Flour and forge, p.1
Flour & Forge, page 1
part #1 of Tales From the Pint & Portal Series
To my ancestors.
Though we may never have shared a moment in time and space, your legacy is reflected in these words.
Those who passed on their restless spirt of wanderlust.
Those who believed the world should be kind.
Those who loved sharing the joy of a good pastry.
FLOUR & FORGE
(Tales From The Pint & Portal)
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Herman Steuernagel
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All international rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means whether digital or printed without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
ISBN: 978-1-990505-33-1 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-990505-28-7 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-990505-27-0 (ebook)
Cover Illustrated and Designed by MiblArt
Interior Illustrations by Aleksa Stajsic
Edited by Aime Sund & Herman Steuernagel
* * *
https://www.hermansteuernagel.com
* * *
Contents
Prologue
1. A Life Wanted
2. O’Sullivan’s Pub
3. Morning
4. The Rebel Princess
5. A New Threat
6. Myth
7. Forgotten Magic
8. Ruins
9. A Warrior’s Heart
10. A Break
11. Into The Night
12. We’ve Got A Problem
13. Our Best
14. The Rescue
15. Rocks
16. Calm in the Storm
17. Ingredients
18. Trinkets & Treasures
19. Coffee & Strudel
20. A Distraction
21. Breaking Bread
22. Worse than Ogres
23. A Protector
24. Copper’s Head
25. Thirstquencher Inn
26. Taking Up Space
27. Followed
28. Smoke
29. Marshmallows
30. The Tracker
31. Elements
32. On Foot
33. Confessions
34. Gobblers
35. Abandoning Hope
36. Runes
37. Portal
38. Sevrakhold
39. A Riddle
40. Witch
41. Dragon
42. Carma’s Bargain
43. Escape
44. The Way Home
45. A Favor
46. The Gobblers’ Lair
47. Darkness
48. Sphere of Good Fortune
49. Where We Need To Be
Epilogue
Strudel & Steel
Enter the Pint & Portal
Also by Herman Steuernagel
Traditional Apple Strudel Recipe
About Herman Steuernagel
Acknowledgments
One More Thing
* * *
Korka, Hybarn
Harvestfall of the 998th Winter
* * *
A wave of arrows soared over Tarvo’s head, just as he’d expected.
What he hadn’t planned for was their continued flight path past the flank of soldiers he’d set up as a ruse. They streamed past the squadrons ordered to stand firm; units positioned as a last buttress between the mages hidden behind them and the enemy.
Those mages were their secret weapon. A dozen of the Sparks’ most powerful, standing ready with combined powers to unleash a force against the king’s army the likes of which they’d never seen. It would cut days from the fight before it even truly began. Maybe weeks. Yet as the arrows landed directly where they waited, Tarvo realized that somehow their secret had been uncovered.
Cries echoing his own disbelief carried above his soldiers. Mutterings and grunts of confusion. He had brought every last dwarf he could spare into their current formation. A ruse to meant to convince any skilled general that the Sparks would make their stand in a planned assault of axe and spear.
Somehow, the king’s army had seen through it all.
“By the ore of our ancestors!” Branwick stood beside Tarvo, one of several advisers surrounding him. Despite Tarvo’s protests, a half-dozen retinue soldiers stood by his side, insisting on being his protectorate. Tarvo squinted as Branwick’s Emerald Sigil pin reflected the daybreak sun into his eye. His horse, Max, shuffled beneath him, sensing his rider’s discomfort.
Tarvo’s mind stilled. The battle around him slowed. They couldn’t lose this fight. Too much depended on it. Even if he didn’t pay off the debt to his kin this day, he surely didn’t want to add to it. Too much unnecessary blood already painted Hybarn’s soil because of him.
In a blink, time resumed its normal pace and the barrage of arrows slammed against an invisible barrier. Most fell impotently to the ground.
Tarvo breathed a heavy sigh of relief, pushing his helmet up slightly to rub a hairy forearm against his brow. The mages must have constructed the barrier in the precious few seconds before the attack landed. A small victory. But if they were forced to spend their energy on defense, their presence was effectively negated.
He had risked their lives for nothing.
Behind the Sparks’ defenses lay the Korka marshland. Behind that, the city of Korkamoor itself. The walled city was a major Spark stronghold, and one of their last.
Sweat beaded on Tarvo’s forehead, escaping the band of his helmet, crossing his ruddy cheeks, and soaking into his dark beard. A northerly wind brought a chill from the snowcapped peaks of the Shannon Mountains, hinting that the days of summer were coming to an end. But it did little to ease the heat that rose within him.
A single question burrowed deep in his mind as if delivered by an arrow itself.
How? Hardly anyone had known the mages were present. Fewer still knew where they had been placed. Yet, the army’s first action had been to point their attention directly at that spot.
A second volley followed the first.
More cries from the dwarves ahead of him. Shouts now. Dissatisfaction with standing still while projectiles were hurled at their brothers and sisters.
Tarvo steadied his breathing. This was no time for a panicked reaction. The instinct of every dwarf on the battlefield, including his own, was to charge headfirst with their ground forces.
That had been the plan after all. Except the plan had also called for the mages to cull enemy numbers before they rushed forward. Somehow, that strategy had been anticipated.
Despite the secrecy, despite the ruse.
There was a spy among them. It was the only explanation.
The fate of this fight rested solely on him. If the king had penetrated so deeply into his ranks, there was surely no one he could trust. At least not fully.
He took stock of the dwarves surrounding him. Men and women. Each had fought bravely. Something didn’t add up. But there was no time to solve this mystery now. All he could do right now was ensure they lived to fight another day.
A third wave. A rising cloud of arrows thicker than the first.
This round split into two, and Tarvo realized what was happening a moment too late.
Two-thirds carried on as the first volley had. The rest arced shorter into a descent. Toward him.
Tarvo raised his shield just in time. His protectorate raised theirs as well, shielding both Max and themselves.
His thigh burned with sudden intensity. Even before he looked to see the shaft rising from his leg, he knew he’d been hit.
* * *
Cuanmore, Ireland
1995
* * *
There was once a time, not long ago, when Rudy Schäfer had believed there would be something magical about baking strudel in a small coastal town. Now, he was beginning to think magic was something created by movie executives and the tourism industry.
The late afternoon sun cast shadows from tables and chairs along the bakery floor as orange and red hues spilled from the bay window over pristine white tiles.
Rudy dusted a hand over his apron, though the action was more about keeping his hands busy than wiping them. The hours listed on the bakery door suggested he should have closed ten minutes ago, but it had become routine for the young, frizzy-haired woman to show up right before closing.
His hands fidgeted. There was an anxiousness in today’s visit, one that went beyond waiting for his last customer to leave.
“Of course I’ll take a loaf of your sourdough,” Isabelle said, scanning the mostly emptied shelf. “And what else do you have left? Oh! That last baguette. I’ll take that too!”
“I thought you said you live alone?” Rudy asked, raising an eyebrow as he wrapped the loaf in brown paper.
“I do,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have people to share with. I keep telling everyone in town about you!”
Rudy blushed as he set the baguette beside it. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m not one to pry, but I didn’t think you could possibly be eating all this bread by yourself.”
“Goodness knows I could,” she said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you’re using magic. I can’t seem to stop coming back!”
“If only it were magic.” He was half serious but tried to make it come across as lighthearted. “Maybe I could sleep in for once. Regardless, I’m grateful you’ve been spreading the word. That must be why business has picked up recently.”
Isabelle put her hands on her hips, fingers creasing her olive-green skirt as she bent forward to scan the crumbs on the remaining plates on display.
“Oh, it couldn’t have made that much of a difference. I’ve only mentioned it to a few people here and there. They keep saying they’ve been wanting to come in ever since you opened. Well, like me, I guess they’ve just been putting it off.” Isabelle lifted her head, her body still leaning over the display case. “But you’ve been open for what? A year? Surely you’ve made enough connections in this town to make a real go of things?” She held his gaze for a moment, as if gauging his reaction.
Rudy imagined she already knew the answer but was attempting to confirm whatever gossip she’d heard in her own shop. “To be honest,” said Rudy, “I haven’t spent much time outside the bakery. All of my energy has gone into keeping it running.”
Only a handful of pastries remained. Mostly empty plates filled the small tiered shelves behind the glass. Unfortunately, some of the plates had started the day empty, despite the little signs propped up in front of them that named desserts like “Krapfen (Jam-Filled Donut),” “Cremeschnitte (Vanilla Slice),” and “Zitronentarte (Lemon Tart).” He wasn’t offering nearly as many goodies as he had when the shop had first opened.
There had been a lot of spoiled pastries back then, and he hated to see so many treats go to waste. As the months passed, he had been forced to cut back. He wasn’t broke, not yet, but he didn’t have an infinite amount of money to spend on pastries that would only end up in the rubbish bin. The past week Isabelle's word-of-mouth marketing would explain the steady increase in traffic, but even that surge had not been enough to break even each day, never mind begin to pay back the sizable investment it had taken to open.
Isabelle nodded. “That would be why most of the town doesn’t know you exist. You need to get yourself out there, let people try your pastries so they have to come back for more.”
Rudy had considered that. But he didn’t want to be a burden to the townsfolk. He would much rather have them come in on their own terms. He was a newcomer here. It would be better if he stuck to what he did best. Baking.
Sensing his hesitation, Isabelle straightened and pressed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “We’re really not that scary.” She paused, resting her fingers on the edge of her jaw. “Until you get to know us, that is.”
She smirked, amused at herself.
“Fear isn’t the issue,” Rudy said, almost too quickly. “I get up at three in the morning to start baking. So that means after I close for the afternoon, I have just enough time to eat a quick dinner before I’m so tired that I fall asleep.”
Isabelle’s mouth fell open as she glanced at the clock behind him. “Oh goodness, I had no idea! And here I am rambling on like an idjit like always. I’m sure you want to close up shop. I’m so sorry, Rudy!”
Rudy lifted a hand in protest. “No! Not at all, Isabelle. Actually, quite the opposite. I’ve appreciated your visits at the end of each day.” It was partially true. He should be closing earlier. These long days were getting to be too much for him. But he’d kept the shop open later hoping to attract more business. When Isabelle started coming, the extended hours seemed like they might be worthwhile.
Today especially, he’d been waiting for her arrival. But he’d keep his secret a bit longer. His fingers twitched at the edge of his apron, though, barely keeping the anticipation at bay.
“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment. I see you have a Black Forest cake left; wrap that one up for me, please.” Isabelle pulled up the burgundy bag strapped over her shoulder and began digging inside it for her wallet.
“Really, don’t rush; it’s all right,” Rudy said as he unfolded a small white box from the pile next to the counter.
The front of each box was stamped with the words “Rudy’s Bakery” surrounding an image of a loaf of bread being pulled from a stone-fire oven. He had designed it himself, and he was right proud of it. His gaze wandered to the painted wood sign leaning against the wall beside the entrance. It had taken a while to get it just right, but he had finally found someone to craft one that matched. The background was painted green; the text, image, and border were raised and shimmered with gold paint. It was certainly eye-catching, but he’d yet to find time to get anyone to install it.
Isabelle laid a few bills on the counter and caught his gaze still lingering on the sign. “Did you want me to get Ed to swing by and hang that for you?”
“Ed? I’m not sure who he is. I don’t want to be a bother to anyone here, truly.”
Isabelle’s thin lips curled into a smirk, pressing up her freckled cheeks. “I guess with your schedule I shouldn’t be surprised the two of you haven’t connected. Ed runs a local brewery. Decent guy, works really hard and makes incredible beer. O’Sullivan’s has it on tap and is probably one of the few small pubs on this side of the map that serves beer better than… well, I better not say that; people get mad. I don’t imagine you’ve gotten to the pub much either, have you?”
Rudy shook his head slowly. He had been there, but only a couple times when he’d first arrived.
“We all help each other out here.” Isabelle’s eyes met his with a softness he struggled to name. “I can’t imagine this place feels much like home with no friends.”
Rudy wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d never been good at making friends. And he’d never truly felt comfortable calling any place home.
But he wasn’t about to tell Isabelle that, or burden her with his life story.
“And I bet he’d even be willing to do it in trade for some of your incredible pastries. You get Ed talking about the bakery, and I guarantee you’ll have a line out the door in no time.”
Rudy imagined the shop filled with townsfolk, day after day, and couldn’t decide if that sounded wonderful or terrifying. Perhaps a little of both.
“I’m used to doing things myself,” he said. “There’s no need to trouble Ed.”
Isabelle’s brow furrowed as she tilted her head slightly.
“Rudy, can I ask what brought you to Cuanmore?”
The baker sighed. He’d been wondering that himself lately.
“I needed a change,” he said. “This seemed like a fantasy world come to life. The rolling hills, green fields, jagged coastline. I don’t know if I had ever seen a place so beautiful. It was far enough from my old life that I thought I could make a fresh start here.” He met Isabelle’s eyes. “I thought it would be a place where I could feel comfortable. A place I could finally call home.”
Rudy dusted his clean hands over his apron again. That was enough rambling about his dreams.
“Before I forget!” He reached toward a shelf below the counter and pulled out a second flattened white box from atop a stack of others. It had the same logo as the first but was larger. He unpacked it swiftly as Isabelle watched in confusion.
