Tides of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Until now, the ogre leader had been more legend than real, a specter in his imagination representing all the evil that had happened to him since the night of the bloody coup. He knew of the pact between Hotak and Golgren, and that Golgren himself had been aboard the galley in which Faros had rowed; Golgren had delivered him and all the other minotaurs betrayed by Hotak to Kern. Golgren had approved of Sahd’s sadistic treatment of the slaves and the backbreaking labor that killed so many of them.

  Faros stared disbelievingly at the ugly ogre. He had his chance now to avenge all the horrors that had gone before. With a roar, Faros threw himself at the mounted figure, slashing back and forth with his sword. Yet Golgren parried each blow with apparent ease then kicked out at his opponent, striking him in his already injured muzzle.

  “Garoki Uruv Suurt i f’han.” When he saw that Faros did not understand, the ogre smiled and translated for himself in almost perfect Common, “I bring to you your death, minotaur.”

  He urged his mount to trample Faros, who leaped aside. Faros made a desperate swing at the animal’s flank, but somehow Golgren’s sword was there in time to bash the other blade back.

  The Grand Lord easily steered his mount around. Still smiling, the ogre bent and thrust repeatedly at Faros, forcing the minotaur off balance.

  Faros reached to his kilt for his dagger. As Golgren closed in on him, the minotaur threw the blade underhand toward the rider.

  The dagger flew wide, but pierced the horse in the side of its head. A minor cut, but the attack startled the steed, and it bucked.

  Golgren was thrown off—or did he jump?—for there he was, poised, crouched, ready for the next attack. The smile was intact as he complimented the minotaur in a taunting voice. “Zur i ke’en, Uruv Suurt,” he mocked. “Well thrown, minotaur.”

  Eyes crimson, Faros made a furious attack, swinging back and forth. An ogre who had chanced near drew back, but not before one of his arms was cut in half; Faros did not even notice. He drove toward his cloaked adversary, wanting nothing more than to wipe the smile from Golgren by removing the ogre leader’s head.

  But Golgren moved again with grace and skill beyond what Faros had ever dreamed of from one of the tusked race. He easily dodged the sweeping blade and as Faros’s momentum took him past him, the Grand Lord raised a small blade of his own.

  Golgren jammed the dagger into the minotaur’s sword arm. Faros’s arm shook uncontrollably and he dropped his sword to the ground, where his own stumbling feet kicked it just out of reach.

  He fell to his knees, pulled free the dagger—and roared when its jagged edge tore his shoulder open. He dropped the knife, clutching his bloody wound.

  A heavy foot kicked him to the earth. As Faros rolled over, his tearing eyes focused on the remarkably persistent and amused expression of the ogre leader.

  “You fight not bad, yes,” the smooth voice murmured. Around the two, the battle was raging, but Faros barely noticed; the whole thing had a surreal quality. Even Golgren seemed to be on a different plane of existence. “Mines make you strong, eh?” he tapped the brand on Faros’s injured shoulder. “Not strong enough, though.”

  Faros glanced around, seeking his sword, but couldn’t find it. No, there it was—too far away. Golgren’s sword already hovered over the minotaur’s bleeding chest.

  Faros lunged for it regardless.

  The ogre thrust.

  Something was not right … again.

  Nephera shoved aside the bowl, staring at her dead legions. She saw among them many whom she knew well. There were foes, friends, even those who had pretended they were her friends.

  There was even a son of her loins.

  But not two sons … and there should have been two of them.

  Where was Bastion?

  The high priestess asked that question of the ghosts. Several had been charged with hounding her son, keeping watch over him. They had seen him fall, but what had happened in the water? Her sentinels could not explain, not even when Takyr threatened to punish them to the fullest. This lapse—it was not the first either. More and more of her unearthly spies had begun to falter, to fail on simple missions, to lose their quarries.

  And now, with so much power of her own, Nephera could not summon the ghost of her second-born.

  That could mean Bastion was still alive … but if so, then where was he?

  “Too many responsibilities,” she muttered. “Always too many things to do! Must I do everything? Is my husband doing his share?” She paced nervously, oblivious to both the anxious looks of her two attendants and the more frenetic activity of the ghosts.

  Surely she had been tested too much! Did her wondrous patron not see that? Nephera had done everything anyone could do and more, but so often of late little details slipped through her fingers as her attention was demanded here, there, everywhere.…

  “Takyr.”

  At least the loyal Takyr always appeared when she called, always did her bidding. The high priestess felt grateful for at least that consistency.

  Mistress …

  “My son, Bastion … you sense nothing of his presence among those like you?”

  There is … nothing. The fearsome shade hid within his diabolical cloak, clearing anxious not to invite any punishment of his own.

  “If he is not among you,” she finally said decisively, sweeping her hand across the room. “Then he must live! There is no ghost in the realm that must not come to me, is there?”

  No … mistress … Takyr replied, though it was not true; and wisely he did not mention the obvious case of the shade of Rahm Es-Hestos.

  Her eyes wide, Nephera nodded triumphantly. “Then he does indeed live! But where? These cretins have been searching everywhere since his disappearance! Why can they not find him?”

  She strode toward the ethereal throng, who scattered before her, mewing piteously. Lady Nephera peered left and right, up and down, as if by doing so she would find the truth among them.

  Snorting in derision, the high priestess finally turned from the gibbering phantoms. Bastion was upsetting all her plans. With Bastion dead, surely Ardnor would be named as Hotak’s heir. And Bastion would serve a higher cause, in the religion of her temple. Even her husband would eventually see the truth of this; Hotak would in time relent and come to the temple to see his son—in death.

  It was to have been the crowning achievement of the high priestess; the much-admired son of Hotak proclaiming the righteous place of the temple in the scheme of the empire; he would help her guide the afterlife. Surely that would please her patron! Surely then Nephera would once again be granted contact with the force.

  But Bastion had once again interfered with his mother’s desires.

  “No, not Bastion.…” Her unblinking eyes brightened. “It is not Bastion’s fault. It is Hotak, yes, you, my love. If I cannot rely on you, my husband,” she snarled contemptuously, “then.…”

  Nephera had not paid enough attention to her husband’s activities of late, aware that most of what he concerned himself with was the grand invasion of Ansalon. But just as he studied his maps and reports, she learned much from her spies—and recently, she had heard of his disrespect for the Forerunners. Could this disappearance of Bastion be some kind of plot on his part to undermine Ardnor and to cast suspicion on the temple?

  Returning to the bowl that contained her visions, Lady Nephera stirred the crimson contents, murmuring in the language of her god.

  As she spoke, a mist formed in the bowl, a mist that took on the vague appearance of several faces—all ages, both sexes, and every one of them wore the mournful expressions of the dead.

  “Tell me … tell me, do you have any word of Bastion?”

  A cacophony of voices that only she could hear erupted. Each haunting visage appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. Lady Nephera listened closely and was able, with the aid of her sorcery, to pick out every word of importance to her. But the words that the high priestess’s spies whispered concerned only the upcoming fu
neral. A new message had arrived from the Stormbringer, but it merely stated that no further signs had been discovered and that if none were found soon, it would be thought almost certain that Hotak and Nephera’s second-born had drowned.

  “Enough!” Nephera finally said out of frustration. She waved away the specters, though one had the audacity to stay. It continued to babble, silent words spilling from its motionless face.

  With fresh curiosity, the high priestess leaned forward. This was not one of those she had summoned. A legion dekarian of middle years, he had a left arm that dangled uselessly and his breastplate hung at a angle; the savage work of an ax decorated his upper chest. He had served under Hotak some ten years before. This was a shade whose task it was to remain ever by her husband’s side. Nephera had not summoned this ghost because she had neither the time nor inclination, and now the sad specter sought to repeat weeks of useless information, reports, conversations, and—

  And something that made the high priestess bolt upright so that she nearly spilled the contents of the bowl all over herself.

  Her attendants rushed to her side, fearful for her health. With a look of outrage, Nephera shouted, “Away! Stand away!”

  They shrank into the corners. Never had the high priestess sounded so wild, so enraged.

  Shaking uncontrollably, Nephera leaned over the bowl again. With a silent command, she made the bloody shade repeat the last words.

  Then the high priestess straightened. No emotion showed in her face. Her eyes were as dead as those of the ghosts surrounding her. She moved more as if pulled by invisible strings.

  Then a dark look spread over her countenance. The torches in the chamber all but died. A bone-numbing chill filled the room as Nephera looked up at the towering symbols of the Forerunners.

  “Never …” she uttered, bowing her head to the glorious force they represented. “First Ardnor … and now this … this blasphemy!” As Nephera raised her head again, a look of reverence filled her expression. She stretched a gaunt hand toward the broken ax and the soaring bird. “I understand. He has gone too far.”

  The horns saved Faros—the battle horns that suddenly blared loudly, the signal was one any minotaur recognized as the one trumpeting victory.

  The ogre gave a distinct start. The blade that should have pierced Faros in the chest glanced to the right, cutting a red line across his lower abdomen. The pain was bad, but was not enough to keep him from grabbing hold of his lost sword.

  When he turned to face the Grand Lord Golgren, Faros discovered the ogre had edged back, his gaze to the north. Faros, too, found himself looking in that direction.

  Minotaurs were pouring over the ogres there, shouting and screaming their confidence and bloodlust. They waved axes and swung swords over their heads. Many wore breastplates with the old condor symbol of Sargas, or the green and white kilts of the Fleet marine fighters. Others were clad simply.

  The rebellion had ridden from out of nowhere to rescue their brethren.

  Golgren seized one of his crimson riders, barking something to his underling in their harsh, guttural tongue. He pushed the hefty ogre away, and the latter immediately rode off toward the north, carrying the ogre leader’s orders.

  Faros started slowly toward Golgren, but somehow the ogre leader sensed his approach, for he turned to gaze contemptuously into the eyes of the minotaur.

  The Grand Lord grinned.

  But then someone seized Faros by the shoulder, yanking him back. He started to counterattack, only to find it was Grom. The minotaur had cuts on his shoulders, and his horns were soaked red with the blood of the ogre he had gored.

  “Faros! One of the rebel leaders has broken through to us! He says we should move to the east, where they will create a rear guard and cut off pursuit!”

  Retreat was hardly what Faros had intended. He wanted the grin and the head of Grand Lord Golgren. He wanted the heads of every ogre he could slay.

  Faros almost said as much, but he was injured and dazed, and instead other words came out of his mouth. “Yes. Give the signal.”

  With a look of relief, Grom turned and raced away. Faros stared after him, and only then remembered his adversary. He turned once more to face Golgren.

  Only the Grand Lord was gone. Other ogres were all around him, fighting with a frenzy, pushing the ex-slaves and legionaries back. The worst melee, the worst bloodshed, appeared to be some distance away, to the south.

  The south.…

  “Get over there!” Faros roared, pointing. Now he understood what had just happened. The Grand Lord Golgren understood exactly where the minotaurs had to move if they sought to escape, and he had sent a rider to pull forces from the north. If the ogres kept the minotaurs from retreating east, then even the rebels could not help them. They were trapped here in this mall valley.

  One of the few mastarks still with an ogre handler charged toward Faros, crushing those who stood in its path. Many ogres raced close behind.

  But as the beast neared Faros, he leaped at its tusks and grabbed them, pulling himself up. The mastark tried to shake him free, but Faros held on.

  The handler rose in the saddle. Faros thrust, but the ogre blocked his blade. The ogre growled then stabbed at his foe with the ax head. Faros grabbed the ax head, cutting himself, but held his grip and with a tremendous tug pulled the ogre from the saddle.

  Climbing into the saddle, Faros kicked the mastark so that it would turn around. Noticing him, two ogres gave chase, harrying the minotaur.

  The mastark dealt with one, seizing the ogre with its furry trunk and tossing him aside. The second managed to climb atop, but lost his footing and fell down.

  With Grom calling out orders, the ex-slaves were rallying. From his vantage point atop the mastark, Faros saw the rebels pushing their way toward the south.

  They needed to buy more time, Faros saw, and so he let loose with a cry and spurred the behemoth into the ogre ranks.

  A spear came within inches of him. He ducked, but it struck the mastark, which bellowed in pain, its foreleg now pierced by three lances. Ogres with spears gathered in the front of the beast; some distracted it, while others attacked.

  And behind them, shouting commands, was the Grand Lord Golgren, looking on triumphantly.

  The mastark tried to back away, but Faros spurred it forward again. One attacker got under the bleeding beast’s tusks and jammed his spear into the softer flesh of its throat. The huge creature kicked him away with ease, but the mastark stumbled and fell. Faros clutched tight as his seating shifted violently.

  Two more spears finished the behemoth. Yet as it roared mournfully and collapsed on its side, Faros leaped off its head. He landed atop two ogres, his sword digging into the chest of one of them, as they rolled and landed in a heap.

  Jumping up, Faros found himself surrounded by his own followers. Someone shouted his name, and everyone took it up, making it a war chant. “Faros! Faros! Faros!”

  The battle eddied and swirled, and suddenly Faros found himself alone again facing the Grand Lord Golgren.

  The ogre attacked him with lightning swiftness. His sword battered at Faros from all directions. Yet, despite his relentlessness, none of his attacks struck home. The minotaur’s own blade was there to meet Golgren’s every move. But the long battle was taking its toll. Faros gritted his teeth; his wounds screamed with agony.

  “Kya i daran i f’han, Uruv Suurt,” Golgren said mockingly, this time not bothering to translate.

  Then, someone pulled Faros back. A heavy figure stood next to him, his raspy voice commanding, “Go, lad! They need you! We’ve got the rear protected!”

  Jubal pushed Gradic’s son toward a marine fighter who tried to lead Faros from the battle. Head pounding, Faros for once did not struggle.

  The former governor blocked Golgren, who was tempted to pursue the one he had been harassing, but this elder minotaur seemed even more self-important. Amusing how one minotaur pushed the other to safety. The Grand Lord grinned at Jubal.

/>   “You can wipe that smile off your face, ogre … or better yet, let me remove it!”

  Jubal hefted a huge war ax and shouted out loudly as he swung. Still smiling, Golgren easily stepped back away from the blade. A few yards away, Faros and the marine fighter heard Jubal and stopped, hesitating. They watched.

  With repeated swings, Jubal pushed Golgren farther back. But the ogre leader kept smiling. The ax flew back and forth, up and down, sometimes just missing him. The Grand Lord deflected a few blows but otherwise made no counterattack.

  But the extended attack finally demanded a respite. Jubal withdrew his ax and readjusted his stance, an action of only a second or two, no more.

  Golgren lunged.

  The sword bit into Jubal just below his neck, skimming his breastplate. The bulky minotaur tried to say something, choked, one hand going to the gushing wound.

  Golgren struck again, piercing Jubal’s shoulder.

  The ax fell from the graying warrior’s hand. He tried to recover, bending toward his weapon.

  With a wide, fiendish grin, the ogre brought the blade around and slashed Jubal deeply across the throat—close to the one that caused his old scar.

  “Nooo!” Faros ripped free of the marine fighter and sped toward the two combatants. Jubal fell to his knees, both hands clutching his severed throat.

  Golgren looked up with his usual air of amusement and started to raise his sword, but Faros had moved too fast, swinging at the cloaked figure.

  The Grand Lord of Kern thought he had deflected the first blow, but the force of it brought Faros close, his sword sliding down to the ogre’s hand.

  The minotaur’s blade bit through muscle, sinew, and bone. So fast that Golgren didn’t even realize he had been bested.