Chapter 15

They’d been wrong.

Turns out there were—in fact—some foolish enough to wake a Minotaur from his slumber.

Ben was lost in his nightmares—visions of past wars, surreal mindscapes of blood and death—when the ground beneath him began to shake. At first, he thought it part of the dream, but something tugged at him, whispering that this was not born of his mind. This was real—physical and urgent.

His eyes snapped open. Instantly aware, he pulled Fuku tight against him and leapt to his feet.

“Ahhh… what? What is—” Fuku yelped from where he was tucked under Ben's arm. But that was all the awakening he needed, as his gaze fell on the figures now surrounding them.

Ben knew what he saw—the word sprang unbidden to his mind—though he had never laid eyes on such beings before. Centaurs.

Six of them. They formed a half-circle, the gorge and stream at Ben and Fuku’s backs. The newcomers pawed the ground, equine bodies tense and ready to spring, while their human halves fixed sharp eyes on the pair.

“Who are you? Why are you in this land?” one of them spoke, his broken phrasing telling Ben that the common tongue was not his only language.

He was a similar brown to Ben’s own hide, but with a white splotch on his flank. His human half was slim but solid, dark-skinned, with black hair that matched his mane. A bandolier crossed his chest, fitted with several daggers, and he held a long spear leveled toward Ben’s feet.

The others all had weapons at the ready. Two carried bows with arrows nocked, two more held swords and shields and wore leather armor, and the last bore a staff—his human torso clad in a robe embroidered with strange symbols along its hem.

“My name is Ben, and this is Fuku,” Ben rumbled. “We mean no disrespect.”

“Your smell is disrespectful!” said one of the others, though Ben couldn’t tell which.

“Hey, that’s my line!” Fuku piped up from Ben’s armpit.

That made all of them—save for Ben and the one with the spear—chuckle.

“Answer!” the leader barked, the word more command than request.

Ben began, “We are simply heading—”

But Fuku cut him off. “That’s none of your business! This land is open to whoever travels through it. There are no laws or treaties stating it belongs to the centaurs.”

Ben could feel Fuku shivering beneath his arm, but he was proud of the bravado—even if he thought it unwise.

“We are making our way north, just passing through,” Ben finished once the Tanuki had spoken. “We want no trouble.”

“Though it sounds as if your pet wants trouble,” one of the sword-bearers jeered.

Another added, “Maybe tasty pet is?”

Fuku shook harder, but Ben sensed it wasn’t fear anymore—it was anger. He felt the Tanuki inhale, ready to fire back, but Ben spoke first.

“Call him a pet again and I’ll make you my pet,” he growled. “Better yet, I’ll make you his.”

A few of the centaurs muttered low “oohs,” but the spear-holder snapped a sharp bark, silencing them. His spear rose from a guarded stance to a threatening one. “Answer now, or trespassers you will be named.”

Ben turned his gaze to the leader. Of all of them, he felt this one was the most dangerous—though something told him the quiet staff-wielder would be as well.

“We’ve told you everything there is to say,” Ben said, voice low and steady. “We are heading north, minding our own business. You are the ones who disturbed us. Why?”

That’s when the whispers began. They switched to another language, but not all the words were foreign. Ben recognized enough to chill him: Bull. Monster. And worst of all—Minotaur.

If they knew he was the Minotaur, this could turn into far more than a simple misunderstanding.

He didn’t know what stories the centaurs might have passed down through the generations, but he couldn’t help wondering how they’d react. Would they see him as an escaped prisoner and try to return him? Or would their interest in the fountain drive them to claim its power for themselves? Either path held the potential for disaster.

He waited while they whispered among themselves, body tense and ready. He feared this wouldn’t be a situation he could walk away from without a fight. As long as Fuku stayed close, he believed he could hold on to himself—but fighting wasn’t something he looked forward to. He would defend them both if he had to, but he would much prefer peace. That being said, he was no stranger to combat. If the worst came, he was prepared.

His real concern was Fuku, who, as if sensing his thoughts, whispered up to him. “Ben… don’t worry about me. Just drop me and I’ll disappear. But don’t you dare get hurt.”

Their earlier talks about his abilities—on the road, and while they bathed—had given Ben a fair idea of what the tricky Tanuki could do. Fuku didn’t have much in the way of offensive power, but when it came to eluding pursuit, Ben was confident he could manage.

That just left him. He knew he used to be able to fight—but that had been as a human, centuries ago. He doubted muscle memory lasted that long. And six armed opponents were never good odds. He was fairly sure he could handle two, maybe three, but the centaurs had advantages of their own: four strong hooves, and this broad, open stretch of land.

He would have to fall back toward the ravine behind him. He hated losing the high ground, but the steep sides would make it harder for them to close in. That might at least even the odds.

Ben was weighing his options, strategizing how best to handle the centaurs, when the leader snapped him back to the present.

“Stories of Minotaur have passed through our tribe many years. You are Minotaur, or simply bull with fuzzy companion?” His tone was fierce, though edged with curiosity.

Ben wasn’t sure whether admitting the truth was wise, but the choice was taken from him.

“Of course he’s the Minotaur!” Fuku shouted. “You should be bowing before he decides your hearts look tasty! Now leave us alone—go bother some other travelers!”

At Fuku’s declaration, most of the centaurs shuffled back, equine bodies fidgeting uneasily. One even began urinating, the steam rising in the cool air.

“Yeah, see? He’s got the right idea!” Fuku yelled, pointing. “You should all be pissing yourselves!”

The others turned at the sight, and a few chuckled despite themselves.

“You may not know our kind well,” the one with the staff spoke at last. His voice was older, more measured, though his phrasing carried the same odd cadence. “Our horse-half has mind of its own. Not all functions are controlled. To point it out is rude.”

His lower body was pale with mottled brown spots, while his mane and tail shone nearly silver in the moonlight.

“Enough!” the spear-wielder bellowed. “If you true Minotaur are, then fight you can. Duel I propose. Defeat me and you leave. Die if not.”

And there it was. Ben had been expecting to fight all of them at once, but now the gauntlet had been dropped. Though he was loath to fight, he knew he had a much better chance of walking away safely this way.

He felt Fuku squirming under his arm but ignored him for the moment. “If that is what it takes, then so be it.”

Then, with a small pop, the warmth tucked against his side vanished. Ben glanced down, but Fuku was gone.

The other centaurs didn’t seem to notice, though the one with the staff cocked his head, as if watching something slip away from the group.

“I must warn you,” Ben said, his voice a low rumble, “I have not truly tested myself in this way. The violence I performed in the Labyrinth was… different. While I wish no harm to befall you, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

The centaur barked out a throaty laugh, the sound like a signal horn marking the start of combat. His spear rose, its point aimed squarely at Ben’s heart. Without pause, the centaur’s equine body lunged, spear driving forward.

Ben was ready. He stepped aside, letting the tip pass less than an inch from his chest. But that wasn’t the only strike. The centaur gripped the spear in his right hand, and with his left, seized one of Ben’s horns as he galloped past.

Ben had assumed the creature’s animal nature would grant him a warrior’s respect—that horns, like hooves, were off limits in an unspoken code.

He was wrong.

The centaur’s hand wrenched hard, dragging Ben’s head with it and pulling him off balance for several feet. Only Ben’s bulk and planted hooves stopped him from toppling. But the attack wasn’t over. The centaur’s front hooves slammed down, weight shifting, and instead of setting his hind legs back on the earth, he lashed them out in a brutal kick that connected square with Ben’s face.

Ben was huge. He was a Minotaur—bull’s mass packed into a human-like form, all muscle and bulk. But even he was no match for the full force of a horse’s kick.

The hooves struck, and Ben was hurled backward. He heard the crunch of bone, felt his nose shift as his skull rattled, and vision in one eye went black while the other blurred with swelling.

He slammed onto his back with a heavy thud. The cheers of the other centaurs rang in his ears.

Stunned, he lay there a heartbeat. He had played this fight out in his mind before it even began, but he had not truly understood the opponent before him. He’d thought of the spear as the weapon—failing to account for the truth: the centaur’s entire body was a weapon. Human and horse halves working in perfect concert, each with strengths he hadn’t considered.

In the Labyrinth, he would have welcomed this—welcomed death. He would have lain still, let the centaur drive its spear through him—if he’d even had control back then.

But now… now he was still in his own body. Now he had found something to fight for: a chance at life, a quest to complete, someone who cared for him.

So Ben didn’t give up. He rolled backward, coming to a crouch, wiping blood from his good eye.

The centaur had already spun, spear leveled at his head, ready to charge again.

Ben’s fractured snout left him unable to smile or speak, but if he could have, he would have grinned through the pain. His blood surged like it hadn’t in centuries. Old training took over. Muscle memory from years of soldiering locked into place, tightening his frame, preparing his body for what came next.

Before the centaur could move, Ben leapt.

The spear came up, angled for the impale—but Ben was too experienced. He swatted it aside with one hand and lashed out with the other. The centaur braced for a punch, but Ben wasn’t aiming for flesh. His grip caught the bandolier, ripping it free from the warrior’s torso in a single violent motion.

They hit the ground hoof-to-hoof, but Ben didn’t stop. He drove a bovine knee up into the horse chest, stunning his opponent, then shoved hard where human torso met equine body.

The centaur stumbled, hooves gouging the dirt, but momentum carried him back.

In the widened eyes of all six centaurs, Ben saw the rules shift.

This was when the duel became a brawl. He knew it. They knew it. A duel, he realized, was only a duel so long as the expected victor held the upper hand. The moment the underdog gained ground, the fight shifted from one-on-one to one-on-six.

But Ben wasn’t finished.

He ripped one of the three daggers from the stolen bandolier, hopped back, and hurled it. The blade struck mid-stomach with enough force to punch clean through.

The spear-wielder froze, eyes dropping to the wound. His spear clattered to the ground as his hands clutched at the gaping hole, a futile attempt to stem the torrent of blood and entrails spilling free. The stink of half-digested food and fresh death soured the air.

Ben knew that smell too well—viscera, blood, the iron tang of endings. It was the stench of a past he’d tried to bury. But this world still held to its oldest law: kill or be killed. As much as he had wished for peace, he’d feared from the start it would come to this.

The others would strike any heartbeat now. So he didn’t wait. He flung the remaining two daggers in rapid succession.

One flew at the robed centaur, who was already chanting under his breath. Ben was no fool; he knew a spellcaster when he saw one. The dagger buried itself in the man’s throat, silencing him mid-syllable as a red spray burst outward.

The third dagger spun toward the nearest archer. The centaur had his arrow drawn and string taut—but the blade sank into his abdomen before he could release. Reflex or luck, the arrow flew anyway, loosed by his failing grip. It struck Ben’s leg, biting into muscle.

He grunted at the sting, but pain was an old companion, one he’d learned to master long ago. It slowed him none.

He lowered his horns, ready to charge the second archer, who had only just raised his bow—

When an enormous sound split the night.