Fearful of the warnings about Drachenberg, Morgen cannot shake the feeling she is being watched while Emich questions whether he can keep his family secret despite her constant curiosity. Personalities clash, and the truth comes clear—in this world every beast has a weakness and every spark catches flame.
1
The morning sun was just cresting the rugged mountains to the east, and a chill clung to the air. Morgen craved warmth. She hoped to chase the numbness from her fingers before she continued with her father on their journey.
A few twigs and a narrow branch lay beside the skeleton of last night’s cooking fire. She tossed them on the blackened char, sending up a puff of ashes. Morgen found the flint and steel on the ground and started a small flame, which quickly licked at the dry wood. She held out her hands to cup the warmth, then looked across the grassy meadow to the pines that wrapped the mountainous valley. It wouldn’t take much effort to collect a few more dried branches to keep the fire going.
Morgen lifted herself off the ground and stretched quietly, trying to avoid waking her father. Her mustard-yellow dress hadn’t been quite enough to keep her comfortable as she slept; the chilly fingers of night had reached through the woolen fabric. She brushed off an ant that was marching across the bust of her embroidered underdress before lifting her skirts and walking off.
“Where are you going, liebling?” Her father’s scratchy voice called after her.
She stopped to turn around and wrapped her arms across her waist to preserve what little warmth she had. Tybalt was propped upright against an outcropping of rock, gazing at her with lifted brows. Her father’s shirtsleeves and breeches were smudged with dirt. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent money on clothing for himself. If they weren’t always moving from one place to another, chasing down valuable gems and metal ore, she might have time to take a needle and thread to the holes.
Morgen swept the braid securing her blond locks over her shoulder and answered, “I did not mean to wake you. I am off to collect a little firewood so we may warm up before we leave.”
He groaned and adjusted in place, lifting his bushy blond eyebrows again. “I would like to start off early.”
“Then load the horse if you must, but I wish for some warmth before we go,” she said and turned around.
Morgen hiked up the slope into the woodland to search for branches dry enough to kindle a flame. Her stomach was empty and groaned in displeasure, but she ignored its demands. She was well aware of their situation. The small mouthfuls of cheese and bread she’d consumed last night had been enough to allow her to fall asleep eventually, but she was eager to find a village or town to replenish their supplies.
With an armful of sticks and kindling, she turned back. The dark pine trunks and their pointed canopy of emerald needles blocked the sunlight from breaching the glen. She could see the grassy clearing where their horse was tethered and the rock her father was propped against.
It was then she heard the voices. Many times she’d heard her father mutter and speak to himself, or even sing while he worked, but it was not his voice she heard. Morgen crept closer, staying to the shadows of the pines to overhear better.
“…nice little camp you have here. Are you all alone or traveling with others?”
“I travel by myself,” her father answered.
Another man spoke up. “We have been wandering for some time and are hungry. Do you have something to share from your bag?”
Tybalt craned his neck toward the trees where she’d been collecting wood and answered loudly in return, “I cannot turn a hungry man away, though I am with very little myself.”
The three strangers walked about their camp bold as bankers, though from the state of their clothes, they weren’t refined folk or even close. An unsettled feeling took hold of her gut. Deep down she knew they weren’t to be trusted, so she remained where she was to see what would happen next before acting.
One man stood beside a horse, holding onto its reins. He scuffed the toe of his leather shoe in the ground while looking about the clearing. “We are on our way to Innsbruck. Where are you off to?”
Her father handed a piece of bread to a man dressed all in black and lied, “I have been hearing news of the mines in Schwaz. Thought I might look for a job there.”
“An old man like you?” The one holding the horse laughed. “I am surprised you have the strength to swing a pick over your head.”
Morgen didn’t like the sound of this. Who were they to call her father an old man when they’d never met before? She pinched her lips together, trying to decide what to do. The mountain paths through here didn’t seem to be traveled often, and she knew of no village near enough to seek help.
“Do not be so unkind to Herr…” said the third man, who wore a strange black cap the like of which she’d never seen before. He stepped close to her father’s horse to stroke its withers. “What is your name?”
Her father seemed to sense danger was at hand as well, though he was busy searching the grove of trees, presumably to catch sight of her. His answer was made despite his clear distraction. “Tybalt Hausle.”
The man in the black cap grinned at him. “Herr Tybalt, you have our thanks. This is a fine creature. Worth quite a bit of silver, I daresay. Would make our long travels much quicker.”
Morgen’s father didn’t respond. He only stared at the man in silence, waiting for something more. Maybe a clear indication of what the men wanted from him or a sign from the heavens above. He was not as young or light-footed as he once had been, but he knew how to swing a pick. Unfortunately he’d already packed his tools in his leather sack and strapped it to their horse along with all of their other valuables.
Although her father seemed uncertain how to proceed, Morgen wasn’t. It was clear as day what they were after. She grabbed hold of one of the pieces of firewood and prepared herself to run at the strangers using her blunt weapon.
All at once the man standing beside Tybalt’s horse leapt onto it, and her father rushed at him, shouting, “Nein! It is everything I have!”
Just as Morgen began to run forward with her makeshift club raised over her head, a hand grabbed hold of her arm.
2
She sucked in a breath, startled and caught off guard. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she wondered if this would mark the end of her twenty-four years. She tried wrenching her arm free. In so doing, she dropped the firewood and kindling except for the piece she still held in her hand.
A deep voice growled in her ear, “Stay here.”
The tight hold on her arm was released, leaving a dull ache. A blond man swept past so quickly she couldn’t see his face. He rushed to the clearing, and she considered the possibility that he was rejoining his own men. His black doublet and breeches were not unlike any other nicely dressed fellow she’d seen in town, though his white shirt may have been nearer to tan from stains. A flash of steel caught her eye, and she realized he’d unsheathed a blade.
Tybalt had grabbed onto the thief who had mounted their horse and tried to pull him off. One of the other fellows jumped onto their own steed while the last man rushed at Morgen’s father and began punching him about the head and ribs, beating him relentlessly. She watched helplessly, barely able to breathe.
The nameless blond man who’d appeared from the ether reached their campsite. Tybalt’s attacker was surprised by the sting of a blade slashing his back and screamed. The robber stumbled away from her father, ran to one of the horses and was helped up by his compatriot. The two thundered off on their steed, shouting and calling to their friend to follow.
“Return what you have stolen,” the blond sword-wielding man spat at the mounted thief.
“Nein!” the fellow responded and kicked Tybalt in the face, sending him falling backward into the rocky embankment he’d been sleeping against not long before.
The swordsman lashed out at the bandit, slicing the thief’s linen sleeve and drawing blood. Though the nameless man w
ho’d come to their aid tried to reach for the reins of the horse, the thief was faster. He kicked the steed’s flanks, springing away to freedom and sending the swordsman stumbling onto the ground and into the flames of the campfire.
The meadow, now clear of the scoundrels, was filled with the sounds of her father’s groans. Morgen rushed from her hiding place, still clutching her wooden club. She grabbed the hem of her skirts so she could race to her father’s side while he lay facedown on the rock.
“Father!” Morgen leaned down to help him up.
He sucked in a breath as she assisted him to his feet. She could tell he was trying not to show the pain he was in. It was clear he couldn’t put his weight on his leg, and his eye was already swelling from the beating. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose.
She tried wiping it away, but he swatted her hand and muttered, “I will be fine. It could have been worse.”
Her attention went to the man who’d attempted to assist them. He had lifted himself away from the fire. She expected to smell the foul aroma of charred hair and flesh, for his hands and forearms had landed squarely in the flames, but only burned pine smoke filled the clearing. He was brushing himself off, showing no signs of injury, so she returned her focus to her father, who clearly wasn’t fine, despite his words.
It wasn’t her place to question her father’s wishes, and she helped him sit upon the rock as she studied his battered face with a frown. As she stood there, wearing all that she now owned, Morgen knew they were in a very bad predicament.
“Did they get it all?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t loaded quite everything onto the horse before the robbers arrived.
Tybalt attempted a smile, but he winced and his grin fell away. He leaned over the rock and lifted a small leather sack. “I can say we were not left without a stitch.”
But Morgen knew which bag he held. It didn’t carry their silver or their most prized possessions, although Tybalt might have argued that second point. She sniffed and rubbed her cheek. “The cutlery and your flint and steel will not keep us from starving.”
Her father shook his head and touched her nose. “It just might. We must think on the bright side.”
Tybalt seemed to remember they were not alone and tried to peer around Morgen. She stepped out of the way so he could address the fellow who’d attempted to help them. “Are you injured? My daughter can have a look at your burns.”
Morgen took a hesitant step toward the stranger, but he got to his feet, moved away from her and hastily pulled down the sleeves of his shirt. His mumbles were barely audible. “Not necessary—I am fine.”
“Thank you for your help, sir,” her father said from his resting place. “What a lucky happenstance for us that you came along when you did.”
The stranger bent down to pick up his sword and wiped the edge of its blade on his sleeve. A streak of red was left in its place, but he didn’t seem to care. He sheathed it without a word before reluctantly turning toward Tybalt and Morgen. She was finally able to make out his features. Blond locks reached his broad shoulders, and she caught the pale-blue shine of his eyes despite the way he actively avoided looking directly at them. If she had to guess, she might have presumed his age to be five and twenty.
When he didn’t answer, her father tried again. “I am Tybalt. This is my daughter, Morgen. We were on our way to the mountains to the south when those men waylaid us.”
The fellow dipped his chin to his chest. His voice was deep and soft. “I am Emich, and you interrupted my travels into the village.”
Morgen was not at all pleased with his demeanor. He might have been a specimen of a man, but he was just as displeasing as all the other men she’d ever met. Another example why being without a husband was in her favor. Her father worked hard to provide for them and tried to raise her up in station because he treasured her, even though she didn’t care about such things. As long as they were safe and had food and a roof over their heads, she was satisfied.
Tybalt rubbed his knee and winced. “My apologies for halting your journey. If you would not mind, could you tell me the direction of this village so we might attempt a trade for food and lodging?”
Morgen whispered to him, “But who will want our dull knives and worn spoons?”
Emich turned to point through the trees and down the mountainside. “The trail runs that way.”
“Very kind of you,” her father answered and stood up. He flung the small leather sack over his shoulder and sucked in a deep breath, puffing up his stout chest.
Morgen glared at Emich. A kind person would have offered them a ride. She set down the tree branch and stepped closer to her father, providing him her arm to lean on, which he latched on to. He patted her lovingly. “Best not think of the hole in your belly, liebling. A day’s work might get us fed. Our fate awaits us on this grand adventure.”
She held her tongue. She knew he would not wish to hear her contradict him. Her father always looked to the positive side and dreamed of greater things. He’d even named Morgen after the hope every morning brought. But she considered herself a realist. It was not fate that would get them to safety, but hard work and the choices they made.
Morgen took a breath and nodded at her father. He began to limp forward, and she shadowed his every step. She didn’t know how they would make the trek to the village by nightfall, even if it was close. Tybalt’s pace was slow and painful. But he was a proud man who didn’t need to be reminded of that. It was her place to look after him, and she took it seriously.
They walked between the pines, and her father inhaled deeply. “Smell that. The aroma of life itself.”
“Ja, father,” she answered as she so often did.
The sound of horses’ snickering came from just beyond the wooded area, and they exchanged a glance before pressing on to see if the thieves had had a change of heart and left their steed behind.
When they made it through to the gravel path, they found two horses strapped to a cart. The animals looked over at them as they approached. Morgen sensed movement from behind just as Emich breezed by them, climbing onto the seat of the cart. He took up the reins and stared ahead as Morgen and Tybalt walked past.
The sound of clopping hooves on the gravel caught up to them. She kept her eyes to the wide trail, not wanting to look at the man when he moved past. A cool breeze whistled through the treetops as he led his carthorses down the mountain trail.
3
Their progression down the slope was slow. She might have enjoyed the scenery if she were not fixated on the terrible situation they found themselves in. Her father’s stilted breaths signaled just how sore his leg was.
Morgen’s focus was on the rocky ground a step ahead of them and not the trail, so when she heard a horse snicker nearby, she was surprised to find Emich stopped in the shadow of some pines. She frowned, wondering if the fellow had broken an axle.
When she and her father neared the cart, Emich turned his head and said in a deadened voice, “We head to the same destination. Climb on if you wish.”
He stared down at the reins in his hands, never looking up at them. The horses’ haunches twitched to shake off flies that tried resting on their hides.
“Many thanks!” Tybalt hollered to Emich with an expression of glee. He then leaned in to Morgen and grinned. “Best look out for signs so you do not miss them. I do believe fate is guiding us along this day.”
Morgen took a long, steady breath, but again held her tongue. She helped him to the back of the cart so he could pull himself up. Once he was safely sitting on board, she joined him, letting her booted feet dangle over the back ledge. A soft whistle sounded from behind her, and the horses continued on the path.
“What will we do when we arrive in the village?” she asked her father.
“One of us might be of service to someone. If there are deposits of iron or silver around, I might mine some minerals of value.”
Morgen pointed out, “But you do not have your tools.”
�
�A little setback,” he answered with a wave of his hand.
She thought of obvious options. “I can see if anyone needs washing to be done.”
“There we are. Someone must need help of some sort.” Then Tybalt called behind him to Emrich, “Do you know of anyone needing the use of an extra pair of hands?”
“Nein.” The man didn’t turn his head to speak, nor did he take his eyes off the valley they were descending into.
“What sort of work do you do? Are you a craftsman?” Her father lifted his bushy eyebrows and glanced over his shoulder.
No response came. Her father’s fondness for talking wasn’t typically embraced by people they’d only just met. Unless, of course, he wandered into a tavern and they were near a keg of beer and men looking for conversation. She hoped to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t bother Emich. It seemed their new acquaintance disliked being in their company.
Tybalt continued to speak over his shoulder as if Emrich had actually answered. “I am a miner, myself. Decided to leave Erzberg and the iron deposits there for the riches I hear are kept hidden beneath the mountainside to the south. Even with the cut paid to the church and the duke, emeralds may line our pockets better so that I might afford to buy a home for Morgen, just as she deserves.”
“Father!” she whispered. “He does not have interest in our private matters.”
It wasn’t wise to share such details with everyone they met. You couldn’t trust that people wouldn’t try to take advantage of you in some way. Proof of that had just occurred. Thieves often looked for kindhearted, honest folk or those foolish enough not to protect their valuables. And after the devastating loss of Tybalt’s tools, their horse, their coinage and all of their personal effects, she thought it wise not to be so trusting.
Sirens and Scales Page 140
