Hotak straightened, satisfied that all was in readiness according to the latest reports. “What say you, Captain Doolb?”
“An accurate depiction of our situation, I believe, your majesty.” Far grayer than the emperor and built low and stockier, Doolb kept his breastplate and red-tipped leather kilt as immaculate as his commander’s. Like Hotak, he had set his crested helm on the tabletop, the better to discuss matters of state.
Every portion of the large relief map was detailed according to the grand plan. Figurines carved with expertise marked ships, legions, and ports of importance. A single green, wooden vessel represented the five warships cruising near Thuum. Two stalwart minotaur warriors—each five inches tall and wielding axes—stood guard over Mito, the shipbuilding colony to the east of Mithas. Several other such figurines were spread throughout the island empire. Four stood on the shore of Ansalon, just below the ogre kingdom of Kern, facing the west—the realm of the elves, Silvanesti. Another ship, brown and accurately depicting a galley, sat in the Blood Sea, heading toward the continent.
The warrior figurines appeared in different colors; one of those standing sentry on the Ansalon shore was in black and deep crimson. These represented the various legions, each vital to the war for expansion. The colors of the figurines enabled the emperor to keep up to date with their strategic movements.
On Mithas, in addition to three painted figures (each standing for veteran armies of several thousand minotaur soldiers), four plain, uncolored warriors were positioned near the capital of Nethosak. These indicated the newest legions, the latest brigades formed under Hotak’s dictate that all young, physically fit minotaurs in the kingdom must enter military service. When the new legions were seasoned, and when the names and colors of each were designated, a member of his staff would replace the plain figurines with suitable colored miniatures.
Hotak eyed a set of two ships stationed in the northeastern waters of the Courrain. One of these miniature vessels was painted gold. The two were pointed toward a lone black ship. “Bastion’s fleet should have caught up with the rebels by now.”
“Likely, but it’ll be some time before a ship can bear any news back.”
“He—the news—moves too slowly. I will need Bastion elsewhere before long.” The emperor’s gaze flickered to Ansalon. The four warrior figures faced Silvanesti, but the elven kingdom was a blank expanse. Even Kern and Blöde had been covered with two minotaur figures—one for each land—and, spread out over miles and miles, there were also three looming ogre figures with clubs, representing the followers of the Grand Lord Golgren. Against this unusual alliance stood a single human figure painted black. The lone human figure portrayed those Knights of Neraka who had not switched sides and, therefore, remained the enemy.
“Nothing from this part of the world … from Galdar, either?”
Captain Doolb shook his head. “Nay. Only what is in the message from your daughter.”
Picking up this most recent missive, Hotak read again the words of Maritia, who commanded in his name the minotaur legions who had come ashore on Ansalon and awaited his orders.
Hail to Thee, Hotak I, Emperor and Father!
With this note are more detailed pages regarding the status of the legions and our material needs. I pen this separately so that you’ll read it immediately, as I know you desire news.
In regard to the matter of the imperium’s alliance with the dark knights who follow the strange warrior woman, I report at last a face-to-face meeting with the human female called Mina and the minotaur Galdar, who was our first intermediary from her.
The female is slight, even for one of her race! Thin, childlike in build, and with a small crown of red hair; one could almost mistake her for a youth of her race. I cannot guess her age. She spends most of her time either on horseback—no doubt to make up some for her disadvantage in height and girth—or in her tent, supposedly in communication with her mysterious deity.
The other humans and creatures following her treat her with the utmost respect, and outwardly that would seem to give her authority that attends her wherever she goes, whatever she says. However, I have already noted that she is rarely seen alone, even when simply riding among the hills. Galdar is almost always her shadow.
To look at Galdar is to see nothing exceptional. He is seven feet tall, thus average in height for a male of our race. His fur is an ordinary brown and his features are rough. Galdar is not built feebly, but neither has he the look of a champion of the Great Circus. Only his eyes give him any distinction, for though they are basic in shape and color, they have about them an almost unblinking fierceness … and they are always trained on this Mina. The gossip that they are lovers is silly, yet there is a bond between them of some strange sort.
One other thing worth mentioning about his appearance: Despite rumors to the contrary, he has two good arms, not one. It is whispered that Mina gave his lost arm back to him through the will of her god, but those who claim to have witnessed it are few and of questionable trustworthiness. And likely they are cronies of Galdar, contributing to his scheme to build up the mystique of Mina.
As you requested, I have tried to learn as much as possible about him, this minotaur who fights not with his kin but alongside a human girl; but facts are elusive. He is an outcast, of that I am now certain, Father, but as to from what clan or for what reason, I have been unable to discover even during intimate conversation. Bits and pieces of talk make me believe he might possibly be a member of House Orilg or Morgayn, but this is pure speculation on my part. He wears no identifying insignia, and parries simple questions about his past. I include further on in my supplemental pages certain comments he is said to have made in order that you may add them to your investigation of him.
You asked for a determination of the relationship between the human and Galdar. To be blunt, he must be a military expert of impressive intelligence; and he is surely using her as a puppet by which to pull the strings of so many humans. I have heard the battle plans for Sanction, discussed the movements of our own forces both near Silvanesti and in the ogre lands, and his ideas are sound, albeit in some regards fantastical. This Mina talks of strategy like a hardened veteran of the legions, something she could not possibly be, yet Galdar is always at her side, whispering in her ear. He says little aloud, expresses the occasional surprise at her comments, but surely he is the one who actually oversees the master plan. I have seen him at practice and with the soldiers, and he would make the Warhorse Legion itself proud to have his skills, if not his character.
It was you who first remarked when we received his initial message that even humans had the good judgment not to follow a young, untried female. While this might be true, I have to add that ordinarily it is even less likely that they would follow a minotaur leader. This Mina is most definitely charismatic, but by herself she probably would have ended up in a ditch long ago. Galdar clearly makes use of her ability to attract others to her, while I believe he is the power behind the throne, so to speak.
Despite this deception, an alliance with them is still an attractive proposition. No enemy force has been able to stand up to them and, in fact, many former foes have joined their cause. If the promise made of Silvanesti’s shield falling stands—and I know Mother’s visions confirm this—then Galdar and his pawn surely wield power capable of swiftly advancing our own goals.
Tomorrow we are going to meet with the Grand Lord Golgren for the final time before turning south and following your orders. I will apprise you of our progress as soon as possible afterward.
Written this 14th day of.…
The emperor’s fist slammed down against the table’s edge. The figurines on the map bounced and several toppled over. Even some of the charts covering the walls rustled as though from a breeze.
“Four weeks ago! She wrote this four weeks ago. Again, too slow! I need to know what is happening, not ancient history! I need to know if Bastion has caught up with General Rahm or not! I need to know how the knights still in the ogre lands are
regrouping, and I need—most of all—I need to know more about the elves’ current situation, especially in regards to that damned shield!”
Doolb reached out and patiently set about upturning the pieces on the map, starting with those nearest him. Not looking at his commander, he quietly said, “I understand, your majesty.”
“Of course, you understand.” Hotak’s wide nostrils flared. The old scars on his face blazed a vivid red. He clutched a ring on his left hand, five blue gemstones in platinum, a very rare metal. The ring had been given to him more than two decades before, at his wedding, by his beautiful bride. “But … does she?”
“I couldn’t answer for her, sir.”
“No, but by the old gods, she will! I’ve had enough of patience!” The emperor went to the door, flinging it open. Two startled sentries came to attention. “Prepare my horse! Summon the Captain of the Guard! I’ve orders for him! Now go!”
Doolb joined him. “Your majesty! What do you intend?”
“What else?” Hotak angrily put on his helmet. “I go to find out what I don’t know. I go to see the high priestess of the Temple of the Forerunners! I go to see my beloved wife!”
Despite the growing threat of a storm, word spread and the citizens of Nethosak hurriedly turned out all along the immaculate stone main street of their city, dipping their horns as the emperor and his bodyguard rode past, some even going down on one knee. Others waved from the rounded, open windows on each side, tossing down small, bound sheaves of green horsetail grass, the minotaur symbol of indomitable strength. Stony-faced members of the State Guard, noted by their plain, gray armor and metal and cloth kilts, kept the gathered throng from growing too boisterous.
Hotak only vaguely acknowledged his subjects with a wave or a nod; his mind was elsewhere. Twenty-five warriors from his personal bodyguard surrounded him, watching warily for any disrespect.
“My lord,” an officer close to Hotak had the temerity to say, “is this wise? The people see you passing. She should come to you.”
“She hasn’t, and I will speak with her.” Thunder overhead echoed his determination.
“As you command, then, my lord,” returned the other minotaur quickly, anxious to avoid his master’s ire.
The heavens grew increasingly turbulent as the imperial party neared the vicinity of the temple. The thick, green-gray storm clouds roiled as though they were living creatures in the throes of agony. Many of the soldiers tightened their grips on their axes and swords as they approached their destination. Those who were not of the faith whispered of late dark rumors about the temple.
A band of minotaurs clad in white, hooded robes were heading toward the procession from the opposite direction. Tightly packed together, they moved ponderously down the side of the street. Each kept his or her head low as they passed the imperial party, making no acknowledgement—thereby virtually insulting the emperor.
The officer in charge almost called out to arrest them, but Hotak put a hand on his arm. “Let them be on their way.”
“But their rude manner!”
“Do as I say.” The emperor’s tone indicated he would brook no argument.
At that moment, the procession turned a corner. With military precision, the helmed figures steered their steeds around until at last they were on a short street where Hotak and his retinue beheld the Temple of the Forerunners.
Once, a generation ago, it had been the Temple of Sargas—or Sargonnas as most minotaurs called him. The God of Retribution, of Fire … the Condor Lord. Since the first minotaurs had chronicled their history, Sargonnas had been the chief deity of the nation. It had been he who had plucked their ancestors from the decadent, dying High Ogre civilization. So that they would forever be a race distinct from their hapless descendants, Sargonnas had transformed the ogres into his own image, making them his children in face and body as well as soul. Throughout their turbulent history, the minotaurs had clung to his words and teachings, for the god had told them from the very beginning that the horned race was destined to become the rulers of the world. That proud knowledge had kept them alive through a vicious, seemingly endless cycle of defeat, slavery, and natural disasters.
But then … Sargonnas had deserted them.
It was believed that the gods had warred with a mighty force, and though victory could have been theirs, they had decided to leave the world for another plane, leaving the mortal races to fend for themselves. Each and every god had simply vanished from the face of Krynn; the followers of Sargonnas were thus abandoned.
Among the minotaurs, there remained constant argument as to what exactly had happened to their deity. While some claimed he had departed with the other gods, many insisted he had perished earlier, sacrificing himself for his children at the end of the war against the Magori. Some prayed for his return; most believed he was gone forever and praying was useless. Whatever the truth, the fact that Sargonnas no longer watched over them could not be denied. Too many years—decades—had passed without a sign.
The void had left the minotaurs at a loss. Even as they rebuilt their shattered empire and spread across the Courrain Ocean, the emptiness haunted them. The temples of Sargonnas had all but emptied of priests. Those other deities the minotaurs had respected, such as Kiri-Jolith, bison-headed god of just cause, suffered similar fates. Many temples turned into abandoned ruins.
Then had arisen the Forerunners.
Hotak stared at the massive edifice before him. At first glance, the building looked little different than it had when, as a young warrior, he had attended some of the last ceremonies overseen by the reigning high priest of Sargonnas. The long, barred wall still surrounded the temple grounds, but the cast-iron condors atop each metal pike had been expertly removed. The vast, domed marble structure with its rectangular center loomed inside the walls. The huge condor icon that had hung over the wide, stepped entrance had also been removed and had been replaced by the symbols of the new religion: the pale, silver, spiritlike bird—a rare type of hawk it was said—flying up to the heavens from a nest formed by an ax broken at the middle of the staff.
Since the emergence of the Forerunners, a major change had been made on the grounds through which worshippers passed. Gone was a good portion of the sculpted lawn that the previous occupants had created. Huge, magnificent oaks had been ripped out in a single night of renovation. Whole rows of bushes and shrubs had become kindling. Now much of the front was covered with a huge, intricate series of cryptic mosaics. During the large, outdoor ceremonies, the faithful knelt upon the stone walkway with their muzzles barely touching those mosaics. Each of the countless pieces had the many symbols of the new order engraved upon them.
Sentimental for the old days of Sargonnas, Hotak secretly hated the changes in the temple. His wife’s devotion to the religion, and to the ghosts who watched over it, had been useful to him during the coup. Nowadays it seemed a source of constant friction, for it was minotaur tradition that religion and politics did not mix. Yet the Forerunners had grown in number and mystique, until it was as much cult as religion; it reached into all corners of minotaur society, encroaching upon his authority.
He was determined to curb the growing power of the religion, yet it was tricky, because his wife was the chief priestess.
He would give her a show today. Upon his orders, twin lines of armed legionaries were already at the temple waiting for him, flanking the path to the temple doors. All held high their weapons to honor their lord and commander, axes and swords that formed a canopy ascending the wide steps leading up into the building. At various points, huge red banners with the black warhorse silhouette at the center fluttered in the swelling wind.
“The people must know who is in command here,” Hotak remarked quietly upon arriving. The Forerunners were important to the stability of his realm, but they were not the throne itself.
The emperor and his retinue rode slowly up to the building, their horses’ hooves clattering on the stone path. Louder thunder from the darkening sky added
to the commotion. At the temple entrance, soldiers took the reins of Hotak’s steed as the emperor dismounted.
When his bodyguard contingent started to follow him, Hotak waved them back, saying, “There’s no need for protection here.”
As he reached the top steps, the massive bronze doors, the Forerunner symbols etched massively in their center, swung back, and Hotak did not even break stride as he entered the cult’s sanctum.
Hooded figures clad in white robes with gold trim bowed as Hotak passed. The emperor looked not at them, but rather at the huge statues standing in niches along the inner walls. They stood more than twice his height and had been carved with remarkable intricacy. Yet, they seemed surreal, more unearthly than lifelike. Each represented a minotaur, but minotaurs with weirdly obscured features, shrouded forms, and ethereal postures.
Carved under the strict supervision of Lady Nephera, the figures looked poised to come alive, to move and speak. They were the illustrious dead ones, worshipped by the Forerunners. They were those who had left their mortal shells, whose mission now, so the high priestess said, was to guide the living from the world beyond.
They were the true Forerunners.
“Damned spooks …” Hotak absently muttered.
“Ill words chosen to describe our own kin and loved ones who have passed on and now do us the honor of watching over us,” commented a feminine yet commanding voice ahead of him.
She stepped from a shadowed hallway, almost giving Hotak a start, her long sable robe trailing behind her, giving her the appearance of gliding on air rather than walking on the floor. Her robe was elegantly trimmed in gold, from top to bottom. The hood of her outfit draped well over her horned head, leaving just part of her face visible within. Brooding black eyes stared out over a slim muzzle covered in chestnut fur. She offered a slim, tapering hand that Hotak readily touched to the tip his own muzzle.
“Nephera, my love.”
Flanking the high priestess were two monstrous figures clad in black breastplates and helms with deep nose ridges. Each held in one gauntleted hand a long, heavy mace with a crowned head. The expressions of these two dark warriors were that of the utmost devotion to their mistress. They would obey her slightest command and die for her if necessary. Neither showed even the least inclination of acknowledging the emperor’s presence.
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