Towering, groomed oak trees led to the broad marble steps. Four columns, carved to represent fearsome warriors, and two immense bronze doors, lined with intricate scrollwork, opened into a wide, torchlit corridor. The corridor led directly to two vast chambers, the first where the emperor held court and the second the main ballroom.
This night, the latter held precedence. Hotak's favored had gathered at his command. To the sounds of a small orchestra—round-bodied lutes, long, silver recorders, copper-kettle drums, and slim, curled brass horns—the guests of the emperor danced expertly.
Hotak and Nephera, too, glided across the floors, their sweeping movements and intricate stepwork marveled at by the others. The eyes of the pair never left one another and all present recognized the intensity of their attraction.
Hotak wore a gleaming helm and breast plate of the finest steel, a lengthy crest of crimson horse hair trailing behind. His flowing cloak complemented his consort's glittering silver and black gown.
He thrust forward his right hand, touching his mate's muzzle. Her eyes flickered then, gazing at him, and she took two steps back, drawing him into her. Their feet moved in perfect unison, creating patterns based on the number five—five steps in line to the left, five in a swirl, then more in a line to the right.
As their muzzles grazed, the emperor whispered, “It's been too long since we danced like this.”
“We've both been busy, my husband. The rule of an empire makes many demands, does it not?”
“But at times it causes a distance between us I don't like, Nephera. You are too often at the temple these days. Your place is here at the palace, my dear. Close by my side.”
She gave him a brief smile. “I was with you last night. All night.”
His hand stroked the underside of her muzzle. “I recall quite well.”
The music drew to a close. The duo grasped one another's hands. Hotak bowed to his wife, his breath coming slightly fast, his fur tinged with moisture. Nephera bowed back. Her silken gown clung to her in a manner that further enticed the armored emperor.
An aide approached Hotak. The soldier said nothing, but the emperor nodded understanding.
“Your legion commanders,” the high priestess said with a slight hint of reproval. “And now it is you who will leave me.”
Dismissing the aide, Hotak whispered, “But I, at least, will return in short order.”
As he departed, a voice behind the imperial consort murmured, “An exceptional display of your grace as a dancer, my priestess.”
Lothan hovered over her, his gray robe brushing the floor. A gold chain around his throat allowed a medallion with the symbol of the Supreme Circle to dangle over his chest. Nearly hidden by the cheek-high collar of his robe was a thinner, silver chain. Within the robe, the symbol of the Forerunner faithful rested near the councilor's heart. Unlike most of the minotaurs in attendance, Lothan had taken no part in the dancing, seeming content to watch.
“Indeed, the entire evening has been an exceptional and successful display. The might and wealth of the empire are clearly yours to command, my priestess.”
“The emperor and I are quite pleased by the progress so far.” She looked at the administrator, her eyes as intense as his own rarely blinking ones.
He moved closer, whispering to her alone, “It would be the perfect night to announce Lord Ardnor as heir.”
She wanted that, but Hotak had cautioned her that tonight was not propitious. Her husband brooded over something, but over what, Nephera could not say.
“No. We can afford to be patient. I've told this to Ardnor more than once, although he, of course, has wanted it since the first day.”
“The emperor has put it off several times.”
“It will happen soon. I promise you that, Lothan.”
Hotak returned. Lothan made a respectful retreat.
“My dear,” Nephera's husband murmured, his good eye as intense as before, “I think I'd like another dance.”
The music began the moment they started to move, a brass-dominated, almost martial piece. The talk among the dignitaries dwindled away, and guests joined in the dancing.
“Iunderstandhis devotion to your temple, my dear,” Hotak said, thrusting one hand around her shoulder while pulling her close. “But at times the councilor places himself too near the imperial consort for my tastes.”
“He merely wanted to be heard, my love. There was so much noise.”
The scent of the sea touched Nephera's nostrils, and the shadowed form of Takyr materialized behind Hotak. Takyr closely followed them across the floor. Almost it seemed to the high priestess that she danced with two partners, one living and one not.
Mistress, came the voice in her head. I return to you.
Lady Nephera tipped her head slightly toward the ghost.
It is as you said. Lord Nymon is gathering support around him.
As she had expected, the powerful noble was seeking to formulate opposition to her son's declaration as heir. That would not do. She stared at the shade, knowing he would understand the course of action to be taken.
But Takyr did not depart just yet. There is… there is no trace of the cloud creature, he whispered, his face twisted and ugly. It is beyond my ability to follow its path. It may still pursue its prey, but it may also have dissipated.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Hotak murmured in her ear. “Has the long evening tired you?”
“It's nothing. Just a momentary lapse.” Nephera had no desire to reveal the truth.
So once again Rahm had likely evaded her. Nephera had underestimated him. Maddening enough that he had escaped Hotak's soldiers and the usually thorough Bastion, but how had General Rahm kept himself hidden from the temple?
With a flick of her head, the high priestess dismissed the shade. Takyr drifted away, fading to nothingness. He would be nearby when she needed him.
“Nephera, my dear?”
She realized that the music had ceased. “I'm sorry, Hotak. My mind wandered.”
He nodded, touching the underside of her muzzle. “I want you with me the rest of this night, my dear.”
The high priestess nodded and even adopted a pleasant expression, but the fire she had felt earlier had dampened.
*****
“Still up, I see,” Azak called from the doorway.
Rahm looked up from his charts. “Yes.”
“You need sleep.”
“Sleep? Each passing day means the usurper solidifies his hold.”
The graying captain shrugged. “But if you die from lack of sleep, what will it matter? Hotak will remain emperor, and your wife and son will go unavenged. Rahm, you're the lifeblood of this fellowship. Even Jubal looks to you for guidance. Besides, I thought Nolhan provided you with some very useful information.”
“He did. So much so that I'm contemplating changes in our plans.” Rahm tugged on his ring as he turned back to study the charts.
“Hmph. Well, see that you stop soon. As a boon to me.”
Instead of agreeing, the general asked, “How are those new ballistae coming? We'll need them.”
“There should be two ready soon. They are a little more awkward to build than we thought.”
Rahm grimaced. “Only two? Then put one near the bow of Dragon’s Crest. The other goes on the Red Condor,” he added, referring to the imperial ship that had been renamed. “Have the crews work with them. I want them familiar with the ballistae.”
“I will see to it… in the morning.”
Alone again, Rahm went over the map, studying the best way to avoid garrisons and fleet ports. The twin isles of Thorak and Thuum were dangerous. To avoid detection, Rahm's force would have to sail well south, adding days to an already-arduous journey.
A powerful yawn overtook him. As he stretched, Rahm noticed that the room had grown dim despite lit oil lamps. He blinked twice, but the dimness did not lessen.
“Azak was right,” the general muttered. “Still, a few hours of sleep should reme
dy matters.” Mogra and Dorn would forgive him this lapse.
Rahm unhooked his axe harness and lay it on the chair. The weapon itself he set within reach. As he released his grip on the axe, a tremendous sense of unease shook him. Rahm looked around, absently rubbing his ring.
To his horror, two savage, disembodied orbs that blazed like fire glared at him from the doorway.
“What in the name of the Abyss?”
Around the inhuman eyes began to appear a thick, black patch of mist—a body of sorts.
Rahm pulled back. The misty creature floated toward him.
Seizing the nearby axe, the general took a desperate swing. The blade passed through without effect. The mist around the malevolent eyes thickened. Thick, brutish arms formed.
“Sargas preserve me!” Rahm burst out. “Guards! Azak!”
No one responded, even though he heard voices beyond the door. Somehow, he had been cut off from the world. Desperately, Rahm swung the axe but accomplished nothing. The cloud creature had no substance.
A scent pervaded the room, one that reminded the general of a battlefield after the struggle, when the dead lay uncovered in great numbers, the elements already fast at work on them. The scent of death.
“Nephera!” he snarled.
Cursing, General Rahm edged toward the door. With comically-cumbersome movements, the cloud beast turned to follow. Rahm seized the door handle, but despite his efforts he could not open it. The general pounded on the wood and shouted.
The conversation outside continued unabated.
The scent of death grew overwhelming. The cloud darted forward, reaching for him. A hazy shroud covered Rahm's head, choking him. Try as he might, he could not close his mouth.
The fiendish creature sought to suffocate him. The axe fell from his weakening grip. Rahm flailed about as his body was lifted up. He gasped for air but only swallowed smoke. The general grasped at the fiery orbs so close to his own. His eyes bulged—
As his left hand passed through the shadowy horror, the ebony jewel on his ring flared, and a terrible screech filled the room, one that even those outside his room heard.
The door flung open, and Azak cried, “Rahm! What—?”
The dark cloud retreated, emerging swiftly from Rahm's throat. Before his astounded eyes, sparks of black lightning played around the screeching, twisting nightmare, eating away at the foul creature. The demonic assassin shriveled, its form breaking up into small pieces.
With one last, inhuman cry, the cloud beast dissipated.
Collapsing onto the cot, the general could only stare and gasp.
“Easy there!” Azak said, seizing a bottle and bringing it to his friend. “Here. Drink some of this first.” As Rahm drank, the captain said, “Just catch your breath. Yes, we saw it, too, although what it was I cannot fathom.”
“N-Nephera…” Rahm managed to spout. A fit of coughing struck him. Azak gave him more wine.
“I could feel it coursing down my throat and into my lungs. Nothing could stop it.” He gazed at his hand. “But something did. I think… it was my ring.”
“Your ring.” The captain snorted. “You really think so?”
“Yes. The moment it touched the monster's orbs.”
Azak peered at it. “Not minotaur craftsmanship. Where did you get it?”
Rahm's brow furrowed. He stared at the glittering black gemstone, almost losing himself in its many facets.
“You know,” he finally answered. “I don't remember.”
Chapter XVII
Small and Deadly Worlds
A phalanx of twenty hand-picked warriors rode with Maritia to the mines of Vyrox—twenty more than she thought was necessary. Mithas was solidly in her father's grip. Certainly the miners, subdued by their harsh labor, would pose no danger to her.
Her mission to Vyrox was twofold. The recent destruction caused by the latest tremors—excessive even by the area's reputation—had made the imperium's prime source of raw materials fall terribly behind schedule. Hotak would not stand for that, not with his ambitions. Maritia's foremost mission was ostensibly to evaluate the logistics of procurement based on the remaining viable shafts and set new goals. Her second task was of a more delicate nature; she was delivering her own deposed patriarch to the camp.
Four legionaries wielding lances rode ahead of her. Maritia and another soldier flanked Itonus. The former patriarch was clad only in kilt and sandals and had his hands bound before him. Behind them rode the rest of Maritia's guard.
They reached the camp near dusk. Not for the first time, Maritia coughed in a vain attempt to clear the pervasive soot from her lungs.
A gigantic guard with savage eyes confronted the arrivals from inside the gates. “State your business or be off with you!”
Bristling, Maritia nudged her horse forward. “I trust you recognize an imperial officer, warrior.”
The guard swore under his breath. “Forgive me, lady! They said you'd be coming earlier. When you didn't, the commander assumed you wouldn't arrive until tomorrow.”
“We're here now. Your name, warrior?”
“Paug, lady.”
“Well, Paug, please alert the commander that Lady Maritia de-Droka, imperial representative, is here. Be quick about it!”
As Paug hurried away, his compatriots pulled the gates open. Maritia rode in, following the retreating guard to the commander's quarters. The prisoners she saw seemed a dirty, surly lot. Few looked up as she passed. Instead, they kept their snouts close to their meal bowls. The smell of the food was such that Maritia put a hand to her muzzle in a vain attempt to wave the odor away. Even the sulfuric stench from the far-off craters was less noxious.
Paug exited the commander's quarters, followed by a worn-looking officer lacking part of one arm.
He gave her a halfhearted salute and said, “Krysus de-Morgayn at your service, my lady. I apologize for our camp not being ready.”
“Never mind that. I'm here now. Do you have accommodations for me and my guards? We can make due with an empty barracks, if need be.”
Krysus looked aghast. “Lady Maritia, I will not dishonor you by placing one of your eminent position in squalid surroundings. You'll accept my own humble quarters and the use of my staff for as long as you must remain here.” He turned to Paug. “Show them where they may stable their horses.”
“Aye, commander.”
“My lady, if you so desire, we can retire to my office now.” He looked with curiosity at the prisoner.
“As for this one—”
“As for him,” she interrupted, “he will be joining us. At least for the moment.”
“Your courtesy knows no bounds,” Itonus remarked dryly.
Hotak's daughter glanced at him. “Don't push your luck.”
The ousted clan leader said nothing.
As their horses were led away, a chained figure, who had been watching her, suddenly found great interest in his nearly empty bowl.
“My lady?” the commander whispered politely.
“I'm coming.”
Krysus offered his good arm. Itonus followed, two soldiers flanking him. “I've all the information you requested. I think you'll find that Vyrox is operating at full efficiency.”
“We'll see.” As they entered, her nostrils wrinkled from a wave of airborne ash. The sooner she finished here, the better. Then could she return home, to the cleaner, tasteful climes of the imperial capital. Return and forget all the drawn, hopeless faces of the prisoners.
*****
As he and the others headed to the wagons the next day, Faros could not help thinking about the imperial emissary. Faros did not recognize her, but she was certainly of very high rank. Her sudden appearance, coupled with the fact that she was the first female he had seen in months, made him stare at her too long. Fortunately, she had not noticed him. Faros had simply been one more prisoner to her, one more honorless, clanless worker. His secret was safe.
For all the good it did him.
Paug walk
ed past in the opposite direction, the new prisoner beside him. The latter moved not like one of the workers, but as though he were a personage inspecting the facilities. The Butcher seemed to give him some respect.
“Name's Itonus,” Japfin remarked quietly. “Turns out he used to be patriarch of Hotak's own clan.
The new emperor's kicked him out—all the way to Vyrox!”
“The leader of his own House?”
“Aye, and what's more, that fine female who brought him here is none other than the daughter of Hotak.”
Faros blinked. “That's Lady Maritia?”
“Aye, and savor any glance you get of her. She's likely to be the last female we ever see.”
A guard came upon them, his whip already dancing. “Enough talk! Climb aboard!”
All interest in the emperor's daughter and the betrayed patriarch dwindled as the wagons rolled to their destinations. Faros stared at his arms and chest, where tufts of fur had begun to shed. Each day the patches grew larger, and he could do nothing about it.
Heavy piles of ore waited. Faros began hammering. Lean, yes, weary, certainly, but Gradic's once- soft son had become as well-muscled as most of the others.
Two hours into the day's labor, water was distributed among the prisoners. As Faros drank, he noticed a pair of guards approaching. He tensed. Such visitations always meant bad news.
The taller, a pinched-faced veteran with scars all along the right side of his muzzle, studied the group.
“That one,” he indicated a minotaur with his coiled whip. The other guard moved to pull out of the ranks a worker even younger than “Faros. “That one, too,” the senior sentry added, indicating a brawny, older prisoner further down.
The whip pointed at Faros. “And that one.”
From Ulthar's direction came a sharp intake of breath. Not understanding, Faros joined the others.
The guards marched the three away—toward the fire pit.
Dismayed, he stopped in his tracks, an action which earned him a stroke of the lash. Stumbling forward, Faros eyed the hellish crater, the thick smoke, the fearsome flames. Within it, someone cried out in sudden, harsh pain.
“Down the ladder, you three! Down!”
Night of Blood Page 20
