Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

Which is what she knew he’d expect.

Quickly, the N’Ferrans agreed. But then, they insisted that she drink the veffen in order to seal the deal. And she knew she’d have to do it, even though after this she knew she’d never drink veffen again.

She remembered Asa, his calm certainty, his intelligence, his strength, and his final, ironic toast. This gave her the courage to take up the mug and take one, ritual swallow. “To Vkandwe Asayana! The finest Fearless One I’ve ever known, who gave his life in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“To Vkandwe Asayana!” the Councillors echoed.

And the deal was done.

Betsy hoped that somewhere, wherever Asa was now in his pursuit of knowledge, that he was smiling. Because she knew she wasn’t.

Berd followed behind the caravan’s magician. They both checked the cords and bindings of the precious cargo loaded onto sledges. The casks of beer gave off small whiffs of yeast and malt and hops. More hops than usual. It had been a good year for hops. The heady aroma eased his mind and soothed his posture.

But not his concerns. He still double checked everything the magician touched. The magician had appeared out of the dark surrounding the campfire last night, just as the men wandered off to their bed rolls. He had papers assigning him to this caravan. Berd couldn’t read the words on the paper but he recognized the wax seal of the mayor of Brewtown.

The mayor’s approval didn’t mean Berd trusted the magician.

One loose strap and fifteen casks would roll back off the sledge, break apart and spill the rich amber liquid into the thirsty plains of Coronnan.

The caravan hadn’t had a magician along their route in nigh on twenty years. Every power-mad one of them had signed on with one lord or another as battlemages, neglecting their normal duties. Berd had been loading and lashing cargo so long on his own, he didn’t didn’t see a need for the man wearing a faded blue tunic and trews, carrying a twisted staff.

Stargods only knew the central plains needed moisture. All the beer in this entire caravan wouldn’t raise a clump of mud. But there were a lot of thirsty people at the end of the journey. Three cities hadn’t yet managed to clear their wells once the peace treaty had been signed. Poisoning and clearing wells was a specialty of battlemages. Maybe this magician could finish the cleansing. In the meantime, Berd had the responsibility of transporting beer safe for drinking from the springs of sweet water in the foothills across the wide plains of plentiful grains to the coast, where even clean wells were brackish with bay and tides and unfit for brewing. And he had to get these casks to the city intact.

This magician wasn’t exactly young, more like an old geezer past his prime. No longer strong enough or keen enough to stand up to a battlemage. Chances were, his eyesight had faded along with the dye on his journey clothes.

“You needn’t double check everything I do,” the man in blue said, with his back to Berd, a full sledge ahead of him. “I know how to stabilize a load.”

Berd grumbled something rude into his beard rather than reply.

“I understand that the caravans, indeed all of Coronnan, has been missing magicians for too long, but the wars are over and we are back, with royal sanction. We actually have a king with authority now too. And the blessing of the dragons. I intend to do my job of easing the journey. Do you still have problems with steeds stepping into overly deep ruts and upsetting the cargo?”

Berd had to nod at that. As the seasons changed weather played havoc with the trails, filling in some holes, deepening and widening others.

“And do your steeds still bog down in mud?” the magician asked.

Berd allowed a wry grin to crease his face. “Not this year. Ain’t had morn’n a trace a rain in six moons. No mud to slow us down.”

“Fewer creeks and ponds on the route to ease the thirst of the animals who do most of the work,” the magician reminded him. “And what few water sources remain, you can’t be sure are safe until someone drinks from them and sickens… or survives.”

“Um…” Berd didn’t have an answer to that. The caravans had gotten so used to fending for themselves, they hadn’t thought a magician could actually help. They were running out of caged rats to test the purity of water on.

The war had killed more than people.

“My name’s Lyman,” the magician said, pulling on a strap and retying a knot that had come loose.

“Berd,” the drover replied, chagrined. He recognized the knot as one of his own. It shouldn’t have loosened this quickly. Young Jyson, now, he couldn’t tie a knot in a neck scarf, let alone on cargo. He learned, but slowly. At the moment he was better suited to feeding the steeds.

He looked over his should to make sure Jyson and the seven other drovers completed their duties of cleaning up their camp and loading personal items on the last sledge in line.

“I am satisfied,” Lyman said. He looked back along the line of sledges with one hand shading his eyes from sun-glare.

“Yes, we are late in starting,” Berd confirmed. He held a hand out measuring how far above the horizon the light had risen. “We should have been on the road an hour ago.”

“No. We are right on time. We will pass the first watering hole before noon. Before it evaporates in the sun.”

“If no one has poisoned it.”

“It was clear the last time you passed?” Lyman turned his penetrating gaze on the drover.

Berd noticed for the first time that the magician’s eyes were purple. The deep color of the Southern Mountains in the afterglow of sunset. Unusual.

The butt end of the magician’s staff in the small of his back ceased his musing. He reached high to grab the cheek strap of the lead steed and bring the long head down to his own eye level. He whispered a few words into the stallion’s ear. Abruptly the beast lurched, straining against its padded collar and harness. Head down he plodded his massive feet forward beginning the long journey.

“You have a magic of your own,” Lyman said, walking beside Berd. “The steed responds to your wishes. Most of the caravan animals I have encountered are stubborn about their laziness, putting more energy into resisting their masters than it would take to just comply.”

Berd threw back his head in laughter. Something moved in the deep blue sky still shedding the last traces of night to the West. Must be dust swarming on the slight morning breeze. Too early and chill for a heat haze. “Ah, I know those headstrong steeds well. I do not employ them on my caravan.”

“This one looks like a herd leader. I’m surprised he agrees to follow your lead.”

“Champion and me, we have an agreement.” Berd said nothing more, keeping to himself the knowledge that this lead stallion was the only intact male in this particular herd. And the majority were mares. No other steed challenged his authority or breeding rights, and for that favor he didn’t challenge Berd.

Until now. Twenty steps into the journey the steed shifted his feet without moving forward. He jerked his head away from Berd’s grip and bellowed in challenge.

“What?” Berd demanded.

Champion sidled, snorting, nostrils flared and eyes rolling. The other steeds picked up their leader’s distress and began stamping and trumpeting. The previously straight line lost cohesion.

Now alarm spread upward from Berd’s gut to his head and down to his feet. An instinct in the back of his mind told him to run. Run far. Run fast. Anywhere but here.

Berd forced himself to anchor his feet and search for the source of the steed’s alarm.