The scraping of the pot barely pulled her from her musings. Emich’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Stay here if you wish, but your mind might be better engaged in the workshop.”
She looked up. He’d put out the fire in the hearth and was holding a bowl of steaming cereal. He opened the door and walked into the soft light of morning. Morgen blinked at his silhouette moving farther away.
It would be the perfect opportunity to gather her things and leave in search of her father, but she wouldn’t do that. Not to her father. He’d wanted her to stay so badly he’d left her behind. He thought fate had delivered Emich to them, and no matter how much she might have disagreed with her father, she decided to make him proud. She would learn as much as she could.
Morgen pulled herself to her feet and sighed before walking out of the house to follow Emich to the workshop.
When she stepped into the darkened space, he called her over. “Since you will remain here with me for now, you need to learn how to start the forge.”
With Emich’s instruction, she started the fire on her own, put in the charcoal and raked it out.
He moved to the side of the forge and began to lift and lower the handle to the bellows. “Knowing how to control your heat source is one of the most important things to master—understanding fire and the minerals you work with. Your turn.”
She straightened up and went to take over at the bellows.
As soon as she took hold, he leaned in to whisper, “Take it slow at first. You need to give the fire what it needs.”
It was distracting having him so near. She felt his breath on her neck and glanced at him instead of at the forge where his eyes were turned. He looked back at her, appearing to notice just how close he was, and stepped away. She thought his cheeks flushed with color, but he moved from her view.
When the mound of charcoal embers glowed bright, Emich went to the end of his workshop and came back with a bar of iron. He buried its end in the burning coals parallel to the surface of the forge and went to his worktable. He picked up a leather glove and handed it to her. “Might be a bit big—it was my father’s.”
She let go of the bellows to put it on her left hand. Excitement in the form of twisting nerves traveled from her stomach up to her chest. Why would she need to wear gloves unless she was going to handle something hot? Morgen flexed her fingers and observed Emich pick up a hammer from the table and place its handle in her bare hand.
Its weight settled in her grip. She blinked at the tool, then at Emich. She was so happy she could have kissed him.
Emich walked over to the forge and gestured to the iron bar buried in the glowing embers. “When it comes to your iron, you want to place it level in the forge so it heats evenly. Take hold of its unheated end with your glove and bring it over to the anvil.”
Morgen swallowed a nervous breath and did as he said. She stood facing the anvil. The glowing tip of her iron bar rested on it as she squeezed the hammer tight, awaiting further instruction.
“All surfaces of the anvil have a purpose.” He stood on the other side of the heavy, pointed smithing tool and gestured to its upper edge. “To draw out the iron, hit it diagonally on the side of the anvil, but when it comes to straightening and smoothing, lay it out flat as you work.”
She nodded excitedly.
Emich cleared his throat. “Today you will learn how to make a nail. You must first taper the end of the iron. Hammer it on the edge and turn it a quarter turn, and hammer again. This will create a point and draw it out so it has four sides. Better give it a try before you lose your heat. The cooler the iron, the harder it is to move.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, anticipating the first swing. Morgen positioned the end of the iron rod off the edge of the anvil. The muscles in her arm flexed as she raised the hammer above her head and let it fall. A satisfying clang met her ears. Her smile turned into a grimace when she rotated the iron a quarter turn and pounded the iron again.
Morgen was aware of Emich beside her as she worked, but just barely. Her focus was placed in entirety on the taper she was attempting to forge with her hammer. It wasn’t until he stepped around the anvil and placed his hand on her wrist that she paused. “Your work will be easier if the metal is hot.”
She had watched him plunge his billet of steel into the forge countless times. It was now her turn. Morgen slid the end of the tapered iron rod into the embers.
Emich went to the billows to control the heat of the forge. While he lifted and lowered the handle, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. She felt his eyes on her when he asked, “Is it as you expected?”
“Nein.” She shook her head. “It is better.”
A slight smile played at his lips while he continued to pump the bellows.
When the end of the iron billet glowed orange, she pulled it out and began hammering it again. She did not realize her mistake until it was too late. The tapered end broke off and clattered to the floor. She’d been working it on the edge of the anvil, wearing the iron too thin.
The thrill of her first time forging was gone. She stared at her failed attempt of a nail, still glowing orange in the dirt, and began to doubt herself. Maybe she was not cut out for smithing after all.
Emich bent down and held up the broken piece. It hadn’t yet cooled to a light gray.
Temporarily distracted from her failure, she lowered her hammer and asked with a frown, “How do you hold it without a glove? Do you not burn?”
Emich set the warped bit of iron on the anvil hastily, muttering, “I have touched heated metal since I was a child.”
Morgen set her hammer on the edge of the forge so she could grab hold of his hand. It was sooty and dirty, but it was without callouses, burns or scars. She frowned.
“Since you were not born by a forge, you should protect your hands.” His voice was soft and near her ear. “I would not want you to burn.”
She looked into his eyes and was caught by the tenderness reflected there. It brought her up short, for she hadn’t expected to find such a softened expression in such a man. The bitterness and irritability he’d displayed the first day they’d met had since dissolved away.
Emich lowered his eyes and turned toward the forge, rubbing his hands on his apron. “Do you wish to try again?”
Morgen hadn’t expected it would be easy, but she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t being honest with her like all of the other smiths. “My stubbornness has kept me from seeing the truth. I am not fit for anything more than heating your forge.”
Her arms were sore, and she was tired. She still needed to start diner, and all she wanted to do was go to bed, even if it was still early in the day.
“What is this I hear?” Emich crossed his arms and tilted his head to look at her. “Is the most stubborn woman in the world giving up?”
She sighed, not having the energy to argue.
“Come with me,” Emich said and raked out the coals in the forge so they would cool quickly.
Morgen watched him leave the workshop. She returned the glove and his father’s hammer to the worktable and walked back into the shadowy home. She went to sit down at the dining table and considered laying her head upon the boards. She didn’t think she could take any more disappointment.
Emich gazed over his shoulder at her as he prepared to start a fire in the hearth. “You appear to long for your bed.”
She didn’t want to admit how tired she was. “I did not sleep well last night. Give me a moment, and I will prepare dinner.”
Sparks flew from the flint and steel in his hands, and he blew at the tiny flame that took hold of the tinder. He went to the worktable and started a pot of hot cereal, ignoring her offer to cook. “Might you see how a home could be kept a mess when working at the forge all day?”
Morgen didn’t want to stand up, let alone think about doing chores, but she also wasn’t fond of the thought of admitting such a thing to Emich.
He didn’t wait for her answer. “No matter. It will be
a meal of grains tonight. I sent your father with the remainder of my bread and sausage, which means another trip to the village will come sooner than planned.”
Her father. She stared at the wood grain of the table and sighed. She hoped it would not be long before she saw him again, though she did not look forward to breaking the news to him that his daughter was not as talented as he had hoped.
“I did not mean to remind you of your father.” Emich appeared by her side, having walked over to the bench without her noticing. He set down a cup and slid it over.
Morgen eyed the drink beside her hand. She was thirsty, but her body ached. She willed her arm to move so that she might grasp the ale. While she emptied the cup into her awaiting mouth, she wondered if Emich had meant to exhaust her. She was too tired to care either way.
His gaze darted from her face to settle on the crackling fire in the hearth. “I thought you might want to know that you just made a better first nail than I ever did. I can see how much it means to you—forging metal.”
“But I did not make a nail—” She shook her head in exasperation.
“If you have never worked iron, you must learn by the feel of it. It does not matter how many smiths you have watched in your lifetime, there is no replacement for taking a hammer to heated iron and working at it day after day. There are no mistakes in smithing—only opportunities for new projects.”
Morgen sighed, letting his words soak in. Maybe she’d been too quick to react. After her emotionally draining morning, she wanted a fresh start.
A thought came to mind and she smiled. “I made a better nail than you?”
“I did not tell you so you could boast.” He lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip, though she thought she detected a grin.
13
A week went by faster than Emich could have imagined. He’d adapted quickly to having company in his workshop. It was very different from what it had been like sharing the space with his father. Now he was the teacher, something he’d never experienced. Plus, Morgen was far more distracting than his father had ever been.
Emich allowed her time experiencing iron forging so she might gain some confidence and to distract her from Tybalt’s departure. But it was time to return to the blades he wanted to complete before returning to the village.
Morgen went ahead of him to the forge and started lighting the charcoal as he had taught her. Once she had taken to the billows and the embers began to glow evenly, he buried a billet of steel in the coals.
He was facing the anvil and doorway when a shadow fell across the meadow outside. It was large and moved quickly. There was only one thing that could shield the sunlight in such a way. Emich’s throat tightened as he glanced quickly at Morgen to check if she’d noticed it, but her eyes were turned toward the forge.
He didn’t want to draw her attention outside. It was safer if she remained where she was. Emich cleared his throat and muttered, “I forgot something. Watch the steel, and make sure it does not get too hot.”
She nodded, and the golden hues in her hair shined in the embers’ light. He rubbed his hands on his leather apron as he hurried outside, craning his neck to search for the creature that had cast the large shadow. There were so few of their kind. He had only ever witnessed three others beside himself and his father. Not many knew of their existence on the mountain, but there was one man in particular he had never wished to see return.
Emich scanned the meadow along the lake, squinting at the tree line. This was where he spotted movement. A naked man bent over a bag while he removed fabric from its contents. The fellow stood to pull on breeches and tied them at his waist. Without bothering to clothe himself further, he flung his sack over his shoulder and began walking toward Emich’s home.
Emich stared at the man’s light-brown hair gleaming in the sun. His muscular frame was imposing and his stony gaze penetrating. Emich recognized him on sight. He tried to swallow his anxiety, but he remembered the last time he’d seen him all too well.
After glancing over his shoulder toward the workshop, he decided to meet the man in the meadow. If he could send him on his way without alerting Morgen, all the better, though he doubted it was possible.
Emich didn’t want to appear threatening by running toward him, so he made long strides through the grass instead. When the middle-aged man was near enough for him to speak to in hushed tones, Emich cleared his throat. “Good morning, Herr Rubrecht. Have you stopped for a bite to eat before you continue your travels elsewhere?”
The man’s round face and blue eyes were turned toward Emich, and he slowed his approach toward the home. “You cannot be rid of me that easily. Where is David? Why do I not have a proper welcome?”
Emich cleared his throat and backed up to place himself in the shirtless man’s path. It would be unwise to show weakness or fear, but it was also foolish to anger him. He tried again. “I regret to say that he passed away.”
At this Rubrecht stopped. He crossed his arms. “I remember you. You are his bratty spawn—Emich, was it? Where is that mother of yours? Now that your father is not here to look after her, I bet she would welcome a real man in her bed.”
Rubrecht’s domineering and distasteful personality was just as Emich remembered it. He recalled standing in his bedroom doorway over a decade ago when their guest flew into the very same meadow in broad daylight, something his father had always avoided, not wanting to stir up the villagers unless necessary.
Emich remembered similar lurid comments uttered about his mother when his father was there to keep their guest in check. Emich’s disgust was overshadowed by his awareness of the danger Rubrecht posed. He was reckless and volatile. The horrible dragon tales that fueled Gelfrat most assuredly had roots in Rubrecht’s past.
“My mother rests in the same grave.” Emich clenched his fists so he wouldn’t say anything unwise. “I can offer you a drink of ale before you go on your way, but you see I cannot help you.”
The man glanced at the house before rubbing his bearded chin. “You can start by offering me a drink. Then I will find another means for you to help me.”
Rubrecht breezed past and walked toward the home. Emich caught up to him, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. His hopes of quickly getting rid of the visitor had been dashed. Not only did he wish to keep his magical identity a secret from Morgen, but he worried for her safety.
Inside the dimly lit hall, Rubrecht sat at the dining table. He cocked his head back to look around the place while he opened his pack. He pulled on a thin shirt and set his leather doublet on the bench beside him. “How did they die—snatch too many goats from the valley?”
“Nein.” Emich collected a cup to pour some ale in. “So long as we are left alone on our mountain, we do not stir up trouble with the villagers.”
“Though it is not ‘we’ anymore. You are here all alone?”
Emich swallowed and answered only the first question. “There was a cave-in. My mother and father were both crushed in the tunnels.”
He offered the man a drink. Rubrecht slurped it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He let out a deep belch before speaking. “It is too bad such a talented man is dead since I came here looking for some proper armor. The sort knights cannot pierce through. It is becoming more dangerous out there. Dragon breath can raze villages, but it cannot stop an arrow.”
Emich ladled the remnants of the morning’s cereal into a bowl for the man just so he wouldn’t be forced to look at him. His eyes slid shut when he heard Rubrecht mutter, “You were your father’s apprentice, were you not? He was teaching you all that he knew?”
“Ja,” Emich answered and handed him the cooled cereal.
Rubrecht looked at the bowl with distain and poked at its contents with the spoon. “Your father and grandfather before you were from the house of Schmidt and you offer me cold grains? You should know our kind prefer eating flesh, or are you not a descendent of dragons?”
“I am,” Emich growled back. How did his father
deal with this man without striking him in anger? I took a controlled breath before continuing, “I am running low on sausage just now. Another trip to the village is in order.”
When his guest scoffed, his eyes flashed. “I have always preferred mutton stew, myself. I saw a farm with sheep and goats on my way here. I will bring one back for dinner—show you how a man provides a proper meal.”
“That will not be necessary.” Emich remembered exactly why Rubrecht was coddled like a child upon his visits and why his mother fed him so well. The man had decades of fighting experience, an appetite for women and meat and a temper that caused trouble for anyone within reach of his talons.
Emich could take the form of a dragon as well, though he only had experience tunneling in the mines and flying at night. He hadn’t been trained as a warrior. It was more important to Emich to remain on Drachenberg in peace than to quiet Rubrecht’s troublesome tongue.
He watched his guest make faces at the food before shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth. Apparently Rubrecht planned to stay. He hoped not for long. Emich would have to keep him from stealing livestock from neighboring farms or else the villagers’ opinions of the dragon on the mountain might change. The last thing he needed was an armed faction of men clambering up the cliffs set on killing such a destructive beast.
Emich folded his arms. The fastest way to get this man to leave was to give him what he wanted. “What do you need?”
Rubrecht paused with his spoon held before him. “Armor and a new tail spear. My last one was damaged after it got caught in the flames of a fire.”
“A tail spear should be no problem, but the armor—I have little experience with such a thing.”
The man ate the remainder of the cereal and rubbed his whiskers. “Do you expect I can walk up to just any armorer and request a breastplate larger than any man? Nein. That is why you will help me. The peasants near my manor are getting riled up over nothing—they seem to think the terms of our arrangement have changed now that they have better weapons, but I say the fire-breathing dragon gets to make the rules and eat their livestock and take their maidens if he so chooses. Nonetheless, I need better protection. Armor that I may put on myself without help that is light enough so I may fly, yet hard enough to deflect arrows and the likes.”
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