Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

He nodded.

  The riders urged the huge beasts in opposite directions, quickly pulling the chains tight. This prisoner had the ability to scream … and scream he did. His arms and legs were stretched beyond their limits. His cries echoed throughout the valley.

  Those watching roared and shouted and encouraged the mastarks. The handlers beat at their mounts.

  Moments later, the prisoner’s pitiable cries suddenly ceased.

  Golgren’s followers gave a collective cheer. Ogres swatted one another on the back and laughed at the mastarks’ cruelty.

  Donnag himself roared merrily, then shouted at one of his own warriors. The ogre slipped into the carriage, emerging a moment later with a golden chalice. He trotted up to the Lord Chieftain, who accepted the valuable relic.

  “Ilra by tuum,” the elder ogre grinned, patting his left arm and pointing to the torn and bloody remains of the prisoner. “Ilra by tuum orna, ke, i’Golgreni!”

  Golgren graciously accepted the payment for the wager he had won. On the field, the guards gathered the body parts for disposal.

  Golgren had Belgroch guide the aging Lord Chieftain to the tower for a proper meal to celebrate his visit. But as Golgren turned to follow, he spotted a rider coming in hard from the east. The rider must be carrying news of the greatest importance … and his expression was one that did not please the Grand Lord.

  “Uruv Suurt,” Golgren said to himself, his countenance darkening. He stared past the rider, toward the distant mountains where the mines were located. He was not in the mood for more bad news.

  “Uruv Suurt … nkya i f’han …” Golgren muttered, baring his sharp teeth. “F’han.…”

  He sensed her presence as she neared in the form of a chill wind. Hotak looked up, with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. He mastered his apprehension, telling himself that the foul rumors he had heard were only that—rumors.

  “My love,” Hotak said, rising from his study of the grand campaign map. “This is a rare pleasure.”

  As ever, his wife seemed to almost glide, rather than walk. Lady Nephera glanced from her husband to the relief map spread over the vast table and then back to him. “We are not so unalike, my husband. You spend your time worshipping this map.”

  Her comment was uncomfortably close to the truth; he had even slept in the planning room this past night. “Matters are heating up,” the emperor explained apologetically. “In addition to the various theaters of operation, I’ve had to coddle the Merchant’s League with assurances that the additional demands I’ve placed on production will not cause a sudden shortage of raw materials for the everyday needs of the empire. You’ve no idea how short-sighted the leading merchants can be.”

  She walked slowly around the table, stopping on the opposite side. Leaning over, Nephera studied the various pieces on the map.

  “The array of your forces must be corrected.” Before he could reply, she gestured with her index finger at those perched just before the border of Silvanesti. The charging minotaur warriors slid west, continuing until they stood firmly on elven territory.

  Eye widening, Hotak gripped the edge of the table; in his stunned excitement he cracked the wood. “Can this be true?”

  “Do you doubt my word?”

  “No … no, of course not!” He came around to her side of the table, the better to see the Silvanesti area. “What resistance has my army encountered? How far have they penetrated into the elven kingdom?”

  “Maritia will fill you in on the mundane details, my husband. The ship from Sargonath is even now docking, carrying missives from her. I can tell you this, they have conquered the nearest elven city with only minor casualties—I mean to the legions, of course.” Nephera abruptly glanced to her left, nodding as if hearing something. An expression that might have been sympathy flickered across her hooded features. “Oh, forgive me. I meant to inform you—General Orcius has left his mortal shell.”

  “Orcius?” Hotak’s nostrils flared. “Damn!”

  “He now serves through a greater power, my husband, rest assured of that.”

  “I’d rather he were on this earth, leading on the field of battle.” The emperor held up a message he had just received, before his wife’s arrival. “And this communiqué? Can you tell me more about this situation, as well?”

  The high priestess showed a thin smile. She had not read the message, but she could tell him. “Yes, a rebel ship sails near the northern peninsula. Governor Jubal of Gol is aboard it.”

  “Jubal? Jubal?” Hotak eyed the spot on the map where the black ship had been placed. “The Dragon’s Crest?”

  “Yes. The same.”

  Hotak picked up the piece, imagining it to be the real vessel, and closed his grip on it tightly. “Catching that ship and capturing the governor will put an end to the rebellion.”

  She nodded, her eyes unblinking. Nephera stared at her husband as intently as he stared at the ship figurine in the palm of his hand. “Yes, whoever claims that capture will be much honored.”

  “True,” thoughtfully returned the emperor, replacing the piece on the map. His gaze fixed on it. “As is only right.”

  “Send Ardnor.”

  “Ardnor?” He looked up, startled by her suggestion. “Send Ardnor on this mission?”

  “He is deserving of your trust. You told him you desired him to become more a part of the throne. Give him this chance to show you his mettle.”

  “Ardnor.” Hotak repeated. “I suppose it would be right.”

  Coming around the table toward him, Nephera stepped up closer to her mate. Despite her gauntness, despite her wide, unmoving eyes, despite the fact that her beauty was somehow corrupted these days, Hotak glowed with a smile. He inhaled, imagining the lavender scent that had always attended her … until recently.

  “I will return,” the empress whispered to him. Nephera reached up with her hand, ran her fingers over his one ruined eye. “Once, I offered to make whole that which you lost—”

  Hotak gently seized her hand, removing it from the old wound. “No.”

  “As you wish.” Looking past him, nodding to silent spectators, the high priestess then slipped from Hotak’s grasp and headed to the door. “I will keep you apprised.”

  When she had left, Hotak had the uncomfortable feeling of a crowded hall suddenly emptying. Alone, his senses returned to normal. He pondered her suggestion in a more considered fashion. There were pluses and minuses.

  And if he were to send Ardnor on such a critical mission, the minuses outweighed the pluses.

  “No … no, my love, it simply can’t be done. Not for this mission. Jubal and the Dragon’s Crest must be taken care of properly. Bastion’ll handle it with more experience.”

  He glanced around the map, trying to find something of seeming importance for his eldest son to do and noticed Sargonath.

  Yes, a new shipment of supplies was being urgently dispatched to the Grand Lord Golgren. Why not have Ardnor lead that mission? The importance of satisfying the ogre pact, and keeping the ogre army well stocked, could scarcely be denied. The vital supply mission would prove how much he loved and trusted his eldest.

  “Yes … Ardnor to Sargonath and Bastion to northern Kern.” He seized the gold ship that had been his younger son’s and another identical figurine. The first he placed near the peninsula, the other to the west. The emperor nodded. “Yes, the empire’s needs come first. She’ll just have to understand.”

  Despite his orders, General Argotos had no intention of waiting for ogres to join his campaign. They were beasts, without proper military behavior. Small wonder that the escaped minotaur slaves had been able to take such advantage of their weaknesses. Argotos admired the courage of the escaped miners even though he intended to slaughter them all. He had to end their existence, erase the example they set; it was for the good of the empire. He would make his apologies to the emperor and the Lady Maritia after the fact … likely just before they decorated him.

  Argotos was a wide, thick-snouted mi
notaur whose left horn curled slightly. He wore jagged scars all over his face, some of which he had intentionally carved. As commander of the Dragonsbane Legion, Argotos had earned a reputation as an officer who would throw himself into combat alongside his soldiers.

  Today Argotos rode at the head of a crack legion, eyeing the landscape for any sign of the minotaur renegades.

  “General,” called one of his aides. “Scouts approaching.”

  Argotos squinted, seeing the two riders making haste toward the long, winding column. Good—they had spotted something.

  The two gasped for breath as they pulled up. Both were dressed in brown cloth tunics, the better to blend into the dismal, dusty landscape of this part of Kern. Underneath, they wore some light chain mail, just in case they ran into trouble.

  “Just a-ahead,” the elder, weathered female announced. “It’s scattered all along a side trail.”

  “What is? Have the damned ogres beaten us to the brigands?”

  Only the general and his senior staff knew the truth: they were hunting escaped minotaur slaves. The legionaries had the idea that they were chasing minotaur rebels and pirates. That these minotaurs had been sold into their slavery by the emperor was a state secret. Every one of the ex-slaves had to die.

  “No, general!” the female replied with a vigorous shake of her head. “We think it’s the escort from the original caravan.”

  “Hmm?” Argotos felt some disappointment. The ogre escort had not been heard from for some time; he already suspected that they had been attacked and overcome. There were two legion officers among them; no doubt they were all slain.

  Well, at least his men would see that they weren’t on any picnic. The killing of the legion officers, in particular, would stoke their fury.

  “All right, lead on.”

  The righteous ex-slaves had shown the ogres no mercy, and for good measure, someone had propped up a number of their heads. Argotos chuckled as he gazed at the dried, picked-over skulls.

  “How this must’ve shook up the damned beastmen.”

  The legion marched down the trail of destruction, the soldiers eyeing the gnawed, drying, and mangled corpses scattered around. Little was left on the bodies. Some evinced tattered animal skins and rusted bits of metal. All were beheaded.

  Some in the ranks muttered vengefully as they moved among the dead. Like Argotos, the minotaur soldiers had no fondness for ogres, even now that their fabled adversaries were allies. Still, they had been told that the perpetrators of this atrocity were interfering with the rightful destiny of the minotaur empire, and this sight had stirred them; they vowed to find those responsible.

  The heat baked the legionaries, though the Dragonsbane had trained and fought in such harsh lands before. The oppressive heat, the dust, the harsh wind, nothing really would impede them. Minotaur soldiers fought well, wherever they met their enemies.

  Never mind that much minotaur blood would flow.

  “The other scouts return,” one of Argotos’s officers said, pointing at the nearby mountains to the northeast.

  “Let’s hope they have something to report.” Argotos noticed a peculiarity off to the side of the trail. Someone had tried to conceal all traces of their handiwork, but the winds had uncovered something. “Is that the remains of a pyre over there? Tell the first treverian to send out a contingent to investigate that area.”

  “Aye, general.”

  As the officer rode off, the other scouts arrived. Saluting, the senior one reported, “Traces of two encampments, one several weeks older than the other. Looks to me like they’re moving all around, general, circling, deviating, even backtracking.”

  “Shrewd tactics. Estimates?”

  “Several hundred at least, probably more than a thousand, but not as many as a legion.”

  Argotos snorted. “Hardly worth a chase. But it shouldn’t be too difficult running down these renegades.” The general looked up at the sky; soon it would be dark. “Too late to reach the mountains. We’ll set up camp just north of here. If they are looking for us, they’ll find us in the open. If they are waiting for us in the mountains, we’re wise to tarry here, and tomorrow, at dawn, we can pick up their trail—”

  His words were cut off as a sudden movement in that very direction caught his attention. There were no more scouts out.…

  One of his other officers pointed. “General! Ogres!”

  “They don’t move like ogres,” said another.

  “Form ranks!” commanded Argotos, now standing alert in the saddle. “Sound warning! I want battle formation now!”

  Horns blared. Metal clanked against metal as the seasoned legionaries swiftly shifted to create a living wall whose bulk and number was intended to overpower the force heading toward them. Lances were thrust forward. The cavalry readied to ride down the enemy, while archers prepared for the volleys that would precede any charge. Catapult and ballistae crews tugged the hulking weapons into position.

  By now it was clear that the Dragonsbane legion was being charged not by ogres, but by a shouting force of minotaurs.

  “The rebels!” snarled one soldier. Others grunted their hatred for those who still followed the cause of the late, despised, deposed Chot.

  “Let them get close,” Argotos muttered. “Then let loose with everything!”

  But as the attacking minotaurs neared, what had looked like a small cohesive unit appeared to splinter into a ragtag group of drawn, weathered figures, some of whom clearly could not have made it this far without their thick-legged ogre steeds or some aid from their companions. There were even nonminotaurs among them.

  “Ha!” General Argotos snorted to his officers. “What a pathetic bunch! They’ll hardly make our legionaries sweat!”

  “What orders, sir?” asked his second, with an eager expression.

  But then the renegades did something that left the general scratching his head. As he and the others watched, instead of advancing … the ragged army of ex-slaves lowered their weapons.

  “What by the Horned One are they doing?” mouthed Argotos.

  A young, pale brown male with piercing eyes stepped to the front of the enemy. He studied the vast array of well-armed warriors spread out against him, almost with disinterest.

  The general opened his mouth, about to order an attack.

  He clamped it shut again, unable to believe his eyes.

  Seemingly unmindful of the certain death that awaited him if he attacked, the leader bent down and set his sword on the ground.

  As one, those behind followed his lead. As the weapons clattered on the hard earth, the legionaries looked at each other in perplexity.

  “They’re surrendering without a fight!” blurted a hekturion.

  “Impossible!” roared the commander. Argotos preferred to simply wipe them out, but against his own kind, especially those who had just surrendered, such an action was surely dishonorable.

  And honor was deeply instilled in Emperor Hotak’s legions.

  All but the light brown leader lowered themselves as best they could onto one knee. Those who rode dismounted, keeping one hand on the reins as they knelt. Several of the injured and infirm had obvious difficulty kneeling, but determinedly did so.

  The leader lowered his horns to the side. The other ex-slaves did the same.

  “ ’Tis an honorable surrender,” someone uttered.

  “Belay that!” roared Argotos. The general rubbed the underside of his muzzle, eyes swirling with frustration.

  And then, the light brown figure with the piercing eyes again seized the initiative. Cautiously rising to his feet, the leader of these desperate minotaurs and other renegades surveyed the opposing line, seeming to stare into the eyes of every legionary.

  He raised his arms to show his lack of weapons then took five steps toward the waiting legionaries. He paused, keeping his arms wide and seeming to boast of the display of countless scars over his chest. Someone had tortured this minotaur greatly.

  “Our lives are y
ours!”

  The words echoed. Several legionaries shifted nervously.

  His voice almost devoid of emotion, the leader added, “Our deaths are yours!”

  “General,” muttered Argotos’s second. “Should we—”

  “I’m thinking!”

  “But if he—”

  Argotos glared at the officer. “Why should we trust him? He’s a renegade!” The general huffed and snorted then, with low growl, added, “Give the signal for the archers to ready a volley!”

  Almost immediately, the horns sounded. The attackers were within range. Argotos watched the archers prepare to fire.

  But seemingly undaunted by the certainty of his death, the rabble’s commander actually stepped nearer. He now stared directly at the archers, almost taunting them by exposing himself.

  A few minotaurs behind him stirred anxiously. One near the front made what Argotos recognized from his youth as the sign of Sargonnas. “You’ll receive no aid from that one,” the general quietly mocked. In a louder voice, he called, “Archers … ready!”

  The bows went up. The archers pulled tight.

  And still the fool did not turn and run. Instead, a grim smile played across his taut features. Ignoring the scores of shafts aimed his way, he said to the legion, “We surrender to the will of the empire … we surrender to the same empire of the usurper Hotak, that gave us into slavery to our masters of old!”

  That was more than enough for General Argotos. “Fire!”

  The horns sounded. Argotos steeled himself for the hiss of hundreds of arrows streaking accurately toward their marks.

  But from the ranks, there came only dozens of shots, and among those most scattered harmlessly. Bolts were shot in every direction, as if Dragonsbane had for its archers a regiment of drunken gully dwarves, instead of skilled veteran warriors.

  A few did fly true, dropping down to strike the ragtag army. Some of the kneeling throng cried out. A few fell, clearly wounded or dead. The behavior of the archers was disconcerting to Argotos, more so the resolute defiance of the renegades. Some moved to aid those who had been struck down, but other than that no one budged and no one retreated. They all stared ahead, waiting.