Half blind, his eyes swimming with blood, Hotak stumbled toward his goal. The shadows moved with him, intensifying their attack. Choking from the smoke, the emperor slashed and swung futilely at the dark things swirling around him.
Frantically, Hotak crashed through the wooden barrier and onto the balcony.
The abrupt shift from light to darkness momentarily left him without vision. A last, incredible jolt of pain caused Hotak to wheel around. Instinctively the emperor swung at his foe. He lost balance, falling against some low obstruction.
The obstruction gave way. Something insubstantial seized the minotaur, pulling him deep into the darkness.
Only then did Hotak realize that the night was the most terrible shadow of all.…
The anxious soldiers would not clarify for Ardnor why he had been summoned. Questioning them produced the same answer over and over again—one of his father’s aides, Captain Gar, would fill him in when he arrived at the palace.
Leaving the temple, they rode as fast as they could, despite the torrential rain that made their path treacherous. Gar met him at the steps, saluting Ardnor with a fervor the First Master was more accustomed to receiving from his Protectors.
“Praise be you’ve arrived, my Lord Ardnor! This monstrous tempest—!”
“When my father needs me, he can rely on me to come, despite any storm.”
Gar swallowed. “Your father—your father didn’t summon you. I apologize, but I did, my lord.” The officer gestured not toward the vast entrance, but rather toward the right. “Please. Come this way. Hurry. I … I beg you.”
Ardnor’s brow furrowed, but he nodded and followed, knowing Gar to be one of his father’s most loyal aides. He followed the minotaur around the outer perimeter of the palace. The wind keened, the thunder was deafening. Now and then, lightning briefly illuminated the building. The rain persisted.
“Where do you take me?” Ardnor finally demanded, after they had walked for several minutes around the edifice.
“Just a little farther—here! Here, my lord!”
Ahead, five rain-drenched members of the Imperial Guard solemnly stood at attention, guarding something. Ardnor peered down at a shape in their midst.
A flare of his nostrils was the only sign of his surprise. He looked over the twisted form, the staring face. So strong in life, so fragile in death. The emperor Hotak, his father, stared up to the heavens as if death mocked him.
“There … there seems to have been a disastrous fire, my lord. Everything in his chambers was destroyed. Your father evidently became trapped and confused. We can only assume that, blinded, he stumbled out to the balcony and fell here.”
Ardnor swore angrily. His father—dying in a fire? Confused? It was not honorable. He squatted to examine his father’s body. Hotak looked smaller than he remembered … much older, too. “Why is he out here still and not inside?”
“I didn’t know what to do, it was so sudden and unexpected. I feared to touch anything until one of the family had come and advised me. I sent word to the empress, of course … but when she didn’t come, I sent the messengers back for you. Did I do wrong?”
“No.” After a moment’s consideration, Hotak’s son added, “He was the emperor, after all! He shouldn’t be left out here in the storm!”
“Yes, my lord!” Gar immediately signaled the soldiers to collect the body. Someone brought over a wagon and the emperor’s corpse was gently placed upon it.
“Take him—” The captain paused. “Take him to the throne room!” He suddenly glanced anxiously at Ardnor. “May I do so, with your permission?”
“Mine?” Ardnor’s ears straightened, and his chest puffed out. “Yes, of course! The throne room sounds good! Set him up properly!”
“Yes, my lord!” responded the lead guard.
Gar stayed behind. “My Lord Ardnor … will you find your mother and tell her?”
“My mother.…” Ardnor’s expression was odd, thought Gar—suddenly thoughtful and fearful. “Yes, don’t worry, captain. I’ll tell my mother.”
The other minotaur bowed his head. “Such a tragedy and so soon after Lord Bastion’s death. Such a tragedy for the family … and the whole empire.…”
“Yes … isn’t it?” The First Master fidgeted. “Are we through here?”
Leaving the captain with orders to deal with matters, Ardnor hurried to his waiting mount. Despite his outward calm, his thoughts were racing.
Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger—his father—was dead. And he, Ardnor, stood first in the line of succession.
He found his mother in her private sanctum, as usual a parchment in one hand, a quill in the other. Lady Nephera looked up as her son entered and gave him a polite nod. She looked more gaunt than even the last time he had seen her.
“I cannot speak with you long, Ardnor. A matter on the mainland has become very troublesome, and I must attend to it myself before it grows out of hand.”
“I’ve brought news for you, Mother. News of the utmost importance. Something terrible has happened.”
Her black, unblinking orbs glittered in the light of the candle sitting next to her. “Yes, son … I already know.”
“No, I don’t think—” His nostrils flared as Ardnor shifted. “You know?”
“I am the high priestess of the Forerunners, first and foremost. How could I not know? How could I not know all that happens to my loved ones?”
Her eyes were dark pits. Her voice was toneless.
And all of a sudden, Ardnor knew without a doubt. “I see.”
Nephera smiled slightly. Her smile was a ghastly sight, even to him, first among her Forerunners. “You are my son. Of course you see. In time, you will also understand.” She nodded toward the door. “Now, you will have much to deal with … and so do I. We must talk soon, but now. I am so terribly busy.”
He backed warily away. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Mother.”
“You never disturb me, my son.” As Ardnor turned away, Nephera added, “By the way, it was good of you to make peace with your brother Bastion before he sailed … you didn’t mention it, but I found out. It was sensible of you.
Ardnor froze. He slowly turned toward his mother. “What?”
But the high priestess had returned to her busy work, perusing one of her lists, and after several frustrating seconds of waiting for an answer, her son spun about awkwardly and strode quickly from her chamber.
The funeral for the emperor and his heir was a magnificent but swift ceremony held before the gates of the palace. There Ardnor presided over the traditional rituals; his mother, so it was whispered, was absent because of her deep grief. With a favored ax resting in the crook of Hotak’s arm representing Bastion in spirit, the emperor was laid atop a pyre even taller than that built for his youngest son. After honoring both dead with a brief recitation of their victories, Ardnor then lit the pyre and sent his father and Bastion to the afterlife.
And the next day, a violent tempest came in the form of a legion of ebony-armored figures on foot and horseback who swept through the capital with ominous purpose. Armed with sturdy, skull-crushing maces, the helmed warriors methodically divided the imperial city into sections. The populace, still immobilized by the tragic and extraordinary turn of events, made no protest.
From the dwellings of prominent citizens, stunned figures were dragged forth by the black-helmed warriors and roughly taken off to whereabouts unknown. Many officers of the Imperial Guard found themselves replaced without warning; the leadership of the legions now answered to the temple, as much as the throne. And thus, with the Protectors firmly in control of the city and the palace, Ardnor de-Droka declared himself emperor.
Jubal was given a simple burial. First the rebels draped his body in a banner from the Dragon’s Crest. Then, members of the crew cradled the rope-bound corpse while Captain Botanos recited the virtues of the late governor. When that was done, he then called upon the sea gods and Sargonnas—though those deities no longer ruled Krynn—to
accept Jubal as a proud warrior and sailor, a true guardian of the sea. At last, on the captain’s signal, they lowered the body overboard into a small boat. Another boat nearby contained Faros and two crew members.
Faros drenched the body with oil then lit it. His boat pulled away, as the flames engulfed the other craft.
Once back on deck, Faros, Captain Botanos, and several others watched Jubal’s fiery remains vanish amid the Blood Sea. A dim day had given way to night, making the flames stand out like a beacon until a last huge wave enveloped both fire and craft.
It had taken three days for Faros to recover from his wounds, something the healers aboard found just short of a miracle.
Now, the ritual done, the hulking captain turned to Faros. “At first chance, I’ll signal one of the other ships to draw near and put you aboard. Then you and yours can be on your way—”
“I’m staying.”
Botanos’s ears twitched. “What?”
Faros absently tugged on the black ring he had plucked from the bottom of the river. Faces flashed through his mind, Jubal’s, his father’s, and many others. All dead because of one person.
“Hotak must fall,” Faros finally said, the flame of vengeance burning bright in his eyes. He clutched the hilt of his sword. His free hand curled tightly continually. “Because for all the blood he’s spilled, it’s time he paid in kind.…”
As he spoke, the wind suddenly rose with a howl. The Dragon’s Crest rocked madly with the waves. Those on deck seized the nearest rails.
And then, just as suddenly … the sea calmed. The waves died down. The wind ceased. An eerie silence fell over the ship.
“Look there!” shouted someone, pointing to the sky.
Above them, a sight so incredible appeared that even the most hardened warriors could only gape at it.
“What—” Captain Botanos finally croaked. “What is it?”
The son of Gradic and last scion of Kalin slowly bared his teeth in a savage smile. “It’s a sign.…”
Among those aboard the Dragon’s Crest who saw the sign was a new recruit, a mariner plucked from the sea shortly after the rebel ship’s departure from the mainland. This minotaur had been adrift for days, clinging to life on a small piece of wood; his very survival was considered a portent of luck. His wounds were not deadly, and he had gladly joined the rebels as one of the crew. Unassuming, he faded into the background quickly, a hard-working hand who skillfully obeyed the captain’s orders.
Yet this one had good reason to fade into the background. His black fur was unusual but not unique; his face was weathered and changed, since his ordeal; still, one of those who had served in the legions, or even a slave from the contingent he once escorted to the ogre ships, might recognize the son of Hotak.
Bastion.
As others continued to watch the skies, he slipped back down into the hold. For the time being, Bastion would work with the rebels, even fight the legions and fleets, if necessary. His long-term goal was to get back to Nethosak and his father.
In a jest worthy of the lost gods, the rebels told him they had discovered another minotaur in the sea, before rescuing Bastion, a waterlogged corpse with a knife wound in his stomach. Even though the body had been returned to the sea, Hotak’s son recognized the dead one’s description as the assassin from the Serpent. What bothered him most was that the peculiar tattoo this corpse carried upon its chest. The rebels, gleefully describing it, had not understood its significance to their listener, Bastion.
A broken ax seared into the flesh.
The sign of the Protectors.
There and then, Bastion had understood the sudden gush of camaraderie displayed by his brother upon his departure. Understood it and marveled at the dark depths to which Ardnor would go. His brother had tried to have him killed.
Who knew what Ardnor was doing now.…
The ghosts shivered and darted around the chamber with such agitation that Nephera almost sent the nervous Nellies away. However, she needed them, more than ever for her next spell.
Nephera had been ensconced in her sanctum for days, but that did not mean she existed unaware of the outside world. The high priestess knew all about the funeral and her son’s declaration of power. She monitored events throughout the capital and beyond.
And knowing there were still those who would oppose Ardnor and the temple’s influence on him, Nephera plotted her spell. She had the names of many, many more who her son did not suspect, names of those who might act to keep him from his just inheritance. The high priestess couldn’t permit any such chance, not as much for her son as emperor as for the continued supremacy of the temple. Nothing and no one would take her gift from her.
This night she would strike such a spectacular blow against future treasonous minotaurs that they would fear to think disloyal thoughts. Nephera could sense the primal power swelling around her even now. She had been forced to turn to some of her own most loyal for this supreme action, but their necessary sacrifices would assure the eternal glory of the Forerunners.
Only Takyr attended her during this spell.
Tonight … tonight the high priestess would virtually secure the empire for Ardnor and the temple. Each name on her list had been marked for death. Each potential enemy would perish in such a manner that no one would mistake their demises for accidental. She would rip their living souls out with such fury that their agony would be etched forever on the faces of their mortal shells. Those who remained behind, in the living world, would know and fear her power.
Though she could still sense the ethereal bond between them, her god had not communicated with her lately. That must be because the high priestess had not yet proven herself, despite everything she had orchestrated over the past days. Yet, surely what Nephera plotted now would return her to the deity’s favor. Surely this time, the voice would return to her head.
Outside, the storm raged. She was used to the thunder and lightning, aware that it was but another manifestation of the great power that she served. Clad in her hooded cloak, arms raised above her head, the high priestess readied her grand spell.
Tormented moans escaped the ghosts. She silenced them with an awful glare then muttered the first words. As the high priestess spoke, she drew forth the energy of her sacrifices.
One by one, she bound the forces to each other. The spell began to take form, a whirling mass of fiery orange and blood-red energy—the Maelstrom in miniature. With each magical word, it pulsated and swelled, gradually filling the chamber.
Nephera’s hood fell back and her mane spread as if each hair were a live tendril. Body crackling with untamed energy, an aura of dark green surrounding her, Nephera shouted the final words—
And her monstrous creation suddenly dissipated.
The powerful energies surrounding the high priestess also vanished. It was so startling, so devastating, that Nephera, with a soul-piercing scream, collapsed on the cold stone floor.
She lay there alone, stunned and moaning, for some time. Gradually, the high priestess stirred, noticing the chamber had grown very quiet.
Anger that all her effort had gone to waste at last gave her the strength to rise. Eyes still tearing from shock, she roared at the walls, “What happened? I demand an answer! Speak!”
But as Lady Nephera turned around, seeking from her pathetic, unworthy ghosts some explanation—she discovered the room was empty—quite empty. The dread legions were gone.
Fury mounting, Nephera looked for the only one of them upon whom she could always count. “Takyr! Attend me! Takyr!”
But even her summons of Takyr echoed futilely.
Then … Nephera sensed the absence of something else. A chasm opened up within her, an emptiness that left her staggering and gasping.
The bond to her beloved deity, her omnipresent link … had been severed.
Her hollow eyes widened. “Nooo … noo.…”
She heard urgent banging at the doors. Through the haze of her horror, Nephera heard her acolytes callin
g. Whirling, the high priestess glided across the floor then flung the doors open.
Those without immediately knelt in homage.
“What? Speak! Speak!”
A young brown female with eyes as large as shields dared to look up at her, sputtering, “H-holy one! It’s spread everywhere! It’s … it … you must see!”
She made no sense at all and the others just nodded agreement. Nephera kicked at the one who had spoken. “Lead on, then! Now!”
As she and her guides hurried along the cold, shadowy corridors, others in the temple rushed around in a state of obvious shock and confusion. Even the Protectors seemed disorganized, their eyes wide with uncertainty within their dark helms.
Every hair on the back of Lady Nephera’s neck stiffened as she neared the entrance of the temple.
Brawny priests swung open the huge doors, their muscles taut not only with effort, but from the same inexplicable anxiety Nephera had seen everywhere.
Outside, she heard a roar of murmuring. To her surprise, hundreds of the faithful had gathered despite it being the night. They knelt low, their muzzles to the stones, clearly awaiting reassurance from the temple.
Only then did the high priestess notice that the kneeling faithful were not being drenched by torrents of heavy rain. Nor were they being buffeted by the high, screaming winds that ever accompanied the storm. In fact, no thunder, no lightning, assailed her ears and eyes.
The storm and clouds and rain and thunder had left. That in itself was something of a marvel, but it was not the true reason that everyone was stunned.
No, what shook even the stanchest of the Forerunners to the core of their beings was the heavens themselves. There, in the clear night sky, hovered two moons—one ice white, the other fire red. Nephera stumbled back, unable to hide her surprise and dismay.
And beyond them … beyond moons that should not have been there … was arrayed a host of glittering stars, forming immense constellations that filled the once-bare skies …
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