Book 3, Chapter 26: Clan Herder (Patreon)

Could we off the proprietor of a popular establishment in the middle of said establishment and get away with it?

The bar was busy and loud, so there was a chance nobody would notice. Though it was possible the pounding was all in my ears

How did Ironbellows know that I was an Otherworlder? Was he guessing? Did he just suspect? Had they successfully bugged our tavern and listened in on our conversations?

All those thoughts swirled through my head as red began seeping into my vision and my fingers slowly crept unbidden to my warhammer. I activated [Flash of Insight] to focus my raging thoughts.

Did it really matter? It wasn’t as though the concept of the Chosen was new, it’d been going on possibly since the start of time. Your average person wasn’t liable to try and mess with someone literally given a job by the Gods.

Of course, that left the non-average, like crazy people, powerful people threatened by a Chosen’s actions, or other Chosen. There was a definite benefit to keeping my status on the lowdown.

And I wasn’t going to off some random Brewer just because they’d asked a question. Deny, deny, deny, that was the ticket!

“What do ya mean by Otherworlder?” I asked, as innocently as possible. I tried to activate [White Lie] but this clearly wasn’t one. My high Charisma at least kept the quaver out of my voice. Even if he had [Truespeech], that wasn’t technically a lie, either.

Ironbellows laughed and slung an arm over Appletina.  “Looks like I win tha bet, hun.”

The ginger dwarfess elbowed – I guess he had to be her husband – in the ribs, but didn’t try to shove him off. She sighed and kicked one foot morosely. “Aye, that you do.”

Aqua held up her hand, her mace already gripped in her other palm. “Can someone tell me what’s going on? Are we fighting?”

Ironbellows drew back in shock. “What?? No! Why would we do that??”

Even Penelope scoffed. 

Ironbellow’s smug expression slowly shifted to embarrassment. “Ah, was it some great secret? I apologize.”

“I don’t think most dwarves even know that other worlds exist.” Richter stated, matter of factly.

“Then it’s a good thing I said it here where nobody’s watchin’. Sorry, eh?” Ironbellows sketched a small bow.

“Hooooold it!” I held my hands up. “First, why do ya think I’m a – you know?”

Ironbellows looked around the room, and shrugged. “If yer wantin' to keep it a secret, let’s move this upstairs. He pointed to the ceiling above our heads.

We glanced up, then at each other. Did we trust a possible enemy and walk into his den?

“Slaggit. I wanna know.” Aqua hissed. “Pete?”

I sighed. I too wanted to see how deep the rabbit hole went. “I’m in. Everyone else?”

There was a chorus of “Ayes”. Worst case, Richter still had that magic defensive spell ready to go at a moment’s notice, and Balin could find us easily.

We followed Ironbellows and Appletina to a locked closet door, which turned out to be the stairwell to the next floor. We followed him up the creaky stairs to a fairly standard hallway. He opened the second door on the left and we were welcomed into a homey little study. There were several cushy lounge chairs, a bookshelf, a very nice wooden desk, and a corner table covered in paperwork. A trio of lanterns gave off dim light, playing flickering shadows upon the walls.  It smelled like old wood and lamp oil.

There was a young dwarf seated at the corner desk, pencil scribbling furiously. He stood up when the door opened and gave us a curious nod as we entered behind Ironbellows. The youngster had a simple traditional knotted beard and wore the grey robes of a journeyman brewer. He did not smell like onions. Neither did Ironbellows, come to think of it.

Ironbellows nodded back. “Journeyman Pennystock, I’ll be needin’ the office fer a bit. Go down and help in the bar.”

“Yessir, Master Herder.” The dwarf gave us a curious look as he exited, closing the door behind him. 

After a few seconds, Aqua opened the door a crack and peered outside. “He’s gone.”

“‘Course he is. Anyone want a smoke? More ta’ drink?” Ironbellows asked, pulling out a pipe and lighting it up.

Richter and Kirk each accepted a pipe, while Johnsson, Penelope, and Aqua each asked for a beer. I was too amped up for either.

“Well, where to begin…” Ironbellows began as we settled in on the various seating surfaces

“The beginning, hun.” Appletina said.

“In tha beginning, tha Gods – “ Ironbellows began.

“Not that far back!” Appletina smacked her husband on the back of the head.

“Ah. Well, you probably guessed that our pub gets its name from Lucky Jean Herder.” Ironbellows continued contritely.

“We suspected.” I acknowledged.

“Well it’s less named for and named by. You see, he’s tha direct ancestor of our Herder clan, and while he didn’t create tha’ brewery, he did start the inn that became it.”

Richter gasped. “Really!? I’m surprised you aren’t a noble! I would ‘ave thought Lucky Jean’s family would have enough influence.”

Jean shook his head. “Jean didn’t want our clan to foster nobility . He hated the concept.”

Richter leaned forward onto his knees, his eyes gleaming. “Do ya have any of his records?”

Ironbellows grinned. “Aye, that we do. The [Grandmaster World Explorer] penned journals of all his travels, and his thoughts as well. He was the first to explore a lot of Eastern Crack, and he discovered many secrets. In tha past centuries we’ve shared some with the Academy, but not all. Included among the unreleased books is a diary he kept about his life on a world called ‘Earth’.” 

Everyone looked over at me, which absolutely killed whatever little deniability I had left.

I sighed. “So, what made ya think I was an Otherworlder?”

Ironbellows stood and walked over to a bookshelf. He pulled a dusty leatherbound tome from it, and gave it a loving glance before passing it over to me.

The title on the front was La Bonne Aventure. 

I blinked. My internal translator wasn’t translating the words; it must only work on Crackian languages. 

“The Good Adventure,” I mused. As every good Canadian I knew enough French to ask where the bathroom was, say that I loved french fries, and state that the book was on the table. I could also say ‘I don’t speak French’ in perfect French, which had to be a real brain-buster for anyone from France. I could only imagine walking up to someone in England and asking for directions only for them to break out “Sorry, I don’t speak English” with a perfect British accent.

“He can read it!” Appletine squealed. 

“Hrm, sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t my native tongue. I may be able to read a bit, but not all of it.”

“Nobody else has been able ta read tha writin’ in that journal in tha thousands of years we’ve had it.” Ironbellows explained.

“Did you say thousands!?” I stared at the book in wonder. “It’s in incredible shape!”

Ironbellows nodded. “Jean had an Ability to keep documents safe. These books will never rot or catch fire or damp so long as they are owned by someone of his clan. He called it his great gift.”

“More like a cheat if it’s like mine…” I muttered, as I opened the book and began reading. 

The dedication at the front read. ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.’

“Huh. You said he hated the nobility? That makes sense. He must have been around during the French Revolution. But he was alive thousands of years ago! The revolution was only a couple hundred years in Earth’s past.”

“Time is not constant between universes.” Richter put in.

“We can discuss universal meta-physics later.” Aqua said, her eyes sparkling. “What does it say? This is so exciting!! I always loved stories about Lucky Jean when we were learning Crack history!” 

I opened it up and began reading aloud. The forward was written in standard dwarven runic, though in what seemed to be an older dialect. “To my descendents, or whomever else is reading. This journal contains my past on the world of Earth, my thoughts on what the future will hold, and details on an event called the Game of the Gods. Members of my clan should always know how to spot one of the pieces in the Game – the beings the Gods call Chosen Catalysts. Should you find one of them, do your utmost to tie beards with them, as they can bring great wealth and power to our clan. They should appear approximately every 4000 years.”

“And Jean Herder explored Crack… about 12,000 years ago…” Richter mused. “The time is right.”

I speed-read the next few paragraphs, which mostly contained information we already knew. Chosen would be the epicenter of change and revolution, they would be surrounded by Titled, they’d probably have Godly weapons/armour/Abilities, and they would Specialise faster and have higher stats than your average dwarf. There was also a warning to avoid any Chosen with warlike or political tendencies.

I flipped the page. The next chapter was in French, and I could barely make out one word in five.

I frowned at Ironbellows. “So, is this how ya guessed I was a Chosen?”

“Aye,” he said. “Yer tavern is famous for having nearly every worker Titled. I talked with yer Guildmaster, Malt, and he said you became a [Brewer] faster than anyone he’d ever seen. And then there was all tha chaos you’ve been brewin’ with yer brews. Seemed to fit, and yer reaction proved it!”

“Ugh.” Fine sleuthing indeed, and if he could figure it out. “Damn, is everyone going to know?”

Ironbellows shrugged. “I’m not sure this is common knowledge.”

Richter shook his head. “I did a bunch of reading back when we were tryin’ to figure out what in da Nether you were Pete. There were a few references to other worlds, but nuttin’ ‘bout da Chosen.”

Appletina jumped in, a bit desperately, “And we only approached you after we spent a few months looking into you lot. You’re good folk, hard working dwarves with a love of the brew. We were actually going to come visit after our competition, but you beat us to it! We really don’t want to fight!”

“But the most important part is in the back.” Ironbellows said, pulling my attention to the back of the book. “Jean left a letter.”

I flipped to the back chapter, which was a very short epilogue. It had a small paragraph in dwarven, another in English, and the rest in French.

Before I could start reading, Ironbellows quoted it out from memory. “‘To you Chosen, who my clan has chosen. I hope that you will take my generosity to heart, and treat my clan well.’ Our clan has always wondered what it says next!”

I nodded, reading along in my head. The next sentence was in English, with terrible grammar. I had to read it a few times to understand, then chuckled, darkly.

“What!? What!?” Aqua squealed.

“It’s a bunch of insults. Seems he wasn’t a fan of the British or Americans. He says that he has nothing to leave a dog of the King, and America should have chosen their allies better.”

Ironbellows looked crestfallen, and I held up a hand to forestall him. 

“There’s a bunch more in Jean’s native tongue. It’s short, and I recognize some of the words, so I’ll give it a shot. No guarantees.” 

I squinted at the page for a few minutes, then pointed out words I recognized. “Ahem. Alright, it starts with tha word fer compatriot or maybe countryman. Then tha word fer friend. The verb offrir, which I’m pretty sure means ta offer. Can’t read the next bit... these words are gold and silver…. I think this next word is treasure? And this next bit translates to ‘the White Wall’….”  I petered off as I felt the oppressive weight of every eye boring down on me. 

Everyone screamed at once, “DID YOU SAY TREASURE!?”