Night of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The officer nodded to the soldiers.

  The tarps fluttered off, revealing a giant shaped in Hotak's image. The statue wore the uniform of a legionary and in one hand held the helmeted head of a Knight of Neraka. The entire statue had been meticulously carved and exquisitely painted from sandaled toe to tip of the towering horns.

  Trumpets wailed, and the emperor's honor guard let out a war cry. A satisfied smile spread across the Lady Nephera's face.

  The emperor signalled for silence.

  “For decades, the reign of Chot meant decay and disarray. He led us to new depravity and disaster—and all for his own corrupt gain. The empire stagnated. But no more! Ours is a vibrant race! Our population has more than tripled since our war with the foul Magori. We now threaten to overtake our ready land and resources. If we are to flourish, we must expand!” He took a deep breath. “It is our destiny!”

  The emperor extended his hand. Stepping forward, Bastion gave him a copy of the pact.

  Hotak held it up for all to view. “You see here the future of the realm. No more will we be satisfied with meager colonies on the edge of the Blood Sea, planting ourselves on bits of rock throughout the Courrain Ocean.” Passing the axe to Bastion, he unrolled the scroll. “On this occasion, I am proud to inform you that an alliance has been forged, a pact with the lands of Kern and Blöde, lands awash in blood spilled by the Knights of Neraka, lands seeking our aid. In return, they give us the foothold on the mainland we have so long desired.”

  Uneasy rumblings greeted this announcement. The crowd was not angered by the alliance, but neither were they pleased by a merger with their ancient foes.

  Undaunted, Hotak added, “Kern, Blöde, and every land adjacent shall be cleansed of the Knights' taint! The ogre kingdoms, weakened by war, invite our aid. Later, they will have no choice but to accept our continued presence in their territories—a presence that surely must, in the name of vigilance, multiply over time.”

  Which meant that once welcomed into the lands of the ogres, the emperor had no intention of departing.

  The citizens understood. Hotak's farsightedness moved them to cheers that built to a cascading roar.

  Hotak stretched his arms out to his audience, as if embracing each as a brother.

  Rolling up the scroll, Hotak turned solemn. “At this moment, the first ships are being made ready.

  Rumor tells of a distant war brewing among the humans and the elves. The Overlords, who have never dared face minotaur might, are said to be squabbling with one another, losing their grip over their domains. The time is at hand!”

  As the first voices rose, Hotak cut them off with a wave of his hand. “This is a time of change akin to the First Cataclysm, when the old gods sank decadent Istar beneath the sea and ripped our homeland free from the continent! This is a time when traditions must make way for expediency, for necessity!”

  “It comes!” hissed Ardnor, eyes bright, body bristling with anticipation.

  “Be still!” Bastion said quietly.

  Lady Nephera's smile grew as Hotak reached again for her hand. Their children stepped up, Ardnor edging in front of Bastion and Maritia.

  The emperor drew himself up. “I cannot ignore the possibility that, in the midst of this glorious campaign to come, the crown might have to be passed on swiftly. If that happens, it must done with the utmost urgency, else we face catastrophe. Therefore, for the continued stability of the empire, I will hereby declare this day an heir, a successor to the throne!”

  Although stilled by Hotak's words, the crowd waited with eagerness.

  “Should something befall me, I now declare as my chosen successor… my son, Bastion!”

  Bastion's name spread through the crowd with as much speed and consternation as it did through the royal family.

  Lothan and the other councilors eyed one another in absolute bewilderment. Maritia stared wide-eyed at her dark-furred brother, giving him a look of pride that slipped away quickly when she glanced at their enraged mother.

  At first, the Imperial consort could only gape at her husband. She soon recovered her poise, but her eyes blazed red at the emperor—and his announced successor.

  Bastion wore an almost puzzled expression, but he calmly stepped forward, going down on one knee before his father.

  Behind him, Hotak's eldest snorted furiously. Every muscle in his gargantuan body wished to act upon the brother who had stolen his birthright. Maritia quickly moved between her brothers and grabbed Ardnor by the arm. He shook her off, trembling.

  “Do not kneel before me,” a seemingly unaware Hotak declared, reaching out with both arms.

  “Rise, Bastion!”

  The dark-furred warrior stood still as his father embraced him. “Why, Father? Why me?”

  “For the sake of us all,” the elder soldier murmured.

  As Hotak backed away, Nephera also stepped forward and hugged her son. She said nothing to Bastion, however, and the embrace was a cursory one. When she had retreated, Hotak brought his chosen heir to the edge of the platform, pushing his son in front of himself and presenting Bastion to the crowds.

  A murmur arose. None could deny Bastion's reputation and record. He was widely respected as a capable warrior loyal to his comrades, and such traits were valued by the minotaur people.

  And so the crowd roared its approval.

  Bastion solemnly waved. Hotak waved, too, then signaled the rest on the platform to come and greet his heir.

  Maritia clutched Bastion's hand. “I had hoped…” she began, tears falling free. “I had always thought… Kol would've been so proud of you!”

  But Bastion did not respond, instead staring past his sister.

  “Where is Ardnor?”

  Maritia frowned. “He left. He was very upset.”

  Bastion's eyes grew veiled, but he said nothing, instead turning to accept the plaudits of other well-wishers.

  As Bastion basked in the moment, Nephera pulled her husband aside. Her countenance hid her true emotions, but the words she spoke for his ears alone revealed her deep displeasure. “We never agreed on this. Never even discussed it! Ardnor was meant to be emperor!”

  Hotak waved at onlookers. “I thought long about it, but after this last debacle, I can't permit such a thing. He's been careless, overzealous, and without regard for honor. You favor him, but he's proven himself unfit. I had to make my own choice on behalf of the empire. I judged my sons on their merits. Bastion is more deserving.”

  “But we agreed upon Ardnor, and now you shame him without warning, shame him before everyone!”

  His countenance darkened. “This is not about Ardnor, my love. This is about the empire and what is needed to see that it does not weaken again. I've done what must be done for our race—as I have since first I took up a weapon to defend it.”

  “Our son—” Nephera began.

  “Our son will be emperor,” Hotak remarked, moving past her and waving at the crowd again. “But his name shall be Bastion.”

  He left her alone, glowering. Nephera glanced around, looking for Ardnor. The high priestess could only imagine that he had departed as soon as it was possible for him to do so without drawing attention. After all the promises, she could not blame him.

  But she blamed her husband. To reject his eldest son before the eyes of thousands… what was Hotak thinking? It was not just Ardnor who felt humiliated and betrayed.

  A faint shadow formed next to her. Takyr stood silently by his mistress, seeming to wait for some command. But the high priestess had no command for him. Not yet.

  Her eyes swept over the fawning crowd. She—more than anyone—had guided Hotak's rise. To show his gratitude, he had rejected the temple over which she ruled, the advice she had wisely given, and the child she had nurtured from birth to be his successor.

  “My son will yet be emperor,” Lady Nephera whispered behind Hotak's retreating back.

  Trailed by her darksome servant, the mistress of the temple left the others to their celebrati
ng.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Storm-Tossed

  The ogre galley bulled its way toward the coast of Kern, its sails straining amidst the intense, unnatural storm. High waves rocked it about and threatened to engulf it. The crew struggled to keep the lines set and the square-rigged sails from ripping. Already two hands had been lost to the crashing waves.

  Sequestered serenely in his cabin, Golgren sipped some of the fine red wine he had received among his parting gifts from Emperor Hotak. The minotaurs made excellent wine as well as axes and swords. Years of battling minotaurs made Golgren admire their craftsmanship, almost as much as he detested those who wielded them.

  It had taken some doing for Golgren to convince his fool of a khan that this alliance would be a worthy one. There were rumors of late of some human—a female, if the tales could be believed!—seeking the goodwill of Blöde, which was why Golgren had worked quickly to add his brutish cousins to the pact. The ogre emissary envisioned himself as Grand Khan of a combined realm, one day. No more Kern. No more Blöde. And, in the end, no more minotaur empire.

  Superior among all ogres—at least in his own opinion—Golgren understood the likes of Hotak and believed he could manipulate the new emperor to his advantage. Let the minotaurs think they would rise to the top of the alliance. When Golgren was finished, the beasts would be what they were always meant to be—slaves serving the ogre race.

  Someone banged on the cabin door. Golgren barked a command in the crude language of his kind, and a moment later the simpleton who acted as captain squeezed his gargantuan frame through the doorway.

  “Shut the door, fool!” the emissary said in Common. He insisted that those who served with him maintain some knowledge of Common to prove to minotaurs and other potential allies that ogres possessed more than rudimentary intelligence.

  “Storm pushes wrong,” the hulking figure said in the terse speech of most ogres. “Sails almost torn apart.”

  Golgren cursed the inexplicable nature of the Blood Sea. If the wind and sea both fought against them, what could he do?

  Of course! The answer was in the hold. What else was their cargo good for? Let them earn their meager bits of food.

  “No sails, captain. Rely on oars—and oars alone.”

  “Oars?” The thick brow of the other ogre furrowed. Golgren knew that in such storms, the captain would be reluctant to use the oars for fear they would break, and the ship would capsize without sails for balance.

  “Yes, oars.” Golgren poured more wine. “Our new guests must work until they bleed. It will prepare them for their future, yes?”

  The ogre captain grunted reluctant agreement then departed. Master of this ship he might be, but the Grand Lord could have his head if at all displeased with his obedience.

  Alone again, Golgren sat back and, wine in hand, dreamed of glory.

  *****

  Chained to the oars, the dour minotaur slaves struggled to push the galley forward. Monstrous overseers wielding multi-barbed whips grunted orders only half-understood. On a big brass kettledrum near the aft, another ogre used his wide, thick palms to beat the rhythm of the oars.

  Weakened and defeated, the minotaurs rowed.

  The back-breaking work they had performed in Vyrox had been cruel, life-stealing—but any minotaur would have returned there if given the slightest choice. When they had seen the long, flat ogre galley and the tusked figures standing armed and ready, the defeated workers had sagged with fresh despair. Three days of forced marching had already sapped their strength. Whips had ended mutterings and urged the dumbstruck prisoners into the hold of the vessel.

  In the foul, parched realms of the ogres, they could only expect worse shame, torture, and an honorless, wasting death—all to fulfill the dreams and ambitions of Emperor Hotak.

  Blöde and Kern had demanded no land. The ogres wanted something more precious as a sign of Hotak's faith. Minotaurs were taught to slay one another in ritual combat, but when faced by outsiders, they traditionally united as one. To prove that Hotak valued their partnerships, the ogres had demanded of him minotaur slaves to work their own mines. They had demanded the unthinkable, that minotaur deliver minotaur into foreign slavery, and Hotak had done so secretly but with little hesitation. After all, these minotaurs were brigands, traitors, or worse.

  The hull groaned. Water seeped through the oar ports, requiring constant mopping and bailing. One set of slaves, fighting to keep their oar in the water, suddenly fell back into their fellows as the straining timber cracked in two.

  The overseers whipped them hard for their failure, then out of frustration whipped other slaves nearby. The minotaurs snorted in hatred. Chained and broken, they lacked the will to do more. The rowing continued on.

  One among them cared not a whit about storms, whips, or even, if the vessel survived, his inevitable destination. Faros pushed and pulled at the oar as if no life remained in him. When ogres barked at him, he did not blink. When whips bit into his matted and bloody hide, he did not flinch. For all practical purposes, he might as well have been one of the walking dead.

  His mind, however, was far more active than any guessed. In it swam visions of the people and events that had led him down this dreadful path. He saw over and over his father, mother, siblings, Bek, Ulthar, the Lady Maritia, Paug, and so many others. Faros relived the nightmare of his life endlessly in his mind.

  Throughout it all, he recalled the voice of Gradic pleading with him to be cautious, to flee to safety so that some day he might return to avenge clan and kin. The pleadings pounded madly into his mind with the steady beat of the drum. In truth, the voice might have been that of his father, but the words demanding justice were Faros' own.

  Return? Could he ever hope to return, much less see justice done? It seemed so unlikely, so impossible. Ulthar, a hardened pirate and brigand, had survived Vyrox far longer, just to die when it looked as though he might at last seize freedom. Now, not only had Faros been condemned to serve the enemies of his people, but he was being sent to a land that made the mines of Vyrox seem a paradise by comparison.

  Return? He had no hope of returning. Only death would garner Faros his freedom and perhaps end his shame at last.

  The beat of the drum continued. The minotaur slaves rowed on, edging closer and closer to their destiny.

  Glossary

  The Abyss — Netherworld supposedly at the bottom of the Maelstrom in the Blood Sea. A place of evil and death ruled by the goddess Takhisis.

  Amur — Agricultural colony northeast of Mithas, noted for corn and wheat.

  Ansalon — The southernmost major continent of Krynn.

  Ardnor de-Droka — Eldest son of General Hotak de-Droka and Nephera. First Master of the Protectors, sentinels of the Forerunners.

  Argon’s Chain — A tall mountain range, along Mithas' eastern side, rich with many minerals and replete with several active volcanoes.

  Argon’s Throat — The most dangerous mining shaft in Vyrox.

  Arun — Prominent House known for craftwork, such as barrel making.

  Astos — General and member of the Supreme Circle under Chot.

  Aurelis — Colony located on eastern perimeter of the empire.

  Axe of Makel Ogrebane — Ceremonial weapon representing the favored axe of the legendary hero and emperor, who freed his people from slavery. Jeweled yet functional.

  Azak de-Genjis — Captain of Dragon’s Crest and comrade of General Rahm. ballista — Weapon used on some minotaur vessels. Launches two eight-foot, iron tipped javelins with great force and accuracy.

  Bastion de-Droka — Second son of General Hotak de-Droka. Officer of the legions, Bek—A servant in House Kalin. Loyal companion of Faros. Name adopted by Faros in Vyrox.

  Belrogh — Soldier slain by one of Tiribus' aides, Frask.

  Beryn Es-Kalgor — An Initiate within the Protectors.

  Bilario — A merchant, possibly involved in smuggling.

  Blöde — One of the ogre realms of Ansalon. Ru
led by a Lord Chieftain.

  Blood Sea — A sea northwest of Ansalon, so named because of the water's blood-red tint, due to the silt deposits once stirred up by a vast whirlpool in its center.

  Boril — A member of the Supreme Circle under Chot. Betrayed by Lothan.

  Botanos — First mate o£ Dragon’s Crest.

  Breath of Argon — Invisible, poisonous gases seeping through the mineshafts of Vyrox. breathing sickness — Lung disease caused by the constant inhaling of a combination of dust and fumes during mining. Victims lose fur and weight, their flesh grows pale, and they vomit constantly. briarberry — Rich red berry used primarily for wine making.

  Broka — Small colony at the geographic heart of the empire, noted for timber.

  Brygar Es-Dexos — A dishonest merchant, who is patriarch of Clan Dexos.

  The Cataclysm, also The First Cataclysm — The catastrophic event when the gods sent the nation of Istar to the bottom of the Blood Sea and caused the minotaur kingdoms to be ripped free from the mainland.

  Chal enger’s Roost — Disreputable tavern in Nethosak, where games of chance are played, including those in which body parts such as ears maybe forfeited. chemoc, or Feeder of Chemosh — A rare, part feline creature, almost as tall as a horse at the shoulder, used by the minotaurs in combat sports. Chemocs have two heads, vestigial wings, and their tail is spiked. Related to manticores.

  Chot Es-Kalin, also known as Chot the Terrible, Chot the Invincible, and Chot the Magnificent — The minotaur emperor who rose to power in 368 AC and ruled through the Summer of Chaos. Overthrown by General Hotak de-Droka on the Night of Blood. cloud creature — A demonic assassin created by Nephera. common house — Multiple-dwelling building for low-rank minotaurs. cooperage — Barrel-making establishment.

  Courrain Ocean — The vast ocean east of Ansalon.

  “cow” — Derogatory term. Ultimate insult to any minotaur. Minotaurs refuse to accept that they so closely resemble the said animal.

  Crespos Es-Kalin — Eldest son of Gradic of House Kalin.