Minotaur by Phillip W. Simpson

Greece and Northern Africa. He was a hard taskmaster but fair.
    “Asterion. Stop gathering wool. Concentrate. You won’t block anything that way.” He marched up to me, clipped me smartly on the head with his bare hand, adjusted my shield grip, and then stepped back. Androgeus and I looked at him expectantly.
    “Well!” he roared. “Don’t just stand there. Fight for Zeus’s sake!”
    Androgeus and I went at it with a will. The shields were real enough but our swords were only wood. When Androgeus trained with the men, they trained with bronze weapons. Androgeus had the scars to show for it.
    Although I enjoyed physical exercise, I never felt comfortable hurting anyone. I had a gentle disposition and rarely got angry. Paris despaired of ever turning me into a warrior. I lacked the ferociousness and passion of a truly great fighter.
    I warded off a blow from Androgeus. It clattered harmlessly off my bronze embossed shield, sliding down. I took advantage of the fact that he was momentarily off balance and swung wildly at his head. I missed. In fact, I wasn’t even close. Androgeus didn’t bother to raise his shield; my blow was that clumsy. With agility that was quite mesmerizing, Androgeus blocked my shield with his and then slid under it, poking the wooden point of his sword right where my heart was.
    “Asterion!” shouted Paris. “You son of a motherless goat. That was useless. Not only that, you’re dead.”
    Androgeus grinned at me. “You almost had me then,” he said encouragingly.
    “Don’t tell lies, Androgeus,” growled Paris. “You’ll only give him a false sense of confidence, which will kill him on the battlefield. And there’s nothing worse than a man whose confidence outweighs his ability.” He shook his head, grabbed my shield, and yanked it away from my numb fingers. “Put your sword down, we’ll try something different.”
    I did what Paris ordered. “I don’t think the sword and shield suit you,” continued Paris. “You’re big and strong, and you’ll get more so with time. But slow with it. I think we’ll give you a weapon to match.” He thought for a moment and then marched over to the weapons rack, selecting a wooden club.
    He threw it to me. I almost missed it, which would’ve been incredibly embarrassing. My reflexes were not like those of Androgeus. As it was, I just managed to grasp the handle of the club before it hit me in the head.
    Like me, it was a clumsy thing, large and unwieldy, as long as my arm, and thick at one end, tapering down to a size that I could just grasp. It felt good in my hand though, almost like it belonged there. I’d heard rumors lately of a hero using a weapon like this. Heracles. On the mainland, he’d reportedly accomplished great and heroic deeds with such a weapon.
    “Now try again,” commanded Paris. “And this time, Asterion, try and show some spark.”
    Androgeus moved in instantly for the kill. He knew my abilities by now, only too aware that I was much slower than him. He did, however, sometimes forget about my strength, which seemed to grow daily. Not only that, but he appeared a little confused by the club. He was used to facing me shield to shield, sword to sword. Normally, he’d use his usual tactics, blocking my shield and using his superior speed to strike like a snake.
    This time he had no shield to block.
    He thrust his shield forward. I knew what it was. A decoy. He thought I would attempt to block his shield thrust with my club, and then he would strike with his sword while I was distracted. This, I realized, would once again end in defeat. Instinct kicked in then. I did what came naturally. Holding the club in both hands, I swung mightily at his shield. A bestial roar emerged from my throat. I wasn’t angry—it just seemed like the right thing to do.
    Nobody in the gymnasium that day expected to see what happened next.
    By rights, the shield should’ve stopped my blow, at the very least deflect it. Instead, the club