Tides of Blood Page 25

  Suddenly there was a tremendous groan near the center of the front line; nearly a dozen of the tallest trees toppled toward the invaders. The kirath had done the unthinkable, cutting through the trunks of the cherished trees. That most of the trees were dead or dying made the act no less audacious, for every minotaur knew the elves were mad nature worshippers.

  Most minotaurs fled to safety, but some moved too slowly or wrongly, fleeing one tumbling tree while putting themselves in the path of another. Armor and bone crumpled under tons of wood.

  And then … the catapults fired.

  From all along the rear of the invading force, huge projectiles soared over the guarding trees and into the heart of Valsolonost. Most were huge boulders with the terrifying effect that the legions desired, smashing against trees and crushing houses. Screams arose from the elven city as, one after another, earth-shaking cracks denoted the successful aim of many rocks.

  Worse than the stones were the barrels. Filled with oil and an explosive powder separated by a divider inside the container, the barrels had short fuses, which were lit, and then they were instantly launched. Some exploded prematurely, destroying the catapult itself. Yet, most worked according to their design. They landed in the settlement, exploding with tremendous force as the contents ignited. Fire spread everywhere and soon smoke rose from locations all throughout Valsolonost.

  Only then did the legions march.

  Rows of archers advanced with the foot soldiers, providing a reliable shield for their sword- and ax-wielding comrades. The minotaurs came across many elven corpses, mostly kirath by their clothing, slain by the arrows. Some of the elves looked as sickly as their landscape, but to Maritia and most minotaurs the visions were what they expected of their decadent foes.

  The inhabitants grew desperate as the army neared. Elves leaped from hiding and took on whole lines of warriors, moving with a grace and swiftness at first so dumbfounding that several soldiers died from thrusts to the throat or side without so much as flourishing their own weapons. That tactic quickly paled, however, as determination and a lifetime of hardened training began to overwhelm the defenders. The elves had agility and swiftness, yes, but they also fought with the knowledge that they were vastly outnumbered and doomed to defeat.

  A Wyvern battered at the slim, curved sword of an avian-faced elf then used the talons of his glove to rip not only his foe’s throat, but also his chest. Unarmored and against such brute force, the elf could do little, and he was all but unrecognizable as one of his kind when the minotaur was done.

  The constant heavy twang of the catapults was joined by the merciless thunk of the ballistae. The long, iron shafts tore through the foliage, and if they did not always find a target, they spread chaos and panic.

  The city opened up before Maritia’s legions. Eyes tinged with crimson, teeth bared in feral smiles, the legionaries entered Valsolonost. Tree homes lay decimated; fire raged in parts of the city. Desperate elven fighters charged the minotaurs, or fired bows more calmly from above. Behind them, those who could not fight fled to the west, hoping to hide in the forest and make their way to the capital.

  But cavalry rode through the melee, rounding up the refugees. Wyvern legionaries scaled the trees where archers perched while the Direhounds tore through the last defenders. Despite their best efforts, the elves appeared drained, dazed. They fought and fought well, better than Maritia had thought, but it was a slaughter.

  A fiery missile struck a tree home near where the emperor’s daughter stood. She watched with pride as the intricately formed, windowed structure—shaped without metal tools—burst into flames. Hanging vines draping the house only fanned the inferno.

  A male elf who might have been anywhere from in his teens to several hundred years old leaped from the rounded, open entrance. He grabbed at a nearby branch, swinging up to another. Three arrows punctured his back … and then the elf plunged to the ground.

  A cry close to her made Maritia whirl. General Orcius tipped in the saddle, a thin, long elven arrow through his thigh.

  Gritting his teeth, he pulled the shaft free, then immediately stanched the flow of blood with a piece of cloth from a belt pouch.

  “ ’Tis nothing to fear!” he growled with annoyance. “There’s no sting of venom on this one.”

  Just then another shaft caught him in the side below his upraised arm. The force of it threw the general from his steed.

  Maritia glared in the direction where the arrow had been launched. “There!” she roared, pointing with her blade. “I want that one!”

  Two Wyverns leaped up a huge oak while legionaries from Warhorse hurried to assist their commander. However, Maritia saw immediately that the veteran warrior was beyond mercy.

  Scowling, she looked around for an elf upon which to take out her fury, but all she saw were dead bodies, contorted elves strewn everywhere. Many lacked an arm or a head; some had their vital organs ripped out. The minotaurs had been thorough in their onslaught.

  Then, from the towering oak, cries broke out. A smooth-skinned elven female in a short, shimmering gown sought to leap to safety, or her death, but the Wyvern pursuing her snared her garment with one gloved hand, leaving her dangling on a limb just below him. Another legionary came to his comrade’s assistance, and the pair bound the prisoner with rope.

  Valsolonost was rocked as two boulders crashed down, the first exploding in the earth, the second decimating a slightly narrower oak to the right of the one where the captive had been taken. The legionaries fought for their footing, while the elf tried to make use of the distraction, struggling against her captors.

  “You there!” Hotak’s daughter shouted to a caped treverian—the winged form in the blue circle of her badge indicating an officer of the Direhound Legion. “Send the call to cease firing!”

  A regiment of cavalry flying the Warhorse banner guided a dismal group of bound elves toward her. Maritia eyed the emaciated, doe-eyed figures. Even in defeat, she could sense their belief in their innate superiority. Hotak’s daughter snorted. They would soon lose that misconception.

  “Here she be, my lady,” rumbled one of the Wyverns. He shoved General Orcius’s slayer toward her.

  Like most elves, the female was nearly as tall as Maritia. The minotaur commander eyed the elf. “A simple squeeze of my fist could break your neck!” she declared, snorting. “By my sword, you look as though a veritable sneeze could blow you over!”

  The elf had gossamer hair that shone, even under such dire circumstances. A delicately crafted necklace of platinum graced her smooth, creamy throat. She was pale, but showed spirit. Thrusting her elegant, narrow chin forward, she regally replied, “You are welcome to use your fist or your sword on me, minotaur. I have done what I could for me and my kind. I am ready to die now.”

  Despite the tapering, emerald green outfit, Maritia saw more than simply a jaded elf standing defiantly before her. “Kirath,” she growled with the slightest hint of respect. “Oh, you can hide in that pretty gown, but I see that’s what you really are. I wonder how many of the other prisoners are as well?”

  The elf said nothing.

  “You want to die, eh?” Maritia shook her head. “I’d be glad to accommodate you, but the emperor has another fate in mind for your race”—she turned to the other prisoners—“a grand fate for all of you.” The slim minotaur commander pointed east, where several legionaries were emptying out a wagon, withdrawing armloads of chains.

  Without warning, Maritia snagged the necklace worn by the female elf. She briefly admired the handiwork, then yanked it off and handed it to a captain standing nearby. “This is to be placed with the general’s body when his pyre is arranged.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  Turning once more to the female, Maritia added, “I’m sorry, but death isn’t to be yours today, elf. You’ve a new, glorious future.”

  The legionaries piled the chains in front of the captives. One soldier lifted a set of manacles then seized the nearest elf.

>   “By order of his majesty, the Emperor Hotak I,” Maritia shouted for all to hear. “You are to serve the imperium! You will obey all orders given on pain of punishment! From this day forward, your obedience is to the throne, to the minotaur race”—despite Orcius’s regrettable death, she couldn’t help directing a smile at the crestfallen female elf—“… your superiors.”

  The path from Blöde to Kern was a long, treacherous one. Only the hardiest made the journey, which made strangers to Golgren’s camp all the more intriguing. Golgren stepped from the tower at the second sounding of the horn to greet the visitors.

  The first thing he saw was a long line of hirsute, stocky ogres clad in rust-red breastplates and beating on skin-topped drums, strapped to their bellies by rope. With their thick paws, they repeated the same heavy double-beat.

  Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

  Behind the ogres marched a crooked line of wary, snarling ogre warriors similarly clad, but with bowl-shaped helmets and carrying over their shoulders either thick clubs with nail spikes or large, curving swords with toothy edges. They eyed the encampment surrounding the black tower as if wary of an attack.

  Two warriors bearing long wooden poles with tapering goatskin banners followed the advance units. On each flag was the black outline of an ominous eye, whose pupil was shaped like flames.

  Next, the crack of a whip announced a formation of slaves, two husky overseers guiding twin columns of ogres, humans, and others. Most of the slaves carried litters with wrapped bundles. Here and there, items peeked out of the goatskin sacks—a sword hilt, a piece of yellow-red cloth, and other diverse objects.

  Then, flanked by brutish guards with tusked faces painted red, came the Lord Chieftain of Blöde.

  Mastarks pulled his two-wheeled carriage. The vehicle lacked the grace of Golgren’s own, and where gold braid and more had decorated the Grand Lord’s vehicle, a more macabre adornment covered the crimson-stained carriage of the newcomer.

  The skulls rattled with the beat of the drums. All around the carriage, the carefully polished skulls of more than half a dozen races gave testament to the brutal power of their collector. Each had been bound by a leather string hammered into the top of the skull; every head stared outward. The jaws were strung shut. They encircled the flat roof and lined the sides of the carriage.

  As with all else, they had been painted crimson.

  Belgroch shuffled over to Golgren, his piggish face anxious. “Kya i Nfa di Blüden Kerktain Nfa!”

  The Grand Lord brushed aside Belgroch’s anxiety with a slight wave of his hand. He stood at the steps of the tower, waiting for the other to make the walk over to him.

  One of the painted guards pulled aside the colored mastark-skin curtain, which acted as a door for the carriage. Two human slaves—barbarians from the look of their long, dark hair and blunt features—quickly hurried over, lying down in the dirt.

  A heavy foot in a thick, bound sandal stepped down onto the scarred back of the first slave, and a round, frog-shaped head thrust out to peer at the surroundings with bulbous eyes. The Lord Chieftain sighted Golgren, and before he could control himself, a brief frown crossed his ugly, wart-covered features. The frown swiftly vanished, replaced by a veiled, neutral expression.

  An old Solamnic helm with a human skull now acting as its crest covered most of the ragged, gray hair atop the elder ogre. Pulling free his red Nerakian cape, the ponderous figure alighted.

  Next to Golgren, Belgroch looked at a loss. He shifted a step forward, as if to go to his ruler, then glanced at the Grand Lord. At last, he kept his place, his beady eyes watching.

  Despite his overly bulky frame, the Lord Chieftain looked much more the fighter than the Grand Khan. Heavy muscle still flexed under the thick girth, and all knew that the skulls decorating the vehicle were personal kills made by Blöde’s master.

  Ignoring the groaning of the slaves, the ogre chieftain peered at the gap of space between him and Golgren. Then, with two guards on each side, he strode toward the Grand Lord.

  Another slave, this one ogre, took the square, brass case he was carrying, and scurried to follow the Lord Chieftain. The drums continued to beat as the small party climbed their way up the cracked stone path to where the Grand Lord awaited them.

  When he had reached Golgren and Belgroch, the overlord of Blöde stared the Grand Lord in the eye, sizing up the shorter, slimmer ogre. He raised one hand, the drums ceased beating. Then, adjusting his helmet, the Lord Chieftain suddenly knelt down on one knee, making certain that he kept himself lower than Golgren.

  “Herak i Jeriloch uth Kyr i’Golgreni!” he growled, his face suddenly servile. The rest of his party quickly imitated him. “Ko i keluta, Hargo i Lanos i’Golgreni!” The Lord Chieftain continued. “Ko i uth Lughrac i Merko i’Golgreni!”

  Belgroch could not help but indulge in a faint smile, as did many of the ogres who served Golgren. The Grand Lord’s mouth twitched slightly with satisfaction then he replied in a formal tone, “Ko i Keluta, Hargo Drago uth i’Donnagi. Ko i kyr Tulan Herko i’Donnagi.”

  “Ke,” returned the Lord Chieftain with some obvious relief. He rose, his minions again following his example, and slapped his chest with a huge fist. “Hyra i Dun, i’Golgreni!”

  At this pronouncement, the warriors comprising the caravan raised their weapons and shouted, “Hyra i Dun! Hyra i Dun!”

  Donnag hissed at the slave behind him, indicating that he should bring forward a brass box. On its sides were depicted magical birds in flight, and the lid on top of the box bore the shield and raised sword crest of an old Solamnic lord. The box was dented but Donnag had made certain it was well polished by one of his underlings.

  “Jeka i f’hani, i’Golgreni,” he said, offering the container.

  Golgren nodded, but did not take the offering. Nodding with understanding, the Lord Chieftain opened the box to display the gift inside.

  They were ears—ogre ears. They had been cut so fresh that droplets of blood still rolled around in the box. There were at least a dozen, and the fact that all were right ears added value to their importance.

  Golgren picked out one, a thick-lobed piece of flesh with a rim that had been purposely cut with ridges. “Morto i gahana i’Vorgi.…”

  “Ke … i’Vorgi.…” Whirling, Donnag barked an order to one of his senior warriors. The ogre quickly trotted to the end of the caravan, going behind the wagon to an area Golgren could not see.

  There was a shout and the crack of a whip … and three disheveled, beaten ogres in manacles and shackles stumbled into sight. They could barely see out of their swollen eyes, and the blood-drenched patches covering their right ears brought harsh, mocking laughter from their fellow ogres. Two were of a broad build, while another more closely resembled the warriors of Kern.

  “i’Vorgi … i’Drochnuri … i’Suunuki.…” The wart-covered ruler of Blöde grinned companionably at Golgren. “Forschuri i hunn, i’Golgreni?”

  In reply, the Grand Lord nodded graciously. He reached to his waist and removed a shining dagger, a gift from the Emperor Hotak. The gleaming blade, with a curved, rippled handle, was beyond the craftsmanship of the ogres.

  The Grand Lord presented the blade to Donnag, who took the weapon with undisguised eagerness. The Grand Khan of Kern had defied Golgren’s growing prestige, and his status had suffered; the Lord Chieftain of Blöde had decided to pay his respects to the new balance of power. The dagger was a gift between equals.

  Golgren gazed at the three figures who were the last and most significant part of the Lord Chieftain’s offering. Blöde, far from Golgren’s eye, had more than its share of those who wished to bring down the Grand Lord. Donnag had rounded up some of the troublemakers. The ears marked each victim, but three he had let live for Golgren’s special touch; for they had been the most outspoken.

  A simple snap of Golgren’s fingers set in motion the final punishment. The two short, squat ogres were dragged to where six high wooden frames waited. Guards snared
two of the poles.

  Old corpses still dangled from the poles. After two weeks, the dried, emaciated forms had been picked over by the carrion crows. When the guards peeled off the bodies, the corpses fell frozen in their death throes, wearing the same twisted faces.

  At last recognizing their sorry fate, the pair of ogres struggled in vain to keep away from the poles, but the sentries were stronger. One shouted and pleaded, while the other gritted his teeth, remaining silent.

  Using the prisoners’ chains, the other ogres pulled their shoulders back until their bones could be heard cracking, then secured the links to hooks behind the wooden frame. They did the same with the ogres’ ankles, twisting their legs back until their muscles tore.

  When the two were thus prepared, another guard walked up to the first ogre, and, taking a thick, bone sliver needle and heavy goat-hair thread, punctured the lower lip of the shaking victim. The ogre tried to pull away, but could barely move his head. With methodical care, the guard slowly sewed his mouth shut.

  While the two ogres were prepared for hanging, the third was taken over to where the mastarks were kept. The wide ears of the lumbering beasts were flapping in the heat; the guards attached huge shackles to the heavy hind limbs of two bulls, and at the same time, undid the chains of the prisoner.

  The terrified ogre tried to run the moment his legs were freed, but one sentry tripped him, sending him falling on his face. They dragged him back, rolled him over, and secured his wriggling arms to the legs of one mastark, his ankles to those of the other.

  Golgren invited Donnag to watch. The Lord Chieftain grinned. “Jeruka i’Vorgi hain uth hain?” Golgren nodded.

  The guards had finished with the pair of ogres. With the aid of tethers, they dragged the frames up and anchored them. The two victims slouched forward, straining their flesh and sinew. Only muffled sounds came out of their blood-drenched mouths.

  Handlers now climbed atop the mastarks. They looked to Golgren, awaiting a sign.