Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

A shadow loomed over her—Japfin, come to finish her. He raised his blood-slick axe high.

  The mace struck him hard in his wounded arm. Japfin roared and dropped his axe. He spun and came face to face with Krysus, preparing a second strike. As the commander lunged at him, Japfin, ignoring the pain in his blood-drenched arm, reached out and seized the mace.

  Krysus struggled, but Japfin tore the mace free and pulled the officer from the saddle.

  “Everyone sent to Vyrox dies, commander!” he roared. “Your turn!”

  Japfin struck the officer in the throat with his own mace. The crack of bone could be heard several feet away. His larynx crushed, the commander slumped in Japan's arms. The black minotaur gave him a cursory shake then tossed Krysus' body aside like so much refuse and turned his gaze back to Maritia.

  “You're definitely a pretty one,” the giant rumbled as he neared. He hefted the mace with a practiced hand. “Maybe if you're real nice, I'll save your hide from these others.”

  “I promise to be very nice,” she retorted, spitting blood from her mouth. “I'll give you a quick, clean death—unless you would prefer to surrender.”

  He laughed then tried to take off her head with the mace. Maritia ducked, jabbed unsuccessfully at her foe, then rolled away as the mace came around again.

  “You dance well, my lady!” Japfin jeered:

  She did not respond. Instead she rolled toward him, surprising him and coming under his guard. Her roll ended in a kneeling position from which she thrust her blade into Japfin's chest just below the ribs. He let out a cry of pain and shock.

  “I'll cut… you… to little… pieces!” he gasped.

  Eyes flooded with crimson, nostrils flaring, he brought the mace up as high as he could and put his full weight into one final swing.

  Maritia threw herself forward. Her blade buried itself deep in Japfin's stomach.

  Japfin tumbled backward. The weapon fell from his grasp, striking the ashy ground an instant before he also fell, dead.

  A thick cloud of dust rose. Coughing, Maritia prodded the massive form with the tip of her blade, but Japfin did not stir.

  “One down,” she muttered. Her gaze shifted to survey the rest of the battlefield, where desperate figures on both sides fought with all the energy they had left. “One down, too many left.”

  *****

  While a few prisoners had made it over the walls, the gates remained barred and protected.

  Staring at the wagons, Faros hit upon another idea. He forced his way toward Ulthar and called out the mariner's name.

  Ulthar retreated to his friend: Blood drenched the mariner from head to foot.

  Gasping for air, the brawny figure muttered, “What?”

  “The wagons! Maybe we can drive them through to the gates. You and I might be able to open the way for the rest!”

  “The battle is not over yet! Too many guards still live!”

  “But what about escape? Now would be the best time.”

  Ulthar shook his head. “If we flee now, the guards will regroup and follow. We cannot leave until all are dead!”

  “Ulthar—”

  “Vyrox owes us, Bek,” he returned, his eyes half-red from growing bloodlust. His breath continued to come in gasps. “Vyrox killed many, many of us. Now we must kill Vyrox.”

  With a snarl of contempt, the mariner turned his back on the younger prisoner and headed back into battle.

  Faros stared after Ulthar. A small part of him screamed that he should try to escape on his own, but he fought the shameful feeling down. Surely Ulthar had the right of it. The fight would end soon.

  The soldiers, outnumbered from the start, had expended themselves. Vyrox already belonged to its inmates. All that mattered now was finishing the task.

  Gripping his sword tight and taking a deep breath, Faros raced after his comrade. Ulthar fought like a demon, and for the first time all the tales he had spun of doing battle with sea monsters and pirates seemed to be truth. If he survived, Ulthar would surely add a new tattoo to his garish collection.

  Smoke shrouded everything. The gates disappeared, and the combatants became half-seen ghosts.

  Whether or not the prisoners triumphed, they certainly had destroyed the mining camp. There would be little left but stone walls surrounding a blackened interior.

  Faros battled, hoping only to survive until he could spot a way to freedom. Again and again his blade met the weapons of ghostly enemies in an endless clash of metal against metal that left his brain and arm numb.

  An enemy who was not a ghost burst through the ranks to confront him. He held a mammoth, blood-stained war axe in one hand.

  “You!” Paug rumbled. Once more he wore the kilt of a guard. “Been looking for you and your friends. I wanted the barbarian first, but you'll do for a nice warm-up before I take his head.”

  The axe came at Faros with horrible swiftness, biting into the ground inches from him and sending up a cloud of ash. The area around the pair seemed to empty out, as though no one cared to be too close to the Butcher and his prey.

  Faros managed to deflect the first few blows, but where his strength flagged, Paug's was undiminished.

  The Butcher laughed. “Is that all? Might as well stand still now. I'll make it nice and quick, I promise you!”

  Once more he brought the axe down, this time nearly cleaving the arm of his smaller foe. Stumbling out of the axe's path, Faros fell back.

  “Pfah! It's like fightin' a child! Might as well offer your neck now! I'll only cut you up into three or four little pieces!”

  Still teetering, Faros took a reckless lunge and came up short. Worse, he lost his footing. He tumbled forward, his snout burying itself in the smothering ash.

  A heavy foot nearly crushed his sword hand, causing Faros to cry out. He tried to pull free.

  “Let go!” Paug shouted. After Faros had obeyed, the overseer pressed down even harder. Pain wracked Faros.

  “I'm going to deliver you to the lady,” the Butcher mocked. “Your arms, your legs, then your ugly head as the big prize.”

  At that moment, a wave of other struggling fighters swept into the pair. Paug cursed as a falling body pushed him to the side.

  Faros struggled to keep from being trampled to death. He rolled away, only to be kicked in the stomach by a soldier who jumped over him to get to another foe. Managing to catch his breath, Faros got to his knees.

  A hand seized him. He struggled—

  “Nay, friend Bek! 'Tis only I!”

  Ulthar helped Faros to his feet then handed him his sword.

  “I'm all right,” Faros said. He looked around, but of Paug he saw no sign.

  Ulthar grinned. “ 'Tis almost won, Bek! Their numbers shrink! The imperial cow still fights, but she's tiring! What a mate she would've made! Pity she'll die with the rest, eh?”

  “We did it?” It was too hard for Faros to believe.

  “See for yourself! They are lost!”

  A wind had blown away some of the smoke, enabling Faros to see clearly. Wherever he did, he saw that Ulthar spoke the truth. The manic fighting had died down into little desperate groups. None of the mounted escort remained—at least not on horseback—and those walls and roofs not aflame were swept of archers.

  Indeed, it seemed they had won. The last vestiges of the foul penal camp seemed either ablaze or in the process of being ransacked.

  It was the end of Vyrox.

  Then a horn blared far beyond the camp walls—a horn immediately answered by another from within.

  Most of the remaining combatants did not notice at first. Only when a third blast echoed throughout the camp did the noise finally alert the prisoners.

  “What is it?” Faros asked, ears taut.

  Ulthar's gaze shifted to the main gate. Two guards were trying to unbolt the entrance.

  Again a horn sounded, this time from just beyond the walls.

  “Reinforcements from the females' camp?”

  “I doubt it,” said Ulthar, wh
o started toward the gate. “Couldn't afford to leave them alone.

  Prisoners there'd riot, too.”

  “Who, then?”

  The gates swung open, and a column of armed riders, the black warhorse banner held high, burst through the entrance. Their loud cries and shrill horn sent chills through Faros.

  From out of nowhere, a contingent of Emperor Hotak's own legion had arrived.

  Chapter XXV

  Blood Chase

  “Out of the way!” Ardnor roared, nearly trampling an elderly female crossing the street. “Move or be run down!”

  Zornal had not misled them. They had sighted the wagon just as it turned toward the palace.

  Somehow, though, the driver had managed to lead them on a zigzagging chase through every side street of the northern quarter. The Protectors had lost, found, lost, and found their prey repeatedly.

  Now they spotted it heading toward the northern gates.

  People scattered as they roared past. Wagons toppled over, shattering their contents, spilling wheat and barley everywhere. Still the rebels' vehicle kept ahead of its pursuers.

  Ahead, a bottleneck of wagons waited for soldiers to inspect them before they left the city—a security measure put in place by Bastion. The First Master looked around but could not spot the one he believed to be carrying Rahm and his confederates.

  The officer in charge looked up from inspecting a sack of walnuts as the Protectors hove into sight.

  For a moment, he seemed tempted to draw his weapon, but instead abandoned the cart he had been investigating and stepped up to meet the newcomers, “I am Captain Dwarkyn! Explain this!”

  The Protectors bristled. Ardnor leaned forward, crimson-tinged eyes narrowed dangerously. “Is it possible that you don't recognize the eldest son of your emperor?”

  Dwarkyn frowned, but held his ground. “I've had no word of your coming, my Lord Ardnor.

  Forgive me. What brings you and—” he surveyed the rest of the Protectors with thinly concealed distrust— “these others to the gates at such a hectic time? Had we known, I would have arranged a formal—”

  “Be still!” interrupted the First Master. “We have reason to believe that one of these wagons bears enemies of the state seeking to assassinate the emperor.”

  “I've heard none of this!” Dwarkyn looked at another guard, who shook his head. “But if such is true, you can rely on us.” His eyes narrowed. “There's really no need for the temple to assist—”

  “These enemies have escaped your State Guard more than once. It's time for more thorough measures. Step aside! My brethren will search these wagons now.”

  “My Lord Ardnor, I must protest—”

  The First Master glared at him until the officer clamped his muzzle shut. “Then go make your protest and leave us to our work, Captain Dwarkyn.”

  The latter backed away, signaling his soldiers to follow. They stood to the side, wary but unwilling to interfere with the emperor's son.

  All the wagons looked maddeningly alike. Ardnor's followers began to search with ruthless determination. They tore off protective tarps, threw out materials in their way, and smashed apart barrels. Though within minutes the contents of several wagons lay strewn over the area, no sign of Rahm was uncovered.

  “Stop!” Ardnor commanded, frustrated by the obvious failure. “They have eluded us! Pryas, make sure that—”

  An explosion rocked the right side of the gate.

  Fragments of the high stone archway dropped upon the clustered wagons. One Protector was thrown back against the wall. Shouts rose as dust and masonry rained down on everyone. One of the gates swung open with a long groan, nearly ripping off its iron hinges. Burning oil splattered several wagons, creating scattered fires that further panicked the animals.

  Through stinging eyes, Ardnor saw a short, brawny figure leap on one of his riders, knocking the startled Protector from the saddle. Nearby, a younger minotaur abandoned his wagon for a horse brought to him by an older fighter already mounted.

  “Mount up! Mount up!” cried the First Master.

  It was pandemonium among the wagons and horses. Pushing past the melee, the first of the Protectors reached the battered archway.

  That was when a second explosion went off, followed immediately by a third, even more powerful.

  The force of the blasts scattered everyone and sent fiery oil raining down upon the ground. Horses screamed, and bodies dotted the area. The broken gate tore free, collapsing on a pair of Protectors.

  On the wall above, sentries scurried to abandon their posts as the arch collapsed.

  Ignoring the carnage at the gate, Ardnor led the remaining Protectors out. Ahead, General Rahm and his compatriots raced along the road. The landscape beyond the gate was flat, grassy, and thinly populated, but shortly beyond, thick wooded hills beckoned.

  Led by Ardnor, the Protectors' powerful steeds slowly cut the gap. They entered a small, outlying settlement, racing through it with abandon and scattering all in their path.

  Tents were flattened. Wares flew. At least one rider was thrown from his horse and left behind.

  The village vanished behind the pursuit, the landscape giving way to groves of black oak, cedar, and birch. General Rahm turned the trio east, taking a fork. Dust rose behind the fleeing renegades.

  Rahm had taken a short cut to the first of the hills. The First Master quickly surveyed the area ahead and spotted another side route winding up toward their quarry. “Pryas, take some of the others and ride up that way! Ride hard! Cut them off!”

  The other riders split off as Ardnor watched Rahm and his companions urge their mounts up the trail. Rahm had committed himself to a path that led in only the one direction, where Pryas would be waiting. The great general had finally outfoxed himself. The renegades were trapped from above and below.

  Suddenly Rahm and one of his companions veered their horses into the thickening woods, a place of brambles and untrustworthy footing. The remaining rider reached for the axe harnessed at his back and urged his horse ahead to confront Pryas' group. Ardnor ignored the suicidal fool and spurred his followers ahead after Rahm and the older minotaur.

  The two fugitives vanished in the woods. Ardnor tried to judge the best path. Around him, the Protectors battled their way through clinging, low-slung branches, narrow passes between trunks, and sudden gullies hidden by old brush. One horse stepped wrong, sending both it and its rider crashing against a huge trunk.

  The Protectors gradually spread out, creating a jagged line of silent, resolute riders. Above the search, large, angry black birds cawed their complaints, but otherwise the forest was eerily quiet.

  A horse emerged from ahead, a riderless horse recognized by the small axe brand at its flank as the one ridden by the general. Ardnor signaled for a halt as the animal approached. Taking to foot, his foe would be limited as to the distance they could cover but better able to maneuver and hide.

  “So, you play the cowering rabbit,” Ardnor mused quietly. “I'll still find you.” He rose in the saddle in order to direct the others.

  Somewhere far to his left, one of his followers let out a muffled, short-lived cry.

  There was a brief clash of arms, raucous sounds that sent the black birds fluttering into the skies, their complaints renewed more violently.

  “There he is!” someone shouted.

  The Protectors split up, some turning toward the second cry.

  Ardnor led one party. They found the prone figure of a blood-splattered Protector. A blade had left a great, moist gap in the dead fighter's throat. Off in the distance his horse stood waiting. Ardnor started to order someone to regain the beast, then hesitated as all heard the clash of arms from another direction.

  “Don't let him get away this time!” the chief Protector roared, twisting on the reins. “Catch him!”

  As they neared the struggle, he made out two Protectors battling an obscure figure. One of the Protectors had dismounted; the other was maneuvering on horseback. Maces
clashed against a short, sturdy axe. Their adversary kept backing away, using the trees for interference.

  Ardnor raised his mace and rode in, letting loose with a wild shout.

  The half-glimpsed figure turned at the cry just as Ardnor struck hard with the solid, five-pound head of his weapon.

  His opponent deflected the blow upward. The mace smashed him on the temple. Ardnor heard bone crack even as he was swept past by his horse's momentum.

  Approaching the body sprawled on the ground, the First Master frowned. Ardnor knew what Rahm looked like, and this dead minotaur did not match his description. The general had been short but muscular—and not so gray-furred.

  Leaping down, he bent to study the battered features. The wrinkled snout and weathered face could never be mistaken for the general's.

  “It must be the sea captain, Azak, my lord,” one of his followers offered. “He matches the description given us.”

  “Do I care who it is?” Ardnor raged. “It isn't Rahm!”

  As he shouted, a band of riders approached from the road. Expecting Pryas, the First Master turned, only to be confronted by a contingent of the Imperial Guard—and, worse, his brother Kolot.

  His eyes blazed. “What do you think you're doing here?”

  Kolot looked defiant. “I have orders from Father. You're to leave this problem in our hands. The Protectors are to return to the temple immediately.”

  “I will not!” Pryas and the remaining Protectors rode up. Ignoring Kolot, Ardnor asked his second, “What happened to the third fugitive?”

  “He refused to surrender. We were forced to slay him.”

  “Take everyone and scour the woods to the north of here. Rahm must have escaped. He can't run that fast. Hunt him down.”

  “Ardnor!” Kolot shouted, this time making certain that not only would his sibling hear him, but everyone else, too. “You must put an end to this! By Father's orders—”

  “Damn Father!”

  Kolot leaned toward him. “Ardnor, stop this disobedience. There's already been too much damage because of the Protectors' interference! The northern gates are in ruins. They're still trying to put out the fires there. We've—”

  “Be quiet!”