Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

Moorgoth grinned. So did everyone else in the tent. The plan was becoming clear. “While the cavalry is keeping the knights occupied along their front lines, the infantry will strike the Solamnics from the rear. We’ll set up an ambush, and take out those bastards before they know what hit them.

“But to make this work, we are going to force-march the army this morning until we’re within a mile of that town. We’ve got nine hours to cover nine miles. Think we can do it?”

A resounding cheer went up. Moorgoth smiled and left. After that, everyone looked at each other. An army of a thousand, each carrying a heavy pack marching-no, running-that distance? Covering it in nine hours? Well, they had said they could do it. Now they were committed.

The orders conference broke up moments later. Officers ran back to their commands to begin the preparations.

Theros barked orders, hurried his soldiers into quick action. He sent Yuri over to bring their wagons forward. When the wagons arrived, the smith was broken down, ready to load. They were shoving the heavy crates onto the wagons when Baron Moorgoth walked up.

“Carry on, men. Good job to you all. Oh, Captain Ironfeld, a word, if you will.”

Moorgoth drew Theros off to one side, looked around to see that no one was listening. Certain that they were alone, Moorgoth crouched low to the ground. He drew out a map, rolled it out in front of them.

“Ironfeld, you and the other logistical units will be slower than the rest of the army. I’m going to assign a company of infantry to march with you. When you get to this position here”-Moorgoth pointed out the area on the map-“I want you to set up your smithy. If the plan works, I want you working on arrows and spears when we move back to this area. We’ll need new weapons fast. Can you do that?”

Theros nodded. “Yes, sir. But why tell me? Belhesser Vankjad is the commander of logistics.”

“I’m telling you because you need telling. I’ve already told Vankjad. He’s telling the quartermaster. Something is on your mind, Ironfeld. What is it?”

Theros scratched his chin. “Sir, I don’t like all these secrets. You’re setting us apart from the rest of the army. The other officers don’t trust us. We are loyal, just as they are.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Moorgoth. “And I know where the spy is now. I just don’t know who. And don’t worry, he’s not in the smithy. You can relax.”

Theros let out a sigh of relief.

Moorgoth smiled, clapped Theros on the shoulder. “I must be going. I’ll see you tonight. Be at your post on time. Good marching!”

Theros saluted as the baron went back to the now-forming column. If this plan worked, Moorgoth would be a hero to his army. If it didn’t, Theros could find himself running from a victorious enemy again.

He wasn’t big on praying for help, but he did ask Sargas to take an interest in them. Theros didn’t know that much about Sargas, but he was fairly certain the horned god had little use for Solamnic Knights.

Baron Dargon Moorgoth walked to the front of the column. His command staff stood ready to move out. The army’s standard-bearer, a tall young officer named Berenek, held the flag unfurled in the morning breeze. It was only an hour since the sun had cracked the horizon.

Theros looked around at the baron’s staff. There were four officers, Berenek included, and four soldiers, all sergeants. Normally, the heavy cavalry would serve as Moorgoth’s personal bodyguards, but today they were off on a different mission. The sergeants-normally his organizers and scribes-would be his bodyguards. Looking at their grizzled faces and calloused hands, Theros guessed that Baron Moorgoth was in safe hands.

“All right, men. Ready to go?”

Every one of them responded yes. The baron waved his hand and then began to run, at an easy pace, down the road. The command staff was only a few steps behind. The infantry battalion commanders yelled their march orders and the entire army lurched to a walk, then to a jog-trot. Like a huge slug, the army started to crawl along the road.

After the first mile at a run, the long forced march was already starting to take its toll. The line of men and women looked tired. But no one would think of falling behind. For one, they’d taste Uwel’s lash. And they would be ridiculed as weaklings by their comrades.

Another mile and still they kept going. The troops traveled light, but each man carried his weapon and supplies. Still, they covered a lot of ground. The men and women pounded on, well aware that the faster they ran the distance, the more time they would have to rest when they reached their destination.

They left the slow-moving supply wagons far behind. The wagons would catch up later, possibly even after the battle was over.

* * * * *

After the third mile, Moorgoth called a halt. The soldiers behind him sagged down onto the ground and sat there, sweating and panting.

Moorgoth removed his boots. A good-sized blister was forming on the back of his heel on his left foot. He pulled out his dagger and lanced it. The liquid drained immediately. He put his sock back on and pulled on his boots, tightening the straps as tight as they would go. Standing, he tried the foot. The pain was a minor irritation.

He walked back through the first battalion of infantry, stopped to talk to small groups of soldiers.

“So, Corporal? You and your section going to make it to the other end?”

“We’ll make it, sir. There’s no question of that.”

Satisfied with the answer, Moorgoth moved forward once more to take his place at the front of the column. He felt good now. His foot would hold up.

“Ready?” he asked his command group.

He waved his hand forward, over his head, and began to march, not run. He kept up a brisk pace, but the soldiers appreciated the fact that they were not running. They needed the break.

They did not stop again until they came to a small forest straddling both sides of the road. As they entered the shade of the trees, they met a group of three women driving a donkey cart, coming the other way. Alarmed at the sight of the soldiers, the women abandoned the cart, jumped over the sides, and ran.

“Catch them!” Moorgoth ordered.

His men caught two of the women easily. The other woman ran like a frightened deer down the road, outdistancing the armor-clad man who chased after her.

“Stop her!” the baron ordered, glancing back.

An archer ran forward. He unslung a longbow, took careful aim and loosed the arrow. It flew through the trees with a whistling sound. The woman suddenly stumbled, then fell flat on her face, an arrow sticking out of her back.

“Good shooting, Corporal. Well done.” Moorgoth complimented the archer. The soldier saluted and went back to his place in the ranks. The baron made a mental note to remember that man. He would get an extra share of the loot.

The sergeants dragged the other two women back to the main body of the army. The women were sobbing, horrified by the slaughter of their companion.

One of the sergeants came forward to ask for orders. “If we let them go, sir, they’ll tell someone they’ve seen us for sure.”

“Kill them,” the baron responded.

The women began to scream and wail. One, an older woman with graying hair, fell to her knees, her hands uplifted in a plea for mercy. At this, the men detailed for the job looked uneasy, fingered their weapons, but didn’t draw them.

“I don’t like this, sir,” said one. “This isn’t what I was hired to do-kill a kid and an old granny.”

“We could bind them, leave them in the forest,” said another.

Moorgoth was furious. They were wasting time. He said nothing, however. He merely looked about for Uwel Lors.