Theros Ironfield

Book Four
Chapter 26

“Friend or foe?”

The elf was insistent. The arrow from the elf’s bow-pointed at Theros’s heart-made it doubly so.

“What do you mean?” Theros hedged, catching his breath. The elf had taken him completely off guard, nearly scared him half to death. “I don’t understand.”

“Answer me now or die where you stand.”

It was obvious to Theros that the elf was looking for only one of two possible answers.

Theros let his pack slide from his back to the ground. He showed both palms forward, to indicate that he was unarmed. “I guess I’m a friend.”

The elf nodded, but did not drop his aim. “Good, now prove it.”

“What? How am I going to-” Theros halted. It had been the wrong thing to say. He could see the elf’s eyes squint as if he were just about ready to loose his arrow. Theros waved his hands. “Wait! Wait! What do you want me to do?”

Theros had been traveling the road leading to Solace. Night was falling and he hadn’t yet found a place to camp. He had intended to move a few yards into the woods, find a stream and a good place to build a fire, and bed down for the night.

He hadn’t been able to find water, so he had continued on into the woods. He had traveled only about a hundred yards when the elf had leapt up from a bush and aimed an arrow at his heart.

The elf whistled like a goatsucker bird. Four other elves appeared, jumping up from behind bushes and trees. All had bows, all bows had arrows and all the arrows were aimed at Theros.

“Look, I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Theros said. He was wearing a battle-axe in a holster on his back, but he did not have it drawn. He would be dead five times over if he reached for the weapon.

The first elf lowered his bow and came forward. He circled around Theros slowly, examining him. Taking Theros’s duffel bag, the elf opened the drawstring on top. He quickly rummaged through the contents. He did not, apparently, find anything of interest.

“Remove your axe and put it down,” the elf commanded.

Theros reached back and flipped the axe forward in a well-practiced move. The elf backed up, thinking that Theros was about to attack. Instead, Theros tossed the weapon onto the ground in front of him. He looked up to see the other elves relax the tension in their bows. They did not remove the arrows, but they did bring their bows down.

“That proves I’m not an enemy. I’m just passing through,” Theros said.

“It proves nothing, human, except that you fear for your life. And with good cause. You will come with us.”

The elf slung his bow over his shoulder and picked up the large battle-axe. He staggered, nearly dropped it. After a brief struggle, he managed to heft the weapon and half-carry, half-drag it.

Theros shrugged and picked up his pack. He wasn’t in any hurry to get to Solace. He had no appointment, no one to see, no one waiting for him. In fact, he knew very little about Solace. He knew only that most people referred to the town as a place where people went when they had nowhere else to go. Perhaps people like that could use a good blacksmith. It sounded like a business opportunity to Theros. He followed the elf.

The party of five elves and Theros wound through the now-darkening woods. The sun was setting in the west, the red ball of fire just barely visible through the trees of the great Qualinesti forest.

They walked for almost an hour. By the time they reached their destination, the forest was thick with night’s shadows. They entered an ancient elven village built into the trees. The buildings were actually part of the trees, as if they had been woven into shapes the elves wanted. Theros had never seen anything like it.

The village was bathed in light coming from several firepits in the center of a circle. All of the buildings surrounded this circle, as far as Theros could see. The entire village probably held no more than a hundred people, or so he guessed.

They entered the largest building, which was made out of the largest tree. Inside, the tree had been hollowed into a room. A narrow spiral staircase, carved out of the tree, led upward.

“Leave your belongings here, and come with me.”

The elf began to climb the spiral staircase. Theros followed. The other four elves came after him, all keeping wary eyes on him, their hands on their weapons. He considered trying to escape. He could take out the elf above him with a single blow of his fist, then kick the elves below him, send them tumbling down the stairs. He would be out into the night before the elves knew what hit them. He considered this, then let the plan drop. He was curious to see what the elves wanted with him.

Years ago, when he had been a slave of the minotaurs, he had fought elves in the Silvanesti forest. He had seen how the minotaurs had been beaten in battle and then humiliated in defeat. He had no love for Silvanesti elves. These were Qualinesti, their cousins. He assumed they would be the same, but these elves were different. They had the same delicate features, but their dress, their language, even their weapons were different from the Silvanesti.

The stairs led to a large circular room about fifteen yards in diameter. Two elves sat in chairs next to a stone fireplace that had been built into the wooden wall. A third sat behind a desk that appeared to have been crafted from the side of the tree.

Theros stopped in the center of the room. The elf who had captured him placed the battle-axe on the desk, then began to talk with the elf behind the desk in what Theros assumed was the Qualinesti tongue.

The elf behind the desk nodded, and the five elves who had been with Theros since his capture left the room, heading back down the spiral staircase.

“Sit down,” the elf said, speaking Common.

Theros took the chair offered. There was no point in jumping around, demanding his release. He would learn more from just sitting and listening.

The elf continued. His voice was cool. It was obviously an effort for him to converse with a human. “I am called Gilthanas. I am a member of the royal family of Qualinesti. What is your name?”

Theros looked around the room. The two elves by the fire wore leather armor with metal cuirasses. Each had an ornately carved elven sword laid across his lap. They watched Theros intently. These must be the bodyguards.

He had done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide. “I am called Theros Ironfeld,” he stated simply.

“What are you doing in Qualinesti territory, Master Ironfeld?” The elf spoke in clipped tones, but his grasp of the language was excellent.

“I’m traveling to Solace. I’ve heard that it is a good place to do business.”

The elf raised an eyebrow. “What business would that be, Master Ironfeld?”

“I am a smith. I craft both weapons and armor. I’ve heard that there’s a lot of demand for such items. I think I can make a reasonable living.”

Theros’s answer seemed to intrigue Gilthanas. He spoke with the other two elves by the fire. They each responded, but Theros could not make out any of what they said.

Finally, Gilthanas turned his attention back to Theros. “Tell me about your history. Where have you practiced your trade, and for whom?”

Theros thought for a moment, trying to decide what to say and what to keep quiet. Most of his story was, he realized, not suitable for elven pointed ears.

After he had left Moorgoth’s army, he had returned to Sanction to try to find Marissa, only to discover that she had vanished. She had disappeared the very day Moorgoth’s soldiers had marched out of town.

“We thought she had run off with the army,” the innkeeper told Theros. “She got a message from one of Moorgoth’s men that day. She left and never came back.”

Theros was sick at heart and outraged. He remembered Moorgoth’s look of displeasure when Marissa had publicly kissed Theros. Theros would never be able to prove it, but he had no doubt that Moorgoth was responsible for Marissa’s disappearance. There was nothing now to keep Theros in Sanction. He made a brief stop at Yuri’s family’s home, to tell them that their son had found a girl, was going to be married. That was all he told them.

He was leaving the town, bitterly disappointed, when he ran headlong into one of the Sanction guardsmen, formerly a customer. Moorgoth had left troops behind to rule Sanction in his stead.

“Say, Ironfeld.” The guardsman recognized him. “Didn’t I hear you joined up with Moorgoth? What are you doing back in town? His army is way up north.”

Theros mumbled something about Moorgoth having found another smithy, tried to get away.

The guardsman attached himself like a leech. “Now isn’t this fortunate? You know Yagath? He’s been looking for a good smith for his army. He told me he’d pay well to find one. Suppose I give him your name?”

“Suppose you don’t,” Theros said.

Yagath was a southern barbarian whose mounted horde descended on its enemies like a fiery wind, left nothing behind. Theros wanted no part of any more armies, especially not Yagath’s. He started to walk away.

“Suppose I let Moorgoth know where he can find you.” The guardsman sneered.

Theros turned, stared at the man.

“I heard you deserted,” the guardsman said.

“Then why don’t you turn me in?”

“Because Yagath’ll give me more for you alive than Moorgoth would dead. Like I said, Yagath needs a smith.”

Theros was given the choice of signing on with Yagath, or being turned over to Moorgoth’s men. He had no money, no way to earn any money. The woman he loved had vanished. She’d either been sold into slavery or was, if she was lucky, dead. Theros figured he had nothing to lose.

* * * * *

Theros worked for Yagath for five years, setting up a base camp and running a smithy from a mountain valley near Neraka. Throughout that time, armies were massing in the Neraka and Sanction areas. Many secrets were boiling in Yagath’s army, but Theros was blind, deaf and dumb. He made no enemies. He made no friends. He kept to himself, did his work, took his pay. He had learned what could go wrong when he stuck his nose into other men’s affairs.

Theros concentrated on his craft. The armor and swords he produced were second to none.

Five years after he had started working for Yagath, the war, which would eventually be called the War of the Lance, started. Most of the fighting forces, under the leadership of a man known as Ariakan, moved north or east, to conquer the more populated areas. Yagath’s army went with them, never to return.

Yagath was dead, shot by an elf sharpshooter. The rest of the army had joined other forces. Theros packed up and went on his way. He felt much as he had when the minotaurs freed him. He was pleased to be his own man again, but what was he to do with himself now?

He was headed back to Sanction, when he stumbled across a force of hobgoblins marching north. He had drawn his axe, prepared to fight for dear life, only to find that the hobgoblins treated him as if he were some sort of god. They carried him, an honored guest, into their camp.

Clan Brekthrek was moving to a secure part of Nordmaar, and they needed a smith.

“We have heard much good of you,” the clan leader said, poking Theros in the chest. “You come. Work for us.”

Theros refused. He had little use for hobgoblins, considering them uncouth, crude and smelly.

The clan leader offered Theros the sum of one thousand steel pieces if he would join them.

“And,” said the hobgoblin, with a leer, “I won’t tell Baron Moorgoth where he can find you.”

Theros rued the day he had ever become involved with Moorgoth. The man had cast an evil curse on Theros’s life.

Theros became a member of Clan Brekthrek. The hobgoblins had never seen such finely crafted weapons and armor as Theros made. In fact, the armor and swords were too finely crafted for the clan leader to waste on his goblins. The rank and file of Clan Brekthrek needed no more than crude swords, spears and leather jerkins for armor. The hobgoblin sold or bartered most of the weapons to the humans in the armies of Ariakan.

The hobgoblin garrison in Nordmaar grew wealthy. Theros made certain that he was included in the cut. He converted all of his steel into gems, and kept them with him at all times. He hoped that someday he would find the chance to get away, to travel somewhere and start life over.

Theros left the clan two years later, when they moved to garrison duty inside Neraka. Theros was not allowed to remain with the army, though the hobgoblin had begged hard to keep his smith. Very few humans were allowed into Neraka. If Brekthrek knew why, which Theros doubted, the hobgoblin refused to tell. Theros heard hints of strange and terrible deeds performed in the temples of Neraka. He had no idea what they were, and didn’t care. It was none of his business.

It wasn’t a very good story to tell these elves. If they discovered he’d worked for hobgoblins, those ornate swords would be stuck in his heart.

“I’m from Nordmaar,” Theros said. “My father was a fisherman. I was taken captive by minotaurs, worked as a slave to them on their ships for years.”

Was he wrong, or did the elf appear suddenly extremely interested?

“I was with the minotaur Third Army that attacked Silvanesti. I was freed by a Silvanesti elf champion. I remain grateful to him.”

It was the truth-the bare bones of the truth. The elves listened, made no comment. He couldn’t tell if they believed him or not.

“I’ve knocked around a bit, here and there. I’m traveling south, looking for a good place to set up business. Bad things going on up in the north. Armies marching. Even rumors of dragons.”

He smiled as he said that. The rumors always made people laugh.

The elves did not smile.

“What brought you here?” Gilthanas asked.

“Everywhere I went, I heard about Solace. Travelers I met on the roads all seemed to be going to Solace or coming from Solace. The name of the town drew me.” Theros shrugged. “I’ve led a rough life. I could use some solace.” Again, a small joke. Again, the elves didn’t seem to think it was funny.

He continued. “I passed through Thorbardin, traveled through Pax Tharkas. Everywhere, I kept hearing talk of war. I don’t like it.” That was, indeed, the truth. He was sick to death of war, sick of the fighting and the killing.

Gilthanas looked over to the other two elves in the room. Both nodded. He turned his attention back to Theros.

“Master Ironfeld, to be honest, when we first brought you here, we thought you were an agent for Verminaard.”

“Verminaard?” Theros repeated the name. “I heard of him. Some sort of new cleric, isn’t he?”

“He is a cleric of evil and the commander of the army in Pax Tharkas.” Gilthanas was grim, stern. “This Verminaard has only one stated goal. He wants to eradicate all of the Qualinesti elves.”

Gilthanas watched for Theros’s reaction.

Theros grunted. “Not even the minotaurs wanted to do that. They wanted only to establish a colony.”

This time, Gilthanas smiled. He gazed at Theros, somewhat perplexed. “I have a question. You might consider it strange.”

Theros shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“Why did the elf champion free you, Master Ironfeld? Ordinarily, our Silvanesti cousins would kill a human as swiftly as they would a minotaur. I find this very mysterious.”

Theros thought for a moment. “It was a fair battle, an honorable defeat. I spared his life, when I could have killed him. He repaid me in kind.”

“I see.” Gilthanas regarded Theros thoughtfully. Theros had the idea that the elf did, indeed, see. Perhaps he saw more from that incident than Theros did.

Theros stifled a yawn. He wished they’d get on with this. He needed sleep in order to be back on the road to Solace in the morning.

Gilthanas stood and walked around to the other side of the desk. The other two elves stood also. “You will be our guest for this evening, Master Ironfeld. Hirinthas and Vermala will show you to your room for the night.”

This was not an invitation to be declined. Theros was unarmed, alone, in an armed camp. He shrugged and accepted the offer. As long as the elves provided him with food and a warm place to sleep, he would go along with the plan-for the night, at least. He’d slept in much worse places.

Hirinthas and Vermala led Theros back down to the entry area. Theros glanced about for his belongings. They were gone.

“Do not worry, Master Ironfeld,” said Vermala, “your possessions will be returned to you in the morning.”

The elves led Theros across the center village circle to another building made of a hollowed-out tree. He was taken inside, led up another set of winding stairs that reached a trapdoor at the top. Vermala opened the door.

“Here is your room, Master Ironfeld. We will retrieve you in the morning.”

Theros climbed inside. The elves closed the door behind him. Theros looked around. The room was clean, neat, with a straw-covered bed on one side and a small stand with a washbasin on the other. A low table beside the bed had a bowl of bread and fruit. He grimaced. He’d lived with the minotaurs long enough to have a taste for meat, but he was well aware that elves rarely ate animal flesh.

He ate, then washed. He had been traveling for the better part of a week, sleeping out in the open. A bed was a luxury.

He slept quite soundly through the night.