by Perrin, Don
The kender hopped up and down. “Will it have lots of pockets? Could you make it in bright colors? Will it have a fancy fastener in the front? Could I hide things up the sleeve?”
“Yuri will make you a colorful leather jerkin with lots of pockets. He will put steel strips inside to armor it against small blades, and line it so that it is warm in the winter. It will cost the same amount of gold that you have in those purses. Is it a deal?”
Trapspringer’s topknot had swung back and forth as he nodded vigorously. Theros had ordered the kender to return in a week and Yuri had begun work immediately.
The week was up. The jerkin was nearly finished. Yuri was inserting the last of the metal strips, fastening them to the material, then covering them. From the outside, there was no indication that the coat was anything special. There were, however, thirty-one different pockets and pouches built into the lining and sleeves of the piece. Yuri was pleased with his work. He had designed it himself.
Theros thought it was fine work, but he never said so. Discipline must be maintained.
Yuri was, as usual, prattling. “I think I’d make a good kender, you know, sir! Wouldn’t it be a fun life? Always traveling about, meeting interesting people.”
Theros grunted. He was in no mood for banter. He was never in the mood. Life was harsh and hard and the sooner young people like Yuri learned that lesson, the better.
“Hurry up and finish. I don’t want that kender back in this shop.”
Yuri finished within the hour and took the jerkin outside. He waited for only a few moments before Trapspringer came dashing up the street.
Theros, interested in spite of himself, kept watch through the window. The kender flung his arms around Yuri in a friendly hug. Yuri was probably thankful he’d been careful to empty his pockets before coming out.
“Is it done? Is it done? What’s it look like?” Trapspringer hopped up and down with excitement.
Yuri held up the finished jerkin. The kender was ecstatic. He actually kept quiet with joy for about three seconds.
He tried the jacket on. It fit well. The three brass fasteners were actually crate fasteners, but the kender didn’t know that and they held the coat together. He explored every pocket and seam. Finally, the kender took off the jacket and inspected the exterior. The back and front had been painted with clothing dyes of different colors, which effectively concealed several of the hidden pockets. The seams were all but invisible. Theros thought the color combination was truly hideous, but it appeared to be perfect for Trapspringer.
“So, it is to your liking?” Yuri asked.
“And you say this has armor built right in, do you?” Trapspringer was too excited to answer. “Well, fascinating! Now, I am fully prepared to give you this rather nifty purse—”
“Two purses,” Yuri reminded him. “There were two of them.”
“Um, well, I don’t have both purses anymore. I have just the one.” The kender rummaged through one of his pouches and came up with one of the purses. The gold was still in it, but where was the second purse?
“What do you intend to give in place of the second purse? After all, we did have a deal. It is a matter of honor.” Yuri lowered his voice to try to sound like Theros, much to Theros’s secret amusement.
The kender looked puzzled for a moment, then began rooting through the pouches again. He came up with a dog’s skull. “These are the bones of an ancient dragon from way back in antiquity. You could have it, I suppose, but—”
“That might be an ancient poodle,” Yuri said in disgust. “It’s certainly not a dragon.”
The kender dropped the skull back into the pouch and kept looking. “Not interested in any maps, are you?”
Yuri shook his head.
A shiny rock fell from the pouch as Trapspringer dug deeper inside. The rock was a silver nugget easily the size of a man’s fist. Yuri bent down and picked it up. “What about this?”
“That? My paperweight? Oh, sure, if you really want it. I have better rocks than that.”
Yuri held the nugget up, examining it. Theros, just by looking, figured that the nugget was easily worth thirty gold pieces. Yuri counted out another thirty from the purse. The kender was still short by about thirty pieces of gold. Theros kept quiet, waited to see what Yuri would do.
The kender had doffed his old jacket and was transferring all of the items from the old to the new. Half an hour later, after “oh, that’s where that went,” and “I didn’t know I had one of these!” he put the new jerkin on.
“Is it a deal?” the kender asked eagerly.
Yuri obviously liked the kender and was pleased with the fact that the kender liked the jacket so much.
“A deal,” Yuri said at last.
Theros frowned.
Trapspringer shook Yuri’s hand, pumping it up and down, and thanked him for the jerkin. Yuri extracted himself, quickly, checking that he still had the purse and the silver nugget.
Trapspringer ran off and Yuri went back inside the forge.
Theros put down his work. “So, did he pay what he promised?”
“No, sir, not exactly. He had thirty pieces of gold and a silver nugget worth at least thirty. I think—”
Theros smacked the young man across the face.
“An honorable deal is an honorable deal. He should have paid what was agreed, or you should have kept the jacket and called the guard on him!”
Yuri shrank back. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I—”
“That’s all I want to hear from you. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it when honor is breached! He will spread the word that I can be made a fool of!” Theros went back to his work and began pounding with vigor again.
Yuri crept back to his work.
The young man certainly had a lot to learn.
* * * * *
Near closing time, when the sun was casting long shadows across the town, a man entered the smithy. He was dressed in a brown cloak. His hood was pulled low over his head and face. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the contrast of dark intermingled with the bright fire from the forge. Saying nothing, he pulled the hood from his head.
The man was probably in his late forties or early fifties, judging by his short-cropped gray hair. His teeth were jagged, with a few missing, and he sported at least two scars across the left cheek. At this, Theros had the feeling that the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him.
A soldier, Theros determined. A veteran, at that. Theros knew he’d seen him before. But where? Probably in the street or the tavern.
Theros kept hammering. He had finished with the raw shape of the new sword, and was now honing the blade to a fine edge. A minute later, he put down the hammer and thrust the sword back into the fire. He turned to the newcomer.
“What can I do for you, stranger? New sword, or a dagger perhaps?”
The man stood motionless for a moment, studying the smith. “You are Theros Ironfeld, once a slave to the minotaurs, now a member of the Hrolk Clan. Am I right?”
The old names and faces returned to memory after a long absence. “Yes, I am Theros Ironfeld. Not that it should matter to you who I am. Do you want a weapon or armor?”
The man raised a leather-clad hand. “All in good time, Ironfeld. I understand that you charge high prices for your services and that you won’t bargain. Are you truly as good as you claim to be?”
Theros shrugged. “Ask anyone in Sanction. They’ll tell you whether or not I am worth the price. You judge the quality of my work yourself.”
The man glanced at several swords lying on a table, but did not touch them.
“I also understand that you came to Sanction looking for Dargon Moorgoth. But you lost interest, apparently. You never came to see him. Would you be interested in seeing him now?”
“I am making money, and I don’t have to go looking for anyone now,” Theros replied. “No, I am not interested in meeting Baron Dargon Moorgoth. Why?”
> The brown-robed man studied him intently “It turns out that Dargon Moorgoth is looking for you, Ironfeld. He wants to meet with you tonight. Will you come?”
The idea of finally meeting the great Baron Dargon Moorgoth was an appealing one. Theros was going to close down his shop for the night anyway. He had no one to go home to, so why not? Perhaps Moorgoth needed a fine sword. Behind the man, Yuri was listening and nodding wildly. This could make both their fortunes.
“Tell Baron Moorgoth that I will meet him at the Belching Fury Inn and Pub on Center Street. Tell him to bring his purse, because he’s picking up the tab. I will be there an hour after my shop closes.”
Theros turned his back on the stranger. Taking the sword out of the fire and going back to the anvil, he picked up the hammer and began pounding again. The stranger left.
At least, Theros thought, I’ll get a free meal out of it, if nothing else.
Chapter 15
The room in the Belching Fury was dark and smoky. The fire on the far side wall wasn’t vented very well. Some days, it was difficult to see through the haze of wood smoke and smoke from pipeweed. The food was tinged with the same taste as the smell; smoke permeated everything.
Theros didn’t care. It wasn’t half as bad as standing near a hot forge all day, pounding metal into shape. The real secret of the pub’s success was its method of keeping ale cold. No one—at least no one who was talking—would reveal the secret of how the kegs were kept chilled. The barmaids would descend to the basement and retrieve large mugs of the brew and bring them back up. No one else was allowed down there.
The contrast from hot food and hot fire to the icy cold drink was truly something to cherish. Theros finished his first mug at a draught and hungrily tore into half a loaf of bread and a bowl of chicken stew. He couldn’t taste the smoky flavor that everyone complained about. It was lost on him. Minotaurs were far less delicate in their eating habits.
Theros remembered back to his lean days working as a slave on board the minotaur ship and he was thankful for the change. Then he’d had to wait until his betters were served before him. He’d had to make do with the scraps and leftovers.
Now he ate and drank enough for three men, but he did the work of three men. He was just finishing his third bowl of stew when the man with the brown cloak entered the inn and stood to one side of the door, looking around carefully, much as he had done when he’d entered Theros’s smithy. After a few moments, the man threw back the hood and walked up to the table.
People in the inn, catching sight of the man, rose to their feet. The innkeeper dashed out from behind the bar, bowing and bobbing until it was a wonder his head didn’t tumble off. The barmaids dropped curtsies and anything else they were carrying.
Theros kept on eating. The man in brown walked straight up to him.
“Theros Ironfeld. I am glad that you decided to keep your appointment. Very glad indeed.”
Theros looked up, still chewing. “Why should you care? Does Baron Moorgoth pay you extra if I show up?”
The man sat down without invitation. Theros motioned for the barmaid.
“I’ll have the usual,” the man said, “and I’ll have the same stew as my friend here.”
“Don’t call me friend. I’m here to meet your commander. You I can live without.” Theros went back to his eating.
“Oh, sir!” The barmaid looked scandalized. “Don’t you know—”
“Hush, Marissa. Go about your business,” the man ordered. He seemed to find something highly amusing. He leaned back in his seat. “You really don’t know who I am, do you? I am Dargon Moorgoth. Baron Dargon Moorgoth.”
Theros eyed the man with indifference. So that’s where he’d seen this man. Riding about town in his fine carriage or reviewing his troops in the market square. Lately, the baron and his army had been gone for months at a time, coming back with wagonloads of loot.
“So what if you are Baron Moorgoth? What am I supposed to do? Bow and kiss your feet like everyone else in Sanction? And why the disguise? Why not just come out and tell me who you are and what you want?”
Moorgoth smiled. “I heard you were a man who did things your own way. I also heard that you refused to give my guardsmen special treatment. I decided to see for myself. They were right. You treat me no differently now than you did when you thought I was an ordinary soldier. I like that.”
“Good. I’m glad.” Theros had little use for game-playing. “Now what’s your business with me?”
“Business? My business today is conquest. I am preparing to expand my holdings beyond Sanction. My men need good weapons and good armor. My job is to train my men and lead them into battle. Your job will be to equip them. To make it short, I need a new smith in my army.”
Theros thought back to his days with the minotaur army. He remembered the excitement of preparing for the battle, the hours of fast and furious labor, making ready for the fight, the pride in knowing that his weapons and armor had done their duty. He found the prospect interesting, for a moment. Then came back to Theros the hardship, the backbreaking labor, sleeping on the ground, eating cold food, driving wagons over rough terrain in all sorts of weather.
He thought of his snug little dwelling—not big, but comfortable. He thought of chilled ale and hot stew.
Theros shook his head. “What could you possibly offer me that I couldn’t get here? I made over fifty gold pieces for a single armored jerkin today. Could you offer me that sort of money?”
Moorgoth laughed. “You mean that jerkin that your lad made for the kender? Good work, I agree, but the little rat never knew the worth of what he was trading.”
Theros frowned. “Do not suggest that I am a thief, Moorgoth. It is no way to begin a business discussion. The kender got a bargain. Whatever I do, I am fair.”
“You are a soldier, Theros Ironfeld, and honorable as a minotaur, Huluk says. Huluk sent me word about you. Unfortunately, we already had a smith at the time, and he was good. I still have the letter from Huluk, of the Clan Hrolk, introducing you. I remember Huluk. He was quite a warrior. Someday we will see him again here on Ansalon. I hear that his new Third Army is second to none.”
He paused to take a drink of ale. Theros finished his meal, shoved his plate aside.
“My smith is dead,” Moorgoth continued. “My rear area was attacked last month when I raided a dwarven camp. I defeated the force on the ground, but not without loss. We took what we had come for, and left. The hole in my unit still remains, however. I have found a new quartermaster and a new fletcher. I need a new smith for weapons and armor.”
Theros grunted. “I’m not interested. I am doing fine where I am.”
Moorgoth shoved aside his plate, leaned back. “I am willing to pay you one thousand pieces of steel to join, and one of these gems a month for as long as you stay.”
The mercenary held up a clear jewel, exquisitely cut. It caught the light and splashed it around the room. The baron quickly concealed the bauble.
“It is worth at least a hundred gold pieces, and probably a lot more. I captured a huge load of these from the dwarves. I will pay you one per month. Further, I guarantee that I will buy them back at a rate of one hundred gold pieces if you cannot find a better deal elsewhere.”
Theros motioned for Moorgoth to hand over the jewel for inspection. The baron dropped the jewel into Theros’s huge calloused hand. Theros eyed it and then handed it back. “You should have come to me seven years ago. Then I would have been interested. Now, I can buy one of these myself if I have the mind.”
Moorgoth continued to try to make the sale. “You can keep your shop, Ironfeld. Just close it down while you are away. I will hire you for a three-year contract. I will even hire a guard to keep watch on the shop while you are gone, at no additional expense to yourself.”
Theros was impressed. He couldn’t help but be a little interested, in spite of himself.
“So what will I do to earn this wealth? It seems to me that if you paid everyone in y
our force with the same generosity that you are showing me, you would have to be raiding the Halls of Thorbardin, not a single dwarf camp.”
Moorgoth took a long swig of ale. “You know as well as I do that finding good infantry is never difficult. Young men and women are always out to prove themselves, to risk their lives for booty. And I have good, solid veterans who keep the backbone of my small force strong. It is the skilled labor I need and I don’t have three years to wait while some smith learns the fine art of sword-making. I need a skilled smith, one who can do fast work and good work in a field situation. You can bring your assistant along to help. I will pay him double what he is making now.”
The barmaid, Marissa, hustled over, asked if the baron would like a refill on his ale.
“Thank you, yes.” He gave her a pinch.
The barmaid flashed him a smile, left with a twirl of her skirt that revealed her shapely legs.
Theros gazed after her. In all the years he’d been coming to this bar, she had never looked at him like that. Granted, he was not the most handsome man in the world and he supposed his manner was crude and abrupt from living so long among the minotaurs. Still, the baron was no prize and the woman had smiled prettily for him. Money and power, Theros thought. That’s what makes the difference. She’d smile for me if I put that jewel in her hand.
From deep inside, a voice asked, “And would you want a woman who will smile only if she’s paid to smile? And do you truly want to work for this man when you don’t like him?”
Theros grunted. He leaned forward. “No, thanks, Baron. Like I said, seven years ago—maybe. If you’re looking for a smith, I suggest Malachai the Dwarf. He might be interested. I’m not.”
The baron tried this angle and that, but Theros continued to refuse. At length, it seemed that Moorgoth gave up. He didn’t appear to have any hard feelings about it. He had turned his attention to other things.
The barmaid came back to the table with two full mugs of ale. Moorgoth grabbed the woman around the waist, pulled her close. “My men and I will be going out to battle soon. Shall I bring you back a little something?”
