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.
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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.
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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.