Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

The town was a tiny speck on the side of a pristine shoreline of azure and green. A battered war barge glided slowly toward the coastline, the vessel barely under sail. It was obvious that the barge and its crew of minotaurs and human slaves had recently seen action. Only one sail remained aloft, and most of the rigging was down, tangled in masses on the decking below. The mainmast had been shattered, and its remnants lay strewn about, making life difficult for the crew.

“Port Five!”

A minotaur barked course corrections to the wheel. He stood on the forecastle, staring at the tiny dot of civilization through a spyglass. The spyglass symbolized life for the vessel. Originally of human design-possibly from as far back as the Cataclysm-the glass was just under two feet in length, made of brass. It counter-twisted to focus the two lenses on distances as great as a mile or more.

The markings on the side were foreign to the minotaur, but he didn’t care what they said or meant. The device did what it needed to do. It magnified items in the distance, warned of the approach of either enemy or victim, and that was what the minotaur captain wanted. The price had been right, too. It had been part of the booty from a raid years ago. Everything on the barge had either been stolen in raids, or was rigged as needed while at sea.

The minotaurs were the masters of the vessel. They were the sailors and the warriors, the heart and the muscle and the brains. They did not swab decks or empty the slop buckets. The drudge work was handled by the slave contingent-humans, also taken as booty. Some slaves escaped, some slaves died while fighting or being disciplined, but that never worried the minotaurs. There would always be more humans. They bred like maggots.

The barge shuddered its way through the course correction. On deck, thirty minotaur warriors prepared for battle. Some strapped on leather armor, while others adjusted straps holding grappling ropes or scabbards containing all manner of weaponry, from Solamnic long swords to Seeker flails to elven dirks. Still others sharpened the blades of their axes or the points of their morning stars. The town ahead was unknown to the minotaur ship of war, but it was on the north coast of Nordmaar, and that made it highly likely to be a human settlement.

Slowly the barge approached land. On the shore, several humans had noticed the curious vessel, were pointing and shouting. It was not uncommon for a ship to be at sea on a day such as this, but landing before noon sun was curious, and the ship was of a strange design. It was a long barge, with a fore and aft castle rising at either end of the long, flat deck. The sails were arranged on two evenly spaced mainmasts rooted in the center of the ship. A third mast jutted out of the front at a jaunty angle. Here, the steering was adjusted, in conjunction with the huge rudder on the aft of the ship.

Ship designs were very different in Nordmaar. The ships were shorter, deeper. They were primarily fishing vessels, designed to drag huge nets and to process the fish once the catch was brought on board. They were not even close to resembling the huge bargelike vessel that approached the shore this day.

A small crowd, mostly women, had gathered on the dock. Their men were out fishing, the minotaur captain knew well, having made certain that the small fishing fleet they had passed earlier had not noticed them. The minotaur ship had closed to within a hundred yards of the harbor entrance before someone had sense enough to call for a town guardsman. The guardsman could see it was a battered warship, and further, that the horned creatures on the bow were not a group of tourists to the quaint fishing locale.

Far too late, the alarm was sounded. A bell in the tower of the town meeting hall began to toll. Moving with ponderous slowness, the barge smashed straight into the first pier. All thirty minotaur warriors rushed forward to the barge’s bow and leapt onto the pier.

An ancient human stood inside a provisions shop located near the pier. He held a short bow and beside him rested a quiver of fine arrows-all on display for sale moments before. Taking careful aim, he loosed his first shot and the lead minotaur came crashing down, the staff of an arrow protruding from between his eyes.

“Take that, you damned cow,” the old man yelled.

He drew another arrow, and fired. An advancing minotaur fell not twenty feet from the window of the shop.

“I hope your damned cow god is waiting for you,” the old man shouted.

Furious, having expected little or no resistance, the minotaurs rushed the shop. The first reached the window just as the archer straightened from retrieving another arrow. The minotaur’s battle-axe came crashing down, catching the old man in the back, shattering his spine. Blood spattered the minotaur, who leaned back and howled with a killing lust.

“And you take that, you godless wretch,” the minotaur grunted in his own language.

Closer to the center of the village, the guardsman who had sounded the alert stood his ground, along with a comrade. A group of minotaurs quickly encircled them. The minotaurs did not press the fight, although they had overwhelming numbers. The first guardsman lunged at the lead minotaur with his short sword. The minotaur jumped back, parrying clumsily. Several minotaurs made gestures to the guardsmen, indicative of dropping their weapons.

“They want us to surrender,” said one, half-gagging from the stench of the hair-covered bodies.

“They want slaves,” said his companion, still jabbing away with his sword.

“We’re smarter than these bastards. We’ll escape,” said the first. “It beats dying.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said the second.

The guardsmen looked around quickly, in vain, for any support. Seeing none, they lowered their swords. The ranking minotaur warrior stepped forward and took the weapons. The two men were manacled and hauled back to the ship.

By noon sun, the town had capitulated. All inhabitants who had not escaped (and there were very few that did) were rounded up at the pier. The few men-mostly merchants and teenage boys-were separated from the women, who were to be left behind. Minotaurs did not fancy human women. Hornless, snoutless and hairless, human women were hopelessly ugly. The women were given charge of the younger children-with one exception.

A young child, a boy no more than ten years of age, glared in outrage at the minotaur who shoved him to the women’s side. The boy marched over to stand with the men. Two of the minotaurs guarding the women began to laugh at the audacity of the young lad.

Speaking broken Common, the minotaur ship commander yelled at the boy, “You! Go back to mama!”

The boy shook his head, did not move.

“You! Yes, you!” The minotaur poked the boy with the butt of his axe. “Go back. I have no need for cubs. Slaves not plenty here, males out fishing. Take only ten males here. You not one of them.”

The boy didn’t budge. His eyes cast down at the parched wood of the pier decking, the young boy said in a low voice, “I want to go with you.”

He raised his eyes, then looked the minotaur captain in the face. “When I was younger, my mother went to the sky, and my father hates me for causing her to die. I will go and be a slave and work your mighty ship for you.”

One of the women screamed, and tried to rush over to snatch the boy to her side. The minotaur warriors caught her, threw her back.

“Take the cub, Captain,” called one of the minotaurs in their own language. “He has more spirit than most of these wretches!”

“I was like that myself, when I was his age,” the captain remarked to his lieutenant. “Very well, cub! I take you to sharpen my blades, clean my thongs and boots. You are now my personal slave.”