DragonLance

NIGHT of BLOOD

Minotaur Wars - 01

PROLOGUE By MARGARET WEIS

Following the devastation of the War of Souls, the people of Krynn will look to a future that is uncertain, unknown. Of course, one might say that the future is always uncertain and unknown to those who cannot see into it. In the history of Krynn, however, every event that occurred in the world had some basis in history. The future of Krynn was built up on the secure foundations of the past. Events may have been catastrophic, but—looking back—one could say that they were predictable based on what had gone before.

They call this time the Age of Mortals. At the beginning it was so named because the gods had departed. After the War of Souls it will keep its name because the gods themselves are in turmoil. The river of time has overflowed its banks and washed away the stars.

The gods will have some say in the future of the world, of that there can be no doubt. But they will grope and feel their way through the darkness, the same as mortals. Evil will flourish in this atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. But the deeper the darkness, the brighter the light will shine.

Although the minotaur race has spoken little of its past to outsiders, fragments of history have been gathered that speak of a realm fraught with upheaval and rejuvenation, collapse and survival. Despite their violent existence, the minotaurs have endured and even prospered.

Legend disagrees on their origin. Most believe that in the waning days of the high ogres’ civilization, when decadence began to corrupt them, a more immediate danger materialized in their realm—the Graygem, an artifact of fearsome magic with the power to transform anything and anyone. In the case of the ogres, it twisted their bodies, remaking more than a quarter of the race into the horned behemoths feared to this day.

In contrast, the minotaurs’ account paints a stark portrait of the ogres’ decline and the benevolence of one god. Sargas took the form of a giant condor, gathering up and flying those ogres he found worthy to a land on the eastern edge of Ansalon. Here they would start anew. He then placed upon each his sign, transforming them into minotaurs, and by doing so ensured that never would they and their cousins be one again.

Historically, the minotaurs appeared three thousand years before the First Cataclysm. They settled on the eastern coast of Ansalon and named their home Mithandrus, the Land of the Bull. From their beginning, they dreamed of their own empire, one resurrecting the early glories of their forebears, but marked by their own particular beliefs.

But the minotaurs made the blunder of invading the dwarven realm of Kal-Thax. The dwarves took umbrage. They razed Mithandrus and dragged thousands of minotaur slaves back to Kal-Thax. For over two hundred years, minotaurs worked the dank mines, suffering under the yoke of harsh dwarven rule. Only when civil unrest split Kal-Thax in two—creating the rival kingdom of Thorin in the process—did the slaves, under the leaders Ambeoutin and Belim, revolt. They slaughtered the dwarves and destroyed Kal-Thax.

It is said Sargas appeared to Ambeoutin in a vision as a giant, fiery minotaur seated upon a throne carved from an extinct volcano. The god raised Ambeoutin into the air, the king drifting like a leaf in the wind.

“Honor without the strength to defend oneself is nothing more than an empty, fragile shell, easily crushed,” the deity said. “My children must be strong, for they will endure much hardship as they struggle toward their rightful destiny.”

The rest of the vision is lost to time, but Ambeoutin, once pale brown, is said to have stepped out of his chambers that next morning colored as black as soot. He had met the god of fire and volcanoes face-to-face, and the mark of it would stay with him forever.

So Ambeoutin taught the minotaurs the codes that shaped every aspect of their existence: Honor to one’s family, one’s clan, one’s race. A minotaur’s word was inviolate, something he would sacrifice his life to defend. Those who lacked resolve brought dishonor to all.

To teach the physical strength necessary to defend one’s honor, the king introduced the first of the armed tournaments. He then decreed that all major decisions be adjudicated through formalized duels. For this purpose, he had the first arena—a simple, round structure—built.

After a reign of sixty years, Ambeoutin died. Despite his declaration that all minotaurs were equal and might rule, the people turned to his twin sons, Mithas and Kothas, who agreed to meet in the arena to decide who would lead. Yet, despite battling for over a day, they were too evenly matched. In the end, both fell, exhausted.

The people clamored equally for each to be proclaimed victor. Fearing civil war, the brothers split the kingdom in two, with Kothas ruling the southern half and Mithas the northern. They also agreed to regular tournaments between the two new kingdoms, ensuring that the fates of their realms, named for them, would forever be entwined.

Yet the twin kingdoms did not last. Kothas perished ten years later, his neck broken in a fall. Mithas moved to maintain stability in the south, but his actions were misinterpreted as an invasion. As he marched his forces there, he left his other borders thinly-defended. The ogres, recently reconstituted under a charismatic khan, invaded in great numbers, crushing the minotaurs and sweeping away both realms.

After overthrowing the ogres at the end of the Second Dragon War (2645 PC), the minotaurs rebuilt the twin kingdoms. However, this time the gathered leaders agreed that, for better security and coordination, the minotaur people needed one absolute ruler. With this in mind, they launched the first Great Circus and declared that within a year an inaugural imperial duel would decide the first emperor.

After days of struggle, Bosigarni Es-Mithas seized victory in a duel that left him with the appellation “Bos of the Blood.” Avidly promoting the minotaurs as the future rulers of Krynn, Bos set up the temple of Sargas to spread the god’s word. He then created the Supreme Circle, the governing body overseeing the everyday workings of the empire.

With Bos’ death, the minotaurs commenced on a series of disastrous forays. Repulsed by dwarves and humans, the empire collapsed again. For several generations, the race suffered as slaves to first the dwarves, then the ogres. To better control their servants, the conquerors maintained the pretense of an emperor, but one who would answer to them, not any god.

Freedom came again in 2485 PC, when a gladiator named Makel succeeded in slaying the Grand Khan. Leading his people on a bloody swathe through their masters’ domain, Makel—later called Ogrebane—nearly wiped out the ogres.

As emperor, Makel made Nethosak, the largest northern settlement, the permanent imperial seat. Within a year, construction began on a palace. Makel ruled for forty years, dying—in a manner uncharacteristic for a minotaur—in his sleep.

His death ushered in the Age of the Pretenders, so termed because of their brief reigns. Not until the archer Jarisi did the minotaurs have a true leader again. Jarisi defended her crown for fifteen years and expanded sea exploration. In 2335 PC the minotaurs claimed their first island colony, naming it Jari-Nyos in her honor.

Coinciding with the defeat of Ergoth by Vinas Solamnus in 1791 PC, a minotaur named Tremoc appeared. Tremoc had crossed Ansalon four times to hunt down his mate’s killer. His dedication stirred the realm, so much so that when Tremoc entered the Circus to challenge for the throne, his adversary conceded without combat, the only time in minotaur history.

“Love of a mate is honorable,” the god said, “but what of your people? They are without an emperor. My chosen have free will, but with it comes responsibility. As ruler, your responsibility is greatest. Honor your mate, but love your people. They are your family now!”

A glorious red light touched the emperor, filling him with the blessing of Sargas. Tremoc emerged determined. He had a newer, vaster Circus built and strengthened the realm. Once again minotaurs established themselves on outlying islands. The kingdoms prospered.

Tremoc desired a passage through ogre lands that would give his people access to the richer, fertile human realms. The temple and the Supreme Circle preferred to avenge themselves against the elves, but Tremoc would not listen. He prepared his armies, certain of victory, but the day before battle, Tremoc was found dead, an elven dagger in his chest. He was brought in state to a grand pyre set before the palace. It is said that the skies thundered for vengeance as the body burned.

The earthquake of 1772 PC is chronicled as the worst in minotaur history. A huge fissure split Nethosak in two. The arena caved in, killing thousands in attendance. Aftershocks ravaged the region. Despite minimal damage, Morthosak fell to disease and chaos as refugees filled it. Rebuilding would take years. Tremors continued to besiege the realm, leaving it ripe for conquest by a new nation—Istar.

Desiring trade routes, labor, and resources, Istar invaded in 1543 PC. Nethosak was razed again. General Hymdall, Istar’s military commander, headed south, certain that Morthosak would easily fall.

Instead, two days from his goal, a small army commanded by the minotaur Mitos awaited him. Hymdall sent in his massive cavalry to cut down the weak lines, but from the ground suddenly arose camouflaged framework barriers covered with sharpened stakes. The swift-rising barriers gave the cavalry no escape. Horses and soldiers were impaled or thrown. Men panicked. The enemy cavalry splintered.

General Hymdall urged his infantry to the rescue, but after his men crossed the field, minotaurs emerged from hidden pits behind them. The Istarans had marched right over the enemy and now stood trapped.

Hymdall was forced to surrender. Ransoming the surviving enemy, Mitos obtained the release of the minotaurs already taken to Istar.

When the dark goddess Takhisis unleashed the Third Dragon War in 1060 PC, her commanders saw the minotaurs as the perfect beasts of war. Serving as slave soldiers, the minotaurs became the right arm of the Warlord Crynus’ legions as he swept toward Solamnia. But there the advance came to an abrupt halt as the heirs to the legacy of Vinas Solamnus mounted a steadfast resistance.

In a unique sidelight of history, one minotaur, Kaziganthi de-Orilg, slew his ogre captain and fled into the Solamnic lands. There he was saved by the legendary knight, Huma Dragonbane. An unlikely friendship developed. Kaz followed Huma through the war and would be the one to carry his body from the site of battle after Huma defeated Takhisis.

There are many tales of Kaz’s later life. It is said he returned home and battled a fearsome red dragon who had secretly manipulated the minotaurs in the name of Takhisis. However, the legend takes place eight years after the Third Dragon War. As records prove, all dragons vanished at the end of the war. Still, minotaurs insist on the credence of this tale.

Once again, the minotaurs returned to their isolation. But, though the minotaurs wished to avoid the outside world, the world would not ignore them. In a dispute with the elves over sea routes, Istar inadvertently aroused the minotaurs. The empire refused to accept the presence of either side and, in 645 PC, launched an aggressive drive in the Courrain, sinking both human and elven vessels. However, by 460 PC, with all but a few regions now bowing to its dominance, Istar pushed the imperium’s sea power back to its own territories, penning in the minotaurs.

With the Proclamation of Manifest Virtue in 94 PC, the Kingpriest, absolute ruler of Istar, declared nearly all other races inherently evil and commanded that they either be exterminated or brought into the Light. Sargas’ chosen were again led from their homeland in chains. A handful of colonies survived independently through piracy, but as a nation the minotaurs ceased to exist—until the disaster that all other races lamented returned to them their birthright.

To any other land, the First Cataclysm is a time of godly fury and earth-rending horror. In response to the Kingpriest’s declaration that he be worshipped as the supreme god, the heavens burned and a flaming mountain plummeted from above, plunging Istar into the depths. The Blood Sea was born. Disease and famine ravaged the continent, and war erupted.

Yet, amidst the horror, the minotaurs rejoiced. Many perished with Istar, but the majority, working distant mines and fields, survived. They overthrew their remaining masters and in fragmented groups headed home.

Home was now two vast islands on the eastern edge of the Blood Sea. Nethosak and Morthosak were nearly intact, a sign, so all believed, that Sargas had delivered his children from the Cataclysm.

Under their new leader, Toroth, the minotaurs looked to the east. Toroth expanded the new island empire, claiming stretches of the Courrain never before explored. Even after his death in 21 AC while fighting sea barbarians, Toroth’s vision guided his people for generations to come.

A servant of Takhisis, the charismatic Ariakas gathered disenchanted humans and others into the dragonarmies in 340 AC. Ogres, goblins, and more joined his ranks. The minotaurs, too, came under his sway, albeit more reluctantly. Taken in as “allies,” their position was more that of the slave-soldiers of old.

Left in flux, the empire did not stabilize until the rise of Chot Es-Kalin in 368 AC. Chot tightened the reins on the legions and reestablished ties with the temple of Sargas. He built the most elaborate Circus ever. Following Toroth’s lead, Chot expanded the empire’s reach. By the fifteenth year of his rule, minotaurs had spread to fourteen colonies.

In 383 AC the very gods battled amongst themselves. Horrors never before seen walked Krynn. Dragons of molten lava, shadows capable of erasing a person from time—these and other monstrosities ravaged Krynn. The Maelstrom, the whirlpool in the midst of the Blood Sea, ceased to be.

For the empire, the threat manifested in the form of the crustacean Magori and their serpentine master, the Coil. The Magori swarmed over ships and slaughtered colonies. Not until Mithas did the creatures encounter resistance. There, Sargas, god of the minotaurs, and Kiri-Jolith, the bisonheaded god of just cause, put aside their differences and protected their people. The Knights of Neraka, who had come as conquerors, joined the minotaurs. Mortal heroes appeared, most notably Aryx Dragoneye. From the east came the Kazelati, followers of the legendary renegade, Kaz.

Sailing to Ansalon, Sargas and a small band of minotaurs and humans vanquished the demon serpent, but in the terrible struggle Sargas vanished and was feared slain. Bereft of the Coil’s control, the Magori were easily routed. The minotaurs had won, but at the cost of half their people.

However, distrust between the humans, the imperium, and the Kazelati grew quickly now that no threat bound them together. Chot sought to force the Kazelati into the empire but failed. The Kazelati sailed off to their uncharted homeland, vanishing. An unsteady peace existed between the empire and the knighthood.

Any dreams of expanding its tiny hold on Ansalon were shattered by the coming of Malystryx, only a year later. Even the minotaurs knew better than to face the great leviathan. But, for reasons unexplained, the isles went virtually untouched by the dragon, and the minotaurs turned ever more to the east and the unchecked growth they might find there.

A new sect has arisen in the absence of the gods, who departed after the Summer of Chaos. The Forerunners have expanded their numbers rapidly throughout the imperium. Their vague tenets suggest that the lost loved ones of a minotaur remain around them, guiding them. The high priestess claims to speak directly to the dead and bear their messages.

With the dragon overlords in control, Ansalon need not fear the minotaurs. No doubt they will be content to continue spreading east and, if so, they will become less a factor in Ansalon, eventually perhaps vanishing from the continent’s history forever.

Chapter I

Night of Blood

They found Zokun at his estate on the wooded, northern edge of the imperial capital of Nethosak. He was fast asleep in his plush, down-filled bed. Although in command of a mighty fleet of some two hundred ships, he himself had not gone to sea for years and had no desire to do so. Zokun preferred the rewards of power to the work, and many of his tasks were handled by well-trained subordinates who knew their proper place in the imperium.

A bottle of rich and heady briarberry wine, one of the finest produced in the empire and coveted even by the lesser races beyond, stood empty next to three others previously-drained. A slim, brown form beside the fat, snoring minotaur turned over in her sleep. This was not his mate, Hila, but a younger female who hoped soon to take Hila’s place.

No servants heard them cry out. None of Zokun’s family came to his aid. Most of the former had been rounded up and taken away. The latter, including Hila, had been slain at exactly the same time as the venerable Ship Master and his mistress.

The feminine hand took the long quill pen, dipped it in a rich, red ink, and drew a line through Zokun’s name. The wielder of the quill took care not to spill any of the ink on her silky gold and sable robes. She moved the pen to another name—

Grisov was a scarred, thin minotaur whose fur was almost snow white. His snout had a wrinkled, deflated appearance, and over the years his brow had enveloped his eyes. Despite his grizzled countenance, the patriarch was hardly infirm. His reflexes were still those of the young champion of the Great Circus he had been years before the bloody war against the aquatic Magori. His wellschooled, well-paid healers encouraged him to sleep at a proper hour, but Grisov continued to take his late-night walks, a cherished tradition to him and others in this area of Nethosak. Grisov liked to survey his fiefdom, reminding himself that, as long as Chot was kept in power, the children of Neros would profit. He had no qualms about what part he had played over the years in propping up the emperor; the strongest and most cunning always triumphed.

The street did not seem as well tended as when he was young. Grisov recalled immaculate streets of white marble with nary a sign of refuse. These days, all sorts of trash littered the avenues. Bits and pieces of old food, broken ale bottles, and rotting vegetation offended the patriarch’s sensibility. One large piece of trash, a snoring, drunken sailor, snuggled against the high, spiked wall of the abode of one of Grisov’s nephews, a wastrel who lived off the hard work of his uncle. It was all the fault of the young generation. The young could be blamed for everything. They had never learned the discipline of their elders.

Two able warriors clad in thigh-length, leather-padded metal kilts, colored sea-blue and green—the official clan colors—accompanied the robed minotaur. Each carried a long, double-edged axe shined to a mirror finish and etched with the Neros symbol—a savage wave washing over rocks—in the center of the head. Grisov thought the guards a nuisance, but at least this pair knew not to speak unless spoken to. The guards knew his routine well, knew what stops their master would make, knew what comments he would murmur and how they ought to respond.

“Kelto, see that piece of garbage on his way. I’ll not have him sully this street!”

Peering around, the elder minotaur discovered that the drunken sailor had vanished. A decoy.

Two bolts struck him from opposite directions, one piercing a lung, the other sinking deep into his back. Blood spilled over his luxurious blue robe, overwhelming the green Neros symbol on his chest.

A young minotaur, clad in plain, ankle-length robes of white trimmed with red, approached the senior priestess, bringing a silver flask of wine for the empty chalice sitting next to the pile of parchments. The priestess looked up briefly, then flicked her eyes toward the half-melted candle by which she checked her lists. The servant glanced that way but saw nothing. The servant finished refilling the goblet, then quickly backed away.

“Tyra de-Proul?” asked the senior priestess. She was a chestnut-colored female, still attractive in the eyes of her kind. Her words were whispered to the open air. She fixed her gaze in the general direction of a lengthy silk tapestry depicting a white, almost ghostlike bird ascending to the starry heavens. “You are certain?” the priestess asked the emptiness.

* * * * * On the island of Kothas, sister realm to Mithas and a two-day journey from the capital, Tyra deProul stirred from sleep. Her mate had been due to return this evening from his voyage to Sargonath, a minor minotaur colony located on the northeastern peninsula of Ansalon, but he had not yet arrived. Feeling pensive, Tyra pushed back her thick, gray mane and rose.

The tall, athletic female poured some water. As appointed administrator of the Emperor’s interests, Tyra made constant sea trips between the imperial capital and this island’s principal city of Morthosak. Jolar’s lateness could readily be attributed to any number of innocent causes, even foul weather.

A muffled sound beyond her door brought her to full attention. At this hour, no one in the house other than the sentries should be awake, and the sentries knew to make their rounds without causing clamor of any sort.

Like all minotaurs, Tyra had been trained from childhood first and foremost as a warrior. As a young female, she had helped fight back the vile Magori when the crustaceans rose from the sand and surf, the destruction of all minotaurs their sole desire. Never in her life had she turned from a battle, whether on the field or in the political arena.

The nearest foe stumbled against her mate’s corpse. Tyra thrust the blade through the helmed assassin’s unprotected throat. Before he had even dropped to the floor, she did battle with the second, a young female who moved with the haughtiness of one who thought that before her stood merely a decrepit elder. Tyra caught the intruder’s blade and twisted it to the side. She kicked at her opponent and watched with satisfaction as the latter went flying back into a nearby wall, knocked unconscious.

Mykos. Her eldest son. In three days he would have become the newest addition to the Imperial Guard. General Rahm Es-Hestos, the commander of the emperor’s elite, had personally recommended Mykos, a moment of great pride for his mother.

An axe had done him in. His blood still pooled beside his hacked torso.

Nephera glanced beyond the candle, seeing only glimpses of a shadowy figure at the edge of her vision. At times, she could make out details-such as a hooded cloak—and within the cloak a minotaur unusually gaunt of form. Of the eyes that stared back at her, she sometimes made out the whites, but this monstrous phantasm had no pupils.

As she reached for a grape from the bowl set by her side—the only sustenance she would permit herself this glorious night—the elegantly clad High Priestess of the Temple of the Forerunners waited for the ominous figure to speak again.

General Tohma, Boril, General Astos…
All names she had. “Who else?”
Kesh the Elder.

“Ah, excellent.” Pulling free one of the parchments, Nephera located the name and gave it a swift, inky stroke—as lethal to the council member in question as the axes and swords that had actually killed him. The elimination of the highest-ranking members of the Supreme Circle, the august governing body under the emperor, gave her immense satisfaction.

She would have dearly loved to do so, but Hotak had insisted otherwise. This had to be done without the temple. The military would not look with favor on her husband if it appeared that the Forerunners influenced his actions.

“No. We shall leave this to my husband. The triumph must be his and his alone.” Lady Nephera picked up the stack of parchments, her intense black gaze burning into each name. “Still, the temple will have its say.”

On Mito, three days’ journey east of the imperial capital, the governor of the most populated island colony rushed forth to greet two massive vessels that had sailed into port. An honor guard had quickly been arranged, for who but an important dignitary would arrive without warning and with such a show of force? The captain of the first vessel marched a squad of helmed warriors down to salute the assembled well-wishers—and then executed the governor where he stood.

On the island of Duma, the home of General Kroj, commander of the empire’s southern forces and hero of the battles of Turak Major and Selees, became the scene of a pitched battle. The fight went on until dawn, when the barriers of the general’s estate were finally broken down by his own troops, who joined the attackers. Kroj committed ritual suicide with a dagger even as helmed fighters burst down the door to his study. They would find his family already dead, their throats slit by Kroj just prior to his own demise.

Konac, imperial taxmaster, was stabbed more than a dozen times at the door of the emperor’s coffers. A stronger figure than his rotund appearance indicated, Konac would outlast his guards and two assassins, making it to just within a few yards of the Imperial Guard’s headquarters before dying. No one within heard his final choked warning.

A massive fleet, organized quickly and secretly over the course of weeks and combining the might of over three dozen turncoat generals and captains, spread out over the expanse of minotaur interests. Some of them had been on their journeys for days already. Before the night would conclude, twenty-two colonial governors, their principal officers, and hundreds of loyal subordinates would be executed. All but a handful of the major territories and settlements within a week’s reach of the main island would be under the iron control of Hotak’s followers.

All of this, Lady Nephera saw as it happened. She had eyes everywhere. She knew more than her husband’s lackeys. Even the emperor, with his complex and far-reaching network of messengers and spies, knew but a fraction of what the high priestess knew.

Thinking of the emperor, Nephera turned her brooding eyes to one particular page, reading the only name still listed. No furious stain of ink expunged this name’s existence, yet by her estimate, only minutes remained before she would have the ultimate pleasure.

In his younger days, the massive, graying minotaur had been the scourge of the Circus, the unbeatable champion to whom all had deferred in admiration. Chot the Terrible, he was called. Chot the Invincible! Over the span of his life and decades-long rule, scores of would-be rivals had fallen to his bloody battle-axe. No minotaur had ever held the title of emperor for so many years. “More wine, my lord?”

Chot studied the slim, dark-brown female lounging next to him on the vast silk-sheeted bed. She had not only the energy of youth, but the beauty as well. Chot’s last mate had died over a decade ago, and since that time he had preferred enticing visitors to a regular companion. The muchscarred emperor knew that this added to the list of grievances his political foes spouted about him, but he did not care. His foes could do nothing so long as he accepted the imperial challenges and faced down his opponents in the Great Circus.

He shifted his great girth and handed his mistress the empty goblet. Years of living the glory of an emperor had taken some toll on his body, but Chot still considered himself the ultimate warrior, the envy of other males, and the desire of all females.

“Enough, Maritia.” Chot took a gulp of the rich, red liquid, then looked the female warrior over, savoring the curve of her lithe form. Some female minotaurs looked too much like males. Chot preferred curves. A female should look like a female, especially when she had been granted the glorious company of her emperor.

His bed companion replaced the squat wine bottle on the carved, marble table. The well-cleaned remains of a roasted goat sat atop a silver tray next to the bottle, and beside that stood a wooden bowl filled with exotic fruit shipped to the capital from one of the farthest and most tropical colonies.

Maritia leaned forward, rubbing the soft tip of her muzzle against him. Curiously, the image of her father flashed into his mind. Chot had recently solved the problem of her insufficiently loyal and increasingly irritating father by sending him far, far away on a mission of some import—and some danger as well. If he succeeded, his glory would reflect on Chot. If he died in combat—a more likely outcome—so much the better.

There was a fuzzy sound in the distance.

“Sleep, my lord,” Maritia cooed. “Sleep forever.”

“What in the name of Argon’s Chain do you think you’re doing?” he roared, his head pounding. In response, she raked her long, sharp nails across the side of his muzzle.

The emperor snorted. Maritia would learn fear.

Maritia attempted to retrieve her dagger, but Chot swung again. The heavy blade of the twin-edged axe buried itself in his bed, cutting through expensive sheets, through the rich, down padding, and even through the oak frame.

Keeping his gaze on the female at all times, Chot stepped back to the balcony. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see that the palace grounds swarmed with dark figures heading toward the building.

“Father will be here very soon now,” Maritia called to him.

Chot stumbled toward her, reaching clumsily with one hand while with the other he threatened her with the axe. Maritia dodged readily, leading Chot on a merry chase through the room, mocking his growing rage and taunting him with her derision.

He swung wildly. Rounded crystalline vases, minotaur statuettes of emerald, tapestries of spun gold, marble icons of dragons and other fearsome beasts—the treasures he had accumulated through his lengthy reign—scattered in shards.

“Chot the Magnificent,” he heard Maritia mutter. “Rather you should be called Chot the Pathetic.” “I’ll… I’ll…” The emperor could say no more.

“And this is supposed to be the supreme warrior, the epitome of what our people seek to be?” The emperor fought to raise his head.

They wore the traditional silver helms. Nose guards ran along their muzzles. Their breastplates were also silver, with the ancient symbol of the condor clutching the axe emblazoned on the chest in deep crimson. Well-worn, padded-metal kilts with red tips at the bottom completed their outfits.

In the forefront of the traitorous band stood their leader. Although otherwise clad as his companions, he also wore the richly crested helmet reserved for the highest generals of the empire. The crest, made of thick, excellent horse hair, hung far back. Over his shoulders hung a long, flowing crimson cape.

Dark brown of fur, slightly over seven feet, well-muscled, and with very angular features for one of his race, the leader glared down at his lord with distaste. A pommel-handled sword hung in the scabbard at his side; a large battle-axe was in his grip.

“Hotak de-Droka,” responded the emperor. The de-before the clan name indicated House Droka had its roots on the island of Kothas, considered, especially by those who bore the more regal Es-, the lesser of the two kingdoms making up the heart of the empire.

“You… damned vixen!” Chot struggled to rise. If he could just get his hands around her throat— The emperor fell to his hands and knees again. “I feel sick,” he murmured.

Hotak snorted. He took a step toward his emperor. “Chot Es-Kalin. Chot the Invincible. Chot the Terrible.” The one-eyed commander raised his weapon high. In the light cast by the torches of his followers, the symbol of the rearing horse etched into the axe head seemed to flare to life. “Chot the

“No more,” said Hotak. “No more.”

Nodding toward the body, Hotak commanded, “Remove that blubbery carcass for burning. Make sure nothing remains. As for the head… see to it that there’s a high pole set up at the very entrance to the palace grounds. Make certain that anyone who passes by will be able to see it from some distance. Understood?”

General Hotak de-Droka looked at the soldier, then at his daughter. Maritia smiled and went down on one knee.

Chapter II

Triumph and Despair

The two veiled acolytes stepped quickly to the side. Nephera turned from her desk to see a tall, young minotaur charging toward her. His blunt, fearsome muzzle and blazing, crimson-tinged eyes reminded Nephera of her father, who had perished in the great war some decades before.

Ardnor, her eldest son and, in many ways, her personal favorite, strode through the chamber like an angry bear. He was clad in a simple, ankle-length robe of plain, gray cloth, befitting his high rank in the temple. Ardnor had been among the first to join her black-helmed Protectors and had been appointed First Master of the armed sentinels of the Forerunner faith. Her son had transformed the faithful into a legion fanatical to his mother’s cause.

“I’m asking again. Let me take the Protectors out! We’ve been chafing for action, chafing to do our part! Let Chot understand that his enemies are not only Father’s troops but the unparalleled might of the temple!”

“You need not concern yourself over Chot, my son. He is dead. Dead at your father’s own hand.” “Dead?” His eyes lit up. “Dead? It’s over, then?”

He gulped the wine, his eyes momentarily fixing on one of the tapestries in the room. A half-seen figure clad in a free-flowing robe, seemingly made of mist, guided a pair of young minotaurs over an old wooden bridge underneath which lay an ominous, black gap. The image had been rendered in such fine detail that, although barely visible, the ghostly guardian looked almost ready to step out into the real world.

The images portrayed on the other tapestries were just as vivid. They had been sewn under the guidance of the high priestess herself. They represented the tenets of the Forerunner faith, how the spirits of the past generations interacted with the living, guiding them through crises. Tapestries similar to these could be found throughout the temple, but also in the private homes of the faithful, who donated dearly for the honor of owning one that had been blessed by the Lady Nephera.

“The Chief Councilor of the Supreme Circle,” muttered Ardnor. The empty goblet in his hand crumpled under his tightening grip. “He should’ve been the

“There still remain elements of House Kalin,” the high priestess went on, ignoring his interruption. “The younger brothers of our late, unlamented emperor and his—” She looked up abruptly, staring in the direction of her eager son. “What’s that?”

She heard a whisper, a child’s frightened whisper, though Ardnor could hear nothing. Nor could he see what his mother saw—a floating form, a faint shadow of a young, very pale female. Her face was ravaged, nearly furless and full of pockmarks. The high priestess sensed the vestiges of some great sickness.

Well-versed in the ways of his mother, Ardnor kept silent, his eyes narrowing.

She seized a quill, dipped it in ink, and began scouring the pages. One by one, Lady Nephera drew lines through those of House Kalin, each crossed-out name punctuated by a grunt of satisfaction. The list grew shorter.

“More,” she warned the flickers of darkness surrounding her. “There should be more.” Ardnor leaned forward.

“Each of the estates is surrounded, and most are engulfed in fire. By morning there will be nothing but ash. Any not slain by the sword shall be purified by the flame… and so removed from this mortal plane.” A fervent look crossed her handsome features. “And with them goes the last blood traces of the old regime. The capital, the island, belongs to us!”

“As secure as Mithas, my son. Even as we speak, the net tightens on the greater colonies. Amur, Mito, Tengis, Broka—they and all the major settlements that make up the shield of the empire! The smaller colonies and even those beyond the secure borders will also fall into line. They cannot survive otherwise. They will all acknowledge your father as the new emperor… and at his ascension, you shall be named heir.”

“After your father, of course.”

He knelt before her and kissed her tapering fingers. The high priestess touched the top of his head, giving him the blessing of the temple. At last, Ardnor rose and, with one final bow, departed her sanctum.

Returning to her lists, Lady Nephera resumed scouring the pages, silently reveling at the sight of each victim of this night’s work. With special pleasure she again read the name of Chot and his family.

Her gaze paused at Rahm Es-Hestos.

From the faint, shifting patches of darkness surrounding her tall, wooden desk, a single swirl of shadow separated itself. As it neared her, Lady Nephera caught an almost imperceptible glimpse of the cadaverous form under the tattered cloak.

“Find out why Rahm or Tiribus haven’t been destroyed by now. Kesk the Younger, too, although he is not as important as the first two. How is it possible that they’ve escaped our net? Someone faltered in their duty! Go! Find the truth!”

Dull light shone from the tavern and the raucous sounds of merriment continued inside. Two axewielding members of the State Guard, their armor—all gray save the crimson condor symbol worn on their breast plates—marched quickly by, despite the late hour and the long-standing decrees concerning noise and violence. The proprietor had agreements with certain high-ranking members of the Guard, agreements for which he well paid. The pair ignored Faros, barely glancing at the seedy structures lining the grimy avenue, as they hurried on their way.

Once a major avenue, the street upon which the tavern stood still had a grimy, sputtering fountain in the center. The triumphant minotaur warrior posed atop it had lost the upper half of his axe, and his features had been chipped away by drunken vandals. Below, two of the dragonhead spouts dribbled rather than gushed and, in the daytime, the water all six spat would have had a markedly mossy tint to it. Still, Faros stuck his head under one set of stone jaws and let the cool liquid rush over him.

The water stank slightly and did little to soothe his throbbing skull. Pulling free, Faros shook his head, sending his lengthy, waved mane flying. He snorted a few times to disperse excess liquid from his nostrils then trudged toward his horse.

“Hold still,” he told the beige charger waiting for him. He slumped forward onto the neck of his steed. The horse knew the way home, just as it knew the way to the Challenger’s Roost. The animal had made the journey back and forth many, many times.

Half in a stupor, Faros paid little attention to his surroundings. Because of that, he did not notice the eerie emptiness of the most popular thoroughfares, nor the fact that most of the lamps along the way had been doused. Nor did he notice the lack of sentries and torchlight as he neared the gates of his home—the vast, walled estate of the emperor’s youngest brother.

Even though he was the least favored of Chot’s siblings, Gradic Es-Kalin benefited from his connections to power. High, stone walls surrounded the plush, three-story villa, and within those walls was a garden of sculpted trees and beautiful stone paths. Servants kept everything trimmed. Among the elite of the capital, Gradic’s estate was considered a prime example of sculpted perfection.

If his master did not notice much around him, his horse did. As they drew closer, the trained steed slowed, growing hesitant. At last the horse stopped and whinnied nervously. Faros looked up, trying to focus blood-shot eyes.

Even for so late at night, the estate—the entire vicinity, for that matter—was deathly quiet. There were no sentries at the gates, and all the torches had either been doused or removed. In fact, the only illumination from in the house itself was a wildly flickering light in several upper windows that looked like nothing less than—

Fire!

Just within the walls of the estate, several helmed figures armed with swords and axes watched the flames. Curiously, none of the onlookers made any move to fight the fire or to aid those who might be left inside. In fact, to Faros’ horrified gaze, they actually looked happy, laughing and clapping each other on the back.

While most of the exterior consisted of handcrafted stonework, much of the interior was covered with lavish wood paneling imported from the outer colonies, extravagant cloth tapestries sewn by notable artisans, and other highly flammable material. The luxurious decor was now the building’s downfall. The fire might leave the exterior nearly untouched, but the inside would burn like the charred belly of a potter’s oven.

As he slipped through a battered side door, smoke from within caused his eyes to tear and his throat to constrict. Blinking constantly, Faros stumbled forward—and in the process tripped over a large object lying just inside the entranceway.

The unarmored guard had perished quickly, the shaft in his chest having struck his heart. Just beyond lay another sentry, her death caused by several thrusts of a blade. Both were distant cousins hired because of their high proficiency in combat, which made their deaths all the more unsettling.

“Father!” Faros shouted. “Mother!” The loud crackle of flames made it doubtful that anyone would hear him unless they stood very near. “Crespos!” he added, trying for his elder brother. “Where are you?”

Everywhere lay bloody, contorted bodies wearing the black, crimson-tipped kilts of the Kalin clan, but none were Faros’ family. His anxiety growing, he continued to call out, but the only sounds he heard came from the fire.

The stained, cedar railings of the winding stairway leading up to the family quarters had been shattered and many of the steps were chopped to ruins. The thick red carpet at the base of the stairs lay twisted around the limp body of a helmed figure. Scattered nearby, three other assassins sprawled in various poses of violent death.

Struck dumb, Faros edged up the steps. Halfway up, he found the bodies of his brother and sister. Tupo, two years younger than him, had been stabbed through the throat. His eyes still gaped in astonishment. Resdia, his darker-furred younger sister, who so often had listened earnestly as he regaled her with his stories of wild nights out, lay half draped over Tupo, as if her final act had been to try to comfort him. One of the assassins had apparently caught her from behind, between the shoulder blades. Her short sword lay unbloodied on the ground.

An axe had done her in, the fatal blow delivered to her chest after she had already received several lesser wounds on various parts of her body. At least two of the intruders had perished at her hand before she was overcome. Faros laid his sword down and cradled her head, brushing back the blood-matted hair from her face.

An ominous creak from above the stairway made him stiffen. The next instant, the ceiling over the bottom portion of the stairs collapsed—timbers, plaster, and charred stone falling in a blazing inferno.

“Father! Cres—”

His muzzle collided with something soft.

Crespos, the brother everyone admired, the brother whom their father had always held up as a true and honorable minotaur, had died from a single axe wound across the neck. The vicious blow had nearly decapitated the muscular fighter.

Someone coughed.

“Faros!” the other gasped. “By Kalin’s Horns, I’d hoped it was you!”

An axe had caught Gradic Es-Kalin at the shoulder and nearly torn away his arm. Sinew and bone were visible, hacked into a pulp. The wicked cut almost went to the breastbone. Blood caked the wound, drenching most of his father’s torso.

“They came from the darkness,” replied Bek, gazing down at his honored lord. Bek had adored his master. “The sentries never gave the alarm. They must’ve died quickly. Everyone but the night watch was in bed. Everyone save me. I’d gone down to keep an eye out for you as you wanted, Master Faros. Went to the place I waited for you last time.”

“Then you’d be dead, too. You would’ve, master.” Bek gently rocked Gradic. “They were thorough. They knew where to find everyone, how best to strike. If not for your mother waking, they would’ve caught all asleep. I arrived in time to see the mistress die, her face already filled with tears for the dead children at her feet.

“Master Gradic spoke to me when I found him. He called out your name. ‘Is that you, Faros?’ he said. I almost said yes, to give him some last hope, but then he recognized me. ‘Come to me, good Bek,’ he pleaded. He told me how the cowardly fiends separated him from your mother and siblings, how they slew Master Crespos. Master Gradic fought against five and made them pay, as you can see.”

Faros followed Bek’s pointing finger and saw that two more of the treacherous intruders lay sprawled inside the chamber. One was headless, while the other had Gradic’s trusted axe buried deep in his chest.

“Why?” Faros whispered.

What his father said left Faros speechless. Gradic and Chot had little enough love for one another, but Chot could rely on his youngest brother’s political loyalty and, in return, the emperor had rewarded Gradic with House Kalin. Chot would never permit such a heinous act against Gradic, which meant those who had done this no longer feared the emperor’s wrath.

“Y-you must! You

Together, they started toward the hallway. Urgent voices arose from elsewhere in the vast villa. The sharp-eyed Bek looked around. “This way! Our only chance, Master Faros!”

He led them toward a staircase at the rear. Around them, centuries-old tapestries went up in flames, prized antique weaponry melted. Faros dimly noted a jeweled axe, awarded to his grandfather for service to the empire, glittering brightly in the growing flames.

The pair dodged into a ravaged doorway. Trying to stifle their coughing, they watched as the fearsome figure stalked past. The newcomer stood taller than either of them and appeared about half again as wide. His silver kilt with red tips marked him as a member of one of the elite legions that should have been protecting the empire, not slaughtering its highest-ranking citizens.

The portion of the staircase crashed to the bottom floor, and the shock sent them tumbling. “Look out!” Bek shouted, grabbing Faros and pulling him to his feet.

They ran for the kitchen. The door leading to the rear of the estate had been broken and now hung loose. They stumbled out, fully expecting to be assaulted, but, to their surprise, no one awaited them.

“Your horse, Master Faros! Where is it?”

“Stand where you are!” roared a voice.

Chapter III

Fall of an Emperor

Tall, sleek, black of fur—a throwback to his father’s grandfather—the second son of General Hotak de-Droka watched from horseback as his weary soldiers herded the surviving servants from the house of this particular branch of Chot’s family into the barred wagons. Behind him, yet another opulent villa of the old regime burned bright with flames. The sculpted trees near the front entrance had become massive torches, and the stables to the side of the main house could not even be recognized. Fortunately, all the horses had first been herded out, for why waste such magnificent animals?

“Yes, my lord.”

Although shorter than his brother by half a horn’s length, Kolot made up for it in width, but none of his extra mass was fat. His shoulders were intimidating. Bastion had seen Kolot lift an opponent over his head using only one hand. Once, when their eldest brother Ardnor had taunted him about his appearance one day when they were younger, little Kolot had picked him up and thrown him across the room.

“You worry too much. When they find out what Father’s done, they’ll fill the streets, cheering.” “You are probably correct,” the older minotaur admitted. “I just prefer to be cautious.”

Merchants with wagons of goods heading for vendors in the city found the gates to Nethosak barred. Entrance was permitted only after careful inspection of each consignment. Wagons leaving were also carefully checked for stowaways. At the port, no ship was allowed to unload or take on cargo without a search of the vessel.

Shopkeepers and workers stood transfixed at their doors and windows, watching as rank upon rank of armed units under the proud banner of Hotak’s Legion marched through the streets. Their silver armor—with red insignia—gleamed in the morning sun. Some citizens realized that these emblems should not be flying over Mithas or anywhere else in the empire, but rather on the mainland. The knowledge of their presence quickly spread through the populace.

Throughout Nethosak, throughout Mithas, throughout the majority of the more than three dozen established colonies, mounted officers flanked by sturdy lines of seasoned warriors unrolled scrolls. Crowds of wary and curious faces stared in silence as the announcement was read.

“Hear this, all good people of the empire!” each officer said. “Hear the words of General Hotak deDroka, Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger. A wrong has been righted. Justice has been served. The corruption within has been lanced!”

Wherever the scrolls were read, be it the vast square near the imperial palace or the modest streets of the more primitive colonies, crowds gathered. Tunics and kilts sporting every house pattern and color created a sea of myriad designs. Every citizen of the far-flung empire knew the name and reputation of Hotak.

“Let it be known that the vile, corrupt Chot Es-Kalin, whose deceits in the Great Circus are understood, whose betrayals of honor have been legion, whose reign has been marked by the murders of rivals, the ruinous taxation of his subjects, the imprisonment of innocents, and the moral decay of the imperial capital itself, whose treacherous pact with the humans known as the Knights of Neraka would have delivered his own kind back into slavery—”

“Never!” rumbled one scarred, brown-furred veteran, his muzzle cut and twisted by an old wound. In different places across the realm, others, too, called out.

“—said Chot has been declared a traitor, unfit to command the respect of his people, unfit to rule. Therefore, he and those who aided in the corruption, dishonor, and downfall of the glorious minotaur race have been sentenced, and that sentence has been carried out. House Kalin and other allied Houses have been condemned, their holdings seized. In addition, those House names shall be forever expunged from the lists of honored clans.”

The chosen officers, as they had been trained, rolled up the proclamations, stared at the awe-struck crowds, and proclaimed, “Chot is dead! Long live the Emperor Hotak! Long live the Emperor Hotak!”

The helmed soldiers who had assembled to protect the heralds in case of a riot, took up the cue, shouting the same in their deep, stentorian voices. “Long live the Emperor Hotak! Long live the Emperor Hotak!”

Of course, not all were quick to curse the deposed emperor. In every crowd, a few pairs of eyes looked warily about. A few faces struggled to look unconcerned. Those loyal to Chot kept quiet or even pretended to join in the merriment.

Everywhere, soldiers armed with thick, sturdy rope swarmed over the tall, painted statues of Chot that lined nearly every major avenue and stood in front of each imperial site. The emperor had made certain that each colony had received at least one such statue, and through the years most had accumulated many more.

The great, looming statue in the spacious central square of the capital, the very site where Chot had given his inaugural public appearance as emperor some four decades before, was the first to tumble. The gigantic, elaborately chiseled figure had survived storms, tremors, and even war. Bloody, twinedged axe raised high, it depicted the young, burly champion who would become the despot, lustily roaring his triumph as he placed one foot upon the slaughtered and remarkably lifelike corpse of a hairy ogre clutching a thick club. The ogre, his flat face contorted, his tusk-filled mouth open in a final grimace, had one hand up to plead for mercy.

Surrounding the statue of the titan was a vast, deep fountain with great marble waves of wild froth. Water sprayed high. Fanciful horses with the tails of fish where their hindquarters should have been furiously raced around the outer edge.

Around the fountain, marble benches had been arranged on all sides. Huge axes of black stone, each sculpted as meticulously as the fountain, stood with their heads pointed toward the water spray. The axes, three times the size of the tallest warrior, stretched toward the immortal Chot. The pure white stone filling the rest of the square added to the overall magnificence of the scene.

The people, swept up in the triumph of their new emperor, cheered as the eager soldiers secured ropes to the marble leviathan. Some threw rotting cabbage, tomatoes, and other vegetables at the icon, defacing and staining the statue.

Children threw mud. A common cause stirred all. Several of the younger onlookers moved to help with the binding of the painted goliath. In a scene that was repeated all over the realm, members of the citizenry offered strong rope and gave use of their own leathery hands.

At one time this vision of Chot had been near truth. These days, everyone knew better the graying, round-bellied bull with the bloodshot eyes and scraggly fur slumping on the throne. The glories Chot had once stood for had been overshadowed too long by his stupidities.

The titan in the capital square, which stood the height of five minotaurs, was gripped by six of Hotak’s warriors—four pulling on the sturdy waist and throat, two more for the upraised arm— using lines of good storm-tested rope.

The mounted officer on duty, face emotionless, made a cutting motion.

As one, the soldiers tugged, straining the muscles in their arms, legs, and necks. While some pulled to bring the statue toward them, others pulled in the opposite direction so that the huge monument did not simply crush their comrades.

“Easy!” shouted the subofficer. “More slack back there! Hurry!”

Not one sculpture survived. Not satisfied, the incensed crowds began to tear down or deface anything that bore Chot’s likeness. Reliefs carved into imperial buildings, banners hanging high over the rooftops, tapestries draping meeting chambers—little escaped the orgy of destruction.

The lone ship, her sails full, plied the high waves. The three masts strained but held under the power of the harsh winds, enabling the lengthy vessel to course swiftly through the turbulent water. Built foremost for cargo,

Patches here and there spoke of the ship’s checkered history, one not only of profit but war. The repairs had all been made with great skill, but each scar spoke proudly of a legacy of brutal seafaring.

His passenger turned. In contrast to many minotaurs, General Rahm Es-Hestos was barely over six feet, not including his horns. He made up for this with a musculature worthy of a champion of the arenas. Above his broad muzzle glared two penetrating blue eyes. Like most of his race, his fur was a brown shade, but a streak of black jetting over his eyes gave him a bit of an exotic look. Few who met Rahm forgot him, not only because of his appearance, but also because of the sharp, commanding tone of his voice.

“We’re never out of danger, Azak. Never.” The renegade officer wore only kilts. The kilts were not even his, but had been borrowed from one of the captain’s kin. Its design had marked Rahm as a member of Genjis clan, thereby saving his life.

“Well… perhaps not,” agreed the captain as he hobbled toward his friend. A long-ago duel had left his right leg permanently injured. His opponent had not fared as well. “But that hunter ship turned off more than three hours back and there’s not been a sign of any other pursuit since then.”

Rahm considered his friend’s words. With a snort, the commander of the Imperial Guard finally commented, “I wonder what that captain would think if he knew that he just allowed a major enemy of the state to flee under his very snout?”

“Hotak… I knew his ambitions, admired them even, but I never dreamed he would do this.” “This travesty will haunt him, Rahm. You will see.”

Thunder rumbled.

The unsettling blue eyes glanced at Azak. “I’ve thought it over,” said Rahm. “We’ve got to forget Gol. They’ll head there first, suspecting Jubal’s friendship. Even if he survived this coup, he’ll be under watch, I’m sure.”

“Hotak would know them all. Make no mistake, Azak, he’s everything an emperor should be, and if he’d defeated Chot in the Circus, I would’ve been the first to cheer his name. No, we must go somewhere that Hotak would not even consider as a possibility, and yet gives us a vantage from which to strike back.” A crafty look seized Rahm’s face. “I’m thinking it has to be Petarka.”

Chapter IV

Coronation

The original structure of the Great Circus had been oval in shape, built of simple, sturdy, gray rock, and unadorned, for in those days the minotaurs were a utilitarian society. It had been built, in part, to celebrate the minotaurs’ liberation from the rule of the ogres, and those who led the rebellion created it so that it could also serve, under extreme conditions, as a walled fortress. The slits in the uppermost level of the stands served not only to allow circulation of air, but also as positions from which archers could fire. Within the walls themselves, enough storage space had been set aside so that those inside the arena could theoretically survive a siege of up to three months. That the structure would fail miserably in this regard, barely half a century later, the designers could not predict.

The decision to choose their ruler by combat—with guile as much as strength and skill playing a hand—was overwhelmingly popular, and the initial imperial combat had taken place in the Great Circus in the first year of the empire.

When the ogres enslaved the minotaurs again, they tore down the coliseum as a mark of their contempt. When the minotaurs regained their freedom, they built a larger, more extravagant structure, this time circular, reflecting the fact that the Circus was the center of the minotaur world.

Through the dragon wars, the cataclysms, enslavement a dozen times and more, the

Still circular in shape, with lovingly carved lifelike statues representing the greatest of those champions who had graced the fields of combat, it made those who recalled the previous edifice feel at home, yet the changes and embellishments could all be traced to the ego of the Emperor Chot.

Forty-thousand minotaurs could have seated themselves in the coliseum that had stood before the war against the Magori. Twenty-thousand more could fit here now; both the diameter and the height of Chot’s monument to his own glory had been increased by his architects. Ten stories tall and with a playing field alone that measured six hundred and twenty-five feet in diameter, it filled more space than any of its predecessors. The finest white stone had been transported from distant reaches and upon each carefully honed block had been carved the history of the minotaurs. Epic battles of both sea and land, explorations and discoveries, and major events of minotaur history—all found their place on the walls of the now-overthrown emperor’s Great Circus.

More than a few reliefs, including those most strategically placed, represented the emperor himself. Over each of the twenty-five entrances—five was considered a lucky number and thus five times five made the Circus a place of good fortune—the proud visage of the emperor was displayed. There loomed Chot the Proud, Chot the Just, Chot the Fearsome, and many more Chots.

The aging emperor, in his imperial box, saw only the dusted marble benches, the painted statues, and the hundreds of banners waving in the wind. Chot never entered by any but one passage, and that single passage, reserved for him and his guests alone, was kept pristine.

Nor had Chot seen—in truth, he would not have cared to see—those who lurked in the rank corridors, as at home in the stench and grime as all the rats and cockroaches. On the lowest levels of the coliseum could be found the shadow sellers, who did all their work in the deep inner corridors and rarely saw the light of day… or even the dark of true night. Oil lamps and torches set into the walls served as the only light for these less-than-respectable merchants who sold everything from trinkets and souvenirs to the powders and herbs that many found so refreshing, despite their eventual devastating toll.

There would be no shadow sellers today. Not only had Hotak commanded that the underdwellers be rounded up and the Circus cleansed of their malignant presence, but anyone caught seeking to buy their diverse wares would likewise be imprisoned. The core of minotaur life, the true heart of the empire, the Great Circus, must be purged of its ugliness. Today would begin the renewal of its glory, a return to purity.

Bastion, Maritia, and their brother Kolot stood on a hastily-erected wooden dais in the center of the Great Circus. The brothers wore fresh, knee-length, leather kilts studded with tiny silver stars. The axe harnesses strapped diagonally across their torsos shined bright from seal oil run lovingly over the leather. Their military badges displayed the rearing horse symbol of their father’s legion. The twin, curved heads of the battleaxes strapped behind the two minotaurs also gleamed and had been turned sideways to emphasize their massiveness. Each blade had been honed sharp. Both brothers wore silver, unadorned, open-faced helms whose lower front edges curled around their cheeks and whose backs slid down to cover their necks.

The vast arena was filled to overflowing. Everyone within riding distance of Nethosak came if they could. After the assassinations and the rejoicing of the people in the streets, Hotak had immediately ordered a lavish coronation. He felt he needed to seize the moment. Wait too long, even a day too long, and the people might begin to question the tumultuous events.

“I told Father he should have waited until they were all taken care of,” her elder brother murmured back. Squinting, the black minotaur peered up at the top of the massive arena, where the statues of past champions—excluding Chot’s now—stood guard. Next to each stood an able archer, the finest in Hotak’s legion.

At that moment, heralds, their silver dress armor gleaming, raised their long, curled horns. The Circus acted as a natural amplifier and, positioned as they were on small square platforms overlooking the playing field, the heralds created a wave of sound that rose up like thunder.

Through the main gate on the floor of the arena—the high, barred gate used to unleash wild animals or fighters onto the playing field—burst a pair of charging chariots, each drawn by four horses of the purest black. The gilded vehicles, also black but with brilliant gold scrollwork and etched with the profile of a fearsome minotaur, raced around the field. Behind the chariots, two helmed warriors rode.

Reaching the middle of the arena, the chariots spun and came to an abrupt and, to the crowd, quite startling halt. As the crowd held its collective breath, General Hotak de-Droka and the Lady Nephera strode majestically into the vast center of the Circus.

Hotak’s breastplate gleamed brighter than anyone’s and had, in fact, been finished this very day. Ornate scrollwork marked the shoulders, and on the chest no longer did the crimson condor fly. Instead a savage black warhorse reared.

Baring his teeth in a smile, Hotak stared out from under an open helm. The emperor-to-be wore a long sword whose gold handle was encrusted with a circular pattern of red rubies and upon whose blade had been etched the single word:

At his side, Nephera, too, greeted the throngs. Ever elegant, the high priestess had for this ceremony foregone the stately robes of the Forerunner faith—which brought great relief to her husband—in favor of shimmering, silken ones dyed silver, then trimmed at the sleeves, waist, and throat with emerald green lace. They were caught at the waist by a silken belt with a pattern made of true emeralds. As with Hotak’s cape, her robes trailed behind her, where they were held steady by a pair of young female fighters.

Three stunning necklaces composed of silver strands of intertwining serpents adorned her throat, and between her horns Nephera wore a slim, coiled headband encrusted with small emeralds and rubies patterned like stars. Her hair had been cleansed and oiled, and her fur scented with lavender, the last a favorite not only of high-ranking females, but a perfume which reliably enticed her husband.

Behind the pair came Ardnor. Hotak’s eldest son had foregone the robes of the temple for an outfit virtually identical to those of his brothers, with the minor addition of a clean, gray tunic without sleeves under his axe harness. But he also wore an imposing black helm, which everyone in the coliseum would instantly recognize as the symbol of the Protectors.

Trailing the new emperor’s family were his closest allies—generals, naval officers, and the patriarchs of powerful clans. They came clad in their finest, well-crafted robes or brightly polished breastplates. All waved to the roaring crowd.

The absence of some notable Houses was glaring. This included prominent Houses that had escaped the bloody lists. While some of their leaders sat among the vast audience, others were missing and observers wondered about their future and the future of their clans.

The platform had been draped over with a massive banner, displaying a monstrous shadow of a horse. At the uppermost point of the makeshift dais sat, for all to see, the imperial throne, removed from the palace for this occasion. The tall, oak chair was stained a deep, deep red. The head of a fierce minotaur with lengthy, curved horns was carved into the top. The savage countenance evoked the lost god Sargas—or Sargonnas, as others called him—as imagined in the favored form of his chosen people.

Hotak and his wife stood before the throne. An elegant chair had been brought from the temple for the high priestess. The arms of the second chair curved like waves on the sea and the legs resembled those of a dragon, even down to the clawed feet. Neither the general nor Lady Nephera sat, however. They continued to acknowledge the crowd while the other dignitaries took their places.

Ardnor, ignoring his brothers and sister, took up a position close to Nephera, then surveyed the crowds as if he, not Hotak, stood ready to be crowned.

The hair on Bastion’s neck rose, and both Maritia and Kolot stirred uneasily. All three had expected the gaunt, hooded minotaur clad in plain, gray robes and a simple, unadorned breastplate, but still the sight of him disturbed them. Lothan came as the only member of the Supreme Circle to survive the overthrow of Chot.

Five of the Supreme Circle were dead. Lothan had worked hand-in-hand with his fellow councilors to the very end. Councilor Boril, an unassuming but capable administrator, had even gone to the traitor to warn him of rumors of danger. In return for that warning, Lothan had let the very assassins Boril had feared enter his own home, slaying his guest.

The stomping and roaring erupted anew. The first artifact resembled a helmet, but jeweled and with a condor’s head as the crest. Its ruby eyes were worth a fortune in themselves. The entire crown glittered with so many and varied jewels that some in the crowd had to turn their gaze or be temporarily blinded.

No one truly believed that the sleek, golden axe with the diamond runes spelling out Makel’s name was the same one wielded by the hero—later emperor—who had freed his race from slavery, any more than that the crown had actually been worn by Toroth, the ruler instrumental in expanding minotaur maritime interests beyond the Blood Sea. Both artifacts had been created much later when such symbols were needed—as they clearly were now.

“There is no greater honor,” Lothan continued, “than to be found worthy of wearing this fabled crown and wielding this legendary weapon! There is no greater honor than to sit upon the throne of the ancients, to be acknowledged as the one who, by right of strength and wit, has been chosen to rule!”

The hooded figure turned to Hotak. “ ’We have been enslaved, but have always thrown off our shackles,’ ” Lothan proclaimed, beginning the ancient litany that each child learned early on. “ ’We have been driven back, but always returned to the fray stronger than before!’ ”

“ ‘The future of Krynn…’ ” chanted the crowd.

“Hotak de-Droka, let none call you general from this day forth, for that enviable rank is now beneath your grand status! Let it be proclaimed here and now—” the hooded minotaur turned back to the crowd— “on this day we honor the rule of Emperor Hotak! All hail Emperor Hotak!”

“I am not your emperor!” Hotak shouted.

“I am not your emperor,” he continued, turning his single-eye gaze from one row to the next, “if it means treating you with the respect, the honor, with which one treats a gully dwarf! I am not your emperor… if it means holding in contempt the traditions by which our people have thrived for generations!”

“I am your emperor,” the scarred commander cried, not once glancing down at the newcomers, “if you seek a return to honor and glory! To end decay! I am your emperor if you truly believe, as I do, that we are indeed the children of destiny!”

Hotak let it go on for more than a minute. Below, the prisoners, set in two groups of five apiece, were forced to their knees. Some wore the raiment of warriors, one that of a general. Others were clad in muddied and tattered garments that had once been wealthy robes marking a patriarch or a high-ranking councilor. The faces bore bruises and scars. All kept their muzzles to the sandy ground.

“For the past several decades,” Hotak said with a snort of contempt, “a shadow has enshrouded the throne. Corruption, the worst since the days of Polik the Pawn! Minotaurs have risen in power through bribes and favors. Filth litters our streets! Our once-proud structures have fallen into disarray, and justice has become a mockery. These before you are a few of those responsible—and for their crimes they shall now pay!”

When the last of the ten lay sprawled at Hotak’s reddened feet, he held the axe up for all to see. Fur covered in sweat and an expression of intense satisfaction on his face, the emperor cried, “Under Chot and others before him, that which chose who should lead, the

Hotak’s name became the audience’s collective cry over and over. The former general ascended the dais again. Hotak did not sit, instead once more taking his mate’s hand. Nephera stood next to her husband.

With the confidence of one whose every word was law, the emperor led Nephera off the dais. Maritia glanced at her brother. “Bastion! What—?”

Ardnor and Lothan also were caught by surprise, but quickly joined the others. The procession continued into the corridor beneath the public areas. The stone walls bore decades of scars and the thick doors on each side hinted of the many beasts and prisoners held there. Crimson stains marked the length of the corridor.

Well-guarded, the horses of those who had participated in the ceremony awaited. For the emperor and his consort, a huge, black war chariot drawn by ebony steeds sat ready. Hotak helped his wife up into it, then joined her, waving” again to his subjects.

The others took to their mounts. Horns blared. Armed soldiers began clearing a path before the imperial family. Slowly at first, then faster as the onlookers dispersed before it, the magnificent vehicle pushed on toward the palace.

As Kolot and Maritia urged their own mounts on, Bastion paused, glancing at his eldest brother. Ardnor’s expression was solemn, but the eyes of his sibling made Bastion’s hands tighten on the reins, for the whites had turned completely blood red.

The Knights of Neraka never had a chance. Before the patrol’s incursion into the rocks and hills of southern Kern, dragonriders had flown over and verified that no ogre activity was taking place in the region. The beast-men had fled before the superior might of the Knighthood.

The ogre leader’s plan was to let the patrol wend its way through the area, let them return and report that the way was clear, that paths existed for the larger army, then, when the army returned, catch an entire column while they were confined to one of the narrow passes crisscrossing the harsh landscape.

Although the knights fought well, surrounded by a hundred ogres, they had no real hope. One after another, they were dragged from their horses. Heavy clubs bashed in armored skulls. Brutish hands crushed throats or broke necks. The lead knight managed to slay two opponents before a spear drove through his breastplate, leaving him dangling in the air like a stringless marionette.

Two of the patrol managed to escape the ambush, urging their steeds back the way they had come. Dust rose high in their wake, but their flight was short-lived. Ahead of them, more ogres shoved tremendous boulders down. The massive rocks crashed into the horses, sending riders and mounts toppling.

Overlooking the slaughter from atop the highest ridge, a short, slim ogre clad in a cloak and garb more suitable for an elf spat angrily in the dust. The scent of blood and the cries of battle stirred him as they did all his kind, yet he held himself in check. The others could revel in their victory, but he knew how little this skirmish counted. The army that should have been easy prey would now be warned by the disappearance of their scouts. The knights’ relentless advance into Kern would continue.

Chapter V

Hunted

Under Nethosak, a vast series of rounded tunnels let the water waste of the imperial capital flow out to sea. Built of sturdy stone, this marvel of engineering had survived eruptions, earthquakes, and even the Cataclysm that ripped Mithas from the mainland. A fast-flowing river coursed through the tunnels, diverted by the work of more than one generation. A pair of yard-wide ledges ran across each side of the water flow, enabling workers to enter and keep the sewers in good order.

However, the reign of Chot had seen little maintenance. The water now moved sluggishly, restricted by trash accumulation. The tunnels suffered from the same lack of care; massive cracks littered entire areas. In some sections through which the fugitives ran, huge chunks of masonry and rock had collapsed into the river. The stench of rotting matter was everywhere.

They had taken to the sewers after being forced to use the horse as a decoy to throw off pursuers. Twice during the night Bek and Faros had also eluded soldiers searching the tunnels. The darkness had aided them… as had the stench. None of the searchers wanted to remain for very long, even with torches and oil lamps.

The wind picked up, a moist, chill bite coming in from the Blood Sea. Both froze as several soldiers came into sight just down the avenue. Bek pulled a staggering Faros back into the shadows, and the two watched as the figures marched past.

“They seem to be leaving the area, Master Faros.”

The pair had removed their clan emblems and hoped no one would wonder why. Few minotaurs went around without some symbol of their House, but someone might recognize their outlawed clan.

Another band of minotaurs appeared, laughing among themselves. They had been drinking. They shouted at a pair of females carrying goods, then laughed again when the latter turned up their muzzles and gave snorts of offense.

At the same time, a pair of veteran soldiers armed with axes came toward Faros and Bek from another direction. These two had wary expressions and when one noticed Faros, he muttered to his partner.

Life went on in the port much the way as it had before the bloody coup—except that armed soldiers patrolled everywhere. Mariners in kilts of all colors and clan patterns fixed lines, repaired hulls and worked to ready ships for sea. Others unloaded cargo. Urged on by their keepers, rough-furred goats from Kothas scurried noisily onto land. Huge barrels were rolled up gangplanks by straining sailors. A band of workers under the watchful eyes of a pair of soldiers scrubbed away at the moss, gull droppings, and grime covering the stone buildings.

Faros froze in his tracks, startled by what he saw. Under the direction of a grizzled minotaur with a wooden leg, an armed escort had begun removing from a Kalin ship everything that signified its ownership by that clan. Two warriors on the deck took special interest in ripping the Kalin banners to shreds. Other soldiers swarmed over the vessel, seizing anything of value.

Thanking the weather-scarred mariner, the two pushed on. Soon they sighted what appeared to be the sea captain’s home, a clean, block-styled building with little adornment other than the tell-tale trident and ship symbol marking the captain’s clan.

A shadow loomed behind them.

Five figures clad in black, crestless helms confronted Faros and Bek. They wore sleek ebony breastplates, shoulder armor, and gauntlets. Each wielded a sturdy mace. Their knee-length kilts consisted of black segments of leather and metal. Yet nothing unnerved Bek and Faros as much as the symbols emblazoned in gold upon both the breast plate and helm. A twin-edged axe broken at the midpoint and folded upward. Above it, seeming to rise to the sky, the shape of a majestic bird— the insignia of the Temple of the Forerunners.

As the Forerunners had grown in numbers and power, so, too, had their martial arm, the Protectors, expanded its scope. Now they sent out their own patrols and pursued—and often punished—those lawbreakers they caught. The Protectors swore their lives and their existence to the temple. Only the mistrust of Chot had kept them from seizing more authority on the streets. But Chot was gone, and their mistress sat as consort to the new emperor.

“I asked a simple question,” the barrel-chested leader proclaimed. He used the multi-barbed head of the mace to prod Faros’ chin up, so that he could look him in the eyes. “Have you no simple answer?”

Bek came to his master’s aid, replying, “We are guards sent to mind House Delarac’s holdings.” The clan symbol of Delarac, a close ally of House Droka, hung above several nearby buildings. “There are those who would use the emperor’s coronation as an excuse for theft.”

“I see no badge of your House,” he said, using the mace as a pointing stick. “Nor on you,” the Protector added, shifting the mace to Bek. “In fact, they look to have been ripped off, and that begs further questions. I think perhaps you two should come with us to the temple, where this matter can be sorted out.”

One of the other Protectors put a hand on his superior’s shoulder. The latter turned to listen. Bek used the distraction to grab Faros by the arm and run.

“You there!” shouted the officer in charge. “Identify yourselves immediately!”

“Kalin—!” Bek managed to gasp, dropping the axe. He fell back, dead.

“Stop that! In the name of the emperor, cease that at once!”

“You could’ve just as easily lost him if we hadn’t been nearby, but we’ll talk about sharing, shall we?” One of them prodded Faros. “He’ll be going nowhere on his own. You two! Get him to his feet. Drag him along.”

As the soldiers pulled him up, Faros saw the Protectors seize hold of Bek’s body. The black-helmed figures lifted Bek’s limp form as if he were a sack of wet grain. Faros’ vision cleared enough to enable him to stare into the slack face of the one who had saved his life, who had sacrificed everything for a futile cause.

Where the two huge, three-masted ships had come from, neither Rahm nor Azak could say. The vessels appeared from the south, small dots that grew rapidly. The precision with which the two ships broke through the choppy waters and maneuvered so near to one another spoke of the discipline of the empire’s naval force.

“Neither can use their catapults in these mad waters,” Rahm reminded the elder captain. In calmer seas,

Rahm made a desperate calculation. “Make a shift, anyway, if only by two degrees.” Azak gave him an incredulous look. “Has madness taken you? We’ll only guarantee swift capture—

“Just trust me, Azak!”

While the first ship reloaded, the second vessel, charging forward, angled for a clear shot. Rahm glanced ahead and saw nothing. No, was that a dot on the horizon?

The sudden veering saved

Rahm put a hand on Azak’s shoulder. “No! Do nothing! I think… I think they’ve come to meet us!” “They what?”

The two pursuing ships had finally noticed the five new vessels approaching. For a moment, it appeared that the pair would stand and fight, but then the two imperial vessels turned, abandoning their prey.

The other five closed in.

“Look at those lines!” the first mate, a heavy, jovial male called Botanos rumbled. The black giant leaned over the rail, disregarding the target he made for any expert archer as he stared at the approaching ship. “Look how she cuts the water!”

“She travels the open sea like a fish!” returned the bosun.

Rahm, his hands gripped tight on the rail, said nothing. The imperial vessels could not escape. As they and their adversaries shrank in the distance, the general heard a short, familiar crack and saw something fly toward the slower enemy ship.

“Captain!” called a hand up on the ropes. “She flies no banners!”

The general pointed at the nearing ship. “I didn’t say so before, but we could never find Petarka on our own. He said that a ship would come and guide us. I had every reason to believe he told the truth.”

“And who is ‘he’?”

As the mystery ship neared, more details could be made out. Lower and narrower than their vessel, its hull was painted a dark sea green and built with such precision that it was difficult to see where one plank ended and another began. The sails were arched. The masts, shorter and slimmer than the

Several figures moved about the mysterious vessel.

While that in itself was no tremendous surprise, the strangers caused some curiosity. The crew stood tall and slim. They moved with more the grace of acrobats than warriors. Their fur tended toward light brown, and most wore their manes in a tail. Snouts were angular, less pronounced. The mysterious mariners wore knee-length, sea-green kilts.

Instead of a catapult, the new vessel carried near its bow a ballista that could launch two wooden, iron-tipped javelins eight feet in length. A long, flexible piece of timber hauled back by the windlass —a drum-shaped winch—would, when released, strike the javelins with such ferocity that they might pierce a hull. Like the imperial fleet’s ballistae and catapults, this one rested on a flat platform that enabled its users to turn it in any direction.

One of the green-clad figures pointed southeast.

And this, being the first day of events since Hotak had been crowned, was a time of intense excitement. This was something that the minotaurs, having experienced so much upheaval, not only needed, but demanded. The Circus was now the outlet for their pent-up tension, each gladiator the living representation of their anxiety. The cheers were almost manic.

It was all the helmless fighter needed. His axe came in under the first minotaur’s own weapon, then cut upward. A horrific, crimson slit opened up the length of the gladiator’s torso. With a snort of pain, the helmed minotaur wobbled and dropped his weapon. He took a step toward his foe—then twirled and dropped to the ground.

There, Hotak, accompanied by Nephera and surrounded by an entourage consisting of his senior officers, stood and acknowledged the fighter with an outstretched fist. The victor knelt in tribute as horns blared and drums rumbled. Behind him, others hurried to drag the carcass of the loser away.

“Another excellent duel,” the emperor commented as he sat again. “A promising omen after the coronation—and just what the citizens need! A good day’s entertainment to remind them that the realm is secure and stable, that they have nothing to fear.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“A tragic error of command. My officers represent me. When they fail, I fail in the eyes of the people. You know that.” When the other minotaur nodded, Hotak added, “He chose to take this path. Kyril chose to enter the arena to atone.”

The horns blared again. From the gate nearest the imperial box entered a young, sturdy minotaur with brown fur and a determined expression. He wore no helm, no armor. For a weapon, he carried only a short sword and a dagger.

With a nod, Hotak acknowledged the words, then reseated himself.

From the disgraced officer’s left and right two gates opened. Out of each marched first one, then two, then three massive, armored figures. The newcomers wore not only helms and breastplates, but additional protection on the forearms and shins. Three even carried round wooden shields.

And where Kyril had only a short sword and dagger, his adversaries wielded twin-edged axes, long swords, and even maces. Kyril was not expected to survive this combat. What was important was that he die valiantly and redeem himself.

In ominous formation the six surrounded their lone foe, leaving between them a gap twice as large as a minotaur’s reach. Kyril turned in a circle once, evaluating his foes. By the emperor’s decree, the six gladiators had been chosen from the best fighters, and while that further increased the odds against the officer, it made his expected demise all the more honorable. The greater a minotaur’s enemies, the more glory he attained, regardless of the outcome.

A lull swept over the Circus, adding to the suspense.

Even before his opponent had dropped, Kyril had already begun running toward his fallen foe. His hand came within inches of securing the lost axe before a sword lunge from the next nearest fighter almost severed his fingers. Kyril rolled over his victim, then rose in a crouch, short sword ready, as the other five charged him.

Momentarily blinded, they were not prepared when he raced around behind one of them. As he passed, Kyril swung wildly at his foe. He failed to wound the gladiator, but the force of the blow against his armored back nonetheless sent the fighter stumbling forward.

No sooner had he done so then another axe blade sliced into the ground next to him, raising up a storm of sand. Coughing, the lone minotaur spun about, using his new weapon to deflect a second attack. The formidable weapon dug into an attacker’s shield and by sheer brute force Kyril ripped the shield away.

The shield went flying into the audience, unleashing a new gasp of admiration and pleasure. In the imperial box, Hotak nodded proudly and patted Nephera’s hand. He glanced at Orcius, giving him an approving smile.

Keeping his enemies at bay, Kyril backed toward the far end of the arena. The five fighters steadily approached him. They seemed content to let him guide the battle now—not what the hungering crowd expected.

The ground behind the dishonored officer shifted. A trap door slid open, sand trailing into it. A ten-foot high burst of flame shot up, spreading out as it ascended.

With each succeeding generation, minotaur overseers of the Circus devised more surprises. From the passages built underneath the artificial floor of the arena, workers could send up beasts, new fighters, and an array of deadly traps. The blossoming inferno was the latest stunt. It was created by feeding oil into a fire and, with the use of bellows, funneling it upward.

A hulking, horrific form appeared. Although chained tight to the platform that had raised it up, the monstrosity tugged with such frenzy that some in the crowd involuntarily leaned back as far away as possible—despite the fact that they were protected by high walls.

Manticores, with their brutish, almost human faces and vestigial wings, were rare in Krynn. This twin-headed beast resembled a manticore in some ways. Its two muzzles were flat and thick; black manes framed each macabre, savage visage. Its body was that of a muscular, leonine creature almost as large at the shoulder as a horse. The beast’s spiked tail snapped back and forth as the heads strained to be free of their iron collars.

Onyx eyes glittered wildly in the daylight. The chemoc snapped its two heads in the direction of the crowd, then one set of eyes noticed the fighters. The beast strained again, causing the braces in the platform to groan ominously.

Kyril moved to within just a few feet of the chemoc’s savage reach. The talons came close, and its two heads snapped at him again and again, teeth as long as the minotaur’s fingers seeking their target.

Kyril deflected the stabbing axes, but in doing so he took one step too close.

One head thrust forward, and the beast took in the minotaur’s head and neck and snapped them free. The other sniffed the air and sized up the remaining figures. Any of them would do. It was not choosy. The three remaining gladiators glanced at each other. They hadn’t counted on this. Only Kryil seemed calm. The chemoc’s breath came in rapid gasps. Its handlers had not fed it for days.

Nostrils scenting blood, the chemoc again leaped toward Kyril.

Movement caught the chemoc’s eyes. Forgotten in the struggle, the minotaur whom Kyril had wounded in the leg was seeking to drag himself to safety. In attempting so, however, he only marked himself as an easy victim.

Kyril had been intended to die, but with the threat to their comrade, the other minotaurs joined the fray. They, however, came from farther away and would have been too late to save the wounded fighter.

Kyril was not.

Straddling his horrific foe, Kyril struggled to free his sword. He raised it up, but the violent thrashing by the twin-headed horror kept him from making any use. The other gladiators stood near, transfixed and uncertain.

Brandishing their axes, the two other fighters now stepped in front of the snapping heads. They did not move to assist Kyril, but rather to shield their fallen comrade. Another gladiator seized the injured fighter and pulled him to safety.

One head sought Kyril while the other bit at the two gladiators standing before it. One of the armored minotaurs got too close. A paw suddenly lashed out. It caught warrior and axe together and sent the gladiator smashing against the nearest wall. The clang of metal against stone was drowned out by the screaming thousands.

Shrieking, the creature rose on its hind legs and tossed its undesired rider off the back. Kyril crashed hard and rolled onto the sand. As he tried to rise, a chance slap of the spiked tail caught him in the stomach.

No one heard his scream over the roars of the crowd, but his pain was evident to those in the royal box. As the wounded chemoc stumbled back and forth, Kyril forced himself to his feet. His entire torso was drenched in blood and three gaping wounds could be seen.

Twirling around and around, the other head of the chemoc sought in vain to remove the sword from the wounded one. Its blunt snout, however, did not give it reach.

Kyril seized the weapon.

But his axe sliced into the creature’s lower throat and chest. Had that not been enough, the minotaur’s long, sharp horns impaled the chemoc just below the jaw. The head snapped up so hard that the beast’s neck cracked.

The young officer was dead. Had his monstrous opponent not crushed him, his wounds would have killed him soon enough. Yet still the throng cheered him. They stood and waved their fists and cried his name.

Again, the crowd roared approval. The honor bestowed upon Kyril restored to the officer his place among his people. His failures were erased from memory. The stain that had reflected upon his emperor was no more.

The bearers held the stretcher and body over their heads as they circled the perimeter of the field once. Small banners and more sheaves alighted onto the corpse, signs of admiration for the passing of an honorable warrior.

“Not as expected,” Hotak commented to Orcius, as he seated himself again, “but still a glorious end for Kyril. His name will be spoken of by all for some time to come. He will be a model for those who follow him.”

“As you say,” Orcius responded.

“As you say, my lady. I am not of the Forerunner faith, though.”

Hotak quieted them both. “Let us be content to honor young Kyril. He even saved the lives of his foes. He lived and died well. Truly, a symbol of minotaur honor.” He leaned back, awaiting the next event.

Chapter VI

Dreams and Nightmares

As his grip on Nethosak tightened, so did Hotak’s demands over the empire. From rocky Kothas to lush Selees, from wheat- and corn-rich Amur in the northeast to wooded Broka at the heart of the realm, imperial units took over the local government and placed the colonies under the absolute control of appointed military liaisons, the provost captains.

On Mito in the port city of Strasgard, the militia commander stepped into the provost captain’s office. The three gold rings he wore in each ear—symbolizing his authority—jingled as the beefy minotaur went down on one knee.

Three days earlier Hotak’s legionaries, in conjunction with the imperial fleet, had marched in, seizing the port operations. Mito was not only the third largest island in population, but also third largest builder of ships. To have its autonomy revoked had created Shockwaves throughout the colony.

Haab tapped the desk. When he spoke, it was in a tone that made the fur on Ryn’s neck stiffen. “Your desire to keep Mito stable is commendable. The emperor looks, to this colony as one of the vanguards of expansion. Mito’s ships will supply our forces with transportation, defense, and supplies. It is essential that Strasgard, the largest port, be up and running at full strength.”

“Sir?”

A sick feeling swelled in Ryn’s stomach. “For what purpose, provost captain?” Haab bared his teeth in a smile. “For the purpose of putting our house in order.”

The new arrivals joined the units stationed on Mito and quickly beat back the surprised protesters. Scores of colonists perished under the unforgiving onslaught, and soldiers dragged away dozens more, now identified as enemies of the state even though they had borne no love for Chot. Packed aboard a vessel built in Strasgard itself, the chained losers were sent off to—as Haab put it— “serve the empire in the only way fit for such as them.”

Although the rebellion in Mito proved rare, the changes led by Hotak shook the empire. Ships laden with salted goat meat from Kothas, wheat from Amur, or breadfruit from Tengis were now under a special tax to aid the reorganization of the state. All foodstuff—whether fish, goat, grain, fruit, or even wine—was to be distributed under guidelines drawn up by the emperor. A portion of the profits of each shipload would go directly into the coffers of Hotak, there to be distributed to his chosen projects.

Emboldened, Emperor Hotak made his next move. All minotaurs received combat training from almost the time they could walk, and a good portion of those later served in the military. But few served for very long, most leaving to pursue their own destinies. The legions and the fleet were constantly in flux, their strength erratic and, especially during the past decade, general readiness declining under Chot.

Hotak intended to reverse all that. He envisioned a race of trained soldiers, a grand force consisting of every male, female, and adolescent, capable of organizing at a moment’s notice. Thus came down the edict declaring that all young minotaurs would be conscripted. Every corner of the realm was expected to contribute their finest prospects, even though for some remote colonies this diminished their entire labor force. On major islands like Mithas, squads from the State Guard raided unsavory establishments and pressed into military service all the revelers. The game houses, considered another foul legacy of Chot, were then burned to the ground.

In just a few months, the new emperor declared to his loyal staff while signing the conscription edict, the imperium would boast a force twice as large, twice as well-trained, as any that served in ages past. A force to be reckoned with across all of Krynn.

Lady Nephera glided through the towering, stone corridors of the temple. To either side of her, set in marble block alcoves, huge figures three times her height stared down at her. Ephemeral forms clad in shroudlike garments, they seemed to take an intense interest in Nephera as she headed to her chambers.

Rounded, brass oil lamps whose flames arose from a curved spout hung suspended over the heads of the statues. Little other light illuminated this corridor. The horizontal slits near the outer ceiling were designed for ventilation.

Acolytes in white robes with red trim from the shoulders to the cuffs bent low in homage. Two female attendants, their manes tied tight, prostrated before Nephera. Protectors in full black and gold regalia kept to their positions near the walls, eyes straight ahead, multi-barbed maces held ready.

The shadows and wind shifting around Nephera represented a force beyond the mortal plane. When the priestess passed by, the statues seemed—just for the briefest of breaths—to stir. A rustling of cloth here, the shifting of a masked gaze there. Even the fanatical Protectors peered anxiously over their shoulders when passing through.

Two brawny, female guards, chosen from among her own priestesses, raised their axes in salutation as Lady Nephera approached her quarters. Clad as the Protectors save for helms, they lived to serve her and no other.

Clad in gray robes and slung over the curled arms of an elegant oak and leather chair, Ardnor had a bottle of temple wine in one hand. In his other hand, he held a half-crumpled parchment that the high priestess immediately recognized as having been taken from her desk.

“Stand up! What sort of mockery do you think you make of yourself when you appear in such a state?” She ripped the sheet from his hand. In truth, Nephera cared not so much about her son’s drunken appearance, but that he had dared go through her papers.

“Father’d never step foot in this room, and you know it.” Ardnor pushed himself to his feet, then tossed the empty bottle on the chair. Drops of wine dribbled onto the leather. “Father’s ashamed of this place… and us!”

Nephera slapped him.

“And dangerous, too. I’ve just come from the palace.”

“I spoke to your father, yes. He explained quite reasonably why he chose to do what he did. He needs a bit more time to solidify political support and to prove the stability of his rule. You’ll be declared heir yet, my son, but the announcement will have to wait a little. That’s all.”

“I do what is right—as does your father.”

“Ardnor, I want you to pull the Protectors from the searches.”

The veins in his thick neck grew taut. Ardnor’s grip on the door handle tightened, the wood groaning. In the end, though, he simply nodded, then silently departed, leaving in his wake two unnerved guards who quickly moved to shut the door.

Staring down at the two awed faces, Nephera commanded, “See that the meditation room is prepared. Then alert all Protectors that under no circumstances am I to be disturbed once I enter. No matter what they hear. Is that understood?”

A slight shifting in her eyes represented Nephera’s only pleasure at this achievement. She had progressed far beyond basic skills and, if her hopes held true, tonight she would cross yet another threshold.

When the temple had served the followers of Sargonnas, this room had been reserved for their high priest. Polished, silver-gray marble tiles covered the floors. Each piece had been cut into the shape of a five-inch wide square and inlaid with design by skilled workers. The import costs for such finequality stone would have paid a legion commander’s wages for a year.

The bath called to her, but the high priestess could not rest. She turned to the wall closet, carved, just like the wide bed beside it, from cedar imported from Sargonath, and reached in for a garment never seen outside of the temple. Utter black, almost shroudlike, and with a voluminous hood lined at the front edges in silver thread, the floor-length robe made its wearer resemble one of the dead. To further the effect, a black, shimmering veil of silk obscured the wearer’s features.

As she dressed, her eyes drifted to the savage condor symbol, set in the wall across from the bed, which seemed to glare vengefully at her. The artisans had created the fiery bird from special marble, then touched it up with paint resistant to the constant scrubbing by her attendants. Eventually Nephera would have to have the wall replaced, but for now this last vestige of a lost god would remain.

Nephera glanced toward the bed, where a flickering shadow had separated from the others. With each dancing movement of the candle flame, Takyr’s cadaverous, green-gray form faded in and out of sight. The tattered mariner’s cloak billowed as if caught in a great gale. A faint scent hinting of the open sea and rotting vegetation touched the priestess’ nostrils.

“I’ve a spell to cast. I’ll need you.”

“What of Itonus? Anything observed?”

The two brooding Protectors on duty slapped their right fists on their breastplates then opened the doors. Nephera gave both an approving nod then stepped inside and waited for the doors to close behind her.

Once a place of secret rites, the high, arched chamber had fallen into empty ruin before Nephera had claimed the building ten years earlier. With the vanishing of the old gods, the great temples had been abandoned. Only a few small temples of Sargonnas and his rival, the bison-headed god of just cause, Kiri-Jolith, still remained here and there throughout the empire.

The tenets of the Forerunner faith had been inspired by the dream she had one night while her mate was away winning battles and glory for his undeserving master. Lady Nephera had no name for the mysterious power she wielded. Perhaps it had to do with this One True God she had heard of, perhaps not. Her only guidance came from dreams—and the voice that still spoke to her during her slumbers.

In the first dream, Nephera, clad in the robe she now wore, had found herself in a vast white nothingness standing upon a misty path composed of tiny bones. The path led into forever. An endless line of gray, shrouded figures made of smoke trod the path—the dead on their journey after life.

More curious than afraid, Nephera had dared join that monstrous line. The dead had paid her no mind. When she reached out to touch one, her fingers passed through shadowy mist. Her ethereal companions made no sound; they simply trudged along to their destiny.

Then, suddenly, the unearthly trail had ended, and Nephera had discovered herself at the wide steps of a gleaming, ivory temple. The gargantuan bronze doors, covered with the symbols of an ascending bird hovering over an axe of gold, opened readily. Lady Nephera stepped forward—

And there, set upon a waist-high, bone-white pedestal in the very center of the chamber, she had found the golden axe depicted on the doors—lying broken in half. Before the shattered weapon, there stood another new line of spectral forms. The first one touched with dry, transparent hands the head and the base of the handle.

The axe flared bright.

An inexplicable desire to put the two broken halves together compelled Nephera to step forward. But when she touched the pieces, nothing happened, and the weapon remained broken. This infuriated her beyond measure.

With a growl, Nephera slammed the two pieces together, forcing them to meld even as they shook, flared, and burned like fire in her hands. A hundred times she considered letting go, but a hundred times she held on,

Then the golden weapon began to shrink, growing so small that within seconds Nephera could cradle the artifact in her arms. In death is the axe broken, intoned a voice without gender, a voice without emotion—a voice that came from within and without. It is lain upon the chest of the dead warrior, a symbol of his or her passing on to the next great battle.

When the axe is broken, it can never be made one again; so it is written, continued the genderless voice. But if there is one who can mend that which cannot be made whole, then that one holds power over death itself—and the world beyond.

All the while the ghosts floated around her, each wanting to touch the weapon but unable to do so because of her. They watched her with awe and fear. Their gray, washed-out features contorted in silent pleas.

Nephera realized that she had complete command over them.

From that day forward, Nephera had become a different being, one who constantly walked not only the plane of the living, but also the realm of the dead. Ghosts—true ghosts, not the faded figures of her dream—gathered around her, obeying her every word and bringing her news and information. With her newfound powers, Nephera drew others to her and proclaimed the birth of the Forerunners.

Hotak had not welcomed her change, not until one of her ghosts had informed her of the ambitious officer spying on him for Chot. An accident had readily dealt with that situation, and from then on Lady Nephera had ensured the loyalty of all those around her and her husband. She took a more active hand in his campaigns, aiding his victories with her unearthly spies.

Now, years after that fateful night, Nephera stood in the meditation room, staring at the symbol of the Forerunners—the golden axe broken in two and, above it, the magnificent bird of prey, a hawk, also of pure gold. The axe represented death, with the ascending bird symbolizing the spirit rising from the mortal plane.

Only those who stood highest in the temple hierarchy knew of its existence, and they were sworn to secrecy. Even her husband did not know of the axe bestowed on her by the dream, for Nephera had discovered the ability to mask it from the eyes of others. Any who stared at her would see only the usual fur and flesh.

In contrast to the massive icon on the wall, no other images and no furniture decorated the great room. A single torch set in each corner gave sufficient illumination, and no more. For what Lady Nephera did here, she wanted no distractions.

Looking now to Takyr, the high priestess nodded.

All around her stood green-gray forms forever locked in their moment of death. By fire, blade, sickness, infirmity, and other causes they had perished. All were minotaurs. These and more each day came to serve her.

Some wore rags, others fine gowns and uniforms. If their death had been peaceful, then the spectre looked intact, almost alive—save for the hollow eyes and hungering look. However, if their end had come through catastrophic means, then that ghost carried with it the horrific image of its demise. Ripped and torn flesh, skulls opened by axes—the variety was endless.

Here stood one male who had been slain in violent battle, his head barely upright on his shoulders, his breastplate slashed wide. Blackened blood covered his chest, oozing slowly from his vicious wounds. Beside him drifted a child who had perished from the scarlet plague, a scourge on all races since the Dragon Wars centuries before. The dead youngster was constantly caught up in fits of pain and coughing. Pustules covered her muzzle.

Scents mingled around her—the smell of burned ash, the deep sea, and flowery fragrances. The fire was that which consumed agonized flesh, the sea that which swallowed a life whole, and the flowers those left to decay with the dead.

One by one, the shades passed through the high priestess’ body and disappeared. With each intrusion, Nephera shivered. She muttered and drew symbols in the air, symbols from both the dream and her subconscious.

“Takyr! Attend me!”

Armlike appendages sprouted from the sides of the cloud. The eyes focused on something the high priestess could not see, then moved toward the icon on the wall, momentarily lost all cohesion—and drifted through the wall as if no obstruction existed.

The priestess gasped and nearly fell. Her body was drenched in sweat, and her heart was pounding… but she had done it! She had passed a threshold of spellcasting that once had been beyond her. Nephera had summoned into being a hunter, an avenger, a shade that would end her anxiety.

Nephera, too, had to recoup. Her body ached, and her head pounded. Ignoring the unearthly stares of the spectres, Lady Nephera made her way from the meditation room. The Protectors snapped to attention, and although they watched her as she passed, she found herself amused that they could not see the swarm of ghosts escorting her.

Chapter VII

Harsh Measures

Several days after Hotak’s coronation, a smaller ceremony took place late one evening in the headquarters of the eight members of the Supreme Circle—a vast, rectangular building flanking the palace. With retinues greater than some small Houses, the Circle saw to it that the imperial armies were fed, the fleets kept in good repair, and the lives of the citizenry safeguarded. In the past, the Supreme Circle had kept the minotaurs united during even the most violent eras. Emperors came and went, but the Circle persevered.

It was well after dark when Maritia and her escort of six arrived at the headquarters. Unshuttered square windows lined the upper levels and half a dozen unadorned columns flanked the entrance. Her party strode up a short flight of steps where they were met by a contingent of the State Guard, which saluted her smartly, then led the party inside.

As she entered the great gallery, rows of robed elders stood to acknowledge her. The gallery had been created for important debates concerning the Circle and the major Houses. Today, somber minotaurs filled the five hundred seats, more standing than sitting.

On a high, wide platform the members of the Supreme Circle sat. One step below the rest was the seat of the council scribe, who set down the words of the gathering and, therefore, the words that became law. Only those with the sharpest ears and quickest hands could do this job.

Protocol demanded that no weapons were allowed in the chamber save those wielded by the guards, but neither Maritia nor her companions had been asked to remove theirs. Only when the emperor’s daughter faced the assembly did the eight elders of the Supreme Circle finally take their places. The council scribe seated herself and took quill in hand.

Nearby stood a dais upon which a tremendous pyre had been set. The immense, bronze bowl was set afire at the start of each session to symbolize the vitality of the empire. A guard waited, torch in hand. The fire this day would burn higher and brighter than ever.

As she seated herself again, guards shut and barred every door.

Lothan quickly perused it then surveyed the audience. “Attend me, brothers and sisters!” he shouted. “I hold in my hands a proclamation delivered unto me concerning those Houses who, by their own acts, chose freely to align themselves with the regime of Chot the Corrupt!”

Rumblings arose as the assembled patriarchs and their retinues made a show of how much they despised those clans. Their feet drummed hard. Never mind that almost everyone there had willingly engaged in business and political transactions with House Kalin over the years.

A guard standing to the right of the platform beat on a large, brass kettle drum. He repeated the same short cadence, one hand striking, then two heartbeats of quiet, then the other hand striking, two more heartbeats and so on.

The members of the Circle rose and moved toward the table.

“On this day,” continued the gaunt councilor. “At this august hour, and by signed declaration of the emperor, let the following Houses suffer all loss of recognition. Their holdings will be assumed by the throne, to be distributed among the people. Those who served their base causes will be removed from minotaur society, their names erased forever. All records concerning these clans shall be stricken. They and theirs shall be shunned. It will be as though they never existed.”

The first elder stepped forward, taking the tightly folded banner from the guard. The gray-robed minotaur carried the banner up a set of short steps until he stood before the dancing flames. He then let the banner fall open for all to see. Upon a field of green stood a menacing orange crab.

The drumming ceased.

“Let forever be forgotten—House Hestos!”

Only two banners remained, one already in the hands of a councilor.

A crimson dragon bearing twin axes in its claws stretched over a field of black.

The congregation clapped, pounded their feet, and did whatever they could to enhance their own trivial roles in this ceremony. Never before had so many been cast out. Today marked history, marked a branching in minotaur tradition and beliefs.

“Out of the wagon, you wretched lot!” roared the titanic, mud-brown bull Faros had heard the other soldiers call the Butcher. Like his compatriots, he was clad as a member of the State Guard, but the gray of their kilts came as much from the dust on them as the material itself.

In the days since the prisoners had been turned over to this monster, the Butcher—whose true name was Paug—had so far whipped three weak prisoners to death. Paug’s brutality left Faros chilled, for he had never come across the likes of it. The slightest infraction set the monstrous figure off, and even the other guards did their best not to attract his ire.

He and his fellow prisoners had been carted southeast to the edge of the mountain range called Argon’s Chain. A dismal, soot-covered land, Argon’s Chain boasted not only the tallest, most wicked peaks, but also several live craters. Faros coughed, the air thick not only from the heat but from the dark-gray ash constantly blown around by the fierce winds.

Rich in fury, terrible in strength, the volcanic regions around the Chain were also rich in minerals valuable to the empire. Iron, lead, zinc, and copper were mined here, and even diamonds could be found. However, the slaves and prisoners had to dig hard and deep, and try not to let the suffocating, poisonous sulfuric gases and dangerous conditions kill them in the process.

Once Vyrox had been a promising mining community. The soil had been good for growing wheat and barley. Pear and apple trees had thrived, and a river whose channel had been cut by an ancient flow had provided all needs. Herds of goats were raised here, and occasional hunts had garnered deer, rabbit, and other woodland game. Vyrox had threatened to grow into a city second only to Nethosak.

Of old Vyrox, there remained no trace. The community and nearly a thousand minotaurs lay buried under layers of ash and lava. Within the nearby mountains existed numerous shafts that had collapsed because of tremors or been crushed under the eruptions—burying many more bodies.

But the empire still needed the riches of Vyrox. Humans were the first to send their slaves to work the mines, but when they gained their freedom, the minotaurs had created a special class of felons and unwanted to supply the mines with expendable labor. It was always claimed that any minotaur sent to Vyrox could redeem himself by entering the Great Circus, but none earned that opportunity.

Surrounded by a tall wall of stone, the camp consisted of row upon row of colorless, windowless, block-shaped buildings. A single, thick wooden door with a heavy brace to lock in the occupants stood in the center in each structure. The only ventilation came from narrow slits at the top of each building.

“I am Krysus de-Morgayn, commander of Vyrox,” he said in a resigned voice. “You will address me as Commander. You will obey all orders and work your shifts without fail. You have been given one last chance to serve the empire. Work hard, and you may earn the opportunity to return to Nethosak.” Paug snorted, but Krysus overlooked it. “That is all. The guards will show you where you sleep and eat. Sleep well, for tomorrow you work.”

“That’s it! Move along, now!” Paug and the other guards herded the new arrivals toward the dour buildings. Dust swirled with each trudging step. None of the soldiers offered water, and no one was so foolish enough to ask.

“We are dead,” muttered the steward. “We will catch the breathing sickness and die.” The breathing sickness came from inhaling the noxious fumes and dust thrown up by the volcanoes. Victims lost fur and developed a pallor. Breathing was reduced to hacking coughs. The coughing grew incessant, and the inflicted spewed blood. Eventually, most simply wasted away, finally falling dead in their tracks.

“Shut up!” Faros snapped. He looked sullenly around at the aged, two-level bunks. Some had a few tattered belongings on top. Faros finally chose a couple a few spaces apart that appeared to be vacant.

The snarls of several exhausted and ill-tempered figures rattling chains jolted Faros to attention. He blinked, realizing that he actually had dozed off. Forcing himself up on his elbows, Faros glanced at the shadowy forms.

“What’s this?” bellowed a black behemoth. “New calves to the slaughter, eh?” He stepped up, and with one shackled hand nearly swept Faros from the bunk. “So clean! So spotless! Yeah, new calves all right! Bring anything with you to pay for your room and board? Costs plenty to stay at a fine villa like this!”

“I have… nothing!” gasped Faros, trying to peel the massive fingers off his throat. “You’d better have somethin’ good, or I’ll—”

A lean figure pushed through the ash-covered mob. In the dim illumination, it looked as if splotches of oil covered his fur. The newcomer stood taller than either Paug or Faros’ assailant, though the top of his horns had been cut off. He wore his mane in two tight pony-tails.

The lean minotaur jumped on Japfin and smashed his head to the floor. When his foe did not move, he leaped to his feet. For the first time, Faros saw that tattoos covered the minotaur’s shoulders, torso, and even his legs. The tattoos somehow colored his fur as well as his skin.

The strange minotaur quietly repeated the name, then nodded. With a grand sweep of his arm, he added in a more affable voice, “Welcome, Bek! Welcome to our humble abode! May you enjoy being a part of our good family—” some of Ulthar’s humor fled— “for what little be left of your life.”

In the Courrain Ocean the clouds had built up so much over some areas that they now seemed to push down, as if seeking to squash anything jutting above sea level. Thick fogs covered some islands and ships sailed slowly, fearing obscured rocks.

Waves grew swiftly to giants three times the height of the main mast. Lightning played across the sky, yellow and red flashing amidst the ominous green gray. A howling wind ripped at the sails, and hands strained to keep lines set. For hours the crew of the

“It’s not natural!” cried Captain Hogar to his first mate. “Sailed the Blood and the Courrain for thirty years and never saw a gale rise up so sudden and violent, even around the Maelstrom! Not natural at all!”

Barely had the burly, brown minotaur finished when a wave struck the lower deck. One sailor screamed as he was washed over the opposite rail. Another was tossed against the mast with such force that his back cracked like a twig.

His first mate, Scurn, ducked as thick, fat forms almost a yard long pelted the vessel and its crew. Hogar seized one that almost struck him in the chest, then had to struggle to hold it long enough to identify it.

“I can see that, you fool!” The minotaur eyed the gaping mouth and pointed nose of the fish. Dartfish were deep sea creatures, seldom caught because of the depths they preferred. “Must be a violent storm indeed if it dredged these hunters up!”

Another monstrous wave rose up, washing over the struggling vessel. This time, the minotaurs were prepared. They were soaked down to their skin and half-choked on sea water, but they held on, breaking through the wave.

From the crow’s nest came a shout.

“Do we make for it, captain?”

It was likely the strange leviathan did not notice them at all. As his crew tried desperately to get their craft away, Hogar watched it, noting that it seemed to move just like all the other fish—as if seeking to escape.

Utter blackness enshrouded the swamped ship.

Momentum carrying it on, and the sea beast vanished under water again. With it went all that remained of the

Chapter VIII

Shadow of the Temple

Two months into Hotak’s reign, the first of the new colonial governors were assigned. Many were provost captains already in command of those colonies. Adopting the example of Mito, the new governors of Broka, Tengis, Dus, and Selees restructured their local militias and consolidated their power.

Under a proposal by Governors Haab of Mito and Zemak of Amur, the system of justice underwent radical change. Sanctioned duels in local arenas gave way to tribunals consisting of three officers appointed by the governing administrators. Those found guilty were chained and made ready for the next ship sailing to the mining colonies.

Hotak needed miners as much as he needed soldiers. To expand, the empire required vast quantities of copper, iron, and other valuable minerals. Several previously uninhabitable islands became new colonies and were peopled by those who had found themselves on the wrong side of the new regime. With few natural resources, the only hope of the island workers was finding and digging out enough high-grade ore to satisfy their overseers. Gask and Warhammer Point, both to the east of Mito, and iron-rich Firemount, one day south from Kothas, were among the newest additions.

In his eyes, the other minotaur moved with the speed of an animal caught in tar. His adversary’s round face distorted, the eyes bulging out. Droplets of sweat slowly seeped to the floor. Every muscle of his foe strained, but still the axe came slowly.

The First Master shifted his own weapon. The world around him moved faster, but still not fast enough to match Ardnor’s impatience. His adversary attempted to kick the leg of the emperor’s son out from under him, but Ardnor dodged that attack, too.

With a savage grin on his face, Ardnor stepped back, causing the other minotaur to stumble forward. As his foe sought to regain his balance, the First Master brought the haft of his axe around, thrusting it into his opponent’s stomach. At that point, Ardnor let his concentration relax.

Ardnor’s opponent gasped and doubled over. A hush fell over the audience. Ardnor wasted no time now, bringing up the flat of the heavy axehead and striking his opponent squarely on the temple. His attacker dropped to the floor.

Pulling back, Ardnor raised his axe over his head and, with a triumphant expression, looked around. The gathered Protectors applauded the skill of their leader. More than a hundred warriors stood, clapping—each secretly giving thanks that they had not been among his sparring partners this day.

“Ever and always,” Ardnor returned, finishing the short oath that all Protectors made to him upon becoming one of the blessed champions of the temple. Those who failed to complete the final trials —five days of fasting, followed by hand-to-hand combat with a Master and, lastly, an ordeal by fire —generally had nothing else to say, for many died in the process.

“On your feet, Jhonus!” Ardnor barked. Nephera’s son felt especially satisfied with this duel. Jhonus had a reputation for being one of the temple’s best. Defeating him, even through use of what might have been called sorcery, pleased Ardnor.

Ardnor matched their stance, and his euphoria gave way to ritual solemnity.

Nostrils flaring, the First Master continued, “By the rites performed, by the trials conquered, you have proven yourselves worthy to fulfill that sacred duty. Your lives, your deaths, belong to the Forerunners forever. You are its eternal servants, its eternal defenders.”

Each struck the center of their chest with a closed fist. “We are the Protectors of the faith!” As they lowered their fists, they displayed for Ardnor the symbol of their utter dedication.

“Where’s my mother?” he asked, wiping his muzzle.

“She said she wants to be well-ready for the special service, First Master. She says she still has many, many preparations to make and that, despite there being yet another month before the event, the preparations take time.”

Ardnor grunted. “I see. A good idea, then. Wouldn’t want her fainting before the sheep, would we?” Ignoring the look of dismay on his elderly servant’s face, Ardnor turned to other subjects. “Any messages for me?”

“One would assume so,” replied the lowly figure.

He threw the cup to the servant then hurried to his quarters. A short time later, clad in the full garb of a Protector, Ardnor called for his horse. Accompanied by four dedicated guards, he headed toward the northern quarter of the capital.

The small party drew the attention of those on the streets. Whether or not one followed the teachings of the Forerunners, all knew the First Master. True believers bowed or cheered as he rode past, while the ignorant quickly glanced away or shrank back.

Ardnor’s band rode for some time, leaving the central district—home of not only the palace and the Supreme Circle, but also that of the legion and naval commanders—for the first of the districts where high-ranking citizens and prominent clans made their homes. Some villas had been burned to the ground here, others ripped apart. Huge four-wheeled wagons pulled by teams of muscular workhorses still carted away refuse.

The villas gave way to rectangular buildings, smaller but neatly ordered dwellings. Then there were gray, communal houses, and beyond them, at last, the larger, more utilitarian structures of one of the crafting and business districts.

At a tall, drab stone building buried deep in the district, the First Master finally reined his horse to a halt. Two sentries stood at attention. Leaving the horse with one of his own, Ardnor and the three other guards approached.

“My brother’s inside?” he asked, removing his helmet.

Ardnor barged through the door, glancing briefly around. Scores of minotaurs of varying ages, dressed in dust-covered aprons, persistently worked at marble blocks, gradually chipping into existence stalwart minotaur champions, majestic steeds, and sundry other forms. With few exceptions, those at work were members of House Tyklo, whose tradition in stonework had made them one of the most respected clans in the history of the race. Since Tyklo himself, the clan had carved the majority of monuments for every emperor, victorious general, or great House.

Under Chot’s reign, Tyklo had carved reproduction after reproduction of the late ruler’s image. The hard work of a generation of sculptors had been shattered after his fall. However, Hotak’s coup had opened new doors, new commissions-projects such as the colossus.

It stood twice as tall as the massive statue that had once commanded the central square, a towering marble behemoth clad in breast plate and kilt and holding a double-edged axe high in one hand and the head of an ogre in the other. Even as Ardnor watched, a powder-covered young minotaur chiseled away at the wild-maned ogre’s toothy, grimacing features, turning the face into a helmeted human, a Knight of Neraka.

His brother stood near the statue, pointing at the ogre’s head and saying something to the master artisan. The other minotaur nodded sagely, then noticed Ardnor. He spoke to Bastion, who glanced over his shoulder. Bastion went to greet his elder sibling.

“We can thank his Imperial Majesty Chot for saving us some time and trouble,” said Bastion, coming as close to humor as Ardnor thought possible. “After all, Chot planned to have this great statue unveiled on the next anniversary of his overly long reign.”

“Well worth seeing.” Ardnor briefly pictured his own face atop the gargantuan monument, then decided that when he assumed the throne he would have an even more massive statue commissioned.

The First Master stared, not believing the other’s audacity. “Interfering? My Protectors? You’ve some gall, Bastion! If not for the temple’s warriors, at least one fugitive might have escaped! We’ve kept order when rioting would’ve brought even more damage to Nethosak! Father had the Imperial and State Guards completely over-committed and the legions spread over most of the empire.

Bastion held his ground, his expression maddeningly calm. “What you say has merit, Ardnor, but hear me out. However wonderful the people act toward Father, it doesn’t look good if the Forerunners take too active a part in the policing of the capital. Your temple is strong, but most people still follow the old gods or none at all. The Temple of Sargas always tried to rule the emperors through either force or guile. No one wants that any more.”

Ardnor’s eyes grew crimson, and the vein in his neck throbbed. With a deep breath and a Curt nod, he replied, “Very well, brother, I’ll take your suggestion under advisement. That’s all I can promise.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, though, brother,” Ardnor said, eyeing the colossus. “When I’m emperor, such stupid fears won’t exist any more. When I’m emperor, no one will ever worry about whether the empire is run by the throne or the temple, because they’ll be one and the same.”

With that, the First Master pushed past Bastion. His bodyguards gathered around him as he barged out of the Tyklo work place and headed to his horse.

Thrusting on his helmet, Ardnor mounted and, without so much as a backward glance, rode off. Still seething at his brother, Ardnor calmed himself by picturing his own mighty statue being unveiled and the throngs cheering his succession to the throne.

Tiribus’ dealings with Chot had served him well, but the lean, crafty councilor had known that one day a new emperor would assume the throne. That emperor would look with question upon those closest to his predecessor. Thus it paid to have a contingency plan.

Tiribus had never trusted Lothan, yet he had not expected the gaunt minotaur to take such an active role in plotting the overthrow of Chot. Lothan’s treachery had caught even Tiribus’ best spies by surprise, much to their fatal regret.

Rumor had it that a few others had escaped Hotak’s net, but only General Rahm interested Tiribus. A practical officer, just the kind the councilor would need if he staged an overthrow of the usurper. Rahm could rally the military.

A knock stirred the councilor. The desolate cabin, which lay two hours’ journey from the nearest town, had been purchased by Tiribus through an intermediary long ago. It had been kept wellsupplied, and a guard had always watched over it.

Nolhan resembled his master somewhat, both having long, narrow snouts and high brow ridges. However, Nolhan had silver-brown fur, a rarity. “Frask’s just returned. Arrangements have been finalized. The ship will meet us on the northeast coast. If we leave here in the morning, we’ll be on our way to the mainland three days from now.”

“Good. Once there, we can send word to Lord Targonne.”

“I meant no disrespect, my lord.”

The councilor snorted. “Scant loss! At least General Rahm still lives. He will have Hotak wasting resources looking for him, which helps our own situation.” Tiribus clasped his hands together. “I will dine in one hour. Until then, I wish to be alone.” .

The elder minotaur turned back to the notes he had been compiling. Names of contacts, offers to Targonne, a schedule of future events… Tiribus left nothing to chance. He even had plans for the downfall of the Forerunners, whose beliefs disturbed him.

Nephera was a charlatan, but a clever charlatan. She had turned what Tiribus thought was childish madness into a powerful, rich sect that grew stronger with each passing day. Soon, though, Tiribus would see to it that the high priestess joined her vaunted spirits. Her rumored powers did not trouble him. He had no fear of ghosts. After all, what harm could the dead do?

The elder councilor paused, feeling as if malevolent eyes watched his every move. “Nolhan?” he called, suddenly not comfortable alone.

Tiribus started toward the door, but as he did, the darkness grew so thick that he could not even see in front of him. He pushed forward, but each step became a struggle. A sense of foreboding made him look over his shoulder.

In the deep, misty darkness, two fiery orbs stared back.

Something seized him by the shoulders and spun him around to face those horrific orbs. Four monstrous limbs composed of smoke dangled Tiribus more than a foot above the floor. He tried to shout. The fiery eyes thrust forward—and filled his mouth. Tiribus gagged. He brought one hand up, but his desperate fingers clutched only emptiness.

His body dropped to the floor with a thud.

They were warriors who would have sacrificed their lives to defend their master against any ordinary foe, but the fear and horror stamped on Tiribus’ face shook even the hardened fighters. With Nolhan in the lead, the trio mounted and raced off, never looking back.

Chapter IX

The Mines of Vyrox

The horns woke the prisoners just before dawn. Their mournful notes were quickly followed by the harsh pounding of the guards at the doors. As he had for three months, Faros struggled to his feet, his body screaming. Despite the exhaustion with which he had fallen onto his bed, he had been unable to sleep well. In addition to the mites and splinters, the stifling heat made it impossible to find any comfort.

Though life was now constant pain and exhaustion, Faros was stronger and leaner. The daily, bonewrenching labor had burned away his soft belly and tightened his loose muscle. He looked indeed like a younger, tougher version of his father.

The old steward offered an example of the fate befalling those who were not tough enough. By the third morning of his imprisonment, the elderly male had been unable to push himself up onto his feet. Paug had seized the weakened prisoner by the throat, demanding he get up and go to work or suffer the consequences. When that threat failed, the Butcher had wasted no more words. As the others watched, Paug had casually taken the steward’s head—and twisted it sharply until his neck snapped.

That memory still fresh after so many months, Faros climbed down from the bunk. Another prisoner who moved too slowly received a shove from a guard. In a rare act of kindness, Japfin helped the other steady himself.

One by one, the prisoners, clad only in ragged linen kilts and overworn sandals, lined up in front of the first of two wooden doors of the foul-smelling, soot-blackened building to the right of Commander Krysus’ quarters. Each were given a small bowl. From huge, battered iron pots, a crew of cook’s assistants dolloped out the day’s fare—sometimes thick, pasty oatmeal, other times a similar, sticky substance culled from barley, corn, and leftover grains.

The prisoners ate their meager fare before the horns sounded again to begin their journey to the mines. In rows of thirty, the miners were packed into creaking, canopied wagons where they were seated on two long benches facing one another. In order to keep the prisoners from leaping out of the wagon, their ankle chains were secured to a sturdy iron bar running along the middle of the floor.

About a mile north lay a companion camp with female prisoners. To the east and perforating the various peaks and volcanoes were the countless mine shafts where the majority of the laborers toiled. Many had been played out or simply abandoned as worthless, but more than forty shafts were still active.

Located centrally between the camps and the mines was the processing station, where teams of minotaurs unloaded the open wagons that brought ore. After separating the best finds, especially the copper-rich malachite and azurite, the sweltering routine of freeing the precious metals from the rock began. Afterward, the raw metals were transported to other facilities in Nethosak, where they would be refined for use throughout the empire.

Today, however, he and his group were assigned to a shaft dangerously close to the most active volcano. The guards called the shaft by its number, seventeen. The prisoners had their own name for it: Argon’s Throat.

Argon’s Throat was reputed to be the most dangerous of all the mines. The sulfuric fumes were constant. Miners were often forced to bind moist cloths over their muzzles. Every two hours the prisoners were allowed to step into the relatively fresher air outside the mine. However, after only a few minutes they were sent back to work.

Faros tried to draw strength from Ulthar. He had learned some about the tattooed minotaur. Ulthar came from Zaar, a remote island colony that had for several generations lost contact with Mithas and Kothas. Left much to their own devices, the people had picked up habits from the docile, human natives. The art of tattooing, for instance, was a custom of the original islanders.

“This ’un here,” Ulthar had pointed out one tattoo during a rare break. “The sun with the ship inside it. That’s my father’s vessel. That’s where I was born during the voyage.” He had pointed to one on his chest. “This ’un, the trident with the crab, that’s when I killed the sea monster!”

Ulthar was not the only prisoner from beyond the shores of Mithas and Kothas. Some came from islands as far away as Gol or Quar. A middle-aged cart pusher from Quar bore a ceremonial scar on each side of his muzzle. Two other prisoners, shorter and stouter than the rest, had bright green eyes, a trait dominant on the wooded isle of Thuum in the southeast edge of the imperium.

Faros swung his pick harder. So far, they had found little ore, but still the prisoners dug into the smoldering mountain. The thick, hot air had caused one prisoner to pass out. After that unfortunate had been dragged away, the guards pushed the rest even harder.

Through heroic effort, the floor of the shaft had been scraped smooth by shovels so that the ore carts could be maneuvered. When full of ore, a cart was a burden even for muscular, seven-foot-tall minotaurs.

From the mouth the ore was brought to waiting wagons. After each open wagon had been filled to the brink, prisoners under armed escort guided it away. Faros had not yet seen the processing station, and Ulthar had warned him to stay away from it, hinting that death in the mine was preferable to being sent there.

“Come here with that,” a familiar voice muttered.

Frowning, the younger prisoner tilted the bucket.

The day dragged on. Faros fell into a trance, his mind drifting away. Some of the pain dwindled. The mine trembled.

Rocks from the ceiling broke off, pelting the startled miners. A crossbeam cracked in two, one bulky section striking a slow-moving prisoner. Some of the workers tried to run, but guards blocked their path.

One of the overseers finally ordered everyone outside. Faros and the rest moved as quickly as their chains allowed. An officer on horseback, his mane wildly disheveled and his fur covered in dust, arrived just as the last gasping workers spilled out.

Dug into the far side of the crater, the other shaft required a lengthy trek over a cracked, boulderstrewn path. Ahead of Faros, other prisoners were working their way up the slope, stumbling because of the loose footing. A wooden ore cart lay to the right of the path, its sturdy side crushed by good-sized rocks.

The stench was recognizable even in the sulfuric air. A hand materialized under a lifted rock and more of the grotesque find came to light. Hardened minotaurs swallowed and swore under their breaths.

One had been a guard, that much his kilt and the sword by his side indicated. His head was crushed beyond recognition. The sight shook Faros. Ulthar had to take him by the shoulders and push him past the mangled corpse.

Each penetration brought to light a new corpse. Most were prisoners, but now and then a guard joined the growing list of casualties. None of the workers expressed any pleasure when finding the latter; in death, all minotaurs were the same.

“What is it?”

Once more came a brief sound from within the wall of rubble.

Guards began pulling prisoners back. Ulthar and Faros continued.

The officer who had led them to this place eyed Paug. “That the last?”

“But there’s still someone in there!” spouted Faros.

Japfin snorted in derision. “What did you expect? They needed to make certain about the guards.” He leaned forward, eyes red. “They can always get more miners. The only lives they value are their own. We’re the refuse of the empire! We’re of no worth to it save as hands to dig!”

Drums beat, and the call was sounded. Across the hot, rock-strewn land and into the crumbling, nearly buried remains of a once-proud city abandoned long before the rise of the elves, poured ogres by the hundreds.

Huge beastmen from the mountains, their tusks broader and their eyes constantly trying to adjust to the lowland sun, dragged their hook-edged clubs behind them. Shorter, squat ogres with splayed feet emerged from the direction of the sandy regions. Musclebound, round-chinned hulks with jagged, curved swords and bronze breastplates—elite warriors from the area surrounding the nominal seat of power, Kernen, glared around haughtily at all.

They came in unprecedented numbers, a sign of just how important this gathering was. They came from all points in Kern, and some even dared journey across the harsh border from rival Blöde. Each group that entered the ruined amphitheater—a hollowed-out, oval structure built from chopped blocks of granite—was led by a chieftain. So many unwashed, lice-ridden bodies together quickly created a stench that aggravated even the dull senses of the ogres, stirring up already-taut nerves.

Two bands that had just entered began exchanging harsh growls and grunts. One ogre brandished a club at his more heavyset counterpart. The other responded by swinging his brutish weapon at the first. In moments, a pitched battle broke out between the pair.

The hirsute figures battered away at one another. One landed a blow on the other’s shoulder that would have cracked the bone of any human or elf, but only caused a small grunt of pain from the victim. Eyes blazing crimson, the heavier ogre barreled into his taller foe, sending both plunging into the stone pathway. Dust rose as the two grappled.

Suddenly, two towering ogres clutching swords broke through the howling crowd while others similarly armed pushed the mob back. The new pair went to the two combatants, kicking at the dust-covered fighters. As the ogres on the ground paused, the guards put the tips of their hefty blades against the duo’s throats. One guard growled harshly, and the pair on the ground separated and returned to their respective bands.

The guards steered the two groups away from one another, then moved along. They and others had the unenviable task of keeping some semblance of order. It would literally be their heads if this gathering collapsed into violent chaos.

The drums continued to beat madly. A hundred of them had been set around what had once been an elegant walkway at the top of the amphitheater. The rhythm stirred the ogres’ blood, for it spoke of victory, of conquest. Generations had passed since ogres had held sway over any other race, but the dream never died.

Under lonely, cracked columns that once had supported a vast roof upon whose ceiling had been etched the glories of the ancient ogre race, a race whose beauty and perfection had not left even a shadow on its barbaric descendants, the gathering horde roared its impatience. They had been summoned, and they had come. Where now, was the one who had demanded their presence?

As the drumbeats reached a crescendo, a single, cloaked figure stepped up onto the dais at the eastern end, the marble platform where ages before enlightened ogre rulers had greeted their subjects. Of them all, he was the only one who dressed remotely as his ancestors had, and he was the only one who sought to make himself resemble the wondrous beings whose weather-eaten statues lay scattered in pieces throughout the lost city.

The latest debacle against the knights remained fresh in the memories of all, but the cloaked ogre did not let this show on his face. He raised fists high and roared loud and long. Although his features were less monstrous and his form slighter than his fellows, his fearsome shouts overwhelmed both the drums and the cries of the throng.

He had used the questionable authority of the Grand Khan, symbolic ruler of Kern, to bring so many together, even those from hated Blöde, but his reputation had stirred the others to make the trek during this dangerous time. The knights were slaughtering ogres left and right. Warriors were needed at the fronts. A gathering like this took precious might from the flanks.

The sun hung high overhead, scorching the amphitheater. Despite his voluminous cloak, the emissary from the Grand Khan did not look at all overheated. He roared again to his fellows, in his people’s barbaric tongue haranguing the ogre warriors. Morale grew lower with every day, every slaughter. Ogres as a rule used brute force and berserker fury to pummel their foes into submission and death. The careful, organized strikes by the humans had left them in doubt and disarray. The knights had shown once again why an ogre empire was only a fantasy, a dream of a lost era, a dream as ancient and as lifeless as the city surrounding this assembly.

The tempo of the drums shifted, accenting his fresh stream of words. The heartbeat of every warrior in attendance matched the cadence. Not all cared for the notions of this strange ogre, but they were caught up in the excitement with the rest.

“

The emissary bared his sharp teeth and pointed to the east, making the waving motion that to his kind signified the sea and all that lay within it. “

A protesting roar erupted from the listeners. Several chieftains rose, brandishing their war clubs in response to the audacious words. A few began to leave, their retinues following. Those still seated repeated the last words over and over, each time with growing vehemence. “

Uruv Suurt. Few words from Ancient Ogrish had survived the ages, but these two together had been a part of the race’s dwindling lexicon from the beginning.

Most obeyed, but one large faction refused. The leader, a huge gray monster, rumbled angrily at the guards then, with one lightning sweep of a club almost as long as his arm, shattered the skull of the one standing nearest to him.

Renewed howling erupted. Those who had alliances with the murderous protester moved to take his side while others prepared to vent old grievances on them. Pitched duels exploded all over the ancient arena, all semblance of order abandoned.

Long tongues darting out, huge reptilian forms pushed into the amphitheater. Their red, inhuman eyes shifted hungrily. One hesitant ogre screamed as massive, toothy jaws snapped shut on his leg, and he was wrestled to the ground. The horse-sized lizard, a meredrake, raked its eight-inch claws through his chest, ripping it open.

Guards with whips and tethers moved other meredrakes forward, restoring order in brutal fashion. The battles in the stands broke up. Only the original chieftain and those who followed him still stood defiant.

“

Still the one chieftain refused to accede. He shook his head. “

Meredrakes snapping at their flanks, the defiant chieftain led his band out. A handful of smaller groups descended hurriedly from the seats and joined him. From his perch, the elegantly clad ogre watched as they filed out and vanished.

Those remaining behind were his entirely. Cries

Through the eastern entrance, two lumbering warriors pushed forth a disheveled, beaten figure. The lone Knight of Neraka had been captured during the ogres’ latest rout, a single prize in an Otherwise disastrous day. Gone was the brilliant black armor, the arrogant expression. Legs weak, right arm held tight, the knight stumbled out into the arena. He wore only the tattered kilt given to him by his captors. Bruises covered his body.

From their seats arose the strongest, most dominant of the chieftains and war leaders. They barged their way through the wild crowd and leaped down onto the field. The meredrakes hissed and strained to join, but their handlers whipped them into silence.

The throng’s reply was instantaneous. “

The ogre leaders had lined up in two ranks of twelve apiece, a passage six feet wide between them. They stood in alternating fashion, each warrior facing the gap between two of his counterparts. The ogres hefted their clubs, waiting.

Just as he stepped out of reach of this attacker, the knight was struck by the first of the opposing line. The human’s cry was matched by an audible crack as the ogre’s club crushed in his other arm at the elbow.

One by one, the chieftains beat the prisoner, slowly battering him to a pulp. If he hesitated, they hit him so that he fell toward the next warrior. When the knight slumped on the ground, spears prodded him forward.

The ritual was an ancient one signifying the supremacy of the ogre race over its enemies. The sacrifice of a prisoner in such a way spread the strength and glory to all involved, and promised those in attendance good fortune in future battle.

Each succeeding chieftain took aim, striking where none had yet made contact. By the time he neared the end of the horrendous passage, the dark knight’s legs were broken and only one arm functioned at all. His chest and back were black and scarred and he was coughing blood. Prodded to the end of the line by his tormentors, he lay in the dust, barely breathing through ruined lungs.

As the other ogres stepped back, the one who had summoned them leaped down from the dais and trod toward the human wreckage. One of the guards handed him a club. The slight figure continued on, taking his place before the gasping prisoner.

A predatory smile spread across his features, eradicating any last hint of civilization. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “Yes!” he snarled. “It is done!” He looked to the east and saw in his mind beyond the shore to an island realm. “Yes. Come

Chapter X

Encounters

He waved at the citizens, and they waved back. Minotaurs from all walks of life—from the brownsmocked, cloth-booted street laborers to the fur-cloaked, silken-robed shipping merchants— hundreds cheered him. Behind the crowds, armed soldiers kept watch, just in case.

“General Rahm still lives,” Bastion pointed out.

It had been a month since Lady Nephera had brought the news of the councilor’s death. That left only Rahm Es-Hestos, who continued to evade justice. Even Nephera could report no news of the elusive renegade. Undaunted, Hotak had dispatched messengers to the nearest colonies. Efforts had been hampered by the peculiar weather dominating much of the imperium of late, but sooner or later Rahm would be captured.

More cheering arose as the column turned onto a larger street. The emperor bared his teeth in a grin. “Try to smile a little, Bastion! It might do you good! Besides, I want the people to see you at your best.”

“Well, they’re likely to continue like that. Kolot should be reaching the mainland soon, which means our offer will be in Golgren’s hands.” Hotak patted his son’s arm. “You have a lot on your shoulders, Bastion, and I thank you for all you’ve done. You just need to take a day to recoup. I understand.”

The crowds continued to build. Hotak was giving them a show. Flanked by two polished warriors bearing shining axes over their shoulders, he and his son, clad in hip-length, midnight purple cloaks and wearing helms with the long horsehair crests, led the finest of his crack guards. Behind the emperor, two soldiers held high the rearing horse banner. After them came four archers, their long bows held steady in one hand, and finally two short columns of mounted fighters, one with axes, the other swords. The soldiers all wore the unadorned uniforms of the legion, but now they, like their lord, had the black warhorse emblazoned on their breastplates.

From the tall, flat-roofed buildings overlooking the area, minotaurs threw down tiny sheaves of horsetail grass, revered by the race as an herb granting strength of bone and heart. After the procession, the sheaves would be swept up and salvaged for practical use. In addition to its herbal abilities, the hardy grass served well for polishing woodwork and shining metal, and was also used for green dye.

The sea of well-wishers increased as the imperial party neared the great square. In preparation for the installation of Hotak’s colossus, the damage caused to the fountain by the tearing down of Chot’s statue had been repaired and the benches cleared away.

All there realized that the missile had been intended for Hotak.

The emperor’s voice echoed loud and strong. Startled, the mob gave way to the soldiers. Two seized the rock thrower and dragged him to Hotak. His face bruised and some of his fur ripped away, the young minotaur gazed down sullenly.

Captain Doolb and his attendants rode by. The emperor’s smile became a frown. “Be sure he’s treated with the utmost care.” He glared at the rock thrower, whom the guards had begun to drag off. “And by all means,” continued Hotak, “be sure that this one is treated as he deserves.”

“Make certain that the captain is medaled for this. Something befitting his years.” “Yes, Father.”

Shaking his head, the emperor continued, “You shouldn’t he surprised. I used to make myself visible to the rank and file before every battle. Walked among the troops, rode where the enemy could see that they faced a commander unafraid of them. This hardly compares to that.”

Captain Azak admitted to the general that without guidance he would have never have found Petarka. Not only did it look like an unremarkable series of rock formations, but a perpetual haze covered the region for miles around, making navigation difficult. Reefs and shallows surrounded the island, making the place challenging to reach even after one spotted it.

Petarka had, at least at one time, been colonized. Crumbling wooden structures had been built into the tiered cliffs, with thick rope ladders and narrow bridges between buildings. Forest covered the inner hilltops. The tiny colony of eight buildings had a short dock for loading and unloading, but little more.

For the next two months they waited there, restoring the buildings, foraging for breadfruit, fishing, and trying to formulate some plan. The sky grew strangely menacing, but although storms threatened in the distance, none struck near. The ship that had guided them departed without even anchoring, but all knew that it would return.

Almost identical to Azak’s prized

“Almost the

As they talked, a slim boat colored like the sea and carrying five figures slipped into the dock. Four kept the boat in place while a fifth, wearing only a gray kilt cut above the knees, climbed up the rungs of the wooden platform. Angular of features and with a thin coat of fur, he stood a head taller than anyone else.

“Captain Gaerth at last,” Rahm announced.

“We alerted those we could, though it cost us some secrecy,” said Gaerth.

Azak’s eyes flared red. “You cowering—”

“Captain Gaerth,” continued the shorter minotaur, holding back Azak. “You speak honorably. You saved my life and that of others. You sacrificed much for us. I thank you. I wish you’d stay and help, but I understand.” Rahm turned his head to the side so that his horns pointed away from the departing minotaur.

Gaerth repeated the gesture. Both he and the general had marked that no conflict lay between them. “Azak…”

Gaerth shouted back, but his words were lost.

Hesitating, Azak then asked, “Is he a Ka—?”

General Rahm bared his teeth in a smile. “But it’s not our only hope. We have the greatest ally of all working with us, one that even Hotak wouldn’t suspect.” His eyes narrowed. “Captain Veria’s dead, but she’ll aid us yet… and there’ll be others as time goes on, the dead demanding their justice. I swear it!”

“But these dead will stir the living more than the high priestess’ hollow words and conjuring tricks.” The general seized his comrades by the arms, trying to make them see as he did. “Wait a little longer, and you’ll see! We have new hope now! Captain Gaerth must’ve meant what I think. Veria will bring us aid, and thanks to our other ally, more will come.”

The weather over the length and breadth of the empire continued to grow more savage and unsettling. A scorching heat wave covered the island of Amur, and just beyond its shores rain poured relentlessly. A swarm of large, black locusts appeared out of nowhere and infested one of the outer farming colonies, stripping it of its entire crop before vanishing over the turbulent ocean.

The small colony had survived hurricanes and worse in the past, and so the unpredictable weather tossed at them by the sinister, green-gray clouds had not much disturbed the hardy minotaurs of Tadaran. Boats still dared the choppy waters to fish, while farmers tended their crops or herded their goats.

But Mogra, a more recent arrival to the island, worried as she watched the sky. The clouds were dark, threatening, and if she stared close, the slim, chestnut-brown minotaur thought they looked crimson around the edges, almost as if they burned or bled.

Pulling her cloak tight, she hurried toward the cabin she shared with two other females and their children. Like the other females, her mate was absent, and so the three adults shared the chores. It was Mogra’s turn to barter with the fishmongers, and the full basket she carried marked her skill.

“Good evening, Mistress Mogra,” he said.

She also stole a look around before answering. “Good, Han. Good.”

Mogra dared put her hand briefly on his arm. “Thank you.”

Despite the weather, Mogra felt hotter with each step. The very air burned her lungs. “Han, do you feel the heat?”

Beside her, the male grunted. “Something’s stinging me!”

He gaped, staring at his arm, where smoke had arisen.

The dry bush to her right blossomed into fire. A moment later, a broken branch did the same. Through stinging eyes, Mogra swore that even a

The cabin beckoned to her. Mogra pushed forward.

“Mogra!” called one of the other females. “What’s happened to you?”

Pulling herself up, Mogra joined the other adults by the door and stared in horror. The colony was in flames. Everything. Cabins, storehouses, the docks, even the very land…. “We have to go help!” blurted one of the others.

Crouched in the back corner of the cabin, Mogra looked around for some escape, but everywhere she saw only fire. Droplets drenched pots and utensils. Even metal burst into flames when this unnatural rain touched it.

Chapter XI

The Forerunners

The faithful came to the temple by the hundreds, drawn there by an announcement made several days earlier. The dead had important words for their kin. All the faithful needed to attend. It was paramount that everyone hear.

Members of the State Guard, many of them followers, kept watch. Protectors lined the steps of the building and the grounds. They watched warily, Ardnor’s fanatical force certain that some unbeliever would attempt to harm the high priestess.

The temple was a vast, domed marble building whose rectangular center encompassed more than half its width. The huge condor relief that once stood over the wide, high entrance had been replaced by a massive representation of the Forerunner symbols. Beyond the grounds, a tall iron-bar fence encircled the temple’s property.

Several thousand worshippers could attend services in the main chamber. The walls, white with red trim, had been covered with tapestries like those that hung in the high priestess’ chambers. At the far end of the room stood the gold lectern, decorated with Forerunner symbols, from which Nephera generally preached. Many private sections—chambers where the acolytes, clerics, Protectors, and the high priestess lived—flanked this public area.

With so many expected, the high priestess had decided to move the event outside. The temple grounds were covered in a mosaic upon which the pilgrims could kneel, their horns pointed toward the earth in humble deference to their ancestors and loved ones. Because so many faces would be focused on the mosaic, the high priestess had ordered masons to design each tile in the outline of the bird and axe. Ever would the faithful be reminded.

Lady Nephera held her position while two priestesses affixed the high hood of her gold-trimmed, sable robe. The aureate emblem of the Forerunners decorated both the front of the overlapping hood and the back of the robe. The lamplight caused the axe and bird to look as though they were moving.

“But I shall not fail. So the only thing that can come of their being here is good for the temple.” She stretched out her hand so that one of her assistants could latch on a gold-braid bracelet. “Have you prepared the Eye?”

Ardnor nodded.

She snapped her fingers and the two acolytes, clad in plain black robes with red-trimmed shoulders, stepped behind her. One carried in her hands an exquisitely crafted, lifelike model of an ascending hawk made of solid silver, the other a foot-long golden axe bent at the mid-point of the shaft.

Clad in a robe similar to his mother’s, Ardnor took his place before her. From the shadows emerged four silent Protectors, each clutching a mace whose wicked head rested above their shoulder. The grim sentinels formed an honor guard.

The small group exited the high priestess’ quarters, where they were greeted by a procession of other acolytes, both male and female. As Lady Nephera and her retinue swept past, the acolytes joined the rear, forming two columns. All wore expressions of rapt devotion.

As the procession passed, the spectral legions surrounded, even intermingled with, the living. Now and then one acolyte with keener senses would catch a whiff of the sea or hear a murmuring voice from an empty alcove, but that was all.

A quartet of well-muscled acolytes wrenched back the two high, bronze doors leading outside. Horns resounded as the procession stepped into the open. Nephera experienced a euphoria outstripping even what she had felt during Hotak’s coronation.

- One shade separated itself from the unseen legions, as Lady Nephera and her entourage took their places. Takyr, his moldering face and form more distinct, more malignant than the others, paused near his mistress, ready to heed her slightest command.

A perfect pearl of momentous proportions, it had earned its name from the way the light played upon its surface. All were left with the same impression—that an eye of rainbow blue gazed from within, looking outward and seeing inside of people. Years before, a mariner had discovered it in his catch. There had been no explanation to its origin, but the discoverer—one of the first of the faithful —had felt compelled to make a gift of it to Lady Nephera.

It took four acolytes to carry it to the silver, pyramid-shaped stand. The monstrous pearl became the centerpiece for special sermons. It glistened in even the slightest light like a miniature sun, terrible and brilliant at the same time. The colorful flashes of light reflected by it played across Nephera’s face, too.

Nephera placed her hands atop the artifact.

“But our work does not end with death!” Nephera shouted, thrusting forth the latter icon. “Though the axe might be broken, the physical form laid to rest, the spirit within knows no bounds!” She brought the silver bird toward her audience. “Born again, it rises forth, free of all infirmity, and sets upon a new path!”

“Limited no more, the spirit may influence what flesh could not!” Her arms to the side, Nephera waited for her assistants to take the talismans away before adding, “We join the Forerunners, gaining the knowledge privileged only to those beyond the mortal plane! We see the paths that could be taken and the results of each step! We guide those who are still a part of the world, those blind to possibilities and dangers!”

“We give thanks to our ancestors!” Ardnor shouted, his booming voice heard by all in the crowd. “Blessed are we to follow their wisdom,” intoned the captivated throng, taking their cue.

Smiling to her favored children, Lady Nephera called out, “When the gods abandoned us, our kin did not! When the gods betrayed us, our kin stepped forth from the shadows of the otherworld and sought one who could bring their messages to those they held dear!” She bowed her head. “And I thank them for having chosen this poor vessel as their voice.”

“This day, I have been charged to give a select few a message that must be spread to all. A message of our future and the duty it entails! You will not hear the message from me, though. No, these words of import will come from others nearer to you, nearer to your hearts and souls!”

Takyr glided over to her. Nephera felt her power swelling.

With that, the ghostly forms drifted forward, seeking those who had links of blood or love to them. They drifted near enough to touch some in the crowd—and with the power of the high priestess, they became visible to the chosen.

A young adult female floated down to a pair of identical twin males, her sons left orphaned twenty years before. A child with one twisted foot descended on an elderly couple, the parents who had lost him right after the Flight of the Gods. A handsome male in the bloom of youth whose breastplate had been pierced by a lance walked through the bodies of onlookers, pausing at last in front of a mature female, the mate left behind when he died in battle a few days after their bonding.

“Mirya!” one cried. “Oh, Mirya!”

For those who could see, the sights before them inspired awe. Their lost loved ones, marked by the circumstances of their deaths. Yet, the ghostly figures greeted their kin and mates with gracious, caring smiles.

“Chot the Terrible is dead! Hotak de-Droka now sits on the throne, a true emperor born,” the spectres said. “This is the moment of destiny. Hotak is the emperor awaited for generations, the warrior who shall lead our people to victory, to domination! He is the ruler who shall see to it that no lesser race shall enslave us again!”

It took a moment for most of the crowd to realize that some profound event had just played out in their midst. Those who stood around the select ones bombarded them with questions. The latter, in turn, repeated everything they had been told.

Nephera felt as though someone had knocked all the breath out of her. Ardnor seized her to keep her from falling. Her sudden weakness did not go unnoticed by the faithful, but they took it as a sign that the powers who had visited through her had taken their leave.

Let them spread this tale, Lady Nephera thought with intense satisfaction as she straightened and surveyed her excited flock. Let the fools know that no greater power serves the throne than the temple..

Chapter XII

Golgren

One of the two warriors with Kolot looked over the parchment upon which directions were written. “Aye, my lord. It could be none other. We do not have to climb it, but we need to make our way around its base to reach our destination.”

The inhospitable terrain of southwesternmost Kern made even the worst regions of Argon’s Chain seem inviting. Savage cliffs and abrupt fissures dotted the rocky landscape and rarely could one find cover from the sun. A stone arch carved by some ancient phenomenon loomed over their path—an arch from which chunks of earth dropped. Some of the larger pieces fell with enough force to cave in the head of a thick-skulled minotaur.

Only an ogre could call this place home. Hotak’s youngest son did not like being here, but Kern had agreed to talks only if someone of close blood to the emperor acted as negotiator—as a symbol of Hotak’s trust. The task had fallen to Kolot. Hotak had wanted to send more than two unarmored guards, but that had been forbidden.

“I don’t like this land,” Kolot muttered. “We go much more south and we’ll be in Blöde.” “Kern and Blöde are allied at the moment, my lord,” reminded the younger of his two guards.

The two ogre realms had managed to put aside their feuds long enough to combine forces against the hated Knights of Neraka. If not for the humans’ incursions into both lands, the ogres would have continued to pound one another to a pulp. The Grand Khan of Kern and the Lord Chieftain of Blöde had happily sworn out blood warrants on one another in the past.

“They were allied at last report,” Kolot retorted with a contemptuous snort. “By this time they could be at war again! This would’ve been better set up in the northeast by old Kern-en,” he added, referring to the ogre capital. “At least there we’d see forest and rivers, even if it meant hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes! We wouldn’t have to worry about running across rogue bands of ogres sneaking in from Blöde.”

A two-legged shape edged out of sight among the high hills.

A bestial figure emerged from atop one of the nearest rock formations, deep-set eyes glaring down at the three.

“Stay,” growled the ogre in a grating voice like that of one who chewed rocks for candy. The creature squatted atop the crusted formation, his only garment a half-ragged kilt likely scavenged from the corpse of a victim.

“This is our ally?” muttered one of the guards.

He wore a long, well-sewn cloak of brown cloth over an elegantly tailored forest-green tunic of similar fabric and a matching leather kilt that might have been minotaur-made. Unlike the others, who moved about on calloused, thorny feet, the newcomer wore padded sandals bound far up the ankles. Half hidden by the voluminous cloak was the lower tip of a shining silver scabbard.

The face most interested the minotaurs, for it resembled little the countenances of the other monsters staring at them. Although wide, this one’s features were not so squashed, and the blunt, squat nose would have passed on a human. His teeth were sharp but did not protrude, and of tusks only nubs could be seen.

A scent of musk pervaded the air, causing one of the guards to snort. Ogres did not smell of musk; they reeked of sweat, rotting meat, and the accumulations of a lifetime’s lack of bathing. Golgren not only looked as if he bathed, but his thick, black leonine hair had been cared for.

Golgren glanced at one of his warriors. Club gripped tight, the bestial figure leaped from his perch then trotted toward Kolot. As the ogre took the missives from Kolot, the minotaur’s nostrils flared. Unlike the emissary, this ogre smelled exactly as he looked.

“I will guide you myself, son of Hotak,” Golgren went on. “The way into Blöde is treacherous.” He smiled wider, revealing teeth very much like those of his savage warriors. Kolot saw that Golgren had actually had his tusks scraped down to produce such tiny nubs.

“The way into Blöde? What are you talking about, Golgren?”

The ogre leader laughed, a harsh, brutal sound. “We plan no war, son of Hotak! Just the opposite. His glorious Grand Khan wishes you to meet with Nagroch, subchieftain of the Lord Chieftain of Blöde!” The monstrous smile stretched, becoming more bestial. “Nagroch will swear the allegiance of Blöde to our cause… if he does not slay us all first, of course!”

Each day the list of dead lengthened, most perishing from the sickness of the lungs. Despite cloths to wrap over their snouts, almost everyone inhaled dust constantly. Many of the slaves could not keep up with the punishing quotas. When they finally could not take it any more, they simply collapsed.

The two had to drag the corpse all the way to the old processing station. A gaping hole, over fifty yards in diameter, had been dug out generations ago. In it had been thrown charcoal and other fuel used to separate copper and other minerals from the rock. When a rockslide had completely devastated the station itself, a new, larger facility had been built some distance away at a safer location. The old pit had been left empty.

“But why?”

The pair resumed their digging. Faros chipped away at the stone. Fragments flew in every direction. The fragments came not just from the work, but from the ceiling, loosened by the constant pounding.

Faros beat away at a huge rock, determined to reduce it to rubble. He struck again and again. A groaning sound caught his attention. Startled, Faros looked up at the ceiling.

A rain of earth fell on him. The mountain roared. Faros tried to call for help, but dirt filled his mouth. The frantic minotaur fought his way toward the entrance, although he was blinded and could not tell if he was heading in the right direction.

Strong hands seized his arms. Unable to see, Faros tried to speak but could only cough and sputter. “Take ’un by the other arm!”

His sight cleared, revealing Ulthar and Japfin. “What… what happened? Another tremor?” “No. Supports not all in place. Walls too weak to hold themselves together, much less ceiling, too.” “Should’ve secured the whole area better before we started,” Japfin grumbled. “But they couldn’t wait, could they? Had to make the new quota.”

But no words came out. Of all those in Vyrox, Faros should be able to trust the mariner. Instead, different words finally tumbled from his mouth. “Never mind.”

Ulthar shrugged and returned to his task. Faros stood there for a moment, teeth bared in frustration. He watched the other prisoner’s back for several seconds then in bitter silence resumed his own digging.

CHAPTER XIII

House Droka

Four months after the overthrow of Chot, the palace sent word of a gathering of all those deemed the most respected of supporters. Invitations were delivered by messenger to the chosen clans. Most answered readily that they would attend. A few found reason to hesitate, however.

Two weeks before the gathering, the House of Droka, Hotak’s clan, received a visit that made all within the extensive, walled estate uneasy. Arriving at the clan house just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Hotak, from his horse, informed the surprised guards at the iron gate that he wished to see the master.

The guards opened the gate for him and his retinue of two dozen strong. Held up by the two soldiers riding behind the emperor, the warhorse banner flew defiant below the flags of Droka, which hung from posts set on the angled roof of the six-story tall, rectangular building.

An armed honor guard of ten soldiers met Hotak and his followers at the front steps. “Your horses will be safe in the stables, my lord,” said the leader of the guard.

A corridor covered in mahogany greeted Hotak and his warriors. Within filigreed frames had been set life-size reliefs honoring the deeds and history of the venerable clan. Heroes of epic battle, stalwart champions of the arena, and three emperors had their images and achievements memorialized for all who visited.

Among the images was Hotak himself winning a glorious battle against ogres near the colony of Sargonath. The relief showed him at the head of a determined charge, face in profile, teeth bared as he cleaved the ogre leader with his axe.

Within, the other senior members of the House, dressed in collarless, ankle-length robes of gold and black, took their places on the five cordoned rows of benches lining both sides of the chamber. Every elder of Droka had come.

At the far end of the chamber, atop the crimson-carpeted dais, the patriarch’s chair remained empty. “Where is Itonus?” Hotak asked, keeping his voice level.

Itonus had been patriarch for twelve years, and he had supported Hotak in the past, yet the large, gray-brown minotaur was absent. Hotak had to wait in silence in the presence of the other elders. His mood darkened. Itonus obviously sought to remind him of the rules set by the first lords of the empire, that in one’s own clan house, the patriarch reigned supreme.

Hotak removed his helmet and handed it to his second. As his gaze flickered impatiently around the room, he noted with hidden pleasure that the elders eyed him with not only deep respect, but a little uncertainty.

Clad in a floor-length robe, the patriarch strode past Hotak without a glance. Pausing briefly to glance at the huge clan banner hanging above, the patriarch lowered his impressive frame into the mahogany chair. Itonus finally looked down his long, tapering snout at Hotak.

The thick-browed minotaur gave his visitor a gracious smile—baring all his teeth—then, in the most polite of voices said, “Welcome, son of Nemon, son of House Droka! What brings the progeny of my old comrade humbly seeking my guidance?”

Choosing magnanimity over outrage, Hotak returned just as politely, “I come not seeking guidance, elder, but to speak with you of a matter of import. I have made a request of you that you have not seen fit to respond to properly.”

That he avoided the emperor’s title did not go unnoticed. Hotak pretended to overlook it. “Most likely it’s just a matter of misinterpretation. Surely I am mistaken to hear that the elders of our clan, yourself among them, will not be attending the gathering honoring my most loyal subjects? That cannot be true.”

“You read correctly, my son. House Droka supports your ascension to the fullest. However, it has come to my attention that you intend some further…

Itonus had heard that the new emperor intended to create a hereditary crown. Rule by bloodline had always been considered a path of madness, fit only for the lesser races. That House Droka would be the clan from which all future rulers sprang had not changed Itonus’ mind.

“All was made clear in my response, my son,” the graying patriarch continued. “I see no confusion. The clan must draw the line for the sake of future stability. Having you on the throne will make Droka one of the foremost powers of the realm, but now you seek to flout all tradition! You will bring chaos on us all. And I will add that your desired dynasty, if one dares call it that, will not last past the second generation,”

Hotak’s wife made a slight hissing sound. The emperor swept back his cloak and stalked up to the dais. “I offer the greatest stability to the empire, to our people, that could ever be possible. I put an end to the reign of a fool who led us into utter disaster. I’m eradicating the corruption, disease, and crime birthed by his rule.” He glanced at the surrounding elders. “I will lead our people to their rightful place in the world!”

Several in the crowd stomped their feet in a display of support for the one-eyed commander. Itonus glared, silencing them.

Hotak took up her words. “Yes, abandoned us! Fled with the other gods after leading the world to destruction! We’re far better off without him, I’d say.” He put a foot on the first step. “And I think House Droka would do just as well without a leader long past stepping down.”

Six legionaries started toward Itonus, weapons ready.

Hotak’s voice boomed throughout the chamber. “Elder Itonus, I declare you unfit for the role of patriarch and, by the precedent of history, I order you removed from your position, your role to be filled by imperial edict this very moment.” He pointed at a heavyset figure sitting in the front row. “Master Zephros!”

Zephros, long Itonus’ chief rival among the clan elders, stirred. “My emperor?”

Zephros pushed his massive bulk out of his chair. His jowls shook when he spoke. “Your majesty, for the sake of the clan and realm, I accept the duty you thrust so unexpectedly upon me.” He lowered his horns. “I will try to fulfill the role honorably.”

“How would it look,” he asked the prisoner quietly, “for the emperor’s own kin not to show a united front? I can’t let questions arise as to the strength of the throne. You should have considered that carefully, cousin.”

“I have never denied you!” the ousted patriarch gasped. “Only some of your insane changes! You seek a pact with the ogres, our taskmasters of old! Worse, you move to declare Ardnor as your heir, the first emperor to gain the throne by birth alone! That, more than anything else, cannot be permitted!”

“Everything I do,” Hotak said, “I do for the good of the people.”

She looked to the gathered members and called out, “Let all children of Droka give their allegiance to their new patriarch… and their emperor.”

General Rahm walked up to welcome a boat from the lead vessel. The captain, a gruff older female with cold, appraising eyes, knelt before the general. She dipped her head. Her crew, dressed in the kilts of the Imperial Fleet, raised their axes in his honor.

The shame in Tinza’s voice left no question as to her regrets. “Much ale was passed around that night. Strong ale.” She looked up. “Let us atone for that disgrace! For Captain Veria, we demand the chance to battle with the usurper’s forces.”

He looked over the crew. “You’ll obey in all things?”

The arrival of the newcomers forced changes. More common houses were built. Jubal took charge of the ongoing procurement of food. Within a day’s journey of Petarka lay two smaller islands. One had shallow shoals with an abundance offish. The other, lush with vegetation, enabled the rebels to add to their storehouses of breadfruit and bananas. The ominous weather that had stricken so much of the empire had held off so far around Petarka, further aiding Rahm’s followers in their efforts.

Over the next two weeks, three more vessels fought their way through storms to Petarka. Two came from Mito, including among their passengers a former militia commander named Ryn and almost half his fighters. The other ship had escaped from a small garrison on the remote southeastern colony of Hathan.

“Hotak wants a race of perfect, obedient soldiers,” Rahm muttered to Jubal, going over the latest charts in the unadorned common room they had chosen as their headquarters. A pair of round brass lamps were set near Rahm. There were two windows facing the harbor, both shuttered to keep out the incessant wind. The door had warped and could only be kept shut by sliding an iron bar across it. “But he forgets that perfect warriors must trust their leaders.”

Within minutes, the room filled. In addition to Jubal and Azak, all seven other ship captains awaited his word. With them had come the commanders of the marine regiments that had sailed with each vessel and the chosen leaders of the bands of refugees.

“As are we,” rumbled Napol, a hirsute warrior with a thick brow ridge and one broken horn. Like the other members of the marine regiments, he wore a padded kilt colored silver with one wide, sea green stripe running horizontally across the top. The silver around his sea-dragon badge marked him as the equivalent of a legion

Rahm signaled for silence. “It pleases me to hear this, for we face no simple matter. We fight not only an enemy who outnumbers us but who is our own kin. Choices will be made—choices with regrets! We’ve got to strike before Hotak becomes too settled, before people come to think of him as the only power.”

“No!” Rahm smashed his fist on the table. “This is not some glorious death by futile combat! We fight to win, not to die! There is one plan for certain that offers us our best hope. It means at least a month of preparation and depends on you and your shipmates, Tinza, not to mention Napol and his fighters.” Rahm gazed thoughtfully at Azak. “And it relies on you much, also, my friend.”

“And what is this grand and dangerous mission?” The elder captain asked.

The general’s eyes narrowed. “Ill news, I take it. And you are?”

The name did not register with Rahm, but he nodded nonetheless. “Go on.”

Rogan nodded, his look all the more apprehensive with each passing second. “

“What happened?”

The captain ushered the younger minotaur out, shutting the door behind them. For more than a minute, General Rahm eyed the map before him, staring at the place marked Tadaran. His breathing turned rapid. Every muscle grew taut. The whites of Rahm’s eyes were engulfed by red.

With a roar of outrage, he tore the map into tiny pieces then scattered everything else off the table. The brass oil lamps clattered to the floor, both flaring briefly then dousing themselves before they could set fire to the room.

Heedless, Rahm roared again and turned the table over. He charged forward, head down, and rammed himself straight into nearest wall. The entire cabin shook with the force. Then he vented his anger on the shelves, ripping them off one by one and hurling the contents throughout the room, trampling everything. The chairs followed, turned quickly into splinters. Bereft of anything else to destroy, the general slammed his fists on the walls then, when he had collapsed onto his knees, the floor. Over and over he called out the name of his mate, Mogra, and their son Dom.

“Rahm…”

Smoothing the black streak in his fur, the general continued, “I’m going for a walk. To clear my head. I have some ideas as to the specifics of our plan. I’ll want to go over them with you when I return.”

Rahm’s eyes flashed, but he quickly smothered the emotion. “My family is dead, Azak. They were on that island because of Hotak. As sure as if he had set fire to them himself, the false emperor’s responsible for their deaths.” The general patted his friend on the shoulder, expression never changing. “We have a war to fight. That’s our concern now.”

Chapter XIV

Fate and Choice

“You two! Come with me!” Whip in hand, Paug pointed them toward a pair of wagons separated from the others. The prisoners there had an even more gaunt look, and their fur had patches where not only the hair had all fallen out, but their blistered skin burned red.

The other figure, his fur patchy, indicated the wagon’s interior. “Inside with them.” “Get in!” snarled Paug, snapping the whip.

Their first hint that they approached the station came with the metallic odor that stung their nostrils. What seemed a mist also pervaded the area, a mist that proved to be acrid smoke created by the four constantly smoldering pits that surrounded the two-story, ash-gray building.

Atop the battered but sturdy iron table lay piles of ore. Prisoners labored to reduce the ore in size. After chipping the rock and earth away, blue-green copper glinted in the smaller rocks that workers then tossed in the carts. Two sentries constantly patrolled the line. Nearby, a lone archer stood ready to shoot on command.

Ulthar and Faros seized hammers. “Lucky we are,” murmured Ulthar.

After some time, an elderly prisoner came by with a bucket of water. As Faros took a drink, he saw that the other prisoner had lost all but a few traces of fur. The old minotaur’s snout was covered in lesions, and one eye looked unfocused. His hands had callouses and old burns. It was apparent that his right leg had been improperly mended after being broken. He had also lost two fingers on his left hand.

Every jostle of the wagon hurt, and by the time they returned to the camp, Faros barely had the strength to eat. He joined Ulthar and Japfin outside of the bunkhouse. Japfin was his usual stoic self, but the other giant said nothing, digging morosely into the oat and fish mix they were served.

“What happened out there, calf?” the black behemoth grumbled.

After more than a week of sullen silence, Ulthar began talking again. Some things Faros knew, such as the mariner having grown up on Zaar. Ulthar’s family had been prominent in trade, dealing in pottery and fruit—papaya, breadfruit, and mangos—which they traded with another colony more rich in metals. For the first fourteen years of his life, he had sailed among the islands, learning of each new place, gaining a new tattoo here and there to recall adventures.

“Sail with full load,” Ulthar muttered, punctuating every sentence with a blow of his hammer. “Come back with raw iron and copper, which we sold for good profit.” Briefly, he smiled at the memories.

Unfortunately, only a day away from home after a profitable voyage, a terrible storm overtook the ship.

Shortly after his rescue, his colony had become embroiled in a dispute with a neighbor that ended in blood, and Ulthar joined the crew of a ship determined to make the enemy pay. The feud went on one year, two, three… As it dragged on into a fourth and fifth, the crew began to lose track of their cause.

Adding to his tattoos and gaining a reputation for his ferocity, Ulthar became one of the mates. He might have succeeded the captain if not for three imperial ships that put an end to his trade. One had acted as bait, the others closing in once it was too late for the pirates to pull out.

Ulthar survived for four years until making good his escape. He wandered onto the mainland, running across a band of brigands who decided that a minotaur would be a welcome addition. But after two years, nostalgia had sent him back to the sea, back toward the colony he had left so many years before.

“Tried twice to escape. Got whipped twice.” The former pirate shrugged. “Thought they could do nothing worse, but I was wrong… wrong.” He paused suddenly in his work, looking the smaller minotaur deep in the eye. “I will not go back to the pit, Bek! I will not.”

Faros did not know what had happened in that fiery place that would unnerve a pirate, but it made him pray that he would never be assigned to the hellish hole. Better any other task, even death detail, anywhere but the flame-engulfed abyss where every day prisoners screamed.

Kolot sat before the campfire, watching the grime-encrusted representative of the Lord Chieftain. Clad in discolored goat furs and a rusted breastplate, the burly, stench-ridden figure slobbered blood and juice from the nearly uncooked haunch all over himself, but he seemed not to care. Near his left side rested a favored weapon of Blöde these days—a long axe whose handle had been wrapped tightly in leather for a better grip and whose single-edged, curved blade made it deadly. Etched across the inner edge of the blade were three marks—a half-circle flanked by two horizontal lines— signifying the old ogre belief that Sargonnas himself blessed the weapon.

Seated next to Kolot, Golgren maintained an air of patience and neutrality. He picked at his own, smaller piece of meat with care, almost as civilized as a minotaur. Compared to the fat, froglike Nagroch, Golgren looked almost noble.

The camp in which they supped was a temporary one. A dozen round tents made from dried goat skins dotted the area, a rocky enclave whose crevices and overhanging formations made it excellent for hiding. It had taken Kolot and the others days of strenuous travel over hills to reach the camp. The minotaurs would have never been able to find it on their own, so well did the landscape conceal it.

Forty warriors surrounded Kolot and his guards. The large band wore goatskins, scavenged leather jerkins and coats, gray cloth kilts cut near the knee, and flat leather sandals if they wore anything on their feet at all. Each wielded either a thick club or axe.

“I hear your words,” shaggy Nagroch grunted in his deep, hacking voice, food spilling from his monstrous jaws. The dark night combined with the fire to make his pockmarked visage more grotesque. “I hear things humans used to promise before they started burning villages, slaying children!” Under a thick, gray brow, bloodshot eyes focused on Kolot and Golgren. “I ask to me, ‘Do these make same promises? Will Blöde be next after humans in black lay cut up like’—” He hesitated, looking for a proper comparison. Nagroch finally stared down at his ravaged meal, his brutish face stretching into a wide grin. “Like this goat?”

“You heard the word of the Grand Khan, Nagroch,” Golgren responded politely. “And while you might question these,” he indicated the minotaurs with a mild expression of dismissal, “the word of the glorious Khan is pure, a diamond in the sun.”

The subchieftain belched, a putrid odor almost as bad as what emanated from his sweat-soaked body. He wiped his mouth with one hand, then wiped the hand in turn on his kilt. “I think I have more trust in bulls than ogres who dress like females.”

Golgren smiled at Hotak’s son, revealing too much teeth. “Friend Kolot,” he said in his smooth voice, “this one must explain. To ensure that peace is what ogres get, Kern had to make early promises to Blöde.”

“Yes, that is so. But what Blöde and Kern find right does not work with your kind, friend minotaur.” He leaned forward, poking at Kolot’s chest with a leg bone. The two guards bristled but Kolot quieted them. “From you must come something else.”

“Something else? What’re you talking about?”

The Grand Lord acted as if Kolot had just gravely offended him. “It must be so, minotaur, or not only will Blöde reject joining us, but this one fears his Grand Khan will rethink his own agreement to the pact.”

“This must be settled now, son of Hotak.”

Growing desperate, he turned to his companions. “Well? You heard what he said. Any thoughts?” The younger blurted, “It’s barbaric! It cannot be done!”

“But if not,” interjected the veteran, “it leaves us open to the danger that Kern and Blöde will still unite, push back the Dark Knights, and then fall upon the empire. Wouldn’t be the first time ogre eyes beheld Mithas and hungered despite the water that separates us from them, eh?”

Kolot nodded to both of them. “Sound words, but no answer for me. What can I—?” He paused as footsteps warned him of someone approaching.

“What sort of solution?” asked Kolot.

“Then you go home with nothing, son of Hotak.”

Chapter XV

Pursuit

The salty smell of the sea mixed with that of fresh baked oat bread, broiled goat, fried fish, and a hint of sulfur from the distant peaks of Argon’s Chain. Such smells had always been identified with good fortune and the stability of the empire.

But Bastion could not enjoy the day. A rift had opened between him and his father. There had been several unsettling catastrophes throughout the empire, some that hinted at magical influence, but Hotak had refused to take note. Even the recent rash of tremors along Argon’s Chain, which had collapsed three viable shafts, damaged facilities, and set back the emperor’s ambitious quotas, had done little to convince Hotak that unusual forces were at play and threatening his reign.

Then there was the recent incident of an unidentified minotaur slain in front of the palace. He had been watching the royal residence but was killed when he tried to evade the soldiers. Hotak had shrugged it off as an isolated episode, but Bastion could not let it rest. Today his search for the identity of the mysterious minotaur had led him to the lowliest neighborhood of Nethosak, situated in the southeastern section.

“He left nothing that would identify him.” The brawny captain bared his teeth, adding, “But it appears he didn’t live alone. Those we questioned indicated that another was seen with him, one who returned to the room this very morning.”

Bastion’s nostrils flared. “Why did you not say so in the first place, you fool?”

“How could he have been?” Hotak’s son bristled. “Question everyone again! I want the port cordoned off and each block searched thoroughly. I assume you now have some description of this associate.”

The patrol captain led Bastion to a faded door. The interior of the common house had a musty look to it. The corners and edges of the plank floor were filled with grime, and the original white paint on the walls had turned a rust-brown over the years.

“Aye, my lo—”

An avenue where Hotak’s son found the corpse of one of his own search party.

The minotaur’s muzzle had frozen in a death grin, its tongue dangling to the side. The faded brown eyes looked stunned. Someone had buried a dagger blade into the muscled hide at the base of the neck.

“Alert the others,” Bastion informed the officer. “I want this area covered quickly. The assassin may still be nearby.” To the first of the two soldiers, Bastion commanded, “You are to watch over this corpse until help returns. You,” he added to the second, “come with me. Now.”

Bastion studied the buildings nearby. A towering gray storage house bearing the old imperial condor symbol stood on the right, and on the left, the back of a sailor’s inn—quite crowded from the voices and raucous music coming from it.

“

At the door, a third sign of blood, which would have been missed by less-observing eyes. Bastion clutched his sword and entered. Voices rose from the front of the inn. Someone laughed, and the clinking of mugs indicated a toast. All seemed in order.

Crusts of blood covered the assassin’s short, wide snout and some flakes dotted his fur, but otherwise he appeared unhurt. Like the dead Josiris, this minotaur also wore the badge and kilt of House Ursun. Wiry and swift, he wielded the blade with veteran skill.

“Sentenced to Vyrox?” The other bared his teeth. “I wouldn’t insult the memory of my master Tiribus.” The scarred minotaur darted forward, coming under Bastion’s guard. The tip of the blade cut a gash across the latter’s chest. Bastion lowered his own weapon and used it like a lance, trying to stab his adversary in the chest.

But the assassin overestimated his attack, leaving himself open. As the sharp blade flew past his right ear, Bastion jabbed with the axehead. It dug into the other fighter’s unprotected throat, sinking in with such force that his body was yanked inches off the ground.

“He did mention Tiribus, though,” mused Bastion. “There lies a clue, at least. We need a complete list of those who served the late councilor.” He blinked. “I remember one. Nalhin… Nolhar… he was on a list of questionables my mother brought—” His ears stiffened as the name came to him. “Nol-han. Tiribus had an aide called Nolhan. Find out what has become of him, if he’s among the purged.”

Bastion retrieved his blade, wiping it clean before sheathing it. “If this Nolhan is alive and in the city, I want him. He will be desperate, willing to do anything—especially when he discovers that his comrades are dead.”

It seemed remarkable that the ship had so far managed to evade the two sleeker craft pursuing it. The sails were half-torn, and the wide-bottomed vessel was designed to carry cargo, not fly swiftly. The hunters gave chase in ships made to cut low in the water. Yet somehow, the first ship stayed in the lead.

“The gap is closing,” Captain Azak remarked from the deck of

Azak called up to the watch in the crow’s nest. “Any other Imperials?”

Rahm leaned over the rail. “Have they seen us?”

As they cut the distance between themselves and their target, the two imperial ships separated, one seeking the port side of the fleeing vessel, the other the starboard. The captains intended to pinch their prey between them. This would be their first capture since their ships had been commissioned two weeks earlier.

When word came that more than half a dozen ships approached from the east, the captains worried only about opportunistic pirates. Then it was discovered that the sea dragon banner was flying on the lead vessel.

The new arrivals spread out.

“The four closest look all right,” he muttered to his second. “Something’s missing from the others, though.” After a moment’s consideration, he realized what. “There’s no banners on the rest. Now why would that be?”

The captain’s wide, round nostrils flared. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look like anything’s amiss.” He raised the eyeglass again, studying the ships that carried the sea dragon banner. “If I could only… by the Sea Queen! ’Tis the

“Captain?

That left the first imperial ship.

Fiery death rained down on

Their catapult useless, some of Azak’s crew readied bows.

A storm of arrows whistled down upon Azak’s crew. One crewmember fell dead. Another helped a wounded comrade, pierced with a bolt, stumble away. Bolts bristled like porcupine quills in the hull of

He lowered his arm in one swift movement. Now the sky filled with arrows coming from

A wave of return fire came first and three of Azak’s crew perished. Their next volley, however, wreaked as much havoc as the first. One foe dropped from the rigging, his body hanging by his tangled foot. Two more slumped over the rail. The arrows that flew back were fewer.

Several of the

Rahm’s axe quickly cut into a snarling sailor who leaped to confront him. Able fighters from both sides fell, and the already-grisly deck soon piled with the dead and wounded. Wood became slippery with blood. Smaller battles took place on the steps to the wheel and even on the rigging. Axes and swords flew. The two coupled ships rocked wildly on the water.

Their weapons clashed. “I’m no renegade,” hissed Rahm, his tone cold. “I keep the oath I made to my emperor, Chot. Can you say the same?”

The captain’s attacks turned more brutal, more relentless. Flecks of foam dotted his muzzle, and his eyes turned crimson. Rahm recognized the berserker fury overtaking the fleet officer. Even if his ship was lost, the captain would not stop the fight. He would struggle until his wounds were fatal.

The captain’s axe came down with incredible force, chopping the rail to tinder. General Rahm swung his own weapon around, managing a strong cut into the other’s forearm. Despite the streaming blood, the enemy officer showed no sign that he even felt his injury.

Once more Rahm barely avoided a blow. His strength flagging, he attempted a desperate tactic. He swung hard, pretending to aim for the chest but suddenly letting his weapon fly. The unhindered axe caught his foe’s leg, the head shattering the knee cap in the process. Blood splattered them, and the captain was sent sprawling.

Soaked in blood—some of it his own, he realized—Rahm dropped to one knee. Around him, the few enemy crewmembers left had fallen to their knees, their arms behind their backs and their muzzles to the deck. Some of the victors roared in triumph while others attended to the remaining fires.

“A lopsided victory. We outnumbered them nine ships to two—ten even, if you count the one they were chasing.” The general looked around at the gathering fighters. “A sloppy exercise. What if we hadn’t come upon them from their blindside while they were preoccupied? There must be coordination, not every minotaur for himself.” Absently tugging on his ring, he asked Azak, “What about the other ship? Did she flee?”

“Give me a few moments. I’ll speak to him in my cabin aboard the

Barely acknowledging the raucous cheers of his followers, Rahm returned to his sparsely decorated quarters and dropped onto the cot built into the inner wall. In a small recess in the wall by the head of the cot, a half-eaten loaf of round, un-risen oat bread and a nearly empty bottle of briarberry wine stood as the remnants of the general’s last meal.

A crewmember peered inside. “A visitor from the other ship, General. He insists to see you.” “Let him in.” The bottle held tightly in one hand, Rahm waved the visitor in.

Clad in a green travel cloak and wearing the brown, shield-patterned kilt of a clan the general recognized as an ally of Hotak, a younger warrior with a long, narrow snout entered. Under a slim brow, he stared back at the general with troubled eyes. His silver-brown fur made him stand out from most minotaurs and caused Rahm to stir with interest.

“I know you, don’t I?”

With an expression of intense earnestness, the newcomer dropped down on one knee and lowered his horns in submission and said proudly, “I am Nolhan, first adjutant to the former head of the Supreme Circle, Senior Councilor Tiribus—now dead.”

The younger minotaur looked up at him. “And I am grateful. General Rahm Es-Hestos. For what I owe not only my master but now you, I offer my services in your campaign against the murderous usurper.” From the confines of his cloak, he produced a pair of small, bound scrolls. “I offer you the names and locations of friends of my Lord Tiribus—important friends who will, the old gods willing, help us see this would-be emperor’s head decorating the imperial gates.”

Chapter XVI

Dance of the Dead

Surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall of gray stone upon which yard-high metal spikes were set, the imperial palace presented a vigilant facade. The wall surrounded a manicured lawn with groves of oak and cedar. Beyond the barred, arched front gates topped by the cast-iron countenance of a crimson minotaur, a wide, stone drive wound its way to the entrance.

Towering, groomed oak trees led to the broad marble steps. Four columns, carved to represent fearsome warriors, and two immense bronze doors, lined with intricate scrollwork, opened into a wide, torchlit corridor. The corridor led directly to two vast chambers, the first where the emperor held court and the second the main ballroom.

This night, the latter held precedence. Hotak’s favored had gathered at his command. To the sounds of a small orchestra—round-bodied lutes, long, silver recorders, copper-kettle drums, and slim, curled brass horns—the guests of the emperor danced expertly.

Hotak and Nephera, too, glided across the floors, their sweeping movements and intricate stepwork marveled at by the others. The eyes of the pair never left one another and all present recognized the intensity of their attraction.

Hotak wore a gleaming helm and breast plate of the finest steel, a lengthy crest of crimson horse hair trailing behind. His flowing cloak complemented his consort’s glittering silver and black gown. He thrust forward his right hand, touching his mate’s muzzle. Her eyes flickered then, gazing at him, and she took two steps back, drawing him into her. Their feet moved in perfect unison, creating patterns based on the number five—five steps in line to the left, five in a swirl, then more in a line to the right.

As their muzzles grazed, the emperor whispered, “It’s been too long since we danced like this.” “We’ve both been busy, my husband. The rule of an empire makes many demands, does it not?”

She gave him a brief smile. “I was with you last night. All night.”

The music drew to a close. The duo grasped one another’s hands. Hotak bowed to his wife, his breath coming slightly fast, his fur tinged with moisture. Nephera bowed back. Her silken gown clung to her in a manner that further enticed the armored emperor.

As he departed, a voice behind the imperial consort murmured, “An exceptional display of your grace as a dancer, my priestess.”

“The emperor has put it off several times.”

“Iunderstandhis devotion to your temple, my dear,” Hotak said, thrusting one hand around her shoulder while pulling her close. “But at times the councilor places himself too near the imperial consort for my tastes.”

The scent of the sea touched Nephera’s nostrils, and the shadowed form of Takyr materialized behind Hotak. Takyr closely followed them across the floor. Almost it seemed to the high priestess that she danced with two partners, one living and one not.

Mistress, came the voice in her head. I return to you.
Lady Nephera tipped her head slightly toward the ghost.
It is as you said. Lord Nymon is gathering support around him.

As she had expected, the powerful noble was seeking to formulate opposition to her son’s declaration as heir. That would not do. She stared at the shade, knowing he would understand the course of action to be taken.

But Takyr did not depart just yet.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Hotak murmured in her ear. “Has the long evening tired you?” “It’s nothing. Just a momentary lapse.” Nephera had no desire to reveal the truth.

So once again Rahm had likely evaded her. Nephera had underestimated him. Maddening enough that he had escaped Hotak’s soldiers and the usually thorough Bastion, but

“Nephera, my dear?”

“Still up, I see,” Azak called from the doorway.

The graying captain shrugged. “But if you die from lack of sleep, what will it matter? Hotak will remain emperor, and your wife and son will go unavenged. Rahm, you’re the lifeblood of this fellowship. Even Jubal looks to you for guidance. Besides, I thought Nolhan provided you with some very useful information.”

“Hmph. Well, see that you stop soon. As a boon to me.”

Rahm grimaced. “Only two? Then put one near the bow of

Alone again, Rahm went over the map, studying the best way to avoid garrisons and fleet ports. The twin isles of Thorak and Thuum were dangerous. To avoid detection, Rahm’s force would have to sail well south, adding days to an already-arduous journey.

Rahm unhooked his axe harness and lay it on the chair. The weapon itself he set within reach. As he released his grip on the axe, a tremendous sense of unease shook him. Rahm looked around, absently rubbing his ring.

To his horror, two savage, disembodied orbs that blazed like fire glared at him from the doorway. “What in the name of the Abyss?”

No one responded, even though he heard voices beyond the door. Somehow, he had been cut off from the world. Desperately, Rahm swung the axe but accomplished nothing. The cloud creature had no substance.

A scent pervaded the room, one that reminded the general of a battlefield after the struggle, when the dead lay uncovered in great numbers, the elements already fast at work on them. The scent of death.

Cursing, General Rahm edged toward the door. With comically-cumbersome movements, the cloud beast turned to follow. Rahm seized the door handle, but despite his efforts he could not open it. The general pounded on the wood and shouted.

The fiendish creature sought to suffocate him. The axe fell from his weakening grip. Rahm flailed about as his body was lifted up. He gasped for air but only swallowed smoke. The general grasped at the fiery orbs so close to his own. His eyes bulged—

The dark cloud retreated, emerging swiftly from Rahm’s throat. Before his astounded eyes, sparks of black lightning played around the screeching, twisting nightmare, eating away at the foul creature. The demonic assassin shriveled, its form breaking up into small pieces.

With one last, inhuman cry, the cloud beast dissipated.

“Easy there!” Azak said, seizing a bottle and bringing it to his friend. “Here. Drink some of this first.” As Rahm drank, the captain said, “Just catch your breath. Yes, we saw it, too, although what it was I cannot fathom.”

“N-Nephera…” Rahm managed to spout. A fit of coughing struck him. Azak gave him more wine. “I could feel it coursing down my throat and into my lungs. Nothing could stop it.” He gazed at his hand. “But something did. I think… it was my ring.”

“Your ring.” The captain snorted. “You really think so?”

Chapter XVII

Small and Deadly Worlds

A phalanx of twenty hand-picked warriors rode with Maritia to the mines of Vyrox—twenty more than she thought was necessary. Mithas was solidly in her father’s grip. Certainly the miners, subdued by their harsh labor, would pose no danger to her.

Her mission to Vyrox was twofold. The recent destruction caused by the latest tremors—excessive even by the area’s reputation—had made the imperium’s prime source of raw materials fall terribly behind schedule. Hotak would not stand for that, not with his ambitions. Maritia’s foremost mission was ostensibly to evaluate the logistics of procurement based on the remaining viable shafts and set new goals. Her second task was of a more delicate nature; she was delivering her own deposed patriarch to the camp.

Four legionaries wielding lances rode ahead of her. Maritia and another soldier flanked Itonus. The former patriarch was clad only in kilt and sandals and had his hands bound before him. Behind them rode the rest of Maritia’s guard.

“We’re here now. Your name, warrior?”

As Paug hurried away, his compatriots pulled the gates open. Maritia rode in, following the retreating guard to the commander’s quarters. The prisoners she saw seemed a dirty, surly lot. Few looked up as she passed. Instead, they kept their snouts close to their meal bowls. The smell of the food was such that Maritia put a hand to her muzzle in a vain attempt to wave the odor away. Even the sulfuric stench from the far-off craters was less noxious.

Paug exited the commander’s quarters, followed by a worn-looking officer lacking part of one arm. He gave her a halfhearted salute and said, “Krysus de-Morgayn at your service, my lady. I apologize for our camp not being ready.”

Krysus looked aghast. “Lady Maritia, I will not dishonor you by placing one of your eminent position in squalid surroundings. You’ll accept my own humble quarters and the use of my staff for as long as you must remain here.” He turned to Paug. “Show them where they may stable their horses.”

“As for him,” she interrupted, “he will be joining us. At least for the moment.”

“My lady?” the commander whispered politely.

“We’ll see.” As they entered, her nostrils wrinkled from a wave of airborne ash. The sooner she finished here, the better. Then could she return home, to the cleaner, tasteful climes of the imperial capital. Return and forget all the drawn, hopeless faces of the prisoners.

As he and the others headed to the wagons the next day, Faros could not help thinking about the imperial emissary. Faros did not recognize her, but she was certainly of very high rank. Her sudden appearance, coupled with the fact that she was the first female he had seen in months, made him stare at her too long. Fortunately, she had not noticed him. Faros had simply been one more prisoner to her, one more honorless, clanless worker. His secret was safe.

Paug walked past in the opposite direction, the new prisoner beside him. The latter moved not like one of the workers, but as though he were a personage inspecting the facilities. The Butcher seemed to give him some respect.

Faros blinked. “That’s Lady Maritia?”

All interest in the emperor’s daughter and the betrayed patriarch dwindled as the wagons rolled to their destinations. Faros stared at his arms and chest, where tufts of fur had begun to shed. Each day the patches grew larger, and he could do nothing about it.

Heavy piles of ore waited. Faros began hammering. Lean, yes, weary, certainly, but Gradic’s oncesoft son had become as well-muscled as most of the others.

“That one,” he indicated a minotaur with his coiled whip. The other guard moved to pull out of the ranks a worker even younger than “Faros. “That one, too,” the senior sentry added, indicating a brawny, older prisoner further down.

Dismayed, he stopped in his tracks, an action which earned him a stroke of the lash. Stumbling forward, Faros eyed the hellish crater, the thick smoke, the fearsome flames. Within it, someone cried out in sudden, harsh pain.

The top two rungs of a heat-blackened ladder thrust up from the pit’s edge. Despite the callouses on his hands, the ladder felt incredibly hot. As he descended, Faros peered down. He could see nothing but smoke and the glow of fire.

Forced to move awkwardly because of the fetters, Faros descended into the choking haze. The heat he had found so unbearable above proved a cool breeze in comparison to the inferno below. Every lungful of air burned.

From the ladder he went to another and another, ten ladders in all, and each a twenty-foot descent. At the base of the last, a guard cautioned the prisoners to lean against the hot, ashen wall. Faros needed no warning, as the carved ledge upon which they stood was only three feet wide. Flames shot up past him. The smell of burning oil singed his nostrils.

Faros made out level upon level of stone walkways and, stationed at intervals, prisoners with long, iron-hooked staffs. One worker had the end of the staff around a chain from which hung a thick, oval container made of iron. From the way the shackled figure labored, the container carried in it something of immense weight.

“Smelting, fool! There’s charcoal and ore in those containers.” Faros knew that with the right heat but no fire inside, the copper and iron would separate. “The open containers are fresh loads sent down from above. You’ll be catching those and passing them on.”

Depositing the other prisoners as they walked, the guard at last brought Faros to his new station. One level down, a pair of minotaurs worked at a large iron container. Both laborers looked ready to collapse.

A new overseer took charge. Completely ash gray, eyes lined with red veins, and his arms covered in scabs and burns, he rumbled, “The chain system brings the bins of ore. You catch one off as it comes near, then use the hook to guide it down to that pair. Let ’em empty it, then take the hook and guide the empty one back up. The chains above will send it back for refilling.”

A grinding sound warned Faros. Out of the haze swung one of the cast-iron containers. Roughly the width and height of a wooden barrel, it proved surprisingly heavy. He struggled as best he could, catching a loop from the dangling chain and dragging his catch toward the waiting pair below.

Over and over the process was repeated. Ore would come, he would deliver it to the workers below, they would empty it into the ovens, then send off the container for more. Next came the charcoal and the same process began all over again.

Faros soon learned to calculate the length of each break, allowing him to sit for a few precious moments. And sit he needed to, whenever possible. The heat was dizzying. The ledge made his work precarious at all times.

“Get up! Get up you sniveling wretches!” roared the ash-gray overseer. To his latest minion, he rumbled, “When they add fuel to the pit, that happens sometimes. Listen for the rumbling, and you’ll likely live through it. Understand?”

Faros managed a short nod.

A filled container materialized. Body aching and eyes still seeing ghosts of the flame, Faros started the cycle anew. Only after the overseer left did Faros finally look around to see if the other prisoners had noted his pitiful reaction. Only then did he realize that one of them was no longer there. He had not even heard the scream.

A chill night wind coursed through Nethosak, a wind that pervaded every building in the capital, no matter how well-sealed. Most who felt it huddled close to fires or threw on cloaks. A few with senses more acute felt their fur stand on end and looked around anxiously, certain that they were being watched.

The sky became a maelstrom, howling and whirling. Each moment, a storm of gargantuan proportion seemed ready to strike.

For those whose tasks took them near the meditation room where the high priestess had secreted herself an hour earlier, the sensation of fear was strongest. Four anxious Protectors stood guard there, ears taut as they pretended not to notice how the shadows around them encroached. Within, Nephera’s voice could be heard, but the few comprehensible words were in no earthly tongue.

As her voice rose, an endless multitude of ethereal, invisible forms flew up through the temple roof into the fiery sky, riding the winds and streaking with the lightning in all directions. For a time, they fluttered around and around over Nethosak, as if gaining their bearings, then in one sudden burst they spread out over the imperial capital, out over the entire island, and swiftly beyond.

Shrieking spectres in tattered garments coursed through buildings without pause, passing unnoticed by and even through those still awake within. Raging ghosts in rusted armor did battle with the elements as they soared over the Blood Sea.

Most had been sent with but a single mission in mind. The high priestess sought more than ever any clue, any word, of those plotting against her and her mate. From her latest lists, Nephera had underscored hundreds of names, countless locations. She could not yet reach the limits of the empire, but she could cover much territory.

On a ship departing Kothas for colonies southeast, the captain no longer dined alone in his quarters. Now a disheveled minotaur whose throat bore a six-inch gap at the center sat across the table, dead eyes intently staring at the ignorant mariner.

On Sargonath, the captain of the local militia led a patrol to investigate recent reports of nighttime activity by the ogres. Along with him rode twenty strong warriors and, floating alongside them, three apparitions. One was the captain’s own brother, his crazily tilted head the result of an ogre club that had snapped his neck and crushed in his skull. Now he watched for possible seditious thoughts on the part of his sibling. The dead served only the high priestess.

On Mito, Governor Haab questioned a shipwright who had been found procuring materials for an unsanctioned vessel—a small ship with which he hoped to join his cousin, the former militia commander, at some unspecified location. The captive minotaur’s arms had been bound behind him, and he had been forced to his knees. Despite pressure in the form of a prolonged whipping, the blood-soaked shipwright still claimed not to know his destination.

Haab leaned against his desk as one of the guards struck the prisoner across the muzzle. The governor tapped his fingers on the wood as he spoke. “If you do not know this place where you were to meet Ryn, then how could you possibly set sail? Did you plan to sail around the Courrain until you just happened to pass one another?”

When his guest did not reply, Haab had the guards whip him again and again. The governor was upset and rightly so. The flight of Ryn and much of the original militia was a black mark that would cast a shadow on his authority.

“Well?” demanded Haab. “Why does he not speak?”

The governor saw nothing within. The eyes stared, but his prey had escaped after all. Haab knew that he would not be coming back. With a snort of rage, the minotaur twisted the bound figure’s head sharply to the side.

Letting the body drop, Governor Haab, his breathing short and his eyes red with fury, turned. “Dispose of it! Now!”

The governor nodded. A few more lines of explanation and his failure would be forgotten. His career would be saved. In the matter of the traitor Ryn, through careful work, he and his hand were hunted down in the hills of Mito, where they had hidden. They refused to surrender, and when it was clear they could not escape, they committed suicide. Their bodies were burned as a signal to all rebels. A thorough investigation finds no link to any outside contact.

However, the ambitious Haab would have been less confident had he been able to see the figure now draped over his shoulder. This figure’s chest was ripped open and blood was congealed over the gaping wound. It was the husky shade of the late Governor Garsis, whom Haab had personally executed, and who now had been granted the duty of monitoring his successor’s loyalty. Garsis could not lie about what he saw, but the truth was just as damning. Lady Nephera had chosen each of her spies carefully.

The undead streamed throughout the reaches of the high priestess’ might, a thousand wailing shades silently haunting those on her lists. Most were set upon tasks identical to that of Garsis. Watch. Listen. Discover. Report.

But for a select few, there existed a different, darker task. The high priestess had a list of those minotaurs who had already been found wanting or defiant. To deal with such, Nephera had chosen among the apparitions those who were most suited to action. Although they were the last to emerge from the shadows of the temple, their mark would be felt most.

They had died violently, terribly, and their anguish and anger remained as virulent as ever in twisted faces and twisted souls. They hungered to share their pain, their deaths, and so she had granted them their desire.

The first of them came screaming silently into the luxurious villa of the patriarch of Clan Dexos, a sturdy, black-furred elder. He was vocally a supporter of Hotak, but behind the scenes, Brygar used the name of the new emperor as a way to skim profit from the farmers and herders of Kothas whenever they sent their shipments to the markets of the capital. In another time, Brygar would have worshipped the god Hiddukel, the Deal Maker.

He did not notice, of course, that he was no longer alone. Brygar stood in the vault kept hidden deep below, awkwardly carrying with him a sack of ill-gotten gains. One servant, a trusted guard bearing a torch, stood with the patriarch. Despite the bulkiness of his load, the elder always carried the gold himself. It made him feel close to his wealth.

The spectre, still invisible, swirled around Brygar’s unprotected throat.

Brygar shrugged. The vault was three levels underground. No breeze could reach down here, but it was always cold beneath the earth. He hefted the huge sack and dropped it atop the others. More than fifty large sacks and twelve oak chests filled the inner half of the chamber. No matter who was emperor, Brygar profited.

“As you say, my lord.”

Brygar stepped forward, touching one of the sacks reverently. He did not notice the flame flicker oddly. Nor did the older minotaur sense the wispy presence that circled him once, twice, and then drifted through him.

Something moved within one of the sacks.

The coins and gems clattered harshly on the stone floor, then whirled about and spilled all over like a lava flow. His back to the door, the black minotaur gaped as his wealth danced about as if with a life of its own. It piled up before him, a huge, loose mound that spilled over his feet, burying them.

From the mound burst skeletal hands formed from the coins. They grasped at him and tore at his hem. The door behind him heaved as if some great beast were shoving against it. Startled, Brygar stumbled forward into the clutching fingers.

Mouths opened in the mound. Wide, hungry mouths. They rose high, forming muzzles, empty sockets—minotaur skulls created from glittering metal. All were identical, the very image of the shade that the high priestess had sent to haunt Brygar.

The corpse had been eaten, torn apart by sharks on a voyage which a younger Brygar himself had organized. Great gaps in the torso and limbs attested to the horrific fury he had suffered before death had claimed him. Ribs of silver jutted out, and within them were mangled lungs of steel. Red rubies accented where the blood had flowed most, and the eyes were green jade, envious of the life the sprawled figure before it still retained.

Gasping, Brygar dropped the dead torch. Darkness did not entirely claim the stone vault, for a dread illumination radiated from the mound and the ghost. The foul greenish light cast an even more terrible aspect on the fiend.

As it grew, the ghost opened its maw wider. A horrific wind arose, one that pulled the patriarch forward faster. The undead creature inhaled, empty sacks and loose coins falling into a darkness more terrible to Brygar than the legendary Abyss.

With a fearsome moaning, the ghost’s mouth stretched to encompass his billowing form. Brygar could not keep himself from being sucked into it. He rolled over, yet that only meant that his feet were pulled in first. The frantic minotaur clutched at the mound, but for all its weight his wealth gave him no hold.

It was more than two hours before Brygar’s absence was noted by his household. The guard who had been with him was alerted. Torch in hand, the anxious warrior descended to the vault. He found the heavy door unbolted and open, just as he had left it. Cautiously, he pushed it wide.

In the midst of the neatly packed mound of sacks, Brygar Es-Dexos crouched, making an odd, keening sound. His knees were tucked into his chest and encircled by his arms. He rocked back and forth. His eyes stared ahead, never blinking, and a bit of drool escaped his slack jaw. The patriarch’s entire form trembled. He would remain so for the rest of his brief life.

Lord Nymon was a gruff old bull who had survived much intrigue over his career and had even capitalized on it. Now he controlled the political fortunes of enough other high-ranking minotaurs to give him influence over the affairs of the empire, and this time he intended to use that influence.

Nymon admired Hotak, even supported him in many things, but he did not care for these rumors of a hereditary line. It went against everything minotaur. However, Nymon also knew the dangers of protesting the emperor’s ideas. Hotak’s own patriarch, Itonus, was an example of what happened to those who believed like Nymon.

Itonus was a fool, though. The way to defy the new emperor was by open, unified opposition through legal channels. Confronted in his court by a petition presented by the strongest of the emperor’s supporters, Hotak would have to not only hear the protests, but answer them openly before his subjects. That would kill any notions of his son Ardnor becoming emperor.

Although it was late, Nymon continued his writing. The others still needed some convincing, but tomorrow he would give them the proof. He had worked all evening to make everything perfect. On the table next to a knife were the cores of two apples, the only sustenance he had allowed himself.

An odor wafted past his nostrils. The scent of the sea. Nymon looked to the window, but it was shuttered tight to keep out the harsh winds blowing about Nethosak. Behind him, the shadows coalesced into the monstrous form of the ghost Takyr.

You have enemies… many enemies, Lord Nymon.
The seated figure shifted and looked up furtively before resuming his work.Even the emperor is displeased with you. He knows your thoughts concerning his son and the throne.
Nymon started. He gazed at the wall and muttered, “Can Hotak know what I do? Surely not.” Takyr persisted. Your enemies know the emperor will not protect you from them. Should they seek your death, he will let them.

The quill snapped. Lord Nymon eyed the splattered ink as if it were his own blood. Had Hotak distanced himself of late? Nymon tried to recall their last encounter and everything he remembered he saw in a terrible light.

The old warrior’s heart pounded now. He started for the door then hesitated. Influenced by the shade’s whispers, he saw in his mind a horde of armed figures wending their way up the stairs. Their axes and swords gleamed sharp.

Takyr touched the hand that held the knife.

A horrified gurgle escaped Nymon. He twisted around, mouth agape. Dying eyes at last saw the foul spectre haunting him. Nymon reached out an imploring hand, but Takyr floated back, savoring the moment. Lord Nymon collapsed.

Drifting to the table, Takyr ran one finger over each line of his prey’s writing. As he did, the words leaped from the page, jumbled around, and reorganized themselves. When the ghost was finished, the parchments now held a full and detailed confession to crimes against the imperium, along with a pleading for mercy for his family and House.

“Good.” She lowered the list. Her eyes were bright. “Very good. Now nothing stands in the way of Hotak declaring my son as heir to the throne.” Mistress.
“You’ve done it, Takyr?”
Yes. They will find him as you desire.

Chapter XVIII

Blood Upon the Horns

The foul weather, especially the fog, had enabled the ships to avoid any of the vessels patrolling Mithas’ waters. It had taken a week of preparation and almost two more of cautious travel for the small flotilla to get this far.

“But a full honor guard protects him whenever he goes into the city, and the people follow him,” Jubal had protested. “Attacking the palace is unthinkable. It’s the most protected place in all the imperium!”

Passing Thorak and Thuum proved easier than planned, but Hathan, the small garrison island further to the southeast, proved more trouble, for four Imperials had docked there en route to some more distant location. Rahm had been forced to add two days to the journey by heading south around Hathan.

At last, they neared the southern coast of Mithas. In such close waters, Tinza and the other captains had raised their sea dragon banners and guided the other ships like an escort. Here, such a varying group of vessels did not seem out of place.

As they approached Mithas, Rahm did the unthinkable, splitting his forces and sending some off on a separate mission. Captain Tinza and the other three vessels from the Eastern fleet sailed toward the northern tip of the island, some two days from Nethosak. There lay the port of Varga, a small but significant landing used as a link between the far northeastern colonies and those in the innermost Blood Sea region. Tinza and her band would sail in under the banner of the fleet, strike, and create trouble, then escape to a prearranged destination.

With the exception

Hotak’s legion guarded the capital; Rahm’s own Imperial Guard protected the palace. No one knew the layout of the city better than Rahm. He had memorized every street, every public building. He had studied every available blueprint of the palace, knew each winding corridor and alcove. The knowledge had enabled him to perform his duties and survive where so many others had failed.

“The merchant Nolhan spoke of… Bilario,” Azak muttered, eyeing the hazy shore. Tall, wooded hills were all that could be made out—and the jutting rocks scattered dangerously just off shore. “He will be waiting for us at this location?”

“Aye. He owed Tiribus much—so Nolhan said—and the councilor kept him ready in case something happened. Since Tiribus did not see fit to make use of him, it will be our pleasure.”

Silence reigned aboard the ship, the only sounds the creaking of the hull and the constant lapping of the sea.

“Aye, and a wicked promontory at that. So now we head inland?”

Six in all boarded the small craft. To Rahm, each stroke of the oars sounded like thunder. It seemed to take an eternity to reach land. When the boat neared the craggy shore, the general leaped out to help guide it in.

“And you, Rahm, have also been true, which is why I intend to go with you.”

“They have orders from their captain,” Azak informed him. “And to me they owe their allegiance first and foremost.” The captain adjusted his axe harness, the head of his weapon already covered by a cloth shroud so as to avoid any gleam from torchlight. “We waste time. This merchant is supposed to be found near Jarva, some four hours’ journey by foot. I suggest we move on so that we travel as little as possible by day.”

Wild, grassy fields populated intermittently by copses of oak and cedar made up the landscape. On occasion, high rounded hills added variation. The minotaurs crossed a well-worn dirt road but saw no sign of traffic or patrol.

“What sort of merchant lives way out here?” Azak whispered.

They continued on through mist-covered fields, now and then struggling over uneven, muddy patches. At last, the four came upon a rise over which they spotted the shadowy outline of a provincial estate surrounded by a stone fence. What looked to be fruit trees dotted the area behind the main, fiat-roofed, building.

As they descended, the dim illumination revealed unsettling things. A wooden, slat fence designed to pen livestock had been shattered to kindling. Within lay several carcasses. Further on, an unhitched supply wagon lay tipped on its side, its wheels broken.

The young guard had been stabbed several times in the chest and, judging from the blood pooled underneath him, more than once in the back. For good measure, someone had crushed in his muzzle, giving him an ogrelike mask in death. Near his feet, a small, single-edged hand axe lay unsullied.

“I couldn’t—” Azak coughed again. “I couldn’t see much, but the stench was the worst I’ve smelled since the time the

But he got no further, for at that moment, the sounds of rushing hoofbeats came from the dirt road. “Inside!” ordered the general.

Eight riders arrived at a breakneck pace. With one exception, they dismounted immediately. That one, clad in the cloak and open helm of an officer, bellowed, “Give everything a look, you blasted loafers! That herder said the ship was just leaving the coastline when he saw it! They may have come here!”

“It’s not the bodies,” growled Kreel, his voice growing near. “I have a sensitive nose.” Inside, Rahm turned to his companions. “Find a place on the floor. Play dead.”

“Waste of time here,” whispered Kreel, sniffing again.

A young fighter near the militia members sprang up.

“Darot?” blurted Kreel, turning to see what was happening. He barely had time to register the figure hunched over his companion before General Rahm seized him and, with one swift movement, twisted his head to the side until his neck snapped.

“Still lookin’!” came the answer from behind Rahm.

“Thought I heard something,” a tall figure bearing an axe grumbled behind Rahm. “Captain’s tired of waiting for you two to—” He stopped and raised his weapon. “Captain!” the searcher roared. “I got one! Captain!”

Rahm barely got his blade up in time. The two heads sparked as they clashed, the force of the blow sending both stumbling back. Grunting, Rahm’s foe swung again, a whistling swathe. Rahm brought his own axe under the other’s outstretched arms. His blade dug deep into his foe’s midsection. The minotaur teetered then made a wild swing that brought down much of the alreadydisintegrating wall.

Rahm caught his opponent in the side. The axehead sank deep this time. The other minotaur let out a moan then toppled forward.

“General?” The voice belonged to Tovok, one of his volunteers.

The general’s target turned at the last moment, barely deflecting the axe. Rahm brought the axehead up and struck a hard blow under the soldier’s jaw. As his foe staggered back, he thrust the pointed tip into his unprotected throat.

The second attacker fell quickly to Tovok and the still-unidentified rebel.

Rahm did a quick count. “Is one missing, Azak?”

With a prodigious leap, General Rahm managed to grab him by the feet. The rider tried to shake him off then decided that his best course of action was to spur his horse and drag his assailant along with him.

Rahm twisted sharply. The horse whinnied as it lost its balance. The fleeing soldier gave a dismayed shout as he slipped off. Both combatants went tumbling across the harsh ground. Rahm freed his dagger just as he landed atop the other fighter. His adversary, seeing the blade, released his hold on his own half-drawn weapon.

To Tovok, Rahm commanded, “Get us three of the horses. Scatter the rest. Leave no clues.” Azak glanced back at the house. “What about—”

“As you say.”

Lady Maritia de-Droka had stayed for five days then departed with her retinue to inspect other facilities north of the camp. No one had expected to see the emperor’s daughter again, and so it came as a surprise when, more than two weeks later, she returned. The reason for her second visit was a mystery to the prisoners.

Faros was thrust each day into the hellish abyss, and each day new screams assailed his ears. Several times he assisted in carrying out victims, their bodies black on one side, blistered on the other. Most died quickly, but some few were put out of their misery even when it was determined that they might survive.

It had been a fairly safe day so far. Only twice the flames erupted.

The ground shook. Pieces of rock dropped from above, pelting Faros. The rumbling increased, becoming thunder. The earth shook with such violence that Faros fell to his knees. A small crack opened where he usually stood, and the edge crumbled into the vast pit.

On his hands and knees, he squeezed himself against the wall. Most tremors faded away after only a few moments, yet this one grew worse, becoming a full, violent quake within minutes. Faros heard screams and shouts. Several prisoners headed toward the ladders, many stumbling because of their fetters. One prisoner lost his footing, reached for the worker in front of him—and with a cry both plummeted into the abyss.

Ahead, a tall, graying prisoner fought to keep steady as he, too, edged to the ladders. However, as he put his foot down, the walkway collapsed, sending him slipping off the edge. The prisoner seized a handhold and tried to pull himself up. Reacting instinctively, Faros hurried forward.

The other did, almost losing his grip. Faros raised him up slowly until the latter could bring one leg up on the path. With further assistance, the elder prisoner climbed to his feet. As he did, Faros got a good look at his face and saw that he had rescued the ousted patriarch, Itonus.

As the pit workers reached the top, other prisoners bent to help the survivors up. The tremor began to subside, but no one trusted that another might not occur. Faros watched anxiously as Itonus moved up then took his own turn. Above, a strong, steady hand stretched out to Faros—a hand with tattoos.

“Had a cousin, Sardar,” Ulther muttered. “Sailed with me for family, then as pirate and brigand. Everywhere I was, Sardar, too. Good comrade, good fighter.” He snorted quietly. “Sent to the pit with me and died first day. Couldn’t catch him in time.”

“Give no sign. It betters the chances.”

As they obeyed, Ulthar quietly responded to Faros’ question. “Why else would ’un as important as he want us?” For the first time in days, Ulthar allowed himself a full smile. “I think he has a plan to escape, this patriarch does, and from the likes o’ him such a plan might work.”

Chapter XIX

Discovered

The apprentices working at the barrel maker’s establishment on the northern edge of the imperial city had departed. Only Master Zornal, the chief cooper, remained, for he lived above his business. Despite his lean form, the dark brown minotaur had severe jowls, so much so that they gave him what many thought a decidedly canine appearance.

Zornal bolted the entrance then headed to the nearest work bench. There he glanced at the efforts of one of his newer charges. Incredibly impatient, young minotaurs tended to work the wood as if in a combat with it. They did not admire the wood’s strength, work with it as though it were a comrade.

Relighting the lamp nearest the entrance, he slid open the bolt and opened the door. A compact but solid figure barged into him, pushing the barrel maker back into the workroom.

“I know that voice!” the cooper blurted. “Rahm?”

“Not in some time,” Rahm admitted.

They settled at a squat table in the rear where the apprentices ate their meals and, over pieces of goat and some ale, the general explained the situation. Zornal listened intently, never interrupting. Only when Rahm had finished did he comment.

“You should’ve never come back! Assassinate the emperor all by yourselves? Better to have waited until you had an army behind you! I understand your reasons for wanting Hotak dead. I can even sympathize. But be reasonable!”

“I’d hoped you’d help. That’s why I came to you.” Rahm peered at the rows of barrels. “More than enough customers still, I see. Including the imperial throne, by chance?”

“So you still have access to parts of the palace, then?”

Morning came. At the sounding of the seventh hour, the apprentices, already at their stations, took up their hammers and other tools and began the day’s labor. Quas, the overseer, a hefty minotaur with unkempt mud-brown fur and thick, blunt horns, directed the distribution of materials. He stood watching the workers, a long, pale pipe with a slim downward curve sticking out of the side of his mouth. Long favored by mariners, the pipe was as close to the sea as Quas had ever come.

Master Zornal joined his cousin. “Quas, I need you to come upstairs with me for a moment.” Removing his work apron but keeping the pipe in his mouth, Quas followed.

Tovok, stationed behind the door, shut it, blocking his way.

Quas swallowed, then quickly recovered from his initial shock. He thrust the tip of the clay pipe back in his mouth. Expression calming, he finally said, “Of course! The honor of our clan wouldn’t permit otherwise. Forgive me, general. They said you’d escaped overseas.”

With no furniture in the room, Rahm and his companions had slept on the floor using woolen blankets. The barrel maker had also provided empty cedar crates for them to sit upon. Rahm offered two of these to the pair.

“He also says you deal with the throne. You even go to the palace on occasion.”

“Another week.”

Rahm indicated the far corner of the room. There stood one of Master Zornal’s largest barrels. “You’ll have some extra barrels with you this time and, because of that, some assistance. Say that Detrius sent the new grain because he discovered he charged too much on a previous shipment. Have them placed with the others.”

“Y’mean to enter the palace yourself in one of them, don’t you?”

Someone called from downstairs. Rahm and his companions stiffened, but the master cooper shook his head. “Just one of the apprentices. Quas, we’d better get back to work. General, I’ll see to it that you get some food later on.”

Quas straightened, groaning. “Cousin, I must go.”

So near to his goal, Rahm could not sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling for some hours then quietly rose, a slight unease touching him. The sound of snoring came from Azak’s direction, but neither the captain nor young Tovok stirred.

The general crept to the lone window, feeling the sudden need to peer out. Shadowed buildings met his gaze, shadowed buildings on a street barely illuminated by one tired lamp. To the south, a faint aura radiated from one quarter of the city.

A flicker of flame below caught his attention. Rahm looked and saw a lone minotaur whose attention seemed to be focused on Master Zornal’s facility. Under the pale light of the lamp, the commander recognized the face of Quas.

Someone stirred behind Rahm. Azak’s voice hissed in his ear, “Is something amiss?” “Look there. Before he vanishes.”

“What do you make of that, Rahm?”

Rahm, now only a few paces away, reached for the other’s arm.

“You’ve lost, general,” Quas growled. “You’ve lost your run, and now you’ll lose your life!” “And… you’re losing… your inheritance,” Rahm managed.

Quas looked up, finally registering the fire. Seizing the advantage, General Rahm pushed with all his might, broke his adversary’s hold, and threw the other off. Unable to control his momentum, Quas rolled to the side and nearly collided with Azak.

Flame shot over Quas’ oil-drenched leg. He tried to brush the fire out with his hand, only to have the flames race up his arm. Quas snorted in fear, trying to douse himself. He screamed. Rahm could not save him. The fire did its terrible work in short order. Quas slumped to the floor, his entire body ablaze. He twitched once, twice, then stilled.

From outside came raised voices.

“More water there!” roared Master Zornal below. “Hurry!”

Zornal and the others fought the fire. Once, it seemed they had beaten the flames into submission, only to have them flare up again. In the end, nearly an hour passed before the situation was under control.

“Throw out what can’t be salvaged,” Zornal said. “Get that refuse out of here! Modron, I’d be beholden if you could bring Quas to our clan house. The patriarch will have those who can better attend to him.”

“They’re all gone,” said their host quietly. “All is in order.”

“The damage is repairable. ’Tis you I’m fearing for. We can’t take any more chances. Come the morrow, I’ll make certain that a wagon’s readied and you’re on your way out of Nethosak. This nonsense about the palace and Hotak must be put to an end.”

“I will not be going back without you, Rahm,” growled Azak.

Tovok and the captain settled down quickly, but Rahm toyed with his ring, thinking about the morrow. No matter how many obstacles fate put in his path, the general swore that he would have the usurper’s head.

Chapter XX

Visitor in the Night

As day struggled to supplant night, a narrow two-masted galley bearing the rearing-horse banner fought the stormy waters and docked in Nethosak. Set lower than the ocean-crossing ships of the imperial fleet, she traveled only in the Blood Sea. The stocky, pointed bow of the galley gave some indication of its value in battle, for she could readily ram less agile opponents and send them to the bottom.

Her arrival initially interested no one. Only when an old mariner lighting his pipe spotted a certain passenger standing defiantly at the rail did word spread like plague to the port watch. The watch at first refused to let the passenger disembark. Only after invoking his father’s authority three times did Kolot manage to gain access to the capital for his guest.

Alerted by swift messenger, Hotak prepared for the unorthodox visit. Servants clad him in the majestic armor he had worn for his ascension, girding him now for a war of diplomacy. Ogres respected strength, courage, and readiness for battle.

On the wall behind Hotak hung the portrait of the emperor and consort seated in repose by an open window overlooking a hill-strewn vineyard. Hotak looked proud in his legion armor, his helm resting in the crook of his arm, while Nephera, her gown one of dark emerald elegance, looked lovingly in his direction.

If the high priestess had not slept in their bed this night, word nonetheless quickly reached her of the galley’s arrival. She entered the imperial quarters, fully dressed for a proper greeting with a foreign dignitary—even one of ogre persuasion. The flowing silver and black robe not only emphasized her figure but also her high rank.

“But this unexpected visit… that speaks volumes.”

An honor guard of a dozen attentive soldiers armed with axes materialized as the pair stepped into the hallway. Aides and guard officers silently closed in behind them. By the time Hotak and Nephera reached the framed doors of the planning room, they were surrounded by more than fifty minotaurs—certainly enough to give the ogre a memorable first impression.

At the center of the room stood one of the strongest, thickest oak tables in all the imperium, for minotaur commanders had a habit of banging their fists against the nearest surface when arguing. Two golden chandeliers, each with twenty-five candles spread along their five upcurved arms, illuminated the chamber. Wooden grillwork covered the white plaster walls, and in the frames created by the grillwork hung detailed color maps of the major islands and colonies of the Empire.

On the far wall, in a frame spanning the length of the chamber, Hotak had hung his masterpiece. Upon a turbulent ocean of blue-green, with hints of crimson where the Blood Sea lay, were marked each of the over three-dozen official colonies. The huge, vividly marked map could not help but draw the eyes, and so it did not surprise Hotak to see Golgren, seated and with a chalice of wine in one hand, perusing the display with much interest.

Kolot, seated across from the ogre, rose and bowed toward his father. The younger minotaur looked worn and uncomfortable. Golgren, on the other hand, appeared quite energetic as he rose from his seat to bow gracefully to the duo.

“How is the Grand Khan?” asked Hotak.

Golgren smiled, revealing far too many teeth. “More than you think.” The tall figure raised one meaty fist in salute. “But first, my friend Hotak must be congratulated on his ascension! The Grand Khan sends his best wishes and regards in this matter.”

“You are too kind.”

She blinked, not understanding his hint. “Of course, my love.”

Nephera’s eyes went briefly to her husband again, then a mask of courtesy spread across her features. “Of course. I shall take care of everything.” She gave Golgren a polite look. “So good to see you again, emissary.”

The high priestess strode gracefully out of the room, Bastion at her side.

“Indeed we are. Our nation is a diverse one, with every type of land imaginable. We have farmland to cultivate, forests for timber and fruit, hillsides for herding, and mineral-rich quarries necessary for the making of tools and weapons.”

“You will want this, too, Great Hotak.”

Hotak unrolled the treaty involving Blöde. He read through it, struggling with the barbaric ogre script. Only a handful of ogres, most of them in the ruling caste, actually knew how to read and write.

“No,” rumbled Golgren.

Golgren shrugged. “The son of Hotak did what was necessary to save the pact. Blöde would not accept otherwise, and if Blöde would not, neither would Kern.” The emissary smiled in a manner he no doubt thought sympathetic, but to Hotak he looked like a hungry, grinning beast. “If it is not acceptable…”

“It would take much convincing. Even my most loyal generals would balk at such an alliance.” Hotak rubbed his jaw. “Yet the possibilities…” He slapped the pact on the table, his expression resolute. “By Argon’s Chain, it shall be done!”

“We are agreed then?”

“We are agreed, then.” Hotak’s mood brightened considerably. The momentous pact had become a reality. There would be some difficulties in implementing the ogres’ demands, but nothing insurmountable. “Golgren, your chalice is empty. Join me in having some more wine. We shall drink to the partnership of our peoples and talk of our aspirations for the future, eh?”

“This one would never turn down such a generous offer.”

As the imperial capital played host to one unexpected visitor, the port of Varga welcomed others. The four ships sailed into the windswept harbor, the banner of the Eastern fleet waving high over each. Staffed by a small garrison and expecting no trouble, Varga believed the ships were here either to deliver messages or important passengers, or to restock supplies.

The officer on duty, First Dekarian Ilos de-Morgayn, signaled the ten soldiers under his command to stand down. Ilos stood on the dock, watching the first long boats draw near and wondering if they would bring any news of interest.

As the messenger hurried off, the officer ordered the rest of his fighters off the dock. The simplest way into the heart of the city was a street between the two largest shipping warehouses. If necessary, Ilos would torch the wooden structures. The invaders had to be coming for their contents. Why else attack Varga?

She laughed. “This port closed to us? By you? I’ll do you one better! I am Captain Tinza and, in the name of General Rahm Es-Hestos, I order you to surrender! You’ll be treated fairly. That’s my first and final offer.”

The watch fell in seconds, First Dekarian Ilos perishing almost instantly. His soldiers crumpled under the onslaught, all cut to ribbons by eager blades. Not a scar was suffered among Captain Tinza’s warriors.

Captain Tinza’s force, more than two hundred strong, marched on the town itself. They soon had the majority of the citizenry under control. She then broke up her command into two groups, one taking stock of the available supplies and the other embarking on a building-to-building search.

Ilos had at least succeeded in warning his superior. First Hekturian Goud could not abandon his post. His honor dictated that he defend Varga as best he could. Instead, he sent five of his best riders to warn the capital.

Napol approached the small fort with several hundred trained marine fighters. Marching up to the gates under a flag of truce, he shouted, “Surrender, and you’ll be incarcerated with the locals! Fight, and may your ancestors watch over your souls!”

The gates remained closed. Hekturian Goud did not even bother to reply.

Three rows of twenty archers lined up, their ash bows pointed toward the southern sky. They fired the moment the marine officer waved his axe. The rain of arrows arched up, then descended toward the garrison.

Cries arose as bolts pierced throats and buried themselves in shoulders, legs, and torsos. “Res!” Goud shouted to the Second Dekarian, now positioned up on the wall. “Return fire!”

“Let’s go!” the marine commander shouted. “Get up there! You archers! Give them cover!” Inside, Hekturian Goud removed his helm to wipe his forehead while he considered what to do. A third of his force had been slain, and the walls were becoming impossible to defend.

The port wall fell first. Napol’s fighters descended, attempting to open the main gates. Arrows rewarded the first two with quick deaths, but under the protection of shields, two more removed the brace.

A few minutes later, Second Dekarian Res, Varga’s acting commander, surrendered. Horns low, he knelt before the marine officer, holding his axe up for Napol to take. In all, the Battle of Varga had lasted only three hours.

“A battle well fought!” The captain congratulated him. “Not even noon! I hope the others have as much luck.” She referred to the other ships that had separated from

Chapter XXI

No Escape

Word came quickly that Varga had been attacked, but no earthly messenger delivered the dire news. Instead, Lady Nephera, in the midst of preparing for the reception for Golgren, suddenly stared off into space.

“Ships in the east, Varga to the north… what is this?” she snapped at those who had brought her the information. “Piracy or rebellion?” Whirling, the high priestess swung open the door through which the servants had fled, crying, “Hotak!”

Through the lofty halls of the palace Nephera raced. The high priestess’ spies flew before her. Nephera went straight to the throne room, where Hotak had brought Golgren to flaunt the grandeur of minotaur power. The pair turned in puzzlement as Nephera burst through the great bronze doors.

“My dear—” began the emperor.

Gar appeared a moment later. The dusky warrior went down on one knee.

Legion. Have one naval contingent set sail for the port. Watch for four vessels bearing banners of the Eastern fleet. I want those ships!”

“Do what must be done. Control of all security in Nethosak will be in the hands of the Imperial Guard, then. Bastion will not be available, but Kolot will serve well in this capacity. Any threat pertaining to the capital should be reported to him.”

“As you say.” She frowned. “It might be wise to hold off about Golgren and the pact for the moment—at least stall before making any announcement—until we know more about these matters.”

“This must be Rahm’s doing. Strike here, strike there! Harry my legions everywhere, trying to find my weaknesses!” Hotak snorted, a hint of crimson touching his eyes. “A fatal mistake. There is no weakness in my empire.”

She watched as he left to placate Lord Golgren. “You may be right about Rahm, my love,” she murmured, “but I fear you may also be wrong. This is too direct for the general, too rash. Something else is brewing, and I must find out what it is.”

A pockmarked prisoner found Faros and Ulthar as they ate their morning meal and, with a nudge of his foot, indicated they should follow him. He led Faros and the mariner around several barracks, beyond the wooden watchtowers, and past parties of occupied prisoners. A few pairs of eyes glanced at the trio with dull curiosity.

They slipped around another corner, passed an unsuspecting guard in one of the towers, and suddenly confronted a sinewy, narrow-eyed prisoner who looked each of them over, then let them inside the barracks behind him.

“You know who I am,” Itonus said. “Once master of a powerful House. A foolish mistake has robbed me of that role, but not of friends on the outside. I have waited, and now they have acted.” Itonus leaned toward them. “Arrangements have been made. I will escape this foul pit, but the way requires some trouble, some strength, and certainly some allies. I think you two fit my needs.” “Heard plenty of plans before,” Ulthar said. “None worked.”

“The—” Itonus chuckled. “Oh, good Paug.” He waved his hand, dismissing the question. “Useful enough for keeping the trash from disturbing me, but certainly not a part of this scheme. Too volatile, too untrustworthy.”

“I had hoped to wait until the treacherous Lady Maritia left. However, I have to act in concert with the outside. Tomorrow morning, he prepared to travel in a different wagon. The choice will be clear. Do not hesitate, and once you are inside, look under the benches. Tools will be hidden there that can unlock our manacles and fetters. I will tell you nothing more, but act boldly. These steps must be followed without hesitation or error.”

“To be blunt, as decoys. The wagons are the only way out of here, but if I try to ride alone, someone will notice. One prisoner is too obvious, but a wagon almost half-full, they will not bother to scrutinize. If there is trouble, I want comrades who’ll follow orders. I expect you to obey me to the fullest. Now, if there are no more questions, this discussion is ended.”

Horns sounded, summoning the prisoners to the wagons. For once, Faros moved with some energy, some optimism. None of the three spoke. The key to freedom had been offered them by one in whom they could all believe.

As they neared the wagons, however, a sharp stinging blow suddenly sent Faros to his knees. While Ulthar moved to help him up, the Butcher wound up his whip. “Get a move on, you scum! The wagons aren’t going to wait forever!”

Maritia stared at the departing prisoners, seeking one in particular. She stood alone in the room save for her bodyguard, the towering charcoal-colored Holis. “Are you certain of this information, Holis?”

Maritia finally noticed the one she was seeking. Itonus glided toward the wagons as if still walking down the carpet toward the ornate chair he had used as patriarch. He did not look at all like a minotaur who had lost all his power.

“Father was wrong not to have him slain outright, Holis.”

“Well the time for such concerns is past.” She turned, her hand stroking the hilt of her sword. “If what your source says is true, Itonus might vanish from this place if we are not careful. That cannot be allowed, Holis.”

“Your order, my lady?”

More shadows accumulated about the high priestess as she leaned over her desk, but Nephera paid them no mind, her attention completely fixed on her task. When she needed them, they would still be there. They had no choice but to wait.

Her words fell onto the parchment like water tumbling down a waterfall. Nephera’s raven eyes wore a fanatical look, and the hand that held the quill moved as though another guided it. Names, places, and phrases erupted from the rich red ink. Varga, Tinza, Napol, Jubal, others.

The renegades had made a terrible blunder by returning to Mithas. They had given her the opportunity to identify them. She had new names, many names. More important, she could now follow their movements, for the ships departing Varga carried with them unseen passengers. Each rebel named would be attended to by one of the shadows serving her.

Nephera had so many under her command. She could monitor the thoughts and actions of anyone serving her husband to make certain they were as loyal as they claimed. Even Hotak had ghosts who attended him—a safety precaution in Nephera’s mind. That he did not know of these sentinels was beside the point.

Pausing, the priestess exhaled then surveyed her quarters, her sanctum. Here in the temple her authority was absolute. Her acolytes followed her every word. The faithful knelt at her feet. The ghosts obeyed her commands and fed her power beyond the emperor’s imagining.

Lady Nephera glanced at her list again. Before long, Nephera would be able to present to Hotak details of the rebels’ organization, including the locations of their bases and those giving them valuable support.

Then… then finally, her husband would have to acknowledge the contributions of the Forerunners. “What of Rahm?” she demanded of the air. “What of Rahm?”

“Takyr!”

Nephera frowned.

I was… touched by magic, mistress, the hooded phantom said. He raised his right hand, and for the first time Nephera noticed that two fingers were missing and the rest had been scalded. And that touch led to my… alteration.

He did not explain further. Ghosts either tried to forget their demises or went about proclaiming their stories to any and all who would listen. Some of the first shades to swear allegiance to the high priestess after the Dream had wailed endlessly of their downfalls until she had commanded that they never again speak unless so ordered.

“So you can tell me nothing at all?”

With undisguised irritation, Nephera turned on the deathly throng, looking down at the milling shades contemptuously. “Useless! None of you can tell me anything! None of you can find the worst traitor!”

In life, mistress, I was called… Quas, the ghost managed to emit from his charred mouth. Despite the savage damage to his face, he also managed an expression that the high priestess thought resembled hatred. And I may know… where General Rahm might he. An

Chapter XXII

Revolt

Rumor had it that there had been an invasion up north, that hundreds of minotaurs had been slaughtered by unknown villains. Who else but their taskmasters of old would dare such a vile, cowardly strike?

“First,” said Hotak, “the rumors of battle are true.” As angry murmurs arose and reddened eyes fixed on the ogre, the emperor quickly continued, “The villains, are traitors of the realm, renegades under the command of Rahm Es-Hestos.”

Satisfied that he had made himself clear, Hotak cleared his throat and indicated the ogre. “All the more important that, in such uneasy times, hard decisions be made. Old enmities must die. Warriors of the realm, I am proud to tell you that a pact of alliance has been agreed upon with the lands of Kern and Blöde.”

Eyes bulged; gasps of denial escaped gaping mouths.

Many quieted, but some still could not accept matters.

Hotak clamped his mouth shut, finding himself unwilling to disclose the terms by which the allies were bound. He was not helped by Golgren, who whispered, almost blithely, “They will know the truth soon enough. Speak, friend Hotak.”

Before a single word could escape him, the emperor was interrupted by shouts from outside. Turning on his heel, he pointed to a guard. The guard rushed out to see what the commotion was about, and a moment later burst back into the chamber.

A renewed roar filled the room. One officer drew his sword and rushed toward Golgren. The ogre would have defended himself but Hotak drew his own weapon, deflected the other’s blade, and trapped it point down. The stunned officer dropped his weapon with a clatter and knelt before Hotak.

“They were to follow behind your son’s galley, great emperor, and were not to enter the harbor until my signal.” The emissary shrugged. “The journey was not an easy one. Perhaps the captain did not trust the weather. My apologies, but the ship is necessary for my return home. And is intended to carry vital cargo, yes?”

The port watch could do little to restrain the growing crowd of minotaurs. Recent events and rumors had stretched the nerves of the populace thin. Now, here appeared an historic enemy, and in numbers that suggested treachery.

Rocks, empty barrels, harpoons… whatever could be found, the furious mob threw at the ogre galley. Most of the objects landed short, the ogres not having docked, but a few struck the decks. One harpoon even managed to thrust through a sail, which brought raucous cheers from the onlookers.

Doing themselves no favor, the ogres for their part enjoyed taunting the minotaurs. Cries of “

Not content to leave matters in the hands of the imperial fleet, a few minotaurs clambered down into rowboats and set off toward the ogre galley. One watch officer who attempted to block them was shoved into the harbor.

Aboard the galley, an ogre cast a spear at the attacking rowboats. More out of luck than aim, it landed in the first boat and pierced the leg of a minotaur. That minor bloodletting opened the floodgates. As the one boat rowed back to deliver its wounded passenger, scores of other minotaurs armed with clubs, axes, and more crowded into any available craft. Someone with a bow began shooting at the galley. With a cry, one of the ogres tumbled over the rail, a shaft through his chest. As he hit the water, the mob let loose with a roar.

As if on cue, the warship fired the catapult. Only the lurching of the galley spared it from terrible damage. By chance, the stone glanced off a rail, causing only superficial breakage, but the incensed crowd roared again.

The crowd did not immediately understand, not until horns began blaring, and Hotak himself, helm on and cape flowing behind him, drove through their midst. The emperor’s name spread like fire throughout the area. The mob faltered. The port watch finally began to make its presence felt.

“Commander Orcius, signal those ships to hold their fire!” Hotak shouted. “Hekturian, seize the weapons of any who refuse to lower them! Someone get those boats back to the docks!” Turning to the ogre by his side, Hotak said, “Gol-gren, you’re with me. Stay close.”

Despite his calm demeanor in the face of possible catastrophe, the ogre emissary remained near to his minotaur host. The mob recognized that the emperor rode among them, but an ogre was still an ogre, and many pointed and glared at him. Golgren was within tempting reach. Two guards had to whip some ambitious minotaurs away before they could pull Golgren down.

With a wedge now formed before them, the pair—emissary and emperor—rode ahead of the rest toward the end of the docks. In the distance, the warships quieted, but the catapults remained aimed at their targets. Several of the boats intent on attacking the galley had turned away, but a few still were trying to board.

From the docks came new vessels, longboats filled with groups of soldiers. At the head of the foremost, a dekarian shouted at the rest of the boarders, commanding them to cease or suffer the consequences.

Either not understanding or purposely ignoring the turn of events, some of the ogres attempted to spear their rescuers . One lance buried itself in the side of the dekarian’s vessel just inches from the soldier.

“The captain?” asked Hotak.

Golgren repeated his commands. The first mate grimaced then nodded reluctantly. He barked orders to the ogres still defending against attacks. When that did not work, the mate began battering heads until the fighting stopped.

The ogre grinned, displaying his filed teeth. “The great Hotak is too kind.”

The crowd had quieted now that it was clear that their emperor had the situation well in hand. What Golgren was doing with Hotak they still did not understand, but as the ogre seemed well-guarded, many took that to mean he was under some kind of arrest. Hotak did nothing to dissuade this notion.

The longboats began returning from the warships. Within minutes, the two minotaur vessels began to turn about, maneuvering to either side of the harbor and keeping a safe distance from the ogre galley.

With a groan, the ogre ship slowly rowed away from the docks. On deck, crewmembers worked the sails. A few onlookers jeered them. Some of the ogres appeared ready to restart the fight, but the mate and other officers moved among them, hitting them on the heads, even whipping them, until the sailors bent to their tasks.

Oars creaking methodically, the galley slipped in the waters between the two minotaur ships. The three sailed in unison, sails rippling in the harsh wind. Thunder roiled, but all three vessels had their orders and, as though part of the same fleet, sailed away.

As the last glimpse of them faded in the distance, Hotak and Golgren remounted. The emperor noted that most in the crowd now looked subdued, even puzzled at what had happened. Many clearly wondered if he intended to punish them for their actions.

Instead, he saluted them. A new cheer arose from the crowd. They called the emperor’s name over and over, as if by his hand alone he had brought victory over their ancient foes. Golgren, surrounded by the crowd, couldn’t contain his grin, even as most glared at him.

For the first time in months, Faros slept well. When the guards woke the prisoners that morning, he almost smiled. It took some effort to keep his expression sullen and not to appear eager. Even the slightest hint that something was amiss could send the entire enterprise to ruins.

“Maybe there was some delay,” Japfin muttered.

They knew the coarse-furred figure walking toward them only by his face. Hand on the hilt of his sword, his expression the usual one of disdain, he said, “You’ve got new orders for today. You three are goin’ on wagon number twelve. Understand?”

“Yes,” Faros replied.

“Where’re we going?” Japfin snarled.

“The other. Hurry!”

“Found it on a body during a collapse. Hid it, then, when no ’un looked, hid it down here.” He bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Didn’t know what to do with it. Thought about using it on good friend Paug.” Ulthar snorted contemptuously. “On Paug, in Paug, all over Paug. Never did, though. Wanted better use… and have it now.”

Ulthar shook his head. “Not enough time.”

Itonus’ wagon stood off to one side. As Faros and the others neared it, they saw five other prisoners —two of whom they recognized—along with the guard who had alerted them minutes earlier. Of Itonus there was no sign. The guard looked more nervous than the prisoners.

The prisoners obeyed. Joining them, Harod pointed at the twin sets of bars across the floor. The bottom one on each side had two-inch high teeth while the upper ones had drilled holes for those teeth, plus indentations on the lower side. “Link those chains over the spikes.”

Faros peered through a small rip in the wagon cover. Sure enough, the Butcher led a pair of grim, sword-wielding guards toward them, his thick brow furrowed in a manner that made him look even more piggish.

“Unload that wagon for inspection! Right now!”

One of the guards with Paug stepped up to the wagon. Glaring at the prisoners, he reached in and shook both sets of braces. With a grunt, he returned to Paug and announced, “They ain’t goin’ anywhere. They’re locked good and tight.”

Some in the wagon grew nervous, fearing that the plan had been abandoned and they were heading for the usual slave labor. With the guards no longer looking, they started tugging uselessly on their fetters.

“So where is Kalius, your driver, eh? Funny thing, Harod. They just had a meeting with Kalius—the commander, her ladyship, and a nasty dark friend of hers—and he said some odd things! Talked about fake orders before he died. Talked about another guard, same clan as him and one of our newest workers.”

“From the grand and glorious former patriarch of Droka, I’ll wager! Funny thing about him, too, Harod. They found him lying in his bed after morning meal. Seems he crawled in there and just died. His eyes were bulged out, and he was sprawled on his cot like a doll. Almost looked like he couldn’t breathe right, if you ask m—Look out!”

The prisoners froze—all save Ulthar, who, knife in hand, dove out of the back of the wagon. Seizing a loose pair of chains, Faros followed. As he landed, he saw Harod on his knees, Paug’s hand squeezing tight on his throat. A dagger lay half-buried in the dust Nearby, unnoticed by the Butcher, Ulthar had grabbed one guard from behind and was burying his rusting blade in his back.

“No!” Faros gasped. “We might need them.” He turned to the guard he had stunned only to find that another prisoner had emerged to strangle the unfortunate sentry. His gaze returned to Paug. Ulthar cocked his head. “You have an idea, Bek?”

“They must know about the wagon,” said Faros. “When Paug doesn’t come back…” “Then

“We need weapons. And more of us. It’s our only hope. We’ve got keys. Let’s free as many as possible, then use the fetters and manacles to overcome the guards and grab their axes and swords! Then, as soon as we have the armory open, we can get more.”

Armed with daggers taken from the dead, two volunteers hurried toward the prisoners heading for the other wagons, their lack of chains going unnoticed. As they left, Faros had another idea. “Let’s change clothes with the dead guards! From a distance, the sentries won’t notice. We can head straight to the armory and open it up to the prisoners!”

Paug struggled as they forced his clothing off. Ulthar made him put on the worn, faded kilt of a prisoner. He rubbed ash onto the Butcher’s scowling visage. “No tricks now. Guards likely to stab you first before looking too closely at who’s causing the commotion.”

Because of his slim build, Faros could not pass for anything but a prisoner. He and the one other slave flanked Paug. Ulthar, Japfin, and the two remaining prisoners dressed as guards. Ulthar rubbed ash over his tattoos.

Japfin checked to see if the way remained clear, then the party abandoned the wagon. They walked slowly, almost trudging, to avoid drawing the attention of the sentries in the high towers. With few uprisings or successful escapes in its history, the soldiers of Vyrox had become somewhat set in their routines.

“Won’t be long.” Japfin hissed. “Somebody’ll start something soon.”

With Paug kept out of sight in the rear of the group, they headed to the gray windowless structure that served as the main armory. Two bored sentries wielding heavy axes attended the bolted iron door.

Faros’ excitement grew. The way to the weapons was theirs. Truly luck was with them. “What is this? What’s going on here?”

The sentries attending the wagons were caught completely off-guard. The complacent prisoners turned into a savage pack. Many still chained swarmed over their captors, pummeling them with their fists, choking them with their thick manacles. Freed laborers took weapons from the dead.

An overseer with a whip tried to drive back a small group. He fended them off three times before one, risking the lash, seized the end of the whip. The overseer disappeared under their charge with a brief, piteous wail.

The ground was littered with blood-soaked bodies—guards but also many inmates. Scattered battles continued throughout the yard. A small band of soldiers in one corner fought a deadly swathe through the area.

As they raced toward the officer’s residence, other prisoners joined them. Krysus was the lord of Vyrox. He it was who let Paug beat the workers. Even though he kept mostly to his quarters, the commander was hated for the atrocities he tolerated.

Ulthar reached the officer’s quarters first. As he leaped up, an axe nearly severed his head. A soldier lurking to the side swung his weapon in an arc. Ulthar blocked the second swing, but was caught momentarily off guard.

Faros tried to advance, but the sentry turned ferociously on him, nearly cutting him in the chest. The distraction enabled Ulthar to thrust, catching his foe in the side. The wound only slowed the guard. He fended off the mariner again until Ulthar caught him in a backswing, driving the point of his sword through the other’s throat with such force that his writhing body was pinned against the wall.

An empty room greeted their surprised eyes.

Chapter XXIII

The Protectors Unleashed

Here, in an underground chamber in the Forerunner complex, the final initiation into the Protector ranks took place. Here, the First Master held court. Here he welcomed those who had passed the tests—those who had survived them.

The initiate knelt before the brazier, eyes straight ahead, ears erect. Sweat soaked his fur even where his mane had been shorn off. He had survived fire, water, depravation, and combat, and had sworn his allegiance to the order and to the high priestess’ son. Now all that remained was to mark him as one of the guardians of the faithful.

“Beryn Es-Kalgor,” rumbled Ardnor, reaching for the iron. Like the others, he wore only his kilts. In part, that had to do with practicality, for the chamber was stifling. However, those in attendance also wished to reveal to one another the sign of their brotherhood, the sign of their dedication: the axe symbol burned into their chests.

The vein in Beryn’s neck throbbed furiously, but he uttered no sound. After a long moment, Ardnor withdrew the brand. Wisps of smoke danced about Beryn’s chest. The blackened symbol of the axe stood revealed in all its terrible glory.

The First Master raised the brand for all to see, at the same time indicating that Beryn should stand and be recognized. The newly initiated Protector obeyed, with only a slight wobble of his strong legs. He stepped back into line, joining the other successful initiates.

The initiates repeated his words in perfect unison.

The lord of the order had almost reached his quarters when a robed acolyte came rushing down the corridor. The messenger fell down on one knee. “First Master, the High Priestess has been seeking your presence for some time! It is most urgent, I’m told!”

“Important enough that you have already caused a dangerous delay!”

“But this task is above his… station.” She took her son’s muzzle in her hands and looked into his eyes. “The Protectors must act. Your father must understand. Rahm intends to assassinate your father, the emperor, in the palace itself!”

At the head of the forbidding riders rode Lord Ardnor. His cloak, lined in gold thread, pulsated in the light wind. At the First Master’s side hung a gilt-edged mace with a head resembling a tall, layered crown. The handle had been hollowed out in order to make better use of the solid iron head.

Citizens along the way stepped back hurriedly into their homes or businesses. What could draw the Protectors out in such force, none knew, but they sought no part of it. The old days when the temple of Sargonnas had ruled with an iron fist had been not very long ago, yet even the temple of Sargonnas had never produced a force as zealous or fanatic as the Protectors.

The heavy, persistent pounding on the door caused everyone to look up. Hes, the new overseer, rushed to see what was going on. As he reached for the handle, however, the door burst under the blows of two huge axes, and the cooperage filled with ebony-armored forms.

“Right where he should be!” Rubbing his hands angrily, Zornal approached the intruder. “And wondering by what right you come smashing your way into a sanctioned craft-house! My clan patriarch shall hear—”

“He shall hear of your traitorous activities, barrelmaker. Harboring enemies of the throne and aiding in their attempt to assassinate his majesty.” The officer turned to those warriors nearest to him. “Take him outside.”

Outside, Ardnor, still mounted, awaited. “So this is Master Zornal?”

Ardnor nodded. The whip tore into Zornal’s back. The cooper grunted but did not confess. Ardnor signaled the officer to strike repeatedly. This time Zornal let out a short cry. The First Master leaned forward, waiting, but the prisoner remained stubborn.

“Again!”

Ardnor had no time for fawning worshippers. “Be gone with you!”

This Egriv did—at least in part. One had headed toward the north gate, two others to the east, and one each had gone to the southern and southwestern parts of the capital. He listed two clans that had been mentioned in his presence.

“He finally confesses,” the Protector informed Ardnor. “And verifies what this apprentice said.” “Did he add anything else of use?”

Ardnor bared his teeth. “Clear a path! All riders tome!” “What about this one?” the officer asked, indicating Zornal. The First Master did not have to think long. “He’s an enemy of the throne. You know what must be done.”

Urging his mount forward, Ardnor roared. “Follow me!” The black riders abandoned the cooperage, tearing through the streets. Only their lord shouted his eagerness. Ardnor already pictured his capture of the elusive Rahm and, after that, presentation to his father of the rebel’s head on the end of a pike.

The wagon moved too slowly. Tovok, dressed like an apprentice, drove the wagon, following a route that would avoid regular patrols and guard stations. Captain Azak, too old to look like an apprentice, rode a short distance behind the wagon. Rahm, clad as a cooper, lounged in the back, his attitude casual.

Their route took them past smiths and glassblowers, the common houses, and then more stately villas. Everywhere markets abounded, crowds of minotaurs haggling for goods and services which slowed their progress. The delays frustrated Rahm.

At last, the general saw the palace coming into sight. Soon they would be at the back gate, used for deliveries to the kitchens. There would be guards there, but they would be relatively relaxed, never anticipating a plot as desperate as the one Rahm had hatched.

Near the base of the barrels, a two-foot long coil of string was carefully secured. The cord extended to a bunghole that had been plugged up with wood-colored clay. When lit, it would burn rapidly, igniting a small amount of explosive powder that would in turn ignite the oil that made up the contents of the three barrels.

The barrels would destroy the kitchens, killing many. The loss of innocent lives could not be helped. The explosions would distract from Rahm’s true goal. During the chaos he would slip into one of the passages he knew, secreting himself until things had settled down. In the dark of night, when Hotak slept, Rahm would enter his chambers and repay him for what he had done to Chot.

Of course, Rahm expected to die. Tovok and the captain, though, would flee as best as possible after lighting the fuse. They would wait at a designated location for two days, then, if he did not show up, they would rendezvous with

Closing his eyes, the general touched the dagger hidden beneath his apron, thinking of the blood it would soon spill—Hotak, Nephera, and if he could accomplish it, also the two sons Ardnor and Bastion. Of Hotak’s children, those two were the most dangerous.

The wagon jerked, causing the contents in the back to jostle so harshly that Rahm had to struggle to keep from being crushed. His ring finger twinged. The general peered through a crack between the wooden planks near the rear, seeking a reason for the disruption.

Golgren made no reply, but studied the contents of his cup. The ogre had a propensity for strong drink that rivaled any of Hotak’s own people, yet Golgren never seemed to lose control of his faculties.

Hotak raised his goblet—only to be interrupted by an anxious officer barging into the chamber. “Forgiveme, my lord, but I have news!”

“My lord, I was ordered to interrupt. The Protectors are loose in the city!”

“So it seems. They’ve already broken into the establishment of one Master Zornal, a cooper.” The officer explained everything in detail, not only the cooper’s supposed crime, but the punishment he had received for it.

“The fool!” Hotak roared. “Zornal should’ve been put into custody so that we could render proper judgment. His clan would’ve understood that. They will never accept a summary execution!” The emperor’s eyes blazed. “Where is my son now?”

“In pursuit of the wagon. They were headed in the direction of the northern gate.” “Order the State Guard out. Get them after Ardnor and his band of fanatics before there’s blood on the streets.”

Hotak fixed his good eye on the warrior. “Run him down, of course! Make certain that the guard commanders know that I want them, not the Protectors, to have the honor of capturing Rahm EsHestos. Go!”

The officer departed in haste. Hotak watched him go, aware that Ardnor was acting on behalf of the temple and Nephera. The people might misunderstand. He suddenly realized that he might have made a mistake dispatching the State Guard to deal with the matter. The throne had to take a hand in the matter.

Hotak told Kolot the situation, emphasizing that the Protectors had overstepped their bounds. “Make your brother understand. Your presence will lessen any shame for him when he’s forced to stand down. Tell him this is my command.”

Kolot straightened. “You can rely on me, Father.”

Snorting in frustration, Hotak turned to the sentry and commanded, “Now go to the temple and inform the Lady Nephera that I wish to see her. Immediately, Tell her I will await her in our quarters. She’s to come without fail. Do you understand?”

Nephera faced him, her manner befitting the mistress of the temple. He was speaking freely. Well, so would she. “How many times have your soldiers failed to catch Rahm? Who was it who finally dealt with Tiribus? How did we gather the intelligence necessary for you to make such a decisive strike against Chot on the Night of Blood? Who keeps an eye on those who might harm you?” She loomed over Hotak. “The temple has done much for you, my love.”

She glared. “Am I to cease giving you counsel?”

“You want Ardnor to capture Rahm, so

“I’ve sent the Imperial Guard led by Kolot to meet with Ardnor. One brother aiding another will seem quite appropriate. I wish it could’ve been Bastion, but he’s away on important business.” The scarred emperor shook his head. “I sometimes wish it were Bastion who stood first in my shadow.”

Paying his last words no mind, Nephera spoke sharply. “You must do something to keep Ardnor from being humiliated. There will be those who recall this episode when you name him your successor.”

“You should have thought of that before you set him loose, my dear.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Go back to the temple now. I’ll keep you abreast of matters. And I’ll expect you to do the same, from now on.”

Wise enough to pick her battles, Nephera bowed slightly and backed away. She had nearly reached the door when the emperor called her back. “Nephera, my love, you’d best pray that Ardnor redeems himself and captures Rahm. Pray very hard.”

CHAPTER XXIV

Vyrox in Chaos

Maritia and the commander of Vyrox rallied their forces—roughly a hundred foot soldiers and two dozen on horseback, most of the latter from Maritia’s party. Krysus had the reins strapped to his maimed limb. In his hand he wielded a, mace.

The soldiers listened. They knew the odds were against them but would follow her to the end. “All right, then!” Maritia shouted, intentionally imitating her father. “We fight for the empire!” With a roar, they charged.

From the walls and towers, archers continued to plague the rioters, but they themselves had suffered losses. One tower was empty. Some enterprising prisoners had tied ropes to another tower and were using one of the wagon teams to pull it down.

But then a black giant rose among them—Japfin armed with a huge axe. He swung the weapon in a shrieking arc. Roaring orders to those nearest, he pushed them back into the fight. Urged on by Japfin, many prisoners stood their ground and began to force the mounted soldiers back.

The camp had become an inferno. The fires spread unchecked in every direction. Some of the prisoners abandoned the struggle and sought to climb their way to safety over the burning walls. Arrows stopped them.

The mass of prisoners finally gave way to Maritia’s steed. Emboldened by her push forward, some of the other riders swung closer to her, helping to create a wedge. Closer and closer she fought her way to Japfin.

A shaggy figure darting in upon her from her left almost pulled her from the saddle. His jagged nails gouged into her leg, ripping flesh and drawing blood. Using the pommel of her sword, Maritia beat his hands off, then swung at him. He fell back into the wild throng.

As she turned from him, Maritia found herself staring into the raging eyes of Japfin. He snorted furiously and charged toward her, pushing aside prisoners and soldiers alike.

Japfin caught Maritia’s bodyguard in the side. Holis cried out as the axe bit him deeply, his lifeblood spilling out. He dropped his weapon and clutched the open wound but could do little to stem the flow.

Her horse reared. Japfin sidestepped the animal’s assault, but as he did, Maritia swung, her sword cutting a shallow wound on his forearm. He laughed it off, swinging the axe still wet with Holis’ blood.

Maritia deflected a second strike then thrust. The tip of the blade fell just short of Japfin’s jugular. He laughed again then attacked with more fervor. She twisted away, but Japfin’s axe struck her horse.

The mace struck him hard in his wounded arm. Japfin roared and dropped his axe. He spun and came face to face with Krysus, preparing a second strike. As the commander lunged at him, Japfin, ignoring the pain in his blood-drenched arm, reached out and seized the mace.

Krysus struggled, but Japfin tore the mace free and pulled the officer from the saddle. “Everyone sent to Vyrox dies, commander!” he roared. “Your turn!”

Japfin struck the officer in the throat with his own mace. The crack of bone could be heard several feet away. His larynx crushed, the commander slumped in Japan’s arms. The black minotaur gave him a cursory shake then tossed Krysus’ body aside like so much refuse and turned his gaze back to Maritia.

She did not respond. Instead she rolled toward him, surprising him and coming under his guard. Her roll ended in a kneeling position from which she thrust her blade into Japfin’s chest just below the ribs. He let out a cry of pain and shock.

Ulthar retreated to his friend: Blood drenched the mariner from head to foot.

“The battle is not over yet! Too many guards still live!”

Faros stared after Ulthar. A small part of him screamed that he should try to escape on his own, but he fought the shameful feeling down. Surely Ulthar had the right of it. The fight would end soon. The soldiers, outnumbered from the start, had expended themselves. Vyrox already belonged to its inmates. All that mattered now was finishing the task.

Gripping his sword tight and taking a deep breath, Faros raced after his comrade. Ulthar fought like a demon, and for the first time all the tales he had spun of doing battle with sea monsters and pirates seemed to be truth. If he survived, Ulthar would surely add a new tattoo to his garish collection.

Smoke shrouded everything. The gates disappeared, and the combatants became half-seen ghosts. Whether or not the prisoners triumphed, they certainly had destroyed the mining camp. There would be little left but stone walls surrounding a blackened interior.

Faros battled, hoping only to survive until he could spot a way to freedom. Again and again his blade met the weapons of ghostly enemies in an endless clash of metal against metal that left his brain and arm numb.

“You!” Paug rumbled. Once more he wore the kilt of a guard. “Been looking for you and your friends. I wanted the barbarian first, but you’ll do for a nice warm-up before I take his head.”

The axe came at Faros with horrible swiftness, biting into the ground inches from him and sending up a cloud of ash. The area around the pair seemed to empty out, as though no one cared to be too close to the Butcher and his prey.

Faros struggled to keep from being trampled to death. He rolled away, only to be kicked in the stomach by a soldier who jumped over him to get to another foe. Managing to catch his breath, Faros got to his knees.

A hand seized him. He struggled—

“We did it?” It was too hard for Faros to believe.

A wind had blown away some of the smoke, enabling Faros to see clearly. Wherever he did, he saw that Ulthar spoke the truth. The manic fighting had died down into little desperate groups. None of the mounted escort remained—at least not on horseback—and those walls and roofs not aflame were swept of archers.

Most of the remaining combatants did not notice at first. Only when a third blast echoed throughout the camp did the noise finally alert the prisoners.

Chapter XXV

Blood Chase

Zornal had not misled them. They had sighted the wagon just as it turned toward the palace. Somehow, though, the driver had managed to lead them on a zigzagging chase through every side street of the northern quarter. The Protectors had lost, found, lost, and found their prey repeatedly. Now they spotted it heading toward the northern gates.

Ahead, a bottleneck of wagons waited for soldiers to inspect them before they left the city—a security measure put in place by Bastion. The First Master looked around but could not spot the one he believed to be carrying Rahm and his confederates.

The officer in charge looked up from inspecting a sack of walnuts as the Protectors hove into sight. For a moment, he seemed tempted to draw his weapon, but instead abandoned the cart he had been investigating and stepped up to meet the newcomers, “I am Captain Dwarkyn! Explain this!”

Dwarkyn frowned, but held his ground. “I’ve had no word of your coming, my Lord Ardnor. Forgive me. What brings you and—” he surveyed the rest of the Protectors with thinly concealed distrust— “these others to the gates at such a hectic time? Had we known, I would have arranged a formal—”

All the wagons looked maddeningly alike. Ardnor’s followers began to search with ruthless determination. They tore off protective tarps, threw out materials in their way, and smashed apart barrels. Though within minutes the contents of several wagons lay strewn over the area, no sign of Rahm was uncovered.

“Stop!” Ardnor commanded, frustrated by the obvious failure. “They have eluded us! Pryas, make sure that—”

Fragments of the high stone archway dropped upon the clustered wagons. One Protector was thrown back against the wall. Shouts rose as dust and masonry rained down on everyone. One of the gates swung open with a long groan, nearly ripping off its iron hinges. Burning oil splattered several wagons, creating scattered fires that further panicked the animals.

Through stinging eyes, Ardnor saw a short, brawny figure leap on one of his riders, knocking the startled Protector from the saddle. Nearby, a younger minotaur abandoned his wagon for a horse brought to him by an older fighter already mounted.

The force of the blasts scattered everyone and sent fiery oil raining down upon the ground. Horses screamed, and bodies dotted the area. The broken gate tore free, collapsing on a pair of Protectors. On the wall above, sentries scurried to abandon their posts as the arch collapsed.

Ignoring the carnage at the gate, Ardnor led the remaining Protectors out. Ahead, General Rahm and his compatriots raced along the road. The landscape beyond the gate was flat, grassy, and thinly populated, but shortly beyond, thick wooded hills beckoned.

Rahm had taken a short cut to the first of the hills. The First Master quickly surveyed the area ahead and spotted another side route winding up toward their quarry. “Pryas, take some of the others and ride up that way! Ride hard! Cut them off!”

The other riders split off as Ardnor watched Rahm and his companions urge their mounts up the trail. Rahm had committed himself to a path that led in only the one direction, where Pryas would be waiting. The great general had finally outfoxed himself. The renegades were trapped from above and below.

Suddenly Rahm and one of his companions veered their horses into the thickening woods, a place of brambles and untrustworthy footing. The remaining rider reached for the axe harnessed at his back and urged his horse ahead to confront Pryas’ group. Ardnor ignored the suicidal fool and spurred his followers ahead after Rahm and the older minotaur.

The two fugitives vanished in the woods. Ardnor tried to judge the best path. Around him, the Protectors battled their way through clinging, low-slung branches, narrow passes between trunks, and sudden gullies hidden by old brush. One horse stepped wrong, sending both it and its rider crashing against a huge trunk.

A horse emerged from ahead, a riderless horse recognized by the small axe brand at its flank as the one ridden by the general. Ardnor signaled for a halt as the animal approached. Taking to foot, his foe would be limited as to the distance they could cover but better able to maneuver and hide. “So, you play the cowering rabbit,” Ardnor mused quietly. “I’ll still find you.” He rose in the saddle in order to direct the others.

“There he is!” someone shouted.

Ardnor led one party. They found the prone figure of a blood-splattered Protector. A blade had left a great, moist gap in the dead fighter’s throat. Off in the distance his horse stood waiting. Ardnor started to order someone to regain the beast, then hesitated as all heard the clash of arms from another direction.

As they neared the struggle, he made out two Protectors battling an obscure figure. One of the Protectors had dismounted; the other was maneuvering on horseback. Maces clashed against a short, sturdy axe. Their adversary kept backing away, using the trees for interference.

Approaching the body sprawled on the ground, the First Master frowned. Ardnor knew what Rahm looked like, and this dead minotaur did not match his description. The general had been short but muscular—and not so gray-furred.

Kolot leaned toward him. “Ardnor, stop this disobedience. There’s already been too much damage because of the Protectors’ interference! The northern gates are in ruins. They’re still trying to put out the fires there. We’ve—”

Kolot threw himself off his saddle—mere moments before his brother’s mace would have struck him in the chest. Kolot’s soldiers drew their weapons. In turn, the Protectors, just about to depart, swerved around to shield their master.

“My horse!” commanded Ardnor as though nothing had happened. Mounting, he glanced contemptuously at his sibling. “Go back to Father, Kol. We’ll finish this task without you. Understand?”

Ardnor reined his mount to a halt. He turned on Kolot, fighting the impulse to strike his brother again. “By our ancestors! How were we ever born of the same mother? Go back to the palace, Kol! I’ll bring back the general in chains to Father! I’ll prove to him—to all of you—that I’m worthy to follow him to the throne!”

On foot now, Kolot and the renegade commander traded blows. Kolot had long reach and great strength, but Rahm moved more nimbly than his bulkier foe, ducking Kolot’s axe and diving in with his blade. :

“This isn’t between us,” growled General Rahm.

Kolot’s face took on a savageness. He charged. Again and again, his axe came at Rahm in deadly, shifting arcs, pressing the general back. Rahm tried to defend himself but slipped down on one knee. Seizing his advantage, the larger minotaur raised his weapon.

General Rahm thrust again, stabbing his adversary in the same place.

General Rahm took a step toward him before shouts in the distance made the renegade glance to the west. Turning from Ardnor, Rahm seized the reins of Kolot’s horse and leaped into the saddle. Kicking hard, he urged the animal into the woods.

“What’re you… waiting for?” snarled Ardnor, pointing east. “Go find him!”

“Prepare a proper framework,” he commanded, removing his cape and laying it over the body. “At least we will see to it that our lord is brought back to his father with full honors.” His eyes flickered to where Kolot’s brother had vanished. “Which is more than some others deserve.”

Chapter XXVI

Catastrophe

One inmate, his shoulder ripped open, dropped to his knees and was trampled by a pair of massive warhorses. Axes wielded with veteran expertise made short work of two other prisoners. Another worker who dropped on his knees to surrender was skewered through the throat by a zealous rider.

Shouts arose behind Faros. Maritia and her small host pressed close, pushing the back ranks into those trying to hold off the mounted onslaught. A badly wounded prisoner collapsed into Faros’ arms. As he tried to pull the inmate to safety, a camp guard darted near and ran Faros’ charge through the chest.

The overseer’s grotesque visage brightened as he saw who stood before him. With a loud bellow, the Butcher attacked. The smaller minotaur darted back, barely missing being cleaved in two. Paug’s weapon buried itself deep in the dusty soil, sending a spray of stinging ash into Faros’ face. His eyes tearing, Faros retreated further, trying to recoup.

Ulthar elbowed Faros aside. He and Paug traded swift, numbing blows without success. The mariner could not get past Paug’s guard, but neither could the overseer break through Ulthar’s skilled defenses. They battered away at each other, seeking some opening, some fatal mistake.

Faros would have come to Ulthar’s aid, but just then a mounted soldier broke past the line, nearly running him down. Faros rolled to the side, but the rider quickly steered his horse around for a second try at him.

This time, the soldier also swung at Faros with his axe. Faros tried to deflect the blow, but only partially succeeded.

The soldier swung low. Faros flopped on his back. Taken by surprise, the rider missed by a wide mark. As his adversary rode past, Faros jabbed at his horse’s rear leg. The animal stumbled and lost its footing.

Ulthar and Paug still dueled. Ash drifted all about. Both fighters breathed heavily, and their eyes blazed red. Sparks flew whenever the heads of their two axes collided. They had shifted away from the rest of the struggle. Only the dead gave the pair any company, and neither paid the littered corpses any mind.

Once more he shouted. “Your right, Ulthar! Look out!”

The soldier’s blade sailed harmlessly past Ulthar’s twisting form. At the same time, the tattooed prisoner’s axe bit solidly into the attacking minotaur’s chest, sinking deep. The soldier crumpled, his weapon dropping. That was when Paug leaped.

A rage enveloped Faros, a rage fueled not only by the sight before him but all the horrors he had experienced. He let out a maddened shout and threw himself at the murderous guard, managing to stab him in the shoulder.

Momentum sent both tumbling over the bodies. Faros’ sword went flying, but Paug, too, lost his weapon. The pair ended in a tangle of arms and legs, colliding with other pathetically struggling combatants.

Faros managed to push the hand back. His strength should have been no match for Paug’s, but the overseer’s wounds finally began to take some toll. Straining, Faros seized Paug’s throat with his other hand.

Paug’s crimson eyes widened. He gagged. The hand that had tried to strangle Faros dropped to his side—

Tossing aside the heavy axe, Faros seized the dagger. He dragged himself to where the larger minotaur lay writhing and moaning. The axe had cut to the bone, and rich red blood covered not only Paug’s limb, but the hands he used to try to stop the flow.

Pure hatred radiated from those dying orbs. “You damned—”

As if touching something leprous, Faros hurled the dagger away. Paug’s blood stained his hands and chest. Forgetting all else, Faros made his way back to Ulthar. Even though shouts and the clang of weapons filled the air, the younger prisoner heard only the reproaches of the dead.

He had never revealed his true name to the former brigand. Now that filled him with regret. Faros made certain that Ulthar’s eyes were closed then slid the axe that his friend had wielded so bravely into the dead prisoner’s hands. Bowing his head over the body, he recalled Ulthar’s favorite song.

The thundering of hooves put an abrupt end to his mourning. Faros glanced up then barely leaped out of the way as another band of mounted soldiers tore through what remained of the prisoners. Many of the surviving inmates dropped to their knees, lowering their horns in surrender. A few others still fought, but their situation grew dire.

One rider, his mount driven to the side, now headed directly toward the mariner’s body. Heedless of the danger, Faros stepped in front of Ulthar, waving his arms in a desperate attempt to turn the rider aside.

Refusing to back down, Faros yelled at the mount. The horse’s hooves came down sharply, kicking at the minotaur before it. One hoof caught Faros on the side of the head.

Maritia and her forces had been certain of death yet they struggled on. Hotak’s daughter had lost many fighters. Only a handful of the camp’s guards still lived. Despite that, no one thought to surrender. Then the horns had sounded and a column of Hotak’s finest legionaries had burst through gates, trampling the astounded inmates without mercy. The warhorse banner had galvanized Maritia’s weary fighters and sent them back into the fray with renewed hope of glory.

The rebellious prisoners tried to hold, but they had reached their limits. The frantic strength they had mustered faltered, and with it went any vestige of order. The battle became retreat and slaughter. Mounted soldiers encircled small bands, slashing away at stalwarts in the front. Around and around the legionaries rode, whittling their foes down. The last finally dropped to his knees and bent his horns to the dusty soil.

Thick smoke still covered much of the yard, and Maritia moved with caution. Shadows formed in the mist, fatalistic rebels trying to kill as many soldiers as possible before being slain themselves. She battled with one such ghoul, a ragged-eyed, ferocious barbarian who leaped out of the smoke, slaying the guard who had been her guide.

Out of the smoke—almost on top of the rioters—came half a dozen legionaries on horseback. Two prisoners ran before them, only to perish—one neatly beheaded by a quick, almost casual swing of an axe.

In the lead rode Bastion. He did not stop, but gave his sister a brief nod before vanishing back into the mist. The surviving prisoners dropped their weapons. Two of the riders remained, circling them. Several of Maritia’s soldiers moved to help secure the enemy.

Maritia followed the soldiers and their captives. In the center of the yard, she saw that several dozen prisoners knelt under the watchful gaze of legionaries. To the right lay rows of wounded, some moaning horribly.

The trickle of surrendering workers quickly became a flood. There remained little hope of escape, and most realized it. Soon, row upon row upon row of prisoners, snouts turned to the ashy ground, knelt before the triumphant legion.

“But we were just—” started one, only to fall silent under her stern gaze.

She turned to find her brother leading his horse toward her. “Bastion! Only you could create such miracles. How did you manage this?”

“You may thank Kol for this miracle,” he replied. “I am in this area on a delicate mission for Father. When I saw the smoke rising in the distance, I feared the worst, knowing that you had last been in this region. I had the horns sounded, hoping that someone remained who would open the way for us —but I rode in not even knowing if you were still alive.”

“It was very close, Bastion. The commander of the camp, Krysus, was slain early on. The audacity of the prisoners caught everyone by surprise. I did have warning from one of the senior guards, an otherwise disreputable fellow by the name of Paug.”

She looked at the guard. “What about the third one Paug mentioned, a younger minotaur?” “No idea, my lady.”

He led them to where the worst of the fighting had taken place. The mangled, gaping corpses of soldiers and prisoners lay intertwined. Unattached limbs littered the area. The ground had been soaked by blood and gore.

Bastion leaned down to inspect the dead prisoner. “From the outermost islands,” he remarked. “Zaar, I believe. Exceptional sailors and fighters. Curious that he would end up in a dry zone like this.”

Bastion’s brow furrowed. “You do not understand. The ogres want proof of our allegiance. They’ve known treachery in the past. Golgren says we must pay our way into their trust.” His countenance darkened. “I do not like the ogres any more than you do, but…”

Her brother turned away, stepping over the dead. Maritia followed. The fires, bereft of much else to burn, had begun to settle, causing the smoke to thin. Shattered towers and the skeletons of barracks greeted their eyes, along with endless mangled bodies. Already the burned stench of decay rose high above the camp, and the carrion crows gathered in large, hungry numbers.

“Aye, my lord.”

Her brother stared at her. Then, gaze shifting so as to take in all Vyrox—from the scorched walls to the ruined buildings, the numerous dead, and lastly the rows of defeated prisoners—he muttered, “You believe that, Mari? Do you really?”

Chapter XXVII

Of Things to Come

“Bread, salted goat meat, and one of the captain’s favorite wines,” Botanos announced. “You’re the captain now,” Rahm snarled, seizing the bottle.

Rahm took a long drink then said, “I killed one of his sons. A start, at least.”

“Pfah! I slew a boy in a warrior’s body. I slew Kolot de-Droka when I really would have preferred to kill his brother, Ardnor.” Rahm stoppered the bottle. “I failed everyone. Perhaps this rebellion should have another leader—providing the others are not dead, too.”

Botanos leaned back. “As to that, all went well both east and south. I’ll let them tell their own tales when we meet up with them again, but I think you’ll find that Captain Tinza performed well, general.”

Racing up on deck, he found Captain Botanos peering north.

Rahm peered over the rail. Just visible above the water he saw several jagged mounds. Botanos might be able to safely steer his ship, but then his rash strategy might also accomplish just what their enemies desired.

“I don’t want them to have any forewarning.”

The huge ball went soaring into the night.

The crew cheered General Rahm. Botanos ordered them back to their posts.

The next night, under cover of darkness,

“I’m glad,” Rahm responded with less enthusiasm. “I’m glad all went well for you.” “Not all went well with you?” returned Tinza, her attitude becoming more subdued.

“How long will it take us to reach Petarka from here?” the general asked.

At Hotak’s insistence, the unveiling of his statue had been delayed twice. The first delay everyone understood, for the emperor had commanded five days of mourning for his son, to be followed by a funeral ceremony such as those reserved in the past only for emperors.

On the first day of mourning, horns throughout the capital sounded twice, then the bells in the central towers rang five times. At noon, the bells rang again and at that point all minotaurs stepped out of their homes and businesses and went down on one knee. There they knelt as riders bearing the warhorse banner rode slowly by. At intersections a trumpeter would blow two mournful notes, then the soldiers would move on.

At the ninth hour of the sixth day, mourners filled the area surrounding the palace grounds. Four soldiers stood behind copper drums flanking the open entrance. In the wide pedestrian square, a vast, wooden pyre had been built.

At the tenth hour, as the bells sounded, four legionaries carried out an oak platform bearing the body of Kolot. His axe lay propped in his arms. Blood stains still matted his fur. Sheaves of horsetail grass had been carefully arranged around him, and a shield lay at his feet. His fur glistened from the oils applied to make the body more flammable.

After climbing a ramp, the legionaries set their burden atop the pyre, each afterward slapping a fist to their chest in homage. Once they had descended, workers removed the ramp. Nearby, more soldiers, these carrying torches, awaited the signal.

At midday, the emperor’s family stepped forth from the palace. Dressed as they had been for the coronation, they now also wore a dark red sash from their right shoulder to the left side of their waists, the honor marking the death of a leader. Escorted by the Imperial Guard, they walked to the beat of the drums to a position before the pyre, where Hotak would give his speech.

Nephera stood by his side, face utterly emotionless. She had already given a eulogy at the temple on the first day of mourning and had also hired Tyklo sculptors to do a special statue for the Forerunners, one that would be mounted in a place of honor.

“Kolotihotaki de-Droka, warrior of the empire, officer of the Imperial Guard, beloved son, gave his life in the pursuit of his duty! He performed as we all hope to perform, sacrificing for the good of all! In his final moment, Kolot chose the ultimate course of action, and in doing so, he saved his own brother! “

Next to Bastion, Ardnor, helm in the crook of his arm, glared almost defiantly at the crowd. He had sworn publicly that he would capture or slay his brother’s killer. Some within the imperial circle thought that he spoke too publicly, as if he sought to deter any criticism for the chaotic actions leading to Kolot’s death.

When the flames had reduced the platform and its contents to near ash, Hotak and his family rose. Accompanied by their honor guard, they returned to the palace. Only when the imperial family vanished through the tall doors of the imposing edifice did the crowd rise.

As to the true cause for the second delay in the collossus’ unveiling, many had their suspicions. Some suspected Hotak waited to make his announcement about the empire’s goals of expansion. Other rumors held that Hotak would announce his eldest son as heir, something once unthinkable.

Behind the royal couple came Ardnor, followed by Bastion and a still-subdued Maritia. On this special day, the eldest son of the emperor dressed as an officer of the Imperial Guard. The suggestion that he wear such garb had come from his mother, who felt that any announcement of succession would be better accepted by the populace if he did not flaunt his position in the temple.

The glittering Crown of Toroth atop his head and carrying the majestic Axe of Makel Ogrebane, Hotak nodded to his subjects as he and his wife made their way to the platform set up before the veiled statue where other dignitaries, including the Supreme Circle, waited.

A hush swept over the crowd as Hotak raised the axe. Hotak nodded, quite satisfied by the adoration shown by his people. The bloody night of months before was a distant memory to most, the end of a long, bleak age of stagnation, and the beginning of a grand new era of conquest and glory.

He waved the axe high again, causing the crowd to roar.

“Today we unveil a likeness of your emperor, but it is not displayed here to set the fear of the throne into your hearts! No, rather it will stand here to remind all that now an emperor rules who serves the wishes and dreams of his people, who will see that his people take their rightful place as the foremost power in all of Ansalon—nay!—in all of Krynn!”

The tarps fluttered off, revealing a giant shaped in Hotak’s image. The statue wore the uniform of a legionary and in one hand held the helmeted head of a Knight of Neraka. The entire statue had been meticulously carved and exquisitely painted from sandaled toe to tip of the towering horns.

Trumpets wailed, and the emperor’s honor guard let out a war cry. A satisfied smile spread across the Lady Nephera’s face.

“For decades, the reign of Chot meant decay and disarray. He led us to new depravity and disaster —and all for his own corrupt gain. The empire stagnated. But no more! Ours is a vibrant race! Our population has more than tripled since our war with the foul Magori. We now threaten to overtake our ready land and resources. If we are to flourish, we must expand!” He took a deep breath. “It is our destiny!”

Hotak held it up for all to view. “You see here the future of the realm. No more will we be satisfied with meager colonies on the edge of the Blood Sea, planting ourselves on bits of rock throughout the Courrain Ocean.” Passing the axe to Bastion, he unrolled the scroll. “On this occasion, I am proud to inform you that an alliance has been forged, a pact with the lands of Kern and Blöde, lands awash in blood spilled by the Knights of Neraka, lands seeking our aid. In return, they give us the foothold on the mainland we have so long desired.”

Undaunted, Hotak added, “Kern, Blöde, and every land adjacent shall be cleansed of the Knights’ taint! The ogre kingdoms, weakened by war, invite our aid. Later, they will have no choice but to accept our continued presence in their territories—a presence that surely must, in the name of vigilance, multiply over time.”

Rolling up the scroll, Hotak turned solemn. “At this moment, the first ships are being made ready. Rumor tells of a distant war brewing among the humans and the elves. The Overlords, who have never dared face minotaur might, are said to be squabbling with one another, losing their grip over their domains. The time is at hand!”

As the first voices rose, Hotak cut them off with a wave of his hand. “This is a time of change akin to the First Cataclysm, when the old gods sank decadent Istar beneath the sea and ripped our homeland free from the continent! This is a time when traditions must make way for expediency, for necessity!”

“It comes!” hissed Ardnor, eyes bright, body bristling with anticipation.

The emperor drew himself up. “I cannot ignore the possibility that, in the midst of this glorious campaign to come, the crown might have to be passed on swiftly. If that happens, it must done with the utmost urgency, else we face catastrophe. Therefore, for the continued stability of the empire, I will hereby declare this day an heir, a successor to the throne!”

Although stilled by Hotak’s words, the crowd waited with eagerness.

Bastion’s name spread through the crowd with as much speed and consternation as it did through the royal family.

Behind him, Hotak’s eldest snorted furiously. Every muscle in his gargantuan body wished to act upon the brother who had stolen his birthright. Maritia quickly moved between her brothers and grabbed Ardnor by the arm. He shook her off, trembling.

The dark-furred warrior stood still as his father embraced him. “Why, Father? Why me?” “For the sake of us all,” the elder soldier murmured.

As Hotak backed away, Nephera also stepped forward and hugged her son. She said nothing to Bastion, however, and the embrace was a cursory one. When she had retreated, Hotak brought his chosen heir to the edge of the platform, pushing his son in front of himself and presenting Bastion to the crowds.

But Bastion did not respond, instead staring past his sister.

As Bastion basked in the moment, Nephera pulled her husband aside. Her countenance hid her true emotions, but the words she spoke for his ears alone revealed her deep displeasure. “We never agreed on this. Never even discussed it! Ardnor was meant to be emperor!”

Hotak waved at onlookers. “I thought long about it, but after this last debacle, I can’t permit such a thing. He’s been careless, overzealous, and without regard for honor. You favor him, but he’s proven himself unfit. I had to make my own choice on behalf of the empire. I judged my sons on their merits. Bastion is more deserving.”

His countenance darkened. “This is not about Ardnor, my love. This is about the empire and what is needed to see that it does not weaken again. I’ve done what must be done for our race—as I have since first I took up a weapon to defend it.”

“Our son—” Nephera began.

He left her alone, glowering. Nephera glanced around, looking for Ardnor. The high priestess could only imagine that he had departed as soon as it was possible for him to do so without drawing attention. After all the promises, she could not blame him.

Her eyes swept over the fawning crowd. She—more than anyone—had guided Hotak’s rise. To show his gratitude, he had rejected the temple over which she ruled, the advice she had wisely given, and the child she had nurtured from birth to be his successor.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Storm-Tossed

The ogre galley bulled its way toward the coast of Kern, its sails straining amidst the intense, unnatural storm. High waves rocked it about and threatened to engulf it. The crew struggled to keep the lines set and the square-rigged sails from ripping. Already two hands had been lost to the crashing waves.

Sequestered serenely in his cabin, Golgren sipped some of the fine red wine he had received among his parting gifts from Emperor Hotak. The minotaurs made excellent wine as well as axes and swords. Years of battling minotaurs made Golgren admire their craftsmanship, almost as much as he detested those who wielded them.

It had taken some doing for Golgren to convince his fool of a khan that this alliance would be a worthy one. There were rumors of late of some human—a female, if the tales could be believed!— seeking the goodwill of Blöde, which was why Golgren had worked quickly to add his brutish cousins to the pact. The ogre emissary envisioned himself as Grand Khan of a combined realm, one day. No more Kern. No more Blöde. And, in the end, no more minotaur empire.

Superior among all ogres—at least in his own opinion—Golgren understood the likes of Hotak and believed he could manipulate the new emperor to his advantage. Let the minotaurs think they would rise to the top of the alliance. When Golgren was finished, the beasts would be what they were always meant to be—slaves serving the ogre race.

Someone banged on the cabin door. Golgren barked a command in the crude language of his kind, and a moment later the simpleton who acted as captain squeezed his gargantuan frame through the doorway.

“Shut the door, fool!” the emissary said in Common. He insisted that those who served with him maintain some knowledge of Common to prove to minotaurs and other potential allies that ogres possessed more than rudimentary intelligence.

“Oars?” The thick brow of the other ogre furrowed. Golgren knew that in such storms, the captain would be reluctant to use the oars for fear they would break, and the ship would capsize without sails for balance.

The ogre captain grunted reluctant agreement then departed. Master of this ship he might be, but the Grand Lord could have his head if at all displeased with his obedience. Alone again, Golgren sat back and, wine in hand, dreamed of glory.

Chained to the oars, the dour minotaur slaves struggled to push the galley forward. Monstrous overseers wielding multi-barbed whips grunted orders only half-understood. On a big brass kettledrum near the aft, another ogre used his wide, thick palms to beat the rhythm of the oars.

The back-breaking work they had performed in Vyrox had been cruel, life-stealing—but any minotaur would have returned there if given the slightest choice. When they had seen the long, flat ogre galley and the tusked figures standing armed and ready, the defeated workers had sagged with fresh despair. Three days of forced marching had already sapped their strength. Whips had ended mutterings and urged the dumbstruck prisoners into the hold of the vessel.

Blöde and Kern had demanded no land. The ogres wanted something more precious as a sign of Hotak’s faith. Minotaurs were taught to slay one another in ritual combat, but when faced by outsiders, they traditionally united as one. To prove that Hotak valued their partnerships, the ogres had demanded of him minotaur slaves to work their own mines. They had demanded the unthinkable, that minotaur deliver minotaur into foreign slavery, and Hotak had done so secretly but with little hesitation. After all, these minotaurs were brigands, traitors, or worse.

The hull groaned. Water seeped through the oar ports, requiring constant mopping and bailing. One set of slaves, fighting to keep their oar in the water, suddenly fell back into their fellows as the straining timber cracked in two.

The overseers whipped them hard for their failure, then out of frustration whipped other slaves nearby. The minotaurs snorted in hatred. Chained and broken, they lacked the will to do more. The rowing continued on.

One among them cared not a whit about storms, whips, or even, if the vessel survived, his inevitable destination. Faros pushed and pulled at the oar as if no life remained in him. When ogres barked at him, he did not blink. When whips bit into his matted and bloody hide, he did not flinch. For all practical purposes, he might as well have been one of the walking dead.

His mind, however, was far more active than any guessed. In it swam visions of the people and events that had led him down this dreadful path. He saw over and over his father, mother, siblings, Bek, Ulthar, the Lady Maritia, Paug, and so many others. Faros relived the nightmare of his life endlessly in his mind.

Throughout it all, he recalled the voice of Gradic pleading with him to be cautious, to flee to safety so that some day he might return to avenge clan and kin. The pleadings pounded madly into his mind with the steady beat of the drum. In truth, the voice might have been that of his father, but the words demanding justice were Faros’ own.

Return? Could he ever hope to return, much less see justice done? It seemed so unlikely, so impossible. Ulthar, a hardened pirate and brigand, had survived Vyrox far longer, just to die when it looked as though he might at last seize freedom. Now, not only had Faros been condemned to serve the enemies of his people, but he was being sent to a land that made the mines of Vyrox seem a paradise by comparison.

Glossary

The Cataclysm, also The First Cataclysm — The catastrophic event when the gods sent the nation of Istar to the bottom of the Blood Sea and caused the minotaur kingdoms to be ripped free from the mainland.Challenger’s Roost — Disreputable tavern in Nethosak, where games of chance are played, including those in which body parts such as ears maybe forfeited.

chemoc, or Feeder of Chemosh — A rare, part feline creature, almost as tall as a horse at the shoulder, used by the minotaurs in combat sports. Chemocs have two heads, vestigial wings, and their tail is spiked. Related to manticores.

Chot Es-Kalin, also known as Chot the Terrible, Chot the Invincible, and Chot the Magnificent — The minotaur emperor who rose to power in 368 AC and ruled through the Summer of Chaos. Overthrown by General Hotak de-Droka on the Night of Blood.
cloud creature — A demonic assassin created by Nephera.common house — Multiple-dwelling building for low-rank minotaurs.
cooperage — Barrel-making establishment.
Courrain Ocean — The vast ocean east of Ansalon.
“cow” — Derogatory term. Ultimate insult to any minotaur. Minotaurs refuse to accept that they so closely resemble the said animal.
Crespos Es-Kalin — Eldest son of Gradic of House Kalin.
Crown of Toroth — Ceremonial piece recreating crown worn by legendary emperor who expanded minotaur maritime interests. Used primarily at coronations.
Darot — Militia fighter from Jarva.
dartfish — Thick, yard-long, deep-sea fish with pointed noses. Predatory. Considered a delicacy.
de — Designation in minotaur clan name that indicates clan originating from Kothas stock.
dekarian — Sub-officer serving under a hekturion. Generally commanding ten soldiers.
Delarac — Clan allied with House Droka.
Detrius — A grain merchant in the imperial city.
Dexos — Prominent House which supports Hotak.
Doolb — A captain in the Imperial Guard under Hotak.
Dom Es-Hestos — Son of Rahm Es-Hestos.
— Ship owned and commanded by Captain Azakde-Genjis. Dragon’s CrestDroka — Clan of General Hotak.
Duma — Colony located in the southern region of the empire.
Dus — Colony located east of Mito.
Dwarkyn — A captain of the Imperial Guard.
Eastern fleet — The largest of the imperial fleets, with general duties of maintaining security in all waters east of Mithas.
Edan Es-Brog — High priest of the Temple of Sargonnas.
Egriv — An apprentice at Master Zornal’s cooperage and a member of Forerunner faith.
A warship of the Imperium’s Eastern fleet.Emperor’s Pride —
Es — Designation in clan name indicating clan originating from Mithas stock.
The Eye — Large, iridescent pearl used in special ceremonies by the high priestess of the Forerunners.
Faros Es-Kalin — Nephew of Chot Es-Kalin.
Firemount — An iron-rich island just to the south of Kothas that has been colonized for mining.
First Master — Title given to Ardnor de-Droka as leader of the Protectors.
five — Number considered good luck by minotaurs. Any multiple is also considered to be lucky.
Flight of the Gods — Minotaur term for the departure of the gods after the Summer of Chaos.
Flying Gryphon Legion — Legion noted by its banner, a golden gryphon ascending upon a field of silver.

forerunners, or Forerunners — According to the tenets of the sect, those minotaurs, either ancestors or loved ones, who have died and now watch over their living kin. Also, those who follow the faith.
Frask — Aide to Senior Councilor Tiribus.Gaerth — Tall, slender captain of a mysterious ship aiding General Rahm’s escape.
Gar — A captain of the guard within the imperial palace.
Garsis — The former governor of Mito. Executed by Haab.
Gask — An island to the east of Mito that has been colonized for mining.
Genjis — Clan house of Captain Azak, represented by trident and ship symbol.
Gol — Island colony on eastern edge of the minotaur empire.
Golgren — An ambitious Grand Lord of the ogres.
Gorsus — Prisoner who died in Vyrox.
Goud — First Hekturian of the port city of Varga.
Gradic Es-Kalin — Younger brother of Chot. Father of Faros.
Grand Khan — Symbolic ruler of Kern.
Great Circus — The vast, oval arena, seating thousands, in which by rite of combat duels, emperors, and more are decided.
Grisov Es-Neros — Patriarch of House Neros and counselor to Emperor Chot.
— Minotaur ship plying the Courrain. Commanded by Captain Hogar.Gryphon’s Wing
Gul — A distant island colony, not to be confused with Gol.
gully dwarf — Sub-race of dwarves generally found living among squalor and having limited intelligence but some cunning.
Haab — Provost captain, later colonial governor of Mito under Hotak.
Habbakuk — The Fisher King. Benevolent god of the sea.
Halrog — A prisoner in Vyrox.
Han — A blacksmith on the isle of Tadaran. Friend to Mogra Es-Hestos.
Harod — A guard at the Vyrox mining colony.
Hathan — A remote island colony to the southeast of Kothas, location of a garrison.
hekturion — A legionary officer in charge of one hundred warriors.
Hes — An overseer of Master Zornal’s cooperage.
Hestos — A prominent House which supports Chot. Clan of General Rahm.
Hiddukel — A god, often called “the deal maker,” who trades in souls. Patron of greed.
Hila Es-Kalin — Wife of Zokun Es-Kalin.
Hogar — Captain of the ill-fated Gryphon’s Wing.
Holis — A member of Maritia de-Droka’s personal bodyguard.
— Rebel vessel.Horned God
horsetail grass — Grass with herbal abilities, revered by minotaurs as a symbol of strength and honor. Bound sheaves are tossed during processions or laid by the bodies of the dead at funerals.
Hotak de-Droka, also known as Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger — General of the legions and emperor following coup against Chot. Commander of the Rearing Horse Legion.
Hybos — High-ranking minotaur living on Kothas. Supporter of Chot.
Ilionus — Prisoner in Vyrox. Ilos de-Morgayn — First Dekarian of the port of Varga.
Imperial Guard — Elite legion whose chief task is to protect the emperor.
Imperial Legions — The military might of the empire. Each legion serves under a general. Noted by their banners, such as the Rearing Horse Legion, and their silver kilts with red tips.
Irda — According to legend, the beautiful, glorious ancestors of both the ogres and the minotaurs.

Istar — Powerful nation once located where the Blood Sea now exists. After its ruler, the Kingpriest, proclaimed himself the God above Gods, a mountain fell from the sky and plunged Istar beneath the waves. At the same time, the minotaur kingdoms were separated from the mainland, becoming islands.Itonus — Patriarch of House Droka.
Japfin — A prisoner working the Mines of Vyrox.
Jarva — Town located on Mithas, near the villa of the merchant Bilario.
— Rebel ship.Javelin
Jhonus — Protector skilled at hand-to-hand combat.
Jolar — Husband of Tyra de-Proul. Sea captain.
Josiris — Aide to Senior Councilor Tiribus.
Jubal — Raspy-voiced governor of the colony Gol under Chot.
Kaj — Prisoner in Vyrox.
Kalin — Clan house of Emperor Chot. Clan colors are crimson and black.
Kalius — A guard and wagon driver in Vyrox.
Kaz Dragonslayer — Legendary hero and renegade. Companion of Huma Dragonbane. Kazelati — Descendants of Kaz’s followers. Their hidden domain lies beyond the empire.
Kelto — Bodyguard to Grisov Es-Neros.
Kern — More dominant of the two ogre kingdoms. Blöde is the other. Ruled by a Grand Khan.
Kernen — Capital of Kern. Once the seat of High Ogre might, now ruled by the decadent descendents of that fabled race.
Kesk the Elder — Member of the Supreme Circle under Chot.
Kesk the Younger — Member of the Supreme Circle under Chot. Son of Kesk the Elder.
Kiri-Jolith — Bison-headed god of just cause. Rival of Sargonnas. Second most prominent deity among the minotaurs until the Flight of the Gods.

Knights of Neraka — Human military organization derived from the defunct Knights of Takhisis. Recognizable by their black armor, they seek the conquest of the continent of Ansalon. Sometime ally of the empire, especially during the reign of Chot.Kolotihotaki de-Droka — Youngest son of Hotak de-Droka, commonly known as Kolot. Officer of the legions.
Konac — Imperial tax master under Chot.
Kothas — Twin island of Mithas and nominally its equal. Major importer of meat to the empire.
Kreel — Militia fighter from Jarva.
Kroj — General and commander of the empire’s southern forces. Hero of the battles of Turak Major and Selees.
Krysus de-Morgayn — One-armed commander of Vyrox.
Kyril — Young officer with duty to capture or slay Rahm on the Night of Blood. He attempts to atone for his failure by entering the Great Circus.
lavender — Scent favored by female minotaurs. Used in perfumes and potions. Lord Chieftain — Title of ruler of ogre kingdom of Blöde.
Lothan — A member of the Supreme Circle. Appointed Head of the Supreme Circle following Hotak’s coup. Also one of the Forerunner faithful.
Luko — Drunken young minotaur whose ear is shorn off in game of chance in the tavern Challenger’s Roost.
Maelstrom — The vast whirlpool set in the midst of the Blood Sea. During the Summer of Chaos, it fell dormant.
Magori — Aquatic crustaceans who warred against the minotaurs during the Summer of Chaos.
Majar — Father of Luko.
Makel Ogrebane — Legendary hero and emperor who freed his people from slavery. See Axe of Makel Ogrebane.
Malk — A servant in House Dexos.
manticore — Monstrous, human-faced feline found in some rare parts of Krynn.
marine regiment — Contingent of naval fighters, as distinct from the crew of a warship. On imperial vessels, generally up to one hundred warriors.
Maritia de-Droka — Only daughter of Hotak. Officer of the legions and Imperial Guard.
meditation room — Secluded chamber in the Temple of the Forerunners where the high priestess communes with the dead and casts spells.
meredrake — Horse-sized, savage lizard used by ogres as attack animals and trackers.

Minotaur Empire — Sea realm consisting of some thirty-plus islands of varying population (Mithas and Kothas are the most populated) spread over the expanses of the Blood Sea and the Courrain Ocean. There are also a few minor colonies on the northeastern peninsula of the continent of Ansalon.Mirya — Ghost summoned by Nephera during outdoor ceremony. Mithas — Foremost of twin islands. Location of Nethosak, seat of the imperium.

Mito — An island colony that is third in population and the third largest builder of ships in the Minotaur Empire. Located three days east of Mithas. The chief settlement is the port city of Strasgard.Mogra Es-Hestos — Wife of Rahm Es-Hestos.
Morthosak — Chief city and capital of Kothas.
Mykos — Eldest son of Tyra de-Proul.
Nagroch — Subchieftain of Blöde.
Napol — Commander of the marine regiments serving Rahm.
Nemon de-Droka — Father of Hotak.
Nephera — Wife of Hotak de-Droka and high priestess of the temple of the Forerunners. Mother of Ardnor, Bastion, Maritia, and Kolot.
Neros — A prominent House which supports Chot.
Nethosak — Capital of both Mithas and the empire as a whole.
Night of Blood — The horrific night of carnage in which Emperor Chot and his family and those most loyal to Chot are struck down by the supporters of General Hotak.
Nilo — Prisoner in Vyrox.
Nolhan — First adjutant to the head of the Supreme Circle, Senior Councilor Tiribus.
Nymon — Noble seeking to fomulate opposition to Hotak’s plans to create hereditary rule.
Olia — Headmistress of the imperial kitchens and cousin to both Zornal and Quas.
One True God, also One God — A deity rumored to exist on the mainland. Orcius — Commander serving Hotak.
Paug — A warden in Vyrox. Also known as “the Butcher.”
Petarka — Mist-enshrouded island far to the east, beyond official boundaries of the empire. Utilized by followers of General Rahm.
Polik the Pawn — Corrupt emperor from the time of Kaz the Dragonslayer. Kept in power by the secret manipulations of the red dragon Infernus.
processing station — Dangerous, fiery location where the ore from the Vyrox mines is prepared for shipment and use to the empire.
Protectors — Martial arm of the Forerunners, noted by their black armor with gold insignias and the maces they generally wield. Commanded by Ardnor de-Droka.
Proul — A prominent House which supports Chot.
provost captains — Military liaisons appointed as acting governors under Hotak.
Pryas — Protector officer.
Quar — Obscure island colony just beyond official boundaries of the empire.
Quas — Overseer of Master Zornal’s cooperage. Cousin of the master cooper.
Rahm Es-Hestos — Commander of the Emperor’s elite Imperial Guard under Chot. Later, rebel leader against Hotak.
Rearing Horse Legion — Legion commanded by Hotak, noted for its banner—a black, rearing warhorse on a field of red.
— New name given to former imperial warship captured by rebels.Red Condor
Res — Second Dekarian of the port city of Vargas.
Resdia — Daughter of Gradic Es-Kalin. Younger sister of Faros. Rogan — First Mate of the Javelin. Brother of Tyril.
Ryn — Militia commander in Strasgard.
Ryog — A prominent House which supports Chot.
Sardar — Cousin of Ulthar. Pirate and brigand killed in accident in Vyrox.
Sargas — See Sargonnas

Sargonath — Small colony on the northeastern peninsula of Ansalon created as a sign of alliance by the empire, the Knights of Neraka, and the Kazelati after the Summer of Chaos. Its chief resource is timber.

Sargonnas, also called Sargas, Argon, and the Horned God — Chief deity of the minotaurs before the Summer of Chaos and the Flight of the Gods. Consort but also rival of Takhisis. The red condor is his symbol. — Imperial vessel escorting supply ships to outer colonies.Scorpion’s Sting
Scurn — First mate of the ill-fated Gryphon’s Wing.
sea dragon banner — Banner of the imperial fleets.
— Former imperial ship commanded by Captain Tinza.Sea Reaver
Selees — Lush, southern island noted for historic battle.
shadow sellers — Disreputable merchants plying their wares in the torchlit areas of the Great Circus. They will sell anything.
Ship Master — Appointed head of a clan’s maritime affairs, overseeing most sea merchant functions.
State Guard — Military force with primary function of overseeing police duties in all major settlements. Their armor is gray.
Strasgard — The port city of Mito. A chief shipbuilding facility. Summer of Chaos — Minotaur term for the Chaos War, when the gods fought over Krynn.
Supreme Circle — The august governing body under the emperor. Consisting of eight members, they deal with the day-to-day functioning of the realm.
Tadaran — An island colony in the northeast of the imperium. Hiding place of General Rahm’s family.
Takhisis — Powerful, manipulative dark goddess who is constantly seeking control of the mortal plane. Sargonnas is her consort, but also her rival.
Takyr — Sinister ghost serving Lady Nephera.
Targonne, Morham — Leader of the Knights of Neraka.

Temple of the Forerunners — Central temple of the dominant religious sect in the empire, following the Flight of the Gods. Its tenets preach that those who have passed on watch over their loved ones left behind. Their symbol is a bird ascending over a broken axe. The main temple, in Nethosak, was formerly used by the priests of Sargonnas.Tengis — Distant tropical colony noted for foodstuff such as breadfruit.
Thorak — An island near Thuum.
Thuum — A wooded island colony on the southeastern edge of the imperium.
Tinza — Female captain of the Sea Reaver, former ship of the eastern fleet.
Tiribus de-Nordmir — A Senior Councilor and head of the Supreme Circle under Chot.
Tohma — General and member of the Supreme Circle under Chot.
Toroth — The emperor instrumental in expanding minotaur maritime interests beyond the Blood Sea. See Crown of Toroth.
Tovok — Young rebel fighter.
Tremanion — Prisoner in Vyrox. Tupo — Youngest son of Gradic Es-Kalin. Younger brother of Faros.
Turak Major — Southern island. Location of historic battle.
Tyklo — A House whose tradition in stonework has made them one of the most respected clans among the minotaur. Chief artisans of the throne.
Tyra de-Proul — Imperial administrator of Kothas, appointed by Chot.
Tyril — First mate of Scorpion’s Sting. Brother of Rogan.
Ulthar — A prisoner working the Mines of Vyrox. A tattooed, former pirate and brigand from the distant colony of Zaar.
Ursun — A prominent House which supports Hotak.
“Uruv Suurt” — Ancient ogre words meaning “minotaur.”
Varga — A small but significant port in north Mithas used as a link between the far northeastern colonies and those in the innermost Blood Sea region.
Veria de-Goltyn — Chief Captain of the imperium’s eastern fleet under Chot.
Vyrox — A harsh mining community, worked mostly by prisoners, located in Argon’s Chain. Iron, copper, lead, and zinc are some of the minerals found here.
Warhammer Point — A harsh island to the east of Mito that has recently been colonized for mining.
Xando — A general of the imperial legions. Stationed on Kothas.
Yarl — Prisoner in Vyrox.
Zaar — A remote island colony that lost contact with the minotaur empire for several generations and has only recently been rediscovered. Home of Ulthar.
Zeboim — Volatile dark goddess of the sea. Zemak — The Colonial Governor of Amur under Hotak.
Zen — Governor of Amur under Chot.
Zephros — Heavyset elder of Clan Droka and rival of Itonus. Patriarch of Droka under Hotak.
Zokun Es-Kalin — First cousin of Emperor Chot. Ship Master of House Kalin’s merchant fleet.
Zornal — A master cooper in Nethosak.
Zygard — An ogre settlement near Sargonath.