Theros Ironfield

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.

The canvas was heavy, soaked after days of rain. Hran finished his side, rolling it to the edge of the hearth. He began to disconnect the two sides of canvas from one another. Theros struggled. The heavy canvas rolled slowly, getting heavier with each inch.

“Come on there, lad! Put your back into it!” Hran yelled.

Between the two of them, the roll moved faster. It thumped up against the side of the hastily built stone hearth before stopping. Together, they went to the right end of the roll, and lifted it over and onto the other half. Both bending, they hoisted the canvas onto the wagon.

Hran grunted as they shoved the canvas securely into place in the wagon. “Quickly now, collect all of the tools!”

Theros ran to where the tent had stood moments ago. He stooped to grab the two sets of tongs lying in the grass. As he reached for them, the mournful sounds of the regimental trumpets began to wail.

“The call to form ranks.” Hran looked worried. “Hurry, lad! Hurry!”

Now Theros could hear the sound of shrill elven trumpets. The enemy was close at hand.

They had taken too much time with the canvas. He and Hran were going to be caught in the midst of the battle.