As the green produce in Gareth’s carriage gradually became replaced by sacks of salt, spices and soap, Stefan was hit by nostalgia. It reminded him of the days that he would head out of Derban with the elders, learning from them how to negotiate and communicate. During his childhood, he and Joakim would pretend to barter amongst each other, which was something that Ruben and Kallista encouraged. Joakim was Stefan’s only constant form of socialisation, the only reason he wasn’t completely lost in this totally different environment. He wished that Joakim was with him. No matter how much he argued with him, no matter how much he wished to deny it, he really did love his brother. The presence of the Bernard family, Gareth and even Anwen were the only things able to distract him from thinking of what could’ve happened to his brother, mother and uncle-figure. A fate had befallen them that had no certain known aspects, except that it was in the hands of the Angels. His now sworn enemies.
“I wish we could stay here,” Stefan mumbled to himself. “After a couple more days, it’s back to the base as usual.”
“If we lived here,” Gareth said as he carried sacks of materials he’d acquired to his carriage. “We’d be putting the people of this town in danger. If a battle happened here again, people would die. I won’t let that happen.”
“Don’t you miss living in a community, Gareth?” Stefan asked.
“Not the one I came from. But you do, right?”
“I… do.” Stefan answered gloomily.
“You’re strong. But you’re not strong enough to go back yet. I’ll make sure you get there.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Gareth walked on silently, refusing to elaborate.
‘Why is he always like this?’ Stefan wanted to scream out loud. He hated that things were being kept from him. He was aware that Gareth knew things that he didn’t. What harm would there be in him simply knowing?
Night quickly came. Dr. Bernard invited his three guests to come with him and visit Marius’ tavern. Hymns of anti-Angel sentiment echoed off the walls as violinists and trumpeters masterfully practiced their arts. The tavern-goers clapped their hands and stomped their feet to the rhythm. This town was aware of the Angel threat, as even children younger than Stefan joined in on the festivities. If knowledge of the invaders was so common, why hadn’t Stefan known a single thing about them until half a year earlier?
After three hours, the bartenders began to serve drinks and food to the patrons, many of whom were tired travelers from elsewhere. Marius was one of, if not the largest town in the entire north of Yeupis. People from all over that part of the continent came to partake in business or rest on their journeys.
“You’re quite the drinker, I must say.” Dr. Bernard amused as Gareth downed his fifth pint of ale. Signs of drunkenness were still not apparent.
“Doctor, you have no right to lecture me on what I do for fun. Aren’t you being a hypocrite by being here?” Gareth snorted.
“I come here once a month, and even then, it’s just to socialize. You’ll never catch me with more than a single pint of ale in my hand.” Felix defended himself politely.
“Yeah, yeah. Seems like young Leon is being a better example of your profession than you are right now.”
“You know that boy,” Felix sighed. “It might not be in the same way, but once he’s interested in something he sticks to it. Just like… his old man…”
10 years had gone by since his son and daughter in-law crossed the Marius Mountains and never returned, but Felix never stopped thinking about them. When the reeve of the town had offered to make memorial graves in their honour at the cemetery, Felix refused. Only the dead need graves, Felix would contend.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Mr. Koppel,” a man tapped his shoulder. “I challenge you to a drinking contest!”
“Until?” Gareth calmly asked.
“Until one of us passes out.” The opponent smirked.
“Very well. I accept your challenge.”
The men took turns downing pints, one by one. The one who had initiated the contest began to feel tipsy after nine drinks, but he continued going. On the fifteenth pint, the man had finally collapsed and was quickly dragged out of the tavern. Gareth had only begun to feel woozy after his 20th drink, a sign of his body’s tolerance and weight.
The tavern-goers began to cheer for him, crowding around him and chanting his name. The hero of Marius was the undisputed ale champion, a title he’d held for nine years. People would speculate that he’d only pass out after drinking the same quantity of ale that would quite literally kill any other man. He truly was different from other people.
“The guy hates attention any other time, but it’s all he wants when he drinks.” Stefan thought aloud.
“Dey shay a dwunk mind shpeaksh a shober heawt.” Anwen said, her speech slurred. Her face was flushed, and she had trouble holding herself up. Six drinks was enough for a 14-year-old girl to become intoxicated.
“Not you too, Anwen!” Stefan whined. Although he didn’t have high expectations for the girl, he didn’t expect her to act so lowly. Stefan wasn’t innocent himself, however. He’d had a couple of pints, but only to experiment. Kallista had never allowed him to drink in his life, and this was his first-time doing so. He was about to scold her and call her out for being the stupider one between the two of them for once, but he felt a stiff shoulder brush against his as someone took a seat next to him at the bar counter.
“Watch it, old man!” he told the inebriated man, who seemed to want more ale.
“Shut yer mouth, lad. I don’t take no order from a brat whose balls ain’t dropped yet.” The man slurred, shoving the boy away from him. Stefan controlled himself and stopped himself from spewing profanities at the man, not wishing to embarrass himself at the first social outing he’d ever really been to.
“Hey, mishy, ova’ here!” the man said to a bartender working behind the counter.
“Me?” the woman asked, turning around.
“Ahh, shee, I knew you’d be a looker,” the man rubbed his hands together. “When are ya’ off work tonight?”
“I’m engaged. I’m not looking for a relationship, sir. Thank you.”
She was about to return to drying off washed glasses when the man reached over the counter, grabbing her shoulder.
“Come on now, shweetie,” the man said, his face getting dangerously close to hers. “I’ll compenshate ya’ for ya’ time. You’ll be the luckiesht girl in all a’ Mariush.”
“Sir, please! I don’t have the time for this!” she cried, struggling to release herself from his tight grasp.
“Leave the lady alone, weirdo,” Stefan suddenly yelled. “Let her do her job.”
“I thought I told ya’ I don’t take ordersh from li’l prepubeshent shitsh like you!” the man’s attention was redirected, and it looked like he was going to take a swing at the boy. Stefan crossed his arms in front of him to stop the incoming fist from connecting with his face, but it was unnecessary. A huge hand grabbed the back of the drunk harasser’s collar, and as if he was a huge rag doll, pulled him off the seat. Seconds later, the drunkard found himself thrown into a wall on the other side of the tavern, having plowed through chairs and tables. Stefan looked up to see Gareth standing over the man, breathing heavily and angrily.
“Have you no honor as a man?” Gareth seethed, his pronunciation and perception still remarkably clear after all the drinks he had downed.
“I shaid I’d compenshate her!” the drunk man cried, clearly showing no remorse for his acts.
“The only person you’re going to compensate is the doctor after I deal with you.”
A massive crowd started to congregate around the two men, blocking Stefan’s sight.
“If you’d done dat from da shtart, thish messh woulda’ been over quickly,” A drunk Anwen said, repeatedly poking Anwen in the cheek. “Das’ wha’ a real man duz, Shteffy.”
Stefan sighed, gazing upon the state of the girl. He stood up and grabbed her arm, leaving the tavern with her.
“You’ve had too many drinks. Anymore and you’ll be a freak like the guys there.” Stefan said, leading her down the main road of Marius.
“Pwease? Jus’ 10 mo’ minutesh.” Anwen frowned.
“No! We’re going back to Leon’s place.” Stefan exclaimed.
“I hate you, Shteffy.” Anwen groaned.
“Right back at you. Now come on, keep moving.”
Anwen stumbled over the nearly flat road, almost tripping over her own feet. Stefan’s hand could barely support her. He noticed this and didn’t hesitate to hoist her onto his back so that she wouldn’t bog him down.
“Unhand me, vile beasht!” Anwen cried, hitting Stefan’s back with the sides of her fists.
“You can’t even walk!” Stefan groaned. “Shut up for a bit.”
“Okay. Showwy.” She said with humility. Stefan was usually the less controlling one of the two, but this time he had no choice. Had she stayed at the tavern, she might’ve really drunk herself to death.
Stefan felt something smooth but solid against his left ribs as he carried the now-sleeping girl on his back. He thought that maybe someone had somehow placed a large, empty ale bottle in the pocket of his tunic, but when he checked with his eyes to see it, there was nothing. That’s when he finally noticed it.
Anwen’s left leg was artificial.