Royal House Arnsul
A soft breeze carried from across the Inner Sea, weaving its way over the waves and passing through the realms of both sea and sky. The wind's march was one of leisure, and it carried north from its home in the deserts of Zebrica, wisping across the sea of sunken ships and the underwater kingdoms of the mer, the naga and the sea ponies. Onward, northward it pressed, dancing through the sunshine over the sparkling sea. The gentle wind carried over the island of Knossos, the great capital of the minotaur empire.
The breeze lifted the sails of the hundreds of ships in port, ships of bearing both the heavy build of warships and the fat bellies of merchant ships. It cooled the sweat from the belabored backs of artisans, sailors, warriors, and indebted slaves alike, teasing them with the slightest promise of relief. The wind passed over the island, through the winding streets of the city, through the slums of the slaves and the palatial manors of the nobility. Sweeping over the palace itself and stoking the braziers in the Temple of Aeukos, it carried forth the scents of the city far into the interior of the island.
And finally, having made its grand trek across thousands of miles, the wind blew through the scrublands of the interior of the island and to a lone grey elm overlooking the sea to the north. It shook the leaves and rattled the branches, but more importantly to one creature, it brought a welcomed respite from the oppressing heat of the inner sea.
A lone minotaur sat with his back to the elm, a single throwing javelin resting, unused as usual, at his hooves. The breeze teased Eilan's mane of silky blonde hair and massaged his red-brown fur, just as an eager concubine would do so at his behest. But for now he was beyond the need for the simple pleasures of flesh. Now, he lost himself deep within the pages of a rarity on Knossos, a written book. Scrolls were common here, but only in the hands of merchants and priests. Warriors, commoners, sailors, they never had the need nor the interest to read, and thus many of them never even bothered to learn.
And since the simple scroll still dominated in minotaur society, the book in his hand was a treasure indeed. Books were rare in this part of the world, since the only real writers of true books were the Equestrians and their descendant Roamans. And anything written by a Roaman must be a lie against the Empire. Or, it could be another of their fanciful tales of harmony and magic. The priests of Aeukos had been very thorough in their censorship of the written word, and most of what remained in the great library of House Arnsul were scrolls inscribed with the songs of the honored ancestors and the tales of the great heroes of the Empire.
But Eilan, being a somewhat important figure in the Royal House, had access to things that the priesthood often forbid. Such as the book he engrossed himself in. In all fairness to the priests, it wasn't pony legend he was reading, it was a zebra tale of a blind warrior, translated and written by ponies.
Eilan lost himself in the far fetched tale of the zebra warrior, whose whirling spear and keen senses felled many foes and even silenced the demon Grinwa, whose foul machinations had plagued all Zebrica for decades. He was so enthralled that he failed to hear the soft hoofsteps approaching from behind.
Flipping a page, Eilan's quiet sanctuary shattered as the tree trunk behind him exploded into a shower of splinters. Quickly he scrambled to his hooves, spinning around to face his intruder, only to meet the disapproving stare of one of the few minotaurs he was forced to respect by his fellows.
"So, this is what you do when you go 'hunting'," the black bull said calmly. He grabbed the haft of the throwing ax that lay embedded in the tree, wrenching it free with one powerful tug. His aim was frighteningly precise, and the ax had shattered the tree trunk only inches from where Eilan had rested his head. "Why am I so surprised? You have left for this place every other day for three years, and never once have you returned with even the slightest trophy. Even a blind slave throwing stones would have killed something by now. Were you expecting a stag to simply wander into your lap and throw itself on your javelin?"
"And what does it matter to you, Varkan?" Eilan replied venomously. "My time and my methods are my own, and it is no concern of yours how I go about my life."
Quicker than Eilan could see, Varkan had him pinned to the tree, a hugely muscled fist pressing down on his collarbones. "It is my concern!" Varkan hissed. "Three years have you been training for a day that could come soon. And all you have under your belt is a reputation as the worst hunter on the island, some say in the whole Empire! Your father sent me to follow you, to drive some creature into your path so that you might, for once, taste victory over something! And here I find you reading!"
Varkan released the younger bull, wrenching the book from Eilan's fingers and hurling it out to the sea. "You are so eager to spend the House's treasury on forbidden books, but you are so loathe to raise that spear up against any of the scores of game animals and monsters imported just for your hunting pleasure. And to think we tolerate the shepherd's complaints about stray lions from your hunting reserve consuming their goats." The black bull paused for a moment, lost in retrospect. "But I suppose the owlbear might have been a terrible idea in the first place." Varkan grinned at the fond memory of eviscerating the feathered and clawed monstrosity. In actuality, he had suggested it to Eilan's father so that he himself might have the pleasure of hunting down the prized monster, knowing that Eilan would have no possibility of success.
"Those creatures were yours and my father's foolish ideas. If they escaped and caused havoc, it is no fault of mine," Eilan retorted, looking out to the ocean to see if his precious book had survived being hurled into the waves.
"You were the one meant to slay them. Who knows, perhaps parading the skin of a Zebrican lion through the palace might have earned you an honorable name. That was the intent." Varkan began to stroll leisurely back on the worn path to the palace, walking slowly to await Eilan.
The younger bull scooped up his heavy javelin, growling and muttering curses to Varkan for destroying his valuable, almost priceless book. "So what does my father want from me now?" he shouted to Varkan.
"He simply requests your presence in his court. Though why anyone would want you around eludes me," Varkan dryly insulted.
If anyone besides Varkan, his father, or one of the high priests of Aeukos had doled out such insolence, Eilan was within his rights as a noble born minotaur to order his execution or settle the matter honorably himself. But convincing an executioner to come armed and with ill intent within fifty feet of Varkan was only an invitation for the executioner to meet his ancestors prematurely. Few approached Weaponsmaster Varkan Gore Horns of Royal House Arnsul without a trickle of nervous sweat running down his brow.
It was no secret in the Empire, Royal House Arnsul maintained such an easy place at the top of the hierarchy because of Varkan's skilled training of his elite corp of retainers for the King. His specially trained Myrmidons struck fear and despair into the hearts of any sentient creatures that dared to learn the hard way about minotaur tolerance for intruders. Many lesser Houses and even mercenary companies had offered emperor's ransoms of gold, rare fineries, and even females to coax Varkan into training just one or two of their own warriors. But he always refused, for his first and only loyalty lay in King Thranas Shield Breaker: the Lord of House Arnsul, ruler of the Taurassian Empire, slayer of the Beast of Naltae, the single warrior whose charge had broken the lines of a Roaman Legion, the strongest son of King Gellac, and father of the worst hunter on Knossos.
Thinking about what his father might want this time, Eilan hustled to get by Varkan's side. He was Prince of House Arnsul, and he walked in nobody's shadow! Varkan always seemed to know this, and he would often walk a pace that wore Eilan out within a quarter league. His flaunted stamina and endurance, yet another passive insult that Varkan would heap onto him without so much as a word.
"Where is your livery?" Varkan asked in a tone befitting a teacher scolding his mischievous student.
"I left it on the boulder just outside the palace gate," Eilan murmured under his breath.
The haft of an ax was instantly jabbed into his chin, and Varkan glared at Eilan. "Speak up, boy. I am your elder, who knows, I may be hard of hearing from having to shout at you so often! And again, learn to respect the colors of your House. You cast aside your father's treasured tabard as though it was a cheap whore from a dockside brothel. You are the last prince of House Arnsul, the sooner you learn that fact and accept my teachings, the sooner your father may battle in the realm of the ancestors alongside Aeukos."
Of course Varkan proudly wore his yellow and white tabard of the Royal House every moment of the waking day. The emblem of the anchor, the ancient sigil of the House, always looked sparkling white. And despite drawing more blood than any other warrior on the island, not a stray speck stained the dark yellow background. For male minotaurs, there were only five acceptable pieces of clothing and one piece of jewelry; a loincloth, bracers if he was a warrior, a belt to display his minor trophies, a cloak for bad weather, and of course his House tabard. Any more would be a hindrance, or cover up the imposing musculature of a minotaur. And to display his nobility, a nose ring was a part of the protocol. As a warrior, Varkan's ring was strengthened steel, and as a noble born son, Eilan was to wear a bronze ring until his ascension.
But there were some who almost encouraged Eilan to wear more clothing, like a priest's robe or a tunic, for he was possessing of one thing that truly struck him out as different among the toned minotaur race, flab. Varkan's whipcord muscle rippled under his short black fur, but Eilan....jiggled, when he walked. And with the pace Varkan had set, Eilan's rolls swayed and bounced on the rocky path.
Varkan stopped at the crest of a hill, holding so still that a he could have passed for an obsidian statue. The prince huffed and struggled to crest the small hillock, still cursing the Weaponsmaster for the destruction of his prized tome. With his eyes cast on the ground, he bumped into the stone still warrior. Without a word, Varkan ripped the javelin from his hands, took aim, and hurled the spear with all his might. The javelin rocketed through the air, and with a heavy thump it buried its head deep into the ribs of a stag lying nearly invisible in the tall grass.
Turning back to Eilan, he glared with that ever present sense of superiority. "I was not even here to hunt, yet in half an hour I have accomplished what you have failed to do since your father withdrew you from the cloisters of the priests."
Eilan growled under his breath. "Every day of my life you remind me of how I am not my father. Or even worse, how I am not Andrian or Thulgen. If you want them back from the halls of Aeukos, find a witch to bring life back to their corpses!" Eilan spat.
Varkan's fist clenched by his side, the veins bulging out on his forehead. Any more taunts or failures on Eilan's part could send him into that most dreaded of states: the bloodrage. All minotaurs could reach bloodrage, a state of berserking that was only stoppable through sheer exhaustion, a lack of enemies to tear apart, or the death of the berserker. It was usually pain or the sight of their own blood that sparked the red haze to come into their eyes and for all rational thought to be completely abandoned, though many a mutilation had been caused by anger.
But Varkan cooled his building rage, reminding himself that the dead were in the great halls of Aeukos, and that the White Bull had brought them there to take part in the endless feasts and the great tests of strength that would prepare them for the great battle at the end of days.
"If only you were half your brothers," Varkan lamented. "If only you possessed half the strength of Thulgen, or half the tactful mind of Andrian, perhaps your honorable father would look upon you first with pride." But Varkan's lament was lost to the wind. Thulgen and Andrian had met their fates in ways that brought shame to the Royal House. And any honored noble or retainer was hesitant to speak of how the elder sons of King Thranas had propelled the youngest son from the quiet life of priestly training to the title of Crown Prince.
It was the way of any noble House. The eldest was born and trained to succeed his father in holding the title of Lord, the second son was trained to lead the warriors and his father's retainers into battle, and the third was given as an offering to the White Bull to serve as a priest. Such ways, however, often led to second sons challenging the first sons for the title, and any sons past the third often fought and challenged for the opportunity to claim a more coveted place in their father's court.
And as the marble carved palace of the mightiest House of Taurassian loomed over the slope of the next hill, Eilan could only guess that his father had some gory court politics that he believed his son should witness.
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"Liar!" the Shipmaster of House Arkadios bellowed to the bull across the grand hall from him, a lesser lord of a lesser House.
"It is you who spouts the lies!" His rival, a merchant noble of House Enike screamed back. All around the two, in the vaulted hall of carved marble columns, minotaurs bearing the tabards and livery of every House in the Empire shouted their taunts and their jeers, eagerly waiting for the Arkadian and the Enikan to come to blows. These arguments always rang through the halls of the palace, and the entire throne room was designed to accommodate the duels that frequently erupted between the raging warriors.
The representative of House Arkadios clenched his fists, taking a step closer to the sand filled pit that was the defining feature of the throne room. Great tapestries hung down from the fluted columns and the walls. And whatever space was not bedecked in silken curtains and tapestries depicting the greatest scenes of victory from across the ages was covered in weapon racks, trophies from hunts, priceless treasures plundered from the deadliest foes, and the horns of all the challengers that came to usurp the authority of the presiding House, and had ultimately failed. It was not only the throne room where such opulence was flaunted, every hallway, corridor, and room was decorated much the same, with massive frescoes made from millions of little pieces of precious stones depicting the triumphs of the great Houses.
The Arkadian turned his ire away from his rival from House Enike, bowing lowly towards the gray bull seated comfortably in his throne. "My Lord Thranas Shield Breaker, this dog of House Enike is a liar, a cheat, and a pirate! A ship bearing the symbol of the albatross of Enike raided a ship from my fleet, and this very day I have seen my goods in the market, being sold by an Enikan merchant!"
"They were our pelts from our hunting lands, Lord Thranas Shield Breaker!" the Enikan screamed in retaliation. "The Arkadians have always been jealous of our success with the fur trade, and now this son of a whore weaves false tales of piracy to ruin us!"
At the insult aimed at his person, the Arkadian roared in rage, only the strong arms of his comrades preventing him from crossing the hall and dragging his rival into the pit. "A three decked galley bearing your personal mark was seen in my waters, cur! And now your merchants sell the hides that bears the mark of my trappers! You and all your kin are liars and pirates!"
The Enikan roared his own challenge, his fellows grabbing him bodily to prevent an unsanctioned bloodbath. "The fleet of House Enike possesses no three decked galleys, you idiot son of a dockside whore!" The Enikan fought himself to regain his composure, and again he turned back to the King on his throne. "My Lord Thranas Shield Breaker, this fool proclaims that the crime against him was piracy, and he is right. But what he fails to see is that it was pirates falsely bearing my symbol, not a ship of my own House! If his claims are not the usual slander of the treacherous House Arkadios," the Enikan said snidely.
"If it was a rogue pirate bearing your pennant, then how did the furs from my own estate come to be in your market stalls!" the Arkadian screamed back to him, the red haze falling over his eyes.
Up on the throne, King Thranas had barely heard a word of the exchange between House Arkadios and House Enike. The grey furred bull tapped his thick fingers on the arm of the throne, thoroughly bored with such normally enthralling and entertaining court procedures. Roaring arguments like this came like the tides; fairly even, always expected, and seemingly harsher during the full moon. He had no clue why, the squabbling of the lords just seemed more intense then.
The old king scratched an itch on his nose, brushing against the gold ring that was his mark as supreme ruler over both his House and this land. A pair of gold chains ran from his nose ring, down across his cheeks and around his sharp, forward-facing horns, another decoration and declaration of his dominance. And at the end of each chain was a hook that clasped onto his crown. The crown of Taurassian, a simple circlet of gold, bronze and steel that rested easily atop his horned head, with a pearl the size of a calf's fist adorning it as a center piece. Some said that pearl contained a certain magic that hearkened back to the founding of the Empire, when Asterion himself ripped this island from the clutches of a powerful fey race, and this pearl with it.
But of course, no magic flowed through any item of his possession. Magic was for the frail, the weak, and those who committed the greatest heresies against Aeukos, the witches. And to Thranas, there was no greater pleasure in the world than hearing the screams of a witch as they burned, their desperate pleas to their "spirits" and their gods of nature and magic more melodic to his ears than the songs to Aeukos and Asterion.
Thranas blinked his way back to the situation at hand, and only then did he notice that the hall had fallen silent, every lord and his retainers awaiting the judgement of the King. He rolled his eyes, and leaned up in his throne. He would be hard pressed to find any concern for their plight, as both Enike and Arkadios were lesser Houses of little importance. Neither of them had made many attempts in the past to secure his favor. Neither House had given him their daughters to act as concubines, nor any of their sons to act as adopted retainers and courtiers. That being so, and with the scales of bought favor leaning towards neither House, there was only one real decision he could make.
"Let Aeukos decide," Thranas declared, his stately voice booming throughout the throne room. "Soloc, listen to the voice of the White Bull, and tell us his words."
The attention turned from Thranas on his throne, down to an grey-white bull dressed in a royal purple robe. Soloc, the High Priest of the White Bull, one of the only minotaurs within the palace that was unadorned by either a nose ring or an honorable name. But every minotaur in the Empire bowed before the High Priest, and even King Thranas had to heed his word as the will of the Horned God.
Even older than Thranas, Soloc's gnarled hands and bony fingers still performed the rituals as perfectly as any of his disciples. The old bull set down his rod of station, an oaken staff said to be blessed by the touch of Asterion, and reached into the folds of his robe. Soloc withdrew a small leather pouch, and he leaned over a sacred brazier, spilling the contents of the pouch into the waiting flames.
The blazing coals eagerly consumed the powder, and belched out a thick, swirling smoke that smelled heavily of powerful incense. Soloc leaned into the pouring smoke, wafting it into his nostrils and breathing deeply. Only through the heady incense could he hear the godly voice of the White Bull and not be struck an idiot by its blinding power. Soloc leaned back, his eyes rolling back into his head. The old bull swayed where he stood, his head and horns weaving and dancing to an unheard song. Fully within his trance, Soloc began to murmur, too lowly to be heard by the king or the nobles. Thranas leaned forward, fully at the edge of his throne. He was always excited to hear the verdict of their god, and no warrior in the Empire could be called a liar if he said that Thranas was a zealot.
The High Priest shook and swayed for many minutes, lost in the intoxicating hold of the haze. Finally, his gibbering ceased, and Soloc looked down at the bitterly rivaled nobles with clear and enlightened eyes.
"The White Bull has spoken," Soloc said shakily. "And he has proclaimed that this shall be settled in the way of the ancients!" A grin of anticipation grew on the face of every minotaur in the throne room, knowing what words came next. "SUL'THAR!" Soloc bellowed, along with every warrior in the hall.
The ancient right of the blood duel, two minotaurs would enter a chosen ring of battle, and only one could leave while he still drew breath. Though in lesser disputes, the two chosen fighters would simply battle until one could be clearly declared as the superior warrior to preserve the life of a valuable warrior. Weapons were forbidden, and only the brute strength and cunning of the individual duelist was allowed.
A cheer arose from the assembled warriors, and bets as to who the the winner might be and how the loser would meet his ancestors began to flow through the crowd. Anything from gold to entire ships were placed as wagers, and no expense was too great for the wealthy lords of Taurassian. It wasn't truly the gambling, it was the sport itself that was so exhilarating. Sul'Thar was the true test of a minotaur's prowess, and in ages past it had more often than not been the event that propelled a House closer to the throne, or dragged it down to nothing more than a family of snobby commoners.
"House Arkadios, choose your champion!" Thranas bellowed to the red and brown liveried nobles. The Shipmaster of Arkadios who had come to reclaim his goods motioned to one of his followers, a ragged looking sailor who had seen more than his fair share of brawls and duels. The cobalt blue-furred fighter removed his trident emblazoned tabard, handing it reverently to his sponsoring noble. Without another word, the fighter leapt into the sand filled pit sank into the center of the throne room.
"House Enike, choose your champion!" Thranas bellowed to the blue and white liveried nobles. The lesser noble of House Enike grinned deviously, and nodded to the back of his entourage. His ranks parted, and a truly massive minotaur plodded through. Standing head and shoulders above his challenger, the fighter of House Enike lacked a nose ring, and once his tabard came off, long white scars showed brightly across his shoulders. The Enikan champion looked around, as if looking for more instructions. His noble sponsor grimaced before nodding towards the pit. Realizing his fate, the Enikan champion leapt into the pit.
King Thranas leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. House Arkadios had chosen a weathered and experienced fighter, though he was just a sailor. But more interesting, House Enike had apparently plucked a slave from their fields and slapped a tabard on him. He had the toned muscle of one who had toiled in the sun for years, but he also had that resigned look of one who had worn chains the whole time.
What deal had the Enikan lord made with that mountain of whipped muscle? His freedom for an honorable victory in the ring? Perhaps a title of his own, land, ships, females? If he won, House Enike would have the right to demand an exorbitant amount of wealth in recompense for the smear on their reputation. If they lost, all they would lose was a slave and the furs in the market. Thranas glanced at the smug Enikan lord, and felt that perhaps the sly dog had planned this from the beginning.
Perhaps he had raided the Arkadian ship. Well done to him and his House, Thranas thought to himself. Perhaps House Arnsul should invest a greater interest in House Enike.
"This will be interesting," a heavy voice said from behind the throne. "Who are the combatants?"
Thranas looked over his shoulder, a grin alighting on his face. "Varkan! I was beginning to worry that you would miss all the fun."
"Never, my lord," the black bull said with a grin, taking his place by Thranas' left hand, across from Soloc. Varkan peered over at the robed priest, giving him a curt nod, barely tilting his head for Soloc. "High Priest."
"Weaponsmaster," Soloc acknowledged just as curtly. It was a well known fact that the devout Soloc and the pragmatic Varkan did not get along, and if the High Priest had been allowed to raise a weapon in anger, it would have come to blows years ago. Varkan respected the station of the High Priest, he just held no respect for the High Priest himself.
Thranas did not notice the thick tension between his differing advisors, and he began to inform Varkan of the situation. "House Arkadios has accused House Enike of piracy!" the King eagerly whispered to the Weaponsmaster. "And the only way it can be resolved is through Sul'Thar. The Arkadians have chosen a sailor as their champion, but the Enikans have chosen that mountain of a slave to fight for them! A daring move!" The Lord of Arnsul noticed the absence of one in particular. "Where is Eilan? We cannot begin until he is here!"
The two gladiators in the pit faced their king, awaiting the order to begin. Thranas looked around, finally spying his youngest son leaned against the wall, far from any good view of the pit. "Eilan, come and join us!" Thranas ordered. The prince groaned, stalking over to rest by Soloc. The King grimaced at his son's preference to the aged priest, unlike Andrian and Thulgen, who had always been at Varkan's side.
Thranas stood from his throne, grasping up the massive sword from beside the throne. It was his chosen weapon, and among minotaur society, a chosen weapon was akin to a warrior's own heart, so valuable and precious it was to its bearer. This blade had cut down entire armies like blades of grass, and when Thranas hefted it above his head, the tip aiming towards the heavens, it came with the greatest ease. His greatsword's blade was wider than his fingers could spread, and the emblem of both House Arnsul and the Arnsul Myrmidons was etched into the cold steel.
Thranas waited, taking in a single breath of the salty, moist air of the sea breeze as it wove through the open columns. And once he let out that breath, he shouted, "Let Sul'Thar.... BEGIN!" The greatsword sliced down, and as the steel blade rang from the impact into the marble floor, the two gladiators spun on their hooves to face one another.
Each crouched low, their arms spread out wide. The Enikan slave and the Arkadian sailor slowly circled one another, each carefully awaiting any openings in their opponent's defenses, carefully trying to gauge one another's strengths.
"I am Steel Eyes!" the sailor shouted to his opponent. He grinned, using his blood name in the face of an opponent as tradition and honor had mandated since the days of Asterion. "And you are of No Worthy Name, bastard son of a firbolg!"
The Enikan's lips curled back over his teeth, and he snorted in anger, just as the Arkadian wanted. With a roar, the massive slave charged across the pit. The sailor dug his hooves into the sand, bracing himself for the raging wave of anger that as the slave. And like a wave crashing on a rock, the slave slammed into the sailor, throwing his hands around the sailor's forearms and locking horns with his foe.
The sailor pressed back as hard as he could, similarly locking his fingers around his opponent's arms. He began to slide back to the wall, not of his own accord, leaving ruts where his hooves dug into the sand. The sailor twisted out his horns from their embrace in the slave's horns, slamming his head into the slave's. The massive fighter stumbled backwards, releasing his grip on the sailor.
The sailor slipped to the right of the clumsy slave, throwing a muscled arm around the larger bull's neck and weaving his hoof around his opponent's right leg. With one mighty, heaving pull, he tripped up the huge slave, slamming him face first into the sand of the pit. The sailor intended to finish this quickly, and he straddled the slave's back, stomping his hooves onto the slave's hands, grasping his horns and twisting with all his strength.
But the slave's body had been tempered by years of toil, and his bones were tougher than the roots of the most ancient oak trees. Arching his back, he slammed the back of his head into the sailor's muzzle, and the Arkadian stumbled back, a gout of crimson blood spewing from his broken nose. The Enikan leapt to his hooves, faster than any spectator suspected that he was capable of. Leveling his horns at the Arkadian's chest, he charged, intending to pierce as many organs and break as many bones as he could.
The Arkadian sailor sidestepped, but the Enikan was too quick, and the edge of a sharp horn left a deep gash in his ribs. Another gout of blood poured from the sailor, and seeing it falling to the sand brought a red haze to his vision. Looking at the recovering slave, the sailor pawed the ground, bellowing as the bloodrage overtook his senses. He charged the slave, and lowering his horns the slave barely managed to keep his ground.
The two fighters locked horns once again, and with the bloodrage empowering the sailor, the two were even matches for strength. Snarling at his enemy, flecks of spittle fell from his mouth and the red of blood filled his eyes. The sailor twisted his horns left and right, trying to angle them in to the slave's face and gouge his eyes out.
The slave saw only one way to gain an advantage, and he twisted his legs to prepare. He got his chance a moment later, when the sailor pulled back his head to slam his horns into the slave's forehead again. The slave spun on his right hoof, and with so much momentum behind his coming blow, the sailor fell forward to an empty space where his opponent used to be. He stumbled on his own hooves, and caught off balance, he was vulnerable.
The slave slammed into the sailor's back, wrapping his arms around his midriff and lifting him completely off the ground. The Enikan charged with his opponent to the wall of the pit, and he cruelly slammed his enemy into the stone wall of the pit. The sailor twisted and writhed, managing to spin around in his opponent's grip. Raising up his arms, the sailor dropped an elbow into his enemy's back. The slave grunted in pain, slamming his enemy into the wall again.
The slave pounded him into the wall again, but another elbow to the back loosened his grip, and the sailor fell to the floor. The slave loomed over him, spreading his arms wide and falling forward to crush the sailor with his mountainous body.
The sailor rolled out from under his opponent before the almost certainly crippling slam could come, and when the slave slammed into the sandy floor, the sailor rolled on top of him. Wrapping an arm around his throat, the sailor flexed his arms, strangling the slave in the crook of his elbow. Pressing his free arm into the back of the slave's head, the enraged Arkadian roared when the slave's struggles became more desperate. Elbows slammed into his ribs, and more than one cracked under the pounding blows, but the bloodraged minotaur felt no pain. Twisting even harder as the blackness of unconsciousness closed in on the edge of his vision, a horn caught and tore into the forehead of his enemy.
But the sailor held on. And after a minute of strangling his enemy, the slave's struggles became weaker, and he lightly pawed at the Arkadian's face, slipping away from the battle into the comforting embrace of honorable death. The sailor released his foe, hurling the body to the ground. Panting from the energy consuming bloodrage, he planted a hoof into his dead opponent's back, roaring his victory to all the warriors circling the pit.
He raised his arms, spreading them wide to accept the accolades of his fellow warriors. His name was chanted by the pleased crowds, his fellows of House Arkadios screaming it in pride.
"Steel Eyes! Steel Eyes! Steel Eyes!" they chanted, and several warriors of his House leapt down into the pit, bearing their wounded brother out on their shoulders.
The nobles and retainers of House Enike slumped over in shame. Their gambit had been a bold one, one that had the possibility of dealing a devastating blow to their greatest rivals in House Arkadios. But their greatest flaw had been mistaking size for strength, and now they had lost face and a valuable slave. But in reality, the Arkadians had gained no honor or face, having only dispatched an expendable field worker.
King Thranas clapped his great approval for the fantastic fight. Standing from his throne, he walked down the steps and to the Arkadians, congratulating their champion with a firm clap on the shoulder. But before they could slink away with their tails between their legs, Thranas turned to the Enikans. "House Enike, your champion has lost in a duel of Sul'Thar. The White Bull has spoken through the strength of this champion. You will return all that belongs to the Arkadians, with interest."
The lesser noble of Enike blanched, his jaw falling low. He expected to come away clean, with no repercussions for his gambit, but at Thranas' declaration of 'with interest', his fate had been sealed. The shamed Enikans bowed low, muttering to themselves about how ruinous this would be. 'Interest' typically meant ships and sons, if they did not have the gold to pay off the often outrageous sums demanded. If they lost a good portion of their trade fleet and their sons as retainers to House Arkadios, Noble House Enike would be hard pressed to survive the next trade season with a shrunken fleet and no warriors. Perhaps they would even have to leave their island hold for a more promising land on the fringes of the Empire; in Zebrica, Saddle Arabia, or even in the dangerous seas near the territory of the Roamans.
In all reality, this loss could have been the death knell for the Noble House Enike. But their underhanded tactics had intrigued the king, and he could think of a few uses for the Enikans, and he considered making a few dozen "adoptions" should House Enike fall.
****************************************************
Eilan paced down the frescoed corridor, wanting more than anything to just go back to the safety and ease of the priesthood. He uneasily fingered the medallion of the anchor that lay under his tabard, and he wondered when his day would come when he would have to enter that pit across from his father. It was tradition, and there was no escape from it. He would have to give his father an honorable death and prove that he had the strength to rule as king.
He wondered if he should stop by the harem and peruse his options for the evening, perhaps "sample" a few of the more choice concubines. It was a pleasure that was new to him, since only in the past few years had he been allowed to view females in the light of lust. Aeukos required little from his warriors except for blood and honor, but the White Bull apparently desired a strict celibacy and a vow of non-violence from his priests.
But he would deal with choosing this evening's bedmate later. Eilan followed a simple route through the palace, one that all minotaurs knew and could follow. For even if they got lost in the twisting labyrinth of corridors and the mazes of columns, all one had to do to find the temple was follow the frescoes. Each fresco was made from hundreds of shards of glass and gems, and they depicted the rolling sea, filled with fish, mer, naga, sea ponies, and the sunken ships that littered the Inner Sea. And atop the rolling waves, minotaurs piloted great ships, cast out their nets and fishing spears, and dueled for supremacy over the waves. Of course, the waves all flowed one direction, and they flowed out from the temple where they began.
Eilan entered the great chapel, a place kept dark except for a single beam of sunlight that illuminated the central altar, and above it, the statue of Aeukos. Carved from pure white marble with curved, wickedly sharp golden horns, the White Bull was depicted rising from the waves that he had been born from, towering over any worshiper that dared to come into his chapel. And from the base of his podium, the waves on the frescoes radiated outwards throughout the palace, a symbolic depiction saying that all that was Taurassian was but the ripples of Aeukos.
And depicted in a hundred thousand tiny sparkling gemstones, behind the the imposing statue of the Horned God, was Asterion, the first minotaur and son of Aeukos. It was said that Aeukos had taken a female of a race known only as the fey as his bride, and from their union came Asterion. Besides being the first of the mighty race, Asterion was the greatest hero and the first king of Taurassian, carving the Empire from the mysterious kingdom of the fey.
Of course, many philosophers and priests maintained that the fey were never real, that they were just symbolic in the mythos of the first king. Asterion had been born solely from the spilled blood of Aeukos and Aeukos had been born from the sea, not from the loins of some mythical fairy creature. But, there were others, like the reviled witches, that said that the fey had been very real, and that the minotaurs shared a lineage with the fey, along with the mer, the dryads, and even the giants of Rus. Most priests dismissed that as nonsense and the rantings of heretics.
"Fifty years as a priest have I tended this chapel, and never once have I let the flame upon the altar burn out," a shaky old voice said from far behind Eilan. The young prince turned to see his old mentor shuffling towards the great altar. Soloc carried the Staff of Asterion firmly in his hand, ready to use as a cane if the effect of the incense from earlier proved to be too much. "And yet, there is always a sense of awe that comes over me when I look upon Aeukos. How do the events of the day fare with you, my Lord?"
Eilan chuckled to himself, shaking his blonde maned head. "Soloc, I have told you, never call me Lord."
"Oh?" the over friendly and fatherly bull said with a smile. "My pardon, Prince Eilan. But I am still adjusting to your rather sudden ascension. So, what did you learn from the court today?"
"Never use a slave when warriors are plentiful," Eilan scoffed. The Enikans were overly political and rather brash fools for trusting that size alone could win a duel against a seasoned warrior. They would almost deserve the imminent predation upon their caravans and merchant convoys in the coming months.
Soloc shook his grizzled head. "Beyond that, Prince Eilan. Did you learn anything of tactics, or fighting? Or perhaps even politics? If there is one thing that Varkan and I can find common ground upon, it is the importance of your training."
"Thulgen was the warrior," Eilan commented offhand. "Andrian was the politician and the leader. I was meant to be here, tending the eternal flames and reading the scriptures. It was what I was born to do. If my father desires a warrior to take the throne, why not allow Varkan to ascend? He is the greatest warrior in all the isles, and he would rule for many years."
"Because, my young prince, Varkan is not of Arnsul blood, nor even of noble blood, just as I," Soloc explained, going into the story of Varkan, the once lost child of the city. "You know the story of the Weaponsmaster, a waif from the slums of Knossos, bereft of parentage. One day he traveled the beach, looking for something to fill his belly when he heard the cries of a youth in pain. Running to his aid, he slew the sea eagle that assaulted him bare handed, and saved your father's life. From there on, they were inseparable, almost brothers. It is why Varkan and your honored father hold such a close bond."
Eilan rolled his eyes, remembering the story of how Varkan had also earned his name that day. Carrying the young Thranas over his shoulder, the young Varkan had laid him before King Gellac, the blood and flesh of the sea eagle still dripping from his horns. And at his son's insistence, King Gellac had showered him with both an honorable name, and a tabard of Arnsul. Gore Horns, the name that Varkan screamed to his enemies just before he sent them to meet their ancestors, and after decades of training with the masters of martial prowess from all corners of the world, one of the most feared and respected names in the Empire.
And before he could ever remotely think of challenging his father and wrestling the crown from his dying body, Eilan had to earn an honorable blood name through a heroic deed of his own. Hence the monsters placed strategically throughout Eilan's "hunting" grounds. At the very worst, he could earn his blood name by slaying his father in a duel. But the only name that could be earned from such an act was Kin Slayer, and if a king sat on the throne with no other claim to heroism than killing the old king, it was a sign of weakness and an open invitation to an invasion by another House.
"What am I to do, Soloc?" Eilan said to the aging priest. "Until a few years ago, I was not to raise a blade except in sacrifice to Aeukos. And now I have to enter Sul'Thar against a warrior who has the horns of a score of challengers adorning his walls."
Soloc patted Eilan on the shoulder, nodding knowingly to the young prince. "Do not think of him just as a strange warrior, Eilan. He is also your father. And it is your duty to grant him the honorable passage to the halls of Aeukos. Think of it not as a responsibility, but as a gift that you may bestow on an aged warrior whose blade can no longer see battle. Give it time, young warrior, your opportunity will come. Until then, I suggest that you heed the words of Varkan above anyone else's. For Varkan knows better than any how to deal a killing blow. Aeukos does favor the prepared, after all."
The High Priest gave Eilan an encouraging clap on the shoulder, a wide smile on his face. "Now, I've heard that Mistress Renna has a few new girls in the harem, perhaps you should be a gentlebull and introduce yourself."
The barest hint of a grin cracked on Eilan's troubled facade, and he nodded in appreciation to Soloc. "Thank you, High Priest." The Crown Prince spun on his hooves and walked out of the great marble entryway of the temple.
Soloc nodded to nobody but himself. The aged priest shambled over to the altar of Aeukos, a slab of rough stone that the temple had been built around, the very stone where Asterion had offered the first sacrifice, legend held that it was an alicorn foal, to his father the White Bull. Placing the Staff of Asterion onto the permanently bloodstained altar, Soloc fell to his knees and began to murmur his prayers to his mighty god.
***************************************************
The flags of House Ilium whipped in the stiff breeze, the sailors of the noble House donning their customary livery as their great galley pulled skillfully next to the docks. Dock workers tossed mooring ropes out to the liveried sailors, and the galley was soon secured to the moorings. The gangplank was lowered, and as soon as the Shipmaster himself had presented his manifest and his letters of mark, the single passenger was allowed to disembark.
The gryphon seemed to flow down and off the gangplank, his steps only swaying in the slightest from constant rocking of the oceans which had been his bane for the last few days. Carrying nothing but his pack and shrouded in a thick cloak, Adawulf made his way down the docks, hardly taking any notice of the gawking minotaur commoners and sailors, many of which had never left Knossos, much less seen a creature of such dark repute as a gryphon.
He hated their stares, and silently marked out the faces of any who witnessed his passing. Subtlety was his ultimate friend, and being able to melt into a crowd the most useful tool of his trade. And should any of these commoners take any more than just a passing interest in the gryphon, it could mean complications in completing his contract. If they made any move to talk to any authorities, he would be forced to add another notch to his belt and retreat into hiding until everything calmed.
But the dock workers unknowingly chose the wisest course, and turned back to their labors. But the greatest obstacle stood in front of him, bearing a pair of spectacles and a thick port manifest. Adawulf calmly approached the Dockmaster, a graying old bull bearing a worn tabard of House Arnsul.
"Name?" the Dockmaster mechanically inquired.
Adawulf remained silent, reaching into one of his many pockets and bringing out a fist full of glimmering gemstones. Slapping them down on the logbook, Adawulf nodded. The Dockmaster glanced around as discreetly as he could, sliding the small fortune of precious stones into a pouch.
"Welcome to Knossos, Master Telone," the Dockmaster said, giving out one of the most common and unremarkable names that he could think of. Bribery was nothing new to any member of a Noble House, and with the single passenger of the Ilium ship technically accounted for, everyone was happy. "Are you here for business, or for pleasure?" the Dockmaster asked Adawulf, continuing the strict protocols.
Adawulf peered out of his hood, his cold, grey eyes showing nothing but the cool demeanor of a hunter nearing his prey.
"Both," the assassin responded.
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will this have any ties to the war of the fallen race universe?
2709884 It does, but it's centuries before the resurrection of humanity. There will be subtle hints. Okay, not so subtle.
2709890 Alright.
Oh shit son!
mlpchan.net/fic/src/1355043294099.gif
2709890 I see you finally gotten around to posting this. Well, I know what I'm doing tonight.