Theros Ironfield

Chapter 34

Theros went out into a night be would never forget, a night of horror and terror, a night of pain and suffering. There were so many homeless, so many injured, so many dying, that he felt helpless to know where to begin. He stood in the bright light of the burning fires and stared, anger flaring in his heart hotter than the fiercest forge fire.

A soldier knows his duty before going into battle. A soldier knows the risks and makes his peace with them. Here were defenseless children, burned and bleeding. Here were new mothers, clutching dead babies to their breasts. Here were old men, driven from their dwellings. Here were shopkeepers, with lifetimes invested in their small holdings, whose fortunes had vanished in a whoosh of flame. These people had done nothing and they were the victims. What kind of monster made war upon the innocent?

A Seeker guard-looking dazed and bewildered-told Theros that a command center, of sorts, had been established at the Inn of the Last Home. The inn had been lifted from its perch in the tree by the claws of a dragon and deposited on the ground. Men were busy shoring up sagging timbers, doing what they could to make the building stable, for it was the only place large enough to shelter the wounded. Theros went to find out who was in charge, to offer his help. The first person he saw was Hederick, the High Theocrat.

“Your Holiness!” Theros shouted. “We need guidance! Tell us what to do.”

But Hederick, shocked at the treachery of those he had considered allies, sat mumbling to himself, tears streaming down his soot-stained face. Theros shook his head and was on his way to assist with the carpentry work, when the barmaid, Tika, grabbed hold of him.

She was frightened, but managing to remain calm in the midst of the turmoil around her. She was carrying a basin of bloodstained water, in which floated used bandages.

“They need men to fight the fires,” she told Theros.

He wasted no words, but left immediately.

Many of the single dwellings in the mighty vallenwoods were burning. The people feared that the fires, unless contained, would consume the entire forest, and with it, all of Solace. Men and women formed bucket brigades, drawing water from the well near the Inn of the Last Home. Under Theros’s direction, teams were formed to drive wagons to Crystalmir lake and bring water back in large barrels. Working through the long, exhausting, dreadful night, they at last brought the blazes under control.

The draconian soldiers, along with those wearing maroon coats and those in black armor, stood around and watched and laughed. It was all Theros could do to keep from wringing their necks.

A cry drew Theros’s attention. A woman, standing in front of a burning dwelling perched high among the branches, was holding a baby in her arms. Citizens below had spread out a blanket like a safety net and were urging her to drop the baby and then to jump to escape the fire.

At that moment, a soldier in a maroon coat walked up, and with his sword, slit the blanket up the middle.

“Now jump, lady!” he called, laughing. He held his sword like a spit. “Or, better yet, throw me the baby!”

The soldier was Uwel, Moorgoth’s whipcracker.

Theros experienced then what the minotaurs call battle-rage, the madness that overtakes warriors and leads them to fling themselves into danger without a thought for their own safety. Theros saw Uwel torturing the knights; he saw him now tormenting this poor mother. The other citizens were fearful, holding back, muttering to themselves. Unarmed, they could do nothing. The woman was weeping and pleading.

Theros stalked over. Grabbing Uwel by the shoulder, Theros doubled up his fist and slammed it into the man’s head. In that blow, Theros expended all his pent-up fury and frustration, his anger like a mailed glove over his hand.

If Uwel Lors had a chance to think anything at all, in those last few moments of his life, it must have been that he was struck by a thunderbolt from the heavens. Theros felled the man in a single blow. His only regret was that Uwel didn’t suffer as he had made others suffer. Theros hoped that some god saw to that matter in what the smith devoutly wished was a long and tormented afterlife.

Uwel was dead before he hit the ground. Theros stood, breathing heavily, looking down at the body.

“Quick!” someone said. “Before anyone finds him.”

With great presence of mind, they flung the torn blanket over the body, and two men dragged it off into the woods. Others climbed the tree, rescued the mother and her child. Theros shook the pain from his hand and went back to work, a little glow of satisfaction replacing the searing anger.

No one ever found Uwel’s body. The maroon-coated troops searched and searched, and at last concluded that he must have deserted. Baron Moorgoth, who was running his army from the safety of Pax Tharkas, was said to have publicly cursed Uwel’s name and was offering a large reward for the man, either dead or alive.

As the sun came up, the last few fires were allowed to burn out. Everyone was weary almost past endurance. People slumped down on the ground, slept where they fell. After a few hours of sleep, they’d be awakened to form burial parties.

Only the inn, Theros’s smithy, and a few other sites-those the attacking army thought might be useful-were spared from destruction.

His work finished, Theros returned to his smithy and collapsed upon a cot in the back room. His wound pained him, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his soul. He lay on the cot, too tired for sleep to come readily to his aching body, and tried to make sense of what had transpired.

Why had the dragons attacked the town? An army that large could have simply marched in and taken over. Why the need to commit such terrible slaughter? To wreak such havoc? Where was the honor in murdering children?

There was none. There could be no excuse. This was done for the delight of evil, nothing else.

That settled, he wondered what had happened to Gilthanas. Why were the elves in Solace? Was he being held prisoner or was he dead?

Still seeing the light of flames against his closed eyelids, Theros drifted off into a fitful sleep.

* * * * *

Three days later, most of the army had moved on, leaving behind those who would exert Verminaard’s authority. Solace was starting, painfully, to rebuild. The wondrous trees were useless now, mostly burned-out husks. The walkways had all been destroyed, which didn’t matter-there were few homes or businesses left. Soot and ash lay thick in the streets. The stench was terrible-it seemed to permeate everyone’s clothes-and the food and drinking water tasted of smoke.

Using his last block of steel, Theros forged hundreds and hundreds of nails, hinges and tools. He gave these away, receiving some satisfaction from the fact that Hederick’s stolen steel was now going to a good use. He kept a few swords lying about, which he grabbed whenever any of Verminaard’s troops were near so he could pretend to be working on weapons. He guessed this wouldn’t fool anyone for long. He was right.

The new “ruler” of Solace, a fat hobgoblin who was known by the grandiose title of Fewmaster Toede, came storming into Theros’s smithy late one afternoon. Theros had been expecting this visit. He gazed with no friendly aspect on the hobgoblin, who was nowhere near as tall as Glor, but twice as wide. His self-importance was about three times wider than he was.

“Smith,” said Toede, glancing balefully about the shop with little red, piggy eyes. “What are you doing, wasting your time on worthless stuff like this?” He held up a handful of half-made nails. “You were ordered to make and mend weapons for my troops. I realize that you’re making a fine profit-”

“I am,” Theros said coolly, with barely a glance at the little beast. “But not in money. I am sorry to disappoint you, Fewmaster, but the needs of the people in this town you just destroyed come first. Give me a week, then I’ll get back to the business of making weapons and armor.”

Armor that would mysteriously fall apart, swords that would shatter at the first blow. A smith knows how to do these things.

Toede snorted. “A week! You will start work now, this minute. You see”-he interrupted Theros’s protest-“I know a little secret about you, Master Theros Ironfeld. I am told that you are an elf-lover. That you helped build the ships that took those slimy, pointy-eared demons out of the reach of our justice.”

Toede puffed up, tapped himself on the chest. “I am, so far, the only person who knows about this crime. Make my weapons and I’ll see to it that Lord Verminaard doesn’t hear about it. If he does, you see, I’m afraid that not even the fact that you’re a skilled weapons-maker would be enough to induce him to spare your miserable, elf-loving life.”

Theros didn’t have to take any time to think over Toede’s proposition.

“You can tell your Lord Verminaard from me that he can go roast his feet in the Abyss for all I care.”

“Come, you don’t mean that, Master Ironfeld,” the hobgoblin said. Toede became confidential. “Look, Ironfeld, your weapons would fetch me a great price on the open market. What is it you want? A cut of the take? Very well. I can be reasonable. Begin making my weapons by tomorrow, or your secret will no longer be a secret. I’ll have you hauled to Pax Tharkas for what you’ve done. I’m sure Lord Verminaard would love to meet someone who aided the evacuation of the elves to Southern Ergoth.”

Theros didn’t bother to respond. He picked up a hammer, a large hammer, and began twirling it around and around.

Toede, glancing at the hammer, gulped and started to sidle out of the smithy.

“You just remember what I said, Theros Ironfeld!” the hobgoblin yelled, from a safe distance.

Theros went back to the work of making a large saw.

* * * * *

The next day dawned gray and gloomy. A chill, dank fog hung over the town. The day before, a caravan of cages on wagons had arrived in the town. Fewmaster Toede’s soldiers herded men and women deemed to be a “threat” into the cages, to be taken to Pax Tharkas. More cages were waiting to be loaded today.

Theros rose from his temporary quarters in the back of the smithy, and dressed. He drew some water from his rain bucket and shaved, then went out to stoke up the forge.

An hour later, he had the steel hot enough to pour into the molds he used to make nails. He was just about to lift the cauldron when the door to the smithy swung open, and three draconians entered.

Theros had no fear of the slimy hobgoblins, but he couldn’t help feeling a shiver in the presence of the lizard men.

The first draconian picked up one of the molds for making nails and threw it out the window. The second draconian picked up a hammer and knocked a hole in the wall. The third lifted a heap of nails and tossed them back into the melting pot.

So this was it. The day had come at last. The draconians continued wrecking his shop. Theros watched, seemingly too frightened to intervene or protest. His hand closed over the hilt of a sword he had concealed beneath his leather apron.

When the shop was in ruins, the draconians turned to Theros.

“You will come with us. You are under arrest for crimes against the Dragon Highlord Verminaard. You have been ordered to stand trial in Pax Tharkas by decree of Fewmaster Toede, commander of the Solace Military District.”

Theros drew his sword with one hand, his throwing knife with the other. The draconians stared in amazement. Few in the town had dared resist them. They fumbled for their own swords.

Theros loosed his knife. It flipped end over end, and the blade bit deep into the first draconian’s skull. The other two ducked out the open door. Theros, figuring that now he had nothing to lose, pursued them into the street. The fog swirled around them. Citizens scattered in alarm. Other draconians came running. All had their weapons drawn.

Four combatants circled Theros. One draconian suddenly vanished in the fog. Theros assumed that the monster was going to try to get behind him. Theros couldn’t worry about that now. He concentrated his attention on the draconian nearest him.

Leaping to the attack, Theros swung his sword in a furious blow that would have swept the weapon from the hand of a human opponent. The draconian parried the blow easily. Theros advanced, swinging again, then feinted. He had managed to fool the draconian, who had left himself unguarded.

Before Theros could strike, the draconian he’d lost in the fog materialized behind him. The draconian swung his blade in an arc. The blade hacked into Theros’s right arm, just below the shoulder. Theros’s hand went numb and useless. Astonishingly, at first, he felt no pain. He looked over to see what was wrong with his arm and saw that it was hanging from the shoulder, connected only by several tendons.

The draconian swung again. Theros’s arm fell off.

Theros stood and stared at his severed limb lying on the ground. And then blackness rolled in like the ocean waves and swallowed him. He felt no pain, but he could hear himself shouting, then screaming.

Then there was only silence.

* * * * *

Theros woke up to find himself lying on the ground beneath a dome of luminous, pale pearl gray. The ground was soft and perfectly smooth. He looked over and saw that his arm was missing, but he did not feel any pain, nor was he afraid.

He stood up and looked around. He could see nothing-nothing to define distance in any direction. The ground was gray. The dome above the ground was gray. The light came from the sky and the ground.

Theros looked over to where his right arm had been. The first thought that came to his mind was that he would never be a smith again.

I will be a cripple for the rest of my life, he thought.

It was only then that it occurred to him that there was no rest of his life. He was dead.

“Welcome to the Hall of the Gods, Theros Ironfeld.”

Theros looked up to see Sargas, the minotaur god, materializing from the gray, looming up in front of him. He was surprised to hear Sargas speak aloud-previous words from the god had resounded only in his head.

Sargas was more magnificent, more enormous, than Theros remembered. In one hand, the minotaur god held the handle of a giant battle-axe; in the other, he cradled the axe head. The god appeared displeased.

“You have not fulfilled the promise I saw in you as a child, Theros Ironfeld. You have, I must admit, lived by my code of honor. This does you honor, and it does me honor as your god.

“However, I am also the god of vengeance and retribution! You have not served me well. You are merciful, forgiving. You tend to run from a fight, rather than seek glory in battle. You show compassion instead of evincing the wrath of a true warrior of Sargas!”

Anger was building in Theros, anger similar to that which he had felt in striking down Uwel Lors.

“I never asked to be a follower of Sargas!” Theros shouted up into the gray dome. “You want me to be something I am not. It is not honorable to punish without cause. It is not honorable to show wrath where kindness is warranted. A Solamnic Knight called Sir Richard Strongmail showed me true honor, he showed me courage and compassion, and he showed me that true strength lies in decency. He is what I want to be like, not you!”

Sargas glared down at Theros, who could not help but tremble at the baleful stare.

“I should punish you for your disloyalty. However, I am a god of honor and I told you early in your life that you were a man of destiny.

“It is clear that I am no longer your god. You do not worship me. But you have kept faith in me all these years. You have, by your courage and honor, earned your place at the table of my warriors, Theros Ironfeld. I give you one more chance to pledge your allegiance to me.”

Theros bowed his head. “I cannot, great Sargas. Forgive me.”

The giant minotaur glowered. Then he said something astonishing. “I reward your faith, when other men might have abandoned it. I grant you the freedom to choose to follow a different god.”

“Sargas, you confuse me. I thought that you were the one and only god,” Theros said humbly.

Sargas smiled. “No, man of destiny. As I told you before, there are many gods. Just as I am the god of honor, there is a god of guile. Just as I am the god of evil, there is a god of good. And there are more. There are gods of creation, of destruction, of life and death. I will introduce them to you.”

A circle of beings appeared, forming a ring around Theros. They all shone with an inner radiance, though sometimes that brilliance was cloaked with darkness. Each god seemed to take on different forms, even as Theros stared at them. One was a dwarf in fancy clothing, another a horrible skeleton, hideous to look upon. One was a fat merchant, another a gentle creature with eyes like a doe.

“We are the gods of Krynn. We control all aspects of life. Two of the gods are not present. Paladine seeks to defeat the Queen of Darkness in her attempt to return to the world from which she and her dragons were long ago banished. They have taken physical form and are manipulating events in the great conflict to come.”

Sargas laughed. “As you may suspect, I am the Dark Queen’s champion and ally.”

Theros looked around at the circle of beings. Their power and majesty made it difficult for him to think. He wanted to do what was right, but he had no idea what that was.

“I will introduce to you the gods. I start with Gilean, God of Neutrality,” Sargas said.

A man stepped forward. He carried a large book in which he constantly wrote. He lifted his eyes, gazed at Theros briefly, and returned to his work.

“This mortal knows his true nature,” Gilean said. “You are right, Sargas. He must be free to choose.”

Sargas introduced the rest of the pantheon of neutral gods: Sirrion, the god of flame; Chislev, the goddess of nature; Zivilyn, the god of wisdom; Shinare, the goddess of wealth and money; and Lunitari, the god of neutral magic. Every one of them had something to offer Theros, if he would choose to serve him.

But none of them felt right to Theros. He respected them and understood that each was important, but none embodied what was in his heart. They did not represent what he knew himself to be. These were not the gods he could follow.

Sargas did not appear surprised. The last of the neutral gods he introduced was Reorx, the Forge.

“Reorx is the forger of creation and tools. I think you would be well suited to Reorx, Theros Ironfeld. You will become his follower.”

Reorx, a powerful dwarf in shining gold armor, rubbed his beard and thoughtfully regarded the big man. The dwarf shook his head.

“No, this man is not for me. I appreciate a master of steel and a forger of weapons, but he will not be a worshiper of mine.”

Sargas looked angry.

“He is my disciple, and until I release him, he goes where I send him.”

Reorx shook his head. “No, Sargas, this human is not your disciple. Mark my words, Sargas. Do not attempt to interfere.”

“He owes me his very life!” Sargas snarled. “He will obey me.”

Reorx stood his ground.

“You must let him choose, and choose freely. He will anyway, regardless of what you try to do.”

Sargas marched Theros around the circle, took him past the gods of evil. They offered Theros power, immortality, fabulous riches, dark magic. But they did not want mere worshipers. They wanted slaves.

Theros shook his head. One by one, the gods of neutrality and evil drifted into the gray, disappearing from sight.

Sargas introduced the remaining gods.

“This is Majere, the god of monks. Next to him is Kiri-Jolith, the god of warfare. He favors knights. Next, Habbakuk, the god of animals and the sea. Branchala is the god of music, and Solinari is the god of good magic.”

Theros’s gaze continued down the line. His heart felt rested, but still something about each was not quite right. Theros wanted nothing to do with magic, and he had little care or knowledge of animals. He continued looking until his eyes came to a woman who stood at the end of the line.

She was, at the same time, all women in his life, all women who had ever meant something to him. She was his loving mother. She was the charming Marissa. She was the courageous Telera. She was, strangely, the woman in the burning tree, clutching the baby. She was Tika, cool and calm in the midst of chaos. Theros felt drawn to this woman.

Sargas noticed his interest.

“This is Paladine’s companion and adviser, Mishakal. She is the goddess of healing and light.”

Theros began to cry. His lower lip quivered, his eyes filled with tears. He sank to his knees. He tried to cover his face with his hands, in spite of the fact that he had only one arm.

Mishakal stepped forward.

“He has made his choice now, Sargas. You have done well to teach him honor. Let him now rekindle that part of his soul he knew he had but could not develop.”

Sargas bowed and disappeared into the gray.

Mishakal knelt down in front of Theros and took him into her arms. She let him cry, cradling him, letting his anger and sorrow and fear and pain flow into her. She absorbed them all, and washed them away with Theros’s tears.

“Yes, Theros, your mother is a follower of mine. She rests in a very special place in my hall. She is to be honored for the work she did on the face of Krynn in her time, and for giving you the inner strength to pursue your own destiny.”

Theros looked up through tear-flooded eyes at the radiant woman.

“Theros,” she said softly, “do you have the will to live?”

His heart fluttered. Mishakal saw the spark of life within him, growing stronger by the moment.

“You must make the choice this day, Theros Ironfeld. You must choose what you will do. You may remain with me in my great hall and be with your mother. She sends her love and wants you to know that you have always been loved. She is proud of you.

“Or you can return to the world of the living. It will be difficult. You will go back to terrible pain, to the bitter knowledge that you are a cripple. You go back to a world torn apart by war. But you are a man of destiny, Theros, and you can make a difference there.”

Theros felt Mishakal’s peace soothe his heart and his soul. He made his choice.

* * * * *

Theros woke up to unbelievable pain and agony. The gray dome was gone. He was lying inside a cart drawn by two elk. The cart had metal bars, forming a cage. He groaned and tried to sit up, but firm hands pushed him back down.

The pain of his terrible wound was almost unbearable. He coughed, hacking up phlegm. He lifted his eyes and looked up to see a person bending over him.

It was a barbarian woman, the one he’d seen walking into Solace that night.

“Who are you?” Theros asked, dazed.

“I am called Goldmoon. I am a follower of the goddess Mishakal. She has restored you to life.”

Theros smiled and let himself drift into a healing sleep. Before he slept, he murmured something.

“What did he say?” asked a man known as Tanis Half-elven.

“You won’t believe this,” said a warrior known as Caramon. “I could swear he said, Thank you, Sargas!’ ”