“Garok lytos hessag!” roared the cloaked emissary, pointing at the human. “Lytos f’han? Lytos ferak?”
The throng's reply was instantaneous. “F'han! F’han!”
He nodded, satisfied. Horns blared.
The ogre leaders had lined up in two ranks of twelve apiece, a passage six feet wide between them.
They stood in alternating fashion, each warrior facing the gap between two of his counterparts. The ogres hefted their clubs, waiting.
Drums pounding, the guards shoved the panting knight into the passage.
The first ogre struck him on the injured arm. The blow was hard enough to send the human stumbling, but not enough to kill him.
Just as he stepped out of reach of this attacker, the knight was struck by the first of the opposing line. The human's cry was matched by an audible crack as the ogre's club crushed in his other arm at the elbow.
One by one, the chieftains beat the prisoner, slowly battering him to a pulp. If he hesitated, they hit him so that he fell toward the next warrior. When the knight slumped on the ground, spears prodded him forward.
The ritual was an ancient one signifying the supremacy of the ogre race over its enemies. The sacrifice of a prisoner in such a way spread the strength and glory to all involved, and promised those in attendance good fortune in future battle.
Each succeeding chieftain took aim, striking where none had yet made contact. By the time he neared the end of the horrendous passage, the dark knight's legs were broken and only one arm functioned at all. His chest and back were black and scarred and he was coughing blood. Prodded to the end of the line by his tormentors, he lay in the dust, barely breathing through ruined lungs.
As the other ogres stepped back, the one who had summoned them leaped down from the dais and trod toward the human wreckage. One of the guards handed him a club. The slight figure continued on, taking his place before the gasping prisoner.
Teeth bared, the emissary crushed the knight's skull.
Roars of F’han! boomed through the crowd. The drums beat harder, pumping the blood of the ogres faster and faster. The chieftains on the field saluted him.
He stepped back, leaving the limp, mangled body for all to see. Then, satisfied that the sight had served its purpose, he nodded to one of the handlers. The handler released both his leashes.
Driven wild by the smell of fresh blood, the two meredrakes rushed the corpse. The ogres retreated, watching warily.
The great lizards tore at the knight, quickly reducing the body to something even less recognizable.
The ogres cheered.
As the savage reptiles feasted, the cloaked ogre saw an anxious messenger approach. He turned from the gory spectacle to meet the newcomer, taking a goatskin parchment from him.
Stepping away from the others, he studied the contents, words written in Common by a hand not of ogre origin.
A predatory smile spread across his features, eradicating any last hint of civilization. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “Yes!” he snarled. “It is done!” He looked to the east and saw in his mind beyond the shore to an island realm. “Yes. Come Uruv Suurt, come! Come… to me.”
Chapter X
Encounters
The emperor paraded through the capital. The warhorse banner flew proudly and decisively over the entire realm. The people loved him, and he felt absolutely secure after three months of rule.
Bastion was more cautious. “You should not ride up front, Father. You should be in the center, where you can be defended.”
“I am their emperor. I must show myself to be a confident leader, not a knave who hides behind the shields of others. Besides, we've nothing to fear from the people. See?”
He waved at the citizens, and they waved back. Minotaurs from all walks of life—from the brown-smocked, cloth-booted street laborers to the fur-cloaked, silken-robed shipping merchants—hundreds cheered him. Behind the crowds, armed soldiers kept watch, just in case.
“General Rahm still lives,” Bastion pointed out.
“One renegade in a sea of loyal followers. He'll be dead eventually, just like Councilor Tiribus.”
It had been a month since Lady Nephera had brought the news of the councilor's death. That left only Rahm Es-Hestos, who continued to evade justice. Even Nephera could report no news of the elusive renegade. Undaunted, Hotak had dispatched messengers to the nearest colonies. Efforts had been hampered by the peculiar weather dominating much of the imperium of late, but sooner or later Rahm would be captured.
More cheering arose as the column turned onto a larger street. The emperor bared his teeth in a grin.
“Try to smile a little, Bastion! It might do you good! Besides, I want the people to see you at your best.”
Bastion gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive me, Father. Perhaps events are moving too fast for me.”
“Well, they're likely to continue like that. Kolot should be reaching the mainland soon, which means our offer will be in Golgren's hands.” Hotak patted his son's arm. “You have a lot on your shoulders, Bastion, and I thank you for all you've done. You just need to take a day to recoup. I understand.”
“Aye.”
The crowds continued to build. Hotak was giving them a show. Flanked by two polished warriors bearing shining axes over their shoulders, he and his son, clad in hip-length, midnight purple cloaks and wearing helms with the long horsehair crests, led the finest of his crack guards. Behind the emperor, two soldiers held high the rearing horse banner. After them came four archers, their long bows held steady in one hand, and finally two short columns of mounted fighters, one with axes, the other swords. The soldiers all wore the unadorned uniforms of the legion, but now they, like their lord, had the black warhorse emblazoned on their breastplates.
From the tall, flat-roofed buildings overlooking the area, minotaurs threw down tiny sheaves of horsetail grass, revered by the race as an herb granting strength of bone and heart. After the procession, the sheaves would be swept up and salvaged for practical use. In addition to its herbal abilities, the hardy grass served well for polishing woodwork and shining metal, and was also used for green dye.
The sea of well-wishers increased as the imperial party neared the great square. In preparation for the installation of Hotak's colossus, the damage caused to the fountain by the tearing down of Chot's statue had been repaired and the benches cleared away.
As Hotak and Bastion neared the fountain, Captain Doolb, the senior officer, rode up, his expression impatient. “Your majesty, these crowds are too thick for my taste. I think it might—”
His words ended abruptly. The captain clutched his head. A rock had struck his helmet. Doolb slumped in the saddle. A trickle of blood escaped from under his dented helmet.
All there realized that the missile had been intended for Hotak.
“It came from there!” roared sharp-eyed Bastion, pointing into the crowd.
A lithe, dark brown male with chipped horns broke away from the crowd, as onlookers and guards swarmed after him.
Four of the honor guard rode off in pursuit. Startled bystanders darted out of their way.
His path blocked, the fugitive tried to break into a house, but the door would not give. Angry hands seized him.
“Stop!”
The emperor's voice echoed loud and strong. Startled, the mob gave way to the soldiers. Two seized the rock thrower and dragged him to Hotak. His face bruised and some of his fur ripped away, the young minotaur gazed down sullenly.
“The kilt of my legion,” commented the emperor, gazing at the attacker's garment. “I daresay you never gained the right to wear it proudly.” Hotak glanced at his son. “How fares Captain Doolb?”
Two riders supported the officer, whose head was still bleeding. Doolb's helmet had been removed, revealing a red welt on the upper side of his skull. The captain seemed dazed.
“I would recommend sending him to a healer immediately, Father. This one may not be legion-trained, but he appears to have
a good, strong arm and excellent aim.”
“Aye.” The emperor's good eye fixed on the miscreant. “And that good arm will be put to better use for the empire.” Hotak's nostrils flared. “The mines can always use a hot-blooded, healthy worker.”
Bastion cleared his throat. “I should like to question him first.”
“Do it. Then see he ends up where he belongs.” Baring his teeth, Hotak added, “The mayhem of the past will not be tolerated. The empire will have order, discipline!”
The crowds cheered his words. Hotak flashed a smile.
Captain Doolb and his attendants rode by. The emperor's smile became a frown. “Be sure he's treated with the utmost care.” He glared at the rock thrower, whom the guards had begun to drag off. “And by all means,” continued Hotak, “be sure that this one is treated as he deserves.”
Hotak rubbed the underside of his muzzle with the back of his fist. The emperor's eyes had a touch of crimson around the edges.
“Make certain that the captain is medaled for this. Something befitting his years.”
“Yes, Father.”
Hotak turned his horse back. “Now, let us continue our procession, eh?”
“You want to continue? Even after this?”
“After what? A lone hooligan? If not for Doolb's injury, I would think nothing of the incident. You saw how the people reacted! They turned on the miscreant. Can you imagine what they would think if I fled? I would lose face. Of course, we'll finish. Why shouldn't we?”
“Father—”
Shaking his head, the emperor continued, “You shouldn't he surprised. I used to make myself visible to the rank and file before every battle. Walked among the troops, rode where the enemy could see that they faced a commander unafraid of them. This hardly compares to that.”
“This is not war now,” Bastion reminded him.
“No. No, it isn't.” Hotak urged his horse forward, forcing the others to keep pace. “No. War was simpler.”
*****
Captain Azak admitted to the general that without guidance he would have never have found Petarka. Not only did it look like an unremarkable series of rock formations, but a perpetual haze covered the region for miles around, making navigation difficult. Reefs and shallows surrounded the island, making the place challenging to reach even after one spotted it.
Yet the other vessel guided them in easily. Dragon’s Crest sailed into a small, hidden harbor, finally safe.
Petarka had, at least at one time, been colonized. Crumbling wooden structures had been built into the tiered cliffs, with thick rope ladders and narrow bridges between buildings. Forest covered the inner hilltops. The tiny colony of eight buildings had a short dock for loading and unloading, but little more.
For the next two months they waited there, restoring the buildings, foraging for breadfruit, fishing, and trying to formulate some plan. The sky grew strangely menacing, but although storms threatened in the distance, none struck near. The ship that had guided them departed without even anchoring, but all knew that it would return.
And so it did at last—along with a ship from the empire.
Almost identical to Azak's prized Crest, the newcomer slipped into the harbor, followed closely by Rahm's rescuers. Once the imperial ship docked, several weary figures disembarked, their kilts a varied mix of colors and clan symbols. Rahm recognized one immediately.
“Jubal!” Hearing his name, an elder minotaur with black fur rapidly turning gray raised a crooked arm in greeting.
“Jubal?” murmured Azak. “Governor Jubal?”
“Almost the late Governor Jubal,” the minotaur replied in a scratchy, rasping voice, the permanent effect of a powerful blow to his throat years before. His crooked right arm had come from the same struggle, a battle against ogres. “I escaped just before the doors fell to the pretender's lackeys.”
As they talked, a slim boat colored like the sea and carrying five figures slipped into the dock. Four kept the boat in place while a fifth, wearing only a gray kilt cut above the knees, climbed up the rungs of the wooden platform. Angular of features and with a thin coat of fur, he stood a head taller than anyone else.
“Captain Gaerth at last,” Rahm announced.
The slim giant bowed his head. “I am pleased you received my warning.”
“As, I see, did the governor.”
“Not just me,” rasped Jubal, his eyes never leaving Gaerth. “There's a dozen of us that wouldn't be here otherwise.”
“We alerted those we could, though it cost us some secrecy,” said Gaerth.
Rahm nodded. “Why, though? You've no love for Chot.”
“Chot presented stability, however corrupt his throne. Hotak… Hotak sows unease in all of us.”
Captain Azak had been quiet so far, but finally spoke. “And who are all of you? What clan? I recognize no ships like that built in Nethosak or Mito! Who—?”
The general silenced his friend. Meeting Gaerth's gaze, he told Azak, “They helped us. Leave it at that.”
“I did not misjudge you,” the tall figure commented.
“Don't assume that, Captain Gaerth. Our paths have the potential for conflict—but it's true I owe you much right now. Thanks to you, we have the opportunity to strike back.”
Azak scanned the two vessels nearby. “With only three ships? Rahm, my good friend, I have committed myself to this enterprise, but we cannot fight Hotak with such small forces.”
Gaerth made matters worse. “My ship will not be at your service, captain. I and mine have already risked ourselves enough. Your empire is your own to win back.”
Rahm was disappointed. “I'd hoped…”
“We allied ourselves once. We regret that to this day.” Gaerth bowed to the general. “I now leave you to your fates.”
Azak's eyes flared red. “You cowering—”
“Azak!” snapped General Rahm. “Let him go.”
Gaerth paused at the rungs, one hand on the dagger at his waist. His nostrils flared and the calm assurance with which he had held himself had given way to a tightening of his own eyes.
“Captain Gaerth,” continued the shorter minotaur, holding back Azak. “You speak honorably. You saved my life and that of others. You sacrificed much for us. I thank you. I wish you'd stay and help, but I understand.” Rahm turned his head to the side so that his horns pointed away from the departing minotaur.
Gaerth repeated the gesture. Both he and the general had marked that no conflict lay between them.
“Azak…”
The captain snorted, but he duplicated the others' action.
Gaerth descended to the waiting boat. The trio watched it slowly depart.
In the distance, Captain Gaerth called back, “You will not be without allies, general! I did not lie!”
“What's that mean?” the governor rasped. “What's that mean?”
Rahm's eyes were ablaze with triumph. He went to the end of the dock, calling out, “Veria? Is it Veria?”
Gaerth shouted back, but his words were lost.
Azak leaned close to his friend. “How long have you known this Captain Gaerth?”
“Only days before the slaughter and mostly through messages. He had suspicions about unrest, but even he did not foresee Hotak until the last moment despite his network of spies.”
Hesitating, Azak then asked, “Is he a Ka—?”
Rahm glared at him. They watched as Gaerth's vessel got underway. The crew of the ship moved with astonishing efficiency.
“We'll see them no more, Azak. Just remember that.”
Jubal turned from the ship. “I heard you say Veria. If you mean Veria de-Goltyn, she's dead. The Eastern fleet fell, betrayed from within. If that's our hope, then our plans are crushed already.”
General Rahm bared his teeth in a smile. “But it's not our only hope. We have the greatest ally of all working with us, one that even Hotak wouldn't suspect.” His eyes narrowed. “Captain Veria's dead, but she'll aid us yet… and there'll be others as time g
oes on, the dead demanding their justice. I swear it!”
The fur on Azak's neck stood up. “By the old gods, you sound more like a Forerunner with this talk of the dead.”
“But these dead will stir the living more than the high priestess' hollow words and conjuring tricks.”
The general seized his comrades by the arms, trying to make them see as he did. “Wait a little longer, and you'll see! We have new hope now! Captain Gaerth must've meant what I think. Veria will bring us aid, and thanks to our other ally, more will come.”
“Who is this other ally you speak of?” demanded Jubal, patience clearly at an end.
Rahm snorted and once more bared his teeth. “Why the greatest ally of all, Hotak himself!”
*****
The weather over the length and breadth of the empire continued to grow more savage and unsettling. A scorching heat wave covered the island of Amur, and just beyond its shores rain poured relentlessly. A swarm of large, black locusts appeared out of nowhere and infested one of the outer farming colonies, stripping it of its entire crop before vanishing over the turbulent ocean.
And then…
*****
The small colony had survived hurricanes and worse in the past, and so the unpredictable weather tossed at them by the sinister, green-gray clouds had not much disturbed the hardy minotaurs of Tadaran. Boats still dared the choppy waters to fish, while farmers tended their crops or herded their goats.
But Mogra, a more recent arrival to the island, worried as she watched the sky. The clouds were dark, threatening, and if she stared close, the slim, chestnut-brown minotaur thought they looked crimson around the edges, almost as if they burned or bled.
Pulling her cloak tight, she hurried toward the cabin she shared with two other females and their children. Like the other females, her mate was absent, and so the three adults shared the chores. It was Mogra's turn to barter with the fishmongers, and the full basket she carried marked her skill.
A tall, muscular male of advancing years strode toward her. Mogra tensed, then recognized Han, the blacksmith. Soot covered his arms and legs.
“Good evening, Mistress Mogra,” he said.
“Good evening to you, Han.”
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