The bitter mountain wind howled through the high forest canopy, carrying the sharp bite of impending frost.
As dusk settled over the dense woodland, the dark pine trees slowly receded, revealing the flickering golden glow of the village of Uzhitz.
As Henry drew closer, the warm lights spilling from the cottage windows felt like an oasis in a ruined world.
After hours spent traversing the rutted dirt trail, this was the first true glimpse of civilization they had seen since the bloody mud, burning timbers, and terrifying silence of Skalitz and Rovna.
Henry tightened his grip on the leather reins of his horse, Olena, adjusting his posture in the saddle.
He wore his mail coif, iron brigandine, and steel arm guards—dressed deliberately as a proper soldier to look as if a heavy escort were guarding the heavy wooden cart rolling behind him.
Behind him, Theresa held the reins of the draft mares, driving the cart loaded with the salvaged grain, lard, and weapons they had rescued from the ashes of Skalitz.
A few villagers walking along the road cast curious glances at the squad, but seeing Henry clad in shining plate armor, they assumed he was a guard escorting a merchant’s cargo.
Reining Olena near the town bailiff’s hall, Henry turned right toward the lower end of the village.
There, nestled at the edge of the hamlet, sat the local tavern.
As the cart creaked into the gravel yard, the muffled sounds of human life drifted out into the crisp night: boisterous laughter, the heavy thud of wooden pewter tankards slamming against oak tables, and voices arguing loudly over the rising prices of rye and barley.
Just from the sheer volume of the noise, Henry could tell these people were entirely untouched by the horror in the west.
Henry dismounted first, his riding boots squelching slightly in the damp gravel.
He scanned the dark perimeter of the stables before turning to offer Theresa his hand.
She took it quietly, her fingers cold as she stepped down from the high wooden seat.
“Stay close to me,” Henry murmured softly, his breath misting in the freezing air.
He led her toward the tavern’s sturdy oak entrance and pushed the heavy door open.
A wave of suffocating heat—thick with the scents of roasting fat, stale ale, pipe smoke, and burning pine logs—rushed out to meet them.
The innkeeper, a burly, broad-shouldered man wearing a flour-dusted apron, stood at the corner of the polished wooden bar.
Seeing Henry stride forward in full armor, he wiped his sweat-beaded forehead with a rag.
“Evening, guard,” the innkeeper grunted.
“Looking for a warm hearth?”
“Heading down to Rattay with cargo for Sir Hanush,” Henry said, keeping his voice gruff and flat like the garrison guards back at Skalitz.
“We need a place to stay for the night.
Do you have a room for two?”
“The rooms are taken by a wool merchant from Sasau,” the innkeeper replied, shaking his head.
“Only space left is the hayloft above the stables.
Clean straw, dry roof, keeps the bitter wind off.”
“That will do,” Henry said, reaching into his belt pouch and pulling out three silver Prague groschen, pressing them firmly into the innkeeper’s thick palm.
“And I want two extra groschen worth of proper care for my horses.
Make sure they are well-fed with fresh oats, dry bedding, and a full trough of clean water.”
“Consider it done, gaurd,” the innkeeper nodded, his tone softening instantly at the sight of shiny silver.
“I’ll have the boy bring hot stew and bread up to the loft for you.”
Henry turned to Theresa.
“Go settle down in the loft.
I’ll make sure the horses are fed and bring the food up shortly.”
“Thank you, Henry,” Theresa whispered softly.
Henry walked back out into the chilly yard.
He didn’t trust strangers with their hard-won survival. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Leading the two draft mares and Olena into the dry, sheltered barn, he checked their iron shoes, patted their flanks, and carefully concealed the iron weapons under the canvas tarp so no curious stable hand would pry.
Once the stable boy arrived with the oats, Henry carried a steaming wooden bowl of thick mutton stew, a loaf of dark rye bread, and two wooden cups of warm spiced ale up the timber ladder.
In the loft above, a lantern flickered softly on a low wooden table next to a small storage chest.
A clean cloth had been laid over two fresh mounds of sweet-smelling straw, creating two simple beds.
Below them, through the wooden floorboards, the careless din of the taproom continued, completely indifferent to their grief.
“I’m telling you, six groschen a bushel is a thief’s price!” a boisterous voice boomed from the taproom below.
“If the bailiff doesn’t open the granaries, we’ll all be chewing birch bark come midwinter!”
“Shut your trap, Wenceslaus!” a woman laughed over the clinking of tankards.
“Drink your ale and play your dice before your wife comes fetching you by the ear!”
The mundane, cheerful banter felt surreal.
The villagers of Uzhitz didn’t know the stench of pooling blood or the sight of charred corpses lying in the mud of Skalitz.
To them, the world was still just a matter of grain prices, tavern brawls, and cold beer.
“…Oh, did you hear?” another patron chimed in, leaning over his table.
“Father Godwin was found in his quarters with two young women again!”
“Some say it was the bailiff’s and the butcher’s daughters!” a man named Matthew laughed.
“Don’t lie, Matthew!
If it were so, the bailiff and the butcher would have chased Father Godwin around the village square with pitchforks!” another tavern-goer snorted.
“Though who can say for sure?
Our Father Godwin has a great love for God—and an equal love for women!”
“Aye!” a local woman called out with a smirk.
“Father Godwin has a reputation for charming young women even at his age, while you can’t even make your own wife’s legs heavy!”
A chorus of raucous laughter exploded through the taproom at the man’s expense.
Henry set the steaming wooden bowl down on the table between them.
“Eat, Theresa.
It’s hot.”
Theresa looked down at the food.
The rich aroma of roasted meat and onions filled the tiny loft.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, she picked up the wooden spoon and took a small bite.
It was the first warm, proper meal she had eaten since the morning Skalitz fell.
As the heat of the broth touched her throat, The knot in her chest finally snapped.
Three days of cold numbness caved in all at once, catching in her throat like a dry retch.
Tears welled up in her dark eyes and spilled down her soot-stained cheeks.
She forced down another spoonful, though the food tasted like nothing at all.
Every swallow felt heavy in her throat.
All of them cut down in a single hour, dumped in the dirt while she sat warm in a strange room with a bowl in her lap.
Henry sat quietly across from her, saying nothing.
He offered no empty platitudes or hollow promises.
He didn’t move or try to hush her with cheap comfort.
He just sat beside her in the dim candlelight, letting his shoulder press against hers so she knew he wasn’t pulling away.
Late into the night, the tavern below finally grew silent.
The hearth fire died down to glowing embers, leaving only the sound of the bitter wind howling against the wooden shutters outside.
Henry unbuckled the leather straps of his iron brigandine, letting the heavy steel-plated vest drop onto the wooden storage chest with a dull thud.
He unlaced his padded gambeson and pulled off his mail coif, setting his arm guards beside them until he was left in just his linen shirt and trousers.
His shoulders throbbed with exhaustion, every muscle bruised from the long ride from Talmberg, but shedding the heavy iron was a relief.
Henry lay flat on his back on his straw bed, staring up at the dark timber beams of the roof.
His hands were clasped behind his head, his body exhausted, but his mind restless with thoughts of the road ahead.
In the darkness nearby, he heard the soft rustle of straw as Theresa turned toward him, her breathing shaky and uneven.
“Henry?” she whispered, her voice fragile in the cold air.
“Yes?” Henry replied quietly, looking up at the ceiling.
“Are we…
are we safe?”
Henry stayed silent for a long moment, thinking of the bandits, the Cuman deserters, and the shadow of Sigismund’s horde.
“Not yet, Theresa.
But we will be.”
There was a quiet pause, broken only by the whistling wind outside.
“It’s too dark over here, Henry,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she fought back a sob.
“Can I…
can I come closer?”
“Come here,” Henry said softly, shifting in the straw and lifting the edge of his heavy wool blanket.
Theresa didn’t hesitate.
She slid across the straw, burying her face directly into the crook of his neck, her cold cheek pressing against his skin as her arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
Her fingers clutched at his linen shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled grip—holding onto him as if letting go would mean falling back into the ashes of Skalitz.
Henry wrapped his arm firmly around her back, resting his hand between her shoulder blades and pulling her tight against his side.
He could feel the rapid, trembling flutter of her heart against his ribs, her chest heaving with silent, ragged breaths.
“I’ve got you,” Henry murmured into her hair, resting his chin lightly atop her head.
“I’m right here.
You’re safe.”
Theresa let out a long, shuddering exhale, her body trembling against his as the last defenses she had held all day crumbled.
She didn’t weep aloud—she just held onto him, anchoring herself to the solid warmth of his chest while the freezing mountain wind rattled the wooden shutters outside.
Gradually, as the quiet minutes passed, the tension drained from her shoulders.
Her breathing slowed, matching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Henry’s chest, until sleep finally took her.
Henry kept his arm locked securely around her, keeping the bitter draft at bay, until his own eyes grew heavy and slipped into a peaceful, dreamless rest.