus murmured, bowing low to her. “Your mount will be attended to and made ready for your departure.”
Nodding, Maritia entered. If the outer halls had seemed dimly lit, the chambers were all but black. A faint glow from a rounded brass oil lamp sitting near a high desk contributed most of the illumination. There were also two nearly extinct candles set in niches on the wall.
From the desk, staring down with an intensity that struck Maritia as being similar to the statues, her mother said, “Welcome home, my daughter.” She smiled, but Maritia felt no warmth, no pleasure. “I have awaited your arrival eagerly.”
Removing her helmet, Maritia went down on one knee. Horns low to the ground, the legion commander responded, “I thank you for your greetings. I only wish I deserved them. The ogres—”
“Yes,” Nephera interrupted. “I know about Golgren’s duplicity. There will be time for him once the rebels are crushed.”
“As to that, I feared the delay had enabled them to already slip close to Mithas. I heard nothing from you and so deemed it best to sail directly here.”
The high priestess stood. Her robes hung on her as if hanging on a skeleton. She had grown gaunt and one hand remained shrouded in her long sleeve. “Much thought has been given to the events to come. You were wise to turn your fleet toward home rather than seek pursuit of the rebels. It is most appropriate that the end to this insipid insurrection should take place in the cradle of our civilization and in the shadow of the temple.”
“The renegades’ll come with everything they have.”
Nephera waved off such a concern. “Wisps of wind attempting to topple a mighty forest.”
“It might be wise to send for fleet elements stationed at Mito, Amur, and—”
“They have their own vital tasks,” the high priestess said, not explaining further.
Maritia nodded.
“With the exception of those units within the capital itself, you are hereby given authority of the legions and garrisons spread throughout the imperial island. The high admirals have already been notified to follow your lead. You will be answerable only to your brother.”
Maritia looked up, startled by the show of confidence. The elite units, in addition to those forces already under her command, represented a staggering array of power.
“I’m—I’m grateful.”
“A proclamation has already been issued and sent by messenger to all those concerned.”
“I’ll begin preparations as soon as I leave. I calculate two to three days at most to set everything in motion, providing Faros isn’t already at our door.”
“He is not,” Nephera assured her, “but I expect him soon.”
“I’ll organize all the ships.”
“We have the full confidence in your strategies, my daughter. There’s no need to explain them. Simply do what you think best.”
Maritia felt as if her head was spinning. Ambeon had been an impressive enough command, but it was a frontier. Now she had been granted authority almost as great as that which Bastion had wielded shortly before he had been chosen heir to the throne.
Bastion. The thought of her other brother darkened her mood, but with this new command, she would avenge him yet.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had seen nothing of her sole surviving brother. “Where’s Ardnor? I thought he was supposed to be here?”
“I’m right over here, sister.”
Maritia jumped. It was not that the voice had come so unexpectedly from the darkness. No, it had as much to do with the voice itself. It was Ardnor’s, of course, but with something different to it that made every strand of hair on her neck bristle.
When the emperor stepped from the shadows—seeming almost to form from the darkness—Maritia nearly jumped again. She recognized her brother, yes, but only barely. He was bigger and taller than any minotaur she had ever seen. Every muscle in his body was taut, every vein extended. Ardnor looked as if he contained within him an impossible fury ready to explode.
He was clad in the armor of the Protectors, the gold markings identifying him as a master of the order. From his belt hung a mace almost as long as his sister’s arm and with a heavy crowned head.
What caught Maritia’s breath were Ardnor’s eyes. Always tinged with crimson, they were now a deep, unearthly green, even the pupils. Maritia could not meet his gaze directly, which she sensed offered some amusement to her brother.
“I—I apologize,” she stammered. “I didn’t see you.”
This seemed to amuse him more. “Caught up in the excitement …”
If Maritia did not look the emperor directly in the eye, she could relax more. “I meant no slight, Ardnor.” Belatedly, the legion commander began to kneel. “I know that you sought my arrest earlier on the mistaken belief that I had betrayed the realm—”
“There’s no need for concern on that matter, any more,” Lady Nephera said. “You were swiftly deemed innocent. The Grand Lord was helpful in ascertaining the truth. That Golgren played his own little games is something he will answer for … eventually.”
Hotak’s daughter was not at all certain that she understood everything her mother said, but she knew how the temple had ways of divining the truth. Ardnor, too, appeared satisfied.
“You will redeem yourself on the battlefield, sister. You’ll finally have all the soldiers you ever wanted to play with. You’ll be just like Father.”
“Enough prattle!” Nephera suddenly blurted, making both her children look at her. “I sense the spawn of Kalin nearing! There are battles brewing in and around the heart of the Imperium, but he is not among the rebels! Therefore he must be closing on Mithas.”
“With your permission, then,” Maritia interjected, once more the consummate soldier. “I shall begin work immediately. There’s a lot to do—fortifying the garrisons north, shoring up the forces inland, setting the fleet into proper position, and—”
A deep rumble of laughter erupted from the emperor. “Like I said, more like Father than any of us sons ever were!”
“By all means, go with my blessing,” Nephera stepped from her desk, amidst a flutter of parchments. She stood over Maritia, an imposing and at the same time, somehow eerie sight. Next to his sister, Ardnor respectfully knelt.
The high priestess touched his muzzle, then his helmed head. She then turned to her daughter. Maritia gratefully accepted the touch on her muzzle and forehead, knowing such gestures meant much to her mother. Nephera bid both offspring to rise.
“The Forerunners watch over us and guide us,” Nephera intoned. “They and the power that summons them forth shall tear our enemies asunder!”
“Praise be,” replied her son. Maritia merely nodded.
“Ardnor, attend me for a moment longer,” the high priestess said. “You may go, daughter.”
Maritia kissed her mother’s hand, then turned and bowed to her brother. “Do any of the generals already have orders?”
“Order about any you wish. I’ve my own generals,” the emperor responded with a cryptic grin.
She waited for him to elaborate, but Ardnor only stared at her with those unsettling orbs.
“As you say, then.”
With another bow, Maritia marched away. Despite the unsettling sights she had witnessed, a sense of euphoria overtook her. She would have at her command a force rivaling any her father or Bastion had ever led. The last remnant of Kalin would be slaughtered on the field. Then, she told herself, Nethosak would be restored to its pristine glory. The realm itself would finally be set on its course toward the future.
Her father’s dream would culminate at last.
After the failed attempt by the minotaur slaves to take over the imperial mining camp of Vyrox, Bastion’s legionaries had force-marched the survivors through the mountains of Argon’s Chain to the waiting ogre ships. The trek had been arduous and deadly to some. The soldiers had shown no mercy to their charges.
Faros had been even less kind to his army. All went well until they emerged from Argon’s Chain. Exhausted by their journey through the mountains, they took insufficient notice of the outpost ahead. Likely even Nethosak barely recalled the insignificant, lone structure. It could only house perhaps a dozen soldiers at most, but for the precarious path through the mountains, it had little reason to exist.
Botanos, leading his horse over the rough ground, came face-to-face with the first soldier of the empire, who immediately turned to flee and warn his companions.
“Get him!” urged Faros from behind the captain, dropping the reins of his own steed.
The rebels scrambled over the rocks, but the guard knew the paths and managed to keep ahead. The small, boxlike way station loomed. As he neared it, the legionary called out. Suddenly, a shaft materialized in the back of his neck. The soldier crashed into the worn wooden door then dropped in a heap.
The door swung open a moment later and three armed figures burst out. Despite hundreds of warriors approaching, the trio stood their ground. The door behind them shut. The odds were such that the battle would be laughingly short, but it was clear that all the legionaries desired was time enough for one of their number to send a hasty message, likely by bird.
Axes ready, the three soldiers formed a line in front of the narrow entrance. Faros, in the lead, veered to his left, Botanos following. They and several others raced around the trio of desperate defenders. The next instant, a wall of fur crashed into the three as the main rebel contingent swarmed upon them.
As the clash of arms echoed behind them, Faros and Botanos scaled a fence that penned the imperial horses. Faros dashed toward the back of the outpost, and an axe slammed into the wood inches from his stomach. He lunged, driving the sword through the armor and chest of the legionary who stood there, waiting for him.
Someone inside shot a single arrow, downing a rebel just coming up behind him. Botanos, on Faros’s other side, angrily pointed at a small opening near the upper part of the structure.
The scarred, oak panel slid open. Within, they could hear the rattle of a cage and the squawk of an eager bird. Faros started forward, but something snagged his foot and the sword went flying from his grip. Botanos came up and buried his axe in the dying soldier holding onto his companion’s ankle.
The cage slid open. Reacting instinctively, Faros lunged for the brown form emerging from the window. His hands grappled with a fearsome explosion of feathers and talons. A sharp beak jabbed his forearm. A wing battered his face, blinding him. He squeezed, trying to crush the bird, but it squirmed and broke free. Its flight erratic, it headed up into the clouds.
From inside came a crashing sound, furious shouts, and the brief clang of steel announcing the end of those soldiers still inside.
“You dama
ged it,” Botanos pointed out, indicating the blood and feathers on his leader’s hands, most of which belonged to the bird. “It’ll likely die before it reaches anyone.”
Wiping his hands off as best he could, Faros picked up his sword. “If not,” he said grimly, “then we’ve forfeited the element of surprise.”
They quickly stripped the outpost of its horses and meager rations then headed for the level terrain. This region of Mithas offered scant protection from the weather. Rain tormented the rebels for a day and night, until, unable to struggle through the storm, the rebels finally halted. Even so, they had crossed quite a distance. If their pace continued, then by late tomorrow they would be close enough to see Nethosak on the horizon.
Lightning illuminated the area, punctuated by ear-splitting cracks of thunder. Fires were out of the question, and they were cold as well as soaked.
The rain came to a halt just before morning. Their fur soaked to the flesh, the bedraggled rebels rose from the muddy ground like a legion of animated corpses leaving their fresh graves. Faros gave them little time to tend themselves, aware that the need for haste had grown paramount.
Just as Faros saddled his mount, he heard a cry that sounded like an imperial messenger bird. The minotaur glanced up but saw nothing. As they moved, Faros began to spread his force out in a wide pattern. They were making good time, partly because the only weapons they had were those they carried, while the slower moving legions boasted ballistae, catapults, and lines of supply. Fortunately, Gaerth’s people had provided them with sufficient food and good, strong blades.
Utilizing their few horses, Faros sent out his best scouts. The first returned with nothing to report, but those ranging farther ahead finally came back to say they had seen the outskirts of Nethosak, spotted the first of the outlying settlements.
They had also sighted two legions, the first of many more beyond. Faros called for a few of the surviving officers from those legions who had joined him. The scouts described what they could of the two forces, especially details of their flags.
Empire of Blood Page 28
