Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

Theros shivered and shook his head. “Mages,” he muttered with distaste.

The knight and the half-elf were the last to descend. The knight seemed displeased by the idea of running from trouble instead of confronting it. The half-elf was endeavoring to explain that they were outnumbered and that there was a lady to protect.

Curious indeed, Theros thought as he watched from below. They must be the ones who attacked Hederick.

Theros considered shouting out, alerting the guards to their presence, turning them in. The guards were nearby. One shout and they could be here within moments.

Theros kept silent. He watched the friends disappear into the night, and in his heart, he wished them well. After all, he had run away from trouble in his own time, and no one had turned him in.

He remained in the shadows, pondering. It had indeed been a curious day.

Theros waited a long time in the shadows beneath the kitchen, long after the strangers had fled, thinking about them and wondering why he felt as if they had brushed their fingers across his soul. He came up with no good answer, and, at length, he shook off his preoccupation, told himself it was all nonsense, and marched back to his smithy. He could tell, by the way the hobgoblins and human guards were running about in every direction-jumping into bushes and sprinting up and down staircases-that the group had made good its escape.

Theros returned to his smithy and was making certain that all was well for the night, when the hobgoblin Glor came dashing up and poked his ugly head in the window.

“Master Ironfeld. You see strange people? They hide in your shop?”

Theros suppressed his smile. “No, Glor, there’s no one hiding in my shop. Come in and look around if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, Master Ironfeld. I have to. Boss says so.”

The hobgoblin looked around the forge, pointedly avoiding dark corners, trapdoors and large barrels-any place where someone might actually hide. The hobgoblin wasn’t looking for a fight, especially with a Solamnic Knight, who-so Glor maintained-was as tall as a minotaur, with a sword the size of a vallenwood.

Theros didn’t want a fight, either, with the knight or anyone else. His fighting days were over. He had become older and wiser, or so he told himself. No need to go looking for glory when there was plenty of money to be made in the honest trade of weapons and armor.

It was known far and wide that if a person wanted a special piece, be it weapon or armor, said person went to Theros Ironfeld. He kept requests confidential, and produced on time and according to specification. With the presence of strange armies up north and rumors-or facts-of war, the demand for weapons was the highest it had been in years. Unfortunately for the citizenry, but fortunately for Theros, it was clear he would have plenty of work for a long time.

He covered the firepit, letting the coals slowly cool and the smoke curl up the chimney, then walked back behind the shop to the large trunk of the vallenwood tree that served as his home. He lived in the lower trunk, completely carved out to provide a living area and small kitchen. He couldn’t explain it, but unlike everyone else in Solace, he never felt secure sleeping in the tops of trees.

Theros lived alone. Some nights he thought of Marissa, the woman he had met in Sanction those many years ago. He had never found another woman that was her equal, though it was not as if he had tried very hard. It seemed that he was not destined to find a perfect mate.

“Once I am wealthy,” he told himself, “I will have my pick of women, to be sure. They will fall all over themselves to have me court them.

“Oh, who am I kidding? Women would just get in the way of my work. It is a patient woman, indeed, who could put up with the dirt and smell and soot and rough, calloused hands of a weapons-smith.”

He entered his home. It was dark inside. Leaving the door open to let in the lambent light, he groped about, looking for a candle. A noise behind him caught his attention.

He turned to see a group of people glide past him in the darkness. The people did not see him. He moved silently to the door to watch their passage. They were heading out of town, traveling north.

He recognized them easily. The half-elf and the knight led the way. None of them made a sound except for an occasional smothered giggle that could have come only from the kender; he was immediately shushed by the gruff scoldings of the dwarf. All in all, they were the most peculiar band of fugitives from justice Theros had ever seen.

And once again, as they passed, unaware of his existence, they touched him.

* * * * *

Early the next day, after a night of fitful and not particularly restful sleep, Theros paid a visit to the High Theocrat’s office. He banged on the door, but there was no reply. He put his ear to the door and listened. Sure enough, he heard voices inside. He banged again.

The door opened. The captain of the guard, a warrior in black leather armor, glared at him. “What do you want?”

“I will have the swords ready soon,” Theros said in a tone that indicated he was angry at being kept waiting. “Where do I have them delivered?”

That was just an excuse. In reality, Theros was consumed with curiosity to know what had happened at the inn last night. Peering over the guard’s head, which was easy for a man of Theros’s height, he could see the High Theocrat sitting in a chair, propped up by pillows and cushions. He looked as pale as a ghoul and he was nursing an arm swathed in bandages.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize. Is the High Theocrat all right?” Theros asked. “Is he injured?”

The captain nodded. “He was assaulted by a band of criminals last night in the Inn of the Last Home. Do you know anything about-”

“Is that Ironfeld?” yelled the High Theocrat from inside. “Bring him in, Captain.”

Theros entered and couldn’t help but stare at the bandaged hand of the High Theocrat. The bandage didn’t quite cover the fingertips; they were blackish and swollen. “What happened, Your Holiness?” Theros asked.

“It was that damned barbarian woman and that blue cryshtal shtaff.” Hederick was obviously using dwarven spirits as a painkiller, for his voice was slurred and his gaze unfocused. “Captain, you know that I have ishued ordersh to confishcate anyone with a blue cryshtal shtaff. With a shtaff of any short. Snort. Sort. How did thish woman shneak into town with it, Captain?” Hederick banged his good hand on the table. “Ansher me that!”

The captain looked long-suffering, as if he already had explained it fifty times and probably would be called upon to explain it fifty more. “When she and her companion and the Solamnic Knight were stopped on the road outside of Solace, the staff appeared to be nothing more than a plain wooden walking stick, High Theocrat. We still have a warrant for the arrest of any of the party you described. If they show themselves, they will answer to me, and then to you, High Theocrat.”

Hederick grunted with displeasure. The soldier bowed his head in apologetic submission, all the while rolling his eyes when he thought the High Theocrat wasn’t looking.

“What do you know of thish, Ironfeld?” Hederick demanded.

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Theros said, apologizing in his turn. “I know nothing at all. Did … did the staff cause that injury to your hand?”

“No!” Hederick drew himself up with pride. “I did that myshelf.”

Theros stared. He knew a severe burn when he saw one-even the tips of one. It looked as if Hederick had stuck his hand into the white-hot coals of the forge.

“You … did that yourself, Your Holiness?”