Tides of Blood Read online

  The Wyverns burned the village while the rest of the advance units caught up. Having none of Bakkor’s sentimentality, Maritia entered the village with a look of scorn. From what she could see of them, the elves’ homes looked too soft, too decadent.

  “Like the fall of the High Ogres,” she sneered. “Amazing that the elves have pretended such a lofty position for so long.”

  “Their end has come at last,” replied Bakkor, bowing his head.

  “Yes, it is coming. General Orcius, we make camp here.”

  “A wise choice, my lady,” the elder officer handed her a dispatch just brought to him by a mounted messenger. “Clans Bregan, Athak, and the other designated colonizers have arrived near our base. I daresay within a week, their chosen will be here.”

  “Colonizers?” mocked a Wyvern who happened to be standing near. He and another minotaur made expressions of distaste.

  Maritia steered her horse toward the pair, staring them down as she had seen her father do to disrespectful subordinates over the years. “That’ll be enough of that! The emperor has decreed that Silvanesti should be made habitable as quickly as possible, thus ensuring that the imperium will be permanently entrenched! After we’ve conquered this realm, we’ll not be easily shoved out, will we?”

  “Your ladyship, we only meant—”

  She cut off their apologies. “The colonizers perform a valuable function for the empire, as do the legions. You may find yourself in a colonizing unit some day, warrior! Maybe sooner than you think. All it takes is a maimed limb, eh?”

  She laid her hand menacingly on the pommel of her sword, ensuring no further protest. Colonizers consisted of those unfit for military duty but still able to serve the empire in working and building tasks. None of them were without wounds or deformity. Before Hotak’s rule, such minotaurs had lived on the edges of society, but Hotak had rehabilitated and found a fit purpose for them, indeed arranging for his own clan to offer the first volunteers. The other six largest clans swiftly followed, creating an immigrating force that would pioneer minotaur relocation. Despite their permanent injuries, the colonizers were proud and brave, and would stand and fight for their ground.

  Whether they would be accepted by the healthy colonists who followed them was a question Hotak had not yet bothered to study.

  “Casualties have been light thus far, my lady,” General Bakkor said, perhaps triggered by thoughts of the colonizers. As Maritia turned from the legionaries—who hurried off—he added, “Less than two score slain, and as many injured or wounded.”

  “And the elves?”

  “The same number, I’d say … but then there are far fewer elves in the world than minotaurs. Our numbers give us an edge.”

  Hotak’s daughter reflected. “Yes, our numbers, our tactics, and our traditions, general. The elves have to put up some better resistance than this! It hardly qualifies as a battle!”

  “They’ve little magic now, as in the past,” Orcius reminded her. “Now they must rely on their stealth and tricks.”

  Stealth would only get the elves so far. While some legions made camp in this area, others pushed on to secure the western perimeter. Pickets were put in place, and not one line of sentries but three were set. For elven raiders to penetrate the main encampment, they would have to slip past not only the Wyverns, but also the Direhounds and her own Warhorse legion. They would be safe this night, in the elven forest.

  “We could reach Silvanost faster than we dared hope—within three weeks, if we continue to press on unopposed, my lady,” Bakkor reported, his deep-set eyes gleaming with anticipation for the fabled elven capital. “My Wyverns will cheerfully clear the way.”

  General Orcius looked soberly at Maritia. “Our pact with this Galdar—and his Mina—clearly stipulates that we leave the capital alone. They have other plans for it.”

  “And our allies have never bothered to inform us of those plans.” Maritia removed her helm then unbound her mane. Letting her hair hang loose, she smiled at both older officers. “We’ll push on as agreed. We’ll secure the eastern portion of Silvanesti—correction—Ambeon—and establish our settlements. Later we can decide what to do about the elven capital.”

  “As you say, my lady,” both males responded, dipping their horns to the side.

  But Maritia was not finished. “When that’s all said and done, we’ll see how well Galdar and his slip of a human have done with Silvanost … one hopes they will have done well, and succeeded. Then, as my father desires, we’ll take Silvanost from them.”

  The feminine, chestnut-furred hand dived into the crimson contents of the silver bowl, briefly fragmenting the vision swirling within. In the dark red liquid, tiny figures in armor, all marching with purpose through a thick forest, rippled wildly before they gradually formed again.

  “Takyr … attend me.”

  From the shadows of the chamber materialized the hooded ghost.

  Mistress … came the voice in Lady Nephera’s head.

  “But a few scant hours ago, I cast a new vision, attempting once again to see beyond the veil of the elves and into the heart of their capital.” Unbeknownst to her husband, the high priestess had been trying day and night to pierce the mystery of the shield and learn the elves’ secrets. But each spell had failed her, and while those failures had frustrated her, they also made her more determined. With all the power granted to her, for some reason Silvanesti was still withheld. Hotak hounded her for reports she was unable to deliver. Her seeming weakness undermined all that she was building up for the empire.

  But now … now she could see … the legionaries were flooding the eastern edge of the fabled elven kingdom.

  And of the cursed shield … there stood no trace.

  “A few scant hours ago, I cast my spell,” she repeated in a grim a tone, setting both her horde of ghostly servants and her two mortal attendants shivering with cold. “And again it failed. Once more I cast it … and now I see the kingdom of the hated elves open to the legions as though the shield never even existed!” Her voice suddenly rose, turning manic. “How has all this happened, when I, above all, should know before such events have even begun? How?”

  The image of the dank specter wavered, the only indication of any fear that he felt of his mistress. The torn cloak that encompassed his body fluttered wildly, almost as if either an unfelt wind or some dark life within the garment itself was moving.

  And as it fluttered, Takyr himself shifted shape, transformed from the shadowy, ravaged mariner he was to one image after another.

  He first became a bent, elderly female with the pockmarked countenance of a plague victim. One hand twisted away from the elderly female’s body, and the gown she wore was horribly soiled.

  The female then gave way to a young, stout warrior who looked as healthy in death as he did in life—save for eyes that had been torn from their sockets and the tongue missing in the muzzle. The barbarians who had captured him had been clinical in their torture.

  But finally Takyr’s shape gave way to a gray-furred, blunt-snouted official, a robed figure in the gold-trimmed, silver-embossed red robes of House Zhakan. Gold rings decorated this ghost’s left ear, and many of his fingers were also adorned with varying gems. Zhakan was a great merchant clan, ranking high in the League, and its worldly views encompassed beliefs that were not traditional for minotaurs. This one must have been a merchant of great importance when he had died of very natural causes.

  This one … Takyr informed Lady Nephera. He stepped out of the other ghost, his cloaked form hovering behind the slightly shorter figure.

  “Tell me.”

  This one failed in his watching. This one … proved distracted by something. I cannot fathom what, mistress, but perhaps—

  “Never mind that. I care little of what catches the fancy of the dead.” She stirred from the bowl, her eyes wide and hollow and in their own way far more frightening than those of her monstrous-looking, undead servants. “They exist to serve and if they do not serve, the
y are no use to me whatsoever.”

  As Lady Nephera spoke, her two mortal acolytes stared blankly ahead, hearing only her part of the conversation. They sensed the faint but distinctive scent of something rotting in the dank sea, and they had the feeling that thousands crowded the empty chamber. If their mistress chose to talk to empty air, as she often did, they knew only that she did not talk to herself.

  Takyr’s cloak again moved of its own accord, encroaching on and enveloping the shimmering spirit of the dead merchant.

  In the empty eyes of the second ghost, there appeared a sudden and acute fear.

  Shall he be … corrected, mistress?

  His face suddenly as animated as one of the living, the merchant stretched forth a transparent, pleading hand. Mistress … pleasssse.…

  The high priestess’s nostrils flared. She stared down at the creature who had dared to disappoint her. “Let it be done.”

  Takyr’s cloak fell upon the beseeching figure. The voluminous garment swirled over the elder minotaur, covering him like a shroud. The ghost wailed and struggled, but the cloak held him tight, grotesquely twisting and pulling his spectral shape.

  The other ghosts edged away as far as Nephera would permit, their eyes all the same … round, wide, hollow, fearful.

  Now Takyr’s cloak squeezed impossibly tight. Trapped within, the merchant’s shade moaned, a sound so horrific that even Nephera’s two attendants felt the agony instinctively and drew deeper within their own cloaks in the hopes of shielding themselves.

  And as he finally vanished within the dark folds of Takyr’s cloak, the second ghost shrieked hideously.

  Nephera’s acolytes gave a start, their faces visibly paling. The other shades swirled around and around the chamber, unable to express their terror in any other manner. Lady Nephera nodded in satisfaction.

  Takyr’s cloak settled around him, and as it did, the last horribly shrill notes of the shrieking were cut off. He will not fail you again … mistress.…

  Turning her baleful gaze back to the vision in the crimson liquid, the high priestess felt a renewed calm.

  “I must now look ahead, see now what lies before the legions. There is also this matter of escaped slaves roaming Kern. That will not do. They must be dealt with. There can be no further missteps or distractions.” Her eyes narrowed and then drifted over to the platform upon which Ardnor had lain of late; then she turned to her assistants. “I must cast unusual spells for all this, however.” Nephera gestured impatiently at the strange bundle lying atop the platform. “Remove that! It’s all used up. I need something fresh, younger … and more than one, likely.”

  The two priestesses scurried to the platform. Despite their natural strength, the minotaurs had some trouble with their burden, for, though aged, this unfortunate had been of immense size when he still breathed—which was only a short time ago.

  Nephera let her fingers stir ripples in the vision. “Have the guards hide it somewhere—somewhere better this time, preferably where fire will claim and destroy it.” She watched as, in the image, the banner of the warhorse flew past. A slight smile escaped her. “We don’t want to trouble my husband with bothersome details. After all, he has so much on his mind.”

  Captain Botanos entered the cabin, his grim expression hinting at bad news. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  Jubal, the former imperial governor turned rebel leader, looked up from the charts he had been studying. None of them offered him any miracle solution to their problem. The rebels were counting on him to take over the leadership from Rahm, whom they had revered, but he felt like an old, weary warrior too long on the battlefield. Everywhere he looked on the map, they were being flanked or hounded or boxed in by the imperial fleet. There was only one forsaken possibility …

  Nolhan and some of the others had begun to openly question his authority, and there had been outbreaks of frustration, violence, and near mutiny on several of the ships.

  The rebellion was collapsing in on itself.

  Jubal suddenly recalled Captain Botanos, staring at him. “What’s the worst this time?”

  “The hull,” the heavyset mariner responded without hesitation. “Took on more damage from the battle than first estimated. Those temporary patches we’ve been making for the past weeks won’t last. It can be fixed, but it’ll take some trouble. Without a dock, the workers’ll have to take turns in the water. That’ll be more dangerous of course, and less reliable. Also we’d need to venture out and cut some wood to replace sections.”

  Ears flat, Jubal asked, “Is the ship truly salvageable?”

  Captain Botanos looked horrified. His chest swelled as he hurried to defend his beloved vessel. “The Crest? Aye! How can you ask? She’s the finest ship ever built! Just needs a little fixin’. I’ll get her in shape, I swear it!”

  “But how long will it take, and is it worth the bother?”

  Botanos quieted, his ears also flattening. “Longer than either you or I like but it’s worth everything to me and the men.”

  “We can’t float around here forever,” Jubal rasped. “That scout ship escaped us. It’ll warn Nethosak!”

  Just when they had thought themselves safe, lulling in an uninhabited cove on the north side of a small, obscure island, a single-sailed Imperial ship had come upon them. The Dragon’s Crest and its two sister ships had given a good chase, and should have run the enemy down, but the scout had managed to skirt shallow rocky areas that the rebels were forced to sail around. Never once had the imperial been within catapult or ballista range.

  “It can be done fast. I swear on my ancestors.”

  “Let us hope so,” Jubal said with a sigh. He leaned back, eyes shifting to one chart. “Of all the places to go … Kern.”

  “Not so bad here. Trees and all. And we can thank the throne for the ogres being preoccupied! They’re all west of Kernen, battering away at the humans or the elves’ godforsaken shield.”

  That did not mean that the region was devoid of danger, but the Dragon’s Crest seemed to have little choice where to land.

  “Very well. Alert the other captains. And if we’re going to stay around here much longer, then I’m going to take a party and head inland,” Jubal said decisively. “Scout the area and bring back fresh meat maybe.” He pointed at the map, where lush green gave way to a dry brown. “We’ll go no farther than that then turn back.”

  Botanos nodded, eyes calculating. “Captain Zeen aboard the Vulture has some skilled shipbuilders aboard. I’ll ask him to send them over. With luck, I can have the Crest ready by the time you return from your hunting expedition, governor.”

  “I pray that’s so.”

  “We’ll not let you down.” The gargantuan mariner saluted Jubal then left the senior minotaur to his own work.

  Botanos would do his utmost to keep his promise, Jubal was certain of that. However, Nethosak would dispatch a fresh fleet the moment they heard the rebels were in the area, and Jubal suspected Lord Bastion would lead those returning to the hunt.

  Trying not to be pessimistic, Jubal again studied the map of Kern. The nearest known settlement was several days away. Botanos was likely correct; the ogres would give them little trouble. He had more to fear from the relentless Lord Bastion.

  The minotaur war machine ground on into Silvanesti … and at last encountered its first true resistance.

  The Wyvern legionaries at the front never heard the swift rain of tiny shafts fired at them from the brown-leafed trees ahead. They fell almost in unison, several scratching at their throats and heads with their taloned gloves as they sought to yank out the wooden needles. Unfortunately, the venom used by the kirath was so potent that most died while still on their feet.

  The attackers retreated out of range then set up a new ambush. Maritia and the other legion commanders soon understood why. Scouts reported a larger elven settlement, one that surely housed at least several hundred of the enemy—just ahead.

  “Nothing on this damned map,” muttered Orcius, cr
umpling the imperial chart. “Precious few settlements marked on this map.”

  Maritia gazed at the map that Galdar had provided to them. “ ‘Mina’ has something marked: Valsolonost, The Place of the Perfect Sun, according to ‘her.’ ” She smoothed out the crumpled map and put it away, sliding her helmet down over her eyes. “Whatever its elven title, I hereby rename it First Grave of the Elves.”

  Drawing her sword, Maritia ordered the legions forward.

  Forest blanketed this part of Silvanesti as it did the rest, but more and more they saw that many of the trees were sick, others long dead, making easier the task of those who labored to clear the path for the cavalry, catapults, and ballistae.

  The elves were not without cunning means. As the legions converged, the tree homes of their foes tantalizingly near, the very ground gave way in places. Hardened legionaries snatched at the crumbling earth, desperately seeking handholds. Several riders from the Direhounds, eager to be the first to enter the elven settlement, tumbled with their mounts into the sudden abysses.

  But despite the losses of more than one hundred soldiers, the minotaurs regrouped with precision and calculation. Prepared for treacherous crossings, specialists quickly felled several huge trunks, and cleared new paths to avoid the gaps.

  The ballistae crawled forward, though the catapults stayed put. Crews rapidly prepared the larger war machines for firing, while drivers hurried the others to better vantage points.

  The pale silver and white banner of the Snowhawks moved up to a rise overlooking the settlement. Three lines of a hundred archers arranged their positions, and in seconds the expert archers fired off a volley of death, not into the city itself, but into the shadowed trees shielding Valsolonost.

  Four times the archers fired, adjusting their aim as commanded by their captain. The badge-wearing officer, his short horsetail crest dangling behind as he pushed his helmet back for a better view, adjusted the marks after each wave of arrows.

  As soon as the last volley was fired, the legionaries pushed across the gaps over hastily made clearings and makeshift bridges.