Tides of Blood Page 2

  Even his face had not escaped punishment. His snout had been crushed in, and though it had healed, it would forever boast a severe twisted look. Many of his teeth had been broken or were missing; one eye was shut from heavy bruising. Burned into his left shoulder was the humiliating brand the ogres used for all their minotaur slaves—including Faros—a pair of broken horns within a triangle.

  “Kos-Kos-Kos.…” the stranger repeated over and over to some invisible figure, looking beyond Faros.

  Faros had no idea whether Kos was the injured slave’s name, that of one of his friends, or some other incomplete word. Faros did not care what the fool slave was saying. All he knew was that by finding the cave, and babbling so loudly, the newcomer was putting him in jeopardy.

  It would be too much trouble to drag the minotaur out—and some distance away. That meant that Faros himself had to leave, as soon as possible. He knew of another cave up a hill some minutes away. It was a less-protected refuge, but better to go there than to wait here until the meredrakes tracked down this one’s obvious blood trail.

  As Faros started to edge away, the injured minotaur gasped, “P-please … S-Sahd … no.…”

  At mention of the dread taskmaster’s name, a chill ran up Faros’s spine. He glanced indifferently at the broken form of the slave.

  “No …” murmured the stricken figure, drifting off. His body twitched from obvious pain even as he became unconscious.

  Faros snorted, then continued outside. The slave was obviously delirious and already as good as dead. Faros was only concerned for himself. The failed revolt in Vyrox had taught him the folly of worrying about anything but his own hide.

  A dry, oppressive wind arose. Grating dust filled Faros’s nostrils as he headed away. There was no sign of the other escapees or their pursuers. But he had to hurry.

  As he stumbled toward the next rocky hillside, he heard movement from the north. Faros ducked behind an outcropping. Off to his right, an ogre was creeping warily toward him—no, past him and toward the cave. But the dull creature was sniffing the air, like one of the meredrakes, and was obviously unsure.

  Faros held his breath as the ogre, club ready, looked around. The broad, flat nostrils flared. Tusked mouth opening in anticipation, the dust-covered figure moved closer to the cave.

  As Faros watched from nearby, the ogre passed the entrance at first without noticing it. Then the ogre suddenly whirled, club raised, with its bestial gaze fixed on the narrow passage.

  Faros could only guess that the injured minotaur had spoken or moaned. Either way, his movement had signed his death warrant.

  The huge ogre now peered inside the slit mouth of the cave then entered cautiously. A sudden indecision overwhelmed Faros, and despite his earlier determination to stay hidden, he reached down and took hold of a jagged rock the size of his fist.

  As he neared the mouth, however, he heard the brutal grunt of the ogre, then a slight sound that might have been the stricken minotaur. A heavy, final thud followed.

  Rock held tight, Faros quickly slipped away behind some rocks. He had barely found his position when the ogre, the head of his club dripping red, squeezed through to the outside.

  Faros eagerly swung his makeshift weapon, failing to effect a killing strike, but managing to hit his foe hard on the temple. With a savage grunt, the ogre flattened against the hillside. The rock itself cracked in two, tumbling from Faros’s grip. Blood stained one side of the ogre’s piggish face, but other than slowing him for the moment, the strike appeared to have no great effect.

  Before the huge warrior could bring up his club, however, Faros crashed into him. Despite the force of the collision, the larger, better-fed ogre controlled the advantage. He kept Faros from goring him then struck the escaped slave hard in the muzzle.

  They twisted around and around. The ogre pushed Faros back and managed to raise his weapon. The minotaur ducked back as the heavy club came within inches of his snout.

  “F’han … Uruv Suurt!” growled the ogre, yellowed teeth bared. “D’kai f’han!”

  Despite his long captivity, Faros understood little of the ancient language spoken by his savage overseers. But he knew “Uruv Suurt” was the Old Ogre term for minotaur; as for the rest, he only had to look at the ogre’s furious red orbs to get the meaning. The ogre had no intention of bringing back a live prisoner.

  The beastman raised his club again. Faros surprised him by stepping forward, a maneuver that brought an expression of pleasure and anticipation to the ogre’s grotesque countenance.

  The club came down hard.

  But Faros stepped aside so fast that his adversary was thrown off balance. Momentum sent the club and its wielder flying. The club struck the earth, raising a small cloud of dust.

  Faros threw himself at his off-balance foe. He hit the ogre hard then slammed his foot down on the handle of the club. The force of his kick tore the weapon from the ogre’s grip.

  Before the brutish figure could recover, Faros kneed him in the stomach. Doubled over, the ogre reached for his weapon.

  The minotaur seized it first. He brought it up quickly, catching his opponent under the chin. Bone cracked, and with a harsh cry, the bleeding ogre fell backward with a heavy thud.

  Eyes crimson, nostrils flaring, Faros stepped over his fallen foe. The ogre struggled to rise but was too stunned. Faros brought the club down with all his strength. He did it again and again, long after it was clear that the ogre was dead.

  At last sated, Faros dropped the splintered club. He had not stalked the ogre because of any foolish thought of either saving or avenging the wounded minotaur slave. Only an overwhelming desire to kill one of his tormentors had driven him to this act.

  His wits returning, he dragged the body away to conceal it. Faros dumped it in a shallow, winding ravine beyond the hill. The other ogres would have to search long and hard to find the corpse.

  Faros returned to the scene and did his best to remove any signs of the struggle, including the blood shed by the ogre. Soon, all that remained was the beastman’s club. Faros almost discarded it, then decided better. He glanced at the cave then eyed the direction in which he had last seen the other escaping minotaurs. The bloodlust rose in his throat.

  Faros started off in the direction of the pair of escaped slaves. Their trail was easy to find and the second trail—left by the ogres pursuing them—was clear, following closely behind. The two ogres alone might not have bothered Faros so much, but along with their prints were those of an impressively huge meredrake.

  The vengeance-seeking minotaur pushed on. Faros ranged to the side of the tracks, climbing up the nearest hill. He realized where the path would lead the hunters and prey, and knew a swifter route.

  It did not take him long to catch up. As he might have expected, the two minotaurs had gotten lost in the maze of hills while searching for the third member of their party. They had entered a cul-de-sac, a narrow passage halting at the edge of one of the highest, most foreboding black hills. To ascend the sheer cliff face, the pair would have needed to sprout wings.

  The ogres and their massive, scaly hound had them backed into a corner there.

  The minotaur with the troubled leg was down on one knee. Even with the aid of his companion, he could not seem to rise and aid the fight. The two escaped slaves were breathing rapidly, not only exhausted but also aware that they were facing the final defeat.

  In mangled Common, Sahd had more than once told the minotaurs that death was the only sure thing awaiting those who attempted to flee. To illustrate that harsh code, he often had the guards bring back only the heads of the fugitives, which he then displayed on pikes as a lesson to the rest. That did not deter others from trying to escape, though, for in truth, the slaves had very little to lose.

  Faros almost left the foolish pair to their dismal fate. They deserved to end their lives in the belly of the meredrake for such feeble failure. Others had lasted far longer, even made their way to freedom—or so he’d like to imagine.
Yet these two had only managed to get this far.

  But then the smell of the blood on his club reminded him of more urgent desires. It compelled him to think of something that made him bare his teeth in a mockery of a rare smile.

  He shifted, edging around and closer, eyeing the meredrake’s handler, a broad-shouldered beast tugging hard to keep the lizard under control.

  One of the slaves noticed Faros, and looked his way in astonishment.

  The ogres followed the slave’s gaze.

  Gritting his teeth, Faros clutched the club tightly and acted.

  The lizard’s tongue lashed out, tasting the air and the scent of trapped, fearful meat. The handler, warned by his comrade, looked toward Faros—just as the angry minotaur landed atop the straining meredrake.

  The thick, roughly scaled body softened his fall, but not enough to keep him from losing his grip on the club. The weapon spiraled down, nearly striking one of the escapees. That one bent and grabbed it with a flicker of hope in his eyes.

  The lumbering meredrake roared in surprise. It writhed, ripping free from its handler as it tried to bite the thing on its back.

  One reckless swipe of the long, powerful tail bowled over the ogre who had been holding the leash. The other ogre, with a heavy, well-worn human sword in one hand, tried to get near enough to thrust at Faros, but the meredrake’s flailing kept him at bay.

  Faros struggled to hold on, managing to wrap his arms around the ridged throat of the huge lizard. The meredrake tried to shake him off, whirling and lunging, but to no avail.

  Now the minotaur slave who had retried the club pushed into view, brandishing the weapon. The fresh distraction kept the beast from fully concentrating on the rider clutching his back.

  Imagining his arms wrapped around Sahd’s throat, Faros squeezed his arms together, applying all his strength to the constricting pressure. Its breath coming out in harsh rasps, the slavering meredrake turned, stumbled, and shuffled away laboriously.

  A lash struck Faros on the shoulder. The handler had gotten to his feet and now joined with his comrade to try to deal with the unwanted intruder. He whipped savagely at the minotaur repeatedly, the hooked metal tips biting into Faros’s flesh. The pain coursed deep, but a part of Faros knew this pain and found it almost welcome and familiar. He had long experience with the incessant torture meted out by Sahd and his cruel minions.

  The meredrake continued to spin and turn, seeking desperate escape from the choking grip. Faros increased the pressure, forcing the giant lizard around until it faced its masters.

  In a quick series of twisted moves, the minotaur switched his grip to one arm and pushed himself up slightly. Making a fist, he struck one of the creature’s eyes with all his might.

  The blow crushed in the monstrous reptile’s fiery orb. A gush of blood and other sticky fluids drenched Faros’s hand and a noxious stench assailed his nostrils before he reached back down and renewed his embrace of the monster. The meredrake shrieked, leaping about and snapping wildly in agony.

  Growling some fathomless command, the ogre handler repeatedly whipped the stricken creature. He gestured toward the minotaurs, indicating that the beast should turn around and face the slave with the club who was advancing, waving the club menacingly.

  Driven mad by its wound, and Faros’s choke hold, the enraged lizard lunged at the ogre and bit down hard on his head. Arcing claws opened the beastman’s chest, spilling fluids and organs.

  At that same moment, Faros jumped off, rolled away, and narrowly missed being slapped against the rocks by the huge tail.

  The other ogre stubbornly thrust at the beast, trying to help his fallen comrade. Tearing free the mangled head, the meredrake tossed it aside. The creature then turned toward the second ogre and hissed, its good eye fixed venomously on the beastman.

  The minotaur with the club was ready to attack, but Faros waved him away.

  The surviving ogre now realized that he was in a bad situation, and he made a fatal mistake, turning and trying to run away. That was the signal the huge predator needed. Having torn apart its handler, it was eager to dispose of the second ogre.

  The meredrake looked around at the minotaurs with what might have passed for a sneer, and then, with incredible swiftness, it chased after the fleeing ogre, leaping and bounding away.

  Dropping Faros’s club, the minotaur who had tried to come to his aid turned to help his fallen comrade. Without hesitation, Faros grabbed his weapon back, and without so much as a glance over his shoulder started off at a jog.

  “Who—?” began the uninjured one.

  Faros turned to glare at him, cutting off any questions, any further sounds at all.

  Leaping atop a rock, he observed the meredrake bounding after the ogre, up a nearby steep incline.

  Faros tucked the club under his arm and started after.

  “Valun can’t climb that!” insisted the less injured minotaur.

  “Then you two stay here.”

  An argument almost ensued, but then the one called Valun grunted, “I-I’ll make it, Grom.”

  Faros had already begun his ascent. He made it halfway up the slope then paused at a ledge.

  Grom was following, virtually dragging his companion along behind him. The expression on Grom’s blunt features was half exertion, half fury.

  “At least … at least give him a hand up!” he gasped.

  Putting aside the weapon, Faros pulled Valun up onto the ledge. Grom joined them then asked, “What do you think you are doing? It would be better to flee in another direction—”

  At that moment, a scream echoed through the hills. The short-lived cry was punctuated by a bestial hiss.

  A hint of immense satisfaction tinged Faros’s reply. “I wanted to be sure that ogre wouldn’t be rescued. Now, when the others come back and find what’s left of the bodies, they’ll just think it was a typical incident. The meredrakes, they sometimes do turn on their masters without warning.”

  “What about the meredrake?” asked Grom. “Won’t he come after us?”

  “That one’ll be busy for a while,” Faros said with grim humor.

  Faros gripped his club and, ignoring the two scrambling to keep up with him, turned east and renewed his climbing.

  “Prepare to board!” shouted the burly Magraf, captain of the imperial warship Donag’s Shield, gesturing to the vessel’s combined company of marine fighters and crew. Five gold rings dangled in his left ear, one for each rebel ship captured or destroyed thus far under his command. Everyone on board understood that he wanted this day to add a sixth. “Give no quarter!”

  Another voice immediately joined his, the tone more impressive yet less defined by bloodlust. “Belay that! Officers to be spared for questioning! That is an order from the throne!”

  Whether or not they understood Bastion, it was impossible to say, for the assembled force roared a bloody challenge to the enemy as soon as Captain Magraf ceased speaking. The eagerness for battle shone in every expression, every set of crimson-tinged eyes.

  The choppy waters of the cloud-enshrouded Courrain Ocean tossed the ship violently up and down, but relentlessly they maneuvered toward their prize. The weather had proven unpredictable, with what had been calm waters only an hour before now threatening to wash some warriors off the deck. Despite that, the crew stood fast, each fighter hoping to be the first to board.

  In the distance, two other ships from the empire flanked another rebel vessel, this one already consumed by fire. Bastion saw a number of minotaurs leap from the burning vessel into the raging waters. A few who jumped did so wreathed in flames.

  The son and heir of the emperor stood at the head of the Shield’s boarding party, a steadfast, unusually black-furred figure among a horde of minotaurs mostly of varying shades of brown. His calm, arresting presence added to the air of authority he radiated by his lineage. Bastion stared down his long, narrow muzzle at the smaller, single-masted ship they were closing in on. The rebel minotaur crew had no choice but to
fight and die.

  “Minotaurs should not be warring against minotaurs,” he growled, but nobody around him paid attention to the remark.

  “First grapplers!” the captain suddenly shouted. “Away!”

  Sailors tossed grappling hooks attached to thick lengths of rope, across to the enemy vessel. Two missed their mark, but others caught hold. The grapplers pulled with all their might.

  A flight of arrows suddenly rained down on the Donag’s Shield. Most of the fighters and crew ducked safely, but some of the grapplers were caught by surprise. Three fell with shafts in their necks and chests. Their lines slipped over the rail.

  In response, the imperial archers loosed a heavy flight of arrows upon the crippled foe. Several aboard the rebel ship toppled over. The grapplers pulled the two ships closer.

  “Heave, you laggards!” shouted Magraf. The ships were now nearly nestled side by side. To those waiting by the rail, he shouted, “Be ready!”

  The ships groaned as pure muscle effort brought them close. The rebels gathered on deck under the command of a stout, young minotaur who did not appear to possess the rank of captain.

  No Rahm, then, Bastion realized with some disappointment. Rahm was a true leader; he would be with his men, ready to die.

  Then, as the two vessels bumped against one another, Bastion put thought aside. Only action counted now—the battle and survival.

  Even before the hulls rubbed together, Bastion and the marine fighters were leaping over the rails. Nearly a hundred strong and wielding sharpened axes and long swords, the marine fighters moved as one cohesive entity, their silver, padded kilts with the sea-green stripe across the top, identifying their proud unit.

  The skilled fighters plowed into the dispirited, confused rebels. Grunts and cries and the clash of steel filled the air.

  Bastion drove his blade through the stomach of one sweat-soaked rebel who loomed twice as broad as he. Hotak had made certain that all four of his children trained at combat and dueling strategy, and among them Bastion had always been the best; he fought giants, and two or three at once, with equal poise.