Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

He went back to his customer. “Now, about that dagger …”

Curious doings were the theme of the week, it seemed. First, there was the order for the odd weapons that Theros had accepted from the High Theocrat. Second was the sighting of an elf near Solace, an elf keeping watch on Theros’s forge. And the third curious event was yet to come.

For the time being, Theros had his hands full of hobgoblins. Not for the first time, he wondered who had let these creatures into Solace.

First had been the hobgoblin with the dagger. A few swipes on the sharpening stone had honed the weapon. Theros had been about to tell the creature it could sharpen the weapon itself, when he realized that it probably had been the hobgoblin’s attempt at sharpening that had dulled the blade.

Next came five hobgoblins hauling with them two large blocks of steel. Theros pointed to the corner of the shop. The hobgoblins shuffled under the strain, then dumped the steel in the area indicated. They just missed dropping the steel on their feet, but only because their commander, a hobgoblin named Glor, reminded them to watch their toes.

“So where did you get this from?” Theros asked.

“Bunch of dwarves. They not like it when we take, but High Theocrat order us to bring it to you. He say that you need it. Now you can finish job. Hey, you make me new sword now?”

The hobgoblin held up a sword. It looked like a dagger in the hobgoblin’s huge hand. Theros took the weapon, a finely crafted piece, and studied it. It was of dwarven make. He carried it with him into the storeroom in the back. He pulled out a long sword that had been made to order, but never claimed. The sword was a good one, but the dwarven-made weapon was a masterpiece. It was easily worth double the long sword.

Theros returned, carrying the long sword.

“Here, Glor, take this one in trade for the other.”

Glor looked at the blade with awe. He had never owned anything like this in his whole life. He had stolen most of what he possessed, but Theros guessed that the hobgoblin wasn’t the most successful of thieves. Glor nodded and babbled his thanks. Then he shooed out his four helpers, following them into the sunshine.

Theros turned back to his work. He felt guilty using the steel, but if he refused, Hederick would send his henchmen over to “convince” Theros that this was the wish of the new gods. Theros didn’t want trouble. He determined that, as soon as he was finished, he’d track the dwarves down and at least pay them for their loss.

He placed a large melting pot on the forge, placed one of the new steel blocks inside it. He began melting the steel, and poured it into prepared molds for the swords.

Hours later, the blades were cool enough and solid enough to be knocked from their molds. Wearing thick leather gloves, wielding a mallet, he broke the steel from the wood. He plunged the steel into the water barrel that stood near the forge. Steam rose from the water as the liquid absorbed the heat. As it turned out, he wouldn’t need that other block of steel.

“Maybe I can return that to the dwarves,” he said to himself. He went over to the corner, bent down to retrieve the excess block of steel. Happening to glance out the window, he stood up straight at the sight of something curious.

Two barbarians, a man and a woman-humans known as Plainspeople-were walking along the ground beneath the vallenwood trees. Accompanying them was a knight in full armor. Theros stared. He’d heard of the Plainspeople, but he’d never in his life seen them. They kept to themselves, distrusting strangers, and he had never heard of them leaving their own lands. The male barbarian was exceedingly tall; he could have looked eye to eye with a minotaur. The woman was difficult to make out, for she was heavily bundled in a fur cape.

Theros’s gaze passed over the barbarians. After his initial astonishment, he was far more interested-from a professional viewpoint-in the knight.

The armor he wore was extremely well made, but very old-fashioned in design and workmanship. Theros almost wept with pleasure at seeing such fine work, and his hands itched to hold the marvelous sword the knight wore proudly at his side. The armor marked the man as a Solamnic Knight, but he wore no surcoat denoting his order.

Theros was suddenly taken back through the years to the night he had met Sir Richard Strongmail, the same night that honorable man had died from torture at the hands of Dargon Moorgoth’s soldiers. It was the last time that Theros had encountered a Knight of Solamnia. The knights were not welcome in Solace. According to the High Theocrat, the knights were a contributing cause to the Cataclysm and had personally destroyed the ancient holy empire of Istar.

And so this young man was a mystery. He wore armor nearly as old as the Cataclysm, or older, as far as Theros could tell. The sword handle was indicative of an ancient blade, too. Yet the man wore no badge of a liege lord. He was definitely a Solamnic, though. Theros could tell by the long mustache.

The Knights of Solamnia prided themselves on their mustaches, much as a minotaur prided himself on his horns. This young man’s long mustache flowed over a stern and serious mouth, the sort that seemed to have smiled rarely in its entire existence.

What was a knight doing in Solace? And why was he in the company of two barbarians? And was there a possibility that he would be interested in selling his sword and armor? Theros decided that he would buy those pieces if it took every last steel coin in his possession.

He considered calling out to the knight through the window, but was afraid that the noise might draw unwanted attention, both to himself and to the knight. Better to have their conversation in some private place.

He decided to follow them. He shut up his shop, walked out into the roadway and followed the three up the steps leading to the walkways on the upper level. It seemed as if the knight knew the town of Solace well. He did not hesitate or pause to ask directions, but knew exactly where he was going.

The three moved north, then east, along the walkways, finally turning off on one which Theros knew well. It led to the Inn of the Last Home. Theros ate and drank there often. The innkeeper, Otik, made the best spiced potatoes Theros had ever eaten, and the ale-which he had first tasted in Quivernost-was the best in Ansalon. Besides, there was a red-headed girl there named Tika, who was every bit as pretty as Marissa.

The knight and two barbarians entered the inn. Theros hesitated. This wasn’t exactly the place he’d had in mind for a private talk, but perhaps this was better, Theros entered the common room. He was walking toward the back, when a yell and a screech stopped him in his tracks.

“My hat! You’ve stepped on my hat!”

Theros turned. An old man dressed in shabby, mouse-colored robes was quivering all over with rage, pointing a trembling finger at Theros’s feet.

Theros looked down to find that he was standing on a gray hat, which, by the looks of it, had been stood on, stomped on, trampled and generally mistreated many times before.

Bending down, Theros picked up the hat and made an attempt to return it to a semblance of its original shape. As this appeared impossible, he set the hat on the table.

“Excuse me, sir. I didn’t see your hat.”

“My hat!” The old man clutched it to his chest. Then, looking up at Theros, the old man winked. “You’ll be seeing a lot more interesting things tonight. Much more interesting than my hat!”

A loony, thought Theros, then headed for his usual table. He wasn’t surprised. The day had been filled with such fools.

He sat down at his usual table, but shook his head when Tika looked his way. He couldn’t stay long. He would have to get back to those swords for the Theocrat. He watched, hoping to have a chance to catch the knight alone. The knight and the barbarians had parted company. The barbarians sat alone, apart from the others. The knight was receiving a warm welcome from several other new faces in the tavern, one of which was a kender. Alarmed, Theros checked his purse.