“Unless you've got no brains in your head, you know what to do,” snarled the guard. The soldier who had brought them walked off, his part done.
Ulthar and Faros seized hammers. “Lucky we are,” murmured Ulthar.
“It's so hot!” Faros gasped. “Even Argon's Throat can't compare.”
“Could be worse. Could be down in the pit.”
They battered away at the rock. Standing in one place, working steadily, was exhausting.
After some time, an elderly prisoner came by with a bucket of water. As Faros took a drink, he saw that the other prisoner had lost all but a few traces of fur. The old minotaur's snout was covered in lesions, and one eye looked unfocused. His hands had callouses and old burns. It was apparent that his right leg had been improperly mended after being broken. He had also lost two fingers on his left hand.
“That 'un worked the pit. Everything you see… the result of the pit.” The mariner's eyes grew tinged with crimson, and the pace of his breathing doubled. “The pit. He was lucky.”
By the end of the day, Faros could barely walk. Even the brawnier Ulthar was drained. Both could barely see, too; the mist and continual flaring of the pit made their eyes sore and weak.
Every jostle of the wagon hurt, and by the time they returned to the camp, Faros barely had the strength to eat. He joined Ulthar and Japfin outside of the bunkhouse. Japfin was his usual stoic self, but the other giant said nothing, digging morosely into the oat and fish mix they were served.
“What happened out there, calf?” the black behemoth grumbled.
“We pounded ore all day,” said Faros.
“Hard enough work, but not hard enough to beat the life out of old Ulthar here. The barbarian's the toughest one here. Next to me, of course.”
Ulthar raised his bowl and poured the remnants into his mouth. He swallowed then rose, abandoning the other two.
Leaning toward Faros, Japfin muttered, “You don't know what's eatin' him at all? Figured he'd tell you if anyone.”
But Faros only shook his head. He watched the mariner walk off, wondering, too, what was troubling him.
*****
After more than a week of sullen silence, Ulthar began talking again. Some things Faros knew, such as the mariner having grown up on Zaar. Ulthar's family had been prominent in trade, dealing in pottery and fruit—papaya, breadfruit, and mangos—which they traded with another colony more rich in metals. For the first fourteen years of his life, he had sailed among the islands, learning of each new place, gaining a new tattoo here and there to recall adventures.
“Sail with full load,” Ulthar muttered, punctuating every sentence with a blow of his hammer.
“Come back with raw iron and copper, which we sold for good profit.” Briefly, he smiled at the memories.
Faros waited until the guard had walked past then asked, “So what happened?”
The family had done so well that they decided to expand their business to include distant places.
Unfortunately, only a day away from home after a profitable voyage, a terrible storm overtook the ship.
“Only survivor,” growled Ulthar, battering a rock into dust. “Floated for two days. All family dead.”
Shortly after his rescue, his colony had become embroiled in a dispute with a neighbor that ended in blood, and Ulthar joined the crew of a ship determined to make the enemy pay. The feud went on one year, two, three… As it dragged on into a fourth and fifth, the crew began to lose track of their cause.
“Took a small ship with lots of cargo, not 'un from the other side, just a fool in the wrong place.
Then another and another. Good hunting, good profit. Took to sacking any ship not ours.”
Ulthar had become a pirate, for six years preying not only on vessels of the lesser races, but minotaurs as well.
Adding to his tattoos and gaining a reputation for his ferocity, Ulthar became one of the mates. He might have succeeded the captain if not for three imperial ships that put an end to his trade. One had acted as bait, the others closing in once it was too late for the pirates to pull out.
“We hunted our own. The worst crime of the empire. The captain and the first mate, they got the kiss of the axe. Me almost. Sentenced with the rest to the galleys.”
Ulthar survived for four years until making good his escape. He wandered onto the mainland, running across a band of brigands who decided that a minotaur would be a welcome addition. But after two years, nostalgia had sent him back to the sea, back toward the colony he had left so many years before.
“Three days past Mithas,” the giant rumbled, “imperial ships found me and 'un of the captains recognized these.” With the hammer, he indicated his many tattoos.
This time, they had sent Ulthar to Vyrox—and almost immediately to the processing station.
“Tried twice to escape. Got whipped twice.” The former pirate shrugged. “Thought they could do nothing worse, but I was wrong… wrong.” He paused suddenly in his work, looking the smaller minotaur deep in the eye. “I will not go back to the pit, Bek! I will not.”
Faros did not know what had happened in that fiery place that would unnerve a pirate, but it made him pray that he would never be assigned to the hellish hole. Better any other task, even death detail, anywhere but the flame-engulfed abyss where every day prisoners screamed.
Anywhere but a place that could fill even Ulthar with dread.
*****
Kolot sat before the campfire, watching the grime-encrusted representative of the Lord Chieftain.
Clad in discolored goat furs and a rusted breastplate, the burly, stench-ridden figure slobbered blood and juice from the nearly uncooked haunch all over himself, but he seemed not to care. Near his left side rested a favored weapon of Blöde these days—a long axe whose handle had been wrapped tightly in leather for a better grip and whose single-edged, curved blade made it deadly. Etched across the inner edge of the blade were three marks—a half-circle flanked by two horizontal lines—signifying the old ogre belief that Sargonnas himself blessed the weapon.
Seated next to Kolot, Golgren maintained an air of patience and neutrality. He picked at his own, smaller piece of meat with care, almost as civilized as a minotaur. Compared to the fat, froglike Nagroch, Golgren looked almost noble.
The camp in which they supped was a temporary one. A dozen round tents made from dried goat skins dotted the area, a rocky enclave whose crevices and overhanging formations made it excellent for hiding. It had taken Kolot and the others days of strenuous travel over hills to reach the camp.
The minotaurs would have never been able to find it on their own, so well did the landscape conceal it.
Forty warriors surrounded Kolot and his guards. The large band wore goatskins, scavenged leather jerkins and coats, gray cloth kilts cut near the knee, and flat leather sandals if they wore anything on their feet at all. Each wielded either a thick club or axe.
The minotaurs and Golgren had been allowed to keep their weapons, but all four realized that if things went bad with negotiations, their weapons would help little against such numbers.
“I hear your words,” shaggy Nagroch grunted in his deep, hacking voice, food spilling from his monstrous jaws. The dark night combined with the fire to make his pockmarked visage more grotesque. “I hear things humans used to promise before they started burning villages, slaying children!” Under a thick, gray brow, bloodshot eyes focused on Kolot and Golgren. “I ask to me, 'Do these make same promises? Will Blöde be next after humans in black lay cut up like'—” He hesitated, looking for a proper comparison. Nagroch finally stared down at his ravaged meal, his brutish face stretching into a wide grin. “Like this goat?”
“You heard the word of the Grand Khan, Nagroch,” Golgren responded politely. “And while you might question these,” he indicated the minotaurs with a mild expression of dismissal, “the word of the glorious Khan is pure, a diamond in the sun.”
The subchieftain belched, a putrid odor almost as bad
as what emanated from his sweat-soaked body. He wiped his mouth with one hand, then wiped the hand in turn on his kilt. “I think I have more trust in bulls than ogres who dress like females.”
“The word of the Grand Khan is inviolate,” insisted the other ogre, speaking almost perfect Common. “That is proven, yes?”
Nagroch grunted reluctant agreement. His gaze returned to Kolot and something in it caused the young minotaur to stiffen.
“You know our offer,” Kolot blurted. “We intend this pact to be favorable to all and a portent of doom to our common enemy.”
Nagroch did not seem very impressed—either that, or he was still puzzling over the word “portent.”
Golgren smiled at Hotak's son, revealing too much teeth. “Friend Kolot,” he said in his smooth voice, “this one must explain. To ensure that peace is what ogres get, Kern had to make early promises to Blöde.”
“Blöde made good promises back!” the subchieftain countered.
“Yes, that is so. But what Blöde and Kern find right does not work with your kind, friend minotaur.”
He leaned forward, poking at Kolot's chest with a leg bone. The two guards bristled but Kolot quieted them. “From you must come something else.”
“Something else? What're you talking about?”
Golgren told him.
The eyes of all three minotaurs widened in disbelief.
“You can't be serious!” Hotak's youngest son sputtered.
The Grand Lord acted as if Kolot had just gravely offended him. “It must be so, minotaur, or not only will Blöde reject joining us, but this one fears his Grand Khan will rethink his own agreement to the pact.”
“My father's offered you freedom from further attacks by the Knights of Neraka. He's offered you better weapons, supplies…” Kolot rose, his guards standing with him. Nagroch's warriors growled.
“With all that, you still ask for this madness?”
Nagroch sat back, looking resolute. “Humans offered much. Humans took more. Blöde not be tricked again. Blöde demands proof. Minotaurs must pay right.”
Kolot stared at the two, furious. He finally muttered, “I'll have to return to Mithas, then. I can only promise that I'll tell my father everything, not that he'll be willing.”
“This must be settled now, son of Hotak.”
“Now? But I can't promise on my own—”
The Grand Lord's eyes narrowed ominously. “You must.”
Kolot's fists clenched. All of them knew how much Hotak desired this alliance. “Give me a moment to think on it.”
“Of course,” Golgren replied, smiling graciously yet looking as if he planned to skin the minotaurs for a tent of his own.
Kolot pushed his way out of the circle. The other minotaurs stayed silent while he paced on the dark outskirts of the camp.
Growing desperate, he turned to his companions. “Well? You heard what he said. Any thoughts?”
The younger blurted, “It's barbaric! It cannot be done!”
“But if not,” interjected the veteran, “it leaves us open to the danger that Kern and Blöde will still unite, push back the Dark Knights, and then fall upon the empire. Wouldn't be the first time ogre eyes beheld Mithas and hungered despite the water that separates us from them, eh?”
Kolot nodded to both of them. “Sound words, but no answer for me. What can I—?”
He paused as footsteps warned him of someone approaching.
“A pardon for this intrusion,” Golgren said, his tone un-apologetic. “This one thought to be of some aid, yes?”
“Don't trust him, my lord,” growled the older guard. “He speaks much too cleverly for an ogre.”
The Grand Lord bowed as if taking this comment for a compliment. “A solution is possible that might salvage matters.”
“What sort of solution?” asked Kolot.
“May I approach?”
“Go ahead.”
“You might do this to fulfill the pact….” The ogre leaned close and outlined his suggestion.
When he had finished, Kolot swallowed. “I can't,” he whispered. Shaken, he stared out at the black landscape, his gaze on something invisible. “If I don't?”
“Then you go home with nothing, son of Hotak.”
As simple and final as all that. Kolot glanced at the other two, but they had no help to give him.
Steeling himself, the emperor's youngest confronted the emissary from Kern. Jaw set, Kolot replied, “All right. I have no choice. In the name of my father, I accept the terms.”
“A wise choice. No regret,” soothed Golgren, putting a companionable arm around the minotaur's shoulder and starting to guide him back to the camp. “Now come! Nagroch will want this news.”
Kolot followed slowly, walking as if thrust through the heart by a sharp blade.
Chapter XV
Pursuit
The salty smell of the sea mixed with that of fresh baked oat bread, broiled goat, fried fish, and a hint of sulfur from the distant peaks of Argon's Chain. Such smells had always been identified with good fortune and the stability of the empire.
But Bastion could not enjoy the day. A rift had opened between him and his father. There had been several unsettling catastrophes throughout the empire, some that hinted at magical influence, but Hotak had refused to take note. Even the recent rash of tremors along Argon's Chain, which had collapsed three viable shafts, damaged facilities, and set back the emperor's ambitious quotas, had done little to convince Hotak that unusual forces were at play and threatening his reign.
Then there was the recent incident of an unidentified minotaur slain in front of the palace. He had been watching the royal residence but was killed when he tried to evade the soldiers. Hotak had shrugged it off as an isolated episode, but Bastion could not let it rest. Today his search for the identity of the mysterious minotaur had led him to the lowliest neighborhood of Nethosak, situated in the southeastern section.
The captain of the search patrol saluted him. “We've a name, my lord. One Josiris. He stayed at this common house until three days ago then never returned.”
Bastion blinked, the only sign of the depths of his pleasure at this unexpected intelligence. He peered past the officer, eyeing the rows of simple gray, nondescript structures.
“The badge he wore, the brown and black bear of House Ursun, was a forgery, my lord.
Questioning of the elders proved without a doubt that he wasn't one of their clan.”
“I never expected him to be.” Bastion dismounted. “And his room?”
“He left nothing that would identify him.” The brawny captain bared his teeth, adding, “But it appears he didn't live alone. Those we questioned indicated that another was seen with him, one who returned to the room this very morning.”
Bastion's nostrils flared. “Why did you not say so in the first place, you fool?”
“He's here no longer! We've looked around. He must've been warned.”
“How could he have been?” Hotak's son bristled. “Question everyone again! I want the port cordoned off and each block searched thoroughly. I assume you now have some description of this associate.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The patrol captain led Bastion to a faded door. The interior of the common house had a musty look to it. The corners and edges of the plank floor were filled with grime, and the original white paint on the walls had turned a rust-brown over the years.
“My lord!” One of the soldiers came running down the steps, a two-foot long map tube in his hand.
“We found something! It was hidden in the rafters!”
“Let me see.” Bastion unrolled the contents. “Sea charts. Have these brought back to my quarters. I want to study them.”
“Aye, my lo—”
Shouting came from beyond the rear of the building.
Bastion hurried past the soldier. Following the voices, he turned right around a corner leading into a narrow avenue shadowed by the city wall.
An avenue where
Hotak's son found the corpse of one of his own search party.
Two other soldiers stood over the body, one of them just about to reach down and roll it over.
“Hold! No one touch him!”
The other minotaurs stepped aside. Kneeling, Bastion nudged the corpse so as to view the victim's face. His helmet rolled off, rattling.
The minotaur's muzzle had frozen in a death grin, its tongue dangling to the side. The faded brown eyes looked stunned. Someone had buried a dagger blade into the muscled hide at the base of the neck.
“That's Belrogh, my lord,” muttered the lead officer, coming up behind Bastion. “I sent him out back when we first got here.”
Bastion noticed blood on the nearby wall. “That is not Belrogh's blood. His assailant has suffered some injury.”
Only one dagger lay nearby, and it had no shred of blood on it. Belrogh's sword remained in its sheath.
“Alert the others,” Bastion informed the officer. “I want this area covered quickly. The assassin may still be nearby.” To the first of the two soldiers, Bastion commanded, “You are to watch over this corpse until help returns. You,” he added to the second, “come with me. Now.”
As he headed up the avenue, Bastion drew his sword. Belrogh was no easy target. Their quarry was very dangerous.
They moved along for some distance, seeing nothing. Then, a speck of red on the ground caught Bastion's attention. He knelt to look it over.
Blood… and very fresh.
Bastion studied the buildings nearby. A towering gray storage house bearing the old imperial condor symbol stood on the right, and on the left, the back of a sailor's inn—quite crowded from the voices and raucous music coming from it.
The storage house was a more logical hiding place, but the inn drew Bastion's attention. A place full of strangers, the perfect spot for one who did not wish to be recognized.
“He may be in there. Be ready.”
As they neared the back entrance, Bastion discovered a second splatter of blood.
At the door, a third sign of blood, which would have been missed by less-observing eyes. Bastion clutched his sword and entered. Voices rose from the front of the inn. Someone laughed, and the clinking of mugs indicated a toast. All seemed in order.
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