“If I may?” asked Jadar, indicating the body. “You can see evidence that he was dead before entering the water. Signs of decay.…” He plucked a grub from within one ear of the corpse.
The emperor grew impatient. “You’ve still not said why you summoned me, indicating this was important.”
From his belt, the tara’hsi removed, not a dagger, but rather a long, thin, pointed rod. Several such instruments hung from Jadar’s belt, many with shapes designed for purposes the emperor did not understand—and had no desire to learn more about.
“See here.” Jadar prodded one of the wrist wounds. “If you were cutting a foe’s wrist in order to make him bleed to death, it would be a longer cut, wider, and along the vein. This one died with deliberate slowness. I can prove it other ways if you like—”
Shaking his head, Hotak rose. “Come to the point, hekturion.”
The gaze of the tara’hsi altered strangely as he looked up. “A ritual was performed. The death followed a design. Somebody desired his blood fresh. It has an almost … religious … aspect to it.”
The emperor’s expression hardened. “Are you accusing the temple of blood sacrifice?”
“I would need to know more before I accuse anyone—”
“You certainly would! This is outrageous foolery, Jadar! You presume too much! You border on a treacherous declaration!”
For the first time, the tara’hsi showed some emotion. Standing, he backed away from his emperor. “I make no such charges! I thought it important to inform you of this—”
Hotak kicked the tarp back over the body. “Dispose of this. Burn it. Return to the investigation of Galdar, and leave your wilder notions to drunkards and enemies of the state!”
“My lord, I am not implicating the priestess—”
A sudden rage filled Hotak, and he lunged at Jadar, striking him across the muzzle. The other minotaur fell back against the wall. He rubbed his right nostril, which dripped blood.
“Leave this matter behind. Is that understood?” the emperor asked calmly, his eyes burning with crimson.
Jadar nodded in silence.
Hotak left the chamber, trying hard to focus his thoughts. The tara’hsi had gone too far. He had been fortunate that Hotak had not accused him of treason and had him arrested and executed on the spot. Jadar imagined things, hideous things. The temple had its faults, but to accuse it of sinking to murderous depths.…
He shoved aside the oak case leading into the planning room, then deposited the candle on the table with such force that it nearly spilled over onto the map. Hands shaking, Hotak stared at the facsimile of the empire he ruled, the empire he was expanding.
The empire Nephera had helped him gain.
“Never!” he snapped, for despite his best efforts he found himself thinking of Jadar’s insinuations. “Never … not Nephera.…”
The slaves had scoured the camp for anything of use, be it food, garments, or weapons. The pickings were slim, but after they were done, Faros ordered the camp burned. He himself started the conflagration by putting a torch to the hut used by Sahd. He found he couldn’t sleep there, couldn’t stay inside for more than a few minutes after entering. Sahd’s domicile was creepy, filled with the sinister tools of torture, and more than a few souvenirs of his victims. The tales minotaurs told of him collecting skulls and bones were not far from the truth.
Sahd’s home stank even worse than the slave pens.
With grim satisfaction, he watched the rounded structure collapse as the flames devoured it. Tossing the torch into the swelling inferno, Faros went to Grom, who held his horse ready. The bulky steed had been Sahd’s, but seemed to almost welcome the change in masters. Sahd had often beat his horse, too.
The other buildings were also filling with flames.
“Give the signal to move out.”
Nodding, Grom mounted another of the captured horses. Valun, intent on shaping what looked to be a piece of ogre bone, put his little carving into a pouch and joined the minotaurs on foot.
Horns blared. Those who had mounts urged them forward while the rest trod along in the dust and dirt. The freed slaves left behind a huge pile of their broken chains. Several hundred strong, the minotaurs marched out of the still-burning camp.
As Faros rode amid them, eyes turned toward him worshipfully. The freed slaves stared at him as if he were Sargonnas himself. In truth, Faros certainly no longer resembled the minotaur he had been, a spoiled, soft youth from a noble family. He was lean and muscled. He wore a perpetual scowl and a stony expression on his scarred muzzle. His anger was always just beneath the surface, and he barely acknowledged others. His eyes always looked beyond people, gazing at unforeseen danger.
But as he rode under the poles Sahd had set up to instill fear in his charges, the minotaur glanced up at the new heads that held places of honor, and Faros almost smiled.
Flies clustering around it, the eyeless head of Sahd stared; his expression still resembled a macabre smile. Faros’s right hand tightened with a twinge of dread as he passed.
Ogre heads populated the other high poles, too. The heads of the executed slaves had been taken down by Grom and the others. Grom had prayed for Sargonnas to accept the dead into the ranks of heavenly warriors before setting their pathetic remains ablaze.
The heat beat down on the minotaurs as they journeyed, but life in Sahd’s kingdom had hardened them. A few fell by the wayside, but Grom insisted on aiding those who still breathed.
The second night away from the monstrous pens, they made camp in the shadows of a chain of tall, chill peaks. What food they had collected was shared. Even so, all knew that the meager supplies would not last for more than a few days; the water, even less.
Faros sent Valun and others to scout ahead. He left the organization of the camp to Grom, who seemed naturally adept at such matters. Faros camped alone on the edge of the main body, staring into the night. His hands absently shaped themselves as they might when holding a pick ax or shovel; ever since escaping, he had evinced this odd habit, which he couldn’t shake, after so many years of hard labor.
The clatter of horses’ hooves stirred him from his reverie. Valun and two scouts rode up as if the ghost of Sahd was close behind. Their ears were taut, their expressions anxious, as they leaped off their mounts.
Valun limped over to Faros, dipping his good horn and turning it to the side. “There’s a huge caravan moving slowly along toward the west, a half day from us. They look like they stem from the south. We may have to melt back into the mountains.”
“Are they armed?”
“They’ve an escort, probably a couple hundred strong. Clubs, swords, various weapons. Some are wearing breastplates and helmets, even flaunt shields, but most look like ordinary guards.”
Faros’s right hand curled reflexively, as if he held Sahd’s whip in his grip again. “What are they guarding?”
“I’d wager food. Weapons, too, good-quality ones, I’d say.” Valun started to add something then clamped his mouth shut.
But Faros noticed his hesitation. Staring down the other minotaur, he commanded, “Go on. Tell me all.”
“Faros, there were minotaur markings on the wagons … and two of our legion officers were riding alongside the ogre commander.”
Faros showed no outward emotion, though he seethed inside. They all remembered the empire had sold them to the ogres to finalize a military pact. To have evidence of that disgrace flaunted in their faces, here so far away from the realm.…
“Gather those with the strength and will to fight,” he abruptly ordered, turning his gaze away.
“But, Faros! Surely you—”
“Quickly, Valun!” Faros’s sharp tone brooked no disagreement.
“Aye.” Valun and the others hurried off to relay his command. Faros paid their shouting and commotion no mind. Heart racing, redness already beginning to color his eyes, he again gripped the imaginary whip and smelled ogre blood.
The pock-faced, round-jawed ogre ch
ieftain given the responsibility of carting the supplies intended for the Grand Lord Golgren continued to contemplate ways of pilfering as much of it as possible before reaching his destination. There were rare foodstuffs; fine tools; and sharp, new weapons, which were highly valued by his kind. Let the pompous little creature with no tusks play at war; in the end, the chieftain cared more about his own riches.
He had not made any obvious moves yet. It had nothing to do with the two Uruv Suurt, who rode close to him when by all rights they should have been trotting several paces behind him … and in chains if Howgar had his way. No, Howgar’s hesitance had more to do with the Grand Lord himself. Despite his contempt for him, Howgar had heard what had happened to another chieftain who tried to outwit Golgren. That one’s ears decorated the entrance to the Grand Lord’s tent and his body was donated to the stomachs of several meredrakes … that, after several days of expert torture, naturally.
“We’re behind schedule,” sullenly muttered the minotaur to his left. Howgar had trouble telling the bull-creatures apart, but this one, he had noted, liked to polish his fancy new breastplate whenever he had a chance. The other—it was his main distinguishing feature—had a tendency to flare his nostrils whenever the wind blew, carrying Howgar’s naturally aromatic scent in his direction.
“Not much, not much,” the ogre replied in his best Common, which was not all that good, so that the minotaurs often looked at each other and scratched their heads when he deigned to speak to them.
“Any delay is too much,” returned the second minotaur, nostrils twitching.
They were behind schedule, because the chieftain was in no real hurry, as he struggled with the urge to steal from the supplies. This new type of war—where ogres of different tribes not only battled like blood brothers, but also did so with the help of the horned ones—rubbed against all his instincts and tradition.
“We’ll have to pick up the pace,” said the first minotaur officer to his comrade. Pushing his helmet back slightly, the officer straightened in the saddle and peered at the landscape. “Maybe if we skirt the mountains—what’s that over there?”
Howgar followed the widening gaze of the Uruv Suurt, expecting to see another mastark bull plodding along or even a racing amalok. The two outsiders seemed to be virtual tourists in Kern, gawking at everything and asking questions; they appeared to have known nothing beforehand of his homeland’s natural splendors.
But instead, the chieftain’s eyes also grew as wide, for out of a cleft in the mountain range was pouring a wild, determined horde of—how could it be?—Uruv Suurt. Howgar looked from one legionary to the other, expecting that they had led him into this baffling trap … and then realized the two were as stunned as he.
Surprise was more Faros’s advantage than the few daggers and rusting blades most of his followers wielded. Not only was the ogre escort lax, but seeing a band of screaming minotaurs charging out of the mountains toward the caravan obviously stunned them.
The ogres hurriedly grouped together to meet the attackers. They had bulk, strength, and height over the minotaurs, but the children of Sargonnas had been trained in warfare since birth.
Faros’s riders barreled as one into the center of the ogres’ main force. Two minotaurs went down, mortally stabbed, but several of the foes were trampled. An ogre screamed as a rider hurled a well-aimed dagger at his eye. Faros, in the lead, slashed with his blade and in his mind saw his past tormentors in the faces of those now arrayed against him. He cut through the neck of one huge ogre then kicked the flailing figure away.
Behind the minotaur riders came those on foot waving swords, clubs, spears, even stout sticks … all the larger, sturdier weapons that the minotaurs had scrounged from Sahd’s camp.
And while the ogres were distracted by the main attack, other minotaurs rushed them from an angle. These were armed with daggers and rocks—some with only their flailing fists—but they entered the battle with no less fervor than their armed comrades.
A lance stuck deep in his stomach, one ogre guard toppled off one of the big wagons. Another was roped around the throat from behind and yanked back, strangling as he fell. Minotaurs on foot grabbed at the other wagoners, dragging them to the ground.
But several minotaurs also fell dead, their heads crushed by heavy ogre blows or blades lodged in their chests. Seeing some of their fellows die, the other minotaurs redoubled their efforts. The caravan started to break apart as some teams attempted to escape. Faros pursued one such wagon, wounding the ogre at the reins. Undaunted, the driver leaped at him, the wagon careening. Briefly, the pair struggled atop his horse, before Faros caught the ogre under his meaty chin with the hilt of his sword. The tusked warrior hit the ground hard, falling on his head and snapping his neck.
“You there!” roared a voice in perfect Common. With fiery eyes, Faros turned to stare at one of his own race—a legionary in a shining breastplate. The armored officer looked the escaped slave contemptuously up and down, trying to make sense of him. “Are you mad? The emperor will have your head for this!”
“He’s already had my life,” murmured Faros, closing on the armored minotaur. The legionary quickly stabbed at him, but Faros managed to deflect his gleaming blade. “He’ll get no more.”
A quick jab forced the uniformed minotaur back, his scalp bleeding just below the rim of his upturned helmet. Snorting now in undisguised fury, the legionary threw off the helmet then attempted three swift, successive thrusts at Faros, trying to get under his guard.
The third attempt left a red scratch across Faros’s chest, but he was accustomed to wounds and paid it little mind. As the officer began a fresh attack, Faros slipped off his mount, coming at the side under his adversary. He drove more than half the length of his sword through the underside of the minotaur’s shoulder.
With a startled look, the legionary jerked away. His weapon dropped to his side, and he tipped in the saddle.
“Traitor—” he managed to gasp before falling. He landed in a grotesque heap, his heavy but meticulously shined armor pressed into the dusty earth.
Grinning, his breathing rapid, Faros looked around for another foe to fight, but the worst was nearly over. The ogres were divided into small groups, surrounded by the former slaves, who were systematically crushing their resistance. One ogre threw down his weapon and tried to surrender, but the same rage with which the minotaurs had dealt with their masters permitted no mercy now. A club-wielding female battered the kneeling ogre to a pulp, with others joining in the melee after she had her fill.
But the ogre chieftain proved far wilier than his ponderous look indicated. The first two minotaurs who had assaulted him received quick and deadly blade thrusts. A third who attempted to throttle him from behind had his arms seized, and then he was thrown over his head, crashing into several minotaurs.
Kicking his mount viciously in the sides, the chieftain was now racing away from the caravan, another ogre closely following.
More minotaurs suddenly leaped up from behind rocks as they passed, pelting the two riders with stones and sticks. At last the chieftain fell, struck soundly in the chest. The remaining ogre raced on, not in the least concerned about his lord’s life.
The minotaurs seized the stunned chieftain and bound him tightly. They dragged his struggling form back to Faros. Other minotaurs were stripping weapons and belongings from the bodies. Looting the corpses of ogres might have been dishonorable once, but not to those who had suffered under their yoke for so long.
Grom jumped out of the back of one wagon. “By the horns of Sargas! The warhorse is everywhere! Each barrel, sack, and crate! All carry the mark of Hotak! As though he owns everything in the empire and is equal to Sargonnas!”
“Take it all, everything,” returned Faros indifferently. The snarling voice of the ogre chieftain finally caught his attention.
“Foul Uruv Suurt! Traitorous cows!”
“Slit his throat so he stops barking,” someone suggested.
“Hold up,”
called Faros. The ogre, his rusted breastplate decorated with ears—some minotaur ears, Faros noted—bared his ugly yellowed fangs as he stared down at his smaller minotaur captor.
Valun kicked the ogre’s legs out from under him, to general laughter. The chieftain fell to his knees with a grunt of pain. Valun then returned to his carving but got a nod from Faros.
“Face your superior from a lowly position,” another minotaur hissed.
The chieftain spat up at Faros.
Ignoring the gob that landed on his chest and was trickling down, Faros brought the tip of his blade to the captive’s throat. “Tell me about these supplies. Who were those two soldiers with you?”
“Soldiers, ha! Play games, yes?” rumbled the chieftain in coarse Common. “You know, thieving Uruv Suurt! Your emperor, he gives to the Grand Lord Golgren! You take these, you break the pact! Hurt only your own kind.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the officer Faros had slain and the other minotaur, who lay near the front of the caravan with his head bashed open by a club. “You slay your own bullmen! Your emperor, he will not like!”
“ ’Tis a terrible dishonor,” one of the minotaurs muttered aloud. “For this wretch and his kind we’re sold to slavery!”
Faros waved for general quiet. The ogre had said something that only now registered. “Who did you say these supplies were going to?”
“Golgren … the Grand Lord Golgren.”
The name affected the minotaurs like a plague. Faros clearly recalled the Grand Lord Golgren, just as many of the others did. His name had been often evoked during Faros’s incarceration. He represented an indistinct, faceless demon among the minotaurs, the bold diplomat who had forged his race’s unlikely pact with the minotaur nation, an evil, cunning leader who even Sahd feared.
“This shipment was valuable to the Grand Lord?”
With a foolhardy sneer, the chieftain replied, “Will kill you slowly for it, Uruv Suurt.” He turned his disdain toward the rest of his captors. “Will collect all your ears, your skins—”
Tides of Blood Page 18
