He pressed his pained hand to his chest as his eyelids lowered.
Chapter Two
Astegur had not eaten for days, consumed with an itch that had clouded his mind, his senses. It had started with his fingers, and from there, had expanded to the rest of his body. To his skull.
If he didn’t find a cure fast, he knew his mind would surely go next.
It had all began the moment the female in his cave had vanished. Whether the pain had been caused by her or not, he couldn’t be sure, but he cursed his inability to stop it. He cursed that the pain was a reminder of her delicate phantom. That he couldn’t quite convince himself that she had been a beguilement of the mind. So when the pain increased with every inhalation and made his eyes glaze over in torment, he saw the figure of a moon-skinned female out of the corners of his eyes.
Astegur shook his head and attempted to expel the female from his thoughts.
His hooves sank into the marsh waters, and the fur on his legs dripped with it. Each step had momentum, each step fell blindly forward—far away from the goblins he had been hunting, and the scouting his tribe needed. He had done his work, surveying the area and the creatures within it. Now, he needed to bring that information back to his brothers, because if there was an alliance between orcs and goblins, it needed to be quelled quickly. Both races propagated at an alarming rate. And if they had humans to help them along...
He thought of the blood vials in his satchel and he snarled, reaching back to dig his hand into it. There were three left out of the six he had started with. He uncorked the one in his hand, brought it to his mouth, and drank, licking his lips and his teeth to make sure all of its contents had been consumed.
It numbed the itch, if only for a time.
More delirium. More pain. Its relentless intent squeezed his soul. Nothing could stop him and his new quest. Each and every beast that he had come upon had swiftly died as he trekked unhindered across the lands. A minotaur, even wounded, was not easy prey. He wanted to strike out now and coat himself in the entrails of the dead. Maybe the blood would soothe his skin?
A wet, chilly breeze blew over his flesh, bringing with it the smells of his surroundings. Astegur raised his head and inhaled, knowing the pain it would bring. His nostrils flared. The wind brought new death and decay and the blood his delirious mind yearned for.
There was minotaur blood. Centaurs…and human blood in the air.
He stopped.
It was another unexpected scent and he could not make sense of it. Hope alighted his flesh. The last time he smelled something so rich and delicious had been in the cave, for a brief moment, before the damning female had appeared. He scanned his surroundings and searched the mist. He was desperate for more of the blood.
But as he breathed it in again, the smell altered, becoming clogged, old. It wasn’t fresh blood. It was fading and did not have as sweet of a scent.
Murky, green orbs of light appeared before him, each one farther away than the last. He had seen them before when he first left the mountains and sought the labyrinth wall, but he had avoided them—he knew a hag lived here. There was an ancient path that led from the old, fallen village all the way up to where his brothers dwelled now. But this had been Vedikus’s terrain, not his, and he had left it to his elder brother to deal with.
Astegur sensed the lights wanted him to follow them, sensed that if he did, the itch would vanish. But the old smell of carnage had him turning away and heading for its source.
Why would there be minotaur blood here?
He and his brothers were the only ones in these lands. It did not bode well. He quieted his steps as he approached where the pungence originated from. He knew how to be quiet, to remain quiet, and approach situations with a keen head. He was good at what he did. He could track, stalk, and hunt just about any creature that roamed the lands he was familiar with.
He was the brother that rarely gave in to the berserker rage deep within. He could keep the fire in his soul contained and could remain clear-headed when no one else could.
The smell built as he followed it away from the lights, away from the compulsion those lights had on his body—when he came upon a rotting barghest corpse. He discovered another soon after, and before long, one corpse became dozens that led right into an old centaur campsite. Their spears were still in the ground.
He listened for others but heard nothing approach. His eyes roamed the smoking pit; he found no traps within. There was nothing left except the dead, and the ghosts that may not have yet formed.
It still didn’t explain the smell of minotaur blood in the air.
He paused to peruse the scene around the campsite.
In the middle of the clearing were the remains of a large pyre, and around it, were bones. Bestial skulls rested atop stakes set deep into the mud. Centaur skulls. Pieces of meat still clung to them. Astegur moved closer and swiped his hand at the air around his horns. Flies had gathered for the feast.
He walked around and took stock of every detail he came upon, looking for the source of bull and human aroma throughout. But nothing in the campsite gave the smells away. He couldn’t find his brother’s body nor the unknown human’s.
They’re no longer here.
A few centaurs were no match for a Bathyr.
Astegur twisted to face the mountains. Thick mist obscured his view of them, but it did not hide the green lights that awaited him—the entrance to the blighted settlement between him and his destination.
Perhaps the hag will know what happened here.Astegur sneered. He did not like it either way.
