Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield (6 page)

“I’d say three more uses for these molds. After that, they’ll be far too burned. What do you think, Hran?”

The large minotaur grunted. “I would say that you could have at least four more uses if you put out the fires faster. For a young cub in the prime of his physical condition, you are exceedingly slow and as clumsy as a dwarf. You are hopeless! You will never make a smith!”

The young man was not disheartened. He knew that he had put out the fires in the molds in near-record time. Hran was always trying to push Theros to better, higher standards. Theros refilled his bucket of water. This time he cooled the metal to the point where the raw arrowheads
could be removed from the molds. He dropped them into a metal grate that hung just below the water’s surface in the water barrel. Bubbles and steam sputtered from the water. Soon, two hundred raw arrowheads from the ten molds lay cooling in the water.

“Hey, Hran! When do you think Klaf will march the warriors out to battle?”

Hran stopped sharpening an axe blade for a moment, and looked up. “If Klaf has his way, it will be two more days before the battle will begin. I think that Klaf will not get his way, though. I do not see those soft and dainty elves becoming more and more drenched while waiting for us to build up to fighting on our terms. No, I think that they will push soon. Too soon. We must be ready.”

Theros pulled the arrowheads from the water one by one. He fastened each one into a vise. Next, he took a large metal file and began to sharpen the raw shape into a honed tip. Four or five scrapes with the coarse-toothed file would shape one side of the arrow, and four or five scrapes with a fine-toothed file would put a sharp edge on it.

“Don’t you think that our infantry is better than theirs, though?” Theros asked.

Hran continued sharpening the sword. “Infantry is only one part of a battle. We have no cavalry, and the elves make good use of theirs. Normally that means nothing to us. We stand and fight until there are no other enemies to be fought. In this case, I can see trouble. If our supply lines are cut and the infantry are separated into small groups, the elves can concentrate their forces and crush the survivors.”

“Klaf knows that,” Theros said. “We will prevail if given the chance.”

He removed the arrowhead from the vise, turned it over, put it back and repeated the process on the other side.

“You’ve got to admit, my friend, that our weapons are vastly superior to those of the elves.” Theros regarded his work with pride. Every few moments, he would finish an arrowhead and throw it in a pile. As they talked, the pile grew steadily larger.

“Bah!” Hran snorted again. “You know nothing of weapons. I have taught you as much as I know in the
months you have worked for me. We deal with weapons and armor designed for an army’s everyday use. Axe, sword, arrow, spear, knife—these are the weapons of the warrior. Shield, breastplate, shin plates—these are the armor of a warrior. We mend and beat out the dents and make arrows, but we don’t have the time to do truly excellent work. Take this sword, for example. It’s a weapon for a true warrior. Only an expert can craft such a blade. I wish I had the time to teach you the art of making a good sword.”

Hran gazed at the weapon fondly, then, with a sigh, he slid the sword back into its sheath. Setting the sword aside on a table, he picked up a huge breastplate. The piece was ornate with inlaid silver pictograms and symbols, each depicting a heroic act or a battle scene. The armor had separated from the leather backing.

Hran threaded a leather-working needle with sinew and inspected the piece. The leather had ripped in the backing, causing the shoulder straps to come loose. The piece had probably came loose in a battle, and the warrior had ripped the plate away, causing most of the damage.

Hran grunted and threw the work onto the ground. “Bah! Theros, you do this. The work requires smaller hands than mine. Why they want me to waste my talents on repairing armor is beyond me.”

Theros finished the last of the arrowheads and left them in the pile, ready for shafts. Later he would carry them down to the fletcher to have the shafts and fletching added. That was not a weapons-smith’s job.

Hran picked up a huge axe head with a broken shaft hanging from its center mount. “Ah! Now this is a fine piece of work! I can see the craftsmanship in this axe head. A new handle and it will be a worthy weapon for a warrior!”

Theros laughed. He picked up the armor to inspect it. “Of course, you think that. It is obviously one of yours!”

He turned his attention back to the armor breastplate. Using leather shears, he began cutting away the upper right corner of the inner pad, as well as the right shoulder strapping. The leather was badly corroded from being wet and not properly cared for. It had probably never seen
saddle soap in its history. The piece looked as if it had been handed down for several generations, a marvelous piece when it was new—a breastplate fit for a brave, honorable warrior.

Theros turned to Hran to continue the conversation, but at that moment, Hran began beating the axe handle remnants with a huge hammer and a wood awl. The pounding made further conversation impossible.

It was nearing the middle of the morning, and the haze was beginning to lift. Even the light drizzle began to subside. Theros could now make out the fletcher’s tent, the commissary tent, and the quartermaster’s wagons. The weather was indeed improving. Minotaur warriors moved in and out of the tents. Human slaves moved about. It was business as usual in the rear guard of an army.

A large warrior with overly large horns entered the weapons-smith’s tent. Hran did not notice, and kept on hammering at the axe handle remnants. Theros rose. He recognized the minotaur—he was the officer in charge of the rear guard. Huluk was his name and he had a reputation for being a quarrelsome warrior whose only joy was fighting, either in battle or with his fellow soldiers.

The big warrior shouted over the din. “Is that my armor you are working on, slave? Let me see that.”

Theros gestured that the right strap wasn’t finished, but the minotaur ignored him. Theros was a slave, after all. Theros held out the half-repaired piece to the officer for his inspection. The minotaur took the breastplate, slapped it on and fumbled for the straps. When he couldn’t find the right strap, he was furious. The minotaur flung the plate back at Theros.

“This is not good enough! I want this ready in one hour.”

Hran heard the words over the din and stopped hammering. He turned to watch the officer stomp away through the mud.

“In Sargas’s name, what was that all about?”

Theros shrugged. “The commander doesn’t like the work I have done on his breastplate. I tried to tell him it wasn’t finished. He wants it in an hour.”

“Tell him he will have it when he gets it.”

Theros smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “I don’t dare tell him that. I’m a slave, or have you forgotten?”

Hran gazed at him. “Sometimes I think you’re the one who has forgotten, Theros. You speak of ‘we’ minotaurs and ‘our’ army. It almost seems that you consider yourself a minotaur. Why is that?”

Theros muttered something to the effect that it was probably because he’d lived with the minotaurs for eight years. He’d never told anyone about his meeting with Sargas. He didn’t think he ever would.

Hran eyed him, evidently guessing there was more to this than Theros’s words. Theros bent over the leather.

The smith mumbled something about less talk and more work, and went back to pounding out the wood in the axe head.

Theros began by taking a fresh piece of leather and cutting it to shape. The leather needle was still threaded, and lay on the table beside the other tools. With it, Theros stitched the new leather to the old piece that was still attached to the plate. He sewed the new leather in place, then added cotton tacking to pad between the leather and the metal. Next, he connected the sides of the leather to the edging, using the fasteners that were still there, and hammering in new ones where there were none.

He laid the plate to one side. Picking up the old leather, he placed it in the vise. He broke the strap harness away from the old piece by severing the rivet with pliers.

He threw the rest of the leather away. Lifting the buckle, he dunked it in grease. His fingers began to work the jammed buckle, loosening the rust to the point that the buckle could be used again. The last thing to do was to reattach the buckle to the breastplate.

Theros turned to pick up the rivet pliers. The clouds broke. Yellow sunlight streamed through to the ground.

From the front, a lone horn sounded.

It was the call to battle.

Chapter 6

Theros looked at Hran. Both of them stopped work
.

The call to battle was too early.

The moment of inactivity passed, just as quickly replaced with commotion. Everything and everyone moved as fast as a jackrabbit spotted by a hound. The warriors poured out of their tents, hastily donning armor or breastplates.

Hran dropped what he was doing. “Quick, lad, finish that piece! We’ve got to get ready! Great Sargas alive! This is not the time!”

Theros sewed as fast as he could. He concentrated on his sewing, while the whole world swarmed around him. Sub-commanders were streaming into the tent, demanding arrows or spears, leather-covered shields, or metal bullets
especially shaped for the slingers. They grabbed what they needed, then rushed out.

Hran dashed over to a large storage box sitting to the side of the tent. He threw it open and lifted out a piece of his own armor—a leather jerkin with metal strips, designed to turn an arrow or blade before it did damage. He strapped it on, and fumbled for the next piece.

Theros could not get his fingers to work fast enough. He knew he would never finish in time. He was right.

Huluk, the rear guard commander, burst into the tent.

“You, slave! Give me that breastplate. I need it now!”

Theros started to protest, to tell the officer that the piece wasn’t ready yet, that it was only barely sewn together. The officer backhanded Theros across the face, sending the young man sprawling.

“Damned slave! This armor is not done yet! How am I to fight with garbage like this? Get this on me!”

Theros, flat on his back from the blow, rolled over and jumped to his feet. He tried to strap the armor to the torso of the huge minotaur. It would not hold. The seam was already giving way as Theros tried to pull the strap tight.

This time Theros reacted as the warrior’s shoulder muscles tightened and the minotaur began to turn. Theros ducked just in time to miss another blow.

“I am sorry, Commander. I did not have time.…”

The officer shouted at the smith. “You will pay for the insolence and incompetence of this slave under your control. Mark my words, Hran. This will not go unpunished.”

Hran waved his hand. “Do as you will, Huluk. But now, there is a battle, and you must lead your warriors. Stop wasting my time and my slave’s time and get to your fight!”

Huluk shook with rage, turned, and stormed out of the weapons-smith’s tent. As he walked, his leather breastplate banged against his chest, only partly attached.

Theros stood glumly, his hands at his sides, his head down. He had failed. He deserved his punishment.

Hran walked over, gripped Theros by the shoulder. “Listen here, Theros. One warrior’s panic is not another’s emergency. We will defeat this elven army, and then we
will return to the new village on the shore, where we will forge wondrous swords only warriors from antiquity have seen!

“First, the task at hand. You begin on the left side, I will start on the right. We roll the tent canvas off the support poles toward the center chimney. Now move!”

Theros dashed off to his side of the tent and began rolling up the wet sides of the canvas.

They had to take the tent down, and stow the equipment in the wagon before they could properly prepare for battle. The hearth remained stoked and hot, but the tent was to be removed. If they won the battle, they would set the tent up again. If they lost, they would form part of the army’s baggage train, then retreat with the rear guard. Hran would leave nothing behind for the elves, not even scraps.