In the months since he had set sail, activity had increased greatly, from what he could see. New shops, smithies, and other trade buildings stood side by side with structures that were centuries old. A fastidious race, the minotaurs kept the streets and the older structures in as excellent shape as possible.
The port had expanded, a tremendous feat considering that only a generation earlier, the minotaurs had been forced to rebuild after the wreckage of the War of the Lance. More than a score of large ships stood docked at the moment, all of them vessels at least as massive as those that escorted Broedius’s trio. Countless other ships of varying size clustered around the port, not all of them minotaur in design. Nethosak saw no need not to trade with the lesser races if such trade favored Mithas and Kothas.
Lord Broedius, on the other hand, did not appear pleased to see the foreign ships. “When the islands are secured, those ships must be confiscated.”
“That is no concern of mine,” the stranger returned.
Under the guidance of minotaurs, the Vengeance and her sister ships docked. Once the crew finished their work, Broedius and the others descended down a wide plank to the shore. By the time they reached actual ground, a legion of warriors and a swarm of curious onlookers had assembled. In the front stood two figures in gray robes and a third wearing the trappings of the Supreme Circle, the governing body under the emperor. The clerics looked awed, almost feverish in their respect; the official, in turn, appeared suspicious and more than a little at a loss.
Aryx continued to keep his expression neutral even though he suspected that among the crowd had to be at least one or two who would recognize him and wonder why he traveled in such bizarre and forbidding company. When the unknown cleric descended, Aryx and Rand kept to either side of him. Why Aryx did so instead of running to join the onlookers, he could not say. A sense of pride and honor, perhaps. To abandon his position went against what his parents had taught him. He only hoped that the councillor and the others would understand his lack of choice should matters come to a head.
“That’ll be far enough,” bellowed the circle member. “Another step and you place yourselves at risk.”
It turned out to be the mysterious minotaur and not Broedius who made the decision as to whether or not to obey. The cloaked figure paused, but only after an additional step beyond what the councillor had ordered. The other minotaur, a black and brown, short-snouted elder, snorted but did not order the guards forward.
Seeing the councillor hesitate, Broedius chose to take advantage of the situation. “I am Lord Broedius, servant of her wondrous majesty Takhisis! In her name and that of her most loyal commander, Lord Ariakan, these islands are hereby claimed! All resources, including all able warriors, are now under my control as the new provisional governor.”
At this point the councillor, who had been struggling between fury and amusement, gave way to the latter. He laughed out loud. Soon those with him, save for the clerics, joined in the laughter. Among the knights, several bristled, especially Drejjen, who could barely restrain himself. However, Aryx knew that behind the show of humor lay the fact that the humans’ lives now hung by a very thin thread.
“Such a sorry band of conquerors! With but three ships, you think you’ll take over? Even for humans, you must be fools! Do you think that we’ll simply give over our lives to you?” The councillor’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Fools or not, however, you might just be the very pirates responsible for so many missing ships. Yes, the more I think it, the more that sounds likely. If you’re mad enough to invade our islands, then you’re mad enough to attack our ships at sea,…”
A dangerous rumble rose from the minotaurs. Aryx tightened his grip on his axe, not at all certain what he would do if it came to battling his own kind. He owed Broedius and the stranger his life, but did he owe them enough to fight those protecting his homeland?
Then the crimson minotaur took another step forward, his gaze sweeping across the gathering. Aryx couldn’t see the dark figure’s eyes clearly from his angle, but something in them silenced the crowd, even the member of the Supreme Circle. Apparently satisfied with the reaction, the cloaked stranger turned to the clerics.
“I have commanded an audience with the present emperor. He is not among you.”
The clerics fell to one knee, the older of the two whispering, “Blessed One, we have followed your orders to the letter!”
“You informed the emperor and he did not come?”
“We have sent word to the palace many times, but to no avail! Only today did we receive word that he would not deign to come himself.”
“And so this one here is to speak in his place?” The gaze with which Aryx’s unsettling companion graced the councillor made the latter stumble back a step. Only when he realized how cowardly he might appear did the circle member recover.
“I’m General Hojak of the Clan Sorjian, eighth member of the Supreme Circle. The emperor has more than enough weighty matters to deal with. If you have claims, I’ll deal with them.” The tone of his voice made his distaste quite evident. Aryx did not recall Hojak and so suspected him to be the newest and therefore most junior of the eight councillors. The insult could not have been more blatant.
“The emperor would not hear the truth, Blessed One,” one of the clerics, whose high rank startled the young warrior, apologized. “Even now, instead of kneeling before you, Chot Es-Kalin watches over the games in the Great Circus.”
The cloaked stranger’s crimson orbs burned. “Then he and those who do not believe must be made to see the truth. If he will not come to me, I will go to him … this once and only this once.”
With no warning, he raised his arms, and as he did, the flowing cloak spread out in all directions, as if caught up by a great wind. The crowd, including Hojak and the clerics, stepped back warily. Even the knights stirred uneasily. Lord Broedius gritted his teeth, but to his credit, the commander did not give ground. Aryx willed himself to remain where he was, although every fiber in his being screamed for him to run.
The cloak fluttered and expanded, growing so great it could have enveloped a full squadron of minotaur warriors. However, much to Aryx’s dismay, the sorcerous cloak sought to enshroud him and Lord Broedius. Surprisingly, the living folds avoided both Carnelia and Rand, almost with intent. The female sought to join her uncle, but the blond cleric held her back, shaking his head.
They were the last sight Aryx beheld before darkness enveloped him.
A chill passed through him, a chill that burned. He could see no one else. The dusky gray minotaur felt as if he stood at the end of a vast chasm and that one more step would send him hurtling into space. The sensation passed swiftly, but it was all Aryx could do to remain standing.
Then the darkness gave way to the bright sun, and Aryx found himself and his party standing in the midst of one of the most honored places in Nethosak, the Great Circus.
More than anything else, the Great Circus, also known as the Great Arena, represented minotaur society. True, there were countless other stadiums spread throughout both kingdoms, but they were for lesser competitions, preliminary combats. To truly rise in rank, to truly become a name among the minotaur race, one had to compete in the Great Arena. Here the champions of the other stadiums fought, seeking both status and power. Generals were created here, as were councillors. Even Chot Es-Kalin fought here, not only to gain the crown of the emperor but to defend it against all worthy adversaries.
The Great Circus had been destroyed and rebuilt time and time again throughout the centuries, but the design rarely changed. More circular than oval, with tiers of simple stone seats surrounding a vast field where combats of all sorts could be played out, the immense structure had been noted even by the other races as the largest of its kind. Sand covered much of the floor, but at times, wooden platforms or even small towers had been placed within the area of the field.
One more recent change had been the addition, along the upper rim, of a legion of tall, lifel
ike statues representing the greatest of all champions ever to fight in the arena. Only those whose careers marked the highest standards by which the minotaurs measured themselves had been so honored. Although Aryx could not see it from where he stood, he knew that even Kaziganthi de-Orilg had received his place of honor here, for despite his renegade status, his legend had grown too great for any emperor to ignore. In fact, the tale of his epic struggle against the red dragon in one of the earlier Great Arenas had remained so fixed in the minds of Aryx’s people that when this present version of the massive structure had been completed, a stylized dragon’s head ten feet high had been set to adorn the roof of the booth of the emperor himself.
In that grand booth, Emperor Chot Es-Kalin, one of the youngest warriors ever to lead his people, stared in disbelief at the party that had appeared in the midst of the games.
A hush fell over the crowd. Two minotaurs locked in combat stood frozen, both aware of the intruders in their midst and the fact that their opponent just might use the moment to seek advantage. A row of archers on the walls, set there more for precaution than need, suddenly grew alert.
“Not exactly the grand entrance I would have chosen,” muttered Lord Broedius.
The cloaked stranger waved him to silence. That the human obeyed without hesitation did not slip past Aryx. All their lives now depended on this mysterious cleric, and even the knight knew it.
Emperor Chot recovered quickly. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the games himself. Aryx had no doubt that Chot had readily made his way up the ranks, handily defeating his opponents. Some previous emperors had been rumored to have had aid of one sort or another, but not Chot.
“I have come to you, Chot Es-Kalin, this once. It will not happen again.”
He spoke quietly, yet his words echoed throughout the stadium. A murmur rose in the audience; most in the throng did not know what conflict existed between the emperor and this cleric, but already anticipation had arisen that it might lead to an unscheduled duel between the pair.
“And who might you be?”
Aryx’s eyes narrowed. He studied the face of the emperor and found no guile there. Chot truly did not know who confronted him. However, a dark, shaggy figure to the emperor’s side did not look so innocent. He eyed the newcomers with loathing.
“Who he is means nothing, my lord. He’s mad, is what he is, and no consequence to you. It was deemed a matter of the circle … nothing to bother you with.”
Chot leaned back. “There were clerics needing to speak to me some time ago. Something urgent …”
“And the circle dealt with it accordingly, my lord.”
The cloaked minotaur shook his head. “No, Garith Es-Istian, you dealt with it. You chose to reject the entreaties of my servants. The responsibility, the failure, is yours … and so must be the penalty.”
The shaggy warrior rose from his seat, red rage flaring in his eyes. “And who are you to speak so to me?”
“I am your god.”
The councillor’s mouth snapped shut as he absorbed the audacious statement. Chot stiffened, but still he did not commit himself. As for Aryx, he could only think now how he had condemned himself by standing beside one who must surely be insane.
The voluminous cloak shifted, and as it did, a chilling transformation began. The stranger’s features softened, flattened, and he shrank a hand’s width. Beside Aryx, there suddenly stood a towering human with angular features and pale skin. He wore a form-fitting suit of ebony armor marked by a stylized bird, a condor, with outstretched wings and savage talons.
“I am Argon.” As he spoke, the human metamorphosed, growing slimmer, more elfin in appearance, although an elf of such evident disposition had to be a dark one indeed. “I am Kinthalas and Kinis.” The elf shrank, growing squat and muscular, becoming a devious dwarf with an unsettling smile. “I am Sargonaxethe Bender.”
Only Broedius seemed unaffected by the transformations. Even Chot moved uneasily in his chair. Garith crossed his arms, snorting in derision.
There came then the worst change of all, as far as Aryx and many other minotaurs were concerned, for the dwarf had shifted into a slight, nimble-fingered kender with hands that moved so quickly they seemed to leave traces of smoke behind. “I am the Firebringer.”
Aryx recognized none of the names, but he saw that some others did. Through the minotaurs in attendance spread a myriad display of emotions: curiosity, disbelief, anger, uncertainty … even fear.
And then a crimson minotaur, clad in a long, flowing black cloak, once more stood with Aryx and the others. He eyed all, clearly gauging their reactions, then added, “I am the Horned One, Sargonnas, he who has been called Sargas by his children.”
Now a roar erupted from the crowd, one led foremost by Garith Es-Istian. Only a sense of duty kept Aryx from abandoning his position. Never had he heard such absolute madness. How could Lord Broedius remain steady? How could even a human believe that the minotaurs would accept this self-proclaimed god?
Yet the clerics he had seen earlier had all seemed swept up in the very same madness.
“A very impressive display of illusion, cleric!” Garith roared. “But we all know how skilled your kind can be at such manipulation and how you’d like nothing more than to return to the days when the priesthood ruled behind the scenes! This council and this emperor are stronger, though, than those in the past! Your tricks will not work here!”
“Do you challenge my claims, then?” The would-be god seemed to take the entire matter too calmly.
The shaggy warrior snorted. “More than that! I challenge you!”
Something in the way the mad stranger moved suggested to Aryx that the councillor had acted exactly as desired. He raised his hands slightly, indicating that both Aryx and the knight should step away. With great relief, the young warrior did just that, shifting over to the human’s side.
“He orchestrated that well,” the veteran knight muttered, mostly to himself. “He knew this Garith would be the type to immediately challenge him.”
Self-proclaimed deity faced outraged member of the Supreme Circle. “I await you here,” the self-proclaimed god declared.
Garith rose, and as he did, two other minotaurs came to his aid. One took the cloak of office from him, while the other handed the burly leader a massive axe that Aryx would have found difficult to wield. Although, for countless generations, it had been forbidden for spectators to carry weapons inside the circus—wagers over duels often resulted in hot tempers—those seated in the emperor’s box apparently did not have to follow the same rules. As the councillor hefted his weapon, the second of his aides placed a medallion around his neck. Garith then turned to the emperor. “With your permission.”
“You have challenged; he has accepted. The law is the law. Let the Great Circus judge.”
The shaggy minotaur joined the others on the field. He took up a place some distance from his intended adversary, who had not moved since the challenge had been issued. Garith eyed the taller figure, no doubt deciding that, despite the other’s height, he had the weight advantage. “You need a weapon.”
“I have one.” From beneath his cloak, the crimson minotaur drew a long jeweled blade. Aryx’s eyes widened. Although the cloak hid much, he had never so much as noticed the slightest lump that might have indicated a weapon lurked underneath. Long and light, with a great green stone in the hilt, it looked worthy of an emperor … and perhaps even a god. Still, against the great war axe, it seemed insufficient. True, a bellguard protected its bearer’s hand, but how sturdy would it prove when Garith began to wield his axe?
“A pretty thorn,” the councillor snarled, “but not a weapon for a true warrior.”
“It will do.” The cloak fluttered to the ground as if it had never been attached. The crimson minotaur stepped forward, his lean, smooth form a contrast to the heavily muscled Garith. Aryx now recalled the name Garith Es-Istian. A champion of champions, a mere step or two from the throne himself. He had chosen in
stead to join the Supreme Circle, which did not mean that he might not someday choose to challenge the emperor. Perhaps Chot knew that, which might explain why he watched all with a veiled expression. It would serve him well if somehow the mad cleric with the sword defeated the councillor.
“I’ll make short work of you and end this priesthood plot once and for all.” Garith indicated the medallion. “Know that your cleric’s tricks will not work on me, fool. I am protected. The mark of the true god is on me.”
The crimson figure raised his pitifully inadequate weapon and saluted. “A shame you never believed in me.”
Garith laughed … then charged, his war axe a whirling fury that brought gasps from the audience in the arena.
The stranger’s head should have rolled at his feet, but the crimson minotaur somehow remained out of reach without seeming to move. Then his blade came up, and although it barely touched the edge of the councillor’s weapon, Garith’s axe turned, sending the shaggy warrior off-balance. Aryx found himself silently urging the stranger forward in order to take advantage of his fortune, but the latter did nothing. His foe recovered quickly, now more furious than ever.
Again the axe became a whirlwind, spinning so fast that few likely could keep track of its path. Garith brought the weapon around and down, again and again, never along the same route. Any opponent trying to decipher the pattern of his attack would leave himself open to a sudden change.
Yet his adversary did not even attempt to follow the axe. Rather, he simply stared directly at the councillor. When Garith’s axe abruptly shifted direction, cutting a killing arc toward the chest of the outsider, the crimson minotaur raised his jeweled sword in an absurd attempt to deflect it. Aryx braced himself, knowing that the heavy axe would shatter the sword and, barely slowed, bury itself deep in the stranger.
Reavers of the Blood Sea Page 5