BBook 2: Chapter 24: Black Sun, Black Blood II.

BBook 2: Chapter 24: Black Sun, Black Blood II.

Valencia had not seen fit to lie, I found. With her directions in mind, I found the minotaur camp within hours of her disappearing back into the forest. The dreadknight -for all that I was right to be wary of her- was not a liar. Cold from the early onset of evening, I squinted into the dying, cloud-obscured light and made out what remained of the camp before me.

Corpses lay strewn everywhere, first and foremost. I stepped gingerly among the gore, hooves tracking dirt into the congealed blood. The human side of me wanted to wrinkle my nostrils in disgust. The minotaur body was so used to this that it almost failed to notice.

Not all had died equally. This I expected. Gareks memories showed the prevalence of honor duels among the bulls. Thick-headed smashing of skulls together to assert dominance over every little thing.

The dreadknights slaughter was messy. Not sure what else I expected when she preferred to rip things apart with her hands.

Her personal touch made it easy to identify which few had been killed by their brethren. There were no clean deaths among minotaurs, but those inflicted by weapons were far less gruesome than Valencias bare hands. Easier to identify too.

Splits skulls and pierced chests were ironically cleaner deaths than the brutality Valencia had wrought. Corpses lay strew all throughout the rough camp, violently thrown about and left to lie broken in the dirt.

They did not interest me. The dead stayed so, and they kept their secrets well. In lieu of a necromancer, I would need to to find information otherwise. It was to warband standard then that there were no tents or shelters of any kind. To seek comfort was weakness in their minds, after all.

They would have slept normally as they did now, albeit perhaps in less awkward positions.

Instead, rucksacks were the only thing the warband carried outside of their clothes and armor. Haphazard collections of materials that would allow the warpath to be traveled at all speed. Longer strides, better endurance, less need for shelter, and able to forage for their own needs. Minotaur warbands had the talent of being able to move so inconveniently fast that most races would falter and break pace long before they tired.

They could outrun and outlast most horses if needed.

All this, I would know. I was once among their hordes.

By sheer providence of this land being some backwards province of a land-locked human kingdom had I not encountered another one before. That luxury had slipped away, now.

Frustrated hands tore through study packs and left supplies strewn everywhere as I searched for something, anything that might yield the answers I sought. Written words to fill the gaping void of knowledge within.

There were no written orders or letters. Fool had I been to expect any, given how these roaming berserkers likely shared similar literacy levels with a rabid squirrel.

Whetstones, leather grease, dried rations, too-small clothes I ripped out of packs and cast aside. A piece of oxhide with an axe scratched on and dozens of furrows held my interest for a few moments until I realized its owner was expressing the extent of their writing abilities to record kills.

The greatest find to this corpse-laden camp was a crude map pulled from underneath one of the bodies. Stained with blood, it appeared barely legible. Only becuase I had taken the time to familiarize myself with geography recently did I recognize it was a drawn map of this place and the surrounding areas, with the Redtip marked and a path scrawled towards it.

They had known where to come looking before even entering the province, I concluded. Yet this did little to help me find from where they originated. The direction the path was scratched onto the map came from the south-east.

Desperately wracking Gareks memories found that the minotaur had possessed a very poor sense of direction. What exactly lay south-east of where I lived, I knew little of beyond the names of small countries and kingdoms.

My own journey had taken place from directly south, and if memory served me, the Blackfall Pits were the reason minotaur tribes gathered there. Spawning pits of various monster breeds might serve to drive away most other species, but they allowed the battle-hungry minotaurs to thrives there.

The fromer Gareks memories proved, once again, wholly unreliable. I managed to glean that his tribe had freshly moved there shortly before his death, yet memories before that were a blur of anger, frustration and self-loathing. Failing to measure up with others of his age, if my own memories were of any reliance.

The sort of anger that might turn a man to desperate measures in order to succeed.

While he had not, his loss had been turned into my rebirth. All for the better.

Rare as this moment of clarity and self-acceptance was, it was not sacrosanct.

The sounds of branches being trampled and leaves crushed underfoot made me rise, hand on my sheathed claymore.

Underhoof, actually. I stood corrected as a minotaur barreled from the trees and skidded to a halt, eyes going wide as he glimpsed me. Matter fur, tired eyes, gasping breath all heralded exhaustion. He stood frozen for a moment, neither willing to make the first move. Squat for one of his race, streaks of white on brown fur and two stubby horns were what I saw past the smell of fear that lay about him.

There was little I knew of this minotaur, and littler still that made me trust him. He had come here with my death in mind, just like the rest. The only thing of note that I knew was that he had ran when Valencia appeared.

Yes. Her, I know. We have fought before.

The details on how that fight had ended, I chose to forfeit.

The minotaur smelled of fear and caution now. Was I an even greater foe than Valencia? Was I capable of butchery on a larger scale than she?

He did not know, and his uncertainty benefited me.

Tell me. I demanded. Where this warband hails from, and who sent it.

The details came slowly, cautiously. They had traveled here for weeks now at full pace. All the way from the Craglands to the south-east. A detail corroborated by the map. Word of a new dungeon had sent ripples of excitement through various tribes, and then the System announcing a new Godtouched had sent that to a fervor when several tribes recognized the name Garek.

This warband had all but bolted ahead of the rest, the choice made to travel light and press hard.

It was almost unsettling to hear how much effort and excitement there was over my potential death. These people, Gareks race, had seen him, no, saw me as a stepping stone for their own gain and fame. Loyalty was not a trait becoming of a minotaur.

Excitement had faded past the first few days as bulls had reverted back towards their griping ways. The hit of exhilaration and anticipation faded and the long drag of travel had set in. At least for the minotaur that described all to me now.

While this is surely of great fascination, I want details on who else is coming.

The travels of this warband did not overly concern me. That had come, they had died. Their story had concluded as a footnote in my own. Who and what would come next was the knowledge I hungered for.

You need to know. The minotaur slowly realized. Like a calf drowning at sea, he latched onto that anchor with desperation. Swear then that you will let me go without chase if I tell you.

Only then did I realize how much dread I instilled in him. He knew nothing of me, knew not that I had grown fond of peace. I was just another slaughterer who had butchered his way to glory, albeit one that had betrayed the tribes.

Every detail. I demanded. For every facet of knowledge I glean use from, I will allow you another hour before I pursue.

Violence and the threat thereof were the only language these people understood. And I could speak it oh so well.

I learned of tribes that sought my head, people that claimed to know me and my weaknesses. I learned that warbands massed with the sole purpose of claiming my head. Some slight horror grew underneath the trepidation at the sheer scope opf the tide of violence that was to ride my way.

This was not the simple work of a singular warband. These bulls had been the drops to arrive before the storm swept in. Each word this minotaur spoke painted the strokes of a grim horizon that came even as I slept.

Larger, more well organized and supplied warbands would travel slower, a tide of fur and blood creeping up the horizon. But they would come. And I could not stop them alone.

Go. I growled and gestured once the minotaur fell silent. Take what you need and flee this place. Do not return lest you wish to die among your friends.

These are no friends of mine. He felt the need to clarify that in particular. Watchful eyes on him at all times, I observed the minotaur gathering supplies into a sack as my thoughts raced.

My future looked to be filled with blood indeed.

Eyes locked on me all the while, the brawny minotaur stepped backwards, slowly disappearing into the chokingly thick forest. A minute passed, perhaps more as I stood and glared. Only once he was well and truly gone did my shoulders slump and the strength leave me.

Tired breath escaped from my lips andmy vision grew bleary as I sat amongst the dead and contemplated what I had just learned.

I gazed among the carnage and let the realization grow within that I needed someone well versed in fighting minotaurs. Someone willing and able and eager for slaughter. Someone to stomach it all when I could not. Someone who had done this all before.

I needed Valencia.