Trag’s mutilated face twisted shamefully. “I-I … will not be seeing him soon. I’m permanently attached to this mission.”
“Your appointment is a good choice by your brother and my father.” Trag was known as a competent officer, who would be of little use back in the homeland. By putting the crippled officer in charge of the colonization, Cinmac had allowed Trag to save face while moving him away from public scrutiny in imperial Nethosak.
Trag squinted, his watery eyes taking in what little remained of the first conquered elven settlement. “So this is.…”
“It was called Valsolonost, but I’ve renamed it Orcinath in honor of General Orcius, who courageously gave his life here.”
“Aaah.…” The treverian dipped his horns in tribute to the fallen general. “A worthy officer to honor.” He glanced at the legionaries who had surrounded them, gawking uneasily. “We shall do our part to make the new minotaur colony worthy of him.”
Already the colonizers had begun to decamp, to break out supplies and equipment. They unloaded huge saws and axes for cutting down the forest; squat barrels of pitch; fat, wide-handled bellows of the type used by smiths; iron-tipped hoes; and more. The supplies filled what had once been the square of the elven city.
Trag looked approvingly at their efficiency. The colonizers received no aid from the legion soldiers, and they desired none. Despite missing limbs and other flaws, they worked methodically, with the discipline Maritia would have expected from her own.
The one-armed treverian glanced her way. In a slightly hesitant voice, he asked, “Your force … it’ll stay here long?”
Annoyance flared in Hotak’s daughter’s eyes, but not because of Trag. “According to plan, we march in twain. We will advance to a few days south of here. There we’re supposed to hold and wait.”
“But Silvanost beckons.…”
“Yes … it does.” Silvanost, however, was to remain under Mina’s authority, according to Galdar. Reports indicated the Knights of Neraka who followed the renegade minotaur’s puppet already held sway in the capital. Maritia had fended off heated arguments with Generals Bakkor and Kalel—both of whom wished to proceed to the main elven city and rid it not only of its native inhabitants, but also the current invaders, too. Even the ogres, who were converging on Silvanost from the north, did not understand the necessity of waiting. On that issue, at least, the ogres were joined with the minotaurs; both preferred to keep moving.
Maritia herself desired it. Silvanost was the grand prize. It would be the new centerpiece of Ambeon, after the minotaurs had spread.
“We’ll stay here long enough to see that your people have things under control; then we’ll push forward to the next position.”
Trag eyed her strangely. “Orcinath will be rebuilt according to your father’s dictates.” Then Admiral Cinmac’s brother suddenly bowed his horns again. “If I may be permitted to leave you, I must give instructions to the colonizers.”
“You may go.”
He rode off in great haste, making Maritia frown. The treverian headed over to where a huge male was directing the unloading of a wagon of curved picks, blunt-nosed shovels, and other tools suitable for digging through hard stone. At first, Hotak’s daughter could discern only that the other minotaur wore a patch over one eye, but then he turned and Maritia almost gaped. His left arm appeared a tiny, withered thing that moved awkwardly, an obvious defect dating from his birth.
Her ears flattened. It was a wonder that his parents had allowed him to live.
Nostrils flaring, she turned her horse away. Bad enough that the legions were forced to advance so slowly, now they had to wait to supervise the colonizers … and seeing the new arrivals, she had fresh doubts about her father’s vision for conquering Ansalon.
“What were you thinking, father?” she muttered as she returned to her tent, near the western rim of Valsolonost. “What were you thinking?” she repeated to herself, imagining all the work and struggle to come. “It’ll never work.”
On the first day, the colonizers organized their supplies and gear and marked the first trees for cutting. Setting up a huge mess tent, they began to feed their fellows, and the smells that arose from their encampment stirred jealousy in the hearts of legionaries tired of jerky and other cured meats. When a few foolhardy soldiers tried to help themselves to some of the rabbit stew boiling in the large pots, they were beaten back by a group of colonizers whose duty it was to guard the goods and equipment.
On the second day, three framework structures at least fifteen feet high were erected on the eastern edge of the settlement. Lengthy and wide, they would become the flat-roofed communal houses where the colonizers would live temporarily. Other colonizers began charting the flow of the nearby river, seeing how the elves had shaped its flow and marking where they might change its course for better use by the much larger, more demanding population that would eventually fill Orcinath.
At the midpoint of the third day, one of the framework structures acquired a roof. A huge iron stove whose positioning required six of the strongest colonizers—three on each side bearing it as one would a royal litter—was filled with coal and wood. With a massive anvil and the largest of the bellows, the colonizers began using their new smithy to make and mend tools from the barrels of raw iron and copper they had brought with them.
Maritia found the treverian officer engaged in building the communal houses. One now had planks lining two of its walls. Peering at one seemingly healthy worker expertly filling the narrow cracks between the planks with a mixture of clay and other substances, Hotak’s daughter realized with a start that the colonizer was blind.
Trag, coming up to her, noticed her disconcerted expression.
“His touch is most expert, my lady. He’ll make certain that elements and vermin do not worm their way in through the walls.”
“You’ve done well for so short a period of time. I am impressed.”
He dipped his horns at her praise. “When they came and gave us our orders, they reminded us that there was no other place for our kind in the imperium. It gives us the incentive to succeed.” He proudly held up his muzzle. “We are still minotaurs, my lady.”
“Perhaps, then, I will insult you with my offering.”
“Hmm?” Trag peered past Maritia, his eyes suddenly noticing that a large group was huddled some distance behind her.
“Elves … my lady?”
Most made the colonizers appear hardy and healthy. Gaunt, extremely pale, and unwashed since their capture, the elves of Valsolonost stared wearily at their feet. Since the fall of the city, they had been given the tasks of clearing the dead and emptying the ruined homes of all valuables. For good measure, Maritia had commandeered the strongest of them to begin clearing land to the north for eventual habitation. There, over the centuries, they had created a garden of towering flowers of myriad colors, trees shaped like umbrellas, and shrubbery fashioned only by gentle touch into the various woodland forms supposedly inhabited by their former god, Branchala. Maritia ordered the land swept clean.
Tearing down the garden had been their final humiliation and despair. The elves knew now their gods had truly abandoned them.
“I doubt they’ve much skill at the anvil, or even at pounding a nail,” Trag said with a contemptuous grunt. He had a minotaur’s pride along with a disdain for the jaded, apathetic masters of Silvanesti. “Can’t imagine they could even cook meat well … they eat raw flowers or something, don’t they, my lady?”
Maritia shrugged. After a few days without food, she found the slaves had been willing to eat anything. “If you can’t use them for anything, maybe I’d be better off executing the whole bunch.”
Trag stared at the elves more intently. Maritia followed his gaze, but saw nothing exceptional. Even the kirath wore the same defeated looks as others of their race.
“They can dig,” the treverian announced. “Anyone can dig. Any animal can dig.”
“Dig what? Their graves?”
&nbs
p; “Nay, my lady. We’ve found an excellent area south of the city for a quarry! We’ll need plenty of stone for the final building of Orcinath! Surely even elves can dig!”
Maritia frowned. “If you think so.”
“Excellent.” Trag’s ears twitched. “With the progress we are making, my lady, I don’t want to detain you here. Surely you may feel free to move on, with your soldiers.”
“I leave the slaves in your hands, then,” she replied with a nod. She looked him over. “I concur with you. The colonization is going well. We shall leave here in two or three days.”
He dipped his head.
She bid the treverian goodbye, aware that his eagerness to bid farewell to the legions spoke to the unspoken animosity between the colonizers and the soldiers. But she agreed: the sooner the two groups were separated, the better.
Still, despite her private distaste for the colonizers, she had to admit they did their work professionally. Maritia wondered what plans they had for rebuilding Silvanost to suit the empire.
But … they might never have that opportunity. Silvanost belonged to Galdar and his human. That was the agreement. The minotaurs would halt their conquest before they reached the capital.
Still.…
Maritia snorted. She looked around at the ruined settlement. A sentry, one from her own Warhorse legion, strode by, saluting his commander when he saw her. Hotak’s daughter frowned then summoned the soldier.
He knelt before her. “Aye, my lady?”
“Send a message to General Kalel.” The Direhounds had the best capabilities for what she had in mind. “Tell him”—Maritia looked one more time to the south—“tell him I need four of his best scouts to undertake a special mission.”
The Foran i’Kolot, summoned by the emperor, sailed into the harbor in the dead of night. Its orders were to sail north, seek out the rebel ships believed there, and decimate the traitors.
Aboard its flagship, leading it to victory, rode the favored second son of the emperor, the champion of the empire, Bastion.
Hotak had discussed final thoughts with his son, before bidding him farewell at the palace. Only two guards rode alongside the black minotaur as he journeyed to the harbor. The sun had not yet risen. Few were around to notice three soldiers seemingly on patrol.
“Is that it?” he asked, as they neared the docks. An incredible shadow loomed, the outline of a daunting warship Bastion had watched being built, but never had glimpsed whole.
“Aye, my lord,” replied the most senior. “That’s the Stormbringer.”
“Surely a worthy replacement for the Donag’s Shield”—Bastion dismounted—“a worthy lead vessel of the Foran i’Kolot.”
“A fine honor, too, my lord, for your brother.”
“Yes … my brother.”
Footsteps were heard. A torch in one hand, the ship’s captain—a barrel-chested minotaur with a long streak of gray running down his torso—met them at the foot of the gangplank. He dipped his horns and said in a surprisingly soft voice, “My Lord Bastion. I be Captain Xyr. ’Tis my honor to have you aboard this vessel.”
“Your reputation is known to me and to all the empire, Captain Xyr. I consider it an honor to sail with you.”
Xyr swelled with pride. “Thank you, my lord.” He glanced over his shoulder at the darkened ship. “You’ve a visitor come to see you off.”
Bastion’s ears twitched. “Who is it?”
“Best to see for yourself, my lord. I’ll have someone stow your gear in your cabin.”
Curious, the black-furred minotaur boarded the Stormbringer. He peered at the night-enshrouded figures scurrying around the deck.
“You’d think I’d have more trouble seeing you in the dark than the other way around,” commented a rumbling voice behind him.
He whirled about. “Ardnor?”
His brawny brother laughed. “Did you expect the Sea Queen?”
“I didn’t expect you. How did you know I would be here at this hour?”
Ardnor bared his teeth in a smile. “There’s little I don’t know or find out about, brother.”
“No. I suppose not.”
“I wanted to make certain that you didn’t sail off before I had the chance to wish you the best of luck on your important mission.”
Around them, the crew bustled, preparing to depart. Bastion and Ardnor moved to one side to avoid two mariners struggling with the former’s gear.
“I am grateful for your wishes and your presence here, Ardnor. I had wanted to wish you good fortune on your own important mission, but time slipped away.”
“My mission.…” The elder brother snorted. “Ferrying supplies. Nothing grand, but I do what I can for the empire.”
Bastion put his hand on Ardnor’s arm. “It is an important mission, I know. Father would not entrust it to just anyone. And after this is accomplished, I feel certain he will reward you with an assignment that I will envy. He has a great love for you, Ardnor.”
“Maybe.” Ardnor waved off his brother’s words as inconsequential. “But you and I, here and now.…” He leaned into his brother. “We’ve not been close for years, Bastion, but when you were out there fighting the rebels, it occurred to me that there was a good chance you’d die. I thought about it quite a lot, in fact. Then, when you came back, I realized I didn’t want to miss my chance.” Now, he took Bastion’s arm in a firm grip. “I want to make certain that this time I saw you off properly.”
“I am truly honored, then.”
“We’re the sons of Hotak, the sons of the future. It’s only right that we take care of one another. And as eldest, it’s my duty to take care of you.” Again he bared his smile.
They clasped one another briefly, awkwardly, as it was something that had not transpired between them since boyhood. Then Ardnor backed away and dipped his horns. Bastion did the same.
“May your journey be everything I hope it will be,” Ardnor rumbled.
“You’ll be the first to hear, I promise.”
The elder brother laughed then, with a brief bow, left.
Bastion watched his sibling’s hulking form descend the gangplank. Since they had first begun training to become warriors of the realm, their unspoken rivalry had simmered and burned. Though Bastion certainly hadn’t intended it, a rift had developed between them, and over the years, it had only grown. Once Bastion thought it would never be healed.
But now, it seemed, Ardnor had changed. Hotak had invited him back into the inner circle of the palace and had given him this first important command. Bastion truly believed that if Ardnor paid more respect to his father and obeyed his commands, then eventually he could expect to earn some great rank.
As one who desired peace within the family, Bastion had already made it clear to his father that when the day came that he took throne, he would offer his sibling a deserved place of honor.
“When I return, we will speak more,” he murmured at the retreating figure.
“Excuse me, my lord,” said Captain Xyr, coming up to him. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. ’Tis well known that your brother and you have had differences in the past. It is good to see that things’ve changed.”
“Yes … yes, it is good.”
The captain cleared his throat. “We’re ready to get under way. We’ll run the last of the rebels to the rocks, eh?”
“Let us hope so,” Bastion replied with a deferential nod.
With one of the crew to lead him, Bastion made his way to his quarters. He had plans to make, but his thoughts kept returning to the sudden, unexpected change in Ardnor. Perhaps, as the realm achieved an unprecedented unity, so, too, would his family.
Including, he dared hope, even his mother.
Faros’s army—by now it was as large as a genuine army—marched through the ogre lands almost with impunity. High hills began to loom around them, and these were increasingly lush hills with trees and green grass, and soon, thick forests.
They were nearing the Blood Sea, beyond which lay the min
otaur homeland, from which, as ex-slaves turned outlaws, they were forbidden to return. So why was Faros leading them there?
No longer were they engulfed by oppressive heat; now ominous green-gray clouds filled the heavens. The wind grew wild, stirring to high velocity then abruptly dying down. Among the thick clouds blood-red lightning flashed. But the threatening storm never came.
Grom, constantly making the sign of Sargonnas and muttering prayers to the lost god, rode closest to Faros, who seemed oblivious to the unnatural agitation of the elements.
It was difficult to scavenge enough food to feed the entire force. Faros had to send hunting parties in every direction, but they hadn’t spotted any ogre patrols for days.
Faros led one bow-hunting party along a river. Two half-elves scouted ahead, their ability to move stealthily making them the best stalkers. The band hoped to flush out large game—a deer or a great boar. There were many such tracks in the area.
Grom, never far from Faros’s side, stopped by the riverbank. “Look—movement on the other side! I’d swear it was an elk!”
“Which does us little good from here.” The roaring river had widened considerably at this juncture, but ahead Faros pointed to a series of huge rocks that comprised a makeshift crossing.
Grom went first, groping along from one rock to the next, nearly sliding off the wet, slippery boulders. His fur was soaked. He made futile attempts to shake off the water, but the river splashing against the rocks repeatedly drenched him. About twenty others, including Faros, stoically watched his progress.
Leaping from one stone to the next, he slipped and plunged partway into the water, before seizing hold and pulling himself back out. He gave the others a rueful expression then continued on.
Once safely on the other side, Grom waved for Faros and the others, who had mentally followed his course, to come.
Faros started across. The river seemed to roar with anger, almost as though personally challenging him. Eyes fixed ahead, his sword and bow tucked close to him, Faros made slow progress.
Tides of Blood Page 28
