Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield (26 page)

Many of the soldiers were running so fast that by the time they reached the tree line, they tripped and dashed headlong into tree trunks. Most made it safely. Some were not so fortunate.

The left end of the line was extended out past the trees, stuck out in the open. The knights hit these men hard, catching them from behind, running them down. Nearly half were overrun before the rest made it to the trees.

At the forest’s edge, the knights faltered. Their horses balked at entering the tree line at full speed. Several riders were thrown from their saddles. Those who were able to stay seated urged their steeds forward.

Moorgoth gave another command.

Archers sprang up and loosed arrows at the knights.

The baron and the bugler both dodged a sword swung by a knight who had managed to urge his horse in among the trees. One of Moorgoth’s bodyguards struck the knight down. The bugler remained standing beside the baron.

“Sound the attack!” Moorgoth yelled.

The boy once again blasted out the call. The Solamnics had just realized that they’d been caught in an ambush. They were trying to organize themselves. Their own buglers were sounding the retreat, the calls sounding raucously together. The buglers were waging their own battle, it seemed.

Moorgoth’s soldiers rushed forward. They struck at the knights when they could, struck the horses when they couldn’t reach the riders. They outnumbered their mounted foes by over two to one.

The knights were attempting to fall back, but they were surrounded and had to fight on. In front of the baron, five knights stood back to back in a circle. Twenty soldiers surrounded them, yet no one had struck a blow. Moorgoth’s men appeared daunted by the knights’ proud demeanor, their bright armor and flashing blades.

Seeing the standoff, the baron ran over, shoved his men aside, made his way to the front.

“Surrender or die here on this field. The choice is yours,” Moorgoth shouted to the knights.

The knights glanced at each other. It was a hard decision, but finally one slowly nodded his head. Walking stiffly forward, he raised the visor of his helm and held out his sword—hilt first—to Moorgoth.

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.