Read Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield for Free Online Page A

loose. The piece had probably came loose in a battle, and the warrior had ripped the plate away, causing most of the damage.
    Hran grunted and threw the work onto the ground. “Bah! Theros, you do this. The work requires smaller hands than mine. Why they want me to waste my talents on repairing armor is beyond me.”
    Theros finished the last of the arrowheads and left them in the pile, ready for shafts. Later he would carry them down to the fletcher to have the shafts and fletching added. That was not a weapons-smith’s job.
    Hran picked up a huge axe head with a broken shaft hanging from its center mount. “Ah! Now this is a fine piece of work! I can see the craftsmanship in this axe head. A new handle and it will be a worthy weapon for a warrior!”
    Theros laughed. He picked up the armor to inspect it. “Of course, you think that. It is obviously one of yours!”
    He turned his attention back to the armor breastplate. Using leather shears, he began cutting away the upper right corner of the inner pad, as well as the right shoulder strapping. The leather was badly corroded from being wet and not properly cared for. It had probably never seensaddle soap in its history. The piece looked as if it had been handed down for several generations, a marvelous piece when it was new—a breastplate fit for a brave, honorable warrior.
    Theros turned to Hran to continue the conversation, but at that moment, Hran began beating the axe handle remnants with a huge hammer and a wood awl. The pounding made further conversation impossible.
    It was nearing the middle of the morning, and the haze was beginning to lift. Even the light drizzle began to subside. Theros could now make out the fletcher’s tent, the commissary tent, and the quartermaster’s wagons. The weather was indeed improving. Minotaur warriors moved in and out of the tents. Human slaves moved about. It was business as usual in the rear guard of an army.
    A large warrior with overly large horns entered the weapons-smith’s tent. Hran did not notice, and kept on hammering at the axe handle remnants. Theros rose. He recognized the minotaur—he was the officer in charge of the rear guard. Huluk was his name and he had a reputation for being a quarrelsome warrior whose only joy was fighting, either in battle or with his fellow soldiers.
    The big warrior shouted over the din. “Is that my armor you are working on, slave? Let me see that.”
    Theros gestured that the right strap wasn’t finished, but the minotaur ignored him. Theros was a slave, after all. Theros held out the half-repaired piece to the officer for his inspection. The minotaur took the breastplate, slapped it on and fumbled for the straps. When he couldn’t find the right strap, he was furious. The minotaur flung the plate back at Theros.
    “This is not good enough! I want this ready in one hour.”
    Hran heard the words over the din and stopped hammering. He turned to watch the officer stomp away through the mud.
    “In Sargas’s name, what was that all about?”
    Theros shrugged. “The commander doesn’t like the work I have done on his breastplate. I tried to tell him it wasn’t finished. He wants it in an hour.”
    “Tell him he will have it when he gets it.”
    Theros smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “I don’t dare tell him that. I’m a slave, or have you forgotten?”
    Hran gazed at him. “Sometimes I think you’re the one who has forgotten, Theros. You speak of ‘we’ minotaurs and ‘our’ army. It almost seems that you consider yourself a minotaur. Why is that?”
    Theros muttered something to the effect that it was probably because he’d lived with the minotaurs for eight years. He’d never told anyone about his meeting with Sargas. He didn’t think he ever would.
    Hran eyed him, evidently guessing there was more to this than Theros’s words. Theros bent over the leather.
    The smith mumbled something about less talk and more work, and went back to pounding out the wood in the