Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

Theros’s sword slid up from the draconian’s lower right side, catching the monster in the right hip. The wound bit deep into the scaled hide, but it didn’t kill. Theros tried to see what was happening behind him, even as he kept close watch on his opponent, who was shouting at its comrades in a strange, guttural language.

Two of the draconians to Theros’s rear dashed off, probably pursuing the elf who had managed to escape. That left the wounded draconian to his front and one more behind him. Theros skirted around the large beast in front of him, trying to position himself before both of the draconians. They saw what was happening, and the wounded draconian backed up to try to keep Theros between them.

To Theros’s astonishment, the draconian spoke to him, in decent-sounding Common. “Surrender now, human, and you will be treated well as a prisoner of the Dark Queen.”

“To the Abyss with you and your Queen,” Theros said. He lunged at the wounded draconian, and at the same time, ducked his head low.

Sure enough, the draconian behind him had swung. The blade whistled past inches away from Theros’s ears.

Theros’s attack missed, but the draconian, in trying to avoid it, stumbled backward and fell. Theros spun around to face his other opponent. The draconian sidestepped Theros’s attack. It swung its sword ineffectively.

Theros could sympathize. They were both using new swords, and neither was accustomed to the feel of them yet. But Theros was at the disadvantage. He was not used to fighting with a sword, had not fought anyone in a long time. The huge blade was not suited to his style, nor fit to his size.

The draconian kept pressing its advantage and pushed Theros back into the underbrush. Theros heard movement, remembered the other draconian, and turned too late. The swing came from his left. Theros ducked, diving into the bushes. The blade scraped his left arm, not a serious injury. He rolled to his side, then got up and ran.

He had never run from a fight before. He could almost see Hran and Huluk-not to mention Sargas-glaring at him in disapproval. Theros didn’t care. This was a time for human common sense, not minotaur notions of honor. Theros was outnumbered by foes twice his size. He had no decent weapon and was wounded. He had to escape, or he would die.

He sprinted through the trees, tripping several times, but clamoring to his feet in a hurry. He had the feeling that the draconians would not want to show themselves in Solace. Otherwise, they would have been in the town, not skulking about in the woods outside it.

Theros was right. As soon as the lights of Solace came into view, he heard the draconians that pursued him halt. Theros made it back into town and immediately climbed the first stairs he came to, and groped his way down the walkway to the center of town. Turning toward home, he descended the staircase to the ground level.

He kept looking behind him, but the draconians had not followed. Unlocking the door, he hurried inside. His hands shaking, he managed to light a candle and examine his wound. The blood flow had stopped, but it hurt like hell. Clumsily, he washed the wound out and bound it.

“Draconians!” he muttered to himself. “Where did such monsters spring from? And the elves-Gilthanas. What was Gilthanas doing in Solace?”

Questions flooded Theros’s mind. He had no answers. He wondered if he shouldn’t warn someone about the monsters lurking in the forest, and then he realized that there was no one to warn. The High Theocrat had sold Theros’s swords to these monsters. He was in league with them, as were his Seeker guards and the hobgoblins.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in from the window, dousing Theros’s candle. The wind was hot and unnatural and it raised the hair on his neck and arms. With the wind came darkness, such darkness as Theros had never before known. It was as if the moons and the stars had all been swept from the sky. A terrible rumbling began outside, to the north of the town. The rumbling shook the ground. If it was thunder, then this was going to be a storm like none Theros had ever witnessed.

He went to the window. An enormous fireball exploded, right before his eyes. A huge vallenwood tree in front of him burst into flame. He could hear the people in the houses in the tree’s branches begin to scream in terror. What in the name of Sargas was going on?

He heard another explosion, and another.

Theros ran outside. In the north section of town, many buildings were on fire. People, panic-stricken, were leaping from the burning walkways. He could see them silhouetted against the flames, falling-sometimes to their deaths-below.

It was then that he first felt the fear. Terror like none he had known before washed over him, filling his veins with ice water. He began to shake. A roaring sound came from overhead. Barely able to move from fright, he lifted his head and looked up. Monstrous beasts flew through the night sky, belching fire and smoke from their gaping maws.

Dragons! He had heard the tales, even as far back as his childhood in the fishing village in Nordmaar. But these were not creatures of imagination. The dragons were here, and they were real.

Fires now burned everywhere. Through the flames, Theros saw an army entering the town, marching on the ground, moving in column formation. He stared in horror, recognizing the soldiers. The attacking forces were draconians. Hundreds of them were swarming into town, accompanied by humans dressed in maroon uniforms.

Draconians marched with the troops of Baron Dargon Moorgoth. It seemed that fate had caught up with Theros at last.

The fear known as dragon awe nearly drove Theros mad. With no clear idea of what he was doing or where he was going, he ran through the smoke and flames. Instinct, apparently, led him back to his forge. He was relieved to find that it was still standing. And then he saw the reason why. A squad of draconians and hobgoblins stood around it, guarding it. Of course! To the armies, the forge was the most valuable building in Solace.

Theros turned to escape, but it was too late. They’d seen him.

“That’s him!” Glor screeched. “That’s the smith!”

The draconians dashed out to capture him. Exhausted, his lungs burning from the smoke that clouded the air, he was an easy capture.

The attack on Solace ended as quickly as it had started. Most of the town was ablaze. Theros’s smithy was left unscathed, but his home, not twenty yards away, burned like a torch in the night. Squads of draconians began going door to door, rounding up survivors and herding people off the streets and into the town square.

Theros remained inside his forge, a prisoner of the draconians, a blade of his own making held at his throat. A human officer marched in. He was wearing black leather armor adorned by a black helm and a black metal cuirass with a dragon insignia. Theros was thankful to see the uniform wasn’t maroon.

“Put that dagger down,” the officer ordered the draconian. He faced Theros. “You are the smith, Ironfeld?”

Theros nodded. “I am.”

The officer appeared pleased. “Good! I am glad you survived the fire. You have been supplying quality blades to my soldiers. Fewmaster Toede, the new commander of the Solace Military District, wants you to continue. In return, your smithy has been spared destruction. Cooperate with us and you will be handsomely rewarded. Resist and you will be killed. Any questions?”

Theros couldn’t think of any questions after that. Not with five draconians standing in his forge.

“I’ll make weapons for you, but on one condition. Forget your money. People are wounded out there. I’ve some skill at healing from my days in the army. Let me aid those in need, and then I’ll serve you.”

The human officer grunted. “A foolish bargain, human. You could have made your fortune, grown wealthy enough to own this miserable town. Still, we’re getting the best of it. Lord Toede is always pleased to save money. Go along with him,” the officer ordered the draconians. “See to it that he doesn’t try to escape.”