Tybalt sniffed and craned his neck toward her. “I know what you are thinking. You think we are set toward disaster, ruin, but you are wrong.”
Morgen glanced over the edge of the cart at the passing birch trees. Puffy clouds had swept over much of the sky since they’d left their meadow campsite. She stared at their contorting white shapes as her father continued with his lecture. “There is not a soul amongst the living who is not cursed with some sort of hardship. But I say when you are given coal when you expect gold, you best make a fire and see who comes along seeking warmth. Fate cannot be understood before your future is told. All things happen for a reason—that is what I say. I have faith we are pointed toward better things. You and I both, liebling. I can feel it.”
She cast a melancholy smile his way. No matter what life had blown in their direction, he’d always remained positive. When Morgen was young, her mother would scold him for it. No matter if they had little to eat, or if there was a leak in the roof, he found good reason for it. The strain his optimism caused in their marriage took a toll. Morgen remembered the cold, rainy morning her mother had left them both, daring Tybalt to find the silver lining of her departure. And he had.
Holding a weeping Morgen on his lap, he’d pressed her head to his chest and whispered, “This means we have great things ahead of us, liebling. Great things. We can go out to see what the world has to offer a miner and—what is it you wish to be?”
Morgen could still remember how she’d answered nearly twenty years ago. “You bring the iron, Papa, and I will forge it into something beautiful.”
“That is a quite dream, liebling. You must find a blacksmith willing to teach you—I hope someday fate will answer your wish…”
A long, sorrowful bird’s call interrupted her thoughts and she looked up. A falcon swept through the sky and disappeared in the treetops. She sighed and tried to forget what a failure she’d been. In the towns and villages they’d lived, she’d never been able to find a smith who would take her as an apprentice. If she’d succeeded as a weaver, she would’ve had more skills in which to help support them both. Now she was well past the age of learning another trade. Tybalt still had high hopes for his cherished daughter, but she hated to think about what a disappointment she’d been.
Tybalt put his arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “Why the long face? We have each other. And best yet…” He lifted the leather sack and shook it. Something clanged from within. He opened it up with a slow grin and pulled out a simple iron door knocker, consisting of a square plate and round ring. “We still have this from the house where you were born. So, home goes wherever we go.”
Tybalt held it up and winked. He knew just how much she’d always dreamed of having a place of their own and staying put for a change. She couldn’t help but love him despite her misery in that moment. She leaned her head on his shoulder, trying to keep the tears from flowing down her cheeks.
She noticed he sat with his hand resting on his injured knee. Morgen tried to reach for it so she might see how badly he was hurt, but he swatted her hand away. “I am fine. Leave me be. Stop your worrying.”
Morgen sighed. His stubbornness would keep her from tending to him for now, but maybe later she could tend to his wounds. She would have to do what she could to ensure they had food in their bellies and a place to sleep for the night or he would never heal, and a lame miner wouldn’t last long.
Bird sounds and the wind whipping through the trees began to intermix with familiar noises. Voices, clopping hooves and clanging metal let her know they had nearly reached the village. Morgen turned around and saw the high peaks of slate roofs come into view.
Wood-framed two-story buildings lined a well-traveled street. Off the main avenue, smaller homes and buildings littered the grassy valley. It reminded her of the last place they’d called home, though the other had been bigger, and hundreds of miners had been camped out, digging trenches into the earth.
Emich snapped the reins, encouraging the horses onward. He’d been so quiet she’d nearly forgotten he was there. She glanced at his silhouette before preparing her father. “We have arrived.”
“I cannot wait to see what fate brings us this day,” he answered with a light in his eyes. He put the door knocker back into the leather sack, and it clanged against the contents within.
A knot gripped her stomach. She might have gotten sick if she had eaten that morning. If they were lucky, she would find them a meal by nightfall, though she had a hard time being as optimistic as her father.
Emich pulled the horses to a stop at the tavern. Its iron scrollwork hung away from the building, depicting a regal swan with wings lifted. It was appropriate for an establishment named the Swan. The shutters of both floors were open to let in the light.
A few men stood outside the tanner’s a few doors away and squinted warily at him. He overheard one of them say, “Is it that time again? Come for his monthly provisions. That father of his was a frightful fellow, but he is worse. Always skulking around like the devil is on his shoulder. They are not to be trusted, I say, bending iron with hell’s fire.”
“The only ones to step foot on Drachenberg and not get burned to a crisp,” a gray-haired man said with a scratchy voice. “I remember his kin—mad enough to make a deal with the dragons. Though in the end, it was not enough to save them.”
Emich’s jaw tightened as he considered these villagers lucky, never having known the worst sort of dragons. He tried to ignore their comments and noticed Morgen looking over her shoulder at the nearby men. He didn’t care if she heard what they said. It was for the best.
At least they’d arrived. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to hear the old fellow talk anymore. Emich’s silence didn’t seem loud enough for Tybalt’s understanding. That or he didn’t care. Either way, Emich was eager to be done with the father and daughter so he could get back to his own business.
Emich climbed down from his seat on the cart and tied up his horses. He hoped he wouldn’t have to ask the pair to get out. It was easier not having to say a word. All impatience, he watched the woman jump down. Once she was on the ground, he wondered if he should have extended his hand to her, but she didn’t seem to notice anyhow and brushed off the back of her dress. She offered her arm to her father, who slid carefully from his place to the street.
It was clear the fellow was injured from his fall. His eye and nose were scraped up, swollen and red, but Tybalt seemed to be in a strangely pleasant mood following his mad morning. Emich couldn’t understand the fellow’s pleasant demeanor. He would have preferred being around someone in a foul mood. He thought it less aggravating.
“I am thankful for your help, good fellow,” Tybalt said, extending his hand to him.
The older man stood, waiting. Feeling cornered, Emich grabbed hold of the fellow’s hand and gave it a quick shake. He felt Morgen’s eyes sweep over his hands and forearms, presumably searching for burns and blisters from his fall in the fire. He hoped he wouldn’t be pressed to speak. He had even less experience talking to women than he did to other men. As soon as he let go, he jumped into the back of the cart to collect his long leather bag.
The two travelers stared at him, clearly unsure whether they would get anything more from him by way of words or eye contact. Emich tried to be as clear as he could. He looked anywhere but in their direction when he jumped back down, and he walked to the darkened entrance of the tavern without uttering a word.
Once he was safe inside, he took a deep breath, pleased to be free of the uncomfortable situation he’d evaded. Here he could have a drink before going to meet with Henkel, the village blacksmith, and get on with his business.
It was midday, so the room wasn’t full of patrons yet, which suited him just fine. He walked up to the tavern owner standing behind his counter, sat on an empty stool and set his long leather satchel across his lap. Emich opened his leather coin purse, which hung from his side, and slid a pfennig across the worn wood surface.
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��Your best ale, biermann,” he muttered.
The fellow nodded and busied himself pouring some of the pale yellow drink in a stein. He set it down before Emich and plucked the coin from the counter.
Emich had always appreciated the tavern owner. He was a man of few words, like himself. It was his ritual to first stop for ale when visiting the village in preparation for talking with the vendors down the street.
He took a deep breath before lifting the hinged lid and taking a sip. It was just the thing he needed after such an eventful morning. He hadn’t planned on stopping to take on passengers, but he hadn’t been able to ignore the signs of trouble when he was passing by. It was unfortunate he hadn’t arrived earlier, for he might have been able to prevent the theft. Then he wouldn’t have needed to offer them a ride.
Emich sniffed, trying to forget the blue of Morgen’s eyes when she’d turned, prepared to swipe him with her log. He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his lips and covered it by lifting his stein for another sip.
“Excuse me, sir?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway.
Emich closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d heard Tybalt chattering away the whole ride down the mountain, and now the man had followed him into this quiet place.
The tavern keeper lifted his head and answered, “Ja? What do you need?”
“I wonder if you might need any help with anything? My daughter and I had all of our belongings stolen. She can clean anything you like—your wash, maybe?”
“I have my own daughter to do my wash,” the tavern keeper answered with a shrug. “Sorry.”
Emich didn’t want to turn around to stare at the miner like everyone else was. He preferred staying out of everyone else’s business, just like he expected to be left alone. It worked better that way.
The soft tone of Morgen’s voice lifted near the doorway, and Emich couldn’t help turning his head to listen. “Come on, Father. We can check down the street.”
At a round table, a number of men sat talking amongst themselves until one of them swatted his friend’s arm and called to the doorway, “A pretty thing like you should have no trouble making some coin. Go find Herr Adel—he can help you.”
The men began to laugh, and Emich tried to ignore them when another voice at the other end of the bar raised to address Morgen, “What a pretty thing you are, indeed. It would be my pleasure to put up the coin for your lodging.”
Emich glanced at the stranger at the opposite end of the bar. The fellow’s eyes shone in Morgen’s direction. The young woman looked at her father before responding, “Why would you do such a thing? You do not know us.”
“Cannot a fellow of means help a lady who is clearly down on her luck?”
“There you are wrong, sir,” Tybalt piped up. “Our luck has never left our side.”
“Father, please.” Morgen urged him to quiet down, then addressed the stranger. “We cannot accept handouts. If you cover our lodging, what can I do in return to be of service?”
Emich didn’t have to look at the fellow to see his smile, for he heard it in his voice. “Just looking upon your fine eyes and lips would be service enough.”
“Men like you are why I have avoided the restraints of marriage,” she muttered. “I have talents beyond my appearance.”
“If that were so, would you not have secured yourself a job already?” A man from the neighboring table snickered, and his friends joined in with laughter.
Emich glanced over his shoulder in time to see Morgen and her father turn away from the doorway. He tried telling himself that their problems were their own. If he wished to be left alone, he had to distance himself from everyone.
“Goodbye, schatzi.” The stranger raised his stein, then tried to engage the tavern owner in conversation. “When I was visiting Schwaz, I heard of this place. Rugged mountain peaks, hearty men and luscious women. I had to come see it for myself.”
All the fellow got in return was a smile and a nod. The stranger lifted his drink, took a long draught and set it down. He looked around the room, but his focus regrettably settled on Emich.
“They call me Gelfrat, Gelfrat Tresler. Born in Vienna. Have you ever been?”
Emich lifted his stein and shook his head as he stared at the wall rather than encouraging further conversation.
The man was dressed in bright colors. Something that was fashionable in the city, no doubt. He seemed just as determined to have a conversation as Tybalt had been. Gelfrat raised his drink and said wistfully, “I do love it there. You should go if you ever wish to see something truly grand.”
“Why did you leave such a place?” a man called out who was sitting with his friend at one of the round tables.
Pleased that he’d finally found someone with interest, he turned around holding his stein in one hand, bracing his other hand on his knee. “Dragons,” he answered.
Emich swallowed.
“Is there business in such things?” the man at the round table asked.
Emich dared to glance Gelfrat’s way to get a closer look at him. The fellow’s poufy sleeves and embroidered doublet revealed his wealth. The proud smirk upon his face was just as obvious as his fine clothes. Emich disliked him even more once he laid eyes on his coiffed brown hair and self-important air.
“Oh, ja!” the pompous traveler answered with glee. “Those courageous enough to risk their lives saving common folk from the ravages of a dragon can be heavily repaid in riches and title. I happen to be such a man.”
“You have slain a dragon?” The tavern keeper couldn’t remain quiet any longer. He leaned against the counter with his brows lifted, awaiting a response.
“The hair on my head has been singed by its fire. Though I could not down it, it left in me an unquenchable crusade to rid the earth of the devil’s lizard. That is what brings me here.”
Now the whole room was pulled into the stranger’s adventurous story and eager manner. One of the men sitting at the round table slid his stein across the stained wood to mutter, “You wasted a trip here, for our dragons do not bother us so long as we stay away from their mountain.”
Emich’s jaw clenched. He stared intently at a single point on the wall until the conversation around him was drowned out. He did not like the sound of this.
“I have it on good authority they burrow into mountainsides and are often found with great riches,” Gelfrat said, pulling Emich from his reverie. “Their scales look hard as stone, but they can be pierced by steel.”
The tavern keeper leaned against the counter and appeared nervous as his gaze swept across the room to his clientele. Emich set his leveled stare upon the self-described dragon hunter and grit his teeth.
Gelfrat, oblivious of the rancor focused in his direction, only appeared to notice all eyes were on him, which seemed to please him just fine. He returned a simpering smile and laid his hand upon his breast. “I have heard many stories of beasts that have flown through these skies for generations. That is what brings me here—to save you folk from their ire.”
Emich was relieved to hear a snicker from one of the men sitting behind him at the round table. “We do not draw their ire so long as we leave their mountain alone. We did not call for knights to protect us. You can see we are safe. Go back to your pretty home in Vienna and leave us simple folk be.”
The pompous stranger sighed and shook his head. “You lack vision, my friend, but I will not hold it against you. For there will certainly be a day when you are happy I have come. Now, if you would tell me if there is an armorer near, I wish to commission a fine suit that can protect against the fire of a dragon.”
If Emich could have slunk away without anyone noticing, he would have. He felt everyone’s gaze turn to him. The tavern keeper nodded in his direction and said, “There is no finer craftsman than Emich Schmidt.”
4
Gelfrat slid from his perch on his stool, took a few steps toward Emich and leaned on the counter. “You are a smithy? How fine is your armor?”
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Emich took another drink to keep from looking at the fellow. He didn’t want to be roped into a conversation with him—or even worse, commit to arming the man with anything that had come from his forge.
While Emich decided whether he would actually speak to him, Gelfrat spoke up again. “You are a man of few words, I can see. It would cost seventy silver in Vienna. I would guess the rate in such a place might be lower?”
“Nein,” Emich answered with a growl.
“Fine, then. I will give you eighty.”
“You will not,” Emich said over his shoulder. “For I have not said I will make you such a suit.”
Gelfrat scoffed and looked for a reaction from the others in the room, but got nothing but a warning glance from the tavern keeper. The dragon slayer laughed. “You, a lowly smithy, are in a position to turn down such a generous offer? I cannot imagine any of these…farmers and simple craftsmen have use of such an order for armor. You will be set for the month!”
Emich was secure in his first judgment of the fellow. He was certainly one of the most pompous, self-important imbeciles he’d ever met. There was no chance he’d degrade himself armoring such a man bent on hunting dragons on his side of the Alps.
“I choose my customers.” Emich sniffed. “And I will not be commissioned by the likes of you.”
His time spent in the tavern had only agitated him. He stood up, drained most of the ale from his stein and said to the tavern keeper, “I will be back to pick up a barrel of the same stuff.”
Emich dipped into his money purse again to lay out eight silver kreuzers on the counter. He felt everyone’s eyes on him and was eager to escape their attention. He didn’t care what any of them felt, especially Gelfrat. Despite what the stranger said, Emich was far from being a lowly smithy. He was much more than that.
Sirens and Scales Page 141
