Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

The business section was crowded with warehouses, shops and markets. People shoved and pushed their way through the crowded streets. No one smiled or muttered a hello or good-day to Theros. Each person appeared to be engrossed in his or her own private business.

Theros spent his first day in Sanction roaming the streets, watching the people. He’d never seen so many different races. Humans were the predominant race, but mingled among them were the small chattering kender (of whom Theros had been warned), grim stocky dwarves, the occasional skulking goblin or hobgoblin, and half-breed mixes of every sort.

Theros was astounded to note that wizards-of both red and black robes-actually had the effrontery to set up mageware shops in Sanction. No other town would have permitted it. Theros gave the shops and shop owners a wide berth. He had no use for wizards.

He was, in fact, attempting to avoid falling into a refuse-filled gutter on one side of the street, while avoiding a wizardess on the other, when he brushed against someone.

“Sorry,” Theros said, starting to continue past.

“What do you mean, sorry?” A hoarse voice roared in his ear.

Theros looked down. A man clad in a bright maroon coat glared up at him, blocking Theros’s way. The man was of average height, but he reached only Theros’s broad shoulder. “You got dirt on my boots!”

The man pointed to a bit of mud on the toe of one boot.

“I said I was sorry, sir,” Theros repeated and started to walk around the man.

To his astonishment and ire, the man doubled up his fist and punched Theros hard in the chest.

“Clean it!” snarled the man.

“Clean it yourself,” said Theros and again started past.

Steel flashed. Voices growled. Theros was surrounded by six men in maroon coats, all carrying swords. Each sword was now pointed at his throat.

“Clean my boot,” the man repeated.

No minotaur alive would have suffered such an insult. Theros was just contemplating the fact that his stay in Sanction had been incredibly short-as had his life-when he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“Do as he says,” advised a voice, speaking the minotaur language. “There is small honor in dying in a gutter in Sanction. And you were in the wrong.”

Theros looked up to see a large minotaur, towering head and shoulders over everyone else in the street. What the minotaur said made sense. By now a crowd had gathered. Theros, feeling his skin burn, knelt down on the sidewalk, and using the cuff of his shirt, cleaned the man’s boot.

The man lifted his foot, planted it in Theros’s chest and shoved. Theros toppled over backward. Laughing, the man and his comrades strolled off.

Theros jumped to his feet, with half a mind to go after them. The minotaur stood eyeing Theros.

“I saw you leave Olifac’s ship. What are you? A freed slave?”

“Yes, sir,” said Theros, dusting himself off. He did not ask about the minotaur. For one, it wouldn’t be polite and for another, he noticed the notched mark on one of the minotaur’s horns-a badge of dishonor, made by the minotaur’s own relations. This was an outcast.

“Take my advice,” said the minotaur. “Forget it. No one gets the best of Baron Moorgoth’s men. They run Sanction, at least for now, until someone stronger comes along. You can either fight them and lose, or use your cunning and let them make your fortune for you.”

The minotaur walked off. Theros never saw the minotaur again, but he thought long and hard on the advice.

Baron Moorgoth. Could that be Huluk’s friend? Huluk never mentioned the fact that Dargon Moorgoth was a baron.

Now probably wouldn’t be a good time to go to the baron and remind him of old friendships. Theros had too much pride. He’d make it on his own. When he was successful, he’d go visit Moorgoth.

* * * * *

It took Theros almost a year of working odd jobs before he had saved enough money to purchase an old smithy in the merchant quarter. No smith of quality operated in the town, and this one had gone out of business years before. The shop had been turned into a warehouse, but the forge, central chimney and most of the workbenches still stood. A huge anvil languished in the corner. When Theros found it, it was stacked with crates of produce. To Theros, it was worth its weight in steel.

He purchased the building for a mere pittance, which was, in fact, all he had. He was forced to begin his business by sewing leather, in order to save up for the tools necessary to start metal smithing.

Six years later, he had an established shop. He owned one of the largest smithies in Sanction, with a reputation for making fine quality swords and daggers. He had Baron Moorgoth and his men in their maroon uniform coats to thank for his success.

Baron Moorgoth had arrived in Sanction with a large amount of wealth that he claimed was his inheritance. Rumors followed of a murdered uncle and stolen jewels, but no one could ever prove anything and Sanction wasn’t the town to believe all the gossip it heard. Through a number of wise investments in various businesses, Moorgoth doubled and tripled his wealth. He used his earnings to buy men and steel, and backed by these loyal supporters, he bought up even more of Sanction.

He claimed himself as nominal ruler of the town, although he refused to be bothered by such mundane matters as keeping law and order or making civic improvements. He had, by now, amassed a small army and was, rumor had it, looking to expand his holdings.

What Moorgoth did or didn’t do was now of no interest to Theros. He had worked hard over the years to develop his skills as a weapons-smith and was just now beginning to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He had even been able to take on an apprentice to do the tooled leatherwork and other chores, leaving Theros more time to concentrate on the craft of swordsmaking.

The smithy stood several blocks from the port area. The sign out front read, in Common, “Weapons and Armor. Theros Ironfeld, Proprietor.” Ironfeld was a name Theros chose for himself. It served both as a name and an advertisement. The name also showed he was proud of his skills. The sign’s lettering was crude, but the populace of Sanction didn’t mind. Most of them couldn’t read it anyway.

One of Moorgoth’s maroon-coated guardsmen was his first customer into the shop this day. Theros glanced at the man, nodded, but continued work. He hammered on hot metal, fashioning a new sword from molten steel. The guardsman, knowing he would not be heard above the din, waited impatiently for the smith to take a break.

Theros had not grown much in height during the past seven years, but he had increased his girth immensely since his days with the minotaurs. His arms were massive, muscles rippled. His chest was as big around as an enormous water barrel. His black skin glistened in the light of the forge. Compared to the minotaurs, he had been viewed as short and puny. Among humans, he was head and shoulders taller than most men. Now, when Theros walked the streets of Sanction, people skirted out of his way.

Theros straightened, groaning from the strain. The guardsman coughed to attract Theros’s attention. He turned to see who it was.

“Ah, Morik. You are here for a new scabbard! I told you you’d be back. That horrible, tattered scabbard is no house to keep the jewel I made for you.”

Theros was proud of the work-the first long sword of the season. A good sign, coming so early. It looked as if it was going to be a good year for business.

The guardsman pulled the blade from its scabbard. “Actually, no, Master Smith. The scabbard will do. Could you make a dirk to match the sword, though?”

Theros smiled. “I see you like the finer things in life, Morik. Yes, I can make you a matching dirk. Do you want your family crest on it, as before?”