Minotaur: Prayer: The Bestial Tribe Read online

  Minotaur: Prayer

  The Bestial Tribe

  Naomi Lucas

  Contents

  Map

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Naomi Lucas

  Copyright © 2019 by Naomi Lucas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the author.

  Any references to names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Cameron Kamenicky and Naomi Lucas

  Editors: DJ Hendrickson, Tiffany Freund, and Melene Braxton

  Created with Vellum

  Blurb

  Orcs to the north

  Goblins to the east

  Centaurs to the south

  Minotaurs to the west

  Calavia was known as the hag, a swamp witch, and a dangerous being to those who threatened her sanctuary, Prayer. No one knew the lost girl that she truly was, surviving each day in the cursed Labyrinth, hiding her humanity from the hordes of monsters who would tear each other limb-from-limb to possess it. When a minotaur arrived on her doorstep with a human woman, she helped them... for a price.

  And when they fled, she was left alone with the wrath of the centaurs that had been chasing the pair. With her magic dying, her protection failing, and a war on the horizon, she summons a champion.

  Astegur Bathyr—the third bull begat of the legendary warlord Steelslash and heir to the Bathyr tribe—was drawn to Prayer and the haunting female within. But for what reason? The wiles of mist witches had never held his interest, but her mouthwatering scent on the curse-laden night mist held him as surely as any mortal chain.

  Chapter One

  Calavia kicked at the water. She liked to watch the spray land like rainfall around her. The reeds would bounce from the weight of the falling drops, the bog would play a tune of plops, and then the water would return to the swamp. To her. Only to be kicked again.

  She did this for hours, trying to kick the wetlands away, and for a while she’d laugh and curse and pretend she was winning, but she always knew she’d lose in the end. It was a game, and she liked games.

  Then, like always, a quiet hand reached for her from behind, out of the darkness, to bring all her nightmares to life, and her mother would appear.

  Calavia dropped her legs and clutched at the stone ledge she sat upon, feeling the water settle back to marsh slime between her toes. She clenched them as her mother’s form faded in and out of the mist outside her temple entrance, down its broken steps, and finally down to where the rotting wooden trails through Prayer began and ended.

  Her hair was wet today—the blood on her belly had been washed away—and there were small clumps of algae clinging to her mother’s exposed curves.

  The mist caressed her mother’s body with worshipful love.

  Calavia slowly raised her feet from the water and straightened to her full height, dragging her fingers over the rags of her dress as her knees knocked.

  Her mother’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream, the hole a black abyss. Calavia closed her eyes and a gust of wind and magic blasted her, the sudden burst coursed through the stagnant swamp air, whipping her hair across her forehead. When Calavia reopened her eyes, her mother was gone, with naught left but the memory of a phantom.

  Her mother’s magic settled over her skin like a wet blanket. It seeped into her flesh and hid her most damning secret from the terrible world beyond.

  Her humanity.

  Calavia stared at the spot where her mother had just been and waited for the ghost of her past to return and haunt her anew. But she didn’t come back, to Calavia’s sudden remorse, and following her mother’s thrall deeper into Prayer would do nothing to help her predicament.

  Her hand drifted into the air, the mist drawing toward her, and with it she drew the sounds from all the marshes bordering her sanctuary. The sounds of hooves racing across the lands filled her ears, coming ever closer. They grew in decibel and washed over her, through her, reverberating her body with their beats.

  They were coming.

  Ever closer.

  The centaurs and their weapons of war, spears and spiked whips, their hooves sharpened into points, all of them waiting to penetrate her until there was nothing left.

  Several centaurs who’d survived the slaughter scouted the borders of Prayer, over and over. She watched them from afar as they tried to gather information on her defenses. They did not know that the minotaur and human female they were chasing had fled from her settlement several days prior.

  Now, the centaurs were left for her to deal with.

  And more of them were coming. They intended to trample her settlement into the mud, to leave nothing behind…

  And I’m weakening.

  She dropped her hand and shuddered. The weaker she became, the harder it was for her to protect her home and those she cared about. It was up to her to protect them, like it had been since the very beginning.

  But to call a champion to her aid? It was dangerous, possibly suicidal, and if they ever discovered her secret…

  Calavia looked down at her hands and the shallow wrinkles above her palms, and pictured the blood that flowed beneath them. It was human blood. Pure blood. She had kept it hidden for so long, she now feared it. Her mother had told her so many things.

  “They are ravenous for it.”

  “Our blood is the source of all powerful magic.”

  “Every monster hungers for it, they want it inside them any way they can get it.”

  “They will eat you, or worse, breed you.”

  She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out the wax vial within. The wax was cool against her palm, the cap tight at the top. It had only been days since she received it from Aldora.

  She held the power of the Minotaur in her hand. The ferociously hungry seed of the bulls, ripe for battle, each eager to find an egg and subjugate it. She saw the way Vedikus cared for his human female and Aldora’s devotion to him. Perhaps that was her answer. Now that the bulls roamed the lands of her birth, maybe she could have that for herself.

  Calavia had witnessed what Aldora and her minotaur shared, and loneliness and envy had taken root in her heart. She had watched, unseen and unheard, as Vedikus ravaged Aldora, and the image of their coupling had remained with her. She wanted to feel what Aldora had felt. She’d never seen a beast care for a human like he had. Like the mist had cared for her. There had been companionship between the pair…something Calavia never had.

  Her mother had taught her everything she knew about the world of Savadon before she lost her humanity—that love was a grand emotion, and that it should be given to the Sun God and all of his glorious light.

  That men…men were cruel and did not deserve such love, even those who claimed to love the sun themselves.

  But as she grew older,
those musings to the sun had grown awry. Her mother’s prayers had died as surely as the town had before Calavia’s birth, and when Calavia was barely budding into womanhood, her mother cursed the sun and began to prostrate herself to the mist instead.

  She would strip off her clothes and make Calavia do the same, and the heroes of Savadon her mother often spoke of were replaced with the might of the mist, the power of the mist, and the embrace of the mist. It offered more protection than the false promises of the most stalwart hero

  How could her mother’s hatred toward men and beasts be believed when she had changed her mind so easily about her faith?

  Calavia pressed the vial to her chest and went back into the ruins of her home—the temple built at the end of Prayer. Her bare feet picked up dirt and displaced it as she walked through the dilapidated ruins and thickly tangled vines bulging from the partially eroded ceiling and walls. Faint light streamed through the cracks.

  She pushed away a thick cluster of vines and entered her altar room. The center table—which had been built long before she’d taken up residence—was covered in clumps of wax that had pooled from candles placed atop and spilled over the edge of the table to gather on the floor below.

  She’d break off the bottom pieces to form new candles, new items, and continued the cycle over again, but each time she did so, there was less wax than what she started with.

  Long ago, she had gathered all the candles in Prayer and stored them here, in this room, for her use, only setting aside a few to brighten up the rooms when she needed to use them at night. But since then, there had been no more wax to replace what she already had. More of it would dissipate into the air, be swallowed up, or be used to seal wounds, but it, too, would eventually leave her like everything else had.

  Calavia stepped up onto the thicker wax pieces and sat on her altar table, dangling her legs over the side. With a quiet sigh and a ruffle of her tattered clothes, she produced a knife and several pieces of blisterbark. Placing the vial of bull seed at the center of the table beside her, she lit some of the blisterbark with one of the already lit candles. It erupted into flames before settling into an ordinary spark. She placed it around the vial and raised the knife to her outstretched palm.

  With it over the flame, and the quickly bubbling wax beneath, she sliced her flesh and winced. Countless years of scar tissue made it hard but she ground her teeth and worked at it until the blood poured over the sides of her hand.

  She dropped the knife and squeezed her hand into a fist.

  The moment her blood touched the flames, a copper scent flooded her nostrils, and a plume of rich smoke rose into the air, engulfing her. She squeezed harder, watching as her blood mixed with the melting wax vial, and eventually the bull seed within.

  Her eyes widened, filled with ruby sheen, as a small tendril of hair fell into the flame and crackled. She dropped her hand to her lap and breathed in the magic, and her sacrifice.

  “Blood guard us, blood sustain, until the day only blood remains,” she chanted quietly.

  Calavia watched, transfixed, as wax, her blood, and minotaur seed combined and became one. The mixture would soon bubble over and become a part of the rest of her hardened pool of wax if she allowed it. She clenched her bleeding palm, and with her other hand, she dipped two fingers into the concoction.

  Her fingers burned. Another sacrifice.

  The magic floated in and out of her in heady waves. She brought her fingers to her lips with a shudder and sucked them clean.

  Calavia swiped her tongue across her lips and made her way carefully off of her altar. She took a step away from the ghastly red flames still burning atop it.

  “Come to me,” she whispered, exerting her will.

  The pit in her belly grew as the wax congealed, coating her insides.

  “Come to me,” she said louder as the last remaining reserves of her magic left her. She gasped. Wisps of steam leaked out of her mouth. She pressed her hands to her middle and bowed over. More smoke poured out of her as her magic created a distorted, shadowy image in front of her. The tips of her fingers went numb.

  Five minotaurs appeared, created by the smoke.

  She shook as they continued to grow bigger, as the smoke coming from her throat threatened to choke her. Her insides grew hotter still, cooking her from the inside out. She stumbled back, clutching her middle.

  The agony intensified. The magic sharpened. She grew weaker still.

  Calavia fisted her hands and held on desperately to what was left, fighting to remain conscious. Don’t faint. Who knows what would happen if she did? The ritual would be for nothing.

  She and Prayer would become nothing.

  Taking a slow, grueling step forward, she inspected the five large, shadowy minotaurs standing in front of her. Her eyes hooded. Five. She expected one, two at best, but five? How many minotaurs were nearby? How many champions? They were not common in these lands. She’d only first come face to face with one days ago.

  The first phantasmal minotaur she recognized as Aldora’s champion; she ignored his appearance. There was a larger minotaur that stood beside him, but his image was weak and faded, as if the smoke could not make him out. She eyed him for a moment and felt a backlash the longer her focus was on him. This one had a broken horn, long, unkempt hair, and furious eyes staring straight through her soul.

  His image began to fade.

  She took a step back and clenched her hands, suddenly unsure as she watched him vanish. She wasn’t powerful enough to summon him.

  Calavia looked at the three remaining bulls that stood before her.

  One of the three remaining minotaurs had long hair, braided with bones. She imagined they were trophies collected from his many enemies. She liked that. His appearance told her more than she could hope. But his face was wicked and his mouth full—his eyes were young. There was so much life left in him and she knew, instinctively, that she could not hold him in a place of the dead.

  She stumbled to the fourth minotaur whose hair was short. This one held two giant butcher cleavers with blades nearly as long as herself. She liked that even more. They reminded her of meat. He reminded her of a life destroyer. This bull was better than the last, but she wasn’t looking for mindless violence.

  Calavia turned to the last minotaur. Her hands dropped to her sides, her throat constricted.

  She stepped up to him, wincing with pain. His brooding demeanor drew her closer. Even within the shadows of her temple his prowess called to her, his strength potent. She could see his eyes with clarity, even amongst the red smoke and black murk of her magic. They followed her every move.

  Calculating.

  Intent.

  A shiver snaked up her back.

  He did not threaten onlookers with the bones of those he killed or with giant, deadly weapons—this minotaur was cunning and in control. Even if that control seemed barely contained.

  She could have sworn his muscles tensed at her perusal, that he could see her through the barrier of her magic.

  His eyes narrowed upon hers.

  Calavia straightened, but cringed and bent over again, tears leaking from her eyes. He sees me even though there are leagues of real distance between us. He sees me! Terror threatened to close her throat and she took a step back.

  He took a step forward.

  He is the one. Even if she was afraid of him, he would best protect Prayer. Even if his willpower rivaled her own.

  With her eyes still locked with his, she thanked the human female, Aldora, and her minotaur’s sacrifice. They’d unknowingly given her the power to keep Prayer alive.

  Calavia peered into the darkening eyes of her chosen champion and hoped she wasn’t making a grave mistake. She steeled her fear and reached out to touch his dark presence through the smoke. The other minotaurs vanished.

  “Come to me,” she begged, compelling him from afar.

  She fell to the floor with an agonizing scream.

  * * *

  Astegur grabb
ed the hobgoblin by the scruff and tore it from his back, slamming it down onto the bloodied ground. It released a high-pitched squeal. He held it there for a moment as it clawed at his hand which he pressed over its throat.

  Frenetic fear blazed across its malformed, scrunched up face, and Astegur relished it, relished knowing another battle had been won and another hobgoblin’s neck was soon to be broken.

  He leaned in as it squirmed. Its wrinkled eyes widened as Astegur’s face drew nearer.

  Astegur snarled with victory, blowing a hot breath over the hobgoblin. “Where is your leader?”

  It screamed and clawed harder at his wrist. He squeezed its neck a little harder.

  “Where is your leader? I will make your death long and painful if you continue to fight me,” he threatened. He released the pressure of his grip slightly to allow the creature to answer.

  The hobgoblin shrilly screamed and began to laugh with rampant glee. “Gone! Gone! Goone! Goone lost its legs, its arms, and its head when Burlox fell.” The goblin snickered, then screamed and tore at his arm again with renewed hysteria. “Gone! Gone! He fell dead and all the hums and blood was stolen.”

  “By who?”

  “Horsebeasts!” it shrieked.

  It took Astegur a moment to realize the hobgoblin was referring to the town to the south—and the humans who dwelled within it. He had heard of its fall to the mist a fortnight ago. The town succumbing to the mist had caused pandemonium for the southern tribes along the Greymis coast and the western borders of Savadon.