"Plague," Gromdahl muttered under his breath. "Jus' like the boy would've said if not for his meddlin’ mother. Well, nothin' to worry me there." That mystery solved, he hurried on toward the blacksmith's house, hoping to get enough coins for a few mugs of ale and a good night's sleep. As he did, he heard the window slam shut behind him.

After continuing in the direction the boy had pointed for some time, he came across a squat house with a horseshoe sign hanging from the eaves above the door. Various metalworking tools hung on the wall that ran alongside it, a dead vine weaving among them. Gromdahl frowned. Shoddiest blacksmith's shop he’d ever seen.

Nevertheless, he knocked on the door as politely as any reputable, well-mannered dwarf could knock, waited patiently for a response, then knocked again. The door opened without warning, revealing a dark-haired, burly man filling the doorway; then, Gromdahl found himself yanked off his feet, sailing through that same doorway, and being deposited somewhat roughly inside the shop. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Good lord, man! What were you doing out there at this time of the evening? It's almost sunset!" the burly man exclaimed, reaching behind the dwarf to bar the door. "You'll be staying here tonight for certain."

Gromdahl gaped, his head spinning, hardly aware of what had happened. "What in Byghur'dan's beard is going on here?" he shouted, wresting the drawbar from the man’s unresisting hand and angrily tossing it to the side. "What do ye mean by grabbin' me and yankin' me around, and tellin' me I'll be stayin' here tonight? I’ve jus’ come to sell me ore, and I'll be gettin' some ale and some hay for Ol' Bessie at the inn tonight, or I'm not a Stonefist!"

"Well, I guess you're not a . . . Stonefist? . . . then, because you can't go back out there tonight," the man replied, glancing uneasily at the discarded drawbar. "It's not safe at night."

"If it's safe enough for Ol' Bessie, it's safe enough for me," Gromdahl retorted, turning and reaching toward the door. With the few coins left in his pouch and a promise made, he could surely convince the innkeeper to give him a room for the night. After all, business was unlikely to be bustling.

The blacksmith moved in front of him, swatting his hand away, and said, "You don't understand. Opening that door right now could be the death of both of us."

The dwarf shifted his weight, preparing to battle if need be. "Stand clear now,” he warned, “and I'll be swift out the door. No need to worry yer head about me. I'll come back in the mornin' and see if yer in better spirits."

“It'll be your death for certain,” the blacksmith insisted. Then he shook his head and moved aside, saying, "I won't hold you against your will though. God be with you . . . and with me as well." He picked up the drawbar as he spoke and stood at the ready.

Bewildered, Gromdahl shook his head in return, then slipped out the door as quickly as he could. He heard the bar slide into place behind him before he’d taken his first step away from the building.

Outside, everything was still and silent as darkness began to fall upon the land. Gromdahl could no longer hear the moans of the sick, and every window within sight was shuttered and dark.

"Of all the godforsaken cities on this godforsaken earth, why do I have to be in this one?" he muttered. He fingered the coins in his pouch for a moment, doubtfully. An inn room for the night might be a hard sell, even under these circumstances. He hesitated, then recalled the old well he’d seen on the way there. "Ah well, at least I know where to find meself some water," he told the empty night. And with that, he took Bessie's reins and led her back the way he’d come.

Bessie's hooves crunched against the dirt path as they walked, the sound amplified in the silence. In spite of himself, Gromdahl began to feel unease settle into his bones. Not even a cough shook the night. Strange for a plague town. "Spooks and spirits," he laughed, amused by his own fear. This town had been hit by the plague, and the people in it had lost their minds a bit. Nothing more to it than that. He shook off the feeling with a shrug of his thick shoulders.

After walking for what seemed slightly longer than necessary, Gromdahl spotted the turn to his right, and soon, the top of the well loomed out of the darkness in front of him. As Bessie and he navigated between the houses, Gromdahl cursed the blacksmith. "Would've been nice if he'd taken the load off poor Ol' Bessie, at least. Poor lass's been pulling this cart all evenin’ now. Seems like she's just about had it for the night."

When they finally reached the well, Gromdahl let go of the reins so that Bessie could graze upon the vines nearby. Then he began to crank, lifting the bucket full of water up toward them. The crank seemed a bit resistant at first, then began to turn freely. As his arm moved round and round in a steady circle, he watched Bessie chew on a vine. Suddenly, the crank froze up in his hand. At the same time, Bessie bleated in alarm. And that's when the plants came alive.

If you haven't read the first episode of this story yet, check it out here!

A Dwarf's Life -- In Brief (Episode 2)

The Blacksmith's Tale

"Plague," Gromdahl muttered under his breath. "Jus' like the boy would've said if not for his meddlin’ mother. Well, nothin' to worry me there." That mystery solved, he hurried on toward the blacksmith's house, hoping to get enough coins for a few mugs of ale and a good night's sleep. As he did, he heard the window slam shut behind him.



A Dwarf's Life -- In Brief (Episode 2)

The Blacksmith's Tale

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The Evolution Of A Word: Eve

A Dwarf's Life -- In Brief (Episode 2)

The Blacksmith's Tale

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Laura Pruett

About the Creator

Laura Pruett

Comments

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Keep reading

The Evolution Of A Word: Eve

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Laura Pruett