Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

The mage, standing somewhat behind the larger man, said, in an irritable voice, “Get on with it, Caramon. You know I cannot breathe this foul air.”

Theros was about to tell the mage he could go wait at the bottom of Crystalmir lake, if he preferred it, when the big man spoke up.

“You Theros Ironfeld?” he asked.

“That’s my name,” said Theros.

“I’ve heard you are the best weapons-smith in Solace.”

“I am,” Theros said coolly. “What can I do for you ?” He laid emphasis on the word “you,” pointedly excluding the mage.

“My name’s Caramon. This is my brother Raistlin. Maybe you’ve heard of us? We used to live in Solace, but we left about five years ago to-”

“Caramon!”

The mage spoke his rebuke in a soft, whispering voice, but it had the effect of immediately silencing the warrior. Theros tried to get a look at the mage’s face, but the man kept his red hood pulled low over his head. The hand that held the staff was thin and the skin, in the firelight, glistened a peculiar color, had a metallic cast to it.

“Uh, yeah, sure, Raist,” the big man mumbled.

He held a long sword in his hands, still in the scabbard. The loop that attached the scabbard to his belt had worn off. When he drew out the blade, Theros saw that it had broken near the middle.

“It’s served me well for years,” the warrior said, “but an ogre proved too much for it. Creature had an iron ring around its neck.”

Theros eyed the weapon. “You want a new blade, I take it. Do you want that scabbard repaired, as well?”

Caramon handed over the sword and scabbard to Theros. The leather had rotted and ripped. Theros examined the sword carefully.

“Very fine workmanship on the hilt,” Theros said. “But it’s already had one new blade and whoever made that wasn’t the same person who made the original sword. Want to sell it? Or maybe trade it for one of these new ones over here?”

Theros was always looking for a bargain. He could easily repair and sell a weapon of this quality in Solace. The town was full of soldiers, mercenaries and hobgoblins.

“No, I wouldn’t sell that sword if I was down to my last steel coin,” said Caramon, regarding it fondly. “This sword has kept me alive for five years. All I want is a scabbard and a new blade. What will it cost me?” The warrior sounded somewhat anxious.

Theros cast a glance at the man’s well-worn clothing and the lean money pouch hanging from the belt. He was about to name his price, when suddenly the mage began to cough. It wasn’t the cough of a winter chill. It was a hacking cough that nearly doubled the young man over.

“What’s the matter with him?” Theros asked, nodding in the direction of the mage.

The big man looked worriedly at his brother. “You all right, Raist?”

“No, I am not all right, Caramon!” The mage spoke the words in gasps. “This air is poison! I’ll … wait for you outside! Be as quick as you can.”

Leaning heavily on his staff, the mage left the forge, went back out into the fresh air. He seemed to take a shadow with him. Theros wasn’t sorry to see him go.

Theros studied the leatherwork. “I can make you a leather scabbard for two steel pieces, or a metal one for ten. The blade will cost you twenty-five.”

Caramon was aghast. “Why so much for such simple work?”

“My scabbards don’t fall apart, and my blades don’t fall apart, like these.” Theros held up the broken weapon and the torn scabbard.

Caramon frowned, then thrust his hand into his money pouch. He pulled out twenty steel. “Here, this is for the blade and the leather scabbard. The rest when you finish.”

Outside, his brother could be heard having another coughing fit. Caramon, looking concerned, was about to hurry out.

Theros shouted after him, “Hey! What he’s got-it’s not catching, is it?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Caramon said hurriedly.

Theros nodded. “Come back this afternoon! Alone,” he added.

Caramon nodded and dashed out the door.

After his customer left, Theros went back to his work. He was forging a number of swords, twenty in all. They were huge blades, made according to a strange design insisted on by one of the Seekers-Hederick, the High Theocrat. He had wanted them finished in less than a week. Theros worked the steel quickly and efficiently, crafting the weapons according to the specifications. He would need more steel, though, to complete the job. In the meantime, he repaired the warrior’s sword with a new blade and drew out a suitable leather scabbard from his back stock.

Later that afternoon, Theros climbed the stairs up the largest of the enormous vallenwood trees, heading for the Temple of the True Seeker. The temple was actually one of Solace’s finer houses, donated to the cause by someone hoping for a blessing in the afterlife. Theros admired the house, which extended upward into the branches of the tree. It reminded him of the houses in which the elves had lived in Quivernost. Theirs weren’t as fine as this, of course, but the architecture was the same delicate handiwork.

Theros knocked on the door. A servant popped his head out, took note of Theros-still dressed in his grimy leather apron-and told him to wait.

“Outside,” added the servant, with a scathing glance at the smith’s dirty boots.

Theros, grinning to himself, sat down on a bench built into the walkway between two vallenwood branches.

Before long, the door opened and the servant showed Theros into the antechamber, then into a room just off of it on the lower floor. There, a man sat at a desk. Theros recognized the man as Hederick, the High Theocrat. Obviously annoyed at being interrupted, he barely glanced up. He was flanked by two Seeker guards, who looked extremely bored.

“What do you want?” the High Theocrat snapped.

“Sir, my name is Theros Ironfeld. I’m the weapons-smith, come to report on the order that you gave me two days ago for swords.”

Hederick was a gaunt, middle-aged man. The flush on his cheeks and his nose indicated that he enjoyed his ale, perhaps a bit too much. Theros was much more interested in the desk than the man. Although Theros didn’t work with wood, he could recognize expert craftsmanship when he saw it, and this desk was one of the finest pieces he’d ever seen. It was a beautifully inlaid vallenwood desk that appeared to have been formed out of the living tree.

Hederick was responsible for the souls of the people of Solace, or so he said. In fact, through religious fervor and his troops of bullying guards, he had secured a near-dictatorship over the entire population.

The High Theocrat was a high-ranking member of the Seekers-the clerics who claimed that they were the only ones of their kind left on Krynn. The “new gods,” as Hederick called them, had placed him in this position and he was to educate the populace of Solace in the true ways. As far as Theros could tell, the Seekers were more interested in money than souls and the only true way appeared to be through Hederick’s purse.

“Yes, yes, I recall.” Hederick looked up with more interest. “How are the swords coming? Are they ready yet?”

Theros hid a smile. Twenty swords in two days! It was obvious the High Theocrat had no idea of the difficulty of the work involved in making weapons.

“No, sir, they are not ready yet. Further, I need more steel. I have enough for only fifteen of the twenty blades. I will have to wait until my next shipment comes in from Thorbardin-”

“Nonsense!” the High Theocrat interrupted. “We shall get you what you need immediately. Guard, tell your commander to convey a shipment of steel to Mister Ironfeld’s forgery-”

“Smithy, sir,” Theros corrected. “I’m not in the business of making counterfeit money.”