“Botanos! To me!” The captain and several other mounted fighters rushed over to Faros. “The power of Morgion is among us! Our only chance is to for me to reach Ardnor and quickly!”
“Well, we’ll get you there!” shouted the captain. “How can you fight ’im? He’s a giant with strength beyond belief. Must be evil magic at work. Nothing’s even scratched him!”
“Just get me to him.”
Botanos immediately organized a spearhead with himself leading the charge. As they pushed into the sea of black armor, more and more rebels showed signs of the sinister malignancy. Rebels stumbled, clutched their stomachs, wiped their feverish brows. The Protectors conquered more ground and lives. Sickened fighters could not stand up against Ardnor’s fanatics.
Ahead of Faros, Botanos swung at one of the ebony-armored villains, easily slaying him. The mariner urged on the others. “We’ve a gap forming! Press harder!”
Then the Protector he had killed suddenly rose up anew. There was a huge gap in the side of the neck where the captain’s axe had cut deeply. Blood still poured from the wound, yet the warrior, on wobbly legs, raised his mace to rejoin the fight.
“Botanos!” Faros called. “Look out!”
“By the Horned One!” The captain barely deflected the mace. He chopped into the Protector again, striking deeper into the same wound. The Protector slipped to his knees … then stood up again.
Faros swore. There could be only one explanation. Now, in addition to spreading plague, Ardnor was resurrecting the dead. Indeed, in every direction, slashed and blood-soaked minotaurs were slowly rising to pursue their mission. All wore the same blank, veiled expression.
The Protector twice slain by Botanos stabbed again at the captain, but another mounted rebel bravely moved in front the living corpse. The two combatants traded blows, the rebel driving his sword into what was left of the Protector’s mangled throat, but despite his head lolling to one side, the monstrous figure’s mace still came crashing forward, crushing the rebel’s chest. Botanos’s savior slumped in the saddle, dead, but not for long. Barely a breath later, the dead rebel jerked straight. His eyes were now the same as those of the creature that had killed him. He turned on the rider closest to him.
The battle was fast becoming a nightmare. Rebels keeling over from the plague. Fighters on both sides dead and reborn as evil minions, each death swelling the ranks of Ardnor’s host.
The spearhead broke up as the survivors were forced to battle for their lives. Faros managed to reach the side of Botanos, who was parrying the blow of a female rebel whose stomach had been ripped open seconds earlier by an axe.
“Find him!” desperately cried the mariner, out of breath. “Find Ardnor!”
Nodding, Faros rode past his companions and into the mayhem. His lines had almost completely disintegrated. If he did not find Ardnor soon, all would be lost. As he scanned the chaos, a dark shadow extended over him.
Faros had the impression of an armored figure, but slimmer and insubstantial. Every time he turned, the shadow shifted. There was no mistaking the sword, as much of a shadow as its wielder, which drove toward his heart. Faros’s own blade came up just in time. There was no sound when the two touched, but smoke arose.
The dark warrior hissed. Its shape ebbed and flowed like the tide, making it hard to follow. When its blade came at him again, Faros reacted too late and had to stumble back. As he retreated a few steps, the rebel leader could not help but wonder at how terrible the power of the temple had grown. Death itself seemed a slave to the Forerunners.
Then, deep beneath these urgent thoughts, Faros wondered about his own family, long slain. He had seen every sign the temple controlled the spirits of the dead. If that were so, could it be then that even his father—all his loved ones—slaved for the temple? Instead of being honored spirits, were they reduced to chattel?
That thought burned into Faros. He imagined his mother, his sister, his brother Crespos, forced to follow the will of the high priestess.
With a howl, he found fresh energy and lunged at the shadow. Sargonnas’s sword cut through the dark figure without any resistance—and with a monstrous wail, the demonic warrior dissipated like fading fog. Immediately, its mount lost all animation, collapsing in a disgusting heap of putrefying flesh and bone before Faros’s reddened eyes, but looking around, Faros knew his small victory was a hollow one. His followers were being shoved back mercilessly, dozens collapsing and dying with each step. Then, in turn, the dead rebels almost instantly rose up and began fighting their former comrades.
From the midst of the chaos came a bellowing, sardonic laugh that could only emanate from one person. Ahead, Ardnor’s huge form sat high in the saddle. The emperor swung his mace back and forth like a toy and each time he struck someone, the weapon flared green. Laughing and spouting curses, he seemed to pay little real mind to what was gong on around him, joyously caught up in the slaughter.
“Droka!” Faros roared. “Look at me, Droka!”
Ardnor paused in mid-swing. The savage grin widened in recognition. He tugged on the reins and eagerly advanced toward Faros. Thunder crackled. The sky flashed green. Faros gritted his teeth as he went to meet the giant. If he failed now, he failed everyone.
“The Kalin scum!” Ardnor roared merrily. “Ha, little ant! Smaller up close, aren’t you?”
Faros looked in poorly concealed awe at the monstrous enhancement of the emperor, wondering if Ardnor was still mortal. He said nothing, instead instantly thrusting at his foe’s armored chest.
Ardnor easily parried his attack. The massive warrior moved at what seemed an impossible speed. Even as he knocked the rebel leader’s blade back, his mace came around to smash at Faros’s other arm. The green aura flared as the crowned head struck. Faros cried out agonizingly. In addition to the horrific physical pain, he felt a weird sensation—as though some insidious poison had entered through the wound to torment his body from within.
“Still alive?” grumbled his monstrous foe, drawing back the mace. Blood, fur, and bits of flesh clung to the sharpened points. “She said you’d have some help from him …” He leaned forward. “Not enough, though! Let’s see what another blow can do!”
Faros hurled himself off his horse. Ardnor’s mace flew brushed by him, missing by inches.
The emperor laughed loudly as he turned his mount to face the smaller figure. “Scamper, scamper! Try and run, will ya? I wish it was the great General Rahm I was fighting, not some fool of a gambler who only survived because he was too lucky to die with his family!”
Ardnor pulled back the reins, making his horse rear. The horse’s hooves kicked out at Faros, grazing his right horn. Shaken but determined, Gradic’s son rolled under the animal and stabbed up. The blade pierced the horse’s rib cage. With a shriek, the mortally-injured animal tumbled over. Ardnor let out a confused growl as he was bounced off.
As the horse collapsed, Faros quickly slithered out of its path. The former slave jumped up, looking for Ardnor. He found himself darkened by the shadow of the latter’s huge, menacing form.
“Kalin trash! I trained that horse from a colt! I loved it like a son!” He barreled into Faros, the mace already raised for a strike. “That animal’s life was worth a hundred of yours!”
The two collided awkwardly as a pack of fighters rolled into them. Arms and limbs tangled everywhere. Faros slipped from Ardnor’s grasp as the emperor’s great mace came crashing down. The head instead hit the ground, shaking the immediate vicinity and opening a yard-long fissure next to the emperor’s foe.
“Stay still so that I can swat you!” commanded Ardnor, chuckling madly to himself. “Just like we swatted all you Kalins!”
He hit the ground again as Faros ducked and dodged, but the rebel leader left his side open. A Protector turned from the rebel he had just gutted and aimed an axe swing at Faros’s head.
“No! He’s mine!” Ardnor leaped. The emperor’s mace crushed in the unsuspecting Protector’s helmet and skull. Cacklin
g over the Protector’s body—which after all, was slowly collecting itself to rise from the dead—Ardnor leered at Faros. “My glory!”
Kicking out, Faros caught the giant’s legs. He tripped Ardnor, who fell. Rising, Gradic’s son slashed at Ardnor’s open hand, but the mace came up to block the blade. Sparks flew as the two weapons met. Faros felt the pain and again the odd poison. He pushed hard, managing to force his adversary back slightly.
“A little stronger than I thought! Ha! Good! It makes the victory tastier!”
So close to his foe, Faros saw Ardnor’s eyes as they truly were, utterly horrific, like those of no living creature. The power of Morgion had devoured whatever soul Ardnor had once had.
“You’re admiring his gift …” mocked the emperor. “Yes, I am his chosen! His champion!” He shoved Faros back, laughing again uncontrollably. “You’re all the Horned One could find! His day has passed, and soon so will yours!”
Ardnor shook off the gauntlet protecting his free hand. As he reached for Faros, the rebel saw the same terrible aura surrounding that limb.
“Feel his wondrous touch as I have, Kalin! Feel his strength! Come, it won’t hurt much … at least, not for very long …”
Faros could retreat no further, and he found, deep within him, that he had no desire to retreat. He might die, but not retreat. Brow furrowed, the rebel leader aimed his sword toward the unprotected hand. Ardnor chuckled, as if whatever the smaller minotaur desperately hoped could not possibly work.
He stopped laughing as Faros’s blade shifted direction. Even Ardnor’s enhanced reflexes could not compensate for his surprise. Faros’s sword cut through the mace’s handle. There was a burst of green as the two pieces separated, then the aura faded away.
Ardnor instinctively grabbed for the upper piece, but Faros, counting on the magic of his own weapon, heaved his entire weight forward, driving the blade through the emperor’s armor, through his ribs, and out the back of his body.
Faros exhaled, shaking.
The back side of a gauntleted fist struck the rebel hard on the jaw, tossing him backward. Somehow Faros managed to keep his grip on his sword. With a moist, slick sound, Sargonnas’s gift slid free of Ardnor’s chest.
Looming over his rival, Ardnor de-Droka, seemingly unfazed, laughed darkly. “I’m His champion!” he reminded the fallen figure. “There is no power greater than that of the Lord of Decay!”
A thick, putrid ooze the color of rotting flesh slowly dripped from the wound Faros had caused. Ardnor tasted it with his ungloved fingers, admiring what Morgion had wrought of him.
“No power …” he repeated with a fearsome baring of his teeth. The giant squeezed the thick fluid in his fist and as it spread between his fingers, it reshaped itself. Around his hand the foul substance became a steel grip. A staff formed, rising almost three feet high, where it became transformed into a wicked ball with scores of tiny, sharp hooks all over. The unearthly new mace blazed with the power of Ardnor’s patron. “Especially a useless, tired creature like Sargas! It’s time he was put out of his misery … and time for the last of Kalin to join him in oblivion!”
In the sanctum of the high priestess, Nephera and her attendants were preoccupied. Nothing that went on outside went unnoticed by Ardnor’s mother, and in addition to her link to her son, the multitude of ghosts surrounding her constantly whispered in her ears, telling her everything of the unfolding events.
The last scion of Kalin had been brought down at last, she knew. Hands crimson, Nephera watched her son prepare to add Faros to the ranks of her dead slaves. He would be happy among the dead, she thought, for he would be reunited with the family he so loved … and had failed so miserably.
“Your power is without peer,” she intoned to the Forerunner symbols. “Without compare! His champion is defeated. He is defeated.”
However, for some odd reason, the high priestess did not sense the extreme pleasure she would have expected from her god. Morgion seemed distant, almost distracted.
Of course! Sargonnas was no doubt scurrying around, trying pathetically to shore up his influence over her people. Morgion was simply busy eradicating his rival, just as on the mortal plane Ardnor was busy crushing the last vestige of the insurrection.
Nephera poured herself anew into her spellcasting. The populace would finally see that no resistance stood a chance against the power of the temple. None of the rebels would be allowed to live. That had been Hotak’s mistake; he had spared lives. Of course, he had not benefited from the deaths as she did. He never understood all she had tried to do for him. Now every life lost on the battlefield aided her, made her more powerful than ever.
Her gaze shifted to the slab. Still, the power she had attained was not enough. She needed more.
“Remove that refuse. Bring to me something … fresh.”
As her acolytes obeyed, she turned her attention again to the climax of the struggle outside. Nephera delved deeper into Ardnor’s mind so that she might savor the experience through him. He was caught up in the moment, she noted with an inner smile. The fool of a Kalin stared wide-eyed at his imminent death; the blade given to him by his weak god was of no use because he did not know how to properly wield it. The heart was too obvious a target.
“Too bad, Faros Es-Kalin … but you will never know the secrets of a god, will you?”
At that moment, there came an incessant banging on the bronze doors. Maintaining her connection to Ardnor, the high priestess angrily waved at her followers, urging them to finish dragging the sacrifice out. As the banging continued, Nephera carefully bathed her hands again. The red did not wash out completely, but tidiness had long ceased to matter.
Approaching the doors, the high priestess gestured. The doors were flung open, revealing two anxious guards … and the source of their frustration.
Her daughter.
Maritia stood there, her eyes darting nervously around, looking at her unkempt, wild-eyed mother and the strange scene in the interior of the temple.
Steepling her hands, Nephera calmly asked, “To what do I owe this untimely visit, Maritia? Especially when you are supposed to be actively organizing the city’s defenses …”
“Mother! We have to take precautions! In case something should happen to Ardnor, you need to—”
“Tut, tut. Have faith, daughter. Nothing will happen to your brother. The Great One is with him!”
“But Ardnor—”
“Is about to conclude this epic chapter of our people! The last blood of Kalin will, in seconds, nourish the soil. His followers will be hunted to extinction. The insurrection shall become but a footnote in the glorious history that is yet to come.” Her smile stretched tighter. “The history of our new Golden Age!”
Maritia started to speak, but Nephera had no more time for blather. She would not miss her greatest moment of triumph—the death of a rebellion and the death knell of a god.
“Please go. Leave now, my daughter. There are matters I must still attend to, and you have urgent duties, as well.”
The other minotaur stood at attention. “I do, Mother, and one of those is protecting you. Just in case some of the rebels or their sympathizers make it to the temple—”
“I have told you! Such a concern is—” Nephera froze, her eyes lighting with an intensity that worried Maritia.
“Mother, are you all right?”
“Hush! It’s about to happen!” Nephera declared, gazing up into empty space. “The death of Faros Es-Kalin!” She laughed, the sound sending cold shivers through not only her daughter but also the ghosts surrounding them. “And the death of his god!”
Sickened with the plague, forced to fight both the living and the reborn dead, the rebels held on as best they could. Even with the outcome inevitable, they would not, could not surrender. They fought on because it was all they had left. They had been slaves and renegades, but they were still minotaurs and would die as such.
Thee Protectors were happy to oblige them. The black wave relentlessly
swept forward, flowing over the desperate rebels. The ebony-armored figures had submerged themselves in the aura surrounding Ardnor, becoming extensions of the emperor’s hate and depravity.
To Captain Botanos, the enemy looked unstoppable, yet like his comrades, he continued to fight. Faros had commanded him to do so. The rebels had to hold while their leader confronted Ardnor. Only if Faros could defeat the emperor would there be hope, but as the mariner looked around, he had a gnawing fear that the duel had not gone as Faros had planned.
“My father said he took no pleasure in slaying your uncle,” growled Ardnor cheerfully. “Father was a fool. I can’t think of anything that would please me more than your blood.”
He swung.
Faros’s ring flashed bright. The sudden illumination startled Ardnor just enough. The hesitation enabled Gradic’s son to just barely roll away before the magical mace shattered the ground.
With a roar of outrage, Ardnor pounced again. Sword at the ready, Faros kept just enough distance between the black figure and himself. Sargonnas had given him a reprieve, nothing more, yet now his sword tugged at his hand, almost demanding he use it. It wanted to fight what seemed impossible to fight.
The rebel’s eyes shifted to the giant, studying every aspect of him. His expression grim, the emperor advanced again.
Ardnor laughed. “Want to take another futile try before I gut you?” He spread his arms wide. “Why not? Choose anywhere, Kalin!”
“As you like,” muttered Faros.
He leapt, swinging as hard as he could. The blade wailed as it sought its target—Ardnor’s throat. The slash nearly severed the emperor’s head. Ardnos’s head tipped back—tossing off his helmet—and a strangle, muffled sound escaped him. His body started to weave back and forth.
As Faros gaped, the gauntleted hand pushed the head forward again. The neck sealed, leaving only a long, vicious scar.
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