Tides of Blood Page 32

  Once again the hooded figure seemed to make up his mind reluctantly, moving slowly toward Bastion, his hands ready to make a grab at the weapon.

  Bastion blinked. The crew was occupied with keeping the ship afloat. He felt himself losing strength, maybe even consciousness. He had only one choice

  With a battle cry worthy of his father, Bastion hurled himself at the assassin.

  The hooded figure froze, dumbfounded. Bastion crashed into him, seizing his heavy garment. The two became wrapped in the cloak and fell struggling to the deck.

  The motion of the ship rocked them from the wall to the rail and back again. Bastion nearly lost his grip on the dagger. He jabbed it desperately.

  The assassin emitted a startled gasp and pulled away. He stumbled to his feet, the hilt of the blade protruding from his stomach. He bent over, trying to pull the weapon from his body. Bastion managed to push himself to his feet.

  One arm all but useless, Bastion threw himself one last time at the assassin, wrapping his arms around him, crashing against the rail.

  The rail broke.

  Both victim and attacker plunged into the wild waters. As they hit the sea, the pair was separated by the force. A wave cut between them, and the hooded figure vanished, flailing as the waves bore him away.

  Half unconscious, Bastion cried out for help, but the thunder and violent waves drowned him out. He floundered in the water, as the Stormbringer sailed on.

  Seawater filled his lungs. Choking, Bastion tried to swim toward the Stormbringer, but each time, huge waves pushed him back. He blacked out momentarily, and when he came to his senses, he saw the ship as a shrunken pinpoint in the distance.

  He looked around, but no other vessel was close. All followed the flagship north.

  Something slammed into him from behind. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of it. Bastion discovered that fate had thrown him and the broken railing back together. Perhaps it would be enough to keep him afloat.

  The sea began to churn even harder. Huge waves washed over him. He looked up to see one more than twenty times his height—about to crash down on him.

  Clinging to the piece of railing, Bastion tried with all his might to outswim the wall of water. But the wave, seemingly as tall as a mountain, bore down on him.

  And as it crashed down, Bastion held his breath and prayed to the lost gods.…

  “What were you thinking?” roared the emperor. He straightened, his lone eye condemning the figure before him more than any words could. “A foolish question! Absolutely nothing, that’s what!”

  Ardnor’s entire body shook as his eyes grew redder and redder. He knelt on one knee before his father in the throne room, the images of emperors past adding their looks of stony disapproval to that of the emperor.

  They had met alone at Hotak’s insistence; all guards were sent away. Though furious at his son, the emperor did not desire a public spectacle. The acts of his children reflected directly upon him, and at this crucial juncture, nothing should weaken the throne.

  “The rebel ship’s destroyed!” protested Ardnor, looking up at his father, despite the royal protocol. “We ran it into the rocks!”

  “And nearly lost the supplies that were meant for the legions! Forget the rebellion! Your brother will have Jubal of Gol in chains or dead within days, and with him will go the rebels’ last vestige of command! The rebels do not concern me. What’s more important is that we achieve the invasion of Silvanesti, and for that your sister’s legions and the colonizers require a steady stream of supplies. Delays cause disarray!”

  “My sister’s legions …” rumbled Ardnor, standing. “My brother’s fleet …” he continued to mutter, walking over to the dais and putting a foot up on the first step. “Actually, it is both my brothers’ fleet, since it’s been named for Kol.…”

  “Silence! Show respect for—”

  “They have legions and fleets,” Ardnor snapped. “What’s mine? What has ever been mine?” He beat his fist against his breastplate. “I’m your eldest, Father! Your heir—at least I should be!”

  The emperor stepped down until he met his son at eye level. Hotak’s nostrils widened, and he gritted his teeth as he spoke tersely. “If you had ever acted as the eldest should, then perhaps you would be! Bastion’s been far more of a—”

  They heard banging at the doors at the far end of the room. Hotak bit back what he was about to say then pushed past an infuriated Ardnor.

  “What?” shouted the emperor when he had reached the doors. “I ordered that no one disturb my son and me at this time—”

  Entering swiftly, Captain Doolb faced Hotak’s outburst stone-faced. He went down on one knee, presenting a rolled, unsealed parchment. “Your majesty, forgive me, but you will want to read this immediately.”

  “What? Give that here!” The emperor snatched the message away from the officer, clumsily unrolled it, and read.

  The paper dropped from his shaking hand.

  “No … no!”

  Brow furrowed, Ardnor rushed over to his father. “What is it, Father?”

  “Bastion.…” Hotak could not find the words. His lone eye widened as he stared at the abandoned missive on the floor.

  Scooping up the note, his son looked it over. Ardnor’s eyes also widened, and he quickly crumpled the parchment. Voice low and gruff, Ardnor asked Doolb, “Is this some sort of hoax?”

  “Nay, my lord! You can see! The message is marked with the insignia of Captain Xyr of the Stormbringer! He explains in brief, but the matter seems without question!”

  “Give me that again!” the emperor demanded, voice quivering uncharacteristically. Straightening the message, this time he held it close to his eye, as if by doing so he might discern something in it that he had not noticed before.

  Captain Xyr had indeed kept the message short but clear.

  To His Imperial Majesty, Hotak I, Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger—

  I beg Your Majesty to forgive this note—sent through another of the ships of the fleet—that bears such ill tidings. The Stormbringer still searches, though our hopes are dwindling.

  During the height of a great storm, when we were only days underway, the Imperial Heir, Lord Bastionihotaki de-Droka, was lost at sea.

  He was last seen by me. I insisted he return to his cabin for safety instead of trying to aid the crew. When the weather settled and a count was taken, three crew members as well as your son were not found. The ship was searched from hull to nest, to no avail.

  We plied the waters where last he was glimpsed, but I fear the worst. We continue to search and to hope. When it is clear that nothing more can be done, then and only then will the Stormbringer return to the capital. At that time, I shall accept whatever punishment you deem fit, even my life, for my failure.

  “My son … my Bastion.…”

  Both Ardnor and the captain reached for Hotak, who appeared about to collapse. At the last moment, he waved them off, regaining his balance. A grim determination filled him.

  “Your majesty,” started Doolb, “may I express—”

  “There’ll be time for that later, captain,” Hotak said gruffly. “For now … for now there is a state funeral to prepare.”

  “But there is no evidence of a body yet! We can hope—”

  Ardnor pushed toward the officer, leaning into Doolb’s muzzle. “Captain Xyr’s no fool, captain! He wouldn’t have sent this message unless he determined this … tragedy … with grim certainty. The sea is depthless and may never yield its dead!”

  “Ardnor is right.” Despite their disagreements, Hotak warmly placed his hand on his eldest’s shoulder. His voice was old and full of pain. “My dear son, I ask of you now a difficult task. I ask you to help me prepare your brother’s funeral. It must be a tribute to his bravery, worthy of our traditions. Will you do this?”

  The massive minotaur straightened before bowing slightly to the emperor. “It would be my privilege, Father. Bastion avenged Kol on my behalf, I owe him for that, at the very
least … and … despite our differences, he was my brother, after all.”

  “Splendid.” The emperor managed a smile. “I’ll be relying on you for this, my son … and for more in the future.”

  Taking his father’s hand, Ardnor knelt and touched his forehead to the back of it. “I will not disappoint you this time.” He looked up, meeting Hotak’s gaze. “Never again.”

  True to his word, Faros left the rebel encampment the next morning, taking along Grom and the others in his small party. Nothing Jubal said could convince him to stay. Jubal and the rotund Captain Botanos watched the ex-slaves go, resentfully.

  “You tried your best,” Botanos rumbled, puffing on his pipe. “But that one, I’d say, he’s of a single mind.”

  “If I could only make him understand.…”

  The mariner grunted. “Governor, his name and blood got him into slavery and torture, arranged by Hotak and the ogres … you think all that would make him interested in a homecoming?”

  Jubal had no answer. Watching the former slaves vanish into the woods, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs and turned away. Around him, the crew of the Dragon’s Crest hustled to complete their tasks. “How much longer before we’re done here, captain?”

  “Another day or two at most. The work went faster than I’d hoped and we’re pretty outfitted and supplied now, thanks to you.”

  “Then, as soon as the scouts return, we can head to sea.” The graying minotaur paused, looking one last time off toward the woods. “But for what final purpose … I can’t fathom, anymore.”

  The ex-slaves, even Grom, were strangely silent on the journey back. Faros seemed in a particularly foul mood. He barely ate, barely rested. Grom had to plead with him to stop now and then, for the others.

  It took them two days to reach their camp. The sight of Faros brought shouting and cheers from the former slaves and legionaries. He was warmly surrounded and clasped on the shoulders and arms, even as he pushed past the well-wishers.

  Zyri, a former legion dekarian, saluted him. The brawny warrior grinned. “Praise be, Lord Faros! There were some who feared you might be dead, but I said that nothing could ever—”

  He stopped, scowling at her. “Don’t call me that.”

  She faltered. “My lord?”

  “I’m not your lord. I’m no one’s lord.”

  Grom quickly interceded before Zyri could say anything else foolish. “Has everyone else returned from hunting? Any casualties?”

  “You were the only ones missing,” the dekarian said. “But what happened to you? Where have you been all this time?”

  Faros eyed Grom. “Tell them whatever you want.”

  He left his cheering followers, his body suddenly so weary that he felt he would fall over. Faros studied the lightly wooded hills, saw a dark opening, and headed toward it alone.

  The building was on fire. Faros ran through one burning hall after another, seeking some avenue of escape and only encountering flames.

  Amid the flames, dark figures armed with swords, axes, and other weapons drew nearer. Some were recognizable by their horns as minotaurs, but other, taller, bulkier ones he imagined to be ogres.

  His enemies surrounded him. He saw Sahd’s ugly face and the piggish countenance of Paug. There was the helmed assassin from his burning home and even one-armed Krysus, commander of Vyrox, was among them.

  Faros turned to flee, but a female officer—a daughter of Hotak—Maritia de-Droka rode up on a steed made of burning lava. The emperor’s daughter laughed at him. Beside her rode the general from the Dragonsbane Legion, his body covered in dripping wounds, vowing vengeance.

  Every one of them was armed with grotesque, horrific weapons. Though he himself had nothing with which to fight them, Faros steeled himself for combat.

  Argotos charged him first, whirling his ax as he drove forward. Faros raised his arm to at least slow the blow.

  His favorite sword suddenly appeared in his hand.

  The sharp edge cut through the ax, and through General Argotos—cleaving the general’s head in two. Argotos vanished in a burst of flames.

  Running will get you nowhere, a voice he thought was his father’s whispered in his ear. Stay and fight for victory.

  Paug leaped at Faros, and again he swung his blade—separating the Butcher’s upper torso from the lower. The prison guard also vanished in a burst of fire. Sahd, too, reduced to pieces and flame when Faros, swelling with confidence, ran him through. The commander of Vyrox followed Sahd to his death moments later.

  Brandishing his huge sword threateningly, the helmed assassin who had slaughtered his family strode up to Faros. And Gradic’s son granted the helmed figure a burning death, too.

  The last foe was Lady Maritia, who spurred her monstrous stallion toward him. She waved her weapon high in the air and screamed a war cry as she closed. The cry went on and on in his ears, growing so horrific that he fell to his knees, cowering.

  “Die, Faros!” she roared, eyes blazing crimson. “Die!”

  Her voice deepened. Even as she swung at him, Maritia and her mount melded together, becoming a more monstrous figure.

  An earthquake struck. All the flames congealed. That which had once been Hotak’s daughter was now a giant made of fire.

  The giant was shaking him violently. Faros groped for his sword, which somehow had mysteriously slipped through his fingers. He felt the comfort of its sturdy handle, started to bring it up—

  “Faros! Hold! It’s Grom!”

  “Grom?” He glared at the other minotaur, furious at being awakened. Faros started to push his comrade away, only to pull back when he realized he did indeed hold his sword in his hand.

  Grom backed up, warily eyeing the blade, which was frozen in air. “Sargas forgive me, Faros, but I had to wake you! One of our sentries saw them coming! We’ve barely any time!”

  “What’re you talking about? The rebels? Did they follow us back?”

  “Nay! ’Tis ogres, Faros! There’s a vast army of ogres such as one could not believe possible, and they’re almost upon us!”

  The dark pleasure that had filled Faros as he slew his dream enemies stirred anew. Sahd’s death had especially pleased him, in life and dreams. He lowered his sword, clutching it tightly, as his other hand curled in anticipation. Rising, Faros said, “Show me.”

  “We can see them from atop this hill!”

  Faros followed Grom. As they neared the top, he heard a distant, faint drumbeat, repeated ominously. His blood boiled.

  “Here,”—Grom pointed—“look to the southwest.”

  Only a blind man could have failed to spot the oncoming horde. They were spread as far as the eye could see, and they marched with the armor and discipline of legionaries. There were mastarks and meredrakes, hundreds of the huge beasts. The mastarks trumpeted their eagerness, and it was all the handlers could do to keep the meredrakes on leashes, for they strained, their tongues darting out, as if already tasting minotaur flesh.

  At the column’s head rode its leader, just as impatient for battle. His almost-elven garments—robes and travel cloak—marked him apart, even amid so many. Though atop a horse of some height and girth, it was plain that this ogre was shorter than most of his kind, more the size of a minotaur. Around him, Faros could almost smell the authority and fear he exuded.

  From the whispers of the former guards of the ogre mining camp, from the fearful mutterings of Sahd himself, this could only be the Grand Lord Golgren, come at last to personally deal with those upstarts who had dared interfere with his quest for power.

  Maritia’s latest dispatch arrived scant hours after the dire bulletin concerning Bastion, and gave the emperor at least a modicum of good news. Seated at a table in his private study, where the scrolls that recounted centuries of previous war campaigns filled the shelves on the three interior walls of the room, Hotak read his daughter’s report slowly, trying to focus and register a moment of pleasure amid his dark, overwhelming grief.

  After the usu
al greeting and acknowledgement of her father’s many titles, his daughter came to the main points.

  On the morning of this very day, only two hours before I put pen to paper, Father, the last of the scouts I sent south have returned. Their reconnaissance in conjunction with the others has forced me to make a decision I believe you would endorse.

  Silvanesti south of the line at which we agreed to halt seemingly has no defenses whatsoever. The scouts have found nothing that might deter us. Two from the Direhounds—and you know their reputation—ventured on close to the elven capital itself; they could see it looming in the distance. It was their return that came last, and their observations I most awaited.

  Galdar’s Knights of Neraka definitely control the towering capital, but the scouts detect an uncertainty about the situation. The two could not get near enough, but from evidence and signs, they have surmised there is some trouble afoot in the capital and that the humans are anxiously awaiting some event. So greatly does this mysterious matter concern the knights, their pickets spend more time facing inward, or speaking heatedly among themselves, than in performing guard duties or routine drills.

  We spoke of the inevitable day when Galdar and his human puppet would no longer be trustworthy. I believe that the reason for the anxiety among the knights is that Galdar is losing control somehow. Perhaps this Mina is undermining his leadership and trying to take over the army, though it is hard to understand how any could follow a thin, pale, little female—such as she is reported to be. (To my great disappointment, the scouts have not glimpsed Mina; nor, of course, have I ever seen her with my own eyes.)

  If the leadership of our allies is in doubt, it can only adversely affect our invasion—and delay is all the more dangerous. Therefore, for the good of all we have so far achieved, I feel the legions must begin the advance toward the capital. We must even take it over from the knights before the elves take advantage of their disarray or incompetence and win it back.