Theros Ironfield

Chapter 22

Theros came down from the hill and walked back to his smithy. Nothing had been heard from Moorgoth about the direction of the battle. It was late afternoon. If they were going to set up, they would need word soon. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be enough light left to do anything.

He hadn’t taken two steps when a rider came galloping into their wagon area. The rider went straight to Belhesser Vankjad, the logistics officer.

Theros hurried to hear the news. When he arrived, the rider saluted Theros and then continued to speak with Belhesser.

“… and we should, if the fight goes well, be here just after sundown. Baron Moorgoth wants you to set up. He feels confident in the day’s decision, and wants a hot meal and a ready camp waiting for him and his troops when he arrives.”

Belhesser looked up at the sinking sun. He thought for a moment, then turned to Theros.

“What do you think, Ironfeld? Could you set up before sundown?”

“Yes, sir. I can be ready, sir.”

Belhesser turned back to the rider. “There you go, Corporal, you have your answer. We will be ready. You can report to Baron Moorgoth that we wish him the best of luck on the field.”

The rider saluted, remounted his horse, and sped away, back to the army in action.

“Any news of the fight?” Theros asked. He was confused, wondering if he wanted the baron to win or be soundly defeated.

Belhesser shook his head. “All he knew was that there had been heavy fighting, and that the Solamnics were fighting near the town. Moorgoth sounds confident, though. We’re to set up and all.”

Theros agreed. “I have to get back and get to work if I’m to be ready to mend weapons and armor tonight.”

He turned and ran back to his wagon. Erela was the first soldier he could find.

“Where is Yuri?” Theros asked, then realized that he already knew the answer.

The soldier blinked. “I thought he was around here somewhere, sir. He was a moment ago. I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him for the last half hour. Shall I go look for him?”

Inwardly, Theros cursed his young apprentice.

“Never mind. I’ll find him. Set up the tent over there.”

In a foul mood, Theros stomped over to the commissary area. People were beginning to move around the wagons, unpacking, setting up. He could see Quartermaster Sarger shouting orders.

And there was Yuri, rushing out from behind a wagon, heading for the smithy. And there was Telera running back to the rear of the wagons, hoping to arrive before someone noticed them. It could all be perfectly innocent-a stolen kiss behind a wagon.

Theros stopped in his tracks and pointed to Yuri. “You! Get over here!”

The men and women working to put up the commissary tent stopped and looked, wondering if the smithy was yelling at them. Yuri ran over. Defiance on his face, he stood in front of Theros.

Theros raised his hand to teach some discipline to the young man. Yuri tightened his jaw, braced himself for the blow.

Theros, scowling, let his hand fall.

“Get to work!” he ordered. “And stop hanging about that wench. People might get the wrong idea.”

Yuri blinked, astonished that he’d not been hit, astonished at the order. “What wrong idea? How-”

“Shut up, you fool. People are listening. Get back to the wagon and see that the smithy is set up correctly. Go!”

Yuri ran over to the smithy area where the soldiers were raising the first tent poles.

Theros stood gazing after his apprentice. Yuri did not want to be a soldier. He had never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to be a blacksmith. He had come to Theros, offering to work for food and board if only Theros would teach him the trade. Yuri had a talent for detail work, but he didn’t have the strength or girth to pound out huge axes or swords. It wasn’t his fault. He was born thin and wiry and he’d be that way until the day he died. Still, he had the brains to know that he could do good work within his limits.

But Yuri needed discipline. He couldn’t discipline himself, apparently, so Theros would have to do it for him. And the first thing Theros had to do was see that this romance came to a halt. For Yuri’s own good.

Theros found Cheldon giving his final commands to his section leaders.

“… and I want the cooking fires lit before it gets dark. I’ll want a hot meal for every soldier. Oh, and keep two extra cooking cauldrons on with water boiling. The wounded are going to need attention when they come in, too, and boiling water will be essential. Right, get to it.”

The two section leaders saluted and went about their duties. The quartermaster’s workers parked their wagons behind their tent lines, setting up long wooden tables to dispense food and supplies.

“Cheldon, I need to talk to you,” Theros said.

“What is it, Ironfeld?”

“I’ve got a problem with my apprentice, Yuri. I keep catching him over here with one of your women workers.”

Cheldon laughed. “Oh, is that all? You had me worried there.” He winked. “Boys will be boys, eh, Theros? And girls will be girls, praise the Seeker gods. Let them have some fun.”

Theros scowled. “Look, I’ve heard rumors that the spy may be one of your women. She may be getting more out of Yuri than a few giggles in the night. If he gets into trouble, I’ll be blamed. All I’m asking is that you keep my man away from here.”

“One of my women, a spy?” Cheldon was angry. “Listen, Ironfeld. It’s your man who keeps coming over here, not the other way around. If you’ve got a problem with him, then you take care of it. As for my people, I brought most of them with me from Sanction. I know them a lot better than you do. Now leave me alone. I’ve got a lot to do!”

Cheldon Sarger stormed away.

Fuming, Theros turned and walked back to his own section.

* * * * *

The bugler stood beside Moorgoth, waiting for orders.

“Not yet … not yet … not yet-now!”

The charging Solamnic cavalry were a hundred and fifty yards to their front. The bugle again rang clear and true, sounding the retreat.

The baron watched the bugler. “I’m going to have to reward this young lad,” he thought. “He’s never faltered once under such extreme pressure.”

As the boy finished the notes, the entire command group turned and began to run at a dead sprint toward the tree line. The thunder of the knights’ horses behind them grew louder and louder.

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.