Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  “The benches!” Faros whispered, recalling what the patriarch had told them. “There's supposed to be something underneath!”

  Everyone began searching. Outside, Paug was haranguing Harod.

  “So where is Kalius, your driver, eh? Funny thing, Harod. They just had a meeting with Kalius—the commander, her ladyship, and a nasty dark friend of hers—and he said some odd things! Talked about fake orders before he died. Talked about another guard, same clan as him and one of our newest workers.”

  Faros touched something on a ridge underneath his seat that at first felt like a bent nail. He pulled free a short, iron key.

  “Hurry!” Ulthar stuck out his manacles, which Faros quickly opened. One of the prisoners on the other side located a second key and immediately set to work on his neighbor's chains.

  Wrists and legs freed, Ulthar helped Faros with his own chains then directed the younger minotaur to assist Japfin.

  Outside, Harod protested. “I don't know what you mean. My orders came directly from—”

  “From the grand and glorious former patriarch of Droka, I'll wager! Funny thing about him, too, Harod. They found him lying in his bed after morning meal. Seems he crawled in there and just died. His eyes were bulged out, and he was sprawled on his cot like a doll. Almost looked like he couldn't breathe right, if you ask m—Look out!”

  The prisoners froze—all save Ulthar, who, knife in hand, dove out of the back of the wagon.

  Seizing a loose pair of chains, Faros followed. As he landed, he saw Harod on his knees, Paug's hand squeezing tight on his throat. A dagger lay half-buried in the dust Nearby, unnoticed by the Butcher, Ulthar had grabbed one guard from behind and was burying his rusting blade in his back.

  The third guard grabbed at the mariner just as Ulthar's victim fell dead. Faros swung the chains, stunning the sentry and making him stumble past Ulthar.

  Breathing rapidly, eyes red, Paug looked up as he released his hold on the limp Harod. Through his fiery haze, he saw Ulthar lunging for him.

  Paug dodged away, only to feel a strong arm circle his neck and press against his throat.

  “Planning to leave us?” snarled Japfin, who had come around from the front of the wagon. “You want to go so badly? Here! Let me help you on your way!”

  “No!” Faros gasped. “We might need them.” He turned to the guard he had stunned only to find that another prisoner had emerged to strangle the unfortunate sentry. His gaze returned to Paug.

  Ulthar cocked his head. “You have an idea, Bek?”

  “I… I think so. But we must be quick. Hide the bodies in the wagon!”

  The others obeyed. Japfin eased up on Paug—slightly. The Butcher gasped for breath.

  “I see it!” said Japfin. “This one might be able to help our wagon past the gates!”

  “No escape—” gasped his captive. “Death? Aye—” He was cut off as Japfin squeezed against his windpipe.

  “They must know about the wagon,” said Faros. “When Paug doesn't come back…”

  “Then what?” grunted Japfin.

  “We need weapons. And more of us. It's our only hope. We've got keys. Let's free as many as possible, then use the fetters and manacles to overcome the guards and grab their axes and swords!

  Then, as soon as we have the armory open, we can get more.”

  Ulthar nodded his approval. “We do it.”

  Armed with daggers taken from the dead, two volunteers hurried toward the prisoners heading for the other wagons, their lack of chains going unnoticed. As they left, Faros had another idea. “Let's change clothes with the dead guards! From a distance, the sentries won't notice. We can head straight to the armory and open it up to the prisoners!”

  Japfin snorted. “It'll work! They don't even look at our faces that much!” He glanced maliciously at Paug. “This one, too. We'll need all the garments we can get.”

  Paug struggled as they forced his clothing off. Ulthar made him put on the worn, faded kilt of a prisoner. He rubbed ash onto the Butcher's scowling visage. “No tricks now. Guards likely to stab you first before looking too closely at who's causing the commotion.”

  Because of his slim build, Faros could not pass for anything but a prisoner. He and the one other slave flanked Paug. Ulthar, Japfin, and the two remaining prisoners dressed as guards. Ulthar rubbed ash over his tattoos.

  Japfin checked to see if the way remained clear, then the party abandoned the wagon. They walked slowly, almost trudging, to avoid drawing the attention of the sentries in the high towers. With few uprisings or successful escapes in its history, the soldiers of Vyrox had become somewhat set in their routines.

  “Won't be long.” Japfin hissed. “Somebody'll start something soon.”

  “Best to move fast, then,” said Ulthar.

  With Paug kept out of sight in the rear of the group, they headed to the gray windowless structure that served as the main armory. Two bored sentries wielding heavy axes attended the bolted iron door.

  “No prisoners allowed within one hundred feet,” commented the senior guard. “You should know that.”

  Paug trembled with frustration but said nothing.

  “Orders from Krysus,” Ulthar informed them, the mariner speaking precisely and timely to conceal his accent.

  The young sentry looked over the mariner, then his eyes widened as he made out the tattoos under the ash. “You're not a—”

  Ulthar lunged, his blade catching one warrior under the ribs before he could react. Japfin moved to grab the other sentry. Paug started forward, but Faros brought his dagger up to the Butcher's throat.

  “Cry out and you die!” Ulthar warned the surviving guard, who dropped his axe. “Open the door!”

  With haste, the guard obeyed. The moment he had done so, Ulthar struck him on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. The guard dropped, sprawling on the ash-covered ground.

  Faros' excitement grew. The way to the weapons was theirs. Truly luck was with them.

  “What is this? What's going on here?”

  Lady Maritia de-Droka and a sturdy, charcoal-colored minotaur stood a few yards away. Both carried packs.

  “These prisoners shouldn't be allowed here!” Maritia said to Ulthar, not recognizing him at first.

  She then glanced past him and saw Paug. “You! What's—”

  The Butcher tore himself free from his captors and cried, “They're prisoners! Look at their wrists!”

  She looked and saw that, despite having removed their manacles, all the prisoners still bore abrasions from their confining grip.

  The dark figure with Lady Maritia dropped his pack and pushed her behind him. With swift, practiced movements, he pulled his axe.

  Paug dashed away. Lady Maritia turned and followed. Her bodyguard stood there threateningly for a moment, then whirled to follow his mistress.

  “She's gone to warn the others!” Faros blurted.

  “Aye, but does that matter? Get the weapons! Need as many armed as possible before the guards discover the truth!”

  A horn sounded. Faros and the mariner glanced at one another. When the horn sounded again, it did so with obvious urgency.

  The insurrection had begun in earnest.

  The sentries attending the wagons were caught completely off-guard. The complacent prisoners turned into a savage pack. Many still chained swarmed over their captors, pummeling them with their fists, choking them with their thick manacles. Freed laborers took weapons from the dead.

  A driver was torn from the seat of his wagon and thrown headfirst into the thick ash. Four enraged figures leaped on him, killing him and stripping him of all weapons and valuables.

  An overseer with a whip tried to drive back a small group. He fended them off three times before one, risking the lash, seized the end of the whip. The overseer disappeared under their charge with a brief, piteous wail.

  Some prisoners with foresight began to use the freed axes to smash away their remaining chains.

  With each pas
sing second, more of Vyrox's slaves moved freely.

  Faros armed himself. Gradic's son grabbed a sword from a dead sentry. An axe he could have wielded better, but amidst such chaos a sword would be easier to handle.

  Another horn sounded.

  In the distance, a worker still struggling with his chains fell over, his back pierced by a well-aimed bolt. Seconds later, two more perished in a similar fashion. The counter-attack had begun.

  Archers in the towers, on the walls, and on rooftops toiled with deadly accuracy, cutting down dozens of the prisoners, who could not hope to reach them with their hand weapons.

  “We've got to stop this!” Faros called.

  “I can use a bow well,” a prisoner clad as a guard said. “At least, I used to. There must be some inside the armory.”

  “Go!” urged Ulthar. “Go!”

  The minotaur nodded, vanishing into the weapon cache. A moment later, he emerged with a bow and a quiver of arrows. Several other freed prisoners rushed toward the armory.

  Again a horn sounded, this time from the opposite direction.

  “Grab whatever weapon you wield best!” Japfin shouted. “And bring something for the others!

  Hurry!”

  “Bows!” Ulthar added. “To use against the archers!”

  Faros eyed the towers. “Ulthar. maybe there's a way we can topple those towers. The wagons might do it!”

  “Aye, they could! Japfin—”

  But the black minotaur, having absorbed Faros' idea, had already dispatched some eager recruits to do just that.

  More prisoners came running. Ulthar ordered several to stand guard, knowing that the armory was vulnerable.

  Faros saw first one then a second archer on the outer walls plummet, transfixed by shafts. Shots now came regularly from below as more prisoners took up bows.

  The ground was littered with blood-soaked bodies—guards but also many inmates. Scattered battles continued throughout the yard. A small band of soldiers in one corner fought a deadly swathe through the area.

  “Krysus!” Faros yelled. “Ulthar! Japfin! We've got to find the commander!”

  As they raced toward the officer's residence, other prisoners joined them. Krysus was the lord of Vyrox. He it was who let Paug beat the workers. Even though he kept mostly to his quarters, the commander was hated for the atrocities he tolerated.

  “We need Krysus alive!” Faros shouted, hoping others would pass the word. They needed the commander as a bargaining chip.

  Ulthar reached the officer's quarters first. As he leaped up, an axe nearly severed his head. A soldier lurking to the side swung his weapon in an arc. Ulthar blocked the second swing, but was caught momentarily off guard.

  Faros tried to advance, but the sentry turned ferociously on him, nearly cutting him in the chest. The distraction enabled Ulthar to thrust, catching his foe in the side. The wound only slowed the guard.

  He fended off the mariner again until Ulthar caught him in a backswing, driving the point of his sword through the other's throat with such force that his writhing body was pinned against the wall.

  With grim satisfaction, Ulthar let the guard's limp form slump to the ground. Turning his attention to the door, Ulthar kicked it open then charged inside. Faros and the others followed.

  An empty room greeted their surprised eyes.

  “He's gone!” snarled Japfin.

  “Some time, too,” Ulthar pointed out. “All neat. All orderly.”

  Before he could say more, one of the other prisoners barged in, eyes wide, breath heavy. “They're coming! They're coming!”

  Faros' fur stiffened. “Who?”

  The sounds of hoofbeats and the cries of prisoners filled the air. Above them all a harsh but authoritative voice could be heard shouting orders. A female voice.

  Hotak's daughter had taken command of the defenders.

  Chapter XXIII

  The Protectors Unleashed

  The coals glowed a brilliant orange, signaling perfect heat. In their center, the long iron brand flared bright.

  Here, in an underground chamber in the Forerunner complex, the final initiation into the Protector ranks took place. Here, the First Master held court. Here he welcomed those who had passed the tests—those who had survived them.

  The initiate knelt before the brazier, eyes straight ahead, ears erect. Sweat soaked his fur even where his mane had been shorn off. He had survived fire, water, depravation, and combat, and had sworn his allegiance to the order and to the high priestess' son. Now all that remained was to mark him as one of the guardians of the faithful.

  “Beryn Es-Kalgor,” rumbled Ardnor, reaching for the iron. Like the others, he wore only his kilts.

  In part, that had to do with practicality, for the chamber was stifling. However, those in attendance also wished to reveal to one another the sign of their brotherhood, the sign of their dedication: the axe symbol burned into their chests.

  “Beryn Es-Kalgor, all tests of the body and mind have been passed. You have proven yourself worthy.”

  “I give thanks,” returned the low voice of the initiate.

  “You are welcomed into the fold.” Ardnor approached Beryn with the burning iron. “Prepare now to receive my blessing.”

  He thrust the hot brand against the minotaur's chest.

  Beryn did not move or breathe as the iron seared his flesh. His eyes stared impassively ahead.

  Ardnor watched him close. This was the last, ultimate test.

  The vein in Beryn's neck throbbed furiously, but he uttered no sound. After a long moment, Ardnor withdrew the brand. Wisps of smoke danced about Beryn's chest. The blackened symbol of the axe stood revealed in all its terrible glory.

  The First Master raised the brand for all to see, at the same time indicating that Beryn should stand and be recognized. The newly initiated Protector obeyed, with only a slight wobble of his strong legs. He stepped back into line, joining the other successful initiates.

  Placing his fist over the axe symbol burned into his own chest, Ardnor began the closing litany.

  “The people are the life of the temple.”

  The initiates repeated his words in perfect unison.

  “Keep a wary eye,” Ardnor finished. “The day is coming.”

  They did not ask what day that might be. They never did. But when the First Master announced its arrival, told them what was required, all were prepared to sacrifice themselves.

  Ardnor departed first, as always. The rest would wait a respectful interlude before exiting.

  The lord of the order had almost reached his quarters when a robed acolyte came rushing down the corridor. The messenger fell down on one knee. “First Master, the High Priestess has been seeking your presence for some time! It is most urgent, I'm told!”

  “Then get up, you fool!” he snapped at the underling. “Lead the way! Lead the way!”

  He found his mother in her private chambers, her expression pensive. He felt her anger focused on him.

  “You sent for me, Mother? Is it important?” Ardnor eyed the bottle of wine on her desk, but thought better than to reach for it.

  “Important enough that you have already caused a dangerous delay!”

  “I was detained by duty. I didn't expect any business at this hour of the morning.”

  “Well expect it when it is least expected from now on,” Nephera said. The wall tapestries fluttered with her displeasure.

  Noting his dumbstruck expression, she added triumphantly, “Rahm'sbeen hiding in the workplace of one Master Zornal, a cooper of some repute, but clearly an enemy of the throne.”

  “But how did you—?” Ardnor clamped his mouth shut, going down on one knee. “Give the command, and I'll do what you desire.”

  “Attacks on two different parts of Mithas have forced your father to divide up his legions, leaving only a small contingent led by your brother to police the capital.”

  “Kol's a good soldier,” Ardnor said grudgingly.

  “But this
task is above his… station.” She took her son's muzzle in her hands and looked into his eyes. “The Protectors must act. Your father must understand. Rahm intends to assassinate your father, the emperor, in the palace itself!”

  Ardnor rose, an expression of grim pleasure crossing his countenance. “Bastion will not like it that I'm involved.”

  “Your brother is away on other business. There is no choice but for you to take the reins and bring this enemy to justice.”

  He tipped his horns to the side in respect. “Then I go to serve my emperor… with your blessing, of course.”

  She kissed the top of his head. “Always, my son.”

  *****

  Maces at the ready, the black-helmed Protectors filled the streets. Grim, cloaked officers on horseback led each company. The dark army ignored the stares of onlookers.

  At the head of the forbidding riders rode Lord Ardnor. His cloak, lined in gold thread, pulsated in the light wind. At the First Master's side hung a gilt-edged mace with a head resembling a tall, layered crown. The handle had been hollowed out in order to make better use of the solid iron head.

  “Let no street or avenue from the northern sector be unattended!” he shouted as his followers spread out.

  Citizens along the way stepped back hurriedly into their homes or businesses. What could draw the Protectors out in such force, none knew, but they sought no part of it. The old days when the temple of Sargonnas had ruled with an iron fist had been not very long ago, yet even the temple of Sargonnas had never produced a force as zealous or fanatic as the Protectors.

  *****

  The heavy, persistent pounding on the door caused everyone to look up. Hes, the new overseer, rushed to see what was going on. As he reached for the handle, however, the door burst under the blows of two huge axes, and the cooperage filled with ebony-armored forms.

  As the temple warriors fanned out, the helmed officer in charge demanded, “Where is the master of this establishment? Where is Master Zornal?”

  “Right where he should be!” Rubbing his hands angrily, Zornal approached the intruder. “And wondering by what right you come smashing your way into a sanctioned craft-house! My clan patriarch shall hear—”