by Perrin, Don
Sudden fury shook Theros. He sprinted to Hran’s side. Theros rolled the big minotaur over, and pulled him to a sitting position. Hran stared out unblinking into the destroyed and burning camp. He was dead.
Tears that pain could never wring from him welled up in Theros’s eyes. Hran, his slave master, had been mentor and friend.
The bodies of eight elf warriors lay strewn across the road. Theros dragged Hran away from the forge and pulled him up beside the shallow trench that had saved the young man’s life. Hran had died a true warrior. He had slain eight of the best elves that the Silvanesti Nation could muster.
Theros began to dig again. As he dug, anger welled up inside him. This was no act of honor that had cost Hran his life. The elves had intentionally circled around the back and attacked the rear guard while the minotaur main forces were arrayed on the field. Looking over to the commissary wagon, he could see that the elves had slain the human slaves, as well as the minotaurs, all mostly unarmed.
It had been the plan of a coward. A coward without honor.
Theros continued to dig.
Chapter 9
Klaf turned and raised his huge battle-axe. He started running forward. The rest of the command group followed him. A cheer went up from the reserve corps, and they, too, broke into a run, closing the distance between their position and the front lines.
“Make sure they can see the army standard up there,” Klaf commanded. “Don’t let some hot-headed elf take you down.”
Olik roared a battle cry and raised the standard high. In his other hand he held an exquisite long sword. It was of Solamnic origin, but now it was decorated with the designs of Olik’s clan.
The noise was horrendous. Klaf’s bodyguards cleared a path around the commander and Olik. Two elves spotted the banner and charged toward the standard. If it fell, the morale of the minotaurs might be broken and the day go with the elves.
One of the elves was immediately taken down by a minotaur’s sword. The other elf broke the circle. With a great cry, he raised an ornate blade high above his helmeted head. Olik stood his ground. He planted his back foot and kicked out with his front foot just as the elf came within reach. The foot smashed in the front of the elf’s helmet, and shattered the face inside. The elf crumpled like a sack of leaves. Klaf brought his axe down on the battered body.
Suddenly, the elves routed.
Many threw down weapons and ran. Some just ran. Within seconds, the only elves left were the dead ones or those trapped by fallen bodies of minotaur warriors. They soon joined the ranks of their dead comrades. The minotaur force let out a huge cheer.
But the cheer was short-lived and died suspended in the air. Klaf looked around in confusion. He turned a full circle, and another. Then, he realized what had just happened.
In front of him, five hundred yards away, were two fresh corps of elven infantry, probably heavy infantry with archers in support. To his rear, he could see smoke staining the sky. Arrayed between him and his camp stood the elven heavy cavalry.
The quiet that had engulfed the minotaur army suddenly shattered as officers ordered troops into line again. The minotaurs moved slowly. Moments ago, it was to have been the elves who were running from the field, their morale crushed and their vanquishers chasing them down. Now, it was the minotaurs.
Klaf’s heart sank. He realized that he had marched his army into a trap. The elves had intentionally placed an inferior force before the minotaurs to keep their attention on the battle in front. To their rear, the elven cavalry had slaughtered the rear guard and now threatened to sandwich the minotaurs.
The sound he dreaded and knew was coming echoed across the field from the elven lines. Thousands of arrows arched their way through the clearing sky toward the army. Before they hit, a second volley was loosed.
The impact of the first volley was devastating. Because the minotaurs did not wear substantial armor, their leather padding and shielding did nothing to stop well-fired arrows. Klaf stared in horror as warriors all around him fell.
He swung his battle-axe over his head and began a deep growl that slowly became a howling war cry. Leaping forward, alone, he raced toward the elven infantry.
His warriors stood and watched in stunned silence. Olik, suddenly realizing that this was the only way to an honorable death, couched the army standard like a lance and sprinted after his commander.
The minotaur army rallied and charged.
After one hundred yards, a quarter of them had fallen to arrows. They kept going.
After two hundred yards, another quarter were dying in the mud, but the rest kept going. The arrows were less effective at this range.
After four hundred yards, the minotaurs that were left were sorely winded. Still they kept charging. There was death in anything that they did now, but the only way to honor was one hundred yards ahead.
Klaf’s own fear of defeat with dishonor fired him forward. He screamed and swung his axe in huge arcs. At twenty yards, Olik, running beside him, stumbled a few steps. An arrow protruded from his chest. The giant minotaur shook his head, tore the arrow from his chest, tossed it on the ground, and caught up to Klaf.
Klaf hit the elven line first. The elves were jammed together in a tight defensive formation, swords and spears bristling outward. Klaf died almost instantly, but his body, as it fell, carried with it four elves, opening a hole in the lines.
Olik plunged into the hole after his dead commander, swinging his sword with one hand, using the army standard as a club in the other. Four, six, eight elves fell before the giant. More elves rushed forward, only to be bashed to pieces. Finally, two archers fired four arrows each into the big warrior’s torso. Even then, Olik kept swinging standard and sword. Finally, he fell to his knees, then pitched forward into the dirt.
The standard fell. The minotaur army fell with it.
* * * * *
The minotaur army had died an ignoble death. Maybe one tenth of the minotaurs who began the battle were still alive. They stood in one group, prisoners of the elves. The death toll had not been only on the losing side, however. Hundreds of elves lay where they had been battered and hacked to death.
It was unclear whether the elves had lost more, but they weren’t counting. They had won the day. The threat of minotaur intrusion into their coastal areas had been effectively negated. All that remained was the mop-up of remaining enemy forces.
The captured minotaurs were herded into one large group and surrounded by elf warriors and archers. All of the prisoners looked dejected. Their dishonor weighed heavily upon them.
The surviving elves went through the battlefield looking for dead and wounded warriors of their kind. The dead were taken back to the tree line and laid out with their weapons and the weapons of dead minotaurs near them as trophies. The wounded were taken back to a makeshift aid station in the rear. Here the healers worked their craft, some with arcane herbs and lore, others with brute force of bone-setting and flesh-cutting and the searing brand of cauterization. The healers had much to do this day.
Those minotaurs they found who were still alive but badly wounded were quickly dispatched. The elves had no regard for minotaur life. The prisoners might be useful for an exchange with the minotaur Supreme Circle for some political concession or other.
When all the elven wounded had been found and taken to the healers, the soldiers began the monumental task of burying their own dead, and burning the minotaur corpses.
Harinburthallas, the elven army commander, ordered one regiment, now numbering less than two hundred elf soldiers, to clear out the minotaur camp. The regimental commander, Llantoes, formed his soldiers into a column, and marched them across the field. They passed the site of the first engagement. The dead had been removed, but the mud was stained red, and a forest of arrows, embedded at the angle of impact, looked like stocks of straw that were bent by the wind. The mud was thick. The soldiers slogged forward.
Fewer than twenty minotaurs had survived in the rear area, all that was l
eft of a mighty army. Most deserted their posts and disappeared into the woods, looking to get away. Several dozen human slaves lived too, Theros among them.
Fires burned everywhere. The camp was a complete ruin. From where Theros stood he could see the burning commissary wagons and the quartermaster’s site. He could not see any minotaurs, other than those that had fallen in the brief battle with the elven cavalry.
Theros leaned on his shovel for a moment to catch his breath. The ground was soft for the first few feet, then turned to a thick, hard-packed clay. Digging was slow.
The smell of burning wood and canvas permeated the air. The smoke rose up and stained the cloudy sky. To the west was blue sky, but it could be seen only every once in a while through the pall of black, acrid smoke. The smoke caught in Theros’s nose and throat. He tied a piece of cloth around his face to try to block the fumes.
He bent back to his digging. His young arms rippled with the effort. The blade dug only a few inches into the clay. Theros pried back the shovel, and a brick-sized chunk of clay broke loose. He bent down, picked up the piece, tossed it aside. He repeated the process, again and again.
He reached a depth of five feet in the trench. Deep enough. And who knew how much more time he would have before the elves found him? He tossed the shovel to the side, and climbed out. Hran lay several feet to the side of the trench.
Hran weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds, with his armor and weapons. Theros dragged the body to the newly dug grave and rolled it in. Climbing down into the grave, Theros rearranged the body in the restful pose of death. He closed the eyelids, straightened the body, crossed the arms over the chest. It was not exactly how a minotaur would have honored the dead, but it was as close as the young man knew. He climbed back out, and stood silent.
The minotaur had been a strict master, but Theros had learned much from him in the past few months.
“Sargas, hear me,” he began, and said a prayer for Hran.
* * * * *
Huluk, the rear guard commander, crouched behind several water barrels. Beside him crouched Nevek, another minotaur warrior.
Nevek shook his head. “We’ve got to leave. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be killed or captured like the rest.”
Huluk grunted. “That was our army that was just slaughtered out there. Sargas strike us down! We should have died out there like the rest. We should have fought like the true warriors that they were.”
“Yes, sir. Look, sir, our army is gone. We have a duty to warn the coastal village and the Supreme Circle. Our honor is in reporting the valiant sacrifice that our warriors made this day.”
Huluk’s face contorted in rage. This insolent young cub was telling him, a senior officer and a valiant, decorated warrior, about honor. “You! You know nothing of honor! Have you ever been victorious in battle? You …”
The officer paused. The young minotaur actually had a point about reporting the events of the day. Huluk’s mind was racing. He had witnessed the deaths of many warriors that he knew and respected. He had lost his command to a surprise attack from heavy cavalry. He would be blamed for the failure, that was certain. But perhaps there was a chance to regain his shattered honor …
Nevek brought Huluk back to the here and now. “Sir, the elves are moving this way!”
Huluk jumped up and peered over the barrels. While he had been sitting and brooding, a column of elf warriors had been slogging its way toward them. They were no more than two hundred yards away.
Huluk made his decision.
“You have a point, young warrior. We must get back to warn the village garrison. Now, we’re going to need a few things. It is a four-day trip back. Gather up weapons and anything else that will be useful.”
Nevek nodded. “I’ll grab as many skins of water as I can find. The water barrels here are full. I’ll try to find some food, too. Hurry, sir, they’re almost here!”
Huluk nodded. “Right, meet me at the far end of the camp, near the weapons-smith’s tent, or what’s left of it. Go!”
Nevek ran. Huluk raced back through the burning camp. The broken breastplate banged and chafed against his fur. He stopped just short of the commissary wagons, the flames now beginning to burn low, and gave the armor a good yank. The leather straps disintegrated and the piece fell to the ground.
“Useless. Damned slave.”
He bent and picked up his axe from the back harness built into the failed armor. He’d have to find a replacement.
The commissary area was strewn with bodies, minotaur and human. Several elves with their horses lay on the roadway. At least some enemies had fallen in the short-lived battle. Huluk rooted through the wreckage. Near the wagons were a stack of produce crates. He searched through them. The crates contained mostly raw meat and vegetables, some fish and a case of spices for the preservation of food. The bottom crate held baked hardtack. He rummaged around the tent site and found a cloth sack. He filled the sack halfway with food.
Weapons were next. He had to carry his axe, but he had nothing to carry it in. A bow would be good. A sword and scabbard would be useful, too. He crossed the commissary area and entered the smithy area. Several metal pegs and an anvil marked the edge where the tent had been. The stone hearth still stood in the middle of the tent area, its coals beginning to cool.
A movement from the left side caught Huluk’s attention.
A young human stepped from behind the forge. He was dirty, and blood covered his clothes. Huluk recognized the human as Hran’s slave—the same slave who had done a useless job on his armor.
Huluk nearly burst a vein. Here, in the middle of the carnage and destruction of an entire army, with everyone dead or gone, the only sentient being he could find was the moron who had ruined his armor.
The urgency of the situation left him no time for the luxury of expending his anger and fear upon this human slave. “You! Help me here! I need two bows, quarrels of arrows, a sword and anything else you’ve got that I can use. Hurry! I need them now!”
Theros turned to the nearly burned-out wagon. He picked up a stick, and began to sift through the remnants of the wagon’s load.
Huluk did the same with his axe. Most of what they sifted through were tools or bits of tools that had been burned, their wooden parts no longer of any use. There was no sight of anything like a bow or an arrow or anything close to being useful.
“I’m sorry sir, this is all there is left,” said Theros. “We had very few bows to begin with. They must have—wait!”
Theros ran out into the roadway to where some elves had fallen. Two horses lay dead in the street beside their riders. Pulling at the underside of one of the horse’s saddles, Theros pried loose an elven short bow. The second yank yielded a full quiver of arrows. He held them up for the minotaur officer to see.
From a distance down the street, a high-pitched voice shouted in Common. “You! Yes, you! You will die for defiling an elf warrior in death!”
Theros turned to see four elf infantrymen running toward him, swords drawn. He looked back at the officer, who had also heard the shout. Huluk ducked down behind the remnants of the still-burning wagon.
Huluk waited, axe at the ready. Theros ran back and knelt beside the officer. He heard the light tread of soft leather boots. Huluk waited. Just as the first elf rounded the corner of the wagon, sword drawn, Huluk swung his axe with a backhanded motion. The exquisitely crafted blade sliced squarely into the elf’s chest, caving it in, and pirouetting the elf onto his back.
Huluk jumped out into the open where he could fight without hindrance. He tossed the axe back and forth between his hands. The second elf rushed the big minotaur. Huluk easily leaned out of the way, tripping the elf as he lunged by, and embedding his axe into the soldier’s helmet. The elf died like a leaf in a fire.
The other two elves circled the minotaur, who was trying to yank his axe from the body of the dead elf. One elf lunged. Huluk twisted as only a trained minotaur could, turning what should have been a deathblo
w into a painful slice across the side. Blood welled up out of the wound. Huluk went into a rage.
He jerked up violently with his axe, freeing it, and turned to the elf who had just wounded him. The elf blanched. Huluk brought his axe up as if he were going to charge. The elf immediately braced for the impact, hoping to sidestep the huge minotaur’s lunge. Instead, Huluk thrust forward with his arm and let the axe sail forward. The elf never knew what hit him. The axe embedded in the elf’s chest, crushing it.
The fourth elf lost no time. He charged the minotaur while he was off-balance. The hit was good, and the minotaur went sprawling. The elf brought his sword down, but Huluk rolled to one side, avoiding the blow. The elf was too close.
Huluk kicked at the elf’s boots, knocking them out from under him. The minotaur was immediately on top of the elf, pinning him. The minotaur easily outweighed the elf by two to three times. Huluk placed his hands around the elf’s neck, strangled him.
After the death rattle, Huluk rose. His side bled profusely.
Theros ripped off his shirt, pressing it against the side of the minotaur. Holding the cloth in place, Huluk pushed Theros away and retrieved his axe.
“You won’t need that where you’re going, minotaur.”
Both Huluk and Theros turned around to see who spoke. An elf officer in gilt armor with gold fittings stood on the road. With him stood eight elf warriors, each with a bow. Eight arrows pointed at the two.
Huluk moved toward the elf. As he did so, the elf warriors began to circle around the minotaur, surrounding him.
The elf officer laughed. “So it has come to this, eh, warrior? We elves, so small in comparison to you huge beasts, have crushed your army. Our victory is the product of a finely honed military. We are no accidents of the gods like your horrible excuse for a race, or so the old text teaches. We were the firstborn, the pure. You are a race of abominations!”
Huluk breathed slowly, the wound in his side throbbing, but beginning to seal. The wound was not deep, but the blood loss was making him weak.
