The Legend of Huma

Chapter 2

It was dark when Huma returned to consciousness.

Lunitari, in wane, glittered weakly, casting a slight crimson tinge. Like blood, Huma thought, and then he forced that thought quickly away. If Lunitari were in wane, which of the other moons would be waxing? Solinari was nowhere to be seen. If it was indeed Nuitari that waxed, Huma would never know it. No one saw the dark moon—no one save the Black Robes, those mages who worshipped the dark god of magic. The dark moon was invisible to common folk and perhaps even to those who followed the paths of white and red magic as well.

As his senses cleared, he became more aware of his surroundings. The horse lay beneath him, its neck broken by the fall. The heavy padding in Huma’s armor, combined with the mass of the horse, had prevented the knight’s death.

He tried to rise and nearly blacked out. All that padding had not been enough to prevent a concussion. While he waited for his head to clear again, Huma looked around.

This might once have been a river in a time when the rains had fallen more often. Its depth, at least four times Huma’s height, was more than enough to kill a crazed steed, even one as strong as the warhorse.

The other side of the river bed lay some distance away. Judging by the sickly growths that barely could be called plants, he suspected this river had dried up many, many years before, possibly in the early days of the war, when the Dragonqueen had sought a quick, decisive victory over the followers of Paladine.

Huma dared once more to attempt to stand. He found that the pounding in his head subsided to mere annoyance if he did not bend his neck abruptly or look down too swiftly. With this in mind, he succeeded in staying on his feet.

“Gods.” The word came unbidden, for Huma was only just now realizing that he was alone in hostile territory. The others must think him dead. Dead—or perhaps a coward who had run.

A mist was developing, sending cold, feathery fingers wisping through the ravine. He could wait out the night and begin his trek at first light—which might mean walking into another goblin patrol—or he could travel by night and pray that whatever lurked out there would be just as blind in the dark mist as he. Neither prospect pleased him, but he could think of no other choice.

He found that the pain in his head had lessened a bit so that now he was able to search the ground for his sword. It lay near, undamaged. His pack was another problem. Part of it was buried beneath his mount and, while Huma was strong, the animal’s position made it virtually impossible for him either to lift the horse or roll it over. He had to satisfy himself with a few rations, a tinderbox and flint, and a few personal items, pried from the unhindered portion of the pack.

Huma did not like the thought of traveling by night, but he liked the idea of traveling alone in plain sight by daylight even less. He picked up his things and, sword in hand, started up the sides of the river bed. The mist would be thinner above, and the high ground was always more advantageous, strategically. At least, Huma hoped so.

The mist never got worse, but neither did it get any better. Huma could make out most of the stars, but his ground-level vision extended only ten feet or so, and he was hard-pressed to make out details in the red moon’s weak attempt at illuminating the shroud-covered land. The sword stayed at the ready in Huma’s left hand. He had no shield; it must have been lost in the horse’s mad flight.

Thinking of that, Huma could not help remembering the demonic visage he had glimpsed. If that thing were out there somewhere . . . His grip on the hilt tightened.

He had traveled an hour when he heard the harsh, mocking voices. Goblins! Huma ducked behind a rotting tree trunk. No more than ten yards separated him from them. Only the mist had saved him. At least three, maybe four, goblins seemed to be joking over the fate of someone. A prisoner, perhaps. Although one part of Huma urged him to slip away safely, another demanded that he lend whatever aid he could. Carefully, he slipped closer and listened.

A rusty, grating voice jarred his aching head. “I thinks the warlord himself will reward us fer this one.”

A deeper voice joined the first, “Maybe he’ll give us the bull. I’d like to be the one to skin him fer a rug. He killed Guiver.”

“You never liked Guiver!”

“He owed me money! Now I’ll never get it!”

A third voice cut in. “How do ya think the ogres will kill ’im?”

Huma strained his ears and caught the sound of a knife being sharpened on stone. “Real slow. They got sneaky minds fer that kinda stuff.”

Something rattled chains, and Huma tried to place the location. Somewhere far to the right, he thought.

“He’s awake.”

“Let’s have some fun.”

Chains rattled again, and a voice, resonant and spanning the distance with no trouble, responded. “Give me a weapon and let me fight.”

“Ha!” The goblins snickered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cowface? We ain’t fools, ya know.”

“You’ll do until some come along.” Suddenly the voice grunted, as if exerting great effort. The goblin voices—four, Huma estimated—quieted until the grunting became a gasp for breath. The chains rattled.

“I thought he was gonna do it for a minute!”

“Two coppers’ll get ya that he can!”

“What? You fool! You’d bet on something like that?”

“Guiver would’ve.”

Huma, so engrossed in the goblins, almost missed the soft tread behind him. When he did, he was sure that he had been seen. The newcomer, though, continued walking and Huma soon realized that the creature, a goblin guard, could not see well in the mist. Still, a few steps more would bring the goblin close enough that not even a dense fog would save the knight. Summoning his courage, Huma quietly circled behind the guard. He matched the goblin step for step, save that his own stride was half again as long. Each step brought him that much closer. Only a few more . . .

A roar bellowed angrily from the camp. Knight and goblin turned without thinking, then stared at one another as realization sank in. Huma was the first to react, leaping at the goblin in a desperate attempt to silence him. Sword and body caught the creature and it fell to the ground—but not before the goblin let out a muffled shout.

“Pigsticker?”

Huma cursed his luck and scrambled away from the body. The goblins had abandoned tormenting their captive—who was evidently the source of the bellowing—and were now cautiously making their way in the direction they believed their companion had called out from.

“Pigsticker!”

“He’s probably tripped on a rock again.”

“Well, what’s he gone and done, then—cracked open his head? Pigsticker!”

“I think I should stay back here. Just in case.”

“Snee’s back there. Ya come with us or I’ll give ya a piece of what the bull’s gettin’.”

“Okay, okay!”

The goblins were making more than enough noise to cover Huma’s movements, and the mist hid him even though one of the creatures, amazingly, had thought to carry a torch. They soon would come across the body of their dead comrade, though, and that would bring Huma’s advantage to an end.

His maneuvers brought him close to the perimeter of the camp. He thought he saw a large shape huddled on the ground, with perhaps a horned helmet atop its head, but the mists gave it odd proportions for a human—or even an elf or dwarf. A campfire burned low. A shadowy, lumpy figure moved near it, and Huma knew this must be the goblin, Snee, who had been left to guard the prisoner.

Despite the low illumination from the fire, Huma had no delusions about his chances of sneaking up on this goblin. The ground ahead gave no cover, and the jittery goblin was turning this way and that. Huma made out what appeared to be a wicked, two-handed ax in its paws.

Huma’s free hand flattened across some small rocks, and the glimmerings of a plan flickered in his concussion-wracked head. Taking a handful of the rocks, he dared to get up on his knees. With a quick prayer to Paladine, he threw them to the far side of the camp, away from the prisoner.

The guard reacted predictably, much to Huma’s relief. As the goblin scurried to investigate, Huma scooped up another handful of pebbles, stood up, and quietly made his way toward the back of the prisoner. Midway there, he threw the other handful, this time assuring that they would go even farther. His heart pounding, he covered the remaining ground.

Whoever the prisoner was, he was huge. Huge and smelly. The helmet actually seemed to be some sort of head-dress, although Huma did not examine it closely enough to make sure.

“Be very still,” Huma whispered.

Huma felt the body stiffen, but no reply came. From his angle, Huma could see that, unlike the arms which were chained, the legs were bound with rope. He reached down to his belt and pulled out a dagger, even as the other goblins suddenly let out a collective shout. They had discovered their comrade.

“Cut your bonds and run! I’ll do my best to give you time!” Even as he said it, Huma wondered at his own daring—or foolishness, it was hard to say which. He only knew that, as a knight, it was his duty to risk his life for others.

Huma straightened even as Snee hurried back to find out the reason for the shouting. At first, the goblin mistook Huma for one of its companions, but recognition followed almost instantly and the goblin brought its ax around for a wild swing at the young knight. Huma dodged easily and nicked the goblin in one arm. At that, some sense returned to Snee, and the goblin called out for help.

There was no skill in the goblin’s attacks, only brute force. Huma easily dodged each swing of the ax, but he knew that each moment of delay cost him greatly. Already, he could hear the other goblins stomping back to camp.

Then, the goblin who was the apparent leader gave a shout of surprise and yelled, “The bull’s loose!”

Indeed, something was loose, and Huma wondered who or what exactly he had released. With a wild, primitive cry, the shadowy form went tearing past Huma. The startled goblin dropped its ax with a clatter and followed it to the ground immediately afterward.

Unarmed and with his hands chained, the other surely could not survive against three opponents. Yet, when Huma turned to offer aid, his first view was of a giant, hulking form that overwhelmed the goblins as if they were small children. One had gotten too close and now squirmed helplessly in the air above the former prisoner’s head. The other two were backing away fearfully. Huma paused, suddenly unsure if moving closer was a wise move.

The freed prisoner tossed the hapless goblin at the nearest of its two comrades, who, dodging the living projectile, squeaked and turned to flee. The two goblins collided with a bone-breaking crunch. They fell into a heap and lay still.

The lone survivor did not have time to react. The tall, muscular figure reached forward with both arms and wrapped its metal chain around the panic-stricken goblin’s neck. With a single jerk that gave evidence of strength in those massive arms, the chains snapped the goblin’s head back. The lifeless form dropped to the ground like a sack of oats.

Huma came to a halt some twenty feet from the prisoner he had released. Whatever it was, it was at least a foot taller than Huma—no small man, himself—and almost twice as wide. The arms looked to be as thick as Huma’s legs, and the legs looked as if they could bear their owner through a twenty-mile run without any sign of strain.

The other had been satisfied to contemplate his revenge, but now as he straightened, he seemed to be studying the knight.

Again, the voice was deep and resounding. “You have my gratitude, Knight of Solamnia. I owe you my life, a debt I can never repay but one that I shall endeavor to compensate you for if it takes the rest of my days.”

Huma stayed poised, but some of his unease vanished. “You owe me nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”

The tall figure chuckled ominously. “Would they?” He turned to face the knight and, even in the dim light, it was obvious that the one he had freed was no man or elf. The horns were part of the creature, as was the thick, dark fur that covered the top and much of the back. As the goblins had so crudely put it, the other resembled nothing less than a bull with a body of a man.

A minotaur.

The minotaur took a few slow steps toward Huma, as if to prove he meant no harm. Although Huma’s training cried out that this was an enemy—and one of the most fierce—his natural curiosity was fascinated by this creature. Few in the region ever saw a minotaur. The creature’s homeland was far away on the eastern cost of Ansalon. Still, Huma’s curiosity did not prevent him from raising his sword to a more defensive position.

The creature’s head seemed overly large, even for a body as massive as the minotaur’s. Dark, thick fur covered the top and the back half, and a thin fuzz covered the rest. The minotaur’s eyes were much like those of a real bull, save that an intelligence lurked within those orbs. The snout was short and broad, and the teeth that the creature’s grin revealed looked more adapted to tearing flesh than green grass. Huma remembered some of the stories about this race, and he took an involuntary step backward.

The minotaur held up his long, wide hands and displayed the chains that bound them together. The fingers were thicker and more blunt than a man’s and they ended in sharp nails—no, claws. Huma’s own hands were like those of a year-old child in comparison.

“Unlike the goblins, who always need six times the number of their adversaries before they even dream of attack, I think you have the advantage over me. I’m sure you know how to use that fine weapon.”

“I do,” Huma finally managed to blurt out. “What were you doing here? Why were you a prisoner of these goblins? I’ve always heard the minotaurs were allies of the ogres.”

The crimson illumination of the moon gave the former captive’s eyes a fearsome look. “Slave soldiers would be a better term, Knight of Solamnia. We are no more than slaves to our cousins. They hold our lands and our families as hostages, though the word they use is protection. That is why we do what they cannot. One day, though, it will be the minotaurs who will rule. We await that day.”

“Which does not explain why you were a prisoner here.” Huma presented as confident a face as he could muster. It would not take much of the minotaur’s strength to snap the young knight’s neck. He had already seen proof of that.

The beast-man dropped his shackled arms and snorted. “I killed my ogre captain, human. I struck him down with my bare hands. A good blow. Cracked his skull with one shot.”

The thought of striking, much less actually murdering, a superior appalled the knight. He raised his visor and dared to step close to the minotaur.

“You murdered him?”

“You like ogres? Thanks to me, no lives will be lost against his ax—and he was good, I’ll give him that. Many died on that ax, human, even the weak, the helpless. I found him over the bodies of an aged male and two children, perhaps the old human’s grandchildren. I did what I thought right. There is no honor in slaughtering the old, the feeble, or the young—at least, not among my kind. Not that they would have tolerated my betrayal. I had thought it was so among the Knights of Solamnia, too. I see that I may have misunderstood.” The minotaur held up the chained wrists once more, causing Huma to take several quick steps back. “Either kill me or free me from these chains. I do not care to discuss this. The goblins have drugged what little food they gave me. This exertion has almost done me in.”

Indeed, the minotaur was slumping. Huma came to a decision, overturned it, came to another, and finally settled again on the first. Even then, he did not act. Could he truly believe the words of the strange figure before him? The minotaurs were supposedly an honorable race, but they served the gods of evil. That was the way it was always taught.

Huma’s sword arm shivered, as much from his thoughts as from the long, awkward position he held it in. The man-beast waited patiently, as ready to die as to be freed. The calm and faith with which the former captive faced his rescuer finally made Huma’s decision for him. He slowly and carefully sheathed his blade.

“Which of these had the keys?”

The minotaur fell to his knees. His breath came in huge huffs, like a bull about to charge. “The one I threw. He will have them if any do. I never saw the keys. They had no reason for them. After—after all, why would they want to release me?”

While the exhausted defector rested, Huma went over to the goblin and checked the numerous pouches wrapped around the creature’s waist. Each held a large number of items, many of them disgusting trophies of war—knowing goblins, more likely looted from the dead—and a few unrecognizable. In one of the pouches, he found the keys.

The minotaur’s eyes were closed, and Huma suddenly worried that one of the goblins had, after all, inflicted some mortal wound. At the clinking of the keys near his face, though, the burly figure opened his eyes.

“My thanks,” he said, after Huma had freed both wrists. “By my ancestors twenty generations back, I will not rest until I have balanced the scale. You have my oath on that.”

“There is no need. It—it was my duty.”

Somehow, the minotaur managed a very human expression of skepticism. “Nevertheless, I will honor my oath as I see fit. Let it not be said that Kaz is less than his ancestors.”

Huma stood. “Can you walk?”

“Give me a moment.” Kaz looked around quickly. “Besides, I have no desire to be out in the open tonight. I would prefer some sort of shelter.”

“From what?” Huma could not imagine what would worry such a powerful fighter unless it was a dragon or some creature of similar proportions.

Kaz rose slowly. “The captain was a current favorite of the warlord. I fear he might have unleashed some of the renegade’s pets.”

“I don’t understand.”

The minotaur suddenly turned his attention to acquiring a decent weapon. He spotted the ax dropped by Huma’s first opponent, picked it up, and tested it. “Good. Probably dwarven.” To Huma, he replied, “Let us hope there is no need. I do not think either of us would live through it.”

In the hands of the goblin, the ax had looked large. Kaz, however, wielded it with the ease of one who was used to weapons of even greater size. The ax was meant for two-handed use; the minotaur needed only one massive paw to grasp it.

“In which direction did you plan to go?”

“North.”

“To Kyre?”

Huma hesitated. He knew that many knights, even Bennett, would never have released such a creature from its bonds. They would have marched it at sword point through the wasteland. Most certainly, they would never tell the minotaur the final destination. If the so-called prisoner was in actuality a spy, such a slip of the tongue might prove fatal for more than just Huma. Yet, Kaz seemed a person of honor.

Huma held back only a moment more, then finally nodded. “Yes, Kyre. I hope to rejoin my comrades.”

The minotaur swung the ax over his own shoulder and attached it to what Huma realized was a harness designed for just such a purpose. It was one of only two pieces of clothing Kaz wore, the other being a sort of kilt, or perhaps a large loin cloth.

“I fear that Kyre is an unwise choice for now, but I will not argue you out of it.”

“Why unwise?”

Kaz gave his imitation of a human smile, a smile filled with anticipation. “Kyre is now the front. My cousins, the ogres, must be there even as we speak.” He chuckled, sounding again like a snorting bull. “It will be a glorious struggle. I wish I could be there.”

Huma grimaced at the obvious pleasure in killing that his new companion expressed. Some of the tales concerning the strange minotaurs were evidently too true.

Steeling himself, Huma wiped the drying blood from his weapon. He glanced only briefly at his newfound companion, who seemed to recognize some of the revulsion in Huma’s face.

“You may come with me or go back to your own, Kaz,” Huma said. “Whatever you desire. You may find the knighthood leery of accepting you as a deserter.”

Kaz did not hesitate. “I know some of what you feel, Knight of Solamnia. I understand all too well our many differences. Still, I owe you a debt and I would rather face your comrades than return to my own ranks and to a slow torture before I am executed. I have no desire to face ogres’ tender mercies.”

Something howled in the night, far away. It was a wolf, Huma decided, yet not a wolf. It was too cold, too—evil.

“We had best be off,” Kaz quickly decided. “This is no place to be at night. The scent of death is sure to draw visitors here and I, Knight, would prefer to move on.”

Huma’s eyes were still staring back at the direction of the cry. He nodded sharply, suddenly much more pleased with the minotaur’s companionship. “Agreed.” He reached out his right hand in friendship. “My name, friend Kaz, is Huma.”

“Huma.” The pressure exerted by the hand that covered Huma’s was not enough to crush every bone, but it came close. “A strong name, that. A warrior’s name.”

Huma turned quickly away and picked up his bags. How wrong the minotaur could be! A warrior, indeed! Within his armor, Huma could feel every portion of his body shiver. He tried to imagine Bennett in his place, acting in the proper manner of a knight born to command. The thought only frustrated Huma more, for he knew that Bennett would never have ended up in a situation such as this.

They left the camp, with its dying fire and scattered refuse, and headed in the direction Huma had chosen. Neither spoke now, for varying reasons. Behind them—thankfully, sounding no closer than before—the cry rose again.