Leslie Smith

Fall of the Minotaur

Blood dripped from his freshly broken horn. He could not tell if he was in any real pain, the hit had disoriented him, but he was annoyed. The Conquerer, Slayer of the dark. The Father of battle. All names and titles given to him by those he had bested. He never cared for the titles, or the fame, or glory, His only real joy, his true purpose was the fight. But all of it was brought to a halt in one instant. He was tired, his nerves ached in a way they had not since he first held his da's sword. He could hardly catch his breath. Despite all of this his foe remained, unhurt, unscathed, as if they had not spent the last three hours fighting tooth and claw, horn and hoof. He lifted his mighty axe, then gave two sharp swings. The pain radiating from his shoulder caused him to pause a moment, someting was off. He looked down and noticed a large chunk of wood coming from it. Slamming his axe into the wall next to him reached back and removed the large chunk from his shoulder. He let out a quick grunt as the chunk of wood fell to the floor. Blood now poured from his right shoulder. He didn't care, he paid it no mind. He had blocked the last hit from his foe with nothing but the hilt of his axe. The hit was enough to send him flying across the broken village they were fighting in. He stood tall and loosed a mighty roar and charged forward.