Kolot threw himself off his saddle—mere moments before his brother's mace would have struck him in the chest. Kolot's soldiers drew their weapons. In turn, the Protectors, just about to depart, swerved around to shield their master.
“My horse!” commanded Ardnor as though nothing had happened. Mounting, he glanced contemptuously at his sibling. “Go back to Father, Kol. We'll finish this task without you.
Understand?”
But Kolot got back on his horse and followed after his brother. After a wary hesitation, the soldiers and Protectors followed after the pair.
The two brothers surged ahead of the rest, riding deep into the thick brush. Kolot rode alongside Ardnor now, continuing to insist that his elder brother listen to reason.
“You'll get Father in a rage! He's already having to deal with protests from some of the patriarchs!”
“Then he can do with those whining fools what he did with old Itonus! He's emperor, brat! He can do whatever he wants!”
“You know it's not that simple!”
Ardnor reined his mount to a halt. He turned on Kolot, fighting the impulse to strike his brother again. “By our ancestors! How were we ever born of the same mother? Go back to the palace, Kol!
I'll bring back the general in chains to Father! I'll prove to him—to all of you—that I'm worthy to follow him to the throne!”
Kolot snorted. “That's all this means to you. You don't care how this looks for our father. All you want is to gain—” His attention shifted upward. “Look out!”
Kolot leaped at him, shoving Ardnor off his horse.
Ardnor struck the uneven ground hard, the wind and most of his sense knocked from him. He tried to rise but was too groggy.
Trying to focus, Ardnor spied two figures in combat, one of them his insipid sibling. The other his drifting mind eventually identified as General Rahm Es-Hestos.
On foot now, Kolot and the renegade commander traded blows. Kolot had long reach and great strength, but Rahm moved more nimbly than his bulkier foe, ducking Kolot's axe and diving in with his blade. :
Ardnor tried to rise, but some incredible force held sway over him, and the only movement he managed was ludicrously sluggish.
Just yards away, Kolot brought his axe around, trying to catch the general in the side. Rahm rolled back, landing in a crouching position, and instead the axe buried itself deep in a tree trunk.
Leaping forward, the general tried for Kolot's stomach, but Ardnor's brother deflected the blade with the axe's handle, receiving instead a shallow wound in the shoulder.
“This isn't between us,” growled General Rahm.
“Surrender and Father might spare you! He admired you once!”
“As I did him. But we're long past that.”
Kolot's face took on a savageness. He charged. Again and again, his axe came at Rahm in deadly, shifting arcs, pressing the general back. Rahm tried to defend himself but slipped down on one knee. Seizing his advantage, the larger minotaur raised his weapon.
Then Rahm did something completely surprising. Lowering his sword, the general held up his empty fist so that the black-gemmed ring he wore was aimed at Kolot.
The gem flared.
The light blazed bright in the minotaur's eyes. Kolot let out a gasp and tried to shield his face while at the same time swinging his axe.
General Rahm thrust his blade into Kolot's throat.
Ardnor's brother stumbled back, the dripping blade sliding free. A stream of red poured from the wound, spilling over his breastplate. Kolot dropped his axe, his hands twitching madly.
General Rahm thrust again, stabbing his adversary in the same place.
With a slight grunt, Kolot crumpled to his knees. He stared at his foe—then dropped to the ground.
Ardnor finally managed a shocked grunt, which only served to remind Rahm of his presence. Still trying to rise, Ardnor stared into the calm face of his brother's killer.
General Rahm took a step toward him before shouts in the distance made the renegade glance to the west. Turning from Ardnor, Rahm seized the reins of Kolot's horse and leaped into the saddle.
Kicking hard, he urged the animal into the woods.
The First Master reached one futile hand toward the fleeing fugitive, but the general vanished among the trees.
Seconds later, a force consisting both of Protectors and soldiers arrived. All looked stunned by what they beheld.
“What're you… waiting for?” snarled Ardnor, pointing east. “Go find him!”
“But First Master,” one of his own blurted. “Your brother—”
“Go after him, you fools!”
Pryas and one other Protector stayed behind to assist Ardnor. A Guard officer dismounted and went to Kolot's side.
At last able to stand, Ardnor stared at the soldiers. “Well? Why are you standing around? We might still catch Rahm!”
With a hint of distaste, the officer remarked, “Should not some of us stay behind to guard Lord Kolot's body?”
“Of course, of course! You deal with it, then!” Feeling more himself, Ardnor mounted his horse.
Without a second glance at his brother, he started off after the others.
The officer watched the First Master vanish into the woods. He snorted derisively.
“Prepare a proper framework,” he commanded, removing his cape and laying it over the body. “At least we will see to it that our lord is brought back to his father with full honors.” His eyes flickered to where Kolot's brother had vanished. “Which is more than some others deserve.”
Chapter XXVI
Catastrophe
The mounted column charged into Vyrox. Their numbers spread out in perfect order. At their head, a tall, slender, black-furred figure pointed his axe at the prisoners.
“Form ranks!” Ulthar shouted. “Our numbers are strong!”
The prisoners obeyed, creating ragged lines facing the newcomers. Others sought to fend off the remaining guards and soldiers led by Lady Maritia, who fought with renewed confidence.
The first of the new riders collided with the lines. Minotaurs again screamed as battle-axes and swords dealt death. The struggle turned against the prisoners.
One inmate, his shoulder ripped open, dropped to his knees and was trampled by a pair of massive warhorses. Axes wielded with veteran expertise made short work of two other prisoners. Another worker who dropped on his knees to surrender was skewered through the throat by a zealous rider.
Shouts arose behind Faros. Maritia and her small host pressed close, pushing the back ranks into those trying to hold off the mounted onslaught. A badly wounded prisoner collapsed into Faros' arms. As he tried to pull the inmate to safety, a camp guard darted near and ran Faros' charge through the chest.
Furious, Faros exchanged blows with the guard and managed to cut him deep on the arm. The sentry lost his sword, but Faros hesitated a second too long, giving the other a chance to flee.
Faros pushed forward, trying to catch up with the sentry—and instead nearly collided with a minotaur he had hoped never to see again.
Paug.
The overseer's grotesque visage brightened as he saw who stood before him. With a loud bellow, the Butcher attacked. The smaller minotaur darted back, barely missing being cleaved in two.
Paug's weapon buried itself deep in the dusty soil, sending a spray of stinging ash into Faros' face.
His eyes tearing, Faros retreated further, trying to recoup.
“Hold still, vermin,” the overseer rumbled. “Time to die!”
He swung at Faros' unprotected chest. Another axe met his with a resounding crash. Ulthar glared at the sadistic guard, snorting his disdain.
“Yes,” he growled back at the Butcher. “Time to die.”
Ulthar elbowed Faros aside. He and Paug traded swift, numbing blows without success. The mariner could not get past Paug's guard, but neither could the overseer break through Ulthar's skilled defenses. They battered away at each other, seeking some opening, some f
atal mistake.
Faros would have come to Ulthar's aid, but just then a mounted soldier broke past the line, nearly running him down. Faros rolled to the side, but the rider quickly steered his horse around for a second try at him.
This time, the soldier also swung at Faros with his axe. Faros tried to deflect the blow, but only partially succeeded.
The tip caught the side of his muzzle and cut into the flesh, making Faros bite down to keep from crying out. Trying to ignore the taste of his own blood, he looked around for his adversary. The mounted fighter had wheeled again.
The soldier swung low. Faros flopped on his back. Taken by surprise, the rider missed by a wide mark. As his adversary rode past, Faros jabbed at his horse's rear leg. The animal stumbled and lost its footing.
The rider leaped, barely escaping being crushed. Faros charged him and, gripping his sword with two hands, ran the gaping soldier through the abdomen.
Ulthar and Paug still dueled. Ash drifted all about. Both fighters breathed heavily, and their eyes blazed red. Sparks flew whenever the heads of their two axes collided. They had shifted away from the rest of the struggle. Only the dead gave the pair any company, and neither paid the littered corpses any mind.
Paug slipped. He fell down on one knee, teeth bared. Ulthar battered him harder, at last breaking through and cutting the Butcher on his arm. Paug swung wildly.
Confident, Ulthar moved in. He had the Butcher where he wanted him; all that mattered now was to make a quick end of it.
A slight movement to the side of Ulthar caught Faros' attention. To his horror, he saw a bloody, ash-covered soldier push himself up from the dead and reach for a sword.
“Ulthar!” Faros shouted. “To your right!”
The battle drowned him out. He started to run toward Ulthar—only to have a pitched struggle between a soldier and a prisoner suddenly materialize to block his path.
Once more he shouted. “Your right, Ulthar! Look out!”
Ulthar's eyes narrowed, and he swerved to the side.
The soldier's blade sailed harmlessly past Ulthar's twisting form. At the same time, the tattooed prisoner's axe bit solidly into the attacking minotaur's chest, sinking deep. The soldier crumpled, his weapon dropping. That was when Paug leaped.
Ulthar had no time to defend himself. Paug's strike tore at his mid-section, ripping apart his stomach.
Ulthar staggered back, tripping over a body. He fell and landed in a limp heap. Blood pooled around his body.
Stepping over Ulthar's motionless form, the Butcher raised his drenched weapon again.
A rage enveloped Faros, a rage fueled not only by the sight before him but all the horrors he had experienced. He let out a maddened shout and threw himself at the murderous guard, managing to stab him in the shoulder.
Momentum sent both tumbling over the bodies. Faros' sword went flying, but Paug, too, lost his weapon. The pair ended in a tangle of arms and legs, colliding with other pathetically struggling combatants.
Paug put a hand to Faros' throat, intending to snap the latter's neck. The Butcher snorted, “I'll—kill—you!”
Faros managed to push the hand back. His strength should have been no match for Paug's, but the overseer's wounds finally began to take some toll. Straining, Faros seized Paug's throat with his other hand.
“I'll… die,” he gasped. “But not… before you!”
Paug's crimson eyes widened. He gagged. The hand that had tried to strangle Faros dropped to his side—
And came up, a dagger held ready.
“Pathetic calf…” Paug rasped.
Faros nearly lost his grip. Once more he had failed those who had sacrificed themselves for him, and this time his mistake was fatal.
But suddenly Paug faltered. His body jerked, and he swayed. The overseer blinked. With all his might, Faros shoved, sending the guard tumbling. Faros rolled away.
His hand fell upon Ulthar's axe, He seized the weapon just below the head then swung the axe around.
The sharp edge of the axe drove into the guard's left leg. Paug dropped his dagger and, with a guttural roar, collapsed.
Tossing aside the heavy axe, Faros seized the dagger. He dragged himself to where the larger minotaur lay writhing and moaning. The axe had cut to the bone, and rich red blood covered not only Paug's limb, but the hands he used to try to stop the flow.
The piggish face turned as Faros drew near. One hand searched for the knife. Faros held up the dagger for his tormentor to see.
Despite his condition, the overseer threw himself at his smaller foe.
Gritting his teeth, Faros thrust. The dagger plunged through the Butcher's chest just below the rib cage.
Paug gasped then fell back, the blade sliding free. He stared where the dagger had sunk in. His baleful gaze turned to his slayer.
Pure hatred radiated from those dying orbs. “You damned—”
His head slumped back, and the eyes closed. Paug stilled.
As if touching something leprous, Faros hurled the dagger away. Paug's blood stained his hands and chest. Forgetting all else, Faros made his way back to Ulthar. Even though shouts and the clang of weapons filled the air, the younger prisoner heard only the reproaches of the dead.
“Ulthar…” he called, touching the mariner on the shoulder.
The tattooed figure could not answer him. Glancing at the wide, monstrous wound dealt by Paug, Faros could see that death had been instantaneous.
He had never revealed his true name to the former brigand. Now that filled him with regret. Faros made certain that Ulthar's eyes were closed then slid the axe that his friend had wielded so bravely into the dead prisoner's hands. Bowing his head over the body, he recalled Ulthar's favorite song.
“You're going home finally,” Faros muttered. “Back to the sea…”
The thundering of hooves put an abrupt end to his mourning. Faros glanced up then barely leaped out of the way as another band of mounted soldiers tore through what remained of the prisoners.
Many of the surviving inmates dropped to their knees, lowering their horns in surrender. A few others still fought, but their situation grew dire.
One rider, his mount driven to the side, now headed directly toward the mariner's body. Heedless of the danger, Faros stepped in front of Ulthar, waving his arms in a desperate attempt to turn the rider aside.
The warhorse rose up on its hind legs. The rider, the tall, slim figure who led the imperial soldiers, shouted something at the animal.
Refusing to back down, Faros yelled at the mount. The horse's hooves came down sharply, kicking at the minotaur before it. One hoof caught Faros on the side of the head.
He struck the ground hard, the layers of ash providing little cushion. The sounds of battle, the sounds of ignominious defeat, ceased… and with them went all consciousness.
*****
Maritia and her forces had been certain of death yet they struggled on. Hotak's daughter had lost many fighters. Only a handful of the camp's guards still lived. Despite that, no one thought to surrender. Then the horns had sounded and a column of Hotak's finest legionaries had burst through gates, trampling the astounded inmates without mercy. The warhorse banner had galvanized Maritia's weary fighters and sent them back into the fray with renewed hope of glory.
The rebellious prisoners tried to hold, but they had reached their limits. The frantic strength they had mustered faltered, and with it went any vestige of order. The battle became retreat and slaughter. Mounted soldiers encircled small bands, slashing away at stalwarts in the front. Around and around the legionaries rode, whittling their foes down. The last finally dropped to his knees and bent his horns to the dusty soil.
Thick smoke still covered much of the yard, and Maritia moved with caution. Shadows formed in the mist, fatalistic rebels trying to kill as many soldiers as possible before being slain themselves.
She battled with one such ghoul, a ragged-eyed, ferocious barbarian who leaped out of the smoke, slaying the guard who had been he
r guide.
She felled the ghoul, but more shadows coalesced. One of her escorts pulled her back, shouting, “My lady! Stay behind us! We'll withdraw toward the gates. The smoke's not as thick as here.”
“Go!” she snapped.
Out of the smoke—almost on top of the rioters—came half a dozen legionaries on horseback. Two prisoners ran before them, only to perish—one neatly beheaded by a quick, almost casual swing of an axe.
In the lead rode Bastion. He did not stop, but gave his sister a brief nod before vanishing back into the mist. The surviving prisoners dropped their weapons. Two of the riders remained, circling them.
Several of Maritia's soldiers moved to help secure the enemy.
“We're gathering them in the center of the yard,” one of the pair on horseback informed her.
Maritia followed the soldiers and their captives. In the center of the yard, she saw that several dozen prisoners knelt under the watchful gaze of legionaries. To the right lay rows of wounded, some moaning horribly.
The trickle of surrendering workers quickly became a flood. There remained little hope of escape, and most realized it. Soon, row upon row upon row of prisoners, snouts turned to the ashy ground, knelt before the triumphant legion.
Some of the camp guards taking part in the watch began muttering about executing everyone.
Maritia confronted them.
“There will be no more talk of that! Their fates will be decided by your emperor. Do you understand?”
“But we were just—” started one, only to fall silent under her stern gaze.
“Well said, Mari,” remarked a familiar but weary voice.
She turned to find her brother leading his horse toward her. “Bastion! Only you could create such miracles. How did you manage this?”
Other than his coating of ash, he looked orderly and in command—as always. Bastion gave her a tired smile as he handed the reins to a subordinate.
“You may thank Kol for this miracle,” he replied. “I am in this area on a delicate mission for Father.
When I saw the smoke rising in the distance, I feared the worst, knowing that you had last been in this region. I had the horns sounded, hoping that someone remained who would open the way for us—but I rode in not even knowing if you were still alive.”
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