Theros Ironfield

Chapter 32

Theros waited a long time in the shadows beneath the kitchen, long after the strangers had fled, thinking about them and wondering why he felt as if they had brushed their fingers across his soul. He came up with no good answer, and, at length, he shook off his preoccupation, told himself it was all nonsense, and marched back to his smithy. He could tell, by the way the hobgoblins and human guards were running about in every direction-jumping into bushes and sprinting up and down staircases-that the group had made good its escape.

Theros returned to his smithy and was making certain that all was well for the night, when the hobgoblin Glor came dashing up and poked his ugly head in the window.

“Master Ironfeld. You see strange people? They hide in your shop?”

Theros suppressed his smile. “No, Glor, there’s no one hiding in my shop. Come in and look around if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, Master Ironfeld. I have to. Boss says so.”

The hobgoblin looked around the forge, pointedly avoiding dark corners, trapdoors and large barrels-any place where someone might actually hide. The hobgoblin wasn’t looking for a fight, especially with a Solamnic Knight, who-so Glor maintained-was as tall as a minotaur, with a sword the size of a vallenwood.

Theros didn’t want a fight, either, with the knight or anyone else. His fighting days were over. He had become older and wiser, or so he told himself. No need to go looking for glory when there was plenty of money to be made in the honest trade of weapons and armor.

It was known far and wide that if a person wanted a special piece, be it weapon or armor, said person went to Theros Ironfeld. He kept requests confidential, and produced on time and according to specification. With the presence of strange armies up north and rumors-or facts-of war, the demand for weapons was the highest it had been in years. Unfortunately for the citizenry, but fortunately for Theros, it was clear he would have plenty of work for a long time.

He covered the firepit, letting the coals slowly cool and the smoke curl up the chimney, then walked back behind the shop to the large trunk of the vallenwood tree that served as his home. He lived in the lower trunk, completely carved out to provide a living area and small kitchen. He couldn’t explain it, but unlike everyone else in Solace, he never felt secure sleeping in the tops of trees.

Theros lived alone. Some nights he thought of Marissa, the woman he had met in Sanction those many years ago. He had never found another woman that was her equal, though it was not as if he had tried very hard. It seemed that he was not destined to find a perfect mate.

“Once I am wealthy,” he told himself, “I will have my pick of women, to be sure. They will fall all over themselves to have me court them.

“Oh, who am I kidding? Women would just get in the way of my work. It is a patient woman, indeed, who could put up with the dirt and smell and soot and rough, calloused hands of a weapons-smith.”

He entered his home. It was dark inside. Leaving the door open to let in the lambent light, he groped about, looking for a candle. A noise behind him caught his attention.

He turned to see a group of people glide past him in the darkness. The people did not see him. He moved silently to the door to watch their passage. They were heading out of town, traveling north.

He recognized them easily. The half-elf and the knight led the way. None of them made a sound except for an occasional smothered giggle that could have come only from the kender; he was immediately shushed by the gruff scoldings of the dwarf. All in all, they were the most peculiar band of fugitives from justice Theros had ever seen.

And once again, as they passed, unaware of his existence, they touched him.

* * * * *

Early the next day, after a night of fitful and not particularly restful sleep, Theros paid a visit to the High Theocrat’s office. He banged on the door, but there was no reply. He put his ear to the door and listened. Sure enough, he heard voices inside. He banged again.

The door opened. The captain of the guard, a warrior in black leather armor, glared at him. “What do you want?”

“I will have the swords ready soon,” Theros said in a tone that indicated he was angry at being kept waiting. “Where do I have them delivered?”

That was just an excuse. In reality, Theros was consumed with curiosity to know what had happened at the inn last night. Peering over the guard’s head, which was easy for a man of Theros’s height, he could see the High Theocrat sitting in a chair, propped up by pillows and cushions. He looked as pale as a ghoul and he was nursing an arm swathed in bandages.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize. Is the High Theocrat all right?” Theros asked. “Is he injured?”

The captain nodded. “He was assaulted by a band of criminals last night in the Inn of the Last Home. Do you know anything about-”

“Is that Ironfeld?” yelled the High Theocrat from inside. “Bring him in, Captain.”

Theros entered and couldn’t help but stare at the bandaged hand of the High Theocrat. The bandage didn’t quite cover the fingertips; they were blackish and swollen. “What happened, Your Holiness?” Theros asked.

“It was that damned barbarian woman and that blue cryshtal shtaff.” Hederick was obviously using dwarven spirits as a painkiller, for his voice was slurred and his gaze unfocused. “Captain, you know that I have ishued ordersh to confishcate anyone with a blue cryshtal shtaff. With a shtaff of any short. Snort. Sort. How did thish woman shneak into town with it, Captain?” Hederick banged his good hand on the table. “Ansher me that!”

The captain looked long-suffering, as if he already had explained it fifty times and probably would be called upon to explain it fifty more. “When she and her companion and the Solamnic Knight were stopped on the road outside of Solace, the staff appeared to be nothing more than a plain wooden walking stick, High Theocrat. We still have a warrant for the arrest of any of the party you described. If they show themselves, they will answer to me, and then to you, High Theocrat.”

Hederick grunted with displeasure. The soldier bowed his head in apologetic submission, all the while rolling his eyes when he thought the High Theocrat wasn’t looking.

“What do you know of thish, Ironfeld?” Hederick demanded.

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Theros said, apologizing in his turn. “I know nothing at all. Did … did the staff cause that injury to your hand?”

“No!” Hederick drew himself up with pride. “I did that myshelf.”

Theros stared. He knew a severe burn when he saw one-even the tips of one. It looked as if Hederick had stuck his hand into the white-hot coals of the forge.

“You … did that yourself, Your Holiness?”

“Yesh, but she made me!” Hederick was frothing at the mouth. “That witch!”

“I see,” Theros said, though he didn’t.

“All right, then, off you go!” Hederick scowled. “If you shee any of them, report to me. And don’t dawdle over those shwords.” Hederick reached out his good hand for the dwarven spirits.

The captain opened the door and ushered Theros out.

* * * * *

It was a week before the High Theocrat returned instructions to Theros on what to do with the swords.

Upon completion, Theros returned, once again, to the High Theocrat’s office.

Hederick appeared to be feeling better, though his hand was still bandaged and would, Theros knew from experience, bear the scars of that encounter for life.

Theros said that the swords were ready for delivery, mentioned the agreed-upon price, and then couldn’t help trying to satisfy his curiosity.

“Your Holiness, who are these weapons intended for? They are too unwieldy for your guards.”

“These are official secrets,” said Hederick, looking about to make certain that they weren’t overheard. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but …”

He was too self-important to keep anything to himself. He motioned Theros closer.

“You’ve heard of Lord Verminaard and his campaign against the god-cursed elves?”

“Yes,” Theros said in a calm, even tone. “I heard that when he was finished with the elves he would move on to Solace.”

“I am a personal friend of Lord Verminaard,” Hederick claimed. “And he has told me several times that he will most certainly leave Solace in peace, under my expert care and guidance.”

Theros certainly hoped this was true. “Are the swords for the forces in the north or for Verminaard’s troops? I ask because the weapons are so-”

The High Theocrat hushed him. “Quiet there, Master Ironfeld. As I said, these are official secrets. These weapons are going to the war effort. You need not worry about who they are for. That’s a secret! All you need to know is that you have been paid and paid well for your time and effort.”

To emphasize his words, the High Theocrat handed Theros a bulging felt bag.

“The little extra is for your fine work, Master Ironfeld.”

Theros took the money, resisted the temptation to look in the bag. He trusted it contained good steel, not worthless copper or what was more commonly known as kender-coin. “Thank you, High Theocrat. I am most grateful for your patronage. And now, if you could tell me where you want these weapons delivered?”

Theros hoped to get a glimpse of the buyer.

The High Theocrat smiled sourly. “Glor will pick them up. Have them ready by noon sun, Master Ironfeld.” He made a gesture. Theros was dismissed.

Returning to his shop, Theros began to crate up the weapons for transport. So these weapons were meant for Verminaard. Theros thought back to Gilthanas and Vermala and the other elves. Perhaps one of these very swords would be used to slay his friends. In effect, Theros might prove to be the death of those he had worked so hard to save.

Bah! That was ludicrous. Theros had done a job, nothing more. He had to earn a living. Gilthanas himself could not fault Theros for that.

But it would be easy to follow that imbecile Glor when he left town, Theros thought.

Realizing what he was plotting, Theros snorted. He was trying to recapture the excitement of youth! He had no real need to know anything about the new owners of the weapons he had just made, other than that they had paid the High Theocrat a large sum, and he himself had made a good salary.

“Silly, damned silly,” he thought. “You’ll get yourself whacked over the head with a club if you’re not careful, Theros Ironfeld.” He firmly intended to remain in the forge.

* * * * *

Right on time, Glor came with the wagon. He and Theros loaded the three cases of swords onto the back of the flat wagon. Glor tied the crates down with ropes so that they would remain stable during the ride across the ruts and bumps of the road.

Glor mounted the wagon. The hobgoblin was in a good mood, happy that the troublemakers had vanished without a trace.

Theros waited until Glor had driven the horse and wagon a good hundred yards down the road, then started off on foot, following behind, keeping to the shadows of the trees on the side of the road.

As it was, Theros needn’t have bothered to hide. Glor never once looked back. Theros followed the slow-moving wagon up the road and out of town, to where farmers’ fields stretched out far into the distance.

Theros lost track of the wagon twice, as gentle, rolling hills obscured his line of sight. When he crested the second hill, he saw the wagon stopped at the bottom, off to the side of the road. He was so close that even a numbskull like Glor couldn’t miss seeing him.

Theros ducked hastily into the brush. He flattened down on his belly and crawled forward to get a better look at Glor’s customers. By the time he was near enough to see, the wagon was empty and Glor was starting to turn the empty horse and wagon around.

“Damn!” Theros muttered.

He had missed the transaction. Whoever had picked up those weapons must have disappeared into the woods. Once the wagon was turned, Glor stopped again, gathered up the three crates, now empty, and carried them back.

Still, Theros knew his suspicions had been correct. The crated weapons weren’t going to be used for the war in the north. If they were, they would have been kept in their packing cases and shipped on ahead. No, the weapons had just been delivered for more urgent needs closer to home.

Theros remained hiding in the brush as Glor and the wagon passed by. Again Theros followed the hobgoblin, this time back into Solace. When Theros entered town, he climbed the stairs of the nearest tree and ran across the catwalks, heading for his smithy.

Glor had already pulled the wagon up in front of the shop. He went inside. A minute later, the hobgoblin came out, looking around and shouting for the smith. Theros descended the nearest tree.

“Over here, Glor! Are you looking for me?” Theros asked casually.

“Oh, yes, Master Ironfeld. I have wood boxes that swords come in. Where you want them?”

“Put them behind the shop, will you, Glor?” He tossed Glor a silver piece.

The hobgoblin caught it, grinned from hairy ear to hairy ear.

“Were your customers pleased with the swords?” Theros asked, fishing for information.

“Me don’t know. They don’t tell Glor. They think me slave. They say ‘do this’ and ‘do that’ and me supposed to hop. I go now. Drink and eat.”

The hobgoblin left and Theros went back into his shop, not much wiser than when he’d started out. He was breathing heavily and sweating. Glor hadn’t seemed to suspect anything, however.

“I’m out of shape,” Theros muttered to himself. “Haven’t been in the field toughening up like in the old days! And I made the mistake of letting that damned hobgoblin get too far ahead of me.”

He caught himself smiling, though, and was forced to admit that he’d actually enjoyed his clandestine excursion. It took willpower to go back to his mundane business.

* * * * *

At sundown, Theros headed over to the Inn of the Last Home and ordered his usual-spiced potatoes and salt pork. The meal was a good one, and the ale up to its usual fine standards. The talk at the inn was the same as ever-rumors of war to the north. Some told tales of evil creatures, the likes of which had never been seen before on Krynn, swarming down on unsuspecting villagers. Others claimed their friends had family who knew others who had heard that dragons were attacking the North Keep.

Theros chuckled to himself. He had been up in that area with the armies of Dargon Moorgoth and with Clan Brekthrek. He had never seen a dragon, nor any other creature. He ate and drank in silence, listening to the talk that customers with common sense termed “kender tales.”

Later in the evening, Theros paid his tab and went back to his forge to take a last look around before retiring for the night. Unlocking the door, he went inside, not bothering to light any of the lamps. He could see well enough by the glow of the coals in the firepit, the lights in the town square and the reflected light of the moons.

All seemed fine. He turned to leave and noticed that he had not locked the back shutters. He pulled in the shutters, and as he did so, he thought he heard a rustling sound back in the bushes where he had seen-or thought he had seen-an elf the week before.

Elf or hooligan, kender or hobgoblin, Theros didn’t like the idea of anyone snooping around his forge and his stock of swords, daggers and finely tooled scabbards. He bolted the shutters and went back into the main room in the smithy. Finding his old leather webbing, he strapped it on. Theros went back to the display board, unclipped the massive battle-axe from the center of the wall, and slid it into the back holster.

By Sargas, he was going to find out what was going on!