Brewer King 20 (Patreon)

The entire household and San stood in the freezing front area of the farmhouse as the Baron’s Guards arrived. A messenger had arrived an hour before, announcing the Mage Lieutenant and the Guards, then asked for something hot to drink.

“They could conquer the Empire,” Azios said, amazement in his voice.

San had other opinions on the military force that arrived into the komai. Opinions that would probably not be taken kindly by… actually as San thought about it, none, beside Azios, seemed particularly pleased that the soldiers were there.

“Did you have any run ins when in White Tower?” San asked.

“None. Sagaris was thereabouts, but we did not cross paths. I can be a shadow in the night when I need to be,” Pavano said.

“A piss stain on a wet floor,” Bostarion quipped.

“We’ll be all right. We’re just hired workers for the komai, is all. Looking for a place to hunker down for the winter by offering labor to this young komai landowner.” Pavano gestured to Azios. “Landed Azios Exonaris.”

Azios looked a bit surprised, but then straighten up.

“It is not often we get guests from White Tower and the military to boot,” he said.

San had to hide his smile, not wanting to insult the boy.

“The Mage Lieutenant will probably want to speak with you,” Pavano said. “It is only right to greet the landowner whose land you want to set up camp on. Don’t let him push you around. This may be a poor komai, but you are still Landed. Your ancestors took this land with blood, iron, and honor. That Mage is just a common citizen that got lucky and was born able to manipulate mana.”

San refrained from saying anything. He hadn’t fully dived into the social and economic classes of the Baronies as of yet. But like any place, there were those who ‘ranked’ higher than others. Especially in a world where agriculture was the main occupation and farmers were the reason cities and towns existed, they were the reason trade existed, the reason there was enough free labor to build and fight in wars.

Historically land owners were considered higher ranked than even craftsmen and merchants. Especially with the large komai that the Exonaris had; ten thousand acres not considered small at all. In some lands that would have made Azios a noble or even a Baron.

The Mage Lieutenant was easy to spot, he rode upon a black horse and charged forward toward the farmhouse followed by ten others, also on horses. The Mage wore a brigandine, pauldrons, heavy gauntlets and steel leg armor. San had to give the man some praise for the quality and stylishness of his armor. The rivets of the brigandine made a impressive pattern across the bright red cloth and the steel was brightly polished.

The rest of the horsemen wore similar armor as the Mage, but in duller colors and with more visible repairs and rust on the exposed steel.

The Mage clattered up to the gathered family. His green eyes flashing as he took them in. A heavily pregnant woman, two old men, a foreigner, a young man, and a toddler.

“Who owns this land,” the Mage pronounced.

San nudged Azios, who was looking at the armored man with awe.

“I do… I do, m’lord,” Azios said.

Pavano nudged him. “He’s not a lord,” he whispered. “He’s a Mage Lieutenant.”

The Mage scowled at Pavano for the remark.

“Sorry… I own this land Mage Lieutenant. This is the Exonaris Komai, first settled by the Imperial Captain Exonario during the reign of the Last Emperor,” Azios recited.

“A bit young to be the Landed of a komai,” the Mage said.

“Currently my brother, Kovass Exonaris is with the Baron in combatting the Suvanna in Sentari lands.”

The Mage Lieutenant grunted and cast a look to San and then Endaha.

“A lot of foreigners, no?” he said.

“Endaha is my brother’s wife, Mage Lieutenant, and her sons will inherit this land,” Azios said stiffly. “San Ma- uh - San the Foreigner is a friend of the Family.”

“San the Foreigner, huh?” the man looked over him. “Some kind of Far Kingdoms savage? That crossbow looks Nox.”

“His deeds to the Exonaris family far outweighs the nation of his birth,” Azios said. “To insult him is to insult the komai and our hospitality.”

The Mage scowled again, but nodded. “So be it.” He took in the farmstead and scowled again. “Not much hospitality can be offered here.”

“The times have been hard, m’lord,” Pavano said quickly as Azios clenched his fists. “We barely have enough to see us through the winter and with the battos about, we fear doing more. It is a great service you are doing, protecting the land, m’lord. We very much appreciate it.”

The Mage nodded and looked around. “We’ll be making camp and sending out scouts to find this batto nest. The Young Baron is returning from the south to reinforce us, but if we can remove this scourge quickly; he can continue protecting our farmlands there.”

“I welcome you to set up camp, Mage Lieutenant,” Azios said.

San watched as the Mage lieutenant scanned the surrounding lands, his gaze settling on a spot that was one of the fields that the grazers still grazed upon.

“M’lord Mage Lieutenant,” San said stepping forward.

“What is is, Foreigner?”

“I would offer the suggestion of setting up your men to the east. These fields closest to the farmstead are still being grazed by the young komai’s grazers.”

“So?” the Mage demanded.

“The east offers easy access to the Drink, m’lord. It also is closer to the woods so that your men can collect firewood for themselves.”

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Many thanks, m’lord,” San ducked his head as Pavano held back a chuckle.

“I shall dine with you tonight, along with my officers,” the Mage said and then kicked his horse forward. The rest of the men clattered off as the sounds of braying woollys and cursing men filled the air.

“Went pretty well,” Pavano said, slapping Azios on the back.

“What does a Mage Lieutenant eat?” Endaha asked.

“My boot; if he keeps that shit up,” Bostarion muttered.

“Worry not, m’lady,” Pavano said, bowing to Endaha. “I know the best recipes of those who believe they are higher born.”

***

San walked to the military encampment, the wind was beginning to stir, blowing loose snow around the cursing and yelling men and women who made up the militia. San had thought they were all Guards when they arrived, but Pavano had been quick to point out who were Guards and who were not.

The Mage Lieutenant and the ten men on horses were all Guards, along with another twelve men who were on foot, but not infantry. San saw them wearing gambesons and simple steel helmets. They weren’t toiling as the others, instead carefully unloading crates of wooden boxes and iron shot.

Artillerymen, San surmised. He was interested in talking to them. He hadn’t much knowledge about blackpowder weapons beyond what he learned from Mary’s gun happy father.

The technology of the world was a bit blurred compared to his knowledge of the history of his own world. But San put it roughly between the late 1400’s and mid 1500’s. The middle ages back in Europe. His only exposure had been to what the Forest Tribes had and what little he was able to garner in Blackened Bridge and Midway before he had to leave.

He would need to journey to White Tower one of these days, hopefully before Midwinter’s Reprieve. There were still more items he needed to obtain if he were serious about brewing and distilling.

The artillerymen were yelling at a troop of militia as they used a small mobile crane to lift an oiled cloth wrapped device from the back of one of the wagons. The artillerymen kept an eagle eye upon the weapon and laid down wood to set it upon.

It had to be an artillery piece, but as San watched them huddle around it, it didn’t seem long enough to be a cannon. It was possibly a mortar type weapon. The wooden crates held blackpowder as one of the artillerymen opened one and cursed, yelling for another to remix the powder.

That was one of the things that Mary’s father had mentioned. In the old days, blackpowder was known to separate into it’s basic parts if constantly jostled, as one would expect from sitting in a wagon for several days and traveling across less than stellar roads. The artillerymen would have to remix the blackpowder before they could use it.

A thought tickled the back of his mind. Something that Mary’s father mentioned about blackpowder and how they had moved beyond having to constantly remix the powder. Something about corn? San shook his head, he’d remember it later.

“The fuck you want, Foreigner?” a voice demanded.

San looked to see a militia woman standing before him. She held a long bladed spear in her hand and glared at him. The rust on her steel cap and brigandine showed she wasn’t one of the Guards.

“I’m here to extend an invitation to the Mage Lieutenant and his officers to dinner,” he said.

“Talk funny, you do,” the woman said and spat into the snow. “Fine, I’ll tell his mage-ness. Pretty shitty komai this is anyway, can’t see why we have to save it?”

The woman wandered off before San could respond. He shrugged and continued watching the soldiers set up camp. The artillerymen swarmed over their guns and powder, the Guards relaxed in tents that had been set up before anyone else, and the militia were running about doing everything. Their own tents weren’t going up yet, but they created a fenced in area for their woollys, unloaded wagons, and collected firewood.

It looked like a raw deal. More than half of the army was working to maintain the other half. There was no security, the woman who had stopped him did it more to look busy than to actually contest his presence. San also saw that people were just pissing and shitting where they wanted. He frowned, reminding himself to tell Azios to tell them to dig latrines or come spring they’d have a lot of surprises when the snow melted.

It was no Roman legion. The armament of the militia seemed to be mostly crossbows and a few spears. They carried short swords and not many wore anything beyond brigandines, most having looked to have been ill maintained. They at least all had helmets and winter clothing which meant they would not freeze while they stayed here.

At least they had come prepared with a lot of wine. San watched as a quartermaster shouted at men as they hefted amphora of wine from the back of a wagon. The men were more careful with those than they had been with the boxes of gunpowder.

San turned and headed back to the farmhouse, the wind rising, but the sky clear. He wasn’t looking forward to dinner.

***

“They called him the Empire’s greatest general, but we fucked him good and proper!” Havatair cried, slapping his meaty hand on his thigh. The man was big, even bigger than San and most of it was muscle. San watched him with slight awe, this was a true Leveled soldier, a dedicated cavalryman from before the Baronies broke away from the Empire.

The Mage Lieutenant might have been technically in charge of things, but Havatair was the real power behind the man. He was a staunch supporter of the Baron and the man could do no wrong in his eyes. Therefore he was set to watch over the young Mage Lieutenant and defend White Tower from any threats.

San learned all of this through the night as the officers from the small army gathered in the farmhouse.

The Mage Lieutenant was named Histoa, no last name as he was a commoner just like Havatair. He was in his late teens, trained by the High Mage of Sol Savanis, and therefore given all due respect and rank. That didn’t mean Havatair ranked lower than him, just differently.

The others that joined the dinner were the leader of the artillery, Penzai; the leader of the militia, Ilagio Fomar, a Landed from the south; and the healer Zomia Tai, a thin woman with wide green eyes.

Azios sat at the head of the table, clearly enjoying the wine and the boisterous laughter of Havatair. The Mage Lieutenant sat silently, occasionally scowling into his cup and picking at his food. Fresh grazer, kimchi, and beans with cheese, and the wine they had gained from Panchavi’s men. Pavano had been a magician in his cooking, using the simple ingredients and the smoky firepit to cook up a feast for the men.

“Kitsomari was a fine general in his day, but that was twenty years before we fought him,” Penzai muttered. “He still fought as if cannons didn’t matter on the battlefield.” The artilleryman was aged and wrinkled, his hair shock white, but his frame still straight and unbent. He ate heartily and drank even more so. “Our cannons tore up his perfect little lines, then our men slaughtered the rest.” Penzai chuckled.

“How far along are you, my dear?” Zomia asked Endaha as they sat in a corner.

“Not long, I think,” she responded, rubbing her stomach.

“Winter is a hard time to give birth,” the healer said. “The Winter Walker roams the land, seeking souls and causing mischief.”

“Aye. She brings as much joy as misery,” Endaha said.

“So the Tribes believe,” the healer scoffed for a second, but then put on a friendly smile.

“San’s a great fighter!” Azios announced, his eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed. Too much wine, San saw.

“Is that right?” the Mage asked, eyeing San.

“Trust me, m’lord. I’m not,” San said.

“He killed a mage in battle!”Azios announced, causing San to groan inwardly.

“A mage?” Havantair asked, looking surprised. “A tale that must be told. Tell us, Foreigner, how and when did you kill a mage.”

“It was more accident than skill,” San said. “Long ago, when I was a different man.”

“You’ve got levels, boy. Tell us how you got those,” Ilagio said, speaking for the first time. The man was like old leather, his skin tight and shiny, and his eyes dark hollows with a glint of intelligence within them. He didn’t drink, but sipped water and ate no meat.

“Rippers, while I was in the land of the Forest Tribes,” San said.

“Rippers?” Havatair laughed. “Those fucking things. I hate them, horrid creatures. They rarely come this far south, but when they do, it’s a whole swarm of them.”

“Yeah,” San said.

“Adventurer, then?” Ilagio asked.

“In a sense.”

“In what kind of sense?” Ilagio demanded. “None of your kind come from woodland savage stock. Big fucker like you, skin like yours, the way you talk; those aren’t woodland savage ways. Sure as Hetvana’s cunt is cold, it’s not Imperial or Barony ways.”

“I am neither. My homeland is far away,” San said.

“Where?” Ilagio pushed.

“I’m not sure. It’s called America and no one here seems to know its name,” San finally said.

“Never heard of it,” Ilagio replied. “Some savage kingdom from beyond the Wide Ocean?”

“Like I said, I don’t know where it is in relation to this place,” San said.

“I don’t trust you, Foreigner. From the looks of those gathered here, these supposed friends of yours, they don’t know half of your stories either.”

San looked to see the expressions on Endaha and Pavano’s faces. He realized he never really told them of the place he came from or how he got here. There was a lot he hadn’t explained to them, some of it due to his own unwillingness to tell and from the fact there was little time for that kind of talk.

The table went silent for a moment as everyone looked into their cups of wine. Azios was quiet, his bright expression now downcast.

“Well, Ilagio’s a sour fucker,” Havatair said. “Take none of what he says to heart, he’s just sour that he had to drag his hairy ass this far north when the Nox are raiding the south.”

“Understandable,” San said.

Ilagio glared at Havatair. “Some of us were born into positions of responsibility,” he said.

Havatair’s jolly attitude faded at the words and the smile he gave Ilagio was anything but friendly.

“Aye, kinslayers rank higher than common as long as they lead the komai,” Havatair said, taking a long drink from his cup. Ilagio glared and stood up suddenly.

“I must see to my men,” he stated flatly.

“Aye, do that,” Havatair said. “Make sure my tent is hot, I enjoy sleeping in the nude.”

Ilagio stalked out of the farmhouse, slamming the heavy door behind him.

San took a sip of the bad wine.

“It’s been a swell night, m’lady, sir,” Havatair said to Endaha and Azios. “We shall retire for the night and begin this batto hunt come morning.”

***

“Ey, big fucker,” a voice called.

San looked up from where he was chopping wood. A female soldier walked to him, gambeson half laced and helmet tucked under one arm.

“I assume you’re addressing me?” San asked, setting the axe on his shoulder.

“Havatair wants to see you,” she said.

“Why?” San asked.

“How should I know, big fucker. He just says bring that Foreigner here and right quick.”

San stood there a moment, pondering if he should just ignore the summons. The female soldier looked annoyed.

“You’re gonna get me some lashes if you don’t move your giant ass,” she said.

“Would he not want to speak to Azios instead? He’s the komai of this land.”

“Is that tiny brat a big fucking foreigner?”

San shook his head.

“Then he’s not who I’m looking for.”

“Alright,” San said.

“Sweet Senta, your brain must be smaller than a dried pento fruit.”

San returned the axe to the farmhouse, telling Endaha who was making bread, that he was summoned to see Havatair. Azios looked up expectantly, but as San didn’t invite him, he looked downcast again. He had woken up with a massive hangover and much shame about blurting out things about San.

“Name’s Elgava Sonnis,” the female soldier said.

“Sanjay King,” San said.

“Big Fucking Foreigner fits better,” Elgava stated. “Sounds regal.”

“I would suppose the name King would sound more regal,” San said.

“Aye, maybe. But we ain’t got no kings around here. Not in the Empire, not in the Baronies, the only king was the foul fucker they hung in the woods five hundred years back.”

“That turned out well,” San said.

The woman laughed. “Aye, silly fuckers turned a whole forest into an undead hole of shades that kill dozens every year. But that’s the only road that leads to Blackened Bridge.”

They walked in silence for a moment.

“Say, friend,” Elgava said. “You happen to not have a cask of wine you’re willing to sell to someone looking to protect your farmstead?”

“Pardon?”

“Fucking Ilagio, doesn’t want us drinking until we know what we’re up against. He’s guarding all the wine like some broody hen.” Elgava said.

“How will you hide an entire amphora of wine?” San asked.

“We have methods.” The woman grinned.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any wine to spare.” San paused. “Does it have to be wine?”

“I’m a good Imperial,” Elgava stated. “I only drink wine.” She paused and looked around. “Or anything that’ll take the edge off the cold and dull the boredom.”

San had to smile. “How do you feel about moonshine?” he asked.

They walked through the military camp, the ground had already been churned up and the area was smoky with a score of campfires burning. Men huddled around them, wrapped in cloaks and looking miserable. Elgava gave them a wave and they looked slightly better.

Havatair’s tent was a large one, situated in the center of the camp, beside another ornate tent that San saw was the Mage Lieutenant’s.

“San the Foreigner, sir,” Elgava said loudly.

“Enter,” Havatair’s voice said gruffly.

“In you go,” Elgava said. “Be seeing you about the other thing.” She winked and scurried off.

San entered the tent and found it very warm, in the corner sat a brazier of blue glowing coals. San stopped to stare at them, realizing that they were some kind of heating magic. Half of the tent was occupied by a slightly raised floor with thick carpeting upon it. San couldn’t read the design, but it consisted of a lot of swirling patterns and shapes.

Havatair sat behind a desk, the large man almost comically hunched over as he read reports and scratched off messages with a quill pen. San perked up at the sight of the quill, it was the first example of writing implements he had seen since he arrived into this world.

“Be with you in a moment, lad,” Havatair said. He scowled and scribbled more on a piece of paper or parchment and then folded it and sealed it close with wax. The big man looked up at San and leaned back in his chair, allowing it to creak noisily. “How do, San the Foreigner?”

“Good, I suppose. Your troops being here quells our fear. We hope to get the grazers out and feeding again, without fear of bonewings or battos, sir.”

“Good, good,” Havatair said, grunting as he lifted up a piece of paper. “Says here you’re the one that Sagaris and Markona are looking for. Big fucking foreigner who talks funny and seems dumb as rocks.”

“I don’t believe that is an apt description, sir,” San said, feeling his heart beginning to pound.

“Mage Killer, with levels, carrying a fancy sword, and strange gear,” the man continued. “Couldn’t use said fancy sword worth a shit, but still carried it. Good shot with a pistol.”

“That seems more accurate, sir,” San said.

Havatair laughed and set the sheet down. He looked at San for a long moment again and sighed. “You know what Sagaris was hauling?” he asked.

“Yes. After the Nox attacked, I did.” San replied.

“So you ran?”

“I did not run, sir. It was suggested that I stay, but Sagaris left to return to the ambush site taking most of the troops of the fort. I traded my horse for woollys and then decided that going on my own was better than being a target with the caravan,” San said.

“You understand that looks suspicious, right?”

“It appeared to me as prudence, sir. I had a fair amount of loot and Midway did not seem to offer any assurances that I would survive the night.”

“Aye, Midway is a shithole,” Havatair said. “Sadly a lot of trappers died from flashing too much riches there not long ago.” The man shook his head, as if sorry.

“A shame, they were brave men,” San said.

Havatair snorted, he looked at San and snorted again.

“You know what Sagaris was hauling, you left, but Sagaris got back to White Tower safe and sound,” Havatair said.

“That is good,” San replied. “I hear that with Midwinter’s Reprieve approaching, that will be the last caravans and trade that will be conducted until spring.”

“Aye. Even the Red freezes over.” Havatair sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You planning on telling anyone?”

“About what, sir?”

“You value your life? The lives of that kid and woman?”

“I don’t value my life highly, but there is no need to threaten the others. I understand what you are saying. Sagaris’ business is her own. What cargo moves along the roads of the Sol Savanis Barony is not my concern.”

“Good to hear, lad.” Havatair said. “You have levels, yes?”

“I do.”

“In what?”

“Brewing.”

Havatair laughed. “Honestly, tell me.”

“Brewing.”

He stopped laughing and frowned. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. You don’t see many leveled people who aren’t soldier, warrior, or fighter,” he said. “I thought you might be one of those, with how big you are.”

“This is naturally how big I am,” San said.

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that land you come from must be a place of giants.”

“Not really.”

They stood there in silence for a moment.

“May I go?” San asked.

“Aye,” Havatair said, sighing. San turned to go. “Hold on.”

San looked at the man expectantly.

“I see you didn’t rat out Pavano,” he said.

“Who?” San asked.

Havatair snorted. “There’s only one crazy old man who travels around these parts, seeking to meet a god on the roads, he says. Those kinds of men are sorely disappointed and end up just as bandit fodder.”

“We all travel for our own reasons,” San said.

“What’s yours, lad?”

“I got lost. This place seems interesting,” San replied.

***

“This it?” Elgava demanded as she saw San’s small two gallon clay pot. “I said something that everyone could get drunk on. I’m not paying twenty sars for that.”

“How much for a gallon of wine?” San asked.

“Two sars,” she said.

“Good wine?”

“Hetvana no.”

“This two gallons is about twenty gallons of wine,” San said. “If you’re not looking for flavor or taste, this is what will get you and your compatriots drunk the fastest.”

“Fast…” the woman paused as she looked at the pot. “The less time we’re drinking, the less time that Ilagio will be on our asses. Lemme try a taste.”

San unplugged the claypot, the smell of alcohol wafted up to him. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it smelled more of paint thinner than actual booze. The stuff was still fairly high, ending over a hundred proof.

He dipped a small cup into it, taking out barely two ounces of liquid.

“That it?” Elgava asked.

“That’s over one cup of wine,” San said.

Elgava looked at him skeptically and then smelled the drink. She wrinkled her nose and then knocked it back. She immediately began coughing and gagging, doubling over and nearly falling into the snow.

“Sweet Senta, that’s fire in my chest!” she gasped.

“The first time is always the hardest,” San said. “It doesn’t get any easier after that, but you get used to it.”

“Moonshine,” she said. “Rumor is that you’re an Adventurer. This have anything to do with Corvanus?”

“If you want it to,” San said. “We are fighting monsters soon, aren’t we? Perhaps something that represents Corvanus is needed more than Senta’s drink of choice.”

“Aye,” Elgava looked at the clay pot. “Moonshine,” she said slowly. Then she handed him the twenty sars.

San tucked the money away and watched as Elgava scurried off back to the camp, trying to hide the large claypot.

“Looking for profits, eh?” Pavano said, rounding the side of the barn that San and Elgava had hidden behind.

San smiled at Pavano. “Yeah. They wanted something to drink, I saw an opportunity.”

“That fire water,” Pavano nodded.

“Is ten sar a gallon a good price?” San asked.

Pavano thought on it for a moment. “I would charge a bit more, but that is a drink that you must get used to. It is not like wine or beer or mead, it is a lot of punch in a small package.”

“Yeah,” San said. “The wines I have drank are more akin to vinegar, they don’t have much alcohol by volume. I think maybe ten ABV at the highest. I haven’t had any of your good wine, so I can’t compare to that. But this drink is about ten times stronger.”

“Sweet Senta,” Pavano muttered.

“I would assume a gallon of moonshine would equal ten gallons of your cheapest wine.”

“All made from imbar,” Pavano said.

“Yeah.”

Pavano grinned.