“Is that enough, my lord?” his companion said as she topped off his drink.
“Enough, Maritia.” Chot took a gulp of the rich, red liquid, then looked the female warrior over, savoring the curve of her lithe form. Some female minotaurs looked too much like males. Chot preferred curves. A female should look like a female, especially when she had been granted the glorious company of her emperor.
His bed companion replaced the squat wine bottle on the carved, marble table. The well-cleaned remains of a roasted goat sat atop a silver tray next to the bottle, and beside that stood a wooden bowl filled with exotic fruit shipped to the capital from one of the farthest and most tropical colonies.
Maritia leaned forward, rubbing the soft tip of her muzzle against him. Curiously, the image of her father flashed into his mind. Chot had recently solved the problem of her insufficiently loyal and increasingly irritating father by sending him far, far away on a mission of some import—and some danger as well. If he succeeded, his glory would reflect on Chot. If he died in combat—a more likely outcome—so much the better.
Chot belched, and the world briefly swam around him. The emperor rolled onto his back, snorting.
Enough entertainment for tonight. Time he got some sleep.
There was a fuzzy sound in the distance.
“What's that?” he rumbled, trying to rise.
“I heard nothing, my lord,” replied Maritia. She rubbed her graceful hand over his matted brown and gray fur.
Chot relaxed again. It would be a shame when he had to banish her, but she would never forgive him once she found out what he had done to her father.
“Sleep, my lord,” Maritia cooed. “Sleep forever.”
He jarred awake—in time to see the dagger poised above his head.
Drunken, tired, and out of shape, Chot nonetheless reacted with swiftness. He caught her wrist and managed to twist the blade free. The dagger clattered on the marble floor.
“What in the name of Argon's Chain do you think you're doing?” he roared, his head pounding.
In response, she raked her long, sharp nails across the side of his muzzle.
Roaring, Chot released the fool. Maritia scrambled away from the bed as the emperor put a hand to his bloody face.
“Vixen!” Legs protesting, the immense minotaur rose. “You little cow!”
She glared at the last insult, one of the worst things anyone could call a minotaur. Chot stood a head taller and still carried much muscle under his portly girth, but the female seemed strangely unafraid.
The emperor snorted. Maritia would learn fear.
Then he heard the same fuzzy noise as earlier, only closer.
“What's that?” he mumbled, forgetting her for the moment. “Who's fighting out there?”
“That would be your Imperial Guard, my lord,” Maritia said, pronouncing his title as if it were excrement. “They are busy falling to the swords and axes of your enemies.”
“What's that?” Chot struggled to think clearly. His guards. He had to call his guards. “Sentries!
Attend me!”
Maritia smirked. “They are otherwise detained, my lord.”
The emperor's stomach suddenly churned. Too much wine, too much goat. Chot put one hand on the bed. “I must think. I must think.”
“Think all you like, but my father should be here shortly.”
“Your… father?” Battling against the nausea and the pounding headache, Chot froze. “Hotak's here? Impossible. I sent him to the mainland weeks ago!”
“And despite your treachery, he's returned. Returned to demand the justice due to him, due the entire imperium!”
With a roar, Chot lunged for her. Maritia eluded his grasp. The emperor turned, seized his favorite axe, and swung wildly. He came nowhere near the treacherous female, though he did drive her back.
“Assassin! Traitor! Traitors!”
Maritia attempted to retrieve her dagger, but Chot swung again. The heavy blade of the twin-edged axe buried itself in his bed, cutting through expensive sheets, through the rich, down padding, and even through the oak frame.
As the bed collapsed in a heap, the emperor stumbled back. Through bleary eyes he glared at Hotak's daughter.
“Slay me if you can,” Maritia sneered. “But you'll not live more than a few minutes longer.” Her ears twitched toward the window behind Chot. “You hear that?”
Keeping his gaze on the female at all times, Chot stepped back to the balcony. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see that the palace grounds swarmed with dark figures heading toward the building.
“Father will be here very soon now,” Maritia called to him.
“Then he'll find you begging him to save your life… cow!”
Chot stumbled toward her, reaching clumsily with one hand while with the other he threatened her with the axe. Maritia dodged readily, leading Chot on a merry chase through the room, mocking his growing rage and taunting him with her derision.
He swung wildly. Rounded crystalline vases, minotaur statuettes of emerald, tapestries of spun gold, marble icons of dragons and other fearsome beasts—the treasures he had accumulated through his lengthy reign—scattered in shards.
His own body finally rebelled. Even as fists began to pound upon the door, Chot the Invincible fell against the broken bed, his head spinning, his insides a maelstrom.
“Chot the Magnificent,” he heard Maritia mutter. “Rather you should be called Chot the Pathetic.”
“I'll… I'll…” The emperor could say no more.
He heard her open the door, heard the sounds of armed and armored figures marching into his chamber.
“And this is supposed to be the supreme warrior, the epitome of what our people seek to be?”
The emperor fought to raise his head.
They wore the traditional silver helms. Nose guards ran along their muzzles. Their breastplates were also silver, with the ancient symbol of the condor clutching the axe emblazoned on the chest in deep crimson. Well-worn, padded-metal kilts with red tips at the bottom completed their outfits.
These were his soldiers, warriors of the legions—and they had dared such treachery!
In the forefront of the traitorous band stood their leader. Although otherwise clad as his companions, he also wore the richly crested helmet reserved for the highest generals of the empire.
The crest, made of thick, excellent horse hair, hung far back. Over his shoulders hung a long, flowing crimson cape.
Dark brown of fur, slightly over seven feet, well-muscled, and with very angular features for one of his race, the leader glared down at his lord with distaste. A pommel-handled sword hung in the scabbard at his side; a large battle-axe was in his grip.
“Chot Es-Kalin,” announced the newcomer, nearly spitting out the name.
“Hotak de-Droka,” responded the emperor. The de-before the clan name indicated House Droka had its roots on the island of Kothas, considered, especially by those who bore the more regal Es-, the lesser of the two kingdoms making up the heart of the empire.
Hotak looked to his daughter. His expression turned even grimmer. “You've sacrificed far too much, daughter.”
“But it wasn't so terrible a sacrifice, father,” she responded, turning back to smile coldly at Chot.
“Only passing minutes.”
“You… damned vixen!” Chot struggled to rise. If he could just get his hands around her throat—
The emperor fell to his hands and knees again. “I feel sick,” he murmured.
General Hotak kicked at Chot's side. The immense, graying minotaur dropped flat, moaning.
Hotak snorted. He took a step toward his emperor. “Chot Es-Kalin. Chot the Invincible. Chot the Terrible.” The one-eyed commander raised his weapon high. In the light cast by the torches of his followers, the symbol of the rearing horse etched into the axe head seemed to flare to life. “Chot the Fool. Chot the Lying. Chot the Treacherous. Time to put your misery and our shame to an end.”
&n
bsp; Chot could not think. He could not stand. He could no longer even raise a finger. This had to be a mistake! How could this happen?
“I am Chot,” he mumbled, looking down in utter bewilderment. He felt the contents of his stomach finally coming up. “I am your emperor.”
“No more,” said Hotak. “No more.”
The axe came down.
When it was over, the general handed the bloody weapon to one of his aides then removed his helmet. Dark brown hair with a touch of gray flowed behind his head.
Nodding toward the body, Hotak commanded, “Remove that blubbery carcass for burning. Make sure nothing remains. As for the head… see to it that there's a high pole set up at the very entrance to the palace grounds. Make certain that anyone who passes by will be able to see it from some distance. Understood?”
“Aye, General—aye, my lord!” the warrior said, correcting himself.
General Hotak de-Droka looked at the soldier, then at his daughter. Maritia smiled and went down on one knee.
One by one, the rest of those who followed him knelt before he who had slain Chot the Terrible, knelt before the new emperor of the minotaur race.
Chapter II
Triumph and Despair
In the depths of the vast, marble-columned Temple of the Forerunners, the thick, oak door to the high priestess' sanctum swung open, and a deep but anxious voice called out, “Mother!”
The two veiled acolytes stepped quickly to the side. Nephera turned from her desk to see a tall, young minotaur charging toward her. His blunt, fearsome muzzle and blazing, crimson-tinged eyes reminded Nephera of her father, who had perished in the great war some decades before.
Ardnor, her eldest son and, in many ways, her personal favorite, strode through the chamber like an angry bear. He was clad in a simple, ankle-length robe of plain, gray cloth, befitting his high rank in the temple. Ardnor had been among the first to join her black-helmed Protectors and had been appointed First Master of the armed sentinels of the Forerunner faith. Her son had transformed the faithful into a legion fanatical to his mother's cause.
“Calm yourself, Ardnor. What is it?”
“I'm asking again. Let me take the Protectors out! We've been chafing for action, chafing to do our part! Let Chot understand that his enemies are not only Father's troops but the unparalleled might of the temple!”
The high priestess dismissed her servants with a glance. Heads bowed, the two young females withdrew.
Nephera rose, walked over to her son, and looked up into his eyes. One hand caressed the rough hide on the side of his muzzle. Like Hotak, Ardnor bore many small scars from previous combats.
“You need not concern yourself over Chot, my son. He is dead. Dead at your father's own hand.”
“Dead?” His eyes lit up. “Dead? It's over, then?”
Lady Nephera led him back to her desk. She poured him wine then replied, “Nearly so. Some names remain, but I expect those to be crossed out before long.”
He gulped the wine, his eyes momentarily fixing on one of the tapestries in the room. A half-seen figure clad in a free-flowing robe, seemingly made of mist, guided a pair of young minotaurs over an old wooden bridge underneath which lay an ominous, black gap. The image had been rendered in such fine detail that, although barely visible, the ghostly guardian looked almost ready to step out into the real world.
The images portrayed on the other tapestries were just as vivid. They had been sewn under the guidance of the high priestess herself. They represented the tenets of the Forerunner faith, how the spirits of the past generations interacted with the living, guiding them through crises. Tapestries similar to these could be found throughout the temple, but also in the private homes of the faithful, who donated dearly for the honor of owning one that had been blessed by the Lady Nephera.
“Anyone of significance?” asked Ardnor.
“A few. General Rahm Es-Hestos, commander of the Imperial Guard. Governor Zen of Amur. Lord Hybos on Kothas. Kesk the Younger and Tiribus—”
“The Chief Councilor of the Supreme Circle,” muttered Ardnor. The empty goblet in his hand crumpled under his tightening grip. “He should've been the first one to die. He'll cause trouble.”
“There still remain elements of House Kalin,” the high priestess went on, ignoring his interruption.
“The younger brothers of our late, unlamented emperor and his—” She looked up abruptly, staring in the direction of her eager son. “What's that?”
“I didn't say anyth—” Ardnor broke off as he realized that his mother spoke not to him, but rather to something over his shoulder… something beyond his mortal ken.
She heard a whisper, a child's frightened whisper, though Ardnor could hear nothing. Nor could he see what his mother saw—a floating form, a faint shadow of a young, very pale female. Her face was ravaged, nearly furless and full of pockmarks. The high priestess sensed the vestiges of some great sickness.
“The house afire,” Nephera murmured, her eyes rounding. The words she spoke repeated what was told to her by the shade. “Axe… death in every room. Blood on the staircase.”
Well-versed in the ways of his mother, Ardnor kept silent, his eyes narrowing.
“The names!” Nephera demanded. “The names! All of them!”
She seized a quill, dipped it in ink, and began scouring the pages. One by one, Lady Nephera drew lines through those of House Kalin, each crossed-out name punctuated by a grunt of satisfaction.
The list grew shorter.
“More,” she warned the flickers of darkness surrounding her. “There should be more.”
Ardnor leaned forward.
“Fire above…” the high priestess murmured, her gaze staring off into the distance. “Trapped. Axes clashing… the dead… young… old. Fire everywhere… fire everywhere…”
A throaty chuckle escaped the priestess. Her hand moved as of its own volition and struck out a few more names.
“They are gone,” she said, looking up at Ardnor and smiling now. “They are no more. Clan Kalin is no more.”
“All dead? Including his brothers?”
“Each of the estates is surrounded, and most are engulfed in fire. By morning there will be nothing but ash. Any not slain by the sword shall be purified by the flame… and so removed from this mortal plane.” A fervent look crossed her handsome features. “And with them goes the last blood traces of the old regime. The capital, the island, belongs to us!”
Ardnor stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in. Finally, Ardnor asked, “And what about Kothas?”
“As secure as Mithas, my son. Even as we speak, the net tightens on the greater colonies. Amur, Mito, Tengis, Broka—they and all the major settlements that make up the shield of the empire! The smaller colonies and even those beyond the secure borders will also fall into line. They cannot survive otherwise. They will all acknowledge your father as the new emperor… and at his ascension, you shall be named heir.”
This, more than anything, he wished to hear. “He'll do it, then? He'll end the imperial combats?
Make the succession by blood?”
“Of course. Have I not promised that from the beginning?”
Ardnor could barely contain himself. The crimson in his eyes burned. “Emperor …” A grin crossed his coarse features. “Emperor Ardnor the First.”
“After your father, of course.”
“Of course.”
She stretched out her hand, the gold-trimmed sleeve of her sable robe sliding back past her wrist.
“Now be good and go calm your Protectors. Their part in all of this will come soon enough.”
He knelt before her and kissed her tapering fingers. The high priestess touched the top of his head, giving him the blessing of the temple. At last, Ardnor rose and, with one final bow, departed her sanctum.
Returning to her lists, Lady Nephera resumed scouring the pages, silently reveling at the sight of each victim of this night's work. With special pleasure she again read the nam
e of Chot and his family.
Her gaze paused at Rahm Es-Hestos.
The high priestess looked up. “Takyr …?”
From the faint, shifting patches of darkness surrounding her tall, wooden desk, a single swirl of shadow separated itself. As it neared her, Lady Nephera caught an almost imperceptible glimpse of the cadaverous form under the tattered cloak.
“Find out why Rahm or Tiribus haven't been destroyed by now. Kesk the Younger, too, although he is not as important as the first two. How is it possible that they've escaped our net? Someone faltered in their duty! Go! Find the truth!”
She felt rather than saw the shadow depart. General Rahm and the others would not long remain at large. There was nowhere they could hide from her. Nowhere at all.
*****
Faros stumbled out of the seedy tavern, his head filled with too much drink and his money pouch emptied from gambling.
Dull light shone from the tavern and the raucous sounds of merriment continued inside. Two axe-wielding members of the State Guard, their armor—all gray save the crimson condor symbol worn on their breast plates—marched quickly by, despite the late hour and the long-standing decrees concerning noise and violence. The proprietor had agreements with certain high-ranking members of the Guard, agreements for which he well paid. The pair ignored Faros, barely glancing at the seedy structures lining the grimy avenue, as they hurried on their way.
Three young minotaurs burst through the entrance, the one in the middle dragged by his companions.
“What'll we do with him?” muttered one of the able pair.
“We'll leave 'im by the gate to the house. Old Majar's not someone I'll face with his son like this!
He's liable to ask us how Luko got his ear shorn off.”
The first snorted. “I told him not to join that game. You saw that one with the patch. He had a necklace of ears on him! I still say he set Luko up.”
Their conversation faded away as they hurried on.
Over Faros' pounding head, the half-decayed sign marking the dank establishment as Challenger's Roost swung back and forth, the loud squeaking of the rusted metal adding to his misery.
Night of Blood Page 3
