Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Flame shot over Quas' oil-drenched leg. He tried to brush the fire out with his hand, only to have the flames race up his arm. Quas snorted in fear, trying to douse himself. He screamed.

  Rahm could not save him. The fire did its terrible work in short order. Quas slumped to the floor, his entire body ablaze. He twitched once, twice, then stilled.

  “Rahm! We need your help!”

  The general hurried to where Captain Azak and a bleary-eyed Tovok were attempting to smother another part of the inferno.

  “What is it? What's happening?” roared Zornal. The barrel maker came running down the steps.

  “By my ancestors!”

  From outside came raised voices.

  “Upstairs!” demanded Zornal. “Go!”

  “We can't leave your workroom!” said Rahm.

  Outside, someone struggled with the bolted door.

  “Hurry!” demanded the barrel maker.

  With great reluctance, the three fugitives ran up the steps. Moments later, shouting voices filled the building.

  “More water there!” roared Master Zornal below. “Hurry!”

  “It's too late for this one!” someone called out. “He's burned nearly to ash!”

  “Who is it?” yet another voice asked.

  “Quas!” Zornal roared. “The poor lad thought to smother the flames, but they caught him instead! I could do nothing! He was dead in moments!”

  Zornal and the others fought the fire. Once, it seemed they had beaten the flames into submission, only to have them flare up again. In the end, nearly an hour passed before the situation was under control.

  “Throw out what can't be salvaged,” Zornal said. “Get that refuse out of here! Modron, I'd be beholden if you could bring Quas to our clan house. The patriarch will have those who can better attend to him.”

  Several anxious minutes passed, then Zornal came up the steps. Rahm and the others had retreated into their room, ready to fight their way out if need be.

  “They're all gone,” said their host quietly. “All is in order.”

  “I'm sorry about your cousin,” the general returned.

  Ears flat, Zornal muttered, “Tell me what happened.”

  The barrel maker listened close then, eyes closed, he nodded.

  “I understand,” Zornal said. “I never thought him capable of such treachery. You have my sincerest apologies.”

  “And you have my apologies about the fire, Master Zornal. We tried to put it out.”

  “The damage is repairable. 'Tis you I'm fearing for. We can't take any more chances. Come the morrow, I'll make certain that a wagon's readied and you're on your way out of Nethosak. This nonsense about the palace and Hotak must be put to an end.”

  “No.” Rahm gave the sturdy cooper a stare that made him back down. “Send the captain and Tovok away, but I will not go. You'll understand that, I trust.”

  “I will not be going back without you, Rahm,” growled Azak.

  “Before you argue,” their host interrupted. “Recall that you no longer have a driver. I can't take Quas' place and, after what happened, we dare let no one else know that you're here.”

  Rahm nodded, his expression calculating. “A good point. I suggest that we settle all these matters tomorrow. No campaign's well-planned that's planned without sleep.”

  “As you like, then,” Zornal grumbled. The cooper departed, returning to the cleanup below.

  Tovok and the captain settled down quickly, but Rahm toyed with his ring, thinking about the morrow. No matter how many obstacles fate put in his path, the general swore that he would have the usurper's head.

  Either that, or Hotak would have his.

  Chapter XX

  Visitor in the Night

  As day struggled to supplant night, a narrow two-masted galley bearing the rearing-horse banner fought the stormy waters and docked in Nethosak. Set lower than the ocean-crossing ships of the imperial fleet, she traveled only in the Blood Sea. The stocky, pointed bow of the galley gave some indication of its value in battle, for she could readily ram less agile opponents and send them to the bottom.

  Her arrival initially interested no one. Only when an old mariner lighting his pipe spotted a certain passenger standing defiantly at the rail did word spread like plague to the port watch. The watch at first refused to let the passenger disembark. Only after invoking his father's authority three times did Kolot manage to gain access to the capital for his guest.

  And so, in a manner befitting a visiting dignitary, the Grand Lord Golgren marched into Nethosak.

  *****

  Alerted by swift messenger, Hotak prepared for the unorthodox visit. Servants clad him in the majestic armor he had worn for his ascension, girding him now for a war of diplomacy. Ogres respected strength, courage, and readiness for battle.

  On the wall behind Hotak hung the portrait of the emperor and consort seated in repose by an open window overlooking a hill-strewn vineyard. Hotak looked proud in his legion armor, his helm resting in the crook of his arm, while Nephera, her gown one of dark emerald elegance, looked lovingly in his direction.

  Nearby, a circular bed of red-stained oak had taken the place of the one chopped up during Chot's pathetic fight. Nephera's side was untouched.

  If the high priestess had not slept in their bed this night, word nonetheless quickly reached her of the galley's arrival. She entered the imperial quarters, fully dressed for a proper greeting with a foreign dignitary—even one of ogre persuasion. The flowing silver and black robe not only emphasized her figure but also her high rank.

  “My husband, I see you are already prepared to meet our unexpected guest.”

  A soft, fresh wave of lavender wafted under the emperor's nostrils. He inhaled it, recalling simpler times. “May I say how lovely you look?”

  “You may,” she replied with a knowing smile. With practiced hands, she adjusted his cloak and brushed off a loose thread on his breastplate. “You realize what his coming here must mean?”

  “Of course. Golgren's gotten his miserable khan to accept our pact. It was a foregone conclusion.

  We both knew that.”

  “But this unexpected visit… that speaks volumes.”

  “Kolot did his job well,” Hotak said, the comment almost an afterthought.

  “He had little with which to fail,” Nephera responded. “We planned everything for him.”

  The emperor fought back his annoyance. “Give him some due. True, he is not as efficient as Bastion or as loyal to you as Ardnor, but Kolot's brought no shame on this family. Only honor.”

  “Yes, he has brought no shame. And I am aware of his strengths.”

  An anxious officer entered, going down on one knee before Hotak. “My lord, your son Kolot and the ogre emissary, Grand Lord Golgren, await you in the planning room.”

  Hotak clapped. “Excellent! I trust someone has seen to Lord Golgren's needs?”

  “Aye, my lord. As best as we could.” The soldier showed some distaste at having to treat an ogre so courteously.

  “I see no need to wait any longer.” Hotak extended his arm toward Lady Nephera. “My dear?”

  An honor guard of a dozen attentive soldiers armed with axes materialized as the pair stepped into the hallway. Aides and guard officers silently closed in behind them. By the time Hotak and Nephera reached the framed doors of the planning room, they were surrounded by more than fifty minotaurs—certainly enough to give the ogre a memorable first impression.

  At the center of the room stood one of the strongest, thickest oak tables in all the imperium, for minotaur commanders had a habit of banging their fists against the nearest surface when arguing.

  Two golden chandeliers, each with twenty-five candles spread along their five upcurved arms, illuminated the chamber. Wooden grillwork covered the white plaster walls, and in the frames created by the grillwork hung detailed color maps of the major islands and colonies of the Empire.

  On the far wall, in a frame spanning the length of t
he chamber, Hotak had hung his masterpiece.

  Upon a turbulent ocean of blue-green, with hints of crimson where the Blood Sea lay, were marked each of the over three-dozen official colonies. The huge, vividly marked map could not help but draw the eyes, and so it did not surprise Hotak to see Golgren, seated and with a chalice of wine in one hand, perusing the display with much interest.

  A helmed herald stood to attention as the imperial couple appeared. The minotaur's stentorian voice announced, “The Emperor Hotak de-Droka and his consort, the Lady Nephera!”

  The brief flaring of her eyes was the only sign of Nephera's anger that her own title was omitted.

  Kolot, seated across from the ogre, rose and bowed toward his father. The younger minotaur looked worn and uncomfortable. Golgren, on the other hand, appeared quite energetic as he rose from his seat to bow gracefully to the duo.

  With Golgren and Kolot stood ever-watchful Bastion.

  “My greetings, Grand Lord Golgren!” the emperor roared cheerfully. “It's been a long time, hasn't it? More than a year since we last met face-to-face. Where was it, Zygard?”

  “Not so long, not so long,” grunted the ogre, standing. “Yes. Zygard it was,” he added, referring to the ogre settlement nearest Sargonath. As Golgren spoke, his gaze drifted to Nephera.

  “How is the Grand Khan?” asked Hotak.

  “The lord of all he surveys,” Golgren responded, still eyeing the consort.

  Hotak held back a frown. “Your visit, while welcome, is entirely unexpected. Dare I presume to think that this means acceptance of our offer?”

  Golgren smiled, revealing far too many teeth. “More than you think.” The tall figure raised one meaty fist in salute. “But first, my friend Hotak must be congratulated on his ascension! The Grand Khan sends his best wishes and regards in this matter.”

  “You are too kind.”

  The ogre chuckled, a harsh, grating noise.

  Now the emperor frowned. He signaled for his retinue to depart. “Come, let us talk.”

  The Grand Khan's ambassador was staring directly at the Lady Nephera, and his look was not admiring.

  Only then did Hotak recall that ogres did not accept females in leadership roles.

  “My dear,” the emperor said in a voice aimed to be as pleasant as possible, “it occurs to me that we'll need to present our guest to the Supreme Circle in a formal ceremony.”

  She blinked, not understanding his hint. “Of course, my love.”

  “It would be best if perhaps you would see to it now.”

  “Hotak—” she began, indignation rising.

  “A good idea, Father,” Bastion interjected, cutting off her protest and taking her arm. “Mother, I will be happy to assist you.”

  Nephera's eyes went briefly to her husband again, then a mask of courtesy spread across her features. “Of course. I shall take care of everything.” She gave Golgren a polite look. “So good to see you again, emissary.”

  The high priestess strode gracefully out of the room, Bastion at her side.

  Kolot also started to rise, then dropped back into his chair.

  “I should probably stay, Father,” he muttered.

  “Your consideration is noted, lad, but you're dismissed. Go and relax.”

  “Yes, Father.” The muscular figure bowed his horns low in respect as he passed.

  Hotak again indicated the chairs. “May we proceed now?”

  But Golgren preferred to look at the vast map again, inspecting it intently. “So many little islands.

  So large the areas of water between them. How proud you minotaurs must be of your realm.”

  “Indeed we are. Our nation is a diverse one, with every type of land imaginable. We have farmland to cultivate, forests for timber and fruit, hillsides for herding, and mineral-rich quarries necessary for the making of tools and weapons.”

  Finally seating himself, the emissary gazed steadily at his host. Hotak sat across from the ogre and waited. From the confines of his cloak, Golgren brought forth a thick, rolled parchment.

  “My Khan offers this treaty, but only if certain conditions are met.” The ogre placed the parchment down on the table. “Your son assures me they will be.”

  “Of course.” Hotak reached for the parchment, only to be stopped by Golgren, who removed yet another document from his voluminous mantle.

  “You will want this, too, Great Hotak.”

  “What is it?”

  “A pact between Kern and Blöde, including your people.”

  The emperor's one good eye widened.

  “Kern and Blöde are mortal enemies,” Hotak remarked as matter-of-factly as he could manage.

  “As ogres and minotaurs have always been.”

  Hotak unrolled the treaty involving Blöde. He read through it, struggling with the barbaric ogre script. Only a handful of ogres, most of them in the ruling caste, actually knew how to read and write.

  Hotak looked up, his one eye widening further. “What is this? Surely my eyes deceive me!”

  “No,” rumbled Golgren.

  Hotak thrust the parchment at the ogre. “Explain this now.”

  Golgren shrugged. “The son of Hotak did what was necessary to save the pact. Blöde would not accept otherwise, and if Blöde would not, neither would Kern.” The emissary smiled in a manner he no doubt thought sympathetic, but to Hotak he looked like a hungry, grinning beast. “If it is not acceptable…”

  “I have not rejected it.” The emperor said nothing more, gathering his thoughts.

  Golgren downed the last of the briarberry wine in his chalice. He glanced with interest at the dark green bottle sitting on a nearby stand, but satisfied himself with toying with the empty goblet.

  “It would take much convincing. Even my most loyal generals would balk at such an alliance.”

  Hotak rubbed his jaw. “Yet the possibilities…” He slapped the pact on the table, his expression resolute. “By Argon's Chain, it shall be done!”

  Golgren showed his teeth. “My Khan will be most pleased.”

  “This must be done properly, though. To ensure that all goes smoothly, I'm going to have my son—

  Bastion, that is—take command of this matter.”

  “We are agreed then?”

  “This will satisfy Kern and Blöde? No land exchange?”

  “Ogres have little use for dots of dirt scattered in the water. Yes, friend Hotak, all will be satisfied.”

  “Good.” Hotak rose. “What I've agreed to risks an insurrection, you know.”

  He offered his hand. Golgren, still seated, took it. The Khan's ambassador had a powerful grip, but so did Hotak. The minotaur had the pleasure of seeing Golgren wince slightly.

  “We are agreed, then.” Hotak's mood brightened considerably. The momentous pact had become a reality. There would be some difficulties in implementing the ogres' demands, but nothing insurmountable. “Golgren, your chalice is empty. Join me in having some more wine. We shall drink to the partnership of our peoples and talk of our aspirations for the future, eh?”

  “This one would never turn down such a generous offer.”

  The emperor poured Golgren some of his finest wine then raised his chalice in a toast.

  “To the day of destiny, my ogre friend.”

  *****

  As the imperial capital played host to one unexpected visitor, the port of Varga welcomed others.

  The four ships sailed into the windswept harbor, the banner of the Eastern fleet waving high over each. Staffed by a small garrison and expecting no trouble, Varga believed the ships were here either to deliver messages or important passengers, or to restock supplies.

  The officer on duty, First Dekarian Ilos de-Morgayn, signaled the ten soldiers under his command to stand down. Ilos stood on the dock, watching the first long boats draw near and wondering if they would bring any news of interest.

  As more and more long boats filled the harbor, the First Dekarian grew suspicious.

  When the first
landed, their passengers swarmed toward the port, their weapons drawn. Startled, many of the dock-workers stood transfixed. The First Dekarian seized one of his soldiers.

  “By the Axe! Alert the commander! We're under attack! Go! We'll try to delay them!”

  As the messenger hurried off, the officer ordered the rest of his fighters off the dock. The simplest way into the heart of the city was a street between the two largest shipping warehouses. If necessary, Ilos would torch the wooden structures. The invaders had to be coming for their contents.

  Why else attack Varga?

  “Halt!” he shouted at one of the invaders, a female dressed as a captain of the fleet. “This port is closed to you!”

  She laughed. “This port closed to us? By you? I'll do you one better! I am Captain Tinza and, in the name of General Rahm Es-Hestos, I order you to surrender! You'll be treated fairly. That's my first and final offer.”

  “Stand ready!” the First Dekarian shouted.

  The captain tightened her grip on her axe, all humor fleeing from her expression. “You're a fool.

  And a dead one.”

  She raised her axe high, and with a great roar the invading force descended upon Varga.

  The watch fell in seconds, First Dekarian Ilos perishing almost instantly. His soldiers crumpled under the onslaught, all cut to ribbons by eager blades. Not a scar was suffered among Captain Tinza's warriors.

  More boats came ashore, one of them carrying gruff Napol. With a nod to Tinza, he marched his marine fighters in the direction of the keep where the larger garrison was stationed.

  Captain Tinza's force, more than two hundred strong, marched on the town itself. They soon had the majority of the citizenry under control. She then broke up her command into two groups, one taking stock of the available supplies and the other embarking on a building-to-building search.

  Ilos had at least succeeded in warning his superior. First Hekturian Goud could not abandon his post. His honor dictated that he defend Varga as best he could. Instead, he sent five of his best riders to warn the capital.

  Napol approached the small fort with several hundred trained marine fighters. Marching up to the gates under a flag of truce, he shouted, “Surrender, and you'll be incarcerated with the locals! Fight, and may your ancestors watch over your souls!”