by Perrin, Don
Theros could take no more of it. His stomach clenched. He’d seen man and minotaur die in battle and never felt as sick as this. His only solace was that he had warned Sir Richard in time, and the knight commander had taken his warning and acted upon it. Fifteen knights had escaped and had, hopefully, found their way into the forest, where Yuri and Telera could guide them.
Theros pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers. He needed water, needed to wash out the taste and smell of blood. He stumbled over to a water barrel, took a drink and was immediately sorry. He bent over double, vomiting, every heave accentuated by a scream from one of the knights who still hung on their tripods.
At length, when he had nothing more in his stomach, Theros straightened, drew in a deep breath. He washed his mouth out with water, splashed water on his burning face. He took one last look back in time to see Uwel swing a long sword, chopping deep into Sir Richard’s neck. Blood sprayed out over Uwel. Covered in gore, he laughed. Sir Richard hung limp. The knight was dead. All the knights were now dead.
Theros knew his soul would never forgive him for the sights he had witnessed, that they would torment him in dreams for the rest of his life.
He went back to the commissary tent, stumbling like a man in need of more wine.
Chapter 25
Theros strode through the commissary tent, then made his way back to the tents where he had encountered Yuri and Telera and out into the forest beyond. He did not look back. He shook all over with anger and horror.
“I cannot stay here,” he said to himself. “Moorgoth is not a general. He is a coward and a butcher. These men are not soldiers; they are animals. These humans talk of minotaurs being beasts, but minotaurs would never treat an honorable enemy like this. They certainly would never do this to their own kind.”
Theros unbuckled his field harness, then took off the surcoat with the army’s colors. He threw it to the ground, placed his heel on it and twisted his boot into it, ripping and tearing the cloth. He put the harness back on over his white shirt, and walked off into the woods.
He had just resigned.
Theros wasn’t certain where he was. Clouds partially obscured the moon and stars. He had no way of telling direction. But he had the vague idea he was heading south, away from the battle, away from the direction of the town. He walked through the trees without really seeing them. He could still see the dying men in his mind, still hear their screams in his head.
How could I have been so blind? he thought. The only thing keeping this so-called army together is the whip and the lash. And I am as bad as the rest. The only way I could keep Yuri was by making him afraid of me. Hran never treated me that badly, and I was his slave.
He continued walking through the forest. The going was slow. It was difficult to see his way in the darkness. He tripped over tree roots. Branches slapped him in the face. He was not overly concerned about pursuit. Moorgoth hadn’t tried very hard to recapture the missing knights, and as drunk as everyone was, no one would miss Theros until morning. At the same time, they’d find Yuri and Telera missing, too. Theros smiled for the first time in a week.
“I bet Moorgoth never had so many desertions after a victory and promise of pay before!”
At length, Theros reached a clearing in the forest. He looked up into the sky, hoping that the clouds had broken for good. He was rewarded by the sight of two moons and the stars. Solinari and Lunitari cast enough light to see. He was out of the tree line. Before him were plowed fields, their crops harvested, ready for winter.
Ready for Moorgoth to steal.
Theros walked on, seeing no one. At least he was part of that no longer.
* * * * *
Two hours later, he was climbing over a low stone wall that separated two fields, when the faint thud of hooves caught his attention. He dropped down beside the wall, flat on his stomach, and drew his axe.
Looking at himself, he realized his white shirt showed up brightly in the night. He quickly threw off his leather harness and ripped off the shirt. Pulling the harness back on over his bare torso, he dug a hole and buried the shirt. Then he lay flat on his face in the muck.
Theros kept perfectly still, not daring to take a look. The rider galloped by on the other side of the fence without seeing him.
Theros waited. The sound of the hooves grew fainter and fainter. When they were almost out of earshot, he sat up, looking down the fence line to see if he could see the rider. In the distance, he could make out a shape.
It was a cavalry scout from Moorgoth’s army. Either he was a long-range patrol or part of the picket line.
“Or maybe I was wrong,” Theros said to himself. “Maybe they’re not all drunk. Maybe they’re looking for me!”
Instead of continuing on down the fence line, he decided to cut across the field. He reached another fence line and walked down it, until it ended. He started up a hill, realizing that he must have come quite a long way. The sun was beginning to lighten the sky to a deep gray in the east.
The hill was the first in a long series of connected hills, probably the foothills of the Busuk Range. He could wander for days in the mountains, never finding his way back to civilization. Ogres, hobgoblins and others with no love for man were reputed to live in those mountains. Not even Moorgoth would challenge them. Theros was heading in the wrong direction. He began to search for a path, hoping it would lead him farther south.
The sun broke over the horizon and flooded the land with warmth and light. Theros crested the top of a hill, paused to look around. He could see no riders, no sign of any living being. There were no fields, no fences. No villages or farmhouses. He could not see any roads, either.
And if he did find a road, where would it take him?
It occurred to Theros that he had nowhere to go. His smithy was gone. That was how Moorgoth kept his people loyal. He made them dependent on him. Theros wondered how he could have been sucked in by Moorgoth. It was easy, he realized.
I had no self-respect, he thought. I was lured by the prospect of glory and riches. Moorgoth took me for an idiot or for the same type of cowardly cur that he is himself. And he was almost right. He was almost right.
Theros decided to change direction and reckoning by the sun, head west. The army had been east of the main road, and if he moved west, he would eventually cross it.
He forced himself to keep traveling until noon sun. The rumblings in his stomach reminded him that he had left without stopping to pack food. He found a clear stream at the bottom of the hill, walked down to its bank and knelt beside the water. He drank thirstily. The cold water cleared his head and soothed his empty stomach.
Late in the afternoon, after crossing several hills, he came to the crest of another ridge. Down below was the road. It was empty.
Theros climbed down the hill and walked to the road. He had to give Moorgoth credit for one thing—his insistence on good boots for his officers and men. Those boots were becoming invaluable right now.
He continued walking south.
The hills were no less steep, but the road made it easier to travel and Theros made better time. The sun dropped below the tree level, casting great shadows across the road. He was just beginning to congratulate himself on the ease of his escape, and to think that he might be able to take time to rest, when he heard hoofbeats.
He turned to see a mounted rider far back down the road, heading south, toward him.
“Maybe he hasn’t seen me yet,” Theros muttered.
He dashed to the side of the road and dove into the huge fir trees. He crouched down amid the shadows and waited.
The rider took his time coming up the road. When he was near enough for Theros to get a good look, he reigned in his mount for a moment and gazed around.
Theros recognized the rider’s uniform—maroon surcoat with a black design on the front. Another of Moorgoth’s scouts. The only reason for this scout to be this far away from the army was that he must be looking for deserters.
The scout lea
ned over the horse, searching the ground for footprints in the dirt. Theros thanked Sargas that the dirt was hard-packed—there’d been no rain for a week. The scout shook his head and rode on. He had not seen Theros.
Still, Theros thought, I can’t go back to the road. This is proof that they’re searching for me. Where there was one, there will be others.
He started to stand up, almost fell, and realized that he could walk no farther without sleep. Yet it was too dangerous to sleep out in the open, with Moorgoth’s men on his trail. Theros turned his back on the road, made his way into the stand of fir trees. He crossed the forest, came up on a makeshift wooden fence surrounding a small field. On the opposite side of the field was a barn.
Theros hunkered down in the shadow of the trees and watched.
The barn appeared to be deserted. Perhaps its owner had fled the approaching army. He saw no one coming or going. Theros took out his axe. He crossed the field, hugging the tree line, and crept up on the barn. He walked around the entire exterior of the barn. He opened the door and peered inside. It was dark and empty. He took a chance.
Theros entered into the building and shut the door behind him. There was just enough light to still see the general shape of the walls inside.
Hay was piled up in a corner. It looked extremely inviting, more inviting—right now—than the finest bed in Sanction.
Theros was desperately tired. He had been on the move since early the night before, and hadn’t stopped. He needed sleep. He would stay here.
He burrowed into the hay, covering himself, just in case. He was slipping off to sleep, when he heard the barn door creak. It opened and a bright light shone inside. Theros jumped up out of the hay, scrambled for his axe.
A huge minotaur walked through the door, ducking so that his giant horns wouldn’t hit the frame. Theros had been a child the last time he saw this minotaur, but he recognized the minotaur instantly.
“Sargas!”
The minotaur seemed to grow in size even as he stood there. I am Sargas. You are wise to recognize your god. You do me honor.
Theros dropped the axe to his side on the floor, and fell to his knees. “Oh, great Sargas! You do me honor in appearing before me.”
Great honor indeed, human.
As before, Sargas’s words did not come from his mouth. They materialized inside Theros’s mind, as bright and as booming as lightning. More than you deserve!
Theros stared, astounded.
“What have I done to displease you, great Sargas?” Theros asked.
You have proven yourself a weakling! Admittedly, you have shown that you have honor, but you do not seek vengeance and retribution against those who besmirch your honor. That half-goblin Lors as much as denounced you for a traitor! You did not even refute him, let alone strike him down in his own blood, as you should have!
Theros did not know what to say in his own defense. He remained silent.
Sargas continued. Your assistant, Yuri. He is a spy, a creature of dishonor. You should have killed him! Instead, you let him escape. And now this! You run from your place of duty!
“How can you tell me to serve a dishonorable man like Moorgoth, Oh, great Sargas?” Theros demanded.
If you thought Moorgoth’s leadership was so bad, then you should have challenged him to mortal combat! Take over his command. Lead the men yourself. That is what a follower of mine would do!
Theros ventured to argue. “He would have refused and simply ordered his men to kill me—”
Then you die with honor for the glory of my name, Sargas intoned. The stain of dishonor is upon him, not you.
Yes, but I can’t very well appreciate it if I’m dead, Theros thought, but didn’t say.
It didn’t matter. Sargas heard his thoughts.
Bah! That is the human blood in you talking! I had hoped for better things from you, Theros Ironfeld. You are not the man of destiny I foresaw in your youth. From now on, you must work hard to regain my good will.
You will atone for your sins! You will improve your ways! You will obey me or you will see me no more!
The words boomed like thunder inside Theros’s head. He looked up, fearful of retribution.
The minotaur changed into a giant black bird with flaming wings. It took flight, shooting straight up through the roof of the barn and disappearing into the night.
Theros remained on his knees for a long time, long enough for his body to stiffen. Finally, he lifted his head, expecting to see a hole in the roof, the wood ablaze.
The roof was intact. Nothing.
He thought back to Sargas’s accusations. They were true and he felt ashamed. He should have challenged Moorgoth. He should have spoken out, made some attempt to stop the torture. There had been others who had been sickened by it. Perhaps they would have joined him and forced Moorgoth to put an end to it.
Theros snorted. “Be realistic. No one would have backed me. I’d be dead, like those wretched knights. I am not a man of destiny, Sargas. You were mistaken in me. I want only to be a good weapons-smith.”
He pitched forward, exhausted, into the hay.
* * * * *
Theros awoke the next morning, the sun streaming in from the east. He thought back to the previous day, wondered if it had all been a dream. No, he knew it wasn’t. Sargas had come to him again. He remembered the first visit. He had been only eight. Sargas had said that he would appear three times. This had been the second. There would be another time—perhaps. The thought made him shiver.
His empty stomach brought him back to reality. He was dizzy and light-headed from lack of food. He needed clothing, too. He couldn’t run around the countryside half-naked. Theros peered cautiously outside. The barn was near an old garden on the edge of a cornfield. In the center of the field stood a scarecrow, its shirt sleeves flapping in the wind.
Seeing no one around, Theros left his hiding place, went to investigate the scarecrow. The pants were ripped, but the shirt was in reasonable condition. He took the shirt from the scarecrow and shook out the straw. Taking off his harness, he put the shirt on. One seam immediately gave way on his arm, but at least the shirt provided some warmth. The brown color would make it easier to hide in the woods, too. Still, he would need warmer clothing for the mountain pass.
He went back to the garden. It had not been tended for years. All manner of wild vegetation grew in the patch, including a good many weeds. But he found carrots and a line of potatoes, too. He dug up several and wolfed them down raw. When he could eat no more, he pulled a few more out of the ground, and stuffed them in his pockets. He would need them later.
He set out, skirting the road, heading south.
Book Four
Chapter 26
“Friend or foe?”
The elf was insistent. The arrow from the elf’s bow—pointed at Theros’s heart—made it doubly so.
“What do you mean?” Theros hedged, catching his breath. The elf had taken him completely off guard, nearly scared him half to death. “I don’t understand.”
“Answer me now or die where you stand.”
It was obvious to Theros that the elf was looking for only one of two possible answers.
Theros let his pack slide from his back to the ground. He showed both palms forward, to indicate that he was unarmed. “I guess I’m a friend.”
The elf nodded, but did not drop his aim. “Good, now prove it.”
“What? How am I going to—” Theros halted. It had been the wrong thing to say. He could see the elf’s eyes squint as if he were just about ready to loose his arrow. Theros waved his hands. “Wait! Wait! What do you want me to do?”
Theros had been traveling the road leading to Solace. Night was falling and he hadn’t yet found a place to camp. He had intended to move a few yards into the woods, find a stream and a good place to build a fire, and bed down for the night.
He hadn’t been able to find water, so he had continued on into the woods. He had traveled only about a hundred yards when the elf had l
eapt up from a bush and aimed an arrow at his heart.
The elf whistled like a goatsucker bird. Four other elves appeared, jumping up from behind bushes and trees. All had bows, all bows had arrows and all the arrows were aimed at Theros.
“Look, I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Theros said. He was wearing a battle-axe in a holster on his back, but he did not have it drawn. He would be dead five times over if he reached for the weapon.
The first elf lowered his bow and came forward. He circled around Theros slowly, examining him. Taking Theros’s duffel bag, the elf opened the drawstring on top. He quickly rummaged through the contents. He did not, apparently, find anything of interest.
“Remove your axe and put it down,” the elf commanded.
Theros reached back and flipped the axe forward in a well-practiced move. The elf backed up, thinking that Theros was about to attack. Instead, Theros tossed the weapon onto the ground in front of him. He looked up to see the other elves relax the tension in their bows. They did not remove the arrows, but they did bring their bows down.
“That proves I’m not an enemy. I’m just passing through,” Theros said.
“It proves nothing, human, except that you fear for your life. And with good cause. You will come with us.”
The elf slung his bow over his shoulder and picked up the large battle-axe. He staggered, nearly dropped it. After a brief struggle, he managed to heft the weapon and half-carry, half-drag it.
Theros shrugged and picked up his pack. He wasn’t in any hurry to get to Solace. He had no appointment, no one to see, no one waiting for him. In fact, he knew very little about Solace. He knew only that most people referred to the town as a place where people went when they had nowhere else to go. Perhaps people like that could use a good blacksmith. It sounded like a business opportunity to Theros. He followed the elf.
The party of five elves and Theros wound through the now-darkening woods. The sun was setting in the west, the red ball of fire just barely visible through the trees of the great Qualinesti forest.
