“And what is it you do not understand about my response, Hotak?” Itonus rasped.
That he avoided the emperor's title did not go unnoticed. Hotak pretended to overlook it. “Most likely it's just a matter of misinterpretation. Surely I am mistaken to hear that the elders of our clan, yourself among them, will not be attending the gathering honoring my most loyal subjects? That cannot be true.”
“You read correctly, my son. House Droka supports your ascension to the fullest. However, it has come to my attention that you intend some further…changes in the realm that cannot be condoned.
I think you know what I mean.”
Itonus had heard that the new emperor intended to create a hereditary crown. Rule by bloodline had always been considered a path of madness, fit only for the lesser races. That House Droka would be the clan from which all future rulers sprang had not changed Itonus' mind.
“All was made clear in my response, my son,” the graying patriarch continued. “I see no confusion. The clan must draw the line for the sake of future stability. Having you on the throne will make Droka one of the foremost powers of the realm, but now you seek to flout all tradition! You will bring chaos on us all. And I will add that your desired dynasty, if one dares call it that, will not last past the second generation.”
Hotak's wife made a slight hissing sound. The emperor swept back his cloak and stalked up to the dais. “I offer the greatest stability to the empire, to our people, that could ever be possible. I put an end to the reign of a fool who led us into utter disaster. I'm eradicating the corruption, disease, and crime birthed by his rule.” He glanced at the surrounding elders. “I will lead our people to their rightful place in the world!”
Several in the crowd stomped their feet in a display of support for the one-eyed commander. Itonus glared, silencing them.
“And your clan shall support you in your efforts—to the point of reason,” Itonus countered. “It is one thing to topple a corrupt emperor, but another to oppose the rights of the people. There have always been limits to the power of the throne, and the imperial combat has always ensured them. A hereditary system goes against the word of Sargas himself!”
“The word of a god who abandoned us,” Nephera quietly remarked.
Hotak took up her words. “Yes, abandoned us! Fled with the other gods after leading the world to destruction! We're far better off without him, I'd say.” He put a foot on the first step. “And I think House Droka would do just as well without a leader long past stepping down.”
Six legionaries started toward Itonus, weapons ready.
Rising, the patriarch roared, “Halt!”
They continued toward him.
He looked to the clan guards. “Remove them!”
Instead of obeying, the majority of the sentries turned their weapons on the seated elders. The few loyal guards quickly found themselves disarmed.
Hotak's voice boomed throughout the chamber. “Elder Itonus, I declare you unfit for the role of patriarch and, by the precedent of history, I order you removed from your position, your role to be filled by imperial edict this very moment.” He pointed at a heavyset figure sitting in the front row.
“Master Zephros!”
Zephros, long Itonus' chief rival among the clan elders, stirred. “My emperor?”
“I appoint you acting patriarch! Will you accept?”
Zephros pushed his massive bulk out of his chair. His jowls shook when he spoke. “Your majesty, for the sake of the clan and realm, I accept the duty you thrust so unexpectedly upon me.” He lowered his horns. “I will try to fulfill the role honorably.”
Looming over Hotak, Itonus declared, “You cannot do this! It is beyond the bounds of your power!
The elders of the other Houses will not allow—”
A sword point touched his throat, cutting off any further protest.
Hotak turned to the assembly. “Zephros is declared lawful patriarch! I leave it to you to ratify his position as permanent. What say you, clan elders?”
As Itonus gaped, the assembly swiftly hailed his rival and successor. Satisfied, the emperor turned to Itonus. Of all Houses, Droka had been expected to show its support of him.
The ousted clan leader was led down the steps. Hotak watched as they approached.
“How would it look,” he asked the prisoner quietly, “for the emperor's own kin not to show a united front? I can't let questions arise as to the strength of the throne. You should have considered that carefully, cousin.”
“I have never denied you!” the ousted patriarch gasped. “Only some of your insane changes! You seek a pact with the ogres, our taskmasters of old! Worse, you move to declare Ardnor as your heir, the first emperor to gain the throne by birth alone! That, more than anything else, cannot be permitted!”
“Everything I do,” Hotak said, “I do for the good of the people.”
Snapping his fingers, he sent the arrested elder on.
Nephera appeared at Hotak's side and placed her arm in his, her expression more satisfied than anyone else's.
She looked to the gathered members and called out, “Let all children of Droka give their allegiance to their new patriarch… and their emperor.”
The elders came forward and gave their allegiance, without hesitation. After Itonus' downfall, they knew they must.
*****
Under a brisk morning wind, four battered imperial ships sailed into the fog-shrouded harbor. At first, to those at the dock it seemed Hotak had finally hunted them down.
General Rahm walked up to welcome a boat from the lead vessel. The captain, a gruff older female with cold, appraising eyes, knelt before the general. She dipped her head. Her crew, dressed in the kilts of the Imperial Fleet, raised their axes in his honor.
“Hail, General Rahm!” she bellowed. “I am Captain Tinza. The Sea Reaver and her sisters beg your permission to aid in the destruction of the murderous usurper, Bloody Hotak.”
Rahm eyed her critically. “Strange words, considering your part in the downfall of Captain Veria.
You left her without support.”
The ships had been part of the Eastern fleet. When Hotak sought the execution of those officers loyal to Chot, the fleet had turned on itself. Veria, the senior officer, had died in the struggle.
“We were told by Hotak's emissary that the captain would be spared if we opened the way to her capture, that she would be allowed to prove herself to the new emperor and regain her position.”
“And you believed that?”
The shame in Tinza's voice left no question as to her regrets. “Much ale was passed around that night. Strong ale.” She looked up. “Let us atone for that disgrace! For Captain Veria, we demand the chance to battle with the usurper's forces.”
He looked over the crew. “You'll obey in all things?”
“If you demand my life to secure the lives of the others, General Rahm, I give it to you.”
“Just keep your crews away from the ale. Can you do that?”
She took his left hand and touched her muzzle to the black-jeweled ring he wore, an old minotaur custom of gratitude and fealty that most no longer recalled, much less performed.
With the four imperial ships came an equal number of catapults and more than two hundred and fifty fighters.
They brought with them new supplies of salted meat, wine, and more precise maps.
The arrival of the newcomers forced changes. More common houses were built. Jubal took charge of the ongoing procurement of food. Within a day's journey of Petarka lay two smaller islands. One had shallow shoals with an abundance offish. The other, lush with vegetation, enabled the rebels to add to their storehouses of breadfruit and bananas. The ominous weather that had stricken so much of the empire had held off so far around Petarka, further aiding Rahm's followers in their efforts.
Over the next two weeks, three more vessels fought their way through storms to Petarka. Two came from Mito, including among their passengers a former militia commander n
amed Ryn and almost half his fighters. The other ship had escaped from a small garrison on the remote southeastern colony of Hathan.
“Hotak wants a race of perfect, obedient soldiers,” Rahm muttered to Jubal, going over the latest charts in the unadorned common room they had chosen as their headquarters. A pair of round brass lamps were set near Rahm. There were two windows facing the harbor, both shuttered to keep out the incessant wind. The door had warped and could only be kept shut by sliding an iron bar across it. “But he forgets that perfect warriors must trust their leaders.”
“Will that help us?”
“If we act soon, yes.” The general turned to a guard at the door. “You there! Tell all commanders to gather! Quickly!”
Within minutes, the room filled. In addition to Jubal and Azak, all seven other ship captains awaited his word. With them had come the commanders of the marine regiments that had sailed with each vessel and the chosen leaders of the bands of refugees.
“The Sea Reaver and her sister ships are ready at your command, General Rahm,” Captain Tinza said. Behind her, the rest of the new captains nodded. Azak gave a slight snort at their enthusiasm.
“As are we,” rumbled Napol, a hirsute warrior with a thick brow ridge and one broken horn. Like the other members of the marine regiments, he wore a padded kilt colored silver with one wide, sea green stripe running horizontally across the top. The silver around his sea-dragon badge marked him as the equivalent of a legion hekturion, a trusted officer in command of one hundred warriors, although only twenty of his original complement remained by the time his ship reached Petarka. He was now commander of all the marine units.
Rahm signaled for silence. “It pleases me to hear this, for we face no simple matter. We fight not only an enemy who outnumbers us but who is our own kin. Choices will be made—choices with regrets! We've got to strike before Hotak becomes too settled, before people come to think of him as the only power.”
Captain Tinza raised a hand and roared her pleasure. “I have it! The Eastern fleet! We'll strike at 'em while they sleep!”
Her fellow captains rumbled their approval, and even Napol's officers added their voices.
“No!” Rahm smashed his fist on the table. “This is not some glorious death by futile combat! We fight to win, not to die! There is one plan for certain that offers us our best hope. It means at least a month of preparation and depends on you and your shipmates, Tinza, not to mention Napol and his fighters.” Rahm gazed thoughtfully at Azak. “And it relies on you much, also, my friend.”
“And what is this grand and dangerous mission?” The elder captain asked.
In answer, General Rahm lifted up the map so all could see.
The map displayed Mithas.
“We must strike at the heart of the empire,” he said, his eyes meeting the gazes of each. “The very heart.”
An uproar started.
After all his talk against suicidal missions, what more drastic plan could their leader have chosen than attacking the main island?
“To be precise,” the determined commander went on, heedless of the confusion, “Nethosak, the imperial capital—and the palace of the usurper.”
The heated discussion went on for over two hours, with suggestions and protests flung evenly.
Rahm remained undeterred and finally dismissed everyone after giving them their new orders.
But two figures remained. One was Azak, now stone-faced. Another was a young officer from one of the last vessels to arrive, whose own expression bordered on fear.
“Rahm…” Azak began. “Rahm, there's news you should hear. This young officer told me just before you summoned us.”
The general's eyes narrowed. “Ill news, I take it. And you are?”
“First Mate Rogan of the Javelin, General Rahm. My brother served under you about seven years ago. His name was Tyril.”
The name did not register with Rahm, but he nodded nonetheless. “Go on.”
“Tyril joined the fleet three years ago. He's first mate on The Scorpion’s Sting. He started with—”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Azak, his gaze never leaving Rahm. “Tell him what your brother told you.”
Rogan nodded, his look all the more apprehensive with each passing second. “The Scorpion’s Sting was escorting a supply ship to some of the more obscure colonies northeast. A strange, sudden storm slowed them, but they finally came to the last one on their list—and found nothing left but a big scorched rock, sir! Some sort of terrible fire had burned away everything. No houses, no people, no trees, no animals. General, even the rock was half-melted!”
“What happened?”
“The gods only know.”
Rahm snorted.
Azak cleared his throat. “Tell the general the name of the island, lad.”
“It… it was called Tadaran.”
“No survivors whatsoever,” the old mariner added softly. “No trace of any life at all. I'm sorry.”
Face emotionless, Rahm looked at the first mate. “You're certain it was Tadaran?”
“Aye, general.”
Staring down at the charts, Rahm quietly said, “Thank you for telling me. You can both go.”
“Rahm—” said Azak.
“Go!”
The captain ushered the younger minotaur out, shutting the door behind them. For more than a minute, General Rahm eyed the map before him, staring at the place marked Tadaran. His breathing turned rapid. Every muscle grew taut. The whites of Rahm's eyes were engulfed by red.
With a roar of outrage, he tore the map into tiny pieces then scattered everything else off the table.
The brass oil lamps clattered to the floor, both flaring briefly then dousing themselves before they could set fire to the room.
Heedless, Rahm roared again and turned the table over. He charged forward, head down, and rammed himself straight into nearest wall. The entire cabin shook with the force. Then he vented his anger on the shelves, ripping them off one by one and hurling the contents throughout the room, trampling everything. The chairs followed, turned quickly into splinters. Bereft of anything else to destroy, the general slammed his fists on the walls then, when he had collapsed onto his knees, the floor. Over and over he called out the name of his mate, Mogra, and their son Dom.
*****
Captain Azak stood by the entrance to the cabin, waving off anyone who came near. Three hours passed, in which he listened to the destruction and grief loosened by his friend.
When the door opened at last, he turned to face the general, expecting the worst. Instead, although disheveled, Rahm met him with a strange, determined calm.
“Rahm…”
“I need some new charts,” the general said. “And a table and some chairs, too. Can you see to that?”
“Aye, I can. But—”
Smoothing the black streak in his fur, the general continued, “I'm going for a walk. To clear my head. I have some ideas as to the specifics of our plan. I'll want to go over them with you when I return.”
“Rahm, your family—”
Rahm's eyes flashed, but he quickly smothered the emotion. “My family is dead, Azak. They were on that island because of Hotak. As sure as if he had set fire to them himself, the false emperor's responsible for their deaths.” The general patted his friend on the shoulder, expression never changing. “We have a war to fight. That's our concern now.”
With that, he walked off, leaving the captain to stare and shake his head.
Chapter XIV
Fate and Choice
The day came when Faros and Ulthar were assigned to the processing station.
“You two! Come with me!” Whip in hand, Paug pointed them toward a pair of wagons separated from the others. The prisoners there had an even more gaunt look, and their fur had patches where not only the hair had all fallen out, but their blistered skin burned red.
Ulthar's ears twitched. “In there?”
“That's right, barbarian! You recall the way, don't you?
You spent three months there last time, didn't you?”
The mariner clamped his mouth shut and started forward. Eyes wide and unnerved, Faros trailed behind.
At the second wagon, Paug turned them over to a grim, thin guard with bloodshot eyes. “Here's the two replacements.”
The other figure, his fur patchy, indicated the wagon's interior. “Inside with them.”
“Get in!” snarled Paug, snapping the whip.
The prisoners seated themselves. Eyes deeply shadowed and bloodshot stared back at them.
Shivering, Faros dropped his gaze.
Their first hint that they approached the station came with the metallic odor that stung their nostrils.
What seemed a mist also pervaded the area, a mist that proved to be acrid smoke created by the four constantly smoldering pits that surrounded the two-story, ash-gray building.
The station had no windows, a wise precaution considering the foul haze permeating everything.
Only two wide wooden doors allowed entrance into the rectangular stone structure.
“You two,” muttered the soldier who had received them from Paug. “You'll be working on Number Four.”
Flames shot up from the pit in question. At the same time, a harsh scream erupted and a thick-linked chain hanging down into the fiery hole rattled madly for several seconds.
A furious overseer began shouting something into the pit while other guards began forcing four prisoners down a pair of ladders.
The guard steered them toward a long row of workers standing just yards from the edge. The prisoners were bent over a long table on which they appeared to be hammering away at something.
“Over here!” a sentry shouted to a minotaur pushing a full cart.
The prisoner maneuvered the cart next to the line then took an empty cart away for the full one he left behind.
Atop the battered but sturdy iron table lay piles of ore. Prisoners labored to reduce the ore in size.
After chipping the rock and earth away, blue-green copper glinted in the smaller rocks that workers then tossed in the carts. Two sentries constantly patrolled the line. Nearby, a lone archer stood ready to shoot on command.
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