“May I ask you something?” I stirred the soup with my spoon, unsure how to broach the subject.
“Why did we call it Goat Head when we are obviously fauns?” Taffy guessed my question before I asked.
I nodded.
She laughed. “We get that question a lot. When my ancestors first settled here generations ago, the locals had never seen a faun. They kept referring to us as ‘goat heads’.”
“But isn’t that insulting?” I asked.
“Only if the person chooses. Words can bring harm if you let it. Instead, we embraced the moniker, and it has brought fond memories over the years. Besides, I call my husband a goat head when he’s stubborn. Which is often, of late.”
I smiled, but the smile fell from my face when the wood floor beneath my feet rumbled. The drying rack shook and dried bits of lavender rained down from above. Teacups on the shelves rattled until one slipped off and broke on the floor.
“What is that?” I gasped, covering my head as a shutter fell from the window.
“Earthquake!” Taffy grabbed my hand and led me outside into the snow.
All around us, the townspeople screamed and shouted as they ran out into the streets. Untethered horses were spooked and ran amok, while dogs barked and children cried as the rumbling didn’t slow but gained momentum.
Herst grabbed my elbow and pulled me farther away from the outbuildings and into a clearing. His keen eyes weren’t watching the people, but the mountain.
A great crash ripped through the air as the roof on a nearby barn couldn’t handle the strain, and it collapsed. The shaking finally settled, and we were left to face the wreckage.
“Taffy!” Fezik cried out as he rushed to his wife’s side. They embraced and turned to look up at the mountain.
“It’s happening again,” she whispered.
“Hush,” Fezik chided. “It was nothing.”
“No,” Taffy argued.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Taffy turned to me, fear in her eyes. She straightened her shoulders and warily went into the inn to assess the damage.
Fezik spoke up. “I must check on the others. There may be injured. I’ll be back.”
I looked at Herst. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Sounds like local superstition, if you ask me.”
But it didn’t. It sounded like they knew more than they were willing to admit. Even though the earthquake was over, the fear it left behind in its wake was as thick as molasses. Most of the main buildings were still intact, other than the barn that collapsed.
“You should come back inside. The worst is over,” Herst said.
I stared up at the dark mountain. To where we would head toward tomorrow, and I didn’t think it was over. I had a feeling. The problems were just beginning.
CHAPTER TWO
“That’s mine,” the tinker man shouted, his high-pitched voice piercing the bitter air, causing a flock of birds to scatter.
Early morning risers filled the market as the cold winter didn’t deter or slow down work. Life still carried on despite last night’s earthquake scare. As I was walking through the quaint town, I was attracted to the commotion coming from a nearby tinker’s stall.
The tinker stared down at his accuser with tired eyes, his face weathered, his bushy eyebrows peeking out under his worn red hat. His clothes were patched, covered with black dust, and his gloved fingers were clutching an object to his chest possessively.
“Calm down, I wasn’t stealing it. I just need to see what’s in your hand,” a dwarf said to the old man.
“Ah, Grimkeep. Just let me keep it,” the tinker whined. He pawed at the small golden cup. The rest of the tinker’s stall was filled with various objects. Lots of tin cups, pots, a spinning wheel, skates and sleigh parts, and assorted half-finished projects.
“Not if it doesn’t belong to you,” Grimkeep growled. His thick fist slammed into the wooden table. “That looks like a goblet from the forbidden hoard. Have you been digging in the Ragnar Mountains?”
The tinker shook his head and retreated farther to the back of the stall.
“Doren, if it is, it isn’t safe for you to have it. It’s cursed.”
“No, it’s not.” Doren clutched his find. It seemed the old tinker wasn’t necessarily right in the head. Whether it was from the cursed object or dementia, I wasn’t sure.
Grimkeep turned a frustrated sigh my way. It was my first chance to see the dwarf up close. He had a thick brow, deep red hair, and his beard braided with little beads depicting various runes.
“Maybe I can help,” I asked. Stepping forward, I focused my attention on the cup in his hands. It was without a stem or base; simple in design. I searched for a similar tin cup in his wares and found one. “Distract him for me,” I whispered.
Grimkeep nodded and went on a verbal rant about how it’s not nice to steal from the mountains.
Kneeling down, I quickly drew out a spell diagram in the snow, being very careful that my sigils were perfect in every way, then placed the tin cup in the center. I was going to use a glamour charm, but to work, glamour had to work on a healthy mind, and I wasn’t sure what the state of mind the tinker’s was in. This would be a gamble.
With the final sigil in place, I backed up as the ground glowed slightly and the tin cup was now in the shape of the gold cup the tinker had.
A few gasps came from behind me, and I turned to see that a crowd had gathered. They’d watched me weave my spell. Whispers followed. Many turned away in disgust. A few called me names like witch and devil. A man in a dark uniform slipped away without a sound.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Grimkeep whispered. He brushed his foot through the snow, destroying the evidence of my spell. His eyes following the man in black who ran farther into town.
“It’s a little late for the warning.”
Grimkeep growled ominously at the crowd and reached for the axe on his back. He did it slow, as if threatening them. The crowd scattered. Grimkeep spit at the ground in disgust before addressing Doren. He reached for a dented kettle and waved it in the air. “Hey Doren, how much for this thing?”
No longer feeling threatened, the tinker moved forward to conduct business, tucking the cup in the outer pocket of his tunic. Grimkeep sidled up to the man. With deft hands, he dropped my charmed cup into the left pocket and turned around him, slipping the one out of his right pocket.
“I’ll take it.” Grimkeep put a few coppers into Doren’s hand while hiding his pilfered prize. From a distance, we could hear men yelling and horses riding toward us. “Come with me.” Grimkeep gripped my elbow and forced me to follow him down the closest alley, pushing me behind a stack of crates. I was about to speak, but he reached up and clamped his hand over my mouth.
Just as he did so, men in black uniforms came down the street. They stopped at the tinker’s stall and questioned him. I couldn’t hear their exchange, but I could see the old man’s confusion. The leader, a tall man in black armor, was intimidating. He wore a large black helmet in the shape of a beast with horns, keeping his eyes hidden. With massive strength, he lifted the tinker’s table and flipped it over. The goods spilled into the street, and the horse trampled the silverware into the muddy snow. A terrified Doren handed over the golden cup.