“All right, beef-man,” said Durand with a sneer. “Shall we be about it?”
“I regret this. I really do,” replied the minotaur. His voice was as low and rumbling as his physique predicted, but his intonation was surprisingly gentle.
“Enough regrets!” Durand presented his brawny right arm, palm out. “Put up your paw!”
The minotaur’s great hand almost completely enclosed the human’s. “Notice, please, my hand has the same form as yours,” the bull-man said. “It is not a paw.”
Sinews in Durand’s arm leaped out as he threw his strength against the minotaur. Everyone gathered around the table began shouting, most crying “Durand! Durand!” as the man tried to force the minotaur’s arm down. So far, neither contestant had budged.
Veins appeared in Durand’s neck, throbbing with effort. He bared yellow teeth and bore down, bowing his head to the task. Still the minotaur’s arm did not shift. Quite absently, he raised his left hand and scratched behind his short horns. Durand grunted curses at his opponent.
The minotaur had few partisans in the crowd up to now. Seeing him resist Durand so effortlessly led a few to chant, “Go, bull-man, go!”
Eyes popping, Durand let out a roar of defiance. His elbow rose until howls from the onlookers made him bring it down again.
“This is tedious,” said the minotaur. “I really must go now.”
Without warning, he swept his arm down to the table. Everyone heard the loud pop as Durand’s forearm snapped.
After a heartbeat of silence, the crowd erupted. Those who had bet on the minotaur whooped with joy. Durand’s supporters cried foul. It wasn’t long before a fist was thrown, then a flurry of weighty mugs followed. Touts scrambled to recover the wagers before a riot broke out. All the while Durand writhed on the floor, grasping his broken arm.
Someone flew backward into Malek, bowling him over. Wilf received a fist in the face and spun away, stunned. Tough old Caeta picked up a stool and used it to fend off a barrage of cups and mugs while Nils frantically dodged punches thrown at his head.
Malek got to his knees. He crawled toward the only calm person in sight: the minotaur. Several men fell over him along the way, but Malek reached the bull-man’s side. Liquid brown eyes regarded him impassively.
“Any shelter in a storm!” Malek said.
Just then he spied the gleam of bare bronze. A man in a soldier’s tunic with a bloody nose loomed behind the minotaur, dagger drawn. Malek tried to push the minotaur out of the way, crying, “Look out!” He might as well have tried to shift Mount Estvar.
The minotaur rose and turned. Easily seven feet tall, he towered so high his attacker lost his nerve. He gaped at the bull-man, and another brawler flattened him with a bench.
“Time to go,” rumbled the minotaur. He grabbed Malek by the back of his shirt.
“Hey, wait!” Malek flailed helplessly, his feet off the floor.
“You did me a good turn. I’ll see you safely out of this fracas.”
“But my friends-!” He pointed at Nils and the others.
“Very well.”
Still holding Malek, the minotaur waded into the melee, swatting aside anyone in his way. Once Nils, Wilf, and Caeta were together, he boomed, “Follow me,” and started for the door.
It was a wild trip for Malek. He kicked and struck at anyone who got in his way, but it was hard to fight while dangling in mid-air. On the way he saw Falzen cowering under a table, while Gorfon stood over him, an axe resting on his shoulder. Brawlers gave the armed dwarf wide berth.
Three men cut the minotaur off, blocking the door. “Stop, you!” one of them shouted. He carried a short sword already stained with blood. “You cost us a lot of money!”
“That’s hardly my fault,” answered the minotaur mildly. “It was no contest. That should have been plain.”
“Shut up, beef! Pay up, or we’ll take our losses out of your hide!”
His friend, armed with a broken bottle, said, “Wonder if we can make a roast of him?”
“Naw,” said the sword-bearer. “By the look of him, I bet his mother was a tough old cow.”
Thump! Malek hit the floor on the seat of his pants. It hurt, but it was more the indignity he resented. He forgot his small discomfort when he saw the minotaur charge. Lowering his horned head, he caught the man’s sword and with a twist, tore it from his hands. Another sideways swipe, and he threw the swordsman six feet onto a table. Next he backhanded the bottle-carrier, leaving him flat on his back, out cold. The third troublemaker, seeing his armed friends undone, turned tail and fled.
Bellowing, the minotaur burst through the closed tavern door, smashing the planks to flinders. People in the street scattered at the sight of the raging bull-man. Malek and the farmers came tumbling after him. They piled up against the immobile minotaur’s back.
The vast horned head snapped around, and Malek felt hot breath on his face.
“Little men, do not trouble me!”
“Don’t you remember? I’m the one who warned you!” Malek replied.
Nostrils flaring, the minotaur regained his composure. “I am shamed,” he said with a profound sigh. “To lose my temper over such a childish taunt! Still, no one calls my mother a c-” He bit off the hateful epithet.
“Not more than once,” muttered Nils, behind his brother.
Shouts rang out from inside the Boar’s Tusk. The men the minotaur had brushed aside had aroused the angry, drunken mob inside against the bull-man. They were coming, and there were two dozen of them at least.
“Time to go.” The minotaur sprinted up the street, drawing stares from passersby as he ran. His long legs ate up ground at a tremendous rate, and the farmers struggled to keep up. A patrol of armed men appeared in front of him.
Someone cried, “Silver Circle guards!”
All the businesses in this part of town paid “protection” to the Silver Circle gang. News of the disturbance in the Boar’s Tusk had swiftly reached the gang’s stronghold, and this party of footmen had been dispatched to quell the riot and protect the gang’s valuable concession.
Seeing naked swords and spears, the minotaur did a quick about-face. The tavern mob had flooded the street. The minotaur forced his way through the angry crowd, tossing people right and left with hands and horns. The Silver Circle guards charged.
Malek waved and shouted, “This way! Follow us! Come on, this way!”
They ran down a side street, deeply shadowed by the setting sun and smelling damp. Up a narrow alley and over a fence, and they reached the rear of a large, ramshackle wooden building. Pausing for breath, the farmers and the bull-man listened for sounds of pursuit. There was noise aplenty, but it sounded as if the town guards were fighting the mob.
“I guess we escaped!” Caeta gasped, doubling over.
“Thank you for your help,” said the minotaur. “I think I shall leave now. Too many hotheads in this town. Too many swords.”
“Wait,” Malek said. “What is your name?”
“Khorr, of the Thickhorn Clan.”
“Wait, Khorr! Stay here until things calm down.”
“What is this place?” The minotaur sniffed air filled with straw and horse dung. “A stable?”
“Our lodging,” Wilf said wryly. “We can’t afford the hostels here.”
Planting his hands on his hips, Khorr surveyed the decrepit stable. “No one would look for the scion of the Thickhorn Clan in such a place!” He laughed, and the livestock within squirmed and pranced at the sound.
They went in and closed the rickety door behind them. In the loft, the farmers’ meager bundles lay hidden under loose straw. As they settled in, backs against the wall, Caeta said, “How do you come to be so far from your homeland, Master Khorr?”
“It’s a sad tale, long, and lacking in romance. Suffice it to say, I am exiled from the land of my clan, and I know not when I may return. Five years I’ve been traveling in foreign climes.”