Theros dashed off to his side of the tent and began rolling up the wet sides of the canvas.
They had to take the tent down, and stow the equipment in the wagon before they could properly prepare for battle. The hearth remained stoked and hot, but the tent was to be removed. If they won the battle, they would set the tent up again. If they lost, they would form part of the army’s baggage train, then retreat with the rear guard. Hran would leave nothing behind for the elves, not even scraps.
The canvas was heavy, soaked after days of rain. Hran finished his side, rolling it to the edge of the hearth. He began to disconnect the two sides of canvas from one another. Theros struggled. The heavy canvas rolled slowly, getting heavier with each inch.
“Come on there, lad! Put your back into it!” Hran yelled.
Between the two of them, the roll moved faster. It thumped up against the side of the hastily built stone hearth before stopping. Together, they went to the right end of the roll, and lifted it over and onto the other half. Both bending, they hoisted the canvas onto the wagon.
Hran grunted as they shoved the canvas securely into place in the wagon. “Quickly now, collect all of the tools!”
Theros ran to where the tent had stood moments ago. He stooped to grab the two sets of tongs lying in the grass. As he reached for them, the mournful sounds of the regimental trumpets began to wail.
“The call to form ranks.” Hran looked worried. “Hurry, lad! Hurry!”
Now Theros could hear the sound of shrill elven trumpets. The enemy was close at hand.
They had taken too much time with the canvas. He and Hran were going to be caught in the midst of the battle.
Chapter 7
The clouds were beginning to break and dots of sunshine began to play across the field separating the minotaurs from their foe, the elves.
Theros was but one small cog in the minotaurs’ huge war machine. As he labored in the rear, the machine geared up to creak forward.
The minotaur leader, Commander Klaf, hastened out of his tent, near the back of the assembling troops. He shouted to the standard-bearer and bugler. “What is going on? Why did you sound the battle call?”
His officers pointed. Klaf looked across the field. Elves were pouring from the woods and beginning to form around their own standards.
“Great Sargas! Bugler, sound the ‘officers to me’ call.” The bugler brought the great horn up and blasted out the notes. The entire camp had come alive when the call to arms had been sounded. Now it was time to get moving, not stand around like children waiting to be fed.
Klaf stood with his arms crossed, studying his enemy from across the nearly mile-wide field. As always, the elves were taking their time, forming into pristine companies, all in precise lines and columns. The elf commander had three infantry corps in his command. He placed one corps forward and the other two side-by-side behind the first. Klaf motioned to the standard-bearer.
“So what do you think, Olik? Where would you say all of their archers are going to be? That’s what we worry about most.”
The younger officer hesitated for a moment, still studying the enemy formations. “The rear two corps must contain their archers, sir. I cannot believe that the elves are stupid enough to challenge us with their infantry alone. Surely they will use their might in archery to try and bring our numbers down. I don’t see any cavalry, either, Commander. Do we know if they have any?”
The older minotaur nodded. “They must have cavalry, but I do not see it. Damn them! The elves always play these silly games. Why don’t they just come out and fight?”
Three minotaurs ran up to the officers, two more racing behind. All were in various stages of dress, none fully ready for battle.
The tallest, Bak, spoke first. “Are they forming to attack now? Great Lords of the Abyss! We aren’t ready!”
Klaf turned to the huge warrior. “Set the example, damn you! I expect your troops to be formed before the enemy is ready. Now go! Go!”
The officers turned and ran back to their tent lines, all bellowing orders to their subordinates.
Olik planted the army standard in the ground. It was a twelve-foot pole with a crosspiece attached near the top. An orange and red banner hung down from the crosspiece, showing a black raven with glowing wing tips. The very top of the pole was adorned with a gold spearhead, and two gold tassels hung down. The banner was normally cased in a leather sock, but when the horns of battle rang out, clear as the morning sun, Olik decided it was time for the banner to be unfurled. The banner would show the enemy that they were fighting against a mighty army.
Olik had been chosen specially as the standard-bearer for the Third Army because he was a foot taller than any other minotaur in the army. His job was to keep the standard flying at all costs. To let it fall would be a disgrace for the army. To let it be captured would be the worst of all possible fates, worse even than defeat. Olik would fight to the death to defend the standard.
The elves had begun to straighten their lines and close together for the march across the field. The minotaur officers were shouting at their warriors to form into regiments and straighten their own lines. Across the field, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and with a great shudder, the three corps of elves began to push forward.
Minotaurs were still coming out of tents, still pulling on pieces of armor, still fumbling for weapons, still tightening straps. Officers and junior leaders were doing everything in their power to get their troops in place.
One minotaur was completely drunk. An officer raced up behind him and bashed him on the back of the head in an attempt to sober him up. The soused minotaur fell facedown into the grass. His officer left him for dead and went back to his unit.
Olik, still watching the advance of the elven army, shook his head and looked over to Klaf. “We have to slow their advance, sir, to allow our troops enough time to get into formation. We don’t even have our skirmish line out yet!”
Klaf shook his head. “We can’t engage them with archery. My archers aren’t in place. Such an attack might even cause them to quicken the pace. What if we …” He hesitated, looked over at his standard-bearer and friend.
“What, sir?”
“What if we offered to parley?” Klaf said.
Olik was shocked. “You can’t be serious, sir? Parley … with elves?” He almost spat the word.
“It will slow them down,” the commander noted.
“True.…” Olik was not yet convinced.
Klaf had made up his mind. “Quick, go back to the tent line and grab some tent canvas and a spear. You and I, along with several warriors, will go forward under a flag of truce. They will honor that. They have to honor that!”
Shaking his head, Olik ran off at a trot. A few moments later, he emerged from a tent with a spear and a ripped section of white cloth. He ran back to the command group.
Olik looked miserable. “Do you really mean to go through with this, sir?”
Klaf turned his attention away from the enemy. He glanced back to see his troops rushing about in confusion.
“If the elves reach us now, they’ll cut us to pieces. Do you know of a better way to stop them?”
Olik said nothing.
“Right, come with me.” Klaf marched forward, through his assembling troops. As he walked past his warriors, he yelled out to some of them, calling them by name, attempting to boost morale.
“Ready to kill some elves today, Rajan?
“Good day for a fight, eh, Bratag?
“Muddy enough for you, you giant lug, Mosex?”
The soldiers waved and shouted. Klaf and his small group moved forward through his own troops’ lines and out toward the enemy. Halfway, Klaf ordered the white banner raised.
“No need to get shot for this,” Klaf said. He looked back at his own army. Units were jostling to get into line. The mercenary human longbowmen hired to provide the army some mode of long range missile fire were too far to the left side. The skirmish line had not yet deployed.