Chapter 26: Minotaur, Go Home
The journey through the hills lasted hours.
Mist rolled endlessly across the highlands while narrow stone paths twisted between steep ridges and deep ravines. The Minotaurs moved through the terrain with effortless confidence, galloping up rocky slopes and descending jagged trails that would have broken the necks of lesser folk. Their heavy hooves cracked stone and churned mud while low moos and snorting conversations passed constantly between them in their strange rumbling tongue.
Behind them marched the Orc delegation.
Ulf led at the front beside Mootruvius and his kin, her silver armor bright against the pale mountain fog while Hate, Badwen, and Kelgor remained close at her sides. Behind them followed several dozen carefully chosen Orc sailors and warriors carrying shields and supplies but keeping their weapons respectfully lowered.
Still, the tension never truly vanished.
The Minotaurs watched the Orcs constantly.
Whispering.
Snorting.
Their pale eyes lingered especially on Ulf and Badwen, clearly unsettled to see beings nearly their own height and strength. Orcs were broader, heavier, more brutish in frame, but the Minotaurs possessed a raw athletic power unlike anything the Orcs had encountered.
Neither side quite knew what to make of the other.
The path eventually narrowed into a winding canyon hidden between towering cliffs veined with waterfalls and hanging moss. Tall pines gave way to ancient cedar trees while smoke drifted faintly through the cool mountain air ahead.
Then the valley opened before them.
Even Ulf slowed slightly at the sight.
Hidden deep within the mountains lay the Minotaur village.
It sat cradled in a secluded green valley protected on all sides by cliffs and forests, almost invisible from above. Round hide-covered yurts and long timber lodges clustered around great communal fire pits while smoke curled peacefully into the gray sky. Totem poles carved with horned spirits and ancestral figures stood guard around the settlement’s edges, painted in faded reds, whites, and blacks.
Children raced through the muddy lanes on hoof and foot alike.
Women scraped hides beside drying racks while elderly Minotaurs carved bone tools beneath awnings of stretched leather.
The village was poor.
Painfully poor.
Most structures leaned slightly from age and weather. Weapons stacked beside doorways were made not from shining steel but sharpened stone, wood, horn, and bone. Spears tipped with obsidian stood beside hide shields stitched together from scraps of leather and fur.
Yet despite the poverty…
The place radiated strength.
Hard survivors.
Every Minotaur moved with powerful confidence born from a brutal life among unforgiving mountains. Even the elderly looked capable of breaking bones with bare hands.
Ulf watched silently as two young male Minotaurs suddenly slammed heads together in the center of the village with a thunderous crack that echoed through the valley. Nearby females watched with open amusement while the two rivals snorted and butted one another viciously over some dispute of courtship or pride.
One finally staggered backward dazed while the victor bellowed triumphantly.
The female in question simply rolled her eyes and walked away from both of them.
Several Orcs barked laughter at the scene.
Even Ulf looked impressed.
“Strong,” she murmured quietly.
“Very,” Hate agreed.
Mootruvius turned proudly toward them.
“Our people survive because we must.”
As the Orcs entered deeper into the settlement, Minotaur villagers gathered cautiously to stare. Some children hid behind their mothers at the sight of the massive green newcomers while warriors watched openly with hands resting near clubs and spears.
Mootruvius raised one hand calmly.
“They are guests,” he announced firmly in his own tongue.
That eased things slightly.
At the center of the village stood the largest structure of all—a massive yurt crafted from timber poles, layered hides, woven cloth, and carved horn decorations. Smoke drifted from an opening at its peak while painted symbols circled the entrance flap.
Mootruvius stopped before it and turned toward Ulf.
“Welcome,” he said in rough Common. “To the home of my father.”
He stepped aside respectfully.
“Come. The Chief wishes discussion.”
The interior of Mooton’s great yurt was dim, hot, and thick with smoke.
The air itself seemed alive beneath the hide roof, swirling with layers of pungent incense, pipe smoke, sweat, leather, and the earthy scent of beasts. Fire pits burned low in the center of the vast circular chamber, their orange glow flickering across painted hides and carved wooden poles that supported the massive structure overhead.
Ulf’s red eyes adjusted slowly as she stepped inside.
The walls were draped with thick furs and woven tapestries depicting hunts, stampedes, battles against armored men, and strange horned spirits dancing beneath moons and stars. Totems of carved bone and antler hung from cords overhead, rattling softly whenever the mountain wind brushed the tent walls.
Minotaurs sat in rings around the fires.
Old warriors smoked from enormous carved pipes nearly the length of spears, inhaling deeply before passing them down the line. The smoke smelled powerful and bitter, far stronger than Orc bloodleaf or Stone-Of-The-Lotus. It burned the nostrils just breathing near it.
Several Minotaur priestesses circled slowly around one of the fire pits.
Their fur cloaks swayed with rhythmic stomping while long strips of painted cloth danced from their wrists and horns. Their voices rose together in a deep haunting chant accompanied by the thunder of hooves against packed earth.
“MOOH-RAVAH TUN GORRAHM! VAHTU MOOHRAH KETH! BRAAUM VETHORR TUN MAAH! GORRUM VAAH! GORRUM VAAH!”
The rhythm rolled through the yurt like distant thunder.
Stamp.
Stamp.
Stamp.
The cloth strips whipped through the smoky air while shadows danced wildly across the walls.
At the far side of the chamber sat Mooton the Wise.
The old Minotaur occupied a place of clear honor atop a raised mound layered with thick furs and carved horn decorations. Around him sat elder warriors and shamanic figures adorned with painted skulls and necklaces of teeth.
Mooton motioned toward a seat placed beside him.
Not equal.
Slightly lower.
Ulf noticed instantly.
Her lip twitched faintly with Orcish irritation at the implication.
Still…
This was diplomacy.
And she had not crossed mountains to start a fight over seating.
Without complaint, she lowered herself onto the offered cushion of hide and fur. The gathered Minotaurs watched closely as she settled beside their chief.
Mooton grunted approvingly and offered her a long carved pipe.
The bowl glowed hot red.
Ulf took it carefully.
The smoke hit her like a hammer.
Gods.
It was potent.
Her lungs burned instantly and her vision swam for half a heartbeat beneath the sheer strength of it. Several Orcs behind her coughed merely from smelling the thing.
But Ulf did not cough.
Not once.
She inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled a thick stream of smoke calmly into the firelight.
Around the chamber came impressed snorts and murmurs from the Minotaurs.
Even Mooton’s heavy brows lifted slightly.
Badwen blinked in surprise behind her.
“Strong stuff,” Hate muttered quietly.
Mootruvius settled himself beside Ulf cross-legged upon the rugs and nodded respectfully toward his father.
“Mooton the Wise,” he translated carefully, “will hear your words.”
Mooton the Wise drew deeply from his pipe, the embers glowing bright beneath the smoky gloom of the yurt. His massive chest rose and fell slowly before he finally spoke, his deep bovine voice rolling like distant thunder.
“MROOOOH… vaaah toruum grah-veth… MOOH tahv eifar… BRAAAHM uth moohrath vaahtun…”
The gathered Minotaurs stomped softly in agreement.
Mootruvius translated carefully beside Ulf.
“For centuries, the Minotaur people grazed these lands. From the base of the Farfield Mountains to the River Eifys.”
Mooton gestured slowly through the smoky air.
“Moohr vaaht grahm… MOOH-RAH tun vaahtuk… Bravohm… bravohm…”
“It was peace,” Mootruvius explained. “The Minotaurs hunted game, migrated with the seasons, spread across the plains and hills.”
The younger bull’s expression darkened.
“Then came man.”
An angry rumbling passed through the yurt instantly.
Mooton snorted hard enough to spray sparks from the pipe bowl.
“MRAAAH-TUN MENNOK! VETHAR KORUM! VAAHT GORRUM!”
“Knights from the north,” Mootruvius translated grimly. “Warriors from the south.”
Mooton’s great hand clenched into a fist.
“They pushed us.”
Another snort.
“Killed us.”
The fist tightened harder.
“Drove us from our lands until only this valley remained.”
The Minotaurs throughout the yurt lowered their heads bitterly.
Even the priestesses had stopped dancing.
Mooton’s voice softened then, becoming strangely mournful.
“Moohrath vaaah… Eidalyis… Tun grahm vaahtun… MOOH-RATH KETH…”
Mootruvius hesitated before translating.
“Our greatest loss was not land alone.”
The younger Minotaur pointed westward.
“Far to the west upon the plains of Eidalyis… there once stood our sacred breeding grounds.”
Ulf blinked slightly.
Mootruvius continued.
“It is where Minotaur souls are born.”
Even the Orcs fell silent at the weight in his voice.
“Now…” Mootruvius snarled softly, “upon those sacred lands stands the human city of Vinteux.”
The name itself caused furious braying throughout the yurt.
Minotaurs stomped their hooves violently.
Several snarled openly.
Mooton’s eyes burned with ancient hatred now.
“VINTEUX! MRAAH-TUN GROOOOND! MOOH VAHT GRAHM EIDALYIS!”
Mootruvius’ lip curled.
“The city is ruled by the Wizard Lord Lakeland Grond.”
The name drew spits from several Minotaurs.
“Vinteux feeds Acury. It provides them food, minerals, wealth…”
His voice hardened.
“…from lands that belong rightfully to the Minotaur people.”
The uproar within the yurt became deafening.
Minotaurs mooed angrily.
Pipes slammed against the earth.
Hooves thundered.
One warrior smashed a wooden cup simply from clenching it too hard.
Mooton rose partially from his honored seat, towering over the fires as smoke curled around his horns.
“MROOOOH VAAHT MENNOK! BRAHM VETH TUN GRAH! MOOHRAH KETH!”
Mootruvius translated with grim intensity.
“One day,” he said, “the Minotaur shall reclaim their home.”
Mooton slammed one fist against his chest.
“And grind the bones of men beneath their feet.”
Ulf grinned broadly.
At last—
Something familiar.
Something Orcish.
She leaned forward slightly, red eyes gleaming through the smoke.
“Then,” she rumbled approvingly, “perhaps we have something in common after all.”
The yurt quieted gradually.
Mooton regarded her for a long moment through the haze of pipe smoke and firelight.
Then the old Minotaur spoke again, slower this time.
“Moohr… vaaht uruk… Tun grahm?”
Mootruvius looked toward Ulf.
“My father asks…”
The younger bull’s yellow eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“What can the Orcs provide?”
Ulf rose slowly from her place beside the fire.
The smoky yurt quieted at once as the massive Orc princess stood to her full towering height, black armor gleaming orange beneath the firelight. Her red eyes swept across the gathered Minotaurs while smoke curled around her tusked face.
When she spoke, her voice came low and thunderous.
“The Orcs have known the hatred of man since the first day our people set foot upon Sidhedark.”
Mootruvius translated quickly beside her, his rough Common giving way to deep mooing Minotaur speech.
Murmurs spread among the horned warriors.
Ulf continued.
“Long ago, my people came from the frozen island far beyond the northern seas. Orc Island.”
Several Minotaurs exchanged glances at the unfamiliar name.
“We settled first in the Gorkin Mountains.”
Her face darkened.
“But man came.”
A few Orcs snarled softly at the word.
“They hunted us. Burned our camps. Chased us from the homes we had built with blood and labor.”
Mootruvius’ deep voice rolled across the yurt in translation.
“MROOOH… uruk vaaht mennok…”
Ulf’s expression hardened with remembered fury.
“The Orcs nearly died there.”
Now the Minotaurs listened intently.
“Our people fled southward in exodus across frozen wastes and dead lands while humans hunted us like beasts.”
The fire crackled loudly in the silence.
“Many starved.”
She clenched one fist.
“Many froze.”
Another fist tightened.
“But Orcs do not die easily.”
Several Orcs slapped their chests proudly.
“We survived.”
Ulf pointed northward.
“We found new refuge in the Frozen Spine.”
That drew immediate reaction from the Minotaurs.
Even Mooton’s heavy brows rose slightly.
The Frozen Spine mountains were infamous throughout Sidhedark—jagged icy peaks where blizzards buried entire armies and even hardiest travelers vanished forever beneath the snow.
Low impressed moos spread through the yurt.
Ulf grinned tuskily at their reaction.
“Yes,” she rumbled. “The Frozen Spine.”
“From there, the Orcs grew strong once more.”
She paused then.
“My father… Gelbeg…”
At the sacred name, every Orc in the yurt bowed their heads instantly.
Even the Minotaurs sensed the reverence surrounding it.
“Gelbeg led a band of Orcs southward to settle the kingdom of Farfield.”
Her voice became quieter.
“And the humans welcomed them…”
A bitter grin spread across her face.
“…with chains.”
Angry growls erupted from the Orcs.
“The Orcs were enslaved.”
Mootruvius translated rapidly while Minotaurs snorted angrily in sympathy.
“But Orcs are not meant for chains.”
Ulf’s voice thundered now.
“My father rose against the humans.”
Several Orcs stomped approval.
“He overthrew their masters and shattered their kingdom.”
Then her expression softened slightly.
“But Gelbeg died.”
The yurt quieted again.
“He paid the weregild in blood so the Orc people could live free.”
Even Mooton bowed his head respectfully at that.
Ulf slowly drew herself taller.
“And when I was grown…”
Her red eyes gleamed fiercely.
“My mother Ionia and I returned.”
A savage grin spread across her tusked face.
“And we conquered Farfield ourselves.”
The Orcs exploded into cheers.
Massive hands slapped bellies in unison.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
“MOG! MOG! MOG!”
Badwen roared approval while Hate barked harsh laughter beside the fire.
The Minotaurs watched the display with growing respect.
Mootruvius translated the final parts to his father carefully.
Mooton listened silently, smoke drifting from his nostrils.
Then finally the old Minotaur nodded deeply.
“MROOOOH… Gelbeg vaaht uruk… Grahm mennok… BROOOHM.”
Mootruvius looked toward Ulf.
“My father says he has heard of honorable Gelbeg.”
The younger bull placed one hand against his chest respectfully.
“And of his feud with humanity.”
Mooton rose slowly to his full towering height.
The entire yurt fell silent.
Then the old chief slammed one hoof against the earth.
“MINOTAUR! URUK! GRAHM MENNOK!”
Mootruvius grinned broadly now.
“My father declares the Minotaur and Orcs friends…”
His yellow eyes gleamed.
“…in hatred of their oppressors.”
Ulf inhaled slowly through her broad nostrils.
Now came the dangerous part.
The smoky yurt had grown warm with shared hatred and old wounds, but hatred alone did not forge alliances. Orcs understood this better than most races. Friendship meant little beside power, land, and conquest.
So Ulf straightened her shoulders and spoke carefully.
“Here is my offer.”
The Orc cheers and Minotaur murmuring gradually faded.
Ulf swept one armored hand outward toward the gathered horned warriors.
“If the Minotaur provide the Orcs soldiers… bowmen… scouts… guides through these hills and plains…”
Her red eyes gleamed.
“…then the Orcs shall offer something humanity never has.”
Silence filled the yurt.
“A homeland.”
That word struck like thunder.
Minotaurs stirred visibly throughout the chamber.
Mooton leaned forward.
Even the priestesses ceased their chanting.
Ulf pointed westward.
“The plains of Eidalyis shall belong to the Minotaur once more.”
Now excited snorting spread rapidly through the yurt.
“Vinteux as well,” Ulf continued. “From the mountains to the River Eifys, the Minotaur shall roam free beneath open skies once again.”
Several younger Minotaurs stomped eagerly at that.
Others mooed loudly in disbelief.
Hope.
Actual hope.
Ulf pressed onward before doubt could settle.
“The Orcs claim all Acury as rightful conquest.”
That immediately cooled the excitement somewhat.
“And when we win…” Ulf’s voice remained steady, “the Minotaur shall hold these lands beneath Orc protection.”
Now the mood shifted sharply.
“The Minotaur will owe homage to the Domination. Goods. Soldiers. Trade rights.”
The word homage caused immediate bristling.
Several Minotaur warriors snarled openly.
One slammed his hoof against the floor.
Mooton narrowed his great yellow eyes.
He spoke low and slowly.
“Mrooh… mennok… uruk… Vaaht grahm?”
Mootruvius translated carefully.
“My father asks…”
The younger bull’s voice became cautious.
“How is this different from the humans?”
The question hung heavily in the smoke-filled air.
Ulf did not hesitate.
“Because humans fear you.”
That caused silence again.
“They keep you trapped here.”
She gestured toward the valley outside.
“Outcasts. Prisoners hidden in the hills.”
Several Minotaurs lowered their heads bitterly.
“Under Orc rule…”
Ulf’s voice deepened.
“…you become strong.”
She pointed toward Mooton himself.
“You shall have your own state. Your own lands. Your own herds. Your own people.”
Her fist slammed against her chestplate.
“The Orcs do not fear strength in others.”
That line landed well.
Very well.
Murmurs spread across the yurt again.
Several Minotaur nodded slowly.
Even some elders appeared thoughtful now.
Mooton himself remained silent, considering.
Then—
The entrance flap opened.
Several servants entered carrying broad platters of roasted meat, roots, steaming broth, and fermented drink.
Ulf barely looked at them initially.
Until one stepped closer into the firelight.
She blinked.
Human?
No…
Not entirely.
The figure bore unmistakably human features—pale skin, brown hair, slender frame—
—but from their brow curved small horns.
Goat-like.
The being kept their eyes lowered submissively while placing food before the gathered chiefs.
Ulf frowned deeply.
Beside her, Hate stiffened immediately.
Badwen exchanged a quick uneasy glance with him.
Neither liked the look of this at all.