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

by Christian Winter

  “I never could find the ones that led to bad dimensions or instant death, but they were used,” Electra said blithely, speaking as though no one else were in the room.

  “I think I just found one,” I said. Scammander laughed at that.

  “Oh my dear cow, you should learn to appreciate a little sport, a little saying and a little retort.” She spoke with the insouciance of immortality. “Language is the toy of the erudite—it’s all that is left after knowledge has swept everything else away.”

  “A lot of good silence is ruined by speech,” I said. “I’ll take my silence and my axes.” They both seemed to appreciate that.

  “I believe you were going to tell him about the Magi Civil War next, mother,” said Scammander.

  “The subject matter is closer to you in spirit son, I think you should continue his education.”

  “Very well. I guess as golden voiced Hammett Stringslayer, the most quoted bard of all races says, ‘a sad tale is best for winter.’ The magi had certain chalices that they would fill with special herbs and wine, then put the brain of the fallen wizard in and consume it. The knowledge of the dead mage would become the knowledge of the one who imbibed the potion. This way, though a life was lost, its memories—and knowledge—were preserved. That’s why they called it a Civil War.” He took a moment to smile, then continued. “So as the war continued on and as the number of mages constricted, the power of those still living swelled; and with that swelling of power followed its large abuse. One of the greatest wizards to ever live was a hulking red bull, and after he was slain, the races united and pleaded that the minotaurs forbid the teaching of magic among their kin.

  “Early minotaur fables say that what caused him to pursue such an evil task was that after one battle, he consumed the mind of the fallen magi, and he lost all of his fur. The other wizards, loyal to him at the time, mocked him for it. He slew them all, and rather than consume their brains he destroyed them. The bull wizard crushed the brains of his slain brethren, stamping their knowledge out forever, erasing eons of magical progress and discovery. It is not unlikely, since the wizards had learned methods of harm even in death, and ways to prolong enchantments—even long after they were deceased. In fact, during the later point of the war, it had become common practice for a sort of death finale, in which one paid dearly for knowledge. Some went blind, lost limbs, lost strength, lost the power of speech, and even lost memories.”

  “Magic then was becoming very sophisticated; the spells that we have left today are very crude and weak compared to the power and refinement that was once available and widely used,” said his mother. “No living sorcerer is powerful enough to create a gate for example, which was a common spell in the old magic.”

  I didn’t know anything about a minotaur wizard, but I did know my leg still ached from time to time. I leaned down and rubbed my outer thigh. “What about a black sword that makes you see and hear awful things when you get stabbed with it? Did you perhaps create one of those about nineteen years ago?”

  She raised her eyebrows with surprise. “Nachtlagend, the favored blade of Nightmares?” She placed a hand over her chest, but her eyes flashed with a sinister hunger. “It would take great healing magic to save a creature from its insanity inducing lacerations. Even I would regret for one to be struck with such a sword. The pain must be…uniquely unbearable.”

  “No nightmare is as terrible as one day of life,” I snorted.

  She stiffened for a moment, then rose up and walked over to one of the columns, turned around, and looked at me with her cold eyes. “I assure you such a weapon was made thousands of years ago with magic so arcane its creator lost his life as the final step required of the spell.” Her voice trailed off as she leaned back into the shadows, so that all I could see was her two icy eyes and the sparkling wisps. “The sword has been lost for ages. My guess is that it was hidden somewhere in the unicorn vale, perhaps at the bottom of a lake.” Each word struck me like shards of crisp northern ice, and I felt as though she had her large icy claws around my throat. “Though at about that time a replica which I had made was stolen.” The two sapphire spheres released me from their chilly gaze as they wandered away towards Scammander who was staring at his own hands. When he realized we were both looking at him, he jumped then began straightening his robe.

  “I need a wand, not a sword. Or a staff. A staff would look really prestigious. Any chance we can add that to the bargain?”

  I turned away from him and spoke. “Nothing of this magical minotaur, of course, is recounted in our songs,” I said. It could have been, I only remembered a few.

  “Because it was banished from memory. The dragon race pushed the hardest for it to be so—but we also vowed to protect the minotaur race, vowed over our own brood eggs. I should know, since each Queen has to renew the vow over her own egg. Prior to me revealing this to you, no minotaur has ever had knowledge of the vow.”

  “And yet we’re all dead.”

  “You are still very alive, Evander,” she said.

  “I’m dying as I stand here. In fact, life is just a long, painful prelude to death.”

  “He’s right—whoever tried to spell death got it wrong and wrote life by accident. Everyone else has been spelling it wrong ever since,” Scammander mused.

  “Well Evander, why do you live?” Electra asked.

  “That’s the most awful question you could ever ask,” said Scammander. “If he didn’t want to kill himself before, he certainly will now.”

  I shrugged.

  “Well Evander, I’m going to give you a chance to die, or get the final garments of your fallen hero.”

  VAE VICTIS

  “Evil has its heroes as well as good.”

  La Rochefoucauld

  She said I was going to die, but it was Scammander who was rolling around in the dirt, grabbing his ears, gritting his teeth, and gasping. His swollen eyes were fixed on me, and he kept throwing dirt at his face, so I knelt down next to him.

  “Ears…” he gasped, and stuck his fingers in for a moment, then began writhing again. I grabbed him by the throat and began stuffing his ears with dirt; as his ears became increasingly packed with dirt, his flailing subsided, and he stood up and dusted himself off.

  “I’m going to kill her, I’m going to—pack your ears up Evander, before it kills you too.”

  I had no idea what Scammander had heard, since we were in the middle of a desert, and the only thing in sight was an enormous tree stump, and even it was quite a distance away.

  “I’m guessing by ‘her’ you mean your mother?” I looked around. “Why is it so dark out here?”

  “Not sure,” he said, squinting into the darkness. “Yes, she laid a little trap it seems.”

  “Your mother has tried to kill you before?” As soon as I asked, I remembered the warm welcome we had survived only because of the enchantments Scammander had forgotten about. And the vale.

  “Yes, and gets quite close to success with each successive try,” he said.

  “Did she just start recently?”

  “Since birth.”

  “How did you survive attempts on your life when you were a newborn?”

  “Well, the first time I remember was when she made two of the exact same dishes, and had them served on identical plates. One was poisoned. She shuffled the plates around, and had a serving lady bring the dishes to me; I had to pick which to eat and perish if I got the poison.”

  My mind was asking more questions than I could say at once, but I managed to finally ask the one I wanted. “So how did you survive that?”

  “Pure chance.”

  My mind went quiet. “And the point of such a gamble?”

  “She wanted a child who would be favored by fortune, and who wouldn’t be fettered to the bottom of the wheel and its terrible knockings,” he said it silently, with soft admiration and a gloss of fatalism. “She used a poison called the Hangman’s Holiday, and it was used by an elite and now extinct sect of troll thieve
s.”

  “Great name for a tavern,” I said. “Any special reason for it?”

  “Because he didn’t have to work. It kills instantly.”

  “What would trolls have worth stealing, and more importantly, what would troll thieves have stolen that they would need to commit suicide rather than face trifling stealing penalties?”

  “They stole Youth,” said Scammander. I know the shock on my face was asking questions again. He shrugged. “No idea, it’s Lost Knowledge.”

  “Troll youth is probably pretty pointless anyways,” I said.

  “What is the point of youth?” he asked, with a flourish of his hand.

  “To be squandered by those least worthy of it and to be lamented for by those best suited for it,” I whispered. “So what ever happened to the trolls? They weren’t even around for the Betrayal.”

  “They built their cities on the slopes of volcanoes, so they didn’t last too long.”

  I chuckled and kicked some dirt. “I thought ogres lived in swamps.”

  “Filth,” snarled Scammander.

  *

  “Vaugg, brother of Voggre, son of Hongre: I am Scammander, the greatest wizard of all time, and I have come to kill you.” Scammander’s voice boomed and his hair whipped around his face. He lowered his arms as his hair settled about his shoulders: “Or kill your brother for you.”

  The ogre, seated and scribbling at a huge oak desk, crowded with books, loose papers, and unfurled scrolls, paused for a moment, glanced out the window, and then finished the sentence he was writing. He read it over, then turned in his chair and draped himself lazily over its back. “Well, then I would have to rule, and I have no desire for politics.” He twirled his pen between his fingers. “Oh, and please call me by my pen name, Dorian.”

  “V—” Scammander began.

  “Can I tell you a ridiculous joke?” the ogre interrupted.

  “Sure.”

  “Politics.”

  Scammander and I both chuckled. “You should be king,” I urged.

  “Says a kingless minotaur.”

  I shrugged. “Be a king, or be a dead, dainty bard. As a king, you could at least finish what you are writing.”

  “And yet, if you kill me before my master work is complete, I may gain even greater fame in death; now you’ve twiced my conviction not to be king.”

  “I didn’t even know ogres had writing,” said Scammander. I was done with talking.

  “Which is exactly why I cannot be king. I left the city to write a great play, so that the rest of the world would have to recognize the literary daring of our race.”

  “What do you do for writer’s block?” Scammander continued.

  “I don’t get writer’s block anymore. If I do, I simply drink some of this great ale and play the flute—well I always play the flute after dinner,” he said, wiping some fresh crumbs off his fat chin.

  Scammander leaned down near the desk and looked out the window. “When is the last time you went outside?” he asked.

  “I have no idea, I’ve virtually been writing without pause.” He paused. “I stop to drink and play the flute.” I couldn’t believe we hadn’t killed him yet. “In fact, I usually write through the day without notice, every time I look out it’s completely dark.”

  “What if I could guarantee that I could get your work published and recognized by the rest of the world, far away from your ogre settlement?” Scammander asked and arched his eyebrow.

  “What I am working on will not require connections. It is genius; its worth will be instantly recognizable, and universally lauded.”

  Scammander allowed a minor twist to appear on his face, expressing a moment of disappointment and disdain. “Well then, best of luck with your work, I look forward to reading it. I suppose we will explore some other avenues to accomplish our objectives.” He headed out the door, and down the steps to the bottom of the stump. I followed, and when I reached Scammander, I turned and looked up at the stump.

  “So how do you want to kill him?” I said. The ogre had made things easy for us. “Have you remembered any spells yet that would let you just torch this forsaken stump? I’d say you should torch this whole forsaken desert, but it looks like someone beat you to it.”

  “My mother, probably,” he said with a cold grin, followed by a swig from a giant bottle that he pulled out of his robes. “Doesn’t taste like the legendary honey of great bards to me” he said, passing the bottle to me. I decided not to drink.

  Scammander began to blow on the flute, which had been sitting on the ogres table. I still had enough dirt in my ears not to be able to hear the flute, but the genius “Dorian” came bounding out of his stump, holding his ears and shouting. By the time he reached Scammander, Dorian was on his knees digging a hole in front of Scammander’s feet, large enough to shove his giant head in. Scammander kept playing, making no effort to conceal his glee. Dorian dug a little, then grabbed his head, then dug a little more, then shook his head and clawed at the sides of his face. Scammander lowered the flute from his lips.

  “You better keep digging,” sneered Scammander. “Don’t stop digging.” Dorian nodded and tried to dig faster. “See how sweet the sound of my voice is Dorian? Don’t you now find yourself convinced by my dulcet blandishments and fair arguments, that only moments ago you found so misdemeanorous?” Dorian was digging frantically; the hole was almost large enough for him to cram his head into now. He found a second to nod in assent.

  “Excellent. Now, I’m going to resume playing, and if you can manage to get your head in the dirt before my tune kills you, perhaps you will show us to the hall where your brother pillows, so that we might kill him.” And with that, Scammander grinned and put the flute to his lips, and began to dance around the hulking literary genius, while tilting his head playfully from side to side.

  I had taken the time to pack my ears with some extra dirt.

  *

  We approached the ogre city, which looked like a giant ogre belly with a bunch of tiny houses on it. It was so dark I could barely see, and I didn’t think “Dorian” could either, since we ran right up to the main gate. Only there was no gate; in fact, it looked like the gate had been crashed through long ago and no one had bothered to replace it. Dorian must have noticed I was staring, and explained.

  “Who comes to visit ogres?”

  Usurpers. Murderers. Liars. Thieves…I was thinking about us, but they were usually there in the city anyways.

  As we continued following him, we walked by a guard booth, door flung open and leaning out in the street, hanging only by the bottom hinge. In it sat a gargantuan corpse on a tiny black stool, head stuffed into a metal bucket. The body was doubled over with huge claw marks stretching from where its ears should have been, all the way down its cheeks. There were metal fragments in the nails.

  The roads were made of large obsidian stones similar to the long wall around the city, and were laid perfectly straight, forming neat city blocks. Everyone says ogres are slobs, but they really just lack imagination. All the roads led up to the top of the hill where there was a single square building. Logical and boring. Dorian took us straight to the top, just as though he had been living here every day, and not in a tree stump in the middle of a desert.

  Again, right through the front door, and into the Ogre King’s den. There he was, asleep on the throne in the back of his wide banquet hall. There were still bowls and plates and bits of food scattered all over the table and on the floor. This was getting to be a bit too easy, and I knew we were getting set up. I kicked Dorian in the crotch and grabbed a wicked looking hatchet with a huge curved blade of purple stone off the wall, then sprinted to the sleeping king. He stood up right as I leapt at him.

  “Eat this.”

  The hatchet crashed into his huge jaw, scattering teeth and spit and blood into the air; I wrenched it out of his mouth and swung it into his belly: half-digested ogre children came spilling out onto the banquet floor, born on a yellow-brown waterfall of hot stoma
ch juice. Three little hollow ogre skulls exploded out and bounced onto the stone and across the floor like tossed nutshells, one still half-covered in skin, spun around and landed in a corner. Little fingers and arms and legs flowed out, but a small ribcage hooked itself into the Ogre King’s loose flapping flesh, dangling like a branch caught in rapids. The ogre crashed onto his knee-caps, and then collapsed on his opened belly as cold snot crept down over his lip; his eyes stared into the empty sockets of a digested infant ogre skull that had rolled into a corner of the banquet hall, and both saw the same thing: nothing.

  I was preparing to kill Dorian when I heard footsteps. I clenched the hatchet and pressed my back to the wall.

  “Dorian!” I heard the excited whisper from just around the corner of the banquet hall. There was a playful laugh.

  “Dorian!” The whisper again. “How many times have we done this! And you are still so cautious! Don’t you know by now, he’s completed another devouring! You know how he sleeps after such a feast!” Another playful laugh.

  Through the darkness I could see a pile of shadows slowly round the corner, swaying its middle from side to side. It stopped in front of me, where I beheld one of the true horrors of this world: a nude female ogre. The stillness and silence were rent as Scammander vomited all over the banquet hall, cursing that he was lucky to have already lost his memory, since if he hadn’t, surely this would have caused him to lose it, and he was afraid he was about to lose it again. He next cursed his eyes and asked the malicious skies why he couldn’t be rid of the two things responsible for continually revealing the ubiquity of the idiotic, the absurd, and the ugly, then set about cursing his ears for forcing him to endure “Dorian’s” contemptible notions of literature. Then he cursed life in general, and cursed his mother to finish things off in good taste. I am not a literary genius, or a legendary wizard, but I am a pessimist, and so I’ve come to expect such things as seeing a nude female ogre. Dorian stepped immediately into his role as king, and like all good kings, exercised his will through the law.