by Perrin, Don
Theros placed the cauldron back into the forge flame, and dropped the tongs. He ran to the water barrel, filled a bucket, and ran back to his burning molds. One by one, he doused the molds in water, putting out the fire and curing the metal. The steam rose, mixing with the smoke from the forge, curling from the top of the tent.
“I’d say three more uses for these molds. After that, they’ll be far too burned. What do you think, Hran?”
The large minotaur grunted. “I would say that you could have at least four more uses if you put out the fires faster. For a young cub in the prime of his physical condition, you are exceedingly slow and as clumsy as a dwarf. You are hopeless! You will never make a smith!”
The young man was not disheartened. He knew that he had put out the fires in the molds in near-record time. Hran was always trying to push Theros to better, higher standards. Theros refilled his bucket of water. This time he cooled the metal to the point where the raw arrowheads could be removed from the molds. He dropped them into a metal grate that hung just below the water’s surface in the water barrel. Bubbles and steam sputtered from the water. Soon, two hundred raw arrowheads from the ten molds lay cooling in the water.
“Hey, Hran! When do you think Klaf will march the warriors out to battle?”
Hran stopped sharpening an axe blade for a moment, and looked up. “If Klaf has his way, it will be two more days before the battle will begin. I think that Klaf will not get his way, though. I do not see those soft and dainty elves becoming more and more drenched while waiting for us to build up to fighting on our terms. No, I think that they will push soon. Too soon. We must be ready.”
Theros pulled the arrowheads from the water one by one. He fastened each one into a vise. Next, he took a large metal file and began to sharpen the raw shape into a honed tip. Four or five scrapes with the coarse-toothed file would shape one side of the arrow, and four or five scrapes with a fine-toothed file would put a sharp edge on it.
“Don’t you think that our infantry is better than theirs, though?” Theros asked.
Hran continued sharpening the sword. “Infantry is only one part of a battle. We have no cavalry, and the elves make good use of theirs. Normally that means nothing to us. We stand and fight until there are no other enemies to be fought. In this case, I can see trouble. If our supply lines are cut and the infantry are separated into small groups, the elves can concentrate their forces and crush the survivors.”
“Klaf knows that,” Theros said. “We will prevail if given the chance.”
He removed the arrowhead from the vise, turned it over, put it back and repeated the process on the other side.
“You’ve got to admit, my friend, that our weapons are vastly superior to those of the elves.” Theros regarded his work with pride. Every few moments, he would finish an arrowhead and throw it in a pile. As they talked, the pile grew steadily larger.
“Bah!” Hran snorted again. “You know nothing of weapons. I have taught you as much as I know in the months you have worked for me. We deal with weapons and armor designed for an army’s everyday use. Axe, sword, arrow, spear, knife—these are the weapons of the warrior. Shield, breastplate, shin plates—these are the armor of a warrior. We mend and beat out the dents and make arrows, but we don’t have the time to do truly excellent work. Take this sword, for example. It’s a weapon for a true warrior. Only an expert can craft such a blade. I wish I had the time to teach you the art of making a good sword.”
Hran gazed at the weapon fondly, then, with a sigh, he slid the sword back into its sheath. Setting the sword aside on a table, he picked up a huge breastplate. The piece was ornate with inlaid silver pictograms and symbols, each depicting a heroic act or a battle scene. The armor had separated from the leather backing.
Hran threaded a leather-working needle with sinew and inspected the piece. The leather had ripped in the backing, causing the shoulder straps to come loose. The piece had probably came loose in a battle, and the warrior had ripped the plate away, causing most of the damage.
Hran grunted and threw the work onto the ground. “Bah! Theros, you do this. The work requires smaller hands than mine. Why they want me to waste my talents on repairing armor is beyond me.”
Theros finished the last of the arrowheads and left them in the pile, ready for shafts. Later he would carry them down to the fletcher to have the shafts and fletching added. That was not a weapons-smith’s job.
Hran picked up a huge axe head with a broken shaft hanging from its center mount. “Ah! Now this is a fine piece of work! I can see the craftsmanship in this axe head. A new handle and it will be a worthy weapon for a warrior!”
Theros laughed. He picked up the armor to inspect it. “Of course, you think that. It is obviously one of yours!”
He turned his attention back to the armor breastplate. Using leather shears, he began cutting away the upper right corner of the inner pad, as well as the right shoulder strapping. The leather was badly corroded from being wet and not properly cared for. It had probably never seen saddle soap in its history. The piece looked as if it had been handed down for several generations, a marvelous piece when it was new—a breastplate fit for a brave, honorable warrior.
Theros turned to Hran to continue the conversation, but at that moment, Hran began beating the axe handle remnants with a huge hammer and a wood awl. The pounding made further conversation impossible.
It was nearing the middle of the morning, and the haze was beginning to lift. Even the light drizzle began to subside. Theros could now make out the fletcher’s tent, the commissary tent, and the quartermaster’s wagons. The weather was indeed improving. Minotaur warriors moved in and out of the tents. Human slaves moved about. It was business as usual in the rear guard of an army.
A large warrior with overly large horns entered the weapons-smith’s tent. Hran did not notice, and kept on hammering at the axe handle remnants. Theros rose. He recognized the minotaur—he was the officer in charge of the rear guard. Huluk was his name and he had a reputation for being a quarrelsome warrior whose only joy was fighting, either in battle or with his fellow soldiers.
The big warrior shouted over the din. “Is that my armor you are working on, slave? Let me see that.”
Theros gestured that the right strap wasn’t finished, but the minotaur ignored him. Theros was a slave, after all. Theros held out the half-repaired piece to the officer for his inspection. The minotaur took the breastplate, slapped it on and fumbled for the straps. When he couldn’t find the right strap, he was furious. The minotaur flung the plate back at Theros.
“This is not good enough! I want this ready in one hour.”
Hran heard the words over the din and stopped hammering. He turned to watch the officer stomp away through the mud.
“In Sargas’s name, what was that all about?”
Theros shrugged. “The commander doesn’t like the work I have done on his breastplate. I tried to tell him it wasn’t finished. He wants it in an hour.”
“Tell him he will have it when he gets it.”
Theros smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “I don’t dare tell him that. I’m a slave, or have you forgotten?”
Hran gazed at him. “Sometimes I think you’re the one who has forgotten, Theros. You speak of ‘we’ minotaurs and ‘our’ army. It almost seems that you consider yourself a minotaur. Why is that?”
Theros muttered something to the effect that it was probably because he’d lived with the minotaurs for eight years. He’d never told anyone about his meeting with Sargas. He didn’t think he ever would.
Hran eyed him, evidently guessing there was more to this than Theros’s words. Theros bent over the leather.
The smith mumbled something about less talk and more work, and went back to pounding out the wood in the axe head.
Theros began by taking a fresh piece of leather and cutting it to shape. The leather needle was still threaded, and lay on the table beside the other tools. With it, Theros stitched the new leather to the
old piece that was still attached to the plate. He sewed the new leather in place, then added cotton tacking to pad between the leather and the metal. Next, he connected the sides of the leather to the edging, using the fasteners that were still there, and hammering in new ones where there were none.
He laid the plate to one side. Picking up the old leather, he placed it in the vise. He broke the strap harness away from the old piece by severing the rivet with pliers.
He threw the rest of the leather away. Lifting the buckle, he dunked it in grease. His fingers began to work the jammed buckle, loosening the rust to the point that the buckle could be used again. The last thing to do was to reattach the buckle to the breastplate.
Theros turned to pick up the rivet pliers. The clouds broke. Yellow sunlight streamed through to the ground.
From the front, a lone horn sounded.
It was the call to battle.
Chapter 6
Theros looked at Hran. Both of them stopped work.
The call to battle was too early.
The moment of inactivity passed, just as quickly replaced with commotion. Everything and everyone moved as fast as a jackrabbit spotted by a hound. The warriors poured out of their tents, hastily donning armor or breastplates.
Hran dropped what he was doing. “Quick, lad, finish that piece! We’ve got to get ready! Great Sargas alive! This is not the time!”
Theros sewed as fast as he could. He concentrated on his sewing, while the whole world swarmed around him. Sub-commanders were streaming into the tent, demanding arrows or spears, leather-covered shields, or metal bullets especially shaped for the slingers. They grabbed what they needed, then rushed out.
Hran dashed over to a large storage box sitting to the side of the tent. He threw it open and lifted out a piece of his own armor—a leather jerkin with metal strips, designed to turn an arrow or blade before it did damage. He strapped it on, and fumbled for the next piece.
Theros could not get his fingers to work fast enough. He knew he would never finish in time. He was right.
Huluk, the rear guard commander, burst into the tent.
“You, slave! Give me that breastplate. I need it now!”
Theros started to protest, to tell the officer that the piece wasn’t ready yet, that it was only barely sewn together. The officer backhanded Theros across the face, sending the young man sprawling.
“Damned slave! This armor is not done yet! How am I to fight with garbage like this? Get this on me!”
Theros, flat on his back from the blow, rolled over and jumped to his feet. He tried to strap the armor to the torso of the huge minotaur. It would not hold. The seam was already giving way as Theros tried to pull the strap tight.
This time Theros reacted as the warrior’s shoulder muscles tightened and the minotaur began to turn. Theros ducked just in time to miss another blow.
“I am sorry, Commander. I did not have time.…”
The officer shouted at the smith. “You will pay for the insolence and incompetence of this slave under your control. Mark my words, Hran. This will not go unpunished.”
Hran waved his hand. “Do as you will, Huluk. But now, there is a battle, and you must lead your warriors. Stop wasting my time and my slave’s time and get to your fight!”
Huluk shook with rage, turned, and stormed out of the weapons-smith’s tent. As he walked, his leather breastplate banged against his chest, only partly attached.
Theros stood glumly, his hands at his sides, his head down. He had failed. He deserved his punishment.
Hran walked over, gripped Theros by the shoulder. “Listen here, Theros. One warrior’s panic is not another’s emergency. We will defeat this elven army, and then we will return to the new village on the shore, where we will forge wondrous swords only warriors from antiquity have seen!
“First, the task at hand. You begin on the left side, I will start on the right. We roll the tent canvas off the support poles toward the center chimney. Now move!”
Theros dashed off to his side of the tent and began rolling up the wet sides of the canvas.
They had to take the tent down, and stow the equipment in the wagon before they could properly prepare for battle. The hearth remained stoked and hot, but the tent was to be removed. If they won the battle, they would set the tent up again. If they lost, they would form part of the army’s baggage train, then retreat with the rear guard. Hran would leave nothing behind for the elves, not even scraps.
The canvas was heavy, soaked after days of rain. Hran finished his side, rolling it to the edge of the hearth. He began to disconnect the two sides of canvas from one another. Theros struggled. The heavy canvas rolled slowly, getting heavier with each inch.
“Come on there, lad! Put your back into it!” Hran yelled.
Between the two of them, the roll moved faster. It thumped up against the side of the hastily built stone hearth before stopping. Together, they went to the right end of the roll, and lifted it over and onto the other half. Both bending, they hoisted the canvas onto the wagon.
Hran grunted as they shoved the canvas securely into place in the wagon. “Quickly now, collect all of the tools!”
Theros ran to where the tent had stood moments ago. He stooped to grab the two sets of tongs lying in the grass. As he reached for them, the mournful sounds of the regimental trumpets began to wail.
“The call to form ranks.” Hran looked worried. “Hurry, lad! Hurry!”
Now Theros could hear the sound of shrill elven trumpets. The enemy was close at hand.
They had taken too much time with the canvas. He and Hran were going to be caught in the midst of the battle.
Chapter 7
The clouds were beginning to break and dots of sunshine began to play across the field separating the minotaurs from their foe, the elves.
Theros was but one small cog in the minotaurs’ huge war machine. As he labored in the rear, the machine geared up to creak forward.
The minotaur leader, Commander Klaf, hastened out of his tent, near the back of the assembling troops. He shouted to the standard-bearer and bugler. “What is going on? Why did you sound the battle call?”
His officers pointed. Klaf looked across the field. Elves were pouring from the woods and beginning to form around their own standards.
“Great Sargas! Bugler, sound the ‘officers to me’ call.” The bugler brought the great horn up and blasted out the notes. The entire camp had come alive when the call to arms had been sounded. Now it was time to get moving, not stand around like children waiting to be fed.
Klaf stood with his arms crossed, studying his enemy from across the nearly mile-wide field. As always, the elves were taking their time, forming into pristine companies, all in precise lines and columns. The elf commander had three infantry corps in his command. He placed one corps forward and the other two side-by-side behind the first. Klaf motioned to the standard-bearer.
“So what do you think, Olik? Where would you say all of their archers are going to be? That’s what we worry about most.”
The younger officer hesitated for a moment, still studying the enemy formations. “The rear two corps must contain their archers, sir. I cannot believe that the elves are stupid enough to challenge us with their infantry alone. Surely they will use their might in archery to try and bring our numbers down. I don’t see any cavalry, either, Commander. Do we know if they have any?”
The older minotaur nodded. “They must have cavalry, but I do not see it. Damn them! The elves always play these silly games. Why don’t they just come out and fight?”
Three minotaurs ran up to the officers, two more racing behind. All were in various stages of dress, none fully ready for battle.
The tallest, Bak, spoke first. “Are they forming to attack now? Great Lords of the Abyss! We aren’t ready!”
Klaf turned to the huge warrior. “Set the example, damn you! I expect your troops to be formed before the enemy is ready. Now go! Go!”
The officers turned
and ran back to their tent lines, all bellowing orders to their subordinates.
Olik planted the army standard in the ground. It was a twelve-foot pole with a crosspiece attached near the top. An orange and red banner hung down from the crosspiece, showing a black raven with glowing wing tips. The very top of the pole was adorned with a gold spearhead, and two gold tassels hung down. The banner was normally cased in a leather sock, but when the horns of battle rang out, clear as the morning sun, Olik decided it was time for the banner to be unfurled. The banner would show the enemy that they were fighting against a mighty army.
Olik had been chosen specially as the standard-bearer for the Third Army because he was a foot taller than any other minotaur in the army. His job was to keep the standard flying at all costs. To let it fall would be a disgrace for the army. To let it be captured would be the worst of all possible fates, worse even than defeat. Olik would fight to the death to defend the standard.
The elves had begun to straighten their lines and close together for the march across the field. The minotaur officers were shouting at their warriors to form into regiments and straighten their own lines. Across the field, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and with a great shudder, the three corps of elves began to push forward.
Minotaurs were still coming out of tents, still pulling on pieces of armor, still fumbling for weapons, still tightening straps. Officers and junior leaders were doing everything in their power to get their troops in place.
One minotaur was completely drunk. An officer raced up behind him and bashed him on the back of the head in an attempt to sober him up. The soused minotaur fell facedown into the grass. His officer left him for dead and went back to his unit.
Olik, still watching the advance of the elven army, shook his head and looked over to Klaf. “We have to slow their advance, sir, to allow our troops enough time to get into formation. We don’t even have our skirmish line out yet!”
