Waiting for their deaths.
And in the forefront, mere yards before the legionaries, the young minotaur with the fatalistic look on his face, the piercing eyes, stood surrounded—and untouched—by a dozen or so bolts that had gone amiss. Some had hit the ground inches from him.
Again without tone or expression, he said, “There’s proof for those uncertain. Each of us before you bears the mark of the ogre. Each of us bears the brand of eternal shame. You know of it. You know its look.” He twisted his shoulder toward them. “It’s here for any of you to see—the scars of the alliance.”
General Argotos opened his mouth to give another order to attack, but grumblings and mutterings arose before he could spout his directive. He turned his furious gaze toward the source.
Everywhere, these well-honed, seasoned, and loyal warriors were talking in low voices among themselves. They pointed at the kneeling figures, some arguing heatedly. A few legionaries gestured at their own shoulders and one actually started forward.
“Stand your positions! Discipline in the ranks!” roared a beefy hekturion. With the flat of his ax, he beat the one soldier back into line. His shouts were taken up by other officers, and some degree of order was swiftly restored to the Dragonsbane Legion.
General Argotos looked among his aides. “Captain Sarnol!”
A young, athletic minotaur with a long snout urged his mount to the general. Argotos pointed at the light brown figure and commanded, “You’re an expert archer! Shoot that one down!”
“But, general! He’s unarmed! It would be shameful! A disgraceful—”
Bristling, Argotos snorted, “We are under orders from the emperor! If you won’t shoot him, then ride up and challenge him! Make him take up his sword! He wants to die! Let him!”
“Aye … general.…” With painful reluctance, Sarnol turned his horse toward the opposition. Urging his mount on, he raced toward his adversary. As the captain neared him, he drew his ax. With a less-than-enthusiastic war cry, he swung the weapon twice over his head, a clear challenge to the leader of the renegades.
Yet, with a continued expression of detachment, the lone figure left his sword in the dirt and instead turned slightly to the side. He leaned his shoulder toward the oncoming legionary.
Seeing that the minotaur was not making any move to defend himself, Sarnol hesitated. He reined in his mount as he neared then cautiously lowered his weapon. He muttered something to the standing figure, flourishing the ax menacingly, to no avail.
His foe simply continued to present his scarred shoulder.
“What in the name of the emperor is that fool doing?” The general looked to his other officers, but they had no answer.
Then, a collective gasp from his legionaries made Argotos quickly return his glance to the two sparring minotaurs.
Captain Sarnol, his expression bitter, threw down his ax.
Sarnol turned to his fellow warriors, to his general, and cried out, “I won’t fight him! I won’t fight this one!”
As a rumble of agreement rolled through Dragonsbane, General Argotos’s eyes grew crimson with fury. Captain Sarnol gestured at the other minotaur’s shoulder and shouted for all to hear.
“ ’Tis there! The broken horns the ogres’ve always mocked our kind with! No minotaur would brand himself so!” He looked hard at Argotos now. “I’ll not fight one betrayed to the beasts by one of our own … not even if the betrayer be the emperor himself!”
“Ganth!” Argotos bellowed to another of his staff. “Sarnol is a traitor to the imperium! Deal with him then the fool! Now!”
“Aye, general!” Where Sarnol had forgotten his place, dark-furred Ganth did not. Drawing his own ax, he charged his former compatriot.
Sarnol drew his sword, waiting. Ganth waved his axe wildly as he rode toward him. Sarnol kept himself and his mount in front of the slave leader, determined not to let Ganth pass.
Ganth was not only larger than Sarnol, but his ax out-reached any sword. Sarnol lunged, trying to get under the other’s guard, but his moves were awkward. Sarnol clearly did not want to fight his comrade. He shouted something at Ganth then waved him away.
The second legionary roared in reply and swung with all his might. He caught Sarnol in the neck, the ax biting deep. The stricken warrior twisted, but the wound was mortal. The sword flew from his hand, landing at the feet of a pair of soldiers in the line.
The traitorous legionary tumbled off his horse, collapsing in a tangled heap just short of the one he had sought to protect.
Startled shouts erupted from not only the ranks of legionaries, but also the army of escaped slaves. Once again the archers nocked arrows.
Sarnol already forgotten, Ganth turned on his main quarry. The figure continued to stand motionless, inviting the legionary to attack at will.
“General!” called one of the officers beside Argotos. His ears hung flat. “This is all wrong! Honor demands that we—”
“Be still or face arrest!”
“This is not right!” agreed another.
With the flat of his ax blade, the raging legion commander turned and struck the impudent officer square in the chest. The clang of metal against metal reverberated, and the force of the blow sent the minotaur officer tumbling from his mount.
But a louder protest arose among his troops. Minotaurs who had fought side by side for years now barked and snarled at one another, some shoving hard at those who disagreed with them.
And as Ganth loomed over his victim, one of the archers fired.
“Hold there! Not now!” But Argotos’s warning came too late.
The shaft caught Ganth at the base of his skull, slipping in perfectly between the helmet and back plate. Ganth’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he dropped his ax. One hand reached to pull the arrow free … and that was as much as the legionary could do before death claimed him. He slumped forward on his mount, which then bolted, racing past the rebel leader without pause.
Argotos blinked. There could be no doubt that the deadly shot had not been accidental. Ganth had been the target.
Ax in hand, the same hekturion who had called for order earlier strode toward the archer. But before he could reach his goal, two soldiers stepped forward to block his way.
“Stand aside!” the hekturion commanded. Pointing at the archer, he roared, “That one is under arrest!”
“Enough of this farce!” General Argotos waved his ax toward the lone figure. “Slay him! Slay the malcontents! Slay them all now! That is an order! Anyone who disobeys faces execution!”
Some of his legionaries started forward, while others moved to prevent them from obeying Argotos’s orders. The hekturion tried to push past the two protecting the archer, only to have one of them shove him away. Nearby, three loyal warriors turned on one who had refused to obey, only to have several others come to the latter’s rescue. The perfect lines swiftly deteriorated.
“I want order! Order restored!” the general shouted to his staff. “Now! Go!”
Drawing their own weapons, the wary officers spread out. They rode among the soldiers and tried to aid the hekturions and dekarians. Yet, despite their presence—or because of it—matters only seemed to worsen. Shouting matches broke out everywhere. Some legionaries threw down their weapons in disgust, while others waved theirs at those they deemed traitors.
Then, the loyal hekturion, his eyes inflamed, struck at one of those who had defied him. His ax dug deep, cutting not only metal, but also the chest of the soldier. With a startled grunt, the legionary fell to his knees, one hand on the gaping wound. But another legionary stepped forward, teeth bared, and thrust his sword into the hekturion’s throat. The hekturion fell back dead.
And as a disbelieving Argotos watched, his legion fell upon itself.
Caught up in the pandemonium, the mounted officers struggled to survive. Soldiers pulled officers from their steeds, dragging them down. A snorting hekturion trying to whip his soldiers back into line received an ax blow that nearly took off hi
s arm. As he fell to one knee, his attackers leaped upon him, swarming.
“Sound the horns!” shouted Dragonsbane’s commander. “Give the order to stand down!”
A trumpeter raised his horn—only to be pulled from his saddle. General Argotos suddenly found himself having to fend off a pair of soldiers, including a dekarian, he dully noted, who had served loyally under him for years. Everywhere legionaries fought legionaries instead of the rabble that they had come to destroy.
The last vestiges of order vanished. A free-for-all reigned.
With a roar of frustration, the general rode in among his traitorous troops. He swung left and right with the ax, cutting down any who turned to confront him. Blood of his own troops spattered his shining breastplate, and their blades tore his cloak to ribbons. Argotos pushed his mount on, shouting and swinging his axe. Eyes crimson, he plunged deep into the melee with reckless abandon.
But for each traitor he killed, two more joined against him. The battle was so dense with combatants that his trained warhorse proved ineffectual. Again and again he took wounds.
His mount’s legs collapsed. The general tumbled off. Gasping for breath, his legs feeling numb, he tried to fend off the numerous grasping hands, the sharp blades.
His ax was ripped from his hands. Someone struck him across the face with a broken sword, tearing a monstrous gash in his muzzle. Vision blurring, General Argotos reached for his dagger just as a fresh array of blades came whirling at him.…
Calmly Faros watched the general’s fate, and then calmly picked up his sword.
His action signaled his followers. Quickly making the sign of Sargonnas, Grom picked up his ax and stepped alongside Faros. An ogre slave followed close behind, two half-elves trailing. A sudden wave of fighters advanced to form ranks behind Faros.
Faros watched the battle for a moment more. Then, his blade drawn and his free hand twisted as if holding the accursed whip … he led the charge.
There was no easy way to tell who was friend and who was foe among the soldiers. The first legionary who faced Faros gazed solemnly at him for a moment before nodding and moving on.
However, the second legionary tried to cut Faros down with his ax. His swing went wild, and his helmet slipped. For his loyalty to his general and his emperor, Faros rewarded him with a quick stroke through the neck.
One catapult crew sought to put its weapon into play against Faros’s force, but a wave of insurgent soldiers overcame the loyalists. Under the guidance of a dekarian who had torn his badge off, the renegade legionaries seized the huge siege machine, and with the strength only minotaurs could muster, they shoved at it, finally turning it over and smashing it to pieces.
All around Faros, the fighting raged. He heard the thunder of hooves and leaped aside just in time, avoiding the swing of a razor-sharp long sword. Turning, he confronted a female figure in a crested helm who was wearing the circular, blue-edged badge that marked her as a treverian, one of the higher officers.
“This is your doing, filth!” Her face contorted with fury. “Well, you’ll not live to spread your taint further!” With a snarl, she sliced at his head.
Faros rolled away, the edge of her blade striking against one of his horns. He came up in a crouching position as she steered her mount around for another attack. Faros stabbed at the animal’s flank and was rewarded with a deep cut and a shrill cry.
The horse stumbled. Only expert handling by the legion officer kept both her and the horse from tumbling. Pulling hard on the reins, the treverian forced her mount up and around again.
Soldiers and slaves poured into the gap between them, momentarily cutting off the two foes. Faros caught his breath.
Then the gap reopened. Eyes afire, the treverian tried to ride Faros down once more. Her horse was in a frenzy due to its wound.
But this time, Faros stood his ground. He waited until the horse was nearly upon him then leaped. Avoiding its snapping teeth, he clutched the horse’s thick neck with one arm and sank his blade into the animal.
As the steed slumped dead, Faros pushed himself to the side. The legion officer jumped from the saddle, landing atop him.
The two adversaries rolled and rolled. They were nearly trampled by the fighting that surged over them. The treverian, who had lost her helmet during the battle, managed to hold Faros down while she planted one hand on his throat, reaching for a dagger.
Faros hit her hard on the temple. The legionary fell to the side, landing on her stomach. Her blade went skittering away.
Quickly, Faros knelt over the soldier and struck her in the back of the neck. When the treverian tried to push herself up, he struck her again. The second time, Faros heard bone crack. The treverian grunted, shivered, and then lay still.
A hand came to his aid as he rose to his knees. Sure enough, it was Grom, who quickly ascertained that Faros was all right.
“Praise be! No deep wounds! The Horned One ever stands at your side!”
Faros snorted. He surveyed the fighting. There were only pockets of violence remaining, and the insurgents held sway.
Smoke rose from the outer perimeter of the struggle. More than one of the catapults was wreathed in flames.
“Faros! We’ve got to stop the fires! We could use those weapons!”
“And drag them around everywhere?” Faros shook his head. “We move swifter without them. Let them burn.”
Shouts caught their attention. Several of the insurgent soldiers were arguing with a group of the freed slaves. Both sides in the dispute were brandishing their weapons.
Faros marched over. “What is it? What’s the problem?”
A half-elf with a bloody cut along his tapering nose explained. “We do as we’ve always done, Lord Faros! Cut off the heads to set on display—”
“Our comrades will not be so dishonored!” snapped the veteran legionary. “We fought for what we believe is a cause of honor, but they felt the same! They deserve better than this—”
“Give them a pyre, then,” Faros replied with little interest. “Do what you wish, but do it quickly.”
The ease with which he had settled the matter completely silenced the soldiers. The officer, a hekturion by his dented badge, finally bent his horns low. “We follow you now, Lord Faros.”
“What about the prisoners?” asked one of the slaves.
The pale brown minotaur snorted. His eyes darted to the east, then back again to those with him. “Execute them,” Faros said offhandedly. His gaze swept over the legionaries new to his command. “Execute them or deal with them in your own way. Your fate and those of everyone here depend on how you deal with them.”
“But—” the hekturion began. Faros, however, had moved on with Grom in tow.
“By Sargas, a clever solution!” whispered Grom. “Prove their loyalty. Make them take the responsibility. Further binding them to our cause.”
“I’ve no cause.” Faros’s free hand remained curled and his eyes again glanced east. “None at all. And you would do well to remember that, Grom.”
He purposely turned away from the other minotaur and walked off alone.
Grom made the sign of Sargas then turned back, as he always did, to see to the dead.
They came on foot, by horse and by wagon—especially by wagon, for with them they brought all that would be necessary to survive—no, to thrive.
The crossed axes and silhouetted throne of Clan Bregan’s banner accompanied the head of the column; behind them rode the green ship sailing the blue field with the mark of House Athak. Seven different banners fluttered high over the unique caravan; these minotaurs were sent not to fight, but to build, to farm … to take the next step in erasing Silvanesti and creating Ambeon.
The legionaries who had fought to earn this right eyed the newcomers with something less than camaraderie. Several snorted in outright contempt, while others clutched their weapons tightly.
The bulk of the caravan consisted of former warriors, those who had lost limbs or been stricken by the plagu
e and been left wasted. They did not wear the breastplates of the legion, but rather gray tunics that overlapped their cloth kilts. Most owned daggers, even carried swords or axes, but more visible were the staffs upon which they leaned, the packs they hefted over their shoulders … which contained all their belongings.
Not all in the column of colonizers were maimed or aged. The minotaur oaths of marriage still binding, many brought their mates with them. There were children, too, most of them healthy, but mostly young, some barely able to walk. The elder children of the colonizers had been adopted by their clans, who would find adults to foster them. They would be raised with no stigma. Those who stayed with the column would be offered the same chance of adoption when they reached the first year of battle training, the age of four.
At the head of the column rode the only figure conspicuously clad in armor. He was missing his entire right arm, and the front third of his muzzle was skewed where the same ax that had taken his limb had nearly cut off part of his face. His breastplate still bore the red condor upon it, though time had thinned out the long horsehair crest.
It would have been General Orcius’s task to meet the column, but as he had not yet been replaced, Lady Maritia made a show of it. As colonization was her father’s vision, she needed to give the newcomers legitimacy in front of the hardened legionaries.
The scarred officer slapped a three-fingered fist against his breastplate as Maritia approached. His fur had not only turned mostly gray, she noted, but also was thinning badly.
“My lady! I am First Treverian Traginorni Es-Athak, in command of the column! My greetings to you!”
After he had dipped his chipped horns in respect to her, Maritia nodded. “You are close in blood to Admiral Cinmac?”
“The patriarch is my younger brother. It is by his blessing I’ve been awarded this command.” The admiral was one of Hotak’s most ardent supporters in the inner circle. He was also one of the youngest patriarchs in the long history of the minotaur race.
“I’m acquainted with your esteemed brother,” she responded. “When you see him again, by all means give him my regards.”
Tides of Blood Page 27