Maintaining an air of despondency while zooming down a rope with Max hanging onto my hair and whooping and hollering at the top of his miniature lungs wasn’t exactly easy, but I managed it somehow. I even considered letting go of the straps half-way down, if only to shut him up. But that wouldn’t have worked, I thought. Max could fly, and I could not. And despite my present mood, I still had things I wanted to do with my life.

I didn’t have to put up with his noise for long, however. He stopped when he saw just how fast the ground was coming towards us. Judging by the angle of rope, I figured I’d touch the ground with my toes no more than half a dozen paces before grinding my face into the dirt, unless I could somehow work out how to stop myself fairly quickly.

True to form, Max looked after himself first. “Not me,” he said. He flapped his wings and let go at the same time as I started to swing back and forth.

Once … twice … nearly there … and I managed to wrap both legs on the rope in front of me so that my boots acted as a brake. I was still moving pretty fast, so I used the leverage I’d gained to twist the strap-and-metal thing so it grabbed the rope a little more.

It worked. I came to a complete stop just before my feet touched the huge metal anchor at the end of the rope.

I wondered how the orcs who came down this way managed to stop. Then I wondered if they actually did come down this way, or if they had some safer option. Either way, I didn’t waste much time thinking about it as I untangled myself from the straps and dropped lightly to the ground. When Max turned up a few seconds later, I offered the Demesne an ironic salute, chose a route that would have taken us into the mountains if we walked far enough, and set off.

We entered the village of Brelor slightly less than two hours later. I tried not to create as much of a stir as I had upon entering Ulm, but my various adventures up until then had left me with nothing.

So a passing stranger found himself lighter by one coin pouch. I took that coin pouch to the nearest tavern, commandeered a barstool, ordered a tankard of ale for myself and a half for my diminutive friend, and in twenty minutes flat I was working on my third.

“I just don’t understand,” I repeated for the umpteenth time.

The Puking Orc reminded me a lot of The Rancid Pusball where I’d met Max and Gabby. It was perhaps a little lighter and cheerier, but it still smelled vaguely of vomit and urine and the body-odor of many different species all pressed in together.

The layout was slightly different. There was no mezzanine. But other than that, we could have been back in Ulm. Even the barkeep reminded me of his fat, sweaty counterpart at The Rancid Pusball, except that he had a thick black beard instead of a mustache. There was even a Poodle equivalent standing watch at the door. Of course, he was shorter and somewhat less formidable, but the intent was the same.

“I mean, what’s he got that I don’t?” I continued.

I admit it: I was a little drunk, heading steadily towards a lot. Max surfaced from his half-tankard and gave a happy belch. I figured that listening with your head buried in foam can’t be easy, so maybe he hadn’t heard me. But he surprised me by offering an answer.

“‘Side from bein’ ruler of everythin’ an’ rich enough to make yer eyes water, yeh mean?”

“Yeah. Seriously though, why should that matter? I mean, you saw him. He’s old. How could he compare to me? How could she even think…?”

“Maybe she values ‘is wealth an’ power over yer talent of repeatedly ruinin’ ‘er life,” said Max.

The idea of emptying the rest of his drink over his head suddenly appealed. Instead, I took a long swallow of my own (it was very similar to the overly fizzy ale back in Ulm) and muttered dire imprecations under my breath. Max must have heard, because he buried a malicious chuckle with his head back in his ale.

I considered the most recent episode of my life and decided it was one of the least satisfactory adventures I’d ever had. On the plus side, visiting the Demesne was something I never thought I’d be able to do and nobody there had beaten me up. It had been a short, safe, no-harm-done adventure, where the most physically uncomfortable thing to happen to me was that I got to spend a cold night locked in a cell listening to Max snore.

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But I’d gone there with Gabby and I’d left without her. Somehow, I’d lost her to a man maybe four times my age (or maybe forty times my age if you believed the rumors) with a distinct lack of teeth. And there was nothing at all that I could do to get her back.

I sighed into my ale and contemplated her final words to me. “I hope you find the Fracture,” she’d said. I have to admit, for long periods of time I’d pretty much forgotten about that malformed sprite, even though my quest for it had been the seed for everything good, bad or indifferent that had happened since. I had my reasons for forgetting, of course; getting attacked by a sequence of goblins and orcs does take your attention away from such things, as does the presence of a beautiful woman whom you’d like to get to know a bit more intimately. But now there wasn’t anything distracting me other than my ale and my despondency.

With that thought in mind, I shrugged my shoulders. Might as well get back to it, I thought, and turned on my stool to the tavern in general. “Listen up!” I called to one and all, and was promptly and completely ignored. “I said LISTEN UP!” I bellowed as loudly as I could. The conversation died to a murmur as heads of various sizes and species turned my way. Some expressed obvious annoyance but others appeared to be curious.

Waving my tankard as if it held some sort of meaning, I said, “Anyone here know where I might find a thing that lets you see the past, present and future? Called the Fracture?”

Some faces stared blankly. One or two looked furtive. Others looked at me as if I’d committed a crime. Seconds later, they’d all lost whatever interest they had and turned back to whatever they were doing before my interruption.

Oh well, I thought. It had been worth a try. I turned back to the bar and took another swig.

The barkeep wandered over. “You look like trouble,” he said, his words a mumble that his beard nearly stifled.

I snorted a little into my drink. “I get that a lot,” I said.

“Hmmph. Well. Be that as it may, if you want to avoid some, you’ll listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” I said, wondering what was on his mind.

“There’s something you ought to know about this place. Brelor, I mean. We live in the shadow of a powerful man.”

“Yeah, the Shadow,” I said. “I’ve met him. Old guy. I can’t say I like him much.”

“Ok, ok, yes, you’re right, but no, not him. Someone else. Powerful, but not as powerful as the Shadow. Or at least different. I don’t really know. Anyway, this is important, so listen.”

I thought the barkeep might bore me to death before he ever got to the point. “Will you get to the point?” I asked.

The part of his face I could see over his beard turned a delicate shade of pink. “Don’t know why I bother,” he said, and started to turn away.

“No, wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. Please, say what you mean to say.”

It seemed to mollify him. “Hmmph,” he said again. “Well, it’s like this. There’s this man who lives in the mountains. But not humble-like, you know, like a hermit. This one lives in a palace with servants and suchlike to do his bidding. He’s got power. Not as much as the Shadow, but power over the likes of you and me nonetheless. He’s got money and a small army, like a Lord or King. But as far as I know, he isn’t neither of them. And he commands magics as well. I’ve not seen much of that, but I know those who have, and it’s scared them properly let me tell you. Are you listening to this?”

I realized I’d been yawning. I blinked, said, “Yes, please, do go on. What sort of magics does he do?”

“Huh? Oh, they say he can give you boils or make you sick in the mind. They say he made the crops fail a year or two back. And sometimes there’s this dark cloud that forms above his palace. Not natural, that cloud…”

It sounded like a dull list, and perhaps a touch unimaginative. I mean, it seemed to me that just about any unpopular man or woman living alone could get tarnished with the same brush, and there wasn’t a lot they could do to disprove it. But that didn’t mean this powerful man couldn’t do magics. It just meant it would take a bit more convincing before I believed it.

“So you’ve got someone powerful nearby,” I said. “Most towns and villages do. How will my knowing about it save me some trouble?”

“Because unlike other powerful men, this one doesn’t like hearing about people hunting for things he considers to be his domain. Like this Fracture thing you’re talking about.”

Oh. “And what might he do about it should he hear?” I asked.

“It isn’t really what he might do about it that’d be your problem. It hasn’t gone that far before, although he has the power to be very unpleasant if he chooses. It’s what Brelor might do about it, to keep him happy and stop him from doing anything.”

Made sense, I thought. In a messed up kind of way. “And what might Brelor do? And who exactly in Brelor might do the doing?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Some have been run out of town. Others, locked up. The very worst, well, they’ve been burned alive, in front of the whole town. Makes for a pretty sight, that does. The screaming goes on for quite a while longer than you’d expect, although by the end there isn’t much in the way of volume. Just a high pitched wail that drives some of the animals crazy, mostly hidden by the crackling of the fire. As for the who, just folk. Like those you see here. And me.”

The way he said that last left no doubt in my mind that he would have been near the front of the queue if it came to that with me.

I didn’t really like the idea of being burned alive. “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. The barkeep nodded and once more started to turn away. “Before you go,” I said, “How about another?” My tankard was empty.