The former governor, his gaze still on Faros, straightened. “This one is Gradic’s son,” he said to Grom, before turning back to Faros. “The last time I saw you, Faros, you were but a boy—barely able to walk. But you’re a son of House Kalin!”
“Kalin?” gasped one of Jubal’s men. “Him?”
“Aye … and the son of a dear friend of mine, ’tis true.” Jubal looked around at the rebels and slaves. “And he is the nephew of the Emperor Chot himself.”
The constant clang of ax against ax competed with the ongoing thunder, both joining to shake the walls of the palace. The two helmed fighters retreated from one another, both breathing heavily. They stood surrounded by plain, stone-block walls of gray; the floor was covered with sand. Torches set along all four walls gave the room a brightness that was lurid, creating the wild, dancing shadows that might distract a careless fighter.
Besides the two combatants, only one other figure stood in the long, wide chamber. The healer watched and waited, the black basket at this side filled with herbs, cloth, and needles should some mishap arise. For worse wounds, the balding minotaur could also count on a bottle of briarberry wine.
As another peal of thunder rattled the palace, Hotak leaped at his opponent. The other helmed minotaur stepped back, deflecting the ax blow and jabbing under the emperor’s guard. However, he made the mistake of aiming too low and left his head open.
Hotak brought the flat of his ax head down on the armored skull of his foe.
With a clang and a thud, the loser fell on his stomach. His ax dropped by the emperor’s sandaled feet.
“I … yield, your majesty.”
“I should hope so, Doolb! I’ve barely the strength to lift my weapon any more!” Hotak tossed aside his ax then removed his helmet from his sweat-soaked head. He reached down and helped the veteran captain to his feet. “I’m grateful that you let me win.”
Doolb scoffed. “I trained your children to fight hard and never let them win, until one day they truly could. Think I’d try that kind of stunt with you, your majesty?”
“No, and that’s why I enjoy a bout with you, captain.” The emperor turned to the healer. “You’ll not be needed tonight, Karsos.”
The balding minotaur bowed silently then picked up his basket and departed through the iron door at the far end of the chamber. As he did, an anxious guard slipped through into the room. The soldier went down on one knee before Hotak, presenting him with a sealed message.
“Who’s this from?”
“I don’t know, your majesty … and neither did the guard who brought it to me.”
The emperor took the note, dismissing the guard. Captain Doolb kept a respectful distance as Hotak opened up the missive.
With a frown, Hotak recognized the handwriting. Glancing at Doolb, he said, “Thank you again, captain. You may go.”
The veteran officer’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he dipped his horns and silently left.
Alone, Hotak read the message. His expression went from wariness to astonishment to bitterness. When he had finished reading it twice, the emperor angrily crumpled the note in his fist. Staring at the strange shadows cast by the torches, Hotak muttered, “Another one. This has gone too far … too far.…”
The storm-ridden Blood Sea had done its best to swamp the bulky supply ship and its two escorts. Ardnor supposed he should be worried about the incessant storms, but the raging waters and turbulent skies were the only excitement thus far on this journey.
They were already within sight of land, but had to sail around to the north. The weather had forced them to take an alternate route, but they still made good time. By tomorrow, they would be docked in Sargonath, and he would deliver these supplies to the officer in charge. Then Ardnor would sail back to the capital, and that would be the end of this so-called important mission.
Suddenly there were shouts from the crew. Sailors ran back and forth, adjusting lines. From somewhere, the captain cried an order demanding a sharp turn to starboard. The Sword of Jaro lurched to avoid yet another uncharted rock formation.
“Such a glorious mission,” he rumbled sarcastically to himself as leaned on the rail. He was impatient to get back. If his father hadn’t ordered his trip, he would have never demeaned himself. The grander assignment, the hunting down of the rebel leader Jubal and his dwindling forces … that had gone to Bastion.
Bastion.…
The storm soaked him despite his heavy mariner’s cloak. In the distance, Ardnor sighted another ship. It had been sailing south, but even as he watched, it turned east. No, it seemed to be gradually reversing course and heading to the north. As it slowed down to maneuver, Ardnor got a better look at the ship.
“Captain!” he roared. “Captain!”
Precious seconds slipped away before the captain, a squat, gray-and-brown-furred mariner with two gold rings on his right ear, joined him at the rail. “Aye, my lord?”
“That ship! Look—hurry, before it finishes turning!”
“My lord?” The mariner squinted at the vessel.
“It’s a rebel ship, damn you!” Ardnor shouted. “After it!”
“My lord, that may be, but our job—”
Ardnor angrily seized the other large minotaur by the collar of the cloak, lifting him off the deck. “I gave you a command.”
The captain stared into the blood-tinged eyes. His ears flattened, and he swallowed. “Aye, my lord! Right away!”
Tossing the mariner away from him, Ardnor turned back to the rail. Moments later, the warship veered sharply in that direction. A groan echoed through the hull as his ship scraped against another rock. The captain shouted to steer to port.
They sailed toward the other ship. Ardnor began to make out details of the vessel. It was a smaller ship, with two masts and a narrow bow. A ballista sat on the upper aft; it looked ready for battle, but the wild waves meant that aiming the weapon would be difficult unless the ships were close and alongside. Ardnor was happy to risk the worthless supply ship, and even considerable loss of life, if it meant capturing a rebel vessel. Minutes before, he was bored; now he had a chance to transform this supply mission into an action that would bring him the glory he deserved.
The rebel ship was heading toward shore. Ardnor pounded on the rail. His own ship had to follow fast if it hoped to catch up. His heart pounding, he cried, “To port! To port!”
As the Sword of Jaro made another lurch, the captain rushed up to Hotak’s son. “My lord! The rocks are worse in this direction! We risk running aground, or even breaking up!”
“The rebels don’t seem concerned.”
“Their ship is smaller and lighter and faster! They can slip and dodge where we’d get stuck! We’ve got to pull back and—”
Ardnor shoved the captain aside. “Stay on course or we’ll lose them!”
He heard another scraping groan from below, but it came and went. Ardnor snorted. With such fearful, incompetent fools, no wonder the rebel elements operated with seeming impunity near the mainland.
They were gaining on the rebel ship now. Now he could make out anxious figures on deck. The rebel ship veered slightly east. The Sword of Jaro adjusted. The gap between the two ships grew shorter.
Marine fighters marched up on deck, their weapons shiny and eager. The commander saluted Ardnor. “All prepared for boarding, my lord! Do you want a volley as we draw nearer?”
“Do it now!”
At a wave from the green-and-white-kilted officer, several marine fighters prepared bows.
The smaller vessel abruptly angled to the west again. Ardnor shook his fist at it. The imperial ship was almost within range.
Then a loud, harsh, lingering growl drowned out all other noise, and the Sword of Jaro shook madly. A sailor fell from the rigging, plummeting into the sea. Several marine fighters lost their balance and more than one arrow flew wildly into the sea.
Ardnor almost lost his grip on the rail. As the first mate ran by, the First Master seized him, demanding, “
What is it? What happened?”
“We’ve grazed a huge rock, my lord! The bottom of the hull’s ripped out! We’re taking on water fast!”
“No!” He had failed an important pursuit once before—memories of General Rahm stirred in his thoughts—but not this time. “Signal the other escort! Get it over here now!”
“But, my lord! The other captain fears to enter these waters, see? We cannot commit all the supply vessels.”
The second vessel stood far out to sea, following at a safe distance.
Without warning, the Sword of Jaro began to list—quickly and badly. The first mate tumbled forward, falling over the rail into the choppy waters and nearly taking Ardnor with him.
Two barrels rolled toward Ardnor. One caught him in the chest. The force nearly bowled him over, but something clutched his shoulders and stopped him from tumbling over the rails.
By rights he should have drowned. Ardnor looked behind him.
And there, floating in the air, their withered, transparent hands holding him tight, two specters stared at Hotak’s son.
Ardnor was momentarily taken back, but then he felt the presence of another, in his mind. He did not have to wonder who, for how could he not recognize the loving touch of his own mother?
Looking back, he saw the specters were gone, but he was steady now. Ardnor grabbed for the rail, heading toward the bow.
He glanced back at the rebel ship. A grin spread across face, for he saw that his mother was attending to the rebels, too.
The rebel ship was swarming with the dead. They were pouring up out of the ocean, clawing at the hull, the deck, drifting up to the sails. No one could see them, of course—no one but Ardnor—but the rebels could feel their dread effect. The ghosts clutched and slowed the ship, forcing it to alter direction.
The captain joined Ardnor at the rail. “My lord! Are they all—what in the name of the Sea Queen are they doing?”
Ardnor said nothing. To the officer’s ignorant eyes, it looked as though madness had seized the rebels, for the enemy ship was now steering crazily, violently, toward the western shoreline … where the rocks were most numerous and treacherous.
He could imagine the horror and frustration of the rebel captain and crew—lines tangling and helm turning, seemingly of their own accord, the keel crawling with dozens of pale, undead creatures.
And then the awful sound reached even the imperial vessel, when the rebel ship ran aground. More then one of the rebel minotaurs aboard tumbled over the side at the shock of the crash.
Swirling around the hull, the horde of undead created a tiny maelstrom that shook the ruined ship free of the rock. It twisted away, listing to its port side, drifting with the tide.
A moment later, the ship smashed into another huge rock. The hull cracked. The mainmast snapped in half. The sails ripped and flew, the pieces fluttering madly in the fierce wind.
Stunned by the swift destruction, the captain of the Jaro stared disbelievingly. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“No …” smirked the high priestess’s eldest. “I don’t suppose you have.”
Then, a fresh roar made them both look. A gargantuan wave was rising just beyond the rocks … with the ghosts, of course, riding atop the huge wave, literally raising the wave higher and steering it. There were more ghosts on the wave than Ardnor had ever seen in one place, even in his mother’s sanctum in the temple. They rode the wave, building and molding it as their mistress demanded. It grew big and wide enough to smash a dozen ships as it closed on the already-broken, foundering rebel vessel.
“Gods …” blurted the captain, dumbfounded. “ ’Tis as if the hand of Zeboim herself comes to smite them.”
Though Ardnor knew it was not the sea goddess—it was the god of the Forerunners, guiding the undead—he did not correct the officer. He simply watched, admiring his mother’s handiwork.
And then the monstrous wave crashed down upon the trapped, ruined ship. On the deck, tiny figures could be seen trying to leap overboard, but they could not escape the explosive fury.
Tons of water crushed the ship, sending bodies and ship parts spraying everywhere into the air. The debris rained down seconds later far upon the sea and along the shore of Ansalon.
Nothing remained of the ship. The destruction was complete. The aftermath of the wave washed everything away, cleansing even the surrounding rocks of the pieces and flotsam.
“Gone … my lord … they’re gone.…”
Not the ghosts, who continued to mill above the swirling waters, for their numbers grew—countless, gaping, horrific ghosts. Surely the dead rebels would join them shortly … for all the dead were the domain of the Forerunners’ high priestess.
The Sword of Jaro groaned again, striking another rock. Forgetting the doomed rebel ship, the captain shouted, “My lord! We need to get out of here before we join them! Hurry!”
Ardnor followed, but not at the same frantic pace of the anxious captain. He alone knew that they had nothing to fear from the sea, not now. The power of the temple watched over him.
A power that Nephera’s son now saw that no one, not even his father, nor all the empire, could possibly match.
Lady Nephera moaned, slumping forward. She put a hand to her head, felt the sticky moisture from her palm as it matted her fur.
Her attendants rushed to her side, but she waved them back.
“Leave me,” she managed to whisper. “Leave me now.”
They bowed quickly then backed out of the chamber.
As the door shut behind them, the high priestess succeeded in pushing herself to her feet. Leaning against the platform, Nephera hissed, “Takyr!”
The loyal ghost materialized before her; right now he looked more alive than she. Nephera realized that, with a twinge of annoyance.
Mistress?
“What happened just now, Takyr?” She looked around and found a flask of temple wine. Snatching it up, she drank greedily straight from the bottle. The sweet, rich, red fluid settled her pounding head and renewed her strength. Putting aside the wine, Nephera said more calmly. “Well, Takyr?”
Mistress … I cannot … say.…
“You don’t know? I-I-I think—I nearly died just now!” Both of her spells had succeeded grandly, but the energy it had cost her seemed to drain all the blood out of her.
The creature she had conjured to attack the escaped slaves, whose presence had been detected almost by accident by her roving undead spies, had done excellent work—even if one of the slaves had somehow managed to destroy it. The fact was that Nephera had found the slaves and struck at them from a distance. They had eluded her only temporarily, for she had been distracted by a more important sighting: a rebel ship sailing near Ardnor’s own.
Lady Nephera had not expected to deal with a rebel situation so soon after the first conjuration. The danger to—and opportunity for—Ardnor had forced her hand. Fortunately, Nephera was able to reach out and pluck her eldest from doom. But in doing so, she must have extended herself too far.
A rebel vessel had been completely destroyed. Her son could take credit for that triumph, which would help to salvage his honor and erase the bitter memory of what had happened to Kolot.
Yet, the effort had overwhelmed her, and even though Nephera could now add the crew of the rebel ship to her undead legions, the empress felt drained … something that had never happened before.
I am … sorry … mistress … Takyr replied, bowing his hooded head.
“I will not accept that!” she roared. Her fury, however, only served to deplete her further. Again she slumped against the platform, resting briefly. Takyr waited, eternally patient.
Finally the high priestess stirred, brought out a cloth, and wiped the blood from her palms. She had asked too much of the nameless force she served. She had gone too far. She was not ready. She was not worthy of such power. Yet she needed it, desired it—not for herself but for the empire—for the Forerunners.
“More …” the robed mi
notaur murmured. Her eyes seemed wider and more hollow than some of her slaves’; they grew bright, fanatical. She allowed herself a slight smile as realization dawned. “I need more.…”
It was the dead. There weren’t enough of them. Nephera was spreading herself too thin. Her unloving eyes and ears were constantly in motion, roving everywhere, and she herself constantly monitored the empire. In one day she had traveled from the wilds of Kern to the eastern edge of the empire and back to the Blood Sea. Was it any wonder she had collapsed from the strain?
“Yes … there were not enough of them.” Nephera glared at her own body, as though condemning it for its flaws and weaknesses. “More … whatever it takes … to make the power.”
She looked at the ghosts in the room, who swirled about in great agitation. Yes, they clearly recognized their shortcomings and that was why their fear was so palpable. Now, suddenly, Nephera realized what she had to do to set things right. Surely that was why her patron had not touched her with wisdom, of late. She needed to seek the answers herself, like any worthy acolyte.
“I will prove myself worthy again,” the high priestess murmured to the walls and the towering symbols of the Forerunners. “You will see that no one serves you as I do … I will do whatever I must!” Her eyes grew wider, tinged with a red so deep that it matched the stains on her hands. “Whatever I must do.…”
Lady Nephera reached for the bowl through which she had cast her spells, the bowl in which she summoned all her visions. Her hand paused as the high priestess realized that her son was still there—she could still see him. Ardnor was sitting in a longboat; sailors from the Sword of Jaro rowed him to an escort ship. A dozen spirits circled the longboat, ensuring the safety of Nephera’s eldest.
But Ardnor had come closer to death than he likely realized and the blame for that she did not place on him, but rather another.
“Hotak.…” This was her husband’s carelessness, her husband’s stupidity. Hotak had not listened to her, assigning Ardnor to this trifling supply run instead of having him head the hunt for Jubal and the rebels. Most of her ghosts and undead spies were employed in that region now, trailing Bastion. She had been careless, too—leaving her cherished firstborn momentarily unguarded. But it was her stubborn husband who had ordered Ardnor to sail to Sargonath, which all knew to be a mundane task.
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