Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

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.