One Moo'r Plow

Khoros, son of Toross Grave-Gouger, had never been one to let others think him a coward. These accusations had plagued him from the day he had first picked up an axe and found himself on the run after his tribe was routed. He had been the first to see the battle was broken, the first to flee and live another day.

Since that day, the work which he had done to disprove that had been tireless. He rushed into battle ahead of eager brethren. Faced larger, more dangerous foes at every Gods-given opportunity. Proudly joined the great hordes in the Steel Marches that had seen to expand the minotaur heartlands. Led the rear-guard home when those failed. Guarded the front outposts when the inevitable retaliation came.

It was then he began to grow tired of these young bulls and their thick skulls.

Cowardice, they called his retreats in the face of clearly lost, ingalmorous battles. Even as he kept them alive, they insulted his honour. But he knew better, so he had bore it with gritted teeth to maintain a fighting force.

Those who were too open about their disdain he called out and cut down in duels.

And so, Khoros found himself in a familiar situation.

The older bull sat hunched by the fire, coated in dust and sweat and matted fur, glowering at those he could hardly bear to look at. Younger, dumber bulls than he yapped and barked about, angry at each other. Blood coated the ground where more than one had already fought the other.

That, he cared little for.

No, he was hungry, and these fools had killed the cook. Some grass-haired wetear had just cut down the cook. This, Khoros had watched just a few moments earlier as the two had butted heads and led to Vhaltis being challenged to a duel. The much, much older, grizzled cook has well past his prime, journeying with the warband out of sheer stubbornness and a refusal to acknowledge that his glory days were over.

Thick-headed codger that he was, Khoros had still respected him. Mostly for his breadth of recipes and ability to make trail-food bearable. One of the few small pleasures of a traveling Warband.

And now he was robbed of even that.

Anger all but choked him now. The desire to pull out his axe and cleave open a few skulls until the rest fell in line and obediently listened ran through his blood.

Honour demanded he find the exact warrior responsible for the retreat earlier and cut them down so they could not inspire future cowardice. He bit down and rejected that for no more needed die this die.

Pride roared that the death of his friend must be avenged. Through blood-shot eyes, he quelled that for another day. Any further death would weaken the warband, he knew. Until after this deserter was put down and his title of God-Touched claimed. Then could come the time of blood.

He suffered in silence, stomach a void as he regarded the unappealing strips of meat hung over the fire. Another time, and Khoros Peacemaker would have done his best to establish order in the warband, keep the young bulls from killing each other.

Today, he cared little.

He gazed with apathy at the duels being fought to determine the new warchief. Less than a few hours dead, and younger, more eager bulls were already vying for Torn’s place.

More minotaurs had been killed at the hands of their own kind than by the traitor and elf this day. Truly, there was no other race so well-versed in bringing low minotaurs than themselves.

Little more than a dozen remained, once the bloodshed was all said and done. And through it all, Khoros tended the fire and cooked unappealing food at the camp’s edge. More interested in the darkness beyond the trees than he was of these struggles for power he had witnessed hundreds of times.

Time made all bulls weary, tired and uncaring to the bloodshed. The only singular thing Khoros found of interest was that the bull that had cut down Vhaltis was still alive once the Gods had recieved their bloody due.

That was a score he would settle another day.

Sharn Stonecrusher of clan Hillhoof had declared himself leader of the warband, he found with little interest. He usurped Torn, who had been in his position for little more than a month. A long time to lead a warband, in the scope of things.

Khoros was certain that should he desire the position, he would have little trouble splitting Sharn’s skull to take it from him. He remained the largest, most experienced bull here.

Instead he sat in silence as the new warchief sang his own praises, beat his chest and declared himself to be the best leader yet who would avoid the follies of the older ones.

Right up until Chief Sharn declared they would be pursuing the minotaur that very night.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Unwise.” Khoros spoke. “Your bulls are tired from travel and fighting.”

There were guffaws and declarations of toughness, assurances of readiness and their hunger for blood. He knew better. They wanted little more than food, the last dregs of their stale ale and rest. Like every other warband he had ever travelled with. They were not different.

“I am leader here.” Sharn snorted. “Step forward and challenge me, coward, or hold your tongue.”

Khoros chose the second.

“We will march to glory!” Sharn bellowed, turning away. A sign of disrespect, to turn your back on someone who had just challenged you. Anger flared as Khoros regarded the back of Sharn’s skull, right between the horns. An axe buried there would end him and prove the older bull’s superior.

“And where do we go?” He asked, derision barely hidden in his tone. “None here know where he resides.”

“You think too much, old bull.” One of Sharn’s new lackeys scoffed. “We kill until he is drawn out again.”

This declaration was met with cheers and roars of approval through those that remained. Just over a dozen bulls, not counting Khoros. A small force, but enough to butcher their way across the mountain. Humans could do little to stand before them, as could the beastkin traitors that lived among the pinkskins like domesticated pets.

“And the elf?”

That question stopped the cheers, soured the mood.

“We will deal with him when it comes to that.” Sharn declared.

If there was one trait Khoros despised hard enough to end his apathy, it was this. The refusal to acknowledge a problem was weakness unto itself.

“You will die, then. Horribly. Calf.” He snarled. “I faced the Sun-mages of the elves across the battlefield. I know what they can do. You will kill a few humans, he will appear, and you will be torn asunder.”

This he snorted with dismisal, the newly fletched-warchief’s reign already over in his mind.

‘What would a coward know of glorious deaths?” Sharn snapped back, hand on his hammer. “You have grown old, Khoros.”

That much was true. He had, with some shame, outaged all of his peers. Lived longer than most minotaurs could and should. And for this he bore shame every day.

He could stand and argue with this calf, overpower him with his breadth of experience and knowledge. Instead, he slumped his shoulders and stared into the fire, wishing these burnt pieces of meet had any sort of flavour.

But Trokol Thinhorn had killed the only damn cook in this warband and now everyone suffered. And once more, Khoros found himself silent. What was the use anymore? They rejected his ideas and tactics, colored their perception of him from a single event before most here were even birthed. He would forever be Khoros the coward.

Only bloodshed seemed to drown out the thoughts that floated in his mind day and night. He would never be accepted among the the tribes. That much was guaranteed. The rejection had never actually come from any of the great warchiefs, and he had never stayed long enough for them to notice his return and finally make the time to bar him entry once and for all.

He did not drift from one warband to the next because he enjoyed any of these calves’ company. The bloodshed was a pleasure, of course. Something to distract himself. The wars had been a blessing. An actual length of time where he could be among his kin, where they needed him. But those had ended, and now he frequented company with the renegades and berserkers instead.

It was then that Khoror’s fur began to raise. The proverbial hackles quivered as something drew near.

A figure approached the firelight’s edge.

There stood a human, clad in black armor. A woman, reeking of malice and hatred. The minotaur looked across the fire as the armored human approached, not a weapon to be seen. Another saw her moments later, and the warband slowly turned towards her.

“You’re here for the minotaur.” Came the statement, the voice dead and flat.

Sharn stomped forward and stared down at her. Inwardly, Khoros wondered what this fool was doing in their camp. If she had come to try and use the minotaurs for her own ends, she would quickly learn that human life mattered little to his kind.

“Squeal, human.” The warchief demanded. “Before I squash you between my hooves.”

Khoros, for the first time, felt something overpower the apathy that he had masked himself in for years.

Contempt. But this feeling did not come from within. It spawned from outside, from the armored woman. It was forced upon him, upon the rest. Crushing in it’s entirety. Whatever stood before Sharn now, it considered them little more than insects, so vast was it’s disdain and disgust.

“He is not yours to kill.” Continued the terror.

Fast as Khoros could follow, Sharn buckled backwards, bellowing as he clutched the bloody mass that was his stomach. Even as the warband roused to violence, she was faster. And armored foot raised and smashed forward into the minotaur’s much thicker leg. The kick landed right against the side of Sharn’s knee and snapped the leg in half.

Bellowing in pain, the warchief fell forward, right into a rising meteor of black steel that nearly tore his entire head loose. The dread figure withdrew black gauntlets from the cratered mess of the minotaur’s skull and roared in glee as more charged towards her.

Khoros knew.

She was beyond anyone here. This human was here for slaughter. They could not win. He had witnessed her ilk in the wars fought years ago. The Gods themselves had branded her to strike fear into minotaurs wherever she went, so many had she slain. He felt it now.

And Khoros turned from the slaughter and ran.

The dead and dying he left behind. Too stupid, too proud to run with him. Their fates were already writ in stone.

Khoros the coward crashed through the trees, tearing through the overgrowth as he ran faster and further than ever before, the overwhelming sensation of death approaching upon his heels.

A feeling not unfamiliar.

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