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It was past midnight when they got back to the cave with
the minotaur and set him down inside. The huge brown
beast had never once stirred. The goblin staggered off to
collapse in a corner and fall asleep.
When he awakened, it was long past sunrise. Cold,
cooked venison was spitted over the fire pit; the fire itself
had long gone out. The minotaur's festering wounds had
been carefully cleaned and dressed with old rags from the
cave's rag pile, donated by many farmhouse clotheslines.
The kender apparently had found nothing to cut the huge
chain the minotaur was dragging around. The chain was
carefully wound into a loose pile by the minotaur's side.
The goblin rubbed his face and got up. He noticed the
kender had succumbed to exhaustion and was asleep,
sitting upright against a cave wall, some rags in his lap, a
bone needle and sinewy thread in his hand. He'd been
stitching together a crude blanket.
Then the goblin saw that the minotaur, still lying flat on
its stomach, was watching him. The beast's dull eyes were
as large as a cow's, with the same deep brown color. Long
scars crisscrossed the monster's muzzle and low forehead.
One broad nostril was split open from an old wound
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