Thunderhoof: Way of the Centaur

By Greg Kauffman-Starkey

His throne as lord king of the centaurs of Crystal Valley has been usurped, and Thunderhoof finds himself hunted by the very one who stole his throne and discredited his name. Along the way, he finds companionship in the form of a dwarf who is the lone survivor of a vicious attack on his village. Together, the two strive to elude the centaurs pursuers while attempting to clear his name and return him to his throne. There is one major complicationhis enemy is his own brother Granitemane, who has an agenda of his own for keeping the throne and doing away with Thunderhoof.

The reader is tasked with making the choices that move the plot forward. These decisions will have consequences since some of them will put Thunderhoof in deadly danger while others will lead him closer to recovering his throne.

The way will not be easy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524514068

Greg Kauffman-Starkey

Greg Kauffman-Starkey grew up reading Choose Your Own Adventure type books and has amassed a collection of over 2100 of these books. Always a fan of interactive fiction, reader-participation novels, he set out to write his own. Inspired by the writing styles of Terry Pratchett (the 'Discworld' series) Stephen R. Donaldson ('The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant'), and C.S. Lewis ('Narnia') among others, he has worked to create a unique world that is both real and fantasy for his characters to inhabit. Born in northwest Wisconsin and growing up in northeastern Michigan, he currently resides in southern Florida with his husband. He is currently working on his third book.

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COPYRIGHT © 2016 BY GREG KAUFFMAN-STARKEY.

   ISBN:   SOFTCOVER   978-1-5245-1407-5

      EBOOK   978-1-5245-1406-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/28/2016

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CONTENTS

Chapter One: Centaur Run

Chapter Two: Lone Dwarf

Chapter Three: Beginning The Journey

Chapter Four: The Plains Of The Forgotten Ones

Chapter Five: Put The Human Out Of His Misery

Chapter Six: Traveling Southeast

Chapter Seven: Fighting The Werewolf

Chapter Eight: The Dark Corridor

Chapter Nine: Explanation Of The Jars

Chapter Ten: Leave The Man To His Fate

Chapter Eleven: Surprised By A Ghost

Chapter Twelve: Darkness In The Forest

Chapter Thirteen: Traveling Northeast

Chapter Fourteen: The Blue Jar

Chapter Fifteen: Up The Steps

Chapter Sixteen: The Bowels Of The Cave

Chapter Seventeen: Flee From The Werewolf

Chapter Eighteen: The Dwarf King

Chapter Nineteen: Battling The Ghost

Chapter Twenty: Take The Man On The Journey

Chapter Twenty-One: The Abandoned Castle

Chapter Twenty-Two: An Unexpected Find

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Hidden Mountain Camp

Chapter Twenty-Four: Battle With Granitemane

Chapter Twenty-Five: Distrust The Faun

Chapter Twenty-Six: Parting Of The Ways

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Battling The Ghost

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Fairie Circle

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Left Tunnel

Chapter Thirty: A Cliff-Side Surrender

Chapter Thirty-One: Music In The Forest

Chapter Thirty-Two: Prelude To Battle

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Right-Hand Tunnel

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Battle With Granitemane

Chapter Thirty-Five: Re-Trial

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Sad Ending

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Unexpected Aid?

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Exonerated At Last

Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Battle Lost

Chapter Forty: Trusting The Faun

Chapter Forty-One: Trapped!

Chapter Forty-Two: A Battle Won

Chapter Forty-Three: A Throne Regained!

Chapter Forty-Four: Suddenly, A Demon

Chapter Forty-Five: Escaping The Werewolves

Chapter Forty-Six: Storms And Floods

Chapter Forty-Seven: Flight To Safety

Chapter Forty-Eight: Chasm

Chapter Forty-Nine: Fighting The Demon

Chapter Fifty: Unable To Escape The Flood

Chapter Fifty-One: Losing Of The Way

Chapter Fifty-Two: Victory

Chapter Fifty-Three: Power Shortage

Chapter Fifty-Four: Escape

Chapter Fifty-Five: One Defeated Ogre

Chapter Fifty-Six: Climbing Down The Chasm

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Message From The Elder

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Losing The Battle

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Forest Fire

Chapter Sixty: Defeated By The Demon

Chapter Sixty-One: Centaur Battle

Chapter Sixty-Two: Fighting Granitemane

Chapter Sixty-Three: Victorious Over Granitemane

Chapter Sixty-Four: Right Into A Wrong

Chapter Sixty-Five: A Dragon’s Den

Chapter Sixty-Six: The Underground River

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Sneak-Attacked!

Chapter Sixty-Eight: A Successful Crossing

Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Pit Of Forever

Chapter Seventy: Split In Destiny’s Path

Chapter Seventy-One: Further On Up The Mountain

Chapter Seventy-Two: The Forest Of Never

Chapter Seventy-Three: Sudden Surprise!

Chapter Seventy-Four: Escape From The Leviathans

Chapter Seventy-Five: The Bottom Of The Pit

Chapter Seventy-Six: Granitemane Victorious

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Steep And Dangerous

Chapter One

CENTAUR RUN

The rain fell gently but steadily on the leaves surrounding him as he lay in the depths of the dark forest. It was just past mid-morning, and the long night before still wore heavily on his tired, aching muscles. He heard a light breeze rustling the myriad of leaves in the towering trees above him, desisting yet again the fact that he had no blanket to cover his shivering form - merely the coating of his own body hair, which was now wet with the night’s rainfall.

He cracked an eye open, waiting as his vision cleared from the fog of sleep. He dreaded the idea of another day of seemingly endless travel, but he knew he must put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. He only hoped he had disguised his trail well enough so his direction was not clear to those behind him. He had no concept of how long he had slumbered, only knowing that it was long after the moon was high in the sky when he finally laid his weary body down on the long grass. He raised his head from off his arm which he’d used as a pillow, gazing cautiously around him, praying the leaves he lay upon did not make a sound. He could see no sign of his pursuers. Excellent, he thought, that at least is a good sign. He gave a half-smile as he realized the light rain had tapered off, leaving only an occasional droplet of cool water dripping from the canopy of leaves overhead. The rain, he hoped, would dampen the leaves on the ground, making his passage less noisesome. He also hoped that the rain had impeded any progress those who hunted him might have made.

He slowly stood up, flexing his legs stiffly, first the hips, then the knees, and finally his ankles. A rivulet of morning rain ran lazily down his face, through his thick red mustache, and between his lips, his first drink in two days. He had ventured nowhere near any rivers or streams during his travels, and by now his thirst was a mighty one. He feared that making himself visible beside a waterway would doom his flight. He had no possible way to know if there were spies among the folk of the region, in the employ of his tormentors. The very thought made him shudder. Licking the slight water from his lips, he stretched his torso, feeling the muscles groan in displeasure from his long night striving to remain still. The breeze rustled his long red beard in a flag-like wave before him, his bared chest speckled with the muted light dappled between the leaves overhead. He reached over his shoulder, ensuring his long ponytail, which hung manelike down to the center of his broad, muscular back, was still entrapped within the leather thong he had placed around it. Shaking his limbs to restore his circulation, he began a slow, careful walk around his improvised camp site. Despite the chill and rain during the night, he knew that the slightest hint of a campfire would certainly spell his doom. He brushed a stray leaf or two from his flank and gazed through the tree limbs above him, attempting to decipher the time of day. Judging from the position of the sun, he reckoned it must be nearing noon. His people were well-accustomed to living under the wide sky, partaking of its fruits, and enjoying the freedom of living in nature. Looking about him, he noticed a low shrub emblazoned with hundreds of round, shiny, red-gold berries. Immediately, his stomach gave an unhappy grumble, and he reached down, gently plucking a handful of berries, drawing them up to his bearded lips, and lovingly munching on the sweet pulp as the fruits’ thick syrup trickled down his throat. He loved these berries, even though he could not recall their name. He opened the small leather satchel at his waist, strung over his left shoulder and down to his waist by a wide, brown leather strap, and deposited several handfuls of the succulent berries into it to eat at a later time. Having had even such a small meal, he felt much better, and his stomach had ceased its low and ominous rumbling.

He pricked up his ears at a sudden sound. The lone cry of a bird overhead reminded him he should not remain there much longer. The sun overhead was sliding steadily to the west. His pursuers were coming from the west, from the valley where he had once been a revered personage, the unquestioned leader of his people. Now he was outcast and hunted by those he had once called friend and ally. He strode as quietly as possible out of the semi-cleared segment of forest where he had spent the night, stepping over fallen trees, deftly dodging dried twigs that might alert his enemies to his presence. Admittedly, he knew that remaining silent was not going to be easy, given that he was quite large and heavy. His fair skin and fiery-red hair would make hiding very difficult as well. His people were known for their sharp vision, the ability to see well and clearly at great distances. This made them formidable opponents during battles, as they could discern the smallest foe easily among forestry and castle ruins. It also made them marksmen of the highest caliber, dangerous enemies indeed. The keen sight of his kinsmen and former friends would surely discern his pale skin amidst the foliage if he was not careful.

He noted that there was a narrow, almost hidden pathway nearby and chose to make his way to it. It looked as if it had not been traveled in quite some time, with fallen leaves obscuring the worn path almost completely. Only his sharp eyes were able to discern the path, and he was thankful to have some direction to follow. Stepping onto the path, he looked to the east, his least-problematic direction, and saw some way up the path that there was a bright light, a break in the boughs and possibly a way to find out where he actually was. A rare smile crossed his bearded lips. A charge of hope sprang his his chest. It had been a long, long journey; could he finally be approaching sanctuary, a place he would be able to be free from those who hunted him?

He took a step toward the light. Then another.

The path led him to the edge of a glen, a wide expanse of grassy field between tracts of forest. The trees ended abruptly, almost too abruptly for his taste. The midday sun felt miraculously wonderful on his bare skin. He tipped his face up, closed his eyes, and basked in the warmth. The chill of the previous night was nearly forgotten. Birdsongs filled his ears; he almost felt as if he had been deaf all along, and the singing birds brought joy to his heart. He spied a small group of birds cavorting nearby, flying and dipping and performing all manner of aerial ballet as if for his amusement. Wildflowers seemed to turn their heads and watch him as he walked among them. He was happy, the first time he had felt happy since he was forced to leave his home in shame, disgrace, and fear for his life.

He stepped forward, leaving the camouflaging density of the forest. He felt more vulnerable, more naked than he already was. He glanced around him, saw no indication that anyone else was about. He gingerly took another step forward, then another. Still no sign of anyone. His steps became swifter, his gait more confident. He flung his arms wide in joy as he broke into a full gallop. He had remained hidden long enough. It was time for him to again enjoy the distinction of being Thunderhoof, Centaur Gallant, deposed King of the Crystal Valley Centaurs and former Master of the Centaur Guild of Merryforth. He took no happiness from the titles deposed and former, but even those names were what made him who he was. A Centaur without equal on the Plains, Mountains and Valleys of the land he had reigned. He was positive he still commanded respect on some spare levels of his former Kingdom, but it was some of these self-same Centaurs who now pursued him and wanted his head. He shook his head, promising himself not to dwell on those dark thoughts when he was in the presence of the bright majesty of the sunlit glen.

Onward he galloped, crisscrossing the glen, racing the birds who dared challenge him and laughing heartily as they flew away defeated. He had no such freedom as the Centaur King, no such cause for laughter and gaiety. As King, he was expected to solemn, terse even, as befit his lofty position among the Centaur clan. He recalled the many tedious hours of holding court amongst the Centaur Council, hearing multitudes of personal and very personal domestic squabbles between Centaur Stallions and Mares. His judgement was never questioned, and his rulings were carried out swiftly to the letter. He had been a good and just ruler, one of the most level-headed Centaurs in the history of Centaurs, who had a well-earned reputation for being belligerent and hot-headed beings. There seemed to be no problem he could not solve, no dispute he could not dissolve, and no difficulty he could not overcome.

Then came his own troubles.

* * *

It had been a gloriously beautiful sunny day at the start. Thunderhoof, his advisors, and the rest of the Council had just finished the day’s business of settling the usual disputes between the Guard and some of the more colorful populace who felt their freedoms were being stifled and trod upon by the Laws of the Land of the Crystal Valley, when a voice called from the connecting pasture, crying out for attention. All eyes turned toward the voice, some exasperated at the thought of having to continue with Council work. A Mare named Rosebud, who was coupled to a violently-hotheaded Stallion known as Granitemane, approached the Council with claims of inappropriate and untoward behavior upon her by King Thunderhoof himself. It was her claim that Thunderhoof had made lascivious and undesired advances on her, full knowing that the Mare already had a spouse, to the point of siring her Colt, Piddlehoof. Under normal circumstances, the claim would have gotten no further than the glen beyond the Council Garden; but the Colt’s shock of amazingly red hair, which was a rarity among Centaurs, was all the evidence the Council needed to depose Thunderhoof and condemn his life. No other Centaur within the Herd had such red hair as Thunderhoof. The King was offered no chance to rebuke Rosebud’s wild claims. The shock and dismay of his friends and fellow Council members was immediate and left him speechless, unable to answer the accusations. The cries of dismay and shouts of scorn left him no room to voice his innocence. His one attempt to speak was shouted down by the angry throng of Centaurs he thought he knew and from whom he thought he had respect. His silence was taken as an admission of guilt. Granitemane was, of course, furious with humiliation and demanded satisfaction from the King, whose jaw had been wide open since he heard Rosebud’s declaration of the King’s indiscretion. He was horrified by the accusation and completely aghast - he had never had intimate knowledge of Rosebud, and he had never wanted that knowledge, though she was a fetching beauty by his people’s standards. Rosebud had been a Colthood friend, an adolescent playmate, as had Granitemane. Thunderhoof would never even think of betraying his friends; her accusation led everyone in the Council area to think otherwise. Horror ran through those assembled as if they had all been struck by lightning at once. His impeachment from office was immediate, his humiliation complete.

There had been the usual ritual challenge to appease Granitemane’s honor. The two Stallions were involved in a bareknuckle, no-holds-barred wrestling match as was customary in resolving disputes of honor among Centaur Stallions, particularly those directly involving the King or his royal family. Granitemane was the more seasoned fighter, having served in the Centaur Brigade which had repelled a number of attacks and war declarations for various Dwarf and Human factions who resided on the other side of the Black Crown Mountains. On numerous occasions, he had killed many orcs who had threatened the livelihood of the Crystal Valley, and been proclaimed a war hero by the very King he now sought to destroy. Thunderhoof was sorely outmatched, beaten and bloodied severely. The match lasted less than thirty heartbeats before Thunderhoof’s heavy body crashed to the glade, his breath rushing from his aching lungs in a single exhausted whoosh. Blood gushed from his nose and a cut above his left eye. Thunderhoof tasted his own blood as his split lip seeped the red substance into his aching mouth. He looked up painfully, still stunned by everything he had experienced during that day; the black-maned Centaur stood over his former monarch, blocking out the sun and looking to his opponent like the epitome of Death’s proud and damnable image. His breath came in pained gasps. How, he panted, how has my life come to this? He closed his eyes briefly. A shout from the Herd surrounding them brought his eyes open in a flash. Granitemane had just raised his fist to pummel his former King’s face into the ground when Thunderhoof gathered his last ounce of strength, drawing back his own hambone fist and sending it crashing into his opponent’s jaw, fracturing the bone and sending several teeth sailing from his bleeding mouth. A pained look of amazement came over Granitemane’s eyes as he fell to the ground with a loud thud, sending clouds of dust and pollen from the new flowers billowing into the air around him. His eyes closed and he lay on his back, breathing heavily and whimpering in pain. Silvermane, Thunderhoof’s second-in-command in the Herd, announced Thunderhoof the winner and sent a group of angry-looking Centaurs to lift Granitemane’s quivering body from the field and carried him to the cave of the Healer.

This is a grave matter, Thunderhoof, Silvermane had said, eyes narrowing and focusing on the bloodied and bruised King. He placed a compassionate hand upon Thunderhoof’s heaving, sweaty shoulder, a sign that their friendship remained, even though the King was in such a perilous position. Possibly the gravest matter our Herd has ever encountered. This Colt is damning evidence of impropriety against you. We cannot allow one who has committed such a disgraceful act against one of our own to remain in the Herd. You have long led the Herd through joyous times and troubling times, true; you also have been our most glorious leader through some of our darkest hours. But… Silvermane took a long, deep, pained breath, removing his hand from Thunderhoof’s shoulder. He gazed remorsefully into his old friend’s eyes, sadness visible in every line on his face. This inexcusable act you have committed is punishable by death according to our Herd’s Laws. Thunderhoof’s blackened eyes grew painfully wide. I am sorry, my dear old friend, but there is no other recourse.

Under heavy guard, Thunderhoof was taken away, his wounds salved and treated by the same Healer who treated Granitemane’s wounds, and taken to a cave up the trail on the side of Thunder Mountain, half a league outside of the Centaur village, where he was blocked in by a monstrously large boulder and guarded by three of his own guards, Lightningmane, Killtail, and Blackmane. There he spent two days, sitting alone in his cave, wondering how this thing had happened to him.

The first day, he remained in stunned silence, still unable to fathom his circumstances. Why, he screamed inwardly, would Rosebud accuse him of such a thing? Why, he raged, would no one, even Silvermane, his closest friend, believe him? What would become of the Centaurs of the Crystal Valley once he had been put to death? Where could he ever find the proof needed to vindicate himself and clear his name and reputation?

He slept very poorly that night. He had never liked to sleep in an enclosed space, and the dank darkness of the cave that held him prisoner gave him no solace. When he did sleep, his dreams were haunted by the accusing face and jeers of the Centaurs he had loved and respected all his life.

He almost did not notice the coming of the second morning. He had nearly allowed himself to succumb to despair. For the first part of the night, he was on the verge of tears, coupling his loneliness with the awful gnawing feeling in his gut that he had been betrayed and was about to lose his life needlessly and unfairly. He overcame the fear and dread when he had a thought that one of his friends might indeed have a change of heart and come to his rescue. Silvermane would surely be on his side; he just needed time to reconsider the evidence, circumstantial as it was. He drifted off to sleep; with his first real glimmer of hope, he let the dark night overtake him.

On the dawn of the third day, he heard one of the guards (Lightningmane, he thought) say that the prisoner was to be taken back to the village and to the far side of the glen and executed, his remains given to the Dwarves to help fuel their mining engines. Thunderhoof’s heart skipped a beat. This was really going to happen! He was actually going to be put to death! His body parts were going to lubricate Dwarven machinery! He swallowed hard and looked about him for something to use as a weapon when the boulder was removed and the guards came in. His blue eyes darted around the darkened cave, espying nothing to use as a weapon, not even a sharp shone or a twig to fashion into a dagger. His pulse raced, sweat running down his bare torso as he imagined what it must feel like to die; he only knew he wanted no part of it, especially if it was not on his own terms.

He pricked up his ears, heard the regimented hoofbeats of the three guards approaching the cave. Their voices were low, but they were laughing. He scowled at the thought that they were enjoying his last morning of life, enjoying the fact that he, Thunderhoof, former King of the Centaurs, was about to be put to death. He squinted his eyes, gritted his teeth behind the mask of his large red beard. It is now or never, he thought, bracing himself but not knowing what he was going to do. The moment the boulder had been moved and the first guard, Killtail, entered, Thunderhoof whipped off the leather cord holding his ponytail in place and used it as a garrote to slay the guard and make his escape attempt. Killtail died with a gurgle, collapsing limply as his life left him. Cursing under his breath, the prisoner roughly tossed his body aside and bolted from the cave, knocking aside the other two guards who had been standing watching the murder slackjawed. The next they knew, Thunderhoof was down the mountain trail and across the pasture and galloping into the forest. Lightningmane and Blackmane called for aid, arousing many still-sleeping Centaurs and organizing a search party to find, detain, even kill the escaped prisoner.

By then, Thunderhoof was across the Cresting River and away.

* Go to Chapter 2.

Chapter Two

LONE DWARF

The new morning’s sunlight shone through his eyelids and awoke Thunderhoof to another day on the run from his former subjects and friends. He had passed the night in restless slumber, tossing and turning with troubling dreams. He had had some difficulty in falling asleep, struggling to piece together the events that had led to his flight from the Crystal Valley. None of the thoughts he had could make any sense of his harrowing predicament. Someone had betrayed him, that much he was certain of, but his list of enemies fell far short of actual suspects capable of instituting the scandal that had dethroned him. The thought of being a fugitive for the remainder of his life made him shudder.

Thunderhoof dug meaty fingers into his eyes, blocking out the offending sunlight and wiping sleep debris from them. When he opened his eyes again, he looked quickly around him, surveying the glade in which he had spent the night, determining that he was in fact still alone. His pursuers had not come upon him during the night. The glade was a wide expanse of tall grass nestled in a ring of sky-touching poplar and alder trees. He felt he must have travelled a long distance before bedding down, as poplar and alder trees were uncommon in the area surrounding the Crystal Valley. He climbed stiffly upright, stretching each powerful leg of his horse half before likewise stretching his beefy torso and strong arms of his human half. He re-tied his ponytail quickly, remembering how he had used the leather strap recently to slay one of his former best friends to make good his escape. The memory of the violent but necessary occurance disturbed him, but he shook his head, dismissing the memory.

At the edge of the glade, he found a half-hidden bush filled with succulent berries, which he recognized as safe to eat and sweet to the palate. Eating quickly, enjoying the quenching juice running down his parched throat, he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, in an effort to discern which direction he should next travel. The Valley of the Centaurs lay to the West; therefore, Thunderhoof opted to strike out for the East to put even more distance between himself and his former homeland. His knowledge of the geography of the land led him to recall that there were settlements to the East and to the South where he might be able to find aid and shelter. Like his Centaur brethren, he loved to sleep out under the stars, but since he was a fugitive from his own people, he felt far too exposed sleeping out in the open. He chuckled as he thought he would even sleep in a farmer’s stables if it meant a fitful night’s sleep. His new humility left room for nothing to be beneath him anymore.

As the sun reached its noonday zenith, Thunderhoof found himself at the edge of a very well-travelled cart path. Two deep ruts stretched in both directions. The more northerly track led into a thick wood he could see a couple of leagues away. The southerly track seemed to lead into a small village not far from his location. Across the path, he could see the purple-blue silhouette of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains many leagues to the East. He recalled that beyond the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains lay the Cliffs of Never which fell down into the Elsewhen Sea. Beyond the Sea, no Centaur in history had ever been, and there was no knowledge shared among the residents of the land. Thunderhoof’s mind briefly toyed with the idea of being the first being to explore the mystery that lay beyond the sea. If he sailed away from the land, he would be less likely to continue being pursued by the Centaur group that sought him out.

He shrugged off the idea. He had never been the adventuring type, and he was unsure if he had the courage to even set hoof on a ship to make such a voyage, let alone making a full-blown exploring adventure in an unexplored and possibly deadly land. Instead, he turned to his right and began the fairly short walk into the village.

Calling it a village, he mused, was being very generous indeed. There were a small number, less than a dozen, of small huts, mud-packed walls with reed-thatched roofs, many of the structures seeming to be held together by lengths of twisted and corded vines. In front of one of the first huts he passed sat a fire pit ringed with several different-sized rocks. A fragile-looking tripod of sticks coned over the pit. The only sound he heard as he entered the village was the steady echo of his hoofsteps. His eyes darted left and