Bastion bristled. “You must be here for a reason. What is it?”
“Hmm? Oh! Aye! Father wants you. Says I can surely handle the simple matter of carting these poor fools off to the mines. He wants you back as soon as possible.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.” Kolot leaned closer. “I think he's just nervous about all that's happening. Not everyone steals an empire overnight.”
“It's not over quite yet. I hear that Tiribus and General Rahm are still at large.” »
Behind them, one of the guards shut the gate on the first of the prison wagons then signaled the driver. The horses strained forward.
The mountain of muscle snorted. “You worry too much.”
A sudden, harsh, cracking sound alerted them. Kolot pulled his axe out even as Bastion reached for his own weapon.
But it was nothing—only the wagon. One wheel lay splintered, the spokes scattered everywhere.
The wagon bulged and tipped, the prisoners pressing against the bars.
Bastion started forward, but Kolot moved in front of him. “Father wants you. I can handle this.”
The soldiers had begun unloading the prisoners by the time Kolot reached the wagon. Bastion paused to watch for a moment.
Dismounting, Kolot shouted, “That's good enough! Leave the rest inside! Time's wasting!” He went to where the wheel had broken off, inspecting the axle. “Looks fine!”
As everyone watched, Kolot squatted and, with still more than a dozen servants locked in the wagon, lifted his end up off the ground.
“Get the spare wheel ready!” Every muscle strained, but even in the faint light of the coming dawn, Bastion and the others could see the pride in Kolot's face as he flaunted his strength.
The black minotaur chuckled quietly and rode away.
*****
That morning, the citizens of the imperial capital awoke to find their world turned upside down.
Merchants with wagons of goods heading for vendors in the city found the gates to Nethosak barred. Entrance was permitted only after careful inspection of each consignment. Wagons leaving were also carefully checked for stowaways. At the port, no ship was allowed to unload or take on cargo without a search of the vessel.
Shopkeepers and workers stood transfixed at their doors and windows, watching as rank upon rank of armed units under the proud banner of Hotak's Legion marched through the streets. Their silver armor—with red insignia—gleamed in the morning sun. Some citizens realized that these emblems should not be flying over Mithas or anywhere else in the empire, but rather on the mainland. The knowledge of their presence quickly spread through the populace.
Throughout Nethosak, throughout Mithas, throughout the majority of the more than three dozen established colonies, mounted officers flanked by sturdy lines of seasoned warriors unrolled scrolls.
Crowds of wary and curious faces stared in silence as the announcement was read.
“Hear this, all good people of the empire!” each officer said. “Hear the words of General Hotak de-Droka, Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger. A wrong has been righted. Justice has been served.
The corruption within has been lanced!”
Wherever the scrolls were read, be it the vast square near the imperial palace or the modest streets of the more primitive colonies, crowds gathered. Tunics and kilts sporting every house pattern and color created a sea of myriad designs. Every citizen of the far-flung empire knew the name and reputation of Hotak.
“Let it be known that the vile, corrupt Chot Es-Kalin, whose deceits in the Great Circus are understood, whose betrayals of honor have been legion, whose reign has been marked by the murders of rivals, the ruinous taxation of his subjects, the imprisonment of innocents, and the moral decay of the imperial capital itself, whose treacherous pact with the humans known as the Knights of Neraka would have delivered his own kind back into slavery—”
“Never!” rumbled one scarred, brown-furred veteran, his muzzle cut and twisted by an old wound.
In different places across the realm, others, too, called out.
“No more masters!” cried a leather-aproned woodworker.
“No more slaves!” a muscular, young female wearing the sea dragon emblem of the Imperial fleet on her breastplate added.
“—said Chot has been declared a traitor, unfit to command the respect of his people, unfit to rule.
Therefore, he and those who aided in the corruption, dishonor, and downfall of the glorious minotaur race have been sentenced, and that sentence has been carried out. House Kalin and other allied Houses have been condemned, their holdings seized. In addition, those House names shall be forever expunged from the lists of honored clans.”
The chosen officers, as they had been trained, rolled up the proclamations, stared at the awe-struck crowds, and proclaimed, “Chot is dead! Long live the Emperor Hotak! Long live the Emperor Hotak!”
The helmed soldiers who had assembled to protect the heralds in case of a riot, took up the cue, shouting the same in their deep, stentorian voices. “Long live the Emperor Hotak! Long live the Emperor Hotak!”
Others raised long, curled horns and blew hard. Cries from the crowds celebrated the new lord of the realm. The din was heard in all the islands and colonies.
Of course, not all were quick to curse the deposed emperor. In every crowd, a few pairs of eyes looked warily about. A few faces struggled to look unconcerned. Those loyal to Chot kept quiet or even pretended to join in the merriment.
Everywhere, soldiers armed with thick, sturdy rope swarmed over the tall, painted statues of Chot that lined nearly every major avenue and stood in front of each imperial site. The emperor had made certain that each colony had received at least one such statue, and through the years most had accumulated many more.
The great, looming statue in the spacious central square of the capital, the very site where Chot had given his inaugural public appearance as emperor some four decades before, was the first to tumble.
The gigantic, elaborately chiseled figure had survived storms, tremors, and even war. Bloody, twin-edged axe raised high, it depicted the young, burly champion who would become the despot, lustily roaring his triumph as he placed one foot upon the slaughtered and remarkably lifelike corpse of a hairy ogre clutching a thick club. The ogre, his flat face contorted, his tusk-filled mouth open in a final grimace, had one hand up to plead for mercy.
Surrounding the statue of the titan was a vast, deep fountain with great marble waves of wild froth.
Water sprayed high. Fanciful horses with the tails of fish where their hindquarters should have been furiously raced around the outer edge.
Around the fountain, marble benches had been arranged on all sides. Huge axes of black stone, each sculpted as meticulously as the fountain, stood with their heads pointed toward the water spray. The axes, three times the size of the tallest warrior, stretched toward the immortal Chot. The pure white stone filling the rest of the square added to the overall magnificence of the scene.
The people, swept up in the triumph of their new emperor, cheered as the eager soldiers secured ropes to the marble leviathan. Some threw rotting cabbage, tomatoes, and other vegetables at the icon, defacing and staining the statue.
Children threw mud. A common cause stirred all. Several of the younger onlookers moved to help with the binding of the painted goliath. In a scene that was repeated all over the realm, members of the citizenry offered strong rope and gave use of their own leathery hands.
At one time this vision of Chot had been near truth. These days, everyone knew better the graying, round-bellied bull with the bloodshot eyes and scraggly fur slumping on the throne. The glories Chot had once stood for had been overshadowed too long by his stupidities.
The titan in the capital square, which stood the height of five minotaurs, was gripped by six of Hotak's warriors—four pulling on the sturdy waist and throat, two more for the upraised arm—using lines of good storm-tested rope.
The mounted
officer on duty, face emotionless, made a cutting motion.
“Pull!” shouted a subofficer on foot, his expression more lusty.
As one, the soldiers tugged, straining the muscles in their arms, legs, and necks. While some pulled to bring the statue toward them, others pulled in the opposite direction so that the huge monument did not simply crush their comrades.
“Easy!” shouted the subofficer. “More slack back there! Hurry!”
Finally, they had Chot leaning far forward, his vast muzzle looming over one of the benches.
Those under the threatening shadow of the stone emperor scurried away to avoid being flattened.
“Remaining squads, release!”
As one, the other minotaurs obeyed, the ropes fairly flying from their hands as gravity seized command.
With a final groan, Chot the Invincible tumbled forward.
By the scores, by the hundreds, all throughout the minotaur realm, the many statues of Chot were toppled and destroyed.
Not one sculpture survived. Not satisfied, the incensed crowds began to tear down or deface anything that bore Chot's likeness. Reliefs carved into imperial buildings, banners hanging high over the rooftops, tapestries draping meeting chambers—little escaped the orgy of destruction.
The soldiers of Hotak watched all, noting those who did not seem to enjoy their master's victory sufficiently.
And while soldiers watched the citizenry, shadows observed all, reporting to their mistress in the temple.
Yet, with all these eyes, living or dead, not one noticed General Rahm Es-Hestos, late of the Imperial Guard.
*****
The lone ship, her sails full, plied the high waves. The three masts strained but held under the power of the harsh winds, enabling the lengthy vessel to course swiftly through the turbulent water. Built foremost for cargo, Dragon’s Crest nonetheless was also streamlined to match speed with any foe.
Patches here and there spoke of the ship's checkered history, one not only of profit but war. The repairs had all been made with great skill, but each scar spoke proudly of a legacy of brutal seafaring.
Sturdy of limb despite his age, the graying brown captain watched his sole passenger stare at the violent waters and boiling sky. They had left the Blood Sea hours ago, but the compact figure at the rail still gazed behind them.
“Have no fear, my good friend!” Azak de-Genjis called, his gravelly voice rising above the roar of the sea. “Your family is safe elsewhere, and we are well away from danger!”
His passenger turned. In contrast to many minotaurs, General Rahm Es-Hestos was barely over six feet, not including his horns. He made up for this with a musculature worthy of a champion of the arenas. Above his broad muzzle glared two penetrating blue eyes. Like most of his race, his fur was a brown shade, but a streak of black jetting over his eyes gave him a bit of an exotic look. Few who met Rahm forgot him, not only because of his appearance, but also because of the sharp, commanding tone of his voice.
“We're never out of danger, Azak. Never.” The renegade officer wore only kilts. The kilts were not even his, but had been borrowed from one of the captain's kin. Its design had marked Rahm as a member of Genjis clan, thereby saving his life.
“Well… perhaps not,” agreed the captain as he hobbled toward his friend. A long-ago duel had left his right leg permanently injured. His opponent had not fared as well. “But that hunter ship turned off more than three hours back and there's not been a sign of any other pursuit since then.”
Rahm considered his friend's words. With a snort, the commander of the Imperial Guard finally commented, “I wonder what that captain would think if he knew that he just allowed a major enemy of the state to flee under his very snout?”
Azak's thick brow crinkled. “You are no enemy of the state, my good friend! It is the state that has become the enemy.”
“Hotak… I knew his ambitions, admired them even, but I never dreamed he would do this.”
“This travesty will haunt him, Rahm. You will see.”
Thunder rumbled. Dragon’s Crest pushed on. The crew all knew who sailed with them, knew that the lone figure they transported had been marked for death and that by aiding him they joined in his fate, yet they gave their loyalty to their captain.
The unsettling blue eyes glanced at Azak. “I've thought it over,” said Rahm. “We've got to forget Gol. They'll head there first, suspecting Jubal's friendship. Even if he survived this coup, he'll be under watch, I'm sure.”
“Not Gol? Then where? You don't want to join your family on Tadaran. I know that. Where then?
Mito? Aurelis?”
The captain rubbed the underside of his muzzle. “Aurelis is farthest, but there are others—out of the way. Quar?”
The ship rocked violently, sending both grasping for the rail.
“Hotak would know them all. Make no mistake, Azak, he's everything an emperor should be, and if he'd defeated Chot in the Circus, I would've been the first to cheer his name. No, we must go somewhere that Hotak would not even consider as a possibility, and yet gives us a vantage from which to strike back.” A crafty look seized Rahm's face. “I'm thinking it has to be Petarka.”
“Petarka?” The wizened sea captain could not recall any island by that name, much less a colony.
“I've not heard of it.”
For the first time since boarding Dragon’s Crest, General Rahm almost smiled. “No. And neither will have Hotak. I hope.”
Chapter IV
Coronation
The original structure of the Great Circus had been oval in shape, built of simple, sturdy, gray rock, and unadorned, for in those days the minotaurs were a utilitarian society. It had been built, in part, to celebrate the minotaurs' liberation from the rule of the ogres, and those who led the rebellion created it so that it could also serve, under extreme conditions, as a walled fortress. The slits in the uppermost level of the stands served not only to allow circulation of air, but also as positions from which archers could fire. Within the walls themselves, enough storage space had been set aside so that those inside the arena could theoretically survive a siege of up to three months. That the structure would fail miserably in this regard, barely half a century later, the designers could not predict.
The decision to choose their ruler by combat—with guile as much as strength and skill playing a hand—was overwhelmingly popular, and the initial imperial combat had taken place in the Great Circus in the first year of the empire.
When the ogres enslaved the minotaurs again, they tore down the coliseum as a mark of their contempt. When the minotaurs regained their freedom, they built a larger, more extravagant structure, this time circular, reflecting the fact that the Circus was the center of the minotaur world.
Through the dragon wars, the cataclysms, enslavement a dozen times and more, the Great Circus, as it came to be called, changed and grew. One coliseum fell, and a more spectacular one took its place.
And no more spectacular Circus had ever been built than the one in which the crowds gathered by the thousands early this day.
Still circular in shape, with lovingly carved lifelike statues representing the greatest of those champions who had graced the fields of combat, it made those who recalled the previous edifice feel at home, yet the changes and embellishments could all be traced to the ego of the Emperor Chot.
Forty-thousand minotaurs could have seated themselves in the coliseum that had stood before the war against the Magori. Twenty-thousand more could fit here now; both the diameter and the height of Chot's monument to his own glory had been increased by his architects. Ten stories tall and with a playing field alone that measured six hundred and twenty-five feet in diameter, it filled more space than any of its predecessors. The finest white stone had been transported from distant reaches and upon each carefully honed block had been carved the history of the minotaurs. Epic battles of both sea and land, explorations and discoveries, and major events of minotaur history—all found their place on the walls o
f the now-overthrown emperor's Great Circus.
More than a few reliefs, including those most strategically placed, represented the emperor himself.
Over each of the twenty-five entrances—five was considered a lucky number and thus five times five made the Circus a place of good fortune—the proud visage of the emperor was displayed.
There loomed Chot the Proud, Chot the Just, Chot the Fearsome, and many more Chots.
But it was appropriate that images of Chot dominated this Great Circus, for it had been the site of his greatest victories and had helped keep his people pre-occupied even during the worst times of ruinous finances, disease, failed conquests, and more.
However, the great structure had deteriorated under the reign of Chot. Years of insufficient scouring had created a deep moist moss, an accumulation of grime and dirt, and a permanent smell.
The aging emperor, in his imperial box, saw only the dusted marble benches, the painted statues, and the hundreds of banners waving in the wind. Chot never entered by any but one passage, and that single passage, reserved for him and his guests alone, was kept pristine.
Nor had Chot seen—in truth, he would not have cared to see—those who lurked in the rank corridors, as at home in the stench and grime as all the rats and cockroaches. On the lowest levels of the coliseum could be found the shadow sellers, who did all their work in the deep inner corridors and rarely saw the light of day… or even the dark of true night. Oil lamps and torches set into the walls served as the only light for these less-than-respectable merchants who sold everything from trinkets and souvenirs to the powders and herbs that many found so refreshing, despite their eventual devastating toll.
There would be no shadow sellers today. Not only had Hotak commanded that the underdwellers be rounded up and the Circus cleansed of their malignant presence, but anyone caught seeking to buy their diverse wares would likewise be imprisoned. The core of minotaur life, the true heart of the empire, the Great Circus, must be purged of its ugliness. Today would begin the renewal of its glory, a return to purity.
Today, a new emperor would be crowned.
Night of Blood Page 5
