When all the elven wounded had been found and taken to the healers, the soldiers began the monumental task of burying their own dead, and burning the minotaur corpses.
Harinburthallas, the elven army commander, ordered one regiment, now numbering less than two hundred elf soldiers, to clear out the minotaur camp. The regimental commander, Llantoes, formed his soldiers into a column, and marched them across the field. They passed the site of the first engagement. The dead had been removed, but the mud was stained red, and a forest of arrows, embedded at the angle of impact, looked like stocks of straw that were bent by the wind. The mud was thick. The soldiers slogged forward.
Fewer than twenty minotaurs had survived in the rear area, all that was left of a mighty army. Most deserted their posts and disappeared into the woods, looking to get away. Several dozen human slaves lived too, Theros among them.
Fires burned everywhere. The camp was a complete ruin. From where Theros stood he could see the burning commissary wagons and the quartermaster’s site. He could not see any minotaurs, other than those that had fallen in the brief battle with the elven cavalry.
Theros leaned on his shovel for a moment to catch his breath. The ground was soft for the first few feet, then turned to a thick, hard-packed clay. Digging was slow.
The smell of burning wood and canvas permeated the air. The smoke rose up and stained the cloudy sky. To the west was blue sky, but it could be seen only every once in a while through the pall of black, acrid smoke. The smoke caught in Theros’s nose and throat. He tied a piece of cloth around his face to try to block the fumes.
He bent back to his digging. His young arms rippled with the effort. The blade dug only a few inches into the clay. Theros pried back the shovel, and a brick-sized chunk of clay broke loose. He bent down, picked up the piece, tossed it aside. He repeated the process, again and again.
He reached a depth of five feet in the trench. Deep enough. And who knew how much more time he would have before the elves found him? He tossed the shovel to the side, and climbed out. Hran lay several feet to the side of the trench.
Hran weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds, with his armor and weapons. Theros dragged the body to the newly dug grave and rolled it in. Climbing down into the grave, Theros rearranged the body in the restful pose of death. He closed the eyelids, straightened the body, crossed the arms over the chest. It was not exactly how a minotaur would have honored the dead, but it was as close as the young man knew. He climbed back out, and stood silent.
The minotaur had been a strict master, but Theros had learned much from him in the past few months.
“Sargas, hear me,” he began, and said a prayer for Hran.
* * * * *
Huluk, the rear guard commander, crouched behind several water barrels. Beside him crouched Nevek, another minotaur warrior.
Nevek shook his head. “We’ve got to leave. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be killed or captured like the rest.”
Huluk grunted. “That was our army that was just slaughtered out there. Sargas strike us down! We should have died out there like the rest. We should have fought like the true warriors that they were.”
“Yes, sir. Look, sir, our army is gone. We have a duty to warn the coastal village and the Supreme Circle. Our honor is in reporting the valiant sacrifice that our warriors made this day.”
Huluk’s face contorted in rage. This insolent young cub was telling him, a senior officer and a valiant, decorated warrior, about honor. “You! You know nothing of honor! Have you ever been victorious in battle? You …”
The officer paused. The young minotaur actually had a point about reporting the events of the day. Huluk’s mind was racing. He had witnessed the deaths of many warriors that he knew and respected. He had lost his command to a surprise attack from heavy cavalry. He would be blamed for the failure, that was certain. But perhaps there was a chance to regain his shattered honor …
Nevek brought Huluk back to the here and now. “Sir, the elves are moving this way!”
Huluk jumped up and peered over the barrels. While he had been sitting and brooding, a column of elf warriors had been slogging its way toward them. They were no more than two hundred yards away.
Huluk made his decision.
“You have a point, young warrior. We must get back to warn the village garrison. Now, we’re going to need a few things. It is a four-day trip back. Gather up weapons and anything else that will be useful.”
Nevek nodded. “I’ll grab as many skins of water as I can find. The water barrels here are full. I’ll try to find some food, too. Hurry, sir, they’re almost here!”
Huluk nodded. “Right, meet me at the far end of the camp, near the weapons-smith’s tent, or what’s left of it. Go!”
Nevek ran. Huluk raced back through the burning camp. The broken breastplate banged and chafed against his fur. He stopped just short of the commissary wagons, the flames now beginning to burn low, and gave the armor a good yank. The leather straps disintegrated and the piece fell to the ground.
“Useless. Damned slave.”
He bent and picked up his axe from the back harness built into the failed armor. He’d have to find a replacement.
The commissary area was strewn with bodies, minotaur and human. Several elves with their horses lay on the roadway. At least some enemies had fallen in the short-lived battle. Huluk rooted through the wreckage. Near the wagons were a stack of produce crates. He searched through them. The crates contained mostly raw meat and vegetables, some fish and a case of spices for the preservation of food. The bottom crate held baked hardtack. He rummaged around the tent site and found a cloth sack. He filled the sack halfway with food.
Weapons were next. He had to carry his axe, but he had nothing to carry it in. A bow would be good. A sword and scabbard would be useful, too. He crossed the commissary area and entered the smithy area. Several metal pegs and an anvil marked the edge where the tent had been. The stone hearth still stood in the middle of the tent area, its coals beginning to cool.
A movement from the left side caught Huluk’s attention.
A young human stepped from behind the forge. He was dirty, and blood covered his clothes. Huluk recognized the human as Hran’s slave-the same slave who had done a useless job on his armor.
Huluk nearly burst a vein. Here, in the middle of the carnage and destruction of an entire army, with everyone dead or gone, the only sentient being he could find was the moron who had ruined his armor.
The urgency of the situation left him no time for the luxury of expending his anger and fear upon this human slave. “You! Help me here! I need two bows, quarrels of arrows, a sword and anything else you’ve got that I can use. Hurry! I need them now!”
Theros turned to the nearly burned-out wagon. He picked up a stick, and began to sift through the remnants of the wagon’s load.
Huluk did the same with his axe. Most of what they sifted through were tools or bits of tools that had been burned, their wooden parts no longer of any use. There was no sight of anything like a bow or an arrow or anything close to being useful.
“I’m sorry sir, this is all there is left,” said Theros. “We had very few bows to begin with. They must have-wait!”
Theros ran out into the roadway to where some elves had fallen. Two horses lay dead in the street beside their riders. Pulling at the underside of one of the horse’s saddles, Theros pried loose an elven short bow. The second yank yielded a full quiver of arrows. He held them up for the minotaur officer to see.
From a distance down the street, a high-pitched voice shouted in Common. “You! Yes, you! You will die for defiling an elf warrior in death!”