Splatterism: The Tragic Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse

by Christian Winter

  There was a rattling of some bottles and scuffing behind the bar, and then a drunk dwarf with no shirt on slowly rose up from behind the bar. He stretched his arms out on either side, like he was walking on a tightrope, wobbled for a moment, then froze. He looked at me, and looked like he had his balance, then stumbled back into the wall of ale bottles. Only a few tumbled off and shattered, spilling only glass and no liquid.

  “Yea I snagged them,” said the dwarf, stifling a belch. “I only used those dish rags to keep my finger stains off the glass of a rare ale bottle, since I was too soused to remember the words to the minor spell for such things.”

  “They were a hero’s last garments—” I began.

  “Dish. Rags.”

  “My father’s father was close to Brock while in the campaigns. The innkeep here was being pestered and pursued for the rags he had stolen, and once my father verified their true nature, we offered him sanctuary and anything he wanted,” said Scammander.

  “So I got a bar above a mountain with all the expensive beers!” The dwarf grinned and turned to his mountain of ale behind the bar, spreading his hands in awe, the way travelers newly arrived to some wonder do.

  “An inn? That’s all?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “I started thieving for ale, and I used to thieve at expensive ales and spirits.—I might have peeked in and fondled a few sleeping princesses too.” He winked at me. “Have you all been talking about the Betrayals? I love how the humans got it. I can’t decide what I love more: stealing, drinking, or hearing how they got betrayed. Matter of fact, I was just dreaming of how bad they got it, and I think I love drinking because it makes me dream of humans getting betrayed.”

  “Ah, humanity” I said.

  “Humanity, of course, tried to betray everyone, but everyone knew that humanity would try to betray everyone else, and so everyone betrayed humanity—even humanity,” Scammander said, taking a long pull from his mug. The dwarf started grinning, and waved his hand, urging Scammander to continue.

  “Well, the elves pledged to help the humans find the dragon lair, and meet the human forces at the lair with additional support. The elven scouting party in charge led the humans through the longest, most arduous path possible, leading them first towards the lair, and then very far away from it. Then, one night, the humans murdered the scouting party while they slept in their tents.” He shrugged as though it was inevitable. “But by the time they arrived at the entrance to the dragon lair, they were weary, starving, missing weapons, pieces of armor, and missing some of their fellow soldiers. Some had simply gotten lost and others had gotten lost or separated from the main body and were slain by the elite elven assassins that were masquerading as the scouting party.”

  The dwarf nodded. “The humans thought that the scouting party was trying to wear them down to make it easy for the fresh elf reinforcements to slaughter them. But elves are arrogant, and thought their assassins were all that were needed. Of course, the elven support never showed up at the dragon lair.”

  Worl laughed. “The dragons and elves have a bickering alliance. They help each other when they least need it, and try to kill each other when they are most in need.”

  “While the dragons were ‘celebrating’ with the goblins, the dwarves did show up, just not with all that we promised. We agreed to supply the elves and humans with magical blades that would pierce the dragon scales and dragon eggs, but we only made one truly magical sword. The rest were faulty and flawed.” He chuckled and took a quick sip from his bottle. “It’s almost impossible to believe that the one magical blade wound up in the hands of Brock Highkeep.” He shook his head and took another drink, grinning at Scammander from over the top of his bottle. “Anyways, while we were there to assist with the slaughter of the dragon brood, specific orders were given not to be too helpful, and to wait for the moment when the humans would attack. Our lore says no one knew when the time would be ‘right,’ but that the commander, Deidra Gemcutter, said to be ready for it, ‘wine or steel.’” He paused and stroked his beard. “Turns out it was steel. But they didn’t attack the dwarves. Brock was way away killing brood guardians alone, when they ambushed him—his own men. The assisting company then attacked Brock’s assassins, and the remains of that skirmish, well the dwarves cleaned up. Brock was left for dead, to bleed out or become dragon fodder.”

  “Of course, no elves or dwarves showed up to help the humans battle the ogres and minotaurs,” said Scammander.

  “Humanity had been continually lobbying for the support of the dragons throughout the war, and when they saw them appear in the sky behind their lines, humanity gave a great cheer. The humans, emboldened at the sudden appearance of the dragons, rallied and waded back into horrific close combat with the ogres, feeling that the battle would soon be over once the dragons engaged the ogres. Well, the dragons did engage the ogres: in a show of friendship they began to consume humanity in soil-searing fireballs and tornadoes of flames. It is said that some humans ran to ogres begging for a quick death, rather than be burned alive or dropped from the sky, while others pleaded that their lives be spared for any amount of money; legends mention specific names. The then ogre king Blundodon was begged by one of the most successful human merchants alive at the time, Nymrott Tallies, to spare his life for all his money. Blundodon’s famous reply was ‘Blah!’ and he chomped the merchants head off and fed the remains to his captains. But all ogres ate on the battlefield that day, and all ate well,” Jorl recalled.

  “They ate minotaurs too,” said Scammander, staring right at me.

  “That’s about the only thing I remember, besides Brock of course. The worthless metal the goblins gave us for armor; it was heavy and slowed us down so that we could barely move, and yet somehow, human weapons punched through it like it was paper.” I grabbed Worl’s mug and took a gulp while I held him at bay, then slid the mug back to him. “And then, the eating.”

  “That’s all you remember!?” shouted the shirtless dwarf. “What’s wrong with this cow? Don’t you know your history? Where you’ve come from?”

  “What do I care for the history of a world that I have been thrown into, and in but a short while I will be forever gone from? I don’t care for this world, or what’s in it. I will be forgotten, just as I was begotten, and this world will be forgotten, just as it was begotten.”

  Everyone was very quiet, and I looked at the drunk dwarf, ready to show him back to where he came from: nothing. But he looked like he had not heard a single thing I had said, and his eyes were looking above where I sat. He swayed back and forth, then grunted and steadied himself, focusing his gaze on the bottle in front of him. Then he began staring intently at me, exhaled deeply and nodded his head in my direction, and then threw his head back as ale splashed out over his lips and down his beard. He licked his lips and renewed his stare with increased vigor through his bleary eyes, and I couldn’t help but think I was part of some obscene fantasy in his head. The ale proved stronger than his imagination, and with a happy whimper he slumped back behind the counter.

  The goblins waited for a moment, then all three peered over the edge. Jorl scampered down to the other end of the bar, and I heard bottles rattling and clanking. He came running up to me a moment later, eyes swelling with tears.

  “Oh, I knew this day would come! I knew it! I knew it! I saw it!” He grabbed the top of his head, and dragged his hands down the sides of his face. “It’s all gone Evander! It’s all gone!” Jorl’s awful glimpse into Time, into the Nature and Workings of All Things, had revealed to him that one day he and his two friends would drink all the dwarf’s ale—and today that awful vision had come true. All three sobbed and wailed and pleaded for us to save them from the one thing they feared worse than death: sobriety.

  LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

  “It is not in our hands to prevent our birth; but we can correct this mistake—for in some cases it is a mistake.”

  Nietzsche

  We stepped through the slender glowing po
rtal and were immediately consumed in an inferno on the other side. I saw the surprise on Scammander’s face disappear as the fire swept away. The fear, too.

  “Hello, mother,” he said.

  Two tremendous ice blue eyes stared at us, blinked for a moment, and then shrank a little as they pulled back to reveal they sat in the great head of an albino dragon. Even though I had just been bathed in flame, I looked like I had just emerged from a lake. The fire hadn’t burned me, but it was so hot my fur was matted with sweat. The dragon’s eyes narrowed with courtly disdain.

  “Scammander…” she said, “back to try and kill me with some new magic?”

  “Well Electra, after such a warm welcome, how could I but feel at home and be full of concord and charity?”

  The dragoness grinned. “Using those old Magi gates is dangerous. I told you that when I first educated you on learning to discover them.”

  “Old Magi? Old Magi gates?” I said. Scammander said he had learned how to make them, not find them.

  “Oh Scammander, please tell me he’s not one of your errant scions, and that you’ve brought him to me because you lack the necessary fortitude to corrupt or kill him, and wish the labor to me.”

  “I think I’ve been handed that role now actually,” I said as I turned to him. “Does that make me your mother?”

  Scammander was glaring at the dragoness. “Evander wants Brock Highkeep’s final garments. I am here to negotiate for them.”

  “Scammander, sometimes I can’t believe I birthed you,” she sneered.

  “It’s the greatest blemish on my existence,” he said, acidulously.

  “Humanity…” she began, then looked at me. “You have a strange color of fur for a minotaur.”

  “Yes, it used to be red, just like my eyes, but—well I don’t know what happened. Our fur starts out bright and then softens as we age, and instead of a more muted red it changed to…this,” I said, holding out my arms and looking them over.

  “Red is the rarer color, is it not?”

  “It is. Our usual colors are black or brown fur, and eye colors are red, brown, green and black. Green is the rarer eye color,” I added.

  “Rarer still is a minotaur kinship, even with my son.” She paused as if making a note to herself, either to use it against Scammander later, or add it to a list of family achievements.

  “But humanity…I don’t see how anyone could enjoy the faintest notion of kinship with a human, especially considering their contemptible history and their emphatic lack of significance in this world.”

  “Brock was different,” I said.

  “True, he was,” she nodded, “that’s why we let him live.” The great dragoness shimmered and shrank, and as beads of soft light spilled out of her and washed across the tiles, she transformed into a slender elven lady in an elegant white gown with long ivory hair. The gown twinkled as she strode casually across the small turquoise tile and sat on a blue marble bench which had four mermaids for legs. The dress continued to gleam and sparkle and I realized it was made out of tiny wisps.

  “That’s why he needs to be avenged,” I said. She was unmoved.

  “I thought you were here for fashion, not morality,” she snapped. Scammander insulted her again and while the two sparred I swept my eyes across the room.

  Running through the middle was a shallow, slender pool, its waters still and motionless; on either side of it was a row of smooth, rounded columns of deep blue and white marble with cresting waves at their tops where they met the vaulted ceilings. Hovering over the center of the pool was a throbbing wisp, casting luminous white light across the swirled blue marble chamber, enveloping it in a cold sapphire hue. A long hall stretched out behind Scammander’s mother, dark except for a tender blue glow at the end.

  I checked the shadows for lingering assailants, then turned back to Electra, who was in the middle of a speech.

  “I am solidly against doing any good in this world. It is because humanity is so wicked and terrible that I have been able to have a life of leisure.” A cynical smile flashed across her ageless face. “Let them be—I quite enjoy hearing of the misery they bring upon themselves, and knowing how full of suffering each of their lives is, is like eating a slice of those pleasant cream and spice cakes that are made only during the winter holidays for everyone else, but which for me are always available.”

  I said nothing for a moment because I agreed with her.

  “But I suppose I would part with Brock’s garments, though it would most likely involve you dying, Evander.”

  “Oh, well that’s something he’s quite eager to do. I would have thought you wanted to make it a challenge for us.” Scammander narrowed his eyes. “If it’s going to be death that we negotiate around, why don’t I immolate you in starfire?”

  “Not necessary,” I stated, “unless you want to roast her corpse.”

  “Ahh, the minotaur wit and anger,” she mused with a sort of divine agitation. “How many tribes are left? I still remember the Day, when it seemed like all of you were slain, and the few that lived, had wished they were slain.”

  “I’m the last one.” More talk of the good old days.

  “Last in so many respects,” she quipped. I suppose I made that one too easy.

  “Since I’m the last one, perhaps you can make me first in the education of the traveling portals of these eminent sorcerers?” I said. I too, could easily adjust to the courtly rhythms and tropes, the practiced detachment, but I usually found authenticity much more powerful.

  “You won’t be first in that regard either,” she mused, cuttingly. “However, I will oblige you. There was a widely used system of magical gates, which were like little cuts in the fabric of the universe; that’s what makes them so dangerous. They are unstable and can collapse, just like that one you both stepped out of.” She hesitated. “Though it seems it was hidden from my view.” Another long pause followed as she stared at Scammander, who was looking unusually devious, even for Scammander. “Odd.” She turned her gaze back to me and resumed speaking. “Many of the portals opened directly to the prestigious libraries and even dwellings of prominent sorcerers and magi, since they were all good friends. There also used to be a publicized map showing where all the gates were, and where they opened to. Of course, each mage had private gates that opened to places and realms of other worlds that he no doubt kept to himself or those closest to him. Magi legend is wild with tales about the hidden worlds that some had discovered. Such is the general lore on the gates of these great sorcerers.”

  “Right, so why aren’t they in use?” I said.

  She laughed. “Because there is no official magical order anymore; they roam about like nomads or toil away in that ridiculous academy—a stained institution totally divorced from its great heritage.”

  “They nearly decimated themselves in a Magi Civil War,” Scammander said. “Normally, the gates were used congenially and one wizard could visit another at any time for any reason, and be happily received; they visited for winter holidays, spring celebrations, births, collaboration for research, or simply for general felicity. Too, sorcerers had popular gates that they all visited, and had designated areas where there were a great number of gates leading to all sorts of different places.” He leaned around the corner, peering down the hall, then continued. “But at the opening of the wizard war, the first thing the mages used against one another were the gates by which they used to travel to each other’s homes. They stole into each other’s homes late at night, hoods up, or surprised one another in their libraries, murdering foes they once embraced as fellows.” He threw up his hood for a moment, which had gold embroidering that I hadn’t noticed before, and his opalescent eyes cast a strange parade of hues out from the umbra of his hood. My hands drifted instinctively towards the repeaters. He snickered then flipped the hood back down, collecting in a stack on his shoulders. “Thus, gates that were widely used became neglected, since the wizards learned to change the destinations; mages stepped in thinking t
hey were going one place, and fell out into worlds of flame or dimensions where they were instantly destroyed due to different laws of nature.”

  “What exactly did you forget?” I whispered to him in an aside. “The meaning of life?—”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “You remember everything flawlessly.”

  “You ridiculous child,” scoffed his mother. “The meaning of life is to make great art.” I guess she didn’t hear the first part of my question.

  “Oh look, see I forgot that,” he said maliciously.

  “I’m agreeing with the deceiver, but I think that means both of you,” I muttered.

  “Deception is the art of the sophisticated,” said Electra.

  Not to be outdone, Scammander followed with a maxim of his own. “One can only truly lie after one knows the truth.” I decided to follow with my own punch line.

  “Alright, I’m ready to get beat on by another one of Scammander’s knavy off-shoots. Or better yet, why don’t you open one of those wizard portals that I can leap through to certain death, so I can finally escape from this awful world.”