Hunted
Under Nethosak, a vast series of rounded tunnels let the water waste of the imperial capital flow out to sea. Built of sturdy stone, this marvel of engineering had survived eruptions, earthquakes, and even the Cataclysm that ripped Mithas from the mainland. A fast-flowing river coursed through the tunnels, diverted by the work of more than one generation. A pair of yard-wide ledges ran across each side of the water flow, enabling workers to enter and keep the sewers in good order.
However, the reign of Chot had seen little maintenance. The water now moved sluggishly, restricted by trash accumulation. The tunnels suffered from the same lack of care; massive cracks littered entire areas. In some sections through which the fugitives ran, huge chunks of masonry and rock had collapsed into the river. The stench of rotting matter was everywhere.
There was little light. Faros had nearly fallen in the water once. Worse, rats abounded, more rats than could have been imagined.
They had taken to the sewers after being forced to use the horse as a decoy to throw off pursuers.
Twice during the night Bek and Faros had also eluded soldiers searching the tunnels. The darkness had aided them… as had the stench. None of the searchers wanted to remain for very long, even with torches and oil lamps.
With great relief, they crawled out of the sewers within striking distance of their goal. To be above ground gave them some semblance of hope again.
“I wonder what that cheering earlier today was about?” Bek muttered, trying to rid himself of the scent of the tunnels.
“What does it matter?” came Faros' sullen reply.
The wind picked up, a moist, chill bite coming in from the Blood Sea. Both froze as several soldiers came into sight just down the avenue. Bek pulled a staggering Faros back into the shadows, and the two watched as the figures marched past.
“They seem to be leaving the area, Master Faros.”
“Does that mean that they've finished searching around here?”
“Maybe. If so, then we've hope of reaching Captain Azak.”
Faros glanced around. “But there's still light.”
“The longer we wait the harder it'll be.”
The pair had removed their clan emblems and hoped no one would wonder why. Few minotaurs went around without some symbol of their House, but someone might recognize their outlawed clan.
Another band of minotaurs appeared, laughing among themselves. They had been drinking. They shouted at a pair of females carrying goods, then laughed again when the latter turned up their muzzles and gave snorts of offense.
At the same time, a pair of veteran soldiers armed with axes came toward Faros and Bek from another direction. These two had wary expressions and when one noticed Faros, he muttered to his partner.
Some of the revelers also noticed the fugitives and waved at them, shouting, “Long live Emperor Hotak!”
Bek immediately shouted back. “Long live Emperor Hotak!”
The two soldiers neared. Faros greeted them with a cheer, putting on the face he normally wore during bouts of drinking and gaming.
One chuckled and gave him a mock salute. The other nodded.
Bek and Faros moved on. As they walked, they jested loudly with one another, speaking of the good times to come under the rule of the one-eyed general.
At last they spotted the first tall sails jutting over some flat-roofed buildings. All they needed now was to find Captain Azak.
Life went on in the port much the way as it had before the bloody coup—except that armed soldiers patrolled everywhere. Mariners in kilts of all colors and clan patterns fixed lines, repaired hulls and worked to ready ships for sea. Others unloaded cargo. Urged on by their keepers, rough-furred goats from Kothas scurried noisily onto land. Huge barrels were rolled up gangplanks by straining sailors.
A band of workers under the watchful eyes of a pair of soldiers scrubbed away at the moss, gull droppings, and grime covering the stone buildings.
Faros froze in his tracks, startled by what he saw. Under the direction of a grizzled minotaur with a wooden leg, an armed escort had begun removing from a Kalin ship everything that signified its ownership by that clan. Two warriors on the deck took special interest in ripping the Kalin banners to shreds. Other soldiers swarmed over the vessel, seizing anything of value.
Atop the highest mast, the rearing warhorse now danced.
Bek nudged his companion in the ribs. “Master Faros,” he whispered. “It can't be helped. We must go on.”
Faros trailed after him, and it fell to the servant to inquire after Captain Azak. The first mariners he asked did not know his name, but eventually an elderly sailor pointed ahead up the dock.
Thanking the weather-scarred mariner, the two pushed on. Soon they sighted what appeared to be the sea captain's home, a clean, block-styled building with little adornment other than the tell-tale trident and ship symbol marking the captain's clan.
Bek knocked hard on the arched wooden door. Faros braced himself, expecting a legion of soldiers to come bursting out.
No one responded.
The servant put an ear against the wood. “There's no one in there. We'll have to find a place nearby where we can hide. We'll try the captain again when it's dark.”
“I saw some storage houses nearby,” Faros offered.
“They'll do. Some of them should be unused. We can find a way inside and wait. Sunset's not that far away.”
Trying their best to maintain an air of normalcy, the two headed off. Soon they came to a series of tall, gray structures with wide, bolted and chained doors and small slits near the top for windows.
“There should be a way inside,” murmured Bek, checking the doors. “Maybe we could climb up to the roof. We only need—”
A shadow loomed behind them.
“Who are you?” demanded a steely voice. “What business do you have here?”
Five figures clad in black, crestless helms confronted Faros and Bek. They wore sleek ebony breastplates, shoulder armor, and gauntlets. Each wielded a sturdy mace. Their knee-length kilts consisted of black segments of leather and metal. Yet nothing unnerved Bek and Faros as much as the symbols emblazoned in gold upon both the breast plate and helm. A twin-edged axe broken at the midpoint and folded upward. Above it, seeming to rise to the sky, the shape of a majestic bird—the insignia of the Temple of the Forerunners.
As the Forerunners had grown in numbers and power, so, too, had their martial arm, the Protectors, expanded its scope. Now they sent out their own patrols and pursued—and often punished—those lawbreakers they caught. The Protectors swore their lives and their existence to the temple. Only the mistrust of Chot had kept them from seizing more authority on the streets. But Chot was gone, and their mistress sat as consort to the new emperor.
“I asked a simple question,” the barrel-chested leader proclaimed. He used the multi-barbed head of the mace to prod Faros' chin up, so that he could look him in the eyes. “Have you no simple answer?”
Bek came to his master's aid, replying, “We are guards sent to mind House Delarac's holdings.”
The clan symbol of Delarac, a close ally of House Droka, hung above several nearby buildings.
“There are those who would use the emperor's coronation as an excuse for theft.”
The leader said nothing, instead staring intently at both fugitives.
“I see no badge of your House,” he said, using the mace as a pointing stick. “Nor on you,” the Protector added, shifting the mace to Bek. “In fact, they look to have been ripped off, and that begs further questions. I think perhaps you two should come with us to the temple, where this matter can be sorted out.”
One of the other Protectors put a hand on his superior's shoulder. The latter turned to listen.
Bek used the distraction to grab Faros by the arm and run.
Their inquisitor whirled about. “Stop them!”
To the fugitives' horror, three more Protectors came into sight from the opposite direction.<
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Brandishing their maces, the armored trio charged toward them.
Bek pulled Faros into a narrow alley. Four more figures materialized ahead of them. These, though, wore the silver armor of soldiers.
“You there!” shouted the officer in charge. “Identify yourselves immediately!”
Faros opened his mouth, but Bek pushed him back.
“You wish to know who I am?” the servant cried. “Ask not my lowly servant, Bek, then! Hear it from me! Hear it from Faros Es-Kalin, son of Gradic, nephew of the true emperor, Chot!”
“Kalin?” The officer's eyes lit up and he snorted with anticipation. “A bonus for us! Stand still and—”
Bek hurled himself at the soldiers. He managed to knock the officer to the ground, even wrench the axe from the other's hands. “My family—my honor—will be avenged!”
Before he could do anything, a sword caught him in the chest. A second followed, skewering the brave servant.
“Kalin—!” Bek managed to gasp, dropping the axe. He fell back, dead.
Horrified, Faros turned from the soldiers—only to run into the oncoming Protectors.
They pummeled him, used the blunt end of their maces to hit at his unprotected body. Faros collapsed. Even then the temple sentinels did not pause, but continued to strike him.
“Stop that! In the name of the emperor, cease that at once!”
Half lost to the world, Faros could not even look up at his savior, the legion officer.
“This is an enemy of the state,” rumbled the Protector commander. “We are ordered to show traitors no mercy.”
“He's half-beaten to a pulp! Even a temple lackey should be able to see that.”
Dark muttering arose from the Forerunner faithful. “Watch your tongue. Our master is Lord Ardnor, the emperor's eldest.”
“Then he should've told you of Emperor Hotak's own command. The servants of the condemned Houses are to be rounded up, not slain. This wretch doesn't even carry a weapon.”
“Such a worthless hide should not be saved.”
“That is not ours to decide, Forerunner. We are to deliver his kind to the officers of Lord Bastion or Lady Maritia. Those are our orders and therefore yours, too!”
“Take him, then,” the Protectors' leader said, “but we lay claim for the discovery of the nephew.”
“You could've just as easily lost him if we hadn't been nearby, but we'll talk about sharing, shall we?” One of them prodded Faros. “He'll be going nowhere on his own. You two! Get him to his feet. Drag him along.”
As the soldiers pulled him up, Faros saw the Protectors seize hold of Bek's body. The black-helmed figures lifted Bek's limp form as if he were a sack of wet grain. Faros' vision cleared enough to enable him to stare into the slack face of the one who had saved his life, who had sacrificed everything for a futile cause.
*****
Once more, they were pursued.
Where the two huge, three-masted ships had come from, neither Rahm nor Azak could say. The vessels appeared from the south, small dots that grew rapidly. The precision with which the two ships broke through the choppy waters and maneuvered so near to one another spoke of the discipline of the empire's naval force.
“To port! To port!” cried the captain of Dragon’s Crest.
Sailors worked the lines, trying to feed their own ship the wind it needed. Dragon’s Crest flew over the water and yet still could not escape the fast-approaching pursuers.
“There should have been no other ships in these waters,” Azak growled. “What's to be found here that would interest a pair of hawks like that?”
Eyeing the newcomers, the general muttered, “Us, apparently.”
“We could stand and fight,” the captain suggested. No minotaur desired to run from battle, even a hopeless one.
“Neither can use their catapults in these mad waters,” Rahm reminded the elder captain. In calmer seas, Dragon’s Crest would have been in range of an expert shot. “Can't we make better use of the wind? You've always said this is one of the swiftest ships in the empire.”
The graying mariner looked down his muzzle. “And she is, but we'd need to head south to catch the wind, and that would bring us even closer to that ugly pair.”
Rahm made a desperate calculation. “Make a shift, anyway, if only by two degrees.”
Azak gave him an incredulous look. “Has madness taken you? We'll only guarantee swift capture—if they don't sink us!”
“Do as I say!” The general peered at the cloud-covered skies to the east. “Give it everything you can! Cut through the water and never mind that pair! I think we're near!”
“Near to what? That island of yours cannot be around here! Islands just don't pop up on well-charted waters.”
“Just trust me, Azak!”
With a shake of his head, Azak shouted the change in course.
At that moment, what sounded like thunder burst from the closest enemy vessel.
A massive, spherical object flew into the air, arcing clearly towards the Crest.
“Starboard!” roared Azak. “Starboard!”
A rock as large as a minotaur crashed into the water just off the port side. The sea welled up, sending a wall of water over the rail.
One sailor was swept away. Another barely held on. Dragon’s Crest rocked back and forth violently.
The captain swore. “That was too damned good a shot for the first try! The next one's bound to be a hit!”
While the first ship reloaded, the second vessel, charging forward, angled for a clear shot.
Rahm glanced ahead and saw nothing. No, was that a dot on the horizon?
“Azak! Hold your course!”
A second dot appeared, then a third. Moments later, the general counted five distinct forms.
One of the crew spotted them and called out, “Pirates!”
No sooner did the cry go out than another crack of thunder sounded.
“Damn it! Two degrees port! I said port this time!”
The sudden veering saved Dragon’s Crest from a direct hit. Unfortunately, the massive rock did not miss completely, smashing into the crow's nest with such force that splinters rained down. The hand on watch never had a chance to jump to safety. Rahm heard him scream, and then no more.
“We're done for either way, but we'll give them a fine fight!” Turning on his good leg, the graying mariner called out, “All hands to stations! Prepare to repel boarders!”
Rahm put a hand on Azak's shoulder. “No! Do nothing! I think… I think they've come to meet us!”
“They what?”
The two pursuing ships had finally noticed the five new vessels approaching. For a moment, it appeared that the pair would stand and fight, but then the two imperial vessels turned, abandoning their prey.
The other five closed in.
“Are you sure of this, lad?”
Rahm's throat constricted. “No.”
“Lovely to hear.” With reluctance, Captain Azak called for his crew to stand down.
One of the strange ships veered toward them while the other four sailed at a swift pace after the bulkier imperial hunters.
“Look at those lines!” the first mate, a heavy, jovial male called Botanos rumbled. The black giant leaned over the rail, disregarding the target he made for any expert archer as he stared at the approaching ship. “Look how she cuts the water!”
“She travels the open sea like a fish!” returned the bosun.
“Just who are they?” Azak asked.
Rahm, his hands gripped tight on the rail, said nothing. The imperial vessels could not escape. As they and their adversaries shrank in the distance, the general heard a short, familiar crack and saw something fly toward the slower enemy ship.
Limping next to him, Captain Azak wore a grim expression. “They'll never make it. If those low-slung wolves mean to end them, it'll happen, mark me.”
“Captain!” called a hand up on the ropes. “She flies no banners!”
“You sure t
hese are not pirates?”
“No, they're not.” Rahm muttered. The fugitive commander bent his head low, keeping his horns down and showing the back of his neck. “I've not told everything, I admit that now, Azak.”
The frustrated captain shook his head. “Raise your horns and tell me what's going on. I can always take your head later if I do not like what I hear, eh?”
The general pointed at the nearing ship. “I didn't say so before, but we could never find Petarka on our own. He said that a ship would come and guide us. I had every reason to believe he told the truth.”
“And who is 'he'?”
“An associate.”
“An associate. That's it?” Azak rubbed the underside of his muzzle then gave his friend a cautious nod. They both knew that Rahm had not only staked his honor on this, but all their lives as well.
As the mystery ship neared, more details could be made out. Lower and narrower than their vessel, its hull was painted a dark sea green and built with such precision that it was difficult to see where one plank ended and another began. The sails were arched. The masts, shorter and slimmer than the Crest’s, showed no strain at all as the sails filled. The bow sliced the waves, its elongated, narrowing point thrusting forward like a lance.
“That thing could do a lot of damage,” commented the captain uneasily. “It's built sturdy, and as low as they sit, a ship rammed by them would take on water quick.”
Several figures moved about the mysterious vessel.
“They're minotaurs!” someone roared.
While that in itself was no tremendous surprise, the strangers caused some curiosity. The crew stood tall and slim. They moved with more the grace of acrobats than warriors. Their fur tended toward light brown, and most wore their manes in a tail. Snouts were angular, less pronounced. The mysterious mariners wore knee-length, sea-green kilts.
Instead of a catapult, the new vessel carried near its bow a ballista that could launch two wooden, iron-tipped javelins eight feet in length. A long, flexible piece of timber hauled back by the windlass—a drum-shaped winch—would, when released, strike the javelins with such ferocity that they might pierce a hull. Like the imperial fleet's ballistae and catapults, this one rested on a flat platform that enabled its users to turn it in any direction.
Night of Blood Page 7
