by Dante King
In those shadows, the candlelight glinted off the points of antlers far too large to have come from ordinary deer, and with far too many tines. The heads of great Beasts hung from the walls above the booths around the sides. Some were scaled, others wrapped in short or long fur, while a handful had almost human-like skin. Long ears, short ears, or no ears at all. Crooked teeth, curved fangs, or blunt tusks. Eye sockets held yellow spheres with vertical pupils, bulging orbs like polished gemstones, or dozens of tiny peepers that gathered together like a roe of fish eggs.
Although they were all long dead, the sight of so many dismembered monsters made my spine tickle. I could sense the latent Elemental power in their body parts, even though the monsters they’d come from had ceased to draw breath long ago. I turned to Amelia, and she gave me a look that suggested she also felt the strange sensation. It was as Veronica had said when we were approaching the town: the Elemental essence of magical Beasts remained strong in their bones.
Tables filled the interior, with benches on either side of them. In the middle of the wall opposite the entrance door was a long bar. The bar itself consisted of a high bench, polished smooth by generations of sliding glasses and sweaty elbows. At the ends sat several medium size barrels, tightly bound by freshly forged steel bands. The wood itself forming the sides of the barrels was dark brown. It looked old. These barrels must have been in use for decades, aging batch after batch of beer. It gave me hope that the beer they served here would have sat for more than a few weeks.
The brewers in Aranor could sometimes be pretty cheap, serving the beer when it was barely ready. If it sat for a couple of months, none of us needed to be brewers to taste the difference.
Hanging from the ceiling above the bar was a large, wide board with a design carved into it. A giant dragon was devouring its own tail, which snaked around its body, filling the space. The scales were all individually carved, and while the paint was now chipped and faded, it looked like they’d once been a bright green. Now, age and candle smoke had turned the whole design a rich brown.
Herbs hung from the ceiling over the bar, along with garlic and onions. The aroma was glorious, making my stomach rumble. The smell of stale beer was far weaker here than in the taverns I’d frequented in Aranor. The owner of this tavern obviously took more pride in its upkeep.
Behind the bar stood a beautiful woman. She was perhaps a little older than I was, but she was a woman who wore her years well. Her face and her body glowed with health. Her long, inky black hair poured like silk over her shoulders. Her perfect skin, her huge, almond-shaped eyes, and the obvious intelligence and humor that flashed in her quick smile immediately made me feel that she was a woman I would like to get to know better.
It was immediately obvious to me that she was no barmaid, and certainly not a beer wench. Some people thought those terms were interchangeable, but I’d learned from Katlyn, who had some experience working in a tavern, that there was a vast divide between them. The women who got promoted from beer wench to barmaid held significant prestige among their coworkers. For a start, they wouldn’t have to walk between tables and put up with attentions from overly affectionate customers.
This woman gave off a confidence that I’d never seen in an ordinary barmaid. The men sitting on stools on either side of the bar spoke to her with respect. She worked with an efficiency that would have made the best workers in the taverns of Aranor jealous, cleaning and polishing glasses with the most efficient movements possible, filling them with beer the moment they were dry, and handing them to customers, only to take away the old glasses in the same motion and begin again.
Several beer wenches clothed in simple but revealing dresses did move between the tables, bringing beer and food out to customers, but the burly men sitting here treated even them with respect. There was only one tavern in Brightwater, as far as I knew, so I supposed the customers couldn’t afford to be banned.
As I pulled the door closed behind us, I noticed a sign hanging on the wall next to the entrance, so that it would be the first thing patrons see when they entered. I looked at it, but since it was covered in words and I couldn’t read, I ignored it. I was slightly surprised; could all the patrons read? What could possibly be written on it?
“What does that sign say?” I whispered to Amelia on my left. I was trying to be subtle.
Amelia quietly read out loud, standing in front of the sign and not looking at me. She was making it look as if she were reading out for her own benefit only. That was nice of her.
“Tavern Rules:
Weapons will be left at the door beside the coat rack;
Patrons who are violent toward staff will be thrown out and banned;
Patrons who inflict lethal injuries on other patrons will be thrown out and banned;
For minor injuries resulting from fights, see the bar for attention;
For missing limbs, please visit Brightwater Infirmary.”
“I see,” I whispered.
Not quite what I had expected. In Aranor, the taverns simply had a sign next to the door, showing a burly tavern guard beating the shit out of drunken customers. That was usually enough to keep the majority in line. When I saw that the tavern’s patrons treated the beer wenches with respect, I’d thought perhaps they were just better behaved, but it seemed like they weren’t always so docile. If missing limbs were a common enough occurrence to merit a rule on the sign, perhaps the brawls could get a bit out of hand. At least the tavern itself was still in good condition.
I looked around at the patrons. None of them were armed. As the sign had mentioned, there was a coat rack near the door. Cloaks, furs, and heavier coats all hung in a long row along the wall. Underneath were a number of wooden dividers with shields, spears, swords, and axes sitting in between. Judging by the number, at least half the patrons here must be warriors. Obviously they could trust that their equipment would be left untouched. No one would be foolish enough to try to walk off with someone else’s weapons.
I took a look around the busy bar at the men who filled the place. Many of the patrons sitting at the tables looked like warriors. They were burly and tall, often quite tanned. Their eyes had the wary look of hunters, always squinting into the distance at prey. The other patrons were no less heavily built, but they didn’t have the same cautious eyes, nor did their mouths seem like they would form into snarls at the slightest provocation. For these reasons, I assumed they were craftsmen, locals, or travelers.
All the tables were cramped, without a single spare seat, and the group gathered by the bar was three men deep. I glanced over the tavern again, hoping to find some spot where the women and I might be able to eat and drink in peace; we couldn’t exactly stand in the entrance. There was a shadowy spot in the far corner, where there might be some space.
I squinted a little, but the tavern was hazy, and the far corner was difficult to make out. In the shadows, several men were hunched around a large table covered in frothing mugs and what looked like dice, cards, and gaming chips. Just beyond them there was a little table with some space.
“Let’s sit there,” I said to Amelia and Veronica as I motioned at the only empty table, beside the booth.
“Don’t you think that group might be dangerous?” Amelia asked as she looked at the group of gamers. They did look like a rough crowd, but they seemed intent on their game.
“Possibly, but we don’t have to talk to them,” I said. “Besides, we’re all thirsty, hungry, and tired. And that’s the only empty table.”
I noticed Veronica smiling, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded.
All three of us unhooked our swords from our belts ready to put them together in the rack. I placed the shortsword I’d taken from the slaver beside Amelia’s sword, but I kept the dagger I used to draw tattoos; after all, it wasn’t really made to be a weapon, and I didn’t want to leave something so precious behind.
Amelia dropped her shortsword beside mine, and Veronica laid her enchanted sword next to it.
“You’re not worried about it being stolen?” I asked Veronica, looking at the precious blade.
Veronica shook her head. “The mistress of the tavern would murder anyone who dared steal an item from one of her patrons.”
I kept the heavy canvas pack with our dwindling provisions and Amelia’s spellbook on my back as we all started walking toward the corner.
I noticed several of the patrons staring at Amelia and I as we walked past. Most of their noses wrinkled in contempt, but a handful looked at us in appreciation.
Of course. The tattoos. I held my arms against my sides, but the tattoos were pretty obvious. I couldn’t hide them that easily.
“Remind me to get a long-sleeved tunic,” I whispered to Amelia.
“Noted,” she whispered back. “This could get a bit tedious.”
We walked over to the empty table near the corner. Amelia and I started to sit down at the bench on the closer side, while Veronica took a place on the opposite bench, facing us.
Just as we began to sit down, a voice hollered over the general din. “You cum-guzzling dickwad!” the voice sounded familiar, and I felt a smile pull at my lips.
It had come from the booth next to us.
“You try to steal from me again and I’ll rip your arms off and shove them up your asshole! Now, are you all going to play properly, or am I going to have to boot you all in the ass first?”
The voice came from one of the men at the table covered in gaming chips. I looked over. The man who was shouting wore a deep hood so I couldn’t see his face, but I would have known that voice anywhere.
He slammed his fist down on the table, making the beer mugs shake, and pushed his head back, leaning forward to look his companions all in the eyes.
“Jacques,” I said, louder than I’d intended to.
The hooded man turned quickly to look at me, reaching up and pushing his hood back as he did so, and revealing a very familiar face. Jaques had not changed much in the years that I’d seen him. His dark hair fell to his shoulders and his equally dark mustache was curled into circles at each end. His eyes were nut brown and piercing above his sharp nose. He wore a bright red vest under a black cloak.
“William,” he said, “Well, I’ll be buggered by a herd of stray cats. What are you doing here?”
Jacques’ insults had never made much sense, but I was used to them. Amelia was not, however, and her eyes seemed to be popping out of their sockets as she stared, slack-jawed, at Jacques and his table. Veronica folded her arms over her chest and simply watched as Jacques swiveled all the way around so that his back was to the three other men seated in his booth. The three men sitting with him glared at us, obviously displeased that we’d interfered with whatever was occurring in their booth.
“I might ask you the same thing,” I said to Jacques. “But I think we’re interrupting your game?” I took a closer look at the table. There were a bunch of coins piled up in front of each man, and a much larger pile in the center of the table. Gambling. Well, the years hadn’t changed Jacques’s habits any more than they had changed his looks.
“Actually, yes, you are,” he said. “We’re in the middle of a round.” He held up some dirty-looking playing cards in one hand, showing me a full house. With a grin and a wink, he whispered, “as you can very well see, shan’t be long until I make off with every last coin these fuckers have. Then, the game will have an intermission, and they’ll scrounge up whatever else they have that’s worth gambling with. In the meantime, why don’t you order yourselves a beer?”
I turned back to Amelia and Veronica as Jacques and the three disgruntled men with him put their heads down and kept playing.
“That’s Jacques?” Amelia asked. “Looks like he lives up to his reputation.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d forgotten how vulgar his language is. It’s all part of his charm though.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to end up in a game of cards with him,” Amelia said. “I have a feeling he has far too much experience with that pastime.”
“He certainly does,” I said. “And he reckons he has Loku, the god of good luck, on his side. I never know with him if he even takes it seriously himself. He does have his share of luck though. With the things he gets up to, he should have been dead many times over by now.”
Veronica nodded. “How he hasn’t been kicked out of this tavern, I’ll never know. They put up with a lot in this establishment, but he’s caused so many fights, I would have tossed him out for good by now if it were up to me.”
A pleasant voice cut into our conversation. “Can I take your order?”
I looked up to see one of the beer wenches standing by our table. She wore a bright yellow dress with a green dragon’s head painted over the bust. The dragon’s red eyes were painted right where her nipples pressed against the fabric of the dress. Was that deliberate? I glanced at the other wenches, noticing their clothing in greater detail now, and discovered that their dresses all had motifs placed in similarly provocative areas.
The wench held a small wooden board in her left hand and a metal stylus in her right.
“I’ll be your barmaid for the evening,” she said. “Anything you need, just let me know.”
So she was a barmaid, not a beer wench. Good to know. Maybe they didn’t call them beer wenches in Brightwater.
“I’ll take a Dragon’s Breath Ale, please,” Veronica said.
“Dragon’s Breath Ale,” the barmaid repeated as she pressed the stylus into the wax-covered surface of the board. She scrawled a couple of symbols into the wax. Even though I couldn’t read, I could tell there were too few of the symbols to make up real words. Maybe the barmaid, like me, couldn’t read, so she’d devised her own written language so she could remember patrons’ drink orders?
The barmaid turned to look at Amelia and me. Her eyebrows raised slightly when she saw the tattoos on our arms, but she said nothing about them. “And what will you two have to drink?”
“Uh,” I hesitated. “What do you have?”
“Well, we have ales, stouts, lagers. Each comes in pale, amber, and dark flavors. We also have a range of high strength beers, as well as some smoked ales.”
“You certainly seem to have a broad range,” I said.
The barmaid smiled. “We have a lot of travelers here. We try to cater to every taste.”
I turned to Amelia. “Do you know what you want?”
“Not exactly,” Amelia said. “I’ve never been much of a beer drinker.” She looked up at the barmaid. “Can I just get something with a mild flavor?”
“Certainly. In that case, allow me to recommend our Mount Agony Stream Pale Ale. It has a smooth texture and a mild hoppy flavor.”
“That sounds, uh, lovely,” Amelia said. Her voice sounded somewhat skeptical. The name of the ale surprised me a bit too, but Amelia didn’t say anything else as the barmaid scrawled on her wax tablet again.
The barmaid looked at me. “And for you, sir?”
I didn’t want one of the high strength beers. I knew I needed to stay alert in this town, especially with Jacques sitting nearby. Who knew what might take place?
I’d always been more of an ale drinker myself, and I liked a good strong flavor, but I didn’t need to prove myself by ordering the darkest flavor like some men did.
“I’ll have an amber ale, please,” I said.
“That’ll be the Dragon’s Breath Ale,” the barmaid said. “An excellent choice.”
I looked over at Veronica, and she smiled. “I see your taste is as good as mine,” she said.
So she liked the same beer as me. That definitely was an attractive quality. I smiled back, and she held my look for a moment. Her gaze was warm and friendly. I was beginning to feel that the haughty noblewoman was only one aspect of Veronica’s character, and that there might be a gentler and more vulnerable person underneath.
“I’ll bring your drinks right over,” the barmaid said. “The kitchen will be open in half an hour. I’ll be
back to take your orders for dinner then.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at her as she turned to leave.
I looked back to Veronica. “The service here is pretty great, right?”
Veronica laughed. “What sort of backwater do you come from? Not used to table service?”
“I, uh, I guess the taverns in Aranor are just busier than this place.” I wasn’t sure why I felt defensive about those taverns; they weren’t exactly that nice. I could definitely get used to an establishment like this one.
The barmaid returned a minute later and placed our mugs in front of us, foam cresting at the top of each jug. The mugs looked strong, and I figured they needed to be, to survive the brawls in this place. If the sign at the door had been anything to go by, the tavern’s present calm atmosphere could change at any moment.
Thinking about the sign reminded me of a question I had. “Excuse me,” I said as the barmaid was walking away.
She looked at me. “Yes? Did you not like the amber ale?”
“It’s not that. I wanted to ask about the sign. The one at the entrance.”
A frown darkened her pretty face. “There are no exceptions. The Mistress of the tavern is very strict about keeping to the rules.”
I laughed. “I don’t want to break any of the rules. I just want some clarification. What does it mean when it refers to seeing the staff at the bar if we have minor injuries?”
“Oh that,” she replied, her expression lightening again. “The Mistress can heal minor injuries.”
“Really? How does she do that?” I asked. There were likely two potential answers: she was a herbalist of some kind, or a mage.
“I’m not sure exactly,” the barmaid replied. “She has some Nature magic; you would have to ask yourself for more information. Will that be all?”
“Yes, that’s all, thank you,” I said.
So, it sounded like the Mistress was a Mage and not a herbalist. My current experience with Mages was limited to a single woman—Veronica—so I figured I could ask the Mistress more about her magic later. For now, it was time to try the beer.