This little story here is a extract from one of my larger stories, about Frandal the winemaker and how he got caught up in all sorts of trouble.
“Remind me Frandal, what’s the most important part of making
a wine?” asked Benari, Frandal’s teacher. He knew Benari hadn’t forgotten, he
was testing Frandal to make sure he’d listened to his lessons.
“The most important part is patience” he sighed, picking
berries from one of the many bushes in the garden of their rich family’s house.
Not ‘their’ family to be exact, but the family they worked for; making them
alcoholic drinks.
Benari frowned. “It’s not yet time for the fruits to bloom
to their fullest. Another example of where patience is needed; an attribute our
employers don’t have” he carried on looking, only picking a few fruits that had
luckily grown to an appeasing colour.
In truth they weren’t ‘employed’. They were more similar to
spoils of war. Frandal had lived far to the east in the town of Rainfast; named
after it’s unfortunate weather. The townsfolk always used to complain about it.
Frandal enjoyed the rain though. To him it sounded like hundreds of lost souls
harmlessly trying to be reunited with the earth. Now whenever it rained it
reminded him of home; of better times.
Benari had worked for Frandal’s family, employed by his
father. An actual employment, not slavery. Benari had been paid well, and he
had made wonderful wines for the family.
Eventually, however, the war had swept their way. The
kingdom of Capiera had invaded their land and claimed their town. Frandal’s
family had been slain.
Benari was about to be struck down as well until he pleaded
“wait, wait, I am but a winemaker” he said. Amazingly they stopped their swords.
“I just make alcohol” he continued. “try some if you like. All the wines and
beers and meads in this house were made by me” he boasted. The men had looked
at each other and decided not to kill him. They would spare his life; to take
him back to their city as their own personal winemaker. When the men had turned
to Frandal, only young lad back then, Benari had told them he was his
apprentice. They had let both live.
And so it was that the Veldon family had taken them prisoner
to a city near the sea, on a jagged mountainside. The city was aptly named ‘The
Shattered Glass’ in reference to the mountain’s treacherous cracks.
Frandal had argued against Benari many times; wanting to
escape; wanting to avenge his family; wanting anything but this. Eventually,
however, as the years went by he accepted his fate and started to learn what
Benari had to teach him.
“No one kills one who can make alcohol” Benari had told him
one day. “Something everyone has in common is a deep desire to drink. We supply
their drink. If the day ever comes when a man pulls a blade on you, you tell
him you make alcohol”
And so, years later, Frandal now being Seventeen years of age, the
sounds of war, of blood and fire, rang horrifically familiar to both of them.
They heard shouts from the house. “What’s going on?” came
the cries.
It seemed the family wasn’t used to being warred upon, they knew what it was to war on
other people, but didn’t recognise it the other way round. Many of the people
in this town had been in the war to conquer Frandal’s old home; surely they
would fight off their attackers?
As they rushed back to the house they saw this wasn’t so.
The building was aflame. A door was kicked open and a body fell out of it,
sliding off the end of a wickedly jagged blade. A dark skinned man; wearing
only leathers, followed the body out; another viscous lighter-skinned man
behind him, this one holding an axe in each hand.
“Let me handle this” Benari whispered. He strode forward
confidently.
“Now now, this must be a mistake” he said, with a nervous
smile on his face.
The dark-skinned one strode forward and cut through him,
sending his body crashing to the ground, almost in two pieces, blood flooding
forth.
Frandal fell to his knees in horror. He felt the air catch
in his throat. Fear had him in it’s tight grip. He was next.
The men first bent down to look through Benari’s pockets,
looting their kill.
Deep down Frandal could feel a spark of anger. He barely
noticed it through the chilling fear. Yet somehow he was on his feet, rushing
towards them, fist raised high.
Stop you fool! He
said to himself. He didn’t seem to have control of his body. Tears rushed down
his cheeks as he raged forward, jumping at the dark one with the sword.
Then, suddenly, the axe-wielder’s booted foot was in his
stomach. He doubled over in agony, tasting sour bile in his mouth. A second
blow, from foot or otherwise he couldn’t tell, sent him to the floor.
“You’ll get your turn young one” one of them snarled with a
strange accent.
They talk our language
he thought, surprised by the savages. Perhaps he still had a chance. He tried
to roll over, taking a few tries to do it, and tried to gasp out some words,
but with all the wind gone from his lungs, and him still struggling to breath
more in, he could only manage raspy croaks.
The dark one with the blade that looked like the teeth of a
monster’s mouth, dripping with blood, came forward.
The other one put his hand on his shoulder to stop him, one
of his axes hanging at his belt.
“The boy is trying to say something” he said, this one’s
voice less barbaric; more normal.
“So?” the dark one replied, obviously wondering why it
should concern him.
“Let’s do him the mercy of hearing his final words. I wonder
if they’ll be any good” he said with amusement.
The dark one tutted, rolling his eyes, but stopped to let
Frandal regain his breath. Taking his opportunity, Frandal coughed out
vigorously “I.... I make wine!”
The two looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
“Wouldn’t have been my choice” the light one laughed,
shrugging.
“I woulda done better” The dark one said as he raised his
sword.
“Wait wait!” Frandal pleaded. The one with the blade sighed
wearily.
“I am but a winemaker” he continued, hardly believing he
could remember the words after all these years. “I just make alcohol”. That
word seemed to gain the axed man’s attention. “try some if you like. All the
wines and beers and meads in this house were made by me” he said, motioning to
the burning house behind them, realising how foolish he must seem.
“One thing our troupe lacks is someone who can make us
drinks” the man admitted.
“We have ol’ Creppy for that” rasped the dark one.
The other spat on the floor. “That old bitch’s drinks are
foul. Besides, Reck’s group keep most of them to themselves. Maybe this boy can
us make something better”
The dark-skinned one looked unconvinced. “He tried to hit
me” he said, as if that should settle it. He turned back to Frandal.
“True, you never let go of your pride do you? If someone
even offends you, you won’t rest til the man is dead.... or the woman raped”
The man’s sword came down, a viscous bloodthirsty smile on
his face. Frandal closed his eyes, expecting death.
It didn’t come.
He opened his eyes.
The man’s sword had hit the ground beside him, and as
Frandal looked up confusedly he saw the light-skinned man grinning down at him,
his hand holding an axe that was digging deeply into the other’s back. He
gruesomely pulled it free, blood spattering over him accompanied by the
gruesome sound of splitting bone.
“Come on then” he said cheerily. The sound made Frandal want
to vomit. “You’ve got wine to make”
Frandal couldn’t believe his luck. He stood. The man grabbed
his arm roughly and pulled him with him.
“I hope Reck lets us keep you. Him and his are the only one
that likes old Creppy’s shitty drinks” he sighed. Suddenly he laughed madly.
“W.... what’s so funny?” Frandal asked weakly, looking up at
the man who towered a good foot above him.
“I just realised, Blattrick back there” he said, referring
to his dead partner. “he said ‘he tried to hit me’. His last words certainly
weren’t any better than yours”
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