Chapter 15:  “A Toast and a Warning”

 Diners left before the tavern turned into its nightly brawl of laughter and bravado.

And with fewer mouths to feed, the innkeepers finally had a moment to breathe.

Curtis  raised a hand, gesturing quietly to Freeman.

“Have you a moment to spare?”

“If a guest calls, I’ll carve time from stone,” Freeman replied with a grin, ever the innkeeper who found joy in good company.

“How about a pint of ale? My treat.”

“Now that is the sort of idea I can drink to.”

Without waiting for more, Freeman fetched two mugs of frothy brew, ignoring Seiker’s muttered protests about shirking duties. He returned with practiced ease, sliding a mug across the table.

“To your health.”

Clink.
The two raised their tankards in a gentle toast and drank.

“I had the impression you weren’t much for drink,” Freeman said, brow lifting slightly. “I could count the number of times you’ve ordered on one hand.”

“I wouldn’t say I dislike it,” Curtis  answered with a faint smile. “I’ve just rarely had occasion for it.”

“Sounds like a roundabout way of saying you do dislike it.”

“Perhaps,” Curtis  admitted.

The truth, unspoken, was that when Curtis  had come of age, he’d been in the constant service of Zerion, the Young Lord. There’d been no time, nor permission, for idle indulgence. And now, in Nijerte, his nights were spent refining his craft, chasing discipline over drunkenness.

But Freeman didn’t know that. All he knew was that Curtis , usually so reserved, had invited him for a drink. And when a quiet man asks for company at the tavern, it often means something weighs on his mind.

“Something troubling you?”

“Not exactly troubling,” Curtis  said. “But I’ve been thinking—and I figured I might ask your advice. You’ve lived a life or two more than me.”

“I’m just an old mercenary, friend. What wisdom could I possibly hold?”

“The wisdom of the sword,” Curtis  replied. “That’s precisely the problem.”

Freeman blinked. “Problem?”

“You were a mercenary once. So tell me—what’s the safest way for a mage to gain battle experience?”

At first, Freeman was ready to dismiss the question. He’d heard it a hundred times before, from starry-eyed fools chasing romantic dreams of the mercenary life.

But then one word rang strangely.

“…Mage?”

“Yes,” Curtis  said simply. “There are mages who take contracts, are there not?”

“There are. Sure. But why ask…?”

“Because I’d like to see the real thing. The battlefield.”

“Wait—Curtis … you’re a mage?”

“I am.”

Curtis  spoke without boast or hesitation. Freeman’s mouth fell slightly open. He wasn’t joking. But it felt like a joke. It had to be, didn’t it?

HA!

The sudden bark of laughter from a nearby table shattered the moment. Both men turned toward the noise.

Three grizzled mercenaries sat not far off, their mugs half-emptied and their eyes now locked on Curtis .

“That you, kid?” chuckled one with a jagged scar slicing down his cheek. “A few sips of ale and you’re already talking nonsense?”

Freeman scowled. “I told you lot not to mess with the paying guests.”

“Ah, come on,” Scarface snorted. “I just couldn’t help myself. A mage, he says! And you, old man, you’re nodding like it’s gospel!”

They knew each other. Not close, but enough to speak. Still, the man’s loosened tongue wouldn’t have run so freely if Freeman’s temper were what it once was. There was a time that comment would have earned him a new scar to match the first.

Freeman was just beginning to consider his options when—

SPLASH!

A geyser of ale shot up from Scarface’s mug and exploded in his face, dousing him head to chest.

“GAH! Pthff—what the hell?!”

The man thrashed, sputtering, dripping with drink. His companions rose in alarm.

Freeman’s head snapped instinctively toward Curtis .

The young man sat with serene composure, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I suppose I should count myself lucky,” he said. “At least my face is still clean. Yours, it seems, is ruined in more ways than one.”

“You little—!”

“What in the name of—what did you just do?!”

The other two men surged to their feet. But they, too, froze as their own mugs began to tremble… then rise.

The beer inside them lifted—defying gravity, curling upward like enchanted serpents of gold-tinged foam, dancing at eye level with eerie sentience.

“If I were not feeling generous,” Curtis  said softly, “I’d do more than spill your drinks.”

The threat was not loud. It didn’t need to be.

“I suggest you sit,” he continued. “Unless you’d prefer your ale flavored with blood.”

“…W-We’re sorry,” one of them muttered, paling.

There’s no one more protective of their own life than a mercenary who knows exactly how short it can be.

The men dropped back into their seats, quiet as mice. Even Scarface, now wiping his face with a rag, shrank inward and said nothing more.

Needless to say, they didn’t linger long.

Moments later, they fled the tavern with all the grace of a scalded dog.

WHUMP!

Unfortunately, they collided with someone just stepping through the door.

“Oof!”

“Watch where you’re going, jackass!”

“Perhaps if you didn’t burst out like a cornered boar—!”

“What did you just say?”

“Oh, saints… I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Step aside! Don’t block the damned entrance!”

“The way you talk, you begging for a slap?!”

Though Curtis  couldn’t see past the crowd, the shouting made the situation clear enough. Freeman glanced toward the commotion and shot a silent look to Seiker by the bar.

Handle it, the look said.

But Seiker only smiled and shook his head.

And then came the reason why.

THWACK. THUD. CRACK!

Three crisp sounds rang out like drumbeats.

And then, with almost theatrical timing, Scarface came flying back through the door, skidding across the tavern floor in a dazed heap—nose bloodied, limbs twitching.

The voice of his assailant followed soon after.

“Tell your clients to leash their dogs, barkeeps.”

The source of the voice entered the room—his face half-shrouded, the rest marked with irritation. He halted, blinking at the silence.

“…Whxat in the abyss? Did I walk into a wake?”