Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  His foul words came to an abrupt end … as did his breathing. The point of Faros’s sword extended through the back of his neck.

  Pulling the blade free, Faros let the chieftain’s body collapse.

  “Dispose of this garbage,” he said. Turning back to the wagons, Faros commanded, “Load everything of value, and let’s get far away from here.”

  “What about these?” Grom asked in a low voice, indicating the dead legionaries.

  “They ride with ogres, they share their fates. Put the bodies where the carrion crows can eat their fill.” He wiped off his blade.

  “I will see to our own dead,” Grom volunteered.

  Faros shrugged, having expected that of his religious-minded subordinate. Inevitably there would be a pyre and more prayers to Sargonnas; Faros himself wanted no part of it.

  As Grom went to deal with these matters, Valun came up. “This will make this Grand Lord Golgren furious; he’ll try to track us down.”

  Faros nodded, his gaze drifting off to another time, another place—the flames eating at his family villa, the assassins watching with glee. Inside the burning structure, the dead faces of his family stared at him, especially his father, Gradic.

  And as Faros pictured the smoke rising from his ruined home, it took on the shape and appearance of a black, rearing stallion.

  “He and others will want to hunt us down,” Faros finally replied to the patient Valun. His hand twisted, once more wielding the imaginary whip. “Others, especially.”

  There were few things that unnerved Ardnor. In his role as First Master, Ardnor wielded much power. The dark-clad Protectors watched over the safety of the high priestess, his mother, the empress Nephera. They had little intercourse with outsiders, and even those not of the faith knew of him and were intimidated.

  Yet, with so many obedient to his whim, with power that, truthfully, was second only to that of his parents—and, grudgingly, Bastion—Ardnor now anxiously entered this chamber …

  The chamber where his mother, Lady Nephera, awaited him this night.

  The gilded black breastplate he wore, and the matching helm carried in the crook of his arm, gave him little genuine protection, he felt as he entered her meditation chamber. No matter how confident he was, no matter how powerful, his might would always be nothing compared to hers. He had ambitious, reckless impulses, which they both knew were held in check by the omnipresent threat of the dark magic she could summon.

  In truth, he had acted recklessly of late, pushing the Protectors into imperial matters more than the high priestess wished. That was why Ardnor approached the robed figure of his mother with some trepidation, though he guarded his expression.

  “You summoned. I’ve come, Mother.”

  “And a bit tardy, as usual,” she replied almost casually. “But I planned accordingly and thus summoned you early.”

  He tipped his horns low to acknowledge her superiority. Ardnor eyed the room, noting that a ritual of some sort was being prepared. Two attendants garbed in ebony robes similar to his mother’s flanked a long, wide marble platform, which his own attachment of Protectors had recently erected in the chamber. Already the platform appeared stained, though he could not see anything very clearly. As usual, there were many shadows, many patches of darkness. Only a few torches illuminated the chamber, and the shadows of the acolytes danced on the walls.

  The doors had been shut after Ardnor entered, and now the First Master of the Protectors found himself wondering why. Something in the empty gazes of the acolytes caused him to warily glance at the platform … the empty marble altar.

  The First Master forced unsettling thoughts from his mind. He turned his gaze back to his mother. Like Hotak, Ardnor had noted the odd changes in her as she had delved deeper into the mysterious forces that channeled her power. Her sunken eyes, her strange gauntness … did her ghosts look as unearthly as their priestess? “What would you have of me, Mother?”

  “You have served the temple with utter dedication, served without hesitation the cause of the one who grants us gifts of which few mortals even dream.” She gazed reverently at the symbols on the wall. “It has been decided that you are to be rewarded.”

  “Rewarded?” Ardnor had often asked to be taken into his mother’s confidence, to learn more about her dark magic, but so far he had acquired only a few minor tricks. The true authority still rested in the hands of his mother, and his mother alone.

  In response, Nephera extended a thin, pale hand toward the platform. “Please lie down.”

  “There?” Without realizing it, the First Master shuffled back, not forward.

  Her expression immediately grew stern. “Do as I say, my son. Fear is unbecoming.”

  Ardnor could not turn his gaze from hers. Her piercing black eyes filled his view, drew him inexorably forward. Slowly the massive warrior moved toward the marble altar—by his own choice or owing to her sway, Ardnor could truly not say. Moments later he stood before the long marble altar. Only then did her gaze relent.

  Only then did he notice the faint crimson tinge to the stains that spread over the top.

  “Lie down, Ardnor.”

  Despite his forebodings, he could not disobey. Wordlessly he set his helmet down and arranged himself on top of the altar.

  Nephera and her attendants stepped up beside him. He eyed his mother anxiously, but hesitated to say anything.

  She raised her hands, and suddenly the torches seemed to lose all but the faintest glimmer. The temperature in the chamber, already cool, now grew so chill that Ardnor’s breathing came out in puffs. He also noted the frosted breath emitted by the two acolytes, but, oddly, from the high priestess there came nothing.

  Then Lady Nephera began uttering words in a sonorous tongue he had never heard before. She and the others seemed to waver and recede away from Ardnor. A darkness enveloped him.

  Voices from every direction began whispering.

  “You, too, shall command legions of willing flesh,” Nephera said to her son. “See now what I command and marvel at it.”

  And the chamber filled—literally filled, crowded from floor to ceiling—with the myriad dread shades of the dead.

  Everywhere Ardnor’s startled eyes looked, he saw the faces, the hungry, hollow … and obedient … spectral faces. There were those who were simply pale and translucent, like something out of a bad dream. There were many others marred terribly by sickness or injury, the signs of their deaths forever imbued in them. Ardnor saw that thousands had crowded into the meditation room, endlessly milling about, passing through one another. Yet he also understood that this throng represented only a minute fraction of the undead at the high priestess’s command.

  “This is the true empire,” Nephera continued, her gaze wide and triumphant. “This is the empire of the dead and we are its masters.”

  As his eyes passed over the great crowd, Ardnor recognized a few of the shadows. Rivals of his family, enemies of his mother. Even—

  He turned his head away quickly, not able to stand looking at the one who eyed him most fervently.

  “Hush, my son,” the high priestess whispered, stroking his muzzle. “Your brother is quiet, he only watches.”

  Then, beyond the ghosts, Ardnor felt another presence, one that overwhelmed him. It was as though he had been swallowed whole. This presence was infinite, all-powerful, and the source of everything imaginable.

  His mother’s hand passed over his eyes, interrupting his gaze. When her hand was removed, he saw again only the darkness of the muted torches and the shadowed forms of the three females.

  No. Now there was a fourth form. It was hazy and clad in a cloak like those often worn by explorers. The cloak was large but ragged, and the stench of sea rot rose to clog Ardnor’s nostrils.

  From within the hood, a white, decaying muzzle thrust out.

  The chill grew stronger.

  “Takyr will be your guide for this appointed journey,” Nephera announced, almost matter-of-factly.

&n
bsp; Takyr … his mother had often mentioned this particular specter’s name, but Ardnor had never been allowed to witness the creature before now. He was jealous of Takyr, in fact, for this ghost served his mother as no other could, seeming able to oblige her bidding no matter what, no matter where he was needed.

  A bone-shivering chuckle resounded in his head, and he realized that the foul ghost knew what he was thinking. Takyr extended a bony hand, absent a couple of fingers, and waited.

  “Accept his grasp, my son.”

  Determined not to give the shade any additional amusement, Ardnor defiantly reached for the ghoulish appendage.

  But it was not quite his own hand that clasped Takyr’s withered one. His physical limb still lay limp upon the marble; only a hand as phantom as that of the ghost’s stretched forth.

  And before Ardnor could digest this horrific turn of events, Takyr pulled him up alongside him.

  Then it felt as though someone had peeled away his skin. A wild shiver ran through Ardnor, and he felt a sense of loss akin to nothing ever before experienced. The First Master stared down at his own body, the prone figure with his eyes, unblinking.

  “It is done,” proudly announced Lady Nephera, with her chest heaving. She gazed up into the darkness, adding, “We give thanks for your guidance.”

  The attending ghosts shivered and moaned in fear. Ardnor felt the renewed presence of the dark force he had noted earlier. He tried to pull his hand free and return to the comforts of mortal flesh.

  Nephera waved her hand, and Ardnor stilled. To her son, she said, “No, you are not dead, Ardnor. Your devotion and strength would be useless to me, to that which we serve, were you not flesh. This is an honor, not some imagined punishment. I asked that you be made privy to the true power of the temple, and that has at last been granted. But now you must prove yourself.”

  The many ghosts neared, cloistered around him, eyeing Ardnor as though he were a haunch of roasted goat. They were clearly envious of the life he still contained, envious … and hungry for it.

  “Away with you!” he snarled at the nearest of the undead.

  To his satisfaction, they scattered. For good effect, he bellowed at them then laughed as they edged farther back.

  So much … angry energy … commented an amused voice.

  Takyr was staring at him, but the tone of his voice could not be read in his blank face. Ardnor snorted, but the ghost said nothing further.

  “Hear me, Ardnor,” Lady Nephera whispered, her gaze fixed not on his spirit form but rather on the limp body on the marble altar. “You are being granted something that no other mortal creature has experienced. Now, to show your worthiness, you must perform a meritorious task. I have, from a list gathered, one who threatens the good work of the temple. He must be … removed, my son.”

  She could have just as well asked her pet ghost to do it, and Ardnor knew that. What difference would it make if he was the doer?

  “Ask not,” his mother replied to his body, as if hearing his thoughts. “Takyr will guide you, and you will know your role as the time approaches.”

  He looked at his macabre companion, expecting some tacit communication, but instead a horrific sight met his eyes.

  Takyr was melting, literally melting. The phantom’s unearthly form became as quicksilver. Ardnor gaped at the sight—and then suddenly, the liquid haze that was Takyr began to flow into his open mouth. Ardnor sought to clamp his muzzle shut, but nothing would keep the foul substance from pouring down his gullet.

  As the last of Takyr’s essence entered his spirit form, Nephera’s son felt a heavy change come over him. His awareness of the realm of the dead was suddenly heightened. Ardnor learned and understood how his mother drew her power from them, and how they channeled the primal forces. In turn, he saw how he could draw power from them, using them as she did as an endless source of energy.

  A greedy, aching hunger enveloped him all of a sudden, and Ardnor found himself staring at the throng, wondering which of them had the most sustenance to offer. The ghosts, in turn, pressed away from the First Master in horror, understanding instinctively what he desired and fearing its consequences.

  With deliberation, he reached out among them, and though his hand came nowhere near the shade he had spotted, Ardnor felt fresh energy flow into him. The designated specter, a narrow, flaxen-maned elder female pleaded silently with him to halt his actions, but Ardnor ignored her pleas, instead savoring all of her undead power, absorbing her as he would the finest of meals.

  The ghost’s flickering form shriveled. She twisted and turned and folded in on herself, her dead face contorting almost ludicrously as she was forced to surrender all of her energy.

  By the time the exchange was done, the elder female had dwindled to an emaciated shadow barely visible among the other dead. No sooner did Ardnor cease his foul feeding, than she quickly melted into the undead throng, vanishing among the others; if she still existed at all, he did not know or care.

  Filled with a glorious feeling, Ardnor thought he could command the world with such power. He sensed Takyr somewhere in the back of his mind, but was no longer concerned about the ghoul’s invasive presence. Ardnor feared nothing and no one. He felt as near to being a god as any mortal could be.

  “Restrain your enthusiasm,” the high priestess chided, eyeing him in the way she had when, as a small child, Ardnor had done some mischief. Such was the aura of Lady Nephera that her son reacted as he did as a boy, growing silent and bowing his head.

  She nodded approval then added calmly, “Your task still awaits you. I expect you to do your best, my son.”

  And suddenly Ardnor found himself floating high in the night sky. Stunned, he surveyed the world below. All of Nethosak lay there, spread out in a torch-lit panorama such as he had never dreamed. From the harbor in the southwest, to the wooded lands to the north, the capital was glorious. He saw the perpetual brightness of the shipyards and the smithies, where, day and night, workers toiled on the weapons and vessels his father had ordered for the imperium’s expansion. He noted hurrying tiny figures, appearing momentarily in light, then vanished in the dark of shadows. Whether striking anvils or driving nails into a planks, the minotaurs’ steady work beat thrummed in his ears.

  He spotted the glowing palace. A light shone in the chamber Ardnor knew to be the personal quarters of his father. He leaned that way, bemusedly thinking of spying on the great Hotak.

  To the north … insisted a voice in his head. House Leot …

  Leot? Ardnor knew that clan. They were noted physically by the tufted beards they grew under their muzzles, a rare vanity among minotaurs. Yet, Leot was a House aligned with his father, and the blood of that clan flowed in Ardnor’s own veins, on his mother’s side. Why would he seek any target at House Leot?

  Ardnor’s location abruptly shifted. Once again he was floating in the night sky, only now, below him, he could see the towering, upraised claw of heavy stone that marked the distinctive portal of the home of Leot’s patriarch—the clan’s base of power. Ardnor surveyed the high, pointed battlements, noticing the disciplined guards with their striped, tailed helmets. An imposing wall surrounded the grounds, dotted with sentries.

  Ardnor felt a sudden urge to alight upon the third of the five floors, and as he did, he found himself floating through the black, stone interior walls into the torch-lit chamber beyond.

  Ardnor expected to find the clan patriarch there, and he did. Young for one of his clan status, Herek Es-Leot wore three small tufts of pale brown fur under his chin. He had a weak, receding jaw but attentive, almond-shaped eyes that shone with strength. The patriarch stood with seven others, listening to an eighth figure not dressed in the rich purple-and-gray robes of the clan.

  The outsider was a powerfully built figure wearing the green- and white-striped kilt of a marine fighter. He wore a cloak of similar markings and a helmet with a long bronze crest shaped like the armored back of a sea dragon. A wide, well-honed broadsword hung on his right side.
Dark of fur with small patches of white here and there, he had eye patches and a broad muzzle that reminded Ardnor of his father. His words were accompanied by broad gestures, and he leaned forcefully into his rapt audience.

  Ardnor knew this one well. It was General Kobo de-Morgayn, the Dragon of Duma, whose marine fighters had decimated the rebels near Duma with such a lack of mercy that it had stunned even the emperor. A heavily decorated veteran, he wore the prized red sunburst medallion on a golden chain around his thick neck.

  This could not be Ardnor’s intended victim … could it?

  Suddenly he saw there were ghosts in attendance who had followed or preceded him there. One or two stood by each of the group, listening, memorizing. A hunched-over male ghost with deep, vicious ax cuts all over his torn body stood closest to the general, hearing his words with what remained of his ruined ears.

  Go to him, came Takyr’s rasping voice. And hear.…

  Ardnor drifted up next to the unsuspecting Kobo. At the moment, the general was regaling his audience with the story of his victory at Duma, reflecting upon the enemy’s unenviable predicament.

  “Trapped in a coral cove, their ships would be dashed to pieces if they retreated, their doom rested in our hands if they stayed! I tell you.…”

  Ardnor did not listen to the rest, for he had been directed to speak to the ghost.

  “Tell me,” the emperor’s first-born commanded the ghost attending Kobo. “But only what I want to hear.”

  And the ghost did, repeating word for word everything he had stored up. His voice was out of sync with the workings of his jaw.

  “Protectors have spread through the ranks, trying to convert the fighters! Had them whipped and locked up. Rampant in three colonies. Forerunners with a hidden agenda. ’Tis almost growing as bad as the worst days of the old temple of Sargas, I’d say.…”

  The monotonic voice droned on, revealing that General Kobo had many, many run-ins in the past with the Forerunners.

  Ardnor had heard enough. He stilled the ghost’s recitation with a sharp glance, then reached for the back of Kobo, thinking that with his hand he could simply reach in and pluck out the officer’s beating heart. Surely that was what his mother intended.