Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield (37 page)

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.

“Good, still there,” he said to himself.

Theros was interested to see that the big warrior who had ordered the new blade put on his sword was one of this group, as was the red-robed mage. A dwarf quaffed ale and argued with the kender. Near the dwarf sat a half-elf, who was obviously trying to hide his elven heritage by wearing a beard. Theros had lived among the elves long enough to recognize the traits.

They were laughing and talking together warmly, with the exception of the red-robed mage, whom everyone else in the group seemed to avoid. Still, even he was part of the circle of friendship that seemed to surround these men like the bright glow of the fire.

Theros, watching them, felt suddenly very much alone. He had never, in his life, had friends like that. Friends who, he felt, would be willing to lay down their lives for each other. He wanted very much to meet these men, to get to
know them better, but he felt that his presence would be an intrusion.

It was time to get back to work. He’d be working late tonight getting those weapons finished.

Theros stood and made his way to the door. As he walked past the group, he tried to listen in on what they were saying. He wasn’t the only person eavesdropping. The old man in the mouse-colored robes seemed to have a similar interest in the group, judging by the fact that he was leaning so far out of his chair to hear that it was a wonder he didn’t tumble out of it. His hat was, once again, on the floor.

The half-elf was speaking.

“… good to see you again, old friend. Any word of your father’s inheritance?”

Theros didn’t hear the knight’s answer, although he had some idea now as to the nature of the sword and armor. He doubted now if the knight would want to sell. Theros paused on his way out and retrieved the old man’s hat.

“Here, Father. Someone’s liable to step on it again.”

“Eh? Oh, thank you, my boy. Say, could you do me one small favor?”

“What is it, Father?” Theros asked, thinking that he was going to be conned into buying the old man a mug of ale.

“Just pop down to Hederick’s office, will you? Tell him that he should come see who’s at the inn tonight.” The old man nodded toward the group of friends.

“Why should I do that?” Theros asked, astonished and displeased. “I’m no tell-tale.”

“Why in Sargas’s name should you?” asked the old man jovially, and he prodded Theros with a long, pointed finger. “Because if you do, you may get your wish. Just see to it, will you? There’s a good boy.”

Theros, grunting, pushed open the door and left.

He headed down the walkway, intending to go back to his forge. But then he heard the old man’s voice.

Why in Sargas’s name should you?
Sargas! Was this a messenger from Sargas? Impossible! The minotaur god was not likely to use decrepit old humans in his service. But then, why had the old man mentioned Sargas? How could he know of a minotaur god? And what wish was he talking
about?

It was all very confusing. Theros found himself stepping onto a crossing walkway that led to the High Theocrat’s office. He knocked on the door. This time, the servant immediately let him in.

The guard jumped to attention, but the High Theocrat waved him to sit down. “Relax, Sergeant. This is Theros Ironfeld, our smith and a well-known weapons-maker in Solace. To what do I owe this second visit today? Have you finished the swords?”

“They will be ready by tomorrow night.” Theros tried to focus his thoughts, which seemed as shapeless as the old man’s hat. He opened his mouth, but at the last moment, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about the knight or his friends. To do so would be to perhaps get them into trouble and that would be most dishonorable. “That’s … all I wanted.”

Theros mumbled and was on his way out when a guard burst in, nearly knocked the smith to the ground.

“Theocrat, there is a strange group of travelers in the Inn of the Last Home! One of them is a Solamnic Knight!”

Theros paused to hear the response. The bureaucrat nearly toppled over backward in his chair. “What did you say? A Solamnic Knight, here, in Solace? It is they that caused the anger of the gods, and now they suffer the wrath of civilized peoples throughout Ansalon. I cannot abide this! Not only that, but Lord Verminaard has also offered a reward for knowledge of the whereabouts of any Solamnic Knight.”

The High Theocrat started for the door. The guard started to go with him.

“No,” Hederick said. “We can’t go charging in there. They may be armed. I don’t want any trouble. I’ll observe them and listen to their talk. When they’re good and drunk, you come in and arrest them.”

The High Theocrat hastened down the walkway toward the Inn of the Last Home. Theros, pondering all the strange things that had happened to him on this day, took his time walking back to his smithy.

He went to work on his mysterious blades. The raw steel
was now crudely shaped, but the process of heating and hammering to put a fine edge on the blades was a slow one.

He lifted the first blade, and to hold it still, he thrust it into the grillwork that covered half the forge. Next, he began to pump the leather bellows at the end of the forge, heating up the coals. Soon, the blade was hot enough to work. Theros took the blade out of the fire and began hammering it on the anvil.

He closed the forge so that he could work undisturbed. The town was quiet after sundown. Most of the townsfolk had gone home or over to Otik’s inn for ale and food. Even at some distance from the inn, Theros could hear the sounds of merriment whenever he paused in his hammering.

He continued for another hour, finishing the shaping and hardening of the blade’s metal. He let the fire die down and decided to call it a night. Closing up the shop’s shutters, he locked the front door on the way out.

Suddenly, a dreadful scream came from the direction of the Inn of the Last Home. Theros’s heart lurched. He’d heard that kind of scream before. It had been wrenched from the knights tortured by Uwel Lors. Theros ran to see what was going on.

He was on the ground level, and it took him several minutes to reach the base of the stairs at the inn. Above him, a commotion was in progress. People were yelling and shouting. A screeching voice—it sounded like the old man in the mouse-colored robes—shouted for the town guard.

Theros looked around to see a startled hobgoblin turn and run back in that direction, fumbling for his sword. Patrons started streaming out of the inn, running across the walkways.

Theros moved aside as several people tumbled down the stairs, trying to get away. They wanted no part of the town guard.

“What happened?” Theros asked.

“The High Theocrat!” a woman answered, gasping. “They’re attacking the High Theocrat!”

Theros looked up to see Hederick come stumbling out of the door. He was clutching a wounded hand and babbling
about blasphemers and witches. The High Theocrat stumbled down the walkway toward his office and home.

Twenty or so hobgoblins poured out of the guardsmen’s hut, all running toward the inn. They were joined by the Seeker guards. All had their weapons drawn.

Theros circled around the base of the huge vallenwood tree to give the soldiers enough room to maneuver. The last thing he wanted was to be accidentally skewered by a battle-lusting hobgoblin. He made his way around to the back, below the kitchen.

It was then that he saw the strangers. The town guard was coming in the front of the inn. The same group of friends he had seen earlier in the day were making their escape out through the kitchen. Theros, standing in the shadows, watched them.

The barmaid, Tika, was showing them how to lower themselves down by a rope normally used to haul up huge casks of ale. The friends were all together, and accompanying them were the two barbarians. They took the same route, with the exception of the mage, who floated down as light as a feather.

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.

Chapter 32

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.