As Ansalon struggles for survival
during the War of Souls,
the empire of the minotaurs is
about to enter a new Golden Age
 … or perish forever.

Ardnor followed.
He alone knew that they had nothing to fear
from the sea, not now.
The power of the temple watched over him.
A power that Nephera’s son now saw
that no one, not even his father,
nor all the empire, could possibly match.

RICHARD A. KNAAK

Volume
I
NIGHT OF BLOOD

Volume
II
TIDES OF BLOOD

Volume
III
EMPIRE OF BLOOD

TIDES OF BLOOD
©2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

Dragonlance, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Matt Stawicki
Map by: Dennis Kauth

eISBN: 978-0-7869-6194-8

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www.DungeonsandDragons.com

v3.1

For my sister, Arlene King,
who has followed my adventures
since the beginning.

THE STORY THUS FAR …

As the War of Souls spreads, General Hotak takes command of the minotaur empire in a bloody coup. He slays the corrupt Chot, then orders death to all those tied by blood or oath to him.

Not all suffer the wrath of Hotak. The ghosts and the sorcery of Hotak’s wife, Nephera, high priestess of the Forerunner cult, combine to hunt all the usurper’s enemies, but some manage to escape. Rahm, a general of the Imperial Guard, swears to avenge Chot. Faros, Chot’s nephew, is mistaken for a servant, and arrested and sentenced to the mines of Vyrox, where he will toil under the whip of the cruel overseer, Paug.

As his enemies die and scatter, Hotak plots a grand invasion of Ansalon. He makes a pact with the most unlikeliest of allies, the ogres—historic enemy of the minotaur race—forging the new alliance with the ambitious ogre leader Grand Lord Golgren.

In Vyrox, the oppressed workers revolt. Trapping Maritia, Hotak’s daughter, who is visiting the mining camp, the workers appear on the verge of victory, until legionaries led by her brother, Bastion, arrive. Faros manages to kill Paug, but most of his friends are slain, and he himself is recaptured.

Rahm returns to assassinate Hotak, but Nephera discovers his plot. Ardnor, her eldest and the lord of the black-helmed Protectors, gives chase. Rahm flees. There are tensions and rivalries between the legionaries and the Protectors; and when Rahm attacks Ardnor, Kolot, trying to save his brother, perishes.

Faros is taken aboard Golgren’s galley. To seal the pact with the ogres, Hotak has sold his own kind as slaves, to their ancient enemies. And now, as the War of Souls nears its climax, and the invasion of Ansalon grows imminent, Hotak reigns supreme.

But in the ogre land of Kern, an obscure slave makes a desperate escape.…

He had managed to survive a week since his escape, or was it a week? The passage of time had long blurred for him. He did not even know how long he had been enslaved here. Two years? Three? Maybe as many as five?

Only fragmented rumors passed on by those who better understood the guards’ brutal tongue had given him or any of the others a sense of the enormous changes sweeping through the world. He knew this much: The continent of Ansalon was at war; an enigmatic and charismatic figure known only as Mina was gathering armies under her banner in the name of some unnamed god. The Knights of Solamnia, respected adversaries of the minotaurs, had been forced to retreat, and retreat. Well-known places, such as Sanction and Solace, were said to either be preparing for war, under attack, or already conquered. Some of the Dragon Overlords were said to be missing. In his own homeland, among the multitudinous islands east of Ansalon, the usurper who had condemned him and so many others to this living hell continued to build up legion after legion in preparation for their planned invasion of the mainland.

Yet these and other tales from the outside had meant little to him in the long run. With the other slaves, he had toiled and dreamed of escape, never thinking the latter truly possible.

Then the guard had turned his back at just the right moment. A sudden primal urge made him swing the shovel with all his power, cracking the huge overseer’s skull. In the heat of the moment, he broke his shackles and ran, ran into the parched wilderness surrounding the camp, and continued running for endless miles.

For seven days he had managed to hide from the eager bands of hunters. Three times they nearly caught him, but he learned how to crouch in slime and mud and how to stay clear of them. The search parties grew fewer, turned in different directions.…

Now the ogres were on the hunt for him again.

They had been out late last night, their torches fluttering around the harsh, rocky landscape like huge fireflies. They had scoured the barren region in their search for the stubborn escapee, but their torchlight gave them away at a distance. It had taken some risky maneuvering in the dark—the dry hills and ancient ravines treacherous enough in daylight—but he managed to stay ahead of them until they had finally tired of the dark chase.

Now, with first light, they had returned.

He counted more than twenty, each in teams of two or three. The ogres were tall, husky, tusked brutes with dirty mops of black hair and shaggy, flea-infested brown hides. They wore only gray, stained, goatskin kilts like his own and most carried huge, thick clubs, well worn from use. A select few wielded whips with pointed metal tips, which they used to urge along monstrous, savage lizards almost the size of horses. The meredrakes acted as bloodhounds for the ogres, tasting the air with their slavering tongues and sniffing the trail with their long snouts.

All this for one minotaur.

All this for Faros.

Crouched behind the crumbling side of a sandstone rise, his scarred, bovine countenance hunkered low, Faros judged their progress. None of the search parties headed toward the narrow cave he had discovered in the predawn hours. If he turned and raced back to the cave, the minotaur suspected that the ogres might pass right by him, even with the eager meredrakes seeking his scent. After so much time as a guest in the domain of the sadistic Sahd, Faros had learned more than a few ways to throw the tan-and-green reptiles off their mark. His luck might still hold.

Confident that he could not be observed, Faros wended his way down the unstable slope. The tenacity of the ogre search parties, after a week of intense hunting, surprised him. But with little else to occupy their off hours, the ogres from the mining camp made a sport out of hunting down and killing the occasional escaped slave. Now and then, their cruel taskmaster even turned his back and allowed one or two slaves to sprint for freedom, just so that he and his minions could track them like doomed game.

Sahd must be furious with the time they are taking! Faros thought bitterly. And he hates it when they lose a quarry. How many heads would he crack? How many wretches did he whip to death daily, just to satisfy his sick impulses?

He had no sooner had thought of Sahd, his great enemy, when in the distance, he heard the familiar harsh bark that sent chills down the spine of every slave worker. When Sahd commanded, slaves died, died horribly, even if the reason was sometimes whimsical.

Faros peered warily over the edge. Sure enough, the gargantuan figure of the ogre leader stood below him, fortunately at a safe distance. One of Sahd’s meaty hands clutched his long, wicked whip. Sahd turned to berate one of his underlings, and suddenly Faros found himself staring directly into his horrific visage. He ducked down, shivering, but no one had glimpsed him.

The fiendish overlord of the ogre mining camp haunted Faros’s nightmares. The minotaur’s ragged brown fur failed to hide the long, deep scars that crisscrossed his back, arms, legs, and chest—in fact, nearly every part of his body. Many were the product of Sahd’s own nine-tailed whip. Sahd’s flat, squashed countenance, reminiscent of a fleshless skull, would twist into an expression of evil pleasure whenever he had an excuse to punish Faros or another minotaur slave. Sahd loved his foul work. He was worse than the worst guards at Vyrox—a distant memory now.

Vyrox. Faros gazed up. Thick, dark smoke filled the sky; this northern region of the kingdom of Kern was a volcanic area. Sahd’s Camp—that was the only name by which it was known—lay nestled between a pair of high, black peaks created by some long ago eruption of titanic proportions. The desolate location had, on his first day there, made Faros almost yearn for Vyrox, the brutal mining camp run by minotaurs, where he had slaved before coming here. In Vyrox, he and thousands of others loyal to the previous emperor—Faros’s uncle, Chot—had been condemned to servitude; their backbreaking labor provided the raw materials needed to fulfill the usurper Hotak’s grandiose ambitions. Yet, despite the harsh conditions in that place, at least Vyrox was a strategic base of the homeland; at least in Vyrox prisoners could hope and dream, however deluded their dreams might be, of one day regaining their place in minotaur society.

Here … across the sea from his beloved, betrayed homeland … here in the realm of ogres, there was never the slightest illusion of hope.

He watched as a subordinate nervously knelt before Sahd. The lesser ogre grunted something that made the large ogre leader laugh harshly. Sahd pointed west with his whip then marched out of sight in that direction. The other ogres meekly followed.

Stirring, Faros abandoned his position. The diamond-hard rocks cut even his heavily calloused feet as he descended, but Faros paid them no mind. The sandals he had worn when first arriving in this place had long ago deteriorated, and the ogres felt no need to supply their slaves with footwear. The minotaurs were expected to work until they died, and then they were replaced by newcomers.

The thought of being dragged back to Sahd’s hell urged Faros on. No, he wouldn’t be dragged back; they would torture and bleed him to death on the spot. Good—he’d rather die than kneel under the ogre’s whip again.

He was barely subsisting on what little life existed in this barren area. He caught and ate the tiny, spine-crested cousins of the meredrakes, but they crumbled in one’s mouth and tasted like ash. The prickly green plants found near shaded spots were better, but rarer. Had he been in minotaur lands, Faros would have been more resourceful, but he felt lost, a stranger here. The continent of Ansalon did not welcome his kind.

And so, mostly he hid among the rocks, doing nothing and seeing no future beyond sundown. Escape had been his chief goal and now that he had temporarily succeeded, Faros had no plans. All he had was the thirst for vengeance that boiled within him.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, the minotaur skirted its edge toward the west. His long ears remained taut as he listened for any sounds. Narrow, dark eyes watched warily under thick brow ridges. When he felt certain that it was safe, he moved swiftly, darting to the next protective scattering of rocks.

A horn blared from the east. Planted against a twisted outcropping, Faros snorted grim satisfaction. If the horn was any indication, the hunters were heading away from his vicinity. He started to relax; his sanctum was only a short distance farther.

But then movement from atop a jagged rise caught his attention. He threw himself into a shallow indentation and, holding his breath, watched as two ogres appeared from the north.

A pair separated from the main party. One of the ogres strained with the worn leather leash of a hissing meredrake, the huge, toothy maw of the reptile snapping as if seeking fresh meat. The two ogres peered down from their high vantage point. They were not yet looking in his direction, though. Faros followed their gazes, at first seeing nothing but the dry, windswept hills.

Then something came hurtling around a huge rock, something running desperately.

Another minotaur. Loose links of chain still attached to broken fetters dragged behind him, raising a slight cloud. Likewise, broken chains dangled from his manacles, whipping him as he ran. Red welts covered his thick snout.

A moment later, a second, more bedraggled figure followed the first. The second escaped slave stumbled badly every time he put pressure on his left leg. He had also lost part of one horn. Both bore the ugly scars of many beatings and whippings. From this distance, Faros didn’t recognize them, nor did he care.

Above, the ogres eagerly shouted something in their course tongue. One raised a curled goat horn and blew it hard. The shrill blare echoed throughout the hills.

Faros swore. The renewed zeal of the hunting parties had not been due to him but rather to this sorry pair. He silently cursed the two minotaurs for heading west as he had, instead of the obvious retreat to the east, the direction of the sea and the island empire of their own race. Never mind that, as far as he knew, no slave had ever made it there, never returned home.

Perhaps this pair had intended to elude the first pursuit, circle around from behind the hills, and then make their way to the Blood Sea, but now they were as good as trapped.

And because of them, Faros, too, was facing a dire fate.

Now he could not return to the cave, at least not immediately. He didn’t dare move in that direction. Let the pair run; let the ogres follow. All he had to do was let the hunt play out. He would backtrack; he knew where he could be safe for a few hours.

Then, as Faros watched, the first minotaur suddenly stopped in his tracks. He looked back and shouted something to his hobbled companion. That one in turn glanced over his shoulder. After an anxious pause, the limping figure finally returned his gaze to his comrade, shaking his head frantically.

His expression grim, the first one did an astonishing thing; he started back toward the slave camp. With a shrug of his shoulders, his injured companion did his best to follow. They seemed oblivious to the looming threat of the ogre posse.

What had just taken place, Faros did not understand. But if it led the escaped slaves and their ogre pursuers farther away from his secret sanctum, then so much the better.

He looked up and saw that the two ogres had disappeared.

Cautiously continuing along the winding path, Faros finally neared the cave entrance, hidden by brush and shadows, that he had stumbled on by chance. The entrance was curved and narrow, so much so that he scraped his back and chest on the diamond-hard rock when entering. Even if the slit of an entrance were noticed, no ogre would think to search in this tight place.

His muscles taut, a vein in his neck throbbing, Faros laboriously squeezed his way inside. The low ceiling forced him to walk at a crouch. Farther in, there was room enough for him to stretch out a bit. The almost-oval chamber had a dank, musty smell, and old bones indicated that it had once been the lair of some wild creature. Still, the conditions were ideal compared to what he had grown accustomed to as a slave. In the ogre mining facility, most of the slaves simply slept outdoors, huddled up against each other, regardless of their unwashed smell, suffering the night elements as best they could. The only housing structures in the camp were crude, wooden huts for Sahd and his overseers.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Faros discovered a stranger had violated his hiding place.

The minotaur lying on the ground moaned and tried to slide back away from him, but his right arm and both of his legs did not seem to move as they should. He had been brutally injured, no doubt beaten by heavy, wooden clubs. Sahd’s overseers knew how to punish a slave and yet leave just enough life in him for a day’s work. It looked as though someone, however, had gone too far with this pathetic soul, perhaps the extreme taskmaster himself.

Even his face had not escaped punishment. His snout had been crushed in, and though it had healed, it would forever boast a severe twisted look. Many of his teeth had been broken or were missing; one eye was shut from heavy bruising. Burned into his left shoulder was the humiliating brand the ogres used for all their minotaur slaves—including Faros—a pair of broken horns within a triangle.

“Kos-Kos-Kos.…” the stranger repeated over and over to some invisible figure, looking beyond Faros.

Faros had no idea whether Kos was the injured slave’s name, that of one of his friends, or some other incomplete word. Faros did not care what the fool slave was saying. All he knew was that by finding the cave, and babbling so loudly, the newcomer was putting him in jeopardy.

It would be too much trouble to drag the minotaur out—and some distance away. That meant that Faros himself had to leave, as soon as possible. He knew of another cave up a hill some minutes away. It was a less-protected refuge, but better to go there than to wait here until the meredrakes tracked down this one’s obvious blood trail.

As Faros started to edge away, the injured minotaur gasped, “P-please … S-Sahd … no.…”

At mention of the dread taskmaster’s name, a chill ran up Faros’s spine. He glanced indifferently at the broken form of the slave.

“No …” murmured the stricken figure, drifting off. His body twitched from obvious pain even as he became unconscious.

Faros snorted, then continued outside. The slave was obviously delirious and already as good as dead. Faros was only concerned for himself. The failed revolt in Vyrox had taught him the folly of worrying about anything but his own hide.

A dry, oppressive wind arose. Grating dust filled Faros’s nostrils as he headed away. There was no sign of the other escapees or their pursuers. But he had to hurry.

As he stumbled toward the next rocky hillside, he heard movement from the north. Faros ducked behind an outcropping. Off to his right, an ogre was creeping warily toward him—no, past him and toward the cave. But the dull creature was sniffing the air, like one of the meredrakes, and was obviously unsure.

Faros held his breath as the ogre, club ready, looked around. The broad, flat nostrils flared. Tusked mouth opening in anticipation, the dust-covered figure moved closer to the cave.

As Faros watched from nearby, the ogre passed the entrance at first without noticing it. Then the ogre suddenly whirled, club raised, with its bestial gaze fixed on the narrow passage.

Faros could only guess that the injured minotaur had spoken or moaned. Either way, his movement had signed his death warrant.

The huge ogre now peered inside the slit mouth of the cave then entered cautiously. A sudden indecision overwhelmed Faros, and despite his earlier determination to stay hidden, he reached down and took hold of a jagged rock the size of his fist.

As he neared the mouth, however, he heard the brutal grunt of the ogre, then a slight sound that might have been the stricken minotaur. A heavy, final thud followed.

Rock held tight, Faros quickly slipped away behind some rocks. He had barely found his position when the ogre, the head of his club dripping red, squeezed through to the outside.

Faros eagerly swung his makeshift weapon, failing to effect a killing strike, but managing to hit his foe hard on the temple. With a savage grunt, the ogre flattened against the hillside. The rock itself cracked in two, tumbling from Faros’s grip. Blood stained one side of the ogre’s piggish face, but other than slowing him for the moment, the strike appeared to have no great effect.

Before the huge warrior could bring up his club, however, Faros crashed into him. Despite the force of the collision, the larger, better-fed ogre controlled the advantage. He kept Faros from goring him then struck the escaped slave hard in the muzzle.

They twisted around and around. The ogre pushed Faros back and managed to raise his weapon. The minotaur ducked back as the heavy club came within inches of his snout.

“F’han … Uruv Suurt!” growled the ogre, yellowed teeth bared. “D’kai f’han!”

Despite his long captivity, Faros understood little of the ancient language spoken by his savage overseers. But he knew “Uruv Suurt” was the Old Ogre term for minotaur; as for the rest, he only had to look at the ogre’s furious red orbs to get the meaning. The ogre had no intention of bringing back a live prisoner.

The beastman raised his club again. Faros surprised him by stepping forward, a maneuver that brought an expression of pleasure and anticipation to the ogre’s grotesque countenance.

The club came down hard.

But Faros stepped aside so fast that his adversary was thrown off balance. Momentum sent the club and its wielder flying. The club struck the earth, raising a small cloud of dust.

Faros threw himself at his off-balance foe. He hit the ogre hard then slammed his foot down on the handle of the club. The force of his kick tore the weapon from the ogre’s grip.

Before the brutish figure could recover, Faros kneed him in the stomach. Doubled over, the ogre reached for his weapon.

The minotaur seized it first. He brought it up quickly, catching his opponent under the chin. Bone cracked, and with a harsh cry, the bleeding ogre fell backward with a heavy thud.

Eyes crimson, nostrils flaring, Faros stepped over his fallen foe. The ogre struggled to rise but was too stunned. Faros brought the club down with all his strength. He did it again and again, long after it was clear that the ogre was dead.

At last sated, Faros dropped the splintered club. He had not stalked the ogre because of any foolish thought of either saving or avenging the wounded minotaur slave. Only an overwhelming desire to kill one of his tormentors had driven him to this act.

His wits returning, he dragged the body away to conceal it. Faros dumped it in a shallow, winding ravine beyond the hill. The other ogres would have to search long and hard to find the corpse.

Faros returned to the scene and did his best to remove any signs of the struggle, including the blood shed by the ogre. Soon, all that remained was the beastman’s club. Faros almost discarded it, then decided better. He glanced at the cave then eyed the direction in which he had last seen the other escaping minotaurs. The bloodlust rose in his throat.

Faros started off in the direction of the pair of escaped slaves. Their trail was easy to find and the second trail—left by the ogres pursuing them—was clear, following closely behind. The two ogres alone might not have bothered Faros so much, but along with their prints were those of an impressively huge meredrake.

The vengeance-seeking minotaur pushed on. Faros ranged to the side of the tracks, climbing up the nearest hill. He realized where the path would lead the hunters and prey, and knew a swifter route.

It did not take him long to catch up. As he might have expected, the two minotaurs had gotten lost in the maze of hills while searching for the third member of their party. They had entered a cul-de-sac, a narrow passage halting at the edge of one of the highest, most foreboding black hills. To ascend the sheer cliff face, the pair would have needed to sprout wings.

The ogres and their massive, scaly hound had them backed into a corner there.

The minotaur with the troubled leg was down on one knee. Even with the aid of his companion, he could not seem to rise and aid the fight. The two escaped slaves were breathing rapidly, not only exhausted but also aware that they were facing the final defeat.

In mangled Common, Sahd had more than once told the minotaurs that death was the only sure thing awaiting those who attempted to flee. To illustrate that harsh code, he often had the guards bring back only the heads of the fugitives, which he then displayed on pikes as a lesson to the rest. That did not deter others from trying to escape, though, for in truth, the slaves had very little to lose.

Faros almost left the foolish pair to their dismal fate. They deserved to end their lives in the belly of the meredrake for such feeble failure. Others had lasted far longer, even made their way to freedom—or so he’d like to imagine. Yet these two had only managed to get this far.

But then the smell of the blood on his club reminded him of more urgent desires. It compelled him to think of something that made him bare his teeth in a mockery of a rare smile.

He shifted, edging around and closer, eyeing the meredrake’s handler, a broad-shouldered beast tugging hard to keep the lizard under control.

One of the slaves noticed Faros, and looked his way in astonishment.

The ogres followed the slave’s gaze.

Gritting his teeth, Faros clutched the club tightly and acted.

The lizard’s tongue lashed out, tasting the air and the scent of trapped, fearful meat. The handler, warned by his comrade, looked toward Faros—just as the angry minotaur landed atop the straining meredrake.

The thick, roughly scaled body softened his fall, but not enough to keep him from losing his grip on the club. The weapon spiraled down, nearly striking one of the escapees. That one bent and grabbed it with a flicker of hope in his eyes.

The lumbering meredrake roared in surprise. It writhed, ripping free from its handler as it tried to bite the thing on its back.

One reckless swipe of the long, powerful tail bowled over the ogre who had been holding the leash. The other ogre, with a heavy, well-worn human sword in one hand, tried to get near enough to thrust at Faros, but the meredrake’s flailing kept him at bay.

Faros struggled to hold on, managing to wrap his arms around the ridged throat of the huge lizard. The meredrake tried to shake him off, whirling and lunging, but to no avail.

Now the minotaur slave who had retried the club pushed into view, brandishing the weapon. The fresh distraction kept the beast from fully concentrating on the rider clutching his back.

Imagining his arms wrapped around Sahd’s throat, Faros squeezed his arms together, applying all his strength to the constricting pressure. Its breath coming out in harsh rasps, the slavering meredrake turned, stumbled, and shuffled away laboriously.

A lash struck Faros on the shoulder. The handler had gotten to his feet and now joined with his comrade to try to deal with the unwanted intruder. He whipped savagely at the minotaur repeatedly, the hooked metal tips biting into Faros’s flesh. The pain coursed deep, but a part of Faros knew this pain and found it almost welcome and familiar. He had long experience with the incessant torture meted out by Sahd and his cruel minions.

The meredrake continued to spin and turn, seeking desperate escape from the choking grip. Faros increased the pressure, forcing the giant lizard around until it faced its masters.

In a quick series of twisted moves, the minotaur switched his grip to one arm and pushed himself up slightly. Making a fist, he struck one of the creature’s eyes with all his might.

The blow crushed in the monstrous reptile’s fiery orb. A gush of blood and other sticky fluids drenched Faros’s hand and a noxious stench assailed his nostrils before he reached back down and renewed his embrace of the monster. The meredrake shrieked, leaping about and snapping wildly in agony.

Growling some fathomless command, the ogre handler repeatedly whipped the stricken creature. He gestured toward the minotaurs, indicating that the beast should turn around and face the slave with the club who was advancing, waving the club menacingly.

Driven mad by its wound, and Faros’s choke hold, the enraged lizard lunged at the ogre and bit down hard on his head. Arcing claws opened the beastman’s chest, spilling fluids and organs.

At that same moment, Faros jumped off, rolled away, and narrowly missed being slapped against the rocks by the huge tail.

The other ogre stubbornly thrust at the beast, trying to help his fallen comrade. Tearing free the mangled head, the meredrake tossed it aside. The creature then turned toward the second ogre and hissed, its good eye fixed venomously on the beastman.

The minotaur with the club was ready to attack, but Faros waved him away.

The surviving ogre now realized that he was in a bad situation, and he made a fatal mistake, turning and trying to run away. That was the signal the huge predator needed. Having torn apart its handler, it was eager to dispose of the second ogre.

The meredrake looked around at the minotaurs with what might have passed for a sneer, and then, with incredible swiftness, it chased after the fleeing ogre, leaping and bounding away.

Dropping Faros’s club, the minotaur who had tried to come to his aid turned to help his fallen comrade. Without hesitation, Faros grabbed his weapon back, and without so much as a glance over his shoulder started off at a jog.

“Who—?” began the uninjured one.

Faros turned to glare at him, cutting off any questions, any further sounds at all.

Leaping atop a rock, he observed the meredrake bounding after the ogre, up a nearby steep incline.

Faros tucked the club under his arm and started after.

“Valun can’t climb that!” insisted the less injured minotaur.

“Then you two stay here.”

An argument almost ensued, but then the one called Valun grunted, “I-I’ll make it, Grom.”

Faros had already begun his ascent. He made it halfway up the slope then paused at a ledge.

Grom was following, virtually dragging his companion along behind him. The expression on Grom’s blunt features was half exertion, half fury.

“At least … at least give him a hand up!” he gasped.

Putting aside the weapon, Faros pulled Valun up onto the ledge. Grom joined them then asked, “What do you think you are doing? It would be better to flee in another direction—”

At that moment, a scream echoed through the hills. The short-lived cry was punctuated by a bestial hiss.

A hint of immense satisfaction tinged Faros’s reply. “I wanted to be sure that ogre wouldn’t be rescued. Now, when the others come back and find what’s left of the bodies, they’ll just think it was a typical incident. The meredrakes, they sometimes do turn on their masters without warning.”

“What about the meredrake?” asked Grom. “Won’t he come after us?”

“That one’ll be busy for a while,” Faros said with grim humor.

Faros gripped his club and, ignoring the two scrambling to keep up with him, turned east and renewed his climbing.

“Prepare to board!” shouted the burly Magraf, captain of the imperial warship Donag’s Shield, gesturing to the vessel’s combined company of marine fighters and crew. Five gold rings dangled in his left ear, one for each rebel ship captured or destroyed thus far under his command. Everyone on board understood that he wanted this day to add a sixth. “Give no quarter!”

Another voice immediately joined his, the tone more impressive yet less defined by bloodlust. “Belay that! Officers to be spared for questioning! That is an order from the throne!”

Whether or not they understood Bastion, it was impossible to say, for the assembled force roared a bloody challenge to the enemy as soon as Captain Magraf ceased speaking. The eagerness for battle shone in every expression, every set of crimson-tinged eyes.

The choppy waters of the cloud-enshrouded Courrain Ocean tossed the ship violently up and down, but relentlessly they maneuvered toward their prize. The weather had proven unpredictable, with what had been calm waters only an hour before now threatening to wash some warriors off the deck. Despite that, the crew stood fast, each fighter hoping to be the first to board.

In the distance, two other ships from the empire flanked another rebel vessel, this one already consumed by fire. Bastion saw a number of minotaurs leap from the burning vessel into the raging waters. A few who jumped did so wreathed in flames.

The son and heir of the emperor stood at the head of the Shield’s boarding party, a steadfast, unusually black-furred figure among a horde of minotaurs mostly of varying shades of brown. His calm, arresting presence added to the air of authority he radiated by his lineage. Bastion stared down his long, narrow muzzle at the smaller, single-masted ship they were closing in on. The rebel minotaur crew had no choice but to fight and die.

“Minotaurs should not be warring against minotaurs,” he growled, but nobody around him paid attention to the remark.

“First grapplers!” the captain suddenly shouted. “Away!”

Sailors tossed grappling hooks attached to thick lengths of rope, across to the enemy vessel. Two missed their mark, but others caught hold. The grapplers pulled with all their might.

A flight of arrows suddenly rained down on the Donag’s Shield. Most of the fighters and crew ducked safely, but some of the grapplers were caught by surprise. Three fell with shafts in their necks and chests. Their lines slipped over the rail.

In response, the imperial archers loosed a heavy flight of arrows upon the crippled foe. Several aboard the rebel ship toppled over. The grapplers pulled the two ships closer.

“Heave, you laggards!” shouted Magraf. The ships were now nearly nestled side by side. To those waiting by the rail, he shouted, “Be ready!”

The ships groaned as pure muscle effort brought them close. The rebels gathered on deck under the command of a stout, young minotaur who did not appear to possess the rank of captain.

No Rahm, then, Bastion realized with some disappointment. Rahm was a true leader; he would be with his men, ready to die.

Then, as the two vessels bumped against one another, Bastion put thought aside. Only action counted now—the battle and survival.

Even before the hulls rubbed together, Bastion and the marine fighters were leaping over the rails. Nearly a hundred strong and wielding sharpened axes and long swords, the marine fighters moved as one cohesive entity, their silver, padded kilts with the sea-green stripe across the top, identifying their proud unit.

The skilled fighters plowed into the dispirited, confused rebels. Grunts and cries and the clash of steel filled the air.

Bastion drove his blade through the stomach of one sweat-soaked rebel who loomed twice as broad as he. Hotak had made certain that all four of his children trained at combat and dueling strategy, and among them Bastion had always been the best; he fought giants, and two or three at once, with equal poise.

A curved ax blade brushed across his shoulder, scraping off some skin and fur, and leaving a wound that stung him but otherwise did not slow his charge. Bastion lunged at the ax-wielding attacker, driving him back. The rebel’s eyes revealed his desperation, but still he tried to fight bravely. Bastion rewarded his bravery with a quick thrust to the chest that ended his misery.

He caught sight of the barrel-chested young commander, just as the latter ran through an overconfident minotaur from the imperial force. Then Bastion saw the heavyset figure abruptly withdraw his blade and edge away from the struggle, toward the aft.

Jumping over the rebel he had slain, Bastion pursued the enemy leader. Just then another sailor blocked his way, his ax swinging wildly within inches of Bastion. The black-furred minotaur stumbled back, nearly slipping on the moist deck.

The rebel sailor swung viciously. His ax bit into the wooden planks near Bastion’s sandaled feet, sending splinters flying.

“I know you,” growled his adversary. “Saw you before when I served in the legions! You’re his son! You’re the son of One-Eyed Hotak!”

“If you surrender now, your life will be spared,” Bastion replied calmly.

The mariner, the two rings in his ear jingling crazily, laughed. “Spared? Ha! Spared to be sent to the mines!”

He brought the ax around in a swift, savage arc, intending to behead Bastion. Eagerness made his swing go wide, though, and—worse for the sailor—the miss dragged him forward.

Bastion darted under the other minotaur’s arms and buried the tip of his blade in the latter’s throat.

With a gurgle of protest, the sailor dropped his weapon and collapsed. His dying expression was frozen in bitterness and disdain.

Bastion raced in the direction where the rebel commander had disappeared. The ship upon which they fought had once been part of the imperial fleet, and he knew its design. The cabins of the officers would be somewhere below deck at the very rear.

He vaulted down the wooden steps, at the bottom stepping over the corpse of one of his own loyal men, likely slain by the officer he sought. The black minotaur slid forward cautiously; death might lurk behind any of the seven doors in this narrow corridor.

At the end of the corridor was the door to the captain’s cabin, decorated by a gold kraken symbol. From within, he heard what sounded like someone ransacking the room. As Bastion reached the door, however, he was given away by the creaking plank floor.

All the noise inside the room suddenly ceased.

Bastion took a breath—then heaved himself through the door.

He collided with a grunting, shadowed figure. The two fell backward, crashing against a round oak table anchored to the floor. The table collapsed under their combined weight, sending them sprawling. Both lost control of their weapons.

Thick fingers sought Bastion’s throat. He shoved up with his right hand, pushing his adversary’s head back.

“You’ll not get them!” snarled the stout young rebel.

One hand jerked away from Bastion’s neck, enabling him to twist around for advantage. Bastion strained to remove the other.

Then the rebel’s free hand came back into view, gripping a dagger.

Bastion froze in fear.

Suddenly, the other minotaur gave a violent start. His eyes rolled up and his tongue fell loose over one side of his jaw. The dagger looming above Bastion dropped harmlessly to the floor.

He slumped on top of the imperial leader.

Someone immediately hauled the corpse off him. Bastion made out two of his fighters, each pulling the dead rebel by a leg.

“Just in time. Are you all right, my lord?” asked one of them.

“W-well enough,” Bastion returned. “I would have preferred to have kept the leader alive for interrogation … but I thank you.”

One helped him to his feet. Bastion turned to face the disaster that the rebel had wreaked inside the cabin. Charts and papers had been swept from every shelf, every nook. Drawers had been emptied. Most of the parchments and maps had been thrown into a pile. Bastion glanced at the round, brass oil lamp swinging from the center of the ceiling. A few seconds more, and the cabin—all these documents—would have been an inferno.

“How goes the battle?” he asked.

“Just moppin’ up, my lord. Most of the trash’re dead.”

“I want this vessel searched from top to bottom. Any surviving officers are to be separated from the other prisoners.”

“Aye, my lord.” The two minotaurs rushed off.

Bastion crouched, picking out some of the charts. One showed the eastern shore of Ansalon, the Blood Sea region, and, to the east, the large twin islands of Mithas and Kothas, the heart of the empire. On Mithas, the imperial capital, Nethosak, was highlighted.

Other maps revealed various obscure parts of the realm beyond the Blood Sea, including Thorak and Thuum, in the southeast, and the agricultural colony of Amur, far to the northeast. Such charts were the standard ones found aboard any minotaur vessel. Several had fresh notations, updating the ports and colonies, such as the new mining settlement of Firemount in the east.

One after another, Bastion tossed the maps aside. Wait—a frown touched his bovine features. He reached for the last two he had discarded. Something had belatedly registered with him.

A careful perusal of the first revealed nothing of importance. Bastion picked up the other map and spread it out.

A faint marking on the far right edge caught his attention.

Interesting. Someone had scribbled in the name of a small, insignificant island then had attempted to blot it out. After much effort, Bastion’s sharp eyes puzzled out the name.

Quickly, he rolled up the chart then dashed from the cabin. On deck, Bastion found Magraf directing the roundup near the bow. The rough-hewn officer had a fresh streak of blood across his chest and his muzzle was plainly bruised on one side. Yet he proudly sported a sixth ring in his ear.

“Captain! How soon can we be off and underway?”

“Two hours, maybe. There’s lots to do and we’re still debatin’ whether to sink or save this ship. It’d be—”

“Sink it, and fast. It will only slow us down, and at the moment, we need to move with all possible speed. We need to return to the nearest imperial port and fortify ourselves for a long trip.”

Rings clattering, Captain Magraf eyed him. “You found something, my lord?”

“I believe I have.” He unrolled the chart and showed the mariner the designated place. “Do you recognize it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that island. And something is rubbed out there—but what does it mean?

“It may be the key to ending this rebellion once and for all.”

“Truly?” Magraf bared his teeth. “Then I’ll be givin’ the command for each hand to double their efforts! Leave the dead behind. We’ll be away from here in an hour, no more, my lord!”

He turned away, shouting for the first mate. Bastion started to roll up the map, then took one last glance at the almost illegible name that hinted at the culmination of this struggle.

“Petarka …” he whispered. “Petarka …”

Grom knelt by his dead companion’s side, drawing with his finger some invisible symbol on the corpse’s chest.

“It’s a bird,” Valun quietly explained to the unsympathetic Faros. “Grom’s father was a priest of Sargas … once.”

Grom arranged the mutilated body so that it looked at peace. “He never gave up hope that the Horned One would return to his children. Trained me in all the proper rituals.”

Faros snorted. “A calling without a future.”

“Aye, it is that.” The minotaur with the ruined muzzle continued to administer to his fallen friend. “We can bury Sephram now.”

Faros had not told the two escaped slaves that Sephram had still been alive, albeit barely, when he had discovered him in the cave. As far as the pair knew, their friend had already been slain by the ogre, and Faros had fortuitously avenged his death. He had not bothered to correct any misimpression they might have.

“Surprised he made it this far,” Valun muttered ruefully. “Surprised any of us did.” The one-horned minotaur gazed up at Faros. “If not for you, we, too, would be dead.”

His bold, if unplanned, rescue of them had elevated Faros in their eyes, made him their unequivocal leader. The two were already looking to him for every decision. Faros disliked their admiration, for it dredged up old and forgotten memories of his family, his clan, his honor. Hotak’s assassins had slain his entire family. His father, dying in his arms, had entreated him to do whatever was necessary to avenge his family; so far Faros had failed miserably. He cared nothing about the two minotaurs—or honor.

“There’s a ravine a short distance beyond,” he told the two. “Better than trying to dig through rock with your fingers.”

Grom took a small bowl of water and sprinkled a few drops of it over Sephram. “As you command,” he said.

Snorting his contempt, Faros tried to change the subject. “Who was … Kos?”

It was not Grom who answered, but Valun. Somewhere along the way, he had picked up a small, dry piece of bone and, with an edged rock, had begun scratching the sides of it. “Kos? Ah Kassion, you mean. He was … he was the supposed mastermind of our escape.”

“What happened to him?”

“Sahd.”

Faros grunted.

Grom seemed reluctant to give details. “Sahd was waiting. The master himself was there. You should’ve seen the beast’s grin!”

“I have seen it.” How many times had he looked up while being whipped to see the chief ogre, one tusk bent to the side, grinning evilly at the entertainment? His macabre countenance only added to his aura. Long ago in the past, some desperate slave had managed to thrust a hot torch stump into Sahd’s face, burning away his nose and giving him a perpetual crushed sneer. Rumor had it that the dried head of that slave sat upon a shelf in the taskmaster’s quarters, holding a place of honor.

“We were almost past the boundaries of the camp when they caught us. Sephram fell first. Sahd laughed and grabbed the leash of a muzzled meredrake, brought the lizard up just close enough for it to reach ’im with the talons.”

“Kassion went back to try and save him?”

“Aye. Took a guard’s lance and drove it into the lizard’s throat.” Grom looked proud. “Slew the creature with one blow. That’s something, at least.”

Grom and Valun had managed to rescue Sephram, but Kassion’s bravery had cost him. One of Sahd’s guards had struck the minotaur in the side with a club. A second club shattered one knee. A third brought the trapped slave to the ground.

“We could hear them beating away at him while we ran away. Over and over, the same dull thud, thud, thud … long after it should’ve been enough. Long after we were too far away to hear.”

Silence reigned for some time, then Valun, looking up from his crude carving, asked, “Why’re you still around here? You got out days ago. We thought you were dead, or safe.”

“I was planning to run for the coast.”

“Why wait so long? Why stay where the ogres can easily find you again?”

Instead of answering directly, Faros marched over to where Grom still knelt and seized the crude bowl he’d fashioned days ago from rock. Faros had taken a stone and, much like Valun was doing with the bone, had worked the piece until it could hold a reasonable amount of liquid. “You’ll need more water,” he said.

“I’ll go—” Valun started to say, but Faros left the cave abruptly.

He had discovered a freshwater spring by pure chance the first night after his escape. In pursuit of a gaunt, blunt-nosed lizard—which he’d caught and eaten still squirming—Faros had stumbled across the water streaming from a rocky hillside covered with small, sharp plants. The plants had a tart aftertaste that offset the rank lizard, while the water was bitter, full of minerals. But he had drunk it as if it were the finest wine. It allowed him to live, and that was all that mattered.

The night wind was as dry and abusive as that in the daytime. Nothing about this hard region offered any relief, save the spring. Faros looked in the direction of the mining camp, seeing the faint glow that resulted from not only torchlight, but the pools of molten earth pushed up by the constant activity of the earth. Some day, this area would explode with violent eruptions in much the same manner as had devastated parts of Vyrox generations earlier. The Vyrox catastrophe had destroyed a promising settlement and the lives of several hundred minotaurs, whereas Faros would be happy for any explosion here that would wipe out Sahd’s little kingdom, even if it meant sacrificing every slave.

Why’re you here? Valun’s question suddenly burned in Faros’s mind. The minotaur grunted in consternation. He admitted to himself that he didn’t know the answer to that vexing question. He reached down and threw some water into his face.

If the ogres did not find him, eventually the harsh conditions here would kill him. Only death awaited Faros here. That was certainly true. He could have been caught and torn apart by the meredrake or beaten to a pulp by the ogres.

The thought of perishing in such a grisly manner did not bother Faros very much.

With the bowl full, Faros made his way to the cave. He pushed through the narrow entrance, keeping the bowl before him.

Grom and Valun had picked up Sephram’s body, preparing to carrying him out of the cave, but Valun’s injured leg made him of little help. Faros set the bowl aside, seized Valun’s end of the burden, and aided Grom in carrying the corpse out of the cave. It was hard going, and Valun stayed behind when they continued to the ravine.

“We should do more,” Grom muttered, after his comrade had been tossed into the chasm, and they had tossed a few clods of dirt and some rocks in after the dead minotaur. This—after Grom had whispered one last prayer to a deity no longer able to hear it.

Faros started back. Grom reluctantly turned and followed.

Valun sat against the far wall of the cave, near the small fire they permitted themselves. The bone he had been working on was now covered in symbols representing various images of minotaur life—a ship, a fish, an ax, two figures intertwined. His skill showed, but Faros cared less; these were things better forgotten.

“Tomorrow morning, we split up. I’m staying. you both leave.”

“But we owe you our lives!” insisted Grom, unconsciously making the condor symbol over his heart. “Honor demands—”

“There is no such thing as honor.” That finished it for Faros, but the other two looked shocked and tried to continue.

Valun pushed himself up. “You should come with us!”

“Aye, three can survive better than one!”

Faros snorted. His new companions had devoured his meager store of food supplies in one sitting. He would have to spend the next day hunting whatever he could, thereby risking discovery.

Grom caught his glance toward the scraps—the green hides of the plants covered the mangled bones and black feathers of the scavenger bird Faros had lured to death with bits of lizard a day earlier. “Honor demands that we stay, at least until we can replenish your food supply! Tomorrow we’ll hunt together.”

Three minotaurs hunting—that would be a great attraction for the ogres and meredrakes. Besides, the newcomers were amateurs, and they could never hunt enough to keep them all going strong, not here. Faros almost repeated his demand that the two escapees leave this place in the morning … but then he saw the pleading in their eyes, and he had a sudden impulse to voice the notion he had been playing with in the back of his mind.

There was one place where there was an ample supply of food could be found. By himself, Faros had only been able to scrounge an existence, but with two additional sets of hands.…

“We’ll hunt, all right,” he replied with grim satisfaction. “We’ll hunt from the hunters.”

The world lay at his fingertips … at least a fairly accurate representation of it.

Hotak de-Droka, former first general of the legions and for the past several years high emperor of the minotaurs, surveyed the relief map spread out on the vast table in the command room. Here he had the geography of the imperium laid out in clear, simple form. In addition to the many charts and maps covering virtually every wall, there was a special map laid out on the long table that stretched from end to end in the room. This large map was centered on the islands of Mithas and Kothas—the heart of the realm—but also included most of the islands to the east that made up the other territory of the empire, and to the west the vast rippling continent of Ansalon. What belonged to the minotaur realm was colored gold, and what Hotak intended to annex or conquer was colored green.

The west was dotted with so much green that it looked like a thick forest of trees.

Clad in full legion regalia, with his breastplate bearing the black warhorse silhouette of his former regiment, Hotak swept back his long, purple cloak and briefly surveyed the map—along with a stack of missives piled on the map—with his one good eye. Years before, he had lost his left eye routing an ogre attack on a now-abandoned colony on Ansalon’s shore. One of the missives came from a now-close ally who sprang from that same race. Ironic—but then, Hotak had learned long ago that yesterday’s enemy was likely to be tomorrow’s friend. In his violent rise to emperor, many of those once loyal to his side had fallen to his ax.

Gray touched Hotak’s brown fur near the temples and throughout his mane, and his brow remained perpetually furrowed, though once, long ago, he had seemed good-humored for his kind. Since seizing the throne from his predecessor, the corrupt Chot, Hotak had aged greatly, but he accepted that as one price of leadership. His reflexes had in no way slowed, and he felt his wits were as quick as ever. Especially when he was in the company of his wife, and her mood was equable, he felt almost youthful.

Hotak straightened, satisfied that all was in readiness according to the latest reports. “What say you, Captain Doolb?”

“An accurate depiction of our situation, I believe, your majesty.” Far grayer than the emperor and built low and stockier, Doolb kept his breastplate and red-tipped leather kilt as immaculate as his commander’s. Like Hotak, he had set his crested helm on the tabletop, the better to discuss matters of state.

Every portion of the large relief map was detailed according to the grand plan. Figurines carved with expertise marked ships, legions, and ports of importance. A single green, wooden vessel represented the five warships cruising near Thuum. Two stalwart minotaur warriors—each five inches tall and wielding axes—stood guard over Mito, the shipbuilding colony to the east of Mithas. Several other such figurines were spread throughout the island empire. Four stood on the shore of Ansalon, just below the ogre kingdom of Kern, facing the west—the realm of the elves, Silvanesti. Another ship, brown and accurately depicting a galley, sat in the Blood Sea, heading toward the continent.

The warrior figurines appeared in different colors; one of those standing sentry on the Ansalon shore was in black and deep crimson. These represented the various legions, each vital to the war for expansion. The colors of the figurines enabled the emperor to keep up to date with their strategic movements.

On Mithas, in addition to three painted figures (each standing for veteran armies of several thousand minotaur soldiers), four plain, uncolored warriors were positioned near the capital of Nethosak. These indicated the newest legions, the latest brigades formed under Hotak’s dictate that all young, physically fit minotaurs in the kingdom must enter military service. When the new legions were seasoned, and when the names and colors of each were designated, a member of his staff would replace the plain figurines with suitable colored miniatures.

Hotak eyed a set of two ships stationed in the northeastern waters of the Courrain. One of these miniature vessels was painted gold. The two were pointed toward a lone black ship. “Bastion’s fleet should have caught up with the rebels by now.”

“Likely, but it’ll be some time before a ship can bear any news back.”

“He—the news—moves too slowly. I will need Bastion elsewhere before long.” The emperor’s gaze flickered to Ansalon. The four warrior figures faced Silvanesti, but the elven kingdom was a blank expanse. Even Kern and Blöde had been covered with two minotaur figures—one for each land—and, spread out over miles and miles, there were also three looming ogre figures with clubs, representing the followers of the Grand Lord Golgren. Against this unusual alliance stood a single human figure painted black. The lone human figure portrayed those Knights of Neraka who had not switched sides and, therefore, remained the enemy.

“Nothing from this part of the world … from Galdar, either?”

Captain Doolb shook his head. “Nay. Only what is in the message from your daughter.”

Picking up this most recent missive, Hotak read again the words of Maritia, who commanded in his name the minotaur legions who had come ashore on Ansalon and awaited his orders.

Hail to Thee, Hotak I, Emperor and Father!

With this note are more detailed pages regarding the status of the legions and our material needs. I pen this separately so that you’ll read it immediately, as I know you desire news.

In regard to the matter of the imperium’s alliance with the dark knights who follow the strange warrior woman, I report at last a face-to-face meeting with the human female called Mina and the minotaur Galdar, who was our first intermediary from her.

The female is slight, even for one of her race! Thin, childlike in build, and with a small crown of red hair; one could almost mistake her for a youth of her race. I cannot guess her age. She spends most of her time either on horseback—no doubt to make up some for her disadvantage in height and girth—or in her tent, supposedly in communication with her mysterious deity.

The other humans and creatures following her treat her with the utmost respect, and outwardly that would seem to give her authority that attends her wherever she goes, whatever she says. However, I have already noted that she is rarely seen alone, even when simply riding among the hills. Galdar is almost always her shadow.

To look at Galdar is to see nothing exceptional. He is seven feet tall, thus average in height for a male of our race. His fur is an ordinary brown and his features are rough. Galdar is not built feebly, but neither has he the look of a champion of the Great Circus. Only his eyes give him any distinction, for though they are basic in shape and color, they have about them an almost unblinking fierceness … and they are always trained on this Mina. The gossip that they are lovers is silly, yet there is a bond between them of some strange sort.

One other thing worth mentioning about his appearance: Despite rumors to the contrary, he has two good arms, not one. It is whispered that Mina gave his lost arm back to him through the will of her god, but those who claim to have witnessed it are few and of questionable trustworthiness. And likely they are cronies of Galdar, contributing to his scheme to build up the mystique of Mina.

As you requested, I have tried to learn as much as possible about him, this minotaur who fights not with his kin but alongside a human girl; but facts are elusive. He is an outcast, of that I am now certain, Father, but as to from what clan or for what reason, I have been unable to discover even during intimate conversation. Bits and pieces of talk make me believe he might possibly be a member of House Orilg or Morgayn, but this is pure speculation on my part. He wears no identifying insignia, and parries simple questions about his past. I include further on in my supplemental pages certain comments he is said to have made in order that you may add them to your investigation of him.

You asked for a determination of the relationship between the human and Galdar. To be blunt, he must be a military expert of impressive intelligence; and he is surely using her as a puppet by which to pull the strings of so many humans. I have heard the battle plans for Sanction, discussed the movements of our own forces both near Silvanesti and in the ogre lands, and his ideas are sound, albeit in some regards fantastical. This Mina talks of strategy like a hardened veteran of the legions, something she could not possibly be, yet Galdar is always at her side, whispering in her ear. He says little aloud, expresses the occasional surprise at her comments, but surely he is the one who actually oversees the master plan. I have seen him at practice and with the soldiers, and he would make the Warhorse Legion itself proud to have his skills, if not his character.

It was you who first remarked when we received his initial message that even humans had the good judgment not to follow a young, untried female. While this might be true, I have to add that ordinarily it is even less likely that they would follow a minotaur leader. This Mina is most definitely charismatic, but by herself she probably would have ended up in a ditch long ago. Galdar clearly makes use of her ability to attract others to her, while I believe he is the power behind the throne, so to speak.

Despite this deception, an alliance with them is still an attractive proposition. No enemy force has been able to stand up to them and, in fact, many former foes have joined their cause. If the promise made of Silvanesti’s shield falling stands—and I know Mother’s visions confirm this—then Galdar and his pawn surely wield power capable of swiftly advancing our own goals.

Tomorrow we are going to meet with the Grand Lord Golgren for the final time before turning south and following your orders. I will apprise you of our progress as soon as possible afterward.

Written this 14th day of.…

The emperor’s fist slammed down against the table’s edge. The figurines on the map bounced and several toppled over. Even some of the charts covering the walls rustled as though from a breeze.

“Four weeks ago! She wrote this four weeks ago. Again, too slow! I need to know what is happening, not ancient history! I need to know if Bastion has caught up with General Rahm or not! I need to know how the knights still in the ogre lands are regrouping, and I need—most of all—I need to know more about the elves’ current situation, especially in regards to that damned shield!”

Doolb reached out and patiently set about upturning the pieces on the map, starting with those nearest him. Not looking at his commander, he quietly said, “I understand, your majesty.”

“Of course, you understand.” Hotak’s wide nostrils flared. The old scars on his face blazed a vivid red. He clutched a ring on his left hand, five blue gemstones in platinum, a very rare metal. The ring had been given to him more than two decades before, at his wedding, by his beautiful bride. “But … does she?”

“I couldn’t answer for her, sir.”

“No, but by the old gods, she will! I’ve had enough of patience!” The emperor went to the door, flinging it open. Two startled sentries came to attention. “Prepare my horse! Summon the Captain of the Guard! I’ve orders for him! Now go!”

Doolb joined him. “Your majesty! What do you intend?”

“What else?” Hotak angrily put on his helmet. “I go to find out what I don’t know. I go to see the high priestess of the Temple of the Forerunners! I go to see my beloved wife!”

Despite the growing threat of a storm, word spread and the citizens of Nethosak hurriedly turned out all along the immaculate stone main street of their city, dipping their horns as the emperor and his bodyguard rode past, some even going down on one knee. Others waved from the rounded, open windows on each side, tossing down small, bound sheaves of green horsetail grass, the minotaur symbol of indomitable strength. Stony-faced members of the State Guard, noted by their plain, gray armor and metal and cloth kilts, kept the gathered throng from growing too boisterous.

Hotak only vaguely acknowledged his subjects with a wave or a nod; his mind was elsewhere. Twenty-five warriors from his personal bodyguard surrounded him, watching warily for any disrespect.

“My lord,” an officer close to Hotak had the temerity to say, “is this wise? The people see you passing. She should come to you.”

“She hasn’t, and I will speak with her.” Thunder overhead echoed his determination.

“As you command, then, my lord,” returned the other minotaur quickly, anxious to avoid his master’s ire.

The heavens grew increasingly turbulent as the imperial party neared the vicinity of the temple. The thick, green-gray storm clouds roiled as though they were living creatures in the throes of agony. Many of the soldiers tightened their grips on their axes and swords as they approached their destination. Those who were not of the faith whispered of late dark rumors about the temple.

A band of minotaurs clad in white, hooded robes were heading toward the procession from the opposite direction. Tightly packed together, they moved ponderously down the side of the street. Each kept his or her head low as they passed the imperial party, making no acknowledgement—thereby virtually insulting the emperor.

The officer in charge almost called out to arrest them, but Hotak put a hand on his arm. “Let them be on their way.”

“But their rude manner!”

“Do as I say.” The emperor’s tone indicated he would brook no argument.

At that moment, the procession turned a corner. With military precision, the helmed figures steered their steeds around until at last they were on a short street where Hotak and his retinue beheld the Temple of the Forerunners.

Once, a generation ago, it had been the Temple of Sargas—or Sargonnas as most minotaurs called him. The God of Retribution, of Fire … the Condor Lord. Since the first minotaurs had chronicled their history, Sargonnas had been the chief deity of the nation. It had been he who had plucked their ancestors from the decadent, dying High Ogre civilization. So that they would forever be a race distinct from their hapless descendants, Sargonnas had transformed the ogres into his own image, making them his children in face and body as well as soul. Throughout their turbulent history, the minotaurs had clung to his words and teachings, for the god had told them from the very beginning that the horned race was destined to become the rulers of the world. That proud knowledge had kept them alive through a vicious, seemingly endless cycle of defeat, slavery, and natural disasters.

But then … Sargonnas had deserted them.

It was believed that the gods had warred with a mighty force, and though victory could have been theirs, they had decided to leave the world for another plane, leaving the mortal races to fend for themselves. Each and every god had simply vanished from the face of Krynn; the followers of Sargonnas were thus abandoned.

Among the minotaurs, there remained constant argument as to what exactly had happened to their deity. While some claimed he had departed with the other gods, many insisted he had perished earlier, sacrificing himself for his children at the end of the war against the Magori. Some prayed for his return; most believed he was gone forever and praying was useless. Whatever the truth, the fact that Sargonnas no longer watched over them could not be denied. Too many years—decades—had passed without a sign.

The void had left the minotaurs at a loss. Even as they rebuilt their shattered empire and spread across the Courrain Ocean, the emptiness haunted them. The temples of Sargonnas had all but emptied of priests. Those other deities the minotaurs had respected, such as Kiri-Jolith, bison-headed god of just cause, suffered similar fates. Many temples turned into abandoned ruins.

Then had arisen the Forerunners.

Hotak stared at the massive edifice before him. At first glance, the building looked little different than it had when, as a young warrior, he had attended some of the last ceremonies overseen by the reigning high priest of Sargonnas. The long, barred wall still surrounded the temple grounds, but the cast-iron condors atop each metal pike had been expertly removed. The vast, domed marble structure with its rectangular center loomed inside the walls. The huge condor icon that had hung over the wide, stepped entrance had also been removed and had been replaced by the symbols of the new religion: the pale, silver, spiritlike bird—a rare type of hawk it was said—flying up to the heavens from a nest formed by an ax broken at the middle of the staff.

Since the emergence of the Forerunners, a major change had been made on the grounds through which worshippers passed. Gone was a good portion of the sculpted lawn that the previous occupants had created. Huge, magnificent oaks had been ripped out in a single night of renovation. Whole rows of bushes and shrubs had become kindling. Now much of the front was covered with a huge, intricate series of cryptic mosaics. During the large, outdoor ceremonies, the faithful knelt upon the stone walkway with their muzzles barely touching those mosaics. Each of the countless pieces had the many symbols of the new order engraved upon them.

Sentimental for the old days of Sargonnas, Hotak secretly hated the changes in the temple. His wife’s devotion to the religion, and to the ghosts who watched over it, had been useful to him during the coup. Nowadays it seemed a source of constant friction, for it was minotaur tradition that religion and politics did not mix. Yet the Forerunners had grown in number and mystique, until it was as much cult as religion; it reached into all corners of minotaur society, encroaching upon his authority.

He was determined to curb the growing power of the religion, yet it was tricky, because his wife was the chief priestess.

He would give her a show today. Upon his orders, twin lines of armed legionaries were already at the temple waiting for him, flanking the path to the temple doors. All held high their weapons to honor their lord and commander, axes and swords that formed a canopy ascending the wide steps leading up into the building. At various points, huge red banners with the black warhorse silhouette at the center fluttered in the swelling wind.

“The people must know who is in command here,” Hotak remarked quietly upon arriving. The Forerunners were important to the stability of his realm, but they were not the throne itself.

The emperor and his retinue rode slowly up to the building, their horses’ hooves clattering on the stone path. Louder thunder from the darkening sky added to the commotion. At the temple entrance, soldiers took the reins of Hotak’s steed as the emperor dismounted.

When his bodyguard contingent started to follow him, Hotak waved them back, saying, “There’s no need for protection here.”

As he reached the top steps, the massive bronze doors, the Forerunner symbols etched massively in their center, swung back, and Hotak did not even break stride as he entered the cult’s sanctum.

Hooded figures clad in white robes with gold trim bowed as Hotak passed. The emperor looked not at them, but rather at the huge statues standing in niches along the inner walls. They stood more than twice his height and had been carved with remarkable intricacy. Yet, they seemed surreal, more unearthly than lifelike. Each represented a minotaur, but minotaurs with weirdly obscured features, shrouded forms, and ethereal postures.

Carved under the strict supervision of Lady Nephera, the figures looked poised to come alive, to move and speak. They were the illustrious dead ones, worshipped by the Forerunners. They were those who had left their mortal shells, whose mission now, so the high priestess said, was to guide the living from the world beyond.

They were the true Forerunners.

“Damned spooks …” Hotak absently muttered.

“Ill words chosen to describe our own kin and loved ones who have passed on and now do us the honor of watching over us,” commented a feminine yet commanding voice ahead of him.

She stepped from a shadowed hallway, almost giving Hotak a start, her long sable robe trailing behind her, giving her the appearance of gliding on air rather than walking on the floor. Her robe was elegantly trimmed in gold, from top to bottom. The hood of her outfit draped well over her horned head, leaving just part of her face visible within. Brooding black eyes stared out over a slim muzzle covered in chestnut fur. She offered a slim, tapering hand that Hotak readily touched to the tip his own muzzle.

“Nephera, my love.”

Flanking the high priestess were two monstrous figures clad in black breastplates and helms with deep nose ridges. Each held in one gauntleted hand a long, heavy mace with a crowned head. The expressions of these two dark warriors were that of the utmost devotion to their mistress. They would obey her slightest command and die for her if necessary. Neither showed even the least inclination of acknowledging the emperor’s presence.

Such was the fanatic zeal of the temple’s militant wing, the Protectors.

Hotak’s good eye narrowed warily. Though he resented the Protectors hovering over them, he put a pleasant expression on his face for his wife. “I meant no disrespect, my love.”

Nephera’s dour countenance did not change as she stepped closer. The Protectors moved as if they were puppets attached to her hips by invisible strings. “I sometimes wonder, my husband. This time you bring an army to my steps, as though threatening my flock with arrest if they prove too concerned for my well-being.”

Hotak removed his helmet, gaze sweeping so quickly over his mate that she likely did not even notice his scrutiny. Much closer now, he saw further changes in her appearance of which he did not approve. Nephera’s eyes had sunk deeper and her flesh appeared somewhat gaunt. A red tinge surrounded her eyes, and she seemed nervously on edge. Despite that, she also radiated a dark strength that Hotak had rarely sensed even on the battlefield. And in spite of all that, she was still beautiful; he noted that as well.

“Since we’re being blunt, my dear, let me say that it’s been some time since we’ve seen one another. My missives are not answered, and our chambers have not been honored by your presence. Naturally I miss you, and naturally I miss your wise counsel.”

“So you came in person this time … and with a column of soldiers preceding you. How caring.”

He gave her the smile that had, years ago, won her heart. “I am, after all, the emperor.”

His smile was met with an inscrutable expression that hinted of displeasure but also, he hoped, of the old fondness. “And I am high priestess of the largest sect in all the imperium, one which has backed your regime to the fullest, yet here you treat me like an enemy of the state! If I had not come out now, would you have had your fine soldiers tear through this building and drag me out in chains?”

“Of course not. You misunderstand me, my dear. I wouldn’t do any such thing. My regal entrance in no way is meant to undermine your authority here, but my own leadership position demands of me a certain image. The ranks of soldiers … they’re more a show of the esteem I hold you in—an honor guard, you might say. The emperor visits the temple, and all that. After all these years, you should know how I feel about you … and your religion.”

She would not be mollified. “Should I? It seems everything I do for you accounts for nothing! It was the power I wield, the might of the temple, that helped you rise to emperor, my love! My eyes were your eyes, my ears yours!” With a gesture, Nephera indicated the giant specters lining the inner walls. “They are as responsible for your victories as your own troops.”

She was being more difficult than ever. It was hard for Hotak to check his annoyance, but he tried to keep his tone even. “And your sentinels have been remiss of late,” he countered, mildly. “The reports sent to me by Maritia arrive with more haste than those from the temple. There have been vital engagements, shifts in strategy, and I know nothing of their consequences, my love. Only your sentinels can tell me what I need to know, only you can help me.”

At first, his wife said nothing. The emperor suddenly felt a chill. Hotak glared around at the statues, as though daring them to speak.

Lady Nephera had turned her head away from him, slightly to the side, almost as though listening to someone—even though neither of her towering guards had uttered so much as a sound. Hotak watched her carefully, hoping for a positive sign.

“You’ve turned the resources of the empire over entirely to the invasion of Ansalon, my husband,” the high priestess finally said. “You’ve demanded that the clans redouble their efforts to build ships and battle supplies. You’ve conscripted thousands of young males. These are difficult decisions, which we have debated. And despite the success of everything thus far, those decisions weigh on you. But the temple has been busy maintaining the spiritual welfare of the empire, while you attend to the physical might, and our Protectors have assisted you in many areas.”

It was true that the temple was increasingly involved in government affairs, but Hotak had not really had much choice. Many of those on the Supreme Circle, the governing body overseeing the daily lives of the people, were members of the faith. The more the emperor had required sacrifices on the part of his subjects, the more the sect had grown integral to his policies, for they convinced many of the necessity for obeying Hotak’s dictates.

At least he had kept the succession of the throne from the temple by already anointing his second son, Bastion, as his heir, over his eldest, Ardnor. Ardnor was among his mother’s most fervent followers and had risen up inside the temple. Bastion was of the same mind as Hotak; the Forerunners, despite their ambitions, did not deserve the same reverence the minotaurs once gave to Sargonnas. Bastion would keep the Forerunners at bay.

“No one is denying your part in our success, my dear. The empire is running as smoothly, as efficiently, as at any time in the past—more so! Indeed, I desire your presence in the palace so all can see my mate, my consort, is a valued part of the regime.”

“Yes … so long as I wear gowns and hang on your arm.”

Hotak bit back a sigh. “Your place is at my side, my dear. The palace is your home. Too long have you been … hiding out here.”

The hollow eyes took on an unsettling aspect. “But this is my calling, husband. Your own words assure me of the importance of that.”

“Your calling, yes, but staying here for such long periods of time, not communicating with me. Is this your way of still punishing me for choosing Bastion over Ardnor as my heir?”

She looked past him … at no one. “Ardnor was your legitimate successor!”

“Bastion is the better soldier, the more experienced at politics, the more appropriate choice!”

“Ardnor is your firstborn!”

Hotak took a deep breath. “Ardnor holds a high place with the Forerunners, and that is important, too. I want our differences worked out, my dear. Please return to the palace so that we can be more closely in touch. You … you are missed.”

Her gaze finally fixed on his again. She said nothing for the moment, then, in a softer voice, replied, “I will come see you tomorrow … and I will endeavor to find out the latest information which you desire, and will bring with me any news possible.”

With that, she turned and glided away, the two Protectors close behind.

With almost a smile, Hotak replaced his helmet then headed back to the temple entrance. He walked with a spring in his step. Not only was his wife returning to his side, but he would have his valued news from her ghostly sentinels, useful in the theaters of operation.

He would find a way to keep her at the palace. Perhaps if he embraced Ardnor, made him a valued part of the throne again—father and son had not spoken much since the death of Hotak’s youngest, Kolot, and the announcement that Bastion would be heir. But there was no reason they shouldn’t reconcile their differences.

As the ranks saluted his return, the emperor descended silently to where his horse waited, mounting smoothly. He took one last look at the edifice claiming so much of Nephera’s energy.

“Rumors, nothing more,” he said to himself. The emperor was glad that he had not brought up that subject, certain to infuriate his wife. It could wait for a more appropriate occasion. “Whatever this cult’s become, it’s certainly not degenerated to that.” He signaled his troops to depart. “There is no blood on my wife’s hands save that sanctioned by me … none whatsoever.”

The grassy plain nestled between the lightly wooded hills made for a perfect battleground, and the line of knights, undeterred by the threat of foul weather, took their disciplined positions, lances poised. They barreled toward the ogre force stretched too long and raggedly before them.

Behind the cavalry charged four rows of armored foot soldiers, commanded by the Talon Leader himself, leading them from horseback. Swords low and shields up, the foot soldiers paced the riders as best they could, hoping for some glory of their own.

The ogres waved their clubs and swords and charged wildly toward the superior numbers of their superior foe.

Dust rose behind the Knights of Neraka, almost making it seem as if they left fire in their wake, so swiftly did they charge. Visors down, they evoked a sinister vision out of the days of the gods, a dark host still bearing the outdated mark of Takhisis.

The perfect line of lances held true as the gap between the converging humans and ogres rapidly dwindled. The knights had been ordered to give no quarter, show no mercy to the beasts.

But suddenly the ogres panicked and routed. They turned tail and fled toward the dubious safety of the easternmost hills. They shoved one another aside, trampled those slower than themselves.

Unwilling to win so easily, the lancers urged their mounts on, pulling farther and farther ahead of the foot soldiers behind them.

Thunder boomed and crimson bolts of lightning assailed the northern horizon, but the Knights of Neraka paid them scant attention. The first of the cowardly ogres was nearly in range. It would be as easy as skewering a piece of meat at the table.…

Then, in the midst of the line, the earth exploded, sending men and horses flying, screaming. Bodies crashed to the ground. The line instantly twisted and folded in on itself as the stunned knights tried to make sense of the eruption. Some looked up at the storm clouds, thinking a bolt had strayed in their direction.

But then the sound of something huge hurtling through the sky caught the attention of many of the knights … alas, too late.

The huge rock fell upon the ranks of foot soldiers, crushing several into paste and metal and throwing up huge chunks of earth and rock. The Talon Leader signaled for an immediate halt, recognizing the strike of an expertly aimed catapult.

A third massive projectile plummeted toward the terrain between the riders and the foot soldiers. Though it hit no one, the shock of its impact stirred more confusion and fear. Ogres did not use catapults; they did not even know how to build them.

And then the horns sounded—first from the south, then the north. A unified shout arose from both directions, one that set every knight’s nerves taut with apprehension.

The fleeing ogres suddenly turned in one body. Baring their tusked teeth and howling like wolves, they charged the stunned knights.

“Get them! Get them!” urged the Talon Leader.

Yet, who exactly his men should fight proved to be a complex question, for from the north emerged a stream of unexpected riders and from the south another huge line of armored, orderly figures, that in no way could be mistaken for humans or even ogres.

To the blare of battle horns and their own fierce war cries, the minotaurs and their ogre allies closed in on the dark knights.

The left flank of the lancers turned to face the riders. As they neared, though, a flight of arrows fell upon them from the hills. Despite armor, several men fell dead and twice as many were wounded; dying horses spilled their passengers, further adding to the mayhem.

The much-reduced line collided with the mounted minotaurs. The force of a lance charge is enough to lift even a three-hundred-pound minotaur in breastplate, and more than one of the horned warriors flew from their saddles, impaled. Some of the large, sturdy minotaur steeds fell prey to the skilled lancers.

But armor was no great protection against the heavy, twin-edged axes of the minotaur legionaries. Once among the lancers, one minotaur cleaved open the chest of his foe, then, for good measure, removed the helmeted head with a second vicious swing. Another minotaur soldier leaped from his horse onto a knight’s, sending both crashing to the ground. His horns slammed through the protected chest, goring the squirming human.

What remained of the right flank of lancers swung to face the attackers closing on foot from the south. As they reached the enemy, however, the first line of minotaurs suddenly peeled away in orderly fashion, leaving a second crouched in their wake.

The knights could not have anticipated their tactic. The long, deadly pikes wielded nimbly by the minotaurs brought down all but a few in the front. Those still alive were quickly overwhelmed by the bloodthirsty legionaries. The knights held on as best they could; their commanders had always led them to believe that minotaurs were brutes akin to ogres. The trained, skilled fighting force before them was certainly contrary to that. Pitched duels broke out as the ordered ranks of the legions cut off the surviving foe, one from another. A dekarian pushed back two humans fighting side by side, cutting one down at the legs then running the second through. He then turned and beheaded the maimed knight before the other finished his fall.

The human foot soldiers found three ways to die. The minotaurs were converging from the north and south simultaneously, cutting off the rear. The knights formed a double line, with lances in the second rank giving protection to their swordsmen, but the legionaries’ axes made short shrift of the sword points, enabling them to pour over the first rank in overwhelming numbers.

From the east, the ogres gleefully fell upon their pinioned foes, battering heads to pulp and crushing bones with little exertion. The ogres lacked the sophistication of the minotaurs’ attack, perhaps, but the combination created an unstoppable force.

Desperate, the Talon Leader tried to surrender. However, before he could make the distasteful signal, a heavy, rusting ogre sword plunged through his throat, sending him toppling off his horse. His corpse was ignobly crushed in the melee.

As the last of the knights perished and the victors let loose with their various war cries of triumph, a new band of riders appeared from the east, a mingled party of minotaurs and ogres. At their head rode a female minotaur, a slim but curved young officer bearing the purple cloak and crested helmet of a legion commander. Her luxurious brown mane flowed from underneath the helmet. Her legionaries saluted her smartly as she neared.

Accompanying her was an ogre like no other. Smaller of build than most of his kind, clad in flowing forest green and brown garments akin to those of an elf, he almost looked as though he sought to fashion himself in the image of that detested race. His long black mane was well brushed and to enhance his softer, less-pronounced native features, he had shaved down his tusks to mere nubs—very unusual for one of his kind. A musky perfume enveloped him, in contrast to the sweat-soaked bodies of the rest.

Holding aloft helmets, enemy weapons, and the various bloody body parts they prized, the ogres in the throng cheered the Grand Lord Golgren with loud cries of “Sarak H’kan! Sarak H’kan!”

Next to him, a grinning Lady Maritia de-Droka remarked, “I don’t think I know that phrase, Grand Lord.”

“They praise only our victory, son of Hotak, nothing more.” Ogres did not view females with the same equality that minotaurs did, and so to ease her acceptance in matters of warfare, the ogre leader had taken to calling the emperor’s daughter ‘son.’ Doing so conveyed upon her all the respect of a male.

“They look only at you.”

“Yes, they slight your contribution, but time will increase their respect of the minotaurs. Also, you are a female chieftain. They do not understand. It gives you some discomfort,”—he shrugged—“but it is a small failing, yes?”

The legionaries began to reform ranks, whereas the ogres simply milled about. Golgren suddenly barked something in Ogre to a particularly large and hairy brute wearing an old Solamnic breastplate, with the image of a kingfisher still visible through the rust and blood stains. The ogre immediately began accosting his fellows, batting at them with fist and club and slowly creating something of a semblance of order among the minotaur allies.

Amused to watch the ogres try to imitate the minotaurs’ discipline, Maritia eyed the carnage. “These dark knights, they are stupid. They shouldn’t have been so loyal to the old leadership. They should’ve headed south and joined this Mina.”

“But what a pleasure they did not. The black ones, they owe mine much blood.” He smiled as he gestured, revealing teeth as sharp and long as any ogre’s. “This battle pays in part.”

“The plan was executed well, Grand Lord. We did well together.”

“So thought this one.” With a wave of his fist, he accepted more cheers of “Sarak H’kan!” from nearby ogres. “The homelands are nearly free now.”

These knights represented the last major human force in Blöde or Kern. The ogre realms were indeed free now, which meant that the full invasion of green, glistening Silvanesti was next.

All around, the minotaur legionaries were gathering their dead for an honorable burial. Some of the ogres were stripping their own comrades of any valuables, arguing over the spoils, while others had begun searching the corpses of the knights.

Maritia glanced at the Grand Lord, who seemed very proud and contented. “You find it no trouble to be allied with other legions of the Knights of Neraka, now that Mina leads them?”

“No more than an alliance with minotaurs, yes?” Golgren smiled at her, knowing that she could not argue with his clever reply.

Changing the subject, Hotak’s daughter said, “If we are to march to the shield that surrounds Silvanesti, and be there when Galdar advised, we must head south in the morning, Grand Lord. Will your forces be ready? We need to meet the supply wagons.”

“Nagroch will see all is ready.”

“Nagroch?” At the mention of his name, the hefty, armored ogre from Blöde looked up. He rode close behind them. Nagroch had originally joined the command as his Chieftain’s surrogate, but he had been acting more as Golgren’s second-in-command. He stank like most of his kind, but was as wily as the wiliest ogre.

Golgren put on an expression of regret. “Forgive this one, son of Hotak! I did not perhaps make this clear earlier! I have appointed Nagroch to lead the ogre army to Silvanesti!”

“And you?” Maritia was taken aback.

He bowed in the saddle, moving as gracefully as a minotaur. “This one’s Grand Khan has been without him for too long! As you report to your father, I must report to my master. If it is possible, I will join you to help at the climactic showdown.”

Nagroch snorted.

“Is Nagroch capable of taking over your leadership,” Maritia demanded to know, “at this late stage?”

“Most definitely! The khan is the Fist of Rule, the Teeth of Strength.…” Golgren went through half a dozen other titles glorifying the khan. “This one has been personally trained by his magnificence!” He snapped his fingers. Nagroch nodded attentively. “There is much to do! I must even now prepare! Nagroch will stay close by your side from here on, this is promised! He will do what is needed.” Golgren ignored Maritia’s frown. “Great victories lie ahead, son of Hotak! You are fortunate, yes!”

With one last flourishing bow, the Grand Lord urged his huge, broad-shouldered mount away. The ogres awarded him one last cheer of “Sarak H’kan” before returning to their looting.

Maritia’s eyes narrowed. “Sarak H’kan … Sarak H’kan … I think I do know that phrase after all.…” She stared at Nagroch. “It means … it means ‘leader’ … doesn’t it?”

The squat, round-faced ogre was as all innocence, as only one of his kind could be. “Aye, son of Hotak. Leader …” He chuckled, a harsh sound. “Or ‘khan.’ ”

The mine collapse had been expected by the workers, for their masters never saw fit to reinforce the tunnels that were under such constant pressure, but they had been given no choice but to dig, and dig. Thus, when the ceiling did crumble, several were instantly crushed to death, while others lingered. Their screams, the cracking of bone, the rumble of tons of rock and earth … they were reminders to the survivors that next time would be their turn.

Sahd saw the perpetual cycle of devastation as carelessness on the part of the slaves … and that meant inflicting punishment.

Faros had only been at the camp for three weeks, the first time in his memory the mines collapsed, but he had been brought there a lifetime ago. The place had still been a shock to him and to the other newcomers, like him, who were used to at least the veneer of civilization maintained at Vyrox.

The tall, black, foreboding hills surrounding the mines made Faros feel as though he had been tossed into one of the huge fire pits of Vyrox. The land had been scorched horribly some time in the distant past and still exuded heat above and below. Twin rivers of molten earth flowed with slow deliberation along the eastern and western edges of the circular camp, causing some of the older minotaurs to have named them “Argon’s Tears.”

Perhaps the lost god did cry for his fallen select, or, more likely, the slaves merely pitied themselves. The slaves had quickly learned not to expect any sympathy from the ogres, who saw them as much a focus for their generations of hatred of the minotaur race as for any benefit to be gained from their slave labor.

Each day, Faros had seen the cruel penalties that Sahd doled out almost at whim. Slaves were hung by their thumbs or their feet, often for days. One had been buried up to his neck next to the vast garbage pit located south of the mines. There, unable to move, he had to suffer the disease-ridden bites of the great black flies, the harsh scavengers that survived on the worst waste products. A piece of live flesh unable to strike back made for a grand meal, and when one fly materialized, hundreds soon followed.

With the exception of the occasional whipping or punch or kick by a surly guard, Faros had for a while managed to avoid the worst treatment—and Sahd’s personal notice. On the day of that initial collapse, though, he caught the eye of the evil taskmaster—the first of many, many times that were to follow.

And all because Faros had been the last one out of the ruined shaft.

Choking, blood seeping from a jagged cut on his arm, he had plunged outside just as the ogre leader had arrived on the scene. The leering visage of the brutal taskmaster instinctively fixed on the lucky, gasping survivor. What little remained of Sahd’s lip curled up farther, fully baring his yellowed, skeletal teeth.

“L’har! G’ran Uruv Suurt!” he commanded.

Two guards seized the startled minotaur slave, dragging the still-coughing and gasping figure to their hulking master. At the same time, Sahd glanced over at the other survivors, including one crumpled on the ground being ministered to by another slave.

His black mane streaked with gray fluttering in the hot wind, the imposing ogre stalked over to the injured minotaur. Out came the feared nine-tailed whip. Sahd drove the others from the injured slave then ordered the minotaur to get on his feet.

Faros, arms held painfully behind him, watched as the helpless worker tried to obey, but it was clear that at least one leg was broken and the ankle on the other was badly swollen. After several attempts, during which Sahd and the other ogres mocked his troubles with laughter, the taskmaster suddenly pointed at the minotaur and shouted, “G’ran Uruv Suurt i Fafnirn!”

Faros did not understand what Sahd had said, but the minotaur on the ground apparently did. Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, he tried to lunge at the legs of the ogre as a last desperate attempt to defend himself. With a contemptuous laugh, Sahd kicked him in the swollen ankle. The minotaur cried out and rolled over.

Four guards took hold of him while the rest shoved the other slaves down on their knees. Dangling the whip over his shoulder, Sahd led the four guards and their struggling burden toward the fenced pens where the ogres kept their pet lizards.

Only then did Faros learn what Fafnirn meant in the ogre tongue.

Sahd abruptly turned, pointing at Faros. The guards pulled him forward despite his attempts to resist. They brought him to the edge of the pen, so he was almost within reach of the gaping, snapping jaws and eager, blood-crazed eyes of the meredrakes.

Sahd walked up next to Faros and, without warning, jammed his nailed thumb into the bleeding wound in his arm. Faros bit his tongue and moaned as the crimson stream poured into the pen.

A frenzy arose among the meredrakes; the mere drops of blood were enough to make them fight with one another viciously, vying for tastes. Sahd, his vicious black eyes watching under a thick brow ridge, chuckled and licked the blood off his thumb, letting a few more drops spatter over the other side of the pen.

That is when the four guards threw the wounded minotaur over the side.

A near revolt started among the other slaves, but the ogres quickly pummeled the protesters into submission. Faros tried to look away, but Sahd grabbed him by the neck and forced his head around, saying in crude Common, “Look, Uruv Suurt … or join.”

The huge reptiles set upon the poor, wounded slave the moment that the minotaur landed among them. Slavering jaws snapped tight on limbs, rending flesh. Talons quickly ripped apart the victim’s muzzle, a moment Sahd, judging by his chuckles, found particularly entertaining. A tug of war ensued, with the victim shrieking.

One meredrake ripped off an arm just below the elbow. Another tore apart one of the slave’s already-ruined legs. Blood spattered everywhere, but still the minotaur did not die. His cries grew increasingly feeble, yet continued on long, despite Faros’s silent prayer that his suffering would end for his own sake.

Only when two more of the savage reptiles tore into his chest, ripping out his intestines, did he at last stop screaming.

The appalling carnage ensued for several minutes more; Sahd refused to end the spectacle until the beasts had satiated themselves. By then, a silence had fallen over all else; even some of the hardened guards clearly wished to leave the scene.

But Sahd was not done, not him, not yet. He snapped his whip, and this time the guards shoved Faros down on his face, planting his snout hard against the slats of the fence. Some of the meredrakes took an interest, scratching at the fence to see if they could reach the new meat. A long, flickering, forked tongue darted through, tasting Faros’s bruised muzzle. The tongue left in its wake bits of food, which almost made the minotaur vomit.

With quick, practiced hands, the ogres bound his wrists to the slats, leaving him half lying on his stomach, there to tantalize the monstrous beasts, only just out of reach.

“J’karah i f’han, Uruv Suurt,” Sahd muttered to him. “Remember … or die.”

And with that, the metal hooks of the whip tore into Faros’s back. His cry only stirred the meredrakes, and they pounded against the pen, trying to bite and claw—anything for a part of him.

Again and again the whip tore into him, as Sahd laughed. How many times the act was repeated, Faros did not know, for he eventually blacked out. Even then, though, he could feel the horrific pain and hear the eager, ever-hungry hisses of the reptiles.

He lay unconscious for a day before the overseers had other slaves rouse him to waking. Still bleeding, his back cut to ribbons, Faros was pushed back to his job. Physically he had survived that first test, survived the many others to come, but within, something that even Vyrox had been unable to break, died—

“Faros?”

He jerked, forced back into the present. Glaring at Grom for having startled him, Faros returned his attention to what the three minotaurs were doing, perched on a fragile ledge. Watching.

This view overlooking the ogre mines had resurrected all of Faros’s deeply buried memories. At Vyrox, the main mining camp of the minotaur empire, the prisoners had been fed twice daily and had lived in windowless barracks filling the ash-covered compound. They thought they had descended to the lowest level of existence, but they were wrong. That was before Sahd’s Camp.

Seen in the unearthly light of the surrounding lava flows, Sahd’s kingdom looked like a spectral world. Ridges of black rock led up to the most productive shafts. Where the dark, burning light of the molten earth did not reach, torches either set in place or carried by shadowy sentinels illuminated these entrances to the mines. Worked for so long by the ogres, the northern face of the camp was littered with many shafts, as though some huge worm had burrowed in and out repeatedly.

Wagons stood ready next to the protruding shafts, wagons that each day had to be filled to the maximum with specified ore, or else the workers would suffer according to the whims of Sahd. The heavy, ill-tempered horses that the ogres used to pull the carts were always tethered near the western side of camp. This put them far from the wagons until the latter were ready to roll.

The ogres also kept their huts near the western flow, easily within reach of an ancient stone bridge undoubtedly built by their august ancestors. Up close, one could still make out symbols in the High Ogre language sprinkled across the length of the old bridge. One of the two protective walls had broken off at some point and cracks crisscrossed the granite floor, but somehow the bridge still managed to hold the weight of the ore-laden wagons.

The ogre huts were combinations of wood brought in from far away and the ever-abundant stone dug locally. Past slave labor had built the high, rounded huts, and current slave labor kept them in repair.

Goatskin flaps covered the entrances to all the huts save Sahd’s. No one who visited Sahd’s hut could say for certain what creature had been sacrificed for the taskmaster’s unique entrance flap, and the tint of the creature’s skin clouded the issue of whether the victim might have once walked on four legs, or two.

The ogres slept six to a hut, save for Sahd, and his hut stood on a slight rise nearest the bridge, overlooking the whole camp.

In the center of the camp, four shadowy structures loomed over all else. Even Faros, in spite of all his bold talk, kept his gaze from those structures, recalling their function.

“They’ve finished locking the slave pens,” Grom murmured bitterly, indicating the four pens on the eastern perimeter.

Four circular pens stood there, with walls too high to scale. Inside the four pens, Faros and the rest had grown accustomed to sleeping … if they could. They had no protection from the elements, not even room to lay flat without brushing up against one another. The pens were the home of the minotaurs—and that of the various other creatures captured by the ogres—as long as they lived and slaved in the mines.

The guards shoved both water and a grayish green broth through a wooden gate at mealtimes, and the bowls were expected back within a quarter hour. Inside the pens, the necessities of nature were dealt with as the slaves could. Sahd cared not a whit whether they rolled in their own filth. The complete degradation of the minotaurs before he worked them to death seemed his ultimate goal.

Sahd commanded the camp in the name of the Grand Khan of Kern, and from the slave labor, he was supposed to supply the raw materials—especially iron and copper—needed by the minotaurs’ hereditary foes for their alliance against the humans and elves. The disfigured ogre was good at meeting his high quotas, but only just barely, and any infraction was enough excuse to punish the slaves, and to appeal for fresh workers from the Grand Lord Golgren.

The heat during the day was intense, suffocating. Due to the higher altitude, at night the temperatures plummeted, despite the nearby lava flows. The workers were then left huddled together, shaking and weak, even their furred bodies insufficient to fight the constant chill. Each week, some of the curled bodies lay unmoving when the morning gong sounded. The guards would prod the stiff forms, and if they did not stir, they were either added to the meredrakes’ larder or, depending on what lesson Sahd wanted to teach, tossed unceremoniously into one of the molten rivers.

Guards lumbered around the edges of the camp, keeping a wary eye on all within. Never in the past had such bestial creatures been allowed to dominate their kind, and the condemned minotaurs were dumbfounded by their fate. And they were no less dumbfounded by gossip accepted as gospel—that the usurper Hotak had agreed to a pact that turned his own people into chattel for the ogres.

Day or night, a wind blew dust up everywhere, adding to the surreal atmosphere of the camp. Such a wind blew now, cold and strong; the crude, rounded huts shook audibly as it passed.

The slaves were amassed forlornly in their pens. A foul smell arose from that area, recognizable to the hidden trio watching with caution as the odor of what passed for food.

Valun sniffed. “Meredrake. One of the beasts must’ve perished from sickness or old age.”

“Such a treat,” grumbled Grom. Meredrake flesh made for foul eating, worse even than the barley porridge the slaves most often received for meals. The better food—the real edibles—was kept in a guarded hut in the southwest corner of the camp, near the meredrakes. There grain, bread, and salted foodstuffs delivered by cart to the facility were stored for the benefit of the keepers.

The supply hut was Faros’s target tonight, and the reason he had decided to keep company with the pair of escaped minotaurs.

Tonight, with the aid of his two companions, Faros intended to ransack the hut, possibly even burn it to the ground. He would take what he could carry, and let Sahd know what it was like to go hungry for a while. Another delivery would not arrive for two weeks, he guessed. The ogres would be forced to slaughter some of their own meredrakes just to survive.

That the slaves themselves would suffer the worst hunger, he did not even consider.

Faros slid down from the ridge top, Grom and Valun quickly following. The pair waited in respectful silence for his orders.

“Everything’s as I said,” he told the two. “We wait until everyone’s settled down and the cold descends … then we strike.”

“Sargas watch over us,” Grom whispered, bowing his head.

Faros snorted then led them off.

Torch in one furry hand, the ogre guard peered into the darkness beyond the camp. He bared his sharp, tusked teeth as he tried to make out shadows and furtive movement. In his other hand, his club dragged on the rock-hard ground. Same as usual: nothing.

Grunting his satisfaction, the hirsute guard turned and surveyed the sleeping camp. There, for his kind, lay the more likely danger. The slaves were beaten and feeble, true, but now and then, one or two grew desperate enough to try to escape. Though he enjoyed the hunts and even on occasion let a slave think he had made it to freedom, Sahd punished the guards if he was in the mood, punished them almost as terribly as he did the prisoners. There had been too many escapes lately. Sahd was in a bad mood.

A shadowy ripple in the camp made the ogre squint. Likely it was another guard on his rounds, but it paid to be certain.

Just then an arm wrapped itself around his throat, pulling him down at the same time. A hand smothered his startled yelp.

Another pair of hands seized his torch and club. The ogre recognized the hated form of an Uruv Suurt—a minotaur—but this one had shattered chains that allowed him full movement, unlike those in the pen.

The arm tightened on the ogre’s throat. He struggled to breathe, grabbing at the suffocating limb.

A third set of hands took hold of his, keeping him from freeing himself.

A moment later, he slumped.

“Carry him this way,” Faros whispered to Grom. “Valun! Keep that torch high, but away from your head.” From a distance, he would appear to be a guard, but his horns and muzzle would immediately give away the truth if he dipped the torch.

Grom checked the ogre. “He’s dead.”

“Good. Hurry up.”

They dragged the body out among the high rocks, and then Faros and Grom reentered the camp. They bent low as they moved from one structure to another, ever aware that other guards might walk by at any moment.

As they passed a pen holding meredrakes, one of the huge lizards lifted its head and quietly hissed. The minotaurs froze, but then the dull-witted meredrake lowered its head again, ignoring them. The giant reptiles made excellent hounds during the day, but at night the cooler weather left them torpid.

Faros waved Grom on. They skirted several of the guards’ huts, hearing heavy snoring inside. The minotaurs moved cautiously, aware that waking one ogre could mean their deaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pulley systems suddenly made a loud creaking.

“Leave it!” muttered Faros.

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

“He still breathes, Faros.”

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

“I will not go without him.”

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

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

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

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

And straight into a guard hurrying from the opposite direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flames started to spread over the dry wood.

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

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

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

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

“Look at it spreading,” Valun added.

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

“Sargas protects us,” Grom whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simbri! Simbri Simbara! Hesse gimmara Haja!”

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

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

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

Around them, more ghosts began to gather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly a magnificent brilliance filled the meditation chamber.

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

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

Takyr nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

All that mattered now was their hunger, their need.

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

They possessed the gift of magic.

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

These twenty-five faithful allowed the high priestess to draw from a level of power once beyond her imagination. The unleashing of blood, of life force, opened a pure channel to the dead.

“More … more …” she whispered, sounding much like her hungering shades. The silver aura around her had blossomed to encompass those standing around her. “I must have more.”

A dark brown male in the prime of his life suddenly slumped muzzle-first onto the floor. Nearby, a young female rocked back and forth uncontrollably. Others were leaning, shaking.

A voice suddenly intruded in Nephera’s mind. Mistress, you must kill them all.

She struggled in the ecstasy of the moment, understanding and yet damning Takyr’s reasoning. No, it would not be good for the reputation of the temple if twenty-five of her most ardent worshippers perished during a secret ritual. They would be missed, mourned.

Studying the horde of ghosts, she saw that they had drawn much blood and feasted well. This would do for now.

“Hisara Simbali Mortisi,” the high priestess said, this time raising the avian symbol. “Hisari Simbala Mortisa.”

The rumbling of the storm outside lessened. The light, the auras, began to fade away. At Takyr’s silent command, the specters withdrew.

Lowering the avian symbol, Lady Nephera waited while her acolytes reverently took it and the tiny broken ax away. Her mane settled. She felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

Gasps arose from those in the pattern, as their minds cleared. Profoundly touched, they gazed at the high priestess.

“You have been granted a great privilege this eve,” Nephera told the chosen twenty-five. “You have visited the world of the Forerunners, and given of your strength to the departed. In doing so, you have elevated your own lives. You are higher than mere mortals. You have joined with me to link between the living and the guardians.” The high priestess raised her left wrist, which was unmarked. “You have only to see what has been wrought.”

They looked at their wrists, only moments before bleeding profusely. They gaped. Awed looks replaced the initial uncertain, exhausted ones.

Their wrists had healed. The cuts were mended as though they never existed. Yet, there remained a sign for each believer, a sign to prove that what had transpired was no illusion, no mesmerism.

The vivid scar that now graced the wrist of each of the chosen bore the distinct shape of the broken ax.

“There will be others who follow your example, but you are the first to experience this ceremony. The blessing of the temple, of those who have gone on before, is now yours. Wear the mark with pride, but do not boast or flaunt it.”

Most would do just the opposite, the priestess well knew. They would display their scars to friends, family, and associates. Others would ask to take part in the ceremony. Nephera felt certain that their blood, even those without any inherent ability for magic, would bring more power to the guardians—and to her.

On cue, the two acolytes began ushering the chosen out. They would be provided wine and sustenance then sent on their way.

But as one of her assistants passed by, the young minotaur leaned over and whispered, “Mistress … behind and to your left.”

The faithful departed the chamber. Only when the doors had closed and Nephera was alone—save for her ethereal guardians—did the high priestess turn and look where the other had pointed.

One of the chosen still kneeled, his muzzle turned to the right. His good hand still clutched the other, healed too late.

“Takyr?”

His heart exploded … or so he tells me.

Well, there were bound to be mishaps. The dead one now served her in a different world. Walking calmly to the doors, Nephera summoned the two Protectors stationed outside. Shutting the door behind them, the two behemoths knelt before her, their horns down and to the side.

“Mistress,” rumbled one of them.

“I have a task for the two of you. The body in there, it must be stripped of its robes, taken elsewhere, and abandoned. I want it to look as though the temple had no part in this unfortunate incident.” She paused, thinking. Her eyes narrowed. “Put a dagger in his back—a military-issue dagger.”

The ebony-armored Protectors rose and silently proceeded with her bidding, carrying the body carefully so as not to leave any kind of unusual trail. They would do exactly as she commanded.

The blade in the corpse’s back had been a last-moment inspiration. Had the believer’s dead body been found, with no mark upon it, word from the others who had attended the ceremony would have inevitably filtered out to the population. Despite their steadfast beliefs, most of her congregation would not want to attend a service that might be fatal to one or more participants. However, if someone else were the culprit, violence from some outside source, the faithful would draw together.

“Your death will not be in vain,” Nephera remarked casually to the crowd of ghastly figures who trailed after her hungrily.

Then she departed the chamber, already planning a special eulogy for the fallen minotaur. He would be raised up in the eyes of his family and friends. Yes, there should be a fitting memorial.

Outside, the storm rumbled as if in perfect agreement.

“Mother!”

From the main hall marched the burly, armored figure of her eldest son, Ardnor. A bull in every sense of the word, Ardnor stalked loudly through the temple as though headed for battle. Lady Nephera gazed quietly at him, all emotions held in check.

“My son,” the high priestess greeted him. “Is this not a late hour for you?”

He snatched off his black helmet, planting it in the crook of his right arm. On both his helmet and his breastplate, the golden symbols of the sect blazed brightly. A dark cloak lined in thread woven into the ax and bird symbols fluttered behind him, and at his side hung a heavy, gilt-edged mace with a crowned head.

“ ’Tis an exceedingly late hour for the empire,” he replied cryptically. Like all Protectors, Ardnor had shorn his mane. Trailing behind him were four of his staunch warriors, including his second, dour-faced Pryas. “Do I understand you’re to see Father?”

“I have agreed to go to the palace, yes.”

“After his continual insult of the temple, despite all we’ve done?”

Nephera nodded slightly.

Ardnor had never forgiven Hotak for proclaiming his younger brother, Bastion, heir to the throne. Bastion would be the first inheritor in the history of a race where achievement, not blood, had been the rule of succession. As eldest, Ardnor had been groomed for ascension for years, but at the last moment, Hotak had abruptly changed his mind. Neither Nephera nor Ardnor had been consulted.

Since that day, the high priestess’s eldest had immersed himself in the affairs of the temple, building up and expanding the Protectors until their number was spread not only throughout the imperial capital, but in strategic places throughout the rest of the empire. With so much of the might of the legions spread thin already, the Protectors had begun taking up police duties in remote areas, especially where members of the Forerunner faith also dominated the colonial administrations.

Ardnor turned his blunt, brown muzzle to Pryas, handing the other Protector his helmet. “Wait for me outside, all of you!”

The warriors dipped their horns, Pryas respectfully saying, “Yes, my lord.”

Once they were alone, he whirled on Nephera. “Mother, how can you—?”

She stopped his impudence with a single penetrating glance. Ardnor clamped his mouth shut, and though he towered over her, in other ways the high priestess looked down upon her eldest.

“Never question my actions, my son. Never.”

Somehow, he found his voice. “Forgive me, I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant. I have not forgotten your father’s misdeed, but the functioning of the empire means more than that moment of personal shame. You should learn from the past, not dwell in it, Ardnor. The future is malleable; what is intended—by mortals, anyway—is not always what occurs.”

His brow furrowed as he tried to digest this philosophical nugget. Ardnor’s crimson-tinged eyes blinked once, twice, then the fury with which he had arrived suddenly dissipated.

“You’re absolutely right, Mother. I’ll learn from the past, I promise you. As always, I salute your wisdom and leadership.”

She nodded, knowing her eldest son well enough to understand that he meant it sincerely—even if he did not understand all of her implications. “Good. Remember, whatever some might think, the empire and the temple are intertwined on behalf of the people. The temple exists to serve, perhaps even to correct the empire.”

He nodded dully then turned his horns to the side and bowed his head. “Good night, dear Mother.”

As he turned from her, Nephera could not resist adding, “I know why you are up so late, Ardnor. Have a care in the future.”

The brawny minotaur looked over his shoulder, eyes unblinking, slowly formulating his reply, but the high priestess was done speaking to him. She had already moved on.

General Rahm watched impatiently from the deck of the Dragon’s Crest as the rebels loaded up the last of the ships. The rest of the ragtag fleet waited just beyond Petarka’s hidden harbor, all set to sail for an obscure island one of the captains recalled from a voyage long, long ago. The mariner was positive that this small island appeared on no imperial maps. The trouble was, he could not be certain of the exact location … which summed up the desperation of the rebellion, relying on hope and rumors.

Shouts rose from General Rahm’s right. The short but broad-shouldered rebel leader turned to see two sailors struggling with some cargo for his vessel. The lines had caught and the two wooden barrels kept swinging against the hull. Fearful that the barrels would shatter if things kept up, the general ran to help.

“Give me that line! You! Climb up in the rigging and see where that’s caught! I don’t want to lose those supplies!”

Despite being a foot shorter than most minotaurs, Rahm more than matched the strength of either of the two mariners. One scurried up the rope ladder to where the pulley hung.

Muscles straining, the one-eared rebel leader tried to keep the cargo steady. If the pair lost their grips, the barrels would swing into the Crest’s side with such force that their contents would inevitably spill into the harbor. The sailor up in the ropes fought the tangled mass, pulling the ropes this way and that.

“Have a care!” roared General Rahm as the other’s efforts caused the barrels to sway again precipitously.

Suddenly, the snarled rope loosened. The abrupt shift made Rahm and the sailor lose their balance. The other minotaur fell.

Straining, Rahm held the rope tight. The barrels bumped against the hull but caused no damage.

Two more sailors took over. The general stepped away, breathing deeply from the exertion. He watched as the last remaining cargo was brought aboard.

“Looks like we’re ready to set sail,” rasped a nearby minotaur. The slightly rotund, brown-furred shape of Jubal, a former governor, stepped up next to the general. As a young warrior serving the empire, Jubal’s throat had been sliced open during a battle and his voice had never completely recovered. The rebellion’s latest debacle had caused damage to the ship under his command. Its crew had been spread among the other vessels, and graying Jubal had opted to sail this voyage with his old friend.

“Not a moment too soon. The day’s already well under way.”

“We’ll get there when we get there, Rahm.”

A sailor aboard the other vessel gave a signal. On board the Dragon’s Crest, the gargantuan Captain Botanos began shouting orders to his own crew, in preparation for the final departure from Petarka. The ship lurched slightly and began to slide away. The mists quickly thickened as they left the rebel stronghold.

Since their arrival in the area a few years before, they had taken a grouping of half a dozen abandoned structures and created from it a command center for the sputtering rebellion. The horseshoe-shaped port could support eight vessels at a time. In the wooded hilltops, they had just started cultivating small farm patches, growing breadfruit and wheat.

And now, all of that had to be left behind.

Petarka slowly vanished in the perpetual haze that always surrounded it. The buildings dotting the ridged hillside grew indistinct; then the hills themselves vanished one by one.

“Desti will make a good base of operations,” Jubal finally said. Already they were cocooned by fog. “Even Captain Tinza’s never heard of the place, and she’s sailed all over the Courrain.”

“That’s assuming we can find this elusive island.”

“ ’Twill be a good jest on us if we sail all the way out there, and sail around and sail around, and only find more water.” But the former governor did not laugh. None of them laughed much any more, even the once-boisterous Captain Botanos. These were hard, desperate days for the rebellion against the usurper Hotak.

After what seemed a long time but was in truth less than an hour, the shadowy forms of other ships became conspicuous. One of the crew took a square, brass-frame oil lamp and waved it toward the nearest vessel. That one signaled back. Seconds later, a light near the bow of the other ship waved back and forth as the ship alerted others beyond the sight of the Dragon’s Crest.

They began to leave the fog. Gradually the murky shapes coalesced into quite a bit more than a dozen vessels, the core of the rebel fleet. Three-masted imperial warships sailed next to light, swift windrunners of the type used by smugglers. There was even one decent galley, which struggled along as best it could in the high waves. There were pockets of resistance spread elsewhere throughout the known ocean, but among this bedraggled lot sailed most of the vessels carrying the top leaders of the struggle.

As the ships regrouped, Jubal asked, “Are you all right, Rahm?”

The general had been absently rubbing his ring, a black-gemmed memento whose origins he had forgotten. “As best as I can be, governor.”

The former imperial official slapped his younger, shorter friend on the back. “Take a breath, Rahm! The wind’s with us, and we’re all collected in good order! This is only a break in the action. We’ll soon rebuild and return to give the usurper hell!”

“Let’s hope so—”

“Sails to the port side!” shouted the lookout.

Both planted their hands on the rail as they turned to peer to the east. At first they could see nothing remarkable.

“Just a figment of the light,” suggested Jubal.

But then a set of high sails appeared on the horizon. Behind them appeared two more, then three, and on and on—many more. They moved swiftly, far too swiftly.

Jubal’s scratchy voice shook. “There’s at least a dozen.”

“Lord Bastion’s finally found us.” Rahm murmured. He rubbed the ring. “This is it, governor … this is it. Let us go to meet him in battle, with all the enthusiasm he deserves.”

As his long, winding, somewhat chaotic caravan approached the city, Golgren looked upon the looming gates and saw both the wonder and decay of the ancient citadel that was his home.

To the humans and the rest of the outside world, the city was known as Kernen, and it was what passed for the capital of the harsh ogre kingdom of Kern. When outsiders—few of whom had ever glimpsed it—spoke of Kernen, they did so with derision and disgust. Ogres lived there, after all—coarse, stupid beasts compared to their lost, revered ancestors, the Irda.

Kernen had once been the High Ogres’ greatest pride and, as in the present day, the heart of their realm. Tall, pure white marble obelisks had stood at each of the four wide, steel gates, announcing in extravagant ogre script, carved deeply, that here stood—not Kernen, the outsiders’ name, but rather Garantha, the city blessed by the highest and most blessed of gods. Here stood the apex of learning, of architecture, of civilization. Built to protect Kernen, to ward it off from the less-perfect world, had been a wall of the same marble, thirty feet high, with towering reliefs covering each of its four sides.

Those reliefs announced to all new visitors the glories they would observe inside the walls. There was the vast, domed arena where scholars and politicians debated history and world events. The incredible open-air market filled the southern quarter. One could find so much lush vegetation there that to some it almost seemed more a paradisial garden, rather than a place to purchase edibles and rare items from all over the continent and across the seas. There was the Zoo of Sagrio, a natural preserve in the northern quarter and the only place in Ansalon where one could see the last of the twenty-feet-tall Bordarai sloths, docile giants latterly hunted almost to extinction for their soft, golden fur.

These were but three of the wonders carved into the stone and only a bare fraction of the countless number of rare sights and privileged details offered by the jewel city of the High Ogres.

Even before pilgrims had crossed the soft, flowing meadows and sighted the walls, the four round, crested towers of Garantha—positioned just a short distance inside each gate—acted as beacons to travelers. The crown of each had been decorated artfully with the stylized symbol of the gryphon. Painted a stark black against pristine white, the giant images looked almost ready to leap free from their perches and take to the skies.

Within the gates and walls, the white cobblestone streets, meticulously maintained, had threaded throughout Garantha in a perfect grid. The buildings were for the most part like the towers, also rounded and with the same glorious five-sided crest encircling their roofs. Three-dimensional reliefs and artfully painted statues depicting the patron animal were seen everywhere.

The city in those long-ago days had been divided into four distinct quarters. The low, broader buildings to the west had housed the less affluent, though at the height of its majesty even the least of Garantha’s people would have been considered prosperous. Every home had some sort of front garden, each High Ogre vying for the most distinctive, colorful flowers and exotic trimmings. Besides the vast zoo, the northern quarter also housed most of the Guilds, where much of the planning and industry of the city was done. To the east, the wealthiest of Garantha lived in splendid villas with huge hanging gardens and pillared entranceways with the omnipresent gryphon etched on steel doors.

At the center of the city lay not the palace of the ruler—that was found in the east—but rather the grand arena. Built and modified over the course of one hundred years, with two dozen arching columns meeting at the center of a great layered wooden dome, the famous edifice stood ten stories high, before the two stories that incorporated the roof. One hundred yards wide and twice that long, the grand arena had enabled a mighty throng to gather for such events as the crowning of rulers, the honoring of heroes, and ritual reaffirmations of the glory of the High Ogre race.

But all that had been centuries ago, before the decadence, before the downfall. Before ogres had become objects of fear and scorn.

Now the once-glistening, once-white wall with its magnificent reliefs lined only sporadic sections of Garantha; most of it had long since been ravaged by storm, quake, and internal strife. Piles of weatherworn rubble decorated the outer border. The sections of wall were gray and dirty. The extravagant images had either been reduced to faint markings or been cracked into minuscule pieces. Since the downfall, little attempt had been made to rebuild the proud barrier, though one section near the eastern entrance—still bearing upon it the city’s icon—had been hastily and haphazardly renovated before Golgren’s visit.

Inner Garantha had weathered time and catastrophe little better than its once-esteemed wall. Of the magnificent towers, mostly shells remained. Only one still bore a crown, and even that was missing two of its points. With no one to retouch the paint, the gargantuan gryphons had all but faded from the tower facades.

The magnificent gardens before each home were gone, the diligent care they required was impossible in these times. The houses themselves bore many cracks, and some had collapsed inward.

Yet, despite its wounds and scars, Garantha was not dead, not even close, though some might have wished it otherwise. The ogres still dominated this city, and be it called by its ancient title or the outsiders’ Kernen, it still remained a seat of power. When the first of the Grand Khans, Juk i’Fhanhrik—The Death of His Enemies That Is Juk—brutally seized absolute power in a struggle ending in the slaughter of nearly a quarter of all the ogre population, he had made Garantha the seat of his throne. Fearful subjects with a modicum of talent in stone and weaving had attempted, on pain of torture and agonizingly slow death, to re-create for him the garments and trappings displayed on the remnants of the reliefs and sculptures among the crumbling ruins.

Juk’s subsequent death—his arms, legs, and head had been ripped from his torso while he screamed futilely—did not deter his successors from imitating his example. The continual restoration, however faulty, of the great architecture of the High Ogres became the passion of all the Grand Khans who followed him.

As the caravan approached the eastern gates, fearsome sentries in red cloth kilts perched precariously atop the crumbling wall lowered their spears. Putting curled goat horns to their tusked mouths, they blew what was a symbolic greeting to the newcomers and, quite possibly, a warning to the those in the palace. Ogres everywhere looked up, ceased what they were doing, and headed as one toward the gates. Other sentries took up the huge, leather drums and beat out a harsh, militant sound. Those who nominally ruled the city rushed out in what they considered their finest, ready to greet the august arrival.

As Garantha’s inhabitants gathered upon the wall and near the entrance, near where a shattered obelisk still greeted newcomers, they gaped at a spectacle that truly seemed out of their past.

A long line of ogre warriors clad in breastplates and resting their swords and clubs on their left shoulders marched toward the open gates. Numbering almost a thousand, they were but a fraction of the force that could have been brought to Garantha, but the host was impressive nonetheless. Soldier trumpeters blew a long, low signal announcing the imminent arrival of their leader and the ranks shouted out “Iskar’ai! Iskar’ai!”—the ogre word for victory—over and over. Ogre captains strutted among the ranks, their whips and harsh tongues keeping the unruly in check.

As the imposing ranks of fighters advanced, the proud roars took on a sudden fierceness. Grouped among the ready warriors were squat, slightly shorter figures in rusted breastplates and helms. The image of a bloody hand had been etched on each of their breastplates. This troop of ogres eyed the city warily but still marched confidently alongside the others. To the ogres of Garantha, the ogres of Blöde were a disturbing sight; they were considered a breed almost as bestial as the minotaurs. This close to the border, and mixed in with their own kind, it was worrisome.

But the ogres of Blöde were now allies of the ogres of Kernen, cajoled by the mesmeric personality of Golgren into a pact as stunning as the one he had managed to forge with the historic foe, the Uruv Suurt. At the forefront of the Blöde contingent rode the hog-jawed brother and second in command to Nagroch, Belgroch, representing the absent subchieftain. He studied the capital as if Garantha were his for the taking, earning him threatening looks from more than a few in the crowd.

Behind the imposing columns of warriors, handlers urged on several dozen leashed meredrakes, the monstrous brown and green reptiles hissing and snapping at everything around them. They, in turn, were followed by open wagons—many of which had been liberated from the Knights of Neraka—in which supplies and items salvaged from the dead enemy had been piled high for the appreciation of onlookers. There was armor, Nerakian, Solamnic, elven—swords, lances, goblets, jeweled clothing, and more. Metal, any metal, was a valuable commodity in Kern, and so much metal spoke of the great wealth the column’s master had accumulated during the campaign.

Next came a sight the ogres savored more than weapons and metal: a score of badly beaten humans and elves were being steered by guards who prodded and whipped them mercilessly each step of the way. Blood and dirt covered the enemy prisoners, and some were stumbling along trying to carry others. They walked without hope, without any semblance of pride. Garantha jeered the hapless prisoners, pelting them with rocks and refuse until the guards, who were also pelted, yelled at them to stop or suffer their wrath.

Then, with these undeniable examples of his success, power, and status preceding him, the Grand Lord Golgren arrived in his impressive carriage. Twin mastarks, the desert-brown behemoths of western Kern, drew the carriage. They raised their downwardly curled tusks and snorted loudly and, it seemed, somewhat anxiously through their long, tapering snouts. The carriage driver, an ogre in a shining breastplate, snarled and lashed at the flat-footed beasts, adroitly maintaining control.

By human standards, the carriage was gaudy to the point of ugliness; gold leaf was plastered along every edge and glittering jewels were attached to its sides, but to ogres it evoked the glamour of their glorious past. Ostentatious scrollwork liberated from the armor of Nerakian officers decorated the windows, which were veiled with green, silken cloth. Carefully written in High Ogre script—by the hand of a skilled and now-dead elf—the sides of the carriage boasted the greatness of he who rode within, enumerating his many battle victories. That only a few could read the ancient script did not matter to the emissary; the litany of his achievements would be especially impressive to the literate.

Only his face could be glimpsed from outside the carriage. Clad in his finest forest green elven robe and his well-tailored, sand-brown garments, Golgren nodded at the roaring citizens. He came of course as Grand Lord of Kern, emissary and servant to the Grand Khan, but Golgren had brought about the pact with the Uruv Suurt, the minotaurs, and so his name was called out almost equally with his master’s. At first the pact with the minotaurs had been considered a vile political compromise, but that was before it had led to the ousting and extermination of the hated knights. The pact had provided the ogre nation with the supplies and weapons they desired for their planned deep incursion into Ansalon.

It was Golgren’s genius that had united two disparate, oft-warring ogre realms and forged a rout of the invaders.

Atop the walls, along the dirt-strewn, cracked streets, the ogres of Kernen roared in their guttural tongue as Golgren entered Garantha. Those who wielded clubs or other large weapons began to beat them on the stone walls or nearby rocks, keeping time with the drums. Among some of those favored by the Grand Khan, however, dark looks quickly passed. One rose up among the ogre race only by leaving behind a trail of blood of enemies, and Golgren had left a particularly long and bloody trail. He had his admirers and his sycophants, but he also boasted many enemies.

The chipped and worn heads of gryphons stared down from the roofs and statues as the force moved through Garantha. One mastark’s proboscis twisted to the south, sniffing at the scent of vegetation in the southern quarter. The heavy, padded feet of the monsters cracked the ancient cobblestones as they lumbered along.

Entering the center of the city, the column reached what remained of the huge arena. Like so much of Garantha, so much of the ogre realm, this once-fabled structure had deteriorated badly. Of the astounding dome, nothing but a few looming arches still existed. The northern side of the building had collapsed inward, burying half the interior. The eastern section was more intact and still used for civic events, but the arena was hardly grand nowadays; it was a pale shadow of itself. Some attempt had been made to renovate the ruined sections, but as with all things in Kern, the craftsmanship was inferior, and the work never seemed to get done.

Golgren frowned as he stared at the arena, but he did not have the carriage slow.

Then, as his train neared the palace, it was as though a change came over Garantha. As if time had turned backward, the past flared alive. Age still touched the sprawling villas of the High Ogres, but here the cracks had been sealed and genuine attempts had been made to keep the grounds clean. Actual gardens—beautiful gardens that would have astounded outsiders—were thriving in front of most buildings. The flowers may have been stunted, the plants more wild than exotic, but their mere presence bespoke the higher status and ambition of those who lived in this quarter.

From behind the fence of one villa, striped, yellow-gray creatures resembling lupine horses, with necks stretched high—Kernian amaloks—peered over the thick, stone fences, their twin horns turned suspiciously toward the mastarks. The giants ignored them; one of their feet would crush any amalok. Amaloks were popular domestic animals among the elite of the capital. They were raised to fight one another, their horns capable of ripping through armor. The Grand Khan and his inner circle placed wagers on the outcome, and winners were bred for their foul tempers. Losers became a part of the feasts held nightly in the palace.

Here the long column halted, the ranks immediately splitting in twain in order to let the carriage pass. Golgren straightened, his eyes glittering with eagerness. He peered ahead.

The palace beckoned him.

Had someone placed three perfect turtle shells—one six stories tall and the others four—together with the largest nestled between the smaller ones, they would have approximated the High Ogres’ design of the ancient edifice. The roof sloped at a perfect angle to accent the illusion of the gargantuan reptiles in repose. Underneath the ridged roof of each of the three sections, a line of arched windows ran along the length. Twin towers, like those near the gates, stood at opposite ends of the palace. A subtle greenish tint, almost pearl-like in luster, added an aura of majesty to the stone. The secret of the process had been lost after the downfall of the race, so where nature and war had later necessitated repairs, white marble made a stark substitute.

Passing under a high arch carved to resemble two battling gryphons, Golgren’s carriage reached the palace grounds. A line of warriors clad in shining minotaur breastplates emerged from the palace and took their places before the steel doors. The Grand Lord himself was responsible for their fine armor, not to mention the new, shining axes and swords borne by the guards, but it was his master who now displayed the spoils of war. The guards eyed the column, the meredrakes and mastarks—even the disheveled prisoners—with pronounced wariness. They were sworn to the Grand Khan, but they recognized the prestige Golgren wielded.

To the cheers of the throngs beyond the outer walls, Golgren descended from the carriage onto a path of pure red stone. The Grand Khan’s guards tensed visibly as Golgren, followed by a retinue larger than their number, strode serenely along the path then slowly wended his way up the sprawling white steps.

Seated twin gryphon statues peered down over the entrance, so lifelike despite the ravages of time that they seemed to take the stern measure of each who passed. Golgren paused long enough to stare into each stone face, defying them to find him wanting.

The benevolent and beautiful face of some unknown High Ogre from the ancient days split in two as the steel doors opened for Golgren. The Grand Lord entered the palace flanked by the guards and followed by some seventy strong, including the prisoners he was parading as trophies. Several of the latter labored hard under bulky wooden chests whose contents clattered with each step.

A torch-lit hall welcomed him. The flickering flames created dancing shadows. Two helmeted guards, each handling the chain leash of a snapping meredrake, eyed Golgren and his company with distrust.

“H’jihan!” snapped one with a broken tusk. “Garata i’Golgreni toruk!”

“Garata len kerak i’Zharangi!” Golgren returned humbly, almost abasing himself before the Grand Khan’s minions. “Garata ky jukal i’Zharangi! Garata corvai kerak i’Zharangi!”

The ogre with the broken tusk slapped his free hand against his breastplate. “Garata y kerak ky toruk pnum i’Zharangi!”

To this the Grand Lord nodded and sharply replied, “Kee!”

Moving aside, the pair allowed him to enter.

The scent of Grmyn flower pervaded the hall as he and the others neared the great throne room. The rare blossom with the jagged stem and midnight purple center grew in the swampier regions of Kern, just to the east. It was savored by many of those among the hierarchy, just as it had been prized by their ancient ancestors in the final days of the High Ogre civilization.

Along the walls, stretching from the front doors of the palace, the sculpted reliefs of the High Ogres told the saga of the race. In rich, flowing robes, precious earrings dangling and jeweled chains resting on their proud chests, the High Ogres could be seen playing lutes; hunting amaloks and other game; guiding the wills of the younger, less-intelligent races; and presiding over the history of their storied realm. The figures stood twice as tall as any ogre, further enhancing their godlike perfection.

Golgren stood ramrod straight as he headed into the sanctum of his khan. Nearly two feet shorter than most of his kind, he was hailed respectfully by all he passed. The few ogres early in his career who had thought the Grand Lord’s stature a thing to mock no longer had tongues—or heads—with which to mock him.

A thick-browed giant so tall that he had to stoop even in the halls created for his ancestors glared at the approaching emissary and his noisome throng. Hefting a club nearly as thick as Golgren’s chest, he boldly approached the Grand Lord.

“Garata i’Golgreni toruk!”

Golgren bent low, repeating what he had said to the earlier guards, proclaiming to the guard his complete devotion, his utter loyalty, and his reverence for the Grand Khan of all Kern, Zharang.

The massive brute scratched his dull, black fur then backed away. As he did so, he revealed a thick, crimson curtain, which then parted for the high-ranking visitor.

All hint of self-abasement gone, Golgren entered the royal chambers.

Torches set intermittently into the walls vainly tried to light the way. Strident notes of music assailed his ears. The scent of Grmyn flowers grew thick. A slight purple haze filled the chamber. Golgren’s nostrils flared momentarily at the heady, sweet smell.

Cages lined the walls. The nearest, only three feet high and four feet wide, held in it an ugly dwarf, one of those from the hills. The dwarf, naked but for his thick, soiled beard, still breathed, but his stare was that of a dead creature. The cage forced him to remain on his side with his legs folded into his chest. He had looked exactly the same the last the Grand Lord had been granted an audience with his master.

A larger, wrought-iron cage held a dire dark red bird with a wingspan twice the height of the enclosed dwarf. In contrast to the emaciated, wrinkled figure, the sharp-beaked, fire-crested avian creature looked well fed, its eyes flitting eagerly for any new morsel. Zharang had a fondness for the bird, and the bones littering the cage, some of them finger fragments, gave testimony to that fact. The malevolent black orbs of the bird eyed the emissary briefly as a possible meal then glanced away quickly when Golgren bared his teeth. Predators recognized predators.

The many other cages held a variety of beasts, mostly small but deadly—some very, very rare. Golgren, however, paid the cages no further mind, for ahead sat his master, Zharang.

The Grand Khan was not alone. Nearly a hundred other ogres of varying age, sex, and size sat upon huge, stuffed cushions garishly colored and patterned. Most cushions were stained with wine and a more vital, crimson fluid. The celebrants themselves bore not a few stains on their clothing; wine and bits of half-chewed food constantly spilled from their wide, laughing mouths.

A human slave only marginally identifiable as a female was handing out square plates filled high with goat meat, still bloody. One of the male ogres snatched at her scantily clad form, but she managed to avoid his huge, nailed fingers. The human scurried from sight as the ogre and several near him laughed at her fear.

There was soft music coming from a curved lyre held by a pale, straggly haired figure barely identifiable as an elf. His pinched nose and narrow, pointed chin bore the bruises of beatings, for when the music did not please the Grand Khan—as the saying went—the Khan was very displeased. As with the dwarf, only flesh—thin, nearly translucent flesh—clothed this sickly one.

Laughter arose from the celebrating crowd. In the midst of the richly robed participants, two peculiar reptiles poised on their hind limbs performed a macabre dance of death as they dueled with one another over a morsel of goat meat. On legs resembling those of scaled birds, they hissed and lunged at each other. Their front claws, generally withdrawn, now and then would dart out with frightening swiftness, tearing at each other’s brown, mottled flesh. The baraki were solitary creatures that jealously guarded their territoriality, only joining in pairs when mating. All other times, they lived as dire enemies, which made them the perfect gaming creatures for such indoor spectacles.

Though he felt a frown coming on, Golgren managed what he hoped was a warm smile. The Grand Khan had been expecting him for days.

The haze and stench grew more stifling the closer to the Khan he came. One of the partiers, his tusks shaved down to nubs in the same manner as Golgren’s, was clutching a narrow, silver-tipped pipe attached to a hose made from softened water reeds. He flipped open a small latch and inhaled the smoke that escaped. Positioned behind many of the jostling ogres were oval vats kept heated by small fires. Two nervous slaves—ogres, Golgren noted to his surprise—scurried around, making certain that none of the brass containers cooled. The addictive pleasures of the blue-tipped Grmyn flower were best savored when heated not quite to boiling.

Golgren held up his hand, halting those who trailed behind him. Alone, he respectfully approached the revelers.

At the far end of the room, chained to the dais upon which stood the wide, star-crested stone throne of the Grand Khan, a huge, winged beast suddenly moved to sit up, alert, its front paws poised. Its wings were stretched taut—wings that were clipped, so the winged creature could not attempt to fly to freedom.

The beaked beast’s loud squawk announced the presence of the Grand Lord. An ogre near to the gryphon barked at the creature, silencing it. Then, with one last sniff of his pipe, the Grand Khan of Kern, Zharang i’Urkarun Dracon—The Great Dragon That Is Zharang—looked up from his cushion at his most loyal servant.

The venom in his slightly bloodshot eyes was clear to see.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, the elf ceased playing then, chains dragging, cautiously retreated. Two ogres acting as handlers for the baraki leaped into the circle, using Nerakian gauntlets as gloves to protect them from the reaching claws and teeth. They carried the screaming, maddened reptiles away.

The other revelers looked at the intruder, revealing in their eyes a combination of interest, disdain, respect, and, overall, a healthy fear.

Golgren went down on one knee, but instead of lowering his own eyes as was custom, he raised them to meet the Grand Khan’s gaze.

Zharang’s watery eyes looked away first. Only then did Golgren begin his ritual greetings to his master, listing the Grand Khan’s many flattering titles.

When Golgren had finished, he stood again, another subtle flouting of tradition. Zharang, sniffing the pipe again, smiled broadly. While his tusks resembled Golgren’s, his teeth had been sharpened so they could bite through bone. It was the Grand Khan’s favored punishment for first offenders to remove one or more of their fingers with those teeth then feed the fingers to his caged bird.

“Yurook ky ifana, i’Golgreni,” Zharang said, putting down the pipe and leaning back casually. Golgren could very well stand in his presence, but the Grand Khan would let everyone know that he was not in the least intimidated by such discourtesy.

Golgren, in turn, did not respond to the glaring lack of his own formal titles in Zharang’s brief greeting. He snapped his fingers, and the chests were carried forward. The Grand Khan’s companions slithered back and away, as Golgren’s prisoners set the six hefty containers down before the corpulent figure.

Avarice overcame distrust and loathing. Smoothing the gold trim on his emerald robe, Zharang seized a stick he had been using to bait the baraki and whacked the arched top of the nearest chest.

One of the royal guards stepped forward and raised an ax, but with one easy movement, Golgren snatched the weapon from his grasp. With a practiced swing, the Grand Lord chopped off one sturdy iron lock after another.

From where he sat, Zharang kicked the lid of the nearest chest back.

Shining steel glittered in the torchlight. More valuable than gold these days, the weapons, goblets, and other precious items presented quite an array. To the ogres, it was a king’s ransom.

One by one, Golgren kicked open the rest of the chests, letting all see the remarkable fruits of his efforts. More steel, but also jewels, other rare metals, and excellent cloth.

Grunting as he forced his paunchy body to lean forward, Zharang took hold of one blade. He hefted it expertly. The other ogres peered closely, admiring the fine craftsmanship.

“Igran ky verata i’Neraki?” Zharang asked. “F’han?”

In response, the Grand Lord coolly turned and nodded to those overseeing his prisoners. One of his warriors kicked forward a human with thinning, flattened hair and one eye missing, thanks to his ogre captors. He staggered to the circle where the baraki had been fighting. Golgren aided his progress with a slap to the neck that sent the black knight collapsing before Zharang.

Instantly, the rest of the guests grew feverishly excited. Shouts of “F’han! F’han!” filled the royal chamber.

The Grand Khan Zharang raised himself up. The excess flesh under his chin unfolded, revealing his sparse beard. He grinned, encouraging the shouts with gestures of his hands. The human remained huddled at his feet, cowering but also feeble, possibly oblivious to the horrific situation in which he found himself.

Atop the dais, the gryphon roared its eagerness for blood. Likewise did the finger-eating bird, which banged its sharp beak against the cage in hopes of a bit of the flesh. Their lusty cries paled compared to those of the shrill ogres. A few tossed the square, copper coins of the realm into the center of the party, making wagers on details of what was to ensue. Ogres, even those desiring to emulate their sophisticated ancestors, wagered not only on death itself, but also on the fascinating nuances. How many strikes, what angle, would the victim cry out, what would the death cry sound like … no excuse for a bet was ignored.

When the shouting had reached a crescendo, Zharang raised the steel blade over his head. He grinned again, basking in the moment, the horror of it, and the adulation of his followers.

Golgren kept his own face expressionless, save for a growing intensity in his eyes.

The Grand Khan swung down.

“F’han! F’han ne Neraki!” cried more than one reveler.

The blade bit in midway between the nape of the neck and the shoulder blade. Clad only in a grimy, gray kilt, the knight had no protection but his own skeleton against the heavy strike.

Blood spilled over the body as the human collapsed to the tarnished marble floor. The knight spasmed repeatedly, gasping, writhing, shuddering, but still he did not die.

Zharang quickly struck again, raising the sword as high as he could and bringing it down with the full force of his strength.

This time, he cut deep into the man’s left shoulder, audibly breaking bone and nearly severing the arm. The gasping ceased, but the human’s ragged breathing left no doubt as to whether he yet lived.

As wagers were paid and others were advanced, the Grand Khan of Kern finally looked up at Golgren, almost with disappointment. Zharang’s eyes narrowed viciously as he attacked the body again.

With his third strike, he managed to all but remove the head from the torso. There was no doubt now; the knight was dead.

While his bleary-eyed sycophants cheered, the ogre ruler, his robe splattered with blood, tossed the blade away contemptuously. He pointed at the hacked-up corpse, grunting, “Jaragh i i’Neraki gea a’f’han! A’f’han, i’Golgreni!”

The Grand Lord put on a bland mask. Only his darkening eyes hinted of his true emotions. “A’f’han? Ne ky, ne ky.”

His face involuntarily flushing with shame, he picked up the discarded blade. Frowning, Golgren turned to his own party.

Before he had completely turned, one of his warriors shoved forward two more prisoners, one another knight, the other an elf almost as wasted away as the lyre player.

The moment they walked into range, Golgren moved. The blade flashed once, twice.

With his free hand, he caught the head of the human as it toppled off its neck, and then grabbed the elf’s by the hair as the latter’s corpse crumpled to the floor. Golgren spun back to face the Grand Khan, smoothly burying the sword point in the chest of valuables.

With a humble look now replacing the shamed one, Golgren presented the two dripping heads to Zharang.

“Ne a’f’han i kerak, i’Zharangi,” he courteously remarked.

He had made it clear to all present. There was no fault with the sword’s make, contrary to what the ogre ruler had implied. And in demonstrating that his gifts were worthy, the Grand Lord Golgren had also revealed his master’s deficiency.

A nervous change swept through those around him. The wagering ceased. The merry-making tapered off then ended. The other high-ranking ogres watched silently and waited.

Zharang stood up. His gaze shifted to the captain of the guard, positioned near the front wall, then back to Golgren.

Sword in one hand, the captain, his rank marked by a red, metal band around his left arm, headed toward the smaller emissary. Golgren watched him, revealing nothing. The oncoming figure stood nearly as tall as the giant outside, but his eyes showed a keen intelligence. Twin scars, purposely cut, underlined his lower lids, and marked him as coming from one of the fiercest tribes.

The two locked knowing gazes. As he neared Golgren, the hulking captain shifted his grip on his sword.

Without warning, he sheathed his weapon.

A slight gasp escaped more than one of the celebrants.

The guard reached for the blade the Grand Lord had stuck into the wooden chest, raising it up for a better view.

“Herak i Jeriloch uth Kyr i’Golgreni,” the other ogre declared respectfully to Golgren. He brandished the blade. “Kar oro?”

“Kee,” Golgren replied.

Grinning, the captain removed his own sword and tossed it to one of the other sentries. He sheathed the new one, bowed his head once to the Grand Lord, and returned to his place.

Zharang suddenly seemed to shrink. Golgren, on the other hand, appeared to look down upon his lord, as if he had stolen his dignity.

The Grand Khan dropped sulkily onto his cushion. With a gruff, overly exaggerated nod, he barked, “Ko hy, Jeriloch uth Kyr i’Golgreni!” He indicated that his emissary should join the festivities. “Ko i keluta, Hargo i Lanos i’Golgreni!”

The abrupt mention of some of Golgren’s previously omitted titles did not go unnoticed by the rest. The Grand Lord bowed deeply to his master, then snapped his fingers. His warriors led the other prisoners away. Come the morning, they would be executed at a public showing, where Zharang and his emissary would stand side by side, the picture of a loyal servant and his honored lord.

As Golgren folded his legs atop one of the massive cushions, the graying ogre next to him graciously offered a smoke of his pipe. Golgren declined the offer, but in a manner that accepted the merit of the gift. The eyes of the older ogre gleamed.

A female on the other side of him leaned close, offering not only wine, but a view of fleshly treasures only one of the Grand Lord’s race could appreciate. He accepted the golden goblet, and let his eyes indicate his possible interest in her. Her mate, his mouth stuffed with meat, nodded his assent to the Grand Lord.

Across from him, Zharang turned to the side and shouted. The handlers returned with the spitting baraki. Immediately, the wagering renewed. Golgren chose the one he believed would be the victor and placed a bet. Several of the others instantly imitated him.

The elf began playing his odd music again. The music was different this time, a melody known to be favored by the Grand Lord.

As the handlers released the baraki, Golgren’s eyes stared through the reptilian combatants, fixed on Zharang. The Grand Khan roared encouragement at the beasts, slapped a fellow celebrant on the shoulder, and inhaled more smoke of the Grmyn flower.

Not once during the rest of that occasion would he look directly at Golgren. The others, though, turned to the emissary often, making friendly conversation, offers, and wagers, eventually leaving the Grand Khan a pathetic isolated figure puffing on his pipe, inhaling too much of the Grmyn flower …

Knowing now that it was not he who really ruled Kern.

For five days the hounds of Sahd—the two-legged as well as the scaly ones—hunted through the empty, ash-ridden land in search of the escaped slaves who had conducted the unprecedented raid on the camp. Fearsome ogre parties, large and well armed, clambered over the jagged rocks and black hills, often led by three or even four meredrakes straining at their leashes. The guards were pushed by their fear of Sahd to drive themselves to exhaustion, and more than once Faros, Grom, and Valun barely eluded capture.

But after those five days, the hunting parties grew sporadic, the pursuit less fanatical. The three minotaurs debated why.

“They’ve given up!” Grom insisted not for the first time. The trio had found their way back to their original cave, which, to their surprise, the ogres had not discovered. “Praise Sargas!”

Valun, chipping away at another bone to create another makeshift utensil of the sort that had served them well in their foraging, nodded agreement. “Why else stop looking?”

Faros rolled his eyes at their foolish talk. Had he ever been so naive as these two he was stuck with as comrades?

“Sahd’s withdrawn most of the search parties because he knows we’ve only got three options left at this point,” he told them, not for the first time, in an irritated tone. “He knows that we are probably still out here, concealed and staying on the move, while trying to subsist off the land. He also knows how much of a chance we have of surviving that way in the long run.”

Minotaurs were hardier than most races. They could go longer without food and without much water. The spring still satisfied their thirst, but scrounging for food while being hunted was an increasing problem. In the past few days, they had dined on only the spiny-crested lizards—which Grom had managed to mix with herbs and cook into something palatable—and one sickly, mottled vulture native to the region. But their hunger was taking its toll in low energy and ill tempers. For minotaurs, they were already weak and lean from the harsh conditions of the camp.

“He also knows we might leave the area, maybe try for the coast and the welcoming arms of the empire. Even head somewhere else.” Faros snorted. “You know what hope we’ve got of succeeding in that pipedream with no maps, little food, and his spies and minions everywhere searching for us.”

Three days earlier, they had circled wide away from the hunting parties and then tried circling back to the east. They had managed to cover many difficult miles, and their hopes were rising, when they stumbled across the two dead minotaurs.

Or rather, they stumbled across what remained of the slaves who had preceded them in a fruitless quest to escape Sahd.

Their bones had been picked clean and scattered, but the skulls were horned. One of the broken bodies lay near the base of a hill, the other they came upon some minutes later in a ravine. The two had not died at the hands of ogre violence, but from weakness and exposure. The three had argued among themselves before deciding that they were lucky to have gotten this far but should turn back before they, too, were overcome by the elements. Without weapons and food supplies, they would never make it to the sea.

“Of course we could always return to camp,” Faros concluded with a grim smile. “Beg Sahd’s forgiveness. There’s plenty of food there—plenty of rotten food and work intended to kill us slowly. Of course we might die faster when Sahd gives us his usual dose of punishment—whippings and worse.”

“The guards have good food,” Grom said. “We could try again to steal some.”

Valun ceased carving. “After the last failure, do we dare?”

“It was my fault,” Grom said in a low voice. “I’d like a second chance.”

Faros looked him in the eyes. “Now you’re talking! We eat or we die. We steal or we die. I say we go back and get all the food we want, and if we die this time—let’s die bravely.”

“May Sargas watch over us,” Grom whispered.

“I keep telling you, forget Sargas. We watch out for ourselves.” Faros rose, staring at the exit of the cave. “The sun’ll be down soon. We can’t afford to waste another day. I’ll go scout the perimeter.”

Grom and Valun rose, insisting that they go with him. Faros shrugged, not caring whether they stayed or followed.

The trio moved cautiously toward the camp. Sahd had lookouts on the high ridges. Picking their way behind rocks and foliage, the three arrived safely after dark. The slaves had returned from their backbreaking work in the mines, and the ogres were done with their day’s duties and were disappearing into their huts and tents.

As they watched from behind a mound of rocks on a slight rise, Faros heard a harsh cry. The three looked up and saw several large, winged forms circling over Sahd’s domain.

Carrion crows and crested vultures, the largest and most voracious of the scavengers. They were always eager for a morsel, and they were patient.

Sahd cracked his whip, forcing the slaves, including Faros, to move forward so they could enjoy his latest spectacle.

A bitter taste welled in Faros’s mouth. Shaking off his memories, saying nothing, he gestured to the others to follow then scrambled over loose rocks and dirt before arriving at the edge of a small cliff from which they could survey the camp.

“Stay low!” he ordered the others, eyeing the scavengers still flying wide circles over the camp.

He crawled to the edge. A sudden wind blew stinging dust into his eyes, causing a painful blurriness. Gradually, however, his vision cleared, and he didn’t like what he saw.

The scavengers could smell the rotting meat from miles away.

“You see?” demanded Sahd in coarse Common. “You remember! They learned! Now you learn from them, yes?”

Several of the workers fell to their knees in abject horror. Others shook their heads in disgust.

Faros could only gape at the atrocity he witnessed.

Ten wooden poles had been placed east—near where the three escapees had entered the camp and fled the other night. The grisly decorations atop each pole stared in that direction.

Upon each pole was stuck the severed head of a slave.

Youth and elder, male and female, Sahd had chosen his examples at random. Before their executions, the minotaurs’ muzzles had been bound shut, so tight that the ropes had dug into the flesh. Blood stained the ropes. Faros could imagine the glee with which the ogres had tightened the ropes, their demonic laughter.

But Sahd had taken something greater than their lives from the minotaur slaves—he had insulted their heritage. From each dead slave, their horns had been shorn off at the base. The effort had not been a simple one, for the slaves would have struggled mightily, in spite of the ropes and the ogres kicking and stabbing at them. Shearing off their horns was an act of extreme shame and dishonor for the minotaurs, one that among Faros’s people symbolized a fate worse than death. By doing this, Sahd had defiled the victims, sending them to the afterlife bereft of that which marked them as the children of the Horned One.

Next to the stakes occupied by the ten bloodied, staring heads were ten more freshly cut, sharpened—and vacant—poles.

Sahd was sending an obvious message. The next incursion into his camp would trigger an equal number of executions.

“What is it?” called Grom carefully from behind him. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” Faros said as he slid down. “We wait until it’s pitch dark, then like before—head for the supply hut.”

But something in Faros’s demeanor made Grom curious. Before anyone could stop him, the other minotaur had scrambled up the ridge to look.

“Faros—” Valun began.

“Sargas’s Horns!” they heard Grom gasp.

Glaring up at the other minotaur, Faros snarled quietly, “Why don’t you shout it out!”

Grom returned, gasping.

“What is it?” asked Valun. “What did you see?”

Grom told him what Faros could not, sputtering out the horror, telling of the heads and the sheared horns. Valun listened in shock, absently reaching to touch his own single horn.

When he had finished talking, Grom looked at Faros, who returned his stare silently. “What do we do now? What do we do?”

“Why not ask Sargonnas? Those poor slaves are beyond anything he can do for them. They’re beyond anything now.”

“You go too far, Faros. Sahd took their—”

But Faros, looking up at the heavens, cut him off with a sharp gesture. “There is still some light. It will be dark soon, and most of the ogres will be sleeping. Do you want to eat or die?”

Grom looked at Valun, who studied the earth at his feet. The latter slave nodded slowly. Grom exhaled then also nodded.

“As you say, Faros.”

If he no longer thought to avenge his own family, why, then, would he bother with a few fellow doomed slaves?

With his leg still not strong, Valun kept watch from the ridge. If he saw anything amiss, he would utter a shrill imitation of one of the night birds that dwelled in the higher hills. Whether or not that would be enough warning for Faros and Grom, no one could say, but it was the only way to do it. Valun’s bad leg would only slow them down; Faros had invented this task for the one-horned minotaur as much for his safety as for theirs.

Their surveillance revealed that Sahd had doubled his guard units. Faros led Grom to the old stone bridge and the river of molten earth flowing slowly under it. The lava glowed red-hot, with blackened patches. No one, not even the strongest, fittest minotaur could leap its width, which made crossing the bridge crucial.

Three ogres and a meredrake kept watch on the other side.

The heat was oppressive. The fur of both escaped slaves clung to their sweaty bodies. Grom wondered what clever plan Faros had in mind, for Faros had not bothered to fill him in on how they were going to get across the bridge. They crouched there for several minutes, looking across.

“What next?” Grom finally asked at a normal volume. The flow emitted a constant rumbling that made it impossible to hear a whisper. But the sentries couldn’t hear them unless they shouted out.

“I draw them out. Take this.” He handed Grom his dagger. “Be ready for my signal.”

“But—” But immediately Faros stepped out in the open. The moment he became visible to the guards, he staggered, stumbled, and fell to one knee. He moved as if half dazed and half dead.

Two of the ogres rushed forward. The last, still keeping the meredrake under control, watched warily. On his shoulder was a curled horn that could be used to warn the rest of the camp.

Club in one hand, the first ogre approached. Faros crawled along. Grom had to admit he was putting on a convincing act. The minotaur looked up at the ogre guard and called out, “Htowa! Htowa!”

The ogre chuckled at his desperate attempt to request water using their own tongue. The first one kicked Faros in the side. The other turned back to give the meredrake guard a signal that there was no imminent danger.

Grom held back. Faros was still in the midst of his performance.

The second ogre, a squatter, hirsute beast, then heavily prodded the stricken minotaur with the flat of his blade. When Faros made only a meager attempt to ward off the weapon, the guard whacked the side of his muzzle. Still, Faros did nothing but moan.

On the bridge, the third sentry shouted something. The one with the club replied then turned to hand the club to his companion.

That is when Faros’s hand darted up and seized the loosely held weapon. Before the startled guards could react, he had swung the club as hard as imaginable at the knee of the one wielding the sword.

Blood splattered the minotaur as the club burst through to the bone. The ogre screamed—a sound partly drowned out by the loud lava flow—and collapsed.

The first ogre lunged for Faros, but the minotaur managed so spin and kick the guard’s legs out from under him. As he leaped to his feet, Faros quickly glanced over at Grom, who was almost frozen watching, and pointed to the guard at the other end of the bridge.

Jumping up, Grom raced for the bridge. The ogre was focused on the fight between Faros and the guards, blithely enjoying what looked at that distance to be a little scrap the ogres were winning. Urging the meredrake forward, the sentry slowly began untying the horn in order to let the camp know they had caught one of the escapees.

As the guard he had tripped started to rise, Faros turned on the one with the shattered knee and clobbered him on the skull. The ogre’s jaw twisted to the side, and one of his tusks broke. He crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from his head wound.

The other guard had recovered and rushed to attack. He caught Faros in a chokehold before he had time to turn around.

As he ran toward the guard on the bridge, Grom was waving his arms, trying to distract him. The ogre was only momentarily confused before his wits returned and he hastily put the horn to his lips.

Grom threw the dagger.

The dagger struck, but fell short, striking him in the leg. Nonetheless the ogre lost his grip on the horn and instinctively reached to his wound as the horn fell over the side of the bridge.

The meredrake took advantage of the slackening of his leather leash.

The beast charged down the bridge toward the ogre struggling with the minotaur. Grom cried out, and Faros spun his adversary around. The meredrake moved fast for a species generally sluggish at night. The heat from the lava must have made it feel like day to the cold-blooded creature.

The guard managed to push himself away. Looking at the meredrake advancing upon him, Faros thought quickly—and grabbed his club, bashing the head of the dead ogre lying before him until its brains burst and there was blood all over the ground.

Given the choice between two fresh meals, one living and possibly dangerous, the other unmoving and giving off a bloody aroma, the reptile slowed and trotted toward the corpse.

Leaving the beast to its grisly meal, Faros dashed after the guard, who had raced back toward the bridge. Grom was by now wrestling with the handler, who had followed the meredrake down the bridge, but was looking over the side for the signal horn.

The other ogre guard slammed into Grom, and shoved past, calling the handler to follow him. Faros was seconds behind.

But the meredrake’s handler closed with Grom, wrapping his fingers around the minotaur’s throat. As Grom struggled, Faros flung himself past the pair, grabbing at the second ogre’s feet.

They tumbled around on the bridge. Faros struck the ogre’s jaw, sending the beastman’s head snapping back.

“Ki a’ hija f’han, Uruv Suurt!” roared the ogre. He drew a dagger and tried to ward off Faros. Faros received a slash on his leg, which, though it didn’t go deep, ran nearly the length of his calf.

Faros lowered his head and dived forward. He buried his horns just below the ogre’s heart, in his chest. The startled guard gasped then dropped his dagger. Faros drove him back.

They struck the side of the bridge. The ogre fell over the railing.

Faros tried to free his horns. The wounded guard grabbed at his shoulders, momentarily clutching him.

Other hands grabbed Faros from behind. With a horrific sucking sound, the minotaur’s horns came free.

The ogre guard, still grasping for Faros, fell backward, plummeting into the lava flow. His last screams as he sank into the searing lava were smothered by the molten earth’s rumble.

Faros stared at the bubbling area into which the ogre had vanished. A heavy hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.

He turned fiercely to greet the sweat- and blood-soaked countenance of Grom. “Are you all right? Your leg—”

“My leg is fine, but move faster next time,” Faros replied curtly. He glanced at the meredrake, deep in a feeding frenzy.

“What about the beast?”

“Leave it. It’ll finish then crawl off to sleep. Come, hurry. Grab that club. I don’t think anyone’s heard us.” Faros picked up the ogre’s fallen sword, preferring it to the club, which he dropped. It had been a long time since he had wielded a sword, but it felt good in his grip. “The supply hut’s not far.”

Grom turned from the grisly sight of the meredrake, made the winged sign of Sargonnas, and then hastily tried to catch up with Faros.

It would be a while before any other guard wandered over to check on the three who had been stationed at the bridge. With a little luck, the two minotaurs would have already finished their business.

Torchlight dotted the vicinity. Sahd had added more illumination, but there remained flickers and shadows in which Faros and Grom could duck as they edged toward the supply hut.

The eerie punishing platforms where Sahd hung prisoners for sport loomed ahead again. Faros heard Grom mutter another prayer under his breath. That fool praying was getting on Faros’s nerves.

All of a sudden, Grom veered away from him, heading to the east.

Faros ran after, seizing the other minotaur by the shoulder. “Not this time!”

“Forgive me, Faros!” his companion whispered. “Those heads on the poles … I must do something. It’s a matter of honor!”

“What’re you talking about?”

Grom glanced over his shoulder. “You go ahead to the supply hut. I will meet you there. Don’t worry about me. I will take the risk alone. The slaves still here—another ten will die if we succeed. I must give them a last chance for freedom!”

“We’ve no time for this foolishness—”

Grom whirled and raced toward the slave pens.

Tightly gripping his blade, Faros hesitated only a moment before giving a groan and chasing after the other minotaur. Faros eyed Grom’s back as the other minotaur kept ahead of him. One quick strike would end this madness. Trying to free any slaves meant certain death. Better to kill Grom himself, now.

However, Grom had too good of a head start. He reached the first of the pens. Hefting the club, Grom aimed for the chained bolt, which was wrapped around the high, wooden doors.

The sound of his first strike echoed monstrously in the night. Faros cursed, knowing he was too late. He turned back, hesitating again, thinking his only chance now was to take advantage of the confusion and rush the supply hut.

Grom cracked the bolt but did not break it. He hit it again and again, making tremendous noise but only a mess of his effort.

Snorting furiously and ignoring the cries and howls of the stirring camp, Faros sheathed his sword and snatched Grom’s club away from him. Shoving aside the other minotaur, he attacked the bolt with a primal fury that left his companion gaping.

In the pen, the slaves were calling out. Several pressed against the door. Desperate voices encouraged those outside.

Almost in a trance, Faros struck the chained bolt repeatedly. Finally it broke, the fragments scattering.

The gate burst open, and the first ragged escapees nearly bowled Faros over. They poured out of the pen. Some took off into the darkness, but others swarmed Faros, touching him gratefully.

“Run!” he commanded. “Run, you fools!”

Now they headed off in every direction. Grom shouted for them to turn south, which offered the greatest hope, but many did not hear him.

Balls of flame flying out of the darkness gave the first indication of guards rushing around. Faros bared his teeth in a smile. Let them chase the slaves. That might cover what he needed to do.

“What about the other pens?” Grom asked.

“Leave them … there’s no time now.”

Grom couldn’t disagree. Guards were rushing toward the pens.

The pair raced toward the supply hut. The guards there were heading toward the pens. Shouts and screams filled the air.

Only one sentry was left behind, and he was quickly taken by surprise. Strange how Grom’s insane good deed was paying off.

Looking over his shoulder, Faros was astonished to see that several of the freed slaves had stealthily followed him. He swiftly gave them orders. Grom broke the chains of a few slaves, while he attacked the door. It swiftly yielded to his fury.

“Get in there and grab whatever food you can,” he told the slaves.

To the east, an ogre voice with a chilling familiarity rose above the others, shouting and cursing. Faros’s eyes glittered.

Sahd.

“Faster!” Grom snapped at the slaves, who were rushing in and out, their hands full. “That’s the last of them, Faros!”

“Into the hills, then! Grom, show them the way!”

Faros lingered behind, eager to slay more ogres this night, but the fleeing slaves had created too effective a diversion. To his disappointment, no other ogres materialized to challenge his eager sword.

“Hurry, Faros!” called Grom from the bridge.

With reluctance, he turned and sprinted away. The commotion within the camp continued, but the noise grew more distant.

Faros almost felt satisfaction as he entered the night-enshrouded hills. He had hurt Sahd this time. Not only had he stolen vital supplies, he had got away with a handful of the slaves Sahd needed to make his quota. Sahd would strike out at the ones who remained behind, but that was none of his concern. The blow he had dealt his former torturer was all that mattered.

And Faros now knew that he would return here. He was filled with a desire to hurt Sahd.… and he would do so, again and again, even if it meant not only his death, but those foolish enough to follow him.

The empress and high priestess Nephera floated through the palace, all but oblivious to the bows and solicitous comments by the many courtiers she passed. They were her husband’s toadies, mortal flesh that she found less and less worthy of notice. Better if they all died, she found herself thinking more often nowadays, so they could serve a higher power through her.

Trailing Nephera were her own ethereal servants. They were not seen by the mortals, which amused the high priestess. The strange and disturbing retinue of ghosts intermingled with those of the flesh, but passed through them without notice, without care. Now and then, one of the guards or lackeys would shiver and glance over his shoulder, but he never knew why.

The candles of tiered chandeliers flickered oddly as the high priestess passed, as the flames were more susceptible than the living to the otherworldly elements. Centuries of emperors, triumphant and failed, were posed on each side of Nephera. The painted reliefs and hulking statues amused her almost as much as the ignorance of the palace staff. Not one of these historical figures, from the saintly posing Ambeoutin with his ax across his lap to her own, ogre-battling husband, understood the true meaning of power. To them, strength was in the sword, the ax. Only Nephera, after many years of study and prayer, knew better.

One of her husband’s toadies suddenly stood before her, bowing, but in a manner she diagnosed as cursory. Captain Doolb’s expression was respectful, but she read the secret depths of distrust in his eyes. When he did not immediately speak to her, Nephera met his gaze, let him look into her own suspicious black orbs.

The graying Guard officer finally tore his eyes away. “My lady, the emperor will be pleased to see that you’ve returned.”

“So good of you to say so,” she remarked.

“I trust you’ll have a pleasant visit with him,” said Captain Doolb.

Around her, the spirits were moving in agitation as they sensed the hostility of the officer—and how precarious his situation truly was at the moment. “Yes, I trust I will.”

Gown flowing behind her, Lady Nephera strode past Captain Doolb, well knowing that he—and others—watched her back as she made her way to the master planning room. No one had informed Nephera as to where she could find the emperor at this time, but she had not needed to ask. The high priestess knew more about the doings of her husband than anyone; she knew all the activities of the palace.

The guards attending the doors immediately swung them open. Nephera moved silently past, entering just as Quan Es-Calkos, the head of the Merchants’ League, was heard to rumble, “If you could only consider again, your majesty! Some restraint is called for at this point—”

Hotak was leaning over one of his precious maps, Nephera observed, using a carved oak staff with a small, flat front to push a painted warrior from Mithas toward the shores of Ansalon. “Your concern is noted, Master Quan, but my own adjutants report that the present rate of military buildup has been nothing short of a boon to the economic state of the imperium! If that’s so, then a ten percent increase will only further accelerate general growth!”

Anxiously adjusting his blue, silken robe, the narrow-eyed Quan noticed Nephera but continued. He shook his ponytailed head. “ ’Tis true the shipwrights and smiths are working at a capacity they’ve only dreamt of in the past, your majesty, but the increase will overtax resources quicker than they can be replaced. At some point, the entire system will crash or come to a disastrous halt and—”

Tossing the staff on the map, Hotak faced the merchant. “Nonsense! If the Merchants’ League would guide their holdings with the efficiency of the legions, there’d be nothing to fear!”

A muscular, blue-robed figure next to Quan, his right ear decorated with many gold rings, interjected, “My emperor, I spent twelve years in the Imperial Fleet. I appreciate the order and organization of the military as much as you—”

“Then there is no more question! Ten percent up, beginning the first of the month! I expect to hear progress reports and calculations for further increases as the impending invasion warrants!”

The emperor’s audience, consisting of some twenty-odd officials from those clans who controlled and operated the League, looked at one another with veiled expressions of exasperation.

Watching, Nephera smiled slightly. Her husband was a decisive leader, still.

Another one of the merchants, a younger, dark brown female garbed in the white and gray of House Aratiun, noted the high priestess’s presence. The plain-faced female straightened then loudly said, “It shall be as you say, my emperor! All hail Hotak!”

The gathered merchants looked at her then quickly joined in the salute. A few did so with more gusto than the others.

Hotak beamed at this. He signaled to an intense young officer standing to the side. “Captain Gar! Be sure that my guests are fed and gifted before they return to their respective patriarchs! Good citizens of the empire, I wish you well!”

Under the guidance of Captain Gar, the merchants then departed. Several bowed their horns in acknowledgement as they passed Lady Nephera. A few, including the female who had spoken at the end, touched their breasts—the sign of the faithful.

“From the moment you entered, I smelled the scent of lavender,” Hotak murmured, his right eye focusing on his mate. “You make it difficult to concentrate on the business at hand.”

“You seem to have a strong grasp on everything from what I have observed, my husband.”

Hotak proudly indicated his figurine relief map. “The imperium as it as never been, my love! New colonies, new mines, expansion onto the mainland and across the ocean … the dream of every ruler since Ambeoutin! The promise of a god fulfilled.”

She drifted over to his side and glanced at the map. “A god who could not fulfill his own promises. The minotaur race is the better without him. You are better off with the unusual powers I have arrayed behind you.” As he watched in awe, Nephera made a tiny gesture, and the gold ship and those near it shifted to the east, sliding toward an area with no known land. “Bastion,” she said pointedly. “This is where my son is, this very day.”

Leaning close, Hotak eagerly studied the new alignment of the ships as if he might actually spot his son aboard the golden figurine. “He would not sail out there unless he had critical knowledge.”

“A rebel ship also sailed in that direction, two days before.” She made another slight gesture, and one of the smaller, black pieces slid toward the empty region of the Courrain. “And then it vanished from my sight, near where Bastion is now.”

“Is that possible? Then Bastion must have discovered the location of their main base and given pursuit.” Hotak slapped his fist into his palm. “The end of Rahm and the rebellion!”

“I did not say that. Rahm has escaped before.”

The emperor shook his head, gazing proudly at the figure of the golden ship on the map. “Bastion won’t fail me.”

Nephera turned her penetrating gaze to the map area marked Ansalon. She idly tapped her finger, and a yellow figure carved to resemble a conniving elven archer hiding behind a tree suddenly shifted away from the edge of the table. Hotak had left it there until he was able to pinpoint the most likely location for Silvanesti’s main organized resistance. The figure rolled over to reposition itself just southeast of the legendary shield.

“Some of the kirath,” the high priestess said. “As organized as they can be. They’re watching now, watching both the buildup of the legions and what goes on around their own domain.”

“And what is going on in their domain, my love? Will the shield fall? This Galdar says so; he says that slip of a human named Mina has spoken to her god and promised it will be so—”

“This Mina. I do not underestimate her. She is the focus of some mighty power. You should understand that.”

He nodded, but said, “I also understand that strength of arms’ll be the factor that decides the fate of Ansalon.”

In response, Nephera waved her hand and all the warrior figures assembled near Silvanesti moved forward. They briefly covered the area of the elven kingdom, then moved farther west.

Then, as Hotak eagerly watched, in place of the word SILVANESTI, the name AMBEON appeared. In smaller letters, the capital of Silvanesti, Silvanost, was replaced by Hotakanti.

“Hotak’s Glory,” murmured the emperor delightedly. “But how did you know I was trying to pick a new name for the capital.”

“What other would suffice?”

“But all this only comes to pass if the shield falls.”

“I believe it will.” Lady Nephera stepped back from the map. “And you, my husband, will hear from me, the moment it does.”

Moving with a sudden youthful swiftness, Hotak stopped Nephera with a hand on her arm, before she reached the door. “Wait! Nephera … my love. You make me so happy with your visit. Please come with me now. I want to show you … something.”

“Where? What?” Her expression remained unreadable.

“Where we are once and forever one.”

He took her hand and led her from the planning room, guiding her along the gilded corridors and past bowing guards in their shining, warhorse breastplates. They ascended the grand, double staircase that wound up to the private floors of the emperor. Hotak’s sandals clattered on the white, marble steps while Nephera, though she wore footwear, made scarcely a sound.

They passed through another hall decorated with silver-framed paintings celebrating Hotak’s career—the latest commission was a re-creation of the emperor executing his predecessor. At the end of the hall, two guards stood watch over bronze doors upon which the throne and the Great Circus were etched. Intricate scrollwork mimicking the waves of the Courrain Ocean lined each door.

The sentries immediately opened the heavy doors then bowed their horns low as the pair entered. As soon as the emperor and his consort were inside, the doors swung shut behind them.

Round-bottomed, brass oil lamps illuminated the grand personal chambers that once belonged to Chot the Terrible. The walls had been repainted white several times to cover the bloodstains from the night of Chot’s downfall. The blue sheets of the vast, silken bed had been turned down, and the scent of lavender filled the room. Above the matching pair of cylindrical, down-filled rolls used for pillows, the headboard displayed the image of a proud, brooding minotaur with a blunt nose who gazed at a fiery mountain—Droka, founder of the clan and Hotak’s hero.

A golden flask of briarberry wine and two matching goblets sat on a tray atop a small, round marble table near the bed.

Hotak stepped away from Nephera as she moved to the center of the room, seemingly touched by the care he had taken with the scene.

“I’d hoped you’d come. I had everything planned for us.”

Hotak dropped his armor and weapon by the nearest wall. He wore only his kilt now. Despite the gray in his mane and fur, he moved like a frisky minotaur in the throes of young love.

He looked her over admiringly. “I wanted to say so before, in front of the others, what an arresting garment you are wearing, my dear.”

“Thank you.” The black gown did fit Nephera’s form well, she admitted to herself, accenting her upper torso. Her mane had been bound and artfully placed over her right shoulder. She wore little other adornment, save a silver link necklace.

“You came unaccompanied,” he added, unaware that she had not—as always, unaware that everywhere she went, the undead trailed along. They were here even now, gawking and gaping. Nephera smiled inwardly. Her husband was a great leader who prided himself on his knowledge of everything going on in his kingdom, but he didn’t know everything; he did not need to know everything.

“I assumed that you did not want temple guardians walking your palace.”

“Our palace,” the emperor corrected, looking slightly displeased that she had spoken in this fashion. “You are my bride, my children’s mother, my consort. It is our palace.”

“Do not forget that I am also high priestess of the dominant faith.” She glided to the opposite side of the bed, gazing toward the balcony. In the distance, Nephera could just make out the top of the temple’s roof. She already yearned to be back there, back in the place honoring the wondrous presence she served.

“But the one must take precedence over the other.” As he spoke, Hotak came around the bed. He poured wine for both of them then handed a goblet to her. When she did not take it, the emperor slowly put her drink back on the tray. Gulping down his own wine in a single swallow, Hotak said gently, “I want to bring this family back together. We must always be seen as one.”

One of her hands toyed with her hair. “Bring us back together? And that would include, I suppose, Ardnor?”

“Of course! He’s my firstborn, after all! He should be an integral part of palace affairs, given a command of honor and prestige. I want the hurtful past forgotten. When the people see him, I want them to see the son of the emperor and consort!”

Nephera moved closer to the bed, touching the curved wooden rail. Her other hand slipped from her hair to the waiting goblet. “And what kind of life awaits my beloved son, here in the palace?”

“Depending on his potential, he may become a legion general. Yes, I can see that. He can be a powerful commander of my army.”

She pulled her hand back, her dark eyes narrowing. “A general? Only a general?”

“I remind you that I was a general,” Hotak remarked with a slight snort. “Most minotaurs would envy such a rank.”

“But not, perhaps, when the mantle of emperor remains forbidden.” With that rebuke, she started toward the doors.

The emperor again seized her by the arm, turning her toward him. In truth, he felt, she did not resist him. “I want you and Ardnor back in the palace, my dear. I especially want you back. You think I’ve forgotten all you’ve done for me, but that’s not so! Indeed, I want you with me so we can shape this realm together!”

“We do shape it together. You from the throne, I from the temple.”

He touched the underside of her muzzle. “The temple must be honored, yes, and as you’ve proven again this evening, the god you serve is mighty. But it remains unseemly that the imperial consort should spend so much of her time there and not with the emperor. Nephera … turn the reins over to another if you must, but return to the palace and fulfill the role we’d always intended.”

To his astonishment, she laughed harshly in his face. Her eyes took on the same intensity that he had witnessed in the temple. “You have no idea what you ask of me! It would be as if I insisted you give up the throne to become one of my priests!”

Hotak stepped away, clearly taken aback by the comparison. “Temples have come and gone, Nephera, but the throne is eternal.”

“As eternal as the dead?” The high priestess extended her hands as if taking in the entire chamber. She looked about, meeting the gazes of others the emperor could not see. “My love, the power I wield—the power I have wielded for you even this night—goes beyond such petty things as armies and empires! I have been touched by the one godly force that has not forsaken Krynn! It encompasses Ansalon, the Blood Sea, the Courrain … all there is in the world and beyond!”

“I certainly appreciate all you’ve been able to do because of your god—including the information you have brought me tonight, Nephera—but when I see you here, now … I am overcome by your beauty! And if I do not express myself well, if I offend your god and religion by mistake, it is only because I am hypnotized by your presence—by a presence I have sorely missed for too long.”

Nephera’s expression truly softened. She extended her hand to her husband, who took it. “The power has been granted to give us anything.” Her expression grew avid. “We lost one so, whom I know you mourn above all. He has gone the way of flesh, but he is not beyond our reach! With one thought, I can bring him here.”

The oil lamps flickered, then dimmed. The shadows seemed to rustle of their own accord. Whispers arose from all around. The emperor’s fur stiffened. Now his mate was acting strangely again. This was not what he wanted.

Some breeze Hotak could not feel swirled around his mate, animating her gown, her hair. The whispers grew incessant. Something moved just at the edge of Hotak’s vision. The smell of the sea briefly touched his nostrils. His fingers unconsciously tightened on the goblet, crushing it in with a slight groan of metal.

The light from the lamps had all but died, yet a ghostly illumination whirled around Nephera.

The whispers grew louder but remained unintelligible. In the near dark, other murky forms appeared behind Nephera. Hotak was given the power to see them. Most were indistinct shadows, but a few gained definition … one seemed very familiar to the emperor.

With a roar, he threw his ruined goblet to the floor.

The clatter startled the high priestess. The figures behind her—including the familiar one who troubled Hotak—vanished in an instant. The aura around the emperor’s consort disappeared.

As the oil lamps flared to life, Hotak stepped closer to Nephera, his voice rising. “Once before you revealed to me those—those things—that swarm about you. Once before you showed me your dead … and I told you, I ordered you, to never reveal them again!”

“I can bring you your—”

“I will not demean myself so!” he roared. “Kolot is dead, and he must remain dead! Show me no hungering specter, my dear wife! That is not the son I lost, not the son I grieve!”

Her face twisted into a look of dark outrage so unnatural that Hotak stepped back in astonishment. Before Nephera could say anything, the doors flew open and the two guards barged inside.

“My lord! My lady! We heard shouting—”

“It’s nothing,” Hotak answered gruffly. His gaze met that of his mate. “Nothing at all.”

Her black orbs did not blink. “Yes, nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Lady Nephera suddenly bowed her head to Hotak. “Forgive me, I must return to the temple. I will, of course, continue to keep you informed as to the invasion and Bastion’s whereabouts.”

She swept past the soldiers. Hotak’s hand almost rose in a gesture intended to order her stopped, but the emperor quickly let it drop.

The senior of the two guards knelt before him, his horns low and to the side. “My lord, forgive us if we intruded—”

“There is nothing to forgive, captain,” the emperor said curtly, watching his mate glide down the outer hall. When she had vanished from sight, he turned and commanded, “Leave me be.”

The guards shut the doors again. Hotak immediately headed to the wine. Taking Nephera’s untouched drink, he swallowed it then poured himself another glass, staring at the shadows.

“I want you with me, my love,” he whispered to them. “I must have you with me. I will.…”

He had them. He finally had the rebels.

Bastion groaned with impatience. He pounded his fist over and over on the rail, urging the fleet faster and faster. After days of pursuit, he had at last trapped the elusive enemy.

They had seen no sign of Petarka, but surely the island existed, somewhere amid the vast fog from which the rebel ships had emerged. That could be investigated later, though. What mattered now was to put an end to the rebellion, once and for all.

“We’re sure to have a fine catch today!” Captain Magraf, his gold rings jingling, roared. “There’s no way they can outrun the Donag’s Shield and her fine sisters in these choppy waters!”

The low-cut imperial warship skipped smoothly along the rough waves of the Courrain almost as though flying. Sleekly designed to catch the wind, the Donag’s Shield was a proud example of the new types of ships the emperor had requisitioned as part of the military buildup. Its long, tapering bow cut through the water.

The shrouded heavens rumbled, but no one aboard the Shield paid attention. No storm would dare keep them from their prey.

“Catapult ready!” cried the captain. They were still far out of range, but the imperial ships were fast narrowing the gap, and it would not be all that long before the close battle commenced.

One of the other imperial ships was too eager. Bastion heard a crack; then a huge, round projectile flew toward the rebels.

It landed short, creating an eruption of water that splashed harmlessly onto the deck. Those aboard the Donag’s Shield cheered the premature shot, which at least had been well aimed.

“Not long now, my lord,” Magraf promised. “We can cover that ground in a few minutes! Then we can let the heavy shelling begin!”

Bastion nodded, adding, “Just remember, captain, when they are in range for us, we will also be in range for them … and General Rahm will make full use of that, be certain of it.”

The rebel ships seemed to be moving in slow motion. The imperials raced toward them, cutting through the waves without effort.

“We’re not goin’ to outrun those new ships!” portly Captain Botanos snarled. “We’ll have to stand and fight, general!”

Rahm only had one good ear, and it visibly twitched as he called back, “Signal the others! Two red banners, one green!”

“Aye!”

In short order, the long, pointed banners began to flutter from atop the command ship, signaling the other rebel vessels.

Almost instantly, the rebel fleet steered around to face their foe. However, they maneuvered according to Rahm’s plan, circling to line up in two uneven, alternating convoys.

The Dragon’s Crest came about, taking the lead. Rahm eyed the approaching imperials, seeking the one carrying Bastion.

It did not take long for him to spot the black warhorse banner flying high above the green sea dragon at the head of the fleet.

“Ballista loaded and primed!” a crew member shouted to Captain Botanos.

The two warring sides drew nearer. The crews aboard the lead ships scrambled, setting the sails and positioning the weaponry.

“What if the imperials strike first?” rasped Jubal.

“They’ll be patient now that we are trapped,” General Rahm replied. “They want their next shots to hit; then they’ll attack full force with everything in their arsenal. That’s my hope.” He turned to the captain. “Red flag only, Botanos! Red flag only!”

“Already going up!” The single, larger banner rose, fluttering defiantly in the wind.

The rebel catapults let loose.

Massive boulders soared into the air, screaming toward the imperial fleet. Most would drop short, but a few flew accurately.

As the first of the missiles descended, those ships with ballistae also fired off a round. Crews cranked the framework weapons tight, then let fly. The long, metal pikes filled the air. The pikes did not fly as high as the boulders, but they moved with more speed, more force, and that was what mattered.

At least three of the missiles found their marks. One smashed the upper sail of an imperial, sending cloth, rigging, and wood raining down upon the crew. Another crashed against the hull of a second ship, smacking it hard just above the water line. The vessel rocked violently, toppling one sailor over the side.

The third was the best or luckiest shot, crashing squarely onto the deck and into the base of the mainmast of an imperial ship. With a loud, creaking sound, the mast tipped toward the bow, its rigging snapping free. The lookout fell from the crow’s nest. Two other crew members were buried under a collapsing sail.

The ballistae-propelled lances proved even more deadly. Three struck the ship already foundering from a rock strike, shattering its already ruptured hull and violently rocking the vessel back and forth. The sea began pouring in; the warship listed. Sailors and marine fighters tumbled over the rail.

Several more vessels also suffered damage from the airborne metal pikes. Pikes tore sails, ripped rigging, and plummeted with disastrous results onto sailor-filled decks. Bodies lay everywhere on the ship closest to Bastion’s, Rahm noted grimly.

As for the flagship, the main target of the Dragon’s Crest, two pikes now protruded from its hull while a third lay half buried in the deck near the bow. A bad tear was inflicted on one of its sails, and as the gale picked up, the incision worsened.

At last, the enemy catapults responded.

Some went wide, but many ominously arced on target.

Then suddenly, the windstorm picked up intensity, howling and turning wild the already treacherous waters of the Courrain. Many of the enemy missiles were blown off target by the abrupt shift in the wind, and a number dropped harmlessly into the ocean.

Yet the rebels did not emerge unscathed. The bow of one ship vanished as a heavy boulder crushed it completely, sending splinters of wood spraying everywhere. The crew screamed as the wreckage pierced and bombarded them. The mainmast of another rebel ship cracked in half, collapsing into the sea. The hulls of two more ships received heavy blows and counted damage.

From the Dragon’s Crest, a blue banner now flew.

Though outnumbered and outflanked, the rebel ships now surged confidently forward to close with their enemy. Rahm’s tactic appeared suicidal, except the imperial catapults would be rendered useless at near range, and the rebel ships were primed for close tactics. The trained crews had their ballistae ready, and lowered their sights to spray the decks and hulls of their enemy.

Despite superiority, the hunters had become the hunted.

Bastion swore. Everyone continued to underestimate the audacity of General Rahm Es-Hestos. Hotak’s assassins had failed to capture and kill him during the Night of Blood. The emperor had assumed that the renegade commander of Chot’s Imperial Guard would flee far from Mithas, yet Rahm had sailed right back to the capital and almost succeeded in assassinating Hotak. Lady Nephera’s ghostly spies somehow failed to detect him. Ardnor and his Protectors had not only squandered the opportunity to arrest the traitor after the aborted assassination, but in the process, the debacle had cost the life of Bastion’s younger brother, Kolot.

Now Bastion saw that he, too, had blundered. He had expected Rahm to put up a fight if cornered, but not in such an unpredictable fashion. Providence was on the rebel commander’s side; that strange wind had spared him from what should have been a devastating strike, causing ten times the damage to his fleet.

And now the rebel ships moved to mingle in with his, rendering useless his dominant weaponry—the catapults. But Bastion could also be unorthodox, and now he swiftly ordered Captain Magraf to veer away from the two lines of approaching rebel vessels, indeed to give the impression of disarray and retreat.

Two of his ships did not get the command soon enough. They came alongside a smaller rebel ship, no doubt certain as to their advantage.

The first volley from the rebel ballistae ravaged the overconfident imperial ships, ripping both from aft to bow. Lances perforated the wood hulls and ripped across the crowded decks, sending wreckage and bodies flying. The aft mast of one tumbled over into the ocean, ripping apart the rigging.

“The fools! The Maelstrom’s Spawn is a wreck!” snarled Magraf, “and the Ocean Lion has fared little better!”

Even as he spoke, the ship carrying General Rahm had made swift progress and now sailed even with them, narrowing the gap.

Bastion drew back from the rail. “That’s Rahm’s ship. We’re vulnerable here. Pull away, captain! Quickly! Quickly!”

Magraf had already given the order, his quick thinking perhaps the only thing that saved the warship. Even still, the numerous lances unleashed by the Crest’s ballista tore away a good portion of the aft rail and flung three of the crew into the sea. Other sailors screamed with injuries, and loose wreckage, including much of the rail Bastion had just abandoned, pelted the deck.

Armed with longbows, archers aboard the Donag’s Shield tried to retaliate, but the crew of the rebel vessel kept low, giving them few targets. One archer managed a fortunate shot that pierced a rebel crew member, but considering the destruction the rebels had wrought, Rahm had seized the momentum.

“We need to surround that ship, captain. Signal the Belar’s Ax. Take another volley if need be! Lure and lull them!”

The waves thrust higher and higher, as the sky crackled with thunder. Lightning crackled through the dark clouds.

“We’ve no choice. We have to make a stand, take them here! If they slip away, we’ll never find them in this storm!” Bastion shouted.

“We’ll keep cozy with her, my lord!” returned Magraf, his blood pounding. He was eager to add another ring to his ear. “Don’t doubt it! The trick is steering shy of her teeth!”

Then a bolt of lightning struck the water, near an imperial ship, causing a rare explosion of hissing water. Bastion gazed up at the roiling skies. Did the elements themselves conspire against him? What strange magic did Rahm have at his disposal?

Rebel hopes surged. The turbulent ocean and raging heavens seemed their allies in the fight against the imperial navy.

“If the storm worsens, it’ll give us the opportunity we need to slip away!” Rahm bellowed to Jubal. The most important thing was the survival of the rebel initiative. Rather than stay and fight—and likely die—the outnumbered rebels needed to retreat.

The imperial fleet was regrouping curiously, ships pairing off and then veering around. General Rahm studied their movements. General Bastion was hardly a novice; he had something up his sleeve—and was cutting off any chance of easy escape.

“Shall we fire on their flagship again, then?”

“Do it!”

The Dragon’s Crest immediately obeyed. The Donag’s Shield had shied away, but two rebel lances struck and penetrated the hull.

More imperials began converging on the Dragon’s Crest. Too late, Rahm saw, Bastion’s ships had run from other encounters to cluster around him.

Again lightning struck—this time the crow’s nest of an enemy warship burst into flames, the body of its lookout tossed into the thrashing waters. Torrential rain hampered visibility.

In addition to the flagship, four other imperials now surrounded the Dragon’s Crest. The ballista crew quickly reloaded.

Turning to gaze at the rear of the rebel fleet, Rahm shouted into the wind and rain, “Go, damn you! You’ve got your orders! Go now!”

As if suddenly hearing him, one of the vessels began a sharp turn around. Another and another quickly followed suit.

Two others angled away; then the others joined the growing flight. The rearguard rebel vessels were ill equipped for close-quarter fighting, and they were the first to sneak away under cover of the chaotic, darkening weather.

Their retreat at first went all but unnoticed. Two ships pursuing the rebels found trouble battling the wind, rain, and waves. Though the rebels all but vanished, the wind unpredictably lashed the imperial ships, and the waves battered them back.

“Well, most of ’em got away,” Jubal offered with a grim smile. He hefted his ax. “Shall we go meet the enemy face-to-face now?”

“That all depends, governor,” Rahm returned. He turned to Captain Botanos and asked, “Are the barrels ready?”

“Just about! This close it could be us as well as them, you know,” the mariner warned.

“Better to take them with us to the Abyss, than to die a failure.” The general indicated the flagship of the imperials. “Especially if we can destroy that one in particular.…”

Bastion saw the other rebel ships steering away, but he had neither the ability to give chase, nor the inclination. General Rahm’s vessel—the infamous Dragon’s Crest—lay virtually in his grasp. Conquering it would be a great coup, and perhaps he might even capture the general alive, to parade the traitor before the multitudes in Nethosak. That would certainly cement his father’s glory.

“If we give ’em some room, we can use the catapult on them,” suggested Magraf.

“If we give any room, they slide past us and we’ll never find them in this murk. Let’s take no chances! There is no telling what tricks or spells Rahm may yet have up his sleeve!”

The storm-churned Courrain continued to punish the imperial ships worse than the rebels. While it had long been rumored that General Rahm had magical resources from some mysterious source, Bastion remained unconvinced. True, the rebel commander had stunning and inexplicable successes, but he was a seasoned, cunning warrior—and what wizardry could command the weather?

Bastion studied the alignment of the other fleet ships. “Let them continue to box him in, captain, then only when he is pinioned and squirming will we come alongside and board.”

“What about their ballista?”

“Can the Donag’s Shield withstand many close shots?”

Magraf snorted. “Better up close than further back. The damage’ll be mainly demoralizing. We’ll lose some men, and may have to scuttle the ship afterward, but we’ll get our prize.”

Bastion nodded. “Go ahead, then.”

The captain left to give orders. Hotak’s son peered through the rain, wondering how Rahm would try to slither out of the trap.

One rebel ship was aflame; another, bereft of sails. In the distance, a third was being boarded. Of the remainder still in the vicinity, he could not tell for certain. The high winds and ferocious waves mingled with pelting rain to obscure his vision.

“I believe I finally have you, General Rahm,” the black minotaur murmured.

The archers were impotent in this wild weather, but soon the Donag’s Shield would be near enough for grapplers and boarders. Bastion watched as Rahm’s rebels scrambled in preparation. Several still worked at the ballista, intending one final strike.

Ears twitching in sudden concern, Bastion leaned forward. The ballista crew was attempting to strap something he had never seen used as a weapon before, to the eight-feet-long javelins.

Small barrels?

“Captain Magraf! Ho! Pull away! Now!”

The storm drowned out his words. Bastion barged past crew members as he sought out the captain. “Magraf!”

The shaggy mariner turned in surprise, his earrings jingling madly. “Aye, my lord?”

“Get the Shield under way! Hurry! It’s—”

There was a sharp crack akin to thunder, but it wasn’t thunder.

Bastion looked back over his shoulder, eyes widening.

An explosion ripped across the port side of the Donag’s Shield, throwing Hotak’s heir across the deck. He heard a roar of outrage from the captain, then debris—lengths of rail, planks, loose objects—rained down upon the ship, wounding several of the minotaur sailors and almost burying the black minotaur.

Cries of pain filled Bastion’s ears. He pushed himself to his knees and only then felt the warmth at his back.

Flames licked across the deck. The smell of burning oil filled the air. General Rahm had a fondness for explosions, Bastion recalled belatedly. Somehow he had rigged a barrel of oil with some sort of fuse, then bound it to the lances. And it worked—even in this damnable weather, it had spread hellfire.

“Luck is surely your comrade-in-arms, general,” the shaken minotaur muttered. Had Bastion attempted the same clever trick, he was tempted to think, the rain would have doused the fuse, or the barrel would have vaulted into the air and then come crashing down directly upon his head. Rahm was a cagey old fox.

Members of the crew rushed about, trying to douse the flames. The storm helped, but the oil had spread and was difficult to tamp down. At least three minotaur bodies lay among the carnage.

And now, through the flames and rain, Bastion saw the Dragon’s Crest racing away. It sailed past the stricken flagship. A third ship, which could have given chase, instead sped toward Bastion’s vessel, making certain the emperor’s heir was safe and alive.

Because of their concern for him, Rahm was about to elude the ax.

With a look of frustration on his face, Bastion struggled forward. “Captain Magraf! The catapult! Is it still—”

But he looked around in vain; of Magraf there was no sign. The Donag’s Shield was bereft of its valiant commander.

With no one else to turn to, Hotak’s son leaped over the smoldering wreckage and headed for the catapult.

He found it untended, the crew either dead or gone to aid others. It was primed for launching, but was facing the wrong direction, and all tangled up in burned rigging.

As he desperately tugged at the ropes, Bastion glanced over at the Dragon’s Crest. Despite the storm, it was plying the waters with relative ease, rapidly retreating. Soon it would be beyond catapult range. Once more, General Rahm would defy him.

And this time the disgrace the throne would suffer would belong to Bastion, who had wasted his opportunity.

He struggled with the rigging. The heat surrounding him was blistering. Finally freeing the ropes, Bastion shoved at the mechanism, trying to push the catapult to face the enemy vessel.

And the Dragon’s Crest continued to recede from range.…

As the Crest left the burning flagship behind, Jubal roared with delight. Others aboard the ship, including Captain Botanos, waved their weapons gleefully at the imperials. True, they had experienced terrible losses, but this defeat had been transformed into victory. They had confounded, perhaps even killed, the usurper’s heir.

Leaning against the mast, Rahm inhaled deeply. “We live to fight another day.…”

“Better than that!” called Captain Botanos. “This is a day the usurper’ll rue!”

“Maybe so—”

“Look out!” someone yelled.

The general and others turned, their expressions frozen in horror, as they looked heavenward.

A moon fell out of the storm-tossed sky, filling Rahm’s astounded view.

The huge missile crashed through the deck, rocking the ship and tossing broken planks, barrels, and other debris everywhere. Screams arose. Rahm lost his footing, falling onto his back.

A fierce pain coursed through him. Rahm nearly blacked out. Fumbling with his fingers, he discovered a moist, sticky hole in his chest just under his rib cage … and a two-feet-long piece of broken plank deeply embedded in that profusely bleeding wound.

Pulling his shaking fingers back, the general looked in shock at his own hand drenched with blood.

“Rahm! Rahm!”

The general gazed up through watery eyes at a figure he first mistook for the dead emperor Chot. “F-forgive me, my lord … I’ve failed y-you.”

“Rahm! Blast you! It’s me, Jubal!”

“Jubal? Jubal … are we? I-is the C-Crest … is—?”

“The ship’s going to be safe! The storm’s with us, and the imperials are too concerned with saving those still aboard the flagship! The Donag’s Shield just got off a lucky last shot, that’s all!”

“G-Good.” Other figures began to gather behind the governor, but they were less distinct, almost shadows. Nonetheless, Rahm recognized some of them. “Mogra … Dorn.…”

Jubal leaned forward. “Rahm! Hang in there! Stay with me!”

The wounded rebel leader coughed up blood. Rahm’s body shook from the tremendous pain. “Forgive … forgive me for failing all of y-you. Jubal … you and the others.…”

The graying minotaur snorted fiercely. Jubal looked up, rasping, “Where’s the damn healer when you need him?”

The bleeding minotaur gasped, then gripped Jubal’s thick arm. “Governor … we can’t—”

But those were his last words. His eyes widened, his mouth moved, and when Jubal leaned forward in the hopes of hearing something—anything—all he noted was the sudden cessation of breath.

General Rahm Es-Hestos had just died.

The forest of gray goatskin tents filled the rolling landscape as far as Maritia could see. The tents were tall and taut. One misconception of the lesser races was that the minotaurs did not use or appreciate shelter. Humans and elves assumed that minotaurs slept out in the open, like the beasts they appeared.

Not so for Maritia or her soldiers, especially under the reign of her father. The new efficiency of the legion had improved the quality of weapons and the organization of supplies.

The rich, horse-hair crest of her helmet trailed behind her as Lady Maritia rode through the busy camp, drinking in the looks of her people. Coming up on her right, a rough-hewn hekturion in full armor, his rank noted by his silver-edged legion badge, put one hundred legionaries through their paces, each following his movements to the letter. Among that hundred, ten dekarians kept watch over their own small complements, criticizing faults or slow reactions.

“Axes! Follow through! Upper crescent swing!” The veteran hekturion lifted the heavy, twin-bladed ax and swung it so it arched upward, then brought it down in an equally swift, balletic move.

As one, the helmed legionaries imitated him.

“More height, you! Less curve, Haryn!” The hekturion repeated his action, this time ending his swing in a two handed lunge that drove the ax-point like a lance. “And thus! One smooth motion! Give no warning and keep opponents off their guard by changing the method of your attack whenever possible!”

The hekturion then noticed their imperial visitor and roared a halt. Instantly, the helmed minotaurs switched into honor positions, holding their war axes with both hands, straight at the shoulder.

Pushing back the long, draping crimson robe that helped mark her status as a top commander, the emperor’s daughter rode ahead of her two bodyguards to inspect the stalwart legionaries. They stood motionless, thick-browed eyes staring fiercely ahead.

She urged her mount back to their broad-shouldered officer, who removed his helmet and announced himself, “First Hekturion Drelin of the second attack section, my lady!”

“My compliments, first hekturion.” Maritia glanced at his badge, recognizing the emblem of the golden silhouette in the black field. “The Wyvern Legion’s reputation is well deserved.”

“Thank you, my lady!”

“Who is in charge of your command?”

“My captain is Fyon, my treverian is Garandon, and General Bakkor is overall commander, my lady!”

“General Bakkor … yes, I know his reputation. My father holds him in especially high esteem. Your legion is trained specifically to excel in dense forest warfare, isn’t it?”

The other minotaur grinned, revealing gaps where two teeth had been smashed out during previous battles. He rattled a pair of metal gloves dangling from his belt. The gloves ended in sharp, jointed hooks such as mountaineers might use for climbing. “We hope to be the first ones into Silvanesti … with your permission.”

She chuckled. “I’ll take that under serious consideration, First Hekturion Drelin.”

Maritia left the hekturion looking quite pleased that she had bothered to register his name. As Maritia and her bodyguards rode away, she heard Drelin resume drilling his troops.

“Now! After the lunge, an upward sweep of the blades, like so.…”

More legionaries from the Wyvern companies saluted her as Maritia maneuvered her chestnut stallion toward higher ground. Everyone’s morale stood high and why not? Victory was assured.

The perimeter of the camp was marked by high red posts positioned every twenty-five paces. One sentry guarded each gap and kept in constant communication with the next in the linked chain. Two guards paused in their duties to salute her as she rode by. One bore on his breastplate the Wyvern badge, the other the brown field and black canine head of the Direhounds. Affixed to the top of the helmet of the latter was a canine skull. The Direhound legionary quickly swallowed what he was eating, a piece of goat jerky—a staple in the military. Eating on duty was punishable by whipping, but Maritia, in an excellent mood, only wagged her finger teasingly at the guilty party. That would still be enough to prevent him from committing the offense again soon.

Free of the confines of the camp, the slim, sleek minotaur commander let her mount prance and trot. Her two mounted bodyguards found themselves hard-pressed to keep pace with her.

Up onto the peaceful green hills, through the lush oak and cedar forest, Maritia rode pleasurably. The trees gradually gave way, and the hill she climbed twisted to the left. Long grass waved in the wind as she urged the horse on and up. Despite rumblings above, the day was otherwise quiet, and she savored the peace.

At last, the high hill ended in an abrupt, toothy cliff. Maritia reined the animal to a halt on the very precipice.

A moment later, her two companions finally caught up.

From this lofty position she beheld a glorious panorama. Below her, spread far to the south and north and reaching beyond the eastern horizon, lay the gathered might of the imperium.

Only from high above could the precision with which the minotaurs had organized their camp be appreciated. A perfect five-sided base, it had been measured out with a minotaur device resembling a sextant with glass lenses. Room had been left for more legions. The point of the pentagon was aimed at Silvanesti.

The scores of tents she had passed had been but a tiny fraction of those that filled most of the landscape. It was like a giant, orderly ant colony, covering every dip and rise.

Arrayed alongside each legion were huge catapults, their rounded cups capable of flinging minotaur-sized boulders or oil-drenched barrels set afire. Twenty-five such weapons on thick, ten-feet-tall wooden wheels accompanied each legion and an equal number of pike-loaded ballistae—designed for closer carnage.

Cavalry units rode back and forth, sparring with neighboring legions in order to better hone the skills of all. The mounted warriors had strapped to theirs back high, slim poles on which were attached banners with their legion’s different markings.

“Magnificent!” Lady Maritia exhaled. “Just magnificent!” She watched a contingent of several hundred soldiers to the north march to the beat of drums; other groups were working out, doing physical exercises—weight lifting—while still others practiced with a variety of weapons. It seemed no minotaur soldier remained idle, rehearsing for the great invasion that lay ahead.

“The Wyverns are a tremendous addition to the army, my lady,” ventured one guard. “Five legions, optimum capability.”

“The emperor’s promised us three more before we launch the attack, the Flying Gryphon among them. Once they arrive, we’ll be set to steamroll the dainty elves. This time they’ll have to face us like warriors, not secretive, cowardly spellcasters.”

Every minotaur knew the tales of the last time their kind had sought to invade Silvanesti. Then, the elves had utilized their magic to turn the land itself against the legions—a shameful chapter in minotaur history, a historic debacle, and an ignominious defeat.

She continued to revel in the marvelous scene. Each banner had its own history and glory. There stood the flag of the Wyverns. There, the emerald and red flag of the Dragonsbane Legion, and the brown and black of the Direhounds. To the south, the banner of her own Warhorse Legion—often called the Imperial Legion—fluttered majestically. Farthest south beyond them all was the deathly pale silver and white insignia of the Snowhawks.

“An impressive sight,” rumbled an unfamiliar voice.

The guards drew their weapons, instinctively turning to protect their charge.

Two humans—two ebony-armored knights—drew their blades and looked almost eager to urge their dark steeds ahead and meet the rude challenge of Maritia’s bodyguards.

“There is no need for violence. We’re all allies here,” Galdar reminded everyone.

The minotaur who served Mina urged his gray mare forward. The modest-sized animal, more suited for carrying humans, strained under Galdar’s weight. Galdar was of average height—seven feet, Maritia had estimated, writing to her father—and unremarkable in his facial features. His plain, brown fur would have blended into any minotaur crowd. There was little unusual about his appearance …

Save for his eyes. In describing them to her father, Maritia had been unable to properly relay the intensity she found there. Galdar’s eyes betrayed him as a driven creature. He himself often spoke of devotion to Mina, who had given him back his arm, but Maritia felt certain something else was behind the strange look in his eyes—ambition. Galdar had built Mina’s army out of castoffs and deserters, and his eyes showed genius; he must be the real leader, and the slight, human female, some kind of decoy.

Hotak’s daughter admired and distrusted the minotaur.

“You’re late,” she finally said.

“I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be with her, guarding her.” He straightened. “But this will be the last time I leave her side. You’re to know. She says the shield will fall imminently.”

Maritia’s nostrils flared. “Are you certain?”

The intensity in his eyes never faltered. “Mina says it’ll happen, so it’ll happen.” He reached into a pale, weathered saddlebag, drawing out a rolled parchment. “She said to give you this.”

Hotak’s daughter nodded to one of her bodyguards. The minotaur urged his black mount over to Galdar. Galdar’s expression remained neutral as the guard tore the parchment from his grip. One of the knights, a mustached veteran, stirred, taking umbrage, but Galdar gave a slight shake of his head.

The bodyguard turned over the rolled document to Maritia. She looked at Galdar. “What is this now?”

“Battle plans. Charts. Follow them and your path will be quickest, most victorious.” His chest suddenly swelled pride-fully. “Minotaurs will conquer eastern Silvanesti.”

His words did not please Maritia. “We will conquer all of Silvanesti … and we have our own strategies, our own plans.…”

“Your contribution depends on the will of Mina.” He tugged on the reins, steering his weary mount west. “If you decide not to participate, that is your decision. But it is she who leads this conquest.”

Maritia forced herself to keep quiet. Her father had ordered no argument with Galdar at this crucial stage. When the legions had secured Silvanesti, then there would have to be a reckoning.

“Be ready, my lady,” Galdar added as he rode off. “Oh … and Mina sends the blessing of the One God, too.”

He and the humans rapidly vanished over another hill. Maritia kept her eye on the renegade minotaur, the mysterious Galdar, the whole time then took a long last look at her legions.

“Remind me to have sentries posted up here from now on,” she commented to her bodyguards. “This view would also serve the enemy.”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Come! I’ve a report to write for the emperor.” She steered her mount toward the path leading to the encampment. As she did so, she glanced over her shoulder to where Galdar had disappeared.

With a snort, Hotak’s daughter whispered to herself, “The One God, indeed … you rate yourself very highly, Galdar.”

Sahd despised minotaurs even more than most ogres did. In Sahd’s mind, minotaurs were good only as fodder for the meredrakes. Yet, Kern needed slave workers, and if the minotaurs did not do the dirty work, then it would become Sahd’s problem to get it done.

But the taskmaster jumped on any excuse to vent his deep-bred hatred of the horned race.

The slaves looked down as they filed back from the mines to find the brutal lord of the camp waiting for them. Wearing an old and worn Talon Leader cape, the disfigured ogre toyed with his nine-tailed whip as he surveyed the sorry lot.

“Garak!” he shouted to one of the guards. The other ogres were also anxious, whenever Sahd lurked nearby. “Garak hota i j’han!”

The filth-encrusted guard turned and seized the nearest minotaur, a young, tawny male with one ruined eye—the result of a previous beating.

“Hota i Garaki, Uruv Suurt!” snarled the guard, shoving the minotaur slave forward. “Baraka h’ti Forna Gliu i’Sahdi!”

Not fully understanding, the slave trudged forward, only pausing to stop when he stood a few feet in front of Sahd.

The taskmaster’s horrific, burned mouth twisted into a monstrous grin.

From behind, the guard struck at the minotaur’s right knee.

With a cry, the abject worker collapsed to the ground. Sahd nodded righteously then circled his chosen victim. His eyes studied the minotaur closely.

He paused, leaning forward to prod the slave’s scarred shoulder with the whip’s handle. Barely visible under grime and brutalized flesh was the brand used for the minotaur slaves—the broken horns.

“Uruv Suuuurrrt,” Sahd growled low. “Digging so hard work, yesss?”

His eyes cast toward the ground, the minotaur said nothing.

The faded red cloak fluttered as Sahd came around to face the slave. “Painful is digging, yes? Choking is tunnel, foul the air.”

A slight shiver coursed visibly through the young minotaur. “I work hard, Master Sahd.”

A series of harsh grunts escaped the shaggy-headed Sahd—his familiar laughter. “But your tunnel”—He glanced at the others who worked in the same shaft.—“Least with good offerings, least with digging.”

“There’s a huge rock lodged in there!” a gray and black–furred older worker suddenly interjected from the midst of the group. His ears hung limp and tattered; the simple brass rings he had once worn were ripped off by his captors the first day. “The picks’re blunt! We need sharper, stronger tools—”

He ended his explanation with a cry of painful shock as a guard stepped forward to whip him to his knees. Five times the lash tore at the already crisscrossed back before Sahd signaled a halt.

“Must do better, Uruv Suuuurrrt,” he informed the minotaur slaves. Snapping his whip ruthlessly, he yelled to a guard on the western edge, “Hiri i korak Ravana uth i’Argoni!”

The few among the slaves who knew a smattering of the ogre tongue gave a start, but before any could speak, the guards came around, shouting, their whips and clubs quickly ending any talk.

“Hirak!” Sahd commanded.

The guard standing nearest the young prisoner set aside his club and seized the minotaur around the throat and chest in a tight, choking grip. The slave struggled valiantly, but when a second guard joined the first, he had no choice but to give in.

The one to whom Sahd had called came trotting over gingerly carrying a thick, padded bowl. Steam rose from the bowl; clearly the contents were so hot that even with the goat-wool padding, the ogre could barely hold the bowl in his hands.

Sahd pointed to the ground. The guard placed the bowl there, then removed from the waist of his kilt a heavy iron spoon.

Thrusting the slave to his knees, the two ogre guards pushed the minotaur’s head forward into the bowl. He tried to resist, but one ogre seized his muzzle, forcing wide his jaws.

“Digging hard … Uruv Suuuurrrt need more strength,” Sahd purred viciously, putting aside his whip and squatting by the frantic minotaur slave. “Must be fed strong food, yes?”

He prodded the bowl, for the slave to behold its contents.

Black, steaming earth, still molten red at the edges, bubbled in the bowl. Even the inside of the stone bowl had been burned by the heat.

“To be as strong as stone, must be stone,” the grotesque ogre taskmaster continued. “So … must eat stone, yes?”

The other slaves muttered amongst themselves, but none dared act. Worked to death, chained, and fed little, the minotaur workers had long since been cowed into submission.

Sahd’s ravaged mouth contorted. “Eat, Uruv Suuuurrrt.”

The taskmaster grabbed the spoon and began scooping and thrusting the burning earth into the minotaur’s mouth.

The slave’s soft tongue sizzled. A horrifying, whining sound escaped the seven-feet-tall minotaur. Sahd kept scooping and thrusting, with the minotaur’s struggles more desperate by the second.

At last, the spoon grew too hot even for Sahd. He tossed it aside, then nodded to the guards.

One of the guards who had been holding the minotaur’s jaws open now shut his muzzle tight. Another took a length of rope and immediately and tightly bound the agonized slave’s muzzle.

For terrifying minutes, the crowd was forced to watch the young minotaur’s excruciating throes. Sahd himself watched with an almost detached air, but those who could see into his dark, deep-set eyes read in them the savage joy he truly felt.

Finally, his victim stilled; the pain was too much. Sahd indicated that the guards should untie the minotaur, and then he permitted two of his fellows to drag him back to the pens.

The ogre leader gazed at the downtrodden others, snorting unhappily. “No more hunger now, yes? Work harder now, yes? Fill double carts! No excuses!” When the slaves said nothing, did not even look up at him, Sahd nodded to the waiting guards. “Go!”

As they marched the slaves away, Sahd, once more wielding his whip with relish, stared at the poles, at the heads and the empty places. The empty ones beckoned. Ten was not enough to make up for the humiliating acts of the escapees. His macabre grin returned, the scarred flesh peeling back to reveal the gums and bone.

Sahd would reign over his little kingdom, no matter how many minotaurs had to die horribly to keep his strict order.

The two ogres at the far western outpost surveyed their surroundings with disinterest—black, baked hills and a myriad of arched and rounded outcroppings and dead stone for as far as the eye could see. Among the areas surrounding the camp, this was the bleakest. No life, not even one of those spindly, pointed plants or a single gray, crested lizard could be found in this area. The nearest vegetation was more than four days away by swift horse.

The outpost was considered the worst of banishments by the guards assigned there. Nothing ever happened here, and the ogre pair knew that. One scratched under the arm with the edge of his rusting blade while the other picked a mite from beneath the matted fur near his chest. Their stench was worse because of the hot, grueling day, and so were their tempers; only their mutual fear of Sahd had kept the two from each other’s throats thus far.

The one with the sword suddenly froze. Far below them, a single ragged figure struggled wearily toward the setting sun. The ogre squinted, making out the broken chains and telltale horns.

Well, well. An escaped slave.

He prodded his half-dozing companion, grunting his discovery. The other ogre rose, quickly sighting the fleeing figure.

Ready to take out their frustrations on the pathetic slave, they scrambled down after the escaping prisoner, who seemed to be stumbling every step of the way. Sahd would reward them well for the prize, whether or not the slave perished in the capture.

But as they reached the uneven ground and closed in on their prey, more than a dozen minotaurs leaped from behind the rocks and bleak hillsides. One figure seized the blade-wielding ogre and, with a quick slit of his own sword, cut the guard’s throat.

The second sentry swung his club, frantically trying to escape. He managed to crack the shoulder of one minotaur, but this only fueled the fury of the others, and he was swarmed upon. Fists pummeled the hapless ogre; his face was quickly reduced to a pulp, and his cries were drowned out by the rage of his opponents.

Wiping off his blade, Faros watched as the others beat the ogre guard into an unrecognizable mass of blood and flesh. Afterward he told Grom, “Make sure there’s no weapon missed. They might have daggers.”

“Aye, Faros.”

“The others should be in position soon,” he told the rest. “We need to get moving.”

Nearly all the slaves he had freed had found their way to his sanctum. Grom deserved some of the credit, or blame, as he felt honor-bound to Sargonnas to aid as many of his fellows as possible. Faros said nothing, not caring if they joined him or not. With so many new mouths to feed, the edibles stolen that night proved only enough to last two days, and that with rationing.

Instinctively, they all looked to him for leadership.

Again, that had been partly the doing of Grom and Valun, for since they had earlier accepted him as the leader of their trio, the newcomers simply fell into place. Faros did not particularly want the company of the others, but understood that he could not shake them.

Then he began to think about what a larger group could accomplish. There were other supplies to raid, more havoc to wreak. Another raid so soon after the last would send the ogres reeling.

Leaving the ogre bodies where they fell, the ragtag band headed toward the camp. The sun would drop below the horizon within the hour, and Faros’s plan called for action by night.

Two more sentries fell to Faros’s raiders before they arrived within sight of their destination. The ogres guarding the camp never anticipated a mass assault by the escaped slaves. The ogres’ overconfidence was Faros’s ally. Sahd probably figured that most of the minotaurs had fled for parts unknown.

The last rays of the sun had faded away as the group gathered for final reconnoitering. Ahead, torchlight marked both the perimeter of the camp and the guards stationed at the edges. The hisses of the ogres’ meredrakes could be heard now and then.

“Listen for the gong,” Faros commanded. “Everyone moves at the same time.”

They waited for a while in silence, hearing only their own breathing and the occasional distant bark of an ogre sentry. One minotaur snorted, which brought him a reproving glare from Faros.

Then … a deep, dull noise echoed throughout the region.

One hour past dark, a gong began to sound, its metallic ring piercing the night. Each evening the ogres rang the bronze gong that hung near the hut of Sahd. None of the minotaurs understood its meaning and more than a few suspected that even their captors did not know why Sahd insisted on this ritual. Faros thought it might be a custom dating back to the age of the High Ogres.

Tonight, it made the perfect signal to attack the camps.

Moving with a growing excitement, Faros and the dozen or so other minotaurs swarmed up and around the jagged rocks. Those who did not have a weapon carried sharp rocks or lengths of slave chain—and other makeshift tools that might cause damage.

Two ogre guards wielding iron-tipped spears were on this side of the perimeter, a monstrous meredrake at their side. With the night coming on, the reptile moved sluggishly, as though drugged.

The first of the minotaurs had almost gotten within reach of the guards when the meredrake smelled their approach. The lizard stopped in its tracks, blinking, then pawed at the ground and hissed. Its handler turned and froze at the sight of a score of dark figures converging on him.

Some of the minotaurs began pelting the meredrake with rocks while three of them—one with a sword and two with daggers—edged closer, jabbing at it, seeking a weak spot in its armored hide. Not used to dealing with such aggressive prey, the meredrake retreated, backing into its panicked handler.

The other ogre thrust his spear at Faros, but the latter dodged the awkward attack then threw himself at his larger foe.

They tumbled back, their weapons flying free. The minotaur reached down, drawing a rusted dagger from his kilt. He brought the blade up, burying it under the sentry’s thick jaw. The blade snapped off as the ogre twisted spasmodically before collapsing.

Another minotaur seized the spear and headed toward the meredrake. As Faros retrieved his sword, shouts erupted from around the camp. Grom and the rest had launched their own incursions, siphoning Sahd’s minions off in different directions so that this time Faros’s party could zero in on the supply hut.

The meredrake hissed as the minotaur with the spear drove it into its mottled side. Its massive tail whipped around, nearly bowling over two other minotaurs. Tugging the spear free, the minotaur thrust continually, mortally wounding the creature.

Wobbling, the reptile tried to dash away, but already a river of blood gushed from its side. It managed a few quick steps then collapsed, panting. A deep sword thrust from Faros ended its life.

“Quickly!” Faros ordered. “Before they can organize!”

His group of minotaurs poured into the mining camp. Faros led several toward the hut, passing the dread poles set up by Sahd. Some of the freed slaves halted, staring at the heads …

Atop all the poles now.

Even Faros could not fathom Sahd’s relentless evil. Did the ogre taskmaster intend to slay every minotaur under his rule?

The minotaurs stood frozen for precious seconds. Most were aware that their freedom had cost the latest victims their lives.

Then, before Faros could order them to move on, several of his followers began angrily toppling the poles, bringing them and their grisly prizes earthward. Roars punctuated each crash.

From the east, shouts of a different sort arose. Slaves were calling out, pleading, from the largest and nearest of the slave pens.

Without hesitation, three of Faros’s raiders rushed over to the pen. Faros was about to order the former slaves back, when suddenly, a band of about a dozen ogre guards, armed with clubs, swords, and spears, appeared to confront the minotaur and his followers. With little other recourse, Faros roared, “Take them!”

The raiders met the ogres head-on. One former slave perished swiftly as an ogre skewered him on a spear. Another minotaur wielding only a dagger rushed the attacker. The guard struggled futilely to free his spear, then finally gave up and drew his knife. Before he could act, however, the slave’s worn blade had cut open a savage gash in his stomach. The ogre dropped to his knees, trembling. A second slash across his throat finished him.

The crack of a club sent the minotaur standing next to Faros tumbling to the ashy ground; his skull had been caved in. Faros stabbed at the ogre who was responsible, wounding him in the side. Two more slaves tackled the ogre guard, bringing him down.

Three minotaurs were working on the lock of the pen. One screamed as a spear caught him between the shoulder blades. The remaining two finally broke the bolt. The lock clattered to the ground.

Barely had the lock touched the ground when scores of disheveled, chained figures rushed out. Most immediately joined those fighting the guards, outnumbering and overwhelming the startled ogres.

Despite being weaponless and encumbered by manacles, the minotaurs fought with such fury that they quickly subdued the guards. The attackers then took out months of misery and agony on the ogre guards, beating them down to the ground, senseless.

“You!” Faros then called to one of the minotaurs. “You and four others—come with me!”

The minotaur took up his summons with eagerness, asking for volunteers. Instead of five, Faros left with more than a dozen.

To the east, there was a sudden explosion followed by flames shooting up. Harsh ogre voices cried out. Faros could only assume that those following Grom had ignited some of the barrels of oil the ogres kept for their needs. The fuel fire spread rapidly, quickly covering much of the eastern edge of the camp.

Faros stumbled to a halt as a slavering reptilian form burst from the darkness, quickly followed by a second and third. The meredrakes seemed almost confused, however, or afraid. And they were free of their leashes.

A moment later, several ogres with torches appeared to urge the beasts on.

Most of the minotaurs beat a swift retreat.

But with no reins to control them, the reptiles did not reliably heed their handlers. They started to drift off in various directions. The guards barked at them, but neither commands nor torches proved sufficient to enforce their orders. One meredrake turned to snap at the ogres, who were taken aback.

“You!” roared Faros at a pair of minotaurs carrying spears. “Make an opening!”

The two fell upon one reptile, dividing it from the others. The meredrake bit at the spears with its long maw, but edged away.

Faros and the rest charged.

Tossing aside their torches, the ogres drew their weapons. A few attempted to maneuver the meredrakes around, but now the confusion made the reptiles almost as dangerous to their masters.

A bellowing ogre picked up one of the slaves, and threw him into the wall of a hut with such force that the stone and wood structure collapsed. Another, brandishing a club, kept three minotaurs at bay.

The two minotaurs wielding spears wounded one meredrake several times. The scent of its blood stirred the other monsters. One meredrake immediately turned to attack the bleeding creature while the third plunged into the tangle of ogres and minotaurs.

Savage jaws came within inches of Faros. Avoiding a club swung at him, Faros seized a fallen torch and thrust it at the reptile’s long, thick snout. As he did so, an ogre guard grabbed him.

Without hesitation, Faros whirled and stuck the flames into the hairy face.

The ogre screamed, his tusked mouth gaping. He released the minotaur and batted at the flames. Smoke rose from his chest.

Faros lunged at him, finishing him off with his sword. Then he spun to face the meredrake, but the creature was now surrounded by a dozen minotaurs. The horned ones swarmed upon the beast with clubs, axes, and chains, pummeling the behemoth.

The two remaining meredrakes were busy fighting each other. The minotaurs surrounded the struggling pair, watching for an opening.

Everywhere, horned figures raced around the flame-lit camp, many of them now openly shouting for the blood of the taskmaster. The raid had turned into something impossible—an uprising.

The ogres were scattered and tried to regroup, but there were far fewer of them than the minotaurs, and, unlike what happened at Vyrox, it was unlikely they would be rescued by reinforcements.

“Find me Sahd!” Faros shouted to those nearby. “Find him!”

The entire east and south appeared ablaze; the emptied pens had been set on fire by the freed slaves. In the center of the camp, the high pole on which Sahd’s crude banner hung—a crimson rag on which a crushed skull had been drawn—was toppled. Minotaurs took turns trampling the banner then tore it to pieces.

Faros glanced toward the storage huts, which had been left alone until now; but he had seen movement there, and suddenly one of the structures burst into flame.

“No, damn you!” Faros yelled. “Stop!”

The black silhouette of a towering figure bearing a torch materialized. Two more appeared, these bent low and carrying barrels whose contents they poured on the next supply hut.

Ogres.

Destroying their own provisions—it was insane; they must sense their defeat, Faros thought, as he ran toward the three ogre guards. Only as he neared did he recognize the voice of Sahd.

The taskmaster was berating his thick-witted underlings, haranguing them for their slowness. The ogre guards would have preferred to defend themselves, or better yet, escape the slaughter going on around them, but still they feared Sahd’s wrath.

One ogre looked Faros’s way. The startled guard barked a warning that made Sahd turn.

In the light of the burning camp, Sahd’s ravaged face, with two burned gaps all that remained of his nose, looked like a fright mask. The whip that had gouged so many lines into Faros and others hung rolled at his waist, and a sheathed sword dangled from his belt. Spotting Faros, his ruined face twisted into a grotesque smile.

Careless of the death and destruction going on around him, Sahd strode almost calmly toward Faros, leering crazily.

Memories stirred within Faros … memories of another sadistic overseer back in the Vyrox days. Piggish Paug was Sahd’s brother in spirit and, like the ogre, he had instilled fear into all those who toiled for him. Paug had slain Ulthar, Faros’s only true friend at Vyrox. Twice he had tried to kill Faros.

But in the end … it had been Faros who had slain Paug.

Sahd was Paug reincarnated, but ten times worse than Paug.

Faros grinned back at his tormentor, readying his blade.

Suddenly Sahd hurled his torch at him. Faros easily batted away the flaming staff, but as he was momentarily distracted, the hideous ogre drew his huge, broad-edged sword and hurtled it at him.

Faros got his own sword up just in time. The two weapons clanged together, resounding throughout the camp. Sahd pushed in close to Faros, grinning with his food-encrusted, yellowed teeth. His putrid breath alone threatened to subdue his opponent.

“Know you, Uruv Suuuurrrt!” Sahd snarled malevolently. “Beat you well many times, I did! Come to have more, yes?”

Faros pushed back against his much larger adversary, calling on all his strength. He shoved Sahd back toward the burning huts.

The ogre dug in his huge, calloused, nailed feet. With his free hand, Sahd reached around and sought Faros’s throat.

Faros abruptly let go, leaping back. Sahd stumbled forward, but quickly regained his balance. He swung at Faros, narrowly missing.

One of the ogre guards rushed up and was about to jump in—when he heard a shout. Looking over his shoulder, he growled something to a third ogre, then both raced away, abandoning Sahd.

Again the weathered blades matched one another. Faros’s sword was nicked, a piece of it flying at his face. The sharp metal cut his skin just below his left eye. The wound started dripping blood.

Sahd stabbed at him again, creasing the minotaur on his side just below the rib cage. More blood poured from this second cut.

Grunting and swearing, Faros backed up … and stumbled over the torch Sahd had tossed at him. He lost his footing.

The ogre taskmaster raced up, gleefully hovering over him.

“Place your head on a pole, Uruv Suuuurrrt! Put a smile on its face, make your friends march it around.”

He raised his arms over his head and swung his blade. Faros twisted. The tip of the blade buried itself in the ground next to his neck. The minotaur rolled away, kicking at the ogre’s legs.

Sahd laughed like a maniac as he fell. But he fumbled his weapon, and Faros grabbed him. The pair rolled around, first the ogre’s crushing weight on top, then Faros, then Sahd again.

Nearby, one of the barrels abandoned by the guards caught fire and exploded. The earth shook, flinging the pair apart. Faros scrambled around, trying to find one of the swords.

Nails ripped into his back—no, sharp hooks, ripping his flesh—and Sahd’s laughter filled his throbbing head.

A slight whistling sound trailed after, and again the horrific raking of his skin and fur. He dragged himself away.

“She bites deep, yes?” breathed Sahd, from behind him, the firelight adding an eerie glow to the figure with the whip.

Eyes tearing from the agony, Faros turned onto his bloody back as the taskmaster stepped closer. Sahd readied another lash.

The minotaur’s desperate fingers found a metal edge. Faros squirmed, finding his grip on the hilt of a sword that lay in the dirt.

Sahd whipped him again, shredding one of his exposed thighs.

“Will leave no skin, no fur, Uruv Suuuurrrt,” Sahd mocked. “Nothing but blood.…”

But Faros barely heard the ogre taskmaster now. As he had learned to do in order to survive in this place, he was retreating within. There was a difference this time, for he wasn’t seeking solace, or oblivion; he was drawing patience and strength.

When the metal claws of the whip came at him one last time, he seized three of them, blocking out the pain even as the others buried themselves in his arm and side. Faros gripped the whip tight, though Sahd tugged desperately to free his favored weapon.

With the tug-of-war as a counterbalance, Faros grabbed the whip with his other hand, and pulled himself into a standing position, staring into the rage-filled eyes of his torturer.

Without warning, Sahd released his end of the whip and dived to the side, scrabbling for the other sword.

But Faros did something unpredictable—he reeled in the whip.

Sahd found his blade—and just as quickly let it drop with a howl, as the talons of his own tool tore his wrist and hand. The taskmaster roared, as Faros brought the whip down repeatedly.

Dark fluid began to streak the ogre’s right side. Sahd’s breathing was increasingly heavy. Moving as if mesmerized, Faros followed the disfigured ogre as he squirmed and twisted on the ground, lashing him constantly with his own whip.

Despite his injuries, Sahd was not done; he had managed to keep his hold on the blade. Dodging one lash, he rolled and jumped up, eyes blinking away the blood dripping down from his forehead. His smile was still the same, as ugly and crazy as ever.

Faros edged around, snapping the whip.

Keeping the blade before him, Sahd again surprised Faros—suddenly breaking for the nearest hut. Faros pursued the ogre, but barely glimpsed him before he vanished amid the structures.

Even with so many wounds, Sahd still had cunning and strength.

Around a third, then a fourth building Faros chased Sahd, who seemed to taunt him by remaining just in sight. Just as he rounded one corner, Sahd’s blade slashed at him. He managed to duck just in time. Faros brought the handle of the whip up and smashed it into Sahd’s wrist. The taskmaster dropped his sword.

Sahd kicked at him viciously. Faros, clutching his abdomen, dropped the whip. Sahd charged straight at him, grabbing his muzzle and shoving his jaws open wide, trying to break Faros’s jaws.

“Hitaka i f’han, Uruv Suuuurrrt!” the ogre growled.

Faros crumpled to his knees, with Sahd above him, forcing his jaws open. The pain was terrible. He tried to break Sahd’s grip.

Sahd was laughing again. Faros’s right hand slipped away, searching on the ground. He found the sword, thrust upward.

He felt resistance as he pushed the blade in and heard Sahd grunt. The ogre released his punishing grip on the minotaur’s jaw.

Faros stood. Sahd jerked back, the sword slipping free with a sucking sound.

Gasping, Faros stared. Sahd stumbled back, one meaty hand pressed against his stomach, which was spouting blood and guts.

Faros watched as the camp’s brutal taskmaster doubled over in agony, clutching at the deep, wide, spreading wound. Sahd fell over, tried to stand, and then ended up wobbling on his knees.

Utterly devoid of any emotion, Faros slowly approached his stricken enemy, picking up the sword and raising it high.

The monstrous visage looked up. The macabre mouth twisted into either a horrific grin or an expression of pleading—it was hard to say which.

With one perfect arc, Faros beheaded the ogre.

The head rolled a few feet away from Faros, before ending with its face turned to the sky, the ogre’s vicious expression intact. Seconds later, Sahd’s huge torso flattened on the ground.

Panting, the minotaur stared at his nemesis, almost certain that Sahd would somehow rise from the dead to torment him anew. But even Sahd could not do that, and at last Faros reached down and seized the blood- and dust-soaked head by its scraggly mane.

Carrying his crimson-soaked blade in his other hand, he moved through what remained of the mining camp, noting dispassionately that the only living figures he came upon were of his own kind. Ogre bodies were strewn everywhere, horribly gutted and mutilated. The justice of the slaves could not be denied and Faros did not care.

There were also many minotaur bodies, but these, too, meant little to Faros. Had they not died in this desperate fight, they would have been devoured by the harsh life of the mines.

The violence was not over. The minotaurs used spears and swords to slay those meredrakes still penned. The savage creatures hissed and tried to bite and batter their way to freedom, but wherever they turned, they met the vengeance of the freed slaves. One by one, the ogres’ scaly hounds perished.

Grom and several others finally found their leader, wandering in the midst of the carnage, carrying his grisly prize. He looked dazed, streaked with small wounds and bruises, but otherwise unhurt.

“Faros! Praise be to Sargas! We thought you dead!”

“I’m not. Are all the ogres dealt with?”

“So it looks! Many of our own are now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Horned One, but at least they left this world as warriors, not slaves!” Grom’s expression brightened as he looked down and recognized the bloody head carried by Faros.

“By the God of Vengeance!” cried Grom. “Sahd is dead!” He turned to those with him. “Do you see? Praise Sargas, he’s slain the beast! Sahd is dead! Faros has slain Sahd!”

Cries of victory and relief filled the ruined camp as word spread. The names of Sahd and his slayer were repeated throughout the camp. From all directions, minotaurs streamed to see the comforting proof, to know that the demon of their dreams was dead … and give homage to the one who had struck the mortal blow.

Despite all that they had been through, including this epic struggle, the minotaurs now found the strength to cheer.

“Hail, Faros!” Grom shouted. “Hail, Faros!”

The others took up the call. “Hail, Faros!”

The adulation meant nothing to Faros. He stared at the other minotaurs as though not entirely seeing them.

“At last we can return home!” someone cried.

At that, Faros’s gaze sharpened. He searched for the one who had spoken, shoving past well-wishers and fresh followers.

“No!”

Instant silence swept over the camp. The minotaurs stared disbelievingly at their hero.

“You fools!” he uttered, turning in a circle so that he was addressing them all. “Return home? Have you all forgotten why we’re here? Have you forgotten what the empire has deemed us? Do you know what the empire’ll do to anyone who does return?”

Several minotaurs slumped to their knees in shock at his words. A few even broke out in sobs, knowing Faros was right. They were doomed to scrounge for survival away from their beloved home.

They were, for the most part, the servants and allies of clans eradicated by the usurper Hotak. Their own Houses were no more. He who sat upon the throne had made gifts of them to the ogres, their ancient enemies. If any returned, they would likely be executed or sent again to another minotaur or ogre slave camp.

Grom nodded solemnly, backing up Faros’s words. Valun, who came up behind them with his arms around them both, cried, “Faros is right!”

One of prisoners, a thick-browed female, swallowed, then asked, “But where can we go? What should we do?”

In reply, Faros tossed the head of Sahd toward her, letting the taskmaster’s gruesome remains roll around in the dark dust. The minotaurs were wary of Sahd, even now, and edged back. But the flames from the burning camp seemed to dance in celebration of his death.

“We go south.”

Eyes wide, Grom snorted, then made the bird sign of Sargonnas. “South? By the Ax of Argon, that’s deeper into Kern!”

“Yes, it is.”

“But—” The other minotaur clamped his mouth shut. After a moment, he lowered his horns in deference. “If you so decide, Faros, then I follow.”

Valun emulated his friend. “As do I.”

There were murmurs from the other slaves. Then, one by one, they, too, lowered their horns.

Faros’s face showed no emotion. “Set up sentries. Everyone else eat then sleep. We leave at first light. There’s bound to be food and water where we go now.” And death, he added to himself, the idea of slaughtering more ogres stirring his blood. “Those who don’t want to come are welcome to go home, if they want to try.”

And with that, he turned brusquely and went to claim for the night the hut that had once been the domicile of Sahd.

Jubal stared at the ravaged rebel ship Habbakuk’s Trident. Once its name had been proudly etched in gold by the bow, but the outline of the letters was barely readable because of all the damage.

Habbakuk’s Trident listed slightly to one side, its hull cracked. The breach could not be repaired. One of the three masts was but a splintered stump. Ragged sails fluttered limply above the other two. Much of the deck lay under debris. Like the Dragon’s Crest, Habbakuk’s Trident had taken the brunt of the battle, using its ballista to spread chaos so that other rebel vessels could escape. She had wounded two of the enemy, before taking such a beating herself. It was a wonder to the gruff, graying minotaur that the proud old ship had survived at all.

None of the four other ships surrounding the Trident were in the best of shape, but they, at least, could still sail. The only future left to the ruined vessel was a berth at the bottom of the Courrain … and that was the fate Jubal planned for it.

As his rowboat came alongside, the former imperial governor turned rebel took hold of the rope ladder dangling next to him and climbed to the rail. A sailor gave him a hand onto the deck, where about a dozen other figures awaited the leader.

Two were very familiar to Jubal. Captain Tinza, commander of the Sea Reaver and formerly of the empire’s Eastern fleet, was a brawny, brown female as tall as most males. Near her stood a younger male with a long, narrow snout and a high brow ridge that sometimes gave him a surprised look. What was more unusual about him, however, was his silver-brown fur, rare for minotaurs. The young warrior’s name was Nolhan and, until the fall of Chot, he had served as aide to the head of the Supreme Circle, Tiribus.

“This it, then?” rasped Jubal, feeling somewhat disappointed.

“Napol’s below, preparing the honor guard, governor,” returned Tinza. “When you give the signal, they’ll come up.”

He nodded. “Any report on the others?”

Tinza shook her head. “We’re assuming they maintained the planned route.”

“Then, after this is done, we’ve got to make sure of that. Vartox’s Vengeance was carrying copies of our best charts. Now that they are in imperial hands, they’ll know where we have been hiding. We’ll have to find yet a new base of operations.”

“Yet another one?” Nolhan snorted. “What is left to us, fleeing and hiding? Some bit of rock on the edge of the world?”

“We will discuss all that afterward.” The wind swept through his mane. He peered at the Trident’s broken bow—decimated and bereft of a guiding icon.

“Let’s get on with it,” he added with a sigh.

Raising a horn, a crew member blew five short, shrill notes.

From the other vessels came the ritual answering notes. As the horns sounded, Jubal led the small delegation toward the main deck.

The body lay atop what had once been the door to the captain’s cabin. Shrouding the door was an old imperial banner, the condor symbol still recognizable beneath his unmoving form. The door had been set upon a makeshift platform in accordance with the ancient rites of sea and around the platform lay an assortment of personal effects brought by the captains of each of the remaining vessels. There were weapons, of course, but also flutes, goblets, pipes, tinderboxes, rings, and more—the ordinary effects of sailors and warriors who had fought under General Rahm Es-Hestos and their way of paying last respects.

In the crook of one arm they had set a full-sized battle-ax and in the other, a long sword. Rahm’s old Imperial Guard armor had been given a shine. His fur had been smoothed as best as possible and shone with oil. His expression was oddly peaceful.

Jubal and the rest took up positions. A moment later, from below, came a martial shout and the marching of feet. Up the steps came the honor guard led by the swarthy, broad-shouldered Napol. He and his marine regiment wore their green-and-white clan kilts, but with a red strand around the waist, their way of marking themselves as loyal not to the current emperor, but to the rebellion.

Twin rows of twelve minotaurs followed the marine commander, twenty-five minotaurs in all, counting Napol. Five times five for good luck in the next world.

“Ranks! Split!” roared Napol. He led the leftmost column. Half moved to flank the platform and its contents. Those behind Napol wielded swords, the others, the hand axes favored in naval engagements.

“Set your positions!”

The two ranks turned to face one another. Each minotaur raised his weapon toward his opposite, creating an arch over the remains.

Now standing next to Jubal, Napol saluted the corpse of the leader of the rebellion. Staring straight ahead, he shouted, “Let those who would honor true a warrior now step forward!”

Tinza was first. She knelt by the general, her horns turned aside in deference to him. Next to the body, she placed a small item that the governor could not see until she backed up.

It was a figurine that he recognized as one she herself must have carved. Many minotaurs took up such idle hobbies when plying the high seas. And for this occasion, Tinza had created a likeness of Rahm, but with the general seated on what was clearly a throne.

The governor snorted but not out of disdain, out of approval. Ears flat, he watched Nolhan, approach.

The silver-brown minotaur also knelt. Next to the figurine, he placed a medallion upon which a golden circle had been etched.

“Presented to me by my master Tiribus, to acknowledge my position as his adjutant,” the young warrior had once told Jubal. By offering it up as tribute, Nolhan paid Rahm the highest honor, attesting that he would always serve under him, even in death.

More stepped forward and offered their tokens. When only he remained, the raspy-voiced minotaur walked forward slowly. Positioning himself near the makeshift bier, Jubal extended his hand. He held not one item, but two. The first was a personal memento, an elaborate dagger upon which had been etched his name and the names of his father and grandfather. Two valuable stones, one green and one blue, decorated the curved handle.

The stones suddenly made the governor think of another item of jewelry, and he looked closer at Rahm’s hand. Sure enough, the ebony ring remained on the rebel leader’s hand. It would be buried with him, and now no one would ever guess its secret power.

Placing the ancient dagger next to his comrade, Jubal readied his other offering. It was an iron coin, old and well worn, which boasted the outline of a winged minotaur upon one side.

“Botanos said that Azak would’ve chosen this for you, general.” Azak had been the original captain of the Dragon’s Crest and had been instrumental in helping Rahm flee the minions of Hotak. He and the general had long been the closest of comrades. Botanos had explained once to Jubal that the coin had been his captain’s luck charm. The winged minotaur identified it as a coin supposedly produced during the reign of Ambeoutin, the first distinguished ruler of their kind and considered the father of their civilization. Azak had found it during his first voyage as a young hand and treasured it among his belongings ever since.

Azak had not been carrying the coin with him when he had been slain during Rahm’s aborted attempt to assassinate Hotak.

After bowing his head for a moment, Jubal stepped back. As he lined up next to Napol, the marine commander let loose with a low, guttural roar. Immediately the honor guard followed suit, then the rest of those in attendance joined, their voices rising. The minotaurs shouted as one, as they did before a great battle, stirring their blood up as they prepared to give their lives.

And from the other ships came the roars of those aboard, each vessel trying to be loudest, most adamant, in their reaffirmation.

The honor guard turned their weapons downward, the traditional sign that the life of a great warrior had ended. Governor Jubal and his companions drew their own swords and axes and did likewise. As the horns sounded, Napol led the marine fighters to where several large barrels awaited.

The Trident suddenly listed, throwing everyone momentarily off balance. One of the barrels rolled loose. Two of Napol’s warriors leaped after it, but the barrel struck a rail, splitting open and spilling oil.

“Praise be that the torches weren’t lit yet,” remarked Tinza.

Nolhan and the others retreated to where the longboats waited. Tinza eyed the governor. “Rahm would not have altered the time-honored ritual, even for himself.”

“Nevertheless, I will do so, in his honor.”

With a shrug, the captain joined Napol and the marine fighters. Each took one of the barrels and moved to various parts of the deck. Then, without preamble, the minotaurs broke open the containers and began spilling out the contents. They drenched every bit of wood with oil, leaving only one long, narrow path to the longboats.

“All right!” yelled Napol, throwing his empty barrel to one side. “That should do it! Everyone off the ship! Fast now!”

The marine fighters clambered down the rope ladders, joining those waiting in the boats. Most pushed off, though one lingered.

Napol and Captain Tinza joined the governor. Jubal handed them two of the three unlit torches he now held in his steady grip. Using her tinderbox, the captain cautiously lit the torches.

“On my signal,” the graying minotaur rasped.

Tinza and the marine commander struck off in opposite directions, leaving Jubal where he was standing. When the captain had reached the bow and Napol stood at the stern, the governor waved his torch … then tossed it toward the makeshift pyre.

The oil-fed flames eagerly raced up the pyre, enveloping Rahm’s body. Ears flat, Governor Jubal watched in silence, as first the general, then the ship, gradually became an inferno.

The Trident listed slightly. Jubal grabbed the rail. Rahm’s flaming body shifted, his arm slipping off the platform.

The elder minotaur grunted, his attention drawn by the hand.

Odd. He could no longer see the ring there.

“Governor! Jubal! Come on!” Suddenly Napol was beside him, ushering Jubal toward the ladder. Tinza followed behind. Already, much of the ship’s deck was on fire, the flames consuming the masts, the wheel, and more.

With haste, the trio descended to the last boat. The second they were aboard, the sailors quickly rowed them away.

Even before the boat reached the Dragon’s Crest, Habbakuk’s Trident had been engulfed. Despite that, she drifted along almost serenely for a time, the steady waves pushing her into deeper waters.

“Likely she’ll sail another hour or two, then start breaking up,” Captain Tinza remarked.

“If that.” Jubal took hold of the Crest’s ladder. “Are we agreed on matters, Tinza? You’ll return to the Sea Reaver and head south?”

“Aye, and Nolhan and the others’ll sail east. If luck is with us, in a month we’ll rendezvous a day north of Petarka. Godspeed, and may you bring good news.”

“We must regroup and find another base of operations.”

Napol briefly grasped the governor’s hand. “You’re leader now, Jubal.”

“Nolhan and some of the others will beg to differ.”

The other two minotaurs scowled. “They’ll see the merit of your leadership,” Tinza growled. “We’ll make them see.”

But Jubal shook his head. “We need unity, not a rebellion within a rebellion.”

There was no further argument, but an uneasy feeling lingered in the air. The governor climbed aboard the Dragon’s Crest, then watched as the two were rowed back to their own vessel.

Captain Botanos joined him, looking off at the burning pyre. “A scene to stir us all to greater glory.”

Governor Jubal grunted. “Let us pray so, captain … let us dearly pray so.”

It had been some time since Ardnor had received a summons to the palace—longer since he had been invited. While he pretended not to care, inwardly he seethed. Bastion received all the honors, the glories. Bastion had all the favors and privileges that by rights belonged to him, the eldest son.

Bastion had the rule of an empire awaiting him someday.

It had been such a long time since Hotak and Ardnor had spoken that, when the message came from the palace, Ardnor wondered at first if it was a hoax.

Steely-eyed Pryas had arrived with the sealed missive as the First Master was busy honoring a few key members of the Protectors. With the ranks swollen and spread throughout the realm, the need to acknowledge those who showed the greatest loyalty to the faith—and Ardnor—had become a regular ritual.

There were no windows in the square, torch-lit chamber. Small spaces in the ceiling enabled the smoke to drift to the outside. Despite that, the room was still stifling and made all the more so by the powdered shaka weed that one gray-robed Protector tossed into a low, heated copper bowl each time one of the Protectors stepped forward to be honored. Shaka weed, a dull green, almost fuzzy plant that grew low to the earth, was found mostly in the mountains of Mithas. Ground shaka weed, when inhaled, was a stimulant, agitating one’s adrenalin. The gathered minotaurs exuded nervous energy, which was just as the First Master desired. These honored Protectors would leave craving action, awaiting the time when he would call them to duty.

Fifty warriors, including a number of females, were in attendance. The Protectors were originally all male, but in a faith overseen by a high priestess—the First Master’s mother, no less—females had become an important presence in the militant wing. Like the males, the female minotaurs had shorn their manes completely off. They wore black kilts, but in addition were clad in ebony tunics with plunging necklines. This design was not intended to attract males, but rather to display the broken ax brand that they, too, had burned into the center of their chests.

Ardnor sat upon the stone chair that he used as a throne. Clad also in a gray robe, he waited impatiently while one of the adherents read the next name from an unrolled parchment.

“Kyra Es-Ronas!”

A muscular, broad-snouted female rose up then stepped forward. Her eyes wore the fanatical look the First Master sought in his most faithful. She eyed Ardnor with devotion, with unabashed awe, as she went back down on one knee before the low dais.

“Kyra Es-Ronas,” the robed adherent continued to proclaim, “of the Mito faithful, first in armed combat, an acolyte of the Fifth Level.”

“So quickly did you achieve that status?” Ardnor asked. There were few Protectors who reached Fifth Level, and fewer still who were female. They surrendered their entire lives to the Protectors, every hour of the day and night. The Fifth Level, of which Pryas was the senior, demanded great physical effort and intricate training. Much of that effort included use of upper-body strength, which created a disadvantage for most females.

“Those who have gone before have guided me well, my lord,” she murmured, her head lowered.

He nodded approvingly. “Hold out your left hand.”

As she did, he glanced at the Protector standing by the incense. The minotaur priest took a pair of curved tongs and reached into the heated bowl. From it he withdrew a orangehot disk about two inches in diameter.

“We are the Protectors of the faith,” Ardnor rumbled, “the warriors of the broken ax. We give our lives, our souls, to the Forerunners.”

“All praise the High Priestess Nephera and the First Master Ardnor,” replied fifty voices.

He rose, accepting the tongs from the priest. “All who serve are honored. Those who serve beyond their duties are honored more.”

He dropped the metal disk squarely in her palm.

The burning flesh crackled through the suddenly silent chamber. Kyra did not flinch. She slowly, almost casually, closed her fingers around the piece then stood up to face her comrades.

The other minotaurs rose as one, slapping fists against the scarred brand on each of their chests.

Turning, Kyra walked with measured steps back to the hot bowl. With slow, deliberate movements, the minotaur priest added some incense. Kyra leaned forward and inhaled deeply.

Grinning triumphantly, she placed the piece of metal back inside the hot bowl.

“Kyra Es-Ronas,” Ardnor called. “Show the honor of Protectors you now bear.”

The female warrior again faced the other Protectors, revealing her open palm. Burnt into it was a pair of long, curved horns and jagged mark almost akin to a sword with a lightning bolt for a blade …

The personal symbol of the First Master.

Among the ranks, seven other Protectors extended their own left hands, displaying identical signs. Not all who had been summoned this day would receive this highest honor. Ardnor reserved it for the few. He had reports from each of their superiors, who also were bearers of the mark. Those who received the mark were fated to rise in the ranks, become the officers and commanders the growing legions of Protectors needed to guide them.

In a surprising break with ritual, Kyra suddenly turned and walked back to Ardnor, kneeling low at his feet and placing her muzzle on the dais. “I thank the First Master for this. May I always be worthy.”

Ardnor grunted approval of her bold actions. “Rise, Kyra Es-Ronas! Return proudly to your place!”

Once she had done so, he began the traditional recitation, “The people are the life of the temple.…”

The closing of the ceremony took only a minute more. As the newly honored Protectors departed, Pryas approached his lord.

“That last one,” Ardnor muttered to him. “Kyra of Mito. A bit chiseled of face and form, but I like her energy. Make certain that she gets an appointment for a private audience with me.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Pryas held up the parchment that had arrived earlier, letting Ardnor see the wax royal seal.

The First Master’s brow furrowed. “From my father?”

“So I would assume.”

“Meant for me,” Hotak’s eldest commented, as he turned it over in his hands. My mark there, not Mother’s.”

“It must be important, indeed, if the emperor contacts you.”

Ardnor’s crimson-tinged eyes looked triumphant. “Yes, it is he who contacts me. He wants something only I can give him.”

He cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. Pryas politely stepped back in order for his master to read privately.

“So … my father addresses me as an officer of the legions … as indeed he should.”

The emperor Hotak requested his son’s presence at a special ship-christening ceremony occurring in two days, with a confidential discussion to take place in the palace afterward.

Ardnor informed Pryas of the news. The steely eyes lost some of their self-assurance. “A confidential discussion? Lord Ardnor … will he once again harp on the Protectors?”

“No, he wouldn’t dare speak against the religion. That is all in the past. The faithful are part of every aspect of government now. No, perhaps he’s finally come to realize how much he needs me—us—for the future of the empire. His legions are everywhere … and yet the Protectors are vital to his plans.” Ardnor crumpled up the paper, his eyes glittering. “Well, Father’s been good enough to invite me, I certainly won’t turn him down, eh, Pryas?”

The messenger from the mainland had brought many letters. In addition to the reports by the various commanders—chief among them a missive from his daughter Maritia—a rolled parchment had been delivered with news that at first made Hotak snort with disbelief.

A waif of a human girl was supposedly trying to teach an accomplished general how to fight a war.

Seated before his beloved map, the banner of the black warhorse draped over a bronze pole in the corner behind him, Hotak read over Maritia’s report again. Once more he tried to digest the mystery and power of the renegade minotaur, Galdar.

 … then he said that this would be the last time we would meet before the shield fell. Father, we dare not be misled by his subservient posture. Galdar is truly a devious, not to mention ambitious, character. The proof lies in the attached notes I have sent with the usual updates … the Battle Plans of the Great Mina.

As humorous as I first found the plans, after looking over them myself, I have immediately sent them on to you. At the very least, they reveal Galdar’s thinking, his intentions, which should give us a better idea of how to deal with him when the time comes.

Forgive me, but I must say that.…

Hotak put aside Maritia’s letter. Picking up the map and the plans, he reviewed the revelations from the mainland.

The strategy was good. Very good.

“No …” the emperor muttered, his fingers tightening. The parchment crinkled. “The plans’re excellent.”

Obviously, though the handwriting was meant to suggest Mina’s, Galdar had put together the offensive. Likely he had had aid from experienced officers, of which the Knights of Neraka had more than a few. The paper outlined perfectly the placement and movements of six legions, with options for reinforcements and urgencies.

Hotak’s good eye narrowed in admiration. He could find no fault with the vision of victory.

When placed on the overlooking ridge, the catapults positioned near the northern edge of the forest.…

She—he, the emperor corrected himself—even had contingency plans should the resistance surprise the legions.

 … the fresh troops waiting by the river can then either march west or sail to join the far flank. This will.…

No plan, in Hotak’s experience of more than twenty years of command, ever survived the first clash, but, gazing at this one, he wondered if Galdar was a military genius, and had anticipated every fallback.

Reaching for Maritia’s report, the emperor again read her final evaluation. Forgive me, but I must say that the battle plan is without flaw! As much as I do not trust Galdar, I must admire what he—it must be he, as I do not credit this Mina—has set on paper. I foresee a rout of the enemy if the plan is followed.

Though he of course believes that I am subservient to his orders, I await your words as to whether to implement Galdar’s plan.

Hotak rose. “Guard!”

One of the sentries entered. “My lord?”

“Is the messenger from my daughter still waiting in the hall?”

“Aye, my lord. He was told by her not to leave the palace without a return message.”

“I will have one momentarily.” Hotak snatched a striped quill from a squat inkwell and pulled free one of the sheets of light brown parchment he kept for his imperial decrees. With a quick flourish, he wrote a single word across most of the page.

Given.

Rolling it up, he took the signet with his symbol upon it then seized the nearest candle. Dribbling a little wax on the edge of the parchment, he pressed the signet down.

“Summon the messenger.” By the time the swarthy legionary Maritia had sent entered, the wax had cooled and the communiqué was sealed.

“My emperor!” the armored figure knelt at Hotak’s side.

“Rise. Return to your ship, and have the captain set sail for Sargonath immediately. You are to deliver this to my daughter as soon as possible. No delays, no side trips. Is that clear?”

“Aye, my emperor!” With a bow, the minotaur withdrew.

Hotak absently tapped his fingers on the map’s edge as he pondered all the great events about to unfold.

A knock came on the door.

“Enter!”

The same sentry entered and knelt, a small note held in one furry palm. The emperor took it, dismissed the soldier, and read.

With your permission.

Underneath, in barely legible letters: Jadar.

Hotak set the note to the candle flame and watched it burn to ash. He then turned, not to the door, but rather to the wall.

Hotak had long been aware of the fact that the palace was riddled with hidden passages. After General Rahm’s aborted attempt to assassinate him, the emperor had gone to great lengths to research the secret corridors and entrances. He knew where many were, but understood that others still evaded his detection.

Just behind a tall oak case built into the corner of the west wall, on the shelves there, he kept his important dispatches. By slipping one’s fingers below the second of the five shelves, the case could be swung open like a door, revealing a winding stone corridor descending into the earth. Only a handful knew about these hidden stairs, and their number did not include his beloved mate. There were some things the state needed to keep secret.

Taking the candle by the holder, Hotak proceeded down the narrow stairway. The stairs wound around several times before eventually ending in a short, moss-encrusted hall, at the end of which stood a tarnished brass door with a ringed handle. The spread wings of a condor had been etched into the metal.

The door squealed as Hotak tugged it open. A flickering light met his wary gaze. Outlined by the torch set in a niche in the far end of the damp room, a gaunt, graying legion officer wearing a red, five-sided badge at his shoulder stood patiently. Built into the ceiling above was a trap door identical in design to the main entrance. A rusting chain dangled from it, and attached to the chain was a ladder made from iron link.

“My lord,” the solemn officer whispered with a dip of his short horns.

“Jadar.” Hotak glanced down; a large bundle wrapped in a tarp lay at the minotaur’s feet. Jadar had somehow managed to lug the bundle through the hidden passages without being detected.

“You were investigating this Galdar. Have you—?”

“The renegade’s background still eludes me,” the legionary said in the same monotone whisper. “This I came across by sheer accident.” Moving methodically, Jadar bent down and pulled away the tarp. “Dead more than a week, I’d say.”

The sight and stench made the emperor’s nostrils flare.

Hotak knelt down and closely inspected the grisly trophy. Under the tarp lay the remains of a male minotaur, one just old enough to be granted his first posting. His garments had been removed—along with any clan markings. Judging by the swelling and the color, the corpse had obviously been fished out of the sea.

“Where did you find—it?”

“Half a day’s sail from the main port. Whoever killed him assumed that the weights they’d tied to his ankles would keep him underwater until it didn’t matter. The battering of the body, I must point out, is from the sea, not from any violence.”

Hotak studied the pale, purpled corpse. “Of what concern is this to the empire, Jadar? Murder is not uncommon hereabouts.”

“Agreed, my lord. Only the sharp eyes of a captain employed by me to keep an eye out for the unusual brought this incident to light.” Jadar knelt next to the body. He pointed at the throat, the chest, and the wrists. “Expert cuts, designed for torture to encourage blood flow. Done, I’d say, at various stages. I believe this unfortunate was drained of blood before he perished.”

“You say this as a tara’hsi?” the emperor asked, using an ancient High Ogre word.

Minotaurs rarely depended upon clerics for healing, as the lesser races usually did, but utilized those they referred to as menders. In every legion were those who specialized in such skills, drawing upon study and practice. True, many patients died, but the great menders learned from their mistakes.

Jadar was more than a mender. A First Hekturion by rank, he investigated suspicious deaths for the emperor. Such investigators were called tara’hsi, literally “Answerer of questions.”

Tara’hsi were respected and also feared.

“I prefer ‘explorer’ to that elder term, my lord,” came the quiet, almost toneless voice. Jadar’s eyes had depths that any veteran warrior would have recognized. Through the years, the officer had witnessed all variety of violence and death. He was hardened to bloodshed and the worst imaginable horrors.

“If I may?” asked Jadar, indicating the body. “You can see evidence that he was dead before entering the water. Signs of decay.…” He plucked a grub from within one ear of the corpse.

The emperor grew impatient. “You’ve still not said why you summoned me, indicating this was important.”

From his belt, the tara’hsi removed, not a dagger, but rather a long, thin, pointed rod. Several such instruments hung from Jadar’s belt, many with shapes designed for purposes the emperor did not understand—and had no desire to learn more about.

“See here.” Jadar prodded one of the wrist wounds. “If you were cutting a foe’s wrist in order to make him bleed to death, it would be a longer cut, wider, and along the vein. This one died with deliberate slowness. I can prove it other ways if you like—”

Shaking his head, Hotak rose. “Come to the point, hekturion.”

The gaze of the tara’hsi altered strangely as he looked up. “A ritual was performed. The death followed a design. Somebody desired his blood fresh. It has an almost … religious … aspect to it.”

The emperor’s expression hardened. “Are you accusing the temple of blood sacrifice?”

“I would need to know more before I accuse anyone—”

“You certainly would! This is outrageous foolery, Jadar! You presume too much! You border on a treacherous declaration!”

For the first time, the tara’hsi showed some emotion. Standing, he backed away from his emperor. “I make no such charges! I thought it important to inform you of this—”

Hotak kicked the tarp back over the body. “Dispose of this. Burn it. Return to the investigation of Galdar, and leave your wilder notions to drunkards and enemies of the state!”

“My lord, I am not implicating the priestess—”

A sudden rage filled Hotak, and he lunged at Jadar, striking him across the muzzle. The other minotaur fell back against the wall. He rubbed his right nostril, which dripped blood.

“Leave this matter behind. Is that understood?” the emperor asked calmly, his eyes burning with crimson.

Jadar nodded in silence.

Hotak left the chamber, trying hard to focus his thoughts. The tara’hsi had gone too far. He had been fortunate that Hotak had not accused him of treason and had him arrested and executed on the spot. Jadar imagined things, hideous things. The temple had its faults, but to accuse it of sinking to murderous depths.…

He shoved aside the oak case leading into the planning room, then deposited the candle on the table with such force that it nearly spilled over onto the map. Hands shaking, Hotak stared at the facsimile of the empire he ruled, the empire he was expanding.

The empire Nephera had helped him gain.

“Never!” he snapped, for despite his best efforts he found himself thinking of Jadar’s insinuations. “Never … not Nephera.…”

The slaves had scoured the camp for anything of use, be it food, garments, or weapons. The pickings were slim, but after they were done, Faros ordered the camp burned. He himself started the conflagration by putting a torch to the hut used by Sahd. He found he couldn’t sleep there, couldn’t stay inside for more than a few minutes after entering. Sahd’s domicile was creepy, filled with the sinister tools of torture, and more than a few souvenirs of his victims. The tales minotaurs told of him collecting skulls and bones were not far from the truth.

Sahd’s home stank even worse than the slave pens.

With grim satisfaction, he watched the rounded structure collapse as the flames devoured it. Tossing the torch into the swelling inferno, Faros went to Grom, who held his horse ready. The bulky steed had been Sahd’s, but seemed to almost welcome the change in masters. Sahd had often beat his horse, too.

The other buildings were also filling with flames.

“Give the signal to move out.”

Nodding, Grom mounted another of the captured horses. Valun, intent on shaping what looked to be a piece of ogre bone, put his little carving into a pouch and joined the minotaurs on foot.

Horns blared. Those who had mounts urged them forward while the rest trod along in the dust and dirt. The freed slaves left behind a huge pile of their broken chains. Several hundred strong, the minotaurs marched out of the still-burning camp.

As Faros rode amid them, eyes turned toward him worshipfully. The freed slaves stared at him as if he were Sargonnas himself. In truth, Faros certainly no longer resembled the minotaur he had been, a spoiled, soft youth from a noble family. He was lean and muscled. He wore a perpetual scowl and a stony expression on his scarred muzzle. His anger was always just beneath the surface, and he barely acknowledged others. His eyes always looked beyond people, gazing at unforeseen danger.

But as he rode under the poles Sahd had set up to instill fear in his charges, the minotaur glanced up at the new heads that held places of honor, and Faros almost smiled.

Flies clustering around it, the eyeless head of Sahd stared; his expression still resembled a macabre smile. Faros’s right hand tightened with a twinge of dread as he passed.

Ogre heads populated the other high poles, too. The heads of the executed slaves had been taken down by Grom and the others. Grom had prayed for Sargonnas to accept the dead into the ranks of heavenly warriors before setting their pathetic remains ablaze.

The heat beat down on the minotaurs as they journeyed, but life in Sahd’s kingdom had hardened them. A few fell by the wayside, but Grom insisted on aiding those who still breathed.

The second night away from the monstrous pens, they made camp in the shadows of a chain of tall, chill peaks. What food they had collected was shared. Even so, all knew that the meager supplies would not last for more than a few days; the water, even less.

Faros sent Valun and others to scout ahead. He left the organization of the camp to Grom, who seemed naturally adept at such matters. Faros camped alone on the edge of the main body, staring into the night. His hands absently shaped themselves as they might when holding a pick ax or shovel; ever since escaping, he had evinced this odd habit, which he couldn’t shake, after so many years of hard labor.

The clatter of horses’ hooves stirred him from his reverie. Valun and two scouts rode up as if the ghost of Sahd was close behind. Their ears were taut, their expressions anxious, as they leaped off their mounts.

Valun limped over to Faros, dipping his good horn and turning it to the side. “There’s a huge caravan moving slowly along toward the west, a half day from us. They look like they stem from the south. We may have to melt back into the mountains.”

“Are they armed?”

“They’ve an escort, probably a couple hundred strong. Clubs, swords, various weapons. Some are wearing breastplates and helmets, even flaunt shields, but most look like ordinary guards.”

Faros’s right hand curled reflexively, as if he held Sahd’s whip in his grip again. “What are they guarding?”

“I’d wager food. Weapons, too, good-quality ones, I’d say.” Valun started to add something then clamped his mouth shut.

But Faros noticed his hesitation. Staring down the other minotaur, he commanded, “Go on. Tell me all.”

“Faros, there were minotaur markings on the wagons … and two of our legion officers were riding alongside the ogre commander.”

Faros showed no outward emotion, though he seethed inside. They all remembered the empire had sold them to the ogres to finalize a military pact. To have evidence of that disgrace flaunted in their faces, here so far away from the realm.…

“Gather those with the strength and will to fight,” he abruptly ordered, turning his gaze away.

“But, Faros! Surely you—”

“Quickly, Valun!” Faros’s sharp tone brooked no disagreement.

“Aye.” Valun and the others hurried off to relay his command. Faros paid their shouting and commotion no mind. Heart racing, redness already beginning to color his eyes, he again gripped the imaginary whip and smelled ogre blood.

The pock-faced, round-jawed ogre chieftain given the responsibility of carting the supplies intended for the Grand Lord Golgren continued to contemplate ways of pilfering as much of it as possible before reaching his destination. There were rare foodstuffs; fine tools; and sharp, new weapons, which were highly valued by his kind. Let the pompous little creature with no tusks play at war; in the end, the chieftain cared more about his own riches.

He had not made any obvious moves yet. It had nothing to do with the two Uruv Suurt, who rode close to him when by all rights they should have been trotting several paces behind him … and in chains if Howgar had his way. No, Howgar’s hesitance had more to do with the Grand Lord himself. Despite his contempt for him, Howgar had heard what had happened to another chieftain who tried to outwit Golgren. That one’s ears decorated the entrance to the Grand Lord’s tent and his body was donated to the stomachs of several meredrakes … that, after several days of expert torture, naturally.

“We’re behind schedule,” sullenly muttered the minotaur to his left. Howgar had trouble telling the bull-creatures apart, but this one, he had noted, liked to polish his fancy new breastplate whenever he had a chance. The other—it was his main distinguishing feature—had a tendency to flare his nostrils whenever the wind blew, carrying Howgar’s naturally aromatic scent in his direction.

“Not much, not much,” the ogre replied in his best Common, which was not all that good, so that the minotaurs often looked at each other and scratched their heads when he deigned to speak to them.

“Any delay is too much,” returned the second minotaur, nostrils twitching.

They were behind schedule, because the chieftain was in no real hurry, as he struggled with the urge to steal from the supplies. This new type of war—where ogres of different tribes not only battled like blood brothers, but also did so with the help of the horned ones—rubbed against all his instincts and tradition.

“We’ll have to pick up the pace,” said the first minotaur officer to his comrade. Pushing his helmet back slightly, the officer straightened in the saddle and peered at the landscape. “Maybe if we skirt the mountains—what’s that over there?”

Howgar followed the widening gaze of the Uruv Suurt, expecting to see another mastark bull plodding along or even a racing amalok. The two outsiders seemed to be virtual tourists in Kern, gawking at everything and asking questions; they appeared to have known nothing beforehand of his homeland’s natural splendors.

But instead, the chieftain’s eyes also grew as wide, for out of a cleft in the mountain range was pouring a wild, determined horde of—how could it be?—Uruv Suurt. Howgar looked from one legionary to the other, expecting that they had led him into this baffling trap … and then realized the two were as stunned as he.

Surprise was more Faros’s advantage than the few daggers and rusting blades most of his followers wielded. Not only was the ogre escort lax, but seeing a band of screaming minotaurs charging out of the mountains toward the caravan obviously stunned them.

The ogres hurriedly grouped together to meet the attackers. They had bulk, strength, and height over the minotaurs, but the children of Sargonnas had been trained in warfare since birth.

Faros’s riders barreled as one into the center of the ogres’ main force. Two minotaurs went down, mortally stabbed, but several of the foes were trampled. An ogre screamed as a rider hurled a well-aimed dagger at his eye. Faros, in the lead, slashed with his blade and in his mind saw his past tormentors in the faces of those now arrayed against him. He cut through the neck of one huge ogre then kicked the flailing figure away.

Behind the minotaur riders came those on foot waving swords, clubs, spears, even stout sticks … all the larger, sturdier weapons that the minotaurs had scrounged from Sahd’s camp.

And while the ogres were distracted by the main attack, other minotaurs rushed them from an angle. These were armed with daggers and rocks—some with only their flailing fists—but they entered the battle with no less fervor than their armed comrades.

A lance stuck deep in his stomach, one ogre guard toppled off one of the big wagons. Another was roped around the throat from behind and yanked back, strangling as he fell. Minotaurs on foot grabbed at the other wagoners, dragging them to the ground.

But several minotaurs also fell dead, their heads crushed by heavy ogre blows or blades lodged in their chests. Seeing some of their fellows die, the other minotaurs redoubled their efforts. The caravan started to break apart as some teams attempted to escape. Faros pursued one such wagon, wounding the ogre at the reins. Undaunted, the driver leaped at him, the wagon careening. Briefly, the pair struggled atop his horse, before Faros caught the ogre under his meaty chin with the hilt of his sword. The tusked warrior hit the ground hard, falling on his head and snapping his neck.

“You there!” roared a voice in perfect Common. With fiery eyes, Faros turned to stare at one of his own race—a legionary in a shining breastplate. The armored officer looked the escaped slave contemptuously up and down, trying to make sense of him. “Are you mad? The emperor will have your head for this!”

“He’s already had my life,” murmured Faros, closing on the armored minotaur. The legionary quickly stabbed at him, but Faros managed to deflect his gleaming blade. “He’ll get no more.”

A quick jab forced the uniformed minotaur back, his scalp bleeding just below the rim of his upturned helmet. Snorting now in undisguised fury, the legionary threw off the helmet then attempted three swift, successive thrusts at Faros, trying to get under his guard.

The third attempt left a red scratch across Faros’s chest, but he was accustomed to wounds and paid it little mind. As the officer began a fresh attack, Faros slipped off his mount, coming at the side under his adversary. He drove more than half the length of his sword through the underside of the minotaur’s shoulder.

With a startled look, the legionary jerked away. His weapon dropped to his side, and he tipped in the saddle.

“Traitor—” he managed to gasp before falling. He landed in a grotesque heap, his heavy but meticulously shined armor pressed into the dusty earth.

Grinning, his breathing rapid, Faros looked around for another foe to fight, but the worst was nearly over. The ogres were divided into small groups, surrounded by the former slaves, who were systematically crushing their resistance. One ogre threw down his weapon and tried to surrender, but the same rage with which the minotaurs had dealt with their masters permitted no mercy now. A club-wielding female battered the kneeling ogre to a pulp, with others joining in the melee after she had her fill.

But the ogre chieftain proved far wilier than his ponderous look indicated. The first two minotaurs who had assaulted him received quick and deadly blade thrusts. A third who attempted to throttle him from behind had his arms seized, and then he was thrown over his head, crashing into several minotaurs.

Kicking his mount viciously in the sides, the chieftain was now racing away from the caravan, another ogre closely following.

More minotaurs suddenly leaped up from behind rocks as they passed, pelting the two riders with stones and sticks. At last the chieftain fell, struck soundly in the chest. The remaining ogre raced on, not in the least concerned about his lord’s life.

The minotaurs seized the stunned chieftain and bound him tightly. They dragged his struggling form back to Faros. Other minotaurs were stripping weapons and belongings from the bodies. Looting the corpses of ogres might have been dishonorable once, but not to those who had suffered under their yoke for so long.

Grom jumped out of the back of one wagon. “By the horns of Sargas! The warhorse is everywhere! Each barrel, sack, and crate! All carry the mark of Hotak! As though he owns everything in the empire and is equal to Sargonnas!”

“Take it all, everything,” returned Faros indifferently. The snarling voice of the ogre chieftain finally caught his attention.

“Foul Uruv Suurt! Traitorous cows!”

“Slit his throat so he stops barking,” someone suggested.

“Hold up,” called Faros. The ogre, his rusted breastplate decorated with ears—some minotaur ears, Faros noted—bared his ugly yellowed fangs as he stared down at his smaller minotaur captor.

Valun kicked the ogre’s legs out from under him, to general laughter. The chieftain fell to his knees with a grunt of pain. Valun then returned to his carving but got a nod from Faros.

“Face your superior from a lowly position,” another minotaur hissed.

The chieftain spat up at Faros.

Ignoring the gob that landed on his chest and was trickling down, Faros brought the tip of his blade to the captive’s throat. “Tell me about these supplies. Who were those two soldiers with you?”

“Soldiers, ha! Play games, yes?” rumbled the chieftain in coarse Common. “You know, thieving Uruv Suurt! Your emperor, he gives to the Grand Lord Golgren! You take these, you break the pact! Hurt only your own kind.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the officer Faros had slain and the other minotaur, who lay near the front of the caravan with his head bashed open by a club. “You slay your own bullmen! Your emperor, he will not like!”

“ ’Tis a terrible dishonor,” one of the minotaurs muttered aloud. “For this wretch and his kind we’re sold to slavery!”

Faros waved for general quiet. The ogre had said something that only now registered. “Who did you say these supplies were going to?”

“Golgren … the Grand Lord Golgren.”

The name affected the minotaurs like a plague. Faros clearly recalled the Grand Lord Golgren, just as many of the others did. His name had been often evoked during Faros’s incarceration. He represented an indistinct, faceless demon among the minotaurs, the bold diplomat who had forged his race’s unlikely pact with the minotaur nation, an evil, cunning leader who even Sahd feared.

“This shipment was valuable to the Grand Lord?”

With a foolhardy sneer, the chieftain replied, “Will kill you slowly for it, Uruv Suurt.” He turned his disdain toward the rest of his captors. “Will collect all your ears, your skins—”

His foul words came to an abrupt end … as did his breathing. The point of Faros’s sword extended through the back of his neck.

Pulling the blade free, Faros let the chieftain’s body collapse.

“Dispose of this garbage,” he said. Turning back to the wagons, Faros commanded, “Load everything of value, and let’s get far away from here.”

“What about these?” Grom asked in a low voice, indicating the dead legionaries.

“They ride with ogres, they share their fates. Put the bodies where the carrion crows can eat their fill.” He wiped off his blade.

“I will see to our own dead,” Grom volunteered.

Faros shrugged, having expected that of his religious-minded subordinate. Inevitably there would be a pyre and more prayers to Sargonnas; Faros himself wanted no part of it.

As Grom went to deal with these matters, Valun came up. “This will make this Grand Lord Golgren furious; he’ll try to track us down.”

Faros nodded, his gaze drifting off to another time, another place—the flames eating at his family villa, the assassins watching with glee. Inside the burning structure, the dead faces of his family stared at him, especially his father, Gradic.

And as Faros pictured the smoke rising from his ruined home, it took on the shape and appearance of a black, rearing stallion.

“He and others will want to hunt us down,” Faros finally replied to the patient Valun. His hand twisted, once more wielding the imaginary whip. “Others, especially.”

There were few things that unnerved Ardnor. In his role as First Master, Ardnor wielded much power. The dark-clad Protectors watched over the safety of the high priestess, his mother, the empress Nephera. They had little intercourse with outsiders, and even those not of the faith knew of him and were intimidated.

Yet, with so many obedient to his whim, with power that, truthfully, was second only to that of his parents—and, grudgingly, Bastion—Ardnor now anxiously entered this chamber …

The chamber where his mother, Lady Nephera, awaited him this night.

The gilded black breastplate he wore, and the matching helm carried in the crook of his arm, gave him little genuine protection, he felt as he entered her meditation chamber. No matter how confident he was, no matter how powerful, his might would always be nothing compared to hers. He had ambitious, reckless impulses, which they both knew were held in check by the omnipresent threat of the dark magic she could summon.

In truth, he had acted recklessly of late, pushing the Protectors into imperial matters more than the high priestess wished. That was why Ardnor approached the robed figure of his mother with some trepidation, though he guarded his expression.

“You summoned. I’ve come, Mother.”

“And a bit tardy, as usual,” she replied almost casually. “But I planned accordingly and thus summoned you early.”

He tipped his horns low to acknowledge her superiority. Ardnor eyed the room, noting that a ritual of some sort was being prepared. Two attendants garbed in ebony robes similar to his mother’s flanked a long, wide marble platform, which his own attachment of Protectors had recently erected in the chamber. Already the platform appeared stained, though he could not see anything very clearly. As usual, there were many shadows, many patches of darkness. Only a few torches illuminated the chamber, and the shadows of the acolytes danced on the walls.

The doors had been shut after Ardnor entered, and now the First Master of the Protectors found himself wondering why. Something in the empty gazes of the acolytes caused him to warily glance at the platform … the empty marble altar.

The First Master forced unsettling thoughts from his mind. He turned his gaze back to his mother. Like Hotak, Ardnor had noted the odd changes in her as she had delved deeper into the mysterious forces that channeled her power. Her sunken eyes, her strange gauntness … did her ghosts look as unearthly as their priestess? “What would you have of me, Mother?”

“You have served the temple with utter dedication, served without hesitation the cause of the one who grants us gifts of which few mortals even dream.” She gazed reverently at the symbols on the wall. “It has been decided that you are to be rewarded.”

“Rewarded?” Ardnor had often asked to be taken into his mother’s confidence, to learn more about her dark magic, but so far he had acquired only a few minor tricks. The true authority still rested in the hands of his mother, and his mother alone.

In response, Nephera extended a thin, pale hand toward the platform. “Please lie down.”

“There?” Without realizing it, the First Master shuffled back, not forward.

Her expression immediately grew stern. “Do as I say, my son. Fear is unbecoming.”

Ardnor could not turn his gaze from hers. Her piercing black eyes filled his view, drew him inexorably forward. Slowly the massive warrior moved toward the marble altar—by his own choice or owing to her sway, Ardnor could truly not say. Moments later he stood before the long marble altar. Only then did her gaze relent.

Only then did he notice the faint crimson tinge to the stains that spread over the top.

“Lie down, Ardnor.”

Despite his forebodings, he could not disobey. Wordlessly he set his helmet down and arranged himself on top of the altar.

Nephera and her attendants stepped up beside him. He eyed his mother anxiously, but hesitated to say anything.

She raised her hands, and suddenly the torches seemed to lose all but the faintest glimmer. The temperature in the chamber, already cool, now grew so chill that Ardnor’s breathing came out in puffs. He also noted the frosted breath emitted by the two acolytes, but, oddly, from the high priestess there came nothing.

Then Lady Nephera began uttering words in a sonorous tongue he had never heard before. She and the others seemed to waver and recede away from Ardnor. A darkness enveloped him.

Voices from every direction began whispering.

“You, too, shall command legions of willing flesh,” Nephera said to her son. “See now what I command and marvel at it.”

And the chamber filled—literally filled, crowded from floor to ceiling—with the myriad dread shades of the dead.

Everywhere Ardnor’s startled eyes looked, he saw the faces, the hungry, hollow … and obedient … spectral faces. There were those who were simply pale and translucent, like something out of a bad dream. There were many others marred terribly by sickness or injury, the signs of their deaths forever imbued in them. Ardnor saw that thousands had crowded into the meditation room, endlessly milling about, passing through one another. Yet he also understood that this throng represented only a minute fraction of the undead at the high priestess’s command.

“This is the true empire,” Nephera continued, her gaze wide and triumphant. “This is the empire of the dead and we are its masters.”

As his eyes passed over the great crowd, Ardnor recognized a few of the shadows. Rivals of his family, enemies of his mother. Even—

He turned his head away quickly, not able to stand looking at the one who eyed him most fervently.

“Hush, my son,” the high priestess whispered, stroking his muzzle. “Your brother is quiet, he only watches.”

Then, beyond the ghosts, Ardnor felt another presence, one that overwhelmed him. It was as though he had been swallowed whole. This presence was infinite, all-powerful, and the source of everything imaginable.

His mother’s hand passed over his eyes, interrupting his gaze. When her hand was removed, he saw again only the darkness of the muted torches and the shadowed forms of the three females.

No. Now there was a fourth form. It was hazy and clad in a cloak like those often worn by explorers. The cloak was large but ragged, and the stench of sea rot rose to clog Ardnor’s nostrils.

From within the hood, a white, decaying muzzle thrust out.

The chill grew stronger.

“Takyr will be your guide for this appointed journey,” Nephera announced, almost matter-of-factly.

Takyr … his mother had often mentioned this particular specter’s name, but Ardnor had never been allowed to witness the creature before now. He was jealous of Takyr, in fact, for this ghost served his mother as no other could, seeming able to oblige her bidding no matter what, no matter where he was needed.

A bone-shivering chuckle resounded in his head, and he realized that the foul ghost knew what he was thinking. Takyr extended a bony hand, absent a couple of fingers, and waited.

“Accept his grasp, my son.”

Determined not to give the shade any additional amusement, Ardnor defiantly reached for the ghoulish appendage.

But it was not quite his own hand that clasped Takyr’s withered one. His physical limb still lay limp upon the marble; only a hand as phantom as that of the ghost’s stretched forth.

And before Ardnor could digest this horrific turn of events, Takyr pulled him up alongside him.

Then it felt as though someone had peeled away his skin. A wild shiver ran through Ardnor, and he felt a sense of loss akin to nothing ever before experienced. The First Master stared down at his own body, the prone figure with his eyes, unblinking.

“It is done,” proudly announced Lady Nephera, with her chest heaving. She gazed up into the darkness, adding, “We give thanks for your guidance.”

The attending ghosts shivered and moaned in fear. Ardnor felt the renewed presence of the dark force he had noted earlier. He tried to pull his hand free and return to the comforts of mortal flesh.

Nephera waved her hand, and Ardnor stilled. To her son, she said, “No, you are not dead, Ardnor. Your devotion and strength would be useless to me, to that which we serve, were you not flesh. This is an honor, not some imagined punishment. I asked that you be made privy to the true power of the temple, and that has at last been granted. But now you must prove yourself.”

The many ghosts neared, cloistered around him, eyeing Ardnor as though he were a haunch of roasted goat. They were clearly envious of the life he still contained, envious … and hungry for it.

“Away with you!” he snarled at the nearest of the undead.

To his satisfaction, they scattered. For good effect, he bellowed at them then laughed as they edged farther back.

So much … angry energy … commented an amused voice.

Takyr was staring at him, but the tone of his voice could not be read in his blank face. Ardnor snorted, but the ghost said nothing further.

“Hear me, Ardnor,” Lady Nephera whispered, her gaze fixed not on his spirit form but rather on the limp body on the marble altar. “You are being granted something that no other mortal creature has experienced. Now, to show your worthiness, you must perform a meritorious task. I have, from a list gathered, one who threatens the good work of the temple. He must be … removed, my son.”

She could have just as well asked her pet ghost to do it, and Ardnor knew that. What difference would it make if he was the doer?

“Ask not,” his mother replied to his body, as if hearing his thoughts. “Takyr will guide you, and you will know your role as the time approaches.”

He looked at his macabre companion, expecting some tacit communication, but instead a horrific sight met his eyes.

Takyr was melting, literally melting. The phantom’s unearthly form became as quicksilver. Ardnor gaped at the sight—and then suddenly, the liquid haze that was Takyr began to flow into his open mouth. Ardnor sought to clamp his muzzle shut, but nothing would keep the foul substance from pouring down his gullet.

As the last of Takyr’s essence entered his spirit form, Nephera’s son felt a heavy change come over him. His awareness of the realm of the dead was suddenly heightened. Ardnor learned and understood how his mother drew her power from them, and how they channeled the primal forces. In turn, he saw how he could draw power from them, using them as she did as an endless source of energy.

A greedy, aching hunger enveloped him all of a sudden, and Ardnor found himself staring at the throng, wondering which of them had the most sustenance to offer. The ghosts, in turn, pressed away from the First Master in horror, understanding instinctively what he desired and fearing its consequences.

With deliberation, he reached out among them, and though his hand came nowhere near the shade he had spotted, Ardnor felt fresh energy flow into him. The designated specter, a narrow, flaxen-maned elder female pleaded silently with him to halt his actions, but Ardnor ignored her pleas, instead savoring all of her undead power, absorbing her as he would the finest of meals.

The ghost’s flickering form shriveled. She twisted and turned and folded in on herself, her dead face contorting almost ludicrously as she was forced to surrender all of her energy.

By the time the exchange was done, the elder female had dwindled to an emaciated shadow barely visible among the other dead. No sooner did Ardnor cease his foul feeding, than she quickly melted into the undead throng, vanishing among the others; if she still existed at all, he did not know or care.

Filled with a glorious feeling, Ardnor thought he could command the world with such power. He sensed Takyr somewhere in the back of his mind, but was no longer concerned about the ghoul’s invasive presence. Ardnor feared nothing and no one. He felt as near to being a god as any mortal could be.

“Restrain your enthusiasm,” the high priestess chided, eyeing him in the way she had when, as a small child, Ardnor had done some mischief. Such was the aura of Lady Nephera that her son reacted as he did as a boy, growing silent and bowing his head.

She nodded approval then added calmly, “Your task still awaits you. I expect you to do your best, my son.”

And suddenly Ardnor found himself floating high in the night sky. Stunned, he surveyed the world below. All of Nethosak lay there, spread out in a torch-lit panorama such as he had never dreamed. From the harbor in the southwest, to the wooded lands to the north, the capital was glorious. He saw the perpetual brightness of the shipyards and the smithies, where, day and night, workers toiled on the weapons and vessels his father had ordered for the imperium’s expansion. He noted hurrying tiny figures, appearing momentarily in light, then vanished in the dark of shadows. Whether striking anvils or driving nails into a planks, the minotaurs’ steady work beat thrummed in his ears.

He spotted the glowing palace. A light shone in the chamber Ardnor knew to be the personal quarters of his father. He leaned that way, bemusedly thinking of spying on the great Hotak.

To the north … insisted a voice in his head. House Leot …

Leot? Ardnor knew that clan. They were noted physically by the tufted beards they grew under their muzzles, a rare vanity among minotaurs. Yet, Leot was a House aligned with his father, and the blood of that clan flowed in Ardnor’s own veins, on his mother’s side. Why would he seek any target at House Leot?

Ardnor’s location abruptly shifted. Once again he was floating in the night sky, only now, below him, he could see the towering, upraised claw of heavy stone that marked the distinctive portal of the home of Leot’s patriarch—the clan’s base of power. Ardnor surveyed the high, pointed battlements, noticing the disciplined guards with their striped, tailed helmets. An imposing wall surrounded the grounds, dotted with sentries.

Ardnor felt a sudden urge to alight upon the third of the five floors, and as he did, he found himself floating through the black, stone interior walls into the torch-lit chamber beyond.

Ardnor expected to find the clan patriarch there, and he did. Young for one of his clan status, Herek Es-Leot wore three small tufts of pale brown fur under his chin. He had a weak, receding jaw but attentive, almond-shaped eyes that shone with strength. The patriarch stood with seven others, listening to an eighth figure not dressed in the rich purple-and-gray robes of the clan.

The outsider was a powerfully built figure wearing the green- and white-striped kilt of a marine fighter. He wore a cloak of similar markings and a helmet with a long bronze crest shaped like the armored back of a sea dragon. A wide, well-honed broadsword hung on his right side. Dark of fur with small patches of white here and there, he had eye patches and a broad muzzle that reminded Ardnor of his father. His words were accompanied by broad gestures, and he leaned forcefully into his rapt audience.

Ardnor knew this one well. It was General Kobo de-Morgayn, the Dragon of Duma, whose marine fighters had decimated the rebels near Duma with such a lack of mercy that it had stunned even the emperor. A heavily decorated veteran, he wore the prized red sunburst medallion on a golden chain around his thick neck.

This could not be Ardnor’s intended victim … could it?

Suddenly he saw there were ghosts in attendance who had followed or preceded him there. One or two stood by each of the group, listening, memorizing. A hunched-over male ghost with deep, vicious ax cuts all over his torn body stood closest to the general, hearing his words with what remained of his ruined ears.

Go to him, came Takyr’s rasping voice. And hear.…

Ardnor drifted up next to the unsuspecting Kobo. At the moment, the general was regaling his audience with the story of his victory at Duma, reflecting upon the enemy’s unenviable predicament.

“Trapped in a coral cove, their ships would be dashed to pieces if they retreated, their doom rested in our hands if they stayed! I tell you.…”

Ardnor did not listen to the rest, for he had been directed to speak to the ghost.

“Tell me,” the emperor’s first-born commanded the ghost attending Kobo. “But only what I want to hear.”

And the ghost did, repeating word for word everything he had stored up. His voice was out of sync with the workings of his jaw.

“Protectors have spread through the ranks, trying to convert the fighters! Had them whipped and locked up. Rampant in three colonies. Forerunners with a hidden agenda. ’Tis almost growing as bad as the worst days of the old temple of Sargas, I’d say.…”

The monotonic voice droned on, revealing that General Kobo had many, many run-ins in the past with the Forerunners.

Ardnor had heard enough. He stilled the ghost’s recitation with a sharp glance, then reached for the back of Kobo, thinking that with his hand he could simply reach in and pluck out the officer’s beating heart. Surely that was what his mother intended.

But the second his ethereal fingertips grazed the general’s body … Ardnor felt Takyr urge him to move forward.

As easily as he could slip on a robe, the First Master found himself now donning the form of General Kobo.

He blinked and realized what he had done when the other guests gaped at him.

“Are you all right, general?” asked the patriarch solicitously.

What now? His mother had told him to do his best, but what Ardnor did best was—

The impulse came to him. He sought Kobo’s sword.

One of the other minotaurs dropped a goblet. “General! What are you—”

With a sneer, Ardnor drove the sword point deep into the other’s shoulder. He turned to the patriarch, who had immediately backed away. Unlike some others, Herek carried no weapon.

“Kobo, have you gone mad?” Herek demanded. “Guards! Guards!”

“Call them!” roared Ardnor in Kobo’s voice, enjoying himself immensely. “By the time they reach me, you’ll be shredded to fish bait!”

But another impulse came to him. Instead of leaping at the patriarch, Ardnor purposely slowed his movements, waiting to see what the others would do. Suddenly, two minotaurs placed themselves between him and his supposed victim. “Stand down, general! You are ill, or mad! You are acting without reason—”

“He’s a friend to the throne and that’s all the reason I require!” There, he had condemned Kobo with clever words.

One of the pair swung a hand ax, the blade coming within an inch of Ardnor’s host body. Ardnor deflected the blow easily then countered with several jabs. He stabbed at the pair, making it look as though he were trying to break through to Herek.

The patriarch continued to shout for guards. The oak door burst off its hinges as four huge, helmed figures barreled in.

Ardnor turned from his two adversaries, catching the first of the guards above his breastplate. It proved a fatal blow.

And as the guard fell, Ardnor’s bloodlust surged and grew. Now he grinned at the other sentries as they slowly surrounded him.

Lose … Takyr was telling him.

It went against his nature, of course, but Ardnor did as he was told. He left himself open, practically offering himself to the fools.

A guard took the bait. His ax sank into the flesh of Kobo.

Ardnor expected pain, and he was not disappointed. However, another sensation, a great thrill, filled him. Kobo’s body would be slain, but he, Ardnor, was untouchable. He felt giddy with this realization.

With a mocking roar, he stretched out his arms and let his enemies rush at him. A sword pierced his torso under the left limb. A full battle-ax buried itself in his chest, ripping through armor and bone. He swung his blade one last time in the general direction of the astounded Herek, savoring the blood—Kobo’s blood—filling his mouth as the wounds took their toll.

At last, his host body could stand no more. Ardnor felt a force pull him back, as the general slumped to his knees, wracked by spasms. The First Master’s spirit slipped away, watching with fascination as the marine officer breathed his last.

“L-Lord Herek?” Kobo gasped, in a weak, confused tone.

A guard looming behind him finished his life with one hard chop of the ax.

Lady Nephera sat quietly on a bench in the meditation chamber, her endless legions of servants silently surrounding her to await her bidding. She again read the list she had recently compiled of those too closely associated with General Kobo de-Morgayn. Already eyes had been sent to spy upon the majority.

A groan arose from the far end of the room, where her two mortal acolytes attended her son’s motionless form. The high priestess immediately set aside the parchment and rose.

With an abrupt start, Ardnor sat up. His eyes stared ahead for a moment; then he blinked. His hands ran over his torso, as if he wished to verify that this was his own solid flesh again.

“The deed is done,” Lady Nephera announced. “And I am told you did well, that you have learned and acted well, my son.”

“It was—” Ardnor’s voice came out as a croak. One of the priestesses quickly gave him a goblet of wine. The First Master downed it with one swallow. “It was incredible.”

“It is only the first taste of the future,” his mother reminded him. “Forget the throne. This is your destiny.”

“Incredible,” he repeated, a smile spreading over his face.

She nodded her understanding at his awe. “The ghosts, they lack the power to do what you have done. Even Takyr, he can guide a hand to a blade, but your living will and determination were needed to make this happen. The Great One is pleased.”

“Will I be able to do it again soon?”

Nephera bowed her head. “As will be needed. You left Herek untouched?”

“Yes. Wounded a couple of others, slew one guard.”

“Of no consequence,” she waved off any concern. “The Dragon of Duma has been dishonored. Those who listened to his blasphemous suggestions will now disassociate themselves from his memory.” Lowering her hands, Nephera added, “Now get some rest. You’ll want to be your best when you stand with your father at the ceremony.”

Ardnor had started to reach for his helmet. He froze. “You know about that?”

She simply looked at him.

Snorting at his own stupidity, Ardnor put on his helm, bowed to the high priestess, and departed.

Left only with her two attendants, Lady Nephera gazed once more around the chamber, seeing what no one could see without her aid. Her ghostly ranks multiplied by the minute, adding to her strength.

Then with utter satisfaction, she welcomed the latest addition, who stared at her with the same hungering eyes as the rest, but otherwise wore a fresh, bitter expression.

The high priestess bared her teeth in a smile then returned to her lists.

The tall, black marble structure lay only a day or two from the western edge of Kern. Once it had been the abode of a powerful member of the High Ogre race, and among the fallen descendants, it was muttered that magic of a strange and powerful sort still pervaded the edifice. The rounded turrets were reminiscent of Garantha, but there any similarities ended. A narrow, saw-toothed wall matching the marble of the building surrounded the tower, a wall perfectly intact despite the ages. An iron gate etched with a symbol remarkably similar to the flying condor of Sargonnas was the only way through to the building.

Only two arched windows exposed the interior to the light of day, and these loomed near the top. Over the twin, framed doors, also iron, a stone ledge thrust out, upon which perched a dark but extremely realistic effigy of a dragon. The dragon’s expression was a curious one even to the ogres now encamped in and around the ancient building, for it appeared pained, almost distraught, as the effigy stared out toward the distant, rich lands of the other races.

Today the Grand Lord Golgren, too, stared out toward those far realms, but for once, his mind was not on them. A situation had arisen that upset his carefully crafted plans, disturbing him.

Handlers atop gargantuan mastarks were herding several of the beasts to pasture. Smoke rose from scores of campfires, where hundreds of ogres continued their preparations for war. Rough-hewn goatskin tents dotted the rolling landscape. Golgren saw two warriors struggling with a protesting amalok, who kicked one of the ogres to the ground before the other could pull him down by his reins. The amalok’s horns came close to skewering his other overseer, but at last the tempestuous beast quieted.

Golgren turned away from the outside, the camp, and the far realms. Torches lit each corner of the lowest level of the tower and those torches illuminated every wall—ghostly friezes from another time, another place. As with all the olden art of the High Ogres, the figures were beautiful, perfect, and lifelike. Most were sculpted in profile, revealing the smooth curves of their noses and chins. The garments they wore and the landscapes they posed in were identical to the ones in Garantha.

Yet, here, in this place, there was a difference, one that had captivated Golgren the first time he had inspected the pieces. The expression of these figures was startlingly unique—different from any of those in Garantha or anywhere in Kern.

There was no happiness in their faces. No matter what it was that they were doing, the figures in the reliefs wore mournful or downcast faces. A few revealed loss, even fear. Not one image gave the slightest intimation of hope. It made their every activity, every posture, appear insignificant, even tawdry. The starkness of the figures repelled most of the Grand Lord’s minions, and they found reason to wish themselves elsewhere.

It made the tower a most appropriate place for Golgren to dwell, and for the insidious task he was now overseeing.

As the ogre sipped some of the last of the briarberry wine he had brought back with him from the empire of the Uruv Suurt, he imagined himself back among his wondrous ancestors of ages past, conversing politely and knowledgeably with the brightest of them. Perhaps he would have a deep discussion with the artist who had created these images, and thus ask him what they truly portended.

Golgren felt certain he would blend in with august forebears. He smoothed back his dark mane and struck a pose akin to that of his favored relief, where a majestic, robed figure gave a speech before an applauding audience. Whatever the speech-maker was telling his audience—and such was the brilliance of this particular relief—it was making him weep to say it.

A scream snapped his musing.

With regret, he returned to the subject at hand. Around what had once been some venerable lord’s stone dining table, three particularly monstrous ogres were busily engaged. One had the bulky, broad shape of an ogre from Blöde; the others were two who had served Golgren for a long, long time in this particular capacity. Near to the trio, watching avidly, stood Belgroch.

Another scream resounded in the empty tower. Bound atop the table by thorny mavau strands was an ogre warrior seized by Golgren’s scouts only a day before the Grand Lord’s arrival from the capital. The scouts had recognized the hapless victim as one of those sent to bring the precious supply caravan promised by Hotak. They had literally dragged him back from the village in which he had been cowering, torturing him just enough to keep him alive for questioning.

The tale that they had so far extracted from him had bewildered them all. It must be sheer fantasy. He claimed that Uruv Suurt by the hundreds had come screaming out of the mountains, slaughtering the ogre escort and overcoming the supply caravan in mere minutes, even the two of their own kind, the imperial minotaurs who accompanied the caravan. Only by chance—or cowardice, Golgren thought—had this survivor escaped.

Knowing how Golgren would react, the warrior had been right to try to hide away, however pathetic and doomed his attempt. Golgren awaited, needed badly, the supplies of that caravan.

“Tell again,” he commanded in Common, the wine goblet still held close to his mouth. His lips twitched where the nubs of his filed tusks remained. “Tell again about the many Uruv Suurt.”

To encourage the hapless prisoner, one of the torturers took a white substance from a small pouch. Leaning over the other ogre, he chose one of the many dozen deep cuts decorating the victim and drizzled the powder over certain of the worst wounds.

The figure on the table shrieked in a very undignified fashion. The thorns of the mavau rope dug into his wrists and ankles as he struggled, sending droplets of blood spraying all over the floor and his torturers. A vinelike, malevolent trap plant noted for its diet of insects and small lizards, the mavau was transformed into a tough, almost unbreakable rope when it dried. The ogres liked to keep its thorns for torture purposes. Through the generations, the bestial race had perfected many simple but effective ways of inflicting horrific pain.

After some whimpering, the prisoner barked out an obscure fragmented reply. Uruv Suurt pouring from the mountains. Not thousands, but at least hundreds. Not armored, not even particularly well armed, a fact that briefly drew Golgren’s notice.

But the Grand Lord was not yet satisfied. Ogres were fanciful liars, especially when tortured. The victim might say anything if he thought it would relieve his agony.

“Ki jera i Sargor Jeka,” he ordered.

“i Sargor Jeka?” asked Belgroch with mild surprise. “Sargor Jeka d’i f’han, i’Golgreni.”

“Sargor Jeka.…” The Grand Lord sipped his wine.

One of the torturers stepped outside, returning a moment later with a huge, hooded avian creature perched on one arm. The bird was identical to the creature in the palace of the Grand Khan, only a larger example of the species. Its deadly, hooked beak opened and closed constantly, a thick tongue darting out. Up close, its plumage looked a deep, deep crimson, almost the color of blood. The fiery crest atop the bird looked like an explosion of molten earth.

The ogres called the bird Sargor Jeka—That Which Is the Winged Blood of Sargonnas. Other races called it the fire bird, the Sargas hawk, and other names. No one but the ogres would have ever dared to attempt to keep the ferocious predators in captivity.

No one but the ogres used the species for ripping the truth from their prisoners.

The dire bird stirred as its handler brought it nearer to the bound figure. Its wings spread, revealing feathers with hooks at their ends. It squawked eagerly, and if not for the leather tether around its wicked, taloned feet, it might have leaped into the air.

The handler looked to Golgren.

The Grand Lord nodded.

One of the ogres took a different powder, a coarse, deep brown substance that he slathered over several of the prisoner’s cuts. The half-delirious ogre guard moaned slightly, but clearly he was too far gone, and the powder could no longer bother him much.

Then the handler took the hood off the bird.

The Sargas hawk beat its wings, straining to reach the bound ogre. It shrieked and protested when it could not, scratching and clawing at its handler … who then released the savage avian beast.

The bird eagerly pounced on the prisoner. The ogre registered its presence, notorious throughout the realm, and cried out. The Sargas hawk buried its beak in one ripe wound, tearing away flesh and sinew as if seeking some hidden prize.

“Ki ya i Uruv Suurt ib h’rkara?” asked Belgroch of the victim.

Fresh words started to pour out of the stricken ogre. He shouted, writhed, twisted, but the Sargas hawk maintained its firm hold by digging deep with its needlelike talons, gouging the already-ravaged flesh.

Golgren listened intently. He listened again to the tale, hearing subtle changes, truthful changes. Thanks to the Sargas hawk he now had a far better idea of what had happened.

From wound to wound the bird moved, feasting. The brown powder evoked the scent of the predator’s favored prey, the baraki. Sargas hawks especially liked the reptile’s fleshy head, which they cracked open after the kill with the aid of their hard, horny beaks. So fond were they of the baraki that the powder sent them into a frenzy. In the case of the present victim, that frenzy might have lasted hours … though the ogre would certainly be dead long before the feasting was done.

But Golgren had heard enough. The prisoner had provided a good description of the attackers. Ragged kilts. Scarred bodies. Weapons ranging from rusted swords and makeshift spears to mere rocks and even empty fists. Some rode thick, sturdy ogre horses, but most marched on foot. A motley group, indeed.

“Ah ke!” he snapped finally. “Ah ke!”

But alas, his order came too late. The bound ogre gave a terrible shiver then grew still. The Sargas hawk continued its grotesque feeding, flinging gobbets of flesh around, and chipping away at bone, until the handler and another seized its bloody beak and again covered its eyes.

Belgroch approached the Grand Lord. After a glance at the other ogres, he said in stilted Common, “These Uruv Suurt … strange … sound like slaves, friend Golgren, yes?”

“Like slaves, yes.” The well-groomed Grand Lord handed his empty goblet to an underling. “Surprising, but a small matter, then. One easily rectified.”

The heavyset ogre visibly struggled with the last word, separating its meaning from the rest. His excessively thick brow scrunched together. “Ignore, then?”

“No … no.” Golgren stepped to where the handlers struggled. He scratched the Sargas hawk on the back, murmuring to it in his native tongue. The bird quieted, even swiveled its head so that Golgren could stroke its crest. “These slaves must die, of course. Dagrum of the Tribe That Is Stronger than Mastarks wishes to prove loyalty to me. Send him to hunt Uruv Suurt.”

“And the supplies? Friend Golgren, the supplies cost us—”

“A message must be sent to the Uruv Suurt, to the one who leads them here.” Golgren would not mention Lady Maritia by name or sex. “It must be explained that more supplies are needed and why.” His gaze became calculating. “Yesss … it must be told why, I think. These, they are not much concern to me, but our good friend Hotak.…” Golgren chuckled. “He would not like this development, no.…”

The shipyards of the empire were toiling as never before in the history of the imperium. Day and night, facilities on Mito, on Kothas, and on all the other available islands had remained busy. Workers completed their shifts, returned home to sleep, and then commenced once again with their Herculean enterprise. There was no major shipyard in the entire empire that had not met its goal.

But of them all, Nethosak reigned supreme. Never had so many new vessels been completed, with revolutionary designs and a secret purpose.

And now, to honor the greatest of the shipyards and that which had been built, the emperor and his eldest son, in a rare show of unity, came together to launch not one warship … but the remarkable, unprecedented number of twenty-five.

Symbolic of the great event was the flagship Stormbringer. She stood half again as tall at the rail as any other ship ever built—a goliath among giants, a sea-borne leviathan.

Ironically, the Stormbringer was originated by the late Chot’s ship designers, and its prototype had already been partially assembled at the time of the coup. However, Hotak’s own naval engineers had added a more maneuverable keel and adjusted the design and angle of the sails to better catch the wind. The warship sported both a larger catapult located at the aft, and a tightly wound ballista situated near the bow. The huge vessel carried twice the usual complement of crew and marine fighters.

The warhorse banner flew high over the topmast of the proud ship, with the slightly smaller green and white sea dragon flag of the fleet draped a few feet below. There were three titanic masts in all. Despite its enormous dimensions, the front edge of the Stormbringer was cut narrower than most ships, enabling swifter speed. The assembled crew and crowds marveled at the ship. No race, not even humans, could claim such ingenuity. Surely the sea and ocean belonged to the minotaur race.

Out beyond the flagship, the other new vessels of the great minotaur armada awaited their christening. Lined up to the east, facing other lands awaiting conquest, the twenty-four sisters of the Stormbringer were anchored like sentries guarding the imperium, their sails set for voyaging despite the fearsome wind.

As Hotak and Ardnor arrived, both clad in glittering breastplates and long, midnight purple cloaks, the sky shook with thunder, and lightning flashed over the sea.

A column of stiff, determined legionaries rode behind the emperor and his son, with the alternating ranks carrying high the warhorse banner for all to cheer. Crowds had begun to gather since before dawn; this occasion would be recalled for years to come. Long streamers of crimson and black had been handed out by the order of the Supreme Circle, all of whom were in attendance—it was mandatory—for the occasion. Gaunt, gray Lothan, leader of the administrative body, rose when the pair neared the stand next to the huge framework holding the Stormbringer, bowing his horns to both.

A line of legionaries flanking the wide, wooden pathway to the area raised their weapons in salute, shouting in the old tongue, “Hri Dirac Una! Hri Jesek Una! Hri Dirac Una!”

Several in the crowd who knew only the Common tongue repeated the litany that had been passed down to the minotaur race from the reign of Makel Ogrebane. “Hail the Ax of the People! Hail the Sword of the People! Hail the Ax of the People!”

Hotak acknowledged the cries with waves. The sidewalks and wooden walkways in the shipyard were filled to capacity. Much of the rest of Nethosak was deserted this day

“Magnificent!” Hotak uttered as they dismounted. “Simply magnificent!” Even Ardnor nodded in open admiration. No true minotaur could not be stirred by the vision.

The horns called all to attention as Hotak neared the stand where several dignitaries awaited him. The crowd cheered again; the emperor waved. Soldiers arranged beneath the stand beat on large, set copper drums.

Hotak and Ardnor stepped up to the platform. On the edge facing the harbor, the bow of the Stormbringer rested within arm’s reach. As he ascended, the emperor nodded to five brawny minotaurs standing ready below the sides of the flagship. All hefted huge, blunt mallets, and stood next to the removable wooden braces presently keeping the warship from slipping into the water.

Horns blared the moment Hotak and his son reached the top of the platform. Lothan and the rest kept their horns low and to the side as the two passed. The dignitaries sat on long, curved benches, but near the Stormbringer herself had been set two plush, red oak chairs with black seats and high backs with the rearing warhorse symbol.

But neither Hotak nor Ardnor seated himself. With Hotak’s arrival, the ceremony began. It was time for the launching, not only of the new fleet, but also of the future of the minotaur race.

With exaggerated movements, Hotak turned to a group at the forefront of the crowd. Wearing smocks covered in wood dust, tar, and worse, these minotaurs had built not only the Stormbringer, but also her sisters. They raised saws, hammers, axes, horsehair brushes—the tools of their various trades—to their chests. Their ruler had asked of them something impossible, and yet they had accomplished it. Some bore scars, others missed fingers or even limbs. A few had died in accidents, too. Yet, despite all adversity, they had fulfilled their duty to the empire.

Near where Hotak and Ardnor stood, another minotaur in a smock was busy keeping a large brass cauldron heated. The tip of a glowing brand lay buried among the bright orange coals within.

In the days before the War against the Magori—during the time the lesser races often termed the Chaos War—such an event would have begun with a blessing by the high priest of the temple of Sargonnas. That blessing would have called upon the Horned One to imbue each grand new warship with a trace of his might, a slight favor from the deity. Without fail, every vessel ever built by minotaur hands had been so anointed by the temple.

But the priests of Sargonnas were now diminished in number, and the few still preaching were little respected. A blessing from an absent god was no blessing at all.

Despite Hotak’s ties by marriage and blood to the religion that had replaced not only the temple of Sargonnas, but also that of Kiri-Jolith and the other old deities, the high priestess of the Forerunners was not in attendance. A blessing from a sect that revered the dead would not be welcome to those assigned to sail aboard the Stormbringer. The emperor understood and even appreciated that. The Forerunners were absent today.

The newly appointed captain of the flagship, the only one of the crew not to have already boarded, stepped up to Hotak as the drums beat and the horns blew. Seven gold rings dangled from his right ear, one for each ship taken during his long, admirable career. The captain knelt before the emperor then reached up to offer him a plain silver goblet. Hotak took the goblet, raised it up high for the crowd to see, and then brought it to his mouth. He took a brief sip, swallowed, and then tossed the rest of the contents at the gargantuan bow of the newly built ship.

A faint greenish liquid splattered the hull, dripping down. The draught had been brewed with horsetail grass, the symbol of strength among the minotaurs. By his action, Hotak symbolically shared the strength of the throne with that of the flagship and, through the flagship, spread that might to the rest of the fleet.

He handed the goblet back to the captain, who immediately stored it in a square, leather satchel at his side. The goblet would be taken aboard the Stormbringer, where a toast would be made with every captain from the armada partaking from the same container. The goblet would then be tossed into the water, originally as a gift of luck to the dread sea goddess, Zeboim—Sargonnas’s daughter—but now simply out of tradition.

Hotak turned to face Lothan, who nodded, but remained seated. Then Ardnor rose and approached the cauldron, where the fiery brand continued to glow brightly. The attendant cautiously gave Ardnor the sizzling brand, which he in turn brought to Hotak.

Accepting the fiery brand from his son, the emperor turned to the overwhelming hull and immediately pressed the burning brand against it. Hissing rose as the hot metal touched the wood.

When Hotak pulled the brand away, it was to reveal that the warhorse symbol had been imprinted on the Stormbringer’s hull. The crowd roared lustily. The brand further bound the might of the emperor to this new warship and the rest of the new fleet. So long as both remained strong, so, too, would the imperium.

Handing the brand back to Ardnor, the emperor turned to the crowd, shouting, “By the will of the throne, by the grace of the imperium, let the enemies of our people shudder at the might now arrayed against them! On this day, I hereby launch the Foran i’Kolot! The Fleet of Kolot! Let this flagship, Stormbringer, be the spearhead of a force worthy of my late son’s might!”

The drums beat. The workers swung their mallets with all their strength.

The force of their blows shattered most of the braces. With a mighty groan, the huge ship slipped into the harbor. Aboard her, the crew held tight to the rails. Their continued presence on deck was symbolic, if not entirely practical. A few almost lost their balance, but in the end, all held their positions. To those in attendance, it was a good omen for the future of the armada.

And as the Stormbringer glided into the harbor, slowly coming to a rest, each of her new sisters launched their catapults. The crews had adjusted the weapons so that the contents flew high above, and not toward the capital city. Higher and higher many small barrels soared—and then exploded with a loud series of cracks.

Awed cries arose at this unexpected highlight. The horns and drums picked up the staccato of the exploding charges. The stormy sky added its own percussion, seeming to affirm the destiny of the new ships.

With a final salute to Hotak, the captain headed to where a long boat waited to take him to his new command. Aboard the ship, the crew and marine fighters repeated the earlier cries of the legionaries—“Hri Dirac Una! Hri Jesek Una! Hri Dirac Una!”

Hotak saluted them, raising the ceremonial blade he wore and slashing it five times toward the Stormbringer before sheathing it again.

Sails unfurled, and the flagship’s crew swiftly prepared for departure. Their first voyage was to Mito, to pick up supplies and await further orders implementing the master plan.

Despite growing hoarseness, the onlookers continued their cheering as the flagship got underway. Taking its position at the lead of the new fleet, the Stormbringer belatedly shot off its own catapult. Again, the small barrel flew high then exploded. Thus the Stormbringer saluted its emperor and fellow citizens.

As the ships departed the harbor, the emperor and his son descended the platform. While the throng continued to cheer them, Hotak and Ardnor mounted. The honor guard prepared to follow.

“An excellent ceremony! A good precursor of things to come, eh, Ardnor?”

“As you say, Father.”

The captain of the honor guard indicated readiness. Hotak nodded then urged his horse into an appropriately regal pace.

“This was a grand moment for the imperium, Ardnor, and a vital one for us. Your presence here meant much to me.”

Ardnor nodded. “I could scarcely refuse.”

“Too long have we been estranged. I want to make up for that neglect. I want you in the future to take a more active part in my government.”

His son straightened. “I live to serve, of course, Father.”

“I’ve been formulating a mission to the north of the mainland, which I need you to undertake on my behalf. I need you to seek and destroy a rebel base there, capturing any traitors you find.”

A huge grin spread across Ardnor’s muzzle. “They’re as good as dead!”

“Captured or dead, let’s not quibble. Excellent!” the emperor returned, also grinning. He reached up with the clear intention of slapping his son companionably on the back. “I knew that I could have faith—”

At that moment, one of the emperor’s staff came riding toward the column from the direction of the palace. “Your majesty!” he gasped. “Forgive this untimely interruption, but the news has only just arrived!”

Hotak froze. “Some dire report?”

“Nay, my emperor! Anything but! The signal came from the outpost overlooking the southern sea! It shouldn’t be long before they’re visible in the harbor! It’s a wonder that they didn’t arrive during the launch of the others!”

“Speak, then! What is it? Who is it who comes?”

“Lord Bastion, your majesty! Lord Bastion’s flagship, the Donag’s Shield, leads the other vessels of his fleet home—and the outpost reports he flies the golden flag over your banner!”

“You hear that, Ardnor?” roared the emperor, forgetting everything. “Bastion comes back—and the golden flag! That signals victory in battle! Rahm’s rebels must surely be in rout, if not already dead!”

“Trust Bastion to do the job,” Hotak’s eldest said in a low, slow tone.

“We must make haste! There must be a welcome prepared! Send someone ahead to begin arranging an appropriate display to honor my son!”

“Aye, your majesty!” The officer rode off.

“Such a day!” roared Hotak merrily, turning to Ardnor. “The launching of the great fleet to honor Kolot, and now the return of Bastion from a successful hunt!”

“A momentous day, yes, Father.”

“Forgive me, Ardnor. We’ll talk about your special mission very soon, but I want to make certain that all the details are taken care of for Bastion! He deserves a hero’s welcome!”

Ardnor pulled the reins of his black steed tight, turning the animal away from the emperor. “I understand, Father. It works out for the best, anyway.” He bowed his horns, then added, “I need to make my own … arrangements for my brother.”

“Splendid!” As he spoke, Hotak signaled the captain of the honor guard. “Ardnor, my sincerest wish is that the two of you would bridge the chasm between you, become brothers close in spirit as well as blood.”

“I will be as my brother’s shadow,” Ardnor replied evenly. But Hotak did not hear much less understand him; the emperor was now engrossed in giving instructions to the captain. “Very much his shadow, Father,” the emperor’s eldest muttered as he urged his mount off. “There by his side, even when he least expects it.”

The news spread throughout Nethosak within the hour. A hastily written imperial edict appeared shortly after, commanding that all be made ready for the heir’s triumphant return. The streets were to be cleaned, and the citizens would line up in front of all buildings leading from the harbor to the palace. The Imperial Guard would be on hand to escort Bastion through the capital, heralds preceding him to announce him to the populace.

The people’s first glimpse of the victorious fleet brought confusion and consternation, not cheers, for at its head sailed the battered Donag’s Shield. It listed to starboard and was missing its aft mast. The fire had left it scorched, and, though the hull had been patched as best as possible, the initial impression was dispiriting.

But the sight of the gold flag and the clear vision of the black figure standing near the bow swept away all concern. When the long, low ship limped into the harbor, pride swelled all the more in the hearts of the minotaur race. The ship’s determination, despite such savage wounds, reflected the doggedness and invincibility of the race that had built and sailed it.

The crew and fighters waved their weapons and roared battle cries to the crowd. Ashore, a legion honor guard, at whose forefront rode the emperor, let loose with answering cheers.

Bastion, wearily surveying the spectacle awaiting him, was perhaps the only one who would have rather he sailed quietly into Nethosak in the dead of night. He had been victorious, yes, and felt certain that General Rahm had breathed his last, but there was still a large number of defiant rebels. In his mind, he had not completed his mission. The rebellion was like grass fire, and he was beginning to wonder if it could ever be stamped out.

Those ashore heard news of the engagements as called out by the emperor’s heralds. They heard of the decisive battles and the cowardly flight of the surviving rebels. They heard of Bastion leading the charge, boarding the enemy vessels first and killing the first adversaries. They heard how the imperium would soon be at peace within, the better to concentrate on its expansion into Ansalon.

The Champion of the Courrain, as Hotak’s heralds were already hailing Bastion, was to be honored with many new titles, new ranks. While some were ceremonial only, others would reinforce Bastion’s claim to the throne. Already empowered as commander of the Imperial Guard, soon he would bear an admiralty title that superseded the authority of the highest-ranking officers of the fleets. Soon, too, Hotak’s heir would be named Imperator of the Legions, a role that effectively gave him absolute command over every role and function of the military arm of government. Only the emperor himself would be able to countermand his decisions.

As the Donag’s Shield docked, the drums and horns started to bray triumphantly. The assembled twin ranks of legionaries now stretched beyond the port, completely flanking the road through which Bastion and his father would journey to reach the palace.

Despite the fact that most citizens adored Hotak’s heir, the Imperial Guard kept a wary watch. There had been rumors of late that Rahm’s troublemakers had been slipping into town, in ones and twos—and there could be a few rebel sympathizers among the crowd.

As the Shield’s gangplank lowered, the cheers rose deafeningly. Many of the workers present had been without sleep for most of a day, for they had maintained their grueling pace on behalf of the military buildup, but the occasion energized them; a great battle victory was the ideal excuse for a celebration.

The cheers drowned out even the rumbles of thunder overhead when Bastion finally stepped up into full view at the rail.

Ax harnessed behind him, he waved to the crowd, acknowledging their adoration with simple nods; then he slowly descended. As he did so, the emperor dismounted and, tossing the reins to a subordinate, met Bastion as he touched the soil of Mithas.

“Welcome, my son,” Hotak said grandly. “It is my honor to be your father.” The emperor looked his son in the eye. “He is dead?”

“Though I did not see it with my own eyes, and cannot know for certain, Father, I feel in my heart, yes, General Rahm is no more.”

“Magnificent! Come! We’ll talk more at the palace!” Hotak clapped his son on the shoulders, then, putting one arm around Bastion, guided him to where their steeds awaited them.

Many onlookers tossed small sheaves of horsetail grass at the two as they passed. Bastion took note of this tribute, picked up one sheaf, and held it close to his chest. Horns briefly lowered, Bastion thus paid homage to those who paid homage to him.

Bastion took the reins of his favored horse, briefly stroking and whispering to the beast before mounting. Hotak waited until his son was ready then climbed aboard his own prancing animal.

Bastion waited for his father to take the lead, as he always did. This time, however, Hotak proudly indicated that his son should ride ahead. The crowd noticed this gesture, and cheered anew.

His emotions guarded, the black minotaur bowed his horns to his father then urged his horse forward. Hotak did not follow until his son was a short distance ahead—the ritual five paces. Only then did the honor guard fall into place, flanking both riders.

Out of the port, the procession rode, the warhorse banners fluttering high, the honor guard with their axes or swords held before them. The heralds raced ahead, shouting out the news of Bastion’s return and the triumph of the empire over all enemies.

The procession passed into Nethosak itself, and every street along the route overflowed with cheering minotaurs. Horsetail sheaves filled the polished stone paths, temporarily staining them green, and streamers of red and black shot from every window and rooftop. The symbol of the black warhorse—on flags, walls, or painted wooden disks clutched by the celebrants—was everywhere.

Though he appeared almost distracted by his inner thoughts, Bastion continued to wave and nod to members of the crowd. Hotak beamed with pride as he observed the regal behavior of his son.

As they neared the center of the city, the palace looming ahead, their path led them past the temple of the Forerunners. Bastion’s ears twitched and his body stiffened as if anticipating something that might mar the otherwise perfect occasion.

But in contrast to everywhere they had passed, the streets before the temple of the Forerunners stood empty. The gates were closed; the Protectors who always guarded them were missing.

Bastion gave a low sigh. Hotak stared at the silent building, wondering why it seemed deserted, on this of all days.

As they left the temple grounds behind, the well-wishers suddenly reappeared as if by magic. Bastion resumed waving to the crowds, and the emperor and his guards visibly relaxed.

The path led to the palace at last. A vast throng awaited Bastion here, but his attention was instead riveted by a small party standing apart near the palace guard at the very gates.

Three of the figures were bodyguards. They wore dark garments with dangling swords. If nothing else, their lack of manes identified them as an elite unit of the Protectors.

Flanked by these three bodyguards, Ardnor sat atop a snorting black stallion. He wore the full, cloaked garb of a legion officer. Unlike the bodyguards, who dipped their horns to the side respectfully to greet Bastion, he raised his sword in salute.

The emperor gestured, and the gates opened. The throng continued to cheer as Bastion and his father, accompanied not only by their honor guard, but also now by Ardnor and his bodyguards, entered the grounds.

Bastion steered his mount next to his brother’s.

“I am surprised but honored by your presence, Ardnor.”

His elder brother snorted harshly. “You’ve got it wrong, Bastion! ’Tis I who am honored to be in your presence!” He slapped Bastion hard on the back. “Welcome back, slayer of General Rahm, defeater of the rebels! I know Kol looks down and thanks you for at last avenging him!”

This was especially generous, considering many still blamed Ardnor’s carelessness for Kolot’s demise. The younger brother had died saving the eldest from the renegade general, after Ardnor had ignored orders from their father to cease his pursuit of Rahm. Had Ardnor obeyed, it was likely Hotak’s third son would still be alive.

But no one, not even the emperor, ever broached that subject, especially on this day. Even now, as Hotak joined Bastion, he nodded cheerfully to his eldest offspring. “I’m pleased you met us at the gate, Ardnor! A fine welcome for your brother, eh?”

“Bastion deserves his due, Father. My brother has robbed the rebels’ of their horns, that’s certain!”

“Aye, Rahm Es-Hestos is dead at last,” Hotak agreed. “As for those who escaped, none are his equal! Jubal and the others will scatter, bicker among themselves, and be reduced to desperate brigands soon to taste the ax, eh, Bastion?”

“As you say, Father,” Bastion replied tersely.

“Father has the right of it!” laughed Ardnor. “By the way, I spoke with Lothan before your ship arrived, brother! The Supreme Circle plans to honor you in a special ceremony at their headquarters!”

Bastion shook his head. “The honor is appreciated, but what I am really looking forward to—what I would prefer—is a good meal, Ardnor.”

“Of course! You’ve probably been dining on salted goat and pork for weeks! Something fresh and tasty, eh? Some wine and perhaps feminine company, too, I daresay.”

“The food will do for now. The other offers will also be appreciated … once I have regained my strength.”

His brother chuckled, though Bastion had not meant any jest. The hunt for General Rahm had been an exhausting and costly one. Many fine warriors had perished, and others were permanently maimed. Several ships had been lost. He felt weary.

“Let us dine together, brother,” Ardnor continued. “I know a place that serves the goat seasoned just as you like it … and it has the kind of entertainment that may help revive your strength.”

Bastion could not hide his surprise. He and his brother were no longer close and had not eaten together since long before the Night of Blood, when their father had slain his rivals and seized the empire. “I would be more than happy to join you, Ardnor.”

Hotak was visibly pleased at what he saw as a mending of longtime differences between the pair. “And you, Ardnor, should dine with us at the palace at your first convenience. We’ve still much to talk about, remember. You’re always welcome there, my son as …” The emperor hesitated, his gaze briefly darting over his shoulder, looking ruefully at the gate. “… as is your mother.”

Bastion’s brother shrugged. “Mother knows where she’s welcome, and you can be certain I’ll be in the palace before long, Father.” To Bastion, he added, “I’ve heard of your many new titles, brother. I expect you to do all of them justice, eh?”

“I can only try.”

“Ha! What you try, that’s more than most can do, Bastion!” With that hearty praise, Ardnor gave one short dip of his horns then led his bodyguards off. The gates opened to let Ardnor outside, and the crowds, seeing who it was, immediately parted.

Hotak excused the honor guard, for only his personal retinue would accompany the duo into the palace itself. Bastion and he dismounted, turned their horses over to a groom, then together ascended the wide, high steps.

“It astounds me how at home I’ve become here,” the elder minotaur commented, as they entered the immense marble halls. The reliefs of past minotaur rulers and accomplishments lined the walls, one even representing a younger Chot in battle against a crustacean Magori. In deference to tradition, Hotak had let the image stand, since it marked Chot’s place in the history of the minotaurs, rather than celebrating him personally. “I remember when tents and rocky ground were what I considered my home. Now … now I could not imagine life without all this.”

“The world constantly changes in ways we do not always expect, Father,” Bastion returned, somewhat dourly.

“I intend to see that it ceases its surprising ways. Order and stability are what Ansalon—nay, Krynn!—require most! The gods are no longer here to guide us! So we must carve out a bold new world, where—ah! Captain Gar!”

A dusky minotaur slightly older than Bastion strode quickly toward the emperor. Gar looked distinctly unhappy. In his right hand, he carried a satchel that had been brought by a courier.

“You may go,” Hotak suddenly told his personal guard.

“My lord! Praise be that you’ve returned!” Glancing at the emperor’s son, the officer hastily added, “And of course my deepest congratulations to you on your victories, Lord Bastion!”

“What is it?” asked Hotak, once the guards had gone, leaving just the three of them.

“A ship has arrived at one of the lesser western ports, my lord. A rider brought this. It bears the seal of your daughter.”

Bastion frowned. “Maritia? Were you expecting—”

“This is not one of her regular dispatches,” the emperor remarked, taking the satchel from Captain Gar. “Thank you, captain—you’re dismissed.”

When Gar had departed, Hotak broke the seal on the pouch, and then the parchment within. He studied the note, his good eye first widening then narrowed dangerously. Bastion, who knew his father well, sensed his shifting, roiling emotions.

The emperor thrust the paper at his heir. “Here. You should read this, too.”

Bastion did so hurriedly. His hand threatened to rip the parchment to shreds as he digested his sister’s words.

And if Golgren’s words of a small army of minotaur slaves running loose in Kern has the ring of truth, then it can only be those transferred as slaves to fulfill the historic pact.…

Minotaur slaves loose in Kern.

“I feared this would one day happen,” Bastion muttered grimly, glancing at his father. “If the people find out—”

Hotak had calmed himself. “The people will find out, my son. You’ve not read it all. See what your sister’s done.”

Golgren states that this problem must be dealt with, and as I know you would agree that time is of the essence, I’ve taken the initiative of ordering General Argotos to shift to the north. I hate to spare him, but with the arrival of the Shadow Lions and the Krakens, the strength of the invasion force should be more than sufficien.…

“General Argotos.” Bastion knew his reputation. “The Dragonsbane Legion.”

“You see, now, Bastion? Maritia informs us not only of the potential problem, but the appropriate solution. If the ogres cannot deal with this simple complication, General Argotos will. It will all be achieved quickly and quietly, one hopes.”

The emperor sought out the nearest torch. He fed the dry parchment to the flames, then watched as the note was engulfed by fire. When all but the scrap he still held had burned to charred ash, Hotak dropped the remnants and stomped out the last flames.

“Yes, Argotos will deal with this situation,” Hotak repeated. “Deal with it … and bury it so that the news does not disturb my empire.

“Be ready.” Faros quietly warned. “We attack only on my signal. Anyone who acts before.…”

The former slaves remained still, waiting, obedient to his every word. How his father would have marveled at a Faros who could inspire so many followers, command such loyalty. How his father would have shaken his head, to see his once-carefree son become the leader of a band of desperate minotaurs, abandoned by their own kind in the land of their traditional enemies.

Would Gradic be unnerved by what his son had become?

Faros’s every muscle was taut. His one hand gripped his rusted sword; the other was empty but constantly moving as if holding another weapon, a whip. He rarely blinked, even when the ever-present dust of Kern blew grit into his red-tinged eyes.

He boasted more than a mere ragtag army now. His followers numbered almost three times those who had survived Sahd’s camp, for in their wanderings, the initial band had come upon two other mining facilities. The decision to attack had been instinctual for Faros, though not necessarily for the noble reasons Grom and the rest ascribed to him. His vengeful army had fallen upon the mining camps, leaving no ogre survivors and freeing all the workers. The supplies were taken; the camps burned to the ground.

And both times, the one thing Faros had left behind were poles, poles arranged in the manner Sahd had taught him.

But with the two other rescues, his army was no longer pure minotaur. The ogres had enslaved others—humans, half-elves, even a dwarf or two. Some boasted valuable skills, such as the ability to mend harsh wounds and the knowledge of herbs that could heal or at least drive away pain. Others were better skilled at locating food and water in this dismal, treacherous land.

The army even boasted a few renegade ogres, who had fallen out of favor with the current regime. Faros would have left them headless, if truth be told, but slaves had defended them, revealing that these ogres had been punished by slavery and were treated even worse than the minotaurs. Most of these ogres had been purposely maimed by their overseers. Fingers, toes, ears, and noses had been crushed or cut off to disgrace them.

The ogres were among the most eager to wreak vengeance against their own kind, and Faros put them in the front ranks.

The black hills were swarming with soldiers in Faros’s army, but the unsuspecting force of ogres presently inspecting the last of the ravaged camps had no idea that they were being watched by so many bitter eyes. The ogres had journeyed here to find out what had happened to cut off their steady flow of raw materials.

They had been sent by the Grand Lord Golgren.

Faros had expected them to come, had waited for days. That the ogres not only well outnumbered his followers, but also were far better armed did not impinge on his confidence. There would be deaths on both sides, but more ogres, and that was all that mattered.

Yet these ogres deserved more respect, Faros understood. These were not the ill-tempered, disorganized beasts that had made up the majority of the camp guards; the ogre army below had been trained by someone with an eye for military skill and strategy.

Perhaps even a minotaur officer had had a hand in their training.

Faros raised his empty hand. He watched as the lead ogre, a young but towering behemoth clad in a new breastplate, surely of imperial manufacture, growled an order. A group of ogres immediately began climbing a rugged rock face, heading near where Grom and the other half of the army awaited Faros’s signal.

It was now or never.

Dropping his hand as if striking an invisible foe, Faros leaped up. Horns taken from the various camp raids blared. The ogres froze, startled by the loud sounds echoing from seemingly every direction. To the invaders, it seemed as if dozens of horns blew over and over, shifting position, giving the impression of a force several times larger than their own considerable number.

Roaring, the minotaurs began pushing large rocks and boulders down upon the stunned foes. The rain of rock tore up the hillside. Other chunks of stone were uprooted. Centuries-old outcroppings shattered, their huge, twisted fragments becoming an avalanche. Within seconds, the ogres faced a bewildering onslaught.

Shiny metal breastplates could do little to stop tons of hurtling rock. Ogres shrieked and ran, but many were too slow. Many were simply wiped away by the earthen flood, vanishing beneath tons of dirt and stone despite their desperate struggles.

And on the heels of the avalanche came the minotaurs themselves, led by Faros. He roared at the top of his lungs, eyes flushed with crimson. His sword moved like a fierce wind, slicing foolish foes in his path. The first ogre to stand against him fell with his chest sliced open to the waist, his life fluids spilling on the still-rolling earth. Another lost a hand, then fell to a savage thrust that nearly cleaved his skull in two.

One ogre enemy was indistinguishable from the next; they were objects to be slain. Memories of his lost years of enslavement drove him into a killing frenzy. Vyrox. Tattooed Ulthar. Paug the Butcher. Tunnel collapses. Hanging above the ogre camp. The monstrous feeding of the meredrakes. Sahd and his whippings …

Sahd and his whips.

Where once he was haunted and depleted by these memories, now the nightmares fed him, transformed him into a berserker. His eyes drowned in blood; his breathing grew more rapid. The smarter ogres ran from Faros the moment they saw his eyes. Some did not move swiftly enough and were killed, even if they had turned their backs to flee, or raised their hands in abject surrender.

But today, one ogre did not back down. This one was young, in the prime of his strength, clearly skilled, the leader of this force sent by Golgren. His breastplate shone and on the front, in crude metalwork, someone had added a stylized gryphon.

This ogre leader carried an ax larger than even those often wielded by minotaurs, one nearly as long as Faros was tall. With arms twice as thick as his shorter foe’s, the young ogre commander easily swung the long, wide, twin-bladed weapon like a huge, deadly pendulum, clearing before him any who stood in his path to Faros. One of the former slaves who followed Faros tried to cut him off with a clever maneuver, and instead ended up with his muzzle severed, sinew and bone as nothing to the advancing bestial warrior.

“Kya i Garantho uth i’Dagrumi!” he roared at Faros, grandly halting to pound loudly and repeatedly on his breastplate. “Kya i Mastarko uth i’Dagrumi! Sya i f’han, Uruv Suurt!”

From what little Faros knew of the coarse tongue, the ogre was declaring his might and comparing himself to not only the gryphon on his armor, but also the colossal mastark native to Kern. The beastman grinned evilly, displaying not only his long, curved tusks, but yellow teeth carved to perfect, piercing points.

Faros, awaiting his charge, snorted in disdain.

With a savage howl, the ogre attacked.

The ogre’s huge ax bit into the ground near Faros’s feet. He backed up a step then took an impotent jab at his foe as the latter jerked up the ax. Though the tip of his blade punctured the ogre’s hairy arm, the tusked warrior grinned and roared.

Again the mammoth ax swooped down on Faros. This time he raised his blade and tried to deflect the blow, but his sword cracked and broke near the hilt, leaving only a tiny, blunt stump.

The ogre laughed again and stabbed with the point of his ax. The direct thrust caught Faros by surprise, and he grunted as the point pierced his upper shoulder. Despite the pain, however, Faros grabbed the ax just under its razor-sharp head and held on.

His huge adversary swiftly raised not only the ax, but the minotaur as well, into the air. Faros dangled as the ogre mocked him, swinging him back and forth like a reveler with a flag.

Suddenly, a figure darted in from the ogre’s blind side. It was brave Valun, armed with an ax. He swung his smaller but lethal weapon at the ogre, aiming for a bare spot at the waist.

Severing the band holding the two sections of the ogre’s armor together, Valun buried the upper edge of his ax blade in the ogre’s torso. With a roar of astonishment, the fearsome giant threw Faros and his own weapon to the side. Blood streaming from the wound, he whirled on Valun, who twisted away on his bad leg.

The ogre knocked the ax from Valun’s grip and thrust a meaty hand around his throat. Though trembling with pain, he lifted the minotaur up by the neck and, as the latter struggled, threw Valun like a rag doll at one of the larger boulders that had swept down.

Thrown backward, Valun collided with the huge rock, snapping his spine. He crumpled in a heap near the boulder.

For a moment, a look of intense glee filled the ogre’s ugly face—followed immediately by a stunned, dismayed expression.

Faros, who leaped to his feet, had just buried what remained of the upper portion of his sword blade in the back of the giant’s neck.

The ogre spun around, flailing. He glared at the minotaur … and then the bloodshot eyes glazed over.

Faros leaped aside, letting the huge body collapse facedown in the reddened earth.

Seizing the ogre’s huge weapon, Faros eagerly swung it around, hoping to kill more ogres, but none were near. He called out wild challenges and swung at shadows, intoxicated with berserker rage. His own followers gave him a wide birth.

At last someone cried, “Faros!”

Whirling toward the voice, he nearly beheaded Grom. A thin line of red decorated Grom’s chest; he stared at Faros in fear.

“Faros! ’Tis me! Grom!” Yet Faros was still under some trance, and Grom had to duck a savage swing, aimed at his head.

Slowly, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild, Faros lowered the ogre weapon as he recognized his compatriot. “Grom.…”

“Aye, Faros.” The other minotaur swallowed, staring into the still-murderous face of his leader. “ ’Tis Grom.”

Faros looked around. He saw only his own army. Wherever Faros looked, the enemy lay in bloody heaps. Some of the dead stared sightlessly toward the heavens, others looked as though they only slept. His standing order was that none be spared.

“The plan went well,” he commented.

“Well enough,” returned Grom, still eyeing him warily. “We lost some, though.”

“To be expected.” Faros’s empty hand again shaped itself, gripping an imaginary whip. He gazed with satisfaction at the corpses.

“Faros …” Grom said hesitantly. “Faros … Valun is dead. I think his neck and back were broken when he struck the rock.”

Looking over his shoulder, Faros saw the limp body of the brave bone carver. A sandy-haired human with a beard knelt beside the minotaur, still checking for any signs of life. When the human sensed Faros’s gaze, he glanced up, then shook his head.

“Been dead for several minutes,” he announced grimly.

Prodding one of the ogre corpses to make certain that it, too, was dead, Faros remarked, “Valun’s leg slowed him too much. It was bound to happen. We all must expect that death’ll take us.”

Grom almost said something, then his hand went to the thin red line where Faros himself had cut him. Lowering his horns in deference, he solemnly nodded. “As you say. I’ll see to the pyre.”

And the prayers, no doubt, Faros thought with slight contempt. He dismissed Valun from his thoughts. “This wasn’t chance,” Faros said, halting Grom with his words. “They came for us this time. We caught this group by surprise, but they’ll be more vigilant when these don’t return. We need to move again.”

“Where? If we go much farther south, we risk running into our own. You don’t want that.”

“No?” Faros hefted a blade he had found near one body, testing its balance. He had a sudden vision of the minotaur assassins, the traitors, who had burned his home down and murdered his family. “I suppose not. Not now, anyway.”

A jubilant half-elf with shorn brown hair and the slim build of his race, approached. “Faros! We must’ve slain nearly a legion’s worth!” He held up an ax that shone bright in the hot sun. “And look at what weapons they carried! New and plenty!”

“You can never have enough weapons.” Faros retorted, tossing aside the sword he had picked up, as unfit for his needs. He eyed the nearest bodies. “Collect everything … bring me all the spears.”

“Spears?” muttered Grom.

“All of them.” Taking another sword, Faros swung it twice, then reached down and seized one of the dead ogres by its straggly hair. With one deft motion, he severed the head. “We need to leave a reminder behind … some mementos of our time here.”

The half-elf grinned, running off to relay his orders. Still holding the head, Faros glanced at Grom, as if expecting some protest.

Horns lowered, Grom nodded then, ax in hand, reached for another body.

Like a gauze draping the face of a barbarian princess, the shield surrounding Silvanesti taunted outsiders with glimpses of the secret world behind the veil. But none could pass through the shield, and since its creation, the magical barrier had held back fortune hunters, the Knights of Neraka, and more. Now it mocked the finest of the legions, the pride of the minotaur empire.

Across the eastern edge of Silvanesti, at the very edge of the shield, the legions did fruitless battle against the magic of the elves. They took their sharpest axes and their greatest war hammers and assaulted the barrier. Sweat matting their fur, eyes red with frustration, they mounted their attacks over and over.…

All to no avail.

What were physical weapons against such a magical force?

Despite the futility of the exercise, Maritia insisted that the soldiers keep up a constant barrage. One legionary who stole some sleep rather than waste his energy was rewarded with a severe whipping. News of that punishment spread through the ranks, making the rest redouble their efforts, even if, privately, many of them harbored doubts about their commander’s wisdom.

“Two more legions’ve arrived,” grunted one member of the Warhorse Legion, swinging the edge of his ax into the solid air. It struck the invisible barrier with a force that made his body shake. He snorted, sweat running down his extensive muzzle.

“I hear Dragonsbane’s gotten some marching orders,” replied a comrade of his, whose preferred method of attack was running at the shield full speed and slamming his shoulder into it. So far all he had for his troubles was a sore, bruised shoulder. “Wonder what pirates are doin’ attackin’ supply wagons in Kern?”

“Pirates, huh! More likely some strange ogre business! Be a good day when the emperor says enough’s enough, and we leave here to go slaughter the tusked beasts! Our allies! Can you believe it?”

“Only thing worse than an ogre’s an elf,” another legionary down the line muttered. For the seemingly hundredth time, he was hefting a huge boulder to toss at the shield. “Only thing worse than an elf is beatin’ ourselves dead tryin’ to get inside this—”

The boulder flew through the air, and to everyone’s amazement, landed yards ahead, burying itself in withered grass and dry earth. Other minotaurs fell on their own axes, stumbling forward. Many froze in mid-swing. Everywhere, the scene repeated itself, with gaping soldiers staring at the impossible. The land fell silent, as if it, too, were momentarily stunned.

The shield … the legendary, cursed shield of the elves … had vanished.

An army such as the greatest emperors of her race had only dreamed of awaited Maritia’s command, and yet for too long a time she had been able to do nothing but command their patience. They practiced their drills, attacked the shield, and waited.

Both Galdar and her mother had promised the shield would fall and Silvanesti would open to the legions, but Maritia had begun to wonder if that day of days would occur during her lifetime.

On the table before her lay countless reports concerning strength levels, supply deliveries, and battle contingencies. This part of leadership Maritia despised. She yearned for the cry of battle, the blood of the enemy …

Not more paperwork.

Snorting in frustration, she poked her head out of the entrance of her tent. “Summon General Orcius!”

Moments later, the graying, pipe-smoking veteran appeared. General Orcius dealt with the day-to-day operations of the Warhorse Legion so Maritia could plan the invasion as a whole.

Helm in one hand, Orcius took the long clay pipe out of the side of his mouth and asked, “Yes, my lady?”

“Any word from Dragonsbane?”

He hesitated, taking a puff of his pipe and blowing smoke in the air. Off the battlefield, Orcius could be maddeningly deliberate. “Nay, my lady. The courier’s a day late, but that’s no surprise, is it? You wanted Argotos to assess the border situation. We don’t want our pretty allies thinking that we’re up to something.”

“No, of course not. I just want to hear that somebody’s doing something, other than twiddling their thumbs! We’ve been camped here for weeks, sitting around like—like elves!”

Orcius snorted in amusement, then took another puff of his pipe. “I recall when, one time under your father, we had to wait a year before—”

A horn sounded, then another. And another. Another.

Maritia and the general whirled to greet a rider approaching at a fast pace from the west. The rider was waving and shouting. When she spotted Hotak’s daughter, however, the rider clamped her muzzle tight and veered the horse toward the commander.

“My lady,” gasped the young officer, a dekurian, nearly flying from her saddle. “My lady, destiny is upon us! Destiny is upon us!”

Behind her, officers from every subcamp collected, eagerly anticipating the news.

“Dekurian!” Maritia roared. “Remember yourself and your position! You will report in a manner befitting the legions!”

The ponytailed officer pulled herself together. Standing straight, eyes staring ahead, she shouted, “Yes, my lady!”

“Better, then! Now, report!”

There was a flicker of her earlier jubilance as the rider exclaimed, “My lady, the shield has evaporated—less than one hour ago, all along the eastern border of Silvanesti. The cause is as yet—”

“What!” Maritia could scarcely believe her ears. “Repeat that, dekurian!”

Eyes wide and bright, quivering with excitement, the messenger cried, “The shield’s fallen, my lady! The magical barrier erected by the elves so many years ago has suddenly vanished. At last the way into Silvanesti is open!”

The officers began to cheer, which rippled into a roar spreading through the ranks. Soldiers began running off.

Silvanesti was open to invasion.

General Orcius saluted Maritia. “We must take immediate advantage! The legions are already straining at the leash! They won’t want to wait another day! By nightfall rogue units will be sneaking out on their own so that they can claim the pride of first kill in Silvanesti! We must form up and impose discipline!”

“The legions advance as per plan! Send word to the other commanders! Tell them that we will launch the invasion by midday! No one is to seek advantage over their fellow warriors!”

“Yes, my lady!” snarled Orcius, dousing his pipe and summoning one of his adjutants. He then glanced at the milling soldiers. “Prepare battle lines. Spread the word! Go!”

As he and the rest of the legionaries hurried away, Maritia seized the dekurian by the shoulder. Her voice throbbing, she asked, “Did you see it yourself? Did you see Silvanesti?”

“I did, my lady! I saw the thick foliage, the towering trees! I think—I think I even heard one of the native birds sing!”

Her words sent a thrill through Maritia.

“Silvanesti …” she gasped, pushing past the eager messenger and staring excitedly in the direction of the unseen forest. “Silvanesti.…”

Clouds hung overhead as midday arrived. A sudden tension filled the ranks, which leaned forward in anticipation of the signal. The drivers readied their teams, not wanting catapults and ballistae to lose any ground to the foot soldiers and cavalry. Legion officers raced back and forth among the lines, keeping order.

Seated atop her chestnut stallion, Maritia bound her mane behind her then donned her war helmet. She wore a gleaming breastplate and a tipped kilt. The rich purple cloak of her rank, she flung back over her shoulders.

“Now,” Maritia commanded.

And with a wave of the imperial banner, a hundred horns and more bellowed the long-awaited call to advance.

Their roars rising as one, the minotaurs poured into eastern Silvanesti.

The ranks held even as the looming, shadow-infested forest took command of the landscape. Legends of the previous debacles were known to all the horned warriors. Warily as well as eagerly, they awaited the first strike of the enemy. The shield had fallen, but surely the elves would make a stand to defend their homeland.

With General Orcius at her side, Maritia rode at the forefront of the Warhorse Legion. They were both surprised at the lack of resistance. No race was so pathetic, not even gully dwarves.

“The forest is thickening more, my lady,” Orcius commented, brushing a hanging branch away from his chest. “ ’Tis time to let the Wyverns take the lead, I think.”

She nodded. “Give General Bakkor the signal.”

At a wave of Orcius’s hand, a nearby trumpeter unleashed three short, hard notes.

A triumphant cheer arose from the north, releasing a flurry of activity accented by the clank of metal and the squeal of wheels. Special ranks of gloved warriors stepped ahead of the advancing army, spreading out to cover the entire front line. A cavalry unit led by a pinched-faced minotaur with low-set eyes spurred ahead to carve a path through the dangerous woods.

Trained extensively in forest warfare, the Wyverns coursed expertly through the dense vegetation, moving like shadows despite their natural bulk. Many wore their fur almost trimmed to the skin, the better to avoid snaring leaves, branches, and traps to tangle or slow them. Their gloves were armored gauntlets that included jointed finger-covers ending in metal talons for securing grips. Unlike the rest of the legionaries, they also wore boots with ridged toes for climbing. With such uniforms, the Wyverns could swiftly ascend to upper limbs to survey the land ahead.

Behind the climbers came General Bakkor’s mounted patrols. They marked the paths best suited for clearing, which were then set upon with a frenzy by foot units wielding axes, shovels, and ropes. All the catapults and ballistae were dragged behind.

The first hint of any elven presence came when two legionaries were discovered sitting down against a tree, as though asleep. Their weapons remained in their hands, and at first glance, their faces looked restful. Only when their comrades looked closely did they see the faint red slits across their throats.

General Bakkor then divided his officers, and sent small groups in different directions to scout and defend. Clasping tree trunks, massive minotaurs scurried up with the swiftness and dexterity of squirrels. High amid the foliage, Wyverns moved from branch to branch with surprising dexterity and quiet.

As one of them reached for a thick cluster of leaves and entwined branches, a slender hand suddenly thrust through to grab the minotaur’s wrist. A slim, almost delicate dagger followed with astonishing sped. The minotaur gripped his throat, where his lifeblood now poured out. He fell back, tumbling through the branches with a series of loud cracks before landing dead at the roots.

Hearing the loud noise and seeing one of their number drop, the legionaries swarmed toward the spot. A furtive figure could be seen moving swiftly away, vanishing among leaves. The kirath were experts at camouflage, blending indivisibly with their surroundings.

But if this one thought to escape the Wyverns, he was mistaken. Five encircled the area where he was last glimpsed. One legionary leaped up into the trees, a short sword in his free hand.

Shortly thereafter, the elf, his long, youthful visage belying his great age, dropped from the branch on which he had been perched. The five warriors surrounding him tightened their cordon, slipping toward the place where he had landed

Even as he found his footing on the forest floor, the elf’s almond-shaped eyes darted around, and widened … for from behind the trunk emerged a sixth Wyvern, his hand ax already raised.

The elf leaped at his horned foe.

But the skilled legionary cut him down in midair.

As the elf died, writhing on the ground, a rider came up behind his slayer. The newly arrived Wyvern slapped a golden tag with the shape of his legion’s symbol upon the tree from which the elf defender had fallen.

Immediately two foot soldiers emerged from the bushes, and set about chopping away at the tree boasting the metal tag, not only marking the kill but stripping the forest of the offending tree. A short distance back, the first of the catapults creaked to a halt, waiting for the path to be cleared and widened.

And so it went. The kirath did their utmost to slow the conquest. They had no real magic to aid them, only cunning, skill, and their elf weapons. Slowly but surely the Wyverns drove them back, eliminated them. The Wyverns secured one area of the forest after another, methodically enabling the forward advance.

General Bakkor fluidly moved among his troops as if oblivious to the target he might present to kirath high in the trees. When one shaft did fly close to him, the commander of the Wyvern ducked just in time. Without a change in his demeanor, he turned and pointed astutely in the direction from which the shot had originated. A moment later, short but swift crossbow bolts perforated the crown of the tree … and another of the kirath plummeted.

It seemed hours before the minotaur troops reached the first elf settlement—deserted. The small village was not much, a place where clearly low-caste elves humbly dwelled, yet the grace with which their tapering homes blended into the tree trunks, or twined up into the trees, could be admired even by the minotaurs. Still, their admiration did not prevent the legionaries from tearing apart the very trees in search of signs of life.

Even General Bakkor, watching the dismantling of the settlement, commented to his second, “A skillful flowing of the lines. The elves would put House Tyklo or Lagrangli to shame.” As Bakkor was a member of the latter clan—known for their long artisan traditions—the compliment was remarkable. “Now … if the searching has been completed, torch everything.”

The Wyverns burned the village while the rest of the advance units caught up. Having none of Bakkor’s sentimentality, Maritia entered the village with a look of scorn. From what she could see of them, the elves’ homes looked too soft, too decadent.

“Like the fall of the High Ogres,” she sneered. “Amazing that the elves have pretended such a lofty position for so long.”

“Their end has come at last,” replied Bakkor, bowing his head.

“Yes, it is coming. General Orcius, we make camp here.”

“A wise choice, my lady,” the elder officer handed her a dispatch just brought to him by a mounted messenger. “Clans Bregan, Athak, and the other designated colonizers have arrived near our base. I daresay within a week, their chosen will be here.”

“Colonizers?” mocked a Wyvern who happened to be standing near. He and another minotaur made expressions of distaste.

Maritia steered her horse toward the pair, staring them down as she had seen her father do to disrespectful subordinates over the years. “That’ll be enough of that! The emperor has decreed that Silvanesti should be made habitable as quickly as possible, thus ensuring that the imperium will be permanently entrenched! After we’ve conquered this realm, we’ll not be easily shoved out, will we?”

“Your ladyship, we only meant—”

She cut off their apologies. “The colonizers perform a valuable function for the empire, as do the legions. You may find yourself in a colonizing unit some day, warrior! Maybe sooner than you think. All it takes is a maimed limb, eh?”

She laid her hand menacingly on the pommel of her sword, ensuring no further protest. Colonizers consisted of those unfit for military duty but still able to serve the empire in working and building tasks. None of them were without wounds or deformity. Before Hotak’s rule, such minotaurs had lived on the edges of society, but Hotak had rehabilitated and found a fit purpose for them, indeed arranging for his own clan to offer the first volunteers. The other six largest clans swiftly followed, creating an immigrating force that would pioneer minotaur relocation. Despite their permanent injuries, the colonizers were proud and brave, and would stand and fight for their ground.

Whether they would be accepted by the healthy colonists who followed them was a question Hotak had not yet bothered to study.

“Casualties have been light thus far, my lady,” General Bakkor said, perhaps triggered by thoughts of the colonizers. As Maritia turned from the legionaries—who hurried off—he added, “Less than two score slain, and as many injured or wounded.”

“And the elves?”

“The same number, I’d say … but then there are far fewer elves in the world than minotaurs. Our numbers give us an edge.”

Hotak’s daughter reflected. “Yes, our numbers, our tactics, and our traditions, general. The elves have to put up some better resistance than this! It hardly qualifies as a battle!”

“They’ve little magic now, as in the past,” Orcius reminded her. “Now they must rely on their stealth and tricks.”

Stealth would only get the elves so far. While some legions made camp in this area, others pushed on to secure the western perimeter. Pickets were put in place, and not one line of sentries but three were set. For elven raiders to penetrate the main encampment, they would have to slip past not only the Wyverns, but also the Direhounds and her own Warhorse legion. They would be safe this night, in the elven forest.

“We could reach Silvanost faster than we dared hope—within three weeks, if we continue to press on unopposed, my lady,” Bakkor reported, his deep-set eyes gleaming with anticipation for the fabled elven capital. “My Wyverns will cheerfully clear the way.”

General Orcius looked soberly at Maritia. “Our pact with this Galdar—and his Mina—clearly stipulates that we leave the capital alone. They have other plans for it.”

“And our allies have never bothered to inform us of those plans.” Maritia removed her helm then unbound her mane. Letting her hair hang loose, she smiled at both older officers. “We’ll push on as agreed. We’ll secure the eastern portion of Silvanesti—correction—Ambeon—and establish our settlements. Later we can decide what to do about the elven capital.”

“As you say, my lady,” both males responded, dipping their horns to the side.

But Maritia was not finished. “When that’s all said and done, we’ll see how well Galdar and his slip of a human have done with Silvanost … one hopes they will have done well, and succeeded. Then, as my father desires, we’ll take Silvanost from them.”

The feminine, chestnut-furred hand dived into the crimson contents of the silver bowl, briefly fragmenting the vision swirling within. In the dark red liquid, tiny figures in armor, all marching with purpose through a thick forest, rippled wildly before they gradually formed again.

“Takyr … attend me.”

From the shadows of the chamber materialized the hooded ghost.

Mistress … came the voice in Lady Nephera’s head.

“But a few scant hours ago, I cast a new vision, attempting once again to see beyond the veil of the elves and into the heart of their capital.” Unbeknownst to her husband, the high priestess had been trying day and night to pierce the mystery of the shield and learn the elves’ secrets. But each spell had failed her, and while those failures had frustrated her, they also made her more determined. With all the power granted to her, for some reason Silvanesti was still withheld. Hotak hounded her for reports she was unable to deliver. Her seeming weakness undermined all that she was building up for the empire.

But now … now she could see … the legionaries were flooding the eastern edge of the fabled elven kingdom.

And of the cursed shield … there stood no trace.

“A few scant hours ago, I cast my spell,” she repeated in a grim a tone, setting both her horde of ghostly servants and her two mortal attendants shivering with cold. “And again it failed. Once more I cast it … and now I see the kingdom of the hated elves open to the legions as though the shield never even existed!” Her voice suddenly rose, turning manic. “How has all this happened, when I, above all, should know before such events have even begun? How?”

The image of the dank specter wavered, the only indication of any fear that he felt of his mistress. The torn cloak that encompassed his body fluttered wildly, almost as if either an unfelt wind or some dark life within the garment itself was moving.

And as it fluttered, Takyr himself shifted shape, transformed from the shadowy, ravaged mariner he was to one image after another.

He first became a bent, elderly female with the pockmarked countenance of a plague victim. One hand twisted away from the elderly female’s body, and the gown she wore was horribly soiled.

The female then gave way to a young, stout warrior who looked as healthy in death as he did in life—save for eyes that had been torn from their sockets and the tongue missing in the muzzle. The barbarians who had captured him had been clinical in their torture.

But finally Takyr’s shape gave way to a gray-furred, blunt-snouted official, a robed figure in the gold-trimmed, silver-embossed red robes of House Zhakan. Gold rings decorated this ghost’s left ear, and many of his fingers were also adorned with varying gems. Zhakan was a great merchant clan, ranking high in the League, and its worldly views encompassed beliefs that were not traditional for minotaurs. This one must have been a merchant of great importance when he had died of very natural causes.

This one … Takyr informed Lady Nephera. He stepped out of the other ghost, his cloaked form hovering behind the slightly shorter figure.

“Tell me.”

This one failed in his watching. This one … proved distracted by something. I cannot fathom what, mistress, but perhaps—

“Never mind that. I care little of what catches the fancy of the dead.” She stirred from the bowl, her eyes wide and hollow and in their own way far more frightening than those of her monstrous-looking, undead servants. “They exist to serve and if they do not serve, they are no use to me whatsoever.”

As Lady Nephera spoke, her two mortal acolytes stared blankly ahead, hearing only her part of the conversation. They sensed the faint but distinctive scent of something rotting in the dank sea, and they had the feeling that thousands crowded the empty chamber. If their mistress chose to talk to empty air, as she often did, they knew only that she did not talk to herself.

Takyr’s cloak again moved of its own accord, encroaching on and enveloping the shimmering spirit of the dead merchant.

In the empty eyes of the second ghost, there appeared a sudden and acute fear.

Shall he be … corrected, mistress?

His face suddenly as animated as one of the living, the merchant stretched forth a transparent, pleading hand. Mistress … pleasssse.…

The high priestess’s nostrils flared. She stared down at the creature who had dared to disappoint her. “Let it be done.”

Takyr’s cloak fell upon the beseeching figure. The voluminous garment swirled over the elder minotaur, covering him like a shroud. The ghost wailed and struggled, but the cloak held him tight, grotesquely twisting and pulling his spectral shape.

The other ghosts edged away as far as Nephera would permit, their eyes all the same … round, wide, hollow, fearful.

Now Takyr’s cloak squeezed impossibly tight. Trapped within, the merchant’s shade moaned, a sound so horrific that even Nephera’s two attendants felt the agony instinctively and drew deeper within their own cloaks in the hopes of shielding themselves.

And as he finally vanished within the dark folds of Takyr’s cloak, the second ghost shrieked hideously.

Nephera’s acolytes gave a start, their faces visibly paling. The other shades swirled around and around the chamber, unable to express their terror in any other manner. Lady Nephera nodded in satisfaction.

Takyr’s cloak settled around him, and as it did, the last horribly shrill notes of the shrieking were cut off. He will not fail you again … mistress.…

Turning her baleful gaze back to the vision in the crimson liquid, the high priestess felt a renewed calm.

“I must now look ahead, see now what lies before the legions. There is also this matter of escaped slaves roaming Kern. That will not do. They must be dealt with. There can be no further missteps or distractions.” Her eyes narrowed and then drifted over to the platform upon which Ardnor had lain of late; then she turned to her assistants. “I must cast unusual spells for all this, however.” Nephera gestured impatiently at the strange bundle lying atop the platform. “Remove that! It’s all used up. I need something fresh, younger … and more than one, likely.”

The two priestesses scurried to the platform. Despite their natural strength, the minotaurs had some trouble with their burden, for, though aged, this unfortunate had been of immense size when he still breathed—which was only a short time ago.

Nephera let her fingers stir ripples in the vision. “Have the guards hide it somewhere—somewhere better this time, preferably where fire will claim and destroy it.” She watched as, in the image, the banner of the warhorse flew past. A slight smile escaped her. “We don’t want to trouble my husband with bothersome details. After all, he has so much on his mind.”

Captain Botanos entered the cabin, his grim expression hinting at bad news. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Jubal, the former imperial governor turned rebel leader, looked up from the charts he had been studying. None of them offered him any miracle solution to their problem. The rebels were counting on him to take over the leadership from Rahm, whom they had revered, but he felt like an old, weary warrior too long on the battlefield. Everywhere he looked on the map, they were being flanked or hounded or boxed in by the imperial fleet. There was only one forsaken possibility …

Nolhan and some of the others had begun to openly question his authority, and there had been outbreaks of frustration, violence, and near mutiny on several of the ships.

The rebellion was collapsing in on itself.

Jubal suddenly recalled Captain Botanos, staring at him. “What’s the worst this time?”

“The hull,” the heavyset mariner responded without hesitation. “Took on more damage from the battle than first estimated. Those temporary patches we’ve been making for the past weeks won’t last. It can be fixed, but it’ll take some trouble. Without a dock, the workers’ll have to take turns in the water. That’ll be more dangerous of course, and less reliable. Also we’d need to venture out and cut some wood to replace sections.”

Ears flat, Jubal asked, “Is the ship truly salvageable?”

Captain Botanos looked horrified. His chest swelled as he hurried to defend his beloved vessel. “The Crest? Aye! How can you ask? She’s the finest ship ever built! Just needs a little fixin’. I’ll get her in shape, I swear it!”

“But how long will it take, and is it worth the bother?”

Botanos quieted, his ears also flattening. “Longer than either you or I like but it’s worth everything to me and the men.”

“We can’t float around here forever,” Jubal rasped. “That scout ship escaped us. It’ll warn Nethosak!”

Just when they had thought themselves safe, lulling in an uninhabited cove on the north side of a small, obscure island, a single-sailed Imperial ship had come upon them. The Dragon’s Crest and its two sister ships had given a good chase, and should have run the enemy down, but the scout had managed to skirt shallow rocky areas that the rebels were forced to sail around. Never once had the imperial been within catapult or ballista range.

“It can be done fast. I swear on my ancestors.”

“Let us hope so,” Jubal said with a sigh. He leaned back, eyes shifting to one chart. “Of all the places to go … Kern.”

“Not so bad here. Trees and all. And we can thank the throne for the ogres being preoccupied! They’re all west of Kernen, battering away at the humans or the elves’ godforsaken shield.”

That did not mean that the region was devoid of danger, but the Dragon’s Crest seemed to have little choice where to land.

“Very well. Alert the other captains. And if we’re going to stay around here much longer, then I’m going to take a party and head inland,” Jubal said decisively. “Scout the area and bring back fresh meat maybe.” He pointed at the map, where lush green gave way to a dry brown. “We’ll go no farther than that then turn back.”

Botanos nodded, eyes calculating. “Captain Zeen aboard the Vulture has some skilled shipbuilders aboard. I’ll ask him to send them over. With luck, I can have the Crest ready by the time you return from your hunting expedition, governor.”

“I pray that’s so.”

“We’ll not let you down.” The gargantuan mariner saluted Jubal then left the senior minotaur to his own work.

Botanos would do his utmost to keep his promise, Jubal was certain of that. However, Nethosak would dispatch a fresh fleet the moment they heard the rebels were in the area, and Jubal suspected Lord Bastion would lead those returning to the hunt.

Trying not to be pessimistic, Jubal again studied the map of Kern. The nearest known settlement was several days away. Botanos was likely correct; the ogres would give them little trouble. He had more to fear from the relentless Lord Bastion.

The minotaur war machine ground on into Silvanesti … and at last encountered its first true resistance.

The Wyvern legionaries at the front never heard the swift rain of tiny shafts fired at them from the brown-leafed trees ahead. They fell almost in unison, several scratching at their throats and heads with their taloned gloves as they sought to yank out the wooden needles. Unfortunately, the venom used by the kirath was so potent that most died while still on their feet.

The attackers retreated out of range then set up a new ambush. Maritia and the other legion commanders soon understood why. Scouts reported a larger elven settlement, one that surely housed at least several hundred of the enemy—just ahead.

“Nothing on this damned map,” muttered Orcius, crumpling the imperial chart. “Precious few settlements marked on this map.”

Maritia gazed at the map that Galdar had provided to them. “ ‘Mina’ has something marked: Valsolonost, The Place of the Perfect Sun, according to ‘her.’ ” She smoothed out the crumpled map and put it away, sliding her helmet down over her eyes. “Whatever its elven title, I hereby rename it First Grave of the Elves.”

Drawing her sword, Maritia ordered the legions forward.

Forest blanketed this part of Silvanesti as it did the rest, but more and more they saw that many of the trees were sick, others long dead, making easier the task of those who labored to clear the path for the cavalry, catapults, and ballistae.

The elves were not without cunning means. As the legions converged, the tree homes of their foes tantalizingly near, the very ground gave way in places. Hardened legionaries snatched at the crumbling earth, desperately seeking handholds. Several riders from the Direhounds, eager to be the first to enter the elven settlement, tumbled with their mounts into the sudden abysses.

But despite the losses of more than one hundred soldiers, the minotaurs regrouped with precision and calculation. Prepared for treacherous crossings, specialists quickly felled several huge trunks, and cleared new paths to avoid the gaps.

The ballistae crawled forward, though the catapults stayed put. Crews rapidly prepared the larger war machines for firing, while drivers hurried the others to better vantage points.

The pale silver and white banner of the Snowhawks moved up to a rise overlooking the settlement. Three lines of a hundred archers arranged their positions, and in seconds the expert archers fired off a volley of death, not into the city itself, but into the shadowed trees shielding Valsolonost.

Four times the archers fired, adjusting their aim as commanded by their captain. The badge-wearing officer, his short horsetail crest dangling behind as he pushed his helmet back for a better view, adjusted the marks after each wave of arrows.

As soon as the last volley was fired, the legionaries pushed across the gaps over hastily made clearings and makeshift bridges.

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

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

And then … the catapults fired.

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

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

Only then did the legions march.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elf said nothing.

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

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

“Aye, my lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As with all else, they had been painted crimson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

The riders urged the huge beasts in opposite directions, quickly pulling the chains tight. This prisoner had the ability to scream … and scream he did. His arms and legs were stretched beyond their limits. His cries echoed throughout the valley.

Those watching roared and shouted and encouraged the mastarks. The handlers beat at their mounts.

Moments later, the prisoner’s pitiable cries suddenly ceased.

Golgren’s followers gave a collective cheer. Ogres swatted one another on the back and laughed at the mastarks’ cruelty.

Donnag himself roared merrily, then shouted at one of his own warriors. The ogre slipped into the carriage, emerging a moment later with a golden chalice. He trotted up to the Lord Chieftain, who accepted the valuable relic.

“Ilra by tuum,” the elder ogre grinned, patting his left arm and pointing to the torn and bloody remains of the prisoner. “Ilra by tuum orna, ke, i’Golgreni!”

Golgren graciously accepted the payment for the wager he had won. On the field, the guards gathered the body parts for disposal.

Golgren had Belgroch guide the aging Lord Chieftain to the tower for a proper meal to celebrate his visit. But as Golgren turned to follow, he spotted a rider coming in hard from the east. The rider must be carrying news of the greatest importance … and his expression was one that did not please the Grand Lord.

“Uruv Suurt,” Golgren said to himself, his countenance darkening. He stared past the rider, toward the distant mountains where the mines were located. He was not in the mood for more bad news.

“Uruv Suurt … nkya i f’han …” Golgren muttered, baring his sharp teeth. “F’han.…”

He sensed her presence as she neared in the form of a chill wind. Hotak looked up, with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. He mastered his apprehension, telling himself that the foul rumors he had heard were only that—rumors.

“My love,” Hotak said, rising from his study of the grand campaign map. “This is a rare pleasure.”

As ever, his wife seemed to almost glide, rather than walk. Lady Nephera glanced from her husband to the relief map spread over the vast table and then back to him. “We are not so unalike, my husband. You spend your time worshipping this map.”

Her comment was uncomfortably close to the truth; he had even slept in the planning room this past night. “Matters are heating up,” the emperor explained apologetically. “In addition to the various theaters of operation, I’ve had to coddle the Merchant’s League with assurances that the additional demands I’ve placed on production will not cause a sudden shortage of raw materials for the everyday needs of the empire. You’ve no idea how short-sighted the leading merchants can be.”

She walked slowly around the table, stopping on the opposite side. Leaning over, Nephera studied the various pieces on the map.

“The array of your forces must be corrected.” Before he could reply, she gestured with her index finger at those perched just before the border of Silvanesti. The charging minotaur warriors slid west, continuing until they stood firmly on elven territory.

Eye widening, Hotak gripped the edge of the table; in his stunned excitement he cracked the wood. “Can this be true?”

“Do you doubt my word?”

“No … no, of course not!” He came around to her side of the table, the better to see the Silvanesti area. “What resistance has my army encountered? How far have they penetrated into the elven kingdom?”

“Maritia will fill you in on the mundane details, my husband. The ship from Sargonath is even now docking, carrying missives from her. I can tell you this, they have conquered the nearest elven city with only minor casualties—I mean to the legions, of course.” Nephera abruptly glanced to her left, nodding as if hearing something. An expression that might have been sympathy flickered across her hooded features. “Oh, forgive me. I meant to inform you—General Orcius has left his mortal shell.”

“Orcius?” Hotak’s nostrils flared. “Damn!”

“He now serves through a greater power, my husband, rest assured of that.”

“I’d rather he were on this earth, leading on the field of battle.” The emperor held up a message he had just received, before his wife’s arrival. “And this communiqué? Can you tell me more about this situation, as well?”

The high priestess showed a thin smile. She had not read the message, but she could tell him. “Yes, a rebel ship sails near the northern peninsula. Governor Jubal of Gol is aboard it.”

“Jubal? Jubal?” Hotak eyed the spot on the map where the black ship had been placed. “The Dragon’s Crest?”

“Yes. The same.”

Hotak picked up the piece, imagining it to be the real vessel, and closed his grip on it tightly. “Catching that ship and capturing the governor will put an end to the rebellion.”

She nodded, her eyes unblinking. Nephera stared at her husband as intently as he stared at the ship figurine in the palm of his hand. “Yes, whoever claims that capture will be much honored.”

“True,” thoughtfully returned the emperor, replacing the piece on the map. His gaze fixed on it. “As is only right.”

“Send Ardnor.”

“Ardnor?” He looked up, startled by her suggestion. “Send Ardnor on this mission?”

“He is deserving of your trust. You told him you desired him to become more a part of the throne. Give him this chance to show you his mettle.”

“Ardnor.” Hotak repeated. “I suppose it would be right.”

Coming around the table toward him, Nephera stepped up closer to her mate. Despite her gauntness, despite her wide, unmoving eyes, despite the fact that her beauty was somehow corrupted these days, Hotak glowed with a smile. He inhaled, imagining the lavender scent that had always attended her … until recently.

“I will return,” the empress whispered to him. Nephera reached up with her hand, ran her fingers over his one ruined eye. “Once, I offered to make whole that which you lost—”

Hotak gently seized her hand, removing it from the old wound. “No.”

“As you wish.” Looking past him, nodding to silent spectators, the high priestess then slipped from Hotak’s grasp and headed to the door. “I will keep you apprised.”

When she had left, Hotak had the uncomfortable feeling of a crowded hall suddenly emptying. Alone, his senses returned to normal. He pondered her suggestion in a more considered fashion. There were pluses and minuses.

And if he were to send Ardnor on such a critical mission, the minuses outweighed the pluses.

“No … no, my love, it simply can’t be done. Not for this mission. Jubal and the Dragon’s Crest must be taken care of properly. Bastion’ll handle it with more experience.”

He glanced around the map, trying to find something of seeming importance for his eldest son to do and noticed Sargonath.

Yes, a new shipment of supplies was being urgently dispatched to the Grand Lord Golgren. Why not have Ardnor lead that mission? The importance of satisfying the ogre pact, and keeping the ogre army well stocked, could scarcely be denied. The vital supply mission would prove how much he loved and trusted his eldest.

“Yes … Ardnor to Sargonath and Bastion to northern Kern.” He seized the gold ship that had been his younger son’s and another identical figurine. The first he placed near the peninsula, the other to the west. The emperor nodded. “Yes, the empire’s needs come first. She’ll just have to understand.”

Despite his orders, General Argotos had no intention of waiting for ogres to join his campaign. They were beasts, without proper military behavior. Small wonder that the escaped minotaur slaves had been able to take such advantage of their weaknesses. Argotos admired the courage of the escaped miners even though he intended to slaughter them all. He had to end their existence, erase the example they set; it was for the good of the empire. He would make his apologies to the emperor and the Lady Maritia after the fact … likely just before they decorated him.

Argotos was a wide, thick-snouted minotaur whose left horn curled slightly. He wore jagged scars all over his face, some of which he had intentionally carved. As commander of the Dragonsbane Legion, Argotos had earned a reputation as an officer who would throw himself into combat alongside his soldiers.

Today Argotos rode at the head of a crack legion, eyeing the landscape for any sign of the minotaur renegades.

“General,” called one of his aides. “Scouts approaching.”

Argotos squinted, seeing the two riders making haste toward the long, winding column. Good—they had spotted something.

The two gasped for breath as they pulled up. Both were dressed in brown cloth tunics, the better to blend into the dismal, dusty landscape of this part of Kern. Underneath, they wore some light chain mail, just in case they ran into trouble.

“Just a-ahead,” the elder, weathered female announced. “It’s scattered all along a side trail.”

“What is? Have the damned ogres beaten us to the brigands?”

Only the general and his senior staff knew the truth: they were hunting escaped minotaur slaves. The legionaries had the idea that they were chasing minotaur rebels and pirates. That these minotaurs had been sold into their slavery by the emperor was a state secret. Every one of the ex-slaves had to die.

“No, general!” the female replied with a vigorous shake of her head. “We think it’s the escort from the original caravan.”

“Hmm?” Argotos felt some disappointment. The ogre escort had not been heard from for some time; he already suspected that they had been attacked and overcome. There were two legion officers among them; no doubt they were all slain.

Well, at least his men would see that they weren’t on any picnic. The killing of the legion officers, in particular, would stoke their fury.

“All right, lead on.”

The righteous ex-slaves had shown the ogres no mercy, and for good measure, someone had propped up a number of their heads. Argotos chuckled as he gazed at the dried, picked-over skulls.

“How this must’ve shook up the damned beastmen.”

The legion marched down the trail of destruction, the soldiers eyeing the gnawed, drying, and mangled corpses scattered around. Little was left on the bodies. Some evinced tattered animal skins and rusted bits of metal. All were beheaded.

Some in the ranks muttered vengefully as they moved among the dead. Like Argotos, the minotaur soldiers had no fondness for ogres, even now that their fabled adversaries were allies. Still, they had been told that the perpetrators of this atrocity were interfering with the rightful destiny of the minotaur empire, and this sight had stirred them; they vowed to find those responsible.

The heat baked the legionaries, though the Dragonsbane had trained and fought in such harsh lands before. The oppressive heat, the dust, the harsh wind, nothing really would impede them. Minotaur soldiers fought well, wherever they met their enemies.

Never mind that much minotaur blood would flow.

“The other scouts return,” one of Argotos’s officers said, pointing at the nearby mountains to the northeast.

“Let’s hope they have something to report.” Argotos noticed a peculiarity off to the side of the trail. Someone had tried to conceal all traces of their handiwork, but the winds had uncovered something. “Is that the remains of a pyre over there? Tell the first treverian to send out a contingent to investigate that area.”

“Aye, general.”

As the officer rode off, the other scouts arrived. Saluting, the senior one reported, “Traces of two encampments, one several weeks older than the other. Looks to me like they’re moving all around, general, circling, deviating, even backtracking.”

“Shrewd tactics. Estimates?”

“Several hundred at least, probably more than a thousand, but not as many as a legion.”

Argotos snorted. “Hardly worth a chase. But it shouldn’t be too difficult running down these renegades.” The general looked up at the sky; soon it would be dark. “Too late to reach the mountains. We’ll set up camp just north of here. If they are looking for us, they’ll find us in the open. If they are waiting for us in the mountains, we’re wise to tarry here, and tomorrow, at dawn, we can pick up their trail—”

His words were cut off as a sudden movement in that very direction caught his attention. There were no more scouts out.…

One of his other officers pointed. “General! Ogres!”

“They don’t move like ogres,” said another.

“Form ranks!” commanded Argotos, now standing alert in the saddle. “Sound warning! I want battle formation now!”

Horns blared. Metal clanked against metal as the seasoned legionaries swiftly shifted to create a living wall whose bulk and number was intended to overpower the force heading toward them. Lances were thrust forward. The cavalry readied to ride down the enemy, while archers prepared for the volleys that would precede any charge. Catapult and ballistae crews tugged the hulking weapons into position.

By now it was clear that the Dragonsbane legion was being charged not by ogres, but by a shouting force of minotaurs.

“The rebels!” snarled one soldier. Others grunted their hatred for those who still followed the cause of the late, despised, deposed Chot.

“Let them get close,” Argotos muttered. “Then let loose with everything!”

But as the attacking minotaurs neared, what had looked like a small cohesive unit appeared to splinter into a ragtag group of drawn, weathered figures, some of whom clearly could not have made it this far without their thick-legged ogre steeds or some aid from their companions. There were even nonminotaurs among them.

“Ha!” General Argotos snorted to his officers. “What a pathetic bunch! They’ll hardly make our legionaries sweat!”

“What orders, sir?” asked his second, with an eager expression.

But then the renegades did something that left the general scratching his head. As he and the others watched, instead of advancing … the ragged army of ex-slaves lowered their weapons.

“What by the Horned One are they doing?” mouthed Argotos.

A young, pale brown male with piercing eyes stepped to the front of the enemy. He studied the vast array of well-armed warriors spread out against him, almost with disinterest.

The general opened his mouth, about to order an attack.

He clamped it shut again, unable to believe his eyes.

Seemingly unmindful of the certain death that awaited him if he attacked, the leader bent down and set his sword on the ground.

As one, those behind followed his lead. As the weapons clattered on the hard earth, the legionaries looked at each other in perplexity.

“They’re surrendering without a fight!” blurted a hekturion.

“Impossible!” roared the commander. Argotos preferred to simply wipe them out, but against his own kind, especially those who had just surrendered, such an action was surely dishonorable.

And honor was deeply instilled in Emperor Hotak’s legions.

All but the light brown leader lowered themselves as best they could onto one knee. Those who rode dismounted, keeping one hand on the reins as they knelt. Several of the injured and infirm had obvious difficulty kneeling, but determinedly did so.

The leader lowered his horns to the side. The other ex-slaves did the same.

“ ’Tis an honorable surrender,” someone uttered.

“Belay that!” roared Argotos. The general rubbed the underside of his muzzle, eyes swirling with frustration.

And then, the light brown figure with the piercing eyes again seized the initiative. Cautiously rising to his feet, the leader of these desperate minotaurs and other renegades surveyed the opposing line, seeming to stare into the eyes of every legionary.

He raised his arms to show his lack of weapons then took five steps toward the waiting legionaries. He paused, keeping his arms wide and seeming to boast of the display of countless scars over his chest. Someone had tortured this minotaur greatly.

“Our lives are yours!”

The words echoed. Several legionaries shifted nervously.

His voice almost devoid of emotion, the leader added, “Our deaths are yours!”

“General,” muttered Argotos’s second. “Should we—”

“I’m thinking!”

“But if he—”

Argotos glared at the officer. “Why should we trust him? He’s a renegade!” The general huffed and snorted then, with low growl, added, “Give the signal for the archers to ready a volley!”

Almost immediately, the horns sounded. The attackers were within range. Argotos watched the archers prepare to fire.

But seemingly undaunted by the certainty of his death, the rabble’s commander actually stepped nearer. He now stared directly at the archers, almost taunting them by exposing himself.

A few minotaurs behind him stirred anxiously. One near the front made what Argotos recognized from his youth as the sign of Sargonnas. “You’ll receive no aid from that one,” the general quietly mocked. In a louder voice, he called, “Archers … ready!”

The bows went up. The archers pulled tight.

And still the fool did not turn and run. Instead, a grim smile played across his taut features. Ignoring the scores of shafts aimed his way, he said to the legion, “We surrender to the will of the empire … we surrender to the same empire of the usurper Hotak, that gave us into slavery to our masters of old!”

That was more than enough for General Argotos. “Fire!”

The horns sounded. Argotos steeled himself for the hiss of hundreds of arrows streaking accurately toward their marks.

But from the ranks, there came only dozens of shots, and among those most scattered harmlessly. Bolts were shot in every direction, as if Dragonsbane had for its archers a regiment of drunken gully dwarves, instead of skilled veteran warriors.

A few did fly true, dropping down to strike the ragtag army. Some of the kneeling throng cried out. A few fell, clearly wounded or dead. The behavior of the archers was disconcerting to Argotos, more so the resolute defiance of the renegades. Some moved to aid those who had been struck down, but other than that no one budged and no one retreated. They all stared ahead, waiting.

Waiting for their deaths.

And in the forefront, mere yards before the legionaries, the young minotaur with the fatalistic look on his face, the piercing eyes, stood surrounded—and untouched—by a dozen or so bolts that had gone amiss. Some had hit the ground inches from him.

Again without tone or expression, he said, “There’s proof for those uncertain. Each of us before you bears the mark of the ogre. Each of us bears the brand of eternal shame. You know of it. You know its look.” He twisted his shoulder toward them. “It’s here for any of you to see—the scars of the alliance.”

General Argotos opened his mouth to give another order to attack, but grumblings and mutterings arose before he could spout his directive. He turned his furious gaze toward the source.

Everywhere, these well-honed, seasoned, and loyal warriors were talking in low voices among themselves. They pointed at the kneeling figures, some arguing heatedly. A few legionaries gestured at their own shoulders and one actually started forward.

“Stand your positions! Discipline in the ranks!” roared a beefy hekturion. With the flat of his ax, he beat the one soldier back into line. His shouts were taken up by other officers, and some degree of order was swiftly restored to the Dragonsbane Legion.

General Argotos looked among his aides. “Captain Sarnol!”

A young, athletic minotaur with a long snout urged his mount to the general. Argotos pointed at the light brown figure and commanded, “You’re an expert archer! Shoot that one down!”

“But, general! He’s unarmed! It would be shameful! A disgraceful—”

Bristling, Argotos snorted, “We are under orders from the emperor! If you won’t shoot him, then ride up and challenge him! Make him take up his sword! He wants to die! Let him!”

“Aye … general.…” With painful reluctance, Sarnol turned his horse toward the opposition. Urging his mount on, he raced toward his adversary. As the captain neared him, he drew his ax. With a less-than-enthusiastic war cry, he swung the weapon twice over his head, a clear challenge to the leader of the renegades.

Yet, with a continued expression of detachment, the lone figure left his sword in the dirt and instead turned slightly to the side. He leaned his shoulder toward the oncoming legionary.

Seeing that the minotaur was not making any move to defend himself, Sarnol hesitated. He reined in his mount as he neared then cautiously lowered his weapon. He muttered something to the standing figure, flourishing the ax menacingly, to no avail.

His foe simply continued to present his scarred shoulder.

“What in the name of the emperor is that fool doing?” The general looked to his other officers, but they had no answer.

Then, a collective gasp from his legionaries made Argotos quickly return his glance to the two sparring minotaurs.

Captain Sarnol, his expression bitter, threw down his ax.

Sarnol turned to his fellow warriors, to his general, and cried out, “I won’t fight him! I won’t fight this one!”

As a rumble of agreement rolled through Dragonsbane, General Argotos’s eyes grew crimson with fury. Captain Sarnol gestured at the other minotaur’s shoulder and shouted for all to hear.

“ ’Tis there! The broken horns the ogres’ve always mocked our kind with! No minotaur would brand himself so!” He looked hard at Argotos now. “I’ll not fight one betrayed to the beasts by one of our own … not even if the betrayer be the emperor himself!”

“Ganth!” Argotos bellowed to another of his staff. “Sarnol is a traitor to the imperium! Deal with him then the fool! Now!”

“Aye, general!” Where Sarnol had forgotten his place, dark-furred Ganth did not. Drawing his own ax, he charged his former compatriot.

Sarnol drew his sword, waiting. Ganth waved his axe wildly as he rode toward him. Sarnol kept himself and his mount in front of the slave leader, determined not to let Ganth pass.

Ganth was not only larger than Sarnol, but his ax out-reached any sword. Sarnol lunged, trying to get under the other’s guard, but his moves were awkward. Sarnol clearly did not want to fight his comrade. He shouted something at Ganth then waved him away.

The second legionary roared in reply and swung with all his might. He caught Sarnol in the neck, the ax biting deep. The stricken warrior twisted, but the wound was mortal. The sword flew from his hand, landing at the feet of a pair of soldiers in the line.

The traitorous legionary tumbled off his horse, collapsing in a tangled heap just short of the one he had sought to protect.

Startled shouts erupted from not only the ranks of legionaries, but also the army of escaped slaves. Once again the archers nocked arrows.

Sarnol already forgotten, Ganth turned on his main quarry. The figure continued to stand motionless, inviting the legionary to attack at will.

“General!” called one of the officers beside Argotos. His ears hung flat. “This is all wrong! Honor demands that we—”

“Be still or face arrest!”

“This is not right!” agreed another.

With the flat of his ax blade, the raging legion commander turned and struck the impudent officer square in the chest. The clang of metal against metal reverberated, and the force of the blow sent the minotaur officer tumbling from his mount.

But a louder protest arose among his troops. Minotaurs who had fought side by side for years now barked and snarled at one another, some shoving hard at those who disagreed with them.

And as Ganth loomed over his victim, one of the archers fired.

“Hold there! Not now!” But Argotos’s warning came too late.

The shaft caught Ganth at the base of his skull, slipping in perfectly between the helmet and back plate. Ganth’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he dropped his ax. One hand reached to pull the arrow free … and that was as much as the legionary could do before death claimed him. He slumped forward on his mount, which then bolted, racing past the rebel leader without pause.

Argotos blinked. There could be no doubt that the deadly shot had not been accidental. Ganth had been the target.

Ax in hand, the same hekturion who had called for order earlier strode toward the archer. But before he could reach his goal, two soldiers stepped forward to block his way.

“Stand aside!” the hekturion commanded. Pointing at the archer, he roared, “That one is under arrest!”

“Enough of this farce!” General Argotos waved his ax toward the lone figure. “Slay him! Slay the malcontents! Slay them all now! That is an order! Anyone who disobeys faces execution!”

Some of his legionaries started forward, while others moved to prevent them from obeying Argotos’s orders. The hekturion tried to push past the two protecting the archer, only to have one of them shove him away. Nearby, three loyal warriors turned on one who had refused to obey, only to have several others come to the latter’s rescue. The perfect lines swiftly deteriorated.

“I want order! Order restored!” the general shouted to his staff. “Now! Go!”

Drawing their own weapons, the wary officers spread out. They rode among the soldiers and tried to aid the hekturions and dekarians. Yet, despite their presence—or because of it—matters only seemed to worsen. Shouting matches broke out everywhere. Some legionaries threw down their weapons in disgust, while others waved theirs at those they deemed traitors.

Then, the loyal hekturion, his eyes inflamed, struck at one of those who had defied him. His ax dug deep, cutting not only metal, but also the chest of the soldier. With a startled grunt, the legionary fell to his knees, one hand on the gaping wound. But another legionary stepped forward, teeth bared, and thrust his sword into the hekturion’s throat. The hekturion fell back dead.

And as a disbelieving Argotos watched, his legion fell upon itself.

Caught up in the pandemonium, the mounted officers struggled to survive. Soldiers pulled officers from their steeds, dragging them down. A snorting hekturion trying to whip his soldiers back into line received an ax blow that nearly took off his arm. As he fell to one knee, his attackers leaped upon him, swarming.

“Sound the horns!” shouted Dragonsbane’s commander. “Give the order to stand down!”

A trumpeter raised his horn—only to be pulled from his saddle. General Argotos suddenly found himself having to fend off a pair of soldiers, including a dekarian, he dully noted, who had served loyally under him for years. Everywhere legionaries fought legionaries instead of the rabble that they had come to destroy.

The last vestiges of order vanished. A free-for-all reigned.

With a roar of frustration, the general rode in among his traitorous troops. He swung left and right with the ax, cutting down any who turned to confront him. Blood of his own troops spattered his shining breastplate, and their blades tore his cloak to ribbons. Argotos pushed his mount on, shouting and swinging his axe. Eyes crimson, he plunged deep into the melee with reckless abandon.

But for each traitor he killed, two more joined against him. The battle was so dense with combatants that his trained warhorse proved ineffectual. Again and again he took wounds.

His mount’s legs collapsed. The general tumbled off. Gasping for breath, his legs feeling numb, he tried to fend off the numerous grasping hands, the sharp blades.

His ax was ripped from his hands. Someone struck him across the face with a broken sword, tearing a monstrous gash in his muzzle. Vision blurring, General Argotos reached for his dagger just as a fresh array of blades came whirling at him.…

Calmly Faros watched the general’s fate, and then calmly picked up his sword.

His action signaled his followers. Quickly making the sign of Sargonnas, Grom picked up his ax and stepped alongside Faros. An ogre slave followed close behind, two half-elves trailing. A sudden wave of fighters advanced to form ranks behind Faros.

Faros watched the battle for a moment more. Then, his blade drawn and his free hand twisted as if holding the accursed whip … he led the charge.

There was no easy way to tell who was friend and who was foe among the soldiers. The first legionary who faced Faros gazed solemnly at him for a moment before nodding and moving on.

However, the second legionary tried to cut Faros down with his ax. His swing went wild, and his helmet slipped. For his loyalty to his general and his emperor, Faros rewarded him with a quick stroke through the neck.

One catapult crew sought to put its weapon into play against Faros’s force, but a wave of insurgent soldiers overcame the loyalists. Under the guidance of a dekarian who had torn his badge off, the renegade legionaries seized the huge siege machine, and with the strength only minotaurs could muster, they shoved at it, finally turning it over and smashing it to pieces.

All around Faros, the fighting raged. He heard the thunder of hooves and leaped aside just in time, avoiding the swing of a razor-sharp long sword. Turning, he confronted a female figure in a crested helm who was wearing the circular, blue-edged badge that marked her as a treverian, one of the higher officers.

“This is your doing, filth!” Her face contorted with fury. “Well, you’ll not live to spread your taint further!” With a snarl, she sliced at his head.

Faros rolled away, the edge of her blade striking against one of his horns. He came up in a crouching position as she steered her mount around for another attack. Faros stabbed at the animal’s flank and was rewarded with a deep cut and a shrill cry.

The horse stumbled. Only expert handling by the legion officer kept both her and the horse from tumbling. Pulling hard on the reins, the treverian forced her mount up and around again.

Soldiers and slaves poured into the gap between them, momentarily cutting off the two foes. Faros caught his breath.

Then the gap reopened. Eyes afire, the treverian tried to ride Faros down once more. Her horse was in a frenzy due to its wound.

But this time, Faros stood his ground. He waited until the horse was nearly upon him then leaped. Avoiding its snapping teeth, he clutched the horse’s thick neck with one arm and sank his blade into the animal.

As the steed slumped dead, Faros pushed himself to the side. The legion officer jumped from the saddle, landing atop him.

The two adversaries rolled and rolled. They were nearly trampled by the fighting that surged over them. The treverian, who had lost her helmet during the battle, managed to hold Faros down while she planted one hand on his throat, reaching for a dagger.

Faros hit her hard on the temple. The legionary fell to the side, landing on her stomach. Her blade went skittering away.

Quickly, Faros knelt over the soldier and struck her in the back of the neck. When the treverian tried to push herself up, he struck her again. The second time, Faros heard bone crack. The treverian grunted, shivered, and then lay still.

A hand came to his aid as he rose to his knees. Sure enough, it was Grom, who quickly ascertained that Faros was all right.

“Praise be! No deep wounds! The Horned One ever stands at your side!”

Faros snorted. He surveyed the fighting. There were only pockets of violence remaining, and the insurgents held sway.

Smoke rose from the outer perimeter of the struggle. More than one of the catapults was wreathed in flames.

“Faros! We’ve got to stop the fires! We could use those weapons!”

“And drag them around everywhere?” Faros shook his head. “We move swifter without them. Let them burn.”

Shouts caught their attention. Several of the insurgent soldiers were arguing with a group of the freed slaves. Both sides in the dispute were brandishing their weapons.

Faros marched over. “What is it? What’s the problem?”

A half-elf with a bloody cut along his tapering nose explained. “We do as we’ve always done, Lord Faros! Cut off the heads to set on display—”

“Our comrades will not be so dishonored!” snapped the veteran legionary. “We fought for what we believe is a cause of honor, but they felt the same! They deserve better than this—”

“Give them a pyre, then,” Faros replied with little interest. “Do what you wish, but do it quickly.”

The ease with which he had settled the matter completely silenced the soldiers. The officer, a hekturion by his dented badge, finally bent his horns low. “We follow you now, Lord Faros.”

“What about the prisoners?” asked one of the slaves.

The pale brown minotaur snorted. His eyes darted to the east, then back again to those with him. “Execute them,” Faros said offhandedly. His gaze swept over the legionaries new to his command. “Execute them or deal with them in your own way. Your fate and those of everyone here depend on how you deal with them.”

“But—” the hekturion began. Faros, however, had moved on with Grom in tow.

“By Sargas, a clever solution!” whispered Grom. “Prove their loyalty. Make them take the responsibility. Further binding them to our cause.”

“I’ve no cause.” Faros’s free hand remained curled and his eyes again glanced east. “None at all. And you would do well to remember that, Grom.”

He purposely turned away from the other minotaur and walked off alone.

Grom made the sign of Sargas then turned back, as he always did, to see to the dead.

They came on foot, by horse and by wagon—especially by wagon, for with them they brought all that would be necessary to survive—no, to thrive.

The crossed axes and silhouetted throne of Clan Bregan’s banner accompanied the head of the column; behind them rode the green ship sailing the blue field with the mark of House Athak. Seven different banners fluttered high over the unique caravan; these minotaurs were sent not to fight, but to build, to farm … to take the next step in erasing Silvanesti and creating Ambeon.

The legionaries who had fought to earn this right eyed the newcomers with something less than camaraderie. Several snorted in outright contempt, while others clutched their weapons tightly.

The bulk of the caravan consisted of former warriors, those who had lost limbs or been stricken by the plague and been left wasted. They did not wear the breastplates of the legion, but rather gray tunics that overlapped their cloth kilts. Most owned daggers, even carried swords or axes, but more visible were the staffs upon which they leaned, the packs they hefted over their shoulders … which contained all their belongings.

Not all in the column of colonizers were maimed or aged. The minotaur oaths of marriage still binding, many brought their mates with them. There were children, too, most of them healthy, but mostly young, some barely able to walk. The elder children of the colonizers had been adopted by their clans, who would find adults to foster them. They would be raised with no stigma. Those who stayed with the column would be offered the same chance of adoption when they reached the first year of battle training, the age of four.

At the head of the column rode the only figure conspicuously clad in armor. He was missing his entire right arm, and the front third of his muzzle was skewed where the same ax that had taken his limb had nearly cut off part of his face. His breastplate still bore the red condor upon it, though time had thinned out the long horsehair crest.

It would have been General Orcius’s task to meet the column, but as he had not yet been replaced, Lady Maritia made a show of it. As colonization was her father’s vision, she needed to give the newcomers legitimacy in front of the hardened legionaries.

The scarred officer slapped a three-fingered fist against his breastplate as Maritia approached. His fur had not only turned mostly gray, she noted, but also was thinning badly.

“My lady! I am First Treverian Traginorni Es-Athak, in command of the column! My greetings to you!”

After he had dipped his chipped horns in respect to her, Maritia nodded. “You are close in blood to Admiral Cinmac?”

“The patriarch is my younger brother. It is by his blessing I’ve been awarded this command.” The admiral was one of Hotak’s most ardent supporters in the inner circle. He was also one of the youngest patriarchs in the long history of the minotaur race.

“I’m acquainted with your esteemed brother,” she responded. “When you see him again, by all means give him my regards.”

Trag’s mutilated face twisted shamefully. “I-I … will not be seeing him soon. I’m permanently attached to this mission.”

“Your appointment is a good choice by your brother and my father.” Trag was known as a competent officer, who would be of little use back in the homeland. By putting the crippled officer in charge of the colonization, Cinmac had allowed Trag to save face while moving him away from public scrutiny in imperial Nethosak.

Trag squinted, his watery eyes taking in what little remained of the first conquered elven settlement. “So this is.…”

“It was called Valsolonost, but I’ve renamed it Orcinath in honor of General Orcius, who courageously gave his life here.”

“Aaah.…” The treverian dipped his horns in tribute to the fallen general. “A worthy officer to honor.” He glanced at the legionaries who had surrounded them, gawking uneasily. “We shall do our part to make the new minotaur colony worthy of him.”

Already the colonizers had begun to decamp, to break out supplies and equipment. They unloaded huge saws and axes for cutting down the forest; squat barrels of pitch; fat, wide-handled bellows of the type used by smiths; iron-tipped hoes; and more. The supplies filled what had once been the square of the elven city.

Trag looked approvingly at their efficiency. The colonizers received no aid from the legion soldiers, and they desired none. Despite missing limbs and other flaws, they worked methodically, with the discipline Maritia would have expected from her own.

The one-armed treverian glanced her way. In a slightly hesitant voice, he asked, “Your force … it’ll stay here long?”

Annoyance flared in Hotak’s daughter’s eyes, but not because of Trag. “According to plan, we march in twain. We will advance to a few days south of here. There we’re supposed to hold and wait.”

“But Silvanost beckons.…”

“Yes … it does.” Silvanost, however, was to remain under Mina’s authority, according to Galdar. Reports indicated the Knights of Neraka who followed the renegade minotaur’s puppet already held sway in the capital. Maritia had fended off heated arguments with Generals Bakkor and Kalel—both of whom wished to proceed to the main elven city and rid it not only of its native inhabitants, but also the current invaders, too. Even the ogres, who were converging on Silvanost from the north, did not understand the necessity of waiting. On that issue, at least, the ogres were joined with the minotaurs; both preferred to keep moving.

Maritia herself desired it. Silvanost was the grand prize. It would be the new centerpiece of Ambeon, after the minotaurs had spread.

“We’ll stay here long enough to see that your people have things under control; then we’ll push forward to the next position.”

Trag eyed her strangely. “Orcinath will be rebuilt according to your father’s dictates.” Then Admiral Cinmac’s brother suddenly bowed his horns again. “If I may be permitted to leave you, I must give instructions to the colonizers.”

“You may go.”

He rode off in great haste, making Maritia frown. The treverian headed over to where a huge male was directing the unloading of a wagon of curved picks, blunt-nosed shovels, and other tools suitable for digging through hard stone. At first, Hotak’s daughter could discern only that the other minotaur wore a patch over one eye, but then he turned and Maritia almost gaped. His left arm appeared a tiny, withered thing that moved awkwardly, an obvious defect dating from his birth.

Her ears flattened. It was a wonder that his parents had allowed him to live.

Nostrils flaring, she turned her horse away. Bad enough that the legions were forced to advance so slowly, now they had to wait to supervise the colonizers … and seeing the new arrivals, she had fresh doubts about her father’s vision for conquering Ansalon.

“What were you thinking, father?” she muttered as she returned to her tent, near the western rim of Valsolonost. “What were you thinking?” she repeated to herself, imagining all the work and struggle to come. “It’ll never work.”

On the first day, the colonizers organized their supplies and gear and marked the first trees for cutting. Setting up a huge mess tent, they began to feed their fellows, and the smells that arose from their encampment stirred jealousy in the hearts of legionaries tired of jerky and other cured meats. When a few foolhardy soldiers tried to help themselves to some of the rabbit stew boiling in the large pots, they were beaten back by a group of colonizers whose duty it was to guard the goods and equipment.

On the second day, three framework structures at least fifteen feet high were erected on the eastern edge of the settlement. Lengthy and wide, they would become the flat-roofed communal houses where the colonizers would live temporarily. Other colonizers began charting the flow of the nearby river, seeing how the elves had shaped its flow and marking where they might change its course for better use by the much larger, more demanding population that would eventually fill Orcinath.

At the midpoint of the third day, one of the framework structures acquired a roof. A huge iron stove whose positioning required six of the strongest colonizers—three on each side bearing it as one would a royal litter—was filled with coal and wood. With a massive anvil and the largest of the bellows, the colonizers began using their new smithy to make and mend tools from the barrels of raw iron and copper they had brought with them.

Maritia found the treverian officer engaged in building the communal houses. One now had planks lining two of its walls. Peering at one seemingly healthy worker expertly filling the narrow cracks between the planks with a mixture of clay and other substances, Hotak’s daughter realized with a start that the colonizer was blind.

Trag, coming up to her, noticed her disconcerted expression.

“His touch is most expert, my lady. He’ll make certain that elements and vermin do not worm their way in through the walls.”

“You’ve done well for so short a period of time. I am impressed.”

He dipped his horns at her praise. “When they came and gave us our orders, they reminded us that there was no other place for our kind in the imperium. It gives us the incentive to succeed.” He proudly held up his muzzle. “We are still minotaurs, my lady.”

“Perhaps, then, I will insult you with my offering.”

“Hmm?” Trag peered past Maritia, his eyes suddenly noticing that a large group was huddled some distance behind her.

“Elves … my lady?”

Most made the colonizers appear hardy and healthy. Gaunt, extremely pale, and unwashed since their capture, the elves of Valsolonost stared wearily at their feet. Since the fall of the city, they had been given the tasks of clearing the dead and emptying the ruined homes of all valuables. For good measure, Maritia had commandeered the strongest of them to begin clearing land to the north for eventual habitation. There, over the centuries, they had created a garden of towering flowers of myriad colors, trees shaped like umbrellas, and shrubbery fashioned only by gentle touch into the various woodland forms supposedly inhabited by their former god, Branchala. Maritia ordered the land swept clean.

Tearing down the garden had been their final humiliation and despair. The elves knew now their gods had truly abandoned them.

“I doubt they’ve much skill at the anvil, or even at pounding a nail,” Trag said with a contemptuous grunt. He had a minotaur’s pride along with a disdain for the jaded, apathetic masters of Silvanesti. “Can’t imagine they could even cook meat well … they eat raw flowers or something, don’t they, my lady?”

Maritia shrugged. After a few days without food, she found the slaves had been willing to eat anything. “If you can’t use them for anything, maybe I’d be better off executing the whole bunch.”

Trag stared at the elves more intently. Maritia followed his gaze, but saw nothing exceptional. Even the kirath wore the same defeated looks as others of their race.

“They can dig,” the treverian announced. “Anyone can dig. Any animal can dig.”

“Dig what? Their graves?”

“Nay, my lady. We’ve found an excellent area south of the city for a quarry! We’ll need plenty of stone for the final building of Orcinath! Surely even elves can dig!”

Maritia frowned. “If you think so.”

“Excellent.” Trag’s ears twitched. “With the progress we are making, my lady, I don’t want to detain you here. Surely you may feel free to move on, with your soldiers.”

“I leave the slaves in your hands, then,” she replied with a nod. She looked him over. “I concur with you. The colonization is going well. We shall leave here in two or three days.”

He dipped his head.

She bid the treverian goodbye, aware that his eagerness to bid farewell to the legions spoke to the unspoken animosity between the colonizers and the soldiers. But she agreed: the sooner the two groups were separated, the better.

Still, despite her private distaste for the colonizers, she had to admit they did their work professionally. Maritia wondered what plans they had for rebuilding Silvanost to suit the empire.

But … they might never have that opportunity. Silvanost belonged to Galdar and his human. That was the agreement. The minotaurs would halt their conquest before they reached the capital.

Still.…

Maritia snorted. She looked around at the ruined settlement. A sentry, one from her own Warhorse legion, strode by, saluting his commander when he saw her. Hotak’s daughter frowned then summoned the soldier.

He knelt before her. “Aye, my lady?”

“Send a message to General Kalel.” The Direhounds had the best capabilities for what she had in mind. “Tell him”—Maritia looked one more time to the south—“tell him I need four of his best scouts to undertake a special mission.”

The Foran i’Kolot, summoned by the emperor, sailed into the harbor in the dead of night. Its orders were to sail north, seek out the rebel ships believed there, and decimate the traitors.

Aboard its flagship, leading it to victory, rode the favored second son of the emperor, the champion of the empire, Bastion.

Hotak had discussed final thoughts with his son, before bidding him farewell at the palace. Only two guards rode alongside the black minotaur as he journeyed to the harbor. The sun had not yet risen. Few were around to notice three soldiers seemingly on patrol.

“Is that it?” he asked, as they neared the docks. An incredible shadow loomed, the outline of a daunting warship Bastion had watched being built, but never had glimpsed whole.

“Aye, my lord,” replied the most senior. “That’s the Stormbringer.”

“Surely a worthy replacement for the Donag’s Shield”—Bastion dismounted—“a worthy lead vessel of the Foran i’Kolot.”

“A fine honor, too, my lord, for your brother.”

“Yes … my brother.”

Footsteps were heard. A torch in one hand, the ship’s captain—a barrel-chested minotaur with a long streak of gray running down his torso—met them at the foot of the gangplank. He dipped his horns and said in a surprisingly soft voice, “My Lord Bastion. I be Captain Xyr. ’Tis my honor to have you aboard this vessel.”

“Your reputation is known to me and to all the empire, Captain Xyr. I consider it an honor to sail with you.”

Xyr swelled with pride. “Thank you, my lord.” He glanced over his shoulder at the darkened ship. “You’ve a visitor come to see you off.”

Bastion’s ears twitched. “Who is it?”

“Best to see for yourself, my lord. I’ll have someone stow your gear in your cabin.”

Curious, the black-furred minotaur boarded the Stormbringer. He peered at the night-enshrouded figures scurrying around the deck.

“You’d think I’d have more trouble seeing you in the dark than the other way around,” commented a rumbling voice behind him.

He whirled about. “Ardnor?”

His brawny brother laughed. “Did you expect the Sea Queen?”

“I didn’t expect you. How did you know I would be here at this hour?”

Ardnor bared his teeth in a smile. “There’s little I don’t know or find out about, brother.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“I wanted to make certain that you didn’t sail off before I had the chance to wish you the best of luck on your important mission.”

Around them, the crew bustled, preparing to depart. Bastion and Ardnor moved to one side to avoid two mariners struggling with the former’s gear.

“I am grateful for your wishes and your presence here, Ardnor. I had wanted to wish you good fortune on your own important mission, but time slipped away.”

“My mission.…” The elder brother snorted. “Ferrying supplies. Nothing grand, but I do what I can for the empire.”

Bastion put his hand on Ardnor’s arm. “It is an important mission, I know. Father would not entrust it to just anyone. And after this is accomplished, I feel certain he will reward you with an assignment that I will envy. He has a great love for you, Ardnor.”

“Maybe.” Ardnor waved off his brother’s words as inconsequential. “But you and I, here and now.…” He leaned into his brother. “We’ve not been close for years, Bastion, but when you were out there fighting the rebels, it occurred to me that there was a good chance you’d die. I thought about it quite a lot, in fact. Then, when you came back, I realized I didn’t want to miss my chance.” Now, he took Bastion’s arm in a firm grip. “I want to make certain that this time I saw you off properly.”

“I am truly honored, then.”

“We’re the sons of Hotak, the sons of the future. It’s only right that we take care of one another. And as eldest, it’s my duty to take care of you.” Again he bared his smile.

They clasped one another briefly, awkwardly, as it was something that had not transpired between them since boyhood. Then Ardnor backed away and dipped his horns. Bastion did the same.

“May your journey be everything I hope it will be,” Ardnor rumbled.

“You’ll be the first to hear, I promise.”

The elder brother laughed then, with a brief bow, left.

Bastion watched his sibling’s hulking form descend the gangplank. Since they had first begun training to become warriors of the realm, their unspoken rivalry had simmered and burned. Though Bastion certainly hadn’t intended it, a rift had developed between them, and over the years, it had only grown. Once Bastion thought it would never be healed.

But now, it seemed, Ardnor had changed. Hotak had invited him back into the inner circle of the palace and had given him this first important command. Bastion truly believed that if Ardnor paid more respect to his father and obeyed his commands, then eventually he could expect to earn some great rank.

As one who desired peace within the family, Bastion had already made it clear to his father that when the day came that he took throne, he would offer his sibling a deserved place of honor.

“When I return, we will speak more,” he murmured at the retreating figure.

“Excuse me, my lord,” said Captain Xyr, coming up to him. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. ’Tis well known that your brother and you have had differences in the past. It is good to see that things’ve changed.”

“Yes … yes, it is good.”

The captain cleared his throat. “We’re ready to get under way. We’ll run the last of the rebels to the rocks, eh?”

“Let us hope so,” Bastion replied with a deferential nod.

With one of the crew to lead him, Bastion made his way to his quarters. He had plans to make, but his thoughts kept returning to the sudden, unexpected change in Ardnor. Perhaps, as the realm achieved an unprecedented unity, so, too, would his family.

Including, he dared hope, even his mother.

Faros’s army—by now it was as large as a genuine army—marched through the ogre lands almost with impunity. High hills began to loom around them, and these were increasingly lush hills with trees and green grass, and soon, thick forests.

They were nearing the Blood Sea, beyond which lay the minotaur homeland, from which, as ex-slaves turned outlaws, they were forbidden to return. So why was Faros leading them there?

No longer were they engulfed by oppressive heat; now ominous green-gray clouds filled the heavens. The wind grew wild, stirring to high velocity then abruptly dying down. Among the thick clouds blood-red lightning flashed. But the threatening storm never came.

Grom, constantly making the sign of Sargonnas and muttering prayers to the lost god, rode closest to Faros, who seemed oblivious to the unnatural agitation of the elements.

It was difficult to scavenge enough food to feed the entire force. Faros had to send hunting parties in every direction, but they hadn’t spotted any ogre patrols for days.

Faros led one bow-hunting party along a river. Two half-elves scouted ahead, their ability to move stealthily making them the best stalkers. The band hoped to flush out large game—a deer or a great boar. There were many such tracks in the area.

Grom, never far from Faros’s side, stopped by the riverbank. “Look—movement on the other side! I’d swear it was an elk!”

“Which does us little good from here.” The roaring river had widened considerably at this juncture, but ahead Faros pointed to a series of huge rocks that comprised a makeshift crossing.

Grom went first, groping along from one rock to the next, nearly sliding off the wet, slippery boulders. His fur was soaked. He made futile attempts to shake off the water, but the river splashing against the rocks repeatedly drenched him. About twenty others, including Faros, stoically watched his progress.

Leaping from one stone to the next, he slipped and plunged partway into the water, before seizing hold and pulling himself back out. He gave the others a rueful expression then continued on.

Once safely on the other side, Grom waved for Faros and the others, who had mentally followed his course, to come.

Faros started across. The river seemed to roar with anger, almost as though personally challenging him. Eyes fixed ahead, his sword and bow tucked close to him, Faros made slow progress.

But the wind whipped up as he neared midstream. One gust nearly cost him his footing. The water frothed around the rocks, tossing up flotsam. Faros caught glimpses of the depths. Huge river fish were darting around, and water plants writhed in the current.

His gaze flitted past an oddly white chunk of rock. It took a moment for Faros to register the water-smoothed skull of some animal. Once he realized that, he spotted numerous other white rocks in different shapes and sizes that were probably the bones of animals or ogres who had fallen victim to the treacherous river.

Grom held out a hand, pulling Faros up and patting him on the back.

“Praise the Horned One! I thought you were on the verge of taking a swim!”

Faros grunted, his nostrils flaring and his ears twitching, as he was already impatient for the others to cross. Two more of his followers had already begun the slow, precarious crossing.

In the lead was a white-haired half-elf, making fair progress, but the husky minotaur behind him had poor balance. He slid over one rock, almost stumbling into the river while clutching the next. He managed to crawl over the next few rocks without trouble, but then the water suddenly surged around him.

The minotaur splashed into the river. He managed to grab hold of a rock, but hung there, unable to haul himself back up.

Another one of the party moved onto the rocks with the intention of helping the minotaur. The half-elf looked back, saw his comrade’s predicament, and also turned around to give aid.

“Fool,” Faros muttered. By his bumbling, the minotaur had endangered himself and, worse, slowed the entire hunting party.

Now the one advancing from the other bank seemed to be having almost as much trouble as the figure flailing in the water. “If this goes on, we’ll have to fish them all out of the river.”

Then a white form shot out of the water, darting toward—not the struggling minotaur—but the half-elf coming to his rescue. Whatever the thing was, it seized the half-elf by the leg and dragged him into the raging river, where he vanished.

Even Faros stared speechless.

Grom pointed. “What was … that?”

The others lining up to cross had not seen what had happened, thinking only that the half-elf had fallen into the river and was swept away. Two more were now teetering on the rocks, trying to reach the minotaur whose cries for help were increasingly pitiful.

And again a white, gaunt appendage materialized from out of the raging river and snared the leg of one atop the rocks. This minotaur reached for her ax but lost her balance and also fell in. She was immediately swallowed up by the swirling waters.

“By the Horned One!” Grom hefted his ax, starting back.

“Stay here!” Faros roared, grabbing Grom and pushing past him. Freeing his sword, he headed onto the rocks.

Those on the opposing side had seen the white menace this time and were also coming armed.

Something moved in the water near his leg. Faros wasted no time in stabbing at it. The blade severed the end of something, which flopped on the rock for a few seconds before rolling over the other side and dropping back into the water.

Faros’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly. What he had cut off was a three-digited hand composed of shards of bone.

Behind him, he heard Grom curse. The stubborn minotaur had followed him and was now snagged by the foot. With an oath to Sargonnas, Grom was chopping at the monstrous white limb clutching him; bone fragments were flying in every direction. Even unattached, three talons had to be peeled away from his ankle.

And as Faros looked over his shoulder, he saw that everyone on the rocks was under attack by the fiendish white limbs. It was almost as though the whole setup had been a trap. The appendages were breaking the water in droves now. Faros and the others struck at them, cutting them, smashing them.

Through it all, the minotaur dangling from a rock hung on, untouched by the macabre attack. He had been mere bait to draw the others, Faros silently noted, which meant that the evil they battled was purposefully directed. It had tried to trap as many of them as possible, at one time.

But time ran out for the hapless minotaur when four of the bony limbs shot up and seized him. He roared and managed to tear off one of the limbs before the rest drew him down.

When Faros leaped in his direction, hoping to grab him somehow, he was startled to see a hollow-eyed, vaguely minotaur face staring up at him from under the water. He jerked back then thrust.

The sword drove through the undead minotaur’s skull, which burst apart into hundreds of pieces.

A moment later, the other attacking limbs released their various quarries and suddenly sank back out of sight.

“Get away from the water!” Faros roared. “Away!”

They were all unsettled. Not even minotaurs care to battle against the undead. Grom edged back to the far side, while the rest streamed toward the original side of the riverbank.

Faros was right behind Grom, but something brushed against him, hard. He fell against a rock, his sword slipping free.

He pushed himself up to a kneeling position. Water surged over him.

Grom shouted something drowned out by the roar of the river. The minotaur pointed behind Faros with an expression of horror.

Faros looked over his shoulder, to see rain sheeting down from a monstrous form. It stood three times the height of a minotaur and vaguely, just vaguely, resembled one—if the flesh and muscle had not been torn clean from the eerily white bone.

The thing’s eyes were deep, black sockets, which had been shaped from broken bits of different skulls—some animal, some ogre, and some even human. As though mocking the minotaurs, it bore crusted horns, also shaped of myriad bones from a variety of dead creatures, that thrust up savagely from the top of its head.

The behemoth opened its muzzle, revealing teeth composed of jagged bits and, within, gaping darkness. An unearthly hiss escaped its terrible maw, which distended as large as the rest of its entire head.

The undead horror moved fluidly underwater. Water gushed through its rib cage, a sinister framework large enough for Faros to be held prisoner inside. It made an eerie clatter as it moved and the hissing sound constantly escaping its toothy mouth was unnerving to say the least.

The bone-creature reached for Faros with long, fragment arms ending in three-digited talons.

Faros rolled over into the water, and the talons smashed down against the rock, just missing him. Submerged, he battled the strong current, grasping for the sword he had fumbled … or a rock … any possible weapon.

Something touched his hand and Faros instinctively grabbed it. The monstrous fiend reached down for him, plunging an arm into the water … and hesitated, as though momentarily sightless.

Not understanding, Faros pushed into the depths, trying to swim away from the rocks. Unfortunately, his action seemed to attract the creature’s notice and one claw swept down on him.

Raked across the back, Faros spun and twirled. He swallowed water and lost hold of the object in his hand. However, as his fingers grazed the bottom of the river, he felt the hilt of a sword.

Whether his own or another’s, Faros did not care. As the skeletal giant leaned over for another swipe, he stabbed up wildly.

The blade easily cut through the undead horror’s talons. With a horrific hiss, it jerked back. As it did, Grom and three others attacked it from above. They battered at the back of the monster with their axes and swords, one even firing his bow.

The damaged claw swung wildly, knocking Grom into the water. Faros climbed up on the nearest rock, behind the monster. The creature’s maw opened and out of it shot a spear-like appendage.

The tip of it burst through the chest of the bow-wielding minotaur, impaling him. The quivering minotaur dropped his weapon. The hellish creature pulled back its head and retracted the appendage, swallowing its victim whole.

Faros expected to see the corpse somehow spiral down through the skeletal rib cage, but the minotaur’s body simply vanished.

Huge waves arose, drenching the other members of the hunting party, who had rallied forward to help Faros. Whirling from the group, the demonic skeleton opened its maw again, shooting out its bony spear toward Faros. But he was ready for it this time, and jumped aside at the last moment, seizing the appendage with one hand.

Immediately, the beast retracted its weapon. But as Faros flew toward the bony monster, he quickly released his grip.

He landed against the hard bones. Before the demonic creature could react, Faros was up and slashing. He cut away the ribs with ease. Talons reached for him. He brought his sword around and sliced away another one of its grasping claws.

Hissing furiously, the bone monster spun in a circle. Faros swung and struck deep, into its spine. The air was split by high squealing. A black, thick fluid poured from the wound. Faros was overwhelmed by a stench that reminded him of Vyrox.

The skeleton creature turned and moved toward the deeper part of the river. Faros jumped on its back and clung there. The creature did not pause, but kept moving toward deeper water.

Snarling, Faros pulled himself up to avoid being drowned. He raised the blade and, with all the strength he could muster, drove the weapon down.

A long, low moan issued from the monster. It was followed by a huge cracking sound. Severed, the top half of the hellish monster twisted and fell.

Unfortunately, though Faros tried to leap aside, the monster toppled on him, trapping him, smothering him with water.

When the bone creature hit the river, its body exploded into pieces. Finally freed, Faros tried to kick toward the surface, but the water churned him under. All he saw were turbulent water and stormy sky. His head struck against a rock. Faros swallowed more water, choking and gagging.

He grew light-headed. Vaguely the drowning minotaur felt something tugging at him, but it seemed so distant, so inconsequential.

He slammed into something hard.

The world became darkness.

Sahd loomed over him, his burned face distorted into a smile.

No … it was Paug. The Butcher snorted mirthlessly at the helpless figure, then reached down for his throat.

Then Paug became the demonic skeleton, who loomed over him and sought to swallow the minotaur whole.

“No,” said a cold, calculating voice reminiscent of someone familiar. “You’ll not be granted death yet.”

With a start, he regained consciousness, coughing uncontrollably, his lungs still filled with water. Snout flat against mud, the minotaur vomited repeatedly. Pain wracked Faros—pain such as he had not known even under the whip.

At last, he breathed air. Only then did he notice that his hand clutched something. Blinking clear his eyes, he saw that despite everything that had transpired, he still gripped his sword.

No, not his sword. The handle of this one had a different fit, and the hilt had been decorated, perhaps even with gemstones.

The blade was stuck under an old waterlogged tree trunk half submerged on the banks of the river. Even as this registered, the sword began to slide loose. Faros quickly grabbed onto the trunk and pulled himself up over the tree and onto the bank.

He crawled to dry land. Ahead lay a wooded area—he must be some distance from the crossing and from the woods. He heard sounds of movement.

Looking up wearily, Faros found himself matching steely gazes with a minotaur he did not recognize, one who wielded a sword.

The minotaur backed away, clearly startled. Faros heard a shout from behind him. The minotaur looked off and called, “Over here! Hurry!”

Somehow Faros found the strength to stand—still gripping his sword and, despite his exhaustion, ready to fight.

Another minotaur burst out of the woods, followed by a second and a third. One, to Faros’s astonishment, wore the green and white kilt of an Imperial Fleet marine fighter.

So, the empire had found him. Faros gritted his teeth and attacked, nearly stabbing the first minotaur, who leaped aside. When Faros missed, however, he stumbled exhaustedly to his knees.

The kilted warrior snorted. “A breeze would blow away this fool! Let’s kill him quick and save him any more dishonor.”

“We should take ’im alive,” said the one whom Faros had nearly wounded. “The governor might want to question him!”

Faros heard them mention the governor. So he must have drifted near some colony of Hotak’s. After all his trials and tribulations, Faros would still end up facing execution by the usurper’s minions. The irony of his fate almost made him laugh. Instead he coughed and choked.

Then painfully, to the amusement of the others, he forced himself up again. This time his legs felt a bit more sturdy. “I’ll … I’ll answer no questions for your governor, nor his false emperor … you’ll have to take me where I stand.”

The marine fighter looked especially eager to cast his hand ax against Faros’s blade. The others warily spread out, circling him. Hefting formidable-looking weapons, they prepared to charge.

“What goes on here?” asked a new voice suddenly, though by now Faros’s brain was spinning, and he could barely discern the message. It was as if someone were slowly breathing every word.

“He rose out of the river, governor,” explained the first. “Looks half drowned but wants to fight!”

“He doesn’t look like a legionary,” the leader rasped. “That sword’s more suitable for a general than a foot soldier.”

“Come and get it at risk to your life,” Faros managed to gasp. He gazed at the newcomer—a husky, graying figure with an old, thick, jagged scar across his throat.

“You can keep your sword, my young friend—and I think we should be friends. We may have something in common. You don’t act as though you’re one of those loyal to Hotak.”

Faros stared, his eyes flickering.

“By your reaction, I can see that I must be correct.”

“I don’t care at all about Hotak. I don’t care about anything.”

“I find that hard to believe, but we can discuss it again when you are feeling better. Right now, I think the best thing would be for you to come with us. You need food and drink.”

“I’m not going with anybody,” Faros began, but his body suddenly shook with spasms. He took a step forward and stumbled.

“Bring him!” commanded the rasping voice.

Strong hands took hold of Faros under his shoulders, raising him up. Someone tried to take his sword, but Faros clung tight.

“Let ’im keep the sword. Just sheathe it.”

Jubal … an old memory stirred in Faros’s tangled mind. Jubal … governor.…

He suddenly heard his father’s dying voice again. Jubal will … hide you and Bek! Jubal will … protect both of you lads!

Jubal, governor of Gol and old comrade of Gradic. If they had found Captain Azak and his ship, the Dragon’s Crest, Bek would still be alive and Faros—Faros would not have suffered Vyrox and the ogre mines. He would not have been trapped, beaten, tortured.…

“Jubal …” he grunted.

“Aye, lad, that’s me,” replied his rescuer with widened eyes. “Never mind that everyone calls me ‘governor.’ Haven’t been Jubal since the day Hotak took the throne and his soldiers seized Gol.”

So, even if they had made it to the ship, he and Bek would have found no help in Gol. No matter what Faros had done, his fate would have been the same. No one could have changed his fate, not his father, not Bek, not Governor Jubal. No one.

He suddenly sensed the older minotaur leaning close. Faros lifted his head up, managing to meet Jubal’s steady gaze.

“Strike me if you don’t remind me of someone …” the former governor muttered. “You’ve a name before we go on, lad?”

Faros saw no reason to tell him the truth. Jubal would only preach about defending his clan’s honor and avenging his father. Long ago Faros had left such noble thoughts for dead.

Another name came to mind. A comrade lost in Vyrox. The tattooed mariner’s face briefly flickered before Faros.

“Ulthar,” he replied evenly. “My name is—”

“Faros! You there! Stand away or die!”

Jubal and the others whirled to the south. Nearly a dozen figures, mostly minotaurs, emerged from the woods. They looked disheveled but armed and ready to pounce.

Gripping his ax, Grom slowly approached. With a grim expression, he said, “You heard me! Release Faros or else!”

But those standing with the governor did not look eager to obey, despite the odds. One thrust the point of his ax head under Faros’s muzzle.

“Stand down, stand down!” Jubal ordered. He faced Grom, showing with a gesture that he didn’t brandish any weapon. “You, too—none of you are friends of the empire, are you?”

In reply, Grom twisted angrily so that Jubal and his party could see his shoulder. “This was our fate by decision of the usurper!”

“ ’Tis the broken horn brand!” angrily muttered the marine fighter. “The mark of a minotaur enslaved by the ogres!”

“Hotak did this?” asked Jubal, his eyes darkening. “Tell me!”

“None other … because we were loyal to those tied to Chot.”

“Then we are allies, friends!” The governor moved before Grom could stop him, clasping the startled minotaur on the shoulders. “We are those who rebel against the one who stole the throne! We are those who will see him pay for his crimes against his people!”

Grom, uncertain, glanced at Faros. “Faros! Did you hear?”

But Faros did not answer, for suddenly Jubal looked at him with renewed interest, his eyes gleaming.

“You said your name is Ulthar,” the graying figure rasped. Jubal walked over to Faros, studying him closely even when the latter kept trying to turn his head away. “Why tell me otherwise … you did look familiar … and your name … Faros?”

An abrupt intake of breath by Jubal made Faros look up.

“You look almost exactly like your father! No wonder! No wonder you knew me.” Jubal stared wide-eyed. “You should be dead. Even more than me, you should be dead!”

“What do you mean?” asked Grom.

The former governor, his gaze still on Faros, straightened. “This one is Gradic’s son,” he said to Grom, before turning back to Faros. “The last time I saw you, Faros, you were but a boy—barely able to walk. But you’re a son of House Kalin!”

“Kalin?” gasped one of Jubal’s men. “Him?”

“Aye … and the son of a dear friend of mine, ’tis true.” Jubal looked around at the rebels and slaves. “And he is the nephew of the Emperor Chot himself.”

The constant clang of ax against ax competed with the ongoing thunder, both joining to shake the walls of the palace. The two helmed fighters retreated from one another, both breathing heavily. They stood surrounded by plain, stone-block walls of gray; the floor was covered with sand. Torches set along all four walls gave the room a brightness that was lurid, creating the wild, dancing shadows that might distract a careless fighter.

Besides the two combatants, only one other figure stood in the long, wide chamber. The healer watched and waited, the black basket at this side filled with herbs, cloth, and needles should some mishap arise. For worse wounds, the balding minotaur could also count on a bottle of briarberry wine.

As another peal of thunder rattled the palace, Hotak leaped at his opponent. The other helmed minotaur stepped back, deflecting the ax blow and jabbing under the emperor’s guard. However, he made the mistake of aiming too low and left his head open.

Hotak brought the flat of his ax head down on the armored skull of his foe.

With a clang and a thud, the loser fell on his stomach. His ax dropped by the emperor’s sandaled feet.

“I … yield, your majesty.”

“I should hope so, Doolb! I’ve barely the strength to lift my weapon any more!” Hotak tossed aside his ax then removed his helmet from his sweat-soaked head. He reached down and helped the veteran captain to his feet. “I’m grateful that you let me win.”

Doolb scoffed. “I trained your children to fight hard and never let them win, until one day they truly could. Think I’d try that kind of stunt with you, your majesty?”

“No, and that’s why I enjoy a bout with you, captain.” The emperor turned to the healer. “You’ll not be needed tonight, Karsos.”

The balding minotaur bowed silently then picked up his basket and departed through the iron door at the far end of the chamber. As he did, an anxious guard slipped through into the room. The soldier went down on one knee before Hotak, presenting him with a sealed message.

“Who’s this from?”

“I don’t know, your majesty … and neither did the guard who brought it to me.”

The emperor took the note, dismissing the guard. Captain Doolb kept a respectful distance as Hotak opened up the missive.

With a frown, Hotak recognized the handwriting. Glancing at Doolb, he said, “Thank you again, captain. You may go.”

The veteran officer’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he dipped his horns and silently left.

Alone, Hotak read the message. His expression went from wariness to astonishment to bitterness. When he had finished reading it twice, the emperor angrily crumpled the note in his fist. Staring at the strange shadows cast by the torches, Hotak muttered, “Another one. This has gone too far … too far.…”

The storm-ridden Blood Sea had done its best to swamp the bulky supply ship and its two escorts. Ardnor supposed he should be worried about the incessant storms, but the raging waters and turbulent skies were the only excitement thus far on this journey.

They were already within sight of land, but had to sail around to the north. The weather had forced them to take an alternate route, but they still made good time. By tomorrow, they would be docked in Sargonath, and he would deliver these supplies to the officer in charge. Then Ardnor would sail back to the capital, and that would be the end of this so-called important mission.

Suddenly there were shouts from the crew. Sailors ran back and forth, adjusting lines. From somewhere, the captain cried an order demanding a sharp turn to starboard. The Sword of Jaro lurched to avoid yet another uncharted rock formation.

“Such a glorious mission,” he rumbled sarcastically to himself as leaned on the rail. He was impatient to get back. If his father hadn’t ordered his trip, he would have never demeaned himself. The grander assignment, the hunting down of the rebel leader Jubal and his dwindling forces … that had gone to Bastion.

Bastion.…

The storm soaked him despite his heavy mariner’s cloak. In the distance, Ardnor sighted another ship. It had been sailing south, but even as he watched, it turned east. No, it seemed to be gradually reversing course and heading to the north. As it slowed down to maneuver, Ardnor got a better look at the ship.

“Captain!” he roared. “Captain!”

Precious seconds slipped away before the captain, a squat, gray-and-brown-furred mariner with two gold rings on his right ear, joined him at the rail. “Aye, my lord?”

“That ship! Look—hurry, before it finishes turning!”

“My lord?” The mariner squinted at the vessel.

“It’s a rebel ship, damn you!” Ardnor shouted. “After it!”

“My lord, that may be, but our job—”

Ardnor angrily seized the other large minotaur by the collar of the cloak, lifting him off the deck. “I gave you a command.”

The captain stared into the blood-tinged eyes. His ears flattened, and he swallowed. “Aye, my lord! Right away!”

Tossing the mariner away from him, Ardnor turned back to the rail. Moments later, the warship veered sharply in that direction. A groan echoed through the hull as his ship scraped against another rock. The captain shouted to steer to port.

They sailed toward the other ship. Ardnor began to make out details of the vessel. It was a smaller ship, with two masts and a narrow bow. A ballista sat on the upper aft; it looked ready for battle, but the wild waves meant that aiming the weapon would be difficult unless the ships were close and alongside. Ardnor was happy to risk the worthless supply ship, and even considerable loss of life, if it meant capturing a rebel vessel. Minutes before, he was bored; now he had a chance to transform this supply mission into an action that would bring him the glory he deserved.

The rebel ship was heading toward shore. Ardnor pounded on the rail. His own ship had to follow fast if it hoped to catch up. His heart pounding, he cried, “To port! To port!”

As the Sword of Jaro made another lurch, the captain rushed up to Hotak’s son. “My lord! The rocks are worse in this direction! We risk running aground, or even breaking up!”

“The rebels don’t seem concerned.”

“Their ship is smaller and lighter and faster! They can slip and dodge where we’d get stuck! We’ve got to pull back and—”

Ardnor shoved the captain aside. “Stay on course or we’ll lose them!”

He heard another scraping groan from below, but it came and went. Ardnor snorted. With such fearful, incompetent fools, no wonder the rebel elements operated with seeming impunity near the mainland.

They were gaining on the rebel ship now. Now he could make out anxious figures on deck. The rebel ship veered slightly east. The Sword of Jaro adjusted. The gap between the two ships grew shorter.

Marine fighters marched up on deck, their weapons shiny and eager. The commander saluted Ardnor. “All prepared for boarding, my lord! Do you want a volley as we draw nearer?”

“Do it now!”

At a wave from the green-and-white-kilted officer, several marine fighters prepared bows.

The smaller vessel abruptly angled to the west again. Ardnor shook his fist at it. The imperial ship was almost within range.

Then a loud, harsh, lingering growl drowned out all other noise, and the Sword of Jaro shook madly. A sailor fell from the rigging, plummeting into the sea. Several marine fighters lost their balance and more than one arrow flew wildly into the sea.

Ardnor almost lost his grip on the rail. As the first mate ran by, the First Master seized him, demanding, “What is it? What happened?”

“We’ve grazed a huge rock, my lord! The bottom of the hull’s ripped out! We’re taking on water fast!”

“No!” He had failed an important pursuit once before—memories of General Rahm stirred in his thoughts—but not this time. “Signal the other escort! Get it over here now!”

“But, my lord! The other captain fears to enter these waters, see? We cannot commit all the supply vessels.”

The second vessel stood far out to sea, following at a safe distance.

Without warning, the Sword of Jaro began to list—quickly and badly. The first mate tumbled forward, falling over the rail into the choppy waters and nearly taking Ardnor with him.

Two barrels rolled toward Ardnor. One caught him in the chest. The force nearly bowled him over, but something clutched his shoulders and stopped him from tumbling over the rails.

By rights he should have drowned. Ardnor looked behind him.

And there, floating in the air, their withered, transparent hands holding him tight, two specters stared at Hotak’s son.

Ardnor was momentarily taken back, but then he felt the presence of another, in his mind. He did not have to wonder who, for how could he not recognize the loving touch of his own mother?

Looking back, he saw the specters were gone, but he was steady now. Ardnor grabbed for the rail, heading toward the bow.

He glanced back at the rebel ship. A grin spread across face, for he saw that his mother was attending to the rebels, too.

The rebel ship was swarming with the dead. They were pouring up out of the ocean, clawing at the hull, the deck, drifting up to the sails. No one could see them, of course—no one but Ardnor—but the rebels could feel their dread effect. The ghosts clutched and slowed the ship, forcing it to alter direction.

The captain joined Ardnor at the rail. “My lord! Are they all—what in the name of the Sea Queen are they doing?”

Ardnor said nothing. To the officer’s ignorant eyes, it looked as though madness had seized the rebels, for the enemy ship was now steering crazily, violently, toward the western shoreline … where the rocks were most numerous and treacherous.

He could imagine the horror and frustration of the rebel captain and crew—lines tangling and helm turning, seemingly of their own accord, the keel crawling with dozens of pale, undead creatures.

And then the awful sound reached even the imperial vessel, when the rebel ship ran aground. More then one of the rebel minotaurs aboard tumbled over the side at the shock of the crash.

Swirling around the hull, the horde of undead created a tiny maelstrom that shook the ruined ship free of the rock. It twisted away, listing to its port side, drifting with the tide.

A moment later, the ship smashed into another huge rock. The hull cracked. The mainmast snapped in half. The sails ripped and flew, the pieces fluttering madly in the fierce wind.

Stunned by the swift destruction, the captain of the Jaro stared disbelievingly. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“No …” smirked the high priestess’s eldest. “I don’t suppose you have.”

Then, a fresh roar made them both look. A gargantuan wave was rising just beyond the rocks … with the ghosts, of course, riding atop the huge wave, literally raising the wave higher and steering it. There were more ghosts on the wave than Ardnor had ever seen in one place, even in his mother’s sanctum in the temple. They rode the wave, building and molding it as their mistress demanded. It grew big and wide enough to smash a dozen ships as it closed on the already-broken, foundering rebel vessel.

“Gods …” blurted the captain, dumbfounded. “ ’Tis as if the hand of Zeboim herself comes to smite them.”

Though Ardnor knew it was not the sea goddess—it was the god of the Forerunners, guiding the undead—he did not correct the officer. He simply watched, admiring his mother’s handiwork.

And then the monstrous wave crashed down upon the trapped, ruined ship. On the deck, tiny figures could be seen trying to leap overboard, but they could not escape the explosive fury.

Tons of water crushed the ship, sending bodies and ship parts spraying everywhere into the air. The debris rained down seconds later far upon the sea and along the shore of Ansalon.

Nothing remained of the ship. The destruction was complete. The aftermath of the wave washed everything away, cleansing even the surrounding rocks of the pieces and flotsam.

“Gone … my lord … they’re gone.…”

Not the ghosts, who continued to mill above the swirling waters, for their numbers grew—countless, gaping, horrific ghosts. Surely the dead rebels would join them shortly … for all the dead were the domain of the Forerunners’ high priestess.

The Sword of Jaro groaned again, striking another rock. Forgetting the doomed rebel ship, the captain shouted, “My lord! We need to get out of here before we join them! Hurry!”

Ardnor followed, but not at the same frantic pace of the anxious captain. He alone knew that they had nothing to fear from the sea, not now. The power of the temple watched over him.

A power that Nephera’s son now saw that no one, not even his father, nor all the empire, could possibly match.

Lady Nephera moaned, slumping forward. She put a hand to her head, felt the sticky moisture from her palm as it matted her fur.

Her attendants rushed to her side, but she waved them back.

“Leave me,” she managed to whisper. “Leave me now.”

They bowed quickly then backed out of the chamber.

As the door shut behind them, the high priestess succeeded in pushing herself to her feet. Leaning against the platform, Nephera hissed, “Takyr!”

The loyal ghost materialized before her; right now he looked more alive than she. Nephera realized that, with a twinge of annoyance.

Mistress?

“What happened just now, Takyr?” She looked around and found a flask of temple wine. Snatching it up, she drank greedily straight from the bottle. The sweet, rich, red fluid settled her pounding head and renewed her strength. Putting aside the wine, Nephera said more calmly. “Well, Takyr?”

Mistress … I cannot … say.…

“You don’t know? I-I-I think—I nearly died just now!” Both of her spells had succeeded grandly, but the energy it had cost her seemed to drain all the blood out of her.

The creature she had conjured to attack the escaped slaves, whose presence had been detected almost by accident by her roving undead spies, had done excellent work—even if one of the slaves had somehow managed to destroy it. The fact was that Nephera had found the slaves and struck at them from a distance. They had eluded her only temporarily, for she had been distracted by a more important sighting: a rebel ship sailing near Ardnor’s own.

Lady Nephera had not expected to deal with a rebel situation so soon after the first conjuration. The danger to—and opportunity for—Ardnor had forced her hand. Fortunately, Nephera was able to reach out and pluck her eldest from doom. But in doing so, she must have extended herself too far.

A rebel vessel had been completely destroyed. Her son could take credit for that triumph, which would help to salvage his honor and erase the bitter memory of what had happened to Kolot.

Yet, the effort had overwhelmed her, and even though Nephera could now add the crew of the rebel ship to her undead legions, the empress felt drained … something that had never happened before.

I am … sorry … mistress … Takyr replied, bowing his hooded head.

“I will not accept that!” she roared. Her fury, however, only served to deplete her further. Again she slumped against the platform, resting briefly. Takyr waited, eternally patient.

Finally the high priestess stirred, brought out a cloth, and wiped the blood from her palms. She had asked too much of the nameless force she served. She had gone too far. She was not ready. She was not worthy of such power. Yet she needed it, desired it—not for herself but for the empire—for the Forerunners.

“More …” the robed minotaur murmured. Her eyes seemed wider and more hollow than some of her slaves’; they grew bright, fanatical. She allowed herself a slight smile as realization dawned. “I need more.…”

It was the dead. There weren’t enough of them. Nephera was spreading herself too thin. Her unloving eyes and ears were constantly in motion, roving everywhere, and she herself constantly monitored the empire. In one day she had traveled from the wilds of Kern to the eastern edge of the empire and back to the Blood Sea. Was it any wonder she had collapsed from the strain?

“Yes … there were not enough of them.” Nephera glared at her own body, as though condemning it for its flaws and weaknesses. “More … whatever it takes … to make the power.”

She looked at the ghosts in the room, who swirled about in great agitation. Yes, they clearly recognized their shortcomings and that was why their fear was so palpable. Now, suddenly, Nephera realized what she had to do to set things right. Surely that was why her patron had not touched her with wisdom, of late. She needed to seek the answers herself, like any worthy acolyte.

“I will prove myself worthy again,” the high priestess murmured to the walls and the towering symbols of the Forerunners. “You will see that no one serves you as I do … I will do whatever I must!” Her eyes grew wider, tinged with a red so deep that it matched the stains on her hands. “Whatever I must do.…”

Lady Nephera reached for the bowl through which she had cast her spells, the bowl in which she summoned all her visions. Her hand paused as the high priestess realized that her son was still there—she could still see him. Ardnor was sitting in a longboat; sailors from the Sword of Jaro rowed him to an escort ship. A dozen spirits circled the longboat, ensuring the safety of Nephera’s eldest.

But Ardnor had come closer to death than he likely realized and the blame for that she did not place on him, but rather another.

“Hotak.…” This was her husband’s carelessness, her husband’s stupidity. Hotak had not listened to her, assigning Ardnor to this trifling supply run instead of having him head the hunt for Jubal and the rebels. Most of her ghosts and undead spies were employed in that region now, trailing Bastion. She had been careless, too—leaving her cherished firstborn momentarily unguarded. But it was her stubborn husband who had ordered Ardnor to sail to Sargonath, which all knew to be a mundane task.

Yes, Hotak was to blame. He had made her careless, and it had almost cost their son his life. It had, in the end, almost cost Nephera her own.

She gazed lovingly at her son, touching his reflection with one caressing finger. Ardnor’s grim but determined face rippled then reformed.

“When you are emperor, you will know better; you won’t make such mistakes, will you, my son?” Nephera whispered to his image. “You’ll listen to your mother. Yes … you will.…”

Spread six across in a column and winding beyond the horizon, the ogre army marched relentlessly, on past the mountains and lightly wooded hills. The trek had been grueling even for ogres, but none faltered, for they knew the shame they would bring upon themselves if they did.

The column gleamed as no ogre horde had since their downfall from grace. Nearly all wore the new breastplates especially forged by minotaur hands to fit their gargantuan chests. Many carried sharp, new, double-edged axes or long swords freshly honed. More gifts from the empire to strengthen their might and inspire their bloodlust.

Mastarks dragged along huge wagons filled with weapons and supplies. With so many ogres near the feet of their mounts, the handlers were hard-pressed to keep the animals from crushing a few warriors. The huge creatures were no mere beasts of burden. Their tusks bore metal caps with barbed tips, and on their heads, they sported twin-horned helmets strapped behind their flapping ears.

At the head of the column rode the great ogre leader the Grand Lord Golgren. The look of amusement he generally wore was absent on this occasion. He stared sullenly at the teams of ogres guiding the slavering meredrakes. The forked tongues of the huge lizards swept the air and ground, and their nostrils opened and closed constantly as they drank in the scents.

Running hard before even the meredrakes, half a dozen scouts were kept busy surveying the landscape. They paused to pick up unusual debris and forage behind the spiky shrubs, looking anywhere and everywhere for clues.

One crouched in the sparse grass, his ugly, tusked face planted in the earth. He sniffed at the ground then touched with growing interest a small area among the green-brown plants.

Suddenly he rose and looked back at the Grand Lord, who was wiping dust from his otherwise immaculate robes. “Hyka i donay i vorn! Deka i grund i’jahari!”

Golgren ceased brushing his garments. He snapped his fingers at Belgroch, and the pair rode over to where the scout awaited them. The handlers quickly pulled the hissing meredrakes to the side, well aware of the penalty should one of the dull-witted creatures take a snap at their leader’s steed.

“Deka i donay i’jahari?” asked Golgren the moment he reached the scout.

“Ke!” The kilted ogre knelt, pointing at shallow depressions in the grass. He then plucked from nearby two threadlike objects—objects so small and thin the Grand Lord could not even see them until the scout held them up.

“Vorn,” declared Golgren, upon inspecting the objects. “Vorn uth i’Uruv Suurti.”

“Ke, Hekatra un i’Golgreni! Vorn uth i’Uruv Suurti.”

Next to Golgren, Belgroch grinned. “Goran i zuun?”

The Grand Lord snapped his fingers at the scouts. They bowed quickly then hurried on ahead to seek other clues. Golgren turned his massive mount around and rode slowly back to the column, which had continued moving forward.

As he regained his place at the head, he eyed the way east with a look of amusement that had been missing for days.

They were watching him. Faros felt the eyes upon him, even as he chewed on some of the salted goat. They were not just curious eyes, either, but suspicious eyes. He was, after all, the nephew of Chot.

Still weak from the river incident, he had been able to offer little resistance when Jubal had insisted they return with his party to a nearby bay, where his ship was undergoing repairs. Grom wanted to send a runner carrying word back to the others in Faros’s army, but Faros had managed to catch his eye and warn against that. He had no interest in bringing his army together with Governor Jubal and his followers. They were a sorry lot, these rebels—little better than Faros and the freed slaves, and likely headed toward a worse merciless fate. Better to wander Kern and slaughter ogres than trying to follow a lost cause.

With a snort of derision whose meaning was known only to him, Faros swallowed the last of the goat meat.

“You’ve not a high opinion of anything, do you?” rasped Jubal.

Faros glanced up at the graying minotaur, who moved silently for one of his heavy appearance and had come up behind him without warning. “I’ve no reason to have any opinion on anything.”

“Don’t play that game with me, lad. You’ve got some thoughts … even if most of those thoughts aren’t very pretty.”

Faros drank some water from a sack.

“You’ve had a harsh time of it,” the former governor commented, studying the wounds and scars on Faros’s back and chest. “Quite a harsh time. Those ogre whips must’ve hurt horribly.”

“No more than those in Vyrox, another great outpost of the empire.”

Jubal sat down. “Vyrox, eh? Yes, Vyrox is a terrible, terrible place. A stain on the honor of the empire, I agree, from all I’ve heard.”

Without a word, Faros rose to leave. Jubal swore silently as he watched his old comrade’s son walk away without so much as a backward glance.

“Why’re you so concerned about that one?” asked Captain Botanos, just approaching from another direction—the direction of the ship. “He’s destined to end with his head rolling free of his neck, he is.”

The former official exhaled slowly. “Because we’re destined to end the same way. And because he’s the son of an old friend. He’s been through fire and torture for no reason other than his bloodline … and because everything I’ve learned from his companions gives me hope that he might help us turn the rebellion around.”

“Him?” the rotund mariner snorted.

“Have you been listening to what they’ve said? He survived Vyrox. He managed to escape the ogres and, because of him, so did so many others. He’s got humans and half-elves who follow his leadership, no easy accomplishment for any minotaur, eh?”

“Rabble leads rabble.”

“Rabble?” With a harsh laugh, Jubal stood up. “Captain, he turned a rabble into an army, and then he converted most of a legion over to his side … and not just any legion, but Dragonsbane! That was General Argotos!”

“I heard that tale, but it can’t really be true—”

“Talk to the former Dragonsbane warriors yourself! There’re two here with us, from his hunting party!”

Botanos frowned. He took out his clay pipe and filled it from a pouch at his side. “Interesting. But what of it?”

“He is the blood of Chot, but without Chot’s taint, Captain! He wears the broken horns, the brand of ogre enslavement! Slaves, soldiers, and nonminotaurs follow him already! With him, Botanos, we can not only revive the rebellion, but also build it anew, and perhaps carry it all the way back to Nethosak!”

The mariner’s eyes flickered, but his words still held wariness. “But he doesn’t care for the rebellion. He isn’t eager, governor.”

“I’ve got to try to sway him. I’ll talk again with that one who still calls on Sargas, that Grom. He may carry some weight with Faros.”

“Yes, ask Grom to pray,” the captain said, lighting his pipe. “Pray for you, too. I think you’ll need all the help you can get, governor.”

Jubal found Grom helping his fellow minotaurs load supplies and equipment for work on Botanos’s vessel, the Dragon’s Crest, onto the rebel ships.

“Governor!” the ex-slave greeted him. “I’ve been talking with your first mate! He says you have enough room aboard your three ships to take all of us!”

“We’d be packed wall to wall, lad, but, aye, I think we could take you all.” Jubal’s gaze narrowed. “That is, if you all are coming with us.”

“You mean Faros.” Grom’s ears flattened and his mood turned dark. “But he must agree to come! We’ve a chance to return home with our honor restored!”

“Have you convinced him?”

“I’ve tried, and if the Horned One can still hear my prayers, perhaps I’ve succeeded, yes.…”

Faros stood alone, as usual, practicing with his latest sword lunges at imagined foes. Grom and Jubal found him only after one of the other ex-slaves pointed, having seen their leader wander off toward the western woods.

They watched as Faros slashed hard twice, decapitating a pair of invisible ogres. His expression was strange; he looked not like a berserker, but rather a cold, calculating assassin. Every move he made had deadly purpose.

He turned abruptly as they neared, the tip of his blade ending just inches from Grom’s muzzle.

“Easy, lad,” Governor Jubal said quietly.

Faros lowered the blade slightly. “What do you two want?”

Grom dared to push the blade aside and step closer. “Faros … they’ve room to take us aboard! All of us! We could join them and—”

“Go ahead. Join them.” Faros turned away again, striking and slashing once more at his make-believe adversaries.

“But, Faros! You know I—the others’ll not abandon you! You’ve led us through the ogre lands! You confronted a legion and won! We follow you!”

Jubal moved past Grom. “They won’t come with us unless you do, lad.” When Faros said nothing, he added, “You’ve got the opportunity to avenge your family, the honor of your clan—”

“The clan of Chot the Terrible.”

“You’re not Chot!” rasped the elder minotaur. “And being of his blood would rally many now. Your father—”

He got no further, for suddenly Faros whirled. The flat of his sword struck Jubal in the muzzle, sending the former official sprawling into the quick arms of Grom.

His expression unchanging, Faros tonelessly replied, “My father … my family … are dead. My entire clan perished that night. So did I.”

Jubal wiped a slight trace of blood from his muzzle as he straightened. His patience was extraordinary. “Listen, lad—”

But Faros had turned away. To Grom, he simply said, “I leave in the morning.”

The other slave opened his mouth as if to protest then slowly dipped his horns to the side. As he did, he murmured, “As you say, Faros.”

“Now see here—” Jubal started to say, but Grom took his arm and pulled him away. When Jubal saw Grom’s determination, he reluctantly let himself be led away.

“He’s made his decision, governor—our decision.”

“He’s making the wrong decision. I want another chance to—”

Grom shook his head, cutting him off with a look, as he led the governor away.

Faros, meanwhile, had leaned down to wipe off his blade then returned to practice. To all appearances, he had dismissed the other pair from his world. Now, only his endless array of adversaries kept him company. Faros stabbed hard at each, his free hand constantly twisting as if holding a whip.

The high waves mercilessly rocked Bastion’s fleet. The Blood Sea lived up to the reputation with which all minotaurs—all mariners—were familiar. Waves higher than some of the masts bore down on the imperial ships, swamping at least one.

Aboard the Stormbringer, the crew struggled to maintain their course. One of the lesser sails already fluttered like a loose banner in the hurricane-like winds. Two crew members had been washed overboard earlier, and the captain had ordered only a small number take the risk of staying on deck, trying to ride out the storm.

Bastion himself had, for the most part, stayed below. Seated at the bolted-down table in his quarters, he concentrated on the intelligence his mother had gathered on the rebels and pondered his options. Jubal had a reputation for conservative tactics, but he also had been known for getting things accomplished. Bastion had no intention of underestimating Jubal as he had initially with General Rahm.

Thunder rattled the Stormbringer—a name which, in Bastion’s opinion, could hardly bring good luck in the Blood Sea. The covered lamp that dangled overhead swung about madly, and oil dribbled across one of the charts he had pulled out. Bastion silently cursed and hoped that the foul weather would not worsen.

As he thought about that, an odd chill coursed through the black minotaur, as if the storm were an omen—and something even more dire loomed ahead. He tried to maintain his focus on his work, but the sensation of unease grew so intense in his cabin that he finally had to set aside his charts and stand up and pace the room.

After a few minutes, Bastion sought a bottle of wine stored in a railed wall shelf and drank heartily of the wine to calm himself.

A harsh crash from without nearly made him drop the bottle. He recognized the difference between thunder and a large, solid object colliding with something.

Thrusting the bottle back to where it belonged, Bastion rushed outside. Immediately, shouts from the bow caught his attention. Gripping the rail, he struggled against the storm to reach the area and see what caused so much concern.

A lightning flash revealed the terrible situation immediately. Part of the mainmast must have collapsed onto the deck. Sail and rigging were tangled amid everything. At least two bodies were being pulled from underneath the wreckage.

“Hurry up, you laggards!” shouted Captain Xyr, all but his muzzle hidden by the heavy mariner’s cloak he wore. “There’s still another one under there!”

The crew struggled with the wreckage, but the violent rocking of the ship made their task Herculean. Bastion pushed forward, finally reaching the captain.

“Captain Xyr! How bad is it?”

“My lord! You shouldn’t be up here! We’ve already lost four since this storm arose, and I doubt the two of those we have just pulled out will survive either! I’ve never sailed in such diabolical weather!”

“It’s bound to let up!”

Xyr snorted. “We can always hope, my lord!”

One of the sailors nearest them lost his grip on a large soaked section of mast, which went careening away. Bastion started to go to his aid.

“No, Lord Bastion!” Xyr roared, seizing his master by the arm. “I insist you leave this task to us and return to your quarters! Your father would demand it!”

“Nonsense! You need every hand—”

“And I’ve got a shipload of veteran marine fighters sequestered below, if I want extra hands or bodies cluttering up the deck! If you don’t go back to your quarters voluntarily, I’ll have you brought there under armed escort, even if it costs me my head! You can wait—you’ll be risking your life plenty, when we find the rebels, and that’s when I’ll really be needing your bravery, my lord!”

A lightning bolt struck the waters, very near the Stormbringer. Xyr ignored it, his determined gaze meeting Bastion’s own.

Bastion was not certain his cabin was any safer, but he acquiesced. “Very well, but if the need arises—”

“Yes, my lord! Of course! Now please go!”

The black minotaur turned and began the slippery way back. He would probably be the last person aboard ship that Xyr would call.

“You are the next emperor,” his father had said to him more than once. “Always keep that in mind when you make a decision concerning yourself. You belong to the people. Your own desires are second.”

There were times when Bastion wished that he had been born the son of a simple mariner and not the heir of Hotak the Sword.

The Stormbringer listed. Bastion stumbled, only at the last moment grabbing the rail and steadying his balance. Below, the dark waves smashed angrily against the hull.

His fur felt like a coat of iron as he moved, so heavy was it from wetness. Another sailor, wrapped deep in a protective garment, headed toward him from the opposite direction. Bastion did not recognize him—but then he did not know every member of the crew yet. Head bent low, the sailor passed Bastion.

Beyond the rail, the sea rose up high, its waves dwarfing the warship. Bastion hesitated, struck by both the majesty and the fearsome might of the sea. Caught up in the wave, the Stormbringer lurched steeply.

It was the only thing that saved Bastion’s life.

He cried out as the dagger pierced his forearm. The cloaked assassin fell upon him, trying for a second chance before Bastion could recover from his surprise.

This time the dagger came at his throat, but Bastion’s reflexes were sharp, and he blocked the thrust with his wounded forearm. He shoved the attacker away. The attacker turned as if to flee, hesitated, then grimly turned back.

“Yes, assassin! There is nowhere to hide! I will find you out!” Bastion shouted, clutching his bleeding arm. “There is no escape from the ship!”

“It is commanded you die,” hissed his hooded foe, “and die you will.”

The rebels must have smuggled one of their own aboard the flagship; that didn’t amaze Bastion. Despite the hopelessness of their cause, they still had a network of agents and supporters throughout the imperium. Even if the attack had succeeded, it was a suicidal assignment for a hopeless cause. The assassin might hide among the crew for a while, but the captain would certainly ferret him out in the end.

The hooded figure lunged at him, and they spun around, slamming against the rails and walls of the outer deck. The rain and waves cascaded over them, and Bastion lost his footing and slipped. The assassin plunged the dagger into his shoulder.

The deep wound shook Bastion. He ripped himself away, taking the blade with him. Gasping from the injury where the dagger still stuck out of his shoulder, the black minotaur backed away from his opponent, who again looked momentarily uncertain, ready to flee.

Hotak’s son seized the hilt of the dagger. With a cry of pain and anger that would have roused the entire ship, had it not been drowned by the storm, Bastion pulled the dagger free. Blood spilled out, and it felt as bad as any wound he had ever suffered—as though one side of his body were dead or paralyzed. He propped himself against a wall and, breathing heavily, held the blade ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rail broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Silence! Show respect for—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The paper dropped from his shaking hand.

“No … no!”

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Xyr had indeed kept the message short but clear.

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

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

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

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

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

“My son … my Bastion.…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I could only make him understand.…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She faltered. “My lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His favorite sword suddenly appeared in his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Faros! Hold! It’s Grom!”

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

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

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

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

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

“We can see them from atop this hill!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ambeon shall spread across the continent.…

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

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

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

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

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

“Nephera.…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nephera—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can speak more later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Through this very door, you idiot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He suddenly snorted. Never!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drums beating madly, the ogres shouted as they charged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kya!” the legionary cried. “Kya!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now, the ogre leader had been more legend than real, a specter in his imagination representing all the evil that had happened to him since the night of the bloody coup. He knew of the pact between Hotak and Golgren, and that Golgren himself had been aboard the galley in which Faros had rowed; Golgren had delivered him and all the other minotaurs betrayed by Hotak to Kern. Golgren had approved of Sahd’s sadistic treatment of the slaves and the backbreaking labor that killed so many of them.

Faros stared disbelievingly at the ugly ogre. He had his chance now to avenge all the horrors that had gone before. With a roar, Faros threw himself at the mounted figure, slashing back and forth with his sword. Yet Golgren parried each blow with apparent ease then kicked out at his opponent, striking him in his already injured muzzle.

“Garoki Uruv Suurt i f’han.” When he saw that Faros did not understand, the ogre smiled and translated for himself in almost perfect Common, “I bring to you your death, minotaur.”

He urged his mount to trample Faros, who leaped aside. Faros made a desperate swing at the animal’s flank, but somehow Golgren’s sword was there in time to bash the other blade back.

The Grand Lord easily steered his mount around. Still smiling, the ogre bent and thrust repeatedly at Faros, forcing the minotaur off balance.

Faros reached to his kilt for his dagger. As Golgren closed in on him, the minotaur threw the blade underhand toward the rider.

The dagger flew wide, but pierced the horse in the side of its head. A minor cut, but the attack startled the steed, and it bucked.

Golgren was thrown off—or did he jump?—for there he was, poised, crouched, ready for the next attack. The smile was intact as he complimented the minotaur in a taunting voice. “Zur i ke’en, Uruv Suurt,” he mocked. “Well thrown, minotaur.”

Eyes crimson, Faros made a furious attack, swinging back and forth. An ogre who had chanced near drew back, but not before one of his arms was cut in half; Faros did not even notice. He drove toward his cloaked adversary, wanting nothing more than to wipe the smile from Golgren by removing the ogre leader’s head.

But Golgren moved again with grace and skill beyond what Faros had ever dreamed of from one of the tusked race. He easily dodged the sweeping blade and as Faros’s momentum took him past him, the Grand Lord raised a small blade of his own.

Golgren jammed the dagger into the minotaur’s sword arm. Faros’s arm shook uncontrollably and he dropped his sword to the ground, where his own stumbling feet kicked it just out of reach.

He fell to his knees, pulled free the dagger—and roared when its jagged edge tore his shoulder open. He dropped the knife, clutching his bloody wound.

A heavy foot kicked him to the earth. As Faros rolled over, his tearing eyes focused on the remarkably persistent and amused expression of the ogre leader.

“You fight not bad, yes,” the smooth voice murmured. Around the two, the battle was raging, but Faros barely noticed; the whole thing had a surreal quality. Even Golgren seemed to be on a different plane of existence. “Mines make you strong, eh?” he tapped the brand on Faros’s injured shoulder. “Not strong enough, though.”

Faros glanced around, seeking his sword, but couldn’t find it. No, there it was—too far away. Golgren’s sword already hovered over the minotaur’s bleeding chest.

Faros lunged for it regardless.

The ogre thrust.

Something was not right … again.

Nephera shoved aside the bowl, staring at her dead legions. She saw among them many whom she knew well. There were foes, friends, even those who had pretended they were her friends.

There was even a son of her loins.

But not two sons … and there should have been two of them.

Where was Bastion?

The high priestess asked that question of the ghosts. Several had been charged with hounding her son, keeping watch over him. They had seen him fall, but what had happened in the water? Her sentinels could not explain, not even when Takyr threatened to punish them to the fullest. This lapse—it was not the first either. More and more of her unearthly spies had begun to falter, to fail on simple missions, to lose their quarries.

And now, with so much power of her own, Nephera could not summon the ghost of her second-born.

That could mean Bastion was still alive … but if so, then where was he?

“Too many responsibilities,” she muttered. “Always too many things to do! Must I do everything? Is my husband doing his share?” She paced nervously, oblivious to both the anxious looks of her two attendants and the more frenetic activity of the ghosts.

Surely she had been tested too much! Did her wondrous patron not see that? Nephera had done everything anyone could do and more, but so often of late little details slipped through her fingers as her attention was demanded here, there, everywhere.…

“Takyr.”

At least the loyal Takyr always appeared when she called, always did her bidding. The high priestess felt grateful for at least that consistency.

Mistress …

“My son, Bastion … you sense nothing of his presence among those like you?”

There is … nothing. The fearsome shade hid within his diabolical cloak, clearing anxious not to invite any punishment of his own.

“If he is not among you,” she finally said decisively, sweeping her hand across the room. “Then he must live! There is no ghost in the realm that must not come to me, is there?”

No … mistress … Takyr replied, though it was not true; and wisely he did not mention the obvious case of the shade of Rahm Es-Hestos.

Her eyes wide, Nephera nodded triumphantly. “Then he does indeed live! But where? These cretins have been searching everywhere since his disappearance! Why can they not find him?”

She strode toward the ethereal throng, who scattered before her, mewing piteously. Lady Nephera peered left and right, up and down, as if by doing so she would find the truth among them.

Snorting in derision, the high priestess finally turned from the gibbering phantoms. Bastion was upsetting all her plans. With Bastion dead, surely Ardnor would be named as Hotak’s heir. And Bastion would serve a higher cause, in the religion of her temple. Even her husband would eventually see the truth of this; Hotak would in time relent and come to the temple to see his son—in death.

It was to have been the crowning achievement of the high priestess; the much-admired son of Hotak proclaiming the righteous place of the temple in the scheme of the empire; he would help her guide the afterlife. Surely that would please her patron! Surely then Nephera would once again be granted contact with the force.

But Bastion had once again interfered with his mother’s desires.

“No, not Bastion.…” Her unblinking eyes brightened. “It is not Bastion’s fault. It is Hotak, yes, you, my love. If I cannot rely on you, my husband,” she snarled contemptuously, “then.…”

Nephera had not paid enough attention to her husband’s activities of late, aware that most of what he concerned himself with was the grand invasion of Ansalon. But just as he studied his maps and reports, she learned much from her spies—and recently, she had heard of his disrespect for the Forerunners. Could this disappearance of Bastion be some kind of plot on his part to undermine Ardnor and to cast suspicion on the temple?

Returning to the bowl that contained her visions, Lady Nephera stirred the crimson contents, murmuring in the language of her god.

As she spoke, a mist formed in the bowl, a mist that took on the vague appearance of several faces—all ages, both sexes, and every one of them wore the mournful expressions of the dead.

“Tell me … tell me, do you have any word of Bastion?”

A cacophony of voices that only she could hear erupted. Each haunting visage appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. Lady Nephera listened closely and was able, with the aid of her sorcery, to pick out every word of importance to her. But the words that the high priestess’s spies whispered concerned only the upcoming funeral. A new message had arrived from the Stormbringer, but it merely stated that no further signs had been discovered and that if none were found soon, it would be thought almost certain that Hotak and Nephera’s second-born had drowned.

“Enough!” Nephera finally said out of frustration. She waved away the specters, though one had the audacity to stay. It continued to babble, silent words spilling from its motionless face.

With fresh curiosity, the high priestess leaned forward. This was not one of those she had summoned. A legion dekarian of middle years, he had a left arm that dangled uselessly and his breastplate hung at a angle; the savage work of an ax decorated his upper chest. He had served under Hotak some ten years before. This was a shade whose task it was to remain ever by her husband’s side. Nephera had not summoned this ghost because she had neither the time nor inclination, and now the sad specter sought to repeat weeks of useless information, reports, conversations, and—

And something that made the high priestess bolt upright so that she nearly spilled the contents of the bowl all over herself.

Her attendants rushed to her side, fearful for her health. With a look of outrage, Nephera shouted, “Away! Stand away!”

They shrank into the corners. Never had the high priestess sounded so wild, so enraged.

Shaking uncontrollably, Nephera leaned over the bowl again. With a silent command, she made the bloody shade repeat the last words.

Then the high priestess straightened. No emotion showed in her face. Her eyes were as dead as those of the ghosts surrounding her. She moved more as if pulled by invisible strings.

Then a dark look spread over her countenance. The torches in the chamber all but died. A bone-numbing chill filled the room as Nephera looked up at the towering symbols of the Forerunners.

“Never …” she uttered, bowing her head to the glorious force they represented. “First Ardnor … and now this … this blasphemy!” As Nephera raised her head again, a look of reverence filled her expression. She stretched a gaunt hand toward the broken ax and the soaring bird. “I understand. He has gone too far.”

The horns saved Faros—the battle horns that suddenly blared loudly, the signal was one any minotaur recognized as the one trumpeting victory.

The ogre gave a distinct start. The blade that should have pierced Faros in the chest glanced to the right, cutting a red line across his lower abdomen. The pain was bad, but was not enough to keep him from grabbing hold of his lost sword.

When he turned to face the Grand Lord Golgren, Faros discovered the ogre had edged back, his gaze to the north. Faros, too, found himself looking in that direction.

Minotaurs were pouring over the ogres there, shouting and screaming their confidence and bloodlust. They waved axes and swung swords over their heads. Many wore breastplates with the old condor symbol of Sargas, or the green and white kilts of the Fleet marine fighters. Others were clad simply.

The rebellion had ridden from out of nowhere to rescue their brethren.

Golgren seized one of his crimson riders, barking something to his underling in their harsh, guttural tongue. He pushed the hefty ogre away, and the latter immediately rode off toward the north, carrying the ogre leader’s orders.

Faros started slowly toward Golgren, but somehow the ogre leader sensed his approach, for he turned to gaze contemptuously into the eyes of the minotaur.

The Grand Lord grinned.

But then someone seized Faros by the shoulder, yanking him back. He started to counterattack, only to find it was Grom. The minotaur had cuts on his shoulders, and his horns were soaked red with the blood of the ogre he had gored.

“Faros! One of the rebel leaders has broken through to us! He says we should move to the east, where they will create a rear guard and cut off pursuit!”

Retreat was hardly what Faros had intended. He wanted the grin and the head of Grand Lord Golgren. He wanted the heads of every ogre he could slay.

Faros almost said as much, but he was injured and dazed, and instead other words came out of his mouth. “Yes. Give the signal.”

With a look of relief, Grom turned and raced away. Faros stared after him, and only then remembered his adversary. He turned once more to face Golgren.

Only the Grand Lord was gone. Other ogres were all around him, fighting with a frenzy, pushing the ex-slaves and legionaries back. The worst melee, the worst bloodshed, appeared to be some distance away, to the south.

The south.…

“Get over there!” Faros roared, pointing. Now he understood what had just happened. The Grand Lord Golgren understood exactly where the minotaurs had to move if they sought to escape, and he had sent a rider to pull forces from the north. If the ogres kept the minotaurs from retreating east, then even the rebels could not help them. They were trapped here in this mall valley.

One of the few mastarks still with an ogre handler charged toward Faros, crushing those who stood in its path. Many ogres raced close behind.

But as the beast neared Faros, he leaped at its tusks and grabbed them, pulling himself up. The mastark tried to shake him free, but Faros held on.

The handler rose in the saddle. Faros thrust, but the ogre blocked his blade. The ogre growled then stabbed at his foe with the ax head. Faros grabbed the ax head, cutting himself, but held his grip and with a tremendous tug pulled the ogre from the saddle.

Climbing into the saddle, Faros kicked the mastark so that it would turn around. Noticing him, two ogres gave chase, harrying the minotaur.

The mastark dealt with one, seizing the ogre with its furry trunk and tossing him aside. The second managed to climb atop, but lost his footing and fell down.

With Grom calling out orders, the ex-slaves were rallying. From his vantage point atop the mastark, Faros saw the rebels pushing their way toward the south.

They needed to buy more time, Faros saw, and so he let loose with a cry and spurred the behemoth into the ogre ranks.

A spear came within inches of him. He ducked, but it struck the mastark, which bellowed in pain, its foreleg now pierced by three lances. Ogres with spears gathered in the front of the beast; some distracted it, while others attacked.

And behind them, shouting commands, was the Grand Lord Golgren, looking on triumphantly.

The mastark tried to back away, but Faros spurred it forward again. One attacker got under the bleeding beast’s tusks and jammed his spear into the softer flesh of its throat. The huge creature kicked him away with ease, but the mastark stumbled and fell. Faros clutched tight as his seating shifted violently.

Two more spears finished the behemoth. Yet as it roared mournfully and collapsed on its side, Faros leaped off its head. He landed atop two ogres, his sword digging into the chest of one of them, as they rolled and landed in a heap.

Jumping up, Faros found himself surrounded by his own followers. Someone shouted his name, and everyone took it up, making it a war chant. “Faros! Faros! Faros!”

The battle eddied and swirled, and suddenly Faros found himself alone again facing the Grand Lord Golgren.

The ogre attacked him with lightning swiftness. His sword battered at Faros from all directions. Yet, despite his relentlessness, none of his attacks struck home. The minotaur’s own blade was there to meet Golgren’s every move. But the long battle was taking its toll. Faros gritted his teeth; his wounds screamed with agony.

“Kya i daran i f’han, Uruv Suurt,” Golgren said mockingly, this time not bothering to translate.

Then, someone pulled Faros back. A heavy figure stood next to him, his raspy voice commanding, “Go, lad! They need you! We’ve got the rear protected!”

Jubal pushed Gradic’s son toward a marine fighter who tried to lead Faros from the battle. Head pounding, Faros for once did not struggle.

The former governor blocked Golgren, who was tempted to pursue the one he had been harassing, but this elder minotaur seemed even more self-important. Amusing how one minotaur pushed the other to safety. The Grand Lord grinned at Jubal.

“You can wipe that smile off your face, ogre … or better yet, let me remove it!”

Jubal hefted a huge war ax and shouted out loudly as he swung. Still smiling, Golgren easily stepped back away from the blade. A few yards away, Faros and the marine fighter heard Jubal and stopped, hesitating. They watched.

With repeated swings, Jubal pushed Golgren farther back. But the ogre leader kept smiling. The ax flew back and forth, up and down, sometimes just missing him. The Grand Lord deflected a few blows but otherwise made no counterattack.

But the extended attack finally demanded a respite. Jubal withdrew his ax and readjusted his stance, an action of only a second or two, no more.

Golgren lunged.

The sword bit into Jubal just below his neck, skimming his breastplate. The bulky minotaur tried to say something, choked, one hand going to the gushing wound.

Golgren struck again, piercing Jubal’s shoulder.

The ax fell from the graying warrior’s hand. He tried to recover, bending toward his weapon.

With a wide, fiendish grin, the ogre brought the blade around and slashed Jubal deeply across the throat—close to the one that caused his old scar.

“Nooo!” Faros ripped free of the marine fighter and sped toward the two combatants. Jubal fell to his knees, both hands clutching his severed throat.

Golgren looked up with his usual air of amusement and started to raise his sword, but Faros had moved too fast, swinging at the cloaked figure.

The Grand Lord of Kern thought he had deflected the first blow, but the force of it brought Faros close, his sword sliding down to the ogre’s hand.

The minotaur’s blade bit through muscle, sinew, and bone. So fast that Golgren didn’t even realize he had been bested.

Golgren pushed Faros away, staring at the stump of his hand.

He did not scream, did not collapse in agony. The ogre leader turned his unblinking eyes to Faros … and then the strange, amused smile grew wider.

“Zur i ki’in, Uruv Suurt,” he laughed. “Well struck, minotaur … well struck.…”

Before Faros could move, Golgren, the smile never leaving his face, took a few tottering steps back, then vanished into the snarling ogre lines behind him. Faros blinked—where had he gone? He started to follow then heard Jubal.

Jubal was moaning, choking. Faros turned and knelt down as the marine fighter also rushed up to aid the old fighter.

But Jubal waved both away. Coughing violently, he glanced behind Faros. “We-we’re holding them for now, l-lad! Go! Get through the passage! T-take your people and m-mine to Botanos!”

“You’re coming with us,” Faros replied, but when he tried to lift Jubal, the elder warrior moaned piteously.

“T-too late, lad …” Jubal gasped. “Please! For the sake of your … your father! I owe Gradic that much! G-go!” He clasped Faros’s hand, and his eyes widened as he saw a ring on the minotaur’s hand. “I know that! I know that ring—”

But the younger minotaur heard no more. At the very mention of his father’s name, the scene had changed for him. Jubal no longer looked like his father’s old friend, the imperial governor. Instead Faros saw his dying sire, who had also begged him to go. He saw his mother, his younger siblings, all dead, lying near the stairs. The face of his older brother, Crespos, was followed by Bek, Japfin, and Ulthar. The walls that Faros had built around his heart and soul began to crumble.

You are the House now.…

His father had spoken those words. He had wanted Faros to keep the legacy of his line alive, but slavery and torture had made Gradic’s son think only of death.

And now another noble one had sacrificed himself for him.

“We’re taking you with us!” Despite Jubal’s protests, Faros and the marine fighter lifted the dying minotaur. They turned and pushed their way back through rebels still protecting the retreat of the former slaves and legionaries.

They left the battle, following the flow of bodies through the narrow pass. Faros was in a dazed state. He did not register those around him nor the distance he had traveled. At some point, the marine fighter was replaced by the blood-soaked Grom, and the two of them still carried Jubal. Grom muttered prayers to his lost god for all of those left behind—many dead, others doomed to sacrifice themselves to help the others escape. He muttered prayers, too, for Jubal.

The dim light of the storm-ridden day grew faint. The noise of battle was replaced by their own heavy breathing, as they passed through forested land.

At last, the smell of the sea stirred Faros to a new awakening. He blinked and saw in the distance the tip of a high mast peeking out from above the trees.

Minotaurs ran up to confront them. Among them was a rather corpulent figure holding a long, smoldering pipe.

“Stop,” the pipe-smoking minotaur commanded Grom. The two gently laid Jubal on the soft, forest floor. Faros leaned over Gradic’s comrade of old, and muttered, “We’ve made it, governor. We’ve made it.”

But Jubal did not stir. He did not breathe. Faros stared closer.

“He’s dead,” Grom whispered to him, making the sign of Sargonnas. “He was dead long ago. We have been carrying him for miles, to bury him.”

Captain Botanos came close, his gaze fixed on Jubal. The huge minotaur puffed rapidly on his pipe, the only visible indication of his distress.

“No, not here. We take him aboard. We bury him at sea.”

That is when, raising his hand from Jubal’s chest, Faros saw what the governor had been referring to—the ring on his hand. He stared at his hand and realized that he wore a ring with a black stone set in the center.

Standing, Faros took the ring off, scratching his head. Where could he have found such a thing, much less put it on his hand? Vaguely he recalled clutching something small and round a while ago—it seemed like eons—when he nearly drowned in the river.

His legs buckled. The world swam. Somewhere in the distance, Grom called his name.

His own terrible wounds finally overwhelming him, Faros slumped forward.

The storm clouds spreading over Nethosak, over much of the empire, rumbled ominously as night fell. The winds howled. Rain drenched everything. Hardened mariners and legionaries took shelter. Bolts of lightning not only flashed high in the heavens, but they also struck land and sea with frightening regularity.

One bolt set fire to a storage building near the harbor, forcing the State Guard and the Watch to brave the elements in order to battle the blaze. The torrential rain proved more hindrance than aid; the fire seemed hardly affected by it. Reinforcements had to be summoned, with others given the task of soaking the neighboring structures in order to prevent the fire from spreading.

Beyond the harbor, two ships whipped by the sudden intensity of the winds battled high waves and desperately sought landfall. One slowly made its way into port, but the other, its main sail torn to shreds, was pushed back to open sea.

Volley after volley of thunder shook the imperial capital, centering its attack, it seemed to those who lived in the vicinity, on the palace.

The palace was indeed trembling as Captain Gar hurried along through the corridors. Even the marble pillars seemed to sway. In his arms, Gar carried several scrolls. Most were historical records pertaining to the Temple of Sargonnas and its relationship with the throne during various periods of history.

The two sentries on duty outside the emperor’s personal chambers did not challenge Gar, for Hotak had left orders to admit the officer immediately. Gar blinked as he entered the chamber. Emperor Hotak had brass oil lamps and tall candles everywhere, filling the room with unusually bright light. Yet the many flames, in this room of huge statues, cast a multitude of strange and vivid shadows. On an empty chair near the map hung the former general’s sheathed sword.

Seated at the writing table next to the map, Hotak looked up with eyes so horribly bloodshot that they startled the captain, making him nearly drop some of the scrolls.

“Gar! About damn time! You located all I asked for?”

“Almost all, my lord. There were only two I couldn’t find.”

“I’ll make due without them! Quickly! Deposit everything here!” A dripping quill in his hand, Hotak indicated a wooden stand next to where he worked. In his other hand, the emperor was holding flat a fresh piece of parchment upon which he had just written the first few words.

The officer deposited his burden. “Is there anything else you need from me, my lord?”

“No. That’s all.” Hotak bent down and began scribbling anew on the parchment. “Keep on call, though. I’ll need you to have this decree copied and delivered to the Circle and every senior commander. There’ll be no mistake, then.”

“My lord … perhaps a short rest would be in order at this time. You can always finish after—”

“No, I must finish.” Yet, the one-eyed ruler hesitated. “But bring some food and drink. No wine. I must keep strong on this matter.…”

“Yes, my lord.”

Left alone, Hotak quickly dived into the scrolls. It was important that he accurately invoke minotaur tradition. These scrolls explained past reasons the rulers of the empire had to assert their authority over the once-powerful Temple of Sargonnas. That history would strengthen his decree. He was taking drastic action, he knew, and his subjects would be more likely to accept his policy, less likely to protest, if he called on their devotion to tradition.

He hoped even to convince some of the Forerunner faithful, who had been led astray by the excesses of the religion. Of course, the hardest person to contend with would be the high priestess … and Hotak hoped, with this carefully researched, carefully argued decree, that he might even convince Nephera, his wife.

Lothan and the councilors who belonged to her sect would be a bit of a nuisance, but in the end, they would bend to his will, especially considering the solid support Hotak had from most of the senior legion and imperial officials.

“You will return to me, my dear,” he whispered to the flickering shadows. “We will be one again, and this monstrous taint will be cleansed from your heart and mind.”

He felt certain that whatever force had granted her such monstrous powers stemmed from the darkest source. The emperor cursed himself for having let things get this far.

A knock on the door announced the entrance of one of the guards with the food and drink Hotak had ordered to placate Captain Gar. The sentry placed everything on the table then backed silently out of the chamber.

Hotak tore off a piece of salted goat leg and reached for a steaming mug with the earthy scent of horsetail grass. No tea this, but a brew concocted with the herb that reinvigorated the weary. Gar had chosen well. Even before he finished half the mug, Hotak felt his mind clear of cobwebs and grow sharp again.

Refreshed, he considered the draft of the decree, thus far. There would be an immediate cessation of any official activities in which the Forerunners were involved. The temple would be cleared and sealed by the Imperial Guard.

At the same time—and this was not in the decree—Hotak would launch an underground campaign to denounce the dark side of the cult. The whispering campaign would clear his wife of her followers’ most sinister machinations. Hotak already had a list of scapegoats prepared, one a member of the Supreme Circle who was destined for the mines. His downfall would be a warning to Lothan and the others.

Hotak took another sip. It would all work out to his satisfaction. Nephera would have to recant her leadership or face humiliation—a harsh measure but necessary. She had gone too far, and if she were not the empress, his wife, she would have been arrested long ago. What she needed was rest and peace, not the madness of this religion, which had changed her into someone he no longer recognized.

“This nightmare will end, my dear,” he murmured, eyeing the dancing shadows. “Once you’ve given up this monstrous obsession, you’ll be well again. We’ll be well. We’ll be one again.”

There would be shock. There would be protest. But there was no choice.

A harsh wind howled outside. Thunder roiled, shaking the candles, whose flames and shadows danced crazily, as though caught in a wild struggle.

With his thinking clear, Hotak realized that it would be best if he spoke with Ardnor this very night. If Ardnor accepted his new position in Hotak’s hierarchy, surely the emperor’s eldest son would agree to put restraints on the Protectors. He counted on Ardnor’s support. He would have to set aside major appointments for Ardnor’s most loyal followers, of course, but that was a small matter.

“Guard!”

Sitting back, he envisioned the realm without the taint of the Forerunners. He had never expected the religion to grow so powerful, so strange, and so cruel. When she came to her senses, Nephera would thank him. Hotak leaned forward, staring at the spot on the smaller map that marked the empire they had always dreamed of ruling together. The smaller map nonetheless displayed every detail that the larger did, and the emperor kept the latter as updated as the original. Everywhere, diminutive warriors and ships marked the latest known positions of his forces.

So much of that information had come from the temple.…

True, but Hotak vehemently shook his head. He would not accept any more aid ever again from the black force that had seduced Nephera!

Stirring from his thoughts, Hotak realized that no one had yet reacted to his summons. He snorted angrily and rose, shouting louder, “Guard!”

The guards should have responded by now … yet still the doors remained tightly shut.

Cursing the sentries’ sloth, the emperor got up.

But then a flicker of movement behind him caught his eye.

Twisting, he reached for his blade hanging in its sheath, drawing it with one smooth motion. Hotak spun around, scanning the chamber.

No one. He was getting old and paranoid. Thunder shook the palace again. The shadows fluttered in every direction as the lamps and candles rocked. Of any intruder, however, he saw no sign. Where would one have come from, anyway?

Hotak swore at his own nervousness. He was jumping at his own shadow. However, had it been an actual assassin, his laggard guards would have been of absolutely no use whatsoever. Where were they all this time?

“You out there!” Hotak roared, striding toward the doors with his sword still in his grip. “What’s the meaning of—”

Again there was movement … no mistaking it this time.

But when he spun around, he saw only his own looming shadow, surrounded by those of the little ships and warriors from the map.

A chill wind abruptly swept across his face. He clutched protectively at his throat. The fur on the back of Hotak’s neck rose. Some of the flames guttered.

Hotak glanced at the windows, but they were shuttered against the storm and could hardly have been the source of the blast of cold air. The balcony, too, had been blocked off, though the wooden barrier there rattled uncertainly.

Still clutching his sword, the emperor moved more quietly and cautiously toward the door.

And again someone or something moved near him.

“Halt, damn you!” he demanded, whirling in a circle. Once more he beheld nothing solid.

Hotak took a deep breath, thinking it over. “Nerves,” he muttered. “Simply nerves.” His nerves had been on edge all night. Dealing with a cult of the dead, and the possibility that his mate had committed blood sacrifices of her kind several times to enhance her dark power, definitely strained one’s nerves.

“No more, though,” Hotak growled. “When the temple lies demolished, it’ll all come to an end—all the gossip and all the dark business.”

But the shadows surrounding him seemed to mock his words. It almost seemed as though they drew closer. He brandished his blade at them, chuckling at his own foolishness.

Still chuckling, the emperor strode over to the map, targeting one of the tiny figures. With a gentle but deliberate tap, he toppled the tiny warrior. “There! Thus do all my foes fall, of flesh or shadow or—”

He felt an agonizing blow to his chest. The emperor fell against the table, dropping his sword.

Gasping, he pulled himself up. He caught sight of his shadow—and another shadow that loomed over his own, that looked as though it wielded at weapon. Wasn’t it just the shadow of one of the statues or figurines?

“What—by the Horned One?” he muttered, clutching the pain in his chest, absently calling on the god he so often dismissed.

The chill wind filled the room again. Most of the candles and lamps died out; only a meager handful were left burning. Despite the dimness, the shadows on the walls seemed to swell and grow more distinct. To Hotak, it suddenly seemed as though he stood in a chamber filled with shadowy foes. His one good eye darted everywhere in the room, yet he saw nobody—nothing—only emptiness.

To his horror, another shadow produced a blade and thrust at his shadow’s head.

An acute pain at the base of his skull sent Hotak reeling. He crashed into the writing table, spilling the decree, the ink, and the research parchments.

Strange babbling whispers filled his ears. Hotak could not understand the words, but the hostile tone left him shivering. He sensed not only death, but something beyond death … tempting him … beckoning to him.…

His eye widened. He stared at the specters.

“No!” Hotak snapped. “I’ll not fall to you as she has! I’ll not let you dictate what shall be! I am Hotak, and Hotak bends for no power that hides behind shadows!”

Despite his searing pain, he grabbed up his sword again and forced himself to stand straight. He stared at the gathering shades, trying, through watery eyes, to identify them individually, detect their weaknesses.

His ears twitched as realization dawned. With a triumphant grin, he turned to the map and grandly swept across it with his sword, bowling over the figurines—warriors and ships all—finally shoving all of them to the floor.

But though the shadow warriors twisted and distorted in macabre fashion, they did not vanish along with the toy soldiers. Worse, they became more animated, closing in on the emperor’s silhouette with grim determination.

Another shadow lunged, and Hotak felt his shoulder go numb. Another slashed at his stomach, and the emperor stumbled, knocking over one of the few remaining lamps that was lit.

The room went nearly dark. One couldn’t tell the shadows from the blackness.

Hotak cursed himself for a fool. That was it; douse the last of the lights and he’d deprive the shadows of their foul magic. That would end the threat!

As he lurched toward one of the few remaining lamps, the sickle-shaped appendage of another deadly shade streaked across his shadow, sending Hotak falling. He crashed hard against a wall, but with a desperate slash of his blade sent the lamp flying. It crashed on the floor, but instead of dousing, oil and fire splattered around. Burning droplets fell on the map, and flames began to rise everywhere.

As his heart was pierced by a fresh pain, the beleaguered emperor saw that the fire fed the shadows. They transformed, grew, and distorted into worse, fiendish shapes, their weapons also swelling and shifting into fantastical blades.

“Aargh!” The emperor was on the floor, trying to crawl to safety. The sinister shadows assaulted his shadow from all sides. With each strike, his body shook.

His hand found one of the figurines, and the emperor whirled and threw it into the fire. That made an odd sizzling sound, followed by a roar as the fire rose up higher than ever. Smoke began to fill the room.

Still no guards came, and the doors remained closed. The sentries outside must be oblivious to his predicament. Drawing himself up with great effort, Hotak took one last swing at his shadow adversaries. His blade skipped off the walls, leaving long scars in the stone and wood, but the shadows continued to attack him.

The agony became unbearable. He glanced toward the balcony. Out there, the storm raged and the heavy clouds blotted out light. On the balcony, he might be safe.

Half blind, his eyes swimming with blood, Hotak stumbled toward his goal. The shadows moved with him, intensifying their attack. Choking from the smoke, the emperor slashed and swung futilely at the dark things swirling around him.

Frantically, Hotak crashed through the wooden barrier and onto the balcony.

The abrupt shift from light to darkness momentarily left him without vision. A last, incredible jolt of pain caused Hotak to wheel around. Instinctively the emperor swung at his foe. He lost balance, falling against some low obstruction.

The obstruction gave way. Something insubstantial seized the minotaur, pulling him deep into the darkness.

Only then did Hotak realize that the night was the most terrible shadow of all.…

The anxious soldiers would not clarify for Ardnor why he had been summoned. Questioning them produced the same answer over and over again—one of his father’s aides, Captain Gar, would fill him in when he arrived at the palace.

Leaving the temple, they rode as fast as they could, despite the torrential rain that made their path treacherous. Gar met him at the steps, saluting Ardnor with a fervor the First Master was more accustomed to receiving from his Protectors.

“Praise be you’ve arrived, my Lord Ardnor! This monstrous tempest—!”

“When my father needs me, he can rely on me to come, despite any storm.”

Gar swallowed. “Your father—your father didn’t summon you. I apologize, but I did, my lord.” The officer gestured not toward the vast entrance, but rather toward the right. “Please. Come this way. Hurry. I … I beg you.”

Ardnor’s brow furrowed, but he nodded and followed, knowing Gar to be one of his father’s most loyal aides. He followed the minotaur around the outer perimeter of the palace. The wind keened, the thunder was deafening. Now and then, lightning briefly illuminated the building. The rain persisted.

“Where do you take me?” Ardnor finally demanded, after they had walked for several minutes around the edifice.

“Just a little farther—here! Here, my lord!”

Ahead, five rain-drenched members of the Imperial Guard solemnly stood at attention, guarding something. Ardnor peered down at a shape in their midst.

A flare of his nostrils was the only sign of his surprise. He looked over the twisted form, the staring face. So strong in life, so fragile in death. The emperor Hotak, his father, stared up to the heavens as if death mocked him.

“There … there seems to have been a disastrous fire, my lord. Everything in his chambers was destroyed. Your father evidently became trapped and confused. We can only assume that, blinded, he stumbled out to the balcony and fell here.”

Ardnor swore angrily. His father—dying in a fire? Confused? It was not honorable. He squatted to examine his father’s body. Hotak looked smaller than he remembered … much older, too. “Why is he out here still and not inside?”

“I didn’t know what to do, it was so sudden and unexpected. I feared to touch anything until one of the family had come and advised me. I sent word to the empress, of course … but when she didn’t come, I sent the messengers back for you. Did I do wrong?”

“No.” After a moment’s consideration, Hotak’s son added, “He was the emperor, after all! He shouldn’t be left out here in the storm!”

“Yes, my lord!” Gar immediately signaled the soldiers to collect the body. Someone brought over a wagon and the emperor’s corpse was gently placed upon it.

“Take him—” The captain paused. “Take him to the throne room!” He suddenly glanced anxiously at Ardnor. “May I do so, with your permission?”

“Mine?” Ardnor’s ears straightened, and his chest puffed out. “Yes, of course! The throne room sounds good! Set him up properly!”

“Yes, my lord!” responded the lead guard.

Gar stayed behind. “My Lord Ardnor … will you find your mother and tell her?”

“My mother.…” Ardnor’s expression was odd, thought Gar—suddenly thoughtful and fearful. “Yes, don’t worry, captain. I’ll tell my mother.”

The other minotaur bowed his head. “Such a tragedy and so soon after Lord Bastion’s death. Such a tragedy for the family … and the whole empire.…”

“Yes … isn’t it?” The First Master fidgeted. “Are we through here?”

Leaving the captain with orders to deal with matters, Ardnor hurried to his waiting mount. Despite his outward calm, his thoughts were racing.

Hotak the Sword, Hotak the Avenger—his father—was dead. And he, Ardnor, stood first in the line of succession.

He found his mother in her private sanctum, as usual a parchment in one hand, a quill in the other. Lady Nephera looked up as her son entered and gave him a polite nod. She looked more gaunt than even the last time he had seen her.

“I cannot speak with you long, Ardnor. A matter on the mainland has become very troublesome, and I must attend to it myself before it grows out of hand.”

“I’ve brought news for you, Mother. News of the utmost importance. Something terrible has happened.”

Her black, unblinking orbs glittered in the light of the candle sitting next to her. “Yes, son … I already know.”

“No, I don’t think—” His nostrils flared as Ardnor shifted. “You know?”

“I am the high priestess of the Forerunners, first and foremost. How could I not know? How could I not know all that happens to my loved ones?”

Her eyes were dark pits. Her voice was toneless.

And all of a sudden, Ardnor knew without a doubt. “I see.”

Nephera smiled slightly. Her smile was a ghastly sight, even to him, first among her Forerunners. “You are my son. Of course you see. In time, you will also understand.” She nodded toward the door. “Now, you will have much to deal with … and so do I. We must talk soon, but now. I am so terribly busy.”

He backed warily away. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Mother.”

“You never disturb me, my son.” As Ardnor turned away, Nephera added, “By the way, it was good of you to make peace with your brother Bastion before he sailed … you didn’t mention it, but I found out. It was sensible of you.

Ardnor froze. He slowly turned toward his mother. “What?”

But the high priestess had returned to her busy work, perusing one of her lists, and after several frustrating seconds of waiting for an answer, her son spun about awkwardly and strode quickly from her chamber.

The funeral for the emperor and his heir was a magnificent but swift ceremony held before the gates of the palace. There Ardnor presided over the traditional rituals; his mother, so it was whispered, was absent because of her deep grief. With a favored ax resting in the crook of Hotak’s arm representing Bastion in spirit, the emperor was laid atop a pyre even taller than that built for his youngest son. After honoring both dead with a brief recitation of their victories, Ardnor then lit the pyre and sent his father and Bastion to the afterlife.

And the next day, a violent tempest came in the form of a legion of ebony-armored figures on foot and horseback who swept through the capital with ominous purpose. Armed with sturdy, skull-crushing maces, the helmed warriors methodically divided the imperial city into sections. The populace, still immobilized by the tragic and extraordinary turn of events, made no protest.

From the dwellings of prominent citizens, stunned figures were dragged forth by the black-helmed warriors and roughly taken off to whereabouts unknown. Many officers of the Imperial Guard found themselves replaced without warning; the leadership of the legions now answered to the temple, as much as the throne. And thus, with the Protectors firmly in control of the city and the palace, Ardnor de-Droka declared himself emperor.

Jubal was given a simple burial. First the rebels draped his body in a banner from the Dragon’s Crest. Then, members of the crew cradled the rope-bound corpse while Captain Botanos recited the virtues of the late governor. When that was done, he then called upon the sea gods and Sargonnas—though those deities no longer ruled Krynn—to accept Jubal as a proud warrior and sailor, a true guardian of the sea. At last, on the captain’s signal, they lowered the body overboard into a small boat. Another boat nearby contained Faros and two crew members.

Faros drenched the body with oil then lit it. His boat pulled away, as the flames engulfed the other craft.

Once back on deck, Faros, Captain Botanos, and several others watched Jubal’s fiery remains vanish amid the Blood Sea. A dim day had given way to night, making the flames stand out like a beacon until a last huge wave enveloped both fire and craft.

It had taken three days for Faros to recover from his wounds, something the healers aboard found just short of a miracle.

Now, the ritual done, the hulking captain turned to Faros. “At first chance, I’ll signal one of the other ships to draw near and put you aboard. Then you and yours can be on your way—”

“I’m staying.”

Botanos’s ears twitched. “What?”

Faros absently tugged on the black ring he had plucked from the bottom of the river. Faces flashed through his mind, Jubal’s, his father’s, and many others. All dead because of one person.

“Hotak must fall,” Faros finally said, the flame of vengeance burning bright in his eyes. He clutched the hilt of his sword. His free hand curled tightly continually. “Because for all the blood he’s spilled, it’s time he paid in kind.…”

As he spoke, the wind suddenly rose with a howl. The Dragon’s Crest rocked madly with the waves. Those on deck seized the nearest rails.

And then, just as suddenly … the sea calmed. The waves died down. The wind ceased. An eerie silence fell over the ship.

“Look there!” shouted someone, pointing to the sky.

Above them, a sight so incredible appeared that even the most hardened warriors could only gape at it.

“What—” Captain Botanos finally croaked. “What is it?”

The son of Gradic and last scion of Kalin slowly bared his teeth in a savage smile. “It’s a sign.…”

Among those aboard the Dragon’s Crest who saw the sign was a new recruit, a mariner plucked from the sea shortly after the rebel ship’s departure from the mainland. This minotaur had been adrift for days, clinging to life on a small piece of wood; his very survival was considered a portent of luck. His wounds were not deadly, and he had gladly joined the rebels as one of the crew. Unassuming, he faded into the background quickly, a hard-working hand who skillfully obeyed the captain’s orders.

Yet this one had good reason to fade into the background. His black fur was unusual but not unique; his face was weathered and changed, since his ordeal; still, one of those who had served in the legions, or even a slave from the contingent he once escorted to the ogre ships, might recognize the son of Hotak.

Bastion.

As others continued to watch the skies, he slipped back down into the hold. For the time being, Bastion would work with the rebels, even fight the legions and fleets, if necessary. His long-term goal was to get back to Nethosak and his father.

In a jest worthy of the lost gods, the rebels told him they had discovered another minotaur in the sea, before rescuing Bastion, a waterlogged corpse with a knife wound in his stomach. Even though the body had been returned to the sea, Hotak’s son recognized the dead one’s description as the assassin from the Serpent. What bothered him most was that the peculiar tattoo this corpse carried upon its chest. The rebels, gleefully describing it, had not understood its significance to their listener, Bastion.

A broken ax seared into the flesh.

The sign of the Protectors.

There and then, Bastion had understood the sudden gush of camaraderie displayed by his brother upon his departure. Understood it and marveled at the dark depths to which Ardnor would go. His brother had tried to have him killed.

Who knew what Ardnor was doing now.…

The ghosts shivered and darted around the chamber with such agitation that Nephera almost sent the nervous Nellies away. However, she needed them, more than ever for her next spell.

Nephera had been ensconced in her sanctum for days, but that did not mean she existed unaware of the outside world. The high priestess knew all about the funeral and her son’s declaration of power. She monitored events throughout the capital and beyond.

And knowing there were still those who would oppose Ardnor and the temple’s influence on him, Nephera plotted her spell. She had the names of many, many more who her son did not suspect, names of those who might act to keep him from his just inheritance. The high priestess couldn’t permit any such chance, not as much for her son as emperor as for the continued supremacy of the temple. Nothing and no one would take her gift from her.

This night she would strike such a spectacular blow against future treasonous minotaurs that they would fear to think disloyal thoughts. Nephera could sense the primal power swelling around her even now. She had been forced to turn to some of her own most loyal for this supreme action, but their necessary sacrifices would assure the eternal glory of the Forerunners.

Only Takyr attended her during this spell.

Tonight … tonight the high priestess would virtually secure the empire for Ardnor and the temple. Each name on her list had been marked for death. Each potential enemy would perish in such a manner that no one would mistake their demises for accidental. She would rip their living souls out with such fury that their agony would be etched forever on the faces of their mortal shells. Those who remained behind, in the living world, would know and fear her power.

Though she could still sense the ethereal bond between them, her god had not communicated with her lately. That must be because the high priestess had not yet proven herself, despite everything she had orchestrated over the past days. Yet, surely what Nephera plotted now would return her to the deity’s favor. Surely this time, the voice would return to her head.

Outside, the storm raged. She was used to the thunder and lightning, aware that it was but another manifestation of the great power that she served. Clad in her hooded cloak, arms raised above her head, the high priestess readied her grand spell.

Tormented moans escaped the ghosts. She silenced them with an awful glare then muttered the first words. As the high priestess spoke, she drew forth the energy of her sacrifices.

One by one, she bound the forces to each other. The spell began to take form, a whirling mass of fiery orange and blood-red energy—the Maelstrom in miniature. With each magical word, it pulsated and swelled, gradually filling the chamber.

Nephera’s hood fell back and her mane spread as if each hair were a live tendril. Body crackling with untamed energy, an aura of dark green surrounding her, Nephera shouted the final words—

And her monstrous creation suddenly dissipated.

The powerful energies surrounding the high priestess also vanished. It was so startling, so devastating, that Nephera, with a soul-piercing scream, collapsed on the cold stone floor.

She lay there alone, stunned and moaning, for some time. Gradually, the high priestess stirred, noticing the chamber had grown very quiet.

Anger that all her effort had gone to waste at last gave her the strength to rise. Eyes still tearing from shock, she roared at the walls, “What happened? I demand an answer! Speak!”

But as Lady Nephera turned around, seeking from her pathetic, unworthy ghosts some explanation—she discovered the room was empty—quite empty. The dread legions were gone.

Fury mounting, Nephera looked for the only one of them upon whom she could always count. “Takyr! Attend me! Takyr!”

But even her summons of Takyr echoed futilely.

Then … Nephera sensed the absence of something else. A chasm opened up within her, an emptiness that left her staggering and gasping.

The bond to her beloved deity, her omnipresent link … had been severed.

Her hollow eyes widened. “Nooo … noo.…”

She heard urgent banging at the doors. Through the haze of her horror, Nephera heard her acolytes calling. Whirling, the high priestess glided across the floor then flung the doors open.

Those without immediately knelt in homage.

“What? Speak! Speak!”

A young brown female with eyes as large as shields dared to look up at her, sputtering, “H-holy one! It’s spread everywhere! It’s … it … you must see!”

She made no sense at all and the others just nodded agreement. Nephera kicked at the one who had spoken. “Lead on, then! Now!”

As she and her guides hurried along the cold, shadowy corridors, others in the temple rushed around in a state of obvious shock and confusion. Even the Protectors seemed disorganized, their eyes wide with uncertainty within their dark helms.

Every hair on the back of Lady Nephera’s neck stiffened as she neared the entrance of the temple.

Brawny priests swung open the huge doors, their muscles taut not only with effort, but from the same inexplicable anxiety Nephera had seen everywhere.

Outside, she heard a roar of murmuring. To her surprise, hundreds of the faithful had gathered despite it being the night. They knelt low, their muzzles to the stones, clearly awaiting reassurance from the temple.

Only then did the high priestess notice that the kneeling faithful were not being drenched by torrents of heavy rain. Nor were they being buffeted by the high, screaming winds that ever accompanied the storm. In fact, no thunder, no lightning, assailed her ears and eyes.

The storm and clouds and rain and thunder had left. That in itself was something of a marvel, but it was not the true reason that everyone was stunned.

No, what shook even the stanchest of the Forerunners to the core of their beings was the heavens themselves. There, in the clear night sky, hovered two moons—one ice white, the other fire red. Nephera stumbled back, unable to hide her surprise and dismay.

And beyond them … beyond moons that should not have been there … was arrayed a host of glittering stars, forming immense constellations that filled the once-bare skies …

Constellations that had not been seen since the night the gods abandoned Krynn.

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