Don Perrin - Theros Ironfield

“I am,” Theros said coolly, with barely a glance at the little beast. “But not in money. I am sorry to disappoint you, Fewmaster, but the needs of the people in this town you just destroyed come first. Give me a week, then I’ll get back to the business of making weapons and armor.”

Armor that would mysteriously fall apart, swords that would shatter at the first blow. A smith knows how to do these things.

Toede snorted. “A week! You will start work now, this minute. You see”-he interrupted Theros’s protest-“I know a little secret about you, Master Theros Ironfeld. I am told that you are an elf-lover. That you helped build the ships that took those slimy, pointy-eared demons out of the reach of our justice.”

Toede puffed up, tapped himself on the chest. “I am, so far, the only person who knows about this crime. Make my weapons and I’ll see to it that Lord Verminaard doesn’t hear about it. If he does, you see, I’m afraid that not even the fact that you’re a skilled weapons-maker would be enough to induce him to spare your miserable, elf-loving life.”

Theros didn’t have to take any time to think over Toede’s proposition.

“You can tell your Lord Verminaard from me that he can go roast his feet in the Abyss for all I care.”

“Come, you don’t mean that, Master Ironfeld,” the hobgoblin said. Toede became confidential. “Look, Ironfeld, your weapons would fetch me a great price on the open market. What is it you want? A cut of the take? Very well. I can be reasonable. Begin making my weapons by tomorrow, or your secret will no longer be a secret. I’ll have you hauled to Pax Tharkas for what you’ve done. I’m sure Lord Verminaard would love to meet someone who aided the evacuation of the elves to Southern Ergoth.”

Theros didn’t bother to respond. He picked up a hammer, a large hammer, and began twirling it around and around.

Toede, glancing at the hammer, gulped and started to sidle out of the smithy.

“You just remember what I said, Theros Ironfeld!” the hobgoblin yelled, from a safe distance.

Theros went back to the work of making a large saw.

* * * * *

The next day dawned gray and gloomy. A chill, dank fog hung over the town. The day before, a caravan of cages on wagons had arrived in the town. Fewmaster Toede’s soldiers herded men and women deemed to be a “threat” into the cages, to be taken to Pax Tharkas. More cages were waiting to be loaded today.

Theros rose from his temporary quarters in the back of the smithy, and dressed. He drew some water from his rain bucket and shaved, then went out to stoke up the forge.

An hour later, he had the steel hot enough to pour into the molds he used to make nails. He was just about to lift the cauldron when the door to the smithy swung open, and three draconians entered.

Theros had no fear of the slimy hobgoblins, but he couldn’t help feeling a shiver in the presence of the lizard men.

The first draconian picked up one of the molds for making nails and threw it out the window. The second draconian picked up a hammer and knocked a hole in the wall. The third lifted a heap of nails and tossed them back into the melting pot.

So this was it. The day had come at last. The draconians continued wrecking his shop. Theros watched, seemingly too frightened to intervene or protest. His hand closed over the hilt of a sword he had concealed beneath his leather apron.

When the shop was in ruins, the draconians turned to Theros.

“You will come with us. You are under arrest for crimes against the Dragon Highlord Verminaard. You have been ordered to stand trial in Pax Tharkas by decree of Fewmaster Toede, commander of the Solace Military District.”

Theros drew his sword with one hand, his throwing knife with the other. The draconians stared in amazement. Few in the town had dared resist them. They fumbled for their own swords.

Theros loosed his knife. It flipped end over end, and the blade bit deep into the first draconian’s skull. The other two ducked out the open door. Theros, figuring that now he had nothing to lose, pursued them into the street. The fog swirled around them. Citizens scattered in alarm. Other draconians came running. All had their weapons drawn.

Four combatants circled Theros. One draconian suddenly vanished in the fog. Theros assumed that the monster was going to try to get behind him. Theros couldn’t worry about that now. He concentrated his attention on the draconian nearest him.

Leaping to the attack, Theros swung his sword in a furious blow that would have swept the weapon from the hand of a human opponent. The draconian parried the blow easily. Theros advanced, swinging again, then feinted. He had managed to fool the draconian, who had left himself unguarded.

Before Theros could strike, the draconian he’d lost in the fog materialized behind him. The draconian swung his blade in an arc. The blade hacked into Theros’s right arm, just below the shoulder. Theros’s hand went numb and useless. Astonishingly, at first, he felt no pain. He looked over to see what was wrong with his arm and saw that it was hanging from the shoulder, connected only by several tendons.

The draconian swung again. Theros’s arm fell off.

Theros stood and stared at his severed limb lying on the ground. And then blackness rolled in like the ocean waves and swallowed him. He felt no pain, but he could hear himself shouting, then screaming.

Then there was only silence.

* * * * *

Theros woke up to find himself lying on the ground beneath a dome of luminous, pale pearl gray. The ground was soft and perfectly smooth. He looked over and saw that his arm was missing, but he did not feel any pain, nor was he afraid.

He stood up and looked around. He could see nothing-nothing to define distance in any direction. The ground was gray. The dome above the ground was gray. The light came from the sky and the ground.

Theros looked over to where his right arm had been. The first thought that came to his mind was that he would never be a smith again.

I will be a cripple for the rest of my life, he thought.

It was only then that it occurred to him that there was no rest of his life. He was dead.

“Welcome to the Hall of the Gods, Theros Ironfeld.”

Theros looked up to see Sargas, the minotaur god, materializing from the gray, looming up in front of him. He was surprised to hear Sargas speak aloud-previous words from the god had resounded only in his head.

Sargas was more magnificent, more enormous, than Theros remembered. In one hand, the minotaur god held the handle of a giant battle-axe; in the other, he cradled the axe head. The god appeared displeased.

“You have not fulfilled the promise I saw in you as a child, Theros Ironfeld. You have, I must admit, lived by my code of honor. This does you honor, and it does me honor as your god.

“However, I am also the god of vengeance and retribution! You have not served me well. You are merciful, forgiving. You tend to run from a fight, rather than seek glory in battle. You show compassion instead of evincing the wrath of a true warrior of Sargas!”

Anger was building in Theros, anger similar to that which he had felt in striking down Uwel Lors.

“I never asked to be a follower of Sargas!” Theros shouted up into the gray dome. “You want me to be something I am not. It is not honorable to punish without cause. It is not honorable to show wrath where kindness is warranted. A Solamnic Knight called Sir Richard Strongmail showed me true honor, he showed me courage and compassion, and he showed me that true strength lies in decency. He is what I want to be like, not you!”

Sargas glared down at Theros, who could not help but tremble at the baleful stare.

“I should punish you for your disloyalty. However, I am a god of honor and I told you early in your life that you were a man of destiny.