Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  A curved ax blade brushed across his shoulder, scraping off some skin and fur, and leaving a wound that stung him but otherwise did not slow his charge. Bastion lunged at the ax-wielding attacker, driving him back. The rebel’s eyes revealed his desperation, but still he tried to fight bravely. Bastion rewarded his bravery with a quick thrust to the chest that ended his misery.

  He caught sight of the barrel-chested young commander, just as the latter ran through an overconfident minotaur from the imperial force. Then Bastion saw the heavyset figure abruptly withdraw his blade and edge away from the struggle, toward the aft.

  Jumping over the rebel he had slain, Bastion pursued the enemy leader. Just then another sailor blocked his way, his ax swinging wildly within inches of Bastion. The black-furred minotaur stumbled back, nearly slipping on the moist deck.

  The rebel sailor swung viciously. His ax bit into the wooden planks near Bastion’s sandaled feet, sending splinters flying.

  “I know you,” growled his adversary. “Saw you before when I served in the legions! You’re his son! You’re the son of One-Eyed Hotak!”

  “If you surrender now, your life will be spared,” Bastion replied calmly.

  The mariner, the two rings in his ear jingling crazily, laughed. “Spared? Ha! Spared to be sent to the mines!”

  He brought the ax around in a swift, savage arc, intending to behead Bastion. Eagerness made his swing go wide, though, and—worse for the sailor—the miss dragged him forward.

  Bastion darted under the other minotaur’s arms and buried the tip of his blade in the latter’s throat.

  With a gurgle of protest, the sailor dropped his weapon and collapsed. His dying expression was frozen in bitterness and disdain.

  Bastion raced in the direction where the rebel commander had disappeared. The ship upon which they fought had once been part of the imperial fleet, and he knew its design. The cabins of the officers would be somewhere below deck at the very rear.

  He vaulted down the wooden steps, at the bottom stepping over the corpse of one of his own loyal men, likely slain by the officer he sought. The black minotaur slid forward cautiously; death might lurk behind any of the seven doors in this narrow corridor.

  At the end of the corridor was the door to the captain’s cabin, decorated by a gold kraken symbol. From within, he heard what sounded like someone ransacking the room. As Bastion reached the door, however, he was given away by the creaking plank floor.

  All the noise inside the room suddenly ceased.

  Bastion took a breath—then heaved himself through the door.

  He collided with a grunting, shadowed figure. The two fell backward, crashing against a round oak table anchored to the floor. The table collapsed under their combined weight, sending them sprawling. Both lost control of their weapons.

  Thick fingers sought Bastion’s throat. He shoved up with his right hand, pushing his adversary’s head back.

  “You’ll not get them!” snarled the stout young rebel.

  One hand jerked away from Bastion’s neck, enabling him to twist around for advantage. Bastion strained to remove the other.

  Then the rebel’s free hand came back into view, gripping a dagger.

  Bastion froze in fear.

  Suddenly, the other minotaur gave a violent start. His eyes rolled up and his tongue fell loose over one side of his jaw. The dagger looming above Bastion dropped harmlessly to the floor.

  He slumped on top of the imperial leader.

  Someone immediately hauled the corpse off him. Bastion made out two of his fighters, each pulling the dead rebel by a leg.

  “Just in time. Are you all right, my lord?” asked one of them.

  “W-well enough,” Bastion returned. “I would have preferred to have kept the leader alive for interrogation … but I thank you.”

  One helped him to his feet. Bastion turned to face the disaster that the rebel had wreaked inside the cabin. Charts and papers had been swept from every shelf, every nook. Drawers had been emptied. Most of the parchments and maps had been thrown into a pile. Bastion glanced at the round, brass oil lamp swinging from the center of the ceiling. A few seconds more, and the cabin—all these documents—would have been an inferno.

  “How goes the battle?” he asked.

  “Just moppin’ up, my lord. Most of the trash’re dead.”

  “I want this vessel searched from top to bottom. Any surviving officers are to be separated from the other prisoners.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The two minotaurs rushed off.

  Bastion crouched, picking out some of the charts. One showed the eastern shore of Ansalon, the Blood Sea region, and, to the east, the large twin islands of Mithas and Kothas, the heart of the empire. On Mithas, the imperial capital, Nethosak, was highlighted.

  Other maps revealed various obscure parts of the realm beyond the Blood Sea, including Thorak and Thuum, in the southeast, and the agricultural colony of Amur, far to the northeast. Such charts were the standard ones found aboard any minotaur vessel. Several had fresh notations, updating the ports and colonies, such as the new mining settlement of Firemount in the east.

  One after another, Bastion tossed the maps aside. Wait—a frown touched his bovine features. He reached for the last two he had discarded. Something had belatedly registered with him.

  A careful perusal of the first revealed nothing of importance. Bastion picked up the other map and spread it out.

  A faint marking on the far right edge caught his attention.

  Interesting. Someone had scribbled in the name of a small, insignificant island then had attempted to blot it out. After much effort, Bastion’s sharp eyes puzzled out the name.

  Quickly, he rolled up the chart then dashed from the cabin. On deck, Bastion found Magraf directing the roundup near the bow. The rough-hewn officer had a fresh streak of blood across his chest and his muzzle was plainly bruised on one side. Yet he proudly sported a sixth ring in his ear.

  “Captain! How soon can we be off and underway?”

  “Two hours, maybe. There’s lots to do and we’re still debatin’ whether to sink or save this ship. It’d be—”

  “Sink it, and fast. It will only slow us down, and at the moment, we need to move with all possible speed. We need to return to the nearest imperial port and fortify ourselves for a long trip.”

  Rings clattering, Captain Magraf eyed him. “You found something, my lord?”

  “I believe I have.” He unrolled the chart and showed the mariner the designated place. “Do you recognize it?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that island. And something is rubbed out there—but what does it mean?

  “It may be the key to ending this rebellion once and for all.”

  “Truly?” Magraf bared his teeth. “Then I’ll be givin’ the command for each hand to double their efforts! Leave the dead behind. We’ll be away from here in an hour, no more, my lord!”

  He turned away, shouting for the first mate. Bastion started to roll up the map, then took one last glance at the almost illegible name that hinted at the culmination of this struggle.

  “Petarka …” he whispered. “Petarka …”

  Grom knelt by his dead companion’s side, drawing with his finger some invisible symbol on the corpse’s chest.

  “It’s a bird,” Valun quietly explained to the unsympathetic Faros. “Grom’s father was a priest of Sargas … once.”

  Grom arranged the mutilated body so that it looked at peace. “He never gave up hope that the Horned One would return to his children. Trained me in all the proper rituals.”

  Faros snorted. “A calling without a future.”

  “Aye, it is that.” The minotaur with the ruined muzzle continued to administer to his fallen friend. “We can bury Sephram now.”

  Faros had not told the two escaped slaves that Sephram had still been alive, albeit barely, when he had discovered him in the cave. As far as the pair knew, their friend had already been slain by the ogre, and Faros had fortuitously ave
nged his death. He had not bothered to correct any misimpression they might have.

  “Surprised he made it this far,” Valun muttered ruefully. “Surprised any of us did.” The one-horned minotaur gazed up at Faros. “If not for you, we, too, would be dead.”

  His bold, if unplanned, rescue of them had elevated Faros in their eyes, made him their unequivocal leader. The two were already looking to him for every decision. Faros disliked their admiration, for it dredged up old and forgotten memories of his family, his clan, his honor. Hotak’s assassins had slain his entire family. His father, dying in his arms, had entreated him to do whatever was necessary to avenge his family; so far Faros had failed miserably. He cared nothing about the two minotaurs—or honor.

  “There’s a ravine a short distance beyond,” he told the two. “Better than trying to dig through rock with your fingers.”

  Grom took a small bowl of water and sprinkled a few drops of it over Sephram. “As you command,” he said.

  Snorting his contempt, Faros tried to change the subject. “Who was … Kos?”

  It was not Grom who answered, but Valun. Somewhere along the way, he had picked up a small, dry piece of bone and, with an edged rock, had begun scratching the sides of it. “Kos? Ah Kassion, you mean. He was … he was the supposed mastermind of our escape.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Sahd.”

  Faros grunted.

  Grom seemed reluctant to give details. “Sahd was waiting. The master himself was there. You should’ve seen the beast’s grin!”

  “I have seen it.” How many times had he looked up while being whipped to see the chief ogre, one tusk bent to the side, grinning evilly at the entertainment? His macabre countenance only added to his aura. Long ago in the past, some desperate slave had managed to thrust a hot torch stump into Sahd’s face, burning away his nose and giving him a perpetual crushed sneer. Rumor had it that the dried head of that slave sat upon a shelf in the taskmaster’s quarters, holding a place of honor.

  “We were almost past the boundaries of the camp when they caught us. Sephram fell first. Sahd laughed and grabbed the leash of a muzzled meredrake, brought the lizard up just close enough for it to reach ’im with the talons.”

  “Kassion went back to try and save him?”

  “Aye. Took a guard’s lance and drove it into the lizard’s throat.” Grom looked proud. “Slew the creature with one blow. That’s something, at least.”

  Grom and Valun had managed to rescue Sephram, but Kassion’s bravery had cost him. One of Sahd’s guards had struck the minotaur in the side with a club. A second club shattered one knee. A third brought the trapped slave to the ground.

  “We could hear them beating away at him while we ran away. Over and over, the same dull thud, thud, thud … long after it should’ve been enough. Long after we were too far away to hear.”

  Silence reigned for some time, then Valun, looking up from his crude carving, asked, “Why’re you still around here? You got out days ago. We thought you were dead, or safe.”

  “I was planning to run for the coast.”

  “Why wait so long? Why stay where the ogres can easily find you again?”

  Instead of answering directly, Faros marched over to where Grom still knelt and seized the crude bowl he’d fashioned days ago from rock. Faros had taken a stone and, much like Valun was doing with the bone, had worked the piece until it could hold a reasonable amount of liquid. “You’ll need more water,” he said.

  “I’ll go—” Valun started to say, but Faros left the cave abruptly.

  He had discovered a freshwater spring by pure chance the first night after his escape. In pursuit of a gaunt, blunt-nosed lizard—which he’d caught and eaten still squirming—Faros had stumbled across the water streaming from a rocky hillside covered with small, sharp plants. The plants had a tart aftertaste that offset the rank lizard, while the water was bitter, full of minerals. But he had drunk it as if it were the finest wine. It allowed him to live, and that was all that mattered.

  The night wind was as dry and abusive as that in the daytime. Nothing about this hard region offered any relief, save the spring. Faros looked in the direction of the mining camp, seeing the faint glow that resulted from not only torchlight, but the pools of molten earth pushed up by the constant activity of the earth. Some day, this area would explode with violent eruptions in much the same manner as had devastated parts of Vyrox generations earlier. The Vyrox catastrophe had destroyed a promising settlement and the lives of several hundred minotaurs, whereas Faros would be happy for any explosion here that would wipe out Sahd’s little kingdom, even if it meant sacrificing every slave.

  Why’re you here? Valun’s question suddenly burned in Faros’s mind. The minotaur grunted in consternation. He admitted to himself that he didn’t know the answer to that vexing question. He reached down and threw some water into his face.

  If the ogres did not find him, eventually the harsh conditions here would kill him. Only death awaited Faros here. That was certainly true. He could have been caught and torn apart by the meredrake or beaten to a pulp by the ogres.

  The thought of perishing in such a grisly manner did not bother Faros very much.

  With the bowl full, Faros made his way to the cave. He pushed through the narrow entrance, keeping the bowl before him.

  Grom and Valun had picked up Sephram’s body, preparing to carrying him out of the cave, but Valun’s injured leg made him of little help. Faros set the bowl aside, seized Valun’s end of the burden, and aided Grom in carrying the corpse out of the cave. It was hard going, and Valun stayed behind when they continued to the ravine.

  “We should do more,” Grom muttered, after his comrade had been tossed into the chasm, and they had tossed a few clods of dirt and some rocks in after the dead minotaur. This—after Grom had whispered one last prayer to a deity no longer able to hear it.

  Faros started back. Grom reluctantly turned and followed.

  Valun sat against the far wall of the cave, near the small fire they permitted themselves. The bone he had been working on was now covered in symbols representing various images of minotaur life—a ship, a fish, an ax, two figures intertwined. His skill showed, but Faros cared less; these were things better forgotten.

  “Tomorrow morning, we split up. I’m staying. you both leave.”

  “But we owe you our lives!” insisted Grom, unconsciously making the condor symbol over his heart. “Honor demands—”

  “There is no such thing as honor.” That finished it for Faros, but the other two looked shocked and tried to continue.

  Valun pushed himself up. “You should come with us!”

  “Aye, three can survive better than one!”

  Faros snorted. His new companions had devoured his meager store of food supplies in one sitting. He would have to spend the next day hunting whatever he could, thereby risking discovery.

  Grom caught his glance toward the scraps—the green hides of the plants covered the mangled bones and black feathers of the scavenger bird Faros had lured to death with bits of lizard a day earlier. “Honor demands that we stay, at least until we can replenish your food supply! Tomorrow we’ll hunt together.”

  Three minotaurs hunting—that would be a great attraction for the ogres and meredrakes. Besides, the newcomers were amateurs, and they could never hunt enough to keep them all going strong, not here. Faros almost repeated his demand that the two escapees leave this place in the morning … but then he saw the pleading in their eyes, and he had a sudden impulse to voice the notion he had been playing with in the back of his mind.

  There was one place where there was an ample supply of food could be found. By himself, Faros had only been able to scrounge an existence, but with two additional sets of hands.…

  “We’ll hunt, all right,” he replied with grim satisfaction. “We’ll hunt from the hunters.”

  The world lay at his fingertips … at least a fairly accurate representation of it.


  Hotak de-Droka, former first general of the legions and for the past several years high emperor of the minotaurs, surveyed the relief map spread out on the vast table in the command room. Here he had the geography of the imperium laid out in clear, simple form. In addition to the many charts and maps covering virtually every wall, there was a special map laid out on the long table that stretched from end to end in the room. This large map was centered on the islands of Mithas and Kothas—the heart of the realm—but also included most of the islands to the east that made up the other territory of the empire, and to the west the vast rippling continent of Ansalon. What belonged to the minotaur realm was colored gold, and what Hotak intended to annex or conquer was colored green.

  The west was dotted with so much green that it looked like a thick forest of trees.

  Clad in full legion regalia, with his breastplate bearing the black warhorse silhouette of his former regiment, Hotak swept back his long, purple cloak and briefly surveyed the map—along with a stack of missives piled on the map—with his one good eye. Years before, he had lost his left eye routing an ogre attack on a now-abandoned colony on Ansalon’s shore. One of the missives came from a now-close ally who sprang from that same race. Ironic—but then, Hotak had learned long ago that yesterday’s enemy was likely to be tomorrow’s friend. In his violent rise to emperor, many of those once loyal to his side had fallen to his ax.

  Gray touched Hotak’s brown fur near the temples and throughout his mane, and his brow remained perpetually furrowed, though once, long ago, he had seemed good-humored for his kind. Since seizing the throne from his predecessor, the corrupt Chot, Hotak had aged greatly, but he accepted that as one price of leadership. His reflexes had in no way slowed, and he felt his wits were as quick as ever. Especially when he was in the company of his wife, and her mood was equable, he felt almost youthful.