“What is that?”
“There is an island in the north off of Kern, large enough to be settled.” He hesitated then continued. “This is what I propose. There is only futile death awaiting countless numbers on both sides unless we offer a way of peace—”
Faros grew angry. “You want to surrender—!”
“Nay! Please listen! I offer no surrender but an end to the slaying of minotaur by minotaur! I would ask of the empire that we be allowed to colonize the island and be left alone with the assurance that we would never again become a threat! Our shores we would gird for defense, but never would we attack!”
“You’re mad!” Faros almost struck him with the back of his hand, but then, oddly, his father’s face appeared in his mind. Yes, Gradic would have sought such a peace, rather than continued slaughter.
Faros was silent for a long time.
Finally he asked, “How would you contact Nethosak?”
Bastion shook his head. “Not Nethosak. There is another who can speak in my brother’s name. Maritia …”
Maritia had loved and admired Bastion almost as much as she had her father. If anyone would listen to such an audacious plan, the military commander of Ambeon might.
“Will she still listen to you, after she learns that you follow me?”
“I believe so. I hope so.”
A grimmer image came to Faros. “What about the ogres? Why should they agree to this, after all we’ve done to spoil their land?”
“From what I have heard,” Bastion muttered, his mood darkening, “the Grand Lord will listen to my sister. He will listen intently.”
From what Faros had gleaned from Bastion, Golgren admired the Lady Maritia de-Droka, despite their great dissimilarities.
It was foolish and likely to fail, but perhaps urged on by Sargonnas’s words and his own guilt toward his father, Faros grudgingly nodded. “If that’s what you desire, go to it.”
Much relieved, Bastion bowed. “I leave to make immediate preparations. I will not fail you.…”
As Hotak’s son departed, Faros gazed up at the looming condor symbol. The bird’s visage seemed to mock him. He turned his head from the icon, only to meet the eternal, knowing gazes of the twin statues.
With a furious snort, Faros sheathed his weapon and stalked out of the chamber.
Ambeon, as this eastern portion of the continent was now called, covered much of the former elven kingdom of Silvanesti.
There was no large area of Silvanesti that remained free. Minotaur legions had swept through every part of the conquered land—save the edge of the north, where their ogre allies still retained a modicum of control—securing vast portions through carefully-organized gridwork. At Lady Maritia de-Droka’s command, teams of soldiers, with the forest-trained Wyverns at the forefront, divided the ageless, virgin woodlands into neat five acre-by-five acre squares. Legionaries swept over the squares with such thoroughness that no creature, however small, escaped.
Thousands of elves perished. Their nature craft could not save them from the methodical, overwhelming minotaurs. Lessons learned from centuries of war—including, perhaps especially, the failures—had enabled Maritia and her officers to draw up far-reaching plans that would, this time, guarantee victory.
As the legions cleared Ambeon, weekly shiploads brought new colonizers, who Maritia immediately assigned to various sectors. Hotak’s daughter launched a systematic stripping of woods and structuring of new villages whose security would be linked to one another.
Roadways already extended from the harbors into the eastern third of the realm, making it easy for wagons to carry supplies and for reinforcements and colonizers to reach the next rendezvous before heading into the west. Sargonath, located on the shore of Kern, still acted as the main port before Ambeon, but work was already underway to build a greater, more expansive port that would allow heavier cargo vessels to sail directly to Mithas.
While so much had been accomplished in so little time, that very fact kept the minotaurs on high alert. Not content to leave the defense of Ambeon to settlers alone, Lady Maritia moved more and more of the legions to the very border. The minotaur military commander had a certain ambitious goal in mind …
Maritia rode along the area of construction, two legion generals and her personal guard accompanying her. Her helm hung secure on the side of her saddle, allowing her long, thick brown mane to flutter loosely. Her armor, ever polished and contoured for her lithe form, glittered in the sun, and the midnight purple cloak that marked her as military ruler of the colony draped her back. She wore a sword sheathed at her side. Her rich, brown eyes swept the near and the far, taking in everything.
As she passed, sweating legionaries clad only in kilts and sandals paused to salute her before continuing their heavy tasks. Admiration from the males among them had only partly to do with her beauty, for all knew well her reputation as a capable officer and leader in the mold of her father and her brother, Bastion.
Maritia turned her slim muzzle to admire the structure going up, a wide, high wooden fortress facing the setting sun. The towering walls were huge trunks secured into deep holes by a concoction of stone, sand, water, and other ingredients. When allowed to dry, the substance became harder than rock, ensuring no enemy would be able to easily tear the wall asunder. Four minotaurs could have stood on top of one another and still not reached the sharpened tip of the fortress. When completed, the five-sided fort would have the potential to garrison an entire legion.
“How soon before the gates are finished?” she asked one of the generals.
“The whole of Basilisk Legion toils on this project, my lady,” rumbled the barrel-chested male with a scar on his muzzle, “save a hundred pickets who are keeping watch. The gates should be up in a week at most. The surrounding wall completed in perhaps twice that time. Work should start on the main quarters immediately following.”
Almost half a month ahead of schedule. Maritia gave the general a brief, curt smile. “That will make six. The northwest to the central west sector will then be secure.”
Her plan was to arrange a series of forts covering the outer perimeter of Ambeon, each stationed with a full legion. They would surely defeat any attempt to retake the elven lands.
“We’ll still need more soldiers,” the second general declared, “if we’re to cover the entire border.”
Maritia did not bother to respond to the obvious statement. The speaker, Kilona, a fiery-eyed female with slight streaks of black decorating her brown hide, was a new addition to Ambeon’s leadership. She commanded the Crystal Legion. Kilona’s command had been ordained not only by Ardnor but directly by the temple. The general was a Protector like Bodar, leader of the Scorpions.
Like other Protectors, Kilona had shorn off her mane upon joining the ranks. The lack of hair, combined with her rabid eyes, gave her an otherworldly look, which suddenly reminded Maritia of her mother. Although ostensibly subordinate to Maritia, Kilona was not entirely trusted by Maritia’s staff nor by the commander herself. Her obsessive devotion to the Forerunners made her judgment during moments of crisis suspect.
“Any signs of activity on the other side, Gorus?” Maritia asked Basilisk’s first general.
“A few scouts noted. Some elves, a human. They all left thinking that they weren’t seen.”
“Excellent.”
Every now and then, the elves made hapless forays trying to reclaim their homeland. They had a tendency to underestimate the minotaurs’ own stealthiness, seeing the horned invaders as clumsy brutes little superior to ogres. Past lessons failed to have educated the haughty race, which was why Maritia expected the elves to return and fight again one of these days. Their persistence was almost comical … if it wasn’t so tragic.
“What did the human look like?”
“He was dressed like a trapper, but he had the moves of either a Solamnic or Nerakian. The former, I suspect.”
There had been no direct evidence so far of intrusions by the Knights of
Solamnia, but the empire was anticipating them. Of all their potential opponents, the venerable knighthood excited Maritia the most. Their strict code of honor and extensive battle training made them the human equivalent to the minotaurs. A war against the Solamnics would be one for the bards and a sharp contrast to the easy victory achieved over the insipid elves.
“Inform me directly concerning any other humans spotted. I want the next one followed. Find out his ultimate destination.”
“It’ll be done, my lady!” Gorus said, saluting sharply.
Another subject long suppressed crept into her thoughts, darkening them. Clutching the reins tighter and trying to hide her growing anxiety, Maritia asked, “Any news from Galdar?”
The grand crusade supposedly led by the human waif named Mina—whom the empire believed was only a puppet of a minotaur renegade known as Galdar—had collapsed overnight with the return of the constellations to the heavens. What information Maritia’s spies had gleaned indicated that both the girl and Galdar had fled after some catastrophic encounter in the west. There were even those who said that the pair had run afoul of the returning gods, but Maritia scoffed at such a tall tale.
Galdar had been a useful ally. Mina’s crusade had kept the humans—especially the Knights of Neraka—distracted. More important, somehow Galdar had brought down the magical shield protecting Silvanesti, opening the way for invasion by the empire. In return for that favor, and the allegiance of the minotaurs, Galdar relayed Mina’s wishes: that the minotaurs not advance into the capital, Silvanost. Silvanost and everything west belonged to her faithful, to which Hotak and his daughter had readily agreed.
Then came the unknown disaster that had befallen Galdar. Naturally, the moment word reached her—the crusade collapses! reported the scouts—Maritia had ordered the legions west. Even after securing Silvanost, she had been unable to locate the great, mysterious Galdar. Maritia feared the elves or Nerakians had claimed his life, and if so, it was the fault of that human brat, Mina. Galdar had been very, very clever, but entrusting his secrets to the waif had been perhaps his fatal mistake.
“No word, no sign of Galdar or that slip of a human, my lady,” General Gorus replied.
“Her faith was misguided,” interjected Kilona. “She served a false deity and paid the price!”
Maritia was fairly certain that Mina’s supposed god—if genuine—was the Forerunners’ own patron, one and the same, but she did not say as much. “Hmmm. A pity. Galdar’s memory should be honored for his critical role in this conquest. I’ll send word to the emperor.” She slapped one fist against her breastplate in salute to the lost warrior, acting more chipper than she felt. “We will concern ourselves no more with Galdar nor his pet human then. All that matters now is strengthening Ambeon, eh?”
The others, Kilona included, readily agreed.
They watched as half a dozen minotaurs set into place another huge section of the wall. It would have taken more than a dozen elves to maneuver the huge, carved trunk into the hole. Three bare-chested soldiers used ropes to pull the piece up. Already set at the edge of the deep hole, the trunk slipped in easily. However, to avoid it sliding too fast, a second group of three pulled on taut ropes from behind. They eased off as a seventh warrior in breastplate brought forth a huge barrel of the stone and sand mix. With the utmost care, the female minotaur poured the contents into the hole, filling it to just overflowing.
The mix would need a few minutes to solidify before the different groups of soldiers could let loose the ropes. Maritia, satisfied at what she saw, urged her mount on, the others quickly following.
When completed, there would a main living quarters, stables, and a supply building. A walkway would run along the upper edge of the wall, with steps at each corner of the fortress.
“An excellent job, general,” she told Gorus. “I’m quite pleased.”
“More material will be arriving from Makeldorn tomorrow, along with additional laborers, my lady. It’s possible we’ll be even more ahead of schedule so.”
Barely a half an hour’s ride from the fortress, the newly-christened settlement of Makeldorn—“The Gauntlet of Makel” in the old tongue of the High Ogres—stood in place of a once-sculpted garden city whose name Maritia had already forgotten. The original city had been shorn of most of its trappings, only the bare bones left for reconstruction in the minotaur style. Instead of winding tree homes all but hidden by carefully-nurtured foliage and flowers, now there was a perfectly-measured, circular clearing filled with broad, rectangular common houses arranged in rows.
Two hundred colonists already dwelled here. A smithy that forged weapons as well as farm tools kept busy day and night. In addition to supplying its inhabitants, Makeldorn aided the construction along the border. The settlement also acted as a final waystation for food supplies for the legionaries. Maritia had mapped out a careful line of supply for each of her outposts guarding the west.
Yes, Ambeon thrived, even if to the north there still lay the stubborn problems in Kern. That was out of Maritia’s hands, at least for the moment. The throne itself had taken command of that situation. All she had to concern herself with was the new realm.
“Your father would be proud,” General Gorus called as they rode. “A pity he didn’t live to see the day!”
Before Maritia could form an appropriate reply, Kilona spoke, “He serves a higher purpose now! He has ascended to the Forerunners, praise be!”
It was all Hotak’s daughter could do to keep from swinging her fist at the idiot general for her remark. Her father a Forerunner ghost! Whatever ties others in her family had to the faith, Maritia knew Hotak would have found such a fate contemptible.
Yet … if her mother’s teachings had merit, perhaps it was true, as people whispered. Maritia did prefer to think that Hotak stayed near her, guiding her efforts to make his dream a reality, but as a Forerunner ghost? Never!
Turning her mount toward Makeldorn, she shook the disturbing thoughts from her mind. All that mattered was Ambeon. As an officer of the empire, it was Maritia’s duty to see that the new minotaur realm prospered to its full potential. Spiritual matters were the province of her mother … and as far as Maritia was concerned, Nephera was more than welcome to spiritual matters.
“Someone comes from the direction of Makeldorn,” a guard warned. Instantly, he and the rest of the retinue shifted position to shield Maritia.
As the rider neared, they saw it was an imperial messenger who anxiously pulled up before Hotak’s daughter and thrust a sealed parchment in her hands.
“By order of his majesty, the Emperor Ardnor,” the messenger informed Maritia apologetically. “I have sailed across the Blood Sea and ridden over half of Ambeon to find you. I was to see that you received this at first possible chance, no matter where you might be located.” The musky sweat and heavy breathing of the minotaur bore witness to his arduous efforts.
Frowning, Maritia moved a short distance away from her companions, broke the red seal, and looked over the proclamation.
By the decree of his majesty, Emperor Ardnor I, lord of the realm, it is set forth this day that the capital of the new colony of Ambeon shall hereafter be called Ardnoranti. All previous designations, elven or historical, will be stricken from the records. Henceforth, the great capital of Ardnoranti will become the prime base of operations for all missions in Ansalon.
Furthermore, it is decreed that the artisans of Clans Tyklo and Lagrangli will begin work immediately on the commemorative icons of his majesty and the renovation of the temple of Branchala into a place of worship honoring the Forerunners. Second Master Pryas will arrive shortly after this message to oversee the latter mission—
Though she knew she was being observed by the others, Maritia couldn’t help but scowl. Pryas was not only Ardnor’s righthand servant, he had the favor of their mother. There were those who whispered he was being groomed to assume full control over the Protectors and eventually succeed Lothan on the Supreme Circle. Pryas’s posting
to Ambeon was not to Maritia’s pleasure. There were already too many Protectors mingled among her officers.
The rest of the proclamation contained the usual blather concerning the beliefs of the Forerunners, nonsense added to each imperial message since Ardnor had ascended the throne. Maritia rolled it up and put it in a saddle pouch. Her brother need not have wasted messenger resources just to tell her his decision to name the city after himself, but Ardnor never failed to miss an opportunity to reassert his position, his importance as emperor.
For some reason, that made her think of Bastion, lost at sea many months before. He was intended to have been Hotak’s successor. He would be signing the proclamations now, not Ardnor …
“Bastion …” she barely breathed his name, not wanting anyone to overhear. Strangely, Maritia often dreamed that her brother still lived, that he was trying to come back to her. There were rumors, rumors of a black-furred minotaur who fought alongside the rebel cur, Faros, and some warriors who had known Bastion swore that he was that unknown rebel. Maritia, however, refused to believe such monstrous rumors. Bastion would have never betrayed the minotaur nation in such fashion. If her brother had still lived, nothing could have prevented him from returning to the empire and his family—his destiny—and to her, especially.
Nothing at all …
Grom knelt before Faros, who had retreated to one of the antechambers likely used by the temple’s high priest and—as he did for hours at a time—there dueled with invisible foes. Faros’s practice sessions went on for hours, the manic energy built up during the day making it almost impossible for him to sleep at night. The rebel leader found rest only with short naps and those were so shallow that even the hint of a noise would cause him to leap to his feet expecting some confrontation.
Grom kept his head low and to the side. A cloud of dust churned up by the exercises caused him to cough, before he finally spoke. “Faros, forgive this intrusion.”
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