Sahd whipped him again, shredding one of his exposed thighs.
“Will leave no skin, no fur, Uruv Suuuurrrt,” Sahd mocked. “Nothing but blood.…”
But Faros barely heard the ogre taskmaster now. As he had learned to do in order to survive in this place, he was retreating within. There was a difference this time, for he wasn’t seeking solace, or oblivion; he was drawing patience and strength.
When the metal claws of the whip came at him one last time, he seized three of them, blocking out the pain even as the others buried themselves in his arm and side. Faros gripped the whip tight, though Sahd tugged desperately to free his favored weapon.
With the tug-of-war as a counterbalance, Faros grabbed the whip with his other hand, and pulled himself into a standing position, staring into the rage-filled eyes of his torturer.
Without warning, Sahd released his end of the whip and dived to the side, scrabbling for the other sword.
But Faros did something unpredictable—he reeled in the whip.
Sahd found his blade—and just as quickly let it drop with a howl, as the talons of his own tool tore his wrist and hand. The taskmaster roared, as Faros brought the whip down repeatedly.
Dark fluid began to streak the ogre’s right side. Sahd’s breathing was increasingly heavy. Moving as if mesmerized, Faros followed the disfigured ogre as he squirmed and twisted on the ground, lashing him constantly with his own whip.
Despite his injuries, Sahd was not done; he had managed to keep his hold on the blade. Dodging one lash, he rolled and jumped up, eyes blinking away the blood dripping down from his forehead. His smile was still the same, as ugly and crazy as ever.
Faros edged around, snapping the whip.
Keeping the blade before him, Sahd again surprised Faros—suddenly breaking for the nearest hut. Faros pursued the ogre, but barely glimpsed him before he vanished amid the structures.
Even with so many wounds, Sahd still had cunning and strength.
Around a third, then a fourth building Faros chased Sahd, who seemed to taunt him by remaining just in sight. Just as he rounded one corner, Sahd’s blade slashed at him. He managed to duck just in time. Faros brought the handle of the whip up and smashed it into Sahd’s wrist. The taskmaster dropped his sword.
Sahd kicked at him viciously. Faros, clutching his abdomen, dropped the whip. Sahd charged straight at him, grabbing his muzzle and shoving his jaws open wide, trying to break Faros’s jaws.
“Hitaka i f’han, Uruv Suuuurrrt!” the ogre growled.
Faros crumpled to his knees, with Sahd above him, forcing his jaws open. The pain was terrible. He tried to break Sahd’s grip.
Sahd was laughing again. Faros’s right hand slipped away, searching on the ground. He found the sword, thrust upward.
He felt resistance as he pushed the blade in and heard Sahd grunt. The ogre released his punishing grip on the minotaur’s jaw.
Faros stood. Sahd jerked back, the sword slipping free with a sucking sound.
Gasping, Faros stared. Sahd stumbled back, one meaty hand pressed against his stomach, which was spouting blood and guts.
Faros watched as the camp’s brutal taskmaster doubled over in agony, clutching at the deep, wide, spreading wound. Sahd fell over, tried to stand, and then ended up wobbling on his knees.
Utterly devoid of any emotion, Faros slowly approached his stricken enemy, picking up the sword and raising it high.
The monstrous visage looked up. The macabre mouth twisted into either a horrific grin or an expression of pleading—it was hard to say which.
With one perfect arc, Faros beheaded the ogre.
The head rolled a few feet away from Faros, before ending with its face turned to the sky, the ogre’s vicious expression intact. Seconds later, Sahd’s huge torso flattened on the ground.
Panting, the minotaur stared at his nemesis, almost certain that Sahd would somehow rise from the dead to torment him anew. But even Sahd could not do that, and at last Faros reached down and seized the blood- and dust-soaked head by its scraggly mane.
Carrying his crimson-soaked blade in his other hand, he moved through what remained of the mining camp, noting dispassionately that the only living figures he came upon were of his own kind. Ogre bodies were strewn everywhere, horribly gutted and mutilated. The justice of the slaves could not be denied and Faros did not care.
There were also many minotaur bodies, but these, too, meant little to Faros. Had they not died in this desperate fight, they would have been devoured by the harsh life of the mines.
The violence was not over. The minotaurs used spears and swords to slay those meredrakes still penned. The savage creatures hissed and tried to bite and batter their way to freedom, but wherever they turned, they met the vengeance of the freed slaves. One by one, the ogres’ scaly hounds perished.
Grom and several others finally found their leader, wandering in the midst of the carnage, carrying his grisly prize. He looked dazed, streaked with small wounds and bruises, but otherwise unhurt.
“Faros! Praise be to Sargas! We thought you dead!”
“I’m not. Are all the ogres dealt with?”
“So it looks! Many of our own are now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Horned One, but at least they left this world as warriors, not slaves!” Grom’s expression brightened as he looked down and recognized the bloody head carried by Faros.
“By the God of Vengeance!” cried Grom. “Sahd is dead!” He turned to those with him. “Do you see? Praise Sargas, he’s slain the beast! Sahd is dead! Faros has slain Sahd!”
Cries of victory and relief filled the ruined camp as word spread. The names of Sahd and his slayer were repeated throughout the camp. From all directions, minotaurs streamed to see the comforting proof, to know that the demon of their dreams was dead … and give homage to the one who had struck the mortal blow.
Despite all that they had been through, including this epic struggle, the minotaurs now found the strength to cheer.
“Hail, Faros!” Grom shouted. “Hail, Faros!”
The others took up the call. “Hail, Faros!”
The adulation meant nothing to Faros. He stared at the other minotaurs as though not entirely seeing them.
“At last we can return home!” someone cried.
At that, Faros’s gaze sharpened. He searched for the one who had spoken, shoving past well-wishers and fresh followers.
“No!”
Instant silence swept over the camp. The minotaurs stared disbelievingly at their hero.
“You fools!” he uttered, turning in a circle so that he was addressing them all. “Return home? Have you all forgotten why we’re here? Have you forgotten what the empire has deemed us? Do you know what the empire’ll do to anyone who does return?”
Several minotaurs slumped to their knees in shock at his words. A few even broke out in sobs, knowing Faros was right. They were doomed to scrounge for survival away from their beloved home.
They were, for the most part, the servants and allies of clans eradicated by the usurper Hotak. Their own Houses were no more. He who sat upon the throne had made gifts of them to the ogres, their ancient enemies. If any returned, they would likely be executed or sent again to another minotaur or ogre slave camp.
Grom nodded solemnly, backing up Faros’s words. Valun, who came up behind them with his arms around them both, cried, “Faros is right!”
One of prisoners, a thick-browed female, swallowed, then asked, “But where can we go? What should we do?”
In reply, Faros tossed the head of Sahd toward her, letting the taskmaster’s gruesome remains roll around in the dark dust. The minotaurs were wary of Sahd, even now, and edged back. But the flames from the burning camp seemed to dance in celebration of his death.
“We go south.”
Eyes wide, Grom snorted, then made the bird sign of Sargonnas. “South? By the Ax of Argon, that’s deeper into Kern!”
“Yes, it is.”
“But—” The other
minotaur clamped his mouth shut. After a moment, he lowered his horns in deference. “If you so decide, Faros, then I follow.”
Valun emulated his friend. “As do I.”
There were murmurs from the other slaves. Then, one by one, they, too, lowered their horns.
Faros’s face showed no emotion. “Set up sentries. Everyone else eat then sleep. We leave at first light. There’s bound to be food and water where we go now.” And death, he added to himself, the idea of slaughtering more ogres stirring his blood. “Those who don’t want to come are welcome to go home, if they want to try.”
And with that, he turned brusquely and went to claim for the night the hut that had once been the domicile of Sahd.
Jubal stared at the ravaged rebel ship Habbakuk’s Trident. Once its name had been proudly etched in gold by the bow, but the outline of the letters was barely readable because of all the damage.
Habbakuk’s Trident listed slightly to one side, its hull cracked. The breach could not be repaired. One of the three masts was but a splintered stump. Ragged sails fluttered limply above the other two. Much of the deck lay under debris. Like the Dragon’s Crest, Habbakuk’s Trident had taken the brunt of the battle, using its ballista to spread chaos so that other rebel vessels could escape. She had wounded two of the enemy, before taking such a beating herself. It was a wonder to the gruff, graying minotaur that the proud old ship had survived at all.
None of the four other ships surrounding the Trident were in the best of shape, but they, at least, could still sail. The only future left to the ruined vessel was a berth at the bottom of the Courrain … and that was the fate Jubal planned for it.
As his rowboat came alongside, the former imperial governor turned rebel took hold of the rope ladder dangling next to him and climbed to the rail. A sailor gave him a hand onto the deck, where about a dozen other figures awaited the leader.
Two were very familiar to Jubal. Captain Tinza, commander of the Sea Reaver and formerly of the empire’s Eastern fleet, was a brawny, brown female as tall as most males. Near her stood a younger male with a long, narrow snout and a high brow ridge that sometimes gave him a surprised look. What was more unusual about him, however, was his silver-brown fur, rare for minotaurs. The young warrior’s name was Nolhan and, until the fall of Chot, he had served as aide to the head of the Supreme Circle, Tiribus.
“This it, then?” rasped Jubal, feeling somewhat disappointed.
“Napol’s below, preparing the honor guard, governor,” returned Tinza. “When you give the signal, they’ll come up.”
He nodded. “Any report on the others?”
Tinza shook her head. “We’re assuming they maintained the planned route.”
“Then, after this is done, we’ve got to make sure of that. Vartox’s Vengeance was carrying copies of our best charts. Now that they are in imperial hands, they’ll know where we have been hiding. We’ll have to find yet a new base of operations.”
“Yet another one?” Nolhan snorted. “What is left to us, fleeing and hiding? Some bit of rock on the edge of the world?”
“We will discuss all that afterward.” The wind swept through his mane. He peered at the Trident’s broken bow—decimated and bereft of a guiding icon.
“Let’s get on with it,” he added with a sigh.
Raising a horn, a crew member blew five short, shrill notes.
From the other vessels came the ritual answering notes. As the horns sounded, Jubal led the small delegation toward the main deck.
The body lay atop what had once been the door to the captain’s cabin. Shrouding the door was an old imperial banner, the condor symbol still recognizable beneath his unmoving form. The door had been set upon a makeshift platform in accordance with the ancient rites of sea and around the platform lay an assortment of personal effects brought by the captains of each of the remaining vessels. There were weapons, of course, but also flutes, goblets, pipes, tinderboxes, rings, and more—the ordinary effects of sailors and warriors who had fought under General Rahm Es-Hestos and their way of paying last respects.
In the crook of one arm they had set a full-sized battle-ax and in the other, a long sword. Rahm’s old Imperial Guard armor had been given a shine. His fur had been smoothed as best as possible and shone with oil. His expression was oddly peaceful.
Jubal and the rest took up positions. A moment later, from below, came a martial shout and the marching of feet. Up the steps came the honor guard led by the swarthy, broad-shouldered Napol. He and his marine regiment wore their green-and-white clan kilts, but with a red strand around the waist, their way of marking themselves as loyal not to the current emperor, but to the rebellion.
Twin rows of twelve minotaurs followed the marine commander, twenty-five minotaurs in all, counting Napol. Five times five for good luck in the next world.
“Ranks! Split!” roared Napol. He led the leftmost column. Half moved to flank the platform and its contents. Those behind Napol wielded swords, the others, the hand axes favored in naval engagements.
“Set your positions!”
The two ranks turned to face one another. Each minotaur raised his weapon toward his opposite, creating an arch over the remains.
Now standing next to Jubal, Napol saluted the corpse of the leader of the rebellion. Staring straight ahead, he shouted, “Let those who would honor true a warrior now step forward!”
Tinza was first. She knelt by the general, her horns turned aside in deference to him. Next to the body, she placed a small item that the governor could not see until she backed up.
It was a figurine that he recognized as one she herself must have carved. Many minotaurs took up such idle hobbies when plying the high seas. And for this occasion, Tinza had created a likeness of Rahm, but with the general seated on what was clearly a throne.
The governor snorted but not out of disdain, out of approval. Ears flat, he watched Nolhan, approach.
The silver-brown minotaur also knelt. Next to the figurine, he placed a medallion upon which a golden circle had been etched.
“Presented to me by my master Tiribus, to acknowledge my position as his adjutant,” the young warrior had once told Jubal. By offering it up as tribute, Nolhan paid Rahm the highest honor, attesting that he would always serve under him, even in death.
More stepped forward and offered their tokens. When only he remained, the raspy-voiced minotaur walked forward slowly. Positioning himself near the makeshift bier, Jubal extended his hand. He held not one item, but two. The first was a personal memento, an elaborate dagger upon which had been etched his name and the names of his father and grandfather. Two valuable stones, one green and one blue, decorated the curved handle.
The stones suddenly made the governor think of another item of jewelry, and he looked closer at Rahm’s hand. Sure enough, the ebony ring remained on the rebel leader’s hand. It would be buried with him, and now no one would ever guess its secret power.
Placing the ancient dagger next to his comrade, Jubal readied his other offering. It was an iron coin, old and well worn, which boasted the outline of a winged minotaur upon one side.
“Botanos said that Azak would’ve chosen this for you, general.” Azak had been the original captain of the Dragon’s Crest and had been instrumental in helping Rahm flee the minions of Hotak. He and the general had long been the closest of comrades. Botanos had explained once to Jubal that the coin had been his captain’s luck charm. The winged minotaur identified it as a coin supposedly produced during the reign of Ambeoutin, the first distinguished ruler of their kind and considered the father of their civilization. Azak had found it during his first voyage as a young hand and treasured it among his belongings ever since.
Azak had not been carrying the coin with him when he had been slain during Rahm’s aborted attempt to assassinate Hotak.
After bowing his head for a moment, Jubal stepped back. As he lined up next to Napol, the marine commander let loose with a low, guttural roar. Immediately the honor guard follow
ed suit, then the rest of those in attendance joined, their voices rising. The minotaurs shouted as one, as they did before a great battle, stirring their blood up as they prepared to give their lives.
And from the other ships came the roars of those aboard, each vessel trying to be loudest, most adamant, in their reaffirmation.
The honor guard turned their weapons downward, the traditional sign that the life of a great warrior had ended. Governor Jubal and his companions drew their own swords and axes and did likewise. As the horns sounded, Napol led the marine fighters to where several large barrels awaited.
The Trident suddenly listed, throwing everyone momentarily off balance. One of the barrels rolled loose. Two of Napol’s warriors leaped after it, but the barrel struck a rail, splitting open and spilling oil.
“Praise be that the torches weren’t lit yet,” remarked Tinza.
Nolhan and the others retreated to where the longboats waited. Tinza eyed the governor. “Rahm would not have altered the time-honored ritual, even for himself.”
“Nevertheless, I will do so, in his honor.”
With a shrug, the captain joined Napol and the marine fighters. Each took one of the barrels and moved to various parts of the deck. Then, without preamble, the minotaurs broke open the containers and began spilling out the contents. They drenched every bit of wood with oil, leaving only one long, narrow path to the longboats.
“All right!” yelled Napol, throwing his empty barrel to one side. “That should do it! Everyone off the ship! Fast now!”
The marine fighters clambered down the rope ladders, joining those waiting in the boats. Most pushed off, though one lingered.
Napol and Captain Tinza joined the governor. Jubal handed them two of the three unlit torches he now held in his steady grip. Using her tinderbox, the captain cautiously lit the torches.
“On my signal,” the graying minotaur rasped.
Tinza and the marine commander struck off in opposite directions, leaving Jubal where he was standing. When the captain had reached the bow and Napol stood at the stern, the governor waved his torch … then tossed it toward the makeshift pyre.
Tides of Blood Page 16
