Bear Claw Legion would not be arriving soon. If Faros’s forces had looked less than imposing to Maritia, it had not merely been because he had disguised two hundred of his best as prisoners. Rather, it was because another portion of his army had stayed behind with weapons confiscated from the defeated legion. Their rearguard fighting would delay the other imperials from riding to Lady Maritia’s rescue.
Time was still of the essence. The rebels had a day, no more, before other legions regrouped and attacked. Faros had to break the Warhorse army and march on Nethosak swiftly.
“Incoming!” Botanos roared.
Faros and the captain jumped from their mounts, taking refuge among rocks. A flight of arrows dropped among the rebels, killing too many. Rising, Faros found the captain clutching his upper leg where an arrow had pierced the side.
“I’ll be fine! Just need a few moments to bind this!” growled the veteran sailor, already working on the wound. “You just watch your head—and bring me back hers!”
Nodding, Faros returned to the fray. On foot now, Gradic’s son could see less clearly what was happening. To his left, he saw a ballista crew trying to adjust for a shot at his front line.
Catching the attention of nearby followers, Faros cried, “To me! The ballista!”
They formed a spearhead. His sword led the cutting of a swathe through the soldiers trying to defend the ballista. Other rebels pushed back the remaining legionaries, widening the way. The crew saw their danger and tried to turn the machine. However, they had to grab their axes and blades to meet Faros’s group.
The dekarian in charge lunged for Faros. The black silhouette of the Warhorse momentarily revived in Gradic’s son the terror of the Night of Blood. Once again he saw the bodies and the laughing figures watching as fire consumed his home; again he remembered the helmed assassin who had tried to kill him.
Fueled by rage, Faros forced the dekarian to his knees. The officer’s eyes bulged as he perceived the almost inhuman strength of his adversary. Foregoing his blade, the rebel leader seized the legionary’s throat in one hand and slowly crushed his windpipe.
Breathing heavily, Faros looked to the abandoned ballista. “Get it turned about!”
With effort, they forced the war machine around. The weapon had already been primed. The rebels corrected the machine’s aim and fired. The small bolts blasted into the legionaries. Screams filling the air, the dead and wounded twisted together in a grotesque heap.
Faros left his crew behind, slipping once more among the combatants. Suddenly a cloaked figure tried to run him down. Faros leapt to the side and grabbed the soldier’s cloak, sending the figure flying head first to the hard ground. The imperial officer collided with a harsh cracking sound and lay still.
Faros seized a horse’s reins and mounted. He peered around, looking for the distinctive helm and cloak worn by Maritia. There were only so many who wore it and fewer yet who were female.
He grunted in sudden pain as a blade scraped his side. Instinct saved him, his sword moving swiftly to deflect a second strike.
“Were you looking for me?” Maritia de-Droka said mockingly.
Hotak’s daughter again swung her sword, forcing Faros to wheel his horse around. She attacked on his injured side, making it difficult to properly parry, even with Sargonnas’s blade.
“I promised my father your head!” She slashed wildly at him, but Faros again wheeled on his horse and swung back.
Both blades came together. Sparks flew, and Maritia’s sword was badly chipped. Unfazed, the legion commander stabbed at his reins, slashing them away.
The rebel’s horse shifted nervously. Maritia tried to take advantage, but she had to adjust her footing.
Faros countered. His swing should have lopped off her hand, but at the last moment it seemed to veer of its own accord, striking her with its flat side. Maritia yelped and lost her grip, her weapon vanishing into the press of bodies around them.
She reached for her dagger. A swarm of fighters came between them. Faros had to seize his horse by the mane in order to keep from falling. Maritia lunged at him with her dagger. Faros blocked her blade with his forearm, scraping his hide. His mount jerked and he whirled, accidentally hitting her hard on the side of the head with the fist that gripped his sword hilt.
Maritia’s head snapped back. She would have fallen off her horse, save for the timely appearance of two of her officers. One grappled with Faros while the other seized and steadied Maritia.
Faros could barely hang on. In frustration, he watched as the second officer pulled the dazed Maritia out of reach. Finally, he was able to push away from the legionary attacking him, and with great pleasure, he ran the imperial soldier through. Unfortunately, as the soldier perished, his arm thrashed and his axe caught Faros’s mount deep in the side of the neck. The animal reared in agony, tossing his charge to the ground.
Landing on his wounded side, the rebel leader cried out, a moment later rolling away just as hoofs landed where he had fallen. Only the confusion of the moment saved Faros. With so many combatants and writhing bodies around, his bedraggled form went unnoticed. Coughing, he pushed himself to his feet.
A horn suddenly blared. He did not recognize the signal, which meant that it had to be an imperial alert. For a second, Faros wondered if reinforcements had arrived after all. Then he noticed that it was the legionaries who were backing away.
Warhorse was in retreat.
The empire’s soldiers did not look at all pleased by the surprise command, but they obeyed. Although some rebels began to see to the wounded, the majority, enthused by the enemy’s retreat, continued to harass the legion as they pulled away.
Of Hotak’s daughter there was no sign. Faros located a mounted rebel. “Your horse! I need it!”
The rider turned over her animal. Leaping onto the saddle, he took another look around. Nothing. Maritia had escaped him, yet another familiar face caught his attention. Captain Botanos, his leg bound, sat atop a monster of a steed. The mariner saw him and exhaled with noticeable relief.
“By the gods, you look horrible!” he growled. After a brief inspection, Botanos added, “But still in one piece, I see, save for that bad cut in your side. Let me help you bind it.”
Botanos took a piece of cloth that had once been a banner and wrapped it around Faros’s waist, quickly taking care of the wound.
“Warhorse retreating,” Botanos said as they worked. “Never thought I’d see that! Continues to be a time of miracles!”
“I hope we haven’t exhausted our supply,” Faros said tersely.
“Do we continue after them?”
The younger minotaur looked him in the eye. “No, onward to Nethosak!”
Botanos grinned, but Faros felt no pleasure. The clouds over the capital had grown as black as night. The wind had picked up too. Neither were natural. The power of the Forerunners gathered for some dire purpose, and Faros dreaded what that might mean.
Still he knew that there was no turning back.
Ardnor stiffened in the saddle as Nephera’s presence filled his thoughts.
He is yours, my son! The spectacle will be spoken of in bard’s songs for centuries to come! Advance!
The emperor roared his pleasure. He pulled his crowned mace free and thrust it forward. The curled goat horns called darkly. The drums beat the march.
The black plague that was the Protectors streamed forward.
The stain of dishonor could never be erased. She had lost her father’s legion. Warhorse had retreated from battle for the first time since Hotak had built it into the model for all other armies.
“We must regroup before Nethosak!” she told her gathering staff, her voice rising so that it could be heard above the worsening weather. A third of her officers were either dead or missing and several were, like her, wounded. “Send word to Onyx Legion to be prepared to hold the front for us! We have to stand our ground until evening! The rebels will be met at the capital by an impenetrable wall. The northern legions
will come and help us finish them off.” She coughed. “Any word from Bear Claw?”
“None, my lady.”
“Then they must be busy with the other rebels. We’ll make do without them, if necessary.” Nethosak loomed in the distance—and something like a massive, inky shadow seemed to spew from it, heading toward the retreating legionaries. “What in the name—?”
Even as she formed the question, the answer became evident. Protectors. More Protectors than she had ever seen in one place at any time, a legion whose numbers dwarfed even the gargantuan Warhorse. Rank upon rank of the ebony-armored figures marched in perfect unison. Each foot soldier carried two weapons—the familiar crowned mace and a twin-edged hand axe honed sharp. Around them, black-cloaked officers on devilish steeds kept order with whips and maces. Murky, surreal figures flitted among the soldiers.
A banner unfamiliar to Maritia rose over the mass, the symbol in the middle looking something like an upside-down axe. The menacing force covered the landscape as far as one could see. Even then, the ranks continued to flow out of the city.
At last, Maritia saw Ardnor at the head of this army. Her brother seemed even larger than life than the last time she had seen him. Gazing at him, Hotak’s daughter experienced the same uneasy sensation she sometimes felt when facing her mother, yet Maritia also drew strength from her brother. Faros’s proud fighters were about to face the perfect opponent.
“Sound the call to regroup! We’ll reform and buy time here for the emperor to prepare.”
You will do nothing.
The voice jarred Maritia. Blinking, she looked toward Nethosak, toward where the temple stood.
You will continue the retreat. You will leave your forces in disorder.
“But—why?”
An intense force pressed on her skull. Maritia tore at her helmet then clutched her head. Her aides, not hearing the voice or comprehending, looked uncertainly at one another.
Your task is to serve the empire, daughter! You will obey! All is planned! The pressure eased. Ardnor thanks you for your sacrifices but now wishes you to take over the protection of the capital in his absence. He trusts no one more for this job.
Maritia composed herself. The retreat of Warhorse might yet serve a purpose. If this was what her brother, her emperor, desired of her, who was she to question his wisdom? Her duty was to the throne and her father’s legacy, which Ardnor represented.
“I will obey,” she answered crisply to the air. As Nephera’s presence faded, the female minotatur looked to her staff. “Belay that last command! Continue the retreat! We will fall back behind the emperor’s lines and retreat into Nethosak!”
The others bowed and left to carry out her orders. Gritting her teeth, Maritia focused on the advancing line of darkness. Soon Maritia was able to pick out her brother. Ardnor—as though he could sense her attention—glanced her way.
Maritia nearly reined her horse to a halt. There was nothing mortal in those orbs.
Ardnor rumbled something to the officer next to him. The latter bowed deep then turned his mount and headed directly toward Maritia and her ragged band of retreating legionaries.
“My lady,” the Protector intoned flatly upon arrival. “The emperor expresses his relief that you have survived this setback.”
“Yes, thank you. I wish to speak with my brother for just a moment.”
The Protector raised his hand slightly. As one, a nearby line of warriors turned their faces in her direction. Their expressions showed only fanatical loyalty.
“That will not be possible right now. The battle is imminent, you understand.”
She gave up. To her officers, Maritia snapped, “You heard. Keep moving. Get everyone in through the gates as fast as possible.”
“We shall, of course, guard your retreat,” the black figure said.
She ignored him. Warhorse would be forever humiliated by having been ordered to abandon this fight. “Come!”
The Protector waved his hand once. The line of warriors turned their faces forward again. A path opened amidst their ranks. The Protectors moved as if puppets on strings, Maritia thought, her brother’s puppets.
As they passed among the baleful figures, Maritia’s gaze alighted on one of the shadowy figures she had noticed earlier. The dark shape sat astride a gaunt-looking horse. No matter how hard Maritia tried to focus on the rider, all she managed to see was the indistinct image of an armored figure. Trying to see better, the legion commander happened to glance at the steed itself.
“Gods!” she blurted. The animal’s sides were sunken in, with ribs showing, ribs and thin layers of moldy flesh.
“My lady,” whispered one of her companions. “Are you ill?”
“Keep moving! Go!” Maritia welcomed the sight of the gates.
They were solid. They were reality. They were the place from which Ardnor’s sinister army had come.
“Patok! Take over supervision of Warhorse! If you see any of the Guard, draft them into the ranks! Bolster our numbers—just in case! Create new lines just inside the gates and have them ready either to advance to the field or hold in the streets!”
“But, my lady! Where will you be?”
Her brow furrowed. Lightning flashed, and Maritia glanced up at the sky, her frown deepening. “I go to see my mother.”
The sword’s voice whispered in Faros’s head again. Beware …
Protectors. They covered the land before the capital like locusts. Faros stared at the horde, looking for Ardnor de-Droka.
“He wants to put on a show for the populace,” Faros murmured. “Slaughter his enemies before the gates so that tales can be spread.”
Botanos glared at the oncoming horde. “He must expect to make a grand spectacle of our deaths, then.”
“Look at that ominous sky, Captain. Can’t you feel your fur standing on end?”
The wind howled and the skies, darker than a Protector’s armor, made it almost seem as if night had fallen. A tempest threatened, but so far no rain had materialized.
“Aye. I’d kept telling myself it was nothing.”
“But it is. It’s everything we’ve feared.” Faros gripped his sword tightly. “We’ve no choice but to face it.”
From the Protectors’s ranks, the drums pounded like one massive heart, slow and foreboding. The black warriors moved in perfect, relentless unison. At their head rode a fearsome giant. On foot, he would have stood at least as tall as an ogre, but even without armor he had to be twice as broad … all taut muscle. In one hand he clutched a long, deadly mace around whose wicked head there seemed a faint, green glow.
“Is that a minotaur or an oversized ogre wearing false horns?” Botanos gaped.
Faros continued to stare at the approaching rider. As if sensing this, somehow, the helmed figure turned to gaze directly at the rebel leader. For the briefest of moments, the two locked gazes—and Faros discovered a creature no longer merely mortal beneath that helm. The eyes radiated death and worse, an agonizing decay of not just the body, but the soul, too.
Ardnor de-Droka broke contact first but not because of any lack of willpower. With a savage laugh, the emperor looked back to his fanatic ranks and waved the mace over his head. The drumbeats stopped.
Shouting, the Protectors broke into a run.
Faros raised his sword, then slashed downward. The rebels started forward at a slow trot, picking up speed as they charged. They made no sound yet, following their leader’s example.
At the front of the Protectors, Ardnor brandished his mace. The weapon flared, the unsettling green aura enveloping the head like fire.
A tingle ran through Faros. With a curse, he quickly glanced over his lines, but as yet they appeared unscathed by magic. A cry of anger, of primal vengeance, escaped him. As one, the rebels took up his cry, drowning out the thunder.
Like two massive waves, the Protectors and rebels crashed violently together. A hundred minotaurs and more perished in the first clash alone. Bodies flew up several feet into the air
, so tremendous was the force of convergence. The corpses of rebels and Protectors alike dotted the earth and those still alive in the front lines stood soaked in blood. A wall of death formed on both sides as all movement in either direction utterly ceased.
The emperor, out in front of his army, laughed as he clubbed one opponent after another. No sword, no axe, held against his mace. Each time he hit, his weapon flashed the same ominous green.
Faros! Nephera’s voice urged Ardnor. Deal with him, my son! None other matters!
The emperor, momentarily caught up in the glee of butchery, paid the priestess no mind. Ardnor knew Faros would be his eventually. There was time enough yet for sport.
As for Faros, he now realized the giant figute was Ardnor, but he could not reach him. The packed bodies and endless foes kept him from his goal. A rabid-eyed Protector pushed close and attempted to climb atop Faros’s mount. The rebel leader dodged the black fighter’s mace then jammed the hilt of his sword in the other’s neck. Clutching his ruined throat, the Protector collapsed into the mob, vanishing underneath frenetic feet.
One of Faros’s followers tried to push past the rebel leader, but the veteran fighter unaccountably faltered, slipping to one knee. Faros automatically reached a hand to help the rebel—only to pull it back in horror. The stricken warrior’s muzzle and arms had developed scores of small, brown pustules. Quickly, looking around, Faros saw other rebels rapidly developing the same symptoms.
Plague …
Now he understood Ardnor’s gesture with the mace. The implications shook Faros. The magical plague would sweep through the rebels in a matter of minutes, quickly deciding the outcome of the struggle. Angrily, he looked to the sky, seeking the shrouded constellation of Sargonnas. The god had dealt with Morgion’s plague earlier. Where was he now?
No rain came when Faros summoned it, no cleansing water to wash away Ardnor’s evil. Gradic’s son swore at the absent deity. “Do you want followers or not? Show me how to put an end to this!”
His sword suddenly yanked away from him and pointed of its own accord straight into the dire ranks of the Protectors. Faros’s gaze followed its direction—seeing Ardnor de-Droka.
Empire of Blood Page 31
