His emotions guarded, the black minotaur bowed his horns to his father then urged his horse forward. Hotak did not follow until his son was a short distance ahead—the ritual five paces. Only then did the honor guard fall into place, flanking both riders.
Out of the port, the procession rode, the warhorse banners fluttering high, the honor guard with their axes or swords held before them. The heralds raced ahead, shouting out the news of Bastion’s return and the triumph of the empire over all enemies.
The procession passed into Nethosak itself, and every street along the route overflowed with cheering minotaurs. Horsetail sheaves filled the polished stone paths, temporarily staining them green, and streamers of red and black shot from every window and rooftop. The symbol of the black warhorse—on flags, walls, or painted wooden disks clutched by the celebrants—was everywhere.
Though he appeared almost distracted by his inner thoughts, Bastion continued to wave and nod to members of the crowd. Hotak beamed with pride as he observed the regal behavior of his son.
As they neared the center of the city, the palace looming ahead, their path led them past the temple of the Forerunners. Bastion’s ears twitched and his body stiffened as if anticipating something that might mar the otherwise perfect occasion.
But in contrast to everywhere they had passed, the streets before the temple of the Forerunners stood empty. The gates were closed; the Protectors who always guarded them were missing.
Bastion gave a low sigh. Hotak stared at the silent building, wondering why it seemed deserted, on this of all days.
As they left the temple grounds behind, the well-wishers suddenly reappeared as if by magic. Bastion resumed waving to the crowds, and the emperor and his guards visibly relaxed.
The path led to the palace at last. A vast throng awaited Bastion here, but his attention was instead riveted by a small party standing apart near the palace guard at the very gates.
Three of the figures were bodyguards. They wore dark garments with dangling swords. If nothing else, their lack of manes identified them as an elite unit of the Protectors.
Flanked by these three bodyguards, Ardnor sat atop a snorting black stallion. He wore the full, cloaked garb of a legion officer. Unlike the bodyguards, who dipped their horns to the side respectfully to greet Bastion, he raised his sword in salute.
The emperor gestured, and the gates opened. The throng continued to cheer as Bastion and his father, accompanied not only by their honor guard, but also now by Ardnor and his bodyguards, entered the grounds.
Bastion steered his mount next to his brother’s.
“I am surprised but honored by your presence, Ardnor.”
His elder brother snorted harshly. “You’ve got it wrong, Bastion! ’Tis I who am honored to be in your presence!” He slapped Bastion hard on the back. “Welcome back, slayer of General Rahm, defeater of the rebels! I know Kol looks down and thanks you for at last avenging him!”
This was especially generous, considering many still blamed Ardnor’s carelessness for Kolot’s demise. The younger brother had died saving the eldest from the renegade general, after Ardnor had ignored orders from their father to cease his pursuit of Rahm. Had Ardnor obeyed, it was likely Hotak’s third son would still be alive.
But no one, not even the emperor, ever broached that subject, especially on this day. Even now, as Hotak joined Bastion, he nodded cheerfully to his eldest offspring. “I’m pleased you met us at the gate, Ardnor! A fine welcome for your brother, eh?”
“Bastion deserves his due, Father. My brother has robbed the rebels’ of their horns, that’s certain!”
“Aye, Rahm Es-Hestos is dead at last,” Hotak agreed. “As for those who escaped, none are his equal! Jubal and the others will scatter, bicker among themselves, and be reduced to desperate brigands soon to taste the ax, eh, Bastion?”
“As you say, Father,” Bastion replied tersely.
“Father has the right of it!” laughed Ardnor. “By the way, I spoke with Lothan before your ship arrived, brother! The Supreme Circle plans to honor you in a special ceremony at their headquarters!”
Bastion shook his head. “The honor is appreciated, but what I am really looking forward to—what I would prefer—is a good meal, Ardnor.”
“Of course! You’ve probably been dining on salted goat and pork for weeks! Something fresh and tasty, eh? Some wine and perhaps feminine company, too, I daresay.”
“The food will do for now. The other offers will also be appreciated … once I have regained my strength.”
His brother chuckled, though Bastion had not meant any jest. The hunt for General Rahm had been an exhausting and costly one. Many fine warriors had perished, and others were permanently maimed. Several ships had been lost. He felt weary.
“Let us dine together, brother,” Ardnor continued. “I know a place that serves the goat seasoned just as you like it … and it has the kind of entertainment that may help revive your strength.”
Bastion could not hide his surprise. He and his brother were no longer close and had not eaten together since long before the Night of Blood, when their father had slain his rivals and seized the empire. “I would be more than happy to join you, Ardnor.”
Hotak was visibly pleased at what he saw as a mending of longtime differences between the pair. “And you, Ardnor, should dine with us at the palace at your first convenience. We’ve still much to talk about, remember. You’re always welcome there, my son as …” The emperor hesitated, his gaze briefly darting over his shoulder, looking ruefully at the gate. “… as is your mother.”
Bastion’s brother shrugged. “Mother knows where she’s welcome, and you can be certain I’ll be in the palace before long, Father.” To Bastion, he added, “I’ve heard of your many new titles, brother. I expect you to do all of them justice, eh?”
“I can only try.”
“Ha! What you try, that’s more than most can do, Bastion!” With that hearty praise, Ardnor gave one short dip of his horns then led his bodyguards off. The gates opened to let Ardnor outside, and the crowds, seeing who it was, immediately parted.
Hotak excused the honor guard, for only his personal retinue would accompany the duo into the palace itself. Bastion and he dismounted, turned their horses over to a groom, then together ascended the wide, high steps.
“It astounds me how at home I’ve become here,” the elder minotaur commented, as they entered the immense marble halls. The reliefs of past minotaur rulers and accomplishments lined the walls, one even representing a younger Chot in battle against a crustacean Magori. In deference to tradition, Hotak had let the image stand, since it marked Chot’s place in the history of the minotaurs, rather than celebrating him personally. “I remember when tents and rocky ground were what I considered my home. Now … now I could not imagine life without all this.”
“The world constantly changes in ways we do not always expect, Father,” Bastion returned, somewhat dourly.
“I intend to see that it ceases its surprising ways. Order and stability are what Ansalon—nay, Krynn!—require most! The gods are no longer here to guide us! So we must carve out a bold new world, where—ah! Captain Gar!”
A dusky minotaur slightly older than Bastion strode quickly toward the emperor. Gar looked distinctly unhappy. In his right hand, he carried a satchel that had been brought by a courier.
“You may go,” Hotak suddenly told his personal guard.
“My lord! Praise be that you’ve returned!” Glancing at the emperor’s son, the officer hastily added, “And of course my deepest congratulations to you on your victories, Lord Bastion!”
“What is it?” asked Hotak, once the guards had gone, leaving just the three of them.
“A ship has arrived at one of the lesser western ports, my lord. A rider brought this. It bears the seal of your daughter.”
Bastion frowned. “Maritia? Were you expecting—”
“This is not one of her regular dispatches,” the emperor remarked, taking the sat
chel from Captain Gar. “Thank you, captain—you’re dismissed.”
When Gar had departed, Hotak broke the seal on the pouch, and then the parchment within. He studied the note, his good eye first widening then narrowed dangerously. Bastion, who knew his father well, sensed his shifting, roiling emotions.
The emperor thrust the paper at his heir. “Here. You should read this, too.”
Bastion did so hurriedly. His hand threatened to rip the parchment to shreds as he digested his sister’s words.
And if Golgren’s words of a small army of minotaur slaves running loose in Kern has the ring of truth, then it can only be those transferred as slaves to fulfill the historic pact.…
Minotaur slaves loose in Kern.
“I feared this would one day happen,” Bastion muttered grimly, glancing at his father. “If the people find out—”
Hotak had calmed himself. “The people will find out, my son. You’ve not read it all. See what your sister’s done.”
Golgren states that this problem must be dealt with, and as I know you would agree that time is of the essence, I’ve taken the initiative of ordering General Argotos to shift to the north. I hate to spare him, but with the arrival of the Shadow Lions and the Krakens, the strength of the invasion force should be more than sufficien.…
“General Argotos.” Bastion knew his reputation. “The Dragonsbane Legion.”
“You see, now, Bastion? Maritia informs us not only of the potential problem, but the appropriate solution. If the ogres cannot deal with this simple complication, General Argotos will. It will all be achieved quickly and quietly, one hopes.”
The emperor sought out the nearest torch. He fed the dry parchment to the flames, then watched as the note was engulfed by fire. When all but the scrap he still held had burned to charred ash, Hotak dropped the remnants and stomped out the last flames.
“Yes, Argotos will deal with this situation,” Hotak repeated. “Deal with it … and bury it so that the news does not disturb my empire.
“Be ready.” Faros quietly warned. “We attack only on my signal. Anyone who acts before.…”
The former slaves remained still, waiting, obedient to his every word. How his father would have marveled at a Faros who could inspire so many followers, command such loyalty. How his father would have shaken his head, to see his once-carefree son become the leader of a band of desperate minotaurs, abandoned by their own kind in the land of their traditional enemies.
Would Gradic be unnerved by what his son had become?
Faros’s every muscle was taut. His one hand gripped his rusted sword; the other was empty but constantly moving as if holding another weapon, a whip. He rarely blinked, even when the ever-present dust of Kern blew grit into his red-tinged eyes.
He boasted more than a mere ragtag army now. His followers numbered almost three times those who had survived Sahd’s camp, for in their wanderings, the initial band had come upon two other mining facilities. The decision to attack had been instinctual for Faros, though not necessarily for the noble reasons Grom and the rest ascribed to him. His vengeful army had fallen upon the mining camps, leaving no ogre survivors and freeing all the workers. The supplies were taken; the camps burned to the ground.
And both times, the one thing Faros had left behind were poles, poles arranged in the manner Sahd had taught him.
But with the two other rescues, his army was no longer pure minotaur. The ogres had enslaved others—humans, half-elves, even a dwarf or two. Some boasted valuable skills, such as the ability to mend harsh wounds and the knowledge of herbs that could heal or at least drive away pain. Others were better skilled at locating food and water in this dismal, treacherous land.
The army even boasted a few renegade ogres, who had fallen out of favor with the current regime. Faros would have left them headless, if truth be told, but slaves had defended them, revealing that these ogres had been punished by slavery and were treated even worse than the minotaurs. Most of these ogres had been purposely maimed by their overseers. Fingers, toes, ears, and noses had been crushed or cut off to disgrace them.
The ogres were among the most eager to wreak vengeance against their own kind, and Faros put them in the front ranks.
The black hills were swarming with soldiers in Faros’s army, but the unsuspecting force of ogres presently inspecting the last of the ravaged camps had no idea that they were being watched by so many bitter eyes. The ogres had journeyed here to find out what had happened to cut off their steady flow of raw materials.
They had been sent by the Grand Lord Golgren.
Faros had expected them to come, had waited for days. That the ogres not only well outnumbered his followers, but also were far better armed did not impinge on his confidence. There would be deaths on both sides, but more ogres, and that was all that mattered.
Yet these ogres deserved more respect, Faros understood. These were not the ill-tempered, disorganized beasts that had made up the majority of the camp guards; the ogre army below had been trained by someone with an eye for military skill and strategy.
Perhaps even a minotaur officer had had a hand in their training.
Faros raised his empty hand. He watched as the lead ogre, a young but towering behemoth clad in a new breastplate, surely of imperial manufacture, growled an order. A group of ogres immediately began climbing a rugged rock face, heading near where Grom and the other half of the army awaited Faros’s signal.
It was now or never.
Dropping his hand as if striking an invisible foe, Faros leaped up. Horns taken from the various camp raids blared. The ogres froze, startled by the loud sounds echoing from seemingly every direction. To the invaders, it seemed as if dozens of horns blew over and over, shifting position, giving the impression of a force several times larger than their own considerable number.
Roaring, the minotaurs began pushing large rocks and boulders down upon the stunned foes. The rain of rock tore up the hillside. Other chunks of stone were uprooted. Centuries-old outcroppings shattered, their huge, twisted fragments becoming an avalanche. Within seconds, the ogres faced a bewildering onslaught.
Shiny metal breastplates could do little to stop tons of hurtling rock. Ogres shrieked and ran, but many were too slow. Many were simply wiped away by the earthen flood, vanishing beneath tons of dirt and stone despite their desperate struggles.
And on the heels of the avalanche came the minotaurs themselves, led by Faros. He roared at the top of his lungs, eyes flushed with crimson. His sword moved like a fierce wind, slicing foolish foes in his path. The first ogre to stand against him fell with his chest sliced open to the waist, his life fluids spilling on the still-rolling earth. Another lost a hand, then fell to a savage thrust that nearly cleaved his skull in two.
One ogre enemy was indistinguishable from the next; they were objects to be slain. Memories of his lost years of enslavement drove him into a killing frenzy. Vyrox. Tattooed Ulthar. Paug the Butcher. Tunnel collapses. Hanging above the ogre camp. The monstrous feeding of the meredrakes. Sahd and his whippings …
Sahd and his whips.
Where once he was haunted and depleted by these memories, now the nightmares fed him, transformed him into a berserker. His eyes drowned in blood; his breathing grew more rapid. The smarter ogres ran from Faros the moment they saw his eyes. Some did not move swiftly enough and were killed, even if they had turned their backs to flee, or raised their hands in abject surrender.
But today, one ogre did not back down. This one was young, in the prime of his strength, clearly skilled, the leader of this force sent by Golgren. His breastplate shone and on the front, in crude metalwork, someone had added a stylized gryphon.
This ogre leader carried an ax larger than even those often wielded by minotaurs, one nearly as long as Faros was tall. With arms twice as thick as his shorter foe’s, the young ogre commander easily swung the long, wide, twin-bladed weapon like a huge, deadly pendulum, clearing before him any who stood in his path to Faros. One of the fo
rmer slaves who followed Faros tried to cut him off with a clever maneuver, and instead ended up with his muzzle severed, sinew and bone as nothing to the advancing bestial warrior.
“Kya i Garantho uth i’Dagrumi!” he roared at Faros, grandly halting to pound loudly and repeatedly on his breastplate. “Kya i Mastarko uth i’Dagrumi! Sya i f’han, Uruv Suurt!”
From what little Faros knew of the coarse tongue, the ogre was declaring his might and comparing himself to not only the gryphon on his armor, but also the colossal mastark native to Kern. The beastman grinned evilly, displaying not only his long, curved tusks, but yellow teeth carved to perfect, piercing points.
Faros, awaiting his charge, snorted in disdain.
With a savage howl, the ogre attacked.
The ogre’s huge ax bit into the ground near Faros’s feet. He backed up a step then took an impotent jab at his foe as the latter jerked up the ax. Though the tip of his blade punctured the ogre’s hairy arm, the tusked warrior grinned and roared.
Again the mammoth ax swooped down on Faros. This time he raised his blade and tried to deflect the blow, but his sword cracked and broke near the hilt, leaving only a tiny, blunt stump.
The ogre laughed again and stabbed with the point of his ax. The direct thrust caught Faros by surprise, and he grunted as the point pierced his upper shoulder. Despite the pain, however, Faros grabbed the ax just under its razor-sharp head and held on.
His huge adversary swiftly raised not only the ax, but the minotaur as well, into the air. Faros dangled as the ogre mocked him, swinging him back and forth like a reveler with a flag.
Suddenly, a figure darted in from the ogre’s blind side. It was brave Valun, armed with an ax. He swung his smaller but lethal weapon at the ogre, aiming for a bare spot at the waist.
Severing the band holding the two sections of the ogre’s armor together, Valun buried the upper edge of his ax blade in the ogre’s torso. With a roar of astonishment, the fearsome giant threw Faros and his own weapon to the side. Blood streaming from the wound, he whirled on Valun, who twisted away on his bad leg.
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