Narek the Indominable was exceptionally large for his breed of Minotaur, standing well above the heads of those under his command. Gifted with the strength comparable to at least three, if not four of his lesser brethren, meant he was a hurricane made flesh. The envy of every Stalwart, unflinching warriors sometimes no better than cannon fodder, Narek’s tumescent body displayed his majesty with his every move. Even the horns protruding from his prominent head put other Minotaurs to shame.
Unlike his warriors, Narek was decked from head to toe in an amalgamation of leather and plate armor. Countless blood-stained leather strips were lashed around his massive frame, with sturdy plates protecting vital areas. The elasticity of the leather was necessary, so only the treated and de-feathered hide from the elusive choranaptyxics from his home country could be used. Narek, himself, had slain a Major Choranaptyxic with his bare hands in the grand colosseum to the thunderous cheers of the autochthones. The same creature’s snake-like hide now protected his body.
The importance of such armor had been made obvious to Narek, as it had many times across his many battlefields. Unlike his lowly Stalwarts, who could only use their frenzied rage ability sparingly, though it did afford a significant magnification of their already prodigious strength, Narek was blessed with the superior version. It was afforded to him by his evolved heritage. Woe any enemy unfortunate enough to cause him to enact the ability, as it not only amplified his strength to unbelieved heights but also caused his body to swell well beyond his already ponderous girth.
Even protected in his armor, Narek would never shy away from an attack. He recognized the prudence of a war leader to ensure his survival for the sake of the Stryker Legion he was charged with. Four Stalwarts, combined with field officers known as a ‘Herald,’ made up a ‘Fist.’ Five Fists formed his Stryker Legion. His legion followed his orders with fervent devotion. His legion’s success relied heavily on Narek’s foresight and planning to keep the oft-thick-headed Stalwarts from overextending themselves. Those lowest caste members of the Society had no propensity for strategy or tactics beyond the simplicity of swinging a weapon at an enemy.
His field officers, the Heralds, ensured the legion followed Narek’s directives, but they had some latitude to modify those orders to ensure victory. Those battle-hardened troops assisted Narek, though the overarching success of his legion rested solely upon his shoulders. Narek’s word was law. So, risking a war leader’s life for the simple pleasure of hammering an enemy to paste, which he did enjoy from time to time, was best left to his Fists.
While Narek found it irritating at times, the constant need to order his warriors for anything beyond the basic, their absolute loyalty spoke to something deep within him. A need. While it felt foreign to his Minotaur mind, it was a companion he had known before this life. Such thoughts confused Narek as he had no recollection of such a life. Any attempts to grab hold of it glided away as if it were smoke on the wind. If he had a life, it felt as if it was buried away, hidden from his sight. Narek had dropped subtle hints to his Heralds, but none so much as hinted they were aware of a life outside of the Society.
Perhaps only the brilliant knew such things, he mused to himself.
His present command had placed him within arm's reach of some human capital city. Narek was well aware of the potential complications that could arise from such proximity, but he cared not. Not yet at least. He should have several long weeks, perhaps a few months, to raid and plunder before his legion would need to withdraw. His warriors were more than a match for any ten humans but, eventually, the human city would muster a large enough force to displace him and his legion. Narek was confident he would have more than enough warning before such an eventuality. Such tactics had been used by the Society for hundreds, if not thousands, of years with great success.
Narek secretly hoped a Hunter would stumble upon his camp. Such sweet rewards could be found if a Hunter could be vanquished. The thought was pushed to the back of his mind as a Herald approached him. Narek hoped the officer would bring word of the Fist he had sent out earlier that same day. The force was overdue, so perhaps they were finally returning with a bounty in hand. Not even the smallest sliver of doubt entered Narek’s mind. Nothing in the region could stand against a Fist. Of that, he was sure.
“My Orator,” the Herald said in the warfare language of the Society. He spoke with the proper respect and deference, so Narek allowed the Minotaur to continue. “I regret to inform you that we have had no sign of the first Fist. Herald Sye and his Stalwarts should have returned hours ago.”
While the lowliest warriors of the Society spoke a broken language of grunts and guttural clamors, all of which Narek and his Heralds easily understood, only those brutes who showed a modicum of intellect were taught the polysyllabic language of their race called the ‘Maxim.’ Each successive class within the Society had their own language, so only the very brightest Heralds, as Narek had been years ago, would ever learn an upper-class language.
Few outsiders of the weaker races knew of the Minotaur caste system. Narek was a member of the third class, commonly known as the Legionnaires, and had been so for a decade. The fourth and highest class, known as the Revered, were Minotaurs who had been blessed by the gods to wield powerful magicks. One day, he was sure, Narek would find his god’s favor and be bestowed such gifts. He only had to prove himself worthy.
“What you mean to say, Carn, is that Sye and his Fist found some bounty and, instead of returning it to me, are out there partaking of its pleasure,” the war leader fumed through gnashed teeth, barely holding back an explosive outburst.
Narek’s subordinate bowed low, his head nearly touching the muddied ground. “A Herald must fulfill your spoken law, Orator. While it is unknown how the Fist fares, Herald Sye would never do such a thing.”
When Narek stepped a foot closer, Carn prostrated himself further.
Though Narek would never say it aloud, this particular Herald was one of the most capable within his Stryker Legion. He was still a far cry from Narek’s brilliance but could be molded into a keen-edged weapon with the right motivation. “Since you found it fit to bring this news in such ignorance, you will go out with your Fist and determine the truth of the matter.”
Narek’s eyes swept out among his crowd of Minotaurs, many of his Heralds watching their interaction. Nerek narrowed his eyes. It was always Carn who broke ill news, he realized. The other officers must suspect he was the least likely to be punished on these rare occasions where a mistake had been made. Their cowardice stroked his anger, so we decided to amend his order slightly.
“Carn, you will select another Fist to go with you,” Narek said with a wicked grin, relishing what he was about to say. “That entire Fist will be subservient to your commands.”
It was a great insult to debase another Herald to succeed his Fist to another. Carn would pounce on the opportunity like a leopard. Narek was willing to reward his most devoted Herald. “See it done immediately, I will not suffer further delay,” Narek continued. “You will return in no less than four hours.”
Narek didn’t need to ask if his officer understood. Carn wouldn’t be in his position if he required orders to be repeated or explained. Narek’s word was law and he would see it carried out. Still, Narek’s dreadful gaze fell heavy upon his Herald as Carn regained his feet. “If you return without full knowledge of what transpired, or without a bounty, you will not like what awaits your return.”
“Yes, my Orator,” Carn replied respectfully before turning to find whichever Herald he intended to humiliate. The thought brightened Narek’s mood, though only slightly.
Narek rested heavily once more upon his marble throne. The monstrosity of a chair took the combined efforts of an entire Fist to haul with them, but it reminded his warriors of their station. Narek let out a heavy sigh. He would need to find some enjoyment of his own until Carn returned. Perhaps a flogging would brighten his mood.
Hours passed as Narek’s thoughts returned to the mystery even his penetrating mind couldn’t seem to unravel. This tended to happen whenever he found himself biding his time while his orders were being carried out. More often than not, he moved to violence to distract himself. Narek was infuriated a part of him was locked away. With Carn soon to find out what happened to the missing Fist, Narek allowed his thoughts to probe at the edge of his consciousness. Perhaps this time, his tenacious mind would unravel the enigma that this far had thwarted him.
Narek had been a war leader, an Orator, for over ten years now. He had been a Herald for twice that many before his advancement to his current station. He remembered little of his time as a warrior, for even he started as nothing more than a mindless thrall. Narek shook his head as if dispelling the old memory.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He returned his thoughts to the matter of his former life. A life he was certain had happened if he allowed himself time to contemplate it. What precious few thoughts he could uncover led him to the inescapable conclusion he had been some type of criminal before this life. He remembered the thrill of… stalking his victims and savoring the scent of blood. “A criminal to a war chief,” Narek said to himself. His deep voice carried to the ears of his minions nonetheless. They paid it no heed. “A step up to be sure.”
Nothing else came from his intense concentration, though Narek suspected he would continue down his personal toil until one day all the puzzle pieces would finally lock into place.
Returning to the present, he gazed out upon his legion. Two Fists milled about, though they accomplished little. The fortification had long been completed and what fun had been looted from the feeble humans a Fist had secured, by way of the ambush he had meticulously laid out, had long since spoiled. Such weaklings didn’t last long through the guilty pleasure his race tended to enjoy. Though Narek doubted many races would last long after dismemberment and disembowelment.
Nonetheless, it had been an entertaining number of days seeing the morsels squirm under such glorious pain and suffering. The memory brought some joy to his black heart. As the hours passed though, Narek was growing restless.
When night fell in earnest without a word from Carn and his two Fists, Narek’s melancholy was deteriorating into fury with each passing minute. No one was foolish enough to come close to his throne, lest he vent his anger to anything within striking distance. “Where in the abyss are they,” Narek shouted in outrage, unable to contain himself any further.
“You,” he pointed at the warrior. Narek couldn’t be bothered to remember the fool’s name. “Herald, approach.” Narek’s jaw was clamped tightly, the last word hissed between clenched teeth.
“My Orator?” the servile Herald asked after approaching the foot of the throne. “How may I be of service.”
It took a hairsbreadth of time for Narek to recognize the Minotaur hadn’t spoken in Maxim. He was speaking the common tongue so the simple warriors could understand his words, perhaps to sway Narek’s wrath. It would not avail him.
Narek was moments away from backhanding the presumptuous fool when another Herald approached hurriedly from the direction of the gates. Something in the man’s gaze stole Narek’s attention from the physical rebuke. He bore the look of someone bearing answers. At last.
“Report,” Narek said, even as the closest Herald slunk away unmolested. When Narek issued a command, he expected a swift response. So, when the gate Herald stuttered a response, Narek felt his mood drop into lethal intensity. “Herald Minas, I said report!”
Narek’s fierce gaze swept his warband. His warriors were out and about as usual, doing whatever dull task would occupy their weak minds, but with a quick mental count Narek knew something was amiss. More than half his warriors were not present.
“Only a single Stalwart is approaching, my Orator,” Minas finally blubbered out. Narek would need to punish the weakling later for his lack of alacrity.
“Only one?” Narek said forcefully. “Where is the rest of the contingent?”
Where in the abyss were his warriors? Two Fists would obliterate any opposition, he didn’t doubt. His Stryker Legion wasn’t here long enough to pull in any substantial threat this fast. Perhaps some minor dragon had descended from the snow peaks of Vilhius, nothing less could wipe out nearly two whole squads. Three Fists now, he realized. Still, one Stalwart had returned, so one way or another, Narek would find some answers.
Before Minas could respond, two Minotaurs stationed at the gate hefted the steel-reinforced drawbar and placed it to the side. The double doors were pushed open, giving a clear sight of what lay beyond. Narek’s eyes locked onto an approaching warrior perhaps two dozen yards from the posted sentries outside. The Stalwart moved with a noticeable limp, obviously wounded from battle.
“See to that warrior. Bring him to me. Now,” Narek barked, spittle flying with each word. Narek had long decreed that in the face of certain death, at least one rear Stalwart would retreat to the fort. Against all odds, it appeared to have happened here today, though it was surely an impossibility. Three Fists lost. It was unheard of, certainly without ample warning beforehand that any Orator worthy of his station would have long responded to.
Rage simmered in Narek’s chest at the inconceivable humiliation. He viciously tore the thought asunder. He would turn this debacle into victory, no matter the cost. Narek leaned forward atop his throne, squinting as the two sentries posted outside the fort moved to intercept their injured comrade.
Narek's mind was already working feverishly. He was already contemplating sending a communique to the nearest Revered to demand more warriors. It would be endorsed, certainly. Only a strong enemy presence would be able to accomplish the feat laid out before him. The Revered would have to capitulate. While it would take at least a tenday to receive his reinforcements, Narek was confident he could withstand any siege this countryside could throw at him behind his well-fortified position.
Narek reached for a nearby tankard and wafted it down in one fluid motion. It tasted like it had been fermented in a dung heap, but Narek cared not. He returned his gaze to his two guards. Narek saw the wounded minotaur stand to his full height as if his injuries no longer plagued him. Narek could now see the Stalwart carried an axe in one hand, and a great sword in the other.
That’s odd, Narek thought.
His warriors only ever fought with a single weapon. There wasn’t enough to in their stockpile more than one per Minotaur. Narek shrugged off the thought. Perhaps this was a Stalwart victorious from battle and close to becoming a Herald.
What happened next, even Narek’s genius mind could not have foreseen. As his sentries approached, the injured Minotaur rose both weapons high before slamming the weapons down into the unprotected necks of his comrades. Such a thing had never been heard of before. In all of Narek’s long years on the battlefield, nothing like this had ever happened. He blinked back in confusion as if trying to unsee what just happened.
It never occurred for Narek to order his men to defend against a lethal blow from another Minotaur. Sure, fist fights were common among the lower-class warriors, but they never rose to a deadly level. Such warriors were so proud of their fortitude that every one of his men would allow a fellow Stalwart to land the first blow before any form of retaliation. It was a matter of pride and honor among the brethren.
The massive weapons found little resistance as they cleaved both sentry's heads from their shoulders. Geysers of blood rushed from the wounds, showering the ‘injured’ warrior with the sticky substance.
“Kill that warrior,” Narek shouted, his gruff voice carrying for a hundred yards in all directions. “Now!”
His remaining six Stalwarts and two Heralds moved to follow his command. Three carried massive great axes, two more had laborious great swords, two had cudgels, and the final Minotaur brandished the unusual iron knuckles he preferred. That one didn’t kill his enemies quickly, instead, the Herald rained down a thousand punches before his victims finally succumbed to the blackness of death. Eight against one would be swift and brutal. Narek wouldn’t find out what happened, but there was nothing for it now.
Narek found another tankard, downing the foul in one swig, before returning to the show. For whatever reason, this last drink had been a mixture of ale and blood, which wasn't all that bad surprisingly. Sitting down atop his throne once more, Narek waited patiently for the gore that was sure to follow.
His fighters were charging past the rigid gate when their charge faltered unexpectedly. Narek could read his Minotaur’s body language. Something had gone wrong. Narek took careful note. He couldn’t see what had slowed their charge exactly, but Narek could have sworn something had flashed in from the left, along with a haze of heat from the right.
“What in the abyss?” Narek uttered in disbelief.
Before anyone could respond, a bolt of brilliant light flashed into existence and slammed into several of his Minotaurs in rapid succession. Narek’s sight was momentarily stolen by the sheer luminosity of the lightning, leaving scorch marks in his vision.
Three of his warriors were on the ground, spasming with their weapons lying ineffectually near them. Then the traitorous minotaur reached the fallen band, where he immediately set upon the hapless beasts. As if he was death itself, his weapons landed again and again, turning those unfortunates into mincemeat. The betrayer’s punishment didn’t go unanswered, for even as his killing blows landed, two Stalwarts standing on opposite sides slammed their weapons into him. An axe cleaved into the betrayer’s shoulder, biting deeply. From the other side, a great sword severed an arm just below the elbow.
Narek grinned in anticipation for the gout of blood that would soon follow the mortal wounds. The fool was dead, nothing in the bull’s expression registered understanding that his life had ended.
But nothing happened, no blood ran free.
To Narek’s amazement, the turncoat rushed forward to another Herald as he ushered orders to the remaining warriors. In a move that should have been impossible, considering the excruciating pain his shoulder wound must be inflicting, the traitor slammed his remaining great axe into the backpedaling Herald’s chest. Snatching away his life in an instant. Neither Narek nor one of his Heralds, consider the mortally wounded Stalwart capable of such a move. It cost the Herald his life.
Narek’s attention was solely fixed upon the betrayer as it was cut down with cruel efficiency by the four remaining warriors, so he didn’t catch the stream of arrows, nor the near-imperceptible haze of magic slashing across the air. When his warriors moved to turn to an unseen enemy, for Narek couldn’t see behind his fortification’s impenetrable walls, they too hesitated and faltered.
“What?” Narek shouted as he rose to his feet. Then he saw it, dozens of fletchings dotted up and down his warriors’ arms, their chests, their necks. Minotaur skin then shied away from the normal ruby hues to a swelling black of necrosis.
When a black panther-like beast soared out, landing atop the last remaining Herald bearing him to the ground, Narek felt an uncontrollable firestorm swell in his breast. Triggered without his conscious will, waves of heat began cascading off his body. Muscles and tendons bulged as power flooded him. Had it not been for his meticulously constructed armor, his transformation would have torn it to shreds. Instead, it increased in size to accommodate his new stature.
With waves of marvelous energy coursing through his body, Narek bellowed a challenge that shook the air for miles. It was the fiercest Warcry he had ever bellowed, the intensity such that it tore small rents in his mighty lungs. As blood began to drip down his maw, he charged.