Empire of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Ardnor’s monstrous eyes widened almost in admiration. “Ha! Well struck! I didn’t think you had it in you—not that it did you any good, did it?”

  His adversary did not answer, stunned by both his new failure and what lay beneath the abandoned helmet. The emperor’s horrific orbs were terrible enough, but there, emblazoned on his forehead, stood the glowing mark of Morgion. The downturned axe radiated malevolence. It glowed bright until Ardnor’s throat was completely restored, then it dimmed slightly.

  “Too bad, Kalin spawn,” mocked the huge warrior. He hefted the supernatural weapon. “Well, you’ve had your fun—now it’s my turn!”

  Ardnor moved too swiftly for Faros. The mace hit the rebel’s shoulder with an impact that cracked bone. Faros cried out and the sword slipped from his grasp.

  “Let it end now,” Ardnor urged soothingly. “This time, take what’s coming to you! I promise I’ll crush your skull to pieces first. Then, you won’t feel the rest of it.”

  Tears of agony pouring down his face, Faros attempted to summon the sword to his hand. However, even though it came to him, his fingers could not quite grasp it. Again, it tumbled to the ground with a clatter.

  “Interesting sword you have, ant! It’ll make a fine memento!” As the emperor loomed, his eyes burned with the same intensity as the mark on his forehead. He grinned wider. Ardnor reached for the fallen sword. “Maybe I should even kill you with your own puny blade! That’d be one for the poets, eh?”

  Once more, Faros attempted to summon the blade.

  “Give in, Kalin! Die with a little dignity—unlike the rest of your family!”

  The sword flew to Faros … but landed in his other hand. The weapon felt strange in that grip.

  “Father,” the wounded minotaur gasped. “Guide my aim …”

  He lunged.

  Ardnor met the attack. The emperor tormented Faros by blocking him so easily. “Why continue this farce? You know what’ll happen! You’re every bit of the wastrel and fool I remembered!”

  Faros stumbled, leaving himself open to Ardnor.

  “It’ll be a service to our race to rid it of you!” The emperor snorted derisively, then swung with all his might.

  The smaller minotaur twisted around the mace, bringing the blade up at the same time. Ardnor again saw the attack coming and barked with laughter, even presenting his throat to the blade.

  At the last moment, Faros turned his blade and went beyond Ardnor’s throat, beyond his muzzle—and drove toward his forehead. Summoning every reserve of strength, Faros drove the magical weapon into the mark of Morgion.

  The giant’s laughter became a shriek. Faros forced the blade into the skull, resisting as best he could the brutish, supernatural forces attempting to push both him and his weapon back. He held tight even as the mace in Ardnor’s flailing arm nearly decapitated him.

  Ardnor’s scream shook the very earth. All around them, combatants stopped in mid-struggle to stare in their direction. Even the dead hesitated, their forms quavering as if whatever power that had animated them was now threatened.

  Green fire enveloped Faros’s sword, but it chilled rather than burned him. Frostbite swept over Faros’s fingers. The minotaur shivered with the intensity but did not relent. The green fire now swept over him. His scream united with Ardnor’s. The world around Faros flickered, shifting back and forth between the battlefield and a dank, decaying land where, at the edge of a cliff overlooking a bottomless precipice, a tall, tarnished tower of bronze dominated all. Shambling figures, all of them in terrible stages of rot, reached for him. Their empty eye sockets pleaded with him for a release that he could not grant.

  Gritting his teeth, Faros focused only on the blade and his foe. The horrific landscape faded away, returning him to the battlefield.

  Somehow, Ardnor, still screaming, had found the strength to let loose his weapon, which dissipated as it fell from his fingers. With both hands, Ardnor reached up and tugged hard on the sword stuck in his forehead, not caring at all that the edge cut his palms and fingers. Thick gore spilled from all his wounds.

  Despite Faros’s efforts, the giant slowly began to pull the blade out of his skull. Gradic’s son pushed back, certain that once Ardnor freed himself, all would be lost, but without warning, the sword flung itself free. It flew back, dragging Faros several yards back as if he weighed nothing.

  A new and harsher cry erupted from Ardnor, resounding across the landscape. From out of the skewered brand flowed more and more green flame and as it spewed forth, Ardnor de-Droka began to shrivel. His flesh dried and rotted. Even his armor grew tarnished. The savage slash Faros had delivered to his throat reopened and the huge minotaur’s head lolled to one side. The wound to his chest reopened as more cold, green fire pouring from it.

  His cry became a twisted, high-pitched squeal. As Faros watched in astonishment, the emperor’s eyes faded then sank into his skull. Crumbling fingers attempted to hold his left in place, to no avail. Ardnor took a step forward and his left leg broke in two, the lower half dropping to the ground. The emperor tumbled forward. With one nearly fleshless hand he tried to drag himself toward his foe. Even so wounded, his hatred still evinced itself. His head somehow pivoted toward Faros, but the mouth could not utter the words the lord of the Protectors sought to speak.

  Then, with an almost animalistic howl, Ardnor crumbled to the ground. The last of the flames escaped from him. His skin turned to dust, then his bones blackened as if with great age. The skull rolled away.

  No sooner had that happened, than the ground shook anew. Its effect was immediate on the dead. As one, they fumbled their weapons and crumpled into piles, joining Nephera’s son in oblivion.

  Someone shouted, pointing in the direction of the mountains. Far to the northeast, a plume of black smoke rose to meet the stormy sky. It was joined by another and another until there were five. The volcanoes of Argon’s Chain had erupted.

  Cries filled the sky. From the turbulent clouds descended thousands of birds, yet unlike before, they did not come this time to feast upon the dead but to fall upon the living. The huge flock attacked the Protectors, those still alive, that is, who, until that moment, had stood almost as if dead themselves.

  Gasping for air, Faros looked to his followers. All trace of sickness had vanished with Ardnor’s demise. More important, these two great signs of Sargonnas—in his roles as Condor Lord and Lord of Volcanoes—combined with their leader’s utter defeat of an impossible foe, heartened the rebels. As the confused and distraught Protectors tried to come to grips with their loss, the rebels roared lustily and hurled themselves back into the fray.

  The Protectors tried to rally, but their officers lacked morale and the shadow warriors had vanished. Nothing now would stop Faros’s people. The black army broke. All semblance of order vanished. Individual combats continued, but as a thing of fear, the Protectors were no more.

  Somehow, out of the swarm, Captain Botanos found Faros. The mariner dismounted then helped Faros steady himself. He eyed the grisly remains of the emperor, the veteran sailor shuddering.

  “By the gods, Faros! You’ve done the impossible, my lord!”

  “Not by the gods,” the younger minotaur managed, reluctantly adding, “One god, maybe.” His brow furrowed. “Now … I need your horse.”

  “For what?” Botanos asked, already helping him mount.

  “There is still the temple,” Faros responded, cradling his wounds and wearily urging the animal forward. “There’s still the high priestess, Nephera.”

  “Noooo …” Lady Nephera sprawled on the floor, moaning.

  Maritia fought past the priestesses to kneel next to her mother. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s gone … he’s gone … he’s gone …” the high priestess repeated over and over.

  “Ardnor …” Maritia breathed. “It can’t be! Nothing could defeat him!”

  Nephera did not respond, save to repeat the words. Her daughter held her, trying to think.
So close to her mother, she was shocked by how gaunt, how deathly, Nephera looked.

  Horns sounded from without the building. One of her officers burst into the chamber, racing past startled sentries.

  “Lady Maritia! Praise be that we found you! The rebels are already at the gates! Warhorse and the Guard are trying to hold them, but the Protectors are in disarray! It’s as though they were nothing but walking shells!”

  Signaling one of the priestesses to take over for her with her mother, Maritia rose. “The emperor is dead.”

  “My lady!”

  “How many are there of you?”

  “About two dozen mounted,” he quickly replied.

  “Find me a horse. I’ll meet you out front.” As her aide ran to obey, she looked down at her distraught, dazed mother. “We’ll do what we can.”

  Nephera said nothing, her gaze still elsewhere.

  With great reluctance but much determination, Maritia hurried out after her officer.

  The handful of priestesses hovered around their mistress for a time, uncertain what to do. One brought some wine, but Nephera simply stared past the offering, her mouth opening and closing as if she spoke silent words, then the high priestess blinked. Her eyes took on a yet wilder aspect. She rose without warning, sending her acolytes stepping back in apprehension.

  “He’s gone …” murmured Nephera to herself. “Just like before—no! Not like that! Not this time! It’s not too late!”

  One of the priestesses reached a hand to her. “Mistress! We grieve for your son!”

  Nephera grabbed the other by the wrist, her fingers strong and tight despite her cadaverous appearance. “Never mind him! It’s not too late! I can still feel the power!” She looked past her fearful servants to the slab. “There could still be time.”

  The rebels flowed through the gates. There they met their first resistance in the form of the remnants of Warhorse Legion. Their tide slowed, but momentum was with the attackers. Even the elements of the Guard that joined the legionaries could not hold the rebels back.

  Battling his way through the melee, Faros sought some path to the temple. An opening window in a nearby building caught his attention. A graying male whose left ear had been cut off in some long ago battle squinted at the figure on horseback then at the fight below. His right hand suddenly formed a fist and he quickly shut the window.

  Faros cursed. The people of Nethosak could still alter the outcome if they chose to support Ardnor’s followers—and the temple.

  “Break that line!” Faros shouted at several rebels. “Hurry!”

  The legionaries held. They had to know their cause was lost, but they would not surrender. It was almost honorable on their part, Faros thought with a twinge.

  Then, just behind the soldiers, a figure slipped out from between two buildings. Faros recognized the elder minotaur. He wore old armor and wielded a sturdy axe. Another minotaur followed the first out, this one a slightly younger female armed with a sword. Others began creeping after. Faros saw two youthful figures race to other buildings, possibly to rally neighbors. Gradic’s son cursed; if the citizens joined the legion, then what?

  One of the officers happened to turn and see the group. He bellowed something to the lead figure. The graying minotaur kept coming.

  The legionary drew his axe, at the same time alerting another officer. The older warrior charged. The rest followed his lead. Several legionaries turned to defend from this unexpected attack. The rebels finally began to push through the distracted front line.

  The graying warrior and the first officer traded blows. The former was strong but lacked swiftness. In the end he fell, but not before badly wounding his opponent. The female who had followed behind finished the legionary.

  The defenders broke. The rebels crashed through, with the defenders forming two small pockets. Faros rode at full gallop. More minotaurs emerged from the surrounding area, all carrying some sort of weapon. Several cheered as he and rebels on foot poured into the capital.

  A squadron of the State Guard suddenly appeared in Faros’s path, but they were hardly concerned with him. An armed crowd pursued them, minotaurs young and old participating in the chase. To his right, two bands of citizens clashed, evidence that not all had chosen the rebels’ side.

  The deeper he penetrated into the capital, the more violent the situation grew. Everywhere anarchy reigned. He passed several dead members of the Guard, then a burning building which nobody seemed to be concerned about. Shouts came from the north, then from the east. No matter where one looked, there was fighting.

  A band of cavalry bearing the mark of the Warhorse came racing around the corner, just as Faros and those with him reached the intersection leading to the temple. He dueled with one soldier, slew her, then pushed his way through the busy ranks.

  Ahead lay the temple. The gates stood open and unguarded. Faros rode up the elegant path. Dismounting, he heard noise behind and saw that a cavalry unit had retreated after him onto the temple grounds. Two legionaries dismounted and tried to close the gates, but the throng readily shoved through. Three other riders fled for the vast structure, abandoning their fellows.

  A momentary scrape alerted Faros. His attention distracted, he had not heard the Protector creeping down the steps. Eyes crimson, the guard took a savage swing at Faros with his mace. Forcing the weapon up, Gradic’s son punched the Protector hard under the jaw. The black-armored figure stumbled back onto the steps, where Faros finished him.

  Leaping up the steps, he encountered a second guard. Unlike the Protectors on the field, these seemed to have lost none of their zeal. This one attempted to strike the rebel’s legs. Faros dodged then lunged. His blade easily penetrated the minotaur’s armor, and unlike Ardnor, this Protector had no divine healing to save him.

  As the corpse clattered down the steps, Faros dared a glance over his shoulder. Rebels and citizens were thronging to the assault on the temple. With a score of supporters behind him, Faros burst through the outer doors. He was immediately set upon by two guards. Parrying one attack, Faros killed the first. Two other rebels closed with the second, freeing Faros to forge ahead.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gradic’s son caught a glimpse of armor. He looked over in time to see two legionaries heading down the corridor. The memory of the three fleeing riders flashed through his mind. They had not been trying to escape but rather had entered the temple through another passage.

  There could be only one place they were heading … the chamber where the high priestess would be found. The legionaries no doubt hoped to spirit her away.

  He sprinted after them.

  The day was lost.

  The empire was lost.

  Maritia could not even reach the gates. The battle met her before she even made it halfway back. Rebels were swarming through the capital, and worse, the majority of the citizens she saw not only welcomed them with open arms but hurried to join their side. Fleetingly, she wondered why the citizens were so eager to rise up against her brother and mother. Against such odds, she knew, the legionaries and guards could not prevail.

  Her thoughts turned back to her mother. She must help her escape to one of the smaller ports and from there they could sail to Ansalon. There, with the Wyverns and Direhounds—and even Pryas’s forces—they could build a fresh base of operations. What had worked for the rebels would certainly work in turn for her. Droka would retake the empire.

  With a pang, she realized what she was thinking. Leave Nethosak? Abandon the heart of the empire to the rebels? She had little choice. She hurried back to her mother. As she approached the doors, Maritia saw that, in addition to the previous guards, another pair of wary Protectors stood ready.

  “Let me through! It’s urgent we get the high priestess out of here!”

  “She ordered that none should enter now,” said the senior of the guards.

  “This is our only chance to keep her from the rebels, you fool!”

  The guard leader wavered then nodded. Maritia
glanced at her small retinue.

  “Stay here! Help guard the entrance until I summon you!”

  Barging past, she slipped into the chamber. However, her concern that she might have to drag her distraught mother out by force vanished as Maritia confronted a foreboding sight.

  An ominous silver glow radiated from the huge icons. Their light all but drowned out that of the torches. The silver illumination gave the chamber a pale, other-worldly look, a look not at all helped by the unearthly appearance of the high priestess.

  Nephera stared emotionlessly at her daughter. “So you are back.”

  “Mother! The rebels are in the temple! Come with me! There’s still a chance—”

  “Yes!” the elder female interrupted, her expression suddenly purposeful and fanatical. “Yes, there is! He has not totally abandoned me! Even if I could not sense him, the icons prove his allegiance!”

  “What are you talking about?” Maritia eyed the icons hopefully. “ ‘He’? Has—has Sargonnas returned to us?”

  “Sargonnas?” the high priestess responded with a derisive snort, choking back laughter. “He is welcome to that cur, Faros.”

  The younger minotaur suddenly understood what she had heard. She looked stunned. No, she could not have heard her mother right. Such a thing could not be said! The rebel leader was welcome to the patron god of her people!

  “Faros?” Maritia blurted. “You—you can’t mean that the Horned One sides with … the rebels?”

  “For all the good it will do either.”

  “But—I thought—but the Forerunners—!” Maritia gestured at the symbols. “Who—?”

  Lady Nephera smiled in a flirtatious manner that her daughter had long ago seen reserved only for Hotak, her husband, the dead usurper whose Night of Blood had started all the bloodshed years ago. “He who is the end of all! He who allows us life by his sufferance! He who sits and views eternity from his tower of bronze on the edge of the Abyss!”

  Born and raised to the legions in a time when gods were only memories, Maritia knew only Sargonnas and Kiri-Jolith well, yet her mother’s words reminded her of another deity, whose despised name slowly wended its way to her stuttering tongue. “Mother … you can’t mean … you can’t mean … Morgion?”