A Bitter Brew

by Greg Curtis

  “Can't stop!” He called to her as he walked on. Really though, he thought he should have. If only because Mena was the seamstress he normally used, and he had some clothes in need of mending. She was a friendly sort and didn't care at all that he was afflicted. Not as long as he had some stynes to pay her with. Still, the events of the morning had left him edgy and anxious to get on with his trip.

  This time he suspected there were going to be more people who would be friendly with him than usual. He had goods to sell. More than just ale, that was. Plus he needed to buy some things too. Nothing made people more friendly than the throwing of a few stynes about in his experience.

  His first stop he decided would be the gunsmiths. The three muskets and a pistol he was carrying weighed a lot. It hadn't seemed that much when he'd set off, but now the straps on his back were pressing uncomfortably into his shoulder. Maybe he should have long stepped his way to town, but he normally avoided doing that. There was no point in reminding people he was afflicted.

  Enri's Firearms was open when he arrived at its door. By the looks of things it hadn't been a good day for the merchant. He was sitting behind his counter looking more than a little bored. But he brightened up a little when Hendrick walked in. No doubt he noticed the bulging pack he was carrying. Enri was a swarthy man with heavy jowls and a tendency to sweat too much. It made the smile he presently wore look unnatural. Actually, it looked like what it probably was; greed.

  Hendrick made his way past the walls full of muskets and pistols and the shelves in the middle of the store covered in sundries, to the counter, and then dropped his pack to the floor.

  “I've got a few items for sale if you're interested.” He got straight to the point. Enri wasn't a friend of his.

  “I might be.” Enri responded noncommittally. “Depends.”

  “Three muskets.” Hendrick pulled them out one by one and laid them on the counter in front of the merchant. “And a pistol and some bits and pieces.” He dragged the rest out and put them on the counter with the rest. As he did so he watched the merchant’s eyes widen with a calculating gleam.

  “And where would you have gotten these?” Enri asked suspiciously.

  “Brigands. They attacked my home, burnt it to the ground and tried to make off with a few barrels of ale. This is what they dropped as I chased them off. Now I'm going to have to rebuild.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He wasn't actually sorry though. But he didn't bear him any ill will either. He simply didn't care. He was too busy inspecting the pile of weapons in front of him to care. “You should tell the Magistrate.”

  “Next stop,” Hendrick replied though he knew it would be a waste of time. The Magistrate would have been unlikely to send anyone off after the brigands if they had only attacked one home. Especially that of one of the afflicted. Still, it would have looked suspicious if he hadn't reported the attack. And part of the purpose of coming into the town was to spread the story of the attack. That way questions wouldn't be asked when someone noticed he was missing and that his house had burned down. Or if they found any bodies. Not doing so would look suspicious and people might start asking questions he didn't want answered. As his mother had told him long ago, a falsehood told early was more convincing than the truth spoken later. And he could not afford for anyone to find out that there was a royal warrant out there on his head.

  Enri began inspecting the weapons more closely. Pulling out the rods and checking them for dirt and wear. Running them down the barrels and checking how dark they became. Clicking the flintlock mechanisms. And muttering to himself under his breath.

  “They're serviceable weapons,” he said at last. “Not in the best condition. People haven't been cleaning them regularly. And not the newest either. Do they work?”

  “My oast house is full of holes!” Hendrick told him. “And I nearly was too!”

  “You said. Sorry.” He finished work on the muskets and turned his attention to the pistol. “Now this is a better piece.”

  Hendrick waited patiently while the gunsmith worked, but spent some time taking note of the weapons on the wall and in particular the prices Enri was asking for them. They weren't cheap. Maybe they were a bit more brightly polished than the ones he had, but still he thought he could make some good stynes here.

  “I'll give you three nobles.” Enri finally made his offer.

  “Three noble stynes!” Hendrick was shocked. That was far less than he was expecting. “Each?”

  “The lot.” Enri stared at him, his face carefully blank.

  “But you're selling them for six each!”

  “They're better quality weapons, and they've never been fired. These are worn, and I'll have to do a complete cleaning and some repair work on a couple.” He started chewing his lip as he considered his offer. “Maybe I can do four.”

  “And maybe you can do three each, or I'll go to Benadas. Even a junk dealer's got to do better than that!”

  “Good luck with that! But I can tell you now, he won't. You may have been breathing too much of Vitanna's mist, but he hasn't. Five.”

  “Nine – I have a house to rebuild.” Hendrick countered.

  “Sorry for that but it's not my concern. Six and no more.” The merchant's stare became hard.

  “Eight. There's all these other things as well. Powder horns with powder. Tools. A cleaning kit.” And really he thought, he was being robbed blind by the man. Eight had to be a bare minimum. Surely.

  Enri stared at the other items on his counter, maybe reconsidering his offer. He even picked up one of the horns and shook it.

  “Seven, or go and see Benadas and don't come back.”

  “Damn!” Hendrick wasn't happy with the deal, but he knew he didn't have a choice. Enri wasn't going to go up any further and he was the only gunsmith in town. “Seven,” he agreed.

  And with that the deal was done. But as he accepted the coins, Hendrick couldn't help but feel that he'd come out on the wrong side of the bargain. Seven noble stynes or eighty four stynes – whatever he called it that wasn't even going to be enough to even pay for the first load of lumber he'd need to rebuild his home. On the other hand, he had to get rid of the weapons. He wasn't carrying them back.

  But he knew he'd made a deal with a dragon. And as everyone knew from the bards, the only deal anyone had ever made with a dragon was a bad one.

  At least he thought he'd get a better deal for the swords and knives from Karrick the blacksmith. They were serviceable weapons made from good steel, and there were three blacksmiths in town. But when he got to Karrick's Forge he discovered that once more he was wrong. Two swords and half a dozen knives only earned him another six noble stynes.

  He faired similarly at the saddlery where he only got a single noble styne for the saddle he'd carried all this way. He was sure he'd been swindled. It was good leather, well looked after, and the stirrups were fine steel without a spot of rust on them. It seemed Burbage had a hatching of dragons. But at least he wouldn’t have to carry the stuff all the way back with him.

  Twelve stynes to a noble, and twelve noble stynes to a royal. In all he had one royal styne and two nobles to show for his efforts. It just wasn't enough! Not even close! Especially when he still see the wisps of smoke on the horizon that he knew was the remains of his home still burning. This had not been a good day.

  He had no doubt however, that as he walked to the Council Chambers in the centre of town, that it was only going to get worse.

  Hendrick was proven right as he approached the building and then spoke to the guard standing watch in front of it. From the start the man seemed uninterested in him or anything he had to say. He certainly wasn't interested in calling the Magistrate out to speak with him. Naturally Hendrick couldn't go in. That would be a crime and he'd end up in the town gaol. But how was he supposed to report a bandit attack if he couldn't even speak to the Magistrate?

  Explaining that to the guard didn't seem to help. The man seemed determined to frustrate him at every tur
n. It was some sort of petty vindictiveness, as he took advantage of his position to pick on the afflicted. Some people were like that, and too many of them seemed to become guards. But at least the guard obviously knew nothing about any warrant on his head.

  And then the guard went too far! Much too far!

  “Get lost warlock!”

  Instantly Hendrick's face whitened with anger. His fists clenched and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to punch the man in the face. To wipe that accusation from his mouth permanently. He was no warlock! His affliction was out in the open for anyone to see. He had never hidden it. And he never would. He understood the temptation many of the afflicted felt to hide their markings. But he also knew the price if they were caught. If they did they were named as a witch or a warlock and often were put in gaol. He had even heard that some had been hung for hiding their affliction. He had never done so and knew he never would.

  Still, he controlled his rage. Screaming and yelling at the man would gain him nothing. Hitting him would only get him thrown in the stockade, and probably beaten up for his trouble. But he was going to make the man pay for that deadly accusation.

  It was time Hendrick decided, to give up trying to be reasonable. It just wasn't working with the guard. In fact the guard seemed to be taking a perverse enjoyment in making him angry. But he couldn't use his spells on the man. Aside from the fact that killing him would be wrong, it was also a capital crime. It wouldn't matter if the people knew of the warrant out on him. They'd kill him anyway. It was time he decided to use the one lever he never used. And so Hendrick stood up to his full height and looked down his nose at the man as he had seen noblemen sometimes do.

  “And just who in all the hells do you think you are to deny me soldier?!” He raised his voice so everyone in the street could hear him.

  “I am Prince Hendrick Mountforth, son of Lady Peri Mountforth and King Oster Mountforth. Seventeenth in line to the throne of Styrion. And you will obey me. If you refuse me in anything ever again, I will have you executed on the spot! Is that understood soldier?!”

  It most certainly was, he thought, given the way the soldier suddenly paled in front of him and nodded.

  “Good, now you will not walk into the Council Chambers, you will run. And you will inform the Magistrate that Prince Hendrick requires his immediate presence.”

  “Go!”

  The man turned and took off as if all the demons of the underworld were on his tail. And really Hendrick thought, he should have done that right from the start. But he supposed it was always the way. People saw the markings and forgot he was royalty. It was his own fault. He never insisted that people used his title. He never demanded the respect he was due. And he never dressed or acted as a prince should. So people forgot. And he was generally happy for them to do so. He was happy to be known as Hendrick the brewer. Just another of the hedge born. Even though most people knew who he really was. This guard however, clearly didn't. But then Hendrick didn't know him either. He must have been new to the town.

  It wasn't long before the Magistrate arrived at the front of the building – thankfully without any guards beside him – and looking a little flustered.

  “Prince –.”

  “You see that smoke in the distance Magistrate?” Hendrick cut him off.

  “Yes?” The Magistrate looked where he was pointing, but given that he was of advancing years and failing eyesight he might not have actually been able to see anything.

  “That is the remains of my home, burning to the ground after I was attacked by brigands this morning. And can you tell me why I was attacked? Why brigands are allowed to roam freely along our roads?”

  “I'll see to it that –.”

  “Don't!” Hendrick cut him off again. “The brigands are all dead or fled. I am more than capable of dealing with unwelcome visitors. I just do not see why I should have to. Nor why our roads are not adequately patrolled.”

  “I am heading to Styrion Might for my father's wedding in the morning. And when I return I expect to have heard that changes have been made. That the roads are once more being patrolled properly. And that no one else will be attacked. Is that understood?!”

  “Yes Prince Hendrick.” The Magistrate bowed, realising he had no choice in the matter.

  “Good! See to it!”

  “And while you're at it, this man refused – I repeat he refused – to carry word from me to you. See to it that he is properly instructed in his duties.” The guard in question blanched as he heard himself discussed and realised he was in a lot of trouble. Trouble that would probably begin with a flogging. Hendrick was quite comfortable with that.

  “I will see to it personally, Prince Hendrick.” The Magistrate bowed.

  “Good.” And with that Hendrick turned and marched off back down the street. He was angry with himself. Angry for having used his position in that way. He hadn't done so in many years. He was also angry that he had felt the need to do so. But at least his task was done. He now knew that no one was aware of the warrant on his life. Not even the Magistrate. And that people had been led to believe that there were brigands riding the roads. No one would ask questions. Or think to check if there was a warrant out for his head. No one would come riding out to ask about the fire either. And if by chance someone came across some body parts or spotted some scavengers, they would already know why. There wouldn't be any questions asked.

  It was time he thought, to get some provisions for the journey. A new warmer jacket for the trail. Dried food and a water skein. Some boots. He also needed to inform his customers that he would be away for a couple of weeks, though they were well stocked. Knowing that the wedding was coming up he had brewed up some larger batches of ale in advance.

  In about a week he would reach Styrion Might. Then he would commence his investigations into why the Chief Magistrate had decided to sign a warrant for his death. Or why his own father had asked for it to be done. That was when the real danger would begin.

  Chapter Three

  The first Marnie knew that something was wrong was when her hoe smashed into stone. Not a stone in the dirt but a stone paving tile. Moreover a stone paving tile that was surrounded by many others exactly the same. She was standing on a stone floor!

  How could that be? Where was the dirt?! One second before she'd been working in the family field, weeding the rows of potatoes; the next she was somewhere else. Standing on a paved tile floor, her bare feet still covered in dirt from the field, hoe in hand, bent almost double as she worked. It didn't make any sense.

  Confused Marnie scratched her head with her free hand, trying to make sense of what had happened. Where she was. But when she did, her confusion only grew worse. Clearly she was no longer in the field. Instead she was standing in some sort of partly sunken colonnade that was circled by twenty-foot-tall fluted onyx columns. Beyond that she could see steps leading up about three feet to the ground. No doubt if it had been raining she would have been standing in a waist deep pool. But it obviously hadn't been raining for some time considering that her feet were bone dry. Which was strange in itself since it had poured the previous night.

  How could she be in a city when a heartbeat earlier she had been working in the family field?

  She had no answers. Only the slowly growing understanding that she wasn't anywhere near her family home in Combury. In fact she wasn't anywhere near the town. She wasn’t even close to the nearby city of Cheston. This was a bigger city than that. It appeared to have been built into a hill and looking out she could see a number of terraces extending outward. Mountains could be seen in the distance Closer than that but still some way away she could see huge towers of pink stone rising into the sky. There were five of them – no six. It was just that the last one appeared to have collapsed at some point.

  Wherever she was, this definitely wasn’t somewhere she wanted to be. Because looking around at some of the nearby buildings she realised that they were in ruins. Some were burning; others were little more than p
iles of rubble. There was a rift in the street to her right. A chasm that had opened up at some point as if the land had shaken itself apart. But it wasn't a natural shaking that had caused it. The land hadn't simply slipped as it sometimes did. It was just a part of the same picture of destruction she could see elsewhere.

  Marnie could hear what sounded like gunfire in the distance. Some louder booms too that she guessed were cannons. She could also hear people screaming, though the sound was muted by the distance, making it hard to be certain if they were children playing or people screaming in terror. But one thing there weren't were bees buzzing around or birds chirping as there had been just moments before.

  Looking around she could just make out a number of bodies lying in the distance. They were people and they were dead! Some of them were obviously very dead, with blood everywhere. Some were in pieces. Others looked as though they were simply sleeping. But all of them she knew were dead and simply lay where they had fallen in the cobbled streets. What had happened? And why hadn't anyone come to collect them?