“Sargas honor him,” Theros said quietly. “And grant him a swift death.”
Uwel lit the knight’s loincloth on fire. Sir Richard tried to twist right and left to get away from the searing flame, but to no avail. The skin was bubbling and melting, finally turning black all around his midriff. He tried bravely to stifle his agony, but the pain was more than he could bear. His screams caused the drunken men to laugh more loudly. Mercifully, as far as Theros was concerned, the knight soon lost consciousness.
The crowd loved the show. Uwel moved from knight to knight, burning their feet, hands and undergarments. The first knight didn’t move. Theros guessed he was dead. Uwel took his fighting knife and slit the man’s stomach. The body lurched and strained, but the knight never regained awareness. Within moments, the body stopped twitching. The knight’s soul had moved on to whatever god awaited him.
The torture lasted for another hour. Three knights were still alive, all of them writhing and twisting in their bonds. The sight was ghastly.
Theros could take no more of it. His stomach clenched. He’d seen man and minotaur die in battle and never felt as sick as this. His only solace was that he had warned Sir Richard in time, and the knight commander had taken his warning and acted upon it. Fifteen knights had escaped and had, hopefully, found their way into the forest, where Yuri and Telera could guide them.
Theros pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers. He needed water, needed to wash out the taste and smell of blood. He stumbled over to a water barrel, took a drink and was immediately sorry. He bent over double, vomiting, every heave accentuated by a scream from one of the knights who still hung on their tripods.
At length, when he had nothing more in his stomach, Theros straightened, drew in a deep breath. He washed his mouth out with water, splashed water on his burning face. He took one last look back in time to see Uwel swing a long sword, chopping deep into Sir Richard’s neck. Blood sprayed out over Uwel. Covered in gore, he laughed. Sir Richard hung limp. The knight was dead. All the knights were now dead.
Theros knew his soul would never forgive him for the sights he had witnessed, that they would torment him in dreams for the rest of his life.
He went back to the commissary tent, stumbling like a man in need of more wine.
Chapter 25
Theros strode through the commissary tent, then made his way back to the tents where he had encountered Yuri and Telera and out into the forest beyond. He did not look back. He shook all over with anger and horror.
“I cannot stay here,” he said to himself. “Moorgoth is not a general. He is a coward and a butcher. These men are not soldiers; they are animals. These humans talk of minotaurs being beasts, but minotaurs would never treat an honorable enemy like this. They certainly would never do this to their own kind.”
Theros unbuckled his field harness, then took off the surcoat with the army’s colors. He threw it to the ground, placed his heel on it and twisted his boot into it, ripping and tearing the cloth. He put the harness back on over his white shirt, and walked off into the woods.
He had just resigned.
Theros wasn’t certain where he was. Clouds partially obscured the moon and stars. He had no way of telling direction. But he had the vague idea he was heading south, away from the battle, away from the direction of the town. He walked through the trees without really seeing them. He could still see the dying men in his mind, still hear their screams in his head.
How could I have been so blind? he thought. The only thing keeping this so-called army together is the whip and the lash. And I am as bad as the rest. The only way I could keep Yuri was by making him afraid of me. Hran never treated me that badly, and I was his slave.
He continued walking through the forest. The going was slow. It was difficult to see his way in the darkness. He tripped over tree roots. Branches slapped him in the face. He was not overly concerned about pursuit. Moorgoth hadn’t tried very hard to recapture the missing knights, and as drunk as everyone was, no one would miss Theros until morning. At the same time, they’d find Yuri and Telera missing, too. Theros smiled for the first time in a week.
“I bet Moorgoth never had so many desertions after a victory and promise of pay before!”
At length, Theros reached a clearing in the forest. He looked up into the sky, hoping that the clouds had broken for good. He was rewarded by the sight of two moons and the stars. Solinari and Lunitari cast enough light to see. He was out of the tree line. Before him were plowed fields, their crops harvested, ready for winter.
Ready for Moorgoth to steal.
Theros walked on, seeing no one. At least he was part of that no longer.
* * * * *
Two hours later, he was climbing over a low stone wall that separated two fields, when the faint thud of hooves caught his attention. He dropped down beside the wall, flat on his stomach, and drew his axe.
Looking at himself, he realized his white shirt showed up brightly in the night. He quickly threw off his leather harness and ripped off the shirt. Pulling the harness back on over his bare torso, he dug a hole and buried the shirt. Then he lay flat on his face in the muck.
Theros kept perfectly still, not daring to take a look. The rider galloped by on the other side of the fence without seeing him.
Theros waited. The sound of the hooves grew fainter and fainter. When they were almost out of earshot, he sat up, looking down the fence line to see if he could see the rider. In the distance, he could make out a shape.
It was a cavalry scout from Moorgoth’s army. Either he was a long-range patrol or part of the picket line.
“Or maybe I was wrong,” Theros said to himself. “Maybe they’re not all drunk. Maybe they’re looking for me!”
Instead of continuing on down the fence line, he decided to cut across the field. He reached another fence line and walked down it, until it ended. He started up a hill, realizing that he must have come quite a long way. The sun was beginning to lighten the sky to a deep gray in the east.
The hill was the first in a long series of connected hills, probably the foothills of the Busuk Range. He could wander for days in the mountains, never finding his way back to civilization. Ogres, hobgoblins and others with no love for man were reputed to live in those mountains. Not even Moorgoth would challenge them. Theros was heading in the wrong direction. He began to search for a path, hoping it would lead him farther south.
The sun broke over the horizon and flooded the land with warmth and light. Theros crested the top of a hill, paused to look around. He could see no riders, no sign of any living being. There were no fields, no fences. No villages or farmhouses. He could not see any roads, either.
And if he did find a road, where would it take him?
It occurred to Theros that he had nowhere to go. His smithy was gone. That was how Moorgoth kept his people loyal. He made them dependent on him. Theros wondered how he could have been sucked in by Moorgoth. It was easy, he realized.
I had no self-respect, he thought. I was lured by the prospect of glory and riches. Moorgoth took me for an idiot or for the same type of cowardly cur that he is himself. And he was almost right. He was almost right.
Theros decided to change direction and reckoning by the sun, head west. The army had been east of the main road, and if he moved west, he would eventually cross it.
He forced himself to keep traveling until noon sun. The rumblings in his stomach reminded him that he had left without stopping to pack food. He found a clear stream at the bottom of the hill, walked down to its bank and knelt beside the water. He drank thirstily. The cold water cleared his head and soothed his empty stomach.
Late in the afternoon, after crossing several hills, he came to the crest of another ridge. Down below was the road. It was empty.