The Anchor and the Kingfisher

by PegasusKlondike

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, Adventure, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 22369

Murder, assassination, revenge, and adventure in the Minotaur Empire

Taurassian, the empire of the minotaur race. A place of wealth, power, opulence, and brutality. Thranas, the aged king and leader of the wealthy House Arnsul is found murdered by an assassin's blade. Turmoil envelopes the royal court of the minotaur, and the only person who by minotaur tradition should have succeeded Thranas to the throne, his son Eilan, is the prime suspect.

Cover image from one of the greatest artists of the last century, Frank Frazetta. You will be missed by your fans.

Chapters will be infrequent, I am in the middle of another project.

Published 2013-06-12 02:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-07-22 03:21:00 UTC

Prologue: Dark Purpose

There is no greater honor than to die in battle by the hand of a greater foe. To have fought valiantly, with all the courage and strength that your heart and arms could muster. And the greatest honor that a slain warrior can bestow upon his slayer is to know the warrior's name. To slay one's enemies, and to scream the blood name that one's own comrades have showered upon him in his moment of greatest triumph is to become one with the gods, and to feel the strength of one's ancestors burn in their blood hotter than forge fires.

Such is the mantra that is nursed to the sons of Taurassian with their mother's milk. The teaching of strength, of courage, honor, valiance and ferocity are the greatest virtues. The teachings of harmony, the way of the weak and spineless ponies of Equestria are to be shunned. For through those laughable virtues, a minotaur warrior has only bound himself to a name of shame, to be forgotten in song or writings and for the warriors of his clan to shun as a failure in the eyes of the lords of the empire.

And once the mantras of blood and honor have succeeded in creating a warrior spawn of a warrior race, a minotaur calf is taught that the greatest honor aside from shedding the blood of another is to stand above all others as a lord. Station is the bread upon which a noble born minotaur is fed; be it station of wealth, station of honor, station of power, and foremost, station of respect. To kill and die with honor is the greatest offering one can sacrifice to the mighty god which rules so haughtily over his chosen people. And to kill for the White Bull, the great and godly beast which sprang from the loins of the Mother Sea to rule as a god over his chosen warriors, is to gain his favor, and station will follow.

Honor and blood please the White Bull Aeukos, and those who can provide the most are the most rewarded.

*******************************************************

The winds of the Inner Sea lay still on the vast waters. Nestled between the bosom of the great desert continent of Zebrica, and the wild, untamed northern continent of Maerasia, this great sea was connected to the endless blue of the Great Ocean by only a single inlet. A place often fought for and died for. For control of the seas was paramount to more than one civilization of the Inner Sea.

Sweat poured down the brow of Shipmaster Telen, and he covered his eyes as he muttered both curses to the great fiery sun in the sky and silent prayers to Aeukos to bring wind to his sails. Sixteen long days his great galley had been at sea, and while his holds carried enough stuffs and supplies to last another eighty days, the honored Shipmaster of House Ilium had accursed luck with the winds. For this, the early days of summer, the winds were meant to be stiff and carry even the most laden ships across the seas with haste. And with no winds at his back, Shipmaster Telen was likely to lose his commission when he and his crew arrived several full days behind schedule in Knossos. But losing his position of honor with the noble House Ilium was not the only thing Telen feared with such still winds leaving him and his crew so vulnerable and appealing to any passers-by.

The Shipmaster turned his scorn away from the sun and the dead winds, pacing down the deck of his galley to bark orders to his crew. "Astenos, raise the mainsail, there's no point leaving a flag for our foes to spot from afar," Telen bellowed.

"Aye, Shipmaster!" the bullish sailor responded, immediately scrambling up the rigging with a deftness and speed that belied his race's clumsy and slow movements on land. It was a simple truth and odd paradox of the minotaur race. With their heavy hooves and long strides, many would expect the mighty minotaur to be more at home on the open plains far to the north near the borders with Rus, but the sea was and had always been their home. And many races across the ages had found the spectacle of a thick and heavy minotaur expertly weaving and scrambling through the tangled web of a ship's rigging comparable only to the ease that a pegasus walked among the clouds.

"All hands to your rowing positions! Ethanos, set the pace! We must be in Knossos before the dog star rises!" Telen shouted to his crew. Dozens of minotaur sailors filed belowdecks to their rowing benches, and within a minute the ship was propelled forward across the water by the strong backs and powerful muscles of nearly fifty rowers set to a steady beat from a drum.

With the ship tearing across the waters, a cooling breeze came with its passage, and Telen could have simply basked in it as it mopped away his sweat. But he had more important matters to attend to belowdecks. Taking the short stair down into the enveloping darkness below the deck, he produced a scroll and a quill from the pouch on his belt, taking an oil lamp down below the rowers decks and into the pitch black of the cargo hold, sweltering in the summer heat below the waterline of the ship.

The Shipmaster began to take inventory of his hold, carefully counting the crates of ivory from Zebrica, urns of spices from Saddle Arabia to the east, several dozen tall vases filled with olive oils and chickpeas from the mainland holds of some lesser nobilities. And the most precious of all, something that could either make his coffer overflow with gold should he deliver it on time or completely destroy his fortune if he were to be late, twelve bolts of silk from the mysterious land of Qin. Only the highest concubines of the palace or the wives of the greater nobles would even dream of wearing such fabric. Telen grinned, knowing that he could possibly buy himself a better position in House Ilium, possibly even a fine concubine of his own, should one of the bolts of cloth mysteriously "disappear" from his cargo hold.

But then, the port authorities of House Arnsul would certainly notice its absence once Telen pulled his ship into port. And since all the goods in this hold were technically property of the Royal House Arnsul, Telen could lose far more than just his title and his standing with House Ilium. Such thievery in the past, or even the accusation of thievery, was justified cause for dishonorable execution, and if a single scrap of cloth was unaccounted for in the ship's manifest, the port authority had the power to execute him on the spot.

Such a rich cargo, and such a disadvantage with no winds at his back. Telen muttered a quick chanting prayer to Aeukos, hoping that it would fill his sailor's bodies with the vigor to reach Knossos by nightfall. For though Telen's ship was fully capable of holding its own against another vessel in combat, his galley wasn't outfitted for war at the moment, and he only had a small handful of actual warriors aboard. The Inner Sea was a place littered with watery graveyards of ships sank both in storm and in battle. And while only a few of those ships were of minotaur make and crew, Telen could not take the risk of being caught in the open by Taurassian's greatest enemies, the Roamans.

Of all the dangers that prowled the Inner Sea, be it flesh-hungry sea monsters, roving fleets of pirates, storms that could strike on a whim, or even the pillaging ships of a rival House, none were deadlier than the Roamans. A civilization of ponies that shared the Inner Sea with the minotaurs, they claimed the entire western seas and all the islands within it as their own. The Roaman ponies based themselves out of their shining city of Roam, and their insatiable craving for new lands to call their own clashed with the similar interests of the neighboring Taurassian Empire. An ancient colony of Equestria, the Roamans had seceded from their ancestral homeland and taken up the ways of both commerce and conquest. And while minotaur ships ruled the open oceans and the high seas, the shallower draft and lighter, longer build of the Roaman's triremes made them lethally fast and maneuverable, making them deadly in the shallows closer to land.

And with the Roaman Legion being so adamant about using the pegasi legionnaires to control the weather to their whim, it wouldn’t surprise the Shipmaster if this heat wave was a result of their often poorly planned weather tampering. Such tactics had always been the Roaman’s preferred method of warfare; slowly wear down the enemy’s strength and morale, then march in the Legions.

Shipmaster Telen finished his check of the material inventory, marking down each little good as he was required to do several times each trip out of port. One could never truly trust that the sailors on his ship were not either spies or thieves for another House, and the inventory had to be meticulously checked. And if a single olive was missing, the ship dropped anchor, and each and every crew member was held at swordpoint until there was no doubt he did not do the thieving.

Not a single grain of barley was out of place. His ship and crew would make their deadline as usual, and with his perfect timing despite the setbacks, he would become a much wealthier bull for it. But he was not finished with his check of inventory. He had done the material goods, now he had to check on the live goods.

Slipping the cargo manifest back into his pouch, Telen withdrew his passenger manifest. Climbing out of the cargo hold, he passed by the lower deck of rowers to the cramped passenger quarters at the stern of the fat bellied galley. His manifest only listed one passenger, and he had not shown himself since their departure from port on the mainland. Most likely seasick, he thought to himself. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around the idea that some creatures took ill simply by taking to sea, to the minotaur the rolling waves of the ocean are always a comfort.

Telen pushed open the door to the passenger's quarters, and inside the solitary passenger looked up in apparent surprise and annoyance, slipping something in his claw back into the folds of his cloak. A gryphon, a member of a fellow warrior race, and one of the few races that minotaurs openly welcomed as brothers in arms. The passenger manifest listed him as 'Adawulf', and nothing more. His rusty red fur and snowy white feathers were obscured by black leather armor and a thick cloak, despite the often overwhelming heat of the Inner Sea. Though he trusted gryphons above most other races, he had to wonder why Adawulf was never seen without his armor.

"Is it not custom to knock?" the gryphon said in his thick Gryphonian accent. He spread his wings in agitation, and Telen knew for certain that he had interrupted the gryphon during something very important.

"The Shipmaster does not need to announce his presence aboard his own ship," Telen refuted. "I am required by the laws of my people to assure both your continued presence and your safety, good sir Adawulf. My crew members tell me that you have not left your quarters since our departure. Nor taken any of our offered rations. Does the sickness of the sea afflict you? Or perhaps you are stricken by something a little more sinister?" the Shipmaster asked inquisitively. If the gryphon carried some kind of plague, spreading it onto Knossos could potentially wipe out entire swaths of the population.

The gryphon shook his snowy feathered head. "Ja, it is a good thing, to follow ze laws. Vhere vould ve be without zem? I carry no illness, good Shipmaster. And as for ze food, I bring my own. Minotaur fare leads mein stomach afoul." Adawulf absently waved a talon to a satchel filled with dried meats and fruits, showing that he indeed did not need to deplete Telen's shipboard rations through his presence. "How far is Kun-noes-oes?" he inquired to the captain.

Telen could have laughed at the gryphon's thick accent and his stumbling pronunciation of 'Knossos'. Clearly he had never been to the Empire, and his readings had left him lacking. Even those foolish Roamans knew not to pronounce the 'K'.

"If our backs stay strong, and if Ethanos can keep a pace for once, we should reach port in Knossos," the minotaur emphasized, "within two days time. I trust your associates will find you safe harborage within the city. You of course have contacts within the city?"

"I hold no connections to Knossos," Adawulf replied, withdrawing deeper into his hood, and the Shipmaster could almost feel a small inflection of denial in Adawulf's response. Telen noticed a small movement near the gryphon's hip, as if Adawulf was caressing something with one of his talons.

Telen raised his eyebrow, curious as to why this gryphon, obviously not a merchant or an ambassador, was headed to the minotaur capital. That need to protect his ship and his crew from controversy pressed Telen to further interrupt the gryphon's privacy. "If I might inquire, what purpose do you have in Knossos? None of the cargo in the hold is under your name, and by the lightness of your pack, you do not carry much gold on you. What, if I may ask, is your profession?"

Adawulf peered out from his hood, his piercing eyes coming to rest on Telen's face. And instantly, Telen could see the soul of a warrior in his eyes. Cold, steely grey, and utterly devoid of the shimmers of mercy or love. "I offer many... services, to zose vith ze gold to afford zem," the gryphon said, his voice seeming to hiss like a serpent preparing to strike its prey.

The honored Shipmaster grimaced. "Do I need to know about the nature of these "services" that you offer?" Telen grew in his suspicions of the gryphon. He came aboard his ship with nothing but a pack that he kept jealously private, he always wore that supple leather armor, and he kept to himself. And now he spoke out to the captain about going to Knossos to do deeds unknown. Adawulf, Telen concluded, was up to no good. House warfare was common, and utilizing certain hired parties, though frowned upon as dishonorable and underhanded, was not unheard of in the lower houses. But if Adawulf was a mercenary, why was he here alone? In these dangerous territories, there was no such thing as a lone merc plying his trade. Every thought only added more questions about the gryphon.

Adawulf chuckled to himself, grinning to the Shipmaster. "No, you do not. Perhaps, vun day you may find yourself in need of my services. On zat day, remember your good friend Adawulf."

Something about that gryphon made Telen shudder. Even when he sat still as a stone, Adawulf always seemed poised to strike like a serpent. And the few times he had seen the gryphon move, Telen had been amazed by the way he seemed to slither from one place to another. Telen noticed that Adawulf's patience for his presence seemed to be wearing thin, the gryphon's talons clicking and drumming on the edge of the table. The Shipmaster promptly muttered something about increasing the pace, and he turned about and left Adawulf's cabin.

Finally back in his solitude, the gryphon shed his cloak, relieving himself of the burdensome and oppressive heat that came with this infernal sea. With his free talon he slid open the porthole, letting in the salty breeze. Adawulf stifled a sneeze as the scent of brine struck him, truly despising the odd passion the minotaurs had for the sea. Like all his hybrid race he preferred the high, snowy mountains far to the north. Another thing he despised, the horribly brutish politics of the minotaur. Not a single thought of subtlety in those horned heads. Adawulf had to wonder why the aerie lords of Gryphonia held such close alliance with the Houses of Taurassian.

He brought his occupied talon out from the hidden pockets of his leather jerkin, holding in it a cooing pigeon with a tiny letter cylinder clasped to its leg. Reaching out the porthole, he released his messenger, the bird immediately taking wing towards the island of Knossos. He had let slip a little white lie about his history on the island to the Shipmaster. He did have friends within the city, very wealthy and powerful friends with a bone to pick.

He reached once again down to his side, grasping the handle of the serpentine dagger at his belt. A dagger only seen in the talons of the deadliest rogues and court warriors of the gryphon kingdoms. For Telen's suspicions had been correct, the gryphon was a blade to be hired, and someone as yet unnamed had paid such a hefty price to bring the most feared blade in the Innung des Mechal, the most secretive and successful guild of assassins in all Maerasia, down to this hopelessly backward kingdom.

"Indeed, remember your good friend Adawulf," the gryphon murmured to himself.

Author's Note

A few notes:
-The W in Adawulf's name is pronounced like a V, in the German style. That being said, I will try to imply that he speaks with a Germanic accent.
-The title of Shipmaster is equivalent to anything between a captain and an admiral.
-The reason why they do not go by names like 'Iron Will' will be explained in the next chapter. It is all a part of a heavy system of protocol and honor.
-There will be very few ponies in this story. Those that even get dialogue will be antagonistic.

Royal House Arnsul

A soft breeze carried from across the Inner Sea, weaving its way over the waves and passing through the realms of both sea and sky. The wind's march was one of leisure, and it carried north from its home in the deserts of Zebrica, wisping across the sea of sunken ships and the underwater kingdoms of the mer, the naga and the sea ponies. Onward, northward it pressed, dancing through the sunshine over the sparkling sea. The gentle wind carried over the island of Knossos, the great capital of the minotaur empire.

The breeze lifted the sails of the hundreds of ships in port, ships of bearing both the heavy build of warships and the fat bellies of merchant ships. It cooled the sweat from the belabored backs of artisans, sailors, warriors, and indebted slaves alike, teasing them with the slightest promise of relief. The wind passed over the island, through the winding streets of the city, through the slums of the slaves and the palatial manors of the nobility. Sweeping over the palace itself and stoking the braziers in the Temple of Aeukos, it carried forth the scents of the city far into the interior of the island.

And finally, having made its grand trek across thousands of miles, the wind blew through the scrublands of the interior of the island and to a lone grey elm overlooking the sea to the north. It shook the leaves and rattled the branches, but more importantly to one creature, it brought a welcomed respite from the oppressing heat of the inner sea.

A lone minotaur sat with his back to the elm, a single throwing javelin resting, unused as usual, at his hooves. The breeze teased Eilan's mane of silky blonde hair and massaged his red-brown fur, just as an eager concubine would do so at his behest. But for now he was beyond the need for the simple pleasures of flesh. Now, he lost himself deep within the pages of a rarity on Knossos, a written book. Scrolls were common here, but only in the hands of merchants and priests. Warriors, commoners, sailors, they never had the need nor the interest to read, and thus many of them never even bothered to learn.

And since the simple scroll still dominated in minotaur society, the book in his hand was a treasure indeed. Books were rare in this part of the world, since the only real writers of true books were the Equestrians and their descendant Roamans. And anything written by a Roaman must be a lie against the Empire. Or, it could be another of their fanciful tales of harmony and magic. The priests of Aeukos had been very thorough in their censorship of the written word, and most of what remained in the great library of House Arnsul were scrolls inscribed with the songs of the honored ancestors and the tales of the great heroes of the Empire.

But Eilan, being a somewhat important figure in the Royal House, had access to things that the priesthood often forbid. Such as the book he engrossed himself in. In all fairness to the priests, it wasn't pony legend he was reading, it was a zebra tale of a blind warrior, translated and written by ponies.

Eilan lost himself in the far fetched tale of the zebra warrior, whose whirling spear and keen senses felled many foes and even silenced the demon Grinwa, whose foul machinations had plagued all Zebrica for decades. He was so enthralled that he failed to hear the soft hoofsteps approaching from behind.

Flipping a page, Eilan's quiet sanctuary shattered as the tree trunk behind him exploded into a shower of splinters. Quickly he scrambled to his hooves, spinning around to face his intruder, only to meet the disapproving stare of one of the few minotaurs he was forced to respect by his fellows.

"So, this is what you do when you go 'hunting'," the black bull said calmly. He grabbed the haft of the throwing ax that lay embedded in the tree, wrenching it free with one powerful tug. His aim was frighteningly precise, and the ax had shattered the tree trunk only inches from where Eilan had rested his head. "Why am I so surprised? You have left for this place every other day for three years, and never once have you returned with even the slightest trophy. Even a blind slave throwing stones would have killed something by now. Were you expecting a stag to simply wander into your lap and throw itself on your javelin?"

"And what does it matter to you, Varkan?" Eilan replied venomously. "My time and my methods are my own, and it is no concern of yours how I go about my life."

Quicker than Eilan could see, Varkan had him pinned to the tree, a hugely muscled fist pressing down on his collarbones. "It is my concern!" Varkan hissed. "Three years have you been training for a day that could come soon. And all you have under your belt is a reputation as the worst hunter on the island, some say in the whole Empire! Your father sent me to follow you, to drive some creature into your path so that you might, for once, taste victory over something! And here I find you reading!"

Varkan released the younger bull, wrenching the book from Eilan's fingers and hurling it out to the sea. "You are so eager to spend the House's treasury on forbidden books, but you are so loathe to raise that spear up against any of the scores of game animals and monsters imported just for your hunting pleasure. And to think we tolerate the shepherd's complaints about stray lions from your hunting reserve consuming their goats." The black bull paused for a moment, lost in retrospect. "But I suppose the owlbear might have been a terrible idea in the first place." Varkan grinned at the fond memory of eviscerating the feathered and clawed monstrosity. In actuality, he had suggested it to Eilan's father so that he himself might have the pleasure of hunting down the prized monster, knowing that Eilan would have no possibility of success.

"Those creatures were yours and my father's foolish ideas. If they escaped and caused havoc, it is no fault of mine," Eilan retorted, looking out to the ocean to see if his precious book had survived being hurled into the waves.

"You were the one meant to slay them. Who knows, perhaps parading the skin of a Zebrican lion through the palace might have earned you an honorable name. That was the intent." Varkan began to stroll leisurely back on the worn path to the palace, walking slowly to await Eilan.

The younger bull scooped up his heavy javelin, growling and muttering curses to Varkan for destroying his valuable, almost priceless book. "So what does my father want from me now?" he shouted to Varkan.

"He simply requests your presence in his court. Though why anyone would want you around eludes me," Varkan dryly insulted.

If anyone besides Varkan, his father, or one of the high priests of Aeukos had doled out such insolence, Eilan was within his rights as a noble born minotaur to order his execution or settle the matter honorably himself. But convincing an executioner to come armed and with ill intent within fifty feet of Varkan was only an invitation for the executioner to meet his ancestors prematurely. Few approached Weaponsmaster Varkan Gore Horns of Royal House Arnsul without a trickle of nervous sweat running down his brow.

It was no secret in the Empire, Royal House Arnsul maintained such an easy place at the top of the hierarchy because of Varkan's skilled training of his elite corp of retainers for the King. His specially trained Myrmidons struck fear and despair into the hearts of any sentient creatures that dared to learn the hard way about minotaur tolerance for intruders. Many lesser Houses and even mercenary companies had offered emperor's ransoms of gold, rare fineries, and even females to coax Varkan into training just one or two of their own warriors. But he always refused, for his first and only loyalty lay in King Thranas Shield Breaker: the Lord of House Arnsul, ruler of the Taurassian Empire, slayer of the Beast of Naltae, the single warrior whose charge had broken the lines of a Roaman Legion, the strongest son of King Gellac, and father of the worst hunter on Knossos.

Thinking about what his father might want this time, Eilan hustled to get by Varkan's side. He was Prince of House Arnsul, and he walked in nobody's shadow! Varkan always seemed to know this, and he would often walk a pace that wore Eilan out within a quarter league. His flaunted stamina and endurance, yet another passive insult that Varkan would heap onto him without so much as a word.

"Where is your livery?" Varkan asked in a tone befitting a teacher scolding his mischievous student.

"I left it on the boulder just outside the palace gate," Eilan murmured under his breath.

The haft of an ax was instantly jabbed into his chin, and Varkan glared at Eilan. "Speak up, boy. I am your elder, who knows, I may be hard of hearing from having to shout at you so often! And again, learn to respect the colors of your House. You cast aside your father's treasured tabard as though it was a cheap whore from a dockside brothel. You are the last prince of House Arnsul, the sooner you learn that fact and accept my teachings, the sooner your father may battle in the realm of the ancestors alongside Aeukos."

Of course Varkan proudly wore his yellow and white tabard of the Royal House every moment of the waking day. The emblem of the anchor, the ancient sigil of the House, always looked sparkling white. And despite drawing more blood than any other warrior on the island, not a stray speck stained the dark yellow background. For male minotaurs, there were only five acceptable pieces of clothing and one piece of jewelry; a loincloth, bracers if he was a warrior, a belt to display his minor trophies, a cloak for bad weather, and of course his House tabard. Any more would be a hindrance, or cover up the imposing musculature of a minotaur. And to display his nobility, a nose ring was a part of the protocol. As a warrior, Varkan's ring was strengthened steel, and as a noble born son, Eilan was to wear a bronze ring until his ascension.

But there were some who almost encouraged Eilan to wear more clothing, like a priest's robe or a tunic, for he was possessing of one thing that truly struck him out as different among the toned minotaur race, flab. Varkan's whipcord muscle rippled under his short black fur, but Eilan....jiggled, when he walked. And with the pace Varkan had set, Eilan's rolls swayed and bounced on the rocky path.

Varkan stopped at the crest of a hill, holding so still that a he could have passed for an obsidian statue. The prince huffed and struggled to crest the small hillock, still cursing the Weaponsmaster for the destruction of his prized tome. With his eyes cast on the ground, he bumped into the stone still warrior. Without a word, Varkan ripped the javelin from his hands, took aim, and hurled the spear with all his might. The javelin rocketed through the air, and with a heavy thump it buried its head deep into the ribs of a stag lying nearly invisible in the tall grass.

Turning back to Eilan, he glared with that ever present sense of superiority. "I was not even here to hunt, yet in half an hour I have accomplished what you have failed to do since your father withdrew you from the cloisters of the priests."

Eilan growled under his breath. "Every day of my life you remind me of how I am not my father. Or even worse, how I am not Andrian or Thulgen. If you want them back from the halls of Aeukos, find a witch to bring life back to their corpses!" Eilan spat.

Varkan's fist clenched by his side, the veins bulging out on his forehead. Any more taunts or failures on Eilan's part could send him into that most dreaded of states: the bloodrage. All minotaurs could reach bloodrage, a state of berserking that was only stoppable through sheer exhaustion, a lack of enemies to tear apart, or the death of the berserker. It was usually pain or the sight of their own blood that sparked the red haze to come into their eyes and for all rational thought to be completely abandoned, though many a mutilation had been caused by anger.

But Varkan cooled his building rage, reminding himself that the dead were in the great halls of Aeukos, and that the White Bull had brought them there to take part in the endless feasts and the great tests of strength that would prepare them for the great battle at the end of days.

"If only you were half your brothers," Varkan lamented. "If only you possessed half the strength of Thulgen, or half the tactful mind of Andrian, perhaps your honorable father would look upon you first with pride." But Varkan's lament was lost to the wind. Thulgen and Andrian had met their fates in ways that brought shame to the Royal House. And any honored noble or retainer was hesitant to speak of how the elder sons of King Thranas had propelled the youngest son from the quiet life of priestly training to the title of Crown Prince.

It was the way of any noble House. The eldest was born and trained to succeed his father in holding the title of Lord, the second son was trained to lead the warriors and his father's retainers into battle, and the third was given as an offering to the White Bull to serve as a priest. Such ways, however, often led to second sons challenging the first sons for the title, and any sons past the third often fought and challenged for the opportunity to claim a more coveted place in their father's court.

And as the marble carved palace of the mightiest House of Taurassian loomed over the slope of the next hill, Eilan could only guess that his father had some gory court politics that he believed his son should witness.

**********************************************************

"Liar!" the Shipmaster of House Arkadios bellowed to the bull across the grand hall from him, a lesser lord of a lesser House.

"It is you who spouts the lies!" His rival, a merchant noble of House Enike screamed back. All around the two, in the vaulted hall of carved marble columns, minotaurs bearing the tabards and livery of every House in the Empire shouted their taunts and their jeers, eagerly waiting for the Arkadian and the Enikan to come to blows. These arguments always rang through the halls of the palace, and the entire throne room was designed to accommodate the duels that frequently erupted between the raging warriors.

The representative of House Arkadios clenched his fists, taking a step closer to the sand filled pit that was the defining feature of the throne room. Great tapestries hung down from the fluted columns and the walls. And whatever space was not bedecked in silken curtains and tapestries depicting the greatest scenes of victory from across the ages was covered in weapon racks, trophies from hunts, priceless treasures plundered from the deadliest foes, and the horns of all the challengers that came to usurp the authority of the presiding House, and had ultimately failed. It was not only the throne room where such opulence was flaunted, every hallway, corridor, and room was decorated much the same, with massive frescoes made from millions of little pieces of precious stones depicting the triumphs of the great Houses.

The Arkadian turned his ire away from his rival from House Enike, bowing lowly towards the gray bull seated comfortably in his throne. "My Lord Thranas Shield Breaker, this dog of House Enike is a liar, a cheat, and a pirate! A ship bearing the symbol of the albatross of Enike raided a ship from my fleet, and this very day I have seen my goods in the market, being sold by an Enikan merchant!"

"They were our pelts from our hunting lands, Lord Thranas Shield Breaker!" the Enikan screamed in retaliation. "The Arkadians have always been jealous of our success with the fur trade, and now this son of a whore weaves false tales of piracy to ruin us!"

At the insult aimed at his person, the Arkadian roared in rage, only the strong arms of his comrades preventing him from crossing the hall and dragging his rival into the pit. "A three decked galley bearing your personal mark was seen in my waters, cur! And now your merchants sell the hides that bears the mark of my trappers! You and all your kin are liars and pirates!"

The Enikan roared his own challenge, his fellows grabbing him bodily to prevent an unsanctioned bloodbath. "The fleet of House Enike possesses no three decked galleys, you idiot son of a dockside whore!" The Enikan fought himself to regain his composure, and again he turned back to the King on his throne. "My Lord Thranas Shield Breaker, this fool proclaims that the crime against him was piracy, and he is right. But what he fails to see is that it was pirates falsely bearing my symbol, not a ship of my own House! If his claims are not the usual slander of the treacherous House Arkadios," the Enikan said snidely.

"If it was a rogue pirate bearing your pennant, then how did the furs from my own estate come to be in your market stalls!" the Arkadian screamed back to him, the red haze falling over his eyes.

Up on the throne, King Thranas had barely heard a word of the exchange between House Arkadios and House Enike. The grey furred bull tapped his thick fingers on the arm of the throne, thoroughly bored with such normally enthralling and entertaining court procedures. Roaring arguments like this came like the tides; fairly even, always expected, and seemingly harsher during the full moon. He had no clue why, the squabbling of the lords just seemed more intense then.

The old king scratched an itch on his nose, brushing against the gold ring that was his mark as supreme ruler over both his House and this land. A pair of gold chains ran from his nose ring, down across his cheeks and around his sharp, forward-facing horns, another decoration and declaration of his dominance. And at the end of each chain was a hook that clasped onto his crown. The crown of Taurassian, a simple circlet of gold, bronze and steel that rested easily atop his horned head, with a pearl the size of a calf's fist adorning it as a center piece. Some said that pearl contained a certain magic that hearkened back to the founding of the Empire, when Asterion himself ripped this island from the clutches of a powerful fey race, and this pearl with it.

But of course, no magic flowed through any item of his possession. Magic was for the frail, the weak, and those who committed the greatest heresies against Aeukos, the witches. And to Thranas, there was no greater pleasure in the world than hearing the screams of a witch as they burned, their desperate pleas to their "spirits" and their gods of nature and magic more melodic to his ears than the songs to Aeukos and Asterion.

Thranas blinked his way back to the situation at hand, and only then did he notice that the hall had fallen silent, every lord and his retainers awaiting the judgement of the King. He rolled his eyes, and leaned up in his throne. He would be hard pressed to find any concern for their plight, as both Enike and Arkadios were lesser Houses of little importance. Neither of them had made many attempts in the past to secure his favor. Neither House had given him their daughters to act as concubines, nor any of their sons to act as adopted retainers and courtiers. That being so, and with the scales of bought favor leaning towards neither House, there was only one real decision he could make.

"Let Aeukos decide," Thranas declared, his stately voice booming throughout the throne room. "Soloc, listen to the voice of the White Bull, and tell us his words."

The attention turned from Thranas on his throne, down to an grey-white bull dressed in a royal purple robe. Soloc, the High Priest of the White Bull, one of the only minotaurs within the palace that was unadorned by either a nose ring or an honorable name. But every minotaur in the Empire bowed before the High Priest, and even King Thranas had to heed his word as the will of the Horned God.

Even older than Thranas, Soloc's gnarled hands and bony fingers still performed the rituals as perfectly as any of his disciples. The old bull set down his rod of station, an oaken staff said to be blessed by the touch of Asterion, and reached into the folds of his robe. Soloc withdrew a small leather pouch, and he leaned over a sacred brazier, spilling the contents of the pouch into the waiting flames.

The blazing coals eagerly consumed the powder, and belched out a thick, swirling smoke that smelled heavily of powerful incense. Soloc leaned into the pouring smoke, wafting it into his nostrils and breathing deeply. Only through the heady incense could he hear the godly voice of the White Bull and not be struck an idiot by its blinding power. Soloc leaned back, his eyes rolling back into his head. The old bull swayed where he stood, his head and horns weaving and dancing to an unheard song. Fully within his trance, Soloc began to murmur, too lowly to be heard by the king or the nobles. Thranas leaned forward, fully at the edge of his throne. He was always excited to hear the verdict of their god, and no warrior in the Empire could be called a liar if he said that Thranas was a zealot.

The High Priest shook and swayed for many minutes, lost in the intoxicating hold of the haze. Finally, his gibbering ceased, and Soloc looked down at the bitterly rivaled nobles with clear and enlightened eyes.

"The White Bull has spoken," Soloc said shakily. "And he has proclaimed that this shall be settled in the way of the ancients!" A grin of anticipation grew on the face of every minotaur in the throne room, knowing what words came next. "SUL'THAR!" Soloc bellowed, along with every warrior in the hall.

The ancient right of the blood duel, two minotaurs would enter a chosen ring of battle, and only one could leave while he still drew breath. Though in lesser disputes, the two chosen fighters would simply battle until one could be clearly declared as the superior warrior to preserve the life of a valuable warrior. Weapons were forbidden, and only the brute strength and cunning of the individual duelist was allowed.

A cheer arose from the assembled warriors, and bets as to who the the winner might be and how the loser would meet his ancestors began to flow through the crowd. Anything from gold to entire ships were placed as wagers, and no expense was too great for the wealthy lords of Taurassian. It wasn't truly the gambling, it was the sport itself that was so exhilarating. Sul'Thar was the true test of a minotaur's prowess, and in ages past it had more often than not been the event that propelled a House closer to the throne, or dragged it down to nothing more than a family of snobby commoners.

"House Arkadios, choose your champion!" Thranas bellowed to the red and brown liveried nobles. The Shipmaster of Arkadios who had come to reclaim his goods motioned to one of his followers, a ragged looking sailor who had seen more than his fair share of brawls and duels. The cobalt blue-furred fighter removed his trident emblazoned tabard, handing it reverently to his sponsoring noble. Without another word, the fighter leapt into the sand filled pit sank into the center of the throne room.

"House Enike, choose your champion!" Thranas bellowed to the blue and white liveried nobles. The lesser noble of House Enike grinned deviously, and nodded to the back of his entourage. His ranks parted, and a truly massive minotaur plodded through. Standing head and shoulders above his challenger, the fighter of House Enike lacked a nose ring, and once his tabard came off, long white scars showed brightly across his shoulders. The Enikan champion looked around, as if looking for more instructions. His noble sponsor grimaced before nodding towards the pit. Realizing his fate, the Enikan champion leapt into the pit.

King Thranas leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. House Arkadios had chosen a weathered and experienced fighter, though he was just a sailor. But more interesting, House Enike had apparently plucked a slave from their fields and slapped a tabard on him. He had the toned muscle of one who had toiled in the sun for years, but he also had that resigned look of one who had worn chains the whole time.

What deal had the Enikan lord made with that mountain of whipped muscle? His freedom for an honorable victory in the ring? Perhaps a title of his own, land, ships, females? If he won, House Enike would have the right to demand an exorbitant amount of wealth in recompense for the smear on their reputation. If they lost, all they would lose was a slave and the furs in the market. Thranas glanced at the smug Enikan lord, and felt that perhaps the sly dog had planned this from the beginning.

Perhaps he had raided the Arkadian ship. Well done to him and his House, Thranas thought to himself. Perhaps House Arnsul should invest a greater interest in House Enike.

"This will be interesting," a heavy voice said from behind the throne. "Who are the combatants?"

Thranas looked over his shoulder, a grin alighting on his face. "Varkan! I was beginning to worry that you would miss all the fun."

"Never, my lord," the black bull said with a grin, taking his place by Thranas' left hand, across from Soloc. Varkan peered over at the robed priest, giving him a curt nod, barely tilting his head for Soloc. "High Priest."

"Weaponsmaster," Soloc acknowledged just as curtly. It was a well known fact that the devout Soloc and the pragmatic Varkan did not get along, and if the High Priest had been allowed to raise a weapon in anger, it would have come to blows years ago. Varkan respected the station of the High Priest, he just held no respect for the High Priest himself.

Thranas did not notice the thick tension between his differing advisors, and he began to inform Varkan of the situation. "House Arkadios has accused House Enike of piracy!" the King eagerly whispered to the Weaponsmaster. "And the only way it can be resolved is through Sul'Thar. The Arkadians have chosen a sailor as their champion, but the Enikans have chosen that mountain of a slave to fight for them! A daring move!" The Lord of Arnsul noticed the absence of one in particular. "Where is Eilan? We cannot begin until he is here!"

The two gladiators in the pit faced their king, awaiting the order to begin. Thranas looked around, finally spying his youngest son leaned against the wall, far from any good view of the pit. "Eilan, come and join us!" Thranas ordered. The prince groaned, stalking over to rest by Soloc. The King grimaced at his son's preference to the aged priest, unlike Andrian and Thulgen, who had always been at Varkan's side.

Thranas stood from his throne, grasping up the massive sword from beside the throne. It was his chosen weapon, and among minotaur society, a chosen weapon was akin to a warrior's own heart, so valuable and precious it was to its bearer. This blade had cut down entire armies like blades of grass, and when Thranas hefted it above his head, the tip aiming towards the heavens, it came with the greatest ease. His greatsword's blade was wider than his fingers could spread, and the emblem of both House Arnsul and the Arnsul Myrmidons was etched into the cold steel.

Thranas waited, taking in a single breath of the salty, moist air of the sea breeze as it wove through the open columns. And once he let out that breath, he shouted, "Let Sul'Thar.... BEGIN!" The greatsword sliced down, and as the steel blade rang from the impact into the marble floor, the two gladiators spun on their hooves to face one another.

Each crouched low, their arms spread out wide. The Enikan slave and the Arkadian sailor slowly circled one another, each carefully awaiting any openings in their opponent's defenses, carefully trying to gauge one another's strengths.

"I am Steel Eyes!" the sailor shouted to his opponent. He grinned, using his blood name in the face of an opponent as tradition and honor had mandated since the days of Asterion. "And you are of No Worthy Name, bastard son of a firbolg!"

The Enikan's lips curled back over his teeth, and he snorted in anger, just as the Arkadian wanted. With a roar, the massive slave charged across the pit. The sailor dug his hooves into the sand, bracing himself for the raging wave of anger that as the slave. And like a wave crashing on a rock, the slave slammed into the sailor, throwing his hands around the sailor's forearms and locking horns with his foe.

The sailor pressed back as hard as he could, similarly locking his fingers around his opponent's arms. He began to slide back to the wall, not of his own accord, leaving ruts where his hooves dug into the sand. The sailor twisted out his horns from their embrace in the slave's horns, slamming his head into the slave's. The massive fighter stumbled backwards, releasing his grip on the sailor.

The sailor slipped to the right of the clumsy slave, throwing a muscled arm around the larger bull's neck and weaving his hoof around his opponent's right leg. With one mighty, heaving pull, he tripped up the huge slave, slamming him face first into the sand of the pit. The sailor intended to finish this quickly, and he straddled the slave's back, stomping his hooves onto the slave's hands, grasping his horns and twisting with all his strength.

But the slave's body had been tempered by years of toil, and his bones were tougher than the roots of the most ancient oak trees. Arching his back, he slammed the back of his head into the sailor's muzzle, and the Arkadian stumbled back, a gout of crimson blood spewing from his broken nose. The Enikan leapt to his hooves, faster than any spectator suspected that he was capable of. Leveling his horns at the Arkadian's chest, he charged, intending to pierce as many organs and break as many bones as he could.

The Arkadian sailor sidestepped, but the Enikan was too quick, and the edge of a sharp horn left a deep gash in his ribs. Another gout of blood poured from the sailor, and seeing it falling to the sand brought a red haze to his vision. Looking at the recovering slave, the sailor pawed the ground, bellowing as the bloodrage overtook his senses. He charged the slave, and lowering his horns the slave barely managed to keep his ground.

The two fighters locked horns once again, and with the bloodrage empowering the sailor, the two were even matches for strength. Snarling at his enemy, flecks of spittle fell from his mouth and the red of blood filled his eyes. The sailor twisted his horns left and right, trying to angle them in to the slave's face and gouge his eyes out.

The slave saw only one way to gain an advantage, and he twisted his legs to prepare. He got his chance a moment later, when the sailor pulled back his head to slam his horns into the slave's forehead again. The slave spun on his right hoof, and with so much momentum behind his coming blow, the sailor fell forward to an empty space where his opponent used to be. He stumbled on his own hooves, and caught off balance, he was vulnerable.

The slave slammed into the sailor's back, wrapping his arms around his midriff and lifting him completely off the ground. The Enikan charged with his opponent to the wall of the pit, and he cruelly slammed his enemy into the stone wall of the pit. The sailor twisted and writhed, managing to spin around in his opponent's grip. Raising up his arms, the sailor dropped an elbow into his enemy's back. The slave grunted in pain, slamming his enemy into the wall again.

The slave pounded him into the wall again, but another elbow to the back loosened his grip, and the sailor fell to the floor. The slave loomed over him, spreading his arms wide and falling forward to crush the sailor with his mountainous body.

The sailor rolled out from under his opponent before the almost certainly crippling slam could come, and when the slave slammed into the sandy floor, the sailor rolled on top of him. Wrapping an arm around his throat, the sailor flexed his arms, strangling the slave in the crook of his elbow. Pressing his free arm into the back of the slave's head, the enraged Arkadian roared when the slave's struggles became more desperate. Elbows slammed into his ribs, and more than one cracked under the pounding blows, but the bloodraged minotaur felt no pain. Twisting even harder as the blackness of unconsciousness closed in on the edge of his vision, a horn caught and tore into the forehead of his enemy.

But the sailor held on. And after a minute of strangling his enemy, the slave's struggles became weaker, and he lightly pawed at the Arkadian's face, slipping away from the battle into the comforting embrace of honorable death. The sailor released his foe, hurling the body to the ground. Panting from the energy consuming bloodrage, he planted a hoof into his dead opponent's back, roaring his victory to all the warriors circling the pit.

He raised his arms, spreading them wide to accept the accolades of his fellow warriors. His name was chanted by the pleased crowds, his fellows of House Arkadios screaming it in pride.

"Steel Eyes! Steel Eyes! Steel Eyes!" they chanted, and several warriors of his House leapt down into the pit, bearing their wounded brother out on their shoulders.

The nobles and retainers of House Enike slumped over in shame. Their gambit had been a bold one, one that had the possibility of dealing a devastating blow to their greatest rivals in House Arkadios. But their greatest flaw had been mistaking size for strength, and now they had lost face and a valuable slave. But in reality, the Arkadians had gained no honor or face, having only dispatched an expendable field worker.

King Thranas clapped his great approval for the fantastic fight. Standing from his throne, he walked down the steps and to the Arkadians, congratulating their champion with a firm clap on the shoulder. But before they could slink away with their tails between their legs, Thranas turned to the Enikans. "House Enike, your champion has lost in a duel of Sul'Thar. The White Bull has spoken through the strength of this champion. You will return all that belongs to the Arkadians, with interest."

The lesser noble of Enike blanched, his jaw falling low. He expected to come away clean, with no repercussions for his gambit, but at Thranas' declaration of 'with interest', his fate had been sealed. The shamed Enikans bowed low, muttering to themselves about how ruinous this would be. 'Interest' typically meant ships and sons, if they did not have the gold to pay off the often outrageous sums demanded. If they lost a good portion of their trade fleet and their sons as retainers to House Arkadios, Noble House Enike would be hard pressed to survive the next trade season with a shrunken fleet and no warriors. Perhaps they would even have to leave their island hold for a more promising land on the fringes of the Empire; in Zebrica, Saddle Arabia, or even in the dangerous seas near the territory of the Roamans.

In all reality, this loss could have been the death knell for the Noble House Enike. But their underhanded tactics had intrigued the king, and he could think of a few uses for the Enikans, and he considered making a few dozen "adoptions" should House Enike fall.

****************************************************

Eilan paced down the frescoed corridor, wanting more than anything to just go back to the safety and ease of the priesthood. He uneasily fingered the medallion of the anchor that lay under his tabard, and he wondered when his day would come when he would have to enter that pit across from his father. It was tradition, and there was no escape from it. He would have to give his father an honorable death and prove that he had the strength to rule as king.

He wondered if he should stop by the harem and peruse his options for the evening, perhaps "sample" a few of the more choice concubines. It was a pleasure that was new to him, since only in the past few years had he been allowed to view females in the light of lust. Aeukos required little from his warriors except for blood and honor, but the White Bull apparently desired a strict celibacy and a vow of non-violence from his priests.

But he would deal with choosing this evening's bedmate later. Eilan followed a simple route through the palace, one that all minotaurs knew and could follow. For even if they got lost in the twisting labyrinth of corridors and the mazes of columns, all one had to do to find the temple was follow the frescoes. Each fresco was made from hundreds of shards of glass and gems, and they depicted the rolling sea, filled with fish, mer, naga, sea ponies, and the sunken ships that littered the Inner Sea. And atop the rolling waves, minotaurs piloted great ships, cast out their nets and fishing spears, and dueled for supremacy over the waves. Of course, the waves all flowed one direction, and they flowed out from the temple where they began.

Eilan entered the great chapel, a place kept dark except for a single beam of sunlight that illuminated the central altar, and above it, the statue of Aeukos. Carved from pure white marble with curved, wickedly sharp golden horns, the White Bull was depicted rising from the waves that he had been born from, towering over any worshiper that dared to come into his chapel. And from the base of his podium, the waves on the frescoes radiated outwards throughout the palace, a symbolic depiction saying that all that was Taurassian was but the ripples of Aeukos.

And depicted in a hundred thousand tiny sparkling gemstones, behind the the imposing statue of the Horned God, was Asterion, the first minotaur and son of Aeukos. It was said that Aeukos had taken a female of a race known only as the fey as his bride, and from their union came Asterion. Besides being the first of the mighty race, Asterion was the greatest hero and the first king of Taurassian, carving the Empire from the mysterious kingdom of the fey.

Of course, many philosophers and priests maintained that the fey were never real, that they were just symbolic in the mythos of the first king. Asterion had been born solely from the spilled blood of Aeukos and Aeukos had been born from the sea, not from the loins of some mythical fairy creature. But, there were others, like the reviled witches, that said that the fey had been very real, and that the minotaurs shared a lineage with the fey, along with the mer, the dryads, and even the giants of Rus. Most priests dismissed that as nonsense and the rantings of heretics.

"Fifty years as a priest have I tended this chapel, and never once have I let the flame upon the altar burn out," a shaky old voice said from far behind Eilan. The young prince turned to see his old mentor shuffling towards the great altar. Soloc carried the Staff of Asterion firmly in his hand, ready to use as a cane if the effect of the incense from earlier proved to be too much. "And yet, there is always a sense of awe that comes over me when I look upon Aeukos. How do the events of the day fare with you, my Lord?"

Eilan chuckled to himself, shaking his blonde maned head. "Soloc, I have told you, never call me Lord."

"Oh?" the over friendly and fatherly bull said with a smile. "My pardon, Prince Eilan. But I am still adjusting to your rather sudden ascension. So, what did you learn from the court today?"

"Never use a slave when warriors are plentiful," Eilan scoffed. The Enikans were overly political and rather brash fools for trusting that size alone could win a duel against a seasoned warrior. They would almost deserve the imminent predation upon their caravans and merchant convoys in the coming months.

Soloc shook his grizzled head. "Beyond that, Prince Eilan. Did you learn anything of tactics, or fighting? Or perhaps even politics? If there is one thing that Varkan and I can find common ground upon, it is the importance of your training."

"Thulgen was the warrior," Eilan commented offhand. "Andrian was the politician and the leader. I was meant to be here, tending the eternal flames and reading the scriptures. It was what I was born to do. If my father desires a warrior to take the throne, why not allow Varkan to ascend? He is the greatest warrior in all the isles, and he would rule for many years."

"Because, my young prince, Varkan is not of Arnsul blood, nor even of noble blood, just as I," Soloc explained, going into the story of Varkan, the once lost child of the city. "You know the story of the Weaponsmaster, a waif from the slums of Knossos, bereft of parentage. One day he traveled the beach, looking for something to fill his belly when he heard the cries of a youth in pain. Running to his aid, he slew the sea eagle that assaulted him bare handed, and saved your father's life. From there on, they were inseparable, almost brothers. It is why Varkan and your honored father hold such a close bond."

Eilan rolled his eyes, remembering the story of how Varkan had also earned his name that day. Carrying the young Thranas over his shoulder, the young Varkan had laid him before King Gellac, the blood and flesh of the sea eagle still dripping from his horns. And at his son's insistence, King Gellac had showered him with both an honorable name, and a tabard of Arnsul. Gore Horns, the name that Varkan screamed to his enemies just before he sent them to meet their ancestors, and after decades of training with the masters of martial prowess from all corners of the world, one of the most feared and respected names in the Empire.

And before he could ever remotely think of challenging his father and wrestling the crown from his dying body, Eilan had to earn an honorable blood name through a heroic deed of his own. Hence the monsters placed strategically throughout Eilan's "hunting" grounds. At the very worst, he could earn his blood name by slaying his father in a duel. But the only name that could be earned from such an act was Kin Slayer, and if a king sat on the throne with no other claim to heroism than killing the old king, it was a sign of weakness and an open invitation to an invasion by another House.

"What am I to do, Soloc?" Eilan said to the aging priest. "Until a few years ago, I was not to raise a blade except in sacrifice to Aeukos. And now I have to enter Sul'Thar against a warrior who has the horns of a score of challengers adorning his walls."

Soloc patted Eilan on the shoulder, nodding knowingly to the young prince. "Do not think of him just as a strange warrior, Eilan. He is also your father. And it is your duty to grant him the honorable passage to the halls of Aeukos. Think of it not as a responsibility, but as a gift that you may bestow on an aged warrior whose blade can no longer see battle. Give it time, young warrior, your opportunity will come. Until then, I suggest that you heed the words of Varkan above anyone else's. For Varkan knows better than any how to deal a killing blow. Aeukos does favor the prepared, after all."

The High Priest gave Eilan an encouraging clap on the shoulder, a wide smile on his face. "Now, I've heard that Mistress Renna has a few new girls in the harem, perhaps you should be a gentlebull and introduce yourself."

The barest hint of a grin cracked on Eilan's troubled facade, and he nodded in appreciation to Soloc. "Thank you, High Priest." The Crown Prince spun on his hooves and walked out of the great marble entryway of the temple.

Soloc nodded to nobody but himself. The aged priest shambled over to the altar of Aeukos, a slab of rough stone that the temple had been built around, the very stone where Asterion had offered the first sacrifice, legend held that it was an alicorn foal, to his father the White Bull. Placing the Staff of Asterion onto the permanently bloodstained altar, Soloc fell to his knees and began to murmur his prayers to his mighty god.

***************************************************

The flags of House Ilium whipped in the stiff breeze, the sailors of the noble House donning their customary livery as their great galley pulled skillfully next to the docks. Dock workers tossed mooring ropes out to the liveried sailors, and the galley was soon secured to the moorings. The gangplank was lowered, and as soon as the Shipmaster himself had presented his manifest and his letters of mark, the single passenger was allowed to disembark.

The gryphon seemed to flow down and off the gangplank, his steps only swaying in the slightest from constant rocking of the oceans which had been his bane for the last few days. Carrying nothing but his pack and shrouded in a thick cloak, Adawulf made his way down the docks, hardly taking any notice of the gawking minotaur commoners and sailors, many of which had never left Knossos, much less seen a creature of such dark repute as a gryphon.

He hated their stares, and silently marked out the faces of any who witnessed his passing. Subtlety was his ultimate friend, and being able to melt into a crowd the most useful tool of his trade. And should any of these commoners take any more than just a passing interest in the gryphon, it could mean complications in completing his contract. If they made any move to talk to any authorities, he would be forced to add another notch to his belt and retreat into hiding until everything calmed.

But the dock workers unknowingly chose the wisest course, and turned back to their labors. But the greatest obstacle stood in front of him, bearing a pair of spectacles and a thick port manifest. Adawulf calmly approached the Dockmaster, a graying old bull bearing a worn tabard of House Arnsul.

"Name?" the Dockmaster mechanically inquired.

Adawulf remained silent, reaching into one of his many pockets and bringing out a fist full of glimmering gemstones. Slapping them down on the logbook, Adawulf nodded. The Dockmaster glanced around as discreetly as he could, sliding the small fortune of precious stones into a pouch.

"Welcome to Knossos, Master Telone," the Dockmaster said, giving out one of the most common and unremarkable names that he could think of. Bribery was nothing new to any member of a Noble House, and with the single passenger of the Ilium ship technically accounted for, everyone was happy. "Are you here for business, or for pleasure?" the Dockmaster asked Adawulf, continuing the strict protocols.

Adawulf peered out of his hood, his cold, grey eyes showing nothing but the cool demeanor of a hunter nearing his prey.

"Both," the assassin responded.

Author's Note

Note:
-In my mind, Iron Will is a transient Arkadian. His real name is Tós (considered an effeminate male name). Full name: Tós Iron Will of the Noble House Arkadios.
-Asterion is the name of the minotaur from Greek legend. In context, he is the first son of the White Bull, and therefore the mythical first minotaur. Asterion is to Aeukos as Jesus is to Jehovah.

....I flipped a coin to see who would win the duel. Literally. It was tails, the Arkadians.

Also, if you can tell me the name of the woman that the White Bull conceived Asterion with (without Google) you win a watcher. It's simple Greek mythology, she was even a real person.

First Blood

The hustle and bustle of the inn was a welcoming noise to Adawulf, reminding him so closely of the taverns in Gryphonia that he frequented often during his many contracts. The place was a squalid little hole in the wall, just off the docks in the city of Knossos, just within the boundaries of the slave slums and just across the street from the homes of the commoners. The stench of putrid waste returning with the evening tides mixed with the foul odor of unwashed minotaurs and stale beer. The bar patrons that lined the tables and poured the swill that these brutes called ale down their throats were only the many Houseless commoners, indebted slaves that managed to pinch enough gold from their masters to enjoy a rare drink, and a few cutthroats who drank noisily in the corner, one hand always on their cutlasses. Pirates no doubt, perhaps mercenaries. Perhaps a little of both.

Adawulf allowed a rare grin to cross his beak, feeling that this place was as close to the back alleys and darkened streets of Gryphonia as he was going to get in Taurassian. And if this establishment was anything like the dark and often temperamental places that Adawulf normally frequented, he expected at least one of these minotaurs to be dead by the end of the night, and at least another two robbed at swordpoint. He could have sighed with sentimentality, but he had a job to do. And right now, his job was to wait for his contact. And the contract had specified this squalid little tavern, on this precise day. Like any good hunter, patience was often the best tactic he could employ.

The gryphon took a table as far from the hearth as possible, as was his personal custom. And when the serving wench came around to take his order, he quietly ordered a bottle of this place's coldest drink, and for her to be quick with it. Even with the heat of day dispelling quickly with the sun setting in the west, Taurassian was still unbearably hot for the assassin. Ice, snow and the cold winds of the high peaks had always been his domain. He would even prefer Equestria at this time of year, though the kingdom of the ponies was in high summer. He stifled a shudder as he thought about all the contracts that he had to turn down from the rich and powerful chiefs of Zebrica and sultanates of Saddle Arabia in their desert realms, all because of his discomfort in warmer climes. Only his skill with the blade had kept his guildmaster from throwing him out because of the lost contracts.

And the fact that Adawulf could have killed him seven ways before his corpse hit the ground.

Bare-handed.

The shadows grew longer, and soon melded together to form the all encompassing blanket of the night. Adawulf leaned back in his chair, kicking his lion hindlegs up and sipping from his chilled wine. From his angle, he could even see the Mare in the Moon shining through the open doorway of the tavern. He considered himself a friend to the lonely Mistress of the Moon, the legendary Princess Luna, whose prison had served to light his way along the rooftops and guide his dagger during his missions. He often thanked the Princess for lighting his path after a successful contract, and secretly he wished to see this avatar of the night in person at least once. But it could not be, legend held that Princess Luna still had several centuries before her prophecy could be fulfilled. His steely gray eyes had always preferred the gentle and soft moonlight over the glaring, hateful light of the sun, whose reach banished the shadows where he and his fellows tended to lurk.

And, Adawulf took note, apparently one patron seemed to prefer the shadow as well. Somehow, his sharp eyes and constant vigil over the door had not caught this new arrival. The minotaur sank himself into the shadows at the far end of the tavern, directly facing Adawulf. The careful gryphon was put on edge by this one's apparent stealthiness, a trait so rarely seen in the lumbering and clumsy minotaurs, and Adawulf fought to keep his hackles from rising. But what was more alarming to him, Adawulf could not detect any features of this new arrival. He had the same body type as all minotaurs: impossibly broad shoulders, a pair of thick horns, and skinny cloven-hoofed legs. But even with his sharp, eagle-like vision, Adawulf could not discern any facial features of the stranger whatsoever. Not even the color of his fur. It was as if this newcomer was shadow incarnate, bending the light of lamps and candles away from himself.

The chilling minotaur stared right at the assassin, his eyes seeming to glow a shade of red in the gloom of the tavern. Adawulf took a long sip from his goblet, staring right back, never moving his gaze so much as a hair. He refused to be intimidated, as much as the chill that crept down his spine protested such a thought. But then, his opponent blinked, looking over to the doorway, then back to Adawulf. The gryphon raised an eyebrow at this subliminal message, and he glanced towards the doorway himself. But it remained empty, only the light of the moon coming in. And when he looked back, the mysterious bull was gone, and the veil of darkness that had covered that entire corner of the tavern was lifted.

Draining the rest of his goblet, Adawulf took the message to heart, pacing out the doorway. Even with the heat of the day gone, Adawulf was still annoyed by the rank stench of saltwater and the sea as it assaulted his nose. Looking to his right, he only saw an empty street. But when he looked to his left, he saw the shadowy stranger, or rather just his glowing eyes, at the entrance to an alleyway. The shadow minotaur looked into the alley, then back at Adawulf, seeming to beckon to the gryphon.

And with a talon firmly gripped onto his dagger, Adawulf followed the stranger into the alleyway. His piercing eyes searched for any sign of ambush or trickery, as many of his guild's fresher recruits had fallen prey to thieves and bandits in situations just like this. But he was no youngblood, Adawulf was a survivor. Seeing nothing but rats as they scampered out of his way, Adawulf released his dagger's hilt, and waited for the shadow minotaur to acknowledge him.

The figure's eyes scanned the gryphon, and seemed pleased. "You are Adawulf?" the bull asked in a rasping, hollow voice.

"Zat depends," the assassin replied, a look of utter calm and passiveness on his face, "Who vishes to know my name?"

"My name is of no importance, and my intentions are my own," the shadow bull responded.

Adawulf leaned back onto a crate, digging out a belt knife to pick and trim his talons. His display of calm would have been unnerving, but the shadow bull had nothing to truly fear from Adawulf. "Zen my name and my profession are none of your business," the gryphon said nonchalantly.

The shadow bull shivered with anger at the assassin's game. "One who desires blood," the shadow bull grated. Adawulf froze, hearing the phrase that the letters he had received said would indicate his contractor.

Adawulf swept into a short bow, giving a flourish of his cloak. "Zen I am Adawulf of Gryphonia, chief assassin of the Innung des Mechal. Killer elite. And if it is blood you want, zen you have selected a fine specimen to bring it to you." Little did the shadow bull know, when Adawulf had dipped into his bow, a talon slipped into one of his many pockets, grasping a gem on a simple necklace. Aiming the point of the stone at his contact, Adawulf felt it grow warm, a confirmation to his suspicions.

His contact was no regular creature, nor was it a creature at all. The gem had told him, without a shadow of doubt, that this thing was incredibly magical in nature. And simple experience told him the rest. A Shadow Specter, an outward projection of one's own shadow, given a sort of animation and the ability to walk far from its owner. No wonder the bull seemed to melt into the shadows, it was nothing more than a shadow itself. But this in itself confused the assassin, only wizards and spellcasters of sufficient power and experience could send their shadow out as an emissary. One did not normally associate minotaurs with anything remotely magical.

"But, if I am Adawulf, zen surely a shade like yourself has einen name to call itself? I cannot operate properly visout a contractor to sign ze contract. I vould prefer it ozervise, but ze creed and laws of my guild strictly prohibit anysing zat might go...off ze books."

"You will not know my name, foolish gryphon!" the Specter barked, taking a step closer to the assassin, clenching his spectral fists in rage.

Adawulf shrugged, turning back to the street. "Zen I have no business here. You have vasted sousands of gold to bring me to zis backvater. All for naught, I suppose. Certainly vun who has ze magical power to summon a Shadow Specter can deal vith his enemies much more easily zan I."

And as the gryphon began to turn the corner, the Shadow Specter suddenly appeared in front of him, standing easily twice his own height. "I will double the price! I need to stay as anonymous as possible, until I know that my foe lies dead. I cannot leave a trail for my victims to follow. To do that would be the greatest idiocy, and bring the wrath of every great House down on my head! I must have my foe dead!"

Adawulf cracked a grin from the depths of his cowl, spinning on his hindlegs and walking back into the alleyway. Double the normal price for a simple assassination, these minotaurs truly were thick-skulled brutes. "You vere saying?" Adawulf said with a greedy nod.

The Shadow Specter calmed, flowing back to the darkened end of the alleyway. "I have sought out only the most noted killer in three thousand miles for a mission that would require no less than the best. I have heard tales of Adawulf of Gryphonia, said by some to be the greatest killer in a century."

The gryphon chuckled under his hood. "You flatter me, Specter. Now, vhat is ze mission?"

The Specter nodded, raising a hand to show an emblem of an anchor floating in the air above his palm. "This is the Anchor of Arnsul, it is the most revered House sigil in the Empire. The sigil of the wretched "Royal" House Arnsul. Thranas Shield-Breaker, a great fool who holds the throne with contempt, bears this as his personal standard. My family and I have suffered under the reign of the Anchor, and I wish to see Thranas dead!"

Adawulf nodded, taking mental notes. He stayed silent, expecting the Specter to launch into his grand plan for this most heinous of crimes. But he soon lost his anticipation when the bull offered no more details. "Is that all? You just wish him... dead? Not eviscerated? Mutilated, poisoned, bludgeoned, drowned, shot, stabbed, burned, impaled, beheaded, fed to a wild beast, castrated, crushed, exsanguinated, or hung? Do I need to make it look like an accident, or is zees meant to be seen as a message? I require details, Specter, details! You vish for ze king to die, and I do not care for your motivations, but I must have a method! I vill kill anyvun you tell me to kill, you must simply tell me how you vish for zem to die."

The Specter's eyes narrowed, and Adawulf could almost see the growing grin on the shadow's hidden face. "Truly the best. I require this contract to be fulfilled in precisely the way I have planned, down to the letter. I want a dagger planted in his heart in the dead of night, as the fool king sleeps. I can provide the layout of the palace, and I can tell you the patrols of the guards. But before you strike, you must implicate one in particular. Prince Eilan must be seen as the one who hired you, and it must be done publicly. I wish to see House Arnsul pay for their atrocities to my family, I want to see the son executed for the death of his father! Then, and only then, will you get your gold."

Adawulf folded his talons, leaning back onto the crate once again. "Frame ze Prince for the King's murder? Now ve're talking."

*****************************************************

The night passed with hardly a moment of sleep for the Crown Prince. A lusty concubine lay under each of his arms, sleeping off the Prince's evening entertainment. Eilan stared out the open window, where the rosy fingers of dawn crept through the permeating stillness of daybreak. The cries of seabirds and the sounds of the first laborers to rise wafted in on a crisp breeze, ruffling the many curtains and tapestries that bedecked the Prince's chambers.

The Prince rose, carefully slipping the females out from under his arms and under the sheets. Standing from his bed, Eilan considered the pair a fine selection, hand picked by Mistress Renna herself for Eilan's pleasure. Of course, the concubines had seemingly enjoyed one another far more than the Prince had enjoyed himself. It was only sensible, concubines of the Royal Harem were only allowed the presence of other females when not in the company of a member of the Royal Family. Unless they were royal sons, not even the Myrmidons of House Arnsul could enter the harem wing without both the permission of King Thranas and the supervision of Mistress Renna. So, many of the lusty harem girls chose to practice their particular arts on one another.

Eilan walked over to a wash basin in the corner, scrubbing hard to rid himself of the sweat and dirt of yesterday. And try as he might, the powerful scent of the concubine's perfumes did not relent to his fervent cleansing. He groaned in frustration, if his father, or Varkan for that matter, caught him wearing the scent of perfume, they would only laugh at his dishonor. Bulls like Thranas and Varkan typically used the harem girls, then sent them back as soon as they finished. The fact that Eilan chose to keep them for the night was yet another sign of his oddity and weakness.

The Prince slipped on his tabard, followed by his trophy-bereft belt. Giving his bronze nose ring a quick polish with a rag, he trundled out of his chambers, his nose leading him to the enticing scents of the scullery and the kitchens. Eilan let his senses wander in the early morning light, and he soon lost himself in the grand hallways, looking deep into the gemstone frescoes that adorned every inch of the ancient halls.

Eilan's silent sojourn through the palace was cut short by the soft fall of silk shod hooves.

"A good morning to you, Crown Prince. I trust that my selections suited your desires?" a sultry female voice said from somewhere behind the bull. Eilan spun on the tips of his hooves, surprised to see Mistress Renna up this early. The Mistress of the Harem wore nothing but a silk gown that hugged her considerable figure in all the right places and the soft silk slippers that allowed her to walk almost unheard in the palace halls. Mistress Renna was beyond her prime as a concubine, and her shining yellow fur was seemingly dull in the early morning light. Streaks of lightly graying hair ran like streams of silver in her long crown of hair. And like all minotaur females, Renna had only a very short, blunt pair of horns.

"They suited me," Eilan said quietly. "But, they did seem more intent on one another."

Renna's eyebrows rose in false shock that her girls would act in such a manner, shirking their responsibilities as females of the Royal Harem in favor of their own pleasures. In truth, she merely wished to protect the ego and what little pride the Crown Prince had left to his name. "I shall have Jessa and Suthrel taught a lesson! Those foolish girls, always in each other's arms when they should be grooming themselves for Your Highness! And to think that Jessa came from House Ilium, a House known for their fine daughters! I shall have to tell your honored father of this indiscretion."

Eilan grimaced. Mistress Renna was not as foolish as her feminine rants made her out to be. If there was one female in all the Empire that could twist the politics of the court around her finger, it was Renna. Any time a particularly wealthy merchant or a rival noble came into the royal palace for more than a day, Thranas would send them to the harem as a politeness. And once he had bedded a fine female of the Arnsul Harem, a merchant or noble found his lips much looser to the probing questions of the harem girls. In truth, Thranas could ask for no better spy network than Mistress Renna and her coterie of courtesans.

And it was known by members of the court that a noble of House Ilium had once insulted Renna's honor as the Mistress of the Harems, and it was why Renna was always so eager to smear mud into the reputation of House Ilium.

"That won't be necessary," Eilan said, trying to divert the female's wrath. "I was pleased by your selections. Many times," he quickly added.

Renna smiled at his bluster. "Walk with me, Crown Prince. Surely a lady like myself is always in need of a handsome young bull to bring her to the feasting hall."

The Mistress looped her arm around Eilan's elbow, walking the young prince through the halls and towards the kitchens. Eilan swore to himself, as if the scent of the concubine's perfume wouldn't be enough to provoke the jibes of his father, walking in with Renna almost certainly get him in a bad position with the Weaponsmaster.

"How does your training fare, Crown Prince?" the Mistress inquired, feeding her appetite for small talk.

Eilan sighed loudly. "Poorly, Mistress. Varkan thinks I am hopeless. He actually told his Myrmidons that at this rate, he expected my father to die of old age! Varkan has always taken every opportunity to say that I am weak, that I am undeserving of my father's crown. The only one who understands my plight is Soloc, and I cannot walk the path of the priest anymore. Not since Thulgen foolishly plunged to his death."

"Ah, do not speak so of Thulgen, young Prince. Thulgen was a..." Mistress Renna bit her lip, trying to stay respectful of the notoriously temperamental second son of King Thranas. "Thulgen was a good warrior."

And that was all she could say for Thulgen, besides the fact that he constantly seemed on the verge of bloodrage and could hardly read. His death, although not unexpected as the leader of Royal House Arnsul's warriors, had been rather untimely. The second son of King Thranas always felt a need to pursue greater glory through battle, and one day a tribe of renegade trolls had raided a coastal village that claimed loyalty to House Arnsul. Thulgen had eagerly jumped at the opportunity, and the moment he saw the horde of ten-foot tall beasts, he reached bloodrage and charged straight for the center of their lines. Thulgen had been successful, smashing through the trolls with reckless abandon. Victory seemed assured, as no living creature on the good earth seemed to be able to quench the second son's bloodrage.

Until he managed to bloodrage his way off a cliff.

The trolls, more confused than anything, had figured that the minotaur warrior had done more damage to the village than they had, and promptly left. And once enough of Thulgen was scraped off the rocks to hold an honorable funeral, King Thranas had pulled Eilan from the cloisters of the priesthood, tearing off his priestly attire and replacing it with a tabard of Arnsul.

"At least Thulgen was respectful of my girls," Renna murmured to the Crown Prince. "Andrian though, I have every right to bring his name shame. He deserved his fate, no matter how fitting of a king he would have been." Had she been less of a proper lady of the court, Eilan suspected that the Mistress of the Harems would have spat at the very mention of the name "Andrian".

The first son of King Thranas had been a noted tactician, respected by nobles, merchants, and Weaponsmasters from all Houses. Andrian had been able to plan a campaign, navigate a ship through a maze of reefs, sing all the songs of Asterion, charm his fellows with wit and intellect, fight like Asterion himself lent him his strength, and barter like a Saddle Arabian merchant.

He also had the reputation as one of the most notorious rapists in the history of Knossos.

Andrian was always the life of the crowd when in the presence of nobility, but around females, his lust overcame any vestige of higher thoughts. Even when Thranas had the Myrmidons padlock and guard the harem, Andrian broke in and brutally raped seven concubines to the point where three of them died of their wounds.

And even when he was forbidden from moving about the palace at night, he still prowled the streets of Knossos, taking any female whose hips showed even the slightest curve of maturity. The gold it had taken to pay off the fathers of both nobles and commoners could have easily paid for a small fleet of merchant ships. And in the end, the only thing that stopped Andrian was a loin-rotting disease that he had picked up after a night stalking the slave slums.

"Who knows how many bastard sons and daughters of Andrian roam the streets of Knossos," Mistress Renna lamented. "So many well trained girls, rendered completely useless when Andrian made them with child. And yet your honored father finds a silver lining to this. Each and every son born of Andrian and the concubines now trains as a Myrmidon. Even in the death of his beloved son, King Thranas Shield Breaker secures his power."

And on the day of the discarding of Andrian's body, King Thranas himself had ripped the bronze nose ring from his once prized son's diseased corpse. And once it had been cleansed, it was set into Eilan's nostrils. Such horrendous luck had made the king paranoid that Royal House Arnsul had lost the favor of Aeukos, and for six days and nights sacrifices to the White Bull had coated the floor of the temple hoof deep in blood. Only when Soloc and his acolytes collapsed from exhaustion did the sacrifices stop.

And when the aging High Priest of the White Bull had risen from his stupor upon the seventh morning and declared to the court that Aeukos had been pleased by the blood offering, King Thranas had officially elevated Eilan to his current position, even granting him Andrian's favored hunting reserve, his bedchambers, and his favored javelin. Andrian's corpse was thrown to the waves, an anonymous burial for a warrior who had brought shame to his family. For only those who died an honorable death deserved to be remembered when they left this life for the Halls of the Horned God.

For the rest of their walk together, Renna did most of the talking, recalling her older days when she herself had been a fine concubine. Taken in by King Gellac as a girl, Renna had always possessed a certain charm when it came to the members of the Royal Court. Thranas had always enjoyed her company, and to this day he still occasionally asked for Renna to accompany him to his bedchambers, when his aching bones and old war wounds would allow it. But not Varkan. The Weaponsmaster did not take Renna to his bedchambers, though the black bull's constant vigilance always seemed to slacken when the Mistress would enter the room, and sometimes a small grin would come onto his face. Thranas would often chide the Weaponsmaster by offering him Renna's hand in matrimony in exchange for his weaponry.

The Crown Prince and the Mistress of the Harem entered the feasting hall of House Arnsul. The hall itself was vast enough to hold every single retainer, noble, warrior, and even slave of the Royal House, with room to spare. A huge fire crackled in a hearth large enough to roast a dozen goats at once, and the feasting hall served as the trophy hall for all members of the House. Antlers from huge stags formed lattice work chandeliers. Skulls, horns, and hides from every beast worth hunting or slaying in combat adorned the hall as decorations.

The hall could have housed hundreds of minotaurs, but for now, only the head table near the blazing hearth had a few members of the Royal House, quietly taking their breakfast. Eilan slipped his arm loose from Renna, walking quietly over to take the bench by his father's side. Mistress Renna demanded that she personally enter with more fanfare, and loudly announced her presence.

"Hail, King Thranas Shield Breaker, Lord of Taurassian!" the Mistress greeted loudly, giving her king a low curtsy.

Thranas gave a bare nod to the female. "Mistress," he said noncommittally.

Renna turned her attention to one whose eye she knew she would catch. "And a fine morning to you, Varkan." She gave the Weaponsmaster a sly wink and brushed her fingers along his broad, muscled back as she walked by. Varkan did not reply to her flirtatious demeanor, giving her a slight nod and looking down at the table. Eilan could almost swear that the Weaponsmaster was hiding a blush.

Renna took her customary seat far from the males, eating daintily from a bowl of flatbreads and a chickpea mash. All the while, she would look out the corner of her eye, smiling and giving a wink every time Varkan looked her way.

A few of the higher ranking Myrmidons of House Arnsul sat with their Weaponsmaster, snickering at the warrior whose strength had thrown the tentacles of a young kraken off a ship and yet was cowed so easily by the charm and wiles of a simple female past her prime. Varkan glared at them, snorting jets of steam from his nostrils.

Thranas broke the tension, loudly addressing his remaining son. "Eilan, what plans do you have for the day?"

The prince groaned, setting his goblet of chilled wine down on the table. "I...I was planning to return to the reserve today. See if I can finally track down that piebald stag that has been spotted near Talbin's Ridge."

King Thranas rolled his eyes, giving a snort of derision. "Do not lie to me, boy. Varkan has readily informed me of your "hunts" and why you constantly fail to slay even the scrawniest hare. From now on, the only things you will read are the trade reports. And until you are showered with an honorable name, you are forbidden from diving your greedy fingers into the royal treasury to buy your damned books." Thranas glared at Eilan from the corner of his eye, taking a deep pull from his wine.

Eilan quietly accepted the berating, and he sighed silently, wishing it could all just end. Wishing that one day he didn't have to rule one of the richest and most violent nations in the world. At that table, he thought of simply running away from his responsibilities. Just packing up his private stash of gold, hiring a ship and striking out on the mainland. It had been the subject of his most fanciful dreams for years, to leave Knossos and have a worthy adventure that would broaden his world, just like all the heroes in his books and even in the songs to the ancients.

But, after he thought about just grabbing all his gold and making a break for the docks, it all fell apart. After he chartered a ship, Eilan would not know where to go. All his life, the soil of Knossos and the rolling waves of the Inner Sea had been his home. He had never left the island before, not even to accompany his father on diplomatic missions or to join in battle with the warriors.

And being a minotaur didn't help at all. To the west, in the territory of Roam, minotaurs were reviled and were lucky to leave an encounter with a Roaman soldier with their hearts still beating. North, in Gryphonia and the mostly wild lands of Maerasia, Eilan could go months without seeing another soul except for the multitude monster races. South, in Zebrica, all he would find was his death in a thousand ways, be it through disease, predators, or the spears of the barbaric zebra tribes. Going east was his best choice, for in Saddle Arabia, minotaurs were tolerated by the Arabian ponies, to an extent. Tales had filtered back about Taurassian merchants being found dead in the desert, their corpses bled dry through thousands of tiny cuts after trying to haggle too low with the avid traders.

But one thing was sure in the mind of the Crown Prince, the title of King was something to be feared and loathed. Taurassian kings always had at least eighteen years guaranteed in their reign, until their eldest son matured and challenged him for the throne.

"Eilan!" Thranas snapped, dragging his youngest and only son back to the real world and his real problems.

"Yes, father?" the young prince said to his patriarch, hurriedly covering for his inattentiveness.

Thranas narrowed his eyes, suspecting his son was up to something. "I asked you what weapon you prefer."

Eilan remained silent. The only weapon he had ever truly wielded were the dummy swords, spears and hammers of the practice yard. The only true weapon he had ever possessed had been Andrian's javelin. And he hadn't even seen the damned spear since yesterday afternoon when Varkan ripped it from his hands.

"Perhaps he prefers the broom!" one of the Myrmidon captains at the end of the table roared in laughter. His fellows nervously chuckled along with him, wary of Thranas' ire yet unable to completely stifle themselves.

Thranas groaned, covering his face with a broad hand in shame. He knew the joke that the elite soldiers of House Arnsul regularly made about the Crown Prince, that he seemed more comfortable sweeping out the temple than even being near a real weapon. The idea that his son was compared to a common maid or slave only brought greater disappointment in his son.

Eilan could only bear so much shame in one morning, and he quickly threw out the first weapon that came to mind. "The warhammer," he remarked. "I prefer the warhammer."

The Myrmidon officers all glanced at one another, their raised eyebrows silently asking the same question to themselves. When, in all of his sparse days of training in the practice yard, had the Prince found a preference for the mighty hammer? They'd seen him train, and Prince Eilan could barely swing a wooden practice sword. So how in the great depths of Tartarus was he supposed to swing a warhammer that could easily weigh half as much as himself?

More likely a smithy's hammer, Thranas silently thought to himself. "A good choice of weapon, the warhammer. Forceful, intimidating, and unstoppable when in the hands of a good warrior. Which is why you shall find today a good opportunity to hone your skills with the weapon of your choice."

Eilan froze in his seat, a cold chill running down his spine. But Thranas just smirked at his son's discomfort. And for the first time, Eilan truly realized that the Myrmidons had their own table, and normally wouldn't be seated at the head table. Unless...

Unless there was a potential crisis at hand.

Thranas nodded to Varkan and his soldiers, the black furred Weaponsmaster rising from the table. Turning back to Eilan, he continued his explanation. "A tribe of grubbers has been spotted by the Weaponsmaster near the eastern shore of the island. Normally, we would just allow the lower Houses to slaughter them for sport. But this tribe is different, and our trackers believe they may have a siren among their number."

A siren! Eilan thought frantically. This was bad tidings indeed. A member of the serpentine naga race, the sirens were the elite spellcasters of their underwater kingdom, just as the unicorns wielded the arcane forces of Equestria. Many of the frescoes on the walls depicted minotaur ships in battle with naga forces out in the open sea, and many of those naga armies were led by the clarion calls of the sirens. A single siren alone could kill a dozen well trained warriors, and wreak untold havoc if left to her own devices. And if one had come to Knossos, it could be the prelude to an invasion.

"We believe that our siren is a political exile," Varkan said to his Myrmidons and to the king. "The sailors of House Eristos report that the deep naga city of Nel'jaxar seems to be in turmoil, and they find the cast away corpses of naga soldiers drifting up on their island holds, their wounds coming from naga blades. It appears that the Nel'jari naga may be embroiled in a civil war, or are in the throes of a political coup. If our siren was a scout, she would have far more than just a tribe of grubbers on her side. Naga revile grubbers as thieves and scavengers, and a siren would only ally with a tribe of them out of desperation."

Eilan sighed a breath of relief. If it was just an outcast, then there was no logical reason why the siren and her allies would attempt anything violent against any denizen of Knossos. If alone, she and her pitiful force of grubbers wouldn't stand a chance without reinforcements from the deeps.

Varkan pulled a large sheaf of paper out from under the table, spreading it out to reveal a detailed map of the entire island. "Our scouts believe that the grubbers have made their village in Pearldive Cove, here." He jabbed a heavy finger down on the tiny entrance to a shallow cove, a place that was barely a tidal pool along the cliffs of Knossos. "Grubber numbers are somewhere between twenty and forty, but they appear well entrenched."

"Good sport, for a calf," one of the Myrmidon captains snidely remarked to the mirth of his fellows.

Grubbers were considered one of the weaker and easily the most cowardly race of monsters, and no one bothered to sound an alarm if a few grubbers were spotted near port. Some actually said that grubbers were good for a shipyard, with their fanatic hunger for the woodboring grubs that often put perfectly good ships out of commission. They were scavengers at best, and only dangerous when cornered. Truly, one of the only things considered punier were the abnormally large rats that sometimes invaded the palace's storehouses.

"Varkan," Thranas started, "I believe this would be an ample opportunity for your Myrmidon trainees to cut their teeth on something other than straw dummies. And I trust that you yourself will be eager to take care of the siren."

Varkan grinned at the thought of dueling a siren, and he nodded heartily to his lord. "Agreed, my King. I will take ten apprentices to wipe out this tribe. Eleven warriors of Royal House Arnsul against forty grubbers is almost too easy."

"You mean twelve warriors," Thranas corrected.

"Twelve.... warriors?" Varkan responded, honestly confused. His mind only recalled the ten apprentices and himself in the number for this excursion, and he tried to do the math again in his head.

The gray coated lord nodded. "Yes, twelve. Eilan shall be going with you," he said, glancing at the slack-jawed prince from the corner of his eye. Eilan had proclaimed that the warhammer was his preferred weapon, and now he had to prove it.

**************************************

Eleven well-muscled, hard eyed, hard fighting warriors of House Arnsul stood in a line in their practice yard, awaiting their orders from Varkan. Prince Eilan, the flabby, weak and spoiled prince stood as the eleventh and the black sheep in their number.

They were all Myrmidons in training, hand picked by Varkan himself for their strength, tenacity, and their unassailable loyalty to House Arnsul and King Thranas Shield Breaker. But, not a single one of them was of true Arnsul blood. A few may have made the claim that long ago, when House Arnsul had not yet ascended to royalty that they had an ancestor of Arnsul blood, but it was too thinned for any righteous claim. And among the ten apprentice warriors, only four had earned their honorable blood names.

And the other seven, Prince Eilan included, hoped that today might change that.

Varkan paced down the line of his hard eyed warriors, inspecting each one for any show of weakness. But when he came to Eilan, Varkan's eyes seemed to just drift away hopelessly. The Weaponsmaster continued his pacing, stopping midway down the line at a young warrior, barely old enough to begin bedding his own females.

Varkan scowled, standing hoof to hoof with the young warrior, leaning his imposing figure and height right into the younger bull's face. "Who are you!" he screamed.

The young warrior remained rock solid, as his many months of discipline training had instilled. He remained as stoic and as silent as he possibly could. A difficult task, considering the fact that the most feared and respected Weaponsmaster in all Taurassian was glaring him in the eye.

Varkan backed away. "You are right, Nameless One. You say nothing, and you are nothing! A puny little pile of whale shit like you has not yet earned the right to claim himself as a warrior worthy of a name! Much less the right to call himself a warrior of the Anchor! What noble owns your mother, son of a slave?" Varkan leered at the warrior, jabbing a thick finger into his chest. "Perhaps you are not sired by the honorable loins of a minotaur at all, Nameless Shame of a Whore. Perhaps your mother fancied a pony, or let one of the dogs of the street into her bed!"

The warrior seethed with rage, gritting his teeth and barely containing his boiling fury.

Varkan took a few steps back, smirking at his building fury. Slowly turning on his hooves, he made as if to continue down the line. But at the last moment, the Weaponsmaster spun on his hooves, swinging a fist into the warrior's gut. It was a measured blow, barely a tap considering what Varkan could truly do, but it still carried enough force to knock the warrior back a step. The young warrior grunted at the unexpected blow, but he maintained his composure, despite the ring of red that was working into his vision.

The Weaponsmaster grinned at this one's discipline, despite being so close to entering a bloodrage that any further prodding could mean pushing him over the edge. "Good," Varkan said, nodding to the young warrior. "You show the discipline of a true warrior of House Arnsul. Perhaps His Majesty can find a use for you after all. And perhaps today, you might earn yourself a name of honor."

Varkan looked up to see the rest of the warriors, and Eilan, awaiting his instruction. "Myrmidons, if you are worthy enough to call yourselves that, today your training rises to the next level. Our scouts have reported that a tribe of grubbers has taken hold of Pearldive Cove, and His Majesty, the honorable King Thranas Shield Breaker, has decreed that we are to be his fist and smite them in the name of House Arnsul and Aeukos!"

The Myrmidon trainees could barely contain their excitement at the prospect of combat against flesh and blood foes. All of their training had been against inanimate dummies, garishly painted targets, and practice against one another. Though it was far from the first time many of them had tasted the blood of an enemy, today would be the first day that they shed blood in the name of their House.

"Each of you will go to the armory and find the weapon that calls to your heart as your chosen weapon. From now until the day that you must meet Asterion at the gates of the Halls of the Horned God, it shall be your closest companion!" The Myrmidons raised their fists to the sky, each bellowing a throaty roar in anticipation of the coming bloodbath. Breaking their line, the warriors filed out of the training yard and into the Warriors Wing of the palace. Varkan himself led the procession to the massive oaken door guarded by a pair of senior Myrmidons. And at his behest, they pulled the doors apart to reveal the most glorious cache of weapons in all of Taurassian.

A gasp of awe escaped from each trainee. They had heard tales about the great weaponry of House Arnsul, but the legends did not even approach the reality. Weapons from every corner of the Empire, and indeed every corner of the explored world lay gleaming on their racks, the light of torches and the sun dancing off of the rows of well polished steel. Tridents, maces, battleaxes, greatswords, cutlasses; all the staples of a minotaur armory sat next to short Roaman gladiuses, Gryphonian zweihanders and crossbows, Zebrican assegai, the tree trunk clubs of giants, the spears and swords of Equestrian Royal Guards, and even the rare dao spears of mysterious Qin all made for the most dazzling display of weaponry in all the world. Legend even told that ancient fey weaponry could be found in the darkest corners of the armory.

"Take what calls to you the most, for today you shall bond with your weapon!" Varkan declared, spreading his arms wide. The trainees rushed in with eager and greedy eyes, wanting to get their hands on the finest weapons before their peers could touch them. Eilan walked in solemnly, scanning the rows of weapons with a less than interested and less than professional eye. A bull shoved past him, going for a particularly fine battleaxe that bore the workmanship of a noted diamond dog smith. The others soon found their weapons, testing the heft, finding the balance points and running their fingers along their weapons, feeling for burrs or defects.

The prince scanned the racks of minotaur weaponry, weapons designed to be heavy, intimidating, and to cleave through armor as easily as flesh. Weapons designed to complement the imposing frame of the minotaur warrior, to strike fear into the hearts of a warrior's enemy just by being seen. But he had not trained much on anything in this armory. And with his pitifully weak swing, he meandered towards a row of captured Roaman weapons, short gladius swords and pilum javelins that had been placed in the armory more as trophies and something for the young calves of the royal household to play with rather than as real weapons to be used. Eilan pulled a short sword from the rack, feeling the odd grooves made for pony teeth and wing feathers resting under his fingers.

And before he could even get a chance to test its heft and give it a swing, the blade was knocked from his hands. Eilan whipped around to glare at Varkan, the black bull carrying a heavy warhammer easily in his free hand.

"You said you preferred the hammer." Varkan shoved the hammer into Eilan's hands, and as soon as he released his grip, the iron head of the hammer fell to the ground, Eilan struggling to even lift the damned thing. "And you will use the hammer," the black bull said snidely, chuckling to himself at the spectacle of Eilan's utter failure to even hold this heaviest of weapons.

With all of his warriors in training outfitted and ready for battle, the Weaponsmaster meandered over to a display case by the door. Within that case lay his chosen weapons, a pair of heavy, steel cestus gloves. Forged by some of the finest smiths in Taurassian, Varkan's cesti looked on the outside like a pair of huge fists with a row of short spikes running across the knuckles, and plate scaled fingers. Varkan slipped his hands into the cesti, slipping each finger down inside the heavy glove and feeling the warmth of familiarity run through him.

Lifting them out of the case, Varkan gave his favored weapons a test swing, one that promised to shatter bones and spray the blood of enemies if it so much as grazed them. They were an extension of his own prowess, an enhancement to his own natural abilities as a fighter, that was why Varkan chose the cestus.

"We make for Pearldive Cove!" Varkan shouted to his apprentices, waving out the door and pointing towards the far side of the island.

With the begrudging help of a loyal Myrmidon trainee, Eilan managed to get the heavy warhammer into a position on his shoulder where he could at least walk with it. And with their weapons selected, the patrol struck out along the jagged and harsh coastline for Pearldive Cove.

****************************************************

The trek had begun when the sun was only a few hours into its eternal journey, and it lasted until the blazing ball left few shadows and no shade for the weary warriors to seek shelter under. But Varkan had pressed the Myrmidon trainees hard through the blistering heat that not even the most indebted slaves worked through. Battle waited for no warrior. And while there was little sport and even less glory in slaying grubbers, Varkan itched for the fight, wanting nothing more than to match his strength against the wiles of what led the grubbers.

The warrior's innate sense of direction, a trait that many minotaurs shared along with their bloodrage and allowed for nearly effortless navigation through the most confounding labyrinth, had guided Varkan and his recruits along the wave-pounded shore of the island, around the cliffs and to the more untamed side of the island.

As they neared their destination, Varkan held up one of his gloved fists, silently signaling for his warriors to stop. Crouching down low, Varkan ran his steel shod fingers through a shallow depression in the sand, sniffing at the residue it left on his cestus. "Grubber tracks," he lowly declared to his cohorts. "Made this morning, headed back into the cove. Probably out hunting for shore crabs among the flotsam."

Varkan rose back to his full height, tightening down the wrist straps on his cesti. "The entrance to the cove is just past this next outcropping of rock. It is a narrow passage, small enough for only two warriors to stand abreast. Which is why one of you must stand back at the entrance and make sure nothing escapes behind our backs."

The recruits all turned together, throwing out their fists in matches of stone, scroll and blade. Varkan grinned, knowing that they were competing for the two most coveted positions in this attack, the point and the rear. The warrior at point would have first pick of the slaughter, while the rear guard would likely heap the most kills onto his record as the beasts attempted to flee. But, Varkan noticed with a shake of his head, Prince Eilan stood as the odd bull out, not partaking in the competitions for the most coveted spots.

And Thranas, in his wisdom and years of experience with his youngest son, knew that something like this would likely happen, and had prepared a contingency plan just in case it did.

"Eilan," the Weaponsmaster barked. The young prince looked up, and trundled over to Varkan, the warhammer on his shoulder pressing with such force that Eilan seemed constantly in pain. Varkan grabbed him by his free shoulder, pulling him off to the side. "Since you have no desire to even compete for a coveted place in the formation, I'm forced to give you a special assignment. The siren is now your responsibility. Your father would prefer if you brought back her tongue intact." The Weaponsmaster shoved away the Crown Prince, growling at the loss of the opportunity to duel with such a worthy foe.

"Form up!" Varkan said to the warriors. And at his command, they hell into a two-abreast line, holding their throwing weapons at the ready in case the grubbers had left sentries at the entrance to the cove. Sneaking around the outcropping, they beheld the cave that was the only entrance to Pearldive Cove. Varkan stooped over to enter, his horns threatening to scrape against the top of the cave and alert their enemies. The cave was not dark, as it was less than a hundred feet from its entrance at the sea to the secluded cove on the other side.

And when Eilan looked out into the sunlight on the other side, he got his first glance of their enemy. The grubbers were small, gangling creatures that looked like emaciated frogs with blue and green skin. They moved about their driftwood village on webbed feet, clumsy on land, but as quick as a fish once they felt saltwater on their skin. They bore clubs made from driftwood, and spears tipped with sharp pieces of shell and coral.

But what stopped the prince was not what the grubbers looked like, it was what they were doing. The little amphibians just seemed to be milling about, building shelters, eating their morning catches, and tending to the opalescent egg sacs that would spawn into their young. They didn't seem to be preparing for war, or even to attack. They didn't even seem threatening at all. But the grubbers were not the reason why they had come here in the first place, and the only place where their true prey could lie was in the cave on the other end of the cove. But the grubbers had built their village to surround the cave, and the warriors would have to chop through dozens of the little beasts before they could reach the true threat.

Varkan raised his gloved fist, and with shout to Aeukos, he thrust his fist forward, signalling the attack to begin.

The Myrmidons of House Arnsul screamed their war cry, storming out of the cave in a wall of muscle and flashing steel. They crossed the cove in a matter of seconds, splashing through the knee deep water with reckless abandon, each warrior striving to be the first to get a kill. But none could match Varkan. The Weaponsmaster charged across breach, seeming to fly across the water and into the milling mass of amphibians.

The grubbers gurgled an alarm, but it was far too late for any kind of defenses to be raised. Grabbing their spears and their clubs, the little monsters charged, flailing into battle with all the courage they could muster. Unfortunately, courage was far from enough to save them.

Varkan swung his huge right hand in an uppercut, catching a grubber warrior on the jaw and easily shattering every bone in its upper body. Another of the little grub-suckers charged him with its spear leading the way, and Varkan gladly accepted the nearly meaningless poke it gave him, slamming down his fist and caving in its spine. The wave of warriors behind him crashed like a tsunami into the grubber village, recklessly swinging their heavy weaponry, destroying the village more than attacking the grubbers.

Prince Eilan was the last to reach the grubber village, and with a grunt of exertion he lifted his intimidating weapon from his shoulder and into his hands, seeking a monster to destroy. The beasts all around him fought for their lives, engaged in their best displays of pitiful martial prowess against the overwhelming might of the minotaur strike force.

He decided quickly that if he could not spill blood, he would cause as much chaos as he could. Bulging all the muscles that his flabby arms could muster, he swung his hammer at the nearest grubber hut. The iron head of the warhammer decimated the driftwood shanty, spraying bits of wood and grubber possessions all over the battlefield. The Prince tried to stop his hammer in its path, but his muscle was no match for the inertia of the hammer, and he spun around as it carried through with his swing.

Carrying most of his body weight with him, the iron-headed warhammer landed solidly in the damp sand, and the prince struggled to lift it back to a fighting stance. Setting his eyes on another choice and relatively unprotected hut, the prince staggered over to it, cocking back his arms and the head of the warhammer for another devastating swing. Eilan grunted as he swung once more, shearing through the front of the flimsy hut and spraying a shower of driftwood into the fray.

But the Prince had only clipped the front end of the hut, shearing away the entrance and some of the living space. He hadn't accounted for the idea that some of the huts might still be occupied, and a grubber rabidly sprang from the wreckage of its home, latching onto the unsuspecting minotaur and sinking its needle-like teeth into the soft and flabby flesh of his leg. Eilan howled in pain, hopping around on one leg to try and dislodge the ravenous grub-sucker.

He must have seemed like quite the spectacle, hopping around one on leg like a peg-legged sailor, a grubber attached to his thigh, howling in pain like a mountain worg would howl at the moon.

The grubber held on for dear life, gnawing harder and using the claws on its webbed hands to scratch at his inner thigh. Growling and gurgling, the beast tried to shake its head to tear away a piece of the Prince's flesh, but with the minotaur being several dozen times its size and weight, the little creature only succeeded in shaking its whole body. But its efforts were not in vain, a thin stream of blood ran down Eilan's leg, and the grubber's teeth sank deeper into his thigh every time it shifted its jaw to bite harder.

The Prince had had enough, and he raised up his hammer in a surprising show of his own strength, and swung the head of the heavy warhammer in a downward arc at the little monster that seemed so intent on getting its fair share of his thigh for dinner.

Unfortunately, he failed to remember the basic training of fighting with a warhammer that Varkan had attempted to teach him. The head of a warhammer was only useful in attacking enemies that were at arm's length, not within the close space near a fighter's body. A more experience fighter would have slammed it with the pommel of his weapon. That being so, the head of the hammer harmlessly slammed into the sand, the haft of the hammer bonked the frog-monster only slightly on the head, and the grubber on his leg wasn't deterred in the slightest.

Deciding that perhaps his attempt wasn't the best planned action, Eilan gave up, and simply let go of the handle of his hammer. Resorting back to the most primitive and primal weapon in the minotaur arsenal, his fists, he pounded the grubber repeatedly between its eyes.

The grubber's continued gnaws seemed to lessen in intensity with each successful punch, and after five good punches to the creature's face, Eilan grabbed the cretin's slimy legs and yanked it as hard as he could. The grubber came loose with a ripping sound and several small chunks of minotaur flesh and skin in its teeth, flying out of Eilan's grasp to land several feet away in the sand. Shaking its head in a daze, the grubber scrambled back to its feet, grabbing the nearest piece of driftwood to use as a club. Blinking with its sideways-closing eyelids, the grubber seemed to notice where it was and what it was fighting for the first time, and a look of confusion and fear seemed to spring into its blank eyes.

Prince Eilan glared at the small monster opposing him, grabbing up his warhammer, spreading his legs in his best impression of a fighting stance, and scowling at the little grub-sucker.

Gurgling a cry of battle in its strange, bubbling tongue, the grubber charged in again with an agility that was surprising to the minotaur. But instead of attacking the minotaur, the grubber cocked back its thin arm, hurling the piece of driftwood in its paw with all of its strength directly at Eilan's face.

Surprised at the sudden change in the little creature's tactics, Eilan raised his arms instinctively to block the unexpected shot. The small piece of wood smacked against his guarding forearms harmlessly, bouncing away into the other piles of harmless debris. Eilan braced himself for another furious attack from the grubber, another nasty bite or a flurry of claws scratching at his more tender bits. But the attack did not come, and the grubber, having distracted its enemy perfectly, dove between his legs and into the salty water of the lagoon behind him.

Spinning around with his hammer at the ready, Eilan groaned as he saw his only quarry escape, a blue and green blur speeding through the water like an arrow towards the cave entrance. The bull at rear guard, however, did not miss his opportunity. An experienced fighter and somewhat of a skilled fisher, the bull effortlessly speared the grubber with his trident as it tried to dart past him. With a grin back to Eilan, the rear-guard flipped the limp and bleeding grubber onto a small pile of its similarly eviscerated kin that he had accumulated through similar escape attempts.

Growling in frustration, Eilan spun about on his hooves, seeking another little beast to break the ice as his first true kill. The pound of his heart and the rush of adrenaline in his system was dampened by the sight of the grubber village in ruins, most of the shacks and driftwood lean-twos crushed under the ferocity of the minotaur charge. Those grubbers that still viciously fought for their lives and their village were quickly being beaten back, and only a few pairs of combatants, both minotaur and grubber, were still engaged.

In his scuffle with a single unarmed grubber, Eilan had managed to miss most of the battle.

"Gather round!" Varkan shouted to his warriors.

Most of them were still quivering with adrenaline from that short engagement. Some bore a few wounds, though they were merely superficial when considering the meager weaponry of the grubbers. But it pleased the Weaponsmaster to see the ring of red around the edges of more than one eye and the contented grins of victory adorning every face. A few of the young warriors had a few fresh trophies adorning their belts, scavenged from the grubber homes and looted from the corpses of the village's defenders. But those trophies would only serve as placeholders until some greater challenge bore more worthy prizes to claim.

"Myrmidons! Look upon this creature and tell me what you know of it," Varkan said to his gathered warriors, waving his gloved hand towards a still-living and squirming grubber villager on the ground at his feet.

This outing was meant to be a quick and efficient raid to drive the grubbers back to the sea where they belonged, but with the village destroyed and the grubbers massacred, there was no real reason to rush with the true enemy's only route of escape cut off. Besides, Varkan was a mentor to these warriors, and they still had many things to learn.

The Weaponsmaster kicked the still-living and still in pain grubber a few feet closer to his warriors.

"What strikes you as odd about this creature?"

"That it's still alive!" a young warrior with horns pointing towards his chin replied to the mirth of his fellows.

Varkan couldn't help but grin, though such a statement was far out of line. They had a taste for blood that would bring pride to any Weaponsmaster or Lord of a Noble House. They would be a fine batch of warriors to serve under King Thranas.

"Nay. Look closely at the creature. Tell me what strikes you as odd."

Each bull tried to inspect the badly beaten creature, wondering what malformation was present or what curiosity this creature was endowed with. Many of these Myrmidons came from Houses renowned for their fishing prowess and had served on vessels just for that purpose. Accidentally capturing grubbers was commonplace among those Houses, and many considered themselves fairly knowledgeable about the amphibian beings. But even those bulls found themselves scratching their heads, absolutely confounded by the riddle that Varkan had laid before them.

But one among their number knew the difference between this creature and a normal, sea-bound grubber.

"The eyes," Prince Eilan said, stepping forward through the ranks of the Myrmidons. "The eyes are different. Somehow, I cannot describe it, there is some kind of light in their eyes."

Varkan, ever the pragmatist and almost always disapproving of the Prince's priestly knowledge, found himself impressed for once. "Yet you should know what plagues this creature, Eilan. For some of your old training concerned this kind of thing. Indeed," Varkan said, addressing the crowd at large, "priests of the White Bull are trained to recognize and deal with this very abomination. Something that Aeukos has deemed to be the practice of witches and weaklings."

It suddenly came to Eilan, and he remembered many long days of training in the priestly cloisters, learning how to recognize the signs of such a force.

"Magic," he murmured. "This creature is affected by magic."

Varkan nodded, reaching down and prying open the dying grubber's eyelid with his finger to show all the Myrmidons the unearthly light that glowed and flickered seemingly behind the little monster's blank eyes. "A spell of devotion, cast by that which has come to command this tribe. Our foe is a siren, and spells of devotion and mind-control are the most basic spells in their teachings. When our armies retaliate against naga incursions, the most devastating weapon in the naga arsenal is not their barbed weaponry, nor their command over mighty sea creatures, nor even their powers over water itself, it is their ability to cast a spell of devotion upon an army and turn our blades against our brethren. Had there been no spell upon these beasts, they would have fled the moment they laid eyes upon our steel."

"How do we fight such devilry?" the bull with the inward-pointing horns asked, obviously unnerved by the possibility that a naga witch could cast a spell upon his mind and leave him a slave in her service.

Varkan smirked at his discomfort. "Luckily, Aeukos has smiled upon us, and given us the perfect weapon to fight their witchcraft." The burly Weaponsmaster strode over to one of his warriors, grabbing him by the horn and twisting his head to show the rest of the assembled fighters. With his heavily gloved finger, Varkan pointed towards the ring of blood red along the edges of his eye. "Devotion magic preys upon thought and logic, twisting it to favor the caster. But that all falls apart if their enemy has no thoughts to prey on."

Releasing the bloodrage tempered bull that had acted as his example, Varkan shed his cestii, walking over to an overhang and lying down in the shade. Confused, his warriors simply stood and waited. Peering up at his warriors, Varkan rolled his eyes. "Eilan, you've the most experience in dealing with magic. Be quick with it," he said, waving his hand towards the open mouth of the cave. The rest of the warriors quickly joined him in the shade, and Eilan was left alone at the mouth of the cave, his hammer once again feeling unbearably heavy in his hands. Despite the blazing midday heat, Eilan felt a chill run down his spine as he peered into the mouth of the cave, a place decorated with fetishes and idols of the creature that certainly must have charmed the grubbers into thinking it was some kind of god or queen among them.

With the stares of his comrades bearing down on his back, Eilan swallowed his fear, and stepped into the shadows.

Author's Note

Myrmidon: Elite soldiers. Minotaur equivalent of the Royal Guard or the Special Forces, and typically led by the Weaponsmaster or the second son. All ascendant male members of the House (the first and second sons) must train alongside the Myrmidons as a part of their training.
Concubine: A female non-blood member of the House. Historically used for sexual gratification in a male dominated society. Minotaur concubines are given as young teenagers to other Houses to solidify alliances or assist in negotiations.
Retainer: A male non-blood member of the House. They are most often bloodline members of other Houses, but are given as soldiers and merchants to another House to repay debts or solidify alliances. Once "adopted" by the other House, all bloodline claims are forfeited, and the retainer remains a rightless member of his adoptive House unless freed.
Noble: Any blood member of a House. Unlike retainers or concubines, nobility are not required to offer coital services or fight as warriors. Most merchants are nobles of the more powerful Houses.

Note: Minotaurs do not believe in either shields or armor.
Stone, Scroll, Blade: Rock, Paper, Scissors