He groaned as the pounding multiplied. “Great Sargonnas,” the bleary minotaur prayed, calling upon the god who had sacrificed himself for his people more than a generation ago. “Let me find my way home to my bed without my father finding out. And if you can manage that miracle…”
Once a major avenue, the street upon which the tavern stood still had a grimy, sputtering fountain in the center. The triumphant minotaur warrior posed atop it had lost the upper half of his axe, and his features had been chipped away by drunken vandals. Below, two of the dragonhead spouts dribbled rather than gushed and, in the daytime, the water all six spat would have had a markedly mossy tint to it. Still, Faros stuck his head under one set of stone jaws and let the cool liquid rush over him.
The water stank slightly and did little to soothe his throbbing skull. Pulling free, Faros shook his head, sending his lengthy, waved mane flying. He snorted a few times to disperse excess liquid from his nostrils then trudged toward his horse.
“Hold still,” he told the beige charger waiting for him. He slumped forward onto the neck of his steed. The horse knew the way home, just as it knew the way to the Challenger's Roost. The animal had made the journey back and forth many, many times.
Half in a stupor, Faros paid little attention to his surroundings. Because of that, he did not notice the eerie emptiness of the most popular thoroughfares, nor the fact that most of the lamps along the way had been doused. Nor did he notice the lack of sentries and torchlight as he neared the gates of his home—the vast, walled estate of the emperor's youngest brother.
Even though he was the least favored of Chot's siblings, Gradic Es-Kalin benefited from his connections to power. High, stone walls surrounded the plush, three-story villa, and within those walls was a garden of sculpted trees and beautiful stone paths. Servants kept everything trimmed.
Among the elite of the capital, Gradic's estate was considered a prime example of sculpted perfection.
If his master did not notice much around him, his horse did. As they drew closer, the trained steed slowed, growing hesitant. At last the horse stopped and whinnied nervously. Faros looked up, trying to focus blood-shot eyes.
“What's gotten into you?” he demanded of the animal. “Move!”
Even for so late at night, the estate—the entire vicinity, for that matter—was deathly quiet. There were no sentries at the gates, and all the torches had either been doused or removed. In fact, the only illumination from in the house itself was a wildly flickering light in several upper windows that looked like nothing less than—
Fire!
His first thought was to turn the horse around and ride back to the security of the tavern.
Hands shaking, Faros urged his reluctant mount toward the burning edifice.
Just within the walls of the estate, several helmed figures armed with swords and axes watched the flames. Curiously, none of the onlookers made any move to fight the fire or to aid those who might be left inside. In fact, to Faros' horrified gaze, they actually looked happy, laughing and clapping each other on the back.
They did not notice him as he steered the horse away.
Sweating with fear, Faros rode cautiously along the perimeter of the stone wall until he came to a section recently damaged by a fierce storm.
Securing his horse and taking one last anxious glance around, Faros scrambled up and over the wall. As he landed, he drew his sword and, crouched over, scurried toward the burning building.
While most of the exterior consisted of handcrafted stonework, much of the interior was covered with lavish wood paneling imported from the outer colonies, extravagant cloth tapestries sewn by notable artisans, and other highly flammable material. The luxurious decor was now the building's downfall. The fire might leave the exterior nearly untouched, but the inside would burn like the charred belly of a potter's oven.
As he slipped through a battered side door, smoke from within caused his eyes to tear and his throat to constrict. Blinking constantly, Faros stumbled forward—and in the process tripped over a large object lying just inside the entranceway.
The unarmored guard had perished quickly, the shaft in his chest having struck his heart. Just beyond lay another sentry, her death caused by several thrusts of a blade. Both were distant cousins hired because of their high proficiency in combat, which made their deaths all the more unsettling.
“Father!” Faros shouted. “Mother!” The loud crackle of flames made it doubtful that anyone would hear him unless they stood very near. “Crespos!” he added, trying for his elder brother. “Where are you?”
No one responded.
Everywhere lay bloody, contorted bodies wearing the black, crimson-tipped kilts of the Kalin clan, but none were Faros' family. His anxiety growing, he continued to call out, but the only sounds he heard came from the fire.
The stained, cedar railings of the winding stairway leading up to the family quarters had been shattered and many of the steps were chopped to ruins. The thick red carpet at the base of the stairs lay twisted around the limp body of a helmed figure. Scattered nearby, three other assassins sprawled in various poses of violent death.
Struck dumb, Faros edged up the steps. Halfway up, he found the bodies of his brother and sister.
Tupo, two years younger than him, had been stabbed through the throat. His eyes still gaped in astonishment. Resdia, his darker-furred younger sister, who so often had listened earnestly as he regaled her with his stories of wild nights out, lay half draped over Tupo, as if her final act had been to try to comfort him. One of the assassins had apparently caught her from behind, between the shoulder blades. Her short sword lay unbloodied on the ground.
Tearing himself away from the pair, a shaking Faros came upon his mother. He knelt down in shock.
An axe had done her in, the fatal blow delivered to her chest after she had already received several lesser wounds on various parts of her body. At least two of the intruders had perished at her hand before she was overcome. Faros laid his sword down and cradled her head, brushing back the blood-matted hair from her face.
An ominous creak from above the stairway made him stiffen. The next instant, the ceiling over the bottom portion of the stairs collapsed—timbers, plaster, and charred stone falling in a blazing inferno.
Ducking as he ran, Faros fled up the curving path of the ruined stairway. At the top of the steps, he came across two more family guards who had been hacked to death by zealous opponents.
Trying to see through the thickening smoke, Faros called out again. “Crespos! Father! Can you hear me?”
The heat had grown more intense. He had little time left to search. Soon the fire would eat away at the last of the supporting timbers.
“Father! Cres—”
From far to his right came a strangled sound that might have been a voice.
Starting down the hall, Faros saw little more than smoke. The smoke grew so thick that he could barely see a single pace ahead. His eyes teared. His lungs burned with each strained breath.
An obstruction on the floor hidden by the thick smoke sent him tumbling forward, his sword flying from his grasp.
His muzzle collided with something soft.
A hand.
Faros frantically pushed away—and found himself staring into the vacant eyes of his elder brother.
Crespos, the brother everyone admired, the brother whom their father had always held up as a true and honorable minotaur, had died from a single axe wound across the neck. The vicious blow had nearly decapitated the muscular fighter.
Burying his face in his brother's blood-matted chest, Faros wept. His mother, his brothers, his sister, had all been slain.
Someone coughed.
Startled, Faros looked up. Clearing his throat, he shouted, “Who's there? Who's there? Father?”
Someone coughed again.
Eyes hopeful, Faros pulled himself away and advanced through the choking smoke. Yet a third time, someone coughed.
Unfortunately, the kn
eeling figure that suddenly materialized in the smoke proved not to be his father.
“Faros!” the other gasped. “By Kalin's Horns, I'd hoped it was you!”
“Bek?”
The tawny, well-groomed minotaur with the broad, ever eager expression was more than a servant to Faros. He was almost another brother, loyal and caring.
Yet any pleasure at finding Bek faded as Chot's nephew looked down at the limp figure cradled in the kneeling servant's arms.
An axe had caught Gradic Es-Kalin at the shoulder and nearly torn away his arm. Sinew and bone were visible, hacked into a pulp. The wicked cut almost went to the breastbone. Blood caked the wound, drenching most of his father's torso.
Eyes staring, Faros came forward and knelt next to Bek. Up close, he saw that, in addition to the heavy shoulder wound, Gradic had suffered a pair of deep sword thrusts to the abdomen.
And then he saw his father's chest rise and fall, Gradic's entire body shuddering as he fought to breathe.
“Don't be hopeful,” Bek said. “The traitors did their work well. He'll be dead soon. I'm sorry, Master Faros.”
“What… what happened here?”
“They came from the darkness,” replied Bek, gazing down at his honored lord. Bek had adored his master. “The sentries never gave the alarm. They must've died quickly. Everyone but the night watch was in bed. Everyone save me. I'd gone down to keep an eye out for you as you wanted, Master Faros. Went to the place I waited for you last time.”
“I should've been home.”
“Then you'd be dead, too. You would've, master.” Bek gently rocked Gradic. “They were thorough.
They knew where to find everyone, how best to strike. If not for your mother waking, they would've caught all asleep. I arrived in time to see the mistress die, her face already filled with tears for the dead children at her feet.
“Master Gradic spoke to me when I found him. He called out your name. 'Is that you, Faros?' he said. I almost said yes, to give him some last hope, but then he recognized me. 'Come to me, good Bek,' he pleaded. He told me how the cowardly fiends separated him from your mother and siblings, how they slew Master Crespos. Master Gradic fought against five and made them pay, as you can see.”
Faros followed Bek's pointing finger and saw that two more of the treacherous intruders lay sprawled inside the chamber. One was headless, while the other had Gradic's trusted axe buried deep in his chest.
“Why?” Faros whispered.
“Only… only the lost gods know… why… my son.”
They stared at Gradic, who had stirred to consciousness. A hand touched Faros' arm. “I prayed to…
Sargonnas and Kiri-Jolith… that I would l-live… long enough…”
“Hush, Father. Rest. Bek and I will get you to a healer. You'll be—”
“Dead. Hear me… Faros. The House has… fallen. These were not…were not brigands. These… were soldiers! Imagine!”
“Never mind that, Father.” Faros looked around, trying to find something to stanch the flow of blood. The thickening smoke boiled over them.
“Listen… to me!” Gradic gasped, coughing. “I fear… I fear that if…an attack… takes place here… it takes place… everywhere! I fear that Chot… himself may have fallen.”
What his father said left Faros speechless. Gradic and Chot had little enough love for one another, but Chot could rely on his youngest brother's political loyalty and, in return, the emperor had rewarded Gradic with House Kalin. Chot would never permit such a heinous act against Gradic, which meant those who had done this no longer feared the emperor's wrath.
“F-Faros! You must… flee Mithas. A friend… Azak… you can trust. H-his ship, Dragon’s Crest… sails to… Gol.”
“Gol!” exclaimed Bek. “Your father spoke of this place the other night! One of the outermost colonies! The governor there is a former comrade of his.”
Gradic touched his son's arm again. “Aye. Jubal will… hide you and Bek. Jubal will—” he coughed, pain contorting his battered features— “protect both of you lads.”
“I'll not go without you, Father!”
“Y-you must! You are… the House now! The honor—” The elder minotaur suddenly twisted in his son's arms. Eyes closed, mouth agape, he slumped, more a rag doll than the imposing titan he had always been to his children.
Shivering, Faros knelt, staring at his father, his eyes glazed.
Bek seized the shocked minotaur by the arm. “Master Faros, listen! The house is nearly done in!
Come! We must leave here now!”
Together, they started toward the hallway. Urgent voices arose from elsewhere in the vast villa.
The sharp-eyed Bek looked around. “This way! Our only chance, Master Faros!”
He led them toward a staircase at the rear. Around them, centuries-old tapestries went up in flames, prized antique weaponry melted. Faros dimly noted a jeweled axe, awarded to his grandfather for service to the empire, glittering brightly in the growing flames.
A tremendous roar shook the entire area. Both turned in dread. The floor behind them cracked then completely collapsed.
Clouds of smoke and fiery talons rose above them. Faros and Bek ran.
A figure burst through the smoke to block their way—a helmed soldier armed with a long sword.
The pair dodged into a ravaged doorway. Trying to stifle their coughing, they watched as the fearsome figure stalked past. The newcomer stood taller than either of them and appeared about half again as wide. His silver kilt with red tips marked him as a member of one of the elite legions that should have been protecting the empire, not slaughtering its highest-ranking citizens.
The hulking minotaur turned toward the half-destroyed doorway, squinting. He took a step toward them—then shouted something that was drowned out by an explosion.
“Hurry, Master Faros!” Bek pulled the dazed Faros toward the stairs, half-running, half-tumbling down the steps.
The top floor caved in.
The staircase dropped. Faros caught a last glimpse of the flailing assassin just before the ceiling crushed him.
The portion of the staircase crashed to the bottom floor, and the shock sent them tumbling.
“Look out!” Bek shouted, grabbing Faros and pulling him to his feet.
A flaming timber crashed past them.
“The kitchen!” Bek shouted, pointing. He picked up a long piece of hand rail, then another, and handed it to his master.
They ran for the kitchen. The door leading to the rear of the estate had been broken and now hung loose. They stumbled out, fully expecting to be assaulted, but, to their surprise, no one awaited them.
“Your horse, Master Faros! Where is it?”
“By the broken wall. I secured him there.”
“Praise Kalin's Horns! We've a chance, then. He can easily carry the two of us.”
The pair reached the half-mended wall unhindered and found the well-trained animal waiting. The stench of the fire was all around them. They heard shouts and cheers.
“Stand where you are!” roared a voice.
Two helmed figures emerged from the shadows, one armed with a sword, the other with an axe.
Bek shouted a command, and the horse reared, catching the two assailants completely by surprise.
The horse's heavy hooves struck the pair, sending them to a tangled heap.
“Come!” Bek shouted, jumping on the horse and reaching down for Faros.
Needing no further encouragement, Faros leaped upon the horse after Bek, and they raced off, leaving the home of Gradic to its death throes.
Chapter III
Fall of an Emperor
It had been a grim night. Grim but necessary, in the eyes of Bastion.
Tall, sleek, black of fur—a throwback to his father's grandfather—the second son of General Hotak de-Droka watched from horseback as his weary soldiers herded the surviving servants from the house of this particular branch of Chot's family into the barred wagons. Behind him, yet
another opulent villa of the old regime burned bright with flames. The sculpted trees near the front entrance had become massive torches, and the stables to the side of the main house could not even be recognized. Fortunately, all the horses had first been herded out, for why waste such magnificent animals?
A helmed soldier prodded an elderly servant into the wagon. Impatiently, the warrior shoved the gray minotaur, sending him stumbling to his knees.
“You there!” Bastion roared, startling those around him. Penetrating eyes of coal-black glared down over a muzzle long and narrow. “Cease that! He moves as fast as he can!”
The guard in question bowed, then stammered, “A-aye, my lord! F-forgive me!”
Bastion's expression turned more understanding. “We have all had an unnerving night. The worst is over. All that matters now is the cleanup. The sooner that is done, the better.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Snorting, the black minotaur turned his horse and found himself facing a much more welcome sight.
“You look done in,” a hulk of brown-furred muscle remarked cheerfully. “Taking too much on your shoulders as usual, brother?”
Although shorter than his brother by half a horn's length, Kolot made up for it in width, but none of his extra mass was fat. His shoulders were intimidating. Bastion had seen Kolot lift an opponent over his head using only one hand. Once, when their eldest brother Ardnor had taunted him about his appearance one day when they were younger, little Kolot had picked him up and thrown him across the room.
His squat muzzle gave Kolot a piggish appearance, and his intelligence was rumored to be as dim as that of those animals. Yet looks were deceptive.
“Doing what must be done, Kol. I want this business settled by morning. The stability of our nation demands it.”
“You worry too much. When they find out what Father's done, they'll fill the streets, cheering.”
“You are probably correct,” the older minotaur admitted. “I just prefer to be cautious.”
“And would you still be my brother if you were any other way? Always thinking too much, that's you!”
Night of Blood Page 4
