The beatific aspect that suddenly spread across Nephera’s visage was answer enough. Maritia stepped back, her world rocked to its foundation. “All this time?”
“She abandoned me!” the high priestess abruptly shouted, her expression shifting to one of anger and betrayal. Almost as quickly, though, Nephera calmed again. “The one true god, hah!” Her eyes glazed. “When he came to me, all was right again! The power was mine again! Order over the empire could be maintained! All that were ever needed were a few necessary sacrifices.” Her face hardened and she turned from Maritia, clearly lost in a strange reverie. “Until now. Now it is understandable that he must demand more! Something of greater value …”
An all too-familiar sound erupted outside, stirring Maritia from her horror. Veteran reflexes took over as she recognized the commotion of fighting. The rebels had reached the doors. The legion commander surveyed the chamber, trying to puzzle out the hidden exits that she knew must be there.
Instead, though, Maritia saw the sprawled body of a priestess. She took a step toward the poor creature, only to realize that there was more than one dead body in the room.
“Mother—”
Nephera had dipped her hands in a large bowl set on a small marble stand. Instead of the water that her daughter expected, the high priestess’s fingers came out covered in crimson.
“It must be a worthy sacrifice,” Nephera said, still speaking to herself. “I sacrificed my husband, my son. I’ve used up my favored followers, but it wasn’t been enough! I’ve displeased him and the only way to make amends is to give all that I can give …”
Maritia, hearing her words, stared at her in horror. There was a heavy thud against the doors.
“Mother! They’re coming! We’re running out of time!”
“Yes … you’re right.” The high priestess reached next to the bowl, drawing a dagger that also dripped red.
Maritia grew frustrated. “You can’t fight them with that! You can’t fight them at—”
The doors burst open. One of her legionaries tumbled to the floor midway inside. A brawny Protector backed into the chamber, at the same time trying to defend with his mace against two rebels. The other Protector also retreated into the chamber, his lone opponent an intense-looking, scarred and wounded figure wielding a black blade that moved like lightning.
Faros Es-Kalin.
The Protector attempted a lunge, the mace raised over his head. The rebel leader shoved aside the threat with his blade then sliced downward. The sword cut through the Protector’s lower jaw then his throat. The fearsome guard let out a gasp and fell to the side.
Maritia readied her own blade, her expression a mirror of his own determination. A few steps past her, Lady Nephera stood watching both, her eyes unblinking.
“Surrender,” Faros offered. “Surrender and you’ll live.”
“I doubt that very much,” Maritia growled, positioning herself between him and her mother.
To both their surprise, the high priestess walked calmly toward the dais where a high, elaborately-decorate chair almost like a throne stood below huge renditions of the Forerunner symbols.
“Mother! Come back—”
The high priestess paused midway up the steps. Ignoring the pair, she raised her gore-encrusted hands and shouted out to the icons, “Great One! I will give you what you desire! Do not leave me! You shall still reign supreme!” Nephera eyed Faros contemptuously. “You shall still have his soul and many others …”
Faros moved toward the robed figure, but Maritia again blocked his path. “Keep back!”
He froze as the ring on his hand abruptly flashed. Faros turned.
What at first appeared to be tentacles emerging from a deep patch of darkness reached to snare his limbs. Within that darkness could barely be made out a burnt, decaying visage. The sickly smell of something rotting in the sea wafted past his nostrils.
Nephera laughed. The other combatants—and Nephera’s servants—fled from the chamber at sight of the demonic form. Out of the blackness thrust a bony, clawed hand that reached for Faros’s throat.
With a guttural cry, Faros slashed wildly. The tentacles, part of the voluminous cloak the ghost wore, went flying in every direction, the pieces dissipating before they struck the floor. He then swung at the outstretched arm. The specter let out an agonized moan as the ethereal appendage separated.
Plunging into the darkness, Faros impaled Takyr. The ghost’s moan became ear-splitting. The monstrous shade twisted and turned, clutching at the air in vain. Sargonnas’s blade drew in the sinister spirit, absorbing him. The phantom struggled but to no avail. His once-malevolent countenance now held an expression of utter hopelessness.
As the last of Takyr vanished into the black blade, the moaning stopped. The weapon pulsated, as Faros turned back to the Drokas.
Maritia gaped, understanding little of what her eyes had beheld. Lady Nephera, her look murderous, came down the steps closer to her daughter.
“You will pay for every bit of interference, Kalin! Do you realize all that you’ve undone? So many lists, so much to do, to create the perfect realm! No sacrifice was too great!”
“Mother …” Maritia stepped in front of the high priestess. Her resolve was rattled. “Faros, if we surrender … ‘if’ … would you grant us permanent exile to one of the outermost colonies? Just myself, my mother, and perhaps two attendants to assist her.”
“With my guards … and you could never leave such an exile.”
Her ears flattened. “If it must be so, to spare her life—”
“Once again, you surprise and disappoint me, my daughter,” Nephera interjected in a high, eerie voice that made the fur on both Maritia’s and Faros’s necks stiffen. “I sacrificed all for this impending glory, and you would give it up in heartbeat!”
“It’s the only way, Mother,” the younger female pleaded, eyes still fixed on the rebel.
“There is always another way, if one is willing to sacrifice!” The high priestess clutched tight her dagger. Her gaze, too, focused on Faros. “Even he, who has suffered so much, knows that!” She took another step down, coming to a halt behind her remaining child. “Kolot died for the empire. Your father died for the empire. Bastion and now Ardnor, too!”
“I know …”
“Poor Hotak, the fool. He should have never named Bastion heir,” Nephera went on. “That was when he began to lose sight of what needed to be done! We had arranged everything, created the perfect plan! He kept changing his mind, instigating more refinements! When I tried to correct matters, he only grew more furious! He didn’t appreciate the temple, you see, and I was forced to understand that if a Golden Age were to be achieved, I had to remove the cause! A sacrifice had to be made and I made it!”
Maritia tore her gaze from Faros. “You … what?”
“Just when it appeared that I had set the empire on its proper path … Bastion brought about more chaos! Bastion, who should have been dead already! Turning on his own brother and trying to split the legions by telling his sister lies!” The high priestess shook her head. “I should have known that tusked beast would bungle things! Mixing his emotions with his duties …”
Nephera’s daughter stared at her wide eyes.
“Yes, daughter, your father and brothers made a sacrifice for the good! Don’t you understand? Oh, you can be such an insipid little thing! I take the responsibility. No one else could keep the order! Every time I finished a list, a new one was needed! The rebellion kept spreading. Your father failed, as did your brother!” She slapped the fist holding the dagger against her robes, leaving in its wake a twisted imprint of the hand and blade. “If not for me, we would all be caught up in anarchy!”
“No … no!” Maritia looked at Faros, met his angry eyes.
“Only I was willing to make the sacrifices—whatever sacrifices were needed! Even now, victory is still in my grasp! They weren’t enough—” With a negligent wave, Nephera indicated the slaughtered priestesses. “But he’s
certain to grant me the power I need for the spell if I give him just what he demands! It was necessary for your father, then your brother—and now you—?”
The high priestess raised the dagger high. “Yes, it is your turn, my darling daughter.”
Maritia edged back. Nephera ceased in mid-sentence, gasping. The dagger dropped from her trembling fingers. She shook her head and pointed past the two. Maritia looked in that direction but saw nothing.
“Away from me!” Nephera ordered to the empty air. “I told you! I will not brook your stupid condemnations!”
Faros blinked, also seeing nothing, then resolved to act. Weakened though Nephera was, he had no way of guessing as to what magic she might have left and dared not let her even attempt to cast. Trusting to the power of the sword and his benefactor, the son of Gradic clutched Sargonnas’s weapon in both hands, and with a shout that echoed throughout the chamber, he charged the priestess.
Nephera raised a gnarled hand toward Faros as he shoved a startled Maritia to the side.
“You want your god so much,” he roared. “Go to him!”
As Faros neared the priestess, he felt his body strangely slow its motion, as if the air around him was thickening to honey. He strained forward, fighting the magic. The high priestess continued to point at him, as her hand quivered and her expression grew strained.
The toll weakened Faros. In the end, he saw that he would not make it to Nephera herself, so he focused his aim on the outstretched hand. Sensing this, the high priestess shifted her posture.
The tip of his blade barely scratched the back of her hand. Faros fell to one knee on the steps, the sword propping him up. Above him, Lady Nephera eyed the scratch on her hand with growing amusement.
“So this is all your god can—”
She broke off. Her hand, already ruined, now sprouted small, red boils. Nephera gazed at her other hand, upon which was spreading identical boils.
“What—” Her brow furrowed as the high priestess gave a deep shudder. “The heat …” she gasped. “The heat …”
Maritia started toward her mother, only to draw back in horror. Across Nephera’s muzzle, across her gaunt face, could be seen red, pulsating veins. Faros pushed himself away, for the warmth radiating from the Lady Droka was enough to heat the air.
“This cannot—he would not—” Nephera stumbled back to the chair. Sweat dripped from her body, quickly soaking her fur. Her hair exploded in great patches that spilled upon the dais.
She clutched at her garments, rending the top. Her breathing became a hacking cough and where the fur had vanished the high priestess’s flesh turned scarlet.
Thus you have decreed, the voice of the sword said to Faros. Thus does the Lord of Vengeance act! The servant is sent to her master in the manner of the evil she has cast upon others.
Faros edged back.
Nephera stretched out a dripping hand to the emptiness beyond them, and something made both Faros and Maritia glance toward the shadows again.
A figure in armor with the Warhorse symbol stained in blood stood there, staring with his one good eye at the dying priestess.
“Father?” blurted Maritia in astonishment, for she and Faros both could see the strange, unhappy spirit.
Behind this shade, they could see many others forming, until the chamber was filled with transparent, silent figures all staring at the struggling Nephera. None of the ghostly visages carried any hint of emotion, yet one could not look at them and not feel their intense accusatory stares.
Hotak, his face brutally battered from the fall that had killed him, climbed wearily up the steps. The legions with him followed suit. As they neared Faros, he touched his weapon, but the ghosts passed through him. Their brief merging was like a light chill breeze, nothing more. He looked over his shoulder, where Maritia, too, tried to get out of the way of the specters. She stared at her father most dazedly, but although Hotak glanced ever so briefly her way, he made no sign of recognition. Like the rest of the ghosts, he seemed only intent on reaching his mate.
The ghosts swarmed around the high priestess. Although they had the substance of air, Nephera acted as if tightly crowded and pressed by them. She pushed and jabbed at the throng, even seemed to try to shove her way through them but could not budge from where she was anchored. Her actions became more manic.
As if overcome, the high priestess fell back into her chair, her form convulsing and her body now covered with blisters.
Hotak reached out a translucent hand. Almost as though hypnotized, Nephera moved to take her dead husband’s hand, but before she could, the reddened flesh fell from her fingers.
“The … sacrifices were … necessary …” the high priestess managed to insist, scowling. “All of—”
Nephera suddenly moaned, shook violently, and sank further into her own robes. Hotak lowered his hand, watching with all the rest. A high shriek erupted from the priestess, and with one last clutch at her throat, Lady Nephera de-Droka twisted dead on her throne.
The last vestiges of the silver glow above faded. With it vanished the countless legions of spirits the high priestess had controlled. The last to disappear was Hotak.
The power of the Forerunners was no more.
A stillness filled the temple chamber—one broken at last by the scrape of metal from the direction of Maritia de-Droka. Faros barely got his sword up in time to deflect her blade. With a ferocious grunt, she tried to shove him down the steps.
“Damn you! This all your doing!” She tried to knee him, forcing Faros to twist away awkwardly.
“She was going to sacrifice you to her god!” Faros reminded Maritia. “To Morgion!”
Tears streamed down her eyes. “I’ll not let you take down my father’s dream!”
“She killed your father and your brothers too!”
“I’ll cut out your tongue!”
He gritted his teeth, fighting back. “Surrender and I’ll still grant you exile!”
“Never! I’ll see you dead!”
Hotak’s daughter thrust. Recovering his balance, Faros met her blade squarely with his own.
His sword sheared the upper half of Maritia’s weapon off. She blinked in consternation, then backed up the steps. Brandishing her sword stump, she snarled, “Keep back!”
“Toss that aside!” he warned her. “Or—”
He is here! came the blade’s voice. He is here!
It was as if a veil was suddenly tossed over the chamber. Faros looked over his shoulder at the entrance but saw nothing but shadow. There was no way out. Only the portion of the room where he and Nephera’s daughter stood seemed to exist—and it was clear from her startled expression that Maritia was experiencing the same phenomenon.
A voice echoing from everywhere called out, “Hail, Faros, emperor of minotaurs, champion of the imperium!”
The former slave spun to his right and growled in recognition when he beheld the tall, cloaked and armored figure with fiery fur and eyes crimson in color. “You!”
“I owe you a great debt, mortal,” Sargonnas proclaimed, nodding. “You brought the Lord of Decay’s servants to ruin and distracted him as I needed. The balance has shifted dramatically and the conflict is done. Morgion has learned his place … much to his everlasting dismay.” The god gave Gradic’s son a terse smile.
“And the ghosts?”
“The dead … all the dead … have gone on to their rightful places …”
“Just like that.” Faros neither wanted nor needed clarification of the deity’s words. That he knew his family was at rest was all that mattered. Eyeing Maritia, who looked in shock, he rested his sword, feeling utterly spent. “Now what?”
“My children must become one again.” Sargonnas briefly eyed Nephera’s remains. “The high priestess was correct about one thing—sacrifices must be made. You, Faros Es-Kalin, must assume the mantle of Ambeoutin, of Toroth, of Makel. You must become an emperor who brings the realm together, who leads it as it should be led.”
“I do
n’t want that,” Faros said simply. “I never wanted that. Go away and leave me alone, Horned One.”
“There are always other choices, but not necessarily the ones you wish.” Sargonnas turned crimson eyes to Maritia, who was staring at Faros, trying to make sense of his surmising declaration to Sargonnas. “I have won out over the faceless one, but you may now kill each other or make a different sacrifice.”
“A sacrifice?” Maritia muttered. She halfheartedly held her broken sword toward the god she had been raised to revere—the god her mother had betrayed and denounced. “What sacrifice?”
“Not her kind of sacrifice,” the god replied, indicating the body of the high priestess. “A more … personal one.” He loomed over the pair, his fiery mane tossing bits of flame as he added, “For the sake of the realm, for the sake of your race … the two of you must join together in an alliance. You must be wed.”
“What?!” Faros blurted. “Her?”
“Never! I’ll gut him first!”
The god’s expression grew menacing. “You will do so for the wisdom of my decision and because I have said it is necessary.”
“Where were you during the reign of Chot? Where were you to tell us what needed to be done then?” demanded Maritia. “Our patron lord! Ha! What right do you have any more to demand anything of us?”
Faros vehemently shook his head. “The blood of Kalin and Droka will never mingle … unless it is here on the killing floor!”
“If I marry that spawn of Kalin, it’ll only be to cut his throat on the—”
“ENOUGH!”
A tremendous shock save threw both Faros and Maritia to the floor with their weapons flying, yet that paled in comparison to the deity’s abrupt transformation. Sargonnas grew into a towering thing of living fire and molten earth, and his visage bore such ferocity that even the two hardened fighters could not gaze directly into it. Huge black wings spread wide from his shoulders and his outstretched hands ended in the talons of a great raptor.
Empire of Blood Page 34
