The (sort of) Dark Mage (Waldo Rabbit)

by Nelson Chereta

  Walking beside the cart was a small man wearing a leather apron and holding a worn riding crop in his right hand.

  “Keep moving you stupid beast.” The man said. “We still have to make one more delivery after this.”

  To emphasize his words he struck the goblin on his arm with a loud audible ‘thwack.’

  The monster gave a slight grunt, but did not otherwise acknowledge being struck. He did not look back at his apparent owner or in any way hurry his pace. The common people walking along paid no mind, though Alice noted that the squad of soldiers who had just passed were watching.

  Waldo didn’t seem to pay any notice.

  “Did you see that?” Alice demanded.

  “What?”

  “That man! He hit that defenseless goblin for no reason at all!”

  “So?”

  Waldo’s rather indifferent reply earned him a sharp look.

  It was clear she was upset with him, but he had no idea why. “I told you there were a large number of monsters in this city. It’s not surprising they’d be used as draft animals. I saw a goblin pulling a cart in Stratford too.”

  “That would have been Noorook who works for John Millen. Mister Millen would never beat Noorook. Well, not unless he did something to deserve it of course. Just now though, that goblin was hit for no reason at all. It was like how some people will whip an ox or a mule to make it move.”

  “Then I suppose he was hit for the same reason.”

  “Goblins are different from oxen or mules.”

  “Very true,” Waldo admitted. “So far as I know oxen and mules very rarely use swords or roast humans for a meal.”

  That earned him another sharp look.

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Actually, no, I don’t. I have no idea what point you are trying to make.”

  “Goblins can talk. You can tell them what to do and they can understand you. You don’t have to treat them as if they were animals!”

  Waldo looked at her curiously. “And how should you treat a slave?”

  “They aren’t even slaves,” she said unhappily. “Slaves at least are people. Goblins and other monsters really are just animals to most folk.”

  “Then I suppose it’s lucky for them goblin meat tastes so bad.”

  “This isn’t funny!”

  “Who was joking?”

  “What, you’ve eaten goblin?”

  “Yes, but only once or twice, it’s very chewy and tough. Still better than gremlin though.”

  “How could you eat a goblin?” Alice asked horrified.

  “Fried usually, though it can also be baked.”

  “Really?”

  Waldo nodded, still not understanding why she was so upset.

  “Would you eat a succubus too?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well that’s a relief.”

  “Succubi possess immense mystical characteristics. Eating one would be a waste. You would chop the body up to use every bit for potion components.”

  Alice just stared at him.

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “In my country we do not venerate the dead. The spirits go wherever the Dark Powers will them to go. The bodies are treated as a resource. If they cannot be used for food or spell components most are revived so that they can continue to work.”

  “So when you die you’ll be a walking corpse?” Alice’s mouth twisted with disgust.

  “No, members of the Seven Families are never turned into common undead. It would be beneath our dignity. The bodies are simply burned, but even for the heads of families there are no rituals or prayers, the body is simply disposed of.”

  “So they just burn you up like a log in the fire? You don’t even have a funeral?”

  “Everything that lives must one day die, even the gods must perish when the Long Night sets. That is a universal truth, and we accept it. We do not hold life sacred or make any ridiculous pretenses about it. You live, and one day you die, and unless you are called back you will go to whatever place is reserved for you. Funerals and rituals won’t change that, so why bother?”

  “Sounds very glum.”

  “Not really, knowing that life must end pushes us to do as much as we can while we are here.”

  “So I guess that means when I die I’m going to be chopped up.” She sounded resigned.

  “What would you like done instead?”

  “I want to be given a proper funeral and buried somewhere the sun shines. There should be flowers and a grave stone with my name. I would also like you to mourn me for one year before you find a new wife.”

  “You’ve actually thought about this.”

  “Well naturally, people die all the time, of fever or the flux or in childbirth. I would have liked to have had a proper funeral and a grave. Its proof that you lived once, and that someone cared enough about you to do you that last service.” But if I am your wife I suppose I’ll have to accept your customs. I’ll just have to try and live as long as I can before I end up in a bunch of bottles on a shelf.”

  Waldo stared at her for a long moment.

  “If you die before I do, I will give you a proper funeral. I will bury you somewhere the horrible ball of fire blazes, and have a stone marker with your name placed there. I will bring flowers, and though I don’t see the point, I will wait a year before marrying.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Waldo hurried his pace. “Come on, let’s find somewhere to rest.”

  Smiling, Alice quickened her step to remain at his side.

  Chapter 34

  The Inn Of The White Horse

  The Inn of the White Horse was an unadorned and typical building on the Street of Nails. It was a two stories, made of brown brick, jammed between a smithy to one side and a general store to the other. On the faded, weather beaten sign that hung outside the door, the horse was more grey than white.

  The neighborhood was not one of Middleton’s best. It belonged to the common folk; the people who lived and worked there stoked the furnaces and hauled in the wood for the fires of the smithies and forges. They loaded and unloaded wagons, brought water, made meals, and did all the little tasks necessary to keep the blacksmiths and the merchants happy. The people who liked to visit the Inn were hard folk who lived hard lives and liked to sometimes drink and talk and argue about all the things that were wrong with the world.

  Tyrone Williams stood behind his bar listening to his customers shouts, and to the endless banging of hammer on anvil. He had long since learned how to ignore both. Thirty years he had been running this Inn, going from a young man to an old one. In that time he had buried his dear Inna (may the Terrasa grant her peace), and seen his two little girls get married and start families of their own. Tyrone had also seen himself slowly grow grey and fat. Those were the main changes. Everything else stayed the same.

  He’d heard the same complaints, the same arguments, and the same stories repeated endlessly. The bosses were always loud mouthed idiots who never appreciated their workers, and never paid a decent wage. They complained about how the occasional noble would not even notice them, or worse, when they did. They complained about the women they wanted. They complained about the women they had. When they were young they complained about their parents controlling them. When they got older they complained about not being able to control their children. They complained about the rain and the snow and the summer heat and the winter cold. And on and on… The one thing that never changed was that there was always something to complain about.

  Tyrone took out a rag and wiped down the bar. The wood was stained from countless spills, and there were cracks of varying sizes. The stone floor was always dirty and there was a layer of dust caked onto the walls. Every table and every chair was worn, and there was always the smell of cabbage, sweat, and ale. Good enough, he judged. Every table was occupied with customers eating cabbage stew and drinking ale. He knew his customers. They didn’t come here to revel in cleanl
iness and brightly polished oak counters. They came to fill their bellies with cheap food and cheap ale and to talk free among their own kind.

  They also like playing with the barmaids. He had two girls who worked for him, along with a cook and an assistant in the kitchen. Both Brienne and Nicola were sitting with customers right now, laughing and talking. He would have to yell to get them serving tables again. Long experience told him they would both have to be replaced soon. He always hired young, pretty girls. The men loved to look and chat them up. They never lasted long; most of them were looking for a husband. The ones who weren’t, and were serious about earning coin, always ended up moving on to a more profitable line of work. It was an inconvenience, but the customers liked having attractive, unattached girls serving them, so he dealt with it.

  The rooms upstairs were usually empty, and the coins that filled his till were near always copper. He usually touched silver only once a month when he went out to make his stock purchases. In his life he had held gold only a handful of times. The bar was filled though, almost every night, and except during the riots things were more or less peaceful. There were the occasional drunken brawls, but he kept a wooden cudgel behind the bar for those times. And if things ever got out of hand the city guards were always there to crack a few heads and stuff them into stocks.

  All in all, it wasn’t such a bad life. Tyrone liked his customers and he liked being an Innkeeper. Really the worst thing about it was the boredom. There were always the same faces and the same voices. He just wished that now and again something interesting might happen.

  That was when the door opened and a White Mage and the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on walked into the bar. The customers who saw them were every bit as startled as he was and closed their mouths to stare. It got so quiet that the only sound was the banging of iron coming from outside the walls.

  It was not unusual for there to be at least one or two White Mages in Middleton at any given time. However, they always stayed in the Baron’s palace. Tyrone could not remember ever hearing of one visiting the working quarter. In the thirty years he had owned the Inn this was the first time one had ever entered it.

  The mage stood there, just inside the doorway, calmly regarding the room. His straw colored hair and pale yellow eyes would have made him stand out even without the white robes. From the look on his face it was clear he felt himself in charge of all before him. Just the presence of a White Mage made Tyrone nervous. They were good people and served a good cause, but some of them could be rather zealous at times. Rumors had it that the Baron, and even the King, dealt with them very cautiously. Bad things could happen to you if you made an enemy of one of them.

  The woman who was standing just behind him received almost as much interest as the mage did. Her looks were every bit as foreign and exotic as his. She had long flowing red hair and eyes that were a shade of violet. She was wearing a plain white blouse and a long tan skirt, and she had a cloth sack over her left shoulder. Her clothes were a bit tight fitting and outlined a very tempting figure. He’d visited a few brothels in his time, but Tyrone had never once seen anyone half so captivating as this.

  “Who is the proprietor here?” The mage asked.

  The faces of most of the people turned to stare in Tyrone’s direction.

  “That would be me, my… lord.”

  “I am not a lord.” The mage told him. “I am Waldo Rabbit. You may simply refer to me as Master Rabbit.”

  There were a couple startled laughs that were quickly covered up. Most of those present looked uncertain as to whether or not this was a joke. Since the mage appeared to be serious, they had to pretend to take him at his word.

  Tyrone was just as uncertain, but decided to play along. “Well, how may I serve you Master Rabbit?”

  Before the man could answer the woman put her sack down and stepped up beside him. “Darling,” she said in a voice as sweet as honey. “Why don’t you let me handle this?”

  “Why? I can deal with the peasant.”

  At every table mouths tightened and eyes hardened. These people knew they were looked down upon, but they didn’t appreciate hearing it from some foreigner in their Inn.

  To the girl’s credit she noticed the reaction, the mage seemed completely oblivious.

  “Darling, be nice, or you might end up swimming again.”

  “What do you mean?” Master Rabbit asked. “I am being quite polite, especially considering he is just a peasant.”

  “Don’t call him a peasant!” A burly workman at one of the tables called out.

  “Would you prefer commoner?”

  There were growls from several tables.

  Tyrone glanced about nervously. The last thing he wanted was to have a brawl involving a White Mage. Mercifully the lovely angel took charge of the situation. She elbowed his ribs and shook a finger in his face.

  “Don’t say anything else or you really may go for another swim.”

  Not waiting for a reply she walked up to the bar.

  ‘Walk’ might not have really described it. Her hips swayed with every step. All eyes stared longingly as she crossed the room. Tyrone found himself mesmerized like every other man there. When she came to a halt across from him he had to remind himself to breathe. Staring into those captivating eyes he suddenly felt like a love struck boy again. Reaching across the bar she placed one hand gently on his arm, making his heart race.

  “Please forgive my husband,” she said in that soft lilting voice. “He didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Of course,” Tyrone mumbled. “It’s fine. You, you’re his wife then?” Though it was ridiculous, he felt disappointed.

  “Yes, I am Alice Rabbit; please feel free to call me Alice. My husband and I would like a room for the night and a meal please.”

  Tyrone nodded. Despite the foolish thoughts coursing through his brain he tried to remember he was an Innkeeper. “I have a room available; it costs fifty copper traks. Meals and drinks are separate, a bowl of cabbage stew is five traks and a mug of ale is one.”

  “Cabbage stew? Is that all you serve here?”

  Normally, if anyone asked him that, his answer was to tell them to eat nothing. Hearing the hint of disappointment from her made him wish there was something else he could offer her.

  “I am sorry Alice; I run a plain place for plain people.”

  “Maybe they’d be happier staying in the Baron’s castle.” Brienne called out.

  “You be quiet!” Tyrone said. Of course she and Nicola were the only ones not enthralled.

  “I am sorry,” Alice said holding up her hands. “I did not mean to complain. I am sure the stew is delicious, and it certainly is reasonably priced. But you see, my husband and I are trying to save our coin right now. So I was hoping you might agree to give us free room and board in exchange for my services?”

  “Services?” He replied weakly. All sorts of thoughts were running through his mind. He was sure his dear Inna (may Terrasa grant her peace) would forgive him. She was dead after all, and he was still flesh and blood.

  Alice nodded, and pretended not to notice where his eyes had drifted to. “I have experience as a barmaid. In return for free lodging and food I will work here for as many nights as we stay. I will get to keep my tops of course.” She stared intently into his eyes. “What do you say?”

  Feeling a little light headed Tyrone would have agreed to anything at that moment. “It’s a deal.”

  XXX

  The room upstairs was fifteen square feet. The only furniture was a plain bed pressed up against the wall, and covered with a single brown blanket. There was a small window that provided a view of an alleyway choked with garbage. The Innkeeper had insisted Alice begin working immediately. She had handed him the sack and simply promised to come up to their room once her shift was done. Shortly after he’d gone upstairs, one of the other barmaids had brought him a wooden bowl of green stew along with a pewter mug filled with a foamy liquid that was the color of dirt. Though
dubious, Waldo was very hungry. He took the wooden spoon and dug into the soup. It certainly wasn’t anything he would deliberately choose, but it wasn’t actually too bad. Along with cabbage there were potatoes, carrots, and chunks of bread mixed in as well. Though not exactly cuisine, it did fill the stomach. He ate the entire bowl and wouldn’t have minded a second. The ale tasted more like rye bread than anything else. He drank about half and then set the mug aside.

  Through the door Waldo could easily hear the shouts and howls of laughter coming from downstairs. The noise somehow reminded him of yapping dogs in heat. Even he hadn’t been able to miss how they had stared at Alice.