Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

At least, Theros thought, I’ll get a free meal out of it, if nothing else.

The room in the Belching Fury was dark and smoky. The fire on the far side wall wasn’t vented very well. Some days, it was difficult to see through the haze of wood smoke and smoke from pipeweed. The food was tinged with the same taste as the smell; smoke permeated everything.

Theros didn’t care. It wasn’t half as bad as standing near a hot forge all day, pounding metal into shape. The real secret of the pub’s success was its method of keeping ale cold. No one-at least no one who was talking-would reveal the secret of how the kegs were kept chilled. The barmaids would descend to the basement and retrieve large mugs of the brew and bring them back up. No one else was allowed down there.

The contrast from hot food and hot fire to the icy cold drink was truly something to cherish. Theros finished his first mug at a draught and hungrily tore into half a loaf of bread and a bowl of chicken stew. He couldn’t taste the smoky flavor that everyone complained about. It was lost on him. Minotaurs were far less delicate in their eating habits.

Theros remembered back to his lean days working as a slave on board the minotaur ship and he was thankful for the change. Then he’d had to wait until his betters were served before him. He’d had to make do with the scraps and leftovers.

Now he ate and drank enough for three men, but he did the work of three men. He was just finishing his third bowl of stew when the man with the brown cloak entered the inn and stood to one side of the door, looking around carefully, much as he had done when he’d entered Theros’s smithy. After a few moments, the man threw back the hood and walked up to the table.

People in the inn, catching sight of the man, rose to their feet. The innkeeper dashed out from behind the bar, bowing and bobbing until it was a wonder his head didn’t tumble off. The barmaids dropped curtsies and anything else they were carrying.

Theros kept on eating. The man in brown walked straight up to him.

“Theros Ironfeld. I am glad that you decided to keep your appointment. Very glad indeed.”

Theros looked up, still chewing. “Why should you care? Does Baron Moorgoth pay you extra if I show up?”

The man sat down without invitation. Theros motioned for the barmaid.

“I’ll have the usual,” the man said, “and I’ll have the same stew as my friend here.”

“Don’t call me friend. I’m here to meet your commander. You I can live without.” Theros went back to his eating.

“Oh, sir!” The barmaid looked scandalized. “Don’t you know-”

“Hush, Marissa. Go about your business,” the man ordered. He seemed to find something highly amusing. He leaned back in his seat. “You really don’t know who I am, do you? I am Dargon Moorgoth. Baron Dargon Moorgoth.”

Theros eyed the man with indifference. So that’s where he’d seen this man. Riding about town in his fine carriage or reviewing his troops in the market square. Lately, the baron and his army had been gone for months at a time, coming back with wagonloads of loot.

“So what if you are Baron Moorgoth? What am I supposed to do? Bow and kiss your feet like everyone else in Sanction? And why the disguise? Why not just come out and tell me who you are and what you want?”

Moorgoth smiled. “I heard you were a man who did things your own way. I also heard that you refused to give my guardsmen special treatment. I decided to see for myself. They were right. You treat me no differently now than you did when you thought I was an ordinary soldier. I like that.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Theros had little use for game-playing. “Now what’s your business with me?”

“Business? My business today is conquest. I am preparing to expand my holdings beyond Sanction. My men need good weapons and good armor. My job is to train my men and lead them into battle. Your job will be to equip them. To make it short, I need a new smith in my army.”

Theros thought back to his days with the minotaur army. He remembered the excitement of preparing for the battle, the hours of fast and furious labor, making ready for the fight, the pride in knowing that his weapons and armor had done their duty. He found the prospect interesting, for a moment. Then came back to Theros the hardship, the backbreaking labor, sleeping on the ground, eating cold food, driving wagons over rough terrain in all sorts of weather.

He thought of his snug little dwelling-not big, but comfortable. He thought of chilled ale and hot stew.

Theros shook his head. “What could you possibly offer me that I couldn’t get here? I made over fifty gold pieces for a single armored jerkin today. Could you offer me that sort of money?”

Moorgoth laughed. “You mean that jerkin that your lad made for the kender? Good work, I agree, but the little rat never knew the worth of what he was trading.”

Theros frowned. “Do not suggest that I am a thief, Moorgoth. It is no way to begin a business discussion. The kender got a bargain. Whatever I do, I am fair.”

“You are a soldier, Theros Ironfeld, and honorable as a minotaur, Huluk says. Huluk sent me word about you. Unfortunately, we already had a smith at the time, and he was good. I still have the letter from Huluk, of the Clan Hrolk, introducing you. I remember Huluk. He was quite a warrior. Someday we will see him again here on Ansalon. I hear that his new Third Army is second to none.”

He paused to take a drink of ale. Theros finished his meal, shoved his plate aside.

“My smith is dead,” Moorgoth continued. “My rear area was attacked last month when I raided a dwarven camp. I defeated the force on the ground, but not without loss. We took what we had come for, and left. The hole in my unit still remains, however. I have found a new quartermaster and a new fletcher. I need a new smith for weapons and armor.”

Theros grunted. “I’m not interested. I am doing fine where I am.”

Moorgoth shoved aside his plate, leaned back. “I am willing to pay you one thousand pieces of steel to join, and one of these gems a month for as long as you stay.”

The mercenary held up a clear jewel, exquisitely cut. It caught the light and splashed it around the room. The baron quickly concealed the bauble.

“It is worth at least a hundred gold pieces, and probably a lot more. I captured a huge load of these from the dwarves. I will pay you one per month. Further, I guarantee that I will buy them back at a rate of one hundred gold pieces if you cannot find a better deal elsewhere.”

Theros motioned for Moorgoth to hand over the jewel for inspection. The baron dropped the jewel into Theros’s huge calloused hand. Theros eyed it and then handed it back. “You should have come to me seven years ago. Then I would have been interested. Now, I can buy one of these myself if I have the mind.”

Moorgoth continued to try to make the sale. “You can keep your shop, Ironfeld. Just close it down while you are away. I will hire you for a three-year contract. I will even hire a guard to keep watch on the shop while you are gone, at no additional expense to yourself.”

Theros was impressed. He couldn’t help but be a little interested, in spite of himself.

“So what will I do to earn this wealth? It seems to me that if you paid everyone in your force with the same generosity that you are showing me, you would have to be raiding the Halls of Thorbardin, not a single dwarf camp.”

Moorgoth took a long swig of ale. “You know as well as I do that finding good infantry is never difficult. Young men and women are always out to prove themselves, to risk their lives for booty. And I have good, solid veterans who keep the backbone of my small force strong. It is the skilled labor I need and I don’t have three years to wait while some smith learns the fine art of sword-making. I need a skilled smith, one who can do fast work and good work in a field situation. You can bring your assistant along to help. I will pay him double what he is making now.”