The guard stepped back reaching for his face in horror, feeling that it was already numb. The poison of the serpent cult worked fast. Scrave yanked the dagger back and lunged with the sword, sinking the steel deep into the guard’s chest, impaling the man in an act that was actually merciful given the terror shown on the guard’s face as the blistering poison traced across his features. Scrave stared dispassionately as the man sank down lifeless at his feet, then looked up and took in his surroundings. He needed to get out of here fast. He quickly paced from one end of the open book he stood upon, to the other, aware that the chiselled gaze of the Saint above him was scrutinising his every move. Temple guards were arriving from all directions, blocking the exits from the hall and assembling on the balconies. He was cut off. He could not fly. His mind raced through the magic spells he knew but the art of invisibility was a spell that always eluded him.
“There is nowhere to run.” Justina mocked from where she stood a floor above. “Give me the dagger and I will let you walk away from here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get that intimate on my first date. I tend to just stick with flowers.” Scrave replied, his thoughts worried despite the cocky banter he was attempting. “Maybe if we could have a second date, without…” he gestured at the guards all around. “… all of this company, I might consider some kind of trade.”
“It’s such a shame.” Justina continued. “You show a great deal of promise. We could have had a future together.”
“I knew you liked me.” Scrave shot back, his sharp eyesight suddenly noticing a drain on the floor. His eye traced from the grill, up the sculpture, following the carved and polished folds representing the fabric of the Saint. They were like perfectly formed chutes in a child’s playground. The ride would be rapid! It would take him past the carved form of an astonished dormouse and down under the flared tail of a hovering humming bird carved in exquisite detail. He just needed to shrink to a very small size… and Scrave had just the spell in his repertoire of magic. “I’ll call you, I promise.” He smiled. “But next time, lets meet at my place.”
“Bring him down!” Justina screamed as guards moved to the railing armed with crossbows. Scrave winked, whispered something under his breath and then to all the assembled… he simply disappeared.
* * * * * *
The Fickle Fish tavern was every bit as quaint as the name suggested; with warm wooden beams, cream walls and a bar of polished walnut behind which bottles of exotic shapes and sizes promised oblivion to the adventurous and unwary alike. The outside seating flowed under arbours hanging lush with grapes and wisteria, the cool foliage dappling the area with much welcome shade. Cats lounged lazily in the sunshine, tails flicking away errant flies whilst narrow feline eyes scanned the caged songbirds swinging from the beams.
The harbourmaster ushered Rauph to a huge table set on a raised area above the main seating. Thomas noted the heavyset chairs around the table were solid, clearly not made for comfort and that there was not enough to seat all of the accompanying crew. He motioned to Weyn and between them, they picked up a bench and carefully lifted it up and placed it along the far side of the table. As one, they all crashed down onto the seat grinning as the calmness of the place settled around them.
“What, what are you doing?” the harbourmaster paled. “You can’t sit here. It is not permitted.”
“Sure it is,” Weyn commented. “Come sit alongside us, we have lots to learn.” The man stood clearly unsure what to do, before slowly lowering himself onto the bench as if the wooden surface would scald him.
“Relax,” Thomas motioned, leaning across the table. “We are all friends here. There is nothing to worry about.”
“But... you don’t understand. This is highly irregular. We could be killed for this insult.”
“What do you mean?” the captain enquired. “What should it matter where you sit?”
“It matters to them.” He gulped, nodding towards the shaggy Minotaur. “It really matters to them.”
“Rauph,” Thomas opened. “You don’t mind if we all sit here, do you?”
“Nope,” Rauph replied turning his head first one way and then another, taking in the scenery and the buzzing bees bumbling from one flower to another. “He can sit with us if he likes. What can we have to eat here?”
As if on cue a flustered servant walked over placing a large tankard in front of Rauph, the lime green contents inside sending up an aroma much akin to a health shake. Then the man turned to walk away only to be caught by Mathius’s outstretched hand.
“We have had our vegetables for the day.” He remarked dryly. “We will settle for beers instead.”
“Sitting here?” the stunned servant replied.
“Well I don’t know about you but we would quite like it sitting here, so yes, right here will be fine.” He turned to Thomas “What’s wrong with these people? They all seem fascinated about our seating arrangements and we also seem to have gathered quite a crowd.”
“I hadn’t noticed, mumbled Ives, glancing at all the onlookers gathered on the street outside and entering the inn to witness the strange spectacle. “You know this place could be a gold mine back home. The caged birds are a nice twist. I wonder what the food is like?”
More servants came over to the table placing plates of food before the navigator and swapping nervous glances with the landlord who stood beside the bar, wringing his hands in concern.
A massive tureen of baked fish, garnished with exotic herbs and slathered in a rich tomato sauce steamed invitingly before Rauph, the smells making him close his eyes and moan softly under his breath. A platter of garlic flat bread followed, with a bowl of skilfully woven grass, oat and straw cakes, seaweed flavoured with cinnamon, a bowl of something that looked like crumbled chalk, mixed with grass and smelling faintly of lemon and finally several appetising desserts. The Minotaur attacked the food with glee, savouring eat bite as the textures and scents returned him to his distant veiled past. These tastes were all so familiar to him, yet he had no idea why. If only he could remember.
Ives borrowed a fork and leant far over to scoop out a tender morsel of fish from the tureen, which he balanced on the tines of the utensil with a skill that spoke volumes about how he managed to retain his wide girth. His face puckered as he chewed, making Weyn and Mathius chuckle.
“This fish needs more spice.” The trader declared. “It is so bland!” He swallowed and the fork moved forwards again attempting to try some of the other delicacies on offer before his Minotaur shipmate ate them all.
“You know what.” Mathius intoned, viewing the food with some distain. “This is all very nice but I don’t suppose you have any steak on the menu?”
A plate dropped, shattering on the floor as the servant reacted in shock to the question. A hush descended on the gathering as horror spread throughout the crowd and people turned to pass on the words of sacrilege uttered from the stranger’s mouth.
People standing outside on the street started to voice cries of alarm, their own calls rippling through to the people in the tavern like a ripple across a millpond, causing momentary confusion as to what gossip took precedent. The danger approaching from the street took on the form of a troop of Minotaur guards who barged their way through the crowd, dispersing the gathered onlookers with a threat of the brute strength they possessed.
The people inside the restaurant suddenly parted, shuffling back as fast as they could, desperate to find some space from the monstrous creatures bearing down on them, some suffering cuffs and shoves as several huge figures started barging through the crowd. Out in the street the cries of alarm were turning into wails of anguish and pain as the rest of the troops set about clearing the area.
Thomas immediately sensed something was wrong as the owner of the Fickle Fish and the harbourmaster went pale, as if someone had turned a tap on their feet and drained all the blood from their bodies.
“What is the meaning of this?” roared a deep bass
voice. Thomas swivelled in his seat to see the largest, blackest, Minotaur he had ever seen stamping across the floor towards them, muscles rippling as if the creature had been working out in a gym with action movie stars from the 1980’s cinema.
“How dare you pheasants even entertain sitting at our table.” The Minotaur continued reaching out and lunging for the occupants of the table, unaware of his grammatical error.
Mathius was on his feet in a second, blades leaping into his hands even as the long bench was wrenched out from under the remaining crewmen and sent crashing into the bar, the bright alcohol bottles shattering under the devastating impact. Weyn dropped heavily onto his back; Thomas went sprawling and Ives found himself in the ridiculous position of leaning across the table with his fork sticking out of his mouth. The harbourmaster was not so lucky, falling first to the floor before finding himself hoisted up off his feet to dangle from the snorting Minotaur’s hand.
“I will see you hanged for this, or possibly burnt aliv...” The monster snorted, his polished horns gleaming brightly, despite the dappled shade beneath the arbour, the vicious points inches from the suspended man. A grey haired, clearly older Minotaur guard leant forward and whispered something into the black Minotaur’s ear, stopping the brute’s comments in midsentence.
“What do you mean peasants, they are pheasants? That’s what I said.” The Minotaur retorted fiercely. “Birds have absolutely nothing to do with this.” The grey guard continued to whisper making the black Minotaur angrier by the second as he tried to explain the mistake his prince had made.
“Pheasants, peasants, it matters little. My temper grows short Aelius. Remember who you are addressing. You may be the captain of the Palace Guard but I assure you, you are wrong and I am right.” He retaliated. “I am the Prince Regent Drummon. I am never wrong.”
“You will be if you don’t put my guest back on his feet.” Rauph stated calmly.
Thomas slowly rose from the floor, moving his hand to his cutlass, sensing the growing atmosphere of violence about to erupt. The huge Minotaur grunted then threw the man in his hand physically out across the restaurant, sending the harbourmaster crashing across several tables before his left leg caught on one of the beams supporting the roof. There was a sickening snap as his unfortunate victim fell to the floor groaning in pain.
“Oh dear,” Drummon stared directly down at Rauph, attempting to intimidate and goad the seated Minotaur into action. “His feet don’t seem to be working too well. Now what poor manner of a Minotaur are you? Which clan do you come from and why would you ever allow humans to sit at the same table as we do?”
The Prince Regent stopped, his nostrils flaring as he scented the creature sitting calmly before him. There was something familiar about the chestnut brown, shaggy haired creature. Something… He moved his huge head closer, directly over the surface of the table, his nose inches from the navigator of the El Defensor then took a deep sniff.
The whole table flew up into the air, catching Drummon under the chin and sending him reeling with a snort, his immense horns catching one of the beams above as his head snapped back. The edge of the table crashed to the floor, the remains of the food slopping across the tiled surface and over the Minotaur’s hooves. The Prince Regent roared in protest, snatching a spear from the older guard and turning with murderous intent to kill the unkempt shaggy upstart who had dared to challenge him so openly.
Rauph stood at his full eight-foot height, his two worn long swords unsheathed from the scabbards at his back and held with unwavering steady hands. Thomas stood to the left, his own cutlass out, the enchanted edge gleaming in the sunlight. Ives stepped to the right, his white sword, fashioned from the tooth of some enormous monster from bygone days faintly luminescent in the shadows.
Aelius moved forward to support his Prince, despite having had his spear taken from him, only to stop in mid-step as he found the points of two daggers pressing into his side between the breastplate and side plates of his armour.
“I can assure you my thrust will be fatal.” Mathius whispered coldly. “Let’s just keep calm and see what happens, yes?” Aelius nodded his head slowly; aware that his fellow Minotaur guards were too far away in the crowd to aid him before the mortal strike occurred. He was a veteran for a reason and knew his time would come to act if he bided it.
Drummon had no such sense and charged in with the spear held high. Thomas swung once, his cutlass whipping through the air, shortening the spear by two feet and leaving the charging creature with just a stick to fight with but the black Minotaur was too into his charge to notice.
Rauph brought his swords together, forming a cross shape to parry the thrust, pushing the staff of the spear up high. The Prince Regent kept advancing trying to use his bulk and speed to press the advantage, his majestic horns coming around either side of the parrying weapons, determined to pierce, gore and draw blood. Rauph instinctively recognised the ploy and brought his left sword down, striking the charging Minotaur’s horn so hard the action yanked Drummon’s head to one side and a large chip came away from its highly polished tip.
Drummon continued to charge, although his angle of attack was now lower, his head finally crashing into the Navigator’s mid-section, lifting him from the floor. Ives stepped out to the side as the two creatures crashed past, powerless to intervene without stabbing Rauph by mistake.
The long swords clattered forgotten to the floor as the two titans wrestled amongst the tables. First one then the other appeared to get the upper hand as muscle and sinew fought and horns scraped and gouged.
Thomas smashed a chair onto the heavily muscled shoulder blade of the volatile Minotaur desperate to help Rauph get the upper hand and ended up holding just the leg of the chair, the rest of it smashing to splinters with no effect on the rampaging monster. Other Minotaur guards started to move into the inn forcibly ejecting some of the locals who could not believe what they were seeing. Gladiatorial contests of strength happened once a year when the Labyris contest occurred, not here in a tavern.
One Minotaur with a spiralled horn stepped forward, sword drawn, only to have two arrows slam into the wooden post next to him, the splintering force of the shots pausing the guard’s advance in its tracks. The Minotaur looked across the room to see Weyn holding his bow at full stretch, another arrow already on the string, a smile on his face as if daring the creature to step closer.
Rauph threw the black Minotaur off him with a display of raw strength that was simply incredible. Drummon flew backwards through the seating area, chairs and table knocked from his path to career into the crowd. He hit a table hard, the legs snapping out from underneath it, the force of the fall dropping him to the ground.
The navigator quickly regained his feet, his shaggy chestnut pelt flecked with sweat and blood, snorting nostrils flaring for breath as he turned to follow through with his actions, now taking the initiative, charging himself, smashing Drummon back to the floor just as the black Minotaur got back to his feet.
A gasp rose from the crowd as Rauph’s clenched fists rained down upon the dark pelt beneath him. Whispers started to pass from mouth to mouth; a strange Minotaur, who apparently held no animosity towards human kind, was fighting Drummon the Prince Regent and winning.
“I yield, I yield.” Drummon cried, throwing his hands up trying desperately to protect his face and nose from Rauph’s heavy blows. The navigator lifted his hand for one more punch when a silence fell over everyone in the tavern.
“What are you doing?” screamed a voice of authority. “Stop this at once.” A large hand grabbed Rauph’s raised wrist spinning him around to face an older female Minotaur in a blue dress. The navigator froze as he looked into her hate-filled eyes. Something deep inside him cracked open, like a forgotten treasure exposed to the sunlight after centuries hidden.
Her free hand struck his cheek, making Rauph start, the shock of the strike and his rush of memories enough to drop him to his knees. He instinctively lowered h
is head to the floor and uttered the words ingrained into him from birth.
“Forgive me Matriarch.”
The words from the shaggy Minotaur caught Mora by surprise. Clearly whoever this Minotaur was, he knew the correct way to address her. She allowed her wrathful glare to wash over the occupants of the room, lingering on those who had allowed her son to be hurt in a common bar room brawl, only cut short due to Mora’s firm command. She returned her gaze to the Minotaur who had dared to assault her son, taking in the huge shaggy creature, penitent before her: the unkempt chestnut hair, the worn swords, the battered, salt-stained armour and the dull horns devoid of decoration or mark of office. Who was this Minotaur?
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Rauph,” the kneeling creature replied, not daring to look up from the floor. “Chief navigator of the El Defensor under Captain Thomas Adams.”
“Help my son back to his feet.” Mora snapped at the surrounding guards. “Don’t just stand there. Do it now!” The guards moved forwards in a rush, the terror on their faces clear, as they moved to assist the Prince Regent, helping him back onto his unsteady legs. Mathius and Weyn lowered their weapons, recognising the threat to the group was now no longer imminent, a nod from Thomas reinforcing the need to reduce the tension in the room.
“Aelius. How could you let this happen to my son? A public brawl. I shall ensure you will face a suitable punishment for this.” Mora shouted angrily at the captain of the guard. He bowed his head resigned at whatever fate awaited him.
Mora looked back at the Minotaur who had dared lay a hand on her son, considering suitable punishments for such a treasonable act. However, something about this unkempt creature’s voice was so familiar. Tingles ran along Mora’s spine. It was like hearing a voice from a long-forgotten past. Something, some maternal instinct, made Mora lean forwards, brushing up the long hair at the back of Rauph’s neck, lifting the rough chestnut braids to reveal a pale scar that she simply could not believe was there. Images of the ritualistic branding at his time of birth flooded her mind. It could not be.
The Labyris Knight Page 20