Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  But the wind whipped up as he neared midstream. One gust nearly cost him his footing. The water frothed around the rocks, tossing up flotsam. Faros caught glimpses of the depths. Huge river fish were darting around, and water plants writhed in the current.

  His gaze flitted past an oddly white chunk of rock. It took a moment for Faros to register the water-smoothed skull of some animal. Once he realized that, he spotted numerous other white rocks in different shapes and sizes that were probably the bones of animals or ogres who had fallen victim to the treacherous river.

  Grom held out a hand, pulling Faros up and patting him on the back.

  “Praise the Horned One! I thought you were on the verge of taking a swim!”

  Faros grunted, his nostrils flaring and his ears twitching, as he was already impatient for the others to cross. Two more of his followers had already begun the slow, precarious crossing.

  In the lead was a white-haired half-elf, making fair progress, but the husky minotaur behind him had poor balance. He slid over one rock, almost stumbling into the river while clutching the next. He managed to crawl over the next few rocks without trouble, but then the water suddenly surged around him.

  The minotaur splashed into the river. He managed to grab hold of a rock, but hung there, unable to haul himself back up.

  Another one of the party moved onto the rocks with the intention of helping the minotaur. The half-elf looked back, saw his comrade’s predicament, and also turned around to give aid.

  “Fool,” Faros muttered. By his bumbling, the minotaur had endangered himself and, worse, slowed the entire hunting party.

  Now the one advancing from the other bank seemed to be having almost as much trouble as the figure flailing in the water. “If this goes on, we’ll have to fish them all out of the river.”

  Then a white form shot out of the water, darting toward—not the struggling minotaur—but the half-elf coming to his rescue. Whatever the thing was, it seized the half-elf by the leg and dragged him into the raging river, where he vanished.

  Even Faros stared speechless.

  Grom pointed. “What was … that?”

  The others lining up to cross had not seen what had happened, thinking only that the half-elf had fallen into the river and was swept away. Two more were now teetering on the rocks, trying to reach the minotaur whose cries for help were increasingly pitiful.

  And again a white, gaunt appendage materialized from out of the raging river and snared the leg of one atop the rocks. This minotaur reached for her ax but lost her balance and also fell in. She was immediately swallowed up by the swirling waters.

  “By the Horned One!” Grom hefted his ax, starting back.

  “Stay here!” Faros roared, grabbing Grom and pushing past him. Freeing his sword, he headed onto the rocks.

  Those on the opposing side had seen the white menace this time and were also coming armed.

  Something moved in the water near his leg. Faros wasted no time in stabbing at it. The blade severed the end of something, which flopped on the rock for a few seconds before rolling over the other side and dropping back into the water.

  Faros’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly. What he had cut off was a three-digited hand composed of shards of bone.

  Behind him, he heard Grom curse. The stubborn minotaur had followed him and was now snagged by the foot. With an oath to Sargonnas, Grom was chopping at the monstrous white limb clutching him; bone fragments were flying in every direction. Even unattached, three talons had to be peeled away from his ankle.

  And as Faros looked over his shoulder, he saw that everyone on the rocks was under attack by the fiendish white limbs. It was almost as though the whole setup had been a trap. The appendages were breaking the water in droves now. Faros and the others struck at them, cutting them, smashing them.

  Through it all, the minotaur dangling from a rock hung on, untouched by the macabre attack. He had been mere bait to draw the others, Faros silently noted, which meant that the evil they battled was purposefully directed. It had tried to trap as many of them as possible, at one time.

  But time ran out for the hapless minotaur when four of the bony limbs shot up and seized him. He roared and managed to tear off one of the limbs before the rest drew him down.

  When Faros leaped in his direction, hoping to grab him somehow, he was startled to see a hollow-eyed, vaguely minotaur face staring up at him from under the water. He jerked back then thrust.

  The sword drove through the undead minotaur’s skull, which burst apart into hundreds of pieces.

  A moment later, the other attacking limbs released their various quarries and suddenly sank back out of sight.

  “Get away from the water!” Faros roared. “Away!”

  They were all unsettled. Not even minotaurs care to battle against the undead. Grom edged back to the far side, while the rest streamed toward the original side of the riverbank.

  Faros was right behind Grom, but something brushed against him, hard. He fell against a rock, his sword slipping free.

  He pushed himself up to a kneeling position. Water surged over him.

  Grom shouted something drowned out by the roar of the river. The minotaur pointed behind Faros with an expression of horror.

  Faros looked over his shoulder, to see rain sheeting down from a monstrous form. It stood three times the height of a minotaur and vaguely, just vaguely, resembled one—if the flesh and muscle had not been torn clean from the eerily white bone.

  The thing’s eyes were deep, black sockets, which had been shaped from broken bits of different skulls—some animal, some ogre, and some even human. As though mocking the minotaurs, it bore crusted horns, also shaped of myriad bones from a variety of dead creatures, that thrust up savagely from the top of its head.

  The behemoth opened its muzzle, revealing teeth composed of jagged bits and, within, gaping darkness. An unearthly hiss escaped its terrible maw, which distended as large as the rest of its entire head.

  The undead horror moved fluidly underwater. Water gushed through its rib cage, a sinister framework large enough for Faros to be held prisoner inside. It made an eerie clatter as it moved and the hissing sound constantly escaping its toothy mouth was unnerving to say the least.

  The bone-creature reached for Faros with long, fragment arms ending in three-digited talons.

  Faros rolled over into the water, and the talons smashed down against the rock, just missing him. Submerged, he battled the strong current, grasping for the sword he had fumbled … or a rock … any possible weapon.

  Something touched his hand and Faros instinctively grabbed it. The monstrous fiend reached down for him, plunging an arm into the water … and hesitated, as though momentarily sightless.

  Not understanding, Faros pushed into the depths, trying to swim away from the rocks. Unfortunately, his action seemed to attract the creature’s notice and one claw swept down on him.

  Raked across the back, Faros spun and twirled. He swallowed water and lost hold of the object in his hand. However, as his fingers grazed the bottom of the river, he felt the hilt of a sword.

  Whether his own or another’s, Faros did not care. As the skeletal giant leaned over for another swipe, he stabbed up wildly.

  The blade easily cut through the undead horror’s talons. With a horrific hiss, it jerked back. As it did, Grom and three others attacked it from above. They battered at the back of the monster with their axes and swords, one even firing his bow.

  The damaged claw swung wildly, knocking Grom into the water. Faros climbed up on the nearest rock, behind the monster. The creature’s maw opened and out of it shot a spear-like appendage.

  The tip of it burst through the chest of the bow-wielding minotaur, impaling him. The quivering minotaur dropped his weapon. The hellish creature pulled back its head and retracted the appendage, swallowing its victim whole.

  Faros expected to see the corpse somehow spiral down through the skeletal rib cage, but the minotaur’s body simply vanished.<
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  Huge waves arose, drenching the other members of the hunting party, who had rallied forward to help Faros. Whirling from the group, the demonic skeleton opened its maw again, shooting out its bony spear toward Faros. But he was ready for it this time, and jumped aside at the last moment, seizing the appendage with one hand.

  Immediately, the beast retracted its weapon. But as Faros flew toward the bony monster, he quickly released his grip.

  He landed against the hard bones. Before the demonic creature could react, Faros was up and slashing. He cut away the ribs with ease. Talons reached for him. He brought his sword around and sliced away another one of its grasping claws.

  Hissing furiously, the bone monster spun in a circle. Faros swung and struck deep, into its spine. The air was split by high squealing. A black, thick fluid poured from the wound. Faros was overwhelmed by a stench that reminded him of Vyrox.

  The skeleton creature turned and moved toward the deeper part of the river. Faros jumped on its back and clung there. The creature did not pause, but kept moving toward deeper water.

  Snarling, Faros pulled himself up to avoid being drowned. He raised the blade and, with all the strength he could muster, drove the weapon down.

  A long, low moan issued from the monster. It was followed by a huge cracking sound. Severed, the top half of the hellish monster twisted and fell.

  Unfortunately, though Faros tried to leap aside, the monster toppled on him, trapping him, smothering him with water.

  When the bone creature hit the river, its body exploded into pieces. Finally freed, Faros tried to kick toward the surface, but the water churned him under. All he saw were turbulent water and stormy sky. His head struck against a rock. Faros swallowed more water, choking and gagging.

  He grew light-headed. Vaguely the drowning minotaur felt something tugging at him, but it seemed so distant, so inconsequential.

  He slammed into something hard.

  The world became darkness.

  Sahd loomed over him, his burned face distorted into a smile.

  No … it was Paug. The Butcher snorted mirthlessly at the helpless figure, then reached down for his throat.

  Then Paug became the demonic skeleton, who loomed over him and sought to swallow the minotaur whole.

  “No,” said a cold, calculating voice reminiscent of someone familiar. “You’ll not be granted death yet.”

  With a start, he regained consciousness, coughing uncontrollably, his lungs still filled with water. Snout flat against mud, the minotaur vomited repeatedly. Pain wracked Faros—pain such as he had not known even under the whip.

  At last, he breathed air. Only then did he notice that his hand clutched something. Blinking clear his eyes, he saw that despite everything that had transpired, he still gripped his sword.

  No, not his sword. The handle of this one had a different fit, and the hilt had been decorated, perhaps even with gemstones.

  The blade was stuck under an old waterlogged tree trunk half submerged on the banks of the river. Even as this registered, the sword began to slide loose. Faros quickly grabbed onto the trunk and pulled himself up over the tree and onto the bank.

  He crawled to dry land. Ahead lay a wooded area—he must be some distance from the crossing and from the woods. He heard sounds of movement.

  Looking up wearily, Faros found himself matching steely gazes with a minotaur he did not recognize, one who wielded a sword.

  The minotaur backed away, clearly startled. Faros heard a shout from behind him. The minotaur looked off and called, “Over here! Hurry!”

  Somehow Faros found the strength to stand—still gripping his sword and, despite his exhaustion, ready to fight.

  Another minotaur burst out of the woods, followed by a second and a third. One, to Faros’s astonishment, wore the green and white kilt of an Imperial Fleet marine fighter.

  So, the empire had found him. Faros gritted his teeth and attacked, nearly stabbing the first minotaur, who leaped aside. When Faros missed, however, he stumbled exhaustedly to his knees.

  The kilted warrior snorted. “A breeze would blow away this fool! Let’s kill him quick and save him any more dishonor.”

  “We should take ’im alive,” said the one whom Faros had nearly wounded. “The governor might want to question him!”

  Faros heard them mention the governor. So he must have drifted near some colony of Hotak’s. After all his trials and tribulations, Faros would still end up facing execution by the usurper’s minions. The irony of his fate almost made him laugh. Instead he coughed and choked.

  Then painfully, to the amusement of the others, he forced himself up again. This time his legs felt a bit more sturdy. “I’ll … I’ll answer no questions for your governor, nor his false emperor … you’ll have to take me where I stand.”

  The marine fighter looked especially eager to cast his hand ax against Faros’s blade. The others warily spread out, circling him. Hefting formidable-looking weapons, they prepared to charge.

  “What goes on here?” asked a new voice suddenly, though by now Faros’s brain was spinning, and he could barely discern the message. It was as if someone were slowly breathing every word.

  “He rose out of the river, governor,” explained the first. “Looks half drowned but wants to fight!”

  “He doesn’t look like a legionary,” the leader rasped. “That sword’s more suitable for a general than a foot soldier.”

  “Come and get it at risk to your life,” Faros managed to gasp. He gazed at the newcomer—a husky, graying figure with an old, thick, jagged scar across his throat.

  “You can keep your sword, my young friend—and I think we should be friends. We may have something in common. You don’t act as though you’re one of those loyal to Hotak.”

  Faros stared, his eyes flickering.

  “By your reaction, I can see that I must be correct.”

  “I don’t care at all about Hotak. I don’t care about anything.”

  “I find that hard to believe, but we can discuss it again when you are feeling better. Right now, I think the best thing would be for you to come with us. You need food and drink.”

  “I’m not going with anybody,” Faros began, but his body suddenly shook with spasms. He took a step forward and stumbled.

  “Bring him!” commanded the rasping voice.

  Strong hands took hold of Faros under his shoulders, raising him up. Someone tried to take his sword, but Faros clung tight.

  “Let ’im keep the sword. Just sheathe it.”

  Jubal … an old memory stirred in Faros’s tangled mind. Jubal … governor.…

  He suddenly heard his father’s dying voice again. Jubal will … hide you and Bek! Jubal will … protect both of you lads!

  Jubal, governor of Gol and old comrade of Gradic. If they had found Captain Azak and his ship, the Dragon’s Crest, Bek would still be alive and Faros—Faros would not have suffered Vyrox and the ogre mines. He would not have been trapped, beaten, tortured.…

  “Jubal …” he grunted.

  “Aye, lad, that’s me,” replied his rescuer with widened eyes. “Never mind that everyone calls me ‘governor.’ Haven’t been Jubal since the day Hotak took the throne and his soldiers seized Gol.”

  So, even if they had made it to the ship, he and Bek would have found no help in Gol. No matter what Faros had done, his fate would have been the same. No one could have changed his fate, not his father, not Bek, not Governor Jubal. No one.

  He suddenly sensed the older minotaur leaning close. Faros lifted his head up, managing to meet Jubal’s steady gaze.

  “Strike me if you don’t remind me of someone …” the former governor muttered. “You’ve a name before we go on, lad?”

  Faros saw no reason to tell him the truth. Jubal would only preach about defending his clan’s honor and avenging his father. Long ago Faros had left such noble thoughts for dead.

  Another name came to mind. A comrade lost in Vyrox. The tattooed mariner’s face briefly fli
ckered before Faros.

  “Ulthar,” he replied evenly. “My name is—”

  “Faros! You there! Stand away or die!”

  Jubal and the others whirled to the south. Nearly a dozen figures, mostly minotaurs, emerged from the woods. They looked disheveled but armed and ready to pounce.

  Gripping his ax, Grom slowly approached. With a grim expression, he said, “You heard me! Release Faros or else!”

  But those standing with the governor did not look eager to obey, despite the odds. One thrust the point of his ax head under Faros’s muzzle.

  “Stand down, stand down!” Jubal ordered. He faced Grom, showing with a gesture that he didn’t brandish any weapon. “You, too—none of you are friends of the empire, are you?”

  In reply, Grom twisted angrily so that Jubal and his party could see his shoulder. “This was our fate by decision of the usurper!”

  “ ’Tis the broken horn brand!” angrily muttered the marine fighter. “The mark of a minotaur enslaved by the ogres!”

  “Hotak did this?” asked Jubal, his eyes darkening. “Tell me!”

  “None other … because we were loyal to those tied to Chot.”

  “Then we are allies, friends!” The governor moved before Grom could stop him, clasping the startled minotaur on the shoulders. “We are those who rebel against the one who stole the throne! We are those who will see him pay for his crimes against his people!”

  Grom, uncertain, glanced at Faros. “Faros! Did you hear?”

  But Faros did not answer, for suddenly Jubal looked at him with renewed interest, his eyes gleaming.

  “You said your name is Ulthar,” the graying figure rasped. Jubal walked over to Faros, studying him closely even when the latter kept trying to turn his head away. “Why tell me otherwise … you did look familiar … and your name … Faros?”

  An abrupt intake of breath by Jubal made Faros look up.

  “You look almost exactly like your father! No wonder! No wonder you knew me.” Jubal stared wide-eyed. “You should be dead. Even more than me, you should be dead!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Grom.