The elf jumped off the horse, and ran forward to finish the smith where he lay. The elf brought his sword down in a mighty swing, but Hran rolled away. He staggered to his feet, but the elf was ready. The elf thrust forward with his long sword, striking Hran through the heart.
Hran looked down at the wound. He tried to bring up his axe, but it slipped from his grasp. The elf withdrew his sword, and Hran pitched forward into the dirt, face first. The elf ran off after his mount. The rest of the elven cavalry were already far off across the camp.
Sudden fury shook Theros. He sprinted to Hran’s side. Theros rolled the big minotaur over, and pulled him to a sitting position. Hran stared out unblinking into the destroyed and burning camp. He was dead.
Tears that pain could never wring from him welled up in Theros’s eyes. Hran, his slave master, had been mentor and friend.
The bodies of eight elf warriors lay strewn across the road. Theros dragged Hran away from the forge and pulled him up beside the shallow trench that had saved the young man’s life. Hran had died a true warrior. He had slain eight of the best elves that the Silvanesti Nation could muster.
Theros began to dig again. As he dug, anger welled up inside him. This was no act of honor that had cost Hran his life. The elves had intentionally circled around the back and attacked the rear guard while the minotaur main forces were arrayed on the field. Looking over to the commissary wagon, he could see that the elves had slain the human slaves, as well as the minotaurs, all mostly unarmed.
It had been the plan of a coward. A coward without honor.
Theros continued to dig.
Chapter 9
Klaf turned and raised his huge battle-axe. He started running forward. The rest of the command group followed him. A cheer went up from the reserve corps, and they, too, broke into a run, closing the distance between their position and the front lines.
“Make sure they can see the army standard up there,” Klaf commanded. “Don’t let some hot-headed elf take you down.”
Olik roared a battle cry and raised the standard high. In his other hand he held an exquisite long sword. It was of Solamnic origin, but now it was decorated with the designs of Olik’s clan.
The noise was horrendous. Klaf’s bodyguards cleared a path around the commander and Olik. Two elves spotted the banner and charged toward the standard. If it fell, the morale of the minotaurs might be broken and the day go with the elves.
One of the elves was immediately taken down by a minotaur’s sword. The other elf broke the circle. With a great cry, he raised an ornate blade high above his helmeted head. Olik stood his ground. He planted his back foot and kicked out with his front foot just as the elf came within reach. The foot smashed in the front of the elf’s helmet, and shattered the face inside. The elf crumpled like a sack of leaves. Klaf brought his axe down on the battered body.
Suddenly, the elves routed.
Many threw down weapons and ran. Some just ran. Within seconds, the only elves left were the dead ones or those trapped by fallen bodies of minotaur warriors. They soon joined the ranks of their dead comrades. The minotaur force let out a huge cheer.
But the cheer was short-lived and died suspended in the air. Klaf looked around in confusion. He turned a full circle, and another. Then, he realized what had just happened.
In front of him, five hundred yards away, were two fresh corps of elven infantry, probably heavy infantry with archers in support. To his rear, he could see smoke staining the sky. Arrayed between him and his camp stood the elven heavy cavalry.
The quiet that had engulfed the minotaur army suddenly shattered as officers ordered troops into line again. The minotaurs moved slowly. Moments ago, it was to have been the elves who were running from the field, their morale crushed and their vanquishers chasing them down. Now, it was the minotaurs.
Klaf’s heart sank. He realized that he had marched his army into a trap. The elves had intentionally placed an inferior force before the minotaurs to keep their attention on the battle in front. To their rear, the elven cavalry had slaughtered the rear guard and now threatened to sandwich the minotaurs.
The sound he dreaded and knew was coming echoed across the field from the elven lines. Thousands of arrows arched their way through the clearing sky toward the army. Before they hit, a second volley was loosed.
The impact of the first volley was devastating. Because the minotaurs did not wear substantial armor, their leather padding and shielding did nothing to stop well-fired arrows. Klaf stared in horror as warriors all around him fell.
He swung his battle-axe over his head and began a deep growl that slowly became a howling war cry. Leaping forward, alone, he raced toward the elven infantry.
His warriors stood and watched in stunned silence. Olik, suddenly realizing that this was the only way to an honorable death, couched the army standard like a lance and sprinted after his commander.
The minotaur army rallied and charged.
After one hundred yards, a quarter of them had fallen to arrows. They kept going.
After two hundred yards, another quarter were dying in the mud, but the rest kept going. The arrows were less effective at this range.
After four hundred yards, the minotaurs that were left were sorely winded. Still they kept charging. There was death in anything that they did now, but the only way to honor was one hundred yards ahead.
Klaf’s own fear of defeat with dishonor fired him forward. He screamed and swung his axe in huge arcs. At twenty yards, Olik, running beside him, stumbled a few steps. An arrow protruded from his chest. The giant minotaur shook his head, tore the arrow from his chest, tossed it on the ground, and caught up to Klaf.
Klaf hit the elven line first. The elves were jammed together in a tight defensive formation, swords and spears bristling outward. Klaf died almost instantly, but his body, as it fell, carried with it four elves, opening a hole in the lines.
Olik plunged into the hole after his dead commander, swinging his sword with one hand, using the army standard as a club in the other. Four, six, eight elves fell before the giant. More elves rushed forward, only to be bashed to pieces. Finally, two archers fired four arrows each into the big warrior’s torso. Even then, Olik kept swinging standard and sword. Finally, he fell to his knees, then pitched forward into the dirt.
The standard fell. The minotaur army fell with it.
* * * * *
The minotaur army had died an ignoble death. Maybe one tenth of the minotaurs who began the battle were still alive. They stood in one group, prisoners of the elves. The death toll had not been only on the losing side, however. Hundreds of elves lay where they had been battered and hacked to death.
It was unclear whether the elves had lost more, but they weren’t counting. They had won the day. The threat of minotaur intrusion into their coastal areas had been effectively negated. All that remained was the mop-up of remaining enemy forces.
The captured minotaurs were herded into one large group and surrounded by elf warriors and archers. All of the prisoners looked dejected. Their dishonor weighed heavily upon them.
The surviving elves went through the battlefield looking for dead and wounded warriors of their kind. The dead were taken back to the tree line and laid out with their weapons and the weapons of dead minotaurs near them as trophies. The wounded were taken back to a makeshift aid station in the rear. Here the healers worked their craft, some with arcane herbs and lore, others with brute force of bone-setting and flesh-cutting and the searing brand of cauterization. The healers had much to do this day.
Those minotaurs they found who were still alive but badly wounded were quickly dispatched. The elves had no regard for minotaur life. The prisoners might be useful for an exchange with the minotaur Supreme Circle for some political concession or other.