The Minotaur King Read online

  Copyright 2017 © Stuart Thaman

  This one goes out to all the Goblin Wars fans out there who come to my conventions and make the long weekends away from home so worth it.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Map of Talonrend

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Are you ready for the Brood-Fight?” Kitri asked, her voice muffled behind the visor of her helmet. She swung a heavy, curved sword, its edge wrapped in leather, and her brother easily parried the strike with his own weapon.

  “If you have to ask—” Qul began, struggling to take in breath through his constricting helmet. “Perhaps you are not prepared,” he shouted after blocking her attack with a two-handed sword. They had been training for years, sparring almost daily on the side of the mountain that housed their clan.

  Kitri darted backward, narrowly avoiding her brother’s long weapon. She was out of room, and her steel armor crashed against a cold, frosted rock face, but she was far from trapped. With a grunt, she lowered her head and put her silver-banded horns in line with Qul’s chest.

  As Qul’s sword swung down on her, she pushed away from the stone, using it to propel herself forward. Her brother grunted as he crashed to the ground, losing his weapon in the process. In an instant, Kitri’s sword was pressed to his neck.

  “You’re dead,” she laughed. She stood and helped Qul regain his feet. “Never forget your horns,” she reminded him with their clan’s motto.

  With a grunt of frustration, Qul plucked his sword from the ground and unwrapped it, returning it to a sheath on his back. “When we fight tomorrow,” he began, removing his armor as he spoke, “do not think I will go so easy on you.”

  Kitri unstrapped her greaves and dropped them into a large pack made from animal hide. “And I will not go so easy on you, brother,” she replied, a hint of aggression lacing her already gruff voice. “The best minotaur will win, and that is it. My only hope is that you do not die.”

  Qul scoffed. He was close to thirteen feet tall and more than five hundred pounds heavier than his sister, but he knew she was the better fighter. She was older than him by a decade, and his brawn could not overcome her years of experience.

  “We should rest,” he stated, following her from the side of the mountain to a cave opening nearby.

  “You are not required to attend your formal training today?” Kitri asked skeptically.

  Qul shook his head. “Not before the fight,” he replied. As a trainee hoping to join the royal guard, he spent most of his days training at the barracks, learning how to fight in formation with others in order to defend their queen. The annual Brood-Fight afforded him a rare opportunity: if he won, he would be granted a place of honor in Queen Ilo’s personal guard, something he had dreamt of since the first time he ever laid eyes upon her.

  If he lost, Qul had to remind himself, there was a good chance he would end up dead.

  Qul’s mind swam with visions of glory as he walked back to the cave where he and his sister lived. Once inside, he set about meticulously caring for his armor. The heavy set of plates and chainmail was his greatest possession. His breastplate was just as much a work of art as it was a tool for combat. Covered in intricate labyrinthine patterns symbolizing his clan, it had cost him every scrap of gold he had ever managed to save.

  His sword, unceremoniously leaning against the stone wall in its sheath, was of much lesser quality. He had inherited the weapon upon his father’s death, but his father had not been a soldier, and the sword was more a piece designed for ornamentation than warfare. From a small cubby cut into the wall of his bedroom, Qul withdrew a set of metal cages lined with sharp barbs. They were small but impossibly sharp.

  “Remember your horns,” he repeated to himself. The familiar clan mantra brought him a measure of comfort. Using his polished breastplate as a mirror, he slid the cages over his alabaster horns and locked them into place with small screws.

  Qul looked back at his sword resting in the corner. If it broke, he would have to fight with only his fists and his horns, a rule some of the older minotaurs routinely tried to establish for the Brood-Fight. “There is a reason the clans evolved from four legs to two,” Qul mused, shaking his head at the obstinate elders even though their homes were far deeper in the bowels of the mountain. “We build tools so we do not have to torture our bodies as the minotaurs of old.”

  The Brood-Fight began with a ceremony as it always did. Deep within the mountain, the entire minotaur clan had gathered around a bloodstained pit. Along the pit’s northern edge, a huge throne made of bleached bones sat empty, flanked on either side by the nine royal guards. Qul stared at the tenth position, the vacant position, with greed in his eyes. He felt like his entire life had prepared him to fill that position.

  Kitri was there as well. She had been in the queen’s royal guard for three years since she won her first Brood-Fight. This year, Kitri would be eligible to fight again. If she emerged victorious, the vacancy in the royal guard would remain.

  Qul planned to fill that vacancy.

  A grey minotaur, old by even the clan’s long-lived standards, strode into the center of the pit with an air of confidence. The old beast was a shaman, the clan’s sole magic user, and somewhere near a god in the level of respect he commanded. From Qul’s position on a wooden platform with the other combatants, he had a perfect view of the beginning ceremony.

  “The Brood-Fight is a tradition as old as our clan,” the shaman began. With a wave of his arm, the room was bathed in magical light, and images of past Brood-Fights danced against the stone walls. “Every year, this clan seeks to determine a champion, and that champion is granted a position on the royal guard, should a position be available. Every year, some of the greatest warriors from our clan die in this pit.”

  The old minotaur waved his hand and the images of past battles faded. The room was once again illuminated by only torchlight. “For several thousand years, this clan has lived in safety and security in these halls and caves. Through the bravery of our warriors and the strength of our arms, we have prevailed.” The shaman moved toward the northern section of the pit to continue his tale. “This year, Queen Ilo is in need of a new champion, a new warrior to complete her retinue of personal guards.”

  When the shaman spoke the queen’s name, she appeared from a hidden tunnel near her throne and the room immediately went silent. “Brothers, sisters,” she addressed the group, her voice booming, “I have been looking forward to this year’s Brood-Fight with much excitement. As you know, only nine guards stand beside me.” She surveyed the small group of fighters and her eyes seemed to linger for a moment on Qul, causing his heart to race. “I hope to have a tenth guard very soon,” she concluded.

  Queen Ilo, a relatively small minotaur with a short mane the color of gold, was the most beautiful minotaur Qul had ever seen. Everything about her filled him with lust. Even the curve of her dark horns, carved with runes and capped with an intricate ring of rubies, captivated Qul. I will win this fight, Ilo, Qul thought with a grin. He still remembered the moment he had first seen the queen—the moment his obsession had begun. He had been young, only twenty or so years old, and had attended a Brood-Fight to watch a new champion be placed in the royal guard. Queen Ilo had walked right past him, but she had ignored Qul when he tried to engage her in conversation. She had spurned him. Qul never forgot that moment.

  The shaman beat his hooves into the ground of the pit and stole Qul back from his memories. The fight was about to start. The queen took her seat and motioned
toward Kitri. “Behold,” she thundered to the clan, “Kitri will champion the royal guard on this day!” Qul’s sister leapt into the pit with a crash of hooves and steel. The other minotaurs at the queen’s side cheered her name. She held a small sword, a well-crafted weapon designed to punch through the heavy plate armor minotaurs typically favored in combat. Her horns were banded with vicious steel barbs and painted blood red. Qul suppressed a tinge of fear crawling through his skin. Kitri was probably the strongest and most skilled fighter in the pit. If Qul was lucky, the other fighters would take her out before he had to face her himself.

  Another swirl of magic filled the arena and the shaman vanished, only to reappear by the queen’s side a second later. In his wake, the pit was transformed from a simple hole carved in the ground into a magnificent coliseum replete with traps, obstacles, and dozens of unknown hazards. The arena was different every year and Qul had only moments to learn the layout before his body was magically thrown in and the fight began.

  Qul landed with a thump near a low, ivy-covered stone wall. He stayed in a crouch, listening to the sounds of battle all around, and tried to orient himself away from where he thought his sister to be. Before he could fully get his bearing, another combatant bounded over the wall at Qul’s back with a war cry. The fighter’s heavy mace crashed into Qul’s helmet and knocked him to his back. Qul grit his teeth against the violent ringing in his head and brought his hooves up over his chest. When the fighter predictably fell on Qul’s chest to try and finish him, Qul thrust his legs outward and launched the beast back against the stone.

  In an instant, Qul regained his feet and squared his shoulders to fight. Remember your horns, he repeated to himself. He hadn’t drawn his sword yet, but in the close confines of the stone wall, it wouldn’t do him much good. Qul drove forward, kicking huge divots of dirt behind him. The other fighter had only a moment to get out of the way—but he was too slow. Qul’s left horn pierced the beast’s breastplate and skewered the flesh beneath it. A trickle of blood ran down Qul’s mane beneath his helmet.

  The fighter brought several blows down on Qul’s back with his mace, but it was too late. The blows were weak, and Qul barely felt them beneath his heavy armor. With a violent shake, the impaled minotaur fell from Qul’s horn. He was alive, but perhaps not for long.

  Qul bounded further down the stone wall and drew his two-handed sword. He heard loud voices from every direction. Some were yells of jubilation from the crowd; others were the deep screams of dying minotaurs. Farther toward the southern edge of the arena, Qul saw two warriors exchanging blows at the edge of a brightly glowing pool of bubbling blue liquid. He had no idea what insidious sort of trap the liquid might be, but he wanted to find out.

  With his sword held in front of him as a spear, Qul rushed the two combatants and crashed into one of them. His sword clanged off the creature’s armor, but his charge succeeded and the beast fell into the pool with a scream. For a moment, Qul and the remaining minotaur both stopped, eager to watch the blue liquid as the other beast sank into it. The tarn writhed and spat, consuming the minotaur’s flesh and confirming Qul’s suspicion.

  At once, Qul and the second fighter turned their attention back on each other, and their swords rattled noisily as metal crashed against metal. Qul was taller and likely the stronger of the pair, but he knew his enemy was smart and would not let himself be easily overpowered. The smaller minotaur stepped back quickly, dodging under one of Qul’s powerful horizontal slashes, and swung his own sword in a brutal uppercut. Qul saw the strike coming, but the visor of his helmet obscured his vision just enough to cause him a moment of delay.

  The minotaur’s sword bit into Qul’s armor plate between his right knee and his groin. He grunted through the pain, but he knew his armor had stopped the blade before it could cause a fatal wound. Qul spun away, ripping the sword from the other beast’s hands as he moved, and wrenched the weapon free. Blood trickled through the fur beneath his cuisse. The smaller minotaur made a desperate grab for his weapon, but Qul tossed it into the blue pool and brought his own sword down savagely on the fighter’s groping wrists.

  The smaller beast screamed when Qul’s sword severed his hand from his body. Without a weapon or the proper hand to wield one, the beast fled before Qul could finish him, trailing a chorus of screams as he ran.

  Deeper in the heart of the arena, the rest of the combatants raged in open battle. Qul unclipped the tasset from the rest of his armor and peeled away the cuisse on his right thigh. With every heartbeat, blood oozed through his sweaty and matted hair. With a grunt, Qul unbuckled his helmet and tossed it to the ground with the other discarded pieces of his raiment. I need to see, he grumbled as he rubbed the gash in his flesh.

  Somewhere to his left, a minotaur began to scream, but its voice was abruptly cut short. Qul had to move. He sheathed his sword, dropped to his hooves, and bounded to his right, intent on avoiding another outright battle until more of the other fighters were dead or incapacitated.

  Ahead of him, beyond a small palisade of sharpened wood beams, a blood-splattered minotaur lay crumpled on the ground. The creature’s helmet was dented sharply inward, and the rest of its armor wasn’t much better. Qul came to a stop near the corpse and paused, listening for whoever had killed the fighter. When he heard nothing, he crouched low and peered back the way he had come, searching the battlefield for any signs of life.

  Just when he thought he was alone, Qul felt a weight crush him toward the ground. Massive, iron-clad arms wrapped around his chest like a vice. Qul tried to pry the other minotaur from his back, but his feet lifted from the ground, and he knew his might was easily outmatched. With such a thick cage of steel protecting his torso, Qul didn’t fear being crushed to death, but he knew being thrown into the palisade posed a very real threat.

  As if reading his thoughts, the minotaur tossed Qul forward, hurling his body to break against the wooden spikes. Qul heard a thick beam penetrate his backplate before he felt the pain. In an instant, his mind swam in a sea of torture. The other creature, the beast with the dented helmet and bloody armor who had so easily tricked him, bellowed victoriously.

  Mustering all of his strength, Qul kicked out with his legs and caught the other beast in the chest. There wasn’t enough power behind his hooves to do more than knock the minotaur a few steps back, but it gave Qul enough time to rip his body from the palisade. Blood poured from his back. He could smell its metallic tint in the air.

  The opposing minotaur squared his shoulders and reset his balance. Qul knew his opponent’s dented helmet would limit his vision. In the brief moment of respite, Qul fumbled his thick fingers through the straps on the right side of his breastplate, trying to quickly let the damaged piece of armor fall to the ground. The sharp edges where the palisade spike had broken through cut into his rough hide with every tiny movement.

  Before Qul could finish the complex process of extracting himself from the heavy plates encasing his chest, his opponent charged once more, swinging wildly with balled fists. Qul caught the savage creature’s shoulders with his own fists, locking their lowered heads together with a thunderous crash.

  Qul knew he could not match the other minotaur’s strength. He held his own in the grapple, but his back throbbed with pain and his forearms were only moments from giving out completely. Hoping that the dented helmet prevented the warrior from fully seeing his hooves, Qul made a desperate gambit. Slowly, inch by inch as he began to lose ground in the grapple, Qul twisted his right hoof forward and positioned it between his opponent’s legs.

  When his strength finally faded, Qul dropped to his left knee and let the other creature rush over him. In a whirl of metal, hooves, and horns, Qul swept his right leg in an arc, using the other minotaur’s momentum to bring the foe to the ground and further destroying the fighter’s helmet. Both beasts howled with rage, but Qul’s maneuver paid off.

  Suddenly reversed, Qul towered over the prostrate fighter as he had initially done when he thought the
beast a mere corpse. As his enemy attempted to rise from the stone floor, Qul stomped his hoof down on the creature’s back, bringing forth another bellow of pain. A second stomp quieted the beast’s groans to a mere whimper. Qul’s third stomp silenced the creature altogether.

  When he was certain his opponent was dead—truly certain—Qul finished removing the rest of his armor. His hide was hot and clammy beneath the decorated steel plates. Sweat ran through the thick hair of his mane and coated the small of his back. Around him, Qul guessed most of the other combatants had already been slain or incapacitated. He could only hear the telltale sounds of battle from a single direction.

  He stretched, and his back pulled further apart, reminding him of the gash in his flesh he had momentarily forgotten in the moment of victory. Qul knew it would need to be stitched or perhaps cauterized with a piece of hot iron, but it could wait. It had to wait. There were at least two more minotaurs left to kill.

  Qul plucked his sheathed sword from the pile of armor at his hooves and looked it over. “Remember your horns,” he repeated softly to himself. With a clank, he dropped the weapon back to the stone and turned from it. Having slain the other beast with nothing more than his wit and muscle, Qul realized the wisdom of the clan’s elders. Swords, like all tools, were useful, but the Brood-Fight was about something else. Qul felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins and knew his sister had been right in drilling the clan motto into him so often.

  “Remember your horns,” Qul chanted with a sinister grin. In that moment, gazing upon the crumbled minotaur at his feet, he truly understood the purpose of the Brood-Fight. The ritual combat was far more than a trial of arms—the Brood-Fight was an event where Qul could prove himself worthy to live in the clan. He had to embrace his nature as a primal beast, a savage warrior bred in the labyrinthine depths of a hollow mountain for a singular purpose: war.