In the dim illumination, she made out two dead bodies in the lower hall. One also wore a helm, but the other Tyra recognized even though he lay muzzle down.
Mykos. Her eldest son. In three days he would have become the newest addition to the Imperial Guard. General Rahm Es-Hestos, the commander of the emperor’s elite, had personally recommended Mykos, a moment of great pride for his mother.
An axe had done him in. His blood still pooled beside his hacked torso.
Tyra screamed, swinging anew at the last of her attackers. He continued to back away from her.
“Stand still so I can smite the head from your body, you dishonorable dog! My mate—my children!—demand your blood!”
Still edging away, her opponent said nothing.
Too late did the obvious occur to the outraged minotaur. Tyra de-Proul wheeled quickly, but not quickly enough.
The female assassin who she thought had been knocked unconscious stabbed Tyra through the heart.
“Stupid old cow,” the assassin muttered.
Tyra slipped to the floor and joined her mate in death.
So many names crossed out. So few remaining.
She looked over the pages, noting the survivors. Some looked to be of no major consequence, but a handful tugged at her, urgently.
A chill wind suddenly coursed through the stone chamber that served as her private sanctum. She quickly protected the candle.
My Lady Nephera … came a voice in her head, a voice rasping and striving for breath.
Nephera glanced beyond the candle, seeing only glimpses of a shadowy figure at the edge of her vision. At times, she could make out details—such as a hooded cloak—and within the cloak a minotaur unusually gaunt of form. Of the eyes that stared back at her, she sometimes made out the whites, but this monstrous phantasm had no pupils.
The cloak hung in damp tatters with glimpses of pale flesh beneath. Whenever this particular visitor appeared, the smell of the sea always seemed to accompany him—the sea as the eternal graveyard.
As she reached for a grape from the bowl set by her side—the only sustenance she would permit herself this glorious night—the elegantly clad High Priestess of the Temple of the Forerunners waited for the ominous figure to speak again.
The shade’s decaying mouth did not move, but once more Lady Nephera heard a grating voice. Four of the Supreme Circle now join me in death.
She knew three names already, but the addition of a fourth pleased her. “Who? Name all four so that I can be certain!”
General Tohma, Boril, General Astos …
All names she had. “Who else?”
Kesk the Elder.
“Ah, excellent.” Pulling free one of the parchments, Nephera located the name and gave it a swift, inky stroke—as lethal to the council member in question as the axes and swords that had actually killed him. The elimination of the highest-ranking members of the Supreme Circle, the august governing body under the emperor, gave her immense satisfaction. They, more than most, she held responsible for all that had happened to her and her husband—and to the empire.
Thinking of her mate, the Forerunner priestess scowled. “My husband’s hand-picked warriors move quick, but not quick enough. This should be finished by now!”
Send out your own, responded the gaunt shadow. Your trusted Protectors, mistress?
She would have dearly loved to do so, but Hotak had insisted otherwise. This had to be done without the temple. The military would not look with favor on her husband if it appeared that the Forerunners influenced his actions.
“No. We shall leave this to my husband. The triumph must be his and his alone.” Lady Nephera picked up the stack of parchments, her intense black gaze burning into each name. “Still, the temple will have its say.”
Throughout the length and span of the empire, the Night of Blood continued relentlessly.
On Mito, three days’ journey east of the imperial capital, the governor of the most populated island colony rushed forth to greet two massive vessels that had sailed into port. An honor guard had quickly been arranged, for who but an important dignitary would arrive without warning and with such a show of force? The captain of the first vessel marched a squad of helmed warriors down to salute the assembled well-wishers—and executed the governor where he stood.
On the island of Duma, the home of General Kroj, commander of the empire’s southern forces and hero of the battles of Turak Major and Selees, became the scene of a pitched battle. The fight went on until dawn, when the barriers of the general’s estate were finally broken down by his own troops, who joined the attackers. Kroj committed ritual suicide with a dagger even as helmed fighters burst down the door to his study. They would find his family already dead, their throats slit by Kroj just prior to his own demise.
In Mithas, Edan Es-Brog, the high priest of the Temple of Sargonnas, would be discovered dead in his sleep, a mixture of poisons in his evening potion.
Veria de-Goltyn, Chief Captain of the eastern fleet, drowned as she sought to escape her burning ship. Her own captains had been paid to turn on her.
Konac, imperial taxmaster, was stabbed more than a dozen times at the door of the emperor’s coffers. A stronger figure than his rotund appearance indicated, Konac would outlast his guards and two assassins, making it to just within a few yards of the Imperial Guard’s headquarters before dying. No one within heard his final choked warning.
A massive fleet, organized quickly and secretly over the course of weeks and combining the might of over three dozen turncoat generals and captains, spread out over the expanse of minotaur interests. Some of them had been on their journeys for days already. Before the night would conclude, twenty-two colonial governors, their principal officers, and hundreds of loyal subordinates would be executed. All but a handful of the major territories and settlements within a week’s reach of the main island would be under the iron control of Hotak’s followers.
All of this, Lady Nephera saw as it happened. She had eyes everywhere. She knew more than her husband’s lackeys. Even the emperor, with his complex and far-reaching network of messengers and spies, knew but a fraction of what the high priestess knew.
Thinking of the emperor, Nephera turned her brooding eyes to one particular page, reading the only name still listed. No furious stain of ink expunged this name’s existence, yet by her estimate, only minutes remained before she would have the ultimate pleasure.
The high priestess read the name over and over, picturing the puffy, overfed countenance, the vain, ambitious, clownish visage.
Chot Es-Kalin.
About the Authors
Margaret Weis
Margaret Weis began her collaboration with Tracy Hickman on the DRAGONLANCE® series more than twenty years ago when she was an editor for TSR, Inc. Two decades later she is the author of numerous DRAGONLANCE novels, the four-volume galactic fantasy Star of the Guardian, and co-author with Don Perrin of The Doom Brigade, Draconian Measures, Knights of the Black Earth, Robot Blues, and Hung Out. She and Perrin are also the authors of Brothers in Arms, the sequel to Weis’ best-selling novel The Soulforge.
Tracy Hickman
In 1983, when Tracy Hickman was driving across country to start a new job at TSR, Inc. as a game designer, he conceived of a world in which dragons would play a big part. That world became the DRAGONLANCE campaign setting and helped launch Hickman’s career as a major voice in fantasy fiction. He has also written, in collaboration with Margaret Weis, the Darksword series and the Death Gate Cycle, is the designer of the game setting Starshield, and is the author of The Immortals. In his spare time—not that he has much—he lives in Utah with his wife, two daughters, and two sons.
DRAGONLANCE, WIZARDS OF THE COAST and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC, in the U.S.A. and in other countries. ©2011 Wizards.
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