Story idea! Valiant knights enter a magical labyrinth to hunt the Minotaur there but never return. The latest challenger makes his way to the center – only to discover a tall, busty Minotauress and her happy harem comprised of all the “fallen” knights who went in before him!
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With his finery, he looks the part. But the bags beneath his eyes betray it all. His worries are etched at the corners of his glance-which rests upon me as he turns from the window. With his hands clasped behind his back, he takes a deep breath. For a moment, I think the crown my slip from his head. Then he breathes out, and says “Can you? You’re sure then?”
I give a nod rather than a word. I tap my finger at the hilt of my blade, and extend my palm.
“Can, and will. If your majesty is willing to pay,” I say. I pitch bass into my voice, just a smidge. Customers expect that when they come calling. They don’t want a soft lad, not a small man. They want the experience of hiring a monster killer. The scars, the sweat, the chin. They’re all from manual labor, but I let them think what they wish.
Monster hunting was my side hustle. Not that I couldn’t handle the job-farming was just more comfortable. Corn and cabbage don’t bite when you touch them.
His majesty nods, and sways a weary hand towards a trunk. “Just-just take it. Whatever amount it is, it’s in there. I can’t offer you more than that though,” he says as his eyes cut to mine. I nod, and approach the trunk. I give it a swift kick with my boot-and try not to show my shock.
The coins spilled out to the floor from the rim. Silver and gold, with a tinkle that sounds like the tears of gods. I turned to the king, and give a sigh. I roll my eyes as I suck in air. The king is still, but I can see his face growing pale.
“I-It’s all I have left, gods damn ye! Don’t you understand? That-that beast has tore through my men. My guards, my knights-not a single bloody one has come back. I’m having to keep five families fed for their service! Don’t you understand?!”
I shrugged, and kicked the trunk closed with my heel. “It’ll do, sir. It’ll do. So what exactly am I hunting again? Does anyone even know?” I say. I turn and pace, every trod of my boots a heavy thud against cobblestone. I keep an eye on his majesty. I watch as he fidgits with the sleeves of his robe. His eyes dart-towards the door, towards me. He steps closer, then crooks his finger in a beckon.
I step close and low. I bend my neck until his hand cups near my ears. He whispers the job, every syllable sharp as I nod my head. When I pull away, I snort. Not at the job-which had me quaking inside-but at the king himself. Had he a guard to spare, he could have ran me through. Instead, his cheeks flushed as I crossed my arms.
“That’s all? You couldn’t just get a cow puncher to do this? Hrm?”
“T-This isn’t a laughing matter! My best men are dead!” He stuttered as he shook a jeweled finger at me. He spat out a curse as his velvet shod feet paced towards me. “Do all of your ilk make light of tragedies? Do you?”
I let him have his moment. While monster hunting is ninety percent a show, there’s that other ten percent. Audience participation. Without it, I couldn’t sell my end. I’d still be shoveling manure into the fields every day, praying the rains came. So I let him stomp, I let him yell. As his little moment passed, I tilted my head and gave him a hard look. I’d practiced it plenty in front of a looking glass-and it had the right effect. The king shrank back, and held his hands up.
“N-now now hunter, I didn’t mean to-”
“How do you know?” I said, my voice even. The king held still, and watched me.
“How do I know what?” he said.
“How do you know they’re dead? Your men? Most of the time, there’s at least a scrap. A smell, something. Even with hoovers, they aren’t the lot to bust out the fine silver. There’s always something left behind. Did anyone check?”
I watched his throat bob as his eyes pulled away. His hands lowered, and his shoulders rolled under his furs. “Well, no. But no one has came back! Not a single one! Isn’t that evident enough?”
I snorted, and crossed my arms again. “Uh, no. It’s evident you’re a coward, and a fool. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here. Your men aren’t dead-they’re probably trapped. And by sending more in, you’ve only delayed practical solutions. But don’t worry-I’ll clean up your mess,” I said, hitting my heel against the trunk. “And when I get back? You’re going to add a little more to this. For my silence. Understood?”
His lordship snarled-but stuck out his hand all the same. I took it with a wide grin, and made damned sure he saw it.
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The thing is, monster hunting? It’s not really that hard. Not if you’ve any experience hunting at all. A minotaur or a goblin isn’t all that different from a deer, a rabbit. Even if they can jabber at you, even if they can strike a deal? The methods, they’re the same. You get the scent, the track. You follow it.
You do your job, and get paid. It isn’t glorious, it isn’t clean. But everyone gets to eat.
I’d never hunted a minotaur before. This far in the country, the worst I’d encountered was the odd troll or two. Nasty, warty oafs that lumbered at the edge of town. Nothing waving a torch couldn’t solve. But whereas trolls lacked a keen mind, Minotaurs were another bag. I’d heard the rumors-it was the crop of choice in places like this. That the cowmen were smart. Some could speak, some could use magic. As my thoughts wandered over the details, I thought back to the chest the king showed me.
With a little more than that, I could retire. The next beasts I’d hunt would be for sport. Not survival. With greed in my heart, I grabbed my kit. I mounted my horse, an old mare who trotted like a snail. But not once in all my years had I seen her spooked-Iron Gall, I’d called her. With a whinney we took off, far over the fields of the king. Past the woods, past the brackish swamp. By then, the sky had grown black. What few rays of the moon peeked from the clutch of clouds guided us to a cave.
The king had given me the location. But he hadn’t a clue how to find the beast once I’d arrived. He assumed, I suppose by intuition, that I’d just know. I wasn’t about to ruin the show, so I’d nodded and assured him. I leapt from Iron Gall, and pulled a parchment from my waist. Unfurling it in the silver light, I glanced up for landmarks. Sure enough, this was the place. But as my nostrils flared, I felt my heart sink.
With beasts, there’s always a scent. Goblins and kobolds smell like the earth. Zombies, rot. Fae smell like wildflowers, and predators a charnel house. But standing at the mouth of the cave, I smelled none of that. Nothing other than mud and rain. I knit my brow, and shoved the parchment back. I turned to my horse, and pulled the oilcloth wrapped torch from my kit. It took a moment-it was a moist night-but the torch lit true a moment later. Iron Gall, to her credit, didn’t so much as snort.
I reached to her saddle, and opted to pull my sword away. The scabbard could stay behind. Between the torch and the blade, I wasn’t intending for this to take long. Much less have a need to put either away. I glanced at the blade, wondering when the last sharpening was. It’s surface was pockmarked and pitted, but it glint in the light. Without a trail to follow, I marched towards the cave. The earth was soft, and my boots squealched underfoot with every step.
Those that hire me, they act as though I’m “brave” for this job. That somehow, what I do is some higher calling. But like on the farm, it’s just another chore. You don’t want rats in the grain-or minotaurs in your midst. So you do what’s necessary. There isn’t an art to it, no science. It just is. But as I step into the cave, darkness enveloping me, I realize so many others would turn away.
I couldn’t help but smile. I hold in a chuckle-no need to give the bastard a heads up. The torch gives plenty of light, but I mind my steps. Caves are funny things. Holes in rock, jagged as a seas of knives. Slippery as a noble’s taxes. One misstep, and you’re lucky if you just break a bone. If it happens on the hunt, you might as well fall on your sword. The mouth gave way to a wider chamber. Water rose over the soles of my boots, and I watched as it amplified my torchlight.
The chamber was massive. The roof was natural-or so I thought. As I glanced up, I realized there weren’t any stalactites. Raising my torch, I saw where the lot had been knocked clean. Claw marks edged where they’d been.
So they’d been removed.
Probably for long term habitation.
I wriggled my nose, and took a deep inhale through it. While I’d smelled nothing outside, there was a trace now. Distinctly bovine, not unlike the cows I’d raised. I leaned the torch forward, and a dark aperture fell into view. It was on the far side of the room, and I winced as every step echoed against the puddled water beneath me. Drawing closer, the scent from before grew. It overpowered all others, filling my nose with a heady scent that gripped my thoughts. I tightened the grip on my blade, and steeled my nerves for what was to come.
There wasn’t an art to what I did. It was a chore-but it was killing, still. It was different from killing a ram or pig. The beasts, they knew what was coming. They’d fight and claw the whole time. No matter how brief their time left was, they fought for every minute of it.
Just as a man would.
I stepped into the aperture. Torch high, blade ready.
I didn’t have to wait long.
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“Oi ya’ daft fuckin’ cunt slag, put tha’ pig sticker away less ye’ lived a good, long life!”
It wasn’t the response I was expecting. But judging by the sheer size of the man before me, I lowered my blade. He was easily a measure taller than me. His limbs rippled with scars and muscle. As he came closer to the light, I looked upon his bearded face.
He had but one eye, but within it I saw raw, boiling anger. I took a step back, and watched as he crossed his arms. The shock of his greeting abating, I realized for the first time he was naked. I tried not to choke as I met his face.
“And who might you be?” I said, my voice steady.
The stranger chuckled, and smacked a hand against his chest. “I be Grungnir, King’s man-o-arms and personal guard. Who the bloody nine are you?”
I rolled my tongue over my lips, my mouth parched. I took a breath, and said “Kasivir. Hunter. I’m here for the minotaur-and to take you home,”
Grungnir tilted his head as his one eye looked at me bemused. Then he busted out laughing, his shadow massive against the cave wall.
“Bloody hell, ol’ lad sent a wee greenhorn for a minotaur? Wassat, no more talent to send? Hah! And ye’ think we want to go home? Are ye’ daft kin?!”
The tension I felt before abated. Rage and humiliation replaced it. Though my blade was tilted down, my knuckles turned white as I gripped my jaw.
“You need to come home, your families are worried about you,” I said.
Grungnir snorted, and shook his head. “Oi, I’m sure Bonnie-lass with the sass is. But you want us lads home so you can get paid. Don’t lie to me. I can smell a liar boy,”
I sighed, and tried not to let my head hang. “Alright, yes. That’s a large part of it. But your families-”
“Fuck ‘em!” shouted Grungnir, raising his hands up. “Fuck ‘em all! I’m in the lap o’ luxury here. The fuck would I wanna return to that o’ drudgery for? To die a slave to a pompous arse that can’t even come himself? Tell me, kin-how much is he offering ye’? Cause Bertha here-” he said, jerking his head back, “-she’s got a fair sight more than he,”
“Bertha? I take it that’s the minotaur?” I replied, cocking a brow at him.
Grungnir raised a finger, and wagged it. “Now now kin, minotaur-ess. She be a lady, and a ripe better one ye won’t find. Come along then, aye?”
He turned from me, and beckoned with a wave of his hand. Before I’d taken a step, the dark of the cave had enveloped him utterly. I trod along as fast I could, my boots splashing with every soggy step. The flame flickered and wavered, but at last I’d found his back.
And with it, a palpable muggy heat. Grungnir stepped as though he were going to mass, steadfast and determined. I tried to pull ahead, but managed to only get beside him. The bastard was so damned big his stride could gulf a mountain.
“It’s getting warmer,” I said as a bead of sweat rolled from my brow. Grungnir laughed, and turned his head towards me.
“Oh, ya’ don’t say kin? Tell me-is your hovel warm as this at night? Aye?”
I didn’t respond.
I kept pace with him as best I could, but when he rounded a corner I lost him. I stopped in the dark, lapping the sweat from my lips as I stood at a crossing. I closed my eyes, and tilted my head in every direction. When I found the cow smell, the swarthy warmth of one path, I followed.
Hunting isn’t easy work. It’s a chore. It’s still killing. But every now and then, as you bend and twist in the dark? You get surprised. Maybe the beast is more cunning than you thought. Maybe more mild and timid. But sometimes, on very rare occasion?
They’re not a beast at all. Not really. And there you are, sword in hand, wondering who the real monster is.
The way was short, but the climax large. As I strode deeper into the earth, the bovine stench was replaced with something else. The smell of sweat, of wine. A din of laughter peeled through the rocky cavern, jarring as it was sweet. I strode faster, as though Iron Gall were beneath me.
Only to slip-shod and fall my way into a well lit, massive room. The laughter-a multitude of it-fell silent. Shadows drew over me, massive and full. Unmistakably male.
All except for one. One that engulfed my utterly, one that made my spine crawl by how tiny it made me feel. Though I’m no coward, I couldn’t dare to look up in that moment. For with the shadow came the loud, echoing clack of massive hooves.
This was it. This was to be my end. These men, they had been tricked by some magic. Some turn of innate greed. This beast was going to gore me and-
“Why look at you! So small, so lithe. Oh, we can’t have that. Not at all,” came a husky feminine voice.
I felt a grip on the back of my shirt, the cave floor giving beneath me. I was lifted high, higher than the heads of the men. I finally opened my eyes, and came face to face with the beast. The thing I’d hunted all the night, thoughts of coin jingling in my head.
All she did was smile.
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Bertha.
That was her name. A sweet one, something that fit her curves. She wasn’t like any minotaure I’d heard or seen. More human than cow, save for her horns, her ears and hooves. Her tail was an idle thing, one you’d hardly notice unless she flicked it towards you.
Or it was in your grip.
Grungnir hadn’t lied, either. For Bertha’s nest was lined with every manner of gold trinket one could want. The chest the king had offered was a pittance for what surrounded us now. But in that space, deep within the bowels of the earth, it wasn’t gold we sought.
Rather, it was the pearl between her legs.
Bertha wasn’t a beast. I wasn’t sure she wasn’t a goddess, but she wasn’t a beast. She fed us, clothed us if we wanted it. But it was her affections we craved most. She was liberal with them, giggling at every slap of her flank. If one of us savvied to cup her udders, we did. She would blush, quivering at the touch. And if others joined, well…
I couldn’t say mating her wasn’t pleasant.
After the first week, I understood why Grungnir didn’t seek to return.
But I had a stray thought on occasion. Sleeping on the warm rock, waiting for my turn.
What on earth would a minotaur need an army for?