Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield (19 page)

Theros turned his back, looked at what remained of his forge. There might be something left he could salvage. He was ignoring Yuri’s blathering—until Theros heard the words, “I hate you, Theros Ironfeld!”

Theros turned, shocked.

The young man was seething. Fear had given him courage. “I’m not a slave like you used to be! I’m a free man and I have a right to decide if I’ll go with you or not!

Don’t make decisions for me. You treat me like a dog—a dog you don’t like. I work hard with never a word from you except if I get things wrong!”

Theros regarded the young man in silence. A minotaur would have slammed the boy into the ground, taught him how to speak to his elders.

Yuri was spewing out words. They must have been stored up inside him for months. “I can’t believe that you’re going to go with that horrible man! His army’s nothing but thieves and rascals! He burned down your forge, for Gilean’s sake! And you just stand there and take it! Now you expect me to go along? After this? After what he did to you? To us?”

Theros swallowed an anger-filled response. Yuri was young. He couldn’t be expected to understand that sometimes you had to knuckle under to fate.

“The pay is good,” Theros said stiffly. “More than I can afford to pay you. And you are worth it. I want you to go. I need your help.”

Yuri stared, stunned.

“Well?” Theros demanded impatiently. “Are you going with me or not?”

Yuri tried a tentative smile. “Do you mean that, Theros? Do you think I’m worth it?”

“You wouldn’t be hanging around here taking up space if you weren’t,” Theros said curtly. “Now go do as you’re told.”

Yuri, clutching the money, dashed off down the street.

Theros picked up a stick and began to sift through the still-glowing ashes of what once had been his life.

Chapter 17

“Get a crate for these tools,” Theros ordered Yuri. “We’ll need to
take them with us. And gather up those leather tools and supplies. Secure what we aren’t taking into crates and nail them shut.”

Theros was standing in the shop of the army’s former weapons-smith, gathering up tools and other supplies.

Yuri did as he was instructed. “Sir, I’ll have to go down to the carpenter for more crates. We have just two left. He’ll want to be paid for them.”

Theros handed over the money. He was busy going through the back stock of weapons, deciding which ones to take. He gazed at most of them in disgust. No wonder Moorgoth had gone to all the trouble to burn down
Theros’s forge. The baron needed a good weapons-smith badly. Theros almost felt flattered.

Almost.

Yuri came back an hour later with two men from the carpenter’s shop, each carrying a large crate. They set the crates down in the middle of the smithy. Yuri had just started to load tools into the first crate when Baron Moorgoth entered the shop.

“Good! I see that you are nearly packed. I will send a horse and wagon around in two hours.”

Theros was preoccupied. “Yuri! Hurry up with those weapons!” He glanced at the baron. “Where is the army camped? Outside of town? How many men do you have?”

To Theros’s amazement, Moorgoth flushed in anger.

“You’re asking a lot of damned questions, Ironfeld. From now on, you’re just another officer under my command. You’ll go where I tell you to go and do what I tell you to do. You’ll be told where to go when you report with your wagons.”

Moorgoth left, saying something about meeting the new logistics officer.

Theros stared after the man. It had been a simple question, nothing more. It seemed logical that the weapons-smith should know how many men were in the army he was to be responsible for outfitting. And why shouldn’t he know where the army was camped? Eventually, he returned to his work.

Yuri completed packing the box of tools and extra weapons. The crates were heavy, but they were going to be loaded onto a cart, not carried by hand, so the weight didn’t matter.

“What should I do now, Theros?” Yuri asked.

Theros wouldn’t admit it, but it pleased him to hear a new note of respect in the boy’s voice.

* * * * *

The wagons arrived at precisely the hour Moorgoth had named. Theros was ready. He and Yuri and the wagon’s driver hoisted two of the crates onto the wagon. Theros
and Yuri carried two more to the back storage area of the smith for safekeeping. Then came the hard part—time to move the anvil.

Yuri and the driver both stared at the anvil blankly. Neither could even budge the heavy object.

Theros waved them both away. He dragged the anvil from its place in the abandoned forge to the back of the wagon. Once there, Theros paused to rest. Then, flexing his muscles, he bent down in a crouch. With a forceful grunt, he lifted the anvil and, sweating with the exertion, maneuvered it carefully into the back end of the wagon, placing it directly over the axle.

The wagon driver told them that they would meet the rest of the force near the center of town. Yuri hoisted his small bag of personal belongings onto the wagon. Theros carried his somewhat larger sack over his shoulder. Now that he had recovered from the shock of losing his forge, Theros found himself almost looking forward to this new adventure. In his mind, he could already hear the call of the trumpet. He climbed up onto the wagon.

“Roll out,” he ordered.

* * * * *

Four more wagons were assembled in a side street off the plaza. Theros’s wagon joined in at the end of the line. The baron was on hand to make introductions.

“Cheldon Sarger, our quartermaster,” said the baron.

Cheldon Sarger was a middle-aged human with a face that looked as if it had been dipped in his own cooking oil. He was broad, much like Theros, but Cheldon’s girth was made of fat, not muscle. Cheldon’s job was to keep the army supplied. He maintained the food, clothing, uniforms, weapons and armor in stock. The weapons and armor would be provided by Theros. The rest Cheldon would have to acquire from the locals, either by bartering or buying or, as Cheldon said with a wink, stealing.

Theros thought the man was kidding.

Belhesser Vankjad was the new logistics officer, the person in charge of both Cheldon and Theros. Belhesser was a
tall, thin man, with a pointed face like a ferret. Belhesser looked like a half-elf, but always declared vehemently that he wasn’t. He had previously worked in the port authority. His job was twofold. He handled supplies, maintenance of weapons and armor, and acquisition of new materials. He was also like Huluk, in that he was responsible for a section of line soldiers who would defend the rear area in case it was overrun. In addition, he was responsible for transport—the wagons and horses that would keep the army rolling.

The final man that Moorgoth introduced was named Uwel Lors. And if Belhesser resembled a half-elf, Uwel resembled a half-goblin. Theros had never imagined one person could be so ugly. An older man, in his late forties, Uwel looked every bit as tough as the steel armor chain mail that he wore. Uwel appeared to be friendly enough, however. He saluted smartly, then shook hands with Theros.

“Good day, sir. It’s a pleasure to have a new smith with us, sir.” Uwel had a strange, clipped way of talking. “I am responsible for the dress, drill, deportment and most of all, the discipline of the rank and file in this army. I am not an officer like yourselves, sir, but I am the senior ranking nonofficer in the army. If you have a discipline problem, come to me.

“Now sir, I understand that you’ve fought with minotaur armies before, but never with a human army. Is this true?”

Theros frowned and nodded yes. He was angered, thinking that Uwel might mean this for some sort of insult.

“Not to worry, sir!” Uwel said brightly. “We’re run a little different, and with a lot more discipline than those huge beasts. Still, we get the job done.”

Uwel saluted and went back to the front of the wagon train to confer with the drivers.

Baron Moorgoth slapped Theros on the back. Whatever ill humor the baron had been in back at the forge, he seemed to have regained his good temper among his men. “Introductions are over. Let’s get on the road!”

The army commander barked an order to Uwel in the
front. The drivers mounted their wagons. Uwel called “Forward!” in a voice that seemed to echo through the city, and the first wagon lurched into motion.

Everyone walked except the drivers with their loads. There were four officers, including the army commander and Theros, and twenty other men, not counting the drivers.

The wagon train rounded a corner, rolling past the Belching Fury. At the sight, the barmaids poured out of the tavern and into the street. They exchanged banter with the passing men.

Theros looked around to see if there was any sign of Marissa. From inside the inn, she saw him and waved, then suddenly ran outside to the line of men. They all tried to catch hold of her, including Baron Moorgoth, who clearly thought she was running out to greet him. She avoided them all and came straight to Theros. Putting her arms around him, she gave him a warm, deep kiss.

“I heard about what happened to your forge. Don’t worry. You’ll make your fortune with the baron. When you get back, you come and look me up!” Marissa said and, laughing, she ran back to the inn.

The men cheered. Theros felt his face burn, but it was burning with pleasure. The baron, looking back, was clearly displeased. He motioned to Uwel Lors, said something to the half-goblin. Uwel nodded and fell out of the line of moving wagons. Theros, who could still feel Marissa’s kiss on his lips, didn’t pay any attention.

The wagon train continued on through the city, moving north.

Theros could think only of Marissa. “Why is it,” he muttered to himself, “that good things only come to me when I’ve got to leave them behind?”

* * * * *

The men and wagons joined the road that would take them across the north pass through the Guardian Mountains and then through the Khalkist Mountains, leading to a city known as Neraka. Theros had never heard of it.

It took four days for the wagons to cross the mountains. When they reached Neraka, Theros thought it seemed ordinary enough, much like any other city, with stone buildings and market stalls and more people than it knew what to do with. But he hadn’t been in the city long before he decided he was mistaken. There was an eerie feeling about Neraka. It was the feeling that he was being watched, a chill in the blood that he could not explain.

He and Yuri walked its streets shortly after their arrival. Theros kept turning around, thinking that someone was following him. Whenever he looked back, there was no one there. Yet he felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck.

Yuri was obviously feeling something of the same. He jumped at every sound and refused to let Theros out of his sight.

“I’ve heard that there is a temple of evil here. Do you think it’s true?” Yuri asked in a whisper.

Theros laughed, but his laugh was hollow. “How can that be true? Have you not heard the story of the Seekers? They say that there are no gods. I know them to be wrong, of course, but there is no temple to Sargas in Neraka.”

Yuri was not convinced. “If there were evil gods, they’d be here,” he said softly.

Theros wouldn’t admit it, but he knew how the boy felt. Something dreadful was going on here, though no one spoke of it aloud. He could see it in the blank, cold stares of those they passed, in the voices that hushed the moment anyone came within hearing, in the faces that retreated back into shadows.

The other men seemed to feel the same, all except Uwel and Baron Moorgoth. The baron, in particular, was not in the least disquieted, seemed quite at home in the region. He ordered a halt for the evening at the north end of town.

That night, the baron called an assembly.

“I know you’ve all been wondering where we’re headed. For security purposes, I haven’t told any of you. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but ale has a way of talking, so the saying goes. The army has barracks in Gargath, northwest of here by fifty miles. We will join with them and prepare to move north. The campaigning season is nearly upon us.”

“North? How far north?” someone asked.