by Perrin, Don
The baron politely accepted the sword.
“You will be well and honorably treated. Put your weapons down,” he ordered the other knights.
They did as commanded, placing their swords on the ground.
Once the knights were unarmed, Moorgoth waved his hand. His soldiers leapt on them, slashing and stabbing.
“Damn you!” cried the knight who had given Moorgoth his sword. “Damn you back to the Abyss where you were spawn—”
Those were the knight’s last words.
Chuckling at the look of surprise on the knights’ faces, the baron extracted himself from the fight. What fools these knights were! So damned trusting. Glancing back, he saw all five of the knights dead on the field, brutally hacked apart.
The remainder of the knights drew back several hundred yards from the tree line. Their general tried desperately to rally his troops into a charge line. The fight was still on among the trees. The archers could have no effect there, fearful of hitting their own comrades.
The baron went to look to the army’s left flank. The battle was not going as well there. The knights had caught many of his men out in the open. It looked as if the left flank would cave in, giving the knights a chance to sweep at him from that direction.
Then he heard the sound of shouting.
Moorgoth looked up the hill to see his own cavalry cresting the top. The Solamnic Knights were already engaged in battle. They could not turn and face this new threat. Moorgoth’s cavalry struck the knights from behind.
The reaction was immediate. The Solamnics on the left crumbled. The baron’s own infantry took advantage of the disorganization of the Solamnic Knights and fought with renewed vigor.
The Solamnic commander had rallied two hundred of his knights back from the fighting. He had originally hoped to charge back into the line. He now could see that he was outnumbered. To ride in again would be suicide.
He ordered a retreat. Even at that, many of the knights refused to obey. They would rather die than leave the battle to these butchers.
The commander shouted something, ending in the words, “… by the Oath and Measure!” He wheeled his charger and galloped back across the field, heading into the town.
The majority of the knights followed. A small number, twenty or so, had apparently decided to die fighting. They headed back into the melee and crashed into the infantry right in front of the baron, killing as they went.
“They’re going for the standard!” he yelled to Berenek Ibind, the army’s bearer. The large man stood his ground.
“Protect the standard!” Moorgoth yelled, and repeated it several times. He drew his sword and charged into the fight.
His bodyguards gathered around the standard. The knights were crazed, trying to get close enough to take the standard and smash it, thereby winning a moral victory, if not a real one. Infantryman after infantryman fell to the Solamnics. But the baron’s men were getting in their own cuts, dragging the knights from their horses, stabbing them when they were on the ground.
Only eight knights were left when Moorgoth reached the fight. A huge man on a white charger turned to meet him. Moorgoth ducked in time to miss the knight’s swinging sword. As he came up, he brought his own sword up across the belly of the knight’s horse. The horse reared backward, blood spurting everywhere. The knight was thrown to the ground. Immediately, he regained his feet. He faced Moorgoth.
An infantryman rushed the knight from the right, trying to take him from a blind side. The knight saw him coming and sidestepped the assault, slicing the man nearly in two as he hurtled past, killing him instantly. The baron swung while the knight was recovering from the attack, but his opponent narrowly avoided the blow.
The two circled around, the dead horse forming one edge of a small arena for the fight. The rest of the knights were now either dead or dismounted.
Moorgoth did not have the luxury to look around. The knight in front of him was prepared to die, and he wanted to take the baron with him.
Moorgoth parried blow after blow, not able to get into a position to attack. Suddenly, the knight stiffened. To his rear, a soldier had run him through with a spear, jamming it into the man’s back, through his armor.
He did not fall. Raising his sword, he brought it crashing down upon Moorgoth in a blow designed to split the baron in two.
The baron’s sword came up to parry the attack. The knight’s blade hit Moorgoth’s sword, breaking it cleanly from the hilt. The knight’s blade snapped at the point of impact, its end spinning away and sticking in the ground.
The knight fell face first into the dirt. The baron’s arm burned with pain from the shock of the blow. He was thrown backward and landed on the ground. He lay still for a moment, the ringing in his ears drowning out all other sounds.
He sat up a moment later, still hearing nothing but the ringing of steel on steel. He looked around. No knight was left standing. The fight was over. The standard was still flying.
Berenek Ibind stood with his sword drawn, blood dripping from its tip. His left hand grasped the standard and held it aloft.
Victory was Baron Dargon Moorgoth’s.
Chapter 23
Baron Moorgoth was elated with the turn of events. The town was his for the plundering. He would see to it that the townspeople rued the day they had dared to cross him. He would avenge his lost men.
The sun was setting slowly in the western sky. There were still wounded on the field, but none were from Moorgoth’s army. They had been located and carried into the woods, to be later transported back to the encampment.
The Solamnic wounded were damned to the Abyss, as far as Dargon Moorgoth was concerned. Those who escaped the wrath of his men could suffer all through the night and the following day. Let them fend for themselves. He called his officers to meet with him on the edge of the forest.
“All right, gentlemen, very good work. I congratulate you. Well done! I want the first brigade to set up a picket line around the town tonight. Nobody in, nobody out, under pain of death. If there are any men in this army who want to get a head start on pillaging, they hang in the morning.
“I can’t afford any more casualties. I need this army ready to fight. This is just the first town, the first battle. We’ve got a whole season of campaigning to do, and only six or seven weeks before winter sets in. Tell the men to be patient. We’ll get our loot, all right, but we’ll do it on my orders. Now, how many prisoners do we have?”
Berenek Ibind was in charge of the army standard and the command group. The baron’s bodyguards were holding the prisoners.
“Sir, we hold only twenty knights. The rest were wounded and were dispatched.”
The baron rubbed his hands together. “Good. At least we shall have some sport tonight. Move the second and third brigades back to the camp set up beyond that second hill. Make sure that the commissary crew takes hot food out to the first brigade tonight. They’ll have a long night of it.”
The officers saluted and went back to their commands. Soon, orders were being shouted all over the field. The first brigade began to deploy around the town, keeping a distance of at least two hundred yards between the nearest building and their picket line. The plan was to set up roadblocks at either end of the town, on the roads leading in and out. No one was to leave that night. Any citizen foolish enough to try to do so would be searched for weapons, roughed up a bit, then sent back home.
The second and third brigades headed for the site of the camp. Among these were the command group, bringing with them the twenty prisoners. The knights were tied by the wrists and ankles and had been disarmed.
Moorgoth let them keep their armor. It was heavy and would increase the difficulty of their march.
* * * * *
Theros looked up to see a column appear over the hill. The army was back! His smithy was set up, but the fire was not yet started in the forge.
“Yuri, hurry up with the wood!” he yelled at his assistant, who was struggling with a load of slumak
bark and wood.
Theros had set up the grates above the fireplace to heat the metal. Two large barrels of water stood to one side to temper the metal.
Yuri stumbled into the tent and threw the wood down. He began to stack the wood up near the edge of the tent, away from the fire. The last thing they needed was the cordwood catching fire and taking the whole smithy with it.
“We’ll be mending weapons all night, it seems,” Theros commented, hoping to draw Yuri into conversation.
Yuri didn’t even look at Theros. He just turned and went back out into the twilight to collect more wood. The other soldiers came in and stacked their bark and wood, too. Erela—the soldier that Theros had come to know best—entered last.
Theros had already laid a bed of coal rocks. Over them, he had placed twigs and leaves. Now came the slumak—a very hard wood. It took a long time to catch fire, but once caught, it burned long and hot.
Theros and Erela were still building the fire when the second brigade marched past the tent, on their way through to the opposite side of camp, where they would set up their tents. The soldiers looked worn, but pleased with themselves. They had won, and nothing cured minor wounds like winning. They would be well paid. They would start celebrating as soon as their tents were pitched.
The unloaded commissary wagons, pulled by draft horses, headed to the battlefield to carry the wounded back to the camp.
Under Theros’s care, the fire started. The flaps of the tent’s chimney were tied back to allow the smoke and heat to escape. Yuri had attached a metal skirt around the hole to protect the canvas from getting too hot and bursting into flame. Theros stoked the fire, and for a time, forgot his troubles.
The flames danced, weaving in and out, merging, parting, them coming together again, reminding him of two lovers. He thought of Yuri and Telera. Theros thought back to Marissa.
His heart soared as he remembered his night with her. She was almost a dream to him, a shining moment in a bleak existence. He remembered her kiss at parting. She had made it clear to everyone that she liked him. Maybe she even loved him.
“So what makes me any different from anyone else?” he asked himself. “Why should she choose me? Certainly not for my looks!” He chuckled some at this.
He’d never thought much about his appearance, until he started living among humans. Among minotaurs, ugliness was equated with prowess in battle. Scars and lumps were badges of honor. A slit nostril, a torn and tattered ear, missing teeth—these were outward signs of a proud warrior and were much admired by minotaur females.
Among humans, Theros had been astonished to learn that women liked men with smooth skin, unbroken noses and hands that weren’t rough and calloused. He had led a hard life, one that had left its marks on his body. He carried scars from battle—not only battles with men, but also those with his work. When he looked at his dusky face in the shaving mirror, he was always displeased with himself.
His nose had been broken more than once. He’d lost a front tooth during a “discipline” session on board the minotaur ship. Part of his hair had been singed off during a fire and would never grow back. Thinking himself ugly, Theros had managed to convince people he was ugly.
But he’d seen a new side of himself reflected in Marissa’s eyes. It had never occurred to him that women might be able to see beneath the scars and the roughness, to see the dreams and longings of his soul. He had found himself sharing such things with Marissa during that night. She had listened, been interested in him. He had even told her his dream of seeing the god Sargas. She had not laughed, as he had expected.
Yuri’s voice, talking to someone outside the tent, disturbed Theros’s reverie, then became a part of it.
Yuri was nearly the same age as Theros had been when he had won his freedom from the minotaurs and had been granted the capability to forge his own life. Yuri didn’t have that choice. He was not a slave, yet he didn’t seem much better off than Theros had been. Theros realized suddenly, ruefully, that it was easier to yell at Yuri, to hit Yuri, to force Yuri into obedience, than it was to talk to Yuri, reason with him, discuss things.
Theros thought of the girl, Telera, the girl Yuri loved.
Yuri had the right to feel the same way about a woman that Theros felt, but the young man had to learn that there was a time and place for everything—even romance. What if this girl were a spy? The inexperienced and naive Yuri would be an easy target for seduction. And even if this relationship were all perfectly innocent, it looked very bad.
“It cannot continue,” Theros told himself. “It’s a matter of discipline.” But perhaps he should try to talk again to Yuri, explain why it was bad, rather than just order him to quit seeing the girl.
And that brought Theros in a circle back to Marissa. He smiled. When he had served his time in this army, when he felt he had repaid Moorgoth’s investment in him, Theros would go straight back to Sanction, straight back to Marissa.
The sound of shouts and jeers woke Theros from his musings. He looked out of the tent to see the bodyguards from the command group marching into the center of the camp. They brought with them the twenty prisoner knights, tied together to form a human chain. Weary, the men stumbled over the rough terrain.
So this is our enemy, Theros thought.
He had heard nothing good about the Knights of Solamnia. The minotaurs had no use for them, claiming that the knights had lost all honor because they’d been given the chance to stop the Cataclysm and had failed, or some such tale. But these knights had, from what Theros had heard, acquitted themselves well.
He came out of his tent to get a better look at them. The bodyguards dragged the prisoners to the center of the enclosure made by the wagons and tents. There, they hammered a large stake and tied the chained knights to it.
“Stand at attention, you dogs,” one of the sergeants yelled.
Most of the knights remained standing proudly, but one—wounded, perhaps—slumped to his knees. The sergeant walked over, kicked the man in the face.
The soldiers laughed, jeering and throwing food scraps at the prisoners. Theros was appalled. By all accounts, the knights had fought valiantly. Among the minotaurs, if a foe has fought well in combat, that foe is honored, not tormented and abused.
The knights were trying to assist their fallen comrade. The sergeant started to kick the man again. He found Theros’s huge hand engulfing his arm.
Theros glared at the sergeant. “These men are thirsty. Bring them water.”
The sergeant glowered back. “Those weren’t Moorgoth’s orders, sir.”
“Those are my orders,” Theros returned.
The sergeant didn’t like it, but Theros was a senior officer. Saluting, the sergeant stalked off.
Theros helped the wounded knight to a seated position, assisting him to rest comfortably against the stake. By taking note of which knight the others looked to, Theros determined which one was the senior officer.
Curious to talk with these knights, Theros questioned the man.
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
The knight cast Theros a bitter, hate-filled glance. At first, it seemed the man would not answer, but then—perhaps reflecting that Theros deserved something for having halted the torment of the wounded man—the knight replied.
“Richard Strongmail, Knight of the Order of the Kingfisher of the Knights of Solamnia.” The knight spoke his name and rank proudly, despite the fact that he was a prisoner, in chains.
Memories of another battle, another defeat, were strong in Theros’s mind.
“I am Captain Theros Ironfeld. I am the master smith of this army. Tell me, Knight of Solamnia, why are you here?”
The knight was scornful. “If you are referring to why we fought today, it was because the Solamnic Order had pledged its own in the defense of the town of Neugardj from the attack of Moorgoth and you thieves.”
Theros didn’t relish being called a thief, but he let it pass. He didn’t feel he had much to say in his own defen
se.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Theros said. “I mean why did you allow yourselves to be made prisoners?” Minotaurs would have died fighting, if they’d had the chance.
“I was bested on the battlefield,” the knight replied, “and I surrendered when it became clear that I would fight only to my death. There is no honor in fighting a lost battle. Vengeance is not a trait of my order.”
Theros rubbed his chin. “So you surrendered yourself. You didn’t get knocked out and wake up a prisoner?”
“On my oath, no! I surrendered, and surrendered what was left of my command.” Sir Richard’s eyes flashed. “I was assured that we would be treated honorably. My men have not eaten nor drunk water since the battle. Are we to be starved to death or made to die of thirst? Is that the way you treat your captives?”
Theros was displeased. Prisoners they were, but they were not animals. Even animals should be given water.
“It is not right,” Theros said. “I will see what I can do.”
Sir Richard eyed Theros with more respect than he’d done at first. “Thank you,” he muttered, and turned back to his men.
Theros left, walked across the field to the commissary tent.
Most of the men and women of the second brigade were through the food line, and the third brigade and the cavalry were beginning to line up.
Theros entered the tent where the food was being served. The smell was wonderful. They had cooked up a hearty stew with lots of meat and vegetables. Loaves of fresh bread were stacked on a table. The soldiers came through, had their bowls filled, then grabbed hunks of bread. They headed out the far side of the tent to eat and drink. The wine had already been distributed. It was a night of celebration.
Theros found Cheldon Sarger standing just outside the tent, keeping an eye on his command.
“Ah, Theros. Good to see you. I’ve set aside a pot of stew and some loaves for the logistics company. We’ll eat in here, away from the flies and bugs. Bring your men over when you’re ready. Oh, I’ve been saving a few bottles of good wine from the barracks in Gargath.” Cheldon winked. “I think we deserve a few to celebrate!”
