“Your brother Bastion desires to speak with you at first opportunity.”
“Bastion? Wonder what he wants.” Ardnor saw his younger sibling as a tedious but efficient link in the running of the empire. “Did he say where he'd be today?”
Here the wizened servant showed some perplexity. “He said you would find him overseeing the colossus, First Master.”
Ardnor paused, looking at the servant with wide, wondering eyes. “Have they begun work already?”
“One would assume so,” replied the lowly figure.
“Then I'll go see him at once.”
He threw the cup to the servant then hurried to his quarters. A short time later, clad in the full garb of a Protector, Ardnor called for his horse. Accompanied by four dedicated guards, he headed toward the northern quarter of the capital.
The small party drew the attention of those on the streets. Whether or not one followed the teachings of the Forerunners, all knew the First Master. True believers bowed or cheered as he rode past, while the ignorant quickly glanced away or shrank back.
Ardnor's band rode for some time, leaving the central district—home of not only the palace and the Supreme Circle, but also that of the legion and naval commanders—for the first of the districts where high-ranking citizens and prominent clans made their homes. Some villas had been burned to the ground here, others ripped apart. Huge four-wheeled wagons pulled by teams of muscular workhorses still carted away refuse.
The villas gave way to rectangular buildings, smaller but neatly ordered dwellings. Then there were gray, communal houses, and beyond them, at last, the larger, more utilitarian structures of one of the crafting and business districts.
At a tall, drab stone building buried deep in the district, the First Master finally reined his horse to a halt. Two sentries stood at attention. Leaving the horse with one of his own, Ardnor and the three other guards approached.
“My brother's inside?” he asked, removing his helmet.
“Lord Bastion awaits you, Lord Ardnor,” one sentry replied.
Ardnor barged through the door, glancing briefly around. Scores of minotaurs of varying ages, dressed in dust-covered aprons, persistently worked at marble blocks, gradually chipping into existence stalwart minotaur champions, majestic steeds, and sundry other forms. With few exceptions, those at work were members of House Tyklo, whose tradition in stonework had made them one of the most respected clans in the history of the race. Since Tyklo himself, the clan had carved the majority of monuments for every emperor, victorious general, or great House.
Under Chot's reign, Tyklo had carved reproduction after reproduction of the late ruler's image. The hard work of a generation of sculptors had been shattered after his fall. However, Hotak's coup had opened new doors, new commissions-projects such as the colossus.
It stood twice as tall as the massive statue that had once commanded the central square, a towering marble behemoth clad in breast plate and kilt and holding a double-edged axe high in one hand and the head of an ogre in the other. Even as Ardnor watched, a powder-covered young minotaur chiseled away at the wild-maned ogre's toothy, grimacing features, turning the face into a helmeted human, a Knight of Neraka.
With shifting alliances came shifts in art.
His brother stood near the statue, pointing at the ogre's head and saying something to the master artisan. The other minotaur nodded sagely, then noticed Ardnor. He spoke to Bastion, who glanced over his shoulder. Bastion went to greet his elder sibling.
“We can thank his Imperial Majesty Chot for saving us some time and trouble,” said Bastion, coming as close to humor as Ardnor thought possible. “After all, Chot planned to have this great statue unveiled on the next anniversary of his overly long reign.”
“Well worth seeing.” Ardnor briefly pictured his own face atop the gargantuan monument, then decided that when he assumed the throne he would have an even more massive statue commissioned.
“I'm glad you came. I need to speak with you.”
The brothers moved to the far side of the great workshop, the constant chipping from the sculptors protecting their words from prying ears.
“Well, what is it, Bastion?”
“Ardnor, I must insist that your Protectors stop interfering with the duties of the Imperial Guard and the legions.”
The First Master stared, not believing the other's audacity. “Interfering? My Protectors? You've some gall, Bastion! If not for the temple's warriors, at least one fugitive might have escaped! We've kept order when rioting would've brought even more damage to Nethosak! Father had the Imperial and State Guards completely over-committed and the legions spread over most of the empire.
Interfering? We saved the day!”
Workers nearby paused, stealing looks.
Bastion held his ground, his expression maddeningly calm. “What you say has merit, Ardnor, but hear me out. However wonderful the people act toward Father, it doesn't look good if the Forerunners take too active a part in the policing of the capital. Your temple is strong, but most people still follow the old gods or none at all. The Temple of Sargas always tried to rule the emperors through either force or guile. No one wants that any more.”
“You're talking nonsense!”
“The temple has a critical role to play, Ardnor. Let it fulfill that role and leave other matters to those better suited.”
“And what about General Rahm and Tiribus? The longer they remain free, the more trouble they might cause. You know that. They need to be found—by any means.”
“They'll be dealt with.”
Ardnor's eyes grew crimson, and the vein in his neck throbbed. With a deep breath and a Curt nod, he replied, “Very well, brother, I'll take your suggestion under advisement. That's all I can promise.”
Bastion nodded.
“I'll tell you one thing, though, brother,” Ardnor said, eyeing the colossus. “When I'm emperor, such stupid fears won't exist any more. When I'm emperor, no one will ever worry about whether the empire is run by the throne or the temple, because they'll be one and the same.”
With that, the First Master pushed past Bastion. His bodyguards gathered around him as he barged out of the Tyklo work place and headed to his horse.
Thrusting on his helmet, Ardnor mounted and, without so much as a backward glance, rode off. Still seething at his brother, Ardnor calmed himself by picturing his own mighty statue being unveiled and the throngs cheering his succession to the throne.
*****
Tiribus' dealings with Chot had served him well, but the lean, crafty councilor had known that one day a new emperor would assume the throne. That emperor would look with question upon those closest to his predecessor. Thus it paid to have a contingency plan.
Tiribus had never trusted Lothan, yet he had not expected the gaunt minotaur to take such an active role in plotting the overthrow of Chot. Lothan's treachery had caught even Tiribus' best spies by surprise, much to their fatal regret.
Rumor had it that a few others had escaped Hotak's net, but only General Rahm interested Tiribus.
A practical officer, just the kind the councilor would need if he staged an overthrow of the usurper.
Rahm could rally the military.
A knock stirred the councilor. The desolate cabin, which lay two hours' journey from the nearest town, had been purchased by Tiribus through an intermediary long ago. It had been kept well-supplied, and a guard had always watched over it.
“Enter, Nolhan.”
Nolhan resembled his master somewhat, both having long, narrow snouts and high brow ridges.
However, Nolhan had silver-brown fur, a rarity. “Frask's just returned. Arrangements have been finalized. The ship will meet us on the northeast coast. If we leave here in the morning, we'll be on our way to the mainland three days from now.”
“Good. Once there, we can send word to Lord Targonne.”
“Excuse me for asking, my lord, but is this attempt at an alliance with the human a wise one?”
“I meant no disrespect, my lord.”
Tiribus waved away his apology. “Never mind. Is there any other news of import?”
“Kesk the Younger is dead. Caught trying to leave the imperial capital disguised as a hand on a ship.
The captain and officers were also taken away.”
The councilor snorted. “Scant loss! At least General Rahm still lives. He will have Hotak wasting resources looking for him, which helps our own situation.” Tiribus clasped his hands together. “I will dine in one hour. Until then, I wish to be alone.” .
“Yes, my lord.” The aide bowed, then backed out.
The elder minotaur turned back to the notes he had been compiling. Names of contacts, offers to Targonne, a schedule of future events… Tiribus left nothing to chance. He even had plans for the downfall of the Forerunners, whose beliefs disturbed him.
Nephera was a charlatan, but a clever charlatan. She had turned what Tiribus thought was childish madness into a powerful, rich sect that grew stronger with each passing day. Soon, though, Tiribus would see to it that the high priestess joined her vaunted spirits. Her rumored powers did not trouble him. He had no fear of ghosts. After all, what harm could the dead do?
At that very moment, the room darkened. Tiribus rose to light a lamp—and noticed that daylight still prevailed outside.
The elder councilor paused, feeling as if malevolent eyes watched his every move.
“Nolhan?” he called, suddenly not comfortable alone.
Despite the fact that the other minotaur should have been well within earshot, Nolhan did not respond.
Tiribus started toward the door, but as he did, the darkness grew so thick that he could not even see in front of him. He pushed forward, but each step became a struggle. A sense of foreboding made him look over his shoulder.
In the deep, misty darkness, two fiery orbs stared back.
“Nolhan! Frask! Josiris!”
No one came.
Tiribus peered again at the monstrous eyes, knowing that only one power could control such an abomination.
“Nephera…” he muttered. So the high priestess of the Forerunner temple was no charlatan after all.
The minotaur drew his sword and swung at the inhuman eyes, but the blade passed through them.
Backing up, Tiribus seized the door handle.
The door would not budge. Dropping the useless blade, Tiribus gripped it with both hands.
Something seized him by the shoulders and spun him around to face those horrific orbs. Four monstrous limbs composed of smoke dangled Tiribus more than a foot above the floor. He tried to shout. The fiery eyes thrust forward—and filled his mouth. Tiribus gagged. He brought one hand up, but his desperate fingers clutched only emptiness.
The cloud poured into his mouth, down his throat, filling his lungs. The councilor's struggle turned frantic as the need to breathe became paramount. His eyes bulged as he strained.
Then his arms dropped to the side. The councilor's legs twitched once, then hung loosely. The eyes of Tiribus stared, but no longer saw anything but death.
His body dropped to the floor with a thud.
“My lord!” Nolhan called as he swung open the door. “What was tha—?”
He and the others gaped at the twisted body of his master.
Nolhan stood at the doorway for an instant, then hurried forward, seizing Tiribus' notes. Eyes on the corpse, he backed out.
They were warriors who would have sacrificed their lives to defend their master against any ordinary foe, but the fear and horror stamped on Tiribus' face shook even the hardened fighters.
With Nolhan in the lead, the trio mounted and raced off, never looking back.
As they disappeared into the woods, a dark fog emerged from the dead minotaur's mouth, a dark fog with eyes that now looked beyond Mithas for its next prey.
Chapter IX
The Mines of Vyrox
The horns woke the prisoners just before dawn. Their mournful notes were quickly followed by the harsh pounding of the guards at the doors. As he had for three months, Faros struggled to his feet, his body screaming. Despite the exhaustion with which he had fallen onto his bed, he had been unable to sleep well. In addition to the mites and splinters, the stifling heat made it impossible to find any comfort.
Though life was now constant pain and exhaustion, Faros was stronger and leaner. The daily, bone-wrenching labor had burned away his soft belly and tightened his loose muscle. He looked indeed like a younger, tougher version of his father.
The old steward offered an example of the fate befalling those who were not tough enough. By the third morning of his imprisonment, the elderly male had been unable to push himself up onto his feet. Paug had seized the weakened prisoner by the throat, demanding he get up and go to work or suffer the consequences. When that threat failed, the Butcher had wasted no more words. As the others watched, Paug had casually taken the steward's head—and twisted it sharply until his neck snapped.
That memory still fresh after so many months, Faros climbed down from the bunk. Another prisoner who moved too slowly received a shove from a guard. In a rare act of kindness, Japfin helped the other steady himself.
One by one, the prisoners, clad only in ragged linen kilts and overworn sandals, lined up in front of the first of two wooden doors of the foul-smelling, soot-blackened building to the right of Commander Krysus' quarters. Each were given a small bowl. From huge, battered iron pots, a crew of cook's assistants dolloped out the day's fare—sometimes thick, pasty oatmeal, other times a similar, sticky substance culled from barley, corn, and leftover grains.
The prisoners ate their meager fare before the horns sounded again to begin their journey to the mines. In rows of thirty, the miners were packed into creaking, canopied wagons where they were seated on two long benches facing one another. In order to keep the prisoners from leaping out of the wagon, their ankle chains were secured to a sturdy iron bar running along the middle of the floor.
The sun rarely shone here. The constant smoke from the craters kept the sky covered with thick clouds, and the incessant winds stirred up showers of ash that coated everything.
About a mile north lay a companion camp with female prisoners. To the east and perforating the various peaks and volcanoes were the countless mine shafts where the majority of the laborers toiled. Many had been played out or simply abandoned as worthless, but more than forty shafts were still active.
Located centrally between the camps and the mines was the processing station, where teams of minotaurs unloaded the open wagons that brought ore. After separating the best finds, especially the copper-rich malachite and azurite, the sweltering routine of freeing the precious metals from the rock began. Afterward, the raw metals were transported to other facilities in Nethosak, where they would be refined for use throughout the empire.
For the first four weeks, Faros had worked as an ore gatherer, pushing the heavy, square carts in which the rock broken up by the other laborers was dumped. After that he was transferred to a shaft rich in copper, where he and Ulthar had battered away with pickaxes at a vast blue azurite vein.
Today, however, he and his group were assigned to a shaft dangerously close to the most active volcano. The guards called the shaft by its number, seventeen. The prisoners had their own name for it: Argon's Throat.
Argon's Throat was reputed to be the most dangerous of all the mines. The sulfuric fumes were constant. Miners were often forced to bind moist cloths over their muzzles. Every two hours the prisoners were allowed to step into the relatively fresher air outside the mine. However, after only a few minutes they were sent back to work.
Despite all that, Ulthar continued his merry demeanor. His axe struck harder and faster than anyone's. He hummed and even sang a little, as if the noxious atmosphere had no effect on him.
“…for the sea’s my Mood and blood’ll call, over the highest mountain I might roam. Die I in a desert or castle fair, to the waters I’ll return home…”
Faros tried to draw strength from Ulthar. He had learned some about the tattooed minotaur. Ulthar came from Zaar, a remote island colony that had for several generations lost contact with Mithas and Kothas. Left much to their own devices, the people had picked up habits from the docile, human natives. The art of tattooing, for instance, was a custom of the original islanders.
“This 'un here,” Ulthar had pointed out one tattoo during a rare break. “The sun with the ship inside it. That's my father's vessel. That's where I was born during the voyage.” He had pointed to one on his chest. “This 'un, the trident with the crab, that's when I killed the sea monster!”
Ulthar was not the only prisoner from beyond the shores of Mithas and Kothas. Some came from islands as far away as Gol or Quar. A middle-aged cart pusher from Quar bore a ceremonial scar on each side of his muzzle. Two other prisoners, shorter and stouter than the rest, had bright green eyes, a trait dominant on the wooded isle of Thuum in the southeast edge of the imperium.
Faros cried out as the tongue of a whip lashed out at his shoulder. A soot-covered guard shouted, “Get back to work or no break for you!”
Faros swung his pick harder. So far, they had found little ore, but still the prisoners dug into the smoldering mountain. The thick, hot air had caused one prisoner to pass out. After that unfortunate had been dragged away, the guards pushed the rest even harder.
Ahead, a group of workers set into place more thick oak beams in order to forestall a collapse. Their hammering echoed louder than the countless pickaxes.
Through heroic effort, the floor of the shaft had been scraped smooth by shovels so that the ore carts could be maneuvered. When full of ore, a cart was a burden even for muscular, seven-foot-tall minotaurs.
From the mouth the ore was brought to waiting wagons. After each open wagon had been filled to the brink, prisoners under armed escort guided it away. Faros had not yet seen the processing station, and Ulthar had warned him to stay away from it, hinting that death in the mine was preferable to being sent there.
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