Plain of the Fourteen Pillars - Book 1

There was still many hands of darkness to go before the sun would pop up from beyond the horizon and give him the day, but Brand’s insomnia of late had given him an excuse to do the things he needed to do that he couldn’t get done during the day while he was working. This night he decided to do an early inventory of the bar. Not so much a difficult task, but more so time consuming and positively dull; a job for the missus. Of course, he would never outwardly say such a thing, Beth was a strong minded woman, and she’d kick his topey hide. Apart from that, she was the one who had insisted on taking control of all the stock and financial sides to the business, so even when he might be inclined to do inventory, she’d come along afterwards and double check his figures, but.... that was alright. She would still praise him for helping out; she was also a grateful woman. Later in the day he would spy her wandering around the bar with a pad and a pencil and he would ask her, “What are ye doing my love?” and she would answer him, “Just doing some inventory,” and then he would say, “But I’ve already done the bar,” and then she would answer, softy and without looking at him, “I know.”

  She was also a very lovable woman, with a heart of gold and patience for all-sorts. Yes, she could fire up if need be, especially when something inappropriate was going down in the bar, but that was just how she was, a mother figure to the town. To Brand though, she was his woman, and she was plenty fine.

  Meanwhile.... back to work.

  Steins.... 1, 2, 3.... keep counting.... 105. That’s eight down from the last count five days ago. Broken or just lost? Maybe I should’ve bought those metal ones from that fellow and gotten rid of these earthenware ones. But ye can’t have metal steins, then it would be just a mug. Steins are made of stone, that’s why they’re called steins; I can’t have patrons coming up to me and saying, “Hey Brand, give us a mug of cider,” it don’t sound right. Now when they comes up to me and says, “I’ll ‘ave a stein filled with cider,” that makes my day seem all the better.

  Alternatively, Beth could have the job done in half the time.

  That’s when the tall, young fellow with the dirty feet walked into his tavern.

  It was an odd moment, and silence followed.

  The intruder was lanky in build, with brown hair, and had his pants rolled up to the knees. There was a shadow on the left side of his face though the light from the lantern filled the room, and he was grinning.

  “I saw the light on,” he said, “I’m glad you’re up.”

  Brand finally recognised the chap from the fight earlier, the same one who had come in from the storm with his four companions and requested a room for the night. Barret was his name, according to the betting board.

  “Not my business maybe,” Brand said, “depending on what ye may have been up to out there, but where’ve ye been all half dressed as ye are?”

  Barret moved closer to the bar and sat down on one of the wooden stools there. “Been taking care of some business,” he answered, and then reached into his trouser pocket.

  “What sort of business?” Brand questioned sternly.

  Barret pulled out a few pieces of gold coin and placed them on the bar in front of the publican’s eyes.

  “Can I count on your discretion?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Brand said, looking passed the coins at Barret with disgust.

  Barret pulled out a couple more coins to add to the bribe and then winked casually.

  “Young fellow,” Brand chided, “I ain’t condoning none of yer shenanigans in my town now....”

  To which Barret added even more coin, and....

  “There ye go,” Brand said, finally agreeing to the terms.

  Barret sighed.

  “Alright,” he began, “I’ve discarded of a trouble maker from our party. Been stirring up problems and right near got us killed by Humps.”

  Brand laughed, “Humps ain’t going to kill ye. They might roll all over ye and play with ye for a wee bit, but they ain’t into killing.”

  Barret absorbed the mockery. “Well,” he continued, “either way, he needed to go....”

  “Ye talking about that wee pig-face,” Brand guessed, “The wee yelp.... Briar?”

  “That’s right,” Barret said.

  “Aye, seen the mischief in his eyes I did, straight away. So what ye do to him?”

  “I won’t tell you now,” Barret teased, “but be certain you’ll hear about it when day breaks.”

  “So what exactly are ye paying me off for then?”

  Barret leaned in close, over the top of the bar, and glanced around the room briefly before locking eyes with Brand.

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said softly, “if you might casually mention to my companions that you met with our little pig friend, let’s say, about now, while you’re up doing whatever it is you’re doing, and that he was carrying his satchel and he said he was leaving and that his friends would take care of the bill.”

  “Sounds right dastardly,” Brand smiled. “He bet against ye didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good fighting that was young fellow. Most that take on Spanner go straight in for the barrel and end up bouncing off. The only reason ye lost is because ye seriously thought ye could win.”

  “Yeah thanks,” Barret droned.

  Brand reached under the bar and brought out two steins. He placed them between himself and Barret before taking a short stroll through the door to an adjoining room where he disappeared for just a moment until re-emerging with a heavy looking earthenware bottle cradled in his arms. He winked at Barret, then placed the bottle on the bar and popped the cork.

  There was an immediate smell, sweet with honey and something else, Barret couldn’t tell.

  “Carrot mead,” Brand said, answering the quizzical look on his friends face, “Make it myself. Family recipe, ye see. Can’t bring myself to putting a price on it though, so we don’t sell it.”

  “Smells good,” Barret said.

  “Smells ridiculously good,” Brand corrected him.

  He picked up the heavy bottle and tilted it up in the crook of his arm to pour. It flowed out, almost oozed, and cascaded like a rich, orange waterfall into each stein, glugging softly as the mead was replaced by air at the back of the bottle.

  “Cheers,” Brand said as he corked the bottle and clasped the stein in one motion.

  Barret lifted his frothy headed cup and chinked it against the barman’s.

  They drank.

  It was sweet.

  It was good.

  “By the way,” Brand pointed out, “ye forgot to put yer boots on.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE