Yes, Hotak was to blame. He had made her careless, and it had almost cost their son his life. It had, in the end, almost cost Nephera her own.
She gazed lovingly at her son, touching his reflection with one caressing finger. Ardnor’s grim but determined face rippled then reformed.
“When you are emperor, you will know better; you won’t make such mistakes, will you, my son?” Nephera whispered to his image. “You’ll listen to your mother. Yes … you will.…”
Spread six across in a column and winding beyond the horizon, the ogre army marched relentlessly, on past the mountains and lightly wooded hills. The trek had been grueling even for ogres, but none faltered, for they knew the shame they would bring upon themselves if they did.
The column gleamed as no ogre horde had since their downfall from grace. Nearly all wore the new breastplates especially forged by minotaur hands to fit their gargantuan chests. Many carried sharp, new, double-edged axes or long swords freshly honed. More gifts from the empire to strengthen their might and inspire their bloodlust.
Mastarks dragged along huge wagons filled with weapons and supplies. With so many ogres near the feet of their mounts, the handlers were hard-pressed to keep the animals from crushing a few warriors. The huge creatures were no mere beasts of burden. Their tusks bore metal caps with barbed tips, and on their heads, they sported twin-horned helmets strapped behind their flapping ears.
At the head of the column rode the great ogre leader the Grand Lord Golgren. The look of amusement he generally wore was absent on this occasion. He stared sullenly at the teams of ogres guiding the slavering meredrakes. The forked tongues of the huge lizards swept the air and ground, and their nostrils opened and closed constantly as they drank in the scents.
Running hard before even the meredrakes, half a dozen scouts were kept busy surveying the landscape. They paused to pick up unusual debris and forage behind the spiky shrubs, looking anywhere and everywhere for clues.
One crouched in the sparse grass, his ugly, tusked face planted in the earth. He sniffed at the ground then touched with growing interest a small area among the green-brown plants.
Suddenly he rose and looked back at the Grand Lord, who was wiping dust from his otherwise immaculate robes. “Hyka i donay i vorn! Deka i grund i’jahari!”
Golgren ceased brushing his garments. He snapped his fingers at Belgroch, and the pair rode over to where the scout awaited them. The handlers quickly pulled the hissing meredrakes to the side, well aware of the penalty should one of the dull-witted creatures take a snap at their leader’s steed.
“Deka i donay i’jahari?” asked Golgren the moment he reached the scout.
“Ke!” The kilted ogre knelt, pointing at shallow depressions in the grass. He then plucked from nearby two threadlike objects—objects so small and thin the Grand Lord could not even see them until the scout held them up.
“Vorn,” declared Golgren, upon inspecting the objects. “Vorn uth i’Uruv Suurti.”
“Ke, Hekatra un i’Golgreni! Vorn uth i’Uruv Suurti.”
Next to Golgren, Belgroch grinned. “Goran i zuun?”
The Grand Lord snapped his fingers at the scouts. They bowed quickly then hurried on ahead to seek other clues. Golgren turned his massive mount around and rode slowly back to the column, which had continued moving forward.
As he regained his place at the head, he eyed the way east with a look of amusement that had been missing for days.
They were watching him. Faros felt the eyes upon him, even as he chewed on some of the salted goat. They were not just curious eyes, either, but suspicious eyes. He was, after all, the nephew of Chot.
Still weak from the river incident, he had been able to offer little resistance when Jubal had insisted they return with his party to a nearby bay, where his ship was undergoing repairs. Grom wanted to send a runner carrying word back to the others in Faros’s army, but Faros had managed to catch his eye and warn against that. He had no interest in bringing his army together with Governor Jubal and his followers. They were a sorry lot, these rebels—little better than Faros and the freed slaves, and likely headed toward a worse merciless fate. Better to wander Kern and slaughter ogres than trying to follow a lost cause.
With a snort of derision whose meaning was known only to him, Faros swallowed the last of the goat meat.
“You’ve not a high opinion of anything, do you?” rasped Jubal.
Faros glanced up at the graying minotaur, who moved silently for one of his heavy appearance and had come up behind him without warning. “I’ve no reason to have any opinion on anything.”
“Don’t play that game with me, lad. You’ve got some thoughts … even if most of those thoughts aren’t very pretty.”
Faros drank some water from a sack.
“You’ve had a harsh time of it,” the former governor commented, studying the wounds and scars on Faros’s back and chest. “Quite a harsh time. Those ogre whips must’ve hurt horribly.”
“No more than those in Vyrox, another great outpost of the empire.”
Jubal sat down. “Vyrox, eh? Yes, Vyrox is a terrible, terrible place. A stain on the honor of the empire, I agree, from all I’ve heard.”
Without a word, Faros rose to leave. Jubal swore silently as he watched his old comrade’s son walk away without so much as a backward glance.
“Why’re you so concerned about that one?” asked Captain Botanos, just approaching from another direction—the direction of the ship. “He’s destined to end with his head rolling free of his neck, he is.”
The former official exhaled slowly. “Because we’re destined to end the same way. And because he’s the son of an old friend. He’s been through fire and torture for no reason other than his bloodline … and because everything I’ve learned from his companions gives me hope that he might help us turn the rebellion around.”
“Him?” the rotund mariner snorted.
“Have you been listening to what they’ve said? He survived Vyrox. He managed to escape the ogres and, because of him, so did so many others. He’s got humans and half-elves who follow his leadership, no easy accomplishment for any minotaur, eh?”
“Rabble leads rabble.”
“Rabble?” With a harsh laugh, Jubal stood up. “Captain, he turned a rabble into an army, and then he converted most of a legion over to his side … and not just any legion, but Dragonsbane! That was General Argotos!”
“I heard that tale, but it can’t really be true—”
“Talk to the former Dragonsbane warriors yourself! There’re two here with us, from his hunting party!”
Botanos frowned. He took out his clay pipe and filled it from a pouch at his side. “Interesting. But what of it?”
“He is the blood of Chot, but without Chot’s taint, Captain! He wears the broken horns, the brand of ogre enslavement! Slaves, soldiers, and nonminotaurs follow him already! With him, Botanos, we can not only revive the rebellion, but also build it anew, and perhaps carry it all the way back to Nethosak!”
The mariner’s eyes flickered, but his words still held wariness. “But he doesn’t care for the rebellion. He isn’t eager, governor.”
“I’ve got to try to sway him. I’ll talk again with that one who still calls on Sargas, that Grom. He may carry some weight with Faros.”
“Yes, ask Grom to pray,” the captain said, lighting his pipe. “Pray for you, too. I think you’ll need all the help you can get, governor.”
Jubal found Grom helping his fellow minotaurs load supplies and equipment for work on Botanos’s vessel, the Dragon’s Crest, onto the rebel ships.
“Governor!” the ex-slave greeted him. “I’ve been talking with your first mate! He says you have enough room aboard your three ships to take all of us!”
“We’d be packed wall to wall, lad, but, aye, I think we could take you all.” Jubal’s gaze narrowed. “That is, if you all are coming with us.”
“You mean Faros.” Grom’s ears flattened and his mood turned da
rk. “But he must agree to come! We’ve a chance to return home with our honor restored!”
“Have you convinced him?”
“I’ve tried, and if the Horned One can still hear my prayers, perhaps I’ve succeeded, yes.…”
Faros stood alone, as usual, practicing with his latest sword lunges at imagined foes. Grom and Jubal found him only after one of the other ex-slaves pointed, having seen their leader wander off toward the western woods.
They watched as Faros slashed hard twice, decapitating a pair of invisible ogres. His expression was strange; he looked not like a berserker, but rather a cold, calculating assassin. Every move he made had deadly purpose.
He turned abruptly as they neared, the tip of his blade ending just inches from Grom’s muzzle.
“Easy, lad,” Governor Jubal said quietly.
Faros lowered the blade slightly. “What do you two want?”
Grom dared to push the blade aside and step closer. “Faros … they’ve room to take us aboard! All of us! We could join them and—”
“Go ahead. Join them.” Faros turned away again, striking and slashing once more at his make-believe adversaries.
“But, Faros! You know I—the others’ll not abandon you! You’ve led us through the ogre lands! You confronted a legion and won! We follow you!”
Jubal moved past Grom. “They won’t come with us unless you do, lad.” When Faros said nothing, he added, “You’ve got the opportunity to avenge your family, the honor of your clan—”
“The clan of Chot the Terrible.”
“You’re not Chot!” rasped the elder minotaur. “And being of his blood would rally many now. Your father—”
He got no further, for suddenly Faros whirled. The flat of his sword struck Jubal in the muzzle, sending the former official sprawling into the quick arms of Grom.
His expression unchanging, Faros tonelessly replied, “My father … my family … are dead. My entire clan perished that night. So did I.”
Jubal wiped a slight trace of blood from his muzzle as he straightened. His patience was extraordinary. “Listen, lad—”
But Faros had turned away. To Grom, he simply said, “I leave in the morning.”
The other slave opened his mouth as if to protest then slowly dipped his horns to the side. As he did, he murmured, “As you say, Faros.”
“Now see here—” Jubal started to say, but Grom took his arm and pulled him away. When Jubal saw Grom’s determination, he reluctantly let himself be led away.
“He’s made his decision, governor—our decision.”
“He’s making the wrong decision. I want another chance to—”
Grom shook his head, cutting him off with a look, as he led the governor away.
Faros, meanwhile, had leaned down to wipe off his blade then returned to practice. To all appearances, he had dismissed the other pair from his world. Now, only his endless array of adversaries kept him company. Faros stabbed hard at each, his free hand constantly twisting as if holding a whip.
The high waves mercilessly rocked Bastion’s fleet. The Blood Sea lived up to the reputation with which all minotaurs—all mariners—were familiar. Waves higher than some of the masts bore down on the imperial ships, swamping at least one.
Aboard the Stormbringer, the crew struggled to maintain their course. One of the lesser sails already fluttered like a loose banner in the hurricane-like winds. Two crew members had been washed overboard earlier, and the captain had ordered only a small number take the risk of staying on deck, trying to ride out the storm.
Bastion himself had, for the most part, stayed below. Seated at the bolted-down table in his quarters, he concentrated on the intelligence his mother had gathered on the rebels and pondered his options. Jubal had a reputation for conservative tactics, but he also had been known for getting things accomplished. Bastion had no intention of underestimating Jubal as he had initially with General Rahm.
Thunder rattled the Stormbringer—a name which, in Bastion’s opinion, could hardly bring good luck in the Blood Sea. The covered lamp that dangled overhead swung about madly, and oil dribbled across one of the charts he had pulled out. Bastion silently cursed and hoped that the foul weather would not worsen.
As he thought about that, an odd chill coursed through the black minotaur, as if the storm were an omen—and something even more dire loomed ahead. He tried to maintain his focus on his work, but the sensation of unease grew so intense in his cabin that he finally had to set aside his charts and stand up and pace the room.
After a few minutes, Bastion sought a bottle of wine stored in a railed wall shelf and drank heartily of the wine to calm himself.
A harsh crash from without nearly made him drop the bottle. He recognized the difference between thunder and a large, solid object colliding with something.
Thrusting the bottle back to where it belonged, Bastion rushed outside. Immediately, shouts from the bow caught his attention. Gripping the rail, he struggled against the storm to reach the area and see what caused so much concern.
A lightning flash revealed the terrible situation immediately. Part of the mainmast must have collapsed onto the deck. Sail and rigging were tangled amid everything. At least two bodies were being pulled from underneath the wreckage.
“Hurry up, you laggards!” shouted Captain Xyr, all but his muzzle hidden by the heavy mariner’s cloak he wore. “There’s still another one under there!”
The crew struggled with the wreckage, but the violent rocking of the ship made their task Herculean. Bastion pushed forward, finally reaching the captain.
“Captain Xyr! How bad is it?”
“My lord! You shouldn’t be up here! We’ve already lost four since this storm arose, and I doubt the two of those we have just pulled out will survive either! I’ve never sailed in such diabolical weather!”
“It’s bound to let up!”
Xyr snorted. “We can always hope, my lord!”
One of the sailors nearest them lost his grip on a large soaked section of mast, which went careening away. Bastion started to go to his aid.
“No, Lord Bastion!” Xyr roared, seizing his master by the arm. “I insist you leave this task to us and return to your quarters! Your father would demand it!”
“Nonsense! You need every hand—”
“And I’ve got a shipload of veteran marine fighters sequestered below, if I want extra hands or bodies cluttering up the deck! If you don’t go back to your quarters voluntarily, I’ll have you brought there under armed escort, even if it costs me my head! You can wait—you’ll be risking your life plenty, when we find the rebels, and that’s when I’ll really be needing your bravery, my lord!”
A lightning bolt struck the waters, very near the Stormbringer. Xyr ignored it, his determined gaze meeting Bastion’s own.
Bastion was not certain his cabin was any safer, but he acquiesced. “Very well, but if the need arises—”
“Yes, my lord! Of course! Now please go!”
The black minotaur turned and began the slippery way back. He would probably be the last person aboard ship that Xyr would call.
“You are the next emperor,” his father had said to him more than once. “Always keep that in mind when you make a decision concerning yourself. You belong to the people. Your own desires are second.”
There were times when Bastion wished that he had been born the son of a simple mariner and not the heir of Hotak the Sword.
The Stormbringer listed. Bastion stumbled, only at the last moment grabbing the rail and steadying his balance. Below, the dark waves smashed angrily against the hull.
His fur felt like a coat of iron as he moved, so heavy was it from wetness. Another sailor, wrapped deep in a protective garment, headed toward him from the opposite direction. Bastion did not recognize him—but then he did not know every member of the crew yet. Head bent low, the sailor passed Bastion.
Beyond the rail, the sea rose up high, its waves dwarfing the warship. Bastion hesitated, struck
by both the majesty and the fearsome might of the sea. Caught up in the wave, the Stormbringer lurched steeply.
It was the only thing that saved Bastion’s life.
He cried out as the dagger pierced his forearm. The cloaked assassin fell upon him, trying for a second chance before Bastion could recover from his surprise.
This time the dagger came at his throat, but Bastion’s reflexes were sharp, and he blocked the thrust with his wounded forearm. He shoved the attacker away. The attacker turned as if to flee, hesitated, then grimly turned back.
“Yes, assassin! There is nowhere to hide! I will find you out!” Bastion shouted, clutching his bleeding arm. “There is no escape from the ship!”
“It is commanded you die,” hissed his hooded foe, “and die you will.”
The rebels must have smuggled one of their own aboard the flagship; that didn’t amaze Bastion. Despite the hopelessness of their cause, they still had a network of agents and supporters throughout the imperium. Even if the attack had succeeded, it was a suicidal assignment for a hopeless cause. The assassin might hide among the crew for a while, but the captain would certainly ferret him out in the end.
The hooded figure lunged at him, and they spun around, slamming against the rails and walls of the outer deck. The rain and waves cascaded over them, and Bastion lost his footing and slipped. The assassin plunged the dagger into his shoulder.
The deep wound shook Bastion. He ripped himself away, taking the blade with him. Gasping from the injury where the dagger still stuck out of his shoulder, the black minotaur backed away from his opponent, who again looked momentarily uncertain, ready to flee.
Hotak’s son seized the hilt of the dagger. With a cry of pain and anger that would have roused the entire ship, had it not been drowned by the storm, Bastion pulled the dagger free. Blood spilled out, and it felt as bad as any wound he had ever suffered—as though one side of his body were dead or paralyzed. He propped himself against a wall and, breathing heavily, held the blade ready.
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