Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The volcanoes had been dormant in those days.

  And then, the volcanoes had erupted.

  Of old Vyrox, there remained no trace. The community and nearly a thousand minotaurs lay buried under layers of ash and lava. Within the nearby mountains existed numerous shafts that had collapsed because of tremors or been crushed under the eruptions—burying many more bodies.

  But the empire still needed the riches of Vyrox. Humans were the first to send their slaves to work the mines, but when they gained their freedom, the minotaurs had created a special class of felons and unwanted to supply the mines with expendable labor. It was always claimed that any minotaur sent to Vyrox could redeem himself by entering the Great Circus, but none earned that opportunity.

  A few gnarled oak trees and some patches of sickly, brown wild grass made up the only plant life.

  Faros paused as the raspy sounds of large birds caught his attention.

  “Birds,” he muttered. “What can they feed on in this forsaken place?”

  With a harsh laugh, the Butcher rumbled, “They find plenty, calf!” he replied, using the term for a new prisoner. “See that real big one up there?”

  Perched on a branch, a huge crow eyed Faros.

  “Looks like he's already marked you for later pickings—if the rats inside the mines don't get first choice!”

  The younger minotaur shivered and quickly turned his gaze from the damnable bird, but it was only to see a more vile sight—the mining camp.

  Surrounded by a tall wall of stone, the camp consisted of row upon row of colorless, windowless, block-shaped buildings. A single, thick wooden door with a heavy brace to lock in the occupants stood in the center in each structure. The only ventilation came from narrow slits at the top of each building.

  Ash covered everything, even the ground trampled by generations of laborers. Everything looked as though all life had been drained out of it, especially the haggard faces of the prisoners.

  Here were minotaur s bereft of the vigor and hot blood that marked their race. Their eyes were hollow. They had lost patches of fur, and their rib bones were visible. They stared without blinking.

  Guards eyed the arrivals with open hatred. To be a guard at Vyrox was a punishment, and those who watched over the prisoners had little more hope than Faros of ever escaping.

  The weather-worn, weary-looking officer with his right arm cut off at the elbow limped out of one building to stare at the new arrivals.

  “I am Krysus de-Morgayn, commander of Vyrox,” he said in a resigned voice. “You will address me as Commander. You will obey all orders and work your shifts without fail. You have been given one last chance to serve the empire. Work hard, and you may earn the opportunity to return to Nethosak.” Paug snorted, but Krysus overlooked it. “That is all. The guards will show you where you sleep and eat. Sleep well, for tomorrow you work.”

  “That's it! Move along, now!” Paug and the other guards herded the new arrivals toward the dour buildings. Dust swirled with each trudging step. None of the soldiers offered water, and no one was so foolish enough to ask.

  The prisoners were divided up. Faros and the steward were assigned to a building. No prisoners awaited them inside. Other than those on cleaning duty, the rest were working in the mines.

  “Inside!” growled Paug. He raised the whip, but Faros and the other prisoner had already hurried in.

  The Butcher laughed, then shut the door behind the pair.

  “We are dead,” muttered the steward. “We will catch the breathing sickness and die.”

  The breathing sickness came from inhaling the noxious fumes and dust thrown up by the volcanoes.

  Victims lost fur and developed a pallor. Breathing was reduced to hacking coughs. The coughing grew incessant, and the inflicted spewed blood. Eventually, most simply wasted away, finally falling dead in their tracks.

  “Shut up!” Faros snapped. He looked sullenly around at the aged, two-level bunks. Some had a few tattered belongings on top. Faros finally chose a couple a few spaces apart that appeared to be vacant.

  He left the lower one to the old minotaur then took a nearby upper bunk. With great distaste and not a little anxiety, Faros shook off the stained blanket.

  “What do we do now?” his fellow prisoner asked.

  “I don't know,” Faros grumbled, lying down. “Stop asking questions! Just… just try to sleep.” His stomach rumbled. He shut his eyes.

  The door swung open, squealing.

  The snarls of several exhausted and ill-tempered figures rattling chains jolted Faros to attention. He blinked, realizing that he actually had dozed off. Forcing himself up on his elbows, Faros glanced at the shadowy forms.

  “What's this?” bellowed a black behemoth. “New calves to the slaughter, eh?” He stepped up, and with one shackled hand nearly swept Faros from the bunk. “So clean! So spotless! Yeah, new calves all right! Bring anything with you to pay for your room and board? Costs plenty to stay at a fine villa like this!”

  “I have… nothing!” gasped Faros, trying to peel the massive fingers off his throat.

  “You'd better have somethin' good, or I'll—”

  A lean figure pushed through the ash-covered mob. In the dim illumination, it looked as if splotches of oil covered his fur. The newcomer stood taller than either Paug or Faros' assailant, though the top of his horns had been cut off. He wore his mane in two tight pony-tails.

  “Leave 'un be, Japfin.”

  “I'll leave him be,” the one named Japfin grumbled, turning toward his rival. “Leave him be just long enough to break what's left of those stubs of yours!”

  He swung a meaty fist toward the other prisoner.

  The splotch-covered miner with the curious accent caught Japfin's fist and twisted it back. The burly minotaur swung hard with the other hand.

  His adversary dodged the blow, then, with Japfin off-balance, swept one fettered foot under the heavier prisoner.

  Japfin fell and struck the floor with a thud.

  The lean minotaur jumped on Japfin and smashed his head to the floor. When his foe did not move, he leaped to his feet. For the first time, Faros saw that tattoos covered the minotaur's shoulders, torso, and even his legs. The tattoos somehow colored his fur as well as his skin.

  “Take 'un to his bunk!” the tattooed one commanded. He turned to Faros. “I am Ulthar. Your name, new one?”

  “B-Bek. Bek.”

  The strange minotaur quietly repeated the name, then nodded. With a grand sweep of his arm, he added in a more affable voice, “Welcome, Bek! Welcome to our humble abode! May you enjoy being a part of our good family—” some of Ulthar's humor fled— “for what little be left of your life.”

  *****

  In the Courrain Ocean the clouds had built up so much over some areas that they now seemed to push down, as if seeking to squash anything jutting above sea level. Thick fogs covered some islands and ships sailed slowly, fearing obscured rocks.

  The first storm struck without warning.

  *****

  Waves grew swiftly to giants three times the height of the main mast. Lightning played across the sky, yellow and red flashing amidst the ominous green gray. A howling wind ripped at the sails, and hands strained to keep lines set. For hours the crew of the Gryphon’s Wing did battle without any seeming end in sight.

  “It's not natural!” cried Captain Hogar to his first mate. “Sailed the Blood and the Courrain for thirty years and never saw a gale rise up so sudden and violent, even around the Maelstrom! Not natural at all!”

  Barely had the burly, brown minotaur finished when a wave struck the lower deck. One sailor screamed as he was washed over the opposite rail. Another was tossed against the mast with such force that his back cracked like a twig.

  “To starboard! To starboard! Cut into it!” Something flew into Hogar's face. “What, by the Sea Queen—?”

  His first mate, Scurn, ducked as thick, fat forms almost a yard long pelted the vessel and its crew.


  Hogar seized one that almost struck him in the chest, then had to struggle to hold it long enough to identify it.

  “ 'Tis a dartfish, captain! A whole school of dartfish!”

  “I can see that, you fool!” The minotaur eyed the gaping mouth and pointed nose of the fish.

  Dartfish were deep sea creatures, seldom caught because of the depths they preferred. “Must be a violent storm indeed if it dredged these hunters up!”

  Even as he spoke, another wave of fish leaped through the air, falling on the decks and wriggling frantically. Now they consisted of all shapes and sizes, one of them almost as big a minotaur.

  “I don't like this one bit, captain,” muttered Scurn.“ 'Tis like the entire ocean is churning up so much even the fish are scared to be swimmin' in it!”

  “Then let's get ourselves to a port as quick as we can!”

  Unfortunately, the nearest island was another day's journey. All the crew of the Gryphon’s Winy could do was hope that the storm would let up.

  Another monstrous wave rose up, washing over the struggling vessel. This time, the minotaurs were prepared. They were soaked down to their skin and half-choked on sea water, but they held on, breaking through the wave.

  Hogar was encouraged. They were still on course. If they could handle the other waves as good as the last…

  From the crow's nest came a shout.

  “What's that?” The minotaur's ears stiffened. “What'd he say?”

  Scurn sounded incredulous. “He said, 'Land ho!' ”

  “There ain't no land in this area!” Both officers strained to see ahead. The first mate shook his head.

  The sailor in the nest shouted again. “It's gone, captain!”

  “A trick of the fog,” suggested Scurn.

  “Aye, but let's—” He broke off as something became barely visible ahead.

  The huge, vague silhouette of an immense, rounded land mass stretched before the ship, dwarfing it.

  “That's not on the charts!”

  Another storm of fish bombarded the Gryphon’s Winy. All around the sea-wracked vessel, dark shapes leaped out of the water.

  “Do we make for it, captain?”

  “Any port in—” Hogar cut off.

  Had the island moved?

  Ears taut and the fur on his neck stiff, the captain cried, “Hard to starboard! Turn! Turn!”

  The dark mass before them rose higher.

  Lightning flashed.

  All Hogar could think was By the lost gods! What teeth!

  It was a fish, a monstrous beast with two white eyes and a mouth capable of swallowing five Gryphon’s Wings without noticing.

  It was likely the strange leviathan did not notice them at all. As his crew tried desperately to get their craft away, Hogar watched it, noting that it seemed to move just like all the other fish—as if seeking to escape.

  The Gryphon’s Winy moved with remarkable swiftness, considering the storm. It cut through the water like a knife, but still not fast enough to maneuver out of the way of the gargantuan beast.

  The waves struck first, hitting with a force a hundredfold of previous assaults. More hands were washed overboard. Scurn tried to hold on but was dragged loose. He disappeared over the back rail.

  Utter blackness enshrouded the swamped ship.

  The minotaur captain dropped to his knees, staring.

  The leviathan came down on Gryphon’s Winy. It shattered the proud vessel like brittle pottery.

  Masts, rails, and pieces of hull flew in every direction.

  Momentum carrying it on, and the sea beast vanished under water again. With it went all that remained of the Gryphon’s Winy and her crew. The body of Captain Hogar was one of the last bits of flotsam to be sucked down into the black depths.

  Chapter VIII

  Shadow of the Temple

  Two months into Hotak's reign, the first of the new colonial governors were assigned. Many were provost captains already in command of those colonies. Adopting the example of Mito, the new governors of Broka, Tengis, Dus, and Selees restructured their local militias and consolidated their power.

  Under a proposal by Governors Haab of Mito and Zemak of Amur, the system of justice underwent radical change. Sanctioned duels in local arenas gave way to tribunals consisting of three officers appointed by the governing administrators. Those found guilty were chained and made ready for the next ship sailing to the mining colonies.

  Hotak needed miners as much as he needed soldiers. To expand, the empire required vast quantities of copper, iron, and other valuable minerals. Several previously uninhabitable islands became new colonies and were peopled by those who had found themselves on the wrong side of the new regime. With few natural resources, the only hope of the island workers was finding and digging out enough high-grade ore to satisfy their overseers. Gask and Warhammer Point, both to the east of Mito, and iron-rich Firemount, one day south from Kothas, were among the newest additions.

  Where once there had only been one Vyrox, now each day it seemed that yet another colony of death sprang up.

  *****

  The axe's curved edge swung toward Ardnor's head—a certain deathblow should it strike.

  Nephera's eldest grunted and shifted his twin-edged axe into a defensive posture.

  In his eyes, the other minotaur moved with the speed of an animal caught in tar. His adversary's round face distorted, the eyes bulging out. Droplets of sweat slowly seeped to the floor. Every muscle of his foe strained, but still the axe came slowly.

  Ardnor almost grew impatient with the entire matter.

  The First Master shifted his own weapon. The world around him moved faster, but still not fast enough to match Ardnor's impatience. His adversary attempted to kick the leg of the emperor's son out from under him, but Ardnor dodged that attack, too.

  Distorted, stretched-out roars of encouragement arose from the other fighters forming a square around them.

  With a savage grin on his face, Ardnor stepped back, causing the other minotaur to stumble forward.

  As his foe sought to regain his balance, the First Master brought the haft of his axe around, thrusting it into his opponent's stomach. At that point, Ardnor let his concentration relax.

  Like a madcap dream, the world resumed its normal pace—and the unpadded hilt of the axe buried itself deep in the other minotaur.

  Ardnor's opponent gasped and doubled over. A hush fell over the audience. Ardnor wasted no time now, bringing up the flat of the heavy axehead and striking his opponent squarely on the temple.

  His attacker dropped to the floor.

  Laughing, Ardnor brought his weapon high, then swung down with all his might at his defenseless foe's neck.

  The blade's edge paused within an inch of its target.

  Pulling back, Ardnor raised his axe over his head and, with a triumphant expression, looked around.

  The gathered Protectors applauded the skill of their leader. More than a hundred warriors stood, clapping—each secretly giving thanks that they had not been among his sparring partners this day.

  The defeated minotaur kept his head close to the floor, the tips of his horns touching the worn, almost black stone.

  “My life is yours,” he announced, not only to his leader but all ears. “My death is yours, too.”

  “Ever and always,” Ardnor returned, finishing the short oath that all Protectors made to him upon becoming one of the blessed champions of the temple. Those who failed to complete the final trials—five days of fasting, followed by hand-to-hand combat with a Master and, lastly, an ordeal by fire—generally had nothing else to say, for many died in the process.

  “On your feet, Jhonus!” Ardnor barked. Nephera's son felt especially satisfied with this duel.

  Jhonus had a reputation for being one of the temple's best. Defeating him, even through use of what might have been called sorcery, pleased Ardnor.

  The assembled warriors continued to cheer. The walls of the chamber made their shouts reverberate.r />
  One of his servants brought him a towel and a mug of water. Ardnor took a sip then rubbed himself with the rough towel. He decided he would bathe later. Too much demanded his attention.

  Tossing the towel aside, Ardnor faced his followers, who had formed up in five lines. They stood at attention, their breathing coming in almost perfect unison.

  Ardnor matched their stance, and his euphoria gave way to ritual solemnity.

  “The people are the life of the temple!” he said.

  “The people will be protected!” they shouted back as one.

  “The temple is the soul of the people!”

  “The temple will be protected!”

  Nostrils flaring, the First Master continued, “By the rites performed, by the trials conquered, you have proven yourselves worthy to fulfill that sacred duty. Your lives, your deaths, belong to the Forerunners forever. You are its eternal servants, its eternal defenders.”

  Each struck the center of their chest with a closed fist. “We are the Protectors of the faith!”

  As they lowered their fists, they displayed for Ardnor the symbol of their utter dedication.

  At the center of each warrior's chest, seared into the flesh and fur, was the distinct outline of a twin-edged axe. All Protectors wore the emblem.

  “Keep a wary eye,” Ardnor concluded. “The day is coming….”

  They filed out in silence, leaving only the First Master and his attendant. Ardnor accepted another mug of water from the older male and swallowed it in a single gulp.

  “Where's my mother?” he asked, wiping his muzzle.

  “She still rests, First Master,” the attendant replied.

  “Still? It's nearly noon!”

  “She said she wants to be well-ready for the special service, First Master. She says she still has many, many preparations to make and that, despite there being yet another month before the event, the preparations take time.”

  Ardnor grunted. “I see. A good idea, then. Wouldn't want her fainting before the sheep, would we?”

  Ignoring the look of dismay on his elderly servant's face, Ardnor turned to other subjects. “Any messages for me?”