There are rebels riding through your domain …
“Always there are, ghost! What of it?”
They ride toward Ambeon. It is believed they seek a secret audience with the Lady Maritia and will meet with her near the crags that separate dry Blöde from the elves’ lost paradise.
The ogre leaned forward, asking, “Why would the Lady Maritia allow this? She is loyal …”
Takyr’s murky form rippled. He filled Golgren’s tent, the tendrils created by the folds in his cloak moving as if of their own accord. The one who leads the riders is her brother, black Bastion.
“Oh, is that so?” The last the Grand Lord had heard of Maritia’s brother, he had been lost at sea. In fact, fate had not been at all kind to Maritia’s ruling family, two brothers and her father dead in so short a time. Golgren had even considered ways of consoling the female minotaur. While her face was not attractive by any stretch of the imagination—like all her kind she resembled a cow, of course—both her spirit and lithe form appealed to the Grand Lord as did none of his own race.
A wry chuckled echoed through his head. He snapped to attention, forgetting Takyr could sometimes sense his thoughts. The ogre’s face darkened. “Huh? The son of Hotak is with the rebels? Why is this so?”
A matter of no significance, replied the specter almost curtly, which meant that it was a matter of great significance. That betrayal is his, if it is such.
“Your mistress wishes him captured? A small thing. I will send out Nagroch and—”
Takyr’s cloak suddenly burst open as if seeking to swallow the ogre. Despite his best efforts to remain implacable, Golgren gasped and threw himself backwards. Takyr’s cloak then withdrew, leaving the Grand Lord scowling.
None must seek to harm him during his journey to meet with his sister. My mistress is adamant in this. Bastion keeps his thoughts and actions well-guarded. Even she knows not all of them. It may be he comes to betray the rebels. She would like to know the truth.
“That is … understood, yes.”
However, my mistress has much else with which to deal, lord ogre, and you owe her much for the favors done on your behalf. Donnag and the Titans would have been a great thorn in your side if it were not for their sudden … malady. The knowledge given to you also of their weaknesses, their need for the blood of elves … Donnag is an excellent example to the others of what might happen without your leadership. Then there is all the weaponry, too, and the food supplied for hungry, willful warriors mercurial in their loyalty.
“Spare this one your mistress’s lists,” grunted Golgren, straightening. “The Lady Nephera wishes Bastion to reach his destination, wishes the black-furred one to meet with the Lady Maritia and reveal his secrets. So. Good. None will touch her son, this is promised.” He looked away from Takyr. “Go. Tell her.”
There is more, the ghastly shade persisted. Lord Bastion is popular among the people.
This was no surprise to Golgren. While he lusted after Maritia’s warrior spirit, he himself respected Bastion’s reputation—his self-denial and ability to take charge of a situation. Hotak had been correct to name his second son heir. Under similar circumstances, the ogre would have done the same.
“Aaah …” Understanding spread across the Grand Lord’s face. His green eyes danced with dark thoughts. So that was Nephera’s aim.
If a traitor, he may sway his sister, who was known to follow him in the past.
“This could be so,” said Golgren, hesitantly.
If traitor he be, then it would be best if none of his party departed from the crags. None at all.
“This is wished of me?” Golgren growled, rising. He had not expected such an extreme measure. “All?”
A single baleful glance from Takyr made him back down. The judgment is yours, lord ogre. So says my mistress. One, both, or none, it is you who chooses. Act as necessary.
“It will be difficult for one to spy close on such a gathering—difficult to hear the truth and make such a judgment.”
That has been taken into account. As he spoke, the dead figure’s cloak opened further. From out of it suddenly emerged another specter who swelled to normal size the moment he was freed. Golgren’s gaze widened briefly. The second ghost was slightly taller than normal for a minotaur, which still made him shorter than most ogres, but he was half again as wide as even the brawniest of the Grand Lord’s warriors. He wore a dour expression, and if not for the gaping hole where his throat had once been, he would have looked almost alive, albeit translucent. From him, there was a hint of musk. This one will assist you …
Golgren bared his teeth, such audacity beyond even him. “The son of Hotak to watch over the son of Hotak?”
Kolot’s ghost gave no hint of recognition. His eyes stared unblinking.
He will relay word for word what they say. You will know then what to do.
No sooner had Takyr finished than he began to evanesce. At that same moment, the din outside was heard anew. The macabre mariner became once more merely a shadow among shadows. It happened so swiftly that by the time the Grand Lord thought to speak, Nephera’s servant was gone, and he was alone.
Except for the specter of Nephera’s youngest son.
Golgren eyed the strange figure. Ghosts didn’t bother him, as long as they didn’t oppose him. This one remained as motionless as a statue. The ogre hissed then called outside, “Summon Nagroch!”
Moments later, the bulky warrior pushed his way into his lord’s tent. He stood quietly, awaiting Golgren’s command while the latter sought some sign that Nagroch noticed the third party with them. When it was clear that Kolot was invisible to all except the Grand Lord, Golgren smiled darkly in admiration of Nephera’s magic and indicated that Nagroch should come closer.
“A task is to be performed, friend Nagroch, one that must be yours. It will involve a little bloodletting …”
The other ogre grinned wide in anticipation.
The city that had once been called Silvanost stretched out before Maritia for as far as she could see, but it was no longer the forest-lined garden of halcyon days. As Maritia de-Droka and her bodyguard rode through the thick, new, wooden gates her soldiers had built, she surveyed a place that was much transformed.
Ancient towers that had gone unchanged for more than a thousand years were in the midst of being remade according to minotaur dictates. Delicate curves and gaudy ornamentation had been stripped to make way for smooth, efficient lines. Once-wooded pathways stood clear to the sun. Gentle and much-too-dim glow lights, the manner by which the elves had illuminated much of the city’s walks, had been replaced by stronger, more durable brass oil lamps hanging from tall iron poles planted in the ground and lit each evening by patrols.
Despite so many alterations, Silvanost still was less changed than any other part of Ambeon. Here, in the former elven capital, Maritia had skirted Ardnor’s order to eliminate all symbols of the past occupants by instead stripping down the wondrous towers and even the palace itself then reconstructing them more along imperial lines. Waste not what should not be wasted, her father had taught her, and she had followed that good advice. Why tear down what was functional? Ironically, it now seemed that Maritia had made the correct decision; had she followed Ardnor’s original directive, the main temple would be in ruins and his new command to turn it into a Forerunner stronghold a futile one.
The first district through which they rode had once been the elven equivalent of a wooded market, but every structure there had been razed and the skeletons of rectangular common houses now arose. The constant need for housing made it a necessity to build wherever possible. Each house would be capable of temporarily sheltering up to two hundred new arrivals to the minotaur cause.
To the north of the new common houses, dust and the faint clatter of metal against rock signaled that the toil in the quarries going strong. There the bulk of elven prisoners slaved day and night to supply the city with enough stone to remake it in the empire’s image. Maritia coughed as the eveni
ng wind whipped up the dust, but such minor inconvenience was the price of victory and progress.
Then a beautiful tower majestically rising ahead greeted her eyes. The Tower of the Stars glistened so much in the sunlight that even hardened minotaurs paused to gape at it in awe. Its design was simple, smooth, yet somehow so magnificent that Maritia, calling upon her brother’s name to enforce her own edict, had so far forbidden absolutely any alteration of it. She had claimed it for Clan Droka, despite Clan Athak’s early attempts to make it their own, and if not for her position as expedition commander, would have made her personal quarters there instead of in the sprawling yet effete palace visible some distance behind her.
The palace, over three hundred feet high and with three separate wings to it, would have impressed the minotaur conquerors more were it not for its rose-colored facade. The genteel hue was typical of the weak tastes of the elves, and when schedule permitted, Maritia planned to have it painted over in a good, honest grey. For the time, however, she tried to think of the color as being like dried, faded blood. Unfortunately, the soft woodland images decorating the entire structure inside and out in no manner aided her attempt to see the palace as other than it was.
Minotaurs everywhere ceased their tasks as she and her party passed through Ambeon’s capital. Reluctant elven slaves—their once-shining finery now pathetic rags—were prodded or struck with the flat of a blade to remind them to acknowledge the emperor’s sister. The eyes of most of the elves no longer held hope, although now and then one managed a brief if pathetic glare of defiance. The perfumes of the haughty race, which had assailed her senses when she first arrived in Silvanesti, were gone and replaced by the honest sweat of toil. The capital itself no longer smelled overwhelmingly of flowers; now the musk of minotaurs pervaded.
Guards in shining breastplates and helms saluted her sharply as she dismounted at the foot of the palace. Preferring some privacy, she dismissed her own retinue then strode inside.
Scarcely had Maritia entered when she was met by a treverian whom she knew was supposed to be stationed miles from the city. Helmet in the crook of one arm, the cloaked officer, his uniform dust-covered and his deep-brown fur dank, went down on one knee and in almost a whisper uttered, “My Lady Maritia.”
“Novax? This is an unexpected visit. There’s trouble in the north?”
“Nay—not exactly, my lady.” Novax dipped his horns to the side. He did not look up directly at her.
Maritia’s ears twitched. She noticed then that the sentries generally on duty in the hall were absent. “What does that mean? What brings a trusted subcommander, who once served alongside my own brother Bastion in my father’s legion, so far from his own troops?”
Novax, a broad-muzzled male with horns scarred from axe cuts, cleared his throat. “ ’Tis your brother that brings me here, my lady.”
“My brother? What does Ardnor—”
“Nay! The very sibling of whom you just spoke! Good, honest Bastion …”
His hesitant manner disconcerted her. “Rise up and face me, Novax! Tell me in plain words what you’re speaking about!”
The treverian obeyed. He stood more than a head higher than her, yet met her furious gaze. Novax’s breath came in short, anxious bursts. “My lady … I bring a message from Bastion.”
The blood rushed to her eyes and her nostrils flared wide. She clutched the hilt of her sword, barely containing herself. “Have you come from an audience with my mother? That would be the only way you might manage to speak with Bastion, Novax! I wonder what could possibly provoke your sick humor—”
He did not cower. Instead, the brown male handed her a small, crumpled parchment he had kept hidden in his other hand. “I ask only that you read this. If you find it lacking in truth, then punish me as you will.”
Snatching the message away, Maritia unfolded it. She did not read the contents at first, seeking something else at the lower left corner of the page.
The mark was there. Two circles with a blade through them, so tiny most would not have noticed it.
Bastion’s secret mark, known only to her and her father.
Her heart leapt, then sank. All the rumors she had heard. Was the unthinkable true?
Bastion among the rebels …
Then, her eyes narrowed as Maritia read what Bastion had written. Her nostrils flared, her breath quickened. Moments later, without divulging its contents, she crumpled up the note, sticking it in a belt pouch for later disposal in a fire.
“You know how to contact him?”
“Yes.”
Trying to keep her expression neutral, Maritia said, “Tell him I’ll meet him where he stipulates at the appointed time. There will be four with me, no more. All trusted.”
“Aye, my lady.” The treverian started to back away.
Maritia signaled him to wait. “Novax … how did he look?”
He grinned briefly. “As ever himself.”
“That would be Bastion.” She dismissed the officer.
Maritia went to one of the wide, open balconies thrusting out from the main palace. The rails were carved in the shapes of forest creatures, some fanciful, some real. The floor was a mosaic image of elven royalty communing with nature. Flowers and trees seemed to be sprouting to life at the elves’ command.
The balcony gave her a view of much of the city. She could see five of the seven towers, each one once honoring a different god of light. Below, a lush, beautiful garden shaped like a four-pointed star filled the vast courtyard surrounded by the towers and the palace. Maritia had been so lost in thought on the way back from the frontier that she had not paid the garden any mind. Where most of the other plant life in Silvanost had suffered, the Garden of Astarin had remained untouched by the foul magic of the shield. Impressed by this, Maritia had renamed it the Garden of Triumph and allowed favored elves to continue to tend to it. She saw it as a symbol of her own race, determined to grow and thrive despite adversity. Bastion would have approved of her decision.
“Bastion …” Her eyes drifted over the capital, Ardnoranti. Ardnor’s Glory. Maritia would have preferred to name the city after someone other than her brother, someone more deserving.
Maritia would have called the city Hotakanti.
Her hand slipped to where she kept the note. Bastion alive, but with the rebels. She could still scarcely believe it.
Yes, she would meet with him, if only to understand why.
“I’ll do what must be done, brother,” Maritia quietly declared. Her hand tightened into a fist. “Whatever must be done.”
On the fourth day, Grom died.
He was only the first of many. The plague rapidly spread through the rebel stronghold. Not all who suffered from it died—but still scores upon scores of those who fell victim perished. There were few symptoms, few initial signs. The coughing became persistent, the ragged, barking cough that soon spewed blood. There appeared small pustules under the eyelids that soon swelled, pulsating and turning a fetid green. As the sickness progressed, the vomiting began. The bodies of the sick minotaurs radiated such heat that their fur was continually soaked in sweat.
The stricken lay in row upon row in the largest chambers of the temple. Unable to fend for themselves, unable even to maintain normal bodily functions, they were soon covered in filth. There seemed little anyone could do to help the ill or keep themselves from becoming afflicted. Each hour brought afflicted, until soon their numbers threatened to overtake those still fit.
Grom, who at his own request was brought to the worship chamber, woke but twice after his collapse. The first time he again asked Faros’s forgiveness. Not knowing what else to say, Faros merely nodded. The second time, Grom rose up briefly and turned to his deity, praying to one of the towering statues that Sargas would see in him a worthy warrior and in addition watch over Faros and the rebellion. That was his last lucid moment.
After that, the unconscious Grom had twisted in agony, involuntarily clutching at his chest and throat. The pustules burs
t, spreading a thick, green fluid accompanied by the smell of rot. Like the others, he was bathed as best as possible, but it was a long time before his stomach had finally emptied itself.
When at last the news came that Grom had died, Faros nodded and said nothing. Faros had already reckoned him among the dead. Faros recalled Sargonnas’s words and wondered if the temple was somehow to blame. The way the plague had arisen and spread was almost supernatural.
In two-wheeled wagons piled high, the rebels brought the dead out of the ancient structure and down to the battlefield where bodies were still rotting. Now Faros agreed to burn the dead, and parties scavenged the countryside for fuel. The harsh landscape provided little good wood or brush. The pyres that did get lit often burned out with their grisly work only partly done.
A pale human and a thin female minotaur came to Faros as night fell upon the temple. Seeing their hesitant expressions, he paused in his sword practice. Try as he may to drown out what was happening, Faros could not escape the sounds and smells that pervaded the temple. With a snarl, he asked, “What?”
“We—” the bearded human swallowed. “We wanted to know if it were all right to remove Grom for—for—”
“For the pyre,” his companion managed to finish for him.
Faros snorted. “His body’s still there? He’s been dead a day! Go ahead and—” As he raised his hand to send them off, his mood shifted. “No. Wait. Be off with you! I’ll let you know when.”
As they rushed away, Faros sheathed his sword. He left his quarters, heading for the chamber where Grom lay.
Under the very statue that Faros had sliced open, the minotaur’s corpse lay in repose. A single torch set in the wall enabled Faros to see how someone had carefully arranged Grom’s axe in his arms. His garments had been straightened as best as possible, and if not for the marks of the plague—his gauntness was unsettling—he might have looked as though he died peacefully.
Faros suddenly found it hard to breathe. Visions swept past him. His father, his entire family. Ulthar the brigand. Bek the servant. Valun, who had escaped alongside Grom. Governor Jubal.
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