Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Golgren pushed Faros away, staring at the stump of his hand.

  He did not scream, did not collapse in agony. The ogre leader turned his unblinking eyes to Faros … and then the strange, amused smile grew wider.

  “Zur i ki’in, Uruv Suurt,” he laughed. “Well struck, minotaur … well struck.…”

  Before Faros could move, Golgren, the smile never leaving his face, took a few tottering steps back, then vanished into the snarling ogre lines behind him. Faros blinked—where had he gone? He started to follow then heard Jubal.

  Jubal was moaning, choking. Faros turned and knelt down as the marine fighter also rushed up to aid the old fighter.

  But Jubal waved both away. Coughing violently, he glanced behind Faros. “We-we’re holding them for now, l-lad! Go! Get through the passage! T-take your people and m-mine to Botanos!”

  “You’re coming with us,” Faros replied, but when he tried to lift Jubal, the elder warrior moaned piteously.

  “T-too late, lad …” Jubal gasped. “Please! For the sake of your … your father! I owe Gradic that much! G-go!” He clasped Faros’s hand, and his eyes widened as he saw a ring on the minotaur’s hand. “I know that! I know that ring—”

  But the younger minotaur heard no more. At the very mention of his father’s name, the scene had changed for him. Jubal no longer looked like his father’s old friend, the imperial governor. Instead Faros saw his dying sire, who had also begged him to go. He saw his mother, his younger siblings, all dead, lying near the stairs. The face of his older brother, Crespos, was followed by Bek, Japfin, and Ulthar. The walls that Faros had built around his heart and soul began to crumble.

  You are the House now.…

  His father had spoken those words. He had wanted Faros to keep the legacy of his line alive, but slavery and torture had made Gradic’s son think only of death.

  And now another noble one had sacrificed himself for him.

  “We’re taking you with us!” Despite Jubal’s protests, Faros and the marine fighter lifted the dying minotaur. They turned and pushed their way back through rebels still protecting the retreat of the former slaves and legionaries.

  They left the battle, following the flow of bodies through the narrow pass. Faros was in a dazed state. He did not register those around him nor the distance he had traveled. At some point, the marine fighter was replaced by the blood-soaked Grom, and the two of them still carried Jubal. Grom muttered prayers to his lost god for all of those left behind—many dead, others doomed to sacrifice themselves to help the others escape. He muttered prayers, too, for Jubal.

  The dim light of the storm-ridden day grew faint. The noise of battle was replaced by their own heavy breathing, as they passed through forested land.

  At last, the smell of the sea stirred Faros to a new awakening. He blinked and saw in the distance the tip of a high mast peeking out from above the trees.

  Minotaurs ran up to confront them. Among them was a rather corpulent figure holding a long, smoldering pipe.

  “Stop,” the pipe-smoking minotaur commanded Grom. The two gently laid Jubal on the soft, forest floor. Faros leaned over Gradic’s comrade of old, and muttered, “We’ve made it, governor. We’ve made it.”

  But Jubal did not stir. He did not breathe. Faros stared closer.

  “He’s dead,” Grom whispered to him, making the sign of Sargonnas. “He was dead long ago. We have been carrying him for miles, to bury him.”

  Captain Botanos came close, his gaze fixed on Jubal. The huge minotaur puffed rapidly on his pipe, the only visible indication of his distress.

  “No, not here. We take him aboard. We bury him at sea.”

  That is when, raising his hand from Jubal’s chest, Faros saw what the governor had been referring to—the ring on his hand. He stared at his hand and realized that he wore a ring with a black stone set in the center.

  Standing, Faros took the ring off, scratching his head. Where could he have found such a thing, much less put it on his hand? Vaguely he recalled clutching something small and round a while ago—it seemed like eons—when he nearly drowned in the river.

  His legs buckled. The world swam. Somewhere in the distance, Grom called his name.

  His own terrible wounds finally overwhelming him, Faros slumped forward.

  The storm clouds spreading over Nethosak, over much of the empire, rumbled ominously as night fell. The winds howled. Rain drenched everything. Hardened mariners and legionaries took shelter. Bolts of lightning not only flashed high in the heavens, but they also struck land and sea with frightening regularity.

  One bolt set fire to a storage building near the harbor, forcing the State Guard and the Watch to brave the elements in order to battle the blaze. The torrential rain proved more hindrance than aid; the fire seemed hardly affected by it. Reinforcements had to be summoned, with others given the task of soaking the neighboring structures in order to prevent the fire from spreading.

  Beyond the harbor, two ships whipped by the sudden intensity of the winds battled high waves and desperately sought landfall. One slowly made its way into port, but the other, its main sail torn to shreds, was pushed back to open sea.

  Volley after volley of thunder shook the imperial capital, centering its attack, it seemed to those who lived in the vicinity, on the palace.

  The palace was indeed trembling as Captain Gar hurried along through the corridors. Even the marble pillars seemed to sway. In his arms, Gar carried several scrolls. Most were historical records pertaining to the Temple of Sargonnas and its relationship with the throne during various periods of history.

  The two sentries on duty outside the emperor’s personal chambers did not challenge Gar, for Hotak had left orders to admit the officer immediately. Gar blinked as he entered the chamber. Emperor Hotak had brass oil lamps and tall candles everywhere, filling the room with unusually bright light. Yet the many flames, in this room of huge statues, cast a multitude of strange and vivid shadows. On an empty chair near the map hung the former general’s sheathed sword.

  Seated at the writing table next to the map, Hotak looked up with eyes so horribly bloodshot that they startled the captain, making him nearly drop some of the scrolls.

  “Gar! About damn time! You located all I asked for?”

  “Almost all, my lord. There were only two I couldn’t find.”

  “I’ll make due without them! Quickly! Deposit everything here!” A dripping quill in his hand, Hotak indicated a wooden stand next to where he worked. In his other hand, the emperor was holding flat a fresh piece of parchment upon which he had just written the first few words.

  The officer deposited his burden. “Is there anything else you need from me, my lord?”

  “No. That’s all.” Hotak bent down and began scribbling anew on the parchment. “Keep on call, though. I’ll need you to have this decree copied and delivered to the Circle and every senior commander. There’ll be no mistake, then.”

  “My lord … perhaps a short rest would be in order at this time. You can always finish after—”

  “No, I must finish.” Yet, the one-eyed ruler hesitated. “But bring some food and drink. No wine. I must keep strong on this matter.…”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Left alone, Hotak quickly dived into the scrolls. It was important that he accurately invoke minotaur tradition. These scrolls explained past reasons the rulers of the empire had to assert their authority over the once-powerful Temple of Sargonnas. That history would strengthen his decree. He was taking drastic action, he knew, and his subjects would be more likely to accept his policy, less likely to protest, if he called on their devotion to tradition.

  He hoped even to convince some of the Forerunner faithful, who had been led astray by the excesses of the religion. Of course, the hardest person to contend with would be the high priestess … and Hotak hoped, with this carefully researched, carefully argued decree, that he might even convince Nephera, his wife.

  Lothan and the councilors who belong
ed to her sect would be a bit of a nuisance, but in the end, they would bend to his will, especially considering the solid support Hotak had from most of the senior legion and imperial officials.

  “You will return to me, my dear,” he whispered to the flickering shadows. “We will be one again, and this monstrous taint will be cleansed from your heart and mind.”

  He felt certain that whatever force had granted her such monstrous powers stemmed from the darkest source. The emperor cursed himself for having let things get this far.

  A knock on the door announced the entrance of one of the guards with the food and drink Hotak had ordered to placate Captain Gar. The sentry placed everything on the table then backed silently out of the chamber.

  Hotak tore off a piece of salted goat leg and reached for a steaming mug with the earthy scent of horsetail grass. No tea this, but a brew concocted with the herb that reinvigorated the weary. Gar had chosen well. Even before he finished half the mug, Hotak felt his mind clear of cobwebs and grow sharp again.

  Refreshed, he considered the draft of the decree, thus far. There would be an immediate cessation of any official activities in which the Forerunners were involved. The temple would be cleared and sealed by the Imperial Guard.

  At the same time—and this was not in the decree—Hotak would launch an underground campaign to denounce the dark side of the cult. The whispering campaign would clear his wife of her followers’ most sinister machinations. Hotak already had a list of scapegoats prepared, one a member of the Supreme Circle who was destined for the mines. His downfall would be a warning to Lothan and the others.

  Hotak took another sip. It would all work out to his satisfaction. Nephera would have to recant her leadership or face humiliation—a harsh measure but necessary. She had gone too far, and if she were not the empress, his wife, she would have been arrested long ago. What she needed was rest and peace, not the madness of this religion, which had changed her into someone he no longer recognized.

  “This nightmare will end, my dear,” he murmured, eyeing the dancing shadows. “Once you’ve given up this monstrous obsession, you’ll be well again. We’ll be well. We’ll be one again.”

  There would be shock. There would be protest. But there was no choice.

  A harsh wind howled outside. Thunder roiled, shaking the candles, whose flames and shadows danced crazily, as though caught in a wild struggle.

  With his thinking clear, Hotak realized that it would be best if he spoke with Ardnor this very night. If Ardnor accepted his new position in Hotak’s hierarchy, surely the emperor’s eldest son would agree to put restraints on the Protectors. He counted on Ardnor’s support. He would have to set aside major appointments for Ardnor’s most loyal followers, of course, but that was a small matter.

  “Guard!”

  Sitting back, he envisioned the realm without the taint of the Forerunners. He had never expected the religion to grow so powerful, so strange, and so cruel. When she came to her senses, Nephera would thank him. Hotak leaned forward, staring at the spot on the smaller map that marked the empire they had always dreamed of ruling together. The smaller map nonetheless displayed every detail that the larger did, and the emperor kept the latter as updated as the original. Everywhere, diminutive warriors and ships marked the latest known positions of his forces.

  So much of that information had come from the temple.…

  True, but Hotak vehemently shook his head. He would not accept any more aid ever again from the black force that had seduced Nephera!

  Stirring from his thoughts, Hotak realized that no one had yet reacted to his summons. He snorted angrily and rose, shouting louder, “Guard!”

  The guards should have responded by now … yet still the doors remained tightly shut.

  Cursing the sentries’ sloth, the emperor got up.

  But then a flicker of movement behind him caught his eye.

  Twisting, he reached for his blade hanging in its sheath, drawing it with one smooth motion. Hotak spun around, scanning the chamber.

  No one. He was getting old and paranoid. Thunder shook the palace again. The shadows fluttered in every direction as the lamps and candles rocked. Of any intruder, however, he saw no sign. Where would one have come from, anyway?

  Hotak swore at his own nervousness. He was jumping at his own shadow. However, had it been an actual assassin, his laggard guards would have been of absolutely no use whatsoever. Where were they all this time?

  “You out there!” Hotak roared, striding toward the doors with his sword still in his grip. “What’s the meaning of—”

  Again there was movement … no mistaking it this time.

  But when he spun around, he saw only his own looming shadow, surrounded by those of the little ships and warriors from the map.

  A chill wind abruptly swept across his face. He clutched protectively at his throat. The fur on the back of Hotak’s neck rose. Some of the flames guttered.

  Hotak glanced at the windows, but they were shuttered against the storm and could hardly have been the source of the blast of cold air. The balcony, too, had been blocked off, though the wooden barrier there rattled uncertainly.

  Still clutching his sword, the emperor moved more quietly and cautiously toward the door.

  And again someone or something moved near him.

  “Halt, damn you!” he demanded, whirling in a circle. Once more he beheld nothing solid.

  Hotak took a deep breath, thinking it over. “Nerves,” he muttered. “Simply nerves.” His nerves had been on edge all night. Dealing with a cult of the dead, and the possibility that his mate had committed blood sacrifices of her kind several times to enhance her dark power, definitely strained one’s nerves.

  “No more, though,” Hotak growled. “When the temple lies demolished, it’ll all come to an end—all the gossip and all the dark business.”

  But the shadows surrounding him seemed to mock his words. It almost seemed as though they drew closer. He brandished his blade at them, chuckling at his own foolishness.

  Still chuckling, the emperor strode over to the map, targeting one of the tiny figures. With a gentle but deliberate tap, he toppled the tiny warrior. “There! Thus do all my foes fall, of flesh or shadow or—”

  He felt an agonizing blow to his chest. The emperor fell against the table, dropping his sword.

  Gasping, he pulled himself up. He caught sight of his shadow—and another shadow that loomed over his own, that looked as though it wielded at weapon. Wasn’t it just the shadow of one of the statues or figurines?

  “What—by the Horned One?” he muttered, clutching the pain in his chest, absently calling on the god he so often dismissed.

  The chill wind filled the room again. Most of the candles and lamps died out; only a meager handful were left burning. Despite the dimness, the shadows on the walls seemed to swell and grow more distinct. To Hotak, it suddenly seemed as though he stood in a chamber filled with shadowy foes. His one good eye darted everywhere in the room, yet he saw nobody—nothing—only emptiness.

  To his horror, another shadow produced a blade and thrust at his shadow’s head.

  An acute pain at the base of his skull sent Hotak reeling. He crashed into the writing table, spilling the decree, the ink, and the research parchments.

  Strange babbling whispers filled his ears. Hotak could not understand the words, but the hostile tone left him shivering. He sensed not only death, but something beyond death … tempting him … beckoning to him.…

  His eye widened. He stared at the specters.

  “No!” Hotak snapped. “I’ll not fall to you as she has! I’ll not let you dictate what shall be! I am Hotak, and Hotak bends for no power that hides behind shadows!”

  Despite his searing pain, he grabbed up his sword again and forced himself to stand straight. He stared at the gathering shades, trying, through watery eyes, to identify them individually, detect their weaknesses.

  His ears twitched as realization dawned. With a triumphant grin,
he turned to the map and grandly swept across it with his sword, bowling over the figurines—warriors and ships all—finally shoving all of them to the floor.

  But though the shadow warriors twisted and distorted in macabre fashion, they did not vanish along with the toy soldiers. Worse, they became more animated, closing in on the emperor’s silhouette with grim determination.

  Another shadow lunged, and Hotak felt his shoulder go numb. Another slashed at his stomach, and the emperor stumbled, knocking over one of the few remaining lamps that was lit.

  The room went nearly dark. One couldn’t tell the shadows from the blackness.

  Hotak cursed himself for a fool. That was it; douse the last of the lights and he’d deprive the shadows of their foul magic. That would end the threat!

  As he lurched toward one of the few remaining lamps, the sickle-shaped appendage of another deadly shade streaked across his shadow, sending Hotak falling. He crashed hard against a wall, but with a desperate slash of his blade sent the lamp flying. It crashed on the floor, but instead of dousing, oil and fire splattered around. Burning droplets fell on the map, and flames began to rise everywhere.

  As his heart was pierced by a fresh pain, the beleaguered emperor saw that the fire fed the shadows. They transformed, grew, and distorted into worse, fiendish shapes, their weapons also swelling and shifting into fantastical blades.

  “Aargh!” The emperor was on the floor, trying to crawl to safety. The sinister shadows assaulted his shadow from all sides. With each strike, his body shook.

  His hand found one of the figurines, and the emperor whirled and threw it into the fire. That made an odd sizzling sound, followed by a roar as the fire rose up higher than ever. Smoke began to fill the room.

  Still no guards came, and the doors remained closed. The sentries outside must be oblivious to his predicament. Drawing himself up with great effort, Hotak took one last swing at his shadow adversaries. His blade skipped off the walls, leaving long scars in the stone and wood, but the shadows continued to attack him.

  The agony became unbearable. He glanced toward the balcony. Out there, the storm raged and the heavy clouds blotted out light. On the balcony, he might be safe.