The morning chorus of chirping birds echoed softly through the high rafters of the Uzhitz tavern hayloft, heralding a crisp, clear dawn.
Theresa stirred in the dry straw, her eyelids fluttering as the early golden sunlight filtered through the wooden shutters.
Still halfway in the domain of sleep, she reached her hand forward across the blankets, searching instinctively for the comforting warmth of Henry’s presence beside her.
Her palm met only cold, empty straw.
Theresa’s head jolted awake.
She sat bolt upright on the bed, her heart hammering against her ribs as a flash of blind panic gripped her chest.
“Oh, you’re awake,” a calm, familiar voice called out from the far corner of the loft.
Theresa let out a long, ragged sigh of relief, resting a hand over her heart.
Henry was sitting on a low wooden bench near the lantern peg, surrounded by strips of leather, an iron punch, and a rusted pair of shears he had salvaged from the cart.
Resting across his lap was a section of heavy steel chainmail.
“You’re awake so early, Henry?” Theresa asked, her voice raspy from sleep as she smoothed down her hair.
“I didn’t even hear you get up.”
“I had enough sleep and woke on my own,” Henry replied, offering her a warm, reassuring smile.
“I went down to the stables an hour ago to feed Olena and the draft mares, check the iron shoes, and make sure the cart wheels were greased and ready for the road.
There is fresh water in the wooden bucket over by the stairs if you want to wash your face.
After that, we’ll eat a quick bite and start our journey.
It’s still early, so we can cover a good amount of distance before the midday heat—and most bandits along the trade route will still be sleeping off their ale.”
Theresa nodded, stepping down from the straw mound.
She walked over to the bucket, splashing the cool, refreshing water over her face and hands, scrubbing away the last traces of lingering exhaustion.
Wiping her skin dry with a clean linen cloth, she walked back over and sat down on the bench right beside Henry, peering curiously at the metal links in his hands.
“What are you doing with that chainmail, Henry?” she asked, leaning in closer.
“I was going through the wagon at first light,” Henry said, nodding toward the armor in his lap.
“Found some punch pliers and leather scraps in the bottom chest.” Henry explained, holding up the piece of armor.
“It occurred to me that you ought to have some proper protection of your own.
The plate armor and steel gauntlets we salvaged are far too large for you, but this chainmail hauberk can be altered.
I cut off the heavy sleeves and split the side seams, then attached these thick leather straps to both sides.”
He turned the garment over, showing her how the leather bands were riveted directly into the iron rings.
“This way, you can wear it right over your linen dress and woolen tunic,” Henry continued, gesturing to the straps.
“You cinch the leather ties tight along your waist and ribs, and it pulls the mail flush against your body so it doesn’t weigh you down or restrict your movement.
It will keep you safe from stray arrows or grazing blade strikes.
We had a safe trek from Talmberg to Uzhitz, but the stretch from here down through Neuhof to Rattay is long and notorious for Cuman deserters and cutthroats.”
Theresa looked at the modified mail, her eyes shining with quiet gratitude.
“Thanks a lot, Henry.
But…
wouldn’t this chainmail still be a bit too big for me around the chest and waist?”
“That is exactly why I cut it down the center seams and added these leather straps,” Henry grinned, tapping the brass buckles.
“By pulling the laces tight, we can adjust the fit perfectly to your frame.
It’s the best protection we can manage on the road.
Once we reach Rattay and I find a proper forge, I’ll make custom fittings for you.”
Theresa smiled faintly, a soft blush touching her cheeks.
“Should I ask someone at the mill to help me put it on later?”
Henry raised an eyebrow playfully.
“If you ask a stranger at the mill, what would they think?
”
“Then you can help me with it now,” she murmured softly.
Henry lifted the modified mail shirt and stepped behind her.
“Hold your arms up a bit.”
Theresa raised her arms, and Henry draped the heavy iron shirt over her shoulders.
The metal rings clinked softly, sending a sudden, icy chill through her thin linen dress.
She shuddered slightly at the weight.
“It’s cold,” she murmured.
“It’ll warm up once it catches your body heat,” Henry said softly.
He leaned in close to adjust the side panels, his chest almost brushing her shoulder.
Theresa held her breath, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was.
He smelled of pine smoke, oiled iron, and the crisp morning air.
Henry reached his hands around her waist to grab the thick leather straps he had riveted to the sides.
His fingertips brushed against the curve of her ribs through her dress as he pulled the laces taut, threading them through the brass buckles.
His hands were warm and calloused, moving with the practiced care of a smith adjusting a delicate piece of work.
Theresa’s heart gave a sudden, hard thud against her ribs.
She looked up just as Henry leaned over her shoulder to inspect the collar.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Henry’s hand lingered on the leather strap at her waist, his thumb resting gently against the buckle.
His eyes met hers—dark, steady, and holding a quiet warmth that made the chill of the iron disappear completely.
“Not too tight around your chest?” Henry asked, his voice dropping to a low, quiet murmur.
“No,” Theresa whispered, her cheeks flushing warm as she looked up at him.
“It…
it feels safe.” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Henry gave her a small, genuine smile, his thumb giving the leather strap one last gentle tug before stepping back.
“Good.
Then you’re ready for the road.”
After sharing a quick breakfast of dark rye bread, smoked cheese, and dried apples, they gathered their belongings, checked their gear, and descended the timber ladder to the courtyard.
The morning sun had just cleared the eastern treetops as Henry guided Olena out of the Uzhitz tavern yard, with Theresa driving the heavy draft mares and the supply cart close behind.
Mutt trotted happily at the cart’s wooden wheels, his ears pricked for the sounds of the morning woods.
Henry chose the wide, open king’s road rather than the narrow hunting trails.
While the open road was slightly longer, the broad cleared shoulders on either side drastically reduced the chances of an unexpected archer ambush from the dense treeline.
The morning air was crisp and invigorating.
Morning dew hung heavy on the forest grass, catching the low sunlight, while thrushes called out from the high pines.
For a few hours, the horror of Skalitz felt like a distant, bad dream.
Around noon, as the sun reached its zenith, Henry signaled a stop near a clear creek winding through a sunlit meadow.
They unhitched the horses to let them drink and graze on the sweet clover, taking the time to rest their legs.
While the mares rested, Henry walked to the back of the cart and retrieved the heavy hunting crossbow and a leather quiver of steel-tipped bolts.
“Time for more practice,” Henry called out with a smile.
Theresa walked over, pulling her thick gloves on.
For the next hour, under the warm afternoon sun, Henry coached her on her stance, breathing, and trigger discipline.
She practiced spanning the heavy steel bowstring using her foot in the iron stirrup, setting the bolt into the flight groove, and sighting down the wooden tiller.
THWACK!
Her fourth shot struck an ash tree trunk fifty paces away, driving the iron tip deep into the center of a chalk mark Henry had drawn on the bark.
“Excellently done,” Henry praised, clapping his gauntleted hands together.
“Your aim is getting truer than half the guards at Talmberg.”
Theresa beamed with pride, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow as she reloaded the weapon with smooth, confident motions.
“I told you I wouldn’t let anyone take me by surprise again.”
With the horses rested and refreshed, they loaded the gear once more and set off south toward the rolling pastures of Neuhof.
As the cart creaked rhythmically along the dirt path, Theresa looked up at Henry riding tall in his saddle atop Olena.
“What will you do when we reach Rattay, Henry?” she asked, her voice carrying over the clatter of the wagon wheels.
Henry turned in his saddle, his expression growing serious.
“First, I will present all the loot, grain, and weapons I salvaged from Rovna and Skalitz directly to Sir Radzig Kobyla.
And then…
I will request that he take me into his personal service and train me as a squire.”
Theresa blinked in surprise.
“A squire?
You want to join Sir Radzig’s retinue?”
“It is the only way I can ever hope to bring justice to the men who murdered my parents and burned our home,” Henry said, his jaw tightening with unyielding resolve.
“I know my mother and father would have wanted me to live a quiet, safe life.
But if I ignore this calling and remain a simple country blacksmith for the rest of my days, I will spend every waking moment consuming myself with regret.”
He paused, looking out over the golden fields of wheat lining the road.
“I know I could easily settle down in Rattay,” Henry admitted quietly.
“With my father’s training, I could open a forge, earn good silver, and live comfortably.
But my heart tells me that is not my path.
My destiny isn’t behind an anvil in Rattay.”
He turned back to look at her.
“At least I have a direction now.
What about you, Theresa?
What lies ahead for you?”
Theresa looked down at her hands resting on the wooden reins.
“I think…
I will stay with my Uncle Peshek at the mill first.
I’ll help him run the property, get my strength back, and then decide what comes next.”
“That sounds like a wise plan,” Henry smiled gently.
“And no matter where my path takes me, I’ll never be far from the mill.”
An hour later, as the shadows of the afternoon began to lengthen, the open pastures gave way to a dense, narrow road pass lined with thick brush and looming pine trees.
Suddenly, Henry reined Olena to a sharp halt.
Behind him, Theresa pulled back on her draft mares’ reins, bringing the heavy cart to a stop.
“What happened, Henry?” Theresa whispered, her hand instinctively dropping toward her belt.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Something is wrong here,” Henry muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dense treeline ahead.
“What do you mean?”
“Listen,” Henry whispered, lowering his voice.
“Look across the field.
It’s too quiet.
The birds stopped singing in the brush, and there isn’t a single deer or rabbit moving.
He turned his head slightly toward her, his posture rigid.
“Theresa, bring out the crossbow.
Lock a bolt into the groove now.
We need to prepare for a fight.”
Theresa didn’t hesitate.
Moving with quiet efficiency, she slid the heavy crossbow from the footwell, placed her boot in the front iron stirrup, and pulled the heavy bowstring back until it clicked firmly into the iron nut.
She slipped a square-headed steel bolt onto the tiller, resting the weapon across her lap.
A second later, the quiet rustle of leaves snapped across the dirt road.
Three ragged, grime-covered men stepped out from the thick brush, blocking the narrow pass.
They wore stained, padded gambesons and carried notched iron cleavers, rusty hunting spears, and heavy wooden clubs—deserters and common highwaymen.
The leader of the trio, a broad-shouldered brute with a filthy leather cap, spat on the ground and raised his notched cleaver, eyeing the loaded cart with greedy eyes.
“Well, well!
Look what rolled right into our lap!” the leader sneered, letting out a harsh, gravelly laugh.
“Leave the horse, the cart, and the armor, boy, and maybe we’ll let you crawl away alive!”
The second bandit, a scrawny man with yellowed teeth, peered past Henry’s horse and caught sight of Theresa sitting on the wagon bench in her fitted chainmail.
A vile, repulsive grin spread across his face.
“Look at the cart, boys—and the girl driving it.
Leave the rig and step off the horse, lad, and maybe we don’t throw you in the ditch.”
The three cutthroats let out crude, disgusting laughter, stepping closer with relaxed, arrogant strides, fully expecting an easy victory over a lone rider and a helpless girl.
“Now, Theresa—take the shot!” Henry barked.
Theresa raised the heavy crossbow, lined up the iron sights with the lead bandit’s chest, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.
THWACK!
The bolt tore through the air with a brutal crack, striking the leader square in the shoulder.
The force of the impact drove him backward into the dirt, his cleaver clattering against the stones as he screamed in agony, clutching his bloodied collarbone.
Before the other two could react, Henry drove Olena forward a few paces and leaped from the saddle.
The scrawny bandit lunged with a rusty spear, but Henry stepped inside the weapon’s reach, catching the wooden shaft with his gauntleted hand and shoving it aside.
He swung his heavy wooden mallet in a tight, rising arc.
CRACK!
The hardwood head clipped the side of the bandit’s jaw.
The man’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his head as he collapsed limply into the weeds.
The third bandit dropped his spear in terror and turned to bolt into the treeline.
“Mutt, catch him!” Henry shouted.
The hound burst from behind the cart like a grey streak, tackling the fleeing deserter from behind and pinning his arm to the dirt with a fierce growl.
The man howled in panic, slapping wildly at the dirt.
“Yield!
I yield!
Don’t let the dog eat me!”
Henry strode over, pulling Mutt back by his collar, and brought the wooden butt of his mallet down sharply on the back of the bandit’s head, knocking him out cold.
Silence returned to the forest pass.
Within less than a minute, all three men were down—one severely wounded by Theresa’s bolt, and two unconscious in the dirt.
Henry wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, breathing heavily as he looked back at the wagon.
Theresa was still holding the crossbow, her knuckles white, but her breath was steadying.
“That was a masterwork shot,” Henry said, offering her a proud grin.
“Right through his guard.”
Theresa let out a long breath, lowering the bow.
“Are…
are they dead?”
Henry walked over to inspect the men, kicking away their dropped weapons.
“The leader won’t be bothering anyone again.
But these two are just out cold.”
He walked to the back of the cart, pulling a coil of sturdy hemp rope from beneath the canvas tarp.
“You’re not killing them?” Theresa asked, watching him.
“No,” Henry replied, a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes as he bound the unconscious men’s wrists securely behind their backs.
“Sir Radzig is going to want to know who is organizing these deserters and where their main camp is hiding.
Bringing two live prisoners into Rattay proves we can handle ourselves—and gives Sir Radzig’s captains information they can actually use.”
He hauled the bound men toward the back of the wagon, tying their ankles together so they couldn’t kick.
“Help me keep an eye on them from the bench,” Henry said, looking up at Theresa with a grin.
“If either of them wakes up and tries to loosen their knots, poke ’em with the bolt.”
Theresa smiled, a confident spark returning to her eyes as she loaded a fresh bolt into her tiller.
“With pleasure.
Let’s get to Rattay.”
Also, you can comment if you think there is something missing in the chapters or like certain ideas.
If the ideas are good, I may use them.
Comment if you can so I know if I’m going in the right direction or do I have the audience to keep writing.