CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Apprentice

 

I did not sleep easy that night. When awake, I kept thinking I heard the sorcerer’s cackling; when asleep, a disturbing dream plagued me. I dreamed I was a lion, stalking through the desert at night, trailing a slave caravan until I came to a place where the path was narrow and the grass grew tall. The lion, that was me, waited, watching the first wagon roll by, seeing it filled with slaves, all with the face of Marcus. When the second wagon came past, I leapt from the grass, and crushed the white-robed slaver to the ground. The slaver spun, wearing my own face and drawing a dagger. At the same instant, my viewpoint shifted, and I leapt at myself, collided with myself, dying twice.

 

I woke to Hobart’s enthusiastic chatter at some Gods-forsaken hour in the morning. It was a good hour before dawn and marked the first time in my life that I’d had to be woken for anything. It was thoroughly unpleasant, especially with the hangover and my experience in the thorn bush. I felt like boiled shit.

 

We suffered under his tutelage for the entire day, which was how long it took to brew a single batch. I won’t bore you with the details, but will tell you this much: it was damn hard work. I was no stranger to work, but my muscles ached by the end of it. The bags of malted barley we lugged to the giant kettle were heavy, and it took most of an hour to fill the thing with water, one bucket at a time. And the waiting… there was so much waiting. Waiting for water to heat, for malt to do whatever it did, for water to boil, and finally for the sugar water, called wort, to cool. And don’t think for a second that we got to sit and relax during all this waiting. No, that was when the cleaning was done.

Marcus and I were thoroughly disillusioned with the brewing of ale by the end of it. Yet, that would be our job for a year. I just hoped I would remember half of what he taught us.

 

By the time evening approached, we were finally done and sat in the barrel room with Hobart. The barrel room easily took up half the area of the brewhouse, and it was there that we sampled a large portion of his previous batches. I very much enjoyed his ale, and it somewhat compensated for the day’s work. The ale went to my head. I wouldn’t say I was drunk, but certainly well on my way.

Hobart was another story. His speech was slurred as he regaled us with stories of Sagemont, complained about his father-in-law, and spoke of his dreams for the future. At the close of the night, Hobart placed woolen blankets over the freshly filled barrels and kissed them goodnight. He told us that they needed the extra warmth in winter to help them ferment.

As I walked through the barrel room, the other two close behind, Hobart stumbled and knocked into me. I tripped, and fell against a barrel, knocking it off its stand. “Seven hells,” I swore as I rubbed at my shins. The barrel rolled a few meters before coming to rest, leaking all the way. Marcus found the bung that was knocked out and replaced it. Hobart came stumbling over, pointing at the spilled ale. “Wot ish thus!” he slurred. “Waschted producd… a mesch!” He stood looking down at the puddle while swaying on his feet. “Shctupid apprentish…”

“Do not call me an apprentice,” I muttered, standing to my feet.

“Uselesh apprentash you—”

I moved with great speed and slammed Hobart into the wall, a dagger materializing in my hand, and I held it to Hobart’s throat.

“Easy, Saul,” Marcus said from behind. “Don’t do this thing. Calm down and think about what you are doing. He’s not Angus, he’s just a drunk tavern keeper.”

Hobart was shaking visibly, and the shaking caused him to get nicked. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. I breathed heavily. “I am not your apprentice!” I shouted, and shoved Hobart hard into the wall before letting go. Hobart slumped to the ground, cowering.

I stormed out into the night and the cold hit me with force. My anger fled nearly as quickly as it had flared up. It had been a tough day, and the incident with Hobart took even more from me. I walked to the side of the lake and onto the small pier behind the tavern. I sat down on the edge, dangling my feet over the water. The pier had a small fishing boat attached to it, and water pooled within it. It seemed that all small boats had puddles. An icy breeze blew from across the lake, creating ripples on the water. I could not help but calm down, looking out across the lake with moonlight reflecting from its surface.

I regretted what happened with Hobart. Was I going to attack anyone that reminded me of my past? No, that would not do. But it was the very recent past, and I reckoned I’d get better at controlling some of the feelings I’d kept bottled up for so long.

It was freezing out there, but I wasn’t ready to return to the brewhouse just yet. I had no idea what I would say to Hobart. That I was sorry? Sure, that would be a start. But it wouldn’t go halfway to making amends for holding a dagger to the man’s throat.

 

An hour later, I found myself standing in front of the brewhouse door, one hand on the door handle, but not wanting to open it. Whispers from around the corner drew my attention. Moving quietly, I peeked around it. Three men stood in the middle of the street, hunched around an object. Creeping closer, I saw that it was an oil canister. What were these men doing? Nothing good, of that I was sure.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” I asked.

They spun to face me, and two of them leveled short crossbows at me. I held up my hands and backed away. I recognized the one in the middle. He was the bald man who had thrown fish at the tavern when we’d first arrived.

“Look who it is, boys,” the man said in a whisper. “It’s the friend of that big fellow who had you mop the elf-lover’s floors. Nice of him to join us,” he said laughing quietly. The malice of the man’s words sounded odd spoken so softly. “Tie him to the porch. He can watch the tavern burn from up close.” The two hooded men slowly made their way toward me, crossbows kept at the level.

I almost groaned when the cold sensation crept down my spine. Magic… again. There was a bright flash, which blinded me, and I was dropped on my arse by a force of energy that rushed past me. My eyes stung, and I wiped them with my sleeve to clear the dust and tears.

When my vision returned, green afterglow followed wherever I looked, but I made out three flames on the road. I did not need to wonder at what they were. The smell of burning flesh was quite familiar to me. Unfortunately, the smell was not too dissimilar from roasting meat and made me realize my hunger.

I wondered at my magical savior. I searched the nearby alleys and looked around the corners of the surrounding buildings. The beach was empty, too. When I returned to the street, the burning bodies were nothing but ash. I kicked softly at one of the piles, sending a cloud of fine ash into the air which took long seconds to settle back to the ground. What would do such a thing? What could turn a body into ash within a minute and leave nothing, not even bones or teeth? Stranger still, the canister of lamp oil lay on the street untouched by fire. Magic, clearly, but who or what?

 

I soon gave up my search and returned to the tavern. I doubted anyone would return to finish the job those men had planned. I picked up the canister, undid the lid, poured it out onto the road, and tossed the empty canister. I was retrieving my new key when something caught my eye. A hand stuck out from beneath the bench on the porch. I approached it carefully, and peered underneath. Neysa lay there.

“Hey,” I whispered, but she did not respond. “Neysa,” I said, nudging her gently. She did not stir, and I worried for the girl. I went on my knees and dragged her out as gently as I could. Her chest slowly rose and fell, but I could not wake her. Even smelling salts had no effect. I unlocked the tavern door, then carried her inside. It felt wrong to touch her, but I couldn’t exactly leave her out there. But I could not help but notice her smell, nor could I stop myself enjoying it. She didn’t smell of perfume, exactly. She smelled of fresh air and grass. Or was it just… her? I decided she smelt like home, whatever that was. I stood with her in my arms in the dark kitchen. I had no idea where to put her and ended up carrying her to my bed. I tucked her in and brushed her hair from her face. She did not look like much of a savior. Such a slight girl, and delicate. But there was no one else around to claim the title, and I knew it had to be her that had roasted the men. How she had done that when all she could do a few days before was light a candle? That I did not know, but it had clearly cost her. “Sleep well,” I said and left the room.

I no longer had a bed to call my own, so I decided to head back down to the brewhouse. A sack of malt would have to do that night. I had slept on worse.