For several days we had traveled through the mountain pass with little to no rest. We walked for every two days without rest, and if we dared to stop, then one of the Centaurs would strike us with a whip. We would only rest at night between these two-day intervals when we were fed with crumbs of bread and drank from the rain and nothing else, with many of us, haven’t eaten anything for days. I was lucky that I hadn’t died of starvation yet, but the pangs in my stomach and the aching of my knees grew more intense the longer we walked. The longer we marched, the fewer of us survived. The Centaur slave drivers did not give us the decency to be sheltered from the elements. However, they have the ability to carry canvas sheets tied on shared poles that protect them from the rain as they trot to their destination, akin to moving tents.
The rains grew more frequent, and I wonder if the God of the Heavens was sobbing in despair, or if the boom of thunder signifies its anger. The Centaur shamans, which I identified by staring at their colored body paints, elaborate feather and gemstone headdresses, who carried leather and hide drums and bronze bells, as well as staves that resemble wood and bone totems, seemed to dance and sing in the rain. The other Centaurs sang, chanted, and barked along a guttural, esoteric melody and beat set by the shamans’ drums and bells. with the clopping of their hooves growing louder.
I compared it to the rituals back home where hymns are sung by the townsfolk as they sacrifice a goat or a chicken in honor of Ten and Kheer. Every time this ritual happens the sky seems to clear until two days later, and our miners seem to be blessed by the gems they have discovered.
Finally, we emerged from the mountain pass. In front of us was a plain, the grasslands of the greater kingdom beyond our frontier. This was the first time I went outside the town that I was born in. If this was in a better imestime, in a more favorable circumstance, I would’ve enjoyed this trek. If the Centaurs haven’t invaded, maybe I will be old enough to accompany my older siblings to the cities to sell our goods.
Instead of the idyllic rolling fields and forests that I had imagined, the land was dotted with many monstrous shapes that marched with one purpose and direction. A horde of Centaurs trotted east, bearing many standards and flags, and groups of them not only distinguished themselves by the colors and clothes they wore, but some of them had different bodies. Some of them had lower halves shaped like the deers of the forests or the bulky bodies of rhinos, and some had even the lower halves of winged pegasi and scaly dragons; beasts that I only heard about from stories. The storytellers were not exaggerating the size and scope of the armies in their tales. It seems like hundreds of them could swallow my town whole with their numbers. Like how the Centaurs that invaded my hometown, their guttural, thumping melody reverberated throughout the fields, making the earth tremble and even moving the clouds above like ripples in the sky.
Behind the Centaurs is a mass of ragged people in chains, slaves like us, that outnumbered the Centaurs before them. Despite their numbers, the Centaurs who flanked them in all directions would rain arrows upon them before trampling them. Among the crowds of slaves were oxen and other Centaurs who pulled catapults like those from our town, strange metal tubes of varying lengths and widths on wheels, and wooden platforms that bore altars. Some of these non-Centaurs, Humans like us, were armored and armed with various weapons, mostly spears and repurposed farming tools. Are they slaves, or are they subjects or vassals of these conquerors?
Soon, we had joined the horde, and we were herded to the back of the marching mass with the other slaves. They were as gaunt and downcast as us, and I wondered if they had suffered the same fate. We were baked with the heat of the sun as we marched. Occasionally, I stepped over a corpse that might have come from the crowd ahead of me, who might have died from starvation or fatigue. When afternoon came, the horde stopped, and we were tasked to set up camps for the Centaurs. I gathered firewood for the many campfires and set up tents along with the. We finished when the sun was now sinking into the black border of the horizon.
While we ate crumbs of stale, weevil-infested bread, the Centaurs feasted upon meat and dough and drank alcohol and milk. They gathered in crowds and mingled between campgrounds, and I saw a couple of Centaurs who were more well-dressed than the others roaming about, seeming gathering in a single place. I saw walls of earth being magically erected at the center of the camp, where the leaders of the Centaurs convened. Whatever would happen there was beyond me.
Miraculously, I was allowed to sleep, along with the others. There were some unfortunate enough to be forced to serve the reveling Centaurs throughout the night, partly illuminated by the silver horizon of the sun’s light below the earthen plane. We were cordoned off in a rough square within the impromptu campgrounds, where all of the slaves slept on the grass under the night sky. The brilliant, luminous night sky was my saving grace, a moment where I could simply admire the tapestries of the multicolored stars and the floating islands far above, who cast shadows against the dim light of the stars as they drifted with the wind as the grey and white moons slowly made their ascent.
I ignored the distant screams and sobs that were drowned by the barbaric cheers of the Centaurs as my eyes finally slept. For a moment, I felt a peace induced by great fatigue, and momentarily, I forgot all I had suffered.
I was woken up by an aggressive prod of a spear’s blunt end, and a Centaur bellowed to wake up the other slaves in the early morning when the sun started to rise from the black border of the horizon. I was pulled towards one of the campgrounds where the Centaurs formed a pile around each other for their heads to lie on each other’s horse-halves under a communal tent. Some had lain asleep on hammocks on reclining wooden racks that supported both their horse-halves and human-like upper torsos. The Centaur who woke me up pointed to the scattered wooden bowls and bones, and I immediately understood on what to do. I picked the mess from the ground and put them in a sack assigned to me.
As I did the chores ordered to me, I saw many tents being dismantled, braziers being carried on wagons, and hammock-racks being folded, one of the Centaur warriors ordered me back to the destitute crowd of slaves. Somehow, I never saw the others from the town again. Had they gone somewhere? Did they die? There was no one who could answer these questions.
The horde of Centaurs soon moved. We marched behind the Centaurs who held us hostage, trotting under their green-blue pennons. I wondered how long would it take for us to walk again. As we walked under the scorching sun, I saw shapes disappearing behind trees or on top of the odd hills.
The ground we tread on had taken on a subtle slope. Soon, my eyes laid upon a grand city surrounded by miles of farmland dotted by farmhouses. Its walls seem taller than than our town’s by a great extent, with battlements and wooden hatches evenly spaced on the walls themselves. Great sloped roofs topped each of the towers between the walls, and I heard their gongs repeatedly ringing in the distance, much like the day when the Centaurs had invaded my town.
The Centaur horde stopped as if there was a wall blocking them. Only one female Centaur headed to the city’s gates with blinding speed and seemingly delivered a message to the gate. It took a handful of minutes before she reached the gate. I did not understand what she said, but I heard her faint voice even from this distance. Shortly, she returned to the rest of the horde. I heard a booming voice, the loudest I ever heard. It made my hair stand on end and my knees buckle. The horde of Centaurs galloped at full speed, and bands of them had spread to the various farmhouses; no doubt raiding and capturing them.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
From the skies, lightning had struck the formation of the Centaurs who stayed behind without the gathering of clouds. I saw shamans and warriors chanting, thumping the ground with their hooves. The lightning strikes from the skies seemed to be blocked by an ethereal barrier of sorts that glowed blue when it was struck.
A Centaur with a bound person riding on top of his horse half had rode up to us. The Centaur gave orders in his barbaric tongue, and the person on top of him translated:
“Slaves of Tzamurbeg’s tribe! Assemble the catapults now!”
The group of slaves, some hailing from our town, and some who had come with the Centaurs even before invading our town. The Centaur whipped us for going too slow to walk to the site where the catapults would be built. We lifted the wooden beams and ropes from the wagons that stored them and assembled them as the Centaurs yelled at us with their unintelligible tongues.
The five catapults were finished minutes later. When my eyes laid upon the horizon, it seemed like the Centaurs had already captured multiple farmhouses, with some of them already burning. A Human soldier had appeared before us with a command that I could understand:
“Move the catapults two hundred and thirty paces to the nearest farmhouse!”
Instead of the Centaurs or any of their oxen or donkeys, they forced us to pull the catapults instead, while their wagons of ammunition was pulled by work horses. Soon, our bare feet had entered the city’s farmland, and we walked up to dirt path to the nearest farmhouse, which was surrounded by its paddy fields. I saw the Centaurs throwing the bodies from the house into the waters of the rice fields.
We were ordered to turn the catapults directly towards the walls of the city. For a moment I looked around, and I saw the other catapults and the strange tube-like things on wheels positioned in various places in the paddy fields. The army of Centaurs had already dispersed and galloped towards the remaining farmhouses outside of the city’s walls. The people in these farmhouses were attempting to escape, converging on the gate facing us.
A strike from a whip sent me kneeling on the ground. I didn’t need to understand the Centaur’s words to know what he was punishing me for.
“Load the stones!”
Several of us lifted one of the stones from the wagon of ammunition to one of the catapults’ buckets as its arm was being lowered by the other slaves. The arm of the catapult rocked slightly as I dropped it on the bucket, and we were ordered to tug on the rope. When one of the slaves pulled the rope without warning, I was almost hit by the upward swing of the catapult’s arm. Fortunately, I had dodged it, making me fall to the ground in the process. I stared at the first volley as the stone ball that I had carved had bounced harmlessly off the walls which created a faint flash of light as the stone hit. The catapult’s arm was pulled back by a winch controlled by one of the slaves.
Then the cycle repeated. Me and three people loaded the heavy stones on the catapult, one of us pulled the rope that released it, and the winch was turned back after each payload. The volleys still bounced harmlessly on the walls, but some stones went over the wall and hit the buildings behind it. The defenders of the walls retaliated by releasing a volley of arrows and streaks of light, which dispersed harmlessly in the air by some kind of magic that eluded me. The bands of Centaurs started to encircle the wall, unleashing coordinating volleys as they galloped. The wooden hatches of the wall opened and spat gouts of smoke and roared with terrible sounds, and the strange metal tubes on wheels did the same. Several portions of the ground exploded among the Centaur ranks.
Soon, the back-and-forth of projectiles intensified. The skies between the city and the horde started to flicker with a hundred colors and a hundred roars. I loaded the stones without question, locked into a routine like how I carved the stones back home. The lightning from the skies seemed to be like rain by how much it struck the Centaur ranks. The humans in armor and those armed with various repurposed farming implements had marched forward, seemingly soaking up the ire of the defenders in the form of various projectiles. Earthen ramps were erected for the Centaurs to directly charge towards the battlements and slay the defenders manning the walls. I realized that this is how my late father used to describe the battles of his stories. Yet reality was less glamorous. My father’s stories had omitted the horror and the fatigue that comes with fighting wars.
It was only when the sun had started to set that I saw the gates being breached in a grand explosion, and the humans and Centaur besiegers had started to rush into the gates. Smoke started to rise from the city, and I knew that within the walls, the Centaurs had burnt and pillaged the buildings, and no doubt they killed, maimed, and tortured anyone who dared stand in their way like they had done with my hometown.
Later, we were ordered to pull the catapults to the inside of the city. When we approached the gatehouse, I saw the characters written on its sign. The rigid characters written in faded ink read: “You are entering the Western Gate of the City of Hannge”, and it dawned on me that we had attacked the city that my older family members frequently went to.
Within the walls, I saw an eerily familiar sight. Limbless bodies were strewn on the streets, hanging lifelessly within the windowsills of houses or the city’s walls, or gruesomely impaled on pikes. I saw Centaurs collecting bloodied limbs like they were in a garden picking up flowers. The human soldiers, whether or not they were slaves, servants, vassals, or allies of the Centaurs, had also partaken in the atrocities birth by this war, barging into houses. No doubt they were busy murdering and violating those within like the Centaurs who fought with them.
The Centaurs were celebrating again, and I was forced to bring kegs of liquor they plundered from the cellars. I simply set them down to the many campgrounds the Centaur warriors had set up on the cleared streets, avoiding their attention. I know that if I slighted them in some way, they might string me up on an alcove or a pole at least, or worse, trample me to death.
When I brought bread and mugs of wine to the other Human soldiers wearing lamellar armor, suddenly I became subject to their cruelty when they took a bite of the supper I delivered. They kicked and stomped me on the ground, howling in laughter as they tortured me until a booming voice halted them. That voice came from a Centaur whose blues and greens on his armor I recognized; the same colors that the Centaurs who invaded my town wore. The bearded Centaur yelled at them, no doubt scolding them for beating up their tribe’s slave, and drove them away.
I did not need to understand the Centaur who had “rescued” me from my predicament to understand that he did not do it out of a sense of altruism. The Centaur lifted me up with one hand and put me on his back. This was the first time I rode a horse–no, a Centaur. But I was not in control of my mount, or rather he had let me ride him until we stopped at a stable where the other slaves sat. He threw me to the stable’s haystack, and despite the pain all over my body, I was too tired to yelp in pain.
Before, I knew it, it was the next morning. The Centaur who rescued me was with another Centaur with a harness that wrapped his horse-half and acted as a toolbelt where he hung his tools, including two curious buckets of green and blue paint. He dipped two of his fingers into the two colors of paint and touched my forehead, with the paint dripping from my nose. The Centaur with paint did the same with the other slaves. He smacked me and pointed towards a Human who gave orders to slaves like me, which I promptly followed. Mostly, they ordered me to fetch food and water for the Centaur warriors and Human soldiers.
Once the slavers were done ordering me around, I was ordered to pull the catapults towards the eastern gate of the town, as the Centaurs rode out of the city, leaving a few people behind to occupy it, just like what they had done with my hometown. Even a slave like me knows that the Centaurs were planning to invade another settlement again.
The horde that I was trapped in continued to march for war.