A blinding light burst forth. Nephera blinked until her vision returned and had found herself inside the temple.
Glittering tapestries three stories high covered every wall of the vast chamber, fluttering in a wind she could not feel. The marble floor beneath her feet shone. Ridged columns towered over her.
And there, set upon a waist-high, bone-white pedestal in the very center of the chamber, she had found the golden axe depicted on the doors—lying broken in half. Before the shattered weapon, there stood another new line of spectral forms. The first one touched with dry, transparent hands the head and the base of the handle.
The axe flared bright.
The ghost vanished. A second followed suit, then a third and on.
An inexplicable desire to put the two broken halves together compelled Nephera to step forward.
But when she touched the pieces, nothing happened, and the weapon remained broken. This infuriated her beyond measure.
With a growl, Nephera slammed the two pieces together, forcing them to meld even as they shook, flared, and burned like fire in her hands. A hundred times she considered letting go, but a hundred times she held on, fusing the two parts.
In death is the axe broken, intoned a voice without gender, a voice without emotion—a voice that came from within and without. It is lain upon the chest of the dead warrior, a symbol of his or her passing on to the next great battle.
Then the golden weapon began to shrink, growing so small that within seconds Nephera could cradle the artifact in her arms.
When the axe is broken, it can never be made one again; so it is written, continued the genderless voice. But if there is one who can mend that which cannot be made whole, then that one holds power over death itself—and the world beyond.
All the while the ghosts floated around her, each wanting to touch the weapon but unable to do so because of her. They watched her with awe and fear. Their gray, washed-out features contorted in silent pleas.
Nephera realized that she had complete command over them.
By now, the once-great golden axe was but a tiny amulet.
The minotaur raised it to her breast, touched it to her skin just below her throat—
And there it sank into her flesh, melding with her body, fusing with her soul.
More from surprise than fright, Nephera had screamed, and that scream had shattered the dream.
Hotak's wife had leaped from their bed, certain that she had imagined all.
But in the mirror, the tiny axe buried in her flesh still burned as bright as fire—and erased any doubt.
From that day forward, Nephera had become a different being, one who constantly walked not only the plane of the living, but also the realm of the dead. Ghosts—true ghosts, not the faded figures of her dream—gathered around her, obeying her every word and bringing her news and information.
With her newfound powers, Nephera drew others to her and proclaimed the birth of the Forerunners.
Hotak had not welcomed her change, not until one of her ghosts had informed her of the ambitious officer spying on him for Chot. An accident had readily dealt with that situation, and from then on Lady Nephera had ensured the loyalty of all those around her and her husband. She took a more active hand in his campaigns, aiding his victories with her unearthly spies.
Now, years after that fateful night, Nephera stood in the meditation room, staring at the symbol of the Forerunners—the golden axe broken in two and, above it, the magnificent bird of prey, a hawk, also of pure gold. The axe represented death, with the ascending bird symbolizing the spirit rising from the mortal plane.
Nephera opened her collar, revealing the tiny golden axe still embedded in her skin just below her throat.
Only those who stood highest in the temple hierarchy knew of its existence, and they were sworn to secrecy. Even her husband did not know of the axe bestowed on her by the dream, for Nephera had discovered the ability to mask it from the eyes of others. Any who stared at her would see only the usual fur and flesh.
In contrast to the massive icon on the wall, no other images and no furniture decorated the great room. A single torch set in each corner gave sufficient illumination, and no more. For what Lady Nephera did here, she wanted no distractions.
Looking now to Takyr, the high priestess nodded.
The ghost raised one transparent, skeletal hand and the chamber began to fill with the dead.
All around her stood green-gray forms forever locked in their moment of death. By fire, blade, sickness, infirmity, and other causes they had perished. All were minotaurs. These and more each day came to serve her.
Some wore rags, others fine gowns and uniforms. If their death had been peaceful, then the spectre looked intact, almost alive—save for the hollow eyes and hungering look. However, if their end had come through catastrophic means, then that ghost carried with it the horrific image of its demise.
Ripped and torn flesh, skulls opened by axes—the variety was endless.
Here stood one male who had been slain in violent battle, his head barely upright on his shoulders, his breastplate slashed wide. Blackened blood covered his chest, oozing slowly from his vicious wounds. Beside him drifted a child who had perished from the scarlet plague, a scourge on all races since the Dragon Wars centuries before. The dead youngster was constantly caught up in fits of pain and coughing. Pustules covered her muzzle.
Scents mingled around her—the smell of burned ash, the deep sea, and flowery fragrances. The fire was that which consumed agonized flesh, the sea that which swallowed a life whole, and the flowers those left to decay with the dead.
“Attend me!” Nephera commanded the shades.
They encircled her, a ghastly, grasping horde whose presence might have driven another mad, yet their nearness only made Nephera's heart pound with joy, for they were her key to glory.
Placing her hands upon the icon on her chest, she began to hum. The ghosts—with the exception of Takyr—crowded near, their fleshless hands reaching. They were drawn to the axe.
One by one, the shades passed through the high priestess' body and disappeared.
With each intrusion, Nephera shivered. She muttered and drew symbols in the air, symbols from both the dream and her subconscious.
Above her, a cloud formed, a cloud that writhed, as though alive. A faint sound like the breathing of a beast touched her ears.
“Barakash!” Nephera shouted, using the words of a language she knew only from her dreams.
“Verisi Barakash!”
The cloud blackened, thickened. Within the monstrous, growing mass, two fiery orbs appeared.
They stared down at the ecstatic high priestess, and Lady Nephera stared back, undaunted.
“Takyr! Attend me!”
The dark shade drifted over to her. The cloud creature remained near the ceiling, writhing.
Now Takyr stepped into the priestess' body.
She shook like a puppet whose strings have been jerked. When Nephera spoke, her voice came out both female and male, alive… and dead.
“Rahm Es-Hestos!” her own strange voice called. “Tiri-bus de-Nordmir! Verisi Barakash!”
Armlike appendages sprouted from the sides of the cloud. The eyes focused on something the high priestess could not see, then moved toward the icon on the wall, momentarily lost all cohesion—and drifted through the wall as if no obstruction existed.
Takyr, looking very faint, emerged from Nephera's body.
The priestess gasped and nearly fell. Her body was drenched in sweat, and her heart was pounding… but she had done it! She had passed a threshold of spellcasting that once had been beyond her. Nephera had summoned into being a hunter, an avenger, a shade that would end her anxiety.
“I did it,” she muttered. “Hide. Hide wherever you like. You cannot escape.”
Regaining her breath, the high priestess looked up to see the ghosts reappearing. Like Takyr, they seemed drained. From experience, she knew they would recoup their strength and
grow in numbers.
Nephera, too, had to recoup. Her body ached, and her head pounded. Ignoring the unearthly stares of the spectres, Lady Nephera made her way from the meditation room. The Protectors snapped to attention, and although they watched her as she passed, she found herself amused that they could not see the swarm of ghosts escorting her.
And well beyond the confines of the temple, a dark, inhuman searcher with eyes of fire now drifted throughout Nethosak.
*****
Above the Blood Sea and the Courrain Ocean, clouds began to form—thick green-gray clouds such as not even the most grizzled mariner could recall. Gradually, they filled the skies.
The seas grew choppy, and wary captains kept one eye on the darkened skies as the heavens transformed.
Chapter VII
Harsh Measures
Several days after Hotak's coronation, a smaller ceremony took place late one evening in the headquarters of the eight members of the Supreme Circle—a vast, rectangular building flanking the palace. With retinues greater than some small Houses, the Circle saw to it that the imperial armies were fed, the fleets kept in good repair, and the lives of the citizenry safeguarded. In the past, the Supreme Circle had kept the minotaurs united during even the most violent eras. Emperors came and went, but the Circle persevered.
Until recently. Now the Circle itself was tainted. All but one member had been replaced. Now the Circle existed to serve Hotak, not the people.
It was well after dark when Maritia and her escort of six arrived at the headquarters. Unshuttered square windows lined the upper levels and half a dozen unadorned columns flanked the entrance.
Her party strode up a short flight of steps where they were met by a contingent of the State Guard, which saluted her smartly, then led the party inside.
As she entered the great gallery, rows of robed elders stood to acknowledge her. The gallery had been created for important debates concerning the Circle and the major Houses. Today, somber minotaurs filled the five hundred seats, more standing than sitting.
On a high, wide platform the members of the Supreme Circle sat. One step below the rest was the seat of the council scribe, who set down the words of the gathering and, therefore, the words that became law. Only those with the sharpest ears and quickest hands could do this job.
Protocol demanded that no weapons were allowed in the chamber save those wielded by the guards, but neither Maritia nor her companions had been asked to remove theirs. Only when the emperor's daughter faced the assembly did the eight elders of the Supreme Circle finally take their places. The council scribe seated herself and took quill in hand.
Nearby stood a dais upon which a tremendous pyre had been set. The immense, bronze bowl was set afire at the start of each session to symbolize the vitality of the empire. A guard waited, torch in hand. The fire this day would burn higher and brighter than ever.
High above hung the banners of each clan, but a good many of the poles now stood bare.
Lothan, his hood pulled back, joined Maritia in the center. A hush fell over all as the gaunt councilor bowed to the emperor's daughter.
“The wisdom of the throne is welcomed by this assembly,” he intoned, using the traditional greeting.
“The throne gratefully accepts the invitation of its most learned and trusted servants,” Maritia replied.
To the left of the Circle, a single trumpeter sounded three short, deep notes, and the guard thrust the blazing torch into the oiled wood. A fearsome fire shot up, briefly engulfing the gigantic bowl.
The scribe rose from her seat. “The horn is sounded! The flame is lit! The words spoken now, the actions taken hence, will be set for the record, for the future of the empire! Let those gathered recall this, for there shall be no more warning!”
As she seated herself again, guards shut and barred every door.
The formalities concluded, Maritia handed a scroll to the councilor.
Lothan quickly perused it then surveyed the audience. “Attend me, brothers and sisters!” he shouted. “I hold in my hands a proclamation delivered unto me concerning those Houses who, by their own acts, chose freely to align themselves with the regime of Chot the Corrupt!”
Rumblings arose as the assembled patriarchs and their retinues made a show of how much they despised those clans. Their feet drummed hard. Never mind that almost everyone there had willingly engaged in business and political transactions with House Kalin over the years.
“It is the righteous and knowledgeable decision of the emperor,” the senior councilor went on, “that these clans suffer the greatest penalty for their treasonous behavior!”
A guard standing to the right of the platform beat on a large, brass kettle drum. He repeated the same short cadence, one hand striking, then two heartbeats of quiet, then the other hand striking, two more heartbeats and so on.
To the far side of the pyre stood a long, plain table upon which several immense, folded cloths lay stacked one upon another. Lothan nodded his head slightly as a guard lifted one cloth up in the air.
The members of the Circle rose and moved toward the table.
The drum beats ceased.
“On this day,” continued the gaunt councilor. “At this august hour, and by signed declaration of the emperor, let the following Houses suffer all loss of recognition. Their holdings will be assumed by the throne, to be distributed among the people. Those who served their base causes will be removed from minotaur society, their names erased forever. All records concerning these clans shall be stricken. They and theirs shall be shunned. It will be as though they never existed.”
A new rumble of approval met these words, the surviving patriarchs bowing to the wisdom of Hotak.
“Let it begin!” Lothan raised his hand, and the cadence began anew.
The first elder stepped forward, taking the tightly folded banner from the guard. The gray-robed minotaur carried the banner up a set of short steps until he stood before the dancing flames. He then let the banner fall open for all to see. Upon a field of green stood a menacing orange crab.
The drumming ceased.
“Let forever be forgotten—House Ryog!” Lothan roared.
With a look of disdain, the elder threw the banner into the inferno, where it was engulfed. In seconds, nothing remained but ash.
The minotaurs in the audience bared their teeth and hissed their hatred of all things Ryog.
A second member of the Supreme Circle ascended. She repeated the steps, letting all see the clan symbol—a brave silver warrior wielding an axe, his body highlighted by a golden sun.
“Let forever be forgotten—House Hestos!”
Once more the crowd responded, and once more the next elder took his place at the pyre.
Lothan almost evinced pleasure as he proceeded through the names. “Let forever be forgotten—
House Neros!”
On and on it went until more than a dozen major clans and double that number among the lesser families had been banished and incinerated. The toll staggered even some of those loyal to Hotak.
Only two banners remained, one already in the hands of a councilor.
“Let forever be forgotten—House Proul!”
Into the flames went another clan's history, its life. Finally, Hotak's daughter stepped forward with the last banner. A hush fell over the crowd.
Maritia climbed the dais slowly, holding her prize before her. At the top, she turned and flung open the banner.
A crimson dragon bearing twin axes in its claws stretched over a field of black.
Louder than before, Lothan shouted, “Let forever be forgotten, forever be damned—House Kalin!”
With a contemptuous shout, Maritia sent the last vestiges of Chot's clan to a fiery destruction.
The congregation clapped, pounded their feet, and did whatever they could to enhance their own trivial roles in this ceremony. Never before had so many been cast out. Today marked history, marked a branching in minotaur tradition and beliefs.
; But whether for good or ill only time would tell.
*****
“Out of the wagon, you wretched lot!” roared the titanic, mud-brown bull Faros had heard the other soldiers call the Butcher. Like his compatriots, he was clad as a member of the State Guard, but the gray of their kilts came as much from the dust on them as the material itself.
In the days since the prisoners had been turned over to this monster, the Butcher—whose true name was Paug—had so far whipped three weak prisoners to death. Paug's brutality left Faros chilled, for he had never come across the likes of it. The slightest infraction set the monstrous figure off, and even the other guards did their best not to attract his ire.
A harsh rumbling drowned out all other sounds. A short distance to the north, a volcano spewed black smoke.
He and his fellow prisoners had been carted southeast to the edge of the mountain range called Argon's Chain. A dismal, soot-covered land, Argon's Chain boasted not only the tallest, most wicked peaks, but also several live craters. Faros coughed, the air thick not only from the heat but from the dark-gray ash constantly blown around by the fierce winds.
“Sargas preserve us,” whispered a gray-furred elder, who had served as steward in the home of Kesk the Younger. “What do they want with us here?”
Even Gradic's son knew the answer to that mournful question. “We've been sent to the mines, old one.”
Rich in fury, terrible in strength, the volcanic regions around the Chain were also rich in minerals valuable to the empire. Iron, lead, zinc, and copper were mined here, and even diamonds could be found. However, the slaves and prisoners had to dig hard and deep, and try not to let the suffocating, poisonous sulfuric gases and dangerous conditions kill them in the process.
Faros had been sent to the Mines of Vyrox.
Once Vyrox had been a promising mining community. The soil had been good for growing wheat and barley. Pear and apple trees had thrived, and a river whose channel had been cut by an ancient flow had provided all needs. Herds of goats were raised here, and occasional hunts had garnered deer, rabbit, and other woodland game. Vyrox had threatened to grow into a city second only to Nethosak.
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