He left the stranger’s angry mutterings behind and walked onto the street with his leather-wrapped valuables in his arms. On the outskirts of the village, the smithy’s home was his first stop. Emich untied his horses from their post and climbed back onto his cart. He’d only traveled a short distance before he heard the familiar clanking sound he loved.
The horses came to a stop near the smithy’s open-air workshop built off his wood-framed home. A simple thatched roof covered his forge to keep the rain away while he worked. Emich had known Henkel as long as he could remember. His father had brought him into town as a child to barter in much the same manner as Emich would now, and he’d grown to trust the fellow.
Henkel’s broad form nearly blocked his anvil from view as he stood poised with a hammer in hand. The balding, fair-haired man finished forging the nail and dropped it in a bucket, joining a mass of other pointed black shapes. He set his tools down, wiped the sweat from his brow and waved. “Has a month gone by already?”
“It has.” Emich nodded in return. He’d looked forward to seeing the closest thing to a friend he had. Seeing Henkel almost made his trips to the village bearable. Emich stepped down from his cart and gathered up the leather-wrapped items he’d brought to sell. “Two longswords—I was working on a new technique, layering the steel.”
Henkel stepped away from his workshop to meet Emich under the shade of the pines and sighed. “I do not see many knights riding through these parts. Your blades may be sharp, but they are not easy to sell to the folk around here. Have you heard of the ornamental wrought iron that decorates the churches in the cities?”
Emich shook his head as he unfolded the leather to expose two sheathed blades he’d brought to sell. The blacksmith stepped closer to appraise his work. Henkel held one with his gloved hand, slid it from its sheath and looked down the length of its edge, checking for straightness. “No one makes as sharp a blade as you. Too bad your talents are wasted here. You should move to Vienna where your work can truly be appreciated.” Henkel sheathed the blade again and scratched his nose. “I can only pay you fifteen silver each if I am to make a few silver for the effort.”
“I like it fine on my mountain. The city is not for me,” Emich said and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “That is a fair offer, as always.”
Henkel shrugged and went into his house to collect the silver to pay for the swords. Emich flashed a rare grin at the fellow when they finished their transaction.
“What I would not do just to touch some quality ore.” Henkel laughed as he rubbed his cheek. “Have you seen any more of the stuff your father came across years back?”
“Sadly, I have not.” Emich clapped him on the shoulder before walking to his cart, ignoring the pain in his chest. “See you in a few weeks. Maybe I’ll bring you something different next time—some cutting knives to sell to the butcher maybe?”
“That is just the thing!” Henkel called back and returned to his bellows, puffing air into the heart of his furnace to bring his charcoal back to life.
The red glow made Emich yearn to be back home at his own forge, and he snapped his reins to get the horses moving down the lane where most of the merchants were located. He needed to do his shopping so he could get started back up the mountain before nightfall.
At the butcher’s post, Emich was quick to buy some sausages, which he put in a sack and threw over his shoulder. He stocked up on charcoal and more candles and was on his way to purchase two rounds of cheese when he spotted Morgen and her father. Tybalt had stopped and was leaning against a hitching post while his daughter spoke to the weavers.
Their voices carried far enough for Emich to hear. “We have no work for a woman without proper skills. I understand you have experience, but if you never finished your apprenticeship, you will be more of a hindrance than a help.”
Morgen nodded and backed away from the stoop with a strained expression. She lifted her face to the darkening skies. The innocent clouds that had floated above the mountaintops earlier were a bleak and ominous gray. The smell of rain perfumed the air, and she seemed aware of that as she lifted her shoulders, nestled her chin to her chest and wrapped her arms around her waist for warmth.
Emich quickly ducked into the baker’s stall to purchase four loaves of bread and a sack of barley. From the shadow of the bakery, he watched Herr Adel call to her.
“You look hungry, schatzi.” The man gestured to his doorway with a sympathetic smile. “Come inside and have a bite.”
Emich left the baker’s stall to put his purchases into the back of his cart. From there he could better hear their conversation. He’d never done business with Herr Adel, but he knew exactly what sort of establishment he ran.
Morgen looked uncertain. She watched as a man entered the doorway and a woman greeted him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Morgen glanced toward her father. Tybalt’s bushy brows were turned toward the sky while he held his hand out to collect a droplet.
“I have a means of making you enough pfennigs—a pretty face like yours.” Herr Adel gestured again toward his doorway with a smile. “It looks as if the heavens will open up and pour upon us. Best come out of the weather. A girl as sweet as you might melt.”
A wet drop slapped the top of Emich’s head. More rain tapped against the dirt. It would be an unpleasant ride back home. He wanted to avoid getting stuck in the mud, and he still needed to pick up the barrel of ale at the tavern.
“I can clean and do your wash, but that is all in the way of services you will get from me,” he heard Morgen respond.
“You can clean if it makes you happy,” Adel answered. “Do it without your clothes, and we have a deal.”
Something in Emich snapped. He disliked the way the woman was being treated. She seemed to be eager to earn her keep despite the fact that no one in the village could look beyond her bright eyes and shapely figure, presuming they were her only talents.
Emich muttered to himself and shook his head, “Why am I even considering it?”
Ignoring his own trepidation, Emich stepped between the brothel manager and the woman and said to Morgen, “I have a place for you to earn your keep if you are truly more of a help than a hindrance—that is, until your father is ready to travel.”
Her blue eyes widened, and she pinched her lips together. Behind Emich, Herr Adel had overheard and called out to her, “It would be safer for you if you came with me, schatzi. Drachenberg is no place for a woman like yourself.”
Emich turned around to level a fiery glare at the brothel manager. “I wonder if the priest would say the same thing, Adel. Go back in your hovel where you belong.”
“Says the man who plays with the devil’s fire,” Herr Adel muttered as he returned to his doorway to observe passersby.
Emich watched him go and faced the young woman. Her eyes narrowed, and she asked, “Dragon Mountain?”
“You will be safe with me,” he answered, staring up the street.
“And what is it you expect me to do for a place in your home?”
He stared into her eyes. “Tending to the place and nothing more.”
Emich tore his gaze away and sensed her looking at him for a few moments before she turned her attention toward Tybalt and waving. “We have shelter.”
She hurried across the street to her father’s side and helped him limp to the horse-pulled cart. Emich listened to the miner whisper to his daughter, “You see. You never know what fate will send your way.”
No truer words had ever been spoken, Emich thought.
“Hurry up before I change my mind,” he growled, already regretting his decision. He went to cover his supplies with a leather tarp to protect them from the rain and jumped down. Emich pointed to the middle-aged man. “I want to travel in quiet, you hear?”
“Of course you do. I will do my very best,” Tybalt answered with a grin and a nod.
Morgen’s piercing eyes narrowed as she helped her father into the back. Emich felt her stare settle on him. It w
as clear she was cautious of the arrangement. She’d heard Adel warn her about the mountain. And Emich was glad. The more wary they were, the sooner they’d be gone.
5
Afternoon showers made for a very wet ride up the mountain. Morgen didn’t pay any mind to the fact her clothes stuck to her body or that her hair and eyelashes dripped with rain. She was busy staring at Emich’s hunched silhouette.
She knew next to nothing about the man who was taking them away from the safety of the village, for he had the conversation skills of a lump of iron. Then there was his impatience and his rudeness, which grated on her nerves. And even worse were the things she’d overheard about Emich and his kin. Yet he was the only one to give her a proper job she could feel comfortable taking. And there was something about his eyes.
The place where they’d camped for the night went by, and she nearly didn’t recognize it through the rain. Where the pass wasn’t covered with gravel or ground cover, it was mucky. Morgen gripped the side of the cart as she felt them slip sideways. Just as she was considering pulling her father and herself off, Emich raced the horses ahead, successfully wrenching them out of the mud.
Once they reached a high peak and started back downhill, she got nervous. The animals began to snort with effort, trying to keep their footing. She adjusted her position in the back of the cart to see what lay ahead. They cut through a pine forest, which shielded them from the heavy downpour. The smell of wet needles clung to the air. Her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for a pair of serpent’s eyes. The villagers’ suggestion of beasts nesting on this mountain made her jumpy.
It didn’t help when Tybalt began telling tales of forest spirits and creatures that fed on lost souls. She grimaced at him, though he didn’t seem to notice. He only quieted down when Emich shouted for silence.
Afternoon stretched on to evening. Though there was no sun, it grew still darker, and her belly pinched in pain, for she hadn’t eaten since the previous night.
Tybalt drew her from her thoughts when he pointed and said, “Look! What a place!”
Between the tree trunks, a blue lake shined like a gem in the low light. The cart wound its way from the woodland into a grassy meadow that stretched the length of the body of water. The horses started making noises again, and she soon understood why.
Ahead of them was the dark silhouette of a large home nestled near more pines. The closer they got, the better she could see the overgrown tangle of what must have been a garden once.
She spotted another structure. A stone chimney rose from the rain-soaked roof. Morgen thought she made out the shape of a durable hearth through the open threshold, one that could only be used by baker or a smith. Her eyes went to Emich’s dark silhouette again where he sat on the bench of his cart, holding the horses’ reins.
She tried to make out more as they approached. They came around the end of the home and stopped at a pair of large double doors. Emich got down from his seat and opened them wide. He led the horse and cart inside the darkened byre.
Morgen swept the water from her face and hair now that she was out from the storm, feeling rivulets curl down her neck and chest. The rain took on a different sound against the high roof, distant and muffled.
She looked about the dark room. It was no different from any other byre she’d been in. Tools hung from the timber-framed walls, and she spotted another pony that turned to look at them as they dripped on the ground.
“Ah, that makes the journey worth it,” Tybalt muttered as he gestured to the roof.
Morgen edged off the cart, then offered her hand to her father, who scooted closer to the edge and dropped down on his good leg. He glanced back at the sacks and barrels and said under his breath, “I would help the fellow with his things if I could. We do not want him regretting his offer.”
Emich was busy detaching the horses from the cart, and Morgen climbed back up to collect two of the smaller leather sacks. She rejoined her father on the ground with them flung over her shoulder.
“Very good of you,” Tybalt said while holding onto the cart to take the pressure off his leg.
“Close the doors,” Emich ordered as he slipped the horses’ bridles off.
It was more of a demand than a request. Morgen hurried to do as she’d been told, shutting out the rain. A few small window shutters were open, allowing in just enough light to see by. She heard the horses begin to move about and heard Emich rustle something at the other end of the room, presumably a bag of feed for the animals.
“Come in, unless you wish to remain with the livestock,” their host’s deep voice said.
Morgen sought her father’s gaze through the dim. He nodded and smiled at her. She went to his side to help him move farther into the building and to cross the threshold into another murky room.
Movement from the corner of the space caught her eye, and she spotted Emich squatting at the mouth of a stone hearth. Sparks flew from his hands as he swept his flint and steel together. A tiny bloom of light grew into a modest flame that licked at pieces of charred wood. Emich used a narrow branch to adjust the logs before feeding it to the growing fire.
A soft yellow light cast through the vaulted room, giving her a better look at his kitchen and hall. It wasn’t in much better condition than the byre. She wondered whether animals had been let loose to make a mess. Dirty plates and stoneware littered a table, and clothing sat in a rumpled pile upon a bench. Soot and coal ringed the stone floor around the hearth. Morgen wondered whether he lived alone or with a family of sows.
She led her father to the bench so he could sit down and take the weight off his injured knee. He gave her a wink, seemingly oblivious of the mess around them.
“What a grand home,” Tybalt commented. “Truly, many hands were at work to build such a place, or was it you alone?”
Morgen scowled at the cobwebs hanging from the rafters and the fragments of broken stoneware on the ground. Ornamental iron gripped a nearby door to its frame. Something so pretty didn’t fit its dirty surroundings. If she’d been pressed, she would have admitted the bones to the place were almost regal, but due to the home’s lack of care, it had slipped into a depressing state.
“So many questions,” Emich muttered. “I miss the quiet of the cart ride home when all I heard was the sound of rain.”
Morgen left her father’s side to take the filled leather satchels to Emich. Still squatting before the hearth, he stared into the flames with a distant look. She dropped the sacks at his feet, rousing him from his reverie. Unable to hold her tongue any longer at his rude comments, she retorted, “Good company is better than being alone.”
When Emich looked up at her in surprise, she was pierced by the intense gaze of his blue eyes. What did it matter if they gleamed like gems? She shrugged away any favorable thoughts about their grumpy host, determining that he lived alone, for who would tolerate such boorish behavior?
He brushed his hands together, picked up the sacks and stood up. He carried them to the rock-strewn dining table, emptied them out on a section that was cleaner than the rest and muttered, “It is better being alone than in bad company.”
Every time the stranger spoke, she found herself displeased with his manner. He was rude, and she couldn’t understand why he’d even brought them home with him if they were so terrible.
She stood beside the fire watching him unpack rounds of cheese, loaves of bread and sausages. Her stomach growled at the sight of it. Morgen’s hands went to her belly as she wondered if he was just teasing them. The heat from the hearth barely broached her cold, wet clothing. Droplets tapped on the earthen floor, and she began to feel faint.
The wide room swirled around her, and she held out her hands, attempting to stop it from moving. A tight grip caught her arm and guided her to a wooden chair by the firelight.
“You need food,” Emich growled so near her ear she felt the warmth of his breath.
She stared across the room to her father, who was watching the man carefully and
quietly. Emich picked up a knife from the table and cut off three sausage links. He tossed them into a metal skillet that he slid onto a grate above the hearth’s fire. The soft hiss and sizzle preceded the delicious smell that wafted to her nose.
While the meat browned, he hooked the rest of the sausages from a chain hanging beside the hearth and set the loaves on a table, covering them with a cloth. With the knife still in hand, he cut into one of the rounds of cheese and handed her a piece, his gaze held to the floor. She accepted it with muttered thanks, waiting to see if he would offer some to her father. He did, and once Tybalt had taken a bite, she put her morsel to her lips.
It wasn’t the first time she had gone without food, but the exertion of their travels and the stress and excitement of the day had left her feeling quite ill. Once the cheese began to fill her empty belly, the dizziness subsided.
She stood up slowly, feeling a bit improved. Maybe it was the fact they’d been brought to this dirty home by a man who seemed to be regretting it, but she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.
“You must live alone,” she sniffed.
Another sort of woman might have echoed her father’s sentiment, saying that the place was lovely and thanking their host for his generosity, but Morgen was no such woman. Some might believe her stubbornness and honesty were the reasons she was without a husband, but she knew it was because she’d never met a fellow she could tolerate. The land was filled with controlling men who kept their wives at home, but she wanted more than that.
Emich glanced over his shoulder, appearing surprised either by her question or by the fact she’d spoken to him. “Why?”
Morgen scanned the room with a sigh. “I cannot imagine a woman ever living here—”
Tybalt interrupted her with a tone of disapproval. “Liebling, you must not say such things. He has fed us and taken us out of the rain.”
She pressed her lips together and whispered so quietly she didn’t think their host would hear, “But it is the truth.”
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