“Rahm! Rahm!”
The general gazed up through watery eyes at a figure he first mistook for the dead emperor Chot. “F-forgive me, my lord … I’ve failed y-you.”
“Rahm! Blast you! It’s me, Jubal!”
“Jubal? Jubal … are we? I-is the C-Crest … is—?”
“The ship’s going to be safe! The storm’s with us, and the imperials are too concerned with saving those still aboard the flagship! The Donag’s Shield just got off a lucky last shot, that’s all!”
“G-Good.” Other figures began to gather behind the governor, but they were less distinct, almost shadows. Nonetheless, Rahm recognized some of them. “Mogra … Dorn.…”
Jubal leaned forward. “Rahm! Hang in there! Stay with me!”
The wounded rebel leader coughed up blood. Rahm’s body shook from the tremendous pain. “Forgive … forgive me for failing all of y-you. Jubal … you and the others.…”
The graying minotaur snorted fiercely. Jubal looked up, rasping, “Where’s the damn healer when you need him?”
The bleeding minotaur gasped, then gripped Jubal’s thick arm. “Governor … we can’t—”
But those were his last words. His eyes widened, his mouth moved, and when Jubal leaned forward in the hopes of hearing something—anything—all he noted was the sudden cessation of breath.
General Rahm Es-Hestos had just died.
The forest of gray goatskin tents filled the rolling landscape as far as Maritia could see. The tents were tall and taut. One misconception of the lesser races was that the minotaurs did not use or appreciate shelter. Humans and elves assumed that minotaurs slept out in the open, like the beasts they appeared.
Not so for Maritia or her soldiers, especially under the reign of her father. The new efficiency of the legion had improved the quality of weapons and the organization of supplies.
The rich, horse-hair crest of her helmet trailed behind her as Lady Maritia rode through the busy camp, drinking in the looks of her people. Coming up on her right, a rough-hewn hekturion in full armor, his rank noted by his silver-edged legion badge, put one hundred legionaries through their paces, each following his movements to the letter. Among that hundred, ten dekarians kept watch over their own small complements, criticizing faults or slow reactions.
“Axes! Follow through! Upper crescent swing!” The veteran hekturion lifted the heavy, twin-bladed ax and swung it so it arched upward, then brought it down in an equally swift, balletic move.
As one, the helmed legionaries imitated him.
“More height, you! Less curve, Haryn!” The hekturion repeated his action, this time ending his swing in a two handed lunge that drove the ax-point like a lance. “And thus! One smooth motion! Give no warning and keep opponents off their guard by changing the method of your attack whenever possible!”
The hekturion then noticed their imperial visitor and roared a halt. Instantly, the helmed minotaurs switched into honor positions, holding their war axes with both hands, straight at the shoulder.
Pushing back the long, draping crimson robe that helped mark her status as a top commander, the emperor’s daughter rode ahead of her two bodyguards to inspect the stalwart legionaries. They stood motionless, thick-browed eyes staring fiercely ahead.
She urged her mount back to their broad-shouldered officer, who removed his helmet and announced himself, “First Hekturion Drelin of the second attack section, my lady!”
“My compliments, first hekturion.” Maritia glanced at his badge, recognizing the emblem of the golden silhouette in the black field. “The Wyvern Legion’s reputation is well deserved.”
“Thank you, my lady!”
“Who is in charge of your command?”
“My captain is Fyon, my treverian is Garandon, and General Bakkor is overall commander, my lady!”
“General Bakkor … yes, I know his reputation. My father holds him in especially high esteem. Your legion is trained specifically to excel in dense forest warfare, isn’t it?”
The other minotaur grinned, revealing gaps where two teeth had been smashed out during previous battles. He rattled a pair of metal gloves dangling from his belt. The gloves ended in sharp, jointed hooks such as mountaineers might use for climbing. “We hope to be the first ones into Silvanesti … with your permission.”
She chuckled. “I’ll take that under serious consideration, First Hekturion Drelin.”
Maritia left the hekturion looking quite pleased that she had bothered to register his name. As Maritia and her bodyguards rode away, she heard Drelin resume drilling his troops.
“Now! After the lunge, an upward sweep of the blades, like so.…”
More legionaries from the Wyvern companies saluted her as Maritia maneuvered her chestnut stallion toward higher ground. Everyone’s morale stood high and why not? Victory was assured.
The perimeter of the camp was marked by high red posts positioned every twenty-five paces. One sentry guarded each gap and kept in constant communication with the next in the linked chain. Two guards paused in their duties to salute her as she rode by. One bore on his breastplate the Wyvern badge, the other the brown field and black canine head of the Direhounds. Affixed to the top of the helmet of the latter was a canine skull. The Direhound legionary quickly swallowed what he was eating, a piece of goat jerky—a staple in the military. Eating on duty was punishable by whipping, but Maritia, in an excellent mood, only wagged her finger teasingly at the guilty party. That would still be enough to prevent him from committing the offense again soon.
Free of the confines of the camp, the slim, sleek minotaur commander let her mount prance and trot. Her two mounted bodyguards found themselves hard-pressed to keep pace with her.
Up onto the peaceful green hills, through the lush oak and cedar forest, Maritia rode pleasurably. The trees gradually gave way, and the hill she climbed twisted to the left. Long grass waved in the wind as she urged the horse on and up. Despite rumblings above, the day was otherwise quiet, and she savored the peace.
At last, the high hill ended in an abrupt, toothy cliff. Maritia reined the animal to a halt on the very precipice.
A moment later, her two companions finally caught up.
From this lofty position she beheld a glorious panorama. Below her, spread far to the south and north and reaching beyond the eastern horizon, lay the gathered might of the imperium.
Only from high above could the precision with which the minotaurs had organized their camp be appreciated. A perfect five-sided base, it had been measured out with a minotaur device resembling a sextant with glass lenses. Room had been left for more legions. The point of the pentagon was aimed at Silvanesti.
The scores of tents she had passed had been but a tiny fraction of those that filled most of the landscape. It was like a giant, orderly ant colony, covering every dip and rise.
Arrayed alongside each legion were huge catapults, their rounded cups capable of flinging minotaur-sized boulders or oil-drenched barrels set afire. Twenty-five such weapons on thick, ten-feet-tall wooden wheels accompanied each legion and an equal number of pike-loaded ballistae—designed for closer carnage.
Cavalry units rode back and forth, sparring with neighboring legions in order to better hone the skills of all. The mounted warriors had strapped to theirs back high, slim poles on which were attached banners with their legion’s different markings.
“Magnificent!” Lady Maritia exhaled. “Just magnificent!” She watched a contingent of several hundred soldiers to the north march to the beat of drums; other groups were working out, doing physical exercises—weight lifting—while still others practiced with a variety of weapons. It seemed no minotaur soldier remained idle, rehearsing for the great invasion that lay ahead.
“The Wyverns are a tremendous addition to the army, my lady,” ventured one guard. “Five legions, optimum capability.”
“The emperor’s promised us three more before we launch the attack, the Flying Gryphon among them. Once they arrive, we’ll b
e set to steamroll the dainty elves. This time they’ll have to face us like warriors, not secretive, cowardly spellcasters.”
Every minotaur knew the tales of the last time their kind had sought to invade Silvanesti. Then, the elves had utilized their magic to turn the land itself against the legions—a shameful chapter in minotaur history, a historic debacle, and an ignominious defeat.
She continued to revel in the marvelous scene. Each banner had its own history and glory. There stood the flag of the Wyverns. There, the emerald and red flag of the Dragonsbane Legion, and the brown and black of the Direhounds. To the south, the banner of her own Warhorse Legion—often called the Imperial Legion—fluttered majestically. Farthest south beyond them all was the deathly pale silver and white insignia of the Snowhawks.
“An impressive sight,” rumbled an unfamiliar voice.
The guards drew their weapons, instinctively turning to protect their charge.
Two humans—two ebony-armored knights—drew their blades and looked almost eager to urge their dark steeds ahead and meet the rude challenge of Maritia’s bodyguards.
“There is no need for violence. We’re all allies here,” Galdar reminded everyone.
The minotaur who served Mina urged his gray mare forward. The modest-sized animal, more suited for carrying humans, strained under Galdar’s weight. Galdar was of average height—seven feet, Maritia had estimated, writing to her father—and unremarkable in his facial features. His plain, brown fur would have blended into any minotaur crowd. There was little unusual about his appearance …
Save for his eyes. In describing them to her father, Maritia had been unable to properly relay the intensity she found there. Galdar’s eyes betrayed him as a driven creature. He himself often spoke of devotion to Mina, who had given him back his arm, but Maritia felt certain something else was behind the strange look in his eyes—ambition. Galdar had built Mina’s army out of castoffs and deserters, and his eyes showed genius; he must be the real leader, and the slight, human female, some kind of decoy.
Hotak’s daughter admired and distrusted the minotaur.
“You’re late,” she finally said.
“I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be with her, guarding her.” He straightened. “But this will be the last time I leave her side. You’re to know. She says the shield will fall imminently.”
Maritia’s nostrils flared. “Are you certain?”
The intensity in his eyes never faltered. “Mina says it’ll happen, so it’ll happen.” He reached into a pale, weathered saddlebag, drawing out a rolled parchment. “She said to give you this.”
Hotak’s daughter nodded to one of her bodyguards. The minotaur urged his black mount over to Galdar. Galdar’s expression remained neutral as the guard tore the parchment from his grip. One of the knights, a mustached veteran, stirred, taking umbrage, but Galdar gave a slight shake of his head.
The bodyguard turned over the rolled document to Maritia. She looked at Galdar. “What is this now?”
“Battle plans. Charts. Follow them and your path will be quickest, most victorious.” His chest suddenly swelled pride-fully. “Minotaurs will conquer eastern Silvanesti.”
His words did not please Maritia. “We will conquer all of Silvanesti … and we have our own strategies, our own plans.…”
“Your contribution depends on the will of Mina.” He tugged on the reins, steering his weary mount west. “If you decide not to participate, that is your decision. But it is she who leads this conquest.”
Maritia forced herself to keep quiet. Her father had ordered no argument with Galdar at this crucial stage. When the legions had secured Silvanesti, then there would have to be a reckoning.
“Be ready, my lady,” Galdar added as he rode off. “Oh … and Mina sends the blessing of the One God, too.”
He and the humans rapidly vanished over another hill. Maritia kept her eye on the renegade minotaur, the mysterious Galdar, the whole time then took a long last look at her legions.
“Remind me to have sentries posted up here from now on,” she commented to her bodyguards. “This view would also serve the enemy.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Come! I’ve a report to write for the emperor.” She steered her mount toward the path leading to the encampment. As she did so, she glanced over her shoulder to where Galdar had disappeared.
With a snort, Hotak’s daughter whispered to herself, “The One God, indeed … you rate yourself very highly, Galdar.”
Sahd despised minotaurs even more than most ogres did. In Sahd’s mind, minotaurs were good only as fodder for the meredrakes. Yet, Kern needed slave workers, and if the minotaurs did not do the dirty work, then it would become Sahd’s problem to get it done.
But the taskmaster jumped on any excuse to vent his deep-bred hatred of the horned race.
The slaves looked down as they filed back from the mines to find the brutal lord of the camp waiting for them. Wearing an old and worn Talon Leader cape, the disfigured ogre toyed with his nine-tailed whip as he surveyed the sorry lot.
“Garak!” he shouted to one of the guards. The other ogres were also anxious, whenever Sahd lurked nearby. “Garak hota i j’han!”
The filth-encrusted guard turned and seized the nearest minotaur, a young, tawny male with one ruined eye—the result of a previous beating.
“Hota i Garaki, Uruv Suurt!” snarled the guard, shoving the minotaur slave forward. “Baraka h’ti Forna Gliu i’Sahdi!”
Not fully understanding, the slave trudged forward, only pausing to stop when he stood a few feet in front of Sahd.
The taskmaster’s horrific, burned mouth twisted into a monstrous grin.
From behind, the guard struck at the minotaur’s right knee.
With a cry, the abject worker collapsed to the ground. Sahd nodded righteously then circled his chosen victim. His eyes studied the minotaur closely.
He paused, leaning forward to prod the slave’s scarred shoulder with the whip’s handle. Barely visible under grime and brutalized flesh was the brand used for the minotaur slaves—the broken horns.
“Uruv Suuuurrrt,” Sahd growled low. “Digging so hard work, yesss?”
His eyes cast toward the ground, the minotaur said nothing.
The faded red cloak fluttered as Sahd came around to face the slave. “Painful is digging, yes? Choking is tunnel, foul the air.”
A slight shiver coursed visibly through the young minotaur. “I work hard, Master Sahd.”
A series of harsh grunts escaped the shaggy-headed Sahd—his familiar laughter. “But your tunnel”—He glanced at the others who worked in the same shaft.—“Least with good offerings, least with digging.”
“There’s a huge rock lodged in there!” a gray and black–furred older worker suddenly interjected from the midst of the group. His ears hung limp and tattered; the simple brass rings he had once worn were ripped off by his captors the first day. “The picks’re blunt! We need sharper, stronger tools—”
He ended his explanation with a cry of painful shock as a guard stepped forward to whip him to his knees. Five times the lash tore at the already crisscrossed back before Sahd signaled a halt.
“Must do better, Uruv Suuuurrrt,” he informed the minotaur slaves. Snapping his whip ruthlessly, he yelled to a guard on the western edge, “Hiri i korak Ravana uth i’Argoni!”
The few among the slaves who knew a smattering of the ogre tongue gave a start, but before any could speak, the guards came around, shouting, their whips and clubs quickly ending any talk.
“Hirak!” Sahd commanded.
The guard standing nearest the young prisoner set aside his club and seized the minotaur around the throat and chest in a tight, choking grip. The slave struggled valiantly, but when a second guard joined the first, he had no choice but to give in.
The one to whom Sahd had called came trotting over gingerly carrying a thick, padded bowl. Steam rose from the bowl; clearly the contents were so hot that even with the goat-wool
padding, the ogre could barely hold the bowl in his hands.
Sahd pointed to the ground. The guard placed the bowl there, then removed from the waist of his kilt a heavy iron spoon.
Thrusting the slave to his knees, the two ogre guards pushed the minotaur’s head forward into the bowl. He tried to resist, but one ogre seized his muzzle, forcing wide his jaws.
“Digging hard … Uruv Suuuurrrt need more strength,” Sahd purred viciously, putting aside his whip and squatting by the frantic minotaur slave. “Must be fed strong food, yes?”
He prodded the bowl, for the slave to behold its contents.
Black, steaming earth, still molten red at the edges, bubbled in the bowl. Even the inside of the stone bowl had been burned by the heat.
“To be as strong as stone, must be stone,” the grotesque ogre taskmaster continued. “So … must eat stone, yes?”
The other slaves muttered amongst themselves, but none dared act. Worked to death, chained, and fed little, the minotaur workers had long since been cowed into submission.
Sahd’s ravaged mouth contorted. “Eat, Uruv Suuuurrrt.”
The taskmaster grabbed the spoon and began scooping and thrusting the burning earth into the minotaur’s mouth.
The slave’s soft tongue sizzled. A horrifying, whining sound escaped the seven-feet-tall minotaur. Sahd kept scooping and thrusting, with the minotaur’s struggles more desperate by the second.
At last, the spoon grew too hot even for Sahd. He tossed it aside, then nodded to the guards.
One of the guards who had been holding the minotaur’s jaws open now shut his muzzle tight. Another took a length of rope and immediately and tightly bound the agonized slave’s muzzle.
For terrifying minutes, the crowd was forced to watch the young minotaur’s excruciating throes. Sahd himself watched with an almost detached air, but those who could see into his dark, deep-set eyes read in them the savage joy he truly felt.
Finally, his victim stilled; the pain was too much. Sahd indicated that the guards should untie the minotaur, and then he permitted two of his fellows to drag him back to the pens.
Tides of Blood Page 14
