Tides of Blood Page 33

  To this end, I am issuing the orders to move out within three days. This will allow time for any message from you to reach Nagroch, who commands the ogres in Golgren’s name, as the Grand Lord is away on other business. With the ogres at our side, as you so wisely foresaw, we will be able to sweep in from both sides, overcome all resistance, conquer Silvanost, and, subsequently, continue south until all the elven kingdom is under our sway.

  Ambeon shall spread across the continent.…

  The emperor put down the message, staring off into the shadows. “It will be done after all … Bastion … it will be done.…”

  But whatever brief pleasure Maritia’s report had given him faded as he noticed his hand still clutching another parchment. Automatically, Hotak took it up again, read, and reread it, as he had been doing for hours, since first receiving the news of Bastion’s death.

  That is when one of the shadows overlapping the table suddenly shifted, and he looked up to see his wife.

  “I come to share your grief in this hour.”

  Without thinking, Hotak slid Maritia’s report to one side. He rose from the table to face the unexpected visitor.

  “Nephera.…”

  “I come to share your grief,” his mate repeated, coming closer, with a slight hint of something odd—amusement?—in her voice. “And yet I find you perusing your reports as usual.”

  “The imperium … must continue to function … Bastion would understand that. I am doing my best to function … myself.”

  “I understand, my husband. I understand.” Nephera drifted over to the emperor, reaching out with one hand to caress his muzzle.

  Her almost-fleshless fingers brushed his skin, yet Hotak did not shrink at her increasingly cold touch, which he nevertheless desired. Where once he had admired her deep, black, moonlit orbs, her eyes were now dark abysses that made him wish to look away. Only his deep, eternal love for her kept the emperor from being repulsed.

  “I sent a message to the temple hours ago,” he said. “But when I heard nothing.…”

  She stepped back, giving him a mild shrug. “My attendants, they knew that I was in seclusion and so feared to bother me. Please forgive both them and me. I came as soon as I heard, of course.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, my love. You’re here. That’s what matters now.”

  “Is that what matters?” the high priestess commented cryptically. Turning her hooded form away from him, she stared at a portrait of the two of them, dating from younger times. Hotak wore the armor of the Warhorse Legion, with his right hand holding his battle-ax and his left gently resting on her shoulder. Nephera sat in a wooden chair, clad in an emerald gown and wearing a pendant with his black silhouette in the center. In her lap, she held his helmet, the long horsehair crest wrapped around it. Hotak followed her eyes—and saw she was staring at the portrait of the two of them in happier days. But he didn’t look for long; he could no more easily gaze at that portrait than into her changed eyes. “I understand from Ardnor the funeral is being planned.”

  “Yes, he is in charge. He is a boon to me in this hour of … sadness.”

  “He told me that you do not want the temple to take any part in the public ceremony.”

  “Nephera—”

  She waved him to silence. “I understand, my husband. Please be assured, though, that Bastion will be honored in the temple as well.”

  “Of course, as his mother, I understand and expect as much.”

  Nephera looked at him speculatively. “Hotak, if you would only come to the temple ceremony, then you might be privileged to see your son.”

  He could not hide his disgust. “Don’t start up with that again! I meant it with Kolot and all the more for Bastion!”

  To his surprise, Nephera did not seem to take offense. She bowed slightly. “As you wish.” Her eyes swept over the reports and correspondence and plans covering the table. “Since you are so very busy, I shall take my leave.”

  The emperor suddenly moved closer to her. He almost reached for her hand, but his fingers froze short. Ears twitching, he muttered, “Nephera … stay here with me. I need you. Don’t go back.”

  “We can speak more later.”

  “No … I mean … don’t go back to the temple … ever again. Please.”

  Her eyes—eyes that rarely showed emotion nowadays—flashed, boring into him like twin daggers, yet her tone remained as calm as ever. “Ask me not to breathe, to eat, to exist.”

  Hotak started to lower his hand, but Nephera suddenly took it up in her chill fingers and drew it up to her muzzle for a kiss. The emperor said nothing, felt nothing—except a growing despair.

  Releasing his hand, the high priestess opened the door and departed. Outside, the two sentries visibly started then bowed.

  Hotak watched her vanish into the darkness then turned on his guards. “Why was I given no warning of her coming? I gave the command that if the imperial escort arrived at the palace, I was to be notified the moment she crossed the threshold!”

  “But my lord!” the senior guard stammered. “We—we didn’t see her! I don’t know how she entered!”

  “Through this very door, you idiot!”

  “My lord,” blurted the second guard. “We never saw her!”

  He stepped back, studying them. They would not have uttered such an insanity … which meant that they spoke the truth.

  “Keep a better eye out from now on,” he muttered, returning inside.

  Hotak slowly returned to the table. The emperor picked up one document hidden under many others then smoothed it out for reading. He digested its disturbing contents—a distillation of reports by several of his agents, including the trusted Jadar.

  There was no escaping Jadar’s conclusion—a conclusion that shook him as hard as the news of Bastion’s death—perhaps worse. This news struck the emperor himself, to the heart, to the core.

  He glanced back over at the door, thinking of Nephera’s timely arrival. It was almost as if she knew what he was thinking.…

  He suddenly snorted. Never!

  But what could she do even if she found out? The faithful of the Forerunner sect filled important posts throughout the imperium now. Hotak was certainly well aware of that; he himself had encouraged the initial appointments. However, few of them, even Lothan, could know, and few could condone the activities that were now documented before him. If the news reached public ears, Nephera would lose support, and the temple would founder. The religion had gone crazy—oh, his wife might be partly to blame, but what she needed was a long rest and a return to the palace.

  He would be able dismantle the Forerunners with very little effort. Once she understood his position, Nephera would agree. The best of the Protectors would be dispersed throughout the legions, where they would follow his orders and do less harm; the temple would be torn down. The people would see the wisdom of it.

  “You’ll thank me, my love,” Hotak murmured, gazing back at the portrait of Nephera and him. “That thing … whatever it is … that has twisted you, made you an instrument of its dark desires—when you’re rid of its influence, all will be well again.”

  Bastion’s death had decided him, and he would make his demand of his wife, after the funeral for the intended heir had taken place. There would be no discussion, no delay. Within a week, the Forerunners would cease to exist and the empire would run on his strength and strategy; it was the tradition of minotaurs that the will of the emperor superseded any religion.

  “Then the blood sacrifices will end,” he muttered defiantly. “They must end.”

  The ogres moved with a swiftness uncharacteristic of them, rapidly cutting off likely escape routes for the former slaves and legionaries before Faros’s army could organize any defense.

  “I could take a few others with me,” Grom suggested. “Try to get through the northern hills. We might reach the rebels and ask for their help.”

  Faros snorted. “You would never break through. Besides, what makes you think the r
ebels will help us now?”

  Grom had no answer for Faros’s cynicism. Why, indeed, would Jubal’s force, already so depleted, throw their lives away?

  “What, then?” asked a sandy-haired human of middle age, whose hawk nose and strong chin spoke of a mysterious Solamnic past.

  Faros fiercely eyed the human and stared at Grom and the rest as if they were children who asked childish questions. There was only one answer. “We fight. That’s what we have always done.”

  They waited for him to say more, but he stared at them harder. They all understood then. Perhaps they were doomed. Perhaps they had always been leading doomed lives. But if they stood together now … at least they would take many of their enemies to their deaths with them.

  “Yes, we fight,” echoed Grom. “We fight to the death.”

  Hefting his sword, Faros pointed to the south. “Over there. Gather there as quickly as possible and position small parties beyond that first ridge. It’ll make the ogres’ approach all the more difficult.”

  Grom waved the others off. “You heard him! Spread the word! Move! Move!” As they rushed away, he turned back to Faros. “The blood will flow thick today. It will stain these hills red.”

  “Then let the hills be stained,” Faros said, already flushed with the strange eagerness that overcame him at such times. “Let them be stained with much ogre blood, as well as our own.”

  At Golgren’s command, the ogres had spread out in a wide arc, ensuring there would be no flight to the north. Yet the ogres left a slight gap in the south, which the Grand Lord intended as bait for the Uruv Suurt, who had already proven themselves feeble by choosing indefensible terrain for their camp. The ogres then slowly enclosed their prey, hungry for the massacre to come. Some of their own would die, of course, but death in battle was a great honor for an ogre, especially a death on behalf of utter victory.

  “Harak i jurun!” roared one of the captains, a string of trophy ears marking his prowess. He battered at two warriors with the flat of his sword, urging them forward. To the south, riders steered mastarks ahead. The mastarks would literally trample the minotaurs, goring some, crushing others, and tossing bodies into the sky. Behind them came more warriors with meredrakes, the latter to feast on any wounded who might think to play dead. The Grand Lord had decreed that every minotaur slave be killed here today, and all knew that failure to achieve that goal meant their own deaths.

  Golgren smiled at the audacity of the minotaurs, who did not cower, but stoically marched out to meet the larger force heading toward them. The Uruv Suurt also had an amusing tendency to greet death as their road to glory. There were more of the Uruv Suurt than Golgren had calculated, but still not enough to stanch the flow of ogre might streaming toward them. Golgren raised his long, curved sword high then sliced the air forward.

  Drums beating madly, the ogres shouted as they charged.

  The minotaurs halted and waited. The first of the mastarks burst into their front lines, dipping its head low and ripping apart defenders without breaking stride. The ranks broke apart rather than be needlessly crushed or impaled, but the mastarks’ riders turned the beasts toward Faros’s followers, spreading the carnage.

  Then, from behind the defenders’ lines, a flight of arrows soared toward the lead mastark. The hide of a mastark is decidedly thick, but so many arrows acting in unison had an effect. Several penetrated the leathery hide; two pierced the creature’s right eye. The mastark roared, rising up on its round hind legs.

  And the ogre rider, also pierced with well-aimed arrows, tumbled off the back of the beast. That he struck the ground head first, certainly cracking his neck on the hard ground, did not matter. The nearest defenders had already leaped upon him, burying so many blades in his flesh that little remained that was recognizable.

  The other animals had been trained to follow the lead mastark, and now its erratic behavior—for it was zigzagging around in an attempt to kill minotaurs—made it hard for the other ogre handlers to keep their mastarks in line. The charge slowed.

  “Over here! Over here!” called the dekarian Zyri. A dozen lancers followed behind her as she circled in front of a nearby mastark. An archer among the lancers took aim, his bolt finding the ogre atop the beast. As the rider slumped, the defenders prodded at the untended behemoth, trying to kill it or turn the furious animal around.

  The mastark lowered its head and rammed one minotaur. Impaled on the creature’s horn, the body dangled for several seconds before, with a shake of its huge head, the mastark tossed its victim casually aside.

  But while it had been thus occupied, Zyri had leaped onto the dangerous beast. Scrambling up the rope used by the handlers to mount the creatures, she made it to the short, curved saddle strapped behind the mastark’s head.

  “Kya!” the legionary cried. “Kya!”

  The familiar command calmed the mastark. Her knowledge of the ogre tongue was limited, however, so next the female minotaur kicked one side of the beast’s neck with her heel. That was also a familiar command.

  Without protest, the giant turned. The legionary prodded again until the mastark had awkwardly turned around to face the ogres.

  Some of the other fighters stabbed at the beast from behind while now its new rider kicked both sides simultaneously.

  The mastark lumbered forward. The ogres closest behind scattered as the mastark lowered its horns and barreled through two lines of hapless attackers, spilling ogres left and right.

  To the north, archers laid low another mastark but two more continued to crush their way through Faros’s lines. Yet, quickly it became obvious that, without the handlers, the beasts preferred to wander off. One by one the ogre handlers were picked off.

  But by the time the mastarks were repulsed, Faros’s army was splintered and ogre warriors filled every gap. Soon the slaves and legionaries were divided into several different beleaguered groups.

  The largest, led by Faros, fought in the thick of the ogre horde. Faros lunged at every tusked figure who passed close enough, and often his sword struck home. He exulted in the spurting blood, the fearful eyes, the deaths of many ogres.

  Grom stayed close by Faros, guarding his leader’s side at the risk of his own life. Faros didn’t heed his own safety. He moved constantly ahead of his followers, stabbing, slashing, killing.

  “There’re too many!” shouted Grom. “They never end!”

  “Don’t count them; kill them!” Faros returned almost gleefully. He ducked the ax of one bushy-haired warrior then stabbed the point of his sword into his adversary’s throat.

  Then, unexpectedly, a gap opened before Faros’s advance party, and a mounted figure rode in hard from the other side.

  This ogre was heavy and clad in armor that was shaded crimson. He had a round, porcine face and huge tusks that nearly curled back to his eyes. Wielding an ax with a head twice as broad as any other Faros had seen, the rider charged the minotaur. Behind him came more than a dozen other riders, dressed similarly.

  A long-buried memory stirred. Faros recalled an instructor from school days who had tried to pound into him the subtleties and differences among the ogre race. The taller and leaner of the species generally came from Kern. Those who were also huge but more squat came from another place; they wore a different style of armor.

  Blöde. They were fighting not only the denizens of Kern, but their equally foul cousins from the south. This realization only dimly stirred Faros’s interest. In the end, an ogre was an ogre … and if he killed them, that was all that mattered.

  The leader of the Blöde contingent swung fiercely at Faros. Faros met the attack with his own bloodied blade and, despite the ax’s much greater weight, managed to deflect the ogre’s weapon.

  They shared blows twice more, the ogre kicking at Faros from atop the horse. Faros could smell his opponent’s putrid breath even among so many sweating bodies. The armored figure laughed as his ax swept down again and again at the dodging minotaur.

  A brown form suddenly inte
rposed itself between him and his opponent. Grom leaped onto the rider, blocking the ax aimed at Faros with his own weapon. Grom struggled with the rider atop the huge ogre steed, making the confused animal turn around and around.

  A mastark suddenly appeared, scattering the ogres. Zyri, the dekarian, still sat atop the beast, but both she and the mastark were bleeding from wounds. She frantically urged the beast on. Yet ogre spears were sticking out of the huge mount. Suddenly and without warning, the mastark roared with pain and slipped over.

  The female legionary was thrown among the enemy. An ogre turned and raised his ax at the prone form—and then horns—ogre horns—sounded. The horde pressed forward again, with the combatants packed so tightly Faros could not make effective use of his weapon.

  The crimson riders continued to chop their way deep into the defenders. Grasping minotaur hands managed to pull one of the ogre leaders down, but the others wreaked havoc.

  Faros kept going, stabbing one rider, then another. He saw Grom still struggling with the tusked warrior he had jumped in the saddle, but the ogre had Grom’s head in a death grip and was pushing it back so far it surely threatened to break his neck.

  Faros retreated toward them, slashing up at the ogre. He only achieved a shallow wound, but it distracted the rider and enabled Grom to wrench free. Unable to use his ax, Grom bent his head and rammed his horns into the ogre’s shoulders.

  Grunting, the ogre rolled off the saddle, taking Grom with him. Faros moved in to finish the rider—and a sword cut in from the side, striking like lightning across his muzzle. The edge of it was so sharp that even the hardened ex-slave cried out in pain.

  He swung blindly. His unseen adversary easily parried the wild slash, but Faros stumbled back. A horse reared before him, its hooves flailing. Faros thrust at the beast, but blood splattered his eyes, stinging them and wrecking his aim.

  As he blinked away the blood, he saw who the rider was, and Faros had his first close look at the Grand Lord Golgren.

  “Ky i hatar i f’han, Uruv Suurt,” smirked the ogre. Despite the battle, the rider’s flowing garments and green travel cloak looked almost as immaculate as the black, groomed mane flowing down the back of his head. This ogre bore only the nubs of his tusks and his features were softer, almost with a hint of elven or human in them. Yet, Faros only had to gaze into the ogre’s chilling, almond-shaped green eyes to see what awaited him.