As he rejoined his companions, the slim figure looked back at her. “Farewell, Mari,” he said gently. “May Sargas watch over you.”
She snorted at his use of the old god’s name. Maritia had grown up worshiping only her father and the force of arms. Then, as he turned to go, suddenly she was gripped by doubt. She stepped toward her brother and shouted, “Wait!”
Bastion slowly turned. Rejoining her, he quietly asked, “What?”
“Why is Faros so eager to propose this pact?”
“I told you, it was my idea. He would fight forever, but for my sake, for the sake of his followers, and yes, the empire, he agreed to propose it,” the black minotaur answered cautiously.
She nodded, thinking. No one but the two of them could hear what she said next. Nor could anyone but Bastion see when Maritia removed from one finger a signet ring with the warhorse crest as centerpiece.
“Father gave each of us one of these, all unique.”
“Mine was lost at sea, unfortunately.”
“You know I wouldn’t part with this unless I was serious. Take it as a sign of my agreement, at least to meet with your Faros and discuss this plan of yours. Tell no one but him.”
“Of course.” A light seemed to come back into Bastion’s eyes. “Mari, this is the best thing …”
She kept her emotions guarded. “You’d better leave now.”
Nodding, Bastion slipped the ring into a belt pouch then started back to his comrades. Maritia returned to the soldiers, turning around to observe her brother as he mounted up and disappeared up the dark path.
“We’re just letting them go?” an officer asked crossly, though he was acutely aware that Bastion was Maritia’s brother.
“The traditions of truce!” Hotak’s daughter snapped vehemently. Her mind was racing. She wasn’t sure why she had just agreed to meet with Faros, wasn’t sure whether she intended a treaty or not. “You have trouble with the concept of honor too?”
He bowed his horns. “Nay, my lady.”
Immediately, she turned to her subordinates. “All right! Mount up! I want to be back in the capital before Pryas arrives! I don’t trust that Protector.…”
Maritia leapt atop her horse and urged it around. She paid little heed to the legionaries as they scrambled to follow. All that mattered was returning to the colony as quickly as possible. Maritia had much to do and she would have to do it all quietly. The treverian, Novax, proved that Bastion still had admirers and friends among the legionaries. She did not want to alert her brother.
For all her talk of honor, Maritia knew now what she had to do. She planned a betrayal of her own brother. She had lied to him. She could not let this opportunity pass. She would agree to a meeting with Faros, then, unlike this time, she would arrange an ambush. She wanted the rebel leader taken alive, but one way or another, Faros Es-Kalin would be eliminated as a threat to the empire.
As for Bastion … he had made his foolish choice. Their father had taught them to respect honor, but her brother had forgotten that Hotak also believed first and foremost in victory. He had massacred Chot and his family during the Night of Blood. She would finish the nephew during this false peace parley. All for the good of the empire.
If, during the ambush, Bastion attempted to stop her … she swore to herself she would do what she must, regardless of how much it would pain her.
The hefty ogre Nagroch waited impatiently, watching Maritia and Bastion finally separate. His party had been hidden in the high rocks overlooking the meeting for seeming hours. His limbs were aching from not moving, his ears sore from straining to hear.
“Bya syng … go now,” muttered his brother, after the rebels had gone, followed by the minotaurs.
Belgroch had not learned patience. He had not sat beside Golgren long enough to understand. The older ogre knew that command of this important task meant failure rested on his head alone—a head that, in the case of failure, would be forcibly detached from his neck.
Ten more warriors handpicked by Nagroch waited on horseback some distance behind the pair. They had even less patience, but they feared their leader and so satisfied themselves by rocking back and forth in the saddle. It was a primitive form of relaxation, used by the shamans as they entered their trances. Warriors made use of it when faced with interminable waiting.
“Nya bya syng,” Nagroch growled back. They would wait for the sign that the Grand Lord had promised would come. What form it would take he did not know, but his master had promised that it would come and that it would be a clear sign.
Nagroch …
He jolted up. Had he just heard Golgren’s voice in his head?
Then the ogre suddenly noticed that someone stood before him. An Uruv Suurt! He pulled back and reached for his weapon, then gaped when he realized that the minotaur stood beyond his vantage point—and floated several hundred feet above the ground below.
“Zola un, i’Nagrochi?” asked Belgroch, gazing at his brother curiously.
Nagroch realized only he could see the ghostly figure hovering before him, a ghostly figure whose face he recognized from a meeting past. The Uruv Suurt called Kolot, son of Hotak.
Nagroch, came Golgren’s voice again. Although the voice resounded in the warrior’s head, somehow he knew the specter was the source. Nagroch’s blood-shot eyes widened. Great was the power of the Grand Lord, who used the dead to speak his messages!
The ghost pointed toward the south, where the legionaries rode toward the minotaur lands. The Lady Maritia goes untouched.
He had suspected as much. Golgren had an unusual fondness for this particular Uruv Suurt.
Kolot, the gaping hole in his throat almost a second mouth, repulsive and frightening even to Nagroch, pointed then in the direction of the brother, Bastion. For just a brief moment, Nagroch imagined he saw a faint look of remorse struggle to the shade’s countenance.
F’han, came Golgren’s voice.
That said, the unearthly messenger faded away immediately. Nagroch needed no more. His froglike face relaxed, spreading into a grin again. He looked at his brother, who wore an expression of utter bewilderment.
“F’han!” Nagroch rumbled, indicating Bastion’s group.
The two ogres eagerly rushed to their mounts.
The journey through the badlands was a long one, made even longer for Bastion by second thoughts about having summoned Maritia to a meeting. He had expected little better, but the reality had been harsher than even he had calculated.
Scarcely noticing the steep, upward climb required of their horses to eventually reach the other side of the rocky hill and then to the rebels’ stronghold, Bastion replayed everything in his mind. He could see no way by which the outcome would have differed. Maritia had always been the one most like their father, stubborn to a fault. There could be no reason in her eyes for joining those trying to bring an end to Hotak’s dream, especially if the leader was kin to Chot. Perhaps if she had met Faros, things would be different, but she never would now. Bastion guessed his sister was trying to set up a betrayal, and he vowed to himself that there would be no second attempt at a treaty.
“Finally at the top,” one of the others grunted.
In the distance, the silence of the region was broken by the sound of rushing water. At least there was one river in this godforsaken place. When they descended to the other side, they would refill their water sacks then finish their journey. A flat ridge ran off to their right, ending in a cliff overlooking the river. To their left and front, rock formations jutted up several yards high like the tusks of ogres.
“We should’ve taken ’em,” another minotaur grunted. “We could’ve gotten the soldiers and captured her, Lord Bastion. Your sister would’ve made a good hostage in future, um, negotiations.”
He stirred. “Out of the question. Whatever the outcome of the meeting, it was important to uphold the traditions of truce, otherwise we’re no better than the brigands we’re made out to be—”
A flicker of movement
from above caught his eye. Bastion gazed in that direction but saw nothing. Nevertheless, he stretched in the saddle, his hand straying toward his axe.
“Never mind,” the black-furred figure said at the same time. “We’re in no worse position than Makel at the gates.”
“Makel?” blurted one of his companions, fingers grazing the hilt of his sword. Every minotaur warrior knew the moment in history Bastion had mentioned. Makel Ogrebane had been ambushed by the enemy near the gates of an abandoned ogre settlement. Many of his followers had perished, but he had pushed the others to victory, leading the way and perishing himself.
Among legionaries, though, the reference had another meaning. “Makel at the gates” was code. Like the legendary hero, the one who uttered it warned his comrades they were about to be ambushed. A moment later, the ogres led by the two brutish brothers, Nagroch and Belgroch, fell upon them. Four ogre riders on huge steeds charged from the front. Four more came from behind.
“Forward!” Bastion shouted, making a decision as to the best possible escape.
Weapons out, the five met the first of the enemy. If they could carve a hole in the ogres’ ranks, then they could escape. Minotaurs were always ready to die in battle, but they were outnumbered, and they had a duty to report to Faros. As soon as they collided with the ogres on horses, more dropped down from the rocks above. All were fully armored warriors of Blöde.
“J’ara iy f’han i Uruv Suurt!” thundered a particularly ugly one whom Bastion concluded must be the leader. He tried to force his way over to him, but another ogre jumped forward and blocked his way.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his companions drop as two ogres pummeled him with their clubs. Jaw broken, head askew, the minotaur fell limply from his mount.
Trapped in a compact area, he suddenly understood how stupid he had been; he and his small group were easy prey for the ambushers. He ran his blade through the ogre leering in front of him, but a second member of the rebel party slumped forward in the saddle then was dragged down by an ogre on foot.
“Stay together! Wedge!” With the two remaining rebels behind him, Bastion attempted to shove his way forward. An ogre on foot slashed at him with a chipped axe and was rewarded with the edge of the black minotaur’s blade through his cheekbone.
Then Bastion’s steed balked. He suddenly found himself tumbling forward. A spear had found the animal’s neck. Throwing himself to the side, Bastion avoided grasping hands. He allowed himself to roll, breaking free of the tangle of bodies.
Unfortunately, Bastion rose to discover he was at the cliff’s edge. One quick glance was enough to tell him that leaping into the river would prove his death as quickly as an ogre blade.
Heavy breathing behind him warned the minotaur of an lunging attacker. Bastion let the ogre’s momentum work for him. Grabbing his adversary by the arm, he whirled the latter off the cliff. The river quickly drowned out the plummeting ogre’s scream.
As Bastion turned back, the last of his companions died, the rebel’s head detached by an axe. A little over half of the ogres remained, at least a dozen of the grotesque warriors, and they slowly began to collect around him.
One rushed to grapple with him. It was the ogre Bastion had initially mistaken for leader of the attackers. This ogre’s breath stank so much that the minotaur almost vomited. He saw that his foe was too young, too careless, to be the leader.
He pushed the ogre back then thrust. The breastplate deflected his strike. Grinning wide, the ogre chopped at him. The wide arc of his swing forced Bastion to the precipice. The rebel tried to fend off the axe, only to have his sword batted free.
“F’han, Uruv Suurt!” his opponent barked triumphantly.
Bastion knew the word well enough. F’han. Death.
Bastion understood how to wield an axe as well as any sword. He could throw a mace or fire a bow as well as any soldier. For a time, as a young officer, the son of Hotak had even served as a lancer. Now, though, he had none of those weapons at, so he used the one that legend said the god Sargonnas had granted his chosen so that they would never go unarmed.
With a war cry, Bastion bent and charged the ogre. The cry startled the ogre. He left himself open. One of Bastion’s horns dented his breastplate, but did not pierce, but the other drove cleanly through the metal then sank deep into his foe’s chest at the lung.
Blood splattered Bastion’s eyes, burning them. He heard a gurgling noise from the ogre. The two spun about, the ogre dancing on the edge.
Bastion fought to pull free, but as his horn reluctantly sucked free of the dying ogre, a horrific pain shot through the minotaur’s back. Every nerve, every muscle shook uncontrollably. He felt a gaping wound, moistness spreading down to his waist.
An experienced fighter, Bastion’s last conscious thought was that he had probably been struck a terrible blow in the back by an axe. Vertigo overtook him. He felt desperation and regret. He had lost his place in the empire, lost his family, and had failed Faros. Now he had lost his life.
“I will not dishonor you …” Bastion was not certain who he meant—his father, Faros, himself—but with his last gasp he pushed forward, grabbing at the ogre he had gored, who had fallen and was trying to rise, and pushing both of them over the cliff.
He did not even feel the harsh, raging current as they hit the water.
The vast, oak dining table shuddered under the stress of two heavy minotaur bodies crashing against it. Roars of encouragement ensued from those seated around the table as the duo grappled. At the head of the table, the emperor sat shouting with the best of them. A jerk of his hand spilled wine and splattered his breastplate, but he paid the mess no mind. It was only the latest in a spreading series of stains from this evening’s entertainment.
The high, intricate tapestries depicting some of the most renowned emperors also bore stains and several displayed cuts from wildly-brandished weapons. The marble walls on which the tapestries hung shared in the misfortune, as did the mosaic floor with its depiction of Ambeoutin leading his people to freedom. The image of the first ruler of the minotaurs was buried beneath strewn food. His followers peeked out from carelessly discarded garments.
Even the tiered, five-sided iron chandeliers had not escaped the drunken excess, and it was a wonder that a fire did not spread, what with so many candles askew. The chandeliers swung back and forth as revelers too drunk to stand leaned heavily on the chains in the walls that lowered and raised them.
Throughout it all, the guards at the door and against the wall behind the emperor maintained their erect postures. Despite bits of food and wine that disgraced their uniforms, the warriors showed no sign of reaction. Ardnor had punished for far less.
More than a score of participants—all members of the faithful—were celebrating. There was no reason for their celebration, but then, there didn’t have to be. Such parties happened nearly every night and often during the day. Ardnor was emperor, after all, the undisputed lord of the realm. What he commanded was done immediately. He enjoyed commanding parties.
A young acolyte from the temple who looked very unlike an earnest priestess stumbled into Ardnor’s lap. He clutched her tightly, forgetting the ongoing wrestling match until the two combatants spilled into the remains of the roasted goat, scattering plates laced with gold and silver. Crushed apples and mashed bits of wheat and rye bread covered the fighters now. Both laughed wildly as they fought, the more wiry minotaur with one slightly-bent horn finally gaining the advantage. They kicked over one of the high-backed chairs with the symbol of the warhorse carved in it as they twisted around in each other’s clutches.
Onlookers bet on the outcome, tossing coins into the helms of the adversaries, which had been set upside down on one end of the table. The coins in the loser’s helmet would be split among the smart bettors, with a share going to the winner himself.
One drunken wagerer, who leaned too close in order to encourage his chosen fighter, suffered for his foolishness as a stray fist caught
him in the lower muzzle. The streak of blood running down his muzzle was more because the staggering figure accidentally bit his tongue than because of the force of the blow.
Still squeezing tight his giggling acolyte, Ardnor bellowed his approval. He glanced up—and his expression abruptly turned stormy. Without warning, he flung his companion to the side and leapt to his feet. Caught up in the game, the others did not notice until Ardnor slammed a fist on the rounded table, creating a foot-long crack.
“Get out! All of you! Go! Now!”
They froze, stunned and uncertain they had heard right, yet one look at the crimson eyes of the emperor and they quickly gathered their belongings and fled through the doors. The guards separated the two inebriated wrestlers and guided them out.
Even this did not satisfy Ardnor. He seized one of the guards stationed behind him, shoving the hapless soldier forward. “I said all of you! Everyone! Shut the door behind you!”
When at last he was alone, Ardnor turned to glare at the soiled and frayed tapestry with fresh spatters of blood. With an animalistic growl, Ardnor stared up at the image of his father. Hotak stood posed with his helm in one arm and one foot resting on the body of a fallen Nerakian. Gold and silver scrollwork surrounded the portrait. The artist had purposely designed it so Hotak’s one good eye was dominant and appeared to meet the gaze of his son.
One of the blood drops trickled down from that eye, and in his imagination, Ardnor felt the condemnation of his father.
“I was your heir!” he snarled at the tapestry. “Groomed to take your place! I’ve only done what should’ve been done!”
The image, of course, said nothing in reply, but that only enraged the brutish Ardnor. Roaring, he swept his thick arm across the table, sending goblets, plates, food remnants, and more crashing to the floor.
Empire of Blood Page 10