Tides of Blood Page 7

  A short distance later, Faros pointed at a large structure in front of which two armed ogres with torches stood guard. The hulking, tusked figures watched their murky surroundings with boredom. With the slaves penned and no guard foolish enough to steal from Sahd, they feared little. Faros had counted on that.

  But as he and Grom started forward, a moan caught their attention. Grom hesitated then turned toward the sound.

  “Wait—” Faros began, but Grom ignored him, disappearing into the dark. After a moment, the other minotaur followed.

  The moan did not come from where the ogres kept the slaves locked up in the tall, slatted pens. Instead, it rose from the center of the camp—and repeated itself continually.

  Faros’s fur bristled. He had wanted to avoid this particular area.

  The ground receded as they hefted him up. His arms and legs were stretched so tight that he felt certain that his muscles were tearing apart.…

  In the dim light of the night, a high framework arose ahead of them. Its shadowy outline made it appear at first like some huge, five-petaled flower atop a stem that widened as it reached the bottom. The petals were stretched at odd angles—two each veering to the left and right, the fifth straight up.

  As the two neared, three identical structures became evident behind the first.

  From atop that one came another faint groan, answering the first.

  The terrible heat of the day gave way to something much worse, the chill of the night. From his high position, the temperature change felt more severe, cutting him to the bone.…

  Up close, they saw that a minotaur slave hung limply from the petals, his arms and legs strapped to the sides in a fashion that tore the shoulders and put horrific strain on the back. The wooden petals could be shifted to whatever position Sahd desired by the use of pulleys attached to cords reaching to the ground. The cords were used to hoist the array up and down.

  By the second day of his punishment, he was already so parched that he felt as though not a drop of fluid remained within him, not even swimming in his blood. The manner in which they had hung him cut off all the circulation to his wrists and ankles, but if he let himself slump, his back threatened to break.…

  Faros had spent three days on this device. Sahd had ordered it one day for the terrible crime of having accidentally bumped into the taskmaster. The incident had only happened because Faros had just been whipped by one of the guards for not moving fast enough. Worn, hungry, almost blind from the day’s toil in the shaft, Faros had stumbled just as the camp commander passed by.

  “I remember,” whispered Grom. “They put this one up three days before we fled. He failed to bow low enough when Sahd passed. I can’t believe he has a shred of life left in him.”

  “We’ve no time for sightseeing. Let’s go.”

  “Sargonnas taught us to stand together against those who would enslave or torture us.” The idiot Grom headed to where the thick cords dangled. To Faros’s annoyance, he began working the device, trying to lower the prisoner to the earth. The array squeaked slightly as it moved, but it sounded loud in the quiet of the night.

  Faros was furious. He put a warning hand on Grom’s arm, but Grom, to his increased anger, shook him off.

  Lower and lower came the array. The moaning had ceased now and the minotaur hung unmoving, but Grom continued to bring him lower.

  The pulley systems suddenly made a loud creaking.

  “Leave it!” muttered Faros.

  In reply, the other minotaur only worked faster, bringing down Sahd’s latest victim then quickly freeing him. Faros grudgingly came to Grom’s aid, helping him lift the third minotaur, who was all but inert, from the hellish machine.

  “He still breathes, Faros.”

  “And if we wish to continue to do the same, we need to get to our business before they discover us.”

  “I will not go without him.”

  Faros gritted his teeth. “He’s your worry, then. Follow my lead.”

  They began to drag the unconscious slave out of view. The bestial grunt of an ogre emanated from the direction of the supply hut. Faros bit back a curse, as their burden suddenly moaned anew.

  A short distance ahead, two ogre voices growled at one another.

  Faros quickly directed Grom toward the first available concealment, a tall, slit structure reminiscent of a giant barrel sliced open at the top. They dragged their unfortunate companion around the side, moving away from the ogre voices …

  And straight into a guard hurrying from the opposite direction.

  The ogre swung his club even as Faros pushed his burden completely into Grom’s arms. He leaped at the guard. The two spun around repeatedly, as they battled closely with each other.

  A second ogre came at Grom from another side. The minotaur dropped the wounded slave, as the second guard’s club battered his left shoulder.

  Pushing his own adversary against the side of the wooden structure, Faros squeezed the ogre’s wrist, trying to force the weapon from his grip. The ogre did not easily yield. He snapped at the minotaur’s muzzle, trying to rip it apart with his sharp teeth. The stench of his breath made Faros’s eyes water.

  Suddenly, hands slipped through gaps in the wood and seized the guard by the throat, arms, and legs. Faros eagerly took advantage of the aid, reaching with one hand and seizing the ogre’s sheathed knife.

  The ogre snarled, managing to pull his club free, but before he could act, Faros brought the dagger up and into the guard’s rib cage. A rush of bloodlust filled him as the ogre gasped. He twisted the blade for good measure, ensuring the wound would be mortal.

  The guard grunted then slumped down, crumpling at Faros’s feet. Voices murmured excitedly from within the slave pen.

  Grom’s desperate situation demanded his immediate attention. Faros’s companion had suffered from a second blow to his arm and been herded against the wooden wall. The second ogre guard roared with glee as he attacked Grom, alerting the camp to the incursion.

  He turned too late to block Faros from jumping at him. The minotaur’s momentum was not enough to bring down the monstrous sentry, but then Grom rejoined the fight, barreling into the ogre from the side. The three fell in a heap, the ogre at the bottom.

  Faros dispatched the guard with a quick, easy slit to the throat, savoring the ogre’s last flailing movements.

  Grom bent down by the slave he had rescued. The minotaur’s head lay limply to the side. Grom put a hand on the slave’s chest. “Dead. The strain of everything was too much.”

  Three days and he was certain that he, too, was already dead. When they lowered him down and Sahd permitted a sip of water, Faros almost felt disappointed to discover he still lived. At least if he had died, he would not have to fear whatever torture the ogre taskmaster designated for his next offense.

  “You should’ve realized that in the first place,” Faros retorted. “Now we’ve got to move fast.”

  The obstinate Grom bent his head low and muttered what Faros assumed was another prayer to the god who had abandoned them.

  At the same time, the shouts of several guards echoed in the night. On the west side of the camp, someone lit a torch.

  “The entire place will be up and moving about in moments,” Faros warned Grom. “I’m leaving now! Stay behind if you must—”

  “What about the others?” Grom asked, standing and pointing to the nearby slave pens.

  Faros could hear the muttering and whispering inside, the curiosity and desperate hope something might be done for them.

  “Leave them, fool.” Thanks to Grom, the raid had turned into a debacle, and if they did not leave now, they both risked capture.

  “But.…” Grom trailed off as Faros grabbed the dead guard’s club and rushed away. With one last look at the pen, he followed.

  They ducked behind a hut as three massive ogres trotted past. Another three were running in a different direction. Faros stared at the edge of the camp, searching. “There. That should be him. Valun?”


  The third minotaur stepped into view, his face wreathed in concern. “What happened?”

  “Never mind!” snapped Faros. “Give me the torch! You two go on! Get out of here!”

  They stood dumbly for a moment, then with a nod from Grom, the pair hurried into the wilderness. Faros turned and headed back toward the interior of the camp.

  Two ogres came within sight of him, but in the flickering light, they thought him another guard and did not recognize him for what he was. Faros bared his teeth then headed for the nearest hut.

  It was one of the guards’ facilities, but it would do. Concentrating, Faros threw the torch hard and far at the building. It landed on the roof, rolled slightly because of the rounded design, and then caught on a loose board.

  Flames started to spread over the dry wood.

  Faros eagerly watched the fire begin to lick and rise; then he hurried after his two comrades. Behind him, he heard a shout of dismay from inside the hut. The pounding of feet followed as those within fled the burning structure.

  He leaped among the rocks, quickly leaving the mining camp behind. Climbing up one of the nearest hills, he joined Grom and Valun at a meeting point they had agreed upon earlier.

  “Did you start that fire?” asked Grom, with relish.

  “It’ll keep their attention on something besides us.”

  “Look at it spreading,” Valun added.

  To Faros’s surprise, flames now rose high over the one hut. Milling figures could be seen, using valuable water from the lone well located near the mine shafts. One ogre voice cut above the rest, clearly urging the sentries to more efficient action.

  “Sargas protects us,” Grom whispered.

  Faros grunted. “We take care of ourselves.” He turned from the camp. “And next time we go back, we go only for food, understand? If you agree to my leadership, then follow orders.”

  Valun nodded, and Grom looked down. Faros led them away, not entirely disappointed despite his words. They would go hungry tonight, yes, but he had killed some ogres and caused confusion with the fire. A small vengeance, but enough to stir his blood.

  Perhaps next time, he might even get a chance to kill Sahd …

  Agitation consumed the ghosts. Nephera could sense their apprehension as she prepared for the ceremony. She marked their added fervor down to the latest storm, certainly no natural occurrence. Her ethereal legions were more sensitive to the powerful forces at work in the heavens and, given the choice, would have scattered if she had not summoned them.

  But the high priestess welcomed the storm. Whenever the skies grew thick with the green-gray clouds and the lightning bolts were warring with each other, it opened up for her a reservoir of energy like no other.

  But to draw on that power, she had to call on the apparitions. The deathly faces ever attending her milled about, staring more hollow-eyed than ever. Some would be chosen as her vessels, some not. Pain was not beyond the dead, not even those who served her. They suffered when she required their magic.

  Lady Nephera cared not a whit about their eternal anguish. The ghosts were a means to an end—as was her congregation.

  Today, a select group of celebrants had been invited into the meditation chamber, there to witness and be part of an important new addition to the rituals of the Forerunners. The twenty-five gray-robed minotaurs believed that they had been chosen because of their deep faith, and indeed that had been a factor, but the high priestess had also chosen them for another, more intriguing reason. Their selection had nothing to do with outward appearances, for the group included young and old minotaurs, handsome and ugly ones, rich and poor, male and female. A more physically and socially diverse group could not be found.

  The twenty-five faithful knelt in a five-sided pattern arranged according to who had arrived in the timeliest fashion. Filling the far wall of the arched chamber, the golden symbols of the Forerunner loomed over them. The ghostly bird fluttered up from the midst of the broken ax shaft, depicting the spirit of minotaurs who had died and ascended to a higher plane, a worthier existence.

  There was no other iconography in the chamber. A single torch in each corner of the room was the bare illumination. Only one item of furniture graced the shadowy chamber, a stone podium at which Nephera now stood. She was the priestess of the ritual, one that would serve a purpose its participants didn’t imagine.

  Utter silence filled the stone chamber. Two female acolytes in braided white robes attended Nephera, who wore her magnificent silver-braided robe of black. The voluminous hood could have covered her head entirely, but would unnecessarily unnerve her followers; for when the shimmering veil covered her face, the chestnut-furred high priestess evoked nothing so much as one of the living dead. She did not want to scare the faithful.

  Nephera nodded. To the acolytes, that meant it was time to place upon the ridged podium the vaunted symbols of the Forerunner religion. This they did and then withdrew from the pattern.

  It also meant now was the time to draw forth those other spirits that Lady Nephera needed for her plan. From the shadows of the chamber materialized a ghost, hooded and clad in a torn and rotting mariner’s cloak and beneath that, as only Nephera could see, a shredded tunic and moldering kilt. Only Nephera could see the dead minotaur, and the evidence that his death was especially violent, occurring in the midst of some long-ago apocalypse. Parts of his rib cage showed, and he stank like something rotting in the sea. The remnants of flesh still covering his muzzle were burned and tattered. His fingers, those that still clung by bits of sinew, twisted into a permanent claw.

  The dead one positioned himself near the pattern, silently waiting.

  “Simbara! Baranash Simbara!” the high priestess cried as her gaze focused on the ceiling. “Haja! Simbara! Haja Baranash Odeka!”

  She had never said these particular words before, had never known the words, certainly had not realized their meaning until this very moment. Her patron fed her both the knowledge and understanding, and Nephera swelled with pride at the honor given to her.

  A wind arose, a wind in a chamber entirely sealed off from the outdoors.

  A few of the participants looked up nervously. However, one glance at their grim-faced high priestess was enough to settle them again. She had promised the possibility of astonishing, even unearthly things happening this night and a wind without source could be only the least of them.

  “Simbri! Simbri Simbara! Hesse gimmara Haja!”

  No sooner had she made this next shouted exclamation, than the high priestess pointed urgently at the nearest of her worshippers. To his utter surprise, the aging merchant Lady Nephera had indicated began repeating, word for word, her obscure chant.

  Pointing at the next adherent, she caused a young, quivering female to begin uttering the same. Turning in a circle, Nephera soon had the entire group echoing her strange chant.

  An electric feeling filled the air. Nephera’s mane rose, rippling as though it were itself alive. The manes of all her faithful were also rippling, but the assembled no longer felt any anxiety. They had been given an honor, they were the first among the flock, and they would not surrender to fear. The eyes of each wore a look akin to fanaticism and not a little pride.

  Around them, more ghosts began to gather.

  Five stood near each living figure. Many of the specters were related by blood or marriage to the living ones they now surrounded. The high priestess felt that the ties of kin and clan would strengthen her magic, multiply her chances of success.

  The storm outside rumbled mightily, its greatest roars punctuating the chants, almost as though rhythmically planned.

  The ghosts wavered, some drifting back toward the waiting legions in the shadows. With a simple look from beneath his torn mariner’s cloak, Takyr bade the unwilling keep their positions.

  “Verum! Simbali Verum es Katal!” shouted Nephera.

  An aura of silver now enveloped her body. As her chosen disciples repeated the last words, they, too, began to be enshroude
d in auras … dark, crimson ones.

  Outside, a bolt of lightning struck the topmost portion of the temple, though it inflicted no apparent damage.

  Suddenly a magnificent brilliance filled the meditation chamber.

  Taking up the tiny, broken ax, Nephera raised it up high to the ceiling, shouting, “Herak! Siska Herak!”

  There came a surprised communal gasp from the twenty-five. Right hands simultaneously reached for left wrists, where now a slash of blood appeared over each of their main veins.

  Takyr nodded.

  The attendant ghosts surged forward. As they leaned toward the dripping wounds, something rose from the midst of the disciples. At first it seemed only a faint shadow, a flicker, but then it grew substantial, growing and swelling.

  As one, the specters reached for the swelling shadow, and it became a glowing force from which each ghost grabbed pieces.

  Every time a piece was seized, one of the robed minotaurs gasped and slumped as though weakened by pain. Those who sought to bind their flowing wounds found their fingers unable to function.

  Now the ghosts fed with a frenzy, tearing away at the glowing shadow force and thrusting it into their bodies, where it sank and disappeared. The more pieces they stole, the more they began to take on a strange vitality. Their hollow-eyed expressions never changed, though, and no matter how much they devoured, they hungered for more.

  Emaciated youngsters with faces full of the pocks of plague fought mightily for their share, as did fiercely slain warriors with their throats cut and limbs nearly severed. They ignored the suffering of the mortal celebrants, their living relatives; dead mothers took from surviving sons, children from parents, brother from sister.

  All that mattered now was their hunger, their need.

  And Lady Nephera stood among them, proudly watching the dead feast on the living. She had chosen these twenty-five members of her religion for one reason above all—she sensed within them the gift, the gift considered shameful by most of their kind.

  They possessed the gift of magic.

  None of them were aware of their inner power. Being minotaurs, they had learned to shun the idea of magic. Wizards were not unheard of among the race, but they were rare. Some in every race had the penchant, the ability to learn to draw magic out of themselves almost as easily as they could breathe. Not all acquired the training to know what to do with their awesome talent, but the fact that they were innocent of their power made it easier for Nephera. And after all, her deity would guide the magic.