Brewer King 19 (Patreon)

San woke with a half forgotten memory. It tickled his mind, that something, a figment that he could almost remember. It was on the tip of his tongue, like a word that he knew but couldn’t summon at the moment.

He could feel the ice cold and the soft voice whispering in his ears. He could feel the ice in his veins and the cold washing over him and the words. The words that spoke of… something.

Endaha and Azios were awake; both looking bleary eyed for some reason.

“The knock…” Azios said as San pushed open the door. They both had a chagrin expression as they glanced to the weapons that were set against the wall out of reach.

“Oh, yeah,” San said. His thoughts were turning, that memory fluttered and danced, tiny glimpses of what it was flashed but were lost almost immediately.

“Are you okay?” Endaha asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” San said. He walked to the firepit and sat down. The fire flickered before him, the warmth caressed his face, the opposite of the cold that other’s touch.

“Fire in the Night,” San said and watched as the flame flashed blue for a moment. Fire in the Night, a spell that the Mage Chief had given him. A shaping of what the fire wanted… the words tickled his mind.

What did fire want? Why did people use fire. To cook? To keep warm. To dispel the darkness. To keep monsters at bay. To light the world. To forge with.

San’s brain hurt. Fire was a tool and a weapon. Cities burned and meals were cooked. A foundation had to be made, a shape it had to be formed into before… Before what?

San looked at the flames, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag. The green, red, and yellow gems shone in the firelight. He took out a yellow gem and studied it.

A white face and sharp teeth appeared and he blinked it away. She said something to him. Told him what to do? What did the fire want? What did he want the fire to become? The fire was a tool, a foundational tool, and he was the will. He could guide the fire into what he wanted, what it wanted too…

San got up and searched his pack, finding the brass pot that he had taken from the Cursed City. It was a gallon sized pot, not the five gallon cauldron that he had been using to make the imbar wash.

“What are you doing?” Azios asked, a little worry in his voice.

“The fire,” San muttered before gathering up imbar and the distiller’s yeast he had harvested from the previous batches of imbar wash. It was growing strong, better than he would have expected in the chilly, smoky interior of the farmhouse.

Yellow gems were death to living things, that’s what Pavano said. Wolfram had confirmed it when she had backed away from the gems. Perhaps it was the complex organism that were humans and horned wolves, perhaps the yellow gems would react differently with microorganisms. Words tickled his mind.

San reached to the mortar and pestle and then dropped a yellow gem into the bowl. Endaha and Azios gasped as he crushed it with the stone pestle. The gems cracked, a small spark of light emanating from it.

Once it was a fine powder, San poured the dust onto the yeast. Yeast was what made the alcohol. Yeast was the organism that was the foundation of brewing. What did he want to brew? What did alcohol want?

He knew the answer. That’s what she had said. Sharp teeth flashed in his vision again. He sat around a fire, talking to her. The winter chill in the air and light snow floating down from the sky. It had been several days since he left Forest River, a weight of his depression still lingered, a bit of fear of this strange new world still coursing through him.

She had come to him, tried to seduce him, and then they had talked. Sitting across from one another by the fire. A hot fire on a cold night. He had told her of his youth. Of how his grandfather had taught him how to brew beer. His own obsession with it, experimenting, studying, learning about it.

Yet it was the story of a party that caused her to lean forward and grin as he spoke. A college gathering, where he was a nervous mess. A young woman smiled at him from across the room, standing in a group of her friends.

“Talk to her, San,” his friend was saying.

‘I-I can’t,” he stammered. He could feel his courage melting, flowing away in a puddle on the floor.

“Here, drink this,” his friend said, handing him a cup of something.

San drank it. “I made this,” he said.

“The best thing about underage drinking is knowing someone who knows how to make beer to bring to a party,” his friend laughed.

San took another sip. An India Pale Ale, bitter and floral, with citrus notes and a hint of pine. San sipped again, a bit more Citra hops would have been good.

“Better now?” his friend asked.

“Not really.”

“Come on, it’s liquid courage,” he laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him toward the group of women.

San tried protesting, but the smile of the woman dispelled those thoughts.

“Hi, I’m Mary,” she said.

San blinked the tears away and threw a yellow gem into the fire before him. It flashed, this time a reddish color. What did he want the fire to be. What did he want to brew?

Liquid courage.

Fear was everywhere, it stalked the land and danger would strike at any moment. A moment’s hesitation could lead to life time of pain. A moment of fear could lead to the ones you loved dying.

He had been afraid. He had been a coward. A bit of courage at the right moment… things would have been different.

San clenched his eyes and thought of the flame. The fire was important, it was one part in creation. She whispered in his head, the icy breath prickling his skin. All things are changed by fire, the fire is a tool and a weapon. Shape the fire into what you want.

The Fearless Flame

San gasped and sweat beaded across his skin. He could feel exhaustion pulling at him, but he shook it off. That was only one part, there was another.

“Get more wood,” San said. “Don’t let this fire go out.”

“O-okay,” Azios whispered.

San didn’t hear the response. He picked up the brass pot and set it above the flame. In went chopped imbar. In went fresh snow. It boiled and roiled, he removed it and more snow and it dropped in temperature. San pitched the yeast into it.

It wasn’t there yet he could tell after he fermented the clay container.

“Yeast is what makes the brew,” the man was telling San.  “Its taken years and years to create the strains we have today and we have to work hard to keep the yeast from changing too much. It’s adaptable, but not all adaptions are what you want. The flavors can be off, the smell.”

“So you can breed a super yeast?” San asked, jokingly.

“With enough time and sugar, maybe,” the man responded.

One batch done, then another, and another. He could feel it, the Fearless Flame changing things, he could feel the yeast responding, each generation changing, forced into evolution by the Fermentation Power. The yeast didn’t want anything, it only wanted to eat. What it ate, what food it was given, did not matter to it. It only wanted one thing and what it produced…

Sweat dripped from San’s forehead as he Fermented another pot of imbar wash. He could feel it, resonating with the fire.

The Unshakeable Strain

He hurriedly found the five gallon cauldron. In went more imbar and fresh snow, the fire burning underneath it.

“Watch the fire,” San said.

Azios jerked awake, he blinked at San and groaned as he settled before the flame. His normal thick tunic and coat had been stripped off, sweat slicked his bare back and he looked exhausted.

San exited the farmhouse, the blasting cold air was a loving embrace. The sweat on his body froze to his skin, but he couldn’t feel it penetrate any deeper. He took a deep breath and picked up a pickaxe, walking toward the Drink.

There were many ways to distill. The easiest way was to just freeze the wash. Alcohol didn’t freeze; once the water froze, the concentrated alcohol could be taken. It wasn’t distillation really, It was concentration. All the various chemicals that were in the wash still remained within the beverage.

True distillation was heating up the wash, causing the alcohol to evaporate, then one would capture the ethanol, allow it to condense. Copper stills and condensing coils were the way to go in that method. Yet San didn’t have copper anything. The closest was the brass pot.

But distillation had been done before the invention of copper stills. People all over the world had methods to deal with the lack of copper pots and coils, one that came to San’s mind was the making of small batch traditional mezcal.

Clay pots heated over a slow fire, the alcohol condensing under a copper pan that was cycled through with cold water, then the condensation dripping upon an agave leaf and into a pot. He didn’t have any clay pots, but he had an iron cauldron. He didn’t have a copper pan, but he had a brass pot. He didn’t have an agave leaf, but he could use something else instead.

The ice cold clay in his hands warped and shaped as he pounded them against the ground. They soon warmed and began to mold easily in his icy hands. He extended the firepit, melding the clay and stones into the shape that he remembered.

“Get some snow,” San said. Azios nodded wearily and headed out of the farmhouse.

Controlling the fire was a difficult chore, but San sat before it, adding or removing wood and coals. The iron cauldron boiled and soon he saw small condensing drops drip into a small wooden bowl. He stared at it with a grin on his face.

“Is that what you’re making?” Azios asked.

“Yes, a part of it. The first that comes out is called the heads,” San said. “I’m not sure how much methanol is in the imbar wash, but it’s always a good idea to toss the first liquid that comes out. Methanol and other volatile chemicals have a lower boiling point than ethanol, the one we want. Smell it.”

Azios leaned forward and sniffed the bowl. He wrinkled his nose and rubbed it.

“Smells terrible,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s the methanol and the lighter stuff that boils off first. Don’t ever drink it, you’ll go blind or die from it. Depending on the methanol content, anyway.”

San set the bowl aside.

“It’s poison then?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Why keep it?”

San took the small bowl and threw the contents into the fire. The flame surged and Azios flinched from it.

“They are also very flammable and sometimes you need something that’ll start a fast flame,” San said. “After the heads, we get the hearts. This is what we want, the distilled alcohol.”

The drips began to fill a clay pot. San reached forward and allowed a few drops to coat his finger. He brought it to his lips and tasted it.

He could feel it. The liquid touched his tongue and he could feel a sense of ease flow across him. The muscles he didn’t know were tensed eased just a hair, the worry that was gnawing in the back of his mind slowed for a second. San blinked and saw Azios stare at him.

“What did you make?” he asked.

Courage

San sat and watched the flames. He felt the intense need to keep going beginning to fade. His mind seemed to loosen up, the rushing around, the all consuming desire to create this drink finally began to fade.

He blinked and finally took in the farmhouse. It was achingly hot within the kitchen, the floor a mess of ash and scuffs, half emptied clay pots and mashed imbar lay strewn around the firepit. The clay monstrosity he had created hulked in the corner and from it dripped liquid courage.

“How long?” San asked, his voice raw. His stomach growled and he felt exhausted.

“Three days,” Azios said, finally seeing he had come to his senses.

“Three days?”

“Aye. Endaha said you were god-touched and not to interrupt what you were doing. Sometimes the gods put knowledge in our heads and we cannot fight against it, it pulls at us and we must do what they want.” Azios shrugged. “I’ve never seen it, but Endaha says one of her Uncles was touched and forged a great sword.”

Azios handed San a hunk of bread and cheese. He greedily wolfed it down, he also consumed the cup of tea that he was given.

“Three days,” San said.

***

“Are you okay?” Endaha asked him.

San blinked at the woman and nodded slowly. He looked around and saw that he was lying on the kitchen floor, a blanket tossed over him and the stench of sweat heavy on his skin. He groaned as he sat up and saw that the kitchen had been somewhat cleaned as he slept.

“Azios said you have come back to your senses,” she said.

“I have,” San said. “I’m sorry about that. I just… I don’t know what came over me. I just had to do it. The knowledge was burning inside of me, pushing me forward.”

Endaha nodded, sitting down on a bench. Her swollen stomach stretching her tunic. “I have seen it before. My Uncle in my old village was a great smith with Levels. It is rare to find a non-warrior Leveled person. They must love what they do with all the fiber in their being and believe it is what they are. He was such a man, but refused to serve the Mage Chief. They say a woman came to him and talked to him, the next day he spent an entire week working on a beautiful sword. One that everyone thought he would give to the Mage King, but instead he gave it to a boy who was off to serve in the Empire’s wars.”

“What happened to the sword.”

“It was named the Emperor Killer. The boy died in battle and the sword was taken by the Last Emperor’s son. He used it to kill the Emperor and began the civil war.

“My uncle was killed for that. Left to die of exposure like a criminal. After that my village was devastated, the Mage Chief demanded heavy taxes and sent our young to battle. The other villages would raid us and take all we had. We had no protection and nothing left. When the Mage Chief died we were targeted for extermination, that is when we fled and began raiding the komais.”

“A woman came to me in the barn,” San said. “I can barely remember her, sometimes its clear and I can make out every detail, but then it goes away and I’m fumbling for even a vague description. She was cold, so cold, and lonely.”

Endaha waited as he held his head in his hands.

“She whispered knowledge into my head, how to make a fire, how to create the strain of yeast needed, how to make Courage.”

“That is what you created?” she asked.

“Yes.” San reached forward and picked up the old whiskey bottle he still carried. The full bottle reflected the firelight, a reddish color that seemed to swirl and move on its own.

“Courage,” Endaha said.

“It’s what the alcohol wanted. It is what it could become. Liquid Courage.”

“I have seen many a drunk man do foolish things. The bravery of mead,” Endaha said.

“Yeah, me too. But this… I don’t think this is like that. When you are fearful, scared, it will make you less so.”

“Fear is good sometimes,” she said.

“Sometimes it isn’t.”

They sat there in silence for a moment.

“You need to bathe, you smell terrible,” Endaha said, rising slowly to her feet.

San laughed.

***

“Hot water in copper pipes?” Azios asked with a look of disbelief on his face. “Did you also have roads paved with gold?”

“Asphalt, actually,” San said as he dunked his wash cloth into the tepid bucket of water before him.

The sun was high over head, mid day and San guessed the temperature was in the mid forties. The snow that had piled and grown in the days of intermittent storms were slowly melting in the heatwave. The sharp edges malformed into rounded mounds.

Beside them roared a fire and the brass pot that San had been using to distill courage boiled water. San sat in his boxers, shivering slightly but also enjoying the heat and cold across his body.

Endaha had chased them both out to clean the kitchen, claiming they both reeked of sweat and smoke. She and Cassa had escaped to the second floor as the days had passed, subsisting on cheese, old bread, and the other stuff that had been obtained from Panchavi’s men.

Three days passed in a haze of brewing and distilling still disturbed San. The White Woman, no, Winter’s Lament, had done something to him. She had given him knowledge on how to shape and change the fire and yeast that he used.

But he had done it. The knowledge was in his mind now, the haze that had filled his head was gone. He remembered every detail, he knew he could do it again. He could make more of it and… he could make something different. The alcohol wanted to do more. It was eager to be shaped, to change and gain different flavors.

San shivered as he washed himself. This was Power, this was a reshaping of the world. In a world of magic he had created something different, something that only the Cults of various gods were supposed to do. The yellow gems, a death sentence if you were caught with them. This was why. With yellow gems a simple man could create something wonderful, something unseen before.

“Is that a mirror?” Azios asked.

“Yeah,” San said using the scissors from the first aid kit to trim his beard. He handed the mirror to Azios who looked at it with some wonder.

“Normally, they’re blurry,” he said. “Only the rich have such mirrors.”

San shrugged. “Its something from home. Where I came from it was inexpensive.”

“Your homeland must be a place of wonder.”

“Aye,” San said and stopped. He smiled at his words. “It was a place of grand things and people, but filtered through a sieve. There was little connection to the land, little to the food we ate, and the items we used. The land here is… better in someways, but also more terrifying in others. There is no safety net, there is no other recourse but what you can do yourself and your own courage and knowledge.”

Azios nodded. “My Pa said that this was a hard land and we had to be hard people.”

“People often confuse being hard with being cruel or emotionless. You can be strong and still care about others. Empathy is what makes us human,” San said. “You are strong, Azios. I’ve never seen a young man your age who has been able to do so much, you have faced danger, had to make hard choices, and when it comes to protecting your family, you do what is right.”

Azios ducked his head and didn’t say anything.

“Wagons!” the voice of Endaha floated in the air. San stood up and could see the woman waving at him from the farmhouse, gesturing toward the road that led into the komai.

San grabbed his crossbow and sword belt, pelting across the snow with Azios on his heels. He skidded to a stop when he saw a pair of woollys and a white haired man sitting atop a cart.

“San, my boy! I was expecting a welcome, but not your running out near naked for me,” Pavano laughed.

San looked down to see he was in his bare feet and boxers. The cold suddenly seeping into his bare soles.

“Pavano!” he cried, smiling. “It’s damn good to see you!”

“Aye, aye. That’s the cry of every woman in White Tower when I arrived.”

“And every debt collector,” a different voice said.

San saw a man sitting in the back of the cart, long faced, creased and weathered. His eyes were hard black and his hair was silver. A recurve bow on his lap and quivers filled with arrows sat beside him. The ranger.

“San, meet Bostarion the Ranger. Old friend and fine drinking companion.”

“Call me Boss,” Bostarion said.

“No one ever calls him that,” Pavano added.

“Glad to meet you, Boss,” San said. “Sorry, I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

“No problem, boy,” Bostarion said. “Though you’ll wanna be clothed before the Mage and the rest of the Guard arrives?”

“The Guard?” San asked.

“Aye, the Young Baron has sent the Guard to destroy the batto nest, we’ve got fifty men following half a day behind.”

***

“Senta’s fiery embrace!” Pavano cried, coughing as he set down the clay cup. “That’s fire down the gullet.”

“Not bad,” Bostarion said. “Some of the rangers make a wine from fruits, then in the winter they freeze it, what doesn’t freeze tastes something like this.”

“Freeze distillation,” San said. “Or concentration.”

“I’m gone for near a fortnight and you’ve gone and created this?” Pavano asked, taking a small sip from the clay cup.

“Between the monsters, the storms, and all the work that needs doing, I had some free time.”

“White furred, huh?” Bastarion muttered. He drummed his hands against the table and thought. “I’ve never really been to the North around this area, but there are plenty of tales of creatures in the mountains. The north of here was considered a bad area, even the forest tribes didn’t settle it, cursed with old Kingdom magic.”

“Like the Hanged King’s Forest?” San asked.

“Aye, but different. They say the Old Kingdom was one filled with mages and dark sacrifices with blood magic. It was that dark magic that the Empire feared and eventually led them to destroy the Old Kingdom.

“But I’ve never heard of seven foot tall white furred creatures before,” the ranger said. “Wearing clothes and carrying gold? That’s even stranger. Speaks of them being able to think and reason, but also being void monsters. I cannot say. What comes from the Void is often distorted reflections of creatures of this world.”

“Such monster roaming the forests only makes this winter more harder,” Pavano stated. “I fear the lesser farmers and lone homesteads.”

“A few farms were hit by raiders,” Bostarion said. “Homes burned, folks killed, goods taken. Didn’t appear to be forest tribes. Last night we came across a hell of a sight, what appeared to be a camp along the trade road, entirely destroyed. Blood and meat everywhere, even the scavengers weren’t touching it. There were two woollys and a loaded wagon filled with goods that wasn’t even touched. It was as if whatever killed those men only wanted them to die.”

Pavano looked to San. “You’ve been breeding woollys, boy? And making food from snow?” He picked up a bit of cheese in his hands.

“We had visitors a couple of days back,” San said. “They were… not friendly.”

“Winter Stockers,” the ranger said. “They go out and take food from the outlying farms, call it protection or that you owe them sars.”

“Do you know a man called Panchavi?”

“Aye, rings a bell. Landed gentleman, lost a lot of money in the imbar trade this winter,” Pavano said.

“The Stockers have been working hard these last weeks,” Bostarion added. “Many have been complaining to the Baron, but the Young Baron has been away to the south as tales of Nox fighters hitting those farms trickle in. Although with tales of battos so close to White Tower is sure to bring him back.”

“Those four were apart of Panchavi’s men,” San said.

“How did you know there were four men in that camp?” the ranger asked.

“A woman told me.”

The ranger’s mouth twisted as if he were going to say something, but didn’t. Instead he nodded.

“Aye, there were four dead in there. We saw some signs that they were from White Tower, that they were the ones to burn the farms. It seems whatever roams the night was out for a little justice.” The ranger sipped his drink and sighed. “The gods are fickle. You can blasphemy all your life and they will laugh, but you make a small insult and everything you touch turns to ashes.”

“Two wanderers met on the trade road,” Pavano said, as if beginning a tale, “and only one continued on.”

They sat there in silence, contemplating the words.

“Is there anything we need to do for the coming troops?” Endaha asked.

“Nah,” Pavano said. “They are all geared up for war. A Mage lieutenant leads them, left behind to guard the walls of White Tower, but insists that this infestation is the real threat. Methinks he’s bored of sitting around the tower and decided to have some fun.”

“A bit young to be in charge of so many men,” the ranger said.

“Can’t be a Mage and rank lower than the common soldiers,” Pavano said. “Bad for discipline.”

“Will they stay here or move on?” Endaha asked.

“Dunno, m’lady. The Mage may wish to press forward and find the nest, but they will have to send out scouts and rangers to find it first. As the nest was here, it should not be more than several days journey by foot from here. Possibly to the North.”

“Where all the monsters are,” Azios added.

“Aye.”