Bastion's gaze went to the floor, and he noticed something amiss.
“The floor,” he muttered. “It has not been cleaned! Look at the grime.” When the soldier still did not understand, Bastion blurted, “So where is the blood?”
“Perhaps he stopped bleeding, my lord?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Turn around. We have already lost valuable time.” Bastion practically pushed the fighter back into the alley.
That was when a hefty oak plank struck the soldier on the head.
The stricken warrior collided with Bastion, knocking his sword away as both stumbled to the ground.
Bastion grabbed for some weapon and found the guard's axe. He barely got the shaft up in time to block the sharp edge of a sword—his own.
Crusts of blood covered the assassin's short, wide snout and some flakes dotted his fur, but otherwise he appeared unhurt. Like the dead Josiris, this minotaur also wore the badge and kilt of House Ursun. Wiry and swift, he wielded the blade with veteran skill.
“Surrender,” Bastion suggested, trying to maneuver. “There are soldiers approaching from every direction!”
The other minotaur brought the blade down again, barely missing Bastion's wrist. Hotak's son tumbled away, then righted himself.
“I've always admired you, Lord Bastion,” the assassin hissed. “You're a true warrior. It would've been an honor to serve under you.” He thrust, forcing Bastion to dodge, “Quick, too!”
Bastion tried to counter with the axe, but the nearby walls made him miscalculate.
“I thank you for your praise,” he retorted. “Surrender now, tell us all you know, and perhaps I can have your sentence commuted. You might be exiled or—”
“Sentenced to Vyrox?” The other bared his teeth. “I wouldn't insult the memory of my master Tiribus.” The scarred minotaur darted forward, coming under Bastion's guard. The tip of the blade cut a gash across the latter's chest. Bastion lowered his own weapon and used it like a lance, trying to stab his adversary in the chest.
His opponent deflected the blow but was forced back. Bastion pushed forward.
From behind came the sound of running feet. He glanced over his shoulder to see two legionaries closing in.
His foe attacked with greater ferocity, almost catching him off-guard. Managing to dodge to the side, Bastion called, “This is your last chance. Surrender or die!”
With a roar of desperation, the minotaur lunged.
But the assassin overestimated his attack, leaving himself open. As the sharp blade flew past his right ear, Bastion jabbed with the axehead. It dug into the other fighter's unprotected throat, sinking in with such force that his body was yanked inches off the ground.
From his twitching hand fell Bastion's weapon. As he dropped, the assassin let out a gurgle. His larynx—his entire throat—was impaled.
“Well aimed, my lord!” declared a soldier, running up.
“Not at all! I wanted to catch him by the shoulder. He shifted at the last moment. I wanted him alive so we could question him, find out what other confederates he might have…”
But they would gain nothing from this traitor, whose eyes stared vacantly, empty of life.
“He did mention Tiribus, though,” mused Bastion. “There lies a clue, at least. We need a complete list of those who served the late councilor.” He blinked. “I remember one. Nalhin… Nolhar… he was on a list of questionables my mother brought—” His ears stiffened as the name came to him.
“Nol-han. Tiribus had an aide called Nolhan. Find out what has become of him, if he's among the purged.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Bastion retrieved his blade, wiping it clean before sheathing it. “If this Nolhan is alive and in the city, I want him. He will be desperate, willing to do anything—especially when he discovers that his comrades are dead.”
*****
It seemed remarkable that the ship had so far managed to evade the two sleeker craft pursuing it.
The sails were half-torn, and the wide-bottomed vessel was designed to carry cargo, not fly swiftly.
The hunters gave chase in ships made to cut low in the water. Yet somehow, the first ship stayed in the lead.
“The gap is closing,” Captain Azak remarked from the deck of Dragon’s Crest as he lowered his eyeglass. “Slowly, but it is closing, my good friend. The pursuers fly both the sea dragon and kraken banner, marking them of the Eastern fleet.”
General Rahm snorted. “I've never seen ships like those.”
“I'd heard tales of new craft being built in the shipyards of Mito. These must be the first. What do you want to do?”
The tiny rebel fleet had sailed out on maneuvers, but no one had thought that the empire would have vessels this far away from the capital.
The general tugged at his ebony-stoned ring. His glittering blue eyes peered at the ships. His good ear straightened as if he listened to words no one else could hear.
“I wanted to avoid a fight,” he muttered. With reluctance, he then asked, “Any sign of other pursuit?”
Azak called up to the watch in the crow's nest. “Any other Imperials?”
“None seen, Captain!”
A crewmember approached and saluted Azak. “Captain Tinza asks to go aid the ship in distress!”
The wrinkled mariner let out a harsh laugh. “What Tinza wants to do is test herself in battle! The other ship could sink to the bottom of the Abyss for all she's interested.”
Rahm leaned over the rail. “Have they seen us?”
“They're about to run down the stag. I doubt that one pair of eyes has looked our way.”
“So we could sail on and forget what we saw?”
“Aye, we could.”
Rubbing the underside of his muzzle, the general eyed the harried ship. “Do you think Tinza and her fellow captains still have their old banners?”
A toothy grin escaped the master of Dragon’s Crest. “I'd wager they do.”
In contrast to Azak's grin, General Rahm's expression had grown decidedly grim. The blue of his eyes had turned as chill as ice. Tugging on the ring, he said, “Then here's what we do.”
*****
As they cut the distance between themselves and their target, the two imperial ships separated, one seeking the port side of the fleeing vessel, the other the starboard. The captains intended to pinch their prey between them. This would be their first capture since their ships had been commissioned two weeks earlier.
When word came that more than half a dozen ships approached from the east, the captains worried only about opportunistic pirates. Then it was discovered that the sea dragon banner was flying on the lead vessel.
The fleeing ship slowed then began to turn back toward its two pursuers. She could not hope to win against so many, but still she would not lower her sails.
The new arrivals spread out.
Raising an eyeglass, the captain of the second imperial vessel studied the rival fleet.
“The four closest look all right,” he muttered to his second. “Something's missing from the others, though.” After a moment's consideration, he realized what. “There's no banners on the rest. Now why would that be?”
“Should I signal Emperor’s Pride, Captain?”
The captain's wide, round nostrils flared. “I don't know. It doesn't look like anything's amiss.” He raised the eyeglass again, studying the ships that carried the sea dragon banner. “If I could only… by the Sea Queen! 'Tis the Reaver!”
“Captain?
“The Sea Reaver! Damned Tinza's ship! Warn Emperor’s Pride! Get the catapult ready! Be quick!”
From the Sea Reaver, a miniature sun darted high into the air, its arcing path sending it toward Emperor’s Pride.
The vessel began to turn, but even with her swifter design, she moved too slowly. The fiery sphere—a heavy, oil-soaked ball of wood—plummeted toward its target.
The top of one of the Pride’s masts broke away, sending burning rigging and sail down on the deck.<
br />
Smoke rose.
“Orders, Captain?”
Minotaurs were trained from birth not only to fight, but to fight to the death. However, a futile death had little honor in it.
“Turn us about. Get us out of here. We must reach the main fleet.”
*****
“They're fleeing!” Azak crowed. “What cowards!”
“No coward,” Rahm returned, eyes unblinking. “He seeks to warn the rest of the fleet of our presence in these far waters. Signal Tinza and the others to make sure that doesn't happen.”
The weathered mariner looked for the Sea Reaver. “That will not be necessary. I daresay she already has that in mind.”
Led by Captain Tinza, the renegade ships of the Eastern fleet were already closing in on the nearest vessel.
That left the first imperial ship.
“They're firing their catapult!” someone roared.
Fiery death rained down on Dragon’s Crest. The shot itself missed, but burning oil flew everywhere. Crew members rushed around to douse the fires.
Dragon’s Crest brought its own catapult into play. Unfortunately, the first shot went wide. One of the other ships tried but also missed, scorching a comrade instead.
The Crest veered in closer. Its next shot tore through the main sail, leaving a blazing hole in its wake. Sailors scrambled up to try to repair the damage.
From the other side, The Horned God moved in to cut off any escape. The impetuousness of the captain proved a mistake. This time the enemy's fiery ball soared with accuracy.
“Damned fools,” General Rahm muttered.
The projectile struck the deck, smashing a gaping hole in the center. Flaming oil blazed. From the hold, smoke billowed out.
“Azak! Get us close. Force a boarding.”
Dragon’s Crest angled sharply. The enemy catapult fired again, but the flaming ball struck just past the Crest’s stern.
Their catapult useless, some of Azak's crew readied bows.
“Come on, you old sheep!” the captain shouted. “Hurry before they pincushion you first!”
The archers braced themselves. Rahm raised his arm, awaiting the proper moment.
A storm of arrows whistled down upon Azak's crew. One crewmember fell dead. Another helped a wounded comrade, pierced with a bolt, stumble away. Bolts bristled like porcupine quills in the hull of Dragon’s Crest. Several perforated the sails.
“Too soon,” muttered General Rahm. “They shot too soon.”
He lowered his arm in one swift movement. Now the sky filled with arrows coming from Dragon’s Crest. Some struck the enemy's hull, others the sails. Cries arose from the other vessel and more than one body plummeted over the rail into the choppy sea. Several unmoving forms littered the deck.
“Again!” the general commanded.
A wave of return fire came first and three of Azak's crew perished. Their next volley, however, wreaked as much havoc as the first. One foe dropped from the rigging, his body hanging by his tangled foot. Two more slumped over the rail. The arrows that flew back were fewer.
The Horned God had pulled back, black smoke still billowing from its hold, but another ship had maneuvered near.
Several of the Crest’s crew threw grappling hooks, securing the enemy ship. Rahm's eyes took on a fanatical look as he seized his axe. Raising it high, he leaped forward, crying, “For Honor! For Glory!”
Cheered on by the sight of the general, Azak's crew followed eagerly.
Rahm's axe quickly cut into a snarling sailor who leaped to confront him. Able fighters from both sides fell, and the already-grisly deck soon piled with the dead and wounded. Wood became slippery with blood. Smaller battles took place on the steps to the wheel and even on the rigging.
Axes and swords flew. The two coupled ships rocked wildly on the water.
Fending off one opponent, Rahm paused to take a breath. He glanced to his left, eyes searching—
The edge of an axe blade nearly took his sole ear. Rahm whirled about to meet a hulking figure wearing a harness badge with a golden edge. The captain.
“Traitor!” bellowed the giant officer. Both his garments and his fur were matted with blood.
“Renegade! I'll have your head!”
Their weapons clashed. “I'm no renegade,” hissed Rahm, his tone cold. “I keep the oath I made to my emperor, Chot. Can you say the same?”
“My emperor is Hotak!” The axe came down again, the edge crashing into the deck.
Rahm scrambled away, then slammed the head of his weapon against that of his opponent's. Again and again their axes met while others fought all around them.
The captain's attacks turned more brutal, more relentless. Flecks of foam dotted his muzzle, and his eyes turned crimson. Rahm recognized the berserker fury overtaking the fleet officer. Even if his ship was lost, the captain would not stop the fight. He would struggle until his wounds were fatal.
“I'll hang your rotting head from the yard arm! I'll cut your flesh up to feed to the fish!”
The captain's axe came down with incredible force, chopping the rail to tinder. General Rahm swung his own weapon around, managing a strong cut into the other's forearm. Despite the streaming blood, the enemy officer showed no sign that he even felt his injury.
Once more Rahm barely avoided a blow. His strength flagging, he attempted a desperate tactic. He swung hard, pretending to aim for the chest but suddenly letting his weapon fly. The unhindered axe caught his foe's leg, the head shattering the knee cap in the process. Blood splattered them, and the captain was sent sprawling.
Even crumpled on the deck, the stricken captain refused to give in. He turned the spiked tip of his axe toward his victorious foe. The eyes that stared into Rahm's showed nothing but cold fury.
Grabbing away the threatening spike, General Rahm took the weapon and buried it in the captain's chest.
Soaked in blood—some of it his own, he realized—Rahm dropped to one knee. Around him, the few enemy crewmembers left had fallen to their knees, their arms behind their backs and their muzzles to the deck. Some of the victors roared in triumph while others attended to the remaining fires.
“The ship's in fair shape, considering,” Azak said, coming up to Rahm, his own fur covered in blood. “We've got more than enough hands to take her under way.”
“Good.”
“Tinza's got the other ship sinking, but this prize makes it all worthwhile. Our first victory against Hotak!”
“A lopsided victory. We outnumbered them nine ships to two—ten even, if you count the one they were chasing.” The general looked around at the gathering fighters. “A sloppy exercise. What if we hadn't come upon them from their blindside while they were preoccupied? There must be coordination, not every minotaur for himself.” Absently tugging on his ring, he asked Azak, “What about the other ship? Did she flee?”
Azak snorted. “Now that would have been ingratitude! Nay, they not only have stayed, but I was just told that someone aboard desires to speak with you as soon as possible.”
“Give me a few moments. I'll speak to him in my cabin aboard the Crest.”
“Before you leave… there's still the question of the enemy crew.”
The general looked over his shoulder, expression guarded. “How many?”
“Eleven, not counting three with mortal wounds.”
Turning away from his comrade's sharp gaze, Rahm said, “We can't afford to keep prisoners, Captain.”
Azak did not blink. “Aye, General. As you say.”
Barely acknowledging the raucous cheers of his followers, Rahm returned to his sparsely decorated quarters and dropped onto the cot built into the inner wall. In a small recess in the wall by the head of the cot, a half-eaten loaf of round, un-risen oat bread and a nearly empty bottle of briarberry wine stood as the remnants of the general's last meal.
Rahm was just reaching for the dark bottle when someone knocked. With a grunt, he barked, “Enter at your own risk!”
A crewmemb
er peered inside. “A visitor from the other ship, General. He insists to see you.”
“Let him in.” The bottle held tightly in one hand, Rahm waved the visitor in.
Clad in a green travel cloak and wearing the brown, shield-patterned kilt of a clan the general recognized as an ally of Hotak, a younger warrior with a long, narrow snout entered. Under a slim brow, he stared back at the general with troubled eyes. His silver-brown fur made him stand out from most minotaurs and caused Rahm to stir with interest.
“I know you, don't I?”
“We met twice. When you had lengthy business with my lord.”
“Your lord?”
With an expression of intense earnestness, the newcomer dropped down on one knee and lowered his horns in submission and said proudly, “I am Nolhan, first adjutant to the former head of the Supreme Circle, Senior Councilor Tiribus—now dead.”
The neck of the bottle cracked under Rahm's tightening grip, but before he could say anything about Tiribus, Nolhan continued.
“I sailed this way with a small crew based on word of refuge given to me by a trusted friend, but instead ran across the two Imperials you saw. You saved me when all seemed lost.”
“I made a choice,” the general replied.
The younger minotaur looked up at him. “And I am grateful. General Rahm Es-Hestos. For what I owe not only my master but now you, I offer my services in your campaign against the murderous usurper.” From the confines of his cloak, he produced a pair of small, bound scrolls. “I offer you the names and locations of friends of my Lord Tiribus—important friends who will, the old gods willing, help us see this would-be emperor's head decorating the imperial gates.”
Chapter XVI
Dance of the Dead
Surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall of gray stone upon which yard-high metal spikes were set, the imperial palace presented a vigilant facade. The wall surrounded a manicured lawn with groves of oak and cedar. Beyond the barred, arched front gates topped by the cast-iron countenance of a crimson minotaur, a wide, stone drive wound its way to the entrance.
Night of Blood Page 19
