Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

“Yesh, but she made me!” Hederick was frothing at the mouth. “That witch!”

“I see,” Theros said, though he didn’t.

“All right, then, off you go!” Hederick scowled. “If you shee any of them, report to me. And don’t dawdle over those shwords.” Hederick reached out his good hand for the dwarven spirits.

The captain opened the door and ushered Theros out.

* * * * *

It was a week before the High Theocrat returned instructions to Theros on what to do with the swords.

Upon completion, Theros returned, once again, to the High Theocrat’s office.

Hederick appeared to be feeling better, though his hand was still bandaged and would, Theros knew from experience, bear the scars of that encounter for life.

Theros said that the swords were ready for delivery, mentioned the agreed-upon price, and then couldn’t help trying to satisfy his curiosity.

“Your Holiness, who are these weapons intended for? They are too unwieldy for your guards.”

“These are official secrets,” said Hederick, looking about to make certain that they weren’t overheard. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but …”

He was too self-important to keep anything to himself. He motioned Theros closer.

“You’ve heard of Lord Verminaard and his campaign against the god-cursed elves?”

“Yes,” Theros said in a calm, even tone. “I heard that when he was finished with the elves he would move on to Solace.”

“I am a personal friend of Lord Verminaard,” Hederick claimed. “And he has told me several times that he will most certainly leave Solace in peace, under my expert care and guidance.”

Theros certainly hoped this was true. “Are the swords for the forces in the north or for Verminaard’s troops? I ask because the weapons are so-”

The High Theocrat hushed him. “Quiet there, Master Ironfeld. As I said, these are official secrets. These weapons are going to the war effort. You need not worry about who they are for. That’s a secret! All you need to know is that you have been paid and paid well for your time and effort.”

To emphasize his words, the High Theocrat handed Theros a bulging felt bag.

“The little extra is for your fine work, Master Ironfeld.”

Theros took the money, resisted the temptation to look in the bag. He trusted it contained good steel, not worthless copper or what was more commonly known as kender-coin. “Thank you, High Theocrat. I am most grateful for your patronage. And now, if you could tell me where you want these weapons delivered?”

Theros hoped to get a glimpse of the buyer.

The High Theocrat smiled sourly. “Glor will pick them up. Have them ready by noon sun, Master Ironfeld.” He made a gesture. Theros was dismissed.

Returning to his shop, Theros began to crate up the weapons for transport. So these weapons were meant for Verminaard. Theros thought back to Gilthanas and Vermala and the other elves. Perhaps one of these very swords would be used to slay his friends. In effect, Theros might prove to be the death of those he had worked so hard to save.

Bah! That was ludicrous. Theros had done a job, nothing more. He had to earn a living. Gilthanas himself could not fault Theros for that.

But it would be easy to follow that imbecile Glor when he left town, Theros thought.

Realizing what he was plotting, Theros snorted. He was trying to recapture the excitement of youth! He had no real need to know anything about the new owners of the weapons he had just made, other than that they had paid the High Theocrat a large sum, and he himself had made a good salary.

“Silly, damned silly,” he thought. “You’ll get yourself whacked over the head with a club if you’re not careful, Theros Ironfeld.” He firmly intended to remain in the forge.

* * * * *

Right on time, Glor came with the wagon. He and Theros loaded the three cases of swords onto the back of the flat wagon. Glor tied the crates down with ropes so that they would remain stable during the ride across the ruts and bumps of the road.

Glor mounted the wagon. The hobgoblin was in a good mood, happy that the troublemakers had vanished without a trace.

Theros waited until Glor had driven the horse and wagon a good hundred yards down the road, then started off on foot, following behind, keeping to the shadows of the trees on the side of the road.

As it was, Theros needn’t have bothered to hide. Glor never once looked back. Theros followed the slow-moving wagon up the road and out of town, to where farmers’ fields stretched out far into the distance.

Theros lost track of the wagon twice, as gentle, rolling hills obscured his line of sight. When he crested the second hill, he saw the wagon stopped at the bottom, off to the side of the road. He was so close that even a numbskull like Glor couldn’t miss seeing him.

Theros ducked hastily into the brush. He flattened down on his belly and crawled forward to get a better look at Glor’s customers. By the time he was near enough to see, the wagon was empty and Glor was starting to turn the empty horse and wagon around.

“Damn!” Theros muttered.

He had missed the transaction. Whoever had picked up those weapons must have disappeared into the woods. Once the wagon was turned, Glor stopped again, gathered up the three crates, now empty, and carried them back.

Still, Theros knew his suspicions had been correct. The crated weapons weren’t going to be used for the war in the north. If they were, they would have been kept in their packing cases and shipped on ahead. No, the weapons had just been delivered for more urgent needs closer to home.

Theros remained hiding in the brush as Glor and the wagon passed by. Again Theros followed the hobgoblin, this time back into Solace. When Theros entered town, he climbed the stairs of the nearest tree and ran across the catwalks, heading for his smithy.

Glor had already pulled the wagon up in front of the shop. He went inside. A minute later, the hobgoblin came out, looking around and shouting for the smith. Theros descended the nearest tree.

“Over here, Glor! Are you looking for me?” Theros asked casually.

“Oh, yes, Master Ironfeld. I have wood boxes that swords come in. Where you want them?”

“Put them behind the shop, will you, Glor?” He tossed Glor a silver piece.

The hobgoblin caught it, grinned from hairy ear to hairy ear.

“Were your customers pleased with the swords?” Theros asked, fishing for information.

“Me don’t know. They don’t tell Glor. They think me slave. They say ‘do this’ and ‘do that’ and me supposed to hop. I go now. Drink and eat.”

The hobgoblin left and Theros went back into his shop, not much wiser than when he’d started out. He was breathing heavily and sweating. Glor hadn’t seemed to suspect anything, however.

“I’m out of shape,” Theros muttered to himself. “Haven’t been in the field toughening up like in the old days! And I made the mistake of letting that damned hobgoblin get too far ahead of me.”

He caught himself smiling, though, and was forced to admit that he’d actually enjoyed his clandestine excursion. It took willpower to go back to his mundane business.

* * * * *

At sundown, Theros headed over to the Inn of the Last Home and ordered his usual-spiced potatoes and salt pork. The meal was a good one, and the ale up to its usual fine standards. The talk at the inn was the same as ever-rumors of war to the north. Some told tales of evil creatures, the likes of which had never been seen before on Krynn, swarming down on unsuspecting villagers. Others claimed their friends had family who knew others who had heard that dragons were attacking the North Keep.

Theros chuckled to himself. He had been up in that area with the armies of Dargon Moorgoth and with Clan Brekthrek. He had never seen a dragon, nor any other creature. He ate and drank in silence, listening to the talk that customers with common sense termed “kender tales.”