Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The burly male paused, glanced quickly around to see if anyone was near. Satisfied, he asked, “You're well?”

  She also stole a look around before answering. “Good, Han. Good.”

  “The new governor's not bothering you?”

  “He's more concerned with crops. I'm just another face to him. One he doesn't know, fortunately.”

  The sky rumbled.

  “You come to me if there's even the slightest hint he's pestering you, Mistress Mogra. We'll get you and Dorn out of here.”

  Mogra dared put her hand briefly on his arm. “Thank you.”

  Again the sky rumbled. Lightning flashed.

  “Bad storm,” her companion declared. “Best to get inside. Probably be pouring rain any second.”

  Sure enough, the first sprinkles wetted the pair. The wind picked up.

  Han clutched her, over the wind calling, “I'd better walk you home, mistress! “

  The two hurried toward her cabin, which lay purposely on the outskirts of the colony. Mogra and Han pushed up the uneven path, struggling against the increasing wind and drizzle.

  Despite the weather, Mogra felt hotter with each step. The very air burned her lungs.

  “Han, do you feel the heat?”

  “Bit warmer, mistress,” he replied. The blacksmith was used to working around fire. A little more heat did not bother him.

  Her skin tingled. Mogra's eyes also stung. She spat rain from her mouth and noticed that her tongue burned oddly.

  Beside her, the male grunted. “Something's stinging me!”

  The drizzle grew stronger, and so did the burning sensation.

  “The rain!” she said. “The rain stings!”

  He did not argue with her, instead grabbing Mogra by the arm and pulling her at a quicker pace toward her home.

  But the quicker they moved, the harsher the rain. Mogra bit back cries of pain as long as she could, but each droplet now felt like tiny hot embers searing into her flesh.

  The cabin lay in sight. The wind tore at them, ripping her free from the blacksmith. Han cursed and reached for her, only to slip in the mud.

  She started back towards him, but he shook his head. “Go on, mistress! I'll be all right! You get out of this hellish—”

  He gaped, staring at his arm, where smoke had arisen.

  “Han! Wh—?”

  With a roar, he tried to rise up but slipped again. Mogra took a step toward him then pain wracked her entire body. The scent of burning fur—her own—assaulted her nostrils.

  “Run!” Tendrils of smoke rising all around him, the blacksmith made it to his feet. “I'll catch up!”

  He patted at his smoldering arms. “Go to your son!”

  Mogra left, but only because of her concern for Dom. What if he was caught outside in this unnatural storm?

  All around her, the landscape smoked, even sizzled. The rain did not seem to douse anything, but rather stirred it up. Everything smelled of burning.

  And then the first true flames burst to life.

  The dry bush to her right blossomed into fire. A moment later, a broken branch did the same.

  Through stinging eyes, Mogra swore that even a rock ignited. Everywhere, flames burst up without warning, quickly intensifying.

  Mogra's basket erupted. She barely had time to fling it away. Even so, tiny sparks singed her arm.

  She smothered them, but her fur smoked and her body was wracked by pain.

  The cabin beckoned to her. Mogra pushed forward.

  Her cloak caught fire.

  Fumbling with the strings, she managed to free herself from it. With a gasp, she threw herself against the door, pushing it open and falling inside.

  “Mogra!” called one of the other females. “What's happened to you?”

  “Shut the door!” she cried. “Quickly!”

  But as the other minotaur hurried to obey, they all heard a scream. It was quickly followed by another and another.

  Pulling herself up, Mogra joined the other adults by the door and stared in horror.

  The colony was in flames. Everything. Cabins, storehouses, the docks, even the very land….

  “We have to go help!” blurted one of the others.

  “No!” Mogra roared. “ 'Tis the rain that caused the fire! The harder it pours, the worse the conflagration!”

  “But that's nonsense! How could—?”

  “Look at me!” Mogra snarled, showing her scorched fur. “Look at—” She had been about to tell them to look at Han, but the blacksmith was still outside.

  Still outside…

  Mogra scanned the area near the cabin, but saw only fire. The bushes, the trees, even the rocks were clearly ablaze.

  “Han…” Mogra muttered, knowing his fate.

  Her nostrils caught a whiff of something burning. The top of the cabin groaned. The minotaurs glanced up and saw smoke.

  Mogra leaped to her son, who sat perched anxiously on the edge of his cot. She scooped up the two-year-old and threw both of them to the back of the room.

  Screams filled her ears as the front half of the burning roof caved in, killing the others. The rest of the ceiling creaked ominously. Rain poured in, setting the front aflame.

  Crouched in the back corner of the cabin, Mogra looked around for some escape, but everywhere she saw only fire. Droplets drenched pots and utensils. Even metal burst into flames when this unnatural rain touched it.

  She could do nothing. Clutching her son, Mogra waited for the inevitable. The image of her mate, so very far away, came to her.

  “Rahm,” she murmured.

  The ceiling groaned, and the rest of the place collapsed.

  Chapter XI

  The Forerunners

  The faithful came to the temple by the hundreds, drawn there by an announcement made several days earlier. The dead had important words for their kin. All the faithful needed to attend. It was paramount that everyone hear.

  Members of the State Guard, many of them followers, kept watch. Protectors lined the steps of the building and the grounds. They watched warily, Ardnor's fanatical force certain that some unbeliever would attempt to harm the high priestess.

  The temple was a vast, domed marble building whose rectangular center encompassed more than half its width. The huge condor relief that once stood over the wide, high entrance had been replaced by a massive representation of the Forerunner symbols. Beyond the grounds, a tall iron-bar fence encircled the temple's property.

  Several thousand worshippers could attend services in the main chamber. The walls, white with red trim, had been covered with tapestries like those that hung in the high priestess' chambers. At the far end of the room stood the gold lectern, decorated with Forerunner symbols, from which Nephera generally preached. Many private sections—chambers where the acolytes, clerics, Protectors, and the high priestess lived—flanked this public area.

  With so many expected, the high priestess had decided to move the event outside. The temple grounds were covered in a mosaic upon which the pilgrims could kneel, their horns pointed toward the earth in humble deference to their ancestors and loved ones. Because so many faces would be focused on the mosaic, the high priestess had ordered masons to design each tile in the outline of the bird and axe. Ever would the faithful be reminded.

  “It's the largest crowd yet, Mother,” Ardnor rumbled almost gleefully, “and they're still pouring in.

  The grounds are nearly covered!”

  “The people want to know the truth. They have faith that they will hear it from me.”

  “I doubt all of them are the faithful, Mother. I'd be willing to bet that a good number are just the opposite.”

  Lady Nephera held her position while two priestesses affixed the high hood of her gold-trimmed, sable robe. The aureate emblem of the Forerunners decorated both the front of the overlapping hood and the back of the robe. The lamplight caused the axe and bird to look as though they were moving.

  “Then perhaps we shall gain a few converts.
You must always see the positive, Ardnor.”

  “I'm positive that some of them want nothing more than to see you make a fool of yourself—even if they do support Father.”

  “But I shall not fail. So the only thing that can come of their being here is good for the temple.” She stretched out her hand so that one of her assistants could latch on a gold-braid bracelet. “Have you prepared the Eye?”

  Ardnor nodded.

  Nephera smiled. “Then we shall begin.”

  She snapped her fingers and the two acolytes, clad in plain black robes with red-trimmed shoulders, stepped behind her. One carried in her hands an exquisitely crafted, lifelike model of an ascending hawk made of solid silver, the other a foot-long golden axe bent at the mid-point of the shaft.

  Clad in a robe similar to his mother's, Ardnor took his place before her. From the shadows emerged four silent Protectors, each clutching a mace whose wicked head rested above their shoulder. The grim sentinels formed an honor guard.

  The small group exited the high priestess' quarters, where they were greeted by a procession of other acolytes, both male and female. As Lady Nephera and her retinue swept past, the acolytes joined the rear, forming two columns. All wore expressions of rapt devotion.

  Protectors lining the way to the entrance came to sharp attention as their mistress passed, their eyes fixed directly ahead. Even the ghostly statues seemed to straighten.

  As the procession passed, the spectral legions surrounded, even intermingled with, the living. Now and then one acolyte with keener senses would catch a whiff of the sea or hear a murmuring voice from an empty alcove, but that was all.

  A quartet of well-muscled acolytes wrenched back the two high, bronze doors leading outside.

  Horns resounded as the procession stepped into the open. Nephera experienced a euphoria outstripping even what she had felt during Hotak's coronation.

  - One shade separated itself from the unseen legions, as Lady Nephera and her entourage took their places. Takyr, his moldering face and form more distinct, more malignant than the others, paused near his mistress, ready to heed her slightest command.

  Standing to the side of Lady Nephera's party, two rows of attendants began beating with the flats of their hands on bowl-shaped copper drums. The drums created a hollow, thundering effect.

  Nephera raised her arms, beckoning to the audience. The drums slowed, sounding like the steps of a weary giant.

  Strong hands brought forth the Eye.

  A perfect pearl of momentous proportions, it had earned its name from the way the light played upon its surface. All were left with the same impression—that an eye of rainbow blue gazed from within, looking outward and seeing inside of people. Years before, a mariner had discovered it in his catch. There had been no explanation to its origin, but the discoverer—one of the first of the faithful—had felt compelled to make a gift of it to Lady Nephera.

  It took four acolytes to carry it to the silver, pyramid-shaped stand. The monstrous pearl became the centerpiece for special sermons. It glistened in even the slightest light like a miniature sun, terrible and brilliant at the same time. The colorful flashes of light reflected by it played across Nephera's face, too.

  Nephera placed her hands atop the artifact.

  The drums ceased.

  “Honored are those who have preceded us!”

  A stillness swept the crowd.

  “Honored are our ancestors, who cut the paths upon which we now tread!”

  Expression unchanging, Lady Nephera drew power from the shades around her. They resisted, but her will was stronger. She fed some of their energy into the pearl, amplifying its radiance.

  “Honored are the Forerunners, they who crafted our people's history, our world's history, with each action of their lives!”

  A dozen horns blared a single strong note.

  Meeting the eyes of the crowd, she continued, “We, too, play a part. We craft the future for our children with each breath we take, each decision, until at last death claims us!”

  The drums beat. The attendant who held the silver bird solemnly stepped up and placed it in her mistress' right hand. The second attendant followed, setting the golden axe in the other.

  “But our work does not end with death!” Nephera shouted, thrusting forth the latter icon. “Though the axe might be broken, the physical form laid to rest, the spirit within knows no bounds!” She brought the silver bird toward her audience. “Born again, it rises forth, free of all infirmity, and sets upon a new path!”

  The drums grew more insistent.

  “Limited no more, the spirit may influence what flesh could not!” Her arms to the side, Nephera waited for her assistants to take the talismans away before adding, “We join the Forerunners, gaining the knowledge privileged only to those beyond the mortal plane! We see the paths that could be taken and the results of each step! We guide those who are still a part of the world, those blind to possibilities and dangers!”

  “We give thanks to our ancestors!” Ardnor shouted, his booming voice heard by all in the crowd.

  “Blessed are we to follow their wisdom,” intoned the captivated throng, taking their cue.

  “We pray for their guidance, understanding that with it there is no enemy too strong, no task too great for us to overcome.”

  The worshippers repeated their thanks. Many pressed their muzzles against the stone, honoring their predecessors.

  Smiling to her favored children, Lady Nephera called out, “When the gods abandoned us, our kin did not! When the gods betrayed us, our kin stepped forth from the shadows of the otherworld and sought one who could bring their messages to those they held dear!” She bowed her head. “And I thank them for having chosen this poor vessel as their voice.”

  The high priestess stepped around the pearl, sending a wave of surprise through the sea of kneeling figures. She had always given the messages of their loved ones from behind the Eye.

  The dead she had summoned stood ready next to Lady Nephera. They stared at the crowd, unblinking gazes fixed on particular figures among the faithful.

  “This day, I have been charged to give a select few a message that must be spread to all. A message of our future and the duty it entails! You will not hear the message from me, though. No, these words of import will come from others nearer to you, nearer to your hearts and souls!”

  Takyr glided over to her. Nephera felt her power swelling.

  “Hear now the words of your ancestors, your kin!”

  With that, the ghostly forms drifted forward, seeking those who had links of blood or love to them.

  They drifted near enough to touch some in the crowd—and with the power of the high priestess, they became visible to the chosen.

  A young adult female floated down to a pair of identical twin males, her sons left orphaned twenty years before. A child with one twisted foot descended on an elderly couple, the parents who had lost him right after the Flight of the Gods. A handsome male in the bloom of youth whose breastplate had been pierced by a lance walked through the bodies of onlookers, pausing at last in front of a mature female, the mate left behind when he died in battle a few days after their bonding.

  Gasps and shrieks erupted throughout the crowd. While onlookers stared in bewilderment, the chosen faithful tried to come to grips with the stunning visions.

  “Mirya!” one cried. “Oh, Mirya!”

  “My brother! I tell you my brother stands before me! I know his face as well as my own!”

  For those who could see, the sights before them inspired awe. Their lost loved ones, marked by the circumstances of their deaths. Yet, the ghostly figures greeted their kin and mates with gracious, caring smiles.

  Nephera focused on her puppets and made them speak.

  “My time is short,” each said in voices strong and steady because their mistress willed them accordingly. “I wish so much that I could be with you, but that moment must wait.”

  Although the chosen could see and hear their pa
rticular shades, they could not see or hear the others, and the vast majority of the faithful saw and heard nothing.

  “Hear me,” the ghosts went on, pointing at their kin and friends. “I bring you knowledge that must be passed on to all. A moment has come in our history that must not be lost.”

  “What? What is it?” more than one of the living cried out, their eyes wide with expectation.

  “Chot the Terrible is dead! Hotak de-Droka now sits on the throne, a true emperor born,” the spectres said. “This is the moment of destiny. Hotak is the emperor awaited for generations, the warrior who shall lead our people to victory, to domination! He is the ruler who shall see to it that no lesser race shall enslave us again!”

  Lady Nephera grew excited as she sensed the words touching the minds and hearts of the chosen. It was time to finish and let word spread of those from beyond the mortal plane.

  Raising a fist, each of the shades cried, “All hail Hotak! All hail he who shall shape the empire! All hail he who is the hand of destiny! All hail Emperor Hotak!”

  With that last cry, the apparitions vanished.

  It took a moment for most of the crowd to realize that some profound event had just played out in their midst. Those who stood around the select ones bombarded them with questions. The latter, in turn, repeated everything they had been told.

  Nephera felt as though someone had knocked all the breath out of her. Ardnor seized her to keep her from falling. Her sudden weakness did not go unnoticed by the faithful, but they took it as a sign that the powers who had visited through her had taken their leave.

  From a murmur the voices of those in attendance grew rapidly to an excited rumble. Those who heard the chosen compared their messages.

  Let them spread this tale, Lady Nephera thought with intense satisfaction as she straightened and surveyed her excited flock. Let the fools know that no greater power serves the throne than the temple..

  Chapter XII

  Golgren

  “Is that it?” Kolot asked, sizing up the treacherous peak in the distance. He shook to rid himself of dust. “Looks like a draconian's taloned thumb. We'd better not have to climb that thing.”