These twenty-five faithful allowed the high priestess to draw from a level of power once beyond her imagination. The unleashing of blood, of life force, opened a pure channel to the dead.
“More … more …” she whispered, sounding much like her hungering shades. The silver aura around her had blossomed to encompass those standing around her. “I must have more.”
A dark brown male in the prime of his life suddenly slumped muzzle-first onto the floor. Nearby, a young female rocked back and forth uncontrollably. Others were leaning, shaking.
A voice suddenly intruded in Nephera’s mind. Mistress, you must kill them all.
She struggled in the ecstasy of the moment, understanding and yet damning Takyr’s reasoning. No, it would not be good for the reputation of the temple if twenty-five of her most ardent worshippers perished during a secret ritual. They would be missed, mourned.
Studying the horde of ghosts, she saw that they had drawn much blood and feasted well. This would do for now.
“Hisara Simbali Mortisi,” the high priestess said, this time raising the avian symbol. “Hisari Simbala Mortisa.”
The rumbling of the storm outside lessened. The light, the auras, began to fade away. At Takyr’s silent command, the specters withdrew.
Lowering the avian symbol, Lady Nephera waited while her acolytes reverently took it and the tiny broken ax away. Her mane settled. She felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders.
Gasps arose from those in the pattern, as their minds cleared. Profoundly touched, they gazed at the high priestess.
“You have been granted a great privilege this eve,” Nephera told the chosen twenty-five. “You have visited the world of the Forerunners, and given of your strength to the departed. In doing so, you have elevated your own lives. You are higher than mere mortals. You have joined with me to link between the living and the guardians.” The high priestess raised her left wrist, which was unmarked. “You have only to see what has been wrought.”
They looked at their wrists, only moments before bleeding profusely. They gaped. Awed looks replaced the initial uncertain, exhausted ones.
Their wrists had healed. The cuts were mended as though they never existed. Yet, there remained a sign for each believer, a sign to prove that what had transpired was no illusion, no mesmerism.
The vivid scar that now graced the wrist of each of the chosen bore the distinct shape of the broken ax.
“There will be others who follow your example, but you are the first to experience this ceremony. The blessing of the temple, of those who have gone on before, is now yours. Wear the mark with pride, but do not boast or flaunt it.”
Most would do just the opposite, the priestess well knew. They would display their scars to friends, family, and associates. Others would ask to take part in the ceremony. Nephera felt certain that their blood, even those without any inherent ability for magic, would bring more power to the guardians—and to her.
On cue, the two acolytes began ushering the chosen out. They would be provided wine and sustenance then sent on their way.
But as one of her assistants passed by, the young minotaur leaned over and whispered, “Mistress … behind and to your left.”
The faithful departed the chamber. Only when the doors had closed and Nephera was alone—save for her ethereal guardians—did the high priestess turn and look where the other had pointed.
One of the chosen still kneeled, his muzzle turned to the right. His good hand still clutched the other, healed too late.
“Takyr?”
His heart exploded … or so he tells me.
Well, there were bound to be mishaps. The dead one now served her in a different world. Walking calmly to the doors, Nephera summoned the two Protectors stationed outside. Shutting the door behind them, the two behemoths knelt before her, their horns down and to the side.
“Mistress,” rumbled one of them.
“I have a task for the two of you. The body in there, it must be stripped of its robes, taken elsewhere, and abandoned. I want it to look as though the temple had no part in this unfortunate incident.” She paused, thinking. Her eyes narrowed. “Put a dagger in his back—a military-issue dagger.”
The ebony-armored Protectors rose and silently proceeded with her bidding, carrying the body carefully so as not to leave any kind of unusual trail. They would do exactly as she commanded.
The blade in the corpse’s back had been a last-moment inspiration. Had the believer’s dead body been found, with no mark upon it, word from the others who had attended the ceremony would have inevitably filtered out to the population. Despite their steadfast beliefs, most of her congregation would not want to attend a service that might be fatal to one or more participants. However, if someone else were the culprit, violence from some outside source, the faithful would draw together.
“Your death will not be in vain,” Nephera remarked casually to the crowd of ghastly figures who trailed after her hungrily.
Then she departed the chamber, already planning a special eulogy for the fallen minotaur. He would be raised up in the eyes of his family and friends. Yes, there should be a fitting memorial.
Outside, the storm rumbled as if in perfect agreement.
“Mother!”
From the main hall marched the burly, armored figure of her eldest son, Ardnor. A bull in every sense of the word, Ardnor stalked loudly through the temple as though headed for battle. Lady Nephera gazed quietly at him, all emotions held in check.
“My son,” the high priestess greeted him. “Is this not a late hour for you?”
He snatched off his black helmet, planting it in the crook of his right arm. On both his helmet and his breastplate, the golden symbols of the sect blazed brightly. A dark cloak lined in thread woven into the ax and bird symbols fluttered behind him, and at his side hung a heavy, gilt-edged mace with a crowned head.
“ ’Tis an exceedingly late hour for the empire,” he replied cryptically. Like all Protectors, Ardnor had shorn his mane. Trailing behind him were four of his staunch warriors, including his second, dour-faced Pryas. “Do I understand you’re to see Father?”
“I have agreed to go to the palace, yes.”
“After his continual insult of the temple, despite all we’ve done?”
Nephera nodded slightly.
Ardnor had never forgiven Hotak for proclaiming his younger brother, Bastion, heir to the throne. Bastion would be the first inheritor in the history of a race where achievement, not blood, had been the rule of succession. As eldest, Ardnor had been groomed for ascension for years, but at the last moment, Hotak had abruptly changed his mind. Neither Nephera nor Ardnor had been consulted.
Since that day, the high priestess’s eldest had immersed himself in the affairs of the temple, building up and expanding the Protectors until their number was spread not only throughout the imperial capital, but in strategic places throughout the rest of the empire. With so much of the might of the legions spread thin already, the Protectors had begun taking up police duties in remote areas, especially where members of the Forerunner faith also dominated the colonial administrations.
Ardnor turned his blunt, brown muzzle to Pryas, handing the other Protector his helmet. “Wait for me outside, all of you!”
The warriors dipped their horns, Pryas respectfully saying, “Yes, my lord.”
Once they were alone, he whirled on Nephera. “Mother, how can you—?”
She stopped his impudence with a single penetrating glance. Ardnor clamped his mouth shut, and though he towered over her, in other ways the high priestess looked down upon her eldest.
“Never question my actions, my son. Never.”
Somehow, he found his voice. “Forgive me, I only meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant. I have not forgotten your father’s misdeed, but the functioning of the empire means more than that moment of personal shame. You should learn from the past, not dwell in it, Ardnor. The future is malleable; what is intended—by
mortals, anyway—is not always what occurs.”
His brow furrowed as he tried to digest this philosophical nugget. Ardnor’s crimson-tinged eyes blinked once, twice, then the fury with which he had arrived suddenly dissipated.
“You’re absolutely right, Mother. I’ll learn from the past, I promise you. As always, I salute your wisdom and leadership.”
She nodded, knowing her eldest son well enough to understand that he meant it sincerely—even if he did not understand all of her implications. “Good. Remember, whatever some might think, the empire and the temple are intertwined on behalf of the people. The temple exists to serve, perhaps even to correct the empire.”
He nodded dully then turned his horns to the side and bowed his head. “Good night, dear Mother.”
As he turned from her, Nephera could not resist adding, “I know why you are up so late, Ardnor. Have a care in the future.”
The brawny minotaur looked over his shoulder, eyes unblinking, slowly formulating his reply, but the high priestess was done speaking to him. She had already moved on.
General Rahm watched impatiently from the deck of the Dragon’s Crest as the rebels loaded up the last of the ships. The rest of the ragtag fleet waited just beyond Petarka’s hidden harbor, all set to sail for an obscure island one of the captains recalled from a voyage long, long ago. The mariner was positive that this small island appeared on no imperial maps. The trouble was, he could not be certain of the exact location … which summed up the desperation of the rebellion, relying on hope and rumors.
Shouts rose from General Rahm’s right. The short but broad-shouldered rebel leader turned to see two sailors struggling with some cargo for his vessel. The lines had caught and the two wooden barrels kept swinging against the hull. Fearful that the barrels would shatter if things kept up, the general ran to help.
“Give me that line! You! Climb up in the rigging and see where that’s caught! I don’t want to lose those supplies!”
Despite being a foot shorter than most minotaurs, Rahm more than matched the strength of either of the two mariners. One scurried up the rope ladder to where the pulley hung.
Muscles straining, the one-eared rebel leader tried to keep the cargo steady. If the pair lost their grips, the barrels would swing into the Crest’s side with such force that their contents would inevitably spill into the harbor. The sailor up in the ropes fought the tangled mass, pulling the ropes this way and that.
“Have a care!” roared General Rahm as the other’s efforts caused the barrels to sway again precipitously.
Suddenly, the snarled rope loosened. The abrupt shift made Rahm and the sailor lose their balance. The other minotaur fell.
Straining, Rahm held the rope tight. The barrels bumped against the hull but caused no damage.
Two more sailors took over. The general stepped away, breathing deeply from the exertion. He watched as the last remaining cargo was brought aboard.
“Looks like we’re ready to set sail,” rasped a nearby minotaur. The slightly rotund, brown-furred shape of Jubal, a former governor, stepped up next to the general. As a young warrior serving the empire, Jubal’s throat had been sliced open during a battle and his voice had never completely recovered. The rebellion’s latest debacle had caused damage to the ship under his command. Its crew had been spread among the other vessels, and graying Jubal had opted to sail this voyage with his old friend.
“Not a moment too soon. The day’s already well under way.”
“We’ll get there when we get there, Rahm.”
A sailor aboard the other vessel gave a signal. On board the Dragon’s Crest, the gargantuan Captain Botanos began shouting orders to his own crew, in preparation for the final departure from Petarka. The ship lurched slightly and began to slide away. The mists quickly thickened as they left the rebel stronghold.
Since their arrival in the area a few years before, they had taken a grouping of half a dozen abandoned structures and created from it a command center for the sputtering rebellion. The horseshoe-shaped port could support eight vessels at a time. In the wooded hilltops, they had just started cultivating small farm patches, growing breadfruit and wheat.
And now, all of that had to be left behind.
Petarka slowly vanished in the perpetual haze that always surrounded it. The buildings dotting the ridged hillside grew indistinct; then the hills themselves vanished one by one.
“Desti will make a good base of operations,” Jubal finally said. Already they were cocooned by fog. “Even Captain Tinza’s never heard of the place, and she’s sailed all over the Courrain.”
“That’s assuming we can find this elusive island.”
“ ’Twill be a good jest on us if we sail all the way out there, and sail around and sail around, and only find more water.” But the former governor did not laugh. None of them laughed much any more, even the once-boisterous Captain Botanos. These were hard, desperate days for the rebellion against the usurper Hotak.
After what seemed a long time but was in truth less than an hour, the shadowy forms of other ships became conspicuous. One of the crew took a square, brass-frame oil lamp and waved it toward the nearest vessel. That one signaled back. Seconds later, a light near the bow of the other ship waved back and forth as the ship alerted others beyond the sight of the Dragon’s Crest.
They began to leave the fog. Gradually the murky shapes coalesced into quite a bit more than a dozen vessels, the core of the rebel fleet. Three-masted imperial warships sailed next to light, swift windrunners of the type used by smugglers. There was even one decent galley, which struggled along as best it could in the high waves. There were pockets of resistance spread elsewhere throughout the known ocean, but among this bedraggled lot sailed most of the vessels carrying the top leaders of the struggle.
As the ships regrouped, Jubal asked, “Are you all right, Rahm?”
The general had been absently rubbing his ring, a black-gemmed memento whose origins he had forgotten. “As best as I can be, governor.”
The former imperial official slapped his younger, shorter friend on the back. “Take a breath, Rahm! The wind’s with us, and we’re all collected in good order! This is only a break in the action. We’ll soon rebuild and return to give the usurper hell!”
“Let’s hope so—”
“Sails to the port side!” shouted the lookout.
Both planted their hands on the rail as they turned to peer to the east. At first they could see nothing remarkable.
“Just a figment of the light,” suggested Jubal.
But then a set of high sails appeared on the horizon. Behind them appeared two more, then three, and on and on—many more. They moved swiftly, far too swiftly.
Jubal’s scratchy voice shook. “There’s at least a dozen.”
“Lord Bastion’s finally found us.” Rahm murmured. He rubbed the ring. “This is it, governor … this is it. Let us go to meet him in battle, with all the enthusiasm he deserves.”
As his long, winding, somewhat chaotic caravan approached the city, Golgren looked upon the looming gates and saw both the wonder and decay of the ancient citadel that was his home.
To the humans and the rest of the outside world, the city was known as Kernen, and it was what passed for the capital of the harsh ogre kingdom of Kern. When outsiders—few of whom had ever glimpsed it—spoke of Kernen, they did so with derision and disgust. Ogres lived there, after all—coarse, stupid beasts compared to their lost, revered ancestors, the Irda.
Kernen had once been the High Ogres’ greatest pride and, as in the present day, the heart of their realm. Tall, pure white marble obelisks had stood at each of the four wide, steel gates, announcing in extravagant ogre script, carved deeply, that here stood—not Kernen, the outsiders’ name, but rather Garantha, the city blessed by the highest and most blessed of gods. Here stood the apex of learning, of architecture, of civilization. Built to protect Kernen, to ward it off from the less-perfect world, had been a wall of the same marble, thirty fe
et high, with towering reliefs covering each of its four sides.
Those reliefs announced to all new visitors the glories they would observe inside the walls. There was the vast, domed arena where scholars and politicians debated history and world events. The incredible open-air market filled the southern quarter. One could find so much lush vegetation there that to some it almost seemed more a paradisial garden, rather than a place to purchase edibles and rare items from all over the continent and across the seas. There was the Zoo of Sagrio, a natural preserve in the northern quarter and the only place in Ansalon where one could see the last of the twenty-feet-tall Bordarai sloths, docile giants latterly hunted almost to extinction for their soft, golden fur.
These were but three of the wonders carved into the stone and only a bare fraction of the countless number of rare sights and privileged details offered by the jewel city of the High Ogres.
Even before pilgrims had crossed the soft, flowing meadows and sighted the walls, the four round, crested towers of Garantha—positioned just a short distance inside each gate—acted as beacons to travelers. The crown of each had been decorated artfully with the stylized symbol of the gryphon. Painted a stark black against pristine white, the giant images looked almost ready to leap free from their perches and take to the skies.
Within the gates and walls, the white cobblestone streets, meticulously maintained, had threaded throughout Garantha in a perfect grid. The buildings were for the most part like the towers, also rounded and with the same glorious five-sided crest encircling their roofs. Three-dimensional reliefs and artfully painted statues depicting the patron animal were seen everywhere.
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