Brewer King 10 (Patreon)

Snow was falling in thick clumps as evening arrived.

San walked through the snow and Wolfram followed at his side. The wolf ram had retuned after Nexion had left, the big man not saying much after they had enjoyed a cup of tea together. As he parted, he had given San a dagger. A beautifully wrought foot long double edged weapon.

San had tried to refuse the weapon, but Nexion had been insistent. Finally San relented and bade the man goodbye.

That had been a week ago. The Trade Road was an easy and comfortable path to walk, although it varied in its maintenance depending on the village nearby, but for the most part it was wide and easy to travel upon.

As winter was settling upon the land, there was little in the way of travelers on the Road. He had some tense encounters with patrolling warriors, the token that he had been given just barely enough for him not to be stabbed and robbed. The forest tribe was honorable in most aspects, but flaunting wealth was not a good way to stay alive and being a Foreigner was frowned upon by everyone.

San had used some old cloth and tried to hide the pack he carried and the gear he had. Although he carried sword, dagger, and broken spear visible, he still could reach the revolver and even bear mace quickly. The stops at the villages had been only to restock his supplies and buy some information, since no one wanted to talk to him for free. He had tried spending the night in a village, but the tense confrontation by the guards and citizens had forced him instead to find a place to hide for the night in the woods. There had been some men who had followed him out into the night, but he had managed to lose them or they had gotten scared of the woods at night.

Caution was the word to live by. The land was fairly lawless when it came to people you did not know. Most of the villagers had never really left their homes, at most traveling to the next few villages or meeting with a traveling trader once a year. Anyone who they did not know for more than a few years was suspicious and untrustworthy.

It also made them easy targets for blame and robbery. He had been blamed for the death of a herd of animals. A sheep like creature with an anteater’s snout and long neck. Apparently the morning before he arrived, a herder had their animals killed and partially eaten. When San arrived, he was the man to blame and people were already shouting for him to be tied to a pole to die. He had immediately left after that, not stopping to rest during the night.

It wasn’t all bad though, some villages were more accepting of him. The further south he went, the closer he got to the Blackened Bridge, the friendiler the people became. They were used to foreigners and traders, they weren’t as suspicious and accepted his tale of being an adventurer that had fallen on hard times and was returning to the Baronies.

Being an adventurer was looked on favorably by the southern villages, every monster destroyed was one that would not plague them or their people. They had respect for the men and women who would willingly go into the deep dark forests and places where monsters dwelled. There was honor and courage in the occupation and the high price for mana gems was reason enough to risk one’s life hunting creatures.

The headman had claimed the journey to Blackened Bridge would take twenty days in there winter and ten days in the spring, but within seven days he was nearing it. The last village he had passed several hours ago claimed it was two days away.

Six months he had spent in bed and eating nothing but junk and drinking his sorrows away. It had been nearly a year and a half that Mary and he had gone on a long hike, the last was before she realized she was pregnant again. To say he had been physically a wreck, was to put it nicely.

The extra pounds and weakness had been shed since he had arrived. He estimated he walked nearly thirty miles a day, far more than he ever did even when he was at his peak physical fitness. This was through snow and mud, while carrying a hundred pounds of gear.

The forest had thickened as he left the last village, the road curving away from the river and winding through a small valley. San found a spot where a copse of trees blocked much of the wind coming from the west and provided protection against the snowfall.

Gathering firewood was quick and easy, Wolfram ran off somewhere and returned an hour later carrying a large furry animal. By then San had a large fire burning and was cooking his own meal of jerky, oil, and barley flour to make a hot soupy meal. There was salt, but San missed spices. Even simple black pepper would have been nice.

Fat and salt were the only flavors he had tasted in his foods, perhaps he could make a barbecue sauce. Did tomatoes exist here? San pondered his food options as he ate, washing it down with more hot tea. He was gaining an appreciation for the travel tea that the healer had given him, the Tribes called it Walker’s Tea, and they were willing to sell it to him when he arrived at their villages. He had purchased far more than he should have, but the woman in the last village had supposedly just lost her husband to illness and he felt bad. A few dozen copper Imperials weren’t going to bring back her husband, but it would help her through the winter.

Wolfram let out a low growl. San looked up from the fire to see a woman walking out of the woods. He tensed as he saw what appeared to be a dozen eyes flicker around her head. He set his hand upon his revolver and watched as she walked toward him.

She wore a heavy white robe, with a fur lined hood. Her dark eyes flashed in the firelight as she stopped before him. She carried no gear and didn’t seem to have been traveling upon the Road.

“That is a hot fire,” she said, looking at him. “Mind if I join you here?”

“Warm yourself,” San said. The woman flashed him a smile and sat down upon a wooden stump that he didn’t remember being there. Her skin was pale white, not the bronze tone of the Tribes, and her hair was jet black.

If she had lips red as rose, San would have begun looking for dwarves.

“I have not seen your kind before,” the woman said.

“Travel much?” San asked.

“I have been places. Seen things.”

“I’m not from around here.”

“The Many Tongues you use is a clear indicator,” the woman smiled. San thought he saw sharp teeth, but as he blinked they were normal once again. “Not from this land.”

“Yeah.” San stirred the small pot of tea he was making. “Want some tea?”

“I do not… drink tea.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“But not for the food I have,” San said.

The woman smiled again, the sharp teeth visible for a moment.

San poured himself some tea and sipped it, watching the woman. Wolfram eyed her for a moment, but rested her head on her paws and closed her eyes. San had learned to trust Wolfram’s instincts, she had helped him escape the group of men who were intent on robbing him before. If she wasn’t worried about the woman, he felt he shouldn’t be either.

The woman held her hands out to the flames, rubbing her pale arms and hands. She shivered slightly within her thick robe.

“Cold?” San asked.

“Always. The winter is an unkind time. A time of death and slumbering,” she said. “But in the coldest and shortest days of the year, life is formed. So that by spring, when the coldness has ebbed, life will be brought forth.”

San only nodded as he sipped his tea. The woman continued rubbing her arms, her robe opened slightly, revealing bare skin beneath; the swell of her breasts, the smoothness of her stomach. San looked away.

“It’s a cold night, Sanjay. It doesn’t have to be. We could make it warm together,” she said.

“I doubt you’re very warm,” San said.

The woman chuckled. “Do you not wish to lie with me? Do you not lust after me?”

“No,” San said.

“Most men do. Most men would tear at my clothes and take me to their bedrolls.”

“Most men,” San said. The woman smiled again.

“There is such sadness within you,” she said. “Yet it is not cold and despairing as sadness usually is. It is warm and comforting, like a banked fire, ready to be ignited once again. ”

“My sadness will reignite?” San asked.

“No. The new fire that will arise will not be sadness,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Do you not wish to lie with me?” she asked again, her robe parting seductively.

San shook his head. “No. But you may warm yourself by my fire.”

The woman watched him for a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “Your fire is very warm.”

***

“It’s a fucking horned wolf, I tell ya,” a voice muttered.

“What the hells would a horned wolf be doing out here? They only stick around the mountains to the north and east, and the deep forests,” another voice said.

“I don’t fucking know, alls I know is it’s a horned wolf. Bad omen, it is,” the first voice said.

“There you go again with your fucking bad omens. You could take a shit wrong and you’d call it a bad omen,” a third voice muttered.

“Yeah, yeah, mock me. When the horned wolf comes for you in the night and drags you away, don’t expect me to come rescue you,” the first man said.

“I’d pray to the tree fuckers’ Blessed Mother before I expect your bad omened ass to come rescue me,” the third voice laughed.

San opened his eyes. He yawned, his jaw cracking as he did so. The room was warm and it stank of unwashed bodies, old sweat, and woodsmoke. Badly made straw bunks lined the wall and San lay in one, his pack on his side against the wall and everything else covered.

The laughing men eyed him, their noise suddenly stopping. The three men huddled around a small table, a fire burning in a fireplace beside them, and a clay container of what San could only call vinegar wine sat between them. The three had been drinking all night, constantly waking San up with their laughter and drunken cursing.

“Oy, Foreigner,” one of the men called. San remembered his name was Jaspen. He had a weathered face, a scar running down one cheek, and salt and pepper in his long greasy hair. “It true that the tree fuckers up north finally killed the Flesh Horror?” he asked.

San sat up, taking a moment to blink away the sleep. The story about the villagers of Forest River defeating the Flesh Horror had made it to Blackened Bridge before he even got there. San suspected someone traveling by boat spreading the news as he didn’t see many people on the Trade Roads heading south.

“Yeah, killed it real good,” San said, rubbing his face and scratching his beard.

San packed up his gear as the men returned to their drinking and cursing one another. He made sure he had everything before leaving the bunkhouse. He was glad to be rid of the place.

Cold wind hit him when he exited the building, bringing the smell of woodsmoke, fish offal, and human waste. The combination of smells was disgusting, but San had gotten used to it in the day he had been in Blackened Bridge. The sun wasn’t even up yet, a dull color on the horizon.

His memory was a little fuzzy, he remembered a pale woman, a soft laugh, and then a day had been lost. He found himself walking on the Trade Road, Blackened Bridge in sight but not much beyond that. It was disconcerting, but as he hadn’t lost anything or wasn’t injured, he set the oddity aside.

There were technically two towns called Blackened Bridge, the one controlled by the High Chief lay on the opposite side of a massive bridge from the one controlled by the Barony. It was the border between the two peoples, one side the forest tribes and the other the Barony.

The Barony Blackened Bridge was an old Imperial fort, abandoned within the last century and taken over by the Barony of Sol Savanis, the baron who ruled at White Tower. It wasn’t a massive fort either, more like a stone keep and walls, surrounded by a larger village with wooden walls. The home of several hundred men and women and soliders of the Barony.

The forest tribes still considered the Baronies apart of the Empire, even though they had been free from Imperial rule before the Last Emperor had died ten years ago. From what San understood, the Baronies had been the frontier of the Empire, they had been conquered and settled by Imperial citizens over a hundred years ago.

Then the Empire had waned, their borders shrinking, allowing the Barons to rise to power and take over the area. But Blackened Bridge continued to be a source of trade for the Sol Savanis Barony, it was only one of two bridges that crossed the Red River this far south.

In the days San had traveled from Forest River, he had stopped at many of the forest tribe villages; in all that time, he had never learned the river’s name. Everyone had just called it the River, but once he left the tribe’s land and entered the Barony, he learned they called it the Red River. San suspected it was a joke at the expense of the forest tribes, due to their distinctive reddish hair.

San had relinquished his token once he left the tribe’s Blackened Bridge and merely got a bored nod from a half drunk guard when he crossed into the Barony’s Blackened Bridge.

He would have continued on his journey, but he overheard a couple of guards and learned that there was a trade caravan leaving the next day. Blackened Bridge was the only town for the next four days and the road was a well known trade route. There would be plenty of bandits on it, especially now as the last of the season’s trade caravans were heading south.

The thought of camping for the night was appealing, but this wasn’t the Trade Road or the forests. There were plenty of people wandering around and being outside of the fires of the village would only mean a quick death at the hands of some thief. There were plenty of ragged destitute people wandering the village, the sunken faces of the starving and beggars.

He felt empathy for the people, but that had to be tempered with the possibility of being murdered.

The trade caravan was easy to spot. There was only one area in the village that could hold the wagons and animals that were leaving and even this early in the morning, the air was filled with cursing and crying animals. Two dozen people rushed about, last minute lashing and tying down bundles of what looked to be furs.

A tall lean woman in a thick padded coat was yelling orders, she had a crossbow on her back and a sword at her hip. Beside her was a big man in a long brown coat, San could see he wore a cuirass beneath the coat and had an actual matchlock rifle hanging on his shoulder.

San paused and eyed the weapon. He had never seen such a weapon in real life, but he had seen them in plenty of pictures. The big man had a bandolier of small pouches hanging across his chest and a metal helmet padded and wrapped in cloth to prevent frost burns.

The big man saw San watching and his eyes burrowed into him. San smiled, hefted his pack, and walked forward.

“What’s your business, foreigner,” the big man snapped.

“I hear you’re heading to White Tower, I wish to travel along,” he said.

“We don’t take passengers,” the man snapped.

“I can walk. Safety in numbers,” San replied.

“A big fucker like you, with that giant ass pack? You’ll be slower than a half dead woolly,” the man snarled. “We ain’t got time for stragglers.”

“I assure you, I’ll manage to keep up,” San said.

“Gonna cost you a silver; twenty sars,” the woman said. “Protection ain’t cheap. We ain’t giving no charity either. You want us to protect you, then you pay up. You end up being slow, you get left behind.”

“I understand.”

San turned and dug into his coin pouch. The money that the healer had given him was beginning to run low. San fished through the bag, producing a half silver and ten coppers. The imperial’s currency was called sars, broken down into copper, silver, and gold. The common denomination was copper, with twenty copper sars equaling one silver sar, and a hundred silver sars equaling a golden sar. There were half coppers and half silvers, which were just coins chopped in half.

The big man examined the coins and then nodded to the woman.

“We’re leaving, get your ass with the rest and be ready. Its eight days to White River. Food, water, and fuel is your own deal,” the woman said. “I’m Sagaris, I own this caravan. My word is that of the Emperor. What I say goes. You refuse, you get left behind. This big mean fucker is Markona. He’s second in command. If he says jump, you best jump.”

“You ain’t no coward, are you?” Markona asked. “Big fucker like you.”

“I am no coward,” San said.

“You be able to hold your own in a fight?” the woman demanded. “We got some crossbows. This stretch of the Road is a real bitch, fucking Baron won’t get off his ass to clear out the bandits. Every damn year we go through this shit.”

“I’ve never fired a crossbow, but I can learn,” San said.

“He can fucking learn,” Markona laughed. “You any good with that sword and spear? Or is it just for fucking show?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Yeah,” San said.

The big man glared at him, puffing up his chest and facing San. He was about six feet tall, some height given to him from his riding boots, but not much. San was six foot two in his stocking feet and with his hiking boots, he stood slightly taller than the man. The large pack and heavy clothes only made him seem bigger than he really was.

“Lay off Marko,” the woman said. “He’s paid and your fucking boys are fucking things up over there.”

Markona snapped his eyes toward the wagons, spotting a couple of men trying to load a heavy bundle. They fumbled it and it fell into the muddy slurry of animal shit and snow.

“You fucking morons!” Markona yelled, stalking toward them.

“Don’t push it, foreigner,” the woman said. She pulled out a pipe and began filling it with tobacco. “Marko’s a Veteran, got levels and powers.” She tapped the end of the pipe and San saw a flicker of light as a small flame appeared on her fingertip. “Cover up that gear you’re carrying too. It’d be a shame to wake up one morning with your throat slit. Marko’s boys are good in a fight, but even a priest of Senta would gut you for that sword.”

San nodded and walked toward the caravan, the tobacco smoke trailing him.

There were seven large wagons, with six woollys pulling each. The fantastical nature of the world produced a llama like creature, but bigger and thicker in body and longer legged that was used as a draft animal. Its head was comically small for the thick body it had, but from what he saw it was strong and fairly quick. There were horses also, but the forest tribes didn’t use them much. The few he had seen were given to soldiers and men on patrol.

San took Sagaris’ advice and wrapped up his equipment more tightly. He had seen a few of the local packs, but they weren’t as comfortable as his own hiking pack. At one hundred and ten liters, it was big enough to carry everything he needed and comfortable enough not to cause too much trouble.

As the sun finally began to rise, San saw that he wasn’t the only one who had paid to enjoy the company of the caravan. There were at least fifteen others that trickled in and waited as the caravan got ready. Most were lean and weathered men, their backs piled with furs and gear.

The Red River was the demarcation line between the Tribes and the Barony, but there was a lot of wooded area and there was a lot of tributaries running from the north and east mountains. That provided a lot of game and animals to harvest for fur.

The trappers were all heavily armed and cast about at their fellows with suspicious eyes. From what he knew, they carried an entire year’s worth of goods on their back. The markets in Blackened Bridge only gave a pittance to the prices one could fetch in White Tower. Enough for a trapper to be set for the winter and to pay for repairs to their gear for spring once more.

“You got a problem, foreigner?” A man demanded as San scanned the people.

“No.”

“Then watch where you’re looking, you thieving fuck.” The man rested his palm on a short sword at his side.

“Yeah, pardon. I meant no offense,” San replied.

“Pardon my ass. You look like some Sickleland cunt, fire worshippers and animal fuckers,” the man said. “We fought your kind twenty years back. Sacked your capitol at Retonagara and fucked all those Sickle bitches.” The man laughed and was joined by a few others.

San was getting tired of being called a foreigner. The forest tribe people had their reddish hair and bronze skin, the Imperials seemed more a melting pot of people. The majority seemed Asiatic, their high cheekbones and long dark hair, but there were plenty of other ethnicities present.

The man before him was an Asiatic imperial, with a thin mustache and a long wispy beard, but his friends weren’t. One was a blue eyed man with coal black skin, the other was a blonde hair man with bronze skin like the Forest Tribes. The rest of the gathered trappers were split ethnically, with Asiatic imperials in the majority.

San didn’t say anything, instead he walked to a different area of the caravan. The snickering of the men followed him, but he ignored them.

“Best to ignore them,” an older man said.

San looked to the man. He was weathered and had a snow white beard poking out of his hooded parka. On his back he only carried a small pack and a spear at his side.

“Those shitheels have been so out of touch with civilization, they don’t know how to act. Most of them will be dead before spring, wasting their coin on fucking and drinking,” the man said. “I’m Pavano, by the way.”

“San.”

“How do, San,” the man nodded to San. “What brings you to the edge of civilization?”

“Got lost,” San said.

“Most that come out here say the same,” Pavano said. “Either that or they’re running from the law.” He chuckled. “Pretty shitty place to live out the rest of your life. Better to be hanged in the South than die from forest tribe attacks or monsters this far north.”

“That so?”

“Aye. At least in Votaro they say the hangman gives one last cup of Almarano vintage before they string you up.”

“Never had an Almarano vintage,” San said.

The man looked shocked and laughed. “Just don’t go killing folks for a taste,” he said. “It’s not worth dying for.”

San nodded.

“Alright you mangy fucks,” Markona yelled from atop of a horse. The wagoners and guards were already beginning to roll out of the gates of the village. “We’re moving. You lag, its your own fault. Move out!”

“If I had the coin, I’d pay for someone to pull the stick out of that man’s ass,” Pavano said.

San chuckled.

***

“Blessed Senta,” Pavano said as he settled down before San’s fire. “You got levels, son?”

“Pardon?”

“This is the fastest I’ve seen someone start up a fire. Either you’re one hell of a woodsman or you’ve got powers. Only person with a fire power around here is Sagaris, but that little flame trick is all about she can do. Level one, she is.”

“Oh,” San said, tucking the Bic lighter into his coat. “No. I have no powers. Just a lot of experience. Also I’ve been collecting kindling.”

The man laughed as he settled his pack on the ground. “Gonna be colder than Hetvana’s cunt tonight,” he said. “Best get that fire roaring.”

The caravan had settled down for the night, pushing across the frozen lands from Blackened Bridge all day. The woollys were unhooked, fed and watered, and campfires were going up as the sun began to set. There had been a rush for firewood and Sagaris yelling for order as the trappers, guards, and wagoners cursed the cold and wanted a fire for the night.

San had trudged along with the others, pausing to pick up kindling and restock on his tinder as they walked. The pace was relatively slow and San had plenty of time to keep up with everyone. He guessed they had traveled at least fifteen miles, half of what he would have been able to do. It was still an intense pace, the woollys proving that they could haul the heavy loads with speed.

He built his fire in the lee of a wagon, as the wagons had been pulled into a rough crescent shape with one side hemmed in by the ruins of a large building. The original use was lost to time, but the walls were still stout and standing, giving everyone a spot to rest from the cold.

San’s fire was apart from the rest, as the trappers had made it well known that his presence was barely tolerated. It was childish bullying behavior, but San had made sure his weapons were well within reach if it came to it. They might be bullies, but they could kill just as easily.

Sagaris’ men built massive fires on the edges of the camp, where there was no one. San watched as she made her rounds, stopping before his fire.

“Pavano. Foreigner,” she said.

“Cold night, Sagaris,” Pavano said. “Only gonna get colder.”

“Aye, fucking Hanged King’s Forest. Best keep your charms close,” she said.

“Hanged King’s Forest?” San asked.

“This whole fucking place, two damn nights we’ll be in it. You hear any voices at night, see someone you love calling to you from the forest edge, don’t fucking go,” Sagaris said. “Damn forest shades always take someone.”

San looked at her questioningly.

“Tell him,” she said to Pavano before leaving.

“They say,” Pavano began,” five hundred years ago, this place was a kingdom, big, powerful, and a threat to the Empire. So the Empire made war on it, destroyed the entire thing, and they captured the king and all the nobles, then hung them from the tallest trees they could find. Now his shade lurks in these forests, along with the nobles hanged with him; they lure people into the forest.”

“And then what?” San asked.

“Kill ‘em. Torture ‘em. I don’t know. Some say they only find the torn up remains of anyone lured into the forests,” Pavano said.

San looked to the forest. The bonfires burning didn’t do much to light up the place, but he supposed it would keep whatever was out there at bay.

“I’m going to take a piss,” San said, getting up.

“Don’t listen to the voices,” Pavano said, setting out a pot of water to boil.

San nodded and headed toward the woods. He faced a tree and did his business. The noise of the camp seemed to fade, the cries of the woollys, the curses of the men, the clanking of pots and pans as food was being prepared. San closed his eyes and took a long breath.

“San,” a voice whispered. There was a laugh in the wind. It was the same laugh Julia made when he used to spin her around.

“Daddy,” a voice echoed through the trees. “Come play with us.”

San opened his eyes. The voices came from deeper within the forests. He could make out shapes, pale and gossamer, beckoning to him. He saw Mary’s face, smiling, and baby Sanjay in her arms. He waved chubby hands at him, babbling baby nonsense.

“Hold your baby boy,” Mary said laughing with joy.

San watched and felt tears on his face.

“Daddy!” Julia cried, waving at him.

She was so beautiful, so lively. He wanted to rush to her and grab her, hug her, and weep that she was still alive. But he didn’t.

“They’re not real,” Sagaris’ voice said.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“I just want to see them.”

The woman was quiet as the ghostly figures began changing. A smiling man and a tousled headed boy formed and they began waving.

“Mommy!” the boy cried.

“Every fucking time,” Sagaris said. “It’s the only reason I do this fucking run.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

Sagaris nodded and blinked away her tears. “Fucking Hanged King,” she said before turning away.

Mary smiled at him and baby Sanjay waved at him. San turned around and headed to the bonfire. The heat dried his beard and face and the woodsmoke cleared his head.

“Fire in the Night,” he said. The flame roared for a second and there was a screech as Mary turned from smiling to snarling. She shifted into a desiccated naked figure, hunched and twisted, with scores of tentacles writhing on its back.

“Sweet Senta!” a trapper screamed.

“To arms!” Markona cried, fear twisting his face.

Chaos erupted as the camp rushed to arm themselves and shrink back as the forest edge began flooding with naked twisted figures screeching in the night. They didn’t come any closer, instead staring at the fire and wailing.

San walked back to his campfire. Pavano hadn’t moved, his pot of water boiling as he made his dinner.

“Fire in the Night?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“There was a Mage that used that power. Kept his tribes safe as he built a city on the edge of monster infested lands,” the man said.

“That right?”

San began unpacking his cooking supplies, setting his own pot on the fire.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked.

AN/ Maybe I should change the title to Tea Brewer King, ha.