Journey Into Nyx (6 page)

Now his brain was asserting his independence. And he didn’t like it.

Musing about the Underworld made him pause, and the circle of bloodthirsty minotaurs that had gathered around sensed it. No minotaur hesitated in battle and lived long afterward. The leonin rolled on its back on the scarred floor of the temple. Its blue eyes stared up at Rhordon without fear. The leonin had been beaten, stomped and humiliated, but it didn’t grovel or beg. It wasn’t that it welcomed death; it just wasn’t scared of it.

The minotaurs that crowded around Rhordon growled with displeasure. They didn’t like delayed carnage. Their ear-splitting roars rattled the crumbling columns and sent a rain of dust falling from the remains of the ceiling. The Temple of Malice was a ruined fortress that had slipped into a rift between two mountains during one of Purphoros’s battles with the giants. The stylized architecture belonged to a past civilization, a precursor to Akros, although traces of the grandeur could still be seen behind the foul exterior.

“Bring me his weapon!” Rhordon shouted as if that’s why he’d been waiting to finish the prisoner all along. When the leonin had been captured in the hills above Akros, he’d carried a fine bronze sword with a glassy blue disc at the base of the blade. It was that sword that had kept him from being killed on the spot. One of the minotaur warriors insisted that Brimaz, King of Oreskos, carried such a sword. If this was the king of the leonins, he would make a handsome ransom. But the leonin had denied he was the king, even under extreme duress, so there was no use keeping him alive any longer.

One of his warriors handed him the leonin’s shiny blade, and Rhordon hesitated no more. He struck the leonin’s neck with such force that its head flew several feet from the body. Rhordon grunted with satisfaction and moved out of the way as his fellow minotaurs descended on the body in a flesh-mad rage. But their feast was interrupted when one of his guards shouted that an intruder was about to enter the temple.

A diminutive satyr sauntered into the ruined hall, and the minotaurs stopped eating, their muzzles dripping blood, and watched him in surprise. Satyrs were considered small meals, not visitors. But stranger still, the satyr was flanked by two of the largest Nyxborn minotaurs anyone had ever seen. Rhordon was the biggest minotaur in the Temple of Malice, and he had to duck his horns when he crossed the
threshold. These Nyxborn intruders stood at least a head taller than Rhordon. No self-respecting minotaur, not even a Nyxborn, should deign to serve a satyr. With his limited god-sight, Rhordon recognized that these Nyxborn were not quite what they seemed to be. While Rhordon’s brain churned with curiosity, the satyr spoke first.

“I am Xenagos,” the satyr bleated. Rhordon despised the squeaky voices of the lesser races. “The humans are joining together to slaughter all of you in Mogis’s absence. Iroas cheats the Silence and aids them from Nyx.”

Rhordon should have sent his warriors to rip the satyr into four pieces, but the satyr’s words stopped him. The warriors left the raw flesh and grouped themselves behind their leader. Rhordon knew what they were thinking—why didn’t Rhordon pound this impudent goat into a puddle? He grunted at them to hold their ground. His minotaurs seethed with anger, but the satyr took Rhordon’s signal as permission to continue.

“Akros is the beating heart of Iroas,” Xenagos said. “It’s time to rip it out.”

Rhordon snarled with rage, and his warriors clashed their rusty weapons against the shattered tiles of the floor. Xenagos scanned the decrepit hall with its crumbling pillars and piles of bones. Despite the large number of threatening minotaurs inside the structure, he acted as if he was lord of them all.

“Mogis sent you an army of Nyxborn through the shrine of the gods, but the Akroans overwhelmed them,” Xenagos said.

“How do you know this?” Rhordon demanded.

Xenagos gestured with both hands to the imposing Nyxborn looming beside him. Rhordon wasn’t impressed. But he knew that the goatman didn’t conjure them from nothing. Only Mogis could create Nyxborn minotaurs, so Rhordon decided to give the intruder a few more seconds of life. Besides, it was bleating at him again.

“The Akroan army destroyed my own valley, and you are next,” Xenagos said. “I’m willing to return Mogis’s army to you in exchange for your immediate conquest of Akros.”

Rhordon didn’t believe the lying satyr. Such a weakling couldn’t have captured an entire army of Nyxborn minotaurs. It was insulting for him to suggest that he had such prowess. Rhordon raised his grizzled chin. With that slight movement of his chin, he gave his warriors leave to kill the satyr.

The nearest warrior charged, but Xenagos anticipated his attack. The satyr did a strange sidestep, dragging his hoof through the bloody dirt, and one of his Nyxborn protectors lurched forward. Rhordon sensed an overwhelming power emanating through the unnatural creature. The Nyxborn stepped directly in front of Rhordon’s warrior and lifted him up into the air like a sack of grain. Then he tossed him headfirst into the wall, snapping his neck against the stones. Before anyone could move, the satyr did another strange sidestep. Rhordon felt debilitating pain as Xenagos blasted searing energy against the Rageblood himself.

Rhordon perceived the mystical strike with his god-senses—it was like serrated claws raking across his body, followed by a burst of fire. The blast singed his fur and ripped his flesh, but Rhordon was not greatly harmed. Indeed, he relished the pain. Rhordon’s warriors felt a sickly wind and saw their leader’s chest split open. They glanced uneasily between the satyr and the wounded oracle. Rhordon pressed his hand into the wound and wiped his bloody fingers across his brow. He knew the satyr could have killed him and chose not to. He would treat the goat with a little more respect. With another tip of his chin, he ordered his warriors to fall back and not attack their visitor again.

“I did capture them myself,” the satyr said, and Rhordon did not argue. “And I will tell you how to destroy Akros, and you will be Rhordon, Conqueror of Akros.”

“How can you know something that Mogis does not?” Rhordon asked.

“Mogis knows,” Xenagos assured him. “But Iroas will not let him break the Silence and leave Nyx to tell you himself. He sent you an army instead.”

Rhordon could believe this. Iroas existed solely to thwart Mogis and prevent his carnage.

“Tell us,” Rhordon growled. “And human blood will flood the streets of that accursed city.”

Xenagos took a long knife from his belt and drew a circle in the dirt with its tip.

“This is Akros,” the satyr said. “The city walls have never been breached because the wandering armies have always returned and flanked the invaders. Neither man nor minotaur can fight in two directions at once.”

Xenagos took his knife and drew another circle, a larger one, around the walls of Akros. Rhordon understood, even if his warriors did not. At the sight of it, he heard a rumble from above. He swore it was the sound of Mogis voicing his brutal approval from Nyx.

“A circle around a circle,” Xenagos smiled deviously. “And my Nyxborn will help you build it.”

Before Rhordon could respond, a warrior sprinted into the hall. His filthy fur was matted and damp from racing across the countryside. His battle-axe was covered in gore, and he wore fresh human skins.

“They’ve mounted our brethren’s heads on the gates of Akros!” he shouted.

“See, I’ve told you nothing but the truth,” the satyr said. “The humans are preparing to slaughter you.”

Rhordon stared at Xenagos for a long moment. “Continue, goat,” he said.

The satyr did another funny step. And then he bowed in service to the god of war and slaughter.

Y
ou’re so dead, Daxos!” Nikka taunted.

With a flourish, Nikka slid the green tile six squares to the east and nudged a yellow tile that belonged to Daxos. Elspeth said nothing. Nikka was making a grave error, and the game would soon be over for her. Elspeth kept her eyes firmly on the game board so her face would betray nothing. The three of them were in Daxos’s rooms in Heliod’s complex. They often gathered in the evenings to sit by the fire and play a tile-and-board game known as Heliod’s Domain. At least that’s what the locals called it here in Meletis. Back in Akros, it was called Iroas’s Domain, and Xiro and his friends played the game incessantly. Xiro believed it taught actual strategy on the battlefield and had insisted that Elspeth learn it. Much to Xiro’s and his crew’s surprise, it took Elspeth only a few sessions before she grasped the subtleties and routinely won the game.

Nikka made her disastrous move. Daxos shook his head in disbelief and removed his yellow tile. Elspeth tried hard not to stare at Daxos with his secret smile and the firelight flickering across his face. Nikka started humming a little song and moving her shoulders as though she was dancing in her chair.

“You’d been setting that up for how long?” he asked. Elspeth coughed politely into her hand to keep Nikka from seeing her smile.

“For ages,” Nikka said happily.

It was nice to see Nikka smiling. She hadn’t adjusted well to life in Meletis. She refused to study or obey the rules expected of Ephara’s acolytes. While the news that Beta had survived the attack by Erebos’s agents had allayed her grief, her rebellious attitude had only gotten worse. Ephara’s priests had complained about Nikka to both Elspeth and her father. They called her defiant and uninterested in participating in Ephara’s civic works. There was talk of sending her home to her father in Akros.

“Well, you’ve been so busy trying to barge your way into my territory that you’ve completely ignored the threat right behind you,” Daxos said.

He gestured to Elspeth, who slid her red tile into Nikka’s home row. Nikka’s face fell in disappointment.

“Victory for Elspeth,” Daxos said.

Nikka yelled incoherently. She swept her arm across the enameled board and knocked the tiles onto the floor. Elspeth and Daxos exchanged knowing glances about the impulsiveness of youth.

“Manners, child,” Daxos said. “Don’t they teach you how to behave in Akros?”

Nikka opened her mouth to retort, but the door of Daxos’s rooms slammed open and a woman strode inside, sloughing off the priests who tried ineffectually to stop her. She had long dark hair, high cheekbones, and she wore the armor of a Setessan warrior. She carried a long white bundle while Stelanos dogged her heels.

“Daxos, we’re sorry,” Stelanos said. “She insisted on seeing you.”

“It’s all right,” Daxos told Stelanos. “I know her.”

“Do you need anything?” Stelanos asked. He was already backing out of the room while the woman stared aggressively at him. In the corridor outside the door, three more Setessan warriors waited impatiently. Each of the women
was more than six feet tall and towered over the flustered priests. The two sides stared at each other distrustfully while Daxos reassured Stelanos.

“No, thank you,” Daxos said, and Stelanos retreated to the corridor.

Elspeth could only see the woman’s profile, but she looked desperate and ferocious at the same time.

“Anthousa,” Daxos said. “Why have you come to Meletis? What’s wrong?”

Anthousa laid the bundle on the cushions of a nearby couch and brushed the cloth aside. They saw the face of a small child. The girl was as still as a statue.

“Can you help her?” Anthousa asked. “Her heart beats, but no air moves through her lungs.”

“Is it a mage’s injury?” Daxos asked.

“The Nyxborn invaded Setessa in the night,” Anthousa said. “Since the Silence, they’ve been swarming through the Nessian Forest. She was bit by a Nyxborn snake, and it afflicted her with this strange sickness.”

Daxos knelt beside the girl. His hands hovered on either side of her face. As Daxos attempted to heal her, there was a keening sound, like the wind sweeping over the ocean on a stormy day. Elspeth stood by the wall, feeling helpless.

Tense minutes passed, and Daxos sat back on his heels. The girl remained motionless. Daxos looked tired and sad.

“When did this happen?” Daxos asked. “And who is the little girl?”

“Her name is Pipa, and she’s been this way for several days,” Anthousa said. “Our healers in Setessa couldn’t help, so I brought her to you. I fear the Nyxborn threat isn’t isolated to Nylea’s domain. Your city needs to prepare itself.”

“Where are her parents?” Elspeth asked.

“Parents?” Anthousa asked.

“She is one of the
arkulli
of Setessa,” Daxos explained.
“An orphan raised by the mothers of the city. I was one of the
arkulli
, as well. I lived in Setessa for several years when I was a small boy. Anthousa was one of my sisters.”

“She’s like his sister,” Nikka muttered under her breath.

Anthousa turned her attention to the two women standing by the couches. She seemed to dismiss Nikka, but she stared at Elspeth with intense curiosity and mistrust.

“Who is this?” she asked, pointing at Elspeth.

“Elspeth and Nikka,” Daxos said. “I cannot heal this child, Anthousa. It’s as if her soul is missing. And there’s a void inside of her. It’s not a physical injury.”