Chapter 3

Kristophan, the Imperial League

There should have been singing, should have been bright banners and horns blaring as the Sixth Legion wended the last miles of its march back to the capital. They had fought a hard war, spent three years in fearsome lands surrounded by enemies who took no prisoners, and they had won. But the soldiers chanted no hymns of victory and the only color the standard-bearers flew was deep violet, the color of raw wine. The color of mourning.

Ambeoutin XII, Emperor of the League, Lord of the Conquered Lands, High Captain of the Horned Race, was dead.

Barreth Forlo, marshal of the Sixth, shook his head at the thought. Such a calamity hadn't befallen the League—or any realm—since the Destruction sundered Old Aurim four hundred years ago. To have it happen now, on the heels of victory—it was unthinkable. One moment he'd been looking forward to returning in triumph to kneel before the emperor's feet, and the next a message had come telling him that Ambeoutin would not be waiting for him. There would be no glory; only grieving.

He sighed, glancing back at the long, snaking column of his soldiers: seven hundred men and minotaurs in blue-and-crimson colors. The legion had been two thousand strong when they set out for the dark realm of Thenol, an ancient foe, ruled by dark clerics, who had ferociously attacked the League soon after the Godless Night ended. The Sixth had been the first legion to answer the call to battle, and had fought more than thirty battles from the start of the war to the finish. Forlo—a rare human among the minotaur marshals who dominated the imperial armies—had pushed them hard and buried more than half his troops in foreign soil. But that was war. His men knew it as well as he did, and they accepted his leadership. He had wept with them, bled with them, and killed with them. Even against the undead hordes the Thenolites commanded into battle, he had shown no fear. And in the end, he had been at the fore when the League's armies converged on Hawkbluff, the last stronghold of Thenol, site of their greatest temple.

The temple was gone now, burned and pulled down. Ashes and broken stone. The gruesome idols and bloodstained altars pounded to dust by vengeful minotaurs with sledges. Hawkbluff was a ruin, and it would be years before Thenol recovered. If it ever did.

There should have been singing.

That wasn't even the worst part, he thought, turning back to gaze up the road ahead. The wide, stone-paved highway wound between hills covered with vineyards and orchards, and was flanked by tall statues of minotaur heroes—horned warlords bearing tridents and spiked maces and swords like butcher-blades—not a human among them. Ahead, through the drizzle that had seemed to dog the legion the whole way back, he could make out the haze of Kristophan—the city itself still hidden behind the rolling ground. The worst part was that they had been forced to leave their work unfinished.

Ordinarily, the Sixth would have remained in Thenol as conquerors, occupying the fallen realm and making sure the peace was kept until an imperial governor arrived to assume control. There would have been insurgents to behead, taxes to collect, and more churches to raze. The laws of the League, however, dictated that all soldiers must return at once to the capitol upon the death of an emperor. It was foolish, for the men of Thenol were vipers, and the priests of Hith Bone-lord would already be regathering their power. Without the legions to pacify it, the League's enemy would rise again. Someone would ascend to take the place of Bishop Ondelos, who had died, howling curses, in the fall of Hawkbluff. There might even need to be another war.

My best chance at glory, Forlo thought bitterly. Glory, and a name in the histories. Now I will be a footnote—and more men will die for no good reason.

"Have you heard the latest word?" asked a gray-furred minotaur beside him, a brawny behemoth with a deep, fresh scar on his muzzle and a flicker in his yellow eyes. Grath Horuth-Bok hefted a massive axe onto his shoulder as he peered up at Forlo. Unlike men, the minotaurs did not ride. Horses were for the weak, in the bull-folk's eyes. "They're saying over in the Third that old Ambo was in bed when it happened. And if you believe he was sleeping…"

"Good way to go," Forlo responded, summoning a humorless chuckle. He looked back at the minotaur, his second in command through the campaign and the best friend a warrior could ask for. "Did Trondal tell you that?"

"Aye," Grath said with a wink.

"Tell him his lies stink worse than last night's latrines."

The minotaur boomed with laughter. Forlo turned his eyes back to the road ahead. The messages the armies received had not said anything of the circumstances of Ambeoutin's death, and there had been all sorts of rumors about how he'd met his end. Fighting in the Arena was one popular tale, for that had been one of the emperor's favorite pastimes. Others said one of his courtiers had poisoned him. A few claimed, more quietly, that he'd gotten drunk and fallen from his balcony in the imperial palace. All quite possible, Forlo knew. He and the emperor had been—well, not friends, but as close as one could get with such a powerful lord.

"I wonder who's in charge now," said Grath. "Probably Ambo's son, eh? Emperor Khultam IV… good sound to it."

"Although he's a bit young," Forlo said. "The senate may have chosen one of the other lords."

"Well, we'll see soon enough."

There was a furlong to go before they reached the top of Sedron's Ridge, a crest strewn with shards of broken stone that stretched up and up before them. Once they cleared the ridge, they would begin their descent into the cove where the capitol stood: Kristophan, a jewel of pearl and lapis on the shores of the Western Ocean. Despite everything, it was good to be back in the League, away from the black towns and demon-carved fanes of Thenol. Whoever ruled now, it didn't matter. Forlo had secured a promise from Ambeoutin not long before the war. After his next campaign, he would be allowed to retire. After twenty-five years, first as a soldier, then an officer, then the last six as a marshal… after all that time, he could lay down his sword.

The minotaurs, whose lives revolved around battle, and who never lost the taste for blood, even in old age, thought he was mad. Grath did, and so had the emperor. But Ambeoutin had granted his wish, and whoever sat upon the Sea Throne—a seat carved of a single block of turquoise to resemble foam-cresting waves—was bound to honor Ambeoutin's word, even after death. And then… then he could go home.

Essana, he thought wistfully of the wife he'd left behind—a wife who'd been waiting for so long. I'll see you soon.

"At least we've still got our prize," Grath chimed in, trying to be cheerful in spite of everything. He patted a leather hag, which swung from his belt. It held a round, heavy object. "I've half a mind to toss it over the wall when we reach the gates. A hundred silver says I can clear the battlements. Eh, my friend? What say—"

As they topped the rise, the minotaur's chatter choked off in a grunt of surprise. He stood blinking for a long, stunned moment, then clenched his fist, threw back his head and roared with anguish. Beside him, Forlo reined in, staring in utter disbelief.

"Khot" he swore.

Half the city was gone.

Kristophan had stood for over three hundred years, after being founded in the first hard winters after the Destruction by the few ragged humans who had escaped Old Aurim and the great fires that had killed that ancient realm. The minotaurs had come soon after, from across the sea. Mariners for thousands of years, they had lived in servitude in the faraway empire of Istar, on the other side of Krynn. The Destruction had wrecked that realm, too, and the newly freed bull-men had set sail for other shores. They had come to Taladas and forged a new empire on its shores. The humans proved easy conquests, and in a handful of years the minotaurs' realm had grown to stretch from the Western Ocean to the poison-shrouded Steamwall Mountains, from the shores of the Tiderun Straight in the north down to the foulness of Thenol. Kristophan, which had been little more than a dirty town of thatch hovels when they found it, had grown into a metropolis of thousands, man and minotaur living side by side among white marble halls roofed with blue stone, soaring towers and broad agoras, and surrounded by sixty-foot walls whose gates not even a dragon could sunder. It was the greatest city in Taladas.

Or had been.

There had been troubles all across the League, ever since the Godless Night ended. Something strange had happened to the land which made natural disasters more common than they were even in the months after the Second Destruction. Rivers flooded and wildfires burned on the plains. The hot springs at the pleasure-city of Thera had grown more active, opening geysers in the bathhouses there. Mudslides afflicted the highlands, burying entire villages. A small volcano had appeared in a field near Trilloman, rising from a tiny smoldering pustule to a huge cone in a single afternoon. And all over the empire, there had been earthquakes—at least one a month, mostly in and around the mountains.

In Kristophan, the emperor's advisors had assured him that no such troubles would afflict them. They were safe.

The emperor's advisers hadn't known about the fault line that ran under the great city. Not even the handful of dwarves who dwelt in the capitol had guessed. And so, when the first rumblings stirred beneath Kristophan, scarcely anyone took notice. It wasn't until the first big tremor caused the Street of Glass Pillars to erupt into a storm of flying shards that people began to fret. The quake that followed less than a minute later was even worse, collapsing roofs across the city's northern quarter and causing a segment of the east wall to crumble. Great cracks ran through the agoras and made arches and pillars topple in heaps, crushing those beneath. Finally, a roar like a hundred thunderstorms split the air and a rift opened beneath the imperial palace itself. That great castle, with its central spire that resembled a mainmast and silken banners that spoke of sails, had been home to the League's sovereigns ever since Eragas the Brutish first declared himself emperor. It had vanished in an instant, toppling into the void. With it went not just Ambeoutin, but all his sons, daughters, and wives.

The Forum of the Senate fell into the abyss as well, and one by one the keeps of the high lords followed. Even the stoutest-walled fortresses turned to rubble as they tumbled down the sides of the chasm, the screams of the dying lost amid the crashes and rumbles of the devastation. The chasm grew wider and wider, while the minotaurs fled through the streets in panic, certain their whole city would soon plummet down deep into the bowels of the world. In the end, though, only the northern part vanished. The southern districts, including the Imperial Arena and the walled hilltop known as the Old City, survived, though many homes, shops and temples crumbled there, too. The last to be swallowed were the city wharves. Then the sea rushed in, filling the rift and drowning those few who yet lived amid the wreckage at its bottom. Great clouds of steam and dust billowed high into the air. Then, eerily, all grew still.

The toll was terrible. Thousands died, and twice as many were left homeless. The empire had no ruler. It barely had anyone left to claim the crown, which now lay beneath tons of stone and even more seawater. A five-mile-long cleft filled with brine was all that remained of the castle where the rulers of the Imperial League had dwelt. The city of Kristophan lived still, but it would bear the scars forever. And a new emperor had yet to be found.

"Keep your eyes open," Forlo said as he and Grath walked down the road toward the city's remains.

The minotaur laughed, though his eyes were grim. He shifted his axe from one shoulder to the other. "You don't have to tell me."

Forlo had ordered his officers to take the Sixth off the road and make camp. They would await word from him before coming any farther. There was no telling what chaos might erupt if an entire imperial legion marched through the gates. With just Grath and another soldier—a minotaur so young his horns hadn't fully come in yet, who carried the leather sack with its hidden prize—he had set out for the shattered capitol.

The gates bristled with guards. He could feel them sighting down their crossbows at him as he came closer, holding his hands up to show they were empty. "Atta, Kristophan!" he shouted. "We seek to enter!"

For a breath, he had the horrible feeling that one of the sentries would make a mistake. They were nervous. It would take only one twitchy finger to end his life's journey. But then a head poked over the battlements, a grizzled, gray bearded human who brought half a smile to Forlo's lips.

"Barreth?" the old man asked. "That you?"

"No, it's the king of the gnomes, you blind fool," he called back. "How are you, Tyrel?"

The man made a sour face. "Oh, very well. The city fell down, but elsewise it's been a lovely spring." He waved to the guards. "Let 'em in, lads. Anyone who troubles this one finds out what drawing and quartering feels like. Well, the drawing, anyway."

There was the sound of a portcullis rising, then the creak of a winch. The great stone gates, carved with the imperial sigil of horns and a war galleon, rumbled outward. On the other side, more crossbowmen stood ready, keeping their weapons cradled. Forlo waited until the old man came down to him. Tyrel Morr had been one of his officers until two years ago, when a Thenolite blade took his sword arm off above the elbow. He wore no hook or wooden limb, but bore the stump with pride. He grabbed it in salute, and Forlo returned the gesture, clasping his right fist in his left hand.

"So," Tyrel said. He offered a skin of wine.

Forlo drank, then handed the wine on to Grath. "So."

"Suppose you're wondering who's in charge now."

"You'd be right."

"Well, don't ask me," the old man said. "It changes with the direction of the wind."

Grath rolled his eyes. "Can you not talk plain, old man?"

"And hai to you, too, Grath," Tyrel replied, then turned back to Forlo. "Charming as ever, isn't he?"

"It's been a long way home," Forlo said. "And not a welcome sight at the end. Come on, Tyrel. Who's running things?"

"Oh, running things," the old warrior said. "That's easier than who's in charge. There are about six of Ambeoutin's kin still trying to claim the crown. Cousins, mostly. But they haven't even made a new crown yet, so it's going a bit slow. For now, Duke Rekhaz is keeping the peace. He'll be glad to see you, I'll warrant."

Grath made a quiet sound. Forlo looked at him, saw the thought behind the minotaur's eyes, and shared it. Rekhaz. Of all the people to survive… .

"Tell me where he is," he said.

"In the Arena. Where else?" Tyrel said. "Most defensible place left, anyway. Watch yourselves, though—his men are jumpier than mine."

Forlo nodded. "I'll see you again, old man. There's more wine to be drunk."

"You know where to find me," the guardsman replied, then grinned. "Long as my gates don't drop into the sea."

The streets of Kristophan were eerily quiet. There were signs everywhere of recent trouble—broken windows, refuse in the gutters, rusty spatters of dry blood on white walls—but the people were subdued now, and drew back into doorways and alleys as the leaders of the Sixth walked down the Shoreward Road, toward the Arena. Grath and Forlo exchanged looks. Both knew what must have happened here, just weeks ago. There would have been mass panic in the wake of the noble quarter's collapse. Order had been imposed, and many people had died. And there surely hadn't been any mercy shown—not with Duke Rekhaz governing Kristophan.

Rekhaz An-Thurn was a legend in the empire, a warrior who had once slain sixteen gladiators single-handedly on the Arena sands. He was also a tactical genius. There were few finer generals in the League, which was why Ambeoutin had named him the head of both the imperial army and the navy. He had never lost a fight in his life, it was said.

Forlo hated him. Not out of envy—he had never coveted Rekhaz's position—but because the Duke might just be the cruelest minotaur alive. He never left a prisoner alive and had been known to execute subordinates who dared question his judgment. When Forlo saw the bodies of five humans—and two minotaurs—hanging by their necks from a covered walkway off a side street, the only surprise was that there weren't more.

Ukot Ghuranal, the Plaza of Champions, was empty save for a single huddled body near the far end, riddled with crossbow bolts. More corpses dangled from the huge statues that stood around its edges, depicting the legendary heroes of minotaur history. At the far end, the tall, broad Arena where the gladiators fought had been turned into a keep, with all but one of its many entrances blocked with rubble, and with ballistae mounted on the roof. The closer Forlo got, the smaller he felt. He kept his empty hands out the whole way—as did his companions.

The minotaurs standing guard at the Arena's sole remaining entrance were less cheerful than Tyrel had been. Once he identified himself and surrendered his weapons—as if he, or any sane man, would draw sword here!—they sent him in. "He is on the sands," their captain said. "Training."

"Where else?" Grath muttered.

They went through an arched gate, passing through the shadowed galleries where the minotaurs thronged on fighting-days, then down a long tunnel hack toward daylight. The sands of the Arena were a hundred paces across and gleaming white except for a few ominous darker patches. The stands, which could seat twenty thousand and hold twice that number standing, stood empty above. Violet banners flew atop the walls, archers patrolling between them. The memories came back in a rush. Like many human officers in the legions, Forlo had earned his rank on the sands, fighting for his life. He had stayed away from the Arena for almost a decade, trying to forget the sights and sounds of the place.

His discomfort must have shown, for Grath gave him a long look. He shook his head, waving the minotaur off.

"Let's get this over with," he said.

There, in the middle of the sands, was Rekhaz. Tall even for a minotaur, he stood nearly nine feet from hoof to horn. His coat was white—a rarity—and his long, black mane was gathered in thick braids. He was fighting bare-chested, with a kilt of mail about his loins. He wielded two huge clubs, one in each hand. And facing him…

"Sargas's spit," said Grath. "Is he fighting three at once?"

He was. Forlo shook his head, watching as a trio of minotaur soldiers closed in on Rekhaz, their own cudgels at the ready. He could already guess how this would turn out. Rekhaz's opponents were hesitant, watching one another to see who would move first. The duke, on the other hand, waited calmly, taut as a drawn bowstring. Forlo raised a hand, and his companions stopped with him to watch.

The minotaur on the left moved first, but Rekhaz leaped at him before he could take two steps, parrying with one club and snapping the other around and down. A sickening crunch rang off the stands, and the soldier dropped to his knees, clutching his broken snout and bellowing in pain. The other two came on at once, and Rekhaz stumbled back, seemingly caught off-guard—but it was a ruse, one Forlo recognized easily. The soldiers were caught unaware, though, and when the duke reversed direction and charged them, the surprise on their faces was almost comical. Then they were down, laid out on the sand with two economical swings of Rekhaz's clubs. One tried to get up, and the duke kicked him in the head. Then it was over.

It had taken less than a minute.

Forlo clapped. "Well fought, Your Grace."

Rekhaz looked up, squinting in the sunlight. "Forlo?"

"Of course."

"You got the message, then," the duke said. "Good.

How went the war in Thenol?"

Forlo shrugged. "Show him."

The young bull-man who had come with them opened the sack. A head dropped out, slick with tar. The man who once possessed it had been fat and old, with piggy eyes and an ulcerous growth on his cheek. Long strands of thinning white hair spilled out around it on the sands. Flies buzzed. The stink was eye-watering.

"May I present Bishop Ondelos, lately of Thenol," Forlo declared.

Duke Rekhaz stared at the head, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he walked across the Arena, planted his foot atop the grisly trophy, and crushed it beneath his heel. Pulp oozed across the sand.

"Victory," he said, eyes gleaming.

"But Thenol isn't pacified," Forlo replied evenly. "If we could have stayed—"

"Yes, yes. But the law is the law, even with no emperor to issue decrees," Rekhaz replied, waving his hand. He walked away from the ruined mess of tar and brains. The others trailed him. "And with no clear heir, things are going rough. I've held the peace this far, but it hasn't been easy. Factions are forming. I need men to keep the rabble down, or we'll have civil war."

"The Sixth is yours," Forlo said. "The other legions are soon behind us. They will be at the city by tomorrow night."

The duke nodded. "Good… but not good enough. I need men to lead them."

A sour taste filled Forlo's mouth. He'd been half expecting the conversation to take this turn. Clenching his fists, he made himself stop walking. "I am to retire, Your Grace. Grath can lead the Sixth just as well as I could."

Rekhaz stopped, then turned around with a baleful glare. Forlo had seen hard men, men who had faced the worst war had to offer, cringe before that glowering, red-eyed stare. He almost quailed himself, but gritted his teeth and kept his composure, meeting the fire in the duke's eyes with ice in his own.

"I am not asking for Grath, Lord Forlo," Rekhaz growled. "You owe me your fealty."

"Your pardon, Grace," Forlo replied, "but I owe you nothing."

Rekhaz's eyes flashed, but before he could do anything Forlo reached to his belt and produced a sheet of vellum. He had been ready for this. He'd been ready for some time. Slowly, he unfurled it to reveal the horns-and-ship seal of the imperial court, then he handed the vellum to the duke.

"A severing writ," he declared. "Signed by Ambeoutin himself. When the campaign in Thenol is over, I am relieved of all duties to the League."

The duke read the message, his brow furrowing. "This must be the only copy," he said when he was done. "All others would have perished when the nobles' quarter fell."

"Perhaps," Forlo replied. "But it bears the imperial seal, making it law."

"And the law is the law," Grath added, smiling.

Rekhaz's lip curled, but he said nothing more.

"I am done," Forlo said. "For three years I have fought in the south, and seen neither home nor wife. Now it's over. I have fought my last battle."

For a moment, there was tension and silence.

"Last battle?" the duke finally barked. "A warrior has no last battle, except the one that kills him!" With a sneer, he threw the writ back at Forlo. "Remember that, marshal," he said. Then, turning, he stalked away.

Forlo watched him go. So, it was over—he was free. The damned bull-men could squabble over the throne, they could all kill one another. Thenol could rise anew.

Forlo didn't care. He was going home.

But as he watched the duke stride angrily across the Arena floor, a cold feeling settled inside him. He realized he had made an enemy today—and foes didn't come any deadlier than Rekhaz An-Thurn.