Send out your own, responded the gaunt shadow. Your trusted Protectors, mistress?
She would have dearly loved to do so, but Hotak had insisted otherwise. This had to be done without the temple. The military would not look with favor on her husband if it appeared that the Forerunners influenced his actions.
“No. We shall leave this to my husband. The triumph must be his and his alone.” Lady Nephera picked up the stack of parchments, her intense black gaze burning into each name. “Still, the temple will have its say.”
Throughout the length and span of the empire, the Night of Blood continued relentlessly.
On Mito, three days’ journey east of the imperial capital, the governor of the most populated island colony rushed forth to greet two massive vessels that had sailed into port. An honor guard had quickly been arranged, for who but an important dignitary would arrive without warning and with such a show of force? The captain of the first vessel marched a squad of helmed warriors down to salute the assembled well-wishers—and executed the governor where he stood.
On the island of Duma, the home of General Kroj, commander of the empire’s southern forces and hero of the battles of Turak Major and Selees, became the scene of a pitched battle. The fight went on until dawn, when the barriers of the general’s estate were finally broken down by his own troops, who joined the attackers. Kroj committed ritual suicide with a dagger even as helmed fighters burst down the door to his study. They would find his family already dead, their throats slit by Kroj just prior to his own demise.
In Mithas, Edan Es-Brog, the high priest of the Temple of Sargonnas, would be discovered dead in his sleep, a mixture of poisons in his evening potion.
Veria de-Goltyn, Chief Captain of the eastern fleet, drowned as she sought to escape her burning ship. Her own captains had been paid to turn on her.
Konac, imperial taxmaster, was stabbed more than a dozen times at the door of the emperor’s coffers. A stronger figure than his rotund appearance indicated, Konac would outlast his guards and two assassins, making it to just within a few yards of the Imperial Guard’s headquarters before dying. No one within heard his final choked warning.
A massive fleet, organized quickly and secretly over the course of weeks and combining the might of over three dozen turncoat generals and captains, spread out over the expanse of minotaur interests. Some of them had been on their journeys for days already. Before the night would conclude, twenty-two colonial governors, their principal officers, and hundreds of loyal subordinates would be executed. All but a handful of the major territories and settlements within a week’s reach of the main island would be under the iron control of Hotak’s followers.
All of this, Lady Nephera saw as it happened. She had eyes everywhere. She knew more than her husband’s lackeys. Even the emperor, with his complex and far-reaching network of messengers and spies, knew but a fraction of what the high priestess knew.
Thinking of the emperor, Nephera turned her brooding eyes to one particular page, reading the only name still listed. No furious stain of ink expunged this name’s existence, yet by her estimate, only minutes remained before she would have the ultimate pleasure.
The high priestess read the name over and over, picturing the puffy, overfed countenance, the vain, ambitious, clownish visage.
Chot Es-Kalin.
In his younger days, the massive, graying minotaur had been the scourge of the Circus, the unbeatable champion to whom all had deferred in admiration. Chot the Terrible, he was called. Chot the Invincible! Over the span of his life and decades-long rule, scores of would-be rivals had fallen to his bloody battle-axe. No minotaur had ever held the title of emperor for so many years.
“More wine, my lord?”
Chot studied the slim, dark-brown female lounging next to him on the vast silk-sheeted bed. She had not only the energy of youth, but the beauty as well. Chot’s last mate had died over a decade ago, and since that time he had preferred enticing visitors to a regular companion. The much-scarred emperor knew that this added to the list of grievances his political foes spouted about him, but he did not care. His foes could do nothing so long as he accepted the imperial challenges and faced down his opponents in the Great Circus.
They could do nothing so long as each of their champions fell dead at his feet.
He shifted his great girth and handed his mistress the empty goblet. Years of living the glory of an emperor had taken some toll on his body, but Chot still considered himself the ultimate warrior, the envy of other males and the desire of all females.
“Is that enough, my lord?” his companion said as she topped off his drink.
“Enough, Maritia.” Chot took a gulp of the rich, red liquid, then looked the female warrior over, savoring the curve of her lithe form. Some female minotaurs looked too much like males. Chot preferred curves. A female should look like a female, especially when she had been granted the glorious company of her emperor.
His bed companion replaced the squat wine bottle on the carved, marble table. The well-cleaned remains of a roasted goat sat atop a silver tray next to the bottle, and beside that stood a wooden bowl filled with exotic fruit shipped to the capital from one of the farthest and most tropical colonies.
Maritia leaned forward, rubbing the soft tip of her muzzle against him. Curiously, the image of her father flashed into his mind. Chot had recently solved the problem of her insufficiently loyal and increasingly irritating father by sending him far, far away on a mission of some import—and some danger as well. If he succeeded, his glory would reflect on Chot. If he died in combat—a more likely outcome—so much the better.
Chot belched, and the world briefly swam around him. The emperor rolled onto his back, snorting. Enough entertainment for tonight. Time he got some sleep.
There was a fuzzy sound in the distance.
“What’s that?” he rumbled, trying to rise.
“I heard nothing, my lord,” replied Maritia. She rubbed her graceful hand over his matted brown and gray fur.
Chot relaxed again. It would be a shame when he had to banish her, but she would never forgive him once she found out what he had done to her father.
“Sleep, my lord,” Maritia cooed. “Sleep forever.”
He jarred awake—in time to see the dagger poised above his head.
Drunken, tired, and out of shape, Chot nonetheless reacted with swiftness. He caught her wrist and managed to twist the blade free. The dagger clattered on the marble floor.
“What in the name of Argon’s Chain do you think you’re doing?” he roared, his head pounding.
In response, she raked her long, sharp nails across the side of his muzzle.
Roaring, Chot released the fool. Maritia scrambled away from the bed as the emperor put a hand to his bloody face.
“Vixen!” Legs protesting, the immense minotaur rose. “You little cow!”
She glared at the last insult, one of the worst things anyone could call a minotaur. Chot stood a head taller and still carried much muscle under his portly girth, but the female seemed strangely unafraid.
The emperor snorted. Maritia would learn fear.
Then he heard the same fuzzy noise as earlier, only closer.
“What’s that?” he mumbled, forgetting her for the moment. “Who’s fighting out there?”
“That would be your Imperial Guard, my lord,” Maritia said, pronouncing his title as if it were excrement. “They are busy falling to the swords and axes of your enemies.”
“What’s that?” Chot struggled to think clearly. His guards. He had to call his guards. “Sentries! Attend me!”
Maritia smirked. “They are otherwise detained, my lord.”
The emperor’s stomach suddenly churned. Too much wine, too much goat. Chot put one hand on the bed. “I must think. I must think.”
“Think all you like, but my father should be here shortly.”
“Your … father?” Battling against the nausea and the pounding headache, Chot froze. “Hotak’s
here? Impossible. I sent him to the mainland weeks ago!”
“And despite your treachery, he’s returned. Returned to demand the justice due to him, due the entire imperium!”
With a roar, Chot lunged for her. Maritia eluded his grasp. The emperor turned, seized his favorite axe, and swung wildly. He came nowhere near the treacherous female, though he did drive her back.
“Assassin! Traitor! Traitors!”
Maritia attempted to retrieve her dagger, but Chot swung again. The heavy blade of the twin-edged axe buried itself in his bed, cutting through expensive sheets, through the rich, down padding, and even through the oak frame.
As the bed collapsed in a heap, the emperor stumbled back. Through bleary eyes he glared at Hotak’s daughter.
“Slay me if you can,” Maritia sneered. “But you’ll not live more than a few minutes longer.” Her ears twitched toward the window behind Chot. “You hear that?”
Keeping his gaze on the female at all times, Chot stepped back to the balcony. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see that the palace grounds swarmed with dark figures heading toward the building.
“Father will be here very soon now,” Maritia called to him.
“Then he’ll find you begging him to save your life … cow!”
Chot stumbled toward her, reaching clumsily with one hand while with the other he threatened her with the axe. Maritia dodged readily, leading Chot a merry chase through the room, mocking his growing rage and taunting him with her derision.
He swung wildly. Rounded crystalline vases, minotaur statuettes of emerald, tapestries of spun gold, marble icons of dragons and other fearsome beasts—the treasures he had accumulated through his lengthy reign—scattered in shards.
His own body finally rebelled. Even as fists began to pound upon the door, Chot the Invincible fell against the broken bed, his head spinning, his insides a maelstrom.
“Chot the Magnificent,” he heard Maritia mutter. “Rather you should be called Chot the Pathetic.”
“I’ll … I’ll …” The emperor could say no more.
He heard her open the door, heard the sounds of armed and armored figures marching into his chamber.
“And this is supposed to be the supreme warrior, the epitome of what our people seek to be?”
The emperor fought to raise his head.
They wore the traditional silver helms. Nose guards ran along their muzzles. Their breastplates were also silver, with the ancient symbol of the condor clutching the ax emblazoned on the chest in deep crimson. Well-worn, padded-metal kilts with red tips at the bottom completed their outfits.
These were his soldiers, warriors of the legions—and they had dared such treachery!
In the forefront of the traitorous band stood their leader. Although otherwise clad as his companions, he also wore the richly crested helmet reserved for the highest generals of the empire. The crest, made of thick, excellent horse hair, hung far back. Over his shoulders hung a long, flowing crimson cape.
Dark brown of fur, slightly over seven feet, well-muscled, and with very angular features for one of his race, the leader glared down at his lord with distaste. A pommel-handled sword hung in the scabbard at his side; a large battle-axe was in his grip.
“Chot Es-Kalin,” announced the newcomer, nearly spitting out the name.
“Hotak de-Droka,” responded the emperor. The de-before the clan name indicated House Droka had its roots on the island of Kothas, considered, especially by those who bore the more regal Es-, the lesser of the two kingdoms making up the heart of the empire.
Hotak looked to his daughter. His expression turned even grimmer. “You’ve sacrificed far too much, daughter.”
“But it wasn’t so terrible a sacrifice, father,” she responded, turning back to smile coldly at Chot. “Only passing minutes.”
“You … damned vixen!” Chot struggled to rise. If he could just get his hands around her throat—
The emperor fell to his hands and knees again. “I feel sick,” he murmured.
General Hotak kicked at Chot’s side. The immense, graying minotaur dropped flat, moaning.
Hotak snorted. He took a step toward his emperor. “Chot Es-Kalin. Chot the Invincible. Chot the Terrible.” The one-eyed commander raised his weapon high. In the light cast by the torches of his followers, the symbol of the rearing horse etched into the axe head seemed to flare to life. “Chot the Fool. Chot the Lying. Chot the Treacherous. Time to put your misery and our shame to an end.”
Chot could not think. He could not stand. He could no longer even raise a finger. This had to be a mistake! How could this happen?
“I am Chot,” he mumbled, looking down in utter bewilderment. He felt the contents of his stomach finally coming up. “I am your emperor.”
“No more,” said Hotak. “No more.”
The axe came down.
When it was over, the general handed the bloody weapon to one of his aides then removed his helmet. Dark brown hair with a touch of gray flowed behind his head. Nodding toward the body, Hotak commanded, “Remove that blubbery carcass for burning. Make sure nothing remains. As for the head … see to it that there’s a high pole set up at the very entrance to the palace grounds. Make certain that anyone who passes by will be able to see it from some distance. Understood?”
“Aye, General—aye, my lord!” the warrior said, correcting himself.
General Hotak de-Droka looked at the soldier, then at his daughter. Maritia smiled and went down on one knee.
One by one, the rest of those who followed him knelt before he who had slain Chot the Terrible, knelt before the new emperor of the minotaur race.
About the Authors
Margaret Weis
Margaret Weis began her collaboration with Tracy Hickman on the DRAGONLANCE® series more than fifteen years ago when she was an editor for TSR, Inc. A decade and a half later she is the author of ten DRAGONLANCE novels, the four-volume galactic fantasy Star of the Guardian, and co-author with her husband Don Perrin of The Doom Brigade, Draconian Measures, Knights of the Black Earth, Robot Blues, and Hung Out. She and Perrin are also the authors of Brothers in Arms, the sequel to Weis’ best-selling novel The Soulforge. Currently she is hard at work with Tracy Hickman on volume two of the War of Souls trilogy. She lives happily in a converted barn in Wisconsin with her husband, an assortment of dogs and cats, and far, far too many books.
Tracy Hickman
In 1983, when Tracy Hickman was driving across country to start a new job at TSR as a game designer, he conceived of a world in which dragons would play a big part. That world became the DRAGONLANCE campaign setting and helped launch Hickman’s career as a major voice in fantasy fiction. He has also written, in collaboration with Margaret Weis, the Darksword series and the Death Gate Cycle, is the designer of the game setting Starshield, and is the author of The Immortals. In his spare time—not that he has much—he lives in Utah with his wife, two daughters, and two sons.
DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. ©2000 Wizards of the Coast LLC
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 62
