Bastion, Maritia, and their brother Kolot stood on a hastily-erected wooden dais in the center of the Great Circus. The brothers wore fresh, knee-length, leather kilts studded with tiny silver stars. The axe harnesses strapped diagonally across their torsos shined bright from seal oil run lovingly over the leather. Their military badges displayed the rearing horse symbol of their father's legion. The twin, curved heads of the battleaxes strapped behind the two minotaurs also gleamed and had been turned sideways to emphasize their massiveness. Each blade had been honed sharp. Both brothers wore silver, unadorned, open-faced helms whose lower front edges curled around their cheeks and whose backs slid down to cover their necks.
Their sister wore a simple, low-cut tunic of gray cotton and a kilt, identical in design to Bastion and Kolot's. She favored a slim long sword over a heftier axe.
The vast arena was filled to overflowing. Everyone within riding distance of Nethosak came if they could. After the assassinations and the rejoicing of the people in the streets, Hotak had immediately ordered a lavish coronation. He felt he needed to seize the moment. Wait too long, even a day too long, and the people might begin to question the tumultuous events.
“Still no word on Tiribus, Kesk, or Rahm,” Maritia whispered in Bastion's ear.
“I told Father he should have waited until they were all taken care of,” her elder brother murmured back. Squinting, the black minotaur peered up at the top of the massive arena, where the statues of past champions—excluding Chot's now—stood guard. Next to each stood an able archer, the finest in Hotak's legion.
In addition, soldiers armed with either twin-edged axes, long swords, or sharp, needlelike lances stretching ten feet from base to tip, lined each level and every exit.
“How long—?” Maritia began.
At that moment, heralds, their silver dress armor gleaming, raised their long, curled horns. The Circus acted as a natural amplifier and, positioned as they were on small square platforms overlooking the playing field, the heralds created a wave of sound that rose up like thunder.
The emperor-to-be and his consort had arrived.
Through the main gate on the floor of the arena—the high, barred gate used to unleash wild animals or fighters onto the playing field—burst a pair of charging chariots, each drawn by four horses of the purest black. The gilded vehicles, also black but with brilliant gold scrollwork and etched with the profile of a fearsome minotaur, raced around the field. Behind the chariots, two helmed warriors rode.
Reaching the middle of the arena, the chariots spun and came to an abrupt and, to the crowd, quite startling halt. As the crowd held its collective breath, General Hotak de-Droka and the Lady Nephera strode majestically into the vast center of the Circus.
Hotak's breastplate gleamed brighter than anyone's and had, in fact, been finished this very day.
Ornate scrollwork marked the shoulders, and on the chest no longer did the crimson condor fly.
Instead a savage black warhorse reared.
Baring his teeth in a smile, Hotak stared out from under an open helm. The emperor-to-be wore a long sword whose gold handle was encrusted with a circular pattern of red rubies and upon whose blade had been etched the single word: Destiny.
Hotak's mane had been neatly trimmed and his dark-brown fur treated with palm and olive oil to make it glisten. He waved to the crowd, and the air filled with cheering and the stomping of feet.
At his side, Nephera, too, greeted the throngs. Ever elegant, the high priestess had for this ceremony foregone the stately robes of the Forerunner faith—which brought great relief to her husband—in favor of shimmering, silken ones dyed silver, then trimmed at the sleeves, waist, and throat with emerald green lace. They were caught at the waist by a silken belt with a pattern made of true emeralds. As with Hotak's cape, her robes trailed behind her, where they were held steady by a pair of young female fighters.
Three stunning necklaces composed of silver strands of intertwining serpents adorned her throat, and between her horns Nephera wore a slim, coiled headband encrusted with small emeralds and rubies patterned like stars. Her hair had been cleansed and oiled, and her fur scented with lavender, the last a favorite not only of high-ranking females, but a perfume which reliably enticed her husband.
Behind the pair came Ardnor. Hotak's eldest son had foregone the robes of the temple for an outfit virtually identical to those of his brothers, with the minor addition of a clean, gray tunic without sleeves under his axe harness. But he also wore an imposing black helm, which everyone in the coliseum would instantly recognize as the symbol of the Protectors.
Trailing the new emperor's family were his closest allies—generals, naval officers, and the patriarchs of powerful clans. They came clad in their finest, well-crafted robes or brightly polished breastplates. All waved to the roaring crowd.
The absence of some notable Houses was glaring. This included prominent Houses that had escaped the bloody lists. While some of their leaders sat among the vast audience, others were missing and observers wondered about their future and the future of their clans.
The platform had been draped over with a massive banner, displaying a monstrous shadow of a horse. At the uppermost point of the makeshift dais sat, for all to see, the imperial throne, removed from the palace for this occasion. The tall, oak chair was stained a deep, deep red. The head of a fierce minotaur with lengthy, curved horns was carved into the top. The savage countenance evoked the lost god Sargas—or Sargonnas, as others called him—as imagined in the favored form of his chosen people.
Hotak and his wife stood before the throne. An elegant chair had been brought from the temple for the high priestess. The arms of the second chair curved like waves on the sea and the legs resembled those of a dragon, even down to the clawed feet. Neither the general nor Lady Nephera sat, however. They continued to acknowledge the crowd while the other dignitaries took their places.
Ardnor, ignoring his brothers and sister, took up a position close to Nephera, then surveyed the crowds as if he, not Hotak, stood ready to be crowned.
The emperor-to-be nodded to a trumpeter, who quickly thrust the horn to his mouth and blew to signal a new figure approaching from the main entrance.
The hair on Bastion's neck rose, and both Maritia and Kolot stirred uneasily. All three had expected the gaunt, hooded minotaur clad in plain, gray robes and a simple, unadorned breastplate, but still the sight of him disturbed them. Lothan came as the only member of the Supreme Circle to survive the overthrow of Chot.
Five of the Supreme Circle were dead. Lothan had worked hand-in-hand with his fellow councilors to the very end. Councilor Boril, an unassuming but capable administrator, had even gone to the traitor to warn him of rumors of danger. In return for that warning, Lothan had let the very assassins Boril had feared enter his own home, slaying his guest.
Flanked on each side by five soldiers wielding the banners of the new emperor, Councilor Lothan walked solemnly toward the steps leading up to Hotak. The cheers and stomping grew incessant.
Joined by two of Hotak's officers, Lothan ascended the steps until he stood before the general. Only then did Hotak, now unhelmed, and Nephera seat themselves.
The throngs grew silent. The councilor turned to face them, holding up for all to see two objects.
“The Crown of Toroth!”
The stomping and roaring erupted anew. The first artifact resembled a helmet, but jeweled and with a condor's head as the crest. Its ruby eyes were worth a fortune in themselves. The entire crown glittered with so many and varied jewels that some in the crowd had to turn their gaze or be temporarily blinded.
Up thrust Lofhan's other hand. “The Axe of Makel Ogrebane!”
No one truly believed that the sleek, golden axe with the diamond runes spelling out Makel's name was the same one wielded by the hero—later emperor—who had freed his race from slavery, any more than that the crown had actually been worn by Toroth, the ruler instrumental in expanding minotaur maritime interests
beyond the Blood Sea. Both artifacts had been created much later when such symbols were needed—as they clearly were now.
“There is no greater honor,” Lothan continued, “than to be found worthy of wearing this fabled crown and wielding this legendary weapon! There is no greater honor than to sit upon the throne of the ancients, to be acknowledged as the one who, by right of strength and wit, has been chosen to rule!”
The hooded figure turned to Hotak. “ 'We have been enslaved, but have always thrown off our shackles,' ” Lothan proclaimed, beginning the ancient litany that each child learned early on. “ 'We have been driven back, but always returned to the fray stronger than before!' ”
Those in attendance began murmuring the same words, thousands of deep, minotaur voices speaking in unison.
Lothan's voice rose. “ 'We have risen to new heights when all other races have fallen into decay!”
“ 'We are the future of Krynn!' ”
“ 'The future of Krynn…' ” chanted the crowd.
“ 'The fated masters of the entire world!' ” the councilor cried.
“ 'The entire world!' ”
“ 'We are the children of destiny!' ”
“ 'Destiny… destiny… destiny!' ” the people repeated. The stomping began again.
With the one hand, Lothan held the crown over the general then, with horns blaring, reverently set the elaborate headpiece down on Hotak's head.
The crowd stilled.
The general adjusted the crown slightly, then, his good eye gleaming, nodded for the councilor to proceed.
“General Hotak de-Droka, I place in your hands the Axe of Makel Ogrebane, so that you may rule with strength, determination, and honor!”
Hotak gripped the axe in his hands and rested it across his lap.
“Hotak de-Droka, let none call you general from this day forth, for that enviable rank is now beneath your grand status! Let it be proclaimed here and now—” the hooded minotaur turned back to the crowd— “on this day we honor the rule of Emperor Hotak! All hail Emperor Hotak!”
Bastion, Kolot, and Maritia roared their approval along with the crowds. Long, thin cloth streamers of red and black, the new imperial colors, flew from every section.
The former general slowly rose, saluting with the ceremonial axe. He took a moment to lean down to his mate and nuzzle her hand, then turned to the crowd once more.
“I am not your emperor!” Hotak shouted.
Complete stillness overwhelmed the onlookers.
“I am not your emperor,” he continued, turning his single-eye gaze from one row to the next, “if it means treating you with the respect, the honor, with which one treats a gully dwarf! I am not your emperor… if it means holding in contempt the traditions by which our people have thrived for generations!”
The crowd seemed mesmerized. As they listened, Hotak's soldiers herded in a small, disheveled group of surly prisoners.
“I am your emperor,” the scarred commander cried, not once glancing down at the newcomers, “if you seek a return to honor and glory! To end decay! I am your emperor if you truly believe, as I do, that we are indeed the children of destiny!”
The roaring and stomping renewed.
Hotak let it go on for more than a minute. Below, the prisoners, set in two groups of five apiece, were forced to their knees. Some wore the raiment of warriors, one that of a general. Others were clad in muddied and tattered garments that had once been wealthy robes marking a patriarch or a high-ranking councilor. The faces bore bruises and scars. All kept their muzzles to the sandy ground.
Hotak descended. The new emperor paused before the first of the prisoners, then signaled his subjects for silence.
“For the past several decades,” Hotak said with a snort of contempt, “a shadow has enshrouded the throne. Corruption, the worst since the days of Polik the Pawn! Minotaurs have risen in power through bribes and favors. Filth litters our streets! Our once-proud structures have fallen into disarray, and justice has become a mockery. These before you are a few of those responsible—and for their crimes they shall now pay!”
Hotak whirled upon the prisoner behind him and brought the polished head of the axe down upon the kneeling figure's neck.
The decapitated body slumped forward, blood pooling near the emperor.
Hotak marched to the second prisoner. Once again, the axe rose high… and once again it came down.
When the last of the ten lay sprawled at Hotak's reddened feet, he held the axe up for all to see. Fur covered in sweat and an expression of intense satisfaction on his face, the emperor cried, “Under Chot and others before him, that which chose who should lead, the imperial combat, has become a mockery! For four decades, it served only to lengthen Chot's foul reign and keep our race stagnant!” Hotak snorted in righteous fury. “Never again! I declare here and now that the imperial combat is no more, that no emperor will rule through subterfuge and treachery! Honor shall be restored to the throne—and with your help, I shall see it done quickly!”
Again the crowds cheered, most not realizing that Hotak had just informed them that he intended to be ruler for as long as he desired. The choice of emperor had been taken from them forever.
“I hereby declare a three-day celebration—not to honor my own glory, but to mark the rebirth of the empire, to mark the dawning of a new age! The Age of the Minotaur!”
Hotak's name became the audience's collective cry over and over. The former general ascended the dais again. Hotak did not sit, instead once more taking his mate's hand. Nephera stood next to her husband.
Trumpets blared. More streamers fluttered to the arena floor. They landed everywhere, merrily decorating the headless corpses or sinking into the swelling puddles of blood.
With the confidence of one whose every word was law, the emperor led Nephera off the dais.
Maritia glanced at her brother. “Bastion! What—?”
“Quiet!” he returned. “Just follow along as if everything has gone as planned!”
Ardnor and Lothan also were caught by surprise, but quickly joined the others. The procession continued into the corridor beneath the public areas. The stone walls bore decades of scars and the thick doors on each side hinted of the many beasts and prisoners held there. Crimson stains marked the length of the corridor.
Four guards unbarred the heavy outer doors as Hotak neared.
Hotak waved cheerfully to the people beyond, saluting them with the still-dripping axe. His name could be heard from every direction. Hotak! Hotak!
Well-guarded, the horses of those who had participated in the ceremony awaited. For the emperor and his consort, a huge, black war chariot drawn by ebony steeds sat ready. Hotak helped his wife up into it, then joined her, waving” again to his subjects.
The others took to their mounts. Horns blared. Armed soldiers began clearing a path before the imperial family. Slowly at first, then faster as the onlookers dispersed before it, the magnificent vehicle pushed on toward the palace.
As Kolot and Maritia urged their own mounts on, Bastion paused, glancing at his eldest brother.
Ardnor's expression was solemn, but the eyes of his sibling made Bastion's hands tighten on the reins, for the whites had turned completely blood red.
Despite the fury obviously welling within him, Ardnor rode on as if nothing was amiss. Bastion stared after him, wondering why their father had not done as planned and announced Ardnor as heir.
*****
The Knights of Neraka never had a chance. Before the patrol's incursion into the rocks and hills of southern Kern, dragonriders had flown over and verified that no ogre activity was taking place in the region. The beast-men had fled before the superior might of the Knighthood.
So the ogres had wanted the Knights of Neraka to believe.
The ogre leader's plan was to let the patrol wend its way through the area, let them return and report that the way was clear, that paths existed for the larger army, then, when the army returned, catch an entire column while t
hey were confined to one of the narrow passes crisscrossing the harsh landscape.
But ogres were never patient, and when one impetuous warrior rose up to throw his spear, the rest followed suit, waving clubs and tossing boulders down on the dozen hapless humans.
“Keep order! Keep order!” shouted the patrol commander.
The humans briefly fended off the attackers. One ogre was decapitated. The hooves of a warhorse cracked the rib cage of another.
Although the knights fought well, surrounded by a hundred ogres, they had no real hope. One after another, they were dragged from their horses. Heavy clubs bashed in armored skulls. Brutish hands crushed throats or broke necks. The lead knight managed to slay two opponents before a spear drove through his breastplate, leaving him dangling in the air like a stringless marionette.
Two of the patrol managed to escape the ambush, urging their steeds back the way they had come.
Dust rose high in their wake, but their flight was short-lived. Ahead of them, more ogres shoved tremendous boulders down. The massive rocks crashed into the horses, sending riders and mounts toppling.
Savage, tusked warriors rushed down and battered the two stunned knights with their clubs until little remained recognizable, bringing their struggle to a quick, horrific conclusion.
One of the ogres seized a bloody helm and propped it atop his spear. Harsh cries arose as the victors celebrated the deaths of their enemies.
*****
Overlooking the slaughter from atop the highest ridge, a short, slim ogre clad in a cloak and garb more suitable for an elf spat angrily in the dust. The scent of blood and the cries of battle stirred him as they did all his kind, yet he held himself in check. The others could revel in their victory, but he knew how little this skirmish counted. The army that should have been easy prey would now be warned by the disappearance of their scouts. The knights' relentless advance into Kern would continue.
Despite this dire fact, he grinned. “All will change,” he promised himself in almost perfect Common. “All will change soon, yes.”
Chapter V
Night of Blood Page 6
