There had never been a better time in kobel memory.
With a wyvern to guard the hill they called a mountain, their wealth had been mind numbing. Each one in the tribe had several servants to take care of a hoard of treasures. Not a day passed without new jewelry offered to them.
And when they gazed around, the plain was covered with fields and houses.
All the way to the stream the tributaries had grown to join villages together into towns, their population so numerous that the roads kept turning to mud under their feet.
Endless processions of carriages brought more and more gifts to the hill.
But the true symbol of all that might was the arena that, with time, had been turned into an amphitheater. Row after row of stone seats circled half of it, then stretched in length along the rest of the fighting field.
There the savages fought for fame and fortune, dying in drove to amuse the kobel and the wealthy. And kobels fought there too for a whole other reason.
Wings.
Their shaman had given them smooth scales and short horns, but promised a far greater heritage for those proving strong enough to claim it. So the strongest came to prove their worth at the edge of their blade.
While the tributaries, in turn, fought for the right to get a collar.
"They want us to rule over them." Etelet had once explained to him. "Do you know why?"
"No, why is that?"
Today marked the harvest and with it, another sacrifice. So the tribes, once more, had sent couples to the hill to be fed to the legendary kobel.
Once more a crowd, allowed on those sacred grounds, would cheer for him to devour their own. And Tunu admitted, he had never understood that.
"Because we let them rule over others. And that's intoxicating!"
Certainly the kobel could still not figure out what those words meant. Thinking, perhaps, that it was just a blind thirst for power.
But wealth spoke for itself. Once the tribes had stopped fighting each other, their combined arts had ushered a new era. And once collars made them speak as one, once the kobels stop crushing them for fear of upheavals, they thrived.
Just as the kobels had paid barely any price for their scales, those tributaries were glad to throw their best for this wealth.
They could watch, from the slope, the procession of offerings approach.
"Enjoy your meal."
Etelet got up.
"My apprentices will take care of the ritual."
"Heading out again? You shouldn't spend so much time with them."
The shaman was one of the rare kobels that actually visited those populous towns. There was no reason to. They were filthy, full of the sick and the poor.
All part of the balance.
He got up on the wyvern's back, gestured for his two trusted fawns to stay behind.
"Eh, Tunu." The shaman asked out the blue. "What about you? How come you trust me so blindly?"
"How could I not? You've done nothing but think of us!"
That made Etelet look down and rub the wyvern's collar.
"You trust too much."
He gave it a push. Already the wings had brought him far in the sky, down and over the plain. That let Tunu get up in turn.
Trust.
He turned back to approach the old wyvern lair where that skull, now a bit cracked, still hung proudly on the abandoned grounds.
Hot water had filtered all the way there. It formed puddles at the entrance.
Savae was there, touching the damp walls.
The warrior was one of the few whose scales had turned rough and the horns sharper. But few expected anything less from a champion.
"This place stinks." She surmised.
"Yeah, it's probably its last ritual. You are going to the arena?"
She shook her head: "I want to see you feed."
"You miss it, don't you?"
"I still do it."
"Oh? When?"
"In my basement."
He broke off at the approaching instruments. It was time for him to head in, wait as usual for the signal. She watched him disappear in the tunnel.
The inside was even more damp. In some parts, water trickled. The ground's cracks filled with that clear, warm water.
As he walked up the path Tunu put his hand on his chest. They were alone again and he could feel that foreign heart getting excited.
"It's been a long time, isn't it? Don't worry, you will get your fill today."
He was trying to make it sound friendly, truly he was.
But inside, it was still a deep defiance.
"Maybe this time it will be enough for those wings to actually let me fly. Have you ever flown? Ah, I guess we have! But it will still feel like my first time."
The uncomfortable talk of a kobel to himself.
He emerged in the lair. The tall spire still held at the center, around a litter of bones. But the treasure had long been carried out and into the keep. All that remained now was cold stone and darkness.
So he sat there, near the entrance.
"Why would a wyvern even live here? When I become one, I'll..."
His small talk trailed off.
There, behind him, deep below in the tunnel, someone was approaching. Someone fairly massive, walking toward him. Someone armed.
A minotaur.
How he had come to the hill, how he had entered the lair was beyond Tunu's comprehension. But that presence only excited his heart even more. He himself could tell a fight was coming.
So he turned to face the newcomer. And when the bull emerged, he saw what the horns had already revealed. A combatant wearing iron pieces for armor, as well as a trident and a net.
They both waited for the other to talk.
"You're not from here." Tunu noted.
"On the contrary, this used to be my tribe's territory."
He sounded quite young and derisive. But his body told another story. One built out of heavy strain.
"Have you come to reclaim it?"
"Something like that."
And the bull pointed his trident toward Tunu.
"I heard you are somewhat famous around here. Care to show me what you are made of?"
"Care to tell me where your tribe is? We never have enough captives."
The minotaur's light tone ceased there: "They're all dead."
He charged, thrust his trident to force the kobel back but it was meaningless. Tunu only dodged it out of pride. He could feel his heart beating faster while he himself could hardly see the threat.
They both hit the air, almost toying with each other until, inevitably, the kobel's claws his that bull's flank to rip large wounds in the hide.
Within the same movement Tunu swung and struck the beast's neck, again shredding it enough to make blood spill.
So he was taken completely by surprise when the trident, far from wavering, struck his horns with force.
The both of them staggered back.
But when Tunu recovered, he saw his opponent standing strong, with no sight of the wounds he had just inflicted.
"What in..."
His heart fluttered.
"Ah, don't feel bad!" The bull wanted to mock, his voice still sour. "We all make that face the first time."
They charged again and this time traded deadly blows on each other, crushing scales, splitting skin, opening deep gashes that closed in moments.
At the same time, outside, the horns started to play.
Early, too early, way too early for it to be the ritual. He could recognize, even this deep in the lair, the sound of an alarm.