The bells pealed out one last time, then fell silent, not to be heard on Mithas until ten years later, the year the armies began to marshal for the War of the Lance.
* * * * *
Theros waited two more hours. Huluk still had not emerged. It had been night for some time now.
Theros decided to return to the smithy. The streets were dark in the administrative part of the city. A glow came from the outer part of the city, where there were inns and drinking and eating establishments. Many minotaurs went straight to these places after a day of work. Theros wished he could join them.
He had no trouble finding his way around the city. The roads in Lacynes were well laid out. It had been a planned city dating back several centuries, and had suffered little from the Cataclysm, even though it was not far from Istar. This was Sargas’s way of repaying the minotaurs for their suffering at the hands of the clerics and holy men of Istar.
Theros opened the door of the smithy, entered and sat down by the hearth. There was no one around. He was hungry. His stomach’s rumbling probably could be heard for a block. He thought about begging Hrall for a meal, but pride and good sense counseled against such a degrading act. Hrall would lose all respect for him.
Theros slept in the smithy that night. Despite his hunger, he smiled as he breathed in the smell of the leather, the wood smoke, the sweat. The heat from the hearth kept him warm.
Theros was up at the first crack of sunlight. Hrall came to the shop about an hour after sunrise. Theros was already busy investigating all of the tools and the half-made weapons.
The booming voice from the door caught him off guard. “What in the Abyss are you doing with that?” the minotaur yelled.
Theros was holding a half-finished axe in a battle stance, as if he were ready to fight the elven cavalry by himself. He jumped at the voice and dropped the axe. Guiltily, Theros turned around to see his new employer, scowling and clearly not happy about the unaccustomed disarray in his shop.
Hrall picked up the axe. “Play with the toys in this shop and I will spit you and cook you over my hearth.”
The threat did not worry Theros. The hint of food only made his mouth water and his stomach growl.
“So, you haven’t eaten, eh? I can see the wolf in your eyes, lad.” Hrall sounded exactly like Hran-gruff on the outside, a friend beneath.
“Come on, then. I guess we should get some food in you.”
They went behind the shop, past the storage shed that was to be Theros’s new home. A path led to the next street. They turned right and entered the first building. It was Hrall’s house. Hrall’s mate brought out meat and fruit cider, along with some hard black bread. Theros thanked her and ate quickly, keeping his eyes on the food, for it would never do for a human to gaze directly at a female minotaur. After the meal, he belched loudly to indicate to his hostess that the food had been good.
After eating, he and Hrall returned to the smithy.
Hrall started with the rules of the shop. He emphasized that what he said was what Theros did. No questions asked.
Theros listened and smiled. It was the exact speech that Hran had given him.
Theros felt right at home.
* * * * *
Theros stayed two years with Hrall, learning the techniques and tricks of a master smith. When he had learned all that Hrall could teach him, he decided it was time to move on. In fact, in many areas, such as leatherwork, he was far more skilled than his master. He could have been the master of his own smithy, but he would never accomplish that goal in Mithas or Kothas. The minotaurs themselves would never allow a human to be the master over other minotaurs.
After that day at the Supreme Circle chambers, Theros never saw Huluk, except at a distance. Huluk was a hero now, leading a new Third Army in parades and military exercises. He was constantly challenged in the ring of the Circus, but never defeated.
One day, Theros bid Hrall farewell. The master smith was sorry to part with him. He gave him good advice and, as a gift, the axe Theros had been using for practice when Hrall first walked in on him.
Leaving the smithy, Theros headed down to the port. He had a ship to catch-the Jelez Klarr. Its captain was a minotaur by the name of Olifac.
Now, Theros would pay for his passage.
Book Three
Chapter 14
“I will not leave you in the Abyss. Your blood would be on my head. Your clan would seek revenge. If you want to get off here, you must pay double the fare.”
“This isn’t the Abyss!” Theros snorted. “It’s a city, like any other, except that it is reputed to need a good smith more than most. I’ve paid my passage. Take me into port.”
The minotaur captain shook his horned head. “You must pay for the privilege. That way no friend of yours will accuse me of selling you.”
Grumbling, Theros paid. The minotaur ship sailed into port. Olifac hustled Theros off without ceremony. The minotaur crew lined the rails, armed to the teeth, ready for any hostile action. This done, they weighed anchor and sailed with the tide, off to find glory in battle.
Theros walked along the docks and entered the town of Sanction. He had to admit he was not much impressed with what he saw, was beginning to think he’d made a mistake.
Sanction had the reputation of being an evil place. Nestled in the cradle of three large volcanoes-the Lords of Doom-the town of Sanction even smelled evil. Smoke choked its alleys. Canals of molten lava flowed through the town as waterways would through other cities. The heat and gases pouring off the flows made breathing difficult. People went about with their faces muffled, mouths and noses covered. Yet Sanction was a bustling, thriving town. Perhaps because it was a town that never asked questions of anyone.
The business section was crowded with warehouses, shops and markets. People shoved and pushed their way through the crowded streets. No one smiled or muttered a hello or good-day to Theros. Each person appeared to be engrossed in his or her own private business.
Theros spent his first day in Sanction roaming the streets, watching the people. He’d never seen so many different races. Humans were the predominant race, but mingled among them were the small chattering kender (of whom Theros had been warned), grim stocky dwarves, the occasional skulking goblin or hobgoblin, and half-breed mixes of every sort.
Theros was astounded to note that wizards-of both red and black robes-actually had the effrontery to set up mageware shops in Sanction. No other town would have permitted it. Theros gave the shops and shop owners a wide berth. He had no use for wizards.
He was, in fact, attempting to avoid falling into a refuse-filled gutter on one side of the street, while avoiding a wizardess on the other, when he brushed against someone.
“Sorry,” Theros said, starting to continue past.
“What do you mean, sorry?” A hoarse voice roared in his ear.
Theros looked down. A man clad in a bright maroon coat glared up at him, blocking Theros’s way. The man was of average height, but he reached only Theros’s broad shoulder. “You got dirt on my boots!”
The man pointed to a bit of mud on the toe of one boot.
“I said I was sorry, sir,” Theros repeated and started to walk around the man.
To his astonishment and ire, the man doubled up his fist and punched Theros hard in the chest.
“Clean it!” snarled the man.
“Clean it yourself,” said Theros and again started past.
Steel flashed. Voices growled. Theros was surrounded by six men in maroon coats, all carrying swords. Each sword was now pointed at his throat.
“Clean my boot,” the man repeated.
No minotaur alive would have suffered such an insult. Theros was just contemplating the fact that his stay in Sanction had been incredibly short-as had his life-when he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder.