Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

An officer across the table interrupted him. “Ironfeld, pay no attention to Jamaar there. He cares only for his horses. He didn’t happen to mention that we’ve never had barding on our cavalry here, did he?”

Theros wasn’t certain what to say, and so he kept silent. The other officer continued. “I command the first battalion of infantry. We met before in the foyer. I’m Gentry Hawkin. We’re looking forward to a smith who knows how to keep weapons in shape. I don’t need another smith like the last. One of his swords in your hand was as good as having a stick. You knew it was going to break. It was just a matter of when. Come over to my quarters tomorrow and I’ll show you what I mean. We want better for the campaign.”

Conversation came to a sudden stop when the baron stood. “Gentlemen, it is good to have new officers among us. It will take a while for them to get accustomed to the way we do business around here. Still, let us be patient until they have learned our ways. Now, I know you’ve all been wondering where we’re headed.”

The veteran officers murmured their assent. They obviously had not been told where or when the campaign was going to take them this year.

“We will be going north, into the Nordmaar area to remove resistance up there. I understand that there are still pockets of Solamnic Knights, and we all know the treasures that they hold in their castles. We go to challenge them!”

The officers were on their feet, cheering.

Late that night, after much wine and many, many war stories, Theros stumbled up the stairs to his room.

He was, once more, a member of an army, an officer and a smith. He could hardly believe it. And they were going to fight knights. Knights of Solamnia.

Hran would be proud.

Theros couldn’t figure out how to work the fastener on his jerkin. It didn’t matter. He was sound asleep before his wine-muddled brain had time to work on it.

The army had been deployed for nearly a month, moving forward in fits and starts. They would set up camp for several days, send the hunters and scroungers out to replenish supplies, then tear it down, move forward for a week, and then repeat the process. They kept on the move as much as possible, for fear the hated Solamnic Knights-reportedly nearby-would hit them before they were ready.

“I will choose the ground,” Moorgoth was fond of saying. “They will fight me on my own ground.”

It was a ragtag army made up of men and women from all over this part of Ansalon. The backbone was the mercenary force. These men and women were well treated, ate the best, got the best wine, had the best places to pitch their tents. The rest were conscripts or debtors. People who owed the baron money-and there were many in Sanction-could pay off their debts by serving in his army. They were the ones who came in line for the brunt of Uwel’s discipline. The mercenaries-who knew their own worth-wouldn’t stand for it.

The soldiers were mostly human, with a half-breed or two thrown in for good measure. Moorgoth refused to fight with hobgoblins or ogres, who, he claimed, could not be disciplined.

“We have our standards, sir!” Uwel sniffed.

Theros was relieved, albeit surprised, to notice that the black-robed wizard who had burned down the forge-thereby proving he was handy with fire spells, at least-was not marching among their ranks. He questioned Uwel about the mage.

“If there is one person you cannot discipline, sir, it is a magic-user. Too used to getting their own way, sir, and that’s a fact. Plus, they’re all dyed-in-the-wool cowards. We tried one once, and the baron said never again. The first time an arrow whistled past his head, the man passed out cold. And when I poked him a bit with my knife, sir, to bring him around, he bleated like a stuck hog. Gave away our position to the enemy. I was forced to clunk him over the head with the hilt of my sword to get him to shut up.”

“Did he?” Theros asked.

“Yes, sir. Permanently, sir.” Uwel looked thoughtful. “I hit him a bit too hard, I think, sir.”

The troops did not know that they were heading out to fight Solamnic Knights, the only organized force that stood between Moorgoth’s army and the towns and villages they planned to plunder. The officers knew, but they weren’t passing on anything to the men and women under their command. It was the soldiers’ job to move and fight when ordered, not to be involved in the discussion of where or why they were moving. They were paid, and that was enough for Dargon Moorgoth. If it wasn’t, Uwel Lors, the senior nonofficer, exacted a swift and punishing discipline.

Yuri wasn’t the only person to feel Uwel’s lash. The man was quite skilled with his whip and livened up an otherwise boring march by snapping it over the heads of the conscripts or licking it at their heels. Any who complained were pulled out of line and dealt with more harshly. Uwel added his fists to his whip for variety. It was sometimes Theros’s job to pick up these unfortunates, who were generally left unconscious by the side of the road until the wagons came along in the rear.

Fear and money-or the hope of it-was what was holding this army together. Theros contrasted that with the minotaurs, who fought for the glory of their country, their clan and their own personal honor. The elation Theros had felt at once more being involved with a fighting unit was rapidly evaporating. He said nothing, however. It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his army. He would do his job, for which he was being paid-well paid.

After three days of marching, Moorgoth brought the army to a halt. Tents were pitched, but Theros was ordered not to set up the forge and equipment yet. They would be moving again. Theros and Yuri were attending to minor repairs to equipment they could handle with the small forge-fire, when a runner dashed up.

“Sir. Baron Moorgoth requests the pleasure of your attendance at an orders group in thirty minutes. Shall I tell him that you will attend?”

Theros nodded and waved the soldier away. He never quite trusted Moorgoth’s grand way of speaking-Theros always had to sort through the polite nothings to get to the meat-but he was pleased to have a chance to talk to him. The last few days, the rest of the army’s officers had begun to shun him and the two other new men. They stopped talking when Theros or Cheldon or Belhesser joined them. Theros had no idea what he had said or done to offend anyone. He hoped Moorgoth might be able to provide an explanation.

The command tent stood in the center of the small camp. The army standard-a black serpent’s head on a red background-flew from the front tent pole. Four guards stood at the ready in front of the tent. That was double the number of guards in a minotaur army. The guards waved Theros past. Obviously, he was expected. He entered the tent, found the other officers already present.

“I will come right to the point,” Moorgoth stated. His voice was tight, his face flushed. “There is a spy in this camp. And one of you three”-he singled out Theros, Cheldon, and Belhesser-“is responsible.”

The three officers stared at each other. Cheldon shook his head in disbelief. Theros leaned over to whisper to him. “So that’s what’s going on! They think it’s someone from our organizations! We’re the new ones.”

Cheldon nodded. He said nothing, but he looked troubled.

Moorgoth went on. “We have a problem, gentlemen. Every time we move, the Solamnic force moves ahead of us, keeping within striking range, cutting us off from our objective. Our army is a small one. We cannot attack a village and still keep back enough to hold off those damned knights.

“According to our scouts, we easily outnumber the knights, but they are nearly half heavy cavalry. They are highly mobile, and that’s where the problem lies.