One of the two warriors with Kolot looked over the parchment upon which directions were written.
“Aye, my lord. It could be none other. We do not have to climb it, but we need to make our way around its base to reach our destination.”
“ 'Fraid you'd say that.”
The inhospitable terrain of southwesternmost Kern made even the worst regions of Argon's Chain seem inviting. Savage cliffs and abrupt fissures dotted the rocky landscape and rarely could one find cover from the sun. A stone arch carved by some ancient phenomenon loomed over their path—an arch from which chunks of earth dropped. Some of the larger pieces fell with enough force to cave in the head of a thick-skulled minotaur.
Only an ogre could call this place home. Hotak's youngest son did not like being here, but Kern had agreed to talks only if someone of close blood to the emperor acted as negotiator—as a symbol of Hotak's trust. The task had fallen to Kolot. Hotak had wanted to send more than two unarmored guards, but that had been forbidden.
“I don't like this land,” Kolot muttered. “We go much more south and we'll be in Blöde.”
“Kern and Blöde are allied at the moment, my lord,” reminded the younger of his two guards.
The two ogre realms had managed to put aside their feuds long enough to combine forces against the hated Knights of Neraka. If not for the humans' incursions into both lands, the ogres would have continued to pound one another to a pulp. The Grand Khan of Kern and the Lord Chieftain of Blöde had happily sworn out blood warrants on one another in the past.
“They were allied at last report,” Kolot retorted with a contemptuous snort. “By this time they could be at war again! This would've been better set up in the northeast by old Kern-en,” he added, referring to the ogre capital. “At least there we'd see forest and rivers, even if it meant hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes! We wouldn't have to worry about running across rogue bands of ogres sneaking in from Blöde.”
The two subordinates did not respond, in part because they knew that Hotak's son simply spoke out of frustration—and also because everything he had just said was true.
On and on the minotaurs rode. Around them, the harsh monotony of the landscape continued.
Midday came and went without any further utterance by the hot and weary trio.
Pausing to sip more water, Kolot blinked. He lowered the sack casually, eyes studying the jagged formations ahead.
A two-legged shape edged out of sight among the high hills.
Kolot resecured the sack. “There's someone—”
A bestial figure emerged from atop one of the nearest rock formations, deep-set eyes glaring down at the three.
Legend said that the ogres and minotaurs shared a common ancestor, the golden Irda. To Kolot, though, the ogre above resembled the offspring of a maniacal human and a raging bear. Teeth filed sharp ground in defiance of the minotaurs, and two chipped and jagged tusks protruded from the ogre's bottom lip. The wide, flat features twisted into a look of hatred. An unruly mop of tangled, dust-encrusted hair framed the horrific countenance.
“Stay,” growled the ogre in a grating voice like that of one who chewed rocks for candy. The creature squatted atop the crusted formation, his only garment a half-ragged kilt likely scavenged from the corpse of a victim.
“This is our ally?” muttered one of the guards.
A clatter of rocks alerted the minotaurs.
More than a dozen equally grotesque warriors blossomed into sight around them.
Kolot managed to stop his companions before they unslung their axes. “No! Wait!”
They might have questioned his wisdom, but at that moment yet another ogre joined those surrounding them—an ogre like no other.
He wore a long, well-sewn cloak of brown cloth over an elegantly tailored forest-green tunic of similar fabric and a matching leather kilt that might have been minotaur-made. Unlike the others, who moved about on calloused, thorny feet, the newcomer wore padded sandals bound far up the ankles. Half hidden by the voluminous cloak was the lower tip of a shining silver scabbard.
The face most interested the minotaurs, for it resembled little the countenances of the other monsters staring at them. Although wide, this one's features were not so squashed, and the blunt, squat nose would have passed on a human. His teeth were sharp but did not protrude, and of tusks only nubs could be seen.
“My greetings to you,” the newcomer rumbled almost pleasantly. Under a thick brow, almond-shaped green eyes watched with anticipation, wit… and cunning. “Son of Hotak.”
“My greetings in return, Grand Lord Golgren.”
A scent of musk pervaded the air, causing one of the guards to snort. Ogres did not smell of musk; they reeked of sweat, rotting meat, and the accumulations of a lifetime's lack of bathing. Golgren not only looked as if he bathed, but his thick, black leonine hair had been cared for.
“Never felt shabby in front of an ogre before,” muttered the veteran guard to his younger counterpart.
“Forgive my ignorance,” Kolot said. “I assumed that we were to meet over there.” He pointed at the jagged peak.
“Some miscommunication, yes?”
There had been no miscommunication. Kolot had read the instructions correctly. The ogre had set up this little surprise to seize the advantage.
The barrel-chested minotaur shrugged. “Here's as good as anywhere.” He patted a wide, leather pouch strung up on the side of his saddle. “What you want is in there.”
Golgren nodded. With careful movements, Kolot removed the tightly rolled parchments, bound by thick leather string and sealed in wax by Hotak's signet.
Golgren glanced at one of his warriors. Club gripped tight, the bestial figure leaped from his perch then trotted toward Kolot. As the ogre took the missives from Kolot, the minotaur's nostrils flared.
Unlike the emissary, this ogre smelled exactly as he looked.
Golgren paused to study the wax impression. “Ah, yes,” he murmured in what sounded like amusement. “The horse.”
To the trio's surprise, he did not open the parchments but rather tucked them safely in his belt.
Kolot almost bared his teeth. “My father told me you'd look them over on the spot. Is there another miscommunication?”
Golgren waved his hand and his forces began to melt back into the rocks. The Grand Lord of Kern smiled. “Your trip has been a long one, yes?”
“Yes. Lord Golgren, what—?”
The ogre went on. “My own trip… it also was difficult. The humans of Neraka plague all parts of Kern—even Kern-en, from where this humble one began his journey.”
Kolot tried again. “Lord Golgren, my father's offer… you've not even read it.”
“I will guide you myself, son of Hotak,” Golgren went on. “The way into Blöde is treacherous.” He smiled wider, revealing teeth very much like those of his savage warriors. Kolot saw that Golgren had actually had his tusks scraped down to produce such tiny nubs.
“The way into Blöde? What are you talking about, Golgren?”
“Some… changes… in our course of action must take place, son of Hotak. Blöde we must enter.”
“I've not come to help you start a war with Blöde.”
The ogre leader laughed, a harsh, brutal sound. “We plan no war, son of Hotak! Just the opposite.
His glorious Grand Khan wishes you to meet with Nagroch, subchieftain of the Lord Chieftain of Blöde!” The monstrous smile stretched, becoming more bestial. “Nagroch will swear the allegiance of Blöde to our cause… if he does not slay us all first, of course!”
*****
Each day the list of dead lengthened, most perishing from the sickness of the lungs. Despite cloths to wrap over their snouts, almost everyone inhaled dust constantly. Many of the slaves could not keep up with the punishing quotas. When they finally could not take it any more, they simply collapsed.
And when death claimed a worker, it befell on those who had labored at his side to dispose of the body. Paug made Faros
and Ulthar the bearers of the corpses.
This day, they carried the body of a young male. He had come to Vyrox only two weeks before, arriving with some breathing ailment. The suffocating tunnels had simply hastened his death.
The two had to drag the corpse all the way to the old processing station. A gaping hole, over fifty yards in diameter, had been dug out generations ago. In it had been thrown charcoal and other fuel used to separate copper and other minerals from the rock. When a rockslide had completely devastated the station itself, a new, larger facility had been built some distance away at a safer location. The old pit had been left empty.
Its interior scorched black and smooth by years of gorging flame, the pit now held in its bowels the charred bones of all those prisoners who perished at their jobs.
“Throw it in!” shouted the Butcher. Shattered skulls, a half-burnt rib cage, a pile of mixed, black bones… Paug was unaffected by the ghastly sight of jumbled remains.
Ulthar muttered a prayer. Faros heard the names of the old sea gods, Habbakuk the Fisher King and his volatile counterpart, the dark and sinister mistress of the depths, Zeboim.
The pair heaved the body into the depths of the black pit. Halfway down it struck the side with a dull thud then cascaded deeper into the hellish realm.
“You! Barbarian! Take the tinder!” Paug looked to Faros. “You, take the oil! Be quick about it!”
Ulthar started a small fire while Faros dumped oil into the pit. Finished, Faros tried to back away, but Paug pushed him back, forcing his charge to look into the pit.
Ulthar sent a blazing torch into the air. It arced high, the wind causing the flames to dance merrily, then began an abrupt and swift descent.
The torch struck the well-oiled bottom. Flames erupted.
Everything within was engulfed in raging fire. The entire party, even Paug, retreated from the intense heat.
Faros glanced at Ulthar and saw that the mariner's hands were clenched tight. Again, his companion mouthed a prayer.
“All right!” the Butcher shouted. “Enough of a break for you two! Back to work! “The fires would burn until nothing remained upon which to feed.
The memories would burn far longer.
As they returned, Faros noticed Ulthar muttering under his breath. He was listing names, including the dead youth's. The list went on and on.
“Ulthar?” he whispered. “Did you know him?”
“Nilo? No,” the other returned. “Knew Halrog some. Before him Yarl. Before that Ilionus, Gorsus, Tremanion, Raj… knew Kaj and Gorsus. Before them was Urs—”
“But why?”
The mariner kept his eyes on the uneven ground. “I remember them.”
Faros blinked, astounded. “All of them?”
“As many since I—”
“Silence there!” Paug gave Ulthar a brief taste of the whip.
The pair resumed their digging. Faros chipped away at the stone. Fragments flew in every direction.
The fragments came not just from the work, but from the ceiling, loosened by the constant pounding.
Faros beat away at a huge rock, determined to reduce it to rubble. He struck again and again.
A groaning sound caught his attention. Startled, Faros looked up at the ceiling.
A rain of earth fell on him. The mountain roared. Faros tried to call for help, but dirt filled his mouth. The frantic minotaur fought his way toward the entrance, although he was blinded and could not tell if he was heading in the right direction.
Thunder shook the shaft, sending Faros to his knees. He tried to stand, but the collapsing earth pressed down on him. Giving in, he fell to his knees, letting dirt and rock bury him.
Strong hands seized his arms. Unable to see, Faros tried to speak but could only cough and sputter.
“Take 'un by the other arm!”
“I can't… there! Now I've got a grip!”
Two figures lifted him to his feet then dragged him outside Argon's Throat. Even the burning air of Vyrox tasted good. Faros sucked in great lungfuls, gulping and gasping.
His sight cleared, revealing Ulthar and Japfin. “What… what happened? Another tremor?”
“No. Supports not all in place. Walls too weak to hold themselves together, much less ceiling, too.”
“Should've secured the whole area better before we started,” Japfin grumbled. “But they couldn't wait, could they? Had to make the new quota.”
“This quota they'll not make,” Ulthar murmured. “Means tomorrow we'll be harder at it.”
A shadow came up behind Faros. He looked up to see Paug's ugly muzzle. “He breathing good enough? We're falling behind! I want you all back in there. Hear me?”
“We hear,” Ulthar said.
They reached the site of the collapse and quickly joined the others at work. Paug fell behind in order to speak to another overseer.
“Thank you, Ulthar,” said Faros. “I appreciate you and Japfin helping me. You shouldn't have done it. You could have lost your own lives.”
Ulthar tossed aside a rock, then shrugged. “Saw a chance and took it… this time. Maybe next time, I have to leave you.” He snorted. “Besides, too many names to remember already, Bek.”
Faros came to a decision. “Ulthar,” he whispered, tossing another rock away. “I need to tell you something.”
The other prisoner eyed him but did not pause in his labors. “What?”
The younger minotaur hesitated. I'm the nephew of Chot, he wanted to blurt. My name is Faros Es-Kalin!
But no words came out. Of all those in Vyrox, Faros should be able to trust the mariner.
Instead, different words finally tumbled from his mouth. “Never mind.”
Ulthar shrugged and returned to his task. Faros stood there for a moment, teeth bared in frustration.
He watched the other prisoner's back for several seconds then in bitter silence resumed his own digging.
Chapter XIII
House Droka
Four months after the overthrow of Chot, the palace sent word of a gathering of all those deemed the most respected of supporters. Invitations were delivered by messenger to the chosen clans. Most answered readily that they would attend. A few found reason to hesitate, however.
Lady Nephera kept a list of those.
Two weeks before the gathering, the House of Droka, Hotak's clan, received a visit that made all within the extensive, walled estate uneasy. Arriving at the clan house just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Hotak, from his horse, informed the surprised guards at the iron gate that he wished to see the master.
The guards opened the gate for him and his retinue of two dozen strong. Held up by the two soldiers riding behind the emperor, the warhorse banner flew defiant below the flags of Droka, which hung from posts set on the angled roof of the six-story tall, rectangular building.
An armed honor guard of ten soldiers met Hotak and his followers at the front steps.
“Your horses will be safe in the stables, my lord,” said the leader of the guard.
“Two of my own will watch the animals. This will not be a long visit.”
The guard bowed then, eyes warily surveying the dismounting figures, suggested, “Your warriors can wait in the common room. It's to the left as you enter—”
Hotak's ears twitched slightly. “I recall the layout of my old home quite well, and my soldiers will wait where I decide.”
A corridor covered in mahogany greeted Hotak and his warriors. Within filigreed frames had been set life-size reliefs honoring the deeds and history of the venerable clan. Heroes of epic battle, stalwart champions of the arena, and three emperors had their images and achievements memorialized for all who visited.
Among the images was Hotak himself winning a glorious battle against ogres near the colony of Sargonath. The relief showed him at the head of a determined charge, face in profile, teeth bared as he cleaved the ogre leader with his axe.
At the end of the corridor, two Droka sentries opened the arched doors leading
into the great hall, where the patriarchs held court.
Within, the other senior members of the House, dressed in collarless, ankle-length robes of gold and black, took their places on the five cordoned rows of benches lining both sides of the chamber.
Every elder of Droka had come.
At the far end of the chamber, atop the crimson-carpeted dais, the patriarch's chair remained empty.
“Where is Itonus?” Hotak asked, keeping his voice level.
The guard to whom he spoke blanched. “I couldn't say, my lord.”
“I see.”
Itonus had been patriarch for twelve years, and he had supported Hotak in the past, yet the large, gray-brown minotaur was absent. Hotak had to wait in silence in the presence of the other elders.
His mood darkened. Itonus obviously sought to remind him of the rules set by the first lords of the empire, that in one's own clan house, the patriarch reigned supreme.
Hotak removed his helmet and handed it to his second. As his gaze flickered impatiently around the room, he noted with hidden pleasure that the elders eyed him with not only deep respect, but a little uncertainty.
On his blind side, a rustling of garments warned him that someone had entered. A whiff of lavender, Nephera's scent, caused Hotak to smile. The guards stationed along the benches straightened.
Itonus had finally arrived.
Clad in a floor-length robe, the patriarch strode past Hotak without a glance. Pausing briefly to glance at the huge clan banner hanging above, the patriarch lowered his impressive frame into the mahogany chair. Itonus finally looked down his long, tapering snout at Hotak.
The thick-browed minotaur gave his visitor a gracious smile—baring all his teeth—then, in the most polite of voices said, “Welcome, son of Nemon, son of House Droka! What brings the progeny of my old comrade humbly seeking my guidance?”
The patriarch had purposely phrased everything to remind the new emperor of his place in the clan.
Choosing magnanimity over outrage, Hotak returned just as politely, “I come not seeking guidance, elder, but to speak with you of a matter of import. I have made a request of you that you have not seen fit to respond to properly.”
The patriarch's right hand clutched the curved end of the chair arm tightly. Itonus looked past Hotak. There, in the far corner, the Lady Nephera stood, smiling.
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