Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

“Suppose I let Moorgoth know where he can find you.” The guardsman sneered.

Theros turned, stared at the man.

“I heard you deserted,” the guardsman said.

“Then why don’t you turn me in?”

“Because Yagath’ll give me more for you alive than Moorgoth would dead. Like I said, Yagath needs a smith.”

Theros was given the choice of signing on with Yagath, or being turned over to Moorgoth’s men. He had no money, no way to earn any money. The woman he loved had vanished. She’d either been sold into slavery or was, if she was lucky, dead. Theros figured he had nothing to lose.

* * * * *

Theros worked for Yagath for five years, setting up a base camp and running a smithy from a mountain valley near Neraka. Throughout that time, armies were massing in the Neraka and Sanction areas. Many secrets were boiling in Yagath’s army, but Theros was blind, deaf and dumb. He made no enemies. He made no friends. He kept to himself, did his work, took his pay. He had learned what could go wrong when he stuck his nose into other men’s affairs.

Theros concentrated on his craft. The armor and swords he produced were second to none.

Five years after he had started working for Yagath, the war, which would eventually be called the War of the Lance, started. Most of the fighting forces, under the leadership of a man known as Ariakan, moved north or east, to conquer the more populated areas. Yagath’s army went with them, never to return.

Yagath was dead, shot by an elf sharpshooter. The rest of the army had joined other forces. Theros packed up and went on his way. He felt much as he had when the minotaurs freed him. He was pleased to be his own man again, but what was he to do with himself now?

He was headed back to Sanction, when he stumbled across a force of hobgoblins marching north. He had drawn his axe, prepared to fight for dear life, only to find that the hobgoblins treated him as if he were some sort of god. They carried him, an honored guest, into their camp.

Clan Brekthrek was moving to a secure part of Nordmaar, and they needed a smith.

“We have heard much good of you,” the clan leader said, poking Theros in the chest. “You come. Work for us.”

Theros refused. He had little use for hobgoblins, considering them uncouth, crude and smelly.

The clan leader offered Theros the sum of one thousand steel pieces if he would join them.

“And,” said the hobgoblin, with a leer, “I won’t tell Baron Moorgoth where he can find you.”

Theros rued the day he had ever become involved with Moorgoth. The man had cast an evil curse on Theros’s life.

Theros became a member of Clan Brekthrek. The hobgoblins had never seen such finely crafted weapons and armor as Theros made. In fact, the armor and swords were too finely crafted for the clan leader to waste on his goblins. The rank and file of Clan Brekthrek needed no more than crude swords, spears and leather jerkins for armor. The hobgoblin sold or bartered most of the weapons to the humans in the armies of Ariakan.

The hobgoblin garrison in Nordmaar grew wealthy. Theros made certain that he was included in the cut. He converted all of his steel into gems, and kept them with him at all times. He hoped that someday he would find the chance to get away, to travel somewhere and start life over.

Theros left the clan two years later, when they moved to garrison duty inside Neraka. Theros was not allowed to remain with the army, though the hobgoblin had begged hard to keep his smith. Very few humans were allowed into Neraka. If Brekthrek knew why, which Theros doubted, the hobgoblin refused to tell. Theros heard hints of strange and terrible deeds performed in the temples of Neraka. He had no idea what they were, and didn’t care. It was none of his business.

It wasn’t a very good story to tell these elves. If they discovered he’d worked for hobgoblins, those ornate swords would be stuck in his heart.

“I’m from Nordmaar,” Theros said. “My father was a fisherman. I was taken captive by minotaurs, worked as a slave to them on their ships for years.”

Was he wrong, or did the elf appear suddenly extremely interested?

“I was with the minotaur Third Army that attacked Silvanesti. I was freed by a Silvanesti elf champion. I remain grateful to him.”

It was the truth-the bare bones of the truth. The elves listened, made no comment. He couldn’t tell if they believed him or not.

“I’ve knocked around a bit, here and there. I’m traveling south, looking for a good place to set up business. Bad things going on up in the north. Armies marching. Even rumors of dragons.”

He smiled as he said that. The rumors always made people laugh.

The elves did not smile.

“What brought you here?” Gilthanas asked.

“Everywhere I went, I heard about Solace. Travelers I met on the roads all seemed to be going to Solace or coming from Solace. The name of the town drew me.” Theros shrugged. “I’ve led a rough life. I could use some solace.” Again, a small joke. Again, the elves didn’t seem to think it was funny.

He continued. “I passed through Thorbardin, traveled through Pax Tharkas. Everywhere, I kept hearing talk of war. I don’t like it.” That was, indeed, the truth. He was sick to death of war, sick of the fighting and the killing.

Gilthanas looked over to the other two elves in the room. Both nodded. He turned his attention back to Theros.

“Master Ironfeld, to be honest, when we first brought you here, we thought you were an agent for Verminaard.”

“Verminaard?” Theros repeated the name. “I heard of him. Some sort of new cleric, isn’t he?”

“He is a cleric of evil and the commander of the army in Pax Tharkas.” Gilthanas was grim, stern. “This Verminaard has only one stated goal. He wants to eradicate all of the Qualinesti elves.”

Gilthanas watched for Theros’s reaction.

Theros grunted. “Not even the minotaurs wanted to do that. They wanted only to establish a colony.”

This time, Gilthanas smiled. He gazed at Theros, somewhat perplexed. “I have a question. You might consider it strange.”

Theros shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“Why did the elf champion free you, Master Ironfeld? Ordinarily, our Silvanesti cousins would kill a human as swiftly as they would a minotaur. I find this very mysterious.”

Theros thought for a moment. “It was a fair battle, an honorable defeat. I spared his life, when I could have killed him. He repaid me in kind.”

“I see.” Gilthanas regarded Theros thoughtfully. Theros had the idea that the elf did, indeed, see. Perhaps he saw more from that incident than Theros did.

Theros stifled a yawn. He wished they’d get on with this. He needed sleep in order to be back on the road to Solace in the morning.

Gilthanas stood and walked around to the other side of the desk. The other two elves stood also. “You will be our guest for this evening, Master Ironfeld. Hirinthas and Vermala will show you to your room for the night.”

This was not an invitation to be declined. Theros was unarmed, alone, in an armed camp. He shrugged and accepted the offer. As long as the elves provided him with food and a warm place to sleep, he would go along with the plan-for the night, at least. He’d slept in much worse places.

Hirinthas and Vermala led Theros back down to the entry area. Theros glanced about for his belongings. They were gone.

“Do not worry, Master Ironfeld,” said Vermala, “your possessions will be returned to you in the morning.”

The elves led Theros across the center village circle to another building made of a hollowed-out tree. He was taken inside, led up another set of winding stairs that reached a trapdoor at the top. Vermala opened the door.