Brewer King 04 (Patreon)

The wolf ram didn’t have any hesitation in leaving the hut as San did. It gave him a look; then pushed its way through the threshold and vanished among the other collapsed huts of the village.

San knew he should leave, but he was also terrified. What was the creature that had come in the night? It reeked of death and rot; San had no doubt that it was reason the village lay abandoned. What had he walked into.

The fire crackled and San got to his feet. He hadn’t unpacked his pack, the only thing out was the mylar blanket. He folded it up and shivered as cold air wafted in from the busted threshold. The sky looked overcast and cloudy, he could hear the wind whistling in the distance. The strange dream he had that night still lingered, the memory of the thick slices of meat made his stomach rumble and he realized it had been nearly a day since he had last eaten. He was also out of water as he had dumped it to lighten his load.

He winced as he walked, looking down at his tattered trousers. The wolf ram had awakened him from the nightmare he was having. It had done so by cutting into his leg with its claws. San shuddered at the memory of those thick deadly claws and how dirty they were.

He sat down and pulled up his trouser leg. Beneath the tattered cloth was a long jagged scar that ran across his shin, but beside it were the new additions made by the wolf ram. He looked at the healed injury, running his finger along the thick line of the hypertrophic scar. He shook his head and focused on the new injury; he cleaned the leg wound and wrapped it with gauze.

He looked at his dwindling first aid kit. As the pack mule of the group, San had always carried the first aid kit, a large pack that had everything from eye drops to water purification tablets to suturing needles. He felt a dull ache in his leg, but he ignored it.

The hut only reinforced that he was in medieval times in this strange world. He doubted they had access to aspirin and the like. Of course, they seemed to have magic so aspirin might be something they didn’t need.

San rubbed his forehead where the old man had touched him. He didn’t feel anything different. He pulled out a small mirror, but he didn’t see anything different. He only saw himself; shaggy unkept hair, dusky skin, dark eyes, and two days of growth on his cheeks and chin.

“Disgusting creature,” a voice said.

San had his revolver out in an instant, his hand shaking as the old man from the night before appeared in the hut, sitting on the floor. His eyes weren’t on San but focused on something in the corner.

Without moving the gun off the old man, San looked to see where the man was looking. He saw a clump of black matter in the corner, the smell finally reaching him. Wolf shit.

“What the hell was that thing last night!” San demanded. “What were those voices!”

The old man turned to San. The sunlight didn’t seem to touch him, he realized. He wasn’t as ‘real’ as he’d been last night, where San could see the color of his clothing and skin. In the early morning light he seemed faded, as if the color had been leeched from him.

“It is my shame,”the old man said.

“Tell me what the fuck it is,” San said. “Tell me straight.”

The old man didn’t meet San’s eyes, instead his focus was on the fire. “Many, many decades ago, the last Kerrethan Emperor ceded this land to the Mage Chief Hazalban. We at The End of the World had raised our levies and marched to fight in the Blood Succession Wars; ten years we fought for the Emperor and in the end we were recognized by the Empire.”

The old man smiled for a while. “The times were tough, but the land was rich and the people hard workers. We built this great keep that you see on the motte. All the strength and power we could gather, we gathered here, in this place. But the Empire is a land of constant wars, of constant feuds between nobles and Blooded. Our young men and women were called to arms, any that reached adulthood would have to serve, that was the price for this land.

“We were proud to serve, but after many years, less and less of our children would return. Many died in the wars of the Empire, many more choose to live in the great cities of the South. Slowly the tribes and peoples of this great forest began to dwindle, our strength began to fade, headmen in far flung villages no longer sent tribute or taxes.”

The old man looked to San with sad eyes.

“When we were at our weakest, when the crops had failed once again, the Mage Chief decided to bring forth a creature to protect us, to help us regain our power, to make us whole once more.”

San stood transfixed by the story. He looked out the door and toward the keep on the hill. In the daylight it looked like a near ruin, the walls were scorched and the plaster crumbling, the windows were dark and empty holes in the walls, and the tall spire was leaning ever so slightly, ready to fall.

“You’re the Mage Chief?” San asked. “You brought forth that creature?”

The old man turned to face the fire again. “Yes.”

“Are you a ghost or something?”

The old man let out a dry chuckle that held no mirth. “I am cursed for my arrogance and hubris. I have destroyed this great city and brought forth a horror that killed all that resided here.” Tears began to form in the man’s eyes, they moved down his cheeks and dropped, disappearing before they reached the ground.

“What are those voices?” San asked.

“The dead,” the old man responded. “The Flesh Horror you saw last night, that tried to enter this place, that is what killed all that lived here. No, not just killed, that would have been a mercy. It trapped their souls within it, to give it power, to make it grow.”

San shuddered at the words.

“You are a stranger to this land,” the old man said. “You did not speak our tongue nor do you look like any of the people that live in this land. You have an aura around you, one that shows a great power has done something to you.”

“You touched my head last night,” San said.

“No, my power has faded. All I can do is tricks and simple magics,” the old man said. “A great power has brought you here, do you know why?”

San shrugged. “No. I was out hiking and the next thing I know I was in the woods to the west of here.”

“I had thought…” the old man trailed off, looking back at the fire.

“What’s with the fire?” San asked. “The voices said they were cold and wanted to be warmed. I had a dream, they were trying to feed me rotten meat or something.”

“Each season that passes, the Flesh Horror takes more of their soul, more of their fire. It will snuff them out one day, until then, they will always feel the cold.”

“Why? Why did you do this?” San asked.

The old man looked at San and then back at the fire. “Because I wanted greatness. I wanted to raise my people up from these woodland savages, into something that the Empire would see as equals.”

San crouched down in the threshold, facing the fire. He could feel the cold wind prickling his back, seeping though his jacket. He had been so cold last night, the old man had taken it away. Now those poor souls that had been killed by the Flesh Horror felt something far worse.

“How many did it kill?” San asked softly.

“Too many. Far too many. I lost control of it. I was the first to die,” the old man looked at his hands. “Three hundred and forty five. Men, women, and children.” The tears ran down the old man’s face once more.

“Men. Women… children,” San looked down at his own hands. “How… how do I kill it?” he asked.

***

San walked the dead streets of the village. Every creak, groan, and clatter sent his heart racing. He wanted to return the warmth of the hut and rest. Two nights of little sleep were taking their toll and he moved sluggishly and his head was aching.

It might have been caffeine withdrawal. For all his overpacking, he had forgotten to bring along coffee or caffeine tablets. The biggest mistake he had committed.

The Flesh Horror was a nocturnal creature. The sun was its enemy and it refused to leave the sanctuary of the keep. San looked up at the stone building, it’s vacant windows and crumbling facade hid the true horror that resided within.

The houses were nearly all collapsed, the old man had said it was nearly five years since the Flesh Horror had been summoned. It had killed everyone that same night, so many people. The rest, those that had survived had named this village a cursed place and no one came around anymore. Why the Flesh Horror hadn’t left, the old man did not know.

The Mage Chief wanted to be what historians called Great Men of History, who gathered tribes, formed nations, and stood when the world was ready to fall. He had built up the forest tribes and tried pulling them up by their bootstraps, to become equal with the Empire to the South.

People did insane things for power, San thought. Everything he built was destroyed. He tied himself to this Empire and it killed his people. He tied himself to this Flesh Horror and it killed all those that were left.

San did not feel any pity for the man. He had done this, he had trapped those who still believed in him, innocents, men, women, and children. San sighed as he neared what the old man had called the barracks.

The building was intact, although it didn’t look like anything military he had ever seen before. It looked more like a horse stable with extra walls. The door had been smashed long ago, the tell tale dark splotches still staining the stone floor spoke of what had occurred San entered the building, it smelled of dust and disuse.

The room was filled with straw pallet beds, lined up against one wall, and not much else. He walked through the room, the glassless windows agape and blasting in cold air as the weather outside began to turn. San took a moment to peek out the window, seeing the sky now full of darkening clouds. A storm was coming.

He found the soldier’s cache of weapons, a portion of the roof had collapsed and five years of rain and snow had turned the iron weapons into a rusted mess. San picked through them, there were some chainmail shirts, a couple of swords, axes, and spears, but they were all rusted and ruined.

San hoped the other end of the barracks held something better. There was a second storage area and although the roof was still intact, the items stored thee were of little value to him. Old cloth, tools to repair gear, and random stuff piled into wicker basket containers. San nudged one with his foot, only to see a the tiny skull of a mouse clatter out. He stepped back, the floor beneath him giving slightly.

He immediately jumped forward as the ground gave a loud crack and groan. San looked where he had stood and saw the handle of a door. He bent down and pulled it up.

A rancid smell hit him, not the wretched stench of the Flesh Horror, but something that had gone bad over the years. There was a sturdy staircase that lead down and San shrugged. He pulled out his flashlight and revolver, and entered into the basement.

The air was cooler within the basement. He saw that it was better built than most places. Care had been taken to set the stone walls in place, to mortar them tightly, and to secure it from weather. San panned his light around and saw that it was a root cellar of some sort, a place where food had been stored.

There were amphora stacked everywhere, large two handled clay pots that seemed to be the medieval version of storage totes. The nearest amphora was cracked and its contents had spilled out, San flashed his light over it, seeing grain. It was oddly surprising to see simple grain, he figured being in a different world would have led to some different kinds of foods. San shrugged and pulled the stopper out of the clay pot. Inside was more grain.

There were a lot of pots, but he noted some looked different than the others. He might be able to now speak the language of this place, but that didn’t mean he could read it. San stood before a darker amphora and on it was red lettering, it almost looked Chinese.

There were five of the dark amphora and they all had the same red character on them.  San looked at the wheat amphora and it was marked in black and all the pots stacked with it had the same mark on them. He perused the pots and noted five different character types. One of wheat and the four others were unknown.

The darker amphora and another set with green lettering had to hold some kind of liquid. Where the other pots had a wooden stopper plugging the tops, the two amphoras were also sealed with wax and some kind of hide to prevent possible evaporation.

“Beer and wine,” San said as he approached them. He knew a bit about history and the world ran on beer and wine from the days the first people planted grains. It was one of those things that always fascinated him, the question of wether humans had settled into a farming lifestyle to grow grains to make beer or not.

As a brewer San’s opinion leaned toward the former. He knew plenty of people who were amateur beer archeologist, trying to recreate ancient beers. He had never dipped his toes into that water, but it was an interesting topic.

He approached the green lettered amphora. There were twelve of them, sitting on sand in a small boxed in area. San looked at the sand in confusion, but noticed that the bottoms of the amphora were narrow and buried into the sand.

His camp knife made quick work of the wax and hide that covered the clay pot. The stopper wasn’t wooden, it was cork or something similar, and it felt greasy on his fingers. He managed to fish it out without cutting it up and was rewarded with a rank stench coming from the clay pot. It was neither beer or wine.

The tip of his knife was dipped into the liquid and San saw a pale golden liquid drip from the blade. Oil. It was some kind of vegetable oil. Maybe olive oil.

It made a sort of sense. Even his grandmother used a lot of oil when she made foods from her homeland. Everyone used oil for cooking, San assumed it would be doubly so in times where calories were hard to come by. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and pushed the stopper back in. The rancid oil was what he had smelled when entering.

The second amphora was wine, but wine that was so bad that it had become vinegar. The seals weren’t strong enough or over the years had failed, so much of the wine had evaporated. San stoppered the pot and prepared to leave. He didn’t know if the grains were still good, he wouldn’t mind a simple meal of them. It would cut back on the need for him to eat the trail food he had packed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a face. San flashed the light and nearly cried out in horror as a twisted, grey fleshed creature stared back at him with hollow eyes. He stumbled back, tripped over a raised stone, and fell on his back painfully. The revolver clattered from his hands, but he managed to keep hold of the flashlight.

“Ow, fuck.”

San groaned as he got back to his feet, snatching up the revolver and then shining the light back at the figure he had seen. It was a body, which was behind a stack of amphora in the corner. He approached it and saw that it wasn’t just any person, it had been a soldier.

The leather and chainmail of their armor was rusted and fused with the flesh of the dead man. His face was mummified mask of fear and terror. San panned his light across the man and stopped. In one hand the man held a one handed axe and leaning against the wall was a spear. He moved the light around some more and found a shield against the wall. They all seemed to be in good condition.

San grimaced and got to work, prying the axe from the dead man’s hand. The cracking of bone and mummified flesh caused him to gag, but it was over in a few minutes.

He looked down at the man, wondering if he should feel sorry for him or not. It looked as if he had hid from the horror that had befallen the village, but then again what could have the man done against the Flesh Horror.

San looked at the dusty axe in his hand. What did he think he would do against the Flesh Horror?

***

The wind was howling as he exited the barracks. He carried a wicker basket he had looted from the storage room, stuffed with what cloth and materials he could find. The air was frigidly cold and cut through his thin jacket. He hustled back toward the old man’s hut.

He hadn’t asked about the hut and why the Mage Chief had been within it. It seemed like the home of the man, the supposed ruler of this place. Yet, what kind of Chief lived in a small hut?

The fire was thankfully still burning as San entered. He had managed to fix the door somewhat, replacing the torn hinges and propping up the door.

“The fire is what it fears.”

San flinched at the sound of the voice. The old man sat on the floor again, staring at the flames. San added more wood to the fire. One thing he had noticed was that there was plenty of fire wood. It seemed every household had a stack of several days of wood before their homes, in the years since, they had been undisturbed.

“I thought it fed off the fire of the people?” San asked.

“The fire of the soul feeds it, but fire burns flesh.”

“So I have to burn it to a crisp?” San asked. He looked at the door as it shuddered from the buffeting winds. “In the middle of a snow storm?”

The old man said nothing, instead he continued staring into the fire. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at San, so he began preparing a simple meal of ramen. Snow was beginning to fall and provided the water he needed.

Fire was the key. There was plenty of firewood in the village. If he could get it into the keep, he might be able to burn the whole place down before the Flesh Horror took another stroll out into the village.

He looked to the door as it rattled from the wind. The air was freezing and San could feel the drafts from the unmaintained hut the snow and wind would be a problem, if the keep was in the same condition as the rest of the village.

Only if he had gasoline. A molotov. Movies and television had pushed the false narrative that liquor was highly flammable. San had his bottle of single malt, but the alcohol content was only forty-five percent. Not enough to burn effectively.

There was also the wine within the basement of the barracks. But he suspected that like the first amphora, the years had allowed the alcohol to evaporate. So that was fairly useless.

San finished his ramen meal, in the chilled air, the hot meal warmed him. He picked up the axe he had taken from the dead solider, the wooden haft was dried and cracking, but seemed solid and the metal head was slightly rusted, but not too damaged. The spear was in similar condition, all it needed was some maintenance.

Morning passed into afternoon as San and the old man sat in the hut. He had found maintenance equipment in the storage room, a sharpening stone and a clay pot that looked to be a mixture of beeswax and oil. Mary’s father had made it a point to show him how to care for weapons, the man had been a gun nut. They had spent an afternoon or four oiling his guns and San had been lectured on the ways to keep his weapons from being damaged.

The knowledge didn’t fully apply to the spear and axe he had found, but a small tidbit of knowledge he had gained was that ancient peoples had used oil as a rust preventer, everything from olive oil, fish oil, and linseed oil, although the most known was lanolin, which was obtained from sheep wool.

The barracks held a lot of vegetable oil, so it would seem he would have more than enough to keep the spear and axe in decent shape. Perhaps he could drown the Flesh Horror in vegetable oil. Deep fried Flesh Horror. San chuckled at thought as the fire sparked and sizzled.

Then an idea began to form.