The oil-fed flames eagerly raced up the pyre, enveloping Rahm’s body. Ears flat, Governor Jubal watched in silence, as first the general, then the ship, gradually became an inferno.
The Trident listed slightly. Jubal grabbed the rail. Rahm’s flaming body shifted, his arm slipping off the platform.
The elder minotaur grunted, his attention drawn by the hand.
Odd. He could no longer see the ring there.
“Governor! Jubal! Come on!” Suddenly Napol was beside him, ushering Jubal toward the ladder. Tinza followed behind. Already, much of the ship’s deck was on fire, the flames consuming the masts, the wheel, and more.
With haste, the trio descended to the last boat. The second they were aboard, the sailors quickly rowed them away.
Even before the boat reached the Dragon’s Crest, Habbakuk’s Trident had been engulfed. Despite that, she drifted along almost serenely for a time, the steady waves pushing her into deeper waters.
“Likely she’ll sail another hour or two, then start breaking up,” Captain Tinza remarked.
“If that.” Jubal took hold of the Crest’s ladder. “Are we agreed on matters, Tinza? You’ll return to the Sea Reaver and head south?”
“Aye, and Nolhan and the others’ll sail east. If luck is with us, in a month we’ll rendezvous a day north of Petarka. Godspeed, and may you bring good news.”
“We must regroup and find another base of operations.”
Napol briefly grasped the governor’s hand. “You’re leader now, Jubal.”
“Nolhan and some of the others will beg to differ.”
The other two minotaurs scowled. “They’ll see the merit of your leadership,” Tinza growled. “We’ll make them see.”
But Jubal shook his head. “We need unity, not a rebellion within a rebellion.”
There was no further argument, but an uneasy feeling lingered in the air. The governor climbed aboard the Dragon’s Crest, then watched as the two were rowed back to their own vessel.
Captain Botanos joined him, looking off at the burning pyre. “A scene to stir us all to greater glory.”
Governor Jubal grunted. “Let us pray so, captain … let us dearly pray so.”
It had been some time since Ardnor had received a summons to the palace—longer since he had been invited. While he pretended not to care, inwardly he seethed. Bastion received all the honors, the glories. Bastion had all the favors and privileges that by rights belonged to him, the eldest son.
Bastion had the rule of an empire awaiting him someday.
It had been such a long time since Hotak and Ardnor had spoken that, when the message came from the palace, Ardnor wondered at first if it was a hoax.
Steely-eyed Pryas had arrived with the sealed missive as the First Master was busy honoring a few key members of the Protectors. With the ranks swollen and spread throughout the realm, the need to acknowledge those who showed the greatest loyalty to the faith—and Ardnor—had become a regular ritual.
There were no windows in the square, torch-lit chamber. Small spaces in the ceiling enabled the smoke to drift to the outside. Despite that, the room was still stifling and made all the more so by the powdered shaka weed that one gray-robed Protector tossed into a low, heated copper bowl each time one of the Protectors stepped forward to be honored. Shaka weed, a dull green, almost fuzzy plant that grew low to the earth, was found mostly in the mountains of Mithas. Ground shaka weed, when inhaled, was a stimulant, agitating one’s adrenalin. The gathered minotaurs exuded nervous energy, which was just as the First Master desired. These honored Protectors would leave craving action, awaiting the time when he would call them to duty.
Fifty warriors, including a number of females, were in attendance. The Protectors were originally all male, but in a faith overseen by a high priestess—the First Master’s mother, no less—females had become an important presence in the militant wing. Like the males, the female minotaurs had shorn their manes completely off. They wore black kilts, but in addition were clad in ebony tunics with plunging necklines. This design was not intended to attract males, but rather to display the broken ax brand that they, too, had burned into the center of their chests.
Ardnor sat upon the stone chair that he used as a throne. Clad also in a gray robe, he waited impatiently while one of the adherents read the next name from an unrolled parchment.
“Kyra Es-Ronas!”
A muscular, broad-snouted female rose up then stepped forward. Her eyes wore the fanatical look the First Master sought in his most faithful. She eyed Ardnor with devotion, with unabashed awe, as she went back down on one knee before the low dais.
“Kyra Es-Ronas,” the robed adherent continued to proclaim, “of the Mito faithful, first in armed combat, an acolyte of the Fifth Level.”
“So quickly did you achieve that status?” Ardnor asked. There were few Protectors who reached Fifth Level, and fewer still who were female. They surrendered their entire lives to the Protectors, every hour of the day and night. The Fifth Level, of which Pryas was the senior, demanded great physical effort and intricate training. Much of that effort included use of upper-body strength, which created a disadvantage for most females.
“Those who have gone before have guided me well, my lord,” she murmured, her head lowered.
He nodded approvingly. “Hold out your left hand.”
As she did, he glanced at the Protector standing by the incense. The minotaur priest took a pair of curved tongs and reached into the heated bowl. From it he withdrew a orangehot disk about two inches in diameter.
“We are the Protectors of the faith,” Ardnor rumbled, “the warriors of the broken ax. We give our lives, our souls, to the Forerunners.”
“All praise the High Priestess Nephera and the First Master Ardnor,” replied fifty voices.
He rose, accepting the tongs from the priest. “All who serve are honored. Those who serve beyond their duties are honored more.”
He dropped the metal disk squarely in her palm.
The burning flesh crackled through the suddenly silent chamber. Kyra did not flinch. She slowly, almost casually, closed her fingers around the piece then stood up to face her comrades.
The other minotaurs rose as one, slapping fists against the scarred brand on each of their chests.
Turning, Kyra walked with measured steps back to the hot bowl. With slow, deliberate movements, the minotaur priest added some incense. Kyra leaned forward and inhaled deeply.
Grinning triumphantly, she placed the piece of metal back inside the hot bowl.
“Kyra Es-Ronas,” Ardnor called. “Show the honor of Protectors you now bear.”
The female warrior again faced the other Protectors, revealing her open palm. Burnt into it was a pair of long, curved horns and jagged mark almost akin to a sword with a lightning bolt for a blade …
The personal symbol of the First Master.
Among the ranks, seven other Protectors extended their own left hands, displaying identical signs. Not all who had been summoned this day would receive this highest honor. Ardnor reserved it for the few. He had reports from each of their superiors, who also were bearers of the mark. Those who received the mark were fated to rise in the ranks, become the officers and commanders the growing legions of Protectors needed to guide them.
In a surprising break with ritual, Kyra suddenly turned and walked back to Ardnor, kneeling low at his feet and placing her muzzle on the dais. “I thank the First Master for this. May I always be worthy.”
Ardnor grunted approval of her bold actions. “Rise, Kyra Es-Ronas! Return proudly to your place!”
Once she had done so, he began the traditional recitation, “The people are the life of the temple.…”
The closing of the ceremony took only a minute more. As the newly honored Protectors departed, Pryas approached his lord.
“That last one,” Ardnor muttered to him. “Kyra of Mito. A bit chiseled of face and form, but I like her energy. Make certain that she gets an appointme
nt for a private audience with me.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Pryas held up the parchment that had arrived earlier, letting Ardnor see the wax royal seal.
The First Master’s brow furrowed. “From my father?”
“So I would assume.”
“Meant for me,” Hotak’s eldest commented, as he turned it over in his hands. My mark there, not Mother’s.”
“It must be important, indeed, if the emperor contacts you.”
Ardnor’s crimson-tinged eyes looked triumphant. “Yes, it is he who contacts me. He wants something only I can give him.”
He cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. Pryas politely stepped back in order for his master to read privately.
“So … my father addresses me as an officer of the legions … as indeed he should.”
The emperor Hotak requested his son’s presence at a special ship-christening ceremony occurring in two days, with a confidential discussion to take place in the palace afterward.
Ardnor informed Pryas of the news. The steely eyes lost some of their self-assurance. “A confidential discussion? Lord Ardnor … will he once again harp on the Protectors?”
“No, he wouldn’t dare speak against the religion. That is all in the past. The faithful are part of every aspect of government now. No, perhaps he’s finally come to realize how much he needs me—us—for the future of the empire. His legions are everywhere … and yet the Protectors are vital to his plans.” Ardnor crumpled up the paper, his eyes glittering. “Well, Father’s been good enough to invite me, I certainly won’t turn him down, eh, Pryas?”
The messenger from the mainland had brought many letters. In addition to the reports by the various commanders—chief among them a missive from his daughter Maritia—a rolled parchment had been delivered with news that at first made Hotak snort with disbelief.
A waif of a human girl was supposedly trying to teach an accomplished general how to fight a war.
Seated before his beloved map, the banner of the black warhorse draped over a bronze pole in the corner behind him, Hotak read over Maritia’s report again. Once more he tried to digest the mystery and power of the renegade minotaur, Galdar.
… then he said that this would be the last time we would meet before the shield fell. Father, we dare not be misled by his subservient posture. Galdar is truly a devious, not to mention ambitious, character. The proof lies in the attached notes I have sent with the usual updates … the Battle Plans of the Great Mina.
As humorous as I first found the plans, after looking over them myself, I have immediately sent them on to you. At the very least, they reveal Galdar’s thinking, his intentions, which should give us a better idea of how to deal with him when the time comes.
Forgive me, but I must say that.…
Hotak put aside Maritia’s letter. Picking up the map and the plans, he reviewed the revelations from the mainland.
The strategy was good. Very good.
“No …” the emperor muttered, his fingers tightening. The parchment crinkled. “The plans’re excellent.”
Obviously, though the handwriting was meant to suggest Mina’s, Galdar had put together the offensive. Likely he had had aid from experienced officers, of which the Knights of Neraka had more than a few. The paper outlined perfectly the placement and movements of six legions, with options for reinforcements and urgencies.
Hotak’s good eye narrowed in admiration. He could find no fault with the vision of victory.
When placed on the overlooking ridge, the catapults positioned near the northern edge of the forest.…
She—he, the emperor corrected himself—even had contingency plans should the resistance surprise the legions.
… the fresh troops waiting by the river can then either march west or sail to join the far flank. This will.…
No plan, in Hotak’s experience of more than twenty years of command, ever survived the first clash, but, gazing at this one, he wondered if Galdar was a military genius, and had anticipated every fallback.
Reaching for Maritia’s report, the emperor again read her final evaluation. Forgive me, but I must say that the battle plan is without flaw! As much as I do not trust Galdar, I must admire what he—it must be he, as I do not credit this Mina—has set on paper. I foresee a rout of the enemy if the plan is followed.
Though he of course believes that I am subservient to his orders, I await your words as to whether to implement Galdar’s plan.
Hotak rose. “Guard!”
One of the sentries entered. “My lord?”
“Is the messenger from my daughter still waiting in the hall?”
“Aye, my lord. He was told by her not to leave the palace without a return message.”
“I will have one momentarily.” Hotak snatched a striped quill from a squat inkwell and pulled free one of the sheets of light brown parchment he kept for his imperial decrees. With a quick flourish, he wrote a single word across most of the page.
Given.
Rolling it up, he took the signet with his symbol upon it then seized the nearest candle. Dribbling a little wax on the edge of the parchment, he pressed the signet down.
“Summon the messenger.” By the time the swarthy legionary Maritia had sent entered, the wax had cooled and the communiqué was sealed.
“My emperor!” the armored figure knelt at Hotak’s side.
“Rise. Return to your ship, and have the captain set sail for Sargonath immediately. You are to deliver this to my daughter as soon as possible. No delays, no side trips. Is that clear?”
“Aye, my emperor!” With a bow, the minotaur withdrew.
Hotak absently tapped his fingers on the map’s edge as he pondered all the great events about to unfold.
A knock came on the door.
“Enter!”
The same sentry entered and knelt, a small note held in one furry palm. The emperor took it, dismissed the soldier, and read.
With your permission.
Underneath, in barely legible letters: Jadar.
Hotak set the note to the candle flame and watched it burn to ash. He then turned, not to the door, but rather to the wall.
Hotak had long been aware of the fact that the palace was riddled with hidden passages. After General Rahm’s aborted attempt to assassinate him, the emperor had gone to great lengths to research the secret corridors and entrances. He knew where many were, but understood that others still evaded his detection.
Just behind a tall oak case built into the corner of the west wall, on the shelves there, he kept his important dispatches. By slipping one’s fingers below the second of the five shelves, the case could be swung open like a door, revealing a winding stone corridor descending into the earth. Only a handful knew about these hidden stairs, and their number did not include his beloved mate. There were some things the state needed to keep secret.
Taking the candle by the holder, Hotak proceeded down the narrow stairway. The stairs wound around several times before eventually ending in a short, moss-encrusted hall, at the end of which stood a tarnished brass door with a ringed handle. The spread wings of a condor had been etched into the metal.
The door squealed as Hotak tugged it open. A flickering light met his wary gaze. Outlined by the torch set in a niche in the far end of the damp room, a gaunt, graying legion officer wearing a red, five-sided badge at his shoulder stood patiently. Built into the ceiling above was a trap door identical in design to the main entrance. A rusting chain dangled from it, and attached to the chain was a ladder made from iron link.
“My lord,” the solemn officer whispered with a dip of his short horns.
“Jadar.” Hotak glanced down; a large bundle wrapped in a tarp lay at the minotaur’s feet. Jadar had somehow managed to lug the bundle through the hidden passages without being detected.
“You were investigating this Galdar. Have you—?”
“The renegade’s background still eludes me,” the legionary said in the same monotone whisper. “This I
came across by sheer accident.” Moving methodically, Jadar bent down and pulled away the tarp. “Dead more than a week, I’d say.”
The sight and stench made the emperor’s nostrils flare.
Hotak knelt down and closely inspected the grisly trophy. Under the tarp lay the remains of a male minotaur, one just old enough to be granted his first posting. His garments had been removed—along with any clan markings. Judging by the swelling and the color, the corpse had obviously been fished out of the sea.
“Where did you find—it?”
“Half a day’s sail from the main port. Whoever killed him assumed that the weights they’d tied to his ankles would keep him underwater until it didn’t matter. The battering of the body, I must point out, is from the sea, not from any violence.”
Hotak studied the pale, purpled corpse. “Of what concern is this to the empire, Jadar? Murder is not uncommon hereabouts.”
“Agreed, my lord. Only the sharp eyes of a captain employed by me to keep an eye out for the unusual brought this incident to light.” Jadar knelt next to the body. He pointed at the throat, the chest, and the wrists. “Expert cuts, designed for torture to encourage blood flow. Done, I’d say, at various stages. I believe this unfortunate was drained of blood before he perished.”
“You say this as a tara’hsi?” the emperor asked, using an ancient High Ogre word.
Minotaurs rarely depended upon clerics for healing, as the lesser races usually did, but utilized those they referred to as menders. In every legion were those who specialized in such skills, drawing upon study and practice. True, many patients died, but the great menders learned from their mistakes.
Jadar was more than a mender. A First Hekturion by rank, he investigated suspicious deaths for the emperor. Such investigators were called tara’hsi, literally “Answerer of questions.”
Tara’hsi were respected and also feared.
“I prefer ‘explorer’ to that elder term, my lord,” came the quiet, almost toneless voice. Jadar’s eyes had depths that any veteran warrior would have recognized. Through the years, the officer had witnessed all variety of violence and death. He was hardened to bloodshed and the worst imaginable horrors.
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