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.
His heart soared as he remembered his night with her. She was almost a dream to him, a shining moment in a bleak existence. He remembered her kiss at parting. She had made it clear to everyone that she liked him. Maybe she even loved him.
“So what makes me any different from anyone else?” he asked himself. “Why should she choose me? Certainly not for my looks!” He chuckled some at this.
He’d never thought much about his appearance, until he started living among humans. Among minotaurs, ugliness was equated with prowess in battle. Scars and lumps were badges of honor. A slit nostril, a torn and tattered ear, missing teeth-these were outward signs of a proud warrior and were much admired by minotaur females.
Among humans, Theros had been astonished to learn that women liked men with smooth skin, unbroken noses and hands that weren’t rough and calloused. He had led a hard life, one that had left its marks on his body. He carried scars from battle-not only battles with men, but also those with his work. When he looked at his dusky face in the shaving mirror, he was always displeased with himself.
His nose had been broken more than once. He’d lost a front tooth during a “discipline” session on board the minotaur ship. Part of his hair had been singed off during a fire and would never grow back. Thinking himself ugly, Theros had managed to convince people he was ugly.