“Stay low!” he ordered the others, eyeing the scavengers still flying wide circles over the camp.
He crawled to the edge. A sudden wind blew stinging dust into his eyes, causing a painful blurriness. Gradually, however, his vision cleared, and he didn’t like what he saw.
The scavengers could smell the rotting meat from miles away.
“You see?” demanded Sahd in coarse Common. “You remember! They learned! Now you learn from them, yes?”
Several of the workers fell to their knees in abject horror. Others shook their heads in disgust.
Faros could only gape at the atrocity he witnessed.
Ten wooden poles had been placed east—near where the three escapees had entered the camp and fled the other night. The grisly decorations atop each pole stared in that direction.
Upon each pole was stuck the severed head of a slave.
Youth and elder, male and female, Sahd had chosen his examples at random. Before their executions, the minotaurs’ muzzles had been bound shut, so tight that the ropes had dug into the flesh. Blood stained the ropes. Faros could imagine the glee with which the ogres had tightened the ropes, their demonic laughter.
But Sahd had taken something greater than their lives from the minotaur slaves—he had insulted their heritage. From each dead slave, their horns had been shorn off at the base. The effort had not been a simple one, for the slaves would have struggled mightily, in spite of the ropes and the ogres kicking and stabbing at them. Shearing off their horns was an act of extreme shame and dishonor for the minotaurs, one that among Faros’s people symbolized a fate worse than death. By doing this, Sahd had defiled the victims, sending them to the afterlife bereft of that which marked them as the children of the Horned One.
Next to the stakes occupied by the ten bloodied, staring heads were ten more freshly cut, sharpened—and vacant—poles.
Sahd was sending an obvious message. The next incursion into his camp would trigger an equal number of executions.
“What is it?” called Grom carefully from behind him. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Faros said as he slid down. “We wait until it’s pitch dark, then like before—head for the supply hut.”
But something in Faros’s demeanor made Grom curious. Before anyone could stop him, the other minotaur had scrambled up the ridge to look.
“Faros—” Valun began.
“Sargas’s Horns!” they heard Grom gasp.
Glaring up at the other minotaur, Faros snarled quietly, “Why don’t you shout it out!”
Grom returned, gasping.
“What is it?” asked Valun. “What did you see?”
Grom told him what Faros could not, sputtering out the horror, telling of the heads and the sheared horns. Valun listened in shock, absently reaching to touch his own single horn.
When he had finished talking, Grom looked at Faros, who returned his stare silently. “What do we do now? What do we do?”
“Why not ask Sargonnas? Those poor slaves are beyond anything he can do for them. They’re beyond anything now.”
“You go too far, Faros. Sahd took their—”
But Faros, looking up at the heavens, cut him off with a sharp gesture. “There is still some light. It will be dark soon, and most of the ogres will be sleeping. Do you want to eat or die?”
Grom looked at Valun, who studied the earth at his feet. The latter slave nodded slowly. Grom exhaled then also nodded.
“As you say, Faros.”
If he no longer thought to avenge his own family, why, then, would he bother with a few fellow doomed slaves?
With his leg still not strong, Valun kept watch from the ridge. If he saw anything amiss, he would utter a shrill imitation of one of the night birds that dwelled in the higher hills. Whether or not that would be enough warning for Faros and Grom, no one could say, but it was the only way to do it. Valun’s bad leg would only slow them down; Faros had invented this task for the one-horned minotaur as much for his safety as for theirs.
Their surveillance revealed that Sahd had doubled his guard units. Faros led Grom to the old stone bridge and the river of molten earth flowing slowly under it. The lava glowed red-hot, with blackened patches. No one, not even the strongest, fittest minotaur could leap its width, which made crossing the bridge crucial.
Three ogres and a meredrake kept watch on the other side.
The heat was oppressive. The fur of both escaped slaves clung to their sweaty bodies. Grom wondered what clever plan Faros had in mind, for Faros had not bothered to fill him in on how they were going to get across the bridge. They crouched there for several minutes, looking across.
“What next?” Grom finally asked at a normal volume. The flow emitted a constant rumbling that made it impossible to hear a whisper. But the sentries couldn’t hear them unless they shouted out.
“I draw them out. Take this.” He handed Grom his dagger. “Be ready for my signal.”
“But—” But immediately Faros stepped out in the open. The moment he became visible to the guards, he staggered, stumbled, and fell to one knee. He moved as if half dazed and half dead.
Two of the ogres rushed forward. The last, still keeping the meredrake under control, watched warily. On his shoulder was a curled horn that could be used to warn the rest of the camp.
Club in one hand, the first ogre approached. Faros crawled along. Grom had to admit he was putting on a convincing act. The minotaur looked up at the ogre guard and called out, “Htowa! Htowa!”
The ogre chuckled at his desperate attempt to request water using their own tongue. The first one kicked Faros in the side. The other turned back to give the meredrake guard a signal that there was no imminent danger.
Grom held back. Faros was still in the midst of his performance.
The second ogre, a squatter, hirsute beast, then heavily prodded the stricken minotaur with the flat of his blade. When Faros made only a meager attempt to ward off the weapon, the guard whacked the side of his muzzle. Still, Faros did nothing but moan.
On the bridge, the third sentry shouted something. The one with the club replied then turned to hand the club to his companion.
That is when Faros’s hand darted up and seized the loosely held weapon. Before the startled guards could react, he had swung the club as hard as imaginable at the knee of the one wielding the sword.
Blood splattered the minotaur as the club burst through to the bone. The ogre screamed—a sound partly drowned out by the loud lava flow—and collapsed.
The first ogre lunged for Faros, but the minotaur managed so spin and kick the guard’s legs out from under him. As he leaped to his feet, Faros quickly glanced over at Grom, who was almost frozen watching, and pointed to the guard at the other end of the bridge.
Jumping up, Grom raced for the bridge. The ogre was focused on the fight between Faros and the guards, blithely enjoying what looked at that distance to be a little scrap the ogres were winning. Urging the meredrake forward, the sentry slowly began untying the horn in order to let the camp know they had caught one of the escapees.
As the guard he had tripped started to rise, Faros turned on the one with the shattered knee and clobbered him on the skull. The ogre’s jaw twisted to the side, and one of his tusks broke. He crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from his head wound.
The other guard had recovered and rushed to attack. He caught Faros in a chokehold before he had time to turn around.
As he ran toward the guard on the bridge, Grom was waving his arms, trying to distract him. The ogre was only momentarily confused before his wits returned and he hastily put the horn to his lips.
Grom threw the dagger.
The dagger struck, but fell short, striking him in the leg. Nonetheless the ogre lost his grip on the horn and instinctively reached to his wound as the horn fell over the side of the bridge.
The meredrake took advantage of the slackening of his leather leash.
The beast charged down the bridge toward the og
re struggling with the minotaur. Grom cried out, and Faros spun his adversary around. The meredrake moved fast for a species generally sluggish at night. The heat from the lava must have made it feel like day to the cold-blooded creature.
The guard managed to push himself away. Looking at the meredrake advancing upon him, Faros thought quickly—and grabbed his club, bashing the head of the dead ogre lying before him until its brains burst and there was blood all over the ground.
Given the choice between two fresh meals, one living and possibly dangerous, the other unmoving and giving off a bloody aroma, the reptile slowed and trotted toward the corpse.
Leaving the beast to its grisly meal, Faros dashed after the guard, who had raced back toward the bridge. Grom was by now wrestling with the handler, who had followed the meredrake down the bridge, but was looking over the side for the signal horn.
The other ogre guard slammed into Grom, and shoved past, calling the handler to follow him. Faros was seconds behind.
But the meredrake’s handler closed with Grom, wrapping his fingers around the minotaur’s throat. As Grom struggled, Faros flung himself past the pair, grabbing at the second ogre’s feet.
They tumbled around on the bridge. Faros struck the ogre’s jaw, sending the beastman’s head snapping back.
“Ki a’ hija f’han, Uruv Suurt!” roared the ogre. He drew a dagger and tried to ward off Faros. Faros received a slash on his leg, which, though it didn’t go deep, ran nearly the length of his calf.
Faros lowered his head and dived forward. He buried his horns just below the ogre’s heart, in his chest. The startled guard gasped then dropped his dagger. Faros drove him back.
They struck the side of the bridge. The ogre fell over the railing.
Faros tried to free his horns. The wounded guard grabbed at his shoulders, momentarily clutching him.
Other hands grabbed Faros from behind. With a horrific sucking sound, the minotaur’s horns came free.
The ogre guard, still grasping for Faros, fell backward, plummeting into the lava flow. His last screams as he sank into the searing lava were smothered by the molten earth’s rumble.
Faros stared at the bubbling area into which the ogre had vanished. A heavy hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.
He turned fiercely to greet the sweat- and blood-soaked countenance of Grom. “Are you all right? Your leg—”
“My leg is fine, but move faster next time,” Faros replied curtly. He glanced at the meredrake, deep in a feeding frenzy.
“What about the beast?”
“Leave it. It’ll finish then crawl off to sleep. Come, hurry. Grab that club. I don’t think anyone’s heard us.” Faros picked up the ogre’s fallen sword, preferring it to the club, which he dropped. It had been a long time since he had wielded a sword, but it felt good in his grip. “The supply hut’s not far.”
Grom turned from the grisly sight of the meredrake, made the winged sign of Sargonnas, and then hastily tried to catch up with Faros.
It would be a while before any other guard wandered over to check on the three who had been stationed at the bridge. With a little luck, the two minotaurs would have already finished their business.
Torchlight dotted the vicinity. Sahd had added more illumination, but there remained flickers and shadows in which Faros and Grom could duck as they edged toward the supply hut.
The eerie punishing platforms where Sahd hung prisoners for sport loomed ahead again. Faros heard Grom mutter another prayer under his breath. That fool praying was getting on Faros’s nerves.
All of a sudden, Grom veered away from him, heading to the east.
Faros ran after, seizing the other minotaur by the shoulder. “Not this time!”
“Forgive me, Faros!” his companion whispered. “Those heads on the poles … I must do something. It’s a matter of honor!”
“What’re you talking about?”
Grom glanced over his shoulder. “You go ahead to the supply hut. I will meet you there. Don’t worry about me. I will take the risk alone. The slaves still here—another ten will die if we succeed. I must give them a last chance for freedom!”
“We’ve no time for this foolishness—”
Grom whirled and raced toward the slave pens.
Tightly gripping his blade, Faros hesitated only a moment before giving a groan and chasing after the other minotaur. Faros eyed Grom’s back as the other minotaur kept ahead of him. One quick strike would end this madness. Trying to free any slaves meant certain death. Better to kill Grom himself, now.
However, Grom had too good of a head start. He reached the first of the pens. Hefting the club, Grom aimed for the chained bolt, which was wrapped around the high, wooden doors.
The sound of his first strike echoed monstrously in the night. Faros cursed, knowing he was too late. He turned back, hesitating again, thinking his only chance now was to take advantage of the confusion and rush the supply hut.
Grom cracked the bolt but did not break it. He hit it again and again, making tremendous noise but only a mess of his effort.
Snorting furiously and ignoring the cries and howls of the stirring camp, Faros sheathed his sword and snatched Grom’s club away from him. Shoving aside the other minotaur, he attacked the bolt with a primal fury that left his companion gaping.
In the pen, the slaves were calling out. Several pressed against the door. Desperate voices encouraged those outside.
Almost in a trance, Faros struck the chained bolt repeatedly. Finally it broke, the fragments scattering.
The gate burst open, and the first ragged escapees nearly bowled Faros over. They poured out of the pen. Some took off into the darkness, but others swarmed Faros, touching him gratefully.
“Run!” he commanded. “Run, you fools!”
Now they headed off in every direction. Grom shouted for them to turn south, which offered the greatest hope, but many did not hear him.
Balls of flame flying out of the darkness gave the first indication of guards rushing around. Faros bared his teeth in a smile. Let them chase the slaves. That might cover what he needed to do.
“What about the other pens?” Grom asked.
“Leave them … there’s no time now.”
Grom couldn’t disagree. Guards were rushing toward the pens.
The pair raced toward the supply hut. The guards there were heading toward the pens. Shouts and screams filled the air.
Only one sentry was left behind, and he was quickly taken by surprise. Strange how Grom’s insane good deed was paying off.
Looking over his shoulder, Faros was astonished to see that several of the freed slaves had stealthily followed him. He swiftly gave them orders. Grom broke the chains of a few slaves, while he attacked the door. It swiftly yielded to his fury.
“Get in there and grab whatever food you can,” he told the slaves.
To the east, an ogre voice with a chilling familiarity rose above the others, shouting and cursing. Faros’s eyes glittered.
Sahd.
“Faster!” Grom snapped at the slaves, who were rushing in and out, their hands full. “That’s the last of them, Faros!”
“Into the hills, then! Grom, show them the way!”
Faros lingered behind, eager to slay more ogres this night, but the fleeing slaves had created too effective a diversion. To his disappointment, no other ogres materialized to challenge his eager sword.
“Hurry, Faros!” called Grom from the bridge.
With reluctance, he turned and sprinted away. The commotion within the camp continued, but the noise grew more distant.
Faros almost felt satisfaction as he entered the night-enshrouded hills. He had hurt Sahd this time. Not only had he stolen vital supplies, he had got away with a handful of the slaves Sahd needed to make his quota. Sahd would strike out at the ones who remained behind, but that was none of his concern. The blow he had dealt his former torturer was all that mattered.
And Faros now knew that he would return here. He was filled w
ith a desire to hurt Sahd.… and he would do so, again and again, even if it meant not only his death, but those foolish enough to follow him.
The empress and high priestess Nephera floated through the palace, all but oblivious to the bows and solicitous comments by the many courtiers she passed. They were her husband’s toadies, mortal flesh that she found less and less worthy of notice. Better if they all died, she found herself thinking more often nowadays, so they could serve a higher power through her.
Trailing Nephera were her own ethereal servants. They were not seen by the mortals, which amused the high priestess. The strange and disturbing retinue of ghosts intermingled with those of the flesh, but passed through them without notice, without care. Now and then, one of the guards or lackeys would shiver and glance over his shoulder, but he never knew why.
The candles of tiered chandeliers flickered oddly as the high priestess passed, as the flames were more susceptible than the living to the otherworldly elements. Centuries of emperors, triumphant and failed, were posed on each side of Nephera. The painted reliefs and hulking statues amused her almost as much as the ignorance of the palace staff. Not one of these historical figures, from the saintly posing Ambeoutin with his ax across his lap to her own, ogre-battling husband, understood the true meaning of power. To them, strength was in the sword, the ax. Only Nephera, after many years of study and prayer, knew better.
One of her husband’s toadies suddenly stood before her, bowing, but in a manner she diagnosed as cursory. Captain Doolb’s expression was respectful, but she read the secret depths of distrust in his eyes. When he did not immediately speak to her, Nephera met his gaze, let him look into her own suspicious black orbs.
The graying Guard officer finally tore his eyes away. “My lady, the emperor will be pleased to see that you’ve returned.”
“So good of you to say so,” she remarked.
“I trust you’ll have a pleasant visit with him,” said Captain Doolb.
Tides of Blood Page 11