Dragons. Dragons twining up and down the blade. Strange-looking dragons with long, snakelike bodies and no wings. And interspersed among the dragons appeared to be letters, although they belonged to no alphabet that Theros knew. Not elven, certainly. Not dwarven either.
Obviously, though, he’d been correct in his assessment. The engraving had marred the integrity of the blade. He thrust the blade into the fire to heat, and began sorting out and preparing the proper tools.
A strange hissing caught his attention.
“Yuri, stop making that fool noise!” Theros shouted.
“Stop what, sir?” Yuri walked in from the back, a half-finished glove in his hand. “I wasn’t doing anything-sir! Blessed Gilean! S-s-sir! L-l-l-look!”
Theros turned. Yuri was stammering and pointing at the forge fire.
Theros couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Dragons, small red dragons that seemed to be made of flame, were crawling off the blade of the sword that now glowed red in the heat of the blazing fire.
Openmouthed, Theros stared. He shut his eyes, rubbed them, looked again. The dragons were still there, more and more of them. Now they were scuttling across the white-hot coals. One of the dragons-a bright, fiery red creature-jumped out of the bed of coals, landed on a wooden bench. The dragon vanished, changing to flame. The bench began to smolder and smoke.
The firepit was filled with tiny dragons now, hundreds and hundreds. They were leaping and dancing and jumping, and everything they touched burst into flame. Yuri was now shrieking at the top of his lungs. At least he had the presence of mind to grab a bucket of water and throw its contents on the flaming bench.
Theros couldn’t move. Sorcery! This was wizard’s work. Theros would have faced the prospect of cold steel in the belly without blanching. The sight of that ensorceled sword left him as weak and shaking as a terrified child.
The fiery little dragons were dashing up the wooden beams that supported the roof. They crawled to the worktable, dropped among the tools. And everything they touched burst into flame-even metal. The only effect the water seemed to have on the flames was to spread them. Yuri might have been pouring oil on them.
Yuri was clutching at Theros, trying to drag him out of the forge. The building filled up rapidly with a particularly toxic, choking smoke.
“Come away, master! Come away! There’s nothing you can do! Give up!”
“By Sargas!” Theros roared, coming to himself. “Never!”
Grabbing hold of a piece of uncut leather, he began beating at the flaming dragons that were running along the hard-packed earthen floor of the smithy. The dragons jumped onto the leather, and it caught fire so fast that the heat of the flames singed all the hair off of Theros’s arm. He dropped the leather, started to try to stamp out the flames with his foot.
“No, master, no!” Yuri was howling.
“More water, you fool!” Theros shoved the boy out of the forge. “Bring more water.”
He stomped on the dragons, and every time his foot hit one, it gave a little squeak and turned cold and black. But there must have been thousands now and he could never hope to put them all out. The smoke was making him cough, burning his eyes. The wooden beams on the ceiling had caught fire now. The heat was forcing Theros back toward the open door.
Still he fought, until one of the dragons jumped on his leg. It burned through his long leather apron in an instant, touched his flesh. The pain was excruciating, far worse than any burn Theros had ever received in his long years of working the forge. It seemed that his flesh was going to burst into flame. The pain was so intense, he felt himself starting to black out.
He staggered out of the burning forge and collapsed upon the ground, clutching his leg and moaning. Looking up, he saw that a crowd had formed around his forge. Most of his neighbors were there, plus many more of the citizens of Sanction, attracted by the billowing black smoke. Among these were several of the maroon-coated men of Moorgoth’s raiders. And standing among those was a black-robed wizard. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, a slight smile on his face.
Not one person sought to help put out the blaze. Not one person grabbed a bucket or shouted for the town guard, or did anything else typical of such emergencies. They all stood in silence, watching the fire, staring at Theros.
Yuri came running up, panting, carrying the bucket of water. He stared, aghast, at the shop-it was engulfed in flames.
“Never mind that now!” Theros shouted. “Pour the water on my leg!” It might help or it might make the flames worse, but Theros was frantic with the pain. He didn’t much care.
Yuri dumped the water on Theros’s burning clothes. The fire went out instantly. Theros lay back on the ground, panting and sweating. The pain of his burned leg made him almost sick, as did the smell of his own charred flesh.
The black-robed wizard walked up to Theros, knelt down to examine the smithy’s injured leg. Theros growled, but he was in too much pain to say anything.
“Nasty burn,” said the mage calmly. “It will leave a bad scar, I’m afraid. But I have something that might ease the pain.” He placed a jar of ointment at Theros’s side. “Oh, don’t worry about paying me,” the wizard added, with a sly grin. “I’ll send the bill to Baron Moorgoth.”
The wizard strode off, black robes trailing in the ashes, which were just about all that was left of the forge. Even the stone chimney had burned in the magical blaze.
One by one, Theros’s neighbors drifted away, went back to their work. The townspeople, now that the excitement was over, wandered back to the bars and taverns. Moorgoth’s men stood around, talking amongst themselves.
“Isn’t that a coincidence? For the smith’s forge to catch fire like that. After he turned down the baron’s generous offer. My, my. I wonder what Master Ironfeld will do now?”
“Lost his tools and everything. You know, it’s a strange twist of fate, but Baron Moorgoth’s well stocked with tools. Kept them from the last smith we had.”
Yuri helped Theros to his feet. “Master!” The boy’s face was white, streaked with black. His eyes were wide and frightened. “Master, even the strongbox melted!”
“The money?” Theros knew the answer.
Yuri shook his head. “Gone. All gone.”
“Well, Ironfeld,” said a voice behind him. “This is a terrible accident you’ve had. Just terrible.”
Theros turned. Baron Dargon Moorgoth stood behind him.
“What will you do now, Ironfeld? Oh, I guess you could start up your business again, but you know, I have the feeling that you wouldn’t get very many customers.”
A minotaur bested in contest who has fought well is permitted to surrender without shame or dishonor. Theros knew when he was beaten. The best thing to do was to accept his defeat, surrender, and carry on. But do it with dignity. Always with dignity.
Theros, limping on his injured leg, pulled himself up, faced Moorgoth.
“Do you still need a smith?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Moorgoth.
“I will take you up on the job, then,” Theros said coolly. “You will pay me what you offered me last night-one thousand steel to join. You can hand it over now. I’ll need to replace what I’ve lost in the blaze.”
“Agreed,” said Moorgoth, smiling. “Though I might say that you are in no position to bargain-”
“You might,” said Theros. “And I might say that you could go looking for your weapons-smith in the Newsea.” He took the purse that Moorgoth held out to him.
The baron started to walk away. His men, laughing and talking, fell in behind him.
Theros raised his voice to be heard. “Plus, I want a percentage of any take that your army makes, over and above my pay. Is this clear, Baron?”
The baron turned to stare at Theros in amazement. “What did you say, Ironfeld? I thought you made more demands.”
“I did.” Theros was calm. Yuri, standing next to him, was shaking in fear and making signs to Theros to be quiet. Theros ignored him.