by Lucas, Naomi
She squeezed her mother even tighter, hoping the moment would last forever, but all too soon her mother began to struggle in her grip. The cacophony of battle outside returned, and Calavia was forced to let go.
Calavia stepped back, exhausted and dizzy; her guilt, the goodbye, and the constant fight had sapped more of her energy than she thought.
As she was about to right herself and steal the last thing left of her mother, a terrible, lacerating pain exploded out from her lower belly.
A scream tore from Calavia’s throat as her eyes widened with hysterical clarity. She looked down to see the handle of her ritual dagger sticking out of her. She stumbled back against her altar in agonizing shock, barely catching herself on its side before she fell to her knees.
“Why?” She coughed as she clutched the weapon with shaky hands. She barely noticed as her mother stepped in front of her and dislodged Calavia’s grip, sliding the dagger back out of her. Blood poured from the wound.
Calavia forced her eyes up as she felt the last of her strength seep away.
“Why?” she gasped. But her mother didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge her question. Regret filled her as she stared at her mother, hearing Astegur roar somewhere nearby.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed, but no sound came out.
Her vision grew dark. The green aura of her magic dissipated in the air, and the last thing she saw before her eyes closed was her mother using the dagger upon herself, stabbing out her own heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Astegur stepped into the early morning light and into the reeking clouds of smoke released by the bonfires surrounding Prayer. A trail of fire lined the path of the centaur approaching him, and glinting seashells caught his eyes, reflecting the fires off the centaur’s decorative armor.
The centaur stopped several feet before the temple steps on which Astegur now stood, looking down upon him. They glared at each other, sizing the other up, looking for the other’s weaknesses. Astegur’s nostrils flared, unable to contain the rising power brewing inside him.
The horsebeast wore a mix of leather and chainmail armor, reworked together to fit his lumbering frame. His belly and sexual organs were covered with it, meaning Astegur couldn’t directly go for a gutting. The centaur’s legs, shins, and hooves were also guarded with plates and poleyns to protect his joints. Thick leather draped over his back, held in place by straps cinched out of sight, with another large leather piece draped in the front, protecting where man met horse. Above that, a humanoid breastplate covered the rest. The centaur also wore a helmet that shielded his cheeks and had an opening at the top to so that his hair spilled out like a plume.
None of the other centaurs around wore nearly as much armor, and Astegur knew from the horsebeast’s confident bearing and easy gait this warhorse had fought many times at the labyrinth wall and survived. The warrior carried a spear that’s head was engulfed in flame, and a sturdy round, wooden shield hanging from his other arm.
Astegur’s hands tightened on the shafts of his own weapons.
A worthy opponent.
Behind the warhorse, who was baring his teeth in anger, gathered the few centaurs who had managed to break through the barrier and make it across the settlement in one piece.
The warchief pointed his spearhead in his direction. “Stand down, for you have lost, bull, and I promise a quick death.”
Astegur rolled his shoulders. “I have never wanted a quick death.”
“You are outnumbered.”
“If that is what you truly think, then come up here and engage me.”
The centaur sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in the horseman’s eyes as he looked past Astegur to the darkened temple entrance at the minotaur’s back.
The warchief lifted one hoof and pawed the ground. “I know there is a mist witch slinking about and casting spells. I know there are thralls here under her command. I do not fear her, nor you, nor them, for I am Kryiakos Enios, purifier of the Enios coast, and war general to my people. Unlike you, I do not hide behind dark magic to win my battles.” He waved his flaming spear in an arch above his head. “This is your last chance. Surrender, minotaur. Your kind are a parasite to these lands, and I shall root you out like the ticks you are.”
Astegur’s lips tugged up into a twisted smile, feeling the smoke in his belly seep through the cracks of his teeth to rise in the air. Excitement mounted in his skull with the upcoming battle, and the threats of the centaur general only ignited it further. Astegur’s only thoughts as he roamed his eyes over his opponent was whether he should kill him quickly to return to Calavia sooner, or to draw the fight out, giving her more time. Surely the other centaurs would attack when their leader fell. He could hold off one much easier than a score.
Rising up on his back legs, Kryiakos bellowed, “Your smile damns you!” The other centaurs did the same.
But as the warchief rose, Astegur saw it, his opening, just behind the general’s legs, at the crux of where they attached to its body, a soft opening where the armor did not cover him. Astegur’s taunting smile grew, and the anger of the centaurs increased with it.
Kryiakos snarled. “I will drag the witch that has ensorcelled you out by her ankle and break her as your blood feeds this putrid swamp. Her wretched body, being ravaged by horsecock and spears, will be the last thing you see before the bloatflies feast on your corpse!”
Astegur’s smile turned cold. He stepped down the broken temple steps. Fire and fury lit his face up as he deeply inhaled the bonfire smoke, his body priming for action.
“Quickly,” he said. He would kill this horsebeast quickly.
Kryiakos narrowed his eyes. “So be it!”
Astegur rushed him, swinging the battleaxe in his right hand to meet Kryiakos’s spear as it thrust down at his approach. Their weapons met and held. He braced against the sudden flood of tension as they pushed against each other, feeling out the centaur’s strength.
Kryiakos slammed his shield down, his height unmatched, towards Astegur’s head. Astegur swung his other axe upward, stopping the shield before it made contact. He jerked back and right, shifting his weight to his left foot as Kryiakos kicked his front right leg out, missing him by a whisper of distance. Before the centaur’s leg touched the ground, Astegur twisted to the right side and pressed forward, rolling along the general’s side and slashing at the armor draped there, testing its resilience. His axe caught in its straps, halting his movement just long enough for the centaur to catch him with a back kick.
The smoke in his belly burst out of him as he stumbled away. Astegur bent forward from the brutal kick, but recovered and straightened as Kryiakos swerved to face him.
“Is that all you are able to do, pest?”
Astegur gritted his teeth and rolled his axes in his hands, adjusting his grip. He forced a pained smile back to his lips. “Try again and see.”
Kryiakos thrust his spearhead forward, and their weapons met again. This time, when his shield came down to stun Astegur, he caught it in his horns and twisted in a circle, yanking the piece right out of the centaur’s grip. His gaze blurred from the impact, but he felt the shield fall down his back and splash in the water at his hooves.
The jeers of their onlookers filled his ears just as another surge of pain filled his body before he could dodge away from Kryiakos. Startled, Astegur stumbled away as pain engulfed his torso and arm.
He looked down to see that there was a deep gash down his collarbone and over his left bicep where Kryiakos had caught him with his spearhead. His left arm was partially limp. Astegur saw the flaming weapon move away for another stab.
He dropped his secondary axe and dodged as Kryiakos swept his weapon outward in his direction again.
Astegur caught the spear with his horns and twisted again. The centaur yanked his weapon back before he was disarmed completely. They disengaged and Astegur re-braced himself, spreading his hooves apart, panting out. His left arm grew heavier by the second.
&nb
sp; “Are you willing to die here, general?” Astegur asked. “For an insult my brother made upon your people?”
“I am not the one in threat of dying.” Kryiakos flicked out his spear. “Even if you happen to fell me, you cannot take on the rest of my warriors here and live to tell the tale.”
“We would make great allies.”
“That time has come and passed.”
Astegur lips rose back up into a smile. He clenched his left hand and tensed his bloody, partially cauterized arm, taking in the strength of the pain inflicted upon him. Each battle needed a scar to remember it by. “The Bathyr will avenge my death.”
Kryiakos cackled. “Then we will wait for them on the battlefield so they can fall as quickly as you. As quickly as the first of your kin I encountered. We struck him to the ground in one sure hit and took him captive to satisfy our leader’s anger.”
What? Astegur drew back, confused by the centaur’s words, but swiftly dodged to the side as Kryiakos’s spear came slashing out at him again. He has taken my brother? Their weapons met once more as the centaur swiveled to keep Astegur in front of him. He had no time to inquire further about his brother when a barrage of strikes came at him again and again. Astegur continued to move to either side of Kryiakos, disorienting the centaur. The hollers of the other centaurs grew quiet as the heat of battle grew.
The mist closed in, drawn to the spilled blood.
He waited for Kryiakos to stab at him again, this time rolling forward before the weapon hit home. Astegur thrust his horns upward, and as he’d hoped, the centaur reared up on his back legs to avoid them. Astegur stopped mid thrust and instead grabbed Kryiakos back leg with his left hand and twisted it. The centaur screamed and buckled. Astegur kept his grip tight as his opponent tried to dislodge him, scraping the tips of his horns along Kryiakos back haunch, meeting skin where the armor was tied to the horse.
Blood rushed down his horns as Astegur lost his grip, jarred by another kick from the war general, but in Kryiakos’s quest to dislodge him, Astegur grabbed the horsebeast’s tail with his free hand and slammed the sharp edge of his axe down with the other, cleaving it off at the root.
Kryiakos screamed again, catching Astegur with his next back kick, dislodging him from his body. They separated from one another, panting, wounded. Astegur threw Kryiakos’s tail into the mud at his side as the horsebeast stumbled around to meet him head-on.
“You will pay for that!” Kryiakos roared. “Attack the temple and bring me the mist witch cunt! This battle has stirred my blood, but it will be over soon enough.”
Astegur surged forward again before Kryiakos could finish the command and struck him hard in the chest with his axe and horns, using the momentum to break through the chainmail and leather draped there. Kryiakos kicked at him again, but this time Astegur was prepared. He grabbed the beast’s armor and jumped up before the centaur’s hooves could make contact. Kryiakos fell forward from the weight, and Astegur hauled himself fully onto Kryiakos’s back.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the centaurs who had managed to break through Prayer’s barrier rush up the temple steps. Kryiakos climbed back to his hooves and reared up to dislodge him again, but Astegur held on tight, bringing his axe head down again and again. After the third try from his opponent to extricate himself from the bull riding him, he fell hard to the side and rolled on his back into the swamp, trapping Astegur beneath him.
Astegur released his grip on the centaur and wrenched his eyes closed before the swamp water blinded him. He felt Kryiakos roll off him and begin to rise to his hooves.
He quickly climbed out from the mud and released the pent-up fire from his gut.
Flames exploded out of him, searing hot, as he breathed his rage all over Kryiakos’s form. They roared in unison as the stench of cooked meat and burning hide filled the air.
The other centaurs off to the sides yelled with them, creating a horrible chorus. Kryiakos’s spearhead pierced through the fire blinding them both and stabbed Astegur in the chest. Astegur grunted, his mouth closing, his fire fading back into his body. The centaur yanked the spear out, and blood gushed as Astegur stumbled back, falling to his knees. Water splashed around him.
He dropped his weapon and pressed his hand over the deep wound, trying to stop the rest of his blood from pooling out of him. His vision blurred as he fell backwards. The tepid muck slurped up his skin and cushioned his descent.
He exhaled and blinked out the wet glare in his eyes, staring upward through the thick smoke above him and the mist that began to seep its way back into Prayer to gather around his wounds.
Then a hollowness came, and a powerful pressure quieted everything around him. He could no longer hear the centaurs still clawing their way through the barrier or those attacking the barricade to the temple.
Even the distant, guttural shrills and moans of the thralls faded from his ears.
A hush rushed through Prayer, a gasp, and a touch of nothing. Calavia’s magical green aura that had bloomed from her spell disappeared before his eyes.
No…
She cannot be dead.
But he could not deny the sudden emptiness he felt. The noises returned in a rush as a figure emerged in the thick gloom above him.
Kryiakos appeared, raising his spear with both hands above his head, aiming the sharp tip straight for Astegur’s neck.
But then Astegur smelled it. So thick, so delicious, so deviantly wonderful that he settled in for the deathstrike to come. Calavia’s pure blood filled his nose and calmed his hearts. His smile returned, softer than before, to rest on his face.
“I avenge you Elscalian Enios, Telner Enios, centaurs of the royal bloodline,” Kryiakos sputtered and coughed. “I avenge all those who fell.” He raised his spear high.
Astegur closed his eyes.
“There’s a human here! A pure one!” someone shouted.
“Do not touch her!” Kryiakos yelled.
“She’s wounded. What is she holding?”
The deathblow never came. Astegur reopened his eyes to see Kryiakos looking away, his spear going lax in his grip.
“That’s not a mistfucking human!” one of them screamed. “Kill her!”
Astegur lifted up on his elbow just as a very familiar, very shrill, skull-shattering scream assailed the air. He jerked upright, gritting through the pain, as Kryiakos lowered his spear to cover his ears. Astegur yanked the weapon from the general’s hand.
Suddenly, a bloodied figure scurried toward them on all fours and slammed into Kryiakos’s side stabbing at him continuously with Calavia’s ritual dagger. Calavia’s mother. She was quickly torn off Kryiakos by the other centaurs, and Astegur heard her dying wails as they pinned her to the ground with the ends of their spears.
Astegur reached for his fallen axe, turned to their leader while they were distracted, grabbed Kryiakos’s loose hair above the helmet, and jerked his head straight back, opening the exposed skin of the general’s neck. With one final moment of clarity from his victim, Astegur hacked the centaur’s neck in two.
And with blood raining down upon them both, Astegur dropped Kryiakos’s head and fell unconscious back to the murky, wet ground.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Astegur woke sometime later to screams all around him.
His lips peeled back in pain, he rolled heavily to his side to find Kryiakos’s severed head lying next to him, the centaur’s dead eyes staring at him blankly. Astegur searched for his axe in the shallow, muddy water, finding it between him and the dead centaur. With smoke diminishing his sight, he tried to rise to his hooves.
Agony in its purest form crashed through him. He dropped back down and looked at his body. There was a terrible gash straight through his muscles and almost to his bone. The wound ran from his collarbone and ended deeply on his left bicep. It was why his left arm had grown so weak. But it was the stab he’d taken to the chest that truly made him feel pain. He let go of his axe and pressed his right hand over the opening.
>
Mists! He gritted his teeth. Pressing his palm harder against the wound, he took a moment to look around as another wave of hurt passed through him.
The first thing he spotted was the half-dozen thralls guarding him, with wounds that made his own look slight. He blinked out the glare in his eyes again and looked beyond them where centaurs and the remaining thralls fought each other. They fought much like they had before, with frightening, uncaring devastation, a group of them attacking one centaur at a time, flooding over their victim like a violent wave of limbs, teeth, and weapons, forcing their victim to the ground in a pool of their own gore before immediately moving on to the next.
They neither acknowledged their wounds nor the centaurs trying to force them back.
Beyond them, he saw the remaining centaurs still trapped outside the barrier, but as he watched, more and more forced their way through. He knew the thralls would soon be outnumbered, but for now they managed to hold the centaurs back and keep them distracted.
Hope flooded his veins. He concentrated on it, and when he did, he felt the tendrils of Calavia’s magic brush over him again. He twisted his neck to look at the temple behind him, and growled. A group of centaurs were in the process of breaking through the barricade, with several mutilated thralls under their hooves.
Astegur glanced down upon his wounds, his fallen weapon, then closed his eyes, searching for the strength to rise. With his weakened left hand, he rummaged through the small satchels still attached to his belt.
He immediately felt the clump of wax he’d collected the day before, to bring with him to Bathyr for Calavia. He exhaled through another wave of pain and pulled the mass out. Switching hands, he let his left hand drop to his side and rolled the wax with his other, loosening it up. He took another steadying breath and pressed the wax hard into the opening in his chest.
