Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield Read online

  Theros couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Dragons, small red dragons that seemed to be made of flame, were crawling off the sword that now glowed red in the heat of the blazing fire.

  He shut his eyes, rubbed them, looked again. The dragons were still there … scuttling across the white-hot coals. One jumped out of the fire, landed on a wooden bench. The dragon vanished, changing to flame. The bench began to smolder and smoke.

  The firepit was filled with the tiny dragons now, hundreds and hundreds of them. They dashed up the wooden beams that supported the roof. They crawled to the worktable, dropped among the tools. And everything they touched—even metal—burst into flame.

  “Come away, master! Come away!” called Theros’s apprentice. “There’s nothing you can do! Give up!”

  “By Sargas!” Theros roared. “Never!”

  Then one of the dragons jumped on his leg. It burned through his long leather apron in just an instant, touching his flesh. The pain was excruciating, far worse than any burn Theros had ever received.

  He felt himself starting to black out …

  From the Creators of the

  DRAGONLANCE® Saga

  WARRIORS

  Knights of the Crown

  Roland Green

  Maquesta Kar-Thon

  Tina Danieli

  Knights of the Sword

  Roland Green

  Theros Ironfeld

  Don Perrin

  THEROS IRONFELD

  DRAGONLANCE® The Warriors • Volume IV

  ©1996 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Jeff Easley

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6338-6

  640-A1720000-001-EN

  For customer service, contact:

  U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

  U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: [email protected]

  Europe: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: [email protected]

  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Book Two

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Book Three

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Book Four

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Book Five

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About the Author

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  The town was a tiny speck on the side of a pristine shoreline of azure and green. A battered war barge glided slowly toward the coastline, the vessel barely under sail. It was obvious that the barge and its crew of minotaurs and human slaves had recently seen action. Only one sail remained aloft, and most of the rigging was down, tangled in masses on the decking below. The mainmast had been shattered, and its remnants lay strewn about, making life difficult for the crew.

  “Port Five!”

  A minotaur barked course corrections to the wheel. He stood on the forecastle, staring at the tiny dot of civilization through a spyglass. The spyglass symbolized life for the vessel. Originally of human design—possibly from as far back as the Cataclysm—the glass was just under two feet in length, made of brass. It counter-twisted to focus the two lenses on distances as great as a mile or more.

  The markings on the side were foreign to the minotaur, but he didn’t care what they said or meant. The device did what it needed to do. It magnified items in the distance, warned of the approach of either enemy or victim, and that was what the minotaur captain wanted. The price had been right, too. It had been part of the booty from a raid years ago. Everything on the barge had either been stolen in raids, or was rigged as needed while at sea.

  The minotaurs were the masters of the vessel. They were the sailors and the warriors, the heart and the muscle and the brains. They did not swab decks or empty the slop buckets. The drudge work was handled by the slave contingent—humans, also taken as booty. Some slaves escaped, some slaves died while fighting or being disciplined, but that never worried the minotaurs. There would always be more humans. They bred like maggots.

  The barge shuddered its way through the course correction. On deck, thirty minotaur warriors prepared for battle. Some strapped on leather armor, while others adjusted straps holding grappling ropes or scabbards containing all manner of weaponry, from Solamnic long swords to Seeker flails to elven dirks. Still others sharpened the blades of their axes or the points of their morning stars. The town ahead was unknown to the minotaur ship of war, but it was on the north coast of Nordmaar, and that made it highly likely to be a human settlement.

  Slowly the barge approached land. On the shore, several humans had noticed the curious vessel, were pointing and shouting. It was not uncommon for a ship to be at sea on a day such as this, but landing before noon sun was curious, and the ship was of a strange design. It was a long barge, with a fore and aft castle rising at either end of the long, flat deck. The sails were arranged on two evenly spaced mainmasts rooted in the center of the ship. A third mast jutted out of the front at a jaunty angle. Here, the steering was adjusted, in conjunction with the huge rudder on the aft of the ship.

  Ship designs were very different in Nordmaar. The ships were shorter, deeper. They were primarily fishing vessels, designed to drag huge nets and to process the fish once the catch was brought on board. They were not even close to resembling the huge bargelike vessel that approached the shore this day.

  A small crowd, mostly women, had gathered on the dock. Their men were out fishing, the minotaur captain knew well, having made certain that the small fishing fleet they had passed earlier had not noticed them. The minotaur ship had closed to within a hundred yards of the harbor entrance before someone had sense enough to call for a town guardsman. The guardsman could see it was a battered warship, and further,
that the horned creatures on the bow were not a group of tourists to the quaint fishing locale.

  Far too late, the alarm was sounded. A bell in the tower of the town meeting hall began to toll. Moving with ponderous slowness, the barge smashed straight into the first pier. All thirty minotaur warriors rushed forward to the barge’s bow and leapt onto the pier.

  An ancient human stood inside a provisions shop located near the pier. He held a short bow and beside him rested a quiver of fine arrows—all on display for sale moments before. Taking careful aim, he loosed his first shot and the lead minotaur came crashing down, the staff of an arrow protruding from between his eyes.

  “Take that, you damned cow,” the old man yelled.

  He drew another arrow, and fired. An advancing minotaur fell not twenty feet from the window of the shop.

  “I hope your damned cow god is waiting for you,” the old man shouted.

  Furious, having expected little or no resistance, the minotaurs rushed the shop. The first reached the window just as the archer straightened from retrieving another arrow. The minotaur’s battle-axe came crashing down, catching the old man in the back, shattering his spine. Blood spattered the minotaur, who leaned back and howled with a killing lust.

  “And you take that, you godless wretch,” the minotaur grunted in his own language.

  Closer to the center of the village, the guardsman who had sounded the alert stood his ground, along with a comrade. A group of minotaurs quickly encircled them. The minotaurs did not press the fight, although they had overwhelming numbers. The first guardsman lunged at the lead minotaur with his short sword. The minotaur jumped back, parrying clumsily. Several minotaurs made gestures to the guardsmen, indicative of dropping their weapons.

  “They want us to surrender,” said one, half-gagging from the stench of the hair-covered bodies.

  “They want slaves,” said his companion, still jabbing away with his sword.

  “We’re smarter than these bastards. We’ll escape,” said the first. “It beats dying.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” said the second.

  The guardsmen looked around quickly, in vain, for any support. Seeing none, they lowered their swords. The ranking minotaur warrior stepped forward and took the weapons. The two men were manacled and hauled back to the ship.

  By noon sun, the town had capitulated. All inhabitants who had not escaped (and there were very few that did) were rounded up at the pier. The few men—mostly merchants and teenage boys—were separated from the women, who were to be left behind. Minotaurs did not fancy human women. Hornless, snoutless and hairless, human women were hopelessly ugly. The women were given charge of the younger children—with one exception.

  A young child, a boy no more than ten years of age, glared in outrage at the minotaur who shoved him to the women’s side. The boy marched over to stand with the men. Two of the minotaurs guarding the women began to laugh at the audacity of the young lad.

  Speaking broken Common, the minotaur ship commander yelled at the boy, “You! Go back to mama!”

  The boy shook his head, did not move.

  “You! Yes, you!” The minotaur poked the boy with the butt of his axe. “Go back. I have no need for cubs. Slaves not plenty here, males out fishing. Take only ten males here. You not one of them.”

  The boy didn’t budge. His eyes cast down at the parched wood of the pier decking, the young boy said in a low voice, “I want to go with you.”

  He raised his eyes, then looked the minotaur captain in the face. “When I was younger, my mother went to the sky, and my father hates me for causing her to die. I will go and be a slave and work your mighty ship for you.”

  One of the women screamed, and tried to rush over to snatch the boy to her side. The minotaur warriors caught her, threw her back.

  “Take the cub, Captain,” called one of the minotaurs in their own language. “He has more spirit than most of these wretches!”

  “I was like that myself, when I was his age,” the captain remarked to his lieutenant. “Very well, cub! I take you to sharpen my blades, clean my thongs and boots. You are now my personal slave.”

  Eight men and the boy, whose name was Theros, were marched aboard the barge and taken down to join the two guardsmen that were already below. The minotaur warriors, under the direction of the ship’s captain and mates, raided the town to collect rope, lumber and sailcloth for repairs, along with drinking water and provisions. They took anything that looked useful, and hauled it all aboard. They weren’t paying for anything, anyway.

  Within two hours, the barge was loaded and under way. Its damage was unrepaired, but the minotaurs now had fresh, new slaves and provisions. The men of the town would not return from their fishing until sundown. By that time, the minotaur ship would be easily six hours ahead of any chase—if there were any chase. Fishing folk were no match for even a damaged minotaur war barge with a full complement of warriors. Smarter, cooler heads in the town would counsel against pursuit.

  A town can lose only so many men in one day.

  Chapter 2

  The ship headed straight out to sea. As soon as it was out of sight of the coastline, the crew went to work. Minotaur warrior and human slave worked side by side to repair the damaged ship. The second mast’s sails were raised, to give the ship some forward motion, but the sails flapped and fluttered in the light breeze. No one paid much attention to them. All focused instead on the damaged masts. The sailors did not even bother to steer. They lashed the rudder and headed north.

  The new “recruits” were held prisoner on the forecastle. Each man was given to another, more experienced slave, who taught the first the ropes. In this way, the new slaves were quickly adopted into the fold, as it were.

  No one paid any attention to Theros, who was not strong enough to be of much use. Told to keep out of the way or he’d be thrown overboard, he sat on a pile of tangled rope and watched.

  Two of the human slaves had attained some measure of status on the vessel. They were, Theros noticed, the only two slaves with beards. These two spoke the minotaur language and directed the repairs to the ship. The minotaurs appeared to treat them with a small amount of respect, more than they gave the other humans.

  One was a tall man with dusky black skin and a graying beard and mustache. He was strong, well muscled, and might have been from Theros’s own village, for he looked vaguely familiar to the boy. There had been minotaur raids in the past, but Theros was too young to remember much about them. He remembered the stories, though. Now the villagers of Nordmaar would have a new story to tell.

  The second human was a white man, with skin tanned as brown as the hide from a mule. His beard was bushy and full, reddish-blond in color. His eyes were blue, so blue that one could see their color from the opposite end of the ship.

  Under the direction of the first man, the minotaurs and the slaves had lifted the downed forward mainmast from the central deck of the ship, and using pulleys and ropes, pulled it back into an upright position. Four brawny minotaur warriors wrestled the butt end of the beam onto the remnants of the mast that were still in place and jammed them together. Weaving in and out between the four minotaur warriors, four humans—under the direction of the bearded, black-skinned man—began nailing in supports to connect the two pieces. Next, they lathered the seam with a strong-smelling tar, then wrapped the beam with rope.

  The rope was pulled as tight as possible, the minotaurs tugging on it until it had been coiled around and around the beam, as high as a man was tall. Next, the minotaurs added a lower crossbeam to the mast, and secured it to the sides of the ship, immediately giving it better stability.

  While all this commotion was going on, the two guardsmen edged over to the side of the deck, near where Theros was seated, and began to whisper to each other.

  “Jump for it,” one was saying.

  The red-bearded human loomed up behind them.

  “Get back to work, you lubbers!” he shouted roughly.

  “Loo
k, mister, you’re a slave like us. Let’s jump for it. We’re still close enough to swim to shore.”

  “I said, ‘Get back to work!’ ” the red-bearded man snarled, reinforcing his order with a fist to the jaw that sent the guardsman reeling.

  Bruised and bloody, the guardsman picked himself up off the deck, and went back to work.

  Repairs progressed throughout the ship. Minotaurs and humans worked alongside each other, except for the captain and his officers. Most of the time the officers remained in the cabins below the forecastle, but occasionally they would come out to check things with either of the two human foremen. The ship continued to sail north, out to sea.

  When the sun was nearing the edge of the horizon, the black-skinned foreman climbed up onto the forecastle. Removing the cup from the side of the water barrel, he took a long draw. He replaced the cup back on its hook on the side of the barrel, and sat down, inspecting the work with a satisfied air. Theros, bored, stood up.

  “What do I get to do?” he asked, excited.

  The man looked up at the boy, shook his head and motioned for him to sit back down. Theros, disappointed, pretended he didn’t understand.

  “I’m stronger than I look. What can I—”

  The man frowned and cut Theros off with a curt hiss and a sharp hand motion. He pointed emphatically to the ropes where Theros had been sitting. Theros had not been much in the habit of obeying his father, who cared little one way or the other. Theros started to make another protest, but—at a look from the man—the boy swallowed his words and returned meekly to his seat.

  As the sun sank into the water, the minotaur warriors went below. Through the open hatch, Theros could smell cooked fish and meat. He hadn’t eaten since morning.

  “I’m hungry,” Theros announced. “When do we eat?”

  The foreman did not answer. He sat staring at his hands. He might have been dozing, but his eyes were open. The sound of booted feet, clomping right behind him, caused Theros to turn. A minotaur warrior marched up to Theros, grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him to his feet. The warrior, not used to the lack of weight in a human child, nearly threw the boy across the deck. Recovering, the minotaur kept fast hold of Theros, lifted him off his feet, let him dangle about four feet in the air.